Case Nine, Chapter Four: A Short Respite
The air whistled past his ears; his limbs flailed on their own power, desperately scrambling to grab something, anything, to slow his descent. He screamed, panic sending his voice rising as fast he was falling. He could see the tops of the trees racing up to meet him; a quick mental calculation gave him less than four seconds before he hit the ground.
An oak tree branch reached out to him. He snatched at it; the thin branch bent beneath his weight and he stopped for a heartbeat. The sudden halt in momentum wrenched at his left shoulder and he cried out, but despite the pain that radiated up his foreleg, he refused to let go of the branch.
But a moment later, the branch snapped and gravity seized him again. A cry tore itself out of his throat, and he turned to see the ground fifty feet below.
I’m dead. I’m sorry, Daring. He closed his eyes and prepared for the crash, briefly wondering if he would live long enough to feel it.
But then, he felt like a warm blanket had wrapped itself around his body, the static electricity making his coat stand on end, and his falling slowed down. He opened his eyes to see that a golden aura was surrounding his body, leaving him hanging upside-down a few feet off the ground.
Below him, Trace was crouching behind the wreckage of the car, his horn alight. His face was creased with effort, sweat trickling down his brow.
“I’ve got you!” he grunted, gasping with effort.
A whiff of rum brushed across Phillip’s nose. He turned to see that one of the pirate griffons, a husky, sweating brown griffon, was emerging from behind a tree. The barrel of the assault rifle was swinging around to bear. The other pirate was slumped against a trunk, one bronze claw clutching his gut as blood trickled between his talons.
Phillip’s left hoof flew to the pocket in his vest and drew his boomerang. The faint tingle of magic that flew between the wood and his hoof was so familiar he barely noticed it, but he knew even before he drew his foreleg back that the weapon would go where he commanded it. With a snap of his wrist, he flung the boomerang out.
True to his command, the weapon spun through the air with a high-pitched whistle. The griffon turned to track the object but was too slow to react: the wood smacked into his forearm with a satisfying crack that sounded of broken bones. The rifle fell from his claws and he bent over, clutching his forearm and screaming in pain.
At that moment, Trace grunted in pain and his horn doused itself with a harsh snap. The aura holding Phillip up disappeared and he fell headfirst towards the ground.
No big deal. Eight feet is better than a hundred. Stretching out his forelegs, he landed on his hooves, allowing his limbs to bend beneath his momentum as he tucked into a forwards roll. The impact shuddered through his bones and down his injured shoulder and back, but he gritted his teeth against it. A whistle sounded in his ear and he reached up just in time to catch the boomerang as it returned.
A screech resounded from above. Even before he looked up, Phillip was diving to one side, reaching for the pocket that held the smoke bombs. He caught the glowing yellow eyes aimed at him like spotlights, Whitestone diving down like a torpedo from the skies, claws extended.
He also saw the glimmer of his dropped revolver on the ground mere feet from him. His left hoof closed around the small sphere of tinfoil, and he chucked it upwards. The smoke bomb struck Whitestone in the eye and immediately detonated, created a thick cloud of foul-smelling smoke. Whitestone shrieked in pain and fury, spreading out her wings to halt her momentum.
“Trace, cover!” Phillip barked at the detective as he dived for the revolver. Trace shook his head, squinting, and fired his pistol at the other griffons. Both of them crouched behind the cover of trees, even though most of Trace’s shots went wild.
Phillip hit the ground and rolled. His hoof closed around the gun’s grip and he rolled onto his back, aiming upwards at the griffon. Whitestone was already wiping her face, eyes refocusing on him.
The iron sights settled over her snowy white chest. Shoot shoot shoot!
He fired, slapping the trigger hard. The gun kicked in his hooves as though enraged at the harsh touch.
Whitestone screamed and jerked in midair, wings fluttering in panic. A red liquid rained down upon Phillip as he fired again, the movement propelled by fury rather than calm precision.
The griffon captain spun in midair and banked away. Grunting, Phillip pushed himself back up to his hooves, continuing to fire, every shot missing.
Whitestone snatched up the griffon that Trace had wounded, heaving him onto her back and beating a retreat. “Covering fire!” she shrieked at the other griffon, blood bubbling from her beak.
The one with the broken forearm grabbed the assault rifle in his other limb and held the trigger down as he flew backward, retreating. Bullets zipped and sang as they flew past Phillip and Trace, who both crouched down behind the wrecked car. When the volley finally ended, both of them looked up to see the flying figures disappearing into the distance.
The empty revolver, smoke rising from the snub-nosed barrel, tumbled from Phillip’s grasp as he leaned against the car, panting. As adrenaline left him, exhaustion seeped deep into his bones; his heart pounded frantically against his heaving chest, and the shoulder that he’d nearly dislocated started screaming every time he moved it.
“You okay?” Trace asked, rubbing his head.
“Aces,” Phillip muttered. “Thanks for the save.”
“Yeah, what’re friends for?” Trace managed to grin. His smile very quickly turned into a grimace and he clutched his temple. “Motherfuck, my head! You gotta lose some weight, I burnt myself out lifting you up.”
Phillip picked up his sidearm and opened up the chamber, commanding his hooves to stop shaking. “We should go,” he said as he plucked a speedloader from an inside pocket and used it to reload. “We just scared them off; they’ll be back if we hang around.”
“Agreed,” Trace nodded, snapping a new clip into his sidearm. “I need to see a doctor anyway.”
The two of them trotted quickly back up the disused pathway, Phillip gritting his teeth with every step of his left foreleg that sent fresh fire and ice up into his shoulder, Trace groaning and clutching his head every few steps. When they reached the Commander, both of them climbed in and locked the doors as soon as they were shut. Trace fumbled for the key and turned it in the ignition. “C’mon, Sweetpea, let’s get outta here,” he muttered as the car roared to life.
“You sure you’re good to drive?” Phillip asked, noticing Trace wincing out of the corner of his eye.
“I’m okay,” Trace grunted, steering the car down the road. Phillip went back to staring out the window, watching the skies and the shaded trees for any sign of a griffon’s wings or a gun barrel.
Neither stallion breathed easy until the Whitetail Woods was behind them and they were back on the public, well-traveled highway that provided the main route in and out of the Financial District. Trace started heading eastward. “Ponyville General isn’t too far.”
The radio abruptly crackled to life. “Bishop Nine, Dispatch. Come in, Bishop Nine.”
Trace lit up his horn to try to grab the radio, then grunted in pain and immediately doused it, taking the microphone in his hoof instead. “Bishop Nine, go ahead.”
“Be advised, Red and Daring are both in hospital,” the dispatcher reported.
Phillip felt his heart drop into his stomach. “What?” he cried, head whipping around.
“What happened?” Trace asked, eyes wide.
“Both were ambushed by griffons,” the dispatcher continued. “Daring is wounded; Red is in surgery for a bullet wound.”
Both stallions barely heard the last words. Trace was already replacing the microphone, one hoof pressing the accelerator into the floor as he weaved through traffic.
Red was laying on the surgery table, surrounded by doctors in their sterile coats. A tube was jammed down his throat, allowing him to breathe. His eyes were closed, flickering occasionally in his anesthetic-induced sleep.
Trace watched through the observation window in silence. He could faintly hear the murmur of the doctors and the steady beeping of an EKG through the thick glass. “Is he gonna be okay?” he asked, clutching an ice pack to his forehead.
“He’s stable, but they’re still trying to repair the damage,” the doctor next to him explained patiently. “That bullet went all the way through him, there’s a lot to repair.” He turned to the unicorn and frowned. “Sir, I told you to stop messing with the restraint ring.”
Trace glared at the black metal ring that encircled the base of his horn. “It feels like my horn’s been lopped off,” he grunted.
“The strain of the magic you used was too much for you,” the doctor explained again. “That ring is for your own safety; if you try to use any magic before your horn has time to repair itself, you could make yourself worse. You have to keep it on for at least two days.”
Trace growled. “Just get my partner back on his hooves,” he grunted.
“We’re doing our best,” the doctor assured him, giving him a pat on the shoulder before walking away.
Trace pressed a hoof against the window. Red’s eyes flickered; the machine that breathed for him continued its slow rhythm of hisses, backed up by the beeping. The doctors continued their work calmly.
“Hang in there, buddy,” he whispered, slowly lowering his hoof. He turned and walked out the door of the observation room, then down the hallway, staring at the white tile floor that was far too shiny and clean beneath his hooves.
He made it into a small waiting area, which was little more than four rows of chairs and some tables with magazines in front of a wall of large windows that overlooked the city. Trace sat down at one of the windows and stared downwards, watching cars passing by on the roads below. Tree branches twitched and shivered outside, so close that he could reach out and touch them if he could open the window; the budding leaves flickered faintly in the wind. As he watched, an acorn fell from the closest branch.
"Detective?" a quavering voice asked. Trace turned to see Officer Esme, the jenny who'd accompanied Daring, walking up to him, head down. A recent graduate, not exemplary in her class, but she was smart, followed orders, and knew how to make ponies smile. She paused in front of him and gulped.
"I...Jade..."
Trace closed his eyes and exhaled slowly. Esme's partner Jade River had graduated two years ago near the top of his class. A little shy, slow to accept praise and quick to accept correction. Bright. A good kid.
He'd found many good kids faceup on the sidewalk before.
"I'm sorry, Esme," Trace offered, the only thing he could.
Esme sniffled, swallowed, then reached up for the badge on her uniform. With a slow, careful movement, she unpinned the badge from her breast and handed it to Trace. Not once did she look up. "I'm sorry, sir," she muttered, voice flat with exhaustion.
Trace nodded and slowly took the badge. "I understand," he said, trying to force comprehension and sympathy into his voice, past the fatigue. "You're a good kid, Esme. You'll find something better for you."
Esme nodded, still unable to meet his gaze, then turned and walked away, head lowered with defeat. Trace stared at her shield in his hoof, trying to think of what to tell Jade's family.
A sudden shouting caught his attention, one hoof going for the holster beneath his coat as his head turned up the opposite hallway, towards the source.
“I said I’m fine!” a female voice protested.
“For the fifteenth time, you need to rest,” a male voice replied, every syllable strained by the failing support of limited patience.
Trace rolled his eyes. “Well, I wonder who that could be,” he muttered to himself, hauling himself back up onto his hooves. He trotted down the hall and entered the room from which the argument was emerging.
Phillip, his left foreleg wrapped in a sling and cast and an ice pack strapped to his shoulder, was currently trying to keep Daring Do in the bed.
“I am not just gonna lie here on my ass and wait!” Daring shouted, trying to get up again and failing, both because Phillip was firmly pushing her down and because she winced and clutched her side, which was heavily wrapped in bandages. He could see a light orange salve on her skin around the edges of the bandages. Her foreleg was also linked via an IV drip to a blood bag hanging from a stand next to the bed.
“You’re not just gonna lie on your ass,” Phillip said coolly. “You’re gonna stay here and rest and heal up while those potions repair the cut and then get back to work.”
“You okay?” Trace asked.
“I’m fine,” Daring growled through gritted teeth, then winced and clutched her side again. “Be better once the pain medicine kicks in.”
“Bollocks. You’ve got a slice down your entire body that’s healing, you’re not fine,” Phillip stated.
“What happened?” Trace asked. “Dispatch said you were ambushed.”
“Yeah,” Daring grunted, reluctantly climbing back onto the mattress. “By Roaring and another idiot who got himself shot.” She paused for a beat, her lip thinning. "He shot that kid," she muttered to herself, blinking slowly once.
Trace’s eyes widened. “Roaring?” he asked. “As in, a black griffon with a green headband and three swords? As in Whitestone’s first mate?”
“Yeah,” Daring nodded, shaking off the grief for the moment.
“And you fought him?” Trace continued. “You fought Roaring and lived?”
“I’d be shocked, too,” Daring nodded. “He’s got the Swords of Asocrac.”
“The what now?” Trace asked.
“Three mystical swords from the seventeenth century,” Daring explained. “I remember reading about them in a book on griffon history. Asocrac, also known as the Golden King, once made an alliance with a warlock. He had the warlock forge three swords, one each for him and his two sons. The swords took three weeks to forge; the warlock needed another month to finish his spell.”
She shifted on the mattress. “When he was done, he presented the swords to the King. He explained that the swords were enchanted so that the more blood they absorbed, the stronger and sharper they would become.”
“So how’d a pirate get his claws on them?” Trace asked.
“Asocrac was so pleased with the gift that he ordered the warlock to be executed so that no one could make a stronger weapon,” Daring continued the story. “With the warlock’s last breaths before he was beheaded, he hurled a death curse at the Golden King and his sons Ilah and Rutsah, declaring that each of them would die by the swords he’d made for them. Sure enough, Ilah and Rutsah teamed up to take the throne for themselves and killed their father. The kingdom had barely buried Asocrac when the princes killed each other in a duel. The swords were lost, passed down from claw to claw.”
She let out a breath. “Of course, I thought it was just a legend. And then I saw the twin black suns on the blades, and he cut that fucking crowbar in half like a breadstick.”
Phillip’s eyebrows widened. “You’re pulling our legs.”
“No bullshit,” Daring said. “Those swords have got over three hundred years of blood absorbed into them.”
“Fair suck of the sav,” Phillip breathed, sitting down and mopping his forehead.
“I have no idea what the fuck you just said, but I’m with you there,” Trace nodded.
“Trace!” a male voice called, accompanied by running hoofsteps. A dark gray unicorn with oily black hair and the cutie mark of a crossed wrench and tire iron sprinted into the room, his glasses nearly tumbling from his face. “You okay?” he asked, pushing his glasses back up his nose.
“I’m fine, Lug,” Trace said, managing a small smile even as he continued clutching the ice pack to his head.
“What about Red?” Lug Wrench asked.
“He…” Trace blinked and swallowed. “He’s gonna be okay.”
Lug Wrench nodded. “Okay. Okay.” He looked at Phil and Daring. “And, uh, what about you two?”
“I’ll be fine if I can get out of here,” Daring said, trying to get up again.
“You are staying in that bed if I have to sit on you,” Phillip stated firmly, pushing her back down. Daring glared daggers at him but obeyed.
“There is something you can do for us, Lug,” Trace said. “We took photographs of some tire tracks at two scenes. You think you can try to figure out what models they are?”
Lug Wrench visibly brightened, his brown eyes shining slightly. “Yeah, yeah, I can do that!”
Trace reached into his coat and handed him the photographs from the Whitetail Woods and from the garage cache. Lug Wrench walked over to the table and sat down. “Anypony got a magnifying glass?”
“Here,” Phillip said, extracting a magnifying glass from his pocket with some difficulty and handing it to Lug Wrench. The unicorn bent over the photographs, murmuring to himself.
“Okay, the one in the woods is a heavier SUV,” he reported. “The wide base, heavy weight on the dirt, height of that paint scratch, and biggest of all, the uneven way it passes over the edge of the road. With those measurements, I’d bet anything that it’s a Global C series van.”
“How sure are you?” Phillip asked.
“Stake my shop on it,” Lug Wrench nodded, his back straightening with confidence. “I’ve been around cars since I was old enough to carry pop’s wrench. I can recognize any tire tracks.”
“I trust him,” Trace said. “I’ve consulted with Lug on cases before. He’s never been wrong.”
“Works for me,” Daring shrugged. Phillip nodded.
“Now, this one,” Lug Wrench said, looking at the tire tracks from the garage. “Hmm. Based on the wheelbase, the turning diameter, and most importantly, the harsh acceleration on that turn based on the way the tires dug into the asphalt like that...Chevroneigh Sedan.”
“Good,” Daring nodded. “Now we can start working on finding Sparks.”
Trace blinked at her. “Do you have any idea how many dark green Chevroneigh Sedans are on the streets?”
“Well, there were about one hundred and thirty Sedans sold in the last year alone,” Lug Wrench chimed in. “If we're talking about all the ones out there now—”
“Do me a favor,” Daring interrupted. “Find a dictionary and look up ‘rhetorical.’”
“It’s somewhere to start,” Phillip stated. “We can get Detective Rubber to help out with that, get Cold to put out an announce—” He glared at Daring, who was trying to get out of bed. “The more time I waste making sure you stay here is less time I can work on this.”
Daring gave him a glare that could’ve killed a pony but settled back onto the mattress. “As soon as I can move without it hurting, I’m out of here,” she grumbled.
Phillip kissed her on the forehead, even though she didn’t react. “Doc said you’ll be apples tomorrow morning. You can get back on the case then.”
“Whatever,” Daring grumbled, rolling over onto her side and pulling the blankets over her head.
Phillip sighed and nodded to Lug. “Thanks. We should get back to the precinct.”
“I...I’d rather stay here and wait until I hear about Red,” Trace muttered. “I’ll call Rubber and have him start working.”
“I can stay with you,” Lug offered. “We can talk about those new rims I’ve gotten for you.”
Trace managed a weak smile. “Sounds good.”
“Right. I’ve got some other work to do.” He laid a hoof on Daring’s shoulder beneath the covers. “See you in the morning,” he whispered. Daring just growled at him.
Phillip, Lug, and Trace exited the room. With a final nod, Phillip started to walk off towards the stairs towards the exit.
Right, what now? he pondered as he carefully descended the stairs, trying not to jostle his injured foreleg. I could speak to Rubber, but Trace said he’d cover that...check in with Suunkii? Maybe—
Suunkii’s voice suddenly echoed in his ears: “The boy looks up to you.” He paused on the landing, leaning against the wall and silently thinking for a long time.
“Ahh,” he finally grunted. “He’s right.” He descended to the bottom of the stairs and exited through the front doors. It was just at the point where afternoon was starting to blend into evening; the sun was starting to kiss the western horizon, the air felt cooler, and the activity around seemed to be taking a more sluggish pace, as though the city itself was preparing for the day to end.
He hailed a cab and gave the griffon cabbie Joyful Sound’s address.
Back upstairs in her room, Daring threw the covers off her head and huffed angrily. “Stupid doctors,” she muttered beneath her breath. “Ow!” she added a moment later as a flash of pain ran down her torso, her muscles protesting at the sudden movements.
She sighed and looked down at the bandages. The memory of the sword cleaving the crowbar in half, the shudder of the impact running down her forelegs, then the horrible cold flash of pain and the scent of her own blood as the blade cut into her flesh.
He nearly killed you.
She shook the thought off with a small shudder. Part of the job. He wasn’t the only one who managed to get close to you.
She glanced at her saddlebag, which was laying in the chair next to her. A spark flew through her mind. The letter! I forgot all about it.
She sat up with some difficulty and reached into the bag, extracting the plastic bag with the scraps of paper from Sledgehammer’s cell. With a few winces and being careful not to knock the stand over, she walked over to a table and placed the puzzle pieces before her.
“At least I’ve got something to do now,” she muttered, setting to work.
It took her a little more than an hour, but she managed to assemble the letter, only to find herself staring at a new puzzle. The letter itself was hoofwritten but appeared to be completely innocent.
Dear Sledgehammer,
Today was a hard day. They had to tow
Old Whinny’s car. You know how much he loved that
hoary old thing! He kicked up quite a fuss, but I
racked my brains and managed to get
your old friend out of a jam. He’s
irked, of course, but sometimes life plays trix
like that! Anyway, I
loved that letter you sent me last week! A
correspondence from you is always
terrific! I really hope your
eating enough in there: I hear the food is terrible!
Tomorrow is another day. Keep your chin up, things will get better soon!
Your Loving Aunt
Daring stared at the letter for several seconds, rubbing her forehead in a futile attempt to alleviate the headache that had been building up for the past few hours. Sledgehammer wouldn’t have ripped the letter up if it wasn’t important...but what did this mean?
“Ugh,” she muttered, rubbing both her temples with her hooves. “Stupid headache.”
It was at this point that she suddenly realized how tired she was; her eyelids were growing heavier by the second and her limbs felt like she had lead weights tied to them. “Stupid blood loss. Stupid pain medicine,” she mumbled, her words slurring slightly. She glared at the blood bag hanging from the IV stand next to the bed.
One other thing before sleep claimed her. She leaned over and groped for the telephone next to the bed, grasping it and holding it up to her ear. Shaking off the growing cobwebs in her brain, she dialed in the number for the operator.
“Operator, I need Rainbow Dash,” she said into the hoofset. “Bell River one-one-one-two-one-zero.”
“Connecting you now,” the operator replied, followed by a series of clicks. The phone rang four times, then another voice spoke.
“You got the Dash, what’s up?”
“Kid, I need your help.”
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Yep, knew it. Philip was going to survive. Cliffhangers leaving you wondering the protagonist's fate? They simply don't work anymore for this exact reason. You know what's going to happen.
So there's the Daring we know, history and artifact nut extraordinaire. ...Well, so this is what you call a breather chapter? Seems awfully tense to me.
Swords that gain more power with more blood!? That doesn't sound overpowered at all!
What's next?
A shotgun that gains more power by killing more people?
Or a cow that becomes more powerful with the more people who drinks its milk!?
Or a sandwich that's just a sandwich!?
files.gamebanana.com/img/ico/sprays/530-90_5155729c184b9.jpg 9513816
"Sandvich where?"
So, it seems that the gangs' resources aren't infinite. Whitestone was forced to take to the field in person, and seems to have got a punctured lung for her trouble.
Well, a first mate with a green headband and three swords is usually bad news.
I forgot about the One Piece reference, and damn Daring and Red got fucked.
9514464
You vant sandvich I giff you sandvich