The sun had fully set by the time that Daring came within sight of the large arched bridge crossing the Maresippi, opening the way for visitors to enter and goods to leave the Industrial District of Ponyville.
“There he is,” Phillip said as he dangled beneath her, pointing at the dark green Lincolt Touring Breeze parked beneath them on the southern bank. A donkey in a trim red suit was standing next to his vehicle, looking expectantly up at them.
Daring descended quickly and more or less flopped onto the ground, panting and huffing, wiping sweat from her dripping mane. “Okay, I admit it,” she puffed. “Flying all the way back to Ponyville carrying you was kinda stupid.”
“Told you,” Phillip grunted, shaking his head. “G’day, Captain.”
“The alicorns must’ve sent the winds in your favor, detectives,” Captain Hewn Oak declared, striding forward with hoof outstretched. “It is good that you came so quickly after your call.”
“Has the museum been warned?” Phillip asked as they headed for the car.
“Yes, I called the museum director and the museum directly,” Captain Oak declared, opening the back door for them to step into the car. “The director assured me that they had taken every measure to ensure that the Rings were secure; they are moved to a basement vault and secured in a special box that has a silent alarm with a direct line to the police station if it is tampered with. There are no less than five guards at night, with every door and window securely locked and surveillance crystals scanning the interior at all times.”
“I’ve broken into harder places,” Daring said, climbing into the backseat with a groan.
“I have no doubt,” Captain Oak nodded, climbing into the front seat and starting up the engine. “Which is why we’re going directly to the museum ourselves to meet with the director and ensure that the security is adequate.”
“Good,” Daring sighed, taking out her flask and gulping down some Manticore Rare.
“By the way, I had Twilight search the archives for any mention of ponies matching the description of your elusive serpent,” Oak continued as he merged onto the street and started to cross the bridge, boats trundling beneath them through the dark waters of the Maresippi. He passed a manila folder over to Phillip. “She did indeed find a pony of interest by the name of Trato Perfecto.”
Phillip opened up the folder and studied the contents within. The first sheet was a mugshot from the Manehattan Police from 1938, showing a blue unicorn with a shaggy orange mane, yellow eyes, and the cutie mark of a briefcase with a bit sign on it. The rap sheet informed him that he had been arrested for bank robbery and fraud.
“He was originally from Mexicolt,” Hewn Oak stated as they reached the opposite side of the bridge. “He has since faded in and out of sight like a phantom; he was marked as a pony of interest for several thefts after his initial release in 1938, but there was never any solid evidence.”
“No history of violence,” Phillip noted, scanning the other pages.
Oak glanced in the rearview mirror at his passengers. “Detectives, I should tell you,” he said. “Somepony tried to ambush Flash and Red earlier today.”
“What?” Phillip cried, sitting up straight.
“Rest assured, they are both unharmed and have found the fox’s den and are prepared to go in to unmask him,” Oak stated, pausing at a red light. “But this fiend is a devilish trickster. They slaughtered a crew of Industry Kings last night and left one survivor as bait for our men.” He glanced back in the mirror once more. “I have a sneaking suspicion that he was after larger prey.”
Phil and Daring both exchanged looks. “We’ve both had ponies try to kill us before,” Daring pointed out, though she shifted uncomfortably.
“Aye, but we must still exercise caution,” Oak conceded as the light changed and he drove on.
The radio in the dashboard suddenly crackled to life. “Any available unit, 10-22 at Ponyville History Museum, silent alarm. Repeat, 10-22, History Museum, any unit respond.”
“I had to tempt fate,” Oak sighed and grabbed the radio. “This is King Seven, responding with Finder and Do,” he declared into the radio, switching on the vehicle's lights and sirens and pressing down the accelerator to speed through an intersection.
Their masked guest sat in the passenger seat of the truck parked in the shadowed alleyway, absently stroking the raven on his shoulder with one hoof. While his red eyes were fixed upon their target, the bird’s beady black eyes stared at Trato Perfecto. The unicorn shifted in the backseat finding himself unable to meet the silent gaze.
“Relajate, doctor,” the brown earth pony stallion said from the driver’s seat. “Mi amigo could sell water to a seapony. Convincing one guard to aid us is not an issue.”
The doctor glanced sideways at the boss, his gaze cold. One hoof went up towards one of the vials of yellow liquid resting on his chest with an almost absentminded slowness.
“None of us are perfect, si?” the boss replied with a conciliatory smile. “I’m sure he had a good reason for killing the crafter. It won’t be enough to stop us.”
Perfecto pushed some of his hair out of his face and tried not to swallow despite the sudden burning in his throat. He could hear the nervousness in his jefe’s voice, and could only hope that the “doctor” didn’t.
The jefe checked his watch. “The potion should’ve taken effect by now,” he declared, grabbing the bag of hoofprint-removing powder and donning his mask. “Vamonos.”
The doctor rose, pulling his hood over his head and climbing out the passenger door. Perfecto took in a breath and pulled his own balaclava down over his face. With a grunt, he lifted up the large bag with his golden magic and tossed it over one shoulder, shoving open the van truck door. The hard-won trinkets clattered within.
The trio hustled down the alley in silence, their approach unobserved. They crossed an empty, shadowed street to their target: the loading dock of the Ponyville History Museum, a concrete pier jutting out from the great brick wall leading up to a pair of locked metal doors.
A security crystal overlooked the doors like a vulture, its purple eye staring down balefully. Perfecto glanced up at it as they approached.
The jefe pulled out a key and inserted it into the metal door. With a click, the door unlatched and they proceeded inside, scampering silently down the darkened hallway. Another locked door to their left was swiftly unlocked and opened to reveal a set of stairs heading down. More security crystals stared at them to mark their progress
No alarms sounded, no hoofsteps of approaching guards echoed through the hallways. Trato Perfecto smiled in relief beneath his mask; his contact appeared to have done his job well.
With a soft chirp and a flapping of wings, the raven took off and headed down the hallway into the museum proper. Perfecto tried not to shudder in the cold draft left in the wake of the bird’s flight as they proceeded down into the basement of the museum, switching on flashlights clipped to their shoulders to guide them through the darkness.
The basement stretched out across the foundations, rows and rows of shelves and worktables filling the white-tiled room. Papers and textbooks sat abandoned at stations, table lamps lurking over them as if in fascination; cameras and other equipment sat on racks and tables, waiting for use.
“Come, rapidamente,” the jefe urged them, crossing the basement with quick, silent steps.
The trio paused before the great metal door set in the back wall. Two combination locks were set in the magic-resistant steel, as well as two handles.
“You remember the code, amigo?” the earth stallion asked.
“Of course I do, jefe,” Perfecto nodded, moving to the left dial.
As one, they spun the dials, entering the two combinations that they had long sought to uncover. They both grasped the handles and nodded at one another.
“Uno, dos, tres,” Perfect’s companion counted off. On tres, they both pushed down on the latches, which let out a simultaneous click.
“We’re in!” Perfecto grinned, pulling the vault doors open with a great groaning.
Their flashlights illuminated the interior of the massive treasure chamber, where the museum’s most valuable and fragile exhibits were stored during the night or for maintenance. Smaller safes and other containers lined the walls and tables, climate-controlled containers of bulletproof glass revealing fragile parchments and paintings.
“Our client said it’ll be in the back,” Perfecto declared, leading them around a worktable. “Label on it is ‘22-3-S…’”
A screech made them all whirl around. The raven was flying into the vault, wings flapping to alight atop one of the safes inside. It cawed again at their silent guest, its feathers ruffled in agitation.
The red eyes snapped up to the ceiling as if he could glare right through the material.
“¿Que es mal?” Perfecto asked, pausing.
The pegasus glared at him briefly and let out a brief grunt, gesturing with his head to the back wall. The message was clear: Keep looking.
The pegasus switched off his flashlight and proceeded to the door of the vault; whispering quietly to the bird as he passed. With a wing, he unlatched his other mask from his belt and passed it up to his hooves, strapping it on over his balaclava as he walked, strapping it on tight. The raven remained behind, glaring at Perfecto.
“Trouble, amigo,” the jefe breathed, trying to hide his shudder. “Come, let us find the rings. The sooner we conclude our business here, the better.”
“It’s getting dark,” Flash commented from the street, looking up at the large derelict building that loomed over the detectives in the street like a vulture peering down at them. “Where’s Matchstick?”
“Maybe she and Gavel got into another shot-drinking contest,” Red suggested, leaning against his car.
“Don’t be like that,” Twilight scolded him as she double-checked the equipment in the back of the crime scene truck and joined Flash up at the hood of the truck to go over the blueprints of the abandoned factory that they’d retrieved from Records. “Judge Gavel has been sober since the start of this year.”
“That’s what he says every year,” Red replied. Twilight frowned at him. “In fairness, this is the longest he’s lasted, apparently…” he admitted.
“Here she comes,” Flash said in obvious relief, standing up. A bright red Trotillac Convertible with the top down was pulling up to them, the driver honking merrily as she stopped. A reddish-orange unicorn hopped out of the car without bothering to open the door, tossing her blonde mane out of her face.
“Got the warrant here,” Detective Matchstick declared, holding the signed paper up over her head. “Sorry it took so long. I figured that a place this big might need a bit of help.”
“You asking for help?” Red smirked.
“As hard as it is to believe--I mean, I am all that--a bigass factory is a bit more than I can handle,” Matchstick admitted. “Which is why I called in a buddy at the fire department.”
She turned and nodded towards an approaching jeep grumbling down the road towards them. The open-air vehicle was painted red, with “Ponyville Fire” painted on the sides. But it was the silhouette of the driver that made the detectives’ eyebrows rise.
“A yak?” Red cried. “Since when does the FD have a yak?”
The jeep pulled up to a stop next to them and the yak hopped out. Her green eyes glittered with humor as she beamed at them all; her brown monkey swings, held in place by a couple of purple bows, bounced up and down with every step. She was adorned in a black and yellow reflective turnout jacket, with Ponyville Fire Department’s logo embroidered on the front, and a large toolbelt over her waist, rattling with equipment. Splashed across the back in bright yellow letters was a name: “Yona.”
“Hello, Matchstick!” Yona declared, bounding over to the unicorn mare like an oversized excited puppy and seizing her in a bone-crushing hug.
Matchstick let out a wheeze of pain. “Thanks for coming out, Yona,” she grunted. “Everypony, this is Yona.”
“Hello, friends!” Yona declared with a wave.
“Yona’s part of the department’s hazmat squad and helps with our bomb squad on drills; that’s how I know her,” Matchstick explained.
“Yona father move to Equestria and join Equestrian Army to aid sister country,” Yona declared proudly. “Yona join Fire Department to serve as well!”
“Trust me, she can help us get around that wreckage and if there’s any weird shit in there, between the two of us, we’ll find ‘em.”
Flash looked Yona up and down. “Um...if you say so,” he shrugged.
“Whatever, let’s just get this done,” Red sighed. He checked the blueprints spread over the hood of the truck. “Okay, the vent where I saw the feathers is this one here,” he said, pointing to a highlighted pipe that ran across several pages. “We’ll see where it leads.”
“Okay, let’s go,” Matchstick nodded.
The group crossed the street and paused at the locked gate that surrounded the derelict factory. A quick flash of Matchstick’s horn and the chain snapped open, rattling to the ground.
“Entrevous,” Matchstick said, pushing the gate open.
They proceeded through the gate and stopped at the door. The metal portal had been long secured with a padlock which had rusted solid brown, with additional boards nailed over it.
Matchstick and Twilight both swept the door with their magic but found nothing. “Looks clear,” Matchstick admitted.
“Wait,” Yona said, taking a mirror on a long handle out of her belt, not unlike a mirror used by a dentist but much larger. She poked it through a gap in the broken windows and tilted it around, studying the other side of the door.
“Yona not see any traps,” she reported.
“Okay,” Twilight nodded, frowning at the lock. “It might take me a while to break through that…”
“Stand back, friends!” Yona declared, backing up and scraping her hoof against the ground.
Matchstick quickly shoved Twilight out of the way. Yona charged like a runaway train, lowering her horned head.
With a great crash, she plowed right through the door like it wasn’t there, dust and debris flying in her wake. The detectives all stared at the massive hole that she had left behind.
“I see why you invited her,” Red said dryly.
They proceeded inside to find Yona was standing within what had once been the main floor of the factory, surrounded on all sides by broken machinery whose original purpose had been long lost. Timbers hung from the roof.
Yona was holding up a device that looked kind of like a set of miniature bellows attached to a dial by a rubber hose. She squeezed the bellows a few times, frowning as she studied the gauge.
“Air not flammable,” she reported. “And safe to breathe.” She sniffed, then grimaced. “Maybe instruments not calibrated.”
“That, my friend, is the scent of squatters,” Matchstick smiled, lighting up her horn with a scarlet aura. “Piss, shit, beer, and drugs. Learn to love it.”
Yona scrunched her nose up and switched on the headlamp over her horns. “Yona will keep testing air to be safe.”
“Watch your steps,” Twilight warned, frowning at a board that creaked beneath her weight. “Who knows how secure this place is.”
They proceeded forward through the factory, skirting around debris and detritus, wrinkling their nostrils at piles of garbage and waste left behind by squatters.
“I think that this is the pipe where the raven came in,” Red said, rapping at an old black ventilation shaft that ran down from the ceiling along the wall.
“We should check to see if there are any holes anywhere,” Flash suggested.
“Stairway here!” Yona shouted, padding her way over to a rickety set of stairs that led up to the floor above.
“Uh, Yona--” Flash started to say.
The yak took one step onto the stairs and they immediately began to splinter with a great cracking, the ancient staircase bending beneath her weight. “Oops,” Yona said sheepishly, quickly stepping off.
Red facehooved. “Faust help whoever she comes to rescue,” he mumbled.
“How about the ones with the wings go looking?” Flash offered. He and Red lifted up through the gap to a room that was full of broken tables and chairs.
“There’s the ventilation pipe,” Red said, pointing.
He and Flash studied the shaft with their flashlights but only found a few grates, which showed no sign that they had ever been opened, nor were there any signs of recent occupation. They went up to the next floor and followed the vent up to the ceiling, but again, there was no sign that their prey had left out of the old, rusting shaft.
“Let’s get back to the others,” Red said, sweeping his flashlight over the accumulated dirt and filth and garbage.
They proceeded back to the ground floor, rejoining the rest of the group. “There’s no sign of them up there,” Flash reported.
“That vent leads into the basement,” Red said, nodding to the rattling shaft that ran along the ceiling and walls to the floor. “There’s got to be a way down there.”
Twilight studied the blueprints with a frown. “It says that there should be a stairway around...here.” She pointed to a section of the creaking floor next to them.
“Well, there’s nothing there,” Matchstick said, sweeping it over with her magic.
“Wait a minute,” Flash said, bending down to study the floor beneath his headlamp. “The wood here is different.”
“Yona check!” Yona declared, striding forward. She stamped on the planks, creating a hollow rattling noise. “Something under there!” she declared, stamping on the floor again.
“Yona, maybe you should--” Matchstick started to say.
But before she could finish her sentence, the planks cracked, then broke beneath the yak, who tumbled down with a yelp of shock and a great crash.
“Yona!” Twilight called down.
“Yona okay!” Yona shouted up.
Her sentence was punctuated by a loud clunk of wood on bone and a grunt of pain. “Yona still okay!” Yona said.
Shaking his head, Red bent down to study the opening. Yona had broken open a trapdoor covering what had once been the staircase heading into the basement, though the stairs had long been destroyed.
“What’s down there, Yona?” he called down to the yak, who was currently testing the air once more, turning in place amidst the wreckage of the trapdoor.
“Yona see…” Yona adjusted her headlamp and looked around. Her eyes widened in surprise. “Yona see lab!”
“A lab?” Flash asked.
Matchstick jumped down, sweeping her crimson spotlight over the walls. “No bombs or anything,” she reported, looking around with her glowing horn. “Yeah, this is a lab, all right. Y’all better get down here.”
Red and Flash both flapped down and landed in the basement, sweeping their flashlights around.
It was indeed a lab, with long worktables set along the walls. Beakers, test tubes, microscopes, and other equipment were all neatly organized upon the surfaces, unidentified liquids contained within. Set on one table was a bird perch made of a roughly T-shaped branch with two small plastic bowls on the top, one partially filled with water, one with nuts and dried kernels of corn. Wards were etched into the stone walls, arcane symbols that glowed faintly in the darkness. A small cot was set up in one corner, rough sheets left in an unkempt pile. A canvas bag filled with old clothes dangled from the ceiling in one corner, having apparently been used as a makeshift heavy bag. A candelabra was set up on one table, with three candles set in it--one green, one yellow, one red. The red one was lit, the scarlet flame sputtering frantically as if trying to escape the wick.
“I think we found our guy,” Red grunted, his flashlight focusing on the bird perch.
“Yona will stay here and not touch anything,” Yona announced, backing into a corner.
“These wards are security wards,” Twilight murmured, studying the symbols etched into the walls. “Anti-scrying...soundproofing...anti-tracking...thaumatic dispulsion…”
“Any we should worry about?” Flash asked, eyeing the wards nervously.
“No, there’s just a few defensive and concealment wards,” Twilight said.
“Hey, that’s a proximity alarm candle,” Matchstick said, grinning at the candelabra with its sputtering red candle. “I thought they stopped making those. See, you light the green candle and as long as it’s lit, it’s safe. If somepony strange gets too close, the yellow candle lights, and then the red one lights if an intruder tries to break in.” She looked around with a smirk. “Not much use when you’re not there to see it,” she added.
“Wonder what they were making,” Flash mused, casting his flashlight over the lab equipment.
“This is way too sophisticated for any regular drug lab,” Red admitted. “Not just the equipment, but the security.” He glanced at the perch. “No one’s gonna train a raven to slash ponies’ throats out for some red poppydust. Who is this guy?”
“Shame he’s not here for us to ask,” Matchstick commented. She suddenly paused, then pointed beneath a table. “Red, what’s that? Beneath that table on your left.”
Red bent down and spotted the object that had caught Matchstick’s attention. He pulled it towards him to examine in the light. Everypony’s eyes widened as they studied it.
It was a mask, with filters set into the lower part, the empty lenses staring up at Red as if in judgment. The mask was black and had a long beak, like that of a raven. It resembled a healer’s mask.
A plague doctor’s mask.
“Oh, no,” Red breathed, the color draining from his face.
“Uh, guys,” Yona said nervously, glancing at a dial on her equipment. “Friends have problem.”
“You’re damn right!” Red said, spreading his wings and taking off for the entrance.
But when he reached the entrance, the air in front of the doorway suddenly glowed scarlet and Red bounced off with a grunt of shocked pain. “What the fu--?!” he cried, rapping his hooves against the conjured shield.
“Oh, no,” Twilight said, her face blanching as she restudied the wards on the wall. “There’s a trap ward. I thought it was just an alarm!”
“Uh...do you hear hissing?” Matchstick said, cocking her head. She swept her vision over the room, her horn illuminating the source of the noise: a set of small holes drilled into the top of a corner of the room.
“Room filled with gas!” Yona cried, waving her foreleg frantically and showing off the dial of the bellows-like device. The dial was all the way in the red.
Flash looked with widening eyes at the sputtering flame on the red candle, which flared as if in rage.
“DOWN!” he screamed, grabbing Twilight and shoving her to the floor beneath one of the tables, covering her with his body.
With a snap, a blue sphere blossomed around the candle, then flames surged forward with a great roar to envelop the room.
Tires screeched as Captain Oak pulled his Touring over in front of the Ponyville History Museum. The great stone building loomed over the trio as they exited, spotlights lighting up the facade; banners advertising the Treasures of the Mysterious South exhibit fluttered in the breeze, giving the images of a feathered dragon and cipactli unsettling motion. A great set of stairs led up to the double doors, which were guarded by a statue of a sitting sphinx, staring down at them imperiously as if judging if they were worthy to enter her domain.
Another police cruiser was already parked in front of the museum, its blue and red lights spinning. A pair of officers, a unicorn and a thestral, were standing at the door.
“Captain Oak!” the light blue unicorn with an anchor cutie mark called, waving them over. His chevrons identified him as a sergeant and his nametag declared that his name was Coastline. “We tried buzzing security, but the doors are locked and no one’s answering us or dispatch!”
“Quickly, break the door open!” Captain Oak ordered.
“Yes, sir,” the pale white thestral nodded. She drew her nightstick and turned away to smash the glass doors open with it. She reached in and unlatched the door from the inside, swinging it open.
The five ponies entered the main lobby, all of them snapping on flashlights to penetrate the darkness and strapping pistols to forelegs. The reception desk was dimly lit by overhanging lamps, casting the advertisements in light. The walls were lined with a mural depicting the founding of Equestria, with the centerpiece dedicated to Clover the Clever, Private Pansy, and Smart Cookie dancing beneath the Fire of Friendship; the joyful scene was overcast by shadows.
“There is a security room near here,” Captain Oak declared. “Officer Starwatch, come with me. The rest of you, go down to the basement and intercept the intruders.”
“Got it,” Daring nodded, heading down the hallway with Phillip and Coastline in tow. The thestral followed Captain Oak down a different path.
“You sure you know where you’re going?” Coastline asked as they proceeded down the hallway towards the Treasures of the South exhibit.
“Sarge, please,” Daring smirked as they entered the main hall, flanked by the feathered dragon statues that glared at them in the darkness. “I memorized the layout of this place when I first visited years ago.”
She spotted the stand that the Rings of Scorchero were placed on during the day. The case was gone, now placed in the safe in the basement, the stand illuminated by faint lights in the cases of artifacts lining the walls.
Martingale’s voice echoed in her ears: “Imagine the power to control the day, to bring down unrelenting, sweltering heat upon your foes. A weapon to be feared, indeed.”
For once, Daring really hoped that the legends were just stories.
“Okay, basement stairs are this--” Daring started to say, but was stopped by Sergeant Coastline.
“Over there,” he said, pointing down a side hall.
Their flashlight beams illuminated a figure clad in the grey uniform of a security guard standing at the end of the hallway, slowly shuffling down the tiled floor. They showed no sign of recognizing the three intruders.
“Hey! Hey, you!” Coastline shouted, rushing forward.
The security guard, a pale orange pegasus mare, looked up slowly as they approached, blinking vacantly.
“Are you okay?” Coastline asked as they reached her, shining her flashlight into her face.
She opened her mouth, but all that came out of her mouth were some faint, indistinct murmurs.
“Is she drunk?” Daring asked.
“I don’t smell alcohol,” Coastline frowned, studying the guard for any sign of injury.
Phil suddenly froze, raising a hoof to signal them to stop. His ears flicked back and forth, studying every noise, every creak of wood and sigh of wind or ventilation beneath the buzzing of electrical lights. The three ponies all stood frozen like statues, holding their breath, while the incapacitated guard continued to sway in place, registering nothing. Daring stared into the shadows, cursing herself for not thinking to put in her night vision contacts on the journey over.
Something shifted to Phil’s left, behind a cabinet of pottery. He whirled around, his flashlight illuminating a pair of red eyes enclosed in a black healer's mask as the figure lunged towards him.
Captain Oak’s flashlight illuminated the door marked Security. He proceeded forward and seized the latch, finding that it was open. Bracing himself for the worst, he pushed the door open with a creak, his Filly M1912 held ready. Behind him, Officer Starwatch swallowed as she glared over his shoulder.
The security room was a chamber with lockers for the museum’s security staff and a bulletin board with schedules and notices. Spread across one wall were images from the security crystals spread about the museum. A red light flashed amidst the control booth; no doubt the silent alarm warning that the vault had been opened.
Seated in a chair before the projections was a pale blue unicorn stallion, his blue mane fallen over his face. He didn’t move or react to their intrusion. The gold bars on the shoulders of his gray uniform identified him as the shift supervisor.
“Sir,” Captain Oak called, striding forward, keeping himself braced. He came within view of the supervisor and gave him a quick study. The green eyes stared forward blankly and there was no blood upon his form; upon closer inspection, Oak let out a breath and offered thanks to Faust when he saw that the guard’s chest still rose and fell slowly.
“Sir,” Captain Oak repeated, shaking the guard’s shoulder. The guard blinked slowly and turned to stare at him blankly, his eyes showing no flicker of recognition.
“What’s wrong with him?” Starwatch asked.
Hewn Oak leaned forward and sniffed the stallion’s breath, noting a faint aroma of mushrooms on his breath. “I think that he’s been drugged,” he reported. He spotted an open thermos that was filled with coffee and took a sniff, grimacing as he noted the same odor in the still-warm liquid.
“Captain,” Starwatch said, staring at the screens. “All of the images are frozen.”
Captain Oak looked up and confirmed that none of the projections were moving.
“Something must be wrong with the recording crystal,” Starwatch said, bending down to open a cabinet beneath the projectors. Within was a large green prism, faintly pulsing with energy. A small black box, no bigger than a deck of cards, was attached to the prism.
“What the heck is that?” she muttered, removing it.
The projected images all flickered, then motion began once more. Captain Oak scanned the images for any crystals that showed a view of the basement.
“There!” he shouted, pointing. An image revealed two masked ponies hard at work within the vault, attempting to open a small steel safe that they had set up on the worktable before them. A raven was perched on a shelf overlooking them. “There are our targets,” he declared. “We are in time to intercept--”
“Sir!” Starwatch cried, pointing.
Oak followed her gaze and his jaw dropped at what he saw. Phillip and Daring were engaged in combat with another figure. A figure clad in black with a raven-like healer's mask over his face.
“Luna preserve us,” he whispered in horror, already heading for the door. “Starwatch, get every available officer over here!” he commanded over his shoulder. “The Plague Doctor is here!”