//------------------------------// // Bloodmane - Part I // Story: No Heroes Part I - The Roster // by PaulAsaran //------------------------------// Verity Fine had no idea what went wrong. Had they been caught in a storm? A rogue wave? Something else? He had no way of knowing. All he knew was that he’d fallen overboard. And Verity couldn’t swim. He kicked, he struggled, he tried crying out and gulped down salt water. He knew his mother had fallen off the boat too. He wanted to scream for her, for help, but every time his head surfaced and he opened his mouth he found himself underwater again. This couldn’t happen! He was just a foal, he didn’t even have a cutie mark yet. Please, somepony help! And then she was there: Mapleleaf. His eyes were shielded by her thick yellow coat as she clutched him close. They rose and splashed out of the water, matching red manes dangling wetly over their eyes. Her firm voice rose over the crashing waves. “Don’t worry, baby, mommy’s got you!” Verity coughed up water, his chest hurting and eyes stinging. He clutched at her with trembling hooves. “Momma, w-what’s happening?” “I don’t know, baby,” she admitted, fear etched in her voice, “but it’s going to be okay. I promise, it’s going to be just fine!” They rocked in the waves as she scoured the seas. Their eyes locked on the sailboat at the same time. “Fleur! Fleur, over here!” Verity held on to his mother for dear life as he watched the boat amidst the churning, roiling waves. Fleurboard was at the helm. He was waving to them, letting them know he was coming. Massive waves rose tall over the vessel. Sometimes Verity thought he wasn’t seeing a wave at all, but a massive tentacle. He told himself that was dumb, that there wasn’t anything that big in the seas. But he was just a child, and a terrified child at that; his mind was running wild. His mother was struggling to stay afloat and reassure him at the same time. “It’s alright, Daddy’s coming. We’ll both be alright…” The sailboat came up to them, some twenty feet away. Fleurboard stumbled and tumbled across the deck, shouting something incomprehensible in the raging seas. He found a lifesaver float and tried to toss it, but slipped and fell. He struggled to his hooves, leaning heavily against the rocking ship's side. He stared at his family with big eyes through a moist yellow mane. Then the wave came. “Fleur, look out!” The boat tipped, rose up and began to flip. Again Verity saw it: a giant, scaled tentacle in the night sky, as thick as the buildings of Las Pegasus. He was so focused on it he didn’t see the mast. His mother did. She gave him a quick peck on the cheek and pushed him away. Verity kicked at the water in surprise— —and Mapleleaf was gone. The mast crashed down into the water, right where he’d been – right where she was – and she was gone. Verity screamed. It was all he could do before he went under. He saw her several feet below him. Her horn was gone and there was an odd shape to her head. She was unconscious, blood pouring up from her ears, her eyes, her forehead. She looked so… calm. Then Verity saw the thing. Massive eyes and fangs thicker than tree trunks. A face glistening with scales. A dragon’s head on a serpentine body that spread endlessly in the darkness, thick squirming pieces of it fading and appearing all around him in that quiet, black sea. Its yellow eyes glowed like gargantuan lamps, lamps focused upon the drifting form of his mother. He wanted to help her, to swim down and rescue her, but even if he hadn’t been petrified with terror, he couldn’t have. Verity could only watch as the giant sea monster opened its mouth wide and swallowed her, a mere crumb to its size. She was gone. Eaten by some demon even his child’s imagination never thought could exist... a demon that was setting those same hungry orbs on him. Suddenly, all Verity wanted to do was hide. Hide forever. Hide perfectly. Hide from those hideous eyes. But then the thing squirmed, its mouth clamping open and closed as it shook violently. Almost as if it were in pain. It dove, and just like that it disappeared; the waters around him were black and monster-free. Yet there was still no Mapleleaf. She was gone… and that was all the evidence Verity needed to prove the thing real. Something caught him; he was rising. He came out of the water with a splash and a cough, his father holding him just as tightly as his mother had. The sailboat was nowhere to be seen, it too having disappeared beneath the dark water’s surface. Verity realized that his father was weeping. It was the most terrible sound he’d ever heard. He said nothing, thought nothing. He didn’t cry or scream. He only stared at the dark water, those terrible yellow eyes dominating his mind. They were alone. Alone in a big, dark sea that had suddenly become so very, very calm. It wasn’t like the beaches in photos and stories. It wasn’t covered in fine yellow sand, the waters weren’t blue. No, the water was a dismal brownish green, and instead of sand there was dirt, dirt caked into a nasty muddy mess where the waves lapped at the shore. Verity didn’t want to move. Or think. Or talk. He just lay on his side in the dirt. He stared at the lapping waves, or followed with his eye the long line of seaweed that stretched on infinitely at the high-tide mark. ...or gazed out there, at the endless sea that had once been so fascinating. He heard the unfamiliar sound of his father’s hooves squishing in the moist dirt. He didn’t bother to look. Fleurboard set down a strange fruit, green and thick looking. Verity stared at it for a couple seconds. He turned away. “It’s good,” his father ventured. The colt just curled up a little more. Fleurboard sighed and lay in the dirt with him, their matching, mottled brown bodies pressing together. “You have to eat, son. Please, just give it a try.” Verity sniffed and said nothing. His father rested his head gently on Verity's neck, nuzzling him for comfort. “It’s okay, son. You’re okay…” A day passed, and a night. Verity finally succumbed to hunger and tried the fruit found in the nearby woods. It was hard and tasteless, but it made the hunger go away. He began to join his father in exploring the area, though he couldn’t find anything interesting. They climbed a tall hill and discovered that they were on an island, uninhabited and unknown. His father didn’t speak for several minutes after the discovery, and that was worrying. By the next morning, Fleurboard decided that they needed to find some sort of shelter. They began by following the beach. The pair traveled for many hours but could find nothing that might provide a safe place to stay. Then they found the mast. It was from their sailboat, there was no question. It still had a large part of the sail attached, which Fleurboard insisted was good news. With some effort, they managed to drag the thing away from the waters and to the edge of the forest, where they could be sure the high tide wouldn’t grab it back. Then they began removing the sail. Verity worked the top of the mast while his father worked the bottom. It was a tedious process, but Verity was glad to have something to do. He struggled with the knot in his teeth, tugging and pulling and sweating. At last it came loose and he pulled the sail away. As he did he noted something embedded in the wood. Dropping the sail, he went to see what it was. It was a unicorn’s horn. A yellow one, pierced deep into the wood. Fleurboard heard him crying and came to investigate. The sight of the horn rendered the stallion momentarily speechless. After a while he pushed Verity gently toward the sea. “Go on, son. I… I’ll take over from here.” Verity watched the waters again as Fleurboard buried the horn. He knew his father was crying. He didn’t go to help, or speak. He just stared at the sea, watching for rogue waves and yellow eyes and remembering her motherly face. Two weeks, or so his father claimed. That’s how long they’d been living on the island. Together they’d managed to dig a hole and sink the mast into the ground, and used the sail as a makeshift tent. Other bits of debris washed up, which they used where they could. Hunger wasn’t a problem; though the grass was of some inedible variety, there was plenty of fruit on the island. Water had been an issue at first, but on the third night they’d discovered a freshwater spring deep within the forest. Verity, ever wanting to be productive, kept busy exploring. He would find new fruits and plants and bring them back to camp to show his father, and together at night they’d study them. Fleurboard devoted his time gathering food or trying to come up with something to signal passing boats, not that they ever saw one. By the end of the third week he’d made a sign out of fallen limbs and branches for any pegasi patrols that might come by. He knew such patrols never flew through the Everfree Sea; it was considered too dangerous. He thought Verity didn’t know, though, and the colt wasn’t about to correct him. There were nights when Verity would wake up in a cold sweat from a nightmare, usually one involving lots of water and yellow eyes. On those nights he'd go out and stare at the waves again, wondering if there wasn’t something below watching him back. On some of these nights he’d spot his father at the grave he’d made and go sit with him. They never spoke during those times. They just took comfort in one another’s company. Occasionally, Fleurboard would try to cheer his son up. Sometimes they would laugh and, for a tender moment, forget what was happening. Other times his jokes would fall flat, and they’d both feel miserable. One day Fleurboard decided to go swimming. He did it for fun, to try and encourage Verity. The colt was terrified. He could see those yellow eyes and that endless squirming mass. It was just beneath the waves, ready to take his father away too. He cried and begged and screamed, and finally Fleurboard came back to dry land. He never tried swimming again. It was on a rainy night after one of his nightmares that Verity found the chick. It was clearly just a baby, all fluff and down and no feathers. But it was big, about half as tall as he was. It had come into their makeshift camp to escape the rain and was shivering in a corner when he’d come to with a start and a barely-contained scream. It was orange with scaly green legs and a matching beak. It looked about as scared as he’d felt at the time. He called it ‘Kit,’ for the funny sound it made. If his father had any concerns about the creature, he never showed it. Perhaps he thought Verity could use a friend. Soon Verity and Kit were almost inseparable. They would go on long hikes in the woods. Verity would tell the bird bedtime stories, like his mother had for him. When they were alone he would talk about the great monster he’d seen beneath the waves, and how he’d not said a word of it to his father for fear that he wouldn’t be believed. Kit always listened, and at times Verity almost swore the chick understood him. Kit was also a playmate. The bird, though childish in behavior, seemed very smart. It had this neat trick where it would eat an object and spit out something entirely different. It would eat a leaf, then open its beak and a butterfly would flutter out. It swallowed a worm and out popped a blue ribbon. Once it even swallowed a snake that had scared Verity, and when it opened its mouth a moment later, the snake had become a frog. Sometimes Verity would feed it something and try to guess what would come out. But Kit never did the mouth trick around Fleurboard. Verity’s favorite game was hide and seek. It always had been, and he was incredibly good at it. Kit could find him, but only with a lot of effort. The bird could never stay hidden for long, but it had another neat trick up its sleeve; sometimes, when Verity was almost ready to pounce, Kit would see him coming and let out that strange Kit-a-kit-a-kit-a-kit-a sound, disappearing in a poof of feathers. This had scared Verity the first time it happened, but the chick always appeared not far away, its strange sound almost like laughter. Verity thought it a very impressive trick. But again, Fleurboard never saw it. The ship appeared on the horizon one windy morning in their third month on the island. Fleurboard managed to light the signal fire, a great mass of sticks and leaves and grass he’d been piling high since the very first day. Verity and Kit sat on the beach, watching as his father tended to the flames in an almost desperate manner. The smoke rose high. They were noticed. His father wept with joy when he saw the ship turning for them. He hugged Verity and Kit, he danced around like a fool, he praised Celestia. Verity did none of those things. He only watched and waited, praying that no rogue waves would come up to smash the ship before it reached them. Five ponies and seven nilgiri came ashore in a big lifeboat. They were very impressed with Fleurboard and Verity for having lasted so long, and were more than happy to take the two back to Equestria. But when the moment came for them to leave, Verity was nowhere to be found. Fleurboard discovered him in the forest, lying under the shade of a palm tree. “Verity, what are you doing? It’s time to go.” Verity shook his head, too afraid to move. “What’s wrong?” The colt lowered his head, tears in his eyes. “I c-can’t, Dad… I don’t w-want to go on the w-water.” His father took a long, calm breath. His moist eyes shined with sympathy. “Son, what happened… it was a rare event. It won’t happen again.” But he hadn’t seen those eyes. He hadn’t seen her being devoured. “Yes it w-will… i-it will…” Verity couldn’t move; he was trembling too much. “Is something wrong?” One of the sailors, an orange-coated, green-maned pegasus mare, appeared from the direction of the shore. “He’s just scared,” Fleurboard told her. “Give us a moment?” The mare nodded, then cast a long gaze at Verity. Those pink eyes were startlingly familiar… but then she turned and went back to the shore. Fleurboard touched Fine’s head, staring down at him with a lost expression. “Verity, we have to go back home.” “No!” The colt turned away and dropped to his belly. “I’m not going. I want to stay here.” His father sighed, considering him, and then slowly touched his horn to Verity’s. The colt sensed the magic, could feel his eyes getting droopy. “N-no…” Verity tried to shrug Fleurboard away. “I won’t sleep. I… Please… I don’t w-wanna go…” His world went dark. His father gently lifted him up and brought him back to shore. Soon the lifeboat, complete with seven nilgiri, eight ponies and no Kit, was making its way back to the ship. Verity woke in his bed in a cold sweat, the searing image of yellow eyes and massive fangs fading from his mind. He fell back with a sigh and waited for his heart to stop pounding and his breathing to return to normal. Then he glanced at his bedside clock and saw that he was late for school. Not that he’d intended to go, anyway. Still, he was awake and had no interest in more nightmares, so he crawled out of bed and made his way to the bathroom. He combed his bright red mane, brushed his teeth and took a moment to stare at his reflection in the mirror. Over a year since they’d come home. He was still a colt, still in elementary, still no cutie mark. Verity meandered around the suite for a while, having a bite of toast for breakfast. Fleurboard was off at work, telling less artistically-inclined ponies how to decorate their homes. Their top floor, spacious apartment home was impeccable; his father had always preferred things clean and Verity had inherited the trait. Looking at the pictures, the carefully selected wallpaper and the painstakingly-chosen plants, it was easy to believe the place belonged to a popular interior designer. And his brooding, introverted son. Verity sat on the balcony, eyes roaming over Las Pegasus dully. He considered going to school. He’d missed the first two classes, but he could catch the rest. Generally speaking, he didn’t find school very helpful or interesting; he could learn just as much through personal study. School was boring, and Verity prided himself on his talent for self-learning. He only went on occasion to please his father. No, not today. He grabbed his saddlebag, caught the elevator and began to wander the streets. He did this often, just exploring the urban maze. Sometimes he would take out his notebook and write in his journal. It wasn’t the personal type of journal, like a diary. Oh no, he was studying: buildings and their shapes. How many windows and doors, what was the best way to get in without being detected? Were there any door ponies or staff in the front lobby? When did their shifts rotate? How close was the building to the police station and how often did patrols come by? Ponies were targeted, too. That mare on the bench by the carriage stop. Her clothes were high class, but the style was older, the fabric a bit worn. The strain in her voice revealed her to be lower class, trying to pass off the look. Lots of makeup, batting eyes. She was out for a stallion, looking to marry rich. And the stallion she was talking to, in his cheap suit designed to resemble wealth. The top hat was a rental, the tag barely sticking out of the back. Considering the cheap grease in his mustache and state of his overused suit, the hat had probably been stolen. His eyes kept going to her flank and he had that greedy, smooth smile. A con-artist, a tail-chaser or both. He was thinking he’d found an easy target. They would both be in for a surprise. Sometimes Verity went to a more quiet place, like the hidden alcove in the park. He would sit in the grass and open one of his other notebooks. He’d write his poetry about the sunny day, or the ponies he’d studied. Sometimes he’d try writing a story. Usually adventures, but sometimes a romance or a drama. There was always a darker theme to his tales, something hinting at a more corrupt element like death or cruelty. He could absorb himself in such things, sometimes writing all day long. Today he did a little bit of both, and packed away his things just before twilight. He walked the back streets on his way home, ignoring the shady ponies that came out of places like this at night. He was known in this area, and nopony touched him. Not out of fear – he was only a colt, after all – but respect. He’d come to know these ponies, learned about them. To say he was friends with them was too strong; Verity Fine didn’t make friends. They were acquaintances. Some had learned of his peculiar talents, his ability to study and learn just from quiet observation. A few used him; he would observe a house for an hour or two, and then tell a thief how best to get in and out without being caught. Things of that nature. He went along with it without fear or worry, because in truth he just didn’t care. The ponies using him wouldn’t hurt him; he was too useful. And what did he care if a few things were stolen? The previous owners should have been more careful about protecting their property. So he was known, and generally liked, in this area of town. But there was one pony he didn’t like. Nopony liked him, in fact. His name was Bitter Rumblings, and he was a pegasus with a crippled wing. He was also filthy rich, but nopony knew where the bits had come from. Several ponies had tried to break into his home to find his riches, and once or twice Verity had helped via his observation talent, but none had ever found anything in the place. He was a mean old stallion, lashing out at anypony who dared approach his home. He’d reportedly done many underhanded deeds and it was said that many of the homeless, poor ponies that lived in the area had been put in their position by his nefarious actions. Verity didn’t know if there was any truth to those rumors, but the stallion was hated nonetheless. He was passing by the old house where Bitter lived. The stallion peered out his window, right on time. The bastard had a routine, always suspecting, always waiting for somepony to try and get into his place. Verity eyed the slightly opened curtain, sensing the pegasus’ gaze. Then the curtains closed, and Verity didn’t get so much as a peek at the codger. “Little Mudpie,” a voice spoke from beside Verity. “Come to eye the old stallion, have we?” He looked up to see an elderly green mare with a white mane cut extremely short. She had a scar running from the left corner of her lips all the way to her ear, a rather ugly decoration, and her eyes were hard as rocks. “Hey, Sugarcube,” he replied calmly, glancing back at the house. “No, just passing by on my way home.” They began to walk along the street. “You hear what happened yesterday?” she asked in her ever-serious voice. “Nope.” “Quickbeat tried to sneak into Bitter’s place while he was out.” That had his attention. “Didn’t find anything, I presume?” “Naw, nothing. Fool actually got caught,” Sugarcube chuckled, then hacked painfully. She went on once she had control of herself. “Stallion came zipping out of there with his mane on fire.” “Seriously?” Verity tried to imagine the scene. “Is he gonna live?” “Yeah, just got singed. He was lucky Pothole and Long John were nearby to put him out, though.” In this part of Las Pegasus it was every pony for himself. Except where Bitter Rumblings was concerned; then it was one for all and all against one. “All that mess,” she muttered, “and the jackass still keeps watching for predators. Nopony’s gonna go near that house anytime soon, not after that. Of course, Little Mudpie’s probably got his scheme all figured out by now.” “Yeah,” Verity muttered without much interest, “I do.” Then he paused. “Yeah… I do.” Inspiration had struck and he really wanted to act on it. His mind worked carefully for several seconds, and then he turned and strode down a side alley. “Hey!” Sugarcube followed after him. “Why’d you come down here?” “I’m gonna sneak in.” “Sneak in where?” He heard her stop behind him. “In there? Are you crazy? You’re just a colt!” She was walking next to him again. “Listen kid, normally I wouldn’t give a rat’s rump if somepony tried to go in there and got himself killed. We’re all crooks ‘round here. But you? I don’t feel right letting ya do it.” “But you're going to let me,” Verity declared, turning a corner. “You will ‘cause you’re not going to risk your neck for mine.” “I don’t intend to,” she admitted. “That’s why I’m trying to talk ya out of it. Ya got no backup, Mudpie, and Bitter has been known to defend his place lethally.” He paused at the next corner; Bitter’s place was just out of sight. “Tell you what,” he whispered to her with a grin, “I don’t need the bits. If I find the stash, I’ll let you have it.” She laughed hoarsely, which led to another hacking fit. “You won’t find it,” she uttered through the spittle. “No, I won’t,” he agreed. “But I’m gonna take something, you watch me.” “You’re gonna get killed,” she corrected sourly, “and then your father’s gonna jump out that fancy suite to the streets below.” That made Verity pause. He gave her a dark look and thought on her warning. But something was telling him to do this. He had to… he needed to. “I won’t get caught,” he whispered, and was off. He was at a corner; there was a window on the opposite side. This he knew from his observations. Verity also knew that at any second Bitter was going to prepare a bath. And, just a few seconds later, the window opened. Verity waited to hear the water running, to see the steam flowing out the window. He made his move, climbing in swiftly. He was in a large bathroom, though not as big as somepony might think for a stallion with so many bits. Verity didn’t have to check to know that Bitter was behind the shower curtain; he went to the bathroom door and left. He was alone in the big house and was almost sick with nerves. He’d helped others and watched them work, but he’d never tried this himself. He’d expected fear. He didn’t have it. Nervous? Yes. Excited? Definitely. Afraid? Not so much. He explored the house, pulling out his notebook and quill. He recorded everything; where was the furniture, what drawers held the clothes, the color of the wallpaper, everything. He discovered a safe behind a picture, but he was no safecracker, so he merely jotted its location and appearance and slipped the picture back in place. Bitter came out of the bath after around thirty minutes, more or less on schedule. Verity observed him from behind a door as he went to check his windows. His snooping routine, which the colt had down to exacting memory. Verity followed behind, recording the pegasus’ actions, jotting down times when he could. He only came close to being caught once, when he’d tried to hide in a closet full of old musty coats. As luck would have it, the stallion went to the closet to grab one. Verity kept low as the grey pegasus scoured the closet, grumbling indecipherably. Realizing his position was too dangerous, Verity took a risk and slipped out between the stallion’s legs. He thanked Celestia he was still a tiny colt and managed to creep his way to another room just as the stallion found the coat he was looking for. He thought perhaps that Bitter was going out, which would have made his task easier. Instead the pegasus went to his living room at the entrance of the house and sat in a big, ancient-looking chair facing the door. Ah, Verity remembered watching him do that from a window. He was guarding against intruders. Talk about paranoid… but then he had good reason, considering every crooked pony in the city wanted to find his stash. Verity wasn’t interested in riches. He wasn’t even sure what had made him want to do this… at first. But now he realized something: he was having fun. It was like a game of hide and seek, but with much higher stakes, and he was good at it. He was thrilled to think that he was going to do this and get away scot-free! He felt more entertained than he had since… since… …since playing with Kit. The thought sobered him a little, but he shook himself and focused on the task at hoof. He’d been through every room in the house, and it was about time he’d made his exit. But he remembered his words to Sugarcube, and he wasn’t about to fail. He needed to steal something, but what? A strange sound came from the living room. He listened carefully, then peeked around the corner at Bitter. The old pony was snoring. Why that clever old pegasus! All this time he had everypony thinking he was keeping a vigilant watch on the door, and he was really just taking a nap. Verity might have laughed if he weren’t still in the house. Then he had an idea. He studied the stallion for several seconds, making his notes. Old style of hat, but very new and with a fabric he knew from his father’s work was expensive. Wicker pipe from a bygone era hanging from his open mouth, unlit. And that mane… a pony that old should have grey all over his head, but Bitter’s mane was pitch black. And shiny. And there was something a little off in its… A wig. Verity knew what he wanted to steal. He sneaked about the house to the door behind the sleeping pegasus. He used his magic carefully, so very very carefully, to lift the hat. Then he took the bottom of the stallion’s wig in both hooves and gently, so very gently pulled it down. It flopped to the floor; Bitter shifted, mumbled and went right back to snoring. Verity slowly let the hat float back onto his head, caught the wig up and retreated quietly, stealthily back to the bathroom. As he slipped out of the window he couldn’t help feeling elated. He’d pulled it off! The most dangerous pony in the bad side of Las Pegasus, and he’d pulled it off! He could sneak, he could hide. He almost imagined he could be invisible! He pranced back to the alley, where Sugarcube was sitting on her rump with eyes wide. “You… you didn’t get caught,” she muttered in amazement. “And what is that thing you took?” Verity dropped the wig before her and she studied it up close in her hooves. “Is that… a mane?” “Bitter’s bald,” the colt declared with a grin. “Took it right off his maneless scalp.” Sugarcube laughed. She laughed and laughed and hacked painfully, then when her throat was cleared she laughed some more. When she finally finished, she wiped the tears from her eyes and noticed Verity ripping pages out of his notebook. “W… what’s that?” she asked breathlessly. “Here.” Verity offered the notes to her and she examined them for a few seconds. “You can have them. Give them to whoever wants to go in next.” Her eyes went wide once again as she studied his carefully-constructed writing. “Mudpie… you did all this while you were in there? “Wow.” She sat on her haunches again, dumbstruck. “Do you know what a bad pony could do with information like this?” “Yeah,” he answered, grinning from ear to ear. “I sure do.” She studied the notes again, whispering some of the words to herself. “This is a fine crime, Mudpie. A fine crime, indeed.” He put his notebook away, beaming. “I’ve got to get home; it’s late and my father’s going to be worried sick. But… wow that was fun!” “Not just fun,” she said, eyeing his flank studiously. She poked it with a hoof. “I daresay you’ve got a gift, Mudpie.” He blinked and shifted to look at his flank. For a moment he didn’t see anything different. But then Sugarcube traced a circle, and he focused on that spot. There it was, so perfectly hidden even he’d had trouble seeing it: a cutie mark in shape of a pony, perfectly camouflaged to hide in his mottled coat. Verity couldn’t have been happier. His father would be horrified. He wasn’t a colt anymore. He was tall, and a bit thin. His gift for stealth had developed phenomenally. He’d begun dying his mane and tail black to make it easier to disappear in the shadows. It helped, for his introverted nature had also developed, and he determinedly avoided most other ponies. Even his father. He spent his days in bed and his nights sneaking about the city. No building was safe from his searching, no security arrangement could hold him back. He never stole things, he wasn’t in it for that. He just liked to do it, liked the sense of power it gave him to know that he could enter any room with impunity. How many sleeping heads had he stood over, taking his quiet notes? How many windows slipped through, how many locks picked? Slipping through shadows wasn’t the only way to hide. He’d learned others. Snatching a fine coat to blend in with the elitists in a crowd, learning their speech patterns and high-society concerns, returning the coat and disappearing before anypony had noticed. He could walk right up to a police pony and chat him up, stealing his baton and returning it to the officer’s home before he’d even known it was gone; oops, I guess I really did forget to bring it with me this morning. It was amusing. It was also unfulfilling. Nothing he did seemed to make a difference. Every day he practiced and grew better at his gifts, and every day he had nothing to show for it. There were no paying jobs for a master sneaker. None within the boundaries of law, at any rate, and he was determined to stay within that boundary. Trespassing excepted, of course. He wasn’t hurting anypony, but he wasn’t helping anypony either. It all made his life feel pointless. He still wrote sometimes, on those occasions when he’d wake up in the night and not feel up to his usual wanderings. His writing had matured like everything else, both in style and content. A favorite topic was the Dark Archons, the alleged spy organization that all practical-thinking ponies knew didn’t exist. Generally speaking, Verity was very much a practical-thinking pony, but it was still nice to imagine joining them and his stories often reflected that. He had no illusions to what kind of organization the Archons might be. An elite, honorable force fighting for the good of all and Princess Celestia? That was the thinking of some over-imaginative foal high on bedtime stories. No, he envisioned a darker, seedier organization, the kind willing to do all the worst things if it meant the betterment of Equestria. Verity believed in a harsh world, because he’d seen the harsh half, the rusted and worn metal hidden beneath the shiny, lacquered veneer. There was one pony he still visited from time to time: Sugarcube. She was getting on in years, but hadn’t grown any softer with age. She’d lost an eye recently in a fight with a unicorn stallion over some clothes both wanted for a more survivable winter. She’d still won the fight, though; she kept his horn on a necklace as a souvenir. Once every month or so he’d go to her place and they’d catch up on the latest news or his stealthy developments. She never admitted it, but he knew she was fond of his visits. She was harsh, but she alone seemed to understand him. He still lived with his father. Fleurboard couldn’t grasp his son’s behavior. Verity could tell the old stallion thought he had become a criminal, though there was no proof of such a thing. Some nights the stallion would stay up late just to see Verity when he awoke, and try to engage him in conversation, try to help with the problem he couldn’t figure out. Perhaps he thought he was failing as a father. That wasn’t the case at all; Verity loved the stallion. He just… didn’t like to talk. At times like those Verity would often be reminded that he understood himself about as little as his own father did. A troubling thought. Sometimes he wanted to reassure the old stallion, to express his affection, but he was never able to bring the words from his mouth. So he’d leave the suite, guilt hanging over his head like a blanket. So this was his life. He wandered the streets of Las Pegasus, slipping between the shadows or faking his way through some local event the Important Ponies were putting on, always feeling like he could be doing something else but never knowing what. Was he lonely? Was he bored? Did he have some hidden, unspoken ambition that needed fulfilling? He was lost. In the great city he’d come to know like the back of his hoof. In the great maze of life. He was lost. He was sneaking around an elite mare’s home one night. He didn’t bother taking notes, for he’d been through this house a few times in the past. He was bored, just looking for something to do. He was also a little troubled; lately he’d been having strange dreams. The yellow eyes and feeling of drowning he understood, but in the past few months something new was stirring in his head. In his nightmares he kept seeing red, and images of death. These images frightened him. He believed he was a good pony, or as good as a pony in his position could be. He fretted that he might be losing his mind from boredom, or that perhaps his stories were having some weird effect on his brain. It seemed that lately he’d begun developing a fascination for the morbid, and he didn’t like it one bit. Maybe he was off in the head. It would certainly explain the unorthodox direction his entire life had taken. Perhaps he should have himself committed. But for now he kept to his usual routine, and tonight that meant shadowing around some unsuspecting mare’s home. Why here? Why not? Maybe it was just her turn. He wandered through the spotless kitchen, glum gaze passing over the fine china in the glass-doored cupboard, mind taking disinterested notice of the silverware drying by the sink. His head was wandering when he opened the door to the bedroom. He glanced through her closet, taking note of the new clothing and what it might mean in her life. His mental catalog sorting, analyzing, theorizing. The automatic tik-tok of his brain. He paused by the bed, observing the mare in her pristine sleep. She was pretty, which for him didn’t amount to much. Blue with a white mane. She shifted in the bed, front hooves clutching the pillow to her head, a faint smile on her lips. There was something interesting there, he could feel it. But he couldn’t place it. The vision came slowly, like a ghost upon his mind. He recalled the big knife drying by the sink, could feel himself going to get it. It was hard in his hooves, strangely comforting in its weight. He sneaked his way back, little more than a shadow in the night. He watched, breath coming slow and heavy as she shifted, a strange elation rising in him. He bent down and slit her throat. Eyes opened, pain and shock as she stared up at her murderer. Her mouth opened to scream, but only a faint gurgling escaped her lips. The blood formed a pretty line down her neck. She touched at it with her hooves, struggling to breathe. Tears were forming. Her wide brown eyes, beautiful in their terror, stared up at him as if begging for help. Or, perhaps, to ask why. The sounds, the sights, the blood. Beautiful. Engrossing. Entertaining. A shiver of joy the likes of which he’d never felt washed over him— —and then the vision passed. The mare was still sleeping, clueless in her bed. There was no blood. But there was a knife. He dropped it, a sudden and intense horror filling him. It stuck in the hardwood floor with a quiet ‘thunk.’ He’d almost done it. By all that was holy, he’d almost done it! His mind was clouded by fear and disgust at his near-misdeed. He was hyperventilating, struggling to breathe, sweat pouring down his face. That horrible, horrible image was seared into his mind. Her eyes… her terrible eyes. And the worst thing of all: the insidious, demonic pleasure that had coursed through him. He ran. He didn’t bother with silence. He just ran. He was sick. Sick in the head. He was at his desk, head in his hooves and tears streaming down his face. Before him was a book, thick and old and not his own. He’d taken it from a library years ago, thinking it might be useful. Now it was confirming that the nightmare was real. Bloodmane. The very name sounded like a curse. If he was right… if he’d acquired this ridiculously rare mental illness… he would kill. It was only a matter of time. The visions would continue, the nightmares pressure him to act. He’d do the deed, because it was instinctual, hard-wired into his mental programming. He wasn’t a murderer. He repeated the words in his head over and over again, silently begging for them to be true. He’d trespassed into ponies homes, played little games. He wasn’t a criminal. He wasn’t a killer! He was a good stallion. He didn’t want to hurt anypony! He had to be wrong. The medical book was old, perhaps it was in error. Perhaps there was some other explanation for that terrible vision. Maybe he was just insane. He needed help. There had to be somepony out there who knew what he was going through, who could tell him what was really going on. Something other than him being a… monster. His father. Fleurboard loved him. He could at least provide comfort, maybe point him in the right direction. The stallion would be asleep, of course. So Verity got up and went to his father’s room. He paused at the closed door, listening to the faint sound of Fleurboard’s snoring. That familiar guilt crept to his mind. How could he ask the stallion for help, after how cold he’d been in the past few years? No, this was too important to hold back from guilt. He had to resolve this now. Mind made up, he opened the door. He should have called out, tried to wake the unicorn. But old habits were hard to break; he sneaked his way through the shadows, avoiding the light from the window, and stood next to the old stallion in his sleep. He considered his words. How to begin? How to tell his father about this new horror? Perhaps he could— Perhaps he could take the other pillow and apply it to Fleurboard’s face. Watch him squirm and kick in futility while he slowly suffocated. Take intense pleasure in seeing him grow weak and feeble and slack. And then, when he was almost gone, remove the pillow and do something more bloody. Delightfully, gloriously bloo— He fell back, the vision fading as fast as it had come. He collapsed to his belly on the floor and covered his eyes, weeping. Fleurboard heard, stirred, sat up. Verity was already gone. Not a killer. He was not a killer. He was a good stallion. Different, strange, but good. He was not a killer. The bad side of town, in a small alley behind a trash dump. He couldn’t remember how he’d got there, didn’t care. He kept repeating the words in his head, over and over and over again. He was not a killer. Rain was falling in a downpour. His black mane hung low over his unfocused eyes, the dye slowly fading from the moisture. It didn’t matter. Only the mantra mattered. He was not a killer. “Mudpie?” The voice jerked him from his silent reverie. A pair of green hooves obscured his view of the hard concrete. He reached a hoof to move the mane from his face, glanced up forlornly. White mane, one eye missing, hideous scar. Sugarcube. “Keep away from me,” he whispered, bowing his head again. “More pleasant than your usual greeting,” she replied, tone dry. “You look like you’ve been put through the wringer. Repeatedly.” He tried to press himself into the wall, to hide. He shivered against the cold rain. “Are ya gonna tell me what’s wrong with you or not?” “Go away…” A long, tedious, unpleasant pause. He refused to look at her again, refused to chance another of those terrible visions. “Well fine, if you don’t want my help,” she growled. “Just trying to be a concerned citizen and all. Look at me when I’m talking to ya, brat!” She whacked him on the head. “Just leave me alone!” he snapped, glaring at her. She glared right back. “If you think I’m gonna ignore the one pony in this wreck of a city who ever did anything nice for me, you’re more off your rocker than I thought.” He groaned as she tried to help him stand. He allowed himself to be lifted to all fours, keeping his head down… …and then he thrust forward, his horn stabbing into her throat. Sugarcube let out a surprised sound that had a strange sort of whistling quality to it. She reared back and touched at her throat, mouth gasping, chest heaving for air that wouldn’t come. A step back, two, and she fell. He watched, trembling in elation as she squirmed on her backside, struggling against death. It was such a delightful dance. It made him groan at the morbid pleasure of it. Sugarcube slowed, hacked, waved a weak hoof at him for help. At last she went still. He waited for the vision to end, standing there in the pouring rain. He stared at the body lying in the dirty water, the elation and joy steadily slipping away. And then he realized. “Sugarcube…?” He walked over her body and studied her wide-eyed, frozen face. He touched her with his hoof, but there was nothing. He wanted to scream. He couldn’t. The sound wouldn’t come. All he got was a hoarse wind. He dropped on top of her body, weeping. “I’m sorry… I’m so sorry!” He was a monster. Sick in the head. The most horrible pony in existence! How could he have done it, how? He meant to do it, but he hadn’t meant to do it! He sat up and wiped the tears from his face, noted the blood on his hooves. He looked up, crossing his eyes to observe his horn. The rain was washing the blood from it, running it down his face. He felt sick to his stomach, frantically scrubbing to get the horrible stuff off of him. He sat there in that alley for a long time, staring at her body. His mind – his practical, analytical, studious mind – was swimming with thoughts and theories and scenarios. Suicide? No, too easy an escape for his misdeed. Incarceration? No, his instinct would be escape, and he was certain to succeed. Self-committed? No, there was no cure. He had to leave. To go far away, to someplace where nopony ever went, where he wouldn’t be a threat to anypony. Maybe that place didn’t exist. Maybe he’d find absolution in the search. Maybe he’d succeed, and just disappear into the unknown voids of the world. Whatever the conclusion, he couldn’t stay here. He stood over Sugarcube, studied her miserably for several long seconds. She was his first. He could only pray she would be his last. He needed a reminder, so he took the necklace around her neck, the one with the unicorn horn she’d won. A morbid reminder of his morbid deed. Perhaps with that he could recall his horror and never do this again. He walked away, head low, necklace dangling from his neck like a bloody pendulum. His journey for self-destruction had begun. He could no longer be Verity Fine. That was who he used to be, back when he was still a foal. What was that she’d said to him before? It was a fine crime. Fine Crime. A damning name. Guilty by etymology. How perfectly suitable.