//------------------------------// // The Little Thief // Story: Shadow Pony // by PaulAsaran //------------------------------// Warm blood decorated Fine Crime’s coat, the coppery scent lingering like a heady perfume. His body felt light as a feather as his hooves moved almost fluidly up and down, up and down. His grip on the pegasus’ head was tight enough that he could feel the contours of her face, the bone in her cheeks, the softness of her fur. Her mouth hung open, jaw taut as the air rose from her throat, and Fine regretted having to cut her vocal cords at the outset. That was okay; he’d heard enough screams by now to do a good job of imagining one. It tickled his ears like a lover’s tongue, sending a thrill down his spine. A crack filled the air like a thunderclap. Fine kept pounding her head against the cement, breath steaming from his smiling mouth as if he were an engine of death. The impacts that shook his hooves began to feel less solid, like he was smashing a sponge rather than a skull. Her body convulsed rapidly, like a possessed marionette. Green eyes rolled back in her head; blood dripped from her ears and smeared the ground. At last her movements slowed to a stop, and the breeze from her throat died. Fine paused and lifted her head to study her face, but it was too late; he’d missed that tender, sweet moment of passing. He might have cursed himself if he’d not had so much fun. He laid her head down gently and stepped back to admire his work with a grin. The sight made his blood boil and his loins quiver. The body splayed out on the concrete; the shattered knees of her hind legs; the gaping wounds; black bruises on her left shoulder. The expression on her face when he’d begun working on that part of her had been so... delightful. There, still sticking out of her chest, was the black unicorn’s horn, still attached to the wire necklace. He stared at it, delighting in the way the blood shone on it in the cold autumn air. He reached for it— The ecstasy fled his mind in a wave that left Fine feeling indescribably cold. Replacing it was an awareness and horror that he’d grown intimately familiar with over the last several months. It was his lover and companion, and it hit his gut with all the force of a sledgehammer. So powerful was the blow that he promptly turned away from the body and vomited, and when he had nothing left to expel he just hacked for a while. He stared at his shaking hooves, the mottled browns now obscured by a thin, oozing coat of blood. The stuff looked almost black in the darkness. Not for the first time, he wondered if adding his own blood to the mix wouldn’t be a bad idea. He shoved the thought aside as quickly as it had come; he didn’t deserve the easy out. It took him a while to muster the courage to turn around. This had always been the hardest part, and he spent an untold amount of time whispering assurances to himself. Speak a platitude, take a deep breath, repeat. “You should be used to this by now.” Breathe. “It’s not your fault.” Breathe. “You chose her for a reason.” Breathe. “She was a criminal.” Breathe. “That makes it okay.” He held his breath, eyes closed and heart pounding. Slowly, he released the air, turning around as he did. It took a bit more effort to open his eyes and survey his deed once more. He focused on her face, the way her mouth hung open and how her eyes had rolled back. He knew so much about her – where she lived, where she worked, the fact that she lived alone – and yet he knew so horribly little. Would anypony miss her? Would the local police be glad to have her off the streets permanently? Perhaps tomorrow some friend would be sitting at a café, waiting for her to show up while sipping on overpriced coffee. How long before that same friend got tired of waiting? How long before anypony noticed that she wasn’t around anymore? Fine’s stomach roiled again. He barely managed to keep from retching, tears streaming down his cheeks from the sheer effort. As soon as he had control, he reached over to close the mare’s eyes and mouth. He thought about rearranging her body into a somewhat more presentable form, but cast the thought aside; it wasn’t like doing so would earn him any forgiveness. He closed his eyes and sobbed. His father’s horrified face filled his vision, and that only made his throat clench even more tightly. “Hello?” Fine sucked in a sharp gasp, head whipping toward the street. Somepony was there, barely visible in the darkness. He moved without thinking, practically leaping round the corner into the next alley. He got a few steps in when a thought struck – he’d left the horn. The realization distracted him so well that he lost his footing and collapsed on his face. Ignoring the bits of gravel in his cheek, he jumped to his hooves and turned around. No, he couldn’t run back. Cringing, he crept back toward the corner, heart thudding in his chest and throat dry. Please move on. Please. Oh, please. His ears lowered at the sound of a sharp gasp and his heart sank to his hooves. What would he do now? Licking his lips – barely resisting the urge to spit from the coppery taste on his tongue – Fine glanced as far around the corner of the building as he dared. Oh, Goddess, it was a filly. She couldn’t be more than seven. Had he not been so focused on keeping quiet, he might have groaned. Fine ducked back behind the building and held his stomach as the sound of the poor thing losing her dinner reached him. Now she was going to have nightmares and… and… by Celestia, he couldn’t imagine what something like that would do to a child. He inhaled a deep breath and tried to think positive. At least he could be certain the filly would run off. She might tell her parents about this, but he’d be long gone by morning. All he had to do was not think about the years of psychologist visits she’d be undergoing after tonight. He pressed his hooves to his face, then jerked them back when he realized they were still coated in blood. He’d have to do something about that. Fine perked an ear to the corner. The foal remained, her breathing labored. Sniffles and hiccups came from her, which impressed him; he’d expected her to be a sobbing mess by this point, rather than still trying to hold it in. Once again, he dared to peek around the corner. Her horn glowed orange. Tears streamed down her light tan cheeks, which were puffed out from her struggle. Did she think she could heal the mare? The sight tore at his heart. Were he not covered in blood, he might— His heart slammed into his throat as something jerked out of the body with a squelch. The flickering orange glow illuminated the black horn, which dripped fresh blood. The wire necklace dangled as it gradually levitated toward the filly. No. No no no! Fine leaned forward, gritting his teeth and praying she’d drop the thing. The filly studied the horn, her face turned away from him. Her shoulders rose and fell in a deep rhythm with her heavy breathing and her knees were shaking. Put the horn down. Put the horn down. Put the horn down. Put the— The necklace slipped around the filly’s neck. Fine could only gape as she turned and galloped back into the street, the horn bouncing around her fetlocks. He looked to the corpse, then back to the filly just as she disappeared from sight. Fine was running after her before he even registered the need. That horn… he needed it back! He came to a sliding stop as logic hit him. He stared at his bloodstained hooves, glanced at his dappled body. His lips moved silently, his hooves trembled, his heart hammered. He’d lose her if he tried to clean up, but… He glanced back at his flank. In the darkness, his cutie mark was especially hard to see. Even knowing exactly how it looked, he had trouble making out the camouflaged pony. “Don’t fail me now.” Fine hurried to the street and looked about for signs of life. Nothing. This might be New Clusterdam, but it was also the Horseshoe District. Most sensible ponies didn’t go out at night in the Horseshoe District. Quiet lay over the district, the streets lit up only by the stars and the bright half-moon. Most of the buildings were wooden; those few fortunate enough to still have paint were dulled and peeling. Windows were shattered or boarded up, and many of the doors were wide open or similarly obstructed. The houses were like squat monsters: too lazy to pounce but ever-watchful with their empty, dark eyes. A few had collapsed, the wood ruined by termites or flooding from the bay, the same flooding that drove off most of the residents some forty years past. Fine slipped from shadow to shadow, his eyes set on the filly. She stopped running after a while and now moved at a brisk trot through the empty streets. She kept her head held high, but her bravado was hindered by her tail between her legs. At first, Fine had been relieved that she’d not gone directly to her parents. Perhaps he’d get a chance to take his horn back before then. Yet as they travelled ever farther, worry built within him. Why were they travelling to the bay? Where were this filly’s parents? What the buck was she doing in a place like this, in the middle of the night, alone? Fine gradually found himself looking more for potential threats to the filly than keeping an eye on the filly herself. Didn’t she know the kind of ponies who roamed this neighborhood? Ponies like him. Ponies who had slipped into the darkness and lost their way. Ponies who couldn’t go back. A biting wind knocked the thoughts away, and he hurried to catch up. To Fine’s relief, nothing emerged from the abandoned homes and shadowy corners to prey upon the filly. They had been travelling for nearly an hour when they reached what he presumed to be their destination. A tall, rusted metal arch rose over the place where the road became dirt and grass, the words Horseshoe Park spelled out on it. Well, mostly; some of the letters lay in the path so that the sign now spelled Hors sh e p rk. Fine stepped over the letters with a sick feeling in his stomach. The park had a decent size to it, albeit nothing extraordinary. Though overgrown and quickly turning to a proper forest, Fine could still make out half-standing playgrounds in the dark. The path they walked had been used frequently, the ground turned to dirt with bits of gravel. The filly certainly seemed to know where she was going, navigating the twists and turns of the park at a brisk pace. This didn’t help the nagging worry in the back of Fine’s mind. The salty, pleasant smell of the ocean filled Fine’s nostrils. They passed a large, faded wooden sign that read Harmony Lookout. Fine could see a rise deep within the thick foliage, complete with a gazebo overgrown with vines. The filly walked a wide path around the lookout, and soon Fine found himself looking at the quietly shifting waters of New Clusterdam Harbor. The buildings of New Clusterdam rose across the water like sentinels, shining brightly even now with a million yellow eyes. Manehattan could just be seen in the distance. There, towering in the dark like a quiet guardian, stood the Statue of Harmony. Fine had to admit, it was quite the view. Fine kept to the trees, moving slowly to ensure he didn’t step on anything that would give him away. He saw the filly pause by an old rusty barrel of a trash can, her lips quivering and her hooves toying with the horn dangling from her neck. Slowly, she peered around the barrel. With a deep sigh, she circled around and continued on her way. Fine now saw that the overlook also formed an overhang for the path to go under, with a couple benches and what had probably once been an informational sign. Now the metal sign lay at an angle against the wall of the overhang, resting atop one of the benches. Fine felt his fears confirmed when the filly dropped to her barrel and crawled beneath it. He stared at the spot where she’d disappeared for some time, shoulders slack and heart heavy. What was he supposed to do now? He needed… He lit his horn, casting the spell before she would have a chance to see the rosewood glow. Spell cast, he maneuvered through the thick underbrush, the fallen leaves and twigs kept silent via his magic. He didn’t know what he would do next, but it felt important that he get closer. Keeping his movements slow, Fine watched as the filly crawled backward from under the sign, something small held in her mouth. At last Fine settled down, dropping to his barrel and peering through the bushes. Now that he had a closer look, he saw that the item was a box of matches. The filly approached a stone circle he’d not noticed before and set the box aside before turning to the trees. Fine froze, eyes wide and heart hammering as the child approached. She reached the thicket only a few paces to his left and promptly began gathering sticks and leaves. She used both her hooves and her horn, though the latter continued to flicker weakly. He stared at it, trying to get a read on her magical ability. The only thing he recognized was distressing — she’d not been taught by anypony. At her age, she should have been in school at least a year. Shouldn’t she have learned something about using her horn? She could barely hold the sticks up. He tried to think of excuses for her lack of knowledge. He didn’t like what he came up with. The filly turned away, and he let out a quiet breath upon realizing he wouldn’t be noticed. She set most of the sticks aside and focused on piling the leaves within the stone circle. That done, she carefully arranged the sticks so that they all leaned against one another. There was no sloppiness in her work; she knew exactly how she wanted to arrange the pile. It spoke of experience. Another chill wind blew through the area, making the filly shiver. She promptly took the matches, but then hesitated. Slowly, she pulled out a single match with her magic. Perhaps due to its size, she had a much easier time levitating it before her muzzle. She kept it there for some time, just staring at it. There was no expression on her face. Nothing at all. At last, she closed the box and lit the match. The leaves burned easily, and within seconds she had a small but pleasant fire. The light cast shadows upon the filly’s form, and Fine suddenly found it much easier to analyze her. She was a light tan, with a mane of yellow. Her eyes were a pale orange, a decidedly pleasant color. Yet dirt covered her body, twigs and leaves littering her unkempt, tangled mane. The arrangement of the light on her did her no favors, revealing how her ribs were just beginning to show. Fine found himself unable to look away from them as the shifting shadows created mesmerizing lines that swayed in the firelight. He only managed to pull his eyes away when she shifted, reaching down to raise the black horn in her forehooves. She held the item up to the light and slowly rotated it. Her eyes were wide. Her ears folded back, her lip trembled, her tail wrapped about her legs. She raised one of her hooves to her mouth, and her cheeks puffed out as her body jerked forward, but the filly fought back and managed to recover. The horn trembled in her hoof; for a brief moment, Fine thought she would drop it. In the end, she gripped the thing in both hooves and doubled over it, quietly weeping. Fine had seen many miserable things in the past year. He once thought he understood all the pain the world could offer. Yet now, seeing this filly all alone in the darkness he’d become so intimately accustomed to, he understood that he’d not seen anything. He could almost hear fate giggling playfully at him, delighting in the agony his heart now felt. Every time he thought he’d seen how bad things could be, something new would come along. He’d walked alone in the darkness for a long time. He could still remember that horrible, bitter moment when he realized he could never go home. Fate had laughed at him then too. And now that immortal witch’s tendrils were wrapped around the throat of a poor, hungry filly. The shadows around the foal seemed to form leering smiles, and her sobs made up the delighted giggles. Fine lay there, watching in silence, letting the pain wash over him. No matter how much he loathed what he was seeing, he couldn’t leave. The filly still had Sugarcube’s prize, and he needed to get it back. The thought of being without it left him cold and afraid. Still, he didn’t move. Why didn’t he act? He knew he should. If he just walked up and took his horn back, how would the filly stop him? He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t even muster up the will to try. Fine felt something else speaking to him over fate’s hideous giggling and his own deep desire, a long-buried voice that asked the most obvious of questions: Why had she taken the horn? On the logical side of things – and Fine considered himself very logical – he didn’t really need to know. But he needed to know. So he lay there. He listened. He ached.