Give Phillip the most hardened killer. Give him gangs of thugs, find the most tangled web of intrigue and crime that could be constructed and lay it out before him.
Any of that would be preferable to having to stand before the white door of 1273 Golden Oak Road just after noon on that cold midwinter morning, with Sirba scowling at him from over the threshold. She'd opened it before he'd even had a chance to knock at it, greeting him with those cold eyes that only a married mare could use.
He fought back a swallow and shifted in the damnably cold snow. "Suunkii relayed your message," he reported. "Said that you needed to talk to me."
Part of him wanted to complain about how her call had pulled him away from a bank robbery investigation that he had been called in on, and that he'd jogged all the way over from the precinct in the biting cold because he was short on cash and needed to save the cab fare, but something told him that that would be a really bad idea.
"You need to speak to Muziqaa: he was sent home today from school," Sirba reported, stepping back to allow him to enter. "He got in a fight at recess; never before has he broken a rule."
"A fight?" Phillip asked, eyebrows rising in surprise as he stamped the snow from his hooves onto the carpet. "With whom?"
"Two bullies, whose actions are plain, but it's his motive that gives me pains," Sirba scowled at him. "He swung first and when they stopped, he hit them still. He told me that it would be the same with Uncle Phil."
"With uncle...?" Phillip's ears rang with the accusation. The image in his mind refused to solidify: Muziqaa, the little zebra colt that he'd held as a baby, whom he'd watched take his first steps and then grow into a dancer as talented as his mother, who skirted around bugs on the ground so that he wouldn't accidentally step on them...fighting? It didn't make any sense.
With Uncle Phil.
He scowled back at Sirba, instinctual anger flaring up in his stomach. "Are you accusing me?" he asked.
Sirba started to speak, then stopped herself, closing her eyes with a long sigh. "No: for his actions, you are not to blame. But you should speak to him all the same. He needs to understand that his intentions were correct, but getting into fights will only have negative effects."
"Right," Phillip nodded, looking up the stairs towards Muziqaa's room. "You already talk to him?"
"Yes, but he needs to hear this from you," Sirba stated. "This is something alone I cannot do."
And how am I supposed to do that? Phillip asked silently, but Sirba gestured at him with her head. Sighing, Phillip ascended the stairs to the second floor and trotted up to the door at the end of the hall. The door had a paper tacked to the door with a drawing of a drum and the words "Muzi's room" drawn on it.
"Muziqaa?" he called, knocking at the door.
"Come in," a voice grunted from inside. Phillip opened the door and entered.
Muziqaa's room would've put almost anypony in doubt that he was Suunkii's son. There was a mess in every corner, with clothes tossed around, comics and books scattered everywhere, and drawings taped to almost every inch of the wall. Muziqaa was sitting on the bed, sulking and holding the harmonica that Phillip had gotten him for Hearth's Warming, mere moons ago.
"Hi, Uncle Phil," he grumbled as Phillip entered.
"Hey, anklebiter," Phillip said, sitting down on the mattress. There was a long pause as he considered his words, then cleared his throat. "So, I hear you got in a fight at school."
"They deserved it," Muziqaa grumbled.
"Tell me what happened," Phillip said, looking his adoptive nephew in the eyes.
"There are these two bullies at school, Silver Bar and High Peak," Muziqaa explained. "They pick on me and the other students." He shifted for a moment and flicked his tail, producing a faint rattling from the beads that he had expertly woven into the strands. "You know, students that are...different."
Phillip frowned. "And?"
"They were in the playground, picking on one of the younger colts," Muziqaa continued. "Throwing snow at him, laughing at him, calling him names. No one else was standing up to him, so I decided to do what you would do."
Phillip raised an eyebrow. "Which was?"
"I ran up to Silver and punched him," Muziqaa said, sitting up with an infusion of pride. "And then I punched High Peak. And I kept hitting them until one of the teachers pulled me off." He scowled. "And I got in trouble for it! Why?"
Phillip took a breath. "Muziqaa, I know that you were trying to do the right thing, but...hitting those boys was wrong."
"Why?" Muziqaa asked, clearly bewildered. "You punish bad guys, too! I was just punishing them, like you!"
"Muzi, I..." Phillip sighed and lowered his face onto his hoof, briefly reflecting that this would be enough to turn him off from ever having kids if Muzi's terrible twos hadn't done that already.
He took a long breath to give him time to think, then spoke carefully. "Muzi, when I was an officer, I had rules on when I could and could not use force," he explained. "Those rules were an important part of my work: they were there to stop me from hurting the wrong ponies, from violating other ponies' rights."
Muziqaa cocked his head in confusion. "But I thought that you could always hurt the bad guys. It was your job."
Phillip winced. Where is he getting these ideas?
"My job was—and is—to save lives," Phillip stated. "I could only use force to save ponies' lives from imminent danger." He paused for another moment to think.
"Um...Muziqaa, would you trust police officers if they had the right to beat up anypony they wanted?" he asked. "If they could attack you because..." He had to let the gears spin for a moment to come up with something. "They heard a rumor that you were mean to others?"
Muziqaa pondered the question for a long moment with a frown, then slowly shook his head. "No..."
"So, when you attacked those bullies, what if you'd been wrong?" Phillip pressed. "What if you'd gotten the wrong guys? Or maybe they said some mean words, does that justify beating them up?"
Muziqaa squirmed, doubt opening the door to allow shame to enter. "I guess you're right..."
"Muziqaa, there's a reason that good guys have rules," Phillip said, draping a hoof over the little colt's shoulders. "Because those rules separate us from the bad guys. I had rules that I had to follow as a police officer, rules I have to follow as a civilian. And you have rules to follow as a student. And one of those rules is no fighting. It's not your job to punish bullies."
"But they keep bullying us," Muziqaa whined. "I thought if somepony stood up to them..."
"Muzi, one of the bad things about the world is that there will always be ponies who pick on ponies who are different, or who they think are weaker," Phillip said, squeezing him to his side. "Ponies who think that they can make themselves feel better by hurting others. But there's a way to deal with them."
"What's that?" Muziqaa asked, looking up hopefully.
"Ignore them," Phillip smiled. "I know it seems like words can hurt, but they hurt more if you give them the power to. If you ignore them, let them slide off your back, they can't hurt you."
"But how?" Muziqaa asked.
"Tell yourself that they're wrong," Phillip said. "You're a smart, talented, kind, and all-around amazing kid who will someday become a smart, talented, kind, all-around amazing adult, and one of the best dancers and musicians this side of the Lunar Sea. And odds are, they'll still be dumb, ugly, mean tossers who wish they were half as great as you."
Muziqaa smiled briefly and hugged Phillip around the barrel. "Thanks, Uncle Phil."
"So, no more fighting in school, right?" Phillip said, patting his adaptive nephew on the head.
"Okay," Muziqaa nodded. "But can I call them dumb, ugly, mean tossers?"
Phillip fought down a chuckle. "Probably not when they or the teachers can hear you, all right?" He ruffled Muziqaa's mane and started to get up, the mattress creaking beneath his weight. "Right. I gotta get back to work."
"Wait, wait!" Muziqaa cried. "I was working on a new song. Please stay and listen to it!"
"Muzi, there's things to do—"
Phillip's protest was interrupted by Muziqaa giving a little whimper, accompanied by a wide-eyed look of innocent hope. Phillip paused for a long beat, then sighed and nodded with a weary smile, settling back onto the mattress. "Okay. One song."
"Yay!" Muziqaa clapped. He took up the harmonica and sat up straight. He brought the harmonica up to his lips and inhaled as he shook his tail expertly, producing a low rattling like raindrops on a tin roof. A low, soulful melody wafted from the miniature instrument, the notes running smoothly down Phillip's body as he settled back against the wall. The creaking of the stairs formed a prelude to Sirba's entrance: she glided in with a smile and sat down next to them, occasionally adding to the music with a shake of her own beaded mane and tail.
For a few moments, there was nothing. Nothing but the family in the small room and the music.