The washing machine is now running. You make use of that time. Your main goal of the day is getting a job. Therefore, your destination is the police headquarters. Everything you could need is onhoof on you: your resumé, yourself, and a pen that’s almost empty.

Now you are standing in an empty alleyway. You hope to meet Her again. Questions need to be answered. And you wait. And wait. And … wait.

Nothing comes. She surely is busy. A fear swells in you; you fear that your meeting was once-in-a-lifetime occurrence, a chemical reaction in your brain gone awry. You need validation. A simple nod would be enough, something to tell you that what you are doing is correct. You need somecreature to point you in a direction, somecreature to tell you that everything is ok, somecreature that hugs you, somecreature that dominates and …….

You have issues.

Probably a mix of mommy and daddy issues. No, even worse, you have created something far worse. You have an issue that is so indescribable it will baffle psychologists for decades to come.

Unlikely.

True, you aren’t that special. Why would existence even grand you a special disorder. No, you just have a kink.

This line of thinking will lead to nowhere. Get going.

You exit the alleyway to go on with your way. You hope that you meet Stalliongrad again, soon.

You created her to fulfill those issues.

Who cares? She is real. Your meaning, your purpose is real. Even then, Stalliongrad as a concept still exists, you will protect it. This isn’t going to stop you.

Unto your new job!

You enter the police office. Behind a desk sits a mare. She is bored.

“Hi, I am Red Thread,” you say, getting straight to the point, “I’m here to apply for a job.”

The deskmare raises an eyebrow. ‘Really,’ she must think, ‘this disheveled stallion wants to become a police officer? He looks like an eyesore.’

“Hello, mister Thread,” she says, “that’s good to hear. It’s always nice to have a new colleague.” She shuffles some papers around, like she is searching for something for which she has displaced on the mess on her table, before remembering where she put it. “Wait,” she swivels around in her chair and picks up papers from a cabinet, “just fill this up. I will call comrade chief, you’ll be making a interview with her.”

You nod, taking the papers. While you’re filling them out, the clock on the wall ticks louder than your heart beats.

The wait had been long. Luckily, you didn’t have anything planned today. Standing before a door, you breathe in. Body, mind, and soul now need cooperate for at least an hour, which is a feat you have yet to accomplish.

You should have combed yourself.

Too late, now.

You enter the room of the police chief. Unlike your expectations, she is not a donut-eating, fat cop, but a very average looking, light brown pegasus.

“Lost, I assume?” she asks.

You nod.

“You’re lucky today is an uneventful day. There was nothing on my schedule, so, I was able to squeeze this interview in. And I am going to be frank, we need new recruits,” she continues, standing up from her office desk, “my name is Alan.”

She offers her hoof. You shake it.

Alan? Who would name their filly Alan?

This is a very silly name.

Alan sees your reaction. In an automatic response she says, “I’m aware it’s unusual. But my parents are unusual people.” People? It’s like she’s reading from a script. The question of her name was thrown at her often; she’s used to it. “I would never disavow it.” She goes back to her chair. “Now, this isn’t about me, it’s about you. Please, sit down.” She points to the chair opposite to her.

It is the same kind of chair as hers, a relatively comfortable, blue one. This has a meaning.

There is not much meaning. She either doesn’t see her conversation partner as beneath her, or there simply isn’t a big choice of chairs.

You sit down, now facing her.

“Now, Thread, this isn’t the first time I have heard your name.” What have you done now?! “Today some high apparatchik told me that a Thread wanted to join my department. She gave me a recommendation of you.”

It’s that mare from the café.

You should invent a nickname, ‘that mare’ is not saying that much.

Yes, call her, ‘Spooky Leftist’.

Good enough. This Spooky is attempting to have you in her hooves. She is trying to intimate you, and she has the means to, even figuring out from your name alone where you live. Ask Alan about her. But why would she? You are just a small fish in the grand scheme of things? Why is she interested in you? Or does she do it to every government worker? Did she follow you?

“Mister Thread, are you well? You have been staring for a while?”

“I’m sorry. Who did recommend me?”

“Don’t know, didn’t tell me.” Dammit! “It would be useless anyway. Those secret service mares don’t easily babble out things, it’s in their jobs.” She interrupts herself, eyeing you. “Stallions, of course, too.”

Secret intelligence service!? What did you get yourself in? “I think I am in trouble.”

Alan raises an eyebrow, “well, what did you do?”

“I don’t know. I asked questions? I refused a bribe?”

“That isn’t a crime. I am sure we could simply talk it out, given that you have done nothing wrong. Those damn bureaucrats are in their own little ivory tower, they often forget what is happening in reality. Possibly you accidentally got caught in their eyes. It’s a chore to work with the party officials. When you need to talk to them, go to me.”

Her way of talking to them, it hints she doesn’t care that much about politics. Nevertheless, because of her position, she has to deal with the party.

“Why would you help me?”

“Because it’s the right thing to do.”

Her vendetta towards the nomenklatura is a fine addition. Any excuse for her is enough to stick it to them.

“I don’t care for their recommendations. You could get the chairstallion himself to vow for you and I wouldn’t care. I’ll judge you myself.” She flips through your resumé. “This says you were in the royal guard.” She says with an eyebrow, “from Equestrian soldier, to clerk, then to Stalliongradian police officer that is a big shift. Why?”

Wait, now, think about it. Give a sensible answer. You want the job, be reasonable, do it as any other rational being would; lie at your interview. Remember, every good lie is laced with truth.

“I was different back then, made some bad life decisions. Now, I just want to give my life some meaning, and serving Stalliongrad would be a good opportunity to do that.” Too much truth.

“Mmhmm. It’s a good thing, with your background we could shorten your training.”

“I don’t remember much of my training.” In fact, none of it.

“Don’t worry, it’s not that hard.” She says before mumbling to herself, “you could help with our gender quotient.”

The what?

Gender: Communists. It’s always the marksits, isn’t it? One of their progressive positions is gender abolishment. Because of that, most institutions are encouraged to hire in opposite of their gender norms. The police seem to have a bias to mares, that’s why they would be encouraged to hire stallions. The same goes for tribes and races. Though there does not seem to be a tribe-bias in the newly created police. The proportion of earth pony scientists in Stalliongrad is higher than in Equestria.

“So, you would hire me because of a quota?”

“No, of course not. Having some incompetent creature here wouldn’t make up for it.” She starts to write in her papers.

Maybe you could play up your cutie mark. Tell her some niceties.

“Does my cutie mark play a role?”

“No. I won’t even think about it. Those damn bureaucrats would have my head otherwise.” She looks at another pile of papers beside her. “Though I tend to agree with them on that one. You don’t need a cutie mark to do a good job. You do a good job if you do a good job. I see ponies like Gamer Jockey as a cautionary tale, not an inspiring one.”

Gamer Jockey: She is cutie mark obsession. The love for video games, arcade games, and board games was for the world to see on her flank. She believed it was her destiny. Her desire drove her to what she is now. She is renowned for her self-destroying and impossible act. She turned herself into a videogame console. It is still believed she still ‘lives’ and doesn’t regret her choice. However, nothing has been heard about her for a while. Her unhinged act garnered her name renown around the pony world, an urban legend.

She is done scribbling.

“I have to ask you some more mandatory questions. It is not only on me who decides if I can hire you. We’ll simply work through them.”

You nod.

“First question: A colleague is getting harassed by a group of creatures. They make fun of her cutie mark, they are namecalling her. What do you do?”

Fight the bullies. Don’t be a coward, make them fear you, let them regret their life-decision of becoming bullies.

Talk the problems out, and if that doesn't work, get an authority figure.

“I’d first try to talk to them and, if it continues, ask a superior.”

She nods, scribbling notes, nothing in her expression shows approval or disapproval. The questions continue, your higher thoughts slowly shut down. The answers come out a la autopilot. They, the questions, are insulting. Here you are, an adult capable of higher thought, and all you have to do is give self-evident answers to questions a kindergartner could answer.

These questions are like a sieve. They separate the truly stupid from the semi-competent and above.

The torture eventually ends.

“You’ll get no disagreement by me. You can join,” you smile, “but,” your smile falters, “you’ll still need to do some checkups. And I still need to get this,” she points at the papers, “sent.”

Oh, no, checkups. How could a druggie like you pass them?

“In fact, if you excuse me.” She takes the rotary phone on her desk, turns in a number. The callee picks up, and before you can blink the conversation is finished. “Great, we can give you one tomorrow.”

Oh, buck, “ great, “ you say with gritted teeth.

Unaware of your inner turmoil she tells you the address, “now, this’ll be all. G’day.”

You leave. A hope was building inside of you, maybe you could meet Hoax and Snowy again. Sadly, there was no trace of them.

They are probably on duty.

Author's Note

There aren’t any humans in this story.