Case Twenty, Chapter Three: On the Scent
“This is art?” Cold Case frowned, chewing on the stem of her unlit pipe as she stared at Not to Be Remade mounted on the easel in the forensic laboratory. The painting proved to be smaller than anticipated, a mere two feet wide and two and a half feet tall.
“I don’t get it,” Daring said, frowning at the dual images of the back of the stallion’s head staring at her as if mocking her for not understanding their secrets.
Beacon Fire puffed. “Never was into visual art,” she admitted. “Unless they’re pics of you,” she added, grinning at Cold.
“Not now, Beacon,” Cold replied, her face remaining impassive despite the faint pink tinge seeping into her cheeks. “What do you plan on doing, Phil?”
“The last time we encountered an Artiste Fou painting, there was a message in it, and ponies nearly died because of it,” Phillip replied from the table that he and Doctor Suunkii were bending over.
“Including you,” Doctor Suunkii pointed out.
“Didn’t need a reminder,” Phillip said.
“When was this?” Strider asked, leaning against one of the counters.
“Tell you later,” Phillip replied. “Deco Line accidentally found it using liquid rainbow in cumulus water under a lamp. Might be the same thing here.”
“I am reluctant to experiment so callously on an ancient piece of art,” Suunkii frowned at the leathery canvas.
“And tampering with it might give away that we’re onto them,” Cold replied.
“We’ll just touch up a corner, see if there’s any reaction,” Phillip said, taking up a small vial of liquid rainbow, the multi-colored liquid swirling within the tube. He added it to the jar of water tinged with a cloudy gray-white, then swirled it with a metal stir stick until the liquid became a light purple.
He took up a paintbrush and swirled it into the vial, then gently stroked the bottom right corner of the painting, over the marbled mantelpiece. “General, please give it a little heat there,” he requested.
Beacon Fire looked at Cold Case, who sighed and rolled her eyes with a reluctant shrug. “Okay then,” Beacon said, lighting up her horn and casting a gentle heat spell on the canvas. Warm air breathed onto the painting; the liquid slowly began to dry, seeping into it.
There was no reaction. No hidden words appeared; the mantelpiece stubbornly maintained its dull gray coloring.
“Damn,” Phillip grunted.
“It doesn’t matter,” Cold grunted. “What matters is that we are prepared for this drop-off. The good news is, we have almost twelve hours to get ready. This may be our best chance to finally capture the Plague Doctor. I need all of us at the top of our game, and every angle covered. Beacon and Strider, I’ll need your help setting up positions. Phillip and Daring, take the painting to Twilight.”
“Where is she?” Daring asked, looking around the lab.
“Twilight Sparkle is at home,” Doctor Suunkii reported. “She had to take a personal day.”
“Well, her leave’s just been canceled,” Cold replied. “Get her back here.”
“Ripper,” Phillip nodded, gently rolling the painting back into the carrier tube and swinging it over his shoulder. “C’mon, Daring.”
“That’s odd,” Phillip commented as they landed in front of Ten-ten Golden Oak Street.
“What?” Daring asked, but spotted the anomaly a moment later. Despite the inches-deep dusting of snow over the humble abode, all of the windows were open.
A moment later, the detectives’ snouts scrunched up as a vicious odor assailed their nostrils. “Ah, crikey! What is that?” Phillip cried, cringing.
“Smells like she’s experimenting with rotting eggs and a dead skunk,” Daring grimaced, using her wing to plug her nose.
As they approached, the door opened and an orange dragoness with purple fins stepped outside with a gasp, removing a clothespin from her nostrils.
“Smolder?” Phillip asked.
“I would not go in there if I were you,” Smolder told them, coughing. “Spike’s molting.”
“He’s what?” Daring asked nasally.
“Molting,” Smolder repeated. “It’s what happens to all dragons when they start to grow up; Twilight called me in to see if I could help out.” She let out a sardonic chuckle. “He’s lucky he’s in a city and not in the Dragonlands. That smell normally attracts predators.”
Daring blinked. “There are things that eat dragons?”
“Need to speak to Twilight,” Phillip interrupted.
“She’s in there,” Smolder replied, jerking a thumb into the house. “Losing her mind over some doctor’s toxin or something. I need some air and to see if I can grab some soap or something. See ya around.”
The dragoness spread her wings and took off, leaving the two ponies standing on the porch.
“This should be fun,” Daring muttered as they pushed open the door.
The miasma increased as they proceeded down the hallway, causing every other breath to come out as a cough. The scents of several types of shampoos, cleaners, and perfumes battled with the vicious odor, which refused to be smothered.
“Bugger me,” Phillip coughed, pulling out a hoofkerchief and tying it over his mouth and nose.
They entered the sitting room to find Twilight sitting amidst a circle of notepads crammed with scrawled hoofwriting and several open books on neurotoxins and biochemistry. Twilight had her nose stuffed in another book, this one titled “Dragon Lifespans;” there were dark bags beneath her wide eyes, she wore a filtered face mask over her mouth and nose, and her mane was a tangled, spiky mess. A pot of coffee was on the table next to her, but Daring could smell another one in the kitchen underneath the malodorous atmosphere.
Sitting in the corner applying a cream to his scales was the source of the scent. Spike had several red marks and boils all over his body; he hissed as he applied the cream to a particularly large mark on his cheek.
“You okay, mate?” Phillip asked as they entered.
Twilight screamed, leaping so high that her horn nearly scraped the ceiling and sending the book flying across the room. “Phil, Daring!” she cried once she landed, recovering her breath; her voice came out muffled through the half-mask. “What are you doing here?”
“You wouldn’t happen to have any more lotion, would you?” Spike cringed, his voice coming out hoarse and scratchy as he scratched at his welts. “This molting is driving me nuts!”
“Spike, stop scratching, you’ll just make it worse!” Twilight chided.
“I can’t help it!” Spike protested, his voice rising to a loud cry. “Nothing’s working!”
Twilight sighed and ran her hooves through her mane, sucking in air through her filters as her eyes bulged. “I can do this,” she said, her voice taking on a high-pitched quivering. “I can do this. It’s just a molting dragon on top of a terrorist with a bioweapon running loose through the city stealing ancient weapons! It’s nothing I can’t handle! It’s not--”
Her sentence was cut off by a yelp as Daring dumped a nearby pitcher of water on her head. Twilight sputtered and turned to glare at her.
“Have you always been this neurotic?” Daring asked with a raised eyebrow.
“Yes,” Spike deadpanned.
“I am not neurotic!” Twilight snapped.
“Right,” Daring muttered.
“Twilight, you need to take a break,” Phillip said, closing several of the books surrounding her.
“No! You’ll make me lose my place!” Twilight protested, her horn flickering as she telekinetically shoved him away. “I was just--”
“Twilight,” Phillip cut her off, placing a hoof on her shoulder. “You’re a mess. You look like and smell you haven’t slept, showered, or eaten a proper meal in days. You can’t help anypony if you’re not taking care of yourself. Let alone Spike.”
Twilight blinked heavily, swaying on her hooves. “But...but the Doctor’s...toxin…”
“Twilight,” Phillip said. “I know you just want to help, but this is out of your depth. You have other things more important to keep up with. Like your family.”
Twilight looked at Spike, who was still scratching at his boils, then closed her eyes and nodded. “You’re right,” she admitted, neatly gathering up her notes and books and placing them in a pile.
“I’m sorry, Spike,” Twilight said, taking off her mask and pulling the little dragon into a gentle embrace. “I haven’t been paying enough attention to you.”
“It’s okay, Twilight,” Spike replied. “But maybe hugging me right now isn’t a great idea?”
Twilight sniffed, then grimaced and held Spike out at arm’s length. “Maybe you’re right,” she admitted.
“Yes, yes, happy families all around,” Daring replied. “Think you can put a tracking spell on this for us?”
Twilight gulped down some coffee and shook her head to wake herself up. “I can. What is it?”
Phillip opened up the carrying tube and extracted the painting, unrolling it for her to examine.
“That’s art?” Spike asked, tilting his head to one side as he studied the bizarre picture.
“‘Not to Be Remade’ by Artiste Fou,” Twilight commented. “Stolen from a casino in Las Pegasus. How’d it end up here?”
Phillip gave her a brief synopsis of how the painting had been stolen by Winged Key and brought to the Mareish Mob, of Coin Toss’ story and how they’d convinced him to give the painting to them.
“Why would they steal that painting from these guys?” Spike pondered, scratching his back and stomach. “Coin Toss isn’t stupid, is he?”
“No. I think he was trying to make a deal with this Caballeron,” Twilight frowned.
“Guessing he got in a bit over his head again,” Daring muttered.
“I can put a tracking spell on it, no problem,” Twilight nodded, lighting up her horn. “Spike, please bring me a compass from the basement.”
“Can do,” Spike replied with a tight grin, grimacing as he rose.
“No, I can do it,” Phillip replied.
“Thanks,” Spike sighed, sitting back down in relief. “Shelf on the right at the bottom of the stairs, second drawer from top.”
Phillip descended the stairs into the basement of Twilight’s home, which proved to be a neatly organized collection of drawers and storage bins. To the right of the stairs was a tall cabinet of drawers. He opened up the second drawer from the top to find a box of cheap compasses and magnets. He retrieved a small golden compass and carried it back up to the sitting room.
“Thanks,” Twilight said, taking the compass from him. She lit up her horn and both the painting and the compass glowed with a violet aura.
“Vestigia sequi,” Twilight intoned, her eyes closed in focus. “Vestigia sequi. Vestigia sequi.”
As the glow slowly faded away, the compass needle spun wildly for a moment before pointing at the painting like a magnet had been placed against the casing.
“There,” Twilight nodded. “That compass is affixed to the painting. You’ll be able to track it within five miles.”
“Ripper. Thanks, Twilight,” Phillip said, rolling the painting back up and placing it into the carrier tube, then pocketed the compass.
“Good luck,” Twilight said through a yawn.
“Get some rest,” Daring advised her as she and Phillip exited, the pegasus still holding her nose as they left.
They stepped into the cold air with sighs of relief. “Back to the precinct,” Phillip said, untying his hoofkerchief and repocketing it. “We’ve got work to do.”
The streets were dark, cast in shadows by the streetlamps. The snowflakes that fell from the sky flickered in the golden light as they tumbled down to join their brethren invading the sidewalks. The blue box sat on the corner of Lily and Fancy, illuminated beneath a humming lamp.
With a great rattling, a red-painted trolley rolled up the street and paused with a squealing of brakes. A stallion hopped off and stalked up to the mailbox, turning up the collar of his trench coat as he approached. The trolley continued on with a clattering of wheels, the plow affixed to its front pushing snow out of its way, the lights disappearing around the corner and allowing the darkness to close in once more.
The stallion paused, glancing up and down the empty streets as he rummaged in his pockets. His frosted breath came fast and hard as he pulled out the cardboard tube.
The mailbox creaked as he opened the door and dropped the tube into the slot. He looked around one last time, squinting into the shadows for any unseen eyes watching him. A few cars passed by, tires hissing over the semi-melted snow, but did not slow down. When no shapes appeared, he shivered and headed down the road, head down low.
Up on the roof of the building opposite, a rifle scope tracked the stallion.
“Package is in,” Officer Wheellock reported into her radio, laying atop the ceiling. Her hooves, clad in hoof warmers that covered her forelegs, did not tremble as she held her Summerfield rifle on the mailbox. Beside her, Sergeant Prowl’s yellow eyes followed the mobster as he turned the corner.
“Let him go, we’re not after him,” Strider’s voice crackled through their radios.
On the rooftop across from the sniper’s position, Strider and Daring both stared down at the mailbox, Daring through the enchanted lenses of her night-vision binoculars, Strider through the scope of a borrowed N2 Greater rifle.
“Keep your eyes on the mailbox,” Strider ordered everypony, adjusting the grip on his weapon. “And watch your sectors.”
“They’re sure to be watching for us,” Daring muttered, lowering her eyes to her compass. The needle was still pointing at the mailbox. She looked to the sky, but the dark clouds that blotted out the stars and the moon offered her no comfort.
In a trailer parked two blocks away, Hewn Oak, Cold Case, and Beacon Fire stood staring at the projections on the wall, watching the coverage from several small surveillance crystals surreptitiously set up hours before. Every street, alley, and corner for a block around was covered.
Cold’s eyes focused upon a rust-colored Diplomat 600 parked beside a bar to the west of the mailbox. The silhouettes of two stallions could be seen within the windows, a pegasus with a scruffy mane and an earth pony with a trilby. She took in a slow breath as she chewed the stem of her pipe.
“Luna watches over us tonight,” Hewn Oak reassured her even as his hoof stroked the rosary beads marked with a crescent moon. “We will be victorious over the heathens.”
“He always talk like that?” Beacon whispered to Cold.
“Yes,” Cold replied, her eyes drifting to other projections. An orange pegasus sat astride a motorcycle in an alleyway to the east, while another cruiser was parked to the south; inside, she could just see the shape of a chubby yellow earth pony at the driver’s seat with a lanky blue griffon next to him, heat from their disposable coffee cups fogging up the windows.
“Keep your eyes peeled, everypony,” she ordered into her radio.
Beacon Fire’s eyes darted to a south-facing projection. “Motorcycle approaching from the south,” she reported, watching the single headlamp piercing the darkness as it approached the mailbox.
“We got ‘em,” Gallus reported over the radio.
Every eye watched with bated breath as the motorcycle drove up Fancy Street. It paused at the stop sign, the engine ticking and grumbling as the helmeted rider looked back and forth to check for oncoming traffic. Inside their cruiser, Bumblebee placed one hoof on the handle of the door. Gallus shifted in his seat, his talon resting atop the .38 Blacksmith and Eastson Triumph in his holster.
The helmeted gaze passed over the mailbox without pausing. He lifted up his leg and proceeded on with a growl that echoed off the brick and glass walls.
Up above, Daring glanced down at her compass. The needle remained pointing at the mailbox.
“Negative,” she reported into the radio.
Breaths were released, hooves and talons pulled away from triggers and holsters.
“Phew,” Bumblebee sighed, releasing the door handle. Retrieving the paper cup of coffee from the backseat that he’d placed it in, he took another sip of the hot liquid.
“You know,” Gallus muttered, tapping one claw against the dashboard. “My life was a lot less exciting before I became a cop.”
“Think of it this way,” Bumblebee grinned at him. “You’ll have more stories to tell that hippogriff.”
Gallus’ blue cheeks instantly turned dark scarlet. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he grumbled, glaring into the rearview mirror.
“Really?” Bumblebee chuckled. “Then why is it whenever The New Flappers are playing at the Apple Pie, you’re sitting near the stage?”
“I like their music. Fuck off,” Gallus snapped.
Bumblebee smiled at the younger stallion. “Gallus, a bit of advice: they don’t make mares like that every day. Hell, probably not even every year. You should try to move forward with her.”
Gallus remained silent, though he kept tapping the dashboard. “I dunno,” he mumbled. “I mean, we kinda met because a maniac with a flamethrower was trying to kill us. Not sure that’s a good way to start a relationship.”
Bumblebee chuckled. “Did Prowl ever tell you how she met her husband?” he asked.
“No,” Gallus replied, looking up.
“Vehicle from the north,” Cold’s voice reported over the radio.
The two officers leaned forward once more, eyes tracking the black two-door that drove in on Fancy Street. It paused for just long enough to count as a legal stop, then swerved onto Lily Street.
“Negative,” Daring stated a moment later, prompting them both to relax.
“Anyway, she pulled him out of a river,” Bumblebee continued. “Back during the Crystal War, when she was a search-and-rescue pilot for the Air Force.” He chuckled. “He proposed to her three times on the flight to the hospital. Granted, he had a concussion and was doped up on pain meds at the time, but still…”
“Really?” Gallus asked, his eyebrows rising.
“Yeah,” Bumblebee said with a suggestive smirk. “And look at ‘em now. Married four years and a beautiful little girl.”
Gallus’ face lit up as red as the stop sign and he quickly looked away. “Um, oh. I see,” he mumbled.
“Look, make a deal with me, Gallus,” Bumblebee said. “When this is over...talk to her. Ask her out. Take it from me, you regret the stuff you didn’t do a lot more than the stuff you did do.”
Gallus thought for a moment, then huffed out a sigh. “Fine. If it’ll get you to stop bugging me about it.”
“That’s the spirit,” Bumblebee grinned, punching Gallus on the shoulder.
“Pedestrian from the east,” Cold reported over the radio.
Every head turned as the figure in the hooded sweatshirt headed up Lily Street, their shaded head held low as they marched up to the corner. The tall white figure with the cutie mark of an opened padlock with a white key inserted into it, some strands of their blonde mane falling out of their hood as she adjusted the bag thrown over her shoulder; the glow of the streetlamp revealed her steel-gray eyes staring out into the dark. She looked at the cruiser that Bumblebee and Gallus were sitting in, pausing for a moment.
Her horn lit up with a pale silvery glow for a few moments and she shifted her bag. She crossed the street and headed north up Fancy Street.
Daring glanced down at her compass and grinned as she saw the needle following the mare in the hoodie. “That’s our target,” she reported.
“Wings, follow from the air,” Cold ordered, her eyes on the retreating figure in the projection. “Pawns, hold position. Sentry, Herring, parallel pursuit.”
“Roger,” Red Herring reported. Cold watched as the Diplomat started up and started heading down Lavender, parallel to Lily; simultaneously, Flash kicked his motorcycle to life and pulled himself out of the alley, turning down Rose. He began to slowly run his motorcycle down the street, maintaining a slow pace to keep even with the messenger.
“We’ve beaten the fox from the hedge,” Oak grinned. “Now let the hounds chase her to her den.”
The mare turned north onto Clover Road. Red’s Diplomat paused at the northern intersection, while Flash turned onto the road and started driving up from behind her. Up above, Daring and Strider paused on a rooftop, staring down at their target.
Daring glanced down at the compass in her hoof. The needle was still following the mare in the hoodie as she stalked down the street, turning onto another street. She watched as Flash turned the corner to continue past her, with Red’s Diplomat halting at a stop sign.
“She can’t be going there on hoof,” Strider mumbled, adjusting the strap on the Greater over his shoulder.
The mare paused at the curb, looking up and down the road. A black four-door sedan pulled up to the curb and paused just long enough for the mare to jump into the passenger seat, then drove on. The scuff on the bumper glimmered faintly as it passed a streetlamp.
“They’re in a car,” Strider reported over the radio. “Black Chevroneigh sedan, license plate eight-seven-Charlie-Zigzag-two-Lima, headed east on Clover.”
Daring glanced down at the compass around her neck and stared, her eyes widening. “The hell?” she gasped.
Strider glanced over at the compass, blinking in shock. The compass needle was spinning randomly in its casing like a weather vane in a tornado.
Daring growled. “They must be jamming the tracking spell with something,” she snapped into the radio.
“Roger,” Cold Case replied. “Surveillance teams, close in. Do not lose--”
“Daring, look out!” Prowl’s shout cut in.
Daring caught a glimpse of the black wings a split second too late. She ducked, raising one arm to intercept the attack.
The bladed talons dug into her foreleg, then her neck. Her cry of pain mixed with the triumphant cawing of the raven as it flashed past her, the compass dangling from its beak by its broken strap.
Daring’s eyes caught the red mark on the bird’s chest as it flew up into the clouds. “That’s the Plague Doctor’s pet!” she shouted.
She spread her wings to take off, but a horrible coughing fit suddenly racked through her body and she collapsed. The strength fled her limbs and she sagged over, coughing and gasping.
“Daring? What’s wrong?” Strider said, bending over her, his eyes shining with concern.
A cold realization ran down Daring’s spine as she tried to force herself up. “Poison…” she gasped out, forcing the word out even as it felt like her throat was closing up. Pain spread across her limbs, every muscle tightening to the point where she felt like the tendons would snap.
Strider bent over her, barking into the radio: “Daring’s been poisoned! I need an ambulance!”
A flap of wings and Prowl was there, her yellow eyes darting over Daring’s body as she gasped and writhed on the ground, clutching her burning throat; her head pounded with every rapid beat of her heart, spinning from the lack of oxygen. Her jaw had clamped shut, her back arching off the ground.
“Get her down on the ground!” she heard Prowl ordering, her voice sounding like it was coming from down a distant tunnel.
She felt herself being lifted up by two forelegs and carried through the air. She tried to focus on taking steady breaths, but she felt like her lungs had shrunk, her chest burning as she tried to suck in oxygen.
The snow was cold beneath her as she was laid on her side; darkness was creeping in on the edges of her vision. Snow melted on her face, mixing with the tears that she could feel falling from her eyes. Pain burned across every spasming muscle; she would have screamed if she could open her jaw. Prowl was bending over her, one hoof at her neck to check her pulse, the thestral’s ear against her heaving chest.
Tires crunched. Hooves raced up.
“Daring?!” Phillip cried, his face bending over hers. His eyes darted over her body, widening in horror as he saw her trembling limbs, the cut on her face, the way she gasped and choked for breath.
“Strychnine,” Phillip gasped. He dropped down and grasped her hoof in both of his, ignoring the way that her arm spasmed in his grasp. “Daring, just hang on,” she heard him pleading. “Just stay with us...please, just...”
Daring coughed violently, each exhalation making her chest burn with agony. Her head was spinning like she was on a tilt-a-whirl as the blackness swarmed over her vision, every sound becoming more and more distant.
One last thought crossed Daring Do’s mind: I don’t want to die...
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From a strategic, tactical standpoint. Poisoning Daring was a genius move. It puts her out of action now, and then. So it'd makes sense the Doctor would do that.
11048841
He is an assassin, after all. Fair fighting is not in his job description.
11048901
Definitely, I got to use this move in future roleplays with my mates.
The scene of them all waiting around for someone to take the painting was brilliant. Good tension, good character building, practically felt like I was watching a movie scene with words, and somehow you jumped back and forth between conversations in different locations without it being confusing. I've been so busy lately that I had forgotten just how fantastic your writing is! This scene is top notch.
11077976
Aw, shucks, you’re too kind.
Dang it…
Nothing ever goes to plan. I hope they find a way to stop that bird eventually.