//------------------------------//
// The Longest Hour 
// Story: Severed Roots 
// by Bad_Seed_72 
//------------------------------//


The Longest Hour


For a detective, White Dove worked in cramped, dismal conditions. The office was about half the size of the Comfort Inn's glorious hotel room. A scratched desk with one broken leg (fixed with duct tape), three stools, and a pair of filing cabinets were the only items of furniture. On the desk, leaning towers of paperwork obscured a few discernible objects: an oil lamp, a box of matches, an ashtray, a set of quills and ink, and a single framed photograph. 

Babs narrowed her eyes and tried to make out the picture, but couldn't from this angle.

As she sat down, the detective took a deep drag of her cigarette and snorted, exhaling smoke-rings through her nostrils. "Sorry fo' the mess. I been behind on ma reports lately." Flicking her mane back behind her ears, she let her nostrils flare in obvious contempt. Detective White Dove was not one to welcome visitors.

Brushing a stack aside and littering the floor with parchment, White Dove kicked up her hindhooves on the desk and reclined, leaning her back against a filing cabinet. She flicked ash away from the cherry of her cigarette casually. "Normally, I woulda searched youze both befo' I let youze inta ma office, but since youze know Lucky, I don't think dat'll be necessary."

"Search? What do youze mean?" Babs scrunched up her snout. Geez, do we really look dat threatenin'? O' are youze jus' paranoid?

"We've had a few incidents in the past wit' ponies comin' ta 'talk' ta one o' us havin' a shiv o' two tucked inta their mane o' summat," Dove explained, her lips curling back for a second. "But, neva mind dat. I don't have much time fo' small talk, so let's get started. First, what are youze names?"

"Apple Bloom."

"Babs Seed."

Reluctantly, the detective stretched a forehoof across the desk and shook hooves with both mares. "Nice ta meet youze. Pleasure's all mine. Hope youze enjoyin' Manehatten. Blah, blah, blah."

Dove snorted derisively and rolled her eyes, far too tired and preoccupied to deal with pleasantries. What exactly was so damn important that these mares had to interrupt her prior to a meeting with the Chief? Certainly, the mocking Most High must have assumed the stress of Brutus' hemming and hawing wasn't sufficient. Nope, it was time for brute and hillbilly to amplify the rainfall on her pathetic parade.

White Dove ignored their blank stares and silently cursed Lucky Toss. That stallion would get it later. For now, she needed a little liquid apathy. Something to make this little chat evermore briefer. Opening a drawer of the desk, Dove pulled out a bottle of blue-label scotch and a shot glass. Nonchalantly, she measured out a drink and knocked it back immediately.

"Um..." Apple Bloom and Babs Seed exchanged confused glances. "Um, Detective, Ah don't think yer s'posed ta be drinkin' on the job, are ya?"

"O' dis early," Babs chimed in, glancing at a clock on the wall. Sheesh, looks like the famed Detective White Dove is an alkie. Thanks, Doc. Dis gonna be great. Jus' great.

Dove smirked and wiped her muzzle with a forehoof. "Chief don't give no shits, an' neitha do I. An' I ain't the only one hidin' a lil' liquid courage 'round heeya. Youze try ta keep orda in dis madhouse an' stay sober, an' I'll give youze a damned medal." Tucking the bottle and glass away, she leaned back and reclined again. "Now, make dis quick. I ain't gonna be lectured 'bout ma habits by some punk an' her marefriend."

"Fiancée," Apple Bloom corrected. She crossed her forehooves and huffed begrudgingly, "An' sorry 'bout that. We jus'..." She paused, recalling something Applejack had shown them in the newspaper long ago. "We jus' were under the impression that the Royal Guard was in charge o' the Manehatten P.D."

"An' most o' us are." Straightening in her seat, White Dove removed her hindhooves from the desk and leaned forward, shifting her focus between the two as they spoke. "Chief Brutus was one o' Celestia's top officas in his day. I served few years in the Guard as well befo' joinin' the force. Otha than Lucky an' Rustla, an' maybe one o' two othas, most o' us heeya are ex-military."

"Well, then," Babs said, leaning forward in her stool, "iffa dis force is made up o' military, why is the city so damn... awful?"

"Yea, why is that? An' why don't the papers report any differently?" Apple Bloom asked. "We had no idea things were like this in Manehatten befo'—"

Her brow furrowing, White Dove bit her lip briefly, tempering her bitter anger. Slowly, she replied, interrupting the smaller mare, "Don't youze think we're workin' on both dem things? What do youze think ma job is?"

"From the looks o' things, ma guess is chain-smokin' an' takin' shots." Her lips drawing back in a snarl, Babs felt a low, guttural growl rising up from her belly into her throat. A quick, pointed look from Apple Bloom silenced it. Stay calm. She ain't gonna be no help ta us iffa I piss her off too much.

Dismissing the assumption and insult, White Dove stared her visitors down for a moment, mentally bucking Lucky Toss where the sun never shined. She stole a glance at the clock. 0908, and her day was already proving to be a challenge. 

Perfect.

Dove sighed and gritted her teeth. "Well, Babs Seed, the answa is a lot mo' complicated than dat. An' I don't have time ta explain everythin' ta youze. I will say dis, though. I appreciate youze concerns 'bout the city an' the press, but we do all we can.

"Now, iffa dat's all youze came heeya ta say—"

"It's not, Detective." Apple Bloom frowned and pawed a hindhoof at the floor. "There's actually somethin' we were hopin' you could help us wit'."

Grabbing a blank Incident Report form (figuring she might as well be productive during this waste of her time), Dove muttered, "Youze need ta file a police report wit' Cotton at the front desk. Whateva happened ta youze must be documented an' somepony will be assigned ta youze case. Mo' likely, it won't be me."

Pushing the form towards the mares, Dove glanced up, tilting her head in mock concern. "What happened? Did somepony put dat hole in youze ear, Babs Seed? Hmm? Did the Mafia boss beat youze fo' gettin' out o' line?"

"I am not a gang memba!" Babs hissed, her ears flattening in anger. Muscles clenching, she fought the urge to lurch at the mocking mare. Way ta be observant, youze snide little... "An' what happened heeya—" she pointed to her left ear—"is none o' youze business."

"Fine, then." The detective took another guess, dipping a quill in ink as she did so. "Let me try 'gain. Somepony rob youze? Break inta youze apartment? Piss on youze lawn?"

"We don't live here, Detective." Apple Bloom corrected her once again. "We came from someplace far, far away ta see you."

"Oh?" Curiosity piqued, White Dove set down her quill and tapped her chin. "Well... youze have the Manehattenite tongue," she said, nudging her head towards Babs, "so youze coulda fooled me. As fo' youze, Apple Bloom, I've neva heard dat accent befo'. Not sure how far from home youze are. But I figured dis brute musta fooled youze inta followin' her heeya."

Ohhhhh no. Youze buckin' lil—

"What did youze say?!" Losing her temper with only twenty minutes to go, Babs Seed started to rise off her hooves. A firm grip on her shoulder halted her.

"Babs," Apple Bloom said, moving to whisper in her mare's ear, "let me handle this."

"Yes, Babs, why don't youze let youze mare handle dis?" Detective White Dove stood tall on her hindhooves, peering down at Babs Seed with a smug grin on her face. Letting her muscles ripple under her thick, white coat, she took another deep drag of her cigarette and blew the smoke directly into Babs's muzzle.

Fighting the urge to spit into the eyes of an officer of the law, Babs Seed gritted her teeth, her hackles raising. 

"Iffa youze two want ma help, youze betta get outta heeya, punk," Dove seethed, glaring. She leaned closer, chewing on the filter of her cigarette. "Youze don't fool me. Youze got the tongue an' the ring, an' I don't trust youze far as I can throw youze fa—"

"Alright, that's enough!" Springing to her hooves, Apple Bloom slung a forehoof around Babs Seed and shot daggers at Dove. "We came sixteen hours 'way ta see you, an' all you've done is insult ma fiancee!"

Beneath her furrowed brow and visible molars, Babs let loose a primal growl. 

White Dove laughed, tugging at the badge on her uniform. "Youze see dis? Youze see dis, right heeya? Youze think I'm scared o' either o' youze?"

"We ain't tryin' ta scare ya!" Tightening her grip on her mare, Apple Bloom said, "We want yer help! "

"I told youze already—file a damn Incident Report. I can't do nothin' without no paper trail."

With a snort, Apple Bloom shot a glance towards the towers of parchment on the detective's desk. "Clearly, ya don't do anythin' wit' it, neither!"

THUD!

White Dove brought down both forehooves onto her desk, sending stacks of forms scattered skywards. "That's it! I've had enough o' youze horseshit!"

Flushed with anger, Dove narrowed her eyelids and looked at the clock, ignoring her visitors. "Mothabucka! Ten minutes until I have ta sit down wit' dat asshole, Brutus!" Turning back to the mares, she scowled. "Thanks a lot fo' wastin' ma time. Now, get out, befo' I show youze out."

The detective spun around, staring at the wall behind her desk, inhaling her escape once more.

"Fine!" With furrowed brow and clenched jaws, Apple Bloom tugged on Babs's shoulder, motioning towards the door. "C'mon, Babs. We can find somepony else ta help us." Under her breath, she added, "Ah guess Doc Triage was jus' full o' it."

Behind White Dove, the smaller mare began to drag the other, four hooves scraping against the floorboards, four bracing themselves and calling upon their sapped strength.

White Dove started to take another drag, then froze at the word Triage.

Snapping her neck around, Dove glanced over her shoulder. "Did youze say... Triage?"

"Yea, urgh, Triage!" Though Apple Bloom willed her adrenaline to fire, she was in no way, shape, or form, as furious as last night. Additionally, her anger was focused on the mare in blue, not the mare in orange. Babs, standing firm as a statue, wouldn't budge. Apple Bloom pulled harder around Babs's chest and torso, straining. "Argh! C'mon, Babs! Snap outta it! We're leavin'!"

Babs Seed solidified her stance, snarling, staring up at the detective. How dare youze insult me! Insult us! Insult her! Youze buckin'... Why, iffa youze weren't no offica, I swear on all dat's Most High I would—

"Wait."

Both mares raised an eyebrow and stared at White Dove. "Huh?" Apple Bloom loosened her grip on her mare. "Why?"

"Youze said Doc Triage sent youze heeya?"

Exhaling hotly, Babs spoke up at last. "Dat's right! What's it ta youze?"

White Dove narrowed her eyes. "Nothin' o' youze concern. But," she said, shifting to Apple Bloom, "I'm curious as ta what dat ol' stallion said 'bout me."

Apple Bloom looked at the clock. 0925. "Ah thought ya said you didn't have time fer small talk."

The detective followed her eyes. Five minutes. "I don't. But I do have time ta talk ta youze, Apple Bloom. Youze, specifically." She flared her nostrils and nudged her muzzle from Babs Seed to the door.

"'Ey! What do youze have ta say youze can't say ta both o' us?!"

"That's right! Ah don't get what game yer playin', Detective, but we're ain't joinin'!"

"Iffa Babs Seed leaves," offered White Dove, slowly sitting back down, "I will talk ta youze, Apple Bloom. I will talk ta youze an' listen ta what youze have ta say."

Apple Bloom's ears flattened. "Seriously?!"

What's youze buckin' problem wit' me?!  Growling again, Babs tensed and leaned back on her hindhooves, wondering what the punishment for assaulting a police officer would be. Ready to spring, she thought grimly, Be betta than havin' ta watch dis bitch give herself cancer.

"Yes, seriously, App—"

"Dove?" Cotton slowly opened the door to the office, her eyes widening. "Whoa! Everythin' alright in heeya?"

Dove scowled. "What do youze want, Cotton?"

"Chief is lookin' fo' youze. It's 0928, Dove."

White Dove extinguished the last of her cigarette, grinding it into an ashtray. Settling into her seat, she rummaged through the drawers of the desk. After locating a box of matches, she struck one alight and said, "Buck him."

Silence, three muzzles hanging agape, venom draining from two.

"... What was dat?" Cotton rubbed one of her ears. "I think I jus' heard youze—"

"Yeah, yeah, ol' 'had summat crazy in youze ear' joke. Enough, Cotton." Pointing at Babs, Dove ordered, "Get dis one outta ma sight, an' tell Brutus I'll be late."

Cotton blinked slowly. "Youze... youze want me ta tell the Chief youze'll be late?"

Finding another cigarette, White Dove inhaled sharply, holding her escape tight in her chest. She exhaled her cloud, letting her meager concern for Chief Brutus dissipate along with the smoke. "Youze deaf? Yes, Cotton, buckin' tell him already!" Dove slapped a pile of papers out of her way, leaning her forehooves on the desk. "Horseapples! Buck!"

Complying—albeit very reluctantly—Cotton upturned her muzzle at the brute and hillbilly. "C'mon, youze heard the mare. Let's go, bru—"

"Her name is Babs Seed!" Apple Bloom snapped, unslinging her forehoof from her mare. "An' you," she snarled, pointing at Cotton, "better watch yer tongue!"

"Oh, yeah?" Cotton scoffed and ran a forehoof up her uniform to her badge, wiping a smudge off the silver. "What are youze gonna do 'bout it?!"

"ENOUGH!"

Again, three muzzles fell silent.

"Cotton, iffa youze don't want Brutus ta know youze bangin' half his boys in blue, youze betta escort our friend Babs Seed outta heeya—" White Dove lurched forward, practically leaping on top of her desk—"o' youze'll be outta a job befo' youze can fall on youze hooves fo' forgiveness! Got it?!"

Cotton glared at her superior, then relented, sighing audible annoyance. Trotting over to Babs Seed and Apple Bloom, she muttered from the corner of her muzzle, "C'mon, Babs Seed. Youze can wait near the front desk."

Apple Bloom, skeptical still, patted her mare's back and pushed her slightly forward. "Ya heard her, Babs. It'll jus' be a minute. Ah promise."

Babs started to object, turning to her mare, "But, Bloom—"

"No buts. Follow Cotton." Apple Bloom gave her a quick nuzzle on the chest, trying to soothe her. To Cotton, she shot a warning glance, a fire burning in her eyes. A fire, which declared, "You mistreat my mare, and you'll regret underestimating me."

Cursing under her breath, Babs Seed finally complied, following Cotton out of the detective's office. She returned Apple Bloom's slight smile with a half-hearted grunt. Youze betta behave, Dove, she warned inwardly, flaring her nostrils. Lucky Toss o' no, I don't have any respect fo' any o' youze.

A shuffling of hooves, and two ponies exited, leaving two to remain. 0932.

~

The first glass of orange juice was the most delectable. Freshly squeezed and picked from the ripest fruit, it was an experience in itself. Cool, crisp, refreshing. Sliding down the throat easily, no burn of alcohol, no retch of medicine. It was his medicine. The King's medicine.

His life's work.

Bernie Madhoof swirled his glass and stared out his bay window. Here, on the thirty-third floor of his skyscraper, Manehatten and its urchins appeared as they truly were. Tiny. Insignificant. A mass of equine flesh, scurrying to and fro, insects on the cobblestone. Carrying about their pathetic daily errands, as if they amounted to more than nothing.

King Orange laughed to himself.

He'd finished his first glass of orange juice and started on his second when he was rudely interrupted.

Knock, knock, scritch.

"This better be good," he grumbled, clapping his forehooves. On command, his pair of armed guards opened the doors. The King neglected to turn around, eying his concrete jungle, sipping his orange juice.

He knew who it was, anyway.

A rustling of feathers and scratching of unsheathed claws against his carpet pierced his ears. He flattened them in response, grimacing. His guards closed and bolted the doors behind the intruder, adding to his irritation.

So much damned noise. Too much.

"You've interrupted my breakfast." The Master brought the glass to his lips, wiping the excess with a powerful forehoof. Still facing away from his familiar intruder, he said, "Tell me why, little worm, and it better be a damned good reason. You know I don't like to be interrupted."

Bowing deep and low, the Griffon fell to his paws and talons, hanging his head. "Master, please forgive this interruption. I apologize profusely and sincerely for interrupting your morning routine." His words were carefully plucked, uttered slowly, reverently, as if in prayer.

The Master chuckled and sipped his juice again. "I didn't ask for an apology, little worm." Normally, the steel and lead would be drawn already, temples threatened and jaws clenching. But Bernie Madhoof was in a rather jovial mood. High in his skyscraper, he towered above the lessers of his wretched species, ruling rightfully above them.

And, due to the wonders of annexation, soon, that would cease to be only a mere metaphor.

The Knight opened his beak to apologize further, then decided against it. Glossing over his error, he dove straight into the heart of his intent. "My King, I bring grave news. Yesterday—"

King Orange turned around in his chair, facing his groveling Knight in all his glory. His mane was freshly washed and brushed with imported, expensive products. His teeth glistened in the morning light, rows of piano keys on Old Scratch's organ. He wore a fine, black silk suit with a matching silk tie—the color of his majestic, piercing eyes. Sapphire blue, contrasting completely and perfectly against the brilliant orange of his cutiemark.

King Orange, perched in his tower, looked as regal as could be.

The Griffon paused, basking in awe. The puppetmaster of Manehatten and beyond brought his forehooves together, a wide grin on his muzzle. 

The two guards near his door felt a chill run down their spines.

"Let me guess... Yesterday, two mares from the West arrived."

"S-sir... my King..."

"Two mares from the West arrived, and booked a cheap hotel. They arrived late in the evening, intent on seeing Detective White Dove of the Manehatten Police Department. One of them became profusely drunk at a local bar, where she clinked glasses with one of the..." Madhoof gritted his teeth. "One of the officers who refuse to bestow my mark upon their ungrateful, unworthy flesh."

On the carpet, all color drained from the Knight's countenance. How? How could the Master already have known? There were no other Griffons taking to the skies, neither pegasi. He and he alone patrolled last night, finding the meddlers as soon as they'd set hoof in the Master's holy city. 

He choked, "H-h-how, s-sir, d-di—"

Bernie Madhoof raised a forehoof to halt him, chuckling deeper this time. "Ah, little worm, little worm."

Rising off his chair,the King trotted around the desk and towered above his Knight. "Little worm, little worm," he repeated, almost soothingly, as if he were a father, and the Griffon his fussy son. "Little worm, little worm, little worm...

"You are not as useful as you wish to be."

Sweat from his feathered neck traversed down his furred chest, settling there, icy to the touch. The Griffon kept his head low, avoiding his Master's eyes. "Sir—"

The weight of a forehoof upon his neck forced him down and silenced his words. The Master held his forehoof steady, enough to pressure him, but not enough to asphyxiate. No. 

There was more to be said, first.

"Little worm." The Master's voice was in his ear, close enough to smell the citrus on his breath. "Little worm. I have many eyes and ears. My Knights are far and wide, ranging in every industry, organization, and service you can imagine. Even the filthy nobles of Canterlot have known my mark."

The Griffon tilted his head slightly, enough to spy the opposite wall. There, a map of Equestria, once dotted with a few pushpins, was littered with black and orange tacks, a constellation of conquest. The horizon was expanded. The onslaught and tempest was continuing.

He noticed a few spots on the map he didn't recognize, and felt the cold embrace of the Reaper saunter through the closed door. The Master was continuing. The Master was annexing. The Master was marching.

Without him. Without his Knight, his right-hoof Knight.

Bernie Madhoof glanced up at his guards, an unspoken command issued. They marched forward, clenching their rifles tightly. Moving their hooves towards the trigger.

The Griffon began to spread his wings. The Master pressed harder on his neck. Coughing, the lowly Knight knew what was to come, and retracted them. It would soon be over.

He would follow in the steps of his predecessor, having become obsolete.

"Little worm, little worm. Be still, little worm." That voice, mockingly sweet, slick as a sidewinder. 

But there was something more. There was one last hope.

The Griffon cast his last rope, clinging to the possibility of life, as the guards approached, as his King pressed firmer down on his neck, burying his beak into the carpet.

"M-Master! T-there's something else!"

"Oh?" King Orange leaned close, exhaling warm, orange-scented breath onto his face. "Tell me, little worm." His voice. Sarcastically soothing. Bordering on erotic. Slick, disgusting, filthy.

"T-the M-Manehatten K-King's leader! H-he-he's going t-to..."

Two cold barrels made contact with his shoulders, just below his wings. Cold, unforgiving. 

Chills spreading through his limbs, numbing him, the Griffon Knight began to stammer further, pleading, pleading. "H-h-he's m-meeting w-with the M-Mafia! He-he's g-going to, g-g-going to—"

Bernie Madhoof threw back his mane and laughed. His deep bellow of a laugh echoed throughout his office. Echoing off the vaulted ceiling, ricocheting off the finely-decorated walls, it burrowed deep into the brains of his Knights, into their blackened hearts, and nestled there. Nestled there, and planted a seed of fear, blooming immediately into a twisted snare of dread.

Near his tail feathers, the Griffon's tattoo burned, burned black as sin and night.

"Little worm, I already know that. I've known that for a long time that Card Slinger would betray me."

A name. The Master spoke a name. The Master never, ever spoke his name. Somehow, that broke him further, casting away any will to fly or fight back.

"I sent him to die in those sands, just with all the others. Did you think I chose random Knights?" King Orange paced back in forth in front of his trapped Knight, smiling wider still. Nodding approvingly as the guards buried the barrels of their rifles in the feathers and fur of their brother-in-arms. "I sent the troublesome ones to die in the wastleland, just as I sent those who outlived their purpose here to their graves. I have no use for meddlers, little worm.

"And, I have no use for those who know too much."

Bernie Madhoof lifted the chin of his Knight, staring into him with his haunting, empty blue eyes.

"Soon, little worm, the loose ends shall be severed. The mares in town? I know them. But to execute them now would be a waste. They will soon return to the desert, and will die there in less than a week's time. Card Slinger? If he chooses to betray me, he shall fail, and fall for others. If he backs out, he shall join the mares in the sand. I am sure of it. After all, the desert is a grand place to hide bodies—or be forgotten—as many have learned."

Lacking will to spread his wings or slash his talons, the Griffon muttered, "Please... Please... Master..."

Bernie Madhoof brought his chin up higher, as a lover would. "Little worm," he whispered, "do you know how long I've planned your death? How much I've envisioned this moment? How much I've contemplated how it would feel to dispose of you, you worthless little worm, you living garbage?"

The Griffon remained silent.

"You are all nothing but pawns to me. Pawns on the chessboard. And pawns are the first to sacrifice to protect the King."

King Orange gently relinquished his grip, letting his Knight fall to the floor. Placing his forehoof back on his neck, he declared for one, final time, "You have done well, little worm, but you are of no use to me anymore."

With a nod to his guards, Bernie Madhoof took care of his interruption, and soon resumed his breakfast.

~

Detective White Dove left her cigarette burning in the ashtray and trotted over to the door, grumbling to herself. "Buckin' Cotton. Always interruptin' me, tryin' ta keep an eye on me..."

While her back was turned, Apple Bloom took a seat and looked curiously at the detective's desk. In the wake of a tidal wave of parchment cast aside, the sole photograph had toppled over, facing her. Curious, Apple Bloom stole a glance at it, inching it towards her minutely.

There, in a simple frame, was a picture of two mares. One, Apple Bloom instantly recognized as a younger (and, most likely, more sober) version of White Dove. She was beaming brightly, one forehoof wrapped around the shoulders of the other mare in the photograph. This mare was pink with a white mane, a belt around her waist. Attached to her belt was the scabbard of a flail. The two appeared to be indoors, and rows of bleacher seats could be spotted in the background, as well as—

"'EY!"

Fuming, White Dove slapped Apple Bloom's offending forehoof away from her desk and leaned forward on her forehooves. "What the buck are youze doin'?!"

"S-sorry!" Bringing both her forehooves into her lap, Apple Bloom, blushing slightly, mumbled, "Ah... Ah was jus'—"

"Youze was jus' pokin' youze nose in things dat ain't youze, wasn't youze?!" Temperature rising, White Dove began to breathe rapidly, exhaling steam from her nostrils. "Huh?! Youze think youze can jus' poke 'round in what youze wanna?! I'm a police offica, fo' Celestia's sake! Don't youze be touchin' anythin' o' mine! Youze understand?!"

"Ah-Ah'm sorry! Ah didn't mean ta!" Backing away in her stool, Apple Bloom threw up her forehooves in submission. "Ah wasn't tryin' ta be nosy, honest! It was jus' lyin' there, an' Ah happened ta—"

"Horseshit! Nopony touches ma shit!" Detective White Dove swiped the photograph and thrust it into an open drawer of the desk in the blink of an eye. "Youze forget what youze jus' saw," she warned, pressing her muzzle closer to Apple Bloom's, "youze got dat?!"

For several precious seconds, the two let silence fall between them, one towering and fuming, one low and submitting.

Then, Apple Bloom realized two things.

First was Detective White Dove's lack of jewelry. Mares who were married advertised their status in two ways: a ring strung on a chain around the neck, or one enlarged and stretched into a hoofband and worn around the left forehoof. This applied equally to all married mares, regardless of the gender they favored. Apple Bloom couldn't spot either on the detective.

Second was her demeanor and outrage upon viewing the photograph. While Apple Bloom didn't have much to base her hypothesis on, it was reasonable to assume that most ponies were proud of having a special somepony, and would display such a photograph to brag about their status or partner. Perhaps the mare in the picture was not a marefriend—perhaps she was a sister or dear friend? That possibility graced Apple Bloom's mind in the silent seconds, but she dismissed it, too. There was no reason to become angered upon somepony viewing a picture of a relative, especially if that picture was easily accessible.

Something was amiss. The only reason Detective White Dove would be so angry at her for looking at the photo would be...

Apple Bloom's expression softened, falling into a sad sort of smile.

"Youze think dis is funny, Apple Bloom?" Dove challenged, eyes steely with resolve. "Huh? Maybe I should jus' kick youze outta ma office like I did youze marefriend. Would youze like dat? Huh?!"

"Dove..."

"Iffa youze gonna apologize ta me, cut the crap." Flopping down in her stool, Dove reclined for a third time and groaned. "Jus' get on wit' it, already. Youze already made me late. Jus' spill the buckin' beans."

"Dove..." Apple Bloom scooted closer, resting her forehooves on the desk. "Ah'm... Ah'm sorry."

Dove dismissed her with a flick of her muzzle. "Don't sweat it. Now, why are youze heeya?"

Apple Bloom shook her head, sighing. "No, Dove, that's not what Ah'm talkin' 'bout."

The detective blinked. "... What?"

"Dove, Ah'm sorry 'bout..."

Biting her lip, Apple Bloom took the leap anyway. There was only one possible explanation.

"Ah'm sorry 'bout yer mare."

White Dove's muzzle paled to the shade of her coat.

Apple Bloom's heart sank. She was right. She wished she wasn't.

Reaching across the desk, she placed her forehoof on the detective's.

"Ah'm sorry."

In the ashtray, White Dove's cigarette burnt to the filter.

Dove's bottom lip trembled a bit, but she said nothing, seemingly paralyzed. The fires of her fury faded, replaced by a void in her eyes, focusing on nothing but staring into the smaller mare.

Apple Bloom gave her forehoof a squeeze. "Ah didn't know. If Ah knew, Ah wouldn't have looked. Ah'm really sorry. Ah won't tell nopony."

She started to get up, eyes on the door.

White Dove pulled her back at the last second.

Her voice, monotonous, broke the silence with a single word. "How...?"

Apple Bloom smiled sadly. "Ah can read ponies well. Maybe too well. Yer like ma mare in a lot o' ways. Stubborn, angry. Protective. Tryin' ta make up fer somethin' ya thought ya screwed up.

"An Ah would hate ta lose her, too."

Apple Bloom started towards the door again.

White Dove tugged once more.

"Sit down, Apple Bloom."

Apple Bloom obeyed.

Without knowing why, kicking herself as the very thought passed through her mind, and the very words rolled off her tongue, Detective White Dove said, "I'm gonna tell youze summat I haven't told anypony in a long, long time..."

~

"Youze know, I don't need an escort. I can take care o' maself."

"Iffa dat was true, Dove wouldn't have kicked youze outta her office. Now, sit down!" barked Cotton, leading the brute into the front office of the Manehatten P.D. Returning to her desk, she flicked open a magazine and propped her hindhooves up. 

With a snort, Babs Seed shook her head and sat down on her haunches, leaning against a bench. Wonda what's so damn secretive dat Dove didn't want me in her office...

No, it's probably 'cuz I was a jackass ta her. No offense ta donkeys. Horseapples, I gotta work on dis... Ah, well. Rather get the wrath o' some hot-shot detective than Bloom's anyway.

Babs sighed and rubbed her neck. Maybe Bloom was right. Maybe dis ain't ma fault. Maybe we should jus' go home. Even if Dove somehow ends up helpin' us, what does it matta? Dis is a big city, an' it's easy fo' a little worm ta hide...

Cotton smacked her lips loudly, chewing several wads of bubblegum. She flipped through her magazine and landed on a particularly amusing article, chortling to herself. Babs face-hoofed. Horseapples! Royal Guard, ma flank! How the hay can Celestia be puttin' up wit' dis? I ain't no clean slate maself, but I know how law-ponies are s'posed ta be. An' dey definitely ain't like dis. 

"Pssst!"

Babs turned around. There, leaning against the corner of the hallway, Lucky Toss beckoned her with a forehoof. "Pssst, Babs! C'mon!"

Cotton, engrossed in her exhaustive duties, failed to notice the stallion. Shrugging, Babs Seed walked over to meet him, then followed him down a hallway. They turned to the left and ducked away into a second hallway in silence. Lucky finally stopped at a door at the end of the corridor.

"So, what's up?" Babs asked. "Otha than rescuin' me from Cotton. Thanks, by the way."

"No problem." Lucky tugged at the collar of his uniform. "Er, sorry 'bout dat. One o' the stallions down in Internal Investigations dumped her a bit ago, an' she's been bitchy ever since."

Babs snorted. "O' course. I don't blame him."

Toss chuckled and slapped his belly. "Ha! Ha! Yeah... Cotton's a real winna, dat's fo' sure."

"I can see dat. So," she asked, squinting to read a small sign at the top of the door, "where are we?"

The sign answered before he did:

Daycare: Hours — 0800 - 1700

"Daycare? Uh, as much as I love blocks an' stuff, Lucky, I think I'm a bit old fo' daycare."

"Pffft!" Lucky threw back his mane and held his forehooves to his belly, guffawing like a buffoon. "Pffft! Blocks! Bloooocks! Ha! Ha! Horseapples!"

"Heh, heh, yeah, I guess," Babs muttered, shrugging. "Well, anyway, why are we heeya?"

Opening the door for her, Lucky explained, "I spend a lotta time heeya 'tween patrols an' on breaks. Nice ta get 'way from all the grown ponies sometimes, youze know?"

Why is he...? Raising both eyebrows, she muttered, "Ah... uh..."

The stallion's face twisted in disgust, reading her confusion. "Oh, come on, Babs! Youze is sick!" Huffing, he led the way into the daycare. Reluctantly, Babs Seed followed behind him, closing the door with a hindhoof.

Inside, several uniformed officers kept an eye on a half-dozen foals. In addition to keeping vigil, badges and batons visible, the adult ponies let down their masks and entertained the giggling youngsters. A stallion sat on a stool in the corner, reading a story to three foals. Three mares engaged the remaining foals in various play, building towers of blocks or racing matchbox cars on the carpet.

Standing near a bookcase, Officer Lucky Toss sat on his haunches and smiled. "Ain't dey cute?" He looked over his shoulder, meeting Babs's eyes. "We rotate shifts watchin' 'em. Sometimes, I read 'em stories, o' play hoofball wit' 'em."

"Indoor hoofball? Youze got room fo' dat?" While the room was spacious, colorful, and grabbed the attention of any foal between the age of four and twelve, inviting tiny hooves to send objects flying within it was just asking for trouble.

"Meh, we make room," Toss answered, shrugging. He sighed. "Sometimes, it gets real tough 'round heeya. These are all foals o' ponies on the force. Many o' 'em are single parents, o' have a sick partna at home. Dat's why we put the daycare in. Chief was 'gainst it at first, 'cuz o' budget, but we manage."

"Ah." Babs grinned. Within her mental tally, the Manehatten Police Department obtained one solitary tick mark. 

Suddenly, a young Earth pony colt tore away from the stallion's reading circle and galloped over to them. "Offica Lucky! Offica Lucky!"

"Aww, there youze are!" Laughing, Lucky Toss met the colt in the middle and picked him up, lifting him into the air by his sides. The colt squealed in delight. Spinning him around, Toss exclaimed, "Who wants ta be an eagle? Shootin' Star wants ta be an eaaaaaaaaaaagle!"

"Whee! I'm an eagle! I'm an eagle!" cried Shooting Star, tears of laughter rolling down his cheeks.

Alright, two tallies. One fo' dis place, an' one fo Lucky Toss.

~

"I'm actually from Canterlot. Can youze believe it? An Earth pony, in Canterlot? It was absurd," White Dove began, pouring herself another shot glass. "I had family livin' heeya in Manehatten, so I visited from time ta time. Visited enough ta pick up the accent, an' neva shake it."

Filling the glass with her liqour of choice, Dove screwed the cap back on the bottle and stashed it away. "Crazy how Manehatten does dat ta a pony."

"So Ah've noticed. Babs an' Ah haven't been here fer almost eight years, an' try as she might, she jus' talks like that. Not that Ah mind," Apple Bloom said. A speckle of crimson found her muzzle. "It's kinda cute, really."

"Heh. Yeah, I've heard dat befo'." White Dove picked up her shot glass, but didn't drink it immediately. "Anyway, so I'm not really from 'round heeya. I lived in Canterlot an' went ta a pretty decent school. Nothin' fancy. Was neva one fo' book-learnin', really."

"Those damned, fancy mathematics."

"Exactly. Anyhow..." Dove glanced at the clock. 0935. What did it matter anymore? Brutus could wait. Brutus never listened, anyway.

"Anyhow," Dove continued, "I was 'bout twenty-two when I met her, right afta I got outta the Guard an' returned ta Canterlot. Met her. Dat mare in the picture."

Apple Bloom nodded.

"Her name was Fencer."

Apple Bloom's ears pricked at her words. Fencer. That name... Why was it so...

When it dawned on her, Apple Bloom felt one more bead of sweat find her nape, her shoulders, her back. 

The filly in the alley. The filly with the cider bottle, all those years ago.

The filly that, in some, twisted way, brought Apple Bloom and Babs Seed together.

And that filly's mare sat before her now, a Detective of the Manehatten Police Department, beautiful and dangerous.

"Ah see," was all she could say.

"How did we meet? Well," Dove said, bringing the liquor to her lips, "it doesn't really matta anymo'." Quickly, she pounded the shot, throwing her head back and slinging the antidote to her overdose within. The liquor burned on its way down again, fire in her belly and courage in her veins. Antidote to this poisonous, toxic environment and situation and life and past and future.

Antidote to Manehatten, the land of drunks and gangsters.

"Ya don't have ta tell me." Apple Bloom knew anyway. The picture was worth a thousand words.

"Good. I'm givin' youze the summarized version."

"That's fine."

"Alright." Clearing her throat and putting the glass away, White Dove sat straight up, steading herself. Petty introductions and exposition were beneath her. The mare before her exposed years of pain and guilt in less than a minute, with a clockwork mind she'd surely underestimated. There was nothing to do but dive deep into the truth.

Even if Apple Bloom knew it, White Dove needed to hear her own story.

"We were togetha fo' only 'bout two years, but it was the best two years o' ma life. She was trainin' ta be in the Equestria Games. One o' the top athletes o' her sport. Horseapples... she made ma hoof-ta-hoof combat look like foal's play." Dove paused, a grin spreading across her muzzle. "She was smart, funny, kind... She told me when she was a filly, she was a bit o' a brute an' a gangsta, but given the circumstances, I couldn't blame her.

"Far as I knew, afta Celestia implemented the Royal Guard in Manehatten, usurping the corrupt force, things were alright 'gain. Jus' as dey were in the old days."

Unsure of what to say, Apple Bloom nodded, gently urging her to continue.

"We were engaged ta be married. Well, we woulda been... iffa I had the guts." Dove chuckled darkly. "I was twenty-four an' a veteran, but when it came ta love, I was a foal. I thought 'bout it, even picked out a ring, but couldn't think o' how ta do it. I was waitin', I guess, fo' the right time. The right moment."

White Dove meet Apple Bloom's eyes.

"It neva came."

"Ah'm sorry."

Apple Bloom reached across the desk again.

This time, White Dove made their connection, needing it.

"We... We went ta Manehatten fo' a weekend. Jus' a weekend. Jus' ta visit ma folks." Her pace began to quicken, her words becoming softer, faster, lower. "We stayed in a hotel. A nice one. Indoor pool an' everythin'. Some kinda unicorn magic ta keep it warm an' clean. Unicorns in Manehatten? Dat's like Earth ponies in Canterlot. Unheard o', but it happens. We stayed there, a weekend. It was amazin'. Stayed wit' ma folks. Had some nice dinners. Went dancin'."

Detective White Dove turned away for a second, mumbling something incoherent under her breath.

Apple Bloom didn't press her as to what it was, but she knew. It was too private, but it had to be said, if only in secret. She squeezed the detective's forehoof gently.

"I can't believe I'm tellin' youze dis." White Dove laughed, leaning back a bit in her stool. "It's been... horseapples... almost two years since then? Two years, an' the only ponies who know dis are ma family, her family, an' Brutus. Maybe some o' the otha officas. I don't know. I don't ask. Dey don't, eitha."

"Dove... ya don't have ta—"

"No, but I do. I do."

"Alright."

Taking a deep breath before continuing, Detective White Dove ventured into her darkest night, her longest hour.

"We... we were headin' home. We were leavin' the hotel, gonna go catch the train ta Canterlot. The sun hadn't risen yet. Luna was still playin', but it was close enough ta dawn dat I figured it would be alright. An' I'm ex-Guard, fo' Celestia's sake, an' built like a buckin' minotaur. Ain't nopony gonna mess wit' me, o' her...

"But... I didn't have a gun.

"An' dey did."

Silence. Another squeeze. One back.

"Dove..."

"Dey... dey weren't targetin' us. Dey were shootin' at each otha." Her laugh again. Hollow. Forced. "Gang warfare. Civilians caught in the crossfire. Happens, right? Well, not accordin' ta the papers. Not accordin' ta the force, at least, not then. Not accordin' ta anypony. Ta me. Ta her.

"I heard 'em raise their weapons, an' told Fenca ta run. She was in pretty good shape, agile. Fast.

"But..."

White Dove ran her tongue over her teeth and clenched her jaws. She squeezed her eyes shut for a moment, willing sorrow to anger. Willing stoicism. Willing her mask to reappear and disguise her, rendering her a faceless shade in the city of angels and demons.

"She wasn't fast enough."

Apple Bloom squeezed her forehoof, an empty gesture. There was no gesture. There were no words. She tried anyway. "Ah'm... Ah'm so sorry..."

White Dove pulled her forehoof away.

"Doc Triage... He tried ta save her... he did. But... dis city screwed him up, like it screwed us all up. He left not too long 'go. Couldn't take it anymo', I think. City screwed him up. I don't think he remembas me, the way I was, befo' all dis."

Apple Bloom averted her eyes for a second, pretending she didn't see the weathered detective rub her snout and eyes.

After a while, White Dove asked, "Do youze know, Apple Bloom, what it's like, ta lose the only thing dat eva meant anythin' ta youze?"

Copper crashed into fiery-rubies, hanging together in the aftermath.

And Apple Bloom answered, "No, but Ah know what it's like ta almost lose it."

"It hurts, doesn't it?"

"It does."

White Dove rose from her stool and trotted over to the wall the clock adorned. She glanced up at the vessel of time, watching it as it slowly ticked away the seconds, the minutes, the hours. Watching it create a gulf and expanse between what she was then, and what she was now.

Creating an ocean between when she was alive, and when she was a police officer.

Apple Bloom placed a forehoof on her shoulder.

"Ah'm real sorry."

White Dove nodded and smiled. "I am, too."

~

"Alright, buddy, go play wit' youze friends," Lucky ordered, setting Shooting Star back on the floor. He rustled the colt's mane playfully, eliciting a chorus of laughter from the pair. With one last, joyous grin, Shooting Star galloped away from Babs and Lucky, joining the rest of the foals, who were organizing a matchbox car race.

"Damn, Toss," Babs said, sitting down on her haunches beside him, "would've neva taken youze fo' a fathaly type."

He snorted. "Fatha? I'm not sure iffa I would go dat far. I've always wanted ta be somepony's uncle. Youze know, one o' 'em cool uncles who lets his nieces an' nephews have candy an' ice cream wheneva dey want, an' lets 'em stay up wayyyy past dey bedtime."

Babs Seed laughed and smacked him on the shoulder. "Horseapples! I feel sorry fo' youze brotha o' sista."

"I'm an only foal, Babs."

They both laughed uproariously.

"Aye," she replied, wiping laughter off her muzzle, "dat might be a problem wit' the whole 'becomin' an uncle' thing, then!"

"I know. Instead o' adoptin' a foal, I think I'll adopt a grown pony, an' bribe 'em ta have a foal."

"Pffft. Youze fiend."

They laughed again, simple, sincere.

"So..." Steering the conversation, Lucky Toss turned to her and asked, his muzzle hardening to a more serious expression, "What's goin' on wit' youze mare an' Dove in there?"

Babs shrugged. "No clue. Dove didn't want me in there."

"Figures. She can't take nopony flickin' her sh—I mean, horseapples," he corrected, eying the foals nearby, "without goin' inta a rage."

Babs challenged, "How did youze know I would do dat?"

"Babs..." Toss chuckled into a forehoof and nudged her in the side. "Did youze forget 'bout dat time youze hunted me down an' tackled me when we were foals? It's not like youze jus' let things slide."

"Oh... hah, I guess youze is right." Blowing a stray stand of mane from in front of her eyes, Babs added, "Thanks fo' dat, by the way."

"No problem." Lucky Toss cleared his throat, fidgeting his hindhooves.

A quick silence befell them, but it wasn't unwelcome. It was necessary. Any tip-hoofing mention of the blood-red colt with the mane black as night sent them into a spiral of tension. A few quick moments of foals' laughter shattered it, however, and Toss turned to Babs once more.

"So..."

"Yea, Lucky?"

"Youze an' Apple Bloom gonna adopt o' summat?"

Her muzzle paling and flushing to scarlet in the same moment, Babs stuttered, "C-c-come 'g-'gain?"

Smiling warmly, Lucky Toss looped a forehoof over her shoulder, giving her a sideways hug. "Aw, c'mon. Jus' pokin' a lil' fun at youze, dat's all."

"Oh, right." Hugging him back, Babs darted her gaze around and rubbed her neck. Haven't even set a damn date yet, youze twat! Horseapples! Besides, I don't even like foals...

Rising to his hooves, Lucky Toss flicked his mane towards the door. "Let's go an' see iffa youze mare an' Dove are at each otha's throats yet. Heh. Maybe, sometime, I can say dat sentence as 'youze mare an' ma mare,'" he suggested, looking particularly pleased with himself.

Rolling her eyes, Babs followed him out of the daycare, somewhat disappointed to have left so soon.

~

"Card Slinga, youze said?"

"That's right."

Dipping her quill in a pot of ink, Detective White Dove began to scrawl notes furiously on the parchment. "How old do youze think he is?"

"Well, if Ah rememba correctly, he's a lil' older than me an' Babs," Apple Bloom said, tapping her chin. "Ah would say... somewhere between twenty-one an' twenty-four, but probably on the younger side."

"Uh-huh. Let's see..." Going over her notes, Dove recited, "Card Slinga, 'tween twenty-one an' twenty-four, red coat, black mane, cutiemark o' Ace an' King crossed, Manehatten accent, last seen southwest o' Yukon, took off few weeks 'go afta the shootin's?"

"Ah think that's everythin'." Apple Bloom began to rise from her stool, stretching her hooves. "Are ya sure this is alright?"

"Apple Bloom, afta hearin' youze story, an' youze hearin' mine, it's damn alright." A slight grin twitched at the corners of the detective's muzzle. "I know it's outside our jurisdiction, an' Brutus'll give me hay fo' it, but iffa dis bastard is Manehattenite, he's our problem, too. An' I'll be damned iffa I let anotha one o' these bastards outta ma sight."

"Thank you. Ah really appreciate it," Apple Bloom said, bowing, "mo' than Ah can express."

"No, Apple Bloom." Setting down her quill, White Dove stretched her forehoof across her desk. "Thank youze."

Smiling, Ponyville shook hooves with Canterlot, west meeting east in the middle, in the concrete jungle of past and present.

Behind them, the door slowly opened, two muzzles poking inside. "Apple Bloom?"

Finishing the hoofshake, Apple Bloom turned around. "Oh, howdy, Babs. Lucky," she added, with obvious disdain. More so now that White Dove's reason for rejecting the flirtatious stallion was all too clear. "We're almost finished."

"Actually, youze can go iffa youze  want. I've got the rest from heeya. Where did youze two say youze were stayin'?" Dove asked, moving the completed Incident Report on Card Slinger's assault to the top of her parchment pile.

Joining her mare, Babs Seed shot back, "Comfort Inn." What's it ta youze? Gonna go through our stuff, thinkin' we're gang-bangas?

White Dove scribbled the name of the hotel down. "Good. Iffa I find anythin' on youze case, I'll come knockin' fo' youze. How much longa youze gonna be in Manehatten?"

Apple Bloom answered this time. "Maybe a few mo' days. Afta that, we've got some family ta visit," she added, kissing her mare on the cheek. "Don't we, Babs?"

"Heh, yes, we do," Babs said, returning the kiss.

In the threshold, Lucky Toss stuck out his tongue and retched in mock disgust.

"Oh, shuddup." Babs huffed, rolling her eyes. "Jealous bastard."

"As eva." Lucky Toss trotted in, shuffling his hooves nervously in the detective's office. "Say, um, Dove..."

"Yea?" Dove asked, not looking up from her paperwork.

"Brutus was pretty adamant dat youze see him soon as youze was done in heeya. Jus' saw him in the break room. He didn't seem happy."

"Fine." White Dove snarled, sighing over-dramatically. Hopping off her stool, she gave the two mares one final nod and smile before exiting, her long, curly black tail pulling the door closed as she departed.

Lucky Toss led the way for the two mares, escorting them out of the Manehatten Police Department. With mumbled apologies to Apple Bloom regarding the night before, relations were improved (if not fully smoothed over) between builder and officer. Destroyer, of course, requested to return to their hotel room, feeling her headache returning with a vengeance.

Apple Bloom, after a little more teasing, led Babs Seed back, the two of them waving goodbye to Lucky Toss.

The clocks read 1000, and the skies were beginning to darken already, shrouding the sun in an embrace of gray.

~

Alone, unarmed, Card Slinger made his way through the streets of Manehatten. The finest suit he possessed cloaked his coat and cutiemark, black as his mane. A thick, blue tie around his neck covered his neck, hiding several scars. His muzzle was visible, of course, but there wasn't too much more he could do about that.

The rain came in spurts, starting with a slow, steady drizzle, rapidly progressing to a torrential downpour. The rain soaked him to the bone, ruining his expensive, imported suit. Sighing, Card Slinger ducked into a nearby alleyway and fished his pocket watch from one of the inside pockets of the suit.

2350. Ten minutes until midnight. He'd arrive on time, barring any ridiculous interruptions.

Pressing on, Card Slinger trekked through the streets, keeping mostly to the shadows. There was no telling what surprises awaited him in the dark; he was certain they would not be welcome revelations. No, the leader of the Manehatten Kings kept his muzzle hidden as best as he could, no matter that he soon would be no leader of anything.

And no follower, either.

Dodge had performed well and received his reward accordingly. The trusty guard-pony delivered the message to Eight Ball, the Don of the Manehatten Mafia, around 1000. Eight Ball's response came at 1200:

"Mor's Spaghetti Restaurant, 0000 sharp. Come alone, no steel or lead."

Leaving his black blade and his pistol behind, Card Slinger submitted, bowing symbolically to the lesser stallion. Eight Ball was a notorious glutton, squat and round. An all-you-can-eat spaghetti restaurant suited his unending hunger and served as a perfect midnight snack. Card Slinger kicked himself for not placing a bet on that location. He would've walked away a millionaire.

Slinger smiled to himself as he trotted. Although he would be abdicating, it nevertheless amused him that he held the upper hoof in this negotiation. The Manehatten Mafia and Eight Ball were a laughingstock compared to him and the Manehatten Kings. 

On the other hoof, this only served to Slinger's advantage. Of course the lesser stallion would grovel to his hooves, overjoyed at the opportunity to seize his wealth, his turf, his arsenal of flesh, steel, and lead. 

And then, with their combined efforts, King Orange would fall from his throne.

So very, very simple.

Lost in a daze of glory, Card Slinger nearly stumbled over his own hooves. Cursing, he glanced up. Mor's Spaghetti came into full view, its brightly painted sign barely visible through the curtain of rain. Shaking his muzzle and tail, the stallion gave himself a quick once-over, making himself as presentable as he could before he entered the restaurant.

The interior was almost completely empty, save for one booth near the back. There, a single, obese, black-and-white Earth pony stallion occupied one side of the booth, chomping down at a plate of pasta. Across from him, four Earth pony stallions, dressed from neck to tail in black, obscuring their coats and cutiemarks, snapped their heads towards the new arrival.

The Don and his entourage, ready to meet the King and his empty hooves.

"Slinga!" Eight Ball called out, putting down his fork for a miraculous moment. "C'mere, Slinga! Right on time, ma friend. Come. Let us talk."

The distance from the front door to the booth in the back was the longest Card Slinger would ever cross. With each step, he thought of Boone, and sand, and salt and fire.

And wondered if this was, indeed, the right thing.