Trigger Warning: Everything
Trigger Warning: Everything
In a way, Mr. Rich considered it best that the day had already been ruined.
With Barnyard Bargains, for the Ponyville store, he often acted as nothing more than the flagship's manager: Mr. Rich felt that the best way to see how a business was running was to actually run it, and so typically kept his hooves working at a distance of none-removed. But in truth, he was ultimately responsible for all of the branches. His duties crossed a continent, which meant the occasional long weeks away from home while he tried to do the same, time during which it was long hours under Moon of him staring at the ceiling (typically of train car or bland hotel room) because his biggest responsibility was now being neglected and without him reading her to sleep, Diamond just might be doing the same.
There were days when he wanted to be nothing more than the manager of a single store, for such seemed as if it would be a simpler life. It would likely be one which provided much more time for reading to his daughter. But there were other responsibilities. For he had but one child (and she with but a single parent remaining), but the continent was filled with those tied to him not by blood, but devotion and economics. There were more than a dozen stores, employing hundreds of ponies. And there were ways in which they needed him as much as Diamond did. To look after them. To make the right decisions. To make sure so many families continued to be fed.
Running a cross-continent business was, in some ways, like raising a child. You could never be entirely sure as to what was happening while you weren't looking and every so often, the complaints would show up on his doorstep. Or in this case, his desk.
There was a supplier, or rather, there had been a supplier: anypony looking to confirm the site's address through reading the numbers on the door would find their view blocked by publicly-posted, poorly-faked bankruptcy forms. Mr. Rich had only initially dealt with them because there hadn't been any other choice: when customers were buzzing about the soon-to-arrive products of a startup company, there was a certain obligation to place the initial order. Unfortunately, the supplier, who'd been paid in advance, hadn't felt the same duty towards fulfilling it: the owners were somewhere, the money was presumably with them, and Mr. Rich was the pony who had to tell every store what had happened while finding some way to cover the lost bits, a method which wouldn't tap into employee benefits.
Windicity was reporting an Incident in the toy aisle. The last annual industry show had seen the debut of the first-ever wooden model railroad: modular grooved track pieces could be assembled into just about any course a child might imagine, and brightly-painted trains were pushed along the routes. Mr. Rich had initially been enamored of it and, following his having brought in his favorite consultant for a second opinion, had ultimately placed the new company's largest order -- after everypony had finally helped him get Diamond away from the demonstration area. That company had encountered no difficulties in shipments, and every store had found a place for the display table: a sample track which occupied about half a square body length, which also served as a place for colts and fillies to play as their parents shopped. And when dealing with very young children who had a knack for wriggling out of their diapers, calling for cleanups in the toy aisle -- or in this case, on the display table -- was a weekly thing.
However, running across a parent who had continued to insist that her child had done no such thing while threatening to sue because clearly some horrible pony had cast a spell to make the illusion appear... that was slightly more uncommon. The Windicity branch was requesting legal help, along with somepony who could somehow finally explain to the mother exactly how illusion spells typically didn't work when it came to the presence of odor, solidity of results, and the mere fact that any theoretical unicorn who could even hypothetically make the attempt would have somehow been in Windicity. That branch's manager hadn't even managed to reach the scent part before the mare had tried to kick him, which had at least taken a little attention away from the foal who'd just decided to put on a repeat performance because imaginary unicorns were just that good.
And then there was the Vanhoover store, which was starting to see a tiny flow of tourist traffic coming from the Empire, pretty much all of whom tried to pay for the foreign-to-them goods in their own currency and so had created the question of exactly how one made change for a shard.
All of that, and more, was currently on his desk. All of it was on him. And so on a day when he'd been hoping to do nothing more complicated than going over the display for the spring sale on gardening implements and getting his paperwork ready for the annual trip to Town Hall, he'd wound up stuck in his office. A room for which the front door hardly ever closed, currently occupied by paperwork, complaints, and roughly two dozen phantom ponies who were shouting at him to fix this. It still left plenty of space for the throbbing headache.
And then there was a soft knock against his door, or rather, the frame.
He looked up, saw golden mane and eyes. Nodded politely (which was generally all he trusted himself to do in her presence), and then reared up enough to sweep his left foreleg across a small portion of the desk, clearing space. She nodded back, and then the grey pegasus trotted into the room. The little bundle of envelopes was dropped into the vacant spot, followed by perfect teeth presenting the form for his signature.
Either a lawyer sending something certified -- because there was always somepony who'd sue on behalf of offended and delusional parents, as long as they got their payment in advance -- or government mail. Just about anything else (as he seldom got express mail) would have had the mare dropping off the bundle at the front of the store. If he was lucky, it was just a reminder from Town Hall, that little prompt to let him know that he was due in next week. If he wasn't... well, the day had already been ruined. But at least this way, he got to see --
-- don't.
He signed, keeping his mouthwriting clear. She nodded, silently tucked the form into her saddlebags, turned and trotted out while he did his best not to watch that.
It was difficult, not watching, and the level of challenge seemed to increase with every passing moon.
She's too young. Adult, yes, but admittedly quite a bit younger than he. And it hasn't been that long --
(It had been years.)
-- plus there's no telling how Diamond would react, she's never been through this, I don't even know if I remember how to go on a date --
(He remembered every last tenth-bit of it.)
-- much less how to ask somepony out --
(That too.)
-- somepony I'm too old for, she'll just think I'm too old for her because I am.
If a day hadn't already been ruined, certified (or, too often, government) mail generally did the trick. And yet he could never feel fully frustrated when that proof-of-direct-receipt signature was requested, because it meant a few seconds of seeing --
-- she deserves better than me.
By which he mostly meant 'younger,' with the rest being fear.
Another knock. Mr. Rich, who hadn't even been fully aware that he'd been staring at the little bundle, glanced up.
"I saw her go in," Invoice said as the stallion's plum-shaded horn crossed the threshold. "How bad?"
"I didn't look yet," Mr. Rich admitted.
"Bet it's the formal announcement of that wet floor lawsuit?"
Mr. Rich sighed. "Because a mare who brings a cloud into our Baltimare store when they begged her not to, made it rain all over the floor when she kicked up a tantrum on top of it, and then slipped on landing because she soaked the area, is very clearly in the perfect legal position to blame us for it." Some days were spent on the road, and too many others found him in court. "But if we're lucky, it's just the renewal notice." His teeth nipped at the bundling thread, and envelopes spread across the desk. "Let's see --"
-- which was when the color reached him.
It could, if the describing party was attempting fairness, be called green-grey. A pony going for accuracy would have said that the envelope had been brought to the nearest Crystal Goose resting ground, followed by being carefully stained with the inevitable results of that occupancy. The stench was merely imaginary, and it still kept Mr. Rich's head from dipping all the way down because even for an earth pony who'd changed his newborn's diapers via the only available option, there were some things you just didn't put in your mouth.
"It's government," Invoice worriedly observed. "I can see the stamp. But I don't recognize the department. What's 'The Greater Business Centralization Initiative'?"
"I have no idea," Mr. Rich admitted, and that worried him. He did his best to keep an eye on any legislation or policy changes which might affect the stores: his being unaware meant something had crept past his snout or the department was very new indeed. "We'd better find out..."
His head dipped again, which gave his vision a close-up consideration of the envelope's color. Back up again. Shifted left, went for the letter opener, came down, almost jerked up, and finally conjured a thousand imaginary roses just to get himself past the glue. Papers were eventually extracted, and experienced eyes quickly began the translation from Bureaucrat.
Slowly, "It's our operating licenses renewals."
"Oh, that's easy!" an openly relieved Invoice beamed. "I saw you getting everything for that together this morning! It's just you in Town Hall for three minutes. Ten if the mayor drops by to chat. Not much longer than that or you'll miss the train." A moment of thought. "If you get to the chance to ask her about getting our float into the parade --"
But Mr. Rich had already plummeted into horror.
"-- it's all of them."
Invoice's grey eyes blinked, exactly once, and it took the stallion a little extra effort to get them open again on the other end. "...what?"
There were certain requirements when horror came to be, ones outside the long list of Things To Bring which his eyes were desperately roaming over. For starters, when all four legs were nearly twitching from the instinctive desire to flee, it helped to have somepony who could glance behind you and verify that what you were still somehow hoping was just a patch of shifting shadow was in fact actually a monster.
"Take a look at this." Mr. Rich nosed the papers forward, added a half-rotation, and got a full whiff of a stink which was no less potent for being entirely within his head.
Invoice looked. Then he looked again, and kept looking for some time.
"All of them," he starkly said.
"Every last one," Mr. Rich replied, and waited. (It also helped if that pony could identify the monster. After all, when you were fairly certain you were about to be eaten, there remained a certain hope for avoiding the teeth. Whether being swallowed in one go was an actual improvement seemed to be a subject for future debate.)
"But the other branches --" which was when Invoice read further down "-- they can't renew locally? They've always renewed locally! Vanhoover used their own Town Hall!" With increasing desperation, "Every Barnyard Bargains uses their own Town Hall! Operating license! Sales tax, for the settled zones which have it! All of the records! The only way they couldn't renew locally was if --"
"Keep reading," Mr. Rich wearily said.
"-- they shut that down?"
He nodded.
Invoice didn't notice: his gaze was now frozen on the relevant line.
"To make matters simpler," Mr. Rich continued, paraphrasing recently-read descriptions of nightmare, "all functions have now been placed in a single location. No Town Hall is allowed to perform those functions. Not anymore. And to cut down on the number of visits we'll personally be needing, they have very efficiently arranged for every single Barnyard Bargains license, of every kind, to expire at the same time. Which is ten days from now."
He watched four plum-hued knees slump.
"...well," Invoice just barely managed, "at least you can renew them all at once... and it's in Canterlot, so we won't have to go very far to get it done. We can just skip this 'accommodations available' part entirely..." (Which Mr. Rich knew took some work: it was about a third of the page.) In shaken tones, "Sun and Moon, Mr. Rich, we have to pull our paperwork together from all over the continent. If we miss a single store, we're going to have a franchise running outlaw, and you know what those fines look like. This is going to be express mail flying in all directions, and we might need to add some emergency teleport escorts into that. I don't know how we're going to get everypony together on this -- why would the Princesses do this? It doesn't make any sense! And --" his eyes had just barely managed to shift further down the page, mostly from futile hopes of escape "-- what's this part about bringing six points? Points of what? And who's going to go? It has to be somepony who can keep all this straight in their head: one bad form..."
"I'll go." Because that had been the original plan: he would have renewed the Ponyville licenses, then taken the train to Canterlot and done the ones for that branch: it also gave him a reason to drop in. With the more distant stores, the rest would have been sensibly left to their managers, but...
It made sense to do this at Town Hall. Each individual Town Hall in every settled zone, and then they forwarded the paperwork to Canterlot. But to have it all in one place...
The horror hadn't faded. It was, however, having trouble holding ground against the sudden intrusion of questions.
"You'll go?" Invoice shakily verified. "But --"
"-- it's my responsibility," Mr. Rich said, for it was, and he refused to kick anypony else towards the monster's mouth in order to save himself. "It's also about to be my responsibility to contact the other branches, and hopefully ahead of these envelopes: it's too late to save the Canterlot store from opening one, but we may still be able to prepare everypony else." One place... "We'll pull it together. Would you please send somepony to the post office for express mail forms and stamps? Several dozen. And check to see what an escorted letter is going for. Fast, because I think those ponies are about to be in very high demand."
"I'm --" The unicorn took a deep breath. "I'm going. For that, I'm going. Ten days, we've got ten -- and I'm wasting time by standing here, and I'm wasting time by telling you that I'm --"
He abruptly turned, galloped away while several worried employees watched the whipping tail and wondered what could be that wrong. For Mr. Rich's part, he decided to spare them from the news for a little while: all of the Ponyville paperwork was in his office and there was no point in making them worry about the other branches, for that was his job. He simply dipped his head and fetched what would be the first of many quills, wondering if it was worth trotting to the library and offering to pay for a very special sort of postal service.
Only if we get desperate. They're not used to mail arriving that way: the bursts of flame would scare them. He still wasn't entirely used to seeing it happen. And it doesn't help us with anything coming back.
One place. One. The Town Hall system has worked for centuries, and now this is replacing it.
Something's going on.
He would be the one to go, for it was his responsibility. But now there was something more than that in play.
He had to see.
As far as the Canterlot weather schedule was concerned, the tenth day after the letter's arrival (the first of what had turned out to be many letters, nearly all of which arrived in desperation -- although having to sign for some of the express pieces had given him a little more time to carefully not look at the mailmare) was something Ponyville's coordinator had a special name for. Because it was still fairly early in the spring: specifically, that part of the year where ponies occasionally had cause to wonder if the Wrap-Up had been completely successful. In this case, that meant a chill morning, one where the air was permeated with moisture which initially couldn't make up its mind as to whether it should be mist or drizzle -- then falsely settled the issue through soaking into fur. That would be followed by even more humidity and, after a few hours of misery had passed, thunderstorms. In terms of what could be done outdoors, it was a day which was good for only one thing, and that was why Ms. Dash referred to such periods as curse days: because a certain type of pony liked to blame weather teams for just about everything wrong in their lives, which meant such days were good for getting a new hire used to being cursed at.
Mr. Rich had made sure to don his most waterproof saddlebags, protecting the precious papers which had been gathered from all over the continent. (He'd also brought a number of other supplies, anticipating that the full process might require an hour or so: after all, he was filing renewals for more than a dozen stores.) There wasn't much which could be done in the way of other protection: full-body rain garments tended to be constricting, and any other clothing wouldn't dry out until long after his fur would have. Still, he wouldn't be in the indecisive mist for too long: based on the mostly-unfamiliar address, the new government building looked as if it would be about a twenty-minute trot from the receiving train station. He'd also made sure to catch an early train, one which would have him trotting up to the door just as it opened for the day. It would give him a little more time after finishing up, enough to do some shopping before dropping in on the Canterlot store to personally give them their renewed licenses.
If he was quick enough, he could pick up something for Diamond.
He got off the train, trotted down streets which only began as familiar. He'd realized that he would be heading into one of the newest parts of the capital: land cleared and made ready for fresh occupants as the population continued to expand. It left Mr. Rich moving past stores he'd never seen before, and he almost paused when his snout registered the completely unfamiliar scents of what turned out to be the coffee shop -- but he wanted to finish early, and so resolved to visit on the way back.
Of course, he wasn't the only pony heading in that direction. There were other travelers along that road, and those who forced their wings to push through the muggy air. All of them wore saddlebags (although none so crowded as his), and what should have been a minimal weight seemed to be multiplied by the dragging gravity of collapsed hope.
It was a parade of misery, and he wondered about that. The weather was miserable, deliberately so, and he knew that had a way of weighing on some pony minds. But there seemed to be an extra factor present, something he couldn't quite identify. Perhaps it was in the way so many ponies weren't looking at where they were going. Legs shifted, wings just barely flapped, and gazes focused on the streets. As if they had no need to look ahead to the destination (along with no emotional means of looking forward to getting there). Heading down a path they'd followed too many times before.
In a new part of town.
There was something familiar about the way they were moving, a dirge of bone and muscle which kept trying to set up echoes in his own legs. But he couldn't quite place it. All he knew was that it made him think of his own youth and somehow, that wasn't taking place in a way he wished to recall.
He closed in on the building. Around him, ponies clustered more tightly as the crowd increased, some of whom had to be ponies on their way to work and none of whom were acting like it.
An hour or so.
He tentatively revised it to two.
Under most circumstances, the cornerstones of the surrounding structures would have not only had his full attention, but might have kept it for some time, as Mr. Rich genuinely couldn't remember any previous occasion on which he'd felt a building was lying to him.
All three of them claimed to be hotels, and he supposed that was possible: the ponies who were morosely shuffling their way out certainly didn't look as if they would have been happy to live there. They also claimed to have luxurious accommodations, and the soggy rate sheet posted outside the closest one at least suggested a fiscal delusion to match. But the dates engraved on each cornerstone directly stated that all of them were less than six moons old, and that was what he was having some trouble with. It was certainly possible for a new building to be created in a way which made it look shoddy, and he supposed some architects might choose a style that made the work appear to be well beyond its prime. It was the tripled suggestion that each structure was one good kick away from total collapse which made him internally swear that the engraver had accidentally added a '1' to the '273'. Three times.
If everything else had been normal, he would have kept looking at the nearest cornerstone, perhaps while wondering if it was possible for an entire building to slip through time. But he couldn't, because his own schedule had been kept. The surrounding buildings were hotels, but the one in front of him was the home of the Greater Business Centralization Initiative.
There were ways in which it was impossible to miss. It was new (at least according to the cornerstone). In style, the scant low-level portions which were visible matched the style of no other government building he'd ever seen, as it took a deliberate level of attempt to construct anything that foreboding. It seemed to have been modeled after a prison, right down to the bars which went across most of the windows. It was surprisingly small: just barely two levels going up, and perhaps a hundred or so body lengths across the front: two-thirds of that moving back.
It was also, at least on the lower level, quite hard to see, as truly staring through ponies took some work.
There were about three minutes to go before the building opened. There were about three hundred ponies in front of it. They were, to some degree, in a line: one which wove back and forth a few times so as not to block the entirety of the street. Pegasi occasionally tried to lift off enough to hover while keeping their place, found their wings impacting the winding herd to either side, sank back down. Ponies breathed, blinked, occasionally shifted their weight. Nopony talked.
Mr. Rich took a moment to look over the line and in doing so, guaranteed that he would be at least six extra ponies back.
I thought I gave myself enough time.
I knew there might be some problems, having so many ponies coming here, but... I didn't think there would be this many ponies...
Some of them look like they slept here. Right in front of the building.
Or possibly in one of the hotels, which might have been worse.
How many businesses had been forced to congregate in one place? How many owners was he looking at? And with this many in one place for just about any other reason, he likely would have been recognized: for the world as a whole, he was no level of celebripony, but he'd been featured in enough trade publications and newspaper articles to give much of the business community some rough idea of his face. Somepony would have said something: offered greeting, asked for advice, claimed he'd had a franchise close them out of something they were never going to open anyway.
But they didn't look at him. They weren't really looking at anything.
He got in line. There wasn't much else to do, other than trying to estimate the current humidity level from what was soaking into his fur.
Five minutes passed, and the front door opened: something he only initially recognized on sonic rumor, as the action produced the first true noise from the line: a rising chord of dissatisfied grumble.
After a few seconds, the mare's voice reached him, one where the tone didn't match the exclamation: a bored amateur actress who could just be barely bothered to read directly from the script. "Welcome, welcome!" she less-than-enthused. "So in order to keep this efficient, this is what we're going to do today. New licenses form a line to the left. Renewals go to the right. Anypony doing both should occupy the center. If you're looking for permits, that's hovering. Unless you aren't a pegasus, in which case, stand behind somepony who's hovering. And do so on the ground. Disputes, watch for everypony else's lines, then form a line behind that."
She was coming into view now: a unicorn, dark blue, with some swirling patterns in a lighter shade twisting around her upturned snout.
"Sort the line, please!" she falsely chirped. "Everything will be so much faster if we get everypony properly sorted!"
This did not go smoothly. There was a left and a right, but those ponies initially wound up standing a little too close together for a center to exist. Nopony had any real idea where the half-hovering group was supposed to go, with the exception of the mare: she simply didn't seem to care. There was shuffling, there was hoof-dragging, and then there were roughly five -- possibly six -- lines, each of which seemed to possess the length of the original.
"Very good!" the mare lied. "Also, while we have yet to send out the official notices, I'm pleased --" and this was when emotion did enter her voice "-- to announce that we have just added a process for licensing stable sales! Because there's no doubt that stable sales are a form of business. So if you're planning on having one or know somepony who is, please do let them know! You wouldn't want to do it illegally, now would you? Because we've also just added the fine!"
She ignored the groans, the mutters, and several of the more creative curses. Mr. Rich didn't, as it was his first chance to start counting accents. (He initially hesitated upon audibly reaching Pundamilia Makazi: it took a few seconds before he spotted the actual zebra, who was rather hard to see behind the minotaur.)
"First twenty into the building, please!" the mare called out. "First twenty!"
Twenty ponies shuffled.
"Everypony else, please wait outside!"
From close to the front of the line and what he was guessing had been the twenty-first pony, "Why can't we go inside? There's more room than this! There was yesterday!"
"Yesterday," the mare announced, "we had complaints about the building becoming too crowded, too quickly. So today, we are letting everypony in more slowly. Because we are here to serve! So more ponies will be let in shortly. And if you have suggestions on how we can improve, please remember that there are cards and boxes placed in multiple locations within our little home. Please be sure to make use of them." With more volume, "Sort the line, please! Everypony just coming in, sort the line!"
Mr. Rich glanced back and found himself the line-placement envy of roughly two hundred ponies, plus a pair of griffons and the first yak he'd seen in fifteen years. Every business instinct he possessed had him wanting to speak with the yak, and everything which wasn't his mark refused to drop that far back.
The humidity went up again. His fur began to drip.
"Do fill out the cards!" the mare concluded her lies. "We are here to serve!"
Two hours passed and in doing so, decided to travel with company.
Every so often, hooves would shuffle. Ponies would be allowed into the building, and the line would move accordingly. There was no real conversation taking place during the wait: you could mutter and grumble and curse in any number of accents (with Mr. Rich just having picked up the first audible traces of Eastern Saddlezania), but sharing misery just wasn't happening. As with the humidity, everypony seemed to feel they had already soaked in more than their fair share.
He waited. There wasn't much else he could do. There was a certain temptation to shuffle forward when the line wasn't moving, close every last hoofwidth of space between himself and the drooping black tail which had been very nearly his only view for hours (and was still an improvement over the hotels) -- but it was impolite. Standing too close to somepony not only violated personal space, but created a very real chance of having a frustrated tail flick across one's face. And there were certainly tails flicking everywhere, with water drops flying to suit: several of them went into his nostrils.
When the third hour began, he found himself looking up at the darkening sky while trying to remember exactly when the thunderstorms were scheduled to start. That was also when the umbrella vendor appeared, offering a back-mounted model which spread out to the length of the typical pony body (no comfort for the poor dripping yak) and let all of the water run off onto whoever hadn't purchased one. He declined the offer from the swirl-snouted vendor after realizing that the product was a fifth of the typical thickness for such fabric shields, which was nicely inverted by also being five times the price.
As it turned out, there wasn't much need. It was only fifteen minutes into that third hour when he got within direct sight of the door, which also let him see the first of the suggestion boxes: it was next to a glass cube containing cards and several oddly-colored quills. This was accompanied by a large bin, one bearing a sign which read Deposit All Umbrellas Here. And a security guard. A very large, rather stonefaced guard.
"No umbrellas in the building," he told a pegasus mare.
"But I just bought this."
"All umbrellas in the bin."
"But --"
"All umbrellas in the bin. It'll be here when you get back. Put your name on it."
She looked at him. Then she opened the glass lid, extracted a quill --
-- spat. The quill landed with a little tink! of failure.
"That's --" she started to protest.
"All umbrellas in the bin," the guard spoke past her, with the newly-targeted earth pony stallion jumping a little. "All of them."
Mr. Rich got to trot past him a few minutes later, with no umbrella to deposit. He looked the guard over, paying special attention to the face. And then he went inside.
There were several notable features of the initial interior space, and nearly all of them were blocked out by the signs.
Given the number of ponies who'd originally been allowed to enter, it would have been reasonable to expect a rather small interior lobby, perhaps with a greeting desk and hallways leading off in all directions. Instead, there was what had once been a fairly open space -- one with ropes set up that turned what would have been breathing room into multiple winding aisles, ones far too narrow to allow the pegasi any degree of wing movement: the larger earth ponies shifted barriers with every breath, and the yak was still outside waiting for her torment. There were also several hundred ponies waiting in those lines, and some of them had been there long enough to completely dry out.
"In line, please!" somepony called out. "Stay in your proper line! License renewals go here! Permits here! Canterlot-exclusive --" but that was where he lost the flow to a sudden burst of invective, something he'd never heard before because his griffon contacts generally kept any Protoceran curses to themselves. "-- and you can go there! Have your forms ready! Please have all your forms ready and this will go much faster! Make sure you have your six points! We are here to serve!"
The line surged, partially dispersed in confusion, nearly split, went around some rather unexpected bends and came close to tossing Mr. Rich out through sheer centrifugal force. He ultimately decided he was in the right place when he found himself facing the same black tail.
He looked to the left. There was a counter which ran the length of the room, and employees behind it at their assigned stations. Several were talking to ponies. Others were talking at them. The majority could be distinguished by their failure to exist. There were thirty visible stations, and eleven of them were occupied. Two of those were next to each other, and the mares were chatting about a recent cinema release. There was absolutely no need for them to involve themselves with anypony except each other, for nopony was waiting for a stable sale license yet.
There was lighting. It was vaguely greenish, and it made the place feel like being slightly underwater in a pond with a thick layer of algae. Several ponies were audibly forcing themselves to breathe.
The floor was rough-hewn stone, with virtually no smooth surfaces: something which had nearly everypony shifting their hooves in desperate, perpetually-failing attempts to find a comfortable spot. Small networks of cracks showed where several earth ponies had simply given up and stomped until they had something suitable.
And there were signs. Each one was taller than a pony, with letters larger than his own eyes.
No photography
No movie cameras
No recording devices
No workings (except for moving papers)
No atmospheric or temperature adjustments
No lightning
No ______________
(That line repeated a few times, just in case.)
We are here to serve!
He noted that 'lightning' was a fairly recent addition, along with being a slightly singed one. It was a sign which begged several questions, and he had no faith in getting any of the answers.
Thirty stations. Nine working employees, for that value of 'work' which had each line shuffle forward by a quarter-hoofstep every minute or so. He couldn't look at the counter for too long: extended observation felt as if it might make his mark hurt. But he was indoors now (if well after he'd hoped to depart), and it was marginally warmer in the building than it had been outside. It was also considerably drier. And so he finally tilted his head back towards the left saddlebag -- there was just barely enough room for that, and he had to apologize after his snout jostled somepony in the next line over -- and began the extraction process.
Locating the first object was simple. Getting it set up was rather more complicated, as there wasn't a single spell on it. It was a matter of properly tilting his head and body (another apology) to get the neck mount placed there, unfold the part which put the stacked pile of hinges and panels under his chin, toss his head a little (and again) to get the next part flipped out, and then it was nuzzle this, bite that, a little tongue work here and there...
But in the end, it was done, and he briefly smiled at the result before retrieving the second item and placing it upon the first. For he had anticipated spending some time in line, and... well, in truth, most of his reading took the form of children's stories, which were spoken aloud for Diamond. And while there was some worthwhile literature to be found in the juvenile section, any time he had left over generally found him going through store reports and business magazines.
It was a thick novel. He anticipated it would take several hours to get through, and had begun the process on the train. He remembered exactly where he'd left off.
Mr. Rich nosed the book open to where the strip of red ribbon marked the page, and tried to immerse himself within ink. Let the world within take away the one without, and perhaps there would be no line. No damp fur. No vague ache coming from his hips. Just... a story.
He made it through two paragraphs.
"No reading."
He looked up from book and folding mini-shelf, found himself staring at the black eyes of a younger, larger stallion, who had just barely forced himself into position for glaring. A small glance down briefly regarded the snout.
"Why?" he naturally inquired. It felt like a sensible question, along with the only sane one.
"Because," the security guard said, "it takes up space. This is a line. It's a line for ponies. Not books. Your shelf takes up space. If everypony brought a book, we've have room for less ponies. So no reading."
Mr. Rich looked past the book, to what was now a rather familiar tail.
"I can't step any closer to him." Not without some rather startled jumps and a few pointed questions. "This is space nopony's using. It's space nopony can use --"
"No reading," the guard repeated. "You'll block the line. You'll read instead of moving forward."
"The shelf doesn't block all of my vision. None of my hearing. I can hear when ponies move --"
"There is no reading in this building," the security guard said. "No unicorns holding newspapers in their fields. No books on shelves. No reading. It disrupts the line. Did you read the sign when you came in?"
"Yes," Mr. Rich slowly said. "Because there's nothing on it which said I shouldn't. And if there was, then how would I be able to find out without being removed?"
The guard's mouth opened. (Swirls distorted around the jaw.) Closed again. Black eyes glanced at the nearest sign.
"Huh," the stallion observed, and forced his way out of the line, uncaringly jostling several dozen ponies along the way. A brief stop was made at a stable sale station, where a red quill was gathered and taken to the nearest partially blank entry. Some rather quick and sloppy mouthwriting followed.
More ponies got jostled on the way back. Two were nearly knocked over.
"There," the guard said. "Right there. On the sign."
No READING (EXCEPT FOR FORMS AND DOCUMENTS)
He looked rather proud of himself. Mr. Rich presumed it was for having thought of that last part.
"So put the book away," the guard continued. "And the shelf. Because breaking the rules means you have to go to the back of the line. Or come back tomorrow, if it's too late to start over. And you don't want to start over, do you?" And with a slight tilt of his head, "But if you do have to stay overnight, I can help you arrange --"
Mr. Rich had listened to all of it. He had also entertained several fantasies, most of which centered around the fact that this particular guard was wearing his badge as if it alone could stop everything and so clearly had no idea how guarding actually worked, much less how quickly an earth pony could drop an opponent who was this close.
But he had responsibilities, more than a dozen stores' worth, and hundreds of employees who needed their pay vouchers issued by a business which was operating with a license. And so fantasies were all there were.
"-- no reading," he cut the guard off, and began to put everything away.
He suspected the next block of time would have been far more interesting if his tastes had run to drooping black stallion tails.
(He briefly pictured a golden tail, and then managed to stop.)
The line shifted. It shifted in the manner of tectonic plates: a slow grinding, and then everything slipped at once -- by about a body length. Sometimes the movement was accompanied by a near-wordless scream, and that would be followed by a pony, who had almost always just been at the counter, storming out of the building. There had also been two pegasi who'd proven to be more vulnerable than usual to the race's near-universal claustrophobia: they had broken within five minutes of each other, done everything they could to get outside, spent a few minutes drinking in grey sky (given the water content, this was now literal) before returning and finding their neighbors perfectly willing to let them have their places back -- and the security guards just as willing to forbid it.
He watched it all: there was very little else to do. He had trouble listening to most of it: something about the room seemed to suffocate sound, and it was impossible to determine just what was producing the screams from the employee stations. He passed a suggestion box and just looked at it for a while. It was easier than looking at the counter, where nine working employees had just become four: some were likely on break, others might have visited the restroom, and he supposed one might have taken an early -- late? Possibly late -- lunch, with nopony having replaced any of them.
Mr. Rich quickly decided he shouldn't have thought about the restroom.
Shifting forward, slowly forward towards the space which marked the bridge between line and counter, with hundreds of intangible ponies pushing him on --
"-- next!"
He blinked. He looked across the tail-free gap to the mare behind the counter, who nodded. He scrambled to cross it, and limbs which had been forced below inchworm pace loudly protested the brief return to mobility.
"Hello," he smiled at the clerk, and wondered how many years it had been since he'd been that happy to see a mare's face, even a swirl-patterned one. "Let me start taking everything out for you. I have it organized by --"
"Six points," the pink mare said.
He quickly nodded. "I read the letter," Mr. Rich told her. He wasn't sure why this policy had been enacted. The government knew who he was: his signature was already on so many forms... "That's my first bundle --"
"Six points' worth of identification," the mare went on, as if he'd said nothing at all. "So that we know who you are. And that nopony is pretending to be you for purposes of your business here today, whatever that might be."
This is the renewals line. Why would anypony pretend to be him in order to renew an operating license? "Yes. I understand --"
"-- different documents," she continued, "are worth different amounts of points. I will tally them. And you must have six. No more than one of each type. Or you will leave the building and come back when you do."
This time, he went for the right saddlebag, deposited the delicate group onto the counter. The mare looked down.
"Birth certificate," she observed. "Very good. Most ponies don't bring those. That's worth three points. So you are --"
She snickered.
It was a familiar sort of snicker, a sound Mr. Rich had heard time and again across the course of his life, and a tiny part of his soul froze in dread.
"You are," she carefully repeated -- then paused, allowing the next word to gently roll across her tongue, "Filthy..."
He just barely held back the wince.
She looked him over. He was slightly taller than she, and she still managed the feat while effectively looking down.
"Well," she snidely observed, "you're clean enough now, I suppose. Although the rain could have washed you off on the way in. And done something about the tie." Another snicker. "Now what kind of stallion goes around with the name Filllllthy? And what kind of parents..."
He'd asked them about it several times: his mother refused to discuss it, while his father only talked to other ponies about the matter and changed the tale with every telling. If the most frequent recital could be assumed as the truth, then Mr. Rich had been named because somepony had offered the patriarch ten percent off on an order if he followed through on a dare. The second-most common tale regarded an advertising campaign built around his newborn, something which hadn't quite come through. He'd tried listening in on the rest, and was still trying to translate some of them from the original Soused.
He didn't understand his name. He hated his name, along with what nearly everypony else in school had done with it. His more casual friends in his third year of primary education had already been openly calling him Mr. Rich, and it took an exceptionally close pony to get away with 'Fil.' There had been a point where his greatest dream in life had been to reach the age where he could legally change his name...
...but he'd never done it. Because there were ponies who believed that the act of naming conferred a degree of destiny, and so changing one was a deed for the exceptionally bold. And he'd grown up under his hated name, he was in a position where he was successful and helped so many ponies to make their way through life, and to change his name, to see what would happen after that...
It might have taken some amount of effort before anypony could have made him admit to any true degree of belief in the superstition. (On the deepest levels, he'd proposed 'Diamond' for their newborn with the intent of forever protecting her from the world's harms.) But he was Filthy Rich, and that might have assigned him a certain place in the world. He didn't particularly want to find out what would happen if he left the official government name-changing office bearing a piece of paper which declared he was now and forever Poverty Stricken.
"Margin!" the mare called down the counter line. "Look at this! We've got a Filllllthy pony among us!"
Hundreds of employees. It was starting to become a mantra. I do or say anything and I risk the livelihoods for hundreds of employees.
"He's not that brown!" the other pony called back. "Unless that's all dirt! Did his lips leave any stains on the papers?"
Hundreds of employees, just about any one of which would be willing to post bail...
It had taken almost all of the available time to get the right forms delivered, sent from all over the continent. He had to renew today.
"There's also a master license for the Ponyville store," he patiently said. "An active license." If only for a few more hours. "That's one point, correct?"
She focused on him.
"...yes," she eventually admitted, and went through the rest of it. "Original marriage certificate is one more --"
I shouldn't have brought that.
"-- and then we have your college diploma," she concluded. "From Vanhoover. So that's six. How may the government assist you today, Filthy?"
He took a breath, mostly because it meant he wasn't doing much else. "I need to renew the following operating licenses." And began bringing them out, one by one.
Her stunned eyes watched the pile mount up for a while.
"How many are you renewing?"
"Fifteen," he said. "I'm here on behalf of them all."
"This one," she observed, nosing her way back down to it, "is a Windicity license. And this one is from Las Pegasus. You have a Cloudsdale license."
"Yes," he agreed. "And they all need renewing. I filled out the forms before I came in, so if there's anything else you need me to do --"
"-- this," she said, nipping out a white-and-gold edged piece of paper, "is a loading dock license. For Cloudsdale."
Oh no... and then he spotted the true license right under it, exhaled. He'd known he'd brought the right papers, had double-checked them before boarding the train -- but in their desperation, some of the stores had accidentally sent extras, and so he'd wound up bringing one himself. "My apologies. I'll just take that one back." It was difficult to arrange any permanent non-vapor platforms in a pegasus city: the license allowed the Cloudsdale store to take the occasional delivery by balloon and provided a safe place for the occupants to unload.
"If you're using this as identification," she went on, "it's worth a point."
"I already provided the six --"
"-- or it would be," she continued, "if it was current. This is an old one. It expired six moons ago."
So they sent an expired document by accident. In the rush to review, he'd missed that. But he knew that branch had a current one, the Cloudsdale city government would have fined him in an instant if it had expired --
"-- so you will have to leave," she told him, with the words suggesting she was reading off an internal script, and doing so with the same amount of dedication as the pony who had separated the lines. "Come back when you have a current one. Which you must personally fetch and have notarized, within the next six days. Next."
That was when the old chant went through his mind.
If you're good at music, you become a musician.
If you have a talent for joy, you become a mother.
And if you're good for nothing, you become a bureaucrat.
He took another breath. His left foreleg insisted on continuing to twitch.
"Personally fetch," he repeated.
There was now an odd grinding noise coming from the floor.
"Yes. Next!"
He took a long, slow look down his left flank, which was covered by nothing more than saddlebag and fur. Switched to the right, then returned his steady gaze to her.
"How?"
"If you need a place to stay before departing Canterlot," she non-replied, "I can recommend --"
"You already have six points worth' of identification," he slowly said. "I'm not using that paper as one. May I renew my licenses, please?"
She looked at him again. A longer glance slowly worked down to where his left forehoof was now rotating, making little half-grinds against the stone. Another check then went over his back, presumably locating the nearest security guard while making estimates as to how long it would take to push through the crowd.
"Your identification has been verified," she finally said, and then added "Filthy. This station sees no reason why you can't renew your licenses today."
"Thank you." He meant it. Somehow, he meant it, or he would if he could just get this done...
"Please join the photography line."
He blinked.
"This station," she evenly stated, "is solely for identification review and verification of purpose for your visit. Your identification is sufficient and you were in the proper line for the stated purpose. So now you must be photographed, as we now require a picture for future license dealings. It's the line which starts behind the red stallion with the black tail. Next."
There were certain questions pressing at the back of his teeth: it took a long pause for editing (and another two 'Next') before he let one of them out.
"Can I get these licenses renewed today?"
"After your photograph," she said. "Please have your identification ready, as it will need to be verified again before the picture is taken."
"And what kind of developing speed --"
"We are here to serve. NEXT!"
He trotted away, if just barely. For youth had reached out to middle age, and the pattern of movement was finally identified. A display being made by every sapient in the line, for every once-small body had once forced itself to approach a larger one with the same slow reluctance in their shuffling stride.
I've done nothing wrong.
I've done nothing wrong and I'm being punished anyway...
He could hear the storm outside now, and also had the option to look through the little portions of window (already dirty, with no care being given to the building itself) which were visible between the bars that kept everypony from escaping. It allowed him to see the miserable ponies who were unable to find shelter within downpour, along with barely making out the sign which said the umbrella vendor had just redoubled his prices.
It occurred to Mr. Rich that those ponies probably envied him: if not his position in life, then at least that in line. He also considered that he was a member of a species which had been designed by nature to be on its hooves all day, could in fact sleep standing up if the need arose, and yet he still didn't seem to be any good at it. His hooves were sore. His brain ached from lack of stimulation, and his mark felt as if it was twitching every time he looked at the counter, which currently had six barely-active stations.
He was starting to pick out more of the sounds. Ponies being told their birth certificate had been signed by a nurse instead of a physician. Somepony questioning whether a bit of poor mouthwriting meant the bearer was trying to renew a license for a city which didn't exist. He passed within earshot of the new license station and learned that one poor unicorn, who was trying to open a bookstore, had to list all goods for sale. This did not represent 'books both fiction and non, magazines, newspapers, graphic novels, and the occasional chapbook.' This, in the eyes of the government office, meant 'every single title on your shelves, alphabetically by author.' The little mare was eventually escorted out by security, all the better to put her weeping outside with the rest of the water.
Fifteen stores. Possibly sixteen in a few years: he'd been considering a desert branch. And then he thought about everything a Barnyard Bargains sold, just before wondering if it would ever be worth opening another store again.
There were no benches. There were ropes, and security guards, and signs, and rules.
Well... there was also a certain theme.
"Please fill out the photography form," the new counter attendant said as his identification was nosed back. "The picture itself is free. There's a charge for speed developing, but that's optional. However, if you take our basic service, you'll have to leave now and come back tomorrow to finish everything. But if you pay for speed developing, you can pick up the picture on your way out."
Speed developing was what he needed, so he looked at the form. Then he found the price.
Mr. Rich kept looking at that for a while. It wasn't voluntary. A number that large had a certain pull, with most of it coming from gravity.
"Many ponies," the young stallion said as he read from the boring internal script, "find that it's more financially effective to take a night in a convenient hotel. May I recommend something for you?"
He tallied up everything he had on him, then mentally apologized to Diamond before thanking both Sun and Moon for his having purchased the roundtrip train ticket. "The speed developing." There was no other choice.
"All right," the stallion said. "Form, please."
Mr. Rich nodded. His snout went down, and he pulled a black quill out of the glass box --
-- spat.
The quill sounded a little tink! as it hit the interior, which did nothing to cover up the gagging. It did hide most of the nearby outburst of zebra rage.
"Form, please," the younger stallion repeated.
"That --" It took a few more attempts to force a second word out, as just about all of them required him to deal with his own tongue. "-- that tastes horrible!"
It tasted like skunk spray smelled. There was nearly every chance it was skunk spray, and the leftovers were just to allow for the possible existence of a feathered skunk.
"Yes," the attendant said. "It's to keep ponies from stealing quills. Nopony would keep one which tasted bad."
"But how is anypony supposed to write with it?"
The natural answer was "Form, please."
"You have those red quills. May I please borrow one? You'll see me using it. I'm clearly not going anywhere --"
"-- form, please."
He pulled his tongue back as much as he could, and it wasn't enough.
"Thank you," the younger stallion lied. "Please stand against the wall. Do not smile. Do not frown. Keep your expression perfectly neutral."
It was a request which inspired his imagination, and Mr. Rich lost a few seconds to wondering how it was possible to vomit neutrally.
The flashbulb went off. Mr. Rich blinked away the dazzle. The counter attendant didn't, for he had not been looking at the wall, or the camera's viewfinder, or much of anything else. Mr. Rich suspected the picture had suffered accordingly, although not as much as he had.
"Will you be paying by bits or voucher?"
"Bits." It had the blessing of being a shorter word.
"Good. Because we don't accept vouchers. Please step into that line over there. This will take you to the cashier. She doesn't make change."
"I have licenses --"
"-- that's the line after the cashier. Follow the black tail."
A distant crashing sound indicated the yak's current position.
"Next," the younger stallion said.
Lightning flashed outside, and a fresh group of soaked ponies dripped their way in. Mr. Rich hadn't seen Sun all day, and it wasn't all that long before he wouldn't be seeing Moon either. Perhaps neither of them wanted to shine down on this place.
"...next?" the stallion timidly tried, and Mr. Rich wondered what his own expression was like at that moment, other than recently skunked.
He shuffled away.
It occurred to him that he had waited in line, in order to wait in line, in the name of waiting in line, and it had put him in a place where he was -- waiting in line. There was something philosophical about it, if that was the proper term for looking back on the stress which was steadily shortening his lifespan. He hadn't eaten. He hadn't been able to risk a restroom. He had done things other than standing in line, and those had been the worst of it.
The latest in the series of swirling snouts was dipped low over his paperwork. It had taken two hours to reach that snout after he'd viciously, pettily made sure to count out the cashier's exact change.
"You are renewing fifteen licenses," she stated.
He nodded.
"Your paperwork is in order."
Again. He was at the point where it was all he trusted himself to do.
"I can only deal with six renewals per applicant, per day," she said. "Which six do you wish to renew?"
At which point, hundreds of intangible ponies helped him carefully rear up, just enough to put his forehooves on the edge of the counter. His ears rotated backwards in time to hear the security guards start closing in.
"To get an early start tomorrow," the uncaring mare said, "I recommend being first in line. As you'll need to be here twice more, it would help you to stay at --"
"-- this office," he softly said, "pulled reins so that all the licenses I have expired at the same time. They're normally scattered through the year and across the continent. If you can't deal with more than six, then please tell me who can. Because it is by your arrangement that there are fifteen to deal with. Fifteen stores, all of which have their own employees. Ponies who need a place they can work, ponies with children who have to be fed. And no matter what your guards might think, I'm not threatening you. I just want you to look at me. And when you do, I want you to see them. Please."
She looked at him. The guards got closer. It was a slow process, as they had to get past a very frustrated yak.
"Go in the back," she quietly stated.
And out the back door, no doubt. "How do I know --"
Nearly a whisper now. "-- I'll walk you back there. Through that door. Just... drop down. It's upsetting them. They like being upset. Please... drop down."
He pulled back, allowed his forehooves to thud into stone. She stood up, used her head to flip up a hinged section of counter, and led him into the back.
The hallway was darker than the outer room. After being below the algae, it was a refreshing change.
The mare trotted up to a door, knocked.
"Yes?" a stallion inquired. An older stallion, much older than he was. The voice wasn't so much accented (and he felt as if he'd heard every accent (minus that found only within the Carousel Boutique) on the continent today, plus a little beyond) as speaking in tones which belonged to another time.
"One for you," the mare said.
A pause. "Really? Well, send that pony in."
She nodded to him. He pushed the door open, went inside.
There was a desk, with well-organized paperwork around the edges. Light came from overhead, just a little more yellow than the other specimens. And a pony who wasn't old, because he would have had to lose decades to be merely old. An earth pony whose original fur shade might have been an orange so burnished as to approach a sort of reflection-free brass, which years had rendered into a proud patina. The eyes were blue, and bright.
And for the first time all day, there was a bench.
"Sit," the stallion said. "I know what you went through to get here. Got a pretty good idea of how long you've been going through it, too. Sit down if it'll help."
Mr. Rich eyed the bench, then honestly said "If I sit right now, I don't know if I can get up again."
The old stallion chuckled. "You're too young to be saying that. Can I see your identification? I know you're sick of hearing that, but those are the rules."
He extracted the papers, for what he was hoping would be the last time. Laid down the original marriage certificate with care.
The old stallion slowly looked everything over. The diploma was last.
"Vanhoover," he said. "You're a Ponyville colt. Most of those go to the university in Canterlot. Why Vanhoover?"
He wondered how long he had before the office closed. If this was the stallion used when ponies were stalling for time --
"Sit," the old stallion asked. "Please." His snout dipped, brought up a stamp, followed by several ink pads. "I can work while you talk. And I'll help you up, come to that. So why Vanhoover?"
He sat. It took some time to arrange himself on the bench, plus a little more to marvel at its light coating of cloth.
"My father..." He hesitated -- then decided it wouldn't hurt. And it was also the first pony who'd offered the chance to talk all day. "He actually wanted me to go further than that. To Protocera. He thought getting my business degree in a school where the students ran on domination would be good for me. But I didn't think I was going to open up anything among griffons. I wanted to deal with business in Equestria, so I wanted to meet more ponies, and... we compromised on Vanhoover. Distant enough to be a little foreign, but same species." Not that there weren't ponies in Protocera: they just nearly all tended to act like griffons with hooves. "I -- almost regretted that a few times, in the first year. Because in Protocera, I would have been getting experiences most Equestrians didn't have."
"But you would have had to tell your dad he was right," the old stallion said, a stallion far older than his father had ever reached, and stamped a form.
Mr. Rich blinked.
"That was part of it," he said. "And the rest... well, I stayed. I came back with the diploma. Some ideas for expanding the business." Another hesitation. "And a little more."
"And what's a little more?"
Mr. Rich nodded to the marriage certificate.
The old stallion chuckled. "Yeah. So good thing you two compromised, right?" Another stamp. "Don't blame you for traveling, though. I went a ways myself to get my own degree."
"Where?"
"Mazein." Those bright eyes came up, just in time to see the shock on Mr. Rich's face. "Well, it felt like the best place! If you're gonna be a mechanical engineer, study with the species which produces most of 'em. So I went to the minotaurs. They called it getting your hands dirty, and there I was with the dirt and no hands. But you know bulls and ageládas -- they made sure I had a place at the table. Didn't come back with a wife, for obvious reasons. But I left a lot of friends behind."
"Engineering?" He was still stunned. To travel all the way to Mazein...
A nod directed him to the framed document on the wall. "Never said it was easy." Paused, picked up a quill, filled out a form. "Had to work nearly full-time in order to cover some of the costs, and closest job was a quarter-gallop out from the college. No trains, of course. So there was a lot of running, a lot of nearly falling asleep in class, had this one friend who decided it was his duty to give me a wake-up horn-poke when I needed it most. Got through classes on the yelp program. But I got it done."
"But... you're here," Mr. Rich protested. "This job doesn't have anything to do with --"
The old stallion smiled. "Nopony's gotta do one thing their whole lives, no matter what the mark is. I did engineering for a few decades. Still tinker now and again. But then I figured hey, a pony's only got so many years, and I've seen gears. I was in Mazein, and I picked up the politics bug. Took a while to really develop into the full-blown syndrome, but when it did, I went for the Night Court. Did a few terms. But then that got boring, so I went back to school, had a few new courses. Had to pay for it, though, and I didn't want to tap anypony's inheritance. So... here, part-time. They shoved me in the back, said my job was to take on the difficult cases. I think they mostly hired me to say they care about the elderly. Weren't expecting me to be capable of the work. Or noticing how things operate around here." A little shrug. "So I sit back here. I see a few ponies a day, if I'm lucky. I can take my time, and I won't take too much of yours: I'll get everything done before this place closes. Wish I could help more ponies, but... I've seen how things work around here."
A long pause.
"How they don't work," the old stallion finally said. "And they don't think I see any of it -- you're looking at my snout, ain'tcha?"
Mr. Rich, caught staring, managed a nod.
"Looking for the swirl, right? I ain't got one. Not that you could really tell, with fur this old. But I ain't part of the clan. Another reason they stuck me in the back."
And Mr. Rich, with pieces finally beginning to assemble with horrible internal efficiency, looked at him for a while.
"This is an official government office," he tried. "I saw the stamp."
"It is," the old stallion admitted. "Government covers more than most ponies think about."
"It's new."
"Very."
"The procedures..."
Those bright eyes came up again.
"You're a smart youngling," the old stallion said, and Mr. Rich didn't protest the term: there were, at most, three ponies in the world whom the senior couldn't use the term with. "Smarter than the rest who've reached me. Those are usually just the mad ones. What do you do when a procedure ain't right, and you're not part of the direct chain?"
"Complain," he replied, shifting a little on the bench.
"And that's what the cards are for," the old stallion told him. "Cards where just about nopony can stand to use the quills, which get read by the same ponies who gave you something to complain about in the first place. About how slow it is here, about how the lines barely move and everypony seems to be looking for a reason to send you out. We've only been here a couple of weeks. Ain't sure how much got read. So if you complain... who should you be complaining to?"
More stamps, and Mr. Rich watched the process.
"May I please know your name?" And then, because it belonged there, "Sir."
"You've already got part of it," the amused stallion said. "Sirocco. Why?"
Because I want to remember you. Because I'm going to tell Diamond a story, so she'll remember you too.
"You've got mine," he answered. "It's only fair."
Another chuckle. "Yeah. Anypony just call you 'Fil'?"
"A few." He leaned forward on the bench, watched as the Windicity branch was saved. "What did you do in Mazein for work?"
"You know how much they love wrestling?" (Mr. Rich nodded.) "Not all of it's in public. And back when I was there, they were a little hard up for referees..."
It took time. Mr. Rich didn't know how much, nor did he care. But in the end, he gathered up his renewed licenses and pressed his hoof against that of the older stallion, for that was what could currently be given.
"Want a card to fill out?"
"I'll take as many as you've got."
Those bright eyes glinted.
"Good. Good. Knew you were smart. And have some red quills to fill them out with. I'm here to serve."
The old stallion said one more thing, and then Mr. Rich left.
He picked up his picture on the way out, although it took some time to identify it. He refused to pay the charge for a second shoot, because there might be some value in having an image of himself which vaguely resembled Discord. And then he placed himself within Moon-shadows, watching for ponies with a certain despondence in their ground-gazing eyes. When he found one, he softly called out, so as not to startle them.
Then he offered to cover the postage.
It was business which placed him in Canterlot two weeks later: he'd never reached that store during the renewal visit, and still felt the need to drop in. But it was curiosity which sent him on a twenty-minute trot down a now-familiar path, only with a quick pause at the coffee shop. And there were other ponies traveling along that route, ponies carrying notepads and cameras and press badges tucked into the rims of their hats.
He followed that procession until it became a full-fledged parade. And like so many parades in the capital, it ended at the conjunction of horns and wings.
"In a way," the older and taller of the two mares steadily stated, "I could be impressed."
"Princess," a shaken, shaking stallion forced out, one with light red swirls around his snout, "please..."
"No, Hiway," the elder mare interrupted. "Let me compliment you. Because as half of the government's executive branch, and a half of some experience, it takes a lot for a legislator to get something past me. I suppose desperation breeds creativity. Like the desperation which comes from building several shoddy hotels in a new part of town and then discovering that ponies have no reason to stay there, along with even less desire. And that brings in the creativity. The inspiration which had you go behind our tails and shut down the business license services at every Town Hall across the continent. Forcing ponies to travel to Canterlot, and isn't it so convenient, that there's multiple hotels right next to the building they need? Hotels they may require for several nights, seeing as how so many of them somehow fail to complete their business in one day? Deliberate understaffing slows them down, careful errors slow them down, having just about the entire staff as part of your family slows them down..." Thoughtfully, "Did you consider collecting the fines on-site? I already know you're getting a kickback from the umbrella vendor, but I thought you might have missed the big skimming chance in the middle of setting up the smaller one."
"Please," the stallion begged. "My career..."
"In the Day Court? That's over. But you can always fall back on your hotelier skills," the white mare proposed. "Or lack thereof. However, when it comes to your little scheme... well, the hotels are your legal property, and may still be if you have anything left after paying for the inevitable lawsuit judgments. But it is my decision to return licensing authority to the individual settled zones. And as for this building... well, to get some cost breaks, you designated it as government property. This building is mine."
Several heavily-sweating, swirl-snouted ponies looked at the structure.
"...what are you going to do with it?"
"Well, since I won the coin flip, I'm going to burn it down," the older of the mares stated. "Twice." She glanced down to her right. "Most Senior Advisor Sirocco, is it possible to burn something down twice?"
"I don't know, Princess," the stallion grinned. "Guess we'll find out."
"...and..." Hiway swallowed. "...what happens to me?"
The younger of the mares cleared her throat.
"As the one who called that side of the bit, I have yet to decide," the darker one said. "Several particularly fine, and rather imaginative, options have already been proposed. But others may be delayed within the postal system. So on the whole, Hiway, before your fate is determined... allow me to fully empty my suggestion box..."
And Mr. Rich, who didn't have time for the actual fire, trotted away. He could meet up with Sirocco later: he'd already intended to visit the old stallion before heading home. He wanted to spend a little time with that pony, learn a few more things -- or simply take in a necessary reminder, such as the one about not complaining to the ponies who did something so much as the ones who could do something about it.
But there had been another lesson. The last thing Sirocco had said to him, after they'd spoken about so much else. Learning and travel. Love and -- endings.
"You've only got so many years. Any plans on what to do with the rest of them?"
He passed the coffee shop again, got an order to go. Trotted down streets new and familiar, noticed a flower shop with a featured bouquet in the window. Something beautiful, and most likely tasty.
He thought of a golden mane and tail, with eyes to match. (The state of the right eye was something he seldom thought about, and only to react with inner anger when he heard others discussing it.) Of a mare who was too young for him, too young to have a child of that age, too...
...too special to know just how special she was.
He'd seen that once before, on the border of the North, while staring from the far edge of the college's quad.
Mr. Rich looked at the bouquet. Kept looking.
I'm not ready.
She deserves better.
And eventually, he went home and read a story to his daughter.
