PiE/HiE Short Stories - The Earth/Equus Treaties

South Arizona, U.S.A | UpDoot Tech Industries, IT Department

"Okay... now what?"

"You press the power button."

She squints, leaning forward towards the dark monitor.
"Ah... don't see it."

"On the tower case." He points down, below the desk.

"Tower? Like th' one the Princesses live in?" She perks her head up, ears tilted, exuding confusion.

"Ohmyfuckinggod." He mutters, head in hands.

She perks up, head tilted.

Frankie. Just breathe. Sure, you took this job because you know computers. The customer service side of it has always sucked, yes, but that's alright. You know computers. It's good money.

But you don't know these little tiny horses that don't know shit about technology. But they kind of do? They have such a weird footnote of technology. She has no clue about computers, internet, cable management, phones, but she knows what a DJ is. They have such weirdly specific tech that it's just so confusing to navigate. Like, this thing doesn't know at ALL what a computer is. But mention tower case or a firewall one time, and she starts rambling about her favorite tower back in her psuedo-medieval city she calls home.

These things are so fucking dumb.

And Frankie wants to be so angry.

But he can't be. Because they're not dumb, they're just... innocent. Naive. He takes a long, slow breath to try and calm the bulging vein in his forehead. It's not her fault. This pony, Citrus County. Some country hick plucked right from the fields, and thrown into the city because work slowed down where she lived. Rural to Urban. It's not her fault, and she's the sweetest thing he's ever spoken to in this life, and probably the next. There's not a single mean bone in her entire body.

That's the worst part.

He can't even argue with her. Citrus just takes everything at face value, in the kindest way, like every mistake is her own. Which, it is, but she doesn't even offer excuses. Even the insults, she just apologizes and stares back with these big, twinkling auburn eyes.

God this fucking sucks.

Slowly, Frankie lifts up a single finger, making sure it's very visible. Citrus stares at him with these big, sparkling eyes, watching it carefully.

"The... button, here. On the case. This is a tower case. Just... press the button on top, and it will start the entire system." He slowly words out, as he carefully, very obviously, moves his hand towards the computer, pressing the power button with an extremely exaggerated, even flourished, movement.

The computer slowly begins to start booting on, before Frankie kills it, resetting it for her to try.

She makes the most adorable little 'Ooh' face, and presses her hoof flat against the top of the case with resounding, newfound confidence.

Nothing happens, because her hoof is bigger than the button. She just covers the entire thing.

She frowns slightly, tapping it again. And again. And again.

Her hoof is too big to press the inlaid button, even at the multiple angles she's trying.

Frankie can almost feel another aneurysm forming.

To her credit, she keeps trying, stubborn as she is. At least she... doesn't give up? Positives, Frankie.

"Try... a pen." He offers, leaning in his chair after a pause.

"How would a pen turn on a computer? Ah thought y' said it was the tower case." Citrus questions, stopping her efforts and looking up at him.

Frankie's teeth find their way to start biting his fist, knuckles turning white as they leave indents in his skin. He'd jump out the window, but they're only on the second floor. Since he'd probably just live, and then have to listen to her ask how to do first aid on his mangled legs. Probably ask why he doesn't have hooves or something.

At least she had this soft, Southern Belle drawl to her voice. Like someone misplaced a cowgirls resume and got them into an office downtown. Actually, that might be exactly what happened. Maybe she applied for the wrong job by accident or something.

"Poke the button. With the pen." Frankie finally clarifies, Citrus making another wide-eyed 'Ohh!' face. She quickly leans on one of the adjacent desks, knocking over a cup of several pens, grabbing one with her teeth. It takes her a moment to find the angle, but eventually... the button clicks down under the pinpoint pressure. The computer slowly starts to boot to life, whirring and lighting up. The little jingle to announce it's start-up plays, like a triumphant announcement of her achievement.

She looks at him expectantly, smiling, pen still between her teeth. Sure, mess all over his desk now... but whatever. She did it. That's all that matters.

She's got this one dimple, in the corner of her cheek when she smiles. It's cute. She, as a whole, is pretty cute honestly. When she isn't driving him up the wall. There's this little look she gives him when she's listening intently, where her mouth opens ever so slightly, her eyes glued to him with an almost unnerving amount of eye contact.

Citrus at least catches on quickly, when it finally all clicks. That's nice. Maybe she'll figure out how to staunch the bleeding when Frankie bursts a blood vessel quick enough that he won't bleed out when they move on to the next step.

"There you go, you've got it." Frankie affirms, his anguish proven worthwhile. For the moment. Would clapping be rude? It felt like a hurdle worth applause, but he resorts to a thumbs up instead.

"So when ah've got a button or somethin' that needs pressin', an' my hooves are too big, ah should use a pen?" She manages through her teeth.

"Sounds like a plan, Citrus." Frankie pushes off the floor with his feet, wheeling his chair over to his pen-strewn messy desk for a sip of his coffee.

Of which, Citrus goes to deposit the pen back, but Frankie stops her with a hand.
"Keep it." He offers, taking it from her mouth and politely tucking it into the front-pocket of her pony sized dress shirt. Mostly because he doesn't want to wipe the saliva off of it. He's got another dozen of bulk-bought ones, anyway. He doesn't even care about the mess she made to get that one, either. Whatever gets him through this faster.

"Y'mean it?" She asks, surprised. She seems so caught off guard by the gesture, staring at him. It's a pen. Has nobody ever given her something before or something?

"...Yeah, sure. If you need anything else, you can take it from my desk until you've got your own stuff. Just let me know." Frankie finds himself offering, leaning back in his seat.

He hates when people touch his stuff. Why is he offering them to...

... That's why. The smile that takes her face is practically radiant, the way it creases her cheeks. There's almost a sparkle in her eye, as she suddenly leaps up, wrapping her hooves around his midsection, startling Frankie. He nearly spills his coffee, and is about to scold her for suddenly throwing herself on top of him... but the face she's making, the glee of that smile. The way her face is smooshing head-on into his chest as she wraps herself around him, squeezing him tightly.

All Frankie can do is roll his eyes, setting his coffee down and patting her on the back. The moment his hand makes contact, her eyes flash open, and she quickly stumbles back, smoothing the front of her shirt.
"Oh, ah, sorry. Didn't mean t' get all huggy without uh, checkin' with... you... sorry. My bad. Shucks." She curses herself out confusing Frankie. Sure, hugging coworkers wasn't exactly... the norm, but that was a bit of an averse reaction.

"Normally, work environments don't really facilitate hugging..." Frankie goes to explain, but she just nods, sighing to herself.

"Ah, know, ah'm sorry. I forgot that humans, while social, aren't as physically affectionate as ponies are with each other, and tend to reserve such actions fer' the ones they consider themselves closest with." Citrus rambles out, almost like she's parroting something she's heard somewhere.

"That sounded like you had that written down somewhere." Frankie comments, honestly a little glad for the tangent of topics. Give himself some time to simmer before he blows a gasket trying to teach her how to use a mouse, or navigate a computer. Or take tech calls. Or use a phone. Ugh.

"Oh, that's from my Humans 101 Orientation, when ah' came over from 'Questria." She explains, sitting on the floor. Not like the chairs were any better for her, most of them being too tall or big for her to comfortably climb.

"You had to sit through a course about Humans?"

"Mmhm." She nods. "It talked 'bout human habits, behaviors, feelin's and so on. That's why ah'm wearing this shirt, actually. It said Humans are more comfortable 'round ponies that dress like 'em."

"Huh." That's a new one.

"Did you ever have an orientation 'bout Ponies?" She asks in turn, her hooves idly pressing into the carpet.

"Nope, but when I heard I'd be training one, I did some research online." Frankie shrugs, reaching for his coffee. Mostly because he hadn't actually interacted with too many of them in his career sphere. Most Ponies weren't pining for office jobs.

"Oh!" She almost seemed disappointed at his initial answer, but perked up considerably when he continued explaining.
"You did?!"

"Uh... yeah. Some Equestrian history and some other basics. You're an..earth pony, right?"

"Yep! Oh, that's swell!" She hums.

She looks weirdly content, now. It almost looks like her tail is wagging, with how excited she looks, bobbing back and forth in place ever so slightly.

"Well," Frankie starts after another sip, setting his drink down. "You ready to keep going?"

"Oh! Yes!" She hops up, excitedly trotting in place.
"And, uh... sorry for takin' so long t' figure things out. Ah 'ppreciate you bein' all patient with me. And, uh... sorry fer' the hug." Citrus admits, offering a sheepish smile.

Frankie is having a hard time finding that bubbling frustration that was plaguing him a few moments prior. In fact... he's not even dreading trying to teach her things.

Just what was in that hug?

"Don't worry about it. Now, uh... you ever use a keyboard and mouse before?"

"Truthfully, I ain't even seen a computer til' this mornin'."

"...How did you even get this job?" Frankie asks, giving her a look.

"They said something about hiring diversity... you know what that means?" She questions back, tilting her head. Her ears do this little flop thing to the side, before righting themselves.

Well, that explains a few things.

"Not a clue. Anyway, this is the start menu..." Frankie wheels over, starting to explain the basics of a computer. He has to pause for a moment as Citrus County starts pushing over one of the nearby chairs so she can properly watch, taking a moment to climb up it, before getting settled. She scooted her chair right up against his, even leaning on his arm rest as she stares at him expectantly. Big, warbling eyes locked to his face, almost sparkling with curiosity.

"The... monitor." Frankie points, and she snaps out of it, nodding and watching his demonstration.

He ignores how many times she looks over at him during his explanations. Somehow, he doesn't even get irritated when he has to cover the same topic for the third time.

...

It's been a couple weeks since Citrus County started working, and she's slowly learning everything, picking up all the little hiccups and quirks of the job.

Emphasis on slowly. Still, her natural enthusiasm and peppy, outright optimistic outlook helps Frankie not put his fist through a wall. Technology was still a pretty big hurdle for her, but she had a knack for dealing with people, and made taking their complaints look like nothing at all.

Maybe he needs anger management classes.

...Nah.

The lunchroom is thankfully empty. It's why he takes his lunch late, so he doesn't have to talk to anyone. Tossing his third day of leftover spaghetti into the microwave and slamming it shut, he's about to get settled on his phone while he waits for it.

Until he hears footsteps, and the lunchroom open.

Oh, God. It's Tom. The resident won't-shut-the-fuck-upper, who chats more than he works. Which is miserable, because when he does work, he does so poorly and tends to call IT for the dumbest shit. He also can't read other people worth a damn, and is more then happy to carry on an entire conversation by himself.

"Well hey! If it isn't the Frankster!" He announces, shooting finger-guns at Frankie.

Frankie only groans in response.

"How's that pony faring? What's her name... Orange?"

"Citrus. County." Frankie corrects, shutting the microwave door with a heavy thud, dialing in the numbers with far more force than needed.
"She's doing good. Should ask her yourself."

Tom shrugs it off.
"How can she type or anything? I mean, she doesn't have hands."

"Dunno."

"I watched her try to get a cup of water from the water machine earlier --"

"Fascinating."

"--and she couldn't even reach it! Just spilt it on herself!" Tom snorts, and starts talking about yesterday's game or something. Frankie isn't paying attention, staring at the microwave buttons.

Normally, he couldn't care less for anything that dribbled out of Tom's mouth. This time, though, his absent staring was born of another thought.

She can't reach the water station. How much of this office is even built around her? Citrus can't reach the microwave. Does she pack her lunches in a way that they don't need to be? Is she even aware of what a microwave is?

The most adaptation the office did for her was getting her a cubicle that somewhat fit her. As in, they ordered a child-sized desk and a chair for her.

"Now, when I heard they were two and nil, hoo boy I wasn't happy, but --" Tom is still going, gesticulating a hand through the air as he rambles, before Frankie suddenly yanks his lunch from the microwave, slamming the door shut and startling Tom into a rare silence.

"Sorry Tom, lots of work, you know how it is, seeya." Frankie quickly spits out, spinning in place and walking off, leaving Tom to shrug and seek out another open ear.

Margaret, the ancient woman who has no reason having this job, tries to stop him to complain about her mouse not working. Her cries for IT help fall on deaf ears as Frankie just tells her to submit a ticket, before he's already gone around a corner.

He gets back to the IT section of the office pretty quickly, where it's far more quiet.
Frankie doesn't even stop at his own desk first, lunch still in hand as he leans into her section. As expected, she's sat at her half-sized little cubicle.

That's one sad looking pony, sat on an awkwardly colorful child's chair that kind of suits her. She's staring down at her food, slowly picking at it. It's clearly still cold, the way it's all clumped together in the container. Some kind of... processed dish he doesn't recognize, though half of it looks like grass. There's a big wet spot that's partway through drying on her shirt, and her face looks... uneven? Oh. It's her makeup. Half of it got rubbed off. She doesn't even notice him standing there, silently poking at her 'food'. She's even taken her earrings off --somehow-- and they're sitting on the desk beside her computer, which sits idle on the desktop.

The fact she's even managing to hold a fork with a single hoof doesn't really take Frankie's attention, for the moment, as weird as it is.

Frankie clears his throat, and she nearly leaps out of her seat. Wide, surprised eyes whipping around until they lock onto him, visibly relieved when she notices it's him.

"O-oh! Frankie! H-hi!" She manages, quickly looking herself over, trying to smooth her shirt out with her hooves, shifting in the chair so the still-makeup'd side of her face is the only part facing him.
"D-did somepony submit a ticket?"

"Nope, you're all good, Citrus. Just... checking on you." He slowly responds, leaning on the cubicle wall.
"So, uh... that looks yummy." He says dryly, pointing at her lunch.

"Yeah, it's... great." She manages, smiling awkwardly, trying to remain upbeat.
"Processed hay, a mixture of vegetables and supplements. Everything a... working pony needs."

She sounds more depressed then when he was eating microwave meals every day, instead of starting to cook for himself. Frankie's brow furrows as he reads her face. No matter how sweet she tries to make her voice sound, there's no dimple in her cheek when she smiles this time. Hm.

"Seems like a block of grass." Frankie points out, not bothering with dancing around the topic.

"It's..." She goes to defend it, but her shoulders just slump.
"Yeah. Pretty much."

"Here."

She watches as a container of leftover spaghetti is dropped in front of her, steam still sizzling off the top of it. Citrus looks up at him, confused.

"Shouldn't be anything you can't eat. I'll email you some easy recipes you can make at home. Get into bringing leftovers, frozen meals just bring misery. I've been there." Frankie explains, tapping the wall of her cubicle as he walks back to his.

"Huh?! W-wait!" She exclaims, hopping out of her desk and trailing after him. By the time she catches up to him, he's already leant back in his own chair.
"Ah can't just take your lunch, Frankie. That ain't right."

Frankie leans down, opening the bottom drawer of his desk.

It is loaded with snacks. Ever since someone in the office thought it'd be funny to start eating lunches some months back, Frankie made sure he'd never go without food. Even after the problem got resolved, he always had something to eat on hand.

"What, my cooking too good for you?" Frankie counters, frowning.

"What? No, that's not what ah--"

"I better get an empty container back, then." Frankie states, resoundly ending the conversation as he bites into a granola bar.
"I'd hurry up, I think Margaret said she's got something wrong with her mouse. That's all you."

She glances down, then away -- she's clearly awkward about taking the food, but, eventually caves and quickly scrambles back to her own cubicle to eat. Not much he could do about her makeup or her shirt, but, she could at least have something to eat.

He did drop off a roll of paper towels at her cubicle later, though. He slipped the janitor a couple bucks for some of the office's supply.

...

Been a few months. Citrus is pretty much operating on her own, finally confident with both working the systems and the computers, minus the odd question, which frees Frankie up to try and avoid doing his job as much as possible. Unfortunately, some of the people in this office are an unstoppable force of inept, bumbling nature, and their name is Margaret.

Another day, another problem Margaret is having with her computer, entirely of her own design. Frankie is doing his best to block out her droning about why it's not her fault she's got fifteen popups, before he notices a distant commotion out of the corner of his eye. A couple of the other office workers are gathered around the water station, chatting. And Citrus is there, chatting with them.

Good, she's getting along with people. With how Tom spoke about her, he was worried she was getting outlier-ed.

Then again, they're doing a lot of... pointing. Yet, Citrus is still smiling and laughing as they talk. She seems to be getting on fine, even if they're being a bit overbearing. He'll leave her to it then.

He frowns, looking closer as she laughs with one of the coworker's leaning down to pet her back.

No dimple. Her ears are pointing downward, glancing awkwardly at his touch.

"One second, Margaret." Frankie grunts, pushing off her desk and walking across the office. She gives him an odd look and huffs to herself. He closes the gap quickly, a frown sat on his face.

"Man, you're soft!" Dale chuckles, petting down her back.

"Ha, uh... yeah. Ah use, uh... conditioner." Citrus recoils a bit, but tries to maintain a smile. Martha and Bill just seem amused about the whole thing, Bill starting to step forward and reaching a hand out.

"Ooh, me next!" Frankie cuts in, rustling his hand into Dale's unsuspecting hair, messing it up.

"W-hey! Frankie! The hell?" Dale startles, stepping back and pushing his arm away. Martha and Bill stop laughing, Citrus looking up at Frankie with surprise.

"Huh? Thought we were touching each other's hair?" Frankie raises a brow, feigning shock. "You know, since it's appropriate to put your hands on coworkers now."

"Well, she's a pony, Frankie. It's different." Dale goes to argue, looking to Martha and Bill for support. Both nod, sharing his opinion on the matter and mumbling assurances, despite Citrus glancing away.

"Like the difference between your personal and work laptop? Or do I need to remind you what you can and cannot look up during work hours?" Frankie notes dryly, the smile dropping.

Dale purses his lips.
"...No, we're all good here." He quickly mutters, mumbling an unheard apology in Citrus' direction before leaving.

Try winning an argument with the IT guy when he had to un-brick your computer for googling boobs at work. Frankie's glare floats to Martha and Bill, who don't stick around for much longer either, leaving just a confused Citrus and Frankie, who leans down for some water.

"...Thanks." Citrus quietly notes. "You didn't have t' do that, though."

"That's harassment, by the way. Speak to HR if he tries that again. Or just let me know. I've got dirt on half this office." Frankie informs bluntly.

Citrus squints, until a cup of water is held out to her.
"Oh! Thanks." She says quietly, sitting on her rear to hold it with her hooves. She's extra careful not to spill it.
"And, uh... thanks. Ah' 'ppreciate it." Citrus adds quietly.

"No problem." Frankie sighs, quickly downing his own cup, crumpling it up. "If you'll excuse me, Margaret duty calls."

Citrus watches him strut back towards Margaret, who starts tsking at him for wandering off in the middle of helping him. She looks down in the warbling water in the cup, smiling to herself.

...

Lunch again. Not the only time they talk, but, it's one of the quieter times to actually get a word in to each-other without having to worry about someone wandering in with a mundane question. Any tickets that were waiting could just be ignored. Thankfully, with most of the office population being older, younger folks like Frankie and Citrus had a little more wiggle room when it came to actually getting around to fixing things.

"So... your, uhm..." Frankie starts between bites of his food, vaguely pointing at her with his fork, waving it around.

"My what?" She glances up from her own meal. Citrus' quit with those yucky, processed hay-whatever bricks that she'd been bringing and actually followed a few of the recipes that Frankie sent her. As evident by the fact she actually seems to enjoy lunch now, the step-stool she uses to get up to the microwave tucked between her desk and cubicle wall.

He traded the janitor twenty bucks for it, since he never used it.

"The picture you've got on your side." Frankie decides after a pause, deciding probably better then calling it a butt mark. He forgot the proper term.
"It's a... drink?"

"Yep!" She proudly notes, twisting around to stick her rump out a little more in her chair, giving Frankie a better view. He'd seen it in passing, but he hadn't properly looked at it. You know, on account of it being on her ass. He wasn't trying to find himself a trip to HR. It looks like a glass of something fizzy, with leaves sticking out of it, alongside a few ice cubes. He'd guess those were mint leaves, but her name wasn't Mint. If that's how pony naming conventions worked anyway.
"Ah' make a mean fizzy drink. It's kinda my thing, but none of th' bars in th' area are hirin' earth ponies. Y'know, on account of no hands n' such. An' on account of I've no clue how t' mix anythin' alcoholic." She admits, a little bashful, but still plenty proud.

"I've seen you hold a fork, though. And a phone. Can you hold a mixer?" Frankie presses, leaning back.

"Sure can! I'm not as clumsy as I might seem, y'know. Just... a lil' moreso with stuff ah'm still learnin'." Citrus shrugs, getting comfortable in her seat again.

"Nice. I'll have to bug you for a drink sometime." Frankie comments, taking another bite.

Her ears point straight up, Citrus glancing away. She bites at her lip, stealing a side-glance at him before brushing her hair behind her ear.
"Would, uh... y'like t' come over t'night?" She mutters, barely loud enough for him to hear.

"Huh? Tonight?" Frankie repeats. He considered checking his phone to pretend he had a social life, but Citrus was well aware the only things he had planned when he got home was eating, tv, and sleeping. Free carbonated drinks didn't sound too bad, though. Might be worth destabilizing his typically antisocial routine.
"Yeah, sure." He shrugs, not thinking too much of it.

Her hooves tap together in excitement, smiling to herself.

The rest of the day, she's got this pep in her step, and keeps glancing at the clock every few moments.

Frankie doesn't pay it too much attention, even when they meet up as the office is getting locked up for the night, walking her home.

...

Frankie blinks, eyes wide open, staring at Citrus' ceiling. Late in the night, tucked deep in the bedroom of her quaint apartment, the clock by the bedside ticks to one in the morning. She was definitely good at making drinks, with how many she whipped up for the both of them. She had a cute, little apartment not too far from the office. Looked about what you'd expect from some southern-sounding pony, like someone from Texas.

She's nuzzled in against his chest, fur soft against his sweaty bare skin, tucked under the nook of his arm, snoring softly. Ever few moments, she stirs a little, pressing in closer against him. Her hair is a mess, as is his, and he is sore.

It was not just drinks.