Chapter 1 - London Bridge Is Falling Down...

Chapter 1

On the 3rd of July, it came to pry.
Out of the blue, the nightmare came through.
Not once or twice, did it suffice.
So it came back for seconds, the very next night.

Tall, black, and slender was its description.
Some believe it to be true, and some believe it to be fiction.
It is not confirmed what she looks like, the victims being decorated on a pike.

In the dead of night is when she comes to spy.
Locked in your room, there is nowhere you can not hide.
When it comes to say hello, down it’s throat you go!

This village's tune has become a peculiar anthem, striking fear into the hearts of mischievous kids with each note. They've labeled me the bogeyman of Ponyville, though, truthfully, I'm more of a bogeywoman. It’s downright hilarious how fast I became a local legend; back on my home turf, becoming famous wasn’t nearly as easy.

Really, I’m not even from this dimension. Waking up here was as bewildering as it sounds. One minute I’m minding my own business elsewhere, and the next, I’m in a world ruled by ponies. Yes, you heard right—ponies! And not your garden-variety ponies either. These creatures are like walking rainbows, each one decked out with tattoos on their backsides as if they've stumbled out of a magical tattoo parlour. Imagine waking up to find that your new overlord is a blue pony with a lightning bolt tramp stamp. Welcome to my life—it’s like a weird, whimsical sitcom where the ponies run the show!

There were some ponies with wings, and horns—there were even bat ponies which is fucking nuts, I would like to meet the bloodsuckers one day. That’s not all, get this… These ponies can talk, perfect English too. I almost swallowed my cigarette the first time I heard them… It was so unexpected.

Okay, so here’s a twist in my not-so-average tale. I’m not exactly what you’d call a typical human. I mean, I was once, but then I kinda...died. And post-mortem, I levelled up to something a bit more potent—humans turned from peers to buffet items. It's a tough gig, but someone's got to do it, right?

Since arriving in this pony paradise, I’ve been shacked up on the edge of a forest. It's the perfect spot to play peeping Tom, observing all the goings-on. When night falls, I switch from observer to diner, feasting on the unsuspecting residents of Ponyville. It’s not your usual diet, but hey, a girl’s gotta eat. Control isn't exactly my strong suit; let's just say I’m known for leaving a scene that looks like a food fight gone wrong. Messy? Absolutely. But it’s just part of my charm—or so I tell myself.

Feasting on Earth had become a logistical nightmare. Between the security systems, CCTV everywhere, and forensic science that could pin a stray hair at a crime scene on you, it was practically impossible to grab a midnight snack without triggering an episode of "Crime Watch Daily."

But here? It's like I've hit the jackpot.

This quirky little world has none of that high-tech buzzkill. No cameras, no fancy fingerprinting, and DNA might as well be three random letters. Here, I can indulge my appetite and simply vanish into the night, leaving the local pony detectives scratching their heads, blaming some mythical beast for the chaos I leave behind. It's almost too easy.

Whoever or whatever zapped me into this cartoonish realm must have sensed my need for a simpler life—one where I could be my true, messy self without a SWAT team turning up. But, as usual, the thrill starts to wear off. I get restless, and that’s when the really dumb ideas start popping into my head. Ideas that stir up more trouble than a barn full of bats. And let me tell you, around here, trouble can get pretty theatrical.

Kneeling in front of the flickering flames in the fireplace, I couldn't help but let out a chuckle. The corners of my mouth curled into a wicked grin as dangerously fun thoughts danced through my mind. It had been too long since anything genuinely thrilling had happened. Sure, there was that bar brawl I stumbled into—which was a blast, by the way. No one got seriously hurt, mostly because everyone was too plastered to even remember their own names, let alone the details of the fight.

But I needed more. The itch for excitement was becoming unbearable. It was high time the ponies of this quaint little town saw the real me. Not just the shadowy figure of their nightmares, but the full-on, unbridled chaos I could bring. Yes, it was definitely time to shake things up a bit. Who knows, maybe I'll even make this night one for the history books of Ponyville.

"So, kid? Do you like fire?" I asked, my voice low and playful as I watched the flames lick at the logs, their dance almost hypnotic. Fire always had a way of capturing my attention—its crackling performance, the radiant warmth, and the way it transformed everything it touched. It was like nature's own drama queen, always stealing the spotlight.

Silence hung in the air, thick and awkward. I raised an eyebrow, feeling a tad ignored. "Kid? You know it's seriously rude to ignore someone when they're chatting you up, right?" My tone was half-amused, half-scolding.

Turning around with a flourish, I suddenly remembered why the kid hadn't piped up with witty banter. Oh right, I had him trussed up like a Thanksgiving turkey, complete with a gag for that extra touch of 'shush'. There he was, all wide-eyed and quivering like a bowl of jelly in an earthquake.

“Ohh… That’s why you weren't talking. You could've still given it a go, you know? That’s what’s wrong with this generation—zero effort, no respect," I snickered, pushing myself up from my cozy spot by the fire and sauntering over to the couch. The kid perched there was an earth pony, if I remembered my Ponyville species right, decked out in sky-blue fur with a shock of black hair, his golden eyes wide and glistening with unmistakable fear.

Thankfully, he was sans a cutie mark—no quirky little tattoo on his rump. Honestly, I wasn’t in the mood to taste ink, and really, it'd be a bit worrying for a youngster like him to sport such a thing.

With a flick of my fingers, I removed the gag and untied his limbs, watching him scuttle to the far end of the couch. He was like a little crab making a break for it, except crabs didn’t usually look this petrified. Settling myself comfortably in the middle of the couch, I stretched out, draping my arms across the back and crossing one leg over the other. I let out a content sigh, the drama of the evening unwinding a bit.

"There, isn’t that better?" I mused aloud, half-expecting him to bolt at any second, yet oddly curious if he’d muster the nerve to say something, anything. It was all part of the peculiar, darkly comedic evening we were sharing—just a supernatural creature and her very unnerved pony hostage, hanging out as if this were the most normal thing in the world.

"Ugh... I forgot what cushions feel like," I lamented, sinking dramatically into the plush embrace of the sofa. "It's been forever since I lounged on anything that didn't have bark. You know, they really should consider outdoor furniture in the forest—might improve morale among us lurking types."

I stretched with an exaggerated flourish, eliciting a series of loud pops from my back. "Ah, yes! There it is!" I exclaimed, sounding as though I’d just discovered treasure rather than mere spinal relief. "It’s like a chiropractor’s symphony, isn’t it?"

Catching the colt's wide-eyed gaze flick toward the door, I couldn't resist a chuckle. His hooves shuffled like he was mentally mapping his sprint to freedom. "Got your eye on the escape route, huh, kiddo?" I teased, my tone playful and menacing all at once. "You should see your face—it’s like you’re plotting the great pony prison break."

I leaned back, sprawling out to take up more space and sending him a conspiratorial wink. "Don't worry, I'm not as scary as I look. Well, maybe just a smidge. But hey, if you stick around, I might let you in on the secret to surviving a bar brawl with style—or at least with all your teeth." My voice dipped into an overly serious mock whisper, "It's all in the art of ducking at the right moment."

The colt didn’t look like he was going to talk, figures… His eyes were wide, mouth clamped shut tighter than a sealed treasure chest. He seemed to be weighing his options, probably figuring that silence was his safest bet in a bizarre situation like this.

"What’s your name, kid?" I asked, my voice casual as I noted his heartbeat picking up the pace, almost drumming in his chest. I watched his eyes start to glisten with the sheen of unshed tears, adding a touch of real drama to our peculiar scene.

His gaze darted around, as if the answer might be scribbled on the walls or hidden under the couch cushions. I could almost see the wheels turning in his head, the poor thing trying to decide whether his name was now part of a hostage negotiation.

"Come on, it’s just a name, not a secret password," I quipped, hoping to lighten the mood. "Unless you’re actually named after some secret magical spell, in which case, wow, good job hiding out in plain sight!" I grinned broadly, making it clear I was playing up the theatrics more than actually threatening.

“Well, cat got your tongue, or in this case, pony?” I teased, trying to coax a reaction out of him. He just shuffled uncomfortably, looking like he wished he could sink right into the couch and disappear.

I sighed dramatically. “Alright, we’ll play it the silent way for now—mystery colt it is.” I leaned back, adopting an exaggerated detective pose. “But just so you know, I’m really good at guessing games.” I winked at him, throwing in a playful guess, “Is it… Thunderhoof? Flash Mane? Come on, help me out here!”

"D-D-Dream Blue," he responded shakily, his voice barely above a whisper as he stared down at the couch cushions, tears starting to form.

"Dream Blue..." I repeated, raising an eyebrow skeptically. "What kind of name is that, huh? Does it mean your dreams are blue? Or is it like, a blue dream? Either way, who picks that out and thinks, 'Yep, that's the name for my kid!' It's kind of out there, you know? Almost borders on creative negligence."

I shook my head, half amused, half bewildered. "Seriously, Dream Blue, if I had a name like that, I'd consider it a personal challenge. I’d launch a full-scale identity makeover. Ever thought about something straightforward? Like Jack or Simon? Just roll into a new town, introduce yourself as 'Bob' or something—keep it simple, drama-free."

I leaned closer, lowering my voice to a conspiratorial whisper, "I mean, if it were me, I’d have sprinted out of the birth certificate office and demanded a redo. No offence, kid, but 'Dream Blue' sounds like a rejected crayon colour or something."

Just as I was winding up for another round of the name-change saga, a sudden clang from the kitchen froze the words on my lips. A pan had hit the floor with a resounding crash, and through the wide-open door, I caught a glimpse of the kitchen chaos.

My eyes widened as I watched the scene unfold like a live-action Scooby-Doo episode—complete with the comedic chase sequence. My companions, in a flurry of motion, were in hot pursuit of a rat that had the misfortune of wandering into our makeshift headquarters.

I couldn’t help but giggle as the rat darted from corner to corner, with Connor and George, my two not-so-ferocious sidekicks, bumbling behind. Connor, ever the opportunistic, managed to scoop the rat up in his wooden maw, prancing around as if he’d just won the lottery. But George, not one to be outdone in the rat-catching department, had other plans. He lunged at Connor, trying to wrestle the prize from his jaws.

The two growled and whined, tumbling over each other in a furry blur. George made a valiant attempt to snatch the rat right off Connor, leading to a ridiculous tussle that involved a lot of snapping teeth and flailing paws. It was a total mess, a comical caper that provided a much-needed break from our earlier intense conversation.

“Would you look at that,” I remarked to Dream Blue, nodding towards the spectacle. “And here I thought our night couldn’t get any more entertaining.” I nudged the colt with my elbow.

"Oi! You two dickheads knock it off!" I barked across the room, exasperated by the ridiculous rodent rodeo. "Conner, freaking share, you greedy oaf, and George, quit being a pest!"

My command cut through the chaos, and the pair froze mid-tussle, their green eyes wide as they turned to look at me. There was a brief moment of silence as they assessed the seriousness of my tone, then glanced at each other as if deciding who was more guilty.

Conner, perhaps feeling a twinge of conscience—or just realising he was caught—snorted indignantly. With a show of reluctant generosity, he tore off a sizeable chunk of the rat and left the rest for George. Honour among thieves, or in this case, rat-catchers.

Satisfied with his share, Conner trotted over and hopped up on the couch, curling up next to me like a proud warrior after a victorious battle. He laid his chin on my lap, his eyes half-closed in contentment, seemingly asking for approval or maybe just a break from the sibling rivalry.

Awww, cute fat bastard.

Meet Connor and George, my pair of wooden wolves, carved out of oak to be precise. These two can really drive me up the wall sometimes.

Connor is affectionately known as the 'fat bastard' around here. His appetite is legendary; he devours everything in sight and sharing is a concept as foreign to him as dieting. I have to constantly remind him to share, or else he’d abscond with all the food. But aside from his gluttonous ways, he's actually a dependable sort. He's an excellent hunter, obedient, and surprisingly laid-back—probably because hauling around all that extra 'wood-weight' takes its toll.

Then there's George. Oh, George... where do I start? He’s a whirlwind of energy—unpredictable, hyperactive, and frankly, a bit of a nuisance. Training him is like trying to teach a tornado to play fetch; impossible doesn't even begin to cover it. He's always on the move, like a perpetual motion machine on a sugar rush. Yet, his speed and agility make him a formidable hunter, so he earns his keep.

And then there's John, the stoic leader of our trio. Lying by the fireplace, he watches over everything with a careful, calculating gaze. He's the backbone of our little wooden wolf pack—strong, mature, and utterly fearless. John is the rock I can rely on; he tackles any task, no matter how daunting or messy. Unlike the others, he values his space and isn't one for cuddles, which you can imagine causes some friction with the overly energetic George.

Together, these three make up what I call the Oak Pack. They're part of a larger community that includes two other packs: the Pine Pack and the Birch Pack, each ruling a part of the Everfree Forest's amber zone. The Pine Pack wolves are all about brute force, quite the contrast to our more composed Oak crew and the yet unseen Birch wolves. The dynamics between these packs paint a picture of life in the forest—where territorial lines are drawn not just through strength, but also through cunning and resilience. Each pack has its own flavour, but all are vital threads in the intricate tapestry of the forest's ecosystem.

I sighed, giving Connor's wooden noggin a pat, feeling the grainy texture under my palm. His glowing green eyes flickered like dodgy streetlights. My stomach chose that dramatic pause to let out a roar that could rival a dragon with indigestion. "Would you look at that, I'm hungry," I declared with a theatrical flourish, flashing a toothy grin. "You know what time it is, right?"

Dream Blue's reaction was more jittery than a caffeinated squirrel. He trembled like a leaf in a tornado, his eyes widening to the size of saucers. The poor kid had heard the local legends—tales of ponies disappearing faster than socks in a laundry room. Now, realising he was in the starring role of tonight’s episode of 'Mystery Disappearances', he looked like he wanted to faint or flee—or both.

"Oh, don’t look so glum, Dream Blue!" I chuckled, trying to lighten the mood. "It’s not every day you get to be part of a late-night snack drama. It’s almost like being famous, eh?" My attempt at humour did little to assuage his fear, but it sure made the moment feel like a dark comedy sketch, waiting for the laugh track to kick in.

"P-please… I… I don’t wanna die," Dream Blue sobbed, his fear tangible in the tremble of his voice. His heart raced so fast I could almost hear the frantic beat echoing in the quiet room. "I don’t want to die!"

"Stop your crying, kid," I sighed, rolling my eyes with a mix of impatience and amusement as I tried to comfort him with a disarming smile. "There's no need for tears—I’m not going to kill you."

I leaned in closer, my grin widening mischievously. "I’m just going to take a little piece of you for me, that’s all. Nothing more, nothing less." The words were meant to be reassuring, but the way his eyes widened told me he wasn't quite buying the 'friendly neighbourhood monster' act.

"Poor kid," I continued, chuckling lightly at his predicament. "Really, they ought to hand out manuals with you little ones: 'How not to get nibbled by the boogeywoman.' Your folks really dropped the ball, leaving you alone when there’s a notorious monster on the prowl. They’re definitely not snagging any parenting awards this month, huh?"

My tone was light, trying to inject a bit of levity into the situation, even if Dream Blue wasn’t quite ready to see the humour in his potentially nibbled fate.

"Please, you don’t have to do this… You don’t have to do this!" Dream Blue wailed, his tears flowing freely as he tried to meld into the corner of the couch. I let out a long, exasperated groan.

"Kid... calm down," I advised, though my voice was laced with a hint of amusement. "Ever heard of toughening up a bit? Suck it up, because it’s going to happen one way or another." I gave his back a gentle pat, which did little to soothe his theatrics.

"It’s okay, it’s okay... I mean, it’s gonna freaking hurt, I won’t lie, but it’ll be quick," I added, trying to sound consoling, though perhaps failing to mask the mischief in my tone.

"NOOO!" His protest was loud enough to shake the curtains.

"Tough cookies, kiddo. Now, pick a hoof. Let's see what’s on the menu tonight," I said, rubbing my hands together gleefully as I leaned in closer. He finally turned to face me, his big eyes now tiny pinpricks of pure terror.

The look on his face was almost enough to make me burst out laughing. Almost. "Come on, Dream Blue, it’s not like you’re using all of them at once, right? Just think of it as lending a hoof to someone in need!"

"W-what?" Dream Blue mumbled, his voice trembling like a leaf caught in a storm, barely audible over the symphony of his racing heart.

"Pick a hoof, kiddo. A girl's gotta eat," I replied, trying to keep the mood light despite the dark undertones of our conversation. My demeanor was as casual as one discussing the weather, starkly contrasting with his visible dread. The air between us was thick with tension, almost theatrical in its intensity.

"You need to make a decision, and fast. I'm absolutely famished," I continued, feigning a dramatic pout. "If you keep me waiting, I might just help myself to an all-you-can-eat hoof buffet."

"I-I-I-I don’t want to. I need my hoof for... for walking, for running, and stuff," he stammered, his voice laced with panic, eyes darting from his hooves to my face, trying desperately to convey the importance of each limb.

I couldn’t help but chuckle, the sound dark yet tinged with amusement. "Oh, Dream, you're not a coffee table; losing one won't tip you over!" My smile was broad and unsettling as I leaned in, reducing the space between us, increasing the pressure.

"Alright, time to choose. Pick... A... Hoof," I said sweetly, my voice syrupy with mock sympathy. "Let’s spice things up a bit, shall we? I'll count down from three, and by zero, you better have made up your mind, or I’ll just pick my favorite."

His heart pounded like a drumline in the final moments before a parade, frantic and loud. His eyes were wide, the size of saucers, reflecting the flickering firelight and the menacing gleam of my blade. The absurdity of haggling over a hoof in such dire circumstances mingled with the grim reality of his plight, creating a bizarre, twisted tableau that was both terrifying and bizarrely amusing.

"3!" I shouted with the zest of a game show host about to reveal the grand prize. George perked up, intrigued by the unfolding drama as if he were watching a thrilling finale of his favorite show. Dream Blue was sweating bullets over which hoof to offer up—like he was picking between having his dessert or dinner first. Truly, a Sophie’s Choice for the pony set.

"2!" My voice crackled with barely contained glee, watching him juggle his hooves like a clown doing a particularly stressful balancing act. He hesitated, lifted his right hoof, then sheepishly set it back down. Tease!

"1..." I drew out the moment, savoring it, as I sprang to my feet, ready for the climax. Dream Blue, in a last-ditch effort, thrust out his left hoof, a clear sign of commitment—or sheer panic.

"Oh, bummer!" I sighed theatrically, as if he'd just chosen the wrong door on a game show and missed out on the new car. "I was secretly rooting for the right one, but what can you do?" I shrugged, grabbing his hoof with mock disappointment.

"Now, try not to wiggle, alright? This is gonna sting more than a bad review," I warned, aligning my kukri with precision. "Seriously, it's gonna be—"

With a swift, practiced motion, I severed the connection. The cut was so clean, Dream took a moment to register what had happened. His leg, initially appearing intact, gradually slid from its place, disconnecting with the silent drama of a magic trick gone awry.

His face morphed from puzzlement to horror as the reality set in, and the blood started its performance, squirting with the enthusiasm of a fountain display gone wild. His scream shattered the silence, a perfect crescendo to our little horror opera.

I chuckled, unable to resist the pull of dark humor. "Whoops! Looks like you’re a bit more 'off-balance' than we thought, eh, Dream? Always remember, it's just a hop, skip, and a jump to recovery!" My joke, as dark as the room's shadows, danced around us, providing a bizarre soundtrack to his despair. The evening had turned into an absurd, gory comedy show, and I was both the director and the lead actor.

I picked up the limp leg, weighing it in my hand.

Hmmm… Could be heavier…

I sank my teeth into the succulent slab of flesh, relishing the tender, youthful quality of the boy’s body as he contorted in his chair, his screams crafting a rather macabre melody. With each jerk of his limbs, a crimson ballet splashed across the walls—a vibrant yet unsettling display. The meat, tender as a newborn foal, burst with the sumptuous, iron-rich zest of blood, prompting a sigh of bliss from me as I savored the exquisite flavors.

Grinning at the boy’s dismayed expression, I offered a culinary critique. “You know, with a pinch of salt and perhaps a dash of rosemary, you could have been a Michelin-star meal. But, this will have to do,” I declared, tearing another morsel from his leg, his screams now forming the background chorus of our bizarre dinner theater. “Seriously, kid, lower the volume. You’ve just woken Connor,” I scolded, rolling my eyes. The youth today, no sense of decorum at all.

“It hurts, IT HURTS!” he howled, waving his diminished limb, which was quickly becoming more of a conversation piece than a functional appendage.

“I did mention there might be slight discomfort,” I retorted with a shrug, as if discussing a minor side effect of a routine vaccination rather than the amputation of his leg.

“You said you wouldn’t kill me. You lied,” he whimpered, the tears blending with the blood streaks on his cheeks, giving him a rather tragic yet theatrical guise.

Flashing a mischievous smile, I leaned in closer. “Ah, but I did say I wouldn’t kill you. I never said anything about my wooden companions abstaining from their dinner, though,” I teased, enjoying the dramatic flare of fear in his eyes. My wooden friends—John, George, and Connor—crept forward, their teeth jagged as old graveyard fences, eager for a taste.

“Please, not like this,” he begged, his voice a hoarse whisper, strength fading.

John, always the eager one, advanced with a gleeful grin, gripping the boy’s throat. With a dramatic flourish fit for a horror show, he twisted sharply. A grotesque crunch sounded—a finale to our grim symphony. Afterward, the boy lay silent, his earlier presence now just a footnote in an evening’s dark escapade.

Dream Blue is dead…

As everyone gathered around the dinner table, it was less like a family meal and more like a scene from a wild animal documentary. "Alright, dig in everyone! And Connor, let’s pretend you’re not a black hole today, okay? Try sharing!" I hollered over the cacophony.

"Take a leg each, don’t turn this into a feeding frenzy. There’s enough to—HEY! Connor, that’s mine! You’ve already claimed a banquet over there—George! Not you too!" My shouts were laced with laughter as I swatted away wandering paws.

"Can’t you both be a bit more like John?" I pointed towards John, who was quietly enjoying his meal with the decorum of a Victorian gentleman at a tea party. Meanwhile, I was playing defense with my plate like a goalie at the World Cup.

"Seriously, it's like dining with piranhas that got a whiff of blood!" I managed to say between chuckles. "If only we could channel some of that energy into cleaning up after!"

Connor and George made another coordinated dive for my plate, and I couldn't help but admire their tag-team approach. "Oi, this isn’t a tag team wrestling match, guys! And I'm definitely not the referee!" I shouted, trying to fend off the two cunts as they tried to take away my share.

After a spirited round of “Keep Away” with my dinner, Connor and George finally gave up and turned their attention elsewhere, deciding that redecorating the kid’s plate was more their style. With them distracted, I took the opportunity to explore the house a bit.

This place was a real step up from some of the other joints I’ve crashed—starting with an actual fireplace, complete with firewood. In a village where luxury meant having matching socks, finding a house with a working fireplace was like hitting the jackpot. And a sofa! Sure, it was ripped and had more stains than a toddler’s bib, but it was still a throne compared to the floor mats I’m used to. I mused to myself, “Maybe I should just pack this sofa with me, beats sitting cross-legged on the floor like I’m at Woodstock.”

Honestly, if I could, I’d lift the whole house—just hoist it onto my back like a snail with its shell. A portable house would solve so many problems, wouldn’t it?

Behind the couch, squeezed against the wall like a forgotten guest at a party, was a cabinet topped with knick-knacks that had seen better days. Beside a couple of vases that looked like relics from a garage sale, I found pictures of what appeared to be family members—a pink mare with a mane that screamed 'environmentally friendly' and a purple stallion whose hairdo had more emo vibes than a teen drama.

"Ah, parental units," I muttered, discovering to my dismay that the kid was probably an orphan. "Great, he died alone. That's not just sad, it's like a plot twist in a very depressing indie film." I looked around half-expecting a pet rock to roll out from under the sofa. "No cat, no dog? Man, talk about solo mode."

My curiosity couldn't resist the allure of a good snoop, so I yanked open the cabinet drawer to find house keys, a bag of gold coins—which I pocketed with a cheerful 'yoink'—a diary, a knife, and a family photo. I examined the photo, noting not just the kid and his parents but an extra character—a big sister. She was styled like a beach episode with her sand-colored coat and sea-green eyes, her mane dolled up with what looked like dessert toppings.

"They're all grinning like they've just won the lottery," I noted, holding the photo at arm's length. Dream looked younger, probably back when the biggest problem was whether to have one scoop of ice cream or two.

That got me thinking about my own family. "Had a family myself once. A brother, a mom, and a mysteriously absent dad. Good times, lasted about as long as a snowman in July." I chuckled, recalling the chaos of family life. "They split, I ended up stuck in London, and then poof! Here I am in ponyland."

Shrugging off the nostalgia, I slipped the photo back. "Well, no use crying over spilled magic. Time to stir up some new trouble!" With a newfound stash of coins and a head full of memories, I turned back to the pandemonium, ready to keep the night interesting.

As I pocketed the last shiny coin and stashed the family photo back in the drawer, the thumping of multiple heartbeats echoed through the air—right on cue, like the soundtrack to a suspenseful movie when the hero realises the villains are just outside the door.

"Oh, fantastic! The neighbourhood watch finally got the memo!" I chirped, barely containing a snicker. The idea of the night guards scurrying toward the house, drawn by the earlier screams, seemed almost comical. Were they expecting a cat stuck in a tree? Surprise! It's just me, your friendly neighbourhood chaos enthusiast.

Brushing off my hands, I readied myself for their arrival, rearranging the room slightly to maximise dramatic effect. "Let's roll out the red carpet for our guests," I muttered, setting the scene like a director for a slapstick comedy.

On a chilling, wind-whipped night in Ponyville, the streets were deserted, eerily silent but for the whisper of leaves skittering across the cobblestones. This deceptive calm was well known to the small band of night guards patrolling the area. They were acutely aware that this quiet wouldn't last, for lurking in the shadows was a presence so menacing it was whispered about in hushed tones.

The Night Terror…

Rumours swirled through Ponyville about this sinister creature that snatched ponies under the cover of darkness. Some locals scoffed, dismissing the tales as elaborate hoaxes designed to scare off residents and alleviate the intense competition for scarce resources. Ponyville had fallen on hard times, with poverty rife and living conditions deteriorating by the day. Essential materials for repairs were frequently commandeered by the royal guards at the behest of distant nobility, leaving the village in a perpetual state of disrepair.

Another dark theory speculated that the royal guards themselves were behind the disappearances. Given their history of harsh treatment toward the earth ponies of Ponyville, this wasn't beyond the realm of possibility. The guards' authority had often been a source of oppression, plunging the village further into despair. But the purpose behind such abductions remained a mystery—were the ponies being taken for forced labor, or something far more sinister?

A more widely believed rumour pointed to a creature from the depths of the Everfree Forest, described as a towering, black, slender figure that matched the description in local folklore. This creature was said to claim its victims night after night, a terrifying spectre that seemed increasingly real with each reported sighting.

Then there were the more fantastical theories, like the one that suggested these events were the workings of Nightmare Moon’s spirit, finding a host in some unsuspecting pony or creature to wreak havoc upon the townsfolk. Such outlandish explanations were myriad, but they did little to reassure the scared populace.

Amidst this whirlpool of fear and speculation stood Night Roar, a young pegasus with a night blue coat and a mane and tail of the deepest purple, his eyes a striking sky blue. As the leader of a small investigative team, Night Roar was committed to unraveling the truth behind the disappearances. His practical nature made him skeptical of the wilder theories, focusing instead on tangible evidence and rational explanations to put an end to the terror that gripped Ponyville each night. His resolve was as steadfast as his gaze, determined to protect his fellow ponies and restore peace to their troubled village.

“Night, why exactly are we here again?” Moonlight's voice cut through the night air, laced with a tinge of boredom. Night Roar turned to see her emerging from the shadowy embrace of an alleyway, clad in Luna's issued armour and brandishing a spear, flanked by two other thestrals.

Moonlight was a striking figure, her grey bat pony features sharply contrasted against the dimly lit street. Her short purple mane and tail, highlighted with light purple streaks, fluttered slightly in the cool breeze, and her crimson red eyes seemed to glow with an intensity that could either strike fear or bewitch any stallion at a glance. A childhood friend of Night Roar, she had chosen a life in the night guard not only out of desire but necessity. After the war, thestrals like her found themselves marginalised, struggling to find employment or run businesses in a society that viewed them as lesser, even compared to the typically low-ranking earth ponies.

Night Roar, understanding the depth of her struggles, had followed her into the night guard, driven by a mix of loyalty and the harsh economic realities that faced their kind. Together, they formed a close-knit team within the guard, determined to protect Ponyville from whatever dangers lurked in the shadows, even as they battled the stigmas attached to their heritage.

Night Roar nodded solemnly at Moonlight, his voice steady but infused with a quiet urgency. "There have been reports of a strange creature hanging around the Glassrise Bar, and everyone describes it the same way: tall, dark, and thin. I want to know exactly what this creature is, Moonlight." His eyes scanned the dim surroundings vigilantly, alert for any sign of the mysterious figure.

"Tall, dark, and thin... That can't be a coincidence, right?" A deep voice rumbled from above them. The speaker, Dusk Wing, was an imposing figure; his tall, bulky frame towered over both Night Roar and Moonlight. His coat was a mouldy green, an unusual shade that marked his presence distinctly in the night. His mane, dark purple and sharply cut, added to his stern appearance, while his golden eyes shimmered with the weight of years and experience.

Dusk Wing, a veteran of many military operations and classified missions during the griffon conflict, carried with him a past filled with actions he regretted. After the war, the weight of his experiences had become too much to bear, leading him to retire from active duty and seek a quieter existence in the night guard, hoping to find some peace in protecting the small town of Ponyville. As a friend and trusted squad member, he shared Night Roar’s dedication but also carried the burden of his darker days.

Lulu, the final member of their little nocturnal squad, pushed off from the alley wall with a playful roll of her eyes. “So… your plan is to sit here and wait? I can already tell this is going to be a long night,” she quipped, her tone light despite the grimness of their task.

Her grey coat blended smoothly into the shadows of the alley, and her jet black mane and tail were almost indistinguishable from the darkness enveloping them. But it was her vibrant grass green eyes that truly set her apart, twinkling with mischief and intelligence. Known for her jovial nature, Lulu often lightened the mood with her pranks and witty banter. Though her combat skills might not match up to the likes of Dusk Wing, her abilities in scouting and stealth were unparalleled. She could move silently through the night, making her an invaluable asset to the team.

“Yep… it may be boring, but there’s a chance that we could solve the mystery of the missing ponies,” Night Roar shrugged, settling into the routine of their watch with a hopeful tone.

“I don’t get it, kid. You’re a pegasus, what the hell are you doing in the Night Guard? I would have expected you to be more of a… Wonder Bolt.” Dusk Wing’s voice was rough, loaded with genuine curiosity as he eyed Night Roar.

Night Roar chuckled, a sheepish grin spreading across his face as he rubbed the back of his neck. “Long story short, I joined because Moonlight did,” he confessed, his cheeks coloring slightly under Dusk Wing’s scrutinizing gaze.

“Ohhh~ is that so…” Lulu cooed playfully, looping her hoof around Moonlight’s neck, drawing her closer with a mischievous grin. “What do you have to say about that, huh?” she nudged, eliciting an eye roll and a light shove from Moonlight.

“It’s not a big deal, besides… I wanted him to join,” Moonlight replied nonchalantly, trying to mask a blush that crept up her cheeks.

Lulu’s eyebrows arched, her smile widening with delight as she sensed a deeper story there. Dusk Wing, however, remained pensive, his gaze lingering on Night Roar. He appreciated the young pegasus’s talent and his unusual decision to stand by the bat ponies, treating them as equals—an anomaly in his extensive experience. Why is this kid different? he wondered, his thoughts a mix of admiration and curiosity.

Their light banter and introspections were abruptly cut off by a distant scream—sharp, panicked, unmistakable. Night Roar, Moonlight, and Lulu froze, their expressions turning grave.

“What’s wrong?” Night Roar’s voice was tinged with alarm, noticing their horror-stricken faces.

“The Night Terror…”

Rushing to the scene from where the scream originated, the four guards were immediately struck by the ominous sight before them. The front door of a nearby house hung wide open, as if inviting them into a nightmare. The pungent smell of blood wafted out, thick and coppery, pulling at the primal instincts of the thestrals. Lulu, in particular, felt a visceral reaction, her mouth watering uncontrollably as the scent overwhelmed her senses.

“This is bad… Lulu, head back to the base, inform Captain Starshine about the break-in and come back with reinforcements,” Night Roar commanded, his voice steady as he peered into the dark maw of the house, where faint glimmers of light flickered ominously. Snapped out of her daze, Lulu nodded sharply and took off, her webbed wings slicing through the air with urgency.

“What now? Should we wait for backup?” Moonlight asked, her grip tightening on her spear, her stance alert for any threat that might emerge.

“No, we can’t wait. If you’re correct, a colt is still in there, and with the smell of iron… we can’t afford to wait,” Night Roar replied, his determination clear as he stepped toward the darkened doorway. But a hoof firmly halted him.

“Wait, kid. Are you sure that’s the right choice? If that thing is what I think it is… you’re putting your and the squad’s life at risk. I recommend we wait for reinforcement and secure the perimeter while we wait,” Dusk Wing cautioned, his voice gruff with concern, casting a wary glance at Night Roar, who turned to face him with a skeptical look.

“There’s a colt in there, I’m not going to stand by while the kidnapper does Luna knows what to the buck. We need to get him out before anything else happens to him,” Night Roar argued, stamping his hoof to emphasise his resolve.

“Night is right, we have to take action before it’s too late,” Moonlight supported, stepping beside Night Roar with a resolute glare.

“I have a bad feeling about this, I smell too much blood, I—I don’t think the colt is alive,” Dusk Wing added, unease palpable in his tone as the hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. Night Roar flinched at the grim possibility, turning to Moonlight for another perspective. Her expression, filled with concern, mirrored the gravity of their situation, leaving Night Roar conflicted. He didn’t want to jeopardise his team unnecessarily, yet the potential to save—or at least recover—the colt weighed heavily on him.

Moonlight and Dusk Wing looked to Night Roar, awaiting his final decision. After a moment of heavy silence, he drew a deep breath and faced the door once more.

“Let’s end this madness,” Night Roar declared, his voice laced with a steely resolve to confront The Night Terror and solve the grim mystery of the missing ponies of Ponyville. Moonlight, rallying behind him with a determined grin, nodded in agreement.

Dusk Wing, however, showed visible discomfort. He glanced down at his hoof blades with a grimace, a foreboding feeling washing over him. “Things are about to get bloody,” he muttered under his breath, sensing the dark turn the night was about to take.

Taking the first step inside the threshold was the hardest for Night Roar. As he crossed into the dimly lit house, a strong, acrid stench of iron hit him, causing him to flinch. The smell was overpowering, emanating from the only exit—the door behind them. The faint glow from the fireplace offered little illumination, but as his eyes adjusted, the sight that unfolded made him freeze in horror.

Blood was smeared everywhere—across the couch, pooling on the floor, splattered across walls. It painted a horrific scene, yet there were no bodies, no immediate signs of victims, only a chilling trail of blood leading deeper into the house.

Moonlight, usually unflappable, covered her nose and winced at the overwhelming scent. She gasped, her eyes wide as she took in the gruesome spectacle. “I’ve seen blood before, but this… this is something else. Somepony must have met a terrible fate here; there’s no way around it,” she whispered, her voice shaky.

Dusk Wing, ever the veteran, allowed himself only a brief glance at the blood before his eyes darted around the room, searching for any hint of movement or danger. Despite the gore, he remained composed, his focus unwavering as he prepared to protect his team from whatever lay ahead.

As the unsettling silence enveloped the room, thickened only by the soft crackle of the fireplace, the atmosphere grew oppressively heavy, steeped in dread. The sudden lockdown of the door wasn't just alarming—it transformed the house into a claustrophobic cage that seemed to pulse with malevolent intent.

Moonlight's breaths came quick and shallow, her eyes scanning the shadows that clung to the corners like dark secrets. "It feels like the walls are watching us," she whispered, her voice barely audible over the whispering flames.

Night Roar, feeling the weight of leadership, tried to maintain a composed exterior, but his mind raced with horrific possibilities. The blood trail they had followed seemed to thicken as it led into the deeper, unexplored parts of the house, suggesting whatever caused this mayhem might still be lurking nearby, biding its time. His ears pricked at every small noise—the house settling, the flicker of fire, the distant hoot of an owl—all mundane sounds that now carried a sinister tone.

Dusk Wing's stance tightened, his muscles coiled like springs, ready to react. The seasoned warrior's senses were attuned to combat, but this uncertainty, this unseen horror, clawed at his nerves. "We're not alone," he murmured, his voice a low growl. "Something brought us here, trapped us. It’s toying with us, like a cat with a mouse."

The flickering light from the fireplace suddenly seemed insufficient, casting long, menacing shadows across the blood-stained walls that seemed to move ever so slightly, as if stirred by a silent breeze or by something unseen. Each shadow felt like a veiled threat, a dark spectator to their plight, shifting subtly as if alive.

As the tension mounted, a soft, almost imperceptible creak echoed through the room, the sound of weight being gently shifted in an upstairs room. The very subtlety of the noise was more terrifying than a blatant threat; it was the whisper of a promise that something ghastly lay in wait.

Moonlight's eyes locked onto the ceiling, following the sound's origin. "There's something here with us," she said, her voice tinged with a terror that she usually kept well hidden. "Something that doesn't want us to leave."

Night Roar felt a chill run down his spine, the danger they faced now palpable and all too real. He whispered a silent prayer to Luna, hoping for protection as they prepared to confront whatever horrors awaited them in the shadowy depths of the house.

The eerie humming from upstairs mingled with the creaking of the old house, amplifying the sinister atmosphere that enveloped Night Roar and his team. As they approached the staircase, every step seemed to echo into the shadows, as if announcing their presence to the unseen horror lurking above.

“What’s the plan, Night Roar?” Moonlight’s voice quivered slightly, barely audible over the macabre melody that seemed to drip down the stairs like an auditory specter.

“We need to uncover the identity of whatever—or whoever—is upstairs. Stay vigilant; it could very well be The Night Terror,” Night Roar replied, his voice a calm anchor in the storm of fear that threatened to overwhelm them. He led the way, his eyes locked on the ominous blood trail that smeared the floorboards, ascending the stairs into the gloom.

Moonlight clutched her spear tightly, the weapon feeling like a slender thread of safety in her grip. Dusk Wing moved silently behind, his every sense alert, ready to defend against any threat that might spring from the darkness.

The staircase groaned under their weight, the sound unnervingly loud in the oppressive silence of the house. With each step, the humming grew louder, more unsettling, as if the house itself was singing a lullaby of death. The blood trail led them into a darkened hallway, the shadows thick and impenetrable, swallowing the weak light that tried to penetrate this gloomy expanse.

Dusk Wing’s hardened features were set in a grim line. His experience in the most harrowing of missions hadn’t prepared him for the chilling scenario they now faced. The feeling of being watched intensified, the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end as the air seemed to thicken with malevolence.

Moonlight’s heart pounded fiercely, her breathing shallow as memories of past horrors in Ponyville’s underbelly flickered through her mind, each gruesome image now painted in the vivid, terrifying colors of the present danger.

Night Roar, driven by a deep-seated duty to protect, felt the old wounds of war ache within him. He remembered the horrors he had seen, the losses he had suffered, but none were as haunting as the nightmare they now faced. As they reached the landing, the blood trail turned into a grotesque arrow pointing down the hallway.

At the end of the hall, they were confronted with a bloody message smeared on the wall in dripping, dark crimson: Death…

“This is a bad idea, Night. This is a trap,” Moonlight said, her voice quivering slightly as a chill of foreboding crept up her spine.

“I know but—”

“But nothing, kid. We need to find a way out before one of us dies,” Dusk Wing cut in sharply, his deep voice brooking no argument. Night Roar turned to him, frustration evident on his face.

“A murderer is in this house, and we are the guard, we are not—”

His stern rebuke was abruptly halted by a crashing sound echoing from the end of the hallway, where the sinister blood trail culminated at a door. The unsettling sound of erratic whining followed, causing them all to freeze in their tracks, hearts pounding. Peering down, they spotted a small, bloodied hoof protruding from beneath the door, fresh blood pooling around it. The colt was indeed there, and alarmingly, still alive.

“This isn’t right; something is very wrong. There’s enough blood here to fill a bathtub; this couldn’t just be from the colt,” Night Roar muttered, scanning the gruesome scene, his mind racing to piece together the horrifying puzzle.

Only then did it dawn on him. “There’s too much blood. Dusk Wing, the pony that broke in and attacked the colt is injured,” he concluded, his voice firm with newfound resolve.

“But—no… there’s no sign of a struggle. The blood on the wall, this game-like arrangement. I think the perpetrator is insane enough to harm themselves just to orchestrate this scene, but they might be weakened now,” Night Roar speculated, looking up at Dusk Wing with a determined gaze.

Dusk Wing scoffed, his experience telling him of the dangers of underestimating a wounded and desperate foe. “We should wait for backup. Approaching a deranged pony capable of such brutality is unwise. You’re not thinking clearly, Night Roar,” he cautioned, his tone heavy with concern.

“We don’t have time for backup; there’s a colt bleeding out, and the lunatic is upstairs writing twisted messages. He’s weakened and deranged, and you’re the strongest among us. You don’t need backup,” Night Roar countered passionately, turning away from Dusk Wing’s disapproving glare.

“You’re playing into this madman’s hands, Night,” Dusk Wing barked, his voice echoing slightly in the tense air.

“A game that we are going to win,” Night Roar replied, his voice oddly calm despite the underlying anger that Dusk Wing could easily discern.

With a tense nod, Dusk Wing acknowledged the plan. They parted ways silently, each consumed with their own thoughts as they prepared for the grim tasks ahead. Night Roar and Moonlight moved to rescue the colt, while Dusk Wing readied himself to confront the twisted individual responsible for the carnage. The stakes were high, and the house felt like a ticking time bomb, each second drawing them closer to an inevitable confrontation.

When Night Roar pushed open the door, a sight that sent chills coursing through his spine met his eyes. There, the path led downwards into an oppressive darkness, a staircase descending into what seemed like an endless abyss. The trail of blood, dark and thick, snaked its way down the concrete steps, drawing a sinister line into the depths below. Beside the door, almost mockingly, hung a lantern, its glass smeared grotesquely with blood, emitting a dim, flickering light as if beckoning him to take it and venture into the bowels of the unknown. Night Roar felt a deep, gnawing resentment at the sight; the lantern was too conveniently placed, as if whoever—or whatever—laid out this macabre scene knew they would come and expected them to descend into the darkness.

With each step they took, Night Roar and Moonlight's armored hooves clanked against the blood-stained stairs, the eerie sound reverberating off the close, suffocating walls of the stairwell. The crimson liquid smeared their purple armor, marking them with the gruesome reality of their situation. Despite the urgency pulsing through him to reach the colt below, Night Roar’s instincts screamed caution—every shadow could be concealing a trap, every creak of the old steps might be a prelude to calamity.

They descended as silently as possible, the tension palpable in the stifling air around them. The deeper they went, the more the oppressive darkness seemed to close in, as if the very shadows were alive, whispering secrets of death and despair. The weak glow from the lantern cast ghastly shadows that danced along the walls, transforming into grotesque shapes that seemed to watch and follow their every move.

With every slow, deliberate step deeper into the heart of darkness, the air grew colder, the silence deeper, punctuated only by the distant, indistinguishable sounds that might have been the creaking of the old house—or the stirrings of something sinister waiting in the depths. The overwhelming sense of being led into a trap grew with each passing moment, the foreboding atmosphere thick enough to choke.

As they stood in the cavernous basement, Moonlight's voice was a soft echo in the chilling air, "Who would do such an evil thing? This couldn’t be a pony; this has to be a carnivore or some sort of monster."

Night Roar shivered, not just from the cold, but from the realization of what they might be facing. "The Night Terror... tall, black, and slender... All I could think of who this could possibly be is a black female minotaur." He glanced at the grimy walls, where the smeared blood bore unsettling, finger-like prints. "It couldn't have been a pony or griffin," he added, his voice barely above a whisper.

Moonlight, almost at the bottom of the stairs, gave a small chuckle despite the grim circumstances. "Your nerdiness amazes me sometimes."

"I’ll take that as a compliment," Night Roar responded, trying to muster a smile that faltered as quickly as it appeared.

When they finally reached the basement floor, the lantern's light flared, revealing the vast expanse of the underground chamber. The beam fell short of the distant walls, swallowed by the oppressive darkness. Only the crimson path they followed was visible, snaking deeper into the shadows.

Moonlight's eyes, adjusting better to the darkness than the lantern could illuminate, widened as she caught sight of more chilling details. "Night… There's more writing on the wall, and I don’t know what it means," she said, her voice tense as she stepped towards an unseen corner of the room. Night Roar followed, his own curiosity piqued and dread mounting.

Reaching the spot where Moonlight stood, he stared at the wall in confusion and horror. Scrawled in blood, the message read:

**London Bridge is falling down…**

The nursery rhyme, written in such a macabre context, baffled them. What could it possibly signify in this den of horror?

Even more disturbing, Night Roar noticed the blood itself behaved oddly—it rippled slightly, as if reacting to the cold air of the basement, or perhaps something else. His mind raced through his knowledge of magic and biology, but he found no logical explanation. Blood should not respond to environmental changes in such a manner, not without some sort of magical influence.

"Is this a magical effect?" Moonlight asked, echoing his thoughts, her voice a mix of fear and fascination.

"No... from what I know, blood isn't magically reactive to any significant degree by any race. What the hell is going on?" Night Roar muttered, his gaze locked on the eerie, undulating crimson.

The basement felt alive with a malevolent presence, the chilling messages and the unexplained phenomena hinting at a darker force at work. The thought that they were dealing with something far beyond their understanding—a monster cloaked in the guise of folklore and twisted by unspeakable magic—sent a shudder through both guards.

As they stood there, the air seemed to thicken, the shadows to deepen, and the sense of impending danger grew. Whatever they were dealing with, it was clear they were not just investigating a simple case of violence but were caught in a web woven by a truly sinister entity.

Moonlight’s voice, tense and hesitant, broke through the oppressive atmosphere. “Night Roar… There’s more.” She was peering into the darkness at another section of the basement wall. Night Roar, his senses on high alert, moved closer to see what had caught her attention.

Falling down…

The message was inscribed in an eerily neat, cursive script that belied the chaotic, bloody context in which it was placed. The meticulous care taken in crafting the message suggested a cold, deliberate intent behind it. Whoever this was, Night Roar realised, they were experienced and frighteningly patient.

Next to the message, a makeshift passageway veered to the left, the blood trail ominously inviting them to follow. The path was narrowly framed by large containers, small racks, and wooden crates, arranged in a zig-zag pattern that terminated in a complete U-turn at the end. Moonlight tensed, the silence punctuated only by the rapid beating of her own heart.

Suddenly, a loud crash echoed through the basement as something glass shattered in the darkness, startling Moonlight and causing her to step back in fright. Night Roar instinctively moved forward, his protective instincts kicking in. Now, the only sounds were faint whimpers that sent shivers down Moonlight’s spine.

Without speaking, Night Roar entered the narrow pathway, his eyes scanning for any signs of traps. As he reached the turn, he spotted another chilling message:

Falling down…

The repetition was unnerving, and Night Roar pressed on, his mind trying to piece together the cryptic puzzle. He was so focused that he hardly noticed the crack under his hoof until it was too late. Looking down, he saw thousands of pieces of shattered plates and cups—the source of the earlier crash. Then, in the corner of his eye, he caught sight of another segment of the colt’s limb on a rack, gruesomely displayed among unbroken dishes. This time, a bite had been taken from it, the marks unlike any predator’s he knew—oval-shaped with unusually flat canines.

Another message was written further along the wall:

Falling down…

It was as if the messages were a haunting refrain, part of a dark melody linked to The Night Terror’s past atrocities. Night Roar’s eyes widened in horror as he noticed the blood from the message behaving unnaturally, being pulled sideways by an unseen force. Curious yet apprehensive, he touched the blood, only to watch in disbelief as it recoiled from his armoured hoof and streamed into the shadows.

Emerging from the claustrophobic passageway, he followed the blood trail to its grim conclusion. The basement had grown eerily silent; the previous sounds that hinted at life were gone. With a sinking heart, he sprinted towards the end of the room, driven by a desperate hope that he was not too late.

But the sight that greeted him stopped him cold. On a desk, under the dim light of another blood-smeared lantern, was the decapitated head of the colt. The rest of his body was nowhere to be seen. The colt’s eyes were hollow, lifeless, the expression on his face hauntingly blank as blood continued to seep down. Beside the head, a note was scrawled in the same bloody handwriting:

London Bridge is falling down…my fair lady…

Night Roar’s breath hitched in his throat, his body trembling as the full magnitude of the horror hit him. The colt was dead, but then, what had caused the earlier noises? Who—or what—had knocked over the dishes? A creeping realisation dawned on him: he wasn’t alone in this nightmarish place.

As Night Roar slowly pivoted to survey the room, a deep sense of dread unfurled within him. He had anticipated a trap, yes, but the reality before him twisted that expectation into a grotesque mockery. It wasn’t just a trap; it was a macabre game designed to unravel him mentally. The perpetrator had meticulously laid a trail of blood and dismembered limbs, leading him to a chilling dead end—an orchestrated scene to sap his courage and erode his resolve.

The silence around him was oppressive, broken only by the faint flicker of his lantern. The light cast eerie shadows that danced along the walls, making the gruesome setting even more nightmarish. Night Roar’s fur bristled, a primal response to the overwhelming terror. It was then a stark realisation struck him with the force of a physical blow—Moonlight was missing.

“Moonlight!” he called out, his voice echoing through the stillness, a stark sound of fear that seemed to hang in the air longer than it should. Desperation tinged his next shout, “Moonlight, where are you?”

No response came—only the haunting silence that seemed to grow denser with each passing second. His heart pounded against his chest, a rapid drumbeat of dread as his mind raced with possibilities, each more horrifying than the last. She had been right behind him, a steadfast presence amidst the chaos. Now, she was gone—swallowed up, perhaps, by the very shadows they had ventured to confront.

“Moonlight, this isn’t funny, where are you?” His voice cracked, shaky with the overwhelming fear that gripped him. His hooves felt like lead as he stumbled backward, retracing his steps through the nightmarish labyrinth of blood and shadows. Each step was haunted by the fear of what he might find, a fear that clenched his stomach with icy fingers.

The corridor felt longer, more menacing as he made his way back. The stench of iron and decay intensified, invading his nostrils and coating his tongue with the taste of death. His heart pounded in his ears like a drum, each beat a countdown to the gruesome discovery that awaited him.

As he rounded the corner, his lantern cast light upon a scene that rooted him to the spot in sheer horror. Moonlight’s body lay twisted and broken, her throat savagely torn open, revealing the stark whiteness of her spine amidst the gore. Her abdomen was a macabre display, eviscerated with such violence that her organs spilled out onto the cold floor, forming a dark, slick pool around her.

Night Roar’s breath hitched, tears welling up as he took in the full extent of the carnage. Her eyes, once vibrant and full of life, stared vacantly into nothingness, her face frozen in an expression of terror. It was clear she had been caught completely off guard, the brutal ferocity of the attack leaving no chance for a scream or struggle. The realization that he had heard nothing, not even a whisper of her struggle, sent a chill down his spine.

Despair turned to rage as Night Roar clenched his fists, his whole body shaking. The lantern flickered as if mirroring his fury, casting long, sinister shadows that danced around him. Someone—or something—had murdered Moonlight, and the need for vengeance burned through his shock and grief.

Just then, a low, menacing growl echoed through the basement, pulling him from his thoughts. He turned slowly, almost unwillingly, to face the source of the sound. Two glowing green eyes cut through the darkness, soon joined by another pair, and then another. Three Timber Wolves, their fur matted with Moonlight’s blood, stepped into the dim light, their snarls filling the small space.

Each step back Night Roar took was measured, his mind racing to formulate a plan. As the wolves lunged, he swung with his hoof blades, the metal clashing against their wooden bodies with a hollow thud. He fought desperately towards the stairs, his heart pounding, adrenaline coursing through his veins.

Reaching the stairs, he felt a searing pain as sharp teeth sank into his leg, dragging him down. With a guttural cry, he kicked back fiercely, connecting with a satisfying crack. The wolf yelped and released him, allowing Night Roar to scramble up the stairs. He slammed the door shut, twisting the deadbolt into place, his breath ragged from exertion and pain.

Night Roar paused, leaning heavily against the door as he gasped for air, the searing pain in his leg punctuated by the steady drip of blood onto the cold floor. He listened, heart sinking, to the relentless assault on the door by the wolves outside, each thud echoing his own despair and amplifying the pain that radiated through his body.

Exhausted and overwhelmed, he slowly sank to the floor, his body no longer able to support the weight of his anguish. As he lay on his side, the echo of his rapid heartbeat filled his ears, blending with the soft trail of tears that slid down his cheeks. Memories of Moonlight flooded his mind—her laughter, the vibrant sparkle in her ruby eyes, the countless joyful moments they had shared. These memories, once a source of comfort, now twisted into a sharp reminder of everything that had been snatched away. She had her whole future ahead of her, a lifetime of experiences and dreams to fulfill, and now those possibilities were cruelly cut short. He had never even had the chance to confess how deeply he cared for her, how much he loved her. The regret was a sharper pain than any wound could inflict.

Lying there, the weight of his failure and self-loathing crushing him, Night Roar felt an overwhelming sense of unreservedness to continue living. Why should he go on when he had failed to protect his closest friend? His sorrow turned inward, fuelling a raging storm of self-directed fury. He blamed himself for every decision that led them deeper into danger, for his inability to heed the warnings, for his arrogance in believing he could handle whatever lay ahead. He should have listened to Dusk Wing, should have called for backup, should have done anything but lead Moonlight into that deadly trap.

As time blurred, marked only by his shallow, ragged breaths and the eventual cessation of the banging at the door, Night Roar felt utterly drained—emotionally and physically. He imagined the wolves returning to their gruesome feast, and disgust at himself mingled with his grief. He could have prevented it all, could have made different choices. He was the leader; the responsibility was his, and he had failed disastrously.

When he finally ceased sobbing, it wasn’t because his grief had lessened but because he simply had no tears left. He lay there, enveloped in a suffocating cloud of sorrow and regret. The faint sounds from upstairs suggested Dusk Wing might be handling the situation, but Night Roar couldn’t muster the strength to care. He felt empty, a hollow shell of the leader he was supposed to be.

With a heavy heart and a body wracked with pain, he forced himself onto three hooves. Each step towards the staircase was a torment, both physically and mentally. He moved like a ghost, a mere spectre of the strong, capable thestral he once believed himself to be, ascending what he felt were the stairs of his final descent into a personal hell.

Laboriously, he ascended the stairs, the effort sending sharp pains up his injured leg, where blood still seeped, warm and sticky, against his trembling skin. As he climbed, the sinister verses continued to haunt him, scrawled on the walls in an eerie continuation of the nightmarish nursery rhyme.

Build it up with wood and clay, wood and clay, wood and clay, build it up with wood and clay, my fair lady…

The chilling lyrics followed him, a dark echo in the otherwise oppressive silence of the house. It was as if a ghastly chorus were delighting in his torment, the words twisting into a macabre melody in his mind.

Wood and clay will wash away, wash away, wash away, wood and clay will wash away, my fair lady…

Night Roar frowned, puzzled and unnerved by the references to such fragile materials as wood and clay. His thoughts scrambled to make sense of the foreboding messages, but logic found no foothold in the spiralling madness.

Reaching the top of the stairs, the grim soundtrack evolved, the walls themselves seeming to bleed the next verses:

Build it up with iron and steel, iron and steel, iron and steel, build it up with iron and steel, my fair lady…

The hallway was intermittently illuminated by the cold, eerie light of the moon, filtering through shattered, boarded-up windows. The dim glow revealed a scene of decay: pictures hung crooked on the walls, their faces peering out from drooping frames; wallpaper curled and peeled from the moisture and neglect; wooden planks underfoot felt soft, the rot setting in deep; spider webs draped over every corner, their inhabitants lying in wait.

Further verses appeared scrawled across the deteriorating surfaces, each line a grotesque continuation of the dark theme:

Iron and steel will bend and bow, bend and bow, bend and bow, iron and steel will bend and bow, my fair lady…
Build it up with silver and gold, silver and gold, silver and gold, build it up with silver and gold, my fair lady…
Silver and gold will be stolen away, stolen away, stolen away, silver and gold will be stolen away, my fair lady…
Set a man to watch all night, watch all night, watch all night, set a man to watch all night, my fair lady…
Suppose the man should fall asleep, fall asleep, fall asleep, suppose the man should fall asleep? My fair lady…
Give him a pipe to smoke all night, smoke all night, smoke all night, give him a pipe to smoke all night, my fair lady…

Each stanza twisted deeper into his psyche, weaving a tapestry of dread that seemed to suffocate the very air. The final words lay ominously across a family portrait, the young colt in the image staring back with eyes that were too familiar—the same eyes that had looked up from the severed head in the basement.

Chilled to the bone, Night Roar stared at the portrait, the reality dawning on him with a fresh wave of horror. The family—where were they now? The mother, the father, their daughter—were they victims of the same monstrous fate? The haunting possibility that he was standing in a house of slaughtered innocents twisted the knife of guilt and fear deeper into his heart.

He stumbled through the decrepit hallway, each step an effort against the despair that clawed at him, each breath a battle against the suffocating terror that this night of horror was far from over.

Thud, thud, thud…

The unsettling sounds of dragging and scratching against wood echoed through the darkened hallway, growing louder as Night Roar remained frozen in place. It seemed out of place, bizarre even. Perhaps it was Dusk Wing finishing off the gruesome task, but a cold, sinking feeling of dread gnawed at Night Roar’s insides, escalating as the noises persisted. The door at the end of the hall creaked open slowly, excruciatingly, heightening the terror blooming inside him.

As the door inched open, a green muzzle, scraped and bleeding, appeared, dragging itself across the floor with agonizing grunts. It was Dusk Wing, but the sight was horrifying—his hooves were missing. Dusk Wing’s eyes, wide with terror and pain, met Night Roar’s, sending a shiver of sheer horror through him.

“R-run—Night, run for your life,” Dusk Wing croaked, his voice a gurgling whisper as blood pooled beneath him. His eyes shrunk to pinpricks of fear. “RU—!” Abruptly, the door slammed shut on Dusk Wing’s neck, trapping him in a ghastly chokehold.

Reacting instinctively, Night Roar lunged towards the door, his heart pounding in his chest. Dusk Wing’s strangled attempts at speech were cut short as his jugular was mercilessly crushed by the weight of the door.

With every ounce of strength, Night Roar grabbed the door, pushing against it with a desperation borne of terror. The door budged slightly, hope sparking briefly, but then the immense force from the other side overwhelmed him, pushing him back as he roared in agony.

“Run…” Dusk Wing’s voice was barely a whisper, hoarse and fading as he struggled for each breath.

“No! I’m not leaving you here!” Night Roar’s voice was thick with pain, his injured leg throbbing violently. “On three, Dusk Wing, on three! I’ll push as hard as I can, and you try to free yourself. Ready? One, two—”

“Three!” a chilling voice interrupted from the other side of the door. With a violent jerk, the door was pulled shut, severing Dusk Wing’s head from his body in a grotesque display of cruelty.

Night Roar’s heart sank into an abyss of despair. His breath hitched, his body refusing to move as his eyes, against his will, drifted downwards to the severed head of his friend. The reality was too gruesome, too final. Dusk Wing was dead, his eyes still echoing the terror of his last moments.

Tears streamed down Night Roar’s face, each drop mingling with the dirt and blood that stained him. He was powerless, defeated by a monster whose cruelty knew no bounds. The door had closed with such force, despite his efforts, mocking his strength, mocking their camaraderie.

From beyond the door, a muffled, sinister laughter resonated, chilling him to the core. The laughter of a creature devoid of any compassion or remorse.

Then, the door creaked open again, slowly, ominously. Standing there, in the doorway, was a figure that epitomised fear itself. Tall, black, and slender, its red eyes burned with malevolence as it looked down at him.

“Congratulations, boy. You have finished the game,”

<end>

Chapter 2 - You're talking to a drunk; you lost the moment you accused me.

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Chapter 2

"Ta-da! You did it! Game over, and you're the last pony standing!" I exclaimed, throwing my arms wide with a flourish and flashing a devilish grin, showcasing an impressive array of sharp canines. The pegasus, however, just stared back, his eyes wide as dinner plates, tears streaming down his face in torrents. Oh, bless his heart—he looked so adorably shell-shocked by the sheer thrill of my 'fun house' extravaganza.

"Isn't it just fantastic?" I continued, clapping my hands together with mock enthusiasm as I took in his overwhelmed expression. "You've navigated the maze, dodged the traps, and here you are at the grand finale. Honestly, I'm as proud as if I'd planned it myself—oh wait, I did!" I chuckled, thoroughly amused by his inability to appreciate the twisted ingenuity of it all.

"I bet you're thinking, 'Wow, that escalated quickly!' The game might have skimped on plot and you're possibly a bit miffed about stumbling across your buddy's remains, but come on, admit it—it had flair! Lots of gore, a dash of mystery... What's not to love? And look at you, still standing! That’s quite the achievement. Hats off to you!" I enthused, spreading my arms wide with a theatrical grin.

"Ah, and about your friend... Well, he kind of missed the tutorial, didn't he? Rushed right into the boss fight without collecting any power-ups or extra lives. Rookie mistake! It's like sending a newbie in a default skin straight into the dragon's lair," I laughed, my amusement clear as I watched his jaw work silently, his face a perfect picture of bewildered horror.

"Oh, don't look so glum. It's not every day you get to star in your own horror show. You'll have quite the story to tell—if you decide to tell it, that is. Just remember to keep the dramatic parts; they love the dramatic parts." I teased, thoroughly enjoying the spectacle of his utter shock and speechlessness.

"Come on, Night Roar, crack a smile! You've survived! Or is it Dusk Wing? Or maybe Moonlight? That last one does have a bit of a fairy tale ring to it, doesn't it? If that's really your name, I'm not sure whether to give you a medal or a sympathy card," I quipped, chuckling at his horrified expression.

"Speaking of unfortunate names, there was this colt downstairs named Dream Blue. I mean, seriously? Sounds like he was destined to be a sad country song or a paint colour in a depressingly chic catalog. Really, by ending his plight, I practically did him a favour. It was a mercy, really!" I said, my laughter echoing around us as I waved a gnawed hoof in the air like a conductor with his baton.

"Look at this—almost forgot I had a souvenir!" I added, swinging the hoof with a flourish. "It’s from our dear, departed bat pony friend who thought he'd take a stab at heroics. Poor guy was all brawn and no brains. Makes a rather charming chew toy, don't you think?" I joked, grinning wickedly as I watched him struggle to process the blend of horror and humour.

The night blue pegasus was giving me his best impression of a deer in headlights—eyes wide, body shaking like he's trying to win a dance-off with an earthquake. Did I lay it on too thick with the gore? Oops, my bad. Looks like I might have traumatised the poor guy. Guess it's his rookie season in the big leagues of death and dismemberment.

“You—you killed them,” he stammered, his voice quivering like he was auditioning for the lead role in a horror flick.

“Technically, I only RSVP’d your buddy to the afterlife soirée,” I quipped, standing up. “The other unfortunate party favour was courtesy of John, Connor, and George. They do get a bit carried away.” His wings flared a bit, like he was trying to bulk up for a shadow. Cute, really.

“You’re insane, you’re a monster, you killed the colt and Dusk Wing!” he accused, his voice wobbling as if he were trying to sing opera on a rollercoaster.

I rolled my eyes so hard I nearly saw my brain. “Oh, lighten up. Yes, I killed your buddy—boo hoo. Should I get you a violin?” I crossed my arms and looked down at him, slightly annoyed. Can't he see the bright side? He's still on this side of the grass.

“Tall… Black… And slender… You’re the Night Terror, aren’t you?” he said, the gears in his head grinding audibly as he put two and two together.

“That’s me, darling. Star of stage, screen, and your worst nightmares,” I grinned broadly, showing off the teeth that had been the last sight for more than a few. His face twisted from fear to anger and back to fear, like he couldn’t decide on his favourite flavour of terror. His heartbeat was a frantic symphony in my ears—absolutely delightful. I almost asked him if it came with dance moves.

“You—you wiped out half the village, decapitated a colt, and offed my mates. I’m gonna end you, monster!” Night Roar charged, tears streaming, hooves thundering. I yawned theatrically and sidestepped, watching him barrel into what used to be a chair and turn it into modern art.

“Oh boy, overachiever alert!” I chuckled as he picked himself up from the debris. “You’re aiming high, kiddo. Did you not catch the memo on how your buddy got turned into a decorative garden gnome? Maybe aim for a less, uh, fatal ambition?”

“Shut it!” He charged again, all gusto but no gusto, if you catch my drift. I caught his hoof mid-flail, almost bored. “Really, now? We’re still doing this dance?”

Pondering his fate, I mused aloud while he dangled from my grip like a Christmas ornament. “To kill or not to kill? That is the question… But where’s the fun in an easy out?”

Then it hit me—a brainwave. “Let’s be BFFs! I know, I know, ‘Why buddy up with the bad guy?’ But consider the perks: exclusive behind-the-scenes access to all my villainous plots, a lifetime supply of adrenaline rushes, and, not to brag, but I’ve kept you alive. That’s VIP treatment right there!”

“You’re a lunatic! Expect me to buddy up after you killed my friends?” He was nearly apoplectic, spittle flying, adding unintended polish to my already shiny cap.

I shrugged with a grin. “Life’s full of tough choices, isn’t it? Option A: You join the fun side, get your own theme song, maybe a cape. Option B: You play the hero card, end up heroically in my next stew. I’m flexible.”

Dropping him unceremoniously to the ground, I watched as he stood, torn between fury and the clearly tempting offer of not being the next entrée. “Take your time—offer expires when I get bored. And I bore easily.”

He stood there gaping like we were at an auction and he forgot his wallet—clearly bewildered by the chance to jump from Team Good Guy to Team Mayhem. Ah, to be young and faced with existential dilemmas!

As I watched Night Roar’s mental cogs spin wildly, his eyes darted about like a pinball, clearly avoiding mine. It was the classic ‘deer-in-headlights’ meets ‘someone who’s just read their own obituary.’ I knew dying wasn’t on his bucket list, but becoming buddies with the local nightmare was evidently a close second in terms of personal tragedies.

After a theatrical pause, he finally mustered the courage to look me in the eye, his expression filled with the kind of hatred usually reserved for soggy fries. “Fine, you win. Let’s be… Friends.” He practically choked on the word ‘friends’ as if it was a piece of bad sushi. My grin probably split my face in half as I towered over him, basking in the glory of his reluctant capitulation.

“Fantastic, buddy ol’ pal! Now, for our first friendly activity,” I said, the excitement bubbling up like a shaken soda. “Let’s play my favorite game: ‘How Many Body Parts Can Fit in a Bag?’ Yay!” I exclaimed, swinging a suspiciously soggy bag from behind my back, a few drops of rogue blood decorating the floor like macabre confetti.

Night Roar’s face contorted in horror, a priceless look that made me want to frame the moment and hang it on my wall. “Oh, come on, don’t look so glum! It’s like arts and crafts… but with a twist!” I chirped, thoroughly enjoying his squirming.

The evening unfolded rather splendidly if I do say so myself. There I was with my new reluctant sidekick, Night Roar, engaging in a bit of DIY butchery. Sure, I had to nudge him a bit to get started—nothing like a little peer pressure to boost productivity! As we chopped, I kept up a lively banter while he mostly nodded, his contributions limited to the occasional grunt. He’s got that moody, brooding vibe, like a teenager who’s just had his game console confiscated mid-level.

The real test of our budding friendship came when I had him dice up his girlfriend’s remains—oh, he wasn’t thrilled about that at all. Started bawling his eyes out and calling me all sorts of nasty things. I mean, talk about overreacting, right? When he asked me why, all I could say was, “Life is a highway.” Admittedly, not my most explanatory moment, especially since I’m pretty sure these pony folks don’t have highways. Or cars. Or Tom Cochrane albums, for that matter.

As you can imagine, emotions ran a bit high after that. He got upset, I lost my temper, Connor developed an appetite, George was just being his usual obnoxious self, and John? Well, John was just standing there being as helpful as a screen door on a submarine. But hey, we managed to stock up on provisions and I gained a new ‘friend.’

Talk about a win-win!

BUT!

The night’s still young, and I’ve just had a stroke of genius…

Stay tuned, because it looks like we’re about to kick things up a notch!

“Got it all down, bestie? This is the last run-through, number twelve for those counting!” I chirped, slinging a suspiciously spotless sack over my shoulder as I bounded along like a kid on a sugar rush.

“And for the twelfth time, I’ve got it,” Night Roar growled back, dragging his hooves like he was walking through mud—sulky, sulky mud.

“Excellent! I’d hate for our little operation to tank because someone zoned out during the briefing,” I beamed, all cheer and pep. Night Roar, however, looked like he’d rather be anywhere else in the universe. “Oh, come on, lighten up, Nighty! It’s been a blast, right? You got to play in my super fun, not-at-all life-threatening game, and look—you’re still here to tell the tale! What’s the gripe?”

“What’s to like? You exterminated my friends, turned a colt into wolf snacks, and you’re basically running a horror show that makes Nightmare Moon look like a bedtime story!” Night Roar spat, barely holding back his fury.

“Wow, still bitter? I thought I apologized for that tiny, insignificant oopsie,” I said, rolling my eyes as if discussing something as trivial as forgetting to pass the salt.

“You never apologized,” he accused, fixing me with a death stare.

“Oh, but I did, right here,” I said, tapping my chest, “in the deep, dark abyss where my heart should be.”

“You don’t have a heart,” he shot back, his voice dripping with disdain.

“Technically, I do; it’s just suffering from a severe case of emotional trauma,” I quipped, grinning as he scoffed and stormed off ahead. Boy, he’s like a walking, talking sitcom—so melodramatic! It’s adorable. I’m going to have fun with this one. I wonder if I get him hammered enough, could I get him to play tag roof with me? The name itself is self-explanatory.

Alright, so here's the deal! I was gearing up to rob the bank... wait, scratch that, that's next week's shindig. My bad! What I really meant was: tonight we're going to liberate some liquid gold from the local pub! It might seem trivial, but trust me, it's like taking candy from a baby—except the baby is hammered and has way better stories.

Hold the phone, though, I had to pump the brakes as I caught sight of someone particularly noteworthy. "Hold up! Rewind and delete everything I just told you. New plan incoming!" I blurted out, thrusting my hand in front of Night Roar, who probably thought the blood on it was part of my regular fashion statement. The poor guy sighed so hard I thought he'd deflate.

Now, the character I spotted taking a leak behind a dumpster? A real class act. This pony, Berry Punch—wait, was it Blue Berry? Black Berry? Honestly, if her name were Black Berry, I might've just ended her right there to spare her the identity crisis. Pony names are the worst. Why couldn't they just be named something straightforward like... Steve?

Berry Punch could work a soul-sucking retail job and still be the happiest pony on the block, as long as she's tanked or flying high. She's like a slightly dazed, more purple version of Cat from iCarly, if Cat had wandered into Ponyville from... let's say Birkenhead. It's a mental image that confuses and amazes me every time I think about it.

But really, I can’t say a bad word about Berry Punch. Sure, she's as sharp as a marble, but wouldn’t change her for the world. She's a special kind of pony, the kind that could only come from the mystical loins of legend. The village doesn't realise it, but they're living among a bona fide superstar. When Berry gets plastered, it's not her living in our world, it's us spinning in hers. If I ever thought about turning her into a midnight snack, I'm pretty sure the planet would just stop spinning. Honestly, forget about me being the villain here—Berry Punch is the unsung hero of this story, more interesting than anyone else around!

So, as I strode my way over to the grapefruit-coloured pony with her head sticking out from the side of the dumpster, I didn't hesitate to move the dumpster to the other side of the alleyway, seeing her tail lower as she finished her business. I couldn’t help but flash a toothy grin as Berry Punch sighed in pleasure, not noticing me at all. Like a Chad on the weekend, she had a bottle of whisky in her hoof while her pony face looked like a smacked ass with how rosy she was. Yep, as expected, she was assholed, nothing new to see here.

“Berry Punch, it’s been a while!” I stated loud enough for her to hear, that being really fucking loud for her to jump out of her skin. Unsurprisingly however, Berry Punch was so hammered, and her senses were so fucked that she looked the other way, looking down the dark alleyway, making me chuckle. Always entertaining.

Eventually, Berry did look my way and without fail, gave an intemperate smile. “Ohhh, heyyyyy, pal! Long time no see, amirite? *hiccup* It's been, like, forever and a day since we last hung out, girl. *burp* Sorry 'bout that, just a little gas escaping.” Yep, I saw this coming.

“So, like, listen up, my good ol' buddy.” She said like a Sargent, swaying unsteadily. “It's been a hot minute since we last crossed paths, ya know. Life's been a whirlwind, and I've been, uh, enjoying some liquid courage along the way. But seriously, dude, it's great to see your face again.” Berry Punch squinted. “Or is it your face? *hiccup* Who cares, we're here, we're together, and that's all that matters, right?” Berry slurred, stepping forward and almost twatting her head off the dumpster. Luckily for her, she caught herself before balancing herself out, three of her legs spread out to prevent herself from falling while downing the bottle of whisky before throwing the bottle over her shoulder, smashing the bottle and making critters deep in the alleyway scurry away in fright.

^ ^
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|BlazenWolf2019’s Work|

Berry Punch, swaying like she was testing a new dance move, managed to slur out, “Don’t suppose you have any booze, do you? I just ran out and I’m kinda broke.” Her words floated on a bubble of giggles as she teetered on the brink of gravity.

Dropping to her level, I couldn’t help but stretch my smile into a full-on Cheshire cat impression. “No…”

“Booooooo!” she howled, visibly deflated.

“Buuuuuut…”

“Yeah!?” Her face instantly brightened, like a bar sign flickering back to life.

“You in?” I prodded, watching her expression twist into a pretzel of confusion.

“Me in? I—huh?” she blinked, struggling with the concept.

“Yes, are you in?” I repeated, only to see her squint as if the answer might appear if she looked hard enough. She glanced around, up, down, and then back at me with a perplexed squint.

“Correct me if I’m wrong, hiccup, but we are in an alleyway, right?” she finally managed to articulate, as if that was the question on a pop quiz.

Oh boy. I glanced back at Night Roar, who looked like he’d rather face a tribunal than be part of this conversation. Turning back, I clarified, “Err, yes, we’re technically in an alleyway. Unless you’ve got a fancier name for a trashy, sketchy passageway?”

“Then yes! I’m in… an alleyway!” she declared with triumph usually reserved for winning Nobel prizes.

My lips puckered in an effort not to laugh. Time to dial it down for her. “No, Berry—sigh look—”

“Where?”

“Berry! No talking, just listen, okay? Yes?” I cut in, using my kindergarten teacher voice.

“SI SEÑOR!” she saluted, suddenly channeling her inner Spanish soap opera star. Wait, she knows Spanish?

Before I could delve into the mysteries of her linguistic prowess, Night Roar chimed in with a scowl. “Who are you talking to?” he demanded, brows furrowed in eternal disapproval.

Oh, time for intros! Hoisting Berry under my arm like a misbehaving cat, I presented her grandly. “Meet Berry Punch!”

“HLEEAAHHHurkurkBLLEAAHH!” Berry eloquently introduced herself by vomiting spectacularly, some of her ‘warm welcome’ splashing onto Night Roar’s hooves. He recoiled like she’d thrown a grenade, while I practically rolled on the floor laughing.

Berry Punch peered at the colorful aftermath of her earlier meal with the fascination of an archaeologist discovering ancient ruins. "Oh, there goes my dinner. There’s my sweetcorn, salad, and… um, mystery guest," she murmured, eyeing a dubious chunk with a mix of curiosity and mild horror.

I leaned in, examining the culinary crime scene, and plucked something from the chaos with the delicacy of a bomb squad expert. "Sweetheart, that's half a golden coin," I announced, holding it up to catch the light.

"Ohhhh, so that's where it wandered off to! Now I can finally buy that Sriracha sauce to jazz up the imaginary crops growing in my fantasy garden," Berry chuckled, clearly pleased with her newfound treasure amidst the turmoil.

"Lucky you," I quipped, my voice layered thick with sarcasm, though Berry received it like a genuine compliment, nodding with an unearned sense of achievement as if she'd planned this all along. He really can't stand me, probably because I'm the life of the party and he's just the party pooper. Guess he's just jealous because I have friends and he doesn’t.

"Uhhh, Miss Punch, you do realise that your friend here is a murderer and a kidnapper, right?" Night Roar ventured, squinting as if the truth might be hidden somewhere in her slightly blurry vision.

"Murder!? Who got murdered?" Berry Punch exclaimed, her shock as authentic as a soap opera cliffhanger. She swivelled her head between me—nonchalantly wiping a bit of rogue blood from my cheek—and Night Roar.

"Yes! She is the Night Terror! She's been snatching up all the ponies in Ponyville. She's a monster!" Night Roar announced dramatically, as if trying to win an Oscar for Best Accusation.

"Don’t be ridiculous! I’ve known her for three weeks! She wouldn’t do something like that!" Berry Punch countered, her loyalty as misplaced as socks in a sandal store. Night Roar's mouth was agape, ready to unleash a righteous soliloquy, but I just shrugged nonchalantly.

Berry's defence was so fierce it could have been sponsored by a law firm specialising in lost causes. Meanwhile, I stood there, wondering if I should start selling tickets to this melodrama.

“You're talking to a drunk; you lost the moment you accused me.” I told him, making him sigh. He hates how I am right. Right, anyway, back on track! “Right, assholes! Shut up, buttercup and listen up, you bunch of cunts! I have got a new plan!”

“Hehe, that rhymed.”

Chapter 3 - 'permanently borrowed'

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As dusk transitioned to night, the sky above the settlement was cloaked in a luxurious, velvety darkness, transforming the landscape into a tranquil haven. The air, cool and invigorating, carried a light breeze that whispered secrets to the trees, causing their leaves to rustle with a soft, melodious rustle akin to a distant symphony. High above, the moon hung like a solitary pearl stitched against the vast, obsidian tapestry of the night sky. Its radiant glow cast a gentle illumination over the earth, outlining paths and shapes with a silver luminescence. This ethereal light not only highlighted the natural beauty of the terrain but also provided a beacon for those souls who found solace and contemplation in the serene embrace of the night.

Outside the cozy confines of a small bar, nestled within the vibrant heart of a bustling village, an oasis of tranquility was surprisingly present. Warm, flickering torches lined the entrance, casting a comforting golden glow on the rough dirt pathway and the quaint wooden facade of the establishment. This inviting light seemed to draw passersby, encouraging them to pause and soak in the stillness of the evening, a stark contrast to the lively atmosphere just steps away.

Laughter and the soft hum of conversations spilled out from the slightly ajar door, blending with the gentle night breeze. Inside, the bar was alive with the camaraderie of its patrons, whose silhouettes could be seen through the fogged glass windows. The sound of glasses clinking in cheerful toasts added a rhythmic punctuation to the ongoing merriment, creating a symphony of pony joy and contentment that resonated well into the cool night air.

Then… we made our unforgettable entrance.

Chaos erupted suddenly as the bar’s windows shattered under the assault of mysterious figures draped in dark coverings, moving with the stealth and agility of ninjas. From inside the building, a cacophony of shouts and yells filled the air, escalating the tension. Amid the turmoil, a sharp bang resonated, slicing through the chaos like a knife. This was no ordinary scuffle; it felt like the onset of a full-blown action movie.

In the midst of this pandemonium, a hulking beast rampaged, its massive form creating gaping holes in the walls as if they were made of tissue. Splinters and fragments of wood were hurled through the air in a violent ballet of destruction, painting a picture of pure havoc.

Just as the structure seemed on the brink of collapse, groaning and creaking ominously under the stress, the real protagonists of the night made a cinematic entrance. As if cued by an unseen director, we burst through the bar door just in time, escaping into the night. The building might have been on its last legs, but we, the main stars, were just getting started, sprinting away from the crumbling chaos with all the flair of action heroes escaping an explosion.

Bursting forth from the doorway came a trio as eclectic as they were flamboyant, instantly transforming the quiet night into a stage for their theatrical escapade. Leading the vanguard was a tall, slender figure dressed entirely in sleek black. This mischievous entity, with a smile sharp enough to slice through the calm of the night, unleashed a cascade of laughter that echoed off the cobblestones, reverberating with a hint of madness that seemed to beckon the shadows themselves to join in the revelry.

Hot on the heels of the cackling leader, a bat pony clad in shimmering purple armour exuded an air of frantic diligence. His wings beat with nervous energy, his eyes wide and constantly scanning the environment, reflecting the flickering torchlight as he hustled to keep pace. The metallic clinks of his armour punctuated his every hurried step, creating a rhythmic counterpoint to the chaotic sounds enveloping them.

Trailing the pair, a disheveled purple mare, evidently inebriated, swayed and staggered down the cobblestone path. Clutching a nearly empty bottle of vodka as though it were a lifeline, her tangled mane and bleary eyes painted a picture of jovial disregard for the unfolding chaos. Her boisterous laughter, interspersed with the occasional hiccup, merged with the leader’s, forming a raucous duet that seemed to animate their reckless path forward.

Then, as if the evening hadn't already jumped the shark—or in this case, the pony—the bar's debris exploded outward like a magician's grand finale. Out stomped a creature that could only be described as the pony version of a Fallout super mutant on a very bad day. He roared, a sound so terrifying it could scare the stripes off a zebra, as rubble clung to his mane like the world's worst hair gel.

His eyes, glowing with a red fury that could light a dark alley, fixed fiercely on the trio who had just dashed out the door. The beast charged, hooves pounding the ground with the subtlety of a drum solo in a library. Each step he took was like a mini-earthquake, announcing his fury to the world as he pursued the main characters of this bizarre chapter.

The stars of the show, now real stars of an unintentional action movie, sprinted away with a mix of genuine terror and absurd realisation. As they ran, one couldn't help but quip, "I knew we should've asked for a stunt double!"

You might be wondering, “What in the horseshoe just happened? How did we end up on the bad side of monster? Did we even snag the spirits?” Well, hold onto your hats—or horseshoes—and let me trot you back a mere 5 or 10 minutes to the scene of the crime (and comedy) for all the juicy details.

— Cue wavy flashback lines to 5 or 10 minutes ago —

Picture this: A bustling pub, brimming with ponies of every stripe and spot, from towering draft horses to dainty Shetlands. The room’s a cozy cavern of warmth, dimly lit by rows of candles that flicker like little lighthouses on each wooden table. The walls, a patchwork of nostalgia, are plastered with faded photographs and paintings that could tell you stories of a hundred yesteryears.

The air’s alive with the melodious mingling of hearty laughter and the delicate symphony of clinking glasses. From a snug corner, the strains of classical music wash over the crowd, performed by a trio of musical maestros: a unicorn whose bow dances on her violin strings like it’s got a life of its own, a pegasus puffing at a flute as if he’s trying to woo the moon, and an earth pony thumping on a double bass, making it groan and moan in the best way possible.

Enter stage right into High and Hoof, a pub where everypony not only knows your name but probably knows how you like your oats, too. The vibe? It’s like a family reunion, if your family consisted entirely of slightly inebriated equines.

Now, the star of our show: Berry Punch. Our beloved local legend, infamous for her love of a good tipple, makes her grand entrance. But today, she’s donned a disguise so hilariously bad it’s good—a pair of fake glasses and a moustache that looks like it was stolen from a slapstick comedy prop box. She’s clutching a bottle of vodka like it’s the holy grail, which, in this crowd, it might as well be.

The reaction? Electric. Ponies hoist their drinks in a toast to the mare who looks more like a cartoon spy than a covert cocktail smuggler. But just as the cheers peak, disaster strikes in comedic glory: Berry’s moustache, perhaps tipsy itself, decides to part ways with her face, fluttering to the floor in a tragicomic finale.

Berry Punch's internal alarm bells were ringing louder than a fire station on the Fourth of July. *Shit!* she thought, panic bubbling up. *My masterful disguise of a cheap fake moustache and dollar-store glasses has spectacularly failed. I've been compromised! ABORT! ABORT! ABORT! Wait, no... I can't bail! The reward is a mountain of carrot cakes! Retreat is not an option!*

So, what's a pony to do? Improvise, of course! Berry shifted gears faster than a racehorse at the final turn. She plunged into the sea of inebriated ponies, blending in like a chameleon in a box of crayons. As she wove through the crowd, Berry adopted the universal language of the plastered: nonsensical babble. She laughed hysterically at every slurred joke and nonsensical story, her laughter as fake as the moustache now lying defeated on the tavern floor.

As she went from table to table, offering shots with the enthusiasm of a carnival barker, disaster struck. Not once, not twice, but three times did a pony upchuck right in front of her. Twice she found herself wearing the evidence. "Lucky me," she thought wryly, her mood as sour as the stains now decorating her coat. With her reflexes currently as sharp as a bowl of jello—thanks to her internet lag of a brain processing at a whopping ping of 999—she was dodging disasters about as well as a sloth in an obstacle course.

But let’s not underestimate our Berry; her clumsy antics were not without cunning. Each shot poured and each ridiculous fall or stumble was part of her grand scheme. With every "accidental" bump and giggle, she was secretly enlisting more ponies into her night of mischief, marking them with special shots that made the night fuzzier and their memories hazier. Berry was on a mission, and not even projectile vomit could stop her. She was a pony with a plan, a very, very messy plan.

“Oh, it’s been a hot minute, *burp* Berry! Last I saw you, we were probably still in last week!” slurred a pony who was playing a dangerous game of balance with his barstool, managing to stay mounted on it like a pro cowboy at a rodeo.

Berry Punch snapped to attention, eyes bulging at the sight before her. "Great galloping grapes, it's Pedo Pecker! How the heck did you escape the dungeon? Last I heard, you were into some shady foal business!" she exclaimed, staggering over in disbelief.

Pecker, barely keeping his equilibrium, waved her off with a drunken flourish of his hoof. "Pfft, all just tall tales and tavern talk!” he declared, guzzling his drink like it was a lifeline.

Berry squinted so hard she could have started a fire. “Are you sure? Because the grapevine said you were playing hide and seek with foals in your basement.”

“Fairy tales! All fairy tales!” Pedo Pecker protested, almost tipping over in his fervour.

Berry’s eyes morphed into skeptical slits. "Let’s see: old, overweight, and that creepy giggle? You’re like a walking, talking ‘stranger danger’ poster for every foal in town."

“Oh, Berry, always the joker,” Pecker chuckled nervously, trying to deflect. “But really, it was all a setup by the actual villain. No one ever believes the innocent guy, huh?”

“Yeah, right,” Berry smirked, then shouted, “Look, a group of fillies!”

“WHERE?!” Pecker’s head spun around faster than a whirligig in a windstorm.

“Ha! Caught ya!” Berry chortled, watching him turn beet red. “That proves nothing! Besides, the past is in the past,” Pecker blustered, pouting like a foal denied candy.

"Yeah, keep telling yourself that." Berry rolled her eyes. "Anyway, how about we switch gears? Fancy a shot? It’s not just strong; it’s ‘call your ancestors’ strong!"

“Pour it on!” Pecker agreed, oblivious to the brewing storm in Berry’s hoof.

Berry, now balancing precariously on her hind legs, wound up for a punch with all the theatrics of a Shakespearean actor. “Eat hoof!” she bellowed, swinging with all her might. The punch, however, had other plans—it cut through the air, missing Pecker entirely and sending Berry spinning like a top into his stool.

The impact sent Pecker flying off his seat, landing in a dazed heap on the floor, knocked out not by the punch but by his own unfortunate dismount. Berry, still dizzy from her pirouette, triumphantly slurred, “Take that, you scoundrel!”

As she declared her wobbly victory, her stomach decided it was time for an encore performance, adding yet another contribution to the pub’s floor decor. Berry stood, swaying, proclaiming to the room, “That’s right, and don’t you forget it… buddy!”

And then, with the abruptness of a hiccup during a love confession, the music screeched to a halt. Silence swept through the bar like a broom through spilled peanuts. Every soul in the joint—from the grizzled drunks who had more stories than teeth, to the undercover night guards dressed as the least convincing Jehovah’s Witnesses ever, from grubby miners straight from the pits to questionable youths trying their hardest to look legal, from soccer moms letting their hair down to shady figures so hooded they could be mistaken for walking tents, even the couple trying to ignore their overly enthusiastic third wheel, down to the foals causing chaos in the play area—everyone froze. Why? Because Berry Punch had just pulled a Sleeping Beauty on the whole lot with her ‘special’ vodka.

Phase 1: Knock ’em Out, was a smashing success!

Cue Phase 2: Make an Entrance.

Suddenly, like a bowling ball through a plate glass window, the night air was filled with a symphony of shattering glass. A dark figure plummeted through, striking a pose so dramatic it could have earned a spot on a movie poster—kneeling on a table surrounded by snoozing ponies, head bowed, cap shadowing her face like a bad gal in a spy movie. Then, oh so slowly, she lifted her head, those red eyes scanning the room like laser beams at a disco.

And… cut!

Phase 2, nailed it!

But wait—

Where the heck is Night Roar?

Ring, Ding!

The door swung open, announcing the late arrival of a dark blue pegasus with an expression as sour as week-old lemonade. He looked over the scene with all the enthusiasm of a cat at a dog show.

“Bro! You were supposed to make the grand entrance with me, through the glass, for maximum drama! You’re killing the blockbuster vibe!” I exclaimed, frowning at his less-than-timely entrance.

“Yeah, dude! Stop being such a mega buzzkill!” Berry chimed in from her sprawl on the floor, her voice echoing under the table.

“I can’t believe I’m actually doing this…” Night Roar muttered, sounding as thrilled as a snail at a salt convention as he trudged toward the bar. Was he still salty about his friends? Geez, talk about nursing a grudge like it’s a sick pet.

"Listen up, Captain Killjoy! Your doom-and-gloom vibes aren’t gonna torpedo our party boat, so drop anchor and let’s get to drinking!" I announced, leaping off the table as Night Roar screeched to a halt like a cat confronted by a cucumber.

"Really...? I don’t drink, and you're not about to start my tab," Night Roar grumbled, sounding about as thrilled as a cat in a bathtub. I mean, if boredom was an Olympic sport, this guy would be the reigning champ. Wow this guy is just—fun, isn’t he. We should call him Fun Roar from now on because he’s so much fun to hang around with, boy I’m so happy to be friends with such a fun guy. WHAT A GUY!

“Have a drink, loser.” Berry complained, dragging herself upright with the bar as her reluctant dance partner. She was teetering on the edge of coherence, about to blackout with the grace of an elephant on roller skates. But no worries—Berry had a secret weapon I liked to call ‘Second Wind’: one more drink, and she’d resurrect with the zest of a squirrel on a double espresso.

“Sit down, Nighty. You are having a drink whether you like it or not.” I laughed, vaulting over the bar to snatch a bottle of whisky that smelled like it was aged in a wrestler's shoe and had the colour of murky pond water. Perfect for the rookie drinker! I snagged three glasses that were almost clean—if you squinted hard enough—and poured a round. I grabbed mine, Berry clutched at hers like a lifeline, but Night Roar just gave us a look that could freeze lava.

“Are you kidding me?”

“Now, Nighty,” I grinned, hopefully more charming than a car salesman. “Don’t see this as trying to get you drunk for the hell of it.”

“Yeah, view it as... a cultural exchange,” Berry added, propping herself on a stool with all the finesomeness of a hippo in a hammock, aiming a goofy grin at Night Roar that could scare off a scarecrow.

Night Roar's snarl could’ve turned fresh milk into yogurt as he marched off to the back room, hauling a sack that looked like it held either the world's most depressing piñata or his crumbling patience. Well, if he's more of a workhorse than a whisky-warrior, we’ll just have to party on without him. Someday, I swear we'll get that guy to crack a smile and sip a shot. But for now, let’s let him brood over his dramatic backstory—mourning might be his favourite pastime.

"Don't mind him, Berry. He's just marinating in a stew of sorrow—his friends got the ol' murder shuffle recently," I quipped with a dismissive flick of my hand, throwing back my shot like it was a mini diving competition. Berry hummed a tune of solidarity, slamming down her shot like she was trying to win an award for 'Most Dramatic Glass Placement.'

“Hmm, I guess…” Berry mused, barely managing a shrug as she slid her glass down the bar and scooted closer to me. She exhaled a deep sigh of contentment, the kind you'd expect after finding an extra fry in the bag. “Another!”

“Coming right up!” I cheered, grabbing the bottle with the flair of a circus ringmaster. I poured us another round with the enthusiasm of a kid at a soda fountain. We clinked glasses like knights jousting and downed another shot. “Oooo yeah… That hit the spot like a bullseye!”

"Yep, doesn’t get much better than this. Just you, me and the bottle of Whisky that tastes like ass." Berry declared blissfully, rocking back and forth on her stool as if she was on a boozy boat ride. A dopey, relaxed grin spread across her face. She then squinted over at me, as though trying to focus a blurry camera. “So, how’s thing going, Ada? And don’t hit me with that ‘nothing much’ nonsense, I know you’re up to something sneaky.” Berry jabbed a hoof in my direction, her gaze comically serious and slightly cross-eyed.

I chuckled at her comical interrogation. “Haha, you're amusing, Berry… But honestly, life’s as empty as a politician’s promises. No responsibilities, no job, no family, no plans... Just me trying to make my own fun between snacks and naps. Kinda sounds like your schedule, doesn’t it?” I remarked with a wry smile, almost proud of our shared commitment to underachievement.

“Hey, screw you! I’ve got a great thing going here!”

“What great thing? Your daily routine is eating, pooping, and mastering the art of the drunken stumble.” I observed, casually prepping another shot of our gloriously terrible whisky.

“That is my great thing! Look around you, Ada. Everypony is miserable and stressed out, worrying over bits, worrying over crops, worrying about the small stuff. Me? I drink it all away—literally the highlight of my day… Holy crap, did I just rhyme?” Berry burst into giggles, tickled by her own accidental wit, temporarily forgetting her tirade about Ponyville's collective misery. I just deadpanned.

I rolled my eyes as I slammed back my third shot, feeling the whisky burn down my throat like it had something to prove. "That's only scratching the surface of the 'good thing'. Don't you want a taste of freedom, Berry? Imagine it—just you, me, and the open rulebook. With your... let's call it unique charisma, and my brains, we could rule this village. We could be kings, or at least minor nobility!" I leaned into the bar, grinning like a fox in a hen house, trying to seduce her into my half-baked coup.

"Yeah right," Berry scoffed, waving off my grand plan like it was last season's fashion. "And how are you gonna swing that? We're tighter under royal watch than a pair of jeans after Thanksgiving. Royal Guards, Night Guards... feels like we're in a pet shop with all these leashes." She downed her third shot, her energy snapping back like a rubber band.

"It's not that grim, right?" I ventured, genuinely clueless about the depth of our dire straits. Berry shot me a look that could freeze lava.

"You see, Ada… I'd agree with you, but it's hard to be optimistic when you've seen a family reunion on pikes." Oops, might have been my fault, but let's gloss over that. I casually scratched my cheek, pondering our next move.

"Ever thought about fighting back? Start a riot? Spark a revolution? Surely enough's enough."

"Ada… I struggle to get out of bed most days, let alone start a ruckus. And FYI, there's a secret revolutionary group, but it's more hush-hush than a library in a monastery. So, no more questions." Berry snagged Night Roar's neglected shot and downed her fourth, her spirits lifting like a balloon on a breezy day.

"A revolutionary group, huh? Dish the dirt!" I grinned, curiosity tickled pink.

"No can do," Berry firmly shook her head, nearly giving herself whiplash.

"Come on, Berry. I’m your best pal! You can spill the beans." I pleaded, hands pressed together like I was praying to the goddess of gossip.

"I know, but my lips are sealed! Sorry!" Berry groaned, looking as tortured as someone choosing a movie on Netflix.

"Hmm, okay… I won’t ask again… But just hypothetically, if this group wasn't a secret and I just happened to inquire about it, what would you say? Hypothetically, of course." I leaned back, pretending to lose interest faster than a cat in a math class.

"Oh! If it's all hypothetical," Berry perked up, oblivious to the snare, "I'd say that a pony named Applejack is stirring up a storm, aiming to topple the sour apples at the top, starting with taking back Ponyville." She sighed with relief, happy to speak 'hypothetically' and blissfully unaware she'd just spilled the royal beans.

There I was, humming to myself, grinning like a Cheshire cat at the juicy gossip of a tiny revolution. “Interesting… But, hypothetically, how would they pull that off? They’ve got some stiff competition with the Moonshine Gang for control, hypothetically speaking, of course.”

“I don’t know, I’m just the scout. I scout around, come back, and report to Applejack. Scout this, scout that—how about they stop with the scouting and bump me up to a general already, you ORANGE MENACE!!!” Berry’s voice skyrocketed into a spectacular hissy-fit. She went off about the so-called orange menace like she was the worst thing since unsliced bread.

“Okay, then I would hypothetically wish good luck to the forthcoming revolution.” I said, raising an empty glass with all the solemnity of a knight honouring a fallen comrade, secretly plotting the overthrow when I sneakily assume control. Bwahahaha! Yeah… Mental note: never laugh like a villain in your own head.

“And I would thank you, hypothetically.” Berry replied with a nod, pleased to share her 'hypothetical' secrets without really spilling any beans.

"Now about the group in general—"

"You promised no more questions!" Berry snapped, pointing a hoof at me like she was a detective catching a suspect in a lie.

"Yep, my bad, won’t happen again." I assured, grinning sheepishly. She didn’t have a clue. "Anyway, let’s carry on, shall we?" I huffed, snatching the whisky bottle and tucking it into a sack like a smuggler securing his loot.

"Oi! I wasn’t done with that!"

“You fuckin’ are, you drunk fuck.”

That night, I also discovered something new about Night Roar—he’s like a ninja. Berry and I had just shown up to lend a hoof, and BAM! He was nearly finished. The guy was faster than a caffeinated cheetah. Definitely deserves a raise—how about a daily dose of joints? Sounds fair! When Night Roar heard the door swing open, his face was a picture of doom. You could map the routes of old tears down his fur—a truly melancholic masterpiece. A good look on him, though, does get annoying when he starts mopping around like Man United fans going through another season with Ten Hag. Can’t stand it.

There we were, Berry Punch and I, on a booze-finding mission that would make Captain Jack Sparrow jealous. I was snatching up every bottle that sparkled under the bar lights like it was a jewel in Aladdin's cave—this bottle, that bottle, anything that looked like it might make a genie pop out. Meanwhile, Berry was buzzing around Night Roar like a bee with a megaphone, trying to convince him to taste just a teeny bit of her prized hooch. But her relentless cheer only seemed to harden his scowl into granite. Seriously, Night Roar was giving off major vibes of that guy at parties who doesn't just guard the liquor cabinet but puts it under 24/7 surveillance while handing out pamphlets on the dangers of fun. If I ever decide to cook him up, I'll marinate him in so much booze, he'll come out of the oven singing sea shanties. Now that would be a satisfying meal.

With our trio’s bags stuffed like a college student's laundry sack—brimming with bottles of booze, pilfered pocket change, smudgy glasses, and an assortment of culinary contraband—I figured it was high time to make like a tree and leave before our luck ran out. But, as you learned from our little time-hop five minutes ago, we weren't exactly going to exit stage left without a hitch. Nope, we were about to get busted, and ironically so.

Just as we sauntered back into the lounge to snag the last few knick-knacks, five knuckleheads burst through the windows. Yes, through the windows. It was like they attended the same school of overly dramatic entrances as I did—the nerve! They landed with a crash on their own tables, shattering glass and spilling more drama than a soap opera. Decked out in shoddy balaclavas made from what looked like recycled curtains and draped in robes that did nothing to hide their sheer incompetence, they brandished bats and blades with all the menace of a toddler wielding a spoon.

They paused, taking in the scene of snoozing patrons, their grand entrance deflated by the unexpected calm. “Hey! What the hay is going on here?” one of them blurted out, obviously flustered by the tranquil tableau. Oh, the horse puns—original. Just as I rolled my eyes, another one piped up, “WHAT THE HAY IS THAT!” pointing a hoof straight at me. I deadpanned. These guys were definitely milking the puns, probably thinking they were the mane event.

"Oi, OI! What's this, amateur hour? Didn't you clowns check the schedule? I had dibs on this dive bar heist tonight—it’s all colour-coded in our shared Google Doc, for Pete’s sake!” I yelled, throwing my arms up in mock outrage. The bumbling buffoons glanced at each other, scratching their heads and looking genuinely concerned that they might have missed a memo on the proper etiquette of coordinated criminal timetables.

“Really, boys! There is no schedule! Get them!” barked a bulky earth pony, who seemed like he was auditioning to be the tough guy in a boy band gone rogue. As the scuffle kicked off, I, in a burst of overprotective friendship for Berry Punch, decided to tag her out—old-school wrestling style. A gentle karate chop to the back of her head sent her into la-la land before she could join the fray. Had to keep her out of the rough stuff; some things can't be unseen, and she wasn’t ready for the whirlwind of hooves and haymakers I was about to unleash. So, there it was, down to a 2v5. Bring it on, boy band rejects!

The first goon charged at me, brandishing a hoe that glowed with an eerie green magic, like he was trying to audition for the role of "Grim Reaper in a budget fantasy flick." He swung it with all the grace of a toddler wielding a crayon, aiming for my ribs with murderous intent. Luckily for me, dodging his attack was as easy as stepping aside to let a snail pass—smooth and without urgency.

With the hoe cutting nothing but air, I grabbed the unicorn thug by the neck with the casual confidence of a chef plucking a lobster from a tank. I flashed him a mischievous grin, quickly deciding it was time to spread the fun.

“Heads up!” I bellowed with a chuckle, twirling the flustered unicorn overhead like a lasso before tossing him toward Night Roar, who caught him with the stunned surprise of someone who'd just caught a flying turkey. “You can have him!” I called out, cheerfully offloading my problem.

There I was, suddenly facing a 1v4 situation. It dawned on me—my math might have been a bit off. Ah well, everyone loves an underdog story, right? Especially one that starts with flinging unicorns!

As two eager attackers charged at me—an earth pony and a pegasus, knives clenched in their teeth like they were auditioning for a cutlery commercial—I couldn’t help but grin wider and welcome them with open arms. It seemed only polite to return the favour.

With a flourish that would make a magician jealous, I whipped out my kukri. The first swing was a masterpiece, slicing across the pegasus’s neck with the precision of a sushi chef making his finest cut. His eyes widened comically, as if realising he might’ve picked the wrong night for villainy.

Using the swing’s momentum like a dance move from a particularly violent tango, I spun and planted the kukri into the earth pony’s neck. I lifted him off the ground, turning him into a very grim sort of marionette, his hooves twitching. As I removed his balaclava—revealing it was actually a mare with bloodshot eyes and a rapidly reddening mouth—I tsked and quipped, “Damn, girl… should’ve stayed in the kitchen.” Honestly, the kitchen’s loss was clearly not the criminal underworld’s gain.

“You bastard!” might have been the pegasus’s parting shot, if he wasn’t so preoccupied performing a solo in the key of gargling blood. There he was, pressing a hoof against his slashed neck like he was trying to pause a bad horror movie, flopping around on the bar floor with the elegance of a slapstick comedian slipping on a banana peel. His eyes were wide with a mixture of shock and a sudden regret, probably rethinking his life choices as he struggled to get up. Clearly, my blade work had been a tad off—didn’t quite make it to curtain call. Lucky fellow! Sort of… Well, I figured I’d leave him as a sort of gruesome craft project for Night Roar to finish up. Teamwork makes the dream work, right?

The remaining duo froze, their faces a priceless tableau of horror and disbelief, as I nonchalantly hoisted the pony off my kukri by her mane. With a surgeon’s precision and a madman’s glee, I used the tip of my kukri to delicately scoop out her emerald eye. I popped the glossy orb into my mouth like a gruesome hors d’oeuvre, savouring the squish and burst of flavours with each macabre chew. “Mmm, I can taste the eyedrops,” I remarked offhandedly, the comment slicing through the thick tension like a knife—well, a kukri—through eyeballs.

“You’re a monster…” they hissed, the words oozing with a mix of dread and accusation. And they weren’t the first to say it—not by a long shot. In fact, that was the 273rd time I’ve been branded as such, and yes, I’ve been keeping a meticulous count over the years. Each declaration is like collecting a bizarre badge of honour or a sinister sticker for my scrapbook of scorn. Being called a monster has become as routine as my morning cup of joe—both are dark, a bit bitter, and absolutely essential to start my day.

“Right! Who’s nex— OH SHIT!” My declaration was cut short as I suddenly threw my arms up in a frantic guard. Out of nowhere, a rogue fireball hurtled towards me like an angry, flaming pinball, crashing against my human shield. The heat seared my arms, shoving me back a few inches. “Whew! Nothing like a bit of spontaneous combustion to keep you on your toes, huh?”

“Did you get it?” the leader barked from behind a curtain of smoke billowing around me. As the smoke cleared, there I stood, striking a pose that was half action hero, half barbecued chicken. My black hoodie was now sporting a stylishly torn sleeve, revealing my singed arms beneath. Despite the sting, I couldn’t help but crack a mad grin and let out a slightly unhinged giggle.

“Oh, we’re playing dirty now, are we? Well, I’ve got a PhD in Dirt!” I laughed, digging into my back pocket to whip out a shiny revolver. Before the unicorn could even blink, I pulled the trigger. The sight of his head snapping back was, in a twisted way, a visual treat—like hitting the jackpot on a particularly grim slot machine. BULLSEYE!

"W-what..." The burly buck stammered, his eyes as wide as saucers glued to the still-smoking barrel of my revolver. I gave the barrel a casual puff, clearing the smoke like a cowboy in a cheesy western flick. The big guy was shaking like he’d just done ten rounds with a blender—absolutely rattled.

"What's wrong? Cat got your tongue? Or is it bit your tongue? Took your tongue? Borrowed? Oh, it doesn’t bloody matter!" I shrugged theatrically, almost disappointed by his lack of conversation skills. "The point is, you’re so stunned you could be a statue in the park, shocked that I turned your friends into a modern art exhibit and now you're speechless! Come on, give me a scream, at least—it’s rude to leave a performance without applause!"

I rolled my eyes so hard they nearly booked a solo flight to the back of my skull. Had none of these ponies ever witnessed the business end of a gun before? But considering I was deep in the belly of Ponyland—where the laws of physics gently bow before the laws of “make believe”—I guessed my shock was a bit overcooked. Still, it was showtime.

As I steadied my revolver, targeting the next quivering, oversized pony, his eyes ballooned to the size of saucers, as if I'd just turned his world from Technicolor to a horror film noir. I was all set for a little bang-bang decorum when a voice boomed with the drama of a daytime soap opera.

“STOP! STOP KILLING THESE PONIES!” Night Roar bellowed, looking like a walking crime scene himself, with blood splattered artistically around his jaw. He clutched the slashed throat of a pegasus like he was trying to stuff toothpaste back into the tube.

I swivelled around, eyebrow cocked in amusement. “You don’t have to do this! You don’t have to keep killing and killing and killing! It’s not right!” his voice cracked, thick with the melodrama of a Shakespearean tragedy on fast forward.

Oh, delightful—moral grandstanding from Mr. Bloody Jaw himself. There we were, in a dive bar that had seen better days, now flickering with the eerie shadows of the barely functional lights, about to engage in a philosophical debate. With bodies as footnotes and blood as punctuation, Night Roar wanted to ponder the ethics of my hobbies. How quaint! Here I was, thinking I was just redecorating Ponyville in a more visceral aesthetic. Honestly, cry me a river Justin Timberlake style!

“Night Roar, look—sigh… I know you’re a smart lad, but you're acting like we just met at a book club. I’m the Night Terror, I kill ponies, I eat ponies, sometimes I kill for food, sometimes for a chuckle—it’s kind of my thing,” I explained, my tone as flat as a pancake in a roadside diner. My revolver remained steadfastly aimed at the paralysed pony who looked like he wished he could faint. “And that’s the way the cookie crumbles, soft ass,” I added, hoping to jog his memory about who he was dealing with here: not exactly the neighbourhood friendly pony.

“But it’s not right! You’ve ruined so many lives with everypony you took and murdered! Don’t you have a speck of goodness in your soul? A bit of emotion in your heart? There has to be something in you that is screaming at you to stop!” Night Roar pleaded, his voice thick with desperation, as if he thought he could reach a non-existent compassionate side of me.

I couldn’t hold back; laughter erupted from me like a volcano spewing ash. I clapped a hand over my face, trying to contain the outburst. “Oh, sweetheart, that’s some Grade A, prime-cut melodrama right there. Please, tell me you have more of those lines stored away—it's like listening to a teary award acceptance speech at the Bad Guy Oscars. I’ve heard begging before, but that—Ha! It's like a gourmet cheese plate, so rich and full of flavour!” I mocked, cackling as I watched Night Roar’s expression shift from earnest to horrified, as if he had just realised he was trying to give a morality lecture to a shark during feeding time. I feel like he’s not getting it.
“Please, just—stop…” He pleaded for the last time, his voice so hoarse it nearly neighed.

I spread my hands wide, like a magician revealing his final trick. “Alright, here's the deal. The day I stop killing is the day when pigs start flying, got that?” I said, delivering my line with the confidence of a salesman who knows he's clinched the deal. But then, as the echo of my words faded into the enchanted air, filled with the gentle babble of talking ponies and the soft rustle of magical winds, a light bulb flickered to life above my head.

I paused, my eyes narrowing slightly in suspicion, the gears turning painfully slow in my brain. “There’s flying pigs, isn’t there…” I muttered, almost to myself, as I scanned the fantastical horizon half-expecting to see a squadron of swine gliding gracefully through the sky.

“That’s enough!” The last remaining bar robber suddenly barked, snapping me and Night Roar out of our magical musings. We both swivelled to face him, clearly he'd found his voice—and oh, what timing! I mentally noted to fetch the drums and maybe Night Roar could handle the bass guitar. Looks like we were about to form the most unlikely band in Ponyland!

As we watched, somewhat bemused, the robber dramatically plunged a syringe into his arm, pushing down the plunger to inject a mysterious, glowing red liquid. "Bloody hell, is that some kind of drug? Gimme!" I half-joked, half-serious, as my interest piqued. Whatever was in that syringe seemed like the exact reckless adventure I'd signed up for when I decided not to stop killing—or joining bands, apparently.

Then, right before our eyes, the scene turned into a budget superhero movie set. The last robber's transformation kicked off with the dramatic flair of a low-budget CGI sequence. As the glowing red concoction hit his system, he bulked up faster than someone on a New Year's resolution at the gym. His balaclava and robes didn't stand a chance—they ripped at the seams like tissue paper in a toddler's hands, revealing a Hulk-esque physique that would have made even a green Mark Ruffalo blush.

Now, he was staring me down at chest level instead of cowering down by my knees. His muscles weren't just bulging; they were throwing a full-on bodybuilding show, veins popping out like road maps on steroids across his neck and limbs. His eyes, a furious shade of blood red, twitched and darted like a caffeinated squirrel. With a look that could curdle milk, he squared his shoulders and snorted, puffing up as if he was about to charge into a matador's cape. I couldn't help but smirk—clearly, someone was ready for their close-up.

It all unfolded faster than a cheetah on a caffeine binge. I nearly didn’t move in time as the beast, now more tank than pony, hurtled toward me with the force of a runaway subway train. With a nimble pirouette on one foot—a move that would’ve scored a solid ten in an Olympic gymnastics final—I dodged the living missile. He crashed into the wall with the subtlety of a meteor strike, leaving behind a pony-sized crater and a cloud of dust.

“Did you see that? That was absolutely mental!” I howled with laughter, my voice bouncing around the suddenly much airier tavern. Night Roar, who had just ducked a deadly encounter by the skin of his teeth, looked as if he had seen a ghost—or at least a very angry, steroid-pumped pony ghost. His mane was more disheveled than a rock star after a three-day bender.

As the dust settled, the pony’s eyes flickered with an unhinged red glow, signalling round two of his pharmaceutical frenzy. He spun around with all the grace of a drunken ballerina, aiming for me but instead, his hoof found the unfortunate pegasus Night Roar was trying to save. The impact was instant and horrific—like a watermelon in a Gallagher act, only far less comedic and much more tragic. Blood and brain matter splashed across the floor in a grotesque display of misplaced aggression.

“What a guy!” I chuckled darkly, the scene’s dark humour not lost on me. As the earth pony stumbled, blinking stupidly and looking more bewildered than a vegan at a barbecue, it was clear he was less an assassin and more an accidental agent of chaos. Each of his misguided attacks turned him less into a fearsome foe and more into a one-pony demolition derby with tragically bad targeting systems.

Was this building on the demolition docket? If not, we should definitely recruit this pony for the job! Forget wrecking balls and dynamite, this guy's a one-pony disaster squad. Seriously, give him a hard hat and rename him "Bulldozer Bob"—he's already got the whole place coming down faster than a house of cards in a wind tunnel!

"Hey… What the heck is going on here?" Berry Punch slurred, her voice groggy as if she had just been rudely awakened in the middle of a dramatic soap opera marathon. She struggled to sit up at the bar counter, wobbling slightly like a toddler on roller skates. Her eyes, half-closed and blurry, darted around, trying to piece together the chaotic scene that resembled the aftermath of a toddler’s birthday party.

As her gaze slowly adjusted to the mayhem, it zeroed in on a half-full bottle of rum resting innocently beside her—a sight more beautiful to her than a sunrise. With the excitement of a kid finding a hidden stash of cookies, she snatched the bottle. She tilted it back, chugging the rum with the eagerness of a pirate who just found buried treasure. What a pisshead... but honestly, despite her tipsy antics and unfailing ability to find alcohol in any situation, there’s a charming rogue quality to her that's impossible not to adore!

“Ay! Berry! Get your ass up! It’s time to go before this jackass brings this joint down! Night Roar! Stop fucking crying over your pegasus buddy! You tried to save him, you tried your best but honestly, He had it coming to him!” I barked with the urgency of a drill sergeant facing down a tornado. As the words flew from my lips, I executed a nimble leap to the side, avoiding a charge from our rampaging beast of a pony who seemed intent on a bit of unplanned renovation. Mid-leap, I managed a quick slash at his side, hoping to remind him I wasn't just part of the decor.

I hustled over to snatch up my 'permanently borrowed' treasures, glancing sideways to see Berry finally grabbing her stash. She wobbled precariously, gripping her haul like a contestant on a game show clutching their winnings. Meanwhile, Night Roar, looking more distraught than an actor in a tragic opera, was wiping away tears with a hoof, finally picking up his belongings with the enthusiasm of a child being told they could only buy one candy.

“Good, we are all ready to go! Just in time too," I declared, casting a wary eye around as the building began to creak and groan like an old man getting out of a chair. "This building was going to be nothing more than timber in 3… 2… 1…” I paused, the suspense hanging in the air. “3… 2… Oh, there it goes.” Finally, with dramatic flair, the building decided to collapse, sending clouds of dust billowing as we made our swift exit, the structure crumbling behind us like a cookie dunked one too many times in tea.

Caught up? Great, let’s snap back to the present—hold onto your hats, it’s about to get even weirder!

Chapter 4 - The Good, The Bad and The Pink.

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Chapter 4

How do you make a good miniature version of the Hulk? Well, start with someone who gets angry at the drop of a hat—Alec Baldwin, for instance. Pump him full of steroids and cocaine for a few years, and BAM! You've got yourself a super angry, super strong humanoid Hulk! For the green skin, who knows? Maybe force-feed him grass until he’s green in the face. Your guess is as good as mine.

On Earth, we have to rely on CGI and special effects to bring the Hulk to life. But here? Oh, it's a whole different ball game. I just witnessed a pony, already built like a bodybuilder who moonlights as a wrecking ball, transform into a verdant, equine Arnold Schwarzenegger in his fucking prime in precisely 11.37 seconds. Yes, I counted every moment, down to the decimals. How did I manage that? Don't ask.

The kicker? Back home, Hollywood needs millions in tech to create the Hulk. Here, it’s as simple as a syringe full of mysterious red liquid. One jab, and voilà, instant Hulk. We spend billions on movie magic, and these ponies just need a bit of questionable juice.

Watching the transformation, I couldn’t help but feel a mix of awe and absurdity. This pony went from zero to Hulk in a heartbeat, his muscles bulging out like he was trying to audition for the role of ‘Pony Mr. Universe.’ His skin didn’t turn green, but he did develop a certain ‘freshly mowed lawn’ vibe that was oddly fitting. And the rage—oh, the rage! His eyes glowed with the kind of fury you’d expect from someone who just found out the ice cream machine is broken.

In summary: on Earth, it’s a multi-million-dollar CGI spectacle. Here? Just add a dash of red juice and stir. Step up, humanity! You’re making me look bad!

But, unlike the Hulk back on Earth where Robert can switch in and out of Hulk mode, pony Hulk seemed to have a much shorter shelf life. After about a minute of demolishing homes and trampling over drunken ponies like a toddler on a sugar high, he suddenly crumpled to the floor. It was like watching a wind-up toy run out of steam—if that toy also started bleeding from its eyes and mouth. His wide eyes twitched uncontrollably, and his limbs jerked like he was having a bizarre, violent dream.

“Awww, he’s all tuckered out,” I cooed with a twisted smile, as if I was comforting a child who’d just collapsed after a tantrum. Stepping closer, I gave his head a playful but firm stomp, the kind you’d give to wake a particularly lazy cat. “Come on, you big log, get up!” I demanded, half-expecting him to spring back to life like an over-caffeinated jack-in-the-box.

Instead, he lay there, looking more like a deflated parade balloon after a particularly rough Thanksgiving. The absurdity of it all was almost too much to handle—one minute, he's a rampaging beast, the next, he's a grotesque marionette with its strings cut. His once-menacing form now just a twitching pile of muscles and regret, and I couldn't help but chuckle at the pathetic sight.

“So that’s all you had, huh... no Hulk smash? Go on, give us a Hulk smash! No? Boooooo!” I teased, grinding my foot against his cheek, enjoying the feeling of his rough fur and the terror in his one visible red eye as it stared up at me. The pony’s eye widened with pure horror, flickering between me and the destruction he caused. I could hear his heart pounding a million miles an hour—whether from fear or the effects of that mysterious red fluid, I wasn’t sure. Either way, it made me revel in his discomfort.

It was almost disappointing, really. For all his bluster and brute strength, he’d fizzled out quicker than a firework in the rain. But hey, at least he gave us a good show while it lasted. And now, here he was—reduced to a quivering, broken mess at my feet. I couldn't help but savour the irony. One moment, he was a raging monster, and the next, just another casualty of his own overzealous transformation.

“K-k-kill me—please…” the pony managed to stutter, his voice trembling with a mix of pain and desperation. I raised an eyebrow at the request, more amused than concerned.

“Oh, here we go… I have a bit of fun and all of a sudden everyone wants to die,” I said, rolling my eyes dramatically. “Here’s a quote I’ve learned for moments like these: It takes courage to live than to kill yourself… Wait, that’s not right… It takes more courage to live than for you to want me to kill you. Yeah, there we go.” I smirked, watching as he processed my words, his eyes filled with a mix of confusion and reluctant contemplation.

“See, the thing is,” I continued, my tone light and almost conversational, “you had your little moment of glory, your rampage and all that. Now it’s time to face the music, big guy. No easy outs.” I ground my foot into his cheek one last time, enjoying the way he winced.

“Oh well, it was fun while it lasted, ay? You stomped on that one fella’s head and brought down a bar. Not bad... I know a lot of fellas who would have lasted longer but done less in that time,” I chuckled, shaking my head at the absurdity of it all. He was just another example of what happens when you play with fire—or in this case, mysterious red fluids. And now, he had to deal with the consequences.

So, I left the poor sod wallowing in his ill-fated decisions, hoping against all odds he'd miraculously metamorphose into a wiser, more enlightened pony. Maybe one day he'd reflect on this moment and muster some semblance of gratitude, but let's be honest—that's about as probable as a Down Syndrome person discovering a stash of misplaced chromosomes in their sock drawer. The reality? The guy's a walking ghost, toast on both sides, burnt to a crisp.

He should've taken a moment to scrutinise that suspicious "made in Germany" label before plunging that mysterious concoction into his veins. Now, he’s got all the time in the world—or rather, in whatever underworld he’s descending into—to ruminate on his errors. The irony is as rich as the Schadenfreude in a Grimm Brothers’ fairy tale. Next time, if there is a next time for him, maybe he’ll think twice before playing mad scientist with imported potions. But let's face it: he's more likely to sprout wings and fly than to get back up from this one.

Now… where did Night Roar and Berry Punch vanish to? I swear, trying to find them is like playing a demented version of Dora the Explorer. Oh no! This is a total disaster! We need to track them down, stat! I need your help to locate my elusive friends!

Could they be cozied up in some unsuspecting resident’s house, raiding the pantry like they’re on a food safari? Or perhaps they’ve stumbled into a dark alleyway, where the soundtrack is a hooker getting absolutely railed, creating an X-rated symphony? Or maybe, just maybe, they’ve wandered into the tree house, the door conveniently wide open, with the sweet melody of a drunken pony’s babbling echoing from inside? Mmmm… I just don’t know. How about you take a shot in the dark and choose our next ridiculous adventure?

House!

Alleyway!

Tree house!

House—

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Oh! Would you look at that! Turns out, they’re not stuffing their faces with someone else’s snacks. Try again, and this time, maybe use those brain cells a bit more creatively!

Treehouse!

Alleyway!

Alleyway—

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Shocker… they’re not in the alleyway either. So, no R-rated symphony for us. Try again, genius. Maybe the next guess will actually hit the mark!

House!

Tree house!

Treehouse—

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They're not in the treehouse either! You must be thinking, "Huh? But it’s obvious they’re in there," but you’re still wrong! They’re in the candy store, It was the most yummiest building I’ve ever seen. The roof was covered in mouth-watering chocolate and cream covering the edges, reminding me oddly of hot chocolate but as a ceiling. Sticking out the top was a cupcake… No, like, there’s a big ass cupcake just chilling with a window, looking like a Rapunzel’s castle. Oh, there’s also a figurine of a pony with a candy cane. Random as fuck but I rate the effort as one of the weirdest looking buildings I've ever come across. I can see Night Roar slumped by the wide-open door, looking like a tragic Shakespearean character who’s just found out his kingdom was swapped for a bag of expired gummy bears. He’s mumbling to himself with a look of sheer misery on his face, clutching a half-eaten lollipop like it’s his last shred of dignity.

Inside, it’s a scene straight out of a sugary apocalypse. Candy wrappers are strewn across the floor like confetti at a celebration of poor life choices. Berry Punch is probably somewhere in there, buried under an avalanche of sweets, negotiating with the candy jars like a drunk diplomat at a sugar-fuelled G20 summit. She’s likely demanding equal rights for chocolate bars and gummy bears, slurring her words and stumbling around like a bachelorette at her third bar of the night.

Yeah, thanks for nothing, readers! I give you one job, and you manage to screw it up spectacularly. Now we have to rescue our sugar-crashed disasters from their self-inflicted confectionery nightmare. Fantastic. Time to wade through the sticky remnants of their folly and drag them back to reality. This is going to be more fun than a bachelor party at a candy-coated strip club.

As I walked over, I couldn't help but marvel at the scene of destruction. How on earth did they manage to crash into a sweet store? Night Roar was sitting outside, licking a lollipop with a look of profound sadness, like a kid who just lost his favourite toy. He doesn’t drink, but he'll devour a lollipop—honestly, is he a 5-year-old trapped in an adult’s body? If so, that explains a lot.

I decided not to disturb Night Roar since he seemed lost in his own sugary world. Instead, I strolled into the store, unfazed by the chaos, noting that every light was still on, illuminating the candy-coated wonderland. “Honey! I’m home!” I called out, my voice bouncing off the walls lined with jars and boxes of sweets, an almost overwhelming display of sugary delights.

As I surveyed the scene, I spotted Berry Punch in the middle of it all. She was stuffing her mouth and her bag with candy, her cheeks puffed out like a squirrel hoarding nuts for the winter. The floor around her was a minefield of wrappers and fallen sweets. I sighed deeply, shaking my head at the sight. If stupidity were a sin, Berry Punch would be its founding saint. She glanced up at me, cheeks bulging, with a guilty grin that only made the scene more ridiculous.

“Hey, did we lose that thing?” Berry managed to mumble, her voice barely audible through the mass of sweets crammed into her cheeks. I rolled my eyes, exasperated.

“Yes! Now let’s go… we gotta stash our loot,” I said, waving her off dismissively as I picked up a jelly bean and tossed it into my mouth. But just as I turned to leave, the lights abruptly cut out, plunging the store into an eerie darkness. From the corner of my eye, I caught a flicker of movement. My hand reacted on instinct, jerking to my revolver and pulling it out in one swift motion, aiming it towards the source of the movement.

“Well, well… what do we have here…” I muttered under my breath, my eyes straining to pierce through the shadows.

“Berry… go and wait outside for a moment, would you, darlin’?” I instructed, my voice low but firm. Berry, still chewing on her candy, gave a reluctant nod and waddled towards the exit, her footsteps echoing in the now silent shop.

I turned my full attention back to the darkened store, my senses on high alert. The shelves, once colourful and inviting, now loomed like shadowy sentinels. The faint scent of sugar hung in the air, oddly out of place in the tense atmosphere. I strained my ears, trying to pick up any sound that might give away the presence I was certain was there.

The silence was oppressive, every creak of the floorboards beneath my feet amplified in the stillness. I knew I had seen something move, but there wasn’t a single sound to accompany it—not the soft clop of a hoofstep, not a whisper of breath, not even the faintest heartbeat. The only sound was the faint, irregular drip of a leaky faucet somewhere in the back, adding to the eerie ambiance.

How strange, I thought, tightening my grip on the revolver. I took a cautious step forward, my eyes darting between the darkened aisles, each one a potential hiding spot for whatever—or whoever—was lurking. The tension was palpable, my muscles coiled and ready to spring into action at the slightest provocation. The darkness seemed to press in around me, the familiar sweet shop now transformed into a maze of unknown dangers.

I scanned the shadows, my mind racing through possibilities. Was it a guard, a rival thief, or something far worse? The eerie stillness of the shop made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up, a primal warning that I was not alone. Every instinct screamed caution, but curiosity and the need for survival urged me onward, deeper into the unsettling quiet of the once-cheerful candy store.

Again, another flicker of movement caught my eye. I shifted my aim swiftly, only to find that the shadow had vanished once more. I couldn't help but grin at this small game of cat and mouse, a twisted sense of amusement bubbling up within me. The darkness around me felt alive, every shadow potentially hiding my elusive opponent.

“Really? Is this how we’re playing it?” I muttered, giving a little tut at the cowardly act. My voice echoed softly in the stillness, bouncing off the rows of candy-laden shelves and adding to the eerie ambiance of the store. I took another cautious step forward, the floorboards creaking under my weight, each sound magnified in the oppressive silence.

My eyes darted around, trying to anticipate where the next movement might come from. The shop, once a colourful haven of sweets and treats, now felt like a haunted maze. The darkness distorted familiar shapes, turning lollipops and candy jars into sinister silhouettes. The sweet scent in the air was almost mocking, a stark contrast to the tension thick enough to cut with a knife.

I tightened my grip on the revolver, the cold metal a reassuring presence in my hand. This shadowy adversary was playing hard to get, but I had no intention of letting them win this game. My heart pounded in my chest, the adrenaline sharpening my senses and heightening my awareness. The thrill of the hunt was intoxicating, each vanished shadow only fuelling my determination.

"Alright, let's see how long you can keep this up," I whispered, a smirk playing on my lips as I continued to scan the darkness. This little dance of ours was far from over, and I was more than ready to see who would make the next move.

Now there was movement from the upper floor, the floorboards creaking under the weight of someone—or something—moving about. I strained my ears and, sure enough, picked up the slow, steady rhythm of a calm heartbeat from upstairs. Great, just what I needed. I was on the verge of getting caught for breaking and entering in a candy store. Wonder if I can plead insanity in this world…

I rolled my eyes at the thought, my grip tightening on the revolver. The upper floor creaked again, the sound almost mocking in its deliberate pace. Whoever was up there wasn’t in a hurry, which meant they probably weren’t aware of my presence. Yet.

"Fantastic," I muttered under my breath, glancing around the dimly lit store. "Caught red-handed in a candy store. That's a new low, even for me."

I took a cautious step toward the staircase, every creak of the old wooden floor amplifying the absurdity of the situation. The irony wasn’t lost on me—caught like a thief in a candy shop. Classic.

I could almost picture the headline: “Mysterious Intruder Busted in Sweet Shop, Claims Temporary Insanity”. Yeah, that would go over well. But there was no turning back now. I had to figure out who—or what—was upstairs before they decided to come downstairs and complicate things even further.

"Alright, upstairs it is," I sighed, starting to make my way towards the staircase. The thrill of the unknown combined with the absurdity of the situation was almost enough to make me laugh. Almost.

As I turned toward the stairs, a flutter of a cloak caught my attention. I spun around, revolver at the ready, but once again, there was nothing. Frustration was starting to creep in, but then realisation hit me like a freight train—whoever this shadowy figure was, they had managed to get behind me in an instant.

As I completed my turn, I instinctively raised my hand just in time to catch a strike from a hoof with a hidden blade attached. The blade impaled my wrist, the sharp tip stopping mere inches from my crimson eye. Pain shot through my arm, but I didn’t flinch. Instead, I stared at the cloaked and hooded unicorn standing before me, a white not so well looked after horn ripping through the hood like a demonic unicorn from a nightmare.

A devilish grin spread across my face, my grip tightening around the unicorn’s hoof despite the agony in my wrist. The blade was buried deep, but the thrill of the confrontation dulled the pain, turning it into a twisted kind of pleasure.

“Nice trick,” I murmured, my voice dripping with mockery. “But what are you gonna do now, huh?”

It didn’t take long for me to find out. With a fizzle of her horn, the unicorn vanished from my grasp and reappeared above me, spiralling through the air. Her hooves struck with precision, landing a solid hit across my face. The force of the blow sent me flying backward into a row of shelves laden with candy jars. The impact was catastrophic. Shelves toppled like dominos, jars smashed into a thousand glittering pieces, and candy rained down in a colourful explosion. The wall behind me bore the brunt of my landing, a spiderweb of cracks etching into the plaster.

Dazed, I lay amidst the wreckage, momentarily stunned by the blow. A warm liquid trickled down my nostril, and I touched my face gingerly. This bitch had broken my nose.

"You’ve terrorised this village for far too long, Night Terror! Your carelessness and carnivorous ways must stop!" A mare’s voice rang out, firm and unyielding, from beneath the shadowed hood, her identity obscured by the darkness.

I huffed in amusement, pushing myself up from the pile of rubble. With a grimace, I attempted to reset my nose, but instead of the smooth, heroic snap I envisioned, I only managed to make the pain worse. The alcohol must have dulled my coordination. For my ego’s sake, let’s just say I got it right the first time.

“Not gonna happen, love. I’ve got a diet and a reputation to uphold,” I retorted, lifting my revolver with a manic grin spreading across my face.

The candy store was a scene of utter devastation. Broken glass and sweets were scattered everywhere, painting a surreal battlefield. The sweet scent of candy mixed with the metallic tang of blood, creating a bizarrely nauseating combination. The shelves were splintered and toppled, the floor a minefield of shattered jars and crushed candy.

“Then you leave me no choice!” she declared, her voice resolute. With renewed vigour, she was about to charge, but a voice so out of place cut through the tension in the air.

“Well, well, well, what’s going on down here? A party?” The cheerful voice of a girl chimed from the stairway, causing both of us to turn. There stood a pony with two different shades of pink in her straight mane, sky-blue eyes, and a smile that seemed to scream, “I’m just happy to be here.” Her eyes wandered around the mess of sweets and debris scattered across the floor, and her look of joy quickly faded, replaced by… whatever the heck that expression was. It was a forced smile that said she was fine while the room metaphorically burned down around her.

“Hey! Is that my candy you’re stealing?” The pink pony’s cheerfulness vanished, replaced by a stern, almost frightening glare.

As I drawled my retort, “I’d like to plead the fifth while silently blaminnnnnnnnnnnnnnnng—”, stretching the accusation into the air, my eyes darted around, searching for the elusive cloaked figure. Yet, the supposed assassin had disappeared into thin air once more. “Where the—”

Suddenly, a blur of pink rocketed forward. The pink pony, a mask of vibrant colour against the drab surroundings, moved with a velocity that defied natural law. But I was no mere bystander caught in the spectacle—I was an entity forged from something otherworldly. To my heightened senses, her attack unfolded like a scene played at half-speed; her hoof aiming for my skull, its shadow grazing me. With a swift dodge, I sidestepped, my fist connecting with her face—rubber? The impact sent her staggering backward into the wall with a thud that was unsatisfyingly soft. No crunch of bone, no splatter of blood—just the dull echo of rubber against plaster.

But there was no time to ponder. The cloaked mare reappeared, materialising at my flank in a whisper of movement. A sharp pain exploded in my side as her hoof, now a blade, found my liver. I stumbled, skidding across the gritty floor to one knee, clutching my side.

“I’m giving you one chance before I kill you right here and now,” the cloaked mare declared, her voice icy as she twisted her hoof, a blade sliding with mechanical precision from her device. “Leave this village and never come back,” she commanded.

“No, no, I don’t think I will,” I retorted, blood now tinting my grin. I surged forward, pulling a kukri from my belt with a fluid motion, and charged. My blade sliced through the air toward her.

“Fool,” she hissed, effortlessly sidestepping. She countered my frantic slashes with her hidden blade, each clash sparking metal against metal—a dazzling display of deadly fireworks. Despite the gravity of our dance, a thrill surged through me, the metallic symphony, the arc of sparks in the dim light—it was mesmerising.

But I was made for this—for the clash, the chaos, the brink of destruction. A surge of adrenaline fuelled my next move. Feinting a slash, I twisted, my body coiling like a spring, and unleashed a vicious sidekick. It caught her unawares, her body recoiling, saliva ejecting from her mouth as she crashed spectacularly through the window, tumbling amidst an array of shattered glass and strewn pastries, her form sprawled across the cobblestones below.

Amidst a cloud of dust and crumbling debris, my senses snapped to high alert as the pink pony’s shadow loomed ominously over me, her anger palpable in the electric air. Her hoof, charged with pent-up fury, rocketed towards my face, its impact shattering the precarious calm, propelling me backwards with crushing force into the weakened wall, making me drop my firearm and blade. As the bricks gave way, we tumbled into the chaotic street, the outside world crashing into our violent ballet.

Scrambling amidst rubble, I struggled to steady my swirling vision, feeling the jagged breaths tear through my bruised ribs. Nearby, the pink pony stood silhouetted against the dim light, a vengeful goddess, her mane wild and eyes hidden in shadow, pulsing with unspoken wrath. Beside her, the cloaked mare’s presence was chillingly silent, her stance poised and lethal.

What was this? The good, the bad and the pink?

Ignoring the throbbing pain that screamed with each movement, I forced a bloodied smile and taunted them, my voice a ragged blade cutting through the tense air, “Come get it if you think you’re hard enough!” The battle cry hung between us, a gauntlet thrown.

With a snarl, they charged, a dual tempest of fury and precision. The pink pony, a blur of raw aggression, and the cloaked mare, her movements calculated and swift. I met their onslaught with desperate ferocity, ducking a razor-sharp kick and countering with a series of rapid punches. Each hit I landed was bought with hard-earned breaths, my fists cutting through the air to connect with fleeting shadows.

“Damn, you two are good. I’m fired up now,” I growled, adrenaline surging as I anticipated their next moves. Spurred by challenge, I lunged towards the cloaked mare, predicting her dodge and spinning to land a solid sidekick. The impact sent her reeling but left me open—a fatal mistake.

The pink pony seized the moment, her hoof slicing towards me like a guillotine. I twisted away, the move so close I could feel the rush of air graze my cheek, a whisper from death itself. Her voice, laced with both admiration and threat, chilled the blood in my veins, “Wow, you’re fast! I was about to finish you off with that single blow.”

Retorting with a sneer, I beckoned her onward, “Compliments will get you nowhere, pink pony!” She charged, zigzagging through the debris-strewn street, her eyes locked on mine with predatory focus.

Anticipating an attack from behind, I dodged prematurely, narrowly escaping the cloaked mare’s aerial assault. The ground where I had stood moments before cracked under the force of her strike, sending shards of asphalt flying. But the pink pony was relentless, already closing the gap between us, her face set in a merciless grimace.

This was no longer just a fight; it was a relentless clash of wills, a dance on the razor’s edge of survival. With each movement choreographed by instinct and desperation, I parried, dodged, and struck, my body moving on the brink of its capabilities. The thrill of the battle consumed me, a fire that burned brighter with each exchange, each narrow escape from defeat. Here, in the shattered remains of the street, I found a fierce joy—the pure exhilaration of survival against all

The aftershock of the pink pony’s brutal hook to my side reverberated through my body, contorting it unnaturally as I was hurled through the air. The collision with a solid object was deafening, the world briefly going dark as I smashed through what felt like a wall, landing amid a chaotic pile of rubble and sweets. For a moment, consciousness eluded me, and when it returned, I found myself staring up at a coarse, sandpaper-like ceiling, candies strewn around like colourful debris from some strange storm.

Pain lanced through my left arm, bent grotesquely in a way arms should never bend. I struggled to my feet, vision swimming as I saw the pink pony and cloaked mare standing defiantly, side by side, peering through the hole my body had created. Their postures were triumphant, almost mocking.

“Is that all you got?” the pink pony taunted, a wild grin splitting her face.

“Give up! It’s pointless to continue,” the cloaked mare added coolly, her voice slicing through the air like a cold blade.

A laugh bubbled up from my throat, raw and tinged with madness. “Those are my lines, fuckers,” I spat out, a smirk spreading across my face as a surge of adrenaline fuelled my defiance. “Cause now; I’m pissed off.” My words were a snarl as I staggered through the rubble, my damaged arm hanging uselessly by my side.

Channeling every ounce of strength into my legs, the world blurred into a smear of colours as I launched myself at them with lethal intent. In an instant, I closed the distance, crouching low and unleashing an uppercut aimed directly at the pink pony. My movement was a blur, too fast for her eyes to track. With a satisfying connection, I sent her soaring above the rooftops.

Before the cloaked mare could react, I was already on her, my trajectory calculated perfectly to intercept her midair. My heel slammed into her stomach, forcing out a spray of saliva as she plummeted back to the earth, creating a crater on impact. I followed her down, my war cry echoing off the surrounding buildings as my fist connected with the rubbery side of her cheek. The impact was brutal, definitive. She collapsed, the fight drained from her body.

Limping away from the destruction, I clutched at my broken arm, scanning for the cloaked mare. She was gone—or so I thought—until a searing pain exploded in my back, sending me skidding across the ground. Turning, I saw her, shaken but defiant. Good, I had made my point.

Despite the agony, I stood, ready as she launched into an aerial attack. I raised my arm in defence, her kick sending shockwaves through my body, my knees buckling under the impact. I shrugged off her assault, sending her tumbling with a countermove.

I charged, unleashing a series of rapid, powerful jabs that forced her back, her grunts of pain music to my ears. “Do you realise how fucked you are, miss cloak mare?” I taunted, my voice dripping with derision.

“One says such words because they believe they have won, but that is your downfall,” she countered between painful grunts.

Her resilience was infuriating. As she staggered to her hind legs, she executed a move of such finesse that it seemed to slow time itself. She intercepted my jab with an effortless parry, her movement fluid, stopping my momentum dead. My mind raced—how had she managed this?

Before I could recover, she twisted, delivering a devastating Thai-style kick straight into my chest. The force was immense, my ribs cracking under the impact as I felt blood well up in my mouth. Launched backward, I created a dirt trail with my rolling body, each breath now a wet, bloody gasp. Pain clouded my vision as I lay sprawled, struggling to comprehend the extent of my injuries.

As the cold steel of the blade glinted menacingly above me, poised to plunge, my blood-smeared lips curled into a defiant smirk. The mare’s shadow loomed over me, her figure outlined against the faint moonlight filtering through the shattered remnants of the building. “Nice trick, I must admit. And that kick, damn!” I laughed, a wheezy, ragged sound that betrayed the pain racking my body.

“You should have taken my offer; it wouldn’t have ended like this,” she retorted, her voice dry, tinged with a hint of regret. “Any last words?” Her tone was clinical, as if she were merely an executioner performing a routine duty.

I tilted my head, a coy smile playing across my face, tinged with a wild, reckless energy. “I have a trick up my sleeve you know, do you wanna see what it is? My secret weapon?” I taunted, baiting her, stalling for time.

Her eyes narrowed, the blade shimmering with lethal intent as she hissed, “It does not matter what it is; you’re going to die for what you have done tonight.” The blade thrust downward with fatal precision.

“Too bad,” I sighed, watching the descent of my impending doom. But then—

Smash!

Out of nowhere, the mare’s form crumpled onto me, her body suddenly slack. A dizzy, tipsy figure stood behind her, wielding a half-smashed bottle of rum. “Boo-ya, bitch!” slurred Berry Punch, her words swimming in alcohol as she staggered, barely maintaining her balance after her improvised attack.

The timing was miraculous. I grinned, propping myself up on my elbows, eyeing the unexpected saviour. “Nice hit, I was sure you were gonna miss for a second there.”

“Please… I never miss,” Berry retorted with a drunken smugness, just before the alcohol and sugar overload from her earlier indulgences took their toll, sending her crashing face-first into the ground in a comically graceless heap.

With a shake of my head, I pushed the incapacitated cloaked mare off of me and struggled to my feet, my broken arm hanging uselessly. I looked down at her prone form with a grin. “Well, mystery mare, it’s been fun. I hope I see you again; if you resurrect again, that is.”

As I spoke, my own blood began to obey my silent command, snaking fluidly from my wounds and coalescing into a sharp, pike-like formation in my right hand—a manifestation of my unique ability to manipulate my own lifeblood into lethal weapons. “Bye-bye, pony,” I muttered, ready to end the confrontation.

Just as I aimed to drive the blood pike through her heart, a stone pinged off my makeshift weapon, sending it skewing off course to thud into the ground a mere millimetre from her head. Startled, I scanned the direction from which the stone had come, only to see another cloaked figure dashing towards us.

I barely had time to react as the new adversary engaged me with a flurry of punches and kicks, driving me back several meters. Then, as quickly as the assailant had appeared, they threw down a black smoke bomb, enveloping themselves and the original cloaked mare in a cloud of darkness.

“Oh no, you fucking don’t,” I shouted, diving into the billowing smoke, swinging the blood pike blindly in a desperate attempt to connect. I swished my arms through the thinning cloud, but as it cleared, only a puddle of blood remained. “Fuck!” I screamed, fury boiling over at the thwarted kill.

Calm slowly reclaimed my raging heart as I surveyed the damage around me. The pink pony was nowhere to be found, and the battle scene was eerily quiet. “Fucking fuck!” I sighed, running a hand through my hair, a part of me dreading that my cursed luck might conjure yet another disaster.

I staggered back to the scene of the initial confrontation, searching through the debris for my dropped weapons. After minutes of sifting through broken wood and stone, my fingers finally closed around the familiar handles of my kukri and revolver.

“Come to Mama,” I murmured, a weary but wicked smile tugging at my lips as I reclaimed my arms, ready for whatever chaos might still await.

Exiting the candy store, I looked to my side and saw that Night Roar had finished his lollipop. His eyes widened when he saw me—my arm hanging limply, my nose a bloody mess, and my body smeared with blood. I was holding a sleeping Berry Punch under my arm.

“Before you ask—no, I didn’t start it, and you should see the other guy,” I chuckled, each step sending waves of pain through my aching body.

Night Roar could only stare in shock, his jaw hanging open. What had happened while he was lost in his thoughts, subconsciously digesting a lollipop? He watched as I walked away, my movements slow and laboured.

He followed at a fair distance, his mind once again adrift as he carried a bag full of booze and candy. A spike of anger surged through him as he looked up at my tall, slender form, sluggishly moving away. The desire for revenge burned inside him. He wanted to see fear etched across my face, to see me driven to desperation just as I had driven his friends to their deaths. That was Night Roar’s goal now—to rid the world of the Night Terror. But how? How do you kill someone like me?

As he followed, he clenched his jaw, thinking of ways to bring me down. The anger and desire for vengeance were palpable, giving him a renewed sense of purpose. He watched my every move, noting the slight limp in my step, the lifeless arm as I held Berry Punch from under my arm, and the blood dripping from my wounds. He knew he needed to find a way to exploit my weaknesses, to turn the tables on the one who had caused so much pain and suffering.

The night was quiet, save for the distant sounds of the village settling down. The cool air did little to soothe the burning rage within Night Roar. His thoughts swirled with images of revenge, each one more brutal than the last. He could see it now—the moment when he would confront me, the look of surprise and fear in my eyes as I realised my end was near.

But for now, he followed silently, plotting and waiting for the perfect opportunity. He was determined to find a way to kill the Night Terror, no matter what it took. And as the night stretched on, so did his resolve, hardening his heart against the monster he believed he had to destroy.

A Sweet Tooth

by Penanka72

Chapter 1 - London Bridge Is Falling Down...

Chapter 2 - You're talking to a drunk; you lost the moment you accused me.

Chapter 3 - 'permanently borrowed'

Chapter 4 - The Good, The Bad and The Pink.

House—

Alleyway—

Treehouse—