The Enforcer and Her Blackmailers (Enhanced & Augmented)

by scifipony

Chapter 12: Revelation

The door opened revealing a brown earth pony in denim with a factory showroom behind him, checking to see what the noise was. Before he could notice I stood behind the door, I teleported past him.

I was surrounded by new fabric smell and roses in glass vases, amidst perfectly arranged living room sofa sets, breakfast-nook kitchen sets, and bedroom and dresser sets. Magic sconces and wrought iron chandeliers lit a room full of mahogany, oak, and maple, with book shelves stocked with faux classics, and bedspreads glowing with hearts. At a black granite kitchen island, below pristine copper pots, a pink mare in a lavender business suit was fussing with a tea service tray and samovar; she jumped at the pop of my out-teleport. Opposite her were glass doors leading to Chestnut Street.

I teleported, my quick draw approximation landing me in the street. I leapt aside from a yellow cab pulled by a green stallion who didn't have the time to swerve, though he did have time to swear.

Before I could topple on the curb, I teleported one last time past a shoeshine kiosk—and struck a brick wall with the conserved momentum of avoiding the taxi. Though further bruised, it left me leaning against the surface, saving me the ignominy of falling on the sidewalk. The farrier colt jumped up, his brushes, rasps, and rust-cleaner scattering around him. I left a blood smear as I levered into motion. I adjusted my cloak to hide the wound and walked.

Everything whirled around me. I struggled to get numbers spinning in my head. I wasn't teleporting any time soon. I turned into an alley. Early morning sunlight streamed down it, illuminating broken pavement and the morning dew in the cracks, as well as a stinky overloaded dumpster. Unfortunately, it also illuminated a wagon with unicorns unloading bolts of fabric for the factory. The sun warmed my flank. Though I cast a long shadow, none of the workers noticed me.

I stood there, breathing hard, working up the numbers. Behind me, on the street, I heard ponies talking. One galloped—and he wasn't pulling a taxi.

The hue and cry began.

Slowly, relying on the rubber soles of my horseshoes to keep quiet, I walked down the alley until I finally got Don't Look Don't See Don't Hear properly spun up. I only had to keep it going despite the pain and a real chance I might faint. Slowly. One-two front steps, one limp. Repeat. I ducked a heavy red velvet roll that swished by my head, pulling down my hood. I got past the wagon. The alley ended on Cottonwood. To the right lay Elm. I tasted blood as I sucked my lip.

I stepped on the sidewalk. A mare in a red business dress trotted by, nearly clipping my nose. The spell still worked. Avoiding traffic and succeeding, wobbly but upright, I got to Elm, a less busy cross-street. Delivery wagons rolled by, interspersed with bus-and-eight—each harnessed pony in metro-white and purple livery—that pulled dozens and dozens of salary ponies and their supplies to stores that would open within the hour. I was as far from my flat as I could get, though close to the university district. The last thing I wanted was show up and beg Sunset Shimmer for help, wrecked like this. I staggered by a cut fruit vendor and knocked over his chili powder shaker. I had to fight to keep the spell and not sneeze at the same time. The pony in white and blue pinstripes stared at the ground where the shaker had mysteriously leapt.

Finicky Don't Look Don't See Don't Hear was magnificent if you could maintain it. Maybe because my life depended on it, I succeeded.

I found my old alley, the one I'd spent part of spring in. I felt no nostalgia for it, or any contempt for the amalgamation of waxed canvas sheeting, both rigid and tarp-like, that surrounded a lean-to near the dead-end fence. I limped forward and smelled a pony who, like myself not long ago, rarely had the opportunity to bathe or the luxury of a nearby toilet.

Having had to live this way—no, correction, having chosen to live this way multiple times over the last three years—the smell didn't bother me, nor did I despise the blue pony who I saw sleeping away beside sacks of clothes and gathered recycling. He wasn't a symbol of decay. He was just another oppressed pony, whether by choice or circumstance, or by lack of a cutie mark that might lead him to be the oppressor.

He just was.

I took no satisfaction in what I needed to do. With the harsh shadows of the new day and the general disinclination of ponies to look down an alley that might harbor something uncomfortable, I let my spell sputter out. It took me a minute to spin up the numbers, and as soon as I knew I had it right, I stunned the poor stallion. He yelped, but with all the street noise echoing about, no pony heard.

I pushed into his spacious shelter. Pushing aside his bags of stuff, three stallions could fit without hooves or flank exposed. I piled the bags into a blind and pushed him with my nose in his noisome flank into a corner, into his blankets so he couldn't see me.

"I'm really sorry about this, but it will be worth your while. Do me the favor of not looking at me when the stun wears off and I'll soon be gone."

He jittered and jerked, but breathed normally with his head facing away. As I took off the cloak with my teeth, I did as I said I would. I reached into my saddlebag, found with my tongue the silver bit I had reserved for visiting One Fell Swoop, and spat it beside him with a clink he could mistake for naught but money. After a few minutes, I pulled the Grimoire costume off. I might not be able to launder out the blood matted into the black fabric, but I folded it into my saddlebags with the shoes. I sponged off the absurd cutie mark and rearranged my hair into pigtails. That took a long fifteen minutes. If the hue and cry reached out four blocks, I'd be caught cold.

That left me with a cut across my withers and a bloody lip, not to mention a startling limp that surely Detective Fellows had noted. Stupid me. What had possessed me to lecture him so he could get a better look at me, as if anything I might say could sway him. Stupid.

Stupid foal.

If only I had Dr. Flowing Waters to help me, but then I would have to get through the bailey gate and into the castle for that.

Or would I?

My bunk mate had stopped jerking and jittering. He did shiver, but he kept his head buried in his blanket. "Good colt. Keep looking away."

"Yes, ma'am," he said in a phlegmy voice.

I took my time, breathing deeply and regaining as much of my strength as I might under the circumstances, resting, as I did, on cobblestones. Eventually, I wasn't quite so dizzy and bone tired. With my head a bit clearer—it helped that I didn't move my leg—I intentionally remembered both massaging my leg from the inside and how the doctor had spoken to my wounds and told them to heal. I remembered the conversation as if it were branded into my memory.

Didn't mean I could do the trick, but I'd get caught if I limped out of here or if they found me. Best that I concentrate and work through it. I had impressed Dr. Flowing Waters with my awareness of the ebb and flow of his spells, and amazed myself that I'd gotten as far as I had.

Just work through it.

It took an hour, and fully half of it resting with my eyes closed, but I began to see detail in the numbers that came back when I moved the tissue in the sliced flesh on my upper back. Craning my neck, I saw the slit skin. It vibrated and I perceived a pattern of knitting that struck me as innate and right for the skin and vessels lying below it in layers. The feedback told me what was right, and I told it in return to become right again.

I persisted. It relented and did as bidden. The flesh heated up and became feverish. After a half-hour, the scabs worked loose and fell off, revealing skin that puckered a bit. It looked barely scarred; hidden in my fur, the wound became invisible.

I worked on my lip and—though it pulled up, making me sneer—ten minutes later it felt whole. I levitated the blood crust away.

My friend moved, rearranging himself but not looking. I said, "I've left you a silver bit. Please humor me for an hour longer."

"About an hour'll be as much as I can hold it."

I nodded, though he couldn't see, regarding my leg. Well, there was no choice and time was running out. I dove my magic into the wound. I had a torn ligament, which caused the limp and the majority of the pain, and a slight fracture that feedback told me was more painful than dangerous. Bruises peppered my upper leg, but wouldn't be visible under my fur except as puffiness, so I concentrated on the worst—the ligament.

I'd been tutored in anatomy, mostly so I could draw and paint. As a bodyguard, I learned first aid and how to tend traumatic injuries. This, however, was a totally different level of information—like being handed a broken machine and when you went to repair it, you found it came with a very detailed, easy to understand repair manualand theory of ops. It made sense: school taught that all ponies grew from a single cell. Ponies could heal. That meant that somewhere inside us all lay both the operations guide and a full schematic as well as the repair manual. I kept that in mind as I fathomed the correct pattern of the ligament and stretched tissues back into place as the cells raced frenetically to mend themselves because I simply told them they could and they should. This time the fever filled my whole body, and maybe I suffered a bit of delirium because I was dimly aware of an immense pain that caused me to shudder and moan, but I managed to continuously maintain the spell spinning as if it were as necessary as my heartbeat. I sweated buckets, but persisted.

I finished.

The homeless stallion shivered where he lay. Perhaps he had looked and seen me encased in a blue-green glow. Perhaps the sounds I emitted frightened him. Maybe he needed to go and thought his life depended on controlling his bladder. Nevertheless, he kept his eyes averted.

I took a deep breath and flexed my right rear leg.

Ah, there was pain. It felt stiff and bruised, but it moved and articulated correctly.

With a sigh, I stood and hit the tarp ceiling. I put my weight on my leg, then pushed down; the fracture twinged, but if I walked slowly, I need not limp. My frog felt numb from Streak's aggravation of my previous injury, but I had had over a year to learn how to deal with that, how to ensure I didn't drag the hoof. I combed my hair and used a square of cloth to dry the sweat. Nothing I could do about my horsey smell, though. I checked my flank for makeup smudges—and for a half expected cutie mark.

Thank Celestia, or rather all the forces of nature—it remained blank. I checked my ponytails; perfect.

I said, "I'm leaving. Give me five minutes, okay? I promise not to visit again if you don't talk about my stay."

"Yes, my lady."

I shuddered at the title, but knew he wasn't clairvoyant. I nosed myself from under the tarp into the alley. Fresh air!

At least a few hours had passed; I felt each one of the 26-plus hours I'd been awake. My tongue wanted to stick to the roof of my mouth; my eyes were dry from dehydration. I remembered a pond in Blueblood Park where I could drink.

At the end of the alley, ponies gathered, talking. The ears of one perked up and he looked my way. The mustard yellow stallion with a green mane and greener eyes wore a simple khaki shirt and tan tie. Though he wore neither a copper badge nor a uniform, EBI agent radiated from him like heat radiating off dark pavement at noon.

Author's Note:

Starlight uses a number of signature spells. All but one can all be found in: Visual Dictionary of Canon Starlight Glimmer Spells

Comments

[Conscat]

I might not be able to launder out the blood matted into the black fabric, but I folded it into my saddlebags with the shoes.

I've been wondering, when Starlight puts on her stilted horseshoes, does she need to put in/remove nails to keep it attached?