I tumble across the building and swear in pain. I should have made that landing, I overestimated that gap. Stupid. I pick myself up and adjust the cap on my head.
Now, where are they? They were just near here. I creep to the edge of the roof and look down into the alley. Aha! There they are. Three stallions in dark jackets and bandanas all facing one batpony. Monsters. How dare they? How dare the three of them attack him? Two holding him while one of them kicks. Even the monsters are cowards in this city.
So are you, a nagging voice in the back of my mind whispers. I try to drown it out before vaulting the edge and falling into the alley. The rush of wind silences the doubts. The stallion preparing to kick the batpony doesn’t even look up before I crash into his back. He crumples, no shouting, no fighting. Keeping low, I turn my head to face the others.
The batpony is wearing a black sweatshirt with a hood and some kind of gasmask obscuring his lower face. But I can see a smile in his eyes. I don’t think about it as the other stallions release him and step towards me. The first rolls his shoulders and tenses up. I dart forward and drop low, getting under his first attack. I overshoot, there’s no room to throw a kick. I headbutt him in the chest, hoping to stun him.
I step back and pull a foreleg back, aiming for his head. Suddenly my vision is a burst of stars and I’m pressed against the wall. The other stallion hit me. I snap my head to look at him, he’s pulling his leg back for a second hit. I stand still, and watch him swing. I drop as late as I’ll risk it and his hoof slams into the brick wall. This time I aim my headbutt, straight into the joint of his foreleg. Something cracks and he cries out.
He falls as I jump away. I throw a quick kick with a back leg to the side of his head and he falls silent. I spin to face the other attacker and my eyes widen in fear. He’s got a switchblade clenched in his teeth.
I can’t move, and for a moment, I don’t even see him. I’m hiding behind the crates again, watching a different stallion with a voice like cold steel and eyes like ice slowly cut a mare’s throat. I’m looking into her pleading eyes as she lies in front of me, coughing and gasping while he moves on to another pony somewhere else in the room. I’m sprinting down the street away from Silk. I can’t breathe, I can’t think. I’m terrified.
The stallion with the switchblade is laughing, and I’m back in the alley. I watch warily, waiting for an opening. There’s true pleasure in his eyes. I hate him. I hate him more in this moment than I’ve hated anything or anyone. I step backwards, trying to keep the fear from showing in my eyes.
There’s a loud thud, and the stallion’s face goes slack. There’s a second, and he falls to the floor. Leaving only the batpony standing over him, a thick piece of wood in his jaws.
He drops it on his attacker’s back and smiles at me as he pulls his gasmask back up onto his muzzle.
"Thanks for the help. I'm Onyx." He holds out a hoof. "You're that mare who was in the paper yesterday right?"
I look at his hoof. "What's with the gas mask?"
"It's not really a gas mask, but the filters keep me from inhaling a bunch of paint fumes.”
I stare at him, not understanding.
“I’m not just Onyx, I also go by Batsy.”
“You do the graffiti.”
He nods. “The mask has the added perk of hiding my face... What I do isn't, strictly speaking, legal." He's still holding out his hoof.
I stare at him in silence for a few seconds and he simply states back at me, smiling under his mask. Finally, I reach out and shake his hoof.
"Do you have a name?" He turns to a black duffel bag I hadn't noticed tucked away in the corner of the alley.
I remain silent. He slings his bag across his back and turns back towards me. He sighs loudly.
"If you're gonna be a vigilante you need a kickass name. Like the old days, when we had people like Night Owl, Silver Dollar, Dark Star, or --"
I turn and start walking away. His hooves clatter on the pavement and suddenly he's at my side. "Well, if you haven't picked a name yet then you probably haven't chosen a real costume either." How did he know this wasn't final? Is it really that bad? "What about fighting? You can't rely on surprise forever."
I stop walking. "What do you mean?" I ask, keeping my voice as toneless as possible.
He turns to face me. "I appreciate what you did, and that was impressive fighting, but they had you beat. If you hadn't gotten the drop on them, literally, and if I hadn’t stepped in, we probably wouldn't be having this conversation."
"It's worked so far."
He raises his eyebrows. "That's what, twice you've fallen out of the sky to win a fight? But if the paper's right then you didn't even really win the last one, just got away before they got their gun up."
"I can handle myself." I start walking again, looking up at the roofs.
"Well I know a guy who can help if–"
I fling a grappling hook to the skies and I’m pulled behind as it catches hold. The coil inside does its work smoothly, and I'm standing on the lip of the roof just second later, free from Batsy.
I start to run across the roof, ready to search the city for more of the monsters out in the dark.
"Now those..." the voice comes from behind me, "are impressive."
He has wings. Right. "Listen, I really don't need your pointers, and I really don't need you following me around."
"I know." He looks down at his hooves when I turn to face him, like a scolded child. "It's just, what you're doing, I feel like it means something to this city. Or at least it should. Manehattan needs a hero, but if no one's there to see it, it might as well not be happening. And if you get killed out there, it might do more harm."
I open my mouth to give him a response but it dies in my throat. "Fine." He meets my eyes. "But you have to stay quiet."
Even with his mask on I can tell he's beaming again. He starts spewing thanks as I turn back down the roof. With a running start I leap and throw, swinging into a dim backstreet. The alley flies by in a blur, dark bricks, a sleeping pony, and the stench of trash. I swing around the corner at the end of the alley and onto another road. No cars, no ponies, only streetlights and buildings.
It continues like this for almost an hour and half a dozen roads before I alight on a rooftop a block from an intersection. I’ve moved closer to busier parts of the city. Cars sit silently along both sides of the road, and a few ponies are walking to their homes. Should have planned out a route. You can’t just wander aimlessly through the city looking for criminals.
“Shut up.” I mutter.
“What?” Batsy asks. I don’t respond. “The subway would probably be a good place to look for someone. but you can’t really go in like that.” I look back at the intersection and spot the dimly lit staircase descending to a subway station. He’s right, it would be a good place. But I can’t have the cops called.
“So we look somewhere else,” I growl.
“Well, we could hit up Discord’s Walk, it’s just a bit northwest of here.”
Discord’s Walk is what they call the slums along the river further northeast along the island of Manehattan. The police have virtually no presence there, making it a hive of criminal activity. I think about it for a long while before deciding that the slums would be as good a place as any to patrol. I get my bearings and turn towards the north. Batsy’s hoof presses against my chest and he whispers for me to stop.
He stands still and holds his breath, his ears twitching. “Did you hear that?”
“What?”
He grins at me. “Not a chiropteran, then. Someone called for help.”
“Where?”
His ears twitch for another second. “That way.” He points across the street.
I launch myself off the roof and throw one of the grappling hooks. I swing through alley after alley until I can hear the voice too. Calling for help. I turn a corner at high speeds and my shoulder screams in protest. I get as close as I can to the sound before I decide to land. I roll to a stop on the sidewalk and listen.
Batsy lands silently next to me. “There.” He points to the alley across the street.
I nod and walk across the street. “Stay.” I whisper. He nods. I stand still in the entrance of the alley and survey the scene. One stallion with a knife, one terrified mare holding out her purse with pleading eyes. I trot towards him.
“One chance. Leave. Now.” He’s not getting that chance.
The stallion turns around and looks at me. He laughs. “Or what?” He steps toward me.
I swallow and step forward, glaring at him. He waves the knife from side to side and steps forward again. His mistake. I swing my front leg, and the heavy metal hook makes solid contact with the side of his head.
The knife clatters across the cold ground and he swears. I dart forward and pummel his side. He drops and rolls to his back, kicking out with his hind legs and catching me off balance. I slide a few feet on my side and struggle to my hooves. He’s trying to find his knife. I jump across the narrow alley and raise both hooves for a strike.
He hears me move, and tries to turn. I slam into him and hit the base of his neck. He falls.
I turn to the mare, frozen in place. “Go.”
She thanks me and runs past out onto the street. I hear a soft scraping sound and suddenly something’s on my back pushing me down. I feel cold steel against my neck and hear heavy breathing.
“Now we’re gonna see just how fast you are with a nice little slash in your throat,” the stallion spits.
I struggle and turn my head to try and look at the knife, and see something else. Batsy is trotting towards us, not making a sound. I see the stallion smiling in the corner of my eye and he press the knife against me. Batsy tosses piece of trash at him. I see it arc through the air and towards his back.
He pulls his head back in surprise and I buck with all my might. He drops the knife once more and loses his grip, staggering back. Batsy grabs his head with a foreleg and slams him into the ground. I kick his head and side again and again and again until I’m sure he’s not going to get back up.
Batsy and I silently walk to the mouth of the alley and turn back onto the street. I stop a block later and take a deep breath, looking down and sitting. I take a moment to let the panic calm and look at him. “We’re done for the night. Go home.”
He looks at me with concerned eyes. “Are you alright?”
I remain silent as I start to walk away.
“I…” He wants to say something more, but he stops and turns away, flying off into the night.
Hours have passed and I’ve found nothing. It’s well past midnight and the city has decided not to reveal anything more tonight. I swing to the roof of small two story building.
I walk angrily to the stairwell, and pull off my mask as soon as I'm inside. I kick open the door to the second floor and move to the long vacant bedroom. This building had been abandoned for years, so I know that I can hide things here without the risk of them being disturbed. I climb onto the moth-eaten mattress and press a hoof against the wall above it, ignoring the fading floral wallpaper. It takes a moment longer than it did at the beginning of the night, but the false boards lean back on their hinges, revealing a small compartment inside the wall.
Two nights and the hinges are already sticking. Oh well, I’m not a handypony. I carefully place the mask, boots, hat, and sweats that I use to hide my identity and pull my dark coat out from inside. It’s a good thing I work irregular hours or this “hero” thing would really put an impact on my work, the nagging voice from before chimes in again, all this late night running around, how are you going to get enough sleep?
“Sleeping pills if I still have any. Cold medicine if I don’t.” I mutter angrily at the voice.
Now you’re talking to yourself. That can’t be a good sign. I snort and pull on my coat before carefully replacing the panel. I step back into the hallway and walk towards the dilapidated stairs. This building looks fine from the outside, but that’s the only upkeep ever done. Filthy Rich owns it, indirectly of course. One of his shadowy companies that he can’t be legally connected with owns it and pretends to keep it in good shape, claiming it’s a bed and breakfast or something of the like. Money runs through it from imaginary customers that exist only on receipts and tax forms, money that eventually goes back to Rich.
The City looks out for its own, for ponies like Rich. Manehattan will defend these monsters at every turn. My only hope is to get better at this.
I step out onto the deserted street and begin the long walk to the nearest subway station. Batsy had some good points. I try to quiet the voice, but this time I agree with it. I need to change if I’m going to beat this city. I need to fight and I need a name.
My thoughts are interrupted by a piece of trash fluttering in front of my face. I angrily stomp down, pinning it to the ground. Looking down I find the front page of the Manehattan Times from a few days back, and a picture of me under a bold headline half covered by my hoof. “Mysterious Masked Mare.” I stare at the headline and picture and something clicks. Right now, what I really need, is a face.