The Crimson Crucible

by Facemelt91

Rating: teen
Tags: Tragedy, Dark, Alternate Universe, Romance, Adventure
Length: 7697

When Sea Swirl gets abducted by merciless gang boss, it's up to her estranged brother, former Equestrian Navy SEAL, Crimson Cage and rookie detective Cloudchaser, to get her back, before Crimson is captured by Lyra Heartstrings and the EIA

'Protect thy family, thy country and thy friends'.
'Never surrender; never retreat'.

These are the codes of the Equestrian Navy SEALs, Equestria's elite maritime Special Forces unit. The unassuming earth pony, Crimson Cage is a former Navy SEAL, and when his father gets murdered and his little sister, Sea Swirl, gets abducted by a ruthless drug lord, Crimson Cage must use everything at his disposal to rescue her before something horrible happens.

Crimson teams up with rookie detective, Cloudchaser, a melancholic pegasus who failed the Wonderbolts Academy, and together, they must face armed gang members, corrupt politicians and private military contractors to rescue Sea Swirl and bring down the merciless drug lord behind her abduction.

But the Equestrian Intelligence Agency isn't happy that there is a highly trained Special Ops soldier running rampage in Manehattan, so they send top class Federal Agent, Lyra Heartstrings, to bring in Crimson Cage before he can cause an international incident.

Get ready for a terrifying 24 hours of brutal, heart-stopping action.

This fic features quite a few underappreciated background ponies as lead characters. Crimson Cage is the only OC

Published 1970-01-01 00:00:00 UTC
Last updated 2014-05-05 23:17:33 UTC

Enter the Cage

Manehattan – 20:36 – Day 0

Four armed ponies climbed the stairs. One of them carried a gun, another had a crowbar and the other two had knives. When they reached the flat that they were looking for, they broke the lock with the crowbar and forced their way in.

Target acquired: unicorn, late twenties, small, blue and sporting a cerulean mane. It looked like they were just in time; she was packing a bag to leave.

She saw them: intruders. Gun pointed; crowbar waving, knives at the ready.

Screams.

Struggle.

They held her down while they ransacked her bedroom, tearing it apart. The gun-wielding stallion bellowed at her repeatedly: “where is it?”

She sat there and shook, paralyzed by fear.

He seized her by her mane and twisted it, peering into her face. Once more he demanded: “Where is it?” He struck her across the face with his gun and threw her down onto the bed.

As they continued to pour her possessions out onto the floor and lay waste to her small flat in their search, she saw her opportunity as the stallion’s back was turned.

In a sudden explosion of courage, she grabbed the lamp from her bedside table and smashed it against the back of the stallion’s head, knocking him to the ground.

She bolted.

Two pursued.

One stallion grabbed her from behind as she tried to get out through the door.

Her panic quickly turned to determination. Fuelled by adrenaline, her actions were no longer held back by her fear. She struggled against the stallion’s grasp and drove her elbows one after the other into his stomach, forcing him to let go. She followed up with an elbow strike to the face, splintering one of his bottom teeth. As the second stallion approached her, she kicked him in the groin as hard as she could and ran, through the corridor and down the stairs as fast as she could, using her unicorn magic to topple objects to hinder her pursuers.

By the time the three ponies were in a position to chase her, the unicorn had already gone. They stood outside the building, looking around for any sign of her, but the darkness and the rain reduced the visibility. They could barely see to the end of the road.

“Sea Swirl is gone,” one of them said.

“Shit,” moaned another stallion, trying to contain the pain that raged in his crotch, “What are we going to tell the boss?” He looked over in shock at his partner who was holding the broken tooth in the palm of his hoof.

The stallion who held the gun didn’t have an answer. There wasn’t anything to say. They only had one option: find her and retrieve the lost package by whatever means necessary.

Manehattan – 21:52

Fear.

It was all that was driving Copper Cage forward. It was all that was keeping him going.

It was all that was keeping him from dying on his hooves.

His heart thumped against his chest as he staggered through the crowded street. Those who saw him parted to allow him through, those who didn't kept on walking, as if he wasn't there. Frequently, he turned to peer over his shoulder to check to see who or what was behind him.

Was he being followed?

Did he dare stop to find out?

Darkness had descended on the city and a cruel fog was starting to envelop the streets, parting only for blazing sets of headlights that roared through the dark mist. Everywhere was surrounded by the oppressive grey towers that reached for the black sky.

He stumbled around a corner into an empty street and started to walk a little more quickly.

Nearly home.

The words rung in his mind. What if he didn’t make it? What if they found him before he arrived?

What if they found him?

He started to run. Heavy, laboured steps that slapped against the pavement that took him across the road, that narrowly missed an oncoming cart and steered him back onto the pavement. He stopped to catch his breath, leaning against a lamppost for support. He could hear dogs barking in the distance. Were they after him too? Were they getting nearer?

They were coming. He knew it.

Copper Cage started running again.

Eventually, he approached the towering block of flats where he lived. The metallic grey brickwork became one with the black sky as the tower reached upwards, lights from the windows searching for him as he stumbled through the building entrance.

Inside, the dirty walls were covered with graffiti that had been smeared over the peeling wallpaper. Broken glass bottles lay on the floor in abundance. Lights flickered above and exposed wires hung from gaps in the ceiling. Packs of youths loitered around both inside and out, wearing hooded tops, smoking cannabis and flashing their knock-off firearms. None of that mattered; it was still safer than the street.

He rode the elevator to the eighth floor and stepped out into the corridor as soon as he could. He walked briskly along the stained, yellow carpet until he reached flat 817.

With a shaking hoof, he unlocked the front door and pushed his way inside.

Inside his flat, he crossed the hall and made for the cramped little kitchen. He seized the kettle with a shaking hoof, filled it with cold water and switched it on to boil. He dropped a teabag in a stained mug and went to retrieve some milk from the fridge. As the kettle boiled, he sat on a stool rubbing his temples. His hooves were trembling violently, and his hooves were tapping nervously against the ground.

Copper Cage was breathing hard, short, raspy breaths that punctuated the flat’s empty silence.

Silence.

Except for the boiling kettle and rain that was now coming down hard against the kitchen window.

The kettle finished boiling.

There was silence once more.

With a sigh of relief, he stepped forwards to take hold of it.

Copper Cage didn’t even notice the rope until it was already being pulled against his windpipe.

Trottingham – 22:34

Sapphire Lounge was a spacious bar down by the quayside. It offered comfy sofas and clean toilets. It sold cheap trebles, wines, cocktails and offered a modest selection of real ales and ciders on tap. Its main source of income came from the students of either of Trottingham’s two Universities, who came by the cartload, pumping their student loans into the city’s nightlife revenue.

Tonight was like any other: the bar was crowded with students, graduates and other members of the young, middle-class demographic. Of the four ponies who were working the bar that night, earth pony Crimson Cage, was the eldest and the only one who was a stallion. The red-maned Crimson, stood behind the bar, pulling cider through the pump into pint glasses. He smiled and nodded at customers as they leant forward and screamed obscure orders at him, or thrust menus into his face, pointed to products and grunted at him.

As the last of the group he was serving returned to their seats, Crimson wiped his face with a heavily tattooed, light-grey forelimb. As he turned around, he could see another group of fillies approaching. Some of them ogled the ruggedly attractive, gruff-looking barman, who stood out amongst his female colleagues.

“Crimson, I’ve got this. Go and help Pink Lloyd on the floor.”

Crimson looked to his left.

The bar manager, Nancy Napes, was a pegasus and a Trottingham University graduate who had opted to stay rather than return to Swindon and face her staggering student debt. She swooped down next to Crimson and swiped her card on the cash register.

“Go on,” she said, “I want an early finish tonight.”

“Define early.”

“As in home before two,” Nancy replied, “Get going.”

“Alright,” Crimson said.

He followed the length of the bar, squeezing passed a fresh faced filly who was serving trebles to a young stallion that could barely hold himself upright.

Crimson pushed his way through the revelling patrons, collecting glasses from tables. Hooves full, he was almost oblivious to the vibrating phone on his person and paid more attention to the large quantity of glamorous young girls who were standing around a table talking to an overweight doorpony who was on his way back from a toilet break.

The bald-headed doorpony shot a crooked glance at the stallion with the tattoos who was carrying around a tower of glass. They’d never spoken, and the middle-aged doorpony wondered, without a hint of irony, what somepony like that was doing in a bar like Sapphire Lounge, hanging around with students who were half his age.

When the tower of empty glasses he had accumulated was so tall that could no longer place another glass on top of it, he carried it back to the bar and divided it into stacks. After this was done, he went out and repeated the same process, completely forgetting about the phone.

It was only after he had completed his third round of glass collecting that Crimson finally checked his phone.

It was an unknown number, one that had called four times and left a voicemail.

Crimson went into the back office, away from patrons, colleagues and loud music. He dialled his voicemail service on the way and pressed his phone to his ear.

“Crimson, it’s Sea Swirl.”

Crimson was instantly hit by anxiety when he heard the unmistakable sense of panic in his sister’s tone. He listened intently, with a growing sense of dread as her recorded message continued.

“Look, I know this is out of the blue, but something awful has happened, and there are ponies coming for me.”

The faint sound of Sea Swirl’s racking sobs came through the speaker. “I’m worried about Dad... Oh God, I think they’re going to come for him as well.”

Crimson felt his mouth go dry. He tried to swallow, but couldn’t.

“I can’t stay here anymore, Crimson, there are ponies after me,” Sea Swirl’s voicemail continued, “I’ve got something to take care of and then I’m getting the train to Trottingham.”

Crimson’s heart rate quickened.

“I’ve got to go,” was the last thing Crimson heard from his sister before he got the audible sound of a receiver clicking back into place, and the post-voicemail options.

The realisation set in that his sister was in trouble and he was four hours away at the other end of the country. Crimson was overcome by a monumental sense of guilt. How long had it been since they had spoken, four months? Five? Not for a while, anyway. Not since the day that he turned up at her doorstep, broken and shivering, a shell of the stallion that he was. His exile had briefly allowed him to escape his self-loathing, but there was no escaping the crippling senses of fear, guilt and dread that were now festering within him.

He tore the phone from his ear and keyed in Sea Swirl’s mobile number. He paced the office room anxiously as the phone proceeded to ring.

“Welcome to Ponyphone voicemail...”

Frustrated, Crimson ended the call. He tried again. And again. And again. On the fifth try, he left a message.

“Sea Swirl it’s me. Whatever you do, don’t leave Manehattan. The last thing you want is to be stuck on a train with nowhere to run. Find somewhere to stay, text me the location and wait for me,” he went to fetch his black leather jacket from the store cupboard, “I’m coming to get you.”

He ended the call and put his phone in his pocket.

Nancy came through into the office and looked at her employee in surprise. Her mane was tied up out of her face, and she wore a concerned expression.

Crimson acknowledged her entrance, as he pulled on his leather jacket, but he said nothing. He simply checked that he had everything in his pockets.

“We’re still serving until one,” Nancy said. She spoke without prejudice and without expectation, as if she was merely stating a fact.

“I’ve got to leave,” Crimson told her, still without looking, as he walked towards the door, “family emergency.”

“Can I ask what?”

Crimson stopped. Only now, as he was about to pass her on his way out of the office, did his eyes meet with hers.

The expression on his face was unlike any Nancy had ever seen before. His cold, steely eyes were pools of fear. His face told her all she needed to know, so she just nodded at him, “Go then. We’ll be alright.”

“Thank you,” Crimson said, as he passed her on his way out of the office. He left Sapphire Lounge through the front door, walking passed the two doormen without as much as a glance in their direction.

As he made his way towards the train station, he was a raging cauldron, bubbling with a concoction of intense emotions that he had forgotten how to feel. It was a stark contrast to the past few months of feeling nothing at all.

Worst of all was the uncertainty, the not knowing. The insidious feeling of powerlessness that came from being four hours away from being useful, and the sinking feeling of dread that by then, it might be too late.

But amidst the sea of confusion, one thing was certain. Crimson was an ex-Equestrian Navy SEAL and Navy SEALs had a code:

Domus auxilium, tuum patriae, tuum protégé.

Protect thy family, thy country and thy friends.

As well as this, every SEAL was taught to live by this code:

Neque deditionem; neque receptus.

Never surrender; never retreat.

Retreat and surrender were out of the question: Crimson knew had to protect Sea Swirl from whatever it was that was about to hurt her, no matter what the cost. Throughout his long career as a soldier, his family had never turned him away; he had abandoned them in a futile quest to slay the malignant demons that had tormented him for so long.

Well, for now at least, the demons would have to wait.

Manehattan - 00:12 – Day 1

Phone call.

“It’s done.”

“Did the old stallion know anything?”

“If he did, he took it to his grave.”

Laugher.

“I’m not laughing.”

“Sorry, boss.”

“No, I don’t think you realise how important this is. You let the target get away.”

“I’m sorry, boss.”

“How close are you to finding her?”

“I’ve got ponies watching her house, boss.”

Short pause.

“Boss?”

“I want this done in the next twelve hours, do you hear me?”

“Yes.”

“Don’t cock this up, Crusoe. There’s far more at stake here than you could ever realise.”

End of phone call.

Manehattan - 00:19

The streets were oppressive. It was like every building had eyes.

Sea Swirl trotted as quickly as she could, her little blue hooves slapping on the wet ground. She dipped her head as she crossed the road and slipped down into the underground. In the toilets, she splashed her face with water and used a paper towel to clean away the blood on her lip and the remnants of the make-up she had applied around her eyes. She pulled her long mane into a tight bun and took her spectacles out of her saddlebag to wear. It wasn’t much of a disguise, but it would do for now if she kept her head down and kept on moving. The pony who was looking for her would cast his net wide. She had to keep moving, at least until morning.

When she left the toilets, the train rumbled into the station. When the doors opened, she got on and sat down next to an elderly mare. It didn’t matter where the train took her; right now her only priority was survival, which currently ranked ahead of grieving for her dead father.

As the tube train moved out of the underground station and trundled into a tunnel, Sea Swirl felt a rising sense of dread, as the gaping mouth of darkness swallowed it whole.

Trottingham – 00:53

Never surrender; never retreat.

As the night train bound for Manehattan rolled into Trottingham Station, Crimson Cage stood up from the bench and walked towards it. In the interim period between leaving Sapphire Lounge and arriving at Trottingham Station, Crimson had tried to call Sea Swirl a further four times, each to no avail. He stepped inside the train and located an empty two-seater right at the back of the carriage, where he sat with his head against the window and gazed out.

In the six months since he had returned from war, Crimson had visited his family exactly once, and that was purely to tell them that he wasn’t dead. It was an act that had taken monumental courage, not just to see his family, but to visit Manehattan itself. The entire city was like a demonic creature whose insatiable appetite for pain and suffering was matched only by its thirst for madness and despair. Manehattan was a ravenous beast that had been tamed by those on top, while those underneath were kept firmly in their place. It consumed the lifeblood of all who entered and drained the colour from the world around it. Crimson had hated Manehattan since he first laid eyes on it. Two decades on, his feelings hadn’t changed. He would always associate it with death and misery.

Locked to his thoughts for the next few hours, Crimson started to wonder what sort of trouble his sister and father might be in. He had tried calling repeatedly, but neither his father nor his sister answered their phones. Sea Swirl had initially made contact without hers, which meant she probably didn’t have it with her. Sea Swirl knew his number and could the best he could hope for was to keep the line open. At best he had slightly over twenty four hours of charge in his phone. He needed to find Sea Swirl before then. Crimson worried about what dreadful circumstances would separate a young mare from her mobile phone.

Then he told himself there wasn’t any point in speculating or prophesising worst-case scenarios; he had to keep his mind focused on reality. His sister was in trouble, possibly in danger, but she was intelligent, streetwise and capable. She was a survivor.

She was also the sister of somepony who had once worked for an organisation who tended to hold grudges, and Crimson started to wonder if that might be the reason she was in trouble in the first place.

Manehattan - 01:28

Victim: male, early sixties.

COD: GSW to head.

That was what Cloudchaser had written down on her notepad. Everything else could be explained through photographs.

The blue pegasus pony stood in the centre of a tiny living room whilst the forensic officers busied themselves dusting every available hard surface for a set of fingerprints. She was aware that she was blocking the old stallion’s view of the television, but at this hour, she doubted that there would be anything on worth watching.

The old stallion was sitting on a chair with a towel shoved into his mouth. His wrinkled face, now barely recognisable, had suffered multiple bruises and lacerations. His thin hooves were locked behind the chair, bound together by a tie. His body, as equally bruised as his face, sported a series of deep slashes that looked as if they had been made with a sharp knife. A particularly ghastly wound had been cut across his belly, just above the naval and now yawned open, dribbling blood onto his lap.

The cause of death was evident. A light coat of blood had splattered against the wall behind him, an unfinished Jackson Paddock, which had ejected from the back of his skull, along with bone fragments and brain matter that now occupied the floor beneath him. The culprit had left a bullet hole in the centre of the stallion’s forehead; the bullet itself had lodged in the wall behind him. Judging by the charring on his fur and the large, circular indentation the gun had been fired at close range, probably from a suppressed pistol. Cloudchaser tried to visualise it, and she saw the old stallion, looking up at his killer, unable to speak, unable to beg for mercy.

As Cloudchaser extracted the bullet from the wall with a pair of pliers, a junior police officer was talking to her. She listened whilst examining the bullet.

“Old fellow’s name is Copper Cage, sixty-two. Unemployed. That’s about all we have at the moment.”

“Forty Smith and Wesson, hollow point,” Cloudchaser said to herself as she slipped the bullet into an evidence bag. She turned around to face the uniformed police officer, “the emergency call came in at eleven, right?”

The officer nodded, “a neighbour called and reported a dispute. We got there ten minutes later and found that. He was still warm.”

“A dispute? Did they report shots fired?”

“In this neighbourhood? No ma’am,” said the uniformed officer.

Cloudchaser nodded, “Was there any sign of forced entry?”

“Not until we came,” the officer replied, “door locks from the front once it’s shut.”

“I see.” Cloudchaser bent down to examine the stallion’s neck. It was heavily bruised. “So he either let the killer in, or the killer had a key.”

“Yeah,” said the uniformed officer. “Seems that way. But knowing this area, I wouldn’t rule lock picking out either.”

Cloudchaser continued to examine the corpse. “It looks like Mr Cage was made to suffer before he was killed. I reckon they only shot him when they heard the sirens, because he’d have bled out within about twenty minutes of getting that stomach wound. Probably couldn’t have saved him.”

“If that’s the case then we must’ve just missed them,” the officer said.

“Always the case, isn’t it?” Cloudchaser said as she took out her smart phone and took a series of photographs of the old stallion’s dead body. Satisfied, she returned the device to her saddlebag and hefted it onto her shoulder.

As she walked out of the room, she touched the senior forensic officer on the shoulder. “I’m done for now,” Cloudchaser said sleepily. “I’ll be back later when your team has moved the body.”

He nodded at her.

She left through the doorway.

Manehattan - 01:45

Cloudchaser sat outside. She drank from the cup of coffee that she had bought from a nearby 24-hour shop.

Having failed to graduate from the Wonderbolts Academy, Cloudchaser had moved to Manehattan and joined the Manehattan Police. Now a rookie detective, she was a recent transfer to the Murder Investigation Team, and this was the third time this month that she had been up at some unearthly hour responding to a gruesome murder.

Poor old bugger, she thought. He probably didn’t even see it coming. And then they had to beat the shit out of him for God knows how long until they decided to put a bullet in him.

Despite herself, she yawned, opening her mouth so wide that she felt her jaw cramp. She snapped her mouth shut and rubbed it slightly, feeling the pain subside, wondering if that was her punishment for yawning on the job. It was only Thursday, but already she was feeling the strain of having had a long week. She was looking forward to sleeping in on Saturday morning and spending the entire day watching drinking hot-chocolate and watching boxed sets.

But before she could do that, she had two hurdles to cross called Thursday and Friday, and they were ominous foes she had faced before.

She decided that she would go back to the station, write up her report and then go back to bed until lunch time. Hopefully by then somepony else will have filed all the paperwork and she could tag along for the arrest.

She stood up and stretched her wings. They didn’t seem to get as much exercise as they used to now that she was no longer training to become a top-class flier. She gave a weary sigh as she tossed her coffee cup into a nearby bin and started flying back to the police station.

As she flew away from crime scene, she couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong. Something really bothered her about the way that Copper Cage had been beaten and slashed up before he’d been shot.

It was then that she felt it in her gut and wondered if the coming day was going to be a very big hurdle in a very dangerous race.

Manehattan – 02:28

She had never felt fear like this before.

The young mare was tied to a chair, helpless while they ransacked her bedroom, tipping her belongings on the floor and rummaging through them; she watched in horror as the leader drew closer and closer with the knife in hoof. He was a well-built earth pony with a fearsome pair of eyes and an even more ferocious set of teeth.

“Where is she?” he demanded.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about!” the mare wailed. “Please let me go! I won’t tell anypony.”

“I know you won’t, sweetheart,” the stallion said, running his hooves through her matted brown mane. “But if you don’t have what I came for, then you know where she is.”

“I swear I don’t!” the mare protested, struggling against the bindings that dug painfully into her wrists. “Please, just leave me alone.”

“We will,” he said, “when you tell us where she is. Until then…” he rubbed against the smooth flesh of her thigh with the flat of his knife. “Looks like I’m staying.” He flashed a cold smile at her, and then dragged the sharp blade along her thigh, opening up a long, narrow cut. She squirmed, making involuntary crying sounds as blood seeped from the wound, running down her leg and onto her carpet.

“Where is she?”

The young mare was sobbing now, tears flowing down her cheeks and onto her naked torso.

“Where is she?” he stabbed the knife through her thigh until the blade touched her femur. She let out a sustained shriek of pure agony. He released the blade, letting it stand up inside her leg. He struck her across the face twice with his right hoof.

“I swear,” she sobbed, “I don’t know where she is. If I did, I would tell you.” She sat there, snivelling in desperation, naked and slowly dying from blood loss.

He stood and stared at her, his eyes wandering from her bruised face, to her naked torso and wounded thigh.

“Please,” she wailed, “please. I can’t stand the pain anymore.”

He held his stare, contemplating what to do next. He was about to reply when he was interrupted by one of the ponies behind him.

“Crusoe?”

The stallion turned around. “What?”

“It’s not here.”

He nodded, taking out a pistol and affixing it with a suppressor. “We’ll proceed to the next target.” He raised his pistol impassively and shot the mare through the head, silencing her sobs and screams once and for all.

He holstered his weapon and turned around to his colleagues. “Get rid of the body.”

Manehattan – 03:14

Phone call.

“Nopony knows where she is.”

“Somepony has to. Keep trying.”

“Six ponies are dead.”

“Is that a problem?”

“No but I…”

“We need results, Crusoe. Don’t disappoint me.”

“Boss, it’s three in the morning, we’ve been up all…”

“You can sleep when the bitch is kneeling at my hooves. Until then, you’ll do as you’re told. Find her, before I send somepony to find you.”

End of phone call.

Escalation

Manehattan – 06:45

By the time he reached Manehattan Central Station, Crimson had lost count of the number of times he had replayed his sister’s voicemail message.

Stepping onto the platform, and emerging from the escalator into the central hub, Crimson drank in the familiar feel of Manehattan that he had so deliberately moved away from. The fear in ponies’ eyes, the hooks that pulled at their souls; the beast welcomed him back with open arms and shut them tight once he was inside its embrace.

His first port of call was his dad’s house. He needed to make sure that the old stallion was alright and, if necessary, to take him somewhere safe while he went out and looked for Sea Swirl.

Crimson waded through the sea of faces towards the taxi stand outside. He got into the back of a black taxi cab, mumbled the street name of his dad’s house and said nothing afterwards.

The taxi driver was a middle-aged stallion from South Manehattan who was dressed in a blue tracksuit. At the first opportunity, he started talking about football and women, before moving on to violently blaming immigration for the recent nosedive in his trade. Crimson sat and listened. He nodded occasionally, not in agreement or even acknowledgement of what the stallion was saying, but simply because it was the appropriate situational response.

When they reached their destination, the first thing Crimson noticed was the police cart that was parked just outside the block of flats where his father lived. He allowed his eyes to wander up towards the entrance of the building and he saw the uniformed policeman who was standing next to the door.

“This the place, sir?”

Crimson nodded and turned to the taxi driver, handing him a £10 note. He got out of the taxi and walked up to the front entrance of the block of flats. He nodded inconspicuously at the police offer that stood outside the door and pushed it open.

Crimson climbed the eight flights of stairs separating him from his father’s flat. He knew the building; after all, he’d helped his father move here after his heart attack.

As he stepped out onto the eighth corridor, the door to his father’s flat stood out immediately. Crimson was beset by a rising sense of anxiety as he approached the door. By the time he reached it, his heart was wedged in his throat. The door was shut and two strips of tape had been strung across it.

Crime scene – do not cross.

With a shaking hoof, Crimson reached around and took out a set of keys, but when he saw that the lock on the door was broken, he simply pushed against it. The door swung inward. Crimson ducked underneath the tape and walked into his father’s flat.

Crimson swallowed hard.

He could clearly smell the sprays and powders that had been used by the forensic teams to dust for prints. Worse still, he could smell the noxious scent of air freshener that had been sprayed over something foul. The offensive mixture they both made was acrid and nauseating.

The kitchen was messy. There were dirty plates in the sink that needed washed up and there was a cartton of stale milk that had been left out on the worktop. A kitchen stool was lying idly on the floor, and next to it, a smashed cup. Crimson turned and saw marks in the carpet in the hall leading out of the kitchen.

Crimson tried to visualise the scenario: his father had been in the kitchen making a cup of tea when he had been grabbed from behind. There had been a struggle, during which, he dropped his cup on the floor. He was dragged backwards, knocking over a stool in the kitchen in the process and was taken out into the hall.

Crimson walked across the hall and stepped into the living room.

A chair stood awkwardly in the centre of the room. The carpet beneath it was stained with blood, as was the wall behind it.

His father had been moved, presumably by the police, but Crimson could almost feel his presence in the room. He inspected the chair, a picture forming in his mind: his dad, sat on the chair with his hooves bound behind his back, staring up at his killer with a terrified expression on his face.

He examined the blood spatter on the wall behind him; saw the empty hole where a bullet had been extracted from. At that moment, a strange feeling came over Crimson and he suddenly found himself on all fours, barely able to support his body weight.

Their father had always worked hard to support his family, even throughout the recurrent bouts of depression. He wasn’t the most hooves-on dad in the world, nor was he the most affectionate or encouraging. At best, he’d been distant and reserved; at worst, he’d been emotionally detached and unavailable, and then there was the constant struggle that he had with drink. Yes, the stallion had his flaws, but he was their dad. He was there when Crimson Cage and Sea Swirl were brought into the world. He was there when they started school. He was there when their mother passed away. He was there the day that Crimson left for Crossovo and was there when he came back. He was there when Sea Swirl was first admitted to rehabilitation, and every time thereafter.

The realisation that his father would no longer be there was sinking in. Like a huge black stone, it touched down in the pit of Crimson’s stomach and lay there, unmoving. Crimson was no stranger to death. For a long time, death had been a huge part of his life. But the death of his own father? That was something he’d never considered possible. His eyes started to twitch. His knees went weak.

The moment he finally realised that his father was gone was the moment that the surge of grief crashed violently against him. In an explosion of rage, Crimson drove a clenched hoof against the wall, punching straight through the flimsy plasterwork. He let out a roar of anguish and broke down to his knees, weeping bitterly into the ground.

Manehattan – 07:29

Cloudchaser turned over in bed and exhaled. She checked the time on her phone and scowled at it.

Why is it, she thought, that when you get dragged out of bed ridiculously early, all you want to do is go back to bed; but when you finally do go back to bed, you can’t sleep? She wasn’t due back in work till after lunchtime. In theory, she could get up now, go to the gym and maybe even meet up with one of her old friends from Uni and get a coffee before she had to come in.

Or she could go back to the crime scene and work out what it was that had bothered her since she left the building and continued to bother her as she lay in bed.

With an exasperated sigh, she heaved herself out of bed and crossed the floor to her wardrobe.

Manehattan – 07:51

Crimson emptied the contents of the drawer onto the living room carpet. Bank statements, hospital letters, bills, mail order confirmations... he immersed himself in his dad’s belongings, hoping to find a shred of connection to his departed soul. He sat and waited for a voice to reach him from beyond the barrier that separated living from dead, but nothing came and once more, Crimson found himself pacing the room trying to make sense of what had happened.

Clearly, whoever murdered his father hadn’t just turned up and killed him; they’d wanted something from him first, which was why they had taken the time to sit him on a chair first before they blew his brains out through the back of his head.

His sister’s voicemail replayed once more in his head:

“Something awful has happened, and there are ponies coming for me.”

He still hadn’t heard back from her. No unknown numbers, no voicemails. Had she even gotten his message? What if she had gone along with her original plan and was standing there in Trottingham Central, waiting for him to come and pick her up?

No, she would have phoned.

So did that mean she wasn’t able to phone?

Anxious thoughts began coursing through Crimson’s body, working their way from his head to his hooves and toes. Were the ponies who were after his sister the same ponies who had murdered his father? Crimson had no doubt that they were – the question was who, and more importantly, why? Last time he had checked, Sea Swirl had been clean for more than six years. She’d turned her life around and even had a job now. What could she possibly be involved with now that had spilled over into killing her father?

He couldn’t lose his sister. Not now. Not after losing his father like this. Somepony had crossed a line. Somepony was going to pay with their blood for what they had done. But first, he had to track Sea Swirl down. Visit her house, retrace her steps and find out who she was running from; it wouldn’t be easy, but it was better than sitting around in his dad’s flat feeling guilty that he hadn’t there to protect him.

As he turned to walk towards the door, he was taken aback by the sight of the young, female unicorn with the brilliant cyan mane, standing in the hallway, staring at him.

Manehattan – 07:57

The stallion who stood before her was tall and well built. His fur was a light grey and he wore a black leather jacket over  his muscular frame. His dark red mane was short and spikey and his face was coated with rough stubble that was at least two days old. He appeared to be in his mid-to-late thirties, but the hollow, grey eyes that seemed to be looking straight through her, appeared to come from a much older stallion, one who had seen a lifetime of trouble and hardship.

Instinctively, Cloudchaser bent forward, sparks crackling to life on the tip of her horn. A single blast from it would be enough to send most ponies reeling, and this stallion was no exception, no matter how tough he looked.

“Let me see your hooves,” Cloudchaser instructed, horn levelled at the stallion’s chest, ready to fire at a moment’s notice. “Now!”

The stallion standing before her, slowly and without a word started to raise his hooves. When they were roughly in line with his chest, he stopped. His facial expression remained unchanged, his cold, dark eyes hardly blinking as he stared at her.

“Turn around and face the wall,” Cloudchaser told the stallion, stepping towards him. She spoke with as much authority as she could muster, being consciously aware of the slight uncertainty and nervousness that was evoked when she looked into the stallion’s eyes.

Slowly, the strange stallion turned around and put his hooves on the wall. When at last both hooves were planted firmly against the wall, he ceased looking at her.

Cloudchaser took out her radio. “This is Detective Cloudchaser requesting assistance. I’m holding a suspect at eight-one-seven Grey Field Towers – check active crime scenes.” She returned her radio to her inside jacket pocket.

“You’re making a mistake, detective,” the stallion said softly.

Cloudchaser raised an eyebrow, “this is a restricted crime scene. The only mistake is you being here. Who are you anyway? Why are you here?”

The stallion said nothing. He appeared to be exercising his right to remain silent.

Cloudchaser kept her sparkling horn pointed in the stallion’s direction. He said nothing the whole time. Even when the four uniformed policeponies arrived and arrested him, securing both of his limbs behind his back with a set of handcuffs and escorting him down the stairs towards a parked police cart, he said nothing. When they finally reached the outside of the building, the stallion glanced over his shoulder at Cloudchaser and she caught his eye.

His eyes.

The look of pain was unmistakable. It wasn’t a physical pain, but a chilling, emotional anguish, one that appeared to be buried deep inside the fibre of his being. She had seen ponies look that way at her before. The first time had been when she was a fresh recruit and had just informed a stallion that his fifteen-year-old daughter had been found dead in a skip after being subjected to hours of brutal sexual assault. The way that he looked at her as the words rolled off her tongue... it was something that she had never forgotten; it was something that had burned into her mind and had stayed with her all these years.

Seeing those eyes, she felt as if she were standing in the middle of a haunted wasteland that had been drained of life and colour. She heard nothing but the echoes of those who had once walked there, and saw nothing but an empty landscape in a hostile, alien world. She had not felt like that for some time, and yet now, almost six years on, those same feelings were being evoked once more, when she caught the gaze of the strange stallion before her.

The stallion’s head suddenly moved out of view as one of the arresting officers shoved him forward. He continued to walk towards the parked police cart. One of the four uniformed policeponies broke away from the group and opened the door to the police cart.

“In you get, dickhead.”

The officer stood by the cart expectantly as the other three ponies walked the suspect towards it.

Cloudchaser appeared behind them. “Make sure he’s taken to Wandsworth Station,” she instructed the police officers. “I want him processed thoroughly. I’ll come later so I can pick him up and take him back to Central MIT myself afterwards.”

The lead officer nodded and motioned to his colleagues. One of the other arresting officers put his hoof on the back of the suspect’s head and guided him into the back of the police cart. Then, he and two others got in with him. Door shut, the cart pulled away from the residential area and drove off towards Wandsworth Station, leaving Cloudchaser and a single uniformed officer standing at the roadside.

Cloudchaser let out an exasperated sigh.

She checked her watch.

It wasn’t even-eight thirty yet.

Manehattan – 08:22

There was one police officer sitting with him in the back of the cart, two at the front pulling. The two at the front were exchanging their thoughts on The Games while the stallion in the back, who was younger than the other two, played idly on his smart phone.

Crimson Cage had both of his hooves behind his back, secured by a set of rigid handcuffs. He sat and said nothing as they drove through Manehattan.

Towers passed them as they drove. Ponies crowded the streets and slipped amongst the traffic. Another police cart roared along the road in the opposite direction, blue lights flashing and siren blaring, the banshee wail cutting through the noise of the traffic.

Crimson immersed himself in the noise. He knew exactly where he was in Manehattan: his recall was such that he could look at a map of somewhere exactly once and memorise every location on it, to the point where he could reproduce it again on a piece of paper almost exactly. As such, he knew exactly how far away Wandsworth Station was, and how much time he had until they arrived.

Making as little movement as possible, Crimson slid his right hoof against his tail and prised free some of his tail fibres. He knotted the wire-like hairs of his tail together until they formed a single, solid wire that he could flex.

Crimson kept his eyes on the police officer sitting next to him, watching for the first indication of him looking up from his phone, and then, with practiced precision, he bent the hairs into the desired shape and started to pick the lock on his handcuffs.

“I heard Bob’s wife left him,” one of the police officers in the front said, “took the foals as well. Poor bugger.”

“His own fault really for stepping out on her with that cleaner,” the other officer responded. “If you ask me they’re welcome to each other.”

“Yeah, but it’s not a nice thing to happen to anypony, especially the kids.”

“He should have kept it in his pants then.”

Both officers could agree there.

Crimson listened to their conversation intently as he picked his cuffs. He clenched his teeth slightly.

Almost there.

The cart stopped at a set of traffic lights.

“We should probably ask him if he wants to come on Friday.”

“You serious?”

“I’d feel bad. He’ll probably say no, but I still think we should ask.”

The officer sighed, “If you insist.”

The lights changed to amber.

The cart pulling police officers prepared to move forward.

Crimson’s handcuffs clicked open.

The lights changed to green.

The cart pullers moved off.

The officer on his smart phone turned around to face Crimson, but all he saw was the hoof that slammed into his left temple, knocking his head against the window. He fell forward, unconscious, supported only by his seatbelt.

The officer at the front on the left whipped around to face Crimson, and was dealt a punch to the nose before he could even open his mouth to cry out. His unconscious body slumped onto the knee of the other cart puller.

The police officer panicked. He broke hard and swerved, spinning the rear end of the cart outwards.

Crimson slammed his elbow into the back of the cart, shattering the wood into pieces. He eased himself backwards out of the wrecked cart.

The police officer’s CS gel squirted into empty air, and he bailed out of the cart angrily.

The police officer looked around for the suspect, scanning the area, trying to spot where he had run off to, but all he could see was an ocean of vehicles, many of which were sounding their horns angrily at the police cart that was now causing a major road block in a busy Manehattan street.

“Shit,” he growled.

No sign of him.

“Shit!”

The suspect was gone.

The police officer let out a roar of anger and frustration as he reached for his radio.