Fear is a fascinating emotion. It serves as a harsh reminder of the limits of intelligent species, something of a sobering reality check. No matter how far one’s society has progressed, no matter the dizzying heights of knowledge acquired, the most civilized and rational thinkers can still be brought low by the most basic and ancient of emotions. For all of the vaunted greatness of scholarly growth, fear proves time and again that the mind is ever subservient to the body.
It is a feeling as old as life itself, born of instinct and honed through countless years of evolutionary advancement. Its design is simple, yet effective in its mission: the survival of the self. Some perceived threat rears its ugly head, and fear quite naturally takes control. Breathing accelerates as the lungs work with ever increasing speed, heart pounding in one’s chest to keep pace. Muscles quiver in preparation for sudden bursts of speed, while perception slows to a bare crawl. The frivolities of higher thought flee, and only the drive to survive remains.
Where exactly voiding one’s bowels comes into the picture isn’t quite clear, but perhaps even that has some unknown benefit. Perhaps it was speed, the pony named Mulligan thought as he fled in absolute terror. He certainly did feel lighter on his hooves now.
Mulligan did not consider himself a coward. There were few things a stallion like himself needed to be wary of, after all. He was tall and heavily built, with dense muscles packed beneath a caramel brown coat and a salt-and-pepper colored mane kept crudely hacked short so as not to interfere in a tussle. A permanent scowl was affixed to a snout that had seen any trace of beauty long beaten out of it, and the stubble of a beard that refused to shave clean only enhanced his naturally intimidating glower. The rest of his body told a sad tale of lifelong combat, covered in a crisscrossing pattern of thin scars from old injuries barely healed and otherwise ignored. His cutie mark was a wooden slugger and it suited him well, though in all of his years Mulligan had never actually played baseball. Even the horn on his head was filed to a dagger point, in case a legitimate conflict of interest ever required him to butt heads with another pony in a friendly effort to change their mind on the subject.
He was a force to be reckoned with, a bruiser with both talent and experience. He was an enforcer who’d not only experienced the worst the city had to offer, but survived it and dished out a little of his own in return. He knew these streets like the back of his hoof, and walked them like he owned them.
A shrill scream broke the silence of the night air, and despite ponies often forgoing clothing entirely Mulligan felt the need for brown pants. He was missing that confidence right about now, and his current pace could be considered more of a sprint than a walk. He dashed through cobblestone alleys wedged tightly between the tall brick projects, scurrying past corners like a rat in a maze. Behind him, he could make out the edge of the docks he’d fled from, unmarked shipping crates stacked haphazardly like forgotten children’s toys. To his sides, nothing but low-income housing, tasteful graffiti of the Princess’ royal flanks, and darkened windows with heavy iron bars announcing the neighborhood’s less than law-abiding nature like a neon sign. Ahead, nothing but fog from sewer vents along his path, and the occasional flickering orange light from an ill-maintained street lamp. Above, a shadow flashed against the light of the full moon, a ghost in the night’s sky. A whimper building up in his throat, Mulligan picked up the pace.
Baltimare was his home. He’d grown up in these ghettos. He’d learned to brawl in that run-down pub. He’d mugged his first tourist beneath that viaduct. He’d watched ponies in the wrong place at the wrong time disappear behind those unmarked doors, never to be heard from again. He’d made a living in its back alleys and darkened corners, serving as muscle for the city’s seedy underbelly. Mulligan had thought he’d seen every horror this corrupt city could throw at him.
He was wrong.
Tonight was not supposed to go down this way. It was intended to be a simple pick-up and delivery, a parcel exchanging hooves with no questions or curious glances. He was good at that kind of thing. Mulligan wasn’t a particularly smart pony, but he knew when to keep his head down and his mouth shut, and that was enough in a city like this. At least, on any other night. Tonight was all wrong. He and his contact were supposed to have finished their transaction by now, with Mulligan heading home to sip on a cold cider while his nameless accomplice went back to whatever illicit dealings his kind did. Instead, he was being hunted like an animal through the narrows of skid row, while his associate...
Mulligan shuddered in horror as he stopped for a second to catch his breath, leaning heavily against a spindly stop sign and shaking his head to escape the memories. That sight would haunt his nightmares for years to come. That was, of course, assuming he could survive the night. All he had to do, he knew, was to get back to his boss’s turf. He’d be safe there. An entire crew of the roughest, toughest ponies this side of the Mississipponi, backed by a stallion so cold he was rumored to be part wendigo. Nopony messed with boss Dobber, and nopony messed with the Skinflints. Not the poor shmucks living in skid row, not the other gangs carving this town up block by block, not even the city cops trying in vain to keep the law alive in Baltimare. Nopony.
The faint rustle of feathers from below caught his attention, and his heaving for air like a trout out of water turned into a startled gasp that froze in his throat. An all-encompassing dread filled the unicorn as his ears tilted ever so slightly to face behind him, catching a low, beastial hiss that promised every dark and terrifying imagined horror that plagued foals in their beds at night. Slowly, quaking in his steel shoes with knees like gelatin, Mulligan turned to face his pursuer.
Nopony messed with the Skinflints.
This monster was no pony.
***
“It was awfully kind of you to treat me to coffee, darling.” Soubrette Sprite levitated her steaming cup up in an emerald aura of magic. It was a beautiful green color, just as the rest of her was. A pristine, shimmering coat the color of a grassy knoll, and a mane done up in a fabulous bun that evoked the image of the leafy canopy of the Everfree. Even her eyes burned green as she sipped daintily before continuing, “Really, now, there are no hard feelings.”
Across from her sat a pale blue unicorn, who stared into her own cup with an expression somewhat like shame. As if that traitorous skank Stellar Starlet could feel emotions. She had been cursed with a dark violet mop on her head, curling most wretchedly and thankfully obscuring her homely face. It reminded Sprite of a squid and it clashed horribly with her coat, which was dull and lifeless. Honestly, Sprite couldn’t tell if her fellow unicorn even bathed. Other than packing on a few too many pounds, everything about her was average and boring, from her single star cutie mark to her slate grey eyes, and it all combined together to practically make her invisible. Even her voice was barely present, rising in little more than a mournful whisper. “I’m really, really sorry. Maybe I can talk to the director and get him to change his mind?”
“Nonsense,” Sprite waved off the idea with a hoof that had seen more spas than steps. She shouldn’t have been surprised with the brainlessness of her idea. The poor mare looked like she’d never seen the inside of a gymnasium, much less a school. “Haymes Camareon has a reputation for three things; sold-out shows, insane demands, and never admitting he was wrong. No matter how clear it is to everypony.”
“I just, um, I really don’t think I should replace you as the lead singer,” Sprite fought off the overwhelming urge to scream out ‘well, duh!’ to everypony in the dingy little cafe the two unicorns were in. The seats sagged, the table was wobbly, the music flowing out of a little gramophone in the corner was grating, the bar looked as if it had never felt the touch of a clean rag, and even the coffee was... well, the coffee was fine, but the rest of the cafe was disgustingly plebian. If the mare across from her weren’t so simple, Sprite would suspect this outing to be a veiled insult.
“And I really don’t want to ruin our friendship,” Starlet continued. Now Sprite was holding back the urge to laugh. Sure, they had gotten along well, thrown together as coworkers and bonding over something as simple as sharing the same initials, but friends? As if a famous and well-to-do talent as her could ever be friends with a stagehoof, whose only purpose in the long year that Sprite had worked with her was to make sure the limelight she was made for, it was her cutie mark after all, shone perfectly on the green unicorn songstress. Especially not a backstabbing, job-stealing, pudgy hag who had somehow managed to fool the director into summarily dismissing his greatest leading mare in exchange for an unknown. A heavy-weight talent traded for a plain heavy weight. If the camera adds ten pounds, she would have to lose thirty to even hope to match Sprite.
Yet, somehow, she had somehow tricked them all. And now they were here, in this cafe. Sprite had to keep to a tight-lipped smile, which sadly kept from showing off her pearly whites but did manage to hide how she was grinding her teeth together. Could she not be free of this agony? Obviously, this conversation was no doubt about to descend into Starlet’s inevitable gloating. If only something miraculous happened to spare her the torture of Starlet’s pitiful voice.
“...and he only heard me sing once when I was fixing the props, so maybe he didn’t really hea-” With an explosion of glass and a shriek from both mares, a miraculous body went miraculously flying past their window-side table, its flight originating from somewhere outside and ending promptly at the unyielding surface of the bar. Sprite stared in shock at the stallion who now lay crumpled on the floor, whining and whimpering like a foal. She turned back to Starlet, hoping perhaps that maybe the glass had cut her portly face, only for her shock to magnify a hundred-fold.
She’d never seen it arrive, though she had turned away for only a second. She’d never heard it enter, though shards of glass littered the table upon which it stood. She’d never imagined anything could move so quietly or so fast, even as the injured unicorn stallion gave an inarticulate scream of terror before tossing every sharp object in his immediate vicinity towards the intruder with a burst of telekinesis. Without leaving the table, it dodged and deflected its way through the flying cutlery with a flurry of feathers before catching the final projectile between its claws and returning it to its sender.
“Oh, f-f-f-f-FORK!” The downed stallion wailed, a fork embedded up to the hilt in the cafe bar just a hair above his head. With a mad scramble of hooves, he tore his way into the kitchen, barreling his way past servers, waitresses, cooks, and anything else in his path in blind terror.
Soubrette Sprite felt that same terror building inside her own chest, though she had no such avenue of escape. The monster glared at her with eyes of fire and wings of shadow. It spoke with a voice like the rumble of an earthquake, an inevitable and painful herald of death to all those downrange.
“Mademoiselle,” it said, inclining its head towards her.
“Oh sweet Celestia, please don’t eat me!” Sprite wailed, covering her head with her legs and cowering in fear. “I’ve got too much to live for! I’m too pretty to die! I’m too talented! There, the purple mare’s the one you want! She’s no good for anything! And she’s fat, she would taste better! I don’t want to die, puh-uh-uh-leeeease....”
The demon from the abyss only raised a clawed hand as if to tear her asunder, only to bring it to its head and rub at bridge of its bill.
“Dingue...” it sighed before trotting off after its prey, leaving the patrons of the no longer quiet little cafe to gape in bafflement, all sharing a look of extremely concerned confusion. All but one that is, a light violet unicorn that regarded Sprite with an icy and unamused expression. Sprite retook her seat, clearing her throat and rubbing at her head sheepishly.
“Ahaha, um... ahem. So. Friends?”
***
“We got trouble!” Mulligan slammed the heavy door behind him, twisting three deadbolts into place with his magic, and then dragging over a nearby shelf for good measure to lean against it. He set his own weight against the shelf, trying in vain to catch his breath.
The location he had fortified himself in was a small backroom of the cafe, a perfect location for the Skinflints to work while hiding behind a legitimate business. The elderly barkeep knew better than to ask questions or poke his snout in where it didn’t belong, as that was a quick way of ending up with his establishment in flames and his livelihood in ruins. The room itself was used for all manner of unseemly conduct, from fencing merchandise to teaching upstarts a lesson. Tonight, it was a crooked card game, with a good half-dozen of the gang’s wheelers-and-dealers sitting comfortably around a weathered oak table playing five-card stud. A dim light filtered through clouds of smoke above their mugs of hard cider, various piles of chips, and red-backed cards with two threes and a Luna face up in the center. None of the ponies had even bothered to look up.
“Shaddup, Mully, I gots bits ridin’ on dis hoof, see?” A chalky pegasus with a heavy accent grumbled through the cigar in his mouth. He flicked several chips forward with the leading feathers of his right wing.
The earth pony across from him wore a cheshire cat grin, adding with a cackle, “Yeah, soon to be my bits. Just sit there and kiss your owies, Mully, and we’ll go take care of whoever roughed you up after the next round. Or the round after that, if my hoof’s good.”
“You guys don’t get it! A monster took out our contact, and now it’s after me!”
That comment actually did draw attention, though it was the wrong kind. A unicorn stallion the color of dried blood stood up slowly from the table, stroking at the goatee on his face. He stared Mulligan down with an expression resembling boredom to those who didn’t know him or what he was capable of. He spoke with an air of authority, his words clipped and cultured. “Mulligan, are you telling me your business was not completed?”
“W-well, uh, I wouldn’t s-say, um, that is, Leicester, sir, I couldn’t r-really...”
“Quiet. And this individual-”
“It’s a monster!” Mulligan cut in before the dark crimson stallion silenced him with a look.
“Interrupt me again and lose your tongue. This is not the quaint, boogey-mare fearing backwoods in which you sprung from your inbred progenitors. This is Baltimare, you unlearned little infant. We are the monsters here.” Those dead eyes remained on the cringing caramel stallion. After he was deemed suitably cowed, Leicester continued. “You are stating that you have failed in your objective, that our business associate has been compromised by an unknown agent, and that you have led said agent directly to our base of operations, correct?”
“I, u-u-uh, I... no?” Leicester sighed, tossing his cards upon the table with a flick of levitation. A full house, Bluebloods over Lunas, utterly wasted.
“Our game is adjourned, gentlestallions. A hovel though it is, this location’s secrecy and that of our business must be maintained. It is clear that our friends in law enforcement have resorted to some new scare tactic in order to flush us from hiding, and this blundering fool fell for it head over hoof." Matching glares from everypony in the room left the caramel unicorn withering under their collective gaze. "We must discover and eliminate this mystery threat before it discloses our whereabouts to the authorities. ” He strode over to Mulligan, and added with a mirthless smile. “And I will be discussing your performance to boss Dobber.”
“No, sir! Please! You can’t do that to me!” Mulligan begged on his knees to the callous red stallion.
“And what’s to stop me, Mulligan?” Leicaster snorted.
The answer to his rhetorical question came in the form of a shelf, specifically the one that had been used to bar the door, crushing him underneath and quite effectively stopping him from doing much of anything. The door, for that matter, decided to join the shelf in collapsing overtop the two unicorns standing in its shadow. The iron door had been knocked clear from its hinges, and now lay over the unconscious forms of gang overseer and underling. The monster Mulligan had tried in vain to warn his companions of strode into the room, standing over the door and its victims.
And it was a monster by every definition of the word. The hind end of it may have had the look of a pony, albeit massive and overly muscled, but it was there the similarities ended and the freakish mutations began. It stood easily twice as high as the average equine, perhaps a head or two taller than any of the stallions in the room. Its face was black as night, with colorless, soulless eyes that swept across the gang members and saw nothing of significance. A beak took the place of a muzzle, one eternally curled into a sneer that showed an even row of teeth gritted in barely contained rage. The black feathers of its head gave way to the mottled colors of earth on its barrel-wide chest, leading down to dark scales along its legs that would look more at home on a dragon, finally ending with alien-looking feet of four clawed toes. Dark wings jutted out from its sides, dwarfing most ponies in size and blocking out the light from the open doorway behind it. It seemed to radiate an oppressive aura of violence, one that might be expected from a feral beast with a taste for pony flesh. When it spoke, it was more an imitation of speech than actual talking, a growling hiss twisted into cruel words.
“Attention, ponies,” it commanded. “Submit or fall.”
Five stallions shared glances. Each was a brute in his own right, they outnumbered the intruder, and they stood upon Skinflint turf. They were the power here, not this freak of nature. They had their gang’s reputation to maintain, not to mention that of their boss. The sheer thought of what Dobber would do to them if they gave up was incentive enough.
“Monster or not, nopony messes with the Skinflints and lives to talk about it. Get ‘em!” One shouted, and the others joined in with battle cries of their own. With crude knives, worn bats, and steel chains, they charged towards the monster in a stampede.
Gander smiled.