3: The Hard Fall
When I got back to the office, I dispensed with the knocking. I burst into the Chief’s office breathing fire and snorting lightning.
He was leaning back in his chair. Way back. He stared at the ceiling, both forelegs folded over his gut. I didn’t let it throw me off.
“What the hell were the Crowns doing there? I didn’t call for any backup!”
He remained in place, but his eyes slid down to me. “Hm?”
“You know what I’m talking about. Who called in the Royal Guards? I had things firmly in hoof.”
“Don’t know anything about that,” he said.
“Yeah, well, someone thought I needed the push. Who else knew about the op?”
“Could be the same pony who called in the tip in the first place.”
“And that was?”
“Anonymous.”
My eyes narrowed. “We don’t bring ponies in based on anonymous tips. You’re telling me that you sent me to go kick a hornet’s nest on that alone? What if it had been wrong? A high profile mistake like that is egg all over the Department’s face.”
“Didn’t have much choice. Word came from above to follow through. Passing it onto you was my only play in the matter.” He sat up, and then leaned over to open the bottom-right drawer in his desk.
Two glasses hit the table with a clink, followed by a bottle of something dark.
“Scotch?” he offered.
My anger was fading, disarmed by the lack of a pushback. I expected a shouting match. Not whatever this was. I nodded once, stopping to watch the Chief more carefully. “Breaking out the bottom drawer? You planning on sacking me, boss?”
He laughed, hearing a joke I hadn’t told, and poured the scotch.
“You ever miss the old days, Slate?”
I grunted an affirmative and reached for my glass.
“I think what I miss most of all is the certainty,” he said. “Black and white, good and evil. When I felt like I was doing my part to save something. That’s always been an illusion, but a pleasant one. One I used to believe in.”
“I’ll drink to that,” I said, and did.
“But being put in charge, you start to see that there’s nothing but compromises. Everywhere you look. You muddle along, you try to do what’s right, or at the least, what’s least-wrong. And somewhere along the lines the job changes from protecting the nation to protecting the status quo. And maybe, if you let it keep slipping, to just protecting your own hide.”
“The spell was supposed to help,” I offer. “Make things cleaner. Back to good and bad.”
He snorted. “It’s all politics. Sure, it’s nice to be able to point to that and say ‘hey, changeling here, have at it boys’. But it’s one more illusion. And… the spell’s only as honest as the pony who casts it.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
He looked at me steadily for a long moment before turning his attention back to his scotch.
“I’m retiring. You’ve always been one of my best, Slate. You should know that.”
“Why? Why now? Another word coming from above?”
“I recommended you for my job. Don’t think my opinion holds much weight anymore though.”
“That wasn’t an answer to my question. You’re going to let this happen?”
He sighed. “If I were ten years younger, maybe I might have fought. But no. I’m done. I gave this job everything, you know? And it gave me back a drinking problem and a silver-plated watch.” His eyes met mine. “If you’re smart, you’d cash your chips now. Leave this mess behind and get out while you can.”
I set the glass down on the desk with a clink.
“Probably so. Too bad I’m not so smart.”
A ghost of a smile crossed his muzzle. “Too bad.”
Standard procedure is to hang around immediately following a collar, handle the forms and reports. Ponies don’t quite realize just how much of a detective’s job is paperwork. I’ve never minded it. When someone’s going to end up lighting up the sky at the end of the day, it’s best if there’s no questions about the how and why.
Today all I had were questions. I decided to take a walk.
It’s easy for a changeling to look the part, but mannerisms, speech patterns, all that was harder to nail. That’s why it was rare to have a true replacement job. We had to clean up some infiltrators in the weeks following the big invasion, but since then the vast majority tried to skate by as immigrants with conveniently out-of-the-picture family connections.
The years since I had last spoke with Paisley meant little. I knew her, and I knew the mare I had seen was the same as she had ever been. That meant one of two things. Either she had pulled a long con with the deepest cover I’d ever heard of, or the spell had come up wrong.
The first was patently impossible. The second was a punch to the gut.
The Celestial Sisters themselves came up with the spell, so they say. I believed it. It was a complicated tangle of thaumaturgy and divination, with optional sorcerous subroutines packed in. All tied up in a knot like extra credit at the pretzel academy. It took me a month to learn how to cast it. Can’t say I understood its inner workings. Can’t say anyone did.
But its accuracy was unquestioned. Unimpeachable. You got green and there was changeling blood running under that pony hide. As long as the pony behind it was on the level, casting straight. And I always did.
If it could be wrong… How many ponies had I personally locked in an astral prison?
Pounding the streets didn’t bring me any closer to an answer. All I saw were faces. After a while, all I saw was one face in particular.
Eventually I could see the sun setting, and I headed home. I couldn’t face the night sky. Not tonight.
I lived in an second-story apartment in Lower Westside. It was a dump. I didn’t mind. It was cheap, and around the corner from a dive bar even cheaper.
I didn’t feel like drinking either. Paisley was onto something, and my words with the Chief only confirmed it. I could feel it, something crackling around the edges of my perception. There was a storm coming, and I wouldn’t be caught swimming in whiskey when the lightning rolled in.
I found my front door unlocked. Not the way I had left it.
Not unheard of. I’d had break-ins before. I dealt with them by not having anything to steal in the first place. But today? On top of everything else?
My horn lit a spell, a short-range paralysis with a kick that I could keep cycling until I needed it. I opened the door slowly, pausing just short of the angle where the hinges squealed. I squeezed in, closing and locking it behind me.
The place was dark. Quiet. My hat stayed down to hide the glow of my horn.
I took a long walk down the short hall, keeping my hoofsteps soft on the wood floor. I heard it then. Soft, regular breathing.
I waited in the quiet. My ears turned, tracking the sound to its source.
Then I moved. I reared back before slamming my hooves, sending a spark to turn on every light in the place and keeping my horn aimed at the intruder.
Rising Star reacted with a full-body spasm, going from an even sleep to wide-awake as he hit the floor next to my couch.
“The hell are you doing here?” I growled.
All I got was a groan. I kept the spell cycling as he sat up, rubbing his head.
“Hey bro.”
I considered frying him anyways. But the paperwork would be atrocious. With a grimace, I let the spell wind down and dissipate.
“Where’ve you been?” He fumbled with his hooves along the floor, coming up with a pair of dark shades to put back on his face. “Don’t tell me you were celebrating without me!”
“Oh?”
“I brought you a little somethin’-somethin’.” He lifted up some cider, aluminum cans bound together by plastic rings.
“Didn’t know they sold them in four-packs now.”
“I did a little pre-party partying. You know.” His horn lit up and he tore another can off, floating it in my general direction.
“Not thirsty.”
He shrugged and the can opened with a hiss of fizz, coming to a rest in the air next to him. “You gotta lighten up, my man. You should be happy.”
I kept him in the corner of my eye and trotted around to take a quick glance into my bedroom. Empty. “Why’s that?” I called back.
“Landing the head of PHAIR? That’s big. The higher-ups have been wanting them out of the way for ages.”
I turned back to him sharply. “Which higher-ups?”
He took a sip of the cider before answering. “You know. Higher-ups.”
“The Chief?”
His smile was a constant. I couldn’t see his eyes past the shades.
“What about you?” I said. “What about Blueblood?”
“Consider this dual-purpose. Killing two bugs with one brew.”
“You never did tell me the story. What gave you the idea to go for the Prince, of all ponies?”
“Came to me in a dream. What can I say? I’ve got good instincts.”
“Uh-huh.”
He lapsed into silence. Not modesty, just disinterest. But uncharacteristic – Rising Star had always been his own biggest fan. I watched him, trying to figure out his play.
Then it came, a creeping realization I would have dismissed out of hoof yesterday.
“Put the cider down, Star.”
His head tilted to the side, horn still lit. Cider still floating in his aura. Magic still in use. “Dude, you don’t even have any coasters.”
I reached out, felt it. Touched the barest edge of the leylines swirling underhoof, still coalescing but almost there. That’s what this all was.
A setup. The bastard was running the detection spell on me.
His grin twitched the slightest amount. He knew I knew and didn’t care. He would be covered, safeguards and protective wards. He was the kind of guy that goaded you into firing the first shot, so there’d be no questions when he unloaded in return. He’d turn right back at me any magic I could shake together.
He was a step ahead of me.
So I took two.
I put my head down and slammed into him with a shoulder, hard and fast. He was young and fit but I had played left tackle in college and still had fifty pounds on the kid. I laid him out blue-skies. That’s when I heard the wrenching tear.
That’s the thing with spells, complicated ones. They took attention. Lose that midway through something big and all the energy has to find an outlet somewhere.
Cords of magic whipped through the air as the leylines below suddenly lost cohesion. Uncontained elements started spiking, and a trail of fire lashed across the couch, enough for it to catch. It went up in flames as I heard shouts from out in the hall at the racket.
I spared a glance at Rising Star, flat on his back and gasping for breath, and delivered a kick to the ribs for good measure. I didn’t have a backdoor. And just as I was considering the front, it caved in, the door splintered off its hinges. A pegasus and unicorn guard pair fought each other to squeeze through.
My eyes caught the one window and I gritted my teeth and moved before my brain could inform me as to what a bad idea it was.
I leapt through, glass shattering as the street below rushed up to meet me.
...
That’s something they don’t tell you about in the movies. Jumping through a pane of glass hurts like hell. I don’t recommend it.
The cobblestones would have hurt a lot more if a fruit stand hadn’t got in the way. It broke my fall, and my fall broke the better part of its stock of melons. Still felt like every bone in my body had been given a good shake, at least until the effects of the glass caught up. A thousand cuts played a symphony of pain across my coat and the slippery red spilling out of the wrecked stand wasn’t all fruit juice.
My head spun but I forced myself upright. I could hear shouts above, and looked up to see smoke streaming out of my building. I didn’t have time to tally bruises.
I made it into the shadows of an alley just as a team of guards rounded the corner. Their commander took one look and started addressing the flaming elephant in the room. Good for him – this whole side of town was kindling ready to ignite if not dealt with. Good for me too. I disappeared before anyone saw me and thought to ask questions.
That alley led to another. And another.
My hooves knew their way around the city. Thankfully, because the streets in my eyes were beginning to swirl into indistinguishable shapes.
I was losing a lot of blood, I knew. I kept moving because the alternative was to stop for good.
Had I been in my right mind, I don’t know where I would have ended up. I had friends.
Scratch that.
I had associates. Most of whom I trusted. And a few I figured wouldn’t even stab me in the back until I had repaid a loan or two.
But where my hooves took me… Let’s just say, when you’re being trailed by timberwolves, they’re not gonna follow you into a hydra’s den. But all you’re doing is changing one set of problems for another, even toothier one.
I stopped in front of the door, an unmarked one in a back alley. I was considering whether I could make it somewhere different when everything started draining of color, like someone had turned up the contrast.
I lifted my hoof to rap on the door, but it didn’t seem to want to listen. As I fell forward into blackness, my head did a pretty good job of knocking on its own.
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I adore this! But shouldn't this have a crossover tag? Considering that this is basically a fusion between the universes of "Can Androids Dream of Electric Sheep?" by Philip K. Dick (I'm really a fan of that particular book BTW.
) and MLP: FIM.
Another example of what you are doing is the short story. "A Study in Emerald" by Neil Gaiman.
Anyway, keep going.
Its dark, cold, rainy, my wife is dead and i tried to retire but this life just keeps pulling me back.....im also an alcoholic. - Every noir detective ever.
6167216
That's a good question. Ultimately, and as further chapters make more clear, it's not that related. It takes the very broadest outlines of the premise of Blade Runner / Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep? but it isn't really telling that particular story. I found the fic to be enough of a purely thematic crossover that adding the tag would be more misleading than helpful.
6167249
Good point.
So, I ran into this on EqD, and I couldn't help but feel a certain pull toward it, if only because of the genre. After all, I'm a whiskey-drinking, hat-and-coat-wearin', hardboiled detective fanatic, and I'm always eager to see about a new entry into that particular realm of fiction. As I was reading, however, I found myself... well, not disappointed, but nonetheless disenchanted by it, because I see a lot of things that could be done to really bring out the black-tinted feel you're going for, here.
You'll forgive me for doing this out of the blue and at such a great length, as I know critique hasn't been asked for, but again, I do this out of a desire to see this work function at a higher rate of noir-ness. There's an art to this sort of fiction, and--forgive my arrogance--I think I have insights to share on that front. I'm going to be making a lot of comparisons to Phillip Marlowe, as I think he's a good example of the sort of character and narrator you seem to be going for here.
Let's start from the beginning.
Those are the opening sentences of all the Phillip Marlowe novels. Notice all of them begin in a mundane fashion--most begin with the article "the," and provide some pretty basic details about some random thing--but nonetheless they all draw the reader in by their immediacy. There's a sense that things are already in motion, and that's because they are. Any detective is going to be working ex post facto and the very prose reflects this.
Now, in an entirely unfair comparison, let's look at the first sentence of this fic:
It tells us something, but it's something that we already know. It doesn't convey a sense of urgency, nor does it impart any insight as to where the story is going. Simply put, this is not a strong hook, nor is it really in keeping with the hardboiled tradition. The following sentences don't do a whole lot to set things up, either, other than by saying "there's a dark side to Canterlot you don't know about." That doesn't set a really compelling tone, nor does it really explain how the bright burg we see in the show can have such a seedy underbelly. There's a lot of intrigue to set up here, and it doesn't accomplish that, I'm afraid.
I'm afraid a lot of the prose is much the same. I noticed many instances where Slate breaks the flow of the narrative to inform the reader of certain things, when the same amount of information could be conveyed more effectively through dialogue. We don't need to know that Rising Star has been with the Department for six months, or that he's made some questionable arrests. A few smart-ass remarks from Slate would sell that notion just as well. Further, there's a lot of "you's" thrown about, with the opening line being a such an example. With only a couple of exceptions, Marlowe never uses the word "you" to address the reader, directly or indirectly, and this is because Marlowe, the character, is far enough removed from the experience to talk about it in a detached fashion. He describes things as they are, without flat-out telling the reader "this is the way things are;" his words and actions speak for themselves. The reader doesn't need to know what "standard procedure" is for changeling busts--they just need to have the characters going through the motions and they'll understand.
Now, Slate himself has a good voice, at least in dialogue. But as with any hardboiled protagonist, he has to sell himself by his inner voice. I'm not sure I'm sold on that front. During the quieter moments, he gets suitably pensive and moody, but it seems like his wit doesn't come into play much. He tends more to describe things in a beige manner with a bit of sulky passive-aggression. What's more, he uses some loquacious language here and there that seems out of place given the tone of the piece and what little I can surmise of the character's history. Marlowe is a product of a fairly well-to-do education, but shows this in his wit and his references to various works, and even then only sparingly. Slate seems to spend most of his time, again, describing "the way things are" rather than letting the prose show that. It's okay for a protagonist to let the reader know they're experienced (and indeed, it's crucial for a detective), but it needs to be done indirectly. Slate needs to show that he's been on the beat for too long, rather than tell us about it.
And this brings me to a final critique: I'm not really feeling much for Slate as a character at this point. He feels more like a generic noir protagonist rather than his own person. I understand we haven't seen a whole lot of him yet, and as a hardboiled dude, he would keep a lot of things hidden under the surface, but still, there hasn't been a true establishing character moment for him. I believe that's what the opening scene is meant to accomplish, but, again, all I really got out of that was "generic noir protagonist." Whatever makes him unique needs to be right up front and center, because the story is dealing in a genre that has played itself out a hundred times over.
Again, I don't think this is a poor showing; I just think it could be so much better. I could sit here nitpicking all day, but to reiterate my earlier points: work on a justification for the tone you're going for here, watch the telling rather than showing, and bring more of Slate's character to the forefront. Do all that, and I can see this evolving into a highly-compelling thriller.
Stories like this have a certain appeal to the masses.
Particularly the masses who feel that the system is rigged, and all we really want is a protagonist with the skill, the guts, and maybe most importantly, the luck to take a stab at cleaning house. We don't really expect them to succeed. Really, we expect them to fail; the fact is that Goliath usually kicks David's ass.
But they at least tried, and that's more than most of us can say we did.
There's the mystery of it, too, although I'm going to keep my speculations to myself.
6169534 A bit of a saying that its the real deal, and not pyrite. Which is known better as fools gold for its false glitter while commonly found about real gold.
Without contradicting 6168268 — which has some worthwhile advice — I wanted to say, I'm enjoying this.
I'm not 100% sure it's meant to be Marlowe noir, if PKD is the immediate influence, but I can see that in the story's roots.
6168268 This is about the best damn critique comment I've ever read. I didn't know there was a problem, never read the source material you were referring to- or even heard of it- and its not even my own flipping story. You have a gift. but omg u.didnt even mention Mon canon banishment even 1 time so it sux
Really though, hats off to you, with all sincerity; it's rare to read anyone's appraisal of someone else's abilities that actually delivers a valid and sensible argument and especially so effectively.
Mm, I like where this is going. Little bit of Blade Runner to finish off my day.