I – Fate Loves the Fearless; Sadly, She Thinks Poorly of the Cowardly
Author's Note
Whoo. First chapter, done.
I feel proud of myself for once. The fact that I managed to churn this out shortly after the prequel's completion was quite a pleasant surprise.
To all my devoted readers, I thank you for your patience and your enthusiasm. To all the people who scorn this story, I thank you for reminding me that I have a loooong way to go before I can be any good.
For anyone that will be confused with the word "saberhorn," I found out that the Sarosian variants of Equestrian ponies are as follows:
Pegasi = Bat ponies
Unicorns = Saberhorns
Earth ponies = Nightwalkers
When you find any sort of mistake, be it the mathematics, grammar, or with the history from the previous story, please notify me! It can't go unattended to!
Thanks, and I hope you enjoy this fiction.
I – Fate Loves the Fearless; Sadly, She Thinks Poorly of the Cowardly
~To Serve and Protect~
A non-profit My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic fanfiction, written by Deyeaz
(Starring everyone's least favorite OC, ex-scribe and unicorn.)
I – Fate Loves the Fearless; Sadly, She Thinks Poorly of the Cowardly
The Friendship Express finally pulled into the station of Horseattle, the multicolored locomotive exuding a screeching wail from its whistle as its wheels slowed to a halt. As per the city’s weather patterns, the sky was blanketed in a thick veneer of gloomy clouds, yearning to release unto the city another rainstorm. The doors of the train slid open. “Here we are!” declared the conductor to the passengers. A select amount of civilians began to remove their luggage from the overhead steel racks. “Horseattle! All those whose destination is here, please leave the train; for those waiting to get to Los Pegasus next, stay put!”
Out they stepped, trudging along like herded sheep, bumping and bumbling about towards wider spaces. “Oof!” cried one mare, accidentally knocked to the side by a stallion lost in thought. “Watch where you’re walking!” she exclaimed.
“Sorry!” apologized Midnight Oil, readjusting his thick, black-framed glasses. His rebuttal went unanswered, as the sound of conversation, clicking hooves, and rolling wheels muted his voice. The Sarosian saberhorn sighed as he heaved his two suitcases along. “Are you alright there, Jericho?”
“Eep!” The monkey on Midnight’s shoulder replied, scouring through his owner’s long, lengthy braid of white hair for any tasty insects.
“Not gonna find any there, champ,” he said. Jericho pouted, his simian arms crossed over his furry brown chest in disappointment. Midnight chuckled at his pet and friend’s body language. “We ate before we left, Jer. You can’t possibly be hungry now.”
The two of them proceeded to walk towards the address that Princess Celestia had texted him, his daggerlike pupils retreating from the street to the glowing screen of his cell phone every once in a while. While he was relatively peeved by her and her sister Luna’s lack of action against the miasmic racism that flooded the city of Canterlot like backed-up sewage drains, the royal deities of their celestial bodies assured him that they would do all in their power to remedy the situation.
Due to a huge concentration of threats and hate mail slanderously regarding him “violating” a very important pony during a trip to the Middle East, Midnight had found living in Canterlot to be rather precarious as of late. He had resigned from his position as the Princesses’ royal scribe and would move to a home in Horseattle, finding a new job all the while.
Not because he wanted to. He would have given anything to stay there with his friends and with the Princesses. The only complication with that was that if he were to do so, he would put them in harm’s way as well. His choice in fleeing Canterlot for Horseattle counter-intuitively fused both nobility and cowardice, and he knew that it was for the better.
He could continue to overanalyze the matter to death and beyond, maybe reevaluate his decision in moving. But he was already past the point of no return.
Midnight continued on his travels, Jericho exclaiming in awe with every interesting sight. The Space Horn stood tall and proud, the tip prodding the clouds’ mighty cover. Flooding through their nostrils were the odors of baked bread, fried doughnuts, brewed coffee, and the vanilla-scented smoke of Midnight’s light that he would pull at.
“Eeh ooh ah-ah-oh eh?” squeaked Jericho, holding his breath and fanning away the occasional ball of smoke that Midnight would exhale.
“Why do I still keep smoking?” Midnight chuckled at Jericho’s flustered nodding. “I’m sorry about that. I know these things have got major health ramifications, even if they do store a third of the nicotine and other carcinogens of regular cigarettes.” He pulled quietly at the end of his light, the lit tip glowing brilliantly in the morning gloom of the Horseattle sunlight—or lack thereof. “But there’s no denying that, once you’re hooked to them like I am, they taste great.” He punctuated it by blowing out one last tuft of smoke, stamping out the dying fag and disposing of it in a public ashtray next to the name-brand apparel store.
The bustling aura of the urban jungle melted to make way for the subtle suburbia. The twenty-four-minute walk ended at the house before them. Midnight scanned the address on his phone, and verified that it was the one on the house in his presence. “272 East Sycamore Boulevard…” he hummed, the words burrowing themselves into an everlasting compass in his mind. It was an abode of… fair proportions. Nothing of extreme grandeur like his old tower back in Canterlot, yet this new habitat certainly wasn’t a rotting cardboard box beneath a bridge.
It was a two-story home, with chocolate-brown siding and gray roofing. “Three bathrooms, one master bedroom, and a guest bedroom,” according to the little picket sign with the red “SOLD!” sticker slapped crudely onto it. Midnight levitated the sign out of the small green lawn and approached the garage. The keypad next to it had a sticky note well-hidden in the inside of its lid. “94737” was inscribed in its yellow surface.
Well, that’s certainly not… dangerously foolish. Punching in the numbers, the garage door slid open almost quietly, the well-oiled machinery churning smoothly. “Not bad.”
Midnight put the picket sign against the garage wall, and pressed the green button next to the door into the house. The garage door slid closed as he entered his house, eager to explore it first. It was bare, unfortunately, devoid of all furniture and decorations. Hardwood floor and brick fireplace in the living room, granite countertops and tiled flooring in the kitchen, bathrooms and halls, and plush red carpeting in the bedrooms and study. At least one window appeared to be in every room, save for the bathrooms.
I should have had 680,000 bits in my savings account at the start of this summer, with a starter payment of 50,000 bits built up over the course of nine years from an annual pay of 70,000. But that’s implying I didn’t buy anything, particularly sustenance and shelter.
But each year, I was deducted around 21,600 a year due to taxes and bills, 1,800 bits a month on average. So that’s 194,400 bits over nine years, right? Then, I bought my tower for 221,450 once I had saved up, bringing the total down to 264,150. Phone bill is only 50 bits a month, and I got mine four years ago, so 2,400 bits. My furniture, computer, games, movies, and all of my home decor costed me about 11,000, so 250,750 bits.
Over the course of the last six weeks, I had spent… around 27,400 bits. 223,350 bits remain. I sold my old house for 155,015, approximately 30% off the original price of the price I bought it. I bought this new house for 165,000… So I obviously took a big loss of 213,665 bits, estimated.
Midnight blinked, calculations rammed away by a side thought. Wait… why do I have to go to work? I’m sitting fat for a considerable amount of years. I live alone here, so the bills would be about… 800 to 1300 bits a month, based on how much water and energy I use. Hay, I could even buy a flashy car, retire, early eat at fancy restaurants almost every day, and still be well off for about four or more years.
He shook his head, reprimanding himself for such a callous notion. Nah… I’d get too lazy if I suddenly decided to retire early. If I get a regular nine-to-five, bills would be reduced rather fairly, to around 600 bits at least. I’m more than capable of making my own meals – even if those meals are sometimes from frugal convenience stores. I can even buy an affordable, efficient car. He sighed slightly as an even more pivotal thought entered his mind. Besides, what if Octavia does decide to stay with me here? No way in Tartarus will she want a loser coltfriend who does practically nothing of productivity all day.
“There are so many altercations to being an adult,” he grumbled to Jericho, who only nodded in agreement.
Midnight felt his phone briefly vibrate twice in his pocket, pulling him out of his center of concentration. Withdrawing the machine, he scanned the text message Princess Twilight had given him.
Hey, Midnight. The moving company called, and said that all of your stuff will be around by three o’clock this afternoon.
He quickly responded:
Thank you very much. I’ll be sure to help them and pay them after my interview at 10:15. Sorry for having you do my work while I’m gone.
Moments later, his phone vibrated again. Midnight pulled it out and read Twilight’s reply:
Oh, don’t worry! It finally gave me more responsibility as a princess! Hadn’t really had any real paperwork until now, so thank YOU! :D
He smiled a bit, relieved that the Princess of Magic was tolerant — perhaps excited — that he had passed the buck onto her. Pocketing the device, the saberhorn entered the master bedroom, letting his suitcases plop unceremoniously on the ground beside him. He laid down on the plush blue carpet and stared listlessly at the white kernel-style ceiling. It felt… out of place to him. Alien, at that, like a foal’s scribbling in a prestigious art museum, or a lumpy clay stick figure among a plethora heavenly sculptures.
For him, a house was not a home.
This wasn’t his ceiling.
This wasn’t his room.
This wasn't his house.
This wasn't his home.
Not one day and I’m already homesick.
~
Two Hours Earlier
Singing.
Terrible singing.
It was the very first thing that Octavia Philharmonica awoke to in the wee hours of the Sunday morning. Celestia’s almighty Sun had just begun to peak its shining face out of its cover behind the horizon, its rays of light illuminating the dew that clung to the grass and the windows of the bedroom.
The bedroom of a monolithic, hundred-meter tower, sitting proudly on the property of Canterlot Castle.
She looked to her left, seeing nothing but the vacancy that that side of the bed offered. Still, she knew precisely whose voice was emitting that goddess-awful musing from the kitchen.
As well as who was exuding the lovely fragrance of breakfast.
Stretching, almost cat-like, upon the bed, Octavia sneaked a peek at the alarm clock on the bedside table. “6:58”, blared the digital clock in red integers. She skimmed over to the bathroom to freshen up: showering, drying and managing her gleaming obsidian mane, getting dressed back in her previous clothes. Soon afterwards, the taupe mare descended down the hallways to the kitchen, the cacophonous male singing getting louder. “And IIIIIIIIIIIII! Will always love yoooooouuuuu-hooooooo~!” sung the voice atrociously.
“That’s quite a sweet way to say good morning. You know, you could floor somepony with that kind of voice, Midnight,” she announced over the sizzling of eggs as she entered the kitchen, orchid eyes gazing intently at the stallion doing a little jig at the stove.
Midnight scratched at his thick five-o'clock shadow, him and Jericho wagging their tails to a rhythm the former's hooves were stamping to create. His slightly curved horn flared a bright acid-green corona, enshrouding a completed skillet of eggs in the same colorful glow to the table. “Thank you, but I think we both know you mean that in a negative connotation, Octavia,” he commented, rolling with the punches as he pulled open the refrigerator door to withdraw from it a little Tupperware of dark olives.
Midnight slid it onto the table, scanning it for any missing essentials. Upon the surface of aforementioned furniture was a smorgasbord of delicacies that he himself had cooked. Aside from eggs and the Tupperware of olives, there was Hoofghanistan-styled naan, a small plate of hummus seasoned with olive oil and chili powder, falafel, and sliced cucumbers and tomatoes. There was a box of cornflakes with a carton of milk sitting next to each other, wheat toast with butter and strawberry jam resting aside it. There was orange juice, apple juice, water, coffee and creamer, and green tea. There were plates, bowls, glass cups, knives, spoons, forks, and napkins.
“Everything seems to be in order,” he hummed, relieved that everything was just so. His concentration on the assortment of foods was broken by the feel of Octavia planting her lips on his cheek. His face began to flood with molten heat, cheeks and the tips of his bat-like ears burning ferociously. A few sparks seemed to shoot out of his horn, fizzling into nonexistence.
“This all looks divine,” said Octavia, her stomach growling in anticipation. She blushed in embarrassment as Midnight stifled a snicker at her obvious hunger. “You didn’t have to do all this, you know.”
“What, and have us go to some store and buy breakfast?” asked Midnight, as the two of them took their seats and began to eat the fruits of the Sarosian’s labor. “Pff. No way. While I do enjoy store-bought muffins with blueberries the size of your fists... I wanted to make you something nice. Show off a bit before I move.”
Octavia’s smile faltered, suddenly remembering the news of last night.
“Listen,” Octavia began, clearing her throat demurely. “I was pondering on your offer to stay with you in Horseattle.” Midnight’s ears perked up. He seemed almost a bit eager for her response. “And… after some consideration, I have to say… I’m afraid I can’t.”
Midnight’s ears flopped down, the stallion downhearted by the mare’s answer. I should have expected an answer like that, he thought, mentally kicking himself in the proverbial shins for formulating such high hopes. “I’m terribly sorry,” Octavia continued. “I am absolutely honored that you want me to come live with you. But I have my work, my family, my home, my friends. Vinyl is both making music and working through college: she can’t pay the rent by herself.”
Midnight raised a hand, beckoning for her to silence. “It’s alright. I understand,” he said, swallowing down his piece of falafel. “It’d be horrendous and stupid of me to rip you away from the things near and dear to your life, all for my own sake.” Octavia grinned feebly, dabbing her mouth with a napkin. “Zendagi migzara.”
“I beg your pardon?” Octavia was mildly confused by the Ponsi that Midnight hummed in.
“Life goes on."
“I’m sorry,” she apologized again, demurely stirring the naan in the little pile of hummus she had slathered on her plate. She could feel an uncomfortable pain growing in her chest, yanking at her heartstrings violently. “But, with you leaving… what will we do about… us?”
Ah. That was the million-bit question of the day. It appeared rather trivial, yet there was no Horsian Knot to this query. What was one to say when slammed with such a dilemma, really? Anyone, even the wisest and most logical individual, who was asked this question would freeze up, the cogs of their brains suddenly jutting to a halt. Midnight swallowed the stone-like lump that had developed in his gullet. “You could always visit me, I suppose,” he offered, carefully selecting his next words. “Horseattle’s only thirty minutes away. I could contact Princess Celestia, and ask her to allow you free access to the train, like she did with Twilight and her friends before the inauguration, or have there be a chariot to come pick you up and drop you off. I’ll meet you at the station, and we can spend the day together, however you want.”
Octavia thought the idea sounded marvelous in theory. But she had a niggling feeling in the back of her mind that this plan would eventually crumble.
What if work, on both of their ends, was too demanding?
What if weather anomalies and skewed train schedules would make her sojourns impossible?
What if Midnight's absence would prove to be too corrupting, and one would carelessly abandon the other for somepony else?
“Judging by the long hesitation and lack of retaliation, I’m guessing you’re overanalyzing the offer with worst-case scenarios,” announced Midnight as he and Jericho nibbled at olives and tossed their pits in a spare napkin. Octavia blushed again, clicking her tongue in disappointment that he had figured her out almost right away. “Honestly, I think they might happen, too. The future is wild and unpredictable. But at the same time, I have hope in us.” He laid his hand on hers, curling his long thin fingers around her shorter, elegant ones. “If there ever is a day out of each week where you’re off, let me know. I’ll talk to my boss during my interview today and see if he—or she—is lenient enough to let me take that day off with you.”
Octavia beamed at his words. She was slowly beginning to see the silver lining in this once-flawed plot of his. “That sounds like a phenomenal idea. I’ll come with you to see you off.” Midnight thanked her as he cleared the table, placing the food back into Tupperwares and into the refrigerator. “What time does your train leave?”
“Eight o’clock,” he answered. “It’s… what, seven-twenty now, right? I should probably get my stuff and head out.”
Later.
The two of them had reached the station, the Friendship Express for Horseattle pulling in from Fillydelphia at 7:45. Midnight shuddered slightly at the glares of a small smattering of ponies, their eyes leering in malice at the sight of him, their mouths moving in silent murmurs and wielding resentful undertones.
Oh goddess I'm scared.
While Midnight was a unicorn who was exceptionally skilled in the arcane arts, he always had a bit of stage fright about him, as well as anxiety attacks under pressure.
Particularly when the audience around him despised him for being a half-breed between pony and dragon.
“Can we go back?” he squeaked nervously, the paranoia bubbling inside him addling his thought process. He could feel an anxiety attack slowly building up for a dramatically climactic entrance. “We could live in my tower! I can send anypony to get us food and drinks! We could just watch movies and cuddle forever”
“Midnight, take it easy, you're being irrational,” Octavia said calmly, emanating as much of a soothing aura as she could in her voice and actions while clandestinely clasping Midnight’s hand, locking their fingers together. The couple arrived to the gates of the Friendship Express, Midnight peering into its open maw anxiously. “You’ll be just fine. I know you: you’re witty, adaptable, and very intelligent.”
“And devilishly handsome,” he added suavely, taking the edge off of his nervous state of being.
“Whatever helps you sleep at night,” she teased. “I’m certain you can slog it all out in next to no time.” She fixed his askew slate-colored tie, and straightened out his matching suit vest. He thanked her once again. “So, I have Saturdays off from practice. I’ll be sure to call you and let you know when to come and retrieve me from the station.”
“That sounds great,” he said, his anxiety relieved with this information.
“Allll abooooaaaard!” went the mighty cry of the train conductor. “Next stop: Horseattle!”
“Well… I should get going,” he murmured. He let go of his luggage, if only for a moment, to hug Octavia. He slinked his arms around her back, and she too to him, her mane’s scent of magnolias tickling his nostrils. Her head rested cozily on his shoulder, the two ponies in love huddling close to each other in the brisk air of the early morning. “I wish you a fond farewell, ma douce déesse,” he said, reluctantly retracting away from her.
Agghhh. A fedora tip feels so necessary right now .
She giggled amicably at the Prench endearment, her cheeks burning intensely. She shuffled her hooves in anxiety. “Er… Octavia? Are you okay?” Midnight was interrupted by her standing on the tips of her hooves and kissing him. The action took him by pleasant surprise. The warm sensation flooding through her lips into his began to flood him with ecstasy, soon controlling him like a marionette to pull Octavia into him, hands lost in the luscious obsidian forest of her mane as his eyes fluttered to a close.
The groans of disgust and gasps of shock emanating from the crowd of nobleponies would only fall on deaf ears.
“What was that for?” he asked bashfully as he pulled away, face and ears once again searing tremendously. “We're in public, we could start some sort of fiasco.”
“I don't care. If they can't accept you, they won't accept me,” Octavia merely stated. “Be safe, ma lumière. I love you.”
Those last three words.
They seemed to radiate through him in unexplainable manners. Heat permeated his very core, surging through every iota of his being. They fueled him, for lack of better description, giving him the courage and the will to follow through.
Even if that courage and will was to leave the city.
Even if Fate did love the fearless and courageous, he was far from that. He was a coward, and everypony knew that Fate thought poorly of the cowardly.
Still, he was a smart coward nonetheless.
He grabbed his bags and slowly entered the train. “I love you, too. Take care.”
The doors sealed shut. The train chugged away
~
Now
Midnight sighed in remorse and defeat. He really was going to miss Octavia; she was the first pony he had felt any emotional and romantic connection to, who would reciprocate his feelings with gusto.
He checked his wristwatch to take his mind off the matter: 9:08, it read.
I've got some time. Maybe I can get a lay of the land before I head in for the interview.
He sat up, brushing away the dust on the seat of his pants. “Wanna come with me and check out the town a bit with me?” he offered to Jericho, who was curled up snugly on one of the suitcases. “Or do you wanna just chill here for a bit?”
The little chimp waved his hand at Midnight in a shooing motion. The Sarosian scoffed, leaving his monkey friend alone and going downstairs. He spotted the house key on the mantelpiece above the fireplace. Taking it and putting it securely in the breast pocket of his vest, he proceeded for the door. “Don’t cause any trouble!” he cried into the house.
He closed the door. He shuddered slightly as the rain began to descend on the city. His horn glowed another vivid acid green as he walked down the road, magically shielding himself from the downpour.
~End of Chapter I~
II – One Must Walk Before They Can Run, Lest They Fall and Scrape Their Knee
II – One Must Walk Before They Can Run, Lest They Fall and Scrape Their Knee
10:13 AM
After spending the better half of an hour touring the city, remembering the locations and landmarks in the vicinity with the help of both a trusty map and the professional navigation of the citizens, Midnight Oil had reached his destination. He examined the prominent gray building, “Horseattle Police Department” hanging proudly above the doors to the inside. Colorful hydrangeas sprouted in the redwood mulch patches flanking the entrances, the sprinkling of rain providing them with their daily dose of water.
Midnight pushed open the amber-stained wooden doors, the sounds of hustling and bustling ponies of the law filling his ears. The filing of police records. The shuffling of hooves on cedar hardwood. The idle chatter of ponies on break in the lunchroom, guzzling their coffee and munching on their breakfasts. The solemn voices of interrogators pressing and prodding the buttons of their culprits and suspects to get the answers they need.
Midnight’s eyes and ears swallowed it all, making note of each and every minute detail as he visually explored the facilities. He wandered up to one griffin, the navy blue police uniform clashing quite fairly with her mahogany plumage, the golden badge upon her chest glinting in the light of the fluorescent bulbs. “Excuse me,” Midnight began, clearing his throat to get the griffin’s attention. He felt his throat close up slightly as her sharp orange eyes scanned him thoroughly. “I’m here for an interview at ten-fifteen. Do you know where I go, by any chance?”
“Ah, you’re the guy!” The griffin, with a smile, promptly extended her claw, inviting Midnight for a handshake. Midnight gingerly accepted it, nodding. “Yeah, come this way.” Midnight followed her to the doors of a square office. She opened the door and showed Midnight in. It was a rather spacious office with eggshell-white walls. The desk had a standard layout—a pencil holder and sharpener, office supplies, a laptop—with the name and title “Summer Corona – Chief of Police” embedded into a gold plaque.
The shelf behind the desk proudly displayed trophies from soccer, hockey, and fishing. There were high school and college diplomas in psychology and forensics. There were family photos and a drawing done by a child. Pegasus holding up a large lake trout, rearing to about three feet in length, weighing in at almost thirty to forty pounds. The stallion stood tall, chest puffed out boastfully at his catch.
“Impressed, are you?” said a voice calmly. Midnight jumped at the sound. He didn’t immediately notice the speaker, the same stallion from the photograph, sitting in his chair and examining the police reports that littered his desk. His icy blue eyes scanned meticulously through the contents as he scratched at his bushy auburn goatee. “Got that bad boy two years ago. Mounted him on my wall all the while.” He stood up. He was two inches shorter than Midnight, yet he was as muscular as a bodybuilder, no doubt capable of twisting the Sarosian into a bow knot. “My name is Summer Corona, chief of police.”
“Midnight Oil, a pleasure to meet you.” Midnight’s hand clasped around Corona’s, and the former regretted doing so almost instantaneously: the chief of police had a kung-fu grip capable of crushing coal into diamonds. The Sarosian could feel the little bones in his hands being reduced to dust.
SWEET SCROTUM OF DISCORD, I'VE NEVER FELT SUCH PAIN!
“...I trust you received my resumé and Princess Celestia’s letter of recommendation?” choked Midnight, his slightly watery eyes almost betraying his refusal to show weakness in front of his employer.
“Yeah, yeah,” concurred Corona, finally breaking their greeting and not Midnight’s hand. He seemed not to give too much of a care. “Please, have a seat.” Midnight obliged, sticking his beloved extremity beneath his thigh to nurse it back to health. “Nine years of being the Princesses’ aide and scribe. I have to say it’s quite impressive. Tell me, they say here that you’re a certain subspecies of Sarosian: a Recorder. Could you, eh… elaborate on what those are?”
Midnight Oil tugged at his collar, the slate-colored tie seemingly gagging him. Despite the brisk chill of the weather outside and the cool air from the A/C, he was on the verge of sweating like an obese rhinoceros running a marathon. “Of course. Recorder Sarosians have a heightened sense of seeing and hearing. Details, both obvious and subliminal, are processed far better and stored much longer for me. I absorb and retain any and all observations, both audible and visual, like a sponge in a tub of water.”
Summer Corona had been writing hastily in his notepad, reiterating Midnight’s words in a hushed tone. He then looked at Midnight intensely with those piercing icy irises. Midnight tremored slightly, as though those eyes were x-raying him. He gulped as he dragged his hoof in a circle along the carpet, the tip creating swirls in the plush threads. “Are there more of them out there like you? Or are you just… special?”
“No, sir. There are dozens, if not hundreds, of subclasses, or categories, of Sarosians in Equestria. My grandmother, for instance, is a Soothsayer. Meaning she witnesses prophetic visions, or vivid moments in the future.”
Corona rose to his hooves. Midnight’s anxiety and… overall twitchiness subsided to make way for bemusement at his words. “I want to see this… Recording phenomenon for my own eyes. Take a good long look at the room. Take note of everything in it… now, if you could close your eyes for a moment.” He sighed exasperatedly at Midnight’s hesitance to comply. “I’m going to move some items around the room. Some of them will be obvious changes, and some of them will be almost unnoticeable. Let’s see if you’ll catch on.”
Midnight rolled his eyes, and then closed them, going along with this little game. “When can I open them.” he droned, posing it like a statement from lack of enthusiasm. Summer Corona didn’t answer. Midnight could only hear hoofsteps. Objects being lifted and replaced on different surfaces. Soft thuds on hardwood and harsh drags on carpet were registered by his eardrums.
“So, tell me, why is it you decided to leave your previous field of scribe for this field?”
“Well… there was a bit of a fiasco that had happened in Canterlot,” said a hesitant Midnight, not sure if he should really shield the truth from his employer. It wasn’t completely a lie: he was simply omitting some sections of truth while still telling, basically, the entire story. “Even under the Princesses’ protection, I was still skeptical of my safety if I were to continue my life there.”
Corona nodded, understanding the predicament to the best of his abilities. He had heard rumors that Canterlot didn’t take kindly to those who were… different than them. Different like Midnight, in the sense that they were regular, untainted ponies, whilst Sarosians were but half-breeds in their eyes. “Abominations” spawned from dragons who had the curiosity and gall to reproduce with ponies several hundreds of years ago. “So you decided to get away from it all before it went nuclear.”
Midnight nodded. “Couldn’t have said it better myself.”
Corona chuckled and finally announced, “Okay, now open your eyes.”
Midnight flickered his eyelids ajar. “Tell me what’s different, now,” said Corona imperatively. The room, in some essence or form, seemed off, yet still bore its similar appearance. He looked around the vicinity, referring to his previous memory of it. He ruled out the obvious changes: the soccer trophy was moved on top of the desk; the notepad Corona had been writing on was moved on top of the shelf; and the spare chair that was once adjacent Midnight had been placed a foot away from him.
Now for the rest.
“The book on the shelf. You moved it out from its slot by about a half an inch…. The blinds behind me were open before. They’re still open, yet you closed them by about… what, two millimeters? The desk is moved back by…” He leaned in further, examining the treadmarks the desk’s legs scratched into the carpet. “...a quarter of an inch, approximately.”
The chief of police’s eyebrows escalated slightly. He emitted a low whistle. “Not bad. Very good memory: I can see now you weren’t lying.”
“N-no, sir.” The neurochemicals blitzing through Midnight’s brain were slowing to a sluggish chug, his rush from being right dying down to be replaced by anticipation for the results.
“Well… Like I said before, your resumé is very impressive, and I trust you can handle your position here... eventually. Once you receive the right training, both intellectually and physically.” He then grinned a toothy grin, a silver implant that replaced his left canine tooth glinting in the light. “I trust that you understand. If we let you run around now, you’ll come back to us in a body bag.”
“Sure, I get you. One must walk before they can run, lest they fall and scrape their knee,” finished Midnight on a nervous note.
Why, why, why did I say that?! There are maize fields on Sweet Apple Acres that will never be as corny as that!
Corona blinked for a second, processing such an odd phrase. “...I suppose you could say that, yeah.” He stood up and proceeded to head for the door. “In the meanwhile, you’ll be working alongside one of our own and learning the ropes.”
“What, you mean I got the job?” said an excited Midnight. Just like that! It was only a matter of a few minutes! He didn’t know experience with Canterlot royalty gave him that much pull in finding a career, especially one that could be both meaningful and (hopefully) lucrative. This was great news for him: he couldn’t wait to tell Octavia and the others!
The others…
I never did tell them I was leaving Canterlot. Midnight was expecting Vinyl Scratch to come down to Horseattle herself just to pummel him into a mound of yuck. Frédéric would do the same, yet would first yell furiously and uncontrollably at Midnight for “stealing” Octavia from under his nose. The guilt that Midnight felt for clandestinely going steady with Octavia behind Frédéric’s back made the Sarosian nauseous.
“Yeah, yeah, you got the job,” responded an irritated Corona. “Now don’t ruin it, please.”
“R-right.” Midnight cleared his throat and readjusted his tie, not ready to exacerbate the moment. “Just… thank you so much. So, you said I would be assigned to a partner?”
“Yes, of course.” Corona pushed in his chair, scooping up the police files, and made for the door to return them to the archives. “The griffin who brought you here? Her name is Gladys. Ask her to take you to Records to enter in your data, get you set up. Then, look for a Sarosian named Red Giant, down in the shooting range in the basement. He’ll issue you your badge and teach you how to shoot.”
“Alright.” Midnight stood up and made his way for the door. He shook hands with Summer Corona once more, regretting the decision altogether as the chief of police unnecessarily crushed his hand yet again with his intense strength.
HOLY MOTHER OF FAUST, WHYYYYY?!?! He mentally roared in agony as he passed the threshold, nursing his right hand yet again by stuffing it under his left armpit and squeezing like he was trying to crack a very sturdy nut.
“Take care, and best of luck to you… detective.” Corona closed the door behind Midnight.
~End of Chapter II~
