//------------------------------// // 26th of Second Ember // Story: Dysphoria // by Owlor //------------------------------// 26th of Second Ember One of these days, I am going to crush my alarm clock into a pile of gears and sprockets, smiling all the while. In a perfect world, I’d get at least the day off just to recover from my ordeal at the Silver Mansion. Of course, in a perfect world I’d still eat bagels at Sugarcube Corner in between catching small-time crooks. Mornings like this were made for coffee. But my percolator is achingly slow in delivering the heavenly liquid, forcing me to wait desperately second by second as it finishes, droplet by droplet. Sleep tries to take advantage of my morning boredom, making my eyelids weigh down. To escape this drift back towards dreamland, I stagger to the door to fetch the newspaper. I’m hit almost instantly by the full force of winter; nothing like a gust of blizzardy wind on your face to start the day. Even the sun struggles to shine forth from the thick layer of clouds. I can sympathize, my own consciousness is trying to break through the thick grey clouds of sleep and mostly failing. I pick up the morning paper, and I am visually assaulted by the breaking news header. MISSING FOAL! CUPCAKE VICTIM? Right below the heading is a black and white photograph of a small filly. She looks happy. The image shows her alongside another filly, partially cropped out of the frame. At first I don’t recognize her, I may have seen her around town some time along with half a dozen other foals,but nothing sticks out in my mind. That is, until I recognize the glasses. The context of the image changes. Those out-of-place happy eyes seem almost accusatory now. Her eyes stare deep into mine, drilling holes into my skull that are quickly filled with overflowing guilt. She was so young, she—she still had so much to live for. I abandon the newspaper and make my way to the mailbox. The icy wind tries to creep under my skin, but I barely notice it after the rude wakeup call. With heavy eyes, I flip through the latest crop of misery: gas bill, divorce settlement, rent, junk mail... One of the envelopes in the back of the pile feels curiously moist. I blink a few times, barely acknowledging it though my drowsiness. I feel around my correspondence once more when a sticky sensation hits my hooves. The familiar sensation jolts me into alertness. I toss the rest of the pile into the snow and skip right to the end. The last envelope is stained by a deep red fluid; I don’t have to check the mouthwriting to guess who it’s from. Inside the envelope is a neatly folded paper, also stained by blood. My fears are confirmed when I read the tight, slightly smeared writing. Thanks for the present this Hearth’s Warming Eve a dying little filly and a family left to grieve Yes, it was quite a lark fumbling around in the dark Oh, Bucky, sometimes you can be so naïve! There is no way the letter came through the postal system! A bloody letter might slip through once, but twice? I rush inside the house, stopping only to get my coat. Without a second thought I rush to the post office leaving the coffee to grow cold. Mully will just have to deal with me being a little late for work today. I arrive at the post office just as the mailmares in charge are getting ready to deliver the last rush of letters. Most of the postal workers look as caffeine-deprived as me as, bundled up in their standard-issue coats and earmuffs. The mare at the desk—the name tag identifying her as one “Derpy Hooves”—looks the most tired of them all. She sits as if in a trance, focusing her eyes on two different points somewhere in the distance. I wonder, did she get even an ounce of sleep last night? I clear my throat to get Derpy’s attention and she jolts awake. “In my defense,” she blurts out as she gets a good look at me. Her lazy eye is desperately trying to follow her good one. “I didn’t know she was married at the time!” I blink a few times at the sudden comment, but I choose to ignore it. “I’m just wondering about a letter I was sent.” I produce the bloodied envelope from under my coat and put it down on the desk. “Ah... yes, oh... work...” Derpy shakes herself awake and accepts the envelope. She studies it intently with one eye while the other drifts to look at something in the ceiling. “Yeesh, you must've cut yourself trimming pretty bad, Mr. Buckshot,” came her analysis. “The blood isn’t mine.” At my comment her eyes widen in shock. “It came like that,” I finish explaining; somehow it fails to calm her. “I know the postal office has a reputation for being... chaotic at times, but this is the second time it’s happened. Surely somepony should’ve noticed it?” She turns her attention to the letter again. At first she gives it an almost fearful poke, as if she expects it to explode. Then she flips it over with her hoof and begins scanning the envelope, humming dispassionately. “I’m sorry, but this can’t have possibly been delivered by us.” She says this in a matter-of-fact tone, and points to the upper right portion, right next to the stamp. “There’s no postmark on it, and that stamp is a fake. This must be some sort of prank, Mr. Buckshot. Sorry I couldn’t be of any help.” “A fake? Let me see it.” She flinches away slightly as I reach for the letter. My eyes wander through the envelope, examining its corner. Sure enough, the postmark is missing and when I examine it closely, I see that the stamp looks odd. It was the polar opposite of the usual stamps, monochrome engravings of famous ponies against a colorful background. Instead, this was pink heart against a light gray background. Something about it seems oddly familiar, though. I inspect the stamp more closely; that’s when I notice it. The texture is one I’ve seen before, from at least one crime scene in particular: it’s dried pony skin. As my eyes focus on the colored patch of stiff skin, I can see that it isn’t a tattoo of some sorts. It’s part of a cutie mark. I look up to the mailmare, who still has the same vacant look as before, apparently oblivious to my discovery. I do my best not to openly display any sort of emotion that might upset her as I bid her adieu. “Well, thanks for your help anyway, I need to get back to the office.” “Wait!” Derpy stops me as I reach the door. “I am sorry,” she adds. I give her a quick nod, but I don’t turn around to see if she acknowledges it. I arrive at the police headquarters just before the lunch break, biting my lip as I wonder if somepony will notice that I’ve been fashionably late or not. Although, being late will be the least of my problems if they catch me sneaking this package in the police department. I slip through the corridors like a spy, turning my trenchcoat up to conceal my whole from my co-workers. When passing by the meeting area, I see the newbie assigned to placate two older, aristocratic-looking ponies. I slow down a bit in order to make sense of what they’re saying: “—you don’t understand, there hasn’t been any ransom demand yet! We’ll keep in touch and notify you if the situation changes.” The fatigued stallion says this for what must be the thousandth time. There is no need to look closer at them in order to understand who exactly those ponies are. I pull the lapels higher in an attempt to become invisible, and quicken my pace. Finally at the office, I slump down in the chair and let out a heavy sigh. Well out of sight from any of my colleagues’ prying eyes, I finally dare to reveal the bottle I’ve been hiding this whole time: Cutie’s Mark; the finest of Equestrian bourbon. It’s with a slight sense of awe that I place the bottle in my cabinet: it almost seems to glow faintly with a dim amber light. After admiring it once more, I push the thought of its presence away and focus on getting my workload done. As I mechanically look over endless piles of paper, my mind is still fixated on Pinkie. She’s a riddle, wrapped in a mystery, inside an enigma. How she was able to fool an entire town to the extent that she did, no one knew. Even the state-appointed psychiatrist was unable to peer through the many layers surrounding her. How she could still bear the Element of Laughter with pride... Even when we thought the nightmare was over, that we were finally safe, we weren’t. Just when we thought that we could finally lay down to sleep without the fear of what lay beyond hovering over us, she goes and escapes one of the most secure facilities in the entire nation. And nopony has a clue as to where she is right now. Maybe I’m trying to approach the problem from the wrong angle? I’m focusing too much on the now, without thinking back on the whole context. Maybe her past has something to do with it? Just who is Pinkie Pie? I remember Mully briefing us on what he had discussed with the head director of Canterlot Prison for the Mentally Unbalanced. Unfortunately, the details weren’t quite clear to me. I remember that even Mully got confused when trying to explain it to us. The records were promptly sent back to Canterlot without anypony bothering to make a copy of them. Still, this brings me a grander opportunity: to ask for a copy of said records, and to also ask permission to conduct a questioning of the medical doctor assigned to her case. Good thing that the request needs to be approved by the board committee of the facility before it falls on his hooves; I can’t, for the life of me, remember that pony’s first name. Between the torrents of reports and standard forms, I begin to write the letter. From the desk of Officer Buckshot Ponyville Police Department, Criminalistic Section PhD. E. V. Bolus, I write this letter to ask you, head director, about the case of a Ms. Pinkamena Diane Pie, a known killer who recently escaped your facility. I am well aware that my supervisor, Mullberry Mustache, had her files, including her prompt book, in his possession for a brief amount of time. Unfortunately, due to recent events, we feel that having a copy of all her files with us is crucial to our investigation. I know that this will sound unprofessional, as we should’ve had copied them beforehand. But it was only due to recent events that the need for a more detailed look arose. I would also like to take this opportunity to ask the P.P.W. a short review made by the doctor accompanying the case of the patient Apple Bloom regarding said filly. We have reason to believe that anything that remotely relates to the fugitive will help us in our investigation. Thank you for your time, Buckshot. With all my paperwork complete and the letter composed, my attention is turned to the cabinet once more. I bit down my lip as I mentally contemplate the odds of being caught red-hooved with liquor on the job. Those thoughts are quickly suppressed as I wonder how good it’d taste. Why, it would be only fair to give it a test round, no? I unscrew the top and barely feel the strong aroma before I hear hoofsteps in the corridor. With a curse in my lips, I put it back in the cabin, spilling a bunch of the precious bourbon. “Well hello there, Mully,” I say with my best innocent voice as he crosses the arch separating my office from the rest of the station. “Barging into my office unannounced as usual?” Unsurprisingly, Mully ignores my remark. “I have an assignment for you to clear your mind of the Pinkamena case,” he says, and I sigh. That’s Mully-speak for ‘You screwed up, mate. To the salt mines with you!’ “What is it?” I mutter, trying to direct his attention away from the faint smell of bourbon coming from the carpet. “It’s judgement day over at the P.A.C.A. shelter and I want you to take the animals to the vet.” P.A.C.A, the Ponyville Animal Containment agency. They are the ones who catch your cat if it’s gone astray, and who euthanize it when there’s no home to be found for it. “I’m gonna have to be the alicorn of death?” I ask, but Mully simply shrugs and turns to leave. “Well, no one else wants to do it, Bucky,” he says and turns to leave. “Hang on!” He pauses and looks inquisitively at me. I hand him the letter I just wrote. “Be a dear and get this approved for me, will you?” Mully looks me straight in the eye and snorts. For a moment I fear that he might rip the paper to pieces, but after quickly glancing over it, he places the sheet in one of his many pockets and walks away. P.A.C.A. used to be a much happier place. Back in the days, it was more like a place where animals waited before Fluttershy could pick them up. She’d either rehabilitate them for the wild or give those who wished to stay with her a loving home. There was never any real danger of any animal being put to death. Not so much anymore... My steps feel somewhat heavy as I trudge through the snow to the depressing little concrete buildings that housed the animal shelter. I try not to think about the various animals it used to house, such as dogs, cats, and even some reptiles. I’ll be one of the last thing they’ll ever see... I have no problem roughing up a punk if needed to, but I can’t stand animals being punished due to pony negligence. I fight with between my desire to turn back to the station and my desire to be inside, not out walking in the cold snow. The latter eventually wins over —if only because Mully would fire me for disobeying his orders if I turned back now— prompting me to pick up my pace considerably. Once inside the animal containment agency building, I force myself to be calm. I am still assaulted by the shivers; some of that Last Ember cold seems to linger even inside this bareboned interior. Its strangely quiet, none of that usual chorus of howls, barks and hisses from the cages. It was only after staring blankly into the middle distance for a few minutes that I finally notice some life in the barren concrete building; at the far end, next to a row of metal bars, snores an ageing security pony. “Oh, you’re from the PPD, aren’t you?” a sleepy guard asks, alerting me to his presence. “Sorry to have bothered you, but there doesn't seem to be any animals for you to get. The ponies pretty much cleared the house out yesterday.” He laughs a little to himself. “It’s funny, it’s as if they all expect Fluttershy to come back from the grave and haunt them if even a single animal was harmed in her absence. Cats, dogs... there was even somepony who adopted a baby cub! Fluttershy kept wolves in her house! Can you believe it?” I breathe out and relax a little, but just as I’m about to leave, the guard motions me to stop. “Oh that’s right! I almost forgot. There’s still one animal left. I keep forgetting about him!” he exclaims whilst rushing into the pound. The silence is broken by the faint rustling of straw and the guard comes back, carrying what by all appearances seems like a slightly mossy stone. “I think that’s a rock,” I remark. I give him a quizzical look while waiting for an explanation. “Oh, he’s just kinda shy,” the guard says, waving a crisp lettuce leaf in front of a hole in the shell. Slowly, a wrinkled face pops out, shyly looking around before taking a daring bite of the lettuce and retracting back into hiding. “This is Tank! He’s a tortoise, or turtle; I can never remember which.” The wrinkled face peeks off once more, staring at me with a mix of curiosity and hope. “No one wanted this miserable bastard. He barely eats, mostly sleeps, and when he moves—well, you can see for yourself.” The guard places Tank on the floor. Feeling a firm weight underneath him, all his four limbs protrude from the interior and he gets on his four legs. He makes a few slow steps, looking more like somepony wading through syrup in slow motion than actually walking. After breathing out a sigh, I hold the door open for the turtle. “Okay, Tank. Let’s go.” Tank moves with the speed and grace of a glacier. He is mostly light enough to walk on top of the snow, but every third step or so, his foot breaks through and he must stop to dislodge it. Keeping pace with his slow gait not only helps stall the inevitable, but also gives me a lot of time to think. When Fluttershy was killed, a hole was left behind. Not just a little one either, easily filled by any random foal with some sand and a shovel. No, Kindness herself dying left a vast, gaping hole; a hole felt by everyone pony or not, an unnatural chasm that by its very nature was wrong. There are attempts by ponies and others to fill the vacancy, desperately trying to bring some joy and empathy back into the world. In a way, it’s rather interesting to watch, to see the attempts by others to close the gap like a wound closes and heals. I’ve seen real wounds heal, though, and it’s rarely pretty; some wounds simply won’t heal at all. While the bleeding may stop, the scar tissue always remains. In the end, no amount of good intention will ever replace Fluttershy. The combination of knowledge and dedication to animals that she possessed only comes around once in a lifetime. Death affects everypony, no matter how much they try to deny it. I remember when Rainbow Dash first disappeared, how there was a lot of talk going around about the nature of the elements. Some ponies believed that she literally held the spirit of loyalty and a premature death would make any long-time relationships impossible. Marriages would shrivel and wither, they reasoned. Friendships would be broken and maybe even that civilization itself would dissolve. I know it’s probably wishful thinking, but I’d like to think that the reason for the estrangement between me and my ex-wife. At the very least, it would be nice to have something to blame other than myself. Having seen the intact relationships between other ponies, however —not to mention the fact that civilization hasn’t crumbled completely yet— I’d have to conclude that the loss of loyalty can’t have been as catastrophic as the doomsayers have predicted. But if it’s true that the “heart” of loyalty disappeared, now that half of the elements are gone, what do we have left to cling to? Mad laughter and the awful truth? … and generosity of course, let’s not forget that. I can’t help but feel as if the turtle’s pleading gaze is drilling holes in the back of my head. Appealing to a police-stallions sense of justice, it just isn’t fair. A thought, a niggling little idea, keeps lurking in the back of my mind, pestering me with the possibility: I can take care of Tank. Sure, I’m not really fond of pets, but he’s more like an animated rock than anything else, really; taking care of him shouldn’t be too difficult, right? Besides, I am pretty sure that he counts as a less-lethal weapon according to Section 5, Paragraph 11 of the P.P.D.’s Code of Conduct... “I’ve got no idea how to take care of turtles, though,” I muse out loud, prompting Tank to give me a confused stare. I acknowledge his look, but keep walking forward. “Yeah, you hear me, buddy. Don’t make me repeat myself.” “Hello and welcome to Leashes & Collars. I’m Daydream, how may I help you?” The rather nonchalant statement comes from an obviously bored cream earth pony near the front door. I quickly notice that her eyes seem puffy and are all reddened, but I withhold my commentary. It seems that everypony you see nowadays has the same weary, sunken eyes... My eyes wander around, scanning the interior of the shop. A wonderland of chewing toys, scratch posts, leashes and assorted things for any type of critter, this place has it all. Beside the counter is a bulletin board showcasing your typical “happy foal and her baby critter” posters along with reminders of feline and canine vaccination dates. “Can I help you?” Daydream repeats, forcing my attention back to her. “Oh, yes, sorry. It seems I’ve recently adopted a turtle.” I gesture towards Tank, who slowly hides his head inside his shell. “Thing is, I’ve never taken care of one before.” Daydream immediately understands me and takes a good look at Tank before furrowing her brows. “Well, doesn’t he look terrible. Don’t tell me you let him walk all the way here through the snow?” She raises an eyebrow at me. “No, of course not! Don’t be ridiculous. He just came from the shelter. The previous owner... passed away.” Daydream’s ears fold back at this. I can’t help but mimic the gesture. “Oh, so this tortoise is—was Rainbow’s?” I pause before nodding to the mare. “Fluttershy probably adopted the turtle after Rainbow Dash died,” I clarify. Mentioning both the former flying ace and the compassionate veterinarian in such a short span drives Daydream further into her sullen, morose mood. I bite my lip, not knowing what I can say to cheer her up. “I haven’t had much experience with pets, to be honest” I volunteer after a few silent seconds, trying to break the gloomy mood. “I did have a hamster as a colt, but he ran off to join the circus. I suppose it was because of the ladies.” At first she looks aghast, stunned and unsure whether or not I was joking. Eventually, the absurdity of my statement manages to pry her lips apart with a hearty chuckle. I follow her example as the tension is finally broken. “So, if you have any tips on taking care of turtles, I’d love to hear them.” “Tortoise, really,” she corrects me. “And the guy’s fine. This kind of weather isn’t exactly kind to cold-blooded animals, but I’d say he’s handling it pretty well. Judging by his shell, he’s probably between ten and twenty years old.” The upbeat phrasing and cheerful topic contradicts her monotone voice; it’s actually rather off-putting. “So, in other words, he’s old?” She turns to look at me, raising an eyebrow as if I were insane. “Of course not! Tortoises have a very long natural lifespan. Since this one will be staying with you and you’d know when to seek medical help for him, I’d say he’d live much more under your care than he would in the wild.” She sizes me up, as if to determine whether or not I’m worthy to take care of a turt—tortoise. She seems oblivious to how uncomfortable she’s making me feel, but, judging by the smile she gives me, I guess that I’ve passed the test. “Well, I’ll give you the crash course, then. Tortoises, like other reptiles, are cold-blooded animals, meaning that they should never be exposed to extreme temperatures for too long.” “Not a problem,” I say, grinning, “my house has a heater. It’s always in a comfortable temperature.” “Sorry, that won’t cut it. Reptiles need a more efficient source of heat.” She places a beige rock with a small red crystal on its center. “This one is a heat stone. You just power it up with magic or a stove and it slowly releases the provided energy.” “Right,” I say, wondering just how much will this make my wallet lighter. “Would that be all?” “Now you just need to know about their food. Most reptiles don’t need a lot of variety in their food, ponies usually buy dietary supplements and sprinkle them over the food. The most commonly given food is plain lettuce leaves, but you could give them cacti, if you wish.” She turns around and grabs a small plastic bottle with an orange lid. “This one is perfect for him. Plenty of calcium and vitamin D3, but you still need to get him some hours under the sun.” “Um, sure.” I nod. “Anything else?” “Well, if you were to get a more fragile reptile, I’d have to give you a few tips about further care. Tortoises, however, are pretty sturdy on their own, so you should be fine. Needless to say that if he starts acting weird, you should definitely seek medical attention for him. Since they can’t communicate properly, the first thing that changes when they’re feeling weird is their overall behavior.” “Is that all?” I ask and my question is answered by a quick ‘mhmm’. “Well, thanks for your help,” I say after producing the necessary bits to pay for the supplies. “Wait!” she says as I’m nearing the front door. “Promise to take care of him well.” Her eyes are glistening and her voice falters, breaking away from her usual monotone. “Celestia knows he deserves it.” I close the door and shake myself, brushing some of the cold off and almost making Tank fall in the process. I take the tur—tortoise from my back and place him on the floor, giving him an apologetic smile. His only reply is to stare at me before slowly blinking. I leave him alone for a bit and open up the fridge. I take out some lettuce leaves that still haven’t lost its crispiness due to the cold, dehydrating air and wash them in the kitchen sink. After rinsing them for the third time, I turn around and spot Tank walking towards me, nearly having covered half the distance towards the kitchen. I take a small glass bowl, mostly used to store food, and lay the leaves inside. Before taking it to Tank, I open the bottle with the orange lid I just purchased and slowly tilt it over the bowl. Small multi-colored particles fall over the green, crispy leaves. I carry it on my mouth and lay it next to the critter, who eyes it for a moment before slowly diving in for the bite. I watch with mild amusement as he slowly bites and swallows small fragments of the leaves at a time. As I take a look around, my eyes meet the clock in my living room. “Shit! Oh, hey, Tank. Look, buddy, I gotta get back to work. I’ll just leave you to get acquainted with the house. Don’t worry, I won’t be long!” To my surprise, the tortoise flashes me a toothless, slow-widening smile. “Hey, don’t look at me like that. This is the wrong season to leave anyone hanging,” I say before galloping outside once more. I feel my whole body getting heavier as I enter my office and am greeted by the immense amount of not-even-half-finished paperwork sitting on my desk. Slumping down on my chair, I ready myself for what promises to be another three plus hours of nothing but tiring boredom. To help me zone out a bit, I turn on the radio and grab my bottle of Cutie’s Mark. The strong but pleasantly smoky aroma hits my nose as I pour myself a modest amount in a shotglass. After downing a shot, I instantly feel much better. My cheeks and stomach practically radiates with warmth. I pull the topmost paper out from its pile and start reading it. I have barely gotten through the first paragraph and my mood already starts to dwindle. This is the bad half of my work. I could be focusing on Pinkie Pie right now, but no—Mully insists that I’m the one to get all the paperwork over with. Honestly, couldn’t they just hire somepony specifically for this job? I mean, what the hay?! This is valuable time we’re wasting! I pour myself another glass and place the bottle back inside the cabinet, catching a breath in order to help me focus. It certainly helps, as the paperwork became much more methodical and automatic now. My eyes and hooves seem to work on their own accord as they read file after file after file, signing it if it’s properly typed. My ears, however, have my full attention as I listen to the cracked mumbling coming from my radio: “—foretold in the old books of an anticorn, who will disunite the three tribes, and put an end to Harmony. Now, I may be crazy—” I move my hoof to switch the frequency, but I’m stopped as if by an invisible force. As my curiosity picks up for a minute, I bring my forehoof away from the device, allowing it to continue broadcasting this idiot. I’ve had a similar feeling, that Pinkie isn’t entirely normal,. Sometimes she appears almost more like an entity than a flesh and blood pony... “—and what’s to say about this one Pinkamena Pie? Isn’t she the spawn of Tartarus itself? Conceived in the fiery, deepest pits of pain and despair, she is a creature unable to feel emotion! And how can I be so sure, I hear you ponies asking? Well, how else would and earth pony be able to remain hidden from unicorn guards that long? How would a magicless pony break free from the most secure institution in this country? Dark magic, I tell you, Ponyville! No doubt that mare used the blood—” Well, that’s what I get for being curious about ridiculous preachers. Sure, some ponies do believe that Pinkie has some sort of magical power, but this is just too over-the-top. Even for those conspiracy theory crazies. Dark, magical powers... population control... the end of times... I’ve heard it all already and I am sure Pinkie has nothing to do with any of those things. The truth is that Pinkie is just very good at killing and getting away with it. To Pinkie, the world is just a sandbox and she’s the oldest child in the playground. Not only that, but she’s also the kid that taunts you for not being able to play and threatens to burn your house down if you tell on her... I hear somepony banging on my office’s door and I quickly turn the radio off. Once I’ve safely stashed away the bourbon, I order them to come in. A pony appears with the approximate shape of a cinderblock; bulky and slightly angular. It’s Trigger Happy, one of the newest additions to the force. “Oi, Buckshot! The girl at the reception just gave this to me. Says it’s for you,” he says and places the package over my desk. I give him an odd look, but he doesn’t seem to acknowledge it. “Sounds like someone’s getting lucky tonight, eh?” He winks at me and then purposefully messes his own olive-green mane before striking a pose. “Hey, once you’re done dating her, be sure to give me the address, right, Buck boy?” My reply comes in the form of a snort; no need to strike up conversation and waste more time than I already am. My eyes scan the package quickly and I need but a second to look at the pink wrapping before I deduce just who sent it to me. But then it hits me; Pinkiedelivered this to the police station! With my eyes wide as saucers, I immediately walk up to the young officer and grasp him. Trigger Happy is immediately startled by my action and starts flailing around with his eyes closed. His hooves whisk by my head several times as he thrashes about, trying to land hits on his would-be assailant. I give the stallion a firm shake, prompting him to open his eyes and look at me. “Geez, don’t scare a pony like that, old man!” He slaps my shoulder lightly, but his smile withers as he notices my eyes riveted on his. “W—what’s wrong?” His bewildered expression makes me calm down a little, I loosen my grip of his shoulders and the stallion instantaneously relaxes his tense muscles. “This package, I wanna kno—” “I dunno anything about it, swear! The receptionist just told me that it is for you,” he blurts out a bit too quickly. “But who’s it from? Who left it here?!” “She didn’t see it either. I asked her, but she told me she just found it outside! Honest, Buckshot!” His eyes are serious; gone are his arrogant attitude and quickly jumps in the trained police officer. “What’s going on, Buckshot?” “No, it’s—it’s nothing, don’t worry about it, Trig’,” I say, trying to turn his curiosity away. He looks at me questioningly, but ultimately nods to me. “Alright, I believe in you, Buckshot. But, hey, if you need any help, just ask, okay?” He asks, slowly backing off. I keep watching him as he leaves my office, not even bothering to close the door. I wait for a moment before grumbling and closing the door myself. Plopping down on my seat once more, I scan the package wearily for a few seconds. What if Pinkie had placed a bomb inside it? My heart skips a beat at this thought, but the more I think about it, the less likely that idea seems. A time bomb simply isn’t her style; too quick and not nearly sadistic enough. My curiosity eventually gets the best of me and I grab the package and start to rip apart the wrapping. Just a hole in and I am instantly assaulted by the sweet aroma of freshly baked cupcakes. Before I continue tearing the wrapping paper, I turn the box upside down, looking for any kind of postal stamp. I find some scribbled lines on the bottom, but a second take tells me that the address is fake. I tear open the wrapping completely and a rough cardboard box greets me, along with a postcard. The latter falls unceremoniously onto my desk, face up, showing me a cheesy photograph of a kitten hanging onto a tree branch, the words “Hang in there!” beside him. I snort and push it away, focusing on the cardboard box. I cut the duct tape sealing it and look inside to find... a rock. I can think of several ways by which Pinkie could cause damage with a rock, but all of them involves her throwing it at somepony or tying it around somepony’s feet. Since this rock isn’t nearly big enough to do either of those things—it’s a pebble at most, I’ve gotten larger things hurled at me during riots—I take a closer look at the object. The stone is jagged with nearly concave fractures, but the surface itself is smooth and milky-white, almost like the wax used to glue letters together. When I angle the rock against the light, it gives off a strange sheen. The light splits into multicoloured splinters, each glowing elusively just below the surface. A noise stirs me and I look up to see Mully walking into my office, carrying a pile of papers on his back. He places them over my desk and archs his eyebrows at me. I stare back, not knowing what he was doing. He takes a whiff at the air and scrunches his muzzle as I hurry to hide the rock away. “Oh, you found the package, then,” he comments. “Bucky, you know our policy about mixing one’s personal and professional life, if you have any personal business to take care off, please, do it outside of work.” “Yes boss,” I reply, glad that he didn’t seem aware of the stone I just hid. “On that note, would you mind if I leave work early, I have some personal business to take care of.” Mully keeps looking at me and then breaks out in a chortle. My eyebrows furrow, but he continues his mocking laughter undeterred. “Good one, Buckshot! Leave work early, can you believe this guy?” He mimics my voice, mocking it. I groan and wait for a few seconds as he slowly calms down. “No, Buckshot. You may not go home. You may, however, plop your plot on that seat and start sorting through all the overdue paperwork you’ve yet to check,” he says and taps the pile of paper he previously dumped on my desk. Mully seems a bit too much amused for his own good as he looks at my baffled expression. Once he’s done savoring my perplexed appearance, he leaves my room, leaving me to work overtime—probably. My hooves and eyes begin to work automatically as my mind goes back to the strange, beautiful stone Pinkie just sent me. However, as much as I try, I can’t seem to wrap my brain around what it’s supposed to mean. Is it the form? The stone itself? Its properties? The name of whatever mineral this is? There are so many variables that I just can’t seem to find an opening to tackle this problem. I can’t solve this one by myself. I’ll need an expert’s help to tell me something more about this rock. If only Mully hadn’t given me more paperwork to sort through... I can only hope that the ponyville jewel shop will be open after I’m done here. “Good evening and welcome to Diamants de Conflits. My name is Karat, how may I help you, sir Buckshot?” “Um, have we met before?” I ask, a little taken aback by the use of my name. I haven’t introduced myself yet. Karat snorts at the question and I can detect a slight superior air in his tone. “Maybe you won’t remember, given the circumstances happening at that time. But I always remember my customers, sir Buckshot.” “Bu—” “You came here some years ago and sold me a D-grade, 0.1 carat, brilliant cut diamond. A fine piece of jewelry, truly, but it didn’t do you a bit of good in the long run. My condolences.” “Oh yeah, my wedding ring... that was a bit ago. I’m already over her. Anyway, look, I came here because I need a pony that has knowledge of rocks.” “Not rocks, gems! And yes, I’m a pioneer in Ponyville. I’ll have you know that I have quite the reputation on Canterlot as well.” “Great! Then you’re the perfect pony for the job!” I shuffle around my trenchcoat’s pocket and produce the small artifact and hand it to Karat. “I need to appraise this one. I’d also like any information you might have on this particular stone.” The pony purses his lips together as I mutter the word “stone”, but nonetheless takes his loupe and begin looking at the gem. Whilst I wait for Karat to finish his analysis of the gemstone, I look around his store and marvel at the multitude of gems, their cuts and accessories on display there. It almost makes no sense, a shop like this being in a simple town like Ponyville and not on Manehattan or Canterlot, but I digress. “Well, it does look rather familiar, I admit,” Karat says, bringing forth my attention. He’s still inspecting the stone with his appraising glasses as he continues, “Hmm, amorphous, with some conchoidal fractures, and a faint vitreous luster... It's a semi-precious stone alright, but the quality is fairly low.” “That’s it? That’s all you got?” “I’m sorry, but identifying field samples isn’t my strong suit.” He sighs and carefully places the stone on top of the counter. “Wait, field sample?” I ask, taking the stone and returning it to my trenchcoat’s pocket. “Yes. Uncut stones, raw from the ground or the mountainside. I don’t identify them geologically; I just cut, polish and appraise.” He gestured to the whole array of fancy, shining gems surrounding him. “Do you want this stone cut?” His expression was something akin to what a professional chef would look like when being told that the guest of honor would be having instant noodles. “No no no. But if you don’t identify them, how do you know if a rock is worth something?” “I can recognise most gemstones and semi-precious stones once they are cut, obviously,” he says, sounding a little offended. “And when the samples arrive to me, they are usually labelled.” “Usually?” I cautiously add. “Yes,” he admits, allowing a bit of his shame to flash on his face. “You know, sometimes the labels fall off, and sometimes I get a batch collected by some amateur looking to make easy money. In those cases I—hang on, I got her card here somewhere somewhere. Maybe she can help you out.” I wait patiently as he rummages through his drawer before he looks at me and hands me the business card. I can’t help but do a double take as I read it. “Are you sure this is right?” “I’m sure. Finest geologist this side of Foals mountains.” He notices my stare and quickly adds on. “Who am I to judge what ponies choose to do with their lives?” He shrugs, and resumes looking at other gems on the counter with his loupe, writing on a notebook next to him all the while. I linger for a few more seconds before turning around and walking home. Karat clears his throat as I near the door. I stop and turn to look behind me and see him looking like he’s expecting something. I immediately blush for forgetting my manners. “Thanks, Karat. You’ve been really helpful!” I say and resume my way out of his store. As I cross the door, I hear a faint groan coming from the inside, but I don’t bother to look back, knowing that he is probably busy polishing a gemstone. “Hey, Tank. How are you doing?” I ask the tortoise as I enter my home, not really expecting a reply back. The critter in question turns around to look at me for a moment before going back to chomp on some crispy lettuce leaves on his bowl. I remove the postcard and the rock from my trenchcoat and set them on the table. Directing myself towards the couch, I allow myself to fall onto its cushions. It’s only then that I notice just how much every inch of my body, from the waist down, feels numb. I stretch and hear the pops from my joints, but it does nothing to alleviate my lower half from a full day’s work. Tank’s slow, dull munches and my calm, yet labored, breathing are the only sounds present in the house. My mind starts to wandering off on its own accord. Pinkie, the postcard, the rock, the innocents, the police, Equestria, the princesses, Harmony. Everything coalesces into one single amorphous thought that constantly shifts and yet always stays the same. Questions. Questions and answers. Pinkie’s youth, the clues, the victims, Pinkie’s helper, our safety, true order, death. No matter how much I try my brain insists on creating stories, sometimes unbelievable ones, to try and fit what little information I have together. I’m only grateful for one thing, at least: it hasn’t tried to shift the facts I know in order to fit the stories I create. A sudden noise coming from outside kicks my gears and I’m awake in less than a second. My first instinct is to check my surroundings, but everything is as it should be. But... Tank is not by the bowl anymore. I must’ve dozed off... how long have I been napping for? Another thud reminds me of why I was awoken in the first place. I slowly make my way towards the curtains blocking my window, ears perked for any sign of hoofsteps anywhere. I slowly move the thick fabric out of the way and dare a peek outside. The sky is a blotched mess of black and gray, the moon barely visible atop the blanket of clouds. Still, nothing moves from the many shadows cast about. Slowly, and as quietly as I can, I reposition myself next to the front door and push the door handle down. I feel my legs’ muscles tightening, ready to spring into action. My free forehoof takes a nightstick from the belt attached to my trenchcoat and it doo grasps the item as tightly as possible. I wait. I hear the thud once more and I throw my weight at the front door, jumping outside. I yell as I do so, trying to scare away whoever it was, but besides my vocalization, nothing breaks the bleak silence of the night other than some distant barking dogs. My eyes wander from side to side slowly, trying to detect any movement whatsoever. When nothing comes forth and I feel that my eyes have adjusted to the darkness enough, I breathe a relieved sigh, dropping the nightstick to the ground. It is then that I see Tank, making his way to the roof via a pile of snow that had accumulated next to the house. His steps are slow and seem calculated, but it only takes me five seconds of observation before he falls onto his back, producing the same thud that woke me up. “Are you nuts?!” I ask him. He stops and turns his head at me. “Are you trying to get yourself killed?!” Surprisingly, the tortoise shakes his head at me. “Then, what’s the matter?” Tank sorrowfully looks up to the night sky. “Oh, you miss flying around in Cloudsdale, huh?” I say and cradle the tortoise with my forehooves, shielding him from the cold snow. “Well, maybe in the summer we can rent a hot air balloon and go there. You may even get to walk around! There was this magician in tow who discovered a cloud-walking spell after at least a century! What was her name again...?” “Oh... It was Twilight Sparkle...”