//------------------------------//
// The Battle of Manehattan (Part 1) 
// Story: EquineKiin 
// by Youcannoterasethepast 
//------------------------------//

Three years. Three years you spent walking around aimlessly. Annoyingly, very few recognized you as Dovahkiin, but they will easily see that you’re the chief of police, or a good friend of a local baker. Very odd, really, there’s only a handful of bipeds in this entire plane of reality, and only one of them runs around bending the world around (him/her) with (his/her) voice, yet you’ve only got about 3 people here who know who you am. And you had to tell them.
Nothing too terribly memorable about the world’s savior, apparently.
You flop out of bed. It took a while to roll all the way off the edge; the bed was pretty big. Getting up, you don my police uniform. It was mostly black, vaguely resembled a tuxedo in its design, and had some golden trim along some seams in the fabric. It was heavily modified to fit a (race) like yourself. You grab your golden badge from my nightstand, and place it above your left breast pocket. {Your armor is stored at the station, so} you paid a magician to place knife-repellent wards around the suit for extra protection. Of course, it won’t completely stop the knives, but it could save your life in a pinch. Finally, you take your police sword that you were required to carry, strap it to your hip, and left the apartment.

The sky was completely grey, it has been covered with a sheath of clouds for three days now. You were okay with it; it protected you and your men from the summer’s harsh sun. It didn’t matter though, you hadn’t left your office in hours. It seemed today was a paperwork day.
Suddenly, the phone rang. It was rare the calls were forwarded to you personally, but usually that means something big happened. That, or it happened again. You answer, worried, “This is the MHPD, what is your emergency?”
The voice that answered was one you knew all too well. It was the owner of the bakery a few blocks away from here, “It happened again”
You sigh. It happened again. “I’ll take care of him” you say, suddenly exhausted.
Standing up, you open the door to your office, go down 6 flights of stairs, past numerous carriages in the parking garage, unlocked an employee only door in the darkest corner of the garage, and saw what you always saw. 
“It’s not what it looks like!”
“Yes it is”
“Nuh-uh!”
“You’re coming with me. Again”
Anon ruefully looked down at his new chest of sweet twists, already half empty. Taking him by the mane, you drag him up two flights of stairs, past several policeponies, down another flight of stairs into the prison, up 3 flights of stairs to the top floor of the prison, put him in the grimiest cell, and left. The experience left you winded; Anon wasn’t a small pony, but at least he wasn’t obese. How can you command the respect of the ponies of Manehattan when one of the best in the force keeps robbing a bakery?
The chestnut colored pony had robbed the business four times this month. No matter how many guards you station there, and no matter where the bakery owner hides the sweet twists, Anon still manages to sneak away an entire chest of the pastry.
As you make your way back to the office, you hear a shout, crash, and hysterical laughter coming from the kitchen. What was it with skilled police officers and annoying quirks? You walk inside the kitchen to see…
You forgot what his name was today. Olaf, maybe?
You walk inside the kitchen to see Olaf clutching a legally purchased sweet twist laughing hysterically at a kitchen worker whom he had presumably scared into falling over.
You start the interrogation simple, “What is your name today?”
He looks at you, his dark eyes gleaming humorously, “Ornolf”
“What did you do, Ornolf?”
“I got bored, so I yelled at this kitchen hand… and she fell over…” His face contorted as he tried to suppress more laughter. He failed.
As you wait for his laughter to die down, you look over at the kitchen hand, who had gotten up and was picking up pieces of shattered ceramic. You help her with the task, trying to set an example for the policeponies behind the counter where food was served. Even as the last shard of splintered teacups was thrown away, Ornolf continued laughing.
You did what you promised you would do, “come with me to the training yard”
Ornolf’s laughter died down instantly, realizing that this was the third time that month. It’s always the third time of the month when he gets punished when he gets punished. He tried to lie his way out of the situation, “Ah… well, um, this is only the s-second time… so I shouldn’t be p-punished for it this time… heh heh…” As he spoke, his eyes darted around the room, looking for a means of escape, which were two doors, one by the serving counter and the one I entered through. J’zarr and Buttsnare were blocking them both, and everyone knew better than to cross either of them.
Defeated, the gray unicorn lowered his head in submission.