Dead Weight

Dust. All there was, was dust.

It was seven in the morning. She'd skipped breakfast because she'd been late to work, and now her eyes and nose were running something fierce. And yet, from what she could tell of the room and the sparse and graying furnishings, she had barely scratched the surface on cleaning the damn place.

Twenty minutes of work, useless.

It was going to take a while, Sketchy surmised. Possibly more than a day. And presumably, her pay would be docked for overtime.

That solemn thought was soon interrupted by a series of sneezes and nose rubbings. Sketchy fell back on her rump, eyes squeezing shut, groaning after she sneezed another four times in succession.

Why?

She simply didn't understand the point. That of itself frustrated her more than the years of work before her this morning. She considered it part of the job to know things. Her job, rather - not this job, per se.

How abysmal it had been, to learn that the house was vacant. She enjoyed talking to ponies, asking them questions about their lives while she cleaned. The stories that were told to her - and many ponies loved to tell stories about themselves - always brightened her time. Sometimes she would make friends, and even be given food for her trouble.

This was gong to be a terrible day, she reflected. And nopony to talk to, except the dust-motes.

Her thoughts spun on. Much like the dust hanging like so many snowflakes in the air.

The home had been foreclosed, right? So why was she cleaning it? Had it been un-foreclosed? How did that even work?

Her questions frustrated her, especially in part because nothing had been explained to her by her boss, and probably never would. Yet, her inquiries were as ever unending, shooting themselves rapid-fire across her hyperactive mind, demanding answers. Questions, questions, questions. Noise. Always, her brain was filled with noise.

More noise as of late really; but she refused to think of those reasons in particular.

Sketchy herself was too lazy to bother with the actual research in reality, and she knew it. It was probably all technical-jargon anyway, involving banks. The appeal was in the imagination, not the facts themselves. Reality tended to be disappointing.

After rubbing a smarting eye she re-evaluated her surroundings, grunting as she noticed the beginning of a headache. She hefted herself up to get to work.

There was an old-looking sofa, two upholstered chairs, a small, round coffee table, and a wooden china cabinet. The floral pattern of the plush furniture was barely visible against the white of the walls, a phantom among phantoms. She was in something of a foyer. Or, at least that was her best guess. Through  two separate doorways, one forward and another to her left, she could see equal expanses of white covering the barren contents of living room and a kitchen.

Hmm. Time to peek around. After tucking her feather duster under her wing, she abandoned the cart of cleaning equipment sitting behind her by the front door, and explored. This would be good for an estimate.

Yes that would be the excuse she'd tell her boss later. Getting an estimate. Even her pay hadn't been assigned today, which frustrated her all the more.

Every step left a hoofprint, Sketchy noticed; even the floor hadn't escaped the wrath of the dust, possibly for centuries.

There was a thought.

The home itself was very old, and like most homes in this district of Canterlot, was probably built sometime before or a little after the turn of the 19th century. She could tell from the architecture coming here things were different. The row-houses were much more intricately paneled and painted, even though they still followed the stone and plaster aesthetic of the rest of Canterlot.

Funny thing though. Many row-houses she had passed had touches of gaudy color painted on,  but the house she was in now was quarry-white. Dirty maybe, but untouched by any fashions of the time.

Which was odd, since fashion was so important here. Anypony who was anypony was trendy. If the house had never changed since it's creation, then it had probably never been lived in since its creation, Sketchy mused. Two hundred years then, of wasted house. Yet, there was furniture here.

As Sketchy's eyes wavered abound the scene, steadily making her way through the house and up the stairs, she noticed something. Furniture, yet no furnishings. There were no books, no pictures, no doily-thingies. Nor were there any practical things, like candlesticks or chamber-pots, or even dishes.  The house simply didn't appear lived in. Each room was a skeleton of an actual living space, furnished to the barest minimum, without any sort of personality to be seen.

Unless the owner of the house was dull and lifeless. Perish the thought.

Perhaps the belongings had been confiscated when the home was foreclosed. That could be it. Maybe the pony who had lived here, simply up and left everything behind.

Or they had been completely and utterly boring.

She was overreacting and over-thinking, she knew; trying to make out a conspiracy where there wasn't. She tended to do that, Sketchy admitted. It was fun. Especially when she was bored. Which she was, often. Especially lately. No - don't think about that.

Her hoofsteps reverberated in the wood with every step, which still sounded reasonably solid after so many years, setting a pattern to her thoughts. Thunk, creak, thunk, creak, thunk, creak.

She passed a bedroom as she left the stairs. It held the only open door.

It had been possibly made for a young filly, judging by the delicate ironwork of the empty daybed and the small scale of the furniture.  Light trickling through the cloudy, bare window made the small room appear ethereal and serene, almost magical from the glittering details of cobwebs, bringing to mind gauzy curtains of fairytale queens.

But the room felt unnaturally cold. It was enough that her fur was on end, and her nose, senseless.

There was a shadow on the floor, a smudge that appeared out of place. She paused at this and truly stared, bewildered that it was not some sort of shadow or even the rotten smears of a dead animal.

Sketchy moved closer. It was a scorch mark. A very large one. Something, or perhaps somepony, had cast a spell.

Her eyes drifted to the bed. Had a little filly at any point, watched a duel to the death. Afterwards, did she still have sweet dreams? Or nightmares? Did she sleep well, or was her muzzle clogged with the scent of charred flesh? Or did she smell only ash, when all had been peaceful again?-

-Shut up! The pegasus tossed the image away and suppressed a shiver.

When Sketchy turned around, she saw more dark smudges radiating from the blast mark on the carpet, directed towards the door. Part of a table was chipped and burned as a result.

Murder indeed, She realized, numbly. Or was it self defense? Perhaps it was an escape maneuver, and-

-Shut up, stop making things up. Stop.

Sketchy stared at the marks. What had happened here?

She found it increasingly difficult to breathe. She turned. At first she merely walked, but every second pressed her to hurry. Soon she was in a gallop, crashing into everything on the way down.

When her shoulder collided with a small table on the landing of the stairs she ignored the pain, only stopping when she had reached the front door and was outside, gasping for air and flapping her wings in relief.

A fresh breeze flushed her senses. Sketchy breathed deeply, grateful that such a feeling could ever exist and make her feel alive. She smiled, faintly.

After a few moments, Sketchy lifted her head back to the door.

It was now a heavy dark thing which now hung open, limply inviting toward the dead state of existence within. She stared through the interior, challenging she knew not who or what. Possibly the house itself, for it's secrets.Despite fraying at the edges, she dared herself to know. To learn. It was the best revenge after all, to persevere.

The cold she had felt had been magic.

Sketchy knew this as an intimate fact, as she was allergic to the arcane. Her limbs already felt faint, like sticks that could snap at any moment. Consciously aware of this, her weight rocked on her hooves steadily, wings open for balance. There was a likely chance she would pass out if she went back in there, if she didn't get her medication first.

She was nothing if not stubborn.

Sketchy shut the door and locked it with the key she had received that morning.She made her way at a snail's pace, gauging every hoofstep and wing gesture with utmost scrutiny. Her limbs were like unreliable children. If she could watch them, they would behave.

The cart was left abandoned. It would be safe, inside the house. Not as though anypony would rob a cleaning cart of all things, but hey, useful cleaning supplies, it could happen.

When she returned, medicated and well, Sketchy was surprised and ever-so-miffed to see guards and police-ponies on the lawn.

The front door was wide open and her cart was nowhere to be seen. Sketchy ground her teeth at that fact. Bet she'd have to replace it with her own money.

She recognized the older, red-maned, lavender mare standing in the street to be her boss, China Sparkle, and made her approach.

China was in the middle of berating a guard pony. The poor stallion seemed to be straining to hold the stoic face he had been trained to maintain as they discussed, Sketchy guessed, the house. And perhaps whatever devolving from that - Ms. Sparkle tended to get insulting.

Famously, the mare was the Princess Twilight Sparkle's second cousin. Infamously, she was a hellhound to her workers and anypony that opposed her. China was fun at parties.

Well, if her stuff was in the lawn, then clearly Canterlot didn't want this house cleaned, despite it passing though the paperwork. Huh.

Breathing deeply and preparing for respite, she approached the two ponies.

"So, what's going on? I had to go get my medication before I could start working, and now I'm out of the job." Sketchy focused on her employer and clenched her teeth in the broadest, innocent smile she could manage. She would not be called out for laziness or excuses again, especially a time like this.

Ms. China Sparkle smiled thinly in what was plain contempt.

"Sketchy?" The guard asked.

Sketchy turned her head.

She must have looked baffled, since the guard's mouth was curling into a smile. " Hey, so I guess after the Major kicked you out, you're...Doing this?" He gestured a hoof to Ms. Sparkle. Her career, rather. "We were just talking about you."

Sketchy eyed the dark, smoke-colored unicorn stallion steadily. "I don't remember you, I'm sorry."

The guard barked a laugh. "Enchanted armor is lovely, isn't it? It's Peppermint Stroke, Sketchy."

A cream-colored stallion with a red and white-striped mane came to mind. Ah.

Sketchy smiled slightly, although now she was trying to suppress the heat in her cheeks. Ah. She couldn't find much to say.

"Nice to see you, Mint," Sketchy said after a devastating few seconds."I guess you got promoted."

The stallion gave a pleased nod. "I'm heading the Civilian Protection Division now, with old Goldilocks Drop."

"Right," Was all she could muster, swallowing roughly to clear her throat. "Well good luck to you, I should get back to cleaning."

Peppermint gave her an odd look, and frowned. "As I've been explaining to Ms. Sparkle here, you can't."

"Why?" Sketchy scowled.

"I think you know why, if you had to go back and get your allergy medication, Sketchy." The stallion intoned thoughtfully, holding her gaze with glamoured golden eyes.

"Leave my allergies out of this," Sketchy said after a pause of staring. Fitfully, she was unable to come up with a rebuke, and pawed at the pavement with a hoof.  "What's going on? My company was given clearance to clean the house-"

"-And as I was telling Ms. Sparkle, that was a faulty paper-work transaction, and the home was supposed to be demolished, not. Er. Cleaned," Peppermint cut in, blinking at the word.

Sketchy's body stiffened. "So I'm just supposed to go home now then, huh?"

"Yes," Peppermint replied, although with a slight hesitancy and a light sigh. "The Canterlot authorities will take it from here. You can't know anything specific, so don't even ask." He gestured with a hoof as soon as she opened her mouth.

"Fine then," Sketchy huffed. Her eyes darted to the cart. "But I don't have my duster-"

"-We, ah, confiscated it to be destroyed," Peppermint informed her. "For magical contamination."

Sketchy could really only glare at her former friend, unable to come up with anything to say.

Sketchy looked between her employer, and the guard. "Fine," She told them, and walked off without another word.  Although, this certainly wouldn't be the end of it. She would figure out what was up with that house.

Hm. Magical contamination. Was she contaminated?  That was a good question.

Oh, and was she fired?

She could have sworn she heard Ms. Sparkle call her name, but her hooves only carried her farther and farther away at a jagged pace. She was snorting heatedly, barely able to suppress her building anger.

Let her boss be the one to call her about it, Sketchy thought feverishly. She didn't care at all. Nope, nope, nope.

The shadows looming in her peripheral with depth-less white eyes agreed collectively that yes, this was the right way to think.

Sketchy's heart quickened at the realization she wasn't alone, and in turn she trotted just a little bit faster to her apartment across town.