//------------------------------// // A Mad Tea Party // Story: The Mysterious Mare-Do-Well: Year One // by Brony_Fife //------------------------------// Chapter One ~A Mad Tea Party~ Lieutenant Soarin, five years on the force, resident lazy genius of the Canterlot Police Homicide Division, stretched, scratched, belched, and flicked his cigarette to the ground as the sun finally, demurely, peeked over the horizon. Soarin hated these early morning moments. But hey, no rest for the wicked. He sniffed nonchalantly as his partner, fellow Lieutenant Spitfire, looked at him in befuddlement. “So,” she said, “she jumped.” Her partner fought a laugh. She hated it when he did. It made her feel like a child talking to adults about politics. Insignificant in the presence of somepony who’s been at this game far longer than she had—which was true. She’d only become a Lieutenant a few months ago, replacing Soarin’s old partner. “I'm not so sure about that,” he said, his youthful voice contrasting his gritty noir detective look. He walked the length of the bridge, up to where the bloody hoofprints ended. There were several in one spot, their placement signifying that when the Wabe Avenue Killer reached this spot, she turned—evidently, first to look behind her, then to face the river underneath. Spitfire took note of the equally bloody hoofprints on the rail of the bridge. She looked back to her partner. “Bloody hoofprints from the murder that took place one block away, staining a trail for us, ending at a bridge overlooking a sewer-pass. Looks like suicide to me.” Soarin rolled his eyes. “You're not thinking from as many angles as a police detective should, Miss Spitfire.” He gave her That Look. Spitfire recalled the time the last time he shot her That Look. She had asked him what happened to his old partner. Soarin gave her this Look that demanded her to never ask that question again. He coupled it with, “Apple Family.” Everypony on the force knew about the Apple Family. An entire family of contract killers whose loyalty sided only with the highest bidder. Spitfire was only a rookie when she came across the body of a fellow cop—dead, the word “PIG” carved onto his forehead, with a bright, shiny Braeburn in his mouth. A crunch brought Spitfire out of memory lane. She looked back to her partner and found him munching on an apple. A Braeburn. Spitfire grimaced. “So,” she said, “she ran away just before the police arrived...” “If by ‘just before’, you mean by five minutes,” Soarin sniffed. Another crunch. "Thwear ta God, ith like effypony'th on a conthint coffee bweak." Spitfire rolled her eyes. “So she had a head start. Then what?” Soarin lazily looked over the side of the bridge, his blue mane falling to one side. He hadn’t gelled it back like he sometimes did, deciding to just let it hang today. The way it framed his stubbled face made him ruggedly handsome. Spitfire followed his gaze over the side of the bridge, hoping she didn’t just look like some dumb teenage girl staring lustfully at a poster of a movie star. Soarin had the decency to swallow before answering this time. He held up a wing, extending a feather as if it were a finger. “Situation one. The killer has a sudden pang of conscience and, unwilling to live with what she’s done, she runs to this bridge and jumps.” The apple core in his hoof fell gently and quietly, making a soft splash as it landed in the river. Spitfire smirked at this display of casual littering. Here, she thought Soarin was all about upholding Canterlot law. Another feather extended. “Two. She’s a unicorn, and she’s a pretty talented magic-user. This is a definite possibility since the scene of the murder had quite a bit of PKE residue. Thusly, to throw us off her trail, she wanders in the direction opposite to the one she wants to take and—” Soarin claps his hooves loudly, causing Spitfire to jump. “Poof,” he said dramatically, extending his hooves apart. “She teleports away, to any one location in Canterlot, thereby throwing off the police.” A few seconds of silence. Soarin turned his attention to the river below again, looking to the direction the river was flowing. From this distance, he can see his apple core: a tiny red dot being tossed about in the raging water. It disappeared as it was sucked into the sewers below Canterlot. Soarin turned to Spitfire. “Well?” Spitfire raised an eyebrow. “Well, what?” “Well, what do you think?” Soarin’s rugged handsomeness was really starting to wreck Spitfire’s patience. She snorted, pushing aside her girlish lust she thought she’d left behind with her teens. “What? Like, what should we do?” She pursed her lips. It was odd of Soarin to simply ask her which direction they ought to take. Could this mean he was finally starting to trust her? The thought made her grin. She went over the math. One of their crime scene investigators, a unicorn whose name escaped Spitfire, had detected much PKE residue in that spot, indicating a use of unicorn magic. But upon further questioning the witness, several of the carolers were also unicorns. That spell could have been something done in self-defense. On the other hoof, the only way for the killer to have killed six ponies (three of which were unicorns), in less than five minutes before the police arrived and make a safe getaway, would be for her to have used magic. The multiple lacerations and cut tongues also indicated this, since there was no indication the killer was armed with a knife or other sharp object. The PKE residue found was too large for simple cuts, though; that amount of residue, if used by only one unicorn, would have indicated an explosive use of magic. It simply made the killer look a lot stronger than she really was. Of course, they'd already had a CSI unicorn investigate this trail. No PKE between the crime scene and this bridge. No PKE on the bridge at all. If the killer was a unicorn (the most likely case), then that meant... Spitfire nodded. “Well, the unicorn officer we had in just a while ago didn’t sense any PKE residue in this spot at all.” She walked along the length of the bridge almost slyly. “In addition—” Spitfire stopped to point out the spot littered in bloody hoofprints—“this very spot seems to support the idea that she, indeed, climbed over the rail and jumped to a watery grave. Therefore, our killer couldn’t have teleported. In fact, I’m surprised you even came to this conclusion, Lieutenant Soarin.” Spitfire looked to Soarin, and was met by a Cheshire grin. She almost expected him to start disappearing while laughing at her.She gave him a playful punch to the chest. “You jerk,” she chided. “You knew the whole time. Why’d you even suggest the teleportation?” He let out a small chortle. “Just checking to see if you’re paying attention.” “So, what? You were just testing me?” Soarin looked out again to the giant sewer-mouth looming at the end of this river. His grin grew wider. “Don’t worry, you passed.” Spitfire gave an incredulous snort. “Oh what, you’re my teacher now?” “Might as well be, grasshopper,” he chuckled. “You are my responsibility.” “Responsibility?” said Spitfire. “I’m not a rookie anymore, Soarin. I’m a big girl now. I’m your partner.” He shot her That Look. She clammed up. The combination of stern expression and unkempt beauty made Spitfire wish she had a camera. Slowly, he broke away, looking back at the sewer-mouth. “Exactly,” he said. “You’re my responsibility.” Some quiet passed between the two. Just as Spitfire was about to excuse herself and let her partner brood, he suddenly said, “Situation Two.” Spitfire snapped to attention. “What?” “Situation Two.” Soarin glanced at the bloody hoofprints, taking in their haphazard and erratic patterns. Taking in how their killer had managed to mutilate six ponies and escape before police arrived, even considering the police's sluggish response time. He looked back up at Spitfire. “I think our killer was running from something.” The tea party was held in the darkness and dankness of the underground sewer, deep within Canterlot’s twisted guts. The complicated, twisted maze was meant to flush out the waste of Canterlot’s citizens, but all it really did was collect most of that waste. Vinyl Scratch’s trip to the tea party was silent, as always. The Top-Hat Mare’s pet was her guide, allowing her safe passage upon his purple, scaled back as he slithered in the smelly waters of the maze. He maneuvered through the network of twists and turns so expertly, Vinyl Scratch assumed he was born and raised in these sewers. A drip caused her ears to perk. The Angel in the drip scowled disapprovingly. It was the same scowl Mom made when Vinyl Scratch Broke The Rules. Another drip. This one gave another disapproving scowl. There was no joy in these sounds, this empty plinking of water against water. The Angels in these sewer sounds knew Vinyl Scratch was disobeying them. Let ’em vent. Vinyl Scratch mouthed the words bite me when she heard another scowling drip. The Angels don’t own her anymore. From now on, Vinyl Scratch does as Vinyl Scratch wants—and the Angels are gonna listen to her for once, whether they like it or not. She sniffed and rubbed her muzzle, smearing the blood on her face again. She blinked, only just now noticing that only half the world she saw was tinted purple. She pulled off her glasses and gave them a once-over. That shadow had gotten her in the face a few hours ago. Just as she was singing her song, the Angels in her song helping her to avenge their fallen comrade, that shadow appeared. Appeared out of nowhere, struck from everywhere. It was a pretty good punch. She was in such a frenzy, in such a hurry to escape at that point she hadn’t stopped to think over that she’d even been hurt, much less that her glasses were broken. She groaned, leaning back. She looked aside to see her duffel bag had fallen off at some point. Looking around in a panic, Vinyl Scratch’s heart sunk when she saw it floating down another path, disappearing from her view. “Shit!” she cried suddenly. The sound of her voice echoed in the tunnel. The water reflecting the green tint all around them collected more drips and more scowls. Her ride looked up at her with his shimmering, bright-green eyes. Even though he was a dragon, and could kill her like he’d done so many others, Vinyl Scratch found him very cute. Especially his eyes. She petted his head. “It’s OK,” she whispered. “It’s OK. I didn’t mean that against you. I, I, I’m never angry... at you.” The next and final hour of the trip is filled with Vinyl Scratch distracting herself from the disapproving Angels by talking about her life with the dragon. By the end of her trip, the dragon knew the length of each of her legs, about her shattered home life, her first kiss. He knew nearly everything. That her whole life was summed up in a story that ended in less than an hour scared Vinyl Scratch. Once again, the Angels in the sounds came back. This time, in the sound of a joyous noise came a rollicking Angel. Vinyl Scratch loved its attitude. It, much like the song it lived in, was upbeat, carefree, whimsical. Everything Vinyl Scratch hoped to be. “Come on, your friend is waiting for you!” it sang. The dragon stopped at the foot of an old subway. From the looks of the place, it had been abandoned for nearly fifty years before somepony decided to take residence. Inside this tunnel, a living space had been set up: a phonograph played the music the Angel lived in, an apartment made out of an old decommissioned subway train sat nearby, hats of nearly every design hung from hooks lining the walls, and giant colorful mushrooms sprouted from the ground. As she descended from her ride, Vinyl Scratch reached out to feel one. It was slimy and cool to the touch. But what was always the eye-catcher of this parade was the extravagant lay-out. A red carpet lined the entire length of this tunnel, and on top of this carpet were bowls, and tea pots, and tea pitchers, and pretty much anything one could use to throw a tea party. Also around this carpet were pillows for the guests to sit. There were only two attendees right now, besides Vinyl Scratch and the dragon: at the very end was the Top Hat Mare herself, and to her right was her current White Rabbit. The Top Hat Mare somehow looked even more puzzling today. She was never a very big mare, so her costume made her seem like she was a little filly wearing her father’s clothes. Her oversized green top hat cast a shadow over her twisted purple eyes and her equally oversized green coat trailed long behind her. It was less a coat and more a robe, really. Her white-and-purple curly mane poofed out of every angle from under her hat. She took a sip of tea, and looked to the White Rabbit at her side. The White Rabbit this time was an orange earth pony mare with a mane so blonde, Vinyl Scratch wondered if it was made of real gold. Her leather armor seemed pretty high-tech, almost like something out of the science-fiction movies her cheating boyfriend loved to watch with her. The only thing about her that contradicted the rest of her appearance was, well, the White Rabbit mask that encased almost her whole head, save for her mouth. “Well?” asked the Top Hat Mare. “How is the tea?” “Ah... don't... know,” said the White Rabbit. “Haven’t… drunk… any…” She spoke through gritted teeth, as if simply speaking were a difficult task. The White Rabbit could not move unless commanded, thanks to the Angel living in the mask. Due to recent events, Vinyl Scratch had come to the conclusion that most Angels are very controlling, and none more so than the Angels living in the hats and masks the Top Hat Mare made. The Top Hat Mare put a hoof in front of her mouth and gasped. “Oh my!” she said. “How silly of me! Drink the tea, please.” The White Rabbit lifted her tea cup to her mouth. Vinyl Scratch came closer and cocked her head as the White Rabbit attempted to drink from an empty cup. She set the tea cup down and growled, “It’s… delicious.” The Top Hat Mare got up and danced a jig as she clapped her front hooves together and laughed. “Oh! I’ve done it! I’ve finally done it! A hat for you that makes you comply to my every command! You no longer even possess an opinion! How muldry! How moll! How delightful, delightful, delightfully moll!” Suddenly, the Top Hat Mare looked to her new visitor. Vinyl Scratch smiled and waved to her friend. “Hey,” she said. “I made it.” “So you did,” said the Top Hat Mare, slightly twisting her head around. “So you have. I trust the Mock Turtle was gentle with you?” Vinyl Scratch nodded. “He’s very gentle.” She reached over and petted the Mock Turtle’s nose. He grunted in agreement. The Top Hat Mare bounded over to her pet. She walked around him, excitedly. “Oh, my Mock Turtle! How you long to join our dance! Soon, very soon.” Her laughter was long and cooing, almost like a dove. The Mock Turtle merely snorted in response, then turned away and crawled back into the sewer water. He left, his duty complete. The mare nodded. "Oh, well. He'll come back. Always does." She turned her attention back to Vinyl Scratch. “I assume you’re interested in the job, Alice?” Vinyl Scratch had almost forgotten about that. Above ground, she was Vinyl Scratch, DJ and indie musician. In this tea party, she was “Alice”, best of friends with the “Mad Hatter”. Another thing she’d nearly forgotten was that the Mad Hatter was very short-tempered, especially when it came to memory and obedience. She’d better not let it drop that she’d forgotten who she was! Vinyl Scratch pulled on the hems of her dark purple hoodie and courtseyed politely. “I am!” said "Alice", almost singing. At this, Mad Hatter smiled and offered her tea. Of course, the tea, like everything else, was just pretend. It was almost a game. Mad Hatter had many opinions on a variety of topics, all of which were contradictory. “If it isn’t, it ain’t,” she’d say. “That’s logic.” As much as she loved to speak at length regarding logic, Mad Hatter had little regard for what logic really was. Anything and everything was meant to be broken and twisted and left in a pile. It was definitely something Alice could get behind. Alice turned to the White Rabbit again. She could see a set of teeth behind the mask, clenching and chewing angrily. “If I may ask, dear Hatter,” asked Alice, “who might this rabbit be?” “He wandered in here looking for a hat.” On a nearby table were multiple Royal Guard helmets, with a small number of regular hats: busboy caps, police caps, top hats, derby hats... and a cowboy hat. The Mad Hatter plucked the cowboy hat from the table and waved it about. “What he hadn’t realized at the time was that—” “My… hat,” growled the White Rabbit. The Mad Hatter’s mood swerved, her screwy eyes bulging as she stared down the White Rabbit. “MY hat,” she said, the unpleasant impatience in her voice readily apparent. The White Rabbit's teeth clenched. Reluctantly, he growled, “Your… hat.” “That’s a good boy, Rabbit. Anyway—” “Ah’m… a… girl.” Slowly, Mad Hatter put the hat back on the wall with its brothers. Alice watched quietly as her friend cantered casually over to the White Rabbit. The smile plastered on her face was almost giddy. She held a giggle as she slowly opened up the comically large sugar pot in front of the White Rabbit. She looked at the White Rabbit, still giggling. With an awful crack, the sugar pot’s lid was smashed over the White Rabbit’s head (the Angel in the crack shouted “Avert your eyes!”, a demand Alice was too scared to follow). Mad Hatter quickly seized the scruff of his neck and plunged his face down into the sugar, forcing him there. Keeping him there. “STOP IT!!!” she bellowed in a voice that scared Alice. “YOU’RE NOT ALLOWED TO DISOBEY!!!” She pulled up the White Rabbit, his face covered in sugar. Then thrust his face back down again, harder this time, yelling at him, cursing at him. Again. Again. Alice could do nothing but watch. She sipped from her empty tea cup, and watched. Finally, the White Rabbit was cast down. The Mad Hatter jumped onto his stomach, pinning him. The mask the White Rabbit wore prevented him from doing much besides vaguely spasming. A punch on the chest forced the air out of his lungs with a wheeze that made Alice cringe. “STOP! FIGHTING! THE! MASK!” the Mad hatter yelled as she pounded the White Rabbit again and again. “OBEY! THE! MASK!! OBEY MEEEEEEEEEE—” Suddenly, like a wire being cut, the Mad Hatter’s anger diffused. She lifted the White Rabbit up, dusted him off, and set him back on his pillow-seat as if he’d merely fallen over. She walked around the tea set, giggling like a child, and sat down. “Now then. White Rabbit, dear… are you a boy or a girl?” Some silence, most likely due to the White Rabbit struggling to get air back in his lungs. “…Boy,” he wheezed at last. “Ah’mma… boy.” His voice came out as a defeated croak. There was so much hate that underlined that sentence, Alice was almost afraid the White Rabbit would lose his temper. “Very good!” the Mad Hatter said as she patted his head affectionately. She pointed to the cowboy hat she’d hung on the wall. “And whose hat is that?” “…M... Mmmm... y... yyy... Y-Yours.” The Mad Hatter swept up the much-bigger-than-she-was White Rabbit and danced around with him merrily. “Oh, frabjous day! It works! It really, really works! My magic works just as well in masks as it does in hats! Kalloo-kallay!” Much crowing and celebration went on for the next hour before the Mad Hatter finally came down to business. Opening a nearby drawer, she pulled out various sheets of paper, then came back to the tea party. She knocked away some teapots and scone plates to make room. With the papers all laid down, Alice saw that two of them were maps—one with red writing on it, the other with blue markings. There were newspaper clippings showcasing a beautiful, ornate sword. The headlines read, BLUEBLOOD FINDS ANCIENT ARTIFACTS IN FORGOTTEN CITY Alice sipped from her teacup as the Mad Hatter grinned at her. “And now the time has come my dear, to talk of many things!”