Lightning Bug

by QQwrites

Four

The morning started with a pounding which, for once, wasn’t coming from my head. The sun was barely breaking the horizon and I fumbled in the dark, knocking my files and clothes to the floor.

The last time a mook banged on my hotel door, I got knocked around for my trouble. I braced for a similar encounter, opening the door slowly.

Velvet Melody stood in the hall. She had come in a hurry, with only a scarf and a hair tie, still looking like a million bits. “Quill!” she exclaimed just above a whisper. “It’s happened again!”

I grabbed my hat and rushed with her down to the street where a fast taxi was waiting. The driver started his run as we got in, making it necessary for me to untangle myself from Velvet and an unexpectedly compromising position. I took the seat across from her, as far away as I could get.

“I’m here. Start talking.” I needed coffee.

“There was another explosion this morning.” She was looking out the carriage window at the shops and houses as they whizzed by. I was watching her closely: her face was taunt and maybe there were bags under her eyes; a couple of long nights without sleep or answers.

“You never answered my question,” I started, my voice as neutral as I could make it. “What were you doing in the North Wing that first night?”

Her eyes slid to look at me, her lips thinned into a hard line. There was enough stink in her eye to make me wish I was in Squeaky's living room. She held my gaze a moment longer before her eyes tracked away, back to the window. She didn’t say a word. I watched her all the same.

The carriage arrived a few minutes later, the driver nearly crashing into a fire brigade tank. Crews were furiously pumping water while others smothered the smaller lawn fires which threatened the neighboring structures.

The entire building was in flames: from top to bottom, CIM was a torch burning brightly in the night.

Velvet and I stood there in silence, absorbing the heat and shouts and the occasional spray of water. The smoke was acrid, even upwind as we were. The fire crews were fighting a losing battle: they pulled back just as the flames hit the West Wing's supply store, which erupted in brilliant colors: columns of bright blues, yellows, pinks, and greens shot into the sky, as if they were festival fireworks which screamed like banshees and popped like balloons.

It took another day for the fire crews to stop the conflagration. Teams from the neighboring districts responded and the Weather Service brought rainclouds to douse the neighborhood, for fear embers would take hold. By the time the tanks and crews were spent, six townhomes, three shops, and the entire CIM complex were destroyed. No serious injuries were reported.

The fire chief, originally quick to label the first incident an accident, was now calling it an arson: a word unfamiliar to many, a concept equally alien. “Who would burn somepony else’s property?” they asked incredulously. This was the work of monsters or mayhem; rumors of rogue dragons, changelings, and all manner of evil creatures occupied the lips of townies, socialites, and bar patrons.

None of it made sense: who would want to burn down a school for meteorologists? I wrestled with the question all while running up a respectable hotel bill. The Director was pressing me for answers and I had none. Just a bunch of photos and formulas and mayo and a picture of a guy I couldn’t find.

Late that evening I was hard up for answers and decided to take a cab down to the EWS Canterlot field office. Nopony worth talking to would be there: just the night shift, running patrols for unscheduled weather passing through town.

I was hoping the familiar surroundings of a weather office would put my mind to ease. I needed the mundane feeling of forms and staplers and rubber stamps. Even the idle chatter, which I usually avoided, would be a comfort.

The building was dark, with a few lights shining from the third floor, where the observation office would be. The security guard at the front door let me in with a flash if my credential card and sat down again at the reception desk. He smelled of sauerkraut and I caught sight of an impressive sandwich as I moved past the desk for the stairs. I paused at the first step and turned to the guard:

“Who’s working tonight?”

“How should I know?” came a surly reply. “Whoever’s on the roster, me, and the new janitor.” He inhaled his sandwich while I held my breath.

“New janitor?” My heart couldn’t decide if it should stop or run like a freight train out of control.

“Yeah, just started tonight.”

“This janitor got a name?”

“Probably,” he said, barely containing his annoyance.

“Does he look like this guy?” I stepped over and showed him the picture I had of Squeaky Clean.

“Hrm, could be. I don’t see too good and my memory, you know, ain’t—” I cut him off.

“Find him,” I told the guard. He started to protest. I grabbed him by the collar and hosted him out of the chair: “Find him or it’s your job!” I thought I caught my reflection in his eyes, like a grey morning fog tainted with fire.

Suddenly energized, he said he’d check the first floor. I ran up the stairs to the second.

The second floor was mostly offices and records, which meant a maze of wood and tile coordinators. I poked my head in any unlocked door, flipped lights on and off, and kept my head and ears on a swivel as I rushed through the building. I wasn’t playing for subtlety: I needed to find this geezer before—

Before what? Could he really be responsible for the fires? No, I wasn’t convinced. Velvet knew something and I couldn’t shake the idea that she was too smart for my own good. Squeaky was the only other one we knew was in CIM that first night; the only one who might know what happened.

I came fast around a corner. At the end of the hall was a shape in the darkness. It took a moment for my eyes to adjust: a yellow trolley with a garbage can and a bunch of brooms. I stepped softly, trying to keep the sound of my shoes as quiet as possible.

A movement, a sound—I slid into an office whose door was still open. There were photos on the wall and a gold plaque: a ten-year service award and a picture with Director Maelstrom shaking somepony's hoof. The camera caught them in profile and I felt a strong desire to cut loose and run home, to the indifferent safety of Maelstrom’s company.

More sounds: hooves on tile, the trolley being pushed away. I poked my head out of the office. Old stallion: couldn’t tell much else with the lights so low. I was going to tail him for a bit when he pulled out a bright bottle of something blue. I thought lightning and rushed him.

He didn’t have much chance to act: I knocked him to the ground and grabbed him from behind, pushing my forehooves under his and locking my hooves against the back of his neck.

“Are you Squeaky Clean?” I shouted as he struggled. He stammered unintelligibly. I repeated the question again, louder while applying more pressure.

“I’m cleaning as best I can, Sir!” he replied. It took me a second to figure the response.

“Is your name Squeaky Clean?” I asked, this time taking the pressure off. He’d gone limp and wasn’t making an effort to run.

“No, no I’m Bristle! I just started!” I let him go and helped him up. Seeing him up close, he wasn’t my guy.

“What’s in the bottle?” I asked as he dragged it off the floor.

“This?” he cautiously placed the cleaner in front of me. “It’s just the floor cleaner they gave me.”

On the bottle was a label:

Linoleum Grime Neutralizer, Grade 16

For the cleanest floors.

LN-16

Comments

[KeePony]

It's a catalyst. It turns safe lightning bottles into dangerous ones. Now is by accident or on purpose.