13 / 10 / 1603 A.C - Rain
Rain.
I always hated the rain; that constant splattering, dribbling, tap, tap, tap of the droplets like a metronome on the mind. It was infuriating, constantly reminding me of its presence.
And it didn’t stop there. No, then came the wind. Howling, icy, chilling to the bone. It would cut through my coat like a razor through the fog, always there, always reminding me.
There was no escape. No running away, no hiding. You simply had to wait, stay inside, sip a cup of cocoa, and hope it moved on.
As a young filly, I would often find myself sitting at the window, watching as this dreary mess unfolds. The droplets would splatter against the window, forming little rivulets as they traced their borders down the frame, then I’d stare and wonder when it would ever end.
Sometimes a cold draught would come through the house. I’d be caught off guard, and gasp then shudder as the chilling air passed my coat. Then it would be gone, and I’d be joined by my sisters, who would comfort me. They’d wrap my shivering form in their hooves, and warm me with their coats.
“Don’t worry, Pinkie,” my sister would say. “We’re here, the storm can’t harm you.”
I’d look back at her, and smile, looking into those soft, calm eyes. Like a rock, they would hold me steady through the night. I would never be afraid because I knew I had three great sisters, always, at my side.
~ ~ ~
The dim roar, constant pitter-patter, and the thunderous drone of rain in the streets turned to dim static beneath the sounds of the bar. The chink of silverware and the mutters of ponies’ voices slowly drifted from behind.
She didn’t know how long she’d been standing there, on the cusp, staring across the streets of Manehattan. Pinkie was in a kind of trance, her trench-coat held tight across her body, offering what little warmth it could.
It didn’t help, of course. It never did.
The cold and the wet were still there, splattering before her. They inched through the thick lining by the minute, slowly seeping through the fabric to dampen the fur beneath. An occasional draft would pass Pinkie by, bringing with it the chill reminder of the rain and its unforgiving cold. The words of her sister still echoed through her mind, loud like the day they’d been said.
Pinkie’s eyes flitted across the street. The fog was growing dense. The air hung heavy, almost suffocating. She could feel it pressing down on the dim cityscape.
Soon it would be too dark to see; something not helped by the already waning sun. She could make out the glow of street lamps in the distance, their light muted under the encroaching fog. The shapely forms of buildings still towered overhead, vanishing as they arched over the narrow street.
Motions would flicker out of sight like faint apparitions, calling her to look. The occasional flash of pink, and the faint chirp of fun. She’d catch the odd mare or stallion, huddled beneath their coats, hoods dipped or umbrellas held tight. They trotted at a pace, too busy to pay her any heed. None of them so much as stopped to notice Pinkie, or the diner, as they rushed their way home.
She knew what they were thinking. They had homes, friends, family; all they wanted was to get out of the cold, out of the rain, and to find somewhere high and dry.
“Honey.”
Pinkie’s ears pricked. It was her again, that familiar voice. She turned, and caught a flicker of motion as Penelope cantered out to join her on the doorstep. “It’s almost closing time,” she said, ears flattened. Her usual bun mane was already undone, leaving the greyed hairs to hang, swaying, at her sides. “You’ve been standin’ out here for almost thirty minutes. Are you sure you’re going to be alright?”
“I—” Pinkie bit her lip. She turned away, turning her gaze down to the ground beneath her hooves. Once again, Penelope had that look about her. She didn’t know what it was, but whenever she saw it she couldn’t help but smile.
Those eyes—she couldn’t bring herself to look at them, not now.
It took a long while for Pinkie to respond. She drew a long breath, taking in the cold night air. The rain slowly filled the silence with its calming din, and the cold gradually seeped in, chilling her to the bone, and setting her stuttering tongue to rest.
“What if she’s still out there?” The words came out quick, almost a whisper. At first Pinkie wasn’t quite sure where they had come from. They were kind of... detached, like the words of a complete stranger, and yet exactly right. “Is it going to be like this now?” She let out a small sigh, “Me, afraid to head out into the world, too scared of bumping into my old life?”
“You’re more than that,” Penelope said, “You know you are.”
~ ~ ~
The roaring beat murderously against the closed window, punctuating the silence with sounds of the storm not far outside. Water dripped and tapped, and the quiet tick, tick, tock of a clock set the rhythm as Pinkie turned the page in her hooves.
A board creaked in the darkness, alerting Pinkie to the presence of her visitor.
He was an intimidating figure for sure—she wouldn’t deny it, nopony could. Tall, dark, shadowed in the dim light, the stallion towered over Pinkie’s desk as he leered over her, expecting her answer.
The occasional flicker of lightning would reveal the upturned collar of a trench-coat, the most disgusting of smirks, and the scar of a horseshoe covering most of his face, giving him a mottled look.
“So...” He said, deep and grizzly. Pinkie’s ears pricked to his harsh words. There was the obvious hints of Mareceloneon accent, albeit garbled, forced maybe. If she were to guess right, Pinkie would say he was straight off the emigration express. “...Do we have a deal, then?”
The stallion seated himself across from Pinkie, leaning over the desk to look her in the eye, angry scowl to sly grin. His voice carried a weight to it, smug, almost. She could tell he was loving this, that he had Private Pie, the Private Pie right where he wanted her. She knew it, and he loved it.
“If you do what we say, you’ll never hear from us again. It’ll be like this meeting never happened, and you can go right back to living your life.” He smirked. “What do you say?”
Pinkie frowned. She tipped back her hat, then glanced over her desk, looking to the papers.
Silence fell as she carefully considered her words and then, looking up, “No.”
“Excuse me?” The stallion’s smirk dropped. He was taken aback, and quickly slammed his hoof against the desk. There was the crack, and splinters clattered from his hoof as her drew it back.
As he rose, the stallion began to yell. “You can’t just—”
Pinkie shot a hoof forward, grabbing the stallion by the scruff of his neck. Pulling his mane, she slammed his face down on the desk.
CRACK
The wood shook, and the stallion convulsed. Clumps of fur came loose in Pinkie’s hooves as he struggled, and she slammed him face once more, for good measure, before she brought his head to force their eyes to meet—whimper and bloody nose to vengeful snarl.
“Listen to me,” she said, “I’m going to say this once, and only once.” Pinkie motioned to the papers strewn across the desk. She snatched one of the upturned photos and held it up to the stallion’s face. “I owe this mare a debt. Private Pie always pays back her debts.”
“M-m-f” He whimpered, and spat. Turning away from Pinkie’s gaze, her pulled back against her vice-like grip. “Wh—” He spat the blood from his lip. “When Alpa Capone hears about this he’s going to—”
She pulled him back, tugging his mane again. Several hairs came free in Pinkie’s hoof, which she quickly discarded to get a tighter hold. “Tell your boss,” she whispered. Gritting her teeth, her gaze hardened as she locked eyes with him. “For both of our sakes, I don’t want you, him, or anyone going anywhere near that diner or Celestia so help me...”
“Y—” Pinkie shoved him away, knocking the stallion out of his chair. He stumbled back, just catching himself in his hooves, and she stumbled back towards the exit, coughing blood and spluttering. “Y-y-yes ma’am,” he squeaked. “r-right away ma’am.” His confident smirk gone, his gaze reflected only one thing as he retreated from Private Pie’s office: fear.
“Good.”
Pinkie leaned back in her chair. Her gaze fell to the window, watching as the droplets pattered against the old glass. All the while, she listened carefully as the stallion retreated. She could hear his hooves clunking down the hall. First a slow and controlled trot, it turned fast, more panic-stricken as the pony galloped and out of the building.
Under the hush rear of the rain outside, she faintly heard some voices whisper, and then more hooves moving outside.
They all soon faded into silence, leaving Pinkie alone with her thoughts.
It was just her, and the rain. Ever-present, never-ending. The constant tap, tap, tap of droplets against the window frame, rivulets forming as they traced their paths home.
The thunder growled. Lightning clapped outside, adding to the constant din.
In this silence, Pinkie finally slumped in her chair. Her muscles buckling under the weight as she crumpled in on herself. She turned inwards, looking to the photos on her desk and the red splatters strewn across its surface.
It is then, that she let out a long, heavy sigh, and silently wept.
I always hated the rain.
