Streets of Sin

by Jarvy Jared

Rating: teen
Tags: Sweetie Belle, Main 6, My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic, Dark, Alternate Universe, Original Character, Rarity, Adventure
Length: 75713

With Dusk Prosa gone, and Opacare Prose returned, the author's past mistakes can finally be fixed by returning to Manehattan. But these streets are not the safest, and soon he will embark on an adventure far greater than stopping the Mayor.

One week after his return, Opacare Prose must delve into the streets of Manehattan to stop the corruption that has been brewing within its steel skyscrapers. It seems like an easy job; stop Mayor Grifford Finch, reveal his corrupted ways, and help Manehattan return to its former glory.

But all is not as it seems. Behind Prose's one-stallion war against his former friend, is a shadow of an organization bent on one thing, and one thing only: the complete annihilation of the author and the mayor. As the two ex-friends exchange words and blows, culminating in an explosive confrontation, that organization from behind the scenes makes it move gradually, determined to take Manehattan over without either noticing.

If Opacare Prose has any hope of saving his city, then he must accept the assistance of the mares from Ponyville, as well as forge unlikely alliances with any pony willing to side with him. His goal of stopping Grifford Finch will eventually overlap to other goals, ones that, he will discover, are far more important.

He can't save everything, though... as his war continues, casualties will rise, and somepony important to him could be forever lost...

Published 2016-01-01 16:50:02 UTC
Last updated 2016-12-25 15:22:55 UTC

I: One More Day

“Forgiving does not erase the bitter past. A healed memory is not a deleted memory. Instead, forgiving what we cannot forget creates a new way to remember. We change the memory of our past into a hope for our future.”

Lewis B. Smedes

Dusk Prosa had been dead for nearly a week. His body, though nonexistent, had been buried in the flow of time. Every bit of energy he had ever expended had been released, rendering his corpse little more than a memory. No funeral was held; there was no body to be buried; and neither relatives nor friends would show up, for they were as nonexistent as the deceased himself.

That did not mean that Dusk was fully gone. In a certain town in a certain house, he remained at the back of the certain mind of a certain stallion.

This stallion stared at his reflection, carnation-pink eyes staring back at him. His mane, a slate-blue with bright-blue highlights, was unkempt. Picking up a comb, he dragged it across his scalp, brushing the hair back. He placed the comb down and twisted the sink’s knob, letting the water flow. He washed his hooves, before dumping a few cups of water onto his head, feeling the liquid wash through his mane. Grabbing the towel, he gently dried his hair, though not enough to completely remove the water. He placed the towel at the side, before grabbing the can of hair gel that lay next to the sink. He opened it and drew out a small pile of the gel, before rubbing it in his mane. He pushed and pulled and caressed, until his mane was back in its usual shape. He washed and dried his hooves, looking once more at the mirror.

A stallion of about twenty-eight now looked back at him, eyes intense and strong. His pewter-grey coat was somewhat damp, and his mouth was locked in a small, neutral frown. He nodded, seeing that he looked ready.

He walked out, trotting back to his room, the wooden tiles clacking beneath his hooves. He entered, flicking on one of the lights. The amber glow revealed his Cutie Mark: a blue quill pen in front of a black inkwell. A symbol of a writer.

He walked over to his bed, glancing over what lay on top. A navy-blue vest sat next to an ash-grey cloak, both neatly folded and pressed. He grabbed the vest and buttoned it around him, the feeling of cloth familiar and comforting. He then picked up the cloak, keeping it folded, and walked over to the desk.

On the desk was a brown saddlebag. The pockets had been opened, the original contents—syringes filled with his blood—removed and in a safe place. He silently thanked Doctor Irons and Nurse Redheart for their earnest cooperation in that endeavor. He bent down, peering inside one of the pockets. A small jar, filled with a grey-ish muddy substance, was labelled as ILLUSIONARY MUD. He nodded to himself, then placed the cloak in another pocket. He closed the openings, letting out a short breath.

He did not put on the bag, however. The week had not ended; he was simply preparing for tomorrow.

Closing his eyes, he reflected on the time that had passed on by. It surprised him how much had changed in a mere six days following his return. Ponyville had been quite shocked to learn who exactly he was, and those six ponies and those three fillies had eagerly re-welcomed him to the town—the pink one, most especially. The day of his return, Pinkie Pie had thrown a huge celebration, and, while he did not consider himself a partygoer, he had admitted that it was the most fun he had in a long time.

That fun did not come without its fair share of troubles. His return meant a resurgence in his reputation, and therefore his fame; and he found it somewhat annoying.

He opened and his eyes, a soft smile across his lips. Annoying as the troubles were, he couldn’t help but think that they were a reflection of the life he had freely given up all those years ago. For so long, he had lived in anonymity, despite being famous; it was as if he lived a paradox of a life. To the ordinary, such a life would have been impossible; yet he had gotten by, through sheer willpower and intelligence to match. The complicated matters of ponies, involving gossip, wants, and complaints, were deeply embedded in his past, no matter how much he ignored them. Hearing similar matters in this town reminded him greatly of that time. A sense of nostalgia swept around him, though it carried a touch of coldness.

His smile remained small as he trotted out of his room, his mind blasting away the former thoughts. For now, he had one more day of freedom left; one more day to enjoy life. Before he had to delve once again into the complicated matters of ponies on a personal level.

The scars of his past remained; becoming Dusk Prosa had not at all removed them. They were as hidden as the former stallion; but, with his demise, they returned, back with a vengeance and thirsting to bring him down. He would not let his mistakes ruin him, though; he had found too much to care about to let them try.

The three fillies, the six ponies, the town… he had not considered that, after enough time, he would call them friends and home. He cared for them, and they, he sensed, for him; it would be dishonorable to let his past ruin this new present.

Present. Today is a gift. He nearly chuckled at the pun. He had not been this witty in years. It surprised him to no end what time had done to him.

“Mutantur omnia nos, et mutamur in illis,” he said softly as he made his way downstairs for a light breakfast. “All things change, and we change with them.”

His name was Opacare Prose, the author vanished and returned; and he was a changed stallion indeed. And he was determined to enjoy this newfound present, even if he only had one more day.

For a certain unicorn, that one week had been a week of complete change in Ponyville. No longer did the ponies look at the newest resident with wariness. Now they peered at him with wide, awed eyes and stares.

Truthfully, she sometimes found herself doing the same.

It amazed the alabaster unicorn to no end how far Dusk had gone to preserve his anonymity. She could not imagine the amount of trepidation and anxiety the stallion would have felt, leaving Manehattan a month ago. Putting his past behind, in a futile attempt to start anew; as well as to protect those closest to him.

Her expression deepened as she threaded the needle into one of her cloths. His intentions were pure in nature; but they had come with dire consequences. His best friend, Raven Lock, was dead; and, if the stallion was to believed, it was Mayor Grifford Finch’s doing. Based on what Dusk had said at his trial prior to his death, it seemed that the Mayor had less than benevolent notions. Of course, this was all assuming that Dusk was a valid source, and while Rarity had believed the stallion to be a pony of his word, a small bit of doubt still remained in her heart.

She bunched up the fabric, pulling a vertical line down the center. In the past six days, she had come to know the author in a different light. No longer was he this mysterious, hard-to-reach writer; he was a pony, just like any of them, albeit with his own eccentricities. Living at the edge of town made some ponies evaluate that he was crazy; and, in light of the recent events, perhaps that could partially be true. He seemed to enjoy such rumors; when Rarity had brought it up at one of their luncheons, he had an amused smirk on his face. Truly, he was strange; but then again, it was a familiar strange. A paradox.

She had pointed the fact out to him the following him day, and he responded with a quick lecture on oxymorons and living paradoxes. It was fascinating, hearing him talk; evidently, he had learned plenty in his time at the Canterlot School of Excellence—the sister school to School for Gifted Unicorns. She still marveled at the fact that he was able to recall lectures and lessons from eighteen years prior!

It constantly surprised her as well that, technically, Opacare never formally graduated. While he had earned enough credits to graduate and get his major and diploma two years before he left, he officially was a school drop-out. By that fact, he officially had not completed his education. Not that it mattered, she supposed; he was smart enough to get by without the included bonus of a certificate. And he was skilled enough to delve into his passion of writing.

He could have been a doctor, with his experience in the medical field. He could have been a chemist, with his ability to create that special mud… yet he became a writer, because his soul yearned to tell a tragic story.

To the ordinary pony, such a motive would have sounded strange, perhaps even morbid. Admittedly, Rarity found it quite dark. But who was she to question the motives of an artist? Especially one as accomplished as Prose? Besides, his creations, while they held darker undertones and were intended as thought-provoking material, did not directly reflect the pain he felt inside. And his outward demeanor also did not seem to always reflect that anguish. Certainly, he wasn’t much of a “smiler,” as Pinkie put it, but he was generally amicable to be around.

Rarity supposed she had Sweetie Belle and the Crusaders to thank for that. For some odd reason that neither side could fully explain, the fillies had become the closest to the stallion, and he to them. Sweetie seemed completely obsessed with Opacare, finding him exceptionally fun to hang out with—so much so, that sometimes she would barge into his home with the Crusaders just to get him to teach them something new. It was an odd friendship; Prose admitted not to having many. Yet Rarity couldn’t help but notice that Prose smiled more when he was around the fillies. Almost as if they taught him how to really feel happy.

In that sense, their relationship was often considered teacher-student in nature. But it wasn’t always clear who took on each respective role.

She thought over her other interactions with the newly returned author. He was by means ungentlemanly; his parents had taught him basic etiquette, and he did have a slight formality to him, not unlike the regals of Canterlot. She supposed it had to do with him living in the capital for eight years, and in the company of a police detective and his soon-to-be wife and singer. Raven Lock and Jade Sonnet…

Whenever she brought them up, his eyes would inadvertently become distant as he remembered. It made her feel guilty, seeing him like this. He was, after all, now mostly alone; his oldest friends had passed away. Now all that was left was Grifford Finch—but even then, he seemed unwilling to consider him anything closer than “an old associate.”

She shook her head. It wouldn’t be right to be thinking such depressing thoughts. She turned off the machine and held the cloth up with her magic, inspecting it like it was a work of art. Which, according to Opacare, it was; she had put work into it, and therefore her soul, and by that extension, it was art.

“Art isn’t just writing or a painting. Art is the embodiment of the soul, the only true way for one to express the entirety of himself, on the physical plane, and in such a way that, eventually, others will come to understand.”

He was eloquent, thoughtful, charming, intelligent, and deep. He was terse, chilling, aloof, shallow, and oblivious. He was a living paradox; one that, Rarity could not explain how, had become ingrained in Ponyville’s lore.

A faint heat traveled to her cheeks. Was she feeling something for the stallion? She shook her head quickly. No, that couldn’t be it. It was only somewhat cold in the Boutique, and her body was reacting to try and warm her up. She wasn’t feeling anything for that author, despite how unorthodoxically enchanting his enigmatic demeanor was…

Thought trailing away, she placed the cloth to the side, letting out a slow breath, before moving onto the next one. Her eyes briefly glanced up at the calendar, her frown replaced with a beaming grin.

Tomorrow, Sunday, she was leaving for Manehattan. Over the course of the week there was going to be a huge fashion expo being held in the city. She couldn’t wait to go; she might be able to drum up some business, perhaps even tutor under some of Equestria’s finest seamstresses. She could expand her craft, make it into the larger business world.

Her smile widened as she remembered one other detail. A surprise, an early birthday present, for Sweetie Belle. It had taken a little coaxing but, after much hard work, Rarity had what she needed to give her sister a grandiose gift.

And she had Opacare to thank for that.

The work soon became dulled in her ear, her mind occupied with wishing for the future. She threaded and bunched and creased and folded, all the while thinking about what was going to happen next. Tomorrow was another day, one more day. And she couldn’t wait.

A trio of fillies made their way down the northward path, a dead stallion on their minds. But while in most cases, having the deceased at the forefront of one’s thoughts would bring out negative feelings, these three instead beamed and shone with absolute joy, oblivious to the usual negativity that accompanied such thoughts.

The death of Dusk Prosa had not, in their eyes, been a defeat of life. Rather, it was the next step in a glorious and wonderful time, and they were determined to make the most of it.

A young, white unicorn led the group, an orange pegasus and tan earth filly trailing behind her. Their smiles were wide, eyes shining like stars. The unicorn was humming something quietly, and the others were joining in on the humming. A few words slipped out between the hums; one could hear phrases such as “Cutie Mark Crusaders” hidden in the lines.

They sang and hummed joyfully as they made their way down the path, heading towards the lone house only a few yards at the side. The wear-and-tear of the days before were not reflected in its brown walls. Its windows and pillars stood strong and fast against the changing times; it seemed that not even a powerful tornado could bring down its foundations. This was partly due to the stallion inside; his inner strength seemingly passed onto the house itself, his dignity amassing in the columns. It could also be said that the fillies’ assistance added to the house’s strength and vigor.

These thoughts and conclusions, however, did not cross the fillies’ minds. The stallion inside clouded—or perhaps illuminated—their minds. Eagerly their minds wandered, thinking about what they would do.

The orange filly spoke up first. “Maybe we’ll do something daring! Like shark-riding!”

“Scootaloo,” the tan filly addressed with a shake of her head, “where on Equestria would we find sharks to ride?”

“The ocean, Apple Bloom, obviously!” Scootaloo shot back, undeterred.

Apple Bloom sighed tiredly. “Yeah, yeah, sure, because we’ll go all the way to the ocean to get a shark-riding Cutie Mark. Ah don’t think Ah really want to travel that far…”

Their little banter kept the unicorn’s smile up as they approached the house’s door. They quieted as they neared the wooden frame, with the unicorn reaching out a small hoof to knock.

Three times she did so, the sound deep and low, like it was resounding throughout the entire interior of the home. They waited, patiently, as they heard the faint clip-clop hooves coming towards the entrance.

With a twist, the knob turned; with a slight creak, the door was pulled open, revealing a familiar pewter-grey stallion. He stared at them quietly, his lips faint, but definitely curled up in a soft smile.

“Scootaloo, Apple Bloom, Sweetie Belle,” he greeted.

“Hiya, Opa!” Sweetie responded. It was a nickname she had grown to attribute to the stallion; “Opacare” was a mouthful to pronounce. “Whatcha got in store for us?”

The smile widened; they didn’t notice the tiredness behind it. “I think you’re going to like this,” he said, stepping back and letting them enter. They could already hear the stove running.

In their minds it was just another day of fun; in his mind, it was one more day of fun.

“One month ago, he vanished without a trace, and I spent my resources trying to find him. Then, one week ago from today, he shows up in Ponyville?”

Grifford Finch didn’t shout, but his voice noticeably sounded of confusion and shock. Sitting in his office with him was his assistant, Swol. The tan, golden-yellow stallion was just as surprised as Finch at Prose’s reveal.

“Well, technically, he had been in Ponyville for that month,” Swol said, not flinching when Finch’s icy-blue stare shifted to him. “And he was found out in Canterlot…”

“Details, details,” Finch responded, waving a brown hoof dismissively. “The point is, he’s back…”

His voice abruptly stopped, and he stared down at his desk.

“… You’re surprised you hadn’t found him, aren’t you?” Swol guessed.

“That obvious?” Swol nodded, and Finch chuckled darkly. “Hmm. I suppose, considering how much I emphasized his return to safety, that isn’t much of a surprise.”

“Not many details were given as to why, though,” Swol said.

“Not that we need much. It isn’t too hard to guess, based on how Prose was speaking.” His voice grew colder. “To think he would go so far as to accuse the Family of wrong-doing!”

“We can thank Blueblood for that bit of info,” Swol commented, but his voice dripped with disdain at the arrogant prince’s name. “Do you genuinely think we can convince him to come back, even after all this?”

Finch shook his head. “It’s hard to say. I doubt he would come easily. But… maybe if he saw how much we need him… how much Manehattan needs him…”

He stood. “But enough about Prose. We’ve some business to take care of.” Swol nodded, and handed him his trenchcoat and hat.

“The train to Baltimare should be arriving soon,” Swol said. “We’d better leave now. How long do you think the meeting will last?”

“The meeting itself will take a few hours. But the business afterwards will halt us for a few days.” He snorted. “Honestly, it’s obnoxious how those other heads of the Family can’t get anything done speedily.” He grabbed his suitcase while Swol grabbed his own. The office door swung open, and the Mayor and his assistant soon left the building.

Author's Note

Official "theme song" for Streets of Sin:

II: Leaving

Dusk fell, and dawn rose; and with it a stallion awoke. For a moment he was disoriented as he stared at the ceiling; with a sigh, he remembered what today was. He wasn’t sure if he felt shame in trying to prolong the inevitable, as his mind was still muddled with the happy feelings from the day prior.

Opacare got up from his bed and went through his morning routine as quickly as possible. He knew that the faster he left, the better, and the less hesitant he would be to leave. He brushed his hair and washed his face, then put on his vest and cloak. He placed his bag on his back, giving it a brief dust off, then set out from his room. He made his way downstairs and opened the front door.

It was still early in the morning. The sun was barely up, the sky silver and gold with the illumination of both celestial bodies. The clouds were dark and light, fluffy and thin, uncoordinated and unsupervised. The pegasi had yet to redo the heavens. Only a few ponies were out at this hour, mostly setting up early shop. As he walked into town, he made sure not to make any eye contact with any of them, trying to minimize small talk as much as he could. Most ponies gave him nothing more than a passing glance; a few tried to talk to him, but a terse, short shake of his head signified that he wasn’t in a mood for small talk. They respectfully backed off, accustomed to his loner status.

As he walked, he reflected on the town, and his place in its borders. Though physically he was outside of the walls, he remained a citizen of the town just like any other pony. It had become his second home, despite the tragic events that were behind this settlement. He had made new, surprising friendships, with six, surprising mares—he had not thought such a thing was possible after all this time. With Raven dead, Grifford no longer the stallion he knew, and his past effectively destroyed, he couldn’t help but think that friendship would allude him for years.

Yet here he realized how wrong he was—and for that, he was grateful.

He could maybe consider the town, then, a symbol of a brighter future. One that reflected what he wanted to accomplish in Manehattan. He wanted ponies to be happy and free to choose their own lives, without some higher authority breathing down on their backs. He didn’t want to forge bonds through intimidation; he wanted to create relationships through love and care. It was something that his parents, Diei Adminium and Luxi Grace, had taught him from an early age.

“Care for your fellow ponies, and let them have the lives they deserve.”

The phrase resonated in his mind as he walked into the train station. He handed a few bits over to the teller, obtaining a golden ticket: destination, Manehattan. Looking at the nearby timesheet, he saw that the train would not arrive for a good thirty minutes, maybe more. He did not mind, and sat down on one of the benches, pulling his hood up, and thinking back on his parents’ words.

He did not think that the ponies of Manehattan deserved to be ruled by some supreme ruler. Independence, and therefore free will, were ideas that he treasured the most. He had hoped that Grifford would come to realize that they were more vital than absolute control over everything; but evidently, that hope died years ago.

He frowned, then scowled, then lowered his head. It still pained him to see his old friend like this; the Family had obviously corrupted him beyond repair. He doubted he could do much to change his mind.

But there was one thing he could do.

He snapped open one of the compartments of his bag, checking to make sure he had everything. Inside was his Illusionary Mud, in a larger jar, in case he needed it. Along with a majority of his savings, he had brought his signature blue quill and black inkwell. Though he doubted he would need them, the items were reassuring and comforting. He nodded to himself, then closed the bag, his mind returning to his upcoming quest.

First things first: he had to deal with Grifford as soon as possible. Once he reached Manehattan, Opacare planned on immediately setting off for Grifford’s office. He wondered if the office’s location had changed; he figured he would find out when he got there. Next, he would have to confront his ex-friend on Raven Lock’s death. He doubted that it was a simple gas pipe explosion; if there had been any sort of faulty piping, Raven would have noticed. He had been a detective, after all.

Prose did not know, though, how Grifford would react. His memories told him that Finch would likely act distraught, as he had done on the day of the death. Something told him that the act was but a farce, and that Finch really stopped caring for Raven a long time ago. After all, Finch had stopped caring for what the city really needed, and had put Prose in a highly distasteful situation…

Yet another part of him argued that maybe Finch was simply misguided. But of that was the case, what could be done? Time had done little, if anything, to curb his perspective on the world. Who was to say that behind those brilliant blue eyes lay a psychopath hungering for power?

Then again, I’ve been compared to psychopaths much longer than he has…

He wondered if that made him better or worse than Grifford. He was used to the ignorant throwing around insults that made no sense in context; but did that make him indifferent to ignorance?

Another question arose, this one voiced by Raven’s fading voice; it worried Prose that he could barely remember what his friend sounded like. The voice questioned whether Prose was doing all this to help the city—or just petty revenge. He had no answer at the moment; he himself was still unsure of his true motive. Maybe he wanted both.

He shook his head. Emotions disrupted his motivation, and though he grown to tolerate the inconsistencies that emotion brought, they still annoyed him to no end.

No, he thought with a shake of his head. Grifford could not be salvaged at this point. All Prose had to remember was that traumatized filly, the frightened family, and Finch’s indifference, to conclude that he was beyond saving.

He pushed the thought away, in favor of focusing on his primary goal; stopping Grifford once and for all. He wasn’t sure how long it would take, or how, but he knew he could do it.

It was only a matter of time.

Thirty minutes would be nothing.

Rarity put on her makeup gingerly, smacking her lips as the red lipstick spread across her lips. Smiling and seeing that she was done, she turned, heading towards her sister’s room. She knocked on it softly. “Sweetie Belle? Are you ready yet?”

She was met with a low mumble. She frowned. “Sweetie Belle? Are you even up?”

“Mmph. Five more minutes, Rarity,” the younger unicorn groaned from the other side.

The alabaster unicorn sighed. “Sweetie, I told you we had to get up somewhat early to catch the train.” She unlocked the door with her magic and stepped inside.

Sweetie was still in her bed, looking bleary-eyed and unfocused. Rarity huffed, but her annoyance quickly dissipated as she remembered today’s date. She walked over with a smile, as her sister looked at her, disoriented.

“Come along, now, Sweetie. We’ve got to get you up.”

“But I wanna sleep still…”

“You can sleep on the train, dear. Besides, you don’t want to miss Manehattan, do you?”

Begrudgingly, Sweetie shook her head, and crawled out from the covers. Rarity helped her get through her morning routine, before leading her downstairs for breakfast. As Sweetie still was a novice at cooking, Rarity procured a few slices of toast and butter—something small and quick, as they’d eat soon enough.

Sweetie poured herself a cup of orange juice, gulping it down. “So what are we gonna do in Manehattan?” she asked her sister, now much more awake.

“Well, I was thinking we could explore a few business ventures while we tour around the city. Goodness knows I’ve been needing a few new ideas to spring on some newer markets.”

“Is that it?”

“Oh, of course not, dear Sweetie Belle. Especially not on this day.”

“This day?” She cocked her head. “What do you mean?”

Rarity sighed. “Really, now, dear? Don’t you remember what today is?”

Her sister’s response was only her brow furrowing in continued confusion. The elder unicorn rolled her eyes, but maintained her smile. “I suppose you’ll find out soon enough.”

Sweetie frowned, but didn’t push the matter any further, deciding that Rarity’s answer was good enough.

Soon they had finished breakfast, and Rarity was quick to wash the dishes. They brushed their teeth and fixed their hair, then made their way downstairs and out the door, Rarity grabbing her bag before they left. The morning sun met them eagerly, and Rarity hummed a little tune to herself.

“So… are you gonna give me a hint about what today is?” Sweetie asked.

“You’ll find out soon enough,” Rarity reminded her. She glanced at her bag, feeling the bits jingle, as well as the gift she wanted to give to her sister.

A few minutes later, the train station appeared in their vision. Walking up to it, Rarity bought two tickets. The teller told her they would have to wait for a little while; nodding, they made their way to a nearby seat and sat down.

She noticed the pony next to her wearing a cloak, the hood up and covering his face. He seemed familiar; and the way he held himself lended itself to the idea. For a moment, none of them spoke. Sweetie had yet to see the stallion, as she was glancing around the station.

After a moment, the stallion snorted. Not in distaste, nor in annoyance, but in bemusement, like he was laughing to a joke only he knew the punchline to. “Really? You ponies couldn’t give me a day of peace alone?”

Rarity broke out in a smile, but before she could reply, she was cut off by her sister. “Opa!” she cried happily. She leapt off of her seat and charged the elder stallion, leaping into his lap and pushing him back. The hood was thrown off, revealing the pewter-grey stallion that they had all grown to appreciate. A soft smile was on his face; but Rarity noticed that it looked somewhat strained.

“Sweetie Belle,” he greeted as she hopped off. “Rarity.” She waved in return. “What brings you two to the station?”

“We’re going to Manehattan!” Sweetie excitedly answered.

His lips noticeable tightened. “Oh? What for?”

“Rarity wants to drum up some new business. Something about new markets?”

“Fashion, I presume.” He glanced at Rarity. “Always were an entrepreneur, weren’t you.”

“Darling, it comes with being an artist. Surely you know that, don’t you?”

“In the past, maybe.” He frowned. “‘Darling?’” he muttered. Rarity quickly looked away, hoping he didn’t notice the faint blush on her cheeks.

“Anyway!” Sweetie continued. “What about you? What are you doing here at the train station?”

“Waiting for the train, I would think.” His dry response made Sweetie’s smile grow even larger, the sarcasm having apparently gone over her head.

“Well, of course you are, silly!” she boisterously replied. “I mean where do you plan on heading on the train?”

For a moment he said nothing, staring down at his lap. Sweetie’s cheerful attitude began to fade as the minutes ticked by. For a moment, Rarity thought that Prose had been offended somehow; but that didn’t make any sense. Even Sweetie’s, for lack of a better word, tasteless tact, did little but annoy him.

“You’ve forgotten?” he asked, voice low. Rarity wasn’t sure whether it was seething with disgust… or exhaustion.

Sweetie looked at him strangely. “Yes?”

He shook his head and sighed. “Of course you would.” He flashed her a small, rueful grin, before turning over and reaching into his bag. He pulled out the jar of Illusionary Mud and held it before him, letting their eyes wander over it.

Rarity was quick to come to the correct conclusion. “You’re leaving today? For Manehattan?” He answered with a slow nod, placing the jar back inside the bag. Sweetie gasped. “Oh… to deal with Grifford.”

“I had to at some point.” He placed the jar back into his satchel. “It was only a matter of time before we came to blows.”

“Rarity?” Sweetie asked, turning to her sister. “Is this the surprise you said I would remember?”

The fashionista shook her head. “No, Sweetie Belle. It’s something less…” She struggled for the words.

“Depressing?” Opacare offered, giving Rarity a knowing glance.

“I was going for bleak, but…” She sighed. “Yes.” She gazed at the stallion, her mouth formed into a concerned frown. “And… you still plan on going through with this?”

He nodded. “I have to. It’s my responsibility.” He looked back at her, his carnation eyes shining dangerously. “It’s what they would have wanted.”

She had to remind herself that this wasn’t completely Opacare’s own endeavor. His parents had set him down this path, though unintentionally, and Raven Lock had been a huge help in the beginning. He was trying to honor the fallen with his future actions, something that Rarity found noble—and yet strangely tragic.

Why has everyone close to Opacare perished? she thought silently. She wondered who would be next.

Sweetie was pouting as Prose turned to look at her. “B-but you’ll have some time to hang out, right?” she asked, her voice hard to hear.

He shook his head, showing his resolve and disappointment. “I’m sorry. But I want to get this over with as soon as possible.” He released a tense breath. “Once I arrive in Manehattan, I’ll make my way to his office and…” His voice trailed off for a second. “… And see what happens from there.”

His brow furrowed as he fell into a deeper thought. Evidently, he wasn’t even sure of the outcome of the encounter. With so much to consider, it was near impossible for the stallion to evaluate every conceivable outcome, even with his intellectual prowess.

Rarity’s frown returned. It seemed that he was going in without a plan; that was unlike the stallion she had come to know. “Opacare… are you telling me you have no idea what you’re doing?”

He gave her a wry smile. “I’m a writer, Rarity. We hardly ever know what we’re doing. But no, I do have a faint idea.” He turned away, looking out into the horizon. “I’m fixing past mistakes, both mine and Grifford’s. Goddess knows he needs it.”

“But! But!” Sweetie exclaimed, gathering his attention. “We… we could come along! Right, Rarity?”

The fashionista looked at her younger sister, surprised. Opacare frowned. “I have to do this alone, Sweetie Belle.”

“But,” Rarity interjected, “if what you said about the Family is true, then it could be dangerous. You’d need all the help you can get, if things go…” She swallowed. “Awry.”

“That’s exactly why I need to go alone. So that if things go awry, then nopony else gets hurt.” In a whisper he added, “Besides me, of course.”

Sweetie stamped her hoof. “No, no, no! I won’t let you go alone! The last time we let you—” She gulped. “You nearly got hung!”

“Hanged,” he corrected, before gazing at the filly guiltily. “I know, Sweetie Belle. And it pains me to say this, but I simply cannot risk you getting hurt.” He shook his head. “Remember. This Grifford is not like the Grifford I knew in school. And this Family… it is a force not to be trifled with.”

His words left a sour taste in Rarity’s mouth. She didn’t like seeing Prose act this depressing and resigned. While a part of her believed he was right, another part encouraged her to find a way to break through his stubborn attitude.

But what could she say? Opacare was a stallion who was determined to complete his goal to the very end. He had gone so far to bury his old identity, crafting a new one in the process; his tenacity kept him going, and his will to succeed meant he could overcome nearly all obstacles. But she worried that he wouldn’t be able to overcome everything, given time; and if he fell, they would all be devastated.

His past was not something they wanted to mess around with; and he was still hesitant about facing it, even after all these years. Was it courageous that he chose to go at it alone, to hopefully prevent others from being hurt by his previous errors? Or was it just a stallion too stubborn to let others give him the help he needed?

“Whether any of us like it or not, this is my battle, my war. I left Grifford myself; I’ll confront him myself.”

Sweetie said nothing for a few moments, staring at the ground. Suddenly she wrapped herself around Prose, giving him a tight squeeze. “Just… be careful,” she whispered.

He smiled and hugged her back. “I will. I promise.” He tried to raise her spirits by adding, “Besides, we still have a train ride together, don’t we?”

That indeed did bring a smile to the young unicorn’s lips, and she plopped down next to Opacare, her mood brightening significantly. It was enough to cause Rarity to smile herself, reminding her of Sweetie’s present.

“But I still don’t understand what’s so special about today,” Sweetie said. Rarity looked down at her, then at Opacare. He smiled softly.

“I’d imagine you’d find out once you reach Manehattan,” he said enigmatically. They returned to waiting for the train to arrive.

Arriving in spectacular fashion, the train made Opacare start. Used to the contemporary trains back in Manehattan and other cities, he was surprised that this locomotive was more steampunk in appearance. The decals around it reminded him of Sugarcube Corner, with its mostly pink color scheme and frosty-white railings. The coaches reminded him of graham crackers, while the tops brought to mind images of cupcakes and cake.

“You look surprised,” Rarity noted with a smile.

He shook his head. “Is everything in this town so happy and optimistic?”

A few ponies—he assumed they were the conductors and engineers—got out to inspect the train, looking for any sign of damages. Seeing none, the engineers nodded, then got back on the train. By now, the station had begun filling up with various ponies, and the conductor took his place in front of one of the coaches. He looked quiet and composed, with his navy cap and matching suit vest; the glasses on his eyes gleamed brilliantly.

The ponies began lining up, and Rarity ushered them to follow. Getting up, they trotted to their place in line. Rarity held up her two tickets, while Prose carried his in his mouth. With each nod from the conductor, the line shortened, and they were beginning to approach.

Once the conductor saw them, his eyes nearly shot out of his head. “You?!” he exclaimed, putting a hoof out.

At first, Opacare thought he was referring to Rarity; after all, she was pretty famous around Ponyville. But as the hoof settled onto him, he blinked, confused. “I beg your pardon?”

The conductor whinnied excitedly. “Oh my gosh! It’s you! The legendary author, Opacare Prose himself!”

The ponies behind them craned their heads, finally recognizing the stallion without his hood. Ponies already on the train gazed out the window, letting out amazed cries.

“Oh my gosh, it is him!”

“What’s he doing here?”

“Probably on a writing trip or something!”

“Did you hear how he vanished for a month?”

“What’s he doing with Rarity and Sweetie Belle?”

“Are they staring a—”

Rarity covered her sister’s ears to block out the obscene expression, while Opacare glared at the last voice’s source, silently telling her not to say anything further demeaning.

Prose cleared his throat. “Yes, I am he. May I board the train?”

He was suddenly assaulted by the conductor, who was holding up a green hardcover. Slightly disoriented, it took a moment to register what the title was.

“My wife and I absolutely love your books!” the conductor said, smiling widely. “Could I get you to sign my first edition copy of X25?”

Prose hesitated. He had not expected to suddenly be assailed by fans of his work at the station, of all places. He had not considered his fame as anything more than an aftereffect, something not worth thinking on. Yet here he was, physically reminded of a result that he had thought little of in the past.

If he were another pony, he might have enjoyed it. As a loner by nature, though, this fame was stifling.

Rarity didn’t seem to mind the sudden attention, though. To her sister’s confusion and Opacare’s annoyance, she began flaunting her mane while nuzzling up close to the stallion, as if proclaiming they were a couple. Prose, while not too knowledgeable in matters of relationships, felt himself grow somewhat hot under the collar. With a grunt he softly pushed Rarity away, and opened his bag, pulling out his quill pen and inkwell.

“Here,” he said as he signed the conductor’s book, handing it back. “Now, can I please board the train?”

No sooner had he said those words that he and the two females were swiftly pushed onto the train. He heard the conductor let out a joyful squeal—how childish, he thought—and the door closed shut on them. He didn’t have time to recover, as almost immediately he was overwhelmed by the sheer amount of fans on the train, all clamoring for his autograph.

This is not what I wanted to happen! he thought, eyes wide and shaky.

It was Sweetie Belle who saved him. As the ponies all began standing up and approaching the stunned author, she placed herself in front of him. “Hey!” she squeaked. “Give Opa some space! Otherwise he won’t sign any of your stuff!”

Quickly, they complied, sitting themselves down, allowing Opacare to stare at them, wide-eyed. He blinked, then looked down at the filly. She smiled up at him. He shook his head, then looked at the train again. They all were regarding him with anxious stares.

He sighed loudly. “Alright, fine. Let me take a seat, then I’ll sign.” Grumbling, he made his way to a booth, letting Sweetie and Rarity in, doing his best to ignore the train’s cheers. There was a hiss as the train began to move.

“Oh, shoot!” Sweetie then said, looking at Rarity. “I forgot to say goodbye to my friends!”

Rarity simply smiled back. “Well, Sweetie Belle, what if I told you that they were a part of what makes today special?”

Sweetie, confused by her sister’s enigmatic tone, looked to Opacare; but he only shook his head, a frown across his lips. Ponies began opening their bags and pulling out various copies of his books, passing them back to the stallion.

It was going to be an interesting ride.

III: City Of Dreams

What more about Manehattan could be said that hadn’t already been spoken of already?

To say that it was magnificent was an understatement; with its tall skyscrapers that reached up beyond the clouds, to its bustling streets, filled with the voices of rushing ponies, it seemed that a god had touched down upon land and bestowed an ingenious design of a modern city in his place.

Even Prose, with all his pessimism and distrust of Manehattan, could still appreciate its splendor.

The train rolled into the station of the city with a sharp hiss. The doors slid open, and the passengers began to disembark, carrying with them various copies of signed books. Prose’s quill remained sharp even after all the signing; but his inkwell was in dire need of refilling. His hooves were tired, and his neck hurt from craning down all the time just to sign. If he had to see his name one more time, he wasn’t certain if he would sigh or scream.

Nevertheless, after some ushering from Rarity, he got up, and led them all out of the train. From what he had overheard while signing, neither Rarity nor Sweetie Belle had been to Manehattan yet. They had excitedly discussed all that they could see, and had pestered Prose to reveal its amazing details.

He had responded with simply telling them to “see for themselves.”

Glaring sunlight blinded him for a second as he stepped off, and put on his hood in response, still wishing to remain somewhat anonymous. Rarity and Sweetie both raised their hooves as they adjusted to the sudden light. They could hear the voices of city ponies everywhere, all going about their business. Carriages run through the streets at breakneck speed, neither slowing nor stopping unless at a stop light. Electric ads, large and noisy, blared on wide, flat-screen TVs on several buildings, talking about various products that a pony could never hope to ever need. The smell of vendor food wafted through their noses.

As their eyes adjusted, the unicorns gasped at the massive skyline, and Prose couldn’t help but chuckle. As a resident Manehattanite, he couldn’t say the city offered the same awe; but he understood the sentiment. He noted that the skyscrapers had been slightly altered; a year ago, they were mostly flat capped, but now they were more pyramid-structure at the tops. A few radio antennas pointed out of the roofs, and a larger radio tower stood over the city, the satellite seemingly as large as the sun.

The unicorns’ eyes trailed down the roofs and onto the various windows. Inside they could see ponies at work in offices, crowded around documents and typewriters. They worked diligently, only getting up when they needed to retrieve something.

Prose never liked office jobs.

They could see what the typical officer worker wore; grey suits with red ties, manes short so as not to distract from progress. Rarity let out a few oohs as she observed the fancy clothing that some of the ponies wore.

“Why don’t you have a typewriter, Opa?” Sweetie asked.

He chuckled, sheepish. “I wanted one… but things kept getting in the way.”

He walked forward, drawing Rarity out of her trance, and they began walking down the steps of the station. The city’s sounds grew louder as they approached ground level. Ponies behind them rushed forward and past, heading for their destinations in a flurry, rushing, oblivious to others around them. Opacare felt himself get pushed around a few times; he had to ground his hooves so as to not trip over Sweetie Belle, and had to bite back a signature Manehattan curse.

Huh… didn’t think I’d even remember one of those after all this time.

He stepped onto the sidewalk, looking down the street, seeing the residents all bustling around. He released a breath, not realizing he had been holding one. The street light was red, as carriages ran down the street. They waited for the light to change.

A thought struck him, and it perturbed him.

I’m home.

The impact struck him like a cannonball. He reeled, nearly falling on Sweetie Belle and making several nearby ponies mutter out an annoyed insult. He placed a hoof on his head, tugging low on the hood. His eyes glazed over for a moment as he fully processed the thought.

“Opacare?” Rarity whispered, leaning down to him, concerned. “Are you alright?”

He stood, shaking his head, trying to clear his thoughts. “Yes, I’m fine. I’m just…” He let out a breath. “I just had an epiphany of sorts.”

Sweetie grabbed his hoof, looking at him worriedly. He nodded to her, signaling that he was better, and she let go.

The light changed to green, and some carriages skidded to a stop. Prose noted that none of the drivers looked at all tired; he was reminded of the determination and drive of the typical Manehattanite. He began to walk, Rarity and her sister behind him. They blended in with the crowd, though Prose caught some odd looks from ponies seeing his cloak. Reaching the other side of the walkway, they held up at a corner, exchanging some looks.

“So… this is where we split up, I suppose,” Opacare said, his voice just barely above the roar of the city.

“Split up?” Rarity asked, frowning. “What do you mean? I thought we were coming with you to Grifford.”

He shook his head. “That’s not in the plan, unfortunately. Besides, you have someplace to be, don’t you?” His intense gaze did not render either of them squeamish.

“We do?” Sweetie asked, genuinely confused.

Rarity coughed. “Oh… that’s right. I remember now.” She turned to Sweetie Belle. “We’d best be off, Sweetie.”

“What? Why?” She pouted. “We should go with Prose! He might need us!”

“It’s just a simple talk,” he tried to reassure her, though he knew that it would be more than that.

“Yeah, but what if there’s guards or something?”

He gained a small smirk. “Remember what I did to Filthy Rich?”

Her protests died there, but her look of uncertainty. He knelt down, resting a hoof on her shoulder. “Listen, Sweetie Belle. Everything is going to be fine, alright?” He smiled gently. “I’m not about to up and vanish on the spot.”

She whimpered. “Promise?”

“Always.”

She hugged him, and he hugged her back, closing his eyes and letting her shake out a silent cry. She wiped her face on his cloak, though the special material prevented it from wettening. It was almost as if there bore no evidence of her pain.

But the evidence lay in his heart, and he wasn’t about to show the scars and wounds. That was the past; this was now.

He broke away from the hug, nodding at Rarity. She nodded back, then trotted over and gave him her own hug. “Be careful, dear,” she whispered.

“I will, ‘honey,” he replied coyly.

She started, and he winked at her, trying to appear at least somewhat calm. Before she could respond, he whisked away, his cloak trailing behind and camouflaging him in the throng of ponies. He was gone before she could even look for him.

Despite her unease, a smile crept on her lips. She hoped things would be all right.

Sweetie’s cheerful attitude returned as they made their way in the city. The sights and sounds were enough to distract her from thinking about Prose’s mission, and for that Rarity was thankful. She found herself also enthralled by Manehattan’s utter splendor.

Without Prose around, that meant that their resident Manehattanite could supply an answer to Sweetie’s questions. Nonetheless, the young filly continued asking them, particularly to Rarity, her voice bubbly and excited. The fashionista, while not familiar with the surroundings, had read about the city in several travel magazines, so she could give a few answers.

“What’s that, Rarity?” Sweetie asked, pointing a hoof out and up. Following her hoof, Rarity saw she was pointing at a large, golden, equine head, poised on a large block of limestone marble. She smiled.

“That, Sweetie Belle, is the legendary Statue of Harmony,” she answered, her mind remembering what she had read.

“The Statue of Harmony?”

“It was a gift from the country of Prance, a thousand years ago. It was to convey our country and their country’s friendship during the Lunar Rebellion.”

“Lunar Rebellion? Oh, that was the time when Princess Luna was still Nightmare Moon, right?”

Rarity nodded. “That is correct. Her war with Celestia had not solely affected Equestria. As she controlled the moon, the entire world could be her plaything. To that end, Prance sent over troops to help with Celestia’s army, and with their help, several major battles were won. Of course, the war ended once Nightmare was banished to the moon.”

“So it’s kind of like a friendship gift?”

“In a way, it is. More than an alliance, Equestria and Prance remain some of the closest friends in our history,” Rarity concluded, finishing her mini lesson.

They walked a bit more, crossing the crosswalk. Sweetie continued asking about the city, and Rarity provided as well as she could. Bridleway was a frequent topic, and Sweetie confessed she had been interested in the theater for some time now.

“It would be kinda cool to see one of the musicals,” she said wistfully.

She failed to catch Rarity’s hidden smile.

They also noticed that there were very few unicorns and pegasi in Manehattan. A majority of the populace consisted of earth mares and stallions. Rarity supposed that any pegasi would be in charge of the weather; the few unicorns, meanwhile, she had no idea of their supposed purpose here.

They headed down Times Square, listening to the sounds of the city engulf all other senses. A place this noisy seemed out of place as the home of the quiet author. It occurred to Rarity that Canterlot, while quieter, still was a busy place. She knew that Prose had left Manehattan because of Finch, but she couldn’t help but wonder if there was something else to it.

Her thoughts abruptly stop when she accidentally bumped into a nearby stallion.

“Hey, watch where you’re going!” he exclaimed, turning on her. He was a pale green, reminding Rarity of one of the ponies back in Ponyville. His mane was a faded yellow, closer to cream.

“Oops, I’m terribly sorry,” she apologized, backing off. She was surprised at the sudden hostility.

The stallion snorted and turned away.

Rarity frowned at the rudeness but, seeing that the stallion did not appear to be in a good mood, she did not pursue the matter any further. “Come along, Sweetie Belle,” she whispered to her sister.

She had a faint guess as to another reason why Opacare chose to leave.

They walked down several streets and sidewalks, thankfully not meeting another rude pony along the way. The city, even after all this walking, remained just as loud as if they were in its center. Most ponies they met appeared nice, offering some form of friendly greeting, which they happily returned. Each ponies’ eyes were vivid and alive, activated and jolly, like they were always constantly on happiness. It reminded the mare of Pinkie Pie, but to a lesser extent; and, thankfully, not at all creepy. Rarity thought that the stallion from before was simply a foreigner; after all, in a city as grand and as amazing as Manehattan, no doubt its citizens would be equally as flattering.

Finally, after some time, they stopped in front of a certain complex.

“Here we are!” Rarity said. Sweetie looked up at the building.

It was a hotel, evidenced by its name: THE GREENWOOD HOTEL. The letters were a bronze-gold color, looking strong and sturdy. Its roof was beyond viewing, too high up it was. Windows shined in the sunlight, like they were made of the shiniest diamonds. The doors were also glass, with rectangular knobs, and they gave a clear viewing of the hotel’s main lobby. A red carpet sprawled out from the door, shaded by a hanging arch made of obsidian marble. From within, they could hear several ponies trotting throughout the hotel. Elevators dinged and opened, while stairs were climbed up and down. Ponies in vests, suits, dresses, and other sharp-looking clothes walked in and out.

“This is where we were headed?” Sweetie asked, incredulous. “It seems too expensive!”

Rarity nodded, smiling. “Well, I wanted to choose someplace special for us to say.”

“But… how much did it cost to book a room?”

“Nothing, actually.”

Sweetie stared at her in shock. “Nothing?!” she squeaked. “How?!”

Rarity’s smile continued to grow. “I had some help from some higher ups. After all, I didn’t want to make this day subpar. Shall we?”

Without letting Sweetie protest further, she trotted forward, pushing the doors open gently. A scuffle of hooves told her that Sweetie followed. Almost immediately, the outside world was greatly deafened; evidently, the walls, windows, and doors had been sealed so that the city was not so loud. Rarity was thankful for that; while she would have gotten used to the noise, she did not want to be always shouting to be heard.

They walked up to the counter, with Rarity informing the pony at the desk who they were. While she didn’t know her personally, the pony nodded in recognition as she went over the files, seeing that a certain “Rarity” had indeed booked a room. She handed over the card, then pointed to the elevators.

“You’re room is on the twenty-fifth floor,” she said. Rarity said her thanks, and she and Sweetie made their way to the elevator. The unicorn mare pressed her hoof on the button; a few seconds later, the doors spread, and they stepped inside. She pressed a button for the twenty-fifth floor, and the doors closed with a ding.

Peaceful elevator music played as they traveled up the building. Jazz and soft rock echoed inside with slight static in between the notes. It was a reflection of this urban lifestyle, one that held the conveniences of a society that had advanced quite a lot in the past decade. Rarity reflected on the music in silence, thinking about how it was a direct mirror to how different Manehattan was from other places she had visited.

She remembered a phrase said in one of her travel magazines. “Manehattan—the City of Dreams.” Her dream was to be an incredible fashion designer, creating outfits for some of Equestria’s most prestigious ponies. And now that she was in Manehattan, now that she was in the City of Dreams, she was taking the next step in fulfilling hers.

In fact, she could have taken the chance and spread her business the moment she arrived in Manehattan. But she put that aside for one reason.

She looked at her sister, who was biting her lip nervously. She smiled. Sweetie was the reason why she had put her current dream on hold. Her younger sister had dreams as well; and what kind of big sister would she be if she did not do her best to help her when she could?

A delay in Rarity’s dreams, therefore, meant nothing, as long as it meant that Sweetie’s dreams were being fulfilled in that delay. Besides, there was always tomorrow, or the day after, to fulfill Rarity’s dream of being a world-class fashion designer. But with Sweetie Belle, she wanted to take every chance she could get.

She wouldn’t admit it, but Sweetie hanging out with Prose, while enjoyable, weighed heavily on Rarity’s mind. She did not worry that the stallion would hurt her sister; he had proved that he had no intention of hurting any one of them when he had said he would not bring them with him on his business. He had not asked even the others for their help in his quest. That told Rarity that Opacare did not want to risk anypony else getting hurt again through his actions.

Of course, that was just a repetition of what Prose had said. And while it was true, Rarity worried what would happen if Prose came back changed. Sweetie absolutely loved Prose, that much she could tell. If, for some unknown reason, Prose returned, different, Rarity wanted to make sure that her sister had another “thing” to fall back on.

It was selfish of her, though; and Rarity knew this. Prose was happy when he was with Sweetie Belle; why would she get in the way of their friendship? But her mind reasoned that Opacare would rather let Sweetie go then let her get hurt by him, no matter how unintentionally he might hurt her. He was simply a stallion who acted in that way. He was selfless, putting the lives of others before him. His experience with the Family and his own parents’ lessons had taught him so.

Perhaps that was another reason why she had grown to appreciate the stallion—even admire. In the past, that cold exterior of his would have made it hard for anypony to believe that he had a heart of gold. But now that she could see who he really was, she had no doubt that he meant well with his intentions and his goals. To that end, she would make sure she was the same in hers.

“Rarity?” Sweetie asked, bringing Rarity out of her thoughtful monologue. “Are you okay? You kinda spaced out there.”

Rarity smiled. “I’m divine, Sweetie Belle. Simply divine.” She nuzzled her sister. “And you should be, too.”

Finally, the doors slid open, revealing to them a rather empty yet wide hall. A solid taupe floor was covered with circular patterns, dancing down the hall, pointing to various doors. A few ovular lights hung suspended on the equally taupe ceiling, eliciting a dim, yellow glow throughout. A sign pointed which way to go for each section of room.

“Which room are we in, Rarity?” Sweetie asked.

She glanced down at the card. “According to this, 221B.” I have a feeling Prose would like that name.

“That’s a funny name for a room. What happened to 221A?”

“I have no idea, Sweetie.”

Rarity led them out, turning to the left and trotting down the hall. Sweetie followed quietly. Their hooves softly padded against the floor, their eyes glancing at each approaching number. They made a turn around a corner, heading down the 220s, shortly arriving at their destination.

221A looked like it hadn’t been opened in years; but 221B appeared to have been recently refurbished. With a tall, oak door, and its digits and letter emblazed in gold, it carried with it a sense of power and intelligence. The knob had yet to be covered in dust; it shone and gleamed, albeit somewhat dully, as its metal was still old.

“Fancy,” Sweetie commented with a whistle.

“Indeed,” Rarity chimed in, smiling. She held out the card and slotted it into the card reader. It dinged and turned green, signaling that it was open. She nodded to herself. “Well, Sweetie Belle, come along. We’d best not keep them waiting.”

“‘They?’”

She didn’t get a response, as Rarity was already opening the door.

There was a loud boom, and something red filled the young filly’s eyes.

IV: Surprises

Sweetie blinked in shock as the red dripped down her face and landed on the floor. Looking down, she saw that it was a thin strip of confetti paper, crumpled and wrinkled everywhere. She felt several other strands poking out of her mane; she lit her horn experimentally, and procured several teals and limes.

“Surprise!” several cheerful, familiar voices shouted out.

Sweetie slowly looked back up, her mind locking in place. Rarity blew the confetti out of her mane with a confused huff. “Pinkie Pie! You do realize how annoying it is to brush confetti out of one’s mane!”

The pink party grinned sheepishly. “Sorry, Rarity. But you know how my party cannon is.”

Rarity sighed, then looked down at her sister. She frowned, noticing Sweetie frozen. “Sweetie? Are you alright?”

The young filly didn’t answer. Slowly her mind began to wind up again as she started to connect the dots of what just happened. Pinkie had fired her signature party cannon at them, blowing confetti in their faces. That meant there was a party going on. But whose?

In front of her was Pinkie, grinning next to her party cannon. Beside her was Applejack, Rainbow Dash, Fluttershy, and Twilight Sparkle, all wearing cone-shaped hats with bright polka-dots around the frames. Two other fillies stood in front of them; she recognized them as Apple Bloom and Scootaloo. All of the ponies had wide, beaming smiles on their faces, which only confused Sweetie even further. Behind them was a large table, draped in party decor, with something large set in the middle and covered by a cloak.

“Huh?” was all she could say.

Rarity sighed, then grabbed Sweetie’s chin. “Look up.”

She did so, seeing a white banner hung overhead. Written in light-blue paint were the words: HAPPY BIRTHDAY, SWEETIE BELLE!

Slowly it began to dawn on her. “Happy… birthday?”

“My goodness, Sweetie Belle, you really had forgotten what today was!” Rarity exclaimed.

“It’s… my birthday?” Her eyes widened. “It’s my birthday!”

She jumped up. “It’s my birthday!”

Pinkie fired off another round of her party cannon, once again littering the floor with dozens of confetti pieces. Sweetie didn’t mind, happily jumping around squealing. Apple Bloom and Scootaloo joined in, chanting all the while: “It’s your birthday!”

“She really didn’t know, huh?” Applejack asked as Rarity walked over.

The unicorn shook her head. “No, she did not. I swear, she always has her head up in the clouds.”

“Guess she liked the surprise, though.”

Rarity smiled. “Indeed she did.”

“You were all planning this?” Sweetie asked her friends.

Apple Bloom nodded. “Yup! We wanted to throw something special, seeing that yer now a teenager! Like me!” she added with a toothy grin. She then gave Scootaloo a noogie. “Now we just gotta wait till Scoots here gets to be ten!”

“Hey!” Scootaloo pushed Bloom’s hoof off of her head. “I’m turning thirteen next month!”

“Really? Ya don’t look a year over nine!”

Scootaloo tackled the earth filly with a growl, drawing up confetti and dust. “Why, you—”

“Now, now, girls,” Rarity chided. “If you’re going to squabble, do it another day. After all, today is for a different festivity.”

They untangled themselves, but hadn’t lost their grins. Sweetie gave each of them a hug.

“If you’re done hugging it out,” Rainbow said, “then let’s celebrate!”

At that, Twilight lit her horn, pulling the cloak away from the table. She revealed an assortment of baked goods and a large, triple-layered cake. Frosting decorated the sides, while brown made up the midsection. A few strawberries had been placed on the edges of each wide cylinder, while whip cream puffs dotted the top. Thirteen candles were adorned in a circle, and with Twilight’s magic, burst into pretty flames. Next to the cake was a large punch bowl, with paper cups sitting next to it. Several pastries revolved around the table and cake, leading Sweetie’s eyes on a chase for the most delicious cookie. Her mouth began salivating; she was thankful she had a small breakfast.

“Wow!” Sweetie exclaimed. “Pinkie, you made all this?”

“Well, I had the Cakes help.” She beamed. “Isn’t it great?”

“It’s superb!”

Rarity laughed. “Yes, well, we wanted to pull out all the stops for your birthday.”

Sweetie approached the cake, readying her breath. Once she was close enough, the others began to sing softly:

“Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you! Happy birthday dear Sweetie Belle, happy birthday to you!”

Somewhere, she thought she heard a certain stallion also singing. But it was probably just her imagination. She blew out the candles, making a silent wish. Everyone cheered and clapped as the candle flames faded, leaving behind a faint trail of smoke.

The ponies dove right into the food, grabbing and passing around plates and filling cups. The conversation was light, as Sweetie kept babbling her thanks and shock. Her two filly friends only giggled at her, though they were happy with her reaction. The elder ponies were only a few steps away, happily conversing with one another.

“Girls,” Applejack said, “Ah think we did a mighty fine job here.”

“I do, too,” said Fluttershy, a small smile on her face. “It always makes me happy when I see a filly happy.”

“I know, right!” Rainbow said with a grin. “You’d think Sweetie would have noticed that we were planning this for the past few days!”

“Yes, well…” At that, Rarity’s voice faltered slightly. “She was busy with Opacare.”

“Oh, yes.” Twilight frowned. “To be honest, I wasn’t sure we could pull this off, with everything that had happened just days prior.” She sighed. “I suppose we all needed this, though. To take our minds off of what Prose had said.”

“Speaking of Prose,” Pinkie said, “where is he? I swear I sent him an invitation!”

They all turned to look at Rarity. She shuffled her hooves. “Well… something came up.”

Applejack frowned. “Nothing too tragic, Ah hope?”

“It depends.” Rarity sighed. “Opa, he… he had to deal with Grifford today. Once we arrived in Manehattan, we split up.”

“Split up?” Fluttershy frowned, concerned. “Rarity, are you sure that was a good idea?”

“Believe me, it wasn’t mine. But Prose insisted it. And you saw how quickly he recovered from his crashing into my Boutique. I have no doubt he can handle himself.”

“The question is how will he handle himself,” Twilight muttered. She cleared her throat. “Anyway… let’s not dawdle in that. We’ve got a party to celebrate.” They nodded, turning back to the party, trying to put their unease away at the back of their minds.

The fillies joy—both from the happiness of their friend as well as the food—quickly spread to the older mares, and while the seed on uncertainty still lay in their hearts, it was dormant for now, replaced with a tree of happiness. Sweetie’s smile was infectious as she laughed with her friends; it seemed that nothing could bring down her mood.

Soon the food had been consumed, and the scraps were thrown away. Fluttershy and Twilight helped Pinkie clean up the mess; thankfully, there wasn’t much. Applejack and Rainbow then went to another room to bring out the presents.

“How many rooms are even in this place?” Sweetie asked Apple Bloom.

“There’s five of them,” the tan filly answered. “Two bunks, and three Queen sized beds.”

“Wow! How on Equestria did you all afford all this?”

“Actually, we didn’t,” Rarity answered, stepping over. “Remember Sapphire Shores? She actually owns this hotel, and happily lent out this room for us!”

Sweetie’s eyes widened. “What? Why? I mean, not that that’s a bad thing—it’s really awesome—but what made her do it?”

Rarity tossed her mane. “She told me that she wanted to thank me properly for going to all the trouble to make her dress after the incident with the Diamond Dogs. I told her that I needed a special place to throw you a surprise party, and she happily suggested The Greenwood!”

“And she did it for free?”

“Well, not exactly. She did ask that I keep giving her amazing dresses.” Rarity smiled. “But really, with my talent, that’s pretty much free. What do you think?”

Sweetie hugged her sister. “It’s the best gift ever, Rarity.”

She giggled. “Thanks, Sweetie Belle. But the best is yet to come.”

Applejack and Rainbow returned from the other rooms. They carried with them various gifts and presents, all wrapped up. Cards were attached to the gifts. They placed them down, beckoning everypony over. They gathered around, Sweetie’s eyes as wide as saucers at the array of presents being shown off.

In fact, the sheer amount of gifts was… embarrassing.

“Guys… you didn’t have to get all this for me!” she protested.

“Well…” Rainbow started, but was cut off by an elbow from Applejack.

“It’s alright, Sugarcube,” the farm pony said with a smile. “Just enjoy the gifts.”

Sweetie happily nodded. She began to tear into the gifts one by one, letting out squeals of joy at each item. Twilight had given her a book on magic to help her practice; Fluttershy sewn her a nature-themed dress for next year’s Gala. Pinkie gave a recipe on how to make a special batch of cupcakes (she wasn’t sure if Rarity would allow her to bake), and Rainbow Dash and Applejack had contributed a three-legged toad statue (“I thought you might like having your own mutant pet statue!”) and a set of old songs to sing, respectively.

“Ah heard that ya liked to sing,” explained Applejack. “Thought Ah might give you a bit of country to work with.”

Sweetie blushed. “Oh, I’m not that good. But thanks, Applejack.”

“You most certainly are!” Fluttershy encouraged. “I mean, when you and your friends were staying at my cottage, you had a very strong singing voice!” She smiled as Sweetie’s face turned a bright crimson.

Finally, it was Rarity’s turn to present her gift. She opened her bag with her magic, levitating out a pair of gold-silver tickets, with bronze doves hovering above a set of green holly leaves and red berries in the middle. Sweetie’s eyes widened as she read aloud the word blazed in the center:

“Tickets to Bridleway’s The Phantom Pony of the Opera!”

“There’s more,” Rarity said. “Look at the back.”

Sweetie flipped it over. “‘This ticket ensures that the recipient as earned musical lessons with pop singer Adelante Castele, Winner of Fifteen Grammys.’”

She looked back at her sister. “You mean—”

Rarity nodded with a smile. “It was hard, getting that ticket. But we knew how much you like to sing, and how much you wanted to go into the singing business.” She sniffed. “Honestly, some ponies wouldn’t even let me into the ticket booths, what with all my nagging—”

She was cut off by Sweetie squeezing her tightly. Rarity felt her coat wetten; she looked down, seeing tears in the filly’s eyes. “Thank you,” she whispered.

Rarity patted her on the head, a warm smile on her face. “It wasn’t just me, though. Another pony wanted to help, to make up for all you had done for him?”

“Him?” Sweetie scrunched up her face, before blinking in realization. “Wait, Opa?”

Rarity nodded. She looked at her friends, seeing that they were equally surprised; they had not known about Rarity’s gift, nor Opacare’s participation in its retrieval. “Yes. Prose wanted to lend a helping hoof in making your birthday special. He thought of it as his late thank-you.” She smiled gently. “A thanks for you helping him find his way. I hope it was worth it?”

“It’s more than that! It’s… it’s…” She struggled for the word. “Mirus!”

Rarity chuckled. “Latineigh? Sweetie, I’m impressed; did Prose help you learn that?”

“Yup! He’s helped with a lot of things!” Suddenly her smile vanished, replaced with a frown. “Actually… now that I think about it… he’s done a lot. For all of us.”

They grew concerned, seeing Sweetie suddenly lost in thought. She quickly noticed their looks, and swiftly forced a smile. “But, yeah, it’s wonderful, Rarity. Really.”

Their smiles returned, and they gathered for a group hug. A warmth spread through the filly’s heart; but she couldn’t help feel that there was a piece missing. She realized it was that stallion. Her smile fell slightly, but she kept it up high. After all, Prose wouldn’t want to see her upset. So she melted into the hug, letting the joy of her friends spread through her.

Two things were on Opacare’s mind as he trotted through the streets of Manehattan. One was what he was going to do next. The other was what today meant for a certain filly.

“Happy birthday, Sweetie Belle,” he muttered quietly. “I hope you enjoyed it.” He regretted not being there to see her face she Rarity presented her gift. While he had no official connection to the famed Adelante Castele, it wasn’t hard to get one of ticket suppliers to supply one. Thankfully, he didn’t need to be the Prime Intimidator to get one; all he had to do was include the pony in his next book as a character.

He had smiled when he had heard that request. It wasn’t everyday that you met a pony who wanted little more than a part in your fictional world. He had told the pony that, given the circumstances (of which he had not gone into great detail, but the pony hadn’t minded), it might be a while before he was able to write again. “Take as long as you need,” the pony had said. “And make sure that filly is happy.”

Ponies like that were rare in Manehattan—at least, according to Prose. Walking through the streets, he only saw phonies and fakes trot past him. Their heads were held high, necks bulging, their suits all straight and buttoned; it all looked forced, like an act, a play with terrible actors. He saw the drop in quality; he suspected he was the only one that saw. Rarity certainly hadn’t said anything; and while she had a natural gift for observation, it wasn’t as fine tuned as Prose’s.

Then again, he had been trained by his detective friend.

That thought troubled him, as he once again was confronted with the fact that Raven was forever gone. He shook his head; it would not do well to dwell on such matters.

A stray newspaper flew past him, and he briefly saw the headline: OPACARE PROSE: RETURNED! He frowned, unsure why he did so, as the paper floated away. A few ponies bumped into him, and while both parties exchanged brief apologies, he could tell that something was not genuine.

How a pony could live in Manehattan confused him. It seemed to him that nothing in this city was as it appeared on its surface. It was similar to a 3D map, in that, at the basic level, it showed just enough to intrigue a viewer, but on a more personal level, it became confusing and disorienting. Noises and sights and scents and touches and tastes—they were familiar, yes, and yet foreign.

Did he really know his city as well as he thought he did? Had it changed in the month he had been away? Had it grown worse?

He had no answer; at least, not now. His best bet of getting one was to complete what was first on his mind.

Getting to Grifford Finch.

He considered putting on some of the Illusionary Mud, to disguise himself, but eventually thought otherwise. He only used the Mud when it was imperative; using it, only to wipe it away later, just to reveal himself dramatically to Finch, seemed useless to him. It might have stirred up some drama, perhaps even increased the impact of his return, but to him, it would be impractical. So he kept his bag shut.

He stopped at a crosswalk as the carriages raced by, intending to head down Galloping Boulevard (he had no idea, even to this day, why it had such a silly name). He was working on memory alone. Glancing around, he saw that he was in Central Square; from his mental ruminations, he recalled that Grifford’s office was somewhere in this area of the city.

At the crossway, there was a mare. She seemed to be wanting to be left alone, so Prose obliged, staying a distance from her.

A young stallion, dressed in a business suit, walked up next to him, waiting for the carriages to stop. He saw the mare, and gained a leering look. He then saw Prose, with his cloak and hood, and asked, “Why do you have your hood up?”

Prose barely looked at him, preferring to keep his face hidden. “Isn’t it somewhat chilly?”

“Maybe. But your fur coat oughta keep you warm.”

“I come from warmer places.”

“South?”

“In some ways.”

The stallion nodded, but had a somewhat cocky grin. “Ah. A town pony? Well, welcome to Manehattan. Hopefully you don’t get lost.”

Prose snorted. “I know my way around these streets more than you do, kid.”

“Oh yeah? How so?”

The author took this chance to swiftly glance at the stallion, taking in his details. The suit was neatly pressed, but was of the cheaper brand. He had a faint scent of cologne drifting around him, and, as it was more exotic and had a “rich” feel, he was trying to impress somepony. The tie wasn’t even a real tie; it was a clip-on. Either the stallion was low on funds, was incredibly cheap, or too lazy. It was more likely the second option. Finally, Prose looked at the side pocket, seeing that it was much larger than it should be. It could have been a wallet, but no wallet was that big. He concluded that, based on the imprint, the stallion had some sort of papers with him—perhaps identification.

The stallion was looking away as Prose finished his observation, talking to the nearby mare. He still wore that arrogant grin, flaunting it like it was a trophy. “Yeah,” he was saying, despite the mare looking quite uncomfortable. “I’m a lawyer. Big time. I’ve won seventy different cases.”

Her eyes glanced at Prose, asking silently to get her out of this.

“No, you aren’t,” Prose interjected, making both the ponies look at him. They flinched as they gazed into his carnation eyes, which bore deeply into the stallion. “You’re a stallion who recently lost his job and are heading for an internship as a local small business. You dressed to impress because you know that hardly anypony who goes in there looks like they want to be there. You spent quite a lot of bits on that cologne of yours, evidenced by its exotic quality; but obviously, you failed to indulge in an actual tie and a better branded suit.” He narrowed his eyes. “Don’t lie. I’ll know.”

He pointed a hoof out. “By the way, this is the political district, not the internship section. For that, you’ll need to head right. Have a good day.”

The stallion gaped, his mouth moving, but no words coming out. He spluttered then, as the carriages began to slow, turned and galloped away, heading down where Prose pointed.

The mare thanked Prose for stepping in, but he simply waved her off, not wanting to deal with her overly exuberant thanks and offers of “buying him a coffee next time I see you.”

What a fake, he thought as he stepped over to the other sidewalk. It saddened him that there were still ponies who wanted to lie about who they were; though, he knew he had little place in talking.

Was this city at all genuine? He had thought so in the past; but what if that was simply him being ignorant, led on by the lies that the Family spun? How did he know whether or not the city’s roots were corrupted from the start?

All he could do was change the present for a newer, hopefully brighter future.

He passed a small hospital, and his mind wandered back to his old syringes. Following his return, he had passed them over to Doctor Irons and the Ponyville Hospital, instructing them specifically on where to send them. Since Raven was no longer… present, he needed another way to send out his life-saving blood. Irons had been his first real ally—friend—he had made in Ponyville, and he knew he would get the job done.

Still, though, he felt somewhat alone without the syringes being physically near him. Maybe because they were his longest connection to his past, one that he could never truly hide—not that he wanted to. Those syringes and that blood were his way of helping from afar. Without them, he wondered if he was even more useless than he ever was. Then he wondered if the syringes were what made him useful in the first place.

He frowned. Why was Manehattan making him think like this? He couldn’t recall ever being so deep in thought while he traversed the tangled streets in the past.

He stopped, looking up at a nearby sign. To the north, the Boulevard continued. Behind, to the south, was Trottingway; at a western turn, he would be heading to Bejeweled Pier, where the massive Equestrian Ocean lay beyond. If he turned east, he would be heading into the deeper section of Central Square where, if his memory was correct, lay Grifford’s base. So he turned right, heading down the sidewalk. The sky was enveloped by the massive buildings; it became noticeably darker, even with the city lights on. Even the sounds became muffled underneath the large structures that surrounded Prose.

He wondered if Finch purposely made this street this way. He glanced at the sign. HONORABLE WAY, it read. He nearly chuckled darkly. There was nothing honorable about this road. Even the ponies looked less than worthy—

He stopped, halfway down the street. He heard something, something faint; it was coming from one of the side alleys. Unsure of whether or not he was hearing things, he pressed up against one of the nearby walls, and waited.

“Please…”

It was a female. Young mare, from her voice.

“Back against the wall. Now.”

It was a stallion, much older than her; perhaps Opacare’s age. His voice was gruff, and about as smooth as sandpaper. Prose carefully approached the side of the alleyway, not leaning in all the way, trying to hear the conversation.

“W-what are you doing, Fetlock?”

“Getting what’s rightfully mine, doll.”

Opacare’s eyes narrowed. Fetlock’s voice was lecherous, disgusting the author. It was clear that the mare was in stress.

He half-hesitated on what he should do.

“N-no! Stay back!”

Any hesitation immediately left. He rounded the corner, loudly stopping, drawing their attention. He saw that Fetlock had a twisted blade in his hoof. It flashed dangerously in the light. The whole scene seemed like something from a noir tale. Fetlock’s hoof was tense, as if he had been preparing to slice something.

“What the—” Fetlock growled. “Buddy, you had better step back, and forget what you just saw.”

Prose said nothing, only stepping closer, his anger masked by his frown.

Fetlock spat. “Fine. I’ll gut ya first!”

He lunged forward, sloppily. Prose deftly sidestepped, throwing him off balance. Fetlock swiped at him, slicing his cloak, but not his skin. Prose caught the stray hoof, and twisted, and the blade fell out with a pained cry. The author whirled and slammed the attacker against the wall, his hood falling off with the force. The stallion saw who it he was, and he blanched.

“Y-you’re—”

Opacare headbutted him, knocking him out. He stepped back, breathing somewhat heavily. He glanced at the mare, whose eyes had widened enormously.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

She nodded, unable to speak her thanks. “You’re him, aren’t you?” she asked.

He didn’t answer, instead throwing his hood back on. “I’d suggest not getting involved with strange stallions, miss,” he said, turning away. “This city is a dangerous place.”

Ponies had heard the commotion in the alley, and as he stepped out, they trotted over to the mare, questioning her. She pointed to where Prose left, but he had already vanished down the street. The police were notified; Fetlock was imprisoned, and she was left wondering what Prose was doing.

Don’t trust these cities’ streets, Opacare reminded himself some time after. He frowned. The last time he was in Manehattan, crime—in the traditional sense—was actually minimal. Maybe the mugging, the intended rape, whatever that was, was mere coincidence; perhaps evidence of Murphy’s Law. She might have just been caught in a bad place by a bad stallion. He was glad to have helped; but felt uneasy. He hadn’t seen a mugging in years; even as the Comminator Protos, petty crime was near unheard of in Manehattan.

It’s probably just a coincidence, he thought, trying to shake the incident from his mind.

Soon, he stood in front of a tall, wooden, office building. His memory had not failed him, as he glanced at the attention-grabbing letters that were fused on the arch: MAYOR’S OFFICE. The brown wood was a sharp contrast to the dull greys of the surrounding concrete buildings. The windows were blocked, their shades down, preventing one from looking in; Finch evidently didn’t like eyes prying where they shouldn’t be. Behind the shades, he could see the faint silhouettes of various workers; male or female, he could not tell for certain.

He glanced around. Some ponies came and went, none sparing him a single glance, despite his strange clothing. He felt hot, and tired; but did not resolve to remove his cloak. He doubted his presence would surprise Finch; but his workers on the other hand… if Prose was going to usurp Finch’s corrupted hold on the city, he ought to try it in an energetic manner, one that could rile up the wise.

At least, if there were any wise ponies left in Manehattan.

He released a breath. This is it. The doors looked like the gates to another plane of existence. To heaven or hell, he was unsure; but he knew he had to enter at some point.

The gates of eternity wait for only so long, before you are forced to shed your old body and step into that unforgiving light… He shook his head. Now wasn’t the time to be thinking such thoughts.

The late fall air brushed past him. He would hesitate no longer. He raised his head, and walked forward, moving up the marble steps. He pressed a hoof on the knob, seeing that it was oily and worn. He turned it, and pushed forward.

The scene of ponies sitting in cubicles met him. The smell of cheap paper, the click-clack of typewriter keys, the scratching of quills, and the murmurs from concentrating ponies immediately assaulted him. He blinked, closing the door behind him with a click. The number of collars, suits, vests, and dresses made him feel somewhat out of place.

No ponies looked at him, or even acknowledged his presence. He sighed, suddenly depressed.

He began slowly trotting forward, heading for the secretary desk that was on the second floor, just a staircase ahead. The dark, cerulean carpet made his steps soft, and suddenly he was transported into the past, remembering the first time he had entered the office. Old coffee drifted up his nose; he was filled with a sudden sense of nostalgia, dark, dreadful, not at all delightful as one would think. He could hear the ponies of the past whispering, unsure of why he was here, and he, also unsure, frowning and wondering what Grifford wanted to talk to him about…

Then he returned to the present, having suddenly stopped in the middle of the room. He blinked, legs tense, and he realized he was breathing heavily. A few ponies saw him, but glanced away, too indifferent to pay him any attention.

He worried, suddenly overcome with unease, with hesitance, with fear. It was a deep, primal feeling, one that he hadn’t felt since his parents’ passing. It came only when the unknown was being confronted, when he was uncertain of the future, when he could not plan accordingly.

The ground floor’s quiet sounds faded as he approached the stairwell. The area was faintly lit, and had a slightly red shade to it, reminding him of an underground shelter. He traveled up the stairs, hooves clacking against metal steps, as the second level grew easier to hear. He entered past the doorframe, amber light replacing red.

Here, he remembered, was the Communications Bureau. Ponies would send in paperwork to be sent out, as well as have messages shared back and forth between connections. To the front, where the various secretaries worked, was a large, horizontal shelf. Its compartments were filled with papers, parcels, boxes, and packages, all being distributed throughout the city and beyond. It reminded him of a mail office; almost like Ponyville’s, if much larger.

He remembered that one of Finch’s first acts was to have his office become a greater influence on the city, meaning that communication with other governmental and legislative bodies was of utmost importance. The Bureau had been established sometime after he had become Mayor, and, in the eight years that Prose had served the Family, had become one of the most efficient bodies that the city had to offer.

As he stepped out of the frame and onto the orange carpet, he attracted more attention than he had from downstairs. Ponies looked up from their desks, surprised to see somepony else other than a fellow worker. Their stares were filled with confusion as they regarded his attire, as well as his small frown that suggested he had something on his mind. He ignored most of them, already feeling apprehensive.

One mare, however, had yet to see him. She stood up, carrying with her a stack of papers, and walked over to the secretary desk. She placed the papers down, smoke-grey mane flowing behind her burgundy fur coat. He noticed a purple eighth note, two of them, one resting on each flank.

Something about her seemed familiar.

As he approached, he saw that she was actually quite small, compared to him. She stood only up to his mid-neck level. Not many ponies in the Family were that short; he could count maybe three or four. He heard her murmur something to the secretary, who then took the papers and proceeded to wrap a rubber band around them. The red mare nodded as the papers were then covered and placed into one of the racks.

The mare turned, bumping into him. She scowled, and looked up, perhaps to retort. Her eyes, he saw, were deep teal; attractive, he supposed, if he gave her the time. Nonetheless, her eyes widened as he looked back down at her, face-to-face.

She recognizes me.

Unsure what to say—or even if he should say anything—he carefully stepped back, giving her some room. She stared at him for a second longer, before turning back to the secretary.

“I’ll be out for lunch,” she said, before turning and trotting out. Prose did not watch her go. He wondered for a moment if he should have used the Mud; but was once again refuted by the same argument as before.

“Yes?” the secretary said, getting his attention. She seemed curious as to why the mare acted as she did. “May I help you?”

He kept his head down, just enough so that his face was hidden. “I need to see Mayor Finch,” he said, keeping his voice low.

“Do you have an appointment?” The secretary did not seem at all amused by his antics.

He sighed. “No.”

“I’m sure you are well aware that meetings without appointments are promptly cancelled in this office.”

“Please. You need to let me in.”

“I don’t have to do anything, sir.”

He bit back a curse. “It’s an emergency.”

“Many things are.”

“From an old friend.”

“Many ponies say that, but they’re all liars.”

He was growing peeved. “Miss, please—”

“Even if I did believe you,” she interrupted, “it wouldn’t do you any good.” She looked tiredly at him. “Haven’t you heard? Mayor Grifford Finch left for a business trip.”

He blinked, surprised. “Wait, he fled?”

“Did you not hear me? I said he left, as in, of his own free will. Everypony in Manehattan knows that.” She huffed, not catching his irked glare. “How do you not know that?”

“I’ve been away.”

“Foreigners. Always unable to get with the times.”

His tone shifted from annoyed to chillingly curious in a split second. “He’s gone? For certain?”

“What are you, deaf? That’s what I said, right?” she retorted with an eye roll.

He said nothing in return, thinking carefully on this new information. “How long will he be gone?” he asked eventually.

“A few days, maybe.”

He nodded at that. In that case… I suppose he can count himself lucky. He frowned. Not that I had much of an idea to work on, other than confronting him. He berated himself for being too focused on the confrontation, rather than on what he wanted it to result in.

He turned as the secretary asked—annoyed—whether he needed help with something else or not. His only answer was to ignore her, much to her distaste. He allowed himself a small smile of satisfaction as he heard her grumble at the “strange pony from afar.”

As he entered the stairwell, he found himself wondering: what now? He had not counted on Grifford being absent; he could recall a day when the mayor wasn’t busy working. Though, this trip of his was for work, so it wasn’t like he was being lazy. It was simply another aspect of being the mayor. But with Finch gone, Prose could do nothing at the moment.

He found it kind of funny how, despite all his careful, mental planning, he could not account for time as a deciding factor.

I suppose I must wait, he thought, heading back downstairs. Still the ponies on the ground level ignored him, and still he remained mostly silent, heading back into the loud outside, vowing to return sometime later.

It was strange that Opacare found himself in front of the Greenwood. An hour or so had passed since he had left the office; he had initially intended on travelling somewhere else, perhaps deeper into the city, but he was overcome by a sudden desire to return here.

He had not entered yet. He stood next to one of the obsidian columns, pondering. Ponies passed by without so much of a glance; his mind followed for a little while, before growing bored, and retreating back.

For some reason, he was unable—or unwilling—to enter at the moment. Something told him that he should stay outside, like a guard. He reasoned that it was just his nerves, but that voice still remained. He wasn’t sure if he should listen to it, as it was faint. But its concerns were still worth thinking about.

What if it’s all a ruse, a way for Finch to stop me before I stop him? What if he’s waiting for the opportune moment to strike? What’s to say that he won’t target me or somepony else? He lowered his head as his grimace returned. Finch may have seemed out of the picture; but the reality was, he had never left.

His mind found its way back to a memory, one concerning his essay from years prior. The Electiones Facimus: The Essay of Choice. It was not concerned with it being chosen for a contest; rather, it discussed Prose’s views on what it meant to be free, and the importance of having choice was for all ponies. He had written it sometime after his parents’ death, to deal with having to move on, and his decision to honor their memories; his choice.

In that essay, he had written about how choices do not necessarily lead one forward; sometimes, they allow one to look back. Indeed, he could attest to that idea. His choice to go to Ponyville, and eventually meeting Sweetie Belle, Rarity, and the others, helped him confront his past. Once again, he was reminded of their efforts, and he was thankful that they were there.

Prose’s mind then shifted to Finch. The Mayor had made his own decisions and choices, following his father’s death. It led him to taking over the Family, asking Prose to join, and leading to the usurping of the corrupt… only for the legislature to be taken over by perhaps worse politicians. Opacare could never understand why he did what he did; the author remained still ignorant on what Grifford hoped to accomplish.

Peace? Prosperity? He looked at some of the passerby ponies carefully. They hid their emotions well as they walked, but he was sure he saw an underlying sense of fear in their eyes. Even gone, his influence remains, and it is not for the benefit of those he swears to protect.

They had taken similar routes, following great tragedy. Both had met others, accomplished much, and strove to honor what their parents wanted: helping Manehattan in any way they could. But…

But things changed. I became aware. I realized what was happening. I would have no part in it.

His mind drifted back to the ponies inside the hotel. Right now, they were surely celebrating Sweetie’s party, unaware of Prose’s inner conflict. And why should they know? They were happy; Sweetie Belle was happy. All because of a gift of tickets and a connection to a famous singer.

No. It’s more than that. She has yet to see what these streets are really like. All of them have yet to experience what I’ve experienced.

He clenched his hoof tightly, then released it. On his life, he wanted to make sure that none of his new friends—his family, in some ways—would have to go through what this city still suffered. They saw a city of dreams, a shining example of what Equestria could be. He wanted to destroy that illusion, then build it back up so that it became reality.

He moved away from the column, walking up to the hotel. He pushed aside the glass doors, hearing everything fade away, as he made his way to the elevator. He pressed the button for the twenty-fifth.

The doors slid open, and he stepped out, going left. A door approached, and he smiled at the name. He heard voices inside, still celebrating, still happy. His smile widened, and for the moment, he forgot about his troubles, focused on the joy that lay beyond.

He knocked, twice, and waited. The ponies quieted up, and one of them approached the door. It opened with a light hum, revealing Rarity, standing there with a beaming smile. He took off his hood, returning the grin.

“Hello, Opacare. Things went well with Finch?”

“Actually…” She stepped aside, letting him pass. “As it turns out, he wasn’t there.” He shook his head. “I’ll have to confront him another time.”

He let out an “oof” as Sweetie ran into him, hugging him tightly. “I assume you like the gift?” he asked, being met with only a nod. He smiled. “Well… consider me being here, your second gift.”

He knelt down, smiling gently, all woes and worries having apparently vanished. “Surprise; happy birthday, Sweetie Belle.”

V: Minx

The burgundy mare trotted silently down the sidewalk. Her head was lowered, but uncovered; a frown crossed her lips, matched in intensity by her gaze. Her small stature made such a look seem somewhat odd; but the fire in her eyes warded away questions.

The fall wind swept around her, pushing up her hair; she quickly patted it down with an annoyed grunt. It was not an easy task to perform while moving; and as an Earth pony, it was even more obnoxious. As she busied herself with fixing her grey crown, she glared at passerbys, daring them to try and ask her what was wrong.

None did. She huffed, finally getting her hair back into place, and resumed her trotting.

It had been an hour since she had left the Office. She headed down Main Street, then took a right, going down a somewhat busy section. The ponies rushed by her without a word, all clamoring for some dumb advertisement or job. She was thankful that, unlike the commonfolk, her job held actual meaning.

She headed for her usual place: a small cafe at the corner of the smaller Hoofson Street. It was not too busy; only a few ponies were sitting at the tables, mostly drinking coffee. The waiter outside saw her, and waved a hello; she replied with a nod.

“Heya, Minx!” the waiter said cheerfully, his smile wide and friendly. “What’s up?”

“Just here for my daily lunch,” she replied, still not smiling.

Her attitude did not diminish his, and he led her to her usual spot, a table on the far back left in the corner. She sat down, and he gave her a menu. He then took out a notepad. “So, what can I get you?”

“Coffee would be nice. Cream and sugar, please. Not too bitter.”

“Certainly. And for your meal?”

She looked at the menu, carefully going over the choices. Nothing too special caught her eye, so she ordered a simple sandwich of lettuce and feta cheese—the bread being required to be somewhat toasted. The waiter nodded, and took away her menu, promising to have both the beverage and the food out in a few minutes.

Minx then looked away from the cafe, staring across the street. Her eyes moved over the walkways, the paths, and the windows, seeing all sorts of ponies, mares and stallions alike, swiftly trotting past. She wondered where they were going, and why they were moving in such a rush; it wasn’t like what they did was important, right?

Were they a part of an organization that was working for the greater good of the city? Were they all trying to do what they could in the position they had, and more? Did they hold the title of Coercitor Protos—the Prime Enforcer?

Admittedly, she was the only Prime Enforcer of the entire Family, despite being one of its more recent members. But she had risen through the ranks quickly, becoming a reputable force in her own right, earning her the title.

No pony, mare or stallion, could best her when it came to letting the Family have its way. Though not on the level of an Intimidator, she could still drive the most stubborn of residents to leaving town or ruling in favor of members. Behind her small frame lay a strong mare, capable of holding her own against several enemies.

Such a role came with the benefit of having a say in some final matters; a privilege that, to her knowledge, even the former Prime Intimidator himself did not have.

That thought brought to mind what had transpired earlier today. Prose. He’s back. She had read the papers; she was surprised to hear him missing, as was a majority of the Family based in Manehattan. After all, it wasn’t everyday that a pony went missing; and it wasn’t a common occurrence for one of the Family’s members to simply vanish.

She knew Prose not for his stories, but for his efforts in the Family. All of the Family’s members knew of the famous Prime Intimidator. Though his position had since been nullified, his records were still on the books. She herself had gone over some of them, during her earliest years in the organization; she, surprisingly, had been inspired by the stallion’s determination and drive. No pony, aside from Boss himself, desired to help Manehattan more than Prose.

To that end, she had molded herself similarly in Prose’s image, thinking that it would help her as an Enforcer, and later on as the Prime Enforcer. She became colder, smarter, and definitely more arrogant; even sometimes going against orders from the Family to fiercely pursue a target. Yet she was never fired, nor removed; they knew of her importance, and in some ways, she was just as much as an asset as Opacare was.

So she knew why Opacare was vital to the Family. A month prior, she might have seemed to have had different thoughts; confronting Boss about why he cared so much for the stallion seemed evident of this. Though it came not without its repercussions; she still shivered when she remembered Boss’s anger towards Newt, the green stallion having spoken negatively of the author. In truth she understood exactly what made Prose special, and what made him invaluable.

What she did not understand, though, was why the author was so important to Boss.

Nor did she understand why Prose suddenly vanished.

Nor, she realized, why he had returned, and why he had been in the Mayor’s Office an hour before.

The waiter returned, carrying with his magic the hot beverage and and meal. He placed them down in front of her. She did not seem to notice, staring out into the street. He cocked his head, curious.

“Something troubling you, Minx?”

She was tempted to tell him to go about his way, but a part of her needed somepony to talk to. She turned, looking at him, instinctively mirroring Prose’s intense look.

“Do you recall that author from a month ago?” she asked. “The one who vanished?”

He nodded. “Oh, yes. Opacare Prose. He’s returned, you know that?”

“Yes. But why?”

The waiter shrugged. “I don’t know. The papers say it was because he wanted to return home. According to sources in Canterlot, they couldn’t get a lot of information on him.”

“So he was homesick?”

“In a sense.”

“But then why did he vanish in the first place?”

Again, the waiter shrugged. “Ponies are strange, Minx. And Opacare is one of the strangest I’ve heard of. He’s gone incognito before, you know.”

When he was on assignments. “So?”

“So, maybe he took it too far. Got too far away, realized he missed Manehattan, and decided to reappear.”

She frowned. It was a flawed viewpoint; but it offered up an idea that Minx hadn’t considered. The records never said it, but perhaps deep down, Prose was a sentimental stallion. Still, though, the lack of evidence—not that there was much to begin with—was worth the skepticism.

“Maybe,” she said, unsure. The waiter went off to get other orders, and she stirred her coffee silently, the spoon tapping against the ivory side.

The coffee and sandwich tasted great, just as she expected. So why did she still feel perturbed?

With lunch finished, Minx returned to the Office. She didn’t have to do much; it was a slow day. She decided to take the rest of the day off, as she couldn’t get into a working mindset. She said goodbye to the secretary, then walked out, weaving through the northern streets.

Soon she reached her apartment: a rather small abode, relatively speaking, compared to the buildings around it. It helped her remain somewhat anonymous, like a hideaway within the heart of the city.

As she walked up the steps, she pulled out the key from her bag, and unlocked the door. She paused, gathering her thoughts, still troubled.

She opened her mailbox and took the contents out. She opened her apartment’s door and stepped inside, closing it behind her with a soft click. She quickly looked around the apartment, making sure nothing was awry. The table been cleared, and a lone ceiling light hung above. She didn’t live in excess, so the tiny space suited her needs. The kitchen still had a few dishes in its sink; she would have to clean them later. Down the hall was the bedroom and supply closet; a quick glance showed that they had not been tampered with. She sighed, relieved.

She placed the mail onto the table. She moved to her bedroom, setting down her bags. She glanced in the mirror, seeing that her coat was in a somewhat sorrowful state, and her mane was a mess. She walked over to the neighboring bathroom, intending to take a shower.

Her Mark shone on the glass sliding door; a purple eighth note, signaling her talent for music. But she had not used her natural talent in years. There was a reason for that, one that, she reasoned, was well worth it.

She rotated the knob, letting the water flow from the shower-head. She placed a hoof out, felt it was cold, and turned the knob some more, gradually heating the liquid. A plume of steam and vapor rose up. She smiled slightly.

She stepped inside, feeling the water drizzle down her. She groaned. Goddess, she had not realized how much she needed this. The water was like ichor, replenishing her mind and body and soul. She had to stop herself from humming in content. She reached up for the soap and began rubbing it over herself, relishing in the soft bar. She washed off for a few minutes, before reaching up and pouring herself a blob of shampoo. She ran it through her mane, seeing white bubbles drip down to the floor. The scent of peaches and sweet things filled the air.

She continued washing herself until her fur and and mane were drenched. She then turned the knob, turning off the water. As it was cut off, the vapor rose, surrounding her, fogging up the glass even more. It kept her warm for a few moments.

She sucked in a breath as she stepped out, the cold air of the apartment cutting through her. She grabbed a towel, and dried herself, as her body became accustomed to the drop in temperature. Shortly, her red coat and mane were dry, and she placed the towel to the side. She stepped in front of the mirror and grabbed her comb. She brushed down her mane, returning it to its familiar and somewhat poofy image. Her eyes briefly twinkled, before returning to their deep, teal hue.

She walked away from the bathroom slowly, and headed for the dining area. She didn’t plan on eating; rather, she sat herself down, looking over the envelopes. Most were bills, but they were of little concern; her position paid handsomely, so money was not a problem. A few were advertisements, for something regarding a new fall dress, or a supposed “lamp that all ponies need,” or a giant “inflatable tupperware, good for the kids and adults.”

Whatever that was.

Her eyes then fell to the last paper, another advertisement. However, it concerned something more personal. It had a cobalt-blue hardcover as its main image, with gold, embellished lettering on the cover itself. An image of the mythological human lay in front, the subject—a male—in a pensive stance. The word, Logic, revealed the title. To the side, she saw a few more words:

“Celebrate the return of the famous author, Opacare Prose, by buying this special edition hardcover copy of his first story!”

Minx frowned. While she and Prose had not met formally in the Family, she doubted he was a pony who would celebrate his return in such an obnoxious manner. Then again, what did she know; she was basing all that she knew of him on records that the Family kept. Accurate, to a point, but not completely true, she supposed.

Her frown remained even as she tossed the papers into the waste-bin. It seemed that Prose was showing up everywhere; in the Office, in her mind, in her thoughts, and now, in her mailbox. His influence was spreading like wildfire. She had seen it in his eyes; he had returned with a strong purpose, and by extension, was exerting his will over Manehattan, unconsciously.

It was an act of power, if she had ever seen one. And she respected it.

But she did not know why. She did not think even he knew what he was doing.

There was a knock on the door. Minx went to answer it, finding the delivery pony with the daily newspaper. She thanked him with a few bits, before closing the door and walking over to her living area. She flapped open the paper, and her eyes narrowed at the headline article.

“Mugger Captured: Victim States, ‘It Was Prose!’”

It’s like he’s everywhere. Almost as big as the Family.

She placed down the newspaper, sinking into her thoughts. Was Prose this honorable? She had figured that the Prime Intimidator was above helping the regular ponies who inhabited his city. Did that make him weak, or less of a stallion than he was?

Then again, he hadn’t been on assignment. It wasn’t his professional duty; he chose to act.

Just like that essay…

She reached out below the coffee table, pulling out an old binder. She opened it, her eyes skimming over the words.

It was Prose’s essay, the one that had initially earned him fame and stardom. It was the one work she actually liked. Formal, logical, and intriguing, it succeeded in not only coming to a sound conclusion, but giving the reader a chance to question further.

In other words, it was exactly as how Minx imagined Prose to be. Cool, calm, and collected; the perfect example of what each member of the Family should strive for.

She admired him from afar; not in a romantic sense, but in a respectful manner. She knew he was special.

Her surprise confrontation, though, with the stallion, made her pause. He seemed different, somehow. Less calm. She had glanced into his eyes briefly, and had seen more emotion in him than she had expected. He was broken, she believed; shattered into something different. Different from what the city needed, what the Family needed.

He was different; he was strange. A stranger in a familiar body, in the home of a familiar pony. The same, but different. Not the Prose she knew. Not the Prose they knew.

She wondered if that was a bad thing.

She placed the paper back under the table, and rose, still thinking. She glanced out the window. It was nearing late afternoon; evening would soon arrive. It would not help to continue dwelling on such questions for the remainder of the day.

Minx went into her bedroom to rest.

VI: Ground Level

“Repeat after me.”

“Repeat after me.”

“Don’t be obnoxious.”

“Don’t be obnoxious—sorry.”

Opacare sighed. “Sweetie Belle, I appreciate your enthusiasm, but please, you must know I do not have so much patience as to overlook such juvenile techniques for annoying the teacher.”

“You still reacted to it.”

He shook his head. “Sometimes I wonder why I have to endure so much from you…”

Sweetie only grinned.

They were in the hotel, a day having gone by. The others were somewhere else in the vicinity, with Prose taking a seat in the living area with Sweetie Belle. He had become a mentor to the young filly, teaching her Latineigh from the ground up. Though he was not a teacher by conventional standards—he neither had the materials nor desired them—he was still able to teach the filly without sounding like a bore; a blessing that both he and Sweetie were grateful for.

Sweetie had been progressing quite well, if he were to be honest. She still remembered the words he had taught her from a week prior, and could speak in basic sentences that were about herself and her state of being.

“Let’s start over,” he said, leaning back against one of the sofas. Sweetie placed her hooves in front of her and leaned forward eagerly. “Tell me, Sweetie Belle, how do you feel today?”

“Sentio magna!” she answered. (I feel great!)

“Ah. Aliqua causam cur?” (Any reason why?)

“Quoniam tu huc!” (Because you’re here!)

He rolled his eyes, but smiled. “Flattery will get you nowhere… unless you do it right.” He looked back at her. “You’ve improved. I’m impressed. Latineigh is not an easy language.”

She rubbed her head sheepishly. “Yeah, Scootaloo and Apple Bloom sometimes call me a walking dictionary.”

“Really? I can see why,” he said. “I was called something similar back in foalhood.”

“Yeah, Bookworm, right?”

“You remembered?”

She smirked. “I don’t think anypony would forget a dumb name like that.”

“The colt who called me that did.”

“Well, he’s not you, is he?” Rarity interrupted, stepping in from the bedroom area and getting their attention. “If you two are finished, could you help us pack?”

“Pack?” Prose asked. “What for?

“Why, to go sightseeing, of course,” she answered with a flip of her mane.

He narrowed his eyes. “Are you sure that’s a good idea?”

“You said it yourself: Finch is gone for now. And you still have to make up for stopping our tour short when we first arrived.”

“That wasn’t a—” He cut himself off with a sigh. “But the Family might still be around. They might try something—”

“Try something?” Rarity smiled. “It’s flattering that you care for us all, Prose. I don’t mean to brag, but we are the Elements of Harmony, and if anypony tried to, say, assault us, they’d wind up in Canterlot Court faster than you can say lacum missus sum!”

“That’s not the proper way to say locked up in a dungeon.”

“But the point got across, did it not?”

He sighed again, looking between the mare and the filly. The latter had her eyes wide and hopeful, while the former held an amused smile.

“Who am I to argue the whims of charming ladies?” he finally said, standing up, getting a squeal of delight from Sweetie and a giggle from Rarity.

They went into the bedroom, where the girls were already packing their things. Sweetie went over to help her friends, while Prose raised an eyebrow, confused. The mares had their saddlebags filled with an assortment of goods, ranging from books (notebooks in Twilight’s case) to fabric samples to a bag full of apples.

“What, do you plan on settling in sometime soon?” he asked.

Twilight blushed. “Well, we’ll be walking for quite some time today. We thought we’d find some way to keep ourselves occupied.”

“It looks like we’re going on a camping trip,” Apple Bloom commented. She cocked her head. “If, ya know, a camping trip had us bringin’ books and clothes.”

Applejack chuckled. “It’s a trip, alright, Apple Bloom. Into the heart of Manehattan.” She sighed, remembering. “Ah haven’t been in this city since I was a kid!”

Prose looked at her, intrigued. “Really? You used to live in Manehattan?”

“It was before Ah got my Cutie Mark, but yes; I did live with mah Aunt and Uncle Oranges.” She gave an inquisitive gaze to the author. “Ya didn’t happen to know anypony named that, didya, Prose?”

He shook his head. “I lived on the western side of Manehattan. Left before I could fully explore the eastern district—that must have been where you lived. I had heard that some country folk were moving there…”

While the two of them continued talking, Scootaloo moved over to Rainbow Dash. The pegasus was cradling an older edition of Daring Do and, surprisingly, one of Prose’s older books. “Which one is that, Rainbow?” Scootaloo asked, pointing a hoof out at the unknown novel.

Rainbow held it up. “It’s called X25. It sounded cool, so I thought I might check it out.”

“Isn’t that a science-fiction book?”

“It is?” Rainbow scrunched up her novel. “Ugh!” She threw the book down.

Prose glanced over with a frown. “I’d ask you refrain from destroying my belongings any further, Dash.”

“Hey! I bought this fair and square! I just didn’t know it was an egghead’s book!”

“You’re reading a children’s tale.”

“Daring Do is not a children’s tale! It is a story about a mare who doesn’t fear anything!”

“Rainbow, I’m an author, and I can tell you with one-hundred percent certainty that A.K. Yearling wrote that for foals.”

Rainbow grit her teeth. “If you weren’t my second favorite author, I’d cream ya just for saying that!”

“What? I’m your second favorite—” They began griping back and forth, almost like siblings fighting over something small, drawing the stallion away from Applejack. The farmer mare smirked as Rarity walked over.

“I must say,” the fashionista said, “Prose has certainly grown more comfortable around us. And in such a short timespan.” They watched as the stallion tried to lecture Rainbow about the physics of a photon, with the pegasus clamping her hooves to her head, trying to block out his words. Twilight added a few of her own explanations in, much to Prose’s pleasure and Rainbow’s annoyance.

Applejack chuckled. “Eeyup! Who’d have thought he’d be considering us his friends?”

“Tribuo is a casu!” Prose was shouting. (“Give it a chance!”)

“Don’t throw that foreign language stuff at me!” Rainbow responded.

Pinkie and Fluttershy walked up to Rarity and Applejack, the former beaming, while the latter had a small smile on her face. “It’s kind of nice to see Prose acting… okay,” Fluttershy commented. She hid behind her mane. “Not that there’s anything wrong with Prose not acting… okay…”

“I hear ya, Shyshy!” Pinkie exclaimed. “It’s great to see Prose all happy and enjoying himself!”

That visibly shook the stallion, as he suddenly cut off his tirade. He zoned out, staring at the wall behind Rainbow for a few minutes.

“Or… maybe not,” Pinkie said.

Prose blinked, before shaking his head and clearing his throat. “A-anyway. We’d best be off. The city doesn’t wait for newcomers to gradually grow accustomed.” The others nodded, grabbing their belongings. A short while later, the room was left bare, devoid of its ponies.

The city’s sights and sounds greeted them once more. Loud and boisterous though it was, they still found themselves ignored by a majority of its residents. Even Prose, who had his hood down, was not approached by some fan.

He had decided against wearing his hood; for one, it wasn’t too cold out, and for another, he doubted that it would matter. It was guaranteed that a pony would recognize him eventually, with or without the hood. Rarity the night before had added a few patches to it so that it wouldn’t look teared. Underneath he wore his signature vest. He carried his small bag by his side, it still being filled with its original contents.

“Where to first?” he asked the others.

“Me and Scoots are gonna go check out those sport shops,” Rainbow answered.

“Shopping? Already?”

“Well, what else do you do in a city as big as this?” asked Rarity.

He frowned. “You said sightseeing…”

“Aw, is Mister Opa going to be upset that not all of his lady friends will be able to accompany him?”

He ignored the jest, turning to the cyan pegasus and her pupil. “Just be careful. You don’t know what dangers these streets could have.”

She grinned confidently. “That won’t be a problem, Prose. As soon as some ugly mug tries something funny, I’ll wallop him.”

“Yes, I am certain you’re more likely to hit before talking,” he answered dryly. “Nonetheless, avoid the alleys when you can, stay in the crowds, and do not lose each other. Understood?”

“Understood, sir,” the orange pegasus responded.

He nodded, then turned to the remaining seven, prompting them to tell him where they were heading.

“Ah think Ah’ll tag along with Rainbow,” Applejack said. “How about it, Apple Bloom?”

The filly nodded, walking up to her friend and exchanging a hoof bump.

“I’m going to find the best bakery in Manehattan!” Pinkie exclaimed. She grabbed Fluttershy. “You’ve gotta help me, Shy!”

“Um, okay,” the mare replied, smiling nervously. “I’ll… I guess I’m going with Pinkie.”

“Keep her in check,” Prose reminded her, before looking at the remaining three.

“Well, you can probably guess,” Rarity said, smiling.

“Fashion expo.”

“As astute as ever. Yes, I am going to see if I can’t drum up a few business deals… perhaps even get some advice.”

“I’ll come with you,” Twilight said. “I’m… kind of interested, actually. I’ve heard that some of the ponies attending are from educated backgrounds.”

“And I’m coming too!” Sweetie said. She then looked at Prose. “And you’ll come with us, right?”

“I don’t think I could argue otherwise,” he said, shaking his head.

They all bid their farewells, before setting off in three different directions. Rainbow and her company trotted to the east, while Fluttershy and Pinkie Pie decided to try the southern area. Prose’s group ventured north, towards the Education and Arts Districts.

The more vibrant color scheme of the mares and filly masked Prose’s darker complexion; and in the throng of city folk, his greyness perfectly matched the smoke, ash, dirt, and bark shades. His small frown contrasted with their wide smiles. Outnumbered in that way, he truly was anonymous.

That did not seem to deter any of those accompanying him. Sweetie continually asked him about the various buildings and landmarks that they would pass, and he answered as best he could. While Rarity had been a good source of information, it was Prose’s natural Manehattan in him that could answer fully all of Sweetie’s questions. He spoke with authority and the tone of somepony with experience; he lived and breathed the answers, and he could pass the knowledge on down easily, without having to consult a travel guide. Soon Sweetie became wrapped in the city’s history, and her head swarmed with the facts and figures. Each landmark opened her eyes and mind, and she soon stopped questioning, her mind busy on absorbing this new information.

Taking that moment to turn to the others, Prose asked, “Are you sure this is a good idea?”

“Hmm?” Twilight asked, looking up from her book. “I’m sorry, what do you mean by that?”

“Leaving the others alone.”

“Come now, Prose,” Rarity chided. “Surely you know they are more than capable of handling themselves.”

“You don’t know these streets like I do. The threats, the dangers—”

“Prose, I have seen nothing but kindness and graciousness in these ponies’ eyes. I have yet to see this danger you so eagerly fear.”

He narrowed his eyes. “Then perhaps you aren’t looking hard enough.”

“Do I really need to?” she challenged, also narrowing her eyes.

They all stopped, watching the two stare at each other. The tension in the air arose. Yet ponies passed them without sensing it.

Finally Prose sighed. “Look, I just don’t want any of you to get hurt. Even though you are the Element Bearers… that doesn’t make you invincible. Grifford is dangerous; and so is the Family.”

“You keep talking about them like that,” said Sweetie Belle, “but we haven’t seen anything bad happen yet.”

“What about the mugging?”

“I heard you put a stop to that,” Rarity answered, softening her gaze. “Admirable, I must say. But that still does not show us how ‘dangerous’ this ‘Family’ is. For all we know, that could have been a completely unrelated incident.”

He fell silent, looking away. Rarity stepped forward, placing a hoof on his shoulder. “We appreciate your concern, Opa,” she said quietly. “Really, we do. But you have to stop worrying so much. Everything will be fine.”

He shook her off, but nodded slowly, turning away. He continued trotting, and, after a sharing of looks, the others followed.

Soon they reached the Education and Arts Districts. Prose saw a sign that pointed to the fashion expo, and they followed its directions, heading east. The buildings began to reflect the district quite beautifully. Drapes hung from balconies and walls were colored bright, lively colors. Windows were tinted with prismatic glass, and the very sidewalk became a reflection of colorful liveliness. Rarity commented on the tapestries that hung from the nearby buildings, while Twilight babbled on about the various old buildings that they passed. Prose, however, remained silent, eerily silent—like he wasn’t even there.

Sweetie was the first to notice. She tugged on his cloak, but got no response; Opacare only continued walking. She frowned. Manehattan must be stirring up some old memories, she thought.

She had guessed right. Each comment that either Twilight or Rarity made brought up an old mission. He felt himself tense up as memories of nearly pushing ponies off balconies and railings passed by. His brow furrowed, and he lowered his gaze, looking down at the tiles below, trying to stave off the memories. He failed in doing so; he clenched his teeth as he saw himself ramming a stallion into a fountain, hearing the crunching of bones as the stallions’s shoulders were shattered.

He blinked, seeing that he had slightly trailed behind the others. They gave him strange looks. “Opacare? Are you alright?” Twilight asked.

He grunted. “Yes, just… thinking.”

They didn’t question further, and he caught up with them.

The great marble columns of the Manehattan Arts Museum greeted them in the horizon, and posters and signs hung from the sides, revealing that the expo was being held inside. Cyan-colored, with orange highlights, the advertisements quickly captured nearby gazes, drawing ponies in.

“A color that is contrasted against a neutral background certainly makes for an excellent lure,” Prose commented.

Rarity nodded. “I would expect no less from experts in all aspects of design, color included.”

She led the group forward. Pedestrians looked at them and gasped, seeing who walked with the girls. Whispers concerning the author left mouths and traveled on the wind. He ignored them, following quietly.

The admission was a few bits, and children for free. Rarity paid the price easily, then gestured for the others to follow her. Twilight and Sweetie took the middle, while Prose kept to the back.

Entering the museum, they immediately turned right. Down the hall Prose could hear the clamoring of loud voices. As they traveled, the voices grew louder, and they appeared to be right above them. They entered a stairwell and went upstairs to the second floor.

“Here we are!” Rarity sing-songed.

A large crowd had gathered in front of a stage that had been set up earlier. They were cheering ecstatically as models trotted up and down the floor, showing off various dresses and gowns. An announcer called out each model’s name, getting the crowd even more excited.

Towards the back of the stage, Prose could see some ponies talking. He guessed that they were the designers of the outfits. They didn’t seem hostile towards each other; rather, they were complimenting the others on how they created their dresses. He frowned, not used to seeing such mannerisms in the city.

Rarity giggled. “Oh, my, these dresses look absolutely lovely!”

“They sure do, Rarity,” Twilight said with a smile. “Though, to be honest, I think your work rivals theirs.”

“Oh, you flatter me,” Rarity responded with a bat of her hoof. “But, if you really think so…” Her eyes twinkled as she considered the realm of possibilities that were opening up before her.

They walked forward, entering into the crowd, trying to part their way to the stage. Rarity suddenly gasped, her smile widening. She waved a hoof excitedly; Prose couldn’t tell who exactly she was waving to.

“Who’s Rarity waving at, Twilight?” Sweetie asked.

“I think it’s—”

“Sapphire Shores!” Rarity called. “Over here!”

The famous pop singer Earth mare looked up, and smiled as she saw her main dress designer. She trotted through the crowd, reaching her. “Rarity!” she said. “It’s been so long!” She reached over to hug the unicorn.

Rarity giggled. “It most certainly has. But I see you’re getting along quite fine.”

“Yes. The glamor of stardom certainly has its wonders at points.” She looked over at the others, not yet recognizing them. “Oh? Are these your friends?”

“Hello, Miss Shores,” Twilight greeted with a wave. “I’m Twilight Sparkle, one of Rarity’s friends.”

“Pleasure to meet you, Twilight!” she responded, before looking down at the filly by her side. “And I imagine that this is Sweetie Belle?”

The filly nodded. “Yep! I’m Rarity’s—”

“Younger sister,” Sapphire completed with a grin. “I hear you’re quite the singer!”

She blushed. “Ehehe… maybe… Oh!” she exclaimed, looking up at the mare. “I have to thank you for letting all of us stay in your hotel!”

“The Greenwood? I knew it would suit your needs!” She threw her head back in light laughter. “Judging by your expression, I’d say you enjoyed the surprise party.”

“Oh, definitely!” Sweetie nodded so fast her head might have fallen off.

Sapphire then looked to the final member. He stepped a little closer to greet her. She held up a hoof, stopping him. “I think I already know you,” she said, her eyes twinkling.

“It’s hard to guess wrong,” he said, shaking his head. “Even when you try to hide, something shows up to break your barriers.” He glanced at Sweetie, feeling suddenly ponderous.

“Opacare Prose,” Sapphire mused. “Do you know that you’re nearly as famous as me? Just from that disappearing act a month ago?”

“And here I thought it was my stories.”

She laughed. “You’re just as sharp and witty as I imagined! I’m impressed.” She glanced at Rarity with a slight smirk. “You certainly have good taste in stallions, Rarity.”

The unicorn blushed, while Prose frowned. “That’s not—we’re not—” she stammered.

Sweetie and Twilight looked between them, confused.

“Anyway,” Sapphire continued, “I suppose you’re here for the fashion expo, right, Rarity?”

Relieved that the embarrassing moment had passed, the unicorn nodded. “Yes. I was hoping I could talk to some of the lead designers who are here.”

“Oh? Then perhaps I can help!” Sapphire smiled, offering a hoof. “I happen to know a few of them from business. I think I can get you a moment with them!”

“Really? Oh, how grand!” The two trotted off, leaving the others alone for the moment.

Prose blinked, sighed, then rolled his eyes. She’ll come back… eventually…

Sapphire’s appearance had done more than take Rarity away. Ponies had been looking over, trying to see who the star had been talking to. They gasped when they saw the Opacare Prose standing in the middle of the crowd.

“Hold up, folks!” the announcer cried. “Look who it is! The famous author himself, Opacare Prose!”

Ah, damn it. He flinched back, trying to hide from the sudden attention. Twilight and Sweetie exchanged nervous glances as they backed up into Prose.

Twilight and Sweetie let out sighs of relief when they saw the crowd pull out books to be signed. Prose pressed his hoof into his face. They’re everywhere…

Meanwhile, Rarity and Sapphire were now at the back of the hall, gathered with a few of the lead designers of the dresses being showcased.

“You mean to tell me that you helped reveal that Dusk Prosa was Opacare Prose?” Sapphire asked her. They heard the cries of the crowd as Opacare was forced to reach for his quill pen.

The unicorn giggled; she could practically hear her friend’s annoyed snort as he signed his name repeatedly. “I wouldn’t call it revealing,” she said, turning to her famous client. “Rather, I think it’s more like I helped him find his way.”

“Which wasn’t an easy task to do, I would imagine,” Sapphire responded.

Rarity nodded. “Indeed, it wasn’t. He has to be the most stubborn stallion I have ever met!” She briefly picked up a sample of garment that one of the designers was holding. “Ooh, so you used this style. I should keep that in mind!”

She then turned back to Shores. “Honestly, if it wasn’t for Sweetie Belle, I don’t think Prose would have easily been found out.”

The singer sighed. “Yes, we often underestimate the power of the filly, don’t we?”

“I’ve heard that Prose is a genius,” a designer spoke up. “Is that true, Miss Rarity?”

“Well,” she said, waving a hoof, “it depends on what you define as genius. According to Prose, he’s not smart; only logical.” She snorted. “So logical to a point where it’s nearly cold!”

The designers exchanged glances. “That doesn’t sound particularly pleasant.”

“On paper it isn’t. But, once I got to know him, well, I’ve gotten used to his unique… perspectives.” She frowned, and Sapphire noticed.

“Something come to mind?” she asked.

“It’s nothing, really. I was just thinking that Prose could be a bit… paranoid at times.”

“Paranoid?” another designer asked.

“Well…” She glanced around. Maybe I shouldn’t say… then again, I suppose it wouldn’t hurt. “He doesn’t seem particularly fond of Manehattan, for one. He keeps warning us about these ‘streets of danger’ and all that. Honestly, I don’t see where he’s getting that vibe.” Her smile widened. “I’ve seen nothing but generous and amazing artists since I arrived!”

The ponies laughed jovially at that, but Sapphire frowned in turn. “Prose said that?”

Rarity caught her client’s questioning look, and immediately felt herself grow uneased. “Yes, he did. Is something wrong?”

Shores shook her head. “It’s just a weird thing to say, that’s all.”

Another sample appeared before Rarity, and using her magic, she lifted it up. “I see… this is an interesting string arrangement. Where did you get this?… Oh? That close? Well, I must simply check it out, shouldn’t I?” She was distracted by the artists that surrounded her. Sapphire stayed quiet, thinking.

As the designers moved away, Rarity turned back to the Earth pony, seeing her troubled look. “Okay, Sapphire. Now I know that something’s not right with you.”

Glancing furtively around, Shores leaned in to speak softly in Rarity’s ear. “It’s odd. I’ve been hearing something similar from some ponies I’ve been by.”

Rarity raised her eyebrows. “What do you mean?”

“Some ponies talked about how there’s a coming storm, a war between families. Something to do with how Manehattan is, and was.” She shook her head. “I thought it was just typical gossip, but hearing that Prose is thinking something similar… perhaps there is some credibility in those words.”

Rarity’s eyes widened. “Sapphire, you don’t mean to say that there is a danger in this city!”

She shook her head. “I’ve been here for a long time, and I have yet to see anything above a rare mugging happen.”

She stepped back, still troubled. “Manehattan is a good city, I think. It has good ponies, good morals, and good ethics. At least, that’s what I see now. But Prose comes from a different time, doesn’t he? When the city was much more corrupt.”

“So maybe that is transitioning over to now,” Rarity said.

“Maybe.” Sapphire sighed. “Maybe his past is something that neither you nor I can hope to understand. You described him as a living paradox; perhaps this is just another aspect of his oddness?”

Rarity didn’t answer, looking somewhat away, thinking.

“Manehattan’s a wonderful place,” Sapphire assured her. “With the right amount of connections, you could probably learn a thing or two about how business works here. It’s called the City of Dreams for a reason. But maybe Prose’s dreams were shattered sometime ago, and now he can’t think of how good the city is.”

“Perhaps.” Rarity shared a look with her client. “I do hope you’re right, and that Prose is simply a bit odd and all.”

Shores flashed a smile. “If he’s every bit as eccentric as the papers say, then there really isn’t anything to worry about.”

“I suppose you’re right,” Rarity said, giving her own smile.

They turned as they heard the crowd slowly begin to return to its original position. “I should probably make sure he’s not dead,” Rarity said. Shores followed her as she trotted back to her group.

She covered her mouth with a hoof to stifle a giggle. A few of the models had actually walked off stage to get their books signed by Prose; several were posing with the stallion, grinning madly. The author, however, had a look of utter torment; he couldn’t find it in himself to force a smile, even as the cameras flashed and clicked.

“C’mon, give us your signature cool look!” a pony shouted out.

He has a cool look? Rarity wondered, her smile stretching from ear to ear.

Seeing Rarity trying not to laugh made him furrow his brow, unintentionally making him look much cooler.

The last model then leaned close and kissed Prose on the cheek, making his eyes widen and causing Rarity to forego her smile. A bright red imprint of her lips was left over. The model walked away, smirking at the others. The crowd dispersed soon after.

Rarity walked over with Shores. Prose visibly relaxed, before reaching back into his satchel.

“You aren’t going to keep that on, are you?” she blurted.

In response, he, frustrated that he had not packed a tissue, grabbed a bit of his cloak in his mouth. He pulled, ripping the material. Holding it in his hoof, he then wiped away the lipstick, scowling. “I should hope not,” he said. “What she did was uncalled for.” He glanced at Rarity. “You seem a bit flustered.”

She shook her head, trying to hide the sudden thrill of excitement that raced through her heart. “I’m fine. Just sad that you had to rip your garment.”

He acquired a small smile. “But you can fix it, can’t you? Miss fashionista?”

She rolled her eyes, but returned the smile. “I suppose I can.”

Shores walked over to Twilight. “You can see it too, right?”

“Huh?”

“Look! The way Rarity talks when she’s near Prose! The way she looks at him!”

Twilight stared at the singer for a moment, before her eyes widened in shock. “You mean—”

Shores smiled. “Well, it’s a stretch. Maybe they’re just good friends. But then again…” She looked back at the two, seeing that they were now talking about the preferred fabric to use.

“I don’t know,” Twilight said. “I think Prose has enough to worry about. Then again… maybe a good friend, perhaps something more, would be better to have at this point.”

“Now you’re talking!” Sapphire laughed, making Twilight smile.

“Twilight? Sweetie Belle?” Rarity called. “I think we should go. Opa here is getting a little nervous.”

“Nervous?” He snorted. “I believe the term is uncomfortable.”

“Psh. Anyway, I think I’ve gotten what I needed. What about you two?” Seeing them shake their heads no, she continued, “Then, I think we should be off. It was nice seeing you again, Sapphire!”

“You, too, Rarity. Keep out of trouble, you hear?”

They hugged, before Rarity turned to leave. Opacare followed after her, then Sweetie Belle, then Twilight. Shores watched them go, a smile on her face.

“Whoa! Apple Bloom, check these out!” Scootaloo exclaimed, holding up some sort of manuel.

The tan filly trotted over with a curious frown. “What’s that, Scootaloo?” In response, her friend handed the object to her. Bloom held it in front of her face, reading the front. “‘The Complete Guide to Artificial Aerodynamics?’ Scoot, Ah didn’t know you were into this kinda stuff!”

Scootaloo blushed and shrugged. “Well, I wasn’t at first. But Opa has been looking for ways to help me fly, and I remembered that he had said something about using models as a way to help me.”

“Like using birds or something? Using their wing size?”

“Yep! He said that he doubted I couldn’t fly forever. He reasoned that I needed extra help, that’s all.” She looked away. “‘Course, that doesn’t sound all that great…”

Bloom placed a reassuring hoof on her shoulder. “Cheer up, Scootaloo. You’ll be one step closer to flying with Rainbow Dash!”

Scootaloo smiled. “Yeah, I guess you’re right.”

As they continued browsing the shelves of Hooven Sport and Science Wares (“That’s not weird or anything,” Scootaloo had initially said, thinking that the title couldn’t work), they saw a prismatic mane hover in front of the counter. A familiar stetson hat pointed out; the two were in the midst of talking to the cashier.

They walked up to them. Scootaloo gave Rainbow her purchase, while Apple Bloom handed over a book on gardening to her sister. They paid (a low price, because, as the mare at the register said, “We’re having an Opacare Returns sale today!”), then left with a smile.

“Ah didn’t think Prose could be this influential,” Apple Bloom said.

“Having sales just because he returned?” Rainbow smirked. “Hey, Applejack. If I did something really cool right now, do you think we could get a discount at every store just by saying my name?”

“Maybe if you were a tad bit more humble,” Applejack retorted, grinning.

Carriages raced by, the wooden wheels rolling heavily on the tar streets. Hooves clacked against the sidewalk, and suits and vests were tugged as ponies passed each other. A few greetings were given, and some even reciprocated; most, however, simply ignored them, focused on getting to their destination.

Rainbow frowned. “I don’t get it.”

“Get what?” Scootaloo asked.

“Prose made it sound like this city wasn’t all that great. I mean, yeah, the ponies can be kinda rude, but that’s for a good reason, right? And it’s not like these streets are dangerous or anything; at least, it doesn’t appear that way.”

“Ya have to remember, Rainbow,” Applejack said, “Prose comes from a different time; a different life.” She smiled. “Ah think it’s real nice that he cares enough to warn us. Means he’s really warmed to us all.” She cast then a dry look at the cyan pegasus. “Considering, you know…”

Rainbow groaned. “Don’t remind me. I mean, I don’t think he holds it against me, but it’s kinda embarrassing accusing you of offing yourself.”

They continued walking, talking about the day, the stallion, what they planned on doing for the rest of their stay. They headed back west, towards their hotel, which was still several hundred blocks ahead. Considering how large the city was, and how long it had taken them to reach the sport store, they would arrive in maybe a half hour, if not more.

Scootaloo took the time to reach over and bring out her book. In the past, she hadn’t wanted to read and be considered an egghead, but, after learning that Rainbow liked Prose’s books, and having spent enough time with the stallion to like what he had to say, she found she had a greater appreciation for the written word. Maybe not as much as Apple Bloom or Twilight, but substantial enough that she could choose her favorite genre.

Her mind took in the words like a ravenous and hungering beast. It wasn’t a particularly tough book. There were a few words that were somewhat difficult, but she got by easily. She learned all about lift, and drag, and weight, and thrust; she found herself realizing that there was more to flying that simply beating your wings hard enough. She found a footnote that talked about how, in pegasi, there was an additional force used: magic. Sometimes it came instinctively, and other times, one needed to train hard enough to use it.

The note continued with saying that without magic, a pegasus—as well as an alicorn—would not be able to fly as well as they were known for. They were simply too big, and their wings, no matter how massive or strong, would struggle to keep them aloft. In fact, it was hypothesized that a regular sparrow would have been able to fly better than a magic-ridden pegasis. Magic, it was noted, gave them their amazing ability of flight.

Huh, Scootaloo thought. Maybe I can get Twilight to help me figure this stuff out. Or maybe even Prose!

“Hey! Scootaloo!”

She looked up, surprised. She had been so wrapped up in her book that she had fallen some distance away from the others. Apple Bloom was waving to her from the side of the sidewalk.

“Coming!” she answered, closing her book and trotting forward.

However, the oncoming traffic of ponies blocked her view, and she instinctively stopped, trying to see to the side of them. The greys and whites blurred past, and she found herself suddenly dizzied by the onslaught of bland coloring.

She noticed something stop in front of her; she apologized and made to move away. She yelped, as she felt a hoof suddenly grab her by her mane. Another hoof reached down and grabbed her book.

“Hey! Let go!” she exclaimed, pulling with all her might. The pony didn’t answer, only grunting as he strained to rip the book from her. “Help!”

It seemed nopony would answer her cry; that is, until a familiar voice shouted, “Let go of her!” It distracted Scootaloo enough for her to loosen her hold, and the book was torn from her. She looked at the thief, seeing that it was a stallion, before being knocked away.

“Ow!” she shouted, landing hard. She got up, looking for the stallion. A cyan blur appeared next to her, along with an orange and tan pair of ponies.

“Where’d he go?” Rainbow asked, eyes darting around. Apple Bloom grabbed her friend, holding her tightly, comforting her. “No… don’t tell me he got away!” Rainbow flew up, scanning the crowd, her lips pulled back and teeth bared.

“Look for somepony with a light green book!” Applejack shouted from below. “Excuse me, can anypony help us?” A few ponies stopped to ask what was wrong, and as they did so, Rainbow continued scanning for the thief.

Finally, she saw him; his black coat and dark blue mane didn’t stand out, but the book certainly did. “Found ya!” she shouted, and flew fast for him.

He heard her coming, and, with a startled and strained cry, raced away, galloping through the throng of pedestrians. Rainbow lost him twice in the crowd, but kept finding him as he broke away from the masses. She let out a growl, and resumed chasing him. Scootaloo and Apple Bloom followed from below, while Applejack convinced a few ponies to help catch the thief.

He ducked around a corner, and Rainbow followed—before suddenly crashing into him. “Ugh!” she groaned as they both rolled onto the walk. She recovered quickly, shaking her head, then tackled the stallion as he struggled to stand. “Where do you think you’re going?!”

“Let me go, ya joik!” he shouted in a thick accent. “I ain’t done nothing!”

“Nothing, ‘cept steal from a kid! Give me back that book!”

“Ya ain’t got jack-shit on me!”

She growled angrily, before picking him up and hoisting him in the air, his cloak flapping in the wind. “Listen, dude, I could wallop you right now to kingdom come if I wanted to, so unless you like having all of your teeth, start talking!”

“I ain’t talking, ya stupid horse—” He stopped, and Rainbow saw his eyes widen as they gazed down. Following his gaze, she saw two unicorn stallions underneath. They were a pale green and a darker blue, respectively; and their eyes shone with coldness that nearly matched Prose’s.

“N-no, no!” the stallion she held stammered. “Anypony but them! Please, wallop me, knock me out, do something! Just don’t let them touch me!”

“That’s enough,” the pale green stallion said, looking up the Rainbow. “Miss, I don’t think he’s going to talk anytime soon.”

“You got that right,” she said, looking back at the thief, confused as to why he was reacting so nervously.

“Maybe we can help?” the dark blue one asked. Rainbow nodded, before lowering herself to the ground. She pushed the stallion into the two.

They lit their horns, and he tried to shrink back. He was enveloped in a magical aura, preventing him from moving. He struggled. They stepped closer.

“Now, Clutch,” the pale green unicorn started, “you know our laws regarding thievery.”

Clutch struggled some more, seemingly trying to say something. A magical vice wrapped around his neck, cutting off his voice and air supply.

“This is your third offense, correct? And you decided to use that offense to steal from a filly? Truly deplorable character!” he continued.

Clutch struggled; he seemed to roll his eyes at the theatrics. It was hard for Rainbow to tell, because his head was rolled back, and he was too busy looking panicked.

“Now, then. The book. Where is it?”

Clutch’s tongue fell out. Straining against the magic, he pointed his hoof to his back pocket. Rainbow flew in and found the book, taking it out swiftly, landing behind the unicorns. She glanced behind, seeing Scootaloo, Apple Bloom, Applejack, and the crowd of ponies catch up.

“Hey! You got it back!” the orange filly said, looking up to her mentor with bright eyes. The look faded into confusion as she saw the two stallions holding up the thief. “Hey, what are they doing?”

“I don’t know,” Rainbow said. “Hey! I think you can stop now!”

“Such an act cannot go unpunished,” the green unicorn said, ignoring her. “Perhaps we should trail him…”

“Or maybe we could break his legs, here and now,” suggested the blue one.

They continued offering up darker ideas, and Clutch’s eyes widened. His face began turning blue, and his eyelids began to close.

“Halt!”

A platoon of police officers appeared in the rear, pushing past the crowd. “That’s enough, you two!” the commanding officer shouted.

“… As you wish, officer,” the green unicorn said. They cancelled their magic, dropping Clutch. He took in large gulps of air while the police surrounded and cuffed him.

“You… bastards…” he choked out. They ignored him, walking up the Rainbow and the others.

“No need to thank us,” the blue unicorn said, smiling. “Just doing our duty as Manehattanites. Anypony else here would have done the same, if they had reached Clutch fast enough.” Several murmurs of agreement ran through the crowd. Rainbow, however, kept silent, giving them a confused gaze, as the two unicorns trotted away.

“I guess that was helpful,” she said to Applejack. “But… don’t you think it was a bit excessive?”

The farm pony nodded. “Yeah, Ah hear ya. Still, though, at least we got the book back.”

Scootaloo and Apple Bloom nodded, though they looked unsure. They decided to head back to the hotel, though, this time, Scootaloo made sure to stay close to the others, the manual tucked safely against her side.

They entered the hotel room, looking tired, carrying their purchases. Pinkie and Fluttershy, already there, helped carry them in. Prose and Rarity sat on the front couch. The unicorn was busy fixing Prose’s coat, while also talking with the author. Twilight sat nearby, reading her book, while Sweetie Belle sat with her. Seeing her friends arrive, she jumped up and ran over to them.

“Hi, girls!” she greeted. “Did you have fun?”

They nodded at first, before revealing what had happened. Once they were done, Fluttershy flew over. “Oh, you poor thing!” she cooed, grabbing Scootaloo in a hug.

Rainbow shook her head. “Chill out, Fluttershy. It wasn’t like a manticore or a cockatrice or Discord was attacking. You okay, Scoots?”

“I’m fine, Rainbow. Just a little rattled.” She smiled, trying to appear comfortable.

Opacare looked at them with a frown. “What happened?” he asked, not having heard the news.

Applejack proceeded to fill him in as they placed the bags down. The fillies walked over and sat on the couch with Sweetie Belle. As Applejack finished her recount, the author’s brow furrowed, and he glanced at Scootaloo. “Another mugging? Already?”

He looked at Applejack. “You said you had some help?”

“Yeah,” Rainbow answered for her. “They were unicorns; a pale green one, and a dark blue one. They were a little overdramatic, but they helped us get the book back.” His scowl did not fade, as he searched his mind, thinking that the descriptions sounded vaguely familiar.

“I told you to keep out of trouble,” he said tersely.

“Hey!” Rainbow protested. “It’s not our fault some jerk decided to try and rob Squirt here!”

He sighed. “Well, thank goodness it was in the open, I suppose. If it were in a more secluded area…” He didn’t finish, his mind already filling with dark thoughts.

Rarity cleared her throat. “It’s good that you are all alright. Now, then, perhaps we should focus on lunch.” The others nodded, getting up and walking to the kitchen, where some menus were piled.

Prose, however, stayed on the couch for a moment longer, thinking, worrying. As he got up, he never lost that scowl, that faraway glare of his. And his heart worried for what was to come.

VII: The Veil of Ignorance

Grifford rubbed his temples with his hooves, eyes closed. He released a pent up sigh. In front of him was a folder of papers, all scribbled on with data and information. Lowering a hoof, he reached out, grabbing a small glass filled with a bronze liquid. He downed the liquid, letting out a low groan.

“Why do you drink that stuff if you hate it?” Swol asked.

Grifford looked at him. “It’s called keeping up appearances. And it really isn’t all that bad. It has a… distinguished taste.”

Swol remained unconvinced to the drink’s value. “If you say so.”

Finch flipped open the packet, reading through the files carefully. He grunted as he saw how much he needed to pay. “Ah, well. Considering how many resources I used in trying to find Prose, I suppose this makes sense.” He snorted. “Though I feel I might be cheated.”

“You are,” Swol said. “I checked the figures. They added an extra five percent to their dues.”

“Of course they would.” Grifford sighed again. “There are days when I wish the Family wasn’t so convoluted.”

Swol didn’t say anything to that.

Grifford’s mind returned to the conference from a few days earlier. He and several other Family leaders had gathered around in a fancy restaurant to discuss matters concerning the organization. Financial interest and the spread of power and control were among the foremost topics, the latter two becoming quickly heated. Finch liked having Manehattan under his control, but doubted that the Family could establish power beyond the city’s borders. One stallion had offered the idea of taking over the surrounding cities and towns; an idea that was quickly shot down by Grifford, as well as several other members.

Where that idea came from, Grifford didn’t know; and he was certain he wouldn’t want to hear it again. Finch was a helper of the people, not a conqueror, despite what those ponies thought.

Flipping over another sheet, he found a note that was talking about his latest activities. He frowned as he read. “A waste of resources… complete foolishness… not worth our while?” He sighed. “When will these ponies learn that all life is worth our while?”

“They don’t think like that,” Swol answered. “I don’t think they ever have.”

“Oh? And you know more about the Family than I?” Finch asked, jaw clenched.

“I don’t mean that,” Swol said quickly. “They’re from a different time, right? I mean, you’re younger than them; they were around when—” He looked away, “—your father, Atticus, was still the Boss.”

Grifford stiffened. “Mm, perhaps…”

Seeing his leader stiffen, Swol walked over, placing a hoof on his shoulder. “Look. These ponies, they’re different. They don’t see the way you do.”

“I know, Swol, I know.” Finch sighed. “I guess… I just want to convince them to cooperate. But they’re too damn stubborn to see that what I have been doing has really benefited the Family!”

He suddenly stood, pushing away from the table. “It’s always been like that. No matter how much power I accumulate, to them I’ll always be a fledgling youngster, too inexperienced to help the real world.” He sighed. “Sometimes I wonder if they’re right.”

“Grifford.” It may not have been the first time that Swol referred to him as such, but behind the word was the voice of a pony he could count on. “Don’t let yourself believe that. You’ve done great things in Manehattan, remember?”

Grifford didn’t say anything to that. He stared at the papers for a moment longer, before turning for his coat and hat. “I’m in the mood for something short to eat. What would you recommend?”

“The hayburgers downtown are good, I hear,” Swol answered, used to his leader’s tendency to avoid questions.

The stallion nodded, and they left the room in a hurry, leaving the glass of liquor on the table, still fizzing gently.

Baltimare was not as amazing as Manehattan, if Grifford was to be honest with himself. It had a much shorter skyline, and electricity as a commodity was not used as much as it was in the city westward. However, as it was further south than his home, it was much warmer, and he soon found that wearing his trenchcoat was unnecessary.

He saw that most ponies here were more conservative than the ponies back home, relatively speaking. Rather than steel skyscrapers and concrete houses, the buildings here were brick and mortar based. The train station ran through the center of the city, whistling loudly as trains came and went. The residents were nice, if a tad quiet; only a few bothered to greet him. Most just stayed out of his way, out of politeness and recognition.

On the eastern side of Baltimare was the fancy restaurant that he had joined the other members for talking. At the moment, though, it was the last place he wanted to be. The stress of work created an air of slight unease around that establishment; he wanted relations to it no longer.

With Swol following closely behind, he made his way downtown. The salty scent of Horseshoe Bay wafted through the air, rejuvenating him. He had forgotten he liked the sea, despite it being rare for him to see it. He supposed it was something carried over from his childhood, when his father would sometimes take him to the edge of Manehattan and show him the seemingly endless ocean beyond.

There had been a beauty in that ocean view, and he wanted to savor it to the best of his ability. Which was why once he had become mayor, pollution reduction became a huge priority. It was not a popular decision in the Family, though. They thought it childish; he thought it necessary.

Several townsfolk greeted him and Swol, and they offered smiles and salutations back. Manners with citizens is always important, Grifford reflected, thinking back on how some of his fellow leaders were less than adequate in their etiquette. Another issue we should resolve.

“Ponies here are quite friendly,” said Swol after waving to a mare.

“They ought to be,” said Grifford. “Baltimare is known for its hospitality after all.”

Around the corner was a small food place. A few ponies were already seated, their muzzles filled with delicious delicacies. A waitress noticed the two of them, and welcomed them, leading them to an open table. She handed them a pair of menus, asked them what to drink (“Water,” Grifford answered, while Swol asked for a glass of orange juice), then left to let them decide what to eat.

Grifford tried to start a conversation about the weather, noting that “it’s far more clearer here than in Manehattan.” Swol pointed out it was because that there were no skyscrapers to block the ocean wind. He noted that it might also have to do with the weather being regulated by Baltimare’s own Climate Management. Grifford, though, noticed that Swol seemed to be someplace else.

The waitress came back with their drinks, then asked for what they wanted. Grifford ordered a hayburger; Swol took a moment longer, before asking for a simple salad. The way he didn’t look at the waitress set off warning alarms in Grifford’s head. The waitress left, leaving him frowning.

He leaned forward and whispered, “Swol, is something wrong?”

Swol suddenly looked at him, eyes wide and surprised, like he had forgotten that he was there. He shook his head. “N-nothing, Boss.”

“You stuttered and called me by my title.” Grifford narrowed his eyes. “Now I know something’s gotten to you.” He leaned back, staring expectantly at the stallion.

Swol hesitated, before dropping his head. “Sorry. I just keep thinking about the last meeting.”

Grifford’s jaw tightened. “What of it?” The meeting held nasty memories for him, and though he wanted to not ever think of it, he had to get to the bottom of what was concerning Swol.

“The way they talked, the way they looked at you, the way they kept their distance from you.” Swol looked at his leader. “There was something definitely wrong in that meeting. Something those so-called ‘leaders’ were hiding.”

“You noticed all that?”

Swol winced. “Well… I haven’t forgotten how to read a pony closely.”

Grifford, moved on to another question. “So-called ‘leaders?’ What do you mean by that?”

Swol shook his head. “As far as I’m concerned, they aren’t leaders. They’re just a bunch of old, greedy aristocrats, who have no respect for the common pony.”

“That’s how the Family works—”

“Well, it shouldn’t!” he said fiercely, trying to keep his voice level. He took a deep breath. “Grifford, you’re more of a leader than any of them ever will be. Heck, you reinvented the old ways and established something much better in Manehattan!” He huffed, agitated. “Those old farts don’t know when to change when they need it!”

He sounds kind of like me, Finch thought. Back when I was trying to convince Prose to stay. His frown remained, hiding his thoughts.

Swol leaned forward. “Look. They’re planning something. Something that they want to remain hidden from you. And I don’t like that.”

“Concerned for me?” Finch was genuinely surprised.

“I haven’t made a lot of friends in the Family, at least, not as much as one might expect. Really, you are the only friend I have!” He looked away. “I don’t want you getting hurt. You’ve been hurt enough. You’re like a brother to me; the older brother I never had.” He sighed. “Grifford, you took me in when my life was in shambles. From you I learned bravery, toughness, and a whole lot more. I learned more from you than I did with Prose’s last days.” He looked back at him. “If you get hurt, I’ll only blame myself.”

Grifford blinked. “Swol…” He had not before considered that Swol would be like a little brother to him. Only now did he realize just how close they were; like siblings, even.

“Maybe I’m just paranoid. Maybe it’s all these rumors of other powers at work. Maybe it’s Prose’s return, and me seeing just how much he meant to you as your friend.” Swol leaned back, looking away. “I just… I’ve seen enough in these three years as a member of the Family to know when things could go wrong.”

Grifford said nothing for a few moments, staring down at the tabletop. The waitress soon came by, and filled their plates up with their meals, and placed down their drinks. He did not dig in at first.

His thoughts turned to his Mark: a circle outline with a nine-pronged star in the middle. His father had told him it meant order within a habitat. But which one: the Family’s, or his “family?” His friendships?

He looked up, at Swol, his friend, the last friend, perhaps—and he managed a smile.

“Trust me, Swol, if anything bad were to happen, I would have guessed it beforehand.” Swol looked at him, still unsure. “Besides, what’s the worse they could do? Kill me?” He laughed, trying to keep the mood light. “They could try! But then they’d have to contend with an entire city loyal to their Mayor.” He smiled at his friend. “And, of course, they’d have to deal with the loyalest of friends—you.”

Swol stared at him, before returning his own smile. “Yeah… maybe you’re right.”

Grifford held up his glass of water. “To friends?”

Swol picked up his juice. “To friends. Eternally.”

They clinked glasses, then proceeded to dine ravenously. They did not notice the set of eyes staring at them through binoculars from across the street, nor the eyes suddenly vanish into the crowd.

“Were you spotted?”

The courier shook his head. “I don’t think so. They were too busy talking.”

“Talking? What about?” He turned his head to another hidden voice, squinting as all he could see was a dim silhouette.

“Could you turn on the lights? I can’t see you.”

“It’s better this way. Now, tell us,” said the first voice, “what were they talking about.”

He shrugged. “It’s hard to say. I can’t read lips. But judging on how they were pretty quiet, but lively, they were talking about something important.”

“How important?” another voice implored.

“Very important, I guess. I don’t know. Can I have my payment now?”

The voices ignored him, and began conversing among themselves. He frowned. “Hello? Are you even listening?”

“One moment,” a female voice ordered, and he could see the vague outline of a hoof held up. He nearly snorted in distaste, but stopped from doing so. Something about her tone suggested that she had no time for his impatience, ironic though it was. So he waited, letting them whisper and talk, their voices low, yet not hiding their excitement and fierceness.

They turned back to him—he thought they did, as he couldn’t see their faces—and he waited for his payment. There was the sound of bags rustling, and a small bag filled with bits was thrown out.

He reached for it, counting the bits, a scowl forming. “Ten bits? That’s it? I could get more watering my grandmother’s garden!”

“We are not your elder’s home of plantlife,” a voice said tersely. “Take your payment.”

“This is absurd! I spent a half hour tracking those guys! I should get more!”

“Take your payment or we take your life,” the voice ordered, cold and distant.

He gulped, before nodding slowly, and placed the bits into his bag.

“I trust that you will not tell anypony about what you have done?”

“Not a soul.”

“Good. You may leave.”

The door behind him hissed open, letting in a faint light—not enough for him to see his bosses. He turned, trotting towards the exit. He looked over his shoulder, uncertain and scared, as the door closed shut. There was a low hum as he accelerated upwards towards the surface.

The voices convened around the table, still hidden. “What do you think?” the female asked.

The first voice answered, “I think we might have a problem on our hooves.”

“What should we do?” asked another voice.

“Calm down, sir,” answered another, “Grifford Finch won’t be a problem. Isn’t that right, Leader?”

Leader, the first voice, seemed to nod, and gave a grunt of affirmation. “No, he will not. We will make sure he isn’t.”

“How, though?” asked another. “We can’t kill him, or we’d have the entirety of Manehattan on our tails!”

“Then we won’t kill him,” said the female. “Simple as that.”

“She’s right. We can’t risk having his death jeopardize our mission. But there is one thing we can do.” There was a faint hum, revealing a light from atop his head—a unicorn. He floated over a scroll, keeping it aloft, as he held up a quill. “Therefore I will get in touch with our associate.”

“Him? Are you sure that’s a good idea? Haven’t you heard of his reputation?”

“I have, and rest assured his reputation is exactly why we need him.” He began to scribble madly, but finished quickly; the message was only a short paragraph long. His horn flashed, and the letter vanished.

“What did you say?” asked the female.

“How to destabilize Grifford Finch.”

A moment later, the room flashed, and another scroll landed in front of them. He picked it up, and read it aloud: “I’ll contact my contracts. You will have leverage. Who?” He smirked, teeth flashing in the darkness, before sending a quick response.

Another flash, and another scroll arrived. “Understood.”

“We are done here,” he said. “We shall reconvene at the usual time and place. Is that good with everyone? Good; and remember—

“For The Business.”

“For the Business!”

Six different hooves slammed down on the table, before all vanished into the shadows, unknown, faceless, and even more dangerous than before.

Grifford had no chance of stopping them.

VIII: Unsafe Haven

Minx awoke with a strange feeling.

She had been dreaming that she was in her choir class. It was a pleasant dream at first, with her being the center of attention. She was singing something in a foreign language, while the other students looked on in awe of her talent. She had smiled; it had been so long since she had sung.

Then the dream changed. The instructor seemed to morph into something darker, like a creature from the night. It had reminded Minx of what Prose’s last disguise looked like—a monster from Tartarus. Soon the others had begun to change into similar shadowy creatures. It seemed that her singing was the only thing that prevented them from reaching her. But her voice had soon grown tired, and she had to stop; and it was then that the monsters surrounded her, and all she saw afterwards was blackness.

It was then that she awoke, her heart racing, beads of sweat rolling down her face. She blinked, confused.

She felt nervous, for some reason. She glanced around her small room, trying to calm herself with its familiarity. She managed to do so after some time.

She quickly rolled out of bed and headed for the shower, turning the nozzle and letting the water flow out. She washed quickly, then dried just as fast; she looked in the mirror with a slight frown, suddenly and strangely uncertain. She shivered, not from coldness, but in anticipation.

She wondered why.

She walked away from her bedroom, and headed for her kitchen area. She walked over to the refrigerator and pulled out a loaf of bread. Opening it, she took out two slices, and placed them in the adjourning toaster, then pushed down on the switch. The gentle ticking calmed her nerves a little.

She then walked over to the coffee machine and started it up, adding the water and the beans. She placed her mug underneath and pressed the button, letting the coffee drip down. She yawned. As the cup filled, she began to stir it with a spoon. Once the liquid had settled, she ripped open three packets of sugar, dumping the contents. She added her coconut creamer to the mix, and stirred, then tasted it; she let out a low moan, relishing the sweetness.

She placed the coffee mug at the dining table, then returned to grab a plate. The toaster dinged, and she took out the toast, placing them on the plate. She grabbed a stick of butter from the fridge, then spread it across, seeing it melt. Somehow that seemed to reassure her that things were in order.

Her nerves refused to remain fully placid, however. After she placed down her plate, she trotted up to her door to grab her paper from downstairs. A few ponies had left their rooms, heading off to work. For her, it was a break day; her services to the Family were not required.

“Morning, Minx,” the apartment owner, an older mare by the name of Wayward Shine, greeted.

Minx nodded to her. “Good morning, Miss Shine.”

“Lovely day, don’t you think?”

“Can’t say I have; I haven’t looked outside yet.”

“Well, you ought to savor it while it lasts. There’s a scheduled rainfall a little later on today.”

“I’ll keep that in mind, Miss. My paper?”

Wayward pushed them over the counter, and Minx caught them. She noticed that there seemed to be more papers added to the mix; she distinctly saw that there was more than five different newspapers. She raised an eyebrow at Wayward. “There’s a bit more than what I’m used to.”

“What, you don’t like reading the news?” She cackled, like an old lady. “Besides, you ought to read the gossip papers every once in awhile. You’d get a real kick out of them.”

Minx couldn’t say she liked the gossip papers, but she couldn’t say she didn’t like them either, so she thanked Wayward and left.

She liked old miss Wayward; she was like a spry grandmother, stubborn and eccentric, yet strangely loveable. Minx didn’t really have much of a family left, so close relations with anypony were cherished.

She reentered her room, and placed the stack on the dining table. She undid the string holding together the papers. Her toast was still warm, so she sat down and grabbed a paper, and began to read while she ate.

There had been another mugging, according to the front page. It had occurred in the eastern side of Manehattan, in the colloquially named “Sport and Science Squares.” The victim was a young filly pegasus. Instead of Prose randomly showing up to save the day, however, it was instead two unicorns and a cyan pegasus. Minx frowned, thinking that the two stallions seemed familiar. No names were given, though.

She sighed. Manehattan may have been relatively peaceful, but that didn’t stop crime from running amuck where it could. She was more angry that the victim was a filly, and not a regular pony. It was just wrong, stealing from a kid. She supposed her own personal experience had led her to that conclusion.

She flipped the page, biting down on the toast, savoring the taste. There was more news on Prose, though it was mostly repeats on what had been reported in the last few days. There were more rumors than facts; he had been seen with a white unicorn at the latest fashion expo, and the idea that the two were a couple circulated throughout the commonfolk. Another rumor was his place of residence at the moment; most pointed to a hotel but, without anything substantial, they could only guess where exactly.

She frowned. Isn’t this the news, not the gossip paper? She flipped back to the cover, confirming it was. Huh. I guess Prose really is a big deal.

She may have followed his example in the Family, but that didn’t mean she wanted to constantly be reminded of him wherever she went. And she doubted even he would want all that attention.

Not that she knew for certain, of course.

Flipping the page revealed more annoying adverts; though, she had to admit, they reminded her that all was normal. Calm. Relatively speaking. Most offered her some clothes to wear for fall, as well as some “contemporary furniture that all homeowners need!” She didn’t understand what made them special or better than any old furniture.

She frowned. The strange feeling was back. She thought it was like she was forgetting something.

She placed the paper down and picked up the gossip magazine that Wayward had suggested. She grimaced almost immediately. Already a large slogan shouted at her, telling her all about “Sassy Saddles’ big booty” or “Fancy Pants’ newest wife, Fleur” or “Shock! The Chilling Story Of A Celebrity Gone Wrong!” or “The Secrets to Success: As Told By Sapphire Shores!”

She tore apart the paper, frustrated and annoyed. That was a mistake. She sighed, biting into her toast; the buttery taste didn’t settle her mood.

I’m forgetting something… what am I forgetting?

She finished her toast, then threw away the plate. She held up her coffee absentmindedly, still confused. Maybe I just feel that today I should be working. It’s not often I get a break. She sighed heavily. Then again, it’s not like I want to always work. There are times when I want to relax for a little while.

She got up, leaving her cup and papers behind. She wasn’t sure why, but she went to the back window, and peered outside. The building next door was sealed with brick; there were no windows to be found. When she first moved here, she found it odd how it was like that. She had investigated the other buildings, but had found that the brick one was the only one like that.

For some reason, it was making her feel uneasy. She decided to put her fears to rest, though, so she grabbed her jacket and headed for the door.

As she walked down the stairs, Wayward looked at her curiously. “Where are you heading off to, dear?” she asked.

“Just that old, brick building next door. I want to see what it’s all about.”

“That building hasn’t been open in years, but you’re welcome to take a look. Meanwhile, I’ve got to step out to buy some groceries. Do you need anything?”

“No, thank you. Good day, Miss Shine.”

“Please, dear, call me Wayward. Or at least Grannie. ‘Miss Shine’ makes me feel like I’m one hundred.”

“Aren’t you?”

“Hmph. Cheeky. You’re lucky I like you. Good day, Minx.”

The door jingled as she pushed it open, and she was immediately greeted by the overwhelming outdoors. She forced herself to keep walking rather than take in the city. She went down the corner, seeing the brick building in her sight. Soon she had reached its entrance. The doors were ebony wood, old, ancient, foreboding; she felt a chill run down her spine, and it wasn’t from the cold.

Something in the back of her mind told her that this was a bad idea, that this was dangerous. She frowned and pushed that thought away. I am the Prime Enforcer. This building is nothing compared to me. Still, though, that whisper remained, trying to goad her to leave while she could. She did her best to ignore it.

She placed a hoof on the doorknob. She frowned; it was still warm. Were there ponies inside?

She twisted the knob, pushing the door open gently. It didn’t creak like she had expected; instead, it effortless rolled open for her. Evidently it had been oiled at some recent time. Her frown deepened; no old building, however abandoned, ever had its hinges that clean. Her own door was not that slick.

The entranceway was pitch black. Even the lights from the sun and city weren’t enough to fully illuminate the building. Stepping inside, her hooves clacked against cold, clay tile. The place seemed barren; there was neither furniture nor furnishings. The only opening was the door.

She squinted, seeing the faint outline of something tall. She stepped further inside, the door remaining open. Her hooves shook, and she felt the hair on the back of her neck stand on end. Something about this place utterly chilled her; she felt like a mouse running from a large, dark, unknown cat. She moved closer to the outline and, reaching a hoof out, felt around. She noticed that it seemed to travel upwards in a diagonal. Stairs.

The left side was where the steps began. She trotted up them carefully, somehow knowing that her presence was not welcome here. She tried to keep her breathing low. Her heart beat rapidly. She blinked, stopped, and shook her head, trying to ease her fears of… whatever it was that lay above.

Yet all that was revealed to her was an empty second floor, just as devoid of anything like ground level. Only a staircase stood at the back.

“—see anything—”

She nearly gasped in surprise. Was that a voice? She craned her head and closed her eyes, trying to find the source. Another voice spoke, but it was unintelligible. She guessed male, but they were so faint she couldn’t say for certain.

They must be from above! she thought, opening her eyes.

Slowly, silently, she made her way to the second staircase, and traveled up it. Once again, she was met with a bare third floor. Obviously there were more floors above; she hadn’t counted on there being so many levels.

She glanced at the murky corners, thinking she saw some of the nightmarish creatures from her dream in them. They peeked out at the edges of her vision, but their teeth and claws were still visible.

Her heart raced. Her breath caught in her throat. She gulped.

Why was she so nervous?

She nearly faltered going up the third staircase, and hesitated on the fourth. Each floor was the same. But with each one, she swore she saw more shadow creatures. They were even more scarier than the ones in her dream, faceless and with glowing white eyes. She thought she saw blood drip from their eyes.

She blinked, and they were gone.

What is with this building…

She stopped, listening. Now the voices were much clearer, and definitely male.

“Where’d she go?”

“She left, I think. I can’t tell from this angle. Maybe for groceries?”

“What? But she stocked up only yesterday!”

They were from above. She shivered, eyes widening in shock. They were talking about her.

She felt sick, queasy. But she had to keep going. She had to know what was going on. She had to know what the two ponies were doing.

She locked her jaw and, after nodding to herself, trotted silently up the last flight of stairs.

The two stallions were staring out at a wall. She frowned, confused as to why they were looking at nothing. Then, one of the stallions waved a hoof out front. The wall seemed to morph and vibrate; she realized it was some type of illusion. She noticed, in the dim glow, that they had some sort of visor on them; probably to help them see through the fake wall.

They wore dark cloaks, masking their features. The sharp point at the top meant that they were unicorns. Something about their figures was familiar, but she attributed it to them simply looking vague.

“The old one’s left,” said the stallion furthest from her, looking through the wall. “Probably to get groceries.”

Their voices, now that she could hear them clearly, were garbled and warped beyond any normal pony voice. There was a sort of low hum with their voices. She guessed it had to be magic. Frowning, she continued to walk carefully towards them.

“Oh, where’s she gone now?” the stallion continued, leaning forward, pressing a hoof on his visor. “Goddess… she’s making this more difficult than it needs to be.”

She stopped, waiting for more. She glanced around. She saw what appeared to be canisters lying on the side wall. She frowned. Looking back at them to make sure they weren’t watching her, she carefully stepped over to the canisters and inspected them.

Ruptured? she thought, seeing a semi-large hole in one of them. Her eyes widened. Oh, goddess, what have I been breathing?

She heard a faint growl, and for a moment, she thought she had been caught. She turned, expecting to be called out; but the two did not say anything to her. She remained still inconspicuous.

There was another growl, much closer. Her heart began to beat faster and faster. Her eyes darted around, looking for the source. She tried to resist the urge to gulp.

Something formed out of the shadows, appearing in the corner. She froze in fear, locked in place, as she stared at the phantom form. Its white fangs shone in the room, despite there being no light to reflect off of it. Blood adorned its entire body, dripping onto the ground, vanishing into red puddles. The floor seemed to melt where it stepped.

What is… what is…

She backed up, into the canisters. Any thought of stealth was quickly overrun as panic flooded her senses.

The creature lunged for her, and all she could do was let out a scream.

“What the—” the first stallion whipped his head. “It’s her!”

The second one immediately rushed over as she fought off the phantom desperately. “She must be seeing something horrifying,” he said, trying to restrain her. She fought and kicked the air. He placed a hoof over her mouth to muffle her screams.

She threw him off and made to run, but was caught in a blueish glow. She struggled, absolutely terrified. “Quick, sedate her!” cried the fallen stallion.

The first stallion rushed over, lifting his visor. He lit his horn and levitated out a small syringe, filled with an unknown substance. She didn’t see him, still struggling against the magical hold.

“Shh… it’ll be alright,” he whispered as he injected the syringe into her.

Her eyes widened in shock. That voice! It was familiar, way too familiar… She didn’t have time to think about that, though, as she soon began feeling tired.

She glanced ahead, seeing the creature begin to fade. She let out a breath of relief, letting the substance’s effects take ahold. She relaxed, falling into unconscious.

The stallion released his magic, letting her drop into the arms of the other. “That gas was supposed to deter anypony entering from investigating further,” the he said, frowning. “Why didn’t it stop her?”

“Minx is curious,” the latter responded. “And she is the Prime Enforcer. She’s stronger than most. All the gas could do was show her something terrifying. We should count ourselves lucky that she decided to show up.”

“But why did she show up? Does she know about our plans?”

“Doubtful; she’s been busy thinking about Prose.” He picked her up in his magic. “We should also count ourselves lucky that he’s keeping the attention off of us.” He glanced at his companion. “We’d better leave before ponies begin prying in on things they don’t understand.” The other stallion nodded, and followed him out.

They didn’t leave by the door, though; nopony saw them even leave the building. Wayward returned an hour later, frowning, as she hadn’t heard Minx leave. She shrugged, settling back behind the counter after putting her groceries away, thinking she’d come back soon.

Newt sent the letter away. “Good. Now we wait for our next order.”

Viper frowned. “It seems… almost barbaric, what we’re doing.”

“Kidnapping? Oh, it most certainly is. But that’s what makes it great, right?”

“I suppose…”

Newt frowned. “You sound unsure.”

“Can you blame me? Like I said, we intimidate, not kidnap. Didn’t we fight that all those years ago?”

“We did,” Newt said with a nod, “but this time it’s different. Back then, we were fighting to free Manehattan from an evident evil. Now, though, we are fighting to overthrow an unknown enemy, at least unknown to the public.”

“Well, in that sense, nothing really has changed. The situation remains the same; only the characters have become divergent.”

“History repeats when we need a second chance.”

Viper looked at his friend quizzically. “You sound like one of Prose’s books.”

He grinned. “Oh, he may be our enemy, but even I can appreciate his unique genius.”

They turned their gaze to their prisoner, an unconscious Minx. She lay tied against a post, slumped over, breathing softly. “That ought to destabilize Finch for a bit,” said Newt. “Then, once all has been said and done, we’ll move in and take our chance.”

“If all things have been said and done.”

“Do you doubt the Business?”

Viper rubbed his head sheepishly. “Well, I’ve only met one of them… and, well, she may have been a killer—on the eyes, of course—they don’t seem as… powerful as the Family.”

“That’s because they’re more hidden. But I do understand why you would have trouble thinking that they are capable of doing what it is that they intend to do.” Newt placed a hoof on his friend’s shoulder. “But don’t despair. By the end of this, we’ll all be free of the sins of the Family.”

“And of Prose, don’t forget that.”

“They’re paying us for it. I doubt I will.”

They shared a laugh, before settling back into waiting. A light glowed in front of Newt, teleporting a letter. He read it quickly, “Excellent work. Enclosed is your payment. We’ll keep in touch.” There was another flash, and a medium-sized bag of bits plopped in front of them.

Newt grinned. “Cool.”

IX: Striking Hard

“It’s been a pleasure, gentlemen. But I really must be off,” said Grifford, shaking the stallion’s hoof.

“The pleasure’s all ours,” he responded, looking back at the other leaders of the Family. “Now, you had better delay no longer. Who knows what sort of trouble Manehattan may have cooked up in your absence?”

“I have little reason to think anything cataclysmic has happened,” Finch said. “But you’re right, of course. We will meet again?”

“The usual time and place. Good day, Mr. Finch.”

“Good day.” He grabbed his coat and left, with Swol following behind.

“Happy to be going back to Manehattan?” Swol asked.

Finch grinned. “Definitely. Baltimare’s nice, but I’ll take Manehattan any day.”

“Hopefully the business contracts work out.”

“They should. We’ll be able to profit nicely if they agree to the terms.”

They trotted to their hotel, feeling the wind from the ocean fly through their faces. Grifford tasted something salty; he found it oddly pleasant. They reached their hotel shortly, and quickly made their way to their room. They began to pack their belongings together.

“I imagine there’s going to be a ton of paperwork for me to fill out, once I get back,” said Finch as he placed the folders inside his suitcase.

“Well, if our secretaries have done your job, it will only be just a ton,” said Swol.

“Mm. Work is work, and paperwork is the worst kind of work.” He glanced at the golden-yellow stallion. “I still don’t understand how you enjoy that.”

“I don’t. My Mark is for organizing papers, not doing paperwork.” He snorted. “If it was, then I’d be bored out of my mind.”

“Well, that’s what comes with working in government.”

“Paperwork?”

“Boredom.”

They finished packing. “Let’s head over to the train station. We’ll get our tickets there.”

After saying goodbye to the front desk, they left the building and traveled towards the center of the city. Grifford kept his hat on but had removed his coat, tucking it in his case safely. They approached the booth. “Two tickets for Manehattan, please.”

“Ah! Mr. Mayor! Already leaving?” said the teller.

“Sadly I am. I have to take care of my city. I love it to death, but sometimes it needs help staying stable.”

“Still, it was nice having somepony famous show up in our fair city. Here are your tickets.”

Grifford thanked him, then walked up to the bench and sat down, waiting patiently for the train. Swol sat next to him, quiet.

“Still thinking about what could happen, I see,” Finch said with a smile.

“Can you blame me?” Swol shook his head. “It’s a strange world we live in, when assistants have to act as bodyguards, and Mayors have to be Bosses, and authors have to vanish…” He sighed. “The world’s suddenly become different from the one five years ago.”

“Change is necessary. The world won’t always be the same. It’s up to us to live in it, and carry on in it.”

“Maybe… but sometimes I think things were much simpler in the past.”

“They were. But this is now. This is more important.”

They fell silent, waiting for the train. Eventually it arrived, screeching to a halt. Unlike the usual steam locomotives, this one was fit for the modern world. Stainless steel wrapped around clear-blue windows. The front car was in the shape of a cone structure. It ran on fuel and electricity, a combination of the traditional with the contemporary. Finch smiled as he saw it stop; it amazed him how far Equestria had advanced in these few years.

The doors slid open, and a conductor stepped out. He called for their attention, telling them that they could board. Grifford and Swol got up, and the older stallion handed his friend a ticket. They approached the conductor who, after a quick look at their tickets and belongings, allowed them on. They took a seat in the middle car in a booth, with Finch taking the window seat. A few other ponies gathered on the seats around them, chatting excitedly.

There was a small foal in the seat next to them, and he was looking at Grifford and Swol with wide eyes. Swol gave a small wave, while Finch nodded at him, a soft smile on his face. He then placed his hoof in front of his mouth in a shush gesture. The foal nodded, turning back to his parents.

“Still want to remain somewhat incognito?” Swol whispered with a smirk.

“Can you blame me?”

“Oh, shut up.”

“Don’t talk to your Mayor like that.”

“Without me, you’d be unable to do any sort of paperwork!”

“… I’ll concede to that.”

The train doors closed, and the engines rumbled. Ah, how I missed that. There was a hiss as the brakes released. The train began to buzz as it roared with electricity. The engineers up front gave a final wave, before pressing the lever. The train began to back up, before suddenly launching into high gear, accelerating like a bullet.

Soon Baltimare became little more than a speck in the distance, and Manehattan was fast approaching. Grifford smiled, happy he was coming home.

“Is that a blimp?” one of the passengers asked, looking outside the window.

Indeed it seemed to be. The large zeppelin floated over the towering skyscrapers slowly, casting a huge shadow across the steel frames. They weren’t a common sight for most ponies; and Grifford had only seen a few of them in all his years. He remembered that it was a pleasure for some to ride in them, especially for ponies who couldn’t fly. Sightseeing from above was quite attracting.

Hmm… aerial tours. I wonder if there’s business in that.

The blimp flew past the city, slowly, as they approached from the south. The outside world was strangely silent, apparently kept away by the train’s exterior. For a moment one could stare outside, seeing the vast ocean to the east, and fall into deep thought. Grifford stared out the window, simply letting his mind wander, letting himself have this brief moment of peace.

He saw a small boat out in the middle, untouched by the modern city that it was exempt from. A pony sat, his hat down, the fishing rod slackened. Perhaps not all things change.

He wondered briefly what Prose would have said.

Soon, the skyscrapers and numerous offices ran past them at breakneck speed. The train made a sharp turn to the left. The wheels screeched as the brakes were applied, slowing the locomotive, and it carefully settled in into the station. With a hiss, the train came to a full stop, light-grey smoke billowing out from under.

The passengers stood, gathering their belongings, and began shuffling out of the cars. Grifford and Swol were caught in the middle. They exited, and Finch breathed the air in deeply. He looked around, seeing that they were in Ponyopolis Station, the place where ponies coming from out of Manehattan often arrived in. He let out a sigh. “We’re home.”

“But we’re not done yet,” said Swol, gathering next to him. Several ponies were already brushing past them, and a few even bothered to greet the Mayor. “We’d better head to our office.”

“It’s a little ways ahead. You up for some walking?”

“So long as I have a friend.”

They moved, drifting through the crowd, a pair of stallions eager to get right back to their kind of work. As the doors swung open leaving behind the station, Manehattan flooded their eyes and ears. They recovered quickly, trotting down the marble steps, stopping at a nearby crosswalk.

“Morning, Mayor.”

“Hello, Mr. Mayor.”

“Good day, Mr. Mayor.”

“Hello, good day, hi,” he would respond to the passing ponies. He had yet to grow tired of the constant greetings.

After some time had passed, they finally reached the Mayor’s Office. “Ah. Home sweet home,” Finch said. “Did you miss me, office?”

He pushed open the doors, and was greeted by the workers all standing up and clapping vigorously. “Welcome back, Mayor,” said the secretary at the back.

He raised a hoof, signaling for them to stop. “At ease. I trust that work has been easy?”

“Seems like there are some ponies who are doing our work for us,” said another pony. She handed him a small stack of newspapers. “You can read them in your office, sir.”

He nodded, a bit surprised, taking the stack. “Come along, Swol,” he said.

Entering his office, he unpacked his belongings while Swol took a paper from a stack. As Finch placed his hat on its rack, Swol’s eyes widened. “Boss,” he exclaimed, “it’s Prose!”

“What?” Finch turned on him, eyes wide. “What do you mean?”

“Prose! He’s here! He’s in Manehattan!” He handed him the paper. “It’s from a few days ago. He stopped a mugging!”

Finch read the article quickly, a frown forming. “Interesting. Not a day in Manehattan and he’s already performing splendidly.” He suddenly chuckled. “It seems his good heart had not been as well as hidden as he was.”

Swol read another paper. “It’s the same story, but with the victim’s account. She said he looked absolutely terrifying when he slammed the mugger into the wall. Quote, ‘eyes as red as a demon’s.’”

But his are pink. “Hmm. Looks like he hasn’t lost his touch. Does it say what he did after?”

“Not really. Just that he apparently left and—” Swol furrowed his brow. “—came here.”

“Here? The Office?”

One of the secretaries leaned her head in. “Yeah, Amethyst was the one who greeted him at the desk.”

“Could you call for her?” Grifford asked.

“Right away, Boss.” There was a clatter of hooves, followed by a low voice. Shortly after, the secretary in question entered the office, a bit surprised to see that she was needed already.

“What did he want?” Finch asked.

“He kept saying that he needed to see you. Naturally, I told him that you weren’t here at the moment.” She shook her head. “Honestly, I didn’t even look at him. If I had, I might have recognized him sooner.”

“He was disguised?” Grifford frowned. Why would he be disguised?

“He had his hood up, and kept his voice low.”

“Odd. I thought he knew he’s welcome here?”

“Wait, he is?” she asked, cocking her head.

He looked at her. “Well, of course. If we were hostile, then it would be much harder to convince him to rejoin.”

“If we were—” Her eyes widened. “Oh, goddess. I—I have to go.”

She abruptly turned without waiting to be dismissed. Swol made to go after her, but stopped, deciding that was a matter for another day.

The first secretary poked her head in. “Were there any other ponies who saw him?” Grifford asked.

“Actually, yes. I believe it was Minx?”

“Our Prime Enforcer? Oh, dear.” Swol sighed. “Please don’t tell me she threatened Prose.”

“Actually… she seemed a bit shocked to see him even there.”

“Send for her,” Finch said.

The secretary left. Swol and Finch shared a look. “Not ten minutes back and there’s already something stirring,” Finch said.

“It’s Manehattan. Something always stirs.”

Finch read a bit more of the papers, while Swol busied himself with fixing up the office. It was slightly dusty, so he grabbed a sweeper and began to remove the dust, dumping the contents in the nearby trashcan. He organized the files a second time, then a third, then moved on to organizing the folders. He finished just as Finch finished the last paper.

“Efficient as always,” he said, smiling.

“Any news?”

“Prose was seen at the fashion expo. The gossip magazines were calling it a date, apparently.”

“He found somepony?”

“I think he’s too busy for dating. But I could be wrong. Secretary!” he called. “Is Minx here yet?”

She trotted into the room, nervous. “I-I’m sorry, Boss. But I can’t seem to contact her.”

“You can’t?” His voice was sharp, and slightly incredulous.

“It’s just… she hasn’t been seen since yesterday.”

Swol quickly grabbed a file, grunting as he read the entry. “That seems about right. It says here that yesterday was scheduled as a break day.”

“But she is supposed to be here today,” said Grifford, rising from his desk. “You’re certain she’s not here?”

She nodded. “You’re welcome to check her workspace. We haven’t found anything that might say she was here anytime after yesterday.”

She led them out and to the office area. They approached a small cubicle—Minx’s workplace. Finch saw a miniature microphone standing on a wooden base; he guessed it was an award of some kind. He frowned as he saw that nothing seemed out of place. He leaned forward a little, seeing that the desk was still dusty.

Meaning that she hadn’t been here, he thought.

“That’s odd,” said Swol. “Minx has never missed a day. Is she sick?”

“We were wondering that, too, but her landlady said otherwise. She went out, and hasn’t been seen since.”

Swol leaned towards Grifford’s ear. “Do you think she ran?”

“Doubtful. We may have disagreed from time to time, but aside from you, she’s the loyalest member of the Family.”

“Sirs?” another pony trotted up to them. “We found two other ponies missing.”

“Ours?” asked Finch.

“Yes. Newt Ginger and Viper Navy. They haven’t been seen in a few days. We thought they were on assignment.”

“But they weren’t,” he clarified, looking at her. “Their last assignment was two weeks ago.”

“That’s right. Now they’ve gone and disappeared on us.” She cocked her head. “Forgive me for asking, Boss, but is that at all normal?”

He closed his eyes and sighed. “Well… Prose sometimes went quiet on us. But that was usually because he was writing his next story.”

“I know Minx liked to sing,” said Swol. “Maybe she decided to take a break to improve that craft?”

“If she did, she wouldn’t have left without notifying us. And that doesn’t answer what happened to Newt and Viper. Those insufferable—” He stopped himself short with a shake of his head. “Well, I trust that we’ll hear from them soon enough. I doubt any harm could come to them.” He looked at the two secretaries. “In the meantime, I think we’d better resume working.”

“Right away, Boss.”

After they left, Finch and Swol returned to his office, still thinking about the matter at hand. “I suppose there’s no point to dwell on that,” the Mayor said aloud. Swol nodded, and left to help organize the other paperwork. Finch sat in his chair, releasing a sigh.

Home sweet home isn’t all that sweet, I suppose. Not that it’s entirely unexpected. Prose’s return, and now some of our members gone… He grunted darkly. Well, it wouldn’t be our Manehattan without a few strange occurrences.

“Two more days! Two more days!”

“Yes, Sweetie Belle, I know, I got you the tickets!”

Prose was half tempted to duct tape the young filly’s mouth shut. Unfortunately, there was no tape in the hotel room, and he hadn’t bothered on bringing any. He considered using the Mud, just as a paste, but, after realizing that one, the chemicals were likely bad to ingest, and two, it tasted horrible (he shuddered at the memory), he eventually conceded to letting her run her mouth off.

That of course did not mean he was enjoying being constantly reminded of the concert.

“I understand that you’re excited, Sweetie,” said Rarity from the room over, “but you have to be patient. Two days is a short time away.”

“But it feels like forever!” she wined.

“That’s what patience is for, Sweetie. Now, could you come over here and help me put some of these items away?”

Sweetie grumbled, but nonetheless stopped jumping around Prose’s room. She trotted over to Rarity’s. Opacare let out a sigh. Oh, thank goddess that’s over. While he loved Sweetie’s energy, she could become quite bothersome—an idea that was shared by her older sister.

He wasn’t sure what to do now, though. His nerves were shot, and he kept wanting to leave, mostly to see if Finch had returned. At this point, anything could go wrong, was what he reasoned. With two muggings already on the record—something that he was constantly reminded had not happened in years—he was certain that something awful was about to happen.

He just wasn’t sure what.

And that, along with the fact that he still had no plan after confronting the Mayor, very much irked him.

He let out a tired groan. Curse his anxiety! If only he could do something instead of wait! He fell onto his back, staring up at the ceiling, impatient.

“Prose?” he heard a voice call. He suddenly felt on edge.

He shifted, glaring at the source. “What?” he asked, his voice short and not in the mood for a talk. His gaze softened slightly as he saw Twilight standing in the door frame, shocked at the tone of his voice.

“I was just going to ask if you wanted to go out for a bit,” she said, stepping back slightly. “I’m sorry, were you busy or anything?”

He sighed. “No, I’m sorry, Twilight. I’m just…” He sighed. “I’m just… thinking.”

She approached him slowly, and he sat up, staring at the opposite wall. She bit her lip. “Is something bothering you, Prose? You’re awfully tense.”

He was; only now did he notice how stiff his shoulders were. He wrapped himself with his hooves, avoiding her gaze. “It’s nothing, Twilight, really.”

She stared at him, before narrowing her eyes. “You’re not that great at lying, Opa.” She pressed a hoof on his shoulder. “Please, tell me what’s wrong.”

She waited patiently as his shoulders slowly relaxed themselves. Finally he looked at her. “… Fine. I’m worried.”

“What about?”

“That’s just it. There’s seemingly nothing to be worried about. And that worries me.” He furrowed his brow. “Technically, Grifford hasn’t made a move yet. I haven’t seen any of his workers out and hurting anypony. In fact, those last two muggings were likely little more than petty crimes, with little reason behind them other than selfish needs.” He glared angrily at the bed. “All I can do right now is wait. Wait for something bad to happen. But I shouldn’t do that! I should be out there, stopping him, but—”

“But you’re worried that you have nothing to stop him with,” Twilight finished softly.

He nodded. “So when he makes his move, I’m worried that I’ll be caught off guard. I can’t risk that; but at the same time, there’s nothing else I can do.”

Twilight was quiet for a moment, before saying, “Maybe it’s for the best that you can’t do anything at the moment.” Seeing his reproachful glare, she hastily continued, “I mean, maybe Finch doesn’t want to do anything while you’re here. If you haven’t heard from him or from this ‘Family,’ then maybe they’ve realized how much it matters that you’re in Manehattan, and don’t want to risk losing their position of power. Especially since you know enough about them to have them all locked up.”

“That’s quite a stretch, Twilight. I doubt they would be worried about little old me.” He rose suddenly from the bed, standing tall and angrily. “They killed Raven, which shows that they don’t care who gets hurt, as long as it prevents them from being found out!”

“But that’s still up to debate—”

“Precisely! There’s next to no evidence of their involvement; which makes the Family the biggest suspect!” He stomped his hoof. “And they know that I can’t do anything because I have no evidence! The only way I’ll ever be able to stop them is by letting them do something, anything, that would undermine their position. Which is something that they won’t do, and also something that I can’t risk letting them do. Or else…” He looked away for a brief moment. “Or else someone else might get hurt.”

His shoulders sagged as he finished his rant. His entire body was shaking. Twilight gave him a worried gaze, before stepping closer. He flinched as she approached him, but relaxed somewhat as she placed a hoof on his shoulder.

“I just… I don’t want to risk all of you getting hurt by my inability to do anything,” he murmured.

“You aren’t,” Twilight reassured him. She moved forward and gave him a hug. “You can only do so much, Opa. You can’t do everything, especially when life doesn’t want to give you anything to work off from.”

“I still feel that I should be doing something…”

“I know, I know…”

Eventually they broke from the hug. Prose looked away awkwardly, while Twilight smiled. “You know, my offer still stands,” she said. “It might help put you at ease.”

He took some time to consider the offer. His gaze shifted from the dull room to Twilight, her face earnest and welcoming. Maybe I should go. A walk in the city might do me some good.

“Hey, Twilight?” he heard Applejack call from the door. “We’ll be heading out now!”

“Alright, girls. Stick together!”

“Come along, Sweetie Belle,” Rarity said. He saw them trot past his door. Fluttershy and Pinkie followed behind them.

He looked back at Twilight. “Where would we be heading?”

“I have no idea.”

“In that case, I suppose a walk would be nice.”

Hours passed, and they still wandered. Everything to Prose was a blur, a swirling mess of the city. He welcomed it, though, finding a temporary sense of peace in the wandering and random nature of it all.

It only occurred to him now, though, how much time had past. It was now late afternoon. He and the others were currently traveling around the southern district, a place famous for its foliage and parks. They had stopped at a few shops beforehand, where Rarity had bought quite a large load of items. She had left with so many bags her entire body was covered, and she couldn’t help but giggle sheepishly as Opacare rolled his eyes at her.

“Oops, I might have gone a bit excessive,” she said.

“Might?”

She ignored the jest, turning to the others. “To be honest, I think it would be better if I return to the hotel with my purchases. No sense in carrying them around forever.”

“Can I come to, Rarity?” Sweetie asked. “I’m feeling kinda tired, actually.”

“Certainly, Sweetie, if that’s what you wish.”

“Do you need anypony to go with you?” Twilight asked. “I’m sure I could. Or Prose—”

“It’s fine, dears,” Rarity said, smiling gently. “We’ll be okay.”

He looked at them, eyes slightly narrowed. “… Alright. Don’t get into trouble.”

“We won’t, Opa. I promise.” Rarity then gave him a hug, followed by Sweetie, before they parted ways.

Rainbow, Applejack, the remaining fillies, and Pinkie decided to move ahead, while Twilight, Fluttershy, and Prose decided to travel to the nearby Central Park of Manehattan. Not that many ponies were in the park, as today was a work day and most were busy in the office. They stopped at the entrance gate, looking at all the trees and plants.

“Mother and father often brought me here in my childhood when I didn’t have school,” Opacare said softly, taking a step forward. “They would tell me about how these trees grew from seeds planted generations ago by ponies who originally settled in Manehattan. Back then, the ponies were free to plant what they wanted, which is why you can see several plants from across Equestria and even from other nations.”

They followed him, remaining silent as they took in the scenery. He pointed to a blue, bell-shaped flower. “That one is from Zebrika.” His hoof shifted to a pink-red blooming flower. “That’s from Griffonstone. If you look closely, you can see that the two actually are quite close, despite the two nations being oceans away.”

His hoof swept around the area, showing that the entire flower bed was filled with both types of flowers. “They were here even when I was a child, meaning that they they had to have been brought over and planted around the same time. Apparently, though zebras and griffons were not the friendliest with each other, here in the nubile city of Manehattan, they had the decency to contribute to something beautiful. A garden.”

They continued moving through the park, Prose remembering the names of each type of plant. Twilight wrote down a few notes while Fluttershy added in a few words. Soon they reached a tall oak tree. Its branches spread across the center of the park, providing them a dark shade. Prose reached out and touched it, feeling the cool bark.

He stepped back. “Amazing to see that it still remains untouched, even after all these years.” His gaze drifted around the park. “Just as beautiful as it was twenty years ago.”

He looked at the ground. “You know, this was my first real taste of a greener world, outside of these steel buildings.”

“Really?” Fluttershy asked. “You must really like nature, then.”

He shrugged. “Not exactly. I like the peacefulness of it. I feel that one can comfortably be alone here, with their thoughts, and simply think on how to improve the world.” He looked back up the tree. “Sometimes when my parents and I went here, I would sit on the benches while they walked around. I would often think about what made this place special, and what I could do with the knowledge of the plants and flora that inhabited the park.”

“Did you figure it out?” Twilight asked.

“No. I never did. Life got in the way.” His face darkened. “And death, too, became all too familiar.”

He breathed deeply, relishing that familiar scent. It smelled like how he imagined freedom smell; clean, open, and pure. It was odd, considering it was in the middle of a city filled with so many scents; yet none of them even came close to the park’s.

“Opa?” Fluttershy called softly. “Are you alright?”

He did not answer. Instead, he walked away from the tree and over to a bench, sitting on it. He had on a thoughtful frown. “I wonder if Finch ever came here?” he murmured. “To think about what life was, how the world worked, how to make it better… like our parents wanted us to do… I wonder if he sat here, and decided to go against everything we fought for…”

“Prose?” Twilight asked, concerned. “Are you—do you want to leave?”

He shook his head, but continued staring past them. “If only there was more I could do…” His voice trailed off, but his gaze slowly focused on them. It was alarmingly intense. Rising from the bench, he trotted past them, and stood in the middle of the brick walk.

“I’m surprised that this place hasn’t been bulldozed by now,” he said, looking around. “Perhaps the Mayor recognizes its worth, its innate freedom. Its independence, away from the city, working as it does, operating, growing, living, as it does.” He turned, looking at Twilight and Fluttershy. “That is what I’ve always wanted ponies to have. Independence. The ability to do as they see fit. The ability to fail, then try again.” He stamped his hoof. “And Grifford Finch has taken that chance away from Manehattan.”

They didn’t say anything, confused and intrigued by what he said.

“A world where free will truly is free, and a city that is a shining example of that freedom.” He let out a slow breath, looking up. “I think that was my parents’ wish. To give them that freedom. The ability to choose.”

He looked back down. “Is that why I became an author? Why I wrote what I wrote? Because that became the core of my own freedom, the only thing that the Family couldn’t take away from me?”

He received no answer, and expected none. They stood, looking at each other, silent.

“This is what I want,” he said finally. “For a world to be free. To let ponies choose to make mistakes, and to grow even more. Finch fears ponies’ free will. Because of that, he must be stopped.”

He turned away, walking towards the exit, leaving the two to be alone for a little while. They exchanged worried looks.

“Twilight? Do you think Opa will be alright?” Fluttershy asked.

The unicorn looked to her timid friend. “I’m not sure, Fluttershy. I’m not sure.” She then looked to where Prose was beginning to fade into the distance. “Let’s just hope nothing bad happens from here on out.”

Fluttershy nodded, and together they followed after him.

Sweetie went to her room to put away her things, letting out a tired yawn. With all the walking and haggling they had to do, it was no surprise she was feeling already beat. Rarity, after watching her sister go, placed her items in her room for the time being.

Leaving her room, she grabbed the paper that had been delivered a few minutes before. She levitated over an already-prepared cup of tea, and sat herself down on the sofa. Taking a sip, she flipped to the front page. Her lips contorted into an upside-down crescent shape.

She placed her cup down. “Hmm. I have a feeling Opacare will want to know about this as soon as possible.”

“What will Opa want to know?” Sweetie asked, entering from the side. She took the seat adjacent from Rarity.

The alabaster unicorn pointed a hoof out at the front page. “Mayor Grifford Finch has returned to Manehattan. He arrived only a few hours ago.”

“Really? Wow, we didn’t even see him!”

“He came in from the south, according to this article. That’s why we hadn’t heard until just now.” She mused, “I suppose that makes sense. Manehattan’s quite large, so news spreading must be a somewhat slow process.”

Sweetie took the paper from Rarity, reading further. “It says he had been on a business trip to Baltimare. I thought only business ponies did business trips?”

“It’s more than that. Business isn’t just for buying and selling products. There’s more to it—”

Sweetie stopped her with a gasp, before her own face contorted into a frown. “But wait a minute. That doesn’t—no, that can’t—”

“Sweetie Belle? What’s wrong?”

“Do you think—well, maybe if—oh, I don’t know…”

“Well, what was it?”

Sweetie kept her lips shut for a moment, before sighing again. “I-It’s just… I’m just now remembering what Opa said during his trial! What Mayor Finch was! What he was a part of… And what that organization did! What if… what if the reason why Finch left had something to do with him being part of that organization? What if it was more than a business trip? What if it was a Family trip?”

Her words were tumbling out of her mouth. Rarity placed a hoof on her, concerned. “Slow down, Sweetie! Take a deep breath!

Sweetie placed a hoof on her chest as she struggled to calm herself. Soon, the rate at which her chest rose lowered, and she managed to give Rarity a grateful nod. “Now,” Rarity said, looking directly at her.

“What exactly are you worried about?”

“Something bad could happen, like Opa said! Like-like—” She scrambled for an example. “Like, some ponies could get hurt! Or kidnapped! Or-or-or—”

“Darling, stop.” Rarity placed a hoof on her sister’s mouth, stopping her rambling. Keeping a neutral frown on her face, she continued, “Now, listen. Nothing bad is going to happen. What Opa has said, no matter how scary, is simple superstition. I doubt that the Mayor would be so callous and rude as he makes him out to be.

“That means that whatever Opa has been saying is likely untrue. And I would encourage you to think the same way. Regardless of how much we like him, his word has so far not held up as credible.”

“What about the muggings?”

“Hardly the work of an organized crime family, I would think. Just desperate ponies doing desperate things.”

Sweetie slowly nodded. Rarity continued on, “Even if something were to happen, do you really think we wouldn’t do something about it?” Rarity smiled. “I don’t mean to sound pretentious, but we’ve a student of Celestia on our side. Not to mention the rest of the Elements of Harmony, and the backing of one of Equestria’s greatest authors.”

She leaned forward, hugging Sweetie. “Nothing bad is going to happen while I’m around, Sweetie Belle. I promise.”

Sweetie sniffled, hugging Rarity back. “I’m sorry, Rarity. I guess Opa’s words kinda got to me, that’s all.”

“To be honest, they’ve been on my mind as well. But I doubt they’ll ever come to fruition.” She smiled once more. “Manehattan is better than that.”

They hugged for a little while longer, before separating. “Do you feel better now, Sweetie?”

“Uh huh.”

“Good. Why don’t you take a short rest, while I fix up the place?” She looked around. “Heaven knows it could use a dapper fixer-upper.”

Sweetie nodded, letting Rarity leave the couch and go grab her belongings. Soon the young filly’s eyes drooped, and they closed, and she began to breathe softly.

Rarity resumed cleaning, though her mind was preoccupied with what had been said. She wanted to comfort Sweetie, and she had done so; but a lingering feeling of doubt still clung to her, a nagging sense of dread. She tried to ease her nerves by humming a short tune, but found that it hardly helped her. She sighed, putting down the duster, before going over to the sink and washing her hooves clean.

I’m going to have to talk to Opa about his paranoia. She closed her eyes, remembering his face. In the image she saw his eyes; brilliantly pink and intelligent, yet behind them, she saw anxiety and apprehension. Her brow furrowed, and she stopped moving altogether, her thoughts surrounding her.

Click.

Hmm? What was that? Eyes snapping open, she glanced around. Sweetie was still asleep, and she had not moved. She frowned, thinking it was just her imagination—

Tap tap.

Or not.

It sounded like it was coming from outside, from the window on the opposite wall. She clenched her eyes shut, listening for it one more time to confirm her suspicions.

“Sspss…”

Unintelligible garbish, quiet, near imperceptible, but definitely there. She glanced back at Sweetie, before carefully trotting over to the window. She didn’t lean in, though, simply waiting to see if the sound would be heard again.

She pressed up against the wall, fur standing on end, though she had no idea why. She listened.

Nothing.

She waited—

“Ah!” she yelped as the glass suddenly shattered, instinctively throwing herself back. Something hit the floor and began to roll. It stopped against the side of the couch, giving the unicorn a moment to recover.

“W-wha? Huh?” Sweetie woke with a jerk, eyes bleary. “Rarity? What’s happening?”

“I-I’m not sure,” Rarity said. She leaned close to the object, seeing that it was cylindrical. “Some hoodlum just vandalized our hotel room!”

She was about to speak further, when the object let out a hiss. A smoky substance billowed out, smoggish and thick. Rarity coughed, accidentally breathing in the gas. “Wh-what the—”

As she coughed, the smoke made its way from her lungs out her mouth, blinding her and making tears gather in the corner of her eyes. The gas did not let up, and the capsule continued spewing it, seemingly endless. “S-Sweetie Belle! D-don’t breathe—”

It was too late, she realized, as she saw her sister also coughing. Her frame became blurry, the smoke filling every edge of her vision. Coughing with even more intensity, she bent over. What is this stuff?

Her thoughts were abruptly cut short, as she felt something heavy hit the back of her head. She careened forward, blinking dully and coughing still. Almost immediately her vision blackened; she couldn’t find the strength to stand. She heard a cry, and recognized it as Sweetie’s, before it was followed by a similar crack—and then eerie silence.

N-no… She tried to raise a hoof, but found she was too weak. Desperately, she tried to call for her sister, only to be met with her own silence, and the still gathering smoke. She was vaguely aware of a movement to her side, escaping.

Then her vision collapsed into a sole singularity of darkness.

“Oh, my head…”

Rarity arose slowly, feeling very disoriented. The back of her head felt like it had been slammed against the wall repeatedly. Pressing a hoof lightly against it, she let out a strained breath, pain coursing from her skull to her neck and down.

Her knees wobbled. She tried shaking her head, but found that made her disorientation and pain even worse. She frowned, unable to think straight. What had happened? It must have been a dream, caused by stress and tiredness—

No, it was no dream; she saw that now. Just in front of her was that capsule, empty. She had no idea how much time had passed.

“Sweetie?” Her voice was hoarse and dry, the smoke’s effects still lingering. She coughed, trying to walk around, looking for her sister. “Sweetie?”

She stopped. There, on the floor, right next to the couch, were drops.

Not of water, not of sweat, nor of tears.

But of blood.

She pressed a hoof against her head again, then brought it to her face. She saw that there was no liquid running there.

Then whose blood—

Her eyes widened as everything suddenly connected at once. All the pain and dizziness vanished, replaced with vast and frightening clarity. No…

The blood, the clang, the smoke, the capsule, that tap, that noise…

Rarity screamed.

End Of Part One

X: A Growing Divide

Part Two: The City That Had Never Worried

Far above the various roofs and buildings stood the Hotel Greenwood. Its massive frame cast a shadow over the rest of the city. The lights in its rooms were both on and off in a seemingly random combination. Sirens sounded themselves upwards, while a flickering red-and-blue glowed across the windows. For a moment, those lights stopped on the twenty-fourth floor. Then they rolled away.

Outside of the hotel, various police ponies and an ambulance had gathered, their ranks all filing into the building. Spectators surrounded the area, not daring to enter. The grim looks on the ponies’ faces made sure to ward off any curious pony.

But Opacare Prose was not just any curious pony. And neither were the mares who stood on the opposite walk. Their eyes were wide, their mouths agape, unable to comprehend what was going on.

Prose took the initiative, his jaw locked, lips set in a tight frown. His hood had been pulled up, as it was chilly. With each step he took, his brow furrowed even more. The mares next to him instinctively gave him some space, but still kept relatively close.

What’s going on? he silently asked.

He saw that the receptionist had been pulled out and was being questioned by an officer. The crowd prevented him from hearing any more other than “a scream” and “coughing,” but his mind quickly put together the worst case scenario. A glance to his side showed that Twilight was swiftly reaching the same conclusion. His eyes narrowed even further.

One of the officers noticed them approaching. “You need to step back—”

Prose glared at him, and the officer shrunk under his gaze. His partner, and older detective, was not as meek. He stiffened, standing tall, trying to seem intimidating. “Buddy, you need to take yourself and your friends away from these premises.”

“Why?” Twilight asked before Prose could say anything.

“We received word of an assault, and an investigation is currently under way.”

“The victim?” she continued.

“A white unicorn, mid-twenties.” At that, the mares’ eyes widened.

“In that case,” Opacare nearly growled, “it would be in your best interests to let us through. Now.”

The detective was unrelenting. “Yeah? And why should we, stranger?”

Closer to the building, Prose felt the wind begin to die away, and he grew warmer. He took off his hood, revealing himself. The detective took a step back. “You—?”

“That mare is a friend of ours. We wish to see her. Now would be good.”

The detective gulped. “T-that may be s-so, Mr. Prose, but standard protocol—”

Opacare pushed past him roughly. After a moment’s hesitation, the mares did the same, Fluttershy apologizing.

Rarity was in the hotel lobby, wrapped in a shock blanket. One of the ambulance ponies had been tending to her, but was now talking to another pony. Her mane was a mess, and a cut could be seen at the back of her head. There seemed not to be any serious damages, though, and for that they were thankful. The detective and his partner followed after them. Rarity saw them approach, and tried to smile; but it quickly fell, so tired and traumatized she evidently was.

They gasped at her disheveled state. Fluttershy dashed forward, gripping Rarity in a hug. “Oh, Rarity! Are you alright?”

Rarity made to answer, before coughing. Prose saw a greyish smoke come out her mouth. He frowned. “Y-yes… well…” She sniffled, catching Prose’s attention. “N-no… I’m not alright…”

Opacare tapped Fluttershy on the shoulder and, after a quick nod and another hug to Rarity, she moved away. He walked closer to her, settling down in front of her. His expression softened, nearly all scorn and anxiety vanishing in that very moment. He took the mare’s hoof in his own and squeezed it comfortingly.

“How hurt are you?” he asked, voice impossibly soft.

She shook her head. “Not too bad… just a little shaken up. But Sweetie Belle—” Her voice caught, and she looked away, unable to look at them.

He needed answers; he needed to coax them out of her. He knew that doing so would hurt her.

“Where is Sweetie Belle?” he asked, voice still quiet. But they could hear something straining in his voice.

She didn’t answer.

“Rarity, where is Sweetie Belle?” His calm demeanor broke, and his voice cracked. In a whisper, he said, “Please tell us…”

She suddenly launched forward, hugging him. He felt the back of his neck grow wet. Then the sobs and wails followed, and she buried her face in his shoulder. He hugged her as tightly as he could, letting her get it all out. The others then gave her a group hug, hoping to comfort her.

He felt something else, too, something besides the mare letting out all her pain. He felt it in his eye, saw it in his vision. It was small, delicate, and blurred his vision; and it was wet.

He blinked, and it was gone.

Prose held the unicorn as best he could, despite thinking he could offer nothing comforting. A sinking feeling of dread amassed in the pit of his stomach; like claws from Tartarus, they sliced his heart. Had he been a weaker stallion, he might have wailed; but, to him, that was not something that Rarity needed. She needed him to be strong for her.

He held her, then, quiet, letting her let it all out, willing to bear the brunt of the emotional pain. Agony clutched at his throat; he was silenced by its strength.

They had to be ushered away so that the detectives could question Rarity further. Prose was initially unwilling to let them come close, but the unicorn assured him that it was fine. He gruffly left, then, but not before warning the detectives not to do anything stupid. Surprisingly, neither of them responded to that, seemingly understanding that he was not in the mood for banter.

He stood a short distance away, not quite able to hear exactly what the ponies were saying. Most of the others were on the wall adjacent to the elevators, with the exception of Twilight. She was next to Opacare, face very much drawn into a concerned frown.

Neither said a word, finding only brief solace in the silence.

One of the detectives left Rarity, and glanced at Opacare. He seemed to hesitate under the older stallion’s stony gaze, but trotted over. Apprehensiveness grew on his face. Prose frowned.

The young detective looked down at the fillies. “Did you know a pony named Sweetie Belle?”

“Yeah,” Apple Bloom said. “She was our friend and Rarity’s sister. Why?”

He swallowed, hard, before looking back at Prose. The author said nothing, his silence drawing the answer out efficiently.

“There’s… no easy way to say this. But… Sweetie Belle’s gone missing.”

They gaped at him, before Scootaloo nearly shouted, “What?!”

Opacare’s eyes widened, before they narrowed again. He was intent on remaining silent.

“Wh-what do you mean, she’s gone missing?” repeated Apple Bloom. “That’s not possible!”

“I’m afraid so,” said the older detective, walking over. “We’ll have to confirm Miss Rarity’s words, of course. Meaning that we’ll need to launch a full-scale investigation right away.”

He glanced back at Rarity, frowning. Prose caught onto what he was thinking almost immediately.

“You doubt her words,” he said, garnering the older detective’s attention. “The injury to her head, you infer, has made her delusional, therefore making her word null and void.”

“How did you—”

“I assure you, detective, Miss Rarity is not delusional, nor was she hallucinating, nor is she going insane. You can tell by her eyes; they’re still brimming, even after all this trauma.”

“What if she had a concussion?” asked the younger detective.

“Have one of the EMTs check up on her, then, if you must. In the meantime, we need to head for the room.”

“What?” The older detective looked at Prose, shocked. “You—you can’t! This is a police investigation, and I will not have an ordinary civilian get involved—”

Opacare was already in the elevator by the time the detective finished his protest. He barely glanced at the girls as he pressed the button, heading for the twenty-fifth floor.

“Opa, wait…” Rarity tried to call, voice weak, but it was too late; the elevator door closed, and he zoomed up the chute.

For a moment, they were all flabbergasted, until the detectives rallied themselves and grabbed the other elevator, following after the author.

Rarity unsteadily walked over, her body still shaking a little. Twilight went to grab her, steadying her. “You need to rest,” she affirmed.

Rarity shook her head. “No, I-I have to go with Opa. Have to…” She took a breath. “I have to tell him… what happened… Have to get those detectives to work with him…”

The girls shared looks, knowing that Rarity was likely right. Prose wasn’t about to let those detectives bumble around in his investigation. They all nodded, before rising and heading for the stairs.

The room was devoid of any life or happiness, and Prose’s eyes reflected something similar as he entered. The detectives were behind him.

Prose glanced about the room in quick fashion, seeing several things. The paintings on the walls had a lingering grey effect to them, from some sort of substance, he guessed. There had evidently been a scuffle.

He asked over his shoulder, “Has anything entered the room since the incident?”

“Not that we know of,” said the younger detective. “I think we’re the first ones to enter.”

Prose nodded, then continued moving forward.

“Sir,” said the older detective, “you need to leave.”

“Not until the investigation is over,” he answered.

“We’ll get our best detectives on the case, Mr. Prose. You have our word—”

“Your ‘best detectives’ couldn’t find a feather on a griffon’s wing,” he retorted, voice hard. “Now shut up and let me concentrate.”

The detectives made to protest, but he shut them out, his mind focused on the given scene. Carefully, cautiously, he approached the area, making sure not to disturb anything that was already out of place. He used only his senses of sight and smell to discern any possible clues.

First he concentrated on the floor. To the untrained eye, the blue-green carpet would reveal little else but the color. Bending low, though, he saw faint impressions of hooves. If he were an amateur, he might have guessed them to be from either Rarity or Sweetie. However, the size and shape were not like a mare’s. They were much broader, and more rounded at the top.

What struck him the most was the fact that they were way too typical, too ordinary. They were like every stallion’s hoofprint. That told him that the attacker (or attackers; he couldn’t say for certain if there were more) might have been using fake hooves.

All the impressions were at the edges and sides of the far-end couch; likely, he assumed, where Rarity was when they were attacked. One of the pillows was slightly pushed in, a definite sign that this was where Sweetie had been resting.

He decided to pause the investigation here, and moved away, looking through the other rooms. As far as he could tell, none had been disturbed. There were no signs of any robbery of any sort. The drawers had not been opened, the beds not overturned in the search for valuables. Even the small stash where Scootaloo had kept some bits had not been broken.

This wasn’t a robbery. This was a deliberate assault. Rarity and Sweetie were targets. He grimaced. But why?

“Sir?” the young detective asked. “Isn’t this… illegal, for Mr. Prose to be doing this?”

The older detective grunted. “I’m not sure he’d really listen to us. Besides, as long as he doesn’t tamper with anything…”

Prose went back into the living room area. I need to find the device that released the substance that covered the paintings. The side of the couch revealed nothing, but underneath, he saw something shiny and metallic. Unwilling to soil it with his own hoofprint, he reached into his vest and pulled out a tissue, wrapping it around his hoof before grabbing the device. He held it up.

The older detective made a choking sound.

Cylindrical. Some sort of releasing mechanism on the inside, I gather. He flipped it over, searching for markings, but found none. He brought it to his muzzle, and sniffed, smelling faint traces of possibly some sort of chemical compound—likely, potassium chlorate, as it was a common component for smokey fireworks.

This is a grenade, a smoke grenade; but not a burst smoke grenade. There must have been a second or two of delay, giving Rarity a moment to see this come through. As he peered inside, he saw that the cylinder seemed empty. He was tempted to shake it, but reasoned that it wouldn’t be worth possibly shaking something loose and somehow destroying the device.

He put it back underneath, dutifully, as the older detective let out a breath. “Mr. Prose,” he said, stepping forward, “I believe you need to stop now.”

“If you believe, then you obviously don’t know protocol. Let me finish.”

He stood up, then went around the sofa, looking at the shattered window—at least, what was left of it. He was careful not to step on any broken glass that lay haphazardly on the floor. The light of the moon shone clearly through, and he could see the celestial body in the distance, hanging from the sky, like a lantern.

On the edge of the window, he saw a small, dark-grey piece of rubber. His brow furrowed, and he craned his neck out, taking a closer look at it. Barely two inches in length, it looked ordinary enough; but unless his instincts had faltered, he reasoned it was worth looking into.

But I don’t have the proper equipment… would the local police let me use their labs? He had no idea. He reached out and pocketed the rubber, placing it in his pocket swiftly.

Okay. I’ve found the entry point. He turned, looking back down at the couch. Whoever was here, threw the cylinder through the window, shattering it… the object rolled to the side, taking a second to release whatever was in it… some sort of gas, perhaps with trace amounts of narcotics, if the gas could knock Rarity and Sweetie Belle out. He frowned. Sweetie Belle. That remained one other mystery that needed to be solved.

If Rarity was in front of the window when the cylinder broke through, and Sweetie was on the couch, where had she gone following the crash and then the smoke?

Walking to the other side of the couch, away from the cylinder, he found his answer. He nearly gasped and cursed.

Blood.

Heart rate elevated, breath coming in hitches, vision filling with red. He was familiar with this series of sensations. It was controlled rage and frustration, barely held back by sheer willpower.

He couldn’t know for certain whose blood it was—though he had a good guess—but he knew that the police had the proper equipment. He stepped away, taking a breath.

“Mr. Prose,” the older detective repeated. “You need to step back.”

He ignored the order. “There’s blood. Not too much, but evidently still there.”

They walked over, shocked. “A-alright,” the younger detective said. “We-we’ll have to—”

“Get a team of forensic scientists as soon as possible. Analysts and medical examiners. Set up a crime scene efficiently and orderly.”

The older detective had had enough. “Sir, as much as I am sure we are enjoying your company, you can’t be giving out orders left and right.”

“I will do damn well what I please, you morio!” He suddenly turned on him, eyes aflame, and he let out a low growl. “Get the job done, quickly.”

The detectives flinched back. “Now hold on—”

“Did you not hear what I said? Quickly!”

“Sir—”

“Damn it!” He stomped his hoof angrily. “Listen to me! There is blood on the damn floor, from a wound, likely inflicted on the missing filly! She could be injured or dead at this point—”

His voice had reached an octave that was completely filled with malice, but he cut it off suddenly, staring blankly behind the detectives.

The stairwell was filled with the shocked faces of the remaining mares and fillies. Rarity looked like she was about to cry.

“Opa?” Apple Bloom whispered. “Sweetie Belle’s… dead?”

Opacare said nothing for a moment, his eyes downcast, face darkened. Then he looked back at the detectives. “Crime scene. Investigation. Now.”

Seeing them fiercely nod, he turned away, staring down at the blood. His thoughts were all muddled. Emotion was clouding his judgement. He clenched his eyes shut, released a shuddering breath, then another; until he had sufficiently calmed down. Mentally, he expunged all the raw emotion from him, leaving him emotionally empty and tired.

He leaned against the wall, eyes still closed, thinking deeply. He tried to ignore the soft cry Apple Bloom made; and he ignored the gentle touch of Fluttershy’s hoof. He ignored everything except his own thoughts, losing himself in them, seemingly without physical function.

He didn’t care. He needed to find a suspect, and quickly; before the situation grew any worse. With a grim mindset, he cast away the others, becoming oblivious to their tumultuous faces.

Later on, he would regret not seeing them.

Rarity sat outside of the room with the others. Even Prose was there, though it was because he was ushered out by the crime scene team. She saw that the stallion barely cast any of them a second look.

That made him seem more distant than ever before.

Rarity had released all of her tears in the lobby, and she felt somewhat better; if she could call feeling empty better. Glancing at her friends, she saw that they, too, were exhausted from everything that had happened. Scootaloo and Apple Bloom were more frightened than anything, evidenced by their big eyes and shaking lips. What Prose had shouted shook them to the core.

She wanted the stallion to say something comforting to them, something to try and release them from their fears. But she suspected she wanted the same for herself. And she doubted the stallion would say anything soon.

A medical pony opened the door and walked over to her, carrying a syringe, and asked for a quick blood sample. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Opacare flinch at the sharp needle, his cold exterior ever so slightly breaking. Even as she nodded to the medic, she felt a bit of guilt at the thought. Were the only times that Prose could open up when he was scared, when he felt threatened?

No, that can’t be true. Ever since that day, he’s been more open with us than I could give him credit for. All thanks to Sweetie Belle.

As the medic left, she turned her head, looking at the author directly. He did not meet her gaze, but he could tell by his change in posture that he had noticed her looking at him. She took in the curve of his jaw, how set it was. She took in the fact that his eyes had narrowed, carnation eyes becoming a deadly pink laser that could have burned a hole through the ground.

She shivered, feeling uneasy.

She turned away from Opacare, looking down at the floor. From inside the room she heard the ponies working tirelessly. She could hear furniture being moved as they desperately searched for answers.

She remembered what one of the detectives, the older one, had said in a mutter: “There hasn’t been a foal-napping in Manehattan for years.”

So why now? And why her? Had she offended someone? Had they mistaken her for somepony else?

Her thoughts grew darker. What would happen next? Would that kidnapper—or kidnappers, they still did not know for certain—send a message? What kind of message would it be? A ransom note? A letter? Or just a simple box with a severed unicorn horn—

She shuddered, choking back a sob, fighting the thought away. She berated herself for thinking that.

Everything will be fine. The police have this under control, right?

Right?

She felt a strange desire to be held by Prose, but thought he would do no such thing. Strangely, she was okay with that. Almost as if that blush a few days before held no meaning.

She blinked, then shut her eyes and hugged herself as a wave of fear and grief washed over her. She tried to calm herself by taking deep breaths.

No more tears. No more tears, she promised, though she did not know if it was promised towards herself—or to her little sister.

The door opened again, and the older detective from before stepped out. He nodded to Prose, but the author did not respond. For a moment, the detective hesitated, before turning to the mares and fillies.

“I have news,” he said simply.

Twilight cast Rarity a look, and the unicorn made a consenting gesture. Twilight nodded, before nodding to the detective, allowing him to speak.

“Seems like your word is true, Miss Rarity,” he said. “Blood analysis told us that that isn’t your blood. There indeed was another occupant in the room.”

“Why would I have lied in the first place?”

“You have to understand, Miss Rarity, that we haven’t had a kidnapping in years. And certainly not a foal-napping in decades. Sorry if we were a bit cynical,” he added gruffly.

Rarity said nothing.

“We found some faint hoofprints as well, though nothing too substantial. Most likely fake.”

Judging by the way Prose cast an annoyed, sidelong glance, she guessed he had already figured that part out.

“Can… can you do anything with the blood?” Twilight asked.

The detective turned to her. “What do you mean, miss…”

“Twilight. I mean, can’t you, I don’t know… track them?”

The detective’s brow furrowed. “Even if we could, it’d be near impossible to find them. Not only has the blood dried, meaning the makeup has likely become corrupted, we were unable to find any blood marks outside of the room.”

“What about the splatter?” Prose asked. The detective looked at him, momentarily surprised.

“What of it?”

“The shape, the radiation… what did it look like?”

“It wasn’t just a spot, if that’s what you’re thinking. It was directed in one direction. Straight path.”

Prose nodded. “So Sweetie must have been hit with something long, and certainly not a magical bolt, or else we would have found trace energy marks.” He frowned. “So… a pipe, perhaps. Or a bat. Or…”

“A blunt instrument,” the detective agreed. “Problem is, blood splatter is so generic that we won’t be able to guess what exactly was the bludgeon.”

He looked back at the mares. “That’s all we’ve got so far. Whoever did this, did it so well that we’ve been unable to find any more defining clues.” He squinted at them. “You don’t know any pony who would do this, do you?”

Rarity shook her head, as did the others. “Is there anything you can do?” Twilight asked.

“Maybe.” The detective stepped back in to speak with another pony. Returning quickly, he said, “We can put out a word for our supervisors. Blockade all exits from Manehattan, prevent any pony from leaving. That way, we can keep the search to this city.”

“That is, assuming they haven’t left already,” Prose said darkly.

The detective nodded. “We can only hope.”

He glanced back inside, hearing his name being called. “Duty calls. In the meantime, I would advise none of you to wander away from each other. If another kidnapping is attempted, on any one of you, it’d be best that you stick together. There’s safety in numbers.”

But in a crowd, more ponies can hide in plain sight, Rarity thought as he left.

She wasn’t sure what she felt.

The others fell silent, unsure of what they should say—or even if they should say anything. Without warning, Rarity felt herself being squeezed somewhere below. She looked down, seeing Scootaloo and Apple Bloom hugging her. None of them said a word, trying to comfort the grieving mare. Eventually the others joined in, albeit briefly.

Except for Prose. Still he stood, back against the wall, his eyes closed. The way his brow furrowed told Rarity that he was in deep thought. She saw Twilight give the author a worried look.

Rarity stood, walking over to the stallion. She placed a hoof on his shoulder, then slid it to his chest, looking deeply at him, not understanding his silence. “Opa…?”

Suddenly he flicked her hoof away irritably. She felt her eyes grow wet, and she turned away, so that none of them would see her tears. “I have work to do,” he stated. Turning away, he trotted down the lobby, and vanished from sight.

Rarity collapsed on the ground, and began to sob. She didn’t want to; she needed not to; but she did anyway. She couldn’t hold back all the sudden, excruciating pain, that attacked her heart and soul. Her friends hugged, squeezed, whispered, comforted, their bodies warm against hers. But she felt cold, so cold, on the inside.

She needed Opa. Just one more time. Just for support. But he was gone. Gone off to his own little world. Gone, having abandoned her when she needed him the most.

Rarity cried into her friends’ arms, frustrated, tired, angry, grieving. She cried for Opa to come back. She cried for Sweetie Belle to come back. She cried, hoping that this was all just a dream, that she’d wake up, seeing that it was all just a horrible nightmare.

But she knew it wasn’t. And that made it so much worse.

They didn’t see the stallion’s tears fall from his face. They didn’t see him cry. They didn’t see him sob in solitude, alone as usual. They didn’t hear him curse himself, curse Manehattan, curse what he had done. They didn’t hear him blame himself for what had happened.

They didn’t see, they didn’t hear, because they didn’t need to—at least, that’s what he thought. He had to be strong for them, strong for Rarity, for Sweetie Belle, if they had any chance of reuniting again.

Which was why he quickly fought off the tumultuous emotions, pushing them aside, replacing them with coldness. He needed to work. He needed to think.

He needed to cry.

But he chose not to. For them. For all of them.

No more crying. No more crying.

XI: Collatio

What beats four aces? A gun.

The thought ran through Swol’s head as he examined the gun in the local shop. It was a revolver, charcoal grey, with wood stocks and a long, narrow barrel. He was informed by the seller that it had long lost its ability to fire, the mechanisms having decayed from repeated magical use. Now, it was more like a trophy, one that Swol decided was worth keeping.

Paying the owner a handsome amount, he left, the gun tucked into his coat, empty. He was not adverse to collecting such firearms, unlike Boss and a few other members of the Family. It made him somewhat unique, even as he strived to remain “just another pony.”

The store was only a short trot away from the office, so he reentered the building in only a few minutes. He pushed open the door, stepped inside, and made his way up the steps to Grifford’s office. He nodded and greeted some of the workers, getting a few “Hellos” in response.

As he entered, he heard Finch grunt. “I take it the sale was successful?”

Swol blinked, then looked down to his side. The gun’s butt-end was hanging out. He looked back at Finch. “You could say that. It was pretty cheap.”

Finch nodded. He had a frown. “Still invested in those monstrosities, are you?”

“Hey, they’re actually interesting to collect,” Swol protested. Finch made no effort to hide his dislike of guns. “And don’t worry; it’s only for collecting. Look, see?”

Earth ponies have a noticeably hard time to lift a gun without using teeth or a special harness, but for someone as talented in the field as Swol, it was no problem (that being said, any trained pony could lift and utilize a firearm given enough time; though the weapon was found to be mostly new, and rarely used within royal armies). He reached down with one hoof and pulled out the gun, revealing that the chamber was empty. The gun did not seem to fumble in his grasp.

Boss eyed the gun uneasily. “I’ll take your word for it.” He pulled out one of the chairs. “I do ask that you refrain from pointing it at any pony.”

Hopefully I won’t have to. Swol took the open seat, replacing the gun back into his jacket. “Any news on Minx’s, Newt’s, or Viper’s whereabouts?”

Boss’s brow furrowed. “I’ve had my best field operatives investigating any and all ends, but we’ve found nothing. Seems they’ve left without a trace.”

“Any hunches?”

“Other than they’re on an unscheduled mission, no. It wouldn’t surprise me if Viper or Newt did that, but Minx?” He shook his head. “We may have had our differences, but she doesn’t strike me as one who would go against orders, or make up her own.”

Swol nodded. “She didn’t seem that way to me, either. I thought she would be smarter than that.”

Finch nodded in agreement. “Indeed. Aside from Prose, it’s safe to say she was the most cunning holder of any Prime title.”

As the mayor turned away, back to paperwork, Swol looked back down at his lap in thought. I know that a month ago, those three made Finch lose his temper, but there’s nothing between them that would make all three of them vanish.

A disturbing thought occurred to him. What if something had gone wrong? What if they had been found out? What if something was coming, something sinister, bent on taking down the Family?

But who would do such a thing? And how? Seeing as how he had no answer, he pushed the paranoid thought away.

The revolver suddenly grew cold in his pocket.

Time passed. The clock ticked and ticked, its arms slowly rotating around the center, settling on noon. A few ponies came in, most of them the secretaries, handing both Finch and Swol some more paperwork. The papers weren’t hard to fill out, and the easy and simple task calmed Swol’s nerves.

An assistant, walking in, had a concerned frown on his face. “Boss,” he said, carrying with him a paper in his magic. “I think you should read this.”

Boss grabbed the paper and leaned back, eyes scanning the headline. His eyes narrowed, and he looked at the pony. “And this happened yesterday?”

The stallion nodded. “Yeah. Police were able to release a report just this morning.”

Quickly reverting back to Family tongue, Swol asked, “Boss, what’s wrong?”

The older stallion dismissed the secretary, before turning to Swol. He handed him the newspaper. “Read this.”

Swol swiftly did so, eyes widening in alarm. “A foal-napping?!” he nearly shouted. “In Manehattan?!”

Finch said nothing, but the way his features contorted showed he was trying to calm himself down. Swol continued, “But how? Manehattan hasn’t had a foal-napping in seemingly forever!”

“Seemingly forever is right. Grab our files on the underworld, would you?” Getting up, Swol walked over to a nearby filing cabinet, and began sifting through, searching for any crime statistics he could find. Quickly he found several, and he laid them out on the table, letting him and Boss read them.

The city, under Finch’s leadership, saw a large fall in crime rates. Most felonies were attributed to simple muggings, such as the one Prose had stopped. Bank robbery was even less common. But kidnapping, and by extension, foal-napping, was unheard of, even to Swol. His records of the city, detailed as they were, revealed that the practice had barely started in Manehattan’s older, more corrupted days.

It was no surprise, then, why the papers were completely wild with the information. Who had kidnapped the filly? Why? And, more importantly—

“How the devil did they do so without alerting our ponies on the streets?”

Boss shouted the line while slamming his hoof on the desk, nearly splintering it. The jump from calmness to calamity was so severe that Swol shuffled back in response. “Damn it, how did this happen?”

He grabbed a file. “We had ponies in Greenwood, I thought, didn’t we? Why hadn’t they seen anything?”

Swol found another paper, and he gulped. “Boss, we didn’t. We had seen no activity in the hotel, so we had decided to withdraw our watchers.”

“What?! When?!”

“A month ago.”

“Who authorized that asinine action?!”

“You did.”

Finch started, before grabbing the paper. He read it carefully, before dropping it. He fell back into his chair. “You mean to tell me, the reason why that filly was able to be kidnapped… was because of me?”

Swol had the decency not to say anything, falling back into his own chair. Boss’s sudden change in demeanor was destabilizing. One moment, he was as vibrant as he had been in his youth; the next, depressed and regretful.

“We-we’ll find her,” Swol tried to reassure him. “We haven’t let a single crime go unpunished in Manehattan.”

Grifford said nothing. The younger stallion knew he was blaming himself for this. Say what you want about Mayor Grifford Finch, but if there’s one thing he can be counted on doing, it’s caring for the innocent. Remembering how horrible Boss’s childhood was, Swol realized that he only wanted to make sure that the foals of today won’t suffer from a darker world, like the one he had been born into.

Neither stallion said a word. Even the office had gone quiet.

Swol’s gun could do nothing but sit in his pocket, growing ever more colder.

Who this filly was; whom she was related to; what she had done, or did; mattered not so much as finding out why. Swol could see in Boss’s face that he promised to find an answer to that. Silently, he made a similar vow.

No other foal would be ripped from their loving guardian as they had been. That, he promised.

Finch had calmed down after many minutes had passed, as had Swol. The younger, tan, golden-yellow stallion let the older, darker-brown one be, choosing instead to coordinate communication between the Mayor and all the law enforcement that he could in his position. As the personal assistant to the Mayor, his words held some authority, but he could do little more than request the offices to lend a helping hoof.

Already, they were receiving reports that several news stations were requesting a full press conference as soon as possible. The secretaries had to tell them that the Mayor had, as of yet, not enough details to hold a conference, but, in due time, would be able to message Manehattan and keep its residents calm.

But the Mayor had not moved from his spot, staring down at the ruffled papers. His eyes were unfocused, staring at nothing in particular. Swol didn’t say anything, though, knowing that Boss was busy thinking long and hard.

He closed his eyes as he fell back into his chair. He let out a sigh. First Minx, then Newt and Viper… and now this filly. What has Manehattan come to?

He didn’t want to answer that question, so he lowered his head, eyes still closed. His hoof shook. He clenched his eyes tighter.

Well… on the bright side, this should be the only problem we encounter throughout.

Faintly, through the door, he heard the voices of the Family. They sounded concerned; and rightfully so, he supposed.

Then he heard what sounded like stomping, not from this floor, but from the floor below.

Below? How?

More quiet voices. Then, a moment of silence, before he heard a distant boom.

His eyes snapped open. Were they under attack? He listened carefully.

The voices outside grew louder, all garbled and confused. From the clutter, he guessed that several had risen from their desks, to get a better look at what was going on.

He heard another boom, and then—unfamiliar voices. He couldn’t guess how many there were; the office’s sounds blended their tones. But he could tell that at least one was a male.

Another boom, much closer. He heard faint shouting, female. A gruff, muffled reply from the male.

“I’m going to—”

The voice faded, replaced with the sound of something being knocked aside. Swol heard a few ponies try to stop whoever was barging in.

Based on the way that the room suddenly shook, he doubted they had succeeded.

Finch’s eyes returned to focus, and he quickly stood. Swol shared a silent, tense look with him. Somepony’s coming our way, Swol thought. Thinking quickly, he pulled the gun out of his pocket. This won’t hurt them, but maybe it’ll drive them away…

They stared at the door.

“N-now, please,” they heard one of the secretaries stutter. “Y-y-you need to calm down, sir—”

Something in another language—obscene, Swol guessed—was spoken by the male voice. He saw Grifford frown, as if remembering something.

Swol bit his lip. Whoever was trashing the office not only had a lot of nerve to do so—he was beyond angry. Absolutely livid, in fact.

Like a demon out of Tartarus.

More voices, both familiar and unfamiliar. Crashing. stomping, and cursing. Finch made to step to the door, but Swol held him back, looking at him intensely.

You might get hurt.

Finch understood the silent thought, but grimaced. Whoever was outside was likely destroying the office; why shouldn’t Finch confront them? He looked pointedly at Swol, waiting for an answer. The tan stallion met his gaze evenly.

Suddenly, they heard it.

Nothing.

It was as if the entire office had died. The eerie loss of sound made both of them pause. Swol tightened his grip on the revolver.

Soft whimpering from one of their secretaries just barely cut through the silence.

Now Swol wished he had bothered to buy a working gun.

His heart raced, and his shoulders locked. His legs felt as though they were like springs, about to jump out at whoever this assaulter was. He kept himself still, gun locked on the door. When it opened…

He cut the thought off as the sound of hooves approached rapidly. He narrowed his gaze, focused entirely on the door, staring down the barrel of the empty revolver.

They waited.

One second.

Two seconds.

Three.

Four.

Five.

The door made a creaking sound, as if something had pressed up against it. There was no whisper, not a single breath, taken. Swol suddenly felt as though the entire atmosphere was pressing down on him.

Six.

Seven.

Eight.

Nine.

Ten—

Brr-aaammm!

As if hit by a freight train, the door suddenly was blasted off of its hinges. Swol barely had time to react. He grabbed Finch and ducked, just as the door careened over them and crashed through the back window.

The door sailed outside, hitting the opposite building, before falling to the ground with a thud.

Swol wasted no time in getting up. He jumped to his feet, intending to point the gun at whomever stood before them. But the gun had been lost in the sudden expulsion, and now he stood weaponless, staring down at…

Some strange ponies?

There were six mares and one stallion, he saw. Two of the mares were unicorns; another two were pegasi; and the final two mares and stallion were all earth ponies. Their coats were a stark contrast to his and Finch’s; brightly colored and lively, they were definitely not a common sight for a Manehattanite. One thing that they, save for the stallion, shared, was the look of shock at what the pony had done.

But he barely had time to register their full appearances, when the stallion turned his gaze onto him.

“You!”

His voice boomed so loud that Swol thought he had somehow used the Royal Canterlot Voice. He couldn’t react in time. The stallion surged forward, knocking the younger pony aside, growling as he tackled Finch. The Mayor barely had time to register the movement as he was slammed against the back wall.

Swol quickly recovered, and, getting up, he could now see this newcomer clearly. He wore an ash-grey cloak which covered a navy-blue vest. The hood had been thrown off, revealing a slightly spiky slate mane, with bright-blue highlights. His body was a pewter-grey, and his face was as stormy as a roaring sea. So filled with raw fury was his face, that Swol nearly missed his eyes which, somehow, shone more dangerously than any amount of emotion he had ever seen.

And they were pink.

“Opa! Wait!” one of the unicorns, an alabaster-white, tried to call.

Opa?

“Where?! Where is she?!” the stallion shouted, thrashing Finch around. The Mayor couldn’t respond much more than with a grunt, but he did manage to kick the stallion away. “Opa” quickly recovered, throwing himself once again at Finch.

Swol ran up from behind, intending to pry the stallion away from his mentor. He was kicked back with so much force that the wall he crashed into cracked. He groaned in dull pain.

Finch once again threw the stallion off of him. “Opa” flew through towards the alabaster unicorn.

Swol reacted by launching himself off the ground, tackling the mare to the side, as the stallion flew past them. They both grunted as they landed. The mare had a look of surprise on her face. He felt his cheeks burn in embarrassment, and he was drawn to her sapphire eyes.

“Get off of me!” she shouted, pushing him away with her magic.

He jumped off, blinking past the pain and onslaught. “Who are you ponies?!” he shouted back, not realizing how loud his voice was.

“Swol, move!” Finch ordered, just as the new stallion began charging towards him. Swol jumped away at the last minute.

Finch managed to land a blow on the stallion’s nose, but that didn’t stop him from tackling Finch to the ground. Hooves were thrown, each impact a resounding crack. Both of their faces swelled as each fought for the advantage.

“Opa, stop!” cried the purple unicorn to Swol’s side. Her horn lit, and she approached, intending to grab them both with her magic.

Finch punched the stallion in his face. Reeling, the stallion struck the unicorn with his body, throwing her back.

“Twilight!” the others shouted.

Finch pounded on Opa, not giving the stallion a moment to rest. Seeing the wild look in the Mayor’s eyes, Swol realized he wouldn’t be able to control himself.

“Boss! Boss!” As he shouted this, he raced forward, tackling Boss off of the stallion. “Stop it! You need to stop it!”

The younger stallion’s voice broke through the rage-filled attack. Boss stumbled back, holding his hooves up halfway, a look of tired horror on his face. Swol glanced over his shoulder, wincing as he anticipated “Opa” to attack him. When he saw nothing, he turned around, and saw that the white unicorn was doing her best to restrain him in her magic. The strain of the task was evident on her face.

“Opa, please! Calm yourself!” she shouted desperately.

“Not until he’s dead!”

Finch knocked Swol away. The newcomer managed to flail around enough, distracting the white unicorn and making her preemptively disarm her magical hold. As he charged towards the mayor, he let out a cry.

“Opa” slammed into Finch whilst reaching down to the ground for something. Rushing past Swol, he leapt over the desk, stopping just short of the window. He held Grifford outside by the throat.

Swol made to rush forward, but stopped when the stallion growled, “One more step and I blow his head off with your revolver.” Fiercely he pushed the stub into the brown stallion’s neck.

Grifford groaned weakly. “Still have it in you, don’t you?”

The pewter stallion growled. “Not. Another. Word.”

Swol heard rustling behind him. Looking, he saw Twilight slowly rise. Her mane was a mess, and her eyes glowed a dangerous white. Her horn began to glow.

“You won’t kill me,” Finch continued. “You can’t.”

“I will!”

“No, you seriously can’t,” Swol said, trying to diffuse the situation before Twilight did something drastic. “The gun. It’s empty.”

The stallion blinked, looking down at the gun. Finch took this chance to kick him away with his hind hooves, throwing him over the desk. But the stallion recovered, dropping the gun, and he launched himself forward as Finch struggled to regain his breath.

“Enough!”

Suddenly, the two fighters were wrapped in a light, purple glow, frozen in the air. Swol looked over, seeing that Twilight had risen from her spot. Her mane hung loosely over her face, and her eyes glowed a dangerous white.

“Both of you, cut it out!” she shouted again. They struggled for a little longer, before Finch first nodded slowly, ceasing his struggle. The other stallion, after a much longer moment, stopped. But he kept a fierce glare upon Finch.

Swol slowly got up, ignoring the pain in his body. Twilight shot him a warning look; he raised his hooves complacently, showing he intended no harm.

She looked at the two captured stallions. She was breathing heavily. “We just outright destroyed governmental property,” she whispered fiercely. “Do you realize how much trouble you’ll be in?”

The question was directed at the pewter stallion. He said nothing, still glaring at Grifford. The way he did so, sparked something in Swol’s mind, and he struggled to figure out why.

“What… what are you doing?” Finch wheezed. “This isn’t… this isn’t you…”

“You think you know me?” The stallion struggled in Twilight’s magical grasp.

“Opa, calm yourself!” she shouted.

“Opa…? Is that what they’re calling you?” Finch may have tried to grin, but with the swelling and bruising, it came out more as a grimace. “Sounds like… something a kid… would make up…”

The comment made “Opa” madder. He spat, “Shut up!”

Swol finally understood who the stallion was. He could scarcely believe it. What was he doing in their office?

He had to confirm this. He got to his hooves and raised a hoof, curious and bewildered, at the stallion. In a voice that reflected his emotions, he stuttered, “You’re… you’re…”

Finch, despite the seriousness of the moment, let out a dry chuckle. “Of course it’s you. Welcome back…

“Opacare Prose.”

The situation still had not been completely diffused even after they had managed to right the room. Swol sat in his chair, still recovering from what had happened. The unicorn named Twilight had placed Prose and Finch in chairs opposite of each other. Their faces, previously swollen and bruised, were quickly healing thanks to an efficient healing spell the aforementioned unicorn cast moments earlier. The large desk sat between them.

“Hey, Mr. Mayor! What gives?”

The voice came from outside, below. Swol swiveled and went up to the window. He saw a small group of ponies looking at the removed door, confused.

“Er, it’s nothing major,” he reassured them. “Door came loose. Had an angry pony stumble in. Kicked the door clean out!”

“Is everything okay?” a mare asked. “Should we call the police?”

He glanced back at the Mayor, seeing him shake his head. “Er, no, it’s fine. We’re fine. Everything’s fine.”

Before they could get another word in, he shut the window and closed the blinds, releasing a breath as he slid back into his seat.

One of the mares inside, a butterscotch yellow, flew back into the office. She was followed by the pink earth mare. Swol asked a silent question to the white unicorn. “They’re probably going to help fix things up,” she responded.

He wasn’t sure what to make of all of them. He looked at the ponies. Twilight and the white unicorn looked particularly tired. The cyan pegasus had a nasty grimace on her face, mirrored by the orange earth pony’s scowl. Lastly, Prose had locked his gaze on Finch, anger steaming from his nose.

Swol didn’t know what to say. He maintained a frown, tired, confused. He opened his mouth, as if to say something; then closed it and sighed.

What exactly do you say to ponies who just broke into your office?

Prose suddenly shifted his gaze to Swol. The tan stallion flinched under his intensity. For a moment, neither spoke.

“Swol, right?” Prose began suddenly. Caught off guard, he didn’t have a chance to respond. “Personal secretary to the Boss.”

“You mean, the Mayor—”

“Don’t try and correct me.”

Swol gulped. Even though he had known Prose longer than most others in the Family, the author never failed to make him feel small.

Prose continued, “Yes, I remember you. Still corrupted by his beliefs.”

Swol tried to say something in protest, but a hoof placed on his shoulder by Finch held him back. The Mayor looked at the others in the room.

“Now, before I have you all arrested for assault, do you mind telling me what this is all about?”

“You can only have me arrested,” Opacare said, glaring. “And you know exactly what this is about.”

Swol saw Grifford frown, thinking carefully. “Your… job?” He said it delicately, as to not reveal the Family to the mares.

Suddenly, the attitude of the room shifted down the angry spectrum. Prose’s glare was like a Gorgon’s glare, as if it could kill even the fiercest of minotaurs. “Is that all you’ve ever cared about? The ‘job?’”

Swol blinked. What was it that Prose had said?

“Where is she?!”

As his mind connected the dots, the white unicorn cleared her throat. The action seemed to bring Prose out of his daze. She took a step forward, looking directly at the Mayor. When she placed a hoof on the desk, the former Prime Intimidator looked suddenly concerned, like he was worried that Finch would suddenly attack the unicorn.

“Mayor Grifford Finch?” she addressed. He nodded slowly. “You must have heard by now of the recent foal-napping?”

“I have. Why? Do you have any information regarding the victim or perpetrator?”

Though, if they did, it wouldn’t explain why Prose attacked Finch.

The mare’s face grew troubled. “Mayor, my name is Rarity. And the victim was…” Her voice wavered. “… was my sister. Sweetie Belle.”

Swol’s eyes widened. The Mayor’s grew large and sympathetic. “I’m sorry to hear that,” Finch said softly. “Rest assured, we have the city’s finest looking out for your sister.”

His hoof drew a bit closer to Rarity’s, as if to provide some sort of comfort. Opacare shot from his chair, yelling, “Don’t you dare touch her!”

Caught unawares, Finch quickly retracted his hoof, shooting Prose a questioning look. “Whoa, Prose!” the cyan pegasus exclaimed. “Cool it!”

Prose would have none of it. “You think you can play this off, like it’s another one of your schemes? Is that what you think?” He snorted bitterly. “You can try and hide it all you want, but it’s obvious what you’ve done!”

“Is it?” Grifford responded, a bit uneasily, Swol noticed.

“Yes!” Prose slammed his hooves on the floor. Underestimating his strength, but not caring either way, he cracked it, nearly collapsing the wood. “You kidnapped Sweetie Belle, all just to get back at me! I ought to—”

“Opacare Prose!” Rarity shouted, making him stop mid-sentence. Her glare matched his to such a degree that Swol was sure that she had spent years honing it. “That is quite enough!”

“We know what he did! We should have him arrested—”

“As much as Ah’d love to tie that varmint’s face into a tight knot,” the orange earth pony interrupted, getting looks from the stallion and the mare, “Ah hate to break it to ya, Prose; but you’re the only one who thinks he knows what the Mayor did.”

“Applejack is right. We don’t have any evidence to say he even was involved,” Twilight said, trying to keep her voice calm. But it was clear that she was growing tired of Prose’s outbursts.

Rarity turned back to the Mayor and Swol. She glared down at them, while Finch shifted in his seat. She stepped closer; Twilight held Prose back with her magic. As Rarity neared, her horn lifted Finch up by his collar. She looked directly at him.

“Listen to me,” he said, not faltering under the two intense gazes from the mare and the author. “I can tell you with one hundred percent certainty that the city and I will be working our hardest to find your sister.”

Rarity paused, looking into his sharp blue eyes. Her intense gaze fell away, falling into something similar to surprise.

Swol found himself feeling suddenly hot. Something about the sudden big eyes made his heart race. He wasn’t sure why.

She dropped Grifford back into his chair. “Did you hear that?” she said to nopony in particular. “‘Will be…’!”

She looked at Prose. “That implies that he didn’t know beforehand about this.”

“He could be lying.”

“Look into his eyes and tell me that he is.”

Prose cast a quick glance. “You know that I know that he’s hiding something.”

She huffed. “If this is about him hiding the Family from us, it’s hardly a surprise.”

Swol nearly fell out of his chair. “W-what? You know?”

“Of course we do!” the cyan pegasus exclaimed, flying over to him, casting a reproachful glare. “We were there when Prose confessed who he was, remember? I bet you also remember scaring ponies into leaving town, taking the necessary steps to take over Manehattan—”

“Rainbow.” Prose’s voice was low, dark, and commanding. But it got the point across. Rainbow nodded, before flying back to the door.

Grifford looked at Rarity, then to Prose, before sighing. “I should have known you’d end up telling them.”

“I trust them.”

“But do they trust you?” Finch frowned, pushing past his own question. “You still haven’t told us what you want, Prose.”

“I want many things,” he growled. “You, out of that chair, is one of them—” A sharp crack on the floor from Rarity cut him off once again.

“Mayor,” she addressed. “I know you’ve been involved in some dastardly deeds in the past. But something tells me that the issue at hand is not something you’re entirely familiar with.”

“How do you figure?” Swol asked before he could stop himself.

Rarity flashed him a smug smile, and something in his heart stopped for a brief moment. “His voice. And the way he’s sitting. When he talked about my sister, there wasn’t a sense of familiarity in his voice.” She looked his way. “Is that correct?”

He nodded. “I only just received word of the incident some time before you arrived.”

Prose looked like he wanted to say something, but held back.

“And the way he had been sitting suggests that he’s also perturbed by what has transpired. Not guarded completely, but not obnoxiously open. It’s like how a pony sits when they know something is wrong, but don’t know what.” Her face fell. “I used to see it a lot with Sweetie Belle…”

She glanced back at Prose, seeing his brow furrowed. “I know it seems hard to believe, Opa, given you two’s… history. But, if you want, let Applejack question him. She can detect a lie from miles away!”

He nodded slowly. The orange mare—Applejack, Swol correctly guessed—stepped forward, giving the Mayor a stoic look. She wasn’t sure what to make of him, and had little to go on but what Prose had been saying. Swol hoped that she wouldn’t let that blind her from seeing Finch as he was.

“Ah’m gonna start right off, Mister Mayor. Were you involved in Sweetie Belle’s kidnapping?”

“I was not.”

She scrunched her muzzle, looking at him from every angle. Swol tried to join in, but failed to see anything wrong with his mentor’s expression.

“That’s yer answer?”

“It is indeed my answer, yes.”

She sat back, looking at him through narrowed slits. She was silent for a little while; then, she looked to her friends. “Best as I can figure, he ain’t lying.”

Swol released a breath. Good. Thank Celestia that was over—

Why did she still look troubled?

“But,” she added, “Ah can’t help but feel that something else is wrong. Is that right, Mister Mayor?”

With seven gazes set upon them, demanding an answer, Swol felt any calmness leave him. What could they say to remove their suspicions? Swol knew they had absolutely nothing to do with the foal-napping. He couldn’t even see Finch wanting to kidnap a child. He was much too kind to them to want to cause any harm.

He thought back to Prose’s words: “You’d do it just to get back at me!”

What had happened that would make Opacare think they’d want to hurt him? He had been a valued member of the Family; the least thing they’d want to do is drive him away! Finch may not have been as close to the author as he had once been, but he still held him in high esteem.

Suddenly, the author seemed like an entirely different pony to Swol, different from the stallion he had known about in the last few years in the Family.

I’m not even sure what exactly he wants to do. Doesn’t he see all the good we’ve accomplished? Why would he suspect us?

He looked over to Grifford, hoping for answers. Surprisingly, he provided some; though, shockingly, not the ones Swol was expecting.

He reached down underneath the table and pulled out the three files. What—What is he doing?

“This can’t be a coincidence,” Finch muttered as he placed the files on the desk. “It’s too easy. Too stupidly easy.”

“What are you talking about?” Rarity asked. She trotted over to the desk, and raised the papers with her magic. “Who are these ponies? Victims?”

Finch shook his head. “No. But I believe that Prose here remembers them?”

They turned to him expectantly. The author shifted his hooves, a bit disgruntled, before sighing and snatching the papers with a hoof. He read through them quickly.

“Viper Navy. Male. Age: 25. Relatives: Brother, Apartment 421F, Manehattan Coastline Residency. Occupation: Accountant. Operation: Comminator.

“Newt Ginger. Male. Age: 27. Relatives: Unknown, likely orphan. Occupation: Bank Teller. Operation: Comminator.

“Minx.” At that his eyes widened, and his voice rushed through the words. “Female, age 23, relatives, mother, retirement home in downtown Harbor; occupation, secretary for mayor. Operation: Coercitor Protos.” He looked up. “Prime Enforcer.”

Finch nodded. “You remember them well?”

Any anger that had been boiling in the stallion had seemingly vanished. “Yes. I remember when they were just starting out. Barely adults.” His frown returned. “Why are you showing us this?”

Swol finally understood. “Because what happened to them may have something to do with what happened to her.”

All eyes were at once trained on him. He took a breath. “We received word a day ago that Minx had not arrived at her post. We first assumed that she was simply on an extended mission, but a quick check-up revealed she had no work to be done for the next week. Our next discovery was that Newt and Viper were gone as well, and, once again, without any work being assigned.”

“So what you’re saying is, they’ve vanished,” clarified Twilight.

“We don’t know for certain, but it is a high possibility. Especially now that we know about what happened to Rarity’s sister.

“It can’t just be a coincidence,” he continued, “that four ponies vanished, only a day apart. Three of ours, and that filly—Sweetie Belle.” He paused for a moment, gathering his thoughts. “I don’t know how else to explain it, but somehow, those vanished ponies are linked. It’s far too easy to call it coincidence.”

“So easy that,” Rarity finished, “the only explanation, is that something else was involved.”

He nodded, before cringing under Opacare’s stoic stare. “I know it seems far-fetched, but it’s the most sensible possibility.”

In the pewter stallion’s face, there still remained a level of distrust that Swol still did not understand completely. It both mildly frustrated and greatly confused him.

At the very least, he hadn’t said anything in protest, so perhaps Swol’s words were making some amount of sense to him.

“Somepony else is involved,” breathed Rarity. “We simply cannot let them get away with this!”

“She’s right,” Swol said. “I don’t like having kidnappers running amuck in Manehattan.”

Finch stood, appearing very mayor-like. “To that end, if we are to find these ponies, then we must pool our resources—both the city’s, and our own.”

“An alliance?” Twilight asked.

“More of a coalition, but yes, essentially an alliance.” He tried for a smile. “What do you say?”

A seat suddenly was pushed back as Opacare reared his hooves, whinnying madly. The action, so primal, to uncanny, caused everyone to flinch back. “No! Absolutely not!” He turned on Rarity. “You cannot possibly be so stupid as to think allying yourself with that filth will do us any good!”

Rarity looked hurt by those words, judging by her furrowed brow. Swol suddenly wanted to go over to her and shield her from Prose. She tried to say, “Now, Opa—”

“Have you forgotten what he’s done?!” Prose shouted over her. Twilight’s horn glowed dangerously, but she appeared hesitant to use her magic at the moment. “All of the ponies he’s scared?! The mass exoduses he’s performed?! The families he’s driven apart, the fillies and colts who have been scarred, the friends he’s killed—”

“Opacare Prose!” Her voice, shrill, furious, and livid, drowned out the raging stallion. “That is quite enough!”

She took a step forward, pushing a hoof into his chest, hard. “Whatever spat you had with the Mayor, no matter how painful, is of no consequence right now! Sweetie Belle is missing, and we need all the help we can get! So, please, put your anger aside and help me find her, or Celestia help me I will throw your self-entitled, uncaring, and hateful flank out the window—”

She suddenly stopped, staring into his eyes. Swol couldn’t tell what was happening between the two, other than she had reached some sort of understanding about the stallion. She slowly backed off, hoof over her mouth. She looked away, as did he.

The tension slowly fell, replaced with exhaustion. Even Twilight, Applejack, and the cyan pegasus, who weren’t a part of the shouting match, looked tired. Finch held onto a guarded but thoughtful expression.

“Opa, I…” Rarity’s voice trailed off.

He stepped back, heading for the open doorway. He didn’t say anything, and simply walked out, leaving the others in stupefied solitude.

The white unicorn started shivering, and wiped her face with a hoof. The shivering didn’t stop; it was followed by shaky lips, and unsteady legs. Before any of the mares accompanying her could get to her side, Swol was there, spurred on by instinct. She leaned against him, not caring who he was, only wanting the support he offered.

Something dampened his coat.

She gasped, pushing away. “Oh! I-um… Th-thank you…” Her apologizing quickly turned to stutters. Swol saw a few remaining tears in her eyes.

He managed to give a small, understanding smile, followed by a nod. He stayed in his spot, though; the others didn’t seem keen on asking him to leave.

Rarity turned to Finch, who was looking at her. With a concerned frown, he did not seem like a towering monstrosity, a walking filth, that Prose had called him. Swol could see that he genuinely was worried for Rarity and the missing filly. Here was a stallion who pledged to save Manehattan. And he was preparing to renew that pledge.

Rarity was the first to speak. She cleared her throat. “Mister Mayor,” she began, voice soft and strained, “the way I understand it, you have done some… things.” She failed to find the right adjective but, with a wave of her hoof, Swol understood what she meant. He cringed. What had Prose been saying about them?

“And… I’d like to think that Opa is telling the truth to his side of things.”

Finch said nothing, staring carefully at her.

“But… with only his word to go on, I think that… there remains some doubt as to your… heinous acts.”

Swol nearly let out a relieved sigh.

“As such, I think that what you have offered would be unwise to refuse. I-I—” She fumbled, looking for the best way to phrase it. Her formal tone collapsed, but she did not.

Shakily, but still determined to stay strong, she said, “Please. Help me find my beloved little sister.”

Finch, at first, remained silent, before reaching around the desk and pulling out a small notepad. Writing something down, he handed it to Swol. “Give this to Marble. See to it that she prepares all that is written.”

He then looked at Rarity, and, though it couldn’t be said he was pleased with what had transpired, he was still empathetic. “We’ll get your sister and our associates back. I promise.”

“Grifford?” Swol asked. “What should we do about the…” He gestured around the room. “The mess?”

Finch waved a hoof. “We’ll take care of that later. Right now, get that to Marble. This is much more important.”

“Right away, sir.”

As Swol stepped beside Rarity, he stopped for a moment. Something told him to say something, but he didn’t know what. He opted instead to place a hoof on her shoulder reassuringly. “We’ll find her,” he whispered.

He didn’t see her nod. He walked out.

“Mr. Prose?”

The author stiffened when Swol spoke. He turned, eyes narrowed, staring down the tan stallion.

Swol gulped. After delivering the note to the secretary, he had, for some reason, decided to walk out and talk to the author. He knew it was a foolish idea, but something told him he had to anyway. Clearing his throat, he stepped down the steps. A low grunt from Prose told him to keep a short distance away.

“I… um… I just wanted to tell you that Mayor Grifford Finch—” The mention of the name caused Prose to glare at Swol. The tan stallion hesitated, but pressed forward: “—he’s called together a press conference to let Manehattan know what’s going on.”

Swol scuffed a hoof on the sidewalk. He could sense Prose’s eyes stare right through him, analyzing his every word and movement. “He didn’t say specifically, but I could tell he wanted to… to…”

There was simply no way to say it without angering the stallion. Swol took a breath, trying to keep himself cool under the pressure that Prose was laying on him.

“He would want you to come.”

No discernable reaction could be seen from Prose. It was as if he had shut down completely. All that remained was his gaze, brilliant and dark at the same time.

Swol had anticipated this silence, and he pressed on. “I don’t know exactly what you think of us, or why… but I can tell you with one hundred percent certainty, we’re not what you think we are. We… we aren’t monsters. We’re ponies like you. We just want to help Manehattan.”

“By scaring innocents? Coercing the foolish? Bullying the beaten?”

Opacare’s voice was hard, years of bitterness behind it. In three simple interrogatives, he told the story of a wounded warrior. Swol tried to remain calm.

“We only scare criminals. Only those who have it coming.”

“That’s what he said, isn’t it?” Of course Opacare saw through those words. “Not what you think. Tell me, Swol, what do you think about the Family?”

Sweat beaded down his face, but he answered strongly, “I think we’re just ponies who want to do good.”

“Then you’re as blind as I was.”

“Or maybe you’re still blind to the truth.”

The words were out like a rocket. He saw Prose pause and stiffen. If Swol kept going on about the Family, he knew that the author wouldn’t want to be around anymore. He needed to keep Prose close, to ensure that they would find the missing ponies.

“Look, it doesn’t matter what you think of us, or of me, or of the Mayor. Right now, the city needs you to go to that press conference.” He sighed. The cold wind rushed past.

Prose didn’t respond, and Swol took that as a sign to continue.

“Whatever… qualms… you have, I… I think you need to put them away for now. From what I can tell, despite your little… rage a little while ago, you care for the missing filly. As does Rarity.” For some reason, saying her name made him feel a bit warmer.

He looked Opacare dead in the eye. “I’m not asking you as a member of the Family. I’m asking you as a fellow pony. I want to help find Sweetie Belle. So does Grifford.”

He paused, before finishing, “Please. Come to the press conference. The city needs you. We need you. She—” He gestured back to the building. “She needs you, Mr. Prose. I think they all do.”

With the wind blowing by, it was hard to tell if his words were getting through to the stallion. Yet Swol continued to wait for a response, ignoring the cold.

“… When?” Prose simply asked.

Inside of Swol’s head, victory bells were ringing. He fought down a grin, trying to remain serious. “We’ve scheduled for later today. I’ll let you know the exact time and place.”

The author turned, seeing that business was done. He began walking down the street, pulling up his hood as he did so, fading back into anonymity. Swol watched him go, happy, yet strangely sad. Hadn’t he convinced Prose to join them? Why would he be feeling this way?

He pushed the thought aside, deciding to mull over it another time. Something compelled him to add one more thing. “Mr. Prose?” he called.

The stallion stopped. He barely glanced over his shoulder.

“… For what it’s worth… thank you.”

The stallion let the words sink in, before continuing to walk away. He vanished down the street, and Swol guessed he was heading to the hotel to rest. He considered getting a few ponies to watch over him, but quickly decided against it. Something told him that the author needed to be alone for now.

Away from everyone, and everything.

Swol wondered how he could ever find comfort in that.

THE COALITION OF THE CENTURY!

Ponies of Manehattan, rejoice! Rejoice, I tell you, because the goddesses above have granted us not one, but two, distinct saviors, to alleviate us from this sudden threat!

Frequent readers of the Manehattan Times will remember that, just a day ago, a young filly was kidnapped by unknown assailants from her room in the Greenwood Hotel. Currently, an investigation is underway by the Manehattan Police Force, though nothing concrete has come up, I am told.

But! Fret not, my fellow ponies, because now we’ve our city’s most prestigious figures lending a direct and personal helping hoof. That’s right; Mayor Grifford Finch not only has vowed to find the missing filly, but he is doing so with the help of the legendary and formerly missing author, Opacare Prose!

Mayor Grifford revealed in a press conference today that he had received word of the incident a day after it had happened. He then revealed that three other ponies who had been a part of his legislature have gone missing. After hearing about the missing filly, he realized that there is a high possibility that the many disappearances may be connected.

“Manehattan is not a home to criminals!” he spoke to reporters at the press conference. “If they should seek to terrorize and kidnap our fellow Manehattanites, they will find no safe haven in our fair city!”

Ironically, it seems that these perpetrators will be staying in Manehattan for much longer than anticipated. The police have started a blockade around the city’s main exits and entrances, and are checking every pony who is trying to enter. In the meantime, no ponies are allowed to leave. “This is to ensure,” said one of the officers, “that we keep the search to Manehattan, and Manehattan alone.”

I know what some of you are thinking: “Kidnappers? In Manehattan? Why shouldn’t I leave?” Well, that exact question was posed to the Mayor, and he had this to say:

“If we show that we are afraid of these criminals, then crime will resurface once again. We must show that we are not afraid to make difficult decisions; we must show we are willing to sacrifice a great deal of liberty in order to sniff out those ruffians. The only thing we need fear is our hesitance in not doing our part, to find and safely return those four missing ponies.”

The names of the missing are as follows: Minx, a red Earth mare, whose Cutie Mark is a purple eighth note; Newt Ginger, a mint-green unicorn stallion with a Mark in the shape of a mask; Viper Navy, a blue unicorn stallion whose Mark consists of a green pen with a jade wisp of smoke trailing behind it; and Sweetie Belle, an unmarked, unicorn filly. Any pony with information on these victims is asked to report to the police immediately.

When asked what he thought we, as a city, should do to help, Opacare Prose had this to say:

“Servo vestri amici et familiae, sed non inanes sunt manifesta.”

I had to look up the words, but here is the best translation:

“Keep your friends and family close, but do not oblivious to the obvious.”

It’s strange advice, but, since it came from his mouth, I believe we would do well to heed his words.

I must confess, it is like something out of the author’s novels! A foal-napping resulting in a joint effort by our beloved Mayor and our beloved Author… I tell you, readers, it’s truly a magnificent time we live in!

If you want to help Manehattan by following Opacare Prose’s advice, we have a few puzzles on the next page to help enhance your mind and keep you from being “oblivious to the obvious.”

Manehattan Times and my editorial column will do our best to keep you all informed as the days pass. And don’t you worry, missing ponies; with the combined might of the Mayor, the Author, and the city, we’ll get you all home, safe and sound!-Ruby Sparks, Reporter of the Manehattan Times

XII: Awoken

If Minx could gather her thoughts, she would have thought it strange that these kidnappers would tie her up to a pole and leave her there unguarded. Unfortunately, her head was busy recovering from whatever had knocked her out, and a throbbing headache kept her from thinking coherently.

Opening her eyes, she found that her vision was blurred. For a moment, she panicked, as she could see nothing in front of her. Gradually, though, after a little blinking, her vision began to adjust to the room. She found she was not blind, but rather, in a small compartment.

It was dimly lit. Looking up, she followed the light source, and found a set of open grates at the top of the left wall. The moon shone down through the opening, revealing a concrete, grey floor and similarly colored walls.

Wiggling a bit, she found her binds—ropes held her down by her torso and pressed her back against the post. They held her tight, and any movement made her wince in slight pain. She guessed that they had somehow burned her, likely through the method of tying her up. Still, though, that didn’t entirely cease her struggle. Shuffling around, she managed to gather a nearly 270 degree view of the room. She figured out that the pole was in the center of the room, and, after trying to tug it, found that it was rooted deeply in place.

Am I in a jail cell?

It seemed like a perfectly sound guess. With these grey walls, and one opening, it was easy to surmise that conclusion. However, since there appeared to be no door, or sliding cell door, she doubted she was actually in one. The room was more akin to a cellar, albeit a small one.

There weren’t even beds nor toilets. If this was a jail cell, it was a poor one.

She gingerly pressed her head against the post. She let out a sigh as she realized she had not suffered anything more than a headache. In fact, she guessed she had received no physical punishment, following her blacking out.

That means there’s still a chance for me to escape. All I have to do is figure out a way to remove these ropes…

Tight as they were, ropes were still ropes. And while her body remained stuck against the pole, she found that she could at least wiggle a bit, even shift her position. Grunting and groaning, she managed to loosen the bonds just enough to turn a bit.

She first saw her shadow, cast by the moon. Something about it seemed off. As she turned her head, trying to figure out why, she saw another shadow merge with it. She frowned. Was it the pole’s?

But the pole’s shadow should have been longer, simply because it was physically larger. And this shadow looked… smaller, somehow.

Slowly her mind, tired as it was, began to connect the dots. She swiveled her head around.

Minx sucked in her breath. There, tied against the same pole, was a young filly. A little stub of a horn protruded from her head. Her mane, a combination of pink and light purple, was disheveled and thrown all over the place. In the moon’s glow, Minx could see the faint markings of a bruise at the back of the filly’s head.

“H-hey!” Minx’s voice was hoarse, her throat dry. “A-are you alright?”

She received no answer. Her eyes widened. Was she… was she…

Desperately, Minx began to work her ropes. She tugged and shifted around, ignoring the burning of the fibers against her belly. “Got to get free!” she whispered fiercely to herself.

She felt resistance from the rope, pulling her back. That filly must be tied up in the same rope! There was no time to question if she was hurting the filly further. She continued her task, pulling and pushing the rope, until there was a sizable gap between her torso and the first coil.

She sucked in her stomach and got to her hooves. It was a tight squeeze, but she managed to pull herself out. The rope rubbed against her fur; she winced as she felt some fur being torn away. Eventually, she pulled her entire body out of the rope’s taught grasp.

The moment she got to her hooves, she nearly collapsed. She hadn’t realized how weak she was. How long had she been unconscious? Had she even been fed? She shook her head, and immediately regretted it. The room spun and twirled sporadically. She reeled, falling back onto her haunches, clutching her head. She closed her eyes and waited for things to settle.

After a moment, things finally did. Minx was careful not to jerk so much as she resumed her stance. Slowly and carefully, she trotted over to the young filly, placing a hoof on her face.

She felt slow, but steady breath come from the filly’s nostrils.

Minx nearly sighed. She was alive! And by the looks of it, the only injury she had sustained was the bruise on her head.

“Hey! Wake up!” she whispered fiercely. She shook the girl hard, but the filly did not respond at all. She’s really out of it!

Shaking her probably won’t help her out, though. What should I do?

She reached down and undid the ropes, before placing them to the side. Her knees wobbled a little. Have to find an exit.

She looked back up at the slit above. Even if she threw the rope up there and managed to wrap it around something, the opening was much too narrow for anypony to fit through. Not even the small filly had a chance of getting out that way. The four walls offered a little bit more, but in their greyness and simpleness, she could see no means of escaping. Nevertheless, she searched them tirelessly.

They were all flat and solid; knocking on them, she found that the sound was much too concentrated to have a hidden room behind them. Even with her strongest kick, she doubted she would be able to break them. Cobwebs gathered in the above corners, while dust piles grew in the lower sides. How long had they been in here? How long had she been in here?

She grit her teeth. No! There had to be a way. Somehow, she and the filly had ended up in here. That meant that there simply had to be an exit!

The floor was her next choice. Bending down so that her muzzle nearly grazed the cold stone, she searched every bit of it. Frustrated exhales blew away small mounds of dust, making her cough and grunt in annoyance. But the floor yielded nothing to her investigation; not a single plate, nor stone, nor tile, nor block, was loose. If she tried to stomp her way out, she’d likely end up with bruised hooves than an opening.

But she wouldn’t give up; she couldn’t. There had to be something, anything, that could help her—help them—escape. She walked back over to the pole, trying to prod it. It didn’t move, so she moved to the corners of the room. She clambered up the sides, hoping to see some sort of crack in the intersections; but she found none.

In a last ditch effort, she tried to call for somepony. “Help! Anypony!” Yet her voice was weak, and she coughed hard. Red splattered on the floor. She collapsed, feeling suddenly cold and tired. She hugged her hooves to herself, trying to keep in the warmth. Exhaustion flooded her every sense.

No one came.

Minx could make an accurate guess as to how much time had passed. White, early-morning sunlight glowed through the gap above. It was a harsh light; she struggled to effectively adjust.

As soon as her vision settled, she noticed several things. First, the unicorn filly was awake, and staring at her with concerned, emerald eyes. “Are you alright?” she asked, tilting her head. The movement visibly pained her.

Minx grunted, “Yeah, I’m fine. How are you holding up, kid?”

The filly pointed to the back of her head. “Well, my bruise is still there, if that’s what you’re asking.” Her voice softened. “You don’t… you don’t know where that came from, do you?”

The burgundy mare shook her head. “Sorry, kid. No idea. I saw it well before you awoke.”

Minx got to her hooves. Her blackout had ended up lending her a bit extra energy; her previous exhaustion was all but gone. “How long was I out?”

The filly rolled her shoulders in a shrugging manner. “I don’t know; I only got up a few minutes ago. I was about to wake you, but then you woke up yourself.”

She nodded, then her knees wobbled. Suddenly she was aware of how hungry and thirsty she was. The filly quickly noticed. “Oh! You look super weak!”

Minx tried for a grin. “It’s… it’s alright. I’ll manage.” Inwardly, she remembered the countless times she had been on stakeout, all those days she had abstained from eating in order to draw out a certain pony. Yet, even as she remembered this, she realized that she had always been in control of the amount of sustenance she had before each assignment. She had always had enough to keep her body from collapsing on assignment. Here and now, though, without any idea on how much time had passed, or how much energy she had expended, she was at a real risk for starving or growing dehydrated.

She pushed those thoughts away. “We should focus on finding a way out of here for now. Let’s hope something in the room has changed.”

The filly didn’t look at all fooled by Minx’s forced smile, but did not object. She stepped away, allowing Minx to look around.

Minutes passed. She found nothing new around the room. There were neither cracks in the walls, nor signs of any openings. Once again, the gap remained above, unreachable, and unescapable. Her muzzle scrunched up in disgust and frustration, but not in resignation.

“Come on, come one. There’s gotta be a way out of here, somehow…” She looked back at the filly. “Hey, do you think you could use a See-Through-Walls spell?”

Her eyes widened, and she shook her head. “N-no, I don’t think Twilight’s even taught me that yet. Not that I can do much with my magic to begin with…”

Minx frowned. Twilight? Wonder who that is. “I guess that makes sense. You’re just a kid and all.”

She looked back up at the grate. She then sat back down on her haunches.

“What are you doing?” asked the filly.

“Trying something.” Minx cupped her forehooves around her face like a cone. “Hey! Can anypony hear me?” she yelled. Her voice echoed around the interior of the room, and she hoped that somehow, it would escape through the gap and find its way into somepony’s ear.

But her hopes seemed in vain, as no pony arrived to investigate. She tried again: “Hey! Come help us! We’re trapped in this room with no exit!”

No one.

“Help! Somepony, please!”

Nothing.

“Guh!” She slammed her hooves on the floor in anger. “What the hell? Where the hell are we?”

“In a room?”

“No, I mean, where are we, that there are no other ponies to hear me?” She shook her head. “The last thing I remember was being in Manehattan. That must have been a few days ago. How far were we transported out, if we even moved out?”

“Maybe we’re just in a secluded area of Manehattan?” the filly suggested. “I mean, I don’t know that much about the city compared to Opa, but it’s still possible.”

“Maybe.” She decided to ask her about this “Opa” later. Minx turned and faced the filly. “Look, kid, I know we just met, and under strange circumstances, but if you could lend a helping hoof, we might be able to find a way out.”

The filly nodded. Her look was long and tired, and she seemed famished. Yet her willing attitude gave Minx a small amount of courage. “I’ll try my best, miss…”

“Minx.” She managed a small smile. “Since it seems we’ll be stuck here for a time, how about you tell me your name?”

“Okay, Minx. I’m Sweetie Belle.”

The burgundy earth mare was about to respond, perhaps with a compliment about how fitting Sweetie’s name was, but she was suddenly cut off by a low hum.

Turning, they were suddenly greeted by a rich, blue light. Minx recognized it as teleportation. She could see the slim form of a unicorn shrouded by the light, yet did not know if it was male or female. Judging by a material that was flowing behind it, it had to be wearing some sort of garment. A cone-shaped object topped its head; a hat, most likely, though Minx did not know what kind.

Weirdly, its mouth appeared to be moving, as if trying to speak.

Then, just as suddenly, it vanished.

“Minx?” The burgundy mare turned, finding Sweetie staring at the spot with wide eyes. “What was that?”

“Teleportation,” Minx said. “Though, by the looks of it, a failed one.”

She stepped a bit closer to the spot, thinking deeply. Then, all of a sudden, the hair on the back of her neck rose. She jumped away on instinct, just as another flash of light appeared, blinding the both of them.

But this flash was even briefer than the others, and faded just as Minx landed. The mare quickly recovered from her jump, turning and preparing to attack whatever had come through.

Yet she found out that there was nothing to attack. At least, nothing that seemed threatening.

“What the…?”

She and Sweetie slowly approached the several objects that lay on the floor. Two bottles of water stood next to a greasy bag. Minx’s stomach recoiled at the sight, while Sweetie only looked confused.

“Food?” she simply asked.

Minx nodded, but held out a hoof to stop Sweetie from reaching the items. “We don’t know if they’re poisoned or not.”

“Fast food? Poisoned? I mean, I know that they’re pretty bad for your health, but I wouldn’t call them poisonous.”

“They could have been infected with cyanide or some other agent,” Minx reminded her.

She scanned the area, seeing that the charred mark had spread a little. “So it was teleported in? Then who was that pony I saw in the flash?” she asked aloud.

“Maybe somepony came to help us,” suggested Sweetie Belle.

Minx shook her head. “Then why not teleport us out of here?”

“Maybe she couldn’t? Like she isn’t strong enough?”

“That certainly is a possibility. Self-teleportation spells take a lot of work to master.” She frowned. “Though, how she was able to transport this here is strange, especially if she can’t teleport us out…”

She dropped her hoof, but motioned for Sweetie to stay back. She began to walk up to the food and drink, sniffing the bag gingerly. The bag, greasy as it was, did not have a poisonous aroma; and the water appeared clean. Nothing seemed out of place.

She opened it up, her confusion growing with each passing second.

“Hayburgers?”

Pulling it out, she saw that indeed, there were two rather juicy looking hayburgers wrapped in a pile of napkins. A few condiment packs were packed with them. There was even two trays packed inside. She pulled them all out, eyebrows raised and jaw slack, placing them on the floor.

Despite her not having a fondness for the greasy food, her stomach was too eager to adhere to what she preferred. She took a small bite of one of the burgers, preparing for in case it had been poisoned.

“Minx!” Sweetie cried, rushing up to her. There was nothing she could do, though; now she had to wait.

Minx chewed slowly, before swallowing. For a few seconds, she waited for any sign of malcontent in her body. When no sign showed up, she grabbed one of the waters and downed a quick gulp, swishing it in her mouth before swallowing. Again, she waited; and again, there was no sign.

She turned to Sweetie. “I… I think it’s safe.”

Sweetie stepped closer. She appeared hesitant, yet also hungry at the same time. Choosing not to use her magic, she physically picked up her own burger, cautiously taking a bite. Her eyes widened. “Hey, this is pretty good!”

Minx nodded, though inwardly she was unsure. Still, she reasoned, she only had to survive long enough to escape; and so long as the food wasn’t killing her at the moment, she decided that eating it was not much of a risk.

She continued eating.

Between bites and gulps, the two talked; mostly about anything that came to mind. It seemed that talking calmed their nerves, and for this, Minx was especially grateful. Despite wanting to continue investigating a way to escape, she realized that doing so would make the both of them panic, and that would in turn ruin any chance of them finding a way out.

What came up first was how the two of them had ended up here. Minx shuddered as she recounted her experience. Now, as she recollected it, she realized that she must have been hallucinating. “It might have had to do with the building’s atmosphere,” she said to Sweetie.

The filly frowned thoughtfully. “You think it was magic or something?”

“Hallucinatory magic?” She shook her head. “I don’t know. I’m pretty good at seeing when magic is being used. And there were no tell-tale signs of magic occurring.”

“Maybe it was gas! Like a gas leak!”

“Maybe. I’ll have to look into that later on. What about you? How’d you end up here?”

Sweetie briskly went through the details. Vividly, she recounted the hotel and the canister that crashed through the window, though she confessed she couldn’t remember much after. “I think I got hit in the back of the head and blacked out.”

“That would explain the bump back there.” Minx’s brow furrowed. The Greenwood Hotel, she had thought, had long been secured. How a kidnapper managed to get past their watchful gaze made no sense. “It’s strange that it was the two of us that ended up here, and nopony else. I wonder if there’s a special reason for that?”

“Maybe they wanted to hear you sing?” As Minx raised an eyebrow, Sweetie pointed a hoof at her flank. “Your Cutie Mark.”

Minx barked out a laugh. “Ha, ha, funny. I haven’t sung in years.”

“Really?” Sweetie’s eyes widened. “But that’s your special talent! Why wouldn’t you want to sing?”

“Let’s just say I found something more… enlightening.” She noted the excitement in the filly’s voice. “How about you? Do you like singing?”

Sweetie blushed furiously. “W-well, I mean… I like it, but I don’t like doing it in front of big crowds and all.”

That surprised Minx. For a filly as lively and cheerful as Sweetie Belle, she expected her to willingly be in the spotlight. “Well, have you considered taking music lessons? Maybe getting out there in the world? Getting used to all the attention?”

“Actually…” Sweetie smiled a little, before lighting her horn. “My big sister pitched in and got me this ticket!”

She pulled the ticket out of her poofy mane. Minx raised an eyebrow. “You’ve been hiding it in your hair this whole time?”

Sweetie blushed. “I didn’t have a bag at the moment, and I kinda forgot to ask Rarity for one… Plus, my friend Pinkie stores stuff in her mane all the time.”

“That sounds dirty.”

“You’d be surprised at how clean her mane is.”

She floated the ticket over, and Minx read the inscription. When she had finished reading, she looked back over at Sweetie Belle, impressed. “Tickets to ‘The Angel of Manehattan’ herself? I’m impressed. Not many ponies are able to get such an audience. How did your sister manage to acquire this?”

“She didn’t do it alone,” Sweetie responded. “She actually had some help from Opa!”

“‘Opa?’”

Sweetie blushed again. “Oh, right, you don’t know him. That’s just something I call him because his name doesn’t exactly roll off the tongue.” She gained a slightly mischievous glint. “You might have heard of him, even though he doesn’t really like being known. The author? Opacare Prose?”

The water the burgundy mare had been drinking suddenly and violently spewed out; luckily, she was looking away when it did, meaning that the only thing that got wet was the floor. She coughed. “I’m sorry, did you say Opacare Prose?”

Sweetie recoiled in surprise at Minx’s initial reaction. “Y-yeah, I did.”

“As in, the Opacare Prose?”

“Well, who else has that name?”

Minx blinked, unable to speak coherently. Her lips flapped wordlessly. Sweetie cocked her head in an adorable manner. “Uh, Minx? You okay?”

The mare shook her head to clear her mind, focusing onto the filly in front of her. “You’re serious?” she asked, voice low and soft.

Sweetie, after a moment to register her words, nodded with an innocent and earnest smile.

Minx let out an amused sigh. “Wow… just wow…” She chuckled, chortled; then she laughed, and her laugh was so rich and vibrant that one would not think she had been exhausted from this whole ordeal.

Sweetie, still slightly confused, asked Minx once again if she was okay.

“I’m fine! Really!” the mare responded between laughs. “It’s just…” She managed to quiet down, but the amused smile remained on her lips. “The first pony I see after waking up—a filly, nonetheless—turns out to be one of the ponies who found Opacare Prose!” The sheer coincidence was lost on Sweetie, but not to Minx; the very thought was so bright that it improved her entire mood.

At least, for the moment.

Sweetie did look like she wanted to question further, but she seemed content to letting Minx find this whole thing funny. “So, you know Opa? How?”

“Well, aside from his books…” Her smile grew sly. “We did work together,” she added, thinking that the filly would have no idea what she was talking about.

Her smile gradually fell, though, as the filly stared at her with wide, surprised eyes. Sweetie suddenly pushed the food away from her, as if she had lost the rest of her appetite.

“Sweetie? What’s wrong?”

“Y-you worked with Opa?”

Minx nodded, cocking her head and frowning. “Yes, is there a problem?”

“P-problem? N-no! I mean, no problem, besides the fact that—” She gulped, looking at Minx like she was a predatory wolf. “That-that—”

Seeing the look of fright on the filly’s face filled Minx with concern. She decided it would be best if she kept her distance.

“Minx?” Sweetie suddenly asked.

“Yes?”

“Are… are you a bad pony?”

Minx looked down at the huddled form in front of her, noticing a subtle change in the filly’s eyes. Something close to desperation shimmered in those jade orbs. “I… I don’t like to think I am,” Minx responded softly.

“… Opa… Opa thinks he’s a bad pony.”

“Why is that?”

“Because of what he did… what he did when… when he worked with you…”

At first, Minx was uncertain of what Sweetie was referring to. Soon, though, as the seconds passed, she realized what Sweetie meant. Yet the realization was not met with anger, or denial. It was met with dull acceptance.

Minx sighed, hunching over. “Oh.” What else could she say? If the filly knew, and if Opacare was talking to her about this, then she had nothing to say to refute the claim.

“But…” Minx looked back up as Sweetie’s soft voice cut through her thoughts. “But I think he’s a good pony, deep down.” She looked at Minx. “Did… did you think he was a good pony? Back when he worked with you?”

“I did.”

“Do you still think that?”

“I’m not sure.” Minx’s voice grew low. “Considering how I haven’t really interacted with him in years… I’m not sure what to make of him.”

Sweetie nodded. “I… I still think he’s good. I’ve seen him do some really good things, Minx. I don’t think anypony that willing to be good and to make up for what he did in the past, is at all bad.” She smiled. “And… if you worked with him, maybe you helped him realize he could do good.”

“Maybe.” She hadn’t considered that as a possibility. Had she affected Opacare’s decision making?

“And if that’s the case,” Sweetie continued, her smile wide and honest, “then I don’t think you’re a bad pony either.”

Minx found herself smiling as well. “Now I see why they call you Sweetie.”

They ate in relative comfort, their smiles hopeful, the bleak situation pushed aside for now. And the light from the opening above shared that hope—temporary as it was, brief as it forever needed to be; but that faint chance was all that was needed, for them to enjoy each other’s company.

The unicorn mare wanted to speak up. She knew she ought to; she knew she had to. But she didn’t. Her mouth and jaw remained shut, as if glued, such that her lower lip shook, and tears gathered at the edges of her eyes, born of frustration; and she wiped away when the others weren’t looking.

The two stallions talked in low voices, conversing about the treatment of their prisoners. Prisoners. The mare never thought she’d ever have to use that word to describe somepony else, let alone two ponies. It didn’t help that one of those ponies, those prisoners, was a filly; an innocent, caught up in a much larger scheme.

Yet the stallions cared not for the age nor status of their prisoners. It had taken a lot of insisting by the mare to convince them to give them food; and even then, all she could convince them to get was simple fast food. Hardly delicacies, hardly nutritious; hardly merciful.

At least they won’t die here. It was a paradoxically bleak and hopeful thought; and she struggled to adhere to its tempting promise.

She pulled her hat down low, fuming silently, still frustrated with the situation. Why had she been drawn into this? How could she stay? She knew she should protest loudly; but she also knew of the consequences if they did.

For perhaps the first time of her life, she was thinking for the safety of others, for the lives of other ponies. She was placing their survival above hers. To do so, she had to remain silent.

“Hey, why the long face?” The mint stallion turned to her, his face still masked by that horrific mask, body covered in that strange outfit. “They got their food, just like you requested.”

She didn’t answer. She glared at him with all the hate she could muster. He chuckled. “Very well, stay silent. To be honest, I think I like you better this way.”

He and his companion walked off; perhaps to converse more, or to relay another mysterious message. She had no idea.

She sighed, thinking back to the time of a few months ago, before this whole deal with the author came to light. Back when she was in Ponyville, and was rescued—she willingly used that word, for she had indeed been in a dire circumstance—by a certain, gifted unicorn of lavender hues. That Amulet was the worst thing to have ever happened to me.

Her eyes closed shut. And now I’m part of another dangerous situation, one that I once again have no control over. Or hardly any control, at least.

She brought her blue hoof up and wiped at her purple eyes. Her gaze drifted over to the corner, where her cape of stars lay. She took off her hat and levitated it over to the same spot.

I don’t deserve either of these anymore.

She glanced back at the wall, knowing that the prisoners were behind it. From the sound of it, they hadn’t yet given up hope. Blind optimism was keeping them afloat in this treacherous sea of lies and mystique.

She sighed again, wishing she had never gotten involved. But so long as those two stallions had power over her… well, the best she could do was hope along with the prisoners.

Hope for a rescue.

Hope for an escape.

Hope that her Greatness and Powerfulness would return, and she would leave this accursed life, this accursed association, forever.

She doubted that last one could come true. But she nonetheless hoped.

Trixie turned, walked down the narrow corridor, to her similarly narrow resting place, and did just that; rested.

XIII: Hotel Greenwood

“What?! We have to go back to Ponyville?!” Rainbow was outright indignant, and her close proximity to Prose only further exemplified the fact.

Applejack, though to a lesser extent, was in shock. “Yeah, Prose. What kinda plan is that? Shouldn’t we all be helping out?”

“And where would you stay? The hotel?” Prose argued fiercely back. “That’s hardly the safest place! And now that this kidnapping has happened, nowhere in Manehattan is safe for any of us.”

“We don’t know how many were involved in the kidnapping,” Twilight added. “It could be two or more. Maybe an entire organization. Besides, if you head home to Ponyville, Princess Celestia will be able to have guards stationed to prevent anypony suspicious from following.”

Scootaloo did not seem troubled by the plan. “What about you, Twilight?” she asked. “Aren’t you coming?”

“Prose said he might need my magic prowess,” the unicorn explained.

Rarity nodded. “And I have to stay behind to help search for my sister. Especially since I saw the kidnapping up close.” Her tears had long dried, and her voice was more monotonous than it ever was. Obviously, the whole ordeal was starting to unravel her entire being.

“Well, what about Pinkie and Fluttershy?” Apple Bloom asked. “They’ll be coming with us?”

“I’ve told them to,” answered Prose. “It’s far too dangerous for most anypony to remain here.” He looked at the two fillies. “Considering the circumstances, it’s best you all remain in Ponyville until further notice.”

Rainbow remained undaunted. “We should be helping out!”

“How would you?” Prose asked.

“I could search the skies! The rest of us could cover the ground!”

“Logically, that makes sense, Opa,” Twilight said. “Why aren’t we doing just that?”

“Even if there is safety in numbers, I’d like to keep the group to a minimum amount. That way, we’ll be able to easily facilitate Sweetie Belle’s return. A larger group would hinder our progress. Additionally, the police tend not to like large investigative groups. They physically gets in the way of work.”

“That doesn’t make any sense!” Rainbow still argued. “What if you need a pegasus? Or a super strong earth pony? What if you need the rest of us, huh?! Have you considered that?”

“I have!” Prose shouted. “And I am telling you, it would be better for you to remain in Ponyville! I am thinking for the safety of us remaining, so I’d advise you do the same!”

Their argument continued without any easy solution coming up. Swol listened from the other room. They were situated still in the office, while he and Grifford waited outside. He could tell that Prose was desperately pushing for Rainbow and the others to leave. He guessed it was the author’s way of trying to ensure their safety, but he thought it would be better if they all stuck together.

“What do you think, Boss?” he asked the stallion next to him. “Shouldn’t we all stick together?”

Grifford shook his head. “If Prose says no, then I have to say no as well. He and I may not be on the best terms, but I can trust his strategic intellect more than anything else, regardless of relationship. He might be anticipating a danger none of us have the foresight to see.”

Swol nodded, but found himself doubting the stallions’ words. Just the way Prose was speaking—with dryness, impatience, and barely restrained anger (at who, he had no idea)—alerted his warning senses. The author definitely cared for the filly who had been kidnapped; but, with that care, Swol realized that there could be an exploitation of Prose’s emotions. He wondered if the kidnappers were planning something like this. He chose to keep the thought to himself.

His gaze drifted over to Rarity, though not in a needy way. His heart absolutely went out to her. Though her voice was carefully level, he knew there was a terrible battle raging in her soul. Her grief was enormous; her sister, she loved dearly, he could tell. He wanted to go over there and comfort her, support her, calm her and give her hope. But what could he do? Such hypothetical actions seemed false and phony. They did not feel like they were things he could give. He didn’t want to admit it, but if they couldn’t rescue Sweetie Belle, then the false hopes he would offer would utterly shatter Rarity.

That was something he couldn’t even consider risk doing. He had known the unicorn only for a day, and already he wanted to make sure she wasn’t hurt any further.

Prose certainly isn’t doing anything to comfort her.

He blinked. Where had that thought come from? Of course Prose wasn’t. He was too busy concentrating on the mission. That had to objectively be more important than Rarity’s state—

Swol mentally punched himself in the face. No, nothing was more nor less important at this point. Everything was important. It was simply that Prose was focusing on one thing, while Swol focused on another. Combined, both points of focus could work for overall well-being.

The needs of the many must equal the needs of the few…

Pushing the thoughts away, he concentrated on the conversation once more.

Rainbow let out a tired breath, just as the argument was starting to die down. She looked tired, while Prose still appeared as bright as ever. “I just… I hate feeling useless, you know? I want to help, I really do! What kind of friend would I be if I did otherwise?”

“There is nothing you can do to help.” Prose’s words were freezing cold, and the shocked looks on the girls’ faces mirrored Swol’s. Grifford appeared neutral. The author caught their looks, and explained further, “I’m not saying you’re useless, Rainbow. I’m saying that you’re abilities aren’t needed at the moment.”

“Oh. Good.” Rainbow flew away, to sulk in the corner. Scootaloo and Apple Bloom went over to comfort her.

Applejack fixed Prose with an unamused glare. “That was mighty uncalled for, Prose. Ya know Rainbow wants to help badly.”

“I know,” he responded curtly. “But it’s the truth. You need to leave. It’s the only way I can get this investigation started.”

Applejack huffed. “Ya know, it’s not just you who’s doing the investigating. It’s a team effort. You’ve got Twilight helping, Rarity, that Swol feller, the Mayor—”

“Don’t remind me,” Prose hissed.

Swol turned to Boss. “Why has he decided to still work with us?”

Boss shrugged. “I assume it’s due to the philosophy of ‘the enemy of my enemy is my friend.’ Besides, we’re working towards similar goals. If we combine forces, we’re sure to rescue every pony who’s gone missing.”

Prose suddenly stomped past them, muttering something under his breath. Grifford gaped at him, then shook his head. “Of course, that doesn’t quite explain his hostility.”

“Indeed, it doesn’t.”

Swol took this chance to enter the office. “I guess the argument is over?” he asked with a cock of his head, the clay-brown mane collapsing to the side.

Rainbow sighed from the corner. “I guess so.” She got up. “Come on, we’d better start packing. No doubt Fluttershy and Pinkie are way ahead of us.”

She and Scootaloo took off for the exit; Applejack and her sister followed soon after. Swol watched them go for a moment, before turning back to the remaining unicorns.

He searched his mind for if ever Prose had acted so harshly to close associates, and found none. “He must be really shaken up,” he said aloud.

Cautiously, as to not raise alarm, he walked over to where Rarity stood. “You okay, Miss Rarity?” he asked.

“Please, dear, just call me Rarity,” she responded, tired. “And… well, I’m getting by, I suppose.”

“Let me know if there’s anything I can do to help.”

She smiled. “Oh, thank you, darling.”

The comment made him blush, and he looked away to hide it.

“Mr. Finch,” Twilight intoned, garnering their attention, “do you mind telling us what the current situation with the city is?”

He nodded. “Right. Well, you’ll be glad to know that I’ve the entirety of the Manehattan police force working to find Rarity’s sister and my other associates. We’ve the city on lockdown, as I’m sure you know, so nopony is escaping.”

“It’s still a large city, if you don’t count the districts and subsections.”

“Indeed. Which is why we’ll have to narrow the search somehow.”

“We could set up a crime scene investigation at the hotel,” Swol suggested. “One that’s more thorough, and encompassing the whole establishment.”

“That sounds good, Swol,” Grifford said. He glanced over his shoulder. “What do you think, Opacare?”

The stallion had reentered the room. Having previously appeared quite twitchy, now he seemed to be in an agitated state. He remained a good distance away from them, likely because Finch was there; it was almost as if he wouldn’t even dare breathe in the same air.

“Fine,” he stated. “But I’m leading. Not one of your ‘investigators,’ understood?”

Finch nodded. “Understood. You’re the boss.”

The comment made the author’s nostrils flare, and his eyes narrowed dangerously at the Mayor. “Don’t even go there, Finch.”

Finch took a step back, shaking his head in an attempt to mitigate the sudden tension. Rarity offered her own voice, “Opa, calm down. You’re in charge, okay?”

He nodded slowly, not taking his gaze off of Finch for a good while. Once he was satisfied that an imaginary hole had been burned into his head, he looked at Swol and the two other mares.

“I believe our best course of action would be to question the hotel staff,” he said. “While it would seem that nopony saw anything, there’s a chance something small might have been seen. It’d be good to gather enough accounts to recreate the entire scene.” He glanced at Rarity, anticipating her question. “While the primary account is good and all, additional details are needed. Then, and only then, can I see how these kidnappers were able to bypass security.”

“You mean, we?” Swol corrected.

The stallion’s gaze turned to him, and remained as cold as before. “I know what I said.”

Swol fought back the urge to gulp. His throat was getting sore from all the gulping anyway. He decided to offer a suggestion. “Do you think this could have been an act of revenge?”

“It’s doubtful,” said Finch. “No offense, Rarity, but no one in this city until today knew who you were.”

“That still doesn’t mean someone with a vendetta could have come up with this plan,” said Swol. “Of course, that doesn’t quite narrow down the field of suspects.”

“We’ll have to do it the old-fashioned way,” Finch asserted.

“Meaning?” Twilight asked.

Prose answered her, “Hooves on the ground. Start with the usual suspects.” He turned, but stopped. “I have somepony in mind, but first we need to head back to the crime scene.”

“Lead the way, Opa,” Rarity said softly. The author nodded, and took off in a brisk trot. Rarity and Twilight followed after him. Swol and Finch exchanged looks.

Swol wanted to ask the older stallion something, but thought better of it. Instead, he gestured Finch to take the lead, and after the Mayor had done so, followed after him.

One of the officers who was at the scene attempted to prevent them from entering. A quick order from Finch did away with that prevention, and they once again entered the hotel.

As they did so, Swol reflected on the establishment. The Greenwood Hotel was actually one of Manehattan’s finest hotels. Even though they had long retracted their eyes and ears there, the Family—more so, Grifford Finch—made sure to have security there at all times. Maybe not in the form of armed guards, but still ponies who were willing to report any suspicious activity.

The fact, then, that no security ended up being there when the incident took place was indeed suspicious. Swol remembered another fact: the famous singer, Sapphire Shores, came to own the hotel after the Family had left it. He doubted she’d be involved—she was much too boisterous and was Rarity’s number one client (so he had learned from the unicorn during the walk)—but it might be a manner worth looking into. He resolved to tell Prose this once his initial investigation was finished.

Twilight asked Prose why they had returned. Hadn’t he already scoped out the room? “I did,” he responded, “but I didn’t have the chance to thoroughly investigate the outside or the other inhabitants.”

“You suspect foul play?”

“Isn’t it obvious? No security, windows left unguarded, no one came to help when the windows shattered.” He shook his head. “It’s far too coincidental to be of coincidence.”

Now they stood in the lobby of the Greenwood. Police still swarmed the area, but they nodded to Finch and Swol, recognizing them. The Mayor offered a few words of encouragement, while Swol traded small talk with a few officers. Their attention was diverted when Prose began walking up to the front desk.

One hotel staff member had remained. She gasped as they approached. “Oh, Miss Rarity! I am so sorry for your loss.”

“Thank you, miss,” Rarity said. “Say, you’re the unicorn pony who gave me access to the room, aren’t you?”

The unicorn mare nodded. “Yes, that’s me. Oh, hello, Mr. Prose, Mr. Mayor, Mr. Secretary,” she greeted the three stallions. Prose barely moved, while Swol and Grifford offered their own words of greeting. “What are you doing here?” she asked Rarity. “I’d imagine you’d not want to be anywhere near this place.”

“We’re investigating what happened,” Prose answered for her.

“Oh, right. The Coalition of the Century, Miss Ruby Sparks put it.” The mare nodded. “Well, if there’s anything I can do to help, just let me know.”

“There is. You can start by answering some questions.”

“As you wish. Though, it might be better if we move to a more discrete location.”

“Why?”

“Mr. Prose, you don’t know this, but I haven’t worked that long in the hotel. If something akin to sabotage is at work, then there may very well be unwanted listeners tuning in.”

Prose narrowed his gaze. “Awfully well-thought-out.”

“I read the papers, Mr. Prose. I may not have been in Manehattan as long as you have, but even I know when something’s wrong.”

The author’s gaze remained narrowed, and he appeared unwilling to budge. Eventually, though, the mare’s words seemed to convince him, and he nodded to her. She got up and led them to a back office, just behind the front desk, behind a carefully sealed door. The door closed behind them.

Swol realized the nature of the room. “This is the mail area?” he asked, pointing to the various compartments and storage containers. In each were letters and papers of all kinds.

“That’s correct, Mr. Swol,” the mare said. “We front desk ponies sometimes come in here during lulls in activity to talk about things.”

“What kind of things?” Prose asked.

“Usually small talk. Gossip, mostly.” She shrugged. “I wasn’t really into that, but I figure I should go. I had nothing better to do.”

She took a seat in one of the wheeled chairs, while Prose settled down in the one opposite of her. The scene quite reminded Swol of those old noir detective tales he had read when he was younger. Hmm. We’ve even got a pretty mare being questioned by the stern detective figure.

“So!” she seemed rather excited by this. “Where do we start?”

“We can start with you,” said Prose. “Your name, please, and your occupation, age, talent.”

She nodded, taking a deep breath before she began. “I’m Teal Dawn. I work as a front desk pony—we call ourselves ‘lobbyists’—for the Greenwood Hotel. I am twenty-three years of age. My Mark, which is a pair of hooves against each other, kind of in prayer, stands for my ability to make ponies feel welcome.” At this, her lips morphed into a smile, but then quickly it left, and she slumped. “Of course, it doesn’t quite mean their safety.” Her teal coat—how fitting, Swol thought—bristled in sadness.

Prose nodded. “Have you any family?”

“My mom and dad live up north, in Mareston. I don’t have any siblings, and I’m not married.”

“No fiance, no special somepony?”

“None of any sort. Plus, well—” Teal blushed. “—there aren’t a lot of mares in Manehattan who’d want to go out with me.”

The author remained unfazed. “Where do you reside, Miss Teal?”

“I own an apartment just down the block. It’s where a lot of the other lobbyists live, actually. We’re like a small community, really.”

“Could you give me the address? I might want to speak with them in the future.”

She gave him it, and he asked Twilight to write it down. “You seem awfully excited about this,” Swol commented.

Teal grinned sheepishly. “Ehehe, it’s not every day that you start living out a detective novel. They’re my favorite genre!”

“Thank you, Miss Teal,” Opacare said. “Now, I want you to tell me everything you saw when the kidnapping occurred. Spare not on the details, either.”

Miss Teal certainly was no slacker. She jumped right into the story with gusto and energy: “Miss Rarity and her sister had re-entered the hotel only minutes before. We greeted each other at the desk, before they made their way to the elevator. I remember they had a lot of shopping bags with them—from the Fashion District, right? I sometimes head there for my clothes myself.”

“Oh?” the conversation about clothing seemed to bring Rarity temporarily out of her depression. “I must say, that would explain the fineness of your dress.”

“Thank you, Miss Rarity. I had it custom fitted by another clothes designer who used that district’s designs. I think her name was Suri Polomare?”

“Let’s not get sidetracked,” interrupted Prose. “You greeted Rarity and Sweetie Belle, then they went to the elevators. What happened next?”

“Apparently the windows shattered. Due to their room being on the twenty-fifth floor, however, I wouldn’t have heard it.”

“That makes sense. What about alarms? Would they not have been tripped?”

“I received no sign of breaking and entering, Mr. Prose.”

“What exactly is your alarm system?”

In answer, she lit her horn, painting its schematics with the horn’s lights. “It’s all magic based,” she explained. “A team of unicorns had it implemented a while back. It’s an invisible barrier that surrounds the hotel that alerts to strange activity.”

“And what counts as strange activity?”

“Pretty much what you’d expect. Burglary, theft. We’ve never had reports of suspicious characters lurking on the premises, though.”

“It sounds like your alarm system is quite adept,” Finch said.

“It should be, but, as you can see now, it’s apparently very flawed.” Teal shook her head sadly.

Prose continued the questioning. “Who called the police?”

“I did. It was because I heard Miss Rarty’s scream even from the lobby level. When I went up to investigate, I found her with a large bump on her head, and her sister missing. That was when I guessed something was wrong. I used one of the payphones on that floor to make the emergency call.”

“And that’s it?”

“I believe so. Oh, then you and the police showed up and well… here we are.”

Prose nodded, before standing from his seat. “Thank you, Miss Teal. You have been somewhat helpful. Though, you are entitled to know that you are still under suspicion as the perpetrator.”

“What? Why?”

“The fact that this happened without anypony besides Rarity seeing the kidnapper or kidnappers enter is far too easy to brush aside as an error in security. You may be a witness, but doesn’t exclude you from the same suspicions I will have for all of those potentially involved. Understand?”

Teal nodded, sighing. “I suppose I do. Still, though… I want to let you know. I’m hoping you do catch those involved. Is there anything else I can do for you?”

“Would you be willing to allow the police to look through this mail area, for any suspicious items?”

“They’re welcome to, but they need a warrant for that.”

“I’ll help with that,” said Grifford.

“What are we going to do now, Opa?” Rarity asked.

“We need to move up the hotel. Investigate each floor.”

“We’ll come with,” Swol said, Rarity and Twilight nodding in agreement.

They made to exit, but stopped when they saw Prose frowning. His jaw was set, and he was mulling over something.

“Miss Teal,” he spoke. “Where is this team of unicorns who implemented the security here?”

“They’ve gone away, as far as I know.”

“So who maintains the security barrier? You?”

Swol saw her blink, then cock her head. “Of course not, Mr. Prose. It’s all regulated by non-pony stuff.”

“Such as?”

“Electricity, generators. It helps, since a good deal of our city population is Earth ponies.”

“And where would I find these generators to this magical barrier?”

“Downstairs is our main energy room. But the rooftop is where the magic happens.”

“I see…” He still had some questions left—Swol could see that, judging by his tongue clicking—but he nonetheless nodded. “Thank you, Miss Teal. You’ve been a big help.”

“I’m glad I could be, Mr. Prose.”

He looked to Swol, Rarity, and Twilight. “Let’s get going, then.” Once again, he took of in a brisk trot, Rarity and Twilight following closely.

Swol hesitated, before turning back to Finch. “Mr. Finch? Aren’t you coming?”

“I have to order a warrant for a search of this room. I’ll be staying on the ground floor.”

“Are you sure? I could stay.”

Don’t worry,” he responded, giving a smile. “I’ll be fine.”

Swol remained unconvinced. “But what if you need me?”

“I’ll always need you, Swol. But right now, our acquaintances require your assistance.” A knowing glint shone in Finch’s eye. “Particularly a certain mare, I believe.”

The tan, younger stallion blushed, but still remained uncertain. Eventually, Finch ordered him, “Go help Miss Rarity, Swol. She needs you.”

Swol finally nodded, before following after the unicorn. Soon, the four had entered the elevator.

Before Prose closed the doors, he explained his plan. “We’re going to be searching every floor on this elevator line. Then we’ll transition to the basement to see this generator, then the roof to investigate the barrier itself.” He closed the door. “That, unfortunately, will take quite some time. And time, I would imagine, is not on our side. Nevertheless,” he reminded them, “don’t be so quick at the expense of diligence.”

He pressed the button for the first floor, and they began to rise up.

“You heard nothing?” Swol was incredulous. The old mare before him, wrinkled and with her hair white and fading, absolutely floored him with her account.

“Eh? What’s that, son? You gotta speak up; my hearing’s not as it used to be. Neither is my sight. You are a son, right? I won’t judge if you used to be; not my style.”

Ignoring the strange question, Swol asked again, “Miss, are you saying you heard nothing the day of the kidnapping?”

“The kidnapping? Oh, that’s right; that’s the front page story!” She wheezed out a laugh. “I’d imagine Miss Ruby is absolutely joyful she finally got front page.”

Swol wanted to slap himself in the face. “Okay. You obviously aren’t helping. So… I’ll just leave you be.”

“Glad to be of service, son or daughter! Close the door on your way out!”

The tan stallion didn’t even have a chance to do that, as he was pushed out forcibly, and the door shut before he could perform the action himself. He groaned at the door, falling to his haunches. “My goddess, the elderly can be annoying…”

He heard a heavenly voice ask from behind him, “No luck, either?”

He quickly got up, facing the alabaster unicorn. Her worried look sent warmth through his body; he did his best to ignore this. “I’m afraid so, Miss Rarity. Just another poor witness.”

“Rarity,” she corrected, before nodding. “Yes. This floor seems to be full of the deaf.” She sighed. “Not that they’re all bad, but I do wish something substantial would come up.”

“I wish that, too.” Noticing her glum look, he tried for something different. “Heh, they ought to label floor twenty-four as the Deaf Suite.” His attempt to lighten the mood was somewhat positively received, as Rarity offered him a smile.

“That was an awful joke, dear.”

He shrunk, cringing, while also smiling sheepishly. “Yeah, I know. But hey, you smiled, so victory is mine.”

She giggled, placing a hoof on his shoulder. “I appreciate you trying to cheer me up, Swol.”

He gazed into her eyes, seeing she meant every word of it. She gazed into his for a second longer, before pulling away. “Anyway, we’d best continue searching. Wouldn’t want to give Opa a reason to complain.”

“R-right,” he stuttered.

Unfortunately, the rest of the floor was similarly unhelpful. While not all of its residents suffered from hearing loss, most were rather ignorant of what had happened. “I don’t pay attention to those liberal papers,” one pony said gruffly, to the shock of both Swol and Rarity. “Far too much gossip in them. No, you know what makes a good paper, boy? The Bugle.”

“The Bugle? That one lies all the time, sir. They printed a column that said Princess Luna would arrive as Nightmare Moon two months ago.”

“She didn’t show up because she’s a coward! She’s far too timid to be a part of Manehattan, anyway.”

“Why, you—” Rarity appeared ready to stomp the stubborn sir into nothing, but Swol quickly shut the door in his face and dragged Rarity away. She let out a huff once they had safely retreated. “Surely not every pony in this city is so stuck-up and rude?” She glanced at Swol, then thought for a moment. “Well, then again, there’s you… and Opa, to an extent. And I suppose Mr. Mayor himself.”

Brief and short as the comment was, it nonetheless warmed Swol’s heart.

Their search and questioning continued for a short while, and as Swol glanced at a nearby clock, he realized that nearly an hour had come to pass while they were on this floor. In that time, nothing had been discerned from the guests. The previous floors had either repeated what they already knew, or had been of no use whatsoever. It was strange how the most helpful had been Teal, and she had been on the ground level, meaning she hadn’t even directly seen the incident occur.

A few comments from several guests on the floors had unnerved him. One had said to him, “Have you heard the tale of the jabberwocky? He comes in night and takes the bad children away.” The pony who said this was little more than a foal, so he had written it off as childhood imagination. But then he met an adult on the same floor, who said, “The jabberwocky isn’t just a myth, son. It’s in the shadows; not many see it until it comes for them.”

It was probably just superstition from backwater ponies, but just the way they acted was enough to set him on edge. It didn’t help that a third pony told him that “sometimes it’s not even called a jabberwocky. Sometimes it’s a shadow pony. They strike when you think you’re safe.”

Probably the ramblings of an eccentric, he had figured. But the term “shadow pony” stuck in his head and ran marathons around his brain. He was unable to shake it away.

As the pair stopped in front of the final, unchecked door on the floor, he hoped that something worthwhile would come up. He knocked on the door, and it creaked open, revealing a faded-orange stallion with a brown mane that had white streaks in it. He was much older than Swol.

“Hello, sir,” the tan stallion greeted the older one. “I’m Swol, and this is Rarity. We were wondering if you have any information regarding the recent kidnapping?”

He squinted. “Recent kidnapping—Oh!” He pointed a hoof at Swol. “You’re the mayor’s secretary. And you’re—” He pointed to Rarity. “—you’re the one who screamed!”

Rarity and Swol’s eye’s widened. “You heard me?” the unicorn asked.

He nodded. “‘Course I heard you! With a scream that loud I would have thought anypony would have. But, judging by your disappointed looks prior to entering, I’d say nopony else did, huh?” He sighed. “Well, not all ponies have been trained by the Canterlot Guard.”

“You’re a former Royal Guard?” Swol asked.

The stallion stood straight up and puffed out his chest. “Yep, that’s me. Lieutenant Flint Steel, officer to Her Highness Celestia’s 29th Earth Equine division.” He coughed loudly, hunkering over. “Unfortunately, not even my training can fight the flow of time.”

Swol and Rarity looked at each other, before the latter asked Flint, “Do you mind if we come in?”

“Certainly, I suppose.” He squinted at them, before ushering them inside. Out of the corner of his eye, Swol saw that the door had five different locks.

“Um, preparing for a break in, sir?” he asked.

“Nonsense, boy. I’m preparing for an assault.”

Rarity’s gasp caused Swol to turn sharply, and he himself let out one of his own. The hotel room had been refurbished into an entire bunker. Gone were the beige walls, replaced with steel barricades. The bed had been surrounded by spiked tiles. To the side, where the dining area might have been, was a display filled with spears and other melee weapons.

“What is this place?” questioned Rarity. “It’s like a little fort!”

“Precisely so. Can’t be too careful nowadays.”

Flint pressed a switch that was on the wall, and Swol heard a faint hum. The lights briefly flickered, and he felt a faint vibration under his hooves. “What just happened?”

Flint smirked. “A device of my own design. It prevents anypony from listening to us while we are in this room.”

“Why would you ever need something like that?”

“Isn’t it obvious, Mr. Secretary? To prevent unwanted listeners.” He closed his eyes, letting out a breath. “In this time, there can be no precaution overlooked, after all.”

Swol exchanged glances with Rarity. “You’re… quite strange,” he said.

Flint sighed. “Yeah, that’s what got me kicked out of rejoining the Guard. Something about ‘being too paranoid.’” His smile returned. “Well, guess I’m not as paranoid as they thought. I knew something big was coming, and here you are!”

“Something big—” Rarity gasped loudly. “You knew my sister was going to be kidnapped?!”

“Whoa, whoa, easy there, Miss. No, I didn’t. I had my suspicions that something was going to happen. I didn’t know it was going to be kidnapping, even less it would be your sister’s kidnapping.”

“How exactly could you even guess that something like this would happen?” Swol asked.

Flint winked. “All I had to do was listen, Swol. You’ll find that these streets are not as they seem.”

Rarity’s mouth closed into a thoughtful frown. “Funny. My friend says that a lot.”

“Oh? Who’s your friend?”

“The author, Opacare Prose.”

“Ah! Old Prose, huh?” Flint let out a chuckle. “Of course he’d be thinking like that. That stallion is far smarter than we give him credit for. He can anticipate nearly anything! Well, maybe not everything.”

“What? You know Opacare?”

“Know him? Rarity,” he said, his grin never fading, “I worked with him!”

The two of them blinked, twice, before they both shouted one, single word that summed up what they were thinking: “What?!”

Flint snorted. “Shout all you want, nopony will hear you.”

Swol stomped the floor. “What do you mean, you ‘worked’ with Prose? Were you his partner or something?”

“In a way.” Flint inspected his hoof absentmindedly. “I helped him, you know. Well, it was Raven Lock and I who did.”

The dead detective? What’s he got to do with this? “What did you help with, specifically?”

“Oh, you know. Pulled some strings, kept some mouths shut, commissioned the publishing companies not to have his face put in his books.”

“That was you?” Rarity asked.

“Indeed, little lady! Quite the crowning achievement, if I do say so myself.”

“But I thought that was all Raven Lock’s doing!”

His face contorted into a frown. “Ah, yes. Raven Lock. A shame what happened. What was it, a gas leak explosion?” He shook his head. “But enough about me. I’d imagine you’ve questions for me?”

After a second of thinking, Swol decided that he could ask about Flint’s involvement with Prose’s disappearance later on. After a glance at Rarity, he followed Flint into the living room. The three of them took a seat on the sofas, Rarity and Swol sitting opposite of the former Guard.

Swol, for some reason, found himself not knowing how to start. He was just a secretary and sometimes a bodyguard; he had no experience with interrogation. Rarity, thankfully, took it upon herself to start. “What were you doing when my sister was kidnapped?” she asked Flint.

“Starting off directly, huh? Smart gal, kid. You sure know how to pick them.” Not picking up on either of the ponies’ growing blushes, Flint Steel continued his account. “I was washing up the place, you see. Gotta keep everything in tip-top shape, else they stop working when you need them the most. Around fifteen minutes into my cleaning, I heard your scream. I think your room is only two doors away from mine, even though it’s a floor above this one.” His face grew more somber. “I’d like to say that I rushed out, willing to get to your aid, but sadly that wasn’t the case.”

“Why was that?” Swol managed to ask.

In answer, Flint lifted up his two back hooves. Reaching down, he grabbed something on each leg’s side, twisted, and pulled. The legs came clean off, separating right where the knees were. Swol’s eyes widened; Rarity gasped.

Right in the separation, huge, burnt scars coated the stubs. Flint smirked at their looks of disgusted awe. “Had a nasty fight with a dragon only two years into my guard duty. The monster clean bit off my legs; but he and his flame breath cauterized the wound, so I didn’t bleed out. The technicians outfitted me with a pair of prototype mechanical legs that worked quite nicely. Ever been hit by a raging bison, son?”

“No…”

“Hmph, neither have the soldiers I trained. But whenever I hit them with these iron babies, they said that’s what it’s like.”

“And Earth ponies are already quite strong,” Rarity noted. She shook her head quickly, refocusing on the task at hand. “But still, that doesn’t explain why you were unable to come to my assistance.”

The ex-Guard nodded sadly. “Unfortunately, the technology behind these legs was lost a few years ago. Repair has been rather hard to come by; I’m forced to make due on my own. Over the years, the wear and tear of both being a Guard and getting older has made my legs much harder to utilize.” He looked away. “Right when you needed me, Miss Rarity, my legs had stalled. They weren’t moving smoothly, and I needed to refill their oil gauges in order to at least help them move.”

“In other words, you were too slow.” Swol hadn’t meant for the words to sound harsh. Once he saw Flint cringe, he quickly apologized.

“No, it’s alright, Mr. Swol.” Flint sighed. “You have every right to be upset at me; I’m quite mad at myself, honestly.” He whinnied angrily. “I’m a former Royal Guard, damn it; a stupid pair of legs shouldn’t stop me from helping the those in need!”

Obviously he was troubled. The guilt of inaction weighed heavily on his mind. Rarity walked over to comfort him, placing a hoof on his shoulder. “Mr. Flint, whatever you could have done yet could not do, is in the past. You may not have been able to help us then, but now you can.”

Flint managed to calm himself down, allowing Rarity to rejoin Swol on the sofa. The latter decided to take charge of the questioning. “If you say that your room is only a little while away from Rarity’s, then you might have seen the kidnappers through the window,” he asserted.

“That’s the strange thing. I didn’t.” Seeing their incredulous looks, he continued, “Well, I was staring out of that window back there.” He pointed to the wall-sized glass frame that overlooked the rooftops of Manehattan. “I swear to you, there was nopony out there. I didn’t even hear anypony climb up.”

“Not even on the fire escape platforms?”

“Not a sign of anything alive.”

“Mind if we take a look?”

“Go right ahead.” Flint guided them to the window, sliding it open. They stepped out, immediately greeted by the hustle and bustle of Manehattan. The wind blew in their faces, but it no longer felt like a familiar wind to Swol; he thought it more like the gale that carried itself over the shadowy valley.

The fire escape ran from the top of the roof to the bottom of the hotel, as far as Swol could tell. Strangely enough, it only directly passed by a few of the windows; the rest, it skirted around. Seeing a few doors next to the windows led to him guessing that the design was so that ponies didn’t have to struggle with opening windows.

Bending down to the iron floor, he traced his eyes all around its patterns for a little while. He scrunched up his muzzle, frowning, as he came up. “That’s odd. Nothing here.”

“Really? Let me see,” said Rarity. She lit her horn. “I’m going to try and find some signs of dust or fallen debris.” Her magic, though not as trained as other unicorns, still allowed her to cast a light around the area. She tossed her head left and right; she stepped in circles; leaned in close to the ground; and concluded the same thing.

Nothing.

“Maybe the wind carried any evidence away?” she suggested.

Swol nodded. “That could be possible. If that’s true, then it’s probably on some random rooftop elsewhere.”

“In other words, gone from our grasps.” She sighed, shaking her head. “I don’t know what I was thinking, believing it would be easy…”

Swol offered her a comforting hoof. “We’ll find something. I know we will.”

They walked back in, their disappointed looks telling Flint the whole story. “Nothing, huh? I’m sorry I couldn’t be of any more help.”

“It’s alright, Mr. Flint,” Swol said. “You’ve illuminated a few things, I think—though, I’ll have to check with the Mayor and Mr. Prose.”

“Ah, yes. Those two.” Flint’s eyes narrowed, and he rubbed his chin. “I doubt you know this, but seeing as how you all are working together… do you know of those two and their relationship?”

“I do. They were friends, weren’t they?”

“Were is correct. And if what Raven and Opacare said is true… all those activities…” He looked at Swol, and noticed him stiffen. “Ah. Of course. You already know of them.” He squinted. “Funny, Raven never said anything about the secretary…”

Swol sighed in defeat. How many ponies knew of the Family? He figured there was no harm in another knowing, but if this became common knowledge, he wasn’t sure he’d like it.

Flint cleared his throat. “Regardless, there is one thing you two should know about Opacare, before you move on.”

“What is that, Mr. Steel?” Rarity asked.

“He… is not the most willing to forgive somepony whom he believes has wronged him. He holds grudges; deep grudges.” He looked between the mare and the stallion, conveying a mysterious message that Swol was unable to decipher. “Keep that in mind, as you continue to work with him. He might need reminding himself.”

“… Thank you, Mr, Flint,” said Rarity. “We should probably get going, Swol.”

“R-right. Lead the way.” Still wrapped up in his thoughts, the stallion fumbled around his words. Flint chuckled, the action not lost on him.

“Ah. Ensnared, aren’t you? If I must say, it is quite fitting.”

Unfortunately, much like his message, Flint’s words remained just as distant and confusing as before. Swol simply nodded to him, thinking that was enough of a response. Rarity and he trotted out, the door closing and clicking its five locks behind them.

Once they were outside, they stopped, slightly befuddled. Swol slowly shook his head, clearing the cobwebs. “Well… I guess that went well,” he said, turning to the unicorn beside him.

“I liked him,” Rarity stated, a small smile on her face. “He seems… earnest enough.”

“I think that, too,” Swol agreed. “I doubt he’s lying.”

“You’re still going to tell Prose about him?”

He noted she hadn’t called the author “Opa.” “Yes, I’ll have to. After all, I’m not as good of an investigator as he is, so maybe he’ll be able to dig something up.”

She nodded. “That sounds good to me, Swol. In the meantime, I suppose we’d better join up with him?”

“Sounds like a plan, Miss Rarity.”

“Please. I’ve told you to call me just Rarity.”

“Your wish is my command, ‘just Rarity.’”

She giggled. “Oh, stop it.” Her voice was like glittering diamonds, and he sensed that the dreary mood had somewhat been lifted.

The elevator dinged as they stopped at the basement floor. The doors slid open, and they stepped out, and were greeted with a strange sight.

Twilight, Swol saw, was busy talking to a rather dirty, shady-looking stallion. Prose was in the corner, away from the conversation. As Swol and Rarity got closer, they could see that he was visibly shaking. Huddled in the corner as he was, he was the complete opposite of his fierce persona only hours before.

“Er… is something wrong?” Swol endeavoured to ask.

Twilight looked back at them, offering a welcoming smile. “Oh, it’s you two. Find out anything useful?”

“Maybe,” said Rarity. “We also bumped into one of Opacare’s old friends.”

At that, both the author and the other unicorn gave them confused looks. “We’ll explain later,” Swol said. “What are you guys doing now?”

“I’m talking to the main engineer,” Twilight answered, “though, really, it’s the only engineer.”

“Hey!” said engineer protested. His figure was still obscured by Twilight.

“What? It’s true, isn’t it?”

“Trust me, little lady, we usually have an entire team working with me down here!”

“What about you, Opacare?” Swol asked. “Why aren’t you talking to him?”

The author’s only answer was to shift his eyes between Swol, Twilight, the engineer, and back. The secretary noted he appeared apprehensive, even scared.

Twilight suddenly gasped, and when Rarity and Swol turned to her, they found her blushing. “Oh! It’s because… well, see for yourself.”

She stepped to the side, revealing the stallion in the shadows. Besides having a muddy-orange coat and bearing a cutie mark that resembled a white zap of electricity, all across his body were “points.” They seemed familiar, though Swol could not initially place why. The engineer’s eyes revealed red, cyst covered orbs, that could barely focus on one object at a time. His mane, as well, was disheveled; it appeared it had not been washed as of late.

Swol took a whiff, and a strong, burning scent plunged into his nose. He coughed and gagged, the substance burning his throat. “Gah! What is that?”

Rarity had covered her snout, but lowered the hoof to point at what “that” was.

Just behind the stallion was an open toolbox, filled with nothing by syringes and needles of all sorts. Their pointed ends stuck out like angry pinpricks, and in them were strange liquids and powders which—Swol guessed—could be injected via the points.

Now he could make sense of one thing. “This engineer is a junkie?!”

The engineer huffed. “Hey! No need for name-calling!”

“What else am I supposed to call you?”

“Orange Screw would suffice, thank you very much!”

Swol facehooved, then turned back to Twilight. “Okay… so how does this explain Opacare’s behavior?”

In a surprisingly subdued voice, the author answered, “I may have a slight aversion to needles and syringes.”

“He has trypanophobia,” Twilight further explained, giving an apologetic smile to Prose.

“Ah. The fear of needles.” He gave Prose a surprised look. “You know, I never figured you’d be scared of anything.”

The author seemed to want to say more, but only met Swol’s comment with a weary gaze. Swol gulped—gosh, I do that a lot—and said, “Ah. R-right.” Prose nodded, then turned away.

Gazing back at the engineer, Swol could more clearly see the number of needle lines that ran up and down and all around his body. Like rivers of broken ambitions, they flowed as red scars. In a way they were artistic; just the placement was morbidly aesthetic. He shuddered inwardly as that thought passed. It was quickly replaced with the realization that the engineer had on a rather dull look to him, judging by the way his eyes stared into nothingness.

He almost jumped when those same eyes suddenly and sharply focused on him. “Look, can I get back to work now?”

Twilight nodded. “Yes, you may.”

The stallion murmured something under his breath, before he trotted off. Swol blinked. “Wait. Weren’t we about to question him?”

“I tried to, but I only got a little bit out of him.”

“What did you learn?”

Twilight lit her horn, casting an illumination spell. A medium-sized circle of light panned out from her, allowing Swol to see there were actually three generators in the room. Each one was rumbling softly. Wires connected them to switches and pylons that were on the walls.

“Those switches and pylons conduct the generated electricity throughout the entire hotel. It’s quite impressive, really.”

“Where does the electricity come from, though?”

“If I had to guess, probably solar panels or windmills. I don’t think there’s any combustion involved; if there was, you’d be able to smell it.” Experimentally, Swol took a sniff; he realized that the air was surprisingly clean.

“They must have good standards here,” he commented. “There isn’t a speck of pollution in the air.”

“You can detect that?” Rarity asked. “That’s amazing, Swol!”

He blushed, feeling suddenly flustered. “Oh, it’s nothing. When you live in the city for as long as I have, you learn some simple techniques.”

“He’s right,” Opacare suddenly said, before resuming his silence. The comment, while short, filled Swol with an odd sense of pride. After giving the author a grateful smile, he turned back to Twilight.

“What else have you learned?” he asked.

Twilight told him. The power was constantly turned on; not a single day, according to the engineer’s account, had gone by without the basement gently rumbling. The generators used to be louder in the past, back when electrical appliances were harder to use, but recent improvements in technology had granted access and usage to special mufflers. While the electricity that was created did spread throughout the hotel, it did not do so instantaneously. Rather, like it was in a strange hierarchy, the electricity went to the lobby, then the topmost floor and down. Some ponies on the first floor, Swol remembered, had far less electrical appliances than he expected; this had to be the reason.

Twilight swore that the engineer was hiding something, though she admitted it might be because he was a drug user that made her so suspicious. She gave Prose a terribly embarrassed look, but his calm gaze seemed to assuage her anxieties. Swol turned to cast a quick look at the engineer. He was mumbling to himself something incomprehensible. Probably about his next fix, Swol thought with disdain. He shook his head in sadness.

“Unfortunately,” Twilight finished up, “that’s all I’ve been able to discover. There isn’t much to this basement; far less than we thought.”

“We at least found some things,” Rarity said. “That’s good enough, I suppose.” Quickly, she told them of the fact that nopony save for two had heard her scream.

“There might be more info,” said Swol, once Rarity had finished. “Mind if I go talk to the engineer?”

“You’re welcome to, if you think you can get anything out of him.”

Swol nodded, before rotating on his hooves and heading to the back area where the engineer was mumbling. The pony didn’t seem to notice him, still whispering incoherently. Swol took a moment to simply observe him in action.

He shudders a lot. That’s probably the result of all the drugs. In his time in both the Family and in the legislature, Swol had seen numerous accounts and statements concerning the negative effects of drug use. It was one of the biggest issues that the new governmental body had to tackle. It was also the first issue he had brought to Grifford’s attention, which had resulted in the most successful “drug prohibition”—as it was commonly called back then—that Manehattan ever had.

Swol considered looking into the engineer’s source for the illegal material, but decided that would have to wait. Once again, he was reminded of the ponies he was trying to help, and resolved that their needs were of the utmost importance.

He cleared his throat. “Excuse me, Mr. Screw?”

He received no answer. The engineer only mumbled to himself. Swol took another step closer. “Mr. Orange Screw? Sir?”

“H-huh?” He seemed to be coming out of some sort of trance. He turned around. “W-what? Oh, it’s you. That weird kid. Whaddaya want now?”

“Just a few questions, sir.”

“Sir, huh?” Orange puffed out his chest. “Been awhile since anypony had called me sir. I like it, I think. Did you know that they never call us engineers anything but engees anymore?”

Seeing that he had formulated an opening, Swol said, “I can’t imagine, sir. Can you tell me how long you’ve worked at Hotel Greenwood?”

“What is this, some sort of interrogation?”

Swol bit his lip, thinking quickly. “Nonsense, sir, I’m simply asking out of curiosity. After all, you seem like the type of pony who knows his way around here.”

Orange’s chest was close to breaking through its own constraints, so filled with pride it was. “Finally! Somepony finally realizes my own worth!”

Or it’s somepony who’s decided that your drug use isn’t worth jeopardizing everything.

“Yeah, I know more than the average worker,” Orange continued. “What of it?”

“It’s not much, really, sir. I’d imagine it takes a lot of time and money to run all these generators.”

“Oh, definitely. I—I mean, my team and I—we work all day to keep them running. Takes a lot of expertise.” He huffed. “I don’t mean to brag, but I’m the best of the engineers here.”

“I’d imagine no less.” He paused, thinking carefully. “What powers the generators, specifically? My friend thought it was a combination of solar and wind energy.”

“Your friend would be right; if she were here five years ago. We got rid of that stuff.”

“Why is that?”

“It was costing too much to—” Orange coughed, sending out brown smoke. Swol fought to keep his face passive. “Heh. Sorry ‘bout that. Anyway, as I was saying: it was costing too much to power the generators with those stuff.”

“Really? I was under the impression that solar and wind energy is enormously cheaper than other sources.”

“Yeah, that’s what the government wants you to think. But really, they’re just hypnotizing the populace with that political jarble.”

Realizing that Orange Screw not only did not recognize Swol as part of that government, but also that he hadn’t been reading about the recent deals with the solar and wind companies that were offering to lower their prices, Swol kept his mouth shut.

“Anyway, what we use instead is a special kind of energy source. It’s, um… uh…” Screw squinted, his mouth moving silently. “Uh…”

Swol patiently waited.

“Oh! Got it, we use the earth! Yeah.”

“Care to elaborate?”

“Oh, it’s pretty complicated. I’m not sure you’d understand it, since you’re not smart like me.”

Ignoring the insult, Swol said, “Why don’t you try to simplify it, then?”

“Hmph. I guess I could.” He pointed to the generators. “You can’t see it, but underneath are a bunch of pylons that travel maybe fifty feet downward. We had them installed once we got rid of the panels and all that crap.”

“And these pylons connect to…?”

“I was getting to that.” He huffed. “They connect to these, whaddayacallem, pillars, I guess, that go into the lava below.”

“Actually, it should be magma, if it’s underground.”

“Whatever. The point is, the pylons use the energy that the planet generates as a means to generate electricity, is what I’m basically saying.” He squinted, murmuring under his breath, “Yeah, that’s what the manual said, right? I don’t know…”

“It’s terra energy? Don’t you know that’s still highly contested as a usable energy source?”

“What, because the earth’s unstable and all that mumble jumble?”

“You’re tampering with the forces that can cause earthquakes!”

“Meh.”

Swol blinked, started, then stopped, realizing the immediate danger was lost on the stallion. “I would guess you’ve never had a problem with that, though, huh?”

“The hotel’s never sunk into a fire pit, if that’s what you’re asking. Are ya done?”

“Huh?” Swol was so wrapped up in his thoughts that he nearly missed the surprise question. “Oh. Yes, I suppose I am.”

“Good. Nice talking to ya, kid. Oh, and tell that yellow stallion of yours he ought to grow a spine. There are far scarier things out there than needles.”

“I’ll… keep that in mind. Thank you, Mr. Orange.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever.”

Swol walked back to the others, who quickly asked him what he had received. He told them what he had learned.

“How did you get all of that out of him?” Twilight asked, surprised.

Swol looked back at the engineer, then at the three in front of him. “I just asked the right questions, I guess.”

Rarity beamed. “I’m quite impressed, Swol. Is there anything you can’t do?”

Before the young stallion could think of something, Prose interrupted. “If you’re done here, it may be best that we move on to the rooftop. I would rather much like to check out the ‘magic,’ as it were.”

“Right,” Swol said. “Lead the way, Mr. Prose.”

Prose, already heading for the stairs, paused mid-step. He seemed to want to say something, but shook his head, already putting the idea aside. Resolutely, he returned to moving up the stairs. The others followed.

Opacare Prose was, as his colleagues and associates were well aware, not a stallion of too many words. Yet his silence often carried more weight than the usual diction of other ponies. It was a strong silence, that demonstrated that he was thinking deeply; a silence that, when cleared, revealed a stunning clarity never before seen to the onlooker.

Moreover, his silence conveyed everything that epitomized him: his stoicism; his grim determination; a cool intelligence; and unwavering convictions. Such convictions were as strong as the silence he held; neither the rushing winds nor the shattering earth could break them.

But ponies were a different matter. His beliefs were easily shattered by them. The mortal, it seemed, was stronger than nature itself, in this way; fate decreed that such ideas be vulnerable and susceptible to mortal injury. It was an almost cruel joke; a joke, yes, but cruel nonetheless.

He had wanted to say more to Swol back in the basement, but had refrained from doing so. The silence said enough, he figured; why should he have reason to doubt?

Swol was the reason, though. That young stallion had, throughout the course of this investigation, greatly surprised him—though he would not show it. Rather than being a stalwart lackey of the Family, the tan stallion employed his own unique sense of logic and understanding. While his investigation skills needed work, he put honest effort into them. Earnesty and compassion, it appeared, were Swol’s forte; they granted him a unique air, one that made him seem harmless. The amount of integrity he had alone gave enough reason for Opacare to pause; was this really the brainwashed worker of the Family he had long generalized and thus despised?

Opacare had to wonder whether that was the result of outside forces, or if something in the Family had changed. He doubted the latter, but so did he the former. His convictions wavered due to this dilemma; the mortal plane had played another card, and his hold on his hand—his beliefs, his values, the old ideas from an old time from an younger stallion—was weakening.

The wise fool would walk the earth with his ideas he had long groomed; but a day would come, it was said, that the fool would realize he was a fool, and then would he learn to be wise.

Whether that day was today, tomorrow, yesterday, or ever onward in the future, was of no concern to Prose. With signature resoluteness, he focused only on the facts at hand. The future would have to wait; its uncertainty could not be solved with the information he had at the moment.

Grifford saw them come out of the basement. Prose looked less tired than he expected, but the others—the experience was starting to wear on them, he could tell. He refused to meet their gazes, and they failed to notice him; he thought that was for the best.

The warrant, unfortunately, would take a little longer to be finalized. Even though the judge he had consulted had been understanding of the situation, Finch knew that the law was only so fast as it was written. That had been one of his earliest reforms; fighting to make sure that all matters of law had reasonable time managements.

He saw them enter the walk up to the elevator in a hustle. Prose had a harsh frown and an even harsher, deeply-furrowed brow. Judging by his eyes, he was somewhere else entirely; likely ruminating about something only he had thought of. Grifford let out a silent chuckle as he stood outside of Teal’s mail room. It was interesting, he supposed, to see his old friend in action.

His laughter died away. Friend. As serious as the situation was, it did not stop him from pondering what that word meant to him, now that everything had passed. He knew that he and Prose were not as close anymore; and he had a few guesses as to why. Yet, despite the pain that Prose brought in his leaving, Finch still respected him.

It was odd, to respect one’s opponent; though he did not consider the author as such. Prose had been gone for far too long; he had to be brought back into the Family, retrained, reintegrated. He had gone soft since he had left.

Was that such a demeaning result, though? Finch had rarely seen Prose smile; yet, as he remembered the newspapers on the author’s return—their accounts, and most especially the pictures—he knew that something had changed in that absence.

Opacare had to be happy now. Maybe happier than he ever had been. Certainly, he was distracted at the moment that he could not show it, but Finch’s gut feeling told him that Prose had lived a different, Family-free life—and was absolutely joyful for it.

Therefore, did Finch have any right to take that happiness away from him?

I would never do such a thing. It is Prose’s choice, after all; not mine to force nor to coerce. Yet his features lacked the conviction that his inner thoughts held.

The thoughts then dissolved into ponderous emptiness. He stared at the floor, thinking.

Maybe once they’re gone, I’ll take a look around.

Once the doors slid shut, he trotted over to the second elevator. Entering it, he pressed for a floor, and waited.

“Opacare? Are you okay?”

Rarity. Her tone had changed. It seemed less familiar, less friendly. Not cold, but not exactly the one he had grown to know in the past month.

He nodded to her, but refrained from saying anything. Rarity nodded back, before turning back to Swol.

The two were having some sort of muted conversation—at least, that was what Opacare had evaluated. Even then, he was unsure of what the nature of that talk was, or whether it consisted of anything worth listening to. Judging by their focused gaze on each other, he assumed it must have been a heated one; and, he decided, was one he would not involve himself in.

Once the door opened, they all piled into the elevator like a mad flock. Exhaustion leaked from their hooves and hugged their body, dragging them down to the floor. Prose did his best to fight the growing tiredness, but knew his companions would struggle.

It must be a universal truth, that if a means of solving a mystery has exhausted all who are involved, then they must now be on the right path.

While the adage was reassuring enough, it was not quite what Prose needed. He desired some time alone, in order to go over the facts once again. But he knew that he couldn’t.

They waited. The floors rushed past, and the elevator rumbled and jostled ever so slightly. Had there been music, it would have felt utterly surreal. It was an expected feeling, though, when considering the events that were outside that fantasy.

Swol and Rarity, he noticed, had died down. They were about as silent as he was, though definitely—as was Twilight—more fidgety. He was tempted to ask them to remain frozen; the younger stallion’s restless swaying was starting to irk him. But he kept his protests to himself.

Finally, after minutes had passed in a rather short amount of time, they reached the roof. The doors slid open.

The Manehattan skyline was revealed in all of its glory. No longer hidden by other buildings and rooftops, it sent a wondrous feeling of freedom and longevity through the air, whisking by their manes and filling the author’s mind with nostalgic thoughts. Stepping out onto the concrete roof, he breathed slowly. He could smell everything again—all that made his home—yet, as he did so, he realized that even now Manehattan was a distant memory. What this city was now was not the city he had grown up in; he had to keep that in mind, and suspect every little detail.

Not much was on the rooftop. Aside from a few vent openings, exhaust points, and the usual things you’d find on rooftops, the entire area was quite barren. The vents, he realized, were ideal for sneaking in; but a closer inspection revealed that they had not been tampered with.

“Opacare?” Twilight asked. “Where is the magic alarm?”

“I’ve no idea, but I’m certain if we spread out and look around, we’ll find it.”

Indeed they began to do so. While Rarity and Swol joined together, Prose and Twilight paired up, taking the far edge of the roof. With careful steps, they walked, making sure not to accidentally topple and fall off. Far below, the streets tended to blend into a mishmash of greys, concretes, and ponies; their obvious features blurred. Even with his remarkable perception, the author was unable to clearly define who they were. They moved at such a rate that they physically did become perceived to be blurred; at one point, there was a yellow carriage, and in the next instant, it had turned into a rapid and galloping vehicle that dodged and weaved through the crowds, before vanishing into an alley.

The streets may have been lively, but the edges were not. They were a dull beige, made of a less-heavy concrete, he reasoned. Physically, there was nothing that stood out; whatever magic was flowing, he could not see with his eyes.

As an earth pony, this lack of magic perception made certain investigations hard—so he had learned in a lesson from Raven Lock. “That’s why,” the late detective had said, “it’s always good to have a magic consultant, preferably a gifted unicorn.”

He glanced at Twilight, and saw that she was staring at the section of the sky that met the taller tops of the buildings. Her eyes appeared to be scanning for something.

“Find anything?” he asked.

“Maybe.” Her horn lit up, and she twisted and rolled her head, the light following in a linear pattern. “Come check this out, Prose.”

He walked over. “I can definitely sense the invisible barrier that Miss Teal was talking about,” Twilight explained. “If I’m sensing this right, it encompasses from about twenty feet above us, all the way to the bottom of the building.”

“Presumably surrounding each of the four walls?”

“That’s the more likely scenario. But… huh. That’s odd.”

“Hmm?”

Twilight walked around him, her brow furrowed. “It’s like there’s some sort of relay interference of some kind. Like a signal that buzzes in occasionally.”

“You can sense that?”

“I don’t quite have to.” She pointed a hoof out. “Look there.”

At first, as he looked to where she pointed, he saw nothing. Empty, blue space filled his vision. Then, all of a sudden, he saw a faint flash; then a similarly faint green glow could be seen.“The green glow? That’s the interference?”

“Yes. It’s hard to see, isn’t it?”

“It definitely is. What’s creating it?”

“I’m not sure. I can’t locate the source of this magic. Something’s blocking my spell.”

He frowned. A blockage? How is that possible? He endeavored to ask another question. “So if we can see it, then that must mean that anypony else can. So why has nopony mentioned this?”

“Good question. Was Miss Teal lying, do you think?”

He shook his head. “It’s doubtful. Her demeanor wouldn’t suggest that. Of course, it could be an act, but that seems equally unlikely.”

“Certainly not quite Bridleway material, that’s for sure.”

Opacare stepped around Twilight, peering at the green. After several minutes of staring, he took in a sharp breath. “It’s fading,” he said.

They waited for a little while, before the light returned. Twilight gasped. “Of course! Intervals! This has been a regular occurrence, then.”

“But it’s artificial?” Opacare asked. “Not nature-based?”

“Let me take a moment to measure them, then we’ll see.” As Twilight did so, Opacare stepped away, glancing all around the invisible barrier. If he had to guess, the flashes meant something was tampering with the alarm system. And if the alarm system had been tampered with…

Our perpetrators might have used that to their advantage.

But who or what had supplied the disturbance? One of the hotel staff, perhaps, out for revenge? If so, what kind of revenge? He thought almost immediately of Grifford Finch as the prime suspect, and his lips curled into a distasteful frown, before he shoved the thought aside. As much as he detested his former friend, his involvement in this was sketchy at best; he could see that now.

Besides, I think Swol would have caught on to such a plan long ago.

He considered another possibility. There may have indeed been many ponies involved with this. One being, of course, whoever had thrown the smoke grenade and had done the actual kidnapping (he reminded himself to check in with the police later as to the grenade’s status as well as the remainder of the evidence found); the other being a pony on the inside.

“Got it,” said Twilight suddenly. “The intervals occur about every seven minutes.”

“Good work, Twilight.” He then relayed his conclusions about the interference, and she expressed her agreement.

“If you’re right, Opa, then what we’re dealing with is an entire hotel on our suspicious characters list.” Her ears flopped. “Which probably makes this at least ten times harder.”

“Perhaps. Do you happen to know the exact type of spell used in this interference?”

“Not quite. There appears to be multiple layering involved, so multiple spells must have been used. It’s most certainly not a beginning unicorn; and even the intermediate ones would struggle to perform that many.” She cocked her head. “That leaves me thinking we’re dealing with an advanced magic user; maybe two, if what you say is indeed correct.”

“Then we can perhaps get, from Miss Teal, a list of all the unicorns who have come and gone in the past two days.”

“But what if this entire operation was set up from a long time ago? What if it was planned even before we came here?”

He bit his tongue, thinking. “Then, as you said, we’ll be facing ten times more difficulty.”

“Difficulty, huh?” They turned, to see Rarity and Swol approaching. The former had spoken. “That doesn’t bode well. I assume you two have found something?”

After retelling their conclusions, Rarity’s face grew despondent. “Of course it wouldn’t be easy. Of course it had to progressively become worse.”

“Don’t lose hope, Rarity,” Swol said. He turned to Prose. “Mr. Prose, there’s gotta be something we can use here, right? Some way of narrowing down the search?”

The author stared long and hard at the floor, thinking. Was there some way they could?

There must be something… something we’ve seen, something we’ve heard, that could help.

He went back over the details of the barrier, finding nothing in them that could help. He sunk to his hind legs, hooves clamping over his ears in a defeated manner. Rarity looked away. “Is there really nothing we could do?”

There has to be something! There just has to be!

For a moment, the four were silent. The sunken author had his eyes closed, and his jaw worked aimlessly closed.

C’mon, Opacare, think! Surely there’s something I can use here! There’s always something I can use; always some way to be found!

Let me think. The barrier encompasses the entire hotel from a twenty foot point above the roof. It is, in seven minute intervals, interrupted by an invisible relay that causes it to die out for seven minutes. Once it is turned off, anypony can enter from the side. If they move quickly, they can get out without triggering the alarm.

Nothing triggered the alarm the night the kidnapping happened. Teal Sparks had heard Rarity’s scream, but nopony else hadn’t. It can’t just be that some are deaf; the rest of the hotel is an exception to that. We still don’t know why, then.

The generators, from Swol’s account, run on terra energy; something I’m not entirely familiar with, other than it’s been a source of various scientific discussions in the past year. From what I’ve heard, it’s a highly unstable form, but apparently ponies nonetheless use it.

And the generators, through a combination of a regulated magical surge and electrical application, generate this barrier. So how can I use this information—wait a second.

Opacare shot up, eyes snapping open. “That’s it!”

The others recoiled at his sudden outburst. “What? What is it?” Twilight asked excitedly.

“I’ll explain in the elevator. We have to get moving; fast!” He galloped for the elevator, the others following.

Once they were in, Prose began his explanation. “If the hotel runs on terra energy, then that means somepony must have implemented it. That pony is our suspect for the disturbance in the alarm system. It has to be a character who is familiar with the technology used.”

“Like the engineer?” asked Rarity.

“Hardly that incompetent fool. No, we need to talk to his boss, his supervisor of the division. We should be able to find out just who he or she is if we search the contact list that all hotels have. This could be our big break—”

He was cut off when the doors stopped at the twenty-fourth floor. “What the…” Swol muttered.

Outside of the doors, a small group of police had gathered. Two were in front of the elevator, and were surprised to see the four ponies in the small compartment. “Mr. Prose! Mr. Swol! What are you doing here?”

“Investigating, officer,” Prose answered, clearly impatient to get a move on. “Why has our elevator stopped?”

“We’ve got another incident. You…” The officer glanced around, then leaned in close. “I think you’ll want to see this, Mr. Prose.”

His eyes narrowed, but he nodded. “Let’s go, then.”

The officer who had spoken led the way, taking them down to the final room. Opacare heard Rarity and Swol gasp, and he was suddenly filled with a feeling of dread.

“They were discovered only a few minutes ago, by one of the elder folks on this floor.”

“‘They?’”

“You’ll understand once you see.” The officer then looked at Swol. “I’m sorry, Mr. Swol, but you’re not going to like it.”

Before they reached the door, it burst open. Two officers had Grifford Finch in a blanket; he was shivering, despite it being relatively warm inside. He seemed in shock, evidenced by his wide eyes.

Swol gasped. “Hey! What are you two doing to the mayor?”

“He’s in shock,” answered one of them gruffly, confirming Prose’s suspicions. “Saw something most ponies shouldn’t see.”

Prose ignored his former friend’s condition, and pushed past the officer leading them. He stopped once he saw the scene.

“No!” Swol shouted, shoving past Prose. “No, no, no! Oh, sweet Celestia, no…”

Seeing a similar hysterical look on Rarity’s face, Prose asked her, “What’s wrong? Who is that?”

She turned to him slowly. “That was Flint Steel. He was… he was your old friend.”

Old friend?

There, in a pool of blood, with a large syringe sticking out of his back, was a faded-orange earth stallion; unmoving, unblinking, and still.

Author's Note

I'm suffering from a lack of motivation, so updates will be scarce and random.

XIV: This Dark World

Opacare Prose had seen many things in his lifetime. Friends had faded away; family, dead by his hooves. His friend’s sister, the one whom he treasured the most, had been kidnapped; his best friend, Raven Lock, had been vanquished in a fiery explosion. In his time as the Prime Intimidator alone, he had borne witness to and had even been the perpetrator of less than pure events; the blood on his hooves was metaphorical, yet it never was washed away.

Still, though, it had been years since he had ever seen a dead body up close. And already he knew that the others were absolutely sickened by it.

Rarity stood by Swol, looking away. Her hoof covered her mouth. Twilight stood off, behind Prose; judging by the sounds coming from that direction, she had not taken the sight all that well. The hallway, meanwhile, housed Grifford Finch; and though he had just about the same experience with death as Prose, he, too, was handling the situation in a negative manner.

That observation alone planted the seeds of doubt within the author’s mind. If Finch was not good with dead bodies, did that mean he was at all comfortable with leaving them behind? This question could be answered with but the conclusion that it was an extravagant act; yet, Prose found, such a conclusion seemed terribly naive.

But the thoughts were brushed aside, as more officers entered the room and requested him to stay outside. As the floor panels brushed up against the bottom of his hooves, and he felt only the vibrations, he realized he had become physically numb. In slow, dangerously slow steps, he left the room. A trance took ahold; he thought he could hear Raven Lock, then an explosion; then silence; then the voices of the other ponies blurred together, clashing into an alarming crescendo of shock, awe, and horror. He fell, weakened, against the wall, clutching his chest, eyes downcast.

His breath hitched, stalled, then resumed at a slow rate. He struggled not to become overrun with primal panic.

Vaguely he was aware of an officer talking to him; mostly it was just a series of Yes or No questions, none of which he could recall with great detail. Either way, what he had said garnered some form of compassion, and a blanket similar to the one that Grifford wore was brought over. Looking up, he saw that the others had been draped similarly.

Swol did his best to remain strong for them. He was the only one who was standing up fully. Rarity leaned against him; Prose could hear her gentle sobs, even in the loud setting. Twilight was not crying, but she stumbled over to Rarity, trying to comfort her.

The author watched them with utter numbness. He had to do something; he wanted to do something. But, Celestia help him, his emotions ran rampant; the insecurities and fears, the panic, the despair; they all caught up, and crippled him, preventing any amount of movement. The obstacle of getting up remained insurmountable; the body in that room, similarly, proved too morbid to gaze upon. It was more than the syringe, or the blood; it was the feeling of sudden exhaustion, the thought that somehow, something had struck without warning for the second time in brief history.

Prose may not have had any control over time, nor of fate, but he always thought he had some amount of power towards directing things in some favor or advantage. To see that hypothetical right, forcefully taken, removed, and left at his hooves in a bloody mess… it was jarring, to say the least; and traumatizing, to say the most.

Where is my strength? My ingenuity? My ability to adapt?

He could do little else but stare at the scene, and yet also stare at nothing in particular.

Then his mind offered a bit of clarity.

Whoever this victim was, he was important; a feeling in Opacare’s gut told him this. If his passing made both Swol and Rarity cry out in despair, and even shocked Grifford Finch, then surely, surely, it was an important detail. Slowly, Prose’s mind began to formulate a counter theory to the one he had long been holding onto; but it quickly fell apart. He couldn’t concentrate. Too much was happening at the moment; too much information being absorbed.

He needed a rest. Then he thought about having a drink. It had been years since he had even thought about having a drink. How much had changed since then, and how much had changed now, that he was thinking about trying a cold one?

The rhetorical question had to be filed away. For now, the world needed a action-oriented Prose, not a thoughtful one.

With the will of a manticore on its last legs, he stood. Against the sudden confusion, he stood. In the face of undoubtedly the worst anarchic blow, he stood. And he trotted right into that room, steeling himself for the coming ordeal.

A grizzled officer, different from the other’s he had been acquainted with earlier, met him. “Ah, Mr. Prose. I’d imagine that you are surprised as well?” He had a slightly pretentious tone, but it felt dry; sarcastic and sharp described him perfectly.

Thinking on this, Prose responded similarly. “Yes, well, it’s not every day that a dead body shows up in the same place where a kidnapping happened.”

“As dry as the stories said. Hrm.” The older officer took a careful look at the author, then at the others. “Mr. Mayor doesn’t take dead bodies kindly, does he? And your friends aren’t particularly acquainted with them either.”

“They are lucky.”

“Mm. Maybe.”

Prose saw his companions gaze uneasily at them, the tears having finally run dry. He barely nodded to them; he was more focused on the scene itself. The officer grunted, getting his attention. “Do you know the victim? I overheard that couple over there say you and he were close.”

“I’ve never met this stallion in my life.”

“And he certainly doesn’t look like any Manehattanite I’ve seen in these five years of service. Doesn’t quite look like from Detrot, or Baltimare.”

After a few officers cleared the way, the detective and Opacare stepped up to the body. The author raised an eyebrow. “Is it not against protocol to allow a citizen such as myself into the crime scene?”

“Miss Ruby Sparks said it herself. You’re part of a coalition with the Mayor, so that means you’ve free reign where the police are—at least where the precincts allow it. I’m content with any help you can give, Mr. Prose.”

“Thank you, sir.” He couldn’t help but feel tense when the word “coalition” was brought up; apparently, the old suspicions remained strong enough to still affect him.

They walked around the body, inspecting every angle. Prose did his best to hide his discomfort at seeing the syringe. “Hmm,” said the detective. “That needle couldn’t have killed him alone.”

“No, it could not have; even a needle of that size would not cause so much bleeding.”

“Garcy! Check for any external wounds!”

The requested on-duty officer did so. A short analysis was conducted, revealing that there were several bruises on the chest and shoulder areas. “Our victim was a fighter on two hooves,” the officer said. “Probably skilled, too.”

“What makes you say that?”

The officer who did the analyzing answered, “His legs are particularly unharmed, and the sides of his front hooves are more hurt than the actual hooves themselves. He was blocking numerous blows, it appears.”

“Harsh blows as well,” added the detective.

Prose sucked in a breath and peered closer to the body, taking careful note of the scars and bruises. “Physical blows, too,” he realized, “not magic based. No charring, it seems.” He sniffed. “At least, he doesn’t smell like he’s been burning.”

“So we’re dealing with a grounded creature. Not a unicorn, as your observation states. Probably not a pegasus, either, as they aren’t as naturally strong as our final suspected race: earth ponies.”

Opacare could vaguely hear Rainbow’s protests as Applejack smirked, even though they were already miles away. The thought nearly brought a smile to his face, but he forced the feeling down.

He asked for the officer to turn the body so that they could more clearly see the fight marks. “There; they’re much smaller than a stallion’s hoof. It’s a female.”

The detective grunted in affirmation. “An earth pony mare attacked our victim? Haven’t heard that in years.”

Something about the hoofprints was odd, though. The curvature was not that of a normal mare, so far as Opacare’s memory could recall. They were much more pronounced. The ends had punctured a few bits of skin, so they might have been sharpened with a nail filer of sorts. He had overheard some time ago that mares liked to go to the spa to have their hooves manicured in such a way, but to design the hoof so that it could stab was not a common practice, nor a common desire.

This troubled him. He felt something was wrong, but couldn’t place it.

He stepped away from the body, peering around the hotel room. Two police officers stood in front of a broken window. He froze, mind whirling. Wait… if that’s how they got in…

“Did anypony actually hear anything go on in here?” he asked.

“It doesn’t seem like it. Our caller just stumbled in on chance. Even if they could hear, they… well, they couldn’t. Seems like everypony on this floor suffers from a hearing problem.”

Opacare frowned, then glanced at Swol. “Swol, come here.”

The younger stallion started in shock, but nodded, coming forward. “What is it, Mr. Prose?”

“You said that Flint heard Rarity scream, correct? That he was the only one on this whole deaf floor?”

“That’s right.”

The pewter stallion stomped his hoof. “That’s odd. No, more than odd; perturbing. How is it that…” His voice trailed, as did that thought. “Hang on. If the body was discovered only minutes ago… What time is it?”

“It’s nearing evening, Mr. Prose. About 4:45 PM.”

“Thank you. Of course, we won’t know time of death until after an autopsy, but we at least have something to work with.”

“We do?” Swol asked, his voice weak.

“I believe so. We know that the alarm system that surrounds the hotel has a strange, seven-minute interval between being on-and-off. Therefore, we can assume that the killer here used that to her advantage. But for this crime to have been committed only a short while ago…”

“They would have to have slipped in while we were on the roof, when the intervals were still going off,” Swol realized, gasping.

“It may very well be that they snuck in while we were either on our way to the top, in the elevator, or peering around. Perhaps even before we found the invisible barrier, and then before Twilight figured out the measure of each interval.”

“A highly calculating maneuver. We’re dealing with a professional,” the detective said. “And a female at that, too. But without a description…”

“We’re shooting in the dark here,” Opacare finished. He shook his head. “Nothing more we can do about that.” He frowned. “Officer, have your men check the police records for any mention of former Canterlot Guard Flint Steel. If we can figure out why somepony would do… this… to him, then we might have a shot at finding our killer.”

“Understood, Mr. Prose. I’ll bring the body in for a proper autopsy. Who should we notify once that’s finished?”

He hesitated, half tempted to say himself. But the name that came out was not his own. “Grifford Finch, the mayor.”

“Very well, Mr. Prose. Anything else?”

He considered his options. He could stay and help with the current investigation. If he did so, he might turn up something sooner.

Then he looked back at Swol, back at Rarity, at Twilight, even Grifford in the hall. Their heads were low, faces, sullen; attitudes, depressed and drastically deep and dark. They’ll need me for a little while.

Still, though, the investigation called for him. He compromised.

“Go on without me, for now. I’ll join you in time.” The officer nodded, and Prose and Swol returned to the two mares.

“That’s it?” Rarity’s voice surprised him. It cut sharp, dug deep, suggesting both anger and huge disappointment.

“I suppose so,” he answered simply.

“No follow-up? No ‘further investigation?’”

“The police will take it from here, Rarity.”

“What, you don’t care enough that he’s dead? That your best friend is lying in a pool of his own blood?”

Prose stared at Rarity, mouth agape, before shutting it and narrowing his eyes to dangerously thin slits. “Raven Lock was my best friend,” he murmured. “And I don’t even know this stallion.”

“That doesn’t mean you shouldn’t help!”

“And do what? More of what I’m already doing?”

Swol shifted on his hooves. “I… just remembered something. I’m just gonna go tell the detective that…” In a blur he left the heated conversation. Prose barely responded to his absence.

Rarity stared at the author for a moment longer, before huffing and turning away. “Rarity—” She cut him off with another, louder huff. He sighed, then turned away. “Fine. Twilight, keep an eye on her.”

“I can take care of myself quite nicely, thank you very much, Mr. Prose.”

Odd as her attitude was, he chalked it up to simply a grieving response; though he could not say he felt the same. He thus ignored her as best he could. “What are you going to do next?” Twilight asked.

He looked out the door. “Talk.”

Tragedy was not commonplace for Rarity. That did not mean it did not happen. She was an adult; she had her fair share of tears, funerals, cries, moments of despair. To say otherwise was to lie, and to lie was to dishonor those who had long passed on.

Her face echoed her thoughts clearly, now facing away from the body. She and Twilight had stepped outside, watching Prose approach Grifford. Her chest felt like it was sinking to the ground, dragged down by an invisible weight; she struggled to remain standing.

She wondered. She simply wondered. She could barely think straight, nor could she keep a coherent thought for long. Her mind danced around ideas and concepts; memories flew by, coupled with emotions, on a wistful ride through her life. Grandma Belle had died when she was but seven; Sweetie had yet to be born, so she hadn’t had to go through the pain of seeing a loved one die. Rarity recalled vividly the anger and grief that consumed her for days on end. It seemed unfair, to have the loved die suddenly; indeed, it was unfair, to have one of the most loving and caring individuals in her life, be silenced abruptly, by a stupid disease. She had cried for days, and had sobered up a week later, the pain enormous to bear.

But that did not mean it would not fade. Once she was ten, the grief began its long trek back down to the bottom parts of her soul. It was still there; she’d always feel it. Yet it had faded; its effect was no longer so powerful.

It—grief—was much like a scar. It told the story of a painful memory, and it would never leave you alone. It grew ugly over time, darkening the skin which it resided on, creating an ugly discrepancy in a swirl of white fur. It was a reminder of something you miss; something that happened that should not have happened, you reasoned, but happened anyway. And you could do nothing to remove it. No amount of time in the world could ever remove scars; neither growing up, nor growing out, could defeat it. A scar was constant; lasting; forever.

Rarity’s scars may not have been as tragic as Princess Luna’s, nor as bitter and as old, but they were still her scars; they were a part of her. She had grown with them; changed with them. They held meaning to them.

So why did Opacare not appear the same?

She did not mean to force that stallion to feel as she felt. After all, Opacare had not known of Flint Spark’s existence; really, only she and Swol had any personal interaction with the strange, but eccentric stallion.

Strange, but eccentric. Isn’t that how I would describe Prose?

Twilight left, perhaps to talk to one of the officers on duty. Rarity barely registered her absence, focusing instead on the blue-green rug beneath her hooves.

The question of why Prose appeared unaffected by Flint’s death ran a mongoose’s marathon in her brain. It made no sense to her. Surely the author could spare some compassion, some empathy, over the senseless slaughter of innocents, and thus of innocence? Surely he could express pain, regret, sorrow. Surely, he could do something other than remain cold and distant, so much like his old self.

Rarity began to wonder if she had ever really known the stallion. She knew little of how his mind worked. If regressing into a frigid personality was commonplace, then did that mean that any warmth he had expressed was a farce, a mask? Who was the true Opacare Prose that she had come to…

Come to? Come to what? Somehow, the word evaded her, frustrating her even further.

She felt a pony brush up against her. Looking up, she found Swol, looking at her with caring eyes. “Hey,” he greeted.

“Hey,” she responded, finding her voice to be terribly dull and low.

“How… how are you holding up?”

Shrugging, she said, “About as well as can be expected, I guess.”

“That’s…” She supposed he was going to say “good,” but he simply finished, “… something to hear.”

She nodded. “How about you, Swol?”

He shook his head. “I’m… well, I’ve seen my fair share of pain and mistreatment. But…” He sighed. “This is terrifying for me.”

She hesitated, before asking, “Why did this happen, Swol? What did Flint deserve to have this? He was just a nice, old stallion; why would this happen to him, of all ponies?”

Swol turned to her, and she saw him thinking deeply. “I just don’t understand,” she added softly, more to herself than to him.

Silence fell, crushing her voice and her resolve. She sunk into the wall and closed her eyes.

“When has the crazy and terrifying ever made any sense?” he finally said. “How can we hope to comprehend how such evil acts occur? The sane cannot understand the ways of the insane, nor the methods, nor the madness, for the sane cannot go to the dark and deep places that the insane delve into.”

He breathed in, then let his breath pool in front of him. “It makes us vulnerable, when we are unable to understand the mad. And even when we do catch them, we do not truly understand where they are coming from.”

“We can’t stand in their shoes,” she said, “because they wear too small of a size.”

“Or maybe too large. It’s hard to say, really.”

Swol sadly shook his head. “But that doesn’t help, really, does it? It just makes us feel more helpless. Powerless… I’m sorry. I’m just making you feel worse.”

He made to move, but Rarity placed a hoof on his shoulder, stopping him. “Swol. Stay. Please.”

Sensing her pain, her anguish, he nodded, and returned to his spot beside her.

They watched Prose approach Grifford. The grey stallion and the brown stallion mashed together in Rarity’s mind, creating a blend of pewter and mud, that reminded her of the ground and of the earth. She remembered that there was no green; and thus, no life, no spirit.

They were broken, she realized. This had broken them. She wasn’t sure how, or why, but she knew. She knew the truth.

Twilight joined them shortly after, having nothing much to report. The officers were silent on everything. Together the three of them watched the author and the mayor.

It is when the world suddenly betrays you, when your sense of security vanishes, when you suddenly lose all means to win, that you become scared, that you become paranoid; it is when the rage and the sorrow, hidden, are pushed away, that turns the good in all of us—malicious; that makes good ponies, cruel.

Rarity watched Prose with that thought in mind; and her heart deflated rapidly in her chest.

“Grifford.”

No… it can’t be… did Opacare Prose just refer to me by my first name?

Grifford might have grinned, had he not still been suffering from a drastically shocking experience. Though he was the Boss, he had yet to see any dead bodies show up in the Family’s records; and he intended to keep it that way.

“Ah, Opacare,” he said, turning. “How goes the investigation—”

“Quiesce.”

Finch frowned, caught off guard by the command for quiet. “I… I’m sorry, is something wrong?”

“There will be something wrong, if you lie to me.”

The author’s voice had become menacing. Low and deep, dipping down into a dark pit of reserved anger, it cut through Finch’s body like a heated blade. The darkness in his eyes contrasted the carnation highlight; it was an oddly perfect blend of coolness and coldness.

Grifford cleared his throat. “Alright, Opacare. I won’t lie. I promise.”

“Empty words from a scoundrel. How stupid do you think I am?”

Once again, the voice burst through skin and bone. Finch found himself suddenly feeling hurt. “Prose, I—”

“Quiet. I’ll do the talking, you do the responding.”

Finch nodded slowly, sensing that arguing would do no good.

“Now. Do you mind telling me what the hell you were doing up here?” Prose fixed him with a glare. “You were supposed to be downstairs, with Miss Teal.”

“I was… curious.”

“You hesitated. Why?”

“Perhaps because I sense you won’t believe me either way?”

“Don’t be a smartass.”

“One of us has to be in this conversation.”

Prose glared at him, then resumed pacing. “I’ll ask again; what were you doing up here?”

Finch clenched his jaw, then relaxed; he had nothing to hide, really. “I wanted to take a look around. It will be a little time before the warrant is finalized, and I figured a quick viewing wouldn’t hurt.”

“Then why this room? Why Flint Steel?”

“I thought I heard something.”

“You do realize that nopony in this hotel heard anything, correct?”

“That’s been bothering me, too.” Finch frowned. “But I swear that I heard something. It was faint; kind of like a murmur.”

“A voice?”

“Probably; but it was so soft, a whisper on the winds.”

“Now you’re becoming whimsical.”

Finch pressed on. “When I entered, I saw Flint on the ground in a pool of his own blood. I… I couldn’t believe it. His eyes, closed, mouth shut, neither breathing nor moving… it was so surreal that I nearly toppled over from only shock.”

“You act like you haven’t seen a dead body before.”

“The only time I have was the same time you did!” Finch suddenly exclaimed, the outburst surprising both he and the stallion opposite of him. He faltered, realizing what he had just said, and the sensitive material they concerned. “I… I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that—”

“Talk,” said Opacare through gritted teeth. The Mayor noted his voice was wavering; no doubt, a painful memory had flown past.

“Right… Anyway, as you know, the police were already investigating this hotel. An officer arrived on the floor, no doubt to search through every nook and cranny. He saw the open door and, after approaching, saw me on the floor; then he saw the body. The rest is as you saw it.”

His words of finality did not quite carry the same effect for Prose. He paced, he pondered, he glared at and beyond Grifford. He raised his head, as if to ask further; when he was interrupted by the sound of hooves stomping towards them.

Both stallions turned to see a squadron of officers hauling a heavy body bag. The faint outline of Flint Steel’s body could be seen, and—in a grotesque manner—the syringe stood out. Prose scrambled out of the way, eyeing the object with trepidation. Finch watched the officers go.

They must be bringing him to the Medical Examiner’s office in the Police Department, some rational part of his brain told him.

Once the officers had vanished down the stairwell, Finch turned back to Prose, expecting him to continue his questioning. But that seemed far from the stallion’s thoughts. The focus in his eyes began to fade, and he stared at the stairwell, lost. Finch was tempted to get up and talk to him, perhaps to draw him out of his reprieve; but he reasoned that that was the last thing that Opacare would want.

He clutched the shock blanket, wanting to feel his warmth spread through it; yet despite the close proximity between himself and the velvety material, he still felt a chill run through his body that set his senses on fire and brought him to the edge of trepidation.

Dead bodies weren’t for the faint of heart. Even the Boss didn’t like seeing them.

He got up, and, after casting one final look at the pewter stallion, left him alone, and went back to the room in silence.

Twilight couldn’t explain it, but she felt that there was a great canyon between Opacare and the situation at hand. It was most likely his dismissive demeanor that brought this on; or, perhaps, his unwillingness to stand with them as another sign. The pewter stallion now stood outside of the room, staring in silence at the wall. He was lost in his thoughts.

As was she, she supposed. Sharp as her mind was, it failed her at the moment; she could do little else but simply look around. With Rarity and Swol doing their best to comfort each other, and Grifford Finch still in mild shock, she and Prose arguably were the most sane. Yet, unlike the stallion, Twilight felt the pain of loss easily.

Flint was not somepony close to her; but she was a pony. A living, breathing creature, capable of higher thinking and acting. She could feel a wide arrange of emotions, ranging from anger, to sadness, to bitterness. Here, at this moment, she felt a combination of them all; here, she was a pony; here, she did more than what Prose was doing.

Here, she emphasized. So why couldn’t Prose?

We all have our own ways of dealing with grief, she reasoned. Yet she knew Prose to be a logical individual; and to not react at all—or, at least, in an easily discernible way—seemed illogical. Though the author would never admit it, he was one of the most caring ponies that Twilight had ever met. After all, not many ponies would fake their own vanishment, in order to save the lives of the city that never loved him.

Thus, this emotionally-shallow Opacare Prose that stood outside was as much of a stranger to her as Flint Steel. But unlike the deceased, that made Prose all the more scarier; she could not place why.

She blinked, and breathed in through her snout. She could smell some blood, leftover, as well as the sweaty bodies of the working officers. Her hearing buzzed in and out; a sort of ringing bled between her ears. Was she losing it? No, she wasn’t; her mind was still reeling, recuperating, recovering.

Windows.

She looked towards them, seeing that the sun had turned to an afternoon orange. The numerous bodies in the room made it hot; she was tempted to walk over and open the window, if only to allow the fall breeze to fly by, but she doubted the police would let her, for hear of whisking away any evidence. Her mind briefly touched upon her first experience at the Iron Pony competition. Remembering that autumn air filled her with melancholic nostalgia.

Her head swiveled, and she bit her lower lip, scrunching up her muzzle. Grifford, Swol, Prose, and most importantly Rarity… they all needed to rest. They had been through so much, in so little time. She looked at them, then consulted a reflective picture frame. Her shoulders and their shoulders sagged; backs, lowered; eyes, covered in rings of tiredness.

She walked over to Rarity and Swol, intending to speak. Her throat locked up. What exactly could she say? “Hey,” she began, then her voice was buried in a sea of emotions.

“Hey.” Swol’s voice was flat, but when he turned to her, she saw a bit of light in his eyes. “How are you holding up?”

“Fine, I guess. You two?” She winced. “Nevermind, I think I already know.”

“You were lost in thought for a moment there, Twilight, dear—I saw,” said Rarity. “Are you certain you’re alright?”

The lavender unicorn offered a sigh. “I don’t really know, I guess… I need… I need a rest. There’s… there’s so much going on.”

“Indeed.” Rarity nodded her agreement, though Twilight noticed it was a slow movement. “I concur with that, Twilight. A rest would be nice, but…”

“But the investigation goes onward,” said Grifford, approaching from the side of Swol. “And… a rest would slow it down.”

“Hmm…” Twilight rubbed her eyes with her hooves. “We… there’s so much going on, in so little time, and so much has happened… so much to process.” Her words tumbled, stumbled, fell, exhausted and spent. “We can’t keep going on like this. We’re… we’re only ponies; there’s only so much we can take.”

“Are you saying we stop?” asked Swol.

“The police will take care of most things,” Grifford said. “I, for one, think a rest would be…” He searched for the word, rolling his hoof and neck. “Good, for us, at the very least.”

“That sounds like giving up.”

They all turned to the source, and none were surprised to see Prose in the doorway. He tried to stand tall, but Twilight could tell that even he was beginning to strain. His gaze seemed more forced than intense; like he was trying to put on a facade of rigid strength to compensate for growing fatigue.

“We’re not giving up,” Twilight said, facing him. “We’re just… tired.”

“But we can’t stop now,” he asserted. “There’s too much at stake. If we wait one more moment, we might—”

“Lose them?” Grifford nodded slowly. “That is indeed a risk. But if all points of Manehattan are locked down, then they cannot leave, as we’ve established.”

Prose shot him a glare. “Or you could have them transported elsewhere without alerting the police.”

“Do you really think I’m still somehow involved in this?” The Mayor somehow found some strength left, and he used it to stomp the ground. “I know you’re a stubborn stallion, but damn it, it’s like you can’t see past your own anger.”

“I don’t trust you, Finch; and if they could see what I see, then they’d say the same.”

“Prose, Mayor, please…” Rarity tried to call, but they ignored her.

“We’ll drive ourselves to our deaths if we throw ourselves aimlessly,” Finch argued. “We’re blind as bats, here.”

“To not act is still to act.”

“Opacare, Mayor Grifford,” Twilight stated firmly. “That’s enough.” Before the argument could continue, she turned to the author. “Prose, please. Listen to me. We’ve been through a lot, and I’m not saying that we will give up. In fact, there’s no chance we will. But…” She sighed. “This… this isn’t something you just walk out of unscarred. This isn’t something you can easily put away, in order to focus on what is at hand. This is… this is scary, Prose.” She looked to him with wide eyes. “Aren’t you scared, too?”

He didn’t answer; he simply stared.

“I don’t expect you to understand. Just… give us a day, or two: I don’t know. Just enough time for us to… reorient ourselves.”

“But—”

“Opa, please listen to reason.”

Rarity’s voice made him turn to her. For a moment, his eyes flashed something red, then it faded into simple pink. Her calm stare met his, and, through the silence, they met a grim, hesitant agreement. “Where?” he asked.

“I… I know a place. My place,” Swol answered. “It’s protected.”

“So was this place.”

“Please, trust me. We’ll be fine there.”

The author’s scrutinous stare lingered over the younger stallion, before he turned quickly. “Fine. Go do what you must.”

“What about you?”

“Somepony has to keep working.” He glanced at them for a moment, before leaving finally.

He didn’t even offer them a farewell. Something in Twilight’s heart sunk.

She turned to the others. “What now?”

“Now,” said Swol, “we do what we must.” He took the lead.

Aryna licked her hooves, relishing the metal taste, before spitting at the ground. She murmured an ancient Zebra prayer, and looked out from the rooftop at the hotel.

Seeing the numerous police and ponies who had gathered, she concluded that an extraction team was unnecessary. Too many witnesses; acting now would undermine the Business’s ultimate goal. Her trained eye fell onto a certain pewter stallion, who was busy talking to one of the officers.

She rolled her shoulder, and the long, metal object across it rolled with her. Heavy, it weighed her down, but she managed to remain still as she stared at the stallion. Carefully, she unhooked the object from her harness, and held it out in front of her. Her breath slowed. Her forelegs locked around the barrel and trigger. If she took the shot, they’d have eliminated the biggest threat to their whole plan. If she fired, Opacare Prose would be dead…

Her hooves squeezed on the adapted trigger mechanism, and each second resulted in her heart beating louder and louder against her chest. She thought she could hear it echo and rebound off of the weapon. Leaning forward, her eye pressed up against the scope.

In its lens, she could clearly see his face. It was different than from the last few times she had seen it. Tired, weary, and most of all scornful, it did not match the cold and calm description she had long been provided with. His eyes glowed even in the light of the afternoon, like a rosy beacon.

She flicked the weapon slightly upward, where she saw, outside of the room, four ponies exiting. Two she immediately recognized as the Mayor and his secretary. The other two, mares, she only slightly knew from the papers. The white one had to be the kidnapped filly’s sister.

Her rifle then dropped back down to Prose. There was no way he’d see it coming. And once she fired and they realized what was happening, she’d be gone, leaving no trace of her existence. It would be a clean-cut assassination.

She stopped breathing, steadying the rifle against her shoulder. Ready… aim…

She waited two seconds, before sighing and rolling the rifle back onto her back. Best not to tempt fate. And orders are orders, I suppose. Dropping out of her offensive stance, she fell to her four hooves, taking a sniff of the Manehattan air.

She smelled it. She could smell the reminder.

Power. All the power we’d ever need.

All the power we’d need to protect everypony.

Aryna looked up, squinting under the sunlight. A cloud rolled by slowly; it took minutes before it covered the sun, providing a shadow upon the rooftop. In the moment that it passed, she was already gone.

Author's Note

It has been months since I last updated. I know; and I'm sorry. Life got in the way, then other things happened (which are mentioned in several blogs), then I lost some motivation to even write. Additionally, I've been working on several other writing projects that have each been getting in the way of this one.

It's hard to say for certain whether I'll have a consistent uploading schedule for this story. I don't think I will. I write based on will and emotion, and they are inconsistent in themselves.

My other stories, as well, have received far more success than this one. So why bother continuing?

Well, as it turns out; I have some amount of loyalty to all my projects. This one included. With my friend turning the prequel story into an actual book (link to blog explaining that here), I think that it's time that I try my best to write this one again.

I'll be in college in about a year. Time is short; but writing is precious. So whether or not I'll continually and consistently post, I want each reader to know that this story will always have a special place in my heart.

O: Shadowy Figures

Part One: The City That Never Sleeps

In a darkened room, one pony sat in a chair, staring over a crisp newspaper. One of his advisors had handed it to him, having found it intriguing enough to warrant his attention. The light scent of a burnt cigar drafted throughout the dark room.

He sat on a bronze-red chair, his Tyrian-purple eyes moving restlessly across each sentence. His white-smoke fur masked the sea of emotions that rumbled and tossed inside; briefly, he flicked his ivory mane away, and for a moment one could see what amounted to shock wisp by. His jaw tightened, clenched, then relaxed; he took a slow breath, then glanced around.

The room was empty, but not barren of color. Lipstick-red adorned the walls, with mahogany wood furniture adorning the sides. It was a small office, one that suited his needs. On his desk was a picture frame, a light-lavender unicorn filly between a faded-pink unicorn mare and himself. A brief smile crossed his lips, before being replaced with a taut frown. He glanced away, feeling a stab of pain in his heart, and whispered a silent apology.

His horn lit in a golden glow as he absentmindedly flipped through the pages, though his mind remained only on the front article. He did the action only to do something else while he thought.

He had heard of the events that had transpired in the past month. The missing author had been the center of all of Equestria’s attention; for that, he was glad, for it meant that less attention was focused on him—and by extension, them. The operation could continue as smoothly as it did; though, he did know there was one issue that needed addressing.

Pressing a button on the underside of his desk, he made a simple request. His voice was soft and eloquent, like a politician, or a professional liar. The command was met with a simple affirmation, and he leaned back, waiting.

A short moment later, the door up front was pushed open. A zebra mare walked in, calm, fuchsia purple meeting his darker shade of violet. Her polarizing mane draped down her shoulders enchantingly, and her cobalt cloak only barely covered her hindquarters. He had caught several of his men staring at her flanks; her risque behavior grew more troublesome with each day. The gold ankhs that hung from her ears glistened from the halls’ light, before transforming into a faded bronze as the door closed. Darkness reigned again, though not enough to mask his displeasure.

She walked up to him, mischievously smiling. “Sir,” she greeted, carefully omitting his name. “To what is it that I owe the pleasure of seeing you again?”

She leaned forward, voice dripping into a whisper. “Did you perhaps have a need I was required to satisfy? It has been so long, has it not?”

He glared at her. “Aryna. Your witchcrafts will not affect me.”

“Many stallions have said that before.” Aryna laughed, her voice like crystals dropping into a pool of water. “Oh, do not fret. I know you have a loving wife to return to.” Seeing his throat tighten, she stopped going down that path. “Perhaps it would do us both well as to explain why I am here?”

“One. It is not your pleasure, nor mine, that you are here,” he stated angrily. His eyes narrowed. “We need to discuss Raven Lock.”

Aryna let out a sigh. “Oh, what of that dead stallion? Surely you do not wish I had not done what I have done.”

“I wanted him subdued, not killed.”

“I did both, in the end.”

“You disobeyed my orders.”

“Or carried them through, depending on the perspective.” She sighed. “I tire of this banter. Tell me what you want.”

He let out his own sigh, leaning back and closing his eyes. “I worry that we’ve drawn too much attention to ourselves, what with you little… ‘removal.’”

“Let us not beat around that metaphorical bush. I killed Raven Lock, I did not remove him.”

He scowled. “The point is, we may be facing a growing threat from other sources.”

That surprised her. “How? I handed over the documents I found in his apartment. His contacts have been taken cared of.”

“Have they?” He levitated the paper over to her. “Read the front article.”

She did so, her eyes also going slightly wide. To his shock, she smiled. “So. The game has evolved.”

“‘The game?’” He snorted. “If you think this is a game, perhaps I should let you lose for once.”

She chuckled. “Forgive me. I was only lightening the mood.”

“I prefer this darkness, mind you.”

She placed the paper down. “So he has returned. What of it?”

He gestured at the paper. “According to what he has said, Raven Locked helped him disappear in the first place.” He leaned forward menacingly. “Who is to say that he won’t eventually discover us?”

She met his gaze evenly. “There is a chance he might… but it is very low. After all, there is nothing that connects us to the crime scene.”

“But he still is connected. It would only take a few moments of critical thinking to evaluate that the gas explosion was not the real cause of death.”

“Even then, he would be like a blind slug fumbling in the darkness. He would have no leads to go off of that would lead to us.”

He sighed, settling back onto his chair. “Perhaps you are right. Still, though, it is concerning. We may have a breach in our operations.”

She shook his head. “I will ensure that it does not come to that.”

He raised an eyebrow. “And how do you plan on doing that?”

She flashed him a smile, one that clearly demonstrated her cold-killer personality. “You were a bank owner. You know something called insurance, yes?”

For a moment he did not respond, mulling over her response. Then, he gave a simple nod as he understood what she was implying. “Do what you must. Dismissed.”

Two unicorn stallions read over the teleported note carefully. The pale green one had a calm smile on his face, while his friend, a darker blue, looked on with a slight frown.

“What do you think, Newt?” the blue one asked. “Should we do it?”

Newt Ginger shrugged. “C’mon, Viper. We’re comminators. This is in our job description.”

“We intimidate, yeah. But since when have we done that?” Emphasizing his point, he flicked his hoof out at the note.

Newt snorted. “You act like we’re the bad guys or something. But you have to remember, bad is relative and subjective.”

Viper Navy rolled his eyes. “Maybe so, but still… If it weren’t for the money, I’m not sure I’d do this.”

Newt frowned. “Don’t tell me you’d abandon your own friend just because this looks bad.”

Viper quickly shook his head. “No, that’s not what I’m saying. It’s just that I don’t want to do anything too rash.”

The green unicorn placed a reassuring hoof on his friend. “Don’t worry, Viper. This won’t go wrong. I promise.” Viper smiled and nodded.

Newt returned to the note. “Of course, there still remains the issue of not getting caught…” His eyes lit up. “We could double up, get twice the load.”

Viper nodded. “Sounds good. But we’ll need some help. Know anypony?”

Newt smirked, a sinister glint in his eye. “I know just the mare…”

He placed the note down and walked out, his brother following closely.

At the bottom of the paper, the curving and beautiful characters of the Zebrika language morphed into one simple, translated phrase: “The Mayor and the Author shall fall.”

To them, it was like music in words, one that spelled a brighter future.