The Efforts One Goes To Hide Their Steps
I am a monster, that I do not deny.
But the meaning of the word ‘monster’, the stories that have been told about creatures normally associated with the title, do not refer to me as such. I do not eat ponies. I do not lay waste to towns and set fire to homes. I do not steal foals in the night nor do I use crushed bones to make my bread. I do not command a legion of the undead or play with lives like a child would with dolls.
In fact, I play piano for a living. Yes, anticlimactic I know. I’m a traveling musician. My name—for now—is Ivory Stamp. My favorite food is not the blood of the innocent but a tomato and lightly-salted cucumber sandwich. I do not storm into a small town and begin sowing the seeds of destruction. I enter quietly, cloak over my head and cape over my cutie mark. I do not buck open the door of a bar and kill the every patron that meets my gaze. I enter and respectfully request to meet the manager with a smile on my face. I don’t tempt the innocent with pleasures of the flesh to convince them to give me their soul. I speak with those who run places of entertainment where I can sell my skill with the ivory keys.
Yet make no mistake, I am dangerous. I have put myself through several schools of martial training. I have studied the arts of unicorn magic to a degree that would put college professors to shame. I have turned my body into a living weapon, purposefully altering my senses, among other changes I have done to myself and I have done it out of necessity.
I have killed. I have maimed. I have destroyed. And only three times in my life have I ever done it not in self-defense. And only twice did I enjoy it.
Despite what you may think of me after that last fact, I’m not evil. At least I hope, I’m not. When I die I don’t want to be remembered in the same infamous light as Sombra or Nightmare Moon. Monsters who became that way because they WANTED to.
Though one wouldn’t think I am a monster when they first saw me. To anypony who looks at me they would see an earth pony mare of slightly above average height with green eyes and yellow mane. If any of them caught a glimpse of my cutie mark they would see a pair of circles, white and black connected by two curving black lines that wound into each other and they would probably frown because they wouldn’t understand what it means or what it has to do with music. Some will ask while other’s won’t, and no matter which happens my response is the same, silence. That or I would probably question why some pony I don’t know is staring at my flank and then the conversation would take a very different direction.
Because I refuse to answer what wouldn’t make polite conversation.
For my cutie mark is my gift, both a blessing and a curse. A helping hoof and a knife in my back.
Why am I talking about this? Who am I talking to? These thoughts run through my mind as I walk along the pristine Manehattan streets. Maybe to send out these words, these thoughts, out to whatever power may be higher than Celestia. That they might hear me and not comdem me for my actions, for my life, and have mercy on me.
There is some irony. A monster asking for mercy.
My wants—how many they are and how deeply they are desired—can be focused in that one plea. Have mercy on my soul for my body is too far gone.
For a brief moment, a sob escapes me. Its sudden, unexpected and it surprises me, pounding out of my chest and into the late night air like a bolder rolling downhill. I can't stop it. I feel the eyes of several ponies along the sidewalk focus on me and I clear my throat to calm myself down before I break down into tears, continuing the trip towards my destination.
It’s happened before, some of those times in public and I refuse to go through that embarrassment again. I steel myself as I reach the address on the note I found in left for me at the bar. It’s a small four story building and another glance at the note tells me the office I’m looking for is on the third floor.
I enter, ascend the stairs, and find myself standing outside a door with Clear Cut’s Investigation Service printed on the glass. I can hear a single pony inside, most likely Clear Cut and I check my watch.
9:30. Right on time.
Three hours ago, I had just finished my performance in one of the dives in town and was picking up the bits that the manager promised me when I was handed a note that was apparently left for me by a face the bartender didn’t recognize. Inside it read that I had to meet a Miss Clear Cut at her office to have a little talk over something that would be of great interest to me…and the local guardsponies.
There was a sense of threat throughout the whole note but the mention of police all but made the message glow and yell through a megaphone ‘If you don’t show up, I go to the cops’.
My previous distress is gone and replaced with annoyance.
I’ve taken care of keeping my head down. My venues are strictly small time, bars, dives, the local theater every so often. Places where a musician of my caliber wouldn’t get attention from local newspapers no matter how well I played. I don’t even stay at a hotel as my home travels with me and it’s parked a good two miles out of town behind enough trees for it to be hidden. It seems, though, I wasn’t as careful as I thought. The fact, I’ve been put in a situation that I have to meet somepony on their terms is not good.
For me or Ms. Cut.
I knew I shouldn’t have come to Manehattan. Too many nosy personalities.
I take a deep breath of the stale cramped air and knock lightly on the door, opening it before she can respond.
“Hello?” I say. I keep my voice light and purposefully phrase the greeting like a question, adding a little bit of confusion for effect. I do not want sound dangerous. I am supposed to be just a mare after all. Not the monster I am.
I stand beside a desk, probably the secretary’s and focus on the unicorn mare in the back of the office who stands as I enter. Her fur is red, with a two-tone pink and red mane and, judging by the few wisps of grey I see in it, she must be approaching middle age. As she stands I take note of the wrinkled grey blazer she has on and the weighty bulge of a concealed crossbow on her left side.
Miss Cut thinks I’m dangerous and worry begins to build in my stomach. If she had taken the precaution to arm herself what else has she done?
“Ivory Stamp?” She asks. Her tone is uneasy and that makes me uneasy.
I don’t let it show as I nod. “Yes.”
She gestures to the chairs along the left wall that’s diagonal from her desk, more than ten feet away. “Please take a seat.” All five of the chairs are lined next to the wall, one of which sits right in front of a window.
I don’t take the offered chair, which happens to be the one in the front of the window, but the one right in front of her desk.
I want a straight line to her if she tries anything with her magic.
She looks at me, trying to size me up but I make it difficult for her and I keep up my act of the nervous timid mare. I shift in the chair, never staying completely still. I don’t hold eye contact for more than a few seconds. I keep looking around as if I am worried about something happening.
She has no idea than I’m studying her, picking apart her and her life in ways she couldn’t imagine. All my altered senses pick up every detail and lay out a profile before me.
Her hygiene is not quality. Her coat is not just wrinkled but stained with grease, I can still smell the hastily eaten hay fries. Her mane, while hastily combed, has many split ends. Yet it’s styled in a way that usually comes from either great care or a salon, suggesting that this lack of cleanliness was recent. Her desk, which is covered with papers and files, is ordered, everything stacked in neat piles row by row. Which means she is ordered. There are also several frames on her desk that are face towards her. Possibly pictures of family and friends. Her yellow eyes are red from exhaustion and something else—maybe magic exhaustion from using a spell to keep her awake during long periods of investigation.
Investigating what? Me, most likely. There is a glint of satisfaction in her eyes, like she finally has me where she wants me.
“I’m glad you made it.” she says. “My office wasn’t too hard to find, was it?”
I shake my head. “No.”
“May I call you Miss Ivory?” she asks.
“Y-yes. That’s fine.”
“You can call me Clear.” She smiles at my act, apparently convinced that I’m a mare that can be pushed around. She’s confident. That’s what I want for confident ponies say more than they need to. “Can I get you anything to drink?”
I shake my head. “What is this about, Miss Cut?” I add a touch of fear to my question. I want to get to the point of the reason I’m here but can’t sound like I’m demanding it.
She glances at the folder on her desk, the smallest one, and flips it open with her magic. She then clears her throats and I hear her tiredness as well as the click of metal of crossbow bolt against her weapon. Her horn then glows a little and I hear another click followed by the scratching of a needle on vinyl.
She’s recording the conversation.
“First, I should tell you who I am and what I do.” she begins. “I am a private detective. Entirely freelance. Ponies come to me to find missing family or to investigate risky investments for businessmares and stallions. Even get hard to find background information on certain individuals of interest.”
I make myself look horrified. “You spy on ponies?”
For a moment, she looks insulted like I hadn’t just called it like it was. “I do not spy, Miss Ivory. It’s my talent. To make the truth clear for all to see.”
“S-So what,” I make a show of swallowing. “What do you want with me?”
She taps her file with a hoof. “I’ve been researching you for last week, Miss Ivory Stamp, ever since you showed up in Salt’s Cube on the lower east side. You have been an intriguing subject ever since I saw you preform there.”
I remember that particular show and I cringe at the thought of it.
“Really? What was so interesting about that?” I know exactly what it was. I had played like a mad mare that night in an effort to get some things off my mind. To forget about my life for a few moments in expressing myself. By the time I had finished, everypony in the bar was looking at me like I just grew wings and a horn then declared myself empress of the mole kingdom on stage. I had made a quick exit after that without even getting my bits. If she was there, then my leaving in a rush didn’t help.
“Well, I just found it odd that a pony that played the piano like she belonged in the Canterlot orchestra would be doing shows for chump change in a bar on the ass end of Manehattan?”
“It pays the bills.”
Her smile gets wider. She thinks she scored a point. She doesn’t even realize that I’m prepared to kill her if she says the wrong thing.
“Speaking of, I couldn’t find any evidence that you have bills to even pay. There is no evidence of you having paid taxes this year or any year before. In fact, I was told by the owners of the places you’ve played in town that you only play for bits, not for checks. Which leads me to suspect that you don’t even have a bank account.”
I shake my head, turning my expression pure shock as she speaks. “It’s not a crime to live off the grid.”
“You don’t just live off the grid. You don’t exist. I uncovered nothing about you. I called in some favors in Canterlot and your name isn’t even on record. You don’t even have a paper trail. No family records. No property in your name. Nothing. You don’t exist. At least not by name. Makes you think that you’re hiding something. ” Her smile turns into a familiar look. One of greed. This is not the first face I've seen it on and I know it won't be the last one. "Maybe something along the lines of tax evasion."
I laugh inwardly. She couldn't be further from the truth. “So what?”
Her smile leaves her face as I change my tone. I’m no longer acting like a filly scared that is worried about being tattled on to her parents and it unbalances Miss Cut. There is no need for me to keep up the act. If she has contacted Canterlot in any capacity then every second I waste here is a second lost and I want to make sure my trail here is cold before the Her Majesty’s hounds get here.
“W-well…” she stammers.
I cut her off and focus my glare on her. “How much do you want?”
My question stuns her but I can see a hint of a smirk building again on her face. We’ve gotten to the point I knew we were going to get to. Even better, she doesn’t need to imply it first. What she doesn’t realize it that she has only one chance to make it out of this room with her life. “How much are you offering?” she asks.
I shrug. “It depends.”
“On what?”
“On if you hand over everything you’ve gathered on me, including the record that you have in your desk.”
Now it’s her turn to be shocked. She didn’t expect that and she tries to recover to better ground in the conversation. “What record?”
“Don't play me for a fool. The one in your desk in the bottom drawer. I want that and the files you’ve gathered on me. All. Of. Them.” I stress the last three words with a hoof tap for each. “I’m willing to compensate you fifty thousand bits for your trouble and you’ll never see me again.”
She looks me in the eye, or tries to, and her voice is uneven and confused. Obviously, she doesn’t understand why I, a traveling musician, am suddenly so intimidating. “And what if I don’t? What if that amount isn't enough to pay me for my work? What if I go to the guard with what I’ve collected?”
“You won’t have the chance, Miss Cut.” I see her shiver as I spit her name like an insult. Her eyes go wide as she finally realizes what situation she’s in. She is alone with an unknown pony, who has just threatened to kill her. “Now, give me your evidence and I’ll give you your money.” I pause. "Maybe even more if you name your price."
I see her shiver and hear her heartbeat skyrocket as she speaks the conclusion she’s come to. “You’re dangerous.”
I don’t nod or speak. Nor do I try to deny it.
“…too dangerous.” she finishes.
Wrong answer. She’s made her choice.
I breathe in a long deep breath and the room begins to cool. Clear Cut shivers.
“You better draw your weapon.” I say as I stand.
“What?” She sounds like she has to be reminded that she’s armed.
“The crossbow at your side.”
“Miss Ivory… there’s no…”
I’m going to kill you now. I would rather have you go down fighting.”
She believes me. I see it in her eyes and I see her hoof snap up to her coat and she rears up.
Too slow.
I pivot on my hooves and buck the desk with such force that I hear the spot where my hooves impact crack. The heavy oak construction is momentarily airborne, sending papers and files scattering, before it slams into Clear Cut with all its weight. I hear bones snap as she is slammed into the wall behind her hard enough to crack the drywall, the desk pinning her in place. I see her choke, gasping for breath and blood starts to pour out of her mouth. The small crossbow falls out of her hoof with a light clatter against the floor.
The desk has crushed the lower half of her chest, the bones having stabbed through both her lungs, while one stray rib sticks out of her side. She is going to die but not yet.
I trot up to her and place a comforting hoof on her cheek. “I’m so sorry. I would have gladly given you the money...”
I hear the blood gurgling in her chest as she finally catches some air. “My…family.”
I notice she’s no longer looking at me but at the photo before her, one that wasn’t thrown off the desk when I kicked it. An orange earth pony stallion stands next to Clear Cut while a foal, a unicorn colt with his father’s mane and Clear Cut’s fur is in mid-roll on the ground in front of them. All of them are smiling and I feel my heart twist. A husband has lost a wife and a son has lost a mother tonight.
“They are beautiful.” I mean it with the upmost sincerity. A twinge of envy throbs in my chest at her for having something I can never have.
The detective’s chest hitches and she looks at me, tears building in her eyes and I’m shocked by the amount of desperation in her gaze. Terror floods her features and I hear her rear hooves scrabble limply against the floor for purchase. “…p-p-lease don’t…please.”
Her pleas take my heart and shred it. She’s begging me not to go after her family. I wouldn't... I would never... It takes me several moments to recover before I can speak.
“I won’t. I swear.”
I think she believes me though she has little reason to.
Her next words are clear and uninterrupted, by her gasping. “I don’t want to die.”
Her front hooves spasm on top of her desk and her chest convulses once more before she stills. Her eyes still focused on the photo before they glaze over.
I touch the private detective’s cheek once more, trying to convince myself that this was necessary. Just like with the ones before.
I check once more that she’s no longer alive then I take her apart. I deconstruct her body, cell by cell, molecule by molecule. She dissolves from my touch and once she’s nothing but material, I absorb it into myself. Even the blood. For that is my talent.
To deconstruct and reconstruct. In short, Clear Cut is now a part of me, her body broken down into the most basic of elements that make up all species on this planet and reconstructed into more cells for my own body.
Allow myself some time to think before I set to work.
All scattered files are gathered, weather they involve me or not and stuffed into my saddle bags. I don’t have time to read them.
I reconstruct the wall, move the desk back in place and take the hidden record and check the filing cabinets just in case.
They are empty. I gave the picture on the desk one last look. In a few days time, Cut's family will find a sizeable check in the mail disguised as a tax refund.
I leave the room in the same state I entered, retreating the down the stairs and out into the night.
I make for my home, I’ve had enough of Manehattan.
Author's Note
A simple once shot of an bad dream I had.
