For the old-timers, the trolley was a sign of the modernization of Manehattan, a more convenient way for ponies to get around than the omnibuses or wagonways. For you—well, your first experience had been riding one when you were little, and the experience stuck with you and you knew that one day you’d be a trolley operator.

Some years later, that dream came to fruition. It wasn’t quite what you’d imagined at first, especially not when you started off filling out forms and then reading rules and regulations and operating instructions before you could even get into the operator’s cabin of a trolley. In fact, in some ways it was like being back in school, since you had a whole group of other new-hires, brought on as a result of line expansion: the trolley system had gone interurban, connecting Manehattan with several nearby communities nearly as fast as they could build rails.

The moment you knew you’d really made it was when the company issued you a uniform. A heavy woolen jacket with shiny buttons, each embossed with the trolley company’s logo, and a hat that was not unlike a ship captain’s.

You practiced running a trolley in the yard, and then you graduated to observing a senior motormare as she drove her route. You went to the workshops and saw trolleys in various states of repair, teaching you where all the components were and how they operated. You learned what might go wrong; what faults could be fixed on the rails, and which would require the trolley to be towed back to the repair shed.

You got booklets of timetables and regulations, you learned bell signals and when you had the right-of-way and when you didn’t, and then it was back out on the rails with another senior motormare, but this time you were at the controls, and she was only there to make sure you did it all right.

She’d constantly quiz you, her questions simple as you first started out and then getting more complex as you progressed. Which street was next? Which street paralleled the tracks? Where would a pony wanting to go to the natural history museum get off? Once she sabotaged the trolley, switching off a breaker when you weren’t paying attention. You twisted the throttle and nothing happened. A glance at the power meter showed that the trolley pole was still touching the catenary, so what had gone wrong?

It took you five minutes to solve the problem, and then you were on your way again, delayed. One fare had jumped off the trolley, muttering that he could trot faster than this newfangled contraption could travel.

She’d just shrugged. “Breakers trip on their own sometimes, and I know they don’t teach you that could happen. If it trips twice, though, don’t try to reset it. And always write it up in the log.”

The book hadn’t told you the difference between wet rails and dry rails, nor how they might buckle in hot weather, giving the trolley a bumpy ride. You’d learned that on your own. The book hadn’t told you that sometimes ponies didn’t respect the trolley’s right-of-way and would block it, sometimes as they were unloading a wagon. It had warned of fare-jumpers and daredevils who would try and hang on to the back of the trolley for a free ride. Ponies on roller skates were the worst offenders, and you were always wary as you saw them.

•••

Some of the shine had worn off the job over the years, but you still felt the same thrill as you dressed in your uniform, as you stepped into the carbarn and found your assigned trolley. In some ways, every day was the same; the trolley was captive on its tracks and couldn’t go off and explore any other part of the city. And yet, every day was different; every day was a new adventure.

You’d grown a thick skin when it came to ponies trying to board for free. They always had an excuse for why they couldn’t pay the fare and while you were sympathetic you couldn’t just be giving away rides for free.

You regarded the cluster of ponies gathered at the boarding door. A mother with her children—three foals on hoof, and both she and one of her children is carrying another on their back. They’ve got the usual accouterments of tourists, and give off a country vibe. She introduces herself as Apple Leaves.

“We don’t have enough money to pay all our fares,” the mother explains. “We were just going to walk back to the train station, but then Apple Tart, he—”

She continues on with her explanation, and you hold up a hoof. She’s delaying the tram, and the schedule is important.

CHOICE:
They don’t have a full fare; do you let them board anyway?

Yes, your job is to take ponies to their destination; if they’re a few bits short, so what? (Hero)
No, if they can’t pay, they can’t ride. Those are the rules. (Villain)

Author's Note

Pre-read by AlwaysDressesInStyle