//------------------------------// // Sheol // Story: Severed Roots // by Bad_Seed_72 //------------------------------// Sheol Card Slinger had a headache. Groaning, he began to wake, keeping his eyes clenched shut. A thousand angry hooves were hammering his skull like some sort of delinquent nail. Though his head was hot and heavy with pain, the rest of his body felt cool, almost chilled. Slinger realized that he was lying prone on his stomach. The surface underneath his belly felt completely flat, slick, and cold. Groaning again, Slinger winced, cursing his headache. How much did he drink last night? Not even the bottom of the barrel treated him so terribly. He must have drank all the way through the bottle down to Tartarus itself. Feeling like he would vomit from the pain, Slinger rolled onto his side, braced his hindhooves to stand up, and— Couldn’t. “Buck.” It was far too bright in here. Bright as an interrogation lamp, the flickering lanterns hanging near the ceiling of the Manehatten Police Department’s prison blinded him as he finally opened his eyes. Hung on a wire like endless birds, the lanterns taunted and mocked him from above, but not as much as the tight hoof-cuffs on both his forehooves and hindhooves below. “Son o’ a bitch…” Snorting in growing rage, Card Slinger rolled over to his other side and squirmed. The cuffs didn’t budge. His hooves had been stretched and restrained so tautly that he couldn’t even bend at the waist. The cell was barely large enough to house him. Its walls, floor, and ceiling were gray, the same gray that cloaked most of Manehatten. Completely bare but for a cot and a toilet in one corner, the cell’s only redeeming quality was that it contained only one stallion. The bars to the cell were arranged closely together, leaving barely enough room for him to squint through them. He could tell that the cells across from his were occupied, but by who was anypony’s guess. Gritting his teeth, Card continued to squirm, trying to remember how he had gotten himself in this position. The last thing he recalled was speaking to the officers who had tortured him in the interrogation room—the two who had shined that dreadful light in his eyes. There had been others there, too… Including… That mare… In an instant of lucidity, he remembered everything. White Dove, Lucky Toss, Rustler. Babs Seed, Apple Bloom. Hooves and batons and pistol raised, the five had spared him somehow in that torture chamber, out of some mercy that had long died in his own heart. He had told them everything. Everything about the Master. Every last little bit, black instead of gold. They were heading off to the tower soon. This evening, in fact. Heading off to his tower, to that mocking spiral that dared to try and reach the empty Heavens. In spite of his predicament, Card Slinger laughed. He laughed and laughed, his notes beginning as chuckles, then rising into a round of deep, hearty laughs, belly laughs that ached in his position. He laughed and laughed some more, until he felt like he might burst. “Hahahaha! Bahahahaha! HA HA HA HAHAHAHA!” “’Ey! ‘Ey!” Somepony pounded on the right wall of his cell, bucking their hindhooves into the unforgiving concrete. “Shut the buck up, psycho!” The stallion’s protest only amplified his laughter. Card Slinger was rocking and rolling on his belly and back, forehooves and hindhooves chained, the last thread of his sanity rolling along with him. Tears flowed freely from his eyes as the last straw finally broke and freed his camel. “Ppppffft! Haha! Ahaha! Bahahaha! HAHAHAHA!” The stallion in the adjoining cell bucked and kicked over and over again, his voice growing louder until he was roaring at the top of his lungs, “SHUT THE BUCK UP, YOUZE BUCKIN’ LUNATIC!” Another voice called out from the cell to his left, “Aw, hell, jus’ let him laugh! Let him have his fun! We’re bucked anyway! Let him laugh befo’ it’s all ova!” Card Slinger stopped laughing. That voice… familiar. Too familiar. Struggling to catch his breath, Slinger crawled on his belly, then pressed his bound forehooves against the interior wall. He pounded on the concrete and called out, “Dodge? Is dat youze?” Silence. Slinger beat his cuffed forehooves against the wall, once, twice, three times. Becoming desperate, he asked again, “Dodge? Dodge?!” No answer. “Dodge! Dodge!” Slinger was pounding frantically now, calling out the name of his right-hoof guard in desperation. “Dodge! It’s me, Slinga! Dodge? DODGE?!” To both his relief and his despair, he finally received a reply. “... Slinga? Is dat really youze?” Knocking both hooves on the wall, Slinger cried out in relief, “Yes! Yes! It’s me, Dodge! What are youze doin’ here?!” A set of forehooves joined his on the opposite side of the wall, thumping back. “Thought it mighta been youze, but I didn’t want it ta be true.” Dodge spoke slowly, almost whispering his last few words. The sliver of joy that had been worming its way into Slinger’s heart split in half. “Why would youze say dat?” he asked, no longer speaking in the tone of a leader. “What do youze mean?” “Well…” Dodge trailed off. “Youze know dat deal youze tried ta make wit’ the Mafia? Wit’ Eight Ball? Give dem all youze had, includin’ us, in exchange fo’ goin’ afta… him...?” Though he paused out of necessity, Card Slinger, and everypony down there with him knew exactly what Dodge meant. “Y-yea...” Slinger maneuvered on his belly, then tried stand up on his bound hindhooves—a worthless exertion. “Yea. I… I rememba. What happened?” Another snort. “Well, youze really didn’t think dat one through, did youze? Because iffa youze did, youze wouldn’t be in heeya, o’ me eitha.” Slinger stayed silent, his heart constricting in his chest. Dodge continued, “Yes, youze failed at dat last lil’ mission, an’ when dat backfired, Eight Ball came an’ cleaned shop, Slinga…” Hangover was still a possibility as to the cause of his headache. Card Slinger felt a wave of nausea force its way down into his stomach. His muzzle paled, white against crimson. “Y-youze mean… youze sayi—” “Came an’ ambushed us, early dis morn. First, the hideout, an’ then, the rest o’ our gang-houses. Third o’ us went wit’ him, third o’ us went down by his gun, an’ the otha third, he turned inta the police. “An’ those are all down heeya wit’ youze, includin’ me.” Dodge’s voice was thick, monotonous—the voice of a stallion who knew his fate and was resigned to it. Slinger’s eyes fell to the floor. He breathed in, slow, heavy, and painful against his chains. “D-Dodge… I... I—” “An’ youze know what else?” Dodge’s question hissed like a serpent. “Youze know what else, Slinga?” The last thing Card Slinger remembered was the five leaving his cell. After that, three others had come to retrieve him from the interrogation chamber—the same three who had cornered him on the fire escape downtown, three smirking tomcats with their claws in a writhing mouse. Everything had been black until now, until the headache and the lights and the laughter. Until now, he had been unconscious, lying prone in this cell, bound and stretched like a Griffon’s prey for the spitroast. And now, awake in the heat of the lights, Dodge was with him, and a third of his Kings, too. Dodge let loose a low snarl before he said, “Dat bastard Brutus got cops comin’ in heeya every hour o’ so. Got ‘em checkin’ up on youze, Slinga.” “Why?” Pressing his forehooves firmly against the wall, Card Slinger struggled to stand. To get a hoof-hold, a chance. A second chance. A third one. A thirty-third one. Dodge snort-laughed, then shook his head so heavily that Slinger swore he heard the air brushing past his muzzle through the wall. “Seein’ iffa youze awake, I guess. Dey probably aren’t scared o’ youze no’ mo’. Afta all, dey jus’ got rid o’ half dey gang problem, an’ all thanks ta youze. Pretty good fo’ ‘em, don’t youze think?” First, his best friend in the desert. Now, a third of those who called him their master, their leader—two-thirds, really, the others robbed of any chance of redemption. So much suffering. So many deaths. And it was all because of him. “Dodge…” A pair of hindhooves slammed hard against the opposite side of the wall, sending vibrating chills through Slinger’s forehooves. He tumbled backwards, landing on his back with a pained grunt. “YOUZE BUCKIN’ DIPSHIT!” Slinger sputtered and coughed. “Dodge—” Dodge bucked the wall again, the next to scream and howl in this festival of the damned. ”YOUZE! BUCKIN’! BASTARD! DUMBASS! DUMBASS BASTARD!” Slinger winced. “Dodge—” “WE’RE GONNA DIE!” Dodge stomped his hooves into the concrete floor and the concrete wall, one after the other, hard enough that his keratin should’ve shattered, hard enough that he should’ve crippled himself. “WE’RE GONNA DIE AN’ IT’S ALL BECAUSE O’ YOUZE!” Slithering like the serpent he was, Slinger inched on his belly across the floor, sliding on his slime-trail of slick sweat towards the wall. Some sort of strange sorrow rose up from within somewhere deep inside him. Card Slinger didn’t believe in the afterlife, but in that moment, he heard the voice of Boone his best friend screaming and screeching through Dodge his bodyguard. He heard his anger, his fear, his pain, and he couldn’t help but regret everything that led to this. His lips trembling, Slinger mumbled, “I’m… I’m so sorry… B—” “BUCK YOUZE! BUCK YOUZE WORTHLESS APOLOGIES!” “I… I—” “ENOUGH!” Card Slinger snapped his head around. It was not Dodge who had screamed this time. Dodge shut his muzzle, removing his hooves from the wall and scraping them across the floor. Slinger heard him walk further and further away, maybe into the corner, maybe back into the cool Earth beneath the desert plain. A baton smashed violently against the bars of a nearby cell. The entire prison fell silent. The nearby chatter and clamor of the other imprisoned Manehatten Kings, roaring with fury, faded away into nothingness. When the dust cleared, the voice called out once more, “SHUT UP! ALL O’ YOUZE, SHUT UP!” This was not the voice of the gruff stallion who had arrested him. Nor did it belong Lucky Toss or Rustler—his enemies then, but less so now, now that he had provided them with the information and his last hope. No, this was a voice that he had only heard behind a pair of mahogany doors, coming from an office that contained a mahogany desk and a set of guards standing beside those same doors… Card Slinger started to thrash, bucking against the two sets of cuffs holding him hostage. He writhed and squirmed like the worm he was, struggling to slip from his impaling hook. The hoofsteps drew closer. Grunting, Card Slinger rocked back and forth, a colt far from the cradle but wishing desperately for his mother, father, somepony, anypony to free him from what was about to come. A large form cast its shadow over the bars of his jail cell. A click of a key and strike, and the bars were moving, sliding to the right. They released, slowly at first, and then, in a great burst of strength, slammed completely open. Standing there under the flickering light of the lanterns, clothed in his Manehatten blues, a golden badge pinned to the front chest pocket of his uniform, thick in neck and chest and barrel, was Chief Brutus of the Manehatten Police Department. Chief Brutus, the traitor, looked down at Card Slinger, the worm on the floor. He smiled. “Ah, there youze are. I’ve been waitin’ fo’ youze ta wake up. “Rise an’ shine, sleepyhead." ~ Down, down, down. In perpetual free-fall, the five all but galloped down thirty-three flights of stairs. Would have galloped if they hadn’t feared further harm to Officer Rustler and Detective White Dove, or to the others who had, so far, escaped unscathed. Would’ve galloped, if they weren’t already breathing deep and hard, weren’t already fighting their nightmare. His bleeding slowed by the bandage of Dove’s torn sleeve, Rustler was in no danger of losing consciousness or permanent injury. Still, he gritted his teeth on every stomping descent, keeping a forehoof on the holster of his good shoulder. There was no time for tears and peroxide. The stomping of their hooves repeated better move, better move, better move. Dove, ignoring the dull pain of the darkening bruises around her neck, led them the same way out of the tower as they had entered. While using the fire escapes on the lower floors would have been easier, the last thing she wanted to do was draw additional attention to themselves. The other three followed close behind, keeping pace, staying quiet. Midnight was fast approaching. Thirty-three flights of stairs quickly became thirty, then twenty-five, then twenty. Dove briefly glanced over her shoulder when they reached the twentieth platform. “’Ey, Babs.” Both Babs Seed and Apple Bloom were breathing a little easier on the descent—or, at least, the easiest that they could breathe after another heart-racing brush with death. Cardiac arrest still seemed a likely threat, if they didn’t wake up first. Babs replied from behind her, “Yea?” “Where’s dis mansion o’ Madhoof’s? Do youze know?” Nearly missing a step, Babs stumbled for a moment, bumping into her mare. Apple Bloom staggered and leaned into Officer Lucky Toss, who smacked against the wall with a low groan. Toss glared at Babs. “’Ey! Watch it!” “Sorry, Toss,” Babs mumbled, steadying herself back on her hooves. Apple Bloom glanced at her with a frown before she simply answered, “Yea, Dove, I know where it is.” I wish I didn’t. Dove just muttered, “Good.” Whipping around the corner as they continued to descend, Dove began to formulate a plan within her mind. With about two hours remaining before midnight, only a few officers would be on duty at the police station. Cotton would be “guarding” the lobby, and maybe two or three on-call officers would be resting in the on-call rooms in wait of an emergency. At least two officers would be patrolling various parts of Manehatten at this hour—or should have been already. Why they hadn’t spotted them on their way here, Dove didn’t know. A few other officers could be torn from their patrol posts in the department’s prison, which lay on the same floor as the interrogation rooms. More could be called in off-shift from their homes, awakened by a spare officer, though there was no guarantee of how many would respond, or even believe them. That was all assuming that Chief Brutus—the traitor he was, Dove now had no doubt—or any other Knighted officers did not stand in her way. A fruitless assumption. She knew that the traitors would need to be dealt with, and soon. Madhoof’s tower had been easier than she had thought. Dove wouldn’t deceive herself into believing that the bastard’s private residence would be anywhere as easy. Five against a whole mansion of thugs, and many more at his beck and call? They wouldn’t stand a chance. Ten of them against the mansion? Fifteen? Twenty? Maybe. Maybe not. But they had to try. For friends, family, loved ones. For Manehatten itself. “Let’s get a move on!” Dove shouted, quickening her pace. Thirteen flights of stairs. Eleven. Seven. Five. Four sets of hooves churned and stomped and roared with her, five hearts pulsing with leftover adrenaline and creating more. Soon enough, they were in the lobby, then out the door. Once back in the streets, Detective White Dove led her squad of five back into the cover of the alleyways. This time, they ran as a unit, side-by-side through the growing dark. Spurred by the aftershock of their encounter and discovery in the tower, none desired to stay beside the cursed obelisk for longer than necessary. While the clock tower read 2200, Babs Seed sensed the approaching storm draw closer on the horizon as the clouds corralled over the moon. Galloping beside Apple Bloom and Dove across the street, she turned and ducked into the same alleyway where they had first viewed the dark tower. Once they were hidden from the moonlight and streetlamps, Dove rubbed at her neck and muttered through her teeth, “Alright. Everypony take a moment. Catch youze breath.” Nodding, Officers Rustler and Lucky Toss took a moment to calm their erratic hearts, chests heaving while they slumped against the wall. Though Rustler adjusted the bandage on his shoulder with a grimace, he made no audible complaint. “Youze alright, Rustla?” Dove asked, running a forehoof over her blood-stained uniform, checking once more for any neglected wounds. Slowly, Rustler nodded. “Y-yeah, I’ll be fine. Once we get back ta the station, gonna need peroxide an’ bandages. Bastard got me good.” Dove nodded, cursing fitfully under her breath while she traced where the thug’s forehooves had squeezed around her neck. Though she said nothing of it, her pain was evident by the angry gnashing of her teeth. “Buck…” Toss groaned and shook his head, his hindhooves trembling slightly. “N-neva done anythin’ like dat befo’.” Rustler laughed. “Coulda fooled me.” “Why youze say dat?” Removing his forehoof from his sore shoulder, Rustler gritted his teeth and leaned against the wall. “Youze was all questionin’, shakin’ like a leaf in youze hooves befo’ we hit the streets. As soon as we got inside dat place, summat changed wit’ youze, Toss. Within youze.” Toss shrugged. “I-I dunno. Instincts, I guess. I… I jus’ wanted ta get us outta there alive.” “An’ youze did a damn good job o’ it,” Dove said, a slight smile on her muzzle. “Nice show, rookie.” Toss replied with a tiny grin, “Thanks, Dove.” “No problem.” Beside them, Babs Seed and Apple Bloom caught their own breath, holding forehooves and chasing fears. Other than Dove’s inquiry, both of them had been silent through their descent, seeking first to escape the tower alive. Babs, her eyes closed, took a deep breath, exhaling thickly. All manner of curse words, mixed with half-hearted prayers, echoed through her mind in the depths of her disbelief. Although everything around them was composed of the same gray, black, blue as it had before, she swore this was a dream—or, more accurately, a nightmare. We’re doin’ dis. We’re really doin’ dis. He did it all, an’ we’re gonna get him, get him, get him ta-night... Apple Bloom squeezed her forehoof, forcing her to look over. Pale as a ghost, her steadfast mare nevertheless forced a smile and seemed to say again to her with determined but fearful eyes, It’ll be alright. I’m sure of it. Despite her own racing heart, remaining nausea, and lingering fear, Apple Bloom squeezed Babs’s forehoof again, whispering, “Ya alright, Babs? Ready ta go?” From her peripherals, Babs could see the three officers watching them, waiting. Forcing a smile back to her mare, Babs squeezed her forehoof back, taking one last breath. In spite of her continuing fear and the creeping darkness around them, she vowed in the alley, Youze were strong fo’ me, an’ I’ll be strong fo’ youze. We’re gonna get through dis, an’ when we’re done... We’re goin’ home, an’ I’m gonna marry youze. “Ready, Bloom,” Babs said, giving her a hint of a smile. Nightmare or not, the warmth Babs Seed found with fiancée and allies beside her gave her enough strength to press on. No turnin’ back. Heeya we go. Catching eyes with Babs Seed, Detective White Dove smiled in shared understanding. After directing them to be silent once more, Dove lowered herself to her hooves, held up a forehoof, and crouched towards the intersection of this alleyway and its perpendicular. Dove looked around, once, twice. She raised a forehoof, ushering them on. A scramble of hooves, and the five were on the move again. ~ Braeburn, fidgeting with the Stetson in his forehooves, jammed his hat back on his head as he finished, “… An’ that’s what we think, Yer Highnesses.” Princesses Celestia, Luna, and Twilight, all sitting on their haunches, finally broke their intense gaze from him. During the same explanation that he had provided Applejack, detailing everything from the first tattooed stallion who had shot a hole into the ceiling of Appleloosa’s bar, to the attack southwest of Yukon, the three alicorns had been primarily silent. There were a few questions, mostly requests for clarification on certain points. Overall, the Princesses stayed quiet, seemingly to process all of the outlandish, unbelievable, inconceivable information Sheriff Braeburn had brought with him all the way to Canterlot. The three Apples sat in quiet anticipation of the response, two of them fiddling with their hats, the other with the thick collar around his neck. Braeburn pulled out his pocket watch. Thirty minutes had passed while he explained everything to the best of his knowledge and ability. Now the clock read 2215—less than two hours before midnight. Even if they were believed, the last train to Manehatten from Canterlot had left hours ago. And while the Apples were strong for Earth ponies, there was no way they could run all the way back to the East without stopping for rest. No, if Madhoof was going to be confronted tonight, they would need the assistance of those with wings and magic. Braeburn, Applejack, and Big Macintosh waited in those painfully precious seconds, the weight of Equestria seeming to bear down on their chests with gritted teeth and clenched eyes. The three alicorns were silent for a few more torturous moments before one of them finally spoke. Princess Celestia slowly looked between the three. “Are you absolutely certain that all of this is true?” Braeburn bowed his head, then looked up, determination in his eyes. “Yes, Yer Highness. Ah’m sure o’ it, absolutely sure o’ it. Ah’ve never been so sure o’ anythin’ else. It’s the one thing that makes everythin’ make sense. Why things have happened the way they did, why nopony outside o’ the West seems ta know ‘bout ‘em, why we an’ our friends were targeted, why you weren’t aware o’ all o’ this.” Stomping the floor with a forehoof, Braeburn added with vitriol, “Ah know it’s that bastard Madhoof who did it all!” Both Applejack and Big Macintosh snapped their muzzles towards him, eyes wide and jaws slightly agape. Blushing, Braeburn lifted a forehoof to his mouth and mumbled faintly, “P-p-pardon ma language, Yer Highness. A-A-Ah’m sorry.” A slight smile curling across her lips, Princess Celestia shook her head. “There’s nothing to be sorry for, Braeburn. After all… “I would say that bastard is a far tamer word than what came to my mind when you were describing this Bernie Madhoof.” Princess Celestia’s smile morphed into a stern frown. Behind her eyes, something bright flickered. Standing tall to all four hooves, the Sun Princess opened her mighty wings and looked over towards the others. “What do you think of this, Twilight, Lulu?” Princess Luna nodded gravely, rising to all four hooves as well. With her mane of starlight flowing behind her, she replied, “Indeed, though I do not wish it to be true, the scheme of this Bernie Madhoof would most definitely explain the continuing nightmares of many Manehattenite foals, not to mention the actions of the Royal Guard outpost there.” Applejack tilted her head. “Nightmares? Royal Guard outpost? Forgive me, Yer Highness, but Ah’m not sure what ya mean.” “I only enter the dreams of fillies and colts before cutiemark age, in order to help guide them on the path to discovering their destinies.” Princess Luna explained, “I do not interfere in the dreams of any others. Destiny, once discovered, can either be pursued or forsaken, and it is not my place to make that decision for anypony who is old enough to understand. “When trials and tribulations occur, everypony suffers. The suffering of parents and relatives is, in time, transmitted to the foals; the sins of the fathers, while not passed down to the foals, nevertheless impact them. In the past few years, the nightmares of Manehattenite foals have increased, their minds and hearts becoming ever restless.” While her sister paused, Princess Celestia continued, “We have grown concerned over the past few years regarding the crime in Manehatten, and sent additional ex-Royal Guards to staff the police force. Since the Royal Guard is a voluntary force, we have been somewhat limited, but we’ve recruited to the best of our abilities, and dispatched accordingly. “With war with both Griffonia and Zebrica having loomed on our horizon several times throughout this time, we’ve had to trust in our Royal Guard there, relying mainly on letters from citizens and status reports from our force. We’ve kept in contact with Police Chief Brutus, one of our finest veterans, and he has always assured that things are slowly improving. No letter we’ve received from any citizen indicated otherwise… though, now, I see why. “I believe that you would not have come this far and on such short notice if you were not certain these things were absolutely true. Regardless of how insane this may seem or sound, Apples are many things in my experience, but they are never liars.” Despite the circumstances, Princess Celestia smiled towards the three. Princess Twilight stepped forward and said, “If what you say is true—and I’m inclined to say that, given all the evidence, it is highly likely that it is—then many are in danger at this very moment. “Furthermore, if this is all true, then Brutus is a liar. And not just any liar: a traitor, along with all others in the Manehatten Police Department who are covering this up. The only way this would make any amount of sense is that our own officers are lying and hiding things from us, as is the Manehatten Postmaster, and others in key positions there. “It is inconceivable that something this large could be orchestrated. However… it would not be the first time such a thing has happened in Equestrian history. Of course, the only thing that would make such a thing possible is money… and lots of it.” Applejack answered, “Madhoof has that. Always has. “Ah’m afraid that’s what we believe, beyond the shadow o’ a doubt, Twi—that Madhoof’s all behind this. What the papers report ain’t nothin’ close ta what we’ve heard an’ seen fer ourselves.” Applejack nodded at Braeburn. “Ah hate ta think that such a terrible thing could true, but, in all honesty, deep down, Ah know it is.” Another wave of silence followed Applejack’s statement, heavy. Heavy with truth. The truth at last. That same fire flickered in Princess Celestia’s eyes again, shifting, making her seem to shine. Princess Celestia said with a flare of her nostrils and flattened ears, “And I trust you, Applejack. I trust all of you, and I believe you. “But if we are going to face this mad-stallion tonight, we will need the rest of the Elements here. Twilight, could you please—“ A flash of purple light. Twilight was gone. Applejack, Braeburn, and Big Macintosh jumped back, while Princess Celestia and Princess Luna simply shared a nod. “Do not worry,” Princess Luna said, raising a forehoof, “Twilight Sparkle shall return soon with the Elements. As for me, I shall gather my Night Guard. I trust that you will gather the Day Guard, Tia?” “Indeed, Lulu. Please meet us back here in an hour.” Another flash of light, darker purple this time. Only Princess Celestia remained with them in the Royal Courtroom. “Princess Celestia?” “Yes, Applejack?” “Er…” Fidgeting, Applejack asked, “Forgive me again, but… Why are y’all gatherin’ the other Elements an’ both factions o’ the Guard?” Though her steely, determined gaze did not falter, regret and sorrow was thick on Princess Celestia’s tongue. “From what you have said, much violence, suffering, pain, and death have already occurred because of this monster, and we—no, I—have been blind and deaf to it. For that, my heart is broken. I have failed in protecting my subjects from this terror, but now that I know of this, it ends now. “After tonight, there shall be no more. Manehatten will return to the shining gem of a city it once was, and I shall topple Madhoof from his false throne. “I will protect my subjects, and restore peace, no matter what the cost. If that means that Madhoof and his ilk may have to suffer, if they do not come willingly… so be it.” Tall, mighty, and powerful, Princess Celestia bowed before the three Apples who revealed the madness of the Orange. “Thank you all for your courage, fortitude, and wisdom. Please wait here for Twilight, Luna, and I to return with the others. We shall fly to Manehatten in an hour.” And with that, in a pulse of strong, golden light, the last alicorn left the Royal Courtroom, leaving the Apples to wait. Within the halls of Canterlot Castle, there was no room for a King. ~ Card Slinger tilted his head and spat up at Chief Brutus from the floor. He aimed his arch far too low. The saliva landed near Brutus’s forehooves and pooled on the concrete. Slinger pulled his lips back in a snarl. “What do youze want wit’ me?” Brutus smirked, then pivoted, lifting his tail ever-so-slightly as he did so, enough for the other stallion to see it. There it was, right underneath his tail, as it should have been. The black orange with the initials KK. Brutus laughed as he turned back around, his thick muzzle shaking with each rolling chuckle. “I’m sure youze know what I want, Card Slinga. I’m sure youze know why I’m heeya. Afta all, youze have always wanted… How did youze say it…” Tapping his chin, Brutus looked around the rows and rows of cells. He hummed and averted his eyes from Slinger, pretending to be lost in thought. From this angle, Card Slinger saw nothing but fellow Manehatten Kings staring back at him from behind their own bars. Familiar muzzles occupied each cell, some bound, some left free, all despondent in the presence of their humming executioner. None of the other prisoners appeared to have the energy for venom towards Card Slinger that Dodge displayed. Their despair, although left unspoken, was still palpable. As was Slinger’s own. Helpless but not hopeless, Slinger continued to buck and rock against the hoof-cuffs while Brutus stalled. The scumbag's thick tongue licked at his lips occasionally, as if catching scent of something particularly tasty. The moment dripped with the salty blood of Boone, of the third of Manehatten Kings who had already perished, of the rest who would if Card Slinger couldn’t perform a second miracle and break free of these cuffs once more. He wanted to vomit, knowing that Brutus was indulging in the tangible taste. Finally, Brutus turned to him with a smug grin. “Ah, yes. Dat’s right. I rememba now what it was, what it was dat youze always said youze wanted...” Brutus removed his forehoof from his chin and rounded on Slinger, leaning down and pressing his muzzle against his. He grabbed the prisoner's chin tightly, caressing it like a lover. “I rememba now, Slinga. What youze wanted. “Revenge.” Card Slinger’s eyes bulged. Brutus snickered. “Dat’s what youze always wanted, right? Revenge? Revenge fo’ youze poor wittle coltfriend shot down in the in the wittle wasteland?” Although lacking wings or talons, the brute was a fitting replacement for the Master’s Griffon. Card Slinger’s headache dissipated in the face of Chief Brutus’s ice. For a stallion with a coat as white as snow, his heart was as black as his mane—blacker than Slinger’s, if that was even possible. Slinger growled and squirmed in response to his mocking, trying to wrestle out of his grip and the cuffs. Brutus laughed. “Oh, but youze made a mistake, lil’ colt. A grave mistake, youze see. “Youze made the mistake o’ thinkin’ anypony would be on youze side… King, Mafia, o’ othawise…” The Chief was slowly reaching for his shoulder-holster. For his duty pistol. ~ A maze lay before them, alleyways twisting like a slithering serpent making its way towards the Big Orange itself, ready to inject its fangs and its venom deep past the sour skin. Babs Seed couldn’t remember the journey to the tower taking this long, but made no objection. As skilled as she was when fighting mad-colts, hypocritical fillies, timberwolves, and coyotes, Babs was no master of the Manehatten streets, nor of the three weapons she carried. Her own private objections to Detective White Dove and Officer Rustler aside, she would have to trust them tonight. Considering that they had already led them out of the tower alive, she had no reason to do otherwise. When Dove signaled for them to come to rest again, Babs complied, albeit with a bit more hesitance than before. Fueled now by a mix of adrenaline, an undercurrent of anger, and fear whispering in her ears, she was commanded by the internal mantra of, Betta move, betta move, betta move... “What time is it?” Apple Bloom leaned against the wall. Some color had returned to her muzzle, though her voice, while steady, revealed she was as just in need of urgency as her mare. Fumbling through his pockets, Officer Lucky Toss grabbed his pocket watch and held it close to his eyes in the shadows. “Er, um… Ten… Ten fifteen?” “Military time,” Rustler admonished with a groan. Toss stashed the watch back in his pocket. “Heh, I knew dat. Sorry. Well dat would make it—mmph!” Pressing a forehoof over his mouth, Dove shot him a glare and brought her other forehoof to her lips, nudging her head to the left while motioning for them to back up. Wrestling out of her grip, Toss nodded, then slammed his back against the wall. He bit back a groan and pricked his ears along with the rest of them, pressing flat against the back of an abandoned storefront. Leaning as close as possible towards the source of Dove’s alarm, Babs Seed pricked her ears and listened. Hoofsteps. Bits and pieces of conversation faded her way, thrown by the wind. Babs recognized them as belonging to that same stallion who had bumped into Toss at the bar… the same stallion who had led his group of twelve through the streets on their way here… “Hurry up! Masta wants dis investigated ASAP!” The thundering hooves picked up, moving from a steady to an erratic pace. “Dis way! Towards the office! Dat’s where dey were last seen!” Ice, far from the rain, made its way through Babs Seed’s stomach and settled in her throat. For a moment, her tongue was far too thick, impairing her respiration as it caught in her halting chest. “Dirty buckin’ cops! An’ dem mares were wit’ ‘em too! Hurry up!” Dove’s forehoof lowered from her lips to the holster on her left shoulder. Her forehoof squeezed around the grip of her pistol, sweat rolling down her forehead as the hoofsteps drew closer still. Both stallions did the same, wandering forehooves gripping tight onto steel. Beside her, Apple Bloom already had drawn her weapon, holding it so tightly that the flesh around her keratin was reddening to white. Not ‘gain. Buck. Buck! Pleaseohpleaseohplease no… Somehow, there was a grip in Babs Seed’s grasp, too. The five counted their breaths and waited for the storm of hooves to pass, hoping that they were protected by the blood they had already shed. Not now. Not yet. Holding her breath, Dove dared to glance around the corner. A pack of stallions, at least twenty-five in number, galloped towards the tower, returning the way that the five had came. Dove scooted further into the intersection of alleyways, seeing the Knights—their tattoos visible under their bobbing, rushing tails—tuck back behind a building they themselves had passed a few minutes beforehoof. Lucky, but only by a few minutes. Luck had surely run out now. After settling back into their cover, Dove relaxed her grip on her weapon and lowered herself to her hooves. “Bu—no, fuck. Dey know. Madhoof knows.” Four pairs of widened eyes stared back at her. Pawing a forehoof at the cobblestones, Dove spat on the ground. “Holster youze weapons, take a breath, an’ follow me. We ain’t stoppin’ dis time. Once we get inta the station, we’re gettin’ our backup, our gear, some bandages fo' Rustla, an’ we’re off. “Anypony who’s gonna leave—” Dove paused, staring hard at the mares—”dis is youze last buckin’ chance.” In response, Apple Bloom holstered her pistol and stared her down. Babs Seed, relaxing the grip on her weapon, stood beside her mare, shaking her head. Betta move. “Let’s go, Dove,” Toss said with a grunt, taking one last breath. Rustler, rubbing for the last time at his shoulder, added, “We’re in dis togetha. Nopony ain’t abandonin’ youze, so lead the way.” Detective White Dove, a mare who had led more than once before tonight, felt a strength she hadn't experienced in too many years to count rising up within her chest. With a kick of her hindhooves, she was off, leading the way. Her comrades, unified in blue instead of gold, followed after her, steel of their own poised and ready. It was no Changeling territory or Griffonia border, but it felt as significant, as dangerous, as momentous. While the moon continued to rise, the skies grew darker. ~ Card Slinger bucked and squirmed, his eyes widening as the stallion reached for his weapon. Brutus tightened his grip on Slinger’s chin, holding him in place. “An’ youze made the mistake o’ underestimatin’ the most powerful pony in all o’ Manehatten, lil' colt. Youze really thought youze could take him down, didn’t youze? Youze really thought youze could.” Brutus spoke with piety, as if in prayer, as if speaking of the Divine itself. The massive, white forehoof touched the holster. Touched the grip. Made the gun come alive. The magic was coursing through it. It could be held. It could be fired. It could kill. Card Slinger closed his eyes, calling his mind back. What had he been thinking of when he’d broken those cuffs? What had he been thinking in between his screams of anguish and agony? “Youze see, Card Slinga,” Brutus whispered, stroking the stallion’s chin, “there are some things dat are jus’ impossible. Some things dat, no matta how much youze think othawise, cannot be changed. Things jus’ are as dey are, youze see.” And then, he remembered. He remembered and remembered, and so chanted those words in his mind while he continued to squeeze and stretch and buck and thrash and flail, even as Chief Brutus stroked the fur of his chin, even as he heard the gun being grasped, being raised, being trained on him. Salt an’ fire. West is the best. Boone. Blood. The west. The bar. Train ta badland ta bar an’ back, salt an’ fire fo’ us all, west is the best, Masta, King, King o’ Kings, Manehatten Kings, Manehatten Mafia, Boone, Boone, Boone, salt an’ fire— “Youze see, Card Slinga, youze made a mistake.” Masta, King, Madhoof, Madhoof, Boone, salt an’ fire, salt an’ fire fo’ us all, revenge, redemption, coins in the sand, Babs Seed, officers, tower, mansion, salt an’ fire, salt an’ fire, revenge, redemption, Boone— Chief Brutus was muzzle-to-muzzle close with him, breathing slowly, licking his lips. Tasting the air. Tasting his fear. Savoring the moment. A serpent in the concrete. A snake in blue and white. The pistol. He heard it, then felt it. The cold barrel against his temple. Card Slinger struggled harder, faster, bucking, squirming, thrashing, rolling, forehoof and hindhoof and flesh and fur and sinew, salt and fire and family and Boone and Madhoof and himself. “Sometimes, Card Slinga, ponies have ta die fo’ their mistakes.” Card Slinger opened his eyes. Chief Brutus was looking right at him. He was smiling. West is the best. A strength he had only known once before in his life, on one of the darkest nights of his life, blossomed from the tiniest corner of his remaining heart, and spread through him. Visions of friend and family—the little he had known, the little he had loved—churned with that feeling, that feeling of freedom and purpose and strength, and in this moment, Card Slinger was not in a jail cell in Manehatten, but galloping free with the good Earth under his hooves, and that was more than enough. As a free stallion with Earth under his hooves, he gave the cuffs on his hindhooves one more struggle, and, in the process, snapped them. Chief Brutus’s smile turned to an expression of pure horror as Card Slinger braced his now-freed hindhooves against the floor, pushed back with all his might, and sprang. ~ With a voice that boomed like thunder, the skies opened at last, sending a torrent of rain to Manehatten, seeking to cleanse the city below of its sin. Unsure if she was a saint or a sinner (or perhaps both or none), Babs Seed doubled her pace. Apple Bloom galloped faster beside her, Officer Lucky Toss galloping faster still. Rain dripped down her mane and tail, soaking through the uniform and chilling her to the bone. The faster she ran, the closer they drew, the more her blood warmed in the darkness. As the police station drew closer in her eyes, her hooves churning up the dust that transformed to mud, Babs glanced from the corner of her eye at the time on Manehatten’s clock tower. 2300. Betta move. An hour to midnight. Here she was, following Detective White Dove—a mare who seemed to hate her for a reason Babs neither knew nor wanted to know—through the empty heart of ghetto, through the chilling cobblestone streets. Though there was no blood on her stolen uniform, although she knew that she couldn’t be that lucky for the rest of the night. Babs Seed had been many things in her life, but she wouldn’t call any of them lucky. Blessed? Yes. Loved? Yes. Lucky? No. If she were ever a card slinger, she would need to be good if she ever hoped to win at games of luck and chance, flipping cards and tossing dice. Fortune smiled on nopony tonight, no matter how fervently Lady Luck was charmed. “Almost there!” Dove shouted above the growing metronome of the rain, the rain that blurred their vision, the rain that slowed their hooves, the rain that filled the streets, filling it with translucent rivers of forthcoming blood. From her peripherals, Babs Seed caught sight of several lights in windows above that had previously been darkened. Curtains were opened, candles and lanterns were lit, and the lights in the wealthier buildings were clicked on. Though no shadows fell over her own as they ran, she knew they were being watched. A rush of adrenaline spiking through her, Babs stomped her hooves, stomped and thundered and kicked and ground them, until she was beside Dove, almost muzzle-to-muzzle with her. Dove stole a glance at her and asked over the roar of their hooves, “What?” “Lights comin’ on all above us, Dove.” “I know.” Dove grunted through her teeth, then steered them into an alleyway. “Jus’ ignore ‘em. Almost there.” Babs nodded. Gotta trust youze fully. Youze know what youze is doin’... I hope. Babs Seed fell back, looking over her shoulder to see Officer Rustler, Officer Lucky Toss, and Apple Bloom giving her puzzled expressions. Before she switched positions with Rustler and retreated back to her mare’s side, Dove changed course again, whipping around a corner, sudden and swift. Nearly tripping over her hooves, Babs veered with her, then held back the urge to laugh in surprise when she reached the main street. There it was, only a few yards away. The police station, its single lantern lamp burning brightly above its entrance. Oblivious to her pace, Babs Seed was joined again by Apple Bloom, who had that same almost-grin on her muzzle. We made it. We finally made it. Detective White Dove hurried up the steps, Officers Rustler and Lucky Toss behind her. The detective quickly unlocked the door with a small key she fished from her pocket. The three then disappeared inside, leaving the mares to hurry and slip inside the door before it closed. Thankfully, both mares rushed up the steps just in time. The door, only inches ajar, flung open as the two and their eight wet hooves skidded inside, almost falling over and against each other in the rush. Slamming the locked door behind them with a hindhoof, Babs cursed and struggled to regain her balance, growing dizzy. “Dove! What the buck! Why the d—” “What the hay are dey doin’ in uniforms, Dove?!” Leaning against Apple Bloom, Babs Seed’s eyes shot wide open to see the three officers standing around Officer Cotton’s desk. Cotton pointed her rolled-up copy of Hoof Beat at the two mares, rage and bafflement clear on her countenance. Dove stomped her forehooves on the desk and ignored her inquiry. “Cotton, who’s on duty wit’ youze right now?” The magazine trembled slightly, Cotton switching her glance from the two soaking-wet mares to the three sopping-wet officers before her, all clothed in Manehatten blue. Her eyes widened further, her nostrils flaring. “What the buck is dis?! Youze workin’ wit’ brute an’ hillbilly, Dove?!” Toss slammed a forehoof down next to Dove’s and leered at Cotton. “Shut youze muzzle an’ answa her question!” “I ain’t takin’ ordas from youze, Toss!” Rustler, his dripping mane soaking the other magazines on Cotton’s desk, snorted hotly, ready to add a hoof or two of his own in the mix. “Then take ordas from Dove! We need dat question answered yesterday, Cotton!” Cotton crossed her forehooves over her chest, clutching the magazine tightly. “Maybe youze ain’t Rustla afta all! The real Rustla wouldn’t even dare ta break the law, bring civilians inta uniforms, scream at his fellow offi—” ”HELP! SOMEPONY, HELP ME!” All four police officers paled at the voice. Apple Bloom and Babs Seed hurried up to the desk, the former asking frantically, “What the hay is goin’ on?! Who’s screamin’?!” Dove whirled around, shoving all the magazines off Cotton’s desk in the process. ”Brutus.” In an immediate flash and scurry of blue and silver, the four officers darted down the hallway towards the source of the screams. The latest copy of Hoof Beat tumbled down to the floor. Three rifles on three backs bounced in time with their owners’ frantic gallop, while even more pistols clung tightly to four sets of shoulders. Scrambling to their hooves, Apple Bloom and Babs Seed darted after them, lingering questions left behind at the desk, unanswered. Brutus? Chief Brutus? Another scream: a mad-stallion’s howl. Card Slinga?! Toss’s snow-white tail ducked around hallway towards another. Accelerating her pace, Babs scrambled after him and the others with her mare. Soon, another set of hooves were following behind them, and then another. Three more officers in Manehatten blue burst from a single room and ran down the hallway, clothed in full uniform and gear. Red-eyed and ragged, they appeared to have just woken up only minutes or so beforehoof—the night-shift officers, no doubt awakened by Cotton’s screeching. These three officers, all unrecognizable, rushed past them, making a beeline for where Cotton, Dove, Rustler, and Toss were headed— The prison. Brutus must be… wit’ Slinga down there, an’... Shaking her head clean of those thoughts, Babs focused on the bobbing tails in front of her, on following after them. Hoof after hoof they ran, following behind the others as they made their way down into the lower level, into the sea of gray against even grayer light. ~ Jack out of his box, gear off its spring, Card Slinger aimed straight for Chief Brutus’s chest, connecting this time. Using his bound forehooves as a pair of mighty weapons, Slinger slammed the traitor's head against the floor, looping his chains over his neck and pressing down. Brutus thrashed and squirmed, but Slinger held tight, using his hindhooves to pin the muscular stallion’s barrel. The pistol slipped from Brutus’s grip and slid across the floor, coming to rest in Slinger’s jail cell. The half-freed prisoner paid it no mind, focusing instead on the traitor, on kicking and punching and slamming him. Revenge. Oh, it tasted so sweet, thick and flowing honey in his maw, as Chief Brutus clenched his eyes shut and groaned in pain, as he rocked and rolled and bucked desperately, as the smell of his fetid blood filled Card Slinger’s wanting nostrils. Blinded by his bloodlust, Slinger pulled only a few more punches before the chiseled veteran of the Royal Guard, one of the most distinguished under Captain Shining Armor’s successor, flipped him over and pinned him against the concrete. Almost twice his size, once the element of surprise had passed away, the element of cackling, vengeful laughter reared his ugly head and slammed Slinger down, grinning maniacally in the dim light of the lanterns above. The massive forehooves began to pummel his face, neck, and chest before he could even register them as something other than blurs. White-hot agony ignited in his jawbone and spread throughout his body, vibrating with sick intensity. Paralyzed briefly, Slinger’s frantic heart skipped a beat, then forced another, hard and breathless, as pain kicked in. Groaning, Slinger rolled over, attempting to shield his face, his neck from the stallion’s endless blows… No. Hiding was for foals. He was a stallion, and a stallion must fight, until he can fight no more forever. Through his pain, Slinger bucked his freed hindhooves up against the enormous stallion lying on top of him—bucked straight up, right between his flanks, aiming for the most sensitive part of him. Brutus howled and rolled over, his muzzle contorting in pain. Immediately, he released his attacker, his forehooves darting to cover himself. In that precious moment of relief, Slinger gasped, flipped onto his belly, and scurried away, buying himself several more seconds. Chanting the same mental mantra that had freed his hooves twice before now—salt an’ fire, Boone, desert, coins in the sand, salt an’ fire fo’ us all—Slinger raised his forehooves, raised them as high as he could, and brought them down, down, down towards the concrete, concentrating on that rush, that energy, that sanctity of the good Earth below him when Boone was by his side. ”Aaaagh!” Clenching his eyes shut, Slinger howled as his forehooves resounded on the concrete, nearly hard enough to break the bones of his forelegs and make him a cane-bound cripple. In a panic, he thrashed them around, drawing them up and close and— Separated them. His forehooves were free. Brutus was writhing on the ground, gasping against the pain, both forehooves protecting him between his flanks, where Card Slinger’s iron had shown no mercy. A dirty trick it was, used against a dirty cop. Whirling around, Card Slinger couldn’t help but smile, feeling his wicked jaws reveal themselves in a wicked grin. When he looked down at the helpless traitor on the concrete, he couldn’t help but laugh again, laugh and laugh. The prison was in full riot mode by now, imprisoned Manehatten Kings of both genders whooping and jeering from their cells, thrashing and struggling against their own restraints. They, too, longed to be freed like their leader, longed to do the impossible and rise above the concrete. Their hooves roared with the voice of thunder, a storm of its own inside the rows of jail cells in the Manehatten Police Department’s Prison, and Slinger adored to hear it. As soon as he finished with the traitor Chief Brutus, he would snatch the heavy ring of keys jingling in the bastard’s uniform pocket and free everypony within these cells. Make them bow to him, run to him with forehooves opened in joy. Make himself King again—a redeemer. For now, Slinger pounced on Brutus. Grabbing the Chief’s forehooves, he pinned them above his head and against the floor, then used his hindhooves to stand firmly on his hindlegs. Using a hindhoof, he stomped again between his flanks, laughing again in merciless mirth, eliciting one, two, three, four howls of agony, until the serpent in blue and white screeched— ”HELP! SOMEPONY, HELP ME!” Pricking his ears, Card Slinger heard it. The rush of hooves from above, twisting and turning their way down below. His fun had to be cut far too short. Better move. While Chief Brutus squirmed in pain, scrambling to ignore a pain he had never experienced and overpower the little snitch in combat, Card Slinger rushed into what had been his jail cell. Rather than lock the emasculated stallion inside the cell, Card Slinger grabbed the pistol that rested under the cot. Only a few rounds remained in its magazine. Card Slinger cursed. Before the first uniform could burst in through the doors, Card Slinger looped a forehoof around the pained stallion's neck—just barely enough to allow him breath—using the other to bring the gun to his temple. With his hindhooves, he dragged him out into the middle of the chamber, into the guard’s path between all the cells. Everypony deserved one last show. Slinger leaned in close, growling into Brutus’s ear. “Move an’ youze is dead.” Severals sets of hooves thundered from above, all barreling down towards him. Ready or not, here they come. ~ Guns blazing, seven officers of the Manehatten Police Department barrelled through the doors to the department’s prison. Two faux-officers followed behind them, their eyes wide but darting, the grip on their weapons trembling but firm. Babs Seed and Apple Bloom, near the rear of the pack, were the last to skid to a stop. All seven officers who had responded stood in front of them in a circle, staring in wide-eyed, almost trembling, disbelief at something in the middle. Peering around and between them, Babs Seed froze when she caught the source of their fear. Card Slinger, his soulless, hollow eyes wild, held Chief Brutus captive, one forehoof squeezing his windpipe, the other reaching for the trigger of the stallion’s duty pistol pressed against his temple. This was the stallion the streets called King Crazy, his mane and coat a mess of blood and sweat, his pair of dark irises and pupils blazing with the furnaces of Tartarus, his teeth shining like the keys on Old Scratch’s piano as the Most Low himself serenaded his new arrivals. A red beast, he opened his unending maw and laughed, the low baritone echoing through the noisy prison. All around them, prisoners thrashed in their chains, bucking and kicking against their bars. Three of the seven officers—the same three who had burst from the hallway after the mares—trotted over and beat on the gates of the cells with their batons, shouting for them to cease and desist between whacks. The clamor continued nonetheless, a roaring undercurrent over the eerie silence in the center of the room. Babs Seed swore she could hear a steady laughter underneath Brutus's cries of pain, a laughter that sliced through her mind like a black dagger and stole away a part of it. Card Slinger grinned. “Heh… Heh… So good ta see youze, Dove, Rustla, Toss…” Cotton and the other three officers stared at them. “Card Slinga,” Detective White Dove said, drawing her weapon, “put the gun down.” “Why?” Slinger smirked. “Youze know the truth now, don’t youze?” “Truth?!” Cotton demanded, “What truth, psycho?!” Slinger jabbed the barrell of the gun against the Chief’s temple. “Heh… Heh… Heh… Don’t act like youze don’t know…” Cotton drew her weapon, pointing its shaking barrel at the mad-stallion on the floor. “Enough talk! Put the gun down!” A slow, thick exhalation passed through Slinger’s nostrils before he chuckled darkly again. “Don’t youze play coy wit’ me. Youze should be shootin’ him, not me.” He squeezed the Chief’s neck firmly. The massive stallion sputtered and coughed but didn’t move, staring pleadingly at his officers in blue. Cotton advanced towards Slinger. “Let him go o’ I blow youze brains out!” Officer Rustler ordered as he raised his pistol, “Put the gun down, Slinga.” Officer Lucky Toss commanded, “Put it down, Slinga.” Slinger snickered. “Why? So youze can shoot him instead? Dis one is mine, Toss! Youze know who the otha is!” “Drop the gun!” one of the officers standing near the cell blurted. Only Apple Bloom and Babs Seed kept their guns in their holsters. Breathing deep, breathing heavy, they shared a glance, an understanding. Side-by-side, the two mares squeezed in between Toss and Dove, staring straight at Card Slinger. “Who are youze?!” one of the other officers demanded, rounding on the mares. Dove began, “Iffa youze jus’ let—” ”AAAH!” Card Slinger tore his forehoof away from Chief Brutus’s neck. Deep bite marks marred his foreleg, droplets of blood trickling from the wound and staining the floor. Brutus kicked back against the stallion’s shins, making him howl, and rolled off him, reaching for the weapon, still firmly held in Slinger’s grasp. As Brutus rolled, his tail lifted, revealing what the five who had journeyed to the tower feared, but suspected— The black orange and its matching initials. Babs Seed’s forehooves found her pistol. “King’s Knight!” The prisoners in their cells howled and screeched, struggling furiously against their restraints and barriers, inmates in an asylum far from release, though their delusions told them otherwise. Card Slinger struggled to his hooves and charged again as the still-wheezing Brutus reached for the weapon. “Help me!” the Chief choked, his forehoof fumbling uselessly in the aftershock of his near-strangulation. Of the seven true officers in the room, three of them responded to Brutus’s command, raising their weapons—but not towards Card Slinger. The three officers who had followed behind the mares raised their weapons towards the other officers, Apple Bloom, and Babs Seed. Dove screeched at the three, the three who had galloped over to control the cells when they arrived, the three who had pounded on the cells of their fellow King’s Knights, “Drop the guns! DROP ‘EM!” Standing in front of Apple Bloom and Babs Seed, who both had their own weapons raised, Rustler shouted, “Jig is up! HOOVES OFF!” Toss trained his weapon on one of the Knights, his lips drawing back in a snarl. “Put the guns down!” Cotton whirled around in confusion. “‘Knights’?! Knights o’ what?!” “King’s Knights! Servants o’ Bernie Madhoof!” Dove shouted, unflinching in her gaze as the three Knights in blue advanced towards them. “Membas o’ the black-orange gang! Murderas o’ Manehatten! Traitors ta the force!” Cotton finally moved her pistol from Slinger, her eyes widening in fear and recognition. “A-afta all dis time… An’ dey were right heeya…” On the blood-stained floor, Card Slinger and Chief Brutus wrestled and rolled, struggling for dominance, forehooves scraping and scrambling for the weapon as it passed between them. Punches and kicks were exchanged, though Slinger did his best to fight off Brutus, who, in his rage, only seemed to grow stronger. Bruises, scrapes, cuts, and bite marks battered both of them, the gun sliding away into Slinger’s open cell once more. The three Knights kept their weapons trained on Dove, Rustler, Toss, Cotton, Babs, and Apple Bloom, advancing for their Master, for their fellow on the floor. Any semblance of loyalty to Manehatten or to their oaths was cast aside. In their eyes, there was nothing but bloodlust. Apple Bloom raised her pistol towards the advancers, standing fast beside her mare. “B-back up! We know who ya work fer! We know it, an’ if you don’t stand back, we’ll—” “Youze will what, lil’ mare?” one of the Knights mocked, grinning. “Youze are outnumbered! Drop the guns!” Toss took a step towards the advancing Knight. “Ratha surrenda an’ be tried than take a shot an’ die! Last warnin’!” “A true Knight,” one of the others said, “does not surrenda, nor betray his King!” Where the first shot came from, Babs Seed did not know. All she heard was the boom of the gun, cracking like thunder released by pegasi, and then a shot sliced right above Cotton’s mane, grazing it, her eyes wide in surprise and split-second fear. The howl and roar of the prisoners amplified, becoming a tidal wave of ruckus and commotion ringing throughout the prison as all Tartarus broke loose at last, shots firing their way, a rush of lead and smoke and fire screeching above the screams of the imprisoned Manehatten Kings. Cotton groaned as another bullet grazed her side, while one of the Manehatten Kings fell over, a victim of Dove’s smoking gun. Slinger and Brutus continued their writhing on the floor, King Crazy smashing his victim’s muzzle into the bars of a jail cell this time. The prisoner inside kicked at the Chief’s face as much as his bound hindhooves would allow. While Cotton staggered and retreated, the two remaining Knights rounded on the other officers and the Apple mares, the flick of their tails revealing their proud black oranges. Two against five—three against six. “Babs! Git down!” Apple Bloom yanked her out of the way as one of the newly Knighted officers rounded on her, squeezing off two shots. The first round sliced by her and smacked into a cell nearby, eliciting a howl of pain from the King inside. The second round grazed her back, making her scream, another scar of Manehatten cracking open on her skin. If she hadn’t moved, or he had aimed a few inches lower, she would be crippled, or worse. Fighting the urge to retreat, her heart hammering a rush of blood to the new wound, Babs Seed turned to see the Knight reloading, raising his pistol again. Not dis time! A quick squeeze of the trigger, and Babs Seed finally connected with the frozen Knight. Like a still cactus in the desert, he became her target, and opened when she met him. The stallion staggered, crimson spreading from his stomach. Leaping towards him, she stretched out her forehooves, knocking him squarely in the chest. THUD! Growling, the Knight returned her favor for a punch to the jaw. Flinching, Babs barely ducked his oncoming blow, then kicked him in the stomach, further opening his wound. Crying out in pain, the stallion struggled to keep his eyes open. His forehoof found his weapon, raised it high, and— BANG! Babs rolled over as the stallion slumped under her, looking over to see Toss, his gun smoking. Behind him, Dove had taken down the last Knight, now face-down and dead. Cotton tugged at the straps of a cloth bandage from Dove’s uniform, which had been tightened around her injured side. Rustler rubbed at his shoulder from the corner, groaning in pain where the same Knight had aggravated his injury. Apple Bloom rushed towards over, her weapon smoking from a missed shot. “Are ya alright?! Did ya git shot?! Lucky got him first, but’—” “Jus’ a flesh wound, I think,” Babs muttered, slowly rising to her hooves. Apple Bloom ran a forehoof over her back. Quickly, she ripped several strips of cloth off the one clean sleeve of her uniform, then tied it around the wound. Babs groaned in protest but stood upright, the bullet having missed her spinal cord by several inches. “Th-there. We can git some real bandages in a bit. Feel better?” “Nng… I think so. Are youze alright?’ “Ah think so.” Apple Bloom helped her up, trying not to stare at the blood, nor at the new “bandage” on her mare's back. Taking a breath, Babs holstered her pistol. “G-good, I was ‘fraid dat—” BOOM! All surviving muzzle snapped to the source of the noise. In the middle of the room, Card Slinger, the worm, slowly rose to his hooves, resting the spent pistol beside the lifeless body of Chief Brutus, the serpent. Slinger kicked him, then spat on his mane. “Mothabucka.” Looking up at the officers, he cackled. “Ding-dong! The bitch is dead! Ahahaha!” “Dammit, Slinga, did youze have ta kill him?!” Toss demanded, approaching him. Dove, Cotton, and Rustler soon joined him, then Apple Bloom and Babs Seed, the six of them forming a circle around the victorious stallion. The prison continued to echo with the stomping of hooves and shouts of victory from the Manehatten Kings, intermingled with bucks of the wall and requests for freedom. Through it all, Dodge the bodyguard grinned at his King, a sliver of faith restored. “Youze could have jus’ locked him ‘way, Slinga,” Toss said grimly, stomping a forehoof on the concrete. “We coulda got intel from him! Unlike the otha three, he didn’t have the gun once youze knocked it outta his hooves! Youze didn’t have ta kill him!” “Didn’t have ta?! Bastard put a gun ta ma head! Bastard betrayed youze an’ has been coverin’ up all the bullshit happenin’ in Manehatten!” Slinger prodded Toss in the chest with a forehoof, growling. “Jus’ ‘cuz youze didn’t have the stones ta kill youze Chief, doesn’t mean I didn’t! “Don’t play high an’ mighty! Besides these three goons—” Slinger gestured to the three fallen Knights on the floor—”I can see from youze uniforms dat youze all killed somepony at the towa befo’ youze got heeya." Leaning down, Dove plucked a heavy key-ring from Chief Brutus’s pocket, then spat on his muzzle. “Six stallions ain’t what I call heavily guarded, youze know. Though youze was right. Dat is his office, an’ he is the leada o’ the black-orange gang, the King's Knights. So, youze weren’t as complete a liar as I thought.” Slinger’s grin disappeared, replaced by a snarl. “Then dat jus’ means he’s got mo’ goons tucked in the Mansion. Six gave youze a run fo’ youze bits anyhow, jus’ like three did.” Brushing the insult aside, Rustler said, “Spotted mo’ Knights headed ta the office on our way back. At least twenty o’ ‘em. Means there’s at least dat many o’ mo’ back at his mansion.” He narrowed his eyes at Card Slinger. “How do we know youze ain’t jus’ settin’ us up fo’ an ambush? How do we know youze ain’t jus’ settin' a trap?” “Because Madhoof has jus’ as much reason ta kill youze as he does me. He’s the reason I got ‘arrested in the first place.” Slinger rubbed at a bruise on his side and winced. “Tellin’ the truth is what got me almost killed—not by youze, but by him." Rustler, eyes still narrowed, muttered, “I… suppose dat makes sense…” Dove glanced around the cells, narrowing her eyes. "Where did all these buckas come from?" "Afta I gave the leader o' the Manehatten Mafia ma deal, an' he didn't take it..." Card Slinger flattend his ears. "He killed a third o' the Kings, took the otha third fo' himself, an' had all o' these arrested dis morn." Toss scowled. "An' nopony told us. Must be Brutus's work, then?" Slinger gritted his teeth. "Guess so." Grimacing as she rubbed at her wound, Cotton asked, “Could somepony fill me in, please?! Horseapples! One moment youze readin’ a nice comic, the next there’s some buckin’ conspiracy exposed all ‘round youze…” While Dove filled Cotton in on Bernie Madhoof and the King’s Knights, Card Slinger stared at his hooves, keeping silent, as if in deep thought. After a few minutes, just as Dove had finished explaining everything, Slinger trotted over to Dodge’s cell. Card Slinger laid his forehooves on the bars to Dodge’s cell, sighing deeply. “Dodge… I… I’m so sorry…” Somehow, from his tone, Babs Seed felt that he was not just speaking to the skeptical stallion inside the bars. For the first time since she and the others had arrived, the prison quieted, the background clamor of the prisoners falling silent. Slinger paused for a slow breath before continuing, “I’m… I’m sorry fo’ betrayin’ youze, fo’ thinkin’ dat bargainin’ wit’ the Mafia, wit’ Eight Ball would be the solution… I see now dat it only hurt youze, all o’ youze…” Turning to the rows of cells, Slinger said quietly, “I’m sorry to all o’ youze. I’m sorry. I’m unfit ta be youze King." Silence. Slinger turned to Dove. "Iffa youze let them free, dey might be able to help us." Dove scoffed. "I don't think so. Youze can go wit' us, since youze helped lead us ta the bastard, but not dem. Dey're stayin' on lockdown." Slinger faced the imprisoned Manehatten Kings. “Raise youze right hoof iffa youze wanna take down the Masta. Raise youze right hoof iffa youze want ta end all o' dis madness. Raise youze right hoof iffa youze wanna follow us an' go afta the stallion who’s branded us, abused us, been the death o’ us, our homes, our families, our friends, an’ our city..." Lowering his head, Card Slinger paused, then sighed. "None o' youze don’t have any reason ta trust me anymo’, so I don’t blame youze iffa youze leave. Howeva, know dat youze are all dead ta the Masta now, too, so iffa youze don’t follow us inta the dark ta-night, get the hell outta Manehatten, as fast as youze can.” Turning back to Dodge’s cell again, Card Slinger said one last time, “I’m sorry, Dodge.” Watching him closely, Babs Seed detected no hint of malice in his parting words to the Manehatten Kings, no falsehood or deception. His voice seemed raw with emotion—at least, the most sincere emotion she could ever come to expect from Card Slinger the mad-stallion, the gangster, the colt in the park. For a few minutes, all was silent. And then, behind every cell, right forehooves rose. Detective White Dove said nothing, only eying Card Slinger for a moment before she took the key to the jail cells and, one by one, began unlocking them. The others watched as the traitorous Chief's key freed each and every stallion (and a few mares as well) from their bars and chains. Strikes turned, cuffs released, and doors swung open. Altogether, forty Manehatten Kings were released. Other than stretching, none of them moved once they trotted out of the cells. None of them raised hooves towards the officers in Manehatten blue, nor at Babs Seed and Apple Bloom. Instead, the forty glanced over at Card Slinger. Must be a ploy, a ruse... Dey jus' gonna leave... O', worse, attack us... The first to speak was Dodge, who approached Card Slinger, tall and proud, his gray coat and black mane bruised and matted. Slinger, standing tall, said nothing as he approached, perhaps anticipating what he deserved. “Slinga...” Dodge raised his right forehoof again. “I will fight alongside youze ta-night.” Thirty-nine other right forehooves raised in unison behind him. Slinger stared at them in disbelief, along with everypony else. Dodge lowered his forehoof and sighed. “I still hate youze fo’ what youze did ta us, what youze almost managed ta do ta us, everypony heeya.” Sweeping a forehoof over the crowd, he explained, “Iffa these four—er, six—officas wouldn’t have found out the truth an’ come down heeya, Brutus would’ve killed youze, an’ then us. “But fo’ right now, youze is right. Nopony can have a future wit’ the Masta bein' in Manehatten. Followin’ him was a grave mistake—maybe mo’ so than followin’ youze. Fo’ the benefit o’ ma family, both present an’ future, an’ Manehatten itself…” Dodge turned to the others. “Who’s ready fo’ some revenge?” The hoots and hollers of forty stallions and mares, stamping their newly freed hooves, was all the confirmation Card Slinger needed. He could never be redeemed; the rain that cleansed the city could never cleanse him. Nevertheless, forty-seven was a good start against the Master’s many more, and, just maybe, they would survive tonight. Card Slinger turned to the officers and, as he had only done before by force, bowed his head. “Youze heard ‘em. We’re ready wheneva youze are.” A small, bemused smirk on her muzzle, Detective White Dove glanced over at Officers Cotton, Lucky Toss, and Rustler, all of whom nodded. Then, she looked to Babs Seed and Apple Bloom. Glancing at Card Slinger, the colt who had marked her forever, Babs Seed saw him as a bit of a different stallion now—terrible still, black-hearted still, but, somewhere in those empty eyes and that hollow soul, there was something, something enough that made her nod in confirmation. And as Apple Bloom—the first target of that same colt—glanced over at that same stallion, she knew that, in spite of all the terrible things he had done, he had revealed the purported truth and proved it to be true, and that was something, and that something was enough to allow her to nod. Forty-seven rushing towards the Mansion instead of five, or seven, or two. Maybe they would still have a chance. It was a leap of faith, but it was all they had. Detective White Dove addressed the Kings, “Wait heeya while we get cleaned up an’ get weapons fo’ youze. We’ll be headin’ ta the Mansion ASAP, so get ready. No goin’ back, an’ iffa youze raise weapons ‘gainst us, we will show no mercy.” Despite her presumptions, nopony objected. Soon, she, Cotton, Toss, Rustler, Babs, and Apple Bloom were out the door, headed towards the police station’s armory. The time on Dove’s pocket watch read 2355. ~ The train blew its low, mournful whistle, an ethereal timberwolf howling its breath of steam at the moon. Page Turner, opening his eyes at the sudden jolt of the brakes against the tracks, groaned, then grabbed the lone saddlebag beside him. Stretching, Turner threw the bag over his back and departed the train. His hooves met the wooden platform, while his eyes met the clock tower in the distance. Rain began to tumble and slip down his mane onto his muzzle, matting his fur. “Almost midnight,” he muttered, cursing his delay. He knew he should have left this morning—no, yesterday morning. Babs Seed and Apple Bloom were most certainly asleep by this time. Or, if his daughter were anything like her old stallion, perhaps they weren’t... Turner laughed, shaking his head. “Too damn late, but I’ll take what I can.” Dodging an elderly mare's glare, he started off the platform, aiming first to check the major hotels in the heart of downtown. While neither of the mares he was searching for were particularly wealthy, he knew that at least one of them had been saving up, and would have brought at least a decent amount of bits with her. The moment Turner’s forehooves hit the rain-drenched concrete, he shivered and coughed, something cold and slick rising up through his veins. Clenching his jaws, he paused, fighting the sensation. “Buckin’ cities…” Forcing air through his nostrils, Turner thought of what awaited him in Appleloosa—them in Appleloosa—once he brought two ponies with him on the return train home. Fiery days and cold nights, hot sand and blazing skies, circling hawks and sweet cacti, and, most of all, the mother of the mare he sought here, with her snow-white fur and her freckles and contagious smile… Ice and fire calling out their battle cries in his blood, Turner drew forth enough strength to press onwards. First one step, then another, and another. Eventually, he made his way into Manehatten, returning to the dust, now mud, of a place he had long shaken from his hooves. City or no city, ice or fire, he was looking for his Babs Seed and Apple Bloom, and, by Galaxia’s starry mane, he was going to find them tonight.