Incubus

"Sandpaper Strikes, formally known as Sandbag Strike, he's a retired hoof boxer, bounty hunter and currently... a ward of the state. I wonder if anypony else is after me. He's middle-aged and dying of cancer. When they took him out of the police station, he had nothing but the power hooves on. Whoever he was, he didn't talk much. All he said was someone paid him money. He said he tried to contact the contractor again a day before and a group of ponies in robes held him at gunpoint till he agreed to do it."

Twilight recounted the information to her buzzed and mostly functional friend. Applejack kept reviewing the pictures taken after his detainment, noting the scar over his left eye and the absence of any retinal damage. His cold eyes and permanent grimace tipped her off toward a possible military background. His resilience toward interrogation also clued her in.

"Why is he a ward of the state. I'm guessing he went A.W.O.L and then did some crime to get bits after."

"Uh... Yes, actually. But he did some illegal mercenary work. They found some sort of money on him that only works on the black market or something. Black bits or whatever. Made from obsidian or tar or whatever. What matters is that the etching on the sides was made with an authentic seal. A scarab."

Hot damn, she cursed in a mumble. Jacquelyn took a heavy sip of her coffee and finally closed Strikes' manila folder. So. He was a service pony. And the cult was bullying him into some sort of crooked suicide mission. She'd step outside of her comfy two-way mirror room and fixed her tie.

"Agent Apple, Equestrian Bureau of Investigation. Let's cut the shit right now, Strikes. You were strong-armed into that contract. Why do you have money on you? Black Market money."

He simply looked over at his handcuffs. There was a hoofring still on him. Applejack gaped her maw, not understanding what he meant. But, soon as she asked questions and only saw his eyes wander to the ring, she knew exactly why. Jacquelyn presented her pocket radio, placing it on the center of the table. Sandpaper Strikes lit up in his weary, black eyes. He scootched closer and exposed the ring to the radio frequencies, showing how it jammed and distorted them.

"That's why..." Applejack hushed, immediately calling Twilight.

With her magic, she froze the tracking device and freed him from a greater evil.

"O-okay... Now I can talk. Yeah. They strong-armed me. Made me think I was killing another noble in Canterlot. Didn't know why but they told me to look for a bar. Said you'd be stressed. And you like to drink. I said no at first- it was crazy. But they showed their guns and told me I'd lose my kid if I didn't do it. And my kid... she ain't really mine, but, hell, she's still mine. Here, take the coin. They put it on me to scapegoat me."

Now, they had a lead . Though Mister Strikes didn't have release, he'd be safe in the Ponyville Jail, trapping him with reliable, experienced close-range combat specialists. It was common in old conflicts to rely on hooves and melee weapons rather than rifles or power hooves. Jacquelyn and Twilight escorted him toward the proper holding cell, appointing a monitor as they hurried out. Sandpaper Strikes lay out on his shoddy wall-cot. He took that time to view a little portrait hidden between his mane and left ear. She was beautiful. And he did it for her, his perfect little princess.