Who is Number Eleven?

by DrugOverlord

Chapter 2

As Sunset drove down the wide streets, she couldn’t help but feel a bit pissed off. Here she was, not fifteen minutes drive from her own apartment, looking at houses she couldn’t afford in several lifetimes of detective work. Huge, intimidating fronts, two stories high, peaked roofs, porches, white fences, yards. And fresh coats of paint; these houses actually had some color to them, not like the blurred up colors of most buildings in the city, dead brick on dead concrete.

As it turns out, the human version of Canterlot was a bit different than its Equestrian counterpart. Rather than a series of organized, well defined rings, humanity had built a conflicting patchwork quilt of high rise apartments and slums, luxury shopping malls and dollar stores. Those with nothing rubbed shoulders easily with those who had everything, but rather than promoting a feeling of unity, it just emphasized the gap between them.

The chaotic center of the city was the stomping grounds of the wealthiest of business owners. It had expensive stores, expensive apartments, and clean streets. Anyone who was anyone kept an office there, and the rent hovers at an easy six digits. Scrabbling around the edges were the more affordable shops, receiving just enough business to get by. They sat just close enough to wealthy shadows to feel like they were going somewhere.

Beyond the commercial areas were the first of many slums, where the working people, and the less wealthy business owners, made their homes. Sprinkled here and there were the schools, from the high cost private colleges way down to the lowest cost public high schools, each with their own brackets of attendees and funding. Strips of middle class housing could be found here and there, but they were an almost rare sight. Only the wealthy and the desperate made their homes in Canterlot City.

Sunset’s place, pulling double duty as home and office, was situated at the very edge of the city, just inside the last of the slums, and just a few blocks outside the territory of the least wealthy business owners. Sunset had always vaguely wished that she had an office closer to the center of the city, where commerce flowed easy and walk-in customers would be a cinch to nab. Private detecting wasn’t the highest paying work, and the most she could ever hope to rent out there was a janitor’s closet. Her current bills were hard enough to keep up with, and she sure as hell wasn’t sacrificing her disposable income.

The houses she drove past now, slowing a bit to get a good look at their numbers, were in the suburbs, which hugged the very outside of the city, a last bastion of wealth just a few blocks from the outer slums. Many of the rich made their homes here; close enough so they could tell their friends they lived in the city, and far enough away to not have to deal with the uncomfortable side effects of actually living there. It occurred to Sunset that Rarity might have a house out here. She had always talked about getting one. Before Sunset could think on it further, her destination loomed on the right.

It was a large house, with white paint that still looked fresh. The windows were hooded with blue shutters, and sat just above a jutting patio, held up by twin columns. A rather large entry stairway flowed from between the stairway, ending in a marble walkway which cut a white path through the grass towards the driveway. The front door looked sturdy, with a surprisingly plain silver knocker in its center, above which the number 117 was inscribed in large golden letters.

Sunset pulled into the driveway, stopping just beside the marble walk. Sunset took a manila envelope from seat beside her, two fresh whiskey bottles clinking as she brushed against them, and stepped out. As she approached the house, she heard what sounded like shrill screaming. Before Sunset could decide whether to help or not, she heard a door opening and a door slamming shut. From her angle she couldn’t quite see the doorway, but as she continued down the path, a lone figure stumbled into her vision.

He was a tall man, stooped over to hide exactly how tall, with a thin, sharp face, looking like it hadn’t been shaved for at least a week. The rest of his body was draped in a too loose suit and overcoat, an oversize fedora topping it off. His hands shook as he lit a cigarette, though whether from anger or nerves Sunset couldn’t tell. His face was expressionless, and he stared into the ground.

Sunset cleared her throat as she got closer, and he looked up, blowing smoke as he did so.

“Ah. Hello, miss,” he said, pushing his hat from his eyes. They were watery, grey, and looked as tired as Sunset felt. “Business or pleasure?”

“Business.” Sunset waved the manila envelope. She made to move past him, but stopped, curiosity getting the better of her. “And you?”

The man wasn’t quite looking at her anymore, his attention wavering. “Business as well. I’m a journalist.” He gave a little half bow to the space beside Sunset, and waved his cigarette in vague salute. “Fashion Forward, at your service.”

“Fashion Forward? Never heard of you.” Sunset crossed her arms. “What’s a journalist want with Spoiled Rich?”

His attention suddenly shifted once more, his eyes searching Sunset’s face with incredible focus for a brief moment. Then he gave a barely noticeable smile. “Oh, you know. This and that.” His eyes came entirely unfocused once more and, clenching his cigarette between his teeth, he began to pat himself down, searching through the many pockets of his overcoat. His smile turned into a frown. “I work in fashion. Trying to get a read on the local, uh, climate. Fashion climate.”

“Right.” Sunset paused, then shook her head. She didn’t really feel up to grilling this guy. He was odd, and she hated odd. Plus, his mention of fashion had brought Rarity skittering into her thoughts, which brought with it a flood of other, equally unwelcome, thoughts. “Well, I’m going up.”

Fashion Forward was still searching himself, his face shifting more and more towards open annoyance. His cigarette continued to burn down between his teeth. He acknowledged her leaving, pausing his search to watch her climb the stairs.

“Yeah, sorry about that. I hope you weren’t meaning to catch her in a good mood,” he said, with half a smile.

Sunset waved a dismissive hand over her shoulder. “Nah. I did my job. She should be nothing but happy.” Reaching the doorway, she knocked, and a maid appeared, proceeding to all but drag her inside. He smiled, and waved at her, and the maid sniffed derisively before slamming the door.

He dropped his hand, and it landed on his breast pocket. His eyes lit up, and he finally put hands on what he’d been searching for: a small leather notebook, the cover curling towards the spine, along with half the pages. The pages themselves were covered in a slanted, ferociously unreadable scrawl; the handwriting of someone either in a hurry, or insane.

Fashion flipped to a blank page, slipped a pen from underneath his hat, and wrote another indecipherable note. Grunting, he slipped the notebook into another, different pocket, spat out his cigarette, and crushed it beneath his heel.

Spoiled Rich, or as she preferred, Mrs. Rich, was seated in her designated tea room, sipping tea from expensive china painted a bright blue. The room was more or less covered wall to wall with teapots, and larger than Sunset’s entire apartment. Sunset highly doubted that any of the pots saw real use, but they were certainly… interesting. As Sunset sat in one of the faux antique chairs, she frowned into the eyes of a horse shaped pot, which looked like it was screaming out of its spout/mouth. Her attention flipped as her client cleared her throat.

Rich looked pissed off, unsurprisingly. Sunset had braced for this to a certain extent, especially after the encounter with Fashion. She really hadn’t expected that anger to be directed at her though.

“What, exactly, were you thinking? Or is thinking not a part of the detective package?” Rich spat the words into her teacup, a fierce scowl dragging her whole face downwards. Subtle, she was not. Before Sunset could respond, Rich snapped her fingers, and a maid sprinted into the room with a silver platter. She knelt beside Rich, who pulled from its center a surprisingly simple black cellphone. After tapping a few buttons, Rich raised the screen for Sunset to look at.

It was the picture she had taken last night. Looking at it now, it was a pretty bad photo, she supposed. Nothing to get angry over though. The colors were pretty washed out, sure, and the guy was barely looking at the screen-

“Did you really need to beat him so visibly?” Oh yeah. And the blood.

Sunset tossed the manila envelope from her lap towards Rich, who managed to catch it just before it hit the ground, looking somewhat undignified as she did so. Scowling again, Rich dismissed her maid, and started pulling out full sized, print photos. As she examined each in turn, her scowl slowly became shallower and shallower.

Sunset leaned her chair back on two legs, one boot on the ground, the other resting on her thigh, fingers laced behind her head. “As you can see, I took way more than just one crappy photo.”

She’d taken them over several weeks, following the stalker all over the city, taking pictures with a fairly high quality camera. He had been amazingly dedicated in following Rich’s daughter, and Sunset was able to get plenty of shots. Day, night, and from plenty of angles, the photos proved without a doubt that he was the unwanted fan. It was enough evidence to do pretty much anything with.

“And if he presses charges?” Rich looked up from the photos, now wearing a scowl that made use of only her mouth, rather than the entirety of her face. This was honestly the happiest Sunset had ever seen her.

“Against me?” Sunset’s chair landed on all four legs as she leaned forward. “Self-defense. Between those photos and whatever pressure you apply to him, I don’t see it being much of a problem. Honestly, that last photo was more for you personally. Let you know that I’d ‘persuaded’ him to stay away from Diamond.”

Rich nodded, and looked Sunset over briefly. “Good work.” Those words seemed mildly painful coming from Rich’s throat, and she quickly stood. Placing the photos to the side, she headed to a tiny chest of drawers that sat in the corner. “Is a check okay?”

“Yeah, sure.” Not ideal, but Sunset wasn’t in much of a position to turn down money.

After writing for a few moments, Rich handed the small slip of paper over, the gemstones on her rings shining. They caught Sunset’s eye, and something stirred in the back of her mind. After tucking the check into her jacket, she spoke up.

“Your rings. Where’d you get them from?” Rich’s response was immediate, and not subtle. The little color her face had ran for the hills, while her lips pressed together and whitened. Her eyes became narrow and focused, and every line on her face seemed deeper. Her voice, when it came, was tight and cold, quivering ever so slightly.

“Why?”

Sunset was fairly taken aback by her response, but she kept her face pleasantly neutral. Scratching her right palm, she shrugged. “Just curious.”

Rich stared for several moments more, then let out a huff of breath. She snapped her fingers. The maid appeared once more. “Take Ms. Sunset to the door, would you?” Rich turned her back to Sunset, sipping tea in a forcibly casual stance. The maid nodded, and placed a light but demanding hand on Sunset’s shoulder. The cup made a series of small trembling clinks as Rich placed it into the saucer, back stiff.

Briefly, Sunset considered probing further, but her gut told her she’d gotten everything she could out of Rich. So she quietly followed the maid to the door, and walked to her car with the sound of the door slamming just behind her.

Well, that had been interesting. Overreaction like that was usually inspired by guilt, but Sunset couldn’t figure what Rich could possibly be guilty of. Theft? Blood diamonds? Something about those rings put her teeth on edge, but she was unable to pin the feeling down, trace it to its roots.

Sunset shot out of the driveway in reverse, swinging out right in front of a large black van. The screeching brakes, loud horn, and shouted expletives passed over her like so much white noise. Sunset’s brain was at work, and didn’t take the time to notice scenery. She drove off with no memory of the encounter.

**

Sunset had been driving for nearly thirty minutes when she finally shook her thoughts away. She couldn’t answer questions without information, and right now she had none. Focus returning to the world around her, she tried to figure out where her brain’s autopilot had taken her. She was long past her apartment, she could tell that much.

She flicked on her headlights, turned a corner, and grimaced when she saw her destination. Sunset hadn’t really forgotten her business here, but she had hoped to hold off on completing it. Apparently her subconscious had had other ideas.

The Canterlot Central Police Station, CCP to newspapers and newbies, Central to cops on the job, and simply The Hole to criminals and off-duty cops alike. From the outside it was an imposing building, its name written in both stone and bronze; one carved high above the entrance for the world to see, the other inscribed on the glass of the entryway doors to remind pedestrians exactly where they were.

Sunset pulled into the parking lot, and simply sat in the car, shading her eyes against the sun. It had been fairly low in the sky when she left Rich’s place, and now she could barely see it burning red between buildings on the horizon. For a while, she watched it drop behind the city. Then she left her car, took a deep breath, and entered the building.

Voted Absolute Worst Interior by the Canterlot Times for a decade straight, to say the insides of Canterlot Central were a mess was an understatement. The floor plan seemed like it had been designed by two or three construction crews working off different sets of blueprints, and who had a very healthy sense of competition.

For one thing, the immediate center of the large entry room was taken up by a maze of desks and computers pressed side by side, each belonging to a separate officer. The pathways between them were seemingly random and almost impossible to work through. It didn’t help that they shifted around every week or so, making room for new desks or removing old ones. It seemed to exist for no reason than to create an obstacle to crossing directly from one side of the room to the other. This essentially left visitors with two choices: right or left.

Neither seemed immediately better than the other. Turn right, and you saw that someone had had the bright idea to install rows of coffee machines along the wall, creating a seemingly endless line of interns, cops, and visitors. Turn left, and the same genius had placed four interrogation rooms split in half by the break room. This created a sort of strange looping feedback between the labyrinth, the break room, and the coffee machines, a twisting clump of humans that seemed impossible to break through. The sound alone was indescribable, and hit like a bullet between the eyes, without the convenience of dying afterwards.

Five steps inside and Sunset had to dodge an intern, two cops, and a prisoner on his way to or from a cell. She barely dodged a pot of boiling water on its way to the coffee machines and brushed against a clipboard moving at near lethal speed toward the interrogation rooms. It benefited one to be quick, agile, lucky, and above all else, willing to push. Sunset hated it here, and tried to stay away as much as possible. Still, some things had to be done in person.

Her objective, once she escaped the critical mass at the entrance, was the twin staircase at the far side of the room, two paths curving up to a single large office. Sunset had taken her luck with the left side, having seen an opening during a struggle which had broken out between a prisoner and his handler. Slipping through, she turned the corner and started moving down the leftmost path towards the front.

Along her path were a series of rooms, continuing the battle of the construction workers: Conference Room One, Two, and Four, split up by the infiltration of Prison Cell One. Across the twisting desk labyrinth to her right was Prison Cells Two, Three, and Four, similarly split by the missing Conference Room Three. Attack and counterattack. Both sides ended with their own staircases.

As Sunset reached the top of the staircase, she stood face to face with a receptionist, and behind her a huge office with “Chief of Police” written on the door. Two balcony lined paths led from the office back towards the front of the building, uniting over the entrance to create a large square of railings. A peek over those railings allowed a bird’s eye view of the labyrinth. On one side, the individual offices of the detectives, on the other an exclusive break room and several interrogation rooms. A series of clear plastic tarps were thrown over the back-most wall, hiding the construction within.

The receptionist eyes widened, moving from surprise to fear as Sunset steadily approached, boots thudding hard even on the carpet.“Ms. Shimmer, the Chief is busy-”

By the time she squeaked through that much, Sunset was already past her and kicking the door down. Metaphorically, of course. No one would be foolish enough to literally kick down a glass door. They’d be fishing glass out of their hair for at least a week afterwards. Not that Sunset would know.

The man inside looked up from the files he was reading, and gave Sunset a slight smile.

“You do realize that I have a phone, right?” Chief Nails was once muscular, powerful, and broad shouldered, with the physique of an athlete, a fighter. Now he was just broad in general, his uniform tight across both his shoulders and his belly, black hair slicked flat to his large head.

Sunset closed the door behind her, and shrugged.

“Never did get the hang of phones, Nails. Prefer talking in person.”

“I can appreciate that. I am grateful that you decided to leave the door alive this time. You know, your last visit cost me-”

“I’m not here about your door.” Sunset’s face colored ever so slightly, and rallied as quickly as she could. “I’m here about all the crazies you keep sending to my door.”

Chief Nails’ smile turned smug. He threw his hands out wide, as though preparing to embrace her. “You sound angry Sunny. I’m expanding your client list, bringing in business. You should be thanking me.”

“Right. You must think you’re pretty smart. You jerk me around, get me mad, hell, even get me to walk right into your office.” Sunset moved slowly and deliberately, step by step, until she had her hands flat on the Chief’s desk. A small smile grew on her lips. “Your plan worked out pretty well, Chief. I mean, I’m here right? But you did make a rather large mistake.” She started to press downward, inch by inch, the top of the desk creaking and groaning like a wounded animal. Her eyes never moved from his.

The Chief started to sweat, and lifted his hand to his collar, as though there were a pressure valve inside. His fingers slipped over the knot of his tie, prying it loose. The smile on his face started to slide. The smile on Sunset’s face grew wider.

“You made me mad, Nails, and that? That was not a good play.” Sunset pressed until she imagined she could hear the desk’s spine snapping. Chief Nails heard it too, trying to stand and freezing midway, caught between instincts.

Sunset lifted her hand and moved it in a blur towards the Chief. He winced and fell back, preparing for the worst, but Sunset stopped short. She jabbed a single finger into the Chief’s chest. “Stop. Sending. Me. Crazy. People. You. Asshole.” Every word followed up by another hard, non-deadly poke. And with that, she pulled back, and her smile went from dangerous to genuine, though a bit annoyed. The desk and Chief gave simultaneous sighs of relief as Sunset let the pressure off, and found herself a seat.

“Christ Sunny. I thought you were actually going to kill me this time.”

“In the middle of the station?”

“If anyone could pull that off, it would be you.” Chief Nails chuckled nervously, wiping a hand across his forehead and breathing deeply. “I’m pretty sure that intimidating an officer is a crime of some sort.”

“So arrest me, tough guy.”

Nails shot Sunset a look, but otherwise ignored the jab. “Drink?”
She nodded. “Sure. Pour me some of the good stuff. The ‘special occasion’ bottle.”

“That’s all you ever want. Every time you visit is not a special occasion, you know.”

“Oh please. Alcohol is meant to be drunk, and sooner rather than later.”

Despite his grumbling, Nails poured out two generously full glasses, putting one in front of Sunset and sitting down with his own in hand. He took a long gulp, downing half.

Sunset sipped hers slowly, savoring it. Damn it was good. If only she could afford it herself. She looked at Nails in silence for a few more seconds, then spoke up. “What do you want?”

The Chief sighed, took another gulp and placed his drink to the side. He leaned down to open his desk drawer, pulling a file from it and dropping it on the desk with a thump much louder than its size would indicate. “I know you don’t work for me, and you don’t do favors, but…” He shrugged as Sunset examined the folder. “This one’s tough, Sunny, and honestly? I could use your help.”

The folder was light blue, and decorated with nothing but the word Private in black marker across the front. It was much thicker than your average file, much thicker than any Sunset had back home. This case wasn’t new, not by a long shot, and Sunset gave it good odds that she wasn’t even in the first fifty to touch it.

The first few pages were complex legalese, but the message was clear: if you aren’t supposed to be reading this, put it the hell down unless you really crave a helping of jail time with a side of extended court battles. Sunset set it aside without hesitation, looking the next page over.

Scrawled across the top: Number Eleven. Single male assailant with a moderate string of killings that began several months ago. Nothing that said “bring in outsiders.”

“Why Eleven?”

Chief Nails shrugged. “Dunno. That was the name that got passed down to us. It stuck.”

Sunset flipped to the description of the first victim. He had been male, twenty-two years of age. Cause of death: burns, which striped up and down his body. The descriptions were vague, but a series of photos were attached to the report. Sunset breathed in sharply at the first.

“Intense burning” was an understatement. The man’s body had been more or less completely torn apart. Strips of blackened flesh, liquefied and congealed in an instant. And not a single drop of blood at the scene. His wounds had been perfectly cauterized. She flipped to the next. Female, 40. Joints fused together, organs erased, holes three inches in diameter torn through the skull. And the next, Male, 55, skin burned away in swaths, leg torn nearly in half by a cylinder of pure heat. And the next, Male, 23, and the next, Female 32, Male, Female, Female.

Investigators had no idea what sort of weapon could have been used in the attack. The wounds were entirely inconsistent with any conventional weapon, or even any unconventional weapon. Industrial laser was written in the margins of the report, a large question mark beside it.

It made sense that humans would have no idea what they’d stumbled across, but Sunset could recognize the signs. Even after all these years, and even as a part of her screamed that it was impossible, another part took charge, coldly and objectively interpreting the facts.

Old knowledge came flooding back, like it had been waiting for just this moment. When Sunset was still a unicorn, she’d done quite a bit of research into combat magic, specifically magics from the Unification War. Old combat reports spoke of the variety of magics employed by unicorns, each more complex and excruciating than the last. This, however, wasn’t just magic. This was experimentation, on a wide scale.

Everything was different between each attack, from the placement and intensity of the burns to the victims themselves. This was someone playing with death. Sunset felt a prickling, burning sensation spread across her palm, and had to stop herself from rubbing at her forehead, at the bony spiral that wasn’t really there. She reached instead for her glass, and drained it in one breath. The alcohol slid tasteless across her tongue, and Sunset shivered.

It wasn’t the carnage that scared her, it was the twisted excitement that was rising out of the revulsion in her gut. There was a part of her that still itched to give this magic a try.

Sunset set the file down, careful to show no more reaction to the contents. Her face stayed neutral, but she couldn’t stop her hands from shaking. Cold sweat crawled down her spine. “I don’t really know what you have here, but it seems a bit beyond ‘private.’ You could lose your job showing me… whatever this is.”

“Please, Sunny. You can drop the innocent act.”

“Act?” Her face was stone. She wanted to scream.

“Like hell. I’m the one standing around in the dark here. And I seem to be the only one.” The Chief leaned forward, looking Sunset directly in the eyes. “I know next to nothing about this Eleven guy, or how to stop whatever he’s doing. But I do know a few things. I know that you graduated from Canterlot goddamn High. The very same Canterlot High which has us, under Federal order, forwarding cases to the government if a student gets so much as a parking ticket. I know that on your graduation day we received a shortlist of names, ‘persons of interest’ to the Feds, and your name was at the top. And I know that you know a whole lot more than you admit.”

The Chief took a deep breath, trying to recover from the oil spill of words he had thrown Sunset’s way. Still shaken, Sunset was unable to respond before the Chief continued.

“I’m not the only one who knows about you either. First thing I did when this case crossed my desk was hand it up to the Feds. They told me to halt all investigations. Report any new developments, tell nobody. Had my first responders sign nondisclosure agreements. Body after body falls. I pass them up, they say the same thing. Keep investigating, keep quiet. Then, all of a sudden, they tell me to reopen investigations. And, most importantly, they tell me to find you. Find Sunset Shimmer, put her on the case.”

That pricked her interest, enough to derail her briefly from thinking about magic. Sunset had already known the government was keeping tabs on her. But seeking her help? That was a new one. “Why?”

“Do I look like I have an inside scoop on the Feds? I don’t know why. Someone up top must really like you, Sunny. Or really hate you.” The Chief leaned back in his chair. “So here we are. The Feds want you in on this, and personally I’d like to see this solved too. You say you know nothing, but your history says something very different.”

Sunset crinkled her nose. It was clear that Nails was going to be stubborn about this. But then, he didn’t know what she did. She clenched her teeth.

“Alright. It could be that I know a bit more about this case than you do. It could be that I know enough to convince me to stay far away. When I say I don’t do magic or possessions or weird shit, I mean it. I’ve spent a long time trying to get away from this crap.” She extended the file back towards Nails, but he didn’t move. “Maybe a few years ago I’d have done something about it. But not anymore. I’m sorry, Nails. Send it back to the Feds. Tell them I’m out.”

“No, Sunny. I ain’t gonna do that.” Sunset blinked. The Chief fixed her with a hard stare, leaning forward, and finished off his drink. “I’m not gonna say you owe me, that isn’t how we do business. But you gotta understand the situation. This isn’t just you and me here. It’s you, and me, and the Feds, and whatever sad sack this psycho takes out next. You’re a detective, Sunny. You aren’t mine, but you’re a detective. You have a duty to take this guy out, or at least to try. You don’t have to like it, but you have to do it. You’re taking the case.”

Sunset stood up, eyes hardening and starting to crackle with fire, sending her chair scampering backwards. Nails quickly backed down, his face softening into a nervous smile. Sweat marched across his forehead, and he once more leaned as far away as his chair allowed.

“Okay okay! Calm down. You don’t have to do anything. But these are people’s lives we’re talking about. Innocent lives.” Even as he retreated from her, his eyes stayed on her, steady. “Take it home Sunny. Sleep on it, at the very least.”

Sunset stopped, filling up with anger. Part of her knew that he was right. Lives were on the line, lives she made a living out of protecting. But he had no idea what kind of danger he’d stumbled into. Magic could do evil like nothing else.

Sunset tightened her grip on the file, and dropped her arm to her side. She hated making this choice. She hated the whole damn situation.

“Fine,” she said, teeth clenched. “Fine. I’ll sleep on it.” She turned on her heel. “Expect to see this thing back in your hands soon.” Sunset reached the door, and pulled it open. Without looking back, she spoke. “Thanks for the drink, Nails.” She closed the door softly.

Back in her car, Sunset tossed the folder on top of her whiskey bottles, and let out a low growl. She slammed her hands on her steering wheel. Why did it have to be magic? Why now? Right when she thought her life was normal, under control, it all fell apart. First Rarity crawled into her office, now magic. Honestly, Sunset would barely be surprised if Celestia Herself decided to pop in for a visit, the way this day was going. She shuddered. Bad thought.

Sunset sighed, sinking until her face rested on the steering wheel, her cheek melting into the cold plastic. The damage this guy had caused, the damage he could cause… This was bad. How was he doing it? How had he brought magic back? All that power… Sunset clenched her hand into a fist, and felt the familiar headache starting in the back of her skull, the tingling on her forehead. She really didn’t want to deal with this right now.

She sat up, shaking herself vigorously. Evil magic and ex-girlfriends could wait until morning. What she needed right now was a drink, and home. No more thinking, no more worrying, no more surprises. She’d had enough for one day.

Sunset started up her car, wiped a hand across her eyes, and headed home. She knew she was going to have nightmares tonight. But she also knew that with enough whiskey and denial she could escape the worst of them. And that was about as much as she could hope for.

**

Fashion Forward sat in the dark, his office lit only by his glowing computer screen. In that dim light, the journalist was quickly rolling a new cigarette, the paper sliding between his fingers with practiced ease. In just a few moments, he was lighting a match, and finally able to fill his lungs to capacity with the burning smoke. Letting out a sigh of contentment alongside a smoke cloud, he stared at his screen once more.

On it, a black, vertical line blinked on a white background, beneath the title Winter Trends that Sizzle. He curled his fingers outward, hovering over the keyboard for several moments. Then he pulled them away, leaned back in his chair, and continued to stare. After smoking in silence for a bit, his eyes brightened. Putting fingers to keyboard once more, he wrote: Sorry, things just aren’t working out. It’s not you, it’s me. Then he exited the writing program, and turned the computer off for good measure.

The room was plunged even further into darkness. He cast his eyes over the digital clock glowing green on the wall, the last light in the room. 10:13. A little early, but he was sick of waiting. His cellphone was already sitting on the desk, ready to be used. He dialed, and waited.

“This is Officer Just Dessert, Canterlot Police. Can I help you?”

“Hey, Dessi! It’s your old pal Fashion Forward.” Fashion put as much cheer into his voice as he could, but he could still hear the loud groan on the other end.

“Jesus Fashion. What do you want?”

“Can’t a guy just call up his friend, see how he’s doing?”

“If that guy was anyone but you. You always want something.”

“You wound me, Dessi. I’m hurt. Really.” He could almost hear Dessert’s eyes rolling. Fashion blew smoke out of his nose, and yawned. “Fine. I want your help with something.” He reached across his desk, yanking the chain on his lamp. The bulb sputtered to life, filling the room with a sudden yellow light.

“Of course you do. Well whatever it is, the answer is no. I nearly lost my job last time I helped you. That article made us all look bad.”

“Well, you did look bad. Those uniforms of yours were at least thirty years out of fashion. Think of it as helping me solve a crime.”

“Yeah? Against who?”

“Against anyone with the power of sight.” It had honestly been a public service. Sure, it had cost the CPD nearly 150,000 dollars to completely refit their officers. And sure, he had quoted Just Dessert in the article, claiming the old uniforms “made me and the other officers look and feel unprofessional, unintimidating, and fat.” And maybe that quote had gotten Dessert into a whole heap of trouble with his superiors behind closed doors. And maybe that quote hadn’t been Dessert’s exact words, or even his words at all. But now the police force looked damn good in their uniforms, a force to be reckoned with. Criminals, think twice. That was Fashion’s doing.

“Look Dessi. Can’t we just let bygones be bygones? One little favor, that’s all. I promise I’ll never ask you for anything again.”

There was a pause on the other end. “Never?”

“Never ever.”

A heavy sigh from Dessert. “I’m going to regret this, aren’t I?”

Fashion smiled broadly, and ground his cigarette into his ashtray. “Excellent. I’ve got a license plate number here. Give me everything you can.” He picked up his notebook, flipped to the back, and read the jumble of numbers and letters aloud, listening to the sound of clacking keys as Dessert plugged it into the database. While Fashion waited silently for the system to spit back the relevant information, he barely suppressed another yawn. What a night.

When he’d left Rich’s house, he was certain that his investigation had hit a dead end. She’d been completely uncooperative, her and the rest of the neighborhood, and it was starting to look like all the rumors had been just that. Rumor. But then, it happened. The crack he’d been looking for, the way in.

He was standing across the street, smoking the last of today’s cigarettes, feeling cold and upset, when that detective, Sunset Shimmer, stepped outside. She wasn’t a stranger to the papers herself, and the journalist remembered her face from the headlines a few years back. Not exactly the most expensive detective money could buy, but then Rich had always been cheap.

It wasn’t her that Fashion was interested in, however. It was what came after. She screeched out of the driveway, right in front of a black van coming from the city. The driver slammed his brakes and blared his horn at her, but she drove off without comment. The van sat idle for a moment, then pulled over to the side of the road.

The driver side door opened, revealing a bald, bearded man with a tall, muscular frame. He was wearing a surprisingly fashionable jacket and scarf combination, though it looked like it was a bit uncomfortable. The nights were getting colder and colder, certainly, but it wasn’t quite cold enough to be called winter yet. He must have been sweating like crazy.

The man opened the back doors of the van, and lifted out a largish box, wrapped in white and gold paper. He stepped around his vehicle and carried the package up to Rich’s front door.

Fashion didn’t know what was happening, not yet, but his “big article” senses were on fire, and he was going to figure it out. The van was completely unmarked, but it had to have plates. Fashion just couldn’t see them from this angle. So, as quickly as possible, he sprinted across the street, getting right up next to the van so he could scribble the sequence into his notebook. Then he had sprinted away, running until he was sure no one had followed him, wheezing and sweaty, but happy as hell. He had a story. Maybe.

Dessert’s voice broke the silence, and brought Fashion back to the present.

“Okay, I’m really, really not supposed to be doing this so I’m only gonna say it once.” The owner’s name, address, and place of work were scribbled into Fashion’s notebook, as well as the dealership the van had been bought from. “Got everything?”

“Yeah. Thanks a lot Dessi. You’re a real pal, you know that?”

“Whatever. Stay out of trouble. And if you get into trouble, we never spoke.”

“Sure thing.” Fashion put his phone back onto the table, and closed his eyes, a broad smile spreading across his face. He couldn’t believe his luck. The van, the plates, now a name and an address. He was well on his way to cracking this, whatever this was. And when he did, Fashion Forward was sure he’d be back in the headlines. Back where he belonged.

Author's Note:

Wow. That took a while. Chapter Two, longer, later, and cringy-er than ever. This stuff is still pretty rough you guys, so I appreciate every comment, correction, suggestion, etc. Thanks for reading.
Sidebar: College is officially over for the summer, so I should, hopefully, be able to update much more quickly.

Comments

[livinthelife]

Well this looks like it's turning into a nice little noir thriller. Excited to see where you take it.