> The Renegades
>  by JackAnarchy
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

> Season 1, Episode 1: The Prodigies
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------


“All that is necessary for the triumph of evil is that good men do nothing.” — Edmund Burke

Episode 1: The Prodigies


“Good morning Washington D.C, and good morning America. It’s May Sixteenth, nineteen fifty three, five after the hour of nine am, temperature’s a balmy 90 degrees which is good news for you lucky kids ridin’ flip–top in your ginchi new Cadillacs…”

The grainy voice of a tube radio atop the nearby newspaper stand greeted the morning to the rising swirls of smoke from the tip of a burning cigarette resting on the corner of a clear glass ashtray. The sidewalk was alive with the tip–taps of hooves worn out leather soles of average citizens in cheap suits chasing yet another day’s wages in a never–ending rat race. From the soft screeching of whitewall tires upon a shiny new Cadillac blazing trails across the asphalt to the chart–topping tunes of Frankie Laine, it was just another day in downtown D.C.

Even luck was a lady, and like all ladies, though, they have their good days and they have their bad days. The faint sounds of pounding fists and the enthusiastic guffaws resonating throughout the confines of a dingy back alley from behind old man Miller’s corner street diner was enough to motivate even the most inquisitive of folks to remain to their side of the pavement. As the saying goes, only fools rush in where angels fear to tread.





Earlier that day…

The sounds of shattered glass startled Johnny from his sleep, forcing a groan from the back of his throat from having been wrenched from his liquid dreams of Barbara Jean from next door. He shrugged at the commotion outside his bedroom, judging from the mindless bickering that his parents were arguing again for the umpteenth time. His baby blue eyes rested upon his clock. He figured that he was up a little too early, but the Hell with it. He would rather be down at Miller’s waiting around for his buds to arrive than spending another God–awful moment in this Hellhole. He lifted himself off the mattress to the sounds of creaking springs, taking a moment to stretch out his aching back before making a beeline for the bathroom.

It was filthy, but he had grown used to the stench of mold and stagnant water. He would have cleaned it, but he knew it was a pointless chore, besides this pad could rot for all he cared. The morning was routine enough: shower, shave, a palm full of grease to smoothen out his thick wavy brown locks, and he was prepped to go. He threw on his only clean pair of skinny jeans, a plain black tee, a pair of worn out boots and of course his prized possession, his leather jacket. He was almost to the door before pausing, shaking his finger in realization that he had forgotten the most important thing. He grabbed something silvery under his cotton pillow and slipped it into his jean pocket.

He was almost a foot out the door when he balked mid–way as a whiskey glass smashed into a nearby wall. “Ya fuckin’ bitch!” the elderly voice slurred. “I work my ass off day in and day out and my fuckin’ wife does nothing but mooches off and spreads her fuckin’ legs for any stallion she sees!”

“Oh, ya wanna go there, you fat piece of turd! What ‘bout Bobbie Jo huh? What ‘bout her?”

Johnny narrowed his gaze at the bald, drunken man by the kitchen counter, suckling on the half empty bottle of cheap bourbon like it was the sweet nipple of a two penny whore while he strutted around in his undergarments.

“I fucked the neighbor’s nag one time, one fuckin’ time and ya’ll never let me forget it!”

“Ya damned right I won’t let ya forget it, ya unfaithful asshole!” said the woman on the other end of the dining table. A bloated, aging broad with far too much makeup and a splashy dress on the verge of popping a button.

“Yer a freeloading little cunt, Delores, just like that useless no good bum, Johnny!” the man barked. “Life’s hard ‘nough without him around. Ya should’ve had gotten rid of him when ya had the chance!”

“Go to Hell, Jim, there ain’t a day gone by where I hadn’t wished that boy died the day he was born! The only reason why I’m stuck with yer sorry ass is because of him.” She took another bite from her donut. Jelly ran down her fingers and onto her dress.

Johnny felt his now–trembling hand tighten around the doorknob. He ripped the door wide open with a thud loud enough to force a shot of bourbon back up his old man’s throat. “Ya know what, drop dead, both of ya! I don’t need this shit. I’m outta here,” he yelled, storming out the front door.

“Wha… the fuck did ya just say to me? Hey, HEY! Get your ass back here boy, I ain’t done with ya yet!” Jim rushed outside, stumbling over a pile of empty whisky bottles as he yelled from the steps of his porch, but Johnny refused him any attention.

Johnny threw on his jacket while he stormed down the forlorn streets of the city slums. It wasn’t long before the exasperated death threats faded behind the revving engines of dump trucks on their way to the nearby cement plant. Johnny forced a grunt as he kicked an empty beer can into the air. He fished a crumpled cigarette out from his jacket pocket, shrugging upon realizing it was his last one.

Slipping the stick to his lips, he ignited it with the bronze lighter he swiped from the sorry coot he and his friends had jumped the week before. Speaking of which, he could really use their company right now. Blowing the last bit of smoke from his lungs, he eyed the city bus pulling up at the corner of Thirty–Fourth Street before making a rush for it.





“Alright people, here we are,” the driver said as the bus pulled up to the curb.

The unmistakable aroma of waffles, toast, and coffee from his favorite hangout was as comforting as ever. No sooner did Johnny step off the bus, than was he greeted by the familiar sight of a five young men leaning against a nearby wall, tipping the ashes from their half–lit cigarettes while they watched the world go by. He grinned– he was finally home.

“Hey Johnny, my man!” One of them exhaled a whiff of smoke though his nostrils. “What's buzzin’, cuzzin?”

Johnny weaved through the crowd of people making their way down the sidewalk, and sure enough, the few ponies among them figured it would be far safer circling around him.

“Papa, you promised that you’d take me to see old man Stan after breakfast.” 

Johnny raised an eyebrow at the unmistakable voice of a foal, stopping in his tracks as he turned to a family of Earth ponies leaving the diner.

“What’s the hurry son? We have the whole day after all,” said the grey stallion with the fedora and the black tie. The door behind him closed to the soft tinkle of a bell.

“But what if he sells the last one before we get there?” the azure foal whined. The cream colored mare beside him rustled his mane in affection.

“Now now, Zephyr, good things come to those who wait. Be patient. I promise it’ll be worth it.” She nuzzled him.

“Alright Mama!” The foal smiled.

Johnny cleared his throat and spat to the curb, scowling as he eyeballed the family in question. Fuckin' ponies, he thought. Their kind had no business here nor were they welcomed among his fellow humans. Watching their irritating smiles plastered upon their smug little faces chafed him on the insides like sandpaper.

As he watched the family of ponies slip into the alleyway next to diner, a grin twisted upon his face. Johnny whistled sharply to his friends by the wall. Upon exchanging glances, they grinned, flicking their cigarette butts onto the pavement as they followed him into the alleyway. 

Johnny tucked his hands into his jacket pocket, eyes glaring like the big bad wolf upon a flock of unsuspecting sheep. “This is gonna to be fun.”





Pain, flaring pain was all the stallion felt through the vicious pounding of bare–knuckled fists hooked into cheeks one after the other. The world swayed in a silent limbo, drowned by the high–pitched ringing in Greyburn’s ear. A gag was forced up to the grey earth pony’s throat as if his guts had gone up and twisted themselves in knots the moment his stomach caved from the blow. That would have been the fifth, or sixth, he had lost count. It was a wonder that he was still conscious.

Where did it all go wrong? All he ever wanted was a day away from the office, away from those mindless pencil pushers and petty office politics, together with his wife and son. It seemed like only moments ago he was savoring the scent of cinnamon waffles and the smoky aftertaste of a freshly brewed cup of Joe at his favorite diner without a care in the world.

Everything was going so well, so much so, he made a promise his son that they would stop on by old man Stan’s comic book store three blocks down to pick up that new issue of Flash Gordon he had been talking about the past week. Then, perhaps down to his favorite pony florist for a bouquet – his wife loved the scent of Equestrian roses. But Murphy be damned, he and his family were jumped by six teenage hoodlums the moment he made the horrible decision to take a shortcut through the alley.

The stallion’s weak breaths drawn through blood–clogged nostrils, were lost in the ocean of cruel guffaws and mindless egging all around him. Never once had he questioned the Lord, having been raised in a strict Christian home, such blasphemous behavior would have earned him a sore rump by day’s end. Then, why would the Lord forsake me and my family?

“What’cha think, boys? Ya think he’s had enough?” The blonde haired greaser gestured to his two snickering compatriots who dangled Greyburn like a piñata. He inched forward for closer look but then without warning, socked another one into the stallion’s muzzle. 

“I don’t think so!” He laughed.

Even as the stallion spat a glop of blood and saliva to the asphalt beneath him, he kept his unbruised eye on the faces of his wife and son. Despite the beatings, he thanked the Lord that they had been spared. He bit his bottom lip. This was all his fault – he was the one who insisted they take the shortcut, and he damned himself to Hell for being so stubborn. Now these… animals, were going to make him watch as they ripped everything he loved out of his life.

“Hope yer still hungry, ‘cause there’s still a whole lot more where that came from!” The greaser pulled his arm to the back as he readied himself for yet another go.

“Stop it! Stop it! Please!” Greyburn’s wife pleaded through her tears, holding her foal tightly in her hooves. “I’m begging you! Please!”

Her cries did nothing to stop the onslaught of beatings, goaded to the sounds of boisterous cheering and Devilish grins. “Stop! Leave my papa alone!” Zephyr cried out, but even the voice of a young child fell on deaf ears.

“Ough!” Greyburn cried as the greaser snagged a handful of his blood–stained mane and threw him right into a pile of trashcans.

“Greyburn!” The mare’s strangled cry escaped her at the sight of her husband now lying motionless on the ground.

The alley erupted in a hail of wolf whistles, applause and exchanges of high fives going all around. “Oh yeah! Who’s bad? Me! Johnny B, that’s who!” The greaser strutted across the alley with his hands held high.

“You got that right, Johnny!”





“… you won’t get away with this.” Zephyr flinched as the greaser they called Johnny froze, his boots screeching against the asphalt.

“What’s that?” Johnny walked over before kneeling down to the foal. “Ya gotta run that by me again kid, ‘cause I think I got something stuck in my ear.” He tapped on his earlobe.

Zephyr scowled.

“Don’t you dare talk to him!” the mare spat, holding Zephyr tighter in her arms.

Johnny shot her a glare. “Hey, I ain’t talkin’ to ya, nag… I’m talkin’ to yer boy here, so why don’t ya mind yer own fuckin’ business?” He scoffed, shaking his head as he returned his attention to the foal. “Jesus Christ, parents are such a pain in the ass aren’t they? Come on, tell Uncle Johnny what ya said.”

“I said don’t talk to– AHH!” Zephyr had never known the true meaning of fear until the moment he watched Johnny wrench his mother by her auburn mane.

“Ya want me to cut ya up like the last bitch who mouthed off to me, huh? Shut the fuck up!” The rage in his eyes could have killed a small animal.

“Mama!” Zephyr cried. “Stop! Let my mama go, you’re hurting her!” He darted forward and smacked his little hooves frantically against Johnny’s shin. 

“Hey, lookey here, boys, the kid’s got some fight in him!” Johnny shot his friends a grin, drawing nothing more than guffaws and chuckles. “Dumb little ankle biter,” he sneered as he flicked the foal in the forehead.

“Ow!” Zephyr fell flat on his rump, sniffling as he rubbed the sore spot with his hoof.

“Sunny! Zephyr! Don… don’t you touch them!” 

“Papa!” the young foal cried out as he watched his father struggle to his hooves, only have his heart sink when Greyburn took another tumble to the ground. It was no use– his strength had all but deserted him.

“Please…” the mare pleaded, her face streaking with tears.

A moment of silence passed before he finally released her. “Alright, alright, just ‘cause ya asked me so nicely,” Johnny said with a smirk, glancing over to the stallion on the ground. “Ya know, ya should be proud of ya kid. He’s got a lot more balls than ya.”

“Please, do… whatever you want with me… just please… please don’t hurt my family,” Greyburn pleaded through his strained breaths. 

Johnny’s eye twitched as he stomped off in stallion’s direction. Zephyr watched in silent horror as the enraged greaser swung the tip of his boot into Greyburn’s stomach. He forced himself to turn away at the moment of impact, while his father’s helpless cries clawed at his soul.

“Ya still don’t fuckin’ get it do ya, pops? Ya don’t get to make demands here! This is my show, I’m the one with the dick here! Me, Johnny B!” Johnny swung another kick into the stallion.

“ARGH!” Greyburn’s good eye screwed shut as he lay clutching his gut.

Zephyr snorted as he watched Johnny casually remove an ivory comb tucked away in his jacket pocket and smoothen out the loose strands of his hair, whistling a chirpy little tune as if everything he had done to this point was merely a game. Zephyr trembled, his eyes welled on the verge of tears, not of fear but of hatred.

Johnny’s whistling came to an abrupt stop the moment his eyes connected with Zephyr’s, glaring deep into Johnny’s baby blue hues with the unspoken desire to drive a knife through his still beating heart.

He scoffed. “Ya know, I’m getting mighty tired of that look ya givin’ me, kid.”

Johnny slipped the comb back into his shirt pocket. “In fact, I’m beginnin’ to wonder where all this fight is comin’ from, ‘cause the last one we jumped was beggin’ like a little puppy dog. So, you know what, enlighten me… Why aren’t you afraid? Huh? Enlighten me! Enli—”

The sudden pause had Zephyr noticing Johnny’s newfound curiosity in something between the folds of little saddlebag. As Johnny flipped off the leather top and pulled out a rather old comic book, Zephyr gasped. 

“Give that back!” he cried.

“Zephyr, no!” Sunny held him back as he struggled to break free of his mother’s embrace.

“It’s mine, give it back!”

“Well, well, what do we have here?” Johnny’s fingers traced the edges of the stained pages as his eyes traced over the title. “The Phantom Stranger? The heck is this crap–” It then hit him like two shots of cheap whiskey.

Johnny blurted a laugh, escalating into an uncontrollable fit as he smacked his thigh, leaving Zephyr wondering if the guy had finally lost his marbles. 

One of the greasers cocked an eyebrow as he gestured to his fellow greaser. “Hey, what so darn funny?”

The other greaser bobbed his shoulders. “Beats me.” 

“Oh! Oh! Now I get it! Stupid, stupid Johnny boy. How did I not see it, huh?” He smacked his forehead.

The foal winched as Johnny came unnervingly close, sneering at him. “Ya actually think… that someone… some hero’s gonna come waltzing down this alley and save yer mommy and yer daddy?”

Zephyr froze.

“That’s cute kid, real cute. Well, get this, I’m gonna give it to ya straight… there ain’t no such thing as heroes, they only exist in here,” he said, tapping on the worn out cover. 

Johnny gestured to the barren back alley walls around them. “Look around ya! This is the real world, and here in the real world, no one gives a fuck about ya. Not the cops, not the people, not even your own kind. Hell, even yer own daddy doesn’t love you ‘nough to try.” He smirked, glancing over to Greyburn yet again.

Tears streamed down his cheeks, dampening his fur. “You’re wrong…” Zephyr muttered.

Johnny raised an eyebrow. “What’cha say kid?”

“I said you’re wrong! Someone will come help us, you’ll see! And whoever it is, I hope he kicks your butt… you and your monkey friends!” Zephyr bawled through the tears.

Johnny’s face scrunched with such rage, his eyeballs stood on the verge of busting a capillary. “Why ya little!” he snarled as he raised his boot.

Zephyr flinched, shutting his eyes tightly as he braced the blow to come.

“NO!” Sunny shielded her foal in her arms.

But the blow never came. 

The greaser’s fists were clenched as tightly as his teeth, his voice baneful as he spoke. “Ya know what, I got a better idea. Why don’t I prove it to ya? Right here….” Johnny reached into his jean pocket, sliding out a chromed hilt.

The sight of it made both his parents gasp. “…right now.”

“Bring me the kid.” Evil smiles streaked across their faces, snickering as they moved in on Zephyr and his mother.

“No! Let me go! Mama!” Zephyr screamed as he was torn from his mother’s embrace.  

“No! NO! Zephyr!” Sunny cried after him. 

“OW, FUCK!” 

Zephyr bit down hard on one greaser’s hand, kicking and trashing as hard as he could, but the humans were just too strong. 

“He bit me! Son of a bitch bit me!” the greaser cried. 

“Quit your whining, you spaz,” the other snapped.

“No! Let go of my son!” Sunny made a grab for her foal, only to be shoved back into the alley wall. “Greyburn, stop them!” she sobbed.

“No! No please!” Greyburn cried as he watched Johnny dangle Zephyr by the scruff his neck like a helpless little kitten.

“So where should I start, hm?” The silver blade, as malicious as a cobra’s fang, flipped into view. “Decisions, decisions, decisions.” Johnny eyed the young foal, twirling his dangerous toy freely between his fingers. “Ya know what pops, I’m lost. How ‘bout ya help me out here?”

“Johnny! Johnny right? Please… please, I’ll do anything, anything! Just don’t hurt my son,” Greyburn begged. His voice quivered as he spoke.

“Then how bout we play a little game? I’m gonna let ya tell me where should I cut yer little boy. Should I cut his leg off?” Johnny circled the tip of his blade around Zephyr’s shoulder. “Or one of his ears… His nose maybe? Oh, I know! How ‘bout his eyes? I hate those damned things.”

Zephyr could only watch as his father’s lip tremble, his eyes welling with tears. “Johnny please…”

“Ya better hurry, pops, cause if you go quiet on me, I’m just gonna kill the little tyke.” Johnny smirked. “So tick–tock pops. Time’s a–wastin.”

Zephyr had never seen his father cry, but as the tears streamed down Greyburn’s cheeks, he smiled. “Papa… Papa it’s okay.”

Greyburn’s ears perked. “Zephyr?”

“A hero will come save us… you’ll see, he’ll come, I know he will!”

Zephyr yelped the moment he felt Johnny’s grip tighten around his mane. “Ya shut the fuck up kid! Shut up! What’s it gonna be, old man? Say it now, or I swear to God I’m gonna spill his guts all over the Godammed floor!” Zephyr cried as he was jerked around like a rag doll. “Okay, okay! Cut… his hair?”

“What’cha waiting for, Johnny boy? Cut him up!”

“Do it, Johnny! Make him scream!”

Everyone was so caught in the rush of the moment that none of them had noticed a presence approaching them from the far end of the alleyway, taking with him an empty whiskey bottle sitting atop a nearby dumpster.

“Alright pops,” Johnny snarled. “Have it yer way!” He brought his blade to Zephyr’s throat.

“Johnny, no!” Greyburn cried out.

Zephyr shut his eyes, gasping the moment he felt the chill of steel against his neck. 

The same moment, something wrenched one of the greasers around by his shoulder. “The fu–”

He never got to finish as he took the full brunt of a bottle to the face, smashing to pieces on impact but before he could give in to sleep’s embrace, he was grabbed by the neck. Cold fingers with a grip like the coils of a python tightened around his throat, cutting off his windpipe before slamming him back–first into the alley wall. The greaser cried as he was stabbed in the stomach by something sharp and jagged, enough to force him to consciousness without breaking skin.

The greasers, including Johnny, stood motionless, jaws agape as they gawked at their friend who was now looking more like a bloodied jigsaw puzzle with several pieces missing. Even from afar, Zephyr kept an eye his mysterious savior. The stranger certainly looked like the average greaser – a pair well–polished Doc Martin’s, a pair of Levi’s, and to top it off, a white T–shirt and a brown leather jacket. Though, the way he glowered at the poor, wounded soul before him proved that he was no friend of Johnny’s.

“I’m gonna give you three seconds, exactly three, to put that kid down and step away from those ponies… before I decide to show your friend here the color of his insides.” The stranger forced what was left of the broken bottle deeper into greaser’s stomach.

“ERRGH!”

He silently counted the seconds for a dumbfounded Johnny to find his way back to reality, but when nothing happened he cried, “ONE!”

Once again, nothing happened.

“TWO!” He shoved the bottle a little deeper into the greaser’s stomach, this time twisting it for added measure. 

“ARRGH!”

“ALRIGHT! Alright!” Johnny cried at last, jerking the blade away from Zephyr’s neck and laying him gently on the ground. “Alright, be cool.”

“Papa!” Zephyr burst into tears as he scrambled to his father. 

Greyburn threw his hooves around his son and held him tightly in his arms. “Oh Zephyr, my boy, my boy. Oh, thank God.”

“Greyburn! Zephyr!” Sunny cried, stumbling to her hooves to join her family in embrace.

Zephyr buried his face in his father’s fur, tears once shed with sorrow now streamed with joy. He didn’t know if it was a miracle, a mere coincidence or a sudden act of compassion, nor did he care. His family, his precious family, was alive.

“You… can you walk?” The stranger addressed the stallion, who was quick to nod in response. 

“Careful, honey.” Sunny braced herself against her husband as Greyburn forced himself to his hooves. “Easy…”

“Careful Papa,” Zephyr said.

“Get your family out of here, and get yourself to a hospital. Oh, and while you’re at it, call the cops.”

Sharp, hazel eyes narrowed dangerously at the five greasers remaining. “And if any of you punks so much as try anythin’, so help me God…“ He twisted the bottle hard.

“Ergh! Oh God!”

Zephyr and his family bid a hasty retreat, and sure enough, the greasers avoided them. The little foal glanced over his shoulder, adding insult to injury as he stuck his tongue cheekily at Johnny, drawing nothing but a bitter scoff.

“Thank you… Thank you… Bless you,” Sunny said through her teary sobs as they passed him.

“And kid, Zephyr ain’t it?” the stranger inquired all of a sudden, catching the attention of the young foal. He smiled. “Never stop believin’.”

Zephyr lit up like morning sun, returning his advice with a smile and a nod before leaving with his family. As they made their way out of the dreary alley, he rubbed his cheek against his father’s leg, smiling as he did.

“See… I told you he’d come.”





The moment they were out of harm’s way, the stranger released his hold on the greaser’s neck, but not before grabbing him by the collar of his shirt. Jerking him forward, he rammed his knee right in the solar plexus. The greaser clutched his chest, choking on his own blood as he was thrown to the ground.

“So!” he said, almost making them to jump out of their skins while he patted the dust from his jacket. “You guys think you’re such hotshots, huh? Bunch of tough guys pickin’ on a few ponies who can’t even fight back?”

He allowed what was left of the broken bottle to slip from his fingers. “Must make you feel real good about yourselves.”

“Well then.” He pushed back on his short auburn hair before cracking his knuckles. “Why don’t you guys try on someone with some teeth for a change instead of those–”

“Motherfucker!” The greaser closest to him lunged forward, throwing a wild haymaker. The stranger tilted his head back at the last minute. His placid eyes trailed the clenched fist as it went by. With a whip of his torso, the stranger countered with a cross to the greaser’s cheek. The greaser's face twisted and churned as a pair of pearly whites went sailing into the air with a trail of blood and saliva.

“Blargh!”

The stranger caught the outstretched arm by the wrist and blasted his fist into the greaser’s stomach, twisting it for added measure. The greaser’s eyes ran red, gasping for breath like fish out of water as saliva trickled down his jaw. He twisted the greaser’s arm and trapped it against his shoulder. Using it as leverage, the stranger slammed his fist into the greaser’s shoulder, snapping it on impact. The greaser screamed.

“Ain’t all fun and games bein’ on the other end of a fist now, is it?” the stranger spat as he twisted the arm, increasing the weight on his shoulder as he forced yet another cry.

“Argh! Stop!”

“Why? I didn’t see you and your pals there stoppin' while you guys were takin' turns beatin' that little kid’s dad half to death.” His gaze fell upon the four greasers left standing. “Hey, why aren’t you all laughin’ like you did before, huh?” He sneered. “Have I… have I failed to entertain you? Do I not appeal to your sense of humor?” He twisted the arm further. 

“Arrrggghhh! Jesus Christ! Stop!”

“You guys get off to this kinda stuff don’t you? So come on, you sick sons of bitches, laugh!” He twisted the arm again. 

“Arrrggghhh! God please!”

“LAUGH!”

“Hey! HEY, LET HIM GO!” Johnny hollered from across the alley, but the stranger ignored him. “Hey I’m talkin’ to ya, PUNK!”

“Pound him, Johnny!” The others yelled with newfound confidence at the sound of Johnny’s own.

“Yeah, cut him up!”

The stranger smirked. “What’s the matter, tough guy? Losin’ your moxie ‘cause you’re not callin’ the shots anymore? Pity, you were on such on a roll, too.” He twisted the arm slowly, prolonging the greaser’s suffering.

“Arrgghh! Johnny, make him stop, man!”

Johnny brandished his switchblade. “I don’t know what yer deal is, ya son of a bitch, but ya just done gone from an ass kickin’ to a funeral. Ya walk in here, into MY ALLEY, kick the shit outta MY FRIENDS and ya think yer gonna cut outta here one piece? Well you know what, hero?  I hope this is worth it, ‘cause I’m seriously gonna enjoy feedin’ ya yer balls!”

“Yeah!”

“You tell him, Johnny!"

The stranger responded with a slow chuckle, almost murderous to the tone. “You think I’m a hero? No, I’m no hero. I’m the guy who’s gonna beat you cocksuckers to death and drink your blood from a fuckin’ boot.”

Johnny forced a dry laugh. “Ya putting me on? It’s fuckin’ five against one.”

“I think you mean four.” He jerked greaser’s arm, on the verge of popping it out of its socket. 

The greaser’s cries went shrill as he dropped to his knees.  

“Still, I think those are pretty reasonable odds.”

The pinned greaser glanced over his shoulder, gazing into the stranger's eyes while he stammered through his breaths. “I know… who you are.”

The grin curling upon the stranger’s face drew an instant sense of regret. “Really? Well, since we all love the sound of our names here, why don’t you go ahead and tell your frat house friends here who I am. Come on, hot–rod, say my name… ” he said as he jerked on his arm.

“Aaaaarrrgh! Fucking Hell!”

“Say it!”
 
The greasers gritted their teeth at the sight of their suffering compatriot, but none of them dared to move. 

“Say my name!”

“How–ard… Sta–ark!”

“LOUDER!” he snarled, twisting it further as he threatened to tear the greaser’s ligaments apart.

“AAARH! HOWARD STARK! HOWARD STARK! HOWARD STAAARK! OH GOD!”

Only then did he loosen his hold. “You’re Goddammed right it is,” he spat before turning to address the other four. “Tell the cops, tell the doctors, tell your grease ball friends from here to Brooklyn, ‘cause when the sun goes down on this city, I want you sons of bitches to remember exactly who kicked your fuckin’ teeth in as they’re SCRAPING WHAT’S LEFT OF YOU OFF THE SIDEWALK!”

Howard released his hold on the greaser, making him kiss the asphalt with a boot to the back of his head. “So what’cha pussies standin’ ‘round for? Bring it!” He threw his arms apart.

“Waste that motherfucker!” Johnny snarled.

The three remaining greasers lunged forward like the hounds of Hell on a mission to tear the young Stark limb from limb. Howard bared his teeth, curling his fists before surging forward at full speed to meet them in the heat of battle, just as the first one was in the midst of hooking a blind right. Howard blasted his fist into the greaser’s face with a brutal blow. Shifting his weight, he slugged the next one across the cheek. The punch sent the greaser stumbling to the back, painting the walls with a spray of red as he took a tumble to the ground. Howard forced the third one rump first into the asphalt with a kick to the stomach.

The first greaser’s face scrunched from the pain, writhing and whining as he clutched his busted nose.  

Howard stepped in with a hurricane of punches, to the face, to the chest, to the gut, to the liver, to the groin, taking swing after savage swing like a wild animal, with the snarls to match. Grabbing the greaser by his T–shirt, he smashed his forehead into the greaser’s face, once, twice, feeling what was left of the man’s nose turn to mush upon impact.

Howard slugged his fist into the greaser’s stomach, forcing him over as he kneed him in the face, putting him down for good.

With a grunt of effort, the second greaser returned, bleeding profusely from his mouth as he swung his fist, but Howard was ready for him. Stopping his blow mid–swing with his arm, he closed the distance and delivered a nasty elbow to the lips, busting them wide open.

Howard trapped the greaser’s arm then blasted a hail of wild haymakers into his face with the same savagery, shattering the greaser’s cheek bones and breaking his jaw. Howard backstepped, giving himself enough leeway for a foot right between the legs. 

“OUGH! Mother fu–” The greaser’s bloodied face contorted as he doubled over. 

Howard grabbed him by the face, dragging the stumbling greaser down the alley and shoving him right into the third greaser, sending both of them back into the asphalt.

With two more down for the count, he homed in on Johnny B.

“Come on, pretty boy! Come on! I’m gonna fuck you up!” Johnny taunted, twirling the silver switchblade in his hand.

Howard’s breaths intensified at the sight of Johnny’s smirk. His nostrils flared, his eyes narrowed into slits as he cried at the top of his lungs, tearing down the alley like a man possessed.  Johnny bounced excitedly on his toes, grinning as he took a swipe at the young Stark. Howard ducked at the last minute, the blade nicking a couple of strands from his head as he threw his arms around Johnny’s waist, spinning around behind him and lifted him into the air.

The move caught Johnny off–guard and off–balance as he was thrown into suplex, back first into the asphalt. He groaned and writhed, but before he could recover, Howard grabbed his jacket and pulled himself on top of him. Like the wrath of God given flesh, he ground and pounded the living Hell out of Johnny with the occasional head butt in between, sending splatters of blood in every direction each time his knuckles collided with skin and bone.

Howard choked as he felt an arm around his neck, suffocating him as he was wrenched off Johnny’s now battered body as they stumbled backward. He grunted, baring his teeth at the sight of the third greaser, feeling his lungs begin to starve as he struggled to get loose.

“I’m gonna snap your fucking neck in two!”

“Screw you!” Howard snarled as he grabbed hold of the greaser’s thumb and snapped it. 

“AAAARRRH!” 

Howard swung his head to the back, breaking the greaser’s nose then driving his elbow right into the greaser’s liver. 

“OUGH!” 

Howard made a grab for the greaser’s collar, throwing him over the shoulder and back first into the ground. Just as he hit the floor, Howard put him out like a burnt out light bulb with a stomp of his boot right in the kisser.

Howard’s breaths were heavy, his feral eyes lost in insanity as the beating of his heart pounded like a brass band against his cranium. As the anger subsided, his gaze fell on his bruised knuckles, now soaked and trickling with the blood, and at that moment, he felt a cold sweat trickle down his face as the gravity of it all began to set in. Howard merely stood there, lost in his thoughts, oblivious to the one greaser nursing his broken arm while he attempted to flee the scene.

He looked over his shoulder, eyes locked on Howard in silent prayer that his presence would go unnoticed. He was almost home free had had he not been unfortunate enough to bump into something at the entrance of the alley. As he turned around, he found himself face to face with yet another young man, gasping from the terror of having recognized him.

“Joshua… Gunn?” he stuttered, breaking out in cold sweat. “You… you with Stark? You’re gonna finish me? Well, fuck you man! You ain’t getting me, I ain’t gonna let you!”

The greaser took a wild swing with his one good arm. Joshua deflected his blow with clear, precise movements, circling the feeble punches away. Once, twice, three times, using the greaser’s momentum against him. Joshua ducked another punch thrown in his direction as he weaved to the side, hooking his fist into the greaser’s face. The blow snuffed the light from the greaser’s eyes as he tumbled to the ground.

Joshua ran his jittery fingers over his jet black hair, coming to terms with the fact that he had indeed knocked the living daylights out of not only an unarmed delinquent but crippled to boot. 

Eyes dark brown narrowed furiously in Howard’s direction. “Really, Howard? REALLY?”

Howard rolled his eyes, groaning silently at the lecture to come.

“I leave you for five minutes… five Goddamned minutes, and you get into a free–for–all! Tell me, does your idea of a balanced breakfast involve a healthy serving of knuckle sandwich on the side?” he cried, straightening his scarlet silk tie, which had come undone in the scuffle.

“You really wanna do this here? NOW?” Howard replied.

“Does it matter where we do it? Hell, we can do it in Timbuktu for all I care, and you still wouldn’t listen!” Joshua shrugged, noticing the blood stains on his smoky grey suit vest and the sleeve of his white shirt. “And these just came out of the cleaners too.”

“So what was I supposed to do, sit around and let these fuckers turn them into glue?”

“I didn’t say that, but you can’t go around beat– HEADS UP!”

Howard caught the glimmer of a silver blade in the corner of his eye, dodging backward as it missed him by the skin of his teeth. The fires of Hell lit ablaze in Howard’s eyes yet again as he retaliated. He trapped Johnny’s outstretched arm and hooked his fist right into the greaser’s nose. The blow sent Johnny’s eyeballs rolling to the back of his skull with the snap of his neck. 

Without a shred of restraint, like a piston locked in full throttle, Howard blasted his free fist into Johnny’s face, pummeling him at least a dozen times. Grabbing a fistful of his T–shirt, he wrenched him forward as he kneed him in the stomach.

Johnny’s face contorted from the crushing pain as he stood on the brink of throwing out whatever was left in his stomach. Howard straightened Johnny’s arm and snapped it in two with an elbow to the joint.

The sound of fracturing bones was drowned by a wail of agony. Howard cried, slamming his foot into Johnny’s side as he tore the arm right out of its socket. He grabbed Johnny’s hand as he plunged the knife deep into the greaser’s shoulder, ensuring Johnny’s now–limp hand was still wrapped tightly around it. Johnny’s eyes widened as they lay fixed on the protruding hilt, unconsciously counting the seconds to the moment the adrenaline faded.

The alley echoed with a blood curdling scream as Johnny slumped to his knees, long after his throat had given up in protest to his screaming.

“Word to the wise, you son of a bitch, if you’re gonna try to cut someone with a knife, you better be bloody well ready to get cut by one, too,” Howard spat.

Johnny shot him a glare. “Drop dead!”

Howard dragged the blade further down his shoulder, forcing another scream as blood began soaking through Johnny’s T–Shirt.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t quite catch that over all that screaming,” Howard said. “You were gonna kill that kid, you piece of ass wipe, and for that, I mean to skin you alive and chop what’s left of you up into little fuckin’ dog treats.”

Johnny chuckled through the pain lancing in his shoulder. “Ya think… yer gonna get away with this, rich boy?” he sneered. “When word gets out, the coppers are gonna come get ya and I’m gonna get a kick outta watchin’ them throw ya in the fuckin’ slammer. Wonder how old man Stark’s gonna–”

Howard slugged Johnny across the face. “ARGH! FUCK!”

“You think I give a damn about my family’s company? YOU THINK I GIVE A SHIT ABOUT MY NAME? FUCK… YOU!” Howard seethed, socking Johnny twice across the face.

“ARGH!”

He grabbed the greaser’s shirt and glared deep into his eyes. “They can arrest me, throw me in jail, lock me away for life, I don’t give a FUCK!” Howard rammed his knee into Johnny’s chest, forcing a gag to his throat. 

“HOUGH!”

“But right here, right now, in this fuckin’ alley, I swear to fuckin’ God that I’m gonna make you suffer, and I’m gonna love EVERY FUCKIN’ SECOND DOING IT!” Howard dragged the knife down Johnny’s shoulder.

Johnny’s screams echoed through the barren walls like the screams of the damned, his throat threatening to rip itself apart.

Joshua swallowed hard. “…Howard, that’s enough.”  

But Howard paid him no mind, twisting the blade as Johnny’s screams grew louder.

“Howard, that’s enough… ”

“Stop! Stop please! God, help me! Make him stop! PLEASE!” Johnny begged, tears pouring from his eyes.

“HOWARD!”

Howard froze as if the Devil had deserted him, leaving all but the horrifying sight of blood soaked fingers and Johnny's pathetic, child–like whimpering. It dawned upon him, there was no question, no doubt, not even a shred of hesitation. He was going to kill him and not even the divinity of God was going to stop him. 

Then why did I stop?

Johnny shrieked as Howard shot him a glare. “I want you to remember this, you punk. It is by my grace that your head is still on your shoulders and not mounted on my wall, understand?”

Johnny nodded frantically through the tears as Howard inched closer.  

“Now go fuck yourself.” He rammed his knee right into Johnny’s face, knocking him out cold.

Howard cleared his throat and spat at the now–unconscious greaser. Though, as he turned to Joshua, he was met with a cold, piercing gaze. “What?”

Joshua was about two seconds from raising Hell on earth when he noticed the faint sounds of sirens approaching in the distance. “Shit, I don’t know ‘bout you, but I’m sure as Hell not sticking around for the heat... let’s get out of here,” he said, turning to leave.

A moment of silence befell the young Stark as he took a moment to gaze upon the carnage he had left in his wake.  

“Right behind you.”





The sounds of mechanical grindings accompanied by the rattling of chains echoed throughout the hangar as metallic doors large enough for an aircraft parted, with ample space enough for two. The fading rays of day’s end cast two shadows across the concrete floor amongst the myriads of workbenches, pieces of heavy machinery and gym equipment laying in their designated corners across the facility. The industrial area, formerly a military base on the outskirts of city made it the ideal place to set up camp. It was quiet, secluded and no one, not even a man with a badge, would dare show his nose here risking a lawsuit without a warrant. All, perhaps but for two young men whose last names just so happened to be plastered on the signboards outside.

Stark & Gunn, rivals in business but partners in crime as far as the press was concerned. Howard tucked his hands into the pockets of his leather jacket, having noticed that Joshua had been unusually quiet throughout the entire car ride. In fact, he had been unusually sullen since their little rumble downtown. His hazel eyes shifted uncomfortably to the side, desperately trying to catch even the slightest expression on Joshua's face but to no avail, even as the soulful voice of Nat King Cole playing on the radio came into earshot.

“OH, oh! Now I get it,” Howard exclaimed all of a sudden. “I see what you’re doin’. You’re givin’ me the ole silent treatment.”

“Get bent, Howard, I’m not in the mood,” Joshua replied.

“Look, if you still got your pajamas in a twist over those fuckin’ greasers from before, I told you, I didn’t have a choice. It was either them or the ponies.”

“Goddammit Howard, you always say that, but that’s not what’s bugging me right now.”

“Well what is it then? Come on, be straight with me for once!”

Joshua scoffed. “Do you have your head so far up your ass that you forgot the part where you almost brutally murdered six guys? And if that’s not enough, you had to go ahead and traumatize one of them with your Jack the Ripper routine! Heaven only knows what you would have done if I hadn’t stopped you!”

“So the Hell what? That son of a bitch had it comin’, and you know it,” Howard said.

“Well it certainly doesn’t give you the right to go all Al Capone on him. Come on Howard, we’re supposed to be better than this!”

Howard shot him a glare. “I don’t have the right? Alright, Josh, you wanna talk about rights? You wanna talk about fuckin’ rights?”

“Oh, no, no, do not pull that crap. You’re not swinging this shit back at me!” Joshua interjected but Howard continued nonetheless.

“Ever since that bill was passed, thousands of ponies, American citizens, are being hunted down like fuckin’ dogs and shipped off into internment camps to the glorious applause of every racist fuck in America. Where the fuck were their rights, Josh? Gone, right out of Uncle Sam’s ass and down the fuckin’ toilet, that’s where! So don’t you dare talk to me about fuckin’ rights!”

“And you believe you can make that all go away by going around beating up a bunch of punks high on motor oil?”

“Well it’s better than sitting here with our hands in our pants like a bunch of fuckin’ beat cops! ‘Sides, I think we’d have better luck cleanin' up the streets with a baseball bat and a nail gun!”

“You know what, you Goddamned psychopath, you’re way outta line, and I have every mind to turn you in!”

Howard lashed out, grabbing Joshua by the collar of his shirt. Joshua in turn grabbed onto Howard’s wrist. “Do it, DO IT! I’ll put you in fuckin’ ground like the rest of them!” His eyes narrowed.

Joshua barred his teeth. “Come on tough guy, make my day.”

“We interrupt this program to bring you breaking news from the heart of D.C. as America responds to the controversial Pony Registration Act passed in congress four months ago. Here is what Vice President Robert Kelly has to say…”

The words ‘Pony Registration Act’ had them turning their heads to the crackling voice from the redwood radio atop the workbench.

“My fellow Americans, first of all, allow me to apologize on behalf of our President, who is unable to stand before you today as he recovers from his ordeal. As of now, we have every reason to believe that after a thorough investigation and a written confession, the recent assassination attempt on the life of President Eisenhower has come under orders by the Royal House of Equestria”

Both Howard and Joshua froze.

“I must now, with a heavy heart, declare that the threat of war is once again upon us. Not from the Germans, not even from the Russians or the Koreans, but from Equestria. A land that once prided itself on neutrality and peace now seeks to destroy our very way of life, but even so, we will not submit, we will not falter. If America requires we take up arms once again to defend our great nation, to fight for our liberty and our right to live on as free men then, as God as our witness we will stand and fight. These are dark times indeed, but I beseech you America, I ask that you stand strong, stand united and together we will persevere. They say that the night is darkest before the dawn, and I promise you, the dawn is coming.”

“In light of this recent tragedy, the United States Government has taken additional measures to have the Pony Registration Act fully enacted and enforced in the months to come. The controversial act which requires all ponies – unicorn, pegasi, and earth pony to be registered and be moved immediately into Internment Camps located across the United States, has drawn mixed criticisms from the people of America. Texas and Alabama have already begun enforcing the law with many other states expected to follow suit.”

“Riots have broken out in heart of San Francisco and New York due to clashes between ponies of the anti–registry movement and anti–pony activist groups, ending with hundreds wounded and arrested by the local law enforcement. Ever since the assassination attempt, views of the general public against the ponies have dipped exponentially. Here is what Mister Ruckus Bernstein, a former world war two veteran has to say:

“I don't want them ponies here. They’re a dangerous element. There ain’t no way to determine their loyalty, and it makes no difference whether a stallion is an American citizen, he is still a pony! American citizenship does not necessarily determine loyalty!”

“In other news, millionaire Ambrose Osborn of OsCorp and Adam Queen of Queen Consolidates have expressed their support for the bill, even going as far as to openly declare their financial and moral support for Anti–Pony Activist groups like The Church of Humanity and Humanity’s Last Stand. The move was also backed by millionaire inventor Bolivar Trask of Trask Industries, who has just recently made headlines at the launch of the Twenty Ninth Stark Expo, a month ago with the premier and demonstration of his new prototype under development of the Sentinel Program.”

“In a recent interview, Bolivar stated that the Sentinels are a last resort, and will only be deployed should the ponies refuse to cooperate with the United States Government. However, not all of America’s wealthiest are in favor of the new law. Millionaire inventors Howard Stark Senior, owner of Stark Industries and Christopher Gunn, owner of Gunn Enterprises have expressed their disapproval for the bill, calling it depraved, unconstitutional and ‘un–American’. We however, were unable to reach Nolan Wayne of Wayne Industries in Gotham City for any further comment.”

Howard released his hold on Joshua’s shirt before stomping off in the direction of the radio.

“That was Lana Lane with the latest report, and now we bring you a brand new one from rising star, Elvis–”

Howard yelled as he shoved everything off the table. The clanging of tools echoed throughout the hangar to the buzzing of a silenced radio as it sprawled across the concrete floor. “Can you believe that fuckin’ BULLSHIT? DAMMIT! Those smug political MOTHERFUCKERS!” Howard slammed his fist the table top.

“HEY! I just fixed the damned thing!” A voice came from above the scaffoldings a storey above belonging to a young man in a dirty white shirt, practically covered from top to toe with patches of motor oil and grease.

“Sorry ‘bout that Norman, ole Howard here’s throwing another one of his legendary hissy fits,” Joshua noted.

“I’m not having a hissy fit.”

“Tell me about it, I heard you guys from across the hangar,” Norman made his way to the end of the scaffolding before sliding down the metal ladder to the ground below.

He wiped his hands across his black trousers and smoothed out the tangles in his auburn hair. “Then again, if I had to listen to them make a hero outta my dad, I'd probably go ballistic too. With him harping on human superiority and all that racial ‘White Power’ jazz every second of the day on live radio, it’s a miracle I’m not sleeping with the fishes in a pair of concrete shoes. Damn, sure sucks to be an Osborn right now.” Norman shrugged as he reached for the scattered tools.

“Don’t beat yourself up. Your dad’s making a circus monkey out of himself at his own accord,” Joshua said.

“Yeah, anyways, which one of you is going to clue me in on what happened, hhm?” Norman asked, pushing his thick framed glasses further up the bridge of his nose. “Let me guess, some guy went ape ‘cause he thought Howard was trying to cut out with his girl.”

Joshua shrugged. “Actually, Howard got into another hoedown with a bunch of greasers beating on a couple of ponies.”

Norman paused. “Wow, should have seen that one coming. Anyways, again? Heck, Howie, if I had a vote for every time you tried to play hero, I’d be President.”

“Hey get bent, pointdexter! They left me no choice… and what did I tell you ‘bout callin’ me that?” Howard snapped.

“Well that was what you said about those Ruskis, those gryphons, those minotaurs, those jocks, and those H.L.S. goons before that–”

Howard curled his fists. “You love keepin' count, wise guy? Alright, let’s see if you remember to count the stars when I ram my fuckin’ fist up your gut!” He stepped forward, but was stopped in his tracks when Joshua stepped in.

“Hey, hey, hey! Back off, Howard!” Joshua said. “You know what, you need to cool the Hell off before I do it for you.”

Howard snorted, turning away as he slapped his hands on the metal dividers standing between him and a multitude of different cables, tubes and wires snaked across the hangar floor. All of them connected to what appeared to be two titanic structures at least ten feet tall, towering over him as they lay shrouded in white tarps.

“So, any luck?” Joshua asked. 

Norman merely shook his head. “Jarvis and Saria are in place, the engines purr like kittens and the hydraulics and gyros work like a charm, but trying to achieve a kinetic speed equivalent to that of a human body... well, it’s a little complicated.”

Howard rolled his eyes as he groaned. “What’s so complicated about that? Just soup up the energy output to get more juice into the main capacitors.”

“Energy isn’t the problem here, Howard, we have plenty of power, but the amount of stress it will put on the mechanism will be monumental, the whole thing will literally tear itself apart!” Norman said.

“How about we switch out the hydraulics for the Starktech Hyper Torque drivers?” Joshua suggested.

Norman forced a dry laugh. “You do know those are experimental prototypes, right? The only two in existence since the military pulled the plug because it was too expensive to mass produce back in the war? Might as well have me to use the ones from Gunn Tech too, while you’re at it.”

Joshua shrugged. “I just thought it’d be worth a shot.”

“Believe me I’ve considered it, but there aren’t enough tests, enough data to convince me that the drivers won’t simply just overload and explode upon activation! I’m sorry guys but, I’m gonna need more time,” Norman said.

“Well news flash Norman, time is somethin’ we sure as Hell ain’t got!” Howard pounded the railing before turning around. “You heard the news, the moment Trask fires up those ‘Sentinels’ it’ll be huntin’ season all over America, and you’d have to be a fuckin’ idiot to believe the ponies will go quietly. There’ll be blood in the streets and those politicians will probably be sitting on their asses placing bets on the body count!”

Norman pinched the bridge of his nose. “I’m working as fast as I can but your designs can only get me so far, Howard. Without the proper testing, without the proper torque calibrations, those things are walking death traps. So don’t you go blaming me if you have to start learning how to piss outta your ass!”

“Well that’s not fuckin’ good enough!”

“Well then drop dead, Howard! Putting up with your immature bullshit is not what I signed up–”

“Enough! Both of you, JESUS CHRIST!” Joshua yelled.

Howard cried through clenched teeth, hammering his fist on the railing yet again.

“Look, I know that you’re angry, I know that you’re pissed the fuck off, but taking it out on us isn’t going to make you feel any better, and it sure as Hell isn’t going make things go any faster.” Joshua moved over to where he stood and placed a hand upon his shoulder. “We’re not the enemy here, in fact, none of us would even be here if we didn’t want to.”

Howard shrugged. “You’re right… I’m sorry. I guess sometimes, I find myself wonderin' if what we're doin' here would actually make a difference in this world and not just a bunch of crazy kids chasin' a dream.”

Joshua chuckled before folding his arms and leaning his back against the railing. “Speak for yourself... this was your idea.”

“Heh, right in the balls, huh? It’s just that all my life I’ve been made to believe that this country stood for so much more. Honour, justice, liberty and all that hoo–ha about the ‘American Way’. Hell, my dad’s a patriot through and through,” Howard said.

“But then, a pony tries to assassinate the president, and all that cock and bull 'bout how ‘all men are created equal’ goes out the window faster than a jackrabbit on fire. I know that humans and ponies have never truly seen eye to eye but, no one deserves to be made fugitives in the very place they were born, 'specially not by the very people they put in congress.”

Norman placed the tools atop the table, his gaze settling on Howard as he continued.

“Worse are these Church of Humanity and Humanity’s Last Stand sons of bitches comin’ along, eggin’ the people into taking the law into their own hands while the cops are either too indifferent or corrupt to stop them.”

“Amen to that, but the people are just afraid, Howard, you know that. Not to mention, it’s only going to get worse with that all that crazy talk about war,” said Joshua.

“Damned if they weren’t, but I’ll tell you one thing. Those ignorant bastards can go on pretendin’ the world’s all sunshine and rainbows, but I sure as Hell won't stand by and watch as this Act destroys everythin' Uncle Sam stands for,” Howard said, his hand gripping tightly on the metal bar. “’Cause unless that bill is repealed, every political ass wipe in congress better hold onto their seats ‘cause I’m gonna give them a war they would not believe.”

“Whoa there hero, be sure to save some for us,” Norman said with a chuckle as he picked up his busted radio. 

Howard then turned to face him. “Hey, I’m sorry ‘bout your radio. Look I’ll get you a new one.”

“And throw this baby out? Hell no, this here’s a family heirloom,” Norman said as he brushed the dust from the wooden radio.

“You kiddin' me? It’s junk!” Howard shot back.

“Well, sometimes you just gotta learn to appreciate the classics. ‘Sides, a few good tweaks and some lacquer and it’ll be as good as new,” Norman added. “Speaking of which…”

Both Howard and Joshua raised an eyebrow at Norman’s sudden change of tone.

“There’s this new bar downtown. A little pony told me the owner’s a nice guy, and I figured since we’ve been long overdue for some time off. We should head on down there tonight. Blow off some steam, take our minds off everything, you know, have fun.”

“This ain’t gonna be like the last bar you took us to, right?” Howard crossed his arms. 

“Yeah, especially when we had to mop the floor with those jocks a day before the big game. Hell, I don’t think coach will ever forgive us for that,” Joshua added.

Norman waved his arms. “No, no, just hear me out for a second. Alright, here’s the thing, I heard that this bar is openly… integrated.”  

“Integrated?” Joshua asked first.

“As in, integrated, integrated?” Howard asked second.

“Eeyup, the owner lets in both humans and ponies. Heck he even lets in them colored folk in. It’s kinda behind closed doors for people who don’t really mind hanging out with all–sorts. So, what’cha say?”

The two friends exchanged glances with Howard rolling his eyes at the sight of Joshua charming grin. “Alright, fine. But if we run into any trouble, I’m officially never takin’ bar suggestions from you ever again,” Howard warned.

“Aw, and just a moment ago you were so eager to clean up the streets,” Joshua said with a smirk.  

“Go jump off a cliff Josh, but in the meantime,” Howard said, “how about I give you a hand with those calibrations?” 

Norman chuckled. “As if I could afford to turn down an extra pair of hands.”

Howard glanced over at Joshua. “You comin'?”

He grinned. “Right behind you.”


[To be continued…]





> Season 1, Episode 2: The Doctor
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------




Previously on The Renegades...


“Ya actually think that some hero’s gonna come waltzing down this alley and save yer mommy and yer daddy?”

“A hero will come save us… you’ll see, he’ll come, I know he will!”

“You guys think you’re such hotshots, huh? Bunch of tough guys pickin’ on a few ponies who can’t even fight back?”

“You think I’m a hero? No, I’m no hero. I’m the guy who’s gonna beat you cocksuckers to death and drink your blood from a fuckin’ boot.”

“Come on Howard, we’re supposed to be better than this!”

"I must now, with a heavy heart, declare that the threat of war is once again upon us. Not from the Germans, not even from the Russians or the Koreans, but from Equestria."

“Those ignorant bastards can go on pretendin’ the world’s all sunshine and rainbows, cause unless that bill is repealed, I’m gonna give them a war they would not believe.”





Those who deny freedom to others deserve it not for themselves. – Abraham Lincoln

Episode 2: The Doctor


“There is no escape.”

His lungs burned, straining to gasp in enough air. His deep ebony eyes darted around the dank abyss, searching for any sign of his pursuer. Only the dim circles of light from the disembodied bulbs overhead guided him. He had no idea who or what was chasing him, nor did he know why. All he knew was he had to escape.

“The darkness beckons. It calls to you.”

The lights faded as he passed them, swallowed by the sound of monstrous wings drawing closer with every frantic step he took. The lights ahead began disappearing, one after another.

"No, NO!" He glanced back the way he came, seeing nothing but darkness. A strained cry escaped him the moment the last light faded from sight and he tumbled blindly into the void as he lost all sense of footing.

“Why must the weak perish while the wicked continue breathing?”

A splash echoed in the darkness, and something cold seeped through the fabric of his trousers. He coughed, spitting repeatedly in a bid to rid his mouth of the foul metallic taste.  As he floundered blindly, a light shone overhead. It should have been a relief, but instead, it sent chills down his spine. His throat ran dry, and the heat deserted his body. 

It was blood.

His eyes widened into white as he smothered himself, stifling the urge to scream at the sight of an ocean of corpses as far as the eye can see. Their blank soulless gazes staring deep into his own, envying the very heart that beats in his chest.

“Rivers of blood and mountains of corpses will not stand in your way.”

He jumped at the unmistakable sound of wings hidden somewhere in the veil of shadows. He bit his bottom lip, understanding the futility of it all as he resigned himself to his fate. It was coming. It was coming and he was powerless to stop it.

“Justice will be served…”

His eyes shifted skywards to the sounds of shattering glass, drawing a strangled gasp at the monstrous bat–like creature descending toward him. It barred its salivating fangs, screeching like the screams of the damned before erupting into an ocean of bats.

He screamed as he was engulfed in a whirlwind of high pitch screeching, swirling with sounds of thousands of wings all flapping in unison. He sunk to his knees, eyes screwed shut, throwing his hands over his ears as he begged for this nightmare to end. The world around him soon faded to black, but even in the depths of nothingness, he heard the gentle caress of a whisper.

“Thomas… wake up.”

It echoed and faded into the shadows.






“Argh!” Thomas cried as he was jolted from his sleep.

As always, it took him a full minute to compose himself. His fingers massaged his temple as his mind shimmered with vague images from the final moments of that dream. Ever since that unfortunate incident in the garden, his nights were never the same, and for years, it had tormented him in his sleep.  Thomas groaned, doubly sure that his continuous delirium would soon drive him to the brink of insanity. Not to mention, sleep was a rare commodity for a man in his profession.

Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, he got up from his tanned leather chair. He ran his fingers through his shabby black hair before giving his aching body a well–deserved stretch, feeling the stiffness in his muscles begin to subside. With recent influx of patients, they had him running around clock a little too often for comfort. Not to mention, he had used whatever time he could scavenge to focus on his research.

He straightened his white coat and his grey tie. Tardiness was almost non–existent to the doctor, although he had to admit, right now, he was a complete and utter mess. No surprise, after having spent his third day in a row at the hospital neck deep in paperwork and books.

“Ugh,” Thomas groaned at the appalling sight of his office. Scattered with scrunched up paper, trash and a myriad of half–opened medical books on pony anatomy upon his desk. He reached for his trusty notebook before proceeding to skim through the penned pages filled with a treasure throve of medical notes accompanied by detailed pencil sketches to match.

Nope, nope, nope, ugh! Another dead end! 

He slammed the book shut, silently cursing and at the same time wishing that the hospital had considered expanding their library instead of putting in a game room for those useless pricks who would rather be spending their hours contributing to their cholesterol levels than caring for their patients. He pinched the bridge of his nose – just thinking about it was an invitation for an oncoming migraine.

Turning around to face the window, Thomas pushed aside the green curtains. His eyes squinted from the glare of the bright morning rays. Even at ten floors off the ground, he could hear the bustling of the streets below. From the muffled sounds of hoof and footsteps going about the busy streets to the roaring of engines in the midst of traffic. His eyes shifted skyward to the sight of dozens of pegasi zipping through the skies as they went about their business. All in all, just another day in downtown Washington D.C.

Thomas placed his hand over his chest as he noticed his elevating heart rate. His mind was in pieces, preoccupied with thoughts of that strange dream. What did it all mean? Thomas touched his forehead to the glass, feeling the warmth of the sun on his skin as he tried to make sense of it all, but the more he lingered on his thoughts, the more he inspired questions rather than answers.

“Ah! To Hell with it!” he cursed under his breath, tossing his notebook aside as he headed for the door. As much as he would love to ponder on his slow, steady descent into madness, he had a job to do. He opened the door that led to the bustling hallway and no sooner was he two steps outside, he bumped into a petit young nurse dressed in her standard issued uniform with her auburn hair tied neatly in a bun.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry I didn’t see you!” she cried.

“No, no, it’s quite alright. The fault is entirely my own,” he replied with a gentle smile.

Her emerald green eyes widened as large as dinner plates, realizing who he was. “Oh, I’m so terribly sorry Doctor Wayne. I’m such a klutz sometimes.”

Thomas chuckled. “Martha, we’ve been through this. Please, call me Thomas… or Tom, whichever you like best.”

“I couldn’t possibly… I mean… it wouldn’t be proper,” she stuttered, fidgeting as she hugged her clipboard close to her chest.

“Proper?” Thomas asked.

“I mean, you… being a Wayne and all.”

Thomas rolled his eyes. It has been a full year since he arrived and the staff were still bent on groveling at the mere mention of his name. “Martha, I may be a Wayne, but I’m just like you, a human being. Punch me, I bleed.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t dare!” she blurted, her face growing redder with every passing second.

The doctor raised an eyebrow. “Are you alright? You look completely flustered, hope you’re not coming down with something. Heaven knows, hospitals can be a breeding ground for all sorts of germs.”

“Actually, I’m feeling fine Doctor Way– I mean, Thomas, truly!” she blurted.

“Miss Kane, relax, take a deep breath then breathe normally. Contrary to printed media, I’m actually quite tame.” Thomas chuckled yet again.

Martha Kane, one of Knightfall General’s more talented nurses and also the first to warm up to him, despite all the hullabaloo about him being branded Gotham’s favorite son.

“Ugh,” Thomas muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose the moment he felt a little lightheaded. 

“Oh dear, another all–nighter?” Martha inquired.

“No reason for concern. Nothing an aspirin can’t fix. Besides, I’m a regular night owl anyway.” Thomas shook the dizziness from his head.

He then noticed Martha’s charming grin. “Something amusing, Miss Kane?” he inquired, curiously amused himself.

“Well, it’s just that… you know, when you first got here, I never thought that a Wayne would be so… well, dedicated to his work,” she said.

Thomas pouted. “Are you trying to imply that just because I’m a Wayne, I’m socially compelled to be a drunk, spendthrift, womanizing pig? Like a scalpel through the heart, Miss Kane.” He patted his chest.

“Unfortunately, you wouldn’t be the first. I just want you to know that I’m impressed,” she simpered with a chuckle. 

“Well, it’s not who I am underneath, but what I do that defines me.”

“True, it seems that the only thing that outweighs your enthusiasm is your concern for your patient,” Martha added.  

“Yeah… patient,” Thomas muttered, trailing off as his gaze fell to the moving silhouettes reflected on the window next to him.

Martha sighed as she placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. “You know, she’s lucky to have you. Everyone calls her a lost cause but not you. Sometimes I believe the only thing that keeps her going is the fact that there’s still someone in this wretched world who still believes in her.”

Thomas shrugged. “I’m trying Martha, Heaven knows I’m trying, but there are times that even I find myself standing at the edge of my hope.”

“I understand. The poor dear, she’s so young and it breaks my heart to see her in so much pain. Is there truly nothing we can do?” Martha asked, the sadness was apparent in her voice.

“I wish I knew. Any information on her condition is almost non–existent. Even with what I’ve gathered over the past months, it’ll still be like trying to find a needle in a haystack.”

Martha turned away. “The world isn’t fair.”

“It never was, and it never will be but I promised myself that as long as I am able, I’ll never stop looking for a cure.” Thomas tightened his fists. “But I’m running out of time.”

Martha smiled. “I believe in you, Thomas. Wayne or not, if anyone can find a cure it’s you.”

Thomas drew a smile at the corner of his mouth. “You haven’t given up on me?”

“Never, and neither should you.”

Thomas felt a sense of warmth wash over him as he held her hand, clasping it gently upon his shoulder. “Thank you Martha. You have no idea how much that meant to me.”

Martha’s cheeks lit up in bright scarlet as her nervous gaze fell on the doctor’s shoulder. 

Realizing this, Thomas swallowed hard as he jerked his hand away. Both of them soon slipped into an awkward silence, turning away to avoid eye contact, but more so to hide the fact that they were now both completely flustered.

Thomas broke the silence by clearing his throat. “Anyways, I’ve kept you from your duties long enough. Besides, I most certainly don’t want you getting into any more trouble with Nurse Jackie. Now if you’d excuse me, I have my patient to tend to.” He turned to leave.

“Certainly. So, I guess I’ll see you around?” Martha chimed.

“How about we do lunch?” Thomas turned around, ignoring the sudden hail of curses flung in his direction as he walked blindly, back–first, into the oncoming crowd. “I heard its mac and cheese day today!”

“That sounds great. Oh! I almost forgot, Detective Gordon’s in the main lobby. Seems like he’s having a bad day,” she said.

Detective Gordon? As in Bill Gordon? 

The very sound of that name made Thomas groan on the inside, well aware that his presence will always be graced by people who are either dead or somewhere in between.

“He’s a detective, bad days are part of the job description!”

“Anyways, I’ll see you later Dr. Way– I mean Thomas, good luck!”

Yeah, I’m going to need it.






The lobby was alive with the sound of boisterous chatter which was unusual on a Friday morning. So much, in fact, that Thomas found it hard to separate the trivial conversations from the heart–breaking wails of despair, made worse by the hazy announcements over the hospital intercom. The rubber soles of his brown loafers squeaked against the polished chequered floors next to the frantic clip clops of hooves as he weaved his way through the ocean of patients and medical staff rushing through and from the hallways.

“Outta the way, patient coming through!” a paramedic yelled from behind, almost running the young doctor over, had he not stumbled out of the way.

“Hey, watch it!” he cried after them.

Thomas was no stranger to the urgency of an emergency, but that came a little too close for comfort. He carefully eyed the frantic group of five race the bloodied torso of a human patient away in a metal bedframe seconds before vanishing around the next corner. Thomas shook his head. It was just a glance, but he knew a dead man when he saw one. 

Those wounds, they looked like gunshots. Wonder if Gordon had anything to do with that?

“Doctor Wayne!”

Speak of the Devil. 

The husky authoritative voice drew his attention to the man with a trimmed porno moustache dressed forlorn earthy trench coat standing by the registry counter. He was middle aged, possibly in his mid–forties judging by the grey strands in his well combed dirty blonde locks. He gave a toast with the paper cup in his hand as Thomas approached him.

“Morning, Detective Gordon, rough day?” Thomas inquired.

The sound of his groan was confirmation enough. “Tell me ‘bout it Doc, take your eyes of the street for one Goddamned second and all Hell breaks loose. Take a good look over there,” he groused, pushing up on his thick ebon framed glasses as he gestured to a grieving family of six.

“They just lost their only son, Ivy Leaguer, would’ve graduated Harvard next year,” Gordon said.

“What happened?”

“Shot into next Tuesday, that’s what. Apparently, he was at a H.L.S. rally when you–know–who–with–the–mask showed up and turned the whole freaking place into a warzone. Hell, we haven’t even finished counting the bodies, but from what I can tell we’ve got at least thirty dead and twenty more on their way to the Pearly Gates.”

“You–know–who? You mean the Punisher?”

Gordon flinched. “Shhh! I see that you’re in the know, but I’d be careful to keep that name on the low right now, Doc,” he warned.

Thomas swallowed the lump in his throat. “Noted.”

The detective rubbed his temple. “Believe me, I have enough trouble as it is without some masked, gun–toting psychopath running around town taking out H.L.S. and C.O.H. members like it’s Goddamned hunting season.” Gordon took a sip from his paper cup.

Coffee, straight black, and judging by the rising steam and the distinctive earthly aroma, Thomas deduced it came fresh from hospital cafeteria not ten minutes ago. “Not to mention, I've got the Police Commissioner so far up my ass that if he spits, it's coming out of my mouth.”

I could have lived my entire life without that image in my head.

“I take it you’re the one in charge of the task force?” he asked, hoping that the detective would cater to his curiosity.

Gordon chuckled. “You’re sharp one. I’ll give you that. Truth be told, we’ve spent weeks tracking that bastard down, almost had him once too. He’s a slippery one, but mark my words, we’ll get him,” he added.

Like I haven’t heard that one before…

“I have no doubt,” Thomas said. The sarcasm was subtle, but apparent. “Well, I must admit I’m surprised to know that you’re still here, Detective. Knowing that the Punisher was behind this, I would assume that you’d be out there trying to take him down.”

“I would, that’s if I didn’t have to bring these yahoos in.” Gordon pointed at six beds stacked behind him.

“Whoa…” the young doctor muttered at the sight of six unconscious greasers as they lay sprawled upon thick, blood–soaked sheets.  “What… the Hell… happened to them?”

“If you’re expecting me to say car accident, you’re gonna be disappointed. You’ll find the full report in here.” Gordon said, passing over a brown file.

Thomas gave him a long, level stare. “Should you really be giving me that, Detective?”

“Hey, you helped us out on the Zsasz case and that puts you way up in my books. ‘Sides, since you’re already here, I figured, what the heck?” Gordon said, bobbing his shoulders as he drew a smirk.

The doctor shook his head. “Hand it over then.”

Taking the file in hand, Thomas proceeded to skim through the stapled pages only to scrunch his eyes at the horrible penmanship littering their medical profiles. He groaned at the sight of the signature at the bottom left corner. 

Doctor Hugo Strange, why am I not surprised? Only he would have such atrocious handwriting.

“Multiple fractures, missing teeth, collapsed lung, possible internal bleeding, severe lacerations, hemorrhaging. Christ, someone definitely took your boys to the ball game,” Thomas said.

Gordon took another sip from his cup of Joe, chapping his lips as he did. “Then to the after party. According to my report, these punks decided to jump a pony and his family outside Miller’s Diner. Pretty much the whole H.L.S. ‘jump em’ and kick the shit outta em’ routine.”

“That’ll be them right there. The stallion’s just gotten out of the infirmary, so Officer Langley is getting their statement.” Gordon gestured to a family of ponies at the end of the hallway in the presence of another office in blue. “Poor guy. Whole thing happened in front of his kid too.”

“Kid doesn’t seem too torn up about it, though.” Thomas eyed the young colt who was smiling brightly as he flipped through an old comic book. “So, you assume it’s the Punisher’s handiwork?”

“No, not his M.O. ‘Sides, if it really were him, these boys would be deader than as sack of nails but, here’s where it gets real interesting.” Gordon pulled out a leather notebook from his coat pocket, shifting through the pages. “Apparently, and I say quote, a hero came out of nowhere and saved my mommy and daddy.”

Gordon’s words left Thomas completely baffled. “You took a statement… from a five year old?”

“Hey, kid was the only one calm enough at the time, sue me but that’s not the point. He said a hero, as in one guy. Can you believe it? One guy.” Gordon highlighted before forcing a chuckle.

One guy, huh? 

Now intrigued, the Thomas padded up beside the metal beds, pulling up on their blood soaked T–Shirts as his studied every bruise, every contusion, every gash and laceration with the utmost detail. 

“Interesting…” he muttered under his breath. He narrowed his gaze at an apparent stab wound.

“If you asked me, it was probably just another gang fight gone wrong. ‘Sides, did they actually expect me to believe that one guy is capable of all of this?” Gordon took another sip of his coffee.

“Sorry to break it to you Detective, but the kid’s telling the truth,” Thomas said, almost causing the Detective to choke on his coffee. 

Gordon coughed, wiping the stains from his lips. “You’re kidding me.”

“Wish I was. Come here and take a look at this.” Thomas gestured for Gordon to come closer before tracing the bruised areas on the young man’s chest. 

“Look at the size of this contusion. Now, compare it to the others. You’ll find that they’re exactly the same, meaning they were all done by the same set of fists,” Thomas stated. “But that’s not all. Solar plexus, chest, jaw, stomach, kidney, liver, groin… all aimed at body’s vital points.” 

“Something you wish to imply, Doc?” Gordon inquired.

“It means, whoever your perp is, he’s no random good–willed samaritan. Whoever did this, knew what he was doing, and he knows how to throw a punch.” Thomas folded his arms and rubbed his chin in thought.

“So, what you’re telling me is that we might be dealing with a pro.”

“Not necessarily, no… a true pro would have incapacitated them instead, not beat them half to death.”

Thomas continued, pondering for a few moments before pointing out the more ghastly wounds. “Come to think of it, I’ve seen wounds like these before, more precisely from victims of abuse. Emotionally driven, but their injuries are often irregular – wild but random, and rarely fatal. You see, regressing alcoholics maybe intoxicated animals but even animals toe the line.”

“But this, this here was done with rage… pure rage. Wild, precise and intentional, without pity and without remorse, which only tells me only one thing, Detective,” Thomas said, his voice now taking a rather somber tone. 

“That he wanted to hurt them on purpose?”

“He wanted to kill them,” Thomas corrected, his eyes narrowing. “But what he did, he did solely out of retribution. So, not only is he a temperamental psychopath, he also has a soft spot for them… the ponies I mean. That being said, the real question remains, why didn’t he finish them off?”

“You pulling my leg here, Doc? Hell, I don’t give a crap if volunteers at soup kitchens or donates to the Salvation Army. Bottom line is, the guy’s dangerous and if I’m going to be looking for one guy–”

Thomas raised his hand.

“Hold… that thought,” he said, moving over the greaser laying on the far right in order to take a better look at the bruising on the side of his face. “Actually, you might be looking for two. See this? It’s different from the rest, meaning there was someone else at the scene.”

“What makes you so sure it was someone else? Could have been one of his pals. He chickened out, tried to run, bam! Ain’t nothing I haven’t seen before,” said Gordon

“Well, unless the guy who assaulted him was master of Dianxue, I would highly doubt that,” Thomas said, moving the greaser’s head for a closer look.

“Dian… what?” Gordon asked.

“Dianxue, you see, the Chinese believe that the body is made of series of acupressure points. I’ve read that with years of training, one can even paralyze, immobilize, or even kill by striking those points. Your boy here took one straight to the Vagus nerve… he was out even before he hit the floor. Any harder and he would’ve been dead.”

“Mother of God. So what exactly are we dealing with? An accomplice?” Gordon took a sip from this paper cup. From the jitteriness in his fingers, Thomas could tell he was nervous. 

“Maybe, that or he could be the only reason your boys here are breathing,” Thomas added. “Then again, I could be wrong. Might want to run it through just in case.”

There was a long silence between the two men, until Gordon muffled a chuckle but then began laughing. “Woo, I’ll admit, you had me going there for a sec’ but I sure am impressed, Doc. You just did in ten minutes what would have taken them police academy grads weeks. Doctor, surgeon and criminal profiler. Seriously, is there no end to your talents?”

Thomas rubbed the back of his neck as he smiled. He was never one for compliments, no matter how genuine they might seem. “Well, I’m a horrible cook, if that counts.”

“So is my wife, but you don’t see me complaining now, do you?” 

Well, technically you are now.

Gordon sighed as he calmed from his laughing fit. “By the way, Doc, if you ever get tired of this place, you know my offer still stands. We could use someone like you down at the precinct.” Gordon took another swig at his coffee cup.

And here we go again.

He sure was a persistent one. Thomas rolled his eyes, trying hard to keep the internal grimace from showing. “I’m flattered, really, but I told you before, I’m a doctor… not a detective. Besides, I’ve got–”

The doctor jumped when the greaser nearest to him made a grab for his wrist, grasping it with a grip like vice. “Howard Stark! Howard Stark! Howard Stark! He did this! He did this!” the greaser screamed at the top of his lungs.

“Shit, nurse!” Gordon cried, spilling what was left of his cup of Joe all over the floor as he wrenched the injured greaser away. “Goddammit! Nurse!” 

Thomas felt numb, the shock coursing through his veins as potent as the adrenaline that fuelled it as he watched Gordon restrain the greaser for the nurses to what was necessary. The screaming continued, drawing alarmed looks from all over the lobby. A full ten minutes went by before the screaming finally subsided. There was no denying it, the greaser was scared out of his wits, traumatized. Whatever happened in that alley, Thomas was certain that it would haunt him for the rest of his life.

Perhaps that was his intention… perhaps that was his design.

“The Hell was that?” Thomas asked, finally mustering the courage to speak. 

“Beats me. Some reason, they kept yelling the name Howard Stark as if he were Jesus freakin’ Christ all the way to the Goddamned hospital. Though last I checked, the guy’s in Africa visiting some backwater, hillbilly state called Wakanda or something like that. Heh, I guess our perp must've bashed their heads in a little harder than we thought.” Gordon smirked.

Thomas narrowed his eyes, unwilling to pass off the incident as mere hysteria. Though, he chose not to pursue the matter or risk escalating it entirely. 

The Detective removed his glasses. “Christ, I’m getting too old for this shit.” He breathed over the grimed surface of his glasses and swabbed it with his handkerchief.

Thomas cleared his throat, realizing it was time he beat a hasty retreat. “Well, anyways, I believe my work here is done. Now, if you’d excuse me, I am needed elsewhere.”

The detective slipped his glasses back on. “Sure thing. You know Doc, I never got the chance to thank…“ There was an awkward pause the moment he realized the doctor had vanished without a trace. “… you. How in God’s name does he do that?”






There were days when navigating through these hallways were as effortless as breathing but there were also days when being a sleep deprived mess would inevitably turn the hospital into a maze. Thomas groaned, stepping out of the lift for the third time to the chimes of a bell and the well–oiled mechanisms of an automatic door. This ward in particular was far livelier than the rest, with bright pastel colors on the once white–plastered walls in addition to loose verses from memorable nursery rhymes completing the décor. Despite being a Pony–only ward segregated from the rest, the hallways abounded with the sounds of laughter and chortles of foals, even the cries of a new born to the joys of first time parents.

In all honesty, pediatrics was an interesting subject back in medical school but, it was definitely not Thomas’ forte. Not to mention children and foals possessed no concept of boundaries, and their uncontrollable urge to touch everything annoyed him to no end. Though, Thomas found himself in an interesting predicament close to a year ago with the arrival of a young five year old patient diagnosed with a chronic and incredibly rare ailment.

Although, when no doctor within a hundred mile radius of D.C. would willingly take her case, Thomas volunteered. Since then, the two had become inseparable. Thomas jumped out of the way as two unicorn foals raced down the hallway engaged in a friendly game of tag, being pursued by a mare in a nurse’s uniform, a surprising sight that brought a smile to his face. 

Children, if only people can learn to see the world through their eyes. God, sometimes I wish we’d never grow up.

He soon arrived at room Three Eighty before rapping his finger on the white wooden surface of the plywood door. “Come in,” came the small, child–like reply, as Thomas entered the room with a twist on the brass doorknob. The room was averagely sized for a one person ward complete with standard furniture. The sweet scent of freshly picked flowers drew his attention to the clear glass vase laying idly atop a coffee table at the corner of the room. It would have been completely silent had it not been the low volume of a tube radio set in unison to the soft beeps and humming of an electrocardiograph machine and a breathing apparatus.

Lying on her bed In the middle of the room, illuminated in the radiant light of the morning sun a partly draped window, was a little charcoal grey bat pony. A pair of golden eyes shifted to meet him with a cheerful smile. “Morning, Doctor Wayne.”

“And a good morning to you too, Robyn.” Thomas returned her greeting with the warmest of smiles, shutting the door behind him as he approached her bedside. “But you know, you shouldn’t be up so late in the day.”

“It’s okay…” she said out of the corner of her mouth while she gripped the end of a pencil between her teeth. “I couldn’t sleep because it started to hurt this morning, but Nurse Martha gave me my medicine.”

“Is that so?” Thomas inquired, pulling up a chair as he took a seat. “You know, Martha cares a lot about you.”

The furred end of her ears perked at the doctor’s words. “How about you, Doctor Wayne, do you care about me?” A charming smile curled on her lips.

Thomas grinned. “Nope, of course not, I’m only here to play doctor.” He presented his white coat.

Robyn pouted and smacked his hand playfully with her little hoof. “Doctor Wayne…”

Thomas chuckled, ruffling his fingers though her silky violent mane. “Of course I do. Never has a day gone by where I don’t think about you.”

Robyn beamed reaching for his hand as she hugged her little hooves around it, nuzzling her cheek into his gentle touch. “You promise?” she asked, resting her eyes upon the young doctor with the most adorable puppy dog gaze.

Thomas caressed her cheek and nodded. “I promise.”

With a contented nod, the little bat pony picked up her stubby little pencil and went back to work, diligently sketching on her art pad. 

“What’re you working on?” Thomas inquired.

“Your birthday present,” Robyn replied, grinning as she lifted the unfinished drawing for him to see.

Oh Goddammit, Martha! 

The doctor’s cheeks flushed, chuckling nervously as he rubbed the back of his head. “Heh, Martha told you, huh?”

“Actually, your butler Walter did.”

Goddammit, Walter!

Mentally putting a pin on having a word with his trusty steward later, he was soon awestricken by the beautiful graphite sketch of a bat pony draped in an exotic medieval suit of armor. Though, what fascinated him most was the fantasy bat–like motif adorning the helmet, gauntlets, hoof plates and chest pieces complete with a long black cape drifting majestically in the non–existent wind. 

“You like it?” Robyn grinned.

“It’s beautiful. You’re incredibly talented, you know that?”

“That’s what my daddy said, too. It’s not finished, but I promise it’ll be done in time for your birthday!” she chirped, flapping her small leathery as she did.

Thomas cracked a smile. “Take your time, Robyn, there’s no rush. By the way, who is that?”

“Oh! This is a picture from an old bat pony story my Gran Gran used to tell me,” Robyn said. “Actually, everypony from the Hollow Shades knows this story.”

“Well since Gran Gran isn’t here, how about you be the one to tell it to me, then?” He clasped his hands together as he gave her a playful wink.

Robyn beamed as she began her story. “Well, a long, long time ago, there was an evil king who ruled the Hollow Shades with an iron hoof. He was a big, big meanie and he would destroy any pony who would dare stand in his way. The bat ponies hated him, but they were also too afraid to stand up to him.”

“I can imagine,” Thomas said with a chuckle.

“Then one day, a brave bat pony decided he can no longer stand aside and watch as his fellow ponies suffered. So he made himself a suit of armor, then rose up to fight the evil king. The evil king sent his evil soldiers to capture him but he was too strong and too clever for them. Finally, after a long battle, he defeated the evil king and freed all the  bat pony… and everypony lived happy ever after.”

Thomas grinned, clapping his hands as he did. “So tell me, did this hero have a name?”

“Hhm!” Robyn nodded as she held up the picture again. “Well nopony ever found out who he really was, but the  bat ponies called him the Dark Knight.”

“Ooh, that sounds fearsome.” Thomas smiled. “It’s a wonderful story, Robyn. Makes me wish we had a Dark Knight of our own. Heaven knows, we could really use a hero right about now.”

“Well, nothing is impossible if you wish hard enough, at least that’s what Gran Gran used to tell me,” Robyn said with a grin but no sooner did her smile began to fade, leaving only but a sad, doleful glint in her eyes. “Doctor Wayne… I’m never getting better, am I?”

Thomas felt the bitter chill of a cold sweat trickle down the back of his neck as he laughed. “Where… where did that come from? Robyn, you know that’s not true. We have the best doctors here and the best medicine–“

“It’s okay, Doctor Wayne, you don’t have to lie to me,” she said. “You’re not the first doctor who said that. Every pony says that before they move me to another hospital, then another and another. They all say the same thing.”

She knows…

Thomas’s lips trembled. “Robyn… I…”

Robyn shifted her gaze to the young doctor as tears welled in her eyes. “You don’t have to lie anymore. It’s okay because I’m no longer afraid. I’m ready… I’m ready to die.” she mustered a weak but gentle smile.

Thomas gritted his teeth as he was forced to turn away, stifling his grief as he smothered the few staggered sobs with his hand. 

How could she? How could she say something like that?

“Doctor Wayne, are you crying?” Robyn asked, placing her little hoof on Thomas’ hand.  He immediately wiped the tears from his eyes. 

“Em, no, no. I’m fine.”

You lie…

A gasp escaped the little bat pony as she found herself in Thomas’ tender embrace. “Doctor Wayne?”

“Robyn, you’re a brave girl, the bravest I know. That is why I want you to hold on for as long as you can.” Thomas rested his cheek along her head. 

Robyn blinked innocently at the young doctor. “But…”

“I’m going to do everything in my power to make you better, okay? No matter what it takes, no matter what I have to do, I’m going to save you. You hear me, I’m going to save you.”

You always lie…

Robyn closed her eyes, wrapping her little hooves around the young doctor’s neck as she rested her little head upon his shoulder. “You promise, Doctor Wayne?”

Thomas kissed her gently on her forehead. “I promise.”

Why?

Thomas smiled, making her giggle as he petted her mane when he heard the feint but unmistakable words ‘Breaking News’ from the nearby radio. “Robyn, why don’t you go ahead finish your drawing. I have just the spot it in my office when you’re done.” He booped her in the nose.

“Alright, Dr. Wayne!” she beamed, picking up the pencil and going straight back to work. The doctor’s made his way to the radio before turning up the volume.

“Tragedy has struck downtown Washington D.C. as the masked gunman known only as the Punisher, opened fire on the local chapter members of anti–pony activist groups, Humanity’s Last Stand and the Church of Humanity, leaving dozens dead and dozens more injured. Unfortunately, the suspect had fled the scene before local law enforcements could arrive. Oddly, no ponies were hurt in this ordeal.”

“Detective John Flass, who was first on scene, had this to say – “There ain’t no excuse for what happened here today. We’ll get this son of a bitch, we’ll get him, you’ll see.” 

“According to eye witness reports, the group of anti–pony activists had turned up unannounced at a peaceful demonstration held by a group of ponies in protest to the controversial Pony Registration Act, demanding they disperse, but tensions soon flared when the group allegedly threatened violence should they refuse.”

“Here is what one of the eyewitnesses, Tommy Merlyn, son of Queen Consolidates’ Vice President, Malcolm Merlyn who was incidentally caught in the crossfire, had to say – “I don’t know what happened. I mean, I was on my way home from the airport, just… just driving… then this guy just came out of nowhere. I mean sure, they were cursing, they were yelling… but when that guy swung his baseball bat, everything… everything went to Hell.”

“We were, however, unable to reach Detective Bill Gordon, head of the Punisher task force, for any further comments. This shocking incident has come as the worst of the Punisher’s crime spree ever since his appearance here in D.C. almost four months ago, prior to his horrifying rampages across Brooklyn, Detroit, Metropolis and even Gotham City bringing his overall body count to at least a hundred known victims. Despite a majority of his casualties being primarily anti–pony activists, even now, detectives are unclear on his true motives. Local P.D. have been increasing their efforts in trying to apprehend this armed assailant before he kills again. Police have reminded the public that the Punisher is to be considered armed and dangerous and should be avoided at all cost.”

Thomas clasped his hands together as he twirled his thumbs in thought. The Punisher was no sociopathic, trigger happy, mass murderer.  Besides, if getting off to pure unadulterated violence as a mean to satisfy his twisted desires, the ponies would have also been part of the statistics.  Strangely, that was not the case, instead his conquest focused primarily on the H.L.S. and C.O.H. 

Retribution, no retaliation maybe? Just like our little friend down in the alleyway.

“In other news, it seems D.C. isn’t the only city terrorized by a mysterious masked outlaw. Straight from Starling City, local P.D. have uncovered the brutal massacre and murder of one of Starling City’s most notorious crime lords, Frank Bertinelli and the Bertinelli family. Not to mention barely days before, the shocking assassinations of Guillermo Barrera, Jason Brodeur, Ted Daniels, Adam Hunt, and Scott Morgan, who were prominent figures of Starling City’s wealthiest, shook the city to its core, spreading fear amongst Starling’s elites.”

“Through numerous eye witness reports, police have identified the ‘vigilante’ known only as ‘The Hood’. Like the Punisher, Starling P.D. have initiated a special task force to be led by Detective Ronald Lance to track down and capture the Hood. Here is what he had to say – “I don’t care what anyone says, the guy’s no hero. He’s nothing more than a Goddamned murderer, and I won’t stop until I bring that son of a bitch down. No one takes the law into their own hands, not in my town.”

“Surprisingly, not all of Starling’s elites were shocked by news. Such was Moira Dearden, heir to Dearden Empire who had this to say  – “My sympathies to their grieving families, but these men have long evaded the law despite numerous allegations and evidence of having direct ties to the Starling City underworld with crimes ranging from racketeering, fraud and even murder. Well, perhaps someone’s finally took a stand… perhaps someone’s finally said enough.” 

“That is all we have for the news, stay tuned and we will keep you posted. Until then, good morning America, and God bless.”

Thomas felt his chest heave with a heavy sigh before resting his chin on the ridge of his knuckles, allowing his eyes a moment’s rest while he pondered on his compulsive need to keep up with the media. In truth, the American people were nothing more than masochists and bad news was just another substitute for a razor. He shrugged, feeling ashamed for being a part of it all.

“Wayne!”

He cringed at the crude tone of address as he shifted his attention to the man at the door. Thomas narrowed his gaze at no other than Doctor Armistan Crane,  the Head Physician of Knightfall. A pitiful excuse of human being, known only by his list of depravities and misdemeanors. From racism to negligence, malpractices and blatant abuse of power, the list went on.

“Get your insubordinate ass out here, now!” he barked, furrowing his brow as his nostrils flared.

“Doctor Wayne?” Irises of dark brown fell on the cowering little bat pony as she peeked from behind her sketch pad. “Is everything alright?”

Thomas smiled. “It’s fine. Just keep on drawing while I have a quick word with Doctor Crane. Tell you what, I’ll grab you some chocolate milk when I get back, okay?”

Robyn’s face lit up as bright as the morning sky. “Yay! I’ll see you later then Doctor Wayne.”

He made his way out of the room, carefully shutting the door behind him before turning to address the elderly doctor. “What?” he said.

Doctor Crane ran his fingers over the glistening skin of his bald spot where the rest of his craggy blonde hair should have been. “Would you be kind enough to explain to me just what the Hell you think you’re doing?”

Smug vague questions, how it peeved the young doctor to no end. Thomas raised an eyebrow. “I’m afraid I don’t follow.”

He flinched as a piece of paper was shoved in his face. “This, this is your signature isn’t it? You authorized the release of this medication, didn’t you?” Doctor Crane rapped on the bottom right corner of the page.

“Yes, yes I did… Your point?” Thomas took an indifferent tone as he moved the Dean’s hand from his line of sight.

“You’re a bloody fool, Wayne! I gave you a direct order, and you deliberately disobeyed me!” Doctor Crane yelled. His voice thundered across the entire wing, drawing a heap of nervous gazes.

“Well excuse me, Doctor, I was under the impression that this was a hospital. If you’ve taken the time to actually read my reports instead of planning your next fishing trip, you’d be well aware of my patient’s condition and why she needs her prescription,” Thomas spat.

Doctor Crane lifted a finger. “I know you aren’t fond of me, Wayne, but believe me when I say the feeling is mutual. Let us not forget that I am the head of this hospital and within the confines of these four walls, my word is law!”

“We are doctors, our duty is to the public, human or pony, no matter what.” 

“We are supposed to help our people!” Doctor Crane yelled. “Our kind! The human race, and I would be a nigger’s uncle before I let you squander my hospital’s resources on a bunch of stinking ponies!”

Thomas’s face went slack, as well as every pony within earshot of their conversation. The doctor drew a deep breath. “Doctor Crane, may I speak with you privately, please?” He curled his fists as he stormed off.

“Wayne? WAYNE! I’m not finished with you!” Doctor Crane cried after him, but Thomas had already made a beeline for the vacant room at the end of the hallway. The Dean trailed behind him, his footsteps growing louder with every passing minute.

“Hey Wayne! Don’t you ever turn your back on me, you understand?” Dr. Crane as both of them entered.

Doctor Crane flinched as Thomas slammed the door behind him.

“Jesus Christ, what the fu–”

“Now you listen, and you listen well, I know you’re the one in charge of this fascist excuse for a hospital. Now that’s out of the way, I also want you to know that I don’t give a flying fuck,” Thomas growled. His voice had become guttural, almost primal.

Dr. Crane barred his teeth. “Now you see here, you–”

“I’m not fucking finished! This is a hospital, and I will treat the sick and the needy, human or pony, without prejudice and without discrimination!”

“You will do whatever I fucking tell you, Wayne!”

“I will follow whatever orders you are authorized to give as Dean, but if you stand in the way of me getting my patient the care she needs, I will personally have you lynched! Do I make myself absolutely, one hundred percent, crystal clear?” Thomas snarled, his voice baneful and grim.

Doctor Crane drew a blank stare, making his best impression of a fish out of water. “Did… did you just threaten me, Wayne?”

Thomas smirked. “Doctor Crane, you should know by now that I don’t make threats. Threats are hollow, meaningless. No, I make promises.”

“Now see here, you cocky little snot, if you weren’t Nolan’s little boy, I would have had your license revoked and your ass out on the streets decades ago!” Doctor Crane spat.

Thomas stepped forward, coming face to face with the old Dean. “Then, what are you waiting for? Do it, DO IT! Call security, take my license away and throw me out into the street for all to see! I dare you!” he seethed.

There was a long, unnerving silence before Thomas finally spoke. “Can’t do it, can you? Enlighten me then, what’s worse? Risking my father revoking your funding, or having your little hospital on the front page of every newspaper in the state? You may have the entire hospital running scared, but guess what, you spineless hypocrite, I am not afraid of you.”

Doctor Crane swallowed hard just as Thomas continued. “Well then, since I’m here to stay, I’m only going to say this once. As long as I remain a doctor of Knightfall General, my patient will have full, unrestricted access to this facility and to any prescriptions authorized by yours truly. You’d be best to remember that well… we’re done here.” Thomas turned to leave.

Though, just as he reached for the brass doorknob. “Tread lightly, Thomas, even as a Wayne you’re not completely untouchable. In this day and age, being a white knight is more a fool’s endeavor than a noble cause,” said Doctor Crane.

“I am whatever the people need me to be.” Thomas stepped out.






His fists clenched, his nostrils flared, and the rage in his eyes could have frightened the Holy Spirit out of even the most religious of men. His furious footsteps shattered the eerie silence of the empty wing, echoing through every corner of the hollow hallways without restraint, well aware that the upper floors had been vacant for a while now. Besides, he knew it would be unsightly for the children to see him like this. His mind was in disarray and the more he dwelled on his heated exchange with that pathetic pile of racist garbage, the angrier he got. He needed some air, something to calm his nerves, anything to quell his murderous urge.

“Goddamnit!” Thomas yelled, his voice boomed followed by a thunderous thud as he slugged his fist into the plastered wall, blasting it clean through.

His breaths were heavy, slow, but paced as he glared at the end result. There was no word in existence that would justify the amount of animosity Thomas bore for that human filth, even the word hate would not do him justice. It made Thomas sick to his stomach just knowing that he would treat the ponies on his staff like garbage, worse is the way he would treat his pony patients. There were even times where he had contemplated leaving them to die by refusing them any medical attention, and none of the staff would dare disobey him or risk invoking his wrath, all except for Thomas. Though, if there was one thing he despised more than Crane, would be to invoke his surname as an instrument of immunity.

Not a day goes by where he had not contemplated strangling the living daylights out of Doctor Crane, relishing in the thought as sweet as fresh apple cider that the world would be a better place without men like him. 

In fact, it would be too damned easy!

“Hey, what’ca do that for? What’d the wall ever do to you?”

The suave voice instantly made the young doctor cringe as he quickly ripped his hand out of the wall to a hail of silent curses. The last thing he needed was to receive a written citation and a dark blotch on his career for destroying hospital property. “Hey, look I’m sorry. I’ll repair it myself if that’s what it takes, just don’t call it in.”

A sigh of relief escaped him the moment he was met with the familiar face of a young Negro man no older than he was, with his shoulder against the plastered wall. He rested his half lidded eyes, squinted with interest on the young doctor as he cleaned the grime from his fingers with a scraggly rag. Thomas assumed he had just finished oiling the gears in the elevator shaft, because none of the other handymen would dare go near it. 

Least, not after what happened last time.

“Man, I would love to take you up on that, but I’m afraid you’ll only make it worse.”

Thomas chuckled as he rubbed the back of his head. “Hey, Joseph, sorry you had to see that.”

“It’s cool, cat, not that I have anything better to do today anyways.” Joseph wiped the rest of it over his dirty denim overalls before pulling his chestnut leather beret over his thin fro. “So, lemme guess, ole Scarecrow's got your ass all twisted again?”

“Ugh, you don’t know the half of it.” Thomas leaned his back against the wall as he crossed his arms. “He was all over my back for authorizing my patient’s medication.”

“You mean Robyn, that cute little bat pony? Now why the Hell would he be pullin’ shit like that? What in God’s name could he be thinkin’? Ain’t that what a doctor’s supposed to do? Cure people, in your case ponies?” Joseph leaned in to examine the damage.

“I don’t know Joe, this whole thing is getting out of hand. Soon he’ll have ponies dying in his wards and because of this new law, no one would even care.”

Joseph shook his head. “Well, I sure can relate. Hell, I can’t remember a time the people of America last gave a damned bout us colored folk. Huh, land of the free, my ass.”

“Well, least they didn’t consider shipping you guys into internment camps,” Thomas said.

“They would if they could. Mark my words, if they had caught a brother instead of a unicorn, things would have turned out a whole lot differently. Hell, they did it to the Japs back in the war, what’s to stop them from doin’ it to us, hhm?” Joseph picked at the loose plaster surrounding the hole.

“Point taken,” Thomas’s blank gaze settled on the pale marble floor. 

“If you ask me, Tom, the government needs to pull its head outta its bitch ass and focus on more important things. Like that crazy ass trigger happy cracka' lightin’ up downtown like it’s the Fourth of July,” Joseph said.

“Hhm, it’s strange, though.”

Joseph cocked an eyebrow from over the edge of his dusty shoulder. “What is?”

“Doesn’t it bother you that he only seems to be gunning for the C.O.H. and H.L.S.? I mean, I know they are a bunch of crazy, religious racists but Hell, even I wouldn’t wish being pumped full of lead on my worst enemy.”

Actually, that’s not entirely true.

“Hell if I know Tom. Ain’t my business to know what kind of crazy’s goin on with a guy like that. I’ll tell you one thing though, if it’s beef, whatever the Hell they did, they must’ve pissed him the fuck off.”

Thomas smirked. “Don’t be surprised if I’d end up sharing a cell with him in Arkham. With Crane around, I fear for the ponies here.”

“Now that’s crazy talk.” Joseph scoffed.

“I’m serious…” Thomas pinched the bridge of his nose. “Joe, you may think I’ve got balls of steel standing up to Crane, but truth is I’m scared, alright… I’m terrified. I’m afraid that one day I’m going to walk in here and Robyn–”

“Now you cut that shit out Thomas Wayne, you hear?” Joseph snapped. “Listen, ain’t no one in this Goddamned place loves that little girl more than you, and I know you ain’t gonna let shit happen to her.”

Thomas shrugged. “I’m not always gonna be around, Joe. I’m no superhero, I can’t run faster than a speeding bullet or leap buildings in a single bound. I’m… I’m just a man.”

“Not to her, not to Robyn and sure as Hell not to me. You’ve given so much of yourself to that little girl, and may Jesus strike me down before I let you to talk shit about yourself,” Joseph said. “Like my grandma used to say, God bless her soul, you gotta have a little faith, and I have faith in you.”

The young doctor chuckled. “Thanks, you’re a good friend Joe. Seems that everyone’s picking me off the ground today, save for myself.”

Joseph laughed. “Hell, friends with Thomas Wayne, the Thomas Wayne. If my old man were alive today, he’d give me a medal. Gotta admit, I had my doubts when a Wayne checked into this place, thought he’d be all prissy and snobby and shit.”

“Would you guys just cut the whole Wayne thing out already? Seriously, it’s not like I’m king of the world or something,” Thomas snapped.

“True that,” Joseph picked out the last of the loose plaster. “Well, you’re in luck. All it needs is some plaster and a fresh coat of paint and it’ll be as good as new.”

“Thanks Joe, I owe you one.” Thomas gave the young man a pat on the shoulder. 

“Uh–ah, you owe me two. Remember the time you crashed your Rolls into the front porch?” Joseph crossed his arms.

Thomas gritted his teeth and cringed. “Yeaaah, sorry about that. You know I had no choice, the woman was in labor.”

Joseph chuckled “That’s what’ca get for bein’ such a white knight. Tell you what, why don’t you make it up to me by buyin’ me a drink? I know this new bar downtown and I think Mister Wayne, could actually use some time away from this place.”

“Bar? You mean after work?” Thomas inquired, a little hesitant. 

Joseph gave him an unamused look. “No, right now. Let me go ask my supervisor if he’d let me out at ten in the morning to go grab a pint. Of course after work!”

“I don’t know Joe, I mean I have a ton of stuff just lying on my desk, and Robyn–”

“Hey, one night out never killed anyone. ‘Sides, you need loosen up before you stab somebody, or worse, havin’ me doin’ double shifts patchin' up more holes in them walls. Come on, hook a brother up.”

A pregnant pause hung in the air as Thomas gave some thought. Finally, unable to bear the sight of Joseph’s pearly whites behind his silly grin, he shrugged in defeat. “Alright, alright, fine. One drink, just one… then we come right back.”

“Man, for a white boy, you’re no fun at all.” Joseph teased. 

“Well this white boy, has a job to do, more importantly he has a patient to save,” Thomas said.

“Hey, Fox! The damned toilet in the elderly ward’s all clogged up again, there’s shit everywhere!” came a voice at the end of the hallway from a fellow handyman as Joseph groaned.

“And right now, it seems you do, too. Good luck, Joe.” Thomas drew a cheeky grin. 

“Aha, aha ha, kiss my black ass motherfucker,” Joseph snapped as he turned to leave. “I get off at five so don’t be late, a’right?”

Thomas shook his head. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”


[To Be Continued...]

> Season 1, Episode 3: The Brother
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------




Previously on The Renegades...


“Why must the weak perish while the wicked continue breathing?”

“Well, it’s just that, when you first got here, I never thought that a Wayne would be dedicated to his work.”

“Well, it’s not who I am underneath, but what I do that defines me.”

“Tell me ‘bout it Doc, take your eyes of the street for one Goddamned second and all Hell breaks loose"

"You mean the Punisher?”

“She’s lucky to have you. Sometimes I believe the only thing that keeps her going is the fact that there’s still someone in this wretched world who still believes in her.”

“Well nopony ever found out who he really was, but the bat-ponies called him the Dark Knight.”

“Tread lightly, Thomas. In this day and age, being a white knight is more a fool’s endeavor than a noble cause.”

“I am whatever the people need me to be.”






“Brotherhood means laying down your life for somebody, really willing to sacrifice yourself for somebody else.” – Tim Hetherington




Episode 3: The Brother


“I said I was out of the game.”

He gasped, feeling the splashing water’s bitter chill like vipers sinking their fangs into his nerves. Hunching over, he narrowed his coal-colored eyes at his own reflection on the shattered looking glass. His chest heaved with a heavy sigh. His gaze soon trailed to the small, crumpled piece of paper wedged between the mirror frames.

Penned crudely in red ink were the words, The Roman, 8 A.M.

“Hey, yer the best, don’t matter what anypony says. I’m tellin’ ya now, he’s willin’ to part with a shit ton of dough to get this done.”

He ran a hand down his clean-shaven face, flicking the last bits of water from the tips of his fingers into the stained porcelain sink before stepping outside. The lamp bathed the room with a flickering amber glow and the stale, musky scent of cigarette smoke mixed with mold in the air. He groaned, ruffling the strands of his dark brown hair as he sat himself on the moth-eaten mattress. The springs creaked in protest.

“How much we talking about?”

“One grand, cash, straight up.”

Grabbing one of the loose cigarettes that littered the nearby night stand, he fished out a silver lighter from the pocket of his navy green cargo pants and lit it. He took a long drag, eyeballing the shifting slits of a hideous cat-themed clock upon the wall as they shifted back and forth like a metronomes. 

The stallion was taking his sweet time.

Keeping the lit cigarette in his mouth, he glanced over to the black leather mask and a pair of aviator goggles lying next to him – the tools of his trade. If there was one thing he’d learned after all those years, is that a man’s identity is his most valuable possession. Especially when it involves dealing with the underbelly of society, both human and pony.

Transportation is a simple and precise business. There is point A and Point B. The key is getting there without getting shot in the face. From the mob, crooked cops and shrewd politicians, everyone had dirty little secrets packed away in neat little cardboard boxes. Since the golden age, they ran contraband the only way they knew how: armed escorts and hired muscle. Though, after The Secret War of Twenty-six, they needed something new.  

Enter the Couriers or as he preferred, Runners. Agile, athletic young men who were sharp, quick on their feet, and knew silence was worth its weight in gold, literally. Today was no different, a simple pickup and a drop off, no questions asked. In fact, the less you knew, the better. The upside: Benjamins enough to take you to the moon and back. The downside? The mortality rate. Yes, the risks were high, but no one said the life of a runner would be an easy one. ‘Sides, he would make more money in a single run than a whole year running the counter at the neighborhood grocery. As far as he was concerned, it was just another day’s work.

He cleared the last bit of smoke from his lungs, curling his lips at the half-smoked butt clenched between his fingers. He made a promise to himself that he would quit, but then again, so was never coming back. What in God’s name was he thinking? What kind of a moron would even consider striking a deal with Manehattan’s most notorious crime lord?

“Three.”

“Whew, yer breakin’ my balls here. A’right, two, final offer.”

He gasped, snapping his eyes to the door seconds before it burst open. 

“We’ve been made! Somepony sold us out!” cried a brown stallion. “You gotta get out of here! Get out of– UGH!”

The gunshot thundered into the air, catching the stallion in the neck, soaking his tie and the carpet with a splash of crimson as he tumbled to the floor. The hallway erupted into a hail of fire and lead, ripping the plastered walls to shreds.

“Holy scrap!” he cursed as he stumbled to his feet. Keeping his head down, he rushed to the stallion’s side and dragged him inside.

Once out of harm’s way, he rushed to the door, kicking it shut. “Bucking Hell,” he yelled, shielding his eyes from the splinters as the bullets began ripping through the wooden frame.

“Hold ya fire! I said hold ya fire ya Numb-Nuts!” a disturbingly familiar hollered from over the gunfire and it came to an abrupt halt. “I’m the one givin’ the orders here! Who the fuck told ya palookas to shoot?”

His breaths were deep and ragged, feeling his heart pounding in his chest. In his line of work, a slipped tongue was like a bucketful of chum and it was only a matter of time before something big, mean and nasty came looking for free lunch. The pages of his mind unfolded like an old leather journal as he ran the name of his employer against every rival gang from here to Gotham. The Maronis? No, too much heat. The Bertinellis? Unlikely, if Frank had a decent pair, they would have ventured out of Starling years ago. The Nostras? Hell, they were bat-shit crazy, but not suicidal.

“I know yer in there ya piece of ass-wipe! This is the M.P.D.C. We got the whole fuckin’ place surrounded. So come on out with yer hands up!”

“And then there’s that,” he groaned. “Cops, Goddamned fracking coppers. Of all the slimy sons of bitches. Why the Hell did it have to be cops?” he cursed under his breath. 

“Kid…” 

He turned to the stallion on the floor. From the tone of his voice, he was fading fast. The Kid applied pressure to the gaping wound in an effort to stop the bleeding. “Try not to talk. Look, hang in there. We’ll get you some help.”

The stallion gave a dry laugh. “Heh, nice… one, Kid. I’m… a sucker for… a lotta… things… but I… I sure ain’t born… yesterday,” his voice faltering with every word. The stallion’s gaze shifted to the bloodstained fedora lying next to him. “My hat.”

His eyes trailed to the stallion’s hat, catching sight of a small package nestled within. It was about the size of a human fist, wrapped tightly in a black cloth.

“Don’t… be… late…” were the stallion final words.

The Kid bit his bottom lip. Crying through clenched teeth, he slammed his fist in to the floorboards. He may have been just another goon, and though he was no stranger to death, he would never get used to that sick, twisted feeling in his gut from watching someone die. People romanticize what they do not understand, such as a life in the mob. The money, the women, the fame, which mono wouldn’t want that? But truth be told, there was nothing romantic about it. Just a castle of glass built upon broken bones and blood money, ready to come crashing down at any given moment.

“Ya hear me asshole! I said come out with yer fuckin’ hands up or we’re comin’ in after ya!”

Coming to grips that there was nothing he could have done for the sorry sod, he snatched the package and made a dash for the bed.  He slipped it into his makeshift backpack before zipping up his jacket up nice and tight. Throwing on his black leather gloves, he then slung the backpack over his shoulder but as he made a grab for his mask, he balked. His gaze narrowed upon his own reflection on the pitch black surface of his aviator goggles as it glared right back at him. 

Shutting his eyes, he took a long, deep breath. “Remember why you’re doing this. You’ve come too far, there’s no going back now.” He grabbed both the mask and the pair of goggles before pulling them over his head.

He crept his way to the door, trying to be as nimble as possible as he snuck a peek through one of the many bullet holes. There were at least a dozen or so beat cops sardined along the entire length of the narrow hallway but his gut was telling him there were more. The M.P.D.C. were like wolves, they hunt in packs and judging by their enthusiasm, they were armed and they were hungry.

What stood out among the sea of navy blue was the stout, middle-aged butterball in the matching grey trench coat and fedora who was two cheeseburgers shy of a heart attack. The Kid scoffed, backing away from the door as he prepping himself on one knee, ready for the run of his life. As much as he respected the honest, hardworking men in uniform, he would gladly see them in a hospital before spending the next twenty years behind bars.

“Alright boys, catch me if you can,” he said, drawing a smirk behind the black leather mask as he pulled the hood of his jacket over his head.

“That’s heavy… even for him.”

“Hey, you know Carmine Falcone. He don’t mess around. I’m throwin’ you a bone here, Parker… come on, for old time’s sake.”

“Alright… I’m in.”



 

Several hours ago…

It was just another sweltering night at the downtown precinct, and even with the windows wide open, the arid summer air lingered with the stale stench of burnt tobacco and cheap whiskey diluting in ice. Even with the tip-taps of fingers dancing upon a seasoned typewriter and a pair of leather Oxfords squeaking upon the polished floors, things were actually calm for a change. 

With that new law in town, the phones had been ringing off the hook with countless reports of hate crimes and senseless violence by the local hooligan squad. If that wasn’t enough, rumor has it that America’s favorite skull-bearing, gun-toting, trigger happy psycho is in town and he’s been hunting. So, with unspeakable chaos threatening to bite them in the ass at every turn, even the most hardened of lawmen needed something to take the edge off. Besides, with society going to the dogs, they would have better luck striking gold at the slots than gaining a moment’s peace.

Oh, fuck me sideways.

Those were the first words to go through his mind as he was jolted from his near comatose state by the incessant ringing reverberating in his ear canals. Between the numbing sensation in his cheek and the crippling migraine gripping his head like vice, he was beginning to regret emptying that last bottle of bourbon. Throughout his career in law enforcement, the only thing that grinded his gears more than those nosy Sallies down at Internal Affairs was pulling the graveyard shift. In fact, he would give anything to be in the comforts of his own Murphy bed with a bottle of gin cradled in his arms at this very moment.

He groaned, keeping his head buried in the crook of his arm while he made a grab for the phone on his desk, knocking a stack of manila files to the floor. Several scattered stationary and crumpled documents later, he finally succeeded in getting the thing to his ear.

“Bullock here and someone had better be dyin’ or so help me God…” he garbled as he scratched his dry scalp. He rubbed his fingers together, disgusted by the oily sensation from the grease that matted his jet black hair. 

There was a pause, even though he could clearly make out someone breathing on the other end of the line.

“Look pal, I ain’t in the mood for this shit so if this is some kinda sick, fuckin’ joke, I’m gonna…”

“Detective.” A refined voice interjected and from the tone, Harvey could tell it was male and possibly in his mid-forties. “I have received word from a very reliable source that you have been looking for a certain masked individual called the Spider.”

Harvey lifted his head, snapping to attention at the mention of the name. “The fuck? Who is this? How the Hell did ’cha get this number?”

“Who I am is no concern. All you have to know, all you need to know, is that I am in possession of some rather valuable information. Information which I am willing to part with.” Harvey gnarled at the unmistakeable slurp came afterwards. The smug bastard was drinking over the phone and as to what, he could only assume it was as prissy as his accent. 

“In a few hours from now, the Spider will be making a run for the Aureus. Now, learning from your previous blunders, he would most undoubtedly outrun M.P.D.C’s finest, so I would strongly suggest leveraging on the element of surprise. Fortunately for you, I have his exact location.”

“Heh, ya puttin’ me on? Ya think I was born yesterday? The Spider’s gone. The guy pulled a Houdini on us and ain’t no one’s seen him in years!” Harvey hammered his fist on the table, drawing the attention of everyone within earshot of his desk.

“Temptation vexes all men, Detective, such as a man with his particular set of skills. Skills certain individuals would pay handsomely for.”

The Detective rolled his eyes. “Okay, ya made yer point. So what’s the catch, asshole?”

“The… catch, Detective?” the voice asked.

“Look I ain’t stupid. I know you moochin’ types and there’s always a fuckin’ catch. Well here’s the thing pal, I ain’t payin’ ya shit and I don’t care how juicy you think–”

“Why sir, I am appalled by your accusation,” the voice interrupted yet again. “There are absolutely no strings attached. I am merely a concerned citizen doing my part to make my city a better place. Now, would you like the location or should I offer my generosity to someone else?”

Harvey swallowed hard as he loosened the coffee-stained tie around his collar. The Spider – the elusive transporter who rose to the top of the underworld running contraband for the mob. From what police had gathered over the years, he was good, possibly the best and for some reason he always wore a mask. For every decorated smuck with a badge, booking the Spider would mean the highlight of his career. Which was probably why, for a time, the Spider became Harvey’s personal obsession.

Long stakeouts, hours of grilling witnesses, and sting operations one after the other. Yet that slick bastard kept on slipping through his fingers like alimony to his ex-wife. Harvey was already neck deep in hardened shit with Internal Affairs and with his career already on the line, he was in desperate need of a break.

“Alright, alright, cool yer fuckin’ jets. Ya got my attention, I’m listenin’,” he said. Harvey could only imagine the smug grin on the other end of the phone. 

“You have something to write on, Detective?”

Harvey pulled a grin. “Don’t need one.”





Harvey’s ebon eyes narrowed at the bullet ridden door while his officers stood with their trigger fingers at the ready. The obsidian finish of their Colt Police Positives clutched tightly in their hands glistened in the amber lights dangling overhead. The Spider was in there: Harvey could feel it in his bones, and after all those years of chasing down a ghost he finally had him right where he wanted. If only those stuck up, no good pricks down at the precinct could see him now. For too long he had been the department’s little butt monkey, but no more. He smirked, picturing the look on their faces when he would come waltzing right through those doors with the one and only Spider in chains. Harvey was on a one way ticket to glory town and he was so close, he could almost taste it.

“I don’t know if you’re either deaf or stupid, I said come on out. Ya got nowhere to go, so do us all a Goddamned favor and just give yerself up all quiet-like so we can all go home,” Harvey said.

When his warning went unanswered for the third time, the Detective has had enough.

“Alright, wise guy, ya asked fer it,” he said. “You,” Harvey called to the rookie standing next to him. “Knock that piece of shit door down!”

The officer complied, moving into position as he readied himself by the door. Harvey drew his snub-nosed Detective Special and cocked it. “On my count boys.”

“One…”

One of the officers bit his bottom lip as sweat beaded upon his brow.

“TWO…”

Harvey took aim.

“THR–“

Before the officer could charge, the door blasted off its hinges as something came crashing through. A muffled cry escaped the officer as he was pinned beneath the weight of the door. The Detective could see his slack-jawed, buggy-eyes reflected on the mirrors of the Spider’s eyepiece as both lawman and bounty exchanged glances. In that instance they knew each other.

“Oh, fuck! It’s him!” one of the officers yelled.

The Spider rushed off the door and leapt into the air. Harvey had yet to regain his composure when the hardened soles of military boots came slamming into his face. He crunched his eyes shut, feeling his neck buckle from the weight as he was stepped over. 

“Ah, fuck!” he cursed as the Spider grabbed hold on an overhead pipe, swinging past the officers.

As he landed, the two officers at the rear tried to rush him. The Spider grabbed hold of the first officer’s hand, spinning around him and tripping him with a kick to the ankle, sending him tumbling to the ground. He dodged the second one and shoved him headfirst into the wall, knocking him out instantly. The hallway then erupted into a hail of gunfire, chipping bits and pieces of plaster off the walls as the Spider disappeared around the next corner.

“Get after him you stupid maracas! Lock this piece of shit building down!” The Detective spat to the floorboards in an effort to rid his mouth of the earthy after taste. 

“I’m gonna kill that motherfucker.”





Parker coughed, cursing the scent of burnt gunpowder growing thick in the air. Bright flashes illuminated the dusky hallway with every shot. He dodged to the side as a pair of oncoming bullets whistled past him. Jumping on the wall-mounted heater, he pushed himself into the air, grabbing the cop by his shoulders. Swinging around, he took the man to the ground. The cop cried as he was slammed hard into the wooden floor.

As the cop lay writhing in pain, Parker zoomed in on the next unfortunate soul. Charging forward, he grabbed the outstretched hand. Closing the distance, he spun into the second cop’s arm, turning the man’s nose to mush with the butt of his elbow. 

“Ugh!” the lawman’s face contorted as blood poured from his nostrils.

He twisted the officer’s arm and kneed him in the gut. The man gagged, puffing his cheeks to keep from emptying his guts all over the floor. Wrenching the gun from the man’s hand, Parker flipped him front and over with a twist of his wrist. 

He then tossed the gun at the third one as the cop appeared from around the corner, hitting the guy square between the eyes. “Ough! Motherfu–“

He dashed forward and leaped onto the nearby windowsill. Pushing himself off, he twisted in midair and kicked the man right in the face. The lawman slammed headfirst into the plastered wall, painting the eroded wallpaper with a blotch of crimson as he slid lifelessly to the ground. 

Parker then took off further down the hallway. 

His brain was clocked in overdrive and between the burning in his lungs and the pounding against his eardrums, he needed a quick and clean exit. The arrival of the local P.D. was a setback but professionals like him would never go risking their necks without a backup plan. He was right to trust his instincts and source the place out the night before.

“Oh, shi–” Parker cursed as another cop emerged from the fire escape next to him.

Too late to stop, he crashed into the lawman, knocking the gun from copper’s hand and the wind from his lungs. Parker used the cop as leverage, grabbing the man’s uniform tightly as they went crashing right through a nearby wall, taking the man to the floor. Gripping the lawman’s collar, Parker socked him in the face, breaking his jaw with a loud crack. He took off yet again, leaving the cop groaning in pain amongst the rubble.

The roof was his salvation – that much he knew and judging by the hail indescribable garble and cursing filling the hallway, M.C.P.D’s finest were right on his tail. Parker bolted through the confines of a living room, doing his best to purge his memory of the nearly naked man in his tacky blue boxer shorts and bathrobe eyeballing him as he darted to the window. 

He flung himself against it, smashing right on through and sending pieces of broken wood and glass tumbling to the pavement below. In that split second, he grabbed onto the metal edge of a suspended platform hanging right next to it. The scaffolding squeaked violently against its hinges, swinging him right through another window and straight into the room one floor below. Parker ducked into a roll, hitting the carpeted floor along with the broken shards of glass. 

“Sorry!” he cried, running past a golden earth pony mare with a blonde mane. She shrieked at the sight of him.

He raced toward the opened door out front just as the unmistakable tip of a Thompson machine gun came into view. Parker gritted his teeth, sprinting forward, he kicked the gun at the barrel and out of the copper’s hands. 

“The fu– OUGH!“ 

He slammed the butt of his elbow into the man’s mouth, busting his lip wide open and roundhoused him in the face. The man’s face contorted as he slammed back first against the wall, his body slumping down in an unconscious, bloodied mess.

“He’s here!” The familiar cock of a gun drew his attention to the two men in uniform armed with machine guns at the end of the hallway.

“Frack!” he cursed as they opened fire.

Making a dash for the stairs, he vaulted over the divider. Keeping low as the bullets ripped the walls to shreds and the air grew thick with dust and debris. He fumbled his way up the staircase, seizing his chance while the officers stopped to reload. The loud pounding in his eardrums echoed his racing heart. A cocktail of emotions and adrenaline coursed through his veins as he tore down the next corridor. 

He would have to clear two more floors, take a right and then a left. The staircase at the end would take him up to the roof in no time, provided he didn’t get shot in the face trying.





“Where the fuck is he?” Harvey yelled. “Where the fuck is everyone? Someone tell me what the fuck’s going on!”

The pudgy Detective panted, leaning his weight against the wooden railing by the stairs as sweat drenched his shirt. Gordon may be a nosy prick but it was times like these where Harvey wished that he should have taken the old timer’s advice and cut back on his sugar intake. Then again, sometimes a jelly-filled donut or two is as irresistible as a blonde street-side hooker, easy on the eyes and fucking hard to turn down. 

The building was in chaos, and between the hailstorm of gunfire and sheer anarchy, the reality of having the Chief tan his hide for his little witch hunt began to set in. The last thing he needed was his ugly mug plastered on every front page in D.C. for tearing up the slums chasing some phantom in a mask. The one thing that kept his hope alive was the untold glory that awaited him once he booked that Goddamned Spider guy a cell in Belle Reve. Heck, they’ll practically be bowing in the streets as he walked by.

He then heard a yell from the upper floor. “Over there! He’s on the roof!”

Harvey snapped his gaze to the window next to him, curling his lips into a smug grin on recognizing the hooded figure darting across the roof. “Gotcha now, ya cocksuckin’ piece of shit!”

He took off in a mad dash up the next flight of stairs, wheezing with every step. With the building locked down and surrounded, Harvey knew that there was no clear path off the roof without a ten story nose dive straight to Hell. So, unless the Spider was secretly the Bird, he had that little nosebleed right where he wanted. 

“What’ca lookin’ at, ya mongo? Get yer ass back inside!” he spat at the poor soul in the hallway. The man jumped as he floundered back inside his apartment, locking the door behind him. 

“I’ll get him, even if I have ta black bag that son of a bitch, I’m gonna get him!”





Parker kicked open the metal door that led to the roof, gaining a sense of well-deserved accomplishment when he finally felt the loose gravel beneath the soles of his boots. Getting up here had been no easy task, especially when he had been forced to put down several more officers on the way up. They were a persistent bunch, keeping on his tail like the bloody hounds of Hell bent on dragging him straight to the Devil’s doorstep or worse. 

He sprinted across the rooftop, making a beeline for the edge of the building when another cop emerged from the south side entrance to the roof. Leaping on the slab of concrete next to him, the man took the higher ground as he aimed and fired.

Dropping to his knees, he tilting his head back as he slid across the gravel, the brass bullet missing his face by skin of his teeth. At the same time, he grabbed a handful of black sand and hurled at man’s face.

“Urgh!” the cop cried, shielding his eyes.

Regaining his footing, Parker roundhoused the officer in the ankles, sweeping the man off his feet and back-first into slab of concrete. “Argh! Fuck, my arm!” the officer screamed, writhing as he clutched his shoulder.

Parker jerked his head back as another gunshot pierced the air, drawing a spark against a nearby girder holding up a giant billboard. He snapped his attention to at least a dozen more officers coming up to the roof. Without a second to spare, he bolted for the edge, leaping off then sliding down the diagonal metal platform at the bottom, rolling across the blackened sand as he hit the ground. Ignoring the rain of bullets all around him, he put his entire focus on the building ahead – a good fifteen feet away.

“It’s now or never!” he cried as he took off into sprint.





The officers continued their onslaught of gunfire, feeling their very fingers go numb from the recoil. Though, no matter how many clips and drums they emptied, the Spider had evaded their every shot as if he had eyes on the back of his head. Upon reloading, one of the officers cocked his Thompson and took aim. Just as he was about to pull the trigger, Harvey grabbed hold of his gun.

“The fuck ya lunkheads think yer doin’? Stop wastin’ yer Goddamned bullets!” Harvey snapped.

“But he’s getting away, sir!” the officer protested.

“Ya think I’m stupid or some shit? We got him cornered, pinned down. There ain’t no fuckin’ way off this roof without havin’ to go through us!”

“Err, sir? You might wanna see this,” said the officer to the far right.

“What’re ya yammerin’ about?” the Detective narrowed in on the hooded man, now running at full speed down the stretch. Harvey raised an eyebrow. “The fuck does he think he’s doin’?”

“Is he gonna do what I think he’s gonna do?”

“Yeah, I think he’s gonna jump.”

Harvey stifled a laugh. “That crazy palooka’s got a death wish. There ain’t no way he’s gonna make that. Alright boys, get yer cuffs out and be ready to wrap this up for Christmas, easy peasy.”





His boots dredged deep into mixture of black sand and pebbles with every stride. His lungs burned as his goggles flogged with every strained breath through the loose stitching that held his mask together. Parker’s eyes narrowed intensely at the building before him, keeping his focus on the window one floor below. He couldn’t for the life of him remember the last time he was forced to clear such a distance, but if there really was a God up there, he hoped the big guy hadn’t taken the day off.

“You can do this! You can do this!” he cried.

The sun had begun to rise, banishing the darkness as the edge drew closer with every step. This was it, the moment of truth. Crying at the top of his lungs, Parker pushed himself off the ledge. He gnashed his teeth together, flailing his arms in midair as the wild howled in his ears.

Then, in that moment, his mind faded to black and in the emptiness of the void, he was reminded of reason he chose the life of a runner. Money and thrills aside, sometimes he lived for moments such as these: moments when the laws of this world held no power over him. It was in that one moment that he was truly free.

Sailing within a foot of the window, Parker crossed his arms, curling his body as he smashed through. He ducked into a roll as he hit the wooden floor, tripping over himself at the last moment. “Whoa!” he cried as he went rolling across the hallway. He finally came to a stop face-down on the ground and gasped for breath, taking a moment to allow the adrenaline to pass.

A few staggered chuckles escaped him at first, growing louder as he rolled on his back. “Oh yeah, I still got it. So why don’t you flatfoot sons of bitches pucker up and kiss my–”

He heard the unmistakable sound of a twisting doorknob as the door beside him slid wide open. Out popped the head of a little mint green unicorn colt, his magenta eyes lay gazing at the strange, hooded man in a mask now splayed on the floor. The colt shifted his attention to the busted window and then right back at him.

Parker sat up. “Err… remember when your mom told you not to jump on the bed? You might wanna listen to her and uh… eat your vegetables.” He jumped to his feet and took off down the hallway.

The colt levitated a carrot to his mouth and snapped a piece off with his teeth, chewing on it as he watched the strange man disappear around the next corner.





“How the, how did he… Goddammit!” Harvey yelled at the top of his lungs, throwing his fedora to the ground and stomping on. “That son of a fuckin’ whore!”

“Holy shit…” an officer muttered.

A pregnant pause hung in the air as M.P.D.C’s finest were left gawking. Despite their best efforts, the elusive Spider had given them the slip yet again, and by accomplishing a feat one could only describe as amazing. Now they knew for certain all those stories were true and they were right in the middle of it all. Knowing that the Spider was probably long gone by now, the officers allowed themselves to settle down. Taking a well-deserved breather as they watched the sun’s rays illuminate the city skyline.

Detective Bullock massaged his temple as he paced back and forth. “Oh shit, oh shit, shit, shit! I’m so dead, I’m so fuckin’ dead!

“Detective Bullock!” an officer cried out, emerging from the stairwell and bolting in Harvey’s direction. “Detective Bullock, Sir!”

“Alright, alright Harvey, calm down. We’ll get through this, we just have to come up with somethin’. Oh, who am I kiddin’, Chief is gonna string me up by my balls and beat me like a–”

“Sir!”

“What? What? WHAT?” Harvey cried, staring daggers at the officer who was surprisingly unphased by his outburst. “The fuck ya want, ya fuckin’ prick? Can’t ya see I’m in the middle of somethin’ here?”

“I just got off the radio, Sir. It was the Chief,” the officer replied.

Harvey ran his hand down his face as he groaned. “Oh fuck me sideways and call me Sally,” he groused. “He’s gonna tear me a new asshole for what happened here.”

“Actually, there’s been a shooting downtown and Chief wants all hands on deck.” His voice suddenly took a more somber tone. “It’s him, Sir… it’s the Punisher.”

Harvey’s face went slack and his irises shrunk to the size of pinheads. “Oh, fuckin’ Hell. Cartwright!” he cried.

“Yes, sir!” the officer replied, holding his Thompson at the ready.

“Get the boys ta tear this fuckin’ place apart. Bring me that Spider fuck, or don’t bother comin’ back at all,” he ordered. “As fer the rest of ya, with me.” He gestured with a wave of his hand as he made his way toward the stairwell.

“Jesus Christ, as if this day couldn’t get any worse. Fuck my life.”





Parker knew the alleys of D.C. like the back of his hand. Every street, every junction and pathway there was to know. Always venture off the beaten track, lay low and most important of all, stick to the shadows – he followed those words like a mantra and it had been the only thing keeping him alive all these years. He tensed, backing himself into the wall at the sound of ruffling paper and scattered beer bottles. 

He dared a peek around the corner, breathing a sigh of relief at the sight of an elderly stallion with a tattered beanie rummaging through an old trash can. Parker would run into the homeless from time to time but they stuck to their side of the fence. Besides, a set of loose lips often came with its own rewards, and by that, he meant a pair of concrete shoes and your very own spot at the bottom of the Potomac. He slipped away unnoticed, leaving the stallion to his own.

He navigated his way through the maze of alleys, picking up the pace with every turn. The most important rule in this business is punctuality. Never be late, not even by a second. Failure to comply often brought dire consequences, and when your credibility comes into question by powerful men who have no qualms taking you apart with a hacksaw, you would be pretty damned sure to show up on time. Although painful, agonizing failure was the last thing on his mind. In fact, he was more concerned about them slicing his commission in half. Part of the deal should he come up short.

It wasn’t long before Parker arrived in front of a red metal door. The Aureus: one of D.C.’s most famous cabaret clubs and the crown jewel of Falcone’s empire here in the States. Though, appearances can be deceiving. Everyone knew they ran the joint as a front for their operations. Prostitution, gambling, racketeering, trafficking – you name it, they probably had a hoof in it. If there was dirty money to be made, Falcone was already ahead of the game and having an army of crooked cops and corrupt officials was an added plus. He was a little vague on the details, but some things are better left unknown.

He hammered his fist on the red door, and it rang like a Chinese gong. The metallic hatch behind the peephole slid open, revealing a set of deep, crimson eyes glaring right back at him. Parker of course said nothing. It was his policy never to speak during a drop-off and likewise, the less they knew about him the better.

“Holy Solaris, hold on a sec,” said a gruff voice on the other side as the hatch slid shut. With the clunk of a heavy deadbolt, the door opened inwards, revealing a maroon unicorn stallion with a black mane. Leaning out from the doorway, he took a moment to scan the area. 

“Were you followed?” the stallion asked.

Once again, he said nothing.

The stallion chuckled, drawing a cocky smirk. “Sorry, that was dumb. Ya know, I bet Bernie here twenty bits that yer weren’t gonna show.” The stallion gestured to a pecan earth pony standing behind him. “Oh well, easy come, easy go, I guess. Ya got it?”

Parker pulled his backpack across his chest, removing the package in question from within. The stallion then levitated from the palm of his hand, encasing it with an aura of ruby red.

“Bernie!” He cried, tossing the package to the earth pony. “Get this to the boss. Tell him it went without a hitch.”

The earth pony nodded and left with the package clenched between his teeth as the stallion returned his attention to the masked individual before him. “Well then, a deal’s a deal. By the way…” the stallion said as his horn lit up with the same crimson aura.

Parker steeled his gaze behind the reflective lenses of his goggles, hooking his finger into the ring of a kunai hidden within the folds of his backpack as he inched it from its holster. This was the part of the transaction he hated most. Nine times out of ten, they would pay their dues without question, but there are times he would end up running for a sleazy piece of crap who refuses to play by the rules.

“Carmine Falcone sends his regards,” the stallion said.

His body tensed, biting his bottom lip as the blade slipped free but just as Parker thought he would find himself staring down the barrel of a gun, the stallion levitated a brown envelope from behind the door. Sighing, he slid the blade back into its holster and took the envelope in his hand. 

At that moment, he froze. Something was wrong, it felt heavier than usual. Parker opened it to find a stack of Benjamins within but as he tilted the envelope, he felt three golden coins slip onto the palm of his hand and his eyes went wider than the Hudson. 

“You have got to be shitting me,” he mouthed behind his mask. 

They were Dorados. He had heard about them, read about them but never in his wildest dreams would he ever thought laying eyes on an actual Dorado. Minted out of pure gold, they bore the regal image of the late King Helios and were highest form of currency to have ever come out of Equestria. Rumor has it, a single gold coin held an equivalent value of a thousand Equestrian bits, which probably explains why they were so rare. He could only imagine how much they would be worth here.

“I knew you’d get stuck on that,” the stallion said, noticing Parker’s awkward silence. “The boss threw in those as a gift. Somethin’ ‘bout compensation for bein’ an inconvenience or some shit like that. I don’t know the details but they’re yours. Keep ‘em.”  

Parker raised an eyebrow at the stallion’s words, and though he remained skeptical of the whole thing, he slipped the coins back into the envelope and tucked it into his bag. Slinging it over, he gave one final nod before bolting down the back alley, vanishing into the shadows. 

“I don’t know ‘bout you, Rip, but that guy gives me the willies,” Bernie said from behind the door.

Rip chuckled. “Guess that’s why they call him the Spider, he creeps you the fuck out.”





The cabaret filled with sounds of boisterous chatter and live music from the colored men playing on their hand-me-down instruments and basking in the spotlight from atop the poorly constructed stage. The slushing of liquid gold rattled a chipped ball of ice against the stained whiskey glass in his hand. Parker was no uptown boy – a shady club and a two-penny glass of substandard liquor was all a day’s wages could afford him.

He continued swirling the whiskey in his glass, listening to the bell-like tinkle as if brought him a sense of serenity. He never had a taste for the high life. Heck, he couldn’t even afford himself a decent childhood, let alone a pair of Bernini shoes. Parker scoffed at the name, well aware of it being one of the many status symbols of those damned spoiled Ivy League brats born with silver spoons stuck up their asses. As to why he would make an effort to remember it, he would never know.

He shrugged at the thought. Was it so wrong to want more out of life? The common man who was unable to dish out a stack full of Benjamins for a gichi’ new flat top could at least afford to be jealous from time to time. Not everyone was a Stark, a Gunn, or a Wayne. He took a swig from his glass, lighting his throat on fire as he felt it slide all the way down. 

How he hated them. How he despised the privileged few raised behind walls of ivory and polished marble while losers like him had to settle for scraps. Honest, hardworking men toiling in the dirt day in and day out only to end up with a pocket full of loose change. The worst part? They all end up here, in this funky bar, sipping on cheap bourbon and drooling over dog-faced whores way past their prime.

“It’s just not fair,” Parker said to himself as he downed the rest of his glass.

“What’s not fair, sugar plum?” came a sultry voice beside him.

Coal-colored eyes shifted to the blonde beside him as a wry grin curled on his face. He wasn’t going to lie, from her well-rounded love handles to the curls in her eyelashes and that luscious pink on her lips, she was smoking hot.

“My life… but then you walked into it and it got me thinking, perhaps it ain’t so bad after all,” he said.

She curled her blonde hair around her finger. “My, oh, my, aren’t ya a smooth talker.”

“Well, momma always did say I was born with a silver tongue.” He leaned in closer. “Wanna see what else I can do with it? I swear, I’m a natural.” He clicked his tongue as he winked.

She licked her lips as she smiled. “Well Ah don’t have anything else to do tonite so–”

“Hey, fuckface!” came a rough voice from behind him.

Parker groaned, running a hand down his face. “Oh, are you bucking shitting me?” He turned around, only to come face to face with a well-rounded brute seven feet tall, dressed in a denim jacket with a matching pair of jeans.

“Holy, sasquatch,” he muttered, craning his neck just so he could make eye contact.

“You talking shit to my girl?” The man glared at him as if he was five seconds away from ripping his head right off his shoulders.

“Bo! What in tarnation? I told you and Ah were through!” the girl screamed.

Parker put his hands up. “Hey man, look, my bad. I wasn’t trying nothing and I sure as heck didn’t know she was already with somebody. Sides, if you had kept a better eye on your girl perhaps we wouldn’t be–”

“Ah beg yer pardon?” The girl scowled.

“What did’cha say, punk? You callin’ my baby girl a whore?”

“NO!” Parker cried. “No, God, Jesus, no, I’m just saying–”

Bo’s nostrils flared, popping his knuckles like a soda cap as he curled his hand into a fist.

“Oh, come on!” was the last thing Parker said as a fist came hurling in his direction.





He gagged as he felt something hard and heavy hit him square in the face, rudely wrenching him from his sleep. “The guy was unconscious when I got there officer, I swear!” Parker blurted. Though, upon closer examination, he realized it was a school bag of sorts.

“Wake up Benjamin Parker, you irresponsible, no good, lousy, git,” came a familiar voice from the kitchen.

He licked his lips, silently cursing the arid summer air for parched they felt. Groaning, he massaged his temple as he shook the sleep from his bleary, half-lidded eyes. “Christ. What time is it?” he asked with a yawn.

“What time do you think it is, Dillweed?”

The realization hit him with the force of a freight train. “Oh crap!” he cried, stumbling off the faded cushions of his couch as he jumped to his feet.

Ben turned to the snowy unicorn filly prepping herself on the kitchen counter as she filled the tea kettle with water from the tap. She shifted her shoulder-length auburn mane to the side with her hoof. She had been flicking her tail against her Cutie Mark – a Juniper flower curled around black clef – a force of habit when she was either mad or irritated. Despite his sticky situation, Ben had always found it cute.

“Look, Juniper, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to, I just–”

“Forgot? Missed it? Got distracted?” Juniper said. The spite was clear in her voice. “Any of those ring a bell?”

“Come on Juni, don’t be like that. I said I was sorry.”

He jumped at the sound of the kettle slamming against the stove. “Well you should be.” 

Turning around to face him, she stared daggers at him with her bright emerald eyes. Ben placed a hand on his chest, feeling a cold shiver run down his spine as if she had put a stake through his still-beating heart. “Because of you, I had to walk twelve blocks, by myself, all the way from school. Good thing I had the common sense to take the bus.”

The filly returned to the stove, her horn lit ablaze with a soft orange tint as the stove turned itself on. “You made me a promise that you’d be there, and you broke it. Well, some big brother you turn out to be,” she muttered, her ears now lying flat on her head. 

He shrugged, rubbing his arm. “Alright, alright, I’m sorry. You’re right, there’s no excuse for what I did and on my honor, it’ll never happen again.”

Juniper pouted. “This is the third time, Ben. Do you really think a stupid little apology is gonna make it all better?”

Ben teased her with a grin, prancing his way to the kitchen before leaning over the graphite countertop. “Well, it’s a Friday, so how ‘bout I take you down to Miller’s tomorrow for breakfast? I know much you love those yummy pancakes of his.”

Her ears perked at the mention of Miller’s diner. “Make it a full rack, and you got yourself a deal.”

“Oh come on, that’s highway robbery and you know it! Half a rack,” Ben retorted with a scrunch on his face.

Juniper scowled. “I want the whole thing, or you can start making your own darn coffee from now on.”

Ben pulled a long gasp. “You fiend! Not the coffee! Anything but the coffee! You know I can’t live without it. Oh, the humanity.” He leaned back, covering his face.

Juniper gave him a leveled stare. “I’m serious, Ben.”

He shrugged in defeat. “Alright, alright, you win. Full rack it is. Sheesh, you must be part python or something ‘cause you sure know how to squeeze the life outta me.”

“Oh, come on, you love me for it,” Juniper said with a grin. “You know, you’re such a jerk. You forget a promise, and here I am making you a Goddarned cup of Joe.”

“Hey, no one makes it like you do, Hun,” Ben replied, winking in her direction.

She chuckled. “Alright, cool your hooves, Casanova. You’ll get your Joe, so long as you don’t try to plant a wet one on me like those broads you used to date.”

“Baby, I’d rather kiss a horse,” he said with a smirk, dodging a walnut from the kitchen top as it was magically tossed in his direction. “You missed, by the way.”

“Jerk.” Juniper pouted, returning her attention to the stove with a huff as Ben chuckled. 

Juniper Song, the ninth grader, was little rough around the edges but Ben believed that all that under all that snips, snails and puppy dog tails, there was darling sweetheart hidden deep within. When he first arrived in Washington D.C., he had nothing. Not a penny to his name save for the clothes on his back and a fool’s hope. Though, when kindness was a virtue denied by his fellow man, a sweet old mare and her grandfoals opened their home to a vagrant with a checkered past and his little brother. They didn’t have much but they shared what little they had until Ben found a way back on his feet. Since that day, they had become more than friends. They were family.

“Here.” 

Ben was shaken from his daze the moment he caught a familiar scent emanating from the dull ceramic mug being levitated in front of him. “Hope you choke on it,” Juniper said.

“Why? Did you poison it?” Ben took the mug in his hand only to dodge yet another rogue walnut. “I’m not cleaning those up, you know,” he added as he pointed to the living room.

“Go jump off a cliff,” Juniper snapped, sitting on her haunches and sipping her Ceylon tea from her own mug clasped between her hooves.

Rolling up red checkered sleeves of his lumberjack shirt, he then brought the mug to his lips, closing his eyes as he took a deep whiff of the rich, thick aroma. He pulled a grin, relishing in the moment as he took a sip from his mug.

“Oh, that hits the spot.” Ben chapped his lips as he savored the smoky aftertaste.

Sighing, he leaned his back against the stained countertop as he took yet another sip from his mug. It had been hours since he heard the last dump truck pulling its weight across the asphalt, at least it felt like hours. Not that he hated these rare moments of peace. In fact, he could do without the incessant tremors knocking loose whatever was left holding the place together. There was not much to say about the small two bedroom granny house he called a home, but despite its flaws, Ben never complained. In fact, it was luxury compared to the dingy orphanage he left behind. Ben shrugged as he peered into the orphic swirls of foam on the surface of his coffee.

The orphanage was a Godforsaken establishment as stark as a desolate wasteland, and to a ten year old child and his little brother trapped within those soulless concrete walls, it was literally Hell on earth. He swore that his fellow orphans were demon possessed, twisted into rabid animals by overseers who couldn’t care less if they had lived or died. So like the little monsters they were, they did whatever they wanted, took whatever they wanted and hurt everyone else in between. Though Ben was no pushover and for both their sakes, he did whatever it took to survive. Through bloody knuckles, broken bones and raw fury, for five long years he braved the fires of Hell and won. 

Almost a decade had passed since the day he left the dreary streets of Brooklyn behind him, along with the dark memories from a time in his life he would gladly disremember. Freeing his mind of morbid thoughts, he pushed himself off before making his way back into the living room, the loose plywood floorboards creaking with every step he took. As he navigated his way through cramped spaces between the ramshackle furniture, he forced a chuckle, fondly recalling just how empty the place used to be. The funny thing about poverty is that it forces a man to be resourceful, and sure enough, there are times that even he ended up surprising himself.

The busted up couch, the cracked coffee table, the banged up shelves, the creaky wooden bed, even the record player some rich sap threw out barely a week ago. They were all his prized possessions, courtesy of the city dump. Ben took another sip from his mug, sighing yet again as he opened his front door, taking comfort in the lukewarm breeze shifting through the grey netting of his screen door. Though, his moment of peace did not last for long.

“Ya fuckin’ bitch! This was all yer fuckin’ fault!”

“My fault? You were the asshole that got me pregnant!”

Ben groaned, rolling his eyes at the unpleasant voices of the Buttowskis from next door. Judging by their tone, they were indulging in their favorite pastime. Both man and wife argued so much, Ben was convinced that if they made yelling a national sport, they would be the undisputed champions. His gaze settled on the bickering couple as they shambled out the door and onto to the pavement, throwing on their coats as they stormed past his front lawn.

“I told you that good fer nothin’ kid’s nothin’ but trouble! Now I’m gonna have to be pullin’ double shifts at the plant to bail him out of the hospital while ya whore around!” Jim said.

“Fuck you, Jim!” Delores snapped.   

Ben stepped onto his porch as they came into earshot. “Howdy Mister and Missus Buttowski. Can’t help but overhear, did something happen to Johnny?”

“Go fuck yerself, asshole!” Jim snapped.

Ben blinked for a good couple of seconds before drawing an awkward laugh. “Hah, ha, ha, and a good day to you too, neighbor.” The smile soon turned upside down as the Buttowskis vanished further down the sidewalk. 

“Jackass,” he muttered under his breath, taking another sip from his mug as he went back inside.

“What was that all about?” Juniper asked from behind the counter.

“Hell if I know,” Ben said as he made his way to the three-tiered cabinet standing next to him, resting his mug on top of it. “Ain’t my side of the fence to be giving a damn, anyway.”

Juniper’s ears drooped. “Uhm, Ben, can I… talk to you about something?” she asked, her eyes settled upon the surface of her tea. 

“Shoot,” Ben said, sliding the top drawer open.

“You know, Grandma told me not to tell you this but… the bank called earlier this week.”

Ben froze.

“Oh…” The drawer was half open, but Ben made sure the black leather mask and the pair of goggles remained hidden within.

The old mare did her best to keep her worries to herself, though Ben was no stranger to her financial troubles. She may have a big heart, but like most families, they had their own personal problems to deal with, especially one in the form of an estranged family member. Ben’s hand curled into a fist, his muscles tightening at the thought of it, but he had sworn that he would not meddle in that particular affair. She may have gotten by earning a decent wage tending the gardens of lazy, blue collared pricks, but it wasn’t enough to keep the banks off her back. Then, three years ago, those corporate vultures had threatened to evict her from her home, their home. So as desperation called for desperate measures, Ben started running for the mob. Now here they were, right back at square one and the sharks were in the water.

“I know she said that she’ll figure something out but…”

“Hey,” Ben said, catching the young filly’s attention as he reached into the drawer and pulled out a brown envelope, keeping it hidden from her line of sight. “If there’s one thing I know about Aunt Bluebell, if she says she’s got it covered, she’s got it covered.” 

“Sides, no matter what.” He slid the envelope into the back pocket of his navy blue denim jeans. “You’ll always be welcomed here.”

“But what about Richie?”

Ben crossed his arms. “You leave that ole’ sourpuss to me. He won’t be too happy ‘bout giving up his bed, but after all you guys have done for the both of us, it's the least we could do.”

Juniper smiled. “Thanks Ben. I knew we could always count on you.” A faint tint of pink blushed on her cheeks.

Ben chuckled at her expression. “Juni, I maybe a hairless, spider monkey but we’re family, and that’s what families do.” 

“Well then…” He shot a glimpse at the clock. “It’s five. So why don’t go freshen up before your ole’ grandma gets here, hmm?”

“Alright then.” Juniper levitated her mug into the sink. Getting on her hooves, she trotted into the living room. “I’ll be in the shower and you better not be a perv’ this time, alright?” she said, opening the door next to the cupboard where Ben was standing.

“Baby, I’d rather–”

A walnut hit him square in the forehead.

Juniper snickered as she entered the bedroom, shutting the door behind her.

Ben frowned as he rubbed the sore spot on his forehead. “You know, I’m still not cleaning this up!”

His scowl was soon replaced with a smile though. Shaking his head, he made a grab for his mug only to stop mid-way when he heard the rowdy voices of several young men came into earshot, escalating as they approached. Ben turned his attention to the squeaking metal gate as six young men came into view. They sashayed their way in like they owned the place as they made their way down granite pathway leading up to his wooden steps.

Ben growled, grinding his teeth together. “Richie. That no good little…”

They were laughing like a pack of rabid hyenas, exchanging dirty jokes and dimwitted greaser lingo only an uncultured moron would use. It was an insult to intellect and the very sound of it irritated him to no end. Ben glared daggers at the stupid sod pushing through the screen door who was no other than Richard Parker, his useless bum of a little brother. 

To think that Ben had busted his ass working two jobs, six days a week just so he could put that little shit through school and how does he repay him? By getting expelled for smoking pot in the restroom. Despite their circumstances, Richard had never been a bad kid growing up. He had always been the shy, timid kind who loved books as much as he loved reading them. It was only after coming to D.C. that something changed, and to this very day, Ben could never figure out what.

“Hey yo, Daddy-O. Come on, gimme five!” Richard said, a foolish smile plastered on his face as he raised his hand in greeting. By the look in his eyes, Ben was certain he had doping again.

“Get your freaking hand out of my face, Richie, I ain't in the mood for this crap,” Ben snapped.

Richard scowled, sniffling as he rubbed his nose. “Man, why you gotta do that, huh? Why do you always have to be such a freaking nosebleed?”

“Why do you gotta be such a Goddamned pain in the patootie? And I thought I told you not to bring any more of your greaser friends into my house.”

“Oh, your house? Well… uh… I don’t know, if you know, but it’s my fucking house too!” Richard cried, slamming his fist on the cupboard.

Ben drew a deep breath as he nodded. “Is that so? Alright then wise guy, who the Hell pays the freaking bills? Who puts food on the Goddamned table and who the Hell bails your freaking ass out of jail when you–”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, kill the motor boys,” a voice interrupted. “Seriously, what’s with all the fireworks? Aren’t you guys like brothers or something?” said one of the greasers as he stepped inside.

“Hey Richie, nice pad you got here,” said another.

Ben eyeballed the rest of them as they entered the living room, on the verge of gagging at how grotesquely stereotypical they were. From the greasy hair, torn denim jeans, faded boots and tacky silver chains that dangled loosely across their waist, they were the perfect depiction of future convicts. Not to mention one was even chewing on a toothpick. Although, tacky wardrobe and atrocious manners aside, there was something terribly off about the lot of them and he felt it. That cold, bitter sensation running the entire length of his spine whenever trouble was never far behind.

“Yeah? And who the Hell are you?” Ben asked, sizing the guy up. He figured he was about Richard’s age, no older than sixteen.

“Oh, the Hell are my manners,” he wiped his hand over his jeans before offering it for a shake. “Thompson, Harrison Thompson, but you can call me Blitz.”

Ben was hesitant at first but a good gesture deserved another. He took the boy’s hand and shook it but never once did he break eye contact. “Ben, Ben Parker, but you can call me sir.”

Blitz forced a chuckle. “Ha, ha! You’re a funny guy. Hey, Richie,” he said, slapping Richard hard on the shoulder. “You never told me your brother’s a freakin’ comedian. I like him already.”

Richard he shot Ben a nasty glare. “Wish the feeling was mutual.”

“Yeah, love you too, little bro. Love you like a freaking suicide,” Ben replied. “Hey, get your Goddamned feet off the table!” he snapped at the third and fourth greaser who had just popped themselves on the couch, resting their boots on his coffee table.

Blitz placed a hand on Ben’s shoulder but quickly removed it when he was greeted with a glare. “Whoa, cool it pops, no reason to get all salty on me. We didn’t come here lookin’ for trouble, alright?” Blitz said, strutting his way to the center of the living room as Ben’s gaze lay fixed on his every move. 

“Say, Ben, right? You got anythin’ to wet the ole Daisy? It’s been a long walk.” He rested his back against the old record player, removing a comb from his pocket and pushed back on his dirty blonde locks.

“Oh, sure. Hey, can I get you boys anything? Coffee? Tea... Arsenic?” Ben asked.

“Pfft! Really? Cause I’m thinking something more along the lines of beer. You got any foamers in this rickety ole place?” Blitz asked, the smugness in his voice drove needles into Ben’s scalp.

Ben glowered in his direction. “Sorry, fresh out.”

“Oh, well then, that’s too bad,” Blitz said. “So how bout you go be a good big brother and go fetch us some, eh? Sides, we can’t have a party without any booze now can we?” His eyes narrowing as he sneered.

“Hey Blitz, come on man. There ain’t nothing here, let’s burn,” Richard said but Blitz shot him a glare.

“Was I talkin’ to you?” he asked, sounding more like a threat than an actual question.

“No,” Richard muttered, adverting his gaze.

“Then, shut yer yap.”

Blitz then returned his attention to the older brother. “So what’cha you waiting for? Christmas? My lips are chapping here, chop, chop,” he said, clapping his hands.

Ben has had enough and he was about two seconds from speaking his mind when the door behind him slid open. “Ben? Is something wrong? I heard voices outside and… oh,” Juniper said, in the midst of drying her wet mane with a towel. 

“Oh, fudgesickles,” Ben cursed under his breath.

The entire house went silent and the color faded from Richard’s face. Ben’s snapped his gaze from greaser to greaser, deducing from the slack jawed look on their faces that things were about to get real ugly, real fast.

He glanced over his shoulder to the white filly behind him. “Juni, remember that thing we talked about?” he asked as Juniper nodded. “Go back inside and lock the door. I’ll be with you in a sec, okay?”

Juniper swallowed hard, her tail slipping between her legs as she backed herself into the bedroom. “Alright, stay safe Ben.” She shut the door and locked it tight.

“Are you fucking kidding me?!” Blitz’s voice boomed across the living room as the rest of his posse went into verbal frenzy.

“Yeah, the Hell Richard!”

“The fuck’s goin’ on?!”

“Blitz, Blitz, listen man, I can explain…” Richard stepped back, backing himself against the wall as he held his hands up in an effort to calm the enraged greaser. By the jitteriness in his voice, Ben could tell that he was mortally terrified.

“Can it, Richie! You were always a fuckin’ pussy and now I know why. It’s ‘cause your fuckin’ brother here is a namby, pamby, pony lovin’ fag!” Blitz spat.

Ben felt as if someone had just kicked him in the balls. “Whoa, excuse me?”

“You heard me, you fuckin’ fag!” Blitz shot Ben a nasty glare.

Ben shook his head. “Alright, you know what, that’s it. You and your boys have overstayed your welcome. Get the Hell out my house now.”

“Blitz, please, just please let it go this one time and let’s get the Hell outta here,” Richard pleaded.

“I said shut the fuck up!” Blitz yelled, grabbing Richard by the collar and slamming him back first into the wall.

“Argh!”

“Hey!” Ben snarled, lifting a finger in warning at the greaser before him. “You let go of my little brother right now or you’ll never hold anything in that hand again.”

Blitz cranked his head in Ben’s direction with a sneer on his face and released his hold on Richard. “Well, lookie here, boys. Looks like we got ourselves a fuckin’ hero,” he said to his posse as they snickered. “So, you think you’re some kinda hot shot, huh? Do you know who the fuck we are?” 

He reached for left side of his jacket and revealed something stitched crudely on the other side of it. Ben had come to recognize the distinctive coat of arms bearing a pair of crossed broadswords behind a skull of pony with a wooden stake driven through the top. The letters H, L and S etched in gold splayed over a red banner. Ben clenched his fists hard, feeling his very blood begin to boil at the sight of it. 

“We’re the fuckin–”

“Humanity’s Last Stand,” Ben interrupted, riveting his glare at his brother. “Once this is over, you and I–” he gestured between them “–we’re gonna have a long freaking talk, you understand me?”

“You wanna know what the Hell we do to fuckin’ heroes like you? Well? Don’t ‘cha, pal?” Blitz said, a menacing grin curling on his lips.

“Let’s get one thing straight here, pal, I couldn’t give a damn about who or what you guys are. In fact–” Ben crossed is arms. “–you could be hanging from the edge of a Goddamned cliff and all you needed was a damn to save your life, I still wouldn’t give you one. So now that I’ve made myself absolutely clear, why don’t you take your little cabana party along with your punk ass and walk right out that door before I take the pleasure of kicking you out myself.”

Once again, the living room erupted into a verbal frenzy as the greasers bombarded Ben with every insult known to man. The rage on Blitz’s face had become clear as day. Bloodshot veins webbed across his eyes as he narrowed them to slits. 

Ben however, was enjoying the show, his eyes half-lidded in amusement as he drummed his fingers against his arm. Truth be told, he wanted Blitz to take that first shot. From the moment he first laid eyes on that smug greaser trash, he had been begging for reason to introduce Blitz’s face to his sneakers and he was getting tired of waiting for it.

“Fuck him up, Blitzy!”

“Yeah, show him who’s boss!”

“Come on Blitz, please, let’s just go already!” Richard begged for the last time.

“Shut. Your. Fucking. Piehole, Richie! And the rest of you guys, cool your fucking jets!” Blitz yelled and just like that, the room went silent. “You…” he gestured at Ben, drawing a deep breath before continuing. 

“I have done worse to little shits like you for fuckin’ disrespectin’ me the way you did but since you’re Richie’s brother, I’m gonna cut you some slack.”

“Oh, whoop dee freakin’ doo for me.” Ben rolled his eyes.

Blitz scoffed. “So, get this, I know how to make all this shit go away.”

“Hey, I’m up for anything so long as it gets you out my damned door.”

“I’ma go talk to your little filly friend inside. Once I’m done, we cool,” Blitz said as the rest of his posse sniggered, apparently amused at his proposal. Richard however, looked as if his heart had come to a complete stop.

At that moment, Ben’s calm demeanor vanished, his eyes going killer red as he glowered at the five leather jacketed hooligans before him. He then stepped in front of the door. “You and your boys aren’t going anywhere near her.”

“What?” Blitz sneered, bobbing his shoulders. “I ain’t gonna hurt her or anything. I’m just gonna talk to her–”

“Get out now.”

“Hey mongo, you deaf? I said I’m was just gonna–”Blitz took a step forward.

Ben’s gaze dropped to the cushioned footrest at his feet and kicked it Blitz’s direction, sliding it across the floor and straight into his ankles. 

“Whoa!” he cried as he doubled over, slamming face-first into the floorboards. “Argh, fark!”

Ben smirked. “Oh, I’m sorry, did I do that?”

“Motherfucker!” the greaser snarled, stumbling to his feet, fresh blood streaked from his left nostril over his lip. “You’re a fuckin’ dead man!” he cried, spitting the blood from his mouth as he reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a switchblade.

Ben cringed. “Oh, my God, is that a knife? Is that a real knife?”

“The fuck you think? Of course it’s real!” Blitz spat.

“Oh, no, God, please no.” Ben slumped to his knees, putting his hands up in resignation despite the mocking grin on his face. 	“You’ve discovered my mortal weakness. It’s small knives!”

Richard buried his face in the flat of his palm while the greasers practically smothered themselves to keep from laughing their tops off and risk incurring Blitz’s wrath. Their honcho however, was far from amused. “You think that this is funny? You think I’m hoarsin’ around? Well funny guy, let’s see if you can still laugh when I carve my name on your fuckin’ chest!” Blitz yelled, rushing the older brother, knife at the ready.

“Anything but knives–” 

The greaser took a swipe at him. Ben tilted his head back at the last second, the blade missing his throat by an inch. Ben stepped backwards as Blitz swung again, missing as he dodged each and every one of the greaser’s swipes. Ben then caught Blitz by the wrist, twisting his own torso and Blitz’s arm in one swift movement.

“Argh!” the greaser cried.

With Blitz’s wrist caught in a vice-like grip, Ben disarmed the greaser, stepping back in, he inverted the knife in his hand and put the blade to Blitz’s jugular in one swift movement. 

Blitz’s black pupils shrunk at the sight of Ben’s piercing gaze. Once again, the room went dead silent. The greasers wore the very same expressions they had the moment they laid eyes on Juniper.

“Then again, you know what they say about little boys and small knives,” Ben said. “Let’s do a little recap, shall we? You invite your ass into my house, you insult me and my brother, you threatened my girl, and now you try to pull a fucking knife on me?”

Ben clicked his tongue and shook his head. “Oh, ho, ho, you sure have some mighty big cojones on you pal, I’ll give you that, but you just done fucked with the wrong guy.”

Ben shot a glance at the two greasers stacked behind their fearless leader and the other two in front of the couch. He then returned to the one at his mercy. “Please, allow me to show you why.”

Ben dropped the knife from his hand, stepping back, he kicked Blitz square in the gut. 

“Hough!” Blitz’s eyes widened to white, half-choking on whatever putrid gunk that had been forced up his esophagus. 

Ben stepped forward, curling his fists, he slugged the greaser twice across the jaw. Blitz’s face contorted from flaring pain overwhelming his senses before Ben roundhoused him in the head. 

Blitz’s skull slammed against the plastered wall, smearing a blotch of red across the wallpaper. Ben then twisted around, his back kick catching Blitz in the chest, knocking the air from the greaser’s lungs as he was sent stumbling back-first into the arms of his greaser friends. 

Ben drew a sharp breath. Rushing forward, he then leapt into the air, twisting around as he kicked Blitz square in the chest. The impact sent as all three of them right through the wooden screen door, smashing it pieces as they tumbled down the wooden steps.

“Jesus Christ, what the fuck, man!” Richard cried.

“Can it, Richie. Now’s not the time!” Ben snapped back.

“Son of a bitch!” 

A flash of silver reflected in Ben’s dark irises as he zoned in on the two greasers by the couch who had ripped out switchblades of their own. 

He darted across the living room, vaulting over the couch as the first greaser took a swipe at him. Ben caught the greaser’s arm between his legs, catching him off-guard as he twisted his torso, locking the greaser’s elbow. 

“Gargh!”

He then ducked into a roll, taking the greaser back-first to the ground with him in one swift movement. Climbing over, Ben took a shot at the greaser’s chest, feeling a gut-twisting crack as the guy’s ribs shattered from the impact. The greaser cried, clutching his chest.

“You motherfucker, I’ll cut your fucking heart out!” the second one growled, slashing the air like a raving lunatic as he charged forward.

Ben pushed himself off the ground as the greaser took a stab in his direction. He blocked it, countering with a fist the greaser’s upper lip, busting it wide open. The greaser stumbled backwards, trying to regain his bearings as blood began drenching his lower jaw. He growled through his clenched teeth, he charged with his blade at the ready. This time Ben was ready for him. He caught the arm and turned around. Using his shoulder as a fulcrum, he snapped it in half.

“Oh, fuck!” Richard cried, cringing at the cry of pure agony filling the room. 

Ben swung his elbow back, breaking the greaser’s nose on impact. The greaser hobbled on his feet, struggling to breathe as blood caked in his nostrils. Spinning on the balls of his feet, Ben hooked his heel right to the greaser’s temple, putting him out like yesterday’s garbage. The greaser dropped to his knees and fell face first to the floor.

“Don’t you move from that fucking spot or so help me God.” He pointed to his brother as he stormed his way outside. 

His eyes settled on the three greasers who were still moaning and groaning on the withered carpet grass. “What, that’s it? And here I thought that after all that ballsy, tough guy talk, you boys would put up more of a fight. Now look at you, just a bunch of lost puppy dogs, all bark and no Goddamned bite.”

“Truth is, you’re nothing, nothing. Punk ass little shits who aren’t even worth the–” Ben scrapped his rubber soles across the wooden platform. “–dirt, beneath my shoes.”

He started down the stairs, scoffing at Blitz as the greaser spat a glop of blood and saliva onto the grass. “So take from someone who’s been around. There are only two places on God’s green earth you never, ever disrespect a man. In his fucking home and in front of his girl. Unfortunately for you punks, you done fucked up on both accounts.”

His gaze shifted between the two remaining greasers who were picking themselves off the ground, their fists curled at the ready as they glowered at him. 

Ben cleared his throat and spat. “Your daddies ain’t got the balls to set you boys straight, but guess what? When this is all over, you’d be calling me uncle.” He then cracked his neck “So, which one of you sons of bitches should I school first?”

They shot each other a glance as the one on the right lunged forward, throwing a wild haymaker. Ben stopped blow midway, fracturing the greaser’s collar bone with a chop to the neck. 

“Ough!”

He roundhoused the greaser in the thigh. Twisting on the balls of his feet, he hooked the back of his ankle to the greaser’s face as the greaser spiraled to the grass beneath his feet. Ben dropped down and took a shot at his jaw, dislocating it on the first try. “Argh, fark!”

Ben ducked his head to the right as a blind hook went sailing overhead. Spinning around, he took a shot at the space between the greaser’s legs. “Ough, sweet baby!” The greaser hobbled backwards, clutching his groin.

Ben rushed to his feet, kicking the greaser once in the stomach and roundhoused him in the liver. As the greaser flinched from the impact, Ben twisted around and kicked him across the face. The greaser was sent tumbling to the ground, spraying the pathway with a splatters of red as a pair of pearly whites went rolling across the granite.

A loud battle cry caught diverted Ben’s attention to Blitz who was attempting to tear a two by four block of wood from the handrail leading up the wooden steps. 

“Oh, come on man! Not my–”

The greaser growled, salivating like a savage beast as he tore the piece of cedar free.

“–damned stairs.” His chest heaved as he pulled a deep, staggered breath. “And I just lacquered the thing!”

Clutching it firmly in his hand, Blitz charged like a man possessed, taking swing after swing with Ben dodging each and every one. “I’ll kill you, I’ll fuckin’ kill you, you fuckin’ motherfucker!” Blitz screamed as he took another swing. 

This time he got lucky, catching Ben right in the chest. Ben choked from the impact, suffocating as he was knocked off balance. Seizing the opportunity, Blitz took another swing. Unable to regain his footing in time, Ben blocked it with his arm.

“Urgh!” he cried, feeling a sharp pain lacing through his arm as the piece of wood collided with bone. 

Upon noticing the triumphant smirk Blitz’s ugly mug, Ben decided that he was done playing.

“I’m gonna bust your fuckin’ head open and eat your fuckin’ brain!”

Blitz took another swing as Ben pulled back at the last minute, the piece of cedar missing the tip of his nose by a good inch. 

Ben stepped in, taking a shot at Blitz’s solar plexus, feeling the greaser’s chest cave from the force of his knuckles. 

“Ough!” His eyes widened to white as he choked on his own blood, gushing out from between his teeth. With nothing left to lose, the greaser threw a wild swing.

Ben shifted into a solid stance, crying at the top of his lungs as he spun on the balls of his feet, hooking his ankle into the piece of wood in Blitz’s hand, splintering it upon impact. The greaser’s expression went slack seconds before Ben roundhoused him in the head. There was a sickening crack as his head lashed to the side.

When he was certain the Blitz could no longer tell which way is up, Ben broke into a mad dash. Leaping into the air, he stepped on Blitz’s chest, kicking him in the chin as he back flipped. Blitz’s head whipped backwards, painting the air with a spray of blotched crimson from his mouth. He moaned, tumbling lifelessly, back-first into the ground just as Ben landed on his feet.

Ben’s breaths were slow and steady, his gaze now locked on Blitz who was now bleeding like roadkill all over his lawn. Making his way to the greaser’s side, he took a knee and grabbed him by the collar of his jacket.

“I’m only gonna say this once, once. You and your boys stay the fuck away from my family. If I ever catch you cockroaches on my property again, I swear to everything that is holy that your mothers will weep when they see what I've done to you, under-fucking-stand?”

Blitz swallowed hard and nodded his head.

“And now, for the last time, get the fuck off my land,” Ben said, getting to his feet. As he started to turn away, he stopped. “Oh, and by the way–” He stomped on Blitz’s hand.

“Arrrgh!” Blitz screamed, clutching his broken hand.

“–that was for my fucking stairs.”

Just then, the two other greasers from before came hobbling out of the house, moaning like living dead in the direction of front gate. 

Ben made his way to the foot of his staircase, only to find his little brother on the porch making his best impression of a fish out of water. 

“You… you… you…” he stammered.

“Now, now, no need to thank me, lil’ bro. It was my pleasure,” Ben said with a smirk, climbing up the stairs as he watched the two greasers stumble past him. “Get your ass outta here!” He kicked one of them in the rear.

“You fucking asshole!” Richard yelled.

The older brother’s cocky smile vanished, replaced instead with a long, deadpan stare. “And you’re welcome by the way.”

“They’re my friends! How could you?”

Ben scoffed. “Friends? You call those damned grease monkeys your friends? They had no respect for you, they had no respect for your home and in case you hadn’t notice, Richie, your pal Blitz there just tried to fucking kill me!”

“So you went and used your crazy ke-rah-tay on them?”

“First of all, it’s called karate. Second of all, the fucking H.L.S.? Really, Richie? Is this how I find out my little brother is in bed with a bunch of racist bastards?”

Richard pursed his lips as his eyes began swelling with tears. “Yeah, so the fuck what? I’m old enough to do whatever the Hell I want!”

“Hey, I don’t know what kind of bullshit these assholes have been shovin’ up your noggin, but you don't get to talk to me like that!”

“Or what?” Richard got in his face. “Huh? You gonna school me like you did them?”

“I’m sure as Hell considering it.”

“Admit it, you call me your lil’ brother but you really don’t give a fuck,” Richard spat. “You’re just like them. You’re just like mom and dad, counting down the days ‘till you can leave me to rot like yesterday’s trash!”

Ben snapped. “You, son of a b–” he raised his fist, making Richard flinch. 

As Ben’s feral breaths began to steady, he lifted a finger at Richard. “Don’t you ever, ever say that again. Everything I’ve done, everything, since that day had been for us. You and me.”

Richard wiped the tears from his eyes. “Yeah, you keep telling yourself that. By the way, why don’t you go check on Juniper? You two deserve each other.” Pushing past his brother, he then made his way down the wooden steps.

“What the Hell is that supposed to mean?” Ben said as he watched his brother make a beeline for the front gate, storming past the other two greasers who were busy helping Blitz to his feet.

“Richie? Richie! Don’t you walk away from me! Get your ass back here!” Ben yelled after him, only to have Richard turn around and flip him off as he left with the rest his greaser friends.

“The fuck you looking at?” Richard cursed, shoving past a young man dressed a navy blue overcoat.

The young man in question shot Ben an inquisitive gaze as he pointed down the sidewalk. “Err, did I come at a bad time? Cause I can come back.”

Ben shrugged. “Hey Jonah, sorry you had to see that.”

The young man scoffed. “Jonah? Hey, my mom calls me Jonah. We’ve been best friends for like what? Five years? Hell, the least you could do is call me J.J.” He strutted down the granite path.

“Right, J.J., sorry. It’s just… it’s been a really rough day,” Ben said.

“Tell me ‘bout it. So ole Richie’s got your gears in a grind again?” J.J. said, taking off his charcoal fedora as he smoothened out the jet black curls from flattop haircut.

“Guess you can say that. Well, you know, brothers,” Ben said as he massaged the bruise on his arm, flinching from the pain. “Frackles, I’m gonna feel that in the morning.”

“Actually I don’t. I’m an only child. Guess the old lady realized just how much of a pain I was and decided to quit ahead,” J.J. said with a laugh. His laugh was coarse, like that of a decrepit old man but Ben never had the heart to tell him that.

“Well, he may be a pain in the marble sack but he’s still family and you never give up on family,” Ben said.

J.J. chuckled. “Wish I could say the same, pal, wish I could say the same.”

“Juniper! Juniper! Goodness gracious!”

Both men shifted their attention to an old, pale grey unicorn mare rushing down the sidewalk and past Ben’s front gate. Her neat bun of moss-colored mane was on the verge of coming undone.

“I overheard somepony saying there was a fight!” she cried, dropping a pair of forlorn saddle bags from her back. “Is Juniper alright? Please tell me she’s alright!”

Ben rushed down the steps. “Whoa, whoa, whoa, calm down, Aunt Bluebell.” He placed a hand on the old unicorn’s shoulder. “Juniper’s safe, she’s inside and she’s okay.”

“Grandma!” Juniper came rushing down the same wooden steps and threw her hooves around the older mare, nuzzling her lovingly.

“Oh Juniper, sweetheart, thank Solaris!” the old mare hugged her granddaughter close. “Are you alright? Did they hurt you?”

“Of course not, grandma. Sides, I got ole’ Ben here to kick the living sh–snot outta them.” She shot him a toothy grin, making him blush.

“Juniper!” Aunt Bluebell snapped.

“Well he did! I saw everything from the window. I mean, you should have seen him Grandma, it was amazing!”

“Yeah, well…” Ben said, rubbing the back of his head.

“Goodness dear, your arm!” Aunt Bluebell blurted, noticing the blacked bruise just as Ben pulled his sleeve back down.

“It’s just a scratch, really, sides this wasn’t my first rodeo.” Ben gave a nervous smile. He cleared his throat, giving Juniper a quick glance. “So Juni, why don’t you go grab your stuff?”

“Oh, right, back in a flash.” She rushed back into the house.

“That girl, I swear sometimes she’s just like her mother.” Aunt Bluebell’s ears perked as she noticed the other young man standing beside her. “Oh, hello Jonah, I’m sorry. I didn’t see you there.”

J.J. laughed, but unlike before, Ben could tell it was forced by how awkward it sounded. “Heya, Missus Bluebell, and that’s okay, I’m kinda an easy guy to miss.”

Ben stifled a laugh. “Not with that suit.”

J.J. furred his brow. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means you should shoot your tailor,” Ben said.

“Well, least I have a suit, hobo.” J.J. smirked.

Ben gave him a leveled stare. “Bitch.”

“Jerk,” J.J. retorted.

The old unicorn cleared her throat. “By the way, dearie, if memory serves, you mentioned something about an interview today. How did it go?”

“Interview? More like an interrogation. They buttered me up and grilled me like Philly cheese sandwich. I was lucky to get out in one piece!” J.J. cried.

Ben rolled his eyes. It there was one thing Jonah loved, it was making mountains out of molehills, which probably explained his current line of work. J.J. had been an aspiring journalist and with his enthusiasm came his knack for getting into trouble. One day, he pushed his luck a little too far chasing a scoop on the Maroni Family. It was Ben who saved him from a couple of thugs about to chug a vat motor oil down his throat. They’ve been the chummiest of friends ever since.

“Oh Jonah, if they were foolish enough to turn away a lad as smart as you, it would be their loss. With your exceptional flair, I wouldn’t be surprised to see you as Chief Editor someday!” Aunt Bluebell grinned. 

“Well, I sure as heck betting on it!” J.J. said, followed by his coarse laugh. “Well, sorry to chat and run, but I gotta go light myself a stogie before I decide to strangle somebody. Aunt Bluebell.” He gave a short bow and made his way across the lawn, fishing a box of matches and freshly wrapped cigar from his coat pocket

Once Ben was certain his best friend was out of earshot, he took a knee. “Aunt Bluebell, can I talk to you for a sec?” he asked, gesturing her to come closer.

The old unicorn raised an eyebrow. “What is it, dear?” she asked.

When she laid eyes on the brown envelope in his hand, she understood perfectly. “No, no Ben, you… you didn’t.”

Ben bit his bottom lip. “Aunt Bluebell, it’s… it’s not what it seems.”

“You’ve been running again, haven’t you?" Her voice strained with every word. "You promised me… you made me a promise that you would never go back.”

“I know…” Ben said, his fingers tightened on the worn-out envelope. “I know what’s at stake. I know that every time I put on that mask I put my life on the line–” He took a deep breath. “–but when I heard you over the phone the other day, and I know it was rude to eavesdrop but, I can’t… I mean they were gonna take your home, our home and I couldn’t just sit by and let that happen.”

“I would have found a way, Ben. I’ve always found a way.” She sniffled, fighting back the tears pooling in her eyes. “What if something had happened to you?" 	Aunt Bluebell caressed his face gently with her hoof. “We love you Ben, with all our hearts. You and Richard mean the world to us.”

Ben smiled, leaning into her touch. “I know, and that was why I took the job and I promise. No, I swear, that this will be the last time,” he said, handing her the envelope. “Don’t do it for me, or you, do it for her… do it for Juniper.”

The old mare sighed. 

“Please…”

Her horn lit up with a green glow, engulfing the envelope as she levitated it into her saddlebag. “Alright, but this will be the last time, Benjamin Parker, you hear me?”

Ben placed a hand over his chest and grinned. “On my honor, or may I be cut up and made into soup.”

Aunt Bluebell chuckled. “Oh Ben, you risk so much to keep our hopes alive.” She leaned forward and kissed him gently on the cheek. “Bless you, my boy, bless you.”

“Alright, I’m ready!” Juniper trotted up to them with her bags packed and ready.

“Right, well come along dear,” Aunt Bluebell said, saddling her own bags as she made her way to the gate.

“Hope you didn’t forget anything,” Ben said.

Juniper’s cheeks flushed. “Well…” Juniper rubbed her hooves together before giving him a quick peck on the cheek.

Ben’s face went slack.

“Thanks.” She smiled before trotting off after her grandmother. 

Ben chuckled, rubbing the spot where she kissed him.

“And don’t think I’ve forgotten ‘bout Miller’s! It’s Saturday, so I’ll see you first thing tomorrow!”

His shoulders sagged. “Goddammit.”

“Well, look at you.” Ben’s eyes shifted over as J.J.’s voice came into earshot. 

“When did you become the friendly neighborhood Ben Parker? You know, I really don’t get you,” J.J. said, taking a final drag from his cheap, homemade cigar before flicking it to the ground. “Why do you always gotta play the hero, huh? Whether it’s helping little kittens off trees or kicking some guy’s teeth in for robbing an old lady, you’re always butting into people’s business and what’s that get you? A busted arm?”

Ben raised an eyebrow, massaging the bruise on his arm. “It’s not about playing hero, J.J., it’s about doing what’s right. I believe that if I can do something good for someone, then it’s my moral obligation to do it.”

J.J. gawked at him as if he had heard the most ridiculous statement of the century. “So what? Is it a personal choice of yours?”

“Choice?” Ben shook his head. “No, responsibility.”

The young man snorted. “You are one crazy putz, Ben Parker, you know that? Heck, if someone told me that you’re just some average Joe without a care in the world. I’d feed him a knuckle sandwich and call him a liar,” J.J. added with a laugh.

Ben joined him in laughter. “You have no freaking clue.”

“Oh, and speaking of crazy.” He flashed Ben a large smile. “Guess who just got the job at the Washington Post? This mashugana right here!”

“Whoa, you serious? Hey, congratulations man!” Ben threw his arms around his best friend. “I mean, oh wow, that’s amazing. I can’t believe you got in.”

“Hey, just who do you think I am? This is J. Jonah Jameson you’re talking to. Was there ever any there any doubt?” J.J. boasted with a cocky grin plastered on his face.

Ben folded his arms, his eyes half lidded as he gave J.J. a long leveled stare. “When you flunked that interview at the Daily Bugle, you nearly drank yourself to death in my house.”

“Oh, come on. Why do you gotta do that, huh? Why do you have to keep bringing that up? I was in a very dark place in my life and for the record, I only got drunk once, big deal!”

“It was three days!” Ben cried.

“You know, you gotta let it go. Sides, tomorrow’s a brand new day and I’m–” J.J.’s eyes shot wide open. “Ben, watch out!”

“Go fuck yourself you pony lovin’ fag!”

Ben dodged his head to the side and caught an empty bottle of Jack over his shoulder. He tilted his head and glowered at one of the greasers from before. The greaser shrieked and tore down the sidewalk as fast as his legs could carry him.

“Hey, asshole! Aren’t you forgetting something?” Ben turned around and flung the bottle right back at him.

The bottle slammed into the greaser’s noggin a good fifteen feet away with pinpoint accuracy. “Argh!” the greaser cried as he crashed into a couple of nearby trash cans.

“Punk ass, son of a bitch,” Ben cursed.

“Geez, I still have no idea how you do that. I mean, you caught that thing without even looking. It’s like you got sixth sense or something. Honestly, sometimes it creeps me the Hell out, and don’t get me started on your throwing skills,” J.J. said.

“I guess we all have our gifts. Me, my special senses and my dashing good looks and you, your big, friggin’ mouth.”

“Oh, Hardy, har, har. Word to the wise, stick to being a hero and leave the comedy to professionals, ‘kay?” J.J. replied. “Anyways, this calls for a celebration. So, how about we head downtown? There’s this new bar I know and I heard the bartender cooks up a wicked brew!”

Ben chuckled. Good ole’ J.J., always quick to forget. “You know what, I could use a pint or two. Bleeding those Goddamned grease monkeys sure was hard work and 'sides, it’s always a good time with ole' Jonah Jameson around.”

“Well, if you could call getting us kicked out of Nancy’s for flooring that neanderthal a good time, then yeah, I think we both know how to have one Hell of a good time,” J.J. said. 

“Hey, I tried to warn him.” Ben bobbed his shoulders.

“Yeah, yeah, sure, sure. Now go grab your coat. I’ll wait for you outside.” J.J. fished out another cigar from his pocket along with his box of matches.

“You know, you keep puffing on those death sticks and you’re gonna work yourself into an early grave,” Ben said as he was making his way up the stairs.

J.J. scoffed. “Please, I could smoke a thousand of these and I’d be seeing the undertaker put you in the ground long before he does me!”

“Oh and by the way… you’re buying,” Ben said.

“Asshole.” J.J. struck a match and lit his cigar.

“Bitch.”

“Jerk.”


[To Be Continued…]

> Season 1, Episode 4: The Vigilante
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------




Previously on The Renegades...


“I said I was out of the game.”

“Hey, yer the best, don’t matter what anypony says."

“I have received word from a very reliable source that you have been looking for the Spider.”

"The Spider’s gone. The guy pulled a Houdini on us and ain’t no one’s seen him in years!”

"Grandma told me not to tell you this but… the bank called earlier this week.”

“When did you become the friendly neighborhood Ben Parker?"

“You’re just like mom and dad, counting down the days ‘till you can leave me to rot like yesterday’s trash!”

"Everything I’ve done, everything, since that day had been for us. You and me.”

“It’s not about playing hero, J.J., it’s about doing what’s right"

“So what? Is it a personal choice of yours?”

“No, responsibility.”





“When a man is denied the right to live the life he believes in, he has no choice but to become an outlaw.” – Nelson Mandela

Episode 4: The Vigilante


The storm thrashed at the Rolls with ferocity unparalleled as rain hammered on the windows like the relentless drumming of nails. Thunder cracked the air as a bolt of lightning broke the utter blackness, cleaving the night sky in parts, but just for the briefest of moments. Frank shrugged, his chest heaving with a sigh. In Starling City, they sometimes had thunder and lightning, but not like this.

He craned his neck, looking outside he could see, through the curtain of water, the dimmed lights of the sprawling city. On a clear night the view was awe-inspiring, but tonight his only thought was setting his business straight, and then returning home to the comforts of his own bed. It was a quarter past midnight when he received the call. There had been some complications at the docks, and his immediate presence was required. It was short, simple, and most of all vague, just like he taught them. In the old days, the walls had ears, now the telephones did too.

A complication could mean a great deal of many things, but Frank knew he ran a tight ship, and his men could vouch for that. They knew the incentives of success, and the consequences in failure, mostly the consequences. Besides, if there was one thing he hated more than crooked cops and the God-awful texture of overcooked pastrami, is was when deliberate incompetence got in the way of a well-articulated plan. Now Frank had no qualms taking a horse by the reins, so to speak. Besides, on any other night, there was no place he would rather be than in the middle of it all. But this wasn’t any other night.

He swallowed hard, hooking a finger around the stifling knot around his neck in an effort to loosen his tie. There was a churning in his gut, and it wasn’t the ravioli he had for dinner. Frank was nervous, and with good reason. News of Scot Morgan’s horrifying end had spread faster than a Californian wildfire amongst Starling’s elites, including his known associates. Yet another name crossed off the list by The Hood, Starling City’s new mysterious vigilante.

Even with Starling’s finest on the case, nobody knew how the Hood had been choosing his victims, though the deaths of Guillermo Barrera, Jason Brodeur, Ted Daniels, and Adam Hunt the past several weeks made it clear to Frank that these were no mere coincidences. Like Morgan, they were all shrewd businessmen with close and personal ties to Starling’s underworld. As deep as their pockets go, though, all that private security amounted to hardened shit. In the end, the Vigilante hunted them down like jackrabbits in the Mohave, and gutted them all the same. Needless to say, Frank had an ominous hunch that he was next on the list. He forced a huff as he sponged the sweat from his forehead with the cuffs of his blue-chequered shirt.

Perhaps he was just being paranoid.

“Here we are Mister Bertinelli, the docks,” the driver said, putting on the breaks. The wheels squealed to a complete stop.

The door opened to the sight of a large, bulky individual, soaked to the bone despite his leather trench coat. “Hey, boss!” he yelled over the endless torrent hammering the concrete. “Glad you could make it.”

“Can it, Sloan. You better have a damned good reason dragging me out here.” Frank tightened his coat and stepped into the rain. “Aw, fuck.” He was drenched in seconds. “So what’s the fuckin’ problem?”

“Stykes didn’t come through.” Sloan gestured to the myriads of shipping containers stacked across the docks. “Said he’d be late for the next one.”

Frank forced a lengthy groan. “Fuckin’ Irish mick. Son of a bitch probably got himself wasted again.” He gagged, pressing his hand to his chest in a bid to ease the searing sensation creeping up his chest. “God, I’ve had it up to here with his shit.”

“So, what’re we gonna do, Boss?” Sloan flinched as thunder cracked the darkened sky. “I mean, we can always leave em’ here, and have Stykes pick em’ up tomorrow.”

“No.” Frank raised his hand. “The deal was we be there by dawn, and last thing I want is the S.C.P.D. poking their noses where it don’t belong.” He pulled a deep, staggered breath. His eyes, dull grey, connected with Sloan’s coal colored irises with partial hesitation. “Load the rest of the trucks. We’ll cut through the Glades.”

Sloan however, looked as if Frank had just told him to off his own mother. “T-t-the Glades?” he stuttered through clattering teeth. “But Boss, t-t-that’s Brick’s turf.”

“Idiot!” Frank cursed through gritted teeth, smacking Sloan across the head. Sloan reeled from the pain. “Don’t you think I fuckin’ know that? Don’t you worry about ole’ Danny, I’ll deal with him. Now you go tell the boys to load the trucks before I kick your teeth in.”

“Yes, you got it, Boss!” he shrieked, shuffling off through the curtain raindrops as he massaged the now throbbing bruise on the back of his head.

Idiots, the lot of them, Frank rubbed his temple at the thought. Then again, Sloan had a point. One of Starling’s most dangerous criminals, Daniel ‘The Brick’ Brickwell wasn’t exactly known for his temperance, especially when it came to trespassers. Crossing the Glades without his knowledge, let alone consent was suicide, but Frank needed this. There was a lot of dough riding on this, and as of now, the rewards outweighed the repercussions. If and when push came to shove, he would consider cutting a deal with his fellow mobster as a last resort. Ole’ Danny may love the sight of blood, and the virgin tushies of little boys, but Frank was willing to wager that he loved stacks of Benjamins a whole lot more.

“Fuck, what a night.” Frank ruffled his fingers through the wet strands of his dirty blonde hair. He turned his head to the sight of approaching headlights and the sounds of a semi-truck revving across the asphalt. Stacks of iron cages one atop the other and secured with chains. Locked within, were dozens of ponies, earth, unicorn and pegasi. He smirked, relishing in every desolate expression of and fear and dismay plastered upon their fuzzy little faces. It was not every day a man in his position gets to serve his country, and be so handsomely rewarded for it. Besides, it was nothing personal, only business, and boy was it booming.

Frank returned to his car and slid into the back seat. “Follow those trucks, and step on it.”

“Yes, sir,” his driver replied.





“Let me go, you can’t do this!” the brown earth pony stallion cried as he was hauled out of the cage by three men in chains. “I am an American citizen, I have my rights— Ough!” Blood splashed across the asphalt as he was smacked across the muzzle with a truncheon.

“Rights?” spat the man in the tattered green beanie. “You’re a pony, you ain’t got no fuckin’ rights!” He kicked the stallion in the stomach. The earth pony fell to the ground, gasping for breath as he buckled from the pain. “Put him in the Goddamned container!”

Caramel Apple whimpered from within her own rain-soaked cage as she watched them drag the poor stallion into yet another one of those enormous metal boxes. The yellow mare bit her bottom lip, cursing herself for paying no mind to Uncle Orange’s advice. She wasn’t supposed to be here. In fact, she wasn’t even American, but ever since that Solaris-damned bill was passed, humans had been snatching ponies off the streets like dog catchers. They’d grabbed her three days ago while she was out shopping for groceries. She remembered crying out to the humans across the street for help, but none of them would come to her aid.

Some laughed. Some looked on powerlessly from afar. Some just whistled a tune, and went straight back inside that darned diner for another cup of Joe. She gritted her teeth, feeling her bitter tears disappear in the currents of the falling rain. They didn’t care, and she was a fool to expect otherwise.

“Lady, are you alright?”

Caramel’s emerald green eyes settled on a little unicorn filly next to her. “Hmm.” Caramel nodded, wiping the tears from her eyes and putting on a smile. “Ahm fine, sugarcube. Just the rain, that’s all. What’s yer name?”

“J-Jubileena,” the filly replied.

“That’s a nice name ya got there, I’m Caramel Apple. Call me Caramel.” She reached up to tip her Stetson, sighing when she realized it wasn’t there. She must have dropped it in the alley where they took her. No doubt the rats would’ve taken it apart by now. “So, where are your parents?”

The filly’s pained look drew an instant sense of regret. “Ah… ah didn’t mean—”

“We were at the park when they grabbed us. They were about to take us away, when a couple of cops came out of nowhere.” She leaned against Caramel’s side, trembling from the frigid ocean breeze. “They started shooting at each other. Mom and dad were too heavy to make off on foot, so they left them behind.”

“Aw, sugarcube.” Caramel’s expression softened. “Come here.” She pulled the little filly into her embrace. “Everythin’s gonna be alright, you’ll see.” She stroked the little filly’s strawberry mane.

Jubileena sniffled and wrapped her little hooves around the mare’s waist, burying her muzzle into her fur. “I just… I just wanna go home.”

“It’s okay. We’ll find a way outta this. I promise.” The cage door squealed violently against its hinges. Caramel screamed as someone grabbed her by the mane and dragged her into the open.

“Miss Caramel!” the little filly yelled after her.

“Let me loose, you buckin’ bastards!” Caramel trashed and screamed with all her might, only to have him yank harder than before. “Argh, I swear I’m gonna buck the livin’ daylights outta you cunts!”

“Shut your trap, nag!” the same man with the beanie yelled. He craned his neck to the one standing next to him. “Harry, don’t just stand there like a fuckin’ idiot. Grab the runt!”

The man known as Harry scoffed, removing the half-splintered toothpick from between his teeth. “Jesus, Marv. Would it kill ya to say please?” He shook his head, making his way to the cage. “It’s not like I’m askin’ for the world or anythin’ here, ya know?”

“No! Go away, stay back!” Jubelina backed herself against the far end of the cage as the man stuck his hand in after her. “Don’t touch me! Help!” she cried, kicking him hard with her hooves.

“Ow, hey, cut that out!” Harry flinched from the sudden pain lacing his arm. “Ya dirty little bitch, come ‘ere!”He barred his teeth.

“No, let me go!” the little filly cried as Harry grabbed her by the tail and dragged her out like a little lost puppy. “Mommy, Daddy, Miss Caramel, help me!”

“No! Let ‘er go— Argh!” a sharp pain shot across Caramel’s muzzle where Marv had struck her with the truncheon. She screwed her eyes shut, clenching her teeth as the familiar taste of blood and rainwater flooded her mouth.

“Come on, man, why you gotta keep doin’ that? You know the boss wants them in one piece or we don’t get paid.” Harry followed behind him, dangling the sobbing filly by the scruff of her neck.

“Cause I’m wet, I’m tired, I’m havin’ a real shitty day, and you ain’t helpin’.” Marv hauled the mare across the asphalt toward the nearest container. “But please, if you wanna make me feel better, let me crack open your fuckin’ head.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “Oh, now ya say please.”

Lightning surged across the blackened clouds overhead. Like a vicious beast, the sky roared with thunder. While being dragged by her captors, Caramel took a brief sweep of her surroundings. Harry and Marv aside, there were at least two more standing guard, and both armed to the teeth. Solaris-dammit, she cursed under her breath. 

“Get in there!” Marv threw the mare into the container. Caramel slammed her head hard against the metal wall, a cry of pain escaped her along with the panicked screams of a dozen more ponies already inside. “Can it, all of you!” He hammered his fist against the metal door.

The mare gritted her teeth, riveting her hateful stare at the man just as Harry came into view. “No, no, please!” Jubelina begged through her tears.

“Alright, runt. In ya go!” He tossed her inside like a rag doll.

“Jubelina!” Caramel rolled over and caught the screaming filly in her hooves. She hugged her close, caressing her gently. “Hush, hush, sugarcube. It’s alright, Ah got ya.”

Harry slapped his hands together. “Well, that’s done. Let’s go get the others. Sooner we get home, the sooner we eat, and I’m starvin’.”

Caramel looked up, her gaze laced with spite as she watched the two men turn to leave. “You buckin’ cowards!” she cried after them.

Both Marv and Harry stopped in their tracks. The look Marv shot the pale-yellow mare was as sour as poison. “The fuck you just say, nag?” He tightened his grip on the handle of his truncheon.

“Marv, let it go. Remember, we need her in one piece.” Marv shoved the tip of the weathered black club in Harry’s face. The man flinched and raised his hands in surrender. “Whoa, whoa, take it easy. Remember what the doctor said.”

“Flap your gums one more time. Come on, you piece of asswipe. Come on, I dare you,” Marv seethed through clenched teeth. “As for you—” He returned his sights to the earth pony before him. “If we ain’t getting a grand a box, I’d be beating you half to death right now.”

She spat to the floor. “Ya varmints don’t scare me!”

“Please, please just let us go!” Caramel turned to a sky-blue pegasus mare at the end of the container. “We didn’t do anything wrong. Please, I have a daughter!”

“SHUT UP!” Marv struck the door with a loud clang as the mares screamed yet again. “You nags don’t get it do you?” He then gestured with a wave of his club. “You belong to us now. All of you.”

“I’m scared,” Jubelina whispered through her teary sobs. She buried her head in the crook of Caramel’s neck. “Please make it stop, Miss Caramel.”

Caramel closed her eyes, holding the little filly tightly in her hooves. “Ahm’ sorry, sugarcube. Ahm’ so sorry.”

“So scream all you Goddamn want, because no one here gives a fuck about you. No one— URK!”

Caramel gasped as she was hit in the face with a spray of crimson. She coughed, and spat. The Solaris-awful taste was sharp, and coppery on her tongue like old pennies. Her eyes snapped wide open at the horrifying sight of Marv with a pointed arrowhead through his Adam’s apple. He choked. His eyeballs rolled to the back of his head. His sounds of gurgling filled the container as he clutched his bleeding throat. Blood oozed through the spaces between his fingers as he dropped face-first to the asphalt.

“Jesus Christ, Marv!” A ghastly whiteness spread across Harry’s face, oblivious to the ominous shadow racing up behind him.

The human-like figure leaped into the air, kicking off the container door and swinging the grip of a bow in the direction of Harry’s face. The man quivered. His irises shrunk to the size of pinheads. A flash of silver irradiated in the bolt of lightning. The mounted blade sliced deep into his cheek. Harry screamed. His head twisting as he fell to the ground. 

The shadow landed on his feet and strung his bow. The sound of the arrow leaving the quiver pierced the air like the thrill of a reaper’s scythe. He let loose the first arrow. It struck the first guard right between the eyes.

“Son of a bitch!” the second one cried. He cocked his gun, only to take an arrow straight to the heart. He fell back-first into the asphalt, wide-eyed, never to breathe again.

“Oh, God…” Harry covered his face in an effort to stop the bleeding. He turned to the figure of a man towering over him. “You fuckin’ son of a—”

The shadow shifted his weight and socked Harry across the face, knocking him down for good.

“Miss Caramel, what’s going on?” Jubelina pulled away for a better look, but Caramel held her tightly, her eyes fixed on Marv’s now lifeless body as it turned the rain puddles red. “Miss Caramel, what happened?”

“Hush, sugarcube. It’s nothin’.” Caramel cooed the little filly and rocked her gently in her hooves. She then turned her attention to her mysterious savior. “Ain’t nothin’ to be worried ‘bout.”

At six feet tall, he towered over the ponies, as do most humans. His rugged, emerald green leather jacket glistened like a suit of armour in the fog lights overhead. Caramel couldn’t see his face, not entirely, for his eyes were shrouded in the shadow of his hood. Caramel swallowed hard, though as her gaze settled on the longbow gripped tightly in his hand, the realization hit her like raging buffalo on a stampede.

“Hey… you…” The man shifted in her direction. “Ah know you… yer the Hood… the one from the radio. Yer him, aren’t ya?”

The Hood, however, offered no reply. Instead, he turned his attention to the rest of the mares currently huddled at the back. “Head down Forty-Fourth Street.” His was voice was deep and gravelly, most likely forced. “Stick to the lights. Flag down the first officer you see. Tell him what happened here.”

The mares lay frozen in place, exchanging glances with one another as if the secrets of the universe lay scribbled upon their faces.

“Go!” the Hood slammed his fist against the metal door. The mares shrieked, stumbling to their hooves as they made a run for it. “You too,” he said to the yellow mare.

Caramel nodded. “Jubelina, darlin’, I need ya to do somethin’ for me,” she said to the little pink filly in her arms. “I need ya to close yer eyes, and don’t you open them until I tell ya to, okay?”

Jubelina nodded. “Okay, Miss Caramel.”

“That’s mah girl.” Caramel rose to her hooves, shifting the little filly onto her back. “Hold on tight now, ya hear?” She shot the Hood one last glance. “Whoever you are, thank ya kindly. I’ll never forget what you’ve done today, for me and for her.”

The Hood nodded. Rainwater trailed down the edges of his rough shaven chin. He snapped his head back at the ominous click of a gun. He leapt into the air. A gunshot tore through drumming rain. A flash illuminating the inside of the container as both Caramel and Jubelina screamed. The Hood twisted in mind-air and landed, knee-first on Harry’s chest.

“Ugh!” Harry choked to the sounds of his snapping rib. Blood and saliva spluttered through the spaces between his teeth. Grunting, Harry took aim and fired.

The Hood dodged. The bullet missed him by a hair. He dismounted the curved blade from the grip of his bow, and took Harry’s hand off at the wrist.

“Argh, you motherfucker!” Harry clutched his mutilated stump. Torrents of blood spouted and poured from his open wound, drenching his fingers. “You fuckin’ piece of shit!”

The Hood grabbed Harry by the throat. “Go!” he cried over his shoulder.

“Hold on, sugarcube!” Caramel then took down the docks as fast as her hooves can carry her.

The last thing she heard was Harry’s horrifying screams fading into a gurgle.





Frank gritted his teeth through the ringing in his ear canals as thunder rippled through the concrete. He cursed this relentless storm to the depths of Hell and beyond. That damned Stykes. Frank intended to have a long and serious discussion with that two-timing nitwit, that’s if he could keep himself long enough from ringing his whiny little neck.

“Hey, hey, watch it!” Frank called out to the men on the crane while they lowered another container onto the truck. “Anything happens to the merchandise, I feed you to the fishes. Kapish?”

“That’s six.” Sloan pulled down on his leather barrette. “Two more and we’re set.”

“Good. Now get to the stores and grab every piece you can find.” Frank reached into his pockets. He pulled out a set of keys and tossed it to Sloan. “I want every man packed and ready when we head through the Glades.”

The stocky man bit his bottom lip. “Boss, you can’t be serious. I mean, I know they’re payin’ us an arm and a limb, but goin’ to war with Brick—”

“Sloan!” Frank snarled as Sloan squealed like a stout pig. “Flap your stinkin’ gums one more  fuckin’ time, and I swear to all that is holy and right in this world, I’m gonna—” The sound of thunder cracked the air. Frank balked, and snapped his gaze to the distance. “The fuck was that?”

It was faint, but Frank knew the difference between a rumble of thunder and that of a gunshot. “Who’s workin’ the boxes down there?” He gestured to the far end of the docks.

“Um…” Sloan began twirling his thumbs. A sheepish grin on his face. “Harry and Marv?”

“Oh, those idiots. Jesus Christ.” Frank ran a hand down the length of his face. He whistled to the men huddled around a stack of cages. “Hey, go check it out. You see anyone pokin’ their noses where they don’t belong, ice ‘em.”

“You got it, Boss,” one of them replied. “Come on boys. Let’s go see what kinda shitstorm Harry and Marv’s kicked up this time.” He cocked his Thompson.

“Maybe Marv finally snapped, and capped the son of a gun,” the other said with a chuckle.

“I wouldn’t blame ‘im. Ole’ Harry could drive a monk up a wall.” The third one shouldered his rifle. “Just wonderin’ what took ‘im so long.”

“Now where were we? Oh, yeah, you—” Frank jumped at sound of a high-pitched scream. He felt the bile churning in his throat. “Tell me you heard that too.”  

Sloan nodded in response. 

Awful, tortured screaming blared across the docks, drowned in cacophony of gunfire. Burst of muzzle flashes lit up the bare spaces between the myriads of stacked containers.

“Shit, shoot him, shoot him, sho— Urgk!”

“Victor! You son of a bitch, motherfuc— Ough!”

“No, no please. PLEASE, I don’t wanna die, I don’t wanna— ARGH!”

Frank snapped his eyes from side to side. He tailed every cry and every ping of a bullet against hardened steel. His men were screaming and screeching. Some sobbed and sniveled with fear, but all met the same fate. Frank tried to maintain his steadfast composure. But something distracted him… a sound. Over the whooping and wheezing of the dying, he swore he heard something slicing through the air, one after the other, meeting their mark with pinpoint accuracy. His bowels twisted in his gut. His throat burned with that same searing sensation from before. 

He knew that sound. Christ, he knew that God-awful sound.

“The fuck is going on!” he yelled through the chaos. “Someone talk to me, someone—”

“Boss, look out!” Sloan tackled Frank out of the way as body came crashing head-first into the concrete below. It slammed against the floor, glazing it with a splash of red and brain matter.

“Phew.” Sloan panted. “Sure was a close one, ain’t that right, Boss?” He paused, noticing the color had begun to fade from Frank’s now terrified expression. “Boss?”

“No…” Terror scraped Frank’s voice raw as he stood petrified at the sight of a green arrow protruding from the man’s chest. “No… no… no…”

“Boss, what’s goin’ on?”

“This ain’t happening.” He dug his frantic fingers deep into his scalp and grabbed fistfuls of his dirty blonde hair. “This ain’t happening!”

“Boss!” Sloan grabbed the now trembling man by the shoulders. “Pull yerself together. We gotta get you outta here.” He pulled a gun from within his coat. “Come on, move it!”

Both men raced down the docks, making a mad dash for Frank’s Rolls. Frank tore up the ground beneath his feet as if the Devil himself was on his tail, paying no mind to his prized Italian loafers scraping against the asphalt. Adrenaline, like poison, coursed through his veins, egging him forward with every terror-stricken plea for mercy, only to be silenced with slice of a blade or a twang of a bowstring. A labored shriek escaped him as the carnage grew ever closer. He gasped with every breath he took as he struggled to feed his now burning lungs. As the car came into sight, for a moment Frank had every reason to hope. He was going to make it.

“Come on, get in!” Sloan grabbed the door handle and wrenched it open. “Get in. Get i—”

Sloan slumped, back-first against the Rolls. An arrow buried deep in his right eye socket. Frank felt his throat locked. His knees buckled as he watched the light fade from the man’s good eye.

“Shit!” Frank jumped into the back seat. “Get us out of here, get us—” He froze at the sight of his driver, and the arrow through his skull. 

“Son of a bitch!” Frank kicked the door open and dropped to his knees. He stumbled, making a grab for Sloan’s handgun. He unhooked the magazine. Fully convinced it was loaded, he slid it back in and cocked it.

“I know you’re here, you motherfucker!” Frank raised his gun. The weapon trembled in grip of his cold, jittery fingers. “So, why don’t you come on out and fight me like a real man, huh?”

It was quiet. He knew his men were all dead and gone. The fact that the gunfire and screaming had stopped was evidence enough. Frank wheezed, sucking the air in through the spaces between his clenched teeth. His frantic eyes snapping left to right, searching the creeping shadows in vain for any signs of life.

There was a clang of metal against the containers on the right.

Frank opened fire. The gun reverberated in his hand. The force rippled down his arms. The bullets drew nothing but spark against the rusted metal as brass shells tinkled across the ground. “Where are you?” he muttered under his breath. 

He blinked the raindrops from his eyes. His racing heart pounded against his chest like a brass band. “Where are you?”

A shadow streaked across one of the containers.

Frank opened fire, riddling the metal walls with more bullets, but to no avail.

“WHERE ARE YOU?”

His jaw clenched. His body tensed. His finger squeezed hard on the trigger. The clip emptied, and then the slide locked.

Fuck…

Frank screamed as something sharp shot straight through his right calve. He was pulled off balance and dragged across the asphalt. Frank thrashed and clawed at the ground like a trapped coyote. His world soon turned upside down as he was raised feet-first into the air and dangled from a beam of the crane.

“Oh, oh shit. Fuck!” Between the incessant pounding in his head and the ungodly pain in his leg, the world faded to a blur. “Let me down. Let me down. Oh, God…”

“He can’t help you.”

Frank snapped his gaze to the dark space between two metal containers. Stepping into the light, the visage of a man clad in a green hood soon came into focus. “You…”

“Frank Bertinelli.” The Hood spoke Frank’s name, his tone baneful and grim. “You have failed this city.”

Frank forced a laugh. “So…” He barred his teeth and snarled. “You’re the no good, piece of shit icin’ everyone else?” He cleared his throat, and spat to the floor. “You killed my men. You killed Sloan. So, now you’re here to finish me off? Fuck you!”

The Hood however, remained stoic. 

“But you know what? You’re wasting your Goddamned time. Bump me off, another one takes my place. Ain’t nothin’s gonna change.” Frank continued. “Sides, Morgan, Barrera, Brodeur? We all work for the same guy!”

There was a sound of stretching leather as the Hood tightened his grip on the handle of his bow at the sight of Frank’s smug grin.

“You wanna know who this dock belongs to? Who’s leading this whole shindig?” Frank barred his teeth.  “Adam Queen!”

Thunder cracked the sky open, and the dock lit ablaze in a flash of lighting. In that brief moment, their eyes met. Looking back at him was no man. Through the loose strands of the Hood’s dirty blonde hair were savage irises of pale-blue devoid of all emotion. Save for one. There was hatred in those eyes, a pure and human hatred. Frank swallowed hard.





The windows rattled within their wooden frames. That last boom of thunder shook the hospital to its foundation. He peered through the thick curtain of rain, falling endlessly upon a city he once called home. He pulled a deep breath. A part of him yearned for some fresh air, far from the burning scent of rubbing alcohol and bleach. He hated every inch of this room. Confined within these four white-plastered walls, he felt more and more like a caged animal with every passing day.

But after the island, everything he once thought familiar was now different. Things had changed, and not for the better. Starling City was once a beacon of hope. Now its streets ran rife with poverty, crime and corruption. The rich and powerful took what they wanted. They spent their days looking down from their ivory towers upon the scum riddled gutters with devilish smiles, sipping on liquid gold as they bled the life from this city, penny and dime. His fingers curled into fists, eyes gazing at his bare reflection in the clear glass window with hostility as pure and concentrated as acid.

He snapped his eyes to the sound of footsteps outside his door. They were whispering, attempting to be discreet, but he could hear them clear as day.

“How is he, Doctor Thompkins?” The first voice was male, middle aged.

There was a sigh, a feminine one. “Mister Queen, twenty percent of his body is covered in scar tissue.” Definitely a voice of a woman, also middle aged. “Most of them are man-made.”

“Oh, dear God,” said Mister Queen.

“He has third degree burns on his arms, and back,” Doctor Thompkins continued. “X-rays confirmed almost a dozen fractures that never properly healed.”

“Leslie, has… has he said anything about what happened?”

He heard Doctor Thompkins sigh. “No. In fact, he hardly spoke at all.”

There was a brief silence between the two individuals. Save for the one squeaky wheel on the front left end of a passing medical cart, and the rattling of surgical tools being transported.

“Mister Queen… Adam.” Doctor Thompkins paused. “As a friend, I want you to prepare yourself. The Robert you lost might not be the one they found.”

“No.” Adam sounded exasperated, almost in denial. “No, he’s Robert. He’s our Robert. Nothing has changed.” The sound of his footsteps suggested he was pacing back and forth.

“Adam, I know you and Lea want to believe that, and honestly I do too.” Doctor Thompkins said. “But you cannot deny the plain, and simple truth. Something happened to him on that island, something terrible. He’s damaged, and he needs you now, more than ever.”

Queen took a deep breath. “Alright… can I see him?”

Robert froze.

“Just be gentle with him.” Doctor Thompkins said. “That island… the men who found your son called it, Lian Yu,” she added.

“Lian… Yu?”Adam asked, clearly confused. “What does that mean?”

“It’s Mandarin, it means purgatory,” she said, turning to leave. “But if you ask me, after what I’ve seen, they should have called it Hell.” The sound of her footsteps faded into the distance.

The door opened with a soft thump. The distinctive sound of loafers squeaking against the polished marble floor as Adam entered the room. His steps were slow, cautious, growing louder as he grew ever closer. The smell of antiseptic was soon replaced by a sweet, smoky scent of cologne. Old Spice, his favorite. He never left home without it.

“Robert…” Adam’s voice was soft, almost comforting.

Robert turned around, slowly. Face to face with one another, Adam took an unconscious step back, and with good reason. The person standing before him was no longer the timid little boy Adam knew all those years ago. There was something feral behind Robert’s eyes, something vicious and cold. A familiar scent came off the older man like musk of an ox, flaring in Robert’s nostrils.

Fear.

“Hey… dad.”





“Wake up, Robbie!”

Robert coughed, reeling in like a punch drunk boxer from the awful slap to his chest as he was jolted awake. He blinked the sleep from his eyes. Slowly, but surely, his vision returned to the scrolling sight of passing buildings. He licked his parched lips, repulsed by the putrid sourness of dried saliva rolling upon the surface of his tongue. It had been hours since he had anything to drink, let alone eat. The continuous grumbling in his stomach can vouch for that.

The plane ride from Starling to D.C. was horrendous. Air travel remained a luxury to the wealthy and privileged, but Robert had always considered it an ordeal rather than comfort. Why wouldn’t it be? Robert thought. Confined in a flying metal death trap for hours at a time where the only thing close to entertainment was listening to some self-entitled, Ivy League brat throw a temper tantrum because daddy dearest refused him one of those brand-new Cadillacs.

Robert scoffed as he straightened his black pair of tees, tucking what was left of it into his matching denim jeans. Then again, there was a time in his life where things weren’t so different after all. Speaking of which. Robert shifted in the Cadillac’s fresh leather seat. With the top down, he took deep breaths of the cold, thick morning air, relishing the city stench of smog, dirt, and humanity.

“You know Queen, feel free to tell me if I’m boring the heck outta you. I’ll just shut the Hell up.”

“No.” Robert groaned, turning to driver in the well-pressed, navy blue suit. “Sorry Tommy… it’s just.” He shrugged and wiped the crust from his eyes. “It’s just been a long flight. Sides, it’s been a while since I’ve gotten a good night’s sleep.”

Tommy flashed a cheeky grin. “Whoa, chill. I’m just messing with you. Plane ride—” He pursed his lips and gestured with a wave of his hand. “—completely understand. My old man always comes home crankier than a bat in sunlight.”

Robert chuckled and smiled. “Heh, tell me about it.” Shutting his eyes, he rested his elbow atop the car door and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Give me a bunk bed, and a train ride any day.”

“Damn, Robbie. Was that a smile? I mean an actual smile?” Tommy pulled down on his pair of aviators, revealing his dull grey eyes. “Christ, and here I thought you were dead inside.”

“Oh, you would like that wouldn’t you?” Robert bobbed his eyebrows.

“No, I’m serious.” Tommy pushed his sunglasses back up the ridge of his nose. “You know, with everything that’s happened and all.” He took a deep breath, puffing his cheeks before exhaling. “Seven years.”

Robert said nothing. He lifted his gaze to the morning sky as he watched the hues of grey growing lighter with the rise of the morning sun, the few remaining stars gradually blinking out of existence. The Cadillac came to a slow and steady halt to the bright red flash of an overhead traffic light, splashing the white-washed dashboard in a shade of bright maroon.

A loud bang made Robert flinch. His breaths grew sharp. His heart raced. Eyes narrowed. He snapped his head to the source; a dark alley on the left to the sight of moss green earth pony slamming the top lid over a trash can.

“I’m sorry. I know you don’t want talk about it but—” Tommy cocked an eyebrow. “Hey, Robbie, you okay?” he asked, clearly taken back by the sudden murderous glint in Robert’s eyes.

“Yeah, I’m fine.” Robert’s expression softened. He gave a bland smile in return as he released his death grip on the top of the car door. “Sorry, it’s nothing. Just… distracted, that’s all.”

“Shit, its worse I thought.” Tommy patted him on the shoulder. “Well, least you got ole’ Tommy here to whip you back into shape. So here’s what we’re gonna do, we’re gonna head on home, freshen up, then we’re gonna light this town on—”

“Actually, Tommy.” Robert interrupted. “I think I’m just gonna take a rain check.”

Tommy arched his eyebrows. “You serious? Hell, after everything you’ve been through, I thought—”

“I appreciate the sentiment. Just not today.”

Tommy shrugged, and then looked away, eyes rolling. “Alright, suit yourself.” He sounded more upset than disappointed. “Some other time then.” He leaned back in on the accelerator, setting the car back in motion as the lights turned green.

Robert sighed, feeling a tinge of guilt chafing at his conscience like sandpaper. “Thanks,” he said.

“What for?” Tommy asked, his eyes still fixed on the road ahead.

“For everything.” Robert replied. “Things haven’t exactly been—” He drew a sharp breath. “—easy, since I’ve been back. So much has changed. Hell, I hardly recognize my own home.” He sighed, glancing at his reflection in the rear view mirror. “I hardly recognize myself.”

Tommy pulled down on his aviators and shot him a sideways glance.

“Everyone’s been trying to get me to open up. To be somebody I’m not sure who I am anymore.” He turned to Tommy and smiled. “But you… you didn’t care. All these years and you picked up right where we left off. A guy can’t ask for a better friend, so thank you.”

Tommy chuckled. “Aw, Robbie, you aren’t getting all sappy on me now, are you?” he asked. “’Sides, what are best friends for? We’ve had each other’s backs since the fourth grade, and I’m gonna have your back till the end.”

“And you know what, it’s way too early for this kinda talk. I think it’s time for some tunes.” Tommy said with a cheeky grin. “Wait till you hear the sound on this baby.” He turned the knobs of his analogue radio as it come to life with grainy sounds of static. “Come on, come on… there we go!”

“Good morning Washington D.C., I am Lana Lane with today’s trending headlines. In light of the recent San Francisco riots, Vice President Robert Kelly had encouraged local city councils to expedite the enforcement of the Pony Registration Act for the safety of the public.”

“Oh, come on.” Tommy groused, smacking his hand on the ivory steering wheel. “Really, this shit again? I’m telling you Robbie, if I have to hear the words Pony Registration Act one more time, I swear I’m gonna hang myself.”

Robert cocked an eyebrow. “You don’t agree with the new act?” he asked, clearly surprised. “And here I thought I was the only one.”

“Fuck, no.” Tommy scoffed. “Look just because both our dads are playing ring around the rosy with those asswipes in the Church of Humanity, and Humanity’s Last Stand, that doesn’t mean we should too.”

“Hey, I’m with you, pal. No arguments there.” Robert put both his hands behind his head and leaned back into his seat. “But tell me something. Why the sudden interest? I mean, politics bore the heck outta you.” Robert replied. “Especially when it came to ponies. It’s almost as if you’ve been—” Robert balked the moment he saw Tommy’s crooked grin.

“No… noo.” Robert gestured with a wave of his finger, pulling a smile in disbelief. “Seriously Tommy?”

“Hey, once you taste the rainbow, ain’t nothing else comes close.” Tommy tossed back his jet black hair. “And I swear, you have no idea how crazy those pegasi are. I mean, they can go at it all night long.” Tommy clicked his tongue and winked.

“Oh, get bent, Tommy. That’s gross.” Robert groaned.

“Don’t knock it ‘till you try it, my friend. I know every mare here in D.C., and if ponies aren’t your thing.” Tommy flashed him a toothy grin. “I can hook you up with a couple of griffins. Them kitty cat’s got claws. Mreow.” He curled his fingers at Robert.

“… as Starling City millionaire Adam Queen…”

As Robert opened his mouth to speak, he stopped, and then riveted his gaze at the radio’s illuminated surface.

“…drew wide spread criticism from pony activist groups across the United States of America after his controversial speech at the White House, three days ago, in regards to the national controversy surrounding the Pony Registration Act. According to Mister Queen, the ponies have no place in America, and will remain a threat and a liability to the nation was a whole should they be allowed to retain their civil liberties. This however, was retorted by Doctor Henry McCoy, longtime advocate of pony rights and human ambassador of SPECTRUM, a non-governmental pony rights organization.”

Robert curled his fists. Something swelled within his chest. The impending rage swirled within him like a noxious concoction. Tommy's expression grew soft with concern.

“It would seem that Mister Adam Queen isn’t the only member of the Queen Family making headlines across the country as of late. The family had become a Starling City sensation with the unbelievable discovery of their youngest son, Robert Queen.”

“Well!” Tommy exclaimed suddenly, and cleared his throat. “I think that’s enough music for one day. Sides, I’ve always liked it better quiet anyways. ” He then made a reach for the silver dial.

“No,” Robert interjected, as Tommy stopped mid-way. “Just… give me a moment, will you?” 

“The Starling City resident was found by fisherman on a deserted island in the middle of the North China Sea six months ago, seven years after he went missing, and was presumed dead, following his unexplained disappearance from his family estate. Starling City Police Department had ruled out possibilities of a kidnapping, and since no ransom demand was made, detectives had made speculations that Robert, who was sixteen at the time, may have left on his own accord. These allegations were disputed by Queen’s lawyers, stating that they were merely assumptions.”

“Then, barely three months later, police uncovered the shocking death of Julian Queen, who was found brutally murdered in the back alleys of Starling City. Julian, who was only twenty-eight years old at the time, was the eldest, and heir to the Queen Empire. The Starling City Police Department had classified the case as a robbery turned homicide, but detectives had made speculations that Julian may had been yet another target in a string of murders. Victims had included the children of Starling’s elites, and friends of the deceased such as Leo Muller, Monty Cora, and Marcus Redman.”

“Damn.” Tommy took a deep breath and exhaled through his teeth. “I know Starling’s never been all sunshine and rainbows, but Jesus, that’s some dark shit right there.”

“In other news, officers are in pursuit of a lone vigilante the Starling City Police Department had dubbed ‘The Hood’. According to eyewitness account, police have reason to believe that The Hood is single-handedly responsible for over a dozen high profile murders. Despite the victim’s alleged ties to Starling City underworld, police are yet to determine his motives. Eyewitness reports had placed this mysterious vigilante at the scene of over a dozen more murders involving small-time criminals, gang members, and a number of private security contractors under the employment of Stagg Industries. In light of these recent events, the S.C.P.D had assembled a special task force to capture the Hood, led by Detective Ronald Lance.”

Robert’s fists tightened a little more.

“Lance…” Tommy muttered to himself. “Now where have I heard that name before?” He repeated the name several times, tapping his finger on the tip of his chin. His eyes snapped open. “Wait a minute, wasn’t he the guy who—”

Robert turned the radio off. “Civilization after seven Goddamned years, and the music still blows.”

“Robbie…” Tommy said. “I…”

“Yeah, Tommy, he was the detective who worked Julian’s case. They never caught the guy, though.” Robert turned away, watching the lights within the passing stores flicker on as their keepers readied themselves for the day ahead.

“Yeah, I heard. You know, I didn’t get a chance to tell you how sorry I am for what happened to Julian, and for not being there for the funeral.” Tommy pushed up on his aviators.

Robert scoffed. “I’m not.”

Tommy cocked an eyebrow. “Come on Robbie, the guy may have been a fucking asshole, but he was still your brother.”

“Really Tommy?” Robert shot him a surprised, almost angry look. “Are you actually defending him, after what he did to you? Remember what happened at the well?”

Tommy’s hands tightened on the steering wheel at the mention of the well. “Look, what’s done is done. All water under the bridge. I know Julian’s a little nicked in the head but—”

“The guy was a fucking psychopath and a sadistic son of a bitch,” Robert spat through gritted teeth. “I don’t know about you, but what happened in that alley had been a long time coming.”

Tommy let out a sharp whistle and shook his head. “Fuck, Robbie, what… what happened to you on that island?”

Robert eyes gently slid closed. A cold wash of memory prickled his skin, almost like ice. The sounds of laughter. Twisted smiles on blurry faces. He gritted his teeth as a scream echoed in the depths of his mind. Rage flooded through him, a hot tide through his veins. He didn’t forget that night at the alley. He would never forget, nor would he forgive.

He reopened his eyes. His gaze burned at his hardened reflection on the surface of the car’s rear view mirror.

“A lot.”





Rising early in Washington D.C. allows you to hear the birds in the morning. Father Redmayne took his father’s words to heart, and forty-five years later, he still remembered it as if it were yesterday. How he loved the melodic voices of robins whistling from upon the power lines, or the joyful chirps of a simple sparrow. By the steps of the Capitol Building, the old aqua stallion drew a deep breath. The chilly morning air filled his lungs to the brim, only to make him cough as dust scraped the back of his throat. He adjusted the bent pair of gold-rimmed glasses sitting askew on the bridge of his muzzle.

A pair of turquoise eyes followed the passing cars cruising down the freshly tarred asphalt in the wee hours of the morning. The scent of roasted coffee and ink off the morning paper drifted faintly in the slow city breeze. The city roused from its slumber to yet another day in this dredging city. For the ponies, however, today would mark a brand new day in their ongoing struggle against America’s new law of oppression, the Pony Registration Act.

“Father Redmayne.” The old stallion turned to a younger earth pony stallion dressed in a charcoal grey suit. A moss green pegasus mare trotted alongside him with a white picket sign held firmly between her wing bearing the words: Return Our Civil Rights. 

Father Red drew a welcoming smile. “Wesley, I am glad you could join us.” The two stallions exchanged a hoof shake.

“Not even the commies could keep me away,” Wesley said with a radiant smile. “I believe you’ve met my wife, Morning Dew.” He turned to the mare beside him.

“It’s an honor to meet you,” she said, her smile gleaming in the amber glow of the street lamps. “You’re a brave pony, Father Red, and I’m thankful for it. For us and our foals.”

“A pleasure, Missus Dew, but I am afraid I am unworthy of your praise,” he replied, lifting a hoof to the silver crucifix dangling beneath his clerical collar. “My courage comes from the Lord.”

“Amen, Father Red,” Morning Dew said.

Father Red shifted back a strand of auburn mane that was obscuring his eyesight. “Well then, shall we?” he gestured to the open field in the distance – to a growing crowd of ponies already converging at the center.

“Let’s go get our country back.” As Wesley took his first step forward, he stopped, noticing a hoard of school busses, pickup trucks, and cars pulling up by the steps of the Smithsonian. As an army of people began dismounting their vehicles with weapons, he knew for a fact they weren’t here for Free Day. “Oh, no,” he muttered.

“Quickly, to the field.” Father Red took off in a huff.





“Alright, places everypony. We’ll start once the sun comes up. Let’s give it all we have, ponies and together, we’ll make them listen,” Dusk Shine said to the assembling crowd of ponies.

“Let’s do this, everypony.” A pink pegasus mare cheered, raising her picket sign while the others joined her in cheer.

The unicorn was never one for governance and politics, but having been stranded on a foreign land for the unforeseeable future, one tends to be a quick study. Moons had passed since the attempt on President Eisenhower’s life, and the establishment of the Pony Registration Act, requiring every pony to be registered and interned. What they had failed to mention, however, is that the act involved every pony, including non-Americans. As of now, thousands of ponies had been left stranded across the United States with their travel documents confiscated or made null, making it impossible to leave. If not for Father Redmayne and his church, Dusk would have found himself without food, shelter, and perhaps even without a cause.

Just like his fellow Equestrians, Dusk had found himself a prisoner of circumstance, one of many unfortunate souls caught in the crossfire of fear and fury. How long has it been since I spoke to mom and dad? His heart sunk at the thought. They must be worried sick. He would give anything to send word: a letter, a telegram, anything, just to tell them that he was alright. The government had suspended all communications to Equestria, stating national security. Dusk, on the other hoof, thought it was just a convenient excuse to box them in and leave them easy pickings for those bloodthirsty cowards in white robes.

“Dusk Shine!” The stallion felt a nudge on his side. An orange earth pony pointed to a crowd of humans approaching them from the far end of the field. “Looks like we got company.”

“Speak of the Devil,” Dusk cursed, feeling the strands of his lavender coat stand on end. “Dammit, Appleseed. It’s the H.L.S. and the C.O.H. How in Tartarus did they know we were here?”

“Ah don’t know, but ahm willin’ to bet mah bits they ain’t here for the sandwiches.” Appleseed tipped his olive Stetson. “Ya say the word, and ah’ll buck those sons of bitches back to where they came from.”

Appleseed is a fellow denizen of Ponyville, and one of Dusk Shine’s best friends. Back home, the rough, tough, and gritty earth pony was as strong as he was ill tempered. The Apple Family backs down from nothin’, he would constantly recite like a mantra. Before the Act came to power, both stallions had been on a business trip, negotiating a trade route between the two nations. Now stuck abroad, and at the mercy of racists and extremists, Dusk feared the day his dear friend’s legendary Apple Family temper might finally get the better of him. 

“No.” Dusk gestured with a wave of his hoof. “This has to be a peaceful. Father Red said they can’t attack us unless we fight back,” he said.

“So what?” Appleseed cleared his throat and spat to the grass. “We just stand here, prayin’ to Solaris they won’t bash our brains in?” His maroon eyes narrowed at the sight of two more busses.

“I don’t like it any more than you do, but we’re not in Equestria anymore,” Dusk’s eyes glistened with concern. “And if we’re ever going to see home again, we need that Act repealed. To do that, we have to play by their rules.”

“Buck this shit.” Appleseed narrowed gaze.

Dusk grew restless at the sight at the growing crowd. By his estimates, there were almost a hundred people, all white men and women of different ages. Some hid their faces behind white, cone-shaped masks as they converged on a group of ponies barely two dozen strong. They brandished wooden signs, and crudely painted banners, while a good number had baseball bats, metal rods and hunting knives. Crooked smiles began twisting on their malicious faces. On the bright side, Dusk saw no evidence of firearms. At least, for now, he thought. Dusk's eyes searched the area for the police, but to no avail. They were on their own.

The ponies began huddling together, the fear growing in their muffled voices while they offered words of prayer to a deity who had forsaken them all. Dusk knew Father Red had always hated him for his biased views on faith. Christians and Solarians had never seen eye to eye, but Dusk knew this much, no amount of prayer was going to save them now. The only the faith I have, is in my magic, he Dusk thought, feeling his horn burn with a subtle glow. Mass teleportation spells were possible, but risky, and often deadly to both caster and his passengers. Though, he would rather die knowing he had saved innocent ponies, instead of being bludgeoned to death like an alley rat.

“Well ain’t this a sight.” Dusk overheard one of them talking. “Them ponies don’t learn do they?” The sound of a man’s swishing the air with lacquered wood was daunting enough.

“Sure don’t.” The other replied. “Let’s get this done.”

“It’s okay everypony.” Dusk turned to the ponies behind him. “Stand strong and hold your ground. Whatever you do, don’t resist.” His voice brimmed with confidence. “They can’t hurt us if we don’t resist.”

“Ya sure about that, Dusk?” Appleseed’s face hardened at the sound of rattling chains connected to a pair of meat hooks being dragged along by one of the approaching humans. “Cause ah sure as heck don’t.”

“I’m fairly sure.” Dusk narrowed his eyes at his friend. “Just promise me, no matter what happens, you keep your cool.”

Appleseed groaned. “We’re all gonna die.”

The marching hoard of humans stopped a few feet from the group of ponies. Like a citizen’s militia preparing for the heat of battle, they formed a line. The look of hatred and disdain plastered clear on their faces. Dusk could see in their beady little eyes, and fingers wrapped around their barbed-wired clubs just itching for a swing. His innards twisted in knots. Sweat matted his short, two colored mane. The wolves were out, and they were hungry for some pony.

A large man stepped forward, and Dusk took an unconscious step back. At over six feet tall, the man towered over the ponies. The man sucked his beer belly, barely contained within the buttons of his stained lumberjack shirt, and the bands of his jeans.

“Alright you fuckin’ varmints. If you don’t know who we are, we’re the Washington Chapter of the Church of Humanity and Humanity’s Last Stand.” A cocky smile curled on his lips as he shouldered his baseball bat. Clearing his throat, he spat to the grass beneath him. “So why don’t you little ponies get the fuck on home right now, before someone gets hurt?”

Appleseed grunted through his nostrils. “And if we don’t, peckerwood?”

“Seed…” Dusk droned from beside him. “Please don’t.”

“Well, ain’t that cute?” The man brandished his bat in Appleseed’s face. “I think I’ll break you first.”

“Oh, boy.” Appleseed flashed a smile, striking the ground with his right hoof. “Ah sure like to see you try. Now you get that there stick outta mah face before I—”

“Seed, calm down.” Dusk stepped in front of his friend. “Remember, we can’t—”

“Trample off, Dusk!” Appleseed snapped. The rage in his eyes flared like smoldering cinders off a burning log. “Apples don’t back down from nopony. Sure as Tartarus not from some half-wit crackerjack!”

“Solarisdammit, Seed. Listen to me. There are lives at stake here, not just yours,” Dusk whispered furiously. “You go ape on him now, and you put everypony here at risk.” His eyes narrowed. “Could you live with yourself then?”

The anger on Appleseed’s face faded, replaced instead by a dawning realization. He scoffed and slammed his hoof into the ground. The sight of the man’s cocky grin chafed at his insides like gasoline to a flame. On different circumstances, Appleseed would see Jim Bob there flat on his back with his jaw in pieces, but for now, the proud stallion decided to shelf his pride.

“Stop this madness!” 

Dusk turned around as Father Red arrived at the scene with two more ponies he recognized as Wesley and his wife, Morning Dew. 

“I demand to know who is in charge!”

“Oh, I think you know damned well who’s in charge here,” said a voice marinated in the deepest parts of the South, albeit more refined than most. A balding, slender man dressed in a cream colored suit with a clerical collar around his neck, stepped out from behind the larger man from before.

“Father Moccasin.” Father Red tried hard to hide the grimace in his voice, ultimately failing. “Why am I not surprised to see you here?”

Father Moccasin’s face was as plain as blank canvas. There was a look in his deep, black eyes, gazing ominously behind his half-moon glasses. It sent shivers down Dusk’s spine. There was no mistaking the face of a hardened soldier who had borne witness the horrors of war within the endless trenches of the Pacific. The deep scar running down his right cheek was evidence enough. It was a look that spoke to the unicorn that before him stood a man without conscience or mercy.

“I’m here to do the Lord’s work, Redmayne,” Father Moccasin said. Though calm, the disdain was clear in his voice. “And as leader of the Washington D.C. chapter of the Church of Humanity, I would advise you and your—” He glared at the group of ponies with pure hatred. “—ponies to leave this place immediately.”

Father Red’s gaze swept through the crowd of a hundred strong, his eyes deep in thought. Even so, Dusk could tell that he was nervous. “We ponies have the right to assemble and protest peacefully. Your presence here is a direct violation of the law.”

“Not anymore Redmayne, or have you forgotten?” Father Moccasin looked as if he could barely control his rising anger. “Now, this Christian warning is the only one you’re gonna get. Take your ponies and go back to the sties you crawled out of, or I promise you God’s wrath upon this Earth today.”

“You redneck hillbilly pig-fucker!” Wesley put an angry hoof forward.

Father Moccasin’s face twisted in rage as the crowd grew boisterous in retaliation. Dusk Shine could see the eagerness written all over their faces. They were watching, waiting for a reason to unleash pure savagery upon him and his fellow ponies. King Solaris, if you can hear me, I pray we live to see Equestria again, Dusk thought. If not, I pray my parents know how much I love them.

“I’m fucking American just like you. My daddy served in the war, so did my granddaddy before him. They fought, bled, and died for this country. My country, you Goddamned human piece of shit!”

“Wesley, stop it!” Morning Dew cried, almost in tears from the fear.

“Say the word, Father.” 

Dusk turned to a young man who had just broken line. An Ivy Leaguer, judging by the maroon Harvard sweater he was wearing. He drew quick breaths, clearly agitated from the way he was bouncing on his toes 

“Say the word, and I’ll bash this fucker’s head in!” He tightened his grip on his baseball bat.

“You will do no such thing!” Father Red yelled. “If you and your chapter harms us in any way, I will have you all arrested, and to answer your question, Father Moccasin. I’m well aware of the new law, but until said law is fully enforced in the great district of Columbia, we ponies will continue to protest on the injustice wrought upon us by the government we have held in regard. It is our duty and our right.”

“Fine,” Father Moccasin replied. 

Dust’s felt a cold shiver down his spine as the man’s eyes went killer red. 

“If you won’t listen to reason Redmayne, then submit to force.”  Father Moccasin turned to the young man in the sweater and nodded.

“Bout fuckin’ time!” the Ivy Leaguer stepped forward and swung his bat at Wesley. 

“Wesley, no!” Morning Dew cried out. 

The earth pony barely had time to react. He felt a blow to his side as he was pushed to the ground. The bat struck Father Red in the jaw. The old stallion’s eyes screwed shut. A trail of saliva and blood, along with a loose tooth scattered across the grass. He grunted as he hit the ground hard. Father Red moaned.

“Haha, did you see that!” The young man lifted his bat into the air as if he had scored the Yankees a league win. “I cocked that motherfucker!”

“Father Red!” Dusk ran to the old stallion’s side. “Father Red, can you hear me?”

“Father Red… Oh God!” Wesley bit his bottom lip, clearly distraught. “Oh God, what have I done?”

“Wesley. Honey, it’s not your fault.” Morning Dew wrapped her hooves around her husband as sobbed into her shoulders. “It’s not your fault.”

“She’s right… Wesley. Stand… strong,” Father Red muttered.

“You son a bitch!” Appleseed snarled, grunting through his nostrils with an almost visible puff of hot air. “I outta break your buckin’ face in!”

“Seed, not now!” Dusk called over his shoulder.

Father Red coughed. “Dusk… take the ponies… take them and run.”

“You see Redmayne.” 

Dusk turned his now burning eyes to Father Moccasin. 

“This is what you get when you try to be more than what you are.” He adjusted the cufflinks of his white shirt. “You, and your kind are dirt. No, you’re lower than dirt. You’re a pony!”

“Is this it?” Dusk snarled through gritted teeth. “Is this what you call doing the Lord’s work? If beating innocent ponies a means to justify your twisted faith, then I hope you burn in Tartarus!”

Father Moccasin took a deep, staggered breath. “Alright, I’ve had enough. Finish it.” He said to the Ivy Leaguer from before. “Beat him with the strength of the Lord, and the rage of the Devil.”

“Amen, Father, amen.” The young man smiled the most evil smile Dusk had ever seen on a human being. His manic eyes narrowing in on Dusk. “Say goodnight!”

“Blessed are the peacemakers. For they shall be called the children of God!” Father Moccasin exclaimed, to the vigorous shouts of amen from the crowd.

“Dusk!” Appleseed cried, his hooves digging into the earth as he prepared to lunge himself at the would-be assailant.

A gunshot ripped the still morning air like blast of dynamite. Dusk’s eyes went wide as he was hit in the face with a splatter of red. The fluid, warm and sticky, drenched his lavender coat.The Solaris-awful noise reverberated in his ears and rang out far over the cityscape. The Ivy Leaguer was blown off his feet, and back-first into the ground.

As Dusk gazed upon on his would be assailant, he felt the heat desert him, in its place an icy stillness gripping every inch of his soul. The young man laid there unmoving, his life’s blood began to pool all around, seeping from the wound at an alarming rate. His eyes wide. His breaths quick. His still beating heart now exposed through splintered ribs within the gaping hole in his chest. The blast had ripped him wide open. What was left of his insides spilled to the grass as splintered bone and pieces of both flesh and innards lay scattered all around him.

“Father… Fat…her… help… me.” The Ivy Leaguer choked. Blood drenched his face. The look of pure terror in his eyes. His trembling hand reached out to a clearly shaken Father Moccasin. “I… I… don’t… wanna… die.” Those were his final words.

The putrid metallic taste burned on the tip of Dusk’s tongue. It took every fiber of him not to empty his stomach then and there. The looks on everyone’s faces both human and pony brimmed pure, incomprehensible terror.

“The path of the righteous man is beset on all sides by the iniquities of the selfish and the tyranny of evil men.”

Dusk turned toward the sound of a voice coming from behind the crowd of ponies. 

It was deep and muffled as if he was speaking through a cardboard box. “Blessed is he, who in the name of charity and good will, shepherds the weak through the valley of darkness, for he is truly his brother’s keeper and the finder of lost children.”

The ponies turned around. Slowly but surely, they parted, allowing passage to a man in a skull-shaped hockey mask. A thin line of smoke eddied from the muzzle of his sawed off, over/under shotgun as he approached the now terrified group of humans.

“The buck…” Appleseed muttered.

The man was shorter, albeit brawnier than Father Moccasin, but there was something about him that made Dusk tremble. There was an unspeakable evil reflected deep within those deep blue eyes. They bore a twisted hatred so sinister, so pure that it petrified Dusk to the core. Whoever he was, he was no man. He was a monster.

“And I will strike down upon thee with great vengeance and furious anger those who would attempt to poison and destroy my brothers.” The masked man twirled the shotgun in his hand, and holstered it to his side. He then revealed a Thompson from within his long, glossy leather coat.

“Oh, God… Oh, God. It’s… it’s him…” 

Dusk returned his gaze to Father Moccasin and his chapter, looking as if they had just laid eyes on the Devil himself.

Father Moccasin trembled, teeth clattering. His knees threatened to give way as all traces of courage and faith had long abandoned the seasoned clergy. “God, help us all,” he muttered, unable to take his eyes off the white, ghostly skull painted on man’s black T-shirt.

“And you will know my name is the Lord when I lay my vengeance upon thee!”

“It’s the Punisher!” a lady screamed.

“And now you motherfuckers…” The man cocked his gun. “Run.”