The Dance
The first time we danced, she broke my jaw in three places.
I regained consciousness in a small native hospital, attended by several of the local healers who barely spoke a few words of Equestrian between them. It didn’t matter to me; from the wires and cast that encased my mouth, I could do little more than make a few grunting noises and eat a constant diet of pudding. To this day, I still loathe the dreadful substance, but every few weeks I make it a point to choke down a bowl in memory of what else happened to me.
I fell in love.
There was nothing to do in the little hospital other than look out the window at the steaming jungle and wonder just what had happened to my boss, the Dread Ahuizotl. That, and leaf through the small collection of books in their library. My heart nearly stopped when I saw the tattered and worn cover of Daring Do and the Sapphire Stone tossed in with the sappy romance novels and travelogues touting the scenic beauty of the Amarezon river basin. Those magenta eyes drawn into glaring slits, that golden coat with a compass rose as a cutie mark, and those flashing hooves, the exact same ones I had last seen exploding into my face in a double-buck worthy of an earth pony. I considered flinging it out the window and into the soggy jungle to rot, but since I had nothing to do while my bones knit, I settled down to read instead.
Many hours later, under the light of a flickering firefly lantern, my heart changed. The passion on the pages turned my hatred into something else, a flickering fire in my soul that could only be fed by her presence, no matter how much pain I had to endure. The moment I was fit for travel, I departed for the destination of the Amarezon river basin where I had first met my employer. From his reactions, he had not expected me to live or return to his service, but bad help being hard to find, he welcomed me back into employment and docked my pay for my time in the hospital. It was only then that I realized the true change in my heart. I had not set the hospital on fire as I left, as any proper villain would have, but instead actually paid my bill. Of course I did not tell Ahuizotl of my lapse in proper villain technique, because lying is also part of the job description, but it bothered me enough that I visited the local library and checked out every Daring Do book they had.
It was opposition research, or so I justified it to myself.
The life of a disposable minion is filled with weeks of inactivity spotted with short moments of frantic action, most often the kind that involves physical violence. A few of us actually exercised at the local bar, breaking noses and bottles indiscriminately throughout the night, but I kept my former entertainments at bay while I devoured the book series. It was fascinating to see how she worked, the intricate ins and outs of a proactive archaeologist, or looter as she would have been called if she worked for my boss. I studied her techniques in both fighting and writing only to find a certain attraction between both styles that appealed to my base nature. The archaeologist was brash, daring as her namesake and just as destructive while the writer who put her actions into print had a certain aggressiveness to her writing that smashed the words onto paper with the same vigor as Daring had displayed on my jaw.
I took my leisure time between jobs to hone my fighting skills, with the excuse that I did not want to be caught unaware by that ‘upstart pegasus’ ever again, while I spent much of my nights pouring over historical documents detailing possible future encounters. I wanted to be ready this time, and when the time arrived, I was.
This time she broke one of my legs, three ribs, and fractured my skull.
While recuperating in the same little native hospital, I found a new book in their tiny library. It was a mass-market paperback version of her latest novel, and as I read through it, I made an amazing discovery that shocked me to the bottoms of my hooves.
She mentioned me.
Page 178, third paragraph. “Daring Do lashed out with her hind hooves at the thug gripping her tail, feeling his jaw break as she darted forward towards the treasure.”
It was more than a little disconcerting. I tore the page out and hid it in my belongings despite the displeasure of the hospital staff, although they did calm down when I showed them the book of matches.
Our relationship continued in that same way, through our travels in Llamagrad (fractured hoof, split lip, lost tooth) to Alpacastan (multiple abrasions, contusions, and a concussion), and even in the basement of the Gnu York State Library (two fractured hooves, loss of half of my mane, and an overdue book fine). Ahuizotl seemed pleased with the improvement in my fighting skills even to the point of calling me by my actual name a few times instead of “Hey you” or “Disposable Minion #3” like usual. The death traps grew more complex with every adventure, from simple pit traps filled with scorpions and filling with hot sand, to a complex whirling blade and arrow projecting corridor which I helped design that actually clipped a lock out of her tail while she tumbled and darted through the razor-sharp blades.
I kept it, of course.
Our encounters grew longer, not restricted to a simple blow to the head as in the past, but turning into longer exchanges of blows and bites with snappy repartee amidst the tumbles and last-minute escapes. Words always failed me in her presence except for twice.
The first time was at a book signing for A.K. Yearling in Manehattan, where we were staking out a museum for some golden trinket that would destroy the world or such. Even disposable minions need time off from the tedious job of staring at an unoccupied building, and I had just purchased… well, stolen a copy of the latest Daring Do novel, and had a few hours to myself when I noticed the sign.
For a limited time, author A.K. Yearling will be signing her Daring Do series of books at this location. First come, first serve. 20 bits admission, proceeds will be given to the Manehattan Orphanage.
It piqued my interest, which was strange, because I had never been piqued before I had started to read her books. Life in the Manehattan Orphanage had been simple, a few smaller children to rough up before lunch, an afternoon spent lazing on a street corner, and although I never wanted to return to the joyous place of my foalhood, the twenty bits would help other young and misguided youths to avoid career paths much worse than mine. After all, without the streets, they might turn to a life of politics, and that would be just terrible. Besides, there was always the possibility of making off with the proceeds for myself.
So I found myself in line with a multitude of other ponies, lamenting the heavy security on the bit bucket into which my hard-stolen twenty bits had vanished. It was boring, but at least I was able to hoof through the book while waiting, even if I was not able to force my way to the front of the line due to the number of police in the area. The story had so captured my attention that when I reached the front of the line, I nearly stumbled while hoofing the book over to the author with a short, “Can you make it out to—”
It was her. Those magenta eyes, crinkled up with fatigue but still with a sparkle in them that froze my tongue to the top of my mouth, and those hard hooves which I knew so intimately wrapped around a simple golden pen. She paused, looking at me through her red glasses as if I were just another one of the thousands of ponies she had signed books for, which I was. A simple shout could have brought over a dozen police officers, but instead she just put pen to book, writing a few brief words before hoofing it back over to me and calling out, “Next”
My gait was unsteady as I stumbled out into the street, holding the book as if it were a golden statue. The author and the subject were the same, and yet with all the times she had placed a hoof upside my face, she had not recognized me in the crowd. My ego was crushed, or at least until I opened the book and found something that shook me to my hooves.
She had written my name.
And when we broke into the museum to steal whatever golden trinket my boss wanted this week, she broke my nose, my shoulder, and twisted my tail into a knot.
The second time I spoke to her was on a mission in darkest Zebrica, while in the respectably large town of Dhahabu Farasi. All of us minions were entertaining ourselves while the boss did something suitably mysterious and arcane in the temple nearby. The music was loud, the salt terrible, and aromatic smoke from the torches made the inside of the bar a place you could never properly see in a big civilized city before a health inspector would shut it down, probably throwing in a match once the place had been evacuated.
I was sucking down my third or fourth salt when the seat next to me was suddenly filled by a zebra mare, dropping into place with a homespun cloth cloak across her back. There was something suspiciously familiar about her, and it took several blinks of my salt-fogged eyes to figure it out.
Her stripes were paint. And it was still damp.
“Can’t a filly get something to lick around here?” She leaned towards me and fluttered her eyes, the violet paint under them flaking off to reveal her beautiful golden coat in small spots. Her disguise was so blatantly obvious that I almost blurted out her name, turning it instead into a request from the bartender for two large rock salts, hold the gravel. We actually talked for a while as she wheedled out information about where Ahuizotl was and what he was up to this time. I wanted to tell her about how I had been carefully changing his traps to be less lethal, weakening links of chain and manacles. There were too many ears in that bar that would have heard, but somehow I think she knew. She leaned in close as I bragged about my job, gasping in feigned fear as I talked about that tricky mare who had evaded every attempt by my boss to capture and do away with her.
We even danced once for real, as a strident tango blared out of the jukebox and she dragged me onto the dance floor with a rose between her teeth. For long minutes there was nothing in the room but the two of us, striding back and forth along the floor as the rest of the bar patrons dove for cover. The music dipped and swirled, dragging us along in its embrace throughout the smoky bar as our passion blazed out in our hoofsteps with such intensity I feared we would actually set something on fire other than our hearts. She spun in my hooves as we danced, our sweat melting her body paint until we both resembled the natives in smeared streaks of white and black.
And then she was gone, with only a damp kiss on my cheek to remember her by.
Well, that and the loose tooth from where she hit me in the exact same spot less than an hour later.
She will always be just out of my reach, a precious modern artifact that I shall never possess, just like Ahuizotl shall never gain what he seeks, but shall never quit trying. We are bound somehow in a dance of our own, rubble and ruins our dance floor and ancient history our music, dancing to a tune none other can hear. Perhaps someday the music will end for us, and we shall drift apart as our jobs take us to opposite corners of the known world.
If so, I intend on enjoying this dance as long as it lasts. Let us mix in Mareocco, tango in Tangerieneirs, do the foxtrot in Faux de Cheval and the waltz in Whinnyhaha.
The boss says we’re going to Paris, Prance next week.
I’m looking forward to our next dance.
Love,
Disposable Minion #3
P.S. I’ll bring the flowers if you bring the wine.
