“Sweep sweep sweep,” Spike sarcastically mumbled as he emptied a dustpan of broken upholstery into the wastebin. “Sweep sweep.”
The meeting with Prince Rutherford had gone pretty well, which was why the Equestrian Embassy was only mostly trashed instead of completely trashed. Spike prepped by studying up on Yaks, per his new job in foreign affairs. He’d known Rutherford and the entourage would stampede in to show eagerness. He knew they would angrily stampede out if “small lizard desk worker not pass message to pink pony.” What Spike had not known (but in hindsight he should have expected) was the Yaks would stampede out in celebration after he assured them yes, he would tell ‘pink pony’ she was invited to cater Yona’s graduation party.
Spike’s tail readjusted its grip around his broom’s handle as his nose wrinkled at a pile of ceramic shards that had once been a vase. Twilight had bottomless princess pockets now, so it wasn’t the damage to the meeting room that bothered him. Even the room needing cleaned up wasn’t so bad; dragons enjoyed gathering things. What really scraped Spike's scales was how exhausting it was dealing with creatures who didn’t even try to adhere to Equestrian standards of conversation.
Last week a Kirin had come in asking about the local train schedules. She didn’t read Equestrian and could barely speak it, instead gesturing in that odd Kirin sign language that Spike only had thirdhoof knowledge of.
“Choo choo chugga chugga,” she’d slurred over and over until Spike figured out what was being asked. He drew her a pictorial chart of the train routes, and she expressed thanks by spitting a rapturous display of Nirik flame. She then gave Spike a crushing molten bearhug that would have put any non-dragon in the hospital before bounding out.
The incident was commemorated by a sootstain still on the ceiling. Spike stared up at it sometimes, looking for shapes or patterns in its smudges. It helped pass the time on slow workweeks.
Speaking of slow workweeks, Spike couldn’t remember whether there were any more scheduled meetings today. He hoped not. No sane pony would want to linger in the office while things were in such a chaotic state.
Better check the schedule book.
Dumping his dustpan in a now overflowing wastebasket, Spike beat his wings to hover past the remaining mess. With some maneuvering, he made it to the remains of his desk. After blowing some plaster dust off his trusty ledger, Spike traced a claw down today's list.
“Two o’clock, the courier from Griffonstone stopped in to collect the monthly batch of food stamps.”
That was Gabby. She’d chatted Spike up about the weather, the upcoming buckball season, and what she’d had for dinner last night before finally leaving thirty minutes behind schedule. Spike had put her down as leaving on time anyway.
“Three o’clock, liaison from Changeling Grotto dropped off the hive’s most recent census.”
Pharynx. The tall, intimidating combat drone. He noticed Spike’s nervousness early on and shapeshifted into a mirror image of Spike for the rest of the meeting. Which was honestly way freakier than if he’d just stayed himself, but Pharynx’s self-indulgent laughs told Spike that was probably the point. The old drone's sense of humor was much darker than Spike's.
Spike skipped the most recent entry about the yaks and squinted at some odd lettering on the page further down. The last log of the day was different.
The ink was indigo. Not black like each entry above. The letters also looked a little like Ponish, but there was something just off about it. Like another dialect was fighting to escape a Ponish-shaped mold. Or maybe it was sloppy hoofwriting? Not since Starlight Glimmer's chemistry notes had Spike seen something so haphazard yet still clearly some form of language. Had a foal mistaken the ledger for an activity book?
Spike’s throat itched, which meant a letter was incoming. Figuring the office couldn't possibly get any more trashed, the Equestrian Inter-Species Ambassador leaned to the side and pointed his open mouth at the torn carpet.
The taste of sugar and spice precluded a purple pony erupting from his mouth colliding with the far wall.
"Exemplary ending for an esophageal excursion!" The pony shakily scrambled to her hooves, an inexpensive postage stamp affixed to her nose. "Am I late? Am I late? For a very important date?"
Spike was still doubled over and panting, having just hawked up a creature twice his height. Fretting foalishly, the mailed mare turned her attention to a wall clock damaged by her initial impact. The minute hand dangled loosely downward. The hour hand lay lonesomely on the floor.
“Roast grief and potatoes, it’s Half-Past Broken already!"
Spike's pallid periphery peeked at the pony, whose proverbial pocket produced a prominent peacock feather. It was wet with indigo ink, the same color of the mysterious final entry in the schedule book. By the time the pony had dragged her portentous pen across the page, vacuuming the enigmatic entry to leave a blank box, Spike was recovered enough to speak.
"I prepped for you."
The pony flinched. Then she rapidly recovered with inequine immediacy, de-synching her eyes and hovering off the messy carpet using the propeller atop her lopsided hat.
"Oh? Odd. My merry mug maintains minimal mingling 'midst mares matching me."
"I don't spend a lot of time around my own species either," Spike replied. He kept his tone gentle, conciliatory, just the right temperance to frustrate a wannabe troublemaker.
"You push pencils and envelopes alike," the pompous pest pouted. "But my entry is now an outry in the illegible ledger. Written words won't wrangle wild wrongheads such as Screwball."
"Got it, so your name is Screwball. I'll add you in as my five o'clock walk-in for the day." Spike casually and neatly penciled his flabbergasted guest back into the logbook. "Or maybe I should I put you down as arriving at... what was it you said? Half-Past Broken?"
Screwball's jaw hung open at the utterly unflappable diminutive drake. Then she tugged her chin so it snapped shut like a window shade.
"So what do you need," Spike drawled, "...citizen of Discord's dimension?"
"And the proper phrase is..." Spike wracked his brain and stared intently at the spot on his wall map labeled 'Crystal Empire.' It was the only sovereign state that didn't have a thumbtack pressed onto it. The one destined to stab at it was still in Spike's fist.
"The proper phrase to conclude a meeting with a member of Crystal Pony royalty is..."
Come on, he'd studied. He'd memorized every detail of every custom of every other place on the map. He knew this one. He definitely knew this one.
"Eh, buck it. The proper phrase to conclude a meeting with Crystal Pony royalty is 'See ya around, Shining Armor. Yes, I'll give Twilight your reminder to her that she's still a huge nerd'."
Satisfied with his impromptu answer, Spike placed the last pin and stepped back to admire his work.
He was officially ready for anything his new Interspecies Ambassador job could throw at him. Fully prepared to meet any liaison from any nation on the planet. He'd even brushed up on the one nation off the planet, hence the pin stuck in a nearby model of the moon. Spike idly spun the silver globe, pondering the quirky batponies of the Lunar Republic. At least they had the easiest formalities to memorize: start and end every conversation by screeching "Eeeeeeeee" in the highest falsetto you can manage.
Spike's throat itched, and with veteran practice he expelled an incoming letter. It was a short, direct reminder from Twilight not to stay cooped up in his room working all day. Pretty rich coming from Twilight of all ponies, but Spike actually did have an Ogres And Oubliettes session to attend in a few hours. If he flaked, Discord would never forgive him.
Wait. Discord.
Spike surveyed his wall map. Then glanced at his moon globe. Finally, he sighed heavily. He was out of pins and had no more places to stick them. But there was one civilization left to study.
"My shallowness runs deep," Screwball lamented. "What worthwhile wackiness is inherent in anticipated acrobatics? Oh, old oddities, operating out of ostentatious obscurity. Pair at my parody’s parity of pity-party parroting."
Spike's unflappability had seriously deflated her. Too morose to even hover, Screwball slumped into the one intact guest chair occupying the office. On the other side of the desk, Spike shut his ledger and drummed a regretful claw.
"Don't be too hard on yourself. You take a lot of pride in weirding out people you encounter, right? It’s my entire job to not be weirded out by anyone who trots through my door. Or explodes out my mouth, in your case. Which hey, for what it’s worth, was a pretty creative entrance."
Screwball was a slippery spawn of strangeness, so Spike wasn't sure if compliments were comforting. Were compliments a concept she even understood? Spike had found very little info on Discord's dimension in the Canterlot archives. Most of what now knew had been provided by a far less reliable source. Still, there was one thing that held true for every creature that visited his office: they always needed his help with something Equestrian.
Spike could do this. He could solve Screwball and plant that last proverbial pin.
"I'd offer you some water, but Gabby drained me dry earlier after talking herself hoarse." Spike gestured to his office's complimentary water cooler. It was empty, even before it got tipped on its side by the yaks. "Besides, I'm guessing as soon as I blink, you'll have just conjured yourself your own-"
Spike was interrupted by Screwball chugging from a soda can that hadn't existed moments before. He waited patiently, and after the slurping stopped, Screwball's spiral eyes scanned the office for a creative way to dispose of her trash. Finding none, she bashfully hid the can in her hat.
"I'm informed imbibing incalculable instances of soda soothes certain screwy sicknesses such as attentiveness and awareness of one's otherness."
"Even when you explain yourself, you don't really explain anything, do you?"
That one got the gregarious gremlin giggling. This was good. This was progress. Spike pressed on.
"You know, when I said I 'prepped for you,' I didn't mean I found a big dusty book labeled 1001 Things You Should Know About Dealing With Chaos Users. I wish I had, but instead I improvised."
Screwball's forelegs were folded on her side of the desk, and her chin rested on top of them. Her eyes maintained many mysterious mercurial movements, but for now she seemed to be listening.
"I just fielded some questions to Discord during our last Ogres And Oubliettes session. Asked about your realm's culture, population size, customs, businesses, and housing. Stuff that other places have. He said answering any of that would 'ruin the mystique.' Then threatened to toss me through a portal if I didn't move on with my turn."
"My habitual habitat hovers past the Pardoned Yard In Warden's Hardened Garden," Screwball piped up. Her hat slowly resumed its sanguine spinning as she shared details about her home. "Our oblique orbit oscillates outside of Old Olfactory Factory, near Neckless Nicholas's Necklaces."
Spike nodded, pretending he understood that cascade of utter nonsense. Screwball had brightened as she blathered, drifting upwards from her chair, limbs lazily loping like a Seapony in calm, comforting currents.
"Copious creature comforts convalesce in Discord's dimension. Chins are greased, beaks are wet, and not a dry eye is had when winter winds expedite incoming ice elation. Or is it isolation?" Screwball's smile faltered. "It... it is. I'm implicated in immutable isolation."
Her eyes swiveled to Spike's, and he bit his lip, certain she'd just confessed something. Truthfully, Screwball's speech patterns were tricky to trace. The moment promptly passed when Screwball, fully upside down now, downcast her gaze on the panels above Spike's head.
“Say, spectacular ceiling smudge.”
"Hm?" Spike glanced up. "Oh yeah, a Kirin left that there last week. Sometimes I stare up at it and look for shapes."
"Shapes."
"Yeah," Spike was wringing his tail in embarrassment. "If Twilight were here, she could tell you the fancy term for looking at blots and then whatever you see revealing something about you. I think the stain looks kinda like a gemstone with a bite taken out of it. And that makes sense, since I'm pretty hungry right now and gemstones are a really rare food around here."
"See shapes," Screwball repeated. She was being quiet. Contemplative. Out of character.
Spike nodded cautiously. "That's what I said. Sheesh, Equestria is pretty boring place compared to where you live, isn't it? We don't have orbiting hardened gardens or whatever you mentioned. Just boring jobs and messes that won't go away unless we clean them up. Discord likes messes. I bet you do too, huh?"
"Horseshoes!" Screwball suddenly announced. "Inside inscrutable inkblots, I'm saddled with blinders and spurred to see horseshoes."
Spike's attention snapped to Screwball's hovering hooves.
In Equestria, more ponies had horseshoes than had birth certificates. The poorest farmers wore protection in the fields. The richest Canterlot nobles had personal farriers just to keep up with the latest trends in fashion. Spike's friend Scootaloo wore special orthopedics, since pegasus knees weren't built for a lifetime of flightlessness. Trixie did sleight-of-hoof card tricks using hidden shoe compartments. Sunburst kept his cuticles coated in copper, their conductivity boosting his meager spellcasting. Then there was Pinkie Pie, who had tons of horseshoes but favored a gag set that honked clownishly when she walked. Even Fluttershy, the most earthbound, druidic pony alive, wore lightly enchanted heart bar molds that nurtured the soil she walked on.
In short, a pony's choice in horseshoes were as much a part of their identity as their Cutie Mark. They were practically a body part. Yaks had their shoulder blankets, goats had their neck bells, and ponies had their horseshoes. It was simply how things were. Being shod meant being wholly oneself, wholly equine, wholly Equestrian. Even during Twilight's coronation, when she swapped her noise-dampening librarian soles for royal anklet regalia, proud permanent nail holes had been visible on her briefly bare feet.
Screwball herself had no shoes. Not even nail holes. She was more alien than a Lunar Republic batpony.
"Hey, Screwball?"
The foreigner didn't verbally respond, but her eyes swam as she swiveled to face Spike from above.
"Earlier you said... well, you said a lot of stuff, but I heard 'isolation' somewhere in between all the other words."
Spike's metaphorical pin was ready. He could almost see the unmappable realm unfurled, ready to be jabbed.
"There aren't any other ponies who live in Discord's dimension, are there?"
"Chaos crafts creatures cacophonously. Hands are dealt in spades, decking our hearts in diamonds. Crazy Eights ante alongside Aces, each suited To The Nines. My hand is a loner. The dealer did not pony up any other houses in the pot."
"What I got from that is no, there aren't any others."
Screwball hung her head and Spike's imaginary pin was planted at last. It was a triumphant moment somewhat undercut by the knowledge that the most misplaced creature in existence was prattling around his ceiling. Still, Spike was no hapless bystander. He was the Equestrian Inter-Species Ambassador. He solved the problems of wayward non-Equestrians. And Screwball was as far from Equestrian as a pony could possibly be.
But she was still a pony. That’s something Spike could work with.
"Miss Screwball? Could you drift down towards my desk drawer, please?"
Compelled by curiosity, the horse-shaped chaos construct did as she was asked.
"This thing," Spike explained as he produced a giant ink pad, "is mostly used to take hoofprints for passports." Dragon claw guided pony forelimb. First to the ink, then to the ever-present ledger book to leave an imprint.
"But for you," Spike continued, "Canterlot has the best shoesmiths in the nation. If you want, I can shop this image of your hoof around. Get you something in your size. Make it comfortable for you to walk on the ground like real pony. Whaddya say? Would you like that?"
Screwball tapped her lower lip with her un-inked hoof. Her hesitance was apparent.
"Something else I could do...." Spike pulled open another drawer, this one full of contacts for local construction crews. "Is see if I can approve you a home-away-from home. We already have Breezie accommodations in Manehatten's central park. And Appleoosa has a few legally protected stampeding grounds for the Buffalo. Ponyville already tolerates Discord hanging around, so promise I could get a Chaos Embassy approved there in the next few weeks. With the right permits, we could even get a working portal put in."
Screwball still wasn't saying anything.
"C'mon, I'm trying to help you!"
Spike wasn't sure if he was frustrated or pleading. He was well past his time to go home, and under no obligation to care about the cryptic creature mulling around his ruined office. But the truth was, Spike understood her. He understood being the odd one out in a place where no one looked like you. He also knew the disillusionment of seeking out your own kind and finding that you didn't really fit with them either. That bitter, stinging realization that a clash of nature and nurtue left you a multifaceted misfit.
Spike understood completely. But whether Screwball understood him was anyone's guess.
"No thanks."
"What?!"
Screwball was back on the ceiling, pawing her inky hoof at the soot stain, leaving fresh blots of black.
"Harmony hinders when wantonly wide identities intermingle. I'm unfit to wear the pants of a sharp dressed mare."
Spike sputtered, unsure how to appeal to a purely creative creature's sense of reason. Screwball meanwhile, wasn't done speaking. Or drawing.
"No shoes. No embassy. Not needed." Her hoof moved in a blur, conjuring color and shapes in place of smudges. "Lettuce turnip the beet. Your order is bringing inner peas to weirdoughs, so romaine calm and take this calculated whisk."
Screwball pushed away from her finished work. In place of a soot stain, Spike's ceiling was imprinted with a crystal clear three paneled image. Emphasis on the "crystal' part.
"You..." Spike spoke slowly in case he needed corrected. "You came here to commission a stained glass window?"
"Windows are eyes to the soul."
"Uh huh. So whose soul looks like a pegasus, an earth pony, and a unicorn all holding up different shaped gemstones?"
"Equestria’s."
Spike sighed and rubbed his nose. He could push a lot of requests through Canterlot's wall of red tape, but stained glass windows weren't one of them. Those were commemorative public art pieces, meant to log historical events. He would have to pull every string his position allowed just to get a single pane put in. And Screwball wanted three of the nonsensical things. In the absolute best case scenario, he could fit them into a basement floor plan. Why couldn't Screwball have asked for the embassy instead?
Spike reopened his eyes, then flinched at Screwball sitting cross-legged on his desk. Her hat was off, hugged to her chest like a foal with a stuffed animal.
"Please. Pictures paint thousands of soon spoken words."
Turning down bureaucratic favors was nothing new to Spike. He'd heard meeker mewling from Pinkie Pie and seen heftier hangdogged frowns from Trixie. But those two were experts at begging. Screwball, for all her chaotic guile, seemed serious.
"This is really that important to you?"
Vigorous nodding made Spike sigh once again.
"Okay. I'll see what I can do."
Screwball hugged him.
Spike lurched, but didn't fall over. Ponies were huggers, that much he'd noticed while growing up among them. Other species weren't, and dragons were the least touchy-feely race of them all. Still, Spike lifted his arms and gently squeezed Screwball back. Some gestures went beyond species or upbringing.
After what he judged was long enough, Spike pulled away, deciding the mood needed lightened.
"Will that be all you need today, My Little Crazy?"
Screwball harrumphed as she replaced her hat. "Don't krill yourself fishing for betta puns than the ones I've netted."
"Gotcha. Let minnow if I'm floundering, and I'll clam right up."
Screwball blew a defiant raspberry, which was hard to do through her smile. The she looked around for an appropriate exit.
"I hope you're not leaving the same way you came in."
Screwball answered by producing her old empty soda can. A clumsy flourish squashed it between her front hooves, and Screwball's body followed suit. She crunched into a two dimensional wad before turning sideways to disappear.
"Well that was vaguely horrifying," Spike announced to no one. "Discord would be proud."
He bent down and retrieved the abandoned can. Then glanced at his ceiling. The trio of crystal-wielding horses were still stamped there.
Spike shrugged, tossing the can in the wastebasket while continuing to clean his office.
Author's Note
Not my first depiction of the mischevious motormouthed daughter of Discord. If her varied vocalizations and lilting lyricism fed your fancy, sample her seminal story, starring another equally eloquent equine empress-to-be.
EHorseshoe Theory
Twilight is still fresh from her coronation as sole Princess of Harmony. The junior Anarch of Chaos is even more clueless than she is. Together, they wrangle the responsibilities of their predecessors.
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