//------------------------------// // Brain Cancer District (Act One) // Story: Cigarettes & Gunmetal // by MonoGlyph //------------------------------// Eleven o’clock at night. Mr. Levin exits the large, foreign restaurant that his ‘family’ owns, taking a few seconds to secure the featherstahl-reinforced doors behind him with an appropriately state-of-the-art DNA-encoded lock. As he looks east, he sees the empty street, windows painted silver in the moonlight. Turning west, he sees a lone figure approaching. He reaches into his saddlebag with a levitation spell, firmly grasping something unseen. The approaching stallion (for it is a stallion’s voice Levin hears) breaks out into song. “Oh my darlin’, oh my darlin’, oh my darlin’ Clementine/ Thou art lost and gone forever, dreadful sorry, Clementine…” Swaying slightly and still singing like a backing vocalist in some amateur musical, the stallion passes and continues on his way. Mr. Levin relaxes and releases his grip inside his saddlebag. Just some damned transient, drunk off his ass. I swear there are more and more of them every day. Turning on his heel, Mr. Levin begins his trek back home. He is what some might knowingly refer to as a ‘legitimate businessman’, and today’s biz was particularly exhausting; he is weary, ready to turn in. Meanwhile, although the shadowy stallion is gone, his tune refuses to leave Mr. Levin’s head. A few notes of it escape under his breath, though he’s not familiar with the lyrics. As seconds wear on, the tune grows more and more insistent in his head and it’s not long until it completely envelops his thoughts. Were his mind not otherwise preoccupied, he would suspect that something was terribly wrong. And then, as violently as it invaded, the tune fades away, leaving nothing. When a ‘colleague’ finds Mr. Levin lying on the pavement the next morning, the stricken stallion is unable to recount his experience, unable to move or to speak. There is a quiet bustle inside the facility as the transporters move her through the halls. Doctors and nurses scamper out of the way of the incoming stretcher and she cranes her neck to look at them as they pass. They appear thoroughly disinterested. The stretcher is moving uncomfortably fast; it’s suspended on an air cushion rather than conventional wheels. A few windows blur past. Something’s tapping on the other side. “What’s that sound?” Twilight asks dreamily. “Sound? That’s rain, honey,” her father answers. “Rain,” she echoes. “Incompetence from Cloudsdale is what it is. Their orders are to keep our air space clear. They’ll surely hear from me about this one.” The third voice is irate but businesslike. It belongs to the Princess, who is presumably following some paces behind the stretcher. “I want to see it,” says Twilight, her voice scarcely more than a whisper. Her parents exchange anxious looks. “We’ll accompany you outside after the operation,” her father promises. “Mmm. We’ll see about that,” says the Princess. “I suspect the doctors won’t much like that idea.” The lusca plates mounted on the ceiling are harsh, almost blinding. Twilight scrunches her eyes shut, but she can still see the flashes behind her eyelids as they fly by, one by one. A half minute is spent in the merciful gloom of the elevator, and then she’s speeding through the halls once more. At last the caravan arrives to the operating room. Sinister silver-plated instruments are set in orderly cases surrounding the table while the large bulk of the autosurgeon hangs overhead, stainless steel arms folded and withdrawn, like the legs of a massive deceased insect. There’s one arm for every instrument, be it laser scalpel, cauter or buzz saw. Its photoreceptor regards her stoically. Knives of horror pierce through the drug-induced haze that clouds Twilight’s mind. “M-mom?” Her mother looks over, trying ineffectually to hide her worry. “Is this going to hurt?” “Oh, sweetie…” “Yes, it will probably hurt,” the Princess cuts in. “The doctors need you to be at least semi-conscious during the procedure, otherwise your mind will reject the prosthetic and you’ll never be able to cast another spell.” Tears well up in Twilight’s eyes. “Do I… Do I have to…?” “We will be unable to make any real progress in your schooling until your horn is upgraded. Yes, you have to, provided that you want to continue your studies with me.” Her voice softens fractionally. “Not to worry: they’ve administered the strongest anesthetic legally available. The pain should be comparably dull, and if it isn’t, you may elect to have your memories of the procedure erased with amnesiacs afterwards. So. Would you like to proceed?” Her memory begins to collapse amidst visions of gleaming steel arms and the high-pitched whine of the saw. She can’t say if she ever did see the rain that day. She awoke with a start. The last shreds of the nightmare flashed behind her eyes and began to recede into her subconscious. She sighed, wiping the cold sweat from her brow, and as she did so her foreleg brushed against the cool mithril base of the magical amplifier that was installed into her horn that night. Memories I don’t need. First one of these nightmares in, what, two years? Why today? She glanced at the window. Falling angel tears rapped ceaselessly on the glass. Ah. Yeah. That would do it. A glitch in the recently-established SkySystems weather net had brought rain to Canterlot once more. Fucking unreliable pegasus engineers. She struggled out of bed and trudged to the door into the living room. The room was wide and covered in an elaborate carpet patterned with lions pouncing at fleeing gazelle whose horns were twisted into stylistic spirals. Twilight despised the carpet but the portly landlord was unreceptive to the idea of getting it changed. Barring any carpet-related modification to her living space, she was free to do as she pleased. She resided on the top floor of an ivory skyscraper called Hotel Anderson, in the designated royal suite: no expense was spared for Princess Celestia’s most faithful student. The outside wall of the living room was set in acrylic glass, lending a striking view of the city below. The buildings resembled teeth in the gargantuan maw of some prodigious horror. “Morning, Twilight!” She looked over to see her drake assistant, Spike, coming out of the kitchenette. He was young; his shiny purple scales had not yet lost their luster. He was mostly unenhanced save for a single metallic Grapevine port protruding from his skull, but unlike Twilight’s, his was surplus hardware, needing to be connected to a power outlet to function. “I was afraid you wouldn’t wake up in time. You remember we’re supposed to have a guest today, don’t you?” She grunted, not really listening. Before Spike could ask again, she was in the bathroom, the door sliding smoothly shut behind her. In the mirror her reflection glared at her as though she had personally insulted it. A half hour was spent standing passively beneath the antibacterial spray coming from the showerhead. “You have a visitor,” the hotel AI told her as the dryer blasted her with hot air. “Yeah, got it, thanks.” She activated her neuro-optical interface on a whim and connected to the Grapevine. As she did so, several windows and prompts flashed in her vision. World News: Border Dispute between Saddle Arabia and Gryphon Kingdoms Escalates into Full-Scale War Business News: Destek Lmtd. Files for Bankruptcy Science News: Terraforming Efforts Begin on Artemis II Science News: Lunar Colonization Proposal Rejected Again Local News: Preparations for the Celestial Festival Underway She flicked her eyes to the right and the screen shifted to the forum page obligingly. She groaned when the general section came into view. New Thread: wat if equestria started the sa/gk war by Eu4ia New Thread: will code 4 food by Eu4ia New Thread: Experienced Hazmat Workers Wanted by Serypth New Thread: any1 know y celestia doesnt want moon citys by Eu4ia New Thread… Following the introduction of the neuro-optical interface to the general public, physical typing quickly became obsolete. Upgrading to the NOI meant that ponies would no longer need to carry around computers and keyboards, and would be able to enter words into the Grapevine by concentrated thought alone, which tended to be faster and eliminated spelling mistakes and shortcuts almost completely. But not everybody accepted the technology with open forelegs. Certain fringe groups maintained that keyboards were much more responsive than the NOI in some contexts, such as programming and navigating text-based command prompts. Furthermore, keyboards were far less expensive than the interface and did not require a cranial operation for installation. Twilight had never taken much of an interest in these arguments. Eu4ia was a well-known keyboard purist and would periodically flood the message boards with indecipherable posts. Another user by the name of Commander_Giblet once jokingly petitioned with a number of others for her to get a neuro-optical interface or leave the forums forever. When the administrators finally got around to deleting the topic, there were some five hundred signatures. Twilight disconnected from the Grapevine and shut her interface off with a practiced flourish. Nothing of interest. Shining Armor was waiting for her at the kitchen table with a cup of coffee to his mouth. Whereas Twilight may have lacked any sense of proper hospitality when it came to her older brother’s visits, Spike often got him settled in her stead. “Good morning, Twily.” She cringed. “Come on, Shining. When are you going to stop calling me that?” “I thought you liked that name,” he said, grinning. “When I was six, maybe.” She dug around in the refrigerator for a few silent seconds and produced a lemon. The UniChef vibroknife she was holding cut through the flesh of the citrus in an instant. Shining Armor chuckled to himself. “You haven’t changed all that much, you know.” “Careful what you say. I’ve got a knife.” He looked at the instrument and yawned theatrically. “What kind of Royal Guard would I be if I couldn’t disarm some pampered damsel barely out of her teens?” Twilight smiled, stowing the knife in its magnetic holder. “Well fuck you too, guy.” She poured herself a cup of boiling water and added a tea bag with a lemon slice as the toaster spit out two crispy slices of bread. Breakfast as usual. Her eyes darted across the table as she chewed on the toast. Shining Armor looked uncharacteristically disheveled; his mane wasn’t combed, his eyes were glazed over and there were traces of a five o’clock shadow on his chin. “Sheesh. No wonder you can’t get a girlfriend. What’s up, Shining, tough night?” “Not particularly.” He took a sip of coffee and exhaled wearily through his nostrils. “I was out drinking with Heartland.” “Heartland?” “You don’t remember him? The chief of police.” “Oh. Yeah.” Twilight vaguely recalled the middle-aged, whiskered stallion from the celebration her brother held when he got promoted to captain of the Royal Guard. “How is he?” she asked, feigning interest. “He’s a damn mess. Something happened two nights ago. High-stakes case. A lot of eyes on the CPD right now from high up, but the investigation’s at a stand-still.” “Really? What’s going on?” Twilight asked, now marginally more invested. “It seems that the head of the local mafia was found brain-dead a couple of blocks east. Normally the police would be able to read the victim’s memory to experience the crime first-hand, but as I’m sure you can imagine, that’s not an option this time.” He gestured at the window listlessly. “All they’ve got to go on is a few spotty Street Eye pictures. There’s no apparent physical interaction with anyone out of the ordinary, and the facial recognition software won’t identify the one possible witness.” “Curious.” “Isn’t it.” Shining glanced back to the living room where Spike was seated on a context-mold futon, tuned in to his interface. “I trust you’ll keep this under wraps. The police department has kept it off the feeds for now, but they’re due to make a press release pretty soon.” “Hmm.” She grabbed a pale, plastic cylinder from the table and shook it absentmindedly, hearing the rustle of the tablets within. “I don’t suppose you could convince Heartland to let me have a look at the evidence and the crime scene, could you?” Shining Armor paused with the cup half-way to his lip, and then set it down again. “Maybe, but of what interest is any of that to you? You’re not a criminology major; you’re a civilian. I don't think you'll be of much help.” “Granted, but I’ve had extensive intuition-driven spellcraft training and I’ve read my share of dossiers on various past criminals in Canterlot and elsewhere. I have a dedicated folder for these things at least two hundred files thick. Come on, Shining, I’m bored out of my skull up here.” His eyes rotated to the upper-left corner of his vision, consulting his digital calendar. “Aren’t your Magical Aptitude Exams less than a week away?” “I’ve been over the material. I can do most of it in my sleep.” He massaged his forehead with one of his fetlocks. “Fine. Fine. I guess we can have a quick look if you’re so eager, but I doubt it'll amount to anything.” Twilight shook out a single diminutive tablet and dry swallowed it, chasing it with a swig of lemon tea; a brief bitterness in the back of her throat drowned out by the tart, watered down juice. Quiesenathine: A multi-purpose mood stabilizer used to treat a spectrum of mental disorders ranging from mild anxiety to depression and mania to full-blown schizophrenia. “Fantastic, thanks. So, when are you available to accompany me there?” “Finish your breakfast. We might as well get this over with quickly.” Shining Armor cleared his throat and spoke. “How’s the feed look to you? Any visual artifacts or other issues?” Several miles away, in the technical office of the police station, Twilight shook her head mutely, before remembering that the stream was one-way. She had split functionality between the neuro-optical interface and her actual visual input. The end result was that one of her eyes was receiving Shining’s feed while the other remained free to view whatever it was directed at as normal. It was extremely disorienting. “Crystal-clear,” she replied. “Proceed.” The investigation had yielded two major factors for their scrutiny: the crime scene and the Street Eye images. The images were isolated on a closed network in the police station, preventing any would-be hackers from accessing them remotely. Shining Armor had seen fit to examine the crime scene personally, while Twilight was more interested in the images. For efficiency’s sake, Shining Armor had set his NOI to record, and was simultaneously sending the video to Twilight, back at the office. “Figures that it’s gotta be me standing out here in the rain,” he said. “And of course you had to drag me out here with you,” said Heartland, standing some feet away. “I’m starting to regret mentioning all this last night.” “You didn’t have to humor us, you know,” Twilight pointed out. “You’re the commissioner of the CPD. Maybe it wouldn’t hurt to grow a little backbone.” Shining Armor was the only one that heard the comment. He didn’t relay it. He looked down at the pavement inside the police perimeter. There was no outline of where the body had been but there were several telling stains that the rain was busily washing away. “So Duke Levin was found here? What are these stains? I thought you said he was physically uninjured.” Heartland looked up at him, face blank. “That’s not blood. The poor bastard shat himself.” Twilight wrinkled her nose reflexively. “I see.” Shining Armor sounded unruffled. “Tell us how you found him.” “We didn’t. This crime was reported by Mr. Levin’s acquaintance, one Fancy Pants. He found the victim lying on his side in the middle of the street at approximately 8:30 in the morning and he claims not to have touched the body. We found a fully-charged Æther-brand firearm in Levin’s saddlebag along with an untouched wallet.” “The battery’s full? So he didn’t fire on anyone?” “No. You’ll see as much from the images.” Twilight rubbed her chin thoughtfully, a gesture lost over the audio-only line. The mafia don was equipped with a top-of-the-line beam weapon, but did not use it. Was the attack too quick for him to react? Too quick for the Street Eye cameras to pick up? Or was he simply unaware that something was amiss until it was too late? Something about this whole scenario seemed familiar… “Do you have any suspects?” asked Shining Armor. Heartland shrugged. “Fancy Pants himself seemed like a viable suspect for a while; he was the one who found the body and he has his own connections to the mob. Our undercover agents tell us that he was supposed to take Levin’s seat after he passed, so there’s your motive.” “But?” “But he was home that night. His fiancé, Fleur De Lis, has confirmed his alibi.” Shining Armor looked at the stains again. “You shouldn’t rule out hired help,” he said. “Aye. Our brief interrogation didn’t get much out of him but, to his credit, he didn’t ask for a lawyer.” “What do you think, Heartland?” The other stallion sighed. “I don’t know. We might find Pants dead in a gutter next if the folks in charge think that he staged a coup d’etat. If this is the doing of a vigilante or, Celestia help us, another gang, Duke Levin won’t be the last. Either way, my money says that we’ll see more bodies before the week is through.” Twilight turned her attention to the hologram display in front of her; the first scene was suspended there, stationary but obscenely high-res. The general public was not aware that Street Eye only took a snapshot every ten seconds. The images were fully three-dimensional and took up a significant chunk of digital memory so full-motion video was currently impossible. Theoretically someone with a select few speed upgrades could murder a pony without being seen but such a scenario seemed so overwhelmingly unlikely that Twilight could not bring herself to consider it seriously. The victim’s emptied mind, the lack of physical contact or any sign that he knew that something was wrong… The conclusion came easily for a mage of Twilight’s caliber. “It’s a memetic kill spell,” she muttered to herself. Shining Armor’s voice floated back to her over the stream. “Beg your pardon?” “The unknown subject used a memetic kill spell to slay Levin." “Care to explain what that is?” Shining asked. Twilight heard Heartland demanding to know what she was saying and saw Shining gesture for silence. “A memetic kill spell is a lethal curse. They are not widely recognized for reasons twofold: firstly, the government mandate regarding such information is that it should not be readily available to Joe Everyman and family. Secondly, memetic kill spells are very finicky and difficult to pull off successfully. Mortality rates of the users themselves are almost half as high as their would-be targets, so even training academies for the military and the police scarcely ever mention them. “Execution goes something like this: The user implants a specific idea in the target’s mind. The material can be anything; a picture, an answer to a simple question, auditory input and so on. Once he is certain that his mark is entertaining the thought, he’ll activate the spell using the idea as a parameter. It becomes cancerous, spreading through the victim’s psyche and leaving them in a permanent vegetative state. I imagine that a successful completion of the maneuver requires a significant bit of mental discipline; the spell could easily backfire if the attacker slips up and considers the idea himself.” “Alright. So what does this tell us about our killer?” Twilight looked at the holographic stills again. “Well, the killer is a unicorn. Before you say anything, yes, I am aware that so is nearly seventy percent of Canterlot’s population.” She manipulated the dial to zoom in on the second figure. “He is likely to be well-educated, though it’s possible that he’s a talented hobbyist. He used a risky mind-wiping spell instead of more conventional means. Even when his objective is avoiding leaving evidence in the victim’s brain, there are simpler means to erase memory post-mortem. The method of killing was intentionally impersonal which leads me to believe that the subject is socially stunted or otherwise afraid of getting his hooves dirty.” “You two would probably get along well,” Shining Armor said, smirking. Twilight rolled her eyes. “Well, unlike me, the subject is probably male.” “Oh? What makes you say that?” “Besides statistical likelihood? The image of the so-called ‘witness’ you mentioned.” “You’re suggesting that’s the guy?” “That seems likely. The memetic kill spell is exponentially more difficult to cast over long distances. Facial recognition software can’t identify him because he’s probably wearing a mask. He seems to be wearing an overcoat, making it impossible to identify his color or brand.” “Of course he is.” “Well, go ahead and tell the chief. I suppose I’ll keep digging. To be honest with you though, I don’t think we can catch him with just this. Tell Heartland to call us when there are more dead mobsters or whatever.” Shining Armor winced. “Star Swirl’s beard. That’s cold, Twily.” She had shut off the display and was already making her way to the exit. “Sorry, but I’m not about to lose any sleep over the death of a criminal or two.” Shining Armor had driven her to the Canterlot Archives on her request. She watched the Royal Guard-owned transport retract its landing gear, hover in midair for a split second, and take off smoothly into the sky. The doors to the lobby slid open for her with a sigh and the dry, air-conditioned air enveloped her as she stepped inside. As she had suspected, information regarding this type of psychological attack was scarce on the Grapevine, forcing her to peruse the ancient paper books stored in the Archives. Self-serve terminals stood at regular intervals throughout the labyrinthine innards of the facility, but restricted material did not have a barcode and had to be processed by a flesh-and-blood librarian. It took her an hour and a half to find a book that touched on the spell. She lugged it to the front desk, cursing the unintuitive organizational system and analog libraries in general, swearing that were it up to her, all this information would be stored on a remote database somewhere and libraries themselves would be demolished. “A hundred years’ progress since the advent of online data storage and we still dedicate valuable real estate to this. Unbelievable.” She realized she was talking to herself. The only clerk on duty was sleeping at his post. She couldn’t really blame him. “Thank the Princess that I won’t ever have to work in a place like this.” She knocked on the wood of the table impatiently. The clerk stirred slightly, severing the strand of saliva trailing from the corner of his mouth. The modicum of empathy Twilight felt for him was swiftly evaporating. “The Sun damn your eyes! Rise and shine, you lout!” The shout echoed through the deserted wing of the Archives. The startled librarian nearly fell over backwards in his chair, but by some miracle managed to retain his balance. He adjusted a pair of antique prescription glasses on his snout and cleared his throat before speaking. All told, he recovered from the shock remarkably quickly. She guessed he was used to similar treatment. “Yes miss, how can I help you,” he said impassively. Twilight might have mistaken him for an incredibly realistic automaton had she not seen him sleeping moments ago. She slammed the aging book irreverently on the polished oak table. “I’m borrowing this.” He gave the tome a cursory examination. “Terrors of the Twelfth Hour compiled by Jesse Weatherwick and Ebon Tusk…” he recited quietly. “This is a restricted volume.” No shit. “Yes. You will process it for me.” He sniffed. “Can I see a form of written authorization for this checkout?” She fished her spellcraft license out of her saddlebag and flashed it at the librarian. “I’m Twilight Sparkle, student to your monarch, Princess Celestia. Maybe you’ve heard of her?” “Oh…” Twilight could see something approaching genuine emotion cloud the young unicorn’s face. “My apologies.” He entered the appropriate information into the library’s digital borrower ledger with a speed and accuracy that suggested he was desperate to end this encounter. She stepped outside to wait for Shining Armor to return with the transport and take her home. The rain showed no sign of ceasing any time soon. The book was damaged; withered pages were missing throughout the tome. The section on memetic kill spells, while present in the contents, was notably absent from the tome proper. Twilight pushed away from her desk. Just my luck, I guess. The sun was setting outside, red and orange bleeding into the surrounding skyline, setting the dark cotton clouds ablaze and bathing the suite in gold. The water-logged capital shimmered, drowning out the lights of the various cars and freighters that dotted the roads below and the skies above. While Canterlot was very technologically advanced in certain ways, Twilight always felt that it was woefully antiquated in others. The ground traffic had become much less congested with the popularization of aerial vehicles, yet the government saw fit to maintain the subway system. Where some buildings were adequately climate-proofed, with windows of adjustable transparency and state-of-the-art temp-control walls, others had to make do with old-fashioned heating and air conditioning. These tended to be the same houses that did not have a proprietary AI and were left with isolated electronics, which were admittedly hack-proof and, therefore, safer… “Anderson.” “Yes, Miss Sparkle?” asked the hotel. “Coffee,” she demanded, stifling a yawn. “No milk.” “Yes, Miss Sparkle.” There was a low hum in the kitchen as the autobrewer came to life. …Isolated electronics were certainly safer. But they also tended to make life more arduous. She heard a soft crackling as the static broom passed over the carpet. Spike was giving the suite its customary once-over. “So, Twilight,” he started when the distant autobrewer began to fizzle out. “Where did you and Shining go? I can’t remember the last time you were away from the apartment for so long.” She shot him a look. “That is, uh,” he stumbled. “If you don’t mind sharing.” Twilight unhooked her steaming mug from the appliance and took a shallow sip. The bitter liquid set her teeth on edge. Its taste and aroma were exquisite by machine standards, though still not quite a match for the brew of any half-decent barista. She turned her attention back to Spike. “Nothing too interesting. Getting reacquainted with some of his friends. I took a book from the Archives on the way back to study but, wouldn’t you know it, the entire section I was looking for had been torn out.” She clicked her tongue in recalled irritation. “Sundamned analog. This certainly wouldn’t have happened if the info was anywhere on the feeds.” “Oh man. Was it the only book containing what you were looking for?” asked Spike. “I don’t know. Probably not.” “Maybe you should let the librarians know?” “No, what good would that—” she stopped. The killer had to have learned the spell somewhere, and it might have been the very book that now lay on her desk. Chances were slim, of course, but it wouldn’t do to dismiss a potential lead offhand. She would need to return to the archives and question management about previous borrowers. She took another measured gulp of her coffee, suppressing the grimace this time. “Thanks Spike, I think I’ll do that. You should get some sleep.” As the drake shuffled to his room, Twilight returned to her desk with the coffee hovering steadily in front of her. The sun had nearly set outside, and the star-dotted darkness crept methodically across the heavens like ink spreading through watercolor. She’d managed to work through two thirds of the steaming mug when the prompt flashed in her peripheral vision. >Invitation to join private conversation received from Lady_Gaea. >Accept? Shit. What does she want now? Twilight took another sip from her mug and then stared fixedly into it. Fine. She begrudgingly accepted the invitation. A grid of bright turquoise hexagons briefly obscured her vision before fading from the center outwards. It was a tastelessly flashy loading screen for nothing more than a basic chat room. Twilight tried to blink the lights away ineffectually. (19:09) Star-Struck joined the conversation. (19:09) Star-Struck: What is it? (19:09) Lady_Gaea: Sorry. They talked me into it. (19:09) Star-Struck: Excuse me? (19:10) Commander_Giblet: A little bird told us that you were helping the CPD with a murder investigation. That right? You some kinda shitty Sherlock Hooves now? (19:11) Star-Struck: What in Tartarus… I thought I took you off of my contacts list. Gaea, what the fuck is he doing here? (19:11) Eu4ia: o hai im here too (19:11) Star-Struck: Fantastic, I knew this day was missing something. I woke up with a distinct lack of a migraine. Glad you’re here to remedy the situation. (19:11) Eu4ia: <3 (19:12) Lady_Gaea: I’m really sorry. I told them you were busy, but, you know… (19:12) Star-Struck: This is supposed to be confidential information, damn you. Who spilled? (19:12) Commander_Giblet: Wouldn’t you like to know. (19:12) Star-Struck: Gaea. Who tipped you off about all this? (19:13) Lady_Gaea: I’m not sure. The username lookup function couldn’t return their online handle or location. (19:13) Star-Struck: What? Why? (19:13) Lady_Gaea: Eu4ia, you’re pretty tech-savvy, right? Do you know any reason why Grapevine username lookup would fail? (19:13) Eu4ia: i rly have no idea (19:14) Star-Struck: Oh, come on. You’ve had to have done stuff like this yourself, right? Connection encryption and so on? (19:14) Eu4ia: nope i got nothin (19:14) Star-Struck: Bullshit. (19:14) Lady_Gaea: Star, please calm down. (19:15) Star-Struck: Oh, what. You barge in and start shoving your noses in my business, and expect me to just passively sit by? Seriously, fuck you guys. (19:15) Commander_Giblet: Oh my Sun, would you just stop bitching. Tell us about this fucking case already! (19:15) Eu4ia: maybe we should leave her alone giblet (19:15) Eu4ia: she seems upset (19:15) Commander_Giblet: You got somewhere you need to be or what? (19:16) Eu4ia: well yea i got this thing tonight (19:16) Eu4ia: but also you know if she doesnt wanna talk about it (19:16) TheSunAlsoRises joined the conversation. Twilight felt an involuntary jolt go through her. Oh boy. (19:16) Eu4ia: eh (19:16) Eu4ia: whos this (19:16) TheSunAlsoRises: I’d like to talk to Star-Struck. (19:16) Lady_Gaea left the conversation. (19:16) Commander_Giblet left the conversation. (19:17) Eu4ia: whered every1 go (19:17) Star-Struck: Eu4ia, please leave. (19:17) TheSunAlsoRises: … (19:17) Eu4ia: o.o (19:17) Eu4ia left the conversation. (19:18) TheSunAlsoRises: Good evening, Twilight. Twilight focused on her cup again. The remainder of the coffee was lukewarm. She downed it. (19:18) Star-Struck: Your Ladyship! It’s a pleasure to hear from you. Though, with all due respect, I’m perplexed as to why you would deign to enter a conversation I was having with these commoners instead of calling or e-mailing me directly… (19:18) TheSunAlsoRises: Life in the palace is extraordinarily dull, you know. Mountains of paperwork and red tape, arrogant foreign ambassadors, mindlessly accommodating servants. Exercising my power in any way I can helps alleviate some of my ceaseless ennui, petty though it may seem. Twilight snorted. Petty is right. (19:19) Star-Struck: Not at all, I’m sorry for questioning you. May I inquire as to why you’re contacting me? (19:19) TheSunAlsoRises: You may, though that is also a question, so I bid you watch your tongue. Twilight winced despite herself. In much the same way that one couldn’t predict exactly when a drunk has shouted his fill and might get violent, it was often difficult to tell when the Princess’s threats and indignation were intended facetiously and when they were genuine. Her subjects found it best to hemorrhage apologies now, lest they hemorrhage actual blood at a public execution later. (19:19) TheSunAlsoRises: Shining has informed me that you are attempting to assist the local police with a criminal investigation. Is this true? (19:20) Star-Struck: Yes, milady. (19:20) TheSunAlsoRises: You recall that it’s testing season. Shouldn’t you occupy yourself with your studies rather than chase phantoms in the streets? (19:20) Star-Struck: I apologize. I’m just trying to do my part for the city. I feel confident with the material you’ve assigned me and I’m sure I’ll be able to surpass expectations as always. (19:20) TheSunAlsoRises: Arrogance doesn’t become you, Twilight. Very well, if this is the extracurricular activity you choose to pursue then it’s not my place to try and stop you. But be aware that police-work isn’t without its occupational hazards. I leave you to your own devices for now. Do not make me regret this decision. (19:20) Star-Struck: Of course not, milady. (19:20) TheSunAlsoRises left the conversation. Twilight stared at the chat log for a time, thinking. She’d expected the Princess to hear about all this, and evidently Shining Armor had told her. She still couldn’t say how her online acquaintances caught wind of the investigation though, since Shining had no reason to reveal anything to them. Indeed, she would deem such action out-of-character for the no-nonsense, by-the-book Royal Guard Captain. She moved to close the chat client when— (19:22) [user irretrievable] joined the conversation. (19:22) [user irretrievable]: Beg your humblest pardon. I saw you were online and couldn’t help myself. Who’s this joker? Hmm… Is he the one who… (19:23) Star-Struck: I presume you’re the one who tipped off Gaea, Eu4ia and Giblet. (19:23) [user irretrievable]: Yes, that’s correct. (19:23) Star-Struck: What the fuck was that for? And how did you know about it? Who are you, exactly? (19:23) [user irretrievable]: I’m afraid that revealing my identity to you would be… counter-productive. Twilight sat up. (19:24) Star-Struck: Are you claiming that you’re the killer? You expect me to believe that? (19:24) [user irretrievable]: You can believe what you wish. Meanwhile, I’d like to talk. (19:24) [user irretrievable]: Canterlot is mostly an administrative city. These lofty streets are home to the main offices of countless banks, supermarket chains, government branches, et cetera. There are clean lines dividing the bourgeois, the privileged upper-class and the migrant workers. Transients typically migrate to the city biannually to cultivate the orchards of mountain olive that grow on the outskirts of the city. This city, the capital, is very well-to-do despite its comparably low working-class population. It saddens me to see that much of the local business owners are presently beneath the callous hoof of the Bratva. (19:25) [user irretrievable]: The Stalliongradzkaya Bratva—or the Stalliongrad Brotherhood if you prefer—fled to these lands following the collapse of their infrastructure in Stalliongrad due to the interference of Czar Medved II. They extort local businesses under the guise of selling insurance, and as far as organized crime goes, they are not overly noteworthy. Smuggling, drug trade, prostitution rings. Hardly breaking new ground. Twilight tried to resist the urge to tell the newcomer to shut up. (19:25) Star-Struck: What’s the point of this lecture, please? I already know most of this. Are you trying to say that this murder is justified? (19:25) [user irretrievable]: Who am I to say whether a murder is justified? That job clearly falls to the jury, or, in some cases, the Princess. (19:25) Star-Struck: Would you just shut up. Your pseudo-intellectual bullshit is dribbling all over your floor, I’ll bet. If you’ve come to try and convince me to drop the case, tough luck; this is way too interesting for me to pass up. If you’ve come to gloat… Fine. Get that out of the way. But don’t expect me to sit and listen while you recite some tourist brochures and the like. I’ve got better things to do. (19:25) [user irretrievable]: Hum. I see. In that case, I’ll leave you for now. Though… Perhaps you’d prefer to talk face-to-face? (19:26) [user irretrievable]: 118 Redlex Avenue. 42nd floor. If you hurry, you may find me there. Then again, you may not. It might not be wise to trust the word of a soon-to-be serial murderer but I’m sure you’ll follow your instincts. Otherwise, what sort of detective are you? I hope to talk to you again soon. Until then, I’ll take my leave. (19:26) [user irretrievable] left the conversation. Twilight blinked once and shut the chat client off. Well. It’s time to make some phone calls, I think.