As we near the farmhouse, a thought strikes me—one that wipes the small glimmer of pride right off my face. The method I suggested, while solid, isn't a quick fix. Soil doesn't just bounce back overnight. Clovers take time to grow and do their thing. The crushed shells, wood ash, bone meal, and mulch all need weeks, if not months, to start showing noticeable effects.
I'm not going to get paid for this, I realize, my stomach sinking. Applejack's not going to see results right away. How am I supposed to stay afloat when I've just spent a good chunk of my energy on a job that won't pay out for weeks—maybe even years?
The realization gnaws at me as I glance at Applejack. She looks determined, her pace brisk as she leads the way. For a moment, I consider trying to explain. Tell her that this is a long-term solution and I can't guarantee immediate results. But before I can figure out how to phrase it, she stops abruptly, turning to face me.
"You're lookin' awful quiet back there," she says, her sharp gaze locking onto mine. "Somethin' on your mind?"
I hesitate, rubbing the back of my neck with a hoof. "Just… thinking about the timeline," I admit. "This kind of thing takes time to work. Months, maybe even years, before the soil fully recovers."
Applejack raises an eyebrow, her mouth curling into a faint smile. "Well, sure, long-term fixes always take time. But I'll be able to tell if this is workin' in a week."
"A week?" I echo, disbelief creeping into my voice.
She nods, her expression unwavering. "Yup. That's the beauty of Earth pony magic. We've got a connection to the land, y'see. I'll be able to feel it in the soil—whether it's startin' to come back to life, if the trees are respondin'. Might not see the full results right away, but I'll know if we're on the right track."
I blink, trying to process her words. She says it with such confidence, like it's the most natural thing in the world. And maybe, in this place, it is. I don't fully understand how Earth pony magic works—hell, I barely understand my own magic—but if she believes it, that's good enough for me.
"Well," I say after a moment, forcing a small smile, "that's… convenient."
Applejack chuckles, tipping her hat back. "Sure is. Don't you worry, Kinetic Flux. You've done good work here, and you'll be seein' your pay soon enough."
The knot in my chest loosens slightly, but I can't help the flicker of doubt that remains. What if she doesn't feel any changes? What if I missed something? I shove the thoughts aside, reminding myself that I've done the best I can with what I know.
As we reach the farmhouse, Applejack pauses, turning to me with a firm nod. "Thank ya again for your help. I'll let ya know in a few days how things are lookin'. And don't worry—I always pay my debts."
"Thanks," I say, my voice quieter than I intend. "I appreciate it."
She grins, and for a moment, the grotesque edges of her too-realistic features soften into something almost comforting. "You're welcome back anytime," she says, tipping her hat before heading inside.
I watch her go, the door swinging shut behind her, and let out a long breath. One job down, and maybe a bit of hope for the future. I turn back toward the road, the weight of uncertainty still pressing on my shoulders but feeling just a little lighter.
The walk back to Ponyville feels longer than the trip out, my thoughts tangled in everything that just happened. Applejack's confidence in her Earth pony magic is reassuring, but it doesn't completely quiet the doubts swirling in my head. Still, there's a strange sense of satisfaction knowing I actually helped. Even if it wasn't really magic, it was good advice, and that has to count for something.
By the time I reach my office, the sun is high in the sky, and the village is bustling with activity. Ponies move through the streets, chatting and laughing, their grotesque but cheerful faces oddly familiar now. I push the door open with a hoof, half-expecting the room to be as empty and quiet as I left it.
Instead, I'm greeted by the sight of a pony sitting in the chair across from my desk. They're a light gray unicorn with a mane that's neatly combed but looks slightly frazzled at the edges, like they've been worrying about something. Their oversized eyes dart up as I enter, glistening faintly in the light filtering through the window.
"Oh, good," they say, their voice tinged with relief. "You're back. I was starting to think I missed you."
I blink, caught off guard. "Uh, yeah. Just got back. Can I help you?"
They nod, sitting up straighter. "I hope so. I've got a bit of a problem, and everypony keeps telling me, 'Oh, just see the Town Mage—he'll know what to do.'"
I close the door behind me, my curiosity piqued despite my exhaustion. "Alright," I say, setting my bit bag on the desk and settling into my chair. "What's the problem?"
They hesitate, fidgeting with their hooves. "It's my bakery," they say finally. "I run a small place just off the square. Lately, my bread hasn't been rising properly. Cakes come out flat, and cookies don't have the right texture. It's been driving me crazy."
I lean back slightly, trying to mask my confusion. "And… you think it's a magic problem?"
"Well, it has to be, doesn't it?" they say, their tone pleading. "I've been using the same recipes for years. My oven's in perfect working order. I even tested a batch with some flour from a friend, just to rule out a bad bag. Nothing worked."
I nod slowly, filing away the details. This doesn't sound like a magic issue—it sounds like a baking issue. But the pony is looking at me with such desperation that I can't just brush them off.
"Alright," I say, sitting up straighter. "Tell me everything. Have you made any changes recently? New ingredients? New tools? Anything at all?"
They shake their head firmly. "Nothing. Everything's exactly the same as it's always been. That's why I'm so sure it's magic."
I bite back a sigh, my mind racing for a plausible explanation. "Okay. How's the humidity in your bakery? Have you noticed it being higher or lower than usual?"
The pony blinks, their expression shifting to confusion. "Humidity? What does that have to do with anything?"
I take a deep breath, resisting the urge to rub my temples. "Humidity can affect how ingredients interact. It's the moisture in the air. When it's too high, it can mess with things like flour and leavening agents."
They tilt their head, their oversized eyes narrowing slightly. "Leavening agents?"
"You know, yeast," I say, leaning forward. "The stuff that makes your bread rise. It's really sensitive to its environment—temperature, moisture, even air pressure. If any of those are off, it can mess up your dough."
The pony gives me a blank stare, their confusion as plain as the dull sheen of their expression. "Yeast?" they repeat slowly, like it's the first time they've heard the word. "What's yeast?"
I blink, taken aback. "What's—" I cut myself off, my jaw tightening as I feel the flicker of frustration rising. How do you run a bakery without knowing what yeast is? Don't blow this, Flux. Don't blow it.
I take a deep breath, forcing myself to calm down. "Okay," I say, choosing my words carefully. "Yeast is… a magical ingredient. It works by creating bubbles of magic inside the dough, making it rise and giving bread its fluffy texture."
The pony's expression brightens slightly, and they nod. "Oh! You mean barm!"
"Barm?" I echo, frowning.
"Yeah," they say, their tone eager now. "The frothy stuff from brewing beer. We use that for leavening—it's what we've always used."
I stare at them for a moment, my mind racing to catch up. "Right," I say slowly, piecing it together. "Barm. That's… basically the same thing. It's a byproduct of fermentation, and it's full of magical properties that make dough rise. The magic in the barm interacts with the dough to create… uh, energy bubbles that expand during baking."
They nod enthusiastically, finally seeming to follow. "That makes sense! So, you're saying the magic in the barm might be off because of the humidity?"
"Exactly," I say, relieved they're on board. "Too much moisture in the air can weaken the magic, making it less effective. You'll need to adjust your process—use less water in the dough to balance things out. And if you can, try storing your ingredients in a cooler, drier place."
They sit back, their expression thoughtful. "Alright. I'll give that a try. Anything else?"
I hesitate, then add, "If the problem keeps happening, you might want to look into getting fresh barm. The magic in it can degrade over time, especially if it's not stored properly."
They nod again, their confidence growing. "Got it. Thanks, Kinetic Flux. I really appreciate this."
"Of course," I say, forcing a small smile. "Let me know how it works out."
They fish a few bits out of their satchel and place them on the desk. "I'll be back if I need more help. Thanks again!"
As they leave, I lean back in my chair, staring at the coins. Another client helped, another problem solved—without a single real spell. The lie about magic is starting to feel like second nature, but the guilt still lingers. Magic, science—whatever works, I tell myself, tucking the bits into the drawer. For now, it's enough.
As the day wears on and no more clients come by, I decide to take a break and head into town. The streets are lively, ponies bustling about with their usual energy. It's almost easy to forget how unsettling their appearances are when they're all so cheerful. Almost.
My stomach growls as I pass a bakery, the warm scent of freshly baked bread wafting out and making my mouth water. I sigh, rubbing a hoof over my grumbling belly. The five bits from the baker, combined with the ten from the watch guy, give me a total of fifteen. It's not much, but it's something.
I glance at the inn as I approach it, its sign swinging gently in the breeze. The building is modest, with warm yellow walls and a welcoming glow from the windows. Inside, I know there's a soft bed waiting, the kind of comfort I haven't felt in days.
Steeling myself, I step through the door. The innkeeper, a sturdy earth pony with a chestnut coat and a no-nonsense demeanor, looks up from the counter.
"Good evening," she says, her voice brisk but not unkind. "Need a room?"
"Yeah," I say, forcing a small smile. "How much?"
"Ten bits a night," she replies, her expression unreadable. "Includes breakfast."
Ten bits. I do the math quickly in my head, my chest loosening a bit. I can swing that. A warm bed and a meal in the morning. It's worth it. "Alright," I say, reaching for my coin pouch.
But then my stomach growls again, loud and insistent. I freeze, my hoof hovering over the pouch. Ten bits for a room leaves me with five. Five bits won't get me far for food, especially if I don't get any more clients tomorrow.
I glance at the innkeeper, her expectant gaze making my chest tighten. I could spend the money on the room, sure—but then what? Go hungry? Or spend the night under my desk again and save the money for food?
The thought of curling up on the hard floor again sends a wave of frustration through me. But hunger has a way of gnawing at you, wearing you down in a way discomfort can't match. You can't eat a bed, I think bitterly.
"Actually," I say, pulling my hoof back, "never mind."
The innkeeper raises an eyebrow but doesn't press. "Suit yourself," she says, turning her attention back to her ledger.
I step back out into the cool evening air, the sounds of Ponyville filling the quiet ache in my chest. Fifteen bits, and it's still not enough. I sigh, my legs heavy as I head back toward my office. Looks like it's another night under the desk and another day of hoping for clients tomorrow.
As I make my way back through the town square, the gnawing hunger in my stomach becomes impossible to ignore. The smells of food—fresh bread, roasted vegetables, and sugary treats—hang heavy in the air, mocking me with their tantalizing warmth. I glance down at my pouch, feeling the weight of the remaining fifteen bits.
You have to eat, I tell myself. Otherwise, what's the point of anything else?
I stop at a small food stand run by a cheerful earth pony with a green mane tied in a loose bun. The menu hanging above her is simple: sandwiches, salads, and a few soups. It's all vegetarian, of course—no meat anywhere in sight. The idea makes my stomach churn, but not because I'm nauseous. I miss meat. Real food. The kind that sticks to your ribs and feels like a proper meal.
"What'll it be?" she asks, her oversized eyes locking onto mine.
"Just… a sandwich," I say, scanning the menu and choosing the cheapest option: a daisy and cucumber sandwich for seven bits. Seven bits for this? Seriously?
She nods, sliding a plate across the counter with practiced ease. The sandwich looks decent—fresh bread, crisp cucumbers, and a handful of daisies sprinkled on top like garnish. But the sight of it makes me wince. I grab it with a mumbled thanks, dropping the bits onto the counter before walking to the nearest bench to eat.
I sit down heavily, staring at the sandwich like it's a personal insult. "This is fine," I mutter, trying to psych myself up. "It's food. It'll keep you alive."
I take a bite, and the bread is soft, the cucumbers are cool and crisp, and the daisies… well, they taste like flowers. Because they are flowers. My jaw tightens as I chew, swallowing the bland, plant-filled mouthful with effort. It's not bad, exactly, but it's not satisfying either. It's like eating the garnish off a real meal.
"You're eating plants," I grumble under my breath. "Like a rabbit."
Each bite feels like a chore, but I force myself to finish the sandwich. It's not enough to banish the hunger completely, but it dulls the edge. I stand up, brushing crumbs off my chest, and glance at the sky. The sun is dipping lower, the golden light fading to a cooler gray.
With eight bits left, I trudge back toward my office. The sandwich sits heavy in my stomach—not because it's filling, but because it's a reminder of how little control I have in this world. No meat, no comfort, just survival.
By the time I reach my office, the faint warmth of the sandwich is gone, replaced by the familiar chill of uncertainty. I push open the door, step inside, and let it swing shut behind me. Another night under the desk awaits, along with the hope that tomorrow will bring another client—and maybe a better meal.
I wake up to the pale gray light of dawn filtering through the window, my back stiff and my neck sore from another night under the desk. The floor's unforgiving surface didn't do me any favors, and I groan as I stretch, wincing at the sharp ache in my muscles. Still better than the forest, I remind myself, though the thought doesn't bring much comfort.
I crawl out from under the desk, shaking off the lingering grogginess, and glance around the office. The room feels just as empty and lifeless as it did yesterday. No knocks on the door yet, no eager clients waiting for my supposed magical expertise. Just silence and the faint creak of the floorboards as I settle into my chair.
For a while, I just sit there, staring at the blank parchment on the desk, tapping a hoof against the wood in a restless rhythm. My thoughts drift, swirling with everything that's happened since I woke up in this strange world.
What's the plan, Flux? I think bitterly. You've got eight bits to your name, no tools, no proper magic, and no real place to stay. You're barely scraping by here.
The idea of heading back into the forest flashes in my mind, but I dismiss it immediately. No way am I going back there, not after what I've seen. But staying here isn't much better. I can't keep living under my desk, surviving on vegetarian sandwiches and hoping for the occasional client to wander in.
I lean back in my chair, staring up at the ceiling. What's the endgame here? It's not like I can just pack up and leave. This is my life now, for better or worse. And if I want to make it work, I need a real plan.
The problem is, I don't know what that plan looks like. Do I keep pretending to be a mage, solving mundane problems and spinning science into magic? Do I try to learn more about how this world works, figure out a way to fit in better? Or do I aim higher—figure out how to make real magic work for me, not just the scraps of telekinesis I can manage now?
The thought of learning real magic sends a flicker of hope through me, but it's quickly overshadowed by doubt. I don't even know where to start. Books? Teachers? Would anyone even take me seriously if I asked?
I sigh, running a hoof through my mane as my stomach growls faintly. Eight bits. Enough for another sandwich, but not much else. If I don't get another client today, I'll be in the same spot tomorrow. Hungry, broke, and stuck.
You need to think long-term, I tell myself. Figure out how to make this job sustainable. Maybe I could advertise more, put up signs around town or offer discounts for first-time clients. Or maybe I should focus on building relationships, like with Applejack. If I word gets out that I solved her farm's problem, that could lead to more work—and maybe even a steady income.
The sound of hoofsteps in the hallway pulls me from my thoughts, and my ears perk up instinctively. I sit up straighter, the rhythm of the steps growing louder as they approach my door. A flicker of hope rises in my chest.
Looks like the day's about to start, I think, forcing a neutral expression as the hoofsteps stop just outside. I take a deep breath, bracing myself for whatever new problem walks through the door.
The knock at the door startles me, breaking the silence that's been hanging over the office all morning. I sit up straighter, brushing off my mane with a hoof and trying to look somewhat presentable. Alright, Flux, time to see what's next.
"Come in," I call, keeping my tone steady.
The door swings open, and in steps a well-groomed earth pony stallion with a light tan coat and a slicked-back mane the color of dark chocolate. His sharp blue eyes scan the room briefly before settling on me. His tailored vest and polished demeanor scream wealth, and I instantly recognize him: Filthy Rich, Ponyville's resident business mogul.
"Well, good morning," he says, his voice smooth and confident. "I take it you're the new Town Mage?"
"That's me," I reply, gesturing toward the chair across from my desk. "What can I do for you, Mr. Rich?"
He steps forward, his hooves clicking softly against the floor as he takes the offered seat. "You've been making a bit of a name for yourself already," he says, his tone polite but measured. "I've heard from a couple of ponies around town—Applejack and that baker over on Mane Street. Seems you've got a knack for solving problems."
I nod, trying not to let the sudden pressure show on my face. "I do what I can."
"Well, I've got a problem that could use your attention," he says, leaning back slightly. "It's about my supply chain. Lately, the goods coming in from my distributor have been showing up in terrible condition—crates broken, products damaged. It's causing delays and costing me money. I need to know what's going on."
I blink, caught off guard. "Your supply chain?" I repeat. "That doesn't sound like… a magic issue."
His sharp eyes narrow slightly. "Doesn't it? Everypony I've spoken to says there's no obvious cause. The distributors insist they're doing everything right, and I've even replaced a few of the delivery ponies, but the problem persists. If it's not bad luck, then it must be something magical."
I resist the urge to groan. Of course, it must be magic. Still, he's here, and if I can figure out what's going on, this could lead to bigger opportunities—or at least a decent payday.
"Alright," I say, leaning forward and resting my forelegs on the desk. "Tell me everything. When did this start? How often is it happening? And do you have any other details—locations, specific times, anything unusual?"
Filthy Rich leans forward, his polished demeanor showing a hint of frustration as he explains. "It started about a month ago. At first, it was just one or two deliveries, but now it's happening almost every other shipment. The crates arrive splintered, products damaged beyond salvage. I've inspected the goods before they're packed—everything's fine on the distributor's end. It's during transport that things go wrong."
I nod, taking in the details. "Same distributor every time?"
He shakes his head. "No, I use a few different suppliers. It's the transport that's consistent—all the deliveries are handled by the same courier company."
"And the routes?" I ask. "Are they consistent, or do they vary?"
"They're consistent for the most part," Filthy Rich says. "But I've checked the roads myself—there aren't any obvious issues. No new potholes, no damaged bridges."
I rub my chin, already forming an idea. "Alright. I'll need to take a look at the carts they're using."
He raises an eyebrow. "The carts?"
"Yeah," I say, standing up. "If it's happening during transport, the carts are the common factor. Maybe there's something off with them. I'll need to inspect a few."
Filthy Rich nods, though his expression remains skeptical. "Very well. The courier company keeps their carts at a depot just outside town. I can have one of their supervisors meet you there."
"That works," I say, grabbing my bit bag. "Let's head over."
The depot is a simple setup on the edge of Ponyville, a large open yard with carts of various sizes lined up in neat rows. Ponies bustle about, loading and unloading goods, while a supervisor—a stout earth pony with a thick mustache—greets us with a nod.
"Mr. Rich," the supervisor says, tipping his hat. "Didn't expect to see you here."
"I'm here with the Town Mage," Filthy Rich says, gesturing toward me. "He's looking into the issues with our shipments."
The supervisor glances at me, his massive eyes narrowing slightly before he nods. "Alright. What do you need to see?"
"The carts," I say simply. "I need to inspect a few of the ones used for recent deliveries."
The supervisor nods again, motioning for us to follow. He leads us through the yard, stopping beside a row of well-worn carts. "These are the ones that've been in use for the past month. Take your pick."
I step forward, examining the first cart closely. Its wooden frame is sturdy enough at first glance, but as I move around to inspect the wheels, something catches my attention. There's no suspension—nothing to absorb shocks or stabilize the load during travel. It's just a simple wooden bed resting directly on the axle.
I glance at the next cart, then the one after that, finding the same issue. No suspension, no damping. Each cart's frame is slightly different, likely from wear and tear or hasty repairs. Some are clearly in better condition than others, while a few look downright unfit for heavy loads.
Filthy Rich watches me silently, his expression unreadable. "Well?" he finally asks. "What are you thinking?"
I take a step back, my mind racing as I try to piece together how to explain this. The carts are the problem—that much is clear. But how do I present this in a way that doesn't sound completely mundane? "It's... an interesting setup," I say slowly, buying time to form my explanation.
The real problem here isn't magic—it's basic mechanics. But judging by Filthy Rich's expression, he's expecting something far more dramatic. I decide to hold off on conclusions for now, focusing on gathering more information.
"I need to see how these perform under load," I say. "Can you arrange for one of these to be loaded and driven along its usual route?"
The supervisor nods. "Can do. Give me a few minutes to set it up."
As they get to work, I step back, folding my legs under me as I sit and wait. My gaze lingers on the carts, the lack of suspension glaringly obvious now. This is going to be fun to explain, I think, already bracing for the inevitable questions.
The controlled test doesn't take long. The supervisor arranges for two carts to be loaded with identical crates—one in decent condition and the other one of the more beat-up models. They're sent along a bumpy section of the usual delivery route, with a few couriers reporting back after each leg of the trip.
By the end of the test, the results are painfully clear. The cart in better condition arrives with its cargo intact, while the older, poorly constructed cart returns with its load damaged—splintered crates, crushed corners, and loose goods rattling around inside.
"Well," I say, standing beside Filthy Rich as the damaged goods are unloaded. "There's your problem."
He frowns, his expression a mix of annoyance and confusion. "The carts?"
"Exactly," I say, gesturing toward the offending vehicle. "They're not built to handle the loads you're putting on them. No suspension, uneven construction—it's all contributing to the damage."
"Suspension?" Filthy Rich repeats, raising an eyebrow. "What in Celestia's name is that?"
I hesitate, realizing I'm going to have to explain this in a way they'll understand. "It's… a system that helps absorb shocks and keep the cart stable," I say. "Without it, every bump in the road gets transferred directly to the cargo, causing damage."
The blank looks from both Filthy Rich and the supervisor make my stomach sink. I try again, this time adding a bit more detail. "Think of it like… a cushion for the cart. It reduces the force of impacts and keeps the load from bouncing around."
Filthy Rich tilts his head, clearly still not getting it. "And how does that work?"
I rub the back of my neck, thinking quickly. "I'll show you. Can someone bring me some paper and a quill?"
The supervisor nods, trotting off to fetch the supplies. A moment later, I'm seated at a nearby table with a blank sheet of paper in front of me. I light my horn, gripping the quill awkwardly with my telekinesis, and start sketching.
"This," I say, drawing a simple rectangle to represent the cart, "is the cart." I add two circles underneath for the wheels. "When it moves over uneven terrain, the wheels hit bumps, right?"
They both nod, leaning in slightly.
I draw an exaggerated bump on the ground beneath the cart, showing how the force travels upward. "Now, without suspension, that force goes directly into the cart—and the cargo." I scribble some arrows to show the direction of the force. "Newton's Second Law—"
"Newton?" Filthy Rich interrupts, his tone baffled. "What's a Newton?"
I stop mid-sentence, clenching my jaw as I realize I've already lost them. "Newton's a… uh, theoretical mage," I say quickly, switching gears. "He discovered that for every action, there's an equal and opposite reaction."
Filthy Rich and the supervisor exchange confused looks. I sigh, putting the quill down. "Forget Newton. Just think of it like this: the cart needs a magical artifact to absorb those forces. Something to cushion the impact and protect the cargo."
"Ah," Filthy Rich says, his expression brightening slightly. "A magical artifact. That makes more sense."
I nod, relieved to see them following along. "Exactly. I can design one for you—something that'll work with the carts and make sure your goods arrive safely.
As Filthy Rich and the supervisor lean closer, I start sketching the "artifact." It's a simple design: a few coiled springs and a set of dampers to absorb shocks and keep the cart stable. I add some exaggerated swirls and lines to make it look more "magical," because apparently, that's what sells here.
"The artifact," I say, pointing at the drawing, "would sit between the cart's body and the axle. These coils—uh, magical conduits—will absorb the energy from impacts and spread it out, while these dampening runes"—I tap the dampers—"will prevent the cart from shaking too much."
Filthy Rich nods thoughtfully, his eyes narrowing as he studies the sketch. "I see. And you're saying we can attach this to every cart?"
"Exactly," I say, trying to sound confident. "It's a quick fix, but you'll need to make one for each cart. The materials might take a little effort to gather, but once you have them, the rest is straightforward."
"What kind of materials?" the supervisor asks, his tone cautious.
"Well…" I trail off, thinking quickly. "Something durable for the coils. It needs to handle the weight of the cart and the cargo without breaking."
The supervisor's brow furrows. "Steel?"
"Yeah," I say, nodding. "Strong, springy metal. You'd need—wait." I pause, my mind catching up to the conversation. "You have steel?"
"Of course we do," Filthy Rich says, his tone almost offended. "What kind of backwater do you think this is?"
I stare at him, momentarily stunned. Steel. Real, actual steel. For a moment, I'm overwhelmed by the possibilities—suspension systems, stronger tools, even basic mechanics that I thought were out of reach in this world. My mind races with ideas, but I force myself to focus.
"Great," I say, recovering quickly. "Steel will work perfectly. You'll need to shape it into coils, like springs, and then attach them to the carts using bolts or rivets. If you don't have the tools for that, I can help design those too."
Filthy Rich studies the diagram again, his expression thoughtful. "And you're certain this will work?"
"Positive," I say. "It's designed to handle impacts and reduce damage to the cargo. Once you install these artifacts, you'll see an immediate improvement."
He nods slowly, his lips pressing into a thin line. "Alright, Kinetic Flux. I'll get my smiths on this right away. What do we owe you for the design?"
I pause, caught off guard. Pricing something like this is tricky. Too high, and he'll balk. Too low, and I'll regret it later. "Let's call it… thirty bits for the design," I say, holding my breath.
Filthy Rich raises an eyebrow, his expression unreadable for a moment. Then he nods decisively. "Thirty bits per cart? That seems fair."
I blink, momentarily stunned. Per cart? Wait—no, that's not what I meant. My brain scrambles to come up with a response, but before I can correct him, the supervisor chimes in.
"That'll add up quickly," he says, his tone cautious. "We've got a lot of carts in rotation."
"And it'll be worth every bit," Filthy Rich replies, waving a hoof dismissively. "If it saves me the cost of damaged goods and missed shipments, it's a bargain."
I glance between them, my heart racing. Do I clarify? If I do, I risk looking incompetent. But if I don't… thirty bits per cart could mean a huge payday.
I clear my throat, trying to sound as professional as possible. "Uh… yes. Thirty bits per cart. That includes the design and the enchantment framework."
"Good," Filthy Rich says with a satisfied nod. "I'll have my team get started on the first batch immediately. Once we see the results, I'll have you consult on scaling it up for the entire fleet."
"Of course," I say, forcing a calm smile even as my mind reels. Entire fleet? How many carts does he own?
Filthy Rich turns to the supervisor. "Make sure to have the smiths work closely with Kinetic Flux if they run into any issues. I want this implemented as quickly as possible."
The supervisor nods, and Filthy Rich pulls out a small pouch of bits, setting it on my desk. "Here's your initial payment for the first few carts. I'll pay the rest as we roll out the upgrades."
I glance at the pouch, the weight of it immediately noticeable. It's more money than I've seen since arriving in Ponyville. "Thank you," I say, trying to keep my voice steady. "I'll make sure to be available if your smiths need any help."
"Good," Filthy Rich says with a sharp nod. "I'll relay the results soon." With that, he turns and strides out of the office, the supervisor following close behind.
As the door swings shut, I slump back in my chair, letting out a long breath. Thirty bits per cart. This could either be the biggest break I've had since I got here—or the biggest disaster waiting to happen.
I glance at the pouch of bits again, the weight of responsibility settling in alongside the coins. No pressure, Flux. Just hope your hastened reinvention of the suspension systems works in a world that barely understands the concept. And make it magical, too.
Despite the stress, I can't help but feel a flicker of excitement. If this works, I might finally be on the path to something sustainable—something bigger than just scraping by. For now, though, there's a lot of work to do.
Back at my office, I sit at the desk and open the pouch Filthy Rich left behind. The glint of gold inside is enough to make my breath catch. Carefully, I count out the coins, stacking them into neat piles. Ten bits, twenty, thirty... by the time I finish, I'm staring at 120 bits.
"Holy shit," I mutter under my breath, leaning back in my chair. It's more money than I've had since I got here. With the eight bits I already had, that puts me at 128 bits total. My mind immediately starts running the math.
The inn charges ten bits a night, which means this could cover twelve nights of a proper bed and a roof over my head. Twelve nights of not sleeping under my desk. But then there's food. The inn provides breakfast, but lunch and dinner are on me, and those sandwiches run seven bits a pop. If I eat two meals a day outside the inn, that's fourteen bits. Add ten for the room, and I'm looking at twenty-four bits a day.
Alright, let's break this down. I start scribbling numbers on a scrap of parchment, the calculations helping me feel a little more in control.
Daily Expenses:
Inn room: 10 bits
Two meals: 14 bits
Total: 24 bits
My Funds:
Current total: 128 bits
Number of days: 128 ÷ 24 ≈ 5 days
"Five days," I say aloud, staring at the math. If I stick to this budget, I can make it work for five days before I run out. That's assuming no new clients come in and no unexpected expenses crop up.
I lean back, rubbing my temples. It's better than nothing, but it's tight. Too tight. If Filthy Rich keeps his word and pays me for every cart, I could turn this into something sustainable. But until then, I'm five slow days away from being back under the desk.
The thought of spending another night on that hard floor sends a shiver through me. You've got the bits now. Go enjoy a bed for a few nights. Figure out the rest as you go.
Resolving to head to the inn, I gather my things, sticking the pouch of bits to my side with my telekinesis. It's not much of a plan, but it's better than sitting here stressing over what-ifs. For the first time in what feels like forever, I'm going to sleep in a real bed—and that's worth something.
I step into the inn, the warm glow of the interior a stark contrast to the cool evening air outside. The smell of something baking wafts through the room, and for a moment, I let myself savor it. It's the kind of cozy atmosphere that I've been missing—soft chatter from a few ponies in the corner, the faint crackle of a fire in the hearth. It almost feels… normal.
The innkeeper, the same chestnut-coated mare from before, looks up from her ledger as I approach the counter. Her oversized eyes glance briefly at the pouch of bits floating in my magic before meeting mine.
"Changed your mind, have you?" she asks with a faint smirk.
"Yeah," I say, setting the pouch down on the counter. "One night, please."
"That'll be ten bits," she says, pulling out a key from beneath the counter.
I count out the coins carefully, dropping them into her waiting hoof. She inspects them briefly before nodding, sliding the key toward me. "Room three, just up the stairs to your left. Breakfast is served from seven to nine in the morning."
"Thanks," I say, picking up the key with my magic.
She watches me for a moment, her gaze softening slightly. "First time staying in town?"
"Something like that," I reply, not wanting to get into the details.
"Well, welcome to Ponyville," she says with a small smile. "If you need anything, just let me know."
I nod, murmuring a quick thanks before heading toward the stairs. The key floats in front of me, and I tighten my magical grip on the bit pouch, the faint hum of my horn buzzing in the back of my mind. It's not heavy, but I'm hyper-aware of its presence—my lifeline for the next few days.
The stairs creak under my hooves as I climb to the second floor, and I quickly find room three. The door is plain, with a simple brass number nailed to its surface. I slide the key into the lock, twisting it with a satisfying click, and push the door open.
The room is small but clean. A single bed with a neatly made quilt sits against the wall, a small wooden desk and chair tucked into the corner. There's a window overlooking the street, and the faint sound of ponies chatting below drifts through the glass. It's nothing fancy, but after days of sleeping under a desk and on forest floors, it might as well be a luxury suite.
I close the door behind me, locking it out of habit, and set the pouch of bits on the desk. For the first time in what feels like ages, I let out a long, slow breath. This is mine, even if only for one night.
My stomach growls, and I glance toward the window, debating whether to grab something to eat. But the thought of leaving this quiet, comfortable space makes me hesitate. For now, I decide to stay, savoring the simple joy of not being on the move.
Tomorrow will bring its own challenges, but tonight, I'll finally have a chance to rest.