Chapter One: No Rest for the Weary
The Pony Who Came in from the Cold
Chapter One
No Rest for the Weary
When the streets of Manehattan come callin' me, and I ain't got nothin' to do, I jes' sit down an' play muh guitar all night~
***
Night was covering Manehattan like a big dome of dark matter, intangible but still gorgeous. The lights of the city were dim and rare but that was a mere illusion: life in Manehattan only truly began in the waking hours of the night, pausing in the wee hours of the morning. Ponies trotted up and down the streets; ponies of all kinds - gamblers and drunkards, noble gentlecolts and their mares, whose snobbish looks gave away their artificial feeling of self-importance. In fact, such ponies were neither rich nor respected: this district was a district of the outcasts, the district of the poor, the district of the forsaken.
Now, this district was Coltmas' district as well. He looked over his new home for what seemed like the hundredth time that day. The flat was relatively big, with all the luxuries that a pony could wish: a large bathroom with a private spa (which, to Coltmas, seemed unforgivably worn out), a living room with a cosy fireside and a bedroom with an especially large bed, spacious enough to contain two ponies, and not skinny ones at that. Coltmas wasn't used to such beds: he selected a nice sofa in the living room, just by the window, which offered a pleasant sight of the night streets. Coltmas despised this city - but that was better than nothing. This was home. No more secret addresses, no more 'guest rooms', no more endless hotels, each more disgusting than the previous. This was his very own flat and, it seemed, it was his for sure.
Coltmas sighed and shifted between the rooms. The bedroom. The living room. The kitchen. The living room again. The bedroom. Finally coming to a stop in the living room, he placed himself on the sofa and drew the curtains, letting the room bathe in darkness, interrupted only by the flickering light of the fireplace. Coltmas stared at the light. He was bored. But even more he was exhausted. Fatigue and boredom mixed into a strange feeling that probably had no name nor it could be percepted. It was the first day of his life - his new life. His real life. His life as Coltmas, aged 45, earth pony, orphan, born in Canterlot, and not 006, of the Ministry of Intelligence, MI for short. Those Ministries were a plague on the body of Equestria, Coltmas mused. They filled the peaceful land with intrigues, greed and satiety. Coltmas himself was a royalist, loyal only to Her Highness Princess Celestia. Only for Her had he toiled all those years. Only for Her had he volunteered on hopeless missions and, at the last second, turned the tables in such an exquisite and unexpected way that the winning side became the losing, and vice versa. Only to Her had he served. But now... Now he was out of use. He had stepped aside. He had sent in his papers and vanished in the Manehattan night.
One day. His retirement had only lasted one day so far, and Coltmas almost regretted having retired in the first place. Though, he knew his methods were old; so was he. Too young to be an elder, wise and sagacious in the field of reconnaissance, too old to be a good, if not passable, agent. He knew he would find a way to earn a living somehow. After all, Her Highness' Ministry had offered him this flat; and, needless to say, he had gladly accepted it. His principles forbade him to take anything from the Ministry, but this... this was Her gift - a gift he couldn't refuse. Not that he wanted to. In fact, he would have been greatly disappointed if it had been a present from the Ministry and he would have had to refuse it. Now he had a place to live in, a deposit to supply him with enough bits for at least five years, and a pension.
Only... he had nothing to do. He suddenly felt really useless. Unneeded. Worn out. Coltmas sighed and trotted towards the refrigerator and opened it. A lonely bottle of whisky lay inside, urging to be drunk. Not this day, Coltmas thought and closed the metal door. He stopped for a moment, lost in thought. Since when had they begun making metal fridges? Shrugging the thought off to the part of his mind that was entitled Not Urgent: Think Later, he passed the table, grabbing a smoking pipe from it. He tilted a box of matches next to his ear, listening with utmost care. There was only one inside. He needed only one. With a swift, usual motion, he took a match and lit it. Soon, the old, seasoned pipe was emitting foul smoke, which, to Coltmas, seemed more pleasant than any aroma in the wide world of Equestria. Sometimes, he envied unicorns and their ability to levitate things but, over the past years, he had come to a conclusion that his natural earth pony endurance had served him well, and that he didn't want to trade it for anything.
The smoke lay on the floor, covering the carpet, and made its way towards the friendly fireplace, swiftly entangling the smoke coming from inside, making ornate lines like a professional painter. Coltmas took a deep puff and let himself bathe in the mild feeling of euphoria for a moment. During all those years, the euphoria faded away, replaced by a psychological pleasure from smoking tobacco. Many a thing has faded away during those years. Coltmas looked at the ceiling. A lonely spider had created a peculiar web before leaving forever in fear of being killed by the cleaner. Coltmas felt much alike to this spider now - having created a perfect web of agents and messengers, he stepped aside - no, screw it, he ran away! Yes, ran away from all this uneasiness and unrest, fed up with politics invading the MI, tired of shifting values that replaced patriotism and dedication with profit and utilitarianism.
Coltmas turned on the radio. A soft jazz tune flowed from the little musical box, filling the room with cheer and hope. The pianist tapped the keys so softly that the sound was mild and gentle - exactly the kind of music Coltmas was tired of. Official music. Music of the Ministries. Music of the snobbish ponies who knew nothing about real music but still pretended they did. Coltmas liked different music - music played in bars and pubs, music played by the poor and for the poor, real music coming straight from the soul of the performer and to the soul of the listener. Music that Coltmas could listen to only rarely, when he was completely sure there was nopony around and all the bugs were conveniently turned off. Music that he finally was able to listen to freely, now that he was no longer 006, of the MI, but Coltmas, aged 45, earth pony, orphan, born in Canterlot, now living in a rather comfortable flat in Manehattan. Coltmas turned off the radio and approached the old gramophone that was resigning in the corner. He searched the shelf briefly and finally spotted an old record in a worn cover, not too worn to notice a picture of a rather fat black earth pony with curly hair who was holding a guitar in his left hoof, raising it in the air triumphantly.
"His very best hits," Coltmas read aloud and opened the cover. It smelt of tobacco and sadness - an inexpressible odour of the Manehattan life. The real odour of the real Coltmas, aged 45, earth pony, orphan, born in Canterlot... and so on.
The record took its rightful place and began to spin, soothing music coming from the old gramophone. Coltmas leaned back on the sofa and took a few puffs of the pipe. Subconsciously, he began tapping to the sound of drums. Soon, the piano added the complicated rhythm, while the pipes emphasised the up beat. And then the guitar took the lead. Coltmas had no idea who the black pony was but he surely could deliver the kind of music that made the tired earth pony consider worth living. The low, raspy voice of the guitarist added some obscenity to the already bawdy blues.
Unlike most guitarists, he never sang and played his guitar simultaneously. Instead, he maintained a peculiar dialogue-like form of playing: he sang a line and let his guitar take the lead; then the procedure repeated. But what Coltmas liked most was the fact that the only magic in the song was the magic of blues - and nothing more. The whole band were earth ponies, including the amazing guitarist. There were many times when Coltmas would want to go see the musician in one of countless Manehattan pubs that hosted such music. And now he finally had the opportunity.
Another puff brought about a thick cloud of smoke hovering above the sofa, colouring the very air grey. Coltmas stood up to open the window and let in some fresh air, if Manehattan air could be qualified as fresh.
The phone rang. Coltmas turned towards the source of the sound. Cursing himself for setting the device, he approached the black ringing thing and, taking a deep breath, picked up the receiver. After a few seconds of static, a low masculine voice spoke.
"Double 0 six?"
Coltmas swore under his breath. There was only one pony in the world, who, after all those years, would still call him by his number. Or who, sometimes, would remember one of Coltmas' countless alias and use them freely. His boss - his ex-boss.
"Double 0 six on the line, N," Coltmas replied, addressing the leader of Equestrian Intelligence in a familiar respectful-yet-reserved manner, the manner he had picked for usage in the recent years.
"How do you like your new flat?" N wondered coldly, giving an impression that he was not only completely uninterested in the reply but also confused as to why such pleasantries needed to be exchanged in the first place.
"It's good, thank you," Coltmas said after taking another puff. The tobacco was slowly smouldering, and the earth pony had to prevent it from dying completely; so he answered in a restrained way, only to take a few puffs, glad that the fire was still going.
"No need, Double 0 six. You earned it."
But of course, Coltmas thought and let his silence be the answer. He had got used to silence. A pony has two ears to listen well and only one tongue to speak little, N would say and, in Coltmas' view, he was right. There was no other way for an agent.
"Say, Double 0 six..." N said with a bit of curiosity in his voice, curiosity not unnatural but still rare to him. Coltmas listened, inhaling the rough smoke in his already damaged lungs. Surely the old pony wanted something from him. He was no fool: he knew there was no such thing as a free flat: the Intelligence still had something to ask in return. They could ask it now, or they could ask it in a few years' time: still, he would have to pay. Coltmas was even glad that the demand came now.
"...How are you feeling there, in the warm?" N wondered, without a hint of compassion or sympathy.
Show me compassion,
Show me equinity,
Show me your passion.
Show me your dignity~
The words of the song pierced through the smoke-filled air of the room, reminding Coltmas that he had forgotten to turn of the gramophone. However, he had no time to do so now.
"Quite good, thank you," Coltmas replied laconically, taking the pipe in his mouthm and tried to reach for the gramophone. Still, it was too far away, and the earth pony gave up any attempts.
"And what would you say if we asked you to stay in the cold for a while?"
Coltmas sighed aside. He had been expecting this question. No beating around the bush. Now that the MI's point was straightforward, they could talk business-like, in a manner that Coltmas liked the most. Meanwhile, he caught himself thinking about MI as them, not us. He paid no heed to this thought.
"The matter?" Coltmas puffed and said through gritted teeth, knowing very well that N was used to his speaking with a pipe in his mouth.
"An assassination. The culprit is Someone Gilda, a griffin."
Coltmas expected more insight, but N kept silence. After a deep puff, Coltmas decided to enquire deeper.
"What's in this for me? I'm a Zebrist," he said, expecting to get the whole picture. Surely N wouldn't have asked him concerning the matter that he was no specialist in.
"The victim is... was a zebra," N emphasised, taking a brief pause.
"A quarrel?" Coltmas suggested, filling the uneasy silence. The smoke was covering the floor, leaving the impression of a grey sea beneath.
"Ruled out," N said in a firm tone. "The victim is not just any zebra; it's the plenipotentiary ambassador of Zebrica."
Coltmas gulped, his pipe almost falling from his mouth, kept in place only by the force of habit and sheer will.
"Jenuar?" he wondered in more of an affirmative tone.
"Indeed," N replied. "We believe this to be a provocation from the Griffin Empire," he added slowly.
"They have a peace treaty with Zebrica," Coltmas mused aloud, thinking about the matter. If the Empire wanted to cross up Zebrica...
"But not with Equestria," N reminded, making Coltmas lose his train of thought.
True, Coltmas thought. They didn't have a peace treaty with Equestria; but that would be straightforward suicide! To cross up Equestria, conducting a provocation on her territory would bring about horrible repercussions, both between Equestria and Zebrica and between Zebrica and the Empire, as well as raise the already high tension between the Empire and Equestria... No gain could possibly come out of it.
"What would you say, Double 0 six?" N interrupted Coltmas once more. "How about you stay out in the cold for a while?"
The fire in the pipe died and Coltmas placed the wooden contraption on the table. On one hoof, he was tired, he had to rest, he wanted to finally devote some time to himself... but on the other hoof, the case could be more complicated than the Empire, or whoever was behind this, made it seem. History knew times when such incidents lead to conflicts... and even wars. Coltmas knew Equestria wouldn't survive a full-blown war with two countries, even if both of them were in conflict with each other.
"I'll see what I can do," he finally replied, chewing on his tongue - a bad habit he had never been able to get rid of.
"Good," N said. "We'll contact you in the morning."
The short beeps told Coltmas that, eventually, he was out in the cold once more. He reached for the gramophone and turned it off. Music of the soul would have to wait. He was no longer Coltmas, aged 45, earth pony, orphan, born in Canterlot, but once more 006, or "Double 0 six", of the Ministry of Intelligence, MI for short.
Coltmas lay on the sofa and closed his eyes. The blanket of sleep covered him, erupting from the busy Manehattan night.
