The Mare-Do-Well's first year of crime-fighting. She punches a clown. It's cool.
Canterlot. If you ever wanted to raise a family, this would have been the place. But not anymore. These days, Canterlot is infested with crime and murder, with police struggling to maintain order and control in a city gone mad.
But from the darkness, a bolt of black lightning is shot. The police are afraid of her. The populace is afraid of her. Criminals are afraid of her.
The Mysterious Mare-Do-Well has appeared to take back Canterlot from its tormentors...
AUTHOR'S NOTE: While this story is obviously based on Batman, it's based on EVERY PART of Batman: the darker tones of Christopher Nolan and Frank Miller, with the adventurous wit and charm of Paul Dini and Bruce Timm, the twisted visions of Jeph Loeb and Tim Burton, and even a little bit of Adam West camp. Who knows? Maybe even other heroes will show up...
Good morning, Canterlot. This is KPON morning news. I'm Shooting Star.
In the news today, Captain of the Canterlot Royal Guard Shining Armor stepped down from his position to take the reigns of Police Commissioner Top Brass, who was killed three nights ago by a mysterious assailant. When asked for comment, he only had this to say:
Shining Armor looked into the crowd of reporters, hiding his "camera-anxiety" like a pro. "As ordered by Her Majesty the Princess, it is my honor to lead the police in their crusade to protect the ponies of Canterlot. I served under Her Majesty for two years as Captain protecting her. Now the time has come I do the same for her children." He breathed deep. "I only hope I can be half the commissioner Top Brass was. His killer will be brought to justice."
Shining Armor is the youngest Captain of the Royal Guards to date, and now that he has taken the place of Top Brass, it seems he's aiming to be the youngest Police Commissioner as well. The votes for his placement on the CPD were unanimous, with his loyalty to the ponies of Equestria taken into great consideration.
In other news, strange sightings of a shadowy figure have terrorized citizens of Canterlot for the past three months. While no footage has been taken of this masked figure, there have been numerous photographs and local sightings.
“I definitely think she’s real,” said one Canterlot citizen. He nervously scratched at his thinning mane. “I… just dunno what she’s doin’. Like… is what she’s doin’… safe? Or right? I ‘unno.”
A local teen rolled her eyes. Light seemed to reflect off every piercing on her face. “So some attention [expletive deleted] is getting her jollies scarin’ the [expletive deleted] outta ponies. Big whoop.” She moved a long black forelock behind her ear. “Y’know there’s this big crime wave goin’ on right now? With all these real ponies getting hurt? Whaddaya doin’ makin’ a big deal outta some urban bigfoot? Go find some other dumb [expletive deleted] to go make a sensation out of.”
“I saw her run by my apartment window,” said an elderly mare. “It was late at night, so I didn’t get the best view, but I could definitely make out the hat and cape. Her pale eyes seemed to just... glow in the dark.” The look in her eyes became somber for a few seconds, before she looked back up to the camera. “I’m not sure I know what it is she aims to do, and that, quite frankly, scares me.”
While Canterlot’s opinions on her motives are divided, it seems this masked individual, this "Mysterious Mare-Do-Well", does indeed exist. Any further information, including motivation or identity, however, is unknown at this time.
In the top news story of the hour, several dead bodies were found just outside of the home of Gyre Gimble on Wabe Avenue last night in what is already being called the worst killing this winter. Viewers are strongly cautioned, as the next images to be shown on this news program are very disturbing…
Winter stopped by Canterlot around the end of October, the city welcoming her old friend. He embraced her with an arctic hug as they greeted, covering Canterlot with piles of snow on every roof and a chill in the air. The two sat down to converse over a dinner of building lights in darkness, but unfortunately, Canterlot had quite a bit of bad news to impart.
Her crime rate had become worse since Winter had seen her last. Criminals were running up and down her streets like obnoxious head lice, and refused to behave themselves no matter who her seasonal guest was. It was particularly bad when poor Summer was here. At least when Autumn visited, a strange shadow descended and scared her criminal plague. She wept when she recounted the death of her faithful Police Commissioner. Winter dried her tears, and told her things were about to get better. Afterward, he took Canterlot to bed.
In the streets of Canterlot, when the chilly night fell, criminals of every stripe haunted the alleys and warehouses. Plotting. Scheming. Hiding. Hurting. Always the hurting. There was no real way to avoid pain in Canterlot these days, no matter if you were a part of the rich elite or a pauper on the street. Crime was ruthless and did not discriminate: anypony was fair game.
This chilly and unfortunate night, a young mare sat next to a lamppost, watching the snowflakes around her dance in the air as they descended slowly to the ground to join their fellows. The black duffel bag at her side housed her necessities.
She sniffed back a strand of mucous that Winter seemed intent on drawing out of her. She shifted her weight from one side to the other and scratched at her electric-blue mane. Nervously, Vinyl Scratch adjusted her purple-tinted glasses again, for the fourth time in two minutes of standing there, waiting.
Waiting for the Angels.
Six murder victims line the sidewalk in front of Gyre Gimble’s house. Among the dead are stallions, mares... and two teenage foals. Several had their tongues removed and cast aside, not even a few feet away from their victims. All were severely beaten to death, with many showing multiple lacerations and open cut wounds.
The witness further explains our story.
There were Angels in the sounds. She always knew they were there, ever since she was a child. They would tell her secrets, like that Mom was cheating on Daddy with one of the neighbors or that Daddy was lying about quitting the bottle. The Angels never lied, so when they asked her to do something, she’d do it. The Angels always looked out for Vinyl Scratch, ever since she was small, so she would follow their advice.
The first thing they’d asked her to do was make sure Daddy actually quit the bottle. The Angels led her around her house, finding stash after stash of bottles and liquor. Daddy found out. There were Angels in the sounds as his hoof pounded across her face again and again—Angels crying in heartfelt apology. As Daddy stormed off to the nearest bar, the Angel that was the ringing in her ears held her tight, telling her it wasn’t her fault. Her father was just a very, very bad pony. She wept in its arms that night, until it died, as all Angels do when their sound stops.
When a sound stops, the Angels living in it dies. The Angels who were in the music Vinyl Scratch played died when the tape ran out. The Angels in the sound of Canterlot traffic lived all day long, but died when quiet nights like tonight rolled around. When a sound stops, the Angel living in it dies. They had very short lives, but all the Angels loved her, beginning to end.
The Angels would later tell her more things, more secrets. They would ask her to do things, and she would never question them, even when it hurt, like with Daddy. They asked her to learn music, so that they could converse with her more eloquently. She loved the Angels in the music, and they loved her. The conversations they held were always thoughtful and insightful. Usually sweet.
Always angry.
That was the one thing Vinyl Scratch never quite understood about the Angels in the sounds. They would almost always be angry—never with her, though; they were always quick to mention that it was never her fault they were angry. It was Mom cheating on Daddy that made them angry. It was Daddy being a drunk that made them angry. It was her boyfriend having "secret meetings" with other stallions in town that made them angry. But it was never her. Never.
She loved the Angels, and they loved her. They always looked out for her. Later, after the cheating mother’s face was shattered, after the drunkard father’s back was splintered, after the cheater was drowned, then the Angels would be happy instead of angry. She pleased them.
But tonight?
Tonight was the very angriest she had ever heard the Angels. As she played on her turn-table, they spat at her. She played her bass, and they howled. She kept time on her drums, and they cursed and yelled and threw such fits. So she asked what was wrong this time.
Mr. Gimble, age fifty-two and looking nearly ten years younger, nervously looked at the camera. He took a quick breath before giving his side of the story. “Well,” he started, quickly wetting his lips, “it started when some carolers came by. They sang their little song, meant to lift the spirits of ponies who heard it. That’s the idea, anyway. But with crime as high as it’s ever been in Canterlot these days, y’know, even at the beginning, I wondered what the heck they were doing out there this late at night.”
“It’s not you, Sexy,” they said. “It’s never you. It’s that top-hat wearing punk. She’s up to something. She wants you to do something for her instead of for us.”
She sat down and thought this over. Her room had become quiet. She needed the quiet sometimes. When there were no Angels for her to converse with, Vinyl Scratch could think. Right now, she needed to think.
Outside were more of the Angels. Cats fighting over food. The neighbors’ loud and obnoxious lovemaking. A car having trouble starting. All these Angels offered suggestions as to what Vinyl Scratch could do. They were very good suggestions. Except the one offered by the cat-fight, since it simply wouldn’t do to kill the screwy mare in the top hat.
The top hat-wearing mare was certainly peculiar. Hard to ignore in a crowd. Spoke in riddles and wordplay a lot of the time. Vinyl Scratch was almost certain the Top Hat Mare was not aware of the Angels in the Sounds. Instead, her Angels lived in hats. She had many hats. Many hats, many Angels.
She was the first friend Vinyl Scratch had ever made who was not an Angel. They often conversed over some tea with guests the Top Hat Mare invited from various parts of Canterlot. When the guests misbehaved, the Top Hat Mare would sic her pet on them. The Angels that lived in their final screams told Vinyl Scratch that they were not good ponies anyway. They deserved to be gobbled.
But the Top Hat Mare and Vinyl Scratch became friends after several of these parties. So it came that the Top Hat Mare had asked Vinyl Scratch to do something for her. To get something for her: a sword. To fetch it and something-something-something, “come galumphing back.” Vinyl Scratch hit her head with her hooves as hard as she could, trying to jar some memory. It was so hard remembering words that Angels don’t speak!
Vinyl Scratch came to a decision. She would meet with the Top-Hat Mare. She left her apartment with her necessities, which were very few. If she needed more musical instruments, she could always ask for the Top Hat Mare to help her find some.
Across the street from her was a stray dog howling. The Angel in the howl told her that time is running short. Either she can go with her friend, or she can go with the Angels. One or the other. Not both. For the first time in a long time, Vinyl Scratch felt terrified.
He was visibly shaking. The camera pony was almost tempted to just shut his camera off, but Gimble continued. “It was so bizarre. That’s the word I could use to describe it. At first, it felt so surreal. Like, ya can’t believe it’s happening. She shows up, and I don’t get a good look at her where I’m standing, but I hear her. It was too dark to make out too many features, but I saw her blue mane.” He shivered. “Her eyes were glowin’ purple in the moonlight.”
Gimble looked up and caught a smirk from the reporter. “I know it sounds crazy, glowin’ eyes and all that, but with all these unicorns with their magic these days—” At this, Gimble looked to the camera pony, who happened to be a unicorn “—no offense, but with all this magic they’re learning these days, a little eye-glowing’s not all that weird. It was the lighting, I think, that made her look so scary.”
“But I thought you loved me!” she said aloud to the Angel in the howl.
The dog growled at her, and the Angel in the growl said, “Of course we do, Sexy! But only if you love us back! You cannot go with that Top-Hat Mare and still be with us! It is either us or her.”
Again, Vinyl Scratch adjusted her tinted glasses. The Top Hat Mare told her to meet her at the usual spot if she wanted to fetch this sword for her. If she… If she REALLY wanted to be friends with her, that is. She was almost to that spot now. She had almost gone with the Top Hat Mare.
“D-Don’t make this hard,” she stammered. She felt hot tears well up in her eyes. “Please don’t.”
Nearby, a homeless stallion rummaged in a garbage can when he heard Vinyl Scratch sniffling, begging. He turned around, no longer interested in the contents of the can. He took in this curious scene: the mare talking to this stray dog as if it were her lover threatening to leave her. His aged boots scratched against the concrete as he adjusted his weight from one side to the other. The mare’s head snapped toward him so quickly, he cringed.
She had heard the Angel in the scratch. It said, “Hard?! Sexy, this should be an easy choice! Don’t you love us anymore?!”
Vinyl Scratch felt like screaming. She couldn’t hide the cracking in her voice as she shouted to the vagrant, “Of course I love you!” He raised an eyebrow at this sudden outburst.
“Uh… Lady?” he asked. “Is… everything OK, or…?”
The dog barked. The Angel in the bark snarled, “If you LOVED us, you wouldn’t even be here right now. Why do you want to go with that Top Hat Mare friend of yours?! You love her more than you love us! Even after all we’ve been through together!”
That was when the homeless stallion held a gasp. The mare before him became a ghost. If it was one thing that made this surreal situation delve into terrifying territory, it was that she was fast. The dog didn’t have time to react before she was on top of it, slamming it with all the force she could muster, breaking its head under her hooves.
“Anyway, she shows up, screamin’ about angels. I distinctly remember her yelling about angels. That was when the carolers, like any equine body would, just stopped and stared at her like she was an alien. Then she fell down and started crying." The reporter looked at him with a cocked head. "Hey, don’t lookit me like that, man, I told you this all started out weird.”
The snow around them became red. The dog whimpered as the blows came down like a relentless torrent, slamming his skull again and again until finally he was quiet. The Angels in the whimpers cursed at her. They were never angry with her before, and now that they were, Vinyl Scratch was terrified she would lose them.
She stopped. The rage she felt defused so suddenly, so instantly, that for a few seconds, it felt like it never really happened. The only evidence that existed was beneath her, reduced to a mess of meat. She inhaled deeply, wiping at her face, smearing it with the dog’s blood. She twitched like mad, unable to control these bizarre spasms. She blamed the cold.
The hobo had seen enough. He slowly began to turn, attempting to sneak away. If he could just quietly make it to the chain-link fence there, he could climb over it and escape. Just had to hope that this madmare behind him, sitting over the dead dog like a predator after a fresh kill, bathing in its blood, wouldn’t turn her attention back to him.
As the vagrant began his quiet escape, Vinyl Scratch kept her ears open. There were no Angels. No wind was picking up. Canterlot was so deeply asleep that her soft snores were too silent for the Angels to live in them. They…
…They left. The Angels had abandoned her. Vinyl Scratch took off her purple-tinted glasses and wiped at her face more intensely, sniffling. She felt her cheeks and lips grow hot. “I’m so sorry,” she mumbled in a thin, weak voice. “I’m so, so sorry. I just… Why can’t I have both of you?”
Okay, thought the hobo. Made it to the fence. Just gotta climb it and I’m outta here. He lifted a hoof and put it forth, onto the fence, and began to climb. The chain links began to sing as he ascended.
“You can’t have us both,” said the Angels in the chain links. “The Top Hat Mare wishes to use you as a pawn. We are your real friends. We always did what was best for you.”
At this, Vinyl Scratch jumped off the dog. Red hoofprints got left in the snow as she stomped over to the chain-link fence. The hobo nearly screamed but continued his climb, doubling his pace, trying his damndest to just get the Tartarus away from this crazy mare.
“What was best?!” she shouted. “Since when were your little favors you asked me ever in my best interest?!” She punched at the fence, eliciting both a gasp from the hobo and a shiver from the fence itself.
“We were looking out for you!” rebutted the Angel in the shiver. The Angel in the gasp nodded its head in agreement.
Again, Vinyl Scratch pounded at the fence. “We were trying to protect you from those who would hurt you!” said the Angel in the fence.
“Oh yeah?! Well, I did what you told me to do, and you know what happened?! Daddy hit me! Mom hated me! I got ignored! Nothing you asked me to do ever improved my life!” She shook with rage as the hobo dropped on the other side of the fence, landing with a thud.
“How is that OUR fault?!” sneered the Angel in the thud.
The hobo ran for his life, his gallop slamming against cold pavement. “Maybe it was all because YOU kept screwing up!” barked the Angel in the gallop.
“Oh SURE!” Vinyl Scratch said, throwing her hooves up in the air angrily. “Blame ME! Blame me like Daddy did! I drove him to drink! Or Mom! She never wanted me because having me around made her feel old!” The tears began again as she slunk down onto the ice-cold, trash-ridden cobblestone ground.
The Angels said nothing else for a long time. Vinyl Scratch looked up at the dark night sky as the snow continued to fall. Everything was quiet. Quiet was good. It gave her a moment to think.
Why did she need the guidance of the Angels anyway? All their directions ever did was end up hurting her. The Top Hat Mare was always there for her in ways the Angels couldn’t be. She loved the Angels, and the Angels loved her, so she thought they would understand. She didn’t ever question them until tonight, and all of a sudden, that love had broken so abruptly.
Had the Angels truly abandoned her?
“I-I’m sorry,” she moaned as she slogged across the pavement, past the dog, to the lamppost where her duffel bag still was. “I… I just wanted a friend.” She fell over on top of the duffel bag and buried her face in her hooves.
“And this,” Gimble says. He swears he’s about to stutter, so he pauses, swallows, collects himself, then begins again. “This was when it all started getting really scary. The carolers, y’know, I guess they get curious. Anypony would. Some chick showed up yelling about angels and then started weeping like a baby.
“So this one caroler, a guy, he walks over to her, I guess to make sure she’s all right. The moment she stands up?” Mr. Gimble breathed a terrified sigh and shook his head. “The moment she got up, man, I shot for the telephone. I knew right then and there somethin’… somethin’ really, really bad was about to happen.”
[/hr]
How much time had Vinyl Scratch sat there? It felt like hours crawled by. But eventually, there came another Angel, from another sound.
It started out low, then started to grow. A few streets away, there was joyous singing of Hearth’s-Warming, celebrating the unity of the pony races. Joy. That was the word. The Angel in the singing was full of joy. Was this Angel different from the rest?
Vinyl Scratch shot up and looked in the direction of the song. She smiled. She could feel its joy. She got up, picking up her duffel bag and running in the direction of the sound, once again stepping on the dog’s carcass as she ran. “Angel!” she cried. “Oh, Angel, please don't—I’m sorry, I—”
But before she could finish whatever thought she attempted to make, she came close enough to the singing to hear the Angel in the song whisper lovingly to her. The Angel sounded like a patient mother who understood her daughter was having a very rough day.
“It was wrong of us to judge you like that, Sexy,” the Angel said. “Of course you only wanted friends.”
Vinyl Scratch rounded the corner, her hooves slamming against the snow-covered cobblestone. Another lamppost lit the ground, making the cobblestone look almost golden. In this light, Vinyl Scratch could make out the carolers, standing out in front of a house. "Angel!" she cried. "Thank you, Angel, I—"
The carolers went silent. All eyes fell to her.
When the carolers stopped singing, the Angel in the singing died.
Vinyl Scratch’s heart plummeted. The only Angel willing to forgive her for her rebellion had died. Vinyl Scratch fell to the ground, and wept.
One of the carolers, a slim Earth pony with an attractive reddish-brown pelt, took a step forward. The other carolers watched as he asked her, “Miss, um… is… is everything… OK?”
Vinyl Scratch took off her purple-tinted glasses and wiped at her face. So much blood. Couldn’t get the tears away. So much blood, so much tears, so much, so much.
She looked up, breathing hard, her lips pulling back into a snarl. The carolers saw all the blood that covered her and started backing away. The slim Earth pony gasped in terror at the sight. Under the lamp’s golden light, her eyes sparkled furiously, rimmed with red. She looked like a vengeful angel, the very image of the Pale Horse herself.
She wiped at her face again. The tears gone, she could see the carolers. No. She saw the killers. They killed her Angel because they stopped singing.
Lieutenant Soarin, five years on the force, resident lazy genius of the Canterlot Police Homicide Division, stretched, scratched, belched, and flicked his cigarette to the ground as the sun finally, demurely, peeked over the horizon. Soarin hated these early morning moments. But hey, no rest for the wicked. He sniffed nonchalantly as his partner, fellow Lieutenant Spitfire, looked at him in befuddlement.
“So,” she said, “she jumped.”
Her partner fought a laugh. She hated it when he did. It made her feel like a child talking to adults about politics. Insignificant in the presence of somepony who’s been at this game far longer than she had—which was true. She’d only become a Lieutenant a few months ago, replacing Soarin’s old partner.
“I'm not so sure about that,” he said, his youthful voice contrasting his gritty noir detective look. He walked the length of the bridge, up to where the bloody hoofprints ended. There were several in one spot, their placement signifying that when the Wabe Avenue Killer reached this spot, she turned—evidently, first to look behind her, then to face the river underneath.
Spitfire took note of the equally bloody hoofprints on the rail of the bridge. She looked back to her partner. “Bloody hoofprints from the murder that took place one block away, staining a trail for us, ending at a bridge overlooking a sewer-pass. Looks like suicide to me.”
Soarin rolled his eyes. “You're not thinking from as many angles as a police detective should, Miss Spitfire.” He gave her That Look.
Spitfire recalled the time the last time he shot her That Look. She had asked him what happened to his old partner. Soarin gave her this Look that demanded her to never ask that question again. He coupled it with, “Apple Family.”
Everypony on the force knew about the Apple Family. An entire family of contract killers whose loyalty sided only with the highest bidder. Spitfire was only a rookie when she came across the body of a fellow cop—dead, the word “PIG” carved onto his forehead, with a bright, shiny Braeburn in his mouth.
A crunch brought Spitfire out of memory lane. She looked back to her partner and found him munching on an apple. A Braeburn. Spitfire grimaced. “So,” she said, “she ran away just before the police arrived...”
“If by ‘just before’, you mean by five minutes,” Soarin sniffed. Another crunch. "Thwear ta God, ith like effypony'th on a conthint coffee bweak."
Spitfire rolled her eyes. “So she had a head start. Then what?”
Soarin lazily looked over the side of the bridge, his blue mane falling to one side. He hadn’t gelled it back like he sometimes did, deciding to just let it hang today. The way it framed his stubbled face made him ruggedly handsome. Spitfire followed his gaze over the side of the bridge, hoping she didn’t just look like some dumb teenage girl staring lustfully at a poster of a movie star.
Soarin had the decency to swallow before answering this time. He held up a wing, extending a feather as if it were a finger. “Situation one. The killer has a sudden pang of conscience and, unwilling to live with what she’s done, she runs to this bridge and jumps.”
The apple core in his hoof fell gently and quietly, making a soft splash as it landed in the river. Spitfire smirked at this display of casual littering. Here, she thought Soarin was all about upholding Canterlot law.
Another feather extended. “Two. She’s a unicorn, and she’s a pretty talented magic-user. This is a definite possibility since the scene of the murder had quite a bit of PKE residue. Thusly, to throw us off her trail, she wanders in the direction opposite to the one she wants to take and—”
Soarin claps his hooves loudly, causing Spitfire to jump. “Poof,” he said dramatically, extending his hooves apart. “She teleports away, to any one location in Canterlot, thereby throwing off the police.”
A few seconds of silence. Soarin turned his attention to the river below again, looking to the direction the river was flowing. From this distance, he can see his apple core: a tiny red dot being tossed about in the raging water. It disappeared as it was sucked into the sewers below Canterlot.
Soarin turned to Spitfire. “Well?”
Spitfire raised an eyebrow. “Well, what?”
“Well, what do you think?”
Soarin’s rugged handsomeness was really starting to wreck Spitfire’s patience. She snorted, pushing aside her girlish lust she thought she’d left behind with her teens. “What? Like, what should we do?” She pursed her lips. It was odd of Soarin to simply ask her which direction they ought to take. Could this mean he was finally starting to trust her? The thought made her grin.
She went over the math. One of their crime scene investigators, a unicorn whose name escaped Spitfire, had detected much PKE residue in that spot, indicating a use of unicorn magic. But upon further questioning the witness, several of the carolers were also unicorns. That spell could have been something done in self-defense.
On the other hoof, the only way for the killer to have killed six ponies (three of which were unicorns), in less than five minutes before the police arrived and make a safe getaway, would be for her to have used magic. The multiple lacerations and cut tongues also indicated this, since there was no indication the killer was armed with a knife or other sharp object. The PKE residue found was too large for simple cuts, though; that amount of residue, if used by only one unicorn, would have indicated an explosive use of magic. It simply made the killer look a lot stronger than she really was.
Of course, they'd already had a CSI unicorn investigate this trail. No PKE between the crime scene and this bridge. No PKE on the bridge at all. If the killer was a unicorn (the most likely case), then that meant...
Spitfire nodded. “Well, the unicorn officer we had in just a while ago didn’t sense any PKE residue in this spot at all.” She walked along the length of the bridge almost slyly. “In addition—” Spitfire stopped to point out the spot littered in bloody hoofprints—“this very spot seems to support the idea that she, indeed, climbed over the rail and jumped to a watery grave. Therefore, our killer couldn’t have teleported. In fact, I’m surprised you even came to this conclusion, Lieutenant Soarin.”
Spitfire looked to Soarin, and was met by a Cheshire grin. She almost expected him to start disappearing while laughing at her.She gave him a playful punch to the chest. “You jerk,” she chided. “You knew the whole time. Why’d you even suggest the teleportation?”
He let out a small chortle. “Just checking to see if you’re paying attention.”
“So, what? You were just testing me?”
Soarin looked out again to the giant sewer-mouth looming at the end of this river. His grin grew wider. “Don’t worry, you passed.”
Spitfire gave an incredulous snort. “Oh what, you’re my teacher now?”
“Might as well be, grasshopper,” he chuckled. “You are my responsibility.”
“Responsibility?” said Spitfire. “I’m not a rookie anymore, Soarin. I’m a big girl now. I’m your partner.”
He shot her That Look. She clammed up. The combination of stern expression and unkempt beauty made Spitfire wish she had a camera. Slowly, he broke away, looking back at the sewer-mouth. “Exactly,” he said. “You’re my responsibility.”
Some quiet passed between the two. Just as Spitfire was about to excuse herself and let her partner brood, he suddenly said, “Situation Two.”
Spitfire snapped to attention. “What?”
“Situation Two.” Soarin glanced at the bloody hoofprints, taking in their haphazard and erratic patterns. Taking in how their killer had managed to mutilate six ponies and escape before police arrived, even considering the police's sluggish response time.
He looked back up at Spitfire. “I think our killer was running from something.”
The tea party was held in the darkness and dankness of the underground sewer, deep within Canterlot’s twisted guts. The complicated, twisted maze was meant to flush out the waste of Canterlot’s citizens, but all it really did was collect most of that waste.
Vinyl Scratch’s trip to the tea party was silent, as always. The Top-Hat Mare’s pet was her guide, allowing her safe passage upon his purple, scaled back as he slithered in the smelly waters of the maze. He maneuvered through the network of twists and turns so expertly, Vinyl Scratch assumed he was born and raised in these sewers.
A drip caused her ears to perk. The Angel in the drip scowled disapprovingly. It was the same scowl Mom made when Vinyl Scratch Broke The Rules. Another drip. This one gave another disapproving scowl. There was no joy in these sounds, this empty plinking of water against water. The Angels in these sewer sounds knew Vinyl Scratch was disobeying them.
Let ’em vent.
Vinyl Scratch mouthed the words bite me when she heard another scowling drip. The Angels don’t own her anymore. From now on, Vinyl Scratch does as Vinyl Scratch wants—and the Angels are gonna listen to her for once, whether they like it or not.
She sniffed and rubbed her muzzle, smearing the blood on her face again. She blinked, only just now noticing that only half the world she saw was tinted purple. She pulled off her glasses and gave them a once-over.
That shadow had gotten her in the face a few hours ago. Just as she was singing her song, the Angels in her song helping her to avenge their fallen comrade, that shadow appeared. Appeared out of nowhere, struck from everywhere. It was a pretty good punch. She was in such a frenzy, in such a hurry to escape at that point she hadn’t stopped to think over that she’d even been hurt, much less that her glasses were broken. She groaned, leaning back.
She looked aside to see her duffel bag had fallen off at some point. Looking around in a panic, Vinyl Scratch’s heart sunk when she saw it floating down another path, disappearing from her view.
“Shit!” she cried suddenly.
The sound of her voice echoed in the tunnel. The water reflecting the green tint all around them collected more drips and more scowls. Her ride looked up at her with his shimmering, bright-green eyes. Even though he was a dragon, and could kill her like he’d done so many others, Vinyl Scratch found him very cute. Especially his eyes.
She petted his head. “It’s OK,” she whispered. “It’s OK. I didn’t mean that against you. I, I, I’m never angry... at you.”
The next and final hour of the trip is filled with Vinyl Scratch distracting herself from the disapproving Angels by talking about her life with the dragon. By the end of her trip, the dragon knew the length of each of her legs, about her shattered home life, her first kiss. He knew nearly everything. That her whole life was summed up in a story that ended in less than an hour scared Vinyl Scratch.
Once again, the Angels in the sounds came back. This time, in the sound of a joyous noise came a rollicking Angel. Vinyl Scratch loved its attitude. It, much like the song it lived in, was upbeat, carefree, whimsical. Everything Vinyl Scratch hoped to be. “Come on, your friend is waiting for you!” it sang.
The dragon stopped at the foot of an old subway. From the looks of the place, it had been abandoned for nearly fifty years before somepony decided to take residence. Inside this tunnel, a living space had been set up: a phonograph played the music the Angel lived in, an apartment made out of an old decommissioned subway train sat nearby, hats of nearly every design hung from hooks lining the walls, and giant colorful mushrooms sprouted from the ground. As she descended from her ride, Vinyl Scratch reached out to feel one. It was slimy and cool to the touch.
But what was always the eye-catcher of this parade was the extravagant lay-out. A red carpet lined the entire length of this tunnel, and on top of this carpet were bowls, and tea pots, and tea pitchers, and pretty much anything one could use to throw a tea party.
Also around this carpet were pillows for the guests to sit. There were only two attendees right now, besides Vinyl Scratch and the dragon: at the very end was the Top Hat Mare herself, and to her right was her current White Rabbit.
The Top Hat Mare somehow looked even more puzzling today. She was never a very big mare, so her costume made her seem like she was a little filly wearing her father’s clothes. Her oversized green top hat cast a shadow over her twisted purple eyes and her equally oversized green coat trailed long behind her. It was less a coat and more a robe, really. Her white-and-purple curly mane poofed out of every angle from under her hat. She took a sip of tea, and looked to the White Rabbit at her side.
The White Rabbit this time was an orange earth pony mare with a mane so blonde, Vinyl Scratch wondered if it was made of real gold. Her leather armor seemed pretty high-tech, almost like something out of the science-fiction movies her cheating boyfriend loved to watch with her. The only thing about her that contradicted the rest of her appearance was, well, the White Rabbit mask that encased almost her whole head, save for her mouth.
“Well?” asked the Top Hat Mare. “How is the tea?”
“Ah... don't... know,” said the White Rabbit. “Haven’t… drunk… any…” She spoke through gritted teeth, as if simply speaking were a difficult task.
The White Rabbit could not move unless commanded, thanks to the Angel living in the mask. Due to recent events, Vinyl Scratch had come to the conclusion that most Angels are very controlling, and none more so than the Angels living in the hats and masks the Top Hat Mare made.
The Top Hat Mare put a hoof in front of her mouth and gasped. “Oh my!” she said. “How silly of me! Drink the tea, please.”
The White Rabbit lifted her tea cup to her mouth. Vinyl Scratch came closer and cocked her head as the White Rabbit attempted to drink from an empty cup. She set the tea cup down and growled, “It’s… delicious.”
The Top Hat Mare got up and danced a jig as she clapped her front hooves together and laughed. “Oh! I’ve done it! I’ve finally done it! A hat for you that makes you comply to my every command! You no longer even possess an opinion! How muldry! How moll! How delightful, delightful, delightfully moll!”
Suddenly, the Top Hat Mare looked to her new visitor. Vinyl Scratch smiled and waved to her friend. “Hey,” she said. “I made it.”
“So you did,” said the Top Hat Mare, slightly twisting her head around. “So you have. I trust the Mock Turtle was gentle with you?”
Vinyl Scratch nodded. “He’s very gentle.” She reached over and petted the Mock Turtle’s nose. He grunted in agreement.
The Top Hat Mare bounded over to her pet. She walked around him, excitedly. “Oh, my Mock Turtle! How you long to join our dance! Soon, very soon.” Her laughter was long and cooing, almost like a dove. The Mock Turtle merely snorted in response, then turned away and crawled back into the sewer water. He left, his duty complete.
The mare nodded. "Oh, well. He'll come back. Always does." She turned her attention back to Vinyl Scratch. “I assume you’re interested in the job, Alice?”
Vinyl Scratch had almost forgotten about that. Above ground, she was Vinyl Scratch, DJ and indie musician. In this tea party, she was “Alice”, best of friends with the “Mad Hatter”. Another thing she’d nearly forgotten was that the Mad Hatter was very short-tempered, especially when it came to memory and obedience. She’d better not let it drop that she’d forgotten who she was!
Vinyl Scratch pulled on the hems of her dark purple hoodie and courtseyed politely. “I am!” said "Alice", almost singing.
At this, Mad Hatter smiled and offered her tea. Of course, the tea, like everything else, was just pretend. It was almost a game. Mad Hatter had many opinions on a variety of topics, all of which were contradictory. “If it isn’t, it ain’t,” she’d say. “That’s logic.”
As much as she loved to speak at length regarding logic, Mad Hatter had little regard for what logic really was. Anything and everything was meant to be broken and twisted and left in a pile. It was definitely something Alice could get behind.
Alice turned to the White Rabbit again. She could see a set of teeth behind the mask, clenching and chewing angrily. “If I may ask, dear Hatter,” asked Alice, “who might this rabbit be?”
“He wandered in here looking for a hat.” On a nearby table were multiple Royal Guard helmets, with a small number of regular hats: busboy caps, police caps, top hats, derby hats... and a cowboy hat. The Mad Hatter plucked the cowboy hat from the table and waved it about. “What he hadn’t realized at the time was that—”
“My… hat,” growled the White Rabbit.
The Mad Hatter’s mood swerved, her screwy eyes bulging as she stared down the White Rabbit. “MY hat,” she said, the unpleasant impatience in her voice readily apparent.
The White Rabbit's teeth clenched. Reluctantly, he growled, “Your… hat.”
“That’s a good boy, Rabbit. Anyway—”
“Ah’m… a… girl.”
Slowly, Mad Hatter put the hat back on the wall with its brothers. Alice watched quietly as her friend cantered casually over to the White Rabbit. The smile plastered on her face was almost giddy. She held a giggle as she slowly opened up the comically large sugar pot in front of the White Rabbit. She looked at the White Rabbit, still giggling.
With an awful crack, the sugar pot’s lid was smashed over the White Rabbit’s head (the Angel in the crack shouted “Avert your eyes!”, a demand Alice was too scared to follow). Mad Hatter quickly seized the scruff of his neck and plunged his face down into the sugar, forcing him there. Keeping him there.
“STOP IT!!!” she bellowed in a voice that scared Alice. “YOU’RE NOT ALLOWED TO DISOBEY!!!”
She pulled up the White Rabbit, his face covered in sugar. Then thrust his face back down again, harder this time, yelling at him, cursing at him. Again. Again. Alice could do nothing but watch. She sipped from her empty tea cup, and watched.
Finally, the White Rabbit was cast down. The Mad Hatter jumped onto his stomach, pinning him. The mask the White Rabbit wore prevented him from doing much besides vaguely spasming. A punch on the chest forced the air out of his lungs with a wheeze that made Alice cringe.
“STOP! FIGHTING! THE! MASK!” the Mad hatter yelled as she pounded the White Rabbit again and again. “OBEY! THE! MASK!! OBEY MEEEEEEEEEE—”
Suddenly, like a wire being cut, the Mad Hatter’s anger diffused. She lifted the White Rabbit up, dusted him off, and set him back on his pillow-seat as if he’d merely fallen over. She walked around the tea set, giggling like a child, and sat down. “Now then. White Rabbit, dear… are you a boy or a girl?”
Some silence, most likely due to the White Rabbit struggling to get air back in his lungs. “…Boy,” he wheezed at last. “Ah’mma… boy.” His voice came out as a defeated croak. There was so much hate that underlined that sentence, Alice was almost afraid the White Rabbit would lose his temper.
“Very good!” the Mad Hatter said as she patted his head affectionately. She pointed to the cowboy hat she’d hung on the wall. “And whose hat is that?”
“…M... Mmmm... y... yyy... Y-Yours.”
The Mad Hatter swept up the much-bigger-than-she-was White Rabbit and danced around with him merrily. “Oh, frabjous day! It works! It really, really works! My magic works just as well in masks as it does in hats! Kalloo-kallay!”
Much crowing and celebration went on for the next hour before the Mad Hatter finally came down to business. Opening a nearby drawer, she pulled out various sheets of paper, then came back to the tea party. She knocked away some teapots and scone plates to make room. With the papers all laid down, Alice saw that two of them were maps—one with red writing on it, the other with blue markings. There were newspaper clippings showcasing a beautiful, ornate sword. The headlines read,
BLUEBLOOD FINDS ANCIENT ARTIFACTS IN FORGOTTEN CITY
Alice sipped from her teacup as the Mad Hatter grinned at her. “And now the time has come my dear, to talk of many things!”
The sun rose slowly into the sky, creaking and yawning like the rest of Canterlot punching in for work that morning. Shining Armor stretched, working the aches out of his lower back after having sat at his new desk for hours already. The only interruptions he had so far on his first day as Commissioner was to speak to his secretary (he had already forgotten her name) about development on several cases (The recent Wabe Avenue killings chief among them) and a call from his wife Cadence, who asked him how he was doing.
A draw from his coffee brought his attention back to the file on his desk. A number of top secret documents lie scattered, each document containing unflattering information regarding the previous Commissioner.
Quite a bit of dirt on him. After the death of his own daughter at the hooves of a killer who was never caught, Top Brass had a falling out with his wife, a mare almost half his own age. Led to a divorce that took half his family fortune. Afterward, it seemed Top Brass went completely bonkers.
In reality, he was nothing as portrayed on television or on the radio. Nothing like on the news. Nothing like he was in front of a camera. Top Brass was a filthy cop, the kind who’d be more at home in film noirs. Under-the-table deals. Drug abuse. Alcohol.
But it was never without a reason, Shining Armor noticed. He made deals with criminals in order to hunt down the monster who killed his little girl. He snorted Cloud Nine and drank himself silly to dull the pain he no doubt felt years after his daughter’s gruesome murder. If any of the newsgroups knew about this, they must have elected not to say a word of it.
After all, society needs heroes... sometimes, even imaginary ones.
Shining Armor took another sip from his coffee, almost reluctantly. It was the same brand he drank at home, black with three sugars—yet it missed the one thing that made it complete. It was missing Cadence’s touch. He sighed. First day on the job, and he already missed his wife.
“Commissioner?”
Shining Armor’s head snapped up to meet the gaze of his mousy secretary. He must have been so lost in thought he didn’t even notice her come in. “Yes?”
“Call for you on line eight,” she said in her squeaky, almost childish voice. “Claims to be your sister?”
Shining Armor sighed with a knowing smile. He waved his secretary out as he lifted his phone and pressed the TALK button. She closed the door behind her as demurely as a Neighponese geisha as he cleared his throat. “Hey, Twily,” he said into the phone.
“Big Brother!” chirped a merry voice on the other end.
“Well, nice to see somepony’s in a good mood today.”
“Oh, don’t be that way, sourpuss. So. How’s the first day on the job?” He heard clinking noises, like a utensil scraping something. Probably calling him over breakfast. Shining Armor tried to hide his smile at the thought that his little sister had finally remembered to eat.
Shining Armor’s eyes scanned the documents on his desk again as he released an exhausted sigh. It probably wouldn't be a good idea to talk workplace politics, and how his new role on the force had alienated several of the "Top Brass" generation of cops. “...Taxing,” he said at last. “They’re bringing me up to speed regarding this crime wave in general.”
A pause. He heard her swallow. “So, no field work?”
“Not yet. I’ll probably get eaten alive by all that tomorrow, though. How’s that teaching job of yours treating you these days?”
“Boring,” Twilight said with strange enthusiasm. “Like always, my students are a bunch of unambitious slackers. They’re probably only going to college for the poontang and beer pong.”
Shining Armor snickered. His sister took few things as seriously as she did academics. Then again, she had a history for taking everything seriously—something he himself often took advantage of. He was never sure if she ever forgave him for the time he’d locked her in the cellar after he told her there was buried treasure there.
“Well, there’s gotta be at least one or two star pupils, right?”
“None yet. This is a psychology class I’m teaching, and every single semester, everypony keeps thinking Freud was the only psychologist. Like, ever. They don’t even seem to know his theories are largely discredited by modern psychologists, either.”
Shining Armor took another draw from his coffee, half paying attention to his sister, half organizing his notes and documents. “Isn’t that why they’re in your class? You’re supposed to be teaching them because they don’t know.”
He heard a laugh over her end. “I’ve been at this for two years now, Shining Armor. I’ve tried mixing up my methods several times, and… nothing seems to stick.”
Shining Armor clicked his tongue hesitantly, and thought for a moment. “Maybe you need to try to make your methods more engrossing. More involved.”
A laugh. “You sound like my roommate. She says I’m always so boring.” She imitated her roommate’s squeaky voice: “‘You’re too stuffy, Twily! Ya gotta learn when to hang loose and party!’”
“Well, maybe a little loosening up will endear your students to you, and they’ll take you more seriously.”
His suggestion was met and countered by a dismissive snort. “I did enough partying during university.”
Shining Armor almost laughed. “Like, what? One party?”
“He who understands enough is enough, will always have enough,” Twilight opined. “If only one party is enough for me, then I have partied enough.”
“Huh. That’s rather… zen.” He looked back down to his documents, then to his wall clock. They’d been talking for ten minutes already. “Hey, Twily, I’ve had fun talking to you again, but for now I think we better get back to work. Busy day ahead for both of us.”
“Right,” Twilight agreed, gulping down another piece of breakfast. “Oh! Before I go, I gotta ask, are you going to Blueblood’s big unveiling party?”
Shining Armor fought a sigh. Blueblood, Prince by title if not by actual blood ties, was throwing a party at his palace in honor of unveiling a relic he helped to dig up. Moreover, he was Twilight’s first (and so far only) boyfriend, and even after they broke up, he remained a good friend of their family. So of course, he’d invited them. Shining Armor didn't exactly hate the guy, but it was always hard to be friends with someone who took your sister's virginity. That and, he couldn't stomach high society types anyway.
“Ten PM. He’ll probably need police protection anyway,” she chuckled. “I hear the relic he found is supposed to be super-valuable.”
If only because his father's newspaper won't shut the hell up about it, Shining Armor thought. “I’ll keep that in mind. Talk to you later, Twily. I love you.”
“I love you, too,” Twilight giggled. “Give Cadence my regards.” And with that, Twilight’s voice cut off and was replaced by a dead drone. Shining Armor put down the phone and took one last swig of his coffee, finishing it. His attention once again was given to the sorry history of the previous Commish.
It was about two years ago when Top Brass encountered some of the hardest criminals to have ever disgraced Canterlot. Slideface, the Flycatcher, the Roman… it was as if all these powerful criminals had noticed the police’s resolve begin to wane in Canterlot, like once-healthy grapes withering on a browning vine. The moment they saw the city in turmoil and uncertainty, they struck. Flying in from Applewood, Fillydelphia—even that rotting cesspool, Manehatten—all these crime kingpins, poised and ready to begin a bloody turf war.
What alarmed Shining Armor the most? What woke him up for the first time since he became Captain of the Royal Guard? The fact that Celestia simply stood by and did nothing as Slideface and his goons came in and robbed banks. The fact that their beloved princess hesitated as the Flycatcher had her way with Midtown. The fact that the very pony he looked up to as a child, and finally earned the right to serve, looked away as the Roman began squashing local law enforcement and intimidating small businesses. Like dragons ready to devour a flock of sheep while their shepherd played solitaire.
But then, something even worse happened.
The Apples happened.
They were a league of legendary assassins, dating as far back in Equestrian history as anypony could recall. They were also the only hope Canterlot had, according to Top Brass. His next few under-the-table deals were with them. Shining Armor took a deep breath as he read an open page from Top Brass’ diary: the day he’d met Granny Smith, their ringleader.
The shaky hoofwriting underlined the fear Top Brass had felt in her presence earlier that day. He went on about her intimidating stare. Her odd mannerisms. Speaking like an old mare, using outdated slang. She looked to be in her mid-twenties, he said, but Top Brass felt just by looking at her that she was something much older. Ancient, Top Brass wrote. Like a patient dragon, powerful and terrifying and seemingly untouched by time.
But it was the final written line in this entry that shook the final, lingering cobwebs out of Shining Armor’s groggy mind:
Have I just sold this city to Tartarus…?
But in the end, he felt they were his best bet. Top Brass was unable to trust his own men, so he paid the Apples from his remaining family fortune to cut these criminals out by the roots. They started with the bribed cops. Then worked their way out. Slideface’s face slid right off his head. The Flycatcher now attracted the flies she loved to eat when she was alive.
And of course, none of this did anything to dissuade crime in Canterlot. When the heads of these criminal organizations fell, did it cause them all to back down? Never. They just got replaced by ponies worse than they were. Ponies richer than they were. Richer than the Commissioner was. And when it came to light these killers could be bought…
That was when it all really did go to Tartarus. More crime families showed up, coming from Griffindor to Minotaura, looking to expand. Several waves of serial killers and career thieves. More recently, the newspapers had taken to naming some of the more ambitious criminals: the Red Hood, Cat's Eye, Dead Ringer, Jackshot, this Mare-Do-Well character. Everything had become one big game, winner take all, and now it seemed Shining Armor had sidled up to the table with his own bets to place.
Top Brass was a good stallion. Faulted. Flawed. In many ways, broken. He did what he felt was best, but he caused the worst crime wave in Canterlot history.
A crime wave the Princess did nothing to stop.
Somewhere in Canterlot’s intestines belowground, a black duffel bag slapped at a grate. Its weight was carried by the lazy current, pushing it against unyielding iron bars. Darkness surrounded it: darkness and trash and equine waste. Whatever it contained wouldn’t be usable to anypony but the most desperate homeless.
Suddenly, it found itself lifted up out of the water, rescued. A hook on a long staff had pulled up on one of the straps, the bag’s weight now multiplied by the filthy water it had absorbed. With some effort, it was brought to rest on the catwalk. The staff was collapsed to a smaller shape, easier for travel, and tucked away.
She zipped open the bag. Her cold glass eyes scanned the contents. Clothes. Music books. Toiletry. Average items. Her eyes scanned the outside of the bag, searching. A small device, barely noticeable to anypony. A single, tiny red eye weakly winking against the echoing green of the sewer water against the brick walls. She pulled it off and put it back in her utility belt. Her mind reeled to the events of earlier that morning…
She had only one shot before the mare with the blue mane and single Purple Eye jumped off the bridge. She was too late to stop the mare from killing those innocent ponies—much too late. Too late to save those poor souls. But not too late to bring their killer to justice.
Purple Eye jumped from the bridge. Her other hook—this one a grappling hook—shot from her hoof before she could think. The waters below were violent, belched out from large pipes along the sides. If they caught Purple Eye before she did, Purple Eye would get the easy way out.
But she would not allow that. No killer should be allowed to die. They should be made to suffer for their sins. SUFFER. No serial murderer simply given the chair. No multiple rapist simply hung. No child killer simply given lethal injection. That’s too… simple. That’s giving them the easy way out. No.
They need to suffer.
They need to fear.
She gave them that fear. And she would continue to give them that fear, and she would continue to make them suffer, just like the town they terrify.
The hook flew as far down as it could, but it proved to not be long enough. It snapped up just as it was about to wrap around Purple Eye’s hind leg. She fell down below…
…but just as she was about to hit the water, Purple Eye landed on something solid. The crashing water splashed all around her as whatever she’d landed on sped off underneath the bridge. Another of her muscular reactions—this time a flick of her fetlock—flung the tiny tracer to Purple Eye. She’d seen its red light winking faintly amidst the crashing waves, and had hoped she’d hit Purple Eye dead-center.
Obviously, this was not the case.
Purple Eye had gotten away.
The Canterlot sewers were a horrendous labyrinth of stenches and twists and turns and ghostly green glows. Any further investigation for now would have to be halted before she became hopelessly lost. She had yet to get a map of this area of the sewers. There had to be one somewhere, in an archive of some kind—one of the libraries, perhaps…
She heard a sound. A clink. Her heart began to beat faster. Danger. Danger!
She stood there for one second. Two. Three. Ten. Thirty. An eternity passed. Her breathing did not steady. Her anxiety—her preparation for a battle—squeezed her heart rhythmically, shooting blood throughout her like surges of electricity. Thump. Thump. Thump.
A quick jerk of her head introduced a large shadow into her vision. She leapt high, her body lithely flipping midair, stepping onto the nearby wall and shooting behind the shadow. But the shadow, large and fierce like a dragon, was fast. It got on its hind legs, twirling around—and that was when she saw it.
The swords attached to the shadow’s forelegs. They were long and silver, and were swung so that they whispered sinister music and formed menacing smiles for an instant each. She was able to dance to the swords’ music, dodging every smile as the shadow swung. That he was just as agile on his hind legs as he would be on all-fours alarmed her—as well as shook memories from the branches of her mind.
As she drew it into better light, the shadow was bathed by the green glow echoing across the sewer’s tunnel walls, even if only slightly. She recognized his mask—half darkness, half dragonfire. A single, terrifying green eye menaced her from behind the dragonfire with both familiarity and hatred. His armor, metal clamps and protective shields covering vital areas, reflected some of the green glow, dressing him with deranged spirit.
They broke away for a second. Circled each other like rival predators. His one hateful eye bore holes into the continuing, continuing, continuing darkness of her mask, settling on the two mysterious lights that peered up from the bottom of a well.
She remembered that the Apples had named him the Terminator. She remembered that the media had named him Dead Ringer. She remembered that he was a ruthless assassin. Had he been tasked with seeking out this wayward sheep and ending her?
They recognized one another at once. Neither said anything, since neither favored speech over the universal, easily-understood language of action. They spoke without speaking. Their words were actions. This shared preference became a physical conversation that lasted for several minutes of swinging, punching, dodging, and familiarity.
There was a real weakness to his fighting style: he left his underside exposed to the enemy. A protective shield hid his belly from harm, but that was hardly what she was looking for. Her right foreleg shot up in an uppercut as she shot under him, getting him right between his hind legs. She heard a squeak escape the Terminator’s mask and used this split-second moment to use her own upper-body strength, lifting him up by his hind legs and throwing him over her head and into the river of sewage nearby.
The river erupted as the Terminator fell in, the wave like an open mouth—opening then closing, devouring him like a hungry crocodile. She took a few deep breaths, recollecting herself as Canterlot’s intestines quietly gurbled and hutched. Her hat had fallen off during the fight. She reached for it, only to hear the river vomit the Terminator back up behind her.
He landed on her at such an angle that he’d trapped her beneath his great weight. She felt his belly—the armor hard like an lobster’s carapace—push down on her back.
He was breathing in deep, husky gasps as the stench of Canterlot’s refuse clung to him like wriggling leeches. He raised a foreleg and pinched her own with his elbow, the sword shooting back out of its sheathe and quietly resting blade-up under her neck, forcing her to carefully lift her head higher.
“Jackshot,” he growled in his thick Southern accent. “Where is she?”
The Terminator threatened again. “Jackshot! Where is she?! Ah know you had somethin’ to do with it, you little shit!”
This was the most talkative she’d ever heard the Terminator. Wandering this far from his comfort zone spelled bad news. Still, she remained silent.
He can’t read me, she thought to herself. He doesn’t really know if I’m involved in his sister’s disappearance…
…but I now know that his sister has disappeared.
Finally, the Terminator’s patience reached its end. He had taken her silence as admittance of a kind to involvement in his sister’s sudden evanescence. The sword drew back to its sheath with a quiet movement, and with a force and speed like lightning, he lifted her up roughly and forced her back to the wall. A hoof as hard as the wheels on Satan’s own carriage left a crack in the sewer wall next to her head with a sound that reminded her of a shout.
She was expecting him to make another demand, but she was wrong. Instead, he brought that same hoof—hard as the wheels on Satan’s own carriage—into her stomach. She felt her dinner from last night squeeze up through her lungs. A rib cracked and wept. The Terminator’s single hateful eye made its case quite clear. Talk or I kill you slowly.
Again, she refused to speak.
Again, he thrust his hoof into her. Right on the same rib he’d broken just seconds ago. And again, his hateful eye promised what his hoof would deliver.
Her suit was made of an enchanted fabric that could absorb quite a bit of physical trauma. What's more, it was a suit that could mend the wounds its wearer bore. But that kind of magic took time to do its work; the Terminator would kill her before it could undo anything. Her mind swam, drowning like a rat in a crashing ocean of panics and tranquilities.
She began to breathe hoarsely. She could claim that she had only just got here—that this was all just coincidence. Just misfortune. Bad timing. But she was also sure he’d never believe it. The Terminator was a killer, and while being intelligent was all part of the killing game, the fact remained that the fate of his beloved sister was his top priority. He was allowing his emotions to cloud his thinking. There wouldn’t be any reasoning with him.
Just one thing to do, then.
With the Terminator’s first punch, and without her really knowing she was doing it, her right foreleg snaked down to her utility belt. With the second punch, she’d thrust it into her utility belt. The Terminator had been so preoccupied with staring hatefully into those two bright lights at the bottom of the well that he failed to notice the snake slithering around his hooves.
She threw a red powder into his hateful eye with one quick movement. It was the only part of his body that wasn’t covered, sticking out like a snail without a shell. The red powder set right to work, causing the Terminator to recoil. His screams joined the echoes of the water on the walls. She tried to turn and run, but her broken rib had gone from weeping to inelegant sobbing. Her movement had become considerably dampened.
She turned around the moment she heard the Terminator’s scream stop. His single hateful eye had become a pink, puffy, awful little welt oozing out from the dragonfire. She couldn’t see his face but knew for certain there was unbridled rage beneath. The swords were back, with their music and their smiles. She hadn’t anticipated that he’d recover this quickly—despite that she probably should have known.
As if Celestia looked down and decided to intervene, there was a loud sound that drew both their attentions. The river of refuse that flowed through Canterlot’s intestines quivered violently as if something big had just dropped below its surface. She recovered first—kicking the Terminator off of her and onto his back.
The big thing revealed itself. A mighty purple dragon launched out from beneath the river, its mouth wide and dark as forever. Rows of shark-like teeth sparkled menacingly in the green glow of the sewer. She didn’t get to see very much else before the dragon’s mouth clamped down on either side of the Terminator and with a ghostly, reptilian movement she will no doubt see every time she blinks for the next few years, dragged him down into the sewer's river.
The Terminator had not even a second to scream as he was pulled down.
She didn’t care about this business anymore. Purple Eye had escaped, the Terminator had shown up looking for his sister, and now a dragon was apparently living in the sewer. Figuring out what all these messes had to do with one another could come later. First priority right now was to get while the getting was good.
As she scrambled for the nearest exit—as she heard thrashing from the river behind her—as her rib screamed and screamed—her mind once again swam, or rather swirled down the drain. Her breathing became hoarser and hoarser as she continued her painful, panicked scramble.
Her mind began to trick her. She recoiled from a loud bark, like a bullet being fired from a gun. The stench of the sewers morphed into the enriched scent of apples. Her heart beat—at first for one stallion, then for another. She had reached the first stallion, but he drifted far away. The second was out of her grasp from the very beginning.
Finally, there was no sewer. The writer of this strange fiction had grown bored with writing about sewers and their dankness, and darkness, and echoing loneliness. In its place was written a different kind of darkness. One you could hide in and feel safe, like under your blankets during a horrific thunderstorm.
It was a warm, safe darkness called unconsciousness.
She reached out her forelegs to embrace it. To touch it. To touch it and be spirited away from consciousness into the cradling arms of unconsciousness.
Just as she was about to touch the darkness—just as she was about to be swept away—just as she was about to sleep in the arms of unconsciousness—she looked beneath her and saw that she was falling into a grave. It was familiar.
It felt familiar.
She screamed back into consciousness. She heard more thrashing behind her. She remembered the dragon. She darted. She found a ladder exit. She climbed it. She removed the pony-hole cover with some effort as she heard the thrashing gradually fade away. The coldness of the early morning winter hoisted her up and out of the sewer.
Up onto the street she came, as if the sewer had bleched out a vaguely pony-shaped shadow. She found herself made a spectacle of passerby on the street. Canterlot was awake now, and eyes were everywhere, totally ignorant of the dragon that no doubt slithered beneath their hooves that very moment.
Cars honked for her to get out of the way, which she did, her legs spiriting her from the open street to the sidewalk—past the onlookers—up ladder rungs—she removed her grappling hook—she ran—she shot the hook—and away she flew, like an ink-black bird of prey.
A teenage filly (in fact, the very same foulmouthed filly who, on the morning news, chastised a newsgroup for sensationalizing the Mare-Do-Well) put a hoof over her mouth in shock. Then she shook her coltfriend. “Did you see that?!” she cried, not turning to meet his worried eyes. “Holy shit, did you SEE THAT?!”
She’d forgotten her hat. It lay there, on the sewer’s walkway, where it’d been knocked down.
It was the only audience that observed the deafening battle of the Terminator and the Mock Turtle some distance away. It was the only one that witnessed the Terminator limping away from that battle: alive, but still without answers as to his sister’s whereabouts. Much like “Purple Eye”, Jackshot’s trail ended in frustrating, sudden ambiguity.
Then it sat there for hours.
Suddenly, there were sounds. A scuffling of hooves against concrete.
A mysterious mare in a top hat looked down at it with screwing eyes.
She smiled at her find, took it in her teeth, and carried it back home to Wonderland, where she planned to show it to Alice and the White Rabbit, then put it on her wall with its brothers and sisters.
That particular area of the sewer was silent for the rest of the day.
