Equestria Noir

by Garnot

Rating: teen
Tags: Dark, Alternate Universe, Adventure
Length: 22391

A Neo-Noir Tale

Set in an alternate Neo-Noir version of Equestria.

Ten years ago, Celestia and Luna mysteriously vanished from the face of the planet, leaving their nation to slowly fall apart. Now, crime, corruption and a nameless, faceless evil threaten to destroy the slowly recovering nation.

In the middle of this chaos stands Bogart Maltese, an equine and member of the Regulators - an enclave dedicated to fighting crime, corruption and villainy - who is on a quest to find and punish the ones responsible for his partner's murder. Along the way, he will meet another soul, who just like him, longs to understand her own tragic past.

To find the answers they both seek, the two will have to travel to hell and back. What they discover may change the face of Equestria forever.

Trust no one and fear the dark places of the world.

Published 1970-01-01 00:00:00 UTC
Last updated 2011-10-04 02:35:42 UTC

The Chosen - Chapter One

Train En Route to Ponyville - 5:15 AM

It would take about four hours to get from Manehattan to Ponyville. I wanted to use the time to catch up on some much needed rest, but despite my best efforts sleep was just something my body refused. I spent an hour staring out the window before I decided to do something else instead.

It was about time I caught up on the newest issue of “The Adventures of Captain Baseball Bat Boy”, an import graphic novel from the human federation and still my favorite graphic novel since foalhood. It mostly dealt with a hyperactive human kid that solved his problems by cracking heads with his baseball bat. In this month’s issue, Captain Baseball Bat Boy was up against his most dangerous nemesis; the nefarious Maxwell’s Demon and his army, The Freaking Demons from Outer Space. It was good stuff that made the last leg of the trip bearable. Still, it wasn’t that long and I finished it in about a half an hour.

It was a guilty pleasure, and one that at least kept my head away from undesirable thoughts, like the daunting task of questioning an entire town about a pony whose name, age, and color I didn't know.

I spent the rest of my time looking at a map of Equestria and its surroundings. My eyes settled on my destination first - Ponyville - and then the rest of the country.

Ponyville was a medium-sized trade town located right in the middle of Equestria with routes going through it to nearly all corners of the nation. More west than north of Ponyville lay Canterlot: Equestria’s largest city and capital. Canterlot was most known for the ancient castle built eons before Celestia and Luna's rule, and the massive airports that had been added to the cliff side. Airships of all types constantly loaded and unloaded at the ports, bringing goods from all over the world.

To the southwest of Ponyville was an expanse of near-impenetrable woodlands: the Everfree Forest. It’s been said to be the dwelling place of both monstrosities and secrets from ages long forgotten, stretching back to the reign of the Zeborites who had lived almost ten thousand years ago before being wiped out by an unknown catastrophe. The Everfree Forest was a place where even the bravest dared not tread, and the few that did were monster hunters or alchemists in search of rare ingredients.

Due south of Ponyville was Hoofington, a small town roughly the size of Cloudsdale, which itself laid northwest of Ponyville.

I didn't know much about the place other than it was home to some of the world's best magicians and illusionists. From what I've read, the town was the birthplace of Trixie Solaris - adoptive daughter of Celestia Solaris - who at the time, was the most powerful non-divine being in the world. What became of her was never resolved, as she vanished alongside the Princesses and another of Celestia's closest aides; a young unicorn named Twilight Sparkle.

To the northwest lay Stalliongrad, the hive of scum and villainy in Equestria - a town completely operated by the Rosalinos and the Stooped Necromancers. The town was a Regulator's worst nightmare, yet against all common sense Stalliongrad had earned a reputation for being one of the safest places left in Equestria outside of Canterlot. The heads of the town council - all of whom had close ties to both the Rosalinos and the Necromancers - kept the streets secure. The undisputed head of council, Donna Flutter - daughter of Don Rosalino and current head of the Flutters - took a personal role in keeping 'her' streets as safe and as orderly as organized crime would allow. It spoke volumes, considering the sheer barbarism of the cultists and petty thugs.

Rumor had it that Donna Flutter ruled Stalliongrad with the same iron-hoofed justice as her father mixed with the care and tenderness of her mother. Many citizens of the town considered her a saint.

Finally, to the west of Ponyville lay Manehattan, my home town...for the time being. The big rotten apple itself. There wasn’t much say other than ‘keep your distance’.

Train En Route to Ponyville - 9:15 AM

The train slowed down as my station was called through the ancient loudspeakers. I gathered up my belongings - all of which I had miraculously managed to fit into a pair of saddlebags no bigger than my torso - and stepped towards the door. I looked at my watch; it was a little past nine in the morning. I took a deep breath and prepared to disembark.

[The Chosen Saga

Chapter One](http://www.youtuberepeat.com/watch/?v=teckDmaZf98&feature=related)

Well, here I am; Ponyville. It’s... a lot more colorful than I expected...

The town was almost entirely made up of mares and fillies, with very few stallions to be seen. The houses were colorful, the shops were colorful, even the ground seemed colorful; it was as if I had stepped into some kind of children's book and was now part of the story.

As I walked, mares and fillies gave me looks of curiosity and excitement; every gaze seemed to study me from head to toe, as if I was the first real stallion they had laid eyes on for who knows how many years.

It left me feeling at odds with the populace. It was easy for them to tell me apart - likely a given considering the way I was dressed and acted. I made sure that my bag was close for quick access to Negotiator should the need arise.

It was an old beast, Negotiator. She wasn’t the most advanced revolver on the market, but as far as sidearms went she was reliable, rugged, and powerful. Combine that with her above-average accuracy, .44 caliber rounds, and the add-on of a Magi-tech ammunition replenisher, and she was easily the best primary firearm. At least in my eyes. She could out-shoot just about any other type of handgun, especially the new semi-automatic Gauss handguns the humans loved to brag about...

I still remember the day the war started. It was the day human weaponry became the standard for the Equestrian military. They were divided into two classes and came to represent the future of warfare as we know it...

***

The Gauss class of weaponry covered just about everything that used electromagnets to ‘propel’ their metal projectiles. They were as fast as traditional gunpowder without all the waste, like casings and such. They also had the added advantage of reliability: pull the trigger and it’d fire every time. What they didn’t have however, was the ability to hit targets using kinetic shielding. That’s where energy weapons came in.

The energy class of weapons covered everything that used lasers and plasma. They ran on external energy sources like batteries or  - on the off chance that a unicorn had enough power - magic. While the pinpoint accuracy of a laser rifle and the sheer destructive power of a plasma scatter-gun can’t be denied, energy weapons usually required extensive and specialized training as well as great care in the field to maximize their potential. That disadvantage was mostly overlooked though since they could bypass kinetic shields altogether.

The two had practically made gunpowder and magic weapons obsolete...

Not all nations embraced the future as readily as Equestria did though. Many nations kept their traditional weapons. Griffins for example, had their own set of melee armaments, all of which hearkened back to a more ‘primitive’ time in their history. Their natural mastery of both sky and ground, coupled with their ferocious nature and superior endurance made them formidable opponents. They fought claw-to-claw because they could afford to.

Stories even circulated around HQ of a griffin supposedly shrugging off a railgun blast; an attack that would easily eviscerate a human after cleaving them in two and reduce an equine to nothing more than fine red paste. It was just a rumor of course, but even this rumor had a little truth to it; griffin bodies were durable, but definitely not indestructible.

In a way, I’m glad to know I’m not the only one that prefers different weapons on the battlefield. Truth be told, it doesn’t matter how you fight, so long as you win.

***

As I kept on walking, mind back on my assignment, I couldn't help but frown; there must have been hundreds of ponies living in this town. How was I ever going to ask all of them about my lead? I couldn't interrogate every single one; that would take weeks, if not months.

I sighed, closing my eyes for just a second to try and come up with a feasible solution.

Maybe if I set up a small office here? Hired some assistants? No, that would take too much time and lots of money. Money I don’t have. I needed to find a nice quiet place to think this through…

I turned to head down the street when I suddenly bumped into somepony, knocking us both to the ground.

I landed face first, eating some dirt in the process. I shook my head, quickly standing back up and looking at the culprit. I was ready to utter some rather nasty words, but stopped dead in my tracks when I saw the pony.

She was a pink earth pony that smelled of pastries and sarsaparilla. Her mane and tail were puffs of magenta that looked more like cotton candy than hair. She was young - no older than seventeen or eighteen. Her cutie mark had two blue party balloons and one yellow one.

The pink pony - who appeared unharmed - quickly recovered from her fall, hopping on her hooves before I could even say a word. She shook her head and smiled, taking one long look at me, her smile seeming to grow and her blueish-cyan eyes widening to proportions I hadn’t thought possible for any living creature.

Suddenly, she jumped up in the air, gasped loudly for what seemed like a minute straight, and zoomed away at an impossibly fast pace - not once touching the ground - until she was completely out of sight.

I stood there, shaking my head in an attempt to make sense of what I had just seen. "That was weird..." I found myself whispering. Maybe I had imagined the encounter, or maybe I had run into some new kind of equine. I didn't know for certain, and I wasn't about to waste valuable brain cells trying to figure it out; I had other priorities. I picked up my bag and continued on my way.

A minute hadn’t even passed before I was knocked to the ground yet again, this time by a young unicorn mare. She was a creamy off-white color and had indigo hair which was carefully fashioned into curls. On her rump was a cutie mark of three shining diamonds.

She skidded to a stop and looked back at me, her face full of remorse.

I grunted, picking myself up once again. I looked at my outfit, which was now stained with mud and grass. I tried to shake it clean, but the mud wouldn't come off, not even with magic.

I looked at the pony, ready to utter some kind of obscenity, but after laying eyes on her my words vanished as I felt my heart skip a beat.

The unicorn... she was the most beautiful creature I had ever laid eyes on. Her mane was radiant with a life all its own, her eyes seemed capable of peering into one's soul, her lips were rosy and fresh, her coat vibrant and clearly well taken care of...

She was an angel come down from the heavens in these dark times.

She walked up to me, eyes guilt ridden. “Are you alright darling?” she asked in a voice full of sophistication and proper manners. “I didn't mean to knock you on the ground like that, and now look at you! So filthy and unkempt!” She eyed my getup with a scowl on her face. “Oh, look at you! That duster - so ancient and worn!” She looked at my riot gear next. “And that armor! Are those bullet holes I see? Is that dried blood?! My word!” she gasped. “That armor is far too light for someone like you to wear!" She suddenly grabbed me by the neck of my duster. "You just have to come with me darling! There is so much that needs to be done about that getup!"

"What?" I managed to utter before I found myself being dragged by the mare; she was surprisingly strong considering her size. I barely managed to get my saddlebags floating behind me as she took me deeper into the town, past the shops and the marketplace and into what I could only describe as the upper quarters where all manner of well dressed ponies roamed the streets.

As I looked around, what appeared to be a carousel came into sight - a large, purple-colored carousel that seemed out of place next to the small mansions and estates.

The mare magically opened her door and stopped dragging me the moment we were inside. I took a look around soon as I could, and saw hundreds of pieces of clothing neatly arranged in various rows, all either in the process of completion or altogether finished. The clothes on display were quite diverse: suits, gowns, jackets, coats, dusters and saddles of all styles and colors.

"Alright darling," the pony said in a soft manner, "I need you to take off everything you're wearing."

"What?" I asked in shock, "Why the hell would I do that!?"

"Oh you silly foal!" She motioned coyly, "How else am I supposed to fit you with a new suit?"

"I don't want a new suit!" I nearly shouted, "I like what I’m wearing just fine!"

"No, no, no, no! It just won't do darling. Even a Regulator such as yourself needs to look his best every once in a while!" She used her magic to take off my duster, which upon closer inspection, was indeed starting to fade in certain places.

"I'm sure your line of work leaves little time to go around window shopping for new getups, but that's no excuse to be sporting such a dreadful piece of clothing! And that armor has quite definitely seen better days! I mean, who modified it? It's much too thin to be bulletproof!"

She removed my armor as well, spinning me in the air several times before I fell on the ground, left in nothing more than my natural, charcoal black coat.

"Wait, how do you know about armor?" I asked concernedly as I eyed the white unicorn. "Better yet, how did you know I’m a Regulator?"

“Part of your badge is showing,” she said, pointing at one of my duster’s inner pockets. Sure enough, the small leather wallet that held my badge was flipped open, showing a small bit of the shield-like emblem with the letters ‘lator’ in plain view.

It didn’t take a genius to put two and two together.

“Right.” I said, clearing my throat and reaching over to shove the badge deeper into my pocket. “Still, who do you think you are, telling me what to do?”

"Oh my!" she suddenly exclaimed, a look of great shock on her face. "Where are my manners? My name is Rarity Diamant, and I am this town's most prolific fashion designer. I work with it all, including armor. As a matter of fact, most of the orders I get are from rich Canterlotians who wish to have their suits reinforced with all matter of bulletproof materials."

“Canterlot?” I asked, “That’s the capital. Security in Canterlot’s supposed to be extremely tight. If they’re having trouble then...”

“Then what darling?” Rarity asked, curious as to what I was going to say.

“...Nothing.” I said.

“Well,” the unicorn went on, “I hear the Cult’s becoming bolder and more hostile in that area. Many of my clients there feel the need to enhance their personal protection.” She sighed. "No one is safe from those cultists-" She stopped suddenly as she shook her hoof in the air with fury. "Those cultist scum! Yes, I can't think of a more fitting term for them than ‘scum’!" She looked at me almost guiltily. "Oh dear me, there I am going off about the Cult again." She levitated my duster into the air, carefully inspecting it with an eye for detail that only a fashion designer could posses.

I raised an eyebrow. Can’t put my hoof on it, but I’m starting to like this mare.

Suddenly, the purplish glow that surrounded the duster became white. I could sense some new power in the air.

"Oh my!” Rarity said as she looked at me wide eyed. “This duster used to belong to someone else didn't it darling?"

"Yes…" I said with some intrigue. How did she figure out the duster wasn’t mine just by looking at it?

“And was the previous owner was a unicorn, correct?”

“Yes, she was,” I replied rather quickly. “But how could you have possibly known that just by looking at it?"

“Darling,” Rarity started, “unicorn magic, especially powerful or emotionally charged magic, leaves an imprint on things - particularly clothing - if they’re worn often. Think of it like an afterimage...or an echo of sorts...” She smiled softly. “Clothes, just like all of us, have stories to tell if you’re able to listen.”

Rarity’s face suddenly lost some of its color. “Oh my...this duster’s story...it’s just so sad - and so brutal...” She looked back at me. “Its previous owner was a good friend of yours... she’s dead, isn’t she?”

“...Yes.” I said solemnly.

“I’m sorry.” Rarity said. “The sad ones always speak loudest....” She smiled rather grimly. “I did manage to get one useful tidbit of information out of the duster though; your name.”

“You know my name?” I asked in surprise.

“Bogart Maltese,” she replied quickly.

“Impressive,” I said in awe. “You’re the first real ‘seer’ I’ve seen who actually got my name the first time around. Very impressive.”

“Well, your name was the only thing clear enough to really ‘see’. Everything else was pure chaos. For that detail to be so clear... your partner must have thought the world of you.” Rarity seemed suddenly crestfallen. “How dreadful to think that I am among the last to bear this so called ‘gift’...”

“Gift huh? Hereditary magic, I’m guessing.”

“Yes, from my mother’s side. My sister has yet to show any trace of the power, so I fear I may be the last to bear it.”

“How old is your sister?” I asked.

“She’s sixteen.”

“Ah, she’s still a young filly then.” My mind suddenly went back to cult and their habit of ravaging such young equines. “Keep her safe.” I told her in a surprisingly commanding tone.

“I will.” She had a look of fierce determination on her face.

“Well, I think it’s time I formally introduced myself. Name’s Bogart Maltese, Regulator, second lieutenant. I came down from Manehattan to follow up on a case two years in the making. Perhaps you can be of assistance.” I walked to my saddlebags and pulled out my notepad.  “Two years ago,” I started, “there was a brutal murder near the town of Stalliongrad. A family of ‘rock farmers’ was killed by the Cult. At the time, it was believed the crime was little more than another random act of violence. Recent developments have changed that however. It wasn’t known at the time, but a young filly survived the attacks. Our reports state that she either moved to this town, or at the very least passed by on her way to parts unknown.”

“...and that’s why you’ve come to Ponyville,” Rarity said, understanding now.

“That’s right.” I replied.

“Well, do you have some sort of physical profile darling? What she looks like? What color her coat is? How old she would be now?”

“Well...I don’t know. None of those things were ever discovered. All I know is that the pony’s a filly.”

“Well, sounds to me like you might be shooting blindfolded. There bust me hundreds of lone fillies in this town...” She shook her head. “I’m afraid I can’t help you there darling.”

She’s right; this is going to be hell... I groaned.

Rarity suddenly smiled at me. She gently and gracefully levitated both my duster and armor along behind her as she walked. “I'm guessing you want to keep this duster as a memento of your fallen friend, yes?”

“That’s the idea.” I said rather quickly.

“Well, not to worry then! I'll make this duster brand new, just you wait! In the meantime darling, why don't you go out and start gathering some clues? By the sound of it, you have a lot of work ahead of yourself.”

“Yeah, I do, don’t I...” I whispered.

I walked up to my saddlebags to go over my belongings, wondering what I should take with me. That’s when I realized that I hadn’t yet found an inn to stay at while I was in town for the duration of the investigation.

How could you have forgotten one of the most important things?! I scolded myself.

Sighing, I picked up my bags, and was about to put them on when Rarity suddenly pipped up again. She was already deep in her work, so it came as a slight shock.

"Oh darling, you don't need to drag your things around town like some kind of vagrant! Leave them here, they'll be quite safe.”

“I appreciate the gesture, but I’d rather have my things with me.”

“Are you sure?” Rarity asked, “The town is rather large, and we don’t have a bus system.”

“That’s fine, really,” I lied. “I’ll just, you know, carry all my crap around.” I groaned and whispered, “That’s what I get for not renting a room.”

“Do you have a place to stay at least?” she asked all of a sudden.

“Well...” I choked. Damn! did she hear me? “Actually... well, you see-”

“You don’t have a place to stay the night, do you?” Rarity interrupted me, sounding dead serious.

I shook my head. “No, I don’t.”

“If that’s the case then I will have to insist you stay the night as my guest.”

“Wait, what?”

“You heard me,” she said with a smile, “you are staying the night as my guest.”

“No I’m not” I said in a rather angry tone. “I’ll rent a room, a-”

“Darling!” Rarity interrupted me once again, turning to look at me with a slightly angry glare. “You are staying the night as my guest; end of story,” she said sternly before going back to her work.

This... this is new...

“Now, run along and get to work. The sooner you find this pony of yours, the faster you can enjoy Ponyville’s luxuries.”

"Fine…" I said with some resentfulness, feeling as if I was being treated like a foal rather than a stallion.

Putting both saddlebags on the floor again, I took out a smaller pouch that I could tie around my neck. I grabbed Negotiator and its holster, a medium sized notepad to write on and my badge, and stuffed all of it into the pouch before turning back to Rarity one more time.

I was scowling already. Free board and a suit repair, all without so much a mention of money... either this Rarity is quite the generous mare, or this is going to cost me several limbs...

I made my way out of the boutique. As I walked down the road leading from Rarity's home and shop, I began to feel strange about her attitude. She and I…we were kind of alike. Either fate was playing with me, or...

No, it couldn't be; it was just a bunch of extremely convenient coincidences. Yeah, coincidences...

Then again, in my line of work, coincidences didn't happen too often.

Maybe I was over thinking things - it wouldn’t be the first or last time either. Still, something about Rarity struck me as odd, and it wasn't because she could get personal information out of my clothes... It was something else, something more meaningful...more cryptic…

No matter; I had a job to do. I set my sights on the first pony I saw and walked up to her, notepad floating next to my head, ready to jot down whatever information I could get.

Ponyville - 12:35 PM

Thread by thread, stitching it together! Pass the needle trough that loop, make sure it goes through that grove there... Just a little more... there! Now just one last pass... Almost got it... there! Perfection!

Raising the now fully stitched duster up to the light, I smiled with glee at my accomplishment. It might have taken about three hours to finish, and I might have gone just a little bit overboard – having added several ceramic pads that now rested around the shoulders and backside of the coat, dying the duster black after finding its original color quickly fading, and replacing some of the original cotton lining with Kevlar weave – but none of that mattered one bit. This was what I lived for: the art of the dress!

“Bogart is sure to say a thing or two about the color, but once he hears what went into it, he'll be groveling at my feet in gratitude, and I haven't even started on his armor yet! Oh how he'll worship me after this is over!”

Now Rarity, keep calm and don't get overly excited before the job is done! The duster took three hours, and that was a simple patch job. The armor is damaged and quite worn out; you'll have to replace almost all its components.

“But of course! Bogart deserves armor worthy of his job; he's a Regulator, and he must be well protected if he is to keep everyone else protected.

Let's see then, what kind of plating should I use? Something light yet durable, flexible yet robust, warm yet cool…”

Rarity, why are you even thinking about it? Use the mithril ore you found the other day!

“That would take hours to smelt, and Bogart could be back at any minute!”

But he'll have his duster, right? Besides, re-forging his riot gear from the ground up is a good way of making sure he sticks around for a while.

“Yes, Bogart is a rather handsome fellow isn't he? He seems a little shy and insecure about himself, but I'm sure he just needs a good friend to ease him into a more sociable lifestyle...

Wait, what am I thinking? Bogart would never go for a mare like me. No one would ever go for someone like me, not after what I’ve done...”

Don't think like that Rarity; you of all people should know that the past is the past.

“That may be true, but some wounds are just too deep to heal. I promised I would never allow myself to fall in love, and I intend to stick with that resolution.

Now, where was I? Oh yes, rebuilding Bogart's riot gear! Let's see now… It's quite lightweight, but it provides almost no defense. It's dirty and quite an eyesore. If it was up to me, I would just toss this in the trash….

Why of course! Bogart only cares about the duster; he never said anything about the armor! I'll toss it away and…”

Give him your own armor?

“I could do that… I mean, I have no further use for it; the war's been over for five years now. But I don't think he'll like it much… I mean, it has Civil Protection's logo on it, and not many people like to remember what they did…”

The past is the past Rarity, you can't live in regret. You might have made things that hurt quite a lot of ponies, but it wasn’t as though you were given much of a choice in the matter.

“No… I can't let Bogart see that cursed suit; I can't let anypony see that cursed suit.”

You know full-well the suit isn't the cause of your shame. After all, a suit is only a suit; it's the wearer that people hate, and nobody hates you. On the contrary, everyone loves you and your work! You have a promising career that allows you to do what you love! What more can you ask for?

“Absolution…”

I sighed, slumping on the table. I could feel tears building up in my eyes. It's true that I had everything a pony could ever want… but the one thing I wanted more than anything else seemed beyond my grasp.

I stood up and looked at myself in the nearest mirror.

Five years ago, I had dedicated myself to forging weapons of war. It hadn’t really been a choice, but it did save me from fighting in the front lines.

Making weapons hadn’t been difficult at all, and forging armor was virtually the same as creating dresses, except the materials were a tad more difficult to work with. Overall, working for Civil Protection had netted both myself and Sweetie Belle recognition and fame.

But neither of those could change the fact that my weapons had been used to slaughter the innocent while the murderers hid behind my armor. To this day, my reputation still precedes me; a reputation that I am bitterly divided over.

On the one hoof, my name is quite well known in all the upper circles. The rich and influential come to me for protection, and I have delivered every single time.

On the other hoof, my work carries the stigma of the war. I no longer make weapons, but when I did they were greedily sought after; the quality of my weapons spoke volumes - more than I could have predicted.

No, I was getting worked up over trivialities. The past is past. I no longer make weapons, and I hoped to never have to touch my gunsmithing tools ever again.

I looked at Bogart's armor and made up my mind. I wouldn't toss it away; I would re-forge it and make it stronger than before.

“Yes! I am Rarity Diamant, the most prolific fashion designer in Ponyville! I have no need to recall the past; only the here and now matters, and I have a job to get done!”

Ponyville - 2:36 PM

Well Bogart, it's been about five hours now, and you haven't even filled up a half-page of information. You're getting sloppy, very sloppy...

I sighed as yet another pony finished recounting her life's story for me.

The gray pegesus’ name was Ditzy Doo, the town’s mail courier. Her most striking feature was that neither of her eyes seemed capable of focusing on one thing for too long and their constant shifting back and forth was enough to make me feel dizzy.

Her mane was a lively blond color; her coat and wings were lightly faded, likely due to a combination of sunlight and age. Finally, I noticed her cutie mark, or rather, what would have been her cutie mark if there hadn’t been gnarled scar tissue covering most of her flank. I could just barely make out what had once been a trio of bubbles on the very edge of the large patch of scarred skin; my hunch told me that this pegasus had tried to remove her own cutie mark.

I might look into this. I just *can’t** imagine what sort of madness could drive such a pretty pegasus to commit such a drastic act...*

I closed my notepad, signaling the end of the ‘interrogation.’ The pegasus had kept a carefree smile throughout the questioning, one that wouldn’t seem too strange to the average equine, but I wasn’t the average equine. I was a Regulator. She didn’t know it, but I had seen through her facade. Her smile, while not necessarily forced, it definitely served to hide a deep sadness.

Her story was incomplete, disjointed and forced. Not once did she make a single mention of her scar or how she might have gotten it.

She was still hiding something, but I didn’t press any further on the details. I didn’t want to deal with sentimental mares this early on.

Ditzy reached into her saddlebag and produced a muffin, which she offered to me with a smile. She then started telling me how there was nothing more nutritious and joyous than a good muffin.

I took the baked good out of politeness and smiled. I hadn’t noticed it until now, but judging from the sun’s position, it was nearly lunch time, and I was starting to get hungry. I always lost track of time while questioning the general populace; it was the reason I disliked doing it.

My stomach suddenly growled, prompting me to start eating the muffin.

I still felt hungry after I had finished it. I looked at Ditzy and asked her where I could get more.

She pointed westward, telling me of a shop called ‘Sugarcube Corner.’ She told me to follow the road, go through the shopping district, and finally make a left. I would eventually reach the bakery, a building made to look like a gingerbread house. She smiled as she begun to tell me about the kinds of pastries they made, and how delicious each one was.

Before Ditzy had the chance to flap her gums anymore, I thanked her with a firm hoofshake. She looked a little dejected at first, but she smiled nonetheless. She waved goodbye and walked away.

As Ditzy moved out of earshot, the strong urge to scream in frustration suddenly filled me. It was almost overpowering, and it took every ounce of self control to keep myself from doing so.

It seemed like the entire town doesn’t know anything about an older filly or young mare moving in or passing through in the last two years. For her to manage it without anypony noticing would have been impossible. So either everypony is pretending not to know, or they don’t want to know...

Why do I get the feeling they’re lying to me? Well, I guess it wouldn’t be any fun if finding her was easy! I thought as I rolled my eyes.

Maybe I was going about this the wrong way... Maybe I needed to speak to somepony with authority. If anypony was going to have the information I needed, it would probably be somepony with power.

Bogart! You Idiot! Instead of focusing on the small fish, you should have gone for the bigger ones first!

Putting a hoof to my face I sighed. Me and my habit of starting small... “I’m a freaking Regulator! I can walk up to any freaking authority figure and demand they tell me what they know!” I said loudly. I looked around for a bit, and spotted a guard. His blue and gold uniform told me he was a patrol pony. He wouldn’t know much, but he was bound to know something.

I didn't waste any time. I quickly trotted towards him, and before he could register it, I had shoved my Regulator badge in front of his face.

“Now that I’ve got your attention,” I said, “I need some answers.”

The guard looked at me, clearly confused.

“I need you to tell me everything you know about this town’s civilian records.”

The guard said nothing. I tried asking him about the town’s layout, population size, even strange occurrences. He didn’t say a thing. Every question I asked was met with complete and utter silence.

Before I could ask anything else, the guard walked away as if our conversation had never taken place.

Without even thinking about it, I stood up on my back legs and struck the nearest wall with my left forehoof. Not a great idea in retrospect.

I grabbed hold of my hoof, gritting my teeth. “Son of a flying-” I didn’t finish the curse as I let out a painful yell. My hoof had started to throb already.

I looked around and everypony seemed to be going about their business in a more casual fashion than the norm, seemingly ignoring me and anything I did.

“It’s almost as if they don’t care.” I said, “They’re ignorant and-” I scoffed. “Sheep...” I whispered, “Ignorant sheep, lining up for the slau-” I took a deep breath instead of finishing the thought.

No point in getting pissed, it won’t help the cause. It won’t get me the answers I need. Relax...keep cool...

As I looked at the oblivious populace, I couldn’t help but feel there was something that was off about this town. These ponies, they were hiding something, something important…

Whatever it is, I’m going to find out, one way or another.

The Chosen - Chapter Two

Ponyville - 2:45 PM

I walked down the seemingly empty streets of Ponyville with my notepad levitating in front of me, looking around often enough to make sure I didn't veer onto the wrong path. I looked at the sky for a moment, taking notice of the sun’s position, its sharp glare forcing me to squint.

I combed my notes for anything suspicious and I started to notice a pattern: the few answers I had managed to extract from ponies were shallow, avoidant, and so full of red herrings that I could’ve easily opened up a restaurant.

I chuckled darkly at the idea. I’d call it ‘Bogart’s Red Herrings: Come for the Fish, Stay for the Diversions.’

My laughter quickly faded into a scowl. I closed my notepad, glaring at its cover.

Why do I even bother with notes? I don’t have enough information to even start making an educated guess as to where I need to go…

Sighing, I levitated the notepad back into my bag.

I need to sit down and think this through, preferably with a cup of hot chocolate or coffee.

No sooner had I thought it than my nose caught the whiff of some sweet aroma: the smell of baked goods.

A smile spread across my face. I found myself trotting as I turned one last corner. At last, my eyes met the bakery known as Sugarcube Corner.

Just where Ditzy said it would be.

I calmly walked towards the bakery, and as I did, I suddenly had the feeling of being watched... I stopped in my tracks and looked around carefully. I couldn’t spot anything out of the ordinary.

I slowly turned around again. “Something about this town’s odd…”

The Chosen:

Chapter Two

The bakery was charming, made to look like something out of the old human fable ‘Hansel and Gretel’. Its cookie–like walls rose from the ground for three towering stories before they came together to form a roof that seemed far too realistic to be brick-and-mortar. What looked like caulking had been spread out over the edges to resemble decorative frosting and there were also various bits of plastic candy here and there, all of it adding to the overall feeling of a gingerbread house.

I hated it.

I walked up to the door and lightly pushed on it. The door swung open without a sound. It was dark inside, without a soul in sight. The darkness was a little unsettling, but not yet threatening.

I decided to head inside with care.

The first thing I did was to get a good look around, to try and familiarize myself with the new setting. Second, I took stock of every item in the shop. That’s when I noticed that many of the bakery’s tables were bare save for red checkered tablecloths.

Odd...

I took a look at the walls, which had several banners nailed to them. They all read, ‘Welcome to Ponyville!’ and ‘Hope you like your stay!’ in bold, decorative calligraphy.

Looks like someone important came to town. Probably some government type or pop star. Wouldn’t be surprised if it was Sapphire Shores. I recalled Sapphire Shores used to live in this town before moving to Canterlot and making it big as a pop star. Pretty little filly. Made it big without a Cutie Mark too.

I half smiled. “Who needs some Cutie Mark anyway,” I whispered, looking back at my own bare flank.

I looked around some more, eyes wandering about the shop. Suddenly, I spotted something new among the old banners. It was a worn out sign, nailed to shop’s back wall, dusty and seemingly forgotten. It read: ‘Welcome Princess Celest.’

“Princess Celest?” I whispered. “That ain’t right...” There was something next to the banner - a small, barely visible note. It read: “Wrong spelling of the Princess’ name. Change ASAP.”

Judging by the weathered looks of the cloth and the fact that the banner was undoubtedly welcoming Celestia - albeit with her name misspelled - it must have been a good decade old, maybe even older. Whoever had made the banner either hadn’t cared to check his or her spelling or had been in a too much of a rush to care.

I found myself wondering what might have happened to whoever was responsible for the sign. Part of me pictured a hapless pony standing before the Princesses, being judged for their bad spelling, followed by a swift banishment to some celestial body, like Mars or Jupiter. The other part laughed at the notion.

Tearing my gaze from the banner, I walked up to the shop’s counter and was immediately enthralled by all the different but delicious looking cakes and pastries sitting behind the glass display. Realizing I wouldn’t draw attention by just gawking, I rang the small bell that was sitting on the counter.

Almost instantly, I heard a crash from the kitchen, followed by giggling. “One second!” called somepony. It was a young and seemingly carefree pony based on the sing-song way they said it.

I took a step back, looking at the kitchen door. A pink earth pony suddenly appeared, carrying what looked like several large boxes of flour. I couldn’t see the pony’s face, but what I could see of her frame told me she was female. Her coat was pink, and she sported her magenta tail in a puffed-up fashion, bearing the same consistency as cotton candy.

The first thing that struck me about her was how she was balancing the boxes on her forehooves, walking upright in a manner reminiscent of how humans tended to walk - a very difficult feat for ordinary ponies to master. She turned around so her back was now facing me, and I caught a glimpse of her Cutie Mark: three party balloons, two blue and one yellow.

My thoughts jumped back to earlier in the day and the first pony I had bumped into. She had the same mark. Could it really be her?

“Welcome to Sugarcube Corner~!” the filly sang cheerfully. “How can I help you today?” she asked, setting the boxes on the ground and looking me straight in the eyes.

Neither one of us said anything at first; the filly seemed a little shocked I was there. I simply waited for her reaction. She gasped in shock for several seconds before pointing at me.

“You!” she said. “You’re that new stallion in town!”

“And you! You’re that filly who knocked me on the ground earlier today!” I crossed my forelegs while giving her a stern look. “Didn’t even bother with an apology! You just gasped and ran off faster than a Wonderbolt.”

“Right…” the pink filly said, rubbing the back of her head with a sheepish smile on her face next to her blushing red cheeks. “I’m really, really sorry about that Mister. It’s just that, I get so excited when a new face shows up in town!”

“Well, just try to watch where you’re going next time, okay? If this was Manehattan, you'd be-” I hesitated; she didn’t need to know about the kinds of things they’d do a filly like her in Manehattan. “Well…”

“What would I be?” she asked expectantly.

My expression soured a bit. “Nothing; nothing at all,” I said rather harshly. She suddenly looked saddened. I raised an eyebrow. “You aren’t about to cry, are you?”

“No,” she said bashfully, “it’s just that...you, well...” She sighed. “You aren’t supposed to be here at all.” She looked at all the banners, banners I quickly realized she had set up. “Your surprise party is ruined…”

“Surprise party?” I asked in shock. Well, that explains why tables are set up that way and why it’s so dark in here. Must have walked in earlier than I should have… “Why...why would you throw me a surprise party?” I asked with a great deal of surprise. The idea that someone would toss me - a total stranger - a surprise party simply eluded me.

“It’s customary,” the filly said with a growing smile. “Well, customary for me!” She suddenly giggled as she leaned over the counter. “Don’t they throw parties where you come from?”

“Not these kinds of parties.” I told her rather dryly.

For me, parties had always been boring. I don’t drink (it’s nothing more than comfort for the weak and degenerate to me), I don’t get ‘acquainted’ with hookers and whores either (not that I hate them, I just don’t approve of their lifestyle), and I’m not the type to dance.

Looking back, the only parties I ever recall being invited to were a single birthday, a New Year’s, and two mandatory Grand Galloping Galas. The first had been benign and for my partner. The second involved drinks and nice looking broads, neither of which I had any interest in. The third I had no say on; Gala attendance was mandatory for most Regulators.

Thank the stars I don’t fall in that category anymore.

I smiled at the filly. No need for her to know about amoral parties. “Never really been to any kind of party other than a birthday,” I quickly lied.

“Is that so?” she asked. The look on her face told me she was greatly surprised by my response. “You’ve never attended a party other than birthdays?”

“A birthday,” I quickly corrected her. “It was a one-time deal for my old partner. I’m not one to socialize much. I prefer things quiet and tranquil.”

“Oh. That’s too bad mister,” the filly said with disappointment, “to think you’ve never experienced the wonderful sensation that is a true party!”

“Well, I’ve attended a real party before, but only because I was forced to be in attendance. So it doesn’t count.”

“Forced?” she suddenly asked, “what kind of party would you be forced to attend?”

“The Grand Galloping Gala,” I answered completely deadpan.

“THE GRAND GALLOPING GALA!?” she suddenly shouted in what I could only

describe as near ecstasy. “You’ve been to the Grand Galloping Gala!?”

“Yeah,” I said, recoiling from her sudden outburst, “twice.”

“OH MY GOD!” She squealed in excitement.

I noted the filly’s use of the term ‘God’, which was odd, as most Equestrian citizens still looked up to Celestia as their personal deity. It wasn’t accurate, but old beliefs die hard.

The pink filly leaned in close to my face, close enough that I could smell her breath... It smelled like peppermint.

“WHAT’S THE GALA LIKE!?” she began shouting, “WERE THERE LOTS OF PONIES!? WAS THERE LOTS OF FOOD AND GAMES!? WHAT ABOUT SARSAPARILLA! I LOVE SARSAPARILLA!”

“There were lots of ponies alright,” pampered, rich bastard ponies, “but no so-called ‘games’.” Excluding such classics as ‘who can talk the longest without falling sleep’. “As far as food went, well, I only ate the ‘imported’ food.” I said it with a slightly malicious smile. Yeah, ‘imported’ food... “All in all, the Gala is pointless and needlessly fancy. What else can I say? It's a party held for rich bastards by rich bastards.”

Pinkie suddenly slammed her left hoof down on the counter.

“YOU LIE!” she shouted at me in an incriminating fashion, pointing her right hoof at me, her face twisted in a scowl. “The gala is the greatest party of the year!”

“That’s a glorified lie.” I said, pointing at the window with my right hoof. “Don’t you see? The Gala is little more than a fundraiser for the rich and amoral.” I tapped my left hoof against my head. “They make you believe the Gala is what it used to be. But that ship sailed a long, long time ago.”

“What the Gala used to be?” the filly asked.

“That’s right,” I said in a serious tone. “The Gala wasn’t always some rich pony’s orgy of money and fame. No, it used to mean something.” I paused, then started laughing, prompting the young filly to look at me with confusion.

“You okay mister?”

“I’m fine. It’s just that, I’m repeating the same words my superior officer told me the first time I was in attendance at the Gala. He really hates the Gala, even more than I do. Can’t blame him really; he’s seen it change over the years.”

“Superior officer?” she asked all of a sudden with a broadening smile. “Are you a soldier!?” Her eyes narrowed and her smile didn’t change at all.

“No. I’m, ummm...” I paused, realizing I didn't even know this filly's name. “What's your name anyway kid?” I asked. “The least a filly can do before swarming me with Twenty Questions is introduce herself.”

“Oh, okay!” she said with enthusiasm. She took a deep breath, looking like she was getting ready to dive underwater and started: “My name is Pinkamena Diane Pie. Don’t know why mother picked such a long name, so I call myself Pinkie Pie! Thinking back on my name though, it might have to do with the fact that I’m pink, but I’ve never actually verified that with mother. Then again, my mane is magenta and my eyes are light blue, so who knows? My mom calls the eyes 'cyan,' but I think they're light blue!” She exhaled as though she’d come back up for air and looked at me with the same broad smile. She motioned with her head in an expectant manner. “I’m about 17 years old, I love to bake, throw parties, attend parties, and various other things. The list goes on really.”

“Ah, that clears up a lot.” I said rather sarcastically. “So, your name is Pinkamena.”

“Pinkie,” she said in a slightly flustered way. “That other name… I don’t like it much.”

“Why?” I asked, giving ‘Pinkie’ an inquisitive look.

“I just don’t like it...” she said without giving me as much as a glance. She seemed to brood for a bit, and for a second, I could swear her hair turned a few shades darker.

Suddenly, Pinkie looked back up at me with a broad smile. “Now it’s your turn~!” she said in the same sing-song manner as earlier.

I said nothing at first, studying the filly with a diligent gaze. Can I trust her with my name? She strikes me as odd, but not much of a threat. “Okay,” I said. “name’s Bogart Maltese and I’m what you might call a detective.”

“Detective Bogart Maltese?” Pinkie said with a giggle. “That’s a human name...”

“Yes, it is.” I said, “That’s because I was born in the Federation.”

Pinkie’s face suddenly lit up with excitement at the news. “Oh wow!” she shouted, “You’re from the Federation! What was it like growing up among humans!? What were your parents like?!”

“Well,” I started, “humans aren’t that different from us equines on a social level. They may be more advanced technologically, but that doesn’t make them smarter.” I smiled. “You’d be surprised at how stupid some humans can be.”

“How did your parents meet?” Pinkie asked.

“Never knew who my parents were.” I said without much hesitation. “Whoever they were, they left me at Sunny Ray’s orphanage’s stairs before I could even speak.”

“You’re an orphan!” Pinkie said with sudden horror.

I nodded. “Not that it matters much. I turned out okay,” I said with another malicious smile. “When I turned seventeen, I moved to Equestria.”

“Why did you move?” Pinkie asked. “Didn’t you have friends to take you in?”

“Well,” I started, “I could have gone off to live with a dear friend of mine from the orphanage, but she moved back to her homeland. Despite our relationship, it wouldn’t have worked out so we parted ways.”

“That’s so sad!” Pinkie said. “Who was this dear friend?”

“She’s no one.” I said rather harshly. I looked at Pinkie sternly. She smiled, apparently taking the hint.

Deep down, memories of my once good friend stirred in the black abyss I called my mind. Her voice, so soothing; her gaze, so understanding; I missed her, more than I let on. Part of me wanted to say her name, but I knew damn well that it’d be a risk to do so. Sorry Laura, but I can’t let anyone find out about you. If something were to happen... I looked down at Negotiator and grinned bitterly. If something did happen, I might even put this whole cult business on hold...

Pinkie, though slightly stunned at first, quickly regained her composure.

I merely shook my head. “Getting back to the story,” I started, “I hadn’t lived a year in Equestria before war broke out.” I grimaced. “Was forced to join Civil Protection in order to avoid being deported back to the Federation.”

“So, you ]were a Regime solider!?” Pinkie asked in shock.

“Yes.” I hissed with some shame. “It isn’t something I look back on with pride. I did some nasty things under the Regime’s banner.”

“From what I’ve read in class, a lot of ponies did…” Pinkie suddenly said. She sighed, looking at me with sadness in her eyes. “Soldiers always seem to get the bad cupcakes in life.”

“You can say that again kid.”

“Soldiers always seem to get the bad cupcakes in life,” Pinkie repeated. “Speaking of which…” She suddenly dashed into her kitchen with the speed of a pegasus and came out a minute later holding a tray of every single pastry I could imagine. My mouth watered again. Just the thought of eating was enough to make me smile.

I reached for my saddlebag and pulled out a bag of bits. “How much for a few cupcakes?” I asked, placing the bag on the counter.

“Nothing~!” Pinkie sang with a small hop. “You’re new in town, so you get the guest treatment!” She pushed the bag of bits back to me. “Besides, your surprise party is spoiled, so you might as well just enjoy the delicious snacks I baked for the occasion!” She hopped up and down, smiling with glee.

“Fine by me” I said. I felt the left-side of my mouth curl upwards. This pink pony didn't know it, but that was as close as I ever got to grinning around strangers. I took a small cupcake, peeled the paper cup away and took a bite out of it.

Damn... this isn’t half bad.

“So,” Pinkie suddenly said, head resting on both of her hooves, “What happened after you became a Regime trooper?”

“Well,” I said, putting the half eaten cupcake down, “the usual for poor suckers forced to kill for a damn banner; pain, suffering, life at its lowest.” I chuckled bitterly. “Ironic how a wrong turn was the best damn thing to happen.”

“What do you mean?” Pinkie asked, leaning over the counter in anticipation.

“That wrong move...” I shook my head. “Nah kid; it is worth more to me than a plate of cupcakes to relive that hell.”

“Okay!” Pinkie said with a hop and a smile. She grabbed the now empty plate of cupcakes and walked back into the kitchen. Seconds later, she came out not only holding two platters of freshly baked cupcakes, but a bowl of purple colored punch balanced masterfully on her head. She walked past the counter, out towards the front of the shop, and set everything down on the table nearest the rightmost window.

“Well,” she called out, “are you going to stand there all day or are you going to come here and finish your story?”

I groaned softly, shaking my head in defeat. I walked over to the table, already formulating some excuse to leave. By the time I arrived, Pinkie had already set up two chairs, both facing each other. I took the one nearest the window. She looked at me expectantly, forehooves placed together.

“So, I’m guessing you want me to tell you about my military past, right?” I asked, taking a cupcake and biting the top right off.

“Yes please!” Pinkie said with a smile. She grabbed a cupcake and flung it in the air. She opened her mouth and caught it, eating it in a single bite.

“Listen, kid, you’re nice and all, but...” I sighed, feeling pretty bad about the whole situation. “A stallion’s past is his own. If he doesn’t want to talk about it, he won’t.”

“Please!” Pinkie said, placing her hooves together with another pleading look.

I looked away. Dammit, she’s not going to let up, is she? Looking back, I was met with her quickly blinking puppy-dog eyes. I sighed. You’re going soft Bogart. You’re going soft...

“Tell you what kid; you tell me about this town and its citizens, and I’ll go ahead and tell you a story about my days as a soldier.”

“Promise!?” Pinkie asked, shooting forward rather quickly. She was once again mere inches from my nose.

“Yes, I promise.” I told her in a passive tone, pushing her back gently. Not like I mean to actually keep my end of the bargain anyway, I told myself.

“Yes!” Pinkie said in an enthusiastic manner, closing her eyes and smiling wide. “Okay! Here we go!” she said, “It all started...” Pinkie began talking before I had a chance to react. I quickly opened my bag, levitated out my notepad and pen and began scribbling down everything that came out of her mouth.

***

An hour had passed. By the grace of the universe, Pinkie had stopped talking. I let my pen drop, exhaling deeply. I looked at my notepad; twenty filled pages greeted me. Somehow, I had managed to write down every single detail Pinkie had told me. She was beaming, ready to continue at the drop of a hat. For a few seconds, I contemplated getting up and running away as fast as my legs could manage.

That filly’s mouth was a lethal weapon. Each of her words came in a rapid-fire barrage. She spoke far faster than any pony I had ever seen and in an hour, I had not only received a crash course on Ponyville’s recent affairs, but also got a small glimpse at its past as well. Of course, the single most important detail Pinkie had told me - one I almost hadn’t caught due to her rapid-fire pace - was that her mother was none other than the current mayor of the town.

The information, which could potentially turn the tables on my investigation, prompted me to cut in with a few things of my own before Pinkie could start back up again.

“Now hold on just second! Are you telling me that you’re the daughter of the mayor?”

“Yes!” Pinkie said with her trademark-by-now smile and overflowing excitement. “She’s my mother.” She looked at me with sudden confusion. “Why? Is that important?”

“Yes,” I said in a slightly annoyed tone.

“Really?” Pinkie asked, “Because, you know, it’s not that special.”

I groaned, resting my head against the back of my chair. Pinkie talked in such a way that even the most arduous listener would eventually get lost in her words. It wasn’t annoying so much as it was just inconvenient. Sighing, I felt some anger rising inside of myself. Eight hours; I’d spent eight hours running back and forth, questioning ponies who were rather reluctant to speak, some not even speaking at all, and the answer to my problem just so happened to fall into my lap out of the blue? It’s too good to be true! What are the odds that this filly holds the key to my success in this case?

“Alright Pinkie” I started with as cheery a demeanor I could manage. “You say your mother is Mayor of this fine town, correct?”

“Yes.”

“And I’m a detective looking for answers; answers that only the mayor might be able to provide.”

“I guess so...”

I sighed, placing a hoof on my face. “I need to speak to your mother.” I said in a slightly annoyed manner. “It’s very important that I do so.”

“But why?” Pinkie asked with a look of honest confusion on her face. “Why do you need to speak to her?”

“It’s detective business.” I said.

“Well, as her daughter, I have a right to know.” Pinkie demanded, shoving her nose into mine. “You say you’re a detective, but what if you aren’t...” Pinkie’s eyes narrowed. “What if you’re some kind of assassin, huh?”

“What!?” I nearly shouted, pressing my nose against hers this time. “You think I’m some sort of assassin!? Why the hell would you think that!?”

“Why else would you demand to see my mother?”

“Like I said, I’M A DETECTIVE!”

“You say that, yet you’ve shown me no proof.” Pinkie said, slowly backing up and gazing at me through narrowed eyes.

“You want proof?” I asked her, starting to feel very flustered, “Fine! Here!” I opened my bag and levitated my badge right in front of her. She looked at it with great surprise. “There! That’s all the proof you’re ever going to get.”

Pinkie grabbed my badge, inspecting it closely. As she did, I could swear her hair turned a whole shade darker.

“So...” Pinkie suddenly said in a softer, slower voice. There was a grin forming as she said it. “All this time, you’ve been lying to me.”

“What!?” I half shouted. “I never lie!” Well, I actually lie quite a lot, but that’s besides the point here!

“You said that you were a detective, yet this isn't a detective's badge. It's a Regulator's badge,” she said, caressing the emblem with her hoof. For some reason, the act sent shivers up my spine.

“Detective, Regulator; they’re both the same.” I said, shaking off the feeling of dread.

“No, they’re not.” Pinkie was walking up to me now. She handed me my badge, which I snatched from her hooves. “You’re a regulator, which means you have a lot of power~” she sang, though in a slow and rather menacing way compared to before.

“Well, that’s true,” I said, “Still, I’m working this case as a detective.”

“But why?” Pinkie asked. “You’ve got quite a bit of power; why not use it?”

“Because...” I stuffed my badge away. “Because I’ve seen what power does. I don’t want to turn into some corrupt officer who tosses his authority around like some swaggering buffoon. No, I’ve got integrity, I’ve got discipline!”

“But has it helped you solve this case at all?” Pinkie asked me in what I would have sworn was a sultry tone.

“No, it hasn’t...” I whispered, looking away slightly.

I turned back to looking at Pinkie, and noticed again that her coloring had seemed to fade and darken even further. On top of that, her hair seemed to have lost some of its bouncy consistency, becoming rather straight. As I looked into her eyes, I noted something awfully different. I couldn’t quite explain it, but Pinkie’s eyes gave off a malicious aura

It was unsettling.

“Well,” Pinkie suddenly said, the color quickly returning to her body, her hair puffing back up to its cotton-candy form. “It’s cool to know that you’re a Regulator!” She hopped around me like a hyperactive foal that had eaten one too many sugarcubes. Her tone was back to normal now. “You guys are the real deal! Heroes among heroes!” She then began berating me with even more questions about my life, my job, and my skills.

Before I lost my head, I grabbed her by the shoulders, looked at her exasperatedly and yelled, “Will you please be QUIET!”

Pinkie recoiled in shock and I exhaled slowly, sitting down on the closest chair I could find.

“Just please...” I said in a tired voice, “Keep quiet...” I sighed, closing my eyes and taking in the silence around me.

Things were indeed quiet for a few seconds, and I sighed in relief before I heard I heard a soft sobbing.

I opened my eyes and looked at Pinkie, who was now sitting on her haunches, tears welling up in her eyes. “Oh no...” I said out loud right before Pinkie broke down into openly crying.

“Why do you have to be such a meanie!” Pinkie asked between heaving breaths as she stood up, looking me in the eyes. “All I wanted was to make you a happy colt!”

“Dammit!” I half yelled, “Please! Stop crying!” I was starting to feel frustrated. “I… I…” I stammered. I looked away, placing my hoof over my mouth. Dammit! Nothing I hate more than a crying filly... “Please!” I said, looking back at Pinkie, “Stop crying!”

Pinkie only kept wailing, tears streaming down her face in little, bitter waterfalls.

This isn’t working... Dammit, dammit, dammit!

“Okay!” I shouted, grabbing Pinkie by shoulders a second time. “Look, I’m sorry I yelled at you, okay?”

Pinkie kept crying but the worst of it stopped almost instantly. “You really mean it?” she sniffed, wiping some of the tears from her eyes.

“Yes!” I said in a rather rushed manner. She was looking at me, still sad. I sighed. “Look, is there anything I can do to make it up to you?”

“Well,” she said, wiping away more tears, “you can keep your promise.” She smiled. “You said you would tell me a story about your military days.”

“Well...” I started, unsure about how best to continue. Bogart, you did promise, I told myself. Then again, I hadn’t planned on keeping that promise in the first place.

The more I thought about it, the more I told myself that keeping my word was the correct thing to do. Still, I’d better make sure the story I told this filly wouldn’t be too traumatizing.

This might be a bit difficult...

I sighed, grabbing my chair to take a seat again. “I’ll keep my word. I’ll tell you a war tale, though I warn you; you may not like what you hear.”

“Yay!” Pinkie yelled at the top of her lungs. She grabbed the nearest chair and quickly sat on it, looking as happy as ever. She also had a bag of popcorn in her lap. Where she got it, I didn’t know, nor did I want to.

I took a deep breath and started my tale.

“Well, my story begins on a warm night...”

The Chosen - Chapter Three

Unknown Location - 9:45 PM

he night was warm, calm and quiet. It didn’t sit well with me. Nights like that often meant heavy combat, and with that came death. The stillness of the night was oppressive, setting me on edge.

“Gravedigger,” I heard somepony whisper to me. “Gravedigger,” the pony repeated a little louder. I groaned softly, turning to face the pony that had called my attention in such an abrupt manner, already pondering how best to end the conversation.

His name was Jolt. He was about as tall as I was, though thinner. He used to be a Royal Guard, but quit to join Civil Protection because it granted him more ‘freedom’. His golden-yellow mane was cut short and his vibrant white coat shone through the caked-on mud and dried blood that stained his neck. His small cyan eyes were filled with mixed emotions ranging from fear to excitement.

“You ready?” he asked me anxiously.

“Ready? Ready for what?”

He looked around before looking me dead in the eyes, frowning. “Didn't you hear?” he asked while shivering. “Big push is supposed to take place tonight. Things may be quiet now, but they won’t be for long ... we’re all going to die out here...”

“So,” I said through clenched teeth, “we’re going to have a fight tonight…” Wonder how many I’m going to have to bury come morning...

Truth is, I would have preferred to not be digging graves even if it was the only thing keeping me relatively sane. I couldn’t shoot my bastard ‘comrades’ no matter how much they might have deserved it. Unless of course I wanted to face a firing squad myself. So, burying them was the next best thing. There was more to it than that - something else driving me to do it … but what, I don’t know.

“Well, just so you know...” Jolt said in a determined tone, “I’m sure as hell not going to be buried by you or anyone else tonight.” He raised his assault rifle and checked its magazine with a diligent eye. “Rebels come anywhere near me, and I’m going to put a hole in their heads!”

“Riiiight…”

I quickly dragged myself away from him and further down the trench line. Killing’s your answer to everything... You’d better watch yourself; ponies like you are often the first to die.

The Chosen: Chapter Three

Several minutes passed as I crawled through the trench, the moon lighting my way in the otherwise dark night. As I did, I couldn’t help but smile. I know she’s gone, but I really love Luna’s work. I never was one to like the Sun.

I was near my assigned post finally. It was a small patch of blasted trench. Figures I get to defend such a nasty piece of work...

The closer I got, the more I noticed the overpowering stench of death. I stopped moving, placing a hoof against my nose. I don’t see any bodies, so why the hell does it smell so bad?!

I looked around for the source of the unusually putrid stench. It didn’t take me long to find it: there was a severed forelimb not far away that must have been rotting for several days already.

Levitating the limb some distance away from my post before taking out a small folding spade, my entrenching tool - or E-tool as everyone liked to call it - popped it open and dug a nice, deep hole. Levitating the fetid limb into the hole, I covered it with as much dirt as I could. While the stench lingered, it wasn’t nearly as bad as before. At the very least, I didn’t need to hold my hoof up to my nose.

Wiping the sweat off my brow, I rested against the trench’s wall. I closed my E-tool and stowed it back in my saddlebags. I sighed, once again realizing just how heavy the bags were. I put them down and exhaled with relief.

I reached back into my saddlebags and took out the three large pieces that made up my assault rifle - stock, barrel, and firing mechanism - and put it together in about three minutes. There was no hurry and each piece had to go into its socket just right or the gun could be faulty and liable to explode in my face. They weren’t exactly the most reliable things ever made. It was an operation that required finesse more than speed.

After I snapped the barrel into place and made sure all the pieces were correctly aligned, I took out several empty magazines and began filling them from a box of .30-06 rounds. I had plenty, so I left no magazine unfilled. The leftovers went into my bandoleer for later. Lastly, I took out my revolver - an ebony marksman’s Peacekeeper. She was a beauty; blue finish with an imitation-ivory handle and a robust frame that could take a beating … or dole one out.

I’d won the revolver in a game of accuracy from a traveling merchant. He said the revolver was specially made by a mare who was likely the best gunsmith in the world, though he never said who she was. He didn’t seem upset at all despite losing the weapon. When we parted ways, he had a broad smile on his face, as if he’d made an important delivery. I never saw him again.

Since then, that gun - my personal negotiator - and I had been inseparable. She’d saved my skin more times that I dared count. If it wasn’t for the fact that I couldn’t hit crap past 200 yards without a proper scope I would have used it exclusively.

Suddenly, a gruff voice came through the earpiece I was wearing. Pressing a hoof against it made the message a little easier to hear and clearer.

“Listen up, you worthless maggots! I’m not going to sugar-coat it; most of you worthless pieces of crap are going to die tonight. Tonight, you fight in the name of the Regime. Tonight, you die in the name of the Regime! Retreat is not an option; you stand your ground and you fight until you-”

I ripped the small radio out of my ear, rolling my eyes. Regime propaganda ... like I give a damn.

My ears suddenly perked up at the sound of faint hooffalls. I pressed myself against the trench wall and focused on what was topside. I could hear the not-so-nimble hoofsteps of a small squadron of about four or five if my ears could be trusted.

The Rebels must not know about this trench... I cocked my rifle, chambering a round. By the time they realize it...

Artillery fire suddenly rained down all around me, interrupting my train of thought. Each blast was followed by an eruption of earth and a shower of rocks. The explosions actually made the Rebels easier to hear, for it made them scream and shout in the distance. The artillery fire would probably make them scatter as well, making them less of a threat.

I crawled up the trench wall, raised my rifle and took aim at the first figure that met my sight. It was a large-sized Rebel, blindly charging forward, bayonet at the ready. I couldn’t see him clearly, but I knew from the shape of the muzzle that it was indeed a ‘him’. Without hesitation, I used my magic to take aim and pull the trigger.

There was a flash as the bullet rocketed out of my barrel, closing the distance in seconds. It hit the poor bastard square in the head. His silhouette stopped dead in its tracks before slumping backwards. There were small chunks of what used to be his brain and bits of his skull trailing just behind his body from the neat hole in his face.

I heard a distant gunshot and ducked instinctively, losing my grip on the edge in the process. I stumbled backwards, hitting the trench’s dirt floor with the wrong side of my body. I closed my eyes for a few seconds as the world started spinning.

When I reopened my eyes, a Rebel was standing at the edge of the trench looking down at me with a smile. He wore a set of blue and white combat fatigues made up of an armor plate that covered his chest and a standard combat helmet that obscured his eyes. He unsheathed his knife, held it tightly in his mouth, and jumped down after me with murder in his eyes.

My rifle was now conveniently under me after having nearly broken my back a few second prior, but I was glad it was where it was. I magicked it out from underneath me to point straight at him. The Rebel never saw it coming.

The loud band was followed by a thud as the pony landed right on top of me, his helmet-clad head smashing into my face. I quickly shoved him off; thankful it hadn’t been the other end to hit my face.

As I got up, I saw the bullet hole in the colt’s forehead went right through his helmet. I hadn’t really had much time to aim, so it had been a lucky shot and poor equipment on his part. As soon as I was back on my hooves, I raced up the wall and out of the trench just in time to meet another rushing Rebel.

I fired again, hitting the pony dead in the chest. His armor took the brunt of the blow but it looked like it really knocked the wind out of him. Might have bruised or broken a rib or two. He stumbled forward, falling face first into the ground as the momentum sent his body into a sick cartwheel to land on top of itself, breaking his neck with an audible crack.

My ears perked up yet again, this time at the sound of flapping wings. Looking skywards, I spotted a red pegasus sniper taking potshots. She was clearly too preoccupied to notice me underneath her. She was wearing the same getup as the other two Rebels I had killed, save for the front armor plate. It was probably left out in order to reduce the weight.

I took aim and fired but she banked to the right at the last second. The shot missed its mark, hitting her right wing instead. I was lucky anyways; it hit her close enough to the shoulder that, combined with her flapping and the weight of her equipment, the wing was torn right off. I could hear her scream as she plummeted to the ground alongside it. I caught a quick glimpse of her face a few seconds before impact; she couldn’t have been older than sixteen.

There was time enough that I clicked the safety on my rifle, jumped back into the trench for cover, took out my rifle’s magazine, and filled it from my bandoleer. Once it was completely full again, I shoved it back into place and set the gun to burst fire. Taking a deep breath, I climbed out of the safety of my trench yet again and ran forward as fast as my legs could carry me. My head bobbed left and right while my rifle levitated perfectly steady next to me. Mortar shells were still landing everywhere, some near, others far in the distance. At this rate, I couldn’t tell if they were from my own side or the Rebel’s

Don’t lose focus! You’re almost there! I had to keep telling myself.

The enemy line was drawing closer, and before I could register it, I had jumped right into a Rebel trench, pulling out my combat knife in the process. I landed right in the middle, knife and rifle levitating next to my head, ready to attack at a moment's notice… but there wasn’t a single pony left to fire at me. I looked around at the dozens of corpses strewn every which way possible. Some had bullet holes in them while others seemed to have been cut to pieces.

“Looks like someone cleared this trench before me,” I said to myself.

I trotted past the bodies and into a larger section of trench, one that looked big enough to fit several tanks. As soon as I’d set foot in the area though, there was an explosion to my right that sent me flying back some two feet. My vision blurred as the world swirled around me and my ears started buzzing and humming. I quickly stood up, shaking my head in an attempt to regain my bearings. It was then that the sound of a tank’s treads struck me. Though I was still partially dazed, I wasted no time in scrambling towards the nearest mound of dirt as bullets whizzed past.

I looked over the mound I was using for cover, careful to not expose myself too much. At this point, the tank came into full view. It was closer than I had expected. Marching next to it was an escort of six Rebel troopers, all of whom were more heavily armed and much more heavily armored than the rest of the Rebels I had seen so far. Upon closer inspection, the armor was very similar to the one Civil Protection issued to its shock troopers, save for the white and blue Rebel colors.

Suddenly, there was another explosion very close to me, followed by more shooting. The Rebels were trying to flush me out now. I tried to move deeper into cover, but I never got the chance; a massive blast erupted less than ten feet away.

I was propelled several feet skywards before I dropped onto my back. My vision was completely muddled and my hearing all but shot. Slowly, I turned on my stomach and crawled forward. In the end, I collapsed, too beaten to move. From what little I could see, the tank’s escorts were racing towards me, their hooffalls muffled yet clear. Slowly, my vision cleared, and so did my hearing.

At that point, I knew there was no hope of survival if I tried to fight; there were too many of them. Rather than following my base instinct as a soldier, I decided to lay still and play dead. I was covered in dirt and rocks, so there was a chance of passing myself off as a corpse.

The troopers stopped next to me, breathing heavily through their masks. I heard several clicks as the soldiers probably set their rifles to single-shot. They wouldn’t want to waste bullets.

I gulped silently, gritting my teeth as the soldiers got close enough for me to smell the gunpowder on them. I spotted my own rifle laying nearby and limited the glow of my horn as I wrapped the weapon in magic. All I’d have to do was raise it, take aim, and-

“Forget him!” came a voice yelling through the tank’s loudspeaker - probably their commander - making me lose my concentration and resolve. “There’s a bridge that needs reinforcing! Let’s move!”

I heard another set of clicks as the escort’s hooffalls moved away. From what I could see from my position, the escorts had hopped onto the tank as it drove off. Within seconds, it was lost in the middle of several ruined buildings, far enough that it couldn’t have seen me.

For a few seconds, I didn’t dare do anything - not even stand - for fear that the tank would turn around and finish me off. So I waited...

***

Ten minutes passed; the air was still. It didn’t feel like anyone was around, so I slowly got up, unaware of just how sore my body really was. The first thing that struck me was my head, and just how much it hurt. I ran my hoof over it and inspected it with care. Sure enough, I was bleeding from the back of my head, but it was minimal. I decided to inspect the rest of my body to make sure I hadn’t gotten injured anywhere else. A few cuts and bruises, but nothing serious. I smacked my ears back and forth, fearing that the explosion had somehow damaged my hearing, but aside from some initial muffling, they were fine too. I grabbed my rifle and headed east, away from the trenches and towards the nearest town - which by now should have been captured by our forces.

I climbed over the last trench, ran a short distance, and slid down a mound, right into a small canal-like street intersection. Before me was the captured river, its banks replaced by large concrete walls.

My ears perked up for the third time as the sound of hooffalls reached me. I turned around, rifle at the ready. My gaze met another colt in red, and then another as he made his way down the hilly trench. And then another. I lowered my rifle as dozens of soldiers dragged themselves up the hill and down to my position. I looked skyward again at the sound of flapping wings. There were five pegasi giving clear directions on where to head. They wore red armor adorned with a large white cross. They were battle-medics.

It wasn’t long before the once-quiet stretch of land I stood on was crowded with countless tired, wounded soldiers. I looked behind me and I could see the furious battle being waged. The only thing that separated our army from the Rebel’s was the large river. The only way across was a concrete bridge.

Near the bridge was a mob of soldiers, all of whom looked ready to charge. Leading the group was our squad’s commanding officer; a tall gray colt who wore a coat over his armor and a captain’s hat bearing the Regime’s emblem. He was gruff, with eyes as cold as ice and a very gravelly voice. He gazed over the rest of the squad, those eyes studying every last detail.

If he saw me standing around and doing nothing, it meant he would add me to his suicide squad to blindly rush towards my own death. I jogged away from the front lines, careful in my movements and staying as low as possible both to avoid the commander’s gaze and the bullets that saturated the air. Despite my situation, I couldn’t help but look around at the battlefield.

The first thing I noticed was the amount of troopers involved in the gunfight on both sides. On our side, every soldier was either lying on their belly or crouched behind the remains of ruined buildings. On the other side of the river, the picture was similar, though there were far less Rebels in sight. I guessed they were adopting a longer-rage, sniper focused, form of offence. The idea seemed to hold up based on the sheer amount of casualties on our side. Bullet after bullet rained down on our side of the river, either missing their mark or taking some unlucky colt with them. One even struck the pony next to me right in the neck. He let out a gasp, grabbing onto it as blood gushed out like someone had punched a hole in a water tank. He gagged sickeningly, straining his vocal cords to the best of his ability before collapsing forward, a pool of blood forming underneath him.

I took a look at the colt’s weapon: a high powered sniper rifle, .50 caliber judging by the size of the spent cartridges. I looked around again and decided that the rifle was a definite step up from my own. I inched towards the body, keeping my head low, grabbed the rifle, the two magazines on the ground, and checked the colt’s saddlebags for more.

Suddenly, a shot landed next to me. I recoiled and moved back into cover, slowly inching my way back out only to have another bullet hit the exposed ground behind me. The snipers had me in their sights now. I wasn’t going anywhere until they were gone.

I wasn’t a sniper, but I knew the fundamentals; keep your head as low as possible, aim a little higher than intended to account for gravity and distance, and don’t move a muscle once you get into position.

I grabbed the rifle’s bolt and pulled it back. A spent casing flew out. I took out the magazine and counted what was left - ten rounds, ten shots - then snapped it back into place, pushing the bolt forward, paying attention that the thing didn’t jam. Carefully, I laid down on my belly and inched the gun’s barrel ever so slowly across the rubble in front of me. Thankfully, the moon was behind me, so I didn’t have to worry about there being a reflection from the rifle’s sight. The enemy snipers wouldn’t be so lucky though. It was something they didn’t seem to notice.

My first target was the window in a building directly ahead of me. It was dark, but I knew well enough there was something in there. Again, lacking any real experience with the weapon, I had to go with instinct and focusing the sight’s zoom less than perfectly. It didn’t matter though, it still allowed me to see my intended target.

Suddenly, there was a glint in the dark, followed by a muzzle flash. That was my cue to fire. I pulled the trigger and felt the rifle’s powerful kick. Even with magic aiding my aim, the rifle was an absolute beast to handle. At the very least, it had a built-in suppressor. Otherwise the flash and noise would have been enough to give me away.

The shot flew for a few seconds before meeting its target. I was greeted with a spray of blood onto the inside of the window; a clear signal that I’d hit the sniper dead on. I spotted another glimmer in a window a floor up, maneuvered the rifle, took aim, and fired again. My first shot missed, but my second hit dead on. This time, I saw the enemy collapse forward, foreleg dangling through the window.

I smiled to myself, confident that the danger was gone but as soon as I prepared to move, there was a muzzle flash and a shot managed to make it through my cover to graze my cheek. I dropped even lower to take aim at the window. I couldn’t see anything, but there had to be someone else there.

Then: a flash two windows up, and five to the right. I quickly realized the entire building was a veritable nest of snipers and if I so much as moved a hair out of cover they’d blow my head right off.

I sighed, looking up at the moon. It’s going to be a very long night…

***

The sun’s slow appearance on the horizon and the light it brought was hazy through the smoke. There was a slight glare in my eyes, but I still managed to focus on that last window. I took careful aim, and fired what I hoped would be my last shot. I was rewarded again with a spatter of blood and a neat little hole in the sniper’s head.

Satisfied, I pulled on the bolt one last time, the spent cartridge flying out trailing smoke behind it. The magazine was empty now and I was out of ammo. I stood up, my body stiff from a night’s vigilant watch without moving so much as a single muscle. As I got up, my sore muscles aching, I got a good look around in the morning light and was greeted by the sight of death - something I was no stranger to.

Several medics were running back and forth, checking for wounded among the dead. As they did, they just kept shaking their heads. One of the medics - a pretty filly whose age I couldn’t have guessed - came and looked me over. Aside from a few scratches, I check out alright, which greatly surprised her. She handed me a few painkillers before returning to the group of other medics. I thanked her, swallowed the pills and moved towards the bridge, my pace quickening now that the pills were taking effect.

As soon as I arrived at the bridge,I saw just how bad the night had really been and how much it had cost us. Dead bodies - torn to pieces, blown up, sliced, crushed, burnt and somehow liquefied - were all I could see and the view only got worse as I set foot on the bridge itself.

Blood coated nearly every inch of the bridge’s surface. Bodies had been either shoved aside or tossed over the side and into the water, which upon closer inspection, was a vivid red. The town ahead was no better off; bodies hung from windows and lay in the streets. Wrecked tanks filled the main road, still burning, charred bodies sticking out of them. Crumbling buildings stretched as far as the eye could see and were all that remained of a once prosperous and nameless riverside town.

As I walked towards the town’s center, I could hear the moaning and screaming of the wounded. The medics did their best to ease everyone’ pain, but it wasn’t enough. There was a strong feeling of hopelessness and I didn’t want to stick around for long.

In the middle of this town flew a flag: our flag. It was torn and burnt, but it still flapped in the wind like some sick reminder that no matter how many of us the Rebels killed, there would always be more to replace them.

I looked away, unable to look at the flag without rage welling up inside me. Never had I felt so much animosity towards something as I did then. That flag - that emblem - stood for everything wrong with society. It stood for the idea that any problem could be solved with blood just so a select few could turn a profit and become even more powerful.

I walked towards a fairly deserted area and took a seat on some rubble. I dropped the empty rifle and covered my face with my hooves. Not a smart move as the blood from the bridge was now covering my face...

Suddenly, something moved in the rubble. I stood up, pulled out my revolver and walked towards it cautiously. The rumbling was getting louder the closer I got...it almost sounded like a struggle. Levitating away a large burnt-out piece of metal, I found myself aiming at a young Rebel. She had a pistol in her hooves too, but was shaking too much for it to be any use to her. Her face was dirty and stained with both blood and tears, and as I got closer I discovered why. Next to her was the beaten and bullet-riddled body of some colt, about my age. He suddenly shifted his weight, moaning in pain. He was still alive...

I cursed to myself. I could just shoot the pair and be done with it, but that’d make me like every other bastard that I hated. Against my better judgement, I holstered my revolver. No point in killing when the battle was already over. I might not shoot them, but that didn’t mean I was going to help them either. I turned around and started walking away when I heard a sudden cry. I turned to face the Rebels and saw the filly, climbing out of the rubble, crying for help in a strained, whimpering voice. She grabbed hold of my foreleg, tears streaming down her face.

I merely shook my head and told her that there was nothing either of us could do. I floated her pistol, a semi-automatic .45, over to her, and told her to do the merciful thing.

She looked at me, utterly horrified, but the expression quickly changed as the harsh reality of the situation finally set in. She grabbed the pistol with a shaky hoof and walked back towards the other soldier. I could see tears dripping down her face with every step she took.

Turning around again, I started to walk away, knowing full well what was about to take place. Part of me wished something else could have happened, but I knew damn well that war leaves no one unscathed. I closed my eyes and seconds later I heard the gunshot. I sighed. She had done the right thing-

There was a second shot.

My eyes flew open at the sound and I drew my revolver by instinct alone, wheeling around to face the source. There was a loud thump.

The filly was lying on the ground, face down with a gaping hole where the back of her head should have been, a small pool of her tears being filled with blood.

Civil Protection soldiers were on the scene - weapons at the ready - within seconds. They looked around, assessed the scene, and then turned to me. Some cheered while others simply nodded their agreement, seemingly congratulating me on the shot.

I put my gun away again and walked towards the town’s center, E-tool out and ready, tears rolling down my cheeks.

Ponyville - Sugarcube Corner - 4:30 pm

My story finished, I looked down at the ground, my face devoid of any emotion. When I looked up, I expected to see Pinkie’s carefree expression but instead, she looked sad. I sat up straight and stretched my neck a bit. As soon as I heard a small click I went back to sitting up straight, avoiding Pinkie’s gaze.

I knew telling her that story would be a bad idea, and I didn’t even finish it...

“I…” Pinkie said all of a sudden. “I… I didn’t know things were that rough on the battlefield…” She was almost stammering as she spoke. She shook her head. “The books in school never had anything like that written in them.”

“That’s because those books were written with you kids in mind. No point telling you the truth. If we’re being honest, it’s a history best left forgotten, or half known.” I stood up. “Now then, I think our business here’s done, so I’ll be heading off.” I levitated my notepad into my bag, making sure it was secure. “Thanks for your time, the cupcakes, and,” I looked at the banners, “the well intended surprise. Sorry if I spoiled it.” I gave her a sincere smile, the first I’d put on all day.

She didn’t say or do anything. She just sat on her chair, brooding. I gave her one last look before turning for the door.

“Wait…” she said all of a sudden. Turning to face her again, I saw that her hair had straightened out and lost some of its colour. It was covering her eyes now, which somehow managed to shine through anyway. There was something in the air that sent chills up my spine, just like earlier. “There’s more to the story, isn’t there?” she stood up rather quickly. “What happened afterwards?” she asked, walking up to me rather forcefully, eyes still shrouded in shadows. “You’ve got to finish your story! You just have to!”

“Sorry kid, but we made a deal,” I said, backing away slightly. “My story for your information. Besides, I only did that because you were...” I stopped myself before I said anything else. It probably would have made her start crying again. Instead, I shook my head. “No, I think I’ve held up my end of the bargain. A deal’s a deal kid and now we’re even, so that’s the end of that.”

“Okay…” Pinkie said with a sly smile, “how about we make a new deal? The rest of the story for a meeting with my mother...”

“You can do that? Set up a meeting for me?”

“Of course! I’m her daughter; I have far more power than you think.” She was getting closer to me now.

“Well,” I said with my eyes narrowed, “what if you’re pulling a fast one on me?”

“What have you got to lose Mr. Bogart?” she asked as she grabbed my hoof. “Nothing but a small amount of time, and if we’re being honest, you’ve got plenty of it.”

“Well, I guess you have a point.” I eyed Pinkie suspiciously. She merely smiled, shifting her grasp so we were in a hoof shake. “Deal?”

“Well…” I said, looking her in the face. Her hair wasn’t covering her eyes any longer but they still had that odd look to them. I stood there for a good minute, wondering just how best to play things. In the end, I started smiling too.

Best case scenario, Pinkie gets me that meeting and this case takes one giant leap forward. Worst case scenario… I looked at Pinkie again, feeling guilty about the thought. Worst case … let’s just hope it doesn’t come to that…

I shook Pinkie’s hoof. “Deal.”

She smiled. “Excellent!” She led me out of the bakery at a trot, never once letting go of my hoof. She looked back at me with a broad smile.

I could only wonder about whether I had done the right thing.

Prologue

Manehattan - 9:30 PM

Scumbag: the most prolific term in my vocabulary is the word scumbag, and for good reason; almost everyone I meet in the streets nowadays is a scumbag.

What constitutes a scumbag? The signs are too long to list, but I don't need to; I know a scumbag when I see one, and the unicorn running away from me at this very moment constituted a grade-A example of what a real scumbag is.

The filthy piece of scum ran - flying almost - as I pursued him, pistol levitating near my head in a soft, dark colored glow. He sure ran fast for someone who had just had a bullet pierce his hind leg; but I had grown accustomed to this sight, as it had played out in the same form for more times that I dared count.

His ragged red robes concealed just how dangerous this piece of equine filth was, and this one was as vile as you could get: a foal-raping, mass-murdering cannibal cultist who was mere seconds away from having his brains become part of the pavement.

The cultist nearly collapsed from exhaustion and pain, finally standing on his rear legs to grab to a wall with his tattered hoof.

The perfect opportunity to shoot.

I aimed at his now fully exposed back and pulled the trigger. The gun's kick would have been more than a match for even the strongest stallion, or any male of any other race for that matter, but that was one of the beauties of being a unicorn; magic made it possible to shoot such hand cannons effectively and - and as we all know - magic is quite the handy tool to have when the whole world is bearing down on you.

my weapon was a modified ebony-colored peacekeeper revolver I had nicknamed 'Negotiator'. She fired .44 caliber death-dealers, and she never missed.

The bullet blew a two-inch hole in the left side of the cultist's back. I could almost see his still beating heart through what remained of his exposed ribcage.

The cultist tripped on his own legs, stumbling to the left, straight through a pane of glass that was the storefront to an old furniture shop.

Seeing that the cultist was down for the count, I holstered Negotiator and walked over to the broken remains of yet another soon-to-be-dead piece of trash. He kicked and struggled as he dragged his sorry rear over the shards of broken glass.

I was amazed at both the damage of my attack and the fact that the cultist was still kicking. I almost felt pity for the piece of scum, but criminals of his caliber deserved neither pity nor mercy.

He gasped and wheezed as I stood over his soon-to-be corpse, he began to laugh, cackling like some demented psychopath, gargling his next words.

“Kill me you may… but none can stop its arrival. It comes, past the walls of reality, past the walls of sanity; it does not forget; it does not forgive…” he then produced a small sawed-off shotgun seemingly out of thin air, clicking the hammers into place and continuing his maddened laughter.

My eyes widened, hairs standing on end. I reached for Negotiator, but the cultist had already aimed the weapon at my head.

Too slow; I was too damn slow…

I closed my eyes, stepping back by instinctively, knowing full well it wouldn't do a damn thing to save my sorry rear; my head was about to be blown into a red paste. I grit my teeth, anger sweltering inside me. Should have blown the scumbag's head off when I had the chance!

The cultist pulled the trigger. I heard the hammers click against shells in a fraction of a second, followed by a loud explosion. Then, the sound of a wet bag being crushed by a pair of hands; the sickening noise of breaking bones and snapping tendons and the wet snapping of a water balloon: all of these sounds berated my ears, but it hadn't come from me. I was still alive.

I opened my eyes and faced what was left of the cultist. His head was no longer on his shoulders, instead having become little more than a new coat of paint on the glass and walls around him. Pieces of skull were scattered every which way, likely on my duster as well. His body was still rigid, but it soon slumped over, blood flowing from the stump that was his neck like an overturned milk carton.

I exhaled, still shaky from the adrenaline rush. I looked at my reflection in one of the still intact glass panes. Sure enough, I was covered head to hoof in blood and pieces of skull and brain.

I used my magic to lift all the liquid and body bits off my duster, coat, and hair. I rolled it all up into a nice little sphere, floated the ball of gore on top of the cultist's corpse and released it, drenching his already filthy robes with even more filth.

I looked around; a large crowd had quickly begun to gather around the scene: colts, mares, fillies and even a few griffins were all looking at the scene with a wide mix of emotions as varied as a rainbow. Some displayed fear and revulsion, others wonder and excitement, but most simply didn't care or simply didn't choose to display sentiment, looking on with empty gazes; the chilling result of ten years of senseless violence just like this.

As I looked at the scene, I could relate to those who no longer wished to display emotions; I myself had long ago lost all sense of feeling. Looking up at the dark sky, I couldn't help but feel the hole where my heart had once rested become wider, taking up more and more of my chest.

It was becoming an even deeper void.

Some part of me, likely my sense of reason and morality, told me the only sensible response to these feelings of emptiness was to cry. Tears, however, would do nothing. Tears wouldn't stop the murders, tears wouldn't stop the rapists; they wouldn't wash away the blood that had coagulated in the gutters and sewers after who knows how many dead bodies had rested on the pavement: they would do absolutely nothing.

And yet…

Tears; tears were precious, more so than all the riches in the world combined. Tears represented the only sign of sensibility left in this hellhole of an existence. Tears represented innocence lost so long ago.

Soon, the crowd dispersed; some took pictures, other talked about the horrid scene. Most simply kept to themselves.

I stood over the dead cultist, stiff like a statue.

I wanted to hate this cultist, this mass murdering, filly raping equine, but aside from his crimes - which were unforgivable in their own right - I had no reason to hate this unicorn, no reason to jeer and scorn at his now lifeless body. For all I knew, maybe he hadn't even raped a filly or killed an innocent mare; maybe this cultist had been an initiate - a kid who sought power above all else - brainwashed into becoming yet another disposable pawn in a sick game of chess. I wanted to hate the dead cultist, but I knew damn well that it wasn't him who I actually hated; it was that twisted reflection of what I was becoming that I hated more than anything else…

Loud sirens rang in the night; the police were here; likely come to clean up the mess Negotiator and I had caused.

They arrived in their fancy armored cars, stepping out to take the glory of the kill all for themselves. Their white and blue riot gear did nothing to hide their true nature; most were cowards at best, corrupt scumbags at worst. Years of brutality and senseless violence had changed them into something they originally couldn’t have imagined. Money, greed, power: all of these turn the rookies - who always came into the force eager to clean up the city - into apathetic equines out to serve only themselves.

They could have the kill, they could take the credit; I didn't care anymore.

I stepped out of the way and let them tape up the scene. They went through the usual motions, gathering evidence and questioning me about the incident. They asked me why I had blown the equine's head off, to which I replied that he had done it himself either due to brainwashing or because he wanted to send a grisly last message.

The officers scoffed in open ridicule, but wrote it down anyway. They told me they would take care of the mess, and congratulated me on another flawless take-down. They offered me some cash; likely dirty money from a large, violent drug bust or sale, possibly some gang related extermination, or even perhaps a weapon deal.

Either way, the money was foul, and I refused to take it, instead telling them to add the REAL reward to my account, which they already knew by heart.

They always gave me this dirty look, as if I was too noble or misguided to be around them, but they kept their mouths shut, never speaking a single word of contempt.

The police finished cleaning up the scene, leaving it cleaner than it had been before. They took their tape, the body, and left the scene just as quickly as they had come.

I again looked at the spot where the cultist had taken his own life; yet another spot out of thousands where someone had died.

I turned around and headed back to my office - which also happened to be my apartment - feeling no better about myself or what I had done.

This city; it was rotting me away from the inside out...

Name’s Bogart, Bogart Maltese. I’m a charcoal-coated, green eyed, light-gray maned unicorn born in the far off human continent known as The Federation. When on duty, I wear black and grey riot gear similar to the one once worn by Civil Protection soldiers on top of which I sported a weathered brown duster that had at one point had been my partner’s.

Not exactly the standard issue uniform, but it doesn't matter anyway; as a high ranking Regulator officer working in the city of Manehattan, I can wear whatever I want and shoot whoever I want provided I submit the correct paperwork at the end of the day.

Despite this ‘license to kill’, I am no murderer, nor am I a crazed gunman; I was not like the corrupt police officers that patrolled Manehattan's streets 24/7. I hunt down the filth that is slowly choking the life from this city rather than nourish it and help it propagate further. Just the thought of so much corruption in plain sight makes me sick to my stomach. My desire to clean the streets was kept in check by the harsh reality: I am but one equine in a large city full of vice and sin.

I am but one Equine fighting a losing battle...

As I continued walking down the dark streets, memories I had believed forgotten slowly stirred back to life within the dark recesses of my mind. Most of these memories pertained to painful events long past, back to a more savage time when fires raged and chaos was rampant. As always, these events began when everything was happy, peaceful, and most importantly, innocent…

**Equestria Noir - A Neo-Noire Tale

Written by: Ed “Garnot” Ch**

Prologue

Equestria: a land shared by three equine races: pegasi, unicorn, and earthen pony. A beautiful country that had seemingly always been at peace. Everything was as sweet as syrup, rainbows and all floating in the air.

It made you want to reach for insulin.

It was a time when crime was nonexistent and corruption was unheard of; a time when love and tolerance were commonplace and endorsed above all else; a time when the equines of this nation, under the caring rule of Princesses Celestia and Luna, had lived in relative harmony, keeping everypony safe whether during the day or at night.

Loving and accepting love, giving without ever expecting anything in return, and enjoying an unbreakable bond with nature and life as a whole; these were the virtues every citizen lived by.

It was these reasons above all others that made the wake-up call truly tumultuous...

Ten years ago, on an unnaturally cold night, when the moon was at its fullest and all the stars in the sky were clear and bright, Princess Celestia and Princess Luna vanished without a trace.

Days passed, but all search parties returned with empty hooves. The princesses had vanished from the face of the planet, leaving no trail to follow, taking all political power with them. The vacuum they created severely weakening Equestria.

Many began preaching that the disappearance of the celestial sisters foretold the end of Equestria; others even went as far as to declare the end of the world. Those that kept their heads however quickly came to realize that it was not the end of the world: the sun and the moon still rose and set, plants still grew and prospered, animals still roamed the land and magic was still available to all who could use it.

As the citizenry wept, several nobles, ponies who had once bowed to Celestia and Luna’s will, quickly organized themselves under a new banner and a new name: The Regime. The Regime quickly took total control over all aspects of Equestrian life, imposing order through fear.

Wasn’t long before the populace begun to get fed up with the Regime’s brand of fascism. With every passing day, the underground resistance grew both in numbers and influence. The Regime’s answer to the uprisings was simple; kill everyone.

Soon, open conflict erupted all over the country.

Order broke down in the metropolitan areas first, swiftly followed by the countryside. The deterioration became so overwhelming that Equestria's Royal Guards, the only group that had taken on the responsibility of keeping peace and order following the outbreak of war, found itself quickly overwhelmed by the chaos. With little choice, the head of the guards contacted the griffins for aid.

Now, the griffins weren't that much of a trusted society; their war-like culture and their rather unsettling taste for equine flesh made sure of that. They however, were widely known for keeping their vows of honor. A griffin that made a promise would gladly claw its way out of the depths of Pony hell if it meant keeping said promise and it just so happened that the griffin emperor – Crissaegrim as he was called – had bowed to ‘protect and come to the aid of Equestria should it ever need such aid.’ True to the vow, the griffins answered the call, providing troops to help quell the riots and pillaging.

Another unexpected ally to suddenly pledge its aid was the Human Federation.

Just like the griffins, the humans were seen as a war–like race not to be fully trusted, mostly because of the constant self–destructive wars they waged among themselves, but also because of their innate lack of magic. Despite lacking the ability to harness magic naturally, none doubted the technological marvels humanity possessed.

Though the humans promised aid, they were unable to spare much manpower, choosing to provide tons upon tons of food and medical supplies instead. So many supplies the humans provided, the royal guards were greatly overstocked at first, but the supplies quickly begun to grow thin in the coming months as the war escalated to levels never before seen.

True to their vows of non–interference in civil matters, the Royal Guards mostly stayed out of the conflict, as did the griffin and human forces loyal to Equestria. The two groups focused all their resources on creating safe heavens for the thousands of refugees.

The war lasted for almost five years; five years of unimaginable chaos, destruction, and death. All the happiness and tolerance that was once preached broke down, giving way to hate and division, creating scars that have yet to heal.

When the flames of war finally burned themselves out, only the horrible aftermath greeted those who had survived. What little hope of a brighter future that had escaped untouched quickly shriveled up and died, becoming nothing more than ash in the wind.

Equestria, now completely leaderless and its denizens entirely hopeless, came close to total breakdown. Those who had once believe they could ride out the horrors quickly began to move away to neighboring countries, never to be seen or heard from again.

It was at this time, when all hope seemed lost, that history took a new turn.

A mysterious Equine suddenly appeared from the shadows, boasting an army of heavily armed troops. This equine, who called himself Fifth, took the reigns as the new ruler of Equestria, a rule many feared would plummet the nation back into the shadows of war.

Fifth was a unicorn, larger than the average equine, with a mane of vivid white and a body of platinum. His mark was that of the moon and the sun mixed into one silvery orb, which he also bore on his jacket, which itself was adorned with all sorts of Federation, Griffin and Draconian medals and awards.

Fifth, taking the role of commander-in-chief, mobilized his personal army of equines: ponies, unicorns, pegasi, and kirins - equines who hailed from the far east and sported silver or blue-white coats, white crackling manes and a large, sharp horn which allowed them to control lighting at will - and began what came to be known as ‘The Great Crusade’. His armies used modified Human weapons and armor - armaments once believed to be known to the humans alone - as well as a few Draconian nomad tricks, including elemental gems and magical fire.

I myself had at one point wielded a human armament, a gauss rifle, to be more precise. I also wore a modified set of armor once used by human police: riot gear.

The humans knew how to make weapons of the finest quality and lethality. It made me glad they were on our side.

The advanced weapons, superior tactics and near unstoppable war machines Fifth’s armies had at their disposal gave them the upper hand in every conceivable way. Within weeks, peace was once again restored throughout Equestria, with all traces of rebellion and dissent quickly disappearing. In order to prevent further outbreaks of violence, Fifth personally ordered the creation of a security force to serve solely as the hammer of justice in Equestria.

The Royal Guards, once under the servitude of Celestia and Luna, were chosen as the best candidates for this mission. Their leader, supreme commander Hagar Finn, an old and weathered earth pony-kirin hybrid nearly twice the size of a pony - bearing a gray-blue coat and a lion-like mane that glowed white hot due to his kirin ancestry - stepped forth into the vanguard of Equestria's future.

The enclave was to operate as judge, jury, and executioner; acting entirely autonomous of any established organization, including Fifth's own rule. The oath was "to hunt down corruption and villainy is our goal; one that we will accomplish till death take us all."

And thus the Regulators, under Hagar's command, were born. Sporting white exoskeletal armor and the same advanced weapons Fifth’s armies had used. They went about stomping out crime and villainy with an iron hoof.

Soon, many came to call them tyrants; others called them heroes. To the majority however, they were simply 'judges.'

Within a month, the first batch of newly trained recruits hit the streets of all major regions. For a time hope seemed to be on the rise as everyone dared to believe that maybe, just maybe, things could go back to the way they had been when Celestia and Luna ruled.

But the dream was just that – a dream. Crime continued its steady incline. Paramilitary groups – all of whom vied for control over Equestria's many natural and militarist resources – began to appear in every major city and town. Corruption became more and more noticeable with each passing day...

Manehattan - 10:00 PM

Walking down the street, I saw many things that reminded me of good times and bad times.

The park to my right of course brought about images of fillies playing, carefree and gay.

It also brought about images of bums and junkies going about their drug trips.

The drug store to my left brought about images of a caring shopkeeper handing out free soda and candy on weekends. It also brought about images of a violent crime scene, that same shopkeeper gunned down by some crazed lunatic.

I Sighed. Equestria still had many hurdles to overcome, but despite the challenges and the suffering in between, Fifth's empire slowly continued to flourish, bringing back the old Equestria bit by bit. But this small ray of hope did nothing to clear the darkness that had blanketed Equestria after the war. No longer was love and tolerance preached by the populace, only caution and paranoia. Ponies went about their lives, caring little about others, choosing to ignore the world as a whole. Emotions became almost taboo, and hope became little more than a fairytale from days long gone. Criminals still ruled the streets, and despite the Regulator's efforts to stomp warlords and petty thugs, crime always found a way to flourish.

These problems however were only the tip of the iceberg.

A new Evil, ancient and cryptic, slowly crept from its dark hole to overtake the cities and towns; it created fear and brought forth death. This new organization, calling itself ‘Nix Kruxado’ or simply ‘The Cult’, declared an unspoken war on the Regulators and all forces of order, painting the streets red with the blood of the innocent.

Despite these problems and the fact that everyone tried their absolute hardest in those early days, the death toll needed to maintain peace and order proved daunting.

Those still loyal to the original cause of the Regulators endured with whatever willpower they still carried within them; but willpower can only get one so far…

My willpower was officially beaten out of me the day my partner was murdered...

***

It had been a rather rough night; our unit had just taken down an entire group of red robed psychopaths, the 'Cult' everypony feared so much.

The battle had been bloody, half of our unit had been wiped out by the group, whose members had all attacked with little concern about their own welfare, chanting in an unknown, twisted language. Despite the heavy losses, we ended up securing the warehouse which served as their hideout. What we found inside, however, proved too much for many of us to bear.

Bodies everywhere; hung up by hooks, wires and all manner of improvised tools and contraptions. Half-eaten corpses lined the floors and walls; a freezer was stuffed to the brim with body parts from all conceivable races. They were fulfilling sick and twisted fetishes using flesh and bone...

Many of us emptied our guts right then and there. The sights I saw that night lingered in my mind for months to come. I was glad my partner had decided to stay at the office to get some paperwork finished; her gut was not on the strong side.

Our unit called for backup and started the daunting task of cleaning up the building, but many just couldn't bring themselves to go back into the warehouse. Hagar himself showed up, and was just as repulsed and horrified as many of the other troops. Unable to stand the sight of the now hellish warehouse, he decided to torch it, a funeral pyre for the innocent who had been butchered.

Unable to maintain my attentiveness any longer, I asked permission to leave, which Hagar granted. I got in my vehicle and drove back to the office, wanting nothing more than a cold shower and a long night's rest.

But as soon as I opened the door, I came face to face with another nightmare.

My partner had been pinned to the ceiling using rusty railroad nails. Her entrails had been ripped out of her abdomen, violently spread over the floor in intricate patterns that evoked images of evil rituals. On the wall was a message, written in a cryptic, evil language I somehow understood...

“Kill a man; one is a murderer. Kill thousands; one is a conqueror. Kill them all; one is a god.”

For the second time that night, I puked with little control, screaming in horror so loudly that I lost my voice for a few days.

After the funeral, I dedicated myself to finding those responsible for the murder. I promised myself to, “hunt down the ones responsible for his death. I'll hunt them all down and end them once and for all – for her sake; for everypony's sake.”

***

Ten years have passed since Princess Celestia and Princess Luna disappeared, leaving us all to fend for ourselves in this brave new world.

Five years have now passed since the Regulators’ formation, and we have made almost no progress in destroying the Cult. Crime remains just as rampant as before, and the populace still remains as hopeless and uncaring as ever.

Two years have passed since my partner's murder, and I still have nothing to show for all my work.

I sighed in hopelessness; nothing to do but head over to the office, put more clues together, try and piece together this incomplete puzzle, and bang my head against the wall in frustration, just like I have done for the last two years…

This was going to be a very long night…

Manehattan - 10:15 PM

A white and gray car suddenly pulled up next to me. It was a Regulator's car. I stopped in my tracks, knowing full well who was behind the wheel.

The door opened and out stepped Hagar Finn, the only truly righteous stallion left in this city. His mane was starting to age, graying here and there, almost devoid of the fire glow it had once bared. What could be seen of his coat trough the heavy trench coat he wore still retained its silvery blue sheen from days long gone however, hinting that perhaps he wasn't getting as old as I had originally assumed.

He smiled at me, stepping out of his car. “Long time no see Bogart,” he said in a soft yet stern voice that carried with it the wisdom and courage that this city lacked, “Heard you've been keeping busy chasing cultists and all manner of lowlifes.”

“Yes sir,” I said with forced resentment. “come to try and give me a more appropriate assignment sir?” I asked, full well knowing he would say no.

I held nothing but respect for the old stallion, but when I had made my choice to leave the main force to work solo, Hagar had scorned it, calling it foolish and dangerous. Hagar of course had been wholly correct, but my desire for retribution at the time had been so intense, instead of taking his words as the absolute truth, I had screamed and cursed, calling him all manner of ill, non-deserving names that I still felt shameful for using.

Now, as the old Stallion stood before me, I wanted nothing more than to apologize for the things I had once said, but I didn’t know how to do it, so I instead feigned resentment, if only to cover up how pathetically lost I felt.

“Actually, I've come to lend you a helping hoof,” Hagar said, smiling with all the self confidence of a war hero. “Come, I'll drive you back to your office; maybe get some coffee on the way.”

“Coffee would be nice,” I said with a slight smile. I got into Hagar's passenger seat and fastened my seat – belt. He drove off rather quickly, keeping his eyes wholly on the road ahead.

“I did some digging around,” Hagar started, eyes never parting from the road, “And I believe I've found something that might interest you.” He motioned to his glove compartment. I opened it and pulled out a file; it was rather thin, almost as if it bore absolutely nothing.

“Sorry if the file is shorter than the ones you are used to going through; not much information to be dug up these days it would seem. Criminals are getting smarter about covering their tracks.”

“Any new information is good information.” I said, opening the file and reading its contents. I felt the car pull over once again, glancing to the side with my peripheral vision. It was a coffee shop, crowded with many young fillies and colts enjoying the last few hours of their night before it became too dangerous to roam outside.

Hagar stepped out of his car and prodded my shoulder. “What are you having?” he asked. I looked at him, mulling over my coffee options.

“Something strong, lots of sugar and cream and oh yeah; ask the clerk if she can mix some chocolate into the bottom of the cup.”

“Alright, I'll be back in a few minutes.” Hagar said as he closed his door and walked into the coffee shop, where he was immediately surrounded by a large group of young colts who had undoubtedly recognized him as Hagar Finn, war hero and supreme 'judge' of the Regulators. They all wanted his autograph and picture.

I half-laughed at his predicament, but then returned my full attention to the files Hagar had compiled.

Minutes later, Hagar stepped into his car, two cups of hot coffee in his hooves. He handed me my special order and warned me to be careful. I took a sip and smiled; the coffee would allow me to stay up a little later.

Hagar turned the car's engine on and we drove off again. By the time we reached my office, I had re-read the files Hagar had collected about five times, and despite the information being clear, what it pertained to was anything but.

Hagar pulled into the garage and. turned over his car's engine. “So,” he said as he took a sip of his coffee, a very strong, almost mud-like black brew. “Anything in that file relevant to you?”

“Yes,” I told him, taking a sip of my now warm coffee, “useful, but not very helpful.” I opened the files and read a small excerpt of the research notes:

Cultists are known to attack random victims in the streets, using the blood of the murder as a means of sending cryptic messages to the authorities. It is not unheard of, however, for carefully planned executions to take place, usually as a means to put pressure on certain groups or eliminate potentially dangerous opposition before it becomes a threat. Out of all murder cases, two stand out as particularly chilling in their method of execution and potential endgame. The first, the murder of a Regulator operative whose name has been withdrawn until full investigation is complete.

I looked at Hagar. “My partner's murder no doubt.” I sipped my and continued reading.

The other incident being the murder of a family of ‘rock farmers’ ,aka quarry owners, near the town of Stalliongrad about two years prior to this report. The family murdered did not have any previously known affiliations, prompting many to believe that it was another random murder. However evidence has surfaced that the family may have been connected to the Cult prior to their deaths, suggesting the murders to be retaliatory in nature.

I stopped reading, putting the file down. “Both of these cases I already knew about, though the information pertaining to the second set of victims, particularly the fact that they may have been possible Cult members, is new.” I took a large swig of the coffee this time. “But the second little tidbit of information you placed on here is what caught my eye the most: that out of the rock farmer family deaths, there had been a lone survivor. But the files only mention her gender, nothing else. No mention of her appearance or even how old she was at the time. The files simply stop at a single phrase: 'Ponyville'.”

“That's right Bogart,” Hagar said with a frown, “that was the only real piece of concrete information I could dig up.” He took a swig of his coffee. “This filly, she likely moved to ponyville to start anew or at the very least, passed by the town. If she did settle there, she probably has a new identity by now.”

“Well, if that is the case, then Ponyville is where I need to go next.” I handed the file back to Hagar, who merely shook his head. “Keep it,” he told me with a smile, “I'm sure you'll want to re-read that file in more detail.”

“Very well, I'll keep it with me.” I said, opening the passenger door and stepping out. “I'll start packing my things; I leave for Ponyville in the morning.”

“Good luck. Oh, and one more thing:” he took one final swig of his coffee, emptying the cup in one gulp. “be very careful about this case; I get the feeling you are digging to a dark place. You may not like what you end up discovering.” He turned on his car's engine and managed a broad smile. “I better get back to HQ; somepony's probably freaking out about my disappearance by now.”

I closed the passenger door and saluted Hagar as he pulled out of the parking lot and drove off into the night.

I again looked at the files in my hoof and truthfully smiled for the first time in quite a while. I finally had the break I had been looking for all this time. Now, it was just a matter of time before I got some real answers.

My next destination was Ponyville.