//------------------------------//
// Case Twenty, Chapter One: Special Delivery 
// Story: Ponyville Noire: Rising Nightmares 
// by PonyJosiah13 
//------------------------------//

Snow was falling from the gunmetal grey sky, melting against the condensation-frosted windows of 221 Honeybee Bakery Street. Daring Do wiped the window with a wing and stared out into the backyard, frowning as white flecks clung to the branches of the cherry tree, which stood resolute even as the snow blanketed the ground around for inches. Strings of colored lights hung from the bare branches, blinking on and off; beyond the gates, the neighbors' houses were all decorated for the season with lights, wreaths, and statues of reindeer and Santa Hooves. 

She turned back to her current project. Placed upon the wall, right next to the small plastic Hearth's Warming tree, was a large poster board. Covering its surface were newspaper clippings secured by tacks. At the center was a section of the front page of the Foal Free Press from last week. 

Rings of Scorchero Stolen by Plague Doctor! the bold type declared, with a photograph of the front of the Ponyville History Museum beneath it. Right next to it was another clipping from the Applewood Bugler that declared that an archeological site in the desert had been ransacked in the night, with a half-buried stagecoach having been broken into, its century-old contents removed. Rumors abounded that said stagecoach had been transporting a cursed necklace. 

More such headlines were pinned to the board: gold coins stolen from a collector in Griffonia, a museum shipment that had gone missing en route to Mareland, and an archeological dig in Prance that had been ransacked during the night, both the night watchponies found dead amidst the uncovered graves. 

“You don’t know if all of those are the same thieves,” Phillip pointed out from the experiment table. He bent back up from the microscope that his eye had been jammed into for the past hour, rubbing his face as he replaced the slide with the soil sample back in its plastic bag. He turned to the phonograph next to the table, removing the record that had ended and placing it back in its sleeve. 

“Which is why I sent out all those telegraphs asking for more info,” Daring pointed out. “Besides, I’m at least doing something productive instead of going over some ashes for the tenth time.” 

Phillip put another record into the machine and set the needle into the groove before answering. “My focus is on here and now,” he replied as a piano and trumpet duet began to croon a slow blues rendition of Let it Snow. “On evidence, not on theories.” 

“You’d have better luck finding a still-living Ahuizotl than finding anything useful from that fire,” Daring scoffed. “And you know it. It’s been a week now.” 

Phillip sighed and stared out the window for several long seconds of silence. “Bugger it all, you’re right,” he finally admitted. “But we’ve got nothing on the Plague Doctor and the Ring thieves. There’s gotta be something we missed.” 

“Well, we’re not gonna find it by banging our heads against a wall,” Daring replied. 

Her eyes roamed over to the pile of letters and telegraphs on the table. “Shit, forgot about the mail,” she muttered, heading over to the table. 

“Oh, right,” Phillip said, looking at the post as if he had just noticed it was there. “Got so busy that I forgot about it, too.” 

Daring panned through the mail, tossing aside some junk envelopes and setting aside a few bills. She opened up the other envelopes and scanned the contents. 

“Okay…” she said. “Some rich heiress in Canterlot wants our help finding her diamond necklace. Probably lost it in the sheets.” 

“Pass,” Phillip grunted. 

“Filly from the Everfree District wants us to help find her missing bunny. She says she doesn’t have much money, but she’ll bake us a cake if we come to help…” 

“If we can find time, maybe,” Phillip nodded. 

“Yeah, she had me at the cake,” Daring affirmed with a small smile. “All right, inmate at Clovenworth wants us to help with her appeal, claims she’s innocent...oh, wait, I know her. Asshole bragged about all the cons she pulled on a weekly basis.” She crumpled the letter up and threw it into the trash. 

“Shit, this telegraph is from yesterday. From Las Pegasus,” she declared, holding up the missive. She scanned it, then passed it to Phil. “You know this guy?” 

Phillip’s eyes widened as they went to the signature. “Crikey, I haven’t heard from him in ages,” he said, reading the message. 



Heard you fought Plague Doctor STOP will be in Ponyville by next train from Las Pegasus STOP need your help with theft of painting STOP believe thief is heading to Ponyville STOP believe this to be same group that stole rings STOP looking forward to seeing you STOP Agent Flame Strider



“So who’s Flame Strider?” Daring asked. 

“An RBI agent, and an old mate,” Phillip replied. “We worked together on a case in Neigh Orleans in ‘47, one of my first cases as a PI.” He glanced at his watch. “And if I’m right, he should be here…” 

The doorbell rang. “Right about now,” Phillip said with a small smile, standing. 

He opened up the door to reveal a tall white stallion with the cutie mark of a flaming shield crowned with an iron helmet, snow melting off his tan trenchcoat. A thick briefcase was tucked beneath one wing. His sunset scarlet eyes, the same color as his mane and tail, twinkled with humor as he extended his hoof to Phillip. 

“Got my message, I see,” the stallion grinned. 

“Ripper to see you, Strider,” Phillip smiled, pumping the stallion’s hoof. “Get in here.” 

He led the stallion inside and closed and latched the door behind him. “Daring, meet Flame Strider,” he said. 

“Nice to meet you,” Strider smiled at her, taking off his trenchcoat and hanging it up. Beneath the coat was a shoulder holster carrying an 1877 Hayfield revolver and the golden badge of the Royal Bureau of Investigation. 

“Likewise,” Daring nodded. “But I’m guessing that this isn’t just a social call.” 

“It isn’t,” Strider replied, dropping down onto the sofa and opening up the briefcase beneath his wing. “When I heard in the papers that you two fought the Plague Doctor, I couldn’t believe it.”  

“Take that bloody basilisk over him any day, mate,” Phillip muttered. 

Daring’s eyes widened. “Wait. You two fought a basilisk together?!” 

“Swamp witch running a cult out of Neigh Orleans used it as a guard dog,” Phillip grunted. “Long story, tell you later.” 

“Anyway,” Strider interrupted. “The Bureau’s been investigating the thefts of several magical artifacts over the past few years.” He glanced at the sideboard with the headlines pinned to it. “I see you were looking into some of those, too.” 

“There, see? Not a waste of time,” Daring declared, sticking her tongue out at Phil. 

“We think it’s the work of the same gang,” Strider said, taking folders and files out of the briefcase. “And we think we know who the leader is.” 

He pulled out a thick file and opened it up. On the very front page was a mug shot of a brown earth pony stallion with green eyes and a salt and pepper mane, stubble accentuating his scowl. His cutie mark was a golden skull with gems inlaid into the eyeholes.

“Doctor Caballeron,” Daring read from the file. “Originally a doctor in archeology and ancient history from Mexicolt...kicked out of university...convicted of grave robbery and forging artifacts...released in 1938, moved to the Crystal Empire...hired by Cuore University, was involved in several archeological expeditions during the war...disappeared in 1944, suspected in many other thefts since then.” 

“A pony matching his description was seen around several of the thefts,” Strider explained, taking out a stack of photographs. Most of them were surveillance crystal stills--a museum in Mareland, an antique store in Appleloosa, and a bar in Prance. All of them had a single pony circled: a brown earth pony stallion with green eyes. He always wore clothes to cover his cutie mark, his mane and tail were often different colors and styles, but upon closer inspection, the detectives could see that they were all the same pony: the shape of the jaw and ears, as well as the build and height, were all enough of an indicator. 

“Wait a minute…” Daring whispered, squinting at a close-up image of the disguised Caballeron talking to the archeologists in the Prench bar, smiling beneath his false mustache. 

“What is it?” Phillip asked. 

Daring’s face creased into a snarl. “Martingale. At the museum. Son of a bitch, he was right in front of me!” 

“He contracts with several local thugs, but there are a few that follow him around,” Strider continued, taking out more photographs. “I think you met this one.” 

Phillip scowled at the image of the blue unicorn frowning at the camera, his orange mane hanging over his face. “Yeah. We did,” he grunted. “You mentioned the Las Pegasus theft. Heard some paintings were stolen from a casino three days ago.” 

“Right,” Strider nodded, taking out a manila folder. “The paintings were stolen from the Trailblazer Club. And we know that Caballeron was involved; we’ve got him on camera here.” 

He held up another still that showed a bar set next to an open gambling pit with green felt tables set up everywhere. Sure enough, there was a dark brown earth pony in a suit and pants sitting at the bar, green eyes frowning from underneath a low cap. 

“The paintings were stolen during an arson fire,” Strider explained. “A disguised worker set a fire in the generator room that spread through most of the lower floors. During the panic, some thieves disguised as firefighters came in and unhooked the paintings. We caught one of the thieves and he turned on the others. He identified Caballeron from a photo lineup and we recognized one other stallion he described.” 

He pulled out another mugshot, this one of a dark gold pegasus stallion with a rusty orange beard and the cutie mark of a set of keys with wings. A green, white, and orange flag was tattooed on his right foreleg, with the motto “Éirinn go Brách” written in golden letters beneath it. 

“Winged Key,” Strider said. “Long rap sheet for burglary and B&E, ties to the Mareish Mob. He was identified as one of the thieves who helped carry the paintings out.” 

“And you think he came to Ponyville?” Phillip asked. 

“Yes,” Strider nodded. “The thief we captured helped us find the car that Winged used to get away from the casino, and we found some train ticket stubs to Ponyville inside. Plus, we know he has a marefriend here. Maybe we can get something out of her.” 

“Good luck,” Daring snorted. “The Mareish Mobsters are all as loyal as brothers. You might get more info out of a brick wall.” 

“We still have to try,” Strider pointed out. 

“Need to know everything first,” Phillip stated. “You have the full case file?” 

“Watch this,” Strider grinned, opening up another case file. He flipped through to a set of crime scene photos, which he spread out on the table. Then he took a device that looked like a small instant camera and scanned the photographs with it, then set the device faceup on the table. 

The lens began to blink with a green light, then glowed: three-dimensional color recreations of the crime scene were projected from the lens into the air, slowly spinning. 

“Oooh,” Phillip said, his eyes widening. 

“The Bureau gets the best toys,” Strider grinned. 

“Twilight did something similar to this,” Daring commented. 

“Yes, R&D based this off of her notes that she submitted last summer,” Strider confirmed. 

As Phil and Strider began to use the simulation to walk through the crime, Daring flipped through the file and found a list of the paintings that had been stolen, quickly scanning it. She scoffed at the price tags, which were all in the six digits. 

“Four hundred fifty thousand bits for water lilies?” she muttered to herself, shaking her head. “Who the hell decides the price tags on…” 

She trailed off, her eyes widening as she spotted a familiar name on the list. 



Not to Be Remade by Ariste Fou. Value $650,000



“Oh, no,” Daring groaned, closing her eyes. 

“What?” Phillip asked, looking up from the holographic projection. 

Daring held out the list, pointing to the familiar name. Phillip glanced at it, then closed his eyes. “Of course,” he muttered. 





The green unicorn tossed a bit coin to himself, frowning and chewing on his crimson beard as he stared at the painting tacked up on the wall. The image showed a black unicorn stallion staring at a mirror on a mantelpiece, but his reflection showed the back of his head instead of his face. 

“I don’t get it,” Coin Toss muttered. 

“Me neither,” the dark gold pegasus grunted. “But that’s the painting that they wanted.” 

Coin Toss pocketed the coin he was tossing. “Rumors must be true; that doc must not be the full shilling after all if he really wants this thing,” he said. “But if he wants it, he’ll have to share.” 

“You should’ve seen some of the shit that they’ve got, boss,” Winged Key grinned. “If I told you half of it, you’d swear that I was codding you.” 

“Might be what we need for the Mareish Mob to finally get on top,” Coin nodded. “If he wants to be a moran and not play fair, we’ll do it this way.” 

“Soon we’ll be running Ponyville,” Winged Key beamed. “Maybe we’ll soon be running the monarchy out of Mareland! We--” 

His dreams were interrupted by the door slamming open. A skinny orange colt with wheat-colored mane burst into the room, his face pale, gulping for air like a fish out of water. 

“What’s wrong, Flax?” Coin Toss asked. 

Flax took a gasp and slapped an envelope onto the table. "A bird dropped this in front of the house," he said, looking at Winged Key. "It's...it's Diamond." 

Coin Toss opened up the envelope and shook out the contents. His and Key’s eyes widened as they stared at the photographs within. "Oh, no," Key whispered. 

A pale blue unicorn mare, her white mane splashed across her face, strapped down to a table, mouth open in a silent scream. Her emerald eyes stared at the camera, terror glowing within them. 

But next to her was a figure in dark blue, glaring at the camera, red eyes blazing with hate from behind the lens of his mask. 

“Is that…?” Winged Key breathed. 

“Oh, bugger me,” Coin Toss whispered.

He turned over one of the photographs to discover that three words had been scrawled onto the other side. 



GIVE IT BACK