• Published 7th Jun 2013
  • 2,756 Views, 193 Comments

Pinkie Pie is Dead - chrumsum



When you lose something worth living for, you get something worth dying for.

  • ...
9
 193
 2,756

1 - Pinkie Pie

Ponyville is a swell place. Any schmuck on the street can nod their head like one of those bobble toys and tell you that much. “A real jewel of Equestria,” they’d say. “I love it here,” they’d say. Not for its architecture, of course. There were no sprawling palisades or tall white walls like in Canterlot, or flying buttresses that were literally flying like in Cloudsdale. It wasn’t particularly exciting, either. Night life in Ponyville was about as enthralling as a mossy rock: boring then and boring now.

No, the only thing that’s all that special about Ponyville is quite the opposite. It’s how quiet the place is. Peaceful. That, and the fact that the six greatest heroes of Equestria all just so happen to live here.

And then some son of a bitch took a knife to its heart and ripped it away. I feel numb. I feel sick. For a moment it isn’t just because of the carnage.

Pinkie Pie lies on the floor, with her forehooves folded underneath her and her hind legs splayed out. Her head lies on its side, resting silently in a puddle of her own blood. Gashes line the sides of her hooves, and dried rivulets of blood are caked around her neck. But the most unforgivable traces aren’t from the blood. It’s from the tears that run down from her now half-closed eyes. They stare right into mine from behind that tangled, reddened mop of pink mane. The sparkle that gave them life is nowhere to be found.

Aside from the crimson painting on the floor, the room is a mess. Fabric is hung all around, poked through with sewing needles and thread. Scissors and torn cloth alike are caked with dried blood . And through all that mess, Pinkie Pie stares at me with her dead, misty eyes. Staring at me, eyes sad and confused and lips just barely parted, as if about to speak the most burning question.

Why? Why would somepony do this to me? Why did I deserve to die this way?

“I don’t know,” I catch myself whispering under my breath. Some of the officers beside me look at me, nervous. They think I’m insane. But Doc looks over at me sympathetically, nodding slightly. He knows I’m insane.

“You okay?” he asks, his eyes squinting as they do when he examines a patient.

“I’m fine,” I lie.

“You’d be the only one, then,” confesses the good doctor, shifting his spectacles to look down at his specimen. “I can’t say I’ve ever seen anything like this.” He turns and nods at a nearby officer, whose eyes quickly switch from the body to the professor, as if he had been caught doing something obscene. “Get the curtains. We need some light in here.”

The officer mumbles something and obliges, pulling open the polka-dotted blinds. I blink in the sunlight, the light of the morning catching drifting specks of lint floating lazily in the air. The glow pouring into the room like a thick, cloying syrup shimmers and curls around Pinkie Pie’s tousled mane, turning the strands into a halo of light. At a glance, with shadows draped over her eyelids, she looks asleep, even smiling. My mind tricks me into seeing her breathe.

“Shit. There’s just too much blood, Doc,” I rasp. “How many times did this bastard stab her?”

“I’m not quite sure, detective. There’s no way to tell for now. I’d need to get her cleaned up before I can look at the wounds.” He prods her body slightly, kneeling down to get close while being careful to avoid the blood. There are flashes and clicks around me as the some of the senior officers begin photographing the room, documenting evidence. The doctor sighs again, running a hoof down his face. “All I know for now is that our perp was messy.” After a pause, he adds, “Possibly intentionally.”

I swallow the bile in my throat and force myself to look away from the body. My horn prickles faintly, and I pull a notepad and quill from my interior trench coat pocket. I like writing things down. There’s something powerful about taking every little strip of madness that ties life together and getting it down to a few simple scratches on paper.

“What’s your call on TOD?” I ask, getting to my job like a good little detective.

The doctor frowns and motions for one of the officers to take an outline of the body and a couple pictures. Once Pinkie’s death pose has been immortalized on film, he adjusts the body, testing the muscles beneath her coat. “Well judging by the muscle rigidity and the uh... nature, of the eyes,” he says, pointing at the milky film covering Pinkie’s once sparkling pupils, “I’d give it maybe... six, eight hours ago?”

“So a bit past midnight then,” I mutter, checking my watch. “We’re gonna have to press the guardians to see if they know anything about this.” I somehow doubt they would. The officers around me move quickly and efficiently, motivated to work faster by the ghastly presence of the cold, murdered mare. Most of the evidence has been flagged, bagged, and tagged by now. Giving the doctor a quiet nod and thank you, I find my way to the evidence table, drawing my notebook once more to mark out the contents at a glance.

Blood-stained cloth. Scissors. Sewing needles. A book on sewing. Accessories and gemstones and fabrics that would make those Canterlot hot-types blow their loads just looking. It didn’t take a genius to figure out what Pinkie was up to before she died. Until someone cut the thread. But why? Isn’t that the million dollar question? All this running around and prodding and searching to answer a three-letter word. Why.

I don’t know the answer yet. So I scribble down all the puzzle pieces to fit them together later on, when I know what picture I’m trying to put together.

Somepony sighs heavily and smells of morning breath and ale. The Chief pulls off his cap and places it down on the table beside me. He gives me a weary glance. We don’t usually get along. This time, though, things are different.

“Some shit, huh, detective?” he murmurs, staring through me as if he could see his retirement on the other side of my neck.

“Yeah. Some shit,” I croak. Funny. It’s like it’s the only thing any of us can say anymore. His watery gray eyes travel through the dusty, pale-gold air and settle on the delicate corpse.

“The luck of it all, huh? Ain’t had a murder in Ponyville for what, hell, eighteen years? And the one who gets picked out, out of everyone else, it’s her. Pinkie Pie. Dammit all. Known her since she moved to Ponyville. Sweetest thing Celestia ever put on this blasted planet and someone goes and sticks a knife in her.” His gaze lingers on her for a little while, and he chuckles slightly, quickly rubbing a tear crawling out from his weathered tear ducts. “So un-fucking lucky that the little lady would probably be giggling about it right now if she still could,” he chokes.

“It isn’t fair,” I say quietly.

He’s quiet for a moment. “No,” he mutters. “No it isn’t.

There’s another pause, and then I snap my notebook shut, letting the clap of paper indicate the end of this conversation. “I’m going to find who did this, Chief,” I swear. “I promise on everything I have and am that I’m going to find this bastard and see him burn.”

“You better,” he sighs, rubbing his temples. His puckered eyes, wrinkled from the long years on the force and the trauma they’d weathered, are red with stress. “This... This is really damn big. And everyone is gonna come down on us for this. The Bearers, the Princesses, the Royal Guard...”

“All the king’s horses,” I mumble under my breath.

The Chief looks at me funny, wiping away a sniffle. He’s a mountain of a pony, but even this is getting to him.

“I wouldn’t want to be in your shoes right now. When the hammer drops, it’s gonna drop hard. I hope you know that.”

I don’t just know it. I’ve lived it. I slip my notebook back into my trench coat pocket for safekeeping, like tucking a memory away in the back of your mind, one that nags at the back of your skull until you come crawling back to it. I brush past him, giving him the best imitation of a confident smile I can come up with.

“Don’t worry about it,” I tell him. “I’m gonna get a head start on the paperwork.”

He nods silently, and the moment is over.

Paperwork. Yeah. Anything but this.

My hooves echo off the floorboards like those of a stranger, and I shoulder past a few rookies recovering from seeing their lunch for a second time. I pass a few more frightened officers in the hall, walking here and there, like lost souls trapped between planes. There’s a crowd outside. I can hear the confused babbling outside, the sound of the distant water here in this place lost in the dark abyss.

The Cakes are holding each other, trembling with shock. But they hold through and give a statement to the nice officer who isn’t doing the best job of holding back tears. Our eyes lock for a brief moment, and I look away. I mumble an apology. I don’t think they hear it.

“What’s going on?”

“Is everything alright?”

“I have an order waiting...”

The babble is clearer now, and it hurts my head. Two burly stallions block the onlookers, looking as uncertain as the crowd. Tapping one on the shoulder, they let me pass, and I push my way into the crowd as the skies growl. Clear morning, but a storm’s coming. The streets are already dark with the threat of rain.

“Sir, do you know what’s going on in there?”

I ignore them, repeating the same phrase over and over again.

“No statements. No statements.”

“What’s happening?”

“Pinkie?”

“Everything’s okay, right?”

“Pinkie?!”

“No statements.”

Pinkie!

In the black, cloud-riddled sky, there’s suddenly a rainbow. It shoves me aside, lunging at the officers in front of Sugar Cube corner. They struggle to hold her back.

“Ma’am, you can’t–”

“Let me in! Get out of my way! Pinkie!” Rainbow Dash shoves past the officers, and it’s no contest. She barrels her way inside, and I watch the grim gray building swallow her up.

A raindrop taps against the brim of my hat, and I roll up my collar, turning away quickly. Storm’s coming. And I don’t want to be here for it.

I don’t want to hear her screaming.