> you clutch your gray overcoat closer to your breast, tickled bitterly by the crisp autumn wind
> pony vale was no place for a stallion, you had decided
> if someone had told you the place had been abandoned for decades, you'd have believed them
> there were none of the telltale signs of life often acquainted with a small pony village in the countryside
> on the contrary--this was definitely a place where happiness went to die
> chased by sinister shadows creeping slowly from behind fraying lattices, you continued your wary trek onward through the town
> it was probably a little after seven in the evening when you had arrived at jolly tracks, pony vale's only train station
> you found the name to be unpleasantly ironic
> nopony awaited you at the ticket counter, and you'd had the pleasure of unloading your luggage yourself
> 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
> 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
> you were called to pony vale by a peculiar advertisement clipped from your hometown's paper
> HELP WANTED: PONY VALE LATE-NIGHT BROADCASTER
> MUST HAVE ALL FOUR LIMBS
> NO EXPERIENCE NECESSARY 
> 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
> your seat rattled below and you put an end to your brief rest, saddling up your luggage once more 
> 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
> 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
> at this point, you were sure you would be murdered if you were to set hoof in the building
> but what choice did you have? 
> 
"H-hello? I've come for the job--the one posted in Brightshire's running article." 
> despite the bareness of what you could assume was the building's lobby, you had still called out to some imaginary secretary 
> cobwebs almost decoratively lined the ceiling and a dusty receptionist's desk broke your line of sight to the left
> you briefly wondered what the point of a receptionist's desk was if a pony could not be seen from over it
> silence suffocated you for a spell before a grating squeal broke out from the next room over
> 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
> "Was it you that called, boy?" 
> startled by this handicapped fellow, you briefly forgot your manners
> the impatient clicking of his hoof against his foreleg-rests brought you back
"It was I, sir. You were looking for a broadcaster, yes?" 
> "Have you got your four legs?" 
> would it have been rude to look below and check your limbs in full view?
"I do, sir."
> "Then we'll have you." 
> 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
> "Any experience?" 
"None, sir." 
> the old pony chuckled; his tires squeaked unpleasantly on the gray linoleum as the two of you trekked onward uncertainly 
> "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." 
> fear threatened to stiffen your legs but you hardly believed you might be able to find your way back to the entrance 
"B-broadcasting, sir?" 
> "Have you broadcasted before?"
> you stopped briefly at a crude elevator nestled into the brick at the end of the hall
> one could assume the purpose of the hall was to house the elevator, but never had something seemed so out of place 
> could it lift even a single pony? 
> 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 
> "Try not to lock eyes with Quarter Mane--it'll do you good."
> you nodded acceptantly 
> 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 
> "Welcome to Pony Vale, by the ways--we'll be glad to have you."