//------------------------------// // Rogue Retribution (Nov 25 2020 - "Retribution" and music) // Story: Speedwriting Anthology // by AuroraDawn //------------------------------// Tracker lay in the dark tunnels, giving no heed to either the filth staining his fur, or the blood leaking from it. He had been covered in sewage before, and he had bled before. Such were the lives of members of the Moon Chapter of the Royal Guard. Elite forces, trained to be untraceable in night and invisible in daylight, the silent shadow beneath the kingdom of Equestria that kept the borders safe. Sure, the Elements would be dispatched for world-ending issues; gods and monsters alike that threatened to wipe all life off the planet. But the Moon Chapter was for the civilized races that might threaten the stability of the country. He pulled out a roll of parchment from his saddle bag, swearing as the movement sent a burning wave through his foreleg. He paid no attention to the words on it--official orders demanding he retire from his post for debriefing--and tore it into strips, before wrapping it tightly around the laceration above his hoof. He watched the paper seep red, and watched the blotch grow slowly until it stopped. Satisfied, he stood up from the biological pool he was sitting in and tested his weight on the hoof. It hurt like Tartarus, but it didn’t bleed, and Tracker could work with that.  He was used to pain, pain of all kinds. He had suffered frostbite in his ears stopping an abolitionist group from dropping the top of Mount Canterlot onto the castle. He had been gouged in his ribcage by the jagged horn of a changeling. He had even once lost an eye to a stray magic bolt in a fight, though luckily the royal healers were literal miracle workers. Yes, Tracker had suffered a great deal of pain and walked away--or crawled, depending--to eventually fight again. But Tracker had never felt pain like the week before, when the Lucky Family captured and tortured him and his husband for their role in taking down a filly-trafficking ring. The rest of the Moon Chapter had managed to extract him in time; unfortunately, Clandestine’s habit of pushing his luck and testing other’s patience had led to his unscripted end minutes before the other guards had arrived.  They always knew it was a possibility that one of them would die without the other. Honestly, before the Chapter blasted through that wall, he was content to know that he and Clandestine had spent their last moments--horrible they may have been--together. When love had filled his spare time for so long, now he found only hatred in that void. Hatred at the Chapter, for coming too late for Clandestine. Hatred at them for coming too soon, before he had passed with his love. Hatred at his superiors for refusing to let him serve until he had dealt with his trauma. None of that compared to the intense and acrid malice he felt towards the Lucky Family, though. He could forgive the Chapter; he knew how they worked and how they made their calls. He could forgive his superiors; he knew that they were absolutely correct. He could not forgive the Family for taking Clandestine away from him. And so he had left his infirmary. Still bruised from his recent beating, he grabbed any supplies he could take without setting alarms off, and set out into the darkness to do what he did best; tracking vermin. He knew where the Family’s bunker was, and he knew they would be there, what with their mansion in Canterlot compromised. He knew there was an old sewer that dumped off the back face of the mountain that led to it. He knew there would be guards. He looked down at his bandaged hoof, and through his anger came a sob. Clandestine was so much better on insertion jobs than he. Tracker would find the place, or the perps, and Clandestine would get in and sabotage and distract until the rest of the Chapter could get in with the least casualties. He didn’t have that now, and though he had managed to sneak on top of the sewer entrance and drop down on the two unsuspecting unicorns, he was still a lone earth pony. Well, a little bit of magical burns weren’t going to stop him though. Those two cousins of the Family were now resting somewhere at the base of the mountain. He didn’t know when their shift change would be, if there was one, but he suspected eventually somepony would notice they were missing, and so he carried on. He glanced around a corner and then trotted purposefully around it, heading towards the large metal door at the end of the tunnel. Beyond it was a mystery. He didn’t know the layout of the bunker, nor where any of the Family would be. He did know that Whinnie and Buttercup, along with their father Haddock, would be inside. Haddock had ordered the hit. Whinnie and Buttercup had killed Clandestine. Tracker closed his eyes, breathing deeply in spite of the rank stench around him. It didn’t matter how careless he was here. He was focused on those three. Anyone else who got in his way was a bonus, but he wouldn’t go out of his way to put them there. He didn’t expect to get out of this alive but, he didn’t expect to be alive without Clandestine either. Would Desty do the same for me? The thought forced him to pause with his hoof right before the door.  He smiled. Without a doubt. Tracker wrenched the door open and then bucked, launching himself into the room. At the back end of the room, two unicorns were playing poker at a table, and they didn’t even look up at the commotion. “Ehh, Bucksy, you can piss off the cliff. No more breaks until shif-” the first pony got out before Tracker’s damaged hoof collided with his horn, bringing the unicorn’s head down to the wall and chipping the tip on the stone. Before his scream got out, Tracker was already spinning around, pivoting his body on the horn to swing his rear hooves into the head of the other. The first pony’s cry was cut short as Tracker jumped off, slamming his head into the table and knocking him out. A cacophony came from the next room over, as muffled shouts and the scrapes of moving furniture issued from the closed wooden door. Tracker wasted no time, grabbing the second unicorn right as a neon-red glow from his horn reached its apex, and deftly twisting his neck to aim the magic bolt. The door exploded as the unicorn dropped limp, and with it came old concrete and stone from the roof around the frame. Dirt and dust filled the room, and Tracker allowed himself a smile. This was his element. He moved through the cloud and pressed himself against the wall next to the door, waiting. There were more shouts, ones that Tracker could almost make out past the ringing in his ears from the magical blast, but he didn’t care about what they were saying. He had heard Whinnie’s telltale nasally voice right next to the door, and he simply squinted his eyes from the dust and waited. “Alright, you muthabukin’ narc. Come out and fight like a stal-”  You all talk too much, Tracker thought, reaching out as the shadow of a gangly unicorn moved into his field of vision. He wrapped his forelegs around Whinnie’s head and shot his hindlegs out, right into his foe’s own. Tracker dropped to his back and heard a number of sickening pops as Whinnie’s knees gave under the torsion.  “Auugh, you sick buck!” Whinnie screamed, and Tracker rolled forward back on to his hooves, placed them on the fallen unicorn’s head, and jumped. The dirt had settled enough that Haddock, dressed to the nines in a suit and tie and standing at the back of the second room, could witness the end of his son. Tracker turned to him with bloodlust in his eyes, but he blinked in confusion. Haddock was smiling. Around him were twelve other unicorns, all charging those bright red bolts around their horns, but though Tracker was paused in front of them, they did not shoot. “Go on then, Haddock! I’d say we’re even now, though I was planning on saying hello to Buttercup before I left.” “Normally, Tracker, I would disagree with you. Today is different. Come here and sit down.” “Just kill me, you old ass.” “Not until you sit down. I’d like to talk.” Tracker looked down at the bleeding stallion underneath him, musing at the complete lack of empathy Haddock had displayed. He supposed that was why he ran a criminal empire. He looked back up at the fancy pony and his entourage.  “...Fine.” He got up and moved slowly, wary of the sparking bullets ready to cut into him at any moment, and sat down on the side of a chair that had been knocked sideways. “Alright, Haddock, you want your final villainous monologue. Get it over with. I’m tired.” “I didn’t order the hit.” “Bullshit.” Tracker spat, glaring at the Don before him. All the Chapter’s recon they got showed that it came from him. “I always told Buttercup and Whinnie to stay out of moving ponies. Gambling, racketeering, bootlegging, that’s the safe money. But they wanted to get bits quick, and so they did it anyways. So when the Chapter took down that portion of my business, suffice to say I was happy.” Tracker said nothing, simply giving Haddock his evil eye. They were not, and had never been, friends, and so he wasn’t taking anything Haddock said at face value. “Buttercup wanted me to strike back, and I refused. He sent the hit out, forging my hoofprint. He’s not here, Tracker. Look around; this is it for us right now.” “So you get in a little spat and your two in line for succession are suddenly expendable?” “Any business of quality doesn’t allow vice-presidents to do whatever the Tartarus they want. I have tried my whole life to teach my colts about consequences. I think you’ll be a good tutor in this regard.” “So the reason you haven’t killed me yet…” “Is because I want you to hunt down and kill Buttercup, yes.” “What do I get out of it? You can’t give me anything that I want,” Tracker said, his deep voice cracking as he thought of Clandestine. “Find and take out Buttercup, and I’ll fight you one-on-one, no magic, no backups. You either take down the Lucky Family, or join your beloved.” Tracker closed his eyes, sighing. After his whole life of fighting crime, here he was, negotiating with a mafia. Well, finding Buttercup was likely to be just as deadly as fighting Haddock. He knew that Haddock had gotten his position as head of the empire via blood, but it wasn’t his blood. That just made it all the more likely he’d soon be with Clandestine again. He spit onto the fancy rug again and opened his eyes. “Deal.”