Memoirs of the Mindless

by Writey the writer

Chapter 11: Clues and Whiskey

Chapter 11: Clues and Whiskey

The elevator door opened with the ding of a bell. Print stepped into the hallway carrying a bag of takeaway food. She glanced down the corridor and then out the window by her side. The cab driver talked to Clock under the street light for a moment before they pulled away. When they disappeared from sight she turned and walked down the corridor. The automated lights of the hallway flickered on as she turned the corner.

She dropped her bag and pulled out a key. As she pushed the key into the lock, the door was pushed open. The key hadn't been twisted in the lock. The door had been left ajar. Print pushed it wider and looked inside the apartment. It was dark inside, just like she had left it, but something felt off. It was like the entire apartment was slightly out of place, not enough to worry, but enough to be unsettling.

She hit the light switch and stepped inside. The light flickered on, illuminating the living room and kitchen. She dropped the bag on the table and looked around. The apartment felt still, quiet. It was late at night. She was probably just tired and over thinking things. She hadn’t been in the apartment for long time anyway; maybe it just behaved differently at night. The landlord could have left the door open or even the maid from earlier in the week. It was nothing to worry about. She sat down and ate in silence. Despite wanting to believe that she was over thinking, she was paying close attention to the silence.

The clock on the kitchen counter read 01:34. She was working again in seven hours. She sighed and pressed her head against the wood of the table. There was a click from the front door. Print stood instinctively. She stepped around the counter, her eyes locked on the door. The latch must have been pulled from the inside. Her stomach dropped as she realised that she had eaten with a stranger in her apartment. She pressed a hoof against the latch. It held firm.

She took a knife from the wooden block and walked toward her bedroom. She opened it with a push, the knife held in her other hoof. There was a piece of folded paper on the end of her bed. Print picked it up, glancing behind the door before reading.

Print read the message again. Greenbill, Red-Mane, and Moondew. How are all three connected? Greenbill was one of the largest drug lords in Manehatten. Print thought back. Moondew: the mare who escaped. She was the girlfriend of Greenbill. She apparently stole from him and escaped. Print felt her skin tighten. Or at least they never found Moondew’s body.

Somehow, Greenbill had found out that she had stolen from him. Somehow, he knew her name and where she was. Now Red-Mane was coming. How is Red-Mane connected to a drug lord? This didn’t make sense. Print racked her mind but couldn’t remember knowing anypony in Greenbill’s company, not enough to make them go out of their way to give her this information.

For the rest of the night, sleep was no longer possible. She sat on the end of her bed and looked over the note again and again. Red-Mane was coming. That couldn’t have been true. Greenbill and Red-Mane, the two were on different sides of business. One worked for profit the other… Print thought for a moment. Red-Mane had no reason. It wasn’t meaningless, not anymore at least. Revenge was the best word she could think of, but even that seemed to fall short.

Print grabbed her satchel and left her apartment. She wasn’t sure where she was going, or what she hoped to achieve, but if a friend knew where she was, so might Greenbill or Red-Mane.

* * *

This side of town felt very different at night. It was like a forest when the sun was no longer keeping watch. The sirens were the howling wolves. The nocturnal came out to hunt, but the real monsters killed in the day. They killed right in front of you.

Print shivered as the night lay over her shoulders. It was a heavy blanket which beckoned her to sleep back to her apartment, but her mind continued to roll around in her skull. She thought back to Manehatten. That night. Like everypony who is lost, she found herself drawn toward a beacon. For her, it was a bar on the street corner called: The Blue Eclipse. She pushed the door open and stepped inside feeling the cold seep out from her bones. It was dark and dingy inside. The bar either had a power outage, or it was going for an authentic touch with lanterns hanging on the walls.

There were two other customers in building. One was sat on a stool, leaning on the counter, the other was sobbing in a booth. She sat at the counter, ignoring the glance from the stallion beside her.

The barmare brought something heavy, as requested. Print drank. She was grateful as her mind slowly began to numb to the pressure around her that had seemed to be building. Red-Mane, Greenbill...a friend, all became hazed. Even the idea of work in several hours melted away, replaced by a warm buzz. Her thoughts however were static, painfully so. That night in Manehatten. She could feel her hoof on the trigger as it was pulled. She took another drink.

Her past self—once buried, forgotten, yet never mourned—was reanimating. A lifetime ago. Greenbill wanted to see that body destroyed. Print wanted that, too. She couldn’t bury the past entirely, not for long anyway.

She remembered that she was standing by the stallion, Hollow…Harrow? She struggled to remember his name. Time and alcohol drove a stake through comprehension. He threw the duffel bag between the two groups, a metre from the other gang. They…what did they do? It was a haze, like looking through steamed glass.

“Drop off the payment. Pick up our goods. Get out,” said a stallion’s voice. It was Harrow’s. She was sure of it. The gang looked it over. It happened so fast. Harrow fell, he was shouting. She remembered shooting back. Then it was just her. She could still hear the sirens—the wolves were coming. She was running out of time. She picked up the bag, and…Harrow.

He was looking at her. She could remember the pain in his eyes. Time had not weakened that stare. She could feel his eyes boring into her. The bag felt so heavy.

“Don’t even think about it. You turn away now and I’ll make sure Greenbill gets you!” His voice was rasping. Blood poured from beneath his hoof which he held to his chest. It was so simple. Just take the bag. Print took another drink.

She picked up his gun. A revolver. It was so light, it wanted to be held. The howling grew louder. She walked forward. Harrow coughed blood and tried to crawl away on his stomach. She kept walking, following the crimson line. Her hoof didn’t even shake. The barrel pressed against the back of his head. Never look back.

Print was trembling as she raised the glass to her lips and found it to be empty. She poured another and downed it. When had she started crying? She wiped away the tears with the back of her hoof.

“Miss?” Print turned her head. Blinking away the tears as she looked toward the stallion. He was cute. She smiled. “Are you okay?” he asked, his speech slightly slurred.

Print opened her mouth to speak but a wave of nausea surged through her. SHe held a hoof over her mouth.

“Get out! Get out!” shouted the barmare.

The stallion took her by the shoulder and led her out to the alleyway besides the building. It was illuminated by the orange, flickering light on the front of the building. Print leaned with against the wall and emptied the contents her stomach. Her nostrils burned and her mouth felt vile. The stallion leaned on the corner of the building smoking a cigarette while she manually cleansed herself of the toxin.

She righted herself and wiped her mouth with the back of a hoof. She was shaking as the waves of nausea began to pass. Her head felt clear of the alcohol, like a veil had been lifted from her senses. The stallion dropped the cigarette and stamped it out.

“You’re Speckled Print, aren’t you?” he asked, his voice completely even.

He knew her. The cute stallion who she had nearly vomited on knew her. Her ears drooped. “Yeah.”

The stallion smirked. “I’m Cross Clue,” he said, extending a hoof. She shook it with the one which she hadn’t just used to wipe away vomit. “I’ll be joining you in your case tomorrow.” He glanced at a hoofwatch. “The case later today, I mean.”

Print’s eyes went wide. Cross was the new detective who would be joining the case. She had nearly vomited on the new detective. Despite this painful revelation, her mind caught on one word. “It’s Clock’s case. Not mine.”

The stallion nodded without looking at her. “Unofficially, perhaps, but he is not fit for this case given his personal involvement. Though, I agree he will probably be leading from the sidelines. I’ve read all about the cases he’s cracked.” He nodded to himself. “He’s very good, but it is officially your case, Print.” He looked her up and down. “Let me take you home.”

“I can’t go home,” she said quickly. He tilted an eyebrow questioningly. Her mind skimmed the surface of her previous thoughts. Red-Mane. Greenbill. Harrow. “I just can’t.”

“You’re a little forward, but I’ll take your offer. You can come back to my place if you’d like,” he said. A thin smile emerged on his face.

“I-I didn’t mean like that,” Print said, floundering over the thoughts which were rapidly piling up in her head.

He gave a well humoured laugh as he started walking down the street. “I was only kidding. I know a classy mare such’s yourself, wouldn’t go for a stallion like me.”

Print trotted up beside him. “I didn’t mean that either. I’d love to go for you. I-I mean I think your nice.” She shut up, and mentally scolded herself. Nice? What the hay kind of a complement was nice?

He chuckled again making her immediately relax about her awkwardness. “Well, I think you’re nice too.”

* * *

“Do you think of me as Pinkie Pie, or Red-Mane?” Pinkie asked. The lime-yellow stallion frowned, clearly caught off guard by the question. They turned a corner into a rundown district of garages and derelict buildings.

“To Greenbill, you are being, er… requisitioned.” He said that word like it was foreign. “For your skills in dealing with ponies. You are, to this job, a killer.” He looked at her as he said that. “To Greenbill, and me, you are Red-Mane. Although publically we will not refer to you as Red-Mane.”

Pinkie nodded. “Just a hired killer,” she said aloud.

The stallion ignored her and turned down the side of a large-unassuming building. The windows were boarded up and the door locked with a padlock. On closer inspection, the padlock was a sturdy one and the door had been replaced to be able to withstand more of an impact. Appropriately reinforced for the tasks this building has probably held. He pulled out a key and twisted it in the padlock dropping it beside the door. He pushed the door open and hit a switch just by the doorframe.

Pinkie stepped inside, as the lights came on and a generator began to rumble to life. The door led to an elevated metal catwalk which ran across the wall in a ‘U’ shape with metal stairs on the opposite side. Pinkie followed the stallion on the catwalk, taking in the room as they went. Below them, there were two steel surgical tables with an assortment of precise and blunt tools on a trolley. There were two upright restraining tables facing into the room at an angle. At the back of the room were two shut double doors. All in all, the building’s interior looked clean and well equipped for a specific purpose.

They descended the stairs to the theatre below. Memories of Sugarcube Corner bled back into her mind as she recognised the smell of bleach. It brought a smile to her lips but it was bittersweet.

“As you can see, Greenbill has provided you with all the tools you may need, as well as a secure and soundproofed building which has been cleaned since its last…um usage,” he said as he gestured across the room. “He has also set aside a neat sum if you need more specific tools. As for assistance in the job itself he has provided you with a list of specialists.” He paused and turned to face her. “I’m sure you understand we can’t help you directly. If we were seen to be involved in the murder of a detective the peace would be unnecessarily strained.”

Pinkie nodded. “I understand.”

“Good.” He turned and climbed the staircase. When he reached the door he leaned on the railing. “You have your radio. You have your tools. You are back in the shadows. Do not disappoint Greenbill.”

He turned and shut the door. The echo resonated in the room for a moment before fading to the low metallic humming of the building’s generator.

“Speckled Print,” Pinkie said aloud. “I know that name.” She racked her memory, but could only conjure images of Clock. She looked around the room and suddenly felt the immense nature of this task. Find a single pony in city who may have changed her name. She sighed.

Clock could wait. This was the step to reach him. Just one more amendment.

* * *

Print awoke to an unfamiliar beeping and an unpleasant droning in her skull. She opened her eyes and immediately regretted it as the light attacked her with tiny daggers. She rolled over as the beeping stopped and a figure leaned over her.

She squinted as her eyes came into focus the sorting shapes from shadows. Cross had a stupid grin on his face. Print groaned and slumped her head back onto the sheets.

“We’ll have to leave in forty if you want to be on time,” he said. Print groaned again louder. She tried to remember how she had gotten here. Had he been sleeping next to her? Did they…she couldn’t remember. Her mind was a haze of isolated random thoughts.

She looked up. “Did we… y’know,” she said awkwardly. The words felt like sand in her dry mouth.

He laughed a little at that. “You passed out when I opened the door. I put you in my bed, and I slept on the sofa.”

Print rolled onto her back and watch the spinning ceiling fan. “Such a gentlestallion,” she said, nearly sarcastic.

He gave a humph as he walked toward the door. “I’d call it manners toward my new boss,” he said. Print looked up at him, trying to analyse his tone. He leaned on the doorframe. “Rumour of the office is that she thinks I’m nice.”

Print gave a final groan as he shut the door.

* * *

Clue held out a hoof as the bus emerged over the brow of the hill. It rolled to a stop and the doors opened with a metallic hiss. Clue stepped on, nodding to the driver as he scanned his card.

Print stepped on afterward. “Single to Canterlot Station,” she asked, smiling.

The driver stared at her as he punched a number into the machine. The smile was not reflected in his face. “Three bits,” he said. His voice sounded infinitely bored.

Print reached into her jacket, but only felt the pocket’s fabric. No satchel. No bits. She forced a laugh and turned to look down the bus. Clue raised an eyebrow. She pulled out the lining of her pocket and gave her best, ‘could you cover this one?’ look. The other passengers looked resentful as Print finally sat down and the bus pulled away.

“So…” Clue said a moment later, breaking the unusual silence which had fallen. “What’s Clock like? I’ve never had the chance to talk to him in person.”

Print turned to face him. Was he a fan? “I’m sure you already know lots about him,” she said. The bait swung like a pendulum before his eyes.

“I know every one of his cases since he was a casual in Canterlot. He saved my mum when I was just a colt,” he gushed. Print smirked. “What is he like as a stallion?” Print opened her mouth to speak. “I bet he’s amazing.”

A fan indeed. “He is focused. Honest. Resourceful.” Print cast a glance in Clue’s direction. He was eating this up. Her voice became dangerously low. “But he hates rookies. Make one rookie mistake and he’ll cast you away like you were nothing.” She turned to him, a deadly look forming across her brow. “And he listens to me, I’m his partner.”

Clue nodded. “I’ve never heard of that side of him. He sounds so-“ He caught the small smile which had crept across her lips. “Since you’re his partner,” he said, as he began to smile. “Since he’ll listen to you, could you tell him how nice I am? I wanna make a good first impression.”

Print turned to look out of the window. “How long will you keep reminding me of that?”

“I’m not sure. Until I forget. Or you do something worse which I feel I need to mention more often,” he said with a horribly sweet tone.
Clue hit a button and the bus slowed to a stop outside of the station. They got off the bus and walked side-by-side into the station. The meeting initial meeting with Clock would start in twelve minutes. They both took this opportunity to get a coffee in an attempt to postpone the wrath of having little sleep the night before.

The office itself seemed to share the morning hatred with many of the workers slouching on desks and battling to look interested as they walked in the room. A yellow-maned mare with a smiling sun as her cutie mark walked down one of the rows of desks pushing a trolley of various caffeinated beverages. She was a morning mare. Her smile was the sunshine in the morning. Friendly, yet painfully so at this time. She dropped off cups and cans to the others in the office as she went.

Print took a deep breath as she took in the various faces. This was her office, at her disposal. A team to catch Red-Mane. Red-Mane was coming. She smiled. Let her come. She opened the door of an enclosed office, Clue followed her inside.

Clock was sat at a table with his head resting upon it. He groaned as Print opened the blinds. Clue stood by the door.

“Clock, this is-“ Print began.
“I hate whiskey,” Clock interrupted. “I don’t know why it treats me so badly.” He leaned back in his chair and rubbed his eyes. He had treated the stress of antagonizing a murderer the same way Print dealt with painful memories. Only he looked worse. His eyes fell on Clue. “Who’s this?” he asked.

“Detective Cross Clue,” Print said. “The detective who will be helping us with this case.”

Clock stood and poured himself a cup from the water-cooler. He drank it greedily and sat back down. “Detective Clue,” Clock said. He rubbed a hoof on his chin. “I know that name.”

Clue stepped forward. “I’ve solved many cases as part of Canterlot’s homicide team and foreign related-“

“No, no, no,” Clock said. “That isn’t it.”

Clue’s eyes seemed to light up. “You saved my mother Blue Clue years ago. I’m her son. I was there the when-”

Clock shook his head. “That isn’t that either. Were you…” He gave throaty laugh. “Were you the colt who started the Clock-Fanclub? Clue seemed to deflate as Print began grinning. “It was you, I’m sure of it. Do you remember the song you sang when I came to your club?”

Print’s smile became infinitely wider. “Oh please, tell me you remember the song,” she said, beaming.

Clue’s cheeks burned. “I-I don’t think I do.” He did. He remembered perfectly word for word. He had sung aloud the day he found out he would be working with Clock.

Print pulled out a chair and sat down beside Clock. “We didn’t come here to talk about your fan club,” Print said. Clue gave a sigh of relief at the change of topic as he took a seat opposite the two of them. “Although I would love to hear about it later, for now, we will fill you in on what we know, and then we can discuss how we can use this department.”

Clock leaned forward, resting on the desk. “Red-Mane escaped. Red-Mane is likely still in lower Canterlot. That is where the tunnels lead to. Red-Mane was unarmed when she was left.”

“I know that from the file I was sent upon starting the case,” Clue said. He too, leaned forward. “What have you learned since then? It’s been three days since she escaped.”

Print glanced at Clock. The radio. He had said not to discuss the radio. “Nothing concrete. No sightings, no suspicious deaths. She’s in the shadows again,” she said.

Clock spoke up. “She is after me. She feels I am responsible for her partner’s death and she wants me dead.”

“Detective Print helped in the case as well,” Clue observed. “Surely she is just as much of a target as you.”

Clock frowned. “It’s me she wants. She-“ He caught his mouth before he said anything else. “She has it against me since I was the one that lead the case last time.”

Clue nodded and leaned back in his chair. The tension that had built began to diffuse. “If what you say is true, Detective Clock. How do you know? You had no meeting with her alone to discuss this. Any criminal profiles we have are insufficient to describe a killer such as Pinkie Pie. Did you know her?”

Print frowned. “We spoke with her in Ponyville. Out of the books.”

“This was before Twilight’s death, no?” He looked between them. “You’ve spoken to her since the execution. Pinkie Pie escaped immediately after the execution. Either you two are harbouring a criminal and you speak to her, or you aren’t telling me something. How else would you know of her intention post-execution?”

Clock laughed. “That’s a very tenuous deduction, Clue. We’ve been dealing with Red-Mane for a long time and we know how she acts.”
“Then you and I know her differently, Clock. Evident in that you refer to Pinkie Pie as Red-Mane.” He paused. “I’m not here to stand on anypony’s hooves. I will accept that is why you know all of this, but if there is something you aren’t telling me, I will need to know sooner or later. To catch this killer, we need to work together.”

Print edged in, sensing the unease. “We are both willing to cooperate.” She glanced at Clock who leaned back in his chair, crossing his hooves. “We have…some things we must keep to ourselves, however.”

Clue raised an eyebrow. “I can be more helpful if I know all the details. Nothing has to leave this room.” He looked at Clock. “I know enough about Clock to know he does not always work by the book.” He smiled. “It’s one of the reasons I idolise you. You get things done your way. Much to the chagrin of your superiors at times.”

Clock laughed. “If we tell you.” He paused choosing his words carefully. “You might not be safe. You could lose your job, or worse. If what we are trying is successful, you will be exposed.”

“I would not have accepted the job if I wasn’t able to handle the risk. I’m happy to play this your way. I only want you to be open with me. Evidence shared,” Clue said.

Clock turned toward Print and nodded. He then stood and walked toward the door. “I’m going to get a coffee from Sunny Shot,” he said. He stepped out and shut the door.

Clue and Print sat in silence for a moment. Print found herself admiring Clue. He had set aside his childhood fantasy of meeting with Clock to talk business. He even sounded confident about it, like a good detective.

“So…” Clue said, opening the previous conversation at a blunt end. “What don’t I need to know?”

Print looked at him for a moment before she spoke. “She has a radio. Rainbow Dash’s radio.”

Clue nodded. The information did not seem to faze him. “And Clock cannot be involved with talking to her due to his…personal involvement.” Print nodded. “So what has he said to her?” he asked, not missing a beat.

“He is trying to antagonise her. Make her reckless. Lure her out.”

“She’s coming for him. She said that?” he asked. Print nodded. “She’s either foolish or smart, and since you are yet to pin her, I’m guessing the latter.” He sighed and leaned back rubbing a hoof through his mane. “And there are no other leads?”

Print shook her head. “Best we got was a stallion who claimed Red-Mane burned his house down so he could make a claim. He also admitted he was high at the time,” she said. “So no, we have no leads.”

The office door opened and Clock stepped in and shut the door. He sat down and sipped his coffee. “I hate whiskey,” he said again, taking a longer sip.

“So how we going to catch her, Detectives?” Clue said. “I imagine you’ve given it a great deal of thought, Clock.”

Clock placed his cup down on the table. “Less than twelve hours ago, I heard her said she was going to bleed me dry. I spent the following hours drinking, and now I’m talking to you. So yes, I’ve given it some thought. She wants me. She has nothing to lose.” He shrugged.

“So you’re the bait?” Clue asked. He began questioning whether Clock was as great as he had once thought.

“I never said it was a good plan,” he said. “She only came out of hiding last time to kill me. She failed, but killed several others in the process.” His voice took on an edge. “That will not happen again. Let her come for me. No collateral.”

Clue nodded. Ponyville was the biggest loss of police lives since the early days of Canterlot, which Clock had clearly taken badly. However Clock’s plan wasn’t a plan at all; it was barely a grade below suicide.

“That isn’t the plan, Clock,” Print said.

“You’re going to stop me?” he asked.

“No…Clock, you don’t have to do this,” she said. “I get it. She took your brother, but she took so many others.” Clock said nothing, but maintained a frown. “We can get her, without risking anypony.”

Clock shook his head. “She wants me only.”

“But we don’t have to give you up to get her. We can have both. There has to be a way,” she said.

Clock stood and opened the office door. “If we can’t find a way, I’ll step up.” He looked at Print. Her left ear was tilted like it always was when she was angry. Let her be angry. Give her something to channel. He wouldn’t let Red-Mane touch her. She had to live. “I’m ready to end this,” he said. “Let her come. No more will fall because of me.”

* * *

Pinkie stood in the centre of the courtyard. Twilight’s body was still strung up. Her coat was a sickly pale colour. Pinkie walked forward standing in front of the podium. Twilight’s face was frozen in a look of anger. Her final thoughts were about how Pinkie had abandoned her, she was sure of it.

“I’m sorry, Twilight. I’m sorry couldn’t save you,” Pinkie said.

The corpse stirred. The eyelids snapped open. Blood poured from the hollow sockets and down her cheeks. “You abandoned me, Pinkie!” it said. The voice was coarse as though it had been screaming. “I thought you loved me, I thought you would save me!”

“I-I tried-“

“You left me!” The voice became softer, nearly identical to Twilight’s. “I came back for you, Pinkie.” The corpse shuddered as the neck gave a sharp crack. Twilight’s head craned to one side. The blood was dripping onto the podium. “I loved you and you left me!”

Pinkie shook her head, ignoring the tears that rolled down her own cheeks. “I love you, Twilight. I’ll kill him. P-Please…I-“

The corpse shuddered as it began to suffocate, going through the motions of death again. Twilight extended a hoof, reaching out toward her love.

Pinkie ran forward and began to climb the podium, her eyes locked onto Twilight. Clock stood at the top of the stairs. He swung a hoof and landed a solid punch on her jaw. Pinkie fell. The back of her head impacted the step jarring her neck as she landed in a heap. Her vision flickered. Twilight was struggling, dying. She couldn’t help her. It was happening again.

Clock strolled forward and stood in front of her. Twilight became still, the life in her reanimated corpse finally diminished. He crouched down, a smile spreading across his face. “An eye for an eye, Red-Mane.” He pulled out a handgun and pointed it toward her. “She loved you, Red-Mane.” His smiled faded as he gripped the gun tighter. “You left her alone, but I’ll reunite you.” He pressed the gun against her head. “An eye for an eye.”

Comments

[Evilpresident]

Does that last scene take place in Pinkie's mind? Or perhaps Clock's...
Either way, it feels like we're reaching the end game now. Are we?