Prologue: Smoke in Broken Mirrors
"Well, well, well. Come fer' a round three, Crackerjack?" the stallion wheezed in laughter, the half-deflated ball he was kicking rolling towards a nearby tin. "Been waiting' fer ya ta finish me off."
"Shut yer trap, Eights. Oi ain't ‘ere fer another fight." Nutcracker replied coolly, ears pinned.
"Come to laugh at ol' Eights, then? Bring yer friends with ya?"
"I ain't here ta do anyfink to ya." Cracker bit his tongue, hesitating before lowering his head, "I need yer ‘elp."
Eights froze in silence a moment, a wicked grin spreading his lips.
"You. Askin' me fer help." The scrawny stallion erupted into laughter, hooves crossing over his abdomen. His outburst ended in a series of wheezing coughs, leaving him breathless for the moments after. "Oooh, yer' shittin' me."
"Listen, if you ‘elp me, it'll clear your record. Did for me."
"That's 'cause you ain't done shit crackerjack. You wasn't nothin but a colt when the guards got ya." Eights took a match in his hooves, striking it against the wall beside him. "So, ta yer offer, I say," He lit his cigarette and tossed the match into the filthy puddle below him, "Fuck you."
The strain of increasing aggravation showed on Nutcracker’s face in the form of clenched teeth and a narrowed brow. Burnet hooves soon slammed themselves on either side of Eightball’s head, ultimately gaining the stallion’s attention, if not his respect.
“Thass it, you bloody idiot. I didn’t come ‘ere to be turned away,” Cracker snarled, face inches from the thug’s nose, “See ‘f you don’t come wiv me, you’ll be locked up for sure. And you know ‘oo’s in there? Your old friends, Lockjaw an’ Gremlin. So, unless you fancy sharing close-quarters wiv ‘em, surrounded by blokes who can just as easily turn a blind eye, I suggest you gerroff your bony arse and come wiv me.”
Eights, now paler than the dreary haze over the city, barely took a moment to cough before he nodded in agreement.
“I’ll go. Fine. But you are buyin’ me a sandwich.”
Nutcracker blinked, “You wot? You’re in the custody o’ the Guard now, d’you not understand this?”
Eights spat back, “And I ain’t eaten in three days, I don’t give a shit about your custody, I’m helpin’ you, I want some damn food.”
“See if you don’t cut yer crap right now, Eights, only sandwich you’ll be ‘avin is an ‘oof sandwich, fresh offa me. You gorrit? Oi was told ta bring you back alive, no-one said nuffink about bringin’ you back in one piece, or conscious.”
Eightball was about to offer a retort to that, but the look in the young stallion’s eyes and the tone of his voice made it plain exactly what would happen if he did.
“Fine. But if there ain’t no food where we’re goin, I ain't gonna be very, uh, co-op-er-a-tive.”
Chapter One: An Adiaphorus Blackguard
"Do you know why we brought you here?"
"Could list a few reasons." The stallion crossed his hooves nervously, chains from his cuffs rattling, "Could list more than a few."
"Save those reasons for later, then," The uniformed mare took a seat across the table, "Your personal crimes will be discussed, but not now." She took a folder from her bag and slid it over to Eights, opening it to reveal five photos of different ponies.
"Do you know any of these ponies, Eightball?"
Eights visibly flinched, eyes locking dangerously even with his interrogator, "My name is Eights."
To the mare’s credit, she didn’t even flinch. Her own icy blue gaze was unyielding. "Very well. Do you know them, Eights."
Lowering his gaze, the skeletal stallion studied the photos, nodding softly to himself. "Don't know they's names. Seen them 'fore now though."
"Seen them where?"
"'Bout a week ago. Late at night, I don't know th' time- aint got a watch on me- saw them prancin' and hoppin' about. I told em' not to go back that alley. They did innyhow."
"An alley... And why shouldn't they have gone that way?"
"'Cos that there's BlackJack's territory. Aint nobody crossin' that line without his say-so. And them colts definitely aint got the say so."
"Who is Blackjack?" The way she said it, it seemed as though the large mare already knew quite a bit about the pony in question. It was clear that the question was more to the effect of, “who is he to you?”.
Eights narrowed his eyes, ears slowly falling flat. He chewed the matchstick in his mouth with the back of his teeth, grinding the end to a pulp.
"What happen to them colts that you guards gotta need me for."
His interrogator leaned back in her chair to remain upright, and crossed her hooves. "Those five ponies," she nodded to the picture, "were recruits of the Royal Guard. Promising young sorts, I might add, very keen. All five were found dead in an alley just half a block from where Private Nutcracker reported finding you."
Eights froze, his eyes betraying his shock. He dropped the matchstick from his mouth, "I aint been killin' nobody." He said quietly, "I know I done a lot of bad things but killin' aint one of em. I aint never done more than knock a boy out, and I aint never touch'a mare witout her-"
"Eights," the mare cut him off, setting an armour-clad hoof down sharply on the table. "No-one is accusing you of murder. I have met murderers, assassins, and worse kinds before. You are not one of them.”
She paused for a few moments, to let her assessment sink in, before fixing her intent gaze upon him once more. “I just need to know what you know about this BlackJack. Understood?"
Eights pressed his hooves together, His throat suddenly feeling parched. “I… I can’t.” He stammered, ears pinning, “If I told you, you guards’ll be pickin’ me up in a bag next. If you’d even bother.”
“Well, we could hardly just leave your body lying in the street, now could we?” the guardspony retorted. “Listen to yourself. This whole cycle of fear is something we’re going to destroy – but we can’t do that unless we know all that we can about this stain on society before we do something about him.”
The stallion let out a raspy sigh, fiddling slightly with the cuff around his pasterns. “Say I do give yous the information.” He bit down on the matchstick to snap it, hoping to get a splinter in his tongue, “And say I lead yer guards ta where he holes up. What’s in it fer me. I could die, y’know, but that’d leave yous with one less problem.”
“At the rate you’re currently going, you’re going to die anyway.” the mare replied. “So I don’t see what you’re so worried about there. You may as well go out on a high note.” she paused, then turned to one side on her chair. “Or, perhaps there’s an alternative to that. I’ve been informed by the medic who examined you earlier that you’re not yet so far gone that there’s no hope. Of course, you’re not going to have much of a life if you carry on the way you have until recently.”
“So what, if I help yous out, I get ta breathe a bit longer? Don’t see how good that’s gonna be.”
His interrogator turned back towards him, depositing another piece of paper on the table. “We were already aware when we brought you in that, if you were incarcerated, that could be rather… dangerous, to put it mildly. As you said, there’re other ponies that have been locked up that might be harbouring a few grudges.”
“Yeah, so?”
“So, we came up with some alternatives.” The mare leaned forward again, her eyes locking with his once more. “Understand this, Eights. Justice will be served, one way or the other. The Equestrian High Court will see to it that no wrongdoing is left unpunished… however, they are not without mercy or compassion. If you comply with our request for information, I have it on good authority that your punishment will be lessened. As I mentioned previously, you are not a killer. A thug, perhaps, and certainly a philanderer and a rogue… but you’re not one to engage in murder. Which means that you can be offered the option of putting your skills to use for the good of the community.”
Eights looked over the document with narrowed eyes, squinting as if to decipher the meaning. He pushed it towards the mare and spat his matchstick out on the table beside him.
"An' this scrap says the same speech yous given me?"
The officer across the table nodded slowly, fully comprehending the new predicament.
“Yes. If you help us during this trial, and perhaps more, you will be considered cleared of all charges. Are you able to sign this document?”
Eightball looked off to the side with ears pinned, prompting a soft sigh and a nod from his interrogator.
“Very well. I will need to have a recording, then.” As she tapped a small device on her vest, the mare cleared her throat. “Repeat after me. I, Eightball, know and accept the terms of this contract, and pledge an allegiance to the Royal Guard and her Princess Celestia, under penalty of law.”
Eightball, easily akin to a deer in headlights at the moment, took a deep breath before stumbling over the phrase.
“I, Eights, know an’ accept the terms of this con… tract. An’ pledge a alliance t the Royal Guard an’ the princess Celestia, under pen...ally of th law.”
“Very good.” The mare sighed, tapping the recording device once more to save the statement. Gathering the file of papers between her hooves, she cleared her throat and stood to push in her chair. “After a wash, you will be brought to your cell by two guards. Any trouble, and you’ll be answering to me. Is that clear?”
“Wait--- Ya said cell? I thought I ain’t gonna be locked up!”
“What, you expected a luxury suite? You are still in police custody, Eights. However, your cell will be located in solitary confinement, well protected and far away from those who wish you harm. Now,” She waved in two guards, obscured by the mare’s three-layer mane, “I leave you in the capable hooves of Lieutenant Starlight and Private Nutcracker. I expect you to be brought in at 8 o’clock sharp tomorrow for questioning, so be prepared. Any questions?”
“Yeah,” Eights coughed, looking between the two guards, “Can I get somepony that ain’t Crackerjack, there?”
The mare only gave a grin in reply, and before he could call after her, she was gone, leaving a rather tense trio of ponies in her wake.
Clip, clop, clip, clop
Hoofsteps echoed between alabaster walls and barred windows, bouncing off the painfully unassuming stone floor and filling the corridor. Despite the prison’s vastness, it appeared empty, leaving the three ponies to break the silence themselves.
“So Crackerjack, you turned out ta be a big un, eh? Ain’t gonna lie, thought you was gonna be much smaller. Ain’t had much muscle on ya then. I guess the guard fattened you up eh? Must be nice.”
Eightball’s jabbering was met by a cold silence, the guardsmare to his left giving only a flick of her ear in acknowledgement. He chuckled, shaking out whatever patches of his mane he had left in amusement.
“Always quiet. What’re ya quiet for? We got a lot ta talk about, you and I. Been what, ten years since I knocked yer ass ta th’ ground, Crackerjack? Did ya join the guard ta beat me? Cos I ain’t gonna lie ta ya, I don’t think I’ll be fightin’ again. Nah. Too much work.”
Green eyes flashed to meet his, causing Eights to feed off the attention like a cigarette - drained leech.
“Yeah, I ain't been able ta fight fer… well. Since ya got caught. Guess you was lucky, right after ya got learned and all that, them guards overran the ring. I dunno who they got. Too many ta count.” Eights frowned, “Life’s been shit since then ya know. Allie’s prolly dead by now. Aint seen her in a while. Remember her? nice mare. Shame what happened.”
Unable to hide the clouds in his eyes, Nutcracker finally gave in to the delinquent’s pestering, asking simply, “What happ’ned?”
Eights shrugged, keeping his head low, “She got hit when they sprayed th’ ring. Th’ gas did somethin’ ta her.. Last I saw her, she ain’t been good. I kept bringin’ her food an’ such, but she ain't eatin. ‘Ventually, I go up to her nook an’ she's gone. Heard some pony say they saw her fall in the canal, and go off the mountain.” He lowered his head with a solemn shrug, “She ain't stupid enough to do that accidentally.”
Nutcracker was all too grateful when the solitary cell block finally came into view down the corridor. Clearing his throat, he picked up the pace, half-rushing the sickly stallion beside him into a hasty pace.
“Cell 301 will be your home, for now.” The guardsmare piped up, taking over in place of the thought-lost private. “You are far from anypony else, so confrontation is highly unlikely.” her horn glowed a sheen of blue as she unlocked the heavy door, “Mercy has you on a strict health plan, so don't expect your usual pack of cigarettes. From here on, you will be allowed three, so choose wisely. As today is nearly over, you are allowed one before you sleep. Is that clear?”
Eights, unable to fathom how he would accomplish such a feat, could barely nod a reply before he was nudged into the cell. Starlight cracked a wry smirk.
“Guards on the floor tonight are Relic Dust, Cinnamon Cone, and Aster. Your jailer on duty is Keystone. Your dinner shall arrive shortly, through the panel on the bottom of the door. You are then to return the plate, fork, and any other utensil the same way. If there is a piece missing, you will be searched in a way that violates most personal codes, and I guarantee, it will not be a mare doing it. Are we clear, Mr. Eights?”
Paler than a nightmare night ghost, Eightball was left staring at his cell door in horror as it closed on him, the silvery wisps of the guardsmare’s tail disappearing from view. He swallowed roughly, trying and failing to calm his newfound nerves.
Perhaps they really were out to torture him.
As they left the quarrelsome stallion safely behind bars, the armor-clad duo chose a different route to the one they lead Eights down, pallid walls soon fading to the catacombs’ usual stone brick interior. The mare levitated a torch from the wall to light the corridor as twilight strained through the inapt windows partially blocked by wrought iron, preventing any hopes of escaping into the night air. The tension pulled the air taught, curious glances from the silvery mare hoping to instigate a reply, an explanation, anything from her younger counterpart. With wisps of mane shrouding her gaze, Starlight stared forward, forcing herself to break the silence, despite the emotion stirring in Nutcracker’s verdant eyes.
“Princess Celestia has banned the use of tear gas for over a century… Whatever could Eightball mean?”
Nutcracker shook his head, slipping into the barracks as soon as he came upon them, half-murmuring in reply;
“He doesn’t know.”
