Burning Jacob's Ladder
Card Slinger stared at the floor, barely registering the whoops and jeers and rush of hooves around him. The tight grasp of three officers baring down on his shoulders and neck faded away into a hollow, taunting numbness. There was no agony, no struggle, no pain. He hung like a rag doll in the forehooves of a fickle foal, strung up and sure to fall at any second.
When the patternless concrete below his defeated hooves began to blend into a sea of gray, Card Slinger closed his eyes. Visions of a palomino stallion galloping across cool sands danced across his thoughts. He gritted his teeth and furrowed his brow. Soon, soon enough. The hooves of Manehatten justice were weak and slow purposefully, but when their puppetmaster commanded a swift execution, they did not yield.
There was no need for a trial in order to enact the death penalty.
"'Ey! Scumbag!" The mare who'd chased him down the cobblestone maze barked in his ear. Shaking him, she growled, "Wake the buck up!"
Card Slinger grunted but did not comply.
One of the stallions tightened his grip on the defeated gangster's neck, his putrid tobacco-infused breath nauseating on Slinger's muzzle. "Youze don't get ta take youze nap jus' quite yet, asshole." The stallion turned to the other two officers and nodded. "Think we should get him ready fo' Rustla?"
The gruff, smug stallion of the group grinned and agreed, "Yea. Cotton's got a runna headed ta the Chief ta let him know. Ain't sure 'bout Rustla, though."
Cotton, stationed again at the reception-desk, glanced sideways at the trio and their captive. "Got somepony goin' ta wake him up, too. Get him in the chamba, would youze?"
Slinger shivered slightly. Chamber. Madhoof's legion would of course have a "chamber". Just what that entailed wasn't quite clear, but he'd heard enough through the twisted grapevine to raise a lump in his throat. Slinger coughed, earning himself a rough nudge in the ribs from the police-mare holding him.
"Quiet, youze!" She scowled and raised one of his forehooves. The opposite officer did the same, enough so that Slinger's hindhooves lazily brushed across the floor. "C'mon, fellas," she said eagerly to her comrades, "let's get dis one ready fo' his special meetin' wit' the investigator, yea?"
The hooves were moving again, dragging the failure through a series of darkened corridors. Card Slinger closed his eyes, bracing himself for what would come, and thought of the sand and the stallion again.
In the sand appeared the figures of another stallion and a mare, and they were smiling.
~
Manehatten was a relentless workaholic, paying no heed to the clock or the demands of biology. She tossed and turned and rumbled in the night, keeping all but the most heavy of sleepers awake. She rang out through the silence with shouts and arguments, the clatter of rubbish on the cobblestone, and the occasional blare of gunfire. Not even the thick, deep undercurrent of liquor beneath her countenance could sedate her.
Tonight, this night of nights, was no different. The rhythm of rain cleansing the streets was accompanied by the march of four sets of hooves. Side-by-side, Detective White Dove and Officer Lucky Toss escorted the two mares from their hotel room through the fussy city, one forehoof resting constantly on their shoulder holsters. After all, their uniforms had proven before to be a target rather than a deterrent. There was no covert in Manehatten. Not anymore.
"How did ya find him?" Apple Bloom asked through a yawn, rubbing sleep and rain from her eyes.
"We didn't," Dove whispered, her eyes darting through the twilight. They trotted down the main road, in clear view of the beacon streetlights. Manehatten, of course, was not one to hide all her secrets; the main streets were as dangerous as the shadowed alleys. Dove knew, more than anypony else, that there was no such adjective as safe within the city limits.
"What do youze mean?" Babs glanced sideways at her and shook her muzzle dry, suspicious still. How? It hasn't even been a day! How could youze have found him, iffa nopony else has fo' all these years?
Lucky Toss turned his head and whispered, "We should save dat talk fo' when we get ta the station, Babs."
"But—"
Apple Bloom nudged her and shook her head. Babs snorted, her breath steam in the night. Autumn was coming soon, and with it, winter. She sighed and shrugged, then pressed on.
Both officers kept their triggers ready, but they were not needed. From the hotel to the station, they walked slowly, taking in the sights and sounds of the groaning city. Rats shrieked and scrambled in the alleys, arguing couples pushed and shoved in apartments above, and various silent stallions sidled past them. They stared at the group as they passed, giving little nods of acknowledgment to the officers. Dove or Toss would greet them. The strangers would grunt and return the courtesy, then hurry on their way.
Thankfully, they had not intruded or studied the group further. Nevertheless, Babs Seed felt her hackles rise at their appearances.
Mo' ponies jus' starin' at us? What are we ta dem?
Dove hissed, "Calm down," to Babs Seed once another staring stallion turned past them and disappeared into an alleyway.
"I am calm," Babs snapped back.
Dove snickered. "I can sense youze. Youze can't let dem gawkers get too much ta youze in dis city. These colts are harmless. Not a weapon on 'em. Dey jus' lookin' 'round. Takin' everythin' in. Manehatten's a walkin', breathin' freak show, youze know."
"I know." I used ta live heeya, bitch.
Lucky shushed them, stopping in his tracks to give both bickering mares a glare. "We're almost there! Don't draw any mo' attention ta us, would youze?"
At his words, from the top of the street, a fat stallion wearing a pinstriped suit emerged from the void, accompanied by several other stallions, one of whom carried an umbrella for the leader. The fit stallions were cloaked in black from neck to tail. All wore stoic expressions.
Instinctively, Detective White Dove sensed that something was not right. She exchanged a knowing glance with Officer Lucky Toss, then stopped walking. "Stay back wit' dem," Dove told him.
Lucky nodded and motioned for Babs and Apple Bloom to stand close beside him. They complied, both watching the detective approach the others.
Dove tensed her hindhooves, escalated to a canter, and called ahead to the new arrivals, "'Cuse me, fellas!"
The fat stallion halted and sat down on the street. He gave a little bow as she approached, patting his enormous belly as he bent. "Evenin', Offica," he said politely. He slowly raised his head to meet her eyes as they bore into him. "Can I help youze?"
White Dove eyed his entourage keenly. They stared straight ahead, refusing to meet her gaze. She looked over their sweaters and cloaks, masking their cutiemarks and most of their coats. A few of them were scarred in the face, bearing the wounds of a thousand street battles. Most importantly, she could make out the bulge of holsters and firearms beneath their disguises.
Dove turned to the squat stallion. "Awful late ta be out ta-night, ain't it?"
The stallion laughed and rose to his hooves. "I guess so, Offica. Me an' ma friends don't want any trouble. We were jus' headin' home."
White Dove said nothing, trotting in circles around them. "Got any weapons?" she asked the apparent ringleader, her words crisp and biting.
"It is not illegal ta carry within' the city limits. Youze know how dangerous dis city is."
Dove bit her lip, eying the ringleader.
He continued, "I assure youze, ma'am, ma colts an' I are jus' headin' home. We don't want any trouble."
"Got any drugs?"
He smirked. "I don't do any."
"So, youze a deala, then?"
The stallion smiled again.
About twenty yards away, Lucky Toss led the two mares into an alleyway. "What's goin' on, Lucky?" Babs asked, continuing to watch the scene unfolding beneath the streetlamps.
Lucky drew his pistol and tensed his muscles. "Youze two got weapons?"
Babs and Apple Bloom shook their muzzles.
"Alright. Then stay back," he warned, stretching out his forehooves. He kept his weapon at the ready, prepared to train and fire. "I have a feelin' these heeya are gangstas. I dunno what dey'll do now dat Dove's approached 'em," he said quietly, keeping his voice below the rain.
Apple Bloom peered around the stallion's shoulder. "It don't look like they're lookin' fer a fight."
"Maybe so," he said, "but dat don't mean nothin'."
Babs Seed stood closer to Apple Bloom, leaning forward on her forehooves in a defensive stance. "Youze a good shot, Lucky?"
"The best o' the patrol team," he said with a smirk.
Babs grinned. "Good."
Apple Bloom, shaking herself awake and free of rain, mimicked her mare's stance and stood at the ready, watching. Seeing this, Lucky Toss nonetheless made no motion to discourage them. Tightening his grip, he stared intently, waiting for any sign of trouble from his partner.
The three waited with bated breath as the fat stallion smiled again at White Dove's question, his teeth glistening in the rain and moonlight.
~
The creaking of a heavy steel door awoke Card Slinger from his vision. In his mind's eye, the ghostly stallion and mare in the desert smiled and waved him to follow, flicking their tails and tossing their manes into the wasteland winds. Slinger tried to pursue, but his hooves were too weak and slow, bound by a thousand black oranges that weighed him down and rendered him useless.
"'EY! SCUMBAG!"
The gruff stallion shook him rapidly, bringing his muzzle up with a forehoof. Card Slinger blinked and looked into the eyes of his captor. The other two officers snickered. "Do youze know where we've taken youze, slimeball?"
Slinger blinked.
A visage of Madhoof flickered before the disgraced Knight's eyes. His captor's smile was as toothy and piercing as Old Scratch's himself. The stallion pointed inside the room.
A flood of gray invaded Card Slinger's vision. Gray walls, gray ceiling, gray concrete floor. In the exact center, a single gray, steel desk and two gray, steel chairs awaited patiently.
Upon closer examination, Slinger could see sets of chains trailing from the frame and legs of the chair, as well as some from the desk. On the desk was a lone electric lamp, plugged into an outlet on the wall. A small triangle of light pierced through the monotony, bright and blinding.
The mare spoke up, her voice Griffon's claws on Tartarus's blackboard. "Youze will learn ta love dis lil' room ova the next few days, scumbag. Many o' youze lil' friends have already made dey presence known."
Hanging limp, Card Slinger's head fell downwards as the stallion released him. That stallion laughed and laughed, his voice echoing off the walls off the gray room and tunneling through Slinger's eardrums. "Ha! Ha! Youze will love it, mothabucka! Youze will love it, iffa youze know what's good fo' youze! Ha ha!"
His hindhooves scraping against the cold, lifeless floor, Card Slinger was dragged next into the room. The mare and gruff stallion trotted him towards the desk, while the third stallion kept the heavy door open, washing pale light from the darkened department inside.
The gatekeeper chuckled under his breath, visions of glory tangoing before his eyes. They'd caught one of the most notorious Manehatten gangsters. They'd caught him, and would soon extract whatever information remained within his wretched mind before sending him to his fate. If the Chief and the judge had any say in it, he'd never see the light of day again.
The city would soon become clean once more.
Two sets of rough forehooves held him high and dangled him above one of the steel chairs.
Suddenly, those same forehooves released him, sending him plummeting.
Card Slinger shrieked as he landed on the chair, his splayed hindhooves hitting the concrete and his most sensitive of flesh smacking against the cold steel. He threw back his mane and howled, pain shooting through his veins.
WHACK! A thick forehoof silenced his cry, slapping him clean across the muzzle.
"Shut up!" the mare ordered, pinning his back to the chair with a forehoof on his chest. "Dat's jus' the beginnin'."
Slinger squeezed his eyes shut, whimpering, a few shameful tears leaking from his eyes.
A rattle of chains, and soon, ice-cold steel wrapped around one of his hindhooves. The links of the chain tugged at his fur as they snaked around, then locked in place with the quick turn of a key against a tiny tumbler. His heart raced as he struggled to move that hindhoof. It refused to budge.
"Don't even botha, asshole," the gruff stallion muttered, snorting. He laughed again, deep and hollow. Moving to the other side of the chair, he quickly snapped Slinger's other hindhoof into place. "Youze won't be movin' fo' a long time."
"Dat's right," said the mare, as cheerful and light as a schoolfilly. She hummed while she worked, chaining his forehooves behind his back and to the steel chair. "Rock, flail, buck, an' squirm all youze want, hotshot. Youze ain't gettin' outta heeya."
Sweat dripping down his forehead, Slinger broke his brooding silence at last, panicking. "Wh-what are youze g-gonna d-do ta me?!"
The officers chuckled. "Dat ain't up ta us, sweetheart," she said, stepping away from the prisoner. Bright molars of taunting starlight greeted him—an angel in blue. "Let's jus' hope Rustla is nice ta youze. Some o' our otha investigators aren't so much."
"Y-youze can't do dis!" Mustering his forgotten strength, Slinger began to rock back and forth in the chair rhythmically. The links of his chains tugged at his crimson fur, pulling strands here and there against his grain. Gritting his teeth, he ignored this pain, anticipating what would come. "D-dis is illegal!"
"Maybe so," admitted the gruff stallion, beaming broadly, "but so is killin' three innocent ponies. Ain't dat right, youze piece o' shit?"
He brought his forehoof to Slinger's chin again, almost lovingly, then smacked him hard across the cheek.
Card Slinger groaned, spitting blood.
Exchanging a victorious grin between them, both officers began to trot away towards the open door. The gatekeeper awaited patiently, nodding approvingly towards the bound prisoner. Sweet, sweet justice. He licked his lips, practically savoring the thought.
As they trotted away, the gruff stallion stopped in his tracks, looked over his shoulder, and smiled at his prisoner. "One mo' thing, scumbag."
Refusing to acknowledge him, Card Slinger rocked harder and harder in the chair, squirming and flexing his muscles.
"Rememba... King's Ransom."
Card Slinger froze.
With a final smile, the stallion nodded to his sister of the badge, following after her. He flicked his tail upwards for one slow, minute movement.
As he did so, Slinger observed a dot of black against his light-brown coat, and felt his blackened heart fall into his stomach.
~
Eight Ball ran a forehoof through his mane and chuckled. "Alright, mare, let's cut the crap, shall we?"
Dove shifted, distributing her weight on her hindhooves. Her right forehoof crept closer to her holster. "Youze five are lookin' fo' trouble, ain't youze?"
The Don laughed. "One could say dat, but trouble always seems ta find us."
The comforting sensation of steel against fur and keratin, brushing against her.
"An' I could say the same 'bout youze... lil' mare patrollin' all alone," he jabbed, looking slightly up into her eyes. Eight Ball patted his belly and belched. Glancing at his guards from the corner of his eye, he mumbled, "Lil' mare... all alone..."
White Dove rested her forehoof against the grip of the gun, feeling it come alive, the enchantment within stirring it to respond to her Earth pony magic. Although weak in the concrete jungle, it was enough for steel and lead. Enough to send it firing.
"Lil' mare... nosy mare..."
Narrowing her eyes, Detective White Dove ordered, "Move 'long now, befo' youze get what youze is lookin' fo'."
"Police mare... foalish mare..."
Arrogant, haughty, fueled by his latest conquest, Eight Ball knew no fear. The Manehatten Police Department was a joke, a tool of his Master. And his Master smiled upon him. This mare was obviously not part of the puzzle, no pawn on the chessboard. A piece out of place...
Which needed to be destroyed.
Spaghetti sauce stained his foul molars, entwining with the other odors of his putrid breath. He exhaled coolly, a mocking dragon in the Manehatten night. The city rolled over and opened her eye when he peered over her shoulder and spotted a glint of pistol staring back at him.
Not tonight.
"What was dat?" Dove challenged, staring straight into him.
Eight Ball sighed and bowed again, submissive and sick. "I'm sorry, ma'am. Forgive me."
White Dove raised an eyebrow.
Lucky Toss kept his weapon trained on the speckled stallion.
"I merely mistook youze fo' somepony else."
"Wit' a uniform?" She snorted.
"Youze would be surprised how much scum pretend ta be officas."
"What's dat supposed ta mean?"
"I've already said too much." He nodded to his guards, then shifted back to the police officer. "We don't want any trouble, Offica. We're headin' back home now. Youze can search us iffa youze want, but youze won't find anythin'."
Detective White Dove looked into his soulless eyes, then the empty windows of his counterparts, then to the moon rising in the sky. The known criminal had been apprehended, awaiting her interrogation. Awaiting justice.
While she couldn't put her hoof on it, she surmised that this bastard standing before her was probably cut from the same cloth, she couldn't be entirely sure. And assumption was the mother of disaster.
"Move along," Dove said gruffly, waving him forward.
Eight Ball grinned and nodded, willing his weak hooves to move, left, right, left. The Don of the Manehatten Mafia shuffled past the detective, scheming, living to see another day.
Once she was alone, White Dove retreated towards the shadows, motioning for Toss, Apple Bloom, and Babs Seed to rejoin her.
"What was dat all 'bout?" Babs asked.
Checking to ensure her holster was snug, White Dove spat back, "Don't worry 'bout it. Jus' some punk lookin' fo' trouble. Smart dat he decided it wasn't worth it."
Lucky Toss holstered his pistol. "Youze alright, Dove?" he asked, putting a forehoof on her shoulder.
She nodded but didn't brush him away. "I'm fine. C'mon," she urged, nudging in the direction of the station, "we've got a scumbag waitin' fo' us, an' we're takin' our sweet time."
~
Huffing and puffing, a lanky, thin Earth pony stallion stumbled into the Manehatten Police Department, his oversized uniform soaked with rain. "Cotton! Cotton!"
"Eh?" She glanced up from her magazine, chewing a cheekful of tobacco. "What?!"
"I... Hah... I... could... Hah... Hah..." Scrambling for breath, he slumped down, his chest heaving.
"Spit it out already, Shootin' Star! I ain't got time fo' youze horseapples! Did youze tell the Chief an' Rustla what happened?"
"He... Rustla... on... his... way... Haah..."
"Well, dat's good ta hear. Now," she said, moving on to more important matters, "where's the Chief? Did youze tell him? Is he on his way?"
Catching his breath at last, Shooting Star rose to meet her eyes and shook his head grimly.
THUD!
Cotton slammed a forehoof down on the desk and bolted forward, grabbing him by the collar of his uniform. "What do youze MEAN no?!"
"I! Cotton! He wasn't—"
"He wasn't what?!"
"He wasn't home!"
Cotton paused, loosening her grip on the rookie's collar. "What did youze say?" she asked, more confused than incredulous.
Fumbling at his collar, trying to slip out of her grasp, Shooting Star replied, "I-I said, he wasn't home! Not home, Cotton! The Chief wasn't there!"
"Did youze try the Big Orange?"
Chief Brutus was a notorious drinker, and the downtown bar was his favorite hangout, next to his bedroom and the company of several fine mares (or so went the stories).
"Y-yes! O' course I did!" Shooting Star nodded rapidly, still struggling to release himself from her grip. "He wasn't there eitha! The bartenda said he hadn't been in all night!"
Wordlessly, Cotton released the rookie officer, sending him to the floor with a WHUMP!
"Not home... not at the bar...
"Where could he be?" Cotton asked, talking to the wall behind her desk.
Groaning, Shooting Star rubbed his head and muttered, "Hay iffa I know..."
The opening of the department door snapped both muzzles to attention.
Officer Rustler, his eyes bloodshot and exhausted, moseyed into the station. His uniform, normally ironed and shined to crease-less, glistening perfection, appeared disheveled and hastily-donned. Rubbing a forehoof through his tangled, matted mess of blue mane, he grunted and grumbled, "Dis betta be good, Cotton."
She snickered and shook her head. "Pull youze from a date night, did we?"
Rustler glared at her.
Cotton sighed. "Guess youze ain't dat lucky."
"Whateva," Rustler said coldly, trotting into the lobby area. He ignored Shooting Star and marched straight to Cotton. "Youze lil' message-pony said youze had a big gangsta pone in custody?"
Cotton fired a glare towards the rookie. "Youze didn't say the name?!"
"I forgot!" Shooting Star whined, tending to a bruise forming on his forehead.
"Figures," Cotton groaned, face-hoofing.
"Well, who is it?" Rustler asked, tapping a hindhoof.
Cotton smiled slightly and looked up at him. "Card Slinga."
Another stallion lost his breath for a second, not sure where he'd find it again.
~
"You understand the significance of this, yes?"
Bernie Madhoof brought his forehooves together and gazed out his bay window down at his chessboard. His sleepless city tossed and turned and groaned on her checkerboard, pieces moving into place. Moving into place and forming an exquisite tapestry, worthy of the adoration of any true King. Perched high in his skyscraper, thirty-three stories above his pawns, he was a true chessmaster, puppetmaster, a monarch as regal as any smug alicorn.
Across his desk, squeezing into an office chair, Chief Brutus sipped at his scotch and mumbled in affirmation, "Yes, ma King."
"The press has been coming dangerously close to letting something slip," Madhoof remarked, his grin dissolving into a dissatisfied frown. "And while our efforts in communications have remained victorious, there is no telling when small-town pretender may deem himself tired of our little agreement."
"I see."
"So far, my efforts in the West have been met with little resistance, if any at all." Swiveling around in his chair, Madhoof said boldly, "Such results foretell of similar possibilities to the East."
Chief Brutus coughed into his glass. "East?"
"The chessboard cannot go only to the West. The pieces must dance across all squares, mastering the compass rose." Madhoof smirked. "Waiting and biding cannot last forever."
"Do youze have any contacts there?"
Madhoof laughed, propping his hindhooves on his mahogany. "Oh, little worm," he mused, clicking his tongue. "Fool!" He glared at the thickly muscled police chief. "Don't fool yourself into thinking that you can replace any of the others quite yet."
Condensation dripped down his glass onto his fetlock, warmer than the ice in his veins. "O-othas, M-Masta?"
Bernie Madhoof leaned back, placing his forehooves behind his head. He stared at his office ceiling, enjoying the freshly painted mural that adorned it. It was a red-and-black checkerboard pattern dotted by occasional chess pieces—all of them knights. "That is not for you to worry about, little worm. You have earned my favor so far, if that assuages the pithy little fears of your pathetic little heart."
Chief Brutus chose to chase his scotch in reply.
Tracing the patterns of his chessboard above and below, Madhoof ordered, "Ensure that our latest guest down at the P.D. does not forget his tongue."
"An' iffa he does?" the Chief asked, his heart hammering in his chest.
King Orange smiled. "Choke him with it."
Before Brutus could reply, Bernie Madhoof reached into one of the drawers of his desk, retrieved a large bag of bits, and tossed it to his Knight in blue.
"Make sure he savors the flavor."
~
The rest of their journey was uneventful. Thankfully.
Climbing up the steps to the Manehatten P.D., White Dove shifted her focus to Babs Seed and Apple Bloom. "Now, befo' we go inside, I wanna lay out some ground rules."
Lucky Toss glanced at her curiously. "Like what, Dove?"
"Stay quiet unless I ask summat o' youze," she explained, nodding to the two mares. "Nopony knows 'bout what happened wit' youze three out West, 'cept fo' me, Lucky, an' anypony else youze may have told—"
"We didn't tell anypony but youze," Babs said crossly.
Apple Bloom rubbed her mare's back, silently urging her to be calm. "Nopony else knows but y'all," she assured, offering the officers a small smile. "Not in this city, at least."
"Well, dat's good ta hear. Let's keep it dat way." White Dove turned back towards the steps and began to climb the remaining ones. "As far as everypony else knows, youze two are witnesses ta him spoutin' his mouth. Gotcha?"
Why do youze even want us heeya? Shaking the thought away, Babs grunted and managed a nod. Apple Bloom met her with a stern glare and a forceful but gentle stroke of her short mane. "Alright," Babs mumbled, giving her mare a nuzzle.
"Be nice," Apple Bloom whispered, barely audible. "She doesn't have ta do this fer us, ya know."
"I know."
"Youze two alright back there?" Lucky Toss asked. The stallion opened the door and held it open for the two. White Dove had already ducked inside.
"We're fine, Lucky," Babs said, forcing a smile.
He noted her mask but said nothing, choosing to smile softly in return.
Both Apples crossed the threshold into the darkened, dimly lit station. Once inside, Babs Seed pricked her ears and glanced around curiously. There was nopony in the lobby but that foul Cotton, munching on something in her cheek and occasionally spitting into a vase near her desk. Her ears flattened. Tobbaco-chewa? Saw a few o' those back at the bar. Always disgustin'. Horseapples, I hate dis mare mo' by—
Apple Bloom nipped at her left ear, snapping Babs's muzzle around and drawing a light blush on her cheeks. "Bloom! What the hay—"
"Ah said, be nice," Apple Bloom said sternly.
Babs gestured widely with a forehoof. "An' Dove said ta be quiet!" I can't do dat iffa youze gonna be—
Cotton spat into the vase and droned, "I can hear both o' youze, jus' so youze know."
Babs Seed face-hoofed and groaned. Apple Bloom rolled her eyes.
Trotting into the lobby, Lucky Toss greeted, "'Ey, Cotton! Burnin' the midnight oil, are youze?"
Cotton snorted and looked at him briefly. "Ain't gonna work, Lucky."
"Horseapples, I do mo' than jus' flirt!"
"Sure youze do."
He dismissed her with a flop of his forehoof and a scoff. "Whateva. Youze seen Dove? She slipped inside befo' I could catch her."
Smirking, Cotton replied, "Dat sounds like a private sorta problem."
Babs snort-laughed into a forehoof. Apple Bloom nipped at her ear again in annoyance, forcing her mare to stifle a much less taunting noise.
Lucky Toss was not amused. He slumped down on his haunches and tapped a hindhoof, crossing his forehooves across his chest.
"She's headed ta the chamba," Cotton answered after a few moments, rolling her eyes. "Gonna talk ta Rustla befo' he goes in, I think. Anyway, horseapples, o' anypony in dis depressin' joint, I thought youze would appreciate dat joke!"
"No time fo' jokes," Toss snapped, rising to his hooves. He motioned for Babs and Apple Bloom to follow. "C'mon. It ain't too far 'way."
As they departed, Cotton stuffed another wad of tobacco into her cheek and grumbled, "Buckin' stallions..."
~
Each grain of sand in Time's unforgiving hourglass crept by slowly, slowly, slowly, thick molasses dripping down a wall of sprawling brambles. Card Slinger rocked with all his mind, flexing his strong limbs against the chains, willing them to stretch, to give, to break, Celestia damn it, break. The sea of gray taunted him, mocking him, laughing at him with its waves of haunting hoof-steps and sickening silence.
Enveloped in an ocean of shade, Card Slinger sat a speck of crimson against the backdrop of his prison. The walls, ceiling, and floor seemed to cave in around him, approaching with hooves bared and talons unsheathed and barrels blazing. He rocked and rocked and rocked, squirming every whence way and angle, mustering up enough sweat to cleanse his soul of every sin and atrocity he'd committed or ever would.
Even so, his baptism of sweat and ceaseless fidgeting served absolutely no purpose. He remained tethered to the chair, his entire being lit aflame with agony. Soreness or discomfort couldn't even begin to describe it. The sacred space between his flanks burned from the impact of being dropped into the steel chair. His back, shoulders, and neck groaned from their beating and subsequent capture.
Card Slinger cursed under his breath at first. When the situation grew even more hopeless, he took to muttering a mantra. Something to calm him. Something to keep him focused on escape, on freedom, away from this dark, gray place.
"Salt an' fire, salt an' fire, salt an' fire, salt an' fire..."
He flexed his shoulders and squirmed from side to side, dragging links of rusted steel chain through his fur and against his skin. Chafing. Burning.
Card Slinger groaned and flattened his ears, slamming his eyes shut. Desert.
"Salt an' fire, salt an' fire, salt an' fire, salt an' fire..."
The chains clinked against the cold steel. The legs of the chair scraped against the floor, rising slightly. There!
Emboldened by this small success, Slinger writhed in his prison, moving his shoulders back and forth and flexing his tired flanks and hindlegs. Rocking back on his rump, he continued to chant, growing evermore louder, "Salt an' fire, salt an' fire, SALT AN' FIRE, SALT AN' FIRE, SALT AN' FIRE!"
His voice drowned out the gray, washing it away into a wasteland on a moonlit night. The scraping of steel against concrete grew louder and louder. He flattened his ears, trying to escape the piercing noise.
"SALT AN' FIRE, SALT AN' FIRE—"
The chair began to tip.
"SALT AN' FIRE! SALT AN' FIRE!"
THUD!
"BUUUUUUCK!"
Still chained to the chair, Slinger's skull smacked against the concrete, rocketing numbness through his head. He shook his head fervently, rapidly, vigorously, seeing stars, starlight, starlight on the moonlight night on the plains—
"BUCK! BUCK! BUCK!"
Everything hurt, everything hurt and nothing was alright, nothing was alright because everything was wrong, because he wasn't on the plains, he wasn't free, he wasn't churning his hooves and flexing his muscles with the strength of a thousand stallions—
"BUCK! BUCK! BUCK!"
He was here in Manehatten, sweet, sweet, Manehatten, the city that never slept and that stole everything from him, the city that taunted him and embraced him and told him it would be okay, soothed him like a mother, but it was no loving mother, it was an abusive mother and she had tied up her son and now she was opening the door, striding in with a belt and a spoon and a switch and far, far worse—
"BUCK! BUCK! BUCK!"
He thrashed and howled and sobbed, rolling from side to side, tears streaming down his cheeks. Giving up his facade, he became what he was and always had been—an orphaned foal, a grieving little colt, crying for a mother who would never love him again, and a father who would never teach him the ways of a stallion, and so here he was, a slave and a scumbag and a pathetic waste of equine flesh.
Card Slinger slammed his head back onto the pavement, conjuring the stars before his eyes. Wanting it to end. Wanting it—
Creeeeeeeeeak.
The torturous dim light poured into his prison of gray. In the doorway stood a light-blue stallion, his mane a darker shade of blue, his eyes narrowed and piercing into the chamber.
"Youze havin' a buckin' party in heeya, o' what?"
His words echoed in Card Slinger's ears. He blinked several times, sure he was delirious.
The door slammed shut.
The stallion strode inside. Once he trotted further within, Card Slinger saw the blue uniform, the silver buttons, the silver badge. The baton and pistol holstered on his opposite shoulders. The pockets bulging, doubtlessly with further instruments of torture and pain.
The stallion smiled, reaching the desk. He sat down and peered down his snout at the fallen captive. "Looks comfy down there," he said quietly.
Card Slinger stared at him.
Sighing, the stallion stretched his forehooves over the desk. "I'll admit, I neva thought I would see dis day."
Slinger choked, paddling desperately through a haze of pain, "W-what day?"
The stallion laughed. "The day I'd get ta interrogate one o' ma colthood bullies."
"C-colthood...?"
"Youze don't rememba me, do youze?"
Slinger shook his head.
The stallion sighed. "I was pretty sure youze didn't. All the drugs an' drink probably robbed youze o' all youze colthood memories."
Not the worst ones, Slinger thought, staying silent.
Straightening his haphazard mane, the stallion sighed again, heavier this time. "Couldn't have youze picked a betta time ta get arrested?"
Silence.
"Guess not. Youze wanna lay on the floor like dat?" The stallion rose from his chair and trotted towards him. "Heeya, let me help youze up."
Slinger thrashed his hindhooves in desperate response, rocking the chair from side to side on the ground. He had to escape. Had to. Escape. The stallion was approaching, closer, closer, closer, and Celestia knows what was in his pockets, and he already had a gun and a baton, and this room was so full of gray and the officers had laughed and that one knew King's Ransom and the Master had let this happen, he knew it, he had to have, and—
The door flew open, groaning heavily as it smacked against the opposite wall.
"RUSTLA!"
In the doorway stood a white mare, her mane a mess of black curls. Slinger squinted. She, too, was decked out in Manehatten blue and silver, an enraged glare on her muzzle.
Officer Rustler pivoted on his hindhooves and spun around, facing her. Curling his lips back in a snarl, he growled and muttered, "Dove. Who gave youze the key?"
"I already have one, numbskull," she snapped back, stomping to meet him. The door slammed shut behind her, but neither officer paid it any mind. Dove narrowed her gaze further. "Dis is ma prisoner."
"Ma flank it is." Rustler hissed, stomping forward. They met in the middle. Pressing his snout against hers, he scowled and said harshly, "Dey woke me up in the middle o' the buckin' night ta come heeya, not youze. Dis ain't youze gig."
"The hell he ain't!" She lurched violently, forcing his muzzle backwards. Rustler's hooves remained steadfast, bracing him against her approach.
"How would youze know? He's wanted fo' ma murder cases!"
Dove snorted. "Youze really believe dat?"
"Why wouldn't I?" Rustler challenged.
"Iffa dat's the case, why does dis asshole have a clean record?"
Startled, Rustler took one step back. "Dat's impossible."
White Dove removed her muzzle from his and frowned. "There's no record o' him, Rustla. Not in the Records Department. Not a single line. Not even some horseapples from when he was a lil' colt.
"Almost iffa he neva existed."
Silence fell between them, settling thickly.
It wasn't the voice of justice that broke it.
"I can tell youze why..."
Detective White Dove and Officer Rustler spun around.
Lying on the floor, defeated, vulnerable, and exposed, a King's Knight made another offer of treason. "I can tell youze why dat is... why everythin' is how it is...
"But I want summat in return..."
"Youze ain't in a position ta be makin' bargains, bucko," snapped Dove, trotting towards him. Rustler followed suit.
"Maybe so," Slinger croaked, his sea of gray churning and whirring and melting around him, "but neitha are youze two. Youze think capturin' me changes anythin'?"
"Stop speakin' in riddles!" Rustler boomed, his hackles rising. "What are youze gettin' at?"
"The root o' dis all."
Rustler and Dove exchanged confused glances.
"An' what do youze want in return?" Rustler asked, after a long silence.
"Don't torture me...
"Please," Card Slinger begged, the stars twinkling before his eyes.
"Torture?" Dove shook her head in disbelief. "Who said anythin' 'bout torture?"
"The one wit' the orange unda his tail," Slinger said, and then passed out.
~
Lucky Toss led Babs Seed and Apple Bloom behind "the chamber," as it was known amongst the officers. Besides the front door into the interrogation room, there was a second door in the back. This door, however, did not lead directly into the room. Instead, it led to a small partition within it, separated by a thick, gray wall.
A thick pane of glass on the inside of the partition allowed the occupants to see into the chamber. An enchantment, cast once by a very strong, now-retired officer of the Manehatten P.D., masked the window from sight. Within, it revealed all that transpired inside the chamber, providing a... show of sorts.
Lucky Toss opened the door, using the key White Dove had snuck to him before she'd crept inside the chamber. He'd made Apple Bloom and Babs Seed wait in her office first, fearing that Rustler had already begun his work within the concrete walls. While he wasn't entirely certain that he had anything to fear, he reckoned it was best to have the mares wait, lest they'd see something that would haunt their nightmares.
Toss hadn't been so fortunate, forced to watch an "enhanced interrogation" of a journalist by the Chief within his first week of training. He hadn't slept properly since.
"Take a seat, whicheva youze like," Toss said, closing and locking the door behind him. Four simple wooden stools waited before the large window.
Shrugging, Babs took one on the left, Apple Bloom sitting down beside her. Lucky Toss took the seat beside Apple Bloom and sighed, leaning forward and rubbing his forehooves together. "So, he got picked up on a tip. Somepony reported ta us dat he was braggin' 'bout some murdas we been tryin' ta solve."
Three spines felt the chill.
"I really hope dis goes well," Lucky muttered, stretching his neck. "We were lucky as hay ta get him, so I'm hopin' he doesn't put up too much o' a fight."
"So... youze gonna make some popcorn, o' what?" Babs huffed, slumping down in her stool.
Apple Bloom nodded, choosing to disregard the joke (no matter how poor its taste). "Lucky... Why do ya want us ta see this?" She cringed. Babs wrapped a forehoof around her and pulled her close. Settling against her mare's chest, Apple Bloom relaxed a bit and asked the stallion, "Is this really... necessary?"
Lucky sighed, playing with the buttons of his uniform. "Dove said she wants youze ta see dis. Dat youze deserve it. Dat youze deserve the truth from dis asshole," he spat, the thought of Card Slinger filthy and fetid on his tongue, "an' youze deserve ta see him locked up foreva."
A strange sort of comforting anger swelled up in Babs' chest. Maybe iffa I play ma cards right, I can get a shot at dis asshole, kick him straight where he counts, mothabuckin'—
"Hay," Lucky said, rubbing his snout, "maybe Dove will let youze take a shot at him. Heh."
Apple Bloom furrowed her brow and tensed. "Ah wouldn't take jus' one."
"Me neitha," Babs agreed, adrenaline beginning to flow. The entirety of the past few weeks bore heavily on her mind. Everythin' is because o' him, everythin', an' there he is... jus' in dat room beyond dis window...
Babs Seed gingerly placed a forehoof on the glass.
"Don't worry. He can't see youze," Toss explained with a yawn.
"I want him ta see me." Babs growled.
Apple Bloom leaned against her mare and nuzzled her chest. "Save it fer when he can," she warned, visions of Babs Seed launching herself at the wall rushing through her mind.
"She's right. Glass is enchanted, Babs."
"Buck." Damn unicorns.
"Yup. Now, let's see where dis goes."
~
Officer Rustler and Detective White Dove pulled Card Slinger's restraint chair up and brought it to the desk. Once he was secured, they slapped him twice across the muzzle, waking him. Once he was coherent, grunting in pain, they moved to the other side, Rustler taking the stool, while Dove leaned forward, resting her forehooves on the desk.
"Tell us everythin' youze know," Dove said flatly, out of time and patience.
"Tell us 'bout the murdas o' Quick Step, Flora, an' Turn Key," Rustler added.
Slinger smirked, his venom returning. "I know nothin' 'bout dem three."
Rustler snorted. "Horseshit."
"I don't."
White Dove reached across the desk, grabbed the head of the lamp, and shined the light into Slinger's limitless pupils.
Flinching, Slinger squeezed his eyes shut, groaning in pain. "Youze said youze wouldn't torture me!"
"Youze think dat's torture?" Trotting in a slow circle around him, Dove shook her mane and laughed coldly. "Youze should see what some o' ma fellow officas have done ta some o' youze lil' gangstas."
Rustler affirmed, "Dey weren't in good shape aftawards."
The light poked at his eyelids, willing them to open. He resisted with all his might, black dots spotting his inner vision. Slinger rocked back and forth in the chair again, trying to escape the heat and blare of the fiery light. "Get it 'way from me!"
"Tell us 'bout the murdas," Rustler said calmly.
"Tell us all youze know," Dove said.
"I will! I will!" Card Slinger cried, a painful tear leaking from his eye. "Get the light out! Get the light out!"
"Tell us why youze killed dem."
"Iffa not youze, who killed dem, an' why."
"I don't know!"
"We don't take kindly ta liars." A second set of hooves began to circle him.
"We may hate each otha," Dove muttered, sharing a smirk with Rustler, "but we hate scum like youze mo'."
"I don't know who killed dem!" Card Slinger insisted, starting to thrash at his bonds.
"Tell us all youze know."
"Tell us 'bout the black orange."
Struggling to keep his eyes shut, Slinger muttered, "Get the light out... iffa youze want ta know..."
Rustler bellowed a laugh. "No, scumbag. Dat's not how it works."
Dove's shrill chuckle joined the stallion's. "It's not. Rustla may be an idiot, but he's got dat right."
"An' Dove may be a bitch, but she knows how ta make somepony hurt."
"I don't know 'bout the murdas!" Slinger began to squirm violently. The light was adjusted and raised towards his eyes. He struggled as hard and fast as he could, trying to break free. He'd been a fool to trust his captors. He'd been a fool to take their word. He knew this was just the beginning, sick waves of fear proliferating through his innards. It would only get worse from here.
A rough forehoof found his chin. "Why did youze say an offica had a black orange unda his tail?"
"Because he does!" Card Slinger howled, another tear escaping from the prison of his pained eyes.
WHACK!
"Wrong ANSWA!"
Slinger screamed as a second forehoof came across his cheek.
"Enough o' the games!"
The forehooves began to alternate, both rough, both angry.
WHACK!
"Turn off the light! Please!"
WHACK!
"Tell us why!"
"Who else have youze killed?!"
"Please!"
WHACK!
"What does the black orange mean?!"
"What drugs does youze gang deal?!"
"PLEASE!"
WHACK!
"Who funds youze?!"
"Why did youze kill those ponies?!"
"PLEASE! IT HURTS!"
WHACK!
"Scream all youze want!"
"Nopony will come an' help youze!"
"PLEASE!"
Slinger rocked back and forth, squirming, struggling, crying and sobbing. He thrust his eyes open, unable to take it anymore, immediately becoming blinded by the light.
White Dove pulled her forehoof back towards Canterlot, ready to swing again. Rustler grabbed both sides of Card Slinger's muzzle, holding him steady.
It was too late.
Suddenly, Card Slinger gave his insanity a voice, and began to screech, his words mixed with incoherent babble.
"SALT AN' FIRE! ANNEXATION! THE WEST IS THE BEST! CONQUEST! KING'S KNIGHT! CHESSBOARD! CHECKABOARD! KING! MASTA! KINGS! MAFIA! BOONE! SALT AN' FIRE!"
White Dove paused. So did Rustler.
"KING! KING! MASTA! SALT AN' FIRE! SALT AN' FIRE! OLD SCRATCH! MOST HIGH!"
Card Slinger flailed and thrashed with all his might, sobbing freely, the final straw snapping his back and sending him tumbling to the waiting hooves of the desert.
"WEST IS THE BEST! ANNEXATION! BARS! BOOZE! FIRE! ORANGE! APPLE! SALT! SALT AN' FIRE!
"MADHOOF! MADHOOF! MADHOOF!"
"Wait..."
Officer Rustler slipped a forehoof over Slinger's mouth. Slinger continued to scream, muffled cries of insanity and incomprehensibilty vibrating beneath Rustler's forehoof.
Rustler nudged towards the lamp. "Dove, turn it off."
"But he's jus'—"
"TURN IT OFF, DOVE!
The light shut off.
Dove glared at her unwilling partner.
Rustler glared back and removed his forehoof.
Spinning his head around, flailing and thrashing, bucking against his chains like a mad-pony in an asylum, Card Slinger screeched, "MADHOOF! MADHOOF! BLACK BLADE! KINGS! MAFIA! MASTA! TATTOO! ORANGE! BOONE! BOONE! SALT! FIRE! ANNEXATION! THE WEST IS THE BEST!
"BABS SEED!"
Behind the unseen window, three chatting muzzles froze.
"What the..." Rustler's flattened ears pricked.
"BABS SEED! I'M SORRY!"
"Sorry 'bout what?" Dove grabbed Slinger by the chest, forcing him towards her. "Sorry 'bout what, youze fuckin' lunatic?!"
"MAKE HIM STOP! MAKE HIM STOP! MADHOOF! MAKE HIM STOP!"
"Make what stop?!"
"FATHA! FATHA! SINS O' THE FATHA! PASSED TA THE DAUGHTA! MADHOOF! BABS SEED!"
"Babs Seed's fatha?" Rustler asked, his muzzle blank. He blinked and turned to face White Dove. "But—"
"MAKE IT STOP! MAKE HIM STOP!"
The detective was gone.
The door thrust open.
A set of hooves bolted towards the rear of the chamber.
The door slammed shut.
~
Inside the rear of the chamber, Lucky Toss turned around, staring at Babs Seed.
Apple Bloom tightened her grip on her mare.
Babs began, "Lucky, he's not—"
THUD! THUD! THUD! THUD!
"OPEN THE BUCKIN' DOOR, BABS!
"OPEN THE DAMN DOOR!"