Opacare Prose had seen many things in his lifetime. Friends had faded away; family, dead by his hooves. His friend’s sister, the one whom he treasured the most, had been kidnapped; his best friend, Raven Lock, had been vanquished in a fiery explosion. In his time as the Prime Intimidator alone, he had borne witness to and had even been the perpetrator of less than pure events; the blood on his hooves was metaphorical, yet it never was washed away.
Still, though, it had been years since he had ever seen a dead body up close. And already he knew that the others were absolutely sickened by it.
Rarity stood by Swol, looking away. Her hoof covered her mouth. Twilight stood off, behind Prose; judging by the sounds coming from that direction, she had not taken the sight all that well. The hallway, meanwhile, housed Grifford Finch; and though he had just about the same experience with death as Prose, he, too, was handling the situation in a negative manner.
That observation alone planted the seeds of doubt within the author’s mind. If Finch was not good with dead bodies, did that mean he was at all comfortable with leaving them behind? This question could be answered with but the conclusion that it was an extravagant act; yet, Prose found, such a conclusion seemed terribly naive.
But the thoughts were brushed aside, as more officers entered the room and requested him to stay outside. As the floor panels brushed up against the bottom of his hooves, and he felt only the vibrations, he realized he had become physically numb. In slow, dangerously slow steps, he left the room. A trance took ahold; he thought he could hear Raven Lock, then an explosion; then silence; then the voices of the other ponies blurred together, clashing into an alarming crescendo of shock, awe, and horror. He fell, weakened, against the wall, clutching his chest, eyes downcast.
His breath hitched, stalled, then resumed at a slow rate. He struggled not to become overrun with primal panic.
Vaguely he was aware of an officer talking to him; mostly it was just a series of Yes or No questions, none of which he could recall with great detail. Either way, what he had said garnered some form of compassion, and a blanket similar to the one that Grifford wore was brought over. Looking up, he saw that the others had been draped similarly.
Swol did his best to remain strong for them. He was the only one who was standing up fully. Rarity leaned against him; Prose could hear her gentle sobs, even in the loud setting. Twilight was not crying, but she stumbled over to Rarity, trying to comfort her.
The author watched them with utter numbness. He had to do something; he wanted to do something. But, Celestia help him, his emotions ran rampant; the insecurities and fears, the panic, the despair; they all caught up, and crippled him, preventing any amount of movement. The obstacle of getting up remained insurmountable; the body in that room, similarly, proved too morbid to gaze upon. It was more than the syringe, or the blood; it was the feeling of sudden exhaustion, the thought that somehow, something had struck without warning for the second time in brief history.
Prose may not have had any control over time, nor of fate, but he always thought he had some amount of power towards directing things in some favor or advantage. To see that hypothetical right, forcefully taken, removed, and left at his hooves in a bloody mess… it was jarring, to say the least; and traumatizing, to say the most.
Where is my strength? My ingenuity? My ability to adapt?
He could do little else but stare at the scene, and yet also stare at nothing in particular.
Then his mind offered a bit of clarity.
Whoever this victim was, he was important; a feeling in Opacare’s gut told him this. If his passing made both Swol and Rarity cry out in despair, and even shocked Grifford Finch, then surely, surely, it was an important detail. Slowly, Prose’s mind began to formulate a counter theory to the one he had long been holding onto; but it quickly fell apart. He couldn’t concentrate. Too much was happening at the moment; too much information being absorbed.
He needed a rest. Then he thought about having a drink. It had been years since he had even thought about having a drink. How much had changed since then, and how much had changed now, that he was thinking about trying a cold one?
The rhetorical question had to be filed away. For now, the world needed a action-oriented Prose, not a thoughtful one.
With the will of a manticore on its last legs, he stood. Against the sudden confusion, he stood. In the face of undoubtedly the worst anarchic blow, he stood. And he trotted right into that room, steeling himself for the coming ordeal.
A grizzled officer, different from the other’s he had been acquainted with earlier, met him. “Ah, Mr. Prose. I’d imagine that you are surprised as well?” He had a slightly pretentious tone, but it felt dry; sarcastic and sharp described him perfectly.
Thinking on this, Prose responded similarly. “Yes, well, it’s not every day that a dead body shows up in the same place where a kidnapping happened.”
“As dry as the stories said. Hrm.” The older officer took a careful look at the author, then at the others. “Mr. Mayor doesn’t take dead bodies kindly, does he? And your friends aren’t particularly acquainted with them either.”
“They are lucky.”
“Mm. Maybe.”
Prose saw his companions gaze uneasily at them, the tears having finally run dry. He barely nodded to them; he was more focused on the scene itself. The officer grunted, getting his attention. “Do you know the victim? I overheard that couple over there say you and he were close.”
“I’ve never met this stallion in my life.”
“And he certainly doesn’t look like any Manehattanite I’ve seen in these five years of service. Doesn’t quite look like from Detrot, or Baltimare.”
After a few officers cleared the way, the detective and Opacare stepped up to the body. The author raised an eyebrow. “Is it not against protocol to allow a citizen such as myself into the crime scene?”
“Miss Ruby Sparks said it herself. You’re part of a coalition with the Mayor, so that means you’ve free reign where the police are—at least where the precincts allow it. I’m content with any help you can give, Mr. Prose.”
“Thank you, sir.” He couldn’t help but feel tense when the word “coalition” was brought up; apparently, the old suspicions remained strong enough to still affect him.
They walked around the body, inspecting every angle. Prose did his best to hide his discomfort at seeing the syringe. “Hmm,” said the detective. “That needle couldn’t have killed him alone.”
“No, it could not have; even a needle of that size would not cause so much bleeding.”
“Garcy! Check for any external wounds!”
The requested on-duty officer did so. A short analysis was conducted, revealing that there were several bruises on the chest and shoulder areas. “Our victim was a fighter on two hooves,” the officer said. “Probably skilled, too.”
“What makes you say that?”
The officer who did the analyzing answered, “His legs are particularly unharmed, and the sides of his front hooves are more hurt than the actual hooves themselves. He was blocking numerous blows, it appears.”
“Harsh blows as well,” added the detective.
Prose sucked in a breath and peered closer to the body, taking careful note of the scars and bruises. “Physical blows, too,” he realized, “not magic based. No charring, it seems.” He sniffed. “At least, he doesn’t smell like he’s been burning.”
“So we’re dealing with a grounded creature. Not a unicorn, as your observation states. Probably not a pegasus, either, as they aren’t as naturally strong as our final suspected race: earth ponies.”
Opacare could vaguely hear Rainbow’s protests as Applejack smirked, even though they were already miles away. The thought nearly brought a smile to his face, but he forced the feeling down.
He asked for the officer to turn the body so that they could more clearly see the fight marks. “There; they’re much smaller than a stallion’s hoof. It’s a female.”
The detective grunted in affirmation. “An earth pony mare attacked our victim? Haven’t heard that in years.”
Something about the hoofprints was odd, though. The curvature was not that of a normal mare, so far as Opacare’s memory could recall. They were much more pronounced. The ends had punctured a few bits of skin, so they might have been sharpened with a nail filer of sorts. He had overheard some time ago that mares liked to go to the spa to have their hooves manicured in such a way, but to design the hoof so that it could stab was not a common practice, nor a common desire.
This troubled him. He felt something was wrong, but couldn’t place it.
He stepped away from the body, peering around the hotel room. Two police officers stood in front of a broken window. He froze, mind whirling. Wait… if that’s how they got in…
“Did anypony actually hear anything go on in here?” he asked.
“It doesn’t seem like it. Our caller just stumbled in on chance. Even if they could hear, they… well, they couldn’t. Seems like everypony on this floor suffers from a hearing problem.”
Opacare frowned, then glanced at Swol. “Swol, come here.”
The younger stallion started in shock, but nodded, coming forward. “What is it, Mr. Prose?”
“You said that Flint heard Rarity scream, correct? That he was the only one on this whole deaf floor?”
“That’s right.”
The pewter stallion stomped his hoof. “That’s odd. No, more than odd; perturbing. How is it that…” His voice trailed, as did that thought. “Hang on. If the body was discovered only minutes ago… What time is it?”
“It’s nearing evening, Mr. Prose. About 4:45 PM.”
“Thank you. Of course, we won’t know time of death until after an autopsy, but we at least have something to work with.”
“We do?” Swol asked, his voice weak.
“I believe so. We know that the alarm system that surrounds the hotel has a strange, seven-minute interval between being on-and-off. Therefore, we can assume that the killer here used that to her advantage. But for this crime to have been committed only a short while ago…”
“They would have to have slipped in while we were on the roof, when the intervals were still going off,” Swol realized, gasping.
“It may very well be that they snuck in while we were either on our way to the top, in the elevator, or peering around. Perhaps even before we found the invisible barrier, and then before Twilight figured out the measure of each interval.”
“A highly calculating maneuver. We’re dealing with a professional,” the detective said. “And a female at that, too. But without a description…”
“We’re shooting in the dark here,” Opacare finished. He shook his head. “Nothing more we can do about that.” He frowned. “Officer, have your men check the police records for any mention of former Canterlot Guard Flint Steel. If we can figure out why somepony would do… this… to him, then we might have a shot at finding our killer.”
“Understood, Mr. Prose. I’ll bring the body in for a proper autopsy. Who should we notify once that’s finished?”
He hesitated, half tempted to say himself. But the name that came out was not his own. “Grifford Finch, the mayor.”
“Very well, Mr. Prose. Anything else?”
He considered his options. He could stay and help with the current investigation. If he did so, he might turn up something sooner.
Then he looked back at Swol, back at Rarity, at Twilight, even Grifford in the hall. Their heads were low, faces, sullen; attitudes, depressed and drastically deep and dark. They’ll need me for a little while.
Still, though, the investigation called for him. He compromised.
“Go on without me, for now. I’ll join you in time.” The officer nodded, and Prose and Swol returned to the two mares.
“That’s it?” Rarity’s voice surprised him. It cut sharp, dug deep, suggesting both anger and huge disappointment.
“I suppose so,” he answered simply.
“No follow-up? No ‘further investigation?’”
“The police will take it from here, Rarity.”
“What, you don’t care enough that he’s dead? That your best friend is lying in a pool of his own blood?”
Prose stared at Rarity, mouth agape, before shutting it and narrowing his eyes to dangerously thin slits. “Raven Lock was my best friend,” he murmured. “And I don’t even know this stallion.”
“That doesn’t mean you shouldn’t help!”
“And do what? More of what I’m already doing?”
Swol shifted on his hooves. “I… just remembered something. I’m just gonna go tell the detective that…” In a blur he left the heated conversation. Prose barely responded to his absence.
Rarity stared at the author for a moment longer, before huffing and turning away. “Rarity—” She cut him off with another, louder huff. He sighed, then turned away. “Fine. Twilight, keep an eye on her.”
“I can take care of myself quite nicely, thank you very much, Mr. Prose.”
Odd as her attitude was, he chalked it up to simply a grieving response; though he could not say he felt the same. He thus ignored her as best he could. “What are you going to do next?” Twilight asked.
He looked out the door. “Talk.”
Tragedy was not commonplace for Rarity. That did not mean it did not happen. She was an adult; she had her fair share of tears, funerals, cries, moments of despair. To say otherwise was to lie, and to lie was to dishonor those who had long passed on.
Her face echoed her thoughts clearly, now facing away from the body. She and Twilight had stepped outside, watching Prose approach Grifford. Her chest felt like it was sinking to the ground, dragged down by an invisible weight; she struggled to remain standing.
She wondered. She simply wondered. She could barely think straight, nor could she keep a coherent thought for long. Her mind danced around ideas and concepts; memories flew by, coupled with emotions, on a wistful ride through her life. Grandma Belle had died when she was but seven; Sweetie had yet to be born, so she hadn’t had to go through the pain of seeing a loved one die. Rarity recalled vividly the anger and grief that consumed her for days on end. It seemed unfair, to have the loved die suddenly; indeed, it was unfair, to have one of the most loving and caring individuals in her life, be silenced abruptly, by a stupid disease. She had cried for days, and had sobered up a week later, the pain enormous to bear.
But that did not mean it would not fade. Once she was ten, the grief began its long trek back down to the bottom parts of her soul. It was still there; she’d always feel it. Yet it had faded; its effect was no longer so powerful.
It—grief—was much like a scar. It told the story of a painful memory, and it would never leave you alone. It grew ugly over time, darkening the skin which it resided on, creating an ugly discrepancy in a swirl of white fur. It was a reminder of something you miss; something that happened that should not have happened, you reasoned, but happened anyway. And you could do nothing to remove it. No amount of time in the world could ever remove scars; neither growing up, nor growing out, could defeat it. A scar was constant; lasting; forever.
Rarity’s scars may not have been as tragic as Princess Luna’s, nor as bitter and as old, but they were still her scars; they were a part of her. She had grown with them; changed with them. They held meaning to them.
So why did Opacare not appear the same?
She did not mean to force that stallion to feel as she felt. After all, Opacare had not known of Flint Spark’s existence; really, only she and Swol had any personal interaction with the strange, but eccentric stallion.
Strange, but eccentric. Isn’t that how I would describe Prose?
Twilight left, perhaps to talk to one of the officers on duty. Rarity barely registered her absence, focusing instead on the blue-green rug beneath her hooves.
The question of why Prose appeared unaffected by Flint’s death ran a mongoose’s marathon in her brain. It made no sense to her. Surely the author could spare some compassion, some empathy, over the senseless slaughter of innocents, and thus of innocence? Surely he could express pain, regret, sorrow. Surely, he could do something other than remain cold and distant, so much like his old self.
Rarity began to wonder if she had ever really known the stallion. She knew little of how his mind worked. If regressing into a frigid personality was commonplace, then did that mean that any warmth he had expressed was a farce, a mask? Who was the true Opacare Prose that she had come to…
Come to? Come to what? Somehow, the word evaded her, frustrating her even further.
She felt a pony brush up against her. Looking up, she found Swol, looking at her with caring eyes. “Hey,” he greeted.
“Hey,” she responded, finding her voice to be terribly dull and low.
“How… how are you holding up?”
Shrugging, she said, “About as well as can be expected, I guess.”
“That’s…” She supposed he was going to say “good,” but he simply finished, “… something to hear.”
She nodded. “How about you, Swol?”
He shook his head. “I’m… well, I’ve seen my fair share of pain and mistreatment. But…” He sighed. “This is terrifying for me.”
She hesitated, before asking, “Why did this happen, Swol? What did Flint deserve to have this? He was just a nice, old stallion; why would this happen to him, of all ponies?”
Swol turned to her, and she saw him thinking deeply. “I just don’t understand,” she added softly, more to herself than to him.
Silence fell, crushing her voice and her resolve. She sunk into the wall and closed her eyes.
“When has the crazy and terrifying ever made any sense?” he finally said. “How can we hope to comprehend how such evil acts occur? The sane cannot understand the ways of the insane, nor the methods, nor the madness, for the sane cannot go to the dark and deep places that the insane delve into.”
He breathed in, then let his breath pool in front of him. “It makes us vulnerable, when we are unable to understand the mad. And even when we do catch them, we do not truly understand where they are coming from.”
“We can’t stand in their shoes,” she said, “because they wear too small of a size.”
“Or maybe too large. It’s hard to say, really.”
Swol sadly shook his head. “But that doesn’t help, really, does it? It just makes us feel more helpless. Powerless… I’m sorry. I’m just making you feel worse.”
He made to move, but Rarity placed a hoof on his shoulder, stopping him. “Swol. Stay. Please.”
Sensing her pain, her anguish, he nodded, and returned to his spot beside her.
They watched Prose approach Grifford. The grey stallion and the brown stallion mashed together in Rarity’s mind, creating a blend of pewter and mud, that reminded her of the ground and of the earth. She remembered that there was no green; and thus, no life, no spirit.
They were broken, she realized. This had broken them. She wasn’t sure how, or why, but she knew. She knew the truth.
Twilight joined them shortly after, having nothing much to report. The officers were silent on everything. Together the three of them watched the author and the mayor.
It is when the world suddenly betrays you, when your sense of security vanishes, when you suddenly lose all means to win, that you become scared, that you become paranoid; it is when the rage and the sorrow, hidden, are pushed away, that turns the good in all of us—malicious; that makes good ponies, cruel.
Rarity watched Prose with that thought in mind; and her heart deflated rapidly in her chest.
“Grifford.”
No… it can’t be… did Opacare Prose just refer to me by my first name?
Grifford might have grinned, had he not still been suffering from a drastically shocking experience. Though he was the Boss, he had yet to see any dead bodies show up in the Family’s records; and he intended to keep it that way.
“Ah, Opacare,” he said, turning. “How goes the investigation—”
“Quiesce.”
Finch frowned, caught off guard by the command for quiet. “I… I’m sorry, is something wrong?”
“There will be something wrong, if you lie to me.”
The author’s voice had become menacing. Low and deep, dipping down into a dark pit of reserved anger, it cut through Finch’s body like a heated blade. The darkness in his eyes contrasted the carnation highlight; it was an oddly perfect blend of coolness and coldness.
Grifford cleared his throat. “Alright, Opacare. I won’t lie. I promise.”
“Empty words from a scoundrel. How stupid do you think I am?”
Once again, the voice burst through skin and bone. Finch found himself suddenly feeling hurt. “Prose, I—”
“Quiet. I’ll do the talking, you do the responding.”
Finch nodded slowly, sensing that arguing would do no good.
“Now. Do you mind telling me what the hell you were doing up here?” Prose fixed him with a glare. “You were supposed to be downstairs, with Miss Teal.”
“I was… curious.”
“You hesitated. Why?”
“Perhaps because I sense you won’t believe me either way?”
“Don’t be a smartass.”
“One of us has to be in this conversation.”
Prose glared at him, then resumed pacing. “I’ll ask again; what were you doing up here?”
Finch clenched his jaw, then relaxed; he had nothing to hide, really. “I wanted to take a look around. It will be a little time before the warrant is finalized, and I figured a quick viewing wouldn’t hurt.”
“Then why this room? Why Flint Steel?”
“I thought I heard something.”
“You do realize that nopony in this hotel heard anything, correct?”
“That’s been bothering me, too.” Finch frowned. “But I swear that I heard something. It was faint; kind of like a murmur.”
“A voice?”
“Probably; but it was so soft, a whisper on the winds.”
“Now you’re becoming whimsical.”
Finch pressed on. “When I entered, I saw Flint on the ground in a pool of his own blood. I… I couldn’t believe it. His eyes, closed, mouth shut, neither breathing nor moving… it was so surreal that I nearly toppled over from only shock.”
“You act like you haven’t seen a dead body before.”
“The only time I have was the same time you did!” Finch suddenly exclaimed, the outburst surprising both he and the stallion opposite of him. He faltered, realizing what he had just said, and the sensitive material they concerned. “I… I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that—”
“Talk,” said Opacare through gritted teeth. The Mayor noted his voice was wavering; no doubt, a painful memory had flown past.
“Right… Anyway, as you know, the police were already investigating this hotel. An officer arrived on the floor, no doubt to search through every nook and cranny. He saw the open door and, after approaching, saw me on the floor; then he saw the body. The rest is as you saw it.”
His words of finality did not quite carry the same effect for Prose. He paced, he pondered, he glared at and beyond Grifford. He raised his head, as if to ask further; when he was interrupted by the sound of hooves stomping towards them.
Both stallions turned to see a squadron of officers hauling a heavy body bag. The faint outline of Flint Steel’s body could be seen, and—in a grotesque manner—the syringe stood out. Prose scrambled out of the way, eyeing the object with trepidation. Finch watched the officers go.
They must be bringing him to the Medical Examiner’s office in the Police Department, some rational part of his brain told him.
Once the officers had vanished down the stairwell, Finch turned back to Prose, expecting him to continue his questioning. But that seemed far from the stallion’s thoughts. The focus in his eyes began to fade, and he stared at the stairwell, lost. Finch was tempted to get up and talk to him, perhaps to draw him out of his reprieve; but he reasoned that that was the last thing that Opacare would want.
He clutched the shock blanket, wanting to feel his warmth spread through it; yet despite the close proximity between himself and the velvety material, he still felt a chill run through his body that set his senses on fire and brought him to the edge of trepidation.
Dead bodies weren’t for the faint of heart. Even the Boss didn’t like seeing them.
He got up, and, after casting one final look at the pewter stallion, left him alone, and went back to the room in silence.
Twilight couldn’t explain it, but she felt that there was a great canyon between Opacare and the situation at hand. It was most likely his dismissive demeanor that brought this on; or, perhaps, his unwillingness to stand with them as another sign. The pewter stallion now stood outside of the room, staring in silence at the wall. He was lost in his thoughts.
As was she, she supposed. Sharp as her mind was, it failed her at the moment; she could do little else but simply look around. With Rarity and Swol doing their best to comfort each other, and Grifford Finch still in mild shock, she and Prose arguably were the most sane. Yet, unlike the stallion, Twilight felt the pain of loss easily.
Flint was not somepony close to her; but she was a pony. A living, breathing creature, capable of higher thinking and acting. She could feel a wide arrange of emotions, ranging from anger, to sadness, to bitterness. Here, at this moment, she felt a combination of them all; here, she was a pony; here, she did more than what Prose was doing.
Here, she emphasized. So why couldn’t Prose?
We all have our own ways of dealing with grief, she reasoned. Yet she knew Prose to be a logical individual; and to not react at all—or, at least, in an easily discernible way—seemed illogical. Though the author would never admit it, he was one of the most caring ponies that Twilight had ever met. After all, not many ponies would fake their own vanishment, in order to save the lives of the city that never loved him.
Thus, this emotionally-shallow Opacare Prose that stood outside was as much of a stranger to her as Flint Steel. But unlike the deceased, that made Prose all the more scarier; she could not place why.
She blinked, and breathed in through her snout. She could smell some blood, leftover, as well as the sweaty bodies of the working officers. Her hearing buzzed in and out; a sort of ringing bled between her ears. Was she losing it? No, she wasn’t; her mind was still reeling, recuperating, recovering.
Windows.
She looked towards them, seeing that the sun had turned to an afternoon orange. The numerous bodies in the room made it hot; she was tempted to walk over and open the window, if only to allow the fall breeze to fly by, but she doubted the police would let her, for hear of whisking away any evidence. Her mind briefly touched upon her first experience at the Iron Pony competition. Remembering that autumn air filled her with melancholic nostalgia.
Her head swiveled, and she bit her lower lip, scrunching up her muzzle. Grifford, Swol, Prose, and most importantly Rarity… they all needed to rest. They had been through so much, in so little time. She looked at them, then consulted a reflective picture frame. Her shoulders and their shoulders sagged; backs, lowered; eyes, covered in rings of tiredness.
She walked over to Rarity and Swol, intending to speak. Her throat locked up. What exactly could she say? “Hey,” she began, then her voice was buried in a sea of emotions.
“Hey.” Swol’s voice was flat, but when he turned to her, she saw a bit of light in his eyes. “How are you holding up?”
“Fine, I guess. You two?” She winced. “Nevermind, I think I already know.”
“You were lost in thought for a moment there, Twilight, dear—I saw,” said Rarity. “Are you certain you’re alright?”
The lavender unicorn offered a sigh. “I don’t really know, I guess… I need… I need a rest. There’s… there’s so much going on.”
“Indeed.” Rarity nodded her agreement, though Twilight noticed it was a slow movement. “I concur with that, Twilight. A rest would be nice, but…”
“But the investigation goes onward,” said Grifford, approaching from the side of Swol. “And… a rest would slow it down.”
“Hmm…” Twilight rubbed her eyes with her hooves. “We… there’s so much going on, in so little time, and so much has happened… so much to process.” Her words tumbled, stumbled, fell, exhausted and spent. “We can’t keep going on like this. We’re… we’re only ponies; there’s only so much we can take.”
“Are you saying we stop?” asked Swol.
“The police will take care of most things,” Grifford said. “I, for one, think a rest would be…” He searched for the word, rolling his hoof and neck. “Good, for us, at the very least.”
“That sounds like giving up.”
They all turned to the source, and none were surprised to see Prose in the doorway. He tried to stand tall, but Twilight could tell that even he was beginning to strain. His gaze seemed more forced than intense; like he was trying to put on a facade of rigid strength to compensate for growing fatigue.
“We’re not giving up,” Twilight said, facing him. “We’re just… tired.”
“But we can’t stop now,” he asserted. “There’s too much at stake. If we wait one more moment, we might—”
“Lose them?” Grifford nodded slowly. “That is indeed a risk. But if all points of Manehattan are locked down, then they cannot leave, as we’ve established.”
Prose shot him a glare. “Or you could have them transported elsewhere without alerting the police.”
“Do you really think I’m still somehow involved in this?” The Mayor somehow found some strength left, and he used it to stomp the ground. “I know you’re a stubborn stallion, but damn it, it’s like you can’t see past your own anger.”
“I don’t trust you, Finch; and if they could see what I see, then they’d say the same.”
“Prose, Mayor, please…” Rarity tried to call, but they ignored her.
“We’ll drive ourselves to our deaths if we throw ourselves aimlessly,” Finch argued. “We’re blind as bats, here.”
“To not act is still to act.”
“Opacare, Mayor Grifford,” Twilight stated firmly. “That’s enough.” Before the argument could continue, she turned to the author. “Prose, please. Listen to me. We’ve been through a lot, and I’m not saying that we will give up. In fact, there’s no chance we will. But…” She sighed. “This… this isn’t something you just walk out of unscarred. This isn’t something you can easily put away, in order to focus on what is at hand. This is… this is scary, Prose.” She looked to him with wide eyes. “Aren’t you scared, too?”
He didn’t answer; he simply stared.
“I don’t expect you to understand. Just… give us a day, or two: I don’t know. Just enough time for us to… reorient ourselves.”
“But—”
“Opa, please listen to reason.”
Rarity’s voice made him turn to her. For a moment, his eyes flashed something red, then it faded into simple pink. Her calm stare met his, and, through the silence, they met a grim, hesitant agreement. “Where?” he asked.
“I… I know a place. My place,” Swol answered. “It’s protected.”
“So was this place.”
“Please, trust me. We’ll be fine there.”
The author’s scrutinous stare lingered over the younger stallion, before he turned quickly. “Fine. Go do what you must.”
“What about you?”
“Somepony has to keep working.” He glanced at them for a moment, before leaving finally.
He didn’t even offer them a farewell. Something in Twilight’s heart sunk.
She turned to the others. “What now?”
“Now,” said Swol, “we do what we must.” He took the lead.
Aryna licked her hooves, relishing the metal taste, before spitting at the ground. She murmured an ancient Zebra prayer, and looked out from the rooftop at the hotel.
Seeing the numerous police and ponies who had gathered, she concluded that an extraction team was unnecessary. Too many witnesses; acting now would undermine the Business’s ultimate goal. Her trained eye fell onto a certain pewter stallion, who was busy talking to one of the officers.
She rolled her shoulder, and the long, metal object across it rolled with her. Heavy, it weighed her down, but she managed to remain still as she stared at the stallion. Carefully, she unhooked the object from her harness, and held it out in front of her. Her breath slowed. Her forelegs locked around the barrel and trigger. If she took the shot, they’d have eliminated the biggest threat to their whole plan. If she fired, Opacare Prose would be dead…
Her hooves squeezed on the adapted trigger mechanism, and each second resulted in her heart beating louder and louder against her chest. She thought she could hear it echo and rebound off of the weapon. Leaning forward, her eye pressed up against the scope.
In its lens, she could clearly see his face. It was different than from the last few times she had seen it. Tired, weary, and most of all scornful, it did not match the cold and calm description she had long been provided with. His eyes glowed even in the light of the afternoon, like a rosy beacon.
She flicked the weapon slightly upward, where she saw, outside of the room, four ponies exiting. Two she immediately recognized as the Mayor and his secretary. The other two, mares, she only slightly knew from the papers. The white one had to be the kidnapped filly’s sister.
Her rifle then dropped back down to Prose. There was no way he’d see it coming. And once she fired and they realized what was happening, she’d be gone, leaving no trace of her existence. It would be a clean-cut assassination.
She stopped breathing, steadying the rifle against her shoulder. Ready… aim…
She waited two seconds, before sighing and rolling the rifle back onto her back. Best not to tempt fate. And orders are orders, I suppose. Dropping out of her offensive stance, she fell to her four hooves, taking a sniff of the Manehattan air.
She smelled it. She could smell the reminder.
Power. All the power we’d ever need.
All the power we’d need to protect everypony.
Aryna looked up, squinting under the sunlight. A cloud rolled by slowly; it took minutes before it covered the sun, providing a shadow upon the rooftop. In the moment that it passed, she was already gone.
