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> you clutch your gray overcoat closer to your breast, tickled bitterly by the crisp autumn wind
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> pony vale was no place for a stallion, you had decided
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> if someone had told you the place had been abandoned for decades, you'd have believed them
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> there were none of the telltale signs of life often acquainted with a small pony village in the countryside
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> on the contrary--this was definitely a place where happiness went to die
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> chased by sinister shadows creeping slowly from behind fraying lattices, you continued your wary trek onward through the town
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> it was probably a little after seven in the evening when you had arrived at jolly tracks, pony vale's only train station
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> you found the name to be unpleasantly ironic
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> nopony awaited you at the ticket counter, and you'd had the pleasure of unloading your luggage yourself
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> no more than a second after you'd departed had the train run away from the miserable town, leaving you to be guided only by a single note that had led you there in the first place
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> deciding it warranted enough to rest for a spell, you tested a nearby bench rotted through to its core and plopped your shivering flank atop it before fishing in your coat pocket
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> you were called to pony vale by a peculiar advertisement clipped from your hometown's paper
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> HELP WANTED: PONY VALE LATE-NIGHT BROADCASTER
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> MUST HAVE ALL FOUR LIMBS
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> NO EXPERIENCE NECESSARY
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> you weren't sure what struck you more odd: that this position which seemed to be of moderate prestige required no prior experience, or that applicants with three or fewer limbs were not to be hired
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> your seat rattled below and you put an end to your brief rest, saddling up your luggage once more
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> navigating through the town was easy enough--pony vale had evidently been planned so that a path permitting a large flow of traffic snaked through the center of the hamlet to the very steps of the town hall
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> the notice had instructed you, through a puzzling series of contradictory directions, to head west past the town hall to a decrepit cube half-lit by an eerie interior glow
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> at this point, you were sure you would be murdered if you were to set hoof in the building
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> but what choice did you have?
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>
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"H-hello? I've come for the job--the one posted in Brightshire's running article."
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> despite the bareness of what you could assume was the building's lobby, you had still called out to some imaginary secretary
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> cobwebs almost decoratively lined the ceiling and a dusty receptionist's desk broke your line of sight to the left
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> you briefly wondered what the point of a receptionist's desk was if a pony could not be seen from over it
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> silence suffocated you for a spell before a grating squeal broke out from the next room over
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> a pony likely thrice your age wheeled himself out from an open-yet-imperceptible dark, coughing bitterly into his hoof as he adroitly spun the spokes of his vehicle and rolled over to you
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> "Was it you that called, boy?"
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> startled by this handicapped fellow, you briefly forgot your manners
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> the impatient clicking of his hoof against his foreleg-rests brought you back
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"It was I, sir. You were looking for a broadcaster, yes?"
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> "Have you got your four legs?"
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> would it have been rude to look below and check your limbs in full view?
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"I do, sir."
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> "Then we'll have you."
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> the aged fellow wheeled on into the dim haze and you followed at a pace lowered only when you threatened to overtake the stallion in your anxious rush
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> "Any experience?"
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"None, sir."
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> the old pony chuckled; his tires squeaked unpleasantly on the gray linoleum as the two of you trekked onward uncertainly
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> "Might be a good thing. The last five brought three years' experience in broadcasting. Didn't last. One lad lost a foreleg; the other were bludgeoned half to death."
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> fear threatened to stiffen your legs but you hardly believed you might be able to find your way back to the entrance
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"B-broadcasting, sir?"
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> "Have you broadcasted before?"
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> you stopped briefly at a crude elevator nestled into the brick at the end of the hall
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> one could assume the purpose of the hall was to house the elevator, but never had something seemed so out of place
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> could it lift even a single pony?
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> like as you might have to test the cables yourself, the wheeled stallion nudged you onto its platform and rolled alongside you, pulling the metal bars to before throwing a switch
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> "Try not to lock eyes with Quarter Mane--it'll do you good."
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> you nodded acceptantly
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> as the elevator crept uncertainly up the dusty brick shaft, no doubt to a place you could no longer escape from, you clutched your overcoat even closer to your breast
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> "Welcome to Pony Vale, by the ways--we'll be glad to have you."
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