“And, time!” Troubleshoes declared, pressing the stop button on his timer and looking over at the sweaty, heavily breathing Sonata. “Three minutes five. Not bad, Cmdr. Dusk.”
Wiping her brow, Sonata smiled and said, “Thanks, Master Chief!”
With the help of Sunset and her magic (something that Troubleshoes still wasn’t entirely used to, if he was being honest), Troubleshoes had set up an elaborate obstacle course that took the triplets all around the entirety of the cavernous underground bunker. Over the course of the past hour, Troubleshoes made them run it over and over. Bogged down by heavy equipment, the triplets crawled, climbed, and sprinted their way through the bunker to the shooting range, where their time would stop the moment they hit all of the designated targets.
So far Aria had shown the most overall improvement, whereas Adagio still held the shortest overall time at two minutes and twelve seconds. Sonata was lagging behind her sisters, but not by much, and she’d still managed to shave almost a whole minute off her total. Troubleshoes was proud of them.
“I think that’s enough for today,” he said. “Your folks probably have your dinner ready.”
The promise of food seemed to instantly brighten the three girls’ spirits, and they happily began stowing their equipment as they chatted lightly with each other.
Overall, Troubleshoes was quite happy with where his life was right then. He had his dream job, and although things between Tirespin and himself weren’t perfect, they were better than they’ve been in a very long time. The past September had truly been a rollercoaster of a time, but considering where Troubleshoes was in his life now, he wouldn’t trade away any of it. That is, except perhaps for the truly frightening homecoming he and his family had at the hands of one truly deranged mercenary. Or former mercenary, current resident of Equestria County Correctional Facility. Soon to be permanent resident.
For the past week since the incident, Troubleshoes had his share of nightmares about it, and suspected that they would continue for some time. Nightmares where Sunset hadn’t been there to save Cinnamon, or where that psychopath was standing over the bodies of Tirespin and Down Luck. Thankfully, his old counselor he’d briefly seen when he first got out was still counseling, and Troubleshoes had gone to his first of what he suspected would be many sessions in the future.
Troubleshoes let all that fall aside as he stepped into the elevator with the triplets and started riding it up. Things were good right now. He was good.
“You sure you don’t want to come with us to Sunset’s homeland, Master Chief?” Adagio asked.
Right. That’s tomorrow, Troubleshoes thought to himself.
“I’m gonna stick by my initial plan to sit this one out. Maybe I’ll come once it’s time for Sunset’s actual coronation,” he said. But while Troubleshoes knew at some point he would probably end up going there, he didn’t think it was going to be anytime soon. He was still only coming to grips with the fact that his employer was an equine alien from another dimension, or something. It was the kind of or something that Troubleshoes decided he wanted to know as little about as possible. Besides…. “I did promise Tirespin this job would be strictly local. At this juncture, I’d really rather not break what trust I have with her.”
Adagio nodded. “That makes sense.”
“So how are things between you two, anyway?” Aria asked in a way that sounded like she really didn’t care one way or the other. Troubleshoes had gotten to know her well enough to know better, though.
“I guess I’ll find out if she tries to poison my dinner,” Troubleshoes said with a humorous grin.
“Aw, is she cooking for you tonight?” Sonata practically cooed. “If it goes well, I want to take full credit for teaching her everything she knows.”
“And if it doesn’t?”
Sonata grinned. “Then she was a lost cause from the start!”
After exiting the elevator into the foyer, Troubleshoes went to say goodbye to the rest of the family. When he did, he saw two strangers seated around the dining room table with the rest of them. A fairly muscular man in his early to mid-twenties with blue and cerulean hair sat next to Twilight. Beside him, a pretty young woman with rose, gold, and violet long hair sat dressed in a smart-looking women’s suit. The two spoke with the other members of the family with clear familiarity (the man even ruffled an annoyed Twilight’s hair). The woman’s soft purple eyes locked onto Troubleshoes when she noticed him.
“Ah, Troubleshoes Clyde, right?” she asked, as she stood and approached him, offering her hand. “Mi Amore Cadenza, but you can call me Cadance. We met on the phone.”
Suddenly recognizing her voice, Troubleshoes nodded and shook her hand. “Right, from the DA’s office. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate your help with everything this past month.”
“Well, any friend of Sunset’s is a friend of mine,” she said, her friendly smile drifting away as she glanced back at the rest of the family. “That being said, Shiny and I didn’t just come here to visit the family. Do you have a moment to talk?” She then looked over at Sunset and said to her, “You should probably hear this too, Sunny.”
Noting her serious tone, Troubleshoes nodded and the three of them stepped out of the dining room and into the main foyer.
“So, this sounds serious. What’s this about, Cady?” Sunset asked.
“Let me guess: complications with my statement to the police?” Troubleshoes asked. Sunset had told him that she had worked everything out so that his story checked out, but she had overlooked things before.
“No, legally you’re still in the clear,” Cadance said. “I guess you forgot that Withers’s arraignment was today.”
Troubleshoes raised his brow and nodded. He had indeed forgotten, and based on the serious way in which Cadance was speaking to him now, he had a bad feeling it hadn’t gone the way she had thought.
“Don’t tell me that bastard walked!” he exclaimed in disbelief, and Cadance gave him a grim nod.
“How the hell did this happen? I thought this guy had a longer rap sheet than Tirek!” Sunset hissed, making sure to keep her voice low. This resulted in a brief look of confusion from Troubleshoes and Cadance. Realizing the misunderstanding she’d caused, Sunset added, “The demon centaur, not the rock star.”
“Oh,” Cadance said blandly before continuing. “Anyway, his state-appointed attorney was replaced a few days ago by Dropcharge,” Cadance said with a distasteful grimace like she’d just tasted something foul. “He’s something of a notorious criminal defense attorney. As his name suggests, he always manages to weasel his way through getting his client’s charges dismissed with a lot of dirty tricks. Gives my office a damn headache.”
Cadance shook her head. “In truth, the whole thing kinda puzzles me. The fact that Withers opted for a public defender at first made me think he couldn’t afford a proper attorney. Then all of a sudden he has one of the most expensive criminal defense lawyers in the country working his case?”
Sunset folded her arms. “And this Dropcharge guy managed to get the charges dismissed on all twenty-two other rape-murder cases Withers was involved with?”
“Not all of them. Some of them—like his assault on you and your family, Troubleshoes—he managed to get out of because Dropcharge convinced the judge to let him pay bail.” Cadance’s frown deepened. “And that’s the other strange thing. The judge presiding over the arraignment—Sharp Gavel—is especially hard on cases like this one. He’ll almost never approve bail, especially for crimes as bad as the things Withers did.”
“So, why was this time different?”
Cadance shrugged. “Don’t know. I spoke with Gavel briefly after the arraignment. He only told me he wasn’t feeling well; had a bad headache. Said he barely remembered what even happened, and then went to go lie down.”
“Hmm….” Troubleshoes saw Sunset put a hand to her chin and ponder something, but after a few seconds she didn’t say anything, so Troubleshoes asked, “How much was his bail?”
“A lot. Combined with Dropcharge’s fees, I’d say Withers is out millions.”
With a frown, Troubleshoes said, “No, I don’t think Withers paid for his defense himself. Someone with a lot of money helped him, and I think I know who.”
Of course, it didn’t make much sense. If Withers was really going against Los Perros’s orders when he came after him and his family, wouldn’t they rather leave him to rot in prison?
“I should’ve just zapped him to Tartarus when I had the chance,” Sunset growled.
“I know this was a bad day for criminal justice, but please don’t lose faith in it, okay Sunny?” Cadance asked, her face softening. “Just because you have the power to go above the law doesn’t mean you always should.”
“I know…” Sunset said, sulking. “But if I ever see that bastard again, I’m sending him to join Tripwire and Divine Right.”
“Speaking of, do we have a plan in case he decides to come after us again?” Troubleshoes asked. He just knew that those nightmares were going to get worse now before they got better.
“I can tell you right now that the Bureau has been monitoring him since he walked out,” a new voice said, sounding simultaneously princely and like a California surfer-dude. The three of them turned to see the young man with blue and cerulean hair standing in the doorway watching them.
“Jesus, how long have you been standing there, big bro?” Sunset asked.
Big Bro took a step into the foyer to join them. “The whole time,” he said with a smile. “Gotta keep my spook skills sharp!”
“So what has our mutual friend been up to since becoming a free man?” Troubleshoes asked, his patience wearing thin for banter at this moment.
“The first thing he did was leave town,” said Big Brother the spook. “Last we checked, he was on the road to New Mexico, where Los Perros’s North American HQ is.”
“Guess that confirms who covered his bills,” Cadance said with a frown.
Sunset must have seen how clearly agitated Troubleshoes was becoming, because she turned to him and said, “Don’t worry, I’ll put some wards up around your home and other usual spots and let Sable and the triplets know what’s up. If he ever comes back looking for trouble, we’ll be ready.”
And somehow, Troubleshoes believed it. Yes, as unsettling as it was to think that maniac was still out there, Troubleshoes knew he would be alright as long as this family who had become his friends had his back. So, with a promise from Big Brother (who had since introduced himself as Shining Armor) to let them know if Withers or any of Los Perros returned, Troubleshoes returned to the dining room to say the last of his goodbyes.
“You three take care of Sunset over there, alright?” he said to Adagio and her sisters. “Because if I hear this trip is anything less than a textbook op, there’ll be hell to pay.”
“Aye, Master Chief.”
All talk of mercenaries at large and Canterlot’s ailing justice system went unknown to Sable Loam. Right now, the only thing on his mind was his dinner date with Celestia. Seeing as his girlfriend had done a lot to help him through the tumultuous time of the past month, Sable had long ago decided that he was going to do something extra special for her. It took him a while to think of something truly special, and then it hit him: he had one advantage that most romantics didn’t. He had Sunset Shimmer.
So, after spending the past week mulling over the details with Sunset and waiting for her to complete the little project that he’d requested of her, tonight was the night it all came to fruition. Sable had dressed up for the occasion; nothing too fancy, but a nice button-up shirt and simple sports jacket went a long way to making him look respectable. Celestia came out of their bedroom wearing a white blouse and dark tights, with clear extra care put into her make-up.
Sable smiled as he watched her descend the stairs, feeling like a fairy tale prince meeting his princess. “Ready to go?” he asked.
Said princess eagerly returned his smile. “I am, though you still haven’t told me where we’re going.”
“Delizie Ultraterrene,” Sable said, knowing that he was probably butchering the Italian pronunciation.
“Hmm… I don’t think I’ve heard of that one, and I know just about every Italian restaurant in Canterlot.”
“Yeah well, this one’s not exactly in Canterlot,” Sable said with a sly grin, taking out a pair of custom made bracelets, each with a tiny gemstone embedded.
“Sable, what’s this?” Celestia asked, looking at him with open curiosity and just a touch of concern.
“A little something I had Sunset throw together over this past week. Ready?”
Ultimately trusting him, Celestia nodded, and Sable placed the second bracelet on her wrist before twisting the tiny gemstones on each one simultaneously. A similarly tiny mechanism clicked and before either of them knew it they were awash in blinding cyan light. When the two of them could see again, they were standing in a dark alley tucked away between two very old looking buildings.
Sable closed his eyes and gave his head a few shakes. He opened them to see Celestia rubbing her forehead between her own tightly shut eyes.
“You okay?” Sable asked. “Sunset told me that everyone’s first teleportation is a little disorienting.”
“We teleported?” Celestia asked, clearly incredulous.
“Yup,” he replied before looking a little sheepish. “Sorry, guess I should have warned you first, huh?”
“Probably would have helped.”
“Well, guess I’ll make up for that tonight too.” Sable looked around. As expected, the alleyway they’d teleported to was empty. “Shall we?”
Offering her his arm along with a charming smile, Celestia was happy to return it despite the surprise teleport and together the two of them started walking down the streets. Sable watched his girlfriend out of the corner of his eye as she took in their surroundings. The buildings were all very old works of brick and stone, possessing archaic architecture the likes of which Celestia was not likely to have seen in Canterlot, or even most of the United States.
“So, are you gonna tell me just where it is you’ve whisked me away too?” Celestia asked.
Sable gave her a playful grin. “I could, but I think it’ll be more fun for you to figure it out on your own.”
They continued their walk in companionable silence for a time, with Sable keeping one eye on Celestia as she started mentally putting together all of the clues in front of her. Aside from the distinctly European architecture, there was the fact that the streets themselves were unlike any US city she’d ever been in; tight and winding with well-cobbled brick underfoot. Another clue Celestia picked up on was how quiet it was: back in Canterlot it was about 8PM, but here the evening hustle and bustle was nonexistent.
“What time is it here?” Celestia asked.
“About five in the morning,” Sable answered. “Took a lot of man hours of research to find a decent place here that’s open twenty-four hours.”
Celestia finally seemed to figure it out when they got to a bridge over a canal that itself wound its way through the tightly packed buildings. Stopping in place, Celestia looked at Sable with disbelieving eyes.
“Are we in Venice?!”
Sable smiled. “See? Wasn’t that more fun than just having me tell you?”
For several moments Celestia was speechless, and Sable remained silent to let her process this. Quietly, Celestia went to the railing and looked out over the canal at the other bridges and the boats tied off to the sides. The expression on her face changed to something Sable couldn’t quite describe. Her family may not have come from this part of Italy, but she nonetheless looked like a girl coming home.
“You know… when you said you were going to make it up to me, I wasn’t expecting… this,” she said.
Sable stood beside her and put a hand on hers. “Well, what can I say? I’m an overachiever.”
Celestia laughed softly at that. “Still, don’t you think this is a little bit overkill to make up for me driving you to work every morning since your old Jeep broke down?”
“C’mon, Celestia. It was more than just that,” Sable said, turning to look directly into her beautiful lilac eyes. “The past month has been difficult for all of us, but you’ve been there for me and supported me through all of it. Hell, it was your idea for me to hire a master chief in the first place, and you even encouraged me to pursue a friendship with Troubleshoes on top of that. In a way, everything worked out the way it did because of you.”
“Oh, I can’t take credit for all of it!” Celestia rebutted.
Sable shrugged. “Maybe, but still. Even with your new job as assistant superintendent—even with the absolute insanity of everything that happened to us in the summer—you still made supporting me a priority. I could teleport you to anywhere in the world, and it wouldn’t be enough to convey how much you mean to me,” he said. “How much I love you.”
Just like that, Celestia was a schoolgirl again, wobbling at the knees in the presence of her first crush, and the unguarded look of smitten adoration on her face gave Sable butterflies. Suffice to say, the kiss that followed was long and passionate.
When they finally parted, breathless, Sable said, “Now, I don’t know about you, but I’m starving.”
Celestia concurred wholeheartedly, and together the two of them continued to Delizie Ultraterrene, where they ate of real Italian food and chatted lightly all the while. When they were finished, they decided to spend some time in the city, making their way to the main canal in time to watch the morning sun rise over the Basilica di Santa Maria. Then with a twist of the gemstones set into their bracelets, they returned home to express their love more intimately.
Suffice to say, the dinner that Tirespin had cooked up for her family (coincidentally, an Italian lasagna recipe she found on the internet) was a far cry from the poisoning Troubleshoes had joked about to the triplets hours before. Afterwards, Troubleshoes had handled the after-meal cleanup, then all of them gathered in the family room to watch TV together. Troubleshoes and Tirespin shared the couch while Cinnamon dozed in her crib and Down Luck sat in her favorite chair. After watching CNN, Down decided to go to bed, and Tirespin eagerly put on that night’s episode of Game of Thrones.
It had been fairly easy for Troubleshoes to forget about the unsettling news from earlier in the night when he was with his daughter. However, as the riveting hour of murder, sex and political maneuvering on the television ended, Troubleshoes found his gaze drifting over to the brown spot on the couch’s armrest.
Much like a certain character in a different, older medieval work, Troubleshoes had worked hard to wash all of the blood from the room, but no matter how hard he cleaned, that one spot on the armrest stubbornly remained. Every time the horror of that night managed to leave his mind, it only lasted as long as Troubleshoes didn’t see that damned spot. He had caught Tirespin’s eyes flicking to it a few times over the past week as well.
Unsure of whose blood it even was, every time Tirespin saw it, she couldn’t help but think back to her conversation with Spike after the attack on their house. I can’t stop wondering… how much of it is my mess, and how much of it is theirs? Was the spot of dried blood on the armrest from her father… or was it from him?
Troubleshoes was unaware of any of these thoughts as they went through Tirespin’s head, but he could guess at what she was generally thinking as her gaze once again drifted to the damned spot, and decided to speak up.
“We could always get rid of it,” he said. “The couch, I mean.”
Tirespin just shrugged. “Yeah, I guess if we’re gonna be moving to a nicer neighborhood anyway, might as well just get new furniture.”
Troubleshoes decided to ignore the fact that Tirespin wasn’t addressing the main issue. In truth, their plan to get a better place wasn’t just to escape the shithole that was Sunnytown. Tirespin’s conversation with Spike once again very much came into play here. Just like when their old house had been broken into, the sanctuary of their home had been violated, and now it didn’t quite feel like home anymore.
“Hey Dad?” Tirespin asked. “That night… when we came home….” After some awkward fumbling, Tirespin went quiet, and Troubleshoes thought that she was going to drop whatever she was going to ask before she found the strength to say what she wanted to say. “You weren’t actually going to… to let that guy…. You had a plan, right?”
Troubleshoes wasn’t entirely sure what she was trying to say, clearly struggling as she was with the memories of that night. But the two of them hadn’t talked about it since it happened. Now seemed as good a time as any.
“My plan was to save you, Down, and Cinnamon. At any cost.”
Tirespin frowned and looked at her lap. “And… you were really okay with… w-with letting that guy have his way with you?”
“I was pretty damn far from okay with it,” Troubleshoes said with a frown of his own. “But I knew it was the only way to save you.”
“But… you weren’t afraid?”
“Of course I was.”
With a little “Hmm,” Tirespin said, “That asshole sure didn’t seem to think so.”
“It helps that I’ve been trained to deal with pain.” Then with an attempt at a lighthearted laugh, Troubleshoes said, “I doubt anything he could have done to me would have been worse than SERE-C. Still though… I think the only reason he thought I wasn’t afraid was because I’d mentally checked out—one of the techniques we learned to resist torture. I wasn’t even thinking about that though. I was just thinking about how much I wanted to save you.”
Tirespin put a hand on his and leaned into him, and Troubleshoes decided to ask, “I’m curious, why are you asking, anyway?”
“Because the way he was looking at you… it was the same way Root Factor used to look at me,” Tirespin admitted, staring at the TV but not seeing what was on it. “Like I was just an object.” Now Troubleshoes understood what she was trying to say. “When I first noticed it back then, I was afraid too.”
“Not too afraid to go and get yourself pregnant, though,” Troubleshoes said, before immediately wondering if he’d just said something stupid.
Fortunately, Tirespin didn’t seem particularly offended. “Yeah, I think that and everything leading up to it was me trying to… take control. Guess I figured if I could get something out of it, being objectified wouldn’t be all that bad.”
Troubleshoes nodded, the father and daughter perhaps gaining an even better understanding of one another. The comfortable silence was broken by the sound of Troubleshoes’s phone ringing, and he reached into his pocket for it, expecting to see Sunset or one of the triplets’s names on the screen. Instead, Troubleshoes saw an unknown number. His first thought was that it was just telemarketers, and felt ready to give them a piece of his mind for calling so late. And yet, some instinct told him to get up from the couch and put some distance between himself and Tirespin as he answered.
“Hey, Big T.”
The voice on the other end was not, in fact, Withers, but damn if Troubleshoes’s heart hadn’t skipped a beat upon hearing the nickname. It occurred to him a moment later that Big T had been a genuinely affectionate nickname used by a genuine friend before Withers had stolen it.
“What do you want, Biff?” Troubleshoes intoned, not much happier to be hearing from his old friend.
“Listen, I know I’m probably the last person you want to hear from right now,” Biff said quickly, as if he expected Troubleshoes to hang up right away.
“You’re not very high up on my list,” he said instead. Technically, his old ‘friend’ wasn’t the last person he wanted to hear from, but it was a pretty damn close race.
“I know, but before you hang up please just hear me out!”
Troubleshoes glanced over at Tirespin, who was now standing over the crib gently rocking a crying Cinnamon. He went into another room as he said, “If your boss still wants me to fix up that Mercedes he can forget it!”
“He has. That’s one of the reasons I’m calling,” Biff said. “The Bloodhound wants you to know that as far as he’s concerned, all of your debts with Los Perros are settled. You won’t have to worry about hearing from us ever again.”
“Hmph,” Troubleshoes grunted. That would certainly be nice if it were true, and Biff had no reason to lie, he supposed.
“I’m also calling to apologize,” Biff continued. “Both on behalf of Los Perros, and… as your friend.”
“Do you really think you still get to call yourself that? After everything that’s happened?”
Troubleshoes heard a long sigh on the other end of the line. “No, I guess not. But I’m sorry just the same. Withers went completely off script when he came after you and your family. Suffice to say, the Bloodhound is not happy with him.”
Clenching his fists, Troubleshoes decided he’s heard enough bullshit. “How do you expect me to believe that when you guys bailed him out at the arraignment today?!”
Biff’s voice took on a darker tone as he answered, “That wasn’t us.”
Troubleshoes wanted to call bullshit on that too, but there was no mistaking the unsettled tone in Biff’s voice as he continued, “I know you have no reason to believe me, but I’m being completely honest with you when I say we genuinely have no idea who hired that lawyer and paid bail on those charges. That’s one of the questions we plan on asking Withers when he arrives.”
“Hmph, so despite all he’s done, he’s back in the fold?”
“Hardly. Like I said, the Bloodhound is not happy with Withers, and he’s about to learn that the hard way.” There was a pause on the other end before Biff said definitively and with finality, “Trust me, after tonight, you won’t have to worry about that asshole ever again!”
All things considered, everything had turned out alright for Coarse Withers. Sure, he’d lost out on his chance to turn Troubleshoes Clyde into his next masterpiece, and ultimately failed to deliver him to his boss, but he wasn’t in jail. That fact alone meant that things were still good between him and his employers at Los Perros; surely they wouldn’t have expended such resources to help him walk if they were unhappy with him, right?
Still, Withers was a little disappointed about missing out on his time with Troubleshoes, but not by much: he now had a new muse. It would probably be some time before Withers would be able to make that Sunset Shimmer girl his next work of art, but that was fine. Withers was nothing if not patient, and the more time he had, the more ready he would be to find a workaround for… whatever the hell that girl had that let her move things with her mind. He already had a few ideas for how to circumvent that—there were plenty of drugs that could probably suppress those mysterious abilities of hers, he just needed to find something that would keep her lucid enough not to make it boring.
Time enough for that later, though. Right now, Withers needed to report to his superiors. It wasn’t long after leaving Canterlot that Withers had called for extraction and had been picked up early the following morning by a couple of Los Perros soldiers he had never met. Was the Bloodhound expanding their ranks? Regardless, it was about thirteen hours of driving (in a Mercedes SUV not unlike the one that had been taken in for repairs at Hard Luck Towing about a month ago) later that Los Perros’s main North American base of operations came into view.
A forgotten former military airfield called Fort Somner just outside of Taiban, New Mexico, the home base of Los Perros de Guerra was a stretch of fortified old hangars and offices surrounded by a tall barbed-wire fence supplemented with sandbags stacked as high as a man’s chest. Wooden watchtowers had been constructed along the perimeter, each one manned by a pair of sentries, each equipped with a pair of night-vision goggles and a mounted fifty-caliber machine gun. As the men driving him passed through the first of the checkpoints, an inexplicable sense of unease filled Withers. He thought of his last talk with Biff before he had decided to take the matter of Troubleshoes into his own hands, and how Biff had said that the Bloodhound wanted to speak with him. That same feeling of being sent to the principal’s office persisted as the SUV drove him across the base past armed patrols and hangers full of weapons, armored vehicles, and other hardware until they arrived in front of the proverbial principal’s office itself.
I’m just being paranoid. Everything’s fine. Everything I know points to that one immutable fact, Withers told himself even as he got out of the SUV and found himself being flanked by another pair of unfamiliar mercenaries as he was led into the building.
On the top floor, Withers was brought into an office overlooking what had once been the airport’s dark, sandy tarmac. The only other time Withers had been in the Bloodhound’s office was when he was first offered the job as one of the top commanding officers of the organization. It had also been the only other time Withers had met the Bloodhound in person.
Withers couldn’t remember much about his first impressions of the big dog himself when they’d met. He remembered getting his first good look at him and had to keep himself from visibly wincing as he thought, Now that’s a face only a mother could love! He also remembered his eyes: the Bloodhound had dark brown, almost black eyes, cold and lifeless, which combined with his mutilated face, gave him the appearance of a feral dog himself. Withers remembered seeing those dead eyes and wondering whether the Bloodhound was also a man who didn’t experience emotion the way most people seemed to. Yes, he’d felt almost as if they were kindred spirits in that regard, and it had made him hopeful for his future with Los Perros.
Now though, Withers’s uncertainty of his standing was stronger than ever. Biff and Rogue were both standing around the Bloodhound’s desk as he came in. The Bloodhound himself was not at his desk, but was instead seated at the lounge in the far corner of the office, his scarred visage cast in shadow. He had been in the middle of a conversation with another man seated across from him, but Withers couldn’t tell who it was with his back turned.
Withers made a token attempt to greet his fellow lieutenants but was met only with icy silence. Something was definitely wrong. He saw the Bloodhound’s head tilt up to acknowledge him.
“Lt. Withers. So nice of you to finally join us.” The Bloodhound’s deep, heavily accented voice held no emotion and was barely over a whisper, but the whole room seemed immediately drawn to it.
Lightly tossing the bangs from his face, Withers pulled a confident grin out of his bag. “Yes, sir! Would have been here sooner—much sooner—but as you no doubt are aware, there were some complications.”
“Yes….” The Bloodhound’s soft baritone sent a chill up Withers’s spine. “Complications is a nice way of putting all of your transgressions.”
Withers nervously cleared his throat. “Transgressions? I don’t understand, what ‘transgressions’ do you mean?”
“Insubordination, to start with,” the Bloodhound said, rising from his seat. Withers suddenly found himself hoping that he would keep his face hidden in the shadows as he heard the undercurrent of fury in his otherwise calm, emotionless voice. He didn’t want to know what that horrible face looked like pissed off. “You failed to follow orders. You got our forces involved in a conflict based on inaccurate findings that burned all of our bridges in Canterlot. You needlessly antagonized our local mechanic to the point he cut all ties with us. But none of that is even your worst transgression.”
The Bloodhound then nodded to the man he had been talking to, and he stood and turned to face Withers, who immediately realized just how fucked he was.
Rifled Barrel stood—very much alive—and glared at Withers with open hatred, evidently not willing to let bygones be bygones in the case of using him as a human shield and killing Siege Dancer. Behind him, the Bloodhound stood in the shadows, studying him with a knowing look. Even Withers couldn’t hide his guilt; the Bloodhound’s gaze, lifeless though it seemed, could see everything.
Seeing no other way out, Withers turned and knocked his two escorts flat on their asses (they seemed pretty green, so it wasn’t hard). The way to the door was clear, and Withers went for it. He didn’t even know what his plan was after that. He was operating on pure instinct.
But as he grabbed the doorknob, something hit him in the side of the head hard enough to make him see stars. Staggering back, Withers looked up to see the Bloodhound, who had somehow cleared the distance between them in mere moments. His half-destroyed face was now clear in the light, and the fury on it was exactly as horrible as Withers feared.
Before he could even retaliate, the Bloodhound came at him again hitting him with hard, fast punches. Withers had been in the Green Berets before being dishonorably discharged. He knew a dozen different ways to beat a man in hand-to-hand combat. But the way the Bloodhound moved, he didn’t even seem to be a man. He attacked with the ferocity of a rabid animal, yet each hit was methodical; precisely placed so that Withers was down on the ground in a matter of seconds.
“There will be no escaping the reckoning you have earned, Lt. Withers,” he said softly, leaning over him.
Everything hurt (this latest set of injuries weren’t doing the ones from his fight with Troubleshoes any favors), and Withers scrambled back into the corner, desperately trying to buy himself more space from the horrible permanent snarl that was the Bloodhound’s face. Withers knew that whatever reckoning was in store from him, it would not likely be one he would survive, so he desperately tried to get out of it by grasping onto the one thing that still didn’t make sense.
“If I fucked up so bad, why did you spend so much money to keep me from going to prison?!” Withers asked, hoping he didn’t sound as desperate as he felt.
The Bloodhound studied him curiously for two, three seconds. “So you think we did that? Disappointing.” He then went over to a nervous looking Biff, took a sheet of paper from him and brought it to where Withers lay bleeding on the floor. “This arrived at our compound the day of your arraignment. We were hoping you could shed some light on it.”
The Bloodhound held out the sheet of paper, and it took Withers a few seconds to sit up and collect himself before he realized that what he was looking at was an invoice for the services of Dropcharge’s law firm, paid in full under his name by what was clearly a dummy corporation.
But what first drew his eyes was what was scrawled messily overtop in what very well may have been blood: the Roman numeral twelve. Something about that twelve triggered something deep in his lizard brain, and for a moment Withers was more afraid of it than he was of the Bloodhound. It felt like the twelve was digging deep into his mind, and a strange phrase suddenly came into his head.
Knowing that his life was at stake, Withers tried to ignore the twelve and wracked his brain to come up with something—anything—to explain what he was seeing. Even a convincing enough bullshit answer might have been enough. But Withers didn’t have anything, and the Bloodhound pulled the sheet away.
“So, you’re as in the dark as the rest of us. Curious.” The Bloodhound then motioned for the two Withers had knocked down to pick him up and hold him by the arms. “Time for his reckoning.”
The Bloodhound then exited the office and the two goons followed along, carrying Withers’s dead weight. They followed the Bloodhound back down to the ground floor and then across the base, with Withers trying to think of a way out of this all the while.
Promised salvation. Why did that phrase suddenly pop into his head as soon as he saw that Roman numeral twelve? Promised salvation if you tell him the right thing. The thought didn’t feel like his own, but planted in his head by something… or someone. Withers desperately searched through his memories of everything that happened over the past month, wondering if the magic information that would save his life was in any of them. His thought process was derailed as he saw that they were approaching the kennel, and he heard the ferociously barking dogs within.
Emotion was always a mystery to Withers; to this day he never understood what happy or sad even really meant. But that wasn’t true of all emotions. He understood rage and anger fairly early on in his life, and had become well acquainted with them as things continued to go wrong over the past month. But now, for perhaps the first time, Withers understood fear as well.
Three large Dobermans barked at him from within their fenced-in area, their eyes bloodshot and their mouths dripping with drool. It was as he was being dragged toward the cage that Withers realized what was about to happen, and that was the moment he truly understood fear. With another gesture from the Bloodhound, Withers was tossed to the floor in front of the locked cage, and the dogs inside were driven into a frenzy, scratching at and gnawing on the chain-link with the same feral desperation that Withers himself felt. One of them was so close Withers could see the name tag on its collar: Cerberus.
“For every day you went astray from us, I neglected to feed them,” the Bloodhound said with a faint, cold grin. “They’re starving.”
Openly weeping now (something he hadn’t done since he was an infant) Withers pleaded, “I’m sorry! I’m sorry! I won’t do it again! I promise!”
The Bloodhound pulled out a set of keys and began unlocking the cage, and Cerberus and his two companions started throwing themselves against it even harder, as if trying to squeeze through the chain-link itself.
“You’ll need to give me more than that,” the Bloodhound said, and Withers knew it was the truth.
Tell him the right thing, the Twelve (for some reason, he was starting to mentally capitalize it) had spoken in his mind. For your promised salvation.
But Withers didn’t know what the right thing was. Most would argue he’d never known all his life. But that life was about to come to a gruesome end, so Withers just started blubbering whatever came to his mind. “It wasn’t my fault!” he wailed through the tears and snot. “It was that bitch! Her and the Snooper! I would have had Clyde if they hadn’t shown up! They had some kind of… powers or something!”
The Bloodhound slid the key into the padlock but hesitated as he looked back at him curiously. “Powers? Who were they?”
“I don’t know! The girl was one of the ones who sheltered Troubleshoes from us. Sunset Shimmer,” Withers said. He probably could have specified that “Snooper” was his nickname for Sable Loam, but he was most definitely not thinking entirely clearly at that moment.
“I’m not interested in the people who assisted Troubleshoes. Your findings that they were ex-SIREN turned out to be false.” The Bloodhound turned the key and the padlock clicked open.
But some inexplicable feeling within Withers (the will of the Twelve) told him he was on the right track, and he kept going. “He said that Sunset Shimmer was a god, or something! And Loam… called himself the Wolf of Kabul!”
The Bloodhound froze, halfway through removing the padlock. Slowly, he turned to look at Withers lying there on the floor, and Withers could have sworn he saw a spark in those usually lifeless eyes.
“The Wolf of Kabul…?” the Bloodhound muttered softly. “Sable Loam is the Wolf of Kabul?”
Withers didn’t know what to do except nod, and the Bloodhound stood there staring ahead for a long time. Withers just looked over at the opened padlock still holding the cage shut even as Cerberus and his pack mates madly jumped and gnawed at it. At last, a satisfied smile crept across the Bloodhound’s twisted visage, and that’s when Withers realized he had said the right thing.
“I see… so this is why you have been brought back to us. As always, everything happens for a reason….” Smiling down at him, the Bloodhound said, “Congratulations, Lt. Withers. This information just spared your life.”
Just like that, the Bloodhound locked the cage again and the two mercs that dragged him here exchanged a look as Withers’s sobs turned to chuckles, and his tears of fear became tears of relief. “Promised salvation…” he muttered as his chuckles turned to full blown laughter, joining the barking dogs in a cacophony of beastial noise. “Promised salvation!”
“Yes…” the Bloodhound said softly. “Regrettably, there’s still the issue of your ‘hobbies.’”
Withers’s laughter petered out as he looked up at him. “Wha… what do you mean?”
“When we first met, I inquired about the extent of your ‘artistic endeavors,’ as you put them, and you told me that you could keep your work life and your personal life separate.” The Bloodhound gave him a serious look. “But those ‘hobbies’ were at the center of your transgressions this past month, making it clear that your assessment of your priorities was false.”
Withers sat up and brushed aside some of his hair as he composed himself. “I assure you; it won’t happen again.”
“Yes, and I believe that you mean that… right now,” the Bloodhound said. “And I believe that you meant it then, too. But you got carried away. Perfectly understandable, of course. But entirely unacceptable.”
A bit of the fear returned to Withers’s stomach, cold and uncomfortable, as the Bloodhound looked over at Cerberus and said, “I trust, Lieutenant, that you know what we do with dogs whose primal urges keep them from behaving?”
Taking another look at Cerberus, Withers couldn’t help but pay attention to what was between the Doberman’s legs. Or rather: what wasn’t.
“No… no, no, I told you it won’t be a problem! I'll give you my word!”
“Which is only good until you find your next ‘canvas’,” the Bloodhound said, motioning for the two mercs to grab him and hoist him to his feet. “You may have delivered me something wonderful tonight, but there still must be a reckoning. My dogs are still hungry, after all: I have to give them something.” He then addressed the men holding him. “Take him to the medical building.”
“NO! NO YOU CAN’T DO THIS!” Withers screamed as the men started to drag him away.
The Bloodhound walked with him, staring far ahead calmly. “Don’t be afraid. In time, you will see this for what it is: a gift. I am giving you the ability to be truly loyal. This way, you can be by my side when the day comes that I finally meet the Wolf of Kabul.”