The Case of the Missing Mareby MrPandaaChaptersMy Mystery Sense is tingling...My friend, the Narrator'Tis simply elementary, my dear readerThe doofTaking down the boss"Manehatten has left its hoofprint on me"Taking out the girl[Not a Chapter] A dedication-of-sortsUgh, receptionists...My Mystery Sense is tingling...It isn't easy being a detective, especially one like me. I'm not from where you're from; I'm not from where they're from; I'm just from where I'm from, and I'm the only one from there, as far as I know. Now, not being from here can make life difficult sometimes, mostly 'cause I just don't get you ponies. You ponies walk on four hooves, for one thing. Where I'm from, we walk on four when we're trying to get somewhere fast, but stand up on two a lot of the time. It makes sense if you think about it—more balance, more mobility, and more poise all equal more survivability. But I guess you ponies don't need to worry so much about survivability here, do you? At least, not normally. I'm standing just a few feet away from the very center of a large theater, trying to pick up the bits of a conversation happening somewhere offstage. Now, you call this as eavesdropping, but I assure you that if I dropped your eaves, I would pick it up and give it back. In other words, I don't eavesdrop. I listen and give returns for the information I receive. But these two are practically incomprehensible. I'd leave if it weren't for my Mystery Sense that keeps tingling in the back of my head, like those annoying itches you get that seem to be inside of you. Yeah, I know. “Mystery Sense.” Terribly original, right? But I digress. I need to know what these two are saying. The Mystery Sense is never wrong. As I tiptoe closer to the voices beyond the curtain, I can begin to pick out pieces of their conversation. “She...right here, right here, I swear!” “...wonder...just a hoofprint...gone...” Right next to the curtain now, I can hear every word. “...Miss Rarity say?” “Forget Miss Rarity! What'll the boss say?” A pause. “What if...he finds out?” I stiffen. He. There's always a he. A replacement for a name that is only spoken by the dead...it seems like Manehatten has more of a sinister side than I thought. “What?! No! If he finds out, he'll have our heads for sure. We can't let him find out!” “But how are we going to hide his best seamstress disappearing?” Aha. Now's my chance. Taking a deep breath, I pull up my catalog, if you will, of personas. No, not Albert the Clown...not Merchant Bevier...ooh, Sir Gaxahand the Brave? I like that one. No, no, this is entirely the wrong place for such an act. In all my decision-making, I neglected to do one simple thing that may have saved myself from much heartache in this case: I didn't pay attention. So when a sneaky stallion crept up behind me and attempted to shove me into a sack, I was taken completely unawares. It seems, however, that luck was on my side that day, for he forgot a simple thing, too. He didn't think about how high he would have to jump in order to place a bag over a head that is three feet above his own. And so, when this unplanning fellow reached up to place the bag over my head, I had a moment to gather myself while I disarmed him. A kidney shot and a quick jab to his already-injured back-right leg took him down in a few seconds, and by that time, I knew which persona to take: my own, Locke the Detective-Adventurer-Guy. Taking careful note of my assailant's clothes and belongings, I quickly vault up onto the stage and throw back the curtain. Walking quickly towards the backstage, I call out, “So, I couldn't help but overhear that you two seem to have lost something.” No answer. Huh, that's weird. I round the corner and see something that brought this case to a whole new level. In the green room sits not two ponies, but two empty chairs at an empty table. No, not empty—as I walk to the table, I see that it holds two slips of paper. I pick up the first one. It holds only a hoofprint. Wait, didn't one of them mention a hoofprint in their discussion? I pick up the second one, and my eyes widen as I read its words. “You wanted a case, Mr. Locke? My pleasure.” Author's Note I told you those arrow buttons were magical. Now, I made I think two pop culture references, one easy, one more difficult. See if you can spot them! How am I doing so far? Like it? Hate it? There's buttons for both, and I appreciate comments greatly, especially those of the "hey, you did this wrong, so do this instead" variety. My friend, the Narrator“Narrator, I need a pep talk.” … “Narrator?” I sigh. Oh, yeah...I'm the narrator this time. First person. Right. But I don't know how to give myself a pep talk! Wow, I thought that decision through well. Ugh, I didn't sign up for this. I wanted to have a peaceful vacation in Manehatten, something to get me more used to this Equestria. Now I feel like I'm back at home, except it's not home. Bleh, homesickness. Okay, let's think for a minute. What would have I done at home, whenever I had a case dropped in front of me? I would gather evidence, convict the bad guy, and confront the big boss. And often be duped into thinking that one guy was the big boss when it was really the other guy that no one suspected. Well, let's get to work. Author's Note Yeah, this was kind of a short chapter. I might flesh it out more, since it doesn't quite make sense later on (you'll see). No easter eggs here, I don't think. 'Tis simply elementary, my dear readerBack in the theater, I examine the evidence I've accumulated. My memory of my clumsy assailant, long gone by now, the two notes, and the conversation between the two missing ponies that I recorded without telling you. Not the best pile of evidence in the world, but I've solved cases on less. On a whim, I ran to the green room and gathered a sizable portion of the items that the first missing mare left. Now to examine each bit of evidence individually. First, the clumsy assailant. He wore plainclothes, but there was something off about them...what was it? Drawing upon my hyperthymesiac* memory and focusing intently, I slowly bring myself to relive the event. A kidney shot and a hoof to the injured leg later, I snap back into the present. I know what was off with his clothes. Just to be sure, I focus once more, creating a three-dimensional model of the fallen stallion in my head. Yep, just as I thought. As I turn the model in my head, his clothes shimmer and shine in the same way they did when I took him down. It seems as if they were created using some sort of special thread...well, I'll file that clue away for later. On to the hoofprint. I grab the piece of paper and a few jars of chemicals and herbs from their resting places around me. First things first, I pick up the paper, lift it to my nose, and sniff cautiously. Yeah, I know I should have wafted first, but in all my years of solving cases, I have never come across a bad guy stupid enough to allow wafting to actually make a difference. But I digress. The ink has a very distinct smell, one that does not match any popular printing press that I know of (and believe me, I've sniffed every newspaper or book I could find in Manehatten since I got here, so I know what the popular printing presses' ink smells like). I pick up the other sheet and sniff it, too. They smell the same. Good, I'm only searching for one ink source. I file that information away and grab the chemicals. A small drop of a green, sickly-sweet mixture stains the corner a pale pink. Ah, interesting. They printed these right before they placed them. I crush a few leaves and rub them on the hoofprint itself, faintly discoloring it. Oh, now that's interesting. The ink press was dry despite the high humidity...I store these clues away and move on to my third item of evidence—the conversation. These ponies had stumbled upon the scene of a disappearance, and feared for their lives, not from “Miss Rarity,” nor from their boss, but from an unknown and ambiguous figure, who was probably above their boss. Obviously, he did find out, and quickly. I move on to the last bit of evidence, what was left behind. From what I had quickly gathered, I had a dress, an empty spool, and a length of green material. After perusing over the three items quickly, I realized several things. First, the spool had a glittering dust on it's empty coil; second, the dress shimmered with the same ethereal quality as my previous assailant's plainclothes; and third, the length of green material had a little mistake stitched into it, a mistake of a rainbow nature. I felt my mind take off and extrapolate from the evidence, and I let it gladly. Soon, I knew what had happened and where the missing mare, and her two co-workers, would be. Author's Note I was quite happy with this when I finished it. Locke's "powers," for lack of a better word, are unique and make sense, while not being too overpowered for him to have weaknesses. However, I imagine that with the constant switching from first present to third past, I probably done goofed somewhere. Edits will be happening! Also, the chapter title is probably a fairly obvious pop culture reference. First person to comment about it gets a happy Pinkie Pie. The doofWhen the elevator doors opened, I couldn't close my jaw for the shock of what was before me. A giant, green head floated above some sort of light projector. It was turned away from me, looking outside and cackling. When it realized I was in the room, it turned and laughed. “Oh, Perry th-” the head stopped as it got a better look at me. It scanned me up and down, and I took the chance to do the same for it...er, him. He had a white, smooth face with protruding eyeballs and an even more protruding nose. A brown mane stuck out from his head in all directions instead of falling down, and his whole demeanor seemed to have a slight touch of Discordian madness. Strangest of all, his entire head seemed to be entirely triangular. I finished my analysis of him about the same time he did me. “You're not Perry the Platypus,” he spluttered. “You're some kind of...pony! Where did you come from?” He pauses for a second, and from the odd expression on his face, I believe that he's thinking. “Ohhh...” he says, the moment of brilliance displaying on his weird face. “I'm in the Display-My-Face-To-Another-World-inator, aren't I? Yes, and what else was I doing?” I yelp in surprise as a cage clatters around me, trapping me in his gaze. “Oh, that's right. I was in the middle of TAKING OVER YOUR PITIFUL WORLD!!!! Haaahahahah! And there's nothing you can do to stop me!” Unable to contain the enthusiasm he feels of his own genius, he continues. “Soon, I will use my Catch-You-In-A-Net-inator to catch every, ehm, pony in a Manehatten in a net, and with everypony in Manehatten in a net, I'll, well, I actually haven't thought that far ahead yet. But somehow, I'll take over all of Equestria!!!!” I can't bear to listen to this doof any longer. I need to get out. “Hey, can you help me out here?” … “I know you're there.” The big doof head turns around and looks at me suspiciously. “Who are you talking to, little pony?” Alright, fine. I'll break you out. You know what to do. The doof is still watching me. His eyes narrow. “You're not talking to me, are you?” “No,” I say calmly. “I'm not.” I reach into my coat and pull out a laser cutter with enough charge for three bursts. Kissing my freedom, I flip the switch and cut through my prison with ease. “I was talking to the narrator.” Doof's eyes widen and I can see him flipping through some sort of book. “You broke the fourth wall? Isn't that against the rules or something?” I answer him by cutting through the power source for his projector. Now, where's that whatever-inator? I look around the room and pause in shock for the second time in as many minutes. Author's Note Yeah, the doof is who you think it is. Here's a cookie for watching that amazing show. Funny story, because I imagine you aren't laughing too much at what's above: when I submitted this to Equestria Daily for the Writers' Training Grounds No. 2, I completely forgot about giving it the [Crossover] tag. I was frantically trying to get the not-even-yet-completed Google Doc submitted while my APES substitute teacher thought I was in the bathroom, hiding from the administrator-peoples in fear that they would send me back to class, so I suppose I have somewhat of a viable excuse. Taking down the bossIn the corner sits a giant crossbow-like machine, filled to the brim with rainbow-colored thread...the same rainbow-colored thread that was accidentally sewn into the fabric. And even more surprising, the thread sparkled like both the dress and the plainclothes. If there was any doubt I wasn't at the right place, it was all dispelled right then. “Yes, Mr. Locke, you are in the right place.” says a voice behind me. I spin around to face the owner of the voice. The big boss. Him. This time, I'm ready. At least, that's what I thought before I saw him. What stands before me now characterizes the phrase “big boss” in a way I had never imagined possible. This colt is big. And I mean this colt is big. Like, me standing on my back hooves in a fighting stance is still several feet shorter than this guy on all fours. And he wasn't just tall, he was big. You know what, just imagine the biggest pony you can, and make him about two times bigger. That's maybe how big this guy is. “Yes, Mr. Locke, this is the right place. This is the big bad boss' lair, and you've stumbled your way into it. Congratulations.” His voice sounds like thunder and lightning, a boom and a crash that resounds over me like the waves that churn out the window. “But this story won’t have a happy ending. You see, I want this city. I want its commerce, its trade, its business. And I’m going to get it. Why?” He looks straight at me. “Because I have Coco Pommel. This name may mean little to you, but she is the key to the city. She is the employee of Miss Rarity of Ponyville, perhaps the most talented seamstress in all of Equestria.” He gives a half smirk. “She doesn’t trust herself enough with her work to make it big, but I’ve studied her work long enough to know.” He walks to the open window and stares out into the ocean. “With her one and only employee in my hooves, I will be able to coerce Miss Rarity into working for me, in exchange for her friend’s safety. Her generosity is unparalleled; I have no doubt that she will agree.” He turns back to look at me. “But I have a little parasprite buzzing in my ear...and I want it out.” “I am about to discredit you in front of thousands of ponies as I declare myself the savior of Manehatten’s economy. When the ponies of this city see that you were the one to steal away the three mares, you will have nowhere to run...nowhere to hide. Just to be fair, I will give you one chance to beat me in this game of wits. One chance, Locke.” He walks to a homely chair-and-desk combo sitting by the window and picks up a timer sitting there. “After this timer reaches the five minute mark, one of us goes down in history as the ponynapping criminal, the other, as the salvation for all of Manehatten. Your pick.” I walk to his comely little chair and sit down, already pulling up the analysis I had previously made of the situation. Connecting the dots was easy enough, but breaking them apart...that’s more difficult. Suddenly, I have it. Game over, big guy. I start out of my chair as the timer reaches the four minute mark. “Alright, big guy, I’ve got you all figured out.” He turns to me with interest written clearly on his face. “You wanted Manehatten, so you decided to strike it right at one of its core industries: textiles. To win the textile industry, you needed the best seamstress there is--this Miss Rarity I’ve heard so much about the past few days.” I glance back to my time. Three and a half minutes left. “And so, you marenapped Coco Pommel, her first and only employee, knowing that she would come to Coco’s aid. But that wasn’t enough. Knowing that Coco was in possession of a marvelous thread that, when sewn into clothing, made even plain and drab outfits look like shimmering masterpieces, you forced her to reproduce the feat several hundred times over.” Two minutes. “Getting the doof scientist on your side certainly helped with the production; the mares thought that they were producing the thread for a bumbling fool, and so thought little of their forced labor.” A minute and a half. I begin to walk over to the side of the room were the doof’s projector still lies dormant. “But you still need this thread, just as much as you need Miss Rarity. Because, as you said, she doesn’t trust herself with her work. With the thread, it wouldn’t matter; her work would look amazing anyway, and with the help of Coco and whoever else you wanted, you could easily take the textile industry of Manehatten within weeks.” One minute. “But you didn’t anticipate one thing.” 50 seconds. “A little parasprite came buzzing in your ear.” 40 seconds. I move over to the giant crossbow-machine full of thread. “And this parasprite isn’t done yet.” 30 seconds. I begin to aim the whatever-inator at the general vicinity of the elevator door and where the big guy is standing. The door slides open, and three distressed mares stumble out. I fumble over the controls as I take a good look at the first one, a beautiful white mare with a green-and-white-streaked mane. I gaze at her and for a moment forget why I’m here. Oh, right. Now I remember. The boss level. Right. Maneuver the traps, beat the boss, save the princess. Wow, this is turning out to be a more traditional adventure than I thought it would. 20 seconds. I turn to the big dude once more and say proudly, “no, sir, this little parasprite isn’t done annoying you yet.” The final line delivered, I fire the nets, trapping the three mares, who look at me in shock, and the big dude, who looks at me with-- Okay, I did not expect this. He’s looking smug, like I did something wrong. 10 seconds. He rumbles out a laugh. “Hahah, Locke, you amuse me with such banter. You have thoroughly figured out my plot, and now have me in your clutches. But think of the scene that lies before you. Four ponies lie in nets, and one pony doesn’t. Who is the victor here?” He pauses. “Actually, allow me to rephrase that question: who will Manehatten think is the victor, and who the loser?” He makes a signal, and a giant screen slides up from a notch in the floor. “Well, Mr. Boss-Man, I’ve already got that one figured out,” I lie. He smirks. “Good. Then you’ll have no problem explaining yourself to Manehatten right now.” He looks up at me from his heap on the floor. “It’s showtime, Locke.” Calmly taking a position in the center of the screen’s view, I address what I’m assuming is the populace of Manehatten. (I’m later told that this was shown on the sides of buildings and walls all over the city and even in others.) Swallowing both pride and fear, I begin. Author's Note The bad guy is based off of a villain in pop culture. A happy pony to whoever gets it right! Yeah, I know, the ending is about as long as all four-or-so chapters of the beginning. If you don't like it, complain in the comments and I'll probably go back and revise the beginning. Probably. "Manehatten has left its hoofprint on me"To this day I have no idea what I said, but I know that I must have appealed to some sense of goodness in the ponies of Manehatten, because it worked. I remember that after I was done, I walked over to the three mares and helped them stumble over in front of the screen. When the viewers could see them properly, I used my last laser charge to cut the rope and set them free. I like to think that ponies applauded after that. My final words were something like: “In the time I’ve spent in Equestria, I’ve come to see that you ponies are different from the ones where I’m from. I don’t know a lot of things about you ponies--I can’t understand how you can stand to always stay on four hooves, and I still don’t know what in Tartarus a hooficure even is--but I do know one thing for sure.” Then--and I know I remember this part right--I turned to the beautiful white mare beside me and said, “Manehatten has surely left its hoofprint on me.” Author's Note Yeah, another awkward chapter that has almost no words. I'll figure out some way to either cut this or to enlarge it into a full speech thing. Also, another story, though this one isn't humorous in the slightest, so you're not allowed to laugh. When I first looked at the prompt for EqD's Training Grounds, which was "Manehatten leaves its hoofprint on everypony who ventures into it," or something like that, I immediately jumped to a full-scale takeover by a Mafia-esque gang. Of course, this idea didn't quite make it to fruition (I figured it would take way too long to write), but remnants of it are still there--the boss guy was going to be the leader of this gang, and the hoofprint-stained note from chapter one was an attempt at humor in what I thought was going to be a dark piece (Manehatten would literally leave its hoofprint on everypony in it). Taking out the girlAnd with that, I signal the screen to drop. I have some business to attend to. Ushering the three mares into the elevator, I turn to finish with the big guy. Who has somehow vanished. The only thing left is a note that reads, “I have never lost a game of wits, Locke, and I don’t plan on losing again. Be ready. I imagine we’ll be seeing each other again soon.” On the very bottom was a scrawled signature, “Kingpin.” Somehow a very fitting name. Yes, I imagine we’ll meet again...Kingpin. Which reminds me. “Narrator?” I call out. Yes? “Thanks.” ... I walk to the elevator, and turn back when I reach the door. “Oh, and let the people decide this time, Narrator. I trust them.” And with that, I hit the button down. When I the door opens, I’m greeted by a pleasant surprise. The mare (you know which one) is standing in front of me, pawing at the ground shyly. I drop down to all fours. Dang, she’s even cuter when she’s nervous. “Umm, I was wondering...” She blushes as if she said the wrong thing. “I mean, um, thank you for coming to, um, help the three of us.” Picking up speed, she continues. “I was worried that no one would realize I was gone, with my long work hours and everything, and well, I don’t often do this, but, um...” She stepped closer gave me the warmest, most welcome hug I have ever received. She stepped out of the embrace, and said, “um...I was wondering if, um...” she blushes again and turns away. Not wanting to lose this opportunity, I say, “hey, you’re really pretty when you’re nervous.” I have to hold myself back from facehoofing. That’s not what I meant to say. She turns back and asks shyly, “you think...I’m pretty?” You can’t back out now, Locke. “Yes, well no, well I mean--” I sigh and take a deep breath. I just took down a criminal mastermind. I can do this. “What I mean to say is, you’re beautiful. You’re the most beautiful mare I’ve ever seen. And, um...” It’s my turn to paw the ground now. “Would you--” I look up and see her staring hopefully at me. I can’t disappoint those eyes. “Like to go, um, do something sometime, with me?” I finish. Her eyes flare with excitement, and she practically bounces over to my side. She locks arms with me and says, “I’d love to. By the way, I’m Coco Pommel.” And we rode off into the sunset and lived happily ever after? Not quite, thought the first date was nice. And the second. The third, well...that’s a story for another time. Case closed. Author's Note Yay for wrapping up loose ends with a character that makes no sense in the first place, setting up the sequel, leaving doof out to dry by never mentioning him again, and some good ol' Coco shipping (well, I suppose it's actually fairly new, but whatever). Anyways, you're done with this thing! Hopefully those aren't cheers I'm hearing, but groans of disappointment. If they are cheers, I'd be very grateful if you used the complaint boxes below to submit a formal complaint, so that your assuredly viable complaint can be processed and then complained about in turn. Whether you liked it or want to burn it now, thanks for reading! [Not a Chapter] A dedication-of-sortsBefore you dive into my first attempt at writing (happy face!), I'd like to thank a few awesome ponies. Since I'm feeling in a poetic mood today, I'll do something cool. To Ammon, by whom our friend Locke was created. To my friends at Cutie Marks, who were so supportive of me while I scrambled to finish this hack. And to you, reader, for whom this is written. I hope you all enjoy. Author's Note Yeah, I know--I should write a sonnet next time, and spare you of my syntax. So, you know the drill: comment boxes below for commenting, trolling, and submitting formal complaints to be evaluated; like and dislike buttons whose roll is rather self-explanatory, and the funky chapter-turner arrows below which do something magical. If you don't believe me, try it. It's magical. Ugh, receptionists...When I first set hoof in Manehatten, the first thing I noticed was a giant skyscraper located on the very edge of the beachfront. The second thing I noticed was the strong wind blowing in from the sea. The only place in Manehatten that could have a dry printing press in this humid time of year would be one with a strong, crisp wind blowing, and I was right in front of it. The sign above their grand doors read “That Missing Something—Where what you need is always right under your hooves.” So he's the ironic kind of bad guy. Facing the doors, I feel the surge of energy coming on, that nervous adrenaline rush that comes when and only when you know you're in for a fight. I live for that feeling. I let it course through my veins and then step through the doors. A cheery receptionist greets me without lifting her head, but I'm not paying attention. I look around the room for anything out of the ordinary, and finding nothing, turn to the receptionist. She looks at me in the bored manner that is trained into all receptionists, her eyes saying, “I'm not happy and I wish you'd leave me alone, but I'll just smile and act happy to make you go away.” “Can I help you with anything?” she asks. Spying an elevator straight across the room, I say in response, “yes, you can. Can you tell me which floors on this building have open access to the outside air? I've been called by him about possibly putting in a window.” “Who called you?” she asks suspiciously. “I didn't stutter. He called me.” She's convinced. “Thirteenth floor.” she says. “It's the only room.” I smile and thank her. As I turn to go to the elevator, she says “Just...be careful. He doesn't like defiance.” I'm in. Author's Note If you're a receptionist, I'm sorry and I hope you don't hate me forever.
My Mystery Sense is tingling...It isn't easy being a detective, especially one like me. I'm not from where you're from; I'm not from where they're from; I'm just from where I'm from, and I'm the only one from there, as far as I know. Now, not being from here can make life difficult sometimes, mostly 'cause I just don't get you ponies. You ponies walk on four hooves, for one thing. Where I'm from, we walk on four when we're trying to get somewhere fast, but stand up on two a lot of the time. It makes sense if you think about it—more balance, more mobility, and more poise all equal more survivability. But I guess you ponies don't need to worry so much about survivability here, do you? At least, not normally. I'm standing just a few feet away from the very center of a large theater, trying to pick up the bits of a conversation happening somewhere offstage. Now, you call this as eavesdropping, but I assure you that if I dropped your eaves, I would pick it up and give it back. In other words, I don't eavesdrop. I listen and give returns for the information I receive. But these two are practically incomprehensible. I'd leave if it weren't for my Mystery Sense that keeps tingling in the back of my head, like those annoying itches you get that seem to be inside of you. Yeah, I know. “Mystery Sense.” Terribly original, right? But I digress. I need to know what these two are saying. The Mystery Sense is never wrong. As I tiptoe closer to the voices beyond the curtain, I can begin to pick out pieces of their conversation. “She...right here, right here, I swear!” “...wonder...just a hoofprint...gone...” Right next to the curtain now, I can hear every word. “...Miss Rarity say?” “Forget Miss Rarity! What'll the boss say?” A pause. “What if...he finds out?” I stiffen. He. There's always a he. A replacement for a name that is only spoken by the dead...it seems like Manehatten has more of a sinister side than I thought. “What?! No! If he finds out, he'll have our heads for sure. We can't let him find out!” “But how are we going to hide his best seamstress disappearing?” Aha. Now's my chance. Taking a deep breath, I pull up my catalog, if you will, of personas. No, not Albert the Clown...not Merchant Bevier...ooh, Sir Gaxahand the Brave? I like that one. No, no, this is entirely the wrong place for such an act. In all my decision-making, I neglected to do one simple thing that may have saved myself from much heartache in this case: I didn't pay attention. So when a sneaky stallion crept up behind me and attempted to shove me into a sack, I was taken completely unawares. It seems, however, that luck was on my side that day, for he forgot a simple thing, too. He didn't think about how high he would have to jump in order to place a bag over a head that is three feet above his own. And so, when this unplanning fellow reached up to place the bag over my head, I had a moment to gather myself while I disarmed him. A kidney shot and a quick jab to his already-injured back-right leg took him down in a few seconds, and by that time, I knew which persona to take: my own, Locke the Detective-Adventurer-Guy. Taking careful note of my assailant's clothes and belongings, I quickly vault up onto the stage and throw back the curtain. Walking quickly towards the backstage, I call out, “So, I couldn't help but overhear that you two seem to have lost something.” No answer. Huh, that's weird. I round the corner and see something that brought this case to a whole new level. In the green room sits not two ponies, but two empty chairs at an empty table. No, not empty—as I walk to the table, I see that it holds two slips of paper. I pick up the first one. It holds only a hoofprint. Wait, didn't one of them mention a hoofprint in their discussion? I pick up the second one, and my eyes widen as I read its words. “You wanted a case, Mr. Locke? My pleasure.” Author's Note I told you those arrow buttons were magical. Now, I made I think two pop culture references, one easy, one more difficult. See if you can spot them! How am I doing so far? Like it? Hate it? There's buttons for both, and I appreciate comments greatly, especially those of the "hey, you did this wrong, so do this instead" variety.
My friend, the Narrator“Narrator, I need a pep talk.” … “Narrator?” I sigh. Oh, yeah...I'm the narrator this time. First person. Right. But I don't know how to give myself a pep talk! Wow, I thought that decision through well. Ugh, I didn't sign up for this. I wanted to have a peaceful vacation in Manehatten, something to get me more used to this Equestria. Now I feel like I'm back at home, except it's not home. Bleh, homesickness. Okay, let's think for a minute. What would have I done at home, whenever I had a case dropped in front of me? I would gather evidence, convict the bad guy, and confront the big boss. And often be duped into thinking that one guy was the big boss when it was really the other guy that no one suspected. Well, let's get to work. Author's Note Yeah, this was kind of a short chapter. I might flesh it out more, since it doesn't quite make sense later on (you'll see). No easter eggs here, I don't think.
'Tis simply elementary, my dear readerBack in the theater, I examine the evidence I've accumulated. My memory of my clumsy assailant, long gone by now, the two notes, and the conversation between the two missing ponies that I recorded without telling you. Not the best pile of evidence in the world, but I've solved cases on less. On a whim, I ran to the green room and gathered a sizable portion of the items that the first missing mare left. Now to examine each bit of evidence individually. First, the clumsy assailant. He wore plainclothes, but there was something off about them...what was it? Drawing upon my hyperthymesiac* memory and focusing intently, I slowly bring myself to relive the event. A kidney shot and a hoof to the injured leg later, I snap back into the present. I know what was off with his clothes. Just to be sure, I focus once more, creating a three-dimensional model of the fallen stallion in my head. Yep, just as I thought. As I turn the model in my head, his clothes shimmer and shine in the same way they did when I took him down. It seems as if they were created using some sort of special thread...well, I'll file that clue away for later. On to the hoofprint. I grab the piece of paper and a few jars of chemicals and herbs from their resting places around me. First things first, I pick up the paper, lift it to my nose, and sniff cautiously. Yeah, I know I should have wafted first, but in all my years of solving cases, I have never come across a bad guy stupid enough to allow wafting to actually make a difference. But I digress. The ink has a very distinct smell, one that does not match any popular printing press that I know of (and believe me, I've sniffed every newspaper or book I could find in Manehatten since I got here, so I know what the popular printing presses' ink smells like). I pick up the other sheet and sniff it, too. They smell the same. Good, I'm only searching for one ink source. I file that information away and grab the chemicals. A small drop of a green, sickly-sweet mixture stains the corner a pale pink. Ah, interesting. They printed these right before they placed them. I crush a few leaves and rub them on the hoofprint itself, faintly discoloring it. Oh, now that's interesting. The ink press was dry despite the high humidity...I store these clues away and move on to my third item of evidence—the conversation. These ponies had stumbled upon the scene of a disappearance, and feared for their lives, not from “Miss Rarity,” nor from their boss, but from an unknown and ambiguous figure, who was probably above their boss. Obviously, he did find out, and quickly. I move on to the last bit of evidence, what was left behind. From what I had quickly gathered, I had a dress, an empty spool, and a length of green material. After perusing over the three items quickly, I realized several things. First, the spool had a glittering dust on it's empty coil; second, the dress shimmered with the same ethereal quality as my previous assailant's plainclothes; and third, the length of green material had a little mistake stitched into it, a mistake of a rainbow nature. I felt my mind take off and extrapolate from the evidence, and I let it gladly. Soon, I knew what had happened and where the missing mare, and her two co-workers, would be. Author's Note I was quite happy with this when I finished it. Locke's "powers," for lack of a better word, are unique and make sense, while not being too overpowered for him to have weaknesses. However, I imagine that with the constant switching from first present to third past, I probably done goofed somewhere. Edits will be happening! Also, the chapter title is probably a fairly obvious pop culture reference. First person to comment about it gets a happy Pinkie Pie.
The doofWhen the elevator doors opened, I couldn't close my jaw for the shock of what was before me. A giant, green head floated above some sort of light projector. It was turned away from me, looking outside and cackling. When it realized I was in the room, it turned and laughed. “Oh, Perry th-” the head stopped as it got a better look at me. It scanned me up and down, and I took the chance to do the same for it...er, him. He had a white, smooth face with protruding eyeballs and an even more protruding nose. A brown mane stuck out from his head in all directions instead of falling down, and his whole demeanor seemed to have a slight touch of Discordian madness. Strangest of all, his entire head seemed to be entirely triangular. I finished my analysis of him about the same time he did me. “You're not Perry the Platypus,” he spluttered. “You're some kind of...pony! Where did you come from?” He pauses for a second, and from the odd expression on his face, I believe that he's thinking. “Ohhh...” he says, the moment of brilliance displaying on his weird face. “I'm in the Display-My-Face-To-Another-World-inator, aren't I? Yes, and what else was I doing?” I yelp in surprise as a cage clatters around me, trapping me in his gaze. “Oh, that's right. I was in the middle of TAKING OVER YOUR PITIFUL WORLD!!!! Haaahahahah! And there's nothing you can do to stop me!” Unable to contain the enthusiasm he feels of his own genius, he continues. “Soon, I will use my Catch-You-In-A-Net-inator to catch every, ehm, pony in a Manehatten in a net, and with everypony in Manehatten in a net, I'll, well, I actually haven't thought that far ahead yet. But somehow, I'll take over all of Equestria!!!!” I can't bear to listen to this doof any longer. I need to get out. “Hey, can you help me out here?” … “I know you're there.” The big doof head turns around and looks at me suspiciously. “Who are you talking to, little pony?” Alright, fine. I'll break you out. You know what to do. The doof is still watching me. His eyes narrow. “You're not talking to me, are you?” “No,” I say calmly. “I'm not.” I reach into my coat and pull out a laser cutter with enough charge for three bursts. Kissing my freedom, I flip the switch and cut through my prison with ease. “I was talking to the narrator.” Doof's eyes widen and I can see him flipping through some sort of book. “You broke the fourth wall? Isn't that against the rules or something?” I answer him by cutting through the power source for his projector. Now, where's that whatever-inator? I look around the room and pause in shock for the second time in as many minutes. Author's Note Yeah, the doof is who you think it is. Here's a cookie for watching that amazing show. Funny story, because I imagine you aren't laughing too much at what's above: when I submitted this to Equestria Daily for the Writers' Training Grounds No. 2, I completely forgot about giving it the [Crossover] tag. I was frantically trying to get the not-even-yet-completed Google Doc submitted while my APES substitute teacher thought I was in the bathroom, hiding from the administrator-peoples in fear that they would send me back to class, so I suppose I have somewhat of a viable excuse.
Taking down the bossIn the corner sits a giant crossbow-like machine, filled to the brim with rainbow-colored thread...the same rainbow-colored thread that was accidentally sewn into the fabric. And even more surprising, the thread sparkled like both the dress and the plainclothes. If there was any doubt I wasn't at the right place, it was all dispelled right then. “Yes, Mr. Locke, you are in the right place.” says a voice behind me. I spin around to face the owner of the voice. The big boss. Him. This time, I'm ready. At least, that's what I thought before I saw him. What stands before me now characterizes the phrase “big boss” in a way I had never imagined possible. This colt is big. And I mean this colt is big. Like, me standing on my back hooves in a fighting stance is still several feet shorter than this guy on all fours. And he wasn't just tall, he was big. You know what, just imagine the biggest pony you can, and make him about two times bigger. That's maybe how big this guy is. “Yes, Mr. Locke, this is the right place. This is the big bad boss' lair, and you've stumbled your way into it. Congratulations.” His voice sounds like thunder and lightning, a boom and a crash that resounds over me like the waves that churn out the window. “But this story won’t have a happy ending. You see, I want this city. I want its commerce, its trade, its business. And I’m going to get it. Why?” He looks straight at me. “Because I have Coco Pommel. This name may mean little to you, but she is the key to the city. She is the employee of Miss Rarity of Ponyville, perhaps the most talented seamstress in all of Equestria.” He gives a half smirk. “She doesn’t trust herself enough with her work to make it big, but I’ve studied her work long enough to know.” He walks to the open window and stares out into the ocean. “With her one and only employee in my hooves, I will be able to coerce Miss Rarity into working for me, in exchange for her friend’s safety. Her generosity is unparalleled; I have no doubt that she will agree.” He turns back to look at me. “But I have a little parasprite buzzing in my ear...and I want it out.” “I am about to discredit you in front of thousands of ponies as I declare myself the savior of Manehatten’s economy. When the ponies of this city see that you were the one to steal away the three mares, you will have nowhere to run...nowhere to hide. Just to be fair, I will give you one chance to beat me in this game of wits. One chance, Locke.” He walks to a homely chair-and-desk combo sitting by the window and picks up a timer sitting there. “After this timer reaches the five minute mark, one of us goes down in history as the ponynapping criminal, the other, as the salvation for all of Manehatten. Your pick.” I walk to his comely little chair and sit down, already pulling up the analysis I had previously made of the situation. Connecting the dots was easy enough, but breaking them apart...that’s more difficult. Suddenly, I have it. Game over, big guy. I start out of my chair as the timer reaches the four minute mark. “Alright, big guy, I’ve got you all figured out.” He turns to me with interest written clearly on his face. “You wanted Manehatten, so you decided to strike it right at one of its core industries: textiles. To win the textile industry, you needed the best seamstress there is--this Miss Rarity I’ve heard so much about the past few days.” I glance back to my time. Three and a half minutes left. “And so, you marenapped Coco Pommel, her first and only employee, knowing that she would come to Coco’s aid. But that wasn’t enough. Knowing that Coco was in possession of a marvelous thread that, when sewn into clothing, made even plain and drab outfits look like shimmering masterpieces, you forced her to reproduce the feat several hundred times over.” Two minutes. “Getting the doof scientist on your side certainly helped with the production; the mares thought that they were producing the thread for a bumbling fool, and so thought little of their forced labor.” A minute and a half. I begin to walk over to the side of the room were the doof’s projector still lies dormant. “But you still need this thread, just as much as you need Miss Rarity. Because, as you said, she doesn’t trust herself with her work. With the thread, it wouldn’t matter; her work would look amazing anyway, and with the help of Coco and whoever else you wanted, you could easily take the textile industry of Manehatten within weeks.” One minute. “But you didn’t anticipate one thing.” 50 seconds. “A little parasprite came buzzing in your ear.” 40 seconds. I move over to the giant crossbow-machine full of thread. “And this parasprite isn’t done yet.” 30 seconds. I begin to aim the whatever-inator at the general vicinity of the elevator door and where the big guy is standing. The door slides open, and three distressed mares stumble out. I fumble over the controls as I take a good look at the first one, a beautiful white mare with a green-and-white-streaked mane. I gaze at her and for a moment forget why I’m here. Oh, right. Now I remember. The boss level. Right. Maneuver the traps, beat the boss, save the princess. Wow, this is turning out to be a more traditional adventure than I thought it would. 20 seconds. I turn to the big dude once more and say proudly, “no, sir, this little parasprite isn’t done annoying you yet.” The final line delivered, I fire the nets, trapping the three mares, who look at me in shock, and the big dude, who looks at me with-- Okay, I did not expect this. He’s looking smug, like I did something wrong. 10 seconds. He rumbles out a laugh. “Hahah, Locke, you amuse me with such banter. You have thoroughly figured out my plot, and now have me in your clutches. But think of the scene that lies before you. Four ponies lie in nets, and one pony doesn’t. Who is the victor here?” He pauses. “Actually, allow me to rephrase that question: who will Manehatten think is the victor, and who the loser?” He makes a signal, and a giant screen slides up from a notch in the floor. “Well, Mr. Boss-Man, I’ve already got that one figured out,” I lie. He smirks. “Good. Then you’ll have no problem explaining yourself to Manehatten right now.” He looks up at me from his heap on the floor. “It’s showtime, Locke.” Calmly taking a position in the center of the screen’s view, I address what I’m assuming is the populace of Manehatten. (I’m later told that this was shown on the sides of buildings and walls all over the city and even in others.) Swallowing both pride and fear, I begin. Author's Note The bad guy is based off of a villain in pop culture. A happy pony to whoever gets it right! Yeah, I know, the ending is about as long as all four-or-so chapters of the beginning. If you don't like it, complain in the comments and I'll probably go back and revise the beginning. Probably.
"Manehatten has left its hoofprint on me"To this day I have no idea what I said, but I know that I must have appealed to some sense of goodness in the ponies of Manehatten, because it worked. I remember that after I was done, I walked over to the three mares and helped them stumble over in front of the screen. When the viewers could see them properly, I used my last laser charge to cut the rope and set them free. I like to think that ponies applauded after that. My final words were something like: “In the time I’ve spent in Equestria, I’ve come to see that you ponies are different from the ones where I’m from. I don’t know a lot of things about you ponies--I can’t understand how you can stand to always stay on four hooves, and I still don’t know what in Tartarus a hooficure even is--but I do know one thing for sure.” Then--and I know I remember this part right--I turned to the beautiful white mare beside me and said, “Manehatten has surely left its hoofprint on me.” Author's Note Yeah, another awkward chapter that has almost no words. I'll figure out some way to either cut this or to enlarge it into a full speech thing. Also, another story, though this one isn't humorous in the slightest, so you're not allowed to laugh. When I first looked at the prompt for EqD's Training Grounds, which was "Manehatten leaves its hoofprint on everypony who ventures into it," or something like that, I immediately jumped to a full-scale takeover by a Mafia-esque gang. Of course, this idea didn't quite make it to fruition (I figured it would take way too long to write), but remnants of it are still there--the boss guy was going to be the leader of this gang, and the hoofprint-stained note from chapter one was an attempt at humor in what I thought was going to be a dark piece (Manehatten would literally leave its hoofprint on everypony in it).
Taking out the girlAnd with that, I signal the screen to drop. I have some business to attend to. Ushering the three mares into the elevator, I turn to finish with the big guy. Who has somehow vanished. The only thing left is a note that reads, “I have never lost a game of wits, Locke, and I don’t plan on losing again. Be ready. I imagine we’ll be seeing each other again soon.” On the very bottom was a scrawled signature, “Kingpin.” Somehow a very fitting name. Yes, I imagine we’ll meet again...Kingpin. Which reminds me. “Narrator?” I call out. Yes? “Thanks.” ... I walk to the elevator, and turn back when I reach the door. “Oh, and let the people decide this time, Narrator. I trust them.” And with that, I hit the button down. When I the door opens, I’m greeted by a pleasant surprise. The mare (you know which one) is standing in front of me, pawing at the ground shyly. I drop down to all fours. Dang, she’s even cuter when she’s nervous. “Umm, I was wondering...” She blushes as if she said the wrong thing. “I mean, um, thank you for coming to, um, help the three of us.” Picking up speed, she continues. “I was worried that no one would realize I was gone, with my long work hours and everything, and well, I don’t often do this, but, um...” She stepped closer gave me the warmest, most welcome hug I have ever received. She stepped out of the embrace, and said, “um...I was wondering if, um...” she blushes again and turns away. Not wanting to lose this opportunity, I say, “hey, you’re really pretty when you’re nervous.” I have to hold myself back from facehoofing. That’s not what I meant to say. She turns back and asks shyly, “you think...I’m pretty?” You can’t back out now, Locke. “Yes, well no, well I mean--” I sigh and take a deep breath. I just took down a criminal mastermind. I can do this. “What I mean to say is, you’re beautiful. You’re the most beautiful mare I’ve ever seen. And, um...” It’s my turn to paw the ground now. “Would you--” I look up and see her staring hopefully at me. I can’t disappoint those eyes. “Like to go, um, do something sometime, with me?” I finish. Her eyes flare with excitement, and she practically bounces over to my side. She locks arms with me and says, “I’d love to. By the way, I’m Coco Pommel.” And we rode off into the sunset and lived happily ever after? Not quite, thought the first date was nice. And the second. The third, well...that’s a story for another time. Case closed. Author's Note Yay for wrapping up loose ends with a character that makes no sense in the first place, setting up the sequel, leaving doof out to dry by never mentioning him again, and some good ol' Coco shipping (well, I suppose it's actually fairly new, but whatever). Anyways, you're done with this thing! Hopefully those aren't cheers I'm hearing, but groans of disappointment. If they are cheers, I'd be very grateful if you used the complaint boxes below to submit a formal complaint, so that your assuredly viable complaint can be processed and then complained about in turn. Whether you liked it or want to burn it now, thanks for reading!
[Not a Chapter] A dedication-of-sortsBefore you dive into my first attempt at writing (happy face!), I'd like to thank a few awesome ponies. Since I'm feeling in a poetic mood today, I'll do something cool. To Ammon, by whom our friend Locke was created. To my friends at Cutie Marks, who were so supportive of me while I scrambled to finish this hack. And to you, reader, for whom this is written. I hope you all enjoy. Author's Note Yeah, I know--I should write a sonnet next time, and spare you of my syntax. So, you know the drill: comment boxes below for commenting, trolling, and submitting formal complaints to be evaluated; like and dislike buttons whose roll is rather self-explanatory, and the funky chapter-turner arrows below which do something magical. If you don't believe me, try it. It's magical.
Ugh, receptionists...When I first set hoof in Manehatten, the first thing I noticed was a giant skyscraper located on the very edge of the beachfront. The second thing I noticed was the strong wind blowing in from the sea. The only place in Manehatten that could have a dry printing press in this humid time of year would be one with a strong, crisp wind blowing, and I was right in front of it. The sign above their grand doors read “That Missing Something—Where what you need is always right under your hooves.” So he's the ironic kind of bad guy. Facing the doors, I feel the surge of energy coming on, that nervous adrenaline rush that comes when and only when you know you're in for a fight. I live for that feeling. I let it course through my veins and then step through the doors. A cheery receptionist greets me without lifting her head, but I'm not paying attention. I look around the room for anything out of the ordinary, and finding nothing, turn to the receptionist. She looks at me in the bored manner that is trained into all receptionists, her eyes saying, “I'm not happy and I wish you'd leave me alone, but I'll just smile and act happy to make you go away.” “Can I help you with anything?” she asks. Spying an elevator straight across the room, I say in response, “yes, you can. Can you tell me which floors on this building have open access to the outside air? I've been called by him about possibly putting in a window.” “Who called you?” she asks suspiciously. “I didn't stutter. He called me.” She's convinced. “Thirteenth floor.” she says. “It's the only room.” I smile and thank her. As I turn to go to the elevator, she says “Just...be careful. He doesn't like defiance.” I'm in. Author's Note If you're a receptionist, I'm sorry and I hope you don't hate me forever.
