//------------------------------// // Prelude // Story: The Sharpest Tool // by Samey90 //------------------------------// The old factory building was dark and empty. Most of the windows were boarded up, and the walls were covered in colourful graffiti. Vinyl Scratch finally found a place without cobwebs (or rather with less cobwebs than elsewhere) and sat on her haunches, glad that sunglasses covering half of her face prevented Freebass from noticing her uninterested look. “So, Vinyl, how do ya like it?” a diminutive green stallion with a striking orange mane and smiley cutie mark asked enthusiastically. “Well… lots of space, good acoustics, but I still can’t see how do you want to organize this,” she replied. During her career as a DJ she had seen way too many event managers. Some of them were sad ponies in suits who had no idea about her music, but they had money. Others, like Freebass were die-hard fans with lots of enthusiasm, no experience and, usually, empty wallets. “We want to do this like in old times – ya know, old industrial building, flyers with clues how to find this place, dancing, light show…” “…drugs…” Vinyl added. If that guy wanted to make an illegal rave, he had to have money, at least the amount needed to bail himself and the DJ from jail. He didn’t look like someone who sleeps on cash, so he had to have sponsors. Who’s most likely to sponsor an illegal event? Drug dealers, looking for the new clients. Vinyl wasn’t a great detective, but that deduction came to her easily – no surprise, considering the fact that she’d taken part in few such gigs in her youth. That, however, didn’t mean that she wanted to do that again. Octavia wouldn’t approve that. “What? No, no drugs! Everything is legal, organised by Equestrian Anti-Drug Foundation,” suddenly Freebass’ voice became more official, “Through such events, we promote healthy lifestyle among the young ponies, showing them that the entertainment without drugs or alcohol is possible!” he paused, as if he was awaiting the applause, but the only sound was his own speech, echoing through the old factory. “Oh… ok…” Vinyl muttered, stunned. Fifteen years and instead of illegal underground parties we have legal anti-drug underground parties? Sweet Celestia, am I that old? she thought. “So, Vinyl,” Freebass said, coming back to his usual, excited tone, “d’ya agree?” “Well… You probably know that I’m not really a role model…” “Don’t worry about that, we all have some past sins... mistakes of youth…” Hey, I like my mistakes of youth! Well… most of them… “…and by taking part in such action you could show the audience that you can be both clean and cool,” “I don’t know…” “And we can pay you one-hundred thousand bits for that show. Two thousand now.” “You know what? I’m in!” she exclaimed. “Great,” Freebass smiled and they hoof-bumped. He passed Vinyl two thousand bits from his saddlebags and reached to them for something else. “Wanna smoke?” he offered her a suspicious looking cigarette. “Whoa, mister Anti-Drug Something! Have you heard about irony?” “Yeah, it’s that little black berry,” he said casually, lighting up his cigarette, “Besides, it’s a medicine, I have a rare genetic condition… But don’t mention it to my bosses,” “I won’t,” she said, taking the joint from him, “That’s funny, actually I have a rare genetic condition too…” *** Vinyl was trotting happily down the dirty street. She had two thousand bits in her pocket, a contract for another ninety eight thousand, and, last but not least, Freebass gave her the address of his neighterlandese pharmacist. Nothing, not even the view of half-ruined buildings surrounding the street could spoil her good mood. “Hey! Watch out!” an unpleasant voice yelled. She realised that she almost stomped on a pony lying down on a pavement, curled under the dirty blanket. It was a pegasus, judging by the wings’ shape under the cover. Only the pony’s face was visible, and it wasn’t a nice view: it was dirty, covered in scars and burn marks. However, for Vinyl, who was in the cannabis-induced love-and-peace-to-the-world mood, it didn’t matter. She looked at the piece of cardboard in front of the pony and read: DISABLED GRIFFON WAR VETERAN, NEED MONEY FOR LIVING AND MEDICINES. “Oh, sorry dude,” she said, and took ten bits from her bag – her levitation spell failing her due to her being under the influence – and gave it to the pony. Suddenly, a claw caught her hoof and pulled a knife from under the blanket. Seeing the blade an uncomfortable distance from her throat, she stammered: “Err… you need more? I don’t really need those two thousand bits in my saddlebags… Take it all.” The pony tore her bag open, took the bits, and ran away, limping, disappearing in the nearest nook. Vinyl sighed with relief. Out of the blue, she recalled the knife fight rules some shady pony had taught her when she was thirteen. If they have a knife and you don’t – do what they say or run for your life. If you both have knives – use the hoof with a knife to distract them, hit them with the other hoof and run away. If you have a knife and they don’t – go home and rethink your behaviour. Why are you assaulting unarmed ponies? “Well,” she shrugged, “This guy is probably rethinking his behaviour now…” *** Cloud Counter was pacing through his hotel room. He had enough of this half-collapsing town, and if it was for him, he’d stay in Sankt Ponysburg, even after Cloudchaser had dumped him. But he needed money and the Detrot weather team offered quite a good salary for anypony who’d calculate how much rain would they need in the following year. He sat on the bed and took a look at his notes again. He had considered proposing them to create a tornado, thus solving problem of the empty buildings that needed to be demolished, but he was afraid that those pegasi had no sense of humour. Just after he opened his laptop to make some simulations, he felt that somepony else was is in his room. “Hey, that ‘Do not disturb’ sign isn’t on the knob for nothing!” he said, slightly annoyed. There was no response, so he raised his head only to find out that he was staring in the two barrels of a sawed-off shotgun, held by a dirty pegasus mare, whose one wing was hanging lifelessly. Her body was clad in old blanket, to hide the fact that large parts of her lilac coat were missing. Her mane was cut short. A pink bow, probably the only clean piece of her clothing was tied to her right hoof. “Hello there, my little pony,” she said, grinning sadistically just before pulling the trigger.