The Crusaders: A Shadow Over Manehattan

by Starhunter

Chapter 5: The Scoop

Cold Star leapt between the rooftops and threw herself into a roll, coming to a stop under the cover of a nearby piece of duct-work. She held herself as still as she could, willing her heavy breathing back down into a regular rhythm as she closed her eyes to listen for pursuit.

The ambush had come out of nowhere. It had all began as a routine altercation - she'd overheard a stallion accosting a young mare on her way home from work. The stallion appeared to be drunk, and his advances became more and more persistent, until finally he shoved the mare into an alley and demanded a kiss. Cold Star had thought that his sleeping off the rest of the night in a dumpster might be the best thing for everypony involved, and was just about to dive in and see to the matter when she had noticed two other ponies lurking on the rooftop nearby. They were looking around, obviously waiting for something. It had given Cold Star a moment's pause, which was long enough to hear the couple down in the alley whispering.

"I don't think it heard us. Do you think I should scream for help?"

"No, that will just bring the deputies. Let's just re-set and start again. If this doesn't work after a couple more goes, we can try some kind of mugging next."

The mare no longer sounded frightened, and the stallion no longer sounded drunk. Cold Star had been confused, and she had allowed herself to be distracted by it. That was when somepony had pointed a flashlight at her, and she'd bolted. The cry had gone up, and the hunt was on. Four pegasi sprang into the air from the nearby rooftops, and unicorn light-making spells lit the nearby darkness. It had been some kind of a sting, and she had come very close to walking right into it. If she had dropped into the alley, she would have been surrounded.

She'd managed to shake off any immediate pursuit, but now they were combing all of the nearby rooftops. It didn't take long for her to pick out four sets of wing-beats, and a moment later the circular beams of flashlights appeared, flickering down from above. They scanned back and forth for several moments before somepony called out from a roof further away, diverting their attention. The flashlights moved on, the wing-beats heading in the direction of the voice. Cold Star allowed herself a sigh of relief, just in time for the heating unit attached to the duct-work she was hiding under to suddenly rumble to life.

To a normal pony, standing next to a rooftop heater when it turned on would be uncomfortably loud. To a Bat Pony with her hearing focused all the way up, it was like having a piano dropped on the inside of her head. She staggered out onto the open rooftop, the thunderous hum leaving her deafened and dizzy. She had almost gotten the ringing in her ears to stop when somepony apperated onto the rooftop right in front of her. The pop of sound and force made her wince, and when she looked up she found herself face to face with a roan unicorn stallion who looked just as surprised as she was.

Instinct took over. Before either of them had really had time to take stock of what was going on, Cold Star had lowered her head and dived forward, wrapping her front legs around the young stallion and using a flick of her wings to build enough momentum to drive him backwards up onto his hind legs. She twisted hard as she felt his balance shift and he was suddenly airborne, trapped in Cold Star's grasp as she dragged him to the ground. It was a clumsy throw, but her opponent was too unprepared to do anything about it, and that was all it took for her to bring him down.

She adjusted position quickly, feeling rather than seeing their bodies moving. His natural reaction was to roll back to his hooves, so she used the chance to slip in behind him, wrapping one leg around his neck and securing her grip with the other, keeping herself behind him. It was little more than a school-yard choke-hold, but it would be effective in keeping the unicorn's horn faced away form her, making it hard for him to target her with any spells. If needed she could always just choke him unconscious. Her back legs hooked around his flank, keeping his body tight to hers and not allowing him any leverage to get up.

She felt him try to tuck his chin down to block the choke-hold, but it was too late. He knew it too - as soon as she put a little pressure on the hold he instantly relaxed, holding his hooves out next to him in submission. He tapped the ground three times, the universal sign for "I give up" amongst Equestrian martial ponies. She eased her grip slightly, but kept the hold firmly locked in place, ready to resume squeezing instantly if necessary.

She took a moment to size him up as best she could. He was lean and long, and with her nose buried in his mane she noticed a hint of coconut shampoo mixed in with his sweat. He was wearing a denim jacket that had been worn soft by age and repeated cleaning, and she could feel the narrow bulk of something she guessed was a wallet in the coat's pocket. He wasn't breathing all that heavily despite his predicament, which implied he was good under pressure. She decided to snug up the hold a little, just to be on the safe side. She moved her muzzle to just behind his ear.

"I'm watching your horn. If it so much as flickers, I put you to sleep. Understood?"

The stallion's reply was calm and quiet. "Understood."

"Good. I have questions. You will answer them. Understood?"

"Happy to. I'll trade you one for one. Deal?"

Cold Star squeezed the hold just for a moment. "You are not in a position to negotiate."

A shallow rumble rippled through him, and she realized he was laughing. "Fair point. Ask away."

She kept her voice cool and quiet. "I do not find this situation funny. Who do you work for?"

He shook his head casually. "No one."

"Unemployed ponies do not set ambushes. Who do you work for?"

"They do if there is a reward for the target."

Cold Star squeezed a bit more. "Then you were working on credit. For who?"

The stallion's breath was coming much harder now. "Who ever would pay the most."

"Name names, defiler, or I will end this conversation."

The choking pony started tapping his hoof again, and she released him long enough for him to gasp "The Tribune. Or the Bulletin. Probably the Bulletin, since the Tribune doesn't like us odd-jobbers, even if they do pay better."

Cold Star allowed him to breathe, trying to make sense of his answer. "But... those are newspapers."

The stallion turned his head slightly, as if trying to look over his shoulder. Her grip on his neck kept her out of sight, and he quickly gave up. "Yeah. My name is Daily Times. I'm a freelance reporter. What's a 'defiler'?"

Cold Star ignored the question. "I was unaware that newspapers used their staff to set traps for ponies."

"Respectable ones don't. But tabloids are a whole other story. They don't mind manufacturing some news if it doesn't seem like it's going to happen by itself. You're lucky they don't know where you live."

She frowned. "What do they want with me?"

"Word has been going around about somepony busting up street thugs around town. Nobody thought much of it until a couple of weeks ago, when one of the local bosses put a hit out on a masked pony. He's offering big bags of bits to anyone with info, but so far nobody has been able to collect."

Cold Star sneered. "You speak of Stoneheart."

"So you knew?"

"It stands to reason. You and your companions are seeking this bounty, then?"

Daily made a derisive noise. "Hardly. At least, I sure as sunshine wasn't. I don't know about those other vultures."

"Then why were you aiding them?"

"Because a turf war between a local gang and a masked vigilante is front page material, if it turns out to be the real deal. I could eat for a month on that kind of story. But so far, all I've turned up is a couple of so-called eye witnesses scared out of their minds talking about a monster made of shadows."

"Maybe that's what I am."

"I doubt it. Shadows don't use military hoof-to-hoof take-downs. And monsters don't return hoofbags to ponies who got jumped by hoods on the south side. Besides, I can feel you pressed up against me. I'd guess you're a pegasus by your build, and a mare by how much I'm enjoying it."

Cold Star was glad for the mask that hid her features, because she couldn't fight off a rush of heat to her face. How could a pony be so forward with someone trying to choke him? "Are you some manner of deviant?"

"With respect, ma'am, I'm not the one running around in a mask tackling ponies for fun."

"I am not doing this for fun. I am doing it because you were following me," she bristled.

"I'm not following you now. Does that mean you can let me up?"

"Not yet. I have more questions."

"Good. Me too. What's a 'defiler'?"

Cold Star ignored the question again. "How did you find me?"

"I'm smarter than average."

Cold Star leaned on the choke. "Prove it."

The stallion managed a chuckle despite the pressure. "I figured if you were as good at appearing and disappearing as everypony I talked to said you were, you'd probably opt to hide rather than trying to outrun a bunch of pegasi. So I was teleporting between roofs a ways after those numbskulls had already swept them. Thought I might catch you doubling back. Guess I was right."

Cold Star eased her lower legs away from his and used her wings to balance herself as she got to her rear hooves back under herself. She was going to have to make a quick get-away once she released her grip, to prevent him from seeing any more than he had. He was sharp, and that made him dangerous. But he wasn't a defiler, and unless he meant her some kind of harm choking him any further went against the spirit of her Oaths. This was becoming a very tricky situation.

Though in truth, he seemed perfectly contain to lay there with her limbs tight around his neck. "So, I noticed you wear a mask and cape. You wouldn't happen to be from Ponyville, would you?"

Cold Star considered not responding, but the words of disapproval Babs had voiced at the use of her cousin's identity lingered. "No. I am not. This costume was just inspired by a pony there."

"Interesting. Do you also share a name?"

"No."

"What should I call you then?"

"Nothing."

"That's a terrible name to go by. The copy editor won't like it. No one wants to read a story about a pony called 'Nothing'."

Cold Star stiffened. "I would rather not be written about."

"Not really an option. Words are my business, and a stallion needs to eat. But why not? What don't you want ponies to know?"

This was going on too long, and his questions were becoming increasingly clever. She needed to get out of there. She used her back legs to drag them both around until her back was facing the edge of the roof. That would allow her to make a break for it before he had a chance to roll over and get a look at her. For the moment, she just focused on keeping him busy. "Who will believe you, if you write such a tale? When I am done with you I will be gone, and no one else saw us. Ponies will think you are either mad or lying."

The stallion didn't resist. "True. Though if that's the case, it would be nice if you could at least tell me your name."

Cold Star thought about it. "I am a Crusader. That is all you need to know."

The stallion sighed. "Right. I guess that's about it then. Time to say please."

Cold Star grunted. "You need not beg. If you do not resist, I will not harm you."

"Glad to hear it. But actually I meant that you should say please."

"Why?"

"Rhymes with cheese."

Cold Star hadn't felt the stallion's leg duck into his pocket when she dragged them around, so she was completely surprised when he held a little metal box up over his shoulder. She had just enough time to wonder what it was when the flashbulb went off, and her world went white.

She thrust herself off of the stallion, her foreleg moving to shield her eyes. But the damage was already done - with her night-vision active, the attack had rendered her completely blind for at least the next few moments. She whirled around once, kicking out in the direction of the stallion in case he intended to take advantage of her blinded state, but the kick caught nothing but air.

There was a ka-click, like a trap mechanism being sprung, or a crossbow being armed. Not knowing what else to do, Cold Star threw herself backwards out of the line of fire. She heard rather than saw the emptiness of the street beyond the edge of the roof, and she barely had time to arch her back before she found herself falling into the darkness below.

* * * * *

Daily Times ran to the edge of the roof, summoning up the best light spell he could muster, looking down to the street and cursing under his breath. Below, the street was completely deserted, with no sign that the mysterious mare had ever been there. Still cursing, he gathered up his concentration and apperated down to the street below. He galloped up and down the block, only slowing to a trot when he was certain his little gambit hadn't resulted in the poor mare crash-landing off of the roof four stories above.

It was only then that he dug around in his pocket, pulling out the small camera he'd been carrying. He'd only gotten two shots, and the close up of her face probably wouldn't turn out. But the second one might have been a keeper. He had to get home and get them developed. The masked pony had been right - his word alone wouldn't sell any papers. But if he had gotten a decent shot, then boy did he have a story to go with it. Grinning, he checked the position of the moon. It wasn't quite midnight yet. Still time to make the early morning edition, if he hurried.

He dashed off in the direction of home, his typewriter, and hopefully a photo worthy of a front page scoop.

* * * * *

Babs arrived at Misty's place the same time she did most mornings to discover Squall was already standing outside. Since he usually met them closer to the school, she was surprised to see him. He was a bit out of breath, and by way of greeting he reached into his saddlebag and pulled out a newspaper, holding it up for Babs to read. The headline was printed in bold letters.

"Mysterious Masked Crusader Terrorizes Manehattan Street Crime."

The picture below it was unmistakably Cold Star. It wasn't a good picture by any means - little more than a silhouette of her leaping off a roof, taken from a funny angle. But her cape and hat were clearly visible, and her body shape was right despite her wings being hidden by her cape.

Squall passed the paper to Babs, and started pacing. "So what do we do? I mean, she was so worried about getting caught, and now she's on the front page of a newspaper. Ponies are going to know about her." He was being careful not to say Cold Star's name out loud. They had agreed it was a good habit to get into to avoid having it slip out by accident where somepony could hear.

Babs started reading through the article. "It says she talked to the reporter for a couple of minutes before she took off on patrol. And it says that Stoneheart has a bounty out on her. Did you know about that?"

Squall shook his head. "She never mentioned it. But those ponies she fought the first time we met her worked for him, so that would make some sense, I guess."

The truth was that Cold Star spoke about her work very little while they were training. After three weekend lessons, they didn't know much more about her than they did when she started teaching them. She kept each class tightly on-track, never speaking about anything that wasn't relevant to the lesson at hoof. To this point, those lessons had mostly been about exercises, stretching, and learning how to roll a bunch of different ways. Babs kept reading. "It even says she's a Crusader. But it never says anywhere that she's... y'know. Different. How could he miss that if he was talkin' to her?"

"I don't know. But I was thinking maybe we ought to stop by Madam Zelest's place and see if she's OK. This says the picture was taken last night, so if she was in trouble she might have gone there."

Babs looked at him, dubious. "But we have class."

Squall scratched the ground , like he always did when he was nervous. "Well, yeah. But we'd only miss first period if we took the trolley."

Babs shook her head. "Teachers would notice. If they sent a note home, I'm pretty sure our folks would wanna know where we were. How am I gonna explain that? More importantly, how are you?"

Squall looked downcast. "I'm still worried."

Babs didn't know what to say - she was too. Misty appeared at her door, waving back into the house to her family before meeting her friends down at the end of her front walk. Babs passed her the newspaper much as Squall had done, and she read it silently before passing it back. "What a terrible photo. Only the Bulletin would put such a lousy shot on the front cover and dare to call it news."

Babs was confused. "This doesn't worry you?"

Misty tossed her head dismissively. "Why would it? It's the Bulletin. Six months ago they published a story claiming that Princess Celestia was in a romantic relationship with the Crown Prince of Saddle Arabia. Last month they started up rumours about a Changeling infestation in Apple-Loosa. No one takes any of it seriously."

Squall scowled, taking the paper back. "But this is true."

Misty rolled her eyes. "You're only saying that because you know better. Most ponies are going to see this for what it is - a scam to sell papers to ponies who love gossip. Where did you even get this, anyways?"

Squall shrugged. "My Mom gets all of the local papers. I usually fly down to bring them inside in the morning before I leave. I saw this one, so I snagged it."

Misty arched an eyebrow. "Isn't that a lot of papers to read?"

"About six a day, I think. But newspapers don't take long to read, really."

"Still. Six papers, every day? What does she do with them all?"

"She likes to read them during break times at work. She usually does the crosswords, too."

Babs made a confused sound. "Isn't that expensive, though? I thought your Mom was pretty thrifty about stuff."

Squall nodded. "She is, so it can't be that much of an investment. Besides, it's not like she ever buys herself anything. I figure the crosswords are her little indulgence." Squall looked off to the north, towards the Mosaic. "I still think we should drop by and check in with Madam Zelest."

Misty looked over, frowning. "She's been here for months already, and this is the first actual report we've seen that anypony has printed about her. That, and it's in a rag like the Bulletin. Trust me, she's in no more danger right now than she was on any other day since we've met her."

Squall looked sceptical. "You don't think this will get the sheriff's office looking for her?"

"I doubt they'll bother. Manehattan is a big city, and they don't have enough officers to spend on chasing rumours instead of criminals. I mean, her doing what she does every night is proof enough of that, right?"

Squalls shoulders sagged, and it made him look especially scrawny. "I guess."

Babs poked Squall in the ribs. "Yeah, Misty's right. Besides, we'll see her tomorrow night anyways. We'll show her then. Maybe we can even hang a copy up in the clubhouse. She deserves some kind of recognition for what she does. Even if the picture ain't too good."

Squall nodded, tucking the newspaper back into his saddlebag, feeling thoroughly unconvinced.

* * * * *

It was just after sunset when Squall arrived at the House of the All-Seeing Eye. He'd gone home to shower after the Crusaders' daily workout, and then headed straight over. His mother was working night shifts this week, so she wouldn't know the difference if he ran a little errand before dinner, just for his own peace of mind. The sign in the window still read "open", so he went in. A tiny wind-chime jingled above the door as he stepped inside. He started composing a greeting for Zelest in his head as he looked around for her, trying to be quiet in case she had clients.

The reception room was a comfortable size, and looked good for it's age. If Zelest's story about the history of this place was true, then the building was probably at least a hundred years old, probably older. Everything was antique hardwood, most of it faded by years of sunlight and regular use. There were a couple of couches and chairs for ponies to sit in while they waited, and despite matching the decor they sported upholstery that was probably no more than a few years old. They looked comfortable, regardless.

There were only two doors in or out of the room. He'd come in through one of them, and the other was hung with a heavy velvet curtain. It was exactly the sort of thing one would expect to see in the parlour of a fortune teller. A small table sat in the middle of the room with a note placed there facing the outside door, written in beautiful cursive script.

Greetings to all from I, Zelest.
For readings I'm the very best.
But many ponies ask my time
for fortunes read in verse and rhyme.
If I don't come to greet you here
then other clients have my ear.
Please seat yourself and wait for a span,
and I will be with you as soon as I can.

Squall picked one of the comfy arm chairs and sat himself down, kicking his lets idly. As a mental exercise, he began running through pairs of rhyming words in his head to pass the time.

A few minutes later, a pair of mares made their way out of the back, giggling to each other. They went right out the front door, and Squall quickly lost sight of them out the front windows. A moment later Zelest poked her head out through the curtain, glancing around as if to check that her customers were indeed gone before venturing into the room. She noticed the young pegasus, and smiled.

"I thought I'd heard my front door call.
It's good to see you, Summer Squall.
Thank you for waiting patiently.
What council might I offer thee?"

Squall stood up and bowed politely, though not as deeply as he had at their first meeting.

"Greetings, Madame of Hoof and Cards.
I hope you'll accept my warm regards.
I came with some news that you should know,
concerning your tenants down below."

Zelest nodded thoughtfully. She latched the front door, and turned the sign in her window to "closed". She beckoned for Squall to come with her into the back, and Squall followed her into the large, rectangular room behind the curtain. Unlike the reception room, this chamber was extremely sparse: a round table, a half-dozen mismatched chairs lined up against the wall, and a tall chest of drawers over in one corner. There was nothing hanging on any of the walls, which gave the room a sort of austere focus centred around the table.

Zelest selected one of the chairs, pulling it over to the table for herself, and she gestured for Squall to do the same. He brought over one that was slightly taller than the others, put his saddlebag down next to it, and pulled out the newspaper before sitting down. He laid it on the table for Zelest to see, and she picked it up and read it over. When she put it down she was smiling.

"Quite a risk this pony took
to catch himself a fleeting look.
I wonder then, could it be true?
Would Cold Star give an interview?"

Zelest seemed to find the concept fairly entertaining, but Squall still didn't find any humour in it.

"Cold Star is not seeking fame,
so it's weird she'd play this pony's game.
To stop a patrol to chat with him
doesn't seem like something...."

Squall trailed off, and then frowned and bowed his head.

"...rats. Sorry Zelest. I'm trying my best. But rhyming is a trick and I'm a bit thick."

The Zebra chuckled, shaking her head.

"Please don't fret, young Summer Squall.
You should not feel ashamed at all.
I appreciate your work to rhyme,
but you need not do it all the time."

Squall sighed. "Thanks. Sorry."

Zelest reached over to rest her hoof on his.

"Do not feel bad, my young feathered friend.
This rhyming is simply a means to an end.
Speaking plain is quite alright,
without any risk of not being polite.
In truth, it is only a small precious few
who have even tried speaking the way that we do."

Squall brightened up a little. "My Mom is kind of a stickler for manners. She'd have been disappointed in me if I didn't at least try to be respectful to your traditions."

Zelest smiled warmly.

"Your respect for tradition is likewise returned,
so let me explain this tradition you've learned.
We Zebras don't focus on clever word-play,
though that's sometimes a factor in things that we say.
Since the words we speak have a great deal of clout,
what's important is thinking before we speak out."

Squall thought about that for a moment. "So... basically it's a way of making sure you always think before you speak?"

Zelest nodded.

"Simply that and not much more.
So worry not about keeping score.
Don't be rude, speak honestly,
and your words will find no fault with me.
So fret no more on verses please,
and let your thoughts be shared with ease."

Squall looked at the newspaper laying on the table between them.

"I was worried about this article. I thought something bad might have happened. I figured if anything was wrong, she'd probably come here first. So I thought I'd pop by, just in case."

Zelest shook her head sadly.

"I have not seen her for several days.
She rarely visits, and never stays."

"So do you think that means she's alright?"

"Cold Star isn't the type to ask
for any help in her oath-bound task.
So we can't be sure, but I rather doubt
that a reporter is enough to take her out."

Squall smirked, but stayed silently for a long moment. He knew, in his head, that what Zelest was saying made perfect sense. Cold Star wouldn't have any problem dealing with a reporter, or even several reporters. She was used to dealing with the kinds of thugs who favoured violent crimes, so photo-hounds probably wouldn't be much of a challenge.

It took him a moment to realize what was actually bothering him, and when he looked across the table her found Zelest with her head resting on one hoof, watching him. He had the distinct impression that she knew what he was about to say, but he said it anyway.

"It's not about the reporter. It's about the fact that she wouldn't have been willing to have her picture taken like this. It's... rude. And invasive. She was tricked into it. And if a reporter can trick her, then someone more devious might try to trap her. The article says that a crime boss named Stoneheart has a bounty out for her. What's keeping him, or some clever sheriff, from setting up some kind of trap?"

It was Zelest's turn to look thoughtful.

"I can't deny this could be true.
So what, then, would you have her do?"

Squall shrugged.

"I'm not sure. Babs and Misty think that no one will take it seriously. But if I didn't know what I do... I'd be curious. I'd want to know it it was true. I mean... I do know her, and I'm still all kinds of curious about her. If I didn't already meet her every week, I'd probably be hanging out on the roof of my apartment with a camera hoping to catch a glimpse myself. I can't possibly be the only pony who thinks that way."

"So you fear that this paper will result
in the formation of a celebrity cult?"

"I think that might be a bit much. But the more ponies who see her, the more other ponies are going to want to see her. And some of those ponies aren't going to be nice ones. It's going to be hard to do her job if dozens of ponies are out every night trying to snap photos... or worse."

"Then I ask again: what would you suggest?
What course do you think would serve her best?"

"I don't know. Maybe she should just take a couple of nights off, or do smaller patrols. Try to let this all blow over before she does anything else that will land her in the paper."

Zelest laughed. It was a belly laugh, loud and proud. Squall could feel his cheeks going red but Zelest pressed her hoof over his again, keeping him from pulling away.

"I'm sorry Squall, for laughing so.
But think of how that's bound to go.
You know that she won't think the same.
Her refusal is written in her name."

Squall frowned. "I'm sorry. I don't think I understand what you mean by that."

Zelest frowned back, equally confused.

"Then, your group has not been shown
the namesake that she's made her own?"

Squall shook his head, still looking puzzled. Zelest let out an irritated huff.

"I think perhaps it should be my mission
to correct this uninformed position.
If you don't mind, please come with me.
Let me teach you some astronomy."

Zelest rose and went over to the chest of drawers. She fiddled with it for a moment, and Squall heard a loud 'click'. The chest slid sideways revealing a doorway. Squall followed her through the door into what appeared to be Zelest's kitchen. Squall looked to the Zebra. "Not exactly where I had expected a secret door to lead."

"You heard of this building's early days.
Back then there was need for secret ways."

"But there's no need now. Why not just put in a regular door?"

"What a silly thing to suggest I do.
If you can have secret doors, why wouldn't you?"

Squall thought about that for a moment. "Yeah, never mind. I don't know what I was thinking."

Zelest grinned at him and led him up a small flight of stairs to a short hallway. She opened a door and gestured for Squall to go in. He did, and stopped cold. The room was a just a bit bigger than his living room but about half again as tall, and it was piled from floor to ceiling with book-laden shelves. Most of the books looked old, and many of them had velvet covers so faded with age he had to put his face right next to them to read them. Even then, some turned out to be in languages he couldn't read. They had overflowed onto the floor and there was a large, slightly slanted table in the middle of the room that supported several more volumes, most of them bookmarked and obviously ready for somepony to use.

Zelest went over to one corner of the room, and selected a book, carrying it over to the table.

"Tell me, has Cold Star taught you three
about the Night Tribes and our history?"

Squall shook his head. Zelest sighed.

"Too much fighting, not enough book.
It's a legacy she should not overlook.
I hope that you might think to confer
that stern sentiment from me to her."

Squall gulped. Offering Cold Star criticism seemed like more of a Babs or Misty thing, but he nodded his head anyway. Maybe he would ask one of them to do it.

"Then back to the point I intend to supply -
that our Tribes take an interest in the sky.
We have studied the sky since the world was new,
using it's secrets as a lens to see through.
To hers it is a source of divine inspiration.
To mine, it is a keeper of information.
So it is that I have upon my shelf
a book that speaks to Cold Star's self."

The book she placed upon the table was an old tome, written in careful, elegant calligraphy. It was obviously old, and the way Zelest handled it gave Squall a sense of reverence - this was an important book. She flipped it open to a certain page, and stepped back, allowing Squall to read.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Cold Stars
Of all the bodies in the night sky, cold stars are by far the least understood. No such star has ever been seen, despite our many magical and technological advances in the field of astronomy. This leads many to believe that their existence is a myth. But I have known several scholars in my life whose special talent lay in the study of the night's sky, and each one of them I have spoken to on the subject has confirmed their belief in the existence of cold stars. They tell me it is a cosmic necessity - that the motions of the universe cannot be reasonably explained in any other manner. I am unqualified to argue in the face of such conviction from greater minds than my own, and so I have diligently transcribed all that they could tell me on the subject here. I admit, it is very little information indeed. It is my hope that one day, an astronomer schooled by this text may be able to put the matter finally to rest, one way or the other.

According to my sources, the reason cold stars have not yet been observed is that they cannot be - that unlike normal stars, which give off light and heat, these stars do exactly the opposite - they take in all manner of matter and energy into themselves. They reflect no light, and so they exist in perfect darkness. Thus they offer nothing for a telescope to observe. A scholar knowledgeable in telescope engineering suggested that until we are able to construct a device for measuring heat or sound in the universe, finding cold stars will not be possible. Sadly, I cannot imagine many uses for such a technology, so I worry that our answers may be a long time in coming.

It is not clear exactly how it is possible for a star to absorb that which they would normally produce. One scholar suggested to me that cold stars are not in fact stars at all, but rather holes in the universe, dragging in anything that comes within their orbit much as a drain does in the bottom of the bathtub. This scholar eschewed the term cold star in favour of another moniker - he called them 'Black Holes'. He believed they were formed by the sudden collapse of a star under it's own mass, or other such extreme forces. He had no notion of where the resulting heat or light eventually went, which I considered to be a matter of concern for the theory at large.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Squall looked up from the book to see Zelest watching him. "A star surrounded by darkness. So... this is her cutie mark, isn't it? One of these 'black holes'? But... what kind of special talent is that? I guessed it was something to do with being hidden, or being a light in the darkness or something. But that doesn't seem to match this at all."

Zelest thought for a moment.

"This I would say is my best guess:
her special talent is relentlessness.
Be it blood or fear or broken wing,
she will not stop for anything.
No villain can hide or escape pursuit,
for the Cold Star's hold is absolute.
So I hope that you can understand
why she won't accept your hiding plan."

Squall scraped his hoof lightly against the floor, looking down. "I knew that from the beginning, honestly. Even before you showed me this, I knew she'd never agree to it. She takes those oaths seriously, and 'no matter the circumstances and no matter the cost' is pretty clear where she stands on this. I just wanted to know what a cold star was, and you said you wanted to tell me, so I went along with it."

Zelest arched one eyebrow.

"Help me then to please digest it -
if you knew all this then why suggest it?"

Squall didn't look up. "Just because I knew she wouldn't do it doesn't mean it's a bad plan."

Zelest stared at him for a moment, and then grinned fiercely.

"If your plan cannot work for you as it is now,
perhaps you can change it around somehow.
You cannot change Cold Star, she's set in her way,
so your change must be something where you have a say."

Squall sighed. "But I don't have a say in much of anything. Especially not when it comes to Cold Star."

"Perhaps, but that's not what I would stress.
Consider the goal you've considered success.
Ask not what she can be asked to do,
but rather, what might make it true."

"That's a little too cryptic for me."

Zelest grinned.
"I am but a zebra, a reader of hooves,
and occasional teller of uncomfortable truths.
I learned long ago to say just enough;
it's important for ponies to reflect on stuff.
Regardless of what I do or say,
It rests on you to choose your own way.
It's true for you, and true for me,
and equally so for anypony."

As Squall flew home, it was this last verse in the library that stuck in his mind.

* * * * *

It was the busiest night of the week at the Old Rock Farm, which wasn't saying much. The place still looked empty. Fewer than thirty ponies could be found scattered around the whole of the bar, most of them sitting in small groups at various tables, watching the performance on stage. A blues guitar kept time with an old stallion's weathered voice, singing songs about pain, loss, and the heartaches that came with a long life.

Two ponies were seated in a booth near the front, both listening intently and drinking cold cider. As the set wrapped up, both ponies applauded politely as the old pony got up, bowed awkwardly to the audience, and stepped off the stage to rest before his next set.

Stoneheart was in high spirits. He turned to the mare across the table, gesturing broadly to the stage. "You see, Elsie? Best darned blues pony I've ever seen. He should be playing Canterlot. It's criminal."

Elsie nodded, but said nothing. Stoneheart took no offence. Elsie was one of his most trusted lieutenants, and that was in part because she respected the value of words. She spoke only when something needed saying, and otherwise kept her muzzle shut. It was a valuable trait for a subordinate in their line of work.

Her fur and feathers were lemon yellow and her hair was two-toned blue, which could have been a really cute combination on a different pony. But the all-business cut of her black flight suit and the scars that peeked out from under it around her hooves and neck spoke of a pony who had lived hard, and been hardened by it. Stoneheart had never seen her cutie mark in the three years she'd worked for him, and he'd never seen her carry any kind of ID. He didn't even know if Elsie was her real name. But he didn't care about that. All he cared about was the fact that she was solid. That when he told Elsie something needed to be handled, it got handled. Professionally and without a lot of questions.

Stoneheart picked up a newspaper from the seat next to him and tossed it on the table. Elsie picked it up, read the headline, and put it back down. Stoneheart gestured to the blurred image under the headline.

"Green Fields says this is her. Our so-called Mare-Do-Well."

Elsie nodded again. When she spoke her voice was quiet - little more than a whisper. "You want to talk to the reporter." It wasn't a question.

Stoneheart grinned. "Yes. I suspect that there's probably more to this story than what was printed. This shot wasn't exactly posed for, after all. He might know something useful."

"You payin'?" Elsie asked, casually looking around the bar to make sure no one was eavesdropping.

"The bounty stands, if he's willing to take it. If not... well, I'll still want to speak with him."

Elsie nodded. "When?"

"As soon as possible. While it's still fresh in his head."

Elsie nodded again and stood up, tossing a couple of coins on the table to cover her drink. Despite the fact she worked for Stoneheart, she didn't ever take charity. Not even cider from his bar. It was another good reason she was his lieutenant. She stopped by the stage on the way out to drop a dozen bits into the performer's hat before heading for the door. She didn't look back or say goodbye before she walked out into the autumn night. Stoneheart watched her leave, not a single doubt in his mind that the reporter - Daily Times, according to the byline - would be sitting across from him at some point within the next couple of days. He allowed himself a rare moment of respite, sitting back to relax and enjoy his cider until the old blues pony returned to the stage.

Author's Note:

Next time: As night falls over the Manehattan, there is violence in the air. Bodies and egos come under attack, and no-pony is making it home unscathed. It will be a tough night to be a good pony. Find out why in our next exciting chapter!

{ As always, constructive criticism and helpful feedback are welcome. This is a project I'm working on as much to improve my writing as to celebrate my fandom, so please feel free to leave comments! }

{Another milestone - 150 readers! I'm happy to see more and more people dropping by to read this! I'm still hoping that one of you fine folks will put together some art for the story cover. You can expect the next update in two weeks time. Thanks for reading!}

Comments

[yrfoxtaur]

oh... that cretin. poor daily times is gonna be in a tough spot. Maybe Ms Star can arrange some sort of witness protection for him. Zalest's place might still have enough tricks to keep some secrets...