Title:           Ambassador
Author:          PapermatePony
Pastebin link:   http://pastebin.com/GdyDzE3J
First Edit:      Monday 15th of July 2013 09:08:14 PM CDT
Last Edit:       Monday 15th of July 2013 09:08:14 PM CDT

>Good to be back.
>Canterlot always looks a treat mid winter. Even in the darkness that pre-empts dawn. It's nice to be back in the cold.
>The Castle looms overhead, but you pay it no mind as you slip toward a tower across the street, resplendent in sandstone blocks and Doric columns.
>You enter the quite lobby.
>"Your coat, sir?"
"Sure".
>"And your bag, sir?"
"Hmm. No, no. I'm sure I shall manage."
>These clerks are getting younger by the year.
>This one still seams stranded between puberty and adulthood. His bandy legs bend as much as his back as he bows twice; once to accept the large waistcoat, and one for the sake of decorum.  
>Memory strikes.
"Uhmm, tell me..."
>You falter to quietus where the colt's name should fit.
>"Basil, sir."
>Thankyou, Basil.
"Well, Basil, Princess Sparkle: Is she accepting guests at this time of night?"
>The colt halts. He perceives your face earnestly.
>You wait patiently.
>Suddenly a bright pink blush washes over the bridge of his nose, and he drops into a further bow.
>"Oh, Ambassador, I didn't recognize you."
>You murmur a quite chuckle.
"That's quite alright, basil. I-"
>The colt is not finished.
>"You see, we have business partners from various dragon enterprises seeking, well, business and-"
"Basil, I took no offence; do not feel inclined to apologize for such an honest mistake."
>He isn't listening.
>"-it seems awfully strange that you, y'excellency, would be lodged in such, well, common-"
>You haven't the heart to tell him these aren't temporary lodgings. Or that you should be referred to as Your Governance.
>"-you were the Princess's assistant for much of her youth, weren't you? On your behalf, I shall take umbrage with the diplomatic corps at-"
>Probably best to let him talk.
>Basil prattles on, as you and he make your way up three cyclic flights of stairs.
>You trudge--as only a biped can--to your front door as Basil flutters along on his hooves, doing that dance of awkward reverence.
>-"and when you brokered that deal with the Prench! By Celestia, my balls were in my..."
>He clenches his snout, and you regard him with a raised eyebrow and a pencil thin smile.
"I should think, Basil, the Prench would rather enjoy to hear they had put balls in somepony's mouth. Come, my coat?"
>He grins. Too much. It wasn't that witty. Then again, the memory of Celestia first swearing before you is one of everlasting pleasure.
>The coat exchanges stewardship, and with one final bow, Basil leaves you to your slumber.
>You fumble with the lock. Opposable thumbs are such a curse.
>The door swings open on fresh oiled hinges.
>The flat is sterile, with a cold chill that sticks like sweat to every surface.
>The blinds across the windows are shut; the chairs before the coffee table are stacked atop each other; Everything is bear.
>Everything is as it should be. Fabulous.
>Except is is not, for there is something you perceive at your feet. A small white card, positioned as if it had been slipped through the crack beneath the door.
>Your bag falls to the carpet, and you bend to reach it. And stop suddenly, with your outstretched claw inches from the white card.
>Pinkie, I swear...
>But that would be silly. She's still in Ponyville, right?
>But it is silly; ergo, caution is justified. This is Pinkie: sense and her are diametrically opposed.
>And you realize you've been cantered over the small card for over a minute. And that just seems sad.
>Nothing for it, you suppose.
>Quick as a flash, you pluck the card from the carpet, and yelp in surprise as absolutely nothing happens.
>Streamers do not cascade from the ceiling. Horns do not sound. The only thing you hear is your own nervous yelp, bouncing around the flat, mocking you.
>Fabulous.
>You read the small rectangle a little slow; it is horn writ but of a thin, classical brand of scrawl.
>It reads thus.
 
Spike.
I wonder if you remember me. My name is Pipsqueak. From Ponyville. Do you recall?
I was a few years younger than you. We were on sound terms, in a mutual circle of
friendship with Applebloom and the crusaders. Regardless, I understand that you,
Ambassador, are rather a busy dragon. But, permit a fellow his right to entreaty;
You, through pleasant circumstance, happen to be in a prime position to aid me
in the study of a certain field in which we both hold vested interests.
I wake early enough, as, I am told, do you. If at all possible, might you meet me
tomorrow at the Featherstoneborough Club, half past six, for a minute discussion of
the terms of this cooperation.
Cheerfully,
Pipsqueak. BA MA PhD
 
>Questions. They accost you at every front.
>Of course you remember Pipsqueak. He with the patch on his eye and toned legs, whom you always thought looked better in a scarf.
>He who, as you both blossomed into your teens, laughed by your side.
>He who you first fantasized about, and who almost drove you to ceaseless insecurity.
>He who, you last remember, was betrothed to Applebloom.
>You remember how that made you think about this whole life thing, what with your [i]disposition[/i] and all.
>Celestia, how long has this note even been here?
>Did he know you were returning this morning? Does he mean [i]this[/i] morning?!
>If he thought you were in the city, why didn't he just see you face to face?
>Or, if this is for the sake of academia, simply contact the office?
>Further in what field could you possibly help him?
>Oh Luna, its six o'clock already.
>Should you go?
>The Featherstoneborough is well placed in society. You would have become rather a frequenter if you fancied the company of its clientele. As best as you can remember, its a 40 minuet walk, on the other side of town.
>The door to you apartment shuts with finality. The card is whipped up in the draft, tossed in the air and then settles back where you found it.
>At that moment, you burst through the lobby doors and out into the street.