//------------------------------// // Shield And Dice // Story: Severed Roots // by Bad_Seed_72 //------------------------------// Shield And Dice Between another dusk and dawn on the Manehatten cobblestone, the rain came, thief in the night. Somepony would surmise its torrent had begun when the first shot was fired; others would guess it followed the third, marking and marring its charm. Regardless, the storm wrought its judgment upon the city of dreams and desolation. The unfortunate mare who’d been assigned to the most unpredictable post in all of the Manehatten Police Department found her nap interrupted sometime between moon and sun by a frantic pounding of hooves on the station’s glass door. “There’s two dead ponies outside o’ ma business! Help!” a panicked stallion screamed, his voice trembling with pure and utter terror. His eyes caught the sleepy gaze of the incompetent watch-pony, only amplifying his shrieks and knocks. In the mare’s experience, some nights on this watch were silent and hypnotic in their boredom. Then, the city slumbered, peacefully and ominously, dragon content upon his horde. Others were insane, filled to the brim with chaos beyond Discord’s imagination. Tonight was clearly one of the nights when the dragon had been awakened. She smacked her lips and trotted over to the door, shaking sleep from her eyes. As she opened it, she immediately spat, “Where?” “Down on the south side o’ Main Street! I’m the owna o’ the general store there!” His eyes were wide with the shattered innocence of one who’d never seen a corpse before. The seasoned law-pony sighed and muttered before turning away, “We’ll get somepony down there wit’ youze. Wait heeya fo’ a bit.” Within a few minutes, the night watch trotted into the depths of the station and located the graveyard-shift-officer’s quarters. One rough smack across a muzzle later, the rising star of the Investigations team, Officer Rustler, had been roused from his slumber. Thirsting for street justice, Officer Rustler welcomed the mare’s summons (if not her forehoof) and snapped on his uniform, quickly equipping his pistol, baton, hoof-cuffs, and flashlight, among other tools. He stretched and cracked his joints, willing away his yawns. He followed the mare and met the reporting party at the door, who was now one emotional trauma away from curling into the fetal position on the steps. Cursing his interrupted dream, Rustler galloped into the night after the shrieking civilian. The stallion’s panicked recollections merged with the rhythmic thunder of hooves against the dusty street, inaudible. Dawn’s grey light beckoned over the horizon and through the relentless rain. The cobblestones were soaked and cold, howling winds foreshadowing winter's dark grasp delaying spring in the ghetto. His heart pounding furiously, Officer Rustler arrived at the crime scene just as his lungs began to betray him. The general store owner stumbled in his tracks a few feet ahead, nearly falling to the street as he muttered to himself and pointed towards an alleyway behind his business. Rustler asked, “Where are dey?” Eyes full of fearful tears, the trembling stallion replied between breaths, “Back… there, Offica! In… the… alleyway! So much... so much blood, I—” “Do youze need an ambulance?” Rustler asked gruffly. “Youze breathin' hard. Asthma o' summat?” “No, no, s-sir.” “Good. Calm down. What did youze see? Hear anythin', eitha?” The stallion nodded and summoned his composure. “Ma store's been closed since the sun went down. I live above ma shop. Went ta bed early. I woke up in the night, couldn’t sleep. 'Round 0400, I think. Looked out the window. I heard shots fired, saw groups o’ stallions runnin’ up both sides o’ the street... Then, I saw two mares trottin’ through the alleyway, an’ then… I…” He buried his muzzle in his forehooves, sobs rendering him incapable of completion. Rustler made his best attempt to console the stallion, awkwardly patting him on the shoulder. This seemed to calm him, if only for a moment. Jotting down some notes on parchment after retrieving it from a pocket of his uniform, Officer Rustler said, “Youze know I can’t jus’ let it go at dat. I'm gonna have ta ask youze mo’ questions later. Fo’ now, lemme get youze info down, an’ I’ll go take a look. We’ve got the meat-wagon on its way fo’ the bodies. Now, what’s youze name, stallion?” After reiterating the reporting party’s account of the incident and asking a few more questions, the investigator was satisfied that the stallion most likely was nothing more than a traumatized discoverer. Officer Rustler ducked around the store and into the alleyway behind it. True to the stallion’s word, two bodies lay muzzle-down on the pavement—both Earth pony mares. One was light-green with a yellowish mane; the other was white with a pink mane. Officer Rustler swallowed the sickening lump in his throat. Recognition rocketed through his mind, leaving his hindlimbs trembling. For a moment, he was no longer a police officer; he was a mourner. "No... not youze two... "First, Turn Key defected ta the streets, an' now, dis..." Rustler felt a tear of his own mix with the rain. ~ King Crazy perched on his throne, surrounded by golden towers of bits, a rich mahogany desk under his hindhooves in his hideout. This structure was no shack. It was a true and complete upgrade from the little edifice of his youth. Within his four walls, King Crazy commanded his empire, all from the comfort of his plush chair. His desk drawers were filled with all the avoidance, distraction, and escape he needed in his high honor—bottle after bottle of liquor, bag after bag of every street drug in existence, and boxes of fine cigars. Life as a true ringleader, king of kings, gangster in pinstripe suit and gem-pommeled cane, was both a paradise and an exercise in madness. There were no straightjackets or padded walls in Equestria that could contain King Crazy. In the spiraling years that followed his truce and alliance with King Orange, King Crazy had found his own crown and power. Colthood dreams of vengeance transformed into dark realities of wait and bide, wait and bide, wait and bide. King Orange supplied a steady stream of bits and resources, rivers of wealth and prestige that King Crazy was reluctant to evaporate. But the time would soon be at hoof. The Manehatten Kings hadn’t scratched or crawled to the top of the heap. No, they had earned their ascent to the summit, paying for it ten times over in bits and blood. After almost five years of gang warfare, they rose to the top of the food chain, towering above the Manehatten Mafia and all other dreamers. King Crazy was not entirely sure of the size of his army. Perhaps several hundred if he counted associates and prospects. He had enough delegates and underlings to manage day-to-day operations. When not meeting with his own Master, King Crazy stayed in his hideout these days, enjoying his bounty and dreaming of a mansion in flames. Blue may have been the color of justice in the ghetto--at least to the lessers and civilians—but King Crazy knew that all colors eventually ran. And, sometimes, blue could become gray and disharmonized... especially in the presence of gold. Lighting a cigar, his thoughts drifted to the latest thorn in his side. King Orange had, in recent years, become fixated on the city’s alcohol supply. The leader of the Manehatten Kings was assigned with the task of ensuring that only Orange Enterprises beverages were served in the city. It was a bizarre request, but it was the last one that he would indulge—that was an unbreakable vow. So far, his underlings and spies reported that all bars, restaurants, and stores in the city were stocked only with orange-flavored or orange-derived spirits, not one apple to be found among the sea of citrus. For now. King Crazy knew that, sooner a later, a rebel or an ignorant immigrant would make the mistake of stocking or serving something else. King Crazy laughed at the thought. Chaos and mayhem. Tempest and torrent. Fire and rain. While his Master fretted over apples and oranges, King Crazy would build his army, devise his plan, and, once the sky was dark enough, launch an assault on the only stallion who terrified him. When the Most Low gave his sign, King would raise steel and lead against King, and revenge would be sweet at last. “It’s only a matta o’ time befo’ there can be only one o’ us,” he muttered, taking in a deep drag of the fine cigar. He was safe and secure within his four walls, deep in the heart of the ghetto, armed guards around his palace all hours of the cursed clock. It had been almost eight years, but he would soon avenge his family gravestones. Or die trying. And that was alright. Feeling that a fine cigar deserved a fine drink alongside it, Card Slinger searched within the drawers of his hoof-carved desk, dim light creeping through his bay window. ~ Officer Rustler regained his composure sometime later. If asked, he would be unable to account for the minutes between report and discovery. He shook his muzzle until it ached to snap himself back into reality. To the task at hoof. The bodies. Examine the bodies... Both had suffered extensive gunshot wounds to the neck and chest, bullets riddling their bodies without prejudice. From the angle of their sprawled hooves, the budding investigator and second-year officer of the Manehatten Police Department discerned that the pair had been galloping towards a set of low-income apartment buildings across the street. Unfortunately, their egress had been cut short by, doubtless, the war that had doused the city in cruel crimson for almost five years now. Officer Rustler grimaced and examined the bodies as respectfully as he could. The scent of freshly spilt blood was one that haunted his nightmares and poked holes in his philosophy. He shook a wave of rain droplets from his fur, ruffling through the pockets of his blue-and-silver uniform and retrieving his notepad. “Two mares… Aged ‘round twenty o’ so… 0500, Thursday.” His words were professional; his voice was not. Nine words toppled his anorexic hope and cast aside his foalhood adventuring as useless in the end. Nopony could escape Manehatten. One either waged war against the ghetto or within it. And all would fall. Even Crusaders. He leaned over the pair, writing down as much as he could observe. The rain taunted his ink and jumbled his words into pithy nonsense. He continued anyway. He glanced for a second towards his back pockets and his flank, where his cutiemark—a simple silver shield—seemed to mock him. Justice. That’s what it meant. That was all he sought. And where was justice now? Bleeding, of course, upon the gray construct of ponykind, staining it crimson forever. Officer Rustler sighed and kept writing, dictating his notes as he took them. “Main Street, downtown Manehatten, behind the general store, across from a clusta o’ apartments…” There were no shells or misfired bullets that he could discern in the dim light. The budding investigator surmised that, whomever had killed these individuals, the pony (or ponies) responsible had definite marksmanship skills. The shots were precise and clean--definitely the work of somepony accustomed to the mayhem in Manehatten. Creaky wheels in the distance marked the arrival of the meat-wagon. A blackened carriage pulled near the alleyway. Quickly, two morgue-ponies leapt from their carriage and joined the officer in the alleyway. “Two mo’, Rustla?” one of them asked, studying the scene. Officer Rustler nodded. He plastered his stoic mask across his muzzle. “Indeed. Most likely mo’ victims o’ gang warfare. Collateral. Dat’ll be the third shootin' dis week.” “Horseapples, mate. Can’t youze end dis madness at some point?” Glaring at him, Rustler snapped, “Do youze think we sit on our haunches eatin’ bonbons all day o’ summat?! Dat’s what the force's been tryin’ ta do these past eight years! Even when I was still a lil’ colt, the P.D. was tryin’. An’ it worked fo’ a while.” The other employee began unrolling a black body bag for one of the mares, observing the exchange. He caught pupils with Rustler and smirked. “Fo’ a while? Well, dat helps us a lot now, Offica. At least it keeps me an’ ma boys in business.” Officer Rustler bit his tongue so hard that he swore he’d mixed his blood with that of his former friends on the dusty street below him. His baton whispered from his shoulder, crying out for reaction. He wanted nothing more than to wipe the indignant smirk off the morgue-pony’s muzzle. Nevertheless, Rustler stayed strong and silent. He did everything by the book. He contemplated the taste of his blood—it tasted like bits, almost—oblivious to the echo of trotting hooves joining him in the alleyway. “Got anythin’ fo’ me, Offica Rustla?” a gruff voice inquired. Rustler snapped his head around. Chief Brutus had arrived along with the morgue-ponies. Their meat-wagon (oh, how that euphemism kept him up at night, bump in the night) beckoned beyond the crime scene, hungry and expectant. The approaching, thickly muscled Chief of Manehatten Police seemed to be ravenous also, but for something far less sinister. Rustler shook his muzzle. “Nothin’ much, sir. Looks ta be collateral damage so far. Don’t see any reason ta s’pose these mares were gangstas.” The Chief snorted, his exhalation visible in the waning dark and cold. “An’ how are youze ta rule dat out? Youze know Kings an’ Mafia both got tons o’ mares workin’ fo’ ‘em, soldiers an’ sirens alike.” “S’cuse us,” one of the morgue employees muttered, brushing past the pair of law-ponies. He dragged a body bag behind him, a sickening smile shining on his muzzle. Five years of savagery and twisted alliances had kept the morgue in booming business. The whispered incompetence of the two uniformed stallions (and of the Manehatten P.D. in general) guaranteed his coffers would be full for many years to come. Ignoring them, Officer Rustler said, “True, sir. I am not doubtin’ it ‘cuz dey are mares. I’m doubtin’ it due..." He paused, stopping himself from saying ta the fact dat dey would neva do summat like dat. "Due ta the eyewitness account. Accordin’ ta the owna o’ dis store heeya, who lives above the buildin’—“ he gestured up to the ramshackle edifice, its walls emblazoned with weeks of fresh gang graffiti—“shots came from two sets o’ stallions firin’ at each otha from both sides o’ the street around 0400. Turf war, I bet. An’ then these mares came trottin’ along from way back, down past the alleyway near his buildin'... an’…” He bit his lip and tore his eyes away from his superior’s stare. Though barely two years out of the Academy, Rustler should’ve had his weakness beaten and tempered out of him nonetheless. His instructors broke his mind and body through two months of grueling training. However, of all they stole, his heart was not included. That, of course, would be taken eventually, piece by piece, bit by bit, by mornings such as this. Chief Brutus rolled his eyes. He smacked the lowly stallion on the shoulder and grunted, “Get ahold o' youzeself! Got waterworks goin’ on all ‘round us already, don’t need it from youze lil’—“ “Chief!” Brutus and Rustler turned towards a third baritone. There, galloping across the street, his uniform soaked with rain, came another law-pony. The orange stallion with a snow-white mane (said mane hanging unshorn in front of his eyes) was a mere patrol officer, even more green than Rustler. The two dice adorning his flank should’ve counted him among the lawless and the suspect. Fate, of course, has other ideas, and this stallion proved to have risen beyond his mark, his roots, and his destiny. “Toss! What youze doin’ heeya?” Rustler growled, clenching his teeth. Joining equal and superior, Lucky Toss said casually, “Oh, youze know, a shootin’ in the street usually brings the fuzz ‘round! ‘Specially when it’s in ma assignment.” “Speakin’ o’ which, Offica Lucky Toss,” spat the Chief, “where are youze last few patrol reports? Haven’t seen anythin’ wit’ youze hoof-writin’ on ma desk fo’ almost a week now!” Toss stammered, splashing a forehoof into a brewing puddle on the ground, “A-ah s-sir, I, uh, well, I’ve almost got ‘em—“ “Get dem on ma desk by 1600 today, o’ youze ass is grass.” Chief Brutus adjusted his badge and brought a forehoof to his shoulder-holster menacingly. His Colt .45 awaited there, beckoning, a rush of energy flowing at his touch. He suppressed the impulse to pistol-whip the incompetent patrol officer stuttering before him. There were much more pressing matters at hoof. Watching the morgue-ponies secure the two statistics of Manehatten law into their blackened carriage, Chief Brutus barked to his wards, “Get ta the bottom o’ dis one, an’ quick. Collateral? ‘Specially wit’ young mares? Press’ll be all ova it. An’ youze know how Celestia hates the press.” “Yes, Chief, o’ course.” Rustler tugged at the pockets of his uniform, averting his superior’s glare. Toss chimed, “Y-yes s-sir!” He, too, avoided the glance of Chief Brutus, not eager to join the ranks of those who suffered his infamous wrath. Lucky Toss was of average size and strength for a stallion and slightly larger than the flank-kissing investigator beside him. Unfortunately, both were lesser than the scarred police chief, and both valued their bodily autonomy far too much to cross him. Chief Brutus snorted his disdain once more, shaking his mane clean of rain. Without a word, the Chief took to his hooves, leaving them in his dust. Each hoof-step echoed on the cobblestones and accompanied the rhythmic pitter-patter of raindrops. The storm increased its crescendo with the gentle, hesitant break of gray dawn over the horizon, seeking to cleanse the city of its sin. ~ “Checkmate.” King Orange grinned, his perfectly polished molars shining in the flicker of a candle flame. His rotund assistant swept his gaze over the chessboard. There, his lone white king laid cornered, a black bishop, knight, and rook entrapping him in unavoidable capture. “Very good, sir,” mused the assistant, nodding slowly. “Dat must be a new record fo’ youze. Only ‘bout fifteen moves dis time.” “Thank whatever deities you waste your breath praying to that you have disciplined yourself to be this much of a challenge for me,” snarled King Orange, knocking the white king off the board with a casual flick of a forehoof. His assistant quickly picked the piece off the floor and began to pack up the game. The Master chuckled. “At the very least, you have not once fallen into Fool’s Mate, like so many of your fellows.” “Aye, yes, sir. The notorious two-move loss. No, sir, ma King, I would neva bore youze wit’ such nonsense. Although, nopony in Manehatten o’ Equestria itself shall eva topple youze in the game o’ kings!” The Master rose from his desk and trotted over to a map of Equestria mounted onto the west wall. “Hmph.” He ran a hoof across the parchment, following a tangled mess of railroad lines. “Have you heard anything from your latest… associates?” he asked, watching the assistant pack up the game from his peripherals. Grunting, the obese stallion peeled himself from his chair and put the chessboard away on a shelf across the room. “No, sir. Last I know, dey got tickets ta leave tomorrowa mornin' ova there. Mafia membas, these ones. Lil’ easier ta control than Manehatten Kings.” A slight smirk graced the King's countenance with its haughty presence. “They are all easy to control, you fool.” He tapped a far, western corner of the map. “Many—especially those of so-called noble stock—try to convince themselves otherwise, braying that they cannot fall victim to the manipulation of their carnal desires. But they all do. Everypony has a price.” The assistant felt a slight shiver traverse down his spine. “I see, sir.” The Master looked over his shoulder and chortled. “Oh, come now, surely you of all ponies must know this?” He trotted over to his squat Knight, circling him slowly. “After all, was it not your own brother who betrayed me? All because I made a careless, foalish mistake?” A single drop of sweat slicked down the stallion’s thick neck and multiple chins. “Sir, as youze know, I’m very sorry dat he did such a thing… Iffa I knew where he was, I would bring him ta youze, ta dem!” He gestured towards a pair of armed guards beside the door, who stood steadfast, forehooves maintaining a tight grip on their loaded rifles. King Orange clicked his tongue. “Oh, you poor, pathetic little worm. You really think I still hold that against you? Why, if suffering the misfortune of being related to a disappointment of a brother was a crime, many of our finest would be imprisoned.” He paused, his grin growing wider at the sight of his subject’s nervousness. “No. I merely reminded you of it to ensure that the terms and conditions of our agreement are still in good standing. I am satisfied with your work. You, I presume, are satisfied with your payment?” “Y-y-yes s-s-sir!” He nodded vigorously, more droplets of sweat joining the first in his exertion. The stallion mustered a smile and bowed before his King, leaning down on his aching hooves. All four shook with the strain of his massive weight. Snickering, King Orange turned around and trotted back to his bay window. Without so much as a nod of approval, he dismissed his assistant. “Keep tabs on those little lackeys of yours,” he ordered. “If they discover anything out in that wasteland, I must know before they lift a single fetlock in opposition. They are Knights and shall serve their King, even if it is a mere commoner who set them in motion to begin with.” “O-o’ c-course, sir! Thank youze!” The assistant stumbled out of the office, almost smacking his head on the double doors. Both guards secured the entry immediately afterwards. Stoic as usual, they watched their Master stride away from the window and towards the map once more. Bernie Madhoof caressed the parchment, making slow circles around a dot on the map marked with a pushpin. A demon in a black velvet suit, he muttered, his voice barely above a whisper, “Expand the game, beyond the horizon…”