Author's Note

Trigger warnings, because this chapter's a bit messy but it won't span this far out without warning next time. Promise.

Torture, Self-Harm, Graphic Violence, Night-terrors, ECT
Reader Discretion is advised.

Changing rating to mature.

One Bad Trip, Two Worrying Details, No Answers |Detective Rumble|

I’m an unstable mind in a very stable mind, in a very unstable city, but with a very stable home. The addiction, I have an addiction to something so addictive that I feel unstable every time I’m not on it. Don’t worry, its not drugs or something dangerous to my health. It’s just the powerful feeling of being able to bring justice down onto criminal scum.

I deal with it in a very normal way, or should I say abnormal? Because trying to quit Opium is like pulling teeth from a mule, it takes some aggression and some god damn persistence. I only do this because I’m blaming my problems on criminals. Because it was those, who took what I wanted in life away from me. That’s why I spent so much time on job. But I have something to confess to myself.

I overdo it, and I don’t even realize.

“Oh lookie, lookie! So they send a fucking lapdog rookie to try and scuffle some information out of me here instead of being a stallion worth his cup and balls to do any of the shit they promise?” Here, you can observe the most annoying criminal scum since that prohibition-thing that happened. “I hope ya brought more than threats, me boy-o, because I ain’t giving shite worth a dime.”

“What can you tell me about Sarge, Bulb Seed?” I click the hoof-cuffs to the table, and he snorts. I was willing on giving him the benefit of the doubt, but now: I’m not so sure anymore.

“You might as well stroke off me Bilbo Baggins right here, right now, ya bloody git!” Where the worst of the worst, the molesters, the serial killers, the murderers, and the arsonists go is jail so ponies can be safe at night. I had to give my dream job—my prestige job as Wonderbolt rookie to be some bent cop who got lucky enough to make detective. “You coppers don’t do shit, that is why we businessmen successes!”

“Shut your whore-fucking mouth, right now.” I close the door behind me, the locks clicking and the pressure hissed from the steel door. I was in my domain now, this interrogation office is my territory. Every millimeter of the floor is mine, every millimeter of the walls are mine, every millimeter of the ceiling is mine—the table is mine, the handcuffs is mine, that fucking chair this asshole doesn’t deserve is mine. Best of all: his ass isn’t going anywhere today.

“Or what, ya golden shit-pot? You going to ruffle me feathers? You going to threaten me with more time on the inside, me laddy?” The stallion has an Irish/Scotland accent, I presumed that because of the slang and the pitch of voice he uses. I don’t know if it’s fake or if it’s real but I honestly don’t care, because this scumbag is nothing to be cared about. “Mind tellin’ me that again, when I’m not in hoof-cuffs, and then you’ll see a true fucking pussy when you look in the mirror and see that pretty-face all fucked up—aye?”

“I FUCKING SAID: SHUT YOUR MOUTH, YOU DEAF COCK-NOBBLER.” I shrilly scream, slamming my hooves onto the table. I see him flinch from the sheer volume of my voice, but he’s quick to recover his smug smile and confident look. So if the ‘crazy psycho’ fear tactic isn’t working, maybe I’ll dwell deeper into my own troubles and fully unleash them onto this guy. Bring out the Hannibal Lector inside of me, except I don’t eat ponies.

“Whoa, this lad’s got some bulls (balls) on him. I’d applaud that if me wrists were chained to the table, ya’ fucking guppy.” I go around the table and twist his left wing a good ninety degrees, being a Pegasus myself I know just how painful it is to get your wings twisted. I, however, don’t care about this pony and he can fucking know just how powerful of an investigator I am. Because I devote a lot of emotions into my cases over the years and I don’t feel exactly too stable.

“AGH, YOU FUCKING PSYCHO! THAT WAS MY WING!” Bulbs screams in pain, trying to wither away from me. He rattles against his foreleg restraints as he tries to leap away from the chair, in fact, he’s so determined to get out of the chair that I decide to help him with his wish and buck the chair from under him. He could collapse onto the ground, but the hoof-cuffs keeps his upper body upright.

I still hold the wing in a vice, watching him coldly as he writhers in pain as I twist the wing further. Bulbs’ screams echoes the room, but will never make it out of the interrogation room. I know I’m about to snap his wing in a twister, which is the most painful way to get a bone broken besides pressure. I watch him scream, his eyes tearing up in pain; so Bulbs is really sensitive on the wings, huh?

“Watch what you say, Bulbs, because it’ll blow back on your face quicker than the explosion that killed your mom.” I coolly say, my voice absent from any evidence of me screaming. I feel my expressions fading from my face, a more piercing glare dominate my main facial region, I make my eyes widen, to add to the fear tactic.

This isn’t a play, or some kind of ploy. I use my inner demons and my dark emotions to play out my sick fantasies of completely ruining somepony, I want to see how deep my roots can dig into them. When I’m leeched in, I can get the truth.

“W—what did you just say?” That seemed to stun him, and I offer small smile but it quickly disappears. I won’t bore you with specifics, but I interviewed his buddies about the day Rose Luck went missing and it seems that the Lost Crossbones were not so honest about their activities in that warehouse on a specific hour of a Mother’s Day.

“Your mom, Bulb, I know about your moms.” I let the wing go, before I send this scum into shock from pure pain. I grab Bulbs by the other, untwisted, wing upwards sharply. “I know you killed her, because she was a whore.

“YOU KNOW NOTHING, I DIDN’T KILL MY MA, I LOVE ME MA!” Bulbs frantically shouts before he freezes in pure pain and horror. I know his brain is putting him into shock, which is the one thing I tried to avoid. He let out the worst blood-curdling scream I’ve thought could only come out of a banshee in heat before his head hung low rendering him unconscious.

Hours and hours later, he’s back in his chair and awaken. Every question, he deflects or lie. I know he lies, so I give him a couple of good jabs, hooks (actual fishhooks) to his cheeks to see if he’ll talk out of pain.

As it turns out, I’m resorting to driving him mad. Leaving him in the white room, only returning to ask him some more and to kick the crap out of him. Reminding him that it could it be all over if he just simply cooperates.

I simply stare at him, watching his chest rise and falls. He looks fearful to wake up, as if his body knows what awaits him if he does wakes up to me. Too bad that was only a taste of what I can do, twisting a wing is nothing special.

“All you have to do is tell me who the leader of the Real R.A.E.P, then I’ll think about playing nice.” I press again, holding his bruised eye before flinging his head away. I took my seat across from him and watch him, he’s exhausted—I’m not. I deprive him of sleep all I want, and I don’t give a shit if he stays up all night.

“Look, I’m not a fucking rat… I’ll never give up my family…” He tiredly says, requiring me to smack him sharply to wake up. His face is bruised and swollen beyond recognition, I sure did a number on this kid. He’s not even seventeen, and he’s this resilient.

“No, Bulbs.” I calmly say back, leaning my head on my hoof. I stand up and walk around the table, putting my forelegs around the back of his neck and push his head in my direction. I force him to look at me, as my colors don’t align in the white room. I’m his only differential of perception, and if I leave: he has nothing to look at. “You see, there’s no family in crime since the fucking crusade back in 200 BC.”

“We both know that family bollocks they try is a lie. You have no family. That gang is nothing more than it is, a gang. I don’t care if its democracy, if it’s barely legal, I don’t even care if you touch little fillies; it’s still a fucking gang.”

“Shut up… you don’t understand brotherhood…”

“So you brotherhood, hmm?”

Bulbs weakly continues, his words somehow like a hot prodding iron stick into my neck. I feel my head shake with rage as he says these words. “I’ll never rat against Patchy…”

“I DON’T GIVE A SHIT ABOUT PATCHY OR YOUR BULLSHIT GANG.” I scream, grabbing his neck into a vice and slamming his snout into the table. Blood spurts out of his nose and mouth, onto the table and dripping down to the marble floor. There’s a large gash on across his snout, which helps the bleeding effect. His carmine pool the table, as his head is just lying on the table; his eyes wide and awoken, but his pupils only condensed to pinpricks.

“I want the fucking name of Sarge. I want his real name, you will give me his name.”

Days pass now, and I kept him in isolation in my interrogation room. No one knows he’s in there, and no one will care either, he’s a no body. No body’s coming to help this smug son of a bitch. My roots are in deeper, I basically control this stallion. Everything he eats is white, what he eats off of is a white plate, he hasn’t slept in days.

I dug into his history, and apparently he was Sarge’s infantry member. They were trained from the womb to be resilient to interrogation, so I’m resorting to psychological and physical harm. This sixteen year old pony is even tougher than any fucking griffon I ever interrogated. This was a kid, but already with the mindset and the colorful language of a veteran soldier.

I sit down across from him, my eyes never diverting his and only blinking when I feel them strain. I know I am making him uncomfortable, but that’s exactly what I want. I want him to squirm. He’s trying his damned hardest attempt to keep eye contact away from me, but that only allows him to stare at the white table, the white floor, or even the white walls.

“You don’t know shit, you fucking pig!” Bulbs finally musters up the courage to reply back, after a good few seconds of uncomfortable silence. This is going to be even easier than I thought, this stallion is an easy win.

But I’m done with this kid’s attitude, time to adjust it.

I stand up, holding a single razor blade in my hooves. I keep the colt still as I drag the razor up his foreleg, causing him to screech and resist against the restraints. I then go under his right hoof and cut the tendon slowly and sadistically, a cold and numb feeling coming across my chest as the Bulb- no, the fucking kid under me continue to drain his voice.

“You want to know how fear affects our sense of pain, because it’s quite simpler than you’d think.” I say, as I continue to cut along his hoof, creating a spiral circle on the base of his hoof. I didn’t cut deep enough to gash, but I cut deep enough for the skin to be sliced partially so it was random when blood dripped down his racking foreleg.

“Fear grips our hearts, they cloud our judgement, make the most rational pony the most impulsive and skittish shit I’ve ever seen.” I work on cutting the other hoof, the colt seethes and pulls but I know he’s not going anywhere anytime soon. Which is a shame for him, because I—for one—am actually growing impatient. “Fear can be anything, but the worst thing for a pony to fear is pain.”

“Fear of pain instantly makes all of your senses on alert, because you’re focused on staying alive—” Bulbs screamed for help, screaming for anyone to save him. “—that makes so many chemicals run in your brain, I don’t know what because I’m not a nerd.”

“AGHH!! PLEASE! STAY AWAY! HELP ME SOMEBODY PLEASE!"

“THAT'S RIGHT! KEEP YELLING! MAYBE SOMEONE WILL COME HELP!”

“HELP ME! PLEASE! THIS GUY'S GOING TO FUCKING KILL ME!”

“HERE, LET ME JOIN! HELP ME SOMEBODY PLEASE, THE DEMONS ARE KILLING ME!”

“OH GODDESSES, PLEASE SAVE ME!”

I stop yelling as my face drain from emotion except for a face a psychotic killer would give to his victims, one that a serial killer would give to his victims. I feel my eyes widen as my eyes twitched occasionally, my snout pressed up against his as I start to cut his ear with delicate slices. I, with a chillingly fatherly voice, begin my speech.

"You see, nothing in this room matters to you. It's all white.”

“It's all boring to you, but you it's the main reason why I'm so far

“Under your skin. Why I'm so deep into your fucking skull.

“Because this room is designed to drive you fucking mad.

“Everything here is white.

“The Chair--

“The Table--

“These Walls--

“The Door--

“The Floor--

“Even your fucking hoof-cuffs are white.--

“They all blend out, leaving you without any sense of originality.--

“They're all you know at this point, because I want it like that.--

“I'm the only thing that matters in this room.--

“This is my room.--

“And in my room, you're my fucking bitch.--

“AND IN MY ROOM, YOU DON'T FUCKING SPEAK--

“WHAT DID I JUST FUCKING SAY?!--

“YOU DON'T SPEAK YOU SHIT-EATING FUCKER.--

“I AM YOUR FUCKING GOD HERE.--

“I CAN KILL YOU AND NO ONE WILL CARE--

“NO ONE WILL GO TO YOUR FUNERAL--

“BECAUSE YOU HAVE NO FUCKING FAMILY--

“YOU REALLY THINK THOSE IN THE GANG THINK OF YOU AS BROTHERS--

“FUCK NO--

“IN A HEARTBEAT, THEY'LL FUCKING KILL YOU OFF TO PROTECT THEMSELVES--

“THEY'RE GREEDY--

“THEY'RE THUGS--

“AND YOU'RE JUST LIKE THEM--

“YOU’RE GREEDY--

“YOU’RE A THUG--

“YOU KNOW WHAT THUGS GET--

“A KNIFE IN THE GOD DAMN CHEST--

“NOW IF YOU DON'T TELL ME EVERYTHING YOU FUCKING KNOW, RIGHT FUCKING NOW, I'LL FUCKING CUT OUT YOUR HEART AND FEED IT TO THE GRIFFON ORPHANS!!”

“OKAY OKAY! THERE’S THIS JOURNELIST! OKAY! THERE’S THIS JOURNELIST WHO POKES HIS BUSINESS INTO POLITICS, OKAY?! HE MIGHT KNOW SOMETHING, BECAUSE SARGE IS OFFERING THEM DONATIONS IN TO KEEP THE HEAT OFF OF HIM.

THAT’S ALL I FUCKING I KNOW, I SWEAR IT ON MY LIFE!”

“SWEAR IT TO ME!”

“I SWEAR!”

“I now find your life is meaningless.”

“What . . . NO WAIT—I’LL TELL YOU EVERYTHING I KNO—”

I held his neck down, exposing the arteries behind the muscle, slicing his neck ear from ear with the razor. Blood shot from his mouth as blood spilled out of his neck, he choked on his own blood as he tried to stare at me but I simply unchain him and buck the chair from under the chair. Blood pooled around the teen’s body, as he laid on the ground—silently dying in pain.

I felt my eyes widen at my actions, watching the stallion bleed out while I desperately try to use my hooves to keep the blood inside of the teen. I couldn’t believe what I have done, it just shocked me how cold-blooded the killing was. Just how I did it so subtly, like I knew what I was doing. I didn’t know what was happening, this had to be some sort of nightmare.

And thankfully, it is.

Bathroom stalls, vulgar writing, cold white floor, white ceiling… did I almost OD?

I shoot my whole body up, a cold sweat drenches my body and was pooling onto the bathroom floor. I find the the toilet and open the lid to vomit into it, my throat burned as I expel the tension from my stomach into the bowl. I refuse to look into the toilet, instead pushing the lever and hearing the water—along with the vile liquid—drain itself away.

I looked at the lever and saw a fresh blood smear, which prompted me to look at my hooves. Blood covered my forelegs and they started to sting horribly, I found toilet paper next to the toilet and started to wrap my hooves into the toilet paper.

I looked around me to find bottles of upon bottles of medication scattered on the floor, a couple of pills on the ground, some still in bottles, and my only assumption that I can safely make is that I ingested them and got a really bad trip.

I check my neck to find any sort of damage, but was relieved to find none. I stand up, my forelegs shaky, and exit the bathroom stall. I look into the mirror to address myself, and I look like a junky who just lost his colt-friend and just had a nightmare about killing someone. I take my bandage off and wash my hooves into the sink, I wash myself, and then fix myself up to appear as normal as possible.

I don’t know how long I’ve been in here, but I need to go to work. I can’t be late to my new case on the Homicide Division. It’ll be a bad rep’ if I show up late on the first day, and unlike high-school, I don’t just get a slide from that. People actually pay bits for my absence.

After work, I’m looking for a goddess damned shrink.

Because I don’t know if that shit was a bad-trip, or a bad omen, but I want nothing to do with it. I don’t kill ponies, I don’t even kill bugs, much less teenagers! However, the two names haunt me—especially with how vivid they were slaughtered. It was too real, but the pony wasn’t me. For goddess’s sake, I’m no killer.

I open the bathroom door and then close it again, there were ponies armed with swords guarding the exits. I look back to the bathroom stall I was just in and noticed the red stained razor, my hooves stinging again as I remember that I just self-harmed. I feel myself drop in motivation, but I have to save the ponies from this guy. It’s my legal obligation.

I took the razor and hid it under my maw, keeping it above my tongue and clenched between my teeth. I calmly walk towards a corner seat and sit, but I feel myself freeze when I see one of the stallions guarding the exit.

It was Bulb Seeds, or whatever his name, but I dreamed about him.

All of a sudden, one pony held one of the service ponies into a hold with a fork to his jugular. Being new to the Homicide Detective-thing, because I was just a cop before this, I didn’t know who they were. They were pretty new faces, except that Trottingham-sounding one. He looks familiar, maybe I met him before in a bar.

But all I know is, that Bulb Seeds and this ‘Sarge’ character sound very important to me.

But why?