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By: PapermatePony on Jul 16th, 2013 | syntax: None | size: 12.80 KB | hits: 71 | expires: Never

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>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, silver-embezzled trenchcoat, 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: would she be accepting visitations at this hour of the morning?"
>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 bare.
>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 more than a few seconds. 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 as a friend; you luaghed by his, as an admirer.
>He who you first fantasized about, and who almost drove you to reckless abandon.
>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.
>Dawn in Canterlot is spoiled, somewhat, by your pace.
>When you normally find yourself with a morning free, nothing delights you more than traversing the cities flying balconies, that hang over the fields below.
>There are about fifteen blocks to cross before you make it to the Featherstoneborough, however, and just as many minuets.
>You are also acutely aware of your nakedness. You didn't even think to throw on the scarf that hangs on a hook by the door.
>Blow it all. It wouldn't be the last time you caused a stir.
>Streets regress from neat files to a winding mass as the cobbles beneath your feet grow smoother, the streets narrower, the doors shorter, and the air muskier.
>With ten minuets to spare, you have reached the beginning of the current age; as five slip by, you pass by the end of the first.
>The Featherstoneborogh can't be far away.
>The soft light of pre-dawn is, by now, fully supplanted by day.
>And there it is!
>At the far end of one particularly narrow alley, a gnarled oak door that melts seamlessly into the wall behind
>The clock above ticks over half past. You made it.
>Yous stop, and rest you hands on your knees. The adrenalin slowly subsides, and you are left feeling exerted but comfortable.
>You knock, twice and sharply.
>A small square, within the door itself, opens to reveal an apathetic countenance.
>As swiftly, the square shuts and the door opens.
>"Y'Governance, Good Morning."
"Ah, yes, I suppose so."
>"Would Y'Governance care for a morning edition?"
>Well, would his Governance like a paper?
"A periodical, actually. Perhaps the Economic Review."
>Something into which you can rest your sleepy head.
"And a pot of tea?"
>"Earl Grey, Y'Governance?"
>Ohh, yes please.
>You nod. The clerk reciprocates, and gestures toward the club house proper.
>You enter, bowing your head to pass beneath a particularly lofty beam.
>Polished wood lines the walls of what is as largish but cluttered room, adorned with brass curiosities in neat rows.
>Collections of armchairs, some forming harbors around a certain point and some facing in no particular direction, welcome you in.
>All of them, you perceive, are empty.
>Are you early?
>The clerk with the stone face peels from an unseen door; a metal tray is balancing upon his back, upon which a small china cup, saucer, strainer, a silver tea pot, and this this weeks Economic Review are balanced.
"Uhm, tell me..."
>Why does nopony wear a name tag!
>"Basil, Y'Governance," says the clerk, as he deposits the metal tray onto a finely carved, knee high table.
>You start.
"B-Basil?"
>"Indeed, Y'Governance."
>Nothing else?
>Nope.
>Odd.
"Uhm."
>You pause again. Who were you hear for?
"Yes, Basil: A Doctor Pipsqueak wanted to meet me at half past six, here, at this club. Has a gentlepony with quite a white coat and brown patch around his left eye come in, at all?"
>"Not this morning, Y'Governance,"
>Oh, well, perhaps he's on his w-
>"But I recall a gentlepony of that description taking the seat over there, by the fireplace, for two consecutive weeks, at half past six exactly."
>Oh.
>"The gentlepony would wait an hour, would not order anything, and then leave curtly."
>Ah.
"And this Doctor Pipsqueak... Has he ever, returned?"
>The clerk shakes his head demurely.
>Well. At least he got you out of the flat. And on a day off, at that.
>You finish the pot over two hours.
>There was no special report within the Review this week.
>No one even made fun of you. Which is a shame: you've always felt that the columnists for the Review had a certain talent for leveling the heads of government.
>A small article had been written in favor the cause of universal rights in the Alsatian Highlands, but it contained the passage 'we must cast our eyes to Equestria, where, even in that bastion of regressive thinking, a young gay dragon has held government office for-' and you simply lost interest.
>Why is it that only Ponies can see that Ponies haven't done anything worthy of recognition for 200 years?
>A few more ponies start to filter in.
>Most you recognize. Most recognize you. As is the way of things in Canterlot.
>But, conversation is simply benign, and so you leave the club for the safety of the narrow streets.
>It's about 8 o'clock, now. Workers are on their ways, but the streets are still mostly empty.
>Perfect.
>You wind your way forward in time, to where the view out toward Ponyville is a premium.
>It's a rather large square; benches line the most extreme edge of the balcony, which stretches out from the mountain like a great flat circular plate.
>There's only one other figure in sight.
>Fabulous.
>You sidle up to a particularly lonesome bench, sit down, and focus your energy on rumination.
>Is it safe to say that whatever it was that Pip wanted was urgent?
>Perhaps, but why would he then leave anything so important to the chance that he might reach you at home?
>Would he have even known how much time you spend at work? Perhaps he came to see you, scribbled the note on finding you absent, and then hoped for the best.
>But that was hardly a quick note, scrawled upon the back of a napkin.
>Gosh, the mountains look wonderful.
>Perhaps, if it is earnest, you should head to the university? Maybe see if you can't take the lead.
>You could approach him, perhaps by surprise, as he ambles to his flat.
>As you step out from the shadows, his bright, lovely brown eyes would burst with happiness.
>He would cry your name, and leap into your outstretched arms.
>He would apologize for his affectionate ways; how he tortured your feelings with his ignorance.
>Then, would he say the words you so longed to hear; like a salacious provocatrix, in whispered tones, for your ears only.
>You would feel your heart soar, and a throbbing heat pool in your nether as he pulls his head close to yours, his countenance imbued with a fierce blush.
>You would savor the moment, drink in his eyes once more, consume with your eyes his taught hind legs and firm rear.
>His intoxicating musk; oh how it fills your head with thoughts of nothing else.
>And then, with a nervous yelp, you would force your lips into his.
>And then... well.
>You would think of something else because dammit all you are a public figure and that will never happen because he is happy and married and obstinately not gay and by Celestia is it hot all of a sudden.
>"Good Morning!"
>You start. Isn't it nice that everypony is always so cheery and familiar.
>Luna forbid they let you fantasize in the privacy of the commons.
"I imagine so," and you turn to face the cheerful stranger, "Is it so with... Oh."
>Two bright brown eyes stare meaningfully into yours; one clothed in a white shroud, the other with a brown patch.
>A scarf of brown, blue, dark grey and black stripes has been thrown haphazardly around his slender neck.
>He wears his hooves roughshorn, but in a way that suggests he does so to avoid the barber's bill.
"P-Pipsqueak!"

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>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, silver-embezzled trenchcoat, 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: would she be accepting visitations at this hour of the morning?"
>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 bare.
>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 more than a few seconds. 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 as a friend; you luaghed by his, as an admirer.
>He who you first fantasized about, and who almost drove you to reckless abandon.
>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.


>Dawn in Canterlot is spoiled, somewhat, by your pace.  
>When you normally find yourself with a morning free, nothing delights you more than traversing the cities flying balconies, that hang over the fields below. 
>There are about fifteen blocks to cross before you make it to the Featherstoneborough, however, and just as many minuets.
>You are also acutely aware of your nakedness. You didn't even think to throw on the scarf that hangs on a hook by the door. 
>Blow it all. It wouldn't be the last time you caused a stir.
>Streets regress from neat files to a winding mass as the cobbles beneath your feet grow smoother, the streets narrower, the doors shorter, and the air muskier.
>With ten minuets to spare, you have reached the beginning of the current age; as five slip by, you pass by the end of the first. 
>The Featherstoneborogh can't be far away. 
>The soft light of pre-dawn is, by now, fully supplanted by day. 
>And there it is! 
>At the far end of one particularly narrow alley, a gnarled oak door that melts seamlessly into the wall behind 
>The clock above ticks over half past. You made it. 
>Yous stop, and rest you hands on your knees. The adrenalin slowly subsides, and you are left feeling exerted but comfortable. 
>You knock, twice and sharply.
>A small square, within the door itself, opens to reveal an apathetic countenance.
>As swiftly, the square shuts and the door opens. 
>"Y'Governance, Good Morning."
"Ah, yes, I suppose so."
>"Would Y'Governance care for a morning edition?"
>Well, would his Governance like a paper? 
"A periodical, actually. Perhaps the Economic Review."
>Something into which you can rest your sleepy head. 
"And a pot of tea?"
>"Earl Grey, Y'Governance?"
>Ohh, yes please.
>You nod. The clerk reciprocates, and gestures toward the club house proper.
>You enter, bowing your head to pass beneath a particularly lofty beam. 
>Polished wood lines the walls of what is as largish but cluttered room, adorned with brass curiosities in neat rows. 
>Collections of armchairs, some forming harbors around a certain point and some facing in no particular direction, welcome you in. 
>All of them, you perceive, are empty.
>Are you early?
>The clerk with the stone face peels from an unseen door; a metal tray is balancing upon his back, upon which a small china cup, saucer, strainer, a silver tea pot, and this this weeks Economic Review are balanced. 
"Uhm, tell me..."
>Why does nopony wear a name tag!
>"Basil, Y'Governance," says the clerk, as he deposits the metal tray onto a finely carved, knee high table. 
>You start.
"B-Basil?"
>"Indeed, Y'Governance."
>Nothing else? 
>Nope.
>Odd.
"Uhm." 
>You pause again. Who were you hear for?  
"Yes, Basil: A Doctor Pipsqueak wanted to meet me at half past six, here, at this club. Has a gentlepony with quite a white coat and brown patch around his left eye come in, at all?"
>"Not this morning, Y'Governance,"
>Oh, well, perhaps he's on his w-
>"But I recall a gentlepony of that description taking the seat over there, by the fireplace, for two consecutive weeks, at half past six exactly."
>Oh. 
>"The gentlepony would wait an hour, would not order anything, and then leave curtly."
>Ah. 
"And this Doctor Pipsqueak... Has he ever, returned?"
>The clerk shakes his head demurely. 
>Well. At least he got you out of the flat. And on a day off, at that. 


>You finish the pot over two hours. 
>There was no special report within the Review this week. 
>No one even made fun of you. Which is a shame: you've always felt that the columnists for the Review had a certain  talent for leveling the heads of government. 
>A small article had been written in favor the cause of universal rights in the Alsatian Highlands, but it contained the  passage 'we must cast our eyes to Equestria, where, even in that bastion of regressive thinking, a young gay dragon has held government office for-' and you simply lost interest. 
>Why is it that only Ponies can see that Ponies haven't done anything worthy of recognition for 200 years?
>A few more ponies start to filter in. 
>Most you recognize. Most recognize you. As is the way of things in Canterlot. 
>But, conversation is simply benign, and so you leave the club for the safety of the narrow streets.
>It's about 8 o'clock, now. Workers are on their ways, but the streets are still mostly empty. 
>Perfect.
>You wind your way forward in time, to where the view out toward Ponyville is a premium.
>It's a rather large square; benches line the most extreme edge of the balcony, which stretches out from the mountain like a great flat circular plate. 
>There's only one other figure in sight.
>Fabulous.
>You sidle up to a particularly lonesome bench, sit down, and focus your energy on rumination. 
>Is it safe to say that whatever it was that Pip wanted was urgent?
>Perhaps, but why would he then leave anything so important to the chance that he might reach you at home?
>Would he have even known how much time you spend at work? Perhaps he came to see you, scribbled the note on finding you absent, and then hoped for the best.
>But that was hardly a quick note, scrawled upon the back of a napkin. 
>Gosh, the mountains look wonderful.
>Perhaps, if it is earnest, you should head to the university? Maybe see if you can't take the lead.
>You could approach him, perhaps by surprise, as he ambles to his flat. 
>As you step out from the shadows, his bright, lovely brown eyes would burst with happiness. 
>He would cry your name, and leap into your outstretched arms.
>He would apologize for his affectionate ways; how he tortured your feelings with his ignorance.
>Then, would he say the words you so longed to hear; like a salacious provocatrix, in whispered tones, for your ears only.
>You would feel your heart soar, and a throbbing heat pool in your nether as he pulls his head close to yours, his countenance imbued with a fierce blush.
>You would savor the moment, drink in his eyes once more, consume with your eyes his taught hind legs and firm rear. 
>His intoxicating musk; oh how it fills your head with thoughts of nothing else.
>And then, with a nervous yelp, you would force your lips into his.
>And then... well.
>You would think of something else because dammit all you are a public figure and that will never happen because he is happy and married and obstinately not gay and by Celestia is it hot all of a sudden.
>"Good Morning!"
>You start. Isn't it nice that everypony is always so cheery and familiar. 
>Luna forbid they let you fantasize in the privacy of the commons.
"I imagine so," and you turn to face the cheerful stranger, "Is it so with... Oh."
>Two bright brown eyes stare meaningfully into yours; one clothed in a white shroud, the other with a brown patch.
>A scarf of brown, blue, dark grey and black stripes has been thrown haphazardly around his slender neck. 
>He wears his hooves roughshorn, but in a way that suggests he does so to avoid the barber's bill.  
"P-Pipsqueak!"

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