//------------------------------// // Dragons // Story: The Mysterious Mare-Do-Well: Year One // by Brony_Fife //------------------------------// Chapter 2 ~Dragons~ The sun rose slowly into the sky, creaking and yawning like the rest of Canterlot punching in for work that morning. Shining Armor stretched, working the aches out of his lower back after having sat at his new desk for hours already. The only interruptions he had so far on his first day as Commissioner was to speak to his secretary (he had already forgotten her name) about development on several cases (The recent Wabe Avenue killings chief among them) and a call from his wife Cadence, who asked him how he was doing. A draw from his coffee brought his attention back to the file on his desk. A number of top secret documents lie scattered, each document containing unflattering information regarding the previous Commissioner. Quite a bit of dirt on him. After the death of his own daughter at the hooves of a killer who was never caught, Top Brass had a falling out with his wife, a mare almost half his own age. Led to a divorce that took half his family fortune. Afterward, it seemed Top Brass went completely bonkers. In reality, he was nothing as portrayed on television or on the radio. Nothing like on the news. Nothing like he was in front of a camera. Top Brass was a filthy cop, the kind who’d be more at home in film noirs. Under-the-table deals. Drug abuse. Alcohol. But it was never without a reason, Shining Armor noticed. He made deals with criminals in order to hunt down the monster who killed his little girl. He snorted Cloud Nine and drank himself silly to dull the pain he no doubt felt years after his daughter’s gruesome murder. If any of the newsgroups knew about this, they must have elected not to say a word of it. After all, society needs heroes... sometimes, even imaginary ones. Shining Armor took another sip from his coffee, almost reluctantly. It was the same brand he drank at home, black with three sugars—yet it missed the one thing that made it complete. It was missing Cadence’s touch. He sighed. First day on the job, and he already missed his wife. “Commissioner?” Shining Armor’s head snapped up to meet the gaze of his mousy secretary. He must have been so lost in thought he didn’t even notice her come in. “Yes?” “Call for you on line eight,” she said in her squeaky, almost childish voice. “Claims to be your sister?” Shining Armor sighed with a knowing smile. He waved his secretary out as he lifted his phone and pressed the TALK button. She closed the door behind her as demurely as a Neighponese geisha as he cleared his throat. “Hey, Twily,” he said into the phone. “Big Brother!” chirped a merry voice on the other end. “Well, nice to see somepony’s in a good mood today.” “Oh, don’t be that way, sourpuss. So. How’s the first day on the job?” He heard clinking noises, like a utensil scraping something. Probably calling him over breakfast. Shining Armor tried to hide his smile at the thought that his little sister had finally remembered to eat. Shining Armor’s eyes scanned the documents on his desk again as he released an exhausted sigh. It probably wouldn't be a good idea to talk workplace politics, and how his new role on the force had alienated several of the "Top Brass" generation of cops. “...Taxing,” he said at last. “They’re bringing me up to speed regarding this crime wave in general.” A pause. He heard her swallow. “So, no field work?” “Not yet. I’ll probably get eaten alive by all that tomorrow, though. How’s that teaching job of yours treating you these days?” “Boring,” Twilight said with strange enthusiasm. “Like always, my students are a bunch of unambitious slackers. They’re probably only going to college for the poontang and beer pong.” Shining Armor snickered. His sister took few things as seriously as she did academics. Then again, she had a history for taking everything seriously—something he himself often took advantage of. He was never sure if she ever forgave him for the time he’d locked her in the cellar after he told her there was buried treasure there. “Well, there’s gotta be at least one or two star pupils, right?” “None yet. This is a psychology class I’m teaching, and every single semester, everypony keeps thinking Freud was the only psychologist. Like, ever. They don’t even seem to know his theories are largely discredited by modern psychologists, either.” Shining Armor took another draw from his coffee, half paying attention to his sister, half organizing his notes and documents. “Isn’t that why they’re in your class? You’re supposed to be teaching them because they don’t know.” He heard a laugh over her end. “I’ve been at this for two years now, Shining Armor. I’ve tried mixing up my methods several times, and… nothing seems to stick.” Shining Armor clicked his tongue hesitantly, and thought for a moment. “Maybe you need to try to make your methods more engrossing. More involved.” A laugh. “You sound like my roommate. She says I’m always so boring.” She imitated her roommate’s squeaky voice: “‘You’re too stuffy, Twily! Ya gotta learn when to hang loose and party!’” “Well, maybe a little loosening up will endear your students to you, and they’ll take you more seriously.” His suggestion was met and countered by a dismissive snort. “I did enough partying during university.” Shining Armor almost laughed. “Like, what? One party?” “He who understands enough is enough, will always have enough,” Twilight opined. “If only one party is enough for me, then I have partied enough.” “Huh. That’s rather… zen.” He looked back down to his documents, then to his wall clock. They’d been talking for ten minutes already. “Hey, Twily, I’ve had fun talking to you again, but for now I think we better get back to work. Busy day ahead for both of us.” “Right,” Twilight agreed, gulping down another piece of breakfast. “Oh! Before I go, I gotta ask, are you going to Blueblood’s big unveiling party?” Shining Armor fought a sigh. Blueblood, Prince by title if not by actual blood ties, was throwing a party at his palace in honor of unveiling a relic he helped to dig up. Moreover, he was Twilight’s first (and so far only) boyfriend, and even after they broke up, he remained a good friend of their family. So of course, he’d invited them. Shining Armor didn't exactly hate the guy, but it was always hard to be friends with someone who took your sister's virginity. That and, he couldn't stomach high society types anyway. “…Probably,” Shining Armor answered honestly. “It’s tomorrow night, right?” “Ten PM. He’ll probably need police protection anyway,” she chuckled. “I hear the relic he found is supposed to be super-valuable.” If only because his father's newspaper won't shut the hell up about it, Shining Armor thought. “I’ll keep that in mind. Talk to you later, Twily. I love you.” “I love you, too,” Twilight giggled. “Give Cadence my regards.” And with that, Twilight’s voice cut off and was replaced by a dead drone. Shining Armor put down the phone and took one last swig of his coffee, finishing it. His attention once again was given to the sorry history of the previous Commish. It was about two years ago when Top Brass encountered some of the hardest criminals to have ever disgraced Canterlot. Slideface, the Flycatcher, the Roman… it was as if all these powerful criminals had noticed the police’s resolve begin to wane in Canterlot, like once-healthy grapes withering on a browning vine. The moment they saw the city in turmoil and uncertainty, they struck. Flying in from Applewood, Fillydelphia—even that rotting cesspool, Manehatten—all these crime kingpins, poised and ready to begin a bloody turf war. What alarmed Shining Armor the most? What woke him up for the first time since he became Captain of the Royal Guard? The fact that Celestia simply stood by and did nothing as Slideface and his goons came in and robbed banks. The fact that their beloved princess hesitated as the Flycatcher had her way with Midtown. The fact that the very pony he looked up to as a child, and finally earned the right to serve, looked away as the Roman began squashing local law enforcement and intimidating small businesses. Like dragons ready to devour a flock of sheep while their shepherd played solitaire. But then, something even worse happened. The Apples happened. They were a league of legendary assassins, dating as far back in Equestrian history as anypony could recall. They were also the only hope Canterlot had, according to Top Brass. His next few under-the-table deals were with them. Shining Armor took a deep breath as he read an open page from Top Brass’ diary: the day he’d met Granny Smith, their ringleader. The shaky hoofwriting underlined the fear Top Brass had felt in her presence earlier that day. He went on about her intimidating stare. Her odd mannerisms. Speaking like an old mare, using outdated slang. She looked to be in her mid-twenties, he said, but Top Brass felt just by looking at her that she was something much older. Ancient, Top Brass wrote. Like a patient dragon, powerful and terrifying and seemingly untouched by time. But it was the final written line in this entry that shook the final, lingering cobwebs out of Shining Armor’s groggy mind: Have I just sold this city to Tartarus…? But in the end, he felt they were his best bet. Top Brass was unable to trust his own men, so he paid the Apples from his remaining family fortune to cut these criminals out by the roots. They started with the bribed cops. Then worked their way out. Slideface’s face slid right off his head. The Flycatcher now attracted the flies she loved to eat when she was alive. And of course, none of this did anything to dissuade crime in Canterlot. When the heads of these criminal organizations fell, did it cause them all to back down? Never. They just got replaced by ponies worse than they were. Ponies richer than they were. Richer than the Commissioner was. And when it came to light these killers could be bought… That was when it all really did go to Tartarus. More crime families showed up, coming from Griffindor to Minotaura, looking to expand. Several waves of serial killers and career thieves. More recently, the newspapers had taken to naming some of the more ambitious criminals: the Red Hood, Cat's Eye, Dead Ringer, Jackshot, this Mare-Do-Well character. Everything had become one big game, winner take all, and now it seemed Shining Armor had sidled up to the table with his own bets to place. Top Brass was a good stallion. Faulted. Flawed. In many ways, broken. He did what he felt was best, but he caused the worst crime wave in Canterlot history. A crime wave the Princess did nothing to stop. Somewhere in Canterlot’s intestines belowground, a black duffel bag slapped at a grate. Its weight was carried by the lazy current, pushing it against unyielding iron bars. Darkness surrounded it: darkness and trash and equine waste. Whatever it contained wouldn’t be usable to anypony but the most desperate homeless. Suddenly, it found itself lifted up out of the water, rescued. A hook on a long staff had pulled up on one of the straps, the bag’s weight now multiplied by the filthy water it had absorbed. With some effort, it was brought to rest on the catwalk. The staff was collapsed to a smaller shape, easier for travel, and tucked away. She zipped open the bag. Her cold glass eyes scanned the contents. Clothes. Music books. Toiletry. Average items. Her eyes scanned the outside of the bag, searching. A small device, barely noticeable to anypony. A single, tiny red eye weakly winking against the echoing green of the sewer water against the brick walls. She pulled it off and put it back in her utility belt. Her mind reeled to the events of earlier that morning… She had only one shot before the mare with the blue mane and single Purple Eye jumped off the bridge. She was too late to stop the mare from killing those innocent ponies—much too late. Too late to save those poor souls. But not too late to bring their killer to justice. Purple Eye jumped from the bridge. Her other hook—this one a grappling hook—shot from her hoof before she could think. The waters below were violent, belched out from large pipes along the sides. If they caught Purple Eye before she did, Purple Eye would get the easy way out. But she would not allow that. No killer should be allowed to die. They should be made to suffer for their sins. SUFFER. No serial murderer simply given the chair. No multiple rapist simply hung. No child killer simply given lethal injection. That’s too… simple. That’s giving them the easy way out. No. They need to suffer. They need to fear. She gave them that fear. And she would continue to give them that fear, and she would continue to make them suffer, just like the town they terrify. The hook flew as far down as it could, but it proved to not be long enough. It snapped up just as it was about to wrap around Purple Eye’s hind leg. She fell down below… …but just as she was about to hit the water, Purple Eye landed on something solid. The crashing water splashed all around her as whatever she’d landed on sped off underneath the bridge. Another of her muscular reactions—this time a flick of her fetlock—flung the tiny tracer to Purple Eye. She’d seen its red light winking faintly amidst the crashing waves, and had hoped she’d hit Purple Eye dead-center. Obviously, this was not the case. Purple Eye had gotten away. The Canterlot sewers were a horrendous labyrinth of stenches and twists and turns and ghostly green glows. Any further investigation for now would have to be halted before she became hopelessly lost. She had yet to get a map of this area of the sewers. There had to be one somewhere, in an archive of some kind—one of the libraries, perhaps… She heard a sound. A clink. Her heart began to beat faster. Danger. Danger! She stood there for one second. Two. Three. Ten. Thirty. An eternity passed. Her breathing did not steady. Her anxiety—her preparation for a battle—squeezed her heart rhythmically, shooting blood throughout her like surges of electricity. Thump. Thump. Thump. A quick jerk of her head introduced a large shadow into her vision. She leapt high, her body lithely flipping midair, stepping onto the nearby wall and shooting behind the shadow. But the shadow, large and fierce like a dragon, was fast. It got on its hind legs, twirling around—and that was when she saw it. The swords attached to the shadow’s forelegs. They were long and silver, and were swung so that they whispered sinister music and formed menacing smiles for an instant each. She was able to dance to the swords’ music, dodging every smile as the shadow swung. That he was just as agile on his hind legs as he would be on all-fours alarmed her—as well as shook memories from the branches of her mind. As she drew it into better light, the shadow was bathed by the green glow echoing across the sewer’s tunnel walls, even if only slightly. She recognized his mask—half darkness, half dragonfire. A single, terrifying green eye menaced her from behind the dragonfire with both familiarity and hatred. His armor, metal clamps and protective shields covering vital areas, reflected some of the green glow, dressing him with deranged spirit. They broke away for a second. Circled each other like rival predators. His one hateful eye bore holes into the continuing, continuing, continuing darkness of her mask, settling on the two mysterious lights that peered up from the bottom of a well. She remembered that the Apples had named him the Terminator. She remembered that the media had named him Dead Ringer. She remembered that he was a ruthless assassin. Had he been tasked with seeking out this wayward sheep and ending her? They recognized one another at once. Neither said anything, since neither favored speech over the universal, easily-understood language of action. They spoke without speaking. Their words were actions. This shared preference became a physical conversation that lasted for several minutes of swinging, punching, dodging, and familiarity. There was a real weakness to his fighting style: he left his underside exposed to the enemy. A protective shield hid his belly from harm, but that was hardly what she was looking for. Her right foreleg shot up in an uppercut as she shot under him, getting him right between his hind legs. She heard a squeak escape the Terminator’s mask and used this split-second moment to use her own upper-body strength, lifting him up by his hind legs and throwing him over her head and into the river of sewage nearby. The river erupted as the Terminator fell in, the wave like an open mouth—opening then closing, devouring him like a hungry crocodile. She took a few deep breaths, recollecting herself as Canterlot’s intestines quietly gurbled and hutched. Her hat had fallen off during the fight. She reached for it, only to hear the river vomit the Terminator back up behind her. He landed on her at such an angle that he’d trapped her beneath his great weight. She felt his belly—the armor hard like an lobster’s carapace—push down on her back. He was breathing in deep, husky gasps as the stench of Canterlot’s refuse clung to him like wriggling leeches. He raised a foreleg and pinched her own with his elbow, the sword shooting back out of its sheathe and quietly resting blade-up under her neck, forcing her to carefully lift her head higher. “Jackshot,” he growled in his thick Southern accent. “Where is she?” The Terminator threatened again. “Jackshot! Where is she?! Ah know you had somethin’ to do with it, you little shit!” This was the most talkative she’d ever heard the Terminator. Wandering this far from his comfort zone spelled bad news. Still, she remained silent. He can’t read me, she thought to herself. He doesn’t really know if I’m involved in his sister’s disappearance… …but I now know that his sister has disappeared. Finally, the Terminator’s patience reached its end. He had taken her silence as admittance of a kind to involvement in his sister’s sudden evanescence. The sword drew back to its sheath with a quiet movement, and with a force and speed like lightning, he lifted her up roughly and forced her back to the wall. A hoof as hard as the wheels on Satan’s own carriage left a crack in the sewer wall next to her head with a sound that reminded her of a shout. She was expecting him to make another demand, but she was wrong. Instead, he brought that same hoof—hard as the wheels on Satan’s own carriage—into her stomach. She felt her dinner from last night squeeze up through her lungs. A rib cracked and wept. The Terminator’s single hateful eye made its case quite clear. Talk or I kill you slowly. Again, she refused to speak. Again, he thrust his hoof into her. Right on the same rib he’d broken just seconds ago. And again, his hateful eye promised what his hoof would deliver. Her suit was made of an enchanted fabric that could absorb quite a bit of physical trauma. What's more, it was a suit that could mend the wounds its wearer bore. But that kind of magic took time to do its work; the Terminator would kill her before it could undo anything. Her mind swam, drowning like a rat in a crashing ocean of panics and tranquilities. She began to breathe hoarsely. She could claim that she had only just got here—that this was all just coincidence. Just misfortune. Bad timing. But she was also sure he’d never believe it. The Terminator was a killer, and while being intelligent was all part of the killing game, the fact remained that the fate of his beloved sister was his top priority. He was allowing his emotions to cloud his thinking. There wouldn’t be any reasoning with him. Just one thing to do, then. With the Terminator’s first punch, and without her really knowing she was doing it, her right foreleg snaked down to her utility belt. With the second punch, she’d thrust it into her utility belt. The Terminator had been so preoccupied with staring hatefully into those two bright lights at the bottom of the well that he failed to notice the snake slithering around his hooves. She threw a red powder into his hateful eye with one quick movement. It was the only part of his body that wasn’t covered, sticking out like a snail without a shell. The red powder set right to work, causing the Terminator to recoil. His screams joined the echoes of the water on the walls. She tried to turn and run, but her broken rib had gone from weeping to inelegant sobbing. Her movement had become considerably dampened. She turned around the moment she heard the Terminator’s scream stop. His single hateful eye had become a pink, puffy, awful little welt oozing out from the dragonfire. She couldn’t see his face but knew for certain there was unbridled rage beneath. The swords were back, with their music and their smiles. She hadn’t anticipated that he’d recover this quickly—despite that she probably should have known. As if Celestia looked down and decided to intervene, there was a loud sound that drew both their attentions. The river of refuse that flowed through Canterlot’s intestines quivered violently as if something big had just dropped below its surface. She recovered first—kicking the Terminator off of her and onto his back. The big thing revealed itself. A mighty purple dragon launched out from beneath the river, its mouth wide and dark as forever. Rows of shark-like teeth sparkled menacingly in the green glow of the sewer. She didn’t get to see very much else before the dragon’s mouth clamped down on either side of the Terminator and with a ghostly, reptilian movement she will no doubt see every time she blinks for the next few years, dragged him down into the sewer's river. The Terminator had not even a second to scream as he was pulled down. She didn’t care about this business anymore. Purple Eye had escaped, the Terminator had shown up looking for his sister, and now a dragon was apparently living in the sewer. Figuring out what all these messes had to do with one another could come later. First priority right now was to get while the getting was good. As she scrambled for the nearest exit—as she heard thrashing from the river behind her—as her rib screamed and screamed—her mind once again swam, or rather swirled down the drain. Her breathing became hoarser and hoarser as she continued her painful, panicked scramble. Her mind began to trick her. She recoiled from a loud bark, like a bullet being fired from a gun. The stench of the sewers morphed into the enriched scent of apples. Her heart beat—at first for one stallion, then for another. She had reached the first stallion, but he drifted far away. The second was out of her grasp from the very beginning. Finally, there was no sewer. The writer of this strange fiction had grown bored with writing about sewers and their dankness, and darkness, and echoing loneliness. In its place was written a different kind of darkness. One you could hide in and feel safe, like under your blankets during a horrific thunderstorm. It was a warm, safe darkness called unconsciousness. She reached out her forelegs to embrace it. To touch it. To touch it and be spirited away from consciousness into the cradling arms of unconsciousness. Just as she was about to touch the darkness—just as she was about to be swept away—just as she was about to sleep in the arms of unconsciousness—she looked beneath her and saw that she was falling into a grave. It was familiar. It felt familiar. She screamed back into consciousness. She heard more thrashing behind her. She remembered the dragon. She darted. She found a ladder exit. She climbed it. She removed the pony-hole cover with some effort as she heard the thrashing gradually fade away. The coldness of the early morning winter hoisted her up and out of the sewer. Up onto the street she came, as if the sewer had bleched out a vaguely pony-shaped shadow. She found herself made a spectacle of passerby on the street. Canterlot was awake now, and eyes were everywhere, totally ignorant of the dragon that no doubt slithered beneath their hooves that very moment. Cars honked for her to get out of the way, which she did, her legs spiriting her from the open street to the sidewalk—past the onlookers—up ladder rungs—she removed her grappling hook—she ran—she shot the hook—and away she flew, like an ink-black bird of prey. A teenage filly (in fact, the very same foulmouthed filly who, on the morning news, chastised a newsgroup for sensationalizing the Mare-Do-Well) put a hoof over her mouth in shock. Then she shook her coltfriend. “Did you see that?!” she cried, not turning to meet his worried eyes. “Holy shit, did you SEE THAT?!” She’d forgotten her hat. It lay there, on the sewer’s walkway, where it’d been knocked down. It was the only audience that observed the deafening battle of the Terminator and the Mock Turtle some distance away. It was the only one that witnessed the Terminator limping away from that battle: alive, but still without answers as to his sister’s whereabouts. Much like “Purple Eye”, Jackshot’s trail ended in frustrating, sudden ambiguity. Then it sat there for hours. Suddenly, there were sounds. A scuffling of hooves against concrete. A mysterious mare in a top hat looked down at it with screwing eyes. She smiled at her find, took it in her teeth, and carried it back home to Wonderland, where she planned to show it to Alice and the White Rabbit, then put it on her wall with its brothers and sisters. That particular area of the sewer was silent for the rest of the day.