The Silver Chip

"...gems are getting more expensive," the voice of a mare in a warm coat came out. "The city's needs are growing."

Through gaps in the immovable cloud layer, the midday sun selectively illuminated the streets of Vanhoover. Individual buildings or entire blocks, as well as the roadbeds and sidewalks of the main streets, were almost identical to their pre-war condition in terms of cleanliness and deterioration.

"Isn't there any way to increase the capacity of the dam?" the second mare asked.

The two mares sat on the bench and looked aimlessly at the masters and slaves walking along the street; neither paid any attention to the orange skinny Holiday, who walked in front of them with lowered head and drooping ears, captivated by thoughts like quicksand.

"If it were possible, the Waterfalls would have been done by now. Their dam has been running at full capacity for a long time. The gems are now trying to make up for the lack, thus the gradual rise in their prices."

The other mare unconsciously touched her chest with her front leg, where a gem stone rested beneath her warm sweater. Her gaze clouded over.

"It reminded me of," a mixture of bitterness and nostalgia sounded in her voice, "how I was played a very nasty prank on as a filly. Everyone laughed at me. I ran home in tears, unable to see anything, and tripped. When I looked around, I noticed something shiny under the wheelie garbage can. I first thought it was the shards of some bottle, but I pulled out the shiny thing anyway. It turned out to be a purple sapphire. Someone must have dropped it and not noticed."

"What a find," the first mare said with a touch of envy.

"Since then I always carry it with me as a piece of jewelry: when I feel bad, I can feel its pleasant weight. It makes me feel easier. Reminds me that after a fall, lying on the ground in tears, you can discover something valuable."

***

In Vanhoover, mortgaging property was not an easy task. Holiday's situation was a burden: he had no connections or powerful friends, and the sprawling entry on his passport was a blackened reminder of the one whose claws his freedom had fallen into.

On top of that, he's unemployed, and his apartment is squatted in a poor neighborhood, and it's unimpressive to say the least. Bank creditors have trained their five senses to recognize the depth of a client's wallet, the height of their social status, and the value of their possessions. Holiday was hardly surprised that six banks refused to give him a loan of five thousand caps. If he defaulted on the loan, the bank would have spent more time and effort selling the debtor's property than it was worth.

Almost no surprise—because Holiday had hoped for the Steelmane family bank. Their core business was technology maintenance and repair, and there were plenty of things in his apartment for their keen eye to pick up on. That leaves us with one last option—loan sharks. They have a more personalized approach, but they usually deal with small pledges.

Every Vanhoover family has loan sharks; some are independent. In making his choice, Holiday continued to seek his luck with the Steelmanes: only they could fully value his property. The rest of the families are in some way related to technology maintenance, but narrowly focused, directly related to their core business. The Falcons need quality workbenches and equipment to create weapons and ammunition; the Waterfalls—in addition to tools to maintain the hydroelectric dam—need devices to create artificial light and heat for countless greenhouses; the Meadows need medical equipment; the Softhooves need machines to create clothing, armor, and furniture.

None of the above was something Holiday was involved with.

After a couple days, he went out looking for someone who would be willing to consider his offer of three zeros. Often loan sharks of the Steelmanes turned out to be store owners and part-time repair workshops, where they sold home appliances and serviced them. Holiday was listened to until he announced the amount—after which the faces of the loan sharks reflected amazement, as if a fat cock had grown on his forehead.

The orange stallion's mood was sinking. The more rash and absolute was the next refusal, the more rapidly it sank. He was already thinking of lowering the amount to two thousand caps so he could buy weapons and flee the city—but where to flee to? The Steel Rangers would definitely not accept him, and the raiders in the ruins of Red Spark would kill, rape, and appropriate his goods—and it would be nice if it was in that order. He wouldn't survive outside the city walls.

With these grim thoughts, he crossed the threshold of the Endless Wire store, jingling the bell above the entrance. The sign beneath the copper-colored neon letters displayed an upside-down figure-eight of intertwined wires. The display cases and walls were full of spare parts, vacuum lamps, power supplies, coils, tools; cables and wires dangled like lurking snakes.

Muffled music came from the depths of the next room. There were no visitors. A crimson-milk-colored earth pony sat behind the counter, reading the local newspaper, but looked up when he heard the bell ring. He put the paper aside and waited patiently with a friendly look for a customer to approach; the customer, however, was not in a hurry, but was examining the merchandise with a confused but deliberate look.

"Is there anything I can offer you?" the seller asked when he decided that the customer had been silent for too long. The question made him jump up as if he had forgotten where he was.

"Oh, yes... I need something..." he mumbled quietly as he approached the counter. The salespony leaned forward and strained his ears: he got the impression that this pony was not a loud one. "I'd like to mortgage the apartment and its contents for a loan," he mumbled. That phrase had become mundane to him in two days."

The crimson-milk earth pony blinked in bewilderment, but a moment later he realized what the client needed. Steelmane's representatives were rarely treated as loan sharks.

"For how much?"

Holiday's heart thudded. Like the neighbor upstairs was hammering a bookshelf against the wall.

"Five thousand caps."

The pony's eyes bulged.

"Again?"

"Five. Thousand," Holiday repeated slowly. His mouth was dry.

The salespony drew in a breath and stared blankly downward. He exhaled a long breath, his lips curled into a ring and almost whistled.

"Ooooh... That kind of request usually goes to a bank. But if you've come to us, that means they've all refused you."

Holiday didn't have to nod. It was too obvious.

"Show me your passport."

The skinny orange pony reached anxiously with his teeth into his inside pocket, grabbed the document and held it out to the salespony. He caught it with his front hoof and placed it on the table, deftly flipping through the pages.

"I see now. You're almost a slave, but you've been given a chance to work a certain amount of caps for a year. However, the apartment did not interest the bankers. I suspect you need five thousand caps to do that?"

Holiday thought about it repeatedly, but decided to bet everything on his project. Otherwise he'd be without a steady place to live. He can become a complete slave for life, but the property does not pass to the master, but to the heirs—if there are none, to the city. He will lose the apartment anyway. Only investing in the project would give him a chance to keep both his freedom and his home.

"No," Holiday replied after a brief pause, distracted by the beautiful melody from the next room. His mind clung to anything that would distract him from his raging emotions. "I need this to... fund a project of mine."

"Like what? You need resources? Tools?"

"I also need to fill knowledge gaps."

"The development will not only bridge the debt and interest, but also allow you to buy back your freedom in less than a year? What is it?"

"It... directly related to the entertainment industry," Holiday stammered, feeling a growing unease: no one had yet asked what the caps were for.

"Trade secret, basically," the salespony smiled oddly, then looked at the customer with another absentminded look. "That, by the way, is an ahead answer to my nascent question as to why such a thing would not interest our Family. We're not getting into the entertainment field. This is the lawn where the Softhooves and the Meadows graze and bark at each other like two bitter dogs."

Holiday hadn't thought of it that way, but memorized it for upcoming questioning. Technically, he wasn't lying. The project was indeed designed for the entertainment field, but for cheating. All the more reason not to engage with the loan sharks of the Meadows and the Softhooves, no matter how wealthy they were.

"We don't have anywhere to put the caps yet anyway..." the pony muttered, glancing questioningly at the skinny orange stallion. The client wasn't the type to run off with the caps at the first opportunity. Physically weak, with a hunted look—he couldn't survive in the Wastelands, and he couldn't hide here. And he's already in the crosshairs. If there's anything worth five grand in his apartment, why not? We could give the lad a chance.

The stallion behind the counter was in an extraordinary state of complacency and inner harmony with the world, like Fluttershy in a scenic forest among the chirping birds. His wife gave him a magical, unforgettable morning with her tongue, providing him with a friendly spirit and faith in the integrity of ponies—especially those who are willing to show talent and prove their worth. Helping in the rise from dirt to princes can pay off: bonding with a successful master can't be valued in caps.

Holiday had no idea what luck had fallen to his lot. He showed up in the right place at the right time.

The salespony closed the passport and moved it to the edge of the counter. The document owner grasped it with his teeth and looked up with a glimmer of hope.

"Go through that door. Tell my wife to look over your request. You don't have to knock."

His heart jumped joyously in his chest. He smiled and almost dropped the passport from his mouth: he had never been so close to his goal. With his head held high, he strode to the door and pushed it open; the last fragments of the tune came to his ears.

The windowless room, illuminated by the white light of a chandelier, is equipped for repairing various things. The walls from floor to ceiling were decorated with shelves and stands: wrenches, screwdrivers, saws, cutters, sharpening machines, measuring devices, batteries, jars with grease filled their surface. Equipment for working with enchanted items was available: diagrams, pentagrams, runes, spark batteries, crystals, and gems.

Steel dressers littered with parts and electronic components that peeked shyly out of ajar drawers. Numbered wooden crates were arranged on shelves, with radios, kettles, lamps, irons, telephones, wall clocks, TVs, and so on sticking out of them. Particularly large ones, like refrigerators and washing machines, stood in a row with papers with numbers taped to the case, like military officers with medals on parade.

The air smelled of chemical mixtures. The soft, smoky odor of rosin, familiar to Holiday, emanated from the desk where the unicorn sat with her head lowered. Her milk-colored fur and light purple mane were tied into a bun so her hair wouldn't get in the way of her work. Thick-rimmed glasses glittered on her nose. She was the same age as the vendor—about thirty-five.

Her horn shimmered with a chilly silver light, and a thick pencil-shaped soldering iron floated in the cloud of magic, emitting a trickle of smoke. Its sharp end was stinging under the magnifying glass an electronic circuit with small vacuum lamps and tiny crystals no bigger than a pimple or a mole. The circuit was inside the case on a belt.

An electric slave collar.

On the edges of the table were jars and boxes with short wires of different colors and tiny components. A screwdriver and a knife lay nearby.

The unicorn manipulated the soldering iron's stinger with passion and filigree precision. Holiday was fascinated by her movements: the way a small foal watches a radio-controlled car in motion, having no idea that it is controlled by a remote control. He himself knew how to use his mouth to operate a soldering iron, but it looked mesmerizing from the side.

As soon as the song from the radio on the nearest shelf died down completely, it was replaced by the familiar voice of DJ Oscar. On this broadcast, he seemed pensive, but not without his usual cheerful notes.

"At the time of the recording I never imagined that the owner of this lovely voice would be the head of the Softhooves family. It's a good thing, though, that my attempts to chase Eileen's gorgeous red tail in our recording studio were unsuccessful. Now I feel like fate has spared me. No, don't get me wrong: she's still gorgeous, as many of my listeners will agree, but you think harder. It's a nightmare to be the special pony for the head of the biggest family in the city, with a lot of rivalry for power. Safer and less stressful would be in the jaws of a manticore. The constant stress would turn my mane and tail gray prematurely. Of course, some are willing to sacrifice that to be with a beautiful mare, but... personally, I want to live a quiet life," DJ laughed loud enough to catch the milky unicorn's attention. A silver glow wrapped around one of the wheels, and Oscar's voice faded to almost a whisper.

The unicorn looked at her client through the thick glasses.

"Sit down, and then we'll talk," she pointed to a stool near her desk. She carefully placed the soldering iron on the edge of a flat jar of rosin. "Need something fixed?"

"I'm getting a loan."

"For how much?"

"Five thousand caps," Holiday replied. The repairpony's look whipped at his heart. Hope left his body like steam after a bath.

Before she could answer, the stallion's voice came from the hall.

"We'll give him a chance, sweetheart," he said. "Provided his possessions can be valued at the appointed amount."

"Are you serious?" she muttered, not believing her ears.

There was a clatter of hooves, and the stallion showed himself in the doorway.

"Why not? We haven't had a loan in a long time, and we have extra caps on our account."

The mare's face could be photographed and put in the encyclopedia of emotions with the caption 'The Standard of Skepticism'. She instantly realized that the orange stallion's freedom was probably out of his hooves, which was why the bank didn't dare take the case; also that he didn't have a job and lived in a neighborhood where street lighting was often absent due to stolen bulbs.

This is a waste of time! The poor beggar's goods would hardly be worth two thousand caps—and in the hours it would take to travel and look around, several orders could be fulfilled.

The crimson-milk stallion smiled softly and warmly, and her heart gave a traitorous twitch; a warm wave ran through her whole body as she felt her hooves soften like chocolate in the heat of summer.

She closed her eyelids and shook her head vigorously.

"No," she said with a struggle, and pressed her lips so tightly together that she couldn't pull them apart with tongs.

"Come on," he urged with the same warm and irresistible smile.

"Stop it," she begged, biting her lip and trying not to look at him.

"Come on, let's give it a try. He has his own little dream. Let's see what happens."

"No."

"It's not like we haven't decided anything yet. Look at what he's got, please."

She opened her eyes, looking at her special pony. At his marvelously possessive lips, the touch of which made her body go limp unable to resist—nor was she able to resist the smile playing on those lips.

That was the reason, by the way, why he was behind the counter: a smile like that would make a customer's desire to bargain abruptly disappear.

Holiday sat there with the feeling that he did not belong here. In fear of moving or making a sound, he clenched his jaws so tightly that the passport in his teeth nearly split in two.

"Okay," it was as if she'd thrown up a white flag above her. "I'll take a look."

The stallion nodded gratefully and disappeared. The milk-colored unicorn exhaled doomedly, raising her face to the ceiling. The white light of the chandelier fully illuminated her face.

The horn glowed. In the cloud of silver magic, a wooden tablet and a pencil appeared. The latter rustled across the paper, and the unicorn used telekinesis to roughly pull the document from Holiday's teeth, opened it, and copied the info. She flipped through it, shook her head when she noticed the griffon's entry, and handed it back.

"Since you're unemployed," she stated with a cold demanding face, "you should have no trouble meeting me at seven in the morning. I'm not going to set aside any other time," Holiday nodded hastily. "Fine. Tell me the address."

"3 Luxury Street, apartment 17."

"Luxury..." the unicorn said, almost snorting.

***

The dense layer of clouds had hidden the morning from the western part of the Wastelands for nearly two hundred years now. This beauty was available only to those who lived on the eastern shore of Equestria, and so Luxury Street, like every other street in the city of three hundred thousand, was drowning in a lazy, sullen grayness at this time of day. Red brick houses stood silently on either side of the street, covered in ugly—and sometimes highly cultured—graffiti and flyers. Entrances were littered with burned cans, tattered and worn furniture, and cheap beer bottles; a cool breeze made wrappers and old newspapers swirl and rustle on the sidewalk.

Not all the houses had working electricity, heating and water supply. Some of these things often broke down, and repairs had to wait weeks or months: the whole house collected funds for repairs, but some of the residents lacked the caps—or the willingness to part with them. Many of them went outside with similarly unfortunate residents to socialize, exchanging news and rumors—and, most importantly, to get drunk on songs and guitar music. One of these residents, a swamp-colored earth pony, was alone on an old couch, lying on her stomach in a provocative pose and resting her cheek on the seat. Luckily, she was completely wrapped in warm clothes, her pale yellow tail swaying in the wind. Her front leg dangled off the edge of the couch, as if the pony had reached for a bottle of beer but fallen asleep in the process. Drool stretched from her opened mouth.

The skinny orange stallion standing at the living room window on the fifth floor watched her with a detached look. Holiday couldn't sleep well all night. He walked around the apartment and evaluated the furniture, each time giving a different number, but the conclusion was the same: the necessary amount of caps was not reached even by optimistic calculations.

His front hooves rubbed against each other nervously, and every surface seemed uncomfortable, prickly and hard.

He was fortunate to live in a house where communications were disrupted fairly infrequently. He hardly ever got to walk down his street, so he rarely crossed paths with his neighbors—and he had no idea who they were.

With his side vision, Holiday saw movement. A dark figure in unassuming clothing turned from a neighboring street onto Luxury Street. He had already mistaken the pony for a local, but soon recognized the white fur and the light purple tail swaying behind her. His heart thudded in his chest again, like a downstairs neighbor flooded by you.

He took a few deep inhales and exhales and ran up to the entrance, nearly tripping over the threshold of the living room. The wait dragged on forever and was finally cut short by a neat knock on the door. He opened it frantically - the face of the mare, frozen with her front leg raised, was in surprise.

She wore a light brown coat, and a lovely knitted hat covered her head.

"Morning," she said, coming to her senses, and Holiday sidled up with a nod, inviting her into the apartment.

Shoes thudded on the worn carpet in the hallway. The door clicked softly as the landlord closed it.

It didn't creak, the unicorn noted to herself. It was still solid, though shabby: there was no way to kick it open with hind legs.

"Fifth floor. High," she added aloud, taking off her shoes and hat. She tucked the latter into the inside pocket of her coat, and the mouth holder of the plasma pistol gleamed in the reddish light of the lamp. Its position was perfect for quick grabbing either by mouth or telekinesis. A light purple mane fell loosely over her shoulders. "At least not all the annoying drunks will get here. Not enough strength."

"Yeah..." was all Holiday could squeeze out of himself. A chill ran through his body. "So?"

"Let me get a good look around. Don't rush it."

She hadn't used expensive perfume so as not to attract the attention of passersby in a neighborhood like this, and though the apartment smelled bearable, she wanted some freshness. Reaching into the bag, she pulled out a bright green leaf and popped it into her mouth; the minty flavor tickled Holiday's nose.

The unicorn, relieved by the minty flavor, made her way to the living room, moving closer to the window to assess the scenery. The walls in the living room were in relative order, the wallpaper was still in good shape, the window panes were intact and wiped clean, and the simple chandelier was in good condition. The guest saw her reflection in the dark screen of the television on a low table in the corner. Her horn glowed; scanning magic probed the equipment from within.

"Not a bad TV, with a receiver for cassettes," she remarked, pulling out a clipboard from under her light brown coat, where she penciled in the approximate amount: four hundred caps.

Mint was a relaxant for a reason—even the smell of it made Holiday calm and distracted by bright memories, and the company of the milk unicorn seemed so cozy and familiar that he could hardly resist the urge to hug her and cry over five years' worth of problems. His mother often chewed mint, especially in this living room where she spent most of her free time. It was her favorite place, which she fanatically guarded like a small temple or shrine. It was kept exceptionally clean and orderly—even after her mother's death due to cancer, Holiday had tried to maintain it for five years. It was unclear whether it was out of respect for what his mother had valued, or out of a desire to preserve the memory of a time when he had not been alone.

He watched the unicorn idly as she walked around the room with her glowing horn, filling out a paper in silence. She liked the chandelier and estimated it at one hundred and fifty caps. The folding yellow-brown sofa on which Holiday had slept until he moved into the bedroom, and the armchair, one hundred caps. Carpet covered the entire floor, but the guest did not like it, nor did the individual tables and dressers receive her attention.

The mare approached a two-tiered shelf, with books on top and movie tapes below. Mother and Holiday had reviewed and read them almost to bits. The guest flipped through a couple of prewar books, chewing on another mint leaf.

Hmm. 'At the Gorges of Madness', 'The Call of Nightmare Moon', and 'The Shadow Over Innhoof'. Not many fans of reading horror, there are enough of them in the Wastelands as it is. Horror isn't the only one, though. 'The Adventures of Daring Doo', 'The Lost Crystal Empire', 'How I Became a Wonderbolt', 'The Lustful Odyssey of Princess Molestia'. Different genres and authors. What they could get, they read, they didn't have to choose, as it seems. The books weren't particularly rare.

The unicorn's gaze ran over the cassettes as the silver magic checked their gut.

Alicorn 2: Judgment Day, The Lord of the Horseshoes, A Clockwork Tangerine, Gone with the Pegasi, Hoof Runner, Pirates of the Sapphire Sea: The Curse of the Striped Shell, and the rest of the old stuff popular before the war... It's the same situation with books. What was there, they watched. Even though they're not in bad condition.

All books and cassettes in case of what can be pushed wholesale for fifty caps. It could have been worse.

The unicorn turned to look at Holiday and realized from the man's hazy gaze that he was somewhere very far away. She rolled her eyes irritably and after a tactful 'ahem', causing him to come to his senses abruptly, she announced, "I'm done in this room."

"Bedroom," the stallion muttered absent-mindedly and turned around. The evaluator moved behind him.

The door to the small bedroom swung open and the unicorn in a light brown coat stepped through it. Judging by the sour expression on her face, she was hardly impressed with anything in here, and she struggled to suppress the urge to sigh noisily. The last thing she wanted to do was evaluate the furniture. She reserved her last hope for the kitchen, where, classically, appliances always idled.

The double bed was seventy caps. The shabby closet, from which Holiday had long ago sold all of her mother's clothes for some two hundred, was valued at a measly thirty caps. The mirror on the dresser is solid and unscratched. One hundred caps. The tasteless chandelier, fifty caps.

The slight scent of mint kept Holiday wandering mentally through his past like a traveler who had lost his purpose in life and wandered pointlessly from one place to another. His mother, however, had been a traveler in her personal life: she'd had a lot of interested stallions—and sometimes mares—but none of them had stayed long enough for various reasons. She worked as a waitress, so someone was bound to look at her. Holiday never knew his father.

The guest, having finished her inspection, didn't even try to bring Holiday back down to earth—she just walked on by, which brought him out of his nostalgic stupor. He followed her.

The bathroom came next: sink, toilet, shower, mirror, a simple light bulb on a wire. It all added up to two hundred caps.

"Now we're talking," the unicorn cheered, flicking a switch in the kitchen. The space basked in warm yellow light. Holiday stayed in the passageway. She approached the thing that held her attention, seduced her, the way a bottle of luxury liquor attracts a boozer.

The kitchen area had been partially converted into a workshop. Shelves hung from the walls above the dining table, littered with tools, books and magazines about fixing things, parts, components and wires. She was especially fascinated by the latter. Most of all, she liked to feel the wires wrapped tightly around her body, digging into her fur and skin...

But there was no need to go into those details.

Hope, like a flower sprouting through the asphalt, rose in Holiday's soul: the appraiser's horn shimmered, a cloud of silver magic gently touching the contents of the shelves. She looked like a filly in a toy store.

No doubt many of the tools were worn, bent in some places, but they were functioning properly, thanks to Holiday's care, cleaning and oiling. Vacuum lamps, wiring, coils, power supplies, spark batteries—far from new, and yet... Many would consider his stuff to be useless trash when they looked at the shelves—his mother had felt the same way—but in the eyes of someone like the unicorn at the Endless Wire store, it was nothing short of a treasure. A space for imagination, for creativity, for inventing all sorts of things and gadgets. A technological sandbox.

His mother wouldn't let him turn the living room into a work area, and the bedroom was too small, so Holiday compromised with her. Even after mother's death, he didn't dare move his workspace into her sanctuary. His collection had accumulated over the years. Some he bought when he had a few extra caps in his wallet, some he found on the street, some his mother's guests brought. Especially one of her boyfriends: he gave the then-young colt a lot of things, taught him some tricks. Holiday liked him best, but he liked to hang around the Wastelands looking for something interesting, and one day he simply disappeared from their lives. Abruptly and suddenly.

The unicorn, meanwhile, was eagerly filling out a sheet of paper on a clipboard. It cost a few caps each, sometimes a couple dozen, but the prices of some of the components and tools totaled up to about a thousand caps.

"Husband said you're good with technology," she concluded, taking another look at the books and magazines. "I can see you're a self-taught amateur."

Holiday nodded. The unicorn continued her inspection of the kitchen. The second elephant in the room was the refrigerator, which she immediately scanned with magic.

"A working refrigerator. In good condition. You keep it that way yourself?"

"I try."

I wouldn't mind having a fridge like that in my house. Five hundred caps.

She scribbled her pencil on the paper and reluctantly ran her eyes over the modest and unassuming kitchen furniture. Everything combined, along with the chandelier, cost two hundred caps. The gas stove was about a hundred, the gas cylinder to it—the same amount. A good electric kettle—fifty caps. A separate item she noted centralized heating, cast-iron radiators in all three rooms: one hundred caps.

The unicorn shook her head disapprovingly, making Holiday's heart sink into his hind hooves. She sat down at his desk, hiding the names and numbers from the potential borrower's eyes; she didn't tell him the exact total price of the property, so that if he accepted the caps as collateral, he wouldn't be tempted to sell it to someone else at that price. If she would agree. Three thousand two hundred and fifty caps.

"That works out to a little more than half the amount you asked for," the unicorn swallowed a mint leaf and popped a new one into her mouth.

The skinny stallion stepped to the table on shaky legs and sat crushed on his rump as if a sack of apples had fallen to the ground. His ears drooped like wet clothes hanging on a rope.

"The apartment?"

The guest's gaze froze and her eyes widened. She'd obviously forgotten to add the apartment to the equation—but it had slipped her mind for a reason.

"The neighborhood is hostile. I'm surprised you have what you have. I don't need it. I'll symbolically throw in a notional five hundred caps, but the overall temperature of the body won't change. All I'm interested in here is the TV, the refrigerator, and the contents of these shelves," she nodded at the wall. "Maybe reduce the amount by a third?"

Three thousand seven hundred and fifty.

There was a long pause. Holiday stared silently at the desk where he had spent countless hours as a colt. After his mother's death, he'd had to find work, so the time he spent at it had decreased markedly. Daydreaming attracted problems: he never stayed at the same job for more than a couple months. He'd had his eye on the components for a long time. He had priced them on the assumption that he would have to eat something without a source of income. It's all been calculated.

The unicorn assessed the risks associated with the orange stallion's behavior. Her horn glowed with a silver light as she pulled a pre-war magazine 'Gems for Dummies' from one of the shelves at random. The theme of the issue was 'Enchanting Technology with Earth Ponies: How, What, and Why'. She leafed through it aimlessly to pass the time—and to refresh her memory, since she knew it all that way. When she reached the last page, she returned the magazine to its place and saw that Holiday was deep in thought.

She lifted her left foot, pulled back her sleeve, and glanced at her watch.

If he didn't answer, I'd take that as a rejection and leave. A pony with a past like that was best not to be associated with at all. Not because he's dangerous—he's the most harmless pony I've ever met.

Yesterday, she'd found out about that griffon. The memory made her legs feel angry again, and she wanted to stand up and kick some wall, her jaw clenched with tension. She hated the thought of eating pony meat. Yes, griffons were a completely different species, not a subspecies like the pegasi that could be found in small numbers in the city—and yet...

Griffons make up a tiny fraction of the city's population. So why does Prince let them eat ponies? Why should we let them treat the ponies around them like cattle?

Fortunately, Holiday was once again too far away to see the unicorn's face: like a brightly colored bar sign, it read, "I'll fuckin' kill you!"

To calm herself, she stood up and walked around the kitchen. Her breathing evened out, the tension in the muscles of her legs melting away like smoke. She stopped and focused on her sensations. Complete silence: no clock ticking, except for the refrigerator purring softly in the corner. The yellow light of the chandelier cast a shadow directly below her. Holiday doesn't even move.

And why is he so spineless? Why so pathetic? Why couldn't he fight back against those fucking griffons? Stand up for the ponies' dignity! Stop them from enjoying our weakness.

The fact that the vast majority of Vanhoover's population are pony slaves didn't bother her. It's part of life and a feature of the city's ideology, tied to responsibility that must be earned. After all, there are griffon slaves, but they are exceptionally rare.

Hypocrisy prickled her heart: she herself did not want to get involved with another Family. She wasn't afraid of griffons, and she didn't seek confrontation between the Families, but she couldn't stand by either. She needed to teach those bloodthirsty assholes a lesson in their own game.

Maybe something would work out for this deadbeat... I think it was his physique that kept the griffon from killing him. It was also possible that he had been given a year not only to repay his debt, but also to mock the pony—to make him marinate in worries and nightmares.

The milky unicorn looked at the stallion carefully: at the unkempt short brown mane, the thin face, the grim look. Yes, she felt sorry for him, but not for five thousand caps.

He's not the type to try to scam. Right now, he probably thinks he's destined to die. To be food for the nasty griffons. Where else is she gonna find about a thousand caps? What could he possibly have of value here?

The unicorn would certainly like to agree—but this isn't a charity. In the event of failure, she needs to recoup the loss. She focused her magic on the apartment, hoping to uncover something else. Perhaps some secret safe under the carpet that Holiday himself wasn't aware of.

The gray eyes opened wide. Was she seeing things, or was magic playing tricks on her? She concentrated hard again, but she was sure she was right: there was another treasure within the walls of the apartment. One that only she could fully recognize.

This place is wired to perfection. In such a poor neighborhood and such a treasure trove. It's in amazing condition. In case of need, it can be carefully dismantled and used for other purposes. Or magically recycle it for something else. Precious material! It's enough to bring the sum of five thousand caps—and more, if I put my mind to it.

With a shadow of a smile on her lips, she sat back down at the desk and made a separate note on the sheet. She decided not to notify the stallion of this fact. She decided to play it differently: light manipulation, not fraud.

Quickly writing in ink on two sheets of paper an identical list of valuables—without specifying the amount and without mentioning the wiring—she made a few bureaucratic formalities: who owed how much to whom and for how long. She took out her checkbook, tore off a piece of paper, and wrote in the amount. She shoved two sheets of paper under Holiday's nose, where she had time to sign her name, as if he would sit like a statue of Discord at the entrance to Canterlot's labyrinth. On one of the sheets was a check for five thousand caps, pressed down by her hoof: don't rush to pick it up until you've signed.

The orange stallion looked up perplexed, his brown eyes looking as if cigarette smoke had been poured into them.

"I decided to give you a chance after all," she said with a genuine smile. Her husband's smile was as far away as the moon, and only the naive could trust it, but the young stallion was too stunned and helpless to suspect anything. "Here's a check for five thousand caps."

A question lodged in Holiday's throat. He was afraid to ask it out loud for fear of spooking his luck. Better to sign it and not say too much.

"Why?" she anticipated his question. He froze as if under the magical gaze of a cockatrice that turned him to stone. "It's simple. I don't like it when sentient beings eat ponies. It doesn't matter if it's justified by nature or not. If you pay off a griffon, so much the better."

The unicorn didn't care if Holiday used the caps for his project—or if he'd pay it right off and couldn't pay off this debt. She wouldn't give the griffon another chance to gloat over the pony. Will outplay her own game. But neither does he need to know what treasure she's found for herself within these walls.

Before Holiday, before his mother, there were indeed rich ponies living here.

"And another thing. You basically don't own these things and the apartment anymore until you pay back the ten thousand caps you owe, understand? It's not worth that amount, but I've decided to give you a chance."

Let him be filled with gratitude. Maybe it would even inspire him a little, lifting his spirits and encouraging him to go after his dreams.

And it worked. It was hard to imagine a fate worse than being turned into a griffon toy—except to be taken to the Meadows for experiments (that's just a rumor, though, which it was advisable not to speak of).

He quickly signed in the right places. The unicorn took one of the copies with his signature and left a note in his passport about the pledge of the apartment with the property. She smugly popped a mint leaf into her mouth and left the apartment, closing the door softly behind her. Holiday didn't even see her guest out, but she didn't care—she was eager to get out of the neighborhood as soon as possible.

Holiday's legs didn't obey him: his whole body weakened with relief. The scent of mint still lingered in the air. He pulled the check up to his chest and suddenly burst into tears, his face pressed against the rough work surface. His heart was overflowing with joy; for the first time in a long time, he was smiling.

Exhausted from the night's restlessness, he fell asleep at his desk.