There are many things I enjoy. I love the warmth of the sun on my back during a summer day. I relish custard-filled doughnuts glazed with caramel. I also have an appreciation for mares with large wingspans.

However, I do not like surprises.

Perhaps that explains my current mood. I am extremely unhappy, and I know the source of my frustration: an unexpected change in my schedule for the day.

“Do you understand, Catcher?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then get it done.”

Leaving the office with its clashing green décor, I walk down the library halls. On my way, a mare approaches me, asking for directions to the history section. I guide her accordingly, confident she’ll reach her destination without trouble. After all, I organized that section today.

That sense of control might be part of my frustration. Knowing every detail of Canterlot’s Scroll Archives—every nook, every process—means I expect things to operate seamlessly. I can recount the exact number of scrolls that passed through here yesterday. I know the procedures for checking out a scroll by heart.

Now, however, I face a disruption: a new transfer. This individual, unfamiliar with our system, is bound to make mistakes. Although their credentials seem competent, there’s a note about a recent hospital stay. I don’t know the details, but if it jeopardizes my work, I will use every ounce of my authority to address it.

As I reach the Archival Office entrance, ponies come and go through the archway. My eyes settle on a male pegasus standing to the side. “Standing” might be generous—he sways as if to a tune only he can hear, a faint smile on his face.

“Mister Fresh Breath, I presume?”

At the mention of his name, he turns and salutes with a grin. “You betcha!”

Loud. Wonderful.

“My name is Drift Catcher. If you’ll follow me, Mister Breath, I’ll-”

“Fresh.”

I blink. “What?”

“You can just call me Fresh. ‘Mister’ makes me feel old, and I’m as single as a sock.”

His profile lists him as late-thirties, but arguing seems pointless. “Very well, Fresh. If you’ll follow me, I’ll explain how we operate.”

He literally hops and skips to my side, staying a couple of steps behind. This is not going to be as quiet or straightforward as I’d hoped.

“This is the intake area. Any documents being returned or donated must pass through here. They’re evaluated for weight, language, genre—fiction or non-fiction—and categorized as magical or non-magical.”

“Why separate magical scrolls?” he asks, then clarifies, “I mean, why handle them differently?”

“Magical scrolls can be dangerous. A unicorn, such as myself, must identify their effects to prevent harm.” I gesture to my glowing horn, its vibrant green matching my eyes. “If someone injures themselves with a volatile evocation scroll here, we’re liable for the damages.”

“Do we keep the dangerous ones?”

“Yes, but not on this floor. That’s a clearance level you don’t have, so let’s move on. Sorting is my primary task. As I mentioned, I identify most magical writings and sort incoming scrolls.”

“And after you sort them?”

I nod, leading him to a cart piled high with scrolls depicting various wildlife. “That’s where you come in. Once sorted, you’ll deliver each scroll to its proper place.”

“Including the magical ones?”

I shake my head. “No. I’ll handle those until I’m confident you can. While your profile indicates prior experience with scrolls, I need to see it for myself. Until then, you’ll manage non-magical ones.”

Fresh nods, but his expression is unreadable. I dismiss it for now, preparing to move to the storage area. My tag beeps—an issue at the front desk. “Come with me.”

At the front desk, I find an elderly mare with a severe frown arguing with our receptionist, who wears a strained smile.

“Ma’am, please understand, it’s simply policy-”

“The only thing I understand,” she snaps, “is that you’re denying me compensation for the state of my scroll!” Her tone is haughty, her demeanor noble-like. Judging by her guards—three mares, perhaps—she might be an ambassador.

“Is there a problem?” I ask.

The receptionist stammers, but I signal her to calm down.

“Yes, there’s a problem,” the mare says sharply. “I want to speak with the Royal Archivist.”

I keep my tone calm. “The Royal Archivist is unavailable. You can speak with me.”

“You?” she scoffs. “I don’t waste time with employees. Either you fetch the Archivist, or I’ll see to it you never work here again.”

Once again, my well-planned day is in chaos. I can’t risk defying her, but fetching the Archivist is unreasonable.

Before I can respond, Fresh cuts in with a grin. “You want us to fetch the Archivist all the way from Manehattan?”

The mare pauses, confused. Fresh explains that the Royal Archivist, Inkstone, is out of town. It’s a complete fabrication, as the Archivist is Light Ledger and is currently in his office.

Still, it works. The mare reveals she accidentally donated a family heirloom and wants it returned. I resolve the issue by copying the scroll and returning the original.

Later, I confront Fresh. “What was that?”

“What was what?”

“You lied to her face. While I appreciate the outcome, that behavior is unacceptable.”

Fresh chuckles. “I wasn’t lying. I was just wrong.”

His audacity stuns me. “Mister Breath-”

“Fresh.”

“Whatever! Whether it’s a lie or misinformation, I won’t tolerate it. This Archive is about truth. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir!” His cheery demeanor is infuriating.

“Good. Now, we have one last place to visit—after I tell Light Ledger to keep himself out of sight today.”

The clock strikes 1:00 PM as we enter the break room. It’s a simple space with a few chairs, a table, and a small counter stocked with an assortment of modest snacks. The distinct lack of ink and paper odors makes it feel pleasantly separate from the rest of the building.

“You’re welcome to take your breaks here,” I explain. “There’s a coffee maker, some rather dry biscuits, and occasionally a veggie dish, if it hasn’t been claimed. There’s also a cooler for lunches—just be sure to label yours to avoid mix-ups.” As I finish speaking, I magically open the cooler and retrieve a fresh, delicious salad for myself.

Fresh wanders around the room, his eyes lighting up at every mundane detail. He lets out enthusiastic “oohs” and “aahs” as if discovering a treasure trove. Eventually, he grabs a biscuit from the counter and takes a bite.

The stallion is peculiar, his cheerful attitude bordering on foallike wonder. While I worry this exuberance might interfere with his work, I can’t deny that his optimism is refreshing. He’s a model of positivity.

Well, perhaps not the best model—he just tasted the hoof sanitizer by accident.

Our time in the break room is short. Fresh asks me a few casual questions about myself, which I answer succinctly. I’ve worked at the Canterlot Scroll Archives for three years, starting shortly after the first invasion of Canterlot. When I mention the invasion, he seems genuinely surprised, prompting me to ask my own question.

“If you don’t mind me asking, Fresh, what exactly brought you to the hospital? Your record mentions it, but no details were provided.”

Fresh chuckles. “Oh, that. I had some kind of accident—or at least, that’s what they told me. It’s a miracle I survived, but I didn’t come out unscathed.” He taps his head lightly. “Knocked it pretty good. I don’t remember anything about myself other than what they found in public records.”

“Amnesia?”

“Yep. Pretty bad, too. All I’ve got is my name.”

I hum thoughtfully. “I suppose it could have been worse.”

“Oh yeah,” he replies with a grin. “I could’ve buckin’ died.”

I choke on a bite of lettuce at his expletive. “Ack! Ahem—Fresh, I’d appreciate it if you refrained from using that kind of language. It’s not befitting a gentlestallion.”

“Oh, damn. Sorry. Oh, shit. My bad. Shit! Buck!”

Before he can continue his colorful tirade, I levitate a carrot and shove it into his mouth. He chews it thoughtfully, then chuckles. “Sorry. I guess that’s one thing I could’ve done without.”

Despite myself, I chuckle as well. His language is so brash it could make a Gryphoness warrior blush, yet he delivers it as casually as a friendly greeting. He truly is a strange stallion—a very strange stallion indeed.

All things considered, the day went fairly well. I supervised Fresh’s work during the latter half of the shift and only needed to correct him a few times—like when he mistook a historical scroll for fiction.

At the end of the day, I showed him how to clock out, and we parted ways. As I made my way home, the quietness of Regal Heights Boulevard greeted me. It’s not surprising; most of the ponies who live here prefer to stay indoors rather than risk soiling their pristine coats.

After a couple of turns, I arrived at my humble abode. While modest, I take pride in it. Of course, I can’t help but think I’d have something far grander if I worked at the Royal Library in Canterlot Castle. Ponies just don’t buy scrolls the way they used to.

Still, the Archives pay well enough, so I can’t complain too much. I remove my uniform—a simple jacket in our official Livid Brown, though I think it looks more like purple. I give it a thorough ironing before placing it carefully in a suit bag to protect it from dust. Then, it goes into my closet.

My bow tie is next. Untied, ironed, and placed in its own bag, it finds a home in my drawer.

Once my routine is complete, I glance around for something to occupy my evening. I have a book from the Royal Library, but I’ve already read it twice and need to return it this weekend anyway. My plants are watered to perfection, their leaves vibrant and healthy.

That leaves cleaning.

A short while later, I stand in the middle of my living room, now spotless. Various cleaning supplies float in my magical grip as I inspect my work. Satisfied, I wipe my brow and sigh in relief.

I glance at the clock and groan. Barely 30 minutes have passed. It’s still too early for bed but too late to go out and enjoy the town.

With no better options, I decide to read my book for a third time. A part of me scolds myself for not planning my evening better. If I’d gone out after work, I could have filled the time, returned home just in time for dinner, and gone straight to bed.

…

I wonder what Fresh is doing right now. Probably partying or doing something obnoxious. He seems like the type. Then again, if what he said about his memory is true, he likely wouldn’t know the best spots to go. Perhaps I could recommend a few places next time I see him? Would he even take my advice? We seem like such different ponies in every conceivable way.

Still, he was awfully cheerful, especially given his circumstances.

I wish I’d borrowed another book—something more engaging than this. Maybe something focused on magical theory rather than magical science. I’d prefer something I could read multiple times and still find challenging. Thought-provoking! That’s the word.

This book, though? It’s nice on the first read, but after a while, it’s painfully obvious the writer thinks far too highly of their own opinions.

…

I hate to admit it, but I’m bored.

With nothing else to do, I close the book and decide to sleep. A few extra hours should help me feel refreshed in the morning.

Author's Note

Well there you have it. The first chapter. Honestly I already know what I want to do with this story but I do not know if I will be able to continue it due to scheduling conflicts. Here's hoping.

ALSO, just want to say, the timeline of events in this world are not a one to one with the show.

【 https://linktr.ee/thebestfrog