Severed Roots

by Bad_Seed_72


Treason

Treason

Card Slinger slipped into his seat, locking eyes with Eight Ball. The obese stallion gave a strange sort of smile, one littered with pasta-sauce-stained molars and bits of spaghetti hiding between them. Slinger's stomach gurgled, churning its contents. He braced himself with his forehooves on the table as he sat down, utilizing every bit of self-control left in him to stay calm.

He was not nauseous from hunger or indigestion. Not in the slightest.

"Youze look like youze seen a ghost," Eight Ball muttered, licking his lips free of wayward sauce. He smirked and swirled a huge bite of spaghetti around his fork. "An' pretty skinny, too. Been a long time since we've talked face-ta-face, Slinga."

Sharing a table with a traitor was not in Slinger's nature. Unarmed, he would rely on his hooves if need be. Even if he were allowed to do bring it tonight, he would've left his trusty pistol behind. The temptation to put a bullet between the eyes of his greatest rival and enemy—second on both accounts only to Madhoof—was far too strong. But he needed Eight Ball alive for this to work.

Slinger scowled, but did not reply.

"Dey feedin' youze at all ova there in youze lil' shitbox?" Eight Ball laughed and slurped his noodles, gulping down the entire bite in seconds. "Horseapples, I'm surprised youze got ova heeya without gettin' blown ova." He patted his stomach and ordered one of his guards, "Bring him a plate."

"Dat won't be necessary," Card Slinger replied dryly. He adjusted his tie and drummed his other forehoof on the table, keeping both in the open. Unarmed. Nonthreatening. "I already had dinna."

The Don snickered. "Oh, youze don't trust me, is dat it?"

Staring straight into those treacherous eyes, Card Slinger gave the fat stallion no reward. He focused on Boone, Madhoof, and his mission. He ignored the red-hot stares of the four guards, and didn't budge when a full plate of spaghetti was placed before him.

Eight Ball didn't flinch, holding the stare. He shoved the plate towards his enemy. "Eat."

His muscles tensing beneath his suit, Slinger simply said, "No."

"Youze come heeya, inta ma territory, wantin' ta talk, an' youze won't accept ma hospitality?" Feigning offense, Eight Ball brought a forehoof to his chest. "Why so rude, Slinga? What eva have I done ta youze?"

Narrowing his gaze, Card Slinger growled and said, "The graves o' ma brothas should tell youze."

"An' the graves o' mine speak the same." The Don's nostrils flared, his eyes never dropping from the King's. Pushing both plates of spaghetti aside, Eight Ball seethed, "Let's cut the horseshit heeya, shall we?"

"Gladly," Slinger shot back, leaning forward in his seat.

Eight Ball matched him, coming closer. "Youze are one lucky son o' a bitch, youze know dat?"

Slinger thought of the desert, of three bodies the sands had swallowed whole. Calm. Stay calm. He opened his mouth to retort, but silenced his tongue. No. In order to atone fully, pride would have to be abandoned. Here, nearly defenseless, it was only a liability. Pride stood in the way of retribution.

"Dat's what I thought." The Don laughed, his greasy mane shining in the dim light of the restaurant. He cleared his meaty throat and focused back on his rival. He spoke again, his many chins and jowls bobbing in tempo with his thick tongue. "I should jus' kill youze right now, youze worthless piece o' shit. I should slit youze throat, right heeya an' now."

Across the table, King Crazy felt his heart thunder in rage, his street name crying out to be justified. Eight Ball was so close. Far too close. Close to enough to strangle. To snap his filthy neck.

The Don leaned closer. "What's stoppin' me, Slinga? What's stoppin' me from takin' down ma one an' only obstacle? Youze stand 'tween me an' Manehatten. 'Tween me an' takin' it all.

"Give me one good reason why I shouldn't jus' shoot youze right now."

This was it. Three muzzles pressed on Card Slinger's mind. Depending on him. Willing him.

"Because," Slinger answered, staring straight into the soulless glutton, "I am not youze only obstacle."

Eight Ball raised an eyebrow, tilting his head in suspicion.

Card Slinger, aware of his cue, lowered his head, avoiding the eyes of the traitor. He submitted. He submitted, nausea washing over him, and did everything he could to continue speaking. "Because—"

"Because?" pressed the Don, lifting Card Slinger's chin to meet him.

Foreign. Intimate. Weak. Disgusting.

But it had to be done.

"Because," Card Slinger said, his voice low, "we are all marked fo' slaughta."

A draft of wind blew through a nearby window, chilling and settling over the six of them. Slinger's words, however, did far more to provoke the silence. The Mafia guards exchanged confused glances. Eight Ball exhaled slowly, his breath foul, hot steam on Card Slinger's face. Slinger stood firm, refusing to flinch.

Eight Ball tightened his grip on the stallion's chin. "Slaughta... by who?"

"The Masta," Card Slinger said, sealing his fate in two words.

~

In eternal contrast, the desert night dipped to the lowest low and caressed Braeburn's fur, chilling him. He gritted his teeth and planted his hooves into the ground, shifting his weight from one hoof to the other. His saddlebag, although light, seemed to weigh him down, as if filled with the magnitude of the past month. In a way, it was.

He checked his pocket watch, then stashed it back in his saddlebag. A few minutes to midnight. A few minutes before the last train to Ponyville arrived, and with it, he departed.

Sheriff Braeburn wasn't sure if he could trust leaving his home in the hooves of his posse, but he had no other choice. Applejack still hadn't replied to any of their letters, and, in light of recent events, his anxiety would keep him restless until he confirmed that she was alright.

That they would all be alright...

"Braeburn?"

He turned around. Citrus Blossom trotted up to him, a worried frown on her muzzle. She brushed up against the stallion, tingling his skin. Her lips found his cheek, kissing him softly.

"What are ya doin' out here, Citrus?" he asked, blushing as he did so.

She sat down in front of him and leaned back between his forehooves, looking up at him. "I don't think I gave you a proper farewell earlier. I wanted to be sure."

He grinned knowingly and nuzzled her cheek. "Citrus, it's only gonna be fer a few days. Maybe a week. Ah'll be alright."

She reached up and tugged at his Stetson, pulling it over his eyes. They laughed, their joint melody piercing the Appleloosian silence. "You know how I worry."

He adjusted the brim of his hat and chuckled to himself. "Not as much as Auntie, but ya worry too much, still."

Citrus sighed contentedly as he sat on his haunches, wrapping his forehooves around her and pulling her close. "I know. I take after Mother too much, I guess." Better than taking after Bernie, she thought.

Bernie Madhoof. The name hadn't graced her mind or her lips for a very, very long time. Why it did now, she didn't know.

Braeburn smiled. "Ah guess so. But don't you fret, Citrus. Ah'm jus' goin' ta Applejack's."

Again, Citrus replied, "I know." Knowing did little to assuage her fears.

The wind picked up again, and they huddled closer, waiting for the train. Braeburn exhaled, his breath becoming mist in the night. He mused, "Ah thought it was kinda funny how Auntie managed ta persuade Turner ta stay here. He really wanted ta go ta Manehatten."

She nodded and twirled a lock of her mane around a forehoof. "Mother does have her ways..."

"So she does. An' like mother," he leaned down, whispering in her ear, "like daughter."

Citrus squirmed a little, his words tickling her ear. "Yes," she said, tilting her head to look into his eyes, "that's what they say." Shifting to seriousness, she admitted, "I'm happy for Mother, but I wish she would've let Turner go. He's really worried about Babs and Apple Bloom."

"It's only been a few days. Ah'm sure they're fine," Braeburn assured. "Ah know the post takes a while ta get sent outta the bigger cities. Not as long as here, o' course, but they got all 'em other ponies' letters an' such ta send, right?"

"True, but don't they have more staff to make up for that?"

"Maybe." Braeburn sighed and straightened his Stetson. "Ah think if we hadn't heard from 'em in a week, Auntie be less justified in calmin' him. Can't say Ah blame him. If it were ma daughter an' her mare in that city..." He shook his head. "Too big an' too dangerous. Easy ta get lost, o' forgotten."

Switching to a happier tone, Braeburn added, "That's part o' why I love it here." He gestured to the cliff-faces and orchard, to the vast horizon, to the slumbering stillness that was Appleloosa at night. "It's small, but it's home. In spite o' everythin', it's still a wonderful place ta be, an'... It's beautiful, ain't it?"

"Yes," Citrus agreed, "it is, Braeburn."

He murmured, kissing her forehead, "But not as beautiful as you."

Crimson stained her muzzle. She looked away, nuzzling his chest with her cheek.

From the east came a low, mournful whistle, eliciting howls of agreement from coyotes in the distance. The churning of metal against metal announced the arrival of the beast, chewing its way west to return eastward. Citrus and Braeburn looked up to meet the metal monster, the locomotive slowly coming to a stop before them.

Once the brakes were set in place, a train guard emerged from the doors, calling out as he stepped onto the platform, "Last train to Ponyville for the night! All aboard!"

"Guess that's ma cue," Braeburn joked, his own muzzle scarlet. The stallion slowly rose to his hooves and assisted Citrus to hers. "Ah'll jus' be gone fer a few days. If anythin' changes, an' Ah'll be gone a little longer," he explained, hoping that it would not have to be so, "Ah'll send y'all a letter, alright?"

Reluctantly, Citrus agreed, "Alright," and kissed him deeply.

He held her close for a while, the only passenger on the midnight train. The guard, disregarding his post orders, didn't rush his passenger, and took the Sheriff's ticket once he was finally ready to board.

Citrus Blossom waved goodbye, then sat there for a while, enjoying one of the first quiet nights she'd had in weeks.

~

Detective White Dove closed the door to her office carefully, listening for approaching hoof-steps. She looked around the darkened police station. In the front lobby, Cotton burned the midnight oil—or, rather, caught up on the latest Hoof Beat. The detective scowled and shook her muzzle. Incompetence everywhere, above and below.

Her scowl quickly turned to a smug little smile, her thoughts drifting back to her very late meeting with Brutus that morning. Brutus had been predictably enraged. He'd tried to dissect her, hurling insults her way and doing his best to tear her down. Normally, the Chief's anger would've at least gotten a little under her skin, but today and tonight, White Dove couldn't care less.

His words echoed in her ears. "What was so Celestia-damned important dat youze delayed our meetin' fo' almost an hour?!"

Her answer had been only a smile and a change of subject, no matter how much he persisted. Groaning in frustration, he soon gave up, then launched into a less-than-favorable "performance review" of her. She didn't care. Catharsis was hers alone, and she wouldn't let anypony take that from her. Her hooves were lighter, and no nonsense from the Chief would change that.

She locked the door to her office and slipped her key-ring into one of the pockets of her uniform. Checking to ensure she had a full book of matches in another, Dove walked from her office into another hallway towards the basement. She made her way to the lower level quickly, checking behind her as she trotted.

Nopony following. Good.

Chief Brutus always hated her. She wasn't quite sure why. Any attempts to secure more funding, resources, or officers for the Anti-Gang Unit were denied by the short-tempered stallion. When confronted, his explanations always quickly dissolved into a rant about budgets, and Celestia, and keeping the press quiet and the citizens happy, and "Dammit Dove, why don't youze go on solvin' the cases youze is on already an' get some damned paperwork done? Or are youze dat incompetent?"

Dove gritted her teeth and descended the stairs into the lower level of the Manehatten P.D. Solving cases. Easier said than done. It was impossible to solve cases when most gang-ponies eluded capture, skipped town, made bail, or were released from jail on some technicality. It'd happened so much that White Dove wrote several letters to her former Commander-In-Chief in protest.

She'd never gotten a response.

She'd given up soon afterwards in a sense, going through the motions, but with no heart that justice would be served. No hope. Just anger.

That didn't matter now. Now, she had a name and a description, and at least two witnesses—far more than with most cases thrown her way. There was a sliver of hope. At least her prey wasn't some demon in the shadows this time, no warring nameless, faceless thugs.

She hadn't muttered a word of her conversation with Apple Bloom to the enraged Chief. Surely, he would've commanded her to leave it alone. She heard his hypothetical, ghostly replies—"Dat ain't our jurisdiction! Don't youze have somethin' betta ta do than help out a couple o' hicks?!"

Reaching her destination, White Dove mumbled to the imaginary Brutus, "Buck youze."

She looked up, reading the sign on the door. "Records Department. Keep Out. Authorized Officers Only."

Pressing a forehoof to the frame, she fished around for her keyring. Dove snickered as she located the key. "Did youze think I'd only go down heeya when youze wanted me ta, Brutus? Fat chance."

Key met lock and tumbler turned. The door creaked as it opened, heavy and reluctant. Putting her keys away, Detective White Dove crept inside, then locked the door behind her.

Inside the Records Department was an array of filing cabinets—an entire wall of them, four or five drawers each. Several tables in the middle were littered with various reports, forms, notices, warrants. Quills and ink sat on each table, some ink pots overturned and leaking onto the wood. At each, opposite end of the room were two small tables, oil lamps and candles on each.

Although electricity was wired and working in most parts of the building, two rooms were not blessed with modern technology. The Records Department and the Detective's office were still in the dark ages. Brutus explained the former as due to frugality, and the latter as due to faulty wiring. Both were never resolved. Dove knew why.

White Dove went over to one of the tables and removed a book of matches from her pocket. Striking a few, she lit two lamps and two candles, providing plenty of light. The flames illuminated the darkness, casting her shadow away from the door.

Hunkering down for a long night of searching, Detective White Dove walked to the first file cabinet, opened it with a separate key, and began to dig.

~

Eight Ball blinked, certain he'd misheard. Bringing a forehoof up to one of his flared ears, he scratched it, willing years of wax to retreat. "What... what did youze say?" He clenched his jaws. He was wrong. He had to be wrong.

Otherwise, King Crazy lived up to his name.

"The Masta," Slinger repeated, his tone lowering an octave. "Youze think he is youze friend, but dat'll only last fo' a lil' while. An' not much longa, I bet."

The Don paused, pulling away from the muzzle of the insane stallion. He shook his filthy mane, rubbing it with both forehooves. His eyes widened in horror. The Master was the source from which all things flowed, the undercurrent of the Manehatten underworld. What little assets and influence the Mafia had came from The Master. "Youze... youze outta youze buckin' mind?!"

From the corner of his eye, Slinger saw four sets of forehooves maneuver under their black disguises, doubtlessly in search for a trigger. Cold sweat trickled down his neck. He was losing the battle before it began.

When Card Slinger hesitated, Eight Ball lurched forward, grabbing him by the collar of his suit. Pressing his fetid muzzle against Slinger's, he barked, "Youze ain't suggestin' what I think youze is suggestin', are youze?!"

"Eight Ball," Slinger croaked, bringing his forehooves to meet the stallion's at his collar, "listen ta me."

"Why should I?! Youze... youze suggestin' treason!"

"Listen ta me—"

"Youze... youze idiot!" screeched the Don, slamming Card Slinger against the booth. Slinger flinched but silenced a groan. Eight Ball began to heave his breaths, each one bringing another wave of halitosis crashing over Slinger's muzzle. "Youze know what happened ta ponies who talk! Youze know what happens ta ponies who lie!

"You know what happens ta ponies who disobey, o' worse!" Shaking the stupid stallion, Eight Ball hissed, "What in Tartarus is wrong wit' youze?!"

Card Slinger pleaded, submitting to his lesser, "Listen, Eight Ball. Please, listen."

The Don paused, grasping the King tightly by the collar of his suit. "What did youze say?"

"Please," he said, cautiously looking up to meet his eyes. In his own dark pupils burned a smouldering fire, growing stronger by the second. Card Slinger wasn't sure how much time he had left.

"Please. Listen ta me. He is not youze friend. He is youze enemy. He may pay youze, an' give youze weapons an' connections, but youze are nothin' ta him.

"Youze are a pawn—I am a pawn—ta him. We all are," Card Slinger said, making eye contact with the four guards at the table. "He sent two troops o' ponies ta die in the desert, an' he'll send mo'. An' not jus' out west. He's gonna start lookin' furtha, go ta the bigger cities. Even Canterlot."

Slinger swallowed. He met Eight Ball's slick, greasy forehooves with his own again, gently pushing them off his collar. "He'll dispose o' us when we're no longa useful ta him. Youze think he's givin' youze freedom, but he's not.

"He's a puppetmasta, an' we all have strings."

His lower lip quivering with forgotten pasta sauce, Eight Ball stared at Card Slinger in silence, slowly releasing him from his grasp. The entire restaurant fell into the silence. The establishment was abandoned but for the King, the Mafia, and the kitchen crew, who pretended to work through the tension, scrubbing pots and pans and banging utensils around.

Card Slinger tried to hide his unease, sitting up straight in his side of the booth. He brought both his forehooves onto the table. Deciding to continue, he said, "I've seen it happen ta ma own gang. Ta youze gang. Ta his closest confidants, his right-hoof stallions. Dey ain't heeya no mo'. He's tyin' up the loose ends, don't youze see?"

King stared into Mafia and vice versa, rivals in the highest, sitting in the aftermath of the unarmed one's words.

Finally, the Don spoke, but not to Card Slinger. He waved one of his guards over. The guard leaned low and perked an ear. Eight Ball whispered into his guard's ear, his words pure, inaudible gibberish. Card Slinger watched intently. Once he'd received the message, the guard nodded once and slowly walked away, exiting out of the restaurant through the back door.

Card Slinger raised an eyebrow. "What was—"

"He's jus' goin' on smoke break," Eight Ball dismissed, waving his question off with a forehoof. He leaned across the table, meeting Slinger's snout with his own. "Iffa all youze say is true, scumbag, why are youze tellin' me? Why ain't youze skippin' town o' summat? Surely, dat's a betta bet than..." He winced. "Than what youze is suggestin'."

"Iffa anypony deserts him, he'll find dem, too. He knows where ta hide the bodies. He knows how ta cover up his deeds, an' bribe the police an' the press, an' keep everythin' outta Canterlot's reach." For now, Slinger failed to add.

Moving away, Eight Ball glanced out the window at the rain-soaked cobblestone streets of Manehatten. He turned back to Slinger after contemplating his words for what felt like the millionth time. "So... What do youze want from me?" he asked, stroking his chin.

Slinger drew in a shaky breath before replying, "Well... Youze see... I was... I was thinkin'—"

"Dat I'd help youze overthrow him?"

Slinger nodded.

Eight Ball scoffed and leaned back in his seat, crossing his forehooves over his chest. "No."

"But," Slinger objected, reaching across the table a bit, "iffa we combine forces, we can take him down. He's strong, an' he's got tons o' Knights, but iffa we—"

"Why should I work wit' youze?" The Don shook his muzzle. "Look, Slinga, maybe what youze say is true. Still, why should I? Ma colts have enough on their hooves dealin' wit' youze an' youze gang everyday. Add in some business wit'... him... an' youze jus' buc—"

"I'll give youze everythin' I have."

Eight Ball titled his muzzle, skeptical. "What do youze mean?"

Card Slinger opened his forehooves in a gesture of sincerity and desperation. "Everythin'. All ma bits, all ma possessions, all ma territory, all ma gang."

The three remaining guards looked at one another and burst into laughter. The Don's baritone joined them, laughing so hard he wiped tears from his eyes.

Card Slinger narrowed his gaze, flexing beneath his suit. "What's so damn funny?"

"Youze... youze seriously gonna give me dem?" Eight Ball roared, throwing his mane back. "Why would I want dem?! Screw-ups like youze?! Hahahaha!"

Slinger seethed, his heart thundering. On the brink of reaching across the table and strangling the fat stallion, he rose to his hindhooves.

Immediately, the three guards halted their laughter and rushed over, weapons drawn. Three pistols jabbed at Card Slinger's sides and temples, slamming him against the booth.

"Arrrgh! Stop! Stop!" Throwing up his forehooves, Slinger spat, "I'm unarmed! I ain't gonna hurt him! Buck!"

Eight Ball smirked and clapped his forehoves. The guards released Card Slinger as quickly as they captured him, throwing him down into the seat. Slinger hit his head on the table on his way down. He groaned and rubbed his forehead, seeing stars.

"Slinga." Eight Ball grabbed a cigar from the pocket of his suit and stuffed it into his maw. "While the thought o' takin' youze bits an' turf sets ma heart aflutter—" the guards snickered, one of them pretending to faint—"frankly, I have no use fo' youze gangstas."

"Fine, then," Card Slinger countered, gritting his teeth. "Don't take 'em. Take the bits an' the turf. But let dem go, iffa dey don't want ta serve youze."

The Don grinned, his teeth rows and rows of bloodied piano keys. "No can do, Slinga. Youze is a traitor," Eight Ball said, lighting his cigar aflame, "an' youze gangstas are scum. Murderas o' ma brothas. I will gladly rob youze o' all youze have, but iffa youze 'pect mercy fo' the othas, youze a fool.

"Eitha youze give me everythin', an' I do wit' 'em as I see fit, o' we're done heeya."

Card Slinger narrowed his eyes, nothing but the most unrefined hatred rushing through his veins. With a simple, determined shake of his muzzle, he answered in the negative finality. Eight Ball took a deep drag of his tobacco, exhaling perfect smoke rings into his rival's eyes.

"I think we're done heeya, Slinga."

With another clap of the Don's forehooves, the three guards rose to their hooves. Their weapons were holstered but at the ready. Without a word, Card Slinger hopped from the booth to his hooves and began stomping towards the door, hanging his muzzle low.

Behind him, Eight Ball slicked his way from the booth to the back door, opened it, and exhaled a cloud of smoke.

~

White Dove hunched over a file cabinet, clutching one folder between her jaws, running a forehoof through the rest. Many lay scattered on the floor, worthless discards. Alabaster. Nope. Backdraft. Getting closer. Domino. Way, way too far.

She returned to the files in between her second and third selection, fishing for a "C". In her maw was a folder titled Juvenile Records, which had been found in the first filing cabinet. The second had yielded nothing of importance. On the third, she finally found an alphabetized of adult criminal records, and dug eagerly, certain she'd find her stallion.

Most criminals, Dove knew, had a long and tumultuous history. Especially violent criminals. At the very least, this "Card Slinger" was doubtlessly guilty of theft, vandalism, racketeering, extortion, drug charges... something. There was no possible way he could've behaved like an angel his entire existence, then given into the temptations of the Most Low once he'd reached the drinking age.

Then again, nothing could surprise her anymore.

White Dove spit out the folder onto the floor, twisting her tongue in disgust. "Blech! Buckin' dust! How long has it been since anypony's been down heeya?" Shaking her head in disappointment, she continued to search through the folders, frequently doubling back. Comet Tail. Way ahead. Camomile. A little too far back. Ca—

THUD! THUD! THUD! THUD!

"Shit!"

In a flurry of parchment, White Dove shoved as many of the files as she could into the cabinet, scooping the fallen ones off the floor and cramming them into the drawer. She slammed the drawer as hard as she could. The drawer failed to shut, thick stacks of arrest records, warrants, and court notes impeding it. The knocking at the door grew louder. "Shit! Shit!"

Her mask slipping, Detective White Dove shoved the files in further, slamming the drawer one more time.

THUD! THUD! "'EY!" THUD! THUD! "DOVE?"

She froze. "L-Lucky?!"

"OH, IT IS YOUZE! LET ME IN!"

Groaning, White Dove nearly slumped over in relief. Shaking her muzzle vigorously, she rushed over to the door and flung it open.

The patrol officer before her wore a big, goofy grin on his face. "'Ey, why are youze—oof!"

Yanking him inside the room, Dove slammed the door shut and flipped the deadbolt. She checked the door a few times, shaking it furiously. Once she'd confirmed it was secure, she spun on her hooves and hissed, "What the buck is wrong wit' youze, Lucky?! Youze coulda given me a heart attack, fo' Celestia's sake!"

"Heh, heh, heart attack..." Toss guffawed, running a forehoof through his mane. "Youze know, I've always thought I was pretty dashin', but—"

"No! I'm not—agh! Jus'... jus' shut up!" Dove huffed, stomping back to the third file cabinet. Pulling it open, she started pulling out the files smashed and stacked on top. Almost an hour's worth of work was wasted now. She glared at Lucky with a scowl. "Thanks a lot, asshole! Now I have ta sort through all these again!"

"Huh?" His eyes found the pile of folders and parchment, all in disarray. Lucky's ears drooped. "Oh... s-sorry. I-I didn't mean ta scare youze," he muttered, flushing slightly in embarrassment.

"Yeah, well... What's so damn important, Lucky? Youze don't even have access down heeya!" she exclaimed, brushing his apology aside. She'd been so close.

"Well, I..." He rubbed his neck. "I was actually gonna ask youze 'bout Babs an' Bloom's case."

Dove raised an eyebrow and snorted. "What 'bout it? Dat's ma job anyway. I'm the Detective. Youze are jus' a patrol-pony," she said, starting to tear through the pile. White Dove turned her back on him. "I can handle it maself. Go home. I thought youze were off work at 1800, anyway."

"I was." Lucky Toss trotted up beside her, sat down, and dug a forehoof into the floor. "I took one o' the otha offica's shifts, though. Worked a few mo' hours."

Digging through the folders, she didn't turn back as she asked, "Why's dat? Youze ain't the generous type."

"What's dat supposed ta mean?"

"What I said. Now, why?"

"Jus' been... been savin' up, I guess. Needed the ovatime."

She snorted in reply. Ignoring his presence, White Dove focused on the task at hoof, slowly sorting through the files. She was about halfway through the pile when the stallion spoke up again.

"Look... Um... I don't really wanna get inta it, but..." Toss looked away for a moment, watching one of the candle flames flicker to nothingness. He shuffled his hooves and resumed his focus, glancing at Dove as she looked at parchment and cardboard. "I want ta help wit' dis case."

"Youze ain't got the skills ta be a detective, Toss," she dismissed, placing a folder back in the cabinet. "Besides, youze need ta wait a few mo' years. Youze as green as the Canterlot Gardens right now."

Lucky stomped a forehoof, the noise echoing through the tiny, darkened chamber. "Dat's not what dis is 'bout, Dove! Horseapples, I ain't some kiss-ass like Rustla!"

Dove paused, slowly turning around to face him. "What is dis 'bout, then?"

Toss stared at the floor. "I... I don't wanna get inta it, but dis case is kinda... close ta home fo' me."

"How so?"

"Well... er—"

"Wait!" Dove rose to her hooves and pointed at him. "Youze know dat bastard, don't youze?"

There was no need to clarify. They both knew.

Lucky Toss nodded sadly, then looked up into her eyes. "He... he almost ruined ma life, Dove. He was ma best friend, a long, long time 'go, when we were both stupid foals. I watched him slip inta some deep shit, an' I didn't do anythin' ta stop him." He shook his head, scoffing at the memory. "I was such a little wuss back then. I didn't have the stones ta follow him..."

"It's a good thing youze didn't," she said, sitting down again. "Youze wouldn't make a good criminal."

"Why youze say dat?"

"Youze got too much o' a heart. Now," White Dove said, taking hold of the conversation, "I don't have time fo' small talk. Celestia knows iffa Rustla's still heeya, an' iffa he finds out I'm goin' behind the Chief's back ta work on dis case, it'll be ma head on a platta. So, I need ta get dis done as soon as possible.

"So... even though youze jus' a lil' beat-pone, I guess I'll let youze help me." Lucky's frown instantly flipped into a grin. "However," she warned, raising a forehoof, "youze say one word o' dis ta anypony, an' youze'll regret it."

"Deal," he agreed, sidling over to the other side of the filing cabinet.

~

Once he reached the street, Card Slinger took off at full gallop. He stared straight ahead, pricking his ears for the sound of pistols being drawn, of guns being aimed, triggers being tested.

He failed. He failed everything all over again, and it was because of his greed and his pride and his lust for power and blood that Boone was dead. It was because of his rotten tongue and his rough hooves and his hatred that Eight Ball wouldn't cooperate. It was because of his own carnal, primal, selfish, materialistic desires that he had a tattoo at the base of his tail, a tattoo that burned in the rain and sealed him away as a slave and a wanted stallion.

The cobblestones thundering beneath his hooves, his rhythm and tempo increasing in his panic, Card Slinger ran faster and faster out of the heart of Manehatten. Where he would go, he didn't know. He was certain that Eight Ball's guards would leap out from the shadows any moment, weapons blazing, steel and lead granting him the darkness he deserved.

Sweat rolled down his forehead and mane, mixing with the rain. His lungs burned, but he pressed on, churning his hooves as fast as they could carry him. Slinger felt his tie come undone of its Windsor knot and the buttons of his suit slip as he galloped, but he didn't stop.

There was nothing to do anymore. He'd destroyed his office, lost his best friend, ordered his gang to practically surrender to their rivals—making them as good as dead—and failed to enlist the help of the one pony with enough underlings to take down Madhoof with him. He knew he could try to confront him with his own gang, but he knew it wouldn't be enough.

There was only one option left: a drawer full of white powder in his overturned desk, and the biggest, baddest rifle in his armory. Card Slinger knew as he rushed through the rainy streets of Manehatten that he was doomed, but at least he could go down fighting.

He'd just turned the corner of an alleyway when he heard the commotion.

Coming towards him from the other side of town, a set of wheels creaked and groaned and squeaked. Slinger pressed his back into the wall of an apartment building in the alleyway, pricking his ears further to listen as he gulped down breaths. A carriage. Just a carriage. Could be a late-night delivery, or a taxi-carriage ferrying some drunkards home, or—

"CARD SLINGA!"

"Shit."

"CARD SLINGA! DIS IS THE MANEHATTEN POLICE DEPARTMENT! WE KNOW YOUZE IN THE AREA! COME OUT WIT' YOUZE HOOVES UP!"

Kicking a hindhoof against the wall, Slinger cursed, "Dat wasn't no fuckin' smoke break."

The voice from the carriage, a gruff stallion's, continued, "IFFA YOUZE DON'T COME OUT ON THE COUNT O' THREE, WE'RE COMIN' AFTA YOUZE, AN' WE'LL SHOOT!"

Sidling alongside the wall, careful not to trip over any of the trash that littered the ground, Card Slinger kept to the shadows. For a moment, he was thankful he'd worn the black suit. It blended in with the alleyway's creeping darkness, black as his mane. He counted his breaths, willing himself to calm, to breathe slowly, to escape, escape, escape, unseen.

"ONE..."

Card Slinger reached the end of the alleyway. Perpendicular to this alleyway was another, which was clothed in the light of a street-lamp. He spat on the ground in annoyance. The police carriage was in plain sight from this angle. It was painted a bright blue and silver, pulled by two enormous stallions. Within the passenger compartment, he could see the gruff, shouting stallion and two mares. All five were clad in Manehatten blues—badges, batons, pepper spray, hoof-cuffs, and pistols in view.

If he timed it correctly, he could make a break for it.

"TWO..."

If he didn't, it was all over.

Card Slinger's breath caught in his throat.

"THREE!"

The carriage halted in the middle of the street, the two drivers removing their yokes and drawing their pistols. The three other officers jumped from the carriage, following suit. Their steel glistened in the moonlight and the rain.

Card Slinger glanced to his left. The alleyway ended here, blocked by the adjacent wall of a neighboring complex. His eyes darted to his right. Already, he heard approaching hooves churning down the opposite alley. Clip-clop, clip-clop, clip-clop, in time with his frantic heartbeats.

Kicking off his hindhooves, Card Slinger burst into a gallop, mustering all his might. He sprinted into the lit alleway, rushing towards the street.

"There he is!" one of the mares shouted, catching sight of him as he emerged into the street. She waved to her comrades and took off on her hooves after the fugitive. "Get him! Get him! GET HIM!"

Inside Card Slinger's mind circled the mantra, Buck! Buck! Buck! Buck! Go! Go! Go! His muscles rippled beneath his coat, sinews and tendons crying out in protest. The cobblestones were hard and unforgiving beneath his hooves. Puddles dotted the streets, splashing his fetlocks, his suit, his muzzle. The Heavens released their judgment above, the rain coming down in violent torrents, cleansing the city of its sin.

One of Manehatten's biggest sinners ducked into another alleyway, five police officers pursuing him, firing warning shots in the air. Lights flickered on and lamps were lit in the nearby apartment buildings and hotels. Terrified civilians poked their muzzles out their windows, watching the law-ponies pursue their prey. Card Slinger twisted and turned through a maze of alleys, each one seeming to stretch on forever. All the while, he willed himself to run, run, run.

"STOP!" The gruff stallion screamed again, firing off another shot into the air. BANG! "FREEZE! GIVE IT UP!"

Coming upon another dead end, Card Slinger scanned the scene frantically. There! The ladder of a fire escape hung off a dilapidated apartment building.

Skidding to a stop, the stallion reoriented himself, facing towards his escape. Leaning down, he pushed off his hindhooves once more, leaping into the air.

A little more than thirty yards behind him, one of the officers cried, "UP THE ESCAPE! UP THE ESCAPE!"

Hanging from the escape, Card Slinger groaned and reached a forehoof up, struggling for a hold. The ladder was as neglected as the building that held it, rungs rusted and chipped. Concentrating he found one hoof-hold and lifted himself up one step. His hindhooves hung in the air, kicking uselessly. Stretching his opposite forehoof, he quickly found another hold. Heaving, Card Slinger pulled himself up another few feet, close enough so that his hindhooves were touching the bottom of the fire escape.

Pausing for breath, he briefly glanced over his shoulder.

A mistake.

The officers had him surrounded now, five muzzles steely with determination and triumph, five loaded pistols trained on him. Standing in the alleyway side-by-side, they pointed perfect shots on the stallion, painting imaginary points of entry. Card Slinger looked back up. At least thirty feet of fire escape laid before him before he'd reach the roof. The rain poured down the rungs constantly, making his hooves slippery. He coughed in a mixture of fear and pain, feeling one of his forehooves begin to lose its grip.

"DROP DOWN, AN' WE WON'T SHOOT!" barked another stallion, his pistol unwavering, pointed straight at Card Slinger's heart. "MOVE ONE MO' STEP UP, AN' IT'S LIGHTS OUT, BUDDY!"

Any sliver of hope washed away with the rain. "What do youze want wit' me?!" he screamed, almost pleading.

"Youze is unda arrest fo' the murdas o' Turn Key, Quick Step, an' Flora!" one of the mares called back, tightening the grip on her gun. "Now, come down, o' youze is CROW BAIT!"

Time froze. The five officers below and the hundreds of faces staring out their windows ceased to exist. Card Slinger was one with the rainfall, one with the rusty steel rung that he clung to for dear life. He stopped kicking his hindhooves, resigning to his fate. He was too slow. He was too weak. He was too stupid. He was too greedy. He was too thick-skulled to see where this would all lead.

He'd exchanged his freedom for power and money, and lost anything that ever mattered to him. Now, he hung there, a sinner in a saintless city, about to be arrested for three murders he didn't commit. The only three murders he didn't commit, in all his twisted honesty. He would be arrested for Madhoof's crimes, and most likely never be seen or heard from again.

He'd never redeem himself.

Raindrops fell onto his mane, slipping down his forehead onto the bridge of his snout. For a moment, Card Slinger closed his eyes, letting the storm embrace him. Letting it wrap its cold hooves around him, chilling him to the bone. Letting it soak his fur and run over his tattoo, washing it away, if only just for a moment.

When he closed his eyes, he could see the three Madhoof had stolen from him, and he smiled.

Again, the Manehatten Police Department, using the voice of the deep, ordered, "Get DOWN!"

And Card Slinger did.

Releasing his grip, he plummetted, falling thirteen feet. He landed on his back in a puddle, smack-dab in the middle of the officers. He relished the pain that echoed through his bones and muscles, sending numbing chills through his nerves. He closed his eyes and spread his hooves, letting go. Letting everything go. It was over. It was finally over.

Letting Manehatten embrace him, whisking him away into the dark.

Card Slinger was blissfully unaware of what happened next, but only for a moment. Even though he squeezed his eyes shut, he could still feel the rough hooves flipping him over, tearing his suit off, examining his cutiemark. Loud voices whooping, confirming he was the one they were after. Congratulating each other. They'd caught not only a murderer, but the rumored leader of the city's largest gang.

He could feel the first baton crack over his shoulders, driving him into the puddle muzzle-first. Card Slinger coughed and choked, relieved when another set of hooves yanked him out of the water by his mane. The second blow smacked across his flanks. He heard somepony scream. He recognized his own voice after the third strike, square across his spine.

No longer ignorant, Card Slinger tried to curl into a ball, but this only seemed to provoke his tormentors. Hindhooves and batons and forehooves pummelled him, over and over and over, finding his shoulders and his back and his flanks and his limbs, and one even rolled him onto his back and stomped his groin, making him howl, and for a moment he opened his eyes and swore Babs Seed was standing in front of him again, her red cape darkening with her own blood, and for a moment he was not a Manehatten King, he was not a King's Knight, and he was not a stallion.

He was a little foal, a little colt, lying on his back and sobbing and screaming as he paid the price of his sin, his judge and jury tempering him like a piece of white-hot iron between the hammer and anvil.

His vision switched back and forth between images of Babs Seed the foal, Babs Seed the mare in the West, and a savage female police officer, her molars as glistening white as the keys on Old Scratch's piano.

Around the time that the hoof-cuffs found his fetlocks, Card Slinger fell into the black.

It was warm, comforting. Like a mother's mane.

~

"Shit! Youze gotta be kiddin' me! Dat's the last one!"

Lucky Toss slumped into a corner, tugging his mane. He kicked the filing cabinet in frustration. A mountain of folders and parchment littered the floor around each cabinet. He shook his muzzle and groaned.

White Dove, giving up, fell onto her haunches and searched for a cigarette in her pockets. Finding her last one, she stuck it between her lips. While she struck a fresh match, she muttered, "Not one single fuckin' leaf on dis asshole."

"It's impossible!" Toss threw up his forehooves. "I know fo' a fact he got 'rrested when he was a colt, an' he ain't even in the juvenile files!"

"Well," White Dove began, taking a quick puff of her cigarette, "what does dat tell youze?"

Lucky tapped his chin. "Well, iffa I didn't know any betta—"

"An' youze don't—"

He rolled his eyes. "Are youze askin' me a serious question?"

"Kinda." Flicking away some ash, she replied, "I know the answa, but I wanna see iffa youze know."

"Well..." Lucky sighed and looked around the trashed Records Department. He didn't want to admit it, but there was no other explanation. He caved to his suspicions and answered, his eyes sorrowful as they stared into hers, "Dat means there's somepony on the inside, messin' wit' everythin'."

"Bingo." Dove exhaled a cloud of smoke and started gathering up some of the folders. "Jus' as I feared. Been thinkin' fo' a while there's somethin' strange goin' on heeya, but now I know there is. Now, help me put these 'way befo' anypony thinks ta come down heeya."

Officer Lucky Toss nodded and assisted Detective White Dove. They worked in hasty silence, putting the files back as best they could. They'd combed through every cabinet and every relevant folder, utilizing the names of other known gang-ponies, or rumored ones, but found no trace of Card Slinger. He may as well have disappeared. Without an address, aliases, accomplices, or any other information, finding one bit of chaos in Discord's kitchen itself would be an exhaustive task.

Already beat, White Dove pushed those thoughts away, concentrating on her cigarette and parchment. After a few minutes, the pair had nearly completed the task when Lucky Toss broke the silence.

"Dove?"

"Yea?"

"Iffa youze..."

"Iffa I what?"

Lucky Toss closed a drawer and joined her side, playing with one of the pockets on his uniform. "Iffa youze don't like me, jus' tell me. I... I was thinkin' 'bout it earlier today, an'...youze probably have enough on youze plate without me harassin' youze every day. I mean, the Chief, Rustla, all youze cases."

Toss chuckled awkwardly, eliciting only a stoic glance from the mare. Clearing his throat, he added, "An' iffa youze don't like me, dat's alright. No hard feelin's."

Closing the last cabinet, White Dove turned her attention to him, sitting down. "Lucky..." She sighed heavily, shaking her muzzle. "It's not dat I don't like youze as a pony. It's jus'—"

"Is it 'cuz I'm a stallion?"

Dove blinked.

"'Cuz," he said urgently, holding up a forehoof, "iffa dat's why, dat's no problem! I mean, some mares ain't inta stallions, an' some stallions ain' inta mares, an' dat's alright, I don't judge, an'—"

"Lucky—"

"Well, it turned out one o' ma female friends growin' up was inta mares, an' I think one o' ma male friends was inta stallions, but he'd neva admit it, an'—"

She nudged him in the shoulder, halting his rant. "Lucky. Look at me."

Lucky Toss flattened his ears and grinned sheepishly. "Sorry."

Dove sighed again. "Look, it's not dat. I don't have anythin' 'gainst stallions o' mares. Both are fine. Not dat it's any o' youze business anyway, but dat's not the reason."

"Oh," Toss said, looking slightly intrigued, "well, then... Can I ask why?"

Avoiding his gaze, she mumbled, "Ah, well, it's jus'—"

CLIP-CLOP! CLIP-CLOP! CLIP-CLOP!

Both their muzzles snapped to attention. Beyond the door and up the stairs came waves of pounding hoof-beats. Sharing a confused glance, the patrol officer and the Detective darted for the door. Lucky Toss spun around and rushed over to blow out the candles and oil lamps, while White Dove held the door open for him. Thankful that they'd cleaned up just in time, the two law-ponies locked the door behind them and scrambled up the stairwell.

Once they reached the first floor, they galloped towards the lobby, one forehoof on the grip of their pistols. "What's goin' on, Cotton?!" the Detective called, snaking around the corners towards reception as fast as she could.

From the lobby, Cotton shouted back, "Dove! I was jus' bout ta call youze! Come heeya, quick!"

"What happened?!"

Cotton strode over out of the lobby and into the hallway. Lucky Toss and White Dove skidded to a stop in front of her, peering around the mare. Cotton said, "Lucky?! What are youze doin' heeya?!"

He ignored her. So did White Dove.

There, in the lobby, blackened and bruised, was Card Slinger, each of his limbs held by a different police officer. The gangster kept his muzzle to the floor, his eyes slammed shut. He was mumbling something incoherent under his breath.

A fourth officer trotted over to Cotton, Dove, and Lucky, a triumphant grin on his face. "Cotton got a late-night tip dat dis bastard was braggin' 'bout those three murdas, Dove! The ones youze an' Offica Rustla are workin' on! She rounded up me an' Ironhoof, an' we got three mo' officas ta come in off-duty ta help."

The grinning stallion stepped aside, motioning towards his prize. "Card Slinga, right?"

"Yeah," Dove answered wordlessly, staring at the blood-red stallion with the mane black as night.

Lucky Toss stared too, grateful that Card Slinger hadn't opened his eyes yet.

~

"Ma, Citrus, and Braeburn—

Sorry this letter is a little late. Bloom and I had a hell (excuse my language, Ma, sorry) of a night and a day today. I won't go into details, because there's some things that just need to be shared muzzle-to-muzzle. But, I will say that I have two very good pieces of news.

The first is that we were able to find White Dove. Through some magic of hers, Apple Bloom managed to convince her to help us. I'm not sure what she said... I wasn't allowed to be in the office with them. Yeah, this White Dove doesn't like me all that much. That's alright, because I don't like her, either. She reminded me of a really rude, vulgar version of myself.

The second piece of good news... Well, I can't say much, but—"

Knock, knock.

Babs Seed glanced up from her parchment, confused. Who could be knockin' at dis hour? She looked over to the opposite side of the room. Apple Bloom snoozed peacefully, her hooves wrapped around her now-absent mare.

Once her hangover subsided, Babs Seed found that sleep eluded her, her mind running wild with a mixture of excitement and fear. She'd tossed and turned for hours before giving up and trying her hoof at writing a letter, hoping it would soothe her to slumber. Now, it seemed, that would have to wait even longer.

The rapping resumed, a little more forcefully. Knock, knock, knock.

Groaning, Babs Seed got off the stool and trotted away from the desk towards the door. "Who is it?" she asked, as quietly as possible. One eye was trained on Apple Bloom, hoping she wouldn't wake her.

"Police!" came the answer. "Open up!"

What?! Anxiety and anticipation battling for dominance within, Babs Seed hurried to the door. Unhooking the door-chain and flipping the deadbolt, she slowly opened the door, stepping back when her visitors were revealed.

Clad in full uniform, Lucky Toss and White Dove stood in the threshold. "'Ey, Babs," Lucky greeted, no humor or enthusiasm in his voice. She glanced at his eyes. Not tired, but... there's summat in youze eyes. Like youze seen a ghost o' summat.

"'Ey, Lucky. Detective," she added, a little disdainfully.

"Babs Seed," White Dove greeted back, monotonous.

"What's goin' on?" Babs asked, stepping into the threshold. She glanced quickly back at Apple Bloom, who rolled over and smacked her lips in her sleep. "It's pretty damn late, youze know."

"I don't think dat matters right now." Detective White Dove ordered, "Wake youze mare an' get ready ta leave."

"Leave?" Babs's ears flattened in a spark of confused anger. "Why the buck are we leavin'?"

"Babs," Lucky said gently, putting a forehoof on her shoulder, "dey got him."

Dey got him.

A part of her acknowledged and understood his code. Another part didn't want to, feigning ignorance.

On the bed, Apple Bloom rolled onto her side and creaked her eyelids open. "Mmm... Babs? What are ya doin'?" The rest of the room and the ajar door came into focus. Her pupils dilated. "Dove? Lucky?"

Slinging the covers off herself, Apple Bloom stumbled to her hooves and walked towards them, yawning. "What's goin' on?"

White Dove shifted her focus to the half-asleep mare. "Apple Bloom, we got him."

"Got who?" Babs blurted, hoping against all hope that it wasn't who she both feared and prayed it was.

"Youze colt," answered the Detective, staring into Babs Seed. "We got him.

"We got Card Slinga."