Chapters Ponyville is a swell place. Any schmuck on the street can nod their head like one of those bobble toys and tell you that much. “A real jewel of Equestria,” they’d say. “I love it here,” they’d say. Not for its architecture, of course. There were no sprawling palisades or tall white walls like in Canterlot, or flying buttresses that were literally flying like in Cloudsdale. It wasn’t particularly exciting, either. Night life in Ponyville was about as enthralling as a mossy rock: boring then and boring now.
No, the only thing that’s all that special about Ponyville is quite the opposite. It’s how quiet the place is. Peaceful. That, and the fact that the six greatest heroes of Equestria all just so happen to live here.
And then some son of a bitch took a knife to its heart and ripped it away. I feel numb. I feel sick. For a moment it isn’t just because of the carnage.
Pinkie Pie lies on the floor, with her forehooves folded underneath her and her hind legs splayed out. Her head lies on its side, resting silently in a puddle of her own blood. Gashes line the sides of her hooves, and dried rivulets of blood are caked around her neck. But the most unforgivable traces aren’t from the blood. It’s from the tears that run down from her now half-closed eyes. They stare right into mine from behind that tangled, reddened mop of pink mane. The sparkle that gave them life is nowhere to be found.
Aside from the crimson painting on the floor, the room is a mess. Fabric is hung all around, poked through with sewing needles and thread. Scissors and torn cloth alike are caked with dried blood . And through all that mess, Pinkie Pie stares at me with her dead, misty eyes. Staring at me, eyes sad and confused and lips just barely parted, as if about to speak the most burning question.
Why? Why would somepony do this to me? Why did I deserve to die this way?
“I don’t know,” I catch myself whispering under my breath. Some of the officers beside me look at me, nervous. They think I’m insane. But Doc looks over at me sympathetically, nodding slightly. He knows I’m insane.
“You okay?” he asks, his eyes squinting as they do when he examines a patient.
“I’m fine,” I lie.
“You’d be the only one, then,” confesses the good doctor, shifting his spectacles to look down at his specimen. “I can’t say I’ve ever seen anything like this.” He turns and nods at a nearby officer, whose eyes quickly switch from the body to the professor, as if he had been caught doing something obscene. “Get the curtains. We need some light in here.”
The officer mumbles something and obliges, pulling open the polka-dotted blinds. I blink in the sunlight, the light of the morning catching drifting specks of lint floating lazily in the air. The glow pouring into the room like a thick, cloying syrup shimmers and curls around Pinkie Pie’s tousled mane, turning the strands into a halo of light. At a glance, with shadows draped over her eyelids, she looks asleep, even smiling. My mind tricks me into seeing her breathe.
“Shit. There’s just too much blood, Doc,” I rasp. “How many times did this bastard stab her?”
“I’m not quite sure, detective. There’s no way to tell for now. I’d need to get her cleaned up before I can look at the wounds.” He prods her body slightly, kneeling down to get close while being careful to avoid the blood. There are flashes and clicks around me as the some of the senior officers begin photographing the room, documenting evidence. The doctor sighs again, running a hoof down his face. “All I know for now is that our perp was messy.” After a pause, he adds, “Possibly intentionally.”
I swallow the bile in my throat and force myself to look away from the body. My horn prickles faintly, and I pull a notepad and quill from my interior trench coat pocket. I like writing things down. There’s something powerful about taking every little strip of madness that ties life together and getting it down to a few simple scratches on paper.
“What’s your call on TOD?” I ask, getting to my job like a good little detective.
The doctor frowns and motions for one of the officers to take an outline of the body and a couple pictures. Once Pinkie’s death pose has been immortalized on film, he adjusts the body, testing the muscles beneath her coat. “Well judging by the muscle rigidity and the uh... nature, of the eyes,” he says, pointing at the milky film covering Pinkie’s once sparkling pupils, “I’d give it maybe... six, eight hours ago?”
“So a bit past midnight then,” I mutter, checking my watch. “We’re gonna have to press the guardians to see if they know anything about this.” I somehow doubt they would. The officers around me move quickly and efficiently, motivated to work faster by the ghastly presence of the cold, murdered mare. Most of the evidence has been flagged, bagged, and tagged by now. Giving the doctor a quiet nod and thank you, I find my way to the evidence table, drawing my notebook once more to mark out the contents at a glance.
Blood-stained cloth. Scissors. Sewing needles. A book on sewing. Accessories and gemstones and fabrics that would make those Canterlot hot-types blow their loads just looking. It didn’t take a genius to figure out what Pinkie was up to before she died. Until someone cut the thread. But why? Isn’t that the million dollar question? All this running around and prodding and searching to answer a three-letter word. Why.
I don’t know the answer yet. So I scribble down all the puzzle pieces to fit them together later on, when I know what picture I’m trying to put together.
Somepony sighs heavily and smells of morning breath and ale. The Chief pulls off his cap and places it down on the table beside me. He gives me a weary glance. We don’t usually get along. This time, though, things are different.
“Some shit, huh, detective?” he murmurs, staring through me as if he could see his retirement on the other side of my neck.
“Yeah. Some shit,” I croak. Funny. It’s like it’s the only thing any of us can say anymore. His watery gray eyes travel through the dusty, pale-gold air and settle on the delicate corpse.
“The luck of it all, huh? Ain’t had a murder in Ponyville for what, hell, eighteen years? And the one who gets picked out, out of everyone else, it’s her. Pinkie Pie. Dammit all. Known her since she moved to Ponyville. Sweetest thing Celestia ever put on this blasted planet and someone goes and sticks a knife in her.” His gaze lingers on her for a little while, and he chuckles slightly, quickly rubbing a tear crawling out from his weathered tear ducts. “So un-fucking lucky that the little lady would probably be giggling about it right now if she still could,” he chokes.
“It isn’t fair,” I say quietly.
He’s quiet for a moment. “No,” he mutters. “No it isn’t.
There’s another pause, and then I snap my notebook shut, letting the clap of paper indicate the end of this conversation. “I’m going to find who did this, Chief,” I swear. “I promise on everything I have and am that I’m going to find this bastard and see him burn.”
“You better,” he sighs, rubbing his temples. His puckered eyes, wrinkled from the long years on the force and the trauma they’d weathered, are red with stress. “This... This is really damn big. And everyone is gonna come down on us for this. The Bearers, the Princesses, the Royal Guard...”
“All the king’s horses,” I mumble under my breath.
The Chief looks at me funny, wiping away a sniffle. He’s a mountain of a pony, but even this is getting to him.
“I wouldn’t want to be in your shoes right now. When the hammer drops, it’s gonna drop hard. I hope you know that.”
I don’t just know it. I’ve lived it. I slip my notebook back into my trench coat pocket for safekeeping, like tucking a memory away in the back of your mind, one that nags at the back of your skull until you come crawling back to it. I brush past him, giving him the best imitation of a confident smile I can come up with.
“Don’t worry about it,” I tell him. “I’m gonna get a head start on the paperwork.”
He nods silently, and the moment is over.
Paperwork. Yeah. Anything but this.
My hooves echo off the floorboards like those of a stranger, and I shoulder past a few rookies recovering from seeing their lunch for a second time. I pass a few more frightened officers in the hall, walking here and there, like lost souls trapped between planes. There’s a crowd outside. I can hear the confused babbling outside, the sound of the distant water here in this place lost in the dark abyss.
The Cakes are holding each other, trembling with shock. But they hold through and give a statement to the nice officer who isn’t doing the best job of holding back tears. Our eyes lock for a brief moment, and I look away. I mumble an apology. I don’t think they hear it.
“What’s going on?”
“Is everything alright?”
“I have an order waiting...”
The babble is clearer now, and it hurts my head. Two burly stallions block the onlookers, looking as uncertain as the crowd. Tapping one on the shoulder, they let me pass, and I push my way into the crowd as the skies growl. Clear morning, but a storm’s coming. The streets are already dark with the threat of rain.
“Sir, do you know what’s going on in there?”
I ignore them, repeating the same phrase over and over again.
“No statements. No statements.”
“What’s happening?”
“Pinkie?”
“Everything’s okay, right?”
“Pinkie?!”
“No statements.”
“Pinkie! ”
In the black, cloud-riddled sky, there’s suddenly a rainbow. It shoves me aside, lunging at the officers in front of Sugar Cube corner. They struggle to hold her back.
“Ma’am, you can’t–”
“Let me in! Get out of my way ! Pinkie!” Rainbow Dash shoves past the officers, and it’s no contest. She barrels her way inside, and I watch the grim gray building swallow her up.
A raindrop taps against the brim of my hat, and I roll up my collar, turning away quickly. Storm’s coming. And I don’t want to be here for it.
I don’t want to hear her screaming.
The rain grew more vengeful when I reached my house that night. I close the door and leave the torrential downpour locked behind wood and glass.
“House” is maybe a bit of an overstatement. It’s a forgotten building on the fringe of Ponyville, where the chipper thatched rooftops and heart-trimmed fences give way to sad-looking rooftops and woodwork facades. It creaks when it’s cold. Right now it’s groaning like a galleon, and the skies are pouring enough of an ocean for me to set sail. We weren’t supposed to be in for rain like this. But the clouds are too dangerous even for pegasi. Like a snowball, this storm’s been rolling in the distance for a while now. No stopping it now.
I toss my keys on the table, and the jingle they make shoots pain into the back of my horn. Headache. Magic’ll do that to you. For some strange reason, there’s a lot of red tape to go through when you’re filing a report about the murder of one of Equestria’s greatest heroines. I’ve had worse migraines, though. But those usually come in the morning, and they’re not because I’ve been practicing spells all night.
I slip off my soaking wet trench coat and pull my notebook from the inside pocket. The jacket goes on the hanger, along with my holster. The notebook comes with me into the kitchen. After shaking a couple of painkillers from their plastic bottle, I down them along with a swig of water. I look into the mirror. A wreck looks back. With my rusty fur and graying mane, I look like a jalopy that grew hooves and decided to parade around among the living.
I wipe my mouth. It still feels dry. I ignore it, slipping into a chair and spinning it around to face a desk littered with crumpled papers, chewed pencils, and eraser crumbs. The faces on the corkboard above stare down at me as I open up my notebook. They talk amongst themselves through lines of red yarn like a telegraph.
I linger on the first page. Date, signature, badge number, address... and a name.
Heh. Sideways. With a name like that, momma shoulda known I’d be nothing but trouble. Rest her poor soul.
I leaf through the rest of the pages, but I feel numb. The words melt together and I can’t see the edges of my puzzle pieces anymore.
Poor momma. Thought coming to a peaceful little place like Ponyville would be better for her heart. Phillydelphia is a dangerous city, all brick and steel and smoke, where gunshots come from dark alleys and witnesses conveniently disappear. Momma’s heart never would’ve held up if I’d stayed, she was frail. Poppa was a clerk. Would’ve been the smarter thing to follow in his hooves. When I nearly got shot in the brain during a bust, that was the end of it. Momma threatened to cut off everything, disinherit me, OD, the whole nine yards. So I caved and we went to Ponyville, like she’d always wanted. Pretty, safe, peaceful.
She died of cardiac arrest on the train ride. Poor momma. But now she’s gone and I’ve spent the last five years lonely and bored out of my damn mind.
Most of the pages in the notebook are almost totally blank aside from a couple brief notes on some petty theft resolved in a few days or some scribblings from dull board meetings. Ponyville’s quiet. Anything too major is handled by the bearers, and whatever scraps we get tossed are hardly ever worth looking into. The Ponyville Police Department is the most pathetic inside joke in Equestria. I guess it’s fitting enough that I’d end up here.
I stop on the most recent page. The words are blurry.
Sewing book, “Stich in a Sitch!”. Thread. Scissors. Murder weapon? Autopsy? Blood pooling. All doors locked. Dead. Vic: Pinkie Pie.
I read them, over and over again, reliving every moment in that room.
Time of death... Question the guardians, friends, write up report. Cross-check with autopsy.
The headache is coming back. I go back a page, as if I’ll somehow go back in time and find myself someplace better. Instead, I find a hastily-written reminder.
Pinkie’s birthday next week. Find present.
That’s when it hits me. It wasn’t just another body, not just another murder. Pinkie Pie is dead. The one pony who’d shown me the slightest ounce of sunshine and kindness and asked for nothing in return was gone. The one pony who always remembered my birthday even though I could have sworn I’d never told it to her. The one pony who would always send a smile my way even when my head was killing me and I was about to strangle the next pony to look at me funny. The one pony who asked me how my day was and could somehow start a conversation even though nothing had really happened. The one pony who made life beautiful enough that I didn’t put my own gun to my temple.
She’s gone.
The thunder crackles darkly in the distance, and I catch myself crying. A tear rolls down the side of my cheek and falls beside her name.
Finally, I can’t take it anymore. I push away from my desk, and trot to the cupboard. I pull out the hardest liquor in the house besides the rubbing alcohol in the bathroom. I pour a tumbler and down it without even thinking. The burn as it goes down brings tears once more, but these don’t hurt. I look down at the glass, considering another. I go against it, staring out the window as the world ends outside in a curtain of rain and a roar of thunder. I need to be presentable in case the Princesses show up tomorrow. I have to be able to keep it together while I feed them what they want to hear.
I can’t stand them. Bureaucrats. Monarchs. Ponies in suits and crowns with heavy heads and busy hooves. So busy and sure of themselves that they only have time to look at the big picture. A Bearer of an Element has been murdered. Harmony is in peril. All that crap about the future of Equestria that those high-brow alicorns love to monologue so much about.
The glass quivers in my hooves, then cracks.
I don’t care about all that big picture bullshit. Leave it to the bureaucrats. All I know is that a mare who was good to me, a two-time loser going nowhere in life who didn’t deserve the briefest glance of sympathy, was dead.
And I was going to find the son of a bitch who did it.
Morning comes too soon. It brings the hangover I was hoping I could avoid. The morning routine plays itself out like a rerun of some two-bit soap on TV. Life and Times of Sideways. Season eight, episode four: stale oats and coffee for breakfast. I choke it down and I’m out the door without so much as giving my condo a second glance. Once outside, though, I take my time.
The ground’s still soggy from last night’s storm, and the sky tells me that it’s far from over. The mud on my hooves is as damp and sticky as the air itself, heavy with rain and that weird aftertaste of garbage that always seems to hang around this side of Ponyville. I'm used to it by now. It doesn’t detract from one thing, though: the silence. The absolute silence.
Early bird gets the worm, but I’m the kind of pony who’s out so early that the bird hasn’t even crawled out of its nest yet. Just about anyone sane in Ponyville is still tucked away in their cozy little bed. I’m alone in the streets. Some ponies would say it’s like walking through a graveyard, what with the houses obscured in fog like tombstones, the names on the mailboxes marking the corpses that sleep inside. Those ponies clearly haven’t been to the Ponyville mortuary before.
It’s inconspicuous enough, a house of the dead sheltered in the heart of Ponyville, between a fancy tudor and a coffee shop. The door creaks open with a soft whine that’s become a customary greeting between the two of us. I’ve been here one time too many in the morning, just to talk with Doc. He’s even worse at sleeping in than I am. This place is basically my second home. So I’m less than pleased when I suddenly find the tip of a spear placed at my throat.
“Halt!” barks a royal guard in unison with his comrade, planting his hooves on the tiles. My nostrils wrinkle with disgust. Royal guards. Lunar guards, by the looks of it, with their cat-like eyes peering at me from behind their helmets and their bat wings bristling. Probably on the night shift. I slap his weapon aside.
“Get that damn thing out of my face,” I snarl, levitating my badge out from breast pocket of my trench coat. “PPD. I’m here to check up on an autopsy.”
One of the bat-ponies lowers his spear as he leers at my credentials, but his friend doesn’t so much as budge, ready to perforate me at a word. I glare back at him. This is my town, buddy. Not yours. Who the hell do you think you’re looking at?
“Checks out,” grunts the first guard, as if there had ever been a doubt. They lower their weapons and return to attention on either side of the door. “Move along.”
I know better than to tell them exactly where they can move along to, but I can’t help but sneer to myself as I walk past reception and down the hall. Posers. Cute little ponies in shiny armor playing dress-up, acting like it’ll impress somepony. Not even a dent in their armor and they think they’re top dog.
“Pathetic,” I mumble under my breath as I reach Doc’s operating theater and push the door open. It smells like death. Formaldehyde and pickled onions curl into my nostrils like tentacles, slithering into my throat and twisting around in my stomach. Good thing I haven’t had much of a breakfast. No matter how often I come here, I never get used to the smell.
The good doctor is still hard at work, leaning over his desk in the far corner of the theater. Slouching over papers, he doesn’t hear me as I enter, only turning around when the door shuts behind me with a click .
“Hmm? Oh, Sideways. I wasn’t expecting you,” he mumbles sleepily, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes.
“Judging by the welcome wagon outside, I’d guess you weren’t expecting anyone at all,” I respond, fiddling with a scalpel on one of the counters. When he only answers with a half-hearted mumble, I look at him with a raised eyebrow. “How long you been here, Doc?”
“All night,” he admits. “The boys out front showed up in the middle of it. Nearly scared me to death.”
“That bad?”
“I basically had to shove them out the door to get them to wait outside rather than in here.”
“Why in Tartarus are they here anyways?”
“I don’t know, Sideways. This isn’t just another murder; you know that. The Princesses are probably terrified right now. A Bearer is dead. This is humongous. Historic. Equestria is on the edge right now. The last thing it needs is for something to happen to the body.”
I nod. There’s a tightness in my gut, but I have no other choice but to admit that he’s right. Slowly, I face the pink elephant in the room, sleeping on a metal slab with the sheets pulled over her head. Ever contour of the fabric sticks out like something on a movie screen, like it’s not really there.
“This her?”
Doc stands like an old pony. “Yes.”
“Then let’s not waste any more time, Doc. Let’s hear what you’ve got to tell me.”
He nods, grabbing his clipboard and ambling over to the other side of the operating table. His hoof reaches for the shroud when he suddenly stops, looking up at me, as if asking for permission. I remove my hat, tossing it aside.
“I’ve seen bodies before, Doc. I’m fine,” I lie.
He obliges with a cough, and the white sheet falls away from Pinkie’s face.
Her eyes are closed now. Pinkie’s eyelids are bruised, red around the edges. The blood crusted into her coat is gone now, washed away by caustic soaps and chemicals, but it still doesn’t look quite right. It’s pale, white-washed, cold. Even her mane doesn’t look right, combed back and neatly placed to the side of her head.
The doctor coughs again, and looks down at the clipboard in his hooves. “It was bad,” he says simply.
Bad is an understatement. Gashes cover her body like Tartarus’s tally marks, a tick for each crime. The fur’s been shaved around the wounds, leaving black-blue scars on white flesh, vulgar and violent. I force myself to keep down my oats as the doctor continues. It’s not Pinkie Pie anymore. It’s just a body.
“Eight lacerations in total, and the cut width tells me it was all probably done with the same tool: our murder weapon. Any luck on that?”
“Not yet.”
“You’re looking for a knife. Fairly standard edge. Maybe a kitchen knife.”
I jot down the comment in my notebook and circle it. I look up and the doctor is pointing at different spots on her body.
“Three lacerations on her front left, two on her hind left. Then two here, at the base of the neck,” he illustrates, lifting her head off the table. “Deep stab wounds, around fifteen centimeters, tapering. The one on the left was into muscle. The right one was fatal, severed the spine. But all of them were very messy.”
No detail is missed. I do my best not to bite my tongue. My jaw shudders and my teeth grind into each other like they’ve got a score to settle. “Messy?” I echo.
“Yes. Except for one.” He points to her neck, where an elegant crescent crust arcs across Pinkie’s throat. I cringe. Doc pretends he doesn’t notice.
“A perfect cut. No way the killer could have pulled this off if she were struggling. Either way, it kept her from screaming for help. She must have been snuck up on.”
“That, or she knew the killer,” I say grimly, snapping my notebook shut.
Doc chuckles in disbelief. “You’re a cold bastard, Sideways. That’s a heavy accusation.”
“It’s not an accusation. Just a thought. I’m not leaving anything out of the equation. But...” I point to the wounds behind her knees. “Why the legs? If the killer’s surprised her and trapped her, why attack the legs? Why not a killing blow right there?”
“These wounds were hastily made, but they did the job. Damaged the muscle and cut the tendons.”
“So she was incapacitated. Why would the killer need to slow her down if she’s trapped in her room?”
The Doc looks up at me with watery red eyes. “I’m just a lowly doctor, son. I can’t give you that kind of answer. That’s your job.”
Before I can press him further, there’s an angry knock at the door, and it’s shoved open. Smells like shit again. I turn around and find who else but two more royal guards. Celestia’s finest this time. Gold armor, no better. You can paint a turd, but it stays a turd. They stare me down with their arrogant eyes and jutting jaws.
“Detective Sideways?” they ask, spitting out my name like last month’s hay.
I give Doc a glance. He shrugs, as confused as I am, but less pissed off. “Who’s asking?” I answer.
“You’re going to need to come with us.”
Neither of the guards say a word as they march me down the street. It’s hard to keep my dignity intact, being shepherded by the two stallions as if they were taking me to class. Thankfully, there still aren’t many ponies awake yet. Only a few windows are creaking open as ponies reluctantly look up at the gray skies and choose to head back to bed. It doesn’t take me long to figure out where we’re going: back to the station.
The Ponyville Police station isn’t exactly impressive. It’s touched up in the usual cheery Ponyville fashion with the woodwork sporting engraved hearts and flowers. Very intimidating. There’s scarcely any need for a police force, so the whole place is underfunded, getting only a footnote at the end of the town’s tax revenue. And it shows.
We march past the heavy oaken doors, which look like they haven’t been polished since Ponyville was founded, and into the main hall. The guards loosen once inside. It’s easy to see why. They’re home. In my home.
It doesn’t look like a police station anymore as much as it does royal barracks. Guards line the sides of the corridors, patrolling the building and peering into the cramped offices, where a few cubicle monkeys are desperately trying to avoid their judgmental stares. There are even guards outside the Chief’s office. Unbelievable.
“Expecting war?” I ask incredulously. “This is a police station, not a damn fortress.”
They don’t even so much as grace me with an answer. “Keep walking,” one says stiffly. One of them puts their hoof on my shoulder, and I slap it away. There’s a sudden silence. The guards look up from their conversations, and officers watch from behind their papers and staplers. I stare at him, daring him to try for it again. His eyes narrow, ready to call my bluff.
“I think I can take it from here,” I say slowly, not hiding the disdain in my voice. Our eyes stay locked until the guard looks up and nods to the armored ponies standing by the door to the Chief’s office. Without a word, they pull their spears to their sides, staring straight ahead as I walk past.
“Mind your manners,” grunts one. I don’t bother responding. I’m trying to figure out exactly how long the sticks up their asses are. I barge into the office in one hell of a mood. The Chief looks up in surprise from his spot behind his cluttered desk when I slam the door behind me. His back wall is adorned with dozens of plaques and medals that he’s earned from sitting right there all day.
Yeah, I’m mad. I shouldn’t take it out on him, but I do anyways.
“You know, Chief,” I snarl, “if you wanted to see me, a friendly reminder would have sufficed. I didn’t need a fucking babysitter to find–”
“Detective Sideways!” he growls in response. “You will kindly watch your language and do yourself the favor of showing a little respect.”
I’m about to tear into him again when I realize we aren’t alone. Slowly turning to my left, I realize who’s standing behind me.
I’m not a fan of the monarchs. That much isn’t hard to figure out. But when two almighty, and for what I know, immortal rulers of the land are staring at you with a look of disappointment that could sour milk, it’s hard to keep your tail from going between your legs. Celestia and Luna. Dammit all.
“I... uh... Princesses. Sorry about the uh... I didn’t know you were here,” I say, lowering my head in an uncomfortable bow. The Chief sighs, surprised I’m smart enough to humble myself. Princess Luna is less than amused. She pushes back a lock of her glittering mane in disgust.
“This is your investigator, Mr. Book?” she demands, shooting a dirty look at the Chief. “A vulgar mouth such as his deserves not the dignity of being given such a great burden.” Her voice makes me want to sink into the floorboards and vanish. I keep staring downwards.
“I apologize on behalf of Detective Sideways,” clamors the Chief. “He’s not exactly–”
“There is no need for apologies, Mr. Book,” answers another voice tenderly. Princess Celestia. A hoof touches my chin and lifts my head upwards. I find myself staring into her eyes. She smiles warmly, and like the sun she raises, I feel the warmth of her grin on my face. “These are trying times for us all. I’m certain Detective Sideways meant no ill will.”
I nod dumbly, like an awestruck colt discovering for the first time what a mare truly was. “No, your Majesty,” I say quietly.
She removes her hoof, standing fully. She’s taller, larger than life. An angel. “She was your friend, wasn’t she?” Princess Celestia asks.
“I think she was a friend to everyone,” I answer.
Celestia nods wisely, casting an indecipherable look to her sister, who sighs uncomfortably.
The Chief coughs into his hoof. “Well, with that out of the way... We were just talking about you, Detective Sideways.”
“Nothing but good things, I bet.”
“We were... uh...” He fumbles with one of the numerous stress balls on his desk. I’ve known him long enough to know he’s going to tell me something that I won’t like. “Thing is–”
“We believe,” interrupts Princess Luna, her expression stone-cold, “that it is in the better interest of Equestria that you relinquish your investigation to a royally appointed detective.”
“Come again?”
“We appreciate your service, Detective Sideways. However, even you must realize that this case is far above the responsibility of–”
“Some Ponyville cop?” I challenge. Princess Luna’s expression goes from stone to steel, and I mentally slap myself. Cutting off a goddess. I’ll be adding that to my resumé.
“I believe you are misunderstanding our interests, Detective Sideways,” coos Princess Celestia, trying to find peace before Luna does the smart thing and wipes me off the face of the planet. “This is in no way a challenge to your position. I’ve read your files. You’re a fine detective.”
I know she’s lying, but her voice is too kindly to hold it against her. I stare straight ahead at the wall behind her.
“The truth of the matter is, however, that this murder is of incredible sensitivity to the balance of Equestria. I know you understand the gravity of Pinkie Pie’s murder.”
I chew the inside of my mouth. Tastes like stale oats. “I do.”
“Then please understand that we are relieving you of a burden you do not want. I trust your experience as a detective, but the consequences should you fail in apprehending the suspect of this case are...” She lets the sentence trail, and her sister wastes no time in picking it up again.
“You’ll be known as the detective who failed in arresting the biggest criminal Equestria has seen since the rule of Discord. Are you prepared for that kind of threat to your dignity and potentially your life?”
“I won’t fail.”
“You can’t guarantee that.”
“I won’t fail ,” I insist. I look Princess Luna dead in the eye, and it takes everything I’ve got to keep myself from shaking. “I swear by everything I have that I won’t fail. I’ll find the killer, I’ll bring him to justice.”
“Let it go, Sideways,” advises the Chief, leaning back in his chair heavily. “You have to realize that this is beyond you. Beyond us. Let somepony who knows what they’re doing handle this instead.”
“I know what I’m doing.”
“Your pride is blinding you, Detective,” sighs Princess Luna, as if she were talking to a child. Relatively speaking, I suppose she is. “We understand your frustration. However, we implore you to realize that your stepping down reflects in no way on your standing as an officer of the Ponyville Police Department, nor on your honor as a stallion. This is about the fate and justice of Equestria. Not you. So put this pettiness aside and do what is best.”
The Chief looks at me uneasily. He knows all too well that if any other pony were telling me this, they’d be scraping themselves off the concrete before they could even finish their sentence. I won’t lie, even now I have to hold myself back. My temper is always like some frothing, growling caged mutt, dragging me where I shouldn’t go. But even then... I have to realize that she’s right.
I do something I haven’t done in a long time. I tell her the truth.
“You’re right. It isn’t about me. That’s not why I’m doing this. I’m doing this because it’s about her. About Pinkie Pie. This isn’t about my honor or pride. I don’t care about it. That died long ago, your Majesty.”
Something in my voice makes her expression soften, and she looks hesitantly to Princess Celestia, who watches on silently.
“This is about what I owe her. Pinkie Pie gave me something I didn’t have before. She gave us all a friend, but she gave me more than just that. She gave me hope. You know what that feels like? So please... I...”
My knees go weak and, slowly, as if they were resisting, they bend, and I bow. My muzzle presses into the dirty floor.
“Please. I’ll do anything.”
I feel naked, suddenly. Exposed. Even the Chief is looking away, embarrassed for me, as I humble myself before an authority I’ve never mentioned without a curse word to describe them. It’s pathetic, it’s sad, it’s shameful. My cheeks are burning and my gut twisting. But it doesn’t matter, because she’s worth it.
Neither of the Princesses say a word. They watch me like cats sizing up prey, waiting for a single twitch of insincerity or doubt to give me away so that they could pounce and swallow me whole. They don’t get it.
“Rise,” Princess Celestia says simply. I obey. Her horn flares, and a sound like tinkling glass bells floats around the room. She levitates a scroll across the room and into my hooves. It’s officially sealed with the royal crest, and on a finer parchment than I could probably ever afford. She gives me a nod, and I open it.
It’s full of words I could probably never understand no matter how long I went to school for it. I do recognize one of them, though. My name, neatly written on a line beside the signatures of both Princess Luna and Celestia.
I look up at them in disbelief. Princess Celestia nods, and Princess Luna even gives me a slight smile. Angels. Both of them. They knew all along.
“Make her proud, Detective,” Princess Celestia says gently.
It’s hard to make any words come out of my mouth. But I manage a weak “thank you”, and a slow nod of my head. Even when they dismiss me and I walk out of the office, I can’t quite feel my hooves as they walk down the hallway. There’s a weird twist in my gut. The officers and royal guards become nothing but blurry faces passing me by. I find myself outside. I look up. A light drizzle caresses my face.
Well, you’ve done it, Sideways.
Now what?
I can’t answer. I amble down the streets of Ponyville, suddenly lost and confused, with nothing but my revolver nestled in the crook of my front leg and my notebook in my pocket. Questions and half-formed ideas float through my brain, incoherent. Without really meaning to, I stop in front of a familiar drug store. I look at the sign, and it seems to stare back at me, an old friend soured that it’s taken me so long to return her call.
I haven’t smoked in five years. Quit after momma died.
My mouth does feel awful dry.
A few bits later, I’m lighting up underneath that same sign. The rank of tobacco fills my lungs, slowing my heart. I exhale, and the smoke swirls around my nuzzle in complex patterns and forms. The old fortune tellers read the future in smoke. I’m not so lucky.
Taking an uncomfortable drag, I head off into the empty streets of Ponyville. The only warmth in the cold rain comes from the glow of a lonely cigarette and its cloud of gray-blue smoke.
It’s hard to come back to Sugarcube Corner. Seeing the happy little bakery with its windows darkened and the front door shut made it looks dead somehow. The half-closed shutters are tired, sleepy, mourning. In its gloom, it blends into the fog choking Ponyville. The chipper “sorry, but we’re closed!” sign smiles at me as I walk up the front steps. I give four quick knocks on the door of unhappiness and put out my cigarette. I contemplate grinding it into the ground. Not in front of this place, I decide. I stick the butt into my pocket.
When the door slowly unlocks and an eye looks at me through the crack in the frame, I feel like a trespasser.
“Mrs. Cake?” I ask, removing my hat.
“Yes?” she croaks weakly. I know she recognizes me, but she wants to hear the words come out of my mouth.
“I’m Detective Sideways, with the PPD. I’d... like to ask you a few questions.”
She stares at me blankly, as if I’d spoken a different language. The door opens a little bit wider. Her plump, happy face is ashen, shadows staining her eyelids. The jovial baker is little more than a spectre. “Questions?” she says uneasily, sniffling.
“I know this is a bad time, but I...”
“No, no, please. I’m sorry. Come in.” She opens the front door fully, stepping aside so that I can enter. I lower my head as I cross the threshold. It’s like entering a tomb.
It’s unnaturally dark inside. The curtains are closed, as if the Cakes had reason to fear the sun, and it’s as if nothing’s been touched since... the last time I was here.
“Sweetie,” calls out Mrs. Cake. It sounds like a cry for help. “Detective Sideways is here. He says he wants to talk to us.”
There’s a shuffle from the kitchen, and Mr. Cake, looking as skeletal as his wife, limps out into the foyer. He tries for a smile, but it looks awkward and crooked on his face.
“Detective,” he says with false cheer. “So glad you could come here on... such short notice!” He looks to me, then down at one of the chairs sitting by the counter. He waves to it as eagerly as he can manage. “Please, have a seat.”
I give him a nod and do as he asks. He wastes no time in fetching two more chairs, easing his wife into hers first, followed by himself. Another crooked smile. Mrs. Cake stares down at the floor.
I clear my throat. “I’m terribly sorry for your loss, Mr. and Mrs. Cake. Pinkie Pie was a brilliant, intelligent, strong mare. She was a friend to everyone. A friend to me. I’m sorry that this had to happen.”
The couple look caught between that horrible, nauseating place between laughing and crying. Mrs. Cake cradles her head in her hooves, and her husband wraps a foreleg around her.
“Thank you,” he says, speaking for them both.
“I know that this hard for you both,” I console, straining to use what little experience I had on such a touchy subject, “but right now I need you to be strong, and help me get to the bottom of this. I need you to remember everything you can about what happened to Pinkie Pie the day before she... died.” The word hurts to say, but they don’t flinch at it.
Mr. Cake looks to his desolate wife, and then back up. Before he can speak, however, Mrs. Cake cuts him off with a hoof on his shoulder. She takes a deep breath, then looks me in the eye. She nods, and I slowly take my notebook out of my trench coat pocket. I watch her carefully when she begins speaking.
“It was just like any other day. Carrot and I were busy with a big order. We’d been asked to cater for a party in Trottingham while the twins were off in Canterlot with their aunt and uncle. Pinkie... came down for breakfast as she usually did.”
“A bolt of energy,” chuckled Mr. Cake, shaking his head. It gets a smile out of his wife. A weak one, but it was there.
“She ate well. She was never a fussy eater. A stack of pancakes, juice, some fruit. The doctor’s been telling her to eat more fruit. She’d been getting a bit of a pudge as of late, you see. So half the pancakes went to Gummy, who didn’t really ever mind. She always thought about others. She... Oh...”
I look up to a light tapping on the floorboards. Tears are rolling off Mrs. Cake’s cheeks, falling like liquid diamonds through the air. She covers her face, her back shaking as she tries with all her soul to stop crying. Mr. Cake holds his wife close, whispering soft reassurances.
“She left the house around eight in the morning,” he says, taking over for his wife. “She said she was going to the library to help out Twilight Sparkle with organizing her books. It was Sunday. Re-shelving day. We spent the rest of the day baking. Time flew right by. The next time we saw her was at about eight in the afternoon.”
He points at the front door. “She ran inside, carrying a basket. She’d been crying. You could always tell when she’d been crying.”
“What was in the basket?” I question, scribbling a few more notes down.
“I’m not sure... Some fabrics, I think. And a book. I tried asking her what was the matter, but she didn’t say anything. Just ran right upstairs like she had a train to catch and locked the door. We tried to get her to come out. Begged her to come out. She just told us to go away and that she wouldn’t come out until she was done. I couldn’t even get her to leave for a bite to eat. It was strange, sure, but I’d seen her do stranger. We decided to leave her alone until she calmed down. Thought she’d get hungry eventually.”
“So you left her in there?”
“Yes.”
“And nopony came in or out?”
“I don’t think so. The door locks from the inside. Unless Pinkie let somepony else in....”
“I see. Go on, please.”
Here he falls silent, staring off into space as if looking for something. I frown uncomfortably. This would be the hard part. It always would be. Mrs. Cake had stopped shaking, but her head stayed in her hooves. Sighing wearily, Mr. Cake focuses on me once more. His eyes are glistening.
“Next morning, the door was still locked. When we called for her, shouted for her to open, she didn’t give us an answer. We were scared. I bucked the door open and...”
He swallows hard, closing his eyes. A tear escapes.
“And then we found her.” He doesn’t say it so much as he spits it, as if gasping for air.
As I watch Mr. Cake try to compose himself, I wish I understood grief. When momma died, I’d felt nothing more than a sort of numbness. Where I was supposed to feel and cry and weep, there was absolutely nothing at all. Just something that was missing. I didn’t cry. I never did. I’m pretty sure I’m a psychopath, and Doc’s pretty sure of it too. That’s why this hurts the most, I guess.
Pinkie’s gone, and I suddenly feel a pain I don’t quite understand. I can only watch like a hunched gargoyle as the Cakes mourn the loss that I’ve brought back to their doorstep.
“I’m sorry,” I murmur. “No one should have to... Go through this.” It sounds like something the Chief might say. It seems to do the trick. Mr. Cake wipes his eyes and nods thankfully.
“Thank you.”
“And what about Pinkie’s parents? Have you heard anything from them at all?”
“No, not yet,” sighs Mr. Cake, his eyes still shiny. “The Princesses have sent them a letter personally. I can’t imagine what they must be going through.”
About as much as a parent that let their child leave home as a filly can. I don’t know why I think that, but I hate myself for it. I nod, jotting down a few more things into my notebook. Suddenly, there’s a cold nibbling at my leg, and I look down to find a tiny alligator gumming at my hoof. It looks up at me with its wide, blank eyes.
Mr. Cake smiles weakly. “I think he likes you.”
I mirror his smile, reaching down and giving the critter a scratch behind its non-existent ears. It purrs like a cat. Weird. “Gummy, right?”
“Yeah. Little fella’s been... taking it better than any of us ever could.”
Gummy gives me a few more friendly chomps, chirrups, and ambles away. He does a little circle around the carpet in the foyer, and takes a seat in front of the door. It hits me why he seems so chipper. Ignorance is sweet. And so he sits and stares.
Waiting for Pinkie to come home.
I breathe in sharply. I can’t stay here anymore. Shutting my notebook, I get up, nodding politely to the Cakes. “Thank you for your time. I’ll be in touch.”
Mrs. Cake sniffles, smiling appreciatively. I’m about ready to leave when something catches my eye. In the kitchen, not too far from the counter, a rack of black-handled kitchen knives. When do bakers need knives? The sick riddle bounces around in my head as I stare at one hole in the wooden rack. Empty.
“Have you always been missing a knife?” I hear myself ask.
Mr. Cake follows my stare, and finds what I’m looking at.
“I... don’t think so,” he says, his voice cracking with uncertainty.
The gears in my head sputter and cough as they begin to turn, shaking off the cobwebs. With another glance at the grieving couple, I don my hat and give it a polite tip before stepping out the door.
Missing knife. Missing murder weapon. I stand outside in the cold humidity of Ponyville, writing the words close together and linking them with a line. Can’t be a coincidence. Kitchen knife, standard edge.
Something in my gut twists and growls, and the bakery behind me feels like it’s breathing down my neck in time with the dank wind. I get the feeling I’m not done with this place, but for now I have another lead. I tug another cigarette into my lips, lighting up before heading down the street. For some reason, I look over my shoulder as I leave before Sugarcube Corner is swallowed up by the fog.
First, the station. Then, I think I have an appointment with the personal student of a goddess.
I’m not a book kind of guy. Not really a reading kind of guy, period. The most I can get into are the funnies at the back of the newspaper every morning. I don’t read the news for the most part, aside from skimming. Not that an article about Ponyville’s latest flower garden opening or a column on how to keep your mane looking fab- ulous isn’t riveting.
All in all, the written word isn’t my thing unless I’m the story. So I’m not a big patron of the Ponyville library. From what I remember, though, it isn’t usually being guarded by a small squad of burly looking Celestial guards.
They’re already glaring daggers at me by the time I’m hardly thirty meters away. I suppose the trench coat and low-slung fedora doesn’t do much for making me look any friendlier. One of them with some exceptionally well-polished armor stops me before I can get much closer. Two of his friends flank me, arms at the ready.
“Name?” he asks.
“Yours first, sugar,” I say dryly, taking another drag of my cigarette.
“Name? ”
“Detective Sideways.”
“Business?”
“Answering stupid fucking questions from a ponce in plastic armor, apparently.”
I’m no good at reading books, but I read ponies. I know just how far I can go with this guy before he sends me on my ass, and yet I’m still dumb enough to try my luck. Moving more quickly than I guessed he could, he smacks the cigarette straight out of my lips, stomping it into the wet dirt.
“Business.” He doesn’t ask it. He says it like it’s two words.
I reach for the inside of my trenchcoat, and suddenly I have two spears hovering at my throat. I slow down and carefully pull a piece of parchment from the inside pocket, not once breaking eye contact with the guard in front of me. His horn glows and he pulls it away from me.
I get a twinge of satisfaction when I see his eyes widen at the royal seal. He’s too proud to stop there, obviously. He opens it up, his eyes narrowing as he reads the signature for the faintest sign of forgery. Finally, he rolls it shut, grimacing with forced professionalism.
“Detective Sideways. My mistake.” The spears go away. “Is there a problem?”
“Not yet, no. I need to talk with Twilight Sparkle.”
“Why?”
I smirk. “That’s classified.”
His eyes narrow again, and I have to commend him for not sticking me one there and then. He steps aside. “Alright, then. This way.”
He escorts me to the door of the library built into the ancient oak at the heart of Ponyville. He gives it a pretty weak knock for a stallion his frame. When there’s no answer again, he knocks once more, louder this time.
“Miss Sparkle,” he calls. I hear the sound of someone coming up to the door.
“Miss–”
The door opens, and there’s no one there. Looking down, a dragon baby is looking up at us. Twilight’s friend and not-quite-servant-for-life, Spike.
“Uh... Can I help you?” he asks uncertainly.
“I have a visitor for Miss Sparkle,” says the guard, jerking his head towards me.
“Umm...” he taps his claws under his chin, looking over his shoulder as if someone was watching him. “Twilight isn’t really taking visitors.”
“There you have it, Detective. No visitors,” the guard echoes, not trying particularly hard to hide the sneer on his face.
“Wait, a detective?” questions Spike. He taps his feet anxiously. “Uh... Wait here for a moment.” Neither of us get a word out before he slams the door shut on our faces. The guard and I exchange perplexed glances. I didn’t know dragons started being cryptic so young. It doesn’t take long before he comes back, opening the door a bit wider.
“Right, Detective, come on in. Twilight wants to talk with you, I think.”
I give him a tip of the hat before stepping past him into the library. The guard watches me leave and moves to follow before being stopped by Spike sticking a claw in front of him.
“Just him. Sorry!” he says meekly before shutting the door in his face. He presses his back against the door and slides down it with a sigh of relief. I can’t help but give him an amused smile. Poor kid. I can’t even begin to guess what it’s like living under Twilight’s roof. The mere sight of her makes me go sour. It’s not her fault, really; it’s mine. She’s the symbol of everything the PPD could be but isn’t.
“You alright?”
“Oh yeah. Never been better,” he says glumly, wiping away a bead of sweat.
“They been here long?”
“Since last night. Don’t know why. Twilight won’t talk about it. Did Discord break out again or something?”
I give him a hard, long look. He stares right back at me, not giving the slightest sign of insincerity. He raises an eyebrow.
“What?”
“Yeah. Discord. Something like that.”
Spike scratches at the back of his neck. A nervous reflex. With all the work he must do, it’s hard to forget that he’s still only a child. Good thing I won’t be around when he’s a big boy. All that frustration is going to make one hell of a grownup. I should know. “Right... Well I’ll go get Twilight. She should be finishing up some experiment real soon. What are you investigating, anyways?”
“Nothing particularly important,” I lie, pacing around the room, my head craned to look up the shelves crammed full of books. “I just need to talk to her for a moment.”
“Well, I’ll go get her real quick!” He races past me, darting through a door on the far side of the library and down into the basement. I watch him go, curious.
An experiment? At a time like this? Twilight Sparkle, what are you up to? It’s almost second nature when I pull out my notebook and start writing. Something about this place is putting me on edge. There’s a sort of weird tingle in the back of my horn, like the breath of something foul and snake-like curled around my ribcage and reaching for my neck. I don’t really pay too much heed to magic studies and sciences, but something just feels... off.
It’s that kind of off that only a unicorn could really feel. Something in the air, something in the way things seem not quite right. Like an electricity under the skin. My eyes linger to some of the books lying about, half opened and disorganized. Twilight is careful with her books.
I pick out one of the heavy tomes. I hardly get a chance to read before a magic far more powerful than mine envelops its pages and rips the it out of my grasp. Twilight Sparkle’s eyes narrow and she slams the book shut, its heavy thud like a shutting coffin.
“It’s not polite to go through a pony’s things,” she advises. The rest of the books start glowing, and without the slightest effort she levitates every last one of them and slots them back into their shelves. The feeling of unease doesn’t go away. It gets stronger.
Twilight and I haven’t gotten along in the past. Granted, we almost never really talked either, but we were like water and grease whenever we did. She was buried in her books, flying high on Celestia’s wings and her own high-falutin’ ideals. I’d learned my lessons in punches to the jaw and kicks to the gut. Two different schools of life, and it usually meant that we didn’t really attract. As much as I hate to admit it, though, too much of it comes from jealousy. She’s smarter than me, higher placed than me, and with more friends than I could ever possibly kid myself into thinking I had. Normally, that wouldn’t bother me. Except she always loved butting her head where it didn’t need to be.
Accident with an apple cart tipping over? No need for the police to get involved, Twilight will just magic everything right again. Town’s being turned upside down? Well, let’s not even give a footnote to the officers who risked life and hoof to keep everything intact, let’s give all the credit to Twilight Sparkle and friends who saved all of Equestria. Again.
“Spike?” calls Twilight Sparkle over her shoulder. Her scaled butler comes running as if his life depended on it. “Could you go down and tidy up the lab? I think I’m done for today.”
“Are you sure?” he asks, visibly disappointed at the prospect of missing out on the action.
“Positive, Spike. Go.” Her eyes don’t leave mine. I don’t say a word.
Alright then, if that’s your game. Get the kid out of the way. You and me, Twilight. Like a showdown at high noon, I feel my hooves quivering, ready to draw my weapon at the signal. Twilight Sparkle’s eyes don’t leave mine. She’s as ready as I am.
The door to the basement slams shut. Draw.
“You haven’t told him?” I fire off.
“He doesn’t need to know,” she says, deflecting the question.
“He doesn’t need to know that one of his friends is dead?” I shoot back.
Flesh wound. She doesn’t back down. “I’ll tell him, eventually. When he’s ready.”
“When he’s ready? Or when you’re ready to tell him?”
Killshot. She blinks in surprise, and looks away. Corpse doesn’t know that she’s dead. “I don’t think what I tell Spike is any of your business, Detective.”
Fine. We’ll call it a tie, then. I holster my gun and draw my quill. “Then let’s get to what is my business, Miss Sparkle. I’d like to ask you a few questions.”
“I guessed you would,” said Twilight Sparkle vaguely. “I have a few of those for you myself.”
I raise an eyebrow. “That so?”
“It is. Want something to drink?” she offers, motioning towards the kitchen with her head.
I’m not particularly thirsty, but I nod anyways, following her through the library. I can’t help but let my gaze wander to her flank as she walks. Her stride gives her away as older beyond her years, having missed or lost something that would have given her the bounce of a younger mare.
“Looking for something, Detective?” I hear Twilight demand coldly. I let myself get distracted again, and she’s looking at me over her shoulder in disapproval.
“No, I uh... I just wanted to think of how to say that... I’m sorry for your loss, Miss Sparkle.”
The cold look on her face thaws a little bit, and the light catches her eyes in just a way that I can see the lamps of the library glistening in her pupils. It’s not hard to read the grief. But something else glimmers there, darker, somber.
“Thank you, Detective,” she says sincerely. Her stride becomes less tense as she fetches some glasses and lemonade from the counter. She hands me my drink, and I thank her with a tip of my head, keeping it between my hooves as I grab a seat across from her. I don’t touch it. I never drink what I don’t pour.
I place my notebook down on the table, and bring my quill to bear. She watches it as I press it against the page.
“So you’re in charge of the investigation?” she asks, as I write the header to the page I’m consecrating to this interview.
“Yes ma’am. The Princesses made me a royal envoy for this case,” I say carefully.
“That’s a big responsibility.”
“It is. I’m honored.”
“Think you can handle that all by yourself?”
I put down my pencil. Twilight is staring back at me, her expression giving me nothing, but her eyes telling me exactly what I know I’m hearing. A challenge.
“I think so.”
“You think so?”
“I’ve handled similar cases in the past, yes.”
“So Pinkie Pie being murdered is just a ‘similar case’ to you, then?”
“Miss Sparkle,” I say tersely, “Pinkie Pie was as important to all of us as she was to you. I want to see the killer pay for his crime as much as you do. I’d like it if you didn’t question my authority.”
She bites her lip and looks down at her lemonade irritably.
“I know. I want to help.”
“And you can,” I reassure her, picking up my notebook. “You can start by–”
“Show me your notes.”
I stop mid-sentence in disbelief. Twilight Sparkle is holding out her hoof, waiting for me to hand over my booklet.
“Excuse me?”
“I want to see what you know. I can cross-reference it with what I know, and get to the bottom of this.”
“Miss Sparkle–”
She interrupts me again, “You want to find this killer? Then give me your notes and I can find it. You know I can. I have the magic, the knowledge, the skill. You know I do.”
“And you’re implying I don’t?”
“Let’s be clear here, Detective Sideways. As well as you think you know Pinkie Pie, you didn’t know her like I do. You didn’t–”
“Miss Sparkle, I understand your grief and frustration–”
“I’m not frustrated.”
“–But I can’t let you step in on this again. This isn’t Discord turning Ponyville upside down. This isn’t the return of Nightmare Moon. This is a murder, and it is under my jurisdiction to handle this.” I stab a hoof at her for emphasis. She doesn’t flinch. “This isn’t your job, Miss Sparkle. Stay out my business.”
“Your business?” she explodes, almost lunging at me from across the table. “My best friend is dead and it’s just your business!? ”
There’s something burning in her eyes. Something pained and hurt, like a caged animal, wounded, desperate. She’s taut as a fiddle, and I’m plucking at her strings. It suddenly occurs to me that she could vaporize me in an instant, before I could even think to draw my piece. But I’m not backing down.
“This is my job, Miss Sparkle. I’m a member of the police, and I intend to do my duty to Ponyville and Pinkie Pie,” I tell her as professionally as I can, refusing to lean back as her horn starts to spark.
“She was my friend , damn you! I have as much of a right to know as you do!”
“And you will. Let me handle this.”
“I don’t need you !” she screams, slamming her hoof against the counter. “I can handle this myself! Better than you ever could! I want to see this monster burn and I can handle this better than you ever could!”
“Handle this case?” I retort, glaring. “Handle this case ? When you can’t even handle the fact that Pinkie Pie is dead , Twilight?”
She jerks back in horror, her eyes wide. “You... how dare...”
I lean in to follow her with the ace in my sleeve. “Because I somehow doubt that you’re suddenly reading into necromancy out of innocent curiosity.”
I get Twilight’s glass of lemonade thrown into my face. And as it drips down my muzzle, blurring Twilight’s eyes as they fill with tears, I can’t help but feel I deserve it. She steps away from the kitchen counter, trembling, her ears flattened. She turns away, leaning against the wall. She’s too proud to let me see her cry.
I sit there quietly, dripping wet, and let her vent. Sometimes being right is a whole lot worse than being wrong. I levitate a washcloth to my face, dabbing myself dry. The lemonade sticks to my coat, a reminder. I place my notebook back into my pocket, and step away from the counter. My heart’s feeling five times too big for my chest as I walk out of the kitchen, raising the collar on my trench coat.
I wish I understood grief. I want to turn around, to say I’m sorry, that I didn’t mean it. But I’m not strong enough for that. I reach for the door.
“I was in the library all day,” I hear Twilight speak. I turn. She’s still staring into the wall, her face matted with tears and her eyes closed. “The day before Pinkie Pie died. I was re-shelving. As I always do on Sunday. She came to me.”
Her wide, glittering eyes turn to look at me, full of not just anguish, but now something more. Acceptance. I nod, telling her that I’m listening, as I draw my notebook once more.
“I knew she would show up. She was a real sweetheart. Always showed up on Sundays to see if I ever needed help, even though I never told her I did. Spike knows the library better than anyone, and Pinkie... well, Pinkie tended to cause more of a mess,” she admitted, sniffling.
I don’t say anything. I just write, letting her speak at her own pace and say what she wants. I act like I’m not there, and she takes it.
“I... Kinda wanted to get her out of my mane. I told her she should maybe go see if Rarity needed some help. I’d heard her talking about some big project all week, and she sounded stressed out about it. It made Pinkie happy to help her friends, so I let her know. So she left. That’s the last I saw of her.”
She wipes her eyes.
“That’s the last I’ll ever see of her. If only I could have–”
“Don’t do that,” I say quietly.
She looks up. “Excuse me?”
“Don’t think about regrets,” I say, closing my notebook. “What could’ve been, what wasn’t. It’s not coming back. You’re not getting that chance again. Remember what was, not what wasn’t. Otherwise you’ll drive yourself insane. I guarantee it.”
Twilight looks away. “Yeah. I guess you’re right. It’s hard, though.”
“It is. Can I ask you a question, Miss Sparkle?”
“Call me Twilight, Detective Sideways,” she answers with a weak smile. “You’re making me feel old.”
I can’t help but grin slightly. “Only if you call me Sideways.”
“Deal.”
Reaching for the inside of my jacket once more, I pull out a rather bulky book. Picked it up from the evidence vault. Damn thing’s a sight heavier than it looks. I levitate it to Twilight, and she inspects it closer. “Does this look familiar to you, Twilight?”
Her eyes narrow with concentration. “Stitch in a Sitch. Yes, I remember this. I loaned it out to Fluttershy about a week ago. Where did you get this?”
“It was in Pinkie Pie’s room,” I respond before I can catch myself. Twilight grins smugly, but hands the book back to me. Clever mare, for a bookworm. It’s easy to forget she’s smarter than she looks, and she’s smart-looking as she is.
“I’m sorry, by the way,” I tell her. “I shouldn’t have–”
“Don’t think about regrets, right?” she says, her smile flickering like a candle in the wind.
We say our goodbyes. It’s suddenly a lot harder to leave than it was to say hello. I shoulder past the guards and they don’t give me so much as a second glance. The notebook in my trench coat suddenly seems a lot heavier than just paper. It’s raining again. I pull my coat close, and go for another light.
There’s a long walk ahead.
The stickiness of the lemonade gets washed away by the rain. It hasn’t poured for this long in Ponyville in ages. The dark clouds suck the will of the weather pegasi as much as they do the rest of the locals. It makes the walk to Fluttershy’s all the more tiring.
I’d be lying if I said I was the pinnacle of health. Even though I quit smoking after momma died, those years of wear and tear aren’t easily patched up, and I’m struggling for breath in between tokes. I need it, though. Being close to death is the best way to appreciate being alive, and the smoke calms my jittery nerves.
A cabin, lost on the edge of the wildest side of town, the Everfree Forest, breaks the rain in the distance.
Strange place, those woods. Things that shouldn’t happen, even by the standards of magic, turn out to be pretty commonplace. Who knows what lies in there, what animals or predators. I can feel their eyes watching me, even from this far away, safe on the dirt path. Get lost in there, and you’ll die screaming where no one can hear you. I try not to think about it. The treeline blurs with the rain pouring off the brim of my hat.
As I’d guessed, Fluttershy’s home is guarded by another squad of guards. I’m not really in the mood to mess around. Taking out the document once under the thatch eaves of the small cottage, the captain of the soldiers, a gruff-looking unicorn, reads it over and lets me pass without any trouble. One of his men knocks on the door, and when Fluttershy answers it, I’m looking into a mirror.
“Miss Fluttershy?” asks the guard pony.
“Y-yes?”
He steps aside, and I come forward, tipping the brim of my hat.
“Hello, Miss Fluttershy. Name’s Detective Sideways. I’m investigating the circumstances surrounding...” Her blank, emotionless stare sets me off, and I lose my train of thought. “The uh... May I come in?”
She looks between the guard and I, and eventually nods, letting the door open just wide enough for me to slip inside. I look at her thankfully as I slip off my dripping wet fedora. It’s turned into little more than a soaking newspaper.
“Poor thing. You’re completely drenched,” says Fluttershy, but her eyes seem to be focused on some spot behind me. It’s only when I open my mouth to say something that she looks at me and holds out her hooves. “Please, let me take those and get them dry. Can I get you anything? Tea, maybe? It’s awfully cold out.”
I shake my head politely as I slip out of my trench coat, being sure to take out my notebook and the guide to sewing that I’d kept from the library. She takes my coat out of my hooves, and her gaze lowers to the library book on the floor.
“Oh,” she murmurs. “You brought it back.”
“You recognize it?”
“Yes. I lent it to Pinkie before she died.”
The bluntness in her voice hits me like a brick, but she doesn’t seem to notice at as she flies up and hangs my coat by the hearth, where a fire is crackling warmly. I rub my shoulder, feeling the sore muscles beneath my fur. I feel chilled to the bone from the rain, and the heat of the fire is only barely helping. Fluttershy motions towards a futon, and I take it. It sags underneath me, and it’s covered with a fine layer of fur from... Well, I’m not entirely sure.
Fluttershy’s obsession with animals shows. It smells, too. I’m sure she wears herself ragged to keep the place in working order with all the creatures she’s got here, but there’s still a zoo-like odor. The stink of stale kibble and urine is like an unpleasant aftertaste in the air. None of the critters are around, though. I ask her about that, trying to stir up some sort of pleasant banter to ease the strange tension.
“Oh, the storm’s got them all on edge. They’re all hiding in their little houses, the poor dears. They’re nervous.”
Yeah. They’re not the only ones. Fluttershy takes a seat across from me, her mane casting long shadows across her face.
“I’m sorry for your loss.”
“You don’t have to apologize,” she assures me. “It wasn’t your fault.”
“No, I... I guess not.”
The rain on the roof seems to grow louder, and the gray-blue light from the windows seems to be dueling with the orange light from the fire, flickering back and forth across Fluttershy’s face, battling for control. I clear my throat.
“I’ve been assigned by the Princesses to look into the case of Pinkie’s murder.”
“Yes.”
“Do you mind if I ask you a few questions?”
“No, I don’t. Whatever helps you, Mr. Detective.”
“Sideways, Miss. Detective Sideways.”
She nods, but it seems disjointed and mechanical. I motion my head towards the book next to me.
“So you gave this book to Pinkie Pie?”
“Yes. She came over to my house the day before yesterday and asked for it.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Just like that?”
Fluttershy hesitates, looking away. “No, not exactly. She was... upset.”
“How upset?”
“Crying a lot. She looked like she’d been crying all the way here.”
“Did she say anything?” I press further, writing as she speaks.
“Yes, she responds, her voice hollow. “She asked me for some sewing equipment. Needles, thread, fabric, anything.”
Click . The sound of a puzzle piece falling into place. “I see. Did you give those to her?”
“Yes. In a basket. I always have a lot of sewing supplies on hand. It’s for my hobby. It helps pass the time. Keeps me occupied.”
I can’t get a read on her face as she speaks. There’s a strange blankness in her eyes, a numbness that I can’t quite place. It’s getting to me. Reading ponies is my talent. It’s where I got my cutie mark, it’s what made me a detective. I can jump on a liar the second I hear crap leave his mouth, I can tell when I’m only being given half truths. The fact that I can’t get anything off this mare is more than disturbing. It’s hauntingly familiar.
It reminds me of myself.
A ball of fuzz hops up from between the shadows and nestles itself into Fluttershy’s lap. The rabbit gives me a sour look and hides behind his master’s hooves. Angel. I have to wonder if Fluttershy’s humor is more sarcastic than I thought, or if she’s just as naive as I’d pinned her.
“Did Pinkie say anything about why she was upset, Miss Fluttershy?”
“No... Well, a little bit,” says Fluttershy, correcting herself when she spots doubt flicker across my face. “I asked her what was wrong. She said she’d ‘messed up big time with Rarity’. She said something about a dress and hoping she didn’t lose a friend. Had to make something right. I’m not sure what.”
“And you didn’t see her after that?”
“No. I heard the news last night.”
“News. Yeah,” I echo, scratching down a few last notes. “May I ask a personal question, Miss Fluttershy?”
She blinks. That’s enough to give me a hoofhold. Caught her off guard, asked her something she didn’t expect.
“I... If you want.”
“Were you and Pinkie Pie close?”
“Of course we were,” she says patronizingly, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “She was... noisy, maybe, but oh so nice. Just a week ago we went on a pet play date and visited the zoo. We saw the giraffes and the lions and the alligators together. We had ice cream and it was... nice.”
“So you were friends.”
“Yes,” she answers, giving Angel a rub behind his ears. It earns her an appreciative snuggle.
“How are you feeling right now, Miss Fluttershy?” I ask, putting away my quill.
Another surprised look. “Fine, why?” she says in that strange monotone.
The notebook snaps shut, and I lean in close. “Because I find it rather strange that your friend has just been murdered and you’re feeling ‘fine’, Miss Fluttershy.”
Fluttershy stops mid-stroke, and Angel looks up in disappointment. She doesn’t say a word. She doesn’t even look at me. The rain outside has dulled into nothing more than a half-hearted, sleepy drizzle. It lets me hear her breathing slow. Slowly, I can see her crack open, like any book. Her limbs grow taught, retreating towards her chest. Her ears droop and quiver, and her hooves become tense. I can almost place it.
It’s my turn to be surprised when the first sentence out of her mouth is a question.
“Do you think I’m a bad pony, Detective?”
“What?”
“Am I buh... bad?”
The stutter in her voice seals it. Angel flinches when the first tear falls down Fluttershy’s face onto his fur.
“Am I a bad pony?” she squeaks, her voice cracking. Her slim figure shakes like the last leaf on a winter tree. When she looks up at me, the numbness is gone. There’s nothing but agony. Bottomless, confused agony.
“Am I a bad pony for nuh... not being able to cuh... cuh... cry more...?” she stammers, pleading, begging as the tears roll down her face. She gasps for breath, her breast rising and falling erratically. “Am I buh... bad? Why can’t I fuh... feel anythi-thing? Please... tell...”
She can’t speak anymore. Her head collapses into the armrest of her seat, and she cries.
I know her. That’s when it hits me. I know her like I know myself.
You’re not a bad pony, Fluttershy. I can’t understand grief either.
But I don’t say that. For some infernal reason the words die in the back of my throat and char it like dusty embers. I stand, but I can’t comfort her. I walk, but it’s not towards her. I can only give her a lingering glance before taking my trench coat and walking out on her, walking out when she needs someone most.
I can’t help her, I justify, leaving the cottage and the guards and the anguished pony.
I can’t help her just as I can’t help myself.
I don’t have much time for love. In all my years in Ponyville, I’ve hardly done more than glance at a mare. Call it being lazy, call it being heartless... heck, call it being downright terrified of a relationship. Whatever the reason was, I’d spent more than one Hearts and Hooves day inside with my only date being a strong drink. No, I’d never bothered with mares and they’d never bothered with me. I’m not exactly the kind of pony most want to take a chance to know better, for more reasons that one.
I arrive where there’s one last hole in my puzzle: Carousel Boutique. The guards don’t give me any trouble. Word gets around fast. A “closed” sign hangs on the door. Before I can get too close, I hear a disdainful meow down near my hooves. A cat looks up at me with feline disgust before slipping through a catflap. Bad omen. I knock like a colt picking up his first ever prom date. She answers. Rarity.
I don’t have much time for love, but every time I lay eyes on that dame, my heart skips a beat. Phillydelphia always had its share of colt-killers, swindlers that’ll take your heart and bank account all at once. I didn’t believe a word when the Chief told me she was born and bred in Ponyville. How a boring backwards town like this could ever make such a dame was beyond me. Even now, with her missing make-up and bleary eyes, she’s still stunning.
“Miss Rarity?”
“Oh... Detective uhm... Slipknot, was it?” she asks, looking behind me as if expecting someone else to be there.
“Sideways.”
“Oh, yes, Sideways. I’m terribly sorry about that I’m a bit... well, not quite myself,” she says with a nervous laugh. She scratches the back of her neck. Uncomfortable gesture noted. “I suppose you’ll want to come inside.”
“If that wouldn’t be too much trouble, Miss Rarity,” I say ambivalently. “I’d just like to ask you a few questions.”
“Yes. Questions, of course. Please, please, come in.” She gestures enthusiastically, a pained smile stretching her face.
The inside of Carousel Boutique is like a reflection of its owner: needlessly flamboyant. My notebook appears in from of me, and I put in a few notes as I enter. The place is messier than I remember it. Normally Rarity keeps things tidy, but the store is littered with fabrics and gems and half-finished gowns that hang like sad ghosts over coat hangers. Seems familiar. She leads me to the kitchen and invites me to take a seat.
“I’m terribly sorry for the mess, Detective Sinus,” Rarity says, visibly embarrassed at my unexpected company. Perhaps a little too on edge.
“Sideways. Been busy, Miss Rarity?” I ask, motioning at the unfinished gowns in the showroom.
“We all have to keep ourselves... busy, nowadays,” she admits, looking away. “It keeps one’s mind from becoming lost.”
“Lost?”
“Lost... And, well, I have so many customers, I have to keep them satisfied regardless of the... occurrences in my personal life. I’m sure you understand, Detective Siphon.”
She’s aloof. My gut tells me she’s hiding something, and my notes tell me the same.
I’m only half listening when I spot a gap in her defences. I pick up a worn-out Stetson hung over the back of a chair and hold it out to her. “Has one of your customers forgotten this, by any chance?”
Exactly as I expected, she blushes and rips it out of my grasp.
Generally speaking, there aren’t many stallions in Ponyville, far less than in a place like Phillydelphia. Maybe it’s how boring the place is, maybe it’s something in the water. Either way, the male aspect is lacking and as a result the mares have to keep themselves occupied. Even mares like Rarity, so convinced that they’re just waiting for their Prince Charming to show up that they lie to themselves and act like it doesn’t count.
But a dame like her... Well, it’s a damn shame is what it is.
“What do you want, Detective Sideways?” she finally says, eyes glistening. “Do you want to make a helpless mare cry? Is that why you’re here? To push and pull me until I start bawling for you? Is that what you want, just so you can tell yourself what a big bad stallion you are?”
I let her get angry. It gives her something to focus on. “No ma’am. I just want to talk to you about Miss Pie.”
The furious expression doesn’t leave her face, but she bites her tongue. After adjusting a fallen lock of her mane, she snorts and looks away. “What do you want to know?”
I lean against the kitchen wall and collect my notes. This broad’s hostile, and I need to know why. Nopony acting so defensive can be scot-free. I’d spotted my ace in the hole the second I walked into the room. All that’s left now is to play for time until I need it. “You knew Pinkie Pie well?” I start off innocently enough.
“Yes,” she says, refusing to give me more than what I asked.
“A friend, a Bearer... Did you get along well?”
“Usually.”
“Usually?”
“Pinkie Pie was a darling girl,” she admits. “But her head was never really on her shoulders. It was always bouncing around in the clouds.”
“And you were always the business pony. You had your own boutique to manage, your family to look out for...”
“I’d appreciate it if you didn’t put words into my mouth, Detective,” Rarity says testily. Clever dame.
“I’m not your enemy here, Miss Rarity. I’m trying to find who killed Pinkie Pie and bring the killer to justice. I’m sure you want just as much, don’t you?” I say, tapping my quill against the side of my notebook.
“What are you implying?”
Now I’m just getting sick of it. “I’m implying that it would probably be better for you to avoid answering my questions with questions.”
She glares at me, but eventually her eyes fall and she nods in defeat. “Very well.”
“Can you tell me when was the last time you saw Pinkie Pie?” I make an effort to make my tone sound as friendly as possible.
“Yes. It was... just the day before yesterday.”
“Take me through the day, please,” I say, flipping back a few pages in my notes.
“Well,” she begins, swallowing. “I had to get up early. Even with Sweetie Belle off with my parents, I needed to get a head start. I had a major commission on my hooves, you see. A very large client had requested a series of dresses for the summer line of his mark to debut in Canterlot. I spent all morning working on my hardest design of the lot. I was nearly done when... Pinkie Pie showed up.”
I stop writing. Rarity looks like she’s trying to swallow a pill several sizes too big, and I spot it in an instant. I already know what I’m going to hear. It’s exactly what I need. I’m just not sure if I want to accept what it might mean.
“Go on.”
“She arrived a little before noon. With celebratory ice cream. I didn’t have time for it, even though I appreciated it. I tried to tell her but–”
“She insisted, as she usually does.”
Rarity nods her head and licks her lips. “Yes. But so did I, and eventually she left. That’s all that–”
“She ruined one of your dresses by accident, didn’t she?”
She looks up at me, jerking as if she’d been stung. Her eyes are watering. Whatever she’s hiding, it’s bubbling close to the surface.
“How did–”
“Pinkie Pie was found next to heaps of sewing equipment. Fabrics, thread, how-to books. Gemstones that she’d probably been collecting for a while now. Like she’d been trying to make something.” I look into her eyes, and I crack the last of her armor with a single sentence.
“Like maybe a dress.”
I’m rewarded a sadist’s pension. Rarity cracks and puts her head in her hooves. Tears fall from her face and onto the table, thick like marbles.
“It... It was just a stupid, stupid accident. But I was so mad. I’d worked so hard on that dress and I was just so mad ,” she splutters between sobs. “I should have just... just let it go ! I was so mean to her. So cruel. I screamed at her, told her to get out, that...”
She looks up to me, eyes wide. Desperation rolls down her face, matting her face. “Oh Celestia,” she croaks, “the last thing I ever told her was that I never wanted to see her again. That’s the last thing she heard me say to her. And now she’s... she’s...”
I let her have her cry. Slowly, it dies down into pitiful sniffling and moaning. Then, she’s quiet again, sitting quietly at the table. Dames. Sometimes they just have to let it all out, and then you’d never even known they’d been bothered in the first place. I hand her a tissue. She takes it, grimacing and wiping her eyes.
“I’m sorry you had to see that,” she finally says. She’s such a lady that I’m embarrassed to even be looking at her.
“Don’t worry about it.”
“No, it’s silly. Crying won’t fix anything. That’s your job, I suppose.”
I don’t have the heart to tell her I can’t fix anything. All I can do is cover up the cracks in the concrete and pretend that there was never anything there to begin with. I give her as much time as she needs to recover. Then I go for broke.
“Miss Rarity, I need to ask you one more question. A very important one.”
She nods absently.
“Could you look me in the eyes, please?”
She looks confused, but of course she looks up. I can read ponies. And written in Rarity’s eyes I see every insecurity, ever fear, doubt, every last bit of self-loathing and regret. Posture, nervous ticks, and tone are only clues to a pony’s soul. Everything else sleeps in the eyes. I watch them closely, and I ask her the only question I need.
“Did you kill Pinkie Pie?”
The glimmer in her eyes flickers and falters. She speaks, but I don’t quite hear her.
“No.”
I let my eyes fall from hers, tracing the outline of her lips, muzzle, and neck. I nod, and there’s nothing else to say. I leave the table and walk to the kitchen counter, looking this way and that.
A lovely set. The kind of decor that’d be in some high-brow Canterlot bachelor pad. Everything’s in its place, everything looks perfectly tidy and orderly. Except for one thing.
Rarity watches me as I go to her knife rack. I hear the breath catch in her throat. Pearl-handled beauties, beautiful and pricey, for sure. All except for one. A knife with a black handle sticks out like a sore thumb. The kind of knife that would be missing from a baker’s set. Everything slows down when I pull it from the rack.
I turn and show her the blade. It’s caked with dried blood like rust.
Kitchen knife. Standard edge.
Rarity doesn’t say a word.
I have to call it in, of course. The guards aren’t gentle when they take Rarity and escort her to the station. She doesn’t resist. Her eyes and mouth are wide, bewildered, horrified. I follow the lot of them back to the station. They’re subtle, sticking to back streets so that none have to see a Bearer being treated like the worst kind of criminal imaginable. We slip away into the fog like thieves in the night.
When we arrive at the station, silence falls like a lead curtain. None say a word when she’s brought in. Not the guards. Not the officers. Not a word.
And I’ve never felt more disgusted with myself in my life. Something hisses in the back of my brain and I have to tell it to shut up.
There’s no ceremony. She’s brought to the cells for a bit while the higher-ups are informed. Then it’s off to interrogation, locked up behind glass and steel. I watch her from behind the one-way mirror that parts our worlds. A lady, through and through. She keeps her head high and her eyes dry. The Chief stops me from trying to slip away with the excuse that I need to catalogue the new evidence. He sends a rookie instead.
One of the top dog guard ponies comes in. He tells me he’s taking over the interrogation. I toss him my notes and tell him to knock himself out. I don’t get any amusement from his look of disappointment that he didn’t get a fight out of me. Nor from the Chief who’s looking at me like I went and grew a second head.
My guts twist as I watch him enter and spread my notes across the table.
“What the heck’s gotten into you, Sideways?” whispers the Chief into my ear. “Since when do you bend over for royal guards?”
I don’t answer. I see the guard’s lips move silently, the conversation going back and forth. My heart’s racing in my chest. Why is it so loud? Why can’t I shake this damn feeling?
“Sideways?” Hoof on my shoulder. Turn. Chief looks at me. Worried. “You alright, son?”
“Fine,” I say.
Liar. Not fine. You’re not fine and you know it. Guard inside looks down at his notes. Sort. Shuffle. Question. Rarity answers. Shuffle. I look at her eyes and I know she isn’t lying but it isn’t what the guard wants to hear.
Ringing in my ears. Hard to breathe. Coat’s feeling hot like coals and I’m sweating. Am I sweating? Cold in the back of the neck.
“Holy hell, Sideways, what’s the matter with–”
“I need air,” I gasp. I shove past him. He yells something. I don’t hear it. Keep moving, head down, ears still ringing. Outside, dear Luna, get outside. Need to breathe, walls are closing in.
Panic attack. I haven’t had a panic attack since... Since...
I burst out the doors of the station. Heart’s pounding, blood’s racing. It’s all catching up to me.
The rain comes down in a light drizzle, like the feathers of angels fluttering against my cheeks. Suddenly it’s like I’m drowning and my hooves fall out from beneath me. Someone shouts my name.
The thing in the back of my head screams.
What’s more terrifying? That I’m right? Or that I’m wrong?
Someone shouts my name. The fog vanishes and I hear it.
“Sideways! Get a hold of yourself! Where’s Doc?” Chief’s got me on his shoulder, trying to shake me. It all comes into focus.
He flinches when I grab at his neck.
“I’m okay.”
“Like hell you are, you just keeled over! Someone go get–”
“I’m fine ,” I spit. My grip tightens. “Just drop it, Chief, for pony’s sake.”
He licks his lips nervously and looks back and forth between me and the cops coming to see what’s gone wrong. Keep face, damn you. I’m fine. You can’t let them think anything’s wrong.
“Right, nothing to see here, folks,” finally says Chief. “Ol’ Sideways here’s not used to the cigarettes anymore. Just had a bit of a coughing fit.” He says it so professionally that I almost believe him.
I manage to stand and look like I’m alright. Heart’s still racing. When they’re gone, I fumble for a cigarette, breathing the soothing smoke deeply. It helps.
“What the hell is the matter with you, Sideways?” the Chief barks when I try to move past him.
“Nothing,” I say. I try to keep my voice from trembling. I fail.
“Bullshit. This isn’t like you. I know we aren’t exactly pals, but for the love of Celestia, you’ve got to give me something here. One second you’re fine, and then next you look like you’ve seen a ghost. What’s biting you?”
“Nothing. Just a bit of a fainting spell.”
“A fainting spell? Sideways, the hardass from Phillydelphia needs his smelling salts like a rich old mare? That’s not the pony I know.”
“Then maybe you don’t know me at all, Chief,” I shoot back, ripping the cigarette out of my mouth. “Not like that’s exactly news to you.”
“Well maybe if you spoke to me once in awhile we wouldn’t be having this problem. You can’t keep playing this game, Sideways.” He jabs me in the chest. I stagger. He’s stronger than I realize. “This is your can of worms. You’re the face of the PPD whether you like it or not. This isn’t just about you, no matter how much you think it is. There’s way too much on the line for you to run off like a prima donna scaring the daylights out of everypony. So you will get your ass back in there and–”
“It wasn’t her,” I finally say. It comes out as a shout, and what few pedestrians there are in the rain give me a strange look.
“Come again?” asks the Chief.
“I said it wasn’t her. Rarity isn’t the murderer.”
“What are you on about?” he cries, throwing up a hoof in frustration. “You found the murder weapon in her damn kitchen. She can’t explain how it got there, and with what happened–”
“It’s just too easy , Chief,” I say, shaking my head. “It doesn’t add up. None of it does.”
“What does add up is that we have a suspect with a motivation and a murder weapon. That’s reason enough.”
“But it wasn’t her . I know she isn’t lying.”
He cuts me off with his hoof. “Hold it. Is this about your whole ‘reading ponies’ thing again?”
My silence answers as a ‘yes’.
“For crying out loud, Sideways, use your damn head. This is police work! I respect your intuition, but that’s not going to stand up in court. You know that!”
“If you respected my intuition, then we wouldn’t be having this argument,” I answer dryly, letting my cigarette fall and grinding it into the dirt.
“You have got to be...” he presses a hoof into his brow. The veins on his temples bulge like ugly scars. “Sideways, you’re lucky Doc isn’t here. Because if he was, he’d agree with me and you’d be clinically diagnosed with a case of being out of your fucking– ”
“Excuse me?”
“What?! ” the Chief screams, turning on his heel. He bites his tongue after finding himself face to face with the guard who took my notes.
“Am I interrupting something?” he asks cautiously.
“No, no,” apologizes the Chief, straightening his uniform. “The detective and I were just having a little bit of... a debate. That’s all. Is uh... something the matter?”
I know what the guard’s going to say before he even says it. I mouth out the words like they’re the lyrics to my favorite song.
Not enough evidence against her. Can’t link the murder weapon. Suspicious but not enough. No strong motivation. Not enough information. Alibi checks out.
The Chief nods through the whole speech, and nods politely when the guard hands him my notes.
I keep my head down and walk past him, trying to grab my notes. He doesn’t let go.
“Sideways,” he says slowly and quietly.
“Chief?”
“Tell me honest, son. Do you have another lead?”
The words hurt my throat. It’s like coughing up pine needles. Or maybe a kitchen knife.
“No. I don’t.”
He nods slowly, eyes vacant. He doesn’t get angry. There’s only disappointment, and that hurts even more.
“Go home, Sideways,” he murmurs sadly.
“Chief–”
“I said go home. I’ll have Miss Rarity taken care of. I’m going to need to file a report on this anyways. Just... get some sleep, son. Take tomorrow off.”
I should defend myself, tell him he’s wrong, tell him to shut up and that he doesn’t know any better. Take a drag, shrug him off. Instead I’m numb.
Night falls. The rain swallows me whole and I feel myself disappear into the cold fog.
Darkness comes too fast, and I’m drinking again. I told myself I wouldn’t do this anymore. Told myself I was better than that. Look at me. I’m so pathetic that I can’t even lie to myself and believe it.
The fifth or maybe sixth swig of whiskey goes down hard and sits like a poison in my stomach. I’m not sure what’s more noxious: the booze or the self pity. Walls are moving on their own at this point, sashaying like dreaming dancers. The rain roars outside. At least I think it is. I can’t hear it over the rushing blood in my ears.
Another drink. This one burns.
Where did I go wrong? Does it matter? I’ve fucked it up yet again. A three-time loser now, with nothing to show for it. And then ponies have the nerve to tell me anyone deserves a second chance. What’s it going to take? Am I going to have to get somepony innocent killed again before people learn to quit on me? Before they learn that I’m just not worth it?
The alcohol is taking me back to that dark place again. That cold thing happens in my stomach. I feel it leak into my brain. The room spins like Tartarus’s carousel. Got to make it to the bed. Got to stay awake.
I can’t do it. I fall and the floorboards rush up to meet me.
Everything seems perfectly reasonable when you’re falling.
***
Darkness comes too fast, and I know this place. I kick the door in.
“Sideways, don’t! For fuck’s sake, wait for the damn backup!” someone screams. I know he’s right, and I tell myself to stop and wait. But I don’t. I’m just going through the motions.
It plays out like a movie that I’ve seen one time too many. I don’t want to watch it. I know how it ends.
Silver Whistle. Nine years old. Wants to be a singer. And if I don’t hurry that sick fuck’s going to add her to his list.
I know the first room’s empty without even checking it out. I’ve been here before. Building 52A, Phillydelphia Warehouse and Trade Center. All roads lead here.
The guy doesn’t have a name. We call him Monster. What else could you call a pony who kidnaps fillies and leaves them in pieces? They never die fast. Their little faces are always frozen in that last moment before he finished them. Eyes wide. Faces cold. Mouths screaming. Always screaming.
The catwalks watch me from above. Heart’s pounding. There’s a dark corner behind every box and the shadows are reaching for me. I pull my gun from its holster and hold it in front of me like a shield. The glow keeps the shadows away. All except for one.
A single low-hanging lamp leaves a single circle of light at the heart of the warehouse. It shines down on knives and wires tossed together in a pile. It shines down on little Silver Whistle, tied to a chair. Tears are pouring down her face, and her eyes are wide. Her breathing comes in terrified gasps. No little filly should have to be this afraid. Never.
I walk towards her and there’s a click. He steps out from behind the chair, horn glowing. A gun floats in front of him, trembling.
“Phillydelphia police,” I hear myself echo. “Drop the gun right now. It’s over.”
Monster smiles. He’s shivering. His voice comes in a panicked squeal. Like a rodent. “You just stay the hell away from me, man. You get the hell away or... or I’ll shoot. Yeah. I’ll shoot ya right in the head.”
“I told you it’s over, you son of a bitch. Drop the fucking gun.”
“No, no, no. I can’t do that, man, you know I can’t do that. I’m not done.”
“There’s nothing to finish.”
“You don’t understand!” Monster shrieks like a strangled bird, shaking the chair. Silver Whistle whimpers and closes her eyes. “He’s coming, man! He’s coming! I can hear him right now. He’s breathing down my neck, crawling in my flesh. He’s coming. And if I don’t give him what he wants he’ll eat my soul.”
“You’re out of your mind,” I tell him. My aim doesn’t leave him. Too close to the girl. Can’t get a shot. Keep him talking, keep his mind off of her. “Put down the gun. The filly’s got nothing to do with this. Put it down and we can just talk about this.”
“Talking? Talking won’t stop him, dammit! He’s getting closer! You’re wasting my time, man! Just go away! I’ll shoot you! I swear I’ll shoot you!”
“You’re not going to shoot me.”
Yes he is. The right side of my face explodes in a thin line, like I’ve been whipped. It burns like hell and my ears start ringing. A centimeter sideways and little Silver Whistle would have gotten to watch my brains get sprayed out the back of my skull. Instead it nicks my cheekbone. I don’t think. I fire back and hear him scream. He collapses.
I look down and there’s blood all over my coat. Almost blends in with the rusty hair. Face still burning. I shake it off and keep my gun on Monster as I walk towards him.
“My shoulder...” he moans, his face contorted in a grimace. “Oh sweet Celestia, I think you fucked my shoulder...”
There’s blood everywhere. Not just mine now.
Doesn’t make sense. Hit him in the shoulder. Why is there blood on his face?
I know the answer but I look anyways and it burns itself into my brain.
Silver Whistle. Nine years old. Wants to be a singer. And I just went and shot her through the neck.
I don’t want to look but I can’t stop staring. Her head hangs low, her chin resting against her chest. She could be asleep, if her white fur wasn’t soaked with blood.
“My shoulder... Holy shit, my shoulder hurts so b–”
I grab Monster by the neck and hit him in the muzzle. Hard. It explodes into a spray of blood. He clutches his face and goes to scream. I throw him into a crate before he can.
You son of a bitch. You son of a bitch.
He holds out a hoof in front of him, cringing like a beat dog. Blood’s rushing in my ears and I’m gonna kill this son of a bitch.
“Please, don’t–”
I hit him again. And again. I keep hitting until he stops talking and he’s just spitting out his own teeth.
“Duh–don’t kill me... Please oh please I don’t want to–”
I go for my gun and shove it into his temple. He feels it. Monster stops begging and becomes deathly still. I can’t say a word. My mouth’s on fire and I go to pull the trigger.
“That’s enough, Sideways.”
I turn on my heel and stick my gun towards someone standing behind me. Her mane glitters like the stars that stopped shining for me long ago. The light catches her face. Luna.
“What are you doing here?” My voice comes out like sandpaper.
“Observing,” she says quietly.
“Observing... This... this is a dream. My dream. What the hell are you doing here?”
“This is more than just–”
“No! This... You’re not supposed to be here! You weren’t there. This is my head! Get out of my head, damn you!” I keep my gun on her though I know it wouldn’t do a damn thing if I had to use it.
“Perhaps you are right. I shouldn’t be here. A princess I may be, but here... A wanderer. I apologize. But you must stop. This memory is not one worth repeating.”
“Shut up!” I scream. “He deserves it! He’s no pony! He’s a rat! He deserves this! I deserve this!”
“Your mind is trapped by the past, Sideways. You speak not as you would. This is a dream. Let it go.”
“Let it got?” I echo. “How can I let it go? How can I let it go when I see it... Every damn night I see it. A little girl dying... by my own stupidity. I should have waited. Every time I know I should have waited for backup. We could have saved her. I... could have...”
My gun falls out of my grip and clatters to the floor. I collapse to my knees.
She doesn’t say anything.
“I just wasn’t... good enough. Wasn’t smart enough, strong enough. I could’ve saved her if I’d just been more. I know I could’ve saved her but I didn’t.”
“She knew, didn’t she?” asks Luna.
I look up. “What?”
“Pinkie Pie. Is that why she was so dear to you, Sideways? Because you trusted her enough to tell her of this moment?” When I don’t give her an answer, she takes it as a yes, she leans in close. Her breath smells faintly of petrichor, and it sends a frisson down my spine. “What did Pinkie Pie tell you that made her so special?”
I can’t keep my voice from quivering when I speak. “She told me it wasn’t my fault.”
The world goes white. The chair and Silver Whistle disappear. I look behind myself and Monster’s no longer there trying to scrape himself off the concrete. It’s nothing but floating whiteness.
“What’s happening?” I ask her.
Princess Luna smiles at me and offers me her hoof. “You’re waking up.”
I take it and she helps me up.
“But you’re wrong, Sideways,” she tells me. “Everypony deserves another chance. I too made a mistake. A long, long time ago. I returned, having learned nothing, but was given another chance.”
“But I can’t do it. Everything’s gone belly up my whole life. You were right all along. I don’t deserve this. I can’t do it.”
“I wonder if Pinkie once thought the same way,” Luna murmurs wisely, looking down at me. “I wonder if she looked at you once and thought that she could never manage to make you smile.”
She turns to leave, spreading her wings. She gives me a smile that could melt snow. “You said this wasn’t about you, Detective Sideways. It’s about repaying your debt. And there’s only one way to get the chance to do that. You must learn the one thing that you cannot seem to understand.”
“What do you mean? Learn what?”
With a flap of her wings, she’s airborne. Her figure grows faint, as if a white fog were forming between us. The last thing I see are her eyes before it envelops her.
“You must learn not to give up on yourself.”
I wake with the lightning. Sleep leaves me like a flightful lover, and I’m back in reality. For better or for worse. My cheek sticks to the floorboards when I pick myself up off the ground.
A dream. But how much of it was just that?
The inside of my mouth tastes like paste. I press my hoof against the bridge of my muzzle to try to numb the throb in my head. It aches in time with the crackle of thunder like a marching band. How long have I been out?
Only a quick glance out the window tells me the nightmare hasn’t ended just because I woke up. The glass is streaked with water from the passing rain, but the rumble in the dark sky threatens more to come. The town is drowning, and all I’m doing is treading water.
I can’t see the moon through the opaque skies. But Luna’s parting words pulse through my head like the blistering headache that I damn well deserve.
My two closest friends wait for me on the desk. One, a rambunctious pal, always giving me what I want when I need it. The other, the tough-love type of guy who never says anything but speaks to me more than the other ever will. I pass on the whiskey and pick up my notebook.
Another roll of thunder, and I start from the beginning. My old friend brings it all back for me.
Fact: Pinkie Pie was killed in her room with a kitchen knife. The struggle was brief, but one-sided. Killer struck her when she wasn’t expecting it, silencing her and finishing her off.
It doesn’t tell me much. I bite my quill. All it means is that Pinkie either knew the killer or was surprised. I flip through my notes for more.
Fact: The murder weapon came from the Cake’s kitchen. The knife found with Pinkie’s blood still on it was a match for the missing knife in Sugarcube Corner. Moreover, the handle was in good condition. It had never been used by somepony who could only hold it with their teeth.
That cuts it down quite a bit. In fact, it cuts it down to unicorns. The wounds were too deep and too violent for the killer to have covered it up with a cloth. If they hadn’t the teeth marks would have been pretty clear.
I scratch my muzzle. Unicorn. That cuts it down to two of my suspects, only one of whom has a motive. But Rarity... I still don’t believe it. Something in my gut tells me that just wouldn’t be right. Even if she’s still hiding something. Rarity isn’t dumb enough to keep a murder weapon lying around in her kitchen, much less one that’s still covered with blood.
Getting ahead of myself again. I back up and flip to my notes on Sugarcube Corner.
Fact: The door had been kicked in when we got there. No funny stuff with the lock, and the windows opened from the inside. That pretty much leaves just one method of entry and exit: teleportation. Rarity couldn’t possibly have that kind of skill. But Twilight Sparkle on the other hand... she could do it in her sleep. That and more.
But why? All for some experiment on necromancy? Would she ever risk the life of her friend for something like that? I don’t believe it.
It comes back to the knife again. The Cakes were working all day in the kitchen. Anypony coming in or out would have been noticed immediately. Does Twilight know an invisibility spell? That... or that Cakes are lying through their teeth.
I banish the thought. The motivation just wasn’t there. Pinkie was a model employee and an asset to Sugarcube Corner. She took care of their kids. Killing her would bring them absolutely nothing. And I know they weren’t lying.
I press my head against the wall, and it trembles from another burst of thunder. This is perfect. Too perfect. The killer knew exactly when Pinkie would be alone and knew that she was vulnerable. But who would know that except for...
Fact: The last pony Pinkie Pie talked to aside from the Cakes was Fluttershy. Eerie, distant Fluttershy, who knew her friend was going through a rough patch. Such a close friend would know how she would react, shutting herself off from the world and leaving herself totally open for somepony to take her out. On top of it all, she’d know exactly who she could frame. But how?
It comes back to that damn room again. Nopony ever came in or out. The doors and windows locked from the inside and were locked when the door was kicked in. Pinkie was the only pony in that room who could’ve opened up for anyone. And no one would be able to lock the door behind themselves when they left.
Then how ? How did the killer get the knife, come in, kill Pinkie, leave without touching a single lock, and have the murder weapon somehow end up at the Boutique? It doesn’t work. Not unless Pinkie...
No, never. I despise myself for even thinking of it. Those wounds could never be self-inflicted.
Think. Put yourself in the horseshoes of the killer. Either he either knew Pinkie Pie or was an expert in stealth. He knew when Pinkie would be alone, knew who to frame, and was able to get in and out of a locked room without touching a single door.
And wouldn’t you know it, that doesn’t match a single one of my suspects. It doesn’t even come close. The whiskey looks more and more inviting with each passing moment. Nothing adds up. I re-read the notes over and over again, like a school colt desperately looking over a test for maybe just one question he can answer. I guess I just haven’t been studying.
Pinkie. Damn it all, Pinkie. Who could’ve killed you? Who could hate you enough, who could be so cold and so cruel? I’ve killed a monster once, and that cost the life of an innocent. Who do I have to kill for the beast to die this time?
Wait .
The thunder echoes again. The breath is ripped from my lungs.
No. It couldn’t be. That’s insane. Completely insane. But then again, so am I. I tear through my notes, desperate to prove myself wrong. Then I find it. One little sentence. One little bombshell, one little cruel twist of nature. Right there.
I know who killed Pinkie Pie.
I’m out the door before I’ve even finished pulling on my coat. The mud pulls at my feet, the earth trying to swallow me whole as I gallop. Ponyville is dark and quiet, shivering with anticipation, waiting for the storm to end. The big one’s coming. I can feel it throbbing in the air.
The rush of blood and adrenaline pounds through my skull. I can barely tell one street from the next between flashes of lightning. Mud’s bogging me down. Holster’s digging into my ribs. Hard to run. My breath comes in ragged gasps, my heart begs for me to slow down, that I’m not used to this kind of exertion anymore. Can’t stop now.
Lightning flashes, and I reach Sugarcube Corner. A cop’s asleep in front of the door. At least I hope to Celestia he’s only asleep. I recognize him. Officer Rocky. I shake him, and I can’t help a sigh of relief when he wakes up.
“Whuh... Who... Oh, uh, Detective Sideways!” he jumps to his hooves, speech slurred with sleep. “I was just–”
“Has anyone left?!” I demand, sticking my face close to his.
“What?” he stammers, shying away.
“Sugarcube Corner? Has anyone left?”
“Uh...” he glances over his shoulder at the building. There’s a flash of lightning. It outlines the shadows of the street against the door. “I... I don’t think so, sir. Is something wrong?”
I shove him out of my way. Another flash of lightning. The door is locked but something’s not quite right. The front window is open just a crack. I’m too late. I slam my hoof against the wall in anger. Officer Rocky looks up to the thundering skies nervously.
“Look, sir, I don’t know what’s wrong but–”
“Rarity!” I shout over the thunder. “Where’s Rarity?!”
“Muh-Miss Rarity? She should be back at the boutique. The Chief said there wasn’t enough to have her arrested. Princess Celestia also vouched for her.”
“Officer Rocky, listen very closely to me,” I hiss under my breath, grabbing him by the collar of his uniform. “Get to the station. Find anyone who’s awake, and get them to Carousel Boutique as quickly as possible. Get another few officers to guard here. Got it?”
“Y-yes sir,” he answers, nodding eagerly. “What about you, sir? What are you going to do?”
There’s a deafening peal of thunder, and my voice gets lost in it. The skies open, and like a screaming army of angels, rain descends upon Ponyville. I tear through it and into the streets. My heart feels like it’s going to burst out of my chest and my hooves are like lead. The water seeps through my skin and numbs my bones like morphine.
I don’t stop running, even when I’m gulping down air so thick with water that I feel like I’m drowning. The mud soaks through my trenchcoat and notebook. But I don’t stop until the Carousel Boutique appears, lost in the rain. Front door is locked. I know how he got in, how he framed her. I know I’m probably out of my damn mind, too.
A voice in the back of my head, distant and hollow, screams for me to wait for the damn backup.
But the rain falls too fast, and I know this place. I kick the door in.
Carousel Boutique is absolutely silent out of the roar of the rain. The only sound is my ragged breathing and the steady plip-plip as the rain rolls off my coat and onto the floor. I draw my revolver and hold it in front of me like a shield.
Absolute silence. Either there’s still time or I’m far too late. There’s a flash of lightning, and the inside of the boutique briefly looks like the like the inside of an old comic book. I watch the shadows, stepping around every corner as carefully as possible. Heart’s going too fast. Everything seems so damn familiar.
I round the corner and find myself in the kitchen. Empty. My eyes go to the knife rack. One of the pearl-handled blades is missing.
The bastard. He’s already here. I take the stairs. Never been up here before. Everything seems unfamiliar and my heart’s beating so fast. Head’s going light.
Not now, Sideways. Get the hell over it. Not now.
Top the stairs. Clear left. Clear right. I should be waiting for the damn backup, but there might not be enough time. One of the doors is open. I kick it in. My gun goes first. I follow.
A square of pale light coming in through the window illuminates the bed. It curves around Rarity’s form, deathly still.
Her eyes glimmer and lock with mine. Still alive. She doesn’t say a word, only watching, pleading. Her breathing comes in terrified rushes.
And there he is. Standing above her with a knife clenched in his mouth. He watches me as I enter. He doesn’t have to say a word. He probably can’t. We both know the score.
Lightning flashes, and I see his face. I’m insane. By Celestia, I’m out of my fucking mind. But there he is. I keep my gun trained on him.
Gummy. You son of a bitch.
Maybe Doc was right all along. Maybe there really is something wrong with me. For a brief moment, I’m pretty sure being insane is just fine. Because the world itself doesn’t really care what therapists consider to be “normal”.
I chance a brief look at Rarity. It doesn’t look like she’s hurt. There’s still time. I just hope she doesn’t try anything stupid. The blade hovers centimeters over her throat. A twitch this way or that and all of this will have been for nothing.
Pinkie talked to this thing all the time. I hope that it understands me, too.
“Put it down, Gummy. It’s over. The police are on the way.”
Gummy’s eyes don’t leave mine. They’re vacant, empty. I can read ponies, but it’s like I’m staring at a wall. Those damn eyes don’t give away anything. His jaw flexes, and Rarity gasps as the blade brushes against her neck. She doesn’t dare say a word. She just watches.
“There’s nothing left for you to prove, Gummy. You had your run, but it’s over now, you reptile bastard.”
He doesn’t react to the insult. I feel something roll down the side of my neck. I’m not sure if it’s sweat or water.
“I’ll give you credit,” I say carefully, taking a slow step forward. I immediately take it back when he jerks his head and jabs Rarity with the tip of the knife, drawing blood. She doesn’t scream. “You had me fooled. You had everyone fooled. No one would ever suspect you, would they? You must’ve felt awful smart. The Cakes said nopony came in or out. Nopony . You could’ve slithered out at any time when no one was looking. You knew Pinkie almost better than anyone. She trusted you. Everyone always did think she was crazy picking a baby alligator as a pet.”
Gummy doesn’t act as though he’s heard a word I’ve said, but Rarity’s still alive. He’s listening. That’s all I need. Keep him off Rarity. Don’t have a shot yet.
“Little Gummy. Who’d suspect? The entire time I was looking for a pony with powers that couldn’t possibly exist. That’s when I figured out I might not be looking for a pony. Then it hit me. How else could a murderer follow around Pinkie without ever being noticed? How else could they sneak a murder weapon into somepony’s house? And how else could they enter and leave a room without ever needing to touch a lock? It’s pretty easy when you’re too small to get noticed.”
My grip tenses around my revolver. Where’s the damn backup? Rain’s going to slow them down. Need to keep him distracted. I can’t let him kill again. I can’t have that on my conscience, too. So I play for time, and I play the one thing on my mind.
“Came down to why, obviously,” I say, sniffing. “Why would an innocent pet suddenly go violent? Then I remembered something Fluttershy said. A ‘pet play-date’. To the zoo. To see the giraffes and lions... and alligators.”
Something in his eyes changes and suddenly Gummy isn’t focused on Rarity anymore. His thin, beady eyes lock with mine.
“First time you’d seen a real alligator, wasn’t it? Must’ve been something. Scary bastards, aren’t they? Big, mean, full of teeth. An apex predator. And you? You were a shut-in salamander getting fed pancakes by a pink pony. Absolutely pathetic.”
He bristles at the word. Reptile or not, he thinks and feels like a pony. That’s more dangerous than anything, but it gives me a foundation. I take a slow step to the side, and his eyes follow me all the way.
“Oh yeah. Pathetic. Must’ve hurt. I know the feeling. They call it an identity crisis or something like that. But what more is there to expect from something so laughably sad. A predator? You? You couldn’t bite through balloon, let alone an antelope. That must’ve pissed you off something crazy. Too bad you weren’t even tough enough to blame that on yourself. Or hell, just accept it. You doled it back out on someone else. Pinkie Pie.”
Where the hell is that damn backup? The rain outside picks up, and it’s like the wind is trying to tear Ponyville from the ground and throw it somewhere where all of this might make sense.
“Yeah, Pinkie Pie. Must’ve been her fault, right? Dish out the blame on someone else and suddenly you’ve got something to hate. Makes it easier to ignore how pathetic you are. But you didn’t even have the teeth to finish the job. You waited until she was alone, and you made sure she couldn’t even move when you finally killed her. Absolutely pathetic.”
I get an idea. A crazy idea, but crazy enough to work. I lower my revolver, and give Gummy a new target. Rarity’s eyes widen.
“Pathetic. I’ll say it again. You killed the pony who ‘oppressed’ your true nature. And now you’re going to kill the only pony who could possibly work against you as a witness. She’d piece it together eventually. Who was next? Twilight? Fluttershy? Maybe Rainbow Dash and Applejack?” I force myself to laugh. It’s more like a dry cough.
“When were you going to do something real impressive, aside from sneaking up on mares? When were you planning on taking on something your own size? Something that could fight back?”
Gummy is dead still. The blade slowly comes away from Rarity’s throat. Heart’s going too fast. I feel something I’m not used to. Confidence.
That’s gone in a millisecond when Gummy dives off the bed faster than I would’ve thought possible. I don’t even get a chance to fire off a shot.
My back leg goes off like a firework. I hit the ground hard and feel my front left go the same way. I try to lift my gun. There’s a slash across my chest and my revolver goes skittering across the room. My skin’s on fire. Feel’s like I’m being peeled apart. I raise my hoof over my face and the edge of the knife digs into my foreleg and hits bone. The blade becomes a blur. Try to move. Get up, get away, get the knife out of the bastard’s grip. Slash to the shoulder. Neck. I try to turn and stand. He puts the knife back to work on my hind leg and I collapse to my haunches.
Something’s in my eyes. Stings. Burns. Tongue tastes like metal. My body quits. I stop moving, and my head rolls to the side.
Blood’s coming out of just about every last hole in my body. The thunder crackles and the wind howls. Gummy hops onto my chest and aims the knife at my heart.
The bed’s empty. Rarity’s gotten away. And Gummy keeps the knife over my heart, waiting.
Do it. Just do it, damn you. Get it over with.
He doesn’t. With what looks like the closest approximation of a smile, Gummy drops the knife. It slips down and off my stomach, slick with my own blood.
Rush in my ears is slowing down. Hard to think. Tongue’s gone heavy. Why can’t I move my head?
Gummy slithers off of me. He’s gotten exactly what he wanted. A corpse. And even more. The cops are going to find the body of a detective who’s been murdered in the home of a prime suspect.
And Rarity? Rarity’s going to tell them a pet alligator stabbed me to death.
There won’t be any mercy this time. No patience, no understanding. It’ll be fire and brimstone, fierce and horrible, an example. Two ponies dead and an innocent burns for the whole fucking thing.
Gummy’s gone.
I’m alone with the wind and rain in a bedroom in Ponyville. Didn’t think it would end like this.
It’s getting really... hard to breathe...
Darkness comes. I don’t mind too much. Feel sleepy. I let my eyes close and exhale slowly. Nobody, not even a cigarette to see me off.
Can’t say I didn’t see that coming. Seeing colors. Feel sleepy. I hear something like a small drum carrying me off to sleep. I let it.
Guess everything’s gone sideways again after all.
I’m sorry, Pinkie.
No.
Catch your breath. Keep your heart slow. Get up. Get up, you son of a bitch.
Die on your own time. Rarity needs you. Pinkie Pie needs you.
I move my front leg. It doesn’t budge. I force it to. I’m gasping for breath already. Hard to breathe when you’ve got more holes in you than a pincushion. Trench coat’s heavy with blood and rain, so I lose it and somehow manage to get all four legs underneath me, even the two that aren’t doing a damn thing.
It hurts. It hurts like every last one of my muscles has decided that I’m better off dead. I’ve probably got more blood outside of me than in me at this point. But I focus on one thing, the one thing that’s always kept me going.
I needed you, Pinkie, and now you need me.
I stand.
Legs just barely hold. I feel my head go light and my ears start ringing. For a second I’m pretty sure that I’m going to pass out again. Don’t let it get in the way. Keep focusing. I somehow manage to focus hard enough on my revolver that it glows and slides towards me.
I keep it in front of me. I hold myself against the wall as I walk and leave a red smear behind. Breathe in. Breathe out. Heart’s barely even pumping anymore. Keep it going. Can’t die yet. There’s a trail of blood on the tiles. My blood. Still wet. There might be time. I follow it down the stairs. My revolver quivers in my grip and I almost end up letting it fall.
The kitchen. Rain’s louder now but it comes through like a dull roar on a TV with lousy reception.
I lean against the door frame and raise my revolver. The trail of blood ends at the sink. It’s still running.
That’s right, Gummy. Clean yourself off and waddle away. No one will be any the wiser. I take a step and nearly slip in my own blood. He hears it. A scaly head slides out of the sink, and those thin eyes watch quietly. I smile. It hurts.
“Hey there, Gummy. We’re not done yet.”
I fire. The faucet explodes in a jet of water and Gummy leaps for the counter.
Stupid. Take your time. Don’t get cocky. Just make the shot. Hard to aim when you’re shaking so much.
He dives for the knife rack. Can’t let him get a weapon. I take another shot and miss again, leaving a hole in Rarity’s pretty little kitchen towels. He jumps and gets the knife in his teeth. When I fire again he’s not there anymore.
Floor’s slick, like fighting in a swamp. I’m not the predator here. He is, and he’s too damn fast for me to get a shot off on him. I’ve got three bullets left and I can’t keep wasting them.
The kitchen goes black and white again in another shard of lightning. Gummy’s nowhere to be seen. I keep my revolver close and scan every shadowy corner.
A sudden pain in my front hoof. I fire blindly. It hits water and nothing else. Meanwhile, I’ve got another bleeding gash to add to the list. I don’t know how much time I’ve got left. Every second it feels like I’m gonna fall face first into the bloody water. And then I do.
Somehow I manage to keep a grip on my revolver. Vision’s going blurry. He’s too fast, but I’m running on borrowed time. That’s my only advantage. I bank on it.
I see him come out of the corner of my eye. At first I’m not sure. Could be just the shadows of the trees dancing in the screaming wind outside. Then I see the thunder flash off his eyes and I know it’s him.
I don’t shoot. I let him come. There’s a flash of steel.
Gummy buries the knife halfway to the handle into my chest.
I almost don’t even feel it. Almost. Gummy tries to pull away. Without even thinking my forehoof reaches out and grabs the blade, pulling it back in. Hurts like hell but I keep it inside me and I feel it when I take one last breath.
My revolver comes down. The gunshot acts like the period at the end of the paragraph to everything that’s led up to here.
His body crumples to the floor, at home with the murky water. I’m not far behind.
I think I hear voices in the distance. Nothing hurts anymore. The water laps at my wounds and the rain sounds like crashing waves. Don’t even feel like pulling the knife out.
Suddenly feeling tired. I don’t fight it. I let my eyes close and I turn the world off.
I guess this isn’t a bad way to die.
The funeral’s a beautiful one. It’s exactly the way I would’ve wanted it. Not too flashy, only the most intimate of friends and family present. No pretense, no orchestras... just silence under a mournful gray sky.
I’m almost jealous that it isn’t mine.
Would’ve been too easy to let me just keel over like that, I guess. Somewhere I’m not surprised that I can’t even die correctly without something going wrong. It’s been almost a week of transfusions and tubes and doctors poking and prodding me. I’ve got stitches in places I’m not too proud of. They stuck Doc with the worst job: telling me that my left hind and forelegs would probably be wonky for the rest of my life. Odds are I’ll never really walk right again.
Hurts to stand on them for too long, so I lean against the old cedar hanging over the Ponyville graveyard and watch.
I guess it was worth it. Just to be standing here.
The congregation is smaller than I would’ve expected, even for a private event. The Princesses aside, I count about twenty ponies. The remaining Bearers have all come to see their friend off. The Cakes have come as well. Mrs. Cake sniffles, wiping her eyes. Her husband murmurs in her ear and she nods. A bunch of other ponies I don’t recognize make up the rest of the mourners. One of the them, a mare grayer than an old photograph, with radiant indigo eyes, stands closest to the grave along with the bearers. She hasn’t said a word.
The Princesses finish their speech. I can’t make it out from here. Standing on either side of the tombstone, they nod to each other and spread their wings. I close my eyes. A monumental magic rushes through the air like a wind. My hair stands on end.
An incandescent glow forms around the tombstone, swirling and humming. The ache in my bones evaporates as it climbs upwards into the sky. Like a tower built by rainbows, it ascends, piercing and scattering the clouds. Higher it goes until it vanishes into the stratosphere.
There’s a brief glimmer. A new constellation is born.
Magic’s the damndest thing.
With that, the ceremony comes to an end. Taking Twilight under her wing, Princess Celestia whispers a few words to her. Twilight wipes her eyes and manages to crack a weak smile. Princess Luna’s glance catches mine out of the corner of her eye. How she knew I was there I’ll never know. I look away and close my eyes.
I wait. Not sure how long. Maybe an hour, maybe more. But I stand there under that old cedar tree until Fluttershy finally pulls Rainbow Dash away from the tombstone. They leave together, and the graveyard is empty.
A cold wind whispers through the trees, and I limp towards the grave. Hurts like a mother, and the cold air makes my muscles ache something fierce. My ragged trench coat cuts most of the bite from the breeze, at least. It smells like fall. Season of the cold and dead.
I stop in front of the grave, and I’m finally alone with her.
Here Lies Pinkamena Diane Pie, Element of Laughter. Her smile warmed the hearts of all.
There’s nothing but silence. And I just don’t know how to start.
“Hi there, Pinkie,” I finally croak. I stare down at my hooves. “Sorry it’s... uh... taken me this long to get back to you. I’ve been meaning to talk to you, I swear. I’ve just been busy. As usual.
“You’ve got some... some swell friends, Pinkie. They’re going to miss you. I’m sure you know that. But man... all that black. You must hate it. Maybe if they’d been in pink. That was always your color, wasn’t it?”
I pull a piece of hard candy from the inside of my coat pocket and play with the wrapper. “Yeah... Yeah, I know Pinkie,” I mutter, as if hearing her voice. “I’m dodging the issue. Sorry about that. I’m still... I thought I’d accepted it. But I guess I’m still having trouble believing that you’re gone. This time for good.” I kneel down and place the piece of candy beside the flowers and bouquets lying on the marble slab.
“It’s just that... I never really got a chance to say thank you. For everything. Without even knowing me you gave me a chance. You talked and smiled and asked me how my day was whenever you saw me. Even when I only gave you a grunt as an answer. You never gave up on me. And... when I told you what I’d done. You still didn’t quit on me. You told me it wasn’t my fault and that I didn’t need to blame myself. Anypony else would’ve run away as far as they could. But you stayed. You...”
My voice trails off. I choke up and have to swallow before I can speak again.
“You made me, for the first time in my life, not hate Sideways. For the first time in my life you gave me a reason to go on, because even if I was rotten and pathetic I still had just one pony who cared about me without ever asking themselves why. I never asked for more than that, I never needed more than that. And then you...
“And then you were gone. All the things I never thanked you for, Pinkie. All the things you’d done for me. When you were alive, you gave me something to live for for. When you died, you gave me something else. You gave me something to die for. I never realized it until now. It’s why I was so scared , Pinkie.
“Maybe that makes me a coward. Maybe you’ll hate me for it, and you’d deserve to. I’ve always tried to act like nothing ever bothered me, because then I could tell myself that it didn’t. And the truth is I could never have survived without you. I wouldn’t have lasted one more day. Now you’re gone and I...”
My legs go out from underneath me. I fall to my haunches. I won’t cry. There’s nothing left to cry over except me. And I’m not worth it.
“I’m just not strong enough. I’m not strong enough to go on without someone, Pinkie. I’m not strong enough to face the next morning, or the morning after that. I just can’t look myself in the mirror and go on pretending like nothing’s wrong and that I’m happy with myself. I... I wish they hadn’t saved me. Look at me, for pony’s sake. I’ll never walk straight again. I wish they’d let me bleed to death and I hate myself for it.”
I was careful, at least. I didn’t waste any bullets. I pull my revolver from its holster and wipe off some of my blood that’s crusted on it. Managed to save just one. I weigh it in my hoof. Feels good. Feels right.
“I’ll probably hate myself for this too, Pinkie. I’ll probably regret it forever. But...”
I pull back the hammer. It clicks and I like the sound. I stare at the trigger for a long time. I feel calm for some reason. I grip it with my magic and give it a swing, tracing the tip of the barrel with my eyes. It’s a familiar motion. Comfortable. Something tingles in the back of my skull.
I raise my revolver one more time.
So I guess there’s only one last thing to say.
“Pinkie... thank you. Thank you for teaching me... to not give up on myself. Goodbye.”
With that, I take my revolver and slip it back into its holster.
A load lifts itself from my shoulders. I breathe deeply, and for the first time in ages I don’t despise reminding myself that I’m alive. I open my eyes. The gray autumn light is refreshing. For a moment, I stand there and listen to the silence. Then I speak out loud.
“Plan on watching me for much longer?” I ask over my shoulder. There’s a jitter of surprise as hooves step back on leaves.
“How did you–”
“I’m not as dumb as I look, Miss Sparkle,” I say wearily, pulling a cigarette from my inside coat pocket. “How long have you been standing there?”
“Why? Did I see something I shouldn’t have?”
“I guess not,” I answer vaguely. I light up and turn to face the mare. She walks up to me, cautious, but entirely unafraid.
“I’m sorry for spying on you,” she says apologetically.
“No need for that, ma’am. Just giving a few parting words to a friend.”
Twilight nods, looking past me to the tombstone. “I’m going to miss her.”
“So am I, Miss Sparkle. You should be getting home, though. It’s nippy out here. I’d offer you my coat but... well, I don’t think you’d want it,” I say dryly, brushing at a blood stain and taking a drag.
“I think I’ll be fine, thanks.” She turns around, then looks back when I don’t follow. “You coming?”
“‘Scuse me?”
“You’re not going to let a mare walk home all by herself, are you?”
I can’t help but smile. It’s a strange feeling. I think I like it. I fall in beside her, and we head out of the graveyard.
“How’s the leg?” Twilight asks, glancing at my left foreleg.
“Doesn’t hurt much anymore,” I lie. “I’ll get used to it.”
We walk in silence for a while, and then I ask her something that’s been bugging me.
“Miss Sparkle, may I ask you a question?”
She gives me a coy smile. “Only if you remember to keep up our deal, Sideways.”
“Sorry. Twilight, may I ask you a question?”
“Shoot.”
“Why did you come back?”
The question stops her in her tracks. Twilight gives me a meek look. “You looked... distant at the funeral. I saw you staying behind and... well, I wanted to make sure you were alright.”
Making sure I’m alright. It’s strange how sometimes it doesn’t take a big speech to swing your life in another direction. Sometimes it’s just a few small words from the right person.
“Thanks, Twilight,” I say simply.
She stops and cocks her head. “Hold on a minute. Was that a smile I saw just then?”
“No it wasn’t.”
“Maybe,” she clucks, pulling the cigarette out of my mouth, “I didn’t see it with this in the way. You really should quit. It smells.”
“Sorry. Nervous habit. And I guess it fits with the image, doesn’t it?”
“Oh, the dark and brooding type. I think you’ve got that down to a ‘T’ without needing the tobacco, mister.”
“Is that so?” I ask, raising an eyebrow.
“What is this, another interrogation? You just can’t keep from asking questions, can you Sideways?”
“I guess not. I can’t really help it, though. It’s in my blood.”
I take off my hat and tuck it inside my coat. I feel the wind on my face. Storm’s over. I think we’re due for some sunshine. I feel a tickle at the back of my throat, and a smile. I do something I was pretty sure I’d never do again. Pinkie Pie gives me one last gift. I laugh.
Twilight raises an eyebrow in surprise. “What’s so funny?”
“Nothing. Wel... I wish Pinkie Pie was here to make the joke for me.”
“Hmm?”
“Well,” I say with a smile, “she’d probably make a pretty lousy pun.”
“Humor me,” says Twilight, giving me a sideways glance.
“She’d tell me that I’m a darn good investi-gator.”
I was falling.
Not the normal kind of falling, where you trip down the stairs and you get back up groaning with aching bones and a painful lump on your flank. Not the physical falling. It was that strange sort of dream-like falling, where your legs are taking you wherever they really feel like, and everything that’s happening seems somehow just out of place but you can’t quite control it.
You’re not thinking. You’re just going through the motions and even insane things seem perfectly reasonable when you’re falling. And all you can do is hope the madness vanishes when you wake up.
I was falling when I burst into Sugarcube Corner with my revolver drawn.
The dream-noises echo around me. The sound of hooves on wood. The sound of heavy breathing from out-of-shape ponies. The sound of orders and shouting and anticipation. The sound of two parents gasping and heaving with anguish as officers rush through their home and up their stairs. They’re mourning for more than their loss. They’re mourning for the rape of the sanctity and safety of their home. I can’t blame them.
I was falling when Officer Rocky stormed into the room. He stumbles back, his innocence gone in a blurring second. He turns away and retches. Rookie can’t help himself. I’m smug with experience for a moment. That’s gone too when I enter the room and see how much blood there is. None of us say a word. We just stare like morons. The new guys, the smart ones who know their procedures, go to set up a perimeter or monitor the confused passersby whose normal routine has been inconveniently jostled.
I’m falling when the doctor tells me what I already know.
