Chapter 15: Red-Mane and Clock
“Was it worth it?” Clock said. Red-Mane stared blankly at the table. Clock leaned forward onto the table. She looked up toward him. “We got you, we got Twilight. All those deaths, and was it worth it?”
Red-Mane smiled. “I could ask you the same thing. Was it worth killing Clue: your biggest fan, just for me.”
“I had to,” he said. “If I didn’t you would have killed more—hundreds more-“
“Don’t give me that bullshit, Silver.” Clock spun recognising the voice. It was his father who had spoken. He was standing next to his brother in the doorway. He wasn’t withered by age anymore. This was him in his prime. “You did this for petty revenge you stubborn piece of shit. Was it worth it?” He advanced on him. “Was it worth killing Clue for this?” Behind him, he saw Clue. He was sitting, just like he had when he was killed. He was humming the song from the fanclub. He looked up toward Clock. His eyes were white without a pupil or iris.
“I won,” Clock said. “I killed Greenbill, I got Red-Mane, and Print lived. Don’t you all get that? I won!” As he shouted the ghosts of his father and brother vanished. Clue stopped humming looked away, then he vanished too. “I…I won.”
I hoof ran down his back making him shiver. “You did, didn’t you?” Red-Mane walked past him, a smile on her face. “Got me, right where you want me.” She opened the door to the observation room. Through the glass, he saw silhouettes. He was certain it was Swat and Print. They were judging him. “You’re cold, Clock.”
“I got you,” he said. He dropped to his knees and stared at the ground. He was in a pool of blood. Clue’s blood, and his own. He could feel his eye starting to throb and his vision flickered. “I won. You’ll get hanged and I’ll-“
Red-Mane lifted his head with a hoof so he looked into her eyes. “I was hanged three days ago,” she said. He remembered her being taken past his cell. “When you wake, you will join me.” She smiled but it quickly faded. “Don’t look so down, Clock. After all, you won.”
* * *
Clock awoke with a start. He had won. He looked around the cell and then up to the door. Swat was watching him through the bars. Print had trialed to get Clock executed for murder. She had won. Clock had been in hospital last week. They hadn’t managed to save his eye, leaving a it clouded with a scar running through it.
“Is it time?” Clock said.
Swat gave a single nod. “I’m sorry.” He had been called to tell the court about what Clock had done. He had told the truth and was given his job back. He had won. He held the bag toward him.
“Can we…can I put it one when I’m about to go out?” Clock asked. There was painful resignation in his voice.
“Sure we can,” Swat said. “You know the way, don’t you?” He smiled. Clock smiled too, but the humour was lost on him.
He spoke. Not wanting to walk in silence. “What happened to Greenbill?” They turned into a corridor. It was the last turn Clock would take.
“He’s dead,” Swat said. “Most of his workers were happy about that, as I’m sure you’d guess, seeing how he shot one of his own die just because he could.” Clock nodded but said nothing. “He had been looking for a replacement in Canterlot before he died. Apparently the new guy is worse, goes by the name Riser, makes Greenbill look like a chump.” Clock laughed, mostly because no-one could make Greenbill look like a chump.
“And how’s Print?” Clock asked.
“Uh…” Swat paused. “Scarred, from cross her face when Greenbill shot her, but she’s…I dunno. Different. Never talked to her much before, or after much, but she’s coping, I think.”
“Good. Good. That’s good to hear.”
They stopped by some doors. Clock hadn’t realised it before, but the brown wood and thick planks were quite intimidating. He stifled the thought. Swat held the bag toward him. “Could you?”
“Oh, yeah. Sorry.” He leaned forward, letting the bag be placed over his head.
“It’s okay,” Swat said. His voice became unnaturally softer for him. “Good working with you.” He pulled Clock forward.
He could hear the crowd. More than had been at Twilight’s execution. He took solace that Red-Mane had walked these steps a few days earlier. He stopped on a panel which rocked gently. The manacles were placed around his hooves. One of them clipped his skin. Swat’s voice apologized. Clock said that it didn’t matter. Then the noose was placed over his head.
Silence fell, apart from the occasional murmurs as his crimes were read out. The most notable being the murder of Detective Cross Clue. At the mention of the name, Clock hunched slightly. There was a short pause then bag was removed from his head. The light was temporarily blinding. Then his eyes adjusted.
Print was stood at the front of the crowd, frowning. The scar across her face did her well. It only added a fierceness to her beauty. She wasn’t a rookie anymore. At the back of the crowd, he saw Twilight’s parents. Beside them, he was sure he could see his brother and father, their ghosts at least. He didn’t even try and rationalize that. They turned to walk away.
He turned to his side. Another noose fluttered in the breeze. Red-Mane’s noose, he imagined. And like that, he saw her. Hanging limp.
He turned back to the crowd, wanting the image out of his head. That was him soon, but he saw her. In one of the alleyways, he saw her. Red-Mane. He knew it wasn’t her, but his heart was already pounding.
He would die for this. For saving all these ponies. He would die a monster because he dared to fight a greater evil. A face to blame.
He had won.
He looked up to a balcony above. Celestia nodded and turned back into the castle. Then his eyes fell on Swat who held the lever. His eyes were pleading but he shut them, looking down at the trapdoor. All eyes were on him. Print’s especially. She would saver this—maybe enjoy this. Cold .
He exhaled and held it. It would make his death faster. Then a pause, longer than usual, or maybe it just seemed longer.
The lever was pulled and he fell. The manacles on his hindlegs went taut first, throwing his chest forward. Then the noose went taut.
He began to slip, as he heard the crowd roar. He opened his one good eye, and looked forward. Print was crying. She could still be saved. She wasn’t cold yet.
Oddly, as his mind turned to distant, familiar places, one thought emerged—one line he had heard, but never quite acknowledged because it had never seemed real. It was her voice, Red-Mane’s voice.
“You will remember my face.” And he did. He saw it just like he had in the dream. She held her hoof under his chin as the world fell away beneath him. She was smiling.