//------------------------------// // X: A Growing Divide // Story: Streets of Sin // by Jarvy Jared //------------------------------// Part Two: The City That Had Never Worried Far above the various roofs and buildings stood the Hotel Greenwood. Its massive frame cast a shadow over the rest of the city. The lights in its rooms were both on and off in a seemingly random combination. Sirens sounded themselves upwards, while a flickering red-and-blue glowed across the windows. For a moment, those lights stopped on the twenty-fourth floor. Then they rolled away. Outside of the hotel, various police ponies and an ambulance had gathered, their ranks all filing into the building. Spectators surrounded the area, not daring to enter. The grim looks on the ponies’ faces made sure to ward off any curious pony. But Opacare Prose was not just any curious pony. And neither were the mares who stood on the opposite walk. Their eyes were wide, their mouths agape, unable to comprehend what was going on. Prose took the initiative, his jaw locked, lips set in a tight frown. His hood had been pulled up, as it was chilly. With each step he took, his brow furrowed even more. The mares next to him instinctively gave him some space, but still kept relatively close. What’s going on? he silently asked. He saw that the receptionist had been pulled out and was being questioned by an officer. The crowd prevented him from hearing any more other than “a scream” and “coughing,” but his mind quickly put together the worst case scenario. A glance to his side showed that Twilight was swiftly reaching the same conclusion. His eyes narrowed even further. One of the officers noticed them approaching. “You need to step back—” Prose glared at him, and the officer shrunk under his gaze. His partner, and older detective, was not as meek. He stiffened, standing tall, trying to seem intimidating. “Buddy, you need to take yourself and your friends away from these premises.” “Why?” Twilight asked before Prose could say anything. “We received word of an assault, and an investigation is currently under way.” “The victim?” she continued. “A white unicorn, mid-twenties.” At that, the mares’ eyes widened. “In that case,” Opacare nearly growled, “it would be in your best interests to let us through. Now.” The detective was unrelenting. “Yeah? And why should we, stranger?” Closer to the building, Prose felt the wind begin to die away, and he grew warmer. He took off his hood, revealing himself. The detective took a step back. “You—?” “That mare is a friend of ours. We wish to see her. Now would be good.” The detective gulped. “T-that may be s-so, Mr. Prose, but standard protocol—” Opacare pushed past him roughly. After a moment’s hesitation, the mares did the same, Fluttershy apologizing. Rarity was in the hotel lobby, wrapped in a shock blanket. One of the ambulance ponies had been tending to her, but was now talking to another pony. Her mane was a mess, and a cut could be seen at the back of her head. There seemed not to be any serious damages, though, and for that they were thankful. The detective and his partner followed after them. Rarity saw them approach, and tried to smile; but it quickly fell, so tired and traumatized she evidently was. They gasped at her disheveled state. Fluttershy dashed forward, gripping Rarity in a hug. “Oh, Rarity! Are you alright?” Rarity made to answer, before coughing. Prose saw a greyish smoke come out her mouth. He frowned. “Y-yes… well…” She sniffled, catching Prose’s attention. “N-no… I’m not alright…” Opacare tapped Fluttershy on the shoulder and, after a quick nod and another hug to Rarity, she moved away. He walked closer to her, settling down in front of her. His expression softened, nearly all scorn and anxiety vanishing in that very moment. He took the mare’s hoof in his own and squeezed it comfortingly. “How hurt are you?” he asked, voice impossibly soft. She shook her head. “Not too bad… just a little shaken up. But Sweetie Belle—” Her voice caught, and she looked away, unable to look at them. He needed answers; he needed to coax them out of her. He knew that doing so would hurt her. “Where is Sweetie Belle?” he asked, voice still quiet. But they could hear something straining in his voice. She didn’t answer. “Rarity, where is Sweetie Belle?” His calm demeanor broke, and his voice cracked. In a whisper, he said, “Please tell us…” She suddenly launched forward, hugging him. He felt the back of his neck grow wet. Then the sobs and wails followed, and she buried her face in his shoulder. He hugged her as tightly as he could, letting her get it all out. The others then gave her a group hug, hoping to comfort her. He felt something else, too, something besides the mare letting out all her pain. He felt it in his eye, saw it in his vision. It was small, delicate, and blurred his vision; and it was wet. He blinked, and it was gone. Prose held the unicorn as best he could, despite thinking he could offer nothing comforting. A sinking feeling of dread amassed in the pit of his stomach; like claws from Tartarus, they sliced his heart. Had he been a weaker stallion, he might have wailed; but, to him, that was not something that Rarity needed. She needed him to be strong for her. He held her, then, quiet, letting her let it all out, willing to bear the brunt of the emotional pain. Agony clutched at his throat; he was silenced by its strength. They had to be ushered away so that the detectives could question Rarity further. Prose was initially unwilling to let them come close, but the unicorn assured him that it was fine. He gruffly left, then, but not before warning the detectives not to do anything stupid. Surprisingly, neither of them responded to that, seemingly understanding that he was not in the mood for banter. He stood a short distance away, not quite able to hear exactly what the ponies were saying. Most of the others were on the wall adjacent to the elevators, with the exception of Twilight. She was next to Opacare, face very much drawn into a concerned frown. Neither said a word, finding only brief solace in the silence. One of the detectives left Rarity, and glanced at Opacare. He seemed to hesitate under the older stallion’s stony gaze, but trotted over. Apprehensiveness grew on his face. Prose frowned. The young detective looked down at the fillies. “Did you know a pony named Sweetie Belle?” “Yeah,” Apple Bloom said. “She was our friend and Rarity’s sister. Why?” He swallowed, hard, before looking back at Prose. The author said nothing, his silence drawing the answer out efficiently. “There’s… no easy way to say this. But… Sweetie Belle’s gone missing.” They gaped at him, before Scootaloo nearly shouted, “What?!” Opacare’s eyes widened, before they narrowed again. He was intent on remaining silent. “Wh-what do you mean, she’s gone missing?” repeated Apple Bloom. “That’s not possible!” “I’m afraid so,” said the older detective, walking over. “We’ll have to confirm Miss Rarity’s words, of course. Meaning that we’ll need to launch a full-scale investigation right away.” He glanced back at Rarity, frowning. Prose caught onto what he was thinking almost immediately. “You doubt her words,” he said, garnering the older detective’s attention. “The injury to her head, you infer, has made her delusional, therefore making her word null and void.” “How did you—” “I assure you, detective, Miss Rarity is not delusional, nor was she hallucinating, nor is she going insane. You can tell by her eyes; they’re still brimming, even after all this trauma.” “What if she had a concussion?” asked the younger detective. “Have one of the EMTs check up on her, then, if you must. In the meantime, we need to head for the room.” “What?” The older detective looked at Prose, shocked. “You—you can’t! This is a police investigation, and I will not have an ordinary civilian get involved—” Opacare was already in the elevator by the time the detective finished his protest. He barely glanced at the girls as he pressed the button, heading for the twenty-fifth floor. “Opa, wait…” Rarity tried to call, voice weak, but it was too late; the elevator door closed, and he zoomed up the chute. For a moment, they were all flabbergasted, until the detectives rallied themselves and grabbed the other elevator, following after the author. Rarity unsteadily walked over, her body still shaking a little. Twilight went to grab her, steadying her. “You need to rest,” she affirmed. Rarity shook her head. “No, I-I have to go with Opa. Have to…” She took a breath. “I have to tell him… what happened… Have to get those detectives to work with him…” The girls shared looks, knowing that Rarity was likely right. Prose wasn’t about to let those detectives bumble around in his investigation. They all nodded, before rising and heading for the stairs. The room was devoid of any life or happiness, and Prose’s eyes reflected something similar as he entered. The detectives were behind him. Prose glanced about the room in quick fashion, seeing several things. The paintings on the walls had a lingering grey effect to them, from some sort of substance, he guessed. There had evidently been a scuffle. He asked over his shoulder, “Has anything entered the room since the incident?” “Not that we know of,” said the younger detective. “I think we’re the first ones to enter.” Prose nodded, then continued moving forward. “Sir,” said the older detective, “you need to leave.” “Not until the investigation is over,” he answered. “We’ll get our best detectives on the case, Mr. Prose. You have our word—” “Your ‘best detectives’ couldn’t find a feather on a griffon’s wing,” he retorted, voice hard. “Now shut up and let me concentrate.” The detectives made to protest, but he shut them out, his mind focused on the given scene. Carefully, cautiously, he approached the area, making sure not to disturb anything that was already out of place. He used only his senses of sight and smell to discern any possible clues. First he concentrated on the floor. To the untrained eye, the blue-green carpet would reveal little else but the color. Bending low, though, he saw faint impressions of hooves. If he were an amateur, he might have guessed them to be from either Rarity or Sweetie. However, the size and shape were not like a mare’s. They were much broader, and more rounded at the top. What struck him the most was the fact that they were way too typical, too ordinary. They were like every stallion’s hoofprint. That told him that the attacker (or attackers; he couldn’t say for certain if there were more) might have been using fake hooves. All the impressions were at the edges and sides of the far-end couch; likely, he assumed, where Rarity was when they were attacked. One of the pillows was slightly pushed in, a definite sign that this was where Sweetie had been resting. He decided to pause the investigation here, and moved away, looking through the other rooms. As far as he could tell, none had been disturbed. There were no signs of any robbery of any sort. The drawers had not been opened, the beds not overturned in the search for valuables. Even the small stash where Scootaloo had kept some bits had not been broken. This wasn’t a robbery. This was a deliberate assault. Rarity and Sweetie were targets. He grimaced. But why? “Sir?” the young detective asked. “Isn’t this… illegal, for Mr. Prose to be doing this?” The older detective grunted. “I’m not sure he’d really listen to us. Besides, as long as he doesn’t tamper with anything…” Prose went back into the living room area. I need to find the device that released the substance that covered the paintings. The side of the couch revealed nothing, but underneath, he saw something shiny and metallic. Unwilling to soil it with his own hoofprint, he reached into his vest and pulled out a tissue, wrapping it around his hoof before grabbing the device. He held it up. The older detective made a choking sound. Cylindrical. Some sort of releasing mechanism on the inside, I gather. He flipped it over, searching for markings, but found none. He brought it to his muzzle, and sniffed, smelling faint traces of possibly some sort of chemical compound—likely, potassium chlorate, as it was a common component for smokey fireworks. This is a grenade, a smoke grenade; but not a burst smoke grenade. There must have been a second or two of delay, giving Rarity a moment to see this come through. As he peered inside, he saw that the cylinder seemed empty. He was tempted to shake it, but reasoned that it wouldn’t be worth possibly shaking something loose and somehow destroying the device. He put it back underneath, dutifully, as the older detective let out a breath. “Mr. Prose,” he said, stepping forward, “I believe you need to stop now.” “If you believe, then you obviously don’t know protocol. Let me finish.” He stood up, then went around the sofa, looking at the shattered window—at least, what was left of it. He was careful not to step on any broken glass that lay haphazardly on the floor. The light of the moon shone clearly through, and he could see the celestial body in the distance, hanging from the sky, like a lantern. On the edge of the window, he saw a small, dark-grey piece of rubber. His brow furrowed, and he craned his neck out, taking a closer look at it. Barely two inches in length, it looked ordinary enough; but unless his instincts had faltered, he reasoned it was worth looking into. But I don’t have the proper equipment… would the local police let me use their labs? He had no idea. He reached out and pocketed the rubber, placing it in his pocket swiftly. Okay. I’ve found the entry point. He turned, looking back down at the couch. Whoever was here, threw the cylinder through the window, shattering it… the object rolled to the side, taking a second to release whatever was in it… some sort of gas, perhaps with trace amounts of narcotics, if the gas could knock Rarity and Sweetie Belle out. He frowned. Sweetie Belle. That remained one other mystery that needed to be solved. If Rarity was in front of the window when the cylinder broke through, and Sweetie was on the couch, where had she gone following the crash and then the smoke? Walking to the other side of the couch, away from the cylinder, he found his answer. He nearly gasped and cursed. Blood. Heart rate elevated, breath coming in hitches, vision filling with red. He was familiar with this series of sensations. It was controlled rage and frustration, barely held back by sheer willpower. He couldn’t know for certain whose blood it was—though he had a good guess—but he knew that the police had the proper equipment. He stepped away, taking a breath. “Mr. Prose,” the older detective repeated. “You need to step back.” He ignored the order. “There’s blood. Not too much, but evidently still there.” They walked over, shocked. “A-alright,” the younger detective said. “We-we’ll have to—” “Get a team of forensic scientists as soon as possible. Analysts and medical examiners. Set up a crime scene efficiently and orderly.” The older detective had had enough. “Sir, as much as I am sure we are enjoying your company, you can’t be giving out orders left and right.” “I will do damn well what I please, you morio!” He suddenly turned on him, eyes aflame, and he let out a low growl. “Get the job done, quickly.” The detectives flinched back. “Now hold on—” “Did you not hear what I said? Quickly!” “Sir—” “Damn it!” He stomped his hoof angrily. “Listen to me! There is blood on the damn floor, from a wound, likely inflicted on the missing filly! She could be injured or dead at this point—” His voice had reached an octave that was completely filled with malice, but he cut it off suddenly, staring blankly behind the detectives. The stairwell was filled with the shocked faces of the remaining mares and fillies. Rarity looked like she was about to cry. “Opa?” Apple Bloom whispered. “Sweetie Belle’s… dead?” Opacare said nothing for a moment, his eyes downcast, face darkened. Then he looked back at the detectives. “Crime scene. Investigation. Now.” Seeing them fiercely nod, he turned away, staring down at the blood. His thoughts were all muddled. Emotion was clouding his judgement. He clenched his eyes shut, released a shuddering breath, then another; until he had sufficiently calmed down. Mentally, he expunged all the raw emotion from him, leaving him emotionally empty and tired. He leaned against the wall, eyes still closed, thinking deeply. He tried to ignore the soft cry Apple Bloom made; and he ignored the gentle touch of Fluttershy’s hoof. He ignored everything except his own thoughts, losing himself in them, seemingly without physical function. He didn’t care. He needed to find a suspect, and quickly; before the situation grew any worse. With a grim mindset, he cast away the others, becoming oblivious to their tumultuous faces. Later on, he would regret not seeing them. Rarity sat outside of the room with the others. Even Prose was there, though it was because he was ushered out by the crime scene team. She saw that the stallion barely cast any of them a second look. That made him seem more distant than ever before. Rarity had released all of her tears in the lobby, and she felt somewhat better; if she could call feeling empty better. Glancing at her friends, she saw that they, too, were exhausted from everything that had happened. Scootaloo and Apple Bloom were more frightened than anything, evidenced by their big eyes and shaking lips. What Prose had shouted shook them to the core. She wanted the stallion to say something comforting to them, something to try and release them from their fears. But she suspected she wanted the same for herself. And she doubted the stallion would say anything soon. A medical pony opened the door and walked over to her, carrying a syringe, and asked for a quick blood sample. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Opacare flinch at the sharp needle, his cold exterior ever so slightly breaking. Even as she nodded to the medic, she felt a bit of guilt at the thought. Were the only times that Prose could open up when he was scared, when he felt threatened? No, that can’t be true. Ever since that day, he’s been more open with us than I could give him credit for. All thanks to Sweetie Belle. As the medic left, she turned her head, looking at the author directly. He did not meet her gaze, but he could tell by his change in posture that he had noticed her looking at him. She took in the curve of his jaw, how set it was. She took in the fact that his eyes had narrowed, carnation eyes becoming a deadly pink laser that could have burned a hole through the ground. She shivered, feeling uneasy. She turned away from Opacare, looking down at the floor. From inside the room she heard the ponies working tirelessly. She could hear furniture being moved as they desperately searched for answers. She remembered what one of the detectives, the older one, had said in a mutter: “There hasn’t been a foal-napping in Manehattan for years.” So why now? And why her? Had she offended someone? Had they mistaken her for somepony else? Her thoughts grew darker. What would happen next? Would that kidnapper—or kidnappers, they still did not know for certain—send a message? What kind of message would it be? A ransom note? A letter? Or just a simple box with a severed unicorn horn— She shuddered, choking back a sob, fighting the thought away. She berated herself for thinking that. Everything will be fine. The police have this under control, right? Right? She felt a strange desire to be held by Prose, but thought he would do no such thing. Strangely, she was okay with that. Almost as if that blush a few days before held no meaning. She blinked, then shut her eyes and hugged herself as a wave of fear and grief washed over her. She tried to calm herself by taking deep breaths. No more tears. No more tears, she promised, though she did not know if it was promised towards herself—or to her little sister. The door opened again, and the older detective from before stepped out. He nodded to Prose, but the author did not respond. For a moment, the detective hesitated, before turning to the mares and fillies. “I have news,” he said simply. Twilight cast Rarity a look, and the unicorn made a consenting gesture. Twilight nodded, before nodding to the detective, allowing him to speak. “Seems like your word is true, Miss Rarity,” he said. “Blood analysis told us that that isn’t your blood. There indeed was another occupant in the room.” “Why would I have lied in the first place?” “You have to understand, Miss Rarity, that we haven’t had a kidnapping in years. And certainly not a foal-napping in decades. Sorry if we were a bit cynical,” he added gruffly. Rarity said nothing. “We found some faint hoofprints as well, though nothing too substantial. Most likely fake.” Judging by the way Prose cast an annoyed, sidelong glance, she guessed he had already figured that part out. “Can… can you do anything with the blood?” Twilight asked. The detective turned to her. “What do you mean, miss…” “Twilight. I mean, can’t you, I don’t know… track them?” The detective’s brow furrowed. “Even if we could, it’d be near impossible to find them. Not only has the blood dried, meaning the makeup has likely become corrupted, we were unable to find any blood marks outside of the room.” “What about the splatter?” Prose asked. The detective looked at him, momentarily surprised. “What of it?” “The shape, the radiation… what did it look like?” “It wasn’t just a spot, if that’s what you’re thinking. It was directed in one direction. Straight path.” Prose nodded. “So Sweetie must have been hit with something long, and certainly not a magical bolt, or else we would have found trace energy marks.” He frowned. “So… a pipe, perhaps. Or a bat. Or…” “A blunt instrument,” the detective agreed. “Problem is, blood splatter is so generic that we won’t be able to guess what exactly was the bludgeon.” He looked back at the mares. “That’s all we’ve got so far. Whoever did this, did it so well that we’ve been unable to find any more defining clues.” He squinted at them. “You don’t know any pony who would do this, do you?” Rarity shook her head, as did the others. “Is there anything you can do?” Twilight asked. “Maybe.” The detective stepped back in to speak with another pony. Returning quickly, he said, “We can put out a word for our supervisors. Blockade all exits from Manehattan, prevent any pony from leaving. That way, we can keep the search to this city.” “That is, assuming they haven’t left already,” Prose said darkly. The detective nodded. “We can only hope.” He glanced back inside, hearing his name being called. “Duty calls. In the meantime, I would advise none of you to wander away from each other. If another kidnapping is attempted, on any one of you, it’d be best that you stick together. There’s safety in numbers.” But in a crowd, more ponies can hide in plain sight, Rarity thought as he left. She wasn’t sure what she felt. The others fell silent, unsure of what they should say—or even if they should say anything. Without warning, Rarity felt herself being squeezed somewhere below. She looked down, seeing Scootaloo and Apple Bloom hugging her. None of them said a word, trying to comfort the grieving mare. Eventually the others joined in, albeit briefly. Except for Prose. Still he stood, back against the wall, his eyes closed. The way his brow furrowed told Rarity that he was in deep thought. She saw Twilight give the author a worried look. Rarity stood, walking over to the stallion. She placed a hoof on his shoulder, then slid it to his chest, looking deeply at him, not understanding his silence. “Opa…?” Suddenly he flicked her hoof away irritably. She felt her eyes grow wet, and she turned away, so that none of them would see her tears. “I have work to do,” he stated. Turning away, he trotted down the lobby, and vanished from sight. Rarity collapsed on the ground, and began to sob. She didn’t want to; she needed not to; but she did anyway. She couldn’t hold back all the sudden, excruciating pain, that attacked her heart and soul. Her friends hugged, squeezed, whispered, comforted, their bodies warm against hers. But she felt cold, so cold, on the inside. She needed Opa. Just one more time. Just for support. But he was gone. Gone off to his own little world. Gone, having abandoned her when she needed him the most. Rarity cried into her friends’ arms, frustrated, tired, angry, grieving. She cried for Opa to come back. She cried for Sweetie Belle to come back. She cried, hoping that this was all just a dream, that she’d wake up, seeing that it was all just a horrible nightmare. But she knew it wasn’t. And that made it so much worse. They didn’t see the stallion’s tears fall from his face. They didn’t see him cry. They didn’t see him sob in solitude, alone as usual. They didn’t hear him curse himself, curse Manehattan, curse what he had done. They didn’t hear him blame himself for what had happened. They didn’t see, they didn’t hear, because they didn’t need to—at least, that’s what he thought. He had to be strong for them, strong for Rarity, for Sweetie Belle, if they had any chance of reuniting again. Which was why he quickly fought off the tumultuous emotions, pushing them aside, replacing them with coldness. He needed to work. He needed to think. He needed to cry. But he chose not to. For them. For all of them. No more crying. No more crying.