14th of Second Ember
“Buckshot what the fuck happened!?” my boss demands after barging into my room. I seriously consider getting a lock for my door. And maybe hide some liquor in one of my cabinets while I’m at it. Celestia knows I’ve earned it...
“I hesitated, Mully!” He hates when I call him by his nickname, which is exactly why I do it. What kind of parents name their colt Mulberry, anyway? Mully doesn’t seem to acknowledge my jest and instead keeps his serrated gaze over me.
“Okay,” I say, throwing my hooves up in exasperation. “What the fuck you want me to say?!”
His hard stare doesn’t falter as he throws a folded newspaper at my desk. I snort and pick it up, trying to seem as cavalier as possible. But I can’t help but blink and do a double take when I scan the header:
CUPCAKES KILLER TAPE LEAKED!
“Oh, you’ve gotta be fucking with me!” I practically scream as I fight the urge to tear the paper to shreds.
Exclusive video showing the brutal, graphic murders of camerapony Cathode Coil and news reporter Ivy Rose was leaked from Ponyville Police Department. The video, made on the same night that Pinkamena Diane Pie (the infamous Cupcakes Killer) escaped from the Canterlot Prison for the Mentally Unstable, was delivered to our station anonymously late last night. After being examined thoroughly by an experienced team of technicians, the video was evaluated as authentic. The family of the victims had nothing to comment except that they are “extremely disappointed with the police” for “mishandling the evidence”. The footage was intended to be aired in the Ponyville News of the same day, but it had been deemed lost after the police had secured the crime scene.
More on page 3.
“This is exactly why we should’ve confiscated that tape to begin with!” I shout, but Mulberry keeps his meaningful gaze over me. “What’s that eyebrow supposed to mean, Mully? You’re blaming this on me, aren’t you?”
“Well, our squad is the only one who had access to that tape. And you were the only one who reacted like that to it.” I don’t like what he’s implying, not at all.
“Are you going to make a formal charge?” I ask, meeting his angry eyes with my own. The silence that reigns for a moment is as good a ‘no’ as any.
“Then get the hay out of my office! I need to be alone.”
His expressions instantly softens and I feel a pang of guilt for screaming at him like this. This situation’s barely started and it’s already bringing out the worst in me. Now Mully will probably be on my ass. Again.
I sigh and turn on my radio, trying to clear my mind of anything and everything:
“—LEADING TO A MASSIVE LOSS ON THE PARTS OF THE BLAZING BUCCANEERS IN THE EQUESTRIAN CHAMPIONSHIPS FOR HOOFBALL, AND I’M NOT QUITE SURE THEY’LL—”
“No.” I punch the dial to tune into another station, hoping for something good to come on.
“—ow, in the name of the princesses, did the policeponies of Ponyville allow such a thing to happen? Do you see it now, Ponyville? Do you see how our great nation has changed? Do you see how the police is no more competent than a wooden fence in helping us? It has been foretol—”
“Yeah, yeah. Up yours, pal,” I mutter as I fiddle with the dial some more. The last thing I need right now is a lunatic screaming at how we’re the ones to blame.
“—police advise all ponies to avoid being by themselves around the town. Especially during the dark hours of the day. If you have any information about the missing ponies, please call—”
I sigh and grasp my head between my forehooves. Since when have we been so violent? It sounds impossible. Straight from one of those damned detective books I used to read as a colt. But it was happening. All it took was one rotten apple. One damned pony and everything goes to Tartarus.
I switch the radio off. The world isn’t giving me a reprieve from the memories, so I might as well write my report:
Year 2 of the Second Diarchy. 13th of Second Ember at approximately 13:42,
Description: I, Buckshot, and my colleagues, Shining Badge, Nightstick, Trigger Happy and Probable Cause responded to a call about suspicious activity in the abandoned building on 18, Sugarcube Street. The anonymous complaint stated simply that “somepony was screaming”. The place had evidently been occupied by Pinkamena Diane Pie, convict currently at large.
“Evidently...” I read my words again. This simple adjective fails to explain why Pinkie chose to reveal herself now, when she was next to invisible before. We’re not stupid; we went through Sugarcube Corner thrice in the past. Once on the same day the convict escaped. The second time, a day after, and the third time a week later. I have a hard time believing that she’d suddenly gotten sloppy without reason. Regardless, I continued to write.
In the building we found a vat filled with pony remains also containing a victim in critical condition. After a successful resuscitation attempt, the victim was brought to Ponyville General hospital by doctor Silver Scalpel and nurse Clean Catheter (see medical report on page 6). I, along with the other remaining officers were then confronted by—It’s here that I freeze. I can still see her twisted smile, manifesting itself right before my eyes.
Writing this report feels pointless. I have gone over my memories of the event over and over again. I can’t find anything! No clues. No leads. No nothing! Was there something I missed? Something I dismissed? My mind scans the scene multiple times, but I end up exactly where I began. She attacked Shining Badge... then Nightstick. Why didn’t she hurt me, then? She had me exactly where she wanted. Then why!?
I hit my head a couple of times in frustration. What did she mean by “having a little fun?” And the way she said it.... There’s just something about how she said it that strikes me as rather unusual. She pushed me to the floor and held me down. She made sure I couldn’t talk or scream. She—wait! One hoof was on my muzzle... the other—
A notion occurs to me. With my heart pounding I remove my jacket and start to feel around my many pockets. I feel around for anything other than air or strands of lint until my hoof meets something with a different texture. I remove from my pocket a crude mimic of a taffy wrapper folded several times. My hooves scramble as I try to unfold it quickly. What greets me is two lines of hastily scribbled capital letters.
WANNA PLAY A GAME?
YOUR NAME HERE
No question about it. This is Pinkie’s mouththwriting. But the note itself was confusing; did she want me to write my name on the taffy wrapper? There was no room left to write anything on it. And besides, what would that accomplish?
I wouldn’t even know how to return it to her. She doesn’t exactly have a regular address and we aren’t exactly best buddies. In the silence that reigns while I ponder this mystery, I hear a small ‘thud’ as something hits the floor. I look around and right below my jacket, there lies a neatly folded piece of paper.
I pick it up and scrunch my muzzle when I notice that it’s sticky. Too sticky. Knowing Pinkie, it’s probably best not to think too hard about what its patina actually consists of. I unfold the note and place it next to the wrapper on top of my desk.
It’s a newspaper clipping of the “Lonely Hearts” column. Puzzled, I scan the names of the poor lonely sods that occupy the column: “Cloudy Day, Em, E, M&S, TV; Crimson Brass, S, U, S, VGL, TLC; Cunning Quill, W/E, U, S, NS, STD, W/S, NSA.”
Incomprehensible acronyms fly past, but even though I re-read the entire column, nothing out of the ordinary crosses my eyes. I try looking for any kind of code she could’ve placed in it, but I can’t make sense of it if she has. This is a sort of code to begin with, after all; abbreviated messages to help you navigate the jungle of personal relationships. Although they tend to lead you wrong more often than not...
I sigh, frustrated. My breath pushes the wrapper to flight and I watch as it lazily floats in the air. With my head rested between my forehooves I keep looking at it until it slowly falls on top of the newspaper. My eyes scan the newspaper column once more and then the wrapper.
Finally it clicks. Of course! If you write something on a taffy wrapper, it would refer to the content of it, not the wrapper itself. I feel like such an idiot.
YOUR NAME HERE
That phrase clearly pointed to the newspaper clipping!
So that’s how she wanted to play? Placing an ad with my name in the “Lonely Hearts” column meant ‘yes, I’d like to participate in your little game’. And she could check for my reply wherever she roamed, just by picking up the newspaper.
Did I really want to play her game though?