Prelude
- In which we meet our heroine. -
In all honesty, thinking about death probably wasn’t the best course of action during a robbery. Coco reflected on this even as she stared up from her position on the floor, where she had been instructed to 'sit tight, little missy,' by a rather large stallion. A bank wasn’t really on her ‘top ten places you must die before you die’ list, and the bank of Canterlot definitely would not be on her ‘top ten banks you must die in before you die’ list. The bindings around her hooves dug into her flesh, sending a dull, consistent throb of pain up her spine, and she shifted uncomfortably, trying to roll her neck around so she could make out what the stallions were doing.
The bank had been mostly empty when Coco had arrived, however a few other patrons had been loitering around by the tellers. When the group of masked ponies had busted in, everypony seemed to freeze with shock. Robbery was not an odd occurrence, even out here in the city, but to try something in broad daylight in Canterlot would be sheer madness. Of course that thought never seemed to have appeared to these ponies, even as they huddled behind the counters and glanced out towards the entrance every few seconds.
Coco and the other innocents who were inside the bank when it started had been quickly huddled into a corner and tied together, presumably to stop escape, but possibly for need of hostages, should things go ‘south’, as one of the larger ponies had said.
“Oi Scarface!” shouted the one in a large clown mask, his eyes poking out from two sickeningly black dots in the centre of the mask. He rested a large automatic rifle on his back, and his tone and stance were almost casual, as if this were a daily thing for him. He had been, up until recently, chewing on the butt of a cigar. Now, as he pushed it into the bench and hoisted himself up from his position, Coco began to realise just who her captors were. “How much time we got?”
He seemed to radiate terror, as if his very skin was frightening to the touch, and his huge, bulky build did wonders to compliment that. As he passed by the ponies on the ground, they flinched back, cowering away from the hulking stallion before them. He seemed to snarl as he stopped beside his companion, laying a hoof against his back with an audible thump.
A large, masked pony - presumably ‘Scarface’ - glanced up from his position at the till, where he was shovelling large hoof fulls of money into a black garbage bag. He paused, lifting his hoof up to gaze at the watch there.
“Ah, we’ve got about... - oi!” he stopped mid sentence and swung the barrel of a large shotgun towards a unicorn mare, who had been attempting to slide herself along the floor.
She froze at the sight of the gun pointed at her muzzle, and her hooves began to flail. “No, wait, please!”
“What’re you movin’ around for?” he spat, accenting his words with a shake of the weapon. “I thought we were clear: no. Moving.”
“Please. Please! My husband!” she screamed, motioning with her eyes to the stallion on the ground. He lay sprawled in a pool of red, his body limp and his chest unmoving.
Scareface laughed at her tears, his gun dropping to the floor. Coco shuddered, her mind flashing back to only minutes before. The stallion had stood up, in an attempt to stop the men, and was met with a blast to the torso, dropping him instantly. The mare whimpered softly as Scarface returned to her previous thought.
“Now, where was I?” He glanced around, before staring back at his watch. “The alarms were about, what, fifteen minutes ago?” He shrugged. “Then we got another five before them coppers show up.”
The original speaker nodded, before turning back to the assembled hostages. “Alright everypony, listen up!” he shouted, his voice echoing through the large hall. “As long as you all stay down, we’ll be out of here in no time, and you’ll be free to return to your families.” He glanced down at the unicorn below him and stifled a giggle. “At least, most of you will. But there is one more thing we need from you. We need a-” He was cut off by the intruding sound of a siren, accompanied by a sudden flashing of lights and screeching of tires as, presumably, the police arrived outside.
Coco breathed a sigh of relief as the masked stallions began to panic, raising their weapons and dropping behind the various counters.
“Shit! Scarface, I thought you said we had five!” the leader hissed as he stared down his sights.
“Sorry baws.” Scarface hung his head.
The leader glanced around quickly from his position, before he slid around the corner and crouched down low near Coco. “Hey there little missy,” he whispered as he leaned down to tap the side of Coco’s head with a hoof. “I guess today’s just not your lucky day, eh?” He asked as he pulled her to her hooves, his semi-automatic placed against her temple.
“W-wait,” Coco started as she began to struggle, moving her limbs in an effort to push him off of her. But he held strong, and pressed his gun harder against her temple, eliciting a shock of pain to shoot through her skull. “Please, I don’t want to d-die.” She sniffled slightly, and he chuckled, before he stood up from behind the counter, pulling her with him.
Coco gasped as she stood, her vision suddenly filled with the sight of dozens of guards and officers alike huddled by the doors, their weapons all pointed towards her and the leader of the masked robbers. The sound of dozens of guns clicking at once filled her ears, and Coco shivered, the corners of her eyes stinging with the beginning of tears.
“Alright boys,” he started, his magical grip on the gun tightening as he faced the crowd of assembled ponies. “There are two ways out of this that I see. One: you let me and my boys walk out of here, and this pretty dame gets tah keep her pretty head. Or, two: you open fire, and I take ‘er with me. It’s your choice.” He kept his gaze glued on the ponies ahead, though his grip around Coco’s middle tightened in anticipation.
She grimaced in pain, and began to work her hooves around, the rope around them slowly loosening.
Ahead of her, one of the Guards lifted a megaphone out and pointed it towards the pair, a crackling filling the otherwise silent hall. “Sir, please put the mare and gun down, and back away from the counter. Nopony has to die today.” He lowered the megaphone and raised his weapon again, his gaze steeled and his eyes hard.
The stallion chuckled. “Bit late for that one I’m afraid.” He glanced down behind the counter, before back up at the police. They stared back, their stances unchanged. “I guess we’re going for option two here then.” He muttered, his grip on Coco loosening slightly. “The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the one in this case.” He spoke this time into Coco’s ear, and she shivered, her body growing hard as she realised what this meant.
“No please, wait-”
“Sorry Toots,” he started, pushing her away from him and bringing the weapon up to her head. “Nothing personal.”
And Coco's world went out with a bang.
Night Shift never really enjoyed his early hours at work, despite what his name would apply. He would dredge himself out of bed at Celestia-knows what hour, pour himself some horribly bitter coffee and begin his mind-numbing night at the Canterlot Morgue. It wasn’t so much that he was swamped with work or anything like that. In reality, he had nearly nothing to do whilst there. Nopony visited a morgue at this time of night, and the inhabitants weren’t going anywhere. Mostly, his job consisted of checking the motion camera’s for movement every few minutes, and watching reruns of black and white classics.
The cold never really got to him either. In fact, he mostly relished in it. It was a change from the usual heat of the south, where he’d grown up. But there was always an unsettling atmosphere at the morgue. Always something… off, about some rooms or corridors, as if something was never quite right.
This of course, all impacted on his reluctance to respond to the sudden beeping from his monitors. Something had set off a motion tracker in one of the holding rooms for the recently deceased. These were usually used for the overnighters, or bodies headed for the coroner. There could be many explanations for the movement, an open window, a sudden spark of electricity or ‘phantom-reading’, as it was called in the industry. However, as the pony mind tends to, Night’s thoughts shifted to the less likely, the paranormal. What if it was a ghost of the recently dead, coming back to seek vengeance on any of those around it?
“I swear, if it’s a damn rat again, I’m going to shoot somebody,” he whispered as he stepped out of his small office and into the dimly lit corridor. The cool washed over him as he began to walk, and he sighed in anticipation, his light shaking between his chattering teeth. The lights above flickered every few moments, plunging the area into momentary darkness before revealing light once again.
He passed other darkened rooms and empty corridors, his hoof falls speeding as the atmosphere began to creep into his mind. An echo ran down the hall, and he shivered, his eyes straining ahead for any sign of movement. As he approached the door, he felt his heart rate quicken, and Night Shift paused, his hoof inches from the door. He sucked in a breath before he pushed forward into the darkened room. With a quick flick of his tail, the lights flickered on, revealing the mostly empty rows of tables.
Two recently dead had been brought in that day, and, as he gazed across the room, he felt his blood run cool. The bags always scared him. As if they were used not as a way to conceal the bodies, but a way to keep them in. He glanced left, towards the motion detector, before back towards the bodies. He turned, then, towards the light switch. But, before he flicked it off, something caught his eye, and he turned back. It was, if only for a moment, as if one of the bags had moved. He squinted, and stared toward the suspected culprit. It seemed still, as if the sudden movement was just a trick of the light. Then, it shifted again, as if the pony within suddenly bucked its legs.
“Hello?” He called, his voice breaking as he took a step forward. The bag stopped its movements at the sound of his voice. He took another step, his teeth chattering. “I-if this is a joke, this isn’t funny!” He began to move quicker, and within a few strides he was next to the table. He dropped his light against the metal and reached a hoof up to poke the bag. His hoof met resistance, but nothing moved, and he felt himself begin to shake. “H-hello?” He asked, as he slowly reached out a hoof toward the zipper. “R-really, it’s time to stop kidding around.” He pulled down, and leaned over cautiously to look into the darkness of the bag.
Emptiness filled his vision, and the flickering of lights did not help him to see beyond the folds of darkness encased within. slowly, however, the darkness pulled back, and his eyes adjuste to the dim of the room. He could make out the figure of mare, laying still inside the bag. He gazed past her body, up towards her mane, and then finally, he rested upon her face. He studied her empty features, her slightly curved mouth and soft cheeks. The recesses of her makeup still scarred her face, as if mocking her once vibrant life. Night Shift leaned back and studied the tag by the bag, his eyes scanning quickly over the small scribbles.
“She was shot to the… head, nearly five hours ago.” He squinted, before turning back to the mare. “So… where’s the bullet wound?”
He stared once more into the void. Two dull, lifeless eyes stared back, glazed with the effects of death. Then, they blinked.
Night Shift jumped backwards, letting loose a scream that echoed around the hall. Coco shot up from the bag, a scream of her own jumping from her stiff lips. Her eyes stayed locked to his, and she felt panic begin to rise from within her. She reached out a hoof for him, but her scream did not stop.
Night Shift fainted.