//------------------------------// // 7. Day of Dash // Story: Banishment Decree // by Neon Czolgosz //------------------------------// Sup ponies, I'm Rainbow Dash. Ex-Wonderbolt, current Element of Loyalty, one-time winner of the Daring Do Fanclub annual fanfic write-off, 3rd-dan blackbelt in prank-jitsu, saviour of the world officially-twice-unofficially-thrice over and aeronautical performance consultant (rates negotiable). The wings on my back are so powerful they're simultaneously registered as a demolition tool, a deadly weapon and an abortifacient. There's some other stuff too, but what's important is that I'm the Dash, I get the stallions' wings all bonery and the mare's candy-vags all buttery and I'm pretty much the most awesome pegasus in Equestria. Right now I'm in Fillydelphia, which should be the most boring city in Equestria but right now has some mad problems with crims and gangsters and load of other douchenozzles. I should be helping my old friend Gilda with a boring babysitting job; but then Pinkie Pie turned up, made the job a lot less boring and then gave us a totally radical new job: find all the criminals and gangsters and douchenozzles and roll them like pizza dough. Now, usually gangs ain't that big a deal unless they like, completely take over a city, but something's been driving the three big gangs in Fillydelphia nuts and they've been thieving and extorting and beating on ponies like their lives depend on it. One gang are the Macaronis, the big Neighples crime family, the second are the Wharfies, a bunch of sailors and dockworkers who have a thing for robbing and breaking stuff, and the third are the Kurierzy, a bunch of psychos from Stalliongrad and Trotholm who came for the weather, stayed for the crime and are filled to the nipples with ex-soldiers and spies. Pinkie, myself and Twilight Sparkle have tangled with the Macaronis before in Manehattan, Gilda and the nutty blue hack are out trying to find a chip in the Kurierzy's armour, but we need to find our in for the Wharfies. That's why me, Pinkie and Twilight are holed up in one of Pinkie's Mare-Do-Well hideouts. It looks exactly how you'd expect a Mare-Do-Well hideout owned by Pinkie Pie to look: pink everywhere, random bits of candy, a bathtub, a disorganised pile of gadgets, two wedding cakes, the usual. We're sorting through box after box after mother-clopping box of police reports, newspapers and legal documents. You know who got all these boxes of police reports? Me. I went to see my buddy Gumshoe, asked him if I could borrow some copies from the archives without leaving a paper trail, and that bastard gave them to me. I have brought this pain on myself. Hey, I get it, right. Intelligence gathering is important. It's still a bunch of nerd stuff, but you might need to do it in the field and you might not have a team of spooks there to hold your hand and do your analysis for you; so the Wonderbolts test you for that stuff during selection and train you further after you join. Before I joined but after I finally got around to reading the 'Bolt's training manual, I let Twilight Sparkle, the egghead of all eggheads, spend six months getting me up to scratch on that stuff. So I can do it, I know it can be the difference between life and death on a mission, I've got all the materials right in front of me, I'm working with an egghead and a crimefighter, but... It's so boring. You're just sitting there, reading through papers, jotting down notes and turning coffee into piss. It doesn't feel like proper intel-gathering. I wanna be out there, breaking into offices, bribing people for secret dossiers, smacking suspects across the face 'til they spill the beans, y'know, the cool stuff. It's dumb I guess, because all that stuff does is get you more information that you just have to go sort through later, but... blehh. Twilight's doing most of the brain work, me and Pinks are either sorting through stuff or doing pretty simple note taking on whatever she asks us to sort through. Right now I'm coding, which is honestly the lamest, most boringest thing in the world. Here's how it works: Twilight sets up a bunch of code-monkey jibber-jabber on Pinkie's Hex engine, which is like an analytical engine but portable. I don't see how it's portable since it's the size of a clopping fridge-freezer and I don't see how it works, since half of it is a huge termite mound inside a glass case filled with magical and mechanical gadgets; but Twilight apparently knows what she's doing. Anyway, she sets up the machine to take in a bunch of data from cards with holes in, the cards with holes in come from a microwave-sized terminal that you type the data into and spits out cards, with a translation of what the holes mean so you can double check your work, and I'm sat here slapping data into the mini-terminal. Pegasi are not made for data entry. I take a slug of coffee and sigh. “Twi, why am I punching corporate employment data into this stupid box?” Twilight looks up at me, her face twisted with study-lust. “We don't know why the Wharfies are going on random, costly crime sprees but we do have a lot of data, so it's time for us to do the only thing we can do: monitor everything. I've set up an algorithm that calculates the probability that a company will be a dummy company. Dummy companies are used to hide illegal activities or turn dirty money into nice clean money, so if we can find them and link them to the Wharfies, we just might find out what they're up to.” I sigh again, and bury my face in my forelegs. “Pinkie, you got any donuts?” I ask. “Heads up Dashie!” she says, reaching into her box of snacks and flinging a donut at me. I snatch it out of the air with my mouth. “Thanfp” I say, chewing the pastry. Mare, Pinkie's donuts. They're just so very... donutty. We go on like this for hours. Coffee, donuts, data entry, spreadsheets, interest rate charts, something called a 'linear regression', lists of export prices, luxury goods catalogues, more coffee, maps of Fillydelphia dotted with pins of different colors, Pinkie brings in some maple bars, fatigue, snappy Twilight, thirty-minute break. Thirty-minute break! It's a windy route out of Pinkie's hideout, going through sewers, the crawlspace of an abandoned licorice factory, more sewers and coming out through a technomantic-device dumping ground, leaving me ten minutes of glorious flying time. I'm cutting through the cool evening air like a knife through water. No fancy tricks or careful warm-ups, just the pure freedom of flight. All the aches from sitting down in a chair for hours and hours hunched over paperwork are washed away like dirt under a rainstorm. It's over all too soon, and now I'm back in the hideout. Twilight is already back to work, but less cranky than before. Pinkie is full of energy and happily humming along like she always is. I sit my flank down, ready to work on... “The regression analysis of financial activity in likely dummy corporations, criminal activity intensity and real estate turnover, it should be the last thing that Hex spat out,” says Twilight, snapping me out of my boredom-and-donut daze, “Pass it here Dash, I think I'm starting to see how this all fits together.” I grab the papers and she takes them with her telekinesis, muttering as she looks over them. “R-squared of point three-five... significant T-values for the differences between now and three years ago...” She puts the papers down and looks at me and Pinkie, grinning from ear to ear. “We've cracked it, guys. It's a real estate scam. A gigantic, multi-million bit real estate scam.” “What do fly tipping and arson have to do with real estate?” asks Pinkie. “Okay fillies, here's what's happening,” says Twilight, her eyes lighting up as she goes into teaching mode. “Somepony, possibly Barry LaCroix, is sending out gangs of criminals to cause as much trouble as possible to certain neighbourhoods. We were confused, because there seemed to be no financial motive for the way these criminals were acting, and in a lot of cases it looked like they were losing money from their activities. But, what happens to property prices when criminals start wrecking a neighbourhood?” “They go down...” I say, cautiously. “Precisely!” says Twilight, “They hit an area hard, causing prices to plummet and property owners to move out. That's one of the common variable where the Wharfies have gone on a crime spree, a big drop in real estate prices. Then, when prices are at rock bottom, a mix of front companies come in and buy all of these properties up on the cheap.” “Makes sense,” I say, “Couldn't it just be companies acting like vultures though? Housing prices drop, companies think the crime can't get any worse, and buy up the houses for when it gets better?” Twilight shakes her head. “If that's the case, it's an amazing coincidence, since every time there's a big property buy up, crime in that neighbourhood drops to almost zero within the month. Property prices start going up again. They're risking a lot of capital with this scheme, but they've probably made at least a million bits back already. As property prices rise, they'll be looking at tens of millions of bits, maybe more.” “What happens now then, Twi?” I ask. She puts a hoof under her chin and thinks for a second. “We still don't know exactly how this scheme is being organised or who the major players are, and we need to figure that out so we can shut it down. We've got a good set of leads though, and we should be able to figure it out,” she says, waving her hoof over the papers. “Come on, ponies, it's time to do research!” We're soon back to crunching through numbers, combing over personnel files and cross-referencing between the Book of Names, Twilight's data and just about everything else. It's not half as bad now that we know what we're working towards, and Twilight's crazed zeal for all things analytical is actually kinda infectious. We eat donuts, drink coffee, and at one point I think I laugh at a statistics joke. Don't judge me. It's pretty impressive the way Twilight works, it's like watching someone solve a puzzle with most of the pieces missing, and having the missing pieces appear as more of the puzzle is solved. It's past midnight when Gilda and Trixie arrive. “Hey there, ponies,” says Gilda, walking over to the desk and snatching a donut. “Sup Gilda,” I say. “Not mumph” she says, mouth full of donut, “Hows the intel work going?” “We're ninety-five percent sure we've figured out the Wharfies,” says Twilight excitedly. “They've been using criminal gangs to lower property prices around Fillydelphia so that their front companies can buy property at cut rates. That way, when the crime stops the value of their properties go up, netting them millions. They're using accountants to launder the money for the front companies, a corporate lawyer to set up the front companies, an estate agent to carry out the deals and a middlepony to set everything up between the criminal side and the white collar side. We've got good leads on these ponies.” She levitates a sheet of paper with the important details we'd put together and passes it to Gilda. “Sweet. Anything else?” asks Gilda. Twilight looks frustrated for a moment. “We haven't figured out where the Wharfies are getting the capital for this scam. It's very profitable, but they need a lot of funding to buy all these properties in the first place. I doubt they just have the money laying about.” “Yo Pinks, have you got the Book of Names stuff for any of the Wharfies' smugglers?” I ask, “Smugglers are always gossiping and looking for new routes and contacts, if we track some contractors down we might be able to find out where they're getting all these bits from.” Pinkie grabs the dossier and roots through it, before picking out a sheet of paper. “Got it! It was under S!” “So what's the plan, ponies?” asks Gilda. “We give the white collar criminals a scare, and when they try run to safety, we trap them like rats,” I say, bringing my hoof down on the desk. Twilight rolls her eyes. “The plan is a little bit more complicated than that, but yes, that's the gist of it,” she says, “The details are on the sheet of paper I gave you, Gilda.” “Well then,” says Gilda, “Let's get to work.” * * * I'm with Gilda and Trixie, walking through Haydean, a newly-built neighborhood in east Filly. Gilda and Trixie need to put eyes and ears on somepony around here to help track down the Kurierzy. Haydean is a trashy new money place filled with yuppies, overpriced bars and crappy nightclubs; so it's pretty much like every other newly-built neighbourhood in Fillydelphia. I'd been meaning to ask Gilda a question since she came into the hideout, but didn't want to ask in front of Twi and Pinks. I turn to Gilda. “Yo Gilly, did you guys get griffon takeout? Your breath kinda smells like organ meat.” “Huh? Oh, yeah, we did. I got peckish and picked up a steak and kidney pie on the way to the hideout,” says Gilda. “That's cool,” I say, “where did you guys eat?” “Colin's Grill-” says Trixie. “Samuel's House of Pie-” says Gilda at the same time. They look at each other, then Gilda says “Nah, Colin's is on Wingrove Avenue. They do look pretty similar though, you silly little blue thing you.” “Oh I do apologise,” says Trixie, “The bird-thing is right of course. We stopped at Samuel's House of Pie.” “Fair enough,” I say. We walk along the sidewalk, nopony saying anything for a minute or so. “You know Gilda,” I say, “the whole point of a poker-face is that other ponies can't tell you're hiding something. You're a crappy liar for a spy I tell ya. Who'd you waste, G?” Gilda's shoulders sag, and she sighs like a colt caught stealing. “We were gonna tell you-” “I don't think we were,” says Trixie, glaring at me. I snort and roll my eyes. “Whatever, just spill the beans.” “A slavery ring, Dash,” says Gilda, “The things they were doing... I might have lost my temper a little.” A slavery ring? Here? What. Clopping WHAT?! “Wait, there was an actual slavery ring in Fillydelphia? Hell, an actual slavery ring in Equestria? That... clop, that stuff just isn't supposed to happen over here,” I say, “That's fucked up and bullshit, mare. What happened?” “We went in, incapacitated the guards and freed the mares,” says Trixie, “Gilda saw on slaver torturing a filly-” “I might have gone a tad blood-crazy...” says Gilda. “And we ended up having to dispose of the slavers when it was clear they would go after the freed mares,” says Trixie matter-of-factly. “Hay, I got no argument with that,” I say, “Can't say I wouldn't have done the same. I mean, being forced into sex – I don't even want to imagine what that's like.” “It's not always so bad.” Gilda's eyes go wide as she realises what she's just said. Oh. Oh Godesses, had Gilda been raped since we'd last spoke? Had she been through a whole bunch of awful shit and had to deal with it alone? I was sending all those letters, but... had I been so worried about sticking up for my friends that I abandoned her? Or maybe it had been before even then, and I'd just never taken the time or interest to find out. “Gilda...” I say, as gently as I can, “were you-” “Oh Adune no, I wasn't like, raped or anything,” she says, waving the idea off. “We just had to have sex a lot when we didn't want to.” I blink. “Gilda,” I say carefully, “being made to have sex when you don't want to – Gilda, that is rape. That's what rape is.” I stop walking and put a hoof on Gilda's withers. “I understand completely if you don't want to talk about it, just say and I'll change subject, but...” Gilda laughs, ruffles my mane with her talons and shrugs my arm off. “Nah, you got it all wrong. Rape is like when you're physically forced or tied down or drugged; we just had to have sex when we didn't want to.” When the looks on our faces don't change, she continues. “Don't fret about it, it was before I met eiher of you guys, if I haven't said before it's because it's not a big thing. It wasn't like nearly getting crippled at Speedsters or fighting at Tối Thung.” Trixie doesn't even pretend to be sympathetic and starts talking to Gilda like a foal. “Gilda, sex without informed, freely given consent is rape. That's-” “Yeah whatever Trixie”, I say, cutting her off, “More importantly Gilda, we were sixteen years old when we first met. That's practically kids! Also, you keep saying 'we', who is 'we'?” “Hey, don't get me wrong,” says Gilda, “I was sixteen when it was going on, that's totes legal in the Kingdoms. Look, it was the end of cadets. That's just what happens at the end of cadets.” I'm sat on my haunches, slack-jawed. “I think I'm missing a teensy bit of context here Gilda,” I say, “Could you explain exactly what you mean by 'that's just what happens at cadets'?” “Well, you've heard the griffon word 'fag' right?” Gilda asks. “Yeah, I think so,” I say, “It means fillyfooler right?” “Not... Not quite.” Gilda pauses like she's trying to find the least freaky way to say something. “It means being gay, but also being, uh, subservient. See, it's short for faggin, a young servant. For the last three months of griffon cadets, you're put with two other cadets to be faggins for a squad of warriors. You do their laundry, cook for them, polish their armor, prep their weapons, carry their messages...” I'm staring at Gilda, waiting for the bit to drop. “So your job is pretty much to do whatever your squad tells you to do... and, heh, it can get pretty cold at night up in the mountains,” she says. She starts walking down the street again, and me and Trixie walk with her. “Gilda,” says Trixie, “After this job, we need to have a nice long conversation about this, with a big box of tissues, some ice cream and maybe a therapist who will do house calls-” “Hey, it's not like that, sheesh,” says Gilda indignantly, “If you say no then no means no; and if they tried anything like that you'd get transferred and they'd get a few years in a military clink.” I stare at Gilda for a few seconds. “I'm sensing a 'but' here,” I say. “Look, you want to get along with your squad,” says Gilda, like she's explaining what algebra is to a dumbass, “They can be cool, they can take you out drinking, give you extra training, and give you a leg-up later on in life. They can also make you do push ups 'til you pass out, make you separate landfill from compostable garbage all day and bawl you out for not getting their swords sharp enough or their buttons shiny enough. So when it's late and one of the mollies starts giving you bedroom eyes, you might as well go through with it so long as she's not totally awful, even if you really don't want to right that moment.” “So you said yes because your squad would make life hell if you didn't?” I ask. “Well it's not like they outright threatened-” “But there was a strong implication that they would,” says Trixie, grinning. Wait, grinning? This ain't funny you mad blue witch, this is messed up! “Maybe I guess, but we'd still say yes in the end so it's not rape, QED,” says Gilda. “After we're done here we're going to have a sit down and I'm going to carefully unpack everything that is wrong with that statement,” I say, “Hey, griffon training squads aren't mixed sex, so you'd have been with all mares right?” “Mollies, but yeah.” “Gilda, you swing both ways,” I say, “What about the cadets that didn't?” “Pfft, what about 'em? They didn't have to do anything if they were real stick-in-the-muds about it,” she says. The houses along the street are getting more downmarket, and making way for high-end apartment complexes. “Most just took the porcupine by the spines and dealt with it.” “And these other cadets didn't freak about having to do things like that?” I ask, eyebrows raised. “Nah they were – actually, come to think of it, Grizelda did start acting all withdrawn and mood swingy,” says Gilda, like she's trying to remember who played what position in the Junior Speedster's Stormball Team. I didn't think my eyebrows could rise that high. “But hey, we were teenagers. Teenagers are supposed to be all withdrawn and shit, right?” she says, seeing my expression. I'm about to open my mouth to answer, then I realise something. “Gilda, you were a griffon warrior, yeah? So your squad would have had faggins too?” “Sure we did, wh- Oh fuck you Dash, I was nice to our faggins,” she says, “I showed them how to make good dopiaza, taught them how to shoot, did all that huggy pony crap if they were down; I even punched one of my squadmates for bullying them!” “Did you sleep with any of them?” “That's a low blow. I expected better of you than to ask that, Dash,” says Gilda, looking hurt. “You slept with all of them,” I say flatly. “Just two, the third had a munty face,” says Gilda, “But it was not like that, and screw you for implying it was. Both of them approached me, thanks very much for asking.” “So you weren't trying to get them in the sack,” I say. “No.” “You just slept with two young, impressionable cadets who idolised you, saw you as a mentor figure and relied on you for protection from your squad,” I say. “Well when you put it like that, yeah.” “And that's not at all creepy or taking-advantagey,” I say, deadpan. “I'd drop it Dash, I've had this conversation with her before,” says Trixie with a smirk, “Besides, we're nearly there so pipe down, featherbrains.” The apartment complex is ten stories of shiny glass and gleaming limestone, practically sparkling in the moonlight. Gilda takes out a key and lets us in. Inside, the empty lobby looks like Rarity's wet dream. Plush red carpets, tasteful art all over the walls, all that stuff. Not my thing. We take the elevator to the sixth floor, and open the door to apartment 62. It's an expensive studio flat owned by a total slob. There's clothes strewn around everywhere, empty pizza boxes on the sofa, paperwork cluttering up all the work spaces, and the place smells like it hasn't been aired in a while. Trixie pulls out a bag of arcane equipment and gets to work, drawing runes on the wall in transparent wax, sprinkling powder in concentric shapes under the rug, occasionally lighting up her horn to cast a spell, that kind of stuff. Gilda goes into the piles of paperwork, takes a couple of documents and adds several of her own to the piles. I keep out of the way and listen for anyone walking about at half three in the morning. After twenty minutes of this, Trixie packs her things away, casts one final spell causing the wax on the walls to glow a bright pink and then disappear entirely, and then we leave the apartment and apartment complex. Ten minutes down the road I ask what she did. “A tracking spell,” says Trixie, “The next unicorn who enters that room will absorb the latent thaumatic energy present, and create a subtle connection between themselves and our surveillance devices. There are ways to detect it before it occurs, but our quarry is lazy and the methods to detect it are laborious.” “Fair enough,” I say. I yawn, tired from hours of paperwork. “What's the plan now?” “We go back to the hotel and sleep,” says Gilda. “Long day tomorrow.” * * * The first order of business this morning is the accountancy place where they launder the smuggled money and shoot it into the front companies. We're doing them first for two reasons: accountants are easily spooked, and the office is right next to a café that does these totally sweet crepe things with little bits of apple in the batter and cinnamon syrup. The firm is Hayson, Hayward, and Partners, a pokey thirty-pony accountacy business in a red-brick building fifteen minutes south of Escrow Street. Trixie went in before us, pretending to be a potential client. She had magicked my coat a light tan and my mane a dark grey. With a brown business suit and briefcase, I look like a very lame Daring Do. Gilda is next to me in a similar getup, also wearing a pair of brown aviators. We go in and march straight over to the receptionist, a lime unicorn. He looks up at us. "Hello, how can I-" "I'll cut to the chase," I bark, "I am Agent Red Tape, CFA. I'm from the Securities Exchange Agency, and this is Special Agent Skyfeather of the Royal Investigative Bureau. We're on SEA business and urgently need to speak to Mrs Hayson about the goings-on within this organization." The stallion looks shocked, and stammers "Um, of course ma'am, wait here and I'll get her right away!" Two minutes later he comes back, with a flustered, middle-age, buttermilk unicorn following him. I trot up to her and say "Mrs Hayson? I'm Agent Red Tape, SEA and this is Special Agent Skyfeather, RIB. The main office is through here, yes?" I point to a set of double doors behind the receptionist. "Yes, wha-" "Mrs Hayson, I'm required to inform you that neither you nor the company are officially under investigation at this moment," says Gilda, cutting her off. We both walk straight past her through the double doors, and into the main office. It's a fairly spartan, open plan office with low walled cubicles, lots of fluorescent lights and only one window. The ponies are all wearing green visors, thick glasses or both. Mrs Hayson hurries after us. "Please, what's going on-" "While you are not officially under investigation, Agent Red Tape has discovered several red flags that may indicate money laundering," says Gilda, loud enough for everyone in the office to hear. Mrs Hayson's eyes go wide. "Money laundering?! That's preposterous, I assure you-" "I'd like to remind you that money laundering is a serious offence Mrs Hayson, with extremely stiff penalties for all involved," I say, "I highly advise that you co-operate with us for this matter. Now, has your firm done accounts for East Equestria Expedition Inc, Happy Hour Lending Services Inc, Big Short Investment Capital...." I rattle off a few more names, all of front companies involved in the scam but none that were directly linked to Hayson, Hayward and Partners. The money launderer won't get found by their boss, but they'll damn well know somepony is on to them. Mrs Hayson stops, shakes her head and takes a deep breath. The accountants are still working and talking, but they look rattled. "Now look here. You can't just, just - barge on in here without any kind of warning or warrant and start making accusations and, and, you said there were 'red flags' and you won't even say what-" "You want a red flag, lady?" yells Gilda. The entire office is silent, staring at us in shock. I see one accountant taking his cactuses off his desk and hiding them in his draw. "There's one sitting right over there." She points at Trixie, disguised as Mister Tweedhooves, who is talking over some papers with a unicorn clerk. "That is one Cravat Tweedhooves," I bark, striding towards Trixie with Gilda and Mrs Hayson in tow. "A notorious criminal who used to provide illicit financial services to half the gangs in Manehattan and might I remind him is BANNED from stepping hoof within fifty meters of any accountants' office, hedge fund or investment firm by the terms of his parole!" "What?!" shouts Trixie/Tweedhooves, in that weird, masculine Canterlot accent she/he has. "This is slander, utterly baseless slander! I have perfectly legitimate cause to be here, I am merely asking for advice regarding my personal income taxes this year." I turn to Mrs Hayson. "Mrs Hayson, what does this group of accountants here handle? Please be aware that lying to Royal agents can incur a severe fine and up to a five year prison sentence." "C-c-corporate tax..." she stutters, paling in fear. "Alright Tweedhooves, cut the crap," says Gilda, slamming a paw down on the desk. "You wouldn't be here if someone hadn't tipped you off that there was a money launderer running around in this office, and you wouldn't be approaching them in office hours if you knew exactly who it was. Tell us who tipped you off and we'll let your little transgression today slide." "Your accusations are baseless and your actions amount to harrassment," huffs Trixie, snout in the air. "You will all be hearing from my lawyers." "You've got one last chance," I say, taking out a pair of hoofcuffs and a unicorn binding ring, "Before we drag you out of here in cuffs and leave you in the cells overnight. Even if you're not in violition of your parole, which you damn well are, your associates won't appreciate you cancelling all of today's meetings with them, will they Tweedhooves?" Trixie gives me a look so filled with hatred I'm surprised it doesn't set fire to my eyebrows. "Very well," she says, standing up, "Lead the way, gentleponies." Gilda turns to Mrs Hayson, who's still in shock. "Agent Red Tape and I need to talk to Tweedhooves here, so we'll be on our way. Think about what we've told you." The three of us turn to walk out of the office. Before we reach the door, I turn around and look at Mrs Hayson. "Oh, and don't leave town," I say. We exit the building, and continue down the street. We duck into a public bathroom and Trixie removes the magic around my coat and hair, and turns back into Trixie. "So, do we know who our accountants are?" I ask as we walk outside into the Fillydelphia sunshine. "There are only five employees at that firm with the necessary skills, contacts and resources to launder money for front companies," says Trixie. "Two of them, Quick Returns and Honey Petals, turned white as a sheet when they saw two Royal agents walk in yelling about money laundering; and all but sighed with relief when you said you didn't know who the culprits were. They're almost certainly our launderers." "That's the accountants sorted then," I say, "Next up: Stakeout time." * * * I'm sitting outside a Manican café on a perfect sunny afternoon in Fillydelphia, looking like a total boss in a suit and bitchin' pair of shades. It's a sweet little place, they've got their outdoor seating ringed off with mini palm trees, they're always playing samba music and it's just breezy enough that you can sit outside in the sun without getting sweaty. I've got a big plate of nachos, a big bowl of guacamole, and a cup of that really strong coffee you always get in Manican places. Now, I can practically hear you saying "Oh wow Dash, that sounds sweet, you must be totally chilled out and all that." Hate to break it to you pal, but you're wrong, oh so wrong. Why are you wrong? Two reasons. Firstly, I've been sitting here for five hours. Five hours. You know how long five hours feels for a pegasus as fast as me? Very long. All of the long. Secondly, the company. Am I sat next to Gilda, the fairly amoral, somewhat attractive and totally radical griffon, talking about flying fast and kicking flank? No. Am I sat next to Twilight Sparkle, the eminently approachable egghead who's been through a thousand adventures with me, and more importantly introduced me to Daring Do? No. Am I sat next to Pinkie Pie, hard-partying, occasional-vigilanteing and reality-warping pony of awesomeness, talking about pranking and crimefighting? No. I'm sat next to an arrogant blue hack who loves crossdressing. Mare, Trixie. I can't stand her. She's always boasting, she thinks she's better than everypony else, she's got an ego the size of a skyscraper and worst of all, she's got no sense of self awareness. She's got me made up like lame Daring Do again, and she's magicked herself the same way, tan coat and dark grey mane We're not here for the food. We're here for the office across the street, a dinky little two-pony operation that the crooked estate agent and the crooked corporate lawyer are working out of. It's got a big, glass storefront and we can see Inkjet, the lawyer, sitting at his desk. He can see us too. Hopefully he's noticed the two tan-coated, dark grey-maned mares in suits and shades sat outside the café, staring at his shop. See, we're here on a stakeout. Although, not to get all Pinkie Pie or anything, but it's not really a stakeout since we're just waiting for them to watch us, so really it's more of a fakeout. "So, Rainbow Dash, why did you come all the way to Fillydelphia with Gilda?" asks Trixie, "She coped with every job she had during the near-decade you'd abandoned her for your Ponyville friends; why are you following her around like she's a foal liable to wander into traffic now? Is little miss Element of Loyalty suffering from a guilty conscience?" My eyes don't leave the storefront. "Well Trix, the whole falling from the sky, nearly dying and being banished from her clan thing might have had something to do with it. See, when things like that happen to my friends, I like to help them instead of whining about how much they've inconvenienced me." "Hmm. Whatever helps you sleep at night, pegasus," she says. This is exactly what I'm talking about. She's fishing like a spastic albatross, diving head first at anything that might get on my nerves. Today it's all been about Gilda and loyalty and stuff. It's a little weird, usually she picks at one thing, then another thing, and another thing; but today she's pretty one-track. Maybe she thinks she's actually getting somewhere with it. It's not so bad, at least it's keeping her from bringing up Scootaloo. Oh hey, it's not like that. I love Scoots, I helped train her, we're great friends and yeah, in my heart I know that the greatest thing a teacher can experience is seeing their pupil outdo them, but when she cut through Skyworks Industries Racetrack Six half a minute faster than my record, I mean, damn. It kinda scares me, and I feel like a real flankhole feeling that way, but... Ah screw that load of horseapples. I love Scoots, it's great to see her to do well, and that's all that really matters. Really. "Speak of the Draconequus, here they are," says Trixie. Across the street a corn-blue stallion is trotting nervously towards the office we're watching. He's staring straight forward trotting like a pony desperately trying to trot normally and failing. He's moving like a hollowed-out hydra being piloted by angry bees. Twenty yards behind him is Gilda, suited, sunglassed and crest neatly combed, stalking the stallion in the least subtle way possible. As soon as the stallion reaches the office, he darts straight in. Gilda walks straight past the office and continues down the street, cool as a cucumber. The stallion is Hot Property, the estate agent half of the estate agent/lawyer duo. As soon as Gilda passes, he starts pacing around and snapping frantically at his partner, who just stares dead ahead and is probably saying something like "shut up you bucking retard there are agents watching this place, DON'T LOOK" through clenched teeth. Hot Property freezes up and haltingly moves to his desk. "I think that's them spooked," I say. Trixie takes a sip of her drink. "I concur. Now we wait until five o'clock. So, pegasus, when you abandon your friends, is it always at parties or do you try to mix it up?" Two more hours. Great. * * * "You know what I like most about tossing somepony's house?" I say, strutting into the kitchen. It's one of those high-end yuppie luxury ranges, all chrome and glass and cute little gadgets. Gilda is going through the cupboards, breaking jars and flinging crockery against the walls. "What's that?" she says. "Raiding their fridge," I say. The fridge is huge, twice my height and packed to the brim with goodies. "Alfalfa, more alfalfa, pineapple juice, potato and spinach pasties, quiche, black lentil caviar – Ah sweet, yoghurt!" Gilda whips her head around to look at me. "What kind of yoghurt?" she asks. "Uh... Blueberry yoghurt," I say, pulling a few pots out, "You want some?" She shakes her head. "Can't stand blueberries. Need a spoon?" She pulls out a drawer hard enough to snap its railings, lets the contents clatter to the ground and picks up a spoon from the pile. I grab it, pop the lid and chow down. It's damn good yoghurt, probably made by the blueberry farming version of Applejack somewhere. Pick-Me-Up is a high class drug dealer with high class taste in food. She also acts as a liason between gangs like the Wharfies the white collar criminals that launder their money. That's why we're tossing her house. The living room had been fun. We took apart every lamp and vase, Gilda opened up the sofas with those big talons of hers, tossed the bookshelves onto the floor and bucked holes in any bit of wall that felt hollow. Kitchens are just as fun, if not more so. There's something so satisfying about the way expensive china shatters. "Oh score" says Gilda, holding a broken teapot. Inside was a plastic bag of white powder. "That's gotta be half a kilo of moon dust at least. Drinks are on me tonight!" "No they're not," I say, snatching the bag with my wing, "I'm not helping you deal drugs, banishment decree or no banishment decree." "What?! Oh that is lame Dash, I'm out of a job and you're begrudging me a little income on the side?" says Gilda. "You're getting paid three times more for Pinkie's job than for Brickbat's and I've been buying drinks," I say, "'Sides, I'm an ex-Wonderbolt. I can't be involved in dealing, foals are supposed to look up to me and stuff." "Yeah, well foals don't know what a lame flip-flop you are," grumbles Gilda, "You think Trixie is done in the study yet?" Like clockwork, Trixie walks into the room, snout held high. "The Great and Powerful Trixie has retrieved all of the necessary documents and thrown the rest of the room into disarray. She sees no reason to take such foalish pleasure in the latter." She looks down her nose at Gilda, who is chucking bowls up in the air and batting them against the wall with her tail. "What?" says Gilda, seeing her expression, "It's practice for Beakball season." Trixie sighs. "Regardless of that, are we done here? Pick-Me-Up will come home at some point, and I'd rather not be here when she does." "We're done here," I say, "Lets go." I drop the half eaten yoghurt on the countertop and we walk out. When we get to the front door, Trixie nails a note telling Pick-Me-Up that her house was searched today by members of Special Branch, that she's wanted for questioning and that she's not to leave town. Subtlety is for dorks. * * * Trixie (or 'Lulamoon') and me (or 'Firefly') are walking through the rain towards a bar in the docks. Gilda has gone off to set up the next stage of our plan for the white-collar criminals with Twilight and Pinkie Pie, leaving me and Trixie to snoop out the Wharfies' smuggling operation. Trixie's done her usual disguise work, and she's a seafoam green unicorn and I'm a white coated, orange maned pegasus. We're looking for a brown unicorn who goes by the name Dale working with a gray coated, blue maned pegasus. As soon as we reach the bar, we quickly hurry inside out of the rain. The bar is called the Grog Barrel, and looks pretty much exactly how you'd expect a bar called the Grog Barrel to look. It's dark, it's dirty and it smells like booze, tobacco smoke and seaweed. The wooden floor is warped and stained. Spittoons are everywhere, and they're not for decoration. Most of the regulars are grizzly old sailors and dockworkers with missing teeth, dressed in raincoats and watch caps. A musclebound, middle aged stallion with a thick handlebar moustache is behind the bar. Our two smugglers, unicorn and pegasus, are sitting together at the bar. I walk over to the bar with Trixie, and we sit down a seat away from the smugglers. I see my reflection in the mirror behind the liquor rack. A white-coated, orange maned Rainbow Dash is staring back at me. Trixie is useful for one thing at least. I glance to the left at the smugglers. The pegasus is athletically built and looks about my age. He's got a gray coat, a messy, electric blue mane, unshorn fetlocks and a rakish grin. Behind the bar, above a display of nautical knots, is a small tele-vision set, showing the pre-fight commentary for a Pegasus Fighting League bout. His eyes are glued to the screen. "This is going to be bloody brilliant, Dale. Granite Noggin versus Raynor Grassy, couldn't have asked for a better match up," he says, with a strong Trottingham accent. His friend Dale, a brown coated, dark brown maned unicorn looks disinterested. "Feh, if I wanted to see a bunch of pegasi beating the tar out of each other, I'd visit your family for Hearths Warming Eve." His accent is Trottingham but much smoother, like Rarity's; and he looks a lot neater than his friend with trimmed fetlocks, a neatly combed mane and thick framed glasses. If it weren't for Pinkie's dossier, I'd think he was an accountant, not a smuggler. "Can't believe Granite Noggin has been fighting for so long," I say, "Hay, I can't believe he's still talking normally since he loves blocking punches with his muzzle." The pegasus turns to me, and grins when he sees a mare talking to him about Pegasus Fighting League. "He's a proper hard bastard he is. Did you know he got run over by a carriage when he was a foal?" "No way! What, was it just a glancing thing?" I ask. He shakes his head. "Both back legs went under, broke in four places. He still ended up a PFL Hall of Famer." "Ho-lee clop," I say. I rest a hoof on the bar, and pull it away when it touches a sticky puddle of something. "Too bloody right," he says, "Who are your bits on, love?" "See, normally I'd say Noggin by a mile, but I hear he only just recovered from a bout of hoof and mouth, and I know that stuff can totally wreck a training regimen," I say, "Still, if he thinks he's up for it, my money's still on him. You?" "Same. Either way, it's gonna be a cracking fight, Noggin's a fantastic scrapper. Did you see his match with Shinya Poni?" he asks, now resting on the bar and leaning slightly towards me. "Mare, that was awesome!" I say, switching seats next to him so I can hear better, "That last minute winglock was a gift from the wing-jitsu gods." The pegasus chuckles a little and sweeps his hoof through his mane. "I'm glad you say that, I can't count how many idiot fans-" "-can't count full stop," interrupts his friend. "Shush now Dale, cool ponies are talking," says the pegasus, "As I say, can't count how many idiot fans I've heard telling me that match was 'boring' because of all the grappling." "You're in good company. I love a stallion who appreciates a good bit of grappling." I shoot him a sly grin, and get a laugh and a similar grin back. Trixie leans around me and speaks to the unicorn. "They're going to continue like this for some time, aren't they?" "Quite," says the unicorn. He nudges the pegasus. "Icewind, stop being such a boor and introduce us to these lovely mares." "My sincerest apologies, ladies," he says, "My name is Icewind. I don't know who this twat is, I think he's stalking me." His friend sighs, rolls his eyes and gives us a weary smile. Icewind ruffles his friend's neat mane with a hood. "I'm joking, this is my mate Dale, I'm just having a bit of-" "Don't say it don't say it don't say it," says Dale, wincing. "-having a bit of banter," says Icewind, drawing out the word, "A bit of banter is what I'm having. You don't have a problem with banter do you?" Dale glares at Icewind through his glasses. "I've no issue with the concept, I've just never met anypony who uses the word banter on a regular basis who isn't a tosser, present company not bloody excepted." "Tch, poncey git," says Icewind, waving a hoof in Dale's direction, "Anyway, who are you two lovely fillies?" "I'm Firefly," I say, "and this is my friend Lulamoon. We're gonna be in Fillydelphia for a while, so we went to see the sights. We were checking out the docks, it started raining, and now we're here." "An excellent choice," says Dale. "There's no greater pub than the Grog Barrel in all of Fillydelphia," he says, waving his hoof around the bar. I gotta admit, even with the stains and the dusty liquor bottles and the smell of seaweed, it's got a certain charm to it. "Speaking of which, you mares don't have drinks yet. What are you having?" "Well, what's good here?" asks Trixie, voice like syrup. Icewind taps his mug. "You've got to try the grog at the Grog Barrel. Barpony! Four mugs of grog, thank you kindly." The barpony comes back with our drinks, which the smugglers pay for. We all get up and sit down at a low table with a pair of ratty sofas for seating, still close enough to the bar to see the tele-vision. The four of us talk, drink, joke and watch the match. It's tense and fast paced, there's nearly a first round knockout by Raynor Grassy; but Granite Noggin wins with a choke halfway through the third round. That gets a cheer from me and Icewind. Trixie asks about the accents, and they tell us they're both from Trottingham. Dale and Trixie are chatting about some random unicorn egghead crap, I think. I'm not really listening to them. I'm talking more about sports with Icewind, and find out he was a national-level diver until a wing injury forced him into early retirement. "Damn Icewind, I feel for ya," I say, "I got into Wingbury College on an athlectic scholarship for pegasus relay, all that went straight to Tartarus when I nearly got a leg torn off in a weather duty accident." I point to a scar I got in Tarandroland. "It's mad, isn't it," he says sadly, "You get so close to the top of your came, and an injury throws a spanner in the works. You miss a season of training-" "-can't make the next tournament-" I say, "-lose sponsorship-" he says, "-no money in the sport-" "-all downhill from there." He gives a glum shrug, and I pat him on the shoulder. We're quiet for a minute, so I start to tune into what Trixie and Dale are talking about. "-studied illusion at Canterlot Technical College see," says Trixie, "and contract work was the way to go because the full time corporate employment for illusion graduates is horrific." Dale nods, a grim expression on his face. "I've got friends who went that route. They're spending ten hours a day magicking up pie charts and graphs for former business studies students with the IQ of fruit. It's like pulling teeth for the soul." "Very much so," says Trixie, pausing to drink some more grog. "What did you study?" "Finance and economics at Trottingham City University," says Dale. Trixie raises her eyebrows. "Really? Shouldn't you be stuck in the bowels of some big Manehattan investment firm, working sixteen hours a day for millions of bits?" Dale looks down at his drink. When he looks up, there's a weary, frustrated expression on his face. "I was. It didn't work out," he says simply. Trixie puts a hoof on his foreleg and gives him a sympathetic look. "What happened?" she asks softly. Dale sighs. "It's a long and not particularly interesting story. The crux is that there was a club, and when everything went to pot, I wasn't in it," he says, "Still, now I'm working with Icewind here. It doesn't pay as well, but the work is more interesting and the hours are much better." "So what do you guys do now?" I ask. Icewind smirks at me and stretches out his forelegs. "A little of this, a little of that," he says, "What about you two lovely fillies?" I smirk right back and sink back into the ratty sofa. "Same." We stare at each other with guarded smiles and both take a drink of grog. It's good stuff, the strong taste of dark rum balanced by lime and a bit of cinnamon. We say nothing for a good ten seconds, just looking across the table at each other. "Cut the crap," we both say at the same time. "You first," I say. "We brought the drinks, Firefly," he says, tapping his mug with a well-toned fetlock. "Good point." I lean over the table and beckon him to do the same, getting my muzzle close enough to his ear to smell his cologne. He smells of musk and lime. "We're in logistics," I whisper, "Mostly arcane reagents of the, ah, hard to acquire sort. Your turn." "We're logistics too," he whispers back, his breathing making my ear twitch. "Mainly recreational stuff, but we'll take other contracts too." He sits back up straight, and grins. "Are you mare looking for work in Filly? Dale and myself know a few ponies, I'm sure we could get you sorted out." "For a small price of course," says Dale. Hah. I can see why he's struck it off with Trixie. Trixie raises her mug to her lips, and looks at Dale with wide, innocent eyes. "What kind of price?" she asks. Dale gives a lazy shrug. "Business contacts, shipping routes, bits..." He drags his gaze up-and-down Trixie's body. "...Other things. I'm sure we can work something out." Trixie downs the rest of her drink, and giggles demurely. Oh Celestia, get a room. "...and he acts likie I'm the cad, honestly – oh bollocks, we've got company," says Icewind, looking at the door. A group of eight stallions had just walkied into the bar. They all look like they've been drinking heavily, and a few of them are blatantly lit up on moon dust. The lone unicorn of the group hasn't even wiped the trail of white powder off his muzzle. They're all wearing dirty track jackets or letterman jackets flecked with odd stains. Their eyes are darting around the bar, looking for something to break, or screw, or both. In a word: Scumbags. Icewind leans over the table and murmurs "The guy we do logistics for has recently been hiring some right wankers in acquisitions. Case in point, Strikeout and his mates over there." One of the stallions spots us, and the group trots over to our table. A forest green stallion with a closely-cropped red mohawk looms over Icewind. Icewind leans back and to the side, to stop the stallion from getting behind him. "Well, well, if it ain't Dale and Icewind and two real pretty fillies," says the stallion. He's got a strong Bucklyn accent and sounds even scummier than he looks, which isn't easy. "Hello Strikeout," says Icewind coolly, "The bar's over there." Strikeout scratches his chin with a hoof. "Eh, me and the colts have been drinking for a while now, we feel more like tawkin' with some nice young fillies," he says, "So why don't you and your flankhole friend fuck off back home and leave these two mares wit' us, you fuckin' piece-of-shit smuggler?" I get a closer look at the dark red and yellow stains on his track jacket. Dried blood and mucous, probably not his. Totally charming. A brown pegasus leans over me, and brings his muzzle down to my ear. "Forget these two flankholes," he says, brushing his dank black mane out of his face, "We'll take good care of ya." He leans in closer and his stinking breath is all over my face. Then he rests a hoof at the base of my wing. Oh, that is fucking it. I grab my mug and throw the rest of my grog right in his face. His face twists with rage, and he pulls a hoof back to punch me. A perk of being a pegasus is that you can feel air currents in the same way that unicorns can feel magic. Normally, it isn't much use outside of flying and weather duty, but with some simply training you can feel blows coming just before they hit you. With a lot of advanced trining, like the stuff the Wonderbolts drill week-in-week-out, you can start setting up counters to your opponent's attacks before they even realise they're throwing them. I parry the punch with my left, trap it with my right and then slam his face straight into the table. He yelps, and I shove him into his friends before jumping into the air for another pegasus trick. I flex and curve my wings, drawing in a pocket of air, then whip them forward, buffetting the stallions with a powerful blast of air. It cracks like a firework, drops a few of them on their haunches and sends the creepy pegasus sprawling. I look back and see it did what I wanted it to: gave Trixie and the smugglers time and space to stand up. Strikeout stares at me blankly. "You know what you've just done, you dumb cunt? We were gonna treat you mares real nice, use a mattress even! Now we're gonna make sure you never walk or fly again." They charge as one. Trixie's and Dale's horns light up and Icewind takes to the air. Strikeout comes at me, bringing up a forehoof for a massive haymaker. I bob under it and leg one hoof slam straight into his chin, then throw a hook hard into his liver. That gets a satisfying wheeze, and I'm up in the air before he can recover, bringing a back-hoof down on the face of the drugged-up unicorn. Finally, after all this snooping and sneaking and egghead stuff, some action. A blue pegasus gets in the air to take a swing at me, I feel him approaching and my back hooves crunch into his ribcage before he can touch me. I see half a dozen Trixies running about, stallions kicking at the illusions then getting a telekinetically-enhanced chair to the muzzle as they realize it's not real. Three ponies are mobbing Icewind, I fly over and grab one from behind- -crack- Pain shoots through my wing and I cry out. Some flankhole just broke a pool cue over my back. Before I can react, a huge earth pony tackles me to the ground and climbs on top of me. I wrap my forelegs around his to stop him rearing up and pounding my face into the floor. I nearly bridge him over, but he bites down on my shoulder hard enough to draw blood. Before I can react, he brings his head up and headbutts my muzzle. I grunt in pain, but keep trapping his arms and trying to bridge him over. His head slams a second time, and stars swim across my vision. He pulls back for a third, and a chair telekinetically smashes over his head. Thanks, Trixie. I push him off and get up, just in time too. The dusted-up unicorn is counterspelling Trixie's illusions and Trixie is desperately battling off Strikeout with a pair of chairs. He smashes both chairs out of the air with a mighty buck, and then slams both back hooves into Trixie's side, sending her sprawling. I charge towards strikeout and wrap my forelegs around his waist- -thrust into the air and loop-the-loop backwards- -and drop him headfirst through a table. He doesn't get back up. I look around, and see Trixie on her haunches, her horn glowing. A barstool whizzes past me and takes out the scumbag unicorn. Icewind is holding two ponies in headlocks and flapping madly in the air, trying to keep a third at bay with his hindlegs. Dale is on his back getting pummelled by two ponies. I fly and grab one around the neck in a stranglehold, lifting him into the air. Three... Two... One... He passes out and I drop him on the floor. Trixie is halfway through hogtying the other pony with Dale's help. We all turn to help Icewind with his three ponies. A minute later, we're standing over eight, groaning, hogtied ponies. The crusty old regulars are looking at us, grinning at the spectacle. The bartender is glaring at the wrecked chairs and tables, considerably less impressed. "This is all going on your tab." * * * Ten minutes later, after we settle the bill with the bartender, we're all trudging along the docks. It's lashing down with rain, making the light of the street lamps glisten off the cobblestones as we walk past the rows of piers. Behind us, huge cargo ships and ferries are being docked, loaded and unloaded at the industrial end of the docks. We're walking past the dock for fishing and other small boats. Icewind kicks a loose cobblestone, scaring some wet seagulls away from a pile of rotting seaweed. "I can't sodding believe it. That was my favourite pub, that was. The grog was lovely, the scuzzy old regulars were a right laugh and Rummy always had PFL on the telly," he says, "Then those thieving, mugging, stupid chav twats find us there. Where are we supposed to go drinking now?" "This entire situation is unconscionable," huffs Dale, wiping the rain out of his glasses. One of the lenses had cracked in the fight. "I don't appreciated being attacked by flankholes when I'm out drinking, and I appreciate paying fifty bits apiece for damages even less!" "Who were those guys?" I ask. "Well, Firefly, as far as I can tell they're our co-workers," Icewind says sardonically. "See, we've been doing this whole logistics thing for a few years now, mainly for a few characters around the docks. Now, there's always been a few wankers in the docks, but they were never much of a problem since they were thugs with no business sense." "Until someone started hiring their services," says Dale, "Hiring the exact kind of ponies you shouldn't hire, because they're idiots who'd burn a business to the ground rather than extort money from the owners. In the last year or so, they've pretty much taken over the docks. We're pretty sure they're working for our boss, since everypony else hiring in the docks is either working for him in some way or isn't around anymore." "For a while now we've said we'd move to greener pastures if he wasn't paying us so handsomely," says Icewind, "But now? I'm not sure if it's still worth the money." He shakes his head. "For what it's worth, we're sorry you two got dragged into that. I'm sure you didn't come out tonight to be attacked by a bunch of nutters." "Ah, it wasn't so bad." I grin at him. "And the company couldn't have been better," says Trixie in a silky voice, darting around Dale. "Not a total loss then, ladies?" asks Icewind. Before we can reply, he and Dale come to a stop at one of the piers. "Ah, this is our stop," he says, pointing to a small yacht moored twenty metres away. "Your house is a boat?" I ask. It's not a dinky little thing, but there can't be more than two cabins below deck. "Technically it's our office, but there's bedding in there and our flat is on the other side of Fillydelphia," says Dale, "We don't particularly feel like walking all that way in the rain and we're now short of bits for a cab. You two are welcome to come on board for a drink or two if you'd like." "We'll pass tonight," I say, "It's getting late and our place isn't far from here. Still, I'd love to meet up again soon if you guys are up for it?" "That sounds great," says Icewind, rooting around in his mane for something. He pulls out a little business card dispenser, and gives one to me. I read the card. "Seaview Speedy Courier Services?" I ask, raising my eyebrows. "It looks good on the tax forms," says Icewind with a grin. "Our schedule is pretty empty for the next few days, so just drop by and we'll probably be about. If we're not, go to that office over there-" he points to a small shack behind us, "-and leave a note in our box saying when and where you want to meet up, in public of course. Sounds like a plan?" "Sounds like a plan," I say, "Goodnight, Icewind, Dale." "See you soon, Firefly," he says. "And you too, Lulamoon," says Dale, winking at her. Trixie blows him a kiss, and they walk off towards their boat. Suddenly we're trudging through the rain again, back towards our hotel. The cobblestone of the docks soon gives way to the brick sidewalks of downtown Fillydelphia. Late night taxis trundle along the road under orange streetlamps. We cut through an alley at one point, and with a shimmer of Trixie's horn our coats and manes are back to normal. I should probably say something to Trixie. I mean, annoying as she is, she's been pretty cool tonight. She sorted out the disguises, she's cut back on the snide comments a little, and she did give me a helping hoof when that big flankhole was on top of me, trying to headbutt me into the floorboards. I mean, I saved her flank right afterwards, but that's totally expected since I'm Rainbow Dash and being a hero is totally my job. I need to say something, something like- "You know, pegasus, you handled yourself admirably tonight," says Trixie, snapping me out of my thoughts, "I wanted to thank you for not screwing up our intel work this evening, and of course for stopping that hideous green thing from beating me into a coma. I'd also like to apologise for the insinuations about your loyalty to Gilda. Although you did abandon her, you did your best to make amends and have been entirely loyal to her since we've started working together. It was... out of line for me to suggest otherwise" "Huh? Oh. Yeah, it's no problem, apology accepted. Thanks. For the disguises, and for knocking out that huge guy," I say, "You're cooler than I thought, Trixie." "Thank you, Rainbow Dash," she says, a smile visible under the glow of the street lamps. "You're still an egotistical, featherbrained braggart of course, but... I think I can now see why you harbor these delusions and why other ponies indulge them." I laugh and shake my head. "You too, Trixie, you too." We're back at the hotel soon enough, and me and Trixie split up when we get to our rooms. I walk inside and see Gilda already out cold on her bed, an empty whiskey glass on her bedside table. I lock the door behind me, brush my teeth, and slip into bed. All the aches from sitting around doing stakeouts and scrapping with ponies sink away as I start to slowly slip into sleep. Gilda twitches, and murmurs some nonsense in her sleep. Just another day for the Dash.