Manehatten. The glistening city. Pride of Equestria. The city that never sleeps. Immigrants come here, looking for a new life.... But most get a rude surprise.
Smog coats the city. Smoke billows out of factories, as countless products are made. The industrial capital of Equestria, that's what Manehatten is. Ponies work day and night, taxis gallop around at all hours. The island on which it sits is composed entirely of granite, allowing the construction of some of the tallest buildings in Equestrian history.
Rail lines cross on spider-like bridges, connecting the island to the mainland. Trains that serve the whole of the eastern shore of Equestria start here: Manehatten. The city of new beginnings.
The harbors stretch into the sea, oceanliners idle in the harbor, loading rich and poor alike. Coal is used by the gallon, burning into the atmosphere. Steamships serve all of the world, starting in Manehatten. But every garden has it's thorny secrets.
"Manehatten! Manehatten in half an hour!" the engineer's voice cut through the carrage. Ponies sat in every available space. Crammed on the luggage shelf, sitting between ponies on the air vent. The lucky few who got the seats were crushed with compression as more attempted to sit next to them. The carrage was smokey, filled with ash from the engine. That's what they got for sitting in the first car.
Immigrants always used these spaces. Cheapest on the train. The term "overbooking" didn't exist on this car. Everyone, some Equestrian, some not, in this car was looking for a new life. Leaving their old one behind. Most never owned a house. Many were trying to get away from disreputable pasts. And some had prices on their heads.
In one corner, a gray stallion sitting on a suitcase smoked his pipe nonchalauntly. His name was Alan Clopone. As a young pony, he suffered from an abusive family. Getting beatings from his mother was a common treatment. She always hoped for a mare, but Al was the only child she ever had. This treatment had made him tough, made him used to living on nails.
After escaping his family at the age of twelve, he joined one of the many street gangs in the south. He learned the ropes of firearms. Learned the rules of the underworld. But for some reason, this life never seemed to sute him. The south was a distopian area, no police went there anymore. No attempts to corral the lowlife.
It seemed to Al, that it was less like criminals than a game of intricate chess. Little time was spent killing, stealing or breaking the law in general. It seemed like each side was playing a game with the other gangs, not wanting to win for fear of ruining the game.
Al had a ruthless mind, and he wanted to quickly and efficiantly destroy the entire lowlife. RIse his gang to victory. Completely rule the streets. He came up with a strategy to achive this at the age of fourteen. After showing it to his gang, he found himself quickly defenistrated. They didn't want anypony in there that wanted to....win.
Since then, Al has wandered, his only companion a violin case. Until now. He new that gangs in the inner cities were more serious, but how was he supposed to get there? A new life was what he wanted, and a new life was what he's going to get.
Al threw his cigarete onto the ground in front of him, stomping it with his hoof. He blew the last wiff of smoke from his nostrils and turned to look at the station. It looked...well....industrial. It's form was square, made from stone and metal. Nopony had bothered to paint it, not on purpous at anyrate. The wall was filled with graffiti, painfully covering every reachable surface with a dull mix of colors.
Alan knew these well, except where he came from, they were cruder. A display of territory among the street gangs. But here, they just looked like they were made by a bunch of young artists trying to make a point. Al snorted. The only point he made was at the end of a knife.
Smoke billowed from tall smokestacks, filling the air with smog. The south had the same problem, on a much smaller scale. Al threw his violin case onto his back and put his suitcase on a trolly, the grit blew away as it hit. Behind him, the train departed, its whistle blew clearly, piercing the air. Ponies and other creatures crowded the station, all forced through a small gate.
A customs officer stood, checking papers of the mass of immigrants. Alan snorted.
"They think I'm gonna sit through this?" he muttered. He pushed his cart over to a small corner, hiding it from view. He smiled a little to himself as he undid the leather strap on the case. He opened it, revealing the few possessions he had. Two pressed shirts, twenty rounds of .66 ammunition, and a wide brimmed white hat.
He grabbed the hat with his hoof and threw it. It spun in the air for a few tenitive before landing squarely on his head. He slammed the case shut, securing the leather strap around it. Then he took the violin case off his back.
Placing it carefully on ground, he undid the clips that secured the lid down. Grinning, he opened the case. Inside, two pieces of an assault rifle glistened. Next to it, a banana shaped clip sat in the velvet lining. But Al looked past these two, his eyes seeking the black handle of a knife. Quietly, he drew it out of the case, the blade glistened in the bright light of noon. Al turned it over in his hoof a little, smiling in remembrance of all he and that knife had been through. But quickly returned to reality.
He slammed the violin case shut, securing the clasps, and trotted into the crowd of ponies. Among the jostling immigrants, blue coated employees of the station trotted, porting luggage for the richer ponies, and attempting to maintain order among the crowd. Al picked a corner and leaned against the wall, tossing his blade up and down his hoof.
Soon, a porter walked by. He wore a red cap and a blue uniform, a gold badge adorned his chest. Al smiled a little. He waited until the pony was right by a service hallway, and took that moment to strike.
Alan's hooves reached out of the shadows, their target oblivious to their rapped approach. The porter couldn't scream. One hoof clasped his mouth and the other hauled him backwards at a terrific pace, causing his hat to fall. Al threw the employee on the ground and pinned him there. Quickly and efficiently, as seven years in street gangs will teach you, he slit the porter's throat.
The pony twitched a little, the horrified expression lay on it's motionless face. The blood dripped from Al's blade, creating a small puddle on the ground next to his victim. Great. One day in this city and he'd already committed a murder. Where some criminals would merely have knocked the guard unconscious, Al knew ponies. They talked. And he was playing not for the sake of playing. He was playing to win.
Al wiped the blood off his knife, his face unmoved by his latest action. Quickly, he undid the buttons on the porter's jacket and slipped it on. He dropped the knife into one of the pockets on the uniform and walked out of the service hallway.
The station was as busy as ever, bustling with new arrivals as they all looked for their "new lives". Customs was a risky business. Proper papers were hard to come by, especially to lower class Equestrian citizens. Since the rush of immigrants had become so great in Manehatten, papers had become manditory. It slowed the onslaught of newcomers enough for the city to compensate. Passports, as they were called, were common among upper class Equestrian citizens, and those who knew the bureaucratic lingo in other countries. Unfortunately, lowlifes like Al had a hard time obtaining those. Passports were usually required for going to other countries. Therefore, Al deduced, Manehatten is like another country.
And it sure looked like one.
Al trotted back to his cart, unquestioned by the workers in the station. He pushed it out, through the crowd. The crowd reluctantly cleared. Not because he was wearing a uniform, but mostly because they didn't want to become pancakes under the cart.
Another embarrassing fact about Al was his cutie mark. It was a smoking gun. Now, you've got to admit: Anypony with a smoking gun on their flank is bound to be shady, and probably dangerous. Al's fix for that was wearing clothes. Yes, real clothes. Getting a reputable job was out of question with a smoking gun on your flank, so that's why Al always stuck to the shadows.
Al got to a small door marked "exit" to the side of customs. He nodded to the guards. They barred his entrance anyway.
"Got this lot for a taxi out there," Al said, putting on his best city slicker accent.
"Alright," one of the guards said, "You got a badge?" Al acted as though he worked here all his life and pulled the golden piece out of his pocket to show it to the guard. The guard looked at it for a second and nodded. Al passed through.
"Thanks fellas!" he called over his shoulder, walking out into the streets. The smog that he had seen earlier drifted aimlessly above the city, crossbreeding with the clouds. Unlit lamps stood on every street corner, some stemmed from the walls of buildings. All were unlit, after all, who could light a lamp and one o'clock PM?
The streets were crowded outside the terminal, bustling with cabs and other forms of transportation used by ponies emerging from the station. A griffon walked out of the double doors aside Al, it's coat of feathers shone in the sun. It's claws were sharp, forming a scratch in the sidewalk wherever it walked.
"That'll be easy to track," thought Al. He was a calculating mind, always looking for ways to exploit anything to his advantage. "Now, as for room and board...."
He turned to the street, looking for a taxi. Al stood, waving. A horse drawn cart pulled up in front of him, the driver wore a striped golfer's hat. Al hopped in.
"Any good hotels around 'ere?" he asked, lighting a cigarette.
"Well," the stallion contemplated. "There's the Golden Tavern. Fancy place. Never much fancied it meself."
"Something cheap."
"Oh, when ya put it that way, it's much easier! Bill's Bar has some rooms in the back. Positive rat holes. Dirt cheap though."
"Alright, take me there."
"You got it, sir!"
The driver, well, the driver and the engine, moved, pulling the cart along with him. Al sat back to enjoy the ride. He puffed on his cigarette for a few seconds, taking it out to inhale. The city passed by, its intimidating architecture looming over the streets. Shops for everything you could imagine were there. Fancy restaurants, taverns, you name it, it was there.
The complex road system was governed by green signs, each engraved with a name. Usually a happy name, like Friendship Street, or some bullshit like that, Al thought. Traffic was busy, but the stallion he was riding was a fearless driver. He zipped in and out of lanes, weaving between carts.
"If I ever make it out of this alive," Al thought, "I'm going to walk everywhere."
If the traffic wasn't enough, pedestrians crowded the streets as well. "One's an awful time on the streets," the driver explained. "Factories let the workers out for lunch right about now, see. They all have to be back at one thirty, so half an hour of hell on the highways."
Al nodded. Crowds. He needed crowds.
"When do the factories generally let the workers go for the day?" Al asked, curious.
"'Bout five thirty," the driver responded, rounding a corner. "You interested in joining 'em?"
"No," Al looked wistful. "I've got some sights on the.... higher authorities."
"Ah," the driver thought for a second. "You'll be wanting the bank. Owns half the city in debt ya know."
"Thank you," Al said, tension in his voice. "I'll keep that in mind."
"Always happy to help a client. Ah, here we are!" the cab stopped in front of a run down wooden building. The words Bill's Bar were faintly buzzing on a neon sign. The "b" in Bill's was having some problems, almost going out completely. So this had the effect of making the wretched place into "Ill's bar".
"'Bout fit's the bill," the driver muttered as Al jumped off. His suitcase and violin case followed, piling on his back. "Right! Let's do business, shall we?" The driver unhitched himself from the cab, walking up to Al. Al, still in porter uniform, quickly reached into a pocket. Always take stock of what the person you stole your clothes from has. That was another one of Al's rules. Didn't make sense to walk about in a suit you couldn't even locate a wallet in.
"That'll be eight bits," the driver held out a hoof as Al looked into the bag he'd withdrawn from the porter's uniform. The sun was lower in the sky now, stretching the shadows. Al withdrew eight golden coins from his pouch, quickly replacing it in the pocket from which it came.
Some criminals have something against doing fair business. But Al, in his calculating mind, saw no reason to "dispose of" anymore ponies than necessary. He was ruthless when he needed to be ruthless, and proper when he needed to be proper. It all worked into his scheme.
The cab drove off, rattling down the street, and Al turned to his destination. The knife still resided in the left pocket of his uniform, but he figured a uniform was probably not the best thing to wear in here. He walked with sure air towards a hedge, acting as though he knew what he was doing. Part of the reason was he knew what he was doing, but most of it was to avoid suspicion. Of course, there's a certain amount of suspicion that surrounds newcomers, but Al planned to shake that as soon as possible.
Once behind the bush, he threw his luggage on the ground, lifting the violin case off the suitcase. Then he undid the leather strap and opened the case, looking into it. Quickly, Al exchanged his clothes, placing the porter uniform in the case where he had withdrawn his own clothes.
Seconds later, a slick looking stallion emerged from behind the bush. He had a white tweed hat with a broad rim, shadowing his face. And also wore a black and white striped pressed jacket. On his back, a violin case and a suitcase were placed, held down with a leather strap. His coat was gray, and his mane black. His eyes held suspicion, knowledge, and most of all... Cunning.
Alan pushed open the door of Bill's Bar with an air of importance. And a good thing to, everypony in the bar stopped talking, and stared at the newcomer. Al trotted straight up to the bar.
"Shot a whiskey,please," he sat down on a bar stool. The bartender nodded and walked turned to the wall behind him where several spirit bottles lay. Al took this moment to glance around.
There was a thick haze, formed by the many smoking ponies. Two windows were in the front, both were shattered. And the door looked like it was staying on its hinges because of Celestia's good will. The ceiling was low. Not low enough to bonk your head, but it was a low ceiling.
"Here's yer drink, bud," the bartender said in a gruff voice. Al turned his attention to the irritated looking stallion and the small shot glass of sparkling yellow liquid. "That'll be three bits."
"Here ya go," Al counted three bits out of his money pouch and threw them to the bartender. He picked up the shot glass and turned on his stool, sipping at the spirit.
"Hey kid," a muscular pony from the back of the bar sauntered towards Al. "You know whats in that thing your drinkin'?"
"Yes, I certainly do," Al said, glaring into the bouncer's face.
"Are you old enough to be drinking-" the pony was cut off by close contact with one of Al's hooves.
*SMACK!*
The blow surprised the offender, giving Al enough time to make his move. Sitting in the bar stool, he brought his two lower legs up to his chest and pulled the offending pony close.
*WHAM!*
The bouncer spun backwards, propelled by Al's back hooves. He smashed into a table, careening over onto his head. Al continued to sip his drink, and turned back to the bar. The gapes of the ponies in the bar could be felt.
"Fella, that's a friend of mine," another stallion walked up to Al, anger engraved on his face. "And I don't like you hurting a friend of mine." The pony withdrew a knife from his pocket, twirling it in his hoof. Al withdrew his.
"You wanna fight, do ya?" Al looked straight at the offender, his glare piercing into the pony's very soul. Without a word, the attempted to do a surprise move and several things happened at once. The first was the stallion reaching around Al's neck with a hoof, attempting to get him in a headlock. The second was Al socking the offending hoof, except he used the hoof carrying the knife. The third was the offending pony screaming and withdrawing a bloody hoof. And finally, the fourth was Al getting the pony in a headlock and putting a knife to his throat.
"Listen fella," Al whispered in his victim's ear, "You and your friends don't hurt me, and I won't hurt you. You got that?" The knife dug into the stallion's neck a little, starting a little blood.
"Ye- Yes," the pony stuttered. The blood from his injured hoof had clotted, leaving a shallow line of congealed red.
"Now unless you want one of your people to die," Al hissed, "You won't touch me. Next time, I'm going for the kill." He released his grip on the pony, withdrawing the knife. The stallion collapsed onto a puddle of his own blood, gasping for air. Al kicked him away enough so he could spin his chair.
"Got any rooms?" he asked the bartender as if nothing had happened.
