Chapter 1
The sky was looking rather dreary that day, which was odd. For the most part, the Pegasi over in Cloudsdale kept gloomy weather away from Ponyville. Besides, miserable gray skies were more Manehattan’s forte. However, reputation doesn’t dictate nature, so I had no choice but to simply deal with the cruddy weather as I trotted from my house to my office. It was always a long walk, going from the outskirts of town to the market plaza smack dab in the middle of the quaint settlement. Good exercise, though. And it wakes you up like nopony’s business.
I finally reached the cobblestone-laden center of town, where some of the early bird merchants of Ponyville were already setting up shop. Among them was Big McIntosh, a colt with a burgundy hide and a straw-blond mane. He was young, no more than seventeen, tops, and had twigs for legs, but that sure didn’t stop him from working hard for his family. Apparently, he had Granny Smith and two little sisters to support. Poor colt.
I walked up to his stand and took out a couple bits, motioning to the delicious piece of Eden known as a Sweet Apple Acre’s Apple Pie. He nodded and we quickly made the exchange. I looked around and didn’t notice any would-be customers around, and decided to start up a bit of small talk. I wasn’t normally one to do something like that, but that was usually because I didn’t get along with most ponies. Big Mac was a decent sort; an honest colt doing an honest day’s work. I could definitely talk with somepony like that.
“Thanks, Big Mac.” I said, as he put the apple pie into a bag and handed it to me. I grabbed it and looked up to the sky. “Folks over in Cloudsdale must be in a foul mood, eh?”
“Eeyup.”
“And...” I grinned. “Speaking of the other cities, I heard that lil’ Applejack came back from Manehattan the other day, not even a week ago. And she got her cutie mark, no less.”
Big Mac let a calm, content smile creep onto his face before repeating, “Eeyup.”
“Can’t believe you pulled the ‘grass is greener’ trick on her.” I shook my head and smiled. “You’re just as old fashioned as your Granny, you know.”
Big Mac snorted and uttered probably the largest sentence I’d ever heard him say. “Don’t know ‘bout you, but I reckon that ain’t a bad thing t’all.”
I nodded silently and began to walk off, bag in mouth. “Thanks for the pie, Big Mac. Tell your Granny she’s doing saintly work with them.”
“Eeyup.”
… … …
It had been five hours and nopony had walked into my office. Didn’t surprise me. Ponyville’s not the most crime-infested city a pony could walk into. It’s why I quit the Manehattan police force and set up shop here as a detective. Not because it was less work, that wasn’t the reason at all. Piecing together evidence and utilizing facts to uncover things that didn’t want to be uncovered was physically trying, but filled my mind with an almost obsessive excitement. And it’s the kind of work that gave me a sense of pride, which is always a nice bonus.
No, the reason I left Manehattan wasn’t to lessen the workload, but to lessen the grit. Manehattan was a big city. Some would even call it the largest in all of Equestria. Big cities attract a lot of ponies. And when a lot of ponies cram into a city, not all of them get to live in nice homes with steady jobs. And when you have a bunch of poor, hardly-employed ponies… they get desperate. Things start to get bad. Oftentimes, to the point of murder.
That was the problem I had: murder. I couldn’t stand it. I couldn’t look at those kinds of pictures or files. It was just… wrong. Not because I’m a squeamish kind of pony, but to me, it just didn’t belong here in Equestria. Murder didn’t have any business in a place like this, where everypony was kind to one another, where mistakes were made in earnest, and sins were few and far between. And yet, each day, more of them popped up in Manehattan. I got wise and bolted out of that city before I lost my marbles about 2 years ago.
But here, in Ponyville? The biggest crime this city had in the past 2 years was a large-scale theft from the pastry shop. Yeah. A bunch of cakes getting stolen. That was the worst this city had to offer. Of course, that didn’t mean nothing happened. Just nothing graphic. All it boiled down to, for a detective in a town like this, was finding lost items and people, tasks made simple thanks to my magic. See? Boring, easy stuff.
I had long since finished McIntosh’s pie and was starting to get groggy as it started to digest. The gloomy skies had given way to a light drizzle, and the pitter-patter of raindrops against the wooden ceiling of my office didn’t exactly help keep me awake either. However, it was as I started to drift off into sleep that I heard the door burst open. The sound was followed by a quick series of hoofsteps and a firm voice. “Gumshoe. I need you.”
I looked up from beneath my lowered fedora and saw the Mayor of Ponyville trotting up to my desk. Mayor Mary Mare was a short pony, half a foot beneath me from head to hoof. She was at least ten years my senior, just before the age that gave ponies wrinkles, and her hair was chestnut brown, a fine compliment to her tan hide. She seemed to have a thoughtful look on her face, more pensive than usual, and her pace was brisk, hurried and tensed. She didn’t even bother to close the door behind her, despite the damp weather. Odd.
Of course, I still had to return the greeting with some banter. I took my fedora off and gallantly placed it against my chest, grinning with all the fake enthusiasm I could muster. “Why, Miss Mare, I must say that I’m flattered you feel this way towards me. But I am a married colt and am not too fond of older mares. And a pony of your office being with a lowly detective such as myself would simply be scandalous! I’m afraid it just wouldn’t work out. So, alas, despite your confession of love, I must decline.”
“Can it, Gumshoe. This is serious.”
I raised an eyebrow, still smiling. “Oh? Did your secretary lose a particularly important piece of paper?”
“Two ponies were murdered this morning, Phil.”
I placed my hat back atop my head and sobered immediately. Well. So much for that no-murder streak Ponyville was having. I looked at her steadily and frowned. “Mayor, you do know that dealing with murders-”
“- is the entire reason you left Manehattan and came here. Yes, I know, I read it on your record. But please, Mr. Gumshoe, you must! The normal officers won’t do the job. Aside from a few finishing touches, they’ve already moved on.” She paused, considering how to word her next question, before asking me, “Have you heard about the riot that happened late last night?”
I spent the next half a minute or so choking, which was rather impressive considering that I wasn’t eating or drinking anything at the time. Not only a murder, but a RIOT? In Ponyville? “No. No, I didn’t.”
She scoffed. “Some detective. I thought you were supposed to be in the know.”
I frowned. “Hey now, this is Ponyville we’re talking about. You should know more than anypony else how much of a waste of time it’d be to constantly keep my ear to the ground for murders and riots. I’m supposed to be perceptive, not outright paranoid. Besides, nopony I talked to on the way here even mentioned it. It wasn’t even in the papers.”
She nodded glumly. “Yes, I suppose the townspeople would rather ignore the whole incident than constantly prattle on about it.”
“In a gossip’s paradise like Ponyville? I highly doubt that.”
That earned me a mean look from the Mayor. “Mister Gumshoe, I don’t know what kind of ponies you’ve met in Manehattan, but we here in Ponyville do not have some sort of sick, morbid fascination with death, and we try our best to keep away from it.”
I merely replied with a grunt and decided it best to change the subject. “So, was the riot caused by the, ah… murder?”
She morosely shook her head, keeping her eyes on the floor. “Other way around… trampled.”
I started rubbing my hoof against my forehead, but didn’t let that make me miss a beat. “Any reason for the riot?”
“That’s just it. There isn’t one. City Hall and Canterlot both haven’t made any decrees or policies that’d anger its citizens; they haven’t for years. There are no controversial affairs happening right now either, nothing that’d spark protests or affirmative action. And, to make things even odder, everypony involved with the riot claims to have had no memory of it. Normally, we’d write that off as denying being part of a crime, but they all specifically described their vision going completely purple before coming to, only a dozen feet or so from where they were standing.”
“But a riot’s a riot, and that’s all the police need as a cause of death to wrap this up.”
“Precisely.” she said. I looked at her face. She looked sad and tired even more so. “Phil, listen. I know you aren’t the most extroverted colt in town, and I know you probably have never even heard of the victims, but please. Put whoever killed them away. For the town, if not for me or them.”
I exhaled and rubbed at my temples while she gave me the speech. What she said was true, dammit. It did sound suspicious. And even worse, it had magic written all over it. Obviously, somepony wanted the two victims gone, and for the police to just shrug it off as a simple trample during a riot. He (or she) has two flaws in that plan, however. First, they chose to do it in Ponyville, one of the mellowest towns in Equestria. A riot would definitely raise suspicions.
Second mistake: they used magic. It seems like a good idea to use it. After all, it’s so esoteric and mysterious that, on paper, it would seem to baffle the minds of anypony that tried to trace it. Problem was that it just isn’t like that. Ever since I was a foal, I’ve collected books and tomes about magic because I knew that, no matter what my purpose was, that magic would always prove to be an asset. One of the first things I learned was that magic represented life and everything that came with it: emotions, fears, instincts, hopes and dreams, everything. Technically, everypony had magic in them, it was just that only Unicorns and Allicorns could harness it (some scientists believe it’s because our horns are specialized organs instead of just a part of our skeletal system, or some scientific horseradish like that).
In any case, a large portion of a pony’s soul goes into using magic, even for basic stuff like telekinesis. Something that caused a riot? That’d take quite the mage; that much is certain. At least 40 years old, plenty of time to study magic for the sake of magic, and not for some specific occupation.
I caught myself in the middle of the thought process and put a bookmark on those thoughts. I’d better ask the Mayor for all the info I can squeeze out of her before I go off on a tangent. Facts first, speculation later.
I shook myself out of the pensive staring contest with the floor and returned my gaze to the Mayor. “Anything else suspicious about the incident?”
She nodded. “The victims. They knew each other. In fact, they were married. Pegasi named Lucy and Scooter.”
I hesitated before asking, “They got a kid?”
“A two-year-old filly. Also a Pegasus. They named her Scootaloo.”
“Celestia’s blood,” I muttered, “an orphan.”
I have a thing for kids. Most colts hate kids, say that they’re screeching, troublesome demons that do nothing but make adults’ lives miserable. And I have to admit, for the most part, they’re right. But I can tell you from experience that there are moments that make those sleepless nights and busy days more than worthwhile. And to see such innocent things have their lives turned into a nightmare by somepony else - and by magic, the essence of life, no less - made my blood boil. Any part of me that didn’t want me to take this case shut up immediately. This son of a bitch was going down.
“She’s being taken care of by the Cake family, momentarily.” she continued. “They’ve been planning on building a second floor in their shop for a while now, but that’ll still be a while. We’re trying to find a more permanent and comfortable home for her.”
I nodded briefly, trying to steer the conversation elsewhere. “Anything else?”
She shook her head. “Not that I’ve gathered, no. The scene of the ‘incident’ is still closed to the public. It’ll be open by tomorrow, though. An investigation there would prove useful.”
“Why thank you, Mayor, for that pearl of wisdom.” I drawled. “In exchange, let me give you an equally helpful piece of advice for re-election: tell the citizens of Ponyville that you want to make the town a better place.”
She rolled her eyes, but couldn’t hold back a silly grin. “Thanks, Phil.”
I found myself grinning too, and shrugged. “Equal exchange, Mary.”
A long pause crept up. I just sat there, pondering the case. Another murder. Fantastic. But it seemed simple enough. Find the mage, lock him up. It wasn’t like experienced magicians were commonplace. Most ponies, especially in a town like Ponyville, were content to using their magic for just one thing, usually associated with whatever job they wanted to do when they grow up. Finding somepony who studied magic for the sake of magic wouldn’t exactly be difficult.
But it wasn’t the difficulty of the case that made me dread doing it. It was the aftermath. If I caught the mage, he couldn’t just give Scootaloo her parents back. If the mage resisted, things got messy and I ended up killing them - which I was going to try hard to prevent - me, Scootaloo, or anypony else wouldn’t get an ounce of satisfaction from their death. It’d just add one more to the body count, which was already two ponies higher than it should’ve been.
And yet, I thought, just curling up in my office, only taking the safe, grit-free jobs… that wouldn’t give Scoot her parents back either. And the mage would just get off scot-free and be able murder anypony they wanted. And me… how could I have any self-respect after turning the Mayor, that poor foal and all of Ponyville down? Rhetorical question. I already knew the answer.
While I was thinking about all this, the Mayor just leaned against the frame of the door, studying my face. She was no doubt reading my expressions while I was mulling everything over, trying to gauge them in order to see whether or not I’d take the case. I should’ve guessed that a politician’d be good at reading faces, for by the end of my train of thought, she had a confident smirk on her face. I rolled my eyes and pointed a hoof at her.
“Fine. But I’m gonna need some things for this case.”
She nodded, not losing an ounce of smug in her expression. “But of course.”
“First: I’m gonna need some documents. Info on the victims, as well as a census of Ponyville’s citizens. I want every Unicorn that’s set hoof in this city within the past 3 days listed and in a manila envelope.”
She nodded. “Done.”
“Second,” I continued, “I’m gonna need some sort of clearance to poke my nose in certain places. Gimme a badge or tell all the policecolts I’m in the clear, I don’t care how. I just don’t want any flak when I go to the victim’s house or to the scene of the crime. They all associate me with finding lost junk, so I’m gonna need somepony high up – you – to tell them to take me seriously for the next week or two.”
“Of course.” She replied. “I’ll let everyone on the force know that you’re investigating a case.”
“Something tells me that won’t help much,” I murmured. Cops and detectives didn’t like each other much. Sort of a competitive thing. And when you’re a detective whose only track-record in town consisted of finding lost stuff? Then they don’t like or respect you. “And third: my rate. I’m gonna have to charge 20 bits an hour, 8 hours a day, excluding the day I solve the case.”
“That’s double your average price.”
“And this is about 20 times as serious as most cases I’m given. Be thankful I’m giving you a 10:1 seriousness-to-bits ratio.”
She rolled her eyes and surrendered. “Fine, fine. Just, please, get this figured out as soon as possible. Lucy and her husband were good ponies. They didn’t deserve what happened to them.”
“Lucy and Scooter don’t have much to complain about anymore. Scootaloo does.”
That earned me a cold glare from her. Okay, maybe it was harsh to say, but it was true. Death is never unfortunate for the ponies that die. Ponies don’t seem to grasp the fact that when you die, you die. Nerve and brain cells deteriorate. No nerves, no pain. No pain, nothing to feel sad about. Death is, however, unfortunate for the ponies left behind, and everypony knows it. Of course, ponies don’t like being told that when they mourn a friend, they’re really just feeling sorry for themselves, not actually feeling sad for the deceased. That, coupled with the fact that I sort of implied she didn’t care about Scootaloo, probably made me look like a total mule.
Regardless of the tension I had so thoughtfully brought to the room, the Mayor cleared her throat after about a minute of silence and said in a very polite tone, “Well then, Mr. Gumshoe. I do believe we’re done here. You’ll find your requested documents in your office’s mailbox by tomorrow morning. You know City Hall’s number if you need my assistance. Just say your name and my secretary will forward you to me immediately.” She bowed her head and began to exit my office. “Thank you for helping me, Mr. Gumshoe. Also… keep this case to yourself. I have a feeling whoever did this will be a tad paranoid, so try not to let on what you and I think caused this riot. Not to anypony.”
“ ’Course. Discretion is the better part of valor, et cetera.”
She nodded. “Good luck, Phil.” And with that, she left. Outside, the drizzle had evolved into a full-on monsoon. Sheets of cold water pelted against the cobblestone of the plaza. During the Mayor and I’s discussion, everypony in the square had cleared out. Once she left, I just sat there, running some facts through my head. A Unicorn, 40 years of age, at least, that was insanely talented at magic. And, for some reason or another, he had a connection to the Scoot family. Once I got that list, I could use the first two traits to my advantage. But that’d have to wait until tomorrow. In the mean time, I’d have to do some snooping around. And, to my dismay, I had to do it now. Though the spell, whatever it was, would leave a lot of leftover magic, it had already been half a day since it was cast. I’d have to hurry before the entire residue faded away.
I groaned and trotted to the coat rack that sat in my office’s corner, then glared at my poncho. I hate the rain. I hate being cold. But I hate seeing ponies get killed too. I hate seeing foals, wide-eyed and happy, completely unaware of the fact that their chance of living a normal life was just ripped away from them, quick and clean, like pages from a book. And worst of all, I hated seeing nopony pay for it.
I used my telekinesis to slip on the rubbery thing, fitting it over my trench coat, and marched off to the door. A riot. A murder. An orphan. And a murderous wizard that was running loose in a near defenseless town that was none the wiser of his existence. I inhaled slowly, flipped the poncho’s hood over my head and hat with a small dab of telekinesis, and walked out into the torrent. It’s like they say: when it rains, it freakin' pours.