“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Leaning up against the conference table, you rub your aching temples with great force, hoping to slow the incoming migraine that you knew, in your bones, was on its way to find you.

“I’m afraid not, Director Clean Sweep.”

The errant stallion furrows his brow and grunts in response, pacing back and forth in front of the chart that your manager had suggested that you present in her stead. With a sigh of exasperation, he gestures to the ever-so-slightly downward sloping graph, his borderline disgust wafting about the room as a result.

“How, in the name of Celestia herself, are we not in an upswing with sales? Fleur’s new perfume should be smashing every other release right now!”

“With the current trends in the market, it’s more than likely going to continue for a short while as part of a post-holiday lull. Other brands are seeing similar results as-”

“I don’t care about the ‘other brands,’” he interrupts, staring daggers at you as a vein juts out from his forehead. “I care about what goes on here.”

He points to a far more optimistic line on the graph.

“And what’s going on here is that this release was projected to break records through the other end of the holidays, yet here we are - on the precipice of failure.”

At the ass-end of this long, grueling week, you want nothing more than to bring him down from his lofty, corporate bubble and let him have it, just like your former coworker did a couple months ago. Alas, you decidedly enjoy having a stable, comfortable income. Clean Sweep tends to have an itchy trigger finger when it comes to matters of severance, anyways.

So, with frustration mounting, you let one of your hands wander under the table, strangling the leg of your chair so that you can better filter yourself.

“With all due respect, sir, marketing has done everything we could to counteract the effects of the exigent release window. Wherever you look in Canterlot or Manehattan, there’s a billboard, magazine, or storefront window with Flair all over it.”

“At the cost of a more-than-sizeable chunk of the advertising budget, I might add,” he retorts without missing a beat. “Which wouldn’t be an issue if Flair had sold according to the projections.”

Rather than offer your own possibly antagonistic rebuttal, you remain silent as the director continues his tirade. Maybe it’s the end-of-week fog, but you swear you can feel the metal of the chair’s leg bending to suit your palm.

“At any rate, I struggle to understand the effectiveness of what Peachy Keen’s been directing the lot of you to do if the results look like this.”

He directs his oppressive gaze fully onto you, locking eyes and giving that ethically acceptable stare of contempt you’ve grown to hate so much.

“Especially for you, being her assistant manager.”

Despite your best efforts, your left eyebrow hikes itself upward ever so slightly.

“I beg your pardon?”

Maintaining the same contemptuous disposition, he meanders over to the other side of the conference table you’re sitting at, not stopping to take a breath.

“We have high expectations of you, you know,” he begins, his expression subtly wavering as he tries, and fails, to hide the strange sense of satisfaction this exchange brings him.

“Miss Keen all but begged us to let you take the reins for this campaign, aggrandizing your proclivity for efficiency, as well as your understanding of this line of work. As such, you’re held to a higher standard.”

He turns to face away from you, once again tracing the unfavorable sales line with his gaze.

“Which is why you should consider this a setback not just for the team’s growth, but for your advancement in particular.”

You can’t help the impending deep frown that overtakes your features as a result of his continued mockery.

“Sir, there was only so much we could do. The timing of the release was astronomically difficult to work with, and-“

“And it was necessary to not conflict with Fleur’s other product releases,” he interrupts once again, waggling a hoof and turning back around to face you.

“Those were the circumstances given to you, and your methods weren’t up to par. End of story.”

He takes a seat across from you, a hefty sigh accompanying.

“We’ll be keeping a close eye on your future projects to ensure this doesn’t happen again,” he concludes, twisting his chair to look out of the window and into the streets of Canterlot below.

You sit in stunned silence for a few moments, unsure of what exactly to say in the face of Sweep’s lack of self-awareness. A stupefied smirk finds its way onto your features; despite your boiling blood, you can’t help but have some sort of twisted respect for the sheer gall of this stallion. Quickly, you bring your face back to a neutral expression before you continue, eager to be finished with this whole ordeal.

“Do you need anything else from me, sir?”

He absent-mindedly waves a hoof toward the door, his gaze remaining somewhere beyond the window as he does so.

“No, that will be all,” he dictates sternly. “You may go.”

Without delay, you gather your binder and assorted papers from the table, opting to leave the chart and display behind just in case he decides to get his panties in a twist again for some reason. You slowly rise from your seat, being careful not to put too much enthusiasm into your departure as you cross the room in a few swift strides.

As you pull the door open, a slight rush of colder air flows in, a small concession for everything that had just transpired. Amid the new soundscape of ponies idly chatting and drumming away on their typewriters, however, you can just barely make out something Sweep murmurs from the cage you just left. Compared to everything else, it’s barely even a whisper, and yet it finds your ear regardless despite the door being almost completely closed.

“Witless ape.”

The door, only centimeters from being shut, freezes in place. The chatter of the office gives way to an unnatural silence, save for a distant ringing in your ears.

All of the restless nights spent at this very office come rushing back to you; how you and your cohorts would hold out hope that upper management would notice your efforts beyond base acknowledgement. All of the quiet evenings at the apartment, working on ideas and deals that would help your department along. All of the hopes for this gig to turn into a comfortable, livable career somewhere up the chain of employment.

All of it for naught, because people like Clean Sweep would always get their rocks off by keeping people like you under their boot heels.

In one fell swoop, you’ve become no closer to a comfortable life in Canterlot than when you started four years ago. Suddenly, the frequent bags under Peachy Keen’s eyes make sense. Perhaps you were never closer at all.

You were doomed from the very start.

...

The door to the conference room is thrown wide by your fervorous hand, bouncing off of the wall adjacent. The sound quiets the office space from a dull roar into hushed whispers. You march back into the stuffy room, not taking care to shut the door behind you this time.

Clean Sweep has already spun around to face you. His look of aggravation very quickly transforms into deep, stone-faced concern when he sees you approaching; a deep scowl has replaced whatever complacency you had when you left.

In a mere moment, you’ve crossed the room, throwing your palms down onto the table across from Clean Sweep, who recoils from your sudden motion.

“Listen here, you little shit.”

You grab your binder from your bag and throw it back down onto the table right in front of him, garnering another savory flinch.

“Every single one of us has worked our fucking asses off so that this launch wouldn’t be a total disaster.”

You lean in farther, delighting in every inch of space and comfort that you rob from him.

“Peachy Keen missed her daughter’s graduation fighting against your utter incompetence. An incredibly important memory, Sweep. Something she’ll never get to experience because the hubris of you and your friends-”

‘Friends’ is elongated with disgust, your face contorting as you struggle to equate his cohorts to anything resembling decent.

“-dictated that she needed to stay behind and cover for all of your sorry asses.”

Sweep’s face struggles to find a suitable emotion to fit the situation, struggling between uneasy and dumbfounded. Unwilling to let him find a middle ground, you continue your onslaught.

“I upended my life to come here and work for this company. I deliver quality results on time, every time, and what do I get in return? I’m made to lick your boots in order to receive anything that isn’t some scathing critique from you and your cronies. What a fucking joke.”

You finally back up, standing up straight as you reach for the I.D. lanyard around your neck. Your muscles feel distant to you, calling to you from some far off place as they do their work to undo the lone shackle from your head.

“Y-Y-you’re in deep water now, Anonymous,” he stammers out, visibly shaken from your outburst.

With the lanyard removed, you toss it at Sweep, hitting him square on the muzzle.

“I can swim, you crusty fucking mule.”

The venom in your voice drips from your mouth as you begin walking out of the room, a vein in your forehead threatening to pop from the amount of restraint you employed.

“And just in case that wasn’t clear enough, consider that my resignation.”

With your exit finalized, you cross the threshold into a dead silent office.

Countless sets of wide eyes are pointed in your direction as you straighten your tie, regain your composure, and make for the ground floor. You don’t bother stopping to gather what little things you have at your desk; they can throw the pointless knick knacks away for all you care.

As you head into the main reception area from the stairwell, the shift in mood from wary to nonchalant is very much welcomed. You stride unerringly toward the entrance, eager to put this chapter of your life behind you, when a voice catches your attention.

“Anon! Wait!”

Turning, you see a cream-colored pegasus mare barreling after you, her blonde hair falling from its loose bun in the process. When she finally reaches you, she takes a moment to catch her breath before staring up at you, bewildered.

“Anon, what in Tartarus happened?” she asks, confusion lacing her every word. “Prim Thatch came and told me there was something going down on the fourth floor between you and Clean Sweep, and-”

She inhales deeply, organizing her thoughts before continuing, her expression switching to deep concern.

“Anon, please tell me you didn’t just get fired.”

You kneel down to meet her gaze on an even level.

“Peach, can you promise me something?”

“Oh, Celestia, you did, didn’t you? I can go smooth things over with him, maybe he’ll take you back and we can-”

“Peachy.”

Cut off, she looks straight into your eyes, worries deepening by the second.

“Don’t waste your life for these people, okay?”

She searches your face for a few seconds before timidly nodding her head. Satisfied with her answer, you pat her side and rise to your feet once more, straightening out your dress shirt as you do so.

“You and the team will be okay. Hopefully, they’ll treat you better after what happened up there.”

“Are you going to be okay, Anon?”

You pause for a moment. You’re… actually not sure. A frugal lifestyle has benefitted you greatly, but as far as your life’s direction is concerned…

You don’t know.

“I’ll be alright. I should probably head to the apartment and pack my things, though.”

“Hm…? Oh, yeah,” she begins, confusion quickly subsiding. “I forgot that they made you live in the company housing units.”

Concern quickly returns when she realizes what charade Clean Sweep is likely going to pull on you.

“Do you need a place to stay? Bauble’s at her friend’s house for the weekend, so it wouldn’t be any trouble.”

You grin down at your favorite coworker, happy to know that there are still some people at this godforsaken company that genuinely care about you.

“No worries, I’ve got some friends back home who won’t mind letting me crash for a bit.”

You reach down and tussle her hair, which she makes a show of fussing over.

“Thank you for the offer, though. Genuinely.”

Not wishing to bring out the waterworks, you begin meandering over to the front door, with her following alongside you until you reach the threshold.

“You better write soon,” she half-seriously threatens. “You hear me, Anon?”

“I promise. First chance I get, you’ll be subjected to my awful penmanship again.”

A laugh is shared between the two of you as you kneel down once again for a hug, which she returns happily with a tight squeeze. You part from each other with a sigh.

“Be careful out there, Anon,” she asserts, flashing a solemn smile at you.

You return it in kind; you’re really gonna miss this plucky pegasus.

“You too, Peach.”

When all words have been spoken, she turns back and heads into the belly of the beast once more. You watch her the whole way, right up until she disappears behind the stairwell door. With one more sigh from deep within your being, you turn and throw the main doors wide, striding headfirst into the streets of Canterlot.

---

The walk back to your apartment is brisk, to say the least.

It hadn’t occurred to you until after talking to Peach that they’d more than likely try to void your company-provided housing as soon as possible. On better terms, they might have let you stay a week or two, but after the fallout with Clean Sweep, you suspect the clock’s ticking a lot faster than usual. You just know that bastard is going to pull rank to get you evicted.

The more you think about it, though, the more you realize that he has proper leverage to demand something like that. You did let loose on a board member, after all.

The sound of a heavily irritated sigh leaving your body brings you back to reality as you trudge down a busy street, taking care to join the flow of passers by so that you don’t step on any hooves.

The dull roar of the Canterlot crowd drowns out your thoughts for now. In their place, you pick up on isolated voices here and there, talking about anything under the sun.

A mare looking for a birthday present for her mom, accompanied by her two brothers, two older stallions talking about how their sons are doing in college, a passing mailmare listing her delivery locations out loud in order to commit them to memory…

People that more than likely have their lives in some sort of order, if not worked out entirely. It should upset you, but strangely enough, it doesn’t.

It takes you a second, but you realize that your idle frown that you’ve had since leaving the office is now gone, replaced by a neutral forward-facing gaze. The whole walk, you’ve been absorbed in the uncertainty of your own future, but now, you’re content to simply listen to the snippets of others’ lives. Anything to feel some semblance of stability, you guess.

Before long, though, you come upon your apartment complex. Being a subsidiary of the company you worked for, it’s decidedly more streamlined and modern than the rest of Canterlot’s architecture.

Fitting for a company that has no soul.

Taking care not to run into anyone, you shift your stride out of the flow of foot traffic, offering up ‘sorries’ and ‘excuse-mes’ aplenty. Once you’re free of the predetermined pace of the crowd, you slow your roll a bit as you saunter up the steps of the complex.

It hasn’t even been an hour since the meltdown; you’ve got plenty of time to get everything packed up.

Gently pushing the front door open, you’re greeted with a blast of cool air, as well as the usual smell of peppermint. The mare at the front desk of the lobby greets you with a wide smile, which you try your best to return in kind as you make your way over to your apartment down the hall.

You stop in front of the door marked ‘1G’, taking your keys out of your back pocket. It feels odd, turning the lock for what you know will be the final time. Four years spent here, all coming to an end in one afternoon. The finality of the situation demands some kind of reverence from you.

Wordlessly, you enter into the silence of a mostly empty apartment, save for the furnishings provided by the complex. By the time the door shuts behind you, you’ve already entered the kitchen and gotten to work making your final apartment lunch - a sliced chicken sandwich. You may have led a frugal life here, but one thing you couldn't live without was real meat. Thankfully, you struck a deal with a nearby market vendor to have the meat shipped in from Griffonia. It cost you an arm and a leg, but holy shit, was it good to have meat in your diet again.

As the first bite of your sandwich goes down, you take a moment to do a general survey of the living room. All of the furniture came with the apartment, so getting out of dodge shouldn’t be too much trouble. Even the little things you’ve bought here and there throughout your four years here can be shoved into your suitcase along with all of your clothes.

Kinda depressing, but it makes life easier for you, so you can’t complain. Most of the personal value behind this place is rooted in the memories of the few friends you had here, anyway.

Still, you find that leaving it behind is bittersweet.

Not bittersweet enough for you to slow down, though.

Before you realize it, you’ve wolfed down your entire sandwich, only just now registering the aftertaste. Although you’ve got plenty of time to get packed, you still feel like you need to hurry. The longer you linger here, the harder it’ll be to part with it. Not just the apartment, but the comfort of a lifestyle that you know in and out.

So, with the ardor of change stirring within you, you set about getting everything inside of your suitcase.

...

Thirty minutes and some clever organizing later, your suitcase, full to bursting, stands by your front door. You ended up having more clothes than you thought you did, but you were able to finagle some things around to get everything to fit.

Grabbing onto its handle, you turn around to look at your empty apartment one final time, nodding a couple of times in a gesture of thankfulness.

Wasting no time, though, you head out of your apartment, everything you own in tow.

The feeling of the complex shifts as you walk back down the hall toward the mare at the front desk. The comfort you once felt is…

No, that isn’t the right word for it. The complacency you once felt has gone altogether. In its stead is all-encompassing uncertainty and uneasiness, but not necessarily in a negative way.

You shrug it off as you approach the front desk. Your head’s a mess right now, anyway.

The mare behind the counter flashes you that same earnest smile from earlier.

“How can I help you, sir?” she dutifully asks, eyeing your luggage for a brief second.

“I have the final two months of this year’s rent cycle ready.”

You procure the money from your back pocket, gently placing it on the countertop between the two of you.The mare frowns, confused at your gesture.

“It’s not my business to ask,” she begins, inquisitive in tone. “But is there a reason you’re providing both months’ rent now, rather than their respective due dates?”

“My employment situation has changed. I don’t plan on renewing my lease here.”

No need to delve into the fact that you’re essentially being kicked out. They would’ve asked for the rest of the money, anyhow.

“Alright,” she replies with a flair of corporate cheerfulness, taking the money and filing it away on her desk. “I’m obligated to tell you that any personal belongings left in your apartment after your departure are considered forfeit, as per the leasing terms of the complex. Do you have everything sorted in that regard?”

“I do.”

“In that case, all I’ll need is your keys, and you’ll be all set.”

Reaching into your side pocket, you procure the set of dual keys for your mailbox and apartment, handing them over into her waiting hoof. She hangs them on the wall behind her desk, on a hook labeled ‘1G’, before turning to you once more with an increasingly plastic smile on her face.

“We hope you’ve enjoyed your stay here at Somnia Village,” she says, more than likely parroting her instruction manual. “Have a pleasant rest of your day.”

You nod at her, beginning your trek out into the streets once more.

“You as well.”

Stepping back out onto the complex grounds, you look to the horizon to gauge how much time you have left until the train station stops selling tickets. A decreasingly faint gold tinge coats the sky, signifying the oncoming march of the evening.

The station’s across town; if you leave now, you can probably get there before they close. Without a moment’s hesitation, you join the flow of the crowd once more, tuning back into the droning of the crowd for passing entertainment. Nothing really pops out at you this time, though. It seems the evening crowd isn’t quite as talkative.

Absent the stimulating discussion, you turn your focus to the passing scenery.

Canterlot’s always been a sight to behold. Of that, you’re certain. Something about it feels off now, though. You recognize that it more than likely has to do with earlier today, but even so, you can’t shake the feeling; it's as if the veneer slips further and further the closer you get to the station.

By the time you begin to make sense of it, though, the telltale whistle of a train nearby rips you from your inner monologue and back into reality.

Thankfully, the station isn’t quite bustling yet. Even better, there’s nobody in line for the ticket booth. You walk briskly over to the counter, where a friendly unicorn greets you with a seemingly genuine smile.

“Welcome to Canterlot Station,” he says to you with his toothy grin. “How can I help ya?”

His enthusiasm is so infectious that you can’t help but flash a smirk of your own back at him.

“Do you have any more tickets to Ponyville for the night?”

“We just might,” he replies, digging into a large hardcover book of records sitting on his desk. “Lemme check for ya real quick.”

He stops near the end of it, tracing through various entries with his hoof before finally settling on one.

“Ah, here we go,” he exhales, turning the book around so that you can read it. “We’ve got a few open seats for the 7:30 train. Just mark where you wanna sit with your initials, and I’ll get a ticket ready for ya.”

You grab a pen from the cup of writing utensils on the counter and initial the only spot with an open seat next to it.

“Sweet!” he nearly exclaims, spinning the book back around and eyeing your seat. “I’ll have a ticket whipped up for ya in a jiffy.”

He turns around, setting himself to work while you rest your elbows on the counter, looking around for something interesting to pass the time.

“Your timing’s impeccable, sir,” he chimes in, grabbing your attention again. “Last train to Ponyville’s supposed to get here any minute now.”

Suddenly, you’re glad you weren’t able to savor that sandwich.

“That cross-town walk takes forever, doesn’t it?”

“That it does, friend, that it does,” he agrees, grabbing the hole puncher behind him with his magic. “You live in the business sector, then?”

“I did until this afternoon. Felt like a change of scenery was in order, you know?”

“I do,” he replies, a hint of revulsion on his tongue. “I never did like that part of town. It always felt anathema to the rest of Canterlot, like some kinda urbanite virus.”

You chuckle, knowing perfectly well what he means.

“Manehattan and its consequences.”

He guffaws loudly, almost messing up the final stamp on your ticket.

“Too true, buddy!”

In the distance, you hear the steady march of an approaching train. The unicorn wheels around once more, an outstretched ticket held by his magic.

“Sounds like your train’s here. Hope ya have safe travels, sir!”

You nod at him, grabbing your ticket from his aura’s grip.

“Thank you.”

A curt nod in return from him, and he’s back to waiting for another customer.

As you pull away from the ticket booth, your train arrives with a whistle that reverberates throughout the station’s hollow housing. Without much discussion, most of the ponies in the station rose to their hooves, eager to head home, start their vacation, or what-have-you. You join them in line, showing the conductor your ticket before heading into the second cabin from the front.

You’re one of the first to board, evidently; there’s only a few ponies already sitting down from previous stops. Wordlessly, you take your seat, taking care to place your suitcase between your legs as you lean against the window, looking out into the countryside below. If you remember correctly, the ride to Ponyville only takes about an hour and a half, which should put you there at about 9.

Hopefully, that isn’t too late of a time to see your friends. Worst case scenario, you could always get a room at the inn. The one in Ponyville always used to be open pretty late for travelers.

You hope it doesn’t come to that, though. More than anything, you need to be around friends right now.

As your thoughts drift into drivel, you hear the doors close, the last of the passengers having boarded. With a parting whistle, the train gently lurches forward, its steady chug beginning ever so slowly. You elect not to look back at Canterlot as it becomes obscured by the surrounding mountain. There’s nothing for you there anymore.

Next stop, home.

Next Chapter: 2 - You Can Always Come Home Estimated time remaining: 4 Hours, 6 Minutes