Amazing Grace

Chapters

Chapter two: Anything goes.
Chapter three: On the job.
Chapter four: On the case.
Chapter Five: I could make you care
Chapter six: Sins of the mother
Chapter seven: Kudanda Blues
Chapter eight: At the Gala
Chapter nine: Back in the saddle.
Chapter ten: The backroom backstabber
Chapter eleven: Backup's backed down
Chapter Twelve: Don't be afraid to love again.
Chapter Thirteen: Friends in High Places
Chapter Fifteen: The City that will never sleep again
Chapter Sixteen: We're all whores
Chapter one: Griffish Stoicism
Chapter Fourteen: You always kill the things you love.

Chapter two: Anything goes.

"Your ten o'clock is here," said Belle Weather, Thunderhoof's secretary.

"Bring her in," said Thunderhoof.

An emerald-green unicorn mare entered and sat down opposite the investigator's desk.

"What did you find?" asked the mare, anxiously.

Thunderhoof reached for a file and slid it across the desk. "I observed your husband at his job," he said, indicating a picture of a cream unicorn sitting at a cubicle desk. "He's been doing quite a lot of overtime." Thunderhoof then indicated a photograph of the same stallion, looking at something through the glass of a jewelry store. "Usually, he stops to look at the jewelry. But yesterday, he made a purchase. A twenty-four carat gold necklace..."

The mare started shaking. "Oh, I knew it was that! He's seeing somepony else, isn't he? Who is she? Show me her face, that..." She burst into tears, and never finished his sentence.

"Madam, please," said Thunderhoof, in a calm voice. "I don't have any pictures of anypony seeing your husband."

"Why?"

"He hasn't seen anypony else," explained Thunderhoof. "Nor has he been communicating with anypony. He hasn't been anywhere near the post office, and I checked with the company he works for; they don't have fire-courier services. So it's virtually impossible that he's been sending letters to anypony. "

"How can you be so sure?" asked the mare, holding back her tears. "Maybe he knew that he was being followed!"

"Look," said Thunderhoof. "First of all, I know a cheating husband when I see one. I've worked dozens of these cases in the past. But if my word isn't enough, know that if he actually knew that I was following him and he was cheating on you, he wouldn't ever have been anywhere near that jewelry store, let alone bought anything from it."

"So... you're saying he's innocent?" asked the mare, her eyes glistening with tears.

"Essentially," said Thunderhoof. "My best guess is that your husband's been working overtime so he can afford that necklace. And, if I'm right, you're the intended recipient."

The mare yelled with joy, so hard that Thunderhoof put his ears backwards. "Sir, I don't know how to thank you!"

"It's okay, madam," said Thunderhoof. "Please just pay my fee. The total's here in black and white." He gave her the bill.

The mare promptly exited Thunderhoof's office and paid the bill at Belle Weather's desk.

"Any other appointments for the day?" asked Thunderhoof.

"No, sir," answered Belle.

"Good. I'll be leaving, now. Have a nice day."

"Wha- yes, sir," said the secretary, surprised.

"Don't 'sir' me, Belle," said Thunderhoof. "I'm not an army pony anymore."

"Right, sir- I mean Thunderhoof. Sorry, sir. Oh damn. Sorry," said Belle Weather, sheepishly.

Thunderhoof chuckled, and left the room. He went down the stairs, and onto the pavement. As he was walking down the street to his favourite coffee shop, under the bleak samey sky, Thunderhoof's head started spinning around some questions.

"Octavia Melody," he thought, picturing the gray mare. "Where have I heard that name before?"

Walking down the street, Thunderhoof started mentally reciting his old regiment's hymn: The Griffish Grenadiers:

"Some talk of Flash Magnus, and some of Hoofcules,
Of Rockhoof and Neighsander, and such great names as these.
But of all the bravest heroes, there are none that can compare,
To the tow row row row row, of the Griffish Grenadiers."

It was something he did whenever he felt the urge to do so. Soon enough, he arrived at the coffee shop.

"Tea, please. Black," said Thunderhoof, sitting down at the counter and removing his hat.

"I thought you were more the Neighrish coffee type," answered the barrista.

"What, at ten o'clock?" asked Thunderhoof. "I'm not a factory worker, Yelly. Never liked coffee anyway." He picked up the copy of The Canterlot Gazette which lay on the counter. He hadn't had the time to read it yet.

"PAN-EQUESTRIAN COURT ESTABLISHED: ZEBRICAN CRIMINALS ON THE RUN," read the tag line.
"Two months ago, the Equestrian Security Council (ESC) gave the green light for the Equestrian parliament's resolution number 955, which moved for the creation of the Special Court for Kudanda (SCK). It was officially opened yesterday at noon, with aim of prosecuting the perpetrators of the different crimes against equines (among other atrocities) committed during the war that plagued Kudanda more than three years ago. The prosecutor of the court, Canta del Pronto, told us that many of the suspects of such crimes were still on the run.
The official aim of the SCK, according to the text of resolution 955, is to reconcile the different ethnic groups that took a part in the war by judging only the equines responsible for the execution of the aforementioned atrocities, therefore placing the blame on individuals rather than groups.
However, there has been a not-so-silent minority of ponies who are unhappy with Equestria's involvement in the war and in the application of Pan-Equestrian law to a country that is technically beyond Equestria.
One such pony is the leader of the Equestria First Party (EFP), Ozzy Mozzy1, who voiced his displeasure, claiming that 'Equestrian law should not be applied to such backwards savages as the Zebras'. He elaborated, saying that 'the savages of Zebrica should get off their lazy rumps and invent their own laws instead of usurping ours'. On the opposite side of the political spectrum, the Equal Equines Party (EEP) released a statement claiming that Equestria has 'no right to interfere in affairs that do not concern them, let alone judge extra-equestrian criminals of a war that doesn't concern them based on laws that Equestria itself dictated'. However, they added that they 'approve of the Pan-Equestrian Charter and the Geneighva Conventions', but that 'they are being usurped for Celestial Imperialism'.
Given these far yet not-so-distant statements, one thing is for certain: this is one of these times when the far-right and the far-left actually agree on something.
Other complaints about the SCK have come from the ruling Fieldist Party and the opposition's Stableist party, Whinnston Chestnut and Clem Saddlee agreeing that Equestrian bureaucracy has slowed down the establishment of the court, which should ideally have been established just after the end of the Kuduandan war, not three years after."

"Well, look at that," said Thunderhoof. "The world is yet again going crazy."

"Eeyup," answered Yelly. "I don't read the papers no more, so I just assume it's crazy everyday." He served Thunderhoof's tea, and went to tend the bar someplace else.

Thunderhoof put down the paper, and drank his tea whilst thinking of ways to discredit both the EFP and the EEP's views on the subject of the war. Having fought in the Kudandan War as a member of the Royal Expeditionary Force, Thunderhoof knew first-hoof what had actually happened. And in his mind, neither party had a clue what they were talking about.

But his thoughts on the war soon again got obstructed by his mental image of Octavia. Who was she? And how did she know his name? Civilians usually didn't know the names of contemporary soldiers. If he'd been a general or a colonel, like General Delherbe, he could have understood. But, except for his distinctions and medals earned during the Kudandan war, there was absolutely no way to find out who and what he was. Had Octavia memorized the list of Celestia Cross and Star of Valour recipients? That seemed unlikely.

"I've got to get to the bottom of this," thought Thunderhoof. He finished his drink, put his hat back on, and left the café, walking at a brisk pace.

"Right," he thought. "First step, find Octavia." Thunderhoof knew that looking for one pony in Canterlot was like trying to find an absurdist at an existentialist gathering, but he was still a soldier at heart: if he was going to fail at something, it wouldn't be for lack of trying. At the same time, he realized that what he was about to do was stalking, if one was to go by the legal definition. But he still confidently marched forward, thinking along the way.

Judging by her cutie mark and her sheer skill with her instrument, Octavia Melody was almost certainly a professional cellist. That, and the fact that she had been in such a rush to leave the night before told Thunderhoof that Octavia was probably long-gone by now. Meaning that any leads that Thunderhoof could potentially get were back at Hoofington's. So that was where Thunderhoof was to go.

"Well hey, if it ain't my cat Thunderhoof!" said Hoofington from behind the bar, as he saw his Pegasus friend walk in through the doorway.

"Hello," answered Thunderhoof, casually and calmly shaking the rain off his wings like any true Trottinghamite. "It's raining."

"No hay," replied Hoofington. "Drink?"

Thunderhoof looked at his pocket watch. It was eleven o'clock. "Might as well," he said, sitting down at the bar.

"Might as well. Heh," chuckled Hoofington. "You should have that on your headstone. So, what'll it be?"

"Erm..." Thunderhoof wasn't really a lunchtime drinker. "A pint of mild, please," he finished, saying the first thing that came to mind.

"Mild it is," said Hoofington. He got a pint glass, pressed the dark beer into it, and put the glass in front of Thunderhoof. "Something wrong?"

"Why?" asked Thunderhoof, taking a gulp.

"In one year, I've never seen you here at eleven o'clock, that's why."

"Well, sometimes, being a private investigator in Canterlot can be lucrative," said Thunderhoof. "That, and cumulative army pensions, it gives you the urge to burn some money."

"Well, I'm not complaining," said Hoofington. He picked up a copy of 'The Political Pone' which was sitting discarded on the bar, read the first few lines of the front page, and tutted loudly. "Look at that," he commented. "Stableists are up five percent."

"Better them than the Equalists," said Thunderhoof, after another sip.

"Imagine that," said Hoofington. "Violent revolution, Equalists taking over... People like your dad, and probably you, you'll all be shackled against a wall and stoned to death. Next to Princess Celestia, Luna, Cadance, and Twilight. Maybe even that Octavia cat."

"About her-" started Thunderhoof, remembering why he was there.

"Heh. And me, owner of a night club, traitor to my class, I'll be up there with y'all."

"You're not a traitor to your class, Hoofy," said Thunderhoof. "You're just an example of what your class can achieve. But anyway, I wanted to ask you some questions about Octavia."

"You haven't changed since Zebrica, haven't ya, Major?" asked Hoofington. He had served under Thunderhoof in the REF, and they had developed a bond of sorts after a particularly rough skirmish, before Hoofington had left the army to start a Gentlecolts' club. "You never let anything go."

"We're soldiers, Hoofy," said Thunderhoof. "If we fail, it isn't..."

"...For lack of trying, I know," said Hoofington, finishing his friend's sentence. "But I'm telling ya. Let go of her. She isn't worth the trouble."

"She knew my name, Hoofy," said Thunderhoof. "She knew who I was. I've got to know why."

"Fine," sighed Hoofington. "What do you want to know?"

"Do you have a way to reach her?" asked Thunderhoof.

"Yeah," answered Hoofington "But you ain't gonna get into much contact." He produced a business card from under the bar.

'Octavia MELODY- Cellist.
For weddings or formal ceremonies.
To reserve, please contact the Alezan Artistic Agency, at least 15 days before the event.
Can possibly come at short notice, but no guarantees can be made.
11, Neighson Street, 36842, Trottingham, Equestria.'

"You ain't gonna get much outta her agent," said Hoofington. "I don't think you wanna hoof it to Trottingham anyways."

"Where did she sleep for the night?" asked Thunderhoof. "If she did sleep in Canterlot."

"Now, this is just between you and me, Thunderhoof," whispered Hoofington. He looked around, checking to see if anyone was there. "When I asked for Octavia to come to my club, the agent told me her fees. You know, no biggie, because I'd heard some good things about her. By luck, she was free the night I wanted her. So then, she asks if I usually provide rooms in my club. So I tell them that I usually don't, they tell me that I'll have to make an exception for Octavia. She absolutely had to sleep in my club the night before she climbed on stage. Plus, they offered a five percent discount if I did accept, so..."

Thunderhoof looked out of the window at the hotel across the street. "Was she... expensive?"

"Well, she didn't come cheap, especially at such short notice, but that Octavia broad was worth it," said Hoofington. "I'm getting more and more reservations."

"I see," said the investigator, draining his glass. "How much exactly?"

"Well," answered Hoofington. "It was gonna be seventeen thousand five hundred bits, but factoring in the five percent discount, it came to sixteen thousand six hundred and twenty five." He'd always been good with numbers. "With a difference of eight hundred and seventy five bits."

Thunderhoof looked across the street at the hotel. On the front door, some large letters said 'Room for one: 564 B'. "Huh," he said. "Hotel's cheaper, yet she asks to be here. Why, though?" he thought.

"Anything else you wanna bother me with?" asked Hoofington, suddenly realizing that his friend wasn't there for the company.

"I assume you don't really have a red book for ponies who actually stay here?" asked Thunderhoof in return.

"Nope." And just as Thunderhoof was about to open his mouth, Hoofington chucked a key across the counter. "Her room's upstairs, second door on the left. Yeah, I know you were gonna ask for it."

Thunderhoof, while surprised at Hoofington's accurate prediction, shrugged it off by thinking it was an easy assumption to make. He entered the elevator, and pressed the button for the third level, Hoofington's enormous, ten-room penthouse.

"Maybe he is a traitor to his class after all," thought Thunderhoof, opening the penthouse's door and stepping onto the Vanhoover maple floorboards, waxed to a mirror sheen by what he assumed was an army of Unicorn soubrettes. On the wall was a tapestry, with a family coat of hooves that Hoofington had probably improvised sometime recently. "So he's decided he's old money, now, eh?" thought Thunderhoof, taking in the golden horseshoe that was the centerpiece of the seal, and the chivalrous pony armour helm, on a background of crossed halberds. "Yep, definitely a class traitor."

Thunderhoof stopped in front of the second door to the right, and tried to push it open. After a few tries, he realized that it was one of those doors that slides. Behind it lay a bedroom that looked like something out of the tales of Mistmane: oriental bed very close to the floor, miniature fountain at the corner, with its signature trickling noise that seemed to fill anypony with relaxation, and walls made of thin wood that weren't very good for insulation but sure as hay looked pretty.

Time to look for some clues.

Near the centre of the room was a black mark on the clear floor left by Octavia's cello's endpiece, indicating that this was indeed Octavia's room. But other than that, nothing else could really be established by just looking at the room. Octavia having stayed there just the night, she probably hadn't unpacked anything in the room. Therefore, no point in checking the wardrobe. However, the single waste basket of the room hadn't been emptied in a while, so if there was anything in the room that would lead Thunderhoof to Octavia, that bin was probably the place he'd be most likely to find some clues.

"Time for some garbology 2," thought Thunderhoof.

Hoofington didn't receive many guests, so all of the waste that Thunderhoof poured out of the basket was presumably Octavia's: a few used paper towels that had a slight smell of varnish, an old cloth, and a used train ticket. The ticket was the only item that was worthy of any interest to Thunderhoof.

'Equestrian Rail Company
Class: Standard.
Ticket type: one way.
From: Ponyville Station.
To: Canterlot Central Station.'

The ticket's validation date indicated that it had been bought the day before yesterday. It coincided with Octavia's arrival at the club. Furthermore, Hoofington claimed that Octavia had arrived on short notice, so Ponyville was quite possibly her place of residence. However, the fact that she had bought a one-way ticket and not a return indicated that she had other places to be, and she wouldn't be back in Ponyville for some time.

"Ponyville, huh," thought Thunderhoof. If he remembered his schedule properly, he didn't have any more pending cases or appointments with potential customers. "Might as well..."

Author's Note

1: Reference to Oswald Mosley, leader of the British Union of Fascists.
2: Garbology, in intelligence gathering, is the study of one's refuse.

Chapter three: On the job.

"Belle," said Thunderhoof, making for the door to his office. "I'm taking a few days off."

"Alright," answered Belle, narrowly suppressing a 'sir'. "Should I tell this one that they should wait?"

"What was that?" asked Thunderhoof, as he was about to enter his office.

"This one arrived in the hearth just a few minutes after you left," said Belle, holding a piece of paper in her magic grasp. She levitated it towards Thunderhoof, who took it with his wing.

It was a piece of non-whitened paper that complied with the government's new 'clean paper act'.

Unfolding it, Thunderhoof realized that it bore the symbol of the Special Court for Kudanda. Some hurriedly-written words had been scrawled on the paper, which read 'Hoofington Club. 10 PM tonight. Urgent'.

"Vague," remarked Thunderhoof. "I like that." He had received such messages in the past, asking him to meet someone in a public place. He usually ignored them, because he didn't like ponies who didn't at least take an appointment. But the presence of the SCK's symbol on the sheet told him that the mare or stallion who had sent it was probably somepony of importance. And important ponies often coughed up colossal amounts of bits for private eye services. Plus, one of his friends from uni was a judge in the SCK. He couldn't possibly refuse.

"So, are you still taking some time off?" asked Belle.

"Yes," answered Thunderhoof. "Just not right now."

Thunderhoof was standing next to the entrance to the club, eying his pocket watch. The small arm was on the nine, the big on the fifty eight. The sweep hand was relentlessly ticking forwards, invading the last ten seconds before the minute hand marched on fifty nine. The second was like an air cavalry pegasus, dropping a bomb on an enemy foxhole before soaring away to let the minute army march forward and invade the position. And just like that, fifty eight became fifty nine.

"One minute to drop off."

Thunderhoof closed his eyes, and counted the seconds.

An airship, soaring through the skies, with Thunderhoof sitting in the bay, where the ice-cold wind would infiltrate his pegatrooper suit, at an altitude so high that he needed a mask to breathe. One minute to mentally prepare. One minute of everything at once. Doubt, certainty, regret, impatience, fear, and courage. A soldier's minute.

"CAVOK. Opening rear hatch."

The cargo bay would slowly open, revealing the morning sun that would burn Thunderhoof's iris.

"Thirty seconds to drop off. Move to the rear."

Standing on the edge, ready to jump out into the unknown. The icyness reaching its very peak.

"Ten seconds. Nine. Eight..."

Heart pounding against the ribs.

"Five. Four. Three. Two. One."

Breathe in.

"Status all green. Clear for drop off."

Breathe out.

"Spread your wings and fly, Celestia be with you!"

Thunderhoof abruptly opened his eyes, heart pounding, wings spread. "Let's do this." He entered the club, just in time to see Hoofington disappear from the stage. Thunderhoof realized where he was, rested his wings, and cleared his throat, calmly, hoping that no-one had noticed him.

"This way, sir," said a waiter, wearing his pearl-white tuxedo. Thunderhoof trotted behind the stallion, who led him behind the tables to the private parlours. He opened the door and stepped aside to let Thunderhoof in.

An aged unicorn mare with a pale blond mane and a light-brown coat and wearing a tartan jacket, was sitting at the table, back to the door. In front of her was a pot of Zebrican coffee and two cups.

"Major Thunderhoof," said the mare as the Pegasus stallion entered. "Please, have a seat."

"Alright," answered Thunderhoof, making his way around the table, and sitting down. He recognized the mare in front of him, but didn't say a word. Sitting in front of him was Canta del Pronto, the prosecutor of the Special Court for Kudanda.

"I suppose you know who I am, Major," said the mare, taking her glasses off, and wiping them with a handkerchief.

"I do," responded Thunderhoof. "But... what should I call you?"

" 'Mrs Pronto' will be fine, Major," instructed the mare.

"Very well," said Thunderhoof. "Please, just call me Thunderhoof."

"I insist, Major," said Mrs Pronto. "Coffee?" she asked, levitating the pot.

"No thanks," answered Thunderhoof. "I don't really like coffee."

"I thought they loaded you Expeditionaries with pots full of it, whenever you went anywhere. To keep you alert, and whatnot."

"I never really took it up," retorted the investigator. "You could say that it was all... stimulating enough."

At that point, a waiter came in, holding a platter with Thunderhoof's usual. He placed the glass of gin on the table and left.

"I see," said Canta, taking a sip of coffee, her beady eyes not leaving Thunderhoof. When she'd taken her sip, she replaced her cup, and got a file from the bag at her hooves. Opening it, she began reading. "Major Thunderhoof Sparklemoore Mountague Butterscotch," she read. "Joined the Equestrian Army at age fifteen. Attended the Royal Military Academy of Saddlehurst, Trottingham. Upon receiving commission, integrated the Provost Services, Military Police."

"My parents wanted me to join," explained Thunderhoof. "It's tradition to enlist at least one child in the military. I wanted to be a hoofsoldier, but they wanted me to be far away from the front lines. So, we compromised, and before long, I was a Redhoof."

"Barely one year after joining," continued Canta, "asked to attend re-training. Light infantry, Grenadier Guards. After that, Pegarescue Corps, Vanhoover division. And finally, hoof-picked to enter the Royal Pathfinders."

"First in, last out," said Thunderhoof, repeating the Royal Rangers' motto.

"Star of Valour, Second Class; Celestia Cross; Luna Cross and bar; Distinguished Service Cross and bar; Air Gallantry Medal; Conspicuous Galantry Cross; Distinguished Service Medal; Cadance Gallantry Medal; Order of Merit, First Class; three red hearts and operational medals for Kudanda, the Badlands emergency, Second Saddle Arabian Revolt, Griffonstone Crisis, and the San Palomino Siege."

"Will you be getting to a point in the near future, or should I order another gin?" asked Thunderhoof.

"Why are you trying to hide from these honours, Major?" asked Canta, putting the file down. "Celestia knows, as evidenced by the fact that she awarded you her cross, that you've deserved them."

"If you say so," said Thunderhoof. "But really, why did you ask me to come?"

"I want to hire you, Major," answered Canta.

"Oh?"

"Yes." The prosecutor levitated another file, and plonked it in front of the private eye. "This is Poppy Heart." She magically flicked a few pages, and landed on a picture of a black Earth Pony stallion with brown eyes, a buzzcut mane, and an extremely grizzled look. "Ex-REF servicepony, turned mercenary."

"Let me guess," said Thunderhoof. "War criminal?"

"If you recall, the Kudu hired quite a lot of mercenaries during the war," explained Canta. "Griffons, Diamond Dogs, Ponies, Ibex... Basically anything with four working legs and a lust for blood."

Thunderhoof indeed recall the sight of the 'mercenaries'. He'd seen them commit any crime you could think of: murder, torture, even rape. He had a spasm in his right foreleg as he thought of it. "So why him?" he asked, in a voice of utter disgust.

"Poppy Heart was different," said the prosecutor. "When he left the army, he kept in touch with the High Command through his old CO, Shining Armor. Whenever he had information worth sharing, he'd sell it to us. One day, we received a letter from him, informing us that he was in service of the Kudandan government, and that he could share troop movements and the like with us. He saved a lot of lives."

"Deserves a medal," said Thunderhoof.

"He got state money," retorted Canta, in an icy tone. "We don't owe him anything else. Back to the matter at hand, he had a running assignment during the war, which was to take pictures of Kudu crimes, so they could be used in a court."

"Alright," said Thunderhoof. "Where did it go wrong?"

Canta adopted a tactful tone. "Do you remember... Pundaville?" she asked, very carefully.

The effect that this name had on Thunderhoof was unbearable. Though he remained cool on the outside, he could feel his outrage, his disgust, and his sadness boiling up inside of him, the outrage like a platoon of guardponies marching in unison up his ribcage, the sadness playing the fife and drum, and his disgust cheering the platoon as it marched on.

"Yes," he answered, in a calm voice. "Yes, I remember Pundaville."

"Well, we lost contact with Poppy just after Pundaville." Canta said the name without really saying it, almost as if she was eating her own words. "All the captured Kudu we interrogated only referred to him as 'traitor Poppy'. So, obviously, his cover had been blown. We assumed he was dead, and officially pronounced him as such. Now, brace yourself, because this is going to get somewhat complicated. Ready?"

"Ready," answered Thunderhoof.

"Good. About a week ago, I sent word to the Zebrican Border Authority that I was looking for Poppy Heart. I sent them a picture and a description. Just a few hours later, they replied, telling me that such a pony had taken a low-class ship to Manehattan. I pinged the Manehattan train station, who told me he'd taken a cheap train ticket to Canterlot. I pinged Canterlot, but nothing so far. So he's here to stay, at least for a while."

"So, why don't you notify the Canterlot Police Service?" asked Thunderhoof. "Or the... train bobbies, or whatever they're called."

"Because," answered Canta, "He's taking low-class transport across Equestria and keeping a low profile, he obviously doesn't want to be found, meaning that someone may be after him. And if he's holding sensitive documents, Celestia only knows what he would do with them if he was cornered."

"Right," said Thunderhoof. "And you want me to find him."

"Correct," answered Canta. "Will you take the case?"

"I thought it was against PECP1 policy to hire private contractors," remarked Thunderhoof.

"Oh, but I'm not paying you with state money," said Canta. "After all, it isn't the PECP who're hiring you. I am. One hundred thousand bits, payable upon delivery."

Thunderhoof's eyes widened in shock. "Canta Del Pronto is hiring me to track down an asset, and paying me with her own money. She's even more virtuous than I thought."

"Very well," said Thunderhoof, gathering the file and tucking it under his wing. "I'll take the case."

Canta Del Pronto smiled. "Good. When you find him, escort him to the nearest police station. Once you've done so, contact me." She gave a business card to Thunderhoof.

And without further ado, Thunderhoof left the building.

EQUESTRIAN INTELLIGENCE COMMUNITY
FILE NO.4575- POPPY HEART

Legal information:
Full Name: Poppy Heart Griever.
Also Known as: 'Buckpop' (REF nickname); 'Deathwish' (Professional name as mercenary).
Occuptation(s): Mercenary, hired asset of the Crown, former servicepony in the REF.
Place of birth: Manehattan, North-Eastern Equestria
Residence: N/A
Family: Gray Griever (Father) (deceased); Heart Flower (Mother) (Deceased); Solemn Griever (Brother) (Deceased); Rose Griever (Sister).

Biological information:
Species: Earth Pony (M-Pegasus F-Earth Pony).
Sex: Male.
Mane: Dark brown.
Coat: Jet black.
Height: 5 ft 3.
Cutie mark: three white spears in triangular formation.

Military career
Service/branch: Equestrian Earth Army
Unit: 51st infantry regiment (Coldriver Guards) of the Royal Expeditionary Force.
Serial Number: 652090
Rank: Colour Sergeant.
Distinctions/Awards: Luna Cross; Cadance Gallantry Medal; Saddle Arabian Campaign Medal (Mentioned in Despatches).

General information

Poppy Heart Griever (a.k.a Poppy Heart), after both his parents and his brother were killed in a rock-climbing accident, joined the EUP guard to provide for his sister, Rose Griever, who was lodged at the EUP barracks in Manehattan. When his sister was old enough to go to university (payed for by Poppy), Poppy left the army to become a mercenary, exchanging information for bits.
Poppy Heart proved himself to be a very useful asset during the Kuduandan War. He was hired by the Kudu self-proclaimed government as a mercenary commander, and has therefore been able to give us information on enemy troop movement. He requires large amounts of pay, deposited in his bank account at the Pants Bank in Canterlot. (P45FJU523QL, in the name of 'Dandelion Blackwell').
We haven't heard of him since the Pundaville Massacre. He is presumed to be dead.

"I'll be going home, now, if you don't mind," said Belle, as her boss read the file again and again. She noticed that he had actually bothered to put his glasses on to read, meaning that this case was important, somehow.

"You do that," answered Thunderhoof, not looking up from the dossier. "I'm staying here. Leave the light on. Also, I'm not sure I like the state of your desk. Be sure to clean it up."

"Yes, sir," said Belle meekly, before leaving.

Thunderhoof sighed as he took off his round glasses, and served himself three feathers of Rye from his decanter. He started thinking in silence about where to start looking for Poppy as he sipped the whiskey. It said in the file that Poppy was officially homeless. But it also said that he had a bank account at the Pants Banking firm. A respectable bank such as that one surely asked for their clients' addresses. So that was where he'd start, tomorrow morning. He put the dossier into his saddlebag, the saddlebag on his back, and left the office, almost forgetting to turn off the light as he went.

There was some commotion at the end of the street when Thunderhoof exited the building to go home. A large group of ponies was gathered at Blueblood park, where a stage seemed to have been erected. Intrigued, the private investigator went towards the demonstration. There were two policecolts just across the street from the event, who seemed to be observing the scene with intent.

"What's going on?" asked Thunderhoof as he approached the policecolts, recognizing them as the two evening beat cops: Prowling Eye and Sneaky Muzzle.

"Demonstration," answered the brownish one, Prowler Eye. "Equalists."

"We're just watching out for any violence," continued Sneaky Muzzle. "Youngsters, mostly. College students."

Thunderhoof listened to the mare of the hour, who was standing atop her soapbox, addressing the crowd.

"Listen to the voice of Cutiemarx!" she bellowed like a tyrant. "The Equestrian Government, after unlawfully invading Kudanda, has now imposed its laws upon her peoples! Celestia and her laquee, the pony we refer to as Whinnston Chestnut, are using the pretext of defending the innocent to expand its borders, and exploit yet another race!"

The ponies all cheered, and Thunderhoof decided he'd heard enough. Such insolence and idiocy made his blood boil. "I'm going in," said Thunderhoof, determined. "Prowler, Sneaky."

"Take it easy, Thunder," said Sneaky, as Thunderhoof marched towards the crowd.

Author's Note

1: Pan-Equestrian Criminal Police.

Chapter four: On the case.

Thunderhoof's memoirs.

When I was finally discharged from the forces, I was unhappy. Even though I felt accomplished and pleased with what I had done, all of the medals, decorations, and honours, and meeting three of the four princesses, a part of me still felt disappointed with myself. Though I suppose that dealing with disappointment and impotent rage wasn't really the biggest task to face when I left the guard. Adjusting to civilian life definitely takes the cake. If I had a bit for every time I waited for a bugler to sound the reveille, every time I jumped out of my mane because of a sudden loud noise, expecting a Kudu to come out of nowhere to head-butt me with its giant antlers... But anyway. What has been even more vexing is seeing ponies complain about work hours, their favourite brand of hay being discontinued, or some hay about somepony being mean to them... It really made my skin crawl.

So here I am, using my army pensions to open a private investigator's office. Will it succeed? I sure as hay hope so.

"Your alarm call, sir," said the butler, placing Thunderhoof's breakfast tray on his lap, placing the newspaper on top of it, and drawing the curtains. "Quite foggy today, isn't it?"

"And good morning to you too, James," said Thunderhoof, dazzled by the morning light. "Any post?"

James came to Thunderhoof's bedside, and poured the Major's orange juice. "Just a letter from your cousin, sir."

Thunderhoof groaned. "Which one?" he asked, apathetically. "Is this another wedding proposal?"

"Her Royal Highness, Princess Mi Amore Cadenza, sir."

"Oh, joy," he said, his mood lightening considerably. "Give it here!" He took the letter from his butler, and ripped it open. There was a letter and his usual ticket for the Grand Galloping Gala.

"Dearest Thunderhoof, my favourite cousin.

How have you been? I know that it hasn't exactly been hugtown between you and the rest of your family, but I do hope you can overlook them and come to the Grand Galloping Gala this year. It's been a while, and we've both been tied to our duties for so long... It goes without saying that you're always welcome around the Crystal Palace, and Shining Armor is constantly asking about you.
Anyway, more about the Gala. When I told Twilight about you, she seemed very interested, and insisted that you should be present. I don't know what it is with her and military ponies lately (she mentioned somepony called Hightower. Maybe you know him), and she really wants to meet you.

Hoping to see you soon! Lots of love,
Cadance.

PS: Bring a date!"

The letter brought a smile to Thunderhoof's face. He placed it on his bedside table, remembering that he had a case to solve, after all. He ate his frugal breakfast in silence, before getting out of bed, having a shower, combing his hair back, and putting his suit on. There was one thing he took, which would prove instrumental to his success.

Thunderhoof looked in his bedside table, and picked up an item that would prove instrumental to his success: he had once worked for the Canterlot chief of police, in a strictly unofficial capacity, stealing some blackmail material back from a known unicorn mobster. As payment, the investigator had asked for only one thing: a detective's badge.

Thunderhoof pinned it to the inside of his jacket, put his hat on, grabbed his newspaper for the way, and left his room.

"I took the liberty of ordering a cab for you, sir," said James, walking Thunderhoof down the stairs of the hotel and into the empty lobby.

"Thank you very much," answered Thunderhoof. "I won't be here for lunch, but I'll probably be back for dinner, though. If I'm not, please put something aside for me."

"Very good, sir," said James, opening the front door and receiving his tip from the resident.

The taxi coach was already waiting in front of the door. "You Thunderhoof, then?" asked the driver.

"Yes," answered the investigator, getting into the taxi and unfolding his newspaper.

"You're off early, sir," remarked the cabby. "Where to?"

"Fancy Pants Banking firm," said Thunderhoof, in a way that screamed 'I've rehearsed this'.

"EQUALISTS ASSEMBLE AGAINST THE SCK, GET TAKEN TO SCHOOL BY VETERAN," read the tag-line.
"'Ban the Crown!' 'Down with the tyrant Celestia!' 'Alicorns are traitors to Ponykind!' These slogans were hollered by the crowd of Equalists who gathered at Blueblood Park, late last night. The leader of the Equal Equines Party, Laura Octirat, had organized the demonstration in response to the creation of the opening of the Special Court for Kudanda, claiming as they always did that the Equestrian Government has no right to interfere in Zebrican or Kudandan affairs. A statement which could be justified if the party's only congresspony hadn't voted to support the war a few years back. In a surprising turn of events, however, a Pegasus stallion who claimed to be a veteran of the Equestrian Armed Forces asked to borrow the microphone. He told the herd that Equestria's role in the Kudandan War was nothing but a peacekeeping operation. He proved that last statement correct by telling the crowd about all the money that Equestria had spent on the war without asking Zebrica for any contribution or refund to the treasury. All in all, same hay, different day: college students go to the library, borrow the Equalist Manifesto, claim that they know what's better, and get corrected by somepony who knows better than them."

Thunderhoof was satisfied with what he'd just read.

"We're here," said the cabby, stopping in front of the massive building. "That'll be seventy-five bits."

"Thanks," answered Thunderhoof, giving the coach-puller his money. "Can I trouble you to wait for me, here?" He gave the driver some extra money as compensation.

He looked across the street at the huge bank. It was an old building, the construction of which went back two hundred years or so. The stone pillars and the general architecture were reminiscent of antique architecture, from the times of Flash Magnus. But Thunderhoof didn't have the time to dwell on the design of the building. After all, in a few minutes or so, the streets would be filling up with ponies going to the bank. So, the earlier he entered, the easier it'd all be.

Save for the few clerks, the lobby was completely empty. The investigator brought his hat down over his face, in case anypony recognized him, and confidently strolled over to one of the reception desk, where a clerk filly was waiting, smiling. "Police," he said, straightening his bust and opening his jacket to show the badge. "I'm here to inquire about one of your clients."

"Oh, is something wrong?" asked the filly. "Maybe you should speak to my manager."

"Yes, please," said Thunderhoof. The filly immediately disappeared behind a door, and came back thirty seconds later, with another Unicorn mare, who looked matronly, to say the least.

"Can I help you, officer?" she asked, concerned that her bank might be in trouble.

"Detective," lied Thunderhoof. "Maybe we should go to your office."

The manager led the 'policecolt' up to her office, closing the door behind her. "Please, have a seat."

Thunderhoof sat down opposite the manager, and opened the hostilities. "I'll get straight to the point," he said. "One of your clients is a criminal. We want to catch him, so I need some information, miss..."

"Dander," answered the filly. "What do you need, Detective?"

"I need the place of residence of mister Dandelion Blackwell, miss Dander," explained Thunderhoof.

"I am terribly sorry, sir, but we cannot divulge a client's personal information," retorted Miss Dander. "Unless you have a warrant, in which case..."

She had said that to ponies before, Thunderhoof could tell. "This one's gonna be tricky," he thought. "Listen, miss." Thunderhoof cleared his throat. "Dandelion Blackwell is a criminal. I need his address so that we can find him. If we don't, who knows what he can do by tonight."

"I am terribly sorry," the manager repeated, firmly. "But as much as I'd like to help you, we simply cannot give you a client's personal information. My standing order is to not do anything that might embarrass the company. Imagine what would happen if our clients knew that we gave away their addresses."

Thunderhoof had found the mare's pressure point. "I understand that you want to do your job," he said. "But imagine what would happen to your company's stock if ponies who aren't clients discover that your company obstructed an investigation." To add more credibility to his cover story, he added "An equicide investigation!"

The mare's lip trembled. She hesitated for a few seconds, trying to find a response. But it never came. Instead, the manager just said "I'll be right back," before leaving the room.

Thunderhoof wasn't very proud of what he'd just done. He had just manipulated (if not blackmailed) a working mare into giving him near-confidential information. "It's a necessary evil," he thought.

The mare came back a few minutes later, levitating a sheet of paper before her.

"Thank you," said Thunderhoof, grabbing the sheet and looking at the contact details of the client. 'Dandelion Blackwell', according to the piece of paper, lived in an apartment at Number Five, Sunrise Boulevard, in Eastern Canterlot. "You've been a great help."

Thunderhoof left the office, and quickly made for the front door. Once he was outside, the investigator climbed into his cab once again, and told the address to the driver.

A short journey later, Thunderhoof found himself at Sunrise Boulevard. It was named as such because it had a clear line of sight on Celestia's sun that rose every day. Case in point, the sun was beginning to rise, and the pavements were slowly filling up with ponies from all trots of life. It brought back some pleasant memories of the Somnambulan sun, rising over the dunes and shining down onto the bugler, who would start sounding the reveille.

The apartment block that Poppy lived in was as nondescript as you could possibly imagine. Stone bricks, about six floors (including the ground floor), and a large door that complied with the Celestia doors act (which said that all doors in Equestria must be big enough for the head of state to fit through), and a gas lamp on the right-hand side of the entrance. Looking closely at the lamp, you could see that the word 'police' had at some time been painted on it. The building had at one time been a police station, home to the now defunct Royal Canterlot Constabulary Special Reserve's barracks, which had been closed for budget reasons.

Entering the lobby, Thunderhoof saw the reception desk, which was now essentially a doorpony's kiosk. A Unicorn stallion was sleeping behind the magic-proof glass.

"Excuse me," said Thunderhoof, approaching the desk.

"Mm-yes?" responded the stallion jerkily, waking up from his trance.

"Police," said the detective, showing his badge once more. "Where does Mr. Blackwell live?"

"Haven't heard about him for a while, now," answered the doorpony. "He isn't the most talkative stallion in Equestria, but he pays his rent in advance. And that's good enough for me. He lives on the third floor, number twenty-one. Did he do something wrong?"

"Thanks," said Thunderhoof, galloping up the steps, three at a time. There wasn't a minute to lose.

Once he'd arrived at the third floor, he looked for number twenty one. It was at the very end of the hallway. Approaching the door, however, he saw that it was ajar. Carefully, the detective pushed the door open, and entered the flat. Instinctively, he scanned the hall for any threats, taking in the number of doors, visible windows, exits, and pieces of furniture that could serve as impromptu weaponry. The flat itself hadn't been visited in a while, if the large amount of dust that lay all over the place was to be believed. However, somewhere along the wall, a wing had swept a bit of dust off, indicating that whoever had visited or was still visiting was a Pegasus.

Thunderhoof's saddlebag would prevent any efficient air combat, so he decided to stay hooves on the ground as he inspected the flat. He hugged the wall on his left, and peeked his head around the doorway to the kitchen. Flicking the light switch on, he saw that nopony had been laying in the shadows. He continued his way forwards, arriving at the living room. The door was open, whereas the door to the bedroom was closed, and there was a single feather on the ground, which was of a brownish-yellow colour. It looked eerily similar to somepony that Thunderhoof had seen before, but he wasn't quite sure where.

Out of nowhere, a purple shawl was flung towards Thunderhoof's face, who immediately rolled over into the living room, got back onto his four legs, and adopted his close quarters stance. He had barely adopted the position when a Pegasus mare wearing a pith helmet came flying out of nowhere, right hoof raised and ready to strike. Thunderhoof dodged, grabbed the Pegasus's wing, and sent her flying across the room. However, in a surprising turn of events, the mare regained her balance, landed on the floor with on her front hooves, turned around, and bucked at Thunderhoof's chest. Thunderhoof reeled, landed on his back, and kicked at the mare's face. It was her turn to recoil, holding her bleeding nose as she did so. The investigator used that moment to lunge at his assailant, force her to the ground, and hold her down with one hoof, preparing a punch with the other.

But as he pressed his horseshoe onto the mare's throat, he knocked her pith back, revealing her face. Thunderhoof recognized her instantly.

"Dazzle?" he asked, hardly daring to believe it.

"Captain?" choked the filly, just as surprised to see Thunderhoof as he was to see her.

Thunderhoof helped his former second-in-command to her hooves, and lent her his handkerchief to wipe her nose, which she refused.

"It's alright, Cap'," she grinned, wiping her muzzle on her foreleg, putting blood all over it.

"No, it isn't, Lieutenant," retorted Thunderhoof, forcibly wiping Daring Do Dazzle's muzzle.

Thunderhoof and Daring Do had been to Saddlehurst together (they'd at some point competed for speed during an air maneuvering exercise), before serving in Saddle Arabia together.

"Who made you the corpspony?" she protested.

"No-one," said Thunderhoof. "How long has it been?"

"Alamane, wasn't it?" asked Lieutenant Dazzle. "What, one year ago? You were an attaché at the embassy, or something."

"More like two," corrected Thunderhoof. "How're your novels coming along? I'm a fan."

"Well, I've, erm..." she hesitated. "You could say that I've got writer's block."

"I see," replied Thunderhoof. "I'm kinda disappointed you don't go more into detail about her past. That intrigued me. Although I suppose that naming the main character after yourself came off as a tad pretentious." He picked up Daring Do's pith helmet off the floor. It was the model designed for the Royal Expeditionary Force in Saddle Arabia and Somnambula. Thunderhoof had the same, back at his hotel. Though Daring's was missing the cap badge that usually went on it. "Here you go," he said, extending his hoof to give the hat back to Daring Do. "Writer's block... Or are you just looking for an adventure?"

"Don't tell anyone," said Daring Do, realizing that Thunderhoof had uncovered her secret in less time than you need to explain it. "Please?"

"You have my word. But tell me, aren't you scared that anypony else might find out?" asked Thunderhoof.

"Well, in the army days, everypony just knew me as 'Dazzle' or 'Lieutenant Dazzle'. Or just 'ma'am'," said the adventurer, putting her hat back on. "Now, tell me: why're you here?" .

"I could ask you the same thing," retorted Thunderhoof, defensively. He hadn't signed any non-disclosure forms, but Miss Pronto probably had. "Case in point, what are you doing here?"

"Alright," said Daring. "I'm looking for Poppy Heart."

Thunderhoof could hear the words of the prosecutor ringing in his head: 'Someone may be after him.'

"Very well," said Thunderhoof. "Why are you looking for him?"

"His sister asked me to find him," answered the adventurer. "She said some spook-ponies came to her house to ask some questions. She figures they want to hurt him or something. So she contacted me."

"I see," said Thunderhoof. "Well, I also happen to be looking for him."

"Why?"

Thunderhoof chose his words very carefully. He had to stay vague enough, while still sounding like he wanted to help Poppy. "Somepony hired me to find him. They think that Poppy Heart's in danger. Maybe we can help each other?"

He knew that Lieutenant Daring Do Dazzle had never been a team player, which was why she had left the EUP guard. But seeing that it was one of these times when teamwork was absolutely necessary, she decided to make an exception. "Alright," she said. "Where should we start?"

"Well..." Thunderhoof looked around the room. He noticed some hoofprints amidst the dust, which hadn't been caused by either him or Daring. They had gone straight to the living room table, before going abruptly towards the front door. Just next to the table, there lay a notebook and a pencil.

"These yours?" asked Thunderhoof to Daring Do, picking up the notebook. A page had hurriedly been ripped from it. Daring shook her head. "And when you arrived here, the door was already open?"

"Yeah," replied the lieutenant. "He must have left in a hurry."

The investigator picked the notebook and pencil up, and sat down at the table. Daring knew what Thunderhoof was about to do: it was an old intelligence trick that they'd both learned in the REF. Thunderhoof placed the pencil sideways on the paper, and rubbed it onto the paper. In doing so, the words that had been written on the previous page would reveal themselves, showing where the pencil had pressed.

"RV 13, Carrot Sticks Boulevard," said Thunderhoof, reading the writing off the notebook.

"Then, that's where we're headed!" answered the Lieutenant, maybe a little too loudly.

As she said that, Thunderhoof heard a loud gallop from outside the flat. He quickly ran to the door, and looked outside, but whoever had been eavesdropping was gone.

"Somepony was listening," said Thunderhoof, as Daring Do put her shawl back on, competing with a cloche hat and some heavy-framed red spectacles.

They both rushed downstairs, and left the building, ignoring the doorpony who was fast asleep.

"We need to get there before they do!" exclaimed Thunderhoof, taking off and soaring up into the sky, Daring Do following suit.

"Alright," said Thunderhoof, landing on a pavement in front of a hotel, much to the surprise of passing ponies. "We're here."

"You sure about this one?" asked Daring Do, taking in the dingy lights and the battered front door. "A pony this rich, you'd think he'd stay at the Butterscotch, or something. Not this place."

"Well, what choice do we have?" asked Thunderhoof, walking up the steps of the old building, and opening the door.

Saying that the hotel was cheap didn't really cut it. The paint on the walls was peeling off, there were some rickety old chairs around the atrium, and the building smelt constantly like old cabbage. An Earth Pony stallion, wearing a grubby cook's apron and hat came out of the door behind the front desk, and said "Can I help you?" He tried suppressing a few wheezy coughs, but didn't manage.

"Yes!" exclaimed Daring Do, flying over to the desk and slamming her hooves on it. "Poppy Heart! Where is he?"

"I'm sorry?" asked the stallion.

Thunderhoof sighed, and put his hoof on his erstwhile partner's shoulder, pulling her back. "Excuse her, she's new," he said. "Police." He showed his badge. "We're looking for an Earth Pony stallion. Black, a triangular formation of spears for a cutie mark. Have you seen him?"

"Yes," answered the receptionist. "He checked in just a few hours ago. He's staying in room twelve, second floor. Why, is he in trouble?"

"Sort of," said Thunderhoof. "We want to take him in protective custody. Did somepony else come looking for him, by any chance?"

"Nope," said the stallion. "Why?" he asked, looking rather worried, now.

"As I said," said Thunderhoof. "he's sort of in trouble. Go and hide in the kitchen, things are about to get ugly."

"I don't understand," said the receptionist, as Daring Do bolt-locked the front door, and dimmed the lights.

"There's no time to explain," said Thunderhoof, hurriedly throwing a bag of money to the stallion. "Hide!" he insisted.

Thunderhoof and Daring raced up to the second floor, and looked for room twelve. They found it, and before Thunderhoof could stop Daring Do, she rapped the door with her hoof. "We know you're in there, Griever! Let us in, we're here to help!"

There was a loud clutter from inside, a few knockings, and the noise of a window sliding open.

"Oh, you had to do that," said Thunderhoof, disbelievingly. They both jumped to their forehooves, and bucked the door open together. Once inside, they saw that the room's only window was open. Thunderhoof flew outside, and barely had the time to see Poppy Heart's black rump disappear over the rooftop. He and Daring flew up, and landed on the roof. They could see griever, running to the other end of the building, a heavy saddlebag on his back.

"Come on!" They chased Poppy Heart over the rooftops, jumping from building to building in an effort to catch up with the witness.

Once he'd arrived at the end of a rooftop, and at a gap that he couldn't possibly jump over, Poppy Heart stopped, and turned around to face his pursuers.

"Stay back!" commanded Poppy Heart, in a deep voice. "Stay back or I'll jump!"

The pair stopped. "Poppy Heart, you don't have to do this!" bellowed Daring Do. "We're here to help you!"

Griever was breathing very heavily. He was quite a lot older than Thunderhoof or Daring Do, and he was also much bigger. "I really want to believe that!" he shouted. "But I don't!"

"We have to convince him, somehow," thought Thunderhoof. He analyzed the situation thoroughly, thinking of every possible outcome. If they approached Griever, he'd jump. Daring Do was very fast, and they could probably catch up with him before he hit the ground. Stopping him and pulling him up was another matter. Griever was heavy, and given the height of the building... It was high enough for Griever to jump and kill himself, but maybe not enough to let the investigator and the adventurer help him. All in all, these odds weren't the best.

"Stay where you are!" shouted somepony from behind them.

Thunderhoof turned around, and saw five Earth Ponies, wearing pin-striped suits and fedoras, in a hemi-circular formation.

"What the hay?" asked Daring Do.

"Thank you, detectives," said one of the gangsters, who seemed to be the leader. "We can take it from here."

Daring pursed her lips, and was about to talk, but Thunderhoof gestured her not to do so. He had something in mind. Instead, he stepped aside, and let the gangster have his moment.

"Poppy, Poppy, Poppy," said the criminal, approaching the mercenary. "You have messed with the wrong ponies, my friend. And when I say that, there ain't nothin' personal. I'm just sayin' that because there's a lotta money on your head. So, soldier? Are you gonna fight? 'Cuz I know you ain't gonna flee. There's no escape, now."

"Now," whispered Thunderhoof to Daring Do.

"D'you believe us now?" asked the adventurer to Poppy Heart.

"I think I do," answered the mercenary, who stared back at the gangster in a defying way.

"Trot away, detectives," ordered the gangster, as if he effectively owned Thunderhoof and Daring Do.

The four other flat-capped ponies started closing in. They formed up around Thunderhoof and Daring Do, and looked at the two 'detectives' intently.

"What if we refuse?" asked Thunderhoof, prompting the leader to turn around.

"Are you refusing?" the leader asked. "In which case, I would have to... dispose of the pair of you."

"I think we are refusing," replied Thunderhoof, dangerously approaching the leader. "Now, I'm just warning you. There may be five of you and three of us, but let's just say that when I was in Kudanda, I killed roughly twenty Kudu with my bare hooves. So I'm giving you a chance to walk away."

The leader's confident snarl faded slightly, he blinked a few times, and replied "Kudu... They're small guys, right?"

"Sure they are," said Poppy Heart. "About your size."

At these words, the leader turned back towards Poppy Heart, spurted "Why you little..." before jumping onto him. He and the mercenary got into a hoof brawl, while both Thunderhoof and Daring Do had the four others to deal with. Daring Do ripped her shawl off, and shoved it in the face of one of the gangsters, blinding him. Thunderhoof, meanwhile, reared, and flapped his left wing into one of them, startling him. Then, he grabbed the un-startled gangster, and threw him onto the startled one, sending both flying to the floor. Then, he ran towards Poppy, who was still brawling with the gang leader, jumped to his forelegs, and bucked the gangster away. By then, Daring Do had already dealt with her two assailants, so Thunderhoof jumped onto the floored leader and restrained him.

But what Thunderhoof saw as he looked at the gangpony couldn't be more different from reality. Lodged between his legs wasn't a pony, but rather a Kudu. Thunderhoof head-butted the Kudu, and punched him repeatedly, until both his eyes were black, and his muzzle was bloody and mangled. The gangpony gagged, coughed, spluttered, and fell unconscious.

Thunderhoof stopped punching, and breathed heavily, simultaneously pulling the assailant closer to him and lowering his head to meet the adversary's chest.

"C-Captain?" asked Daring Do cautiously, as Thunderhoof buried his muzzle into the gangpony's suit.

"I'm sorry," said Thunderhoof, getting up and dusting himself down. "I think I got a bit carried away."

"No hay," said Poppy Heart, looking at the severely-wounded gangster. "But, I mean... It was him or us. And thanks for..." He swept his hoof over the scenery of battered gangsters. "This..."

"Don't mention it," said Thunderhoof. "Dazzle, find a cop and a medic. These ones'll need it. I'll escort him."

Canta Del Pronto finished writing her cheque, signed it, and slid it over the table to Thunderhoof. "I have to say, Major, you have exceeded my expectations in every way. I send you to find a key witness, and you come back with said witness, and five mobsters arrested."

"Calls for a celebration," said Thunderhoof, getting up and walking towards his bottles. "Drink?"

"I wouldn't mind some spiced rum," answered the prosecutor.

"Rum, eh?" asked Thunderhoof, reaching for his bottle of Zebrican Gold. "You struck me more as the fine wine type."

"I acquired a taste for it when I was part of the Pan-Equestrian inquiry in Zebrica," answered Canta.

"I stuck with gin," said Thunderhoof. "Never really liked rum."

"I see," said Canta, as Thunderhoof gave her her glass, and poured himself his evening gin. "Back to the matter at hand, I think I'll tell you why I hired you specifically, Major."

"I was going to ask that," said Thunderhoof, sitting down opposite his client. "So?"

"Well, one of my advisers picked you," she said. "He told me that you knew first-hoof what had happened during the Kuduandan War, so you'd be more motivated to help the court."

"I just hope Poppy Heart can help you," commented Thunderhoof. "Celestia knows I want to see the culprits face justice." He looked down at the cheque that had just been signed. "As a prosecutor for what is now one of the most important courts in Equestria, I assume you're well connected."

"You could say that," responded Canta. "Wait. Why are you saying that?"

"Good," said Thunderhoof. "I'm going to rip this cheque, now. In lieu of payment, I want Poppy Heart's name to be included on the Hearth's Warming Honours list. Make him a Knight, or something important."

"And why?" spluttered Canta, flabbergasted.

"Poppy Heart Griever was hired by the Equestrian government to risk his neck at every turn to collect proof of Kuduandan war crimes. Until his cover was blown. Do you know what they call Zebrica, Missus Pronto? 'The country of a thousand hills. When Poppy Heart's cover was blown, he had to hide among these hills. Finding a place to sleep, no doubt, in a crater caused by a Kudu mortar strike. Every day, for three years and a half, climbing up one of these hills, and down again. Every day. And once transport to and from Zebrica was re-opened, he sailed to Equestria in a crowded ship, and came under attack by mobster hit-squads. And now that he's evaded the mob yet another time, the price on his head and the number of mafiosi who'll come after him is only going to rise."

"And how is a knighthood going to change that?" asked Canta.

"Criminals are often very cowardly," said Thunderhoof. "They wouldn't dare attack somepony of importance. Also, make sure he's given a job. With his experience as a guardspony, I think he could be very useful in many ways."

"Fair enough," said Canta. "Your demands will be met."

"Good," said Thunderhoof, ripping the cheque into two, then four, then eight, and throwing what was left of it into the waste paper basket.

"I had been told of your sheer skill, merit, and general professionalism, Thunderhoof," said Canta. "But of your generosity and compassion, I had never been told."

"If you don't mind me saying so, ma'am," said Thunderhoof. "Trying to pay me out of your own money means that you're not the biggest hag going around, either."

"If you say so," chuckled the prosecutor, blushing. At that moment, Thunderhoof saw that behind the ruthless professionalism and the stern manners, there lay a mare with her flaws and her quirks, who liked Zebrican spiced rum and simply took pride in her work.

"Well, I can't say it isn't nice to see you outside work, Major," said Daring Do Dazzle, as her CO sat down in front of her, at a booth table in a crowded restaurant. "Or rather 'Captain', as I once knew you."

"Likewise, old friend," answered Thunderhoof, raising his glass. "Cheers!"

The two spent their evening chatting and catching up. Daring Do (or rather A.K. Yearling, depending on what she was wearing) told him about some of her adventures, which Thunderhoof had already read about, but they were entertaining nonetheless. Thunderhoof reminded her of the time he'd earned his first Luna Cross because of her reckless attitude which had caused him to save her (much to her embarrassment), and they both exchanged some stories about their professions, their beer only blurring the details each time.

At about fifteen minutes before closing time, they both started singing some old songs, arm in arm, shoulder to shoulder, causing laughter from the ponies who served as audience, whose faces became blurred with every gulp.

When the bartender decided to close up shop, officially putting an end to everypony's fun, the two friends drunkenly left the bar, and instead sung on the pavement.

"Hey, D-Daring," said Thunderhoof, through a haze of spittle and beer. "I've gotta bring a date for this gala thing."

"So?" retorted Daring Do.

"Wellllllllllll," said Thunderhoof. "Do you wanna be my d-date?"

"No way, Thunderhoof," she replied. "But I'll tell you hwhat: come back n' see me when you're short, blonde, and... and a unicorn!"

"Shame," said Thunderhoof. "Hey, why don't we sleep at my hotel, it's like... just around the corner!"

"Sure thing! You're sleeping on the c-couch, though!"

Chapter Five: I could make you care

Thunderhoof's memoirs

I remember the first time I met Cadance. It was on my first of many trips to Canterlot. I was but a foal back then, and I had been sent there by Mother and Father. I had a pretty sedentary mindset at the time, so leaving Trottingham was very hard. But, nonetheless, I bid my goodbyes to the smoking factory chimneys, the gigantic palaces, and the never-ending gardens, and climbed into the Pegasus-pulled carriage that awaited me just outside our manor. I remember crying my eyes out as my carriage soared through the air, over the eternal blue of the Great Celestial Sea, over the cloud-high skyscrapers of Manehattan, the grassy slopes and fields of Fillydelphia, the Foal Mountains, before touching down at Canterlot. Auntie Celestia (as I had been instructed to call her) greeted me in front of the castle and escorted me inside. There, she told me to go into the garden and meet her niece, while she attended to her official business.

And there she was, lying on the grass of the gardens, the stars of Bethlehem and yellow asteraceae in full bloom at her hooves. I don't remember much about that precise moment. But what I do remember is that when I saw her pink coat and her violet-magenta-cream mane, I stopped crying. She turned towards me, and I saw her bright pink eyes, her gracefully-shaped muzzle, and that horn, oh, the horn...

The moment I first laid my eyes on her, that was the Magnum Opus of my foalhood. Whenever I was with her, I didn't want to be anyplace else. On that day, we played, laughed, embraced, and bonded, like two cousins (well, fifth cousins, to be specific) at the peak of their happiness. I left the Griffish Isles in a carriage, crying as hard as I possibly could, and I left Canterlot in that same carriage, crying at the thought of leaving Cadance behind.

I went back to Canterlot many times after that one. Cadance and I started a written correspondence. During one such visit, I met Shining Armor, whom I still see as a brother, even to this day. I introduced him to Cadance, and before I knew it, she was foal-sitting Twilight, Shining Armor's sister.

But, like all good things, my relationship with Cadance came to an end. I was fifteen, on leave from Saddlehurst, on my monthly visit to Canterlot. And I was surprised to see that during my absence, Cadance had grown a pair of wings, and had subsequently earned the title of 'Princess Mi Amore Candenza' (the regnal name that she never uses). We embraced, talked, laughed, and at the end of the evening, Cadance... proposed to me.

She told me that as a Princess, she'd have to find a consort to share her life with. Somepony who would love and cherish her, but also advise her and support her. And she told me that she couldn't think of anypony more qualified than me to be her husband. Now, it's pretty common practice for nobles to marry their cousins. My parents were no exception. My parents' parents, Luna rest their souls, were no exception.

But I refused. And there's not a day that goes by without me regretting that decision. I told her that she deserved somepony better than an aspiring officer, destined for the army. My decision was made. I didn't want to die hundreds of miles from home, hundreds of miles from her. I didn't want to leave her grieving. She deserved somepony better.

Ever since that day, I've rarely seen her, and I've been going to a lot of trouble not to see her. I just can't bring myself to talk to her anymore. And the more I do this, the more I think that I'm not worthy of being her cousin. And by thinking that, I make up more excuses not to see her. It's a vicious cycle, rotating forever while time marches on. I turned down the invitation to Cadance's coronation, and to her wedding to Shining Armor. I just hope he can be better to her than I was.

"WHINNSTON CHESTNUT ON THE RISE OF POLITICAL RADICALISM: EXCLUSIVE INTERVIEW," read the tag-line of the Canterlot Gazette. "Yesterday, the right honourable Whinnston Chestnut gave an exclusive interview to the Canterlot Gazette. Old, senatorial, and wise, the PM was sitting in his chair, carrot in his mouth and a glass of brandy in his hoof, when we started asking our questions. First of all, we asked him what he thought was the root cause of this rise in politically radical views. According to him, there are two main reasons for this rise. 'The first,' he said, 'is the fact that we are in the middle of a crisis. Equestria's place in the world is being challenged by nations, monsters, and tyrannical villains alike. In such times, ponies will turn to parties and views that promise a solution to all of our problems, such as the Equal Equines Party and the Equestria First Party. But we must not be blinded to the fact that if Fieldism is the unequal sharing of blessings, then Equalism is the equal sharing of misery.'
The Prime Minister also attributes this rise in political radicalism to the fact that society is slowly mutating, and that the younger generation will one day take over. 'Foals nowadays always want everything instantly,' he said. 'For instance, three young fillies once wrote to me, complaining that they hadn't yet obtained their cutie marks. I suppose they addressed that letter to me because I myself was a stallion when I obtained mine.' Indeed, Whinnston was twenty-four when he got his cutie mark, which depicts the flag of Equestria. When we asked him if he could share his answer to the three foals, he claimed to have 'answered them as best as (he) could, and (the PM) concluded (his) response by saying that 'it is futile to plan too far ahead. The chain of destiny must be hoofed one link at a time.' "

"Hey," said Thunderhoof, looking up from his newspaper and seeing Hoofington, who had just opened shop, and was in the process of getting new bottles of gin from the cellar.

"Thundy?" responded Hoofington, surprised. "You're up early."

"Yes," said Thunderhoof.

"So, what's the problem this time?" asked the chairpony.

"What?"

"You're wearin' your problem cap." Indeed, Thunderhoof was wearing his newsboy cap, which he only ever wore when he didn't want to be seen. "So, fire away," he said, putting the kettle on and getting some teabags.

"Alright," started Thunderhoof. "Yesterday, I was on a case, and I encountered some ponies who didn't have the best intentions. They got arrested, and they didn't catch my name. But just in case they did, I've gotta skip town. Could you accommodate Belle Weather for a few days? I don't want her to get hurt."

"For pony's sake, Thundy," whispered Hoofington, disbelievingly. "You got mixed up with the mob, didn't you?"

"Yes," said Thunderhoof. "I know, I haven't been a very good friend recently, and I'm sorry."

"Hey, don't say that," said Hoofington, comfortingly. "I wouldn't even be alive if it weren't for you. Tell ya what: I'll give her a room, feed her, everything. You make yourself scarce, I'll put some o' my bouncers on the street, have some guys near your office, and I'll tell the police to, erm... interrogate these gangsters of yours. I'll send you a letter when things calm down. 'Bout that, where're you goin'?"

"Ponyville."

Celestia's sun was up properly, by the time Thunderhoof arrived at Ponyville Station. He hauled his suitcase inside the station, and went to the gift shop. He bought a map of the town, some postcards, and the latest edition of The Bartender's Guide to Cocktails.

"That'll be fifteen bits, Sir," said the shopkeeper.

"Here you go," said Thunderhoof, giving the coins to the stallion behind the counter. "Tell me," he said, dropping his voice. "Is there somepony in town called Octavia? Octavia Melody?"

"There is," responded the shopkeeper. "Do you know her?"

"Yes," answered Thunderhoof, making his face as unreadable as possible. "I'm a relative," he added, which, if his hunch was right, she probably was. "Where does she live?"

"On a hill, east edge of town. Small house, but... recognizable."

"Thank you very much," said Thunderhoof. He left a bag of coins on the table and left the station.

Walking into the bustling town, the investigator saw the fabled building known as Sugarcube Corner. A building that made your mouth water, even when you weren't hungry. Just the gingerbread roof and the frosting tower could give you diabetes just by looking at them.

But Thunderhoof, phlegmatic as he often was, couldn't be bothered to go in and grab a doughnut. Goodness no, he'd only want to eat more. Besides, the queue was very long, and he had places to be. So he gathered his phlegm, and strode past the very sweet building. Walking past it, he could almost feel it looking at him in silent disappointment.

"Oh, fine," thought Thunderhoof, doing a u-turn and heading towards the building. These doughnuts must at least be worth trying... He took his place at the end of the queue and waited for everypony to file in and get their order.

"I knew you'd eventually come!" shouted the pink earth pony mare behind the counter as Thunderhoof reached the front of the queue.

Thunderhoof recognized the pony as Pinkie Pie, bearer of the Element of Laughter. He smiled and asked "Could I have a doughnut, please?"

"Okie-dokie-lokie!" answered the mare, reaching her hoof behind the glass, and getting one of the round pâtisseries.

"Actually, make that two," said Thunderhoof. "Or three."

"We have a free one extra if you buy three," interjected Pinkie Pie.

"Four it is, then," said Thunderhoof.

If you take a little walk, to the edge of the town,
and go across the river,
where the evergreens loom, like birds of doom,
as they shift and rustle.

Where secrets lie, with the fireflies,
At the coming of night
You always feel like
you're never coming back

Past the square, past the bridge,
Past the school, past the tower.
On a gathering storm,
there comes a tall, handsome colt,
in a dusty black coat,
and a red right hoof.

Thunderhoof's dusty black overcoat billowed in the wind, as the tell-tale thunder of a gathering downpour made itself known, daring the investigator to go further. The 'small yet recognizable' house was just about fifty metres away, now. It seemed to be divided in two parts, with one side a bland brown, while the other was moderate purple. The chimney had been styled to look like organ pipes sticking out of the roof, and a hedge on the front lawn like an eighth-note, although it could be a pelican, depending on the viewer. As he got closer, Thunderhoof could hear some music from inside the house, played on what was umistakeably a cello: too high-picthed to be a double-bass, yet not high enough to be a violin, let alone an alto one.

He knocked on the door. The music stopped, and some hooves gingerly made their way towards the door. It opened, and the gray mare made her appearance.

Her coat was just as clean and gray as the day he'd first seen her. Her face was stoic, and beautiful. And her bow-tie, still perfectly adjusted to her neck, again, just like the day he'd met her.

"Yes?" she asked.

Thunderhoof pulled his cap from his head, revealing his face, prompting a surprised reaction from Octavia.

"Major?" she asked.

"That's me," said Thunderhoof, smiling. "I just thought I'd pop by and say hello."

"Well, I-" spluttered Octavia, for the first time breaking her own phlegmatic attitude. "I don't- why are you here?"

"I don't have a business card," lied Thunderhoof. "So I thought I'd meet you in person."

"Well, I suppose that you should come in," said Octavia, eyeing the gathering storm, which seemed to be forming behind Thunderhoof himself. "Tea?" she asked, heading towards her kettle.

"Yes, please," said Thunderhoof. "Black."

"I'm afraid I can't serve you black," retorted Octavia. "They're china cups." The tradition of putting milk in tea came from the old times, when all cups were made of china. Therefore, the hot tea would break the cup, lest there was milk in it beforehand.

"Might as well," sighed Thunderhoof. "Yes, I'll have milk."

Octavia put the kettle on the stove and gestured Thunderhoof to sit down on the sofa, before doing so herself. "Something tells me you aren't here just to exchange pleasantries and tea, Major," said the cellist.

"You see right through me," answered Thunderhoof. "And again. Just 'Thunderhoof', if you don't mind."

"Very well, Thunderhoof," said Octavia. "What brings you here?"

"Well..." started the detective. "For one thing, you recognized my name. I'm not a star, I'm not a celebrity, so the fact that you knew my name and rank off the top of your head intrigued me. You see, one of the reasons I did become a private eye is because I like to discover things. And when I don't, I get this itch. An itch that doesn't go away until my curiosity has been satisfied. I have a lot of questions for you."

Octavia considered Thunderhoof for a few seconds, before the kettle started whistling. She got up, went to the stove, and shut off the steam. She poured the hot water into her tea pot, put some milk in the china cups, and served the tea. She brought the cups over and placed them on the coffee table.

"That curiosity of yours," said Octavia. "That itch. I'm itching to know how you found me."

Thunderhoof produced the crumpled-up train ticket. "You left Ponyville on short notice," said Thunderhoof. "From there, I assumed that Ponyville was your place of residence. And I was right, wasn't I?"

"That sounds a bit like a leap of faith," said Octavia.

"My work has always involved leaps of faith," retorted Thunderhoof.

"Fair enough," said Octavia. "Anything else you want to know?"

"What are you hiding from?" asked Thunderhoof.

"What?"

"What are you hiding from?" repeated Thunderhoof.

"I don't know what you mean," answered Octavia, huffily.

"The night before you climbed onto Hoofington's stage, you slept in his penthouse," explained Thunderhoof, "when there was a perfectly good hotel just across the street, cheaper than the discount you gave to Hoofington. Now, I'm guessing it's because Hoofington doesn't keep a record of who sleeps at his place. Ergo, you didn't want to leave a trace of your presence in Canterlot. Ergo, you are scared of somepony."

To Thunderhoof's surprise, Octavia laughed softly. "It's your turn to see right through me, Mister Thunderhoof."

A flash of lightning made itself known, and a roll of thunder made itself known, about five seconds later.

"Your cello," said Thunderhoof, eyeing the instrument. "It's a Zoccolo Galoppo, isn't it?"

"Yes," answered Octavia, in a detached way. "It was a present," she added, stiffly.

Thunderhoof observed the instrument intently. If he was right, the Zoccolo line of Galoppo cellos was very expensive. Which wasn't really news, if you looked at the other Galoppos, which were themselves very expensive. But the Zoccolos were only made on commission, hoof-tailored for one pony. It had been polished the day before, if not just a few hours ago, meaning that Octavia had a near-neurotic protectiveness of it. Just like any good grenadier or fusilier has a protectiveness of his or her red tunic.

"You intrigue me, Octavia," said Thunderhoof.

"I do?" snorted the mare.

"Yes," said Thunderhoof. "I want to know more about you. Really, I do."

"Very well," said Octavia. "I can answer your questions. Or actually, why don't you try guessing?" she asked, amused.

"Alright." Thunderhoof took a sip of his milky tea, and started. "You were born in West Trottingham. But that much, I think we both know already. You are an Earth Pony, which means that your family probably mixed with the Bourgeoisie1, at some point, probably the result of an arranged marriage between a noble and a rich merchant or a factory owner. You play the cello. The playing of a musical instrument is the skill of choice for young noble fillies and colts, who are taught to play an instrument from an early age, to make them more appealing to other unmarried ponies (trust me, I too have been there). But your cutie mark indicates that music became a passion for you, eventually becoming your destiny."

"That's impressive," said Octavia. "Tell me more."

"You went to a public school2, before being sent to a finishing school by your parents. A healthy, skilled, beautiful filly, ready to be married." At that point, Octavia blushed and giggled. "But something went wrong. Something caused you to leave your family behind, who probably are the people you're hiding from. My guess is that you got pregnant. You left because some stallion had a crush on you, or you had a crush on him, and you exchanged a night of passion, before you realized that you had made a mistake. Instead of facing them, you ran away. Maybe you left the child at an orphanage.. Who knows."

Octavia's smile faded and was replaced by a rather somber expression. "You're an utter bastard, do you know that?" she asked, coldly.

"Celestia's honest truth..." said Thunderhoof. "I think I do."

"But, no. I never got pregnant," said Octavia, stiffly. At that moment, she really wanted to slap Thunderhoof across the face, but she decided not to. Instead, she decided to defend her honour. "I never so much as slept with a stallion. You could say that my motivation for leaving home was... quite a bit different."

"Tell me," suggested Thunderhoof.

"Alright," answered Octavia.

A young Octavia was sitting in her bedroom, gently stroking the strings of her cello, producing an expertly-crafted piece of her own design. She was barely of age, and the mark that adorned her graceful flank had appeared barely a month ago. Her two years of finishing school had given her the grace that many a young stallion sought. Many coveted her. Second cousins, merchants, and industrials alike.

Some hoofsteps made themselves known, and Octavia's oak door opened. It was her mother.

"Amy, dear," she said. "Your papa and I need to talk to you."

Octavia sighed, rolled her eyes, and lowered her bow, turning around to look at her mother. "You gave me that ignominious name, the least you can do is use it in full."

"Alright," answered the mother. In an effort to steer the conversation somewhere else, she said, "I see that you are enjoying your new present?"

The young Octavia looked down at her cello, which was her 'coming of age' present from her aunt. "Oh, yes," she said. "She really is a charm, isn't she?"

"I hope you've written your thank you letter," said Octavia's mother.

"I have," answered Octavia. "Could you leave me, just for a few minutes?"

"Of course." The mother left the room.

Octavia got up from her stool, placed her prized cello on its stand, and looked out of the window. In the distance, the black smoke from the factories mixed itself with the gray clouds, giving the impression that the Windigoes were finally going to soar down onto the 'wretched' part of Trottingham, or that some sea monster was about to invade the port. Raindrops were trickling down glass the panes of the massive window, like beads of sweat down a worker's forehead.

"I had better get going," thought Octavia, making for the door.

Her designated butler and equerry, James, was waiting right behind it. He bowed as he saw Octavia. "If milady would please follow me," the faithful servant said, "his lordship and her ladyship await in the sitting room."

"Thank you, James," said Octavia. She was probably the only pony in the family who actually respected her servants.

They both trotted towards the end of the hallway and James opened a massive door to his right. The butler entered first and announced "Her ladyship, Amazing Grace Grayton."

Octavia (or 'Amazing Grace', as she was known at the time) entered the room and curtsied meekly to both her parents. Tory Grayton, the earth pony father, and Dazzling Grace Grayton, the unicorn mother, were sitting in their respective armchairs in front of the fire, looking to Octavia like they were sitting before the gates to Tartarus.

"Amazing Grace," croaked the father, looking at his daughter through his bespectacled purple eyes, glass of brandy in his hoof, wearing his silk interior jacket. "We called you here because you are of age."

"We are getting old, my dear," said Dazzling. "And both he and I would like to see you married before one of us passes away."

"But I don't want to-" objected Amazing Grace, before being interrupted by her father.

"Let us finish!" he exclaimed, cross. "As I was about to say, instead of choosing your husband-to-be, we've decided to leave you a choice."

Dazzling Grace squeaked in excitement, an impatient glimmer lighting up her bony face. "We've picked out three of the most suitable candidates." She levitated some sheets of paper, and lay them face up on the coffee table. She indicated the picture of a white golden-maned unicorn stallion with deceptively handsome features, including a bow-tie and a charismatic smile. "This is Prince Blueblood, heir to the dukedom of Fillydelphia. He is our personal favourite."

The young mare knew all about Prince Blueblood. He wasn't even a prince, but had been given the right to use the title after he'd thrown a particularly nasty tantrum at Celestia's court. Egotistical, self-righteous, and horribly pretentious, he also had a reputation for being rude and contemptuous, only being satisfied with the very best. "I'll give this one a pass."

"Are you sure?" asked Lady Dazzling Grayton. "I mean..."

"Yes, I am sure," answered Amazing Grace, sternly.

"Very well..." the mother indicated the central picture, one of a cream earth pony wearing a business suit. "This is Byron Gearton, a rich mining tycoon from South Trottingham. Don't worry, he is not part of that nouveau riche riff-raff like that wretched Filthy Rich down in Ponyville. Sweet Celestia, no. Gearton is a wealthy stallion, full of ambitions and dreams."

"Don't tell me," sighed Amazing. "You are hoping to marry me to him so that you can get some low-priced iron and coal for your steel mills. Not to mention your failing jewelry factories."

"How dare you!" growled Tory, cross yet too lazy to rise from his armchair. "I only have your best interests at heart!"

"Still, I'd like to see my third option," retorted Amazing. "I mean, I wouldn't want to mix our blood with the commoners more than it already has been," she mused.

Dazzling sighed and reluctantly showed the last picture. It was one of a pegasus stallion. Pearl-white, just like the Prince, with a dark mane and piercing steely blue eyes. He wasn't looking at the camera, but stood stone-faced and stoic, the classic image of a soldier. He was wearing the number two formal uniform of the Equestrian Earth Army, khaki green tunic and officer's cap. He had a few medals on the left-hoof side of his uniform, and an aiguillette went under his left foreleg, on which his rank's insignia was sewn: the one of captain.

Amazing Grace was thunderstruck at the sight of that handsome stallion. A disciplined, brave, military-educated gentlecolt who would treat her well. She hadn't even met him, and yet she could read the stallion's character off his face. And just like that, she seemed to already feel herself snuggling up against these strong yet tender forelegs, smelling the mint of his breath. "What is he called?" she asked.

"That is the Honourable Captain Thunderhoof Butterscotch," answered Dazzling Grace. "Third son of the Earl Butterscotch of Coltford. Erm..." she and her husband looked at each other in a concerned fashion, while their daughter remained mesmerized by the picture. "He does not have any titles, my dear. And truth be told, I do not think he has much to offer."

But Amazing Grace wasn't really listening. She had her heart set on the pegasus she hadn't even met, but already liked beyond measure. "Then, it is settled," she said. "It is him that I want to marry."

"And therefore, I was supposed to marry you, Thunderhoof," recounted Octavia.

What Octavia had said on that night at Hoofington's rang in Thunderhoof's head. "Where were you, five years ago?"

"Five years ago?" asked Thunderhoof.

"Yes," replied Octavia. "Five years ago, my parents told me that the pegasus colt who'd left Saddlehurst for Saddle Arabia never came back."

"Did they tell you who came back in his place?" asked Thunderhoof.

"They didn't need to," answered Octavia. "I had already seen many of my friends leave Saddlehurst, in their smart khaki uniforms and their battle dress uniforms, cheerful and full of hope. Not one of them came back the same."

"I know what you mean," responded Thunderhoof. "Back onto why you left the household..."

"Yes." Octavia cleared her throat and continued.

Amazing Grace, just as always, was playing her cello in the music room. She was practicing for the Trottingham debutantes ball, which was set to take place the following month. She'd had the idea to play her music instead of dance like all of the other fillies who would be present. She'd spent many months composing a duet that she'd play with Thunderhoof (whom, she'd heard, was good with a violin).

James walked in. "Her ladyship is awaited by her parents in the drawing room."

The two went through the rigmarole of going through the massive corridor, James opened the door, introduced Amazing Grace, and stepped aside to let the filly enter the drawing room, where both her parents were waiting.

"Amazing Grace," said the father. "I'm afraid that I have some bad news, my dear."

"Yes?" asked Amazing Grace, apprehensively.

"I regret to inform you that Thunderhoof won't be able to be there for your ball, next month," said Tory Grayton. "So, erm... Prince Blueblood will be your chaperone."

"What?" spluttered the daughter in disbelief. "That foul, disgrace of a stallion is going to be my chaperone?"

"Yes," answered Dazzling Grace. There was an air of suppressed triumph about her, as if she was trying very hard not to look pleased with herself. "Also, don't use that language, dear, it is not lady-like."

"But I do not want to see him! Let alone dance with him!" For a few months now, Prince Blueblood had made frequent visit to the Grayton estate, and had spent time with Amazing. That time they'd spent together had only served to intensify Amazing's disdain for the unicorn. She'd assumed that these visits were only vain efforts on Dazzling's part to change her daughter's mind, but now she realized that her mother had known that Thunderhoof Butterscotch wouldn't be there.

"Amazing," said Tory. "You will do as you are told. We have already signed the marriage contract on your behalf, so you need not worry. You will be rich! Richer than you already are! And who knows, maybe you'll learn to love him."

Amazing felt herself get very hot in the face. "I couldn't care less about your Celestia-damn marriage contract!" she shouted.

Tory Grayton stayed silent for a few seconds, took a sip from his sherry, and when he spoke, it was in a voice of ice-cold venom. "Be careful, my dear... I have half a mind to hit you where you stand."

Octavia, at these words, decided that she'd had enough of her parents. Without thinking any further, she bluntly responded "You have half a mind, end of sentence!"

Tory Grayton was deceptively quick, for such a large earth pony, whom everypony thought had been slowed down by his endless naps and the brandy he kept drinking. But at his daughter's words, he sprung up and whacked his daughter across the face with his hoof with such force that her muzzle started bleeding. Then, Dazzling grasped her daughter with her magic grasp, and pinned her against the wall. The barbaric father slowly approached his daughter, and punched her, repeatedly. In the stomach, in the face, in the chest... Anything he could think of that he knew would produce pain when he hit it. He knew exactly where to hit. He knew how to hurt anypony.

After what seemed like ages of brutal beatings, the mother let go of her daughter, who flumped to the ground. She was twitching, two or more of her ribs were broken, and she was crying her eyes out.

"Now remember," growled the father, bending down and talking into Amazing's ear. "Next time you place yourself in the way of our family's interests, I will hurt you worse than you could possibly imagine. Are we clear?"

Amazing nodded, curled up on the rug and crying tears of pain and sadness.

"Come, now, Tory," said Dazzling Grace, in a business-like tone. "Good night, my dear," she added coldly, leaving the room.

"After that night, I decided that I had to leave," explained Octavia. "I stayed with them for a few months, biding my time, planning my escape, and gathering money."

"Glad you got out when you did," said Thunderhoof. He had listened to Octavia's narrative with great interest, and he had memorized a lot of it. "But I really don't recall my parents ever telling me about you."

"They probably didn't. But anyway, I was happy to finally leave the old mansion. I stayed in Trottingham, for a while, before buying myself a new identity, and eventually washing up in Ponyville."

"Which brings us here," said Thunderhoof. "After all of these years, you still remember me from a picture. I'm flattered."

"So," said Octavia. "Why are you here?" asked Octavia. "Why aren't you in Trottingham, where your household is?"

"Well," answered Thunderhoof. "Since Mother died, and Father is very sick, one of my... I suppose you can call them my 'brothers', has been sucking up to him, trying to bleed him dry of everything he has."

"You have brothers?" asked Octavia.

"Yes," answered Thunderhoof, wincing in a 'please,not them' kind of way. "They're twins. Stableton and Haysley Butterscotch. Haysley is the one who's trying to bleed Father dry. He's got plans for the family, he says. Stableton, he isn't a bad stallion. He's a knight of the Grand Ordre Cadentien."

"The order that is supposed to spread love and peace throughout Equestria?" asked Octavia. "I'm sorry, my knowledge of entitlement is very rusty."

"That's the one," said Thunderhoof. "But Stableton is naive. Quite often, he gets manipulated by Haysley into doing his bidding. He's a bit of a pushover." Thunderhoof described his two brothers in a voice of disgust.

Octavia noticed that the theme of the conversation annoyed Thunderhoof, so she decided to change the subject. "Have you ever considered pouring your feelings and emotions into art? I know that it can seem idiotic, but it's helped me a lot."

"Tried painting," said Thunderhoof. "It didn't work for me. Tried drawing, didn't really work either. Tried writing. That works. I'm writing my memoirs."

Octavia smiled. "I write too. And I compose music. It helps with my melancholy. Here, let me show you something." She got up, and went to the cupboard in the corner of the lounge. She opened it, lifted a few dusty books, and found what she was looking for: two bundles of music sheets, bound by some pieces of string. She brought it over, with an expectant smile on her face.

"What's that?" asked Thunderhoof.

"It's the piece I composed for our would-be ball," said Octavia, breathlessly. She gave one of them to Thunderhoof.

"Graceful Thunder," the stallion read aloud. "Sounds like an oxymoron."

"It's the violin part," explained Octavia. "You still play, don't you?"

Thunderhoof looked up, into Octavia's eyes. It was as if there were a billion stars twinkling in them. "I'm a little rusty," he said. "Besides, I don't have a violin."

"That's alright," said Octavia. "I've got one." She trotted over to her room, and came back a few seconds later with a Trodivarius. She extended it to the stallion, who half-heartedly took it. She prepared her cello, and looked at Thunderhoof.

"Should I... start?" asked Thunderhoof.

"Go ahead," beamed Octavia.

"Alright." Thunderhoof. Played the first notes, and missed the fifth one by a half-tone. "Sorry," he blushed. "As I said, rusty."

"It's alright," answered Octavia.

Thunderhoof cleared his throat, pressed his hind legs into the floor, took a deep breath, and started again. He played the first measure, the second, and before he knew it, his bow was almost following his thoughts. After a few measures, Octavia joined in with her cello. The notes seemed to form a harmony that even the Elements couldn't possibly create: a musical one. As they played on, Thunderhoof began to feel increasingly cut off from the outside world. Not in a bad way, like when he'd been discharged, but in a good way. As if he and Octavia were on a ship, stranded in the middle of an ocean, thousands of miles from anywhere, with only music giving them purpose.

After many minutes of playing, the sheets came to their end. Thunderhoof and Octavia played their last note together, and the music stopped completely. In unison, the two stood up, and bowed to each other, for they only had each other as audience.

"You're quite good," said Octavia.

"Not as good as you are," mused Thunderhoof in return. He looked at the clock, realized how late it was, and decided that it was time that he left. "Well, I've got my answers, and, erm... thanks for the tea." The stallion got up, made for the door, and opened it to reveal the storm that his fellow pegasi had created. He reached a hoof into his pocket to get his cap, but all he could feel was his crumpled up gala ticket. Looking around, he saw that he had left his newsboy cap on the coffee table, next to his empty cup and saucer. On the other side of the table was Octavia, looking at Thunderhoof intently. Trying not to look too ridiculous, Thunderhoof trotted over to the table, and replaced his cap, lowering the brim so as to not see Octavia.

"Don't you want to stay here for the night?" asked Octavia.

"What?"

"Well, Rainbow Dash was appointed chairpony of the weather commission, so we're late on the imposed rain quota," explained Octavia. "Which means that we've got three days of storms ahead of us. She's a good cloud buster, but... she isn't good at organizing things. Besides, our only hotel's closed until the busy season."

"I see," said Thunderhoof. "Well, in that case, I might as well stay." He sat back down on the sofa, and put his cap back on the table.

As it was late in the evening, Octavia decided to break out some stronger drinks from her cupboard. The sheer size of her liquor and wine collection was baffling by contemporary standards, but Octavia was a Griffish Earth Pony. She could probably drink Thunderhoof under the table.

"Oh, I'd completely forgotten about this," said Thunderhoof, looking at a bottle of Old Gussie Griffonstone Green absinth. The label, which consisted of a stylized drawing of a griffon in a top hat and tailcoat, was supposed to give the impression that the drink was for the wealthy connaisseurs, when in fact it was just another brand of cheap absinth, drunk mainly by Griffonstone miners, trying to forget their misery.

"That?" asked Octavia. "Yes, it is pretty forgettable. After all, ponies drink that to forget."

"I remember, when I was a colt, there had been a terrible wave of flu among the servants and the kitchen staff, and Mother was out of absinth for her corpse reviver, so she gave me some money and sent me down to the shop to buy some Wenceslas absinth. I went to the shop, bought some of that one, put it in a Wenceslas bottle, and kept the change for myself."

Octavia laughed. "Tell you what," she said. "Make me one of these corpse revivers. Maybe it'll make me feel alive..."

Thunderhoof didn't need his brand-new cocktails guide to make that one. He put the gin, lemon juice, triple sec and vermouth in Octavia's shaker, added a dash of the cheap absinth, put some ice in it, shook the metal case, and strained the cocktail into two glasses.

"May you be with the princesses at least half-an hour before Tirek knows you're dead," said Thunderhoof, lifting his glass and clinking it with Octavia's.

"Amen to that," responded Octavia, in a playful tone.

The pair sat together for some time, exchanging anecdotes and criticisms of Canterlot nobility. At some point, Thunderhoof noticed the phonograph at the corner of the room, with the humungous record collection above it, on a shelf. "Why don't I stick a record on?" he suggested.

But as he got up, Octavia let out a loud "NO!" Then, realizing that she had just shouted for what was seemingly no reason at all, she cleared her throat, and said "Sorry. I'm just very protective of my records." She then got up, meekly trotted to the phonograph, and fumbled with her records. As she did so, Thunderhoof admired Octavia's gracefully-shaped body, its charming curves, and her silky tail.

"Coal Harper?" Octavia suggested.

"Do you have 'Anything Goes?'" asked Thunderhoof.

"Yes," said Octavia. "Live version from eighty years ago? Studio version? Or maybe you'd prefer the most recent one?" Since it premiered at Bridleway, eighty years before, the musical, and its eponymous track, had been revived quite a few times, with the lyrics altered to give contemporary examples of anything going.

"The recent one," said Thunderhoof. "One has to live in the present. The clock doesn't wait for anybody, it merely ticks on, after all..." 3

Octavia smirked at Thunderhoof's clearly-taken-from-someone-else quip, put the record on, and lowered the needle.

After the few seconds of crackling that were characteristic of vinyl records, the instrumental melody started, followed by the powerful and piercing voice of Sulton Moster.

Times have changed.
And we've often rewound the clock,
since the Mighty Helm got the shock,
when our Rockhoof saved the folk.
If today,
Any shock they should try to stem,
'Stead of saving the ponyfolk,
the folk would all save him.

In olden days, a screaming yearling,
was looked on as something shocking,
but Celestia knows.
Anything goes.
Good stitchers too, who all once stitched by hoof,
Now only use machinery making clothes,
Anything goes.

If riding fast carts you like,
If cookie jars you like,
If good whims you like,
If feeling grim you like,
If gay ships you like,
and 'rotic fics you like,
Why, nopony will oppose.

When ev'ry night, the set that's smart is in-
Cluding the Equalist party
In their shows,
Anything goes.

When missus Rarity, Fates bless her,
Can get Canter fops to 'yes' her,
Then I suppose,
Anything goes.

When Twilight Sparkle
Still can hoard enough friendship,
To pardon Glimmer for enslaving pones,
Anything goes.

Equestria's gone mad today,
And good's bad today,
And moon's sun today,
And truth's lie today,
And that foal today,
Who got a mark today
His fate still does not know.

When folks who still can't plan a party,
Know that it's been planned by Pinkie,
Before she throws,
Anything goes.

If Fluttershy can with great conviction,
Stand up for herself to dragons,
Then 'Flutters' shows,
Anything goes.

When you hear that lil' miss Applejack,
Doesn't call that tonic 'whack',
And then she does,
Anything goes.

Just think of those shocks you got,
And those bucks you got,
From that news you got,
And those pains you got,
If any brains you got,
From that Gabby Gums foal...

So miss RD, with all her trickses,
Can steal all Wind Rider's fixes,
Cause Windie knows...
Anything goes.

Anything Goes was just like the Equal Equines Party of Equestria: its popularity dies down after a while, but it always seems to come back.

"Do you think that when Coal wrote that song, he knew it'd still be popular eighty years after?" asked Thunderhoof.

"I don't know," answered Octavia. "He wrote it about the mutation of society. Society constantly evolves, and so does that song. I suppose he did mean for his song and musical to be popular, but I don't think he imagined it being still popular, eighty years later. Let alone the hundreds of years after that, during which it will inevitably be revived and revised."

Thunderhoof looked into Octavia's eyes, and took a leap of faith that, at that precise moment, seemed to make all the other leaps of faith he'd taken until then look like unimportant decisions. "Youwannagonadatewitme?" he asked, almost inaudibly.

"What?" Octavia asked, shocked. "I mean... why?"

"Well, I've got to go to the Grand Galloping Gala, next month, and my cousin told me to bring a date." Thunderhoof maintained a stoic expression as he explained himself. "And I can't really think of anyone else. Besides, I thought you might like to..."

"I play at the gala," answered Octavia. "Every year, with my ensemble."

"Oh."

"But... I suppose that for once, I can skip it. They'll find another cellist, I"m sure."

"Oh."

Author's Note

1: When talking about a monarchy, the bourgeoisie is a class of people who are rich but who aren't part of the nobility. This term is generally applied (as it is indicated in the text) to merchants, or factory owner, who have people working for them.
⚠ This is not the same as the term 'Bourgeoisie' as it is used in Marxism, where the term refers to the people who own the means of production (i.e anyone who employs people).

2: In this context, a public school is a really expensive private school, called as such because it is where the sovereign is usually educated.

3: This is a reference to Bojack Horseman. The original line is "Times arrow neither stands still nor reverses. It merely marches forward."

4: This is an adaptation of 'Anything Goes' by Cole Porter (listen to it) Before anyone complains about copyright, Parody is fair use.

Art by Ghostly Blaze.

Chapter six: Sins of the mother

Thunderhoof's memoirs

Mother died yesterday. I don't know if I should feel overjoyed, or just relieved.

I now realize that I haven't yet introduced my family. Truth be told, the less I talk about them, the better off you are. But the more I talk about them, the better I feel. So, I'm putting my own needs before yours; they're my memoirs, after all, and you decided to read them. Who knows, maybe you'll find them morbidly entertaining.

There are five of us. Or at least, there were five of us: Mother, Father, my two brothers, and me.

Father, or rather 'The Earl Blackjack Mountgomery Strawburough Butterscotch, seventh Earl of Coltford', never asked to become an Earl. He was never supposed to become one. He became poised to inherit the peerage after his brother died from a severe hoofball injury. Naturally, as the only child after his brother's death, Father inherited everything. The title, the house, and the family holdings. I've always known him as a tired stallion. Tired of standing stock still for paintings, tired of going to operas and galas, tired of having an easy life where no-one refuses anything to him because of his status. He's always been a fan of 'commoner music', as he calls it, mainly jazz. All in all, he's a unicorn of simple taste, one who has it all, but doesn't want any of it.

Mother, or as she insisted on being called, 'Countess Rosebud Flora-Butterscotch', was like the clouded mirror image of my father: same, but inverted. Both were second children, one a mare and one a stallion. They both became heirs after their older siblings died. But unlike Father, Mother had wanted only that all along. Both were, all in all, very caring, especially about the family: Father cared about the family's welfare. Mother cared about its status. I could go on for hours about my dislike for her, why I hate her, and why I could never forgive her. But I'll just summarize it in a few words: she hates me. She's always shunned me, for no apparent reason. Once, when I was a foal, I stole a carrot from her box, just to taste one. I didn't want to eat it, I just... thought I would. But anyway, a servant caught me, and my mother was informed. As a punishment, she told me to eat the entire box. After a few of them, I started to feel a little queasy, but she forced me to eat them all. I asked her whether she was punishing me for eating the carrot, or for stealing. She answered "I'm punishing you for being alive."

Then there are my two brothers.

Stableton. I don't know where to start. I've always looked up to him, one way or another. He's a minister, priest of the Small Heap parish, and a knight of the Grand Ordre Cadentien. He doesn't want fame, he doesn't want glory, he just wants to serve. He's kind, compassionate and honest. But, as a private investigator, I know that everyone has a dirty little secret. I don't know what his is, and, for once, I really don't want to know. But when it comes to shortcomings, in spite of his character's qualities, he isn't devoid of them. He's naive, a bit of a pushover, at times. He's one of Haysley (my other brother) 's contacts, albeit unwillingly. Stableton, as the spiritual leader of East Trottingham, is on good terms with workers and union leaders, so Haysley uses him as a third-party mediator.

Finally, there's Haysley. Heir apparent to Father's vast fortune, political visionary, financial genius, entrepreneur and... the most despicable pony I've ever seen, though I can't bring myself to hate him as much as I hate Mother. He's narcicistic, rude, and antipathic. Try imagining King Sombra, without the means to enslave the ponies of the Crystal Empire, and you've got Haysley. During a lecture on tragedy, back at Saddlehurst, my professor said that 'in tragedy, once the gears of fate are set in motion, the descent into hell is inevitable.' That is the best way I can find to describe him. Picture an ambitious Haysley and a powerful Haysley as two separate gears. They are disconnected, because Haysley isn't yet powerful enough to make his ambitions reality. So the 'ambitious' wheel is turning, but isn't making any others turn with it. The wheel that will connect the ambitious haysley to the powerful Haysley is Father's inevitable death. Once Father passes, Haysley will have the money and the influence to fuel his ambitions, leading to the suffering of millions. Tragedy will be inevitable.

On a cold winter morning, Thunderhoof made his way up the gigantic stairs and into the gigantic manor that was (and still is) Butterscotch Hall. One of the fifty-odd butlers opened the front door for Thunderhoof. As soon as he'd entered, the head butler bowed.

"Lord Thunderhoof," he said, in his wheezy voice. "Her Ladyship his waiting for you in her bedroom. If you would like to follow-"

"I know the way," said Thunderhoof, briskly walking past the butler. His visit to the estate was a chore he wanted to be done with.

The newly promoted Captain walked up the stairs to the second floor and took a left once he was at the top. He walked past several doors and stopped in front of the double one that lead to his mother's bedroom. Taking a deep breath, Thunderhoof raised his right hoof, knocking twice before entering.

Laid on the queen-sized oak bed was the tall and bony countess, wearing her nightgown and looking very weak. So weak, in fact, that she probably didn't have enough magic left to levitate the box of tissues on her bedside table: a sight that Thunderhoof shamefully took pleasure in contemplating.

On her right was Stableton, wearing his black cassock and clerical collar, a Cadenzian pendant dangling from his neck. The minister was levitating the scriptures before him. He seemed to be performing the last rites. On the other side of the bed was Haysley, chewing on a carrot stick. His gaze met Thunderhoof's, and each immediately understood that the other didn't want to be there.

"Well, look what just trotted in," said Rosebud, interrupting Stableton's lecture.

"Always nice to see you, Mother," retorted Thunderhoof, sarcastically.

"Should we leave, mummy?" asked Haysley, hopefully.

"Yes," answered Rosebud. "Leave me with your brother."

Both Haysley and Stableton got up and left the room. As they did so, Thunderhoof clearly heard Haysley say "Thank Celestia..."

Thunderhoof sat down on a chair next to his mother's bed, and asked, "How are you feeling?"

"Don't pretend to care, Thunderhoof," snapped Rosebud. "Dishonest doesn't suit you."

"I'd return the compliment," retorted Thunderhoof, "but quite frankly, you've lied to me so many times that dishonest fits you like a horseshoe."

To Thunderhoof's surprise, his mother smirked. "I know that you despise me, Thunderhoof. I've always treated you like a bad smell, and I... Well, I..."

Thunderhoof didn't respond. He knew exactly what his mother was about to say, but he wanted to hear it from her anyway. he waited, with baited breath. He wanted to hear her explanation.

"...I'm sorry," said Rosebud, finally.

"I see," said Thunderhoof, disappointed.

"It was when you reached adolescence that I realized that... you were just like the pony I named you after," explained Rosebud. "You started gallivanting around with your fillies, enjoying yourself with your friends, when your two brothers were studying hard. But why? No reason. You don't have any life goals, Thunderhoof, and you're lying to yourself if you think you do. You sought pleasure where you could find it. Just like... him. And just like him, you can fill your life with your little girlfriends, and your little projects, promotions, and medals, but they'll never fill the void in your heart. You'll never feel whole. That's your curse, Thunderhoof. I doomed you by having you, Thunderhoof. And I'm sorry."

Thunderhoof, for a few seconds, felt pleased. It wasn't what he'd expected, but it was good to hear his mother say something. But that feeling was almost instantly replaced by one of anger, and hate. It wasn't a rational hate, but rather a blind one, not unlike the one that some kudu had for the zebras. A grudge. At that moment, he only wanted to make her suffer.

"You know, you always wanted to marry us off into good families," said Thunderhoof.

"Yes," answered Rosebud. "I didn't manage. I'll never forgive myself for that."

"Well," continued Thunderhoof. "Princess Cadance, she proposed to me."

Rosebud's face lit up with happiness. "She did?"

"Yes," said Thunderhoof.

"Oh, I can see it now," said Rosebud. "The Royal House Butterscotch!" She closed her eyes in contentment. Her one goal in life seemed complete.

"Yes... tomorrow, it'll be the fifth anniversary of her proposal," said Thunderhoof, in a tone of mock sorrow.

"What do you mean?" asked Rosebud, frowning at her son.

Thunderhoof brought his face very close to his mother's ear, and said "I refused."

Rosebud's eyes widened in shock. Tears were forming in her eyes, and her mouth opened and closed without a word, like that of a wrinkled old tortoise. Thunderhoof smirked as he saw the pain in his mother's eyes. "You... sad... misguided... Stallion-whore!" Her voice quivered as she insulted her son. "May there be a Tartarus for you..."

Thunderhoof retorted "Boil in Tartarus, Mother." As he left the room, and slammed the door behind him, Thunderhoof laughed as he heard his mother wail.

"Thunderhoof?" asked Octavia, waking the investigator.

"Yes?" answered the stallion, jerkily waking up.

"You were muttering in your sleep," said Octavia in an accusatory tone.

"What did I say?" asked Thunderhoof.

"Stupid bitch," answered Octavia.

"Oh," said Thunderhoof. "It wasn't aimed at you."

"Who was it aimed at?" asked Octavia, an eyebrow raised.

"Mother," answered Thunderhoof, with a twinge of guilt. In response, the cellist looked at Thunderhoof in a concerned fashion, which prompted the pegasus stallion to say, "It's fine."

Octavia was doubtful of that last statement, but she overlooked it. "Breakfast?" she asked, springing up from the sheets.

"Why not?" said Thunderhoof, following suit. "What do you have in mind?"

The musician looked out of the window. "It looks like we're in the clear, as far as rain is concerned," she said. For the past three days, as predicted, the rain had been pouring down on Ponyville, so they'd had to eat what either Octavia or Thunderhoof had tried to make. Neither of them were good cooks, as both had been used to having their meals cooked for them, Thunderhoof at his hotel, and Octavia's roomie always did the cooking for both of them. "There's a darling little café, down in the town," she said. "Why don't we go there?"

"Sounds good to me," said Thunderhoof.

"Do you know any good jokes?" asked Thunderhoof, as he and Octavia walked down the path, their hooves leaving deep prints in the wet mud.

"I can try," said Octavia. She cleared her throat, and told her joke. "Assemble a good bassist, a bad bassist, a guitar player, and a drummer, and place a bag of five hundred bits in front of them. Who goes to get the bag?"

"I don't know," answered Thunderhoof.

"It'll be the bad bassist. Because good bassists don't exist, a guitar player wouldn't move for five hundred bits, and the drummer still doesn't understand what he has to do."

Thunderhoof laughed. That was a good one.

"Your turn," said Octavia, playfully.

"Alright. So. 'I didn't see you at camouflage training, yesterday,' said the drill sergeant. 'Thank you very much, sir!' answered the recruit."

It was Octavia's turn to laugh.

They soon arrived at the café, and they sat down at the nearest empty table. The waiter soon arrived and took their orders. They ordered a pot of tea to share, and a plate of croissants.

"Why did you become a private investigator?" asked Octavia, before taking a bite from her croissant.

"Because that was the first thing I thought of," answered Thunderhoof. "When the Army cut me loose, I remembered that I had spent a year in the Military Police, which made me eligible for a PI license. So I applied, took the exam, and I got it."

"And that's the whole story?" asked Octavia.

"Essentially, yeah," said Thunderhoof.

They ate in silence for a few minutes, before Octavia asked "You're a pony of the world, Thunderhoof, right?"

"You could say that."

"So, what do you think of foreign culture? I've always dreamed of going to Saddle Arabia. Or maybe Zebrica."

"It depends on what culture you're talking about," replied Thunderhoof. "Saddle Arabia's become so Equestrianized that you can hardly call it 'foreign' anymore. As for Zebrica, I can remember having some fun, drunk on Zebrican Gold, trying to out-rhyme the local shamen. But Kudanda... I'm not going to mince my words: I don't like that country. Their culture, it's just... I don't think you'd understand."

"I can try," said Octavia.

"Well. When you walk into a village with your patrol, and you see zebra mares and foals, piled up against the wall of a church, their hooves cut off, left to bleed out... And you see a kudu, hind legs cut off and cauterized, antlers ripped out, crawling towards you and silently looking at you with his teary eyes, silently pleading with you to put an end to his suffering, unable to talk because his tongue was cut off... You can't help but think that some cultures went wrong."

Octavia forgot about her breakfast, and instead looked at Thunderhoof, morbidly interested by what he'd just described. "Blast, I... I didn't realize..."

"It's alright, Octavia. I have to talk about it, now and then." Thunderhoof Had a spasm in his right foreleg as he said so.

Octavia saw Thunderhoof's leg twitch, and placed her hoof on his. "It's okay," she said, softly.

They finished their breakfast in near silence, only broken by the occasional comment about the weather, or something equally dull.

"I'll pay the bill," said Thunderhoof, as he received the check from the waiter.

"Go ahead," responded Octavia, smiling.

Thunderhoof had expected Octavia to protest. "Oh."

"You know what they say," said Octavia. "The best things in life are free."

Thunderhoof couldn't argue with that.

"Any plans for today?" asked Thunderhoof, paying and giving a generous tip to the waiter.

"Not really," answered Octavia. "I'm just going back home to practice. Why don't you explore our little town?"

"Might as well," said Thunderhoof.

As Thunderhoof looked around the town, he came across the famous Carousel Boutique. Back in Canterlot, Canterlot Carousel was where he had all of his suits made. Remembering that he was to go to the Grand Galloping Gala, he thought that he'd wear his ceremonial uniform. But he'd sold his to a collector when he'd left the Army, so he decided to have a new one made. So, with no further hesitation, the stallion entered.

The bell rang as Thunderhoof entered. Rarity, the owner of the shop, and bearer of the Element of Generosity, who was twice as popular as all of her shops combined, greeted the Major with a warm smile. "Good morning!"

"Hello," said Thunderhoof. "I'm here to commission a suit."

"Of course," said Rarity. "What sort of suit? Double-breasted? Tuxedo? Or maybe you'd prefer a more simple one?"

"What I'm looking for is a little special," said Thunderhoof. "I'm going to the Grand Galloping Gala, next month, and I'd like to wear my ceremonial uniform. Problem is, I don't have mine anymore."

"Oh, I knew you struck me as a military pony!" beamed Rarity. "Just get onto that thing, there..." She nodded towards a small pedestal in the middle of the room. "I'll be with you shortly."

As Thunderhoof mounted the pedestal, Rarity disappeared into a side room, and returned a few minutes later, levitating a crate in front of her with her magic.

"Now, just as a preliminary, I have a few questions," said Rarity. "How is your metabolism?"

"What do you mean?" asked Thunderhoof.

"Well, some ponies gain weight and corpulence easier than others," explained Rarity. "That dictates whether or not I make a fitted suit, or something for you to grow into."

"I haven't gained any weight in the past two years, if that's what you're asking," said Thunderhoof.

"That's good enough for me,," said Rarity. "What unit were you in?" she asked.

"Royal Rangers, Pathfinder Platoon," said Thunderhoof.

At this, Rarity beamed. "Oh, it's been a long time since I had a Ranger visiting me!"

"Do you do this a lot? For military ponies, I mean."

"As a matter of fact, I do," explained Rarity, getting her tape and measuring Thunderhoof. "I was once contracted by the Army to make these uniforms. You wouldn't believe the night I had when the Saddlehurst quartermasters asked for two hundred red tunics..."

"And did you finish that order?" asked Thunderhoof, feeling Rarity's tape wrap around his leg.

"Of course," smirked Rarity. "I even had General Delherbe in here, once. He wanted a tuxedo. Very well spoken, and such a charmer..."

"I know," said Thunderhoof. "A very caring stallion. I met him, once or twice. Shook his hoof. I don't know if he remembers it... Now, he's just a signature on my discharge papers."

Soon enough, Rarity had finished making Thunderhoof's brand-new tunic. It fitted Thunderhoof perfectly.

"Very nice," said Thunderhoof, looking at himself in the mirror.

Rarity was trying very hard not to look pleased with herself. "You look handsome," she said.

"How much for this fine work?" asked Thunderhoof, getting his chequebook.

"I'd normally charge you three hundred," said Rarity. "But I like you. Let's call it a hundred."

Thunderhoof wrote his cheque, and hoofed it to Rarity. "Would you mind holding onto it until I leave town?" he asked.

"Of course," beamed Rarity. "But would you mind doing me a favour in return?"

"Fire away," said Thunderhoof.

Rarity levitated a small basket, and placed it on the floor in front of Thunderhoof. "Could you deliver this to my friend Fluttershy?" she asked.

At the mention of Fluttershy, Thunderhoof's eyes widened in surprise. "Fluttershy? As in, the Fluttershy?"

"Yes," answered Rarity, in an uncertain fashion. "Why, do you know her?"

"Not in person," said Thunderhoof. "You could say that I'm a fan."

Fluttershy, bearer of the Element of Kindness, was extremely popular in the Army, mainly for her short-lived modelling career. Before General Delherbe had been made Chief of Defence Staff, it had been General Mountgommery's idea to supply the Guard with some pin-up posters of Fluttershy. That decision could seem sexist and chauvinistic to some, but Fluttershy wasn't only popular in the military for her charming physique. She also embodied everything that Equestria truly fought for: innocence, purity of heart, and above all, kindness. Thunderhoof, along with his unit, and probably the rest of the Army, had all been very disappointed when those posters stopped coming.

Rarity gave the address to Thunderhoof, and he left the shop, basket under his wing.

He'll wrap you in his hooves,
Tell you that you've been a good colt.
He'll rekindle fantasies,
You took a long time to tear down.

He'll reach deep into the hole,
Heal your shrieking soul,
But there won't be a single thing that you can do.

He's a god, he's a pone,
He's a ghost, he's a guru.
They're whispering his name,
As their worlds go aloof,
But hidden in his coat,
Is a red right hoof.

"Bed and breakfast," read a large sign, some fifty yards in front of Fluttershy's house.

Thunderhoof smirked to himself. "That's a lousy spot for a B n' B, Fluttershy," he thought. "But one has to make money, I guess." As he made his way to the front door, Thunderhoof re-adjusted his tie and combed his hair back. He was about to meet his celebrity crush, after all.

"Strange," thought the pegasus. "I figured there'd be more animals." Indeed, not a paw or claw could be seen around the property. No birds chirping, no cats meowing, no bunny rabbits energetically stamping their feet. Nothing but silence. Funny enough, silence was the most horrible thing that Thunderhoof could think of.

Soon enough, Thunderhoof understood why everything was so... quiet. As he made his way towards the door, he noticed that it was ajar. He looked down, to find that he was standing in somepony else's hoofprints. Much bigger than his. Much too big for Fluttershy. But, examining the mud, Thunderhoof realized that there were several sets of hoofprints in the mud. Some were bigger than others. Given than the mud was still fresh, as the rain had stopped only recently, these hoofprints were about one or two hours old.

A few jokes about Fluttershy needing money and having a large number of gentlecolt callers at her house came to Thunderhoof's mind, but it was so out-of-character for Fluttershy to be funny. Besides, those hoofprints were making him anxious.

The investigator's stomach lurched as he pushed the door open, unveiling the scene behind it.

The couch had been turned upside down. The light had been smashed, and the bookshelf completely destroyed, the books scattered on the ground. And, most disturbing of all, several yellow feathers lay on the ground, near a splat of recently coagulated blood.

If it had been over five years ago, Thunderhoof would have thought "Who could have done this?" But he'd learnt the hard way that there was no shortage of horrible people in this crazy world.

Thunderhoof was in his element. Shaking himself out of his stupefaction, the investigator looked around for clues. First, there was the blood stain and the feathers, which were obviously Fluttershy's. The stain itself wasn't very big, and there didn't seem to be a trail anywhere, so it obviously wasn't the result of a cut, or a severed artery. But the blood's position, next to the feathers, suggested that Fluttershy's head had impacted the floor, hard enough to cause a wound, possibly give her concussion. In any case, Fluttershy needed medical attention, and fast.

Thunderhoof then noticed that some feathers could also be seen on the devastated bookshelf. The shelf itself was broken in the middle, indicating that the aggressed party had been forcefully shoved into it, before being thrown onto the ground, where the stain was.

Deciding that he'd seen enough of downstairs, Thunderhoof went upstairs, to the single bedroom. There, again, some of the furniture had been moved, but there were no indications of a scuffle. The bed had simply been turned over, and the wardrobe door opened.

"So, whoever was there was looking for something..." thought Thunderhoof. Just to be sure, Thunderhoof called out Fluttershy's name, to make sure she wasn't there, but it was pointless.

Suddenly, Thunderhoof noticed that there was a piece of paper where the bed had been. He picked it up, and read it.

"To Fluttershy's resident.

If you ever want to see your hostess again, come to the Castle of the Two Sisters. Unaccompanied. We will hurt her bad if we see anypony else with you."

Oddly enough, Thunderhoof had the impression that the message was intended for him, even though it was clearly meant for the patron of the Bed and Breakfast. But, as the message was still there, and that nopony seemed to have picked it up, let alone read it, Thunderhoof figured that he was a suitable candidate as anypony else for the job of liberating Fluttershy.

Thunderhoof had experience when it came to gathering intelligence without actually having eyes on the target. It was what they taught in the Military Police. 'Comportemental psychology', they called it. Or profiling.

The first question that Thunderhoof asked to himself was 'Quid bono?' 'Who benefits?' That was a difficult question. Prohibiting Fluttershy, an Element-bearer, from quickly joining her fellows in case of an emergency didn't seem to benefit anyone in Equestria, except its enemies. Quite frankly, that seemed to be the most obvious answer. But, if they wanted to kidnap Fluttershy and hold her for ransom, why would they leave a note for Fluttershy's patron and not send one to one of Fluttershy's friends? Re-reading the letter, Thunderhoof took note that the kidnappers weren't asking for a ransom.

The fact that the assailants wanted to meet Fluttershy's customer without asking for a ransom meant that this whole affair was either personal, or that they had been paid to do so. They wanted whoever was sleeping at Fluttershy's. By extension, this meant that they knew that person, and that they'd be at Fluttershy's. But there was something else. They were threatening to hurt Fluttershy badly and possibly kill her, even though there wasn't any obvious link between Fluttershy and her client, apart from a landlady-temporary resident one. So these assailants were hoping to get the resident not by his or her personal attachment to the pegasus, but rather by the sense of obligation that he or she might feel to help Fluttershy. Which was probably why Thunderhoof felt obligated to help her.

Now that Thunderhoof had identified the motive of the kidnappers, what was left to know was who they were. He stepped outside, and looked at the hoofprints in front of the door. After a while, he identified at least five different ones. They were all relatively fresh, which meant that they'd all come to the cottage together.

"Cowards," thought Thunderhoof, disgusted. They had attacked a defenseless pony five-to-one, not to mention what they could be doing down at the castle. "Not a shred of honour." The tracks went back a long way, so Thunderhoof assumed that they were either unicorns or earth ponies. If they'd been pegasi, they'd flown in stealthily, which would have allowed them to take the cottage by surprise. But something about the rather choleric behaviour that the kidnappers had displayed, and the strength that they seemed to have in their hooves told Thunderhoof that they were more likely to be Earth Ponies.

There was hardly anything to go on, as far as the identity of the kidnappers was concerned. They worked together, that was for sure. He knew for a fact that the Manehattan-based Ferdkop and Cavallo crime families' hitponies often operated in groups of five or more. They used to work in teams of ten or twenty, back in their hay-day, but the previous mayor of Manehattan had delivered on her promise to eradicate crime in the city. By the end of her mandate, crime rates had dropped to an all-time low, but the town itself had been scarred: on Thunderhoof's latest visit to Manehattan, the city's sense of community and solidarity had evaporated. Although, rumours had it that Rarity and Applejack had managed to rekindle the flame of friendship in the city.

But all of that didn't feel like organized crime. Thunderhoof had seen enough of Equestria to know that this abduction wasn't the work of professional mobsters. Racketeers usually didn't make enemies of the State, which was exactly what they'd be doing by attacking an Element-Bearer. The investigator's guess was that the kidnappers were freelance criminals. Simply ponies in need of money who worked for the highest bidder. But that hypothesis opened a whole new can of worms: if they were working for someone, who would order such a hit?

There was no time to lose. Thunderhoof immediately started to think up a battle plan. It was one of these situations the likes of which had been seen during the San Palomino Sieges. A group of ponies would hold one or more hostages in an abandoned outpost, and threaten to kill said hostages if their demands weren't met. Anypony would have assumed that Thunderhoof, having helped to rescue hostages before, considered this like another day at the office. But it wasn't. No good soldier ever got complacent about missions. They never got any easier.

Thunderhoof thought of alerting the guard, as Ponyville didn't have a proper police force. The closest guardpost that he could think of was the Cloudsdale Wonderbolts' headquarters. But under the Posse Regnum act and the twelve amendments made to it, the EUP guard, which included the Wonderbolts, couldn't intervene on Equestrian soil in the aim of enforcing the law, (unless the enforcing to be done was inside Canterlot proper, or directly involved the Crown), unless authorized by the parliament to do so.

"Unless," thought Thunderhoof, "if I can get Princess Twilight to recognize this matter as one that directly involves the Crown, the Guard could be solicited." After all, Fluttershy was officially a Grand Dame of the relatively recent Ordre du Crépuscule, which meant that she legally took her orders from Twilight. Therefore, the Crown was involved.

The investigator, in spite of himself, felt pleased with himself. He'd just waltzed his way around the law. Without further ado, he took off, and flew towards the village. From above, he saw Twilight's castle and dove towards it. Once he had his hooves on the ground, he pounded the front door rapidly. It opened to reveal Spike, the Princess's dragon assistant.

"How can I help you?" asked the dragon.

"I need to speak to Her Highness, now," answered Thunderhoof, breathlessly. "It's urgent."

"Really?" asked Spike. "I mean..."

"It's about Fluttershy. I'd rather we discussed this in private."

Spike managed to read how serious the situation was on Thunderhoof's face. "Alright," he said. "Follow me."

Thunderhoof lifted his hat and ruffled his wings before entering the Princess's castle. The pair went down a few large corridors, and arrived in front of the door to the main room. Spike knocked twice, and opened the door to let Thunderhoof in. "Twilight, someone's here for ya."

Thunderhoof bowed as soon as he saw the princess. "Your Highness."

"Hello," responded Twilight, looking up from the parchment she was writing on. "Is something wrong?" she added, seeing Thunderhoof's concerned expression.

"Fluttershy has been, erm... taken, ma'am," said the pegasus.

"Taken?" asked Twilight. "In what way?"

"Kidnapped," explained Thunderhoof.

Twilight's expression went from confused to shocked. "What? How do you know?" she asked.

Thunderhoof explained how Rarity had asked him to go to Fluttershy's, and how he'd stumbled upon the scene.

When Thunderhoof had finished his narrative, Twilight started pacing nervously, tears forming in her eyes. "What am I going to do?" she asked, more to herself than to Thunderhoof. "Applejack's in Appleloosa, Pinkie Pie's down at the rock farm with her family, and Fluttershy's been kidnapped! What am I going to do?"

"If her Highness doesn't mind me saying so," said Thunderhoof, "I might have a plan."

"I think I'm ready to try anything, at this point..."

"Here's the deal." Thunderhoof cleared his throat, and continued. "In their note, the kidnappers said that the recipient should come alone. They aren't expecting anypony famous, so I'll be that that somepony. While I cause a disturbance, somepony else, preferably a pegasus, would swoop in and rescue Fluttershy. As soon as I leave this castle, you should contact the Air Cavalry and the Canterlot barracks to tighten the noose and arrest the criminals. Their best response time is forty minutes, giving us plenty of time to carry out the rescue."

The investigator was half-expecting the princess to ask about the legal implications of calling in the Military for this operation, but she wasn't one for bureaucracy. She simply agreed to the plan, and they got to work. She ordered Spike, who had been silently listening this whole time, to gather Rarity and Rainbow Dash. The game was afoot.

"Well I never thought Rarity would have that sort of clothing in her wardrobe," commented Rainbow Dash, as she and Thunderhoof trotted through the forest, both dressed head-to-hoof in camouflage gear.

The investigator didn't answer. He just put one hoof in front of the other, his eyes scanning the trees and roots for booby traps, even though he wasn't expecting to find any.

"Are you in the Army?" asked Rainbow Dash.

"Not anymore," answered Thunderhoof, dryly.

"Well I'm in the Wonderbolts," said the filly, proudly. On other occasions, Thunderhoof would have asked her to be quiet, but he knew that she was just boasting to manage her stress. That type of behaviour was very common, and Thunderhoof had seen it before in Daring Do. In fact, the resemblance between the two mares was uncanny.

"I know," said Thunderhoof. "Out of all the serviceponies in Equestria that exist in this county, I get stuck with a Wonderbolt," he thought, bitterly.

Soon enough, the trees started to thin, and gave way to a radically different landscape. A bridge crossed a ravine, on the other side of which lay a castle... or rather, what was left of one: the Castle of the Two Sisters.

"Rainbow Dash," said Thunderhoof. "You know your way around the place. Take us to a vantage point. I want a clear view on the throne room."

Rainbow Dash took off and dove into the ravine. Thunderhoof followed suit. They flew around the rocks for a few seconds, before soaring up, and hugging the castle walls. Rainbow soon went upwards, and lead her erstwhile commander to the top of a high tower. They took cover behind a wall, and peeked their heads around the corner.

Just as Thunderhoof had expected, five ponies had occupied the castle. Five earth pony stallions, with bandanas covering their muzzles. Two seemed to be standing guard by the main door, seemingly expecting somepony to walk through, one was idly looking at the tapestries, and the two last ones were standing in front of the old throne, where a yellow pegasus filly with pink hair was tied.

"Fluttershy," thought Thunderhoof.

Even from their vantage point, Thunderhoof and Rainbow Dash could hear everything that was being said.

"I'll ask you again," said a frail stallion, who was standing in front of Fluttershy. "Where's your customer?" He had a distinct Manehattan accent.

Fluttershy didn't answer. She seemed to be having trouble to breathe, and her once pretty face was bruised, and her muzzle was bleeding.

"Hit 'er again," the stallion ordered.

"You sure about this, boss?" asked the other, who was much bigger than his leader.

"I said hit her again."

The subordinate whacked Fluttershy across the face again, causing her to squeal in pain.

"Please," cried Fluttershy. "I don't have a customer!"

Rainbow Dash gritted her teeth as she saw the scene unfold in front of her very eyes. She readied herself to pounce into the air, but Thunderhoof held her back. "No," he said. "We stick to the plan."

Rainbow Dash nodded.

Thunderhoof silently glided back to the other side of the wall, and made a soft landing on the ground.

"Now listen here, precious," said the leader. "I'm gonna rip every feather from yer wings, unless you spill the beans. You'll never fly again. Your precious lil' birds, your lil' friends... you'll never soar in the sky with 'em again Or maybe I'll just break your legs. Or maybe I can let my friends have a go at that pretty lil' rump of yours."

The effect that these last words had on Thunderhoof was so extreme that Tirek would think twice before absorbing his wingpower. His heart started playing bebop against his ribs. An acid sensation made its way up his throat. He saw red. Face hot with anger, wings spread, heart pounding, Thunderhoof took off, flew upwards, over the wall, and descended onto the first pony he laid eyes on.

Firmly grasping the henchpony's head between his hind legs, the major flapped his wings as hard as he could, strangling the gangster until his face was blue. Then, in a split second, Thunderhoof let go of his now unconscious assailant, and kicked off the motionless body onto the second one. With his forehooves, he knocked the second pony down, and landed on the latter's chest.

Punching hard at the second assailant's face, Thunderhoof saw somepony approaching him out of the corner of his eye.

The kudu swung at Thunderhoof, who narrowly dodged, grabbed the bovine by the lapels, and head-butted him in the muzzle. But he felt a sharp whack near his temple, and he was sent to the ground. There, Thunderhoof rolled over, and looked at the kudu, standing over him, club at the ready, a manic glint in his eye to match the investigator's.

But, with a flash of blue lightning, Rainbow Dash pushed the pony out of the way, knocking Thunderhoof back into reality. But as the Wonderbolt asserted her dominance over the fourth downed foe, Thunderhoof saw the fifth, frail pony run up behind Rainbow Dash. The investigator shouted, pointing in the direction of the final foe, causing Rainbow Dash to look around, jump to her forelegs, and buck the last assailant away.

The leader, knocked off his balance, fell onto the cold, featureless rock floor, and didn't move anymore.

"What happened to the plan?" asked Rainbow Dash, helping Thunderhoof to his hooves.

"I don't know," answered Thunderhoof sheepishly. He looked around, saw Fluttershy, and leaped towards her. "Miss, can you hear me?" he asked, before biting at the filly's ropes, successfully loosening them. She started dipping forwards, only for Thunderhoof to catch her.

"I'm sorry!" wailed Fluttershy, dribbling and sobbing on Thunderhoof's shoulder. "I let them... It's all my fault..."

"It's alright," responded Thunderhoof, taking notice of the many bruises that Fluttershy had all over her back. "You're safe, now."

"Spread out! Go, go, go!"

Thunderhoof looked around, and saw that fifty or so guards had made their appearance on the ground, dressed in BDUs. They were all looking around for more hostiles. Looking up, Thunderhoof saw some pegasi had taken position on the walls, and were looking down at the scene.

"That's all of them," said Rainbow Dash to a sergeant, who gestured his subordinates to make the arrests.

"Sector clear, your highness," said the NCO, before stepping aside, revealing Princess Twilight.

"Oh, my!" shouted Twilight, running towards the three pegasi. "Fluttershy, are you alright?"

Thunderhoof carefully sat Fluttershy down on a step. "She needs medical attention." A few corpsponies and a battlefield surgeon heard that, because they came running in and started taking care of the Element of Kindness.

"I don't know how to thank you, sir," said Twilight, looking up into Thunderhoof's eyes. "I don't know what we'd have done without you!" she wrapped her forelegs around Thunderhoof, and squeezed him into a bone-breaking hug.

"It's alright," said Thunderhoof. "I only did my duty."

"Look," said Twilight. "You head back to the castle. I'll meet you there."

"I'll come with you," said Rainbow Dash. She had a concerned expression on her face, and Thunderhoof knew exactly why.

As they were about to leave, a flash of blue appeared, and barely a second later, five Wonderbolts landed on the stone floor of the throne room.

The commander of the squad lifted his goggles, and said "Squadron Leader Blitzhoof, 74th Squadron, Royal Wonderbolts, reporting for duty!"

"Oh, look what just crash-landed in!" shouted Thunderhoof, seeing the commander's face. "If it isn't Klutzhoof and his four bloody stooges! Late, just as bloody usual!"

Blitzhoof looked at Thunderhoof, then at the ground, in a guilty fashion. "Good morning, Major," he said, timidly.

At the mention of the word 'Major', all of the soldiers present shot their hooves to their helmets. Out of a sense of obligation, Thunderhoof saluted them back. And, with a last, meaningful look at the Squadron Leader, Thunderhoof left the castle.

"We're here," said Rainbow Dash, as the pair arrived in front of the castle.

As they were about to enter, somepony came up from behind Thunderhoof and placed a hoof on the investigator's shoulder. "Hey, Major."

"Yes?" asked Thunderhoof. In front of him was an earth stallion, whom Thunderhoof recognized as one of Hoofington's bouncers.

"This is from our mutual friend," said the stallion, giving a letter to Thunderhoof, before bowing and leaving.

Thunderhoof ripped the envelope open, and read the letter.

"Five G's your way. Sending backup.

-H"

A bucket full of ice cascaded into Thunderhoof's stomach as he realized that the whole ordeal was his fault.

Chapter seven: Kudanda Blues

Thunderhoof's memoirs

Do I want things, in life? Sure. I could write a whole book about it. I've even got a title for it: What I want. By Thunderhoof Butterscotch: a nice gin and tonic. A carrot. Money. The last ten years of my life back. But do I want something else, apart than things I already have? Something impossible to have? I don't know. In a way, not knowing what you want is not wanting anything at all. I had goals, back when I was in the Army, in spite of what my mother said. But deep down, she was right. I don't have hopes, anymore. I don't have dreams. I only have high standards and nightmares now.

Every night, I go to bed, feeling the same twitching in my right foreleg. Every night, I go to bed, their screams rocking me to sleep. Why am I still here? Am I here only to torture myself over my past mistakes? Am I here just to make myself suffer? I can see the comrades I lost. My true family. It's like they're all still here.

But I've been trying to change all of that. I'm going to try and give my life a purpose. During my life, I've seen ponies desperately trying to rebuild the past, and others trying to build a future for themselves. And for far too long, I've been stuck in the middle...

"So... there," said Thunderhoof, finishing his explanation as to how and why the criminals had kidnapped Fluttershy. "It's basically my fault."

"So, let's get this clear," said Twilight. She cleared her throat. "You were hired by Canta Del Pronto to track down a witness. But as you cornered him, some gangsters cornered you, and you had to fight your way out."

"Yes."

"So, to lay low, you came to Ponyville, and stayed at Octavia's house. But the gangsters tracked you down to Ponyville, and, as all the hotels are closed, they assumed you'd be staying at Fluttershy's Bed and Breakfast."

"Also yes. Again, I'm sorry about what happened." Thunderhoof ruffled his wings nervously.

"Thunderhoof," said Twilight, soothingly. "I don't see how any of this is your fault." She smiled at the investigator, to try and raise his spirits, but it only seemed to worsen his feelings.

"That's what I try telling myself," explained Thunderhoof. "But... well, what I want to think and what I do think are two different things. When you're in the combat zone, sometimes, you screw up. And when you look back at these screw-ups, you think that you'd have done things differently. But that's not how it works. What's done is done."

"I know exactly what you mean," said Twilight.

"You do?"

"Yes. No. Well, sort of. A while ago, I had a veteran in this very room," explained Twilight. "He had faced the same problems as you do. Guilt, a lack of self-worth, and... well, even though he explained all of it to me, I don't think I can possibly fathom all of the pain and heartache he went through. I don't think I ever will. I don't think that I can fully understand yours, either. Nopony who isn't a veteran can."

Thunderhoof stayed silent.

"However," said Twilight, standing up, "I think I know somepony who, well... she hasn't been through war, but she can explain that sort of thing better. How about we go and see her?"

"Cadance speaks very highly of you," said Twilight.

"I bet she does," responded Thunderhoof, a hint of annoyance in his voice. He didn't like receiving comments about his personal life from strangers.

"She loves you very much," continued Twilight. "She worries about you."

"Where are we going?" asked Thunderhoof, trying to change the subject.

"To the hospital," answered Twilight.

"Are we seeing a psychiatrist?"

"Not exactly."

As they entered the hospital, Nurse Redheart, who was on duty, welcomed Thunderhoof and Twilight. "Good morning, Your Highness. Good morning, sir."

"Hello," said Twilight. "We're here to see Fluttershy."

"We are?" asked Thunderhoof, surprised. "I mean..."

"It'll be alright," said Twilight, as they both followed the nurse down the hall.

"She was badly injured," explained Redheart, "but the doctor said that there won't be any long-term physical trauma if the right treatment is given."

"What about the others?" asked Thunderhoof.

"That's another story," answered the nurse. "One of them is comatose, and all of the others have sustained some heavy injuries that'll follow them for the rest of their lives. They're being transferred somewhere else next week."

Next to the door to Fluttershy's room, there was a humongous pile of flowers and get-well cards, almost the entirety of which came from the Equestrian Veterans' Foundation. There was also a table on which a large metal box had been placed, with a label on it which read 'Fluttershy's medical bill'. As he walked by, the investigator filled the box with as many gold bits as he could. As he did so, Twilight looked at him, in a mix of pity and admiration.

"I've gotta warn you, though," said the nurse, carefully placing her hoof on the door. "She's pretty jumpy." She pushed the door open gently, and asked "Miss? Princess Twilight is here to see you."

She opened the door a bit more, and let the royal and the major in.

"Hello, Fluttershy," said Twilight, in a gentle voice.

"Hi, Twilight," answered Fluttershy, groggily.

The yellow filly was... worse for wear, to say the least. She had some bandages wrapped around her head, her right wing was being held up by a metallic contraption, and the rest of her body was hidden by her bed sheets. But despite her injuries, she was still smiling as she looked at her friend. A truly heartwarming sight.

"Had any visitors?" asked the princess.

"Not many," answered Fluttershy. "I had a few soldiers. They were very gentle, they didn't want to bother me, so they didn't stay long. They've all been so charming."

"Hello," said Thunderhoof, sheepishly.

Fluttershy looked at the investigator, and smiled as she saw the guilt on his face. "I'll never be able to thank you enough for what you did," she said. "Thunderhoof, isn't it?"

"Yes, that's me," said The investigator.

"Thunderhoof had something to tell you," said Twilight. "But I think he wants to tell you in private."

As Twilight made her way to the door, Thunderhoof thought of protesting, but Twilight was out of the room before he could say 'no'. Instead, he sat down next to the filly's bed, and she placed her hoof on his.

"What I wanted to tell you, erm... well, I don't really know how to put this... what happened was my fault."

Fluttershy looked surprised. "How so?"

Thunderhoof explained his case in the same way he'd explained it to Twilight. When he'd finished, he looked down, ashamed.

"It isn't your fault," said Fluttershy. "Once, when the Map called us over to solve the feud between the Hoofields and the McColts, we tried to have the Hoofields apologize, and maybe talk. But that only made the fighting worse. We finally did manage to bring peace, but we momentarily made it worse."

"How does that compare?" asked Thunderhoof.

"Well," said Fluttershy. "You won't find this in our journal, but one of the lessons we learnt on that day was that sometimes, doing the right thing- or at least, trying- makes things worse. Good fights Evil. And sometimes, by doing good, you contribute to creating evil."

Thunderhoof let Fluttershy's words sink in. She was about a decade younger than him, and he felt like she was a million times wiser than him.

"Do you create it? In a way. Did you know that by fighting those ponies in Canterlot, you'd cause others to come and attack me? No. Is it your fault? No."

"Thanks," said Thunderhoof. "I guess..."

"My pleasure. But you look sad," said Fluttershy, blushing. "I mean, I didn't want to offend you, but, erm, it's, er..."

"That's okay. I'm sorry, I just still feel guilty. It's been the case for years. That's all."

"Years?" asked Fluttershy. "Is that from the army? If you don't mind me asking."

"Yes," said Thunderhoof. "Survivor's guilt, they called it. That's the feeling you get when you lose all of your squadmates. Those ponies were like family to me. But they died, when- when they had just as much to live for than I. And the worst thing is that... I'm aware of my guilt. I'm aware that it's holding me back, that I should move on with my life... and every day, I wake up, thinking that the day after, my guilt will have vanished. Every day, I mean to move on. But one day, I woke up... and three years had gone by."

"Have you ever read Princess Luna's books?" asked Fluttershy

"No," answered Thunderhoof, dryly. "No, I haven't."

"Well, erm... In Trauma in the Modern Veteran, she wrote that survivor's guilt is a bit like a phantom pain. In a way. You lost your brothers-in-arms. And just as if you'd lost a part of yourself, you feel as if the brothers you lost were still there, with you."

"That's... that's it, yeah."

"But consider this," said Fluttershy, "and you won't find this in her book. I can feel that you carry hate, including some that you direct at yourself. Remorse. Thoughts of worthlessness. Regret. But think of them. Think of your brothers, who are looking down at you, imploring you to move on and forgive yourself. They're telling you to live, to love, and to laugh. They love you, no matter what you think you did. No matter how many times you cry and torture yourself over their loss, it won't bring them back. But you have to forgive yourself. Honour their memory, but fight day and night to preserve yourself. Fight for the living, Thunderhoof. And one day, these lost brothers won't be like limbs that you've lost. They'll be part of you. Of your heart. Move on, Thunderhoof. Live."

Thunderhoof, once again, sat in awe in front of Fluttershy. He remembered why he was there. He remembered every single day of his years spent in the Army. Fluttershy had opened his eyes, and now, the point of his life seemed crystal clear, like a splendid summer sky.

His mother had been unforgivably nasty. His foalhood had been hard. Some of his brothers-in-arms were in hospital, and some were dead. But it was alright. Or at least, it was better than it had ever been.

Chapter eight: At the Gala

Thunderhoof's memoirs

The Grand Galloping Gala. I don't know what to think. It's been years. I remember going to the Grand Galloping Gala just after I got my P.I license. The reason I went was because I needed an address book. Well, I needed one, but I wasn't going to write it myself. All I did was follow Haysley around and talk to whoever he was talking to. Yes, I hate him, but I'm not above using him whenever there's something to be had out of them. For you see, it was convenient for Haysley to parade me around. Having a veteran in the family is good for social status, after all. And I needed contacts, so that was that. Speaking of him, I'll take this opportunity to note that I have worked a few jobs for Haysley in the past. Yes, again, I hate him. But he has money, and I like money. That's how society works, I guess. Toffs at the top, plebs at the bottom, and me in the middle, making a fat pack of gold out of both of them.

Note to self: renounce to lordship and peerage to make this last sentence more believable.

But this time, it's purely social. Cadance asked me to come, and I can't deny her that, certainly not after not responding to her other invitations.

"SSF: 'YOU CAN'T STOP A GENOCIDE WITH HEALERS': THROWBACK TO SOIGNEURS SANS FRONTIERES' APPEAL TO THE EQUESTRIAN PARLIAMENT," read the tag-line of the Canterlot Gazette.

"Precisely three years ago today, Sparklecoat Manesley, erstwhile director of Soigneurs Sans Frontières (Healers Without Borders in Ponish) and Lord Fasu, ambassador for Zebrica, appealed to the Equestrian Parliament for the intervention of Equestria in Kudanda, where the infamous genocide had just started. Three days before, on their way to the Kudu capital, an SSF convoy was taken into captivity as they entered the town of Kudopolis. The hijacking in question was performed by the KPF (Kudu Patriotic Front) and the KNA (Kudu National Army), when the latter had promised to grant SSF protection while they performed surgery on Zebra victims.

In front of more than four hundred congressponies, Manesley pronounced these seven words, which went down in history as some of the most striking and truthful sentences ever spoken: 'You can't stop a genocide with healers.' By that, she meant that healing and sheltering victims of the massacre was not going to put an end to the hostilities. The situation demanded military intervention. Ninety percent of Parliament agreed that an intervention was necessary, and Whinnston Chestnut vowed that a gigantic taskforce would be assembled within twelve hours of the motion being passed. And, as promised, twelve hours later, an abnormally large number of soldiers was deployed to forward operating bases in Zebrica. Within one hundred days, the war was over, and Equestria had successfully occupied Kudanda.

General Delherbe was on hoof to give his side of the story. "The massacres were brutal, criminal and disgusting, but Equestria wasn't having it. We did what was right. Thanks to the valour of our troops, and to the helpfulness of the Zebrican Kingdom, we managed to annihilate the armies of evil, just as they would have annihilated the Zebras. This war -as short as it was- confronted Equestria with a threat that it had yet to see: we -and that includes soldiers and politicians alike- were confronted with a situation that we had never seen in the past. It showed us what hate equines and bovines can have. But I hope that with the coming of the new princess, we will enter a new era; a new chapter for Equestria and for the World. One where, instead of having to stop such evil deeds, we can actually prevent them."

When asked what he first felt when he'd received his orders, the general had this to say: "I, just like everypony else, thought that what we were about to face would be just like any other war we'd faced. After all, intelligence reports told us that our main enemy was a militia. Just like the ones we'd seen in Griffonstone and in San Palomino. But we were wrong. We were faced with true killers. Without honour, without a code. Their goal wasn't to preserve something. It wasn't to fight for a cause. You see, the Griffonstone Crisis and the San Palomino Sieges ended with negotiations, concessions, and treaties, because their cause was always partly just. They fought for a cause, to defend something. The kudandan militias, they fought solely to destroy the opposition."

Thunderhoof looked up from his paper at the sunny sky that he and Octavia could see from their first-class carriage compartment. He sighed as he saw the towers of Canterlot Castle. It really wasn't a sight that he'd missed. So much unneeded drama and corruption hid behind these high walls and towers.

"The gala isn't really your thing, is it?" asked Octavia Melody, as Thunderhoof's annoyed expression started becoming a little concerning.

"I hate it," answered the stallion. "And everything associated with it."

"I assume you've already been?" asked Octavia.

"Oh, yes, many times," answered Thunderhoof. "Just to think that while I was in the airship, flying away to the Forward Base in Zebrica, they were there stuffing their faces and sucking up to Celestia."

"You're beginning to sound like a Stableist," giggled Octavia.

"Oh, goodness no," chuckled the investigator. Truth be told, unlike his brother Haysley (or most nobles, for that matter), Thunderhoof wasn't exactly keen on trickle-down economics or the abolition of property tax, but he was even less keen on the abolition of freedom, which he thought was what Stableism brought.

The train screeched to a halt, and the doors opened. As Thunderhoof dismounted and walked onto the busy platform, he saw that there were a lot of Royal Guards present. Ever since the fiasco at the Royal Wedding, Celestia had been going to great lengths to satisfy the nobles' needs. Security was one of them.

"Lord Butterscotch, Sir?" asked one of the sentries, approaching the investigator. "I've been told to escort you to your hotel."

"I've got a plus-one," specified Thunderhoof, indicating Octavia.

Without a word, the guard levitated Thunderhoof and Octavia's saddlebags off their backs and placed them in a cart that was sitting a few yards away. He attached the cart to his own back and trotted forwards. Octavia and Thunderhoof followed.

"You told me that you were friends with Shining Armor, didn't you?" asked Octavia.

"Yes," answered Thunderhoof. "Met him at Saddlehurst, when we were training to become officers."

"So, you're a Major, right?"

"Yes."

"And he's Captain of the Royal Guard. Does that mean that you outrank him?" asked Octavia.

"Not really," answered Thunderhoof. "You see, 'Captain of the Royal Guard' gives you a special status. The Captain is personally appointed by Celestia, chosen from a list of candidates written by the previous Captains, and higher-ups in the forces."

"So a... general could become a Captain of the guard?" asked Octavia.

"It's rare, but it can happen. Generals aren't usually the first choice for a Captain of the Guard. Sure, they can lead divisions and armies, but generally, when you become a general, you haven't seen combat in a long time."

"Makes sense."

"The specific qualities and responsibilities of a Captain are detailed in the Royal Military Protocol," continued Thunderhoof. "The captain must be a fast thinker, a charismatic leader and a brave fighter. His responsibilities, among others, are leading the guard, obviously, managing security, and escorting the First Princess (that means Celestia) to her various meetings during the day."

"Back to the ranks thing..."

"Yes, sorry." Thunderhoof cleared his throat, and continued. "According to the RMP and the Posse Regnum Act, the Captain is supreme commander of all forces posted inside Canterlot City. So if we're at war, and, say, General Delherbe sends troops to reinforce the capital, they fall under the Captain's authority."

"Interesting," said Octavia. "I heard about the Posse Regnum Act," said Octavia. "It's the one that states that the Military can't intervene on Equestrian Soil without parliamentary approval, right?"

"Yes," said Thunderhoof. "Unless the enforcing to be done is directly inside Canterlot, or if it involves the Royals. It also states that only a fifth of all active personnel can be stationed inside Equestria. That means that the bulk of our troops is stationed either on ships or overseas. The entire law was drawn up to limit the military's presence and to prevent society from becoming too militarised."

"I see," said Octavia. "Does that mean you spent most of your time outside Equestria?"

"Yes, and thank the Maker," answered Thunderhoof.

At that moment, the guard halted in front of the Butterscotch Hotel. Without a word, two porteurs came out through the front door and discharged the guard of his load. And after they'd done so, a third unicorn stallion came outside to greet his resident.

"Ah, your Lordship," said James. "I've just finished preparing the bed for you and your..." his eyes met Octavia's. "...guest."

"James?" asked Octavia to the old Maître d'Hotel, uncertainly.

"Milady?"

Octavia rushed to hug her former equerry. "It's been so long!" she said. "How have you been?"

Thunderhoof looked confused. "You know each other?"

"James was my equerry," said Octavia. "Back in Trottingham!"

Thunderhoof suddenly remembered that she'd mentioned him when she'd told him her story. "Oh, yes!"

"After I helped Lady Amazing escape, I was fired," said James. "Thankfully your Lordship had a position for me in the hotel."

"Huh," said Thunderhoof. "I guess fate has a way of just working out."

After Thunderhoof and Octavia had settled back into the hotel, Octavia decided to get herself a quick practice session before the gala started. So, Thunderhoof took that opportunity to go collect Hoofington's report, down at the club. To Thunderhoof, re-entering Hoofington's nightclub was like slipping back into a nice comfy sweater. It was the only place in the whole of Equestria, apart from his room and his office, where he truly felt at home. But something wasn't right. At that point in the afternoon, it was normally serving lunch. But there was a large sign just next to the main entrance, that simply read "Closed".

Thunderhoof got his key (which he had as deputy chairman and forty-nine percent shareholder), and unlocked the door. As he stepped in, he found the club completely deserted, save for Hoofington, who was sitting at a table in front of the stage, pouring over papers of some kind. He didn't seem to be have noticed that someone had just walked in.

"Hello, Hoofy," said Thunderhoof.

Hoofington almost jumped out of his skin, and violently spun around. "Thunder? The hay are you doing here?"

"Why's this place closed?" asked Thunderhoof. "Something wrong?"

Hoofington rolled his eyes in a tired way, and thrust one of the letters at Thunderhoof.

"Dear Mister Hoofington," Thunderhoof read aloud. "We regret to inform you that following our merger with Sangbleu Shipping Company Ltd, we will no longer be able to supply your venue with requested . Yours sincerely, Rice Flower, ex-CEO of TipTop Shipping." Thunderhoof raised an eyebrow. "Well I know that losing a supplier can be bad, but can't you just find another shipping company?"

Without a word, Hoofington slid the stack of letters towards Thunderhoof, who read them all. They were all of a similar nature, from different wholesale companies, and there was a recurring name in all of the letters: Sangbleu Shipping Company Ltd.

"Huh," said Thunderhoof. "I'd say someone is trying to run you out of town."

"Ya think?" asked Hoofington, angrily. "I get these letters from all them wholesale bastards, and all you have to say is the obvious? OBVIOUSLY THEY'RE TRYING TO RUN ME OUT OF TOWN!"

"Hey, calm down," said Thunderhoof.

"I'm sorry," said Hoofington, holding his face. "They all came in this morning, I just don't know what to do..."

"Look," said Thunderhoof. "I've got something going on tonight. How much liquor do you have?"

"Enough to last a couple of weeks at best. But I'm closing up for the night. I just need time to think."

"Alright," said Thunderhoof. "I'll be looking into the supply problem when I can. Just stay strong, okay?"

"Thanks," answered Hoofington. "Now, I guess you want to hear about what I could dig up?"

"If you don't mind," said Thunderhoof.

"My guy in the police told me that the guys you met on the rooftop were hitponies for the Cavallo crime family in Manehattan. Somepony hired them to kill Poppy before he could spill the beans. They don't know who, for now. As for the guys down in Ponyville, they were also part of the Cavallo mafia and had been sent to give you a good beating."

"So what's going to happen to them?"

"Well the Canterlot Police and the Royal Guard were gonna charge all of them with assault, kidnapping, and grave misconduct towards agents of the Crown among others, but unfortunately the affair's come to the attention of, erm..."

"Of whom?"

"Well right now the Pan-Equestrian Criminal Police and the Royal Investigation Bureau are fighting over who gets to take over the case."

"Damn," said Thunderhoof. Not only had he been involved in both cases, but he'd played a central role in both of them. And the last thing he needed was to be under national scrutiny.

"Are you ready to go?" asked Thunderhoof. He brushed a hair off his uniform, and looked at himself in the mirror.

"I am," answered Octavia. She was wearing a gown, made by Rarity in Ponyville. It was a plain white dress, with a simple tiara to go with it. After all, Octavia preferred the simple over the extravagant.

Thunderhoof donned his peaked cap, which bore the insignia of the Royal Pathfinders, and the pair made their way downstairs. James held the door for the couple, and Octavia and Thunderhoof climbed into the carriage that was waiting for them.

"Well I hope this'll go well," said Octavia. "I'd be lying if I said I wasn't nervous."

"Any particular reason?"

"Not really," said Octavia. "Well, there is the issue of... him..."

"Blueblood?" asked Thunderhoof. "Don't worry, he's too self-absorbed to pay attention to anyone else."

"I take it that you've met him?"

"Oh, yes," said Thunderhoof, almost huffily.

After a few minutes, the carriage halted, and the couple exited the carriage. They made their way through the gate, and into Canterlot Castle's main room. It was already packed with notables, who had formed a line to go and introduced themselves to Princess Celestia, as was the tradition. Thunderhoof and Octavia took their places at the back of the line, and the investigator started readjusting his uniform, medals, and cap. He didn't really care about what the aristocrats thought of him, but the princesses' presence made him self-conscious.

"Ah, Thunderhoof, I'm glad you could make it," said Celestia, as Thunderhoof and his date arrived at the front of the line. "And you're Octavia."

Octavia blushed. "I'm very sorry I can't play this year."

"It is quite alright, my little pony," said Celestia, serenely. "One has to take a break now and then."

When that was done, Thunderhoof took a moment to scan the ballroom, maybe spot someone he knew. There were a lot of businessponies, nobles and celebrities, some of which he'd met or had heard of in the past, none of which Thunderhoof liked. All he could see when he looked at them was a bunch of pampered, self-serving and corrupt idiots.

But in the centre of the room, as if their purity of heart made them glow a thousand times brighter, were the six friends. The Elements of Harmony. Voices of warmth and reason in an otherwise cold and unreasonable atmosphere. Applejack spotted Thunderhoof and winked at him. Since she'd learned about what Thunderhoof had done a month ago, she'd sent baskets upon baskets of apples to Octavia's house, always with a kind word.

"Strange," said Octavia in a disinterested manner. "I come here every year, and nothing ever seems to change..."

"True," responded Thunderhoof. "Just to think that everypony strives to be part of the nobility. They imagine wealth, fancy gowns and big houses, when in the end it's nothing but a bunch of wretched, incestuous..."

"Should we get some drinks?" interrupted Octavia. "We're here, might as well enjoy ourselves."

They went to the buffet, and talked to the elegant unicorn stallion who was manning the liquor.

"I'll have an Eleven-Eleven," said Octavia.

"Same," said Thunderhoof.

The Eleven Eleven was a cocktail that had been created for Celestia's 'ones-versary' by some bartender in Manehattan called Mango Twist. He'd probably created it between two hoof fights on a rainy saturday afternoon, and had woken up the next day to find that it had become very popular. It combined many ingredients that 'embodied Equestria and the Princess'. Those ingredients were diverse and there were many of them. Those included Trottingham dry gin, Stalliongrad vodka, and Appleloosan Tequila as the main spirits. That way, the alcohol represented Equestria: vodka for the north, tequila for the south, and gin for the island that everyone thinks is weird. As for the diluents, the drink included maple syrup from Vanhoover, and cream from Canterlot County, and some other odds and ends that somehow made the drink pleasant. The end result was a creamy, sweet cocktail that was as white as Celestia's coat.

"Please enjoy the evening," said the bartender, as he levitated the drinks towards the two guests.

"A bit rich," said the investigator as he took a sip.

"Richer than them?" asked Octavia, sweeping the room with her eyes.

"I said rich," sniggered Thunderhoof in return. "Not disgustingly rich."

They both sniggered into their Collins glasses.

Octavia spotted a white mare, who was speaking to Fancy Pants. "Fleur de Lis?" she mouthed.

"What was that?" asked Thunderhoof.

"I know her!" said the musician.

"Well she is a model..."

"We were at finishing school together!"

"Oh," said Thunderhoof. He looked at the Fancy Pants-Fleur de Lis couple.

Fancy Pants, or The Right Honourable Fancy Pants, Eleventh Viscount of Ponesdale, was mostly a banker, who'd somehow managed to triple his mother's already great fortune. He also ran different charities, had a school or two in Zebrica named after him, owned property. Among the trophies that he'd been given over the years was his fiancée, Fleur de Lis. A supermodel whose father had money problems. And at least there seemed to be some love shared between the two, unlike other spouses at the gala, who seemed to be swung around like Rainbow Dash swings her medals around.

"Would you mind if we separated for a while?" asked Octavia. "I have to catch up with her."

"If you must," said Thunderhoof. "But try not to take too long. Cadance told me to bring a date, and I don't want to disappoint her again."

"Sure," said Octavia. And without another word, she went to talk to her finishing school friend.

Thunderhoof drained his glass, in the hope of making this whole party a little less of an ordeal, and looked around the room, maybe find someone interesting to talk to. It was then that he spotted two very familiar ponies: Haysley and Stableton.

Thunderhoof's elder unicorn twin brothers were standing about ten metres away from him, and were looking at him with matching serious expressions. Just as usual, Haysley was wearing a hoof-tailored suit, which alone had (and that was a fact) cost more than an average working-class pony's week's worth of wages. Stableton was wearing his meek pastor's cassock and collar, a Cadenzian pendant around his neck. They were both very tall and gangly, had emerald green eyes, and light brown manes. It seemed morbidly ironic to see a fawning sycophant so physically and emotionally close to a very virtuous minister.

As they were both looking at him, Thunderhoof felt obliged to walk towards them and at least say hello.

"Hello, brother dear," smirked Haysley, as Thunderhoof approached.

"What's up?" asked Thunderhoof. "Looking for spare change, Haysley?"

"Very funny," said Haysley in return.

"Hello, my brother," said Stableton, smiling slightly as he bowed his head towards his younger sibling. He was about to ask how Thunderhoof was holding up, having given spiritual guidance to Thunderhoof spiritual guidance in the past, but Haysley cut him off.

"Good of you to finally show up, Brother dear," said Haysley. "I have a... message for you. From Father."

It suddenly occurred to Thunderhoof that his father wasn't present, whereas he normally never missed the gala. "Where is he?" asked the investigator.

"Father... he couldn't make it..." said Haysley.

Thunderhoof's eyes widened in shock. "He isn't... is he?"

"No, he isn't dead," said Haysley, in an exasperated manner. "Not yet, anyway," he muttered. "Not that I'd expect you to turn up to the funeral..."

Thunderhoof gritted his teeth. "That's rich, coming from you," he retorted. "Celestia knows you go and see him to keep up appearances. You'd oversleep on the funeral day, but you'd never dare miss the appointment with the solicitor."

Haysley's smirk was replaced with a rather ugly look. His and Thunderhoof's eyes locked for a few seconds, and Stableton was wondering if the investigator was about to punch his brother in the jaw, just as he'd done on at least one public event in the past. But soon enough, Haysley's smirk was back. He gazed over to the right, where Octavia was.

"And who might that be?" asked Haysley. "Is she another one of your whores, Thunderhoof?"

"Octavia isn't a whore," responded Thunderhoof, defensively.

"Don't worry, she'll be a whore once you're done with her."

But as Thunderhoof was about to respond, Stableton interjected. "Please, my brother. Listen to the message we bring."

"I'm listening," said Thunderhoof, his eyes not leaving Haysley's.

"Father's condition is very critical," Stableton explained, with a shaky voice. "When I went to see him, to perform the weekly rites, he told me that he wanted to see you."

"I see," said Thunderhoof. He seemed unfazed, but he was crying on the inside. Despite his efforts to distance himself from his family, he'd always had a great admiration for his 'father'. "I'll find the time to go and talk to him." And, not wanting to spend more time with his brothers than he actually had to, he just said "enjoy your evening," and walked away.

"Don't you think you're going a bit hard on him?" asked Stableton, as he watched his veteran brother walk away. "He needs somepony to guide him, not pound him into the ground."

The major went towards the buffet yet again, and stepped in line behind two stallions, one very large, the other very thin. They were talking, but Thunderhoof was too busy with himself to care about anything else. All he wanted to do was to get a drink to calm his emotions.

"Are you alright?" said Octavia, arriving from the side and placing a hoof on his back.

"Yes," lied Thunderhoof.

"Thunderhoof?" Octavia pressed on.

At the mention of the investigator's name, the two stallions who'd been standing in front of him turned around, and faced the investigator. And the major found himself face-to-face with the Prime Minister, Sir Whinnston Chestnut, and the Chief of General Staff, General Delherbe.

"Thunderhoof, old boy?" asked the Prime Minister, in his usual down-to-earth, booming tone. "How are you?" He forcefully took the investigator's hoof in his own, and shook it profusely.

"Ah, Prime Minister," responded Thunderhoof, shaking himself out of his trance and shaking the PM's hoof in return.

The plump earth pony prime minister was just as Thunderhoof remembered: a deep chestnut coat, an almost nonexistent gray mane, a homburg hat on his head and a huge carrot protruding from his mouth. He was known to be brash and frank, like most earth ponies were. But his unicorn heritage had left a mark, which could be seen through his absolutely fabulous dress sense. He was the son of Lord Dandypants Chestnut, a Trottinghamite unicorn, and Jessamine Jayflower, daughter of a wealthy Manehattan stockbroker. His half-breed status had attracted criticism from several extremist figures within the Fieldist Party, but those voices were quickly silenced when he came to the head of the party several years prior. His popularity among the Equestrian people wasn't what it had once been, and many voices in parliament wanted his resignation. Thunderhoof had worked a few cases for the Prime Minister, in a strictly unofficial capacity. They were both very pragmatic, which was probably why they got along so well.

In bold contrast to his friend, General Rosépine Delherbe was a thin pegasus stallion, with a caterpillar moustache running under his nose and a short graying mane that was hidden by his military beret, which he wore in conjunction with his ceremonial uniform. He was a stallion of a few words, but he chose those words with extreme wisdom. He was a well-respected pony in all classes of society, ranging from the aristocrats in Canterlot to the miners in Griffonstone. A very empathetic stallion, he had a constant worried look etched onto his face. A concerned expression that was comforting. The general seemed to understand whatever you were going through, the way you want your struggles to be understood.

The general ruffled his feathers and extended his hoof towards Thunderhoof. "I remember you, Major," he said. "That Celestia Cross looks good on you," he added, admiring the investigator's many medals.

"Thank you very much, sir," answered Thunderhoof, trying his best not to shed a tear as he shook the general's hoof for a second time in his life. "It was truly an honour."

The PM's gaze drifted towards Octavia. "Ah, Miss Melody!" he boomed, bowing to her. "Are you with Thunderhoof tonight?"

"Yes, Prime Minister," answered Octavia.

"Fine chap, that!" said the PM, patting the major on the shoulder. "A good choice indeed!"

"Well it wasn't really my choice," said Octavia, "but he is pretty charming," she giggled.

General Delherbe was looking increasingly awkward. He seemed to have zoned out. He took a sip from his glass of mineral water, and stared into the abyss of the party, with his permanent look of guilt and concern. As Whinnston and Octavia delved into a conversation about music and arts, Thunderhoof took this opportunity to speak to the general.

"I really enjoyed your last book," said Thunderhoof.

"W-which one?" asked Delherbe. "I'm sorry, I-I have a lot on my mind."

"They fight like bucks but fall as calves," answered Thunderhoof. "You have a certain facility with words, I say."

"I-I do?" asked the general, modestly. "I, uh... just tried to write about what I felt during the war. It's just... ah... I don't know how to put it..."

"It was very relatable," said Thunderhoof. "Those poor souls... there was one particular quote that stood out to me. 'The only difference between an adult soldier and a child soldier is that a child doesn't know right from wrong'. It just says it all, really."

Delherbe smiled. "Looking back, it seemed that the kudu didn't know right from wrong altogether." He sighed.

"I know this isn't really the good place for a heart-to-heart, but I wanted to know, do you feel these emotions too? About the war?"

The general took another sip from his glass. "I'll deny that I ever said this," he said. "But I still... see them. The people who were killed. I just... these poor zebras... and I can't help but think that it was all..."

"Your fault?"

"Yes. You feel them too, don't you?"

"Yeah."

The general and the major stood there in an awkward silence for a few seconds. "If you'll excuse me, I have something to do," said the general. And with no further ado, he trotted away.

"Poor stallion," thought Thunderhoof. "He's got the world on his shoulders..."

Thunderhoof suddenly noticed that Prince Blueblood was present. He was talking with Celestia. He was looking smug as he always did while Celestia looked very concerned for some reason. But Thunderhoof didn't really care for anything that had to do with the fake prince, so he averted his eyes from the conversation. Just to be safe, he went to warn Octavia.

"Blueblood at six o'clock," muttered the investigator, prompting a wide-eyed expression of fear from his date.

"Blueblood, you say?" said Whinnston, peering at the prince. "I wish him no ill," he said, nonchalantly, "but I do think Equestria'd be better off had he never been born."

"If you'll excuse us," said Thunderhoof. "I have to parade my date around to ward off any proposals."

Octavia giggled.

"Suit yourself," said Whinnston. "I have to check up on Delherbe. Fine chap, he just worries me sometimes."

"Until we meet again."

The Prime Minister grunted, and went off to find his friend.

"You didn't tell me that you knew Whinnston," said Octavia, as she and Thunderhoof walked down to the gardens.

"Neither did you," retorted Thunderhoof.

"We met at a painting class in Trottingham," Octavia explained. "He wasn't very good with painting faces. Neither was I, so we sort of kicked it off. I played for his son's birthday last year. How do you know him?"

"Oh, I ran a few errands for him a while ago, and now I'm one of his drinking buddies, basically. Well, it's more complicated than that, but it's all you need to know."

Thunderhoof opened the door to the gardens, and stepped aside for Octavia, before following her outside. The socialites were eating aubergine caviar and drinking Dom Percheron, and mostly keeping to themselves. They went to the very edge of the garden, and looked up at the star-spangled night.

"A refreshment, sir and ma'am?" asked a waiter who happened by.

Thunderhoof and Octavia grabbed glasses, and stood together to admire the night sky.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" asked Octavia.

"Sure is," answered Thunderhoof, who was somewhat insensitive to whatever poetry Octavia was going to conjure.

"The sacred texts describe the stars as... rifts. Gateways between our world and the next. Through which the Creator's energy flows, enabling everything. Life, magic..." she put her hoof on Thunderhoof's. "emotion..."

Thunderhoof started to feel strange. A little over two weeks ago, he had followed Octavia all the way to Ponyville because he wanted to know more about her. And there he was, bringing her to a date. He didn't know her all that well, and despite that... he felt good when he was next to her. It wasn't lust. Or at least not entirely lust. Nor was it love. But it felt like it.

But Thunderhoof was suppressing his emotions. He'd fallen for mares in the past, and every time he had, either him or the other had gotten hurt. But nonetheless, he said "you look beautiful" to her.

Octavia pressed her head deeper into Thunderhoof's shoulder, and her mane brushed against his cheek. "This night... it's perfect. I've never felt like this before."

"Neither have I," answered Thunderhoof.

Octavia leaned her entire cheek onto the major's shoulder, and Thunderhoof leaned his onto the top of her head. He pulled her hoof up, to his chest, and she stroked the soft fabric of his uniform, his hoof caressing hers. It was as if the whole world had just halted, while the pair shared a passionate embrace. Tired of the world, longing for each other.

The major stared up at the moon. And for a second, he was sure that it had turned blue. The fates had seen him sitting alone, without a dream in his heart, without a love of his own. And suddenly, Octavia had appeared in front of him. The only one he wanted in his life. The graceful and mysterious cellist, who had made his heart bleed.

"Please don't let this end," prayed Thunderhoof.

"Please don't let this end," prayed Octavia.

It was when Thunderhoof and Octavia left the garden to go to the buffet table that they finally bumped into Princess Cadance and Shining Armor.

"Well hello," said Thunderhoof, as he saw his cousin's unique mane and Shining's recognisable face."I was beginning to think you wouldn't show up."

Cadance's only response was to jump on Thunderhoof and hug him. "I missed you so much!" she said. "How've you been?"

"Can't complain," answered Thunderhoof. "This is Octavia Melody," he added, putting a foreleg around his date.

Cadance was surprised to see Thunderhoof dating a pony about ten years younger than him. But she shrugged it off, and extended her hoof towards the cellist. Octavia grabbed it and curtsied to the princess. "It is an honour, your Highness."

"Thunder, bro, how long's it been?" asked Shining Armor, clapping Thunderhoof on the shoulder in his trademark 'dude bro' way.

"Have no idea," answered Thunderhoof. He had been friends with Shining ever since Saddlehurst, but as of late they'd grown very distant. For one thing, Shining Armor had that constant chipper, almost 'colt-scout'-esque attitude about him, that was enough to annoy Thunder. Secondly, no-one had ever told him that Cadance had planned to marry Thunderhoof, and that was enough to create some awkwardness on the major's side.

"You haven't changed a bit!" declared Shining.

"Neither have you," responded Thunderhoof. "How's the baby?" he asked, in case Shining was about to inquire about what Thunderhoof had done all this time.

"She's alright," answered Shining. "A bit of a hoof-full, like all babies are, but ya know... you get used to it. She's a bundle of joy, she'll become a great leader."

Thunderhoof nodded and took a sip from his glass of champagne. As Shining droned on about Flurry Heart, a guard came by, whispered something in Princess Cadance's ear, and he accompanied her elsewhere. Thunderhoof was curious as to the reasons for the interruption, but he didn't say anything.

But not ten minutes later, the guard came back, and accosted Thunderhoof. "Your Lordship?" he asked.

"Yes?"

"Their Highnesses have requested your presence in the study. If you'll please follow me,"

"Alright," answered Thunderhoof.

As he tried gesturing Octavia to follow him, the guard specified "Your presence only, your lordship."

"Sorry for leaving you on your own, Tavy," said Octavia. "But I'm needed, apparently."

"Have fun," said Octavia, pecking Thunderhoof on the cheek.

The guardspony lead Thunderhoof through the dining hall, up some stairs, and into the highest tower of the castle. He opened the door to Princess Celestia's study, saluted, and closed the door behind the investigator. In front of him stood Princesses Celestia, Luna, and Cadance. He bowed.

"Ah, Thunderhoof, excellent," said Celestia. She looked uneasy.

"Is there a problem?" asked the investigator.

Luna blinked and jerked her head forwards at the same time, showing some form of irritation in the easily-irritable princess.

"We've summoned you here to provide you with a royal mission," explained Celestia, looking pretty somber, the complete contrary of the image she usually projected.

Thunderhoof, who liked money, was very favorable to a case hoofed to him by a Royal. The crown paid their consultants very well, after all. "I'm listening, Your Highness."

"It has come to our attention," said Celestia, "that the Right Honourable Whinnston Chestnut, our Prime Minister, is unfit to carry out his duties."

Thunderhoof raised his eyebrow. "Yes?"

"And as you know, Royal Protocol forbids us to be directly involved in our country's politics. We can only force an elected official to resign if we have proof of their inability to carry out their duty."

"I understand." Thunderhoof was familiar with Equestrian Constitutional Law and Royal Protocol, so everything thus far checked out. "So why do you need me?"

"We want you to bring us that evidence," said Cadance. Her voice was shaky, just like Stableton's when he'd delivered his message to Thunderhoof.

"So you're going on an assumption that he is unwell," Thunderhoof clarified.

"It's more than an assumption," interjected Luna. "'Tis all over the press. 'Tis on the lips of every single citizen of our fair country."

Celestia looked down at the ground, took a deep breath, and lifted her head towards Thunderhoof. "Besides, his image among foreign leaders is not what it once was. It is in the best interest of everypony if he steps down and lets someone younger take the helm." She laughed nervously.

Thunderhoof took a moment before responding. He looked into the eyes of the three princesses, and noticed that they were all wearing a similar look: one of fear. In fact, he'd know that something was wrong from the moment he'd stepped into the room. It was as if an invisible pony was lurking behind them, aiming an invisible crossbow at their necks. "I hope I'm getting paid well for this," he said, finally.

"Does that mean you'll take it?" asked Cadance, uncertainly. It felt odd. She knew Thunderhoof enough to discern his tone and recognise agreement, but there she was, doubtful.

"Yes. One condition, though."

"Of course," said Celestia.

"An up-front payment of sorts. My friend, who runs Hoofington's Gentlecolts' Club has a supply problem. I want you to keep him stocked until I find a more permanent solution."

"As you wish," said Celestia. "But please, get this done quickly."

Without a word, Thunderhoof bowed to the princesses, and left the room.

"What a night," said Thunderhoof, loosening the cuffs of his tunic and stretching his legs.

Octavia yawned as she got out of the bathroom. She'd changed back into her bow-tie. She picked up her cello, and started playing a melancholic sonata.

Thunderhoof poured himself a glass of gin, and downed it without a word. Then he looked at Octavia. She was back to him, and her elegant curves seemed to glisten in the lamplight. He slowly approached her, and reached out a hoof to her neck. He wanted to undo her neckgear, and offer a night of passion to the mare. But as his hoof almost made contact with her neck, Thunderhoof stopped, and remembered what his brother had said:

"Don't worry, she'll be a whore once you're done with her."

Thunderhoof relented. Now was not the time.

Author's Note

The characters of Whinnston Chestnut and Rosépine Delherbe are directly inspired by two people I admire very much, Winston Churchill and General Roméo Dallaire.

Chapter nine: Back in the saddle.

Thunderhoof's Memoirs

Trottingham. A city of industry, of commerce, of opportunity. A melting pot, where ponies, griffons, zebras, even changelings can come to reinvent themselves. A city where great minds and great inventions have been birthed. A thriving town, where the tradition of the historical sites and residential districts collides with the modernity and innovation of factories and skyscrapers.

Trottingham. A city of debauchery, of crime, of corruption. A last resort, where thugs, thieves, drug fiends, even murderers can come to flee their sordid pasts. A city where fiendish schemes and dastardly plots have been birthed. An ever-expanding mess, where only uniforms separate the policecolts from the criminals they pursue, and amorality is rampant.

There you have it. Trottingham: the good, the bad, the ugly. That's how I see it anyway. I might be wrong, and sometimes I really want ponies to tell me that I am.

As Thunderhoof and Octavia stepped off the boat and onto the dock, the stallion breathed in the polluted air of the city. "Well the smell hasn't changed," said Thunderhoof, as he and his marefriend skipped across a puddle. "Come to Trottingham, and you'll go to hell. For breathing."

"I didn't think my horseshoes from Maris would be walking through the horse dung of Small Heap ever again," responded Octavia.

Small Heap was the city's industrial district. It concentrated several loading docks that faced west, and everything from there to the East Bank of Crowhaven River was covered in factories. Blackchapel was the popular lodgings district, located in the south-east of the city, which seemed to always be engulfed in the factories' smoke. Trottingham'd always had a very small pegasus population, which explained the rain that often covered the Griffish Isles. But it wasn't difficult to understand why no other pegasi had stepped in to clear the clouds, given the black mass that constantly hovered over the city and mixed itself with the clouds. You'd probably drop dead just by flying up to them.

During the Storm King's invasion, Trottingham had managed to hold out against the onslaught, at the cost of widespread destruction that had left many a pony homeless.

Apart from Small Heap and Blackchapel, which constituted the East End of Trottingham, there was the other, wealthier area on the other side of the river: the West End. Of course, there was Albion Shore in the Northwest, otherwise known as 'the white collar district': it was where the hedge funds, investment banks and credit unions were headquartered. Just south of Albion Shore was the area that was simply known as 'the residential district': it concentrated most of the city's bourgeoisie and nobility. There were some pretty expensive shops there too, as well as some fancy restaurants.

There was a third area to Trottingham. Not very big, and not very fancy, but also not particularly dilapidated. Known simply as 'Central Trottingham', it was the perfect middle ground of the city. A place where the poor and the rich met, in many ways. The Centre was the oldest district of the city, and it concentrated some of the oldest and most important buildings of Equestria: the Summer Parliament, where the elected officials of Equestria were seated from March to September, St. Hoovenheart's Cathedral, the towering dome of which had served as a beacon of hope during the Storm King's short reign, and Ponestead Palace, one of the royal family's official residences... It was there that Trottingham had started, in many ways.

"This is gonna seem weird," said Thunderhoof, "but that smell... I kinda missed it."

"Honestly?" answered Octavia. "Me too."

In comparison to the workers of Trottingham, Octavia and Thunderhoof stuck out like sore hooves. The soot-faced, flat-capped Earth Ponies all looked up from their stations to look at the two relatively rich ponies. Some of them could recognise Thunderhoof, mainly because he was the son of an earl and the Earl Blackjack Butterscotch was one of the only nobles who was actually held in high regard by the working class. For the Butterschotch bloodline had a certain reputation for empathy. Blackjack's sons, although not as popular, were held to the same standards. Stableton was popular, simply because he was the local preacher of the East End. Haysley, despite acting purely out of self interest, was pretty famous, if only because he had contributed to bring more employment to the city. And Thunderhoof was respected for one reason, and that was his service in the forces, and his earning a Star of Valour and a Celestia Cross. Recipients of such honours were few and far between.

There was a certain culture of loyalty within the ponies of Trottingham. It was customary for every household to have pictures of the princesses hung on the wall, and celebrate their birthdays as if they were their own. In fact, just after Princess Twilight's coronation, the Trottinghamites had celebrated so much that a bank holiday had been decreed the day after so that the city could recover from its collective hangover.

"Oi, bruv!" shouted a flat-capped earth stallion from across the street. He was leaning against a black coach, eating a carrot stick. "Thunderhoof, innit?"

Without a word, Thunderhoof and Octavia approached, and dumped their saddlebags into the bag.

"Butterscotch Estate, Coltford," said the investigator, as he helped Octavia into the coach, before climbing in himself.

The carriage set off, and after a half-hour of trekking, they entered the Griffish countryside. And there, down the road, was the Butterscotch Estate. Or rather, what you could see of it. Since Rosebud had died, Blackjack had become extremely reclusive, and had decided to hide himself from the world. A thick line of tall cypress trees had been erected on the edges of the garden, barring the view.

The carriage halted in front of the main gate, the coach-puller waited for the gate to be opened, and once it was, he brought the coach to the front door.

The first thing that Thunderhoof noticed was the relative absence of servants, although a single unicorn mare was cutting the hedges, and a tail-coated earth stallion was standing in front of the door.

"My Lord," bowed the butler, as Octavia and Thunderhoof dismounted. "Please, let me escort you to-"

"It's alright, I know the way," answered Thunderhoof. "Please, escort my guest to the music room."

The butler obliged, and Thunderhoof made his way up the stairs. The sound of his hoofsteps echoed and bounced off the walls as he walked, ringing throughout the entire house. The only sound to be heard. It sadly reflected the fact that now, more than ever, The earl of Coltford was alone. The oak wood furnishings were varnished, the rug on the floor just as pristine as it had always been, and the many portraits were all staring at each other, not a piece of dust to cloud their eyes. But there was no-one to see them. Not a soul to appreciate the work that the staff had done on the place. Now that Thunderhoof thought of it, these expensive, lavish props had never been appreciated by anyone. Not even Blackjack or Rosebud had ever stopped to admire and appreciate their wealth. "What a waste," thought the investigator, wondering if he and his future homestead would one day end up the same way.

As he went across the third floor's landing, Thunderhoof stopped in front of a painting, that was different from the rest. He took a while to examine it.

It had been made a few years before. It depicted the Butterscotch family. Standing tall above the rest was Blackjack, wearing that look of boredom that all aristocrats seemed to wear when set on a canvas. He had a stylish brown mane, emerald-green eyes, and wore a tuxedo over his cream coat. Just next to him, with her similar look of boredom, her leg wrapped around his, was his wife, Rosebud. She had a blond mane, and her eyes were a cold steel blue, which was the only trait that Thunderhoof had inherited.

Rosebud's other hoof was resting on the shoulder of her prodigious son, Haysley. He was wearing a three-piece suit and tie, hanky sticking out of his pocket. As usual, he was hiding his cold heart behind a waistcoat and pocket watch. Next to him was Stableton. As usual, wearing his cassock and 'dog's collar'.

And, sitting apart from the rest, his father's hoof on his shoulder, the only pegasus in the family, Thunderhoof saw himself. He was wearing his officer's uniform, a bored and somewhat angry expression etched onto his face. Sitting apart, for he didn't want anything to do with that family.

The canvas made Thunderhoof angry, so the investigator turned away and left the canvas behind. He went over to the door that lead to his father's room, and took a deep breath. He closed his eyes, and listened to his brother, who was reciting a passage from the scriptures that Thunderhoof had heard many times before: The third of the Six Tenets: the Tired Hooves:

"Soothe the tired hooves, that have grown restless by tireless work and endless frustration," Stableton recited. "Wash them with grace and kindness, rekindle their will to work. For you must be tender and even-willed as you guide your sibling to their providence. For there are forces in this world that devour the mind and leave an unwilling soul in its place, unmotivated and weak, incapable of any task. And it is your duty to your brethren to help and guide the pilgrims of fate to their destined task."

Thunderhoof knocked on the door, and entered. Behind it was a scene that was somehow familiar, although this time, the investigator was much more empathetic. Blackjack Butterscotch, the Earl of Coltford, was laying on the bed, propped up against the pillows. He smiled as he saw his third son.

"Ah, Thunderhoof," said Blackjack, weakly.

"Father," responded Thunderhoof.

Stableton gently closed his book of scriptures, and said "I'll be leaving you two now. Bless you, dad." He kissed his father on the forehead, and left the room.

"Please, son, have a seat," said Blackjack.

Thunderhoof sat down next to his father's bed. "How are you feeling?"

Blackjack chuckled. "Please, don't ask me that," he answered.

"Stableton told me that you wanted to see me."

"Indeed he did," said the father. He difficultly pulled himself up to a straight sitting position. "I need to... set the record straight."

"What do you mean?"

"I've been turning it over in my head, and I think you have a right to know," said Blackjack.

Thunderhoof knew what this was about. "Yes?" he asked, apprehensively.

"I am not your father," said Blackjack. "Well, not... biologically, at least."

"I know," said Thunderhoof. "I've known for a long time."

"I'm not surprised," said Blackjack. "You were always very perceptive."

"By any chance," said Thunderhoof, "you don't know who is my... I don't know what to call him... I don't want to call him my father."

"Yet you want to know who he is?"

"Only if you know."

"He was a servant," explained Blackjack. "One of the kitchen staff. I suppose your mother had taken a fancy to him."

"I see," said Thunderhoof.

"You look just like him..." said the father. "I... I would utter a needless word of reproach against your mother, but I daresay you sometimes took the same liberties with the maids, didn't you?"

"What happened to him?" asked Thunderhoof, trying to get back to the main topic of conversation.

"When your mother announced it to me, she pointed out who the father was. I have to admit, he was handsome. And he told me that... Rosebud had ordered him to do it. She'd threatened him."

"And where is he now?"

"I gave him some money and I told him to leave Trottingham, and never come back."

"Well, I suppose that makes me a bastard son of a bitch, then," said Thunderhoof.

Having seldom heard such language, Blackjack was about to say something, but he relented. "I suppose it's beyond the point, Thunderhoof, but I... I still consider you my son, in spite of all that."

"Father... in truth I don't really care about who my biological father is. Whoever or wherever he is, it is of no importance. You are my only father. I'm sorry I haven't spent more time with you."

"It's alright," said Blackjack. "I understand, son. But what is done... or in this case, hasn't been done... hasn't been done. There is no point in blubbering about it."

"You're right... dad."

"One more thing," said Blackjack.

"Yes?"

"Well, I... I've made a decision, and I wanted to tell you about it."

"Let's hear it."

"As you know, the Butterscotch family has a reputation to uphold."

"Yes."

"Well, I am in what we call the evening of life. And, when one does enter this... era, they tend to question themselves. Quite often, they question themselves on whether or not they have done enough to benefit the world."

"I see."

"In my case, I have been wondering about what will come of our family's name. What will come of the Earls and Countesses of Coltford? And I have decided to bequeath everything... to you. The property, the holdings, the title... everything."

"I'm... flattered," spluttered Thunderhoof, surprised. "I truly am, but... why?"

"Because," answered Blackjack, "unlike what Haysley thinks, I know what he's planning to do with the inheritance. I know very well what he is. I know that he wants to make everyone suffer, provided that he becomes wealthier. And Stableton, he... he is a good stallion, but he has a commitment to the church."

"I think that having Haysley inherit was what Mother had planned, wasn't it?"

Blackjack laughed, coughed, and levitated a glass of water to his mouth. "Well, let's foil the hag's plans a second time, shall we?"

Thunderhoof chuckled. "I suppose I don't have a choice."

"Before you go," said Blackjack, "please look over Stableton for me. Don't let him become a victim of his own kindness."

"Don't worry, I will," answered Thunderhoof.

"Thank you," said Blackjack. "Sometimes, I suppose the... shepherd needs shepherding."

"I agree," answered Thunderhoof. "I won't be wasting any more of your time. I'll come to visit you before I leave Trottingham."

"Very well," said Blackjack. "I'll be... keeping an eye on you."

"COURT CONFUSES COMMUNITY, CRIMINALS CLEARED CLEVERLY: CORRUPT COURT?," read the tag-line of the Trottingham Times.

"Yesterday, the first trial of the Special Court for Kudanda was held out at the Haygue Tribunal, in Northern Equestria. The three defendents were Gahji Kumana, Mookit Saffran and Nassir Resandi, three paramilitary commanders of the Kudu Patriotic Front (KPF), one of the militias responsible for the massacre of zebra civilians in Kudanda. Among others, their alleged crimes included Genocide, Grave Infractions to the Laws and Customs of War, and Crimes against Equines. And despite the heavy proof against them and the testimony of several eyewitnesses, the jury of the SCK ruled that the three defendants were not guilty. Canta del Pronto, Prosecutor for the court and a veteran Equine rights lawyer, was dismayed and distraught, commenting that this verdict was "an outrage". She even went as far as claiming that "the entire credibility of the court and its work is put into question."

And an outrage it is. The Kingdom of Zebrica (who saw many of their expatriated citizens die during the war, and who are one of the main financial backers of the court) have already decided to withdraw their diplomats from Equestria. Unconfirmed reports state that Lord Fasu, now former ambassador of the Kingdom to Equestria, has advised other foreign dignitaries to do the same, claiming that Equestria is no longer worthy of anyone's trust.

Amidst all the chaos that the verdict has brought, we, citizens of this fair country, can rightfully ask: is there corruption in the Pan-Equestrian Justice system, once thought of as the purest of all institutions?

Naturally, politicians haven't let this crisis go to waste. Ozzy Mozzy, leader of the Equestria First Party, commented "that is why you can't judge kudu in an Equestrian court! Their natural corruption seeps through the walls and into the brains of our fine judges!" He went on to rant "and no, I'm not arguing the fact that some ponies are corrupt already! I'm not denying that! But if there's one thing I don't like it's having a species in our country that TURNS THE FREAKING JUDGES GAY! Oh, I mean, THAT TURNS THE FREAKING JUDGES CORRUPT!"

A statement that will surely be written down in the pages of history as the funniest of Mozzy's already laughable career."

Thunderhoof angrily crumpled up the newspaper, and tossed it into the waste paper basket on the other side of the bedroom from his bed.

"I'm still wondering what we're doing here anyway," said Octavia, replacing her cello.

"Just working a case," answered the Private Investigator. "I didn't force you to come, you know."

"I know," retorted the musician. "It's just that I was expecting something a little more... romantic?"

Their Central Trottingham hotel room was far from relentlessly ugly, but it was very bland. "Sorry to disappoint." The major sighed, and laid back on the sheets.

Octavia considered her stallion friend for a few seconds, saw the anxious expression on her face, and decided that the stallion needed a bit of comfort. She left her cello where it was, and went to lie down next to him. She huddled up close to the major, and wrapped a leg over his torso. "I'm sorry about the news," she said. "I'm sure it'll be cleared up soon."

"I hope so," said Thunderhoof.

Octavia started gently stroking Thunderhoof's mane.

"Octavia?"

"Yes?"

"Could you..."

Octavia blinked. "Yes?"

"Could you crack my back?" asked Thunderhoof, rolling over.

Octavia giggled. "Sure." She gingerly pressed her hooves on the base of Thunderhoof's spine, and gently pushed. The satisfying pops of Thunderhoof's vertebrae was music to the cellist's ears.

"Ooh, yeah, that's good," grunted Thunderhoof. "Oh, yes!"

Octavia repeated the same process, until she reached the top of the investigator's back. "Now do mine," she said.

Thunderhoof sat up, lifted Octavia onto his lap, and held her in a hugging position, his forelegs under hers. Then, he slowly tightened the lock, until the musician's back slowly popped. "Is that good?"

"Oh, yes indeed..." moaned the cellist.

You don't have no money?
He'll get you some
You don't have no cart?
He'll get you one

You don't have no self-love
You're feeling cold in your own gloves
Well don't you worry buddy
Cause here he comes

Through the pubs and the chairs
And the miles and the streets.
A shadow was cast wherever he stood
Piles of golden bits in his
Red right hoof

The following morning, Thunderhoof woke up early. He got dressed, brushed his teeth, and scribbled a note to Octavia, to explain that he'd gone on a case. Before leaving the room, he gently brushed her mane, and kissed her on the cheek.

Just as usual, the skies of Trottingham were dull and grey. Thunderhoof looked up at the clocktower of the Summer Parliament, took note of the time, and set off down the street to the right.

His goal and how he'd achieve it were pretty simple: get the Prime Minister to resign. But Thunderhoof wasn't quite following the princesses' orders. He'd been tasked with getting evidence of the Prime Minister's poor health, and thus enable them to give him the axe. But, having a certain respect for Whinnston, Thunderhoof wasn't exactly keen on breaking into the stallion's house and get whatever. His approach was more direct. If he could convince Whinnston to step down, that would accomplish the objective without him breaking any laws. And the Prime Minister could step down with honour, which just made the whole thing more bearable for everyone involved.

It was Sunday, and if Thunderhoof remembered the PM's schedule, he usually put that day aside for leisure and quality time with his family. Being a friend of Whinnston's, and having dropped by unannounced in the past, the investigator would have no trouble getting to the Prime Minister. Getting him to resign, however, was another matter. Thunderhoof had already planned his approach, all that was left to do was execute it.

The gates of the Praetorian Street, which was where the members of the cabinet lived, were full of journalists, shouting questions at the policecolts behind it, who were trying very hard to keep a straight face. The investigator nudged his way to the front of the crowd, and waved at one of the bobbies, who recognised him.

Chief Inspector Hayburn nodded, and came towards the gate. "Stand back!" he ordered to the journalists, who weren't listening. He unlocked the gate, and slightly pulled it open to let Thunderhoof through. Some bobbies came to contain the flow that tried to squeeze in with Thunder, almost knocking down their custodian helmets as they did so.

Thunderhoof went through the door to Number 10, and climbed up the stairs to the Prime Minister's office. Knowing of Whinnston's reputation for doing his morning work in bed, he didn't expect to find him there, but fortunately he did. He knocked twice on the door, and entered the room.

But as he entered, Thunderhoof quickly averted his eyes. On a sofa that faced the PM's desk, a mare was laying, and she'd adopted a very suggestive pose. Whinnston was sitting behind the desk, paintbrush in his mouth.

"Don't be shocked, Thunderhoof," said the Prime Minister out of the corner of his mouth. "She's a professional." Then to his model, "chin up, dear."

"And what does your wife think of this?" asked the investigator, accusingly.

"Nothing, much," said a voice from the corner of the room. It was Lady Tangerine Chestnut, Whinnston's wife. She was reading the newspaper. "He's too lazy to cheat on me anyway."

The PM and his wife laughed. "To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?" asked the PM. Then, he said to himself, "the face... I can never manage to get it quite right."

"Official business," said Thunderhoof. "On behalf of the Crown."

Whinnston looked at Thunderhoof and spat out his brush. "The crown, you say?"

Thunderhoof nodded.

Whinnston sighed. "That'll be all for today, dear," he said to the model. She got up, curtsied, and left the room, followed by the PM's wife.

The Private Investigator sat down facing Whinnston. "I'm going to make this short, Prime Minister," he assured. "The Crown knows that you are in no shape to lead this country. They have asked me to gather evidence of your, um... unfitness, but I'm giving you the opportunity to step down by yourself."

Whinnston got a carrot from his box, and stuck it into his mouth. He offered one to his guest, who politely declined. "I see," said the Prime Minister gravely. "Mmh..."

"I need your answer today," responded Thunderhoof.

Without uttering a word, the Prime Minister slowly got up, and went to the window to peer at the journalists who were still banging at the gates. He stayed there for a good thirty seconds, making a few grunting noises as he chewed his carrot. Finally, he regained his seat.

"Strange," said Whinnston. "A week ago, some other... emissary came to me with the same request. Not on an official mission of any kind. But she made her request very clear."

Thunderhoof blinked. "The same request?"

"Mmyes," grunted Whinnston.

"To what end? Who for?"

"I have no idea. Saddlee, Haysington... a lot of ponies want me out of office, you know."

"Don't you think you're being just a tiny bit paranoid, Prime Minister?" asked a thoroughly unconvinced Thunderhoof.

"This has nothing to do with paranoia!" Whinnston snapped back. "My deputy, Anton Gardener, he's being..."

"Being what?" asked Thunderhoof.

"He's being pushing me!"

"With all due respect, Whinnston," said Thunderhoof. "You've had your go. You've done great work, but now would be the good time to..."

Chestnut banged his hooves onto the desk, upsetting his carrot box. He opened his mouth to shout something at the investigator, but refrained from it. He sat back down, and said something more calmly. "Listen to it this way," he whispered. "I believe that someone, out there, is plotting to... take advantage of this office. To use it for their own personal profit! Or someone else's profit..."

Thunderhoof raised an eyebrow. "So, you believe that... whoever might be trying to push you out of office might also be trying to corrupt Equestria?"

"Essentially."

Thunderhoof thought hard of what the Prime Minister had just said. He remembered the uneasy faces of the three princesses when they'd given him this royal mission. Could it be that whoever was or wasn't plotting against Whinnston Chestnut had gotten to the Princesses, and they were acting as puppets ? It was a possibility.

"I was right about Kudanda! I was right about our weaknesses in the North! And I'm right about this!" said Whinnston. "Look, I have a proposition. One I think you'll quite like, Thunderhoof."

"Let's hear it."

"I will resign only when this threat to Equestria has been dealt with."

"Alright," said Thunderhoof. He went on to recount the conditions in which he'd been given his mission.

"Interesting," said Chestnut. "This means we have to act fast. If the culprit has somehow gotten the princesses to do their bidding, that means that they could turn the whole country against us."

"Noted," said Thunderhoof. "I'll start this business straight away."

"Good."

"So, what is that case about, then?" asked Octavia, as Thunderhoof walked into the room.

"Just somepony who thinks that a trusted friend is lying to them," said Thunderhoof.

"Just another boring job, then?" asked Octavia.

"Yeah." Thunderhoof threw himself onto the bed, and rolled onto his back.

"You look tense," said Octavia.

"Do I?" responded Thunderhoof, almost apathetically.

"Is there something wrong?"

"To put it simply," said Thunderhoof. "Have you ever walked into doing something, before realising that you're in way over your head?"

Octavia laughed softly. "Heh... well I tried law school after I left Trottingham," said Octavia. "I was interested at first, but let's say I wasn't cut out for it. At all. Studying rulings from the Supreme court, writing meaningless essays and analyses on historical facts and dated legal documents... I can understand why people can be into that sort of thing, but my heart wasn't in the right place for it."

"So you just gave up on it?"

"Yes. I'd be lying if I told you that I didn't regret my decision at first, but it gave me the opportunity to play the cello for a living."

"I see..."

Octavia frowned. "Has this got anything to do with your case?" she asked.

"In a way," said Thunderhoof. "I've just got a bad feeling about it all."

"And do you want to give up on it?"

"No."

"Maybe you should. Give them their money back, and tell them to find someone else."

"I can't," said Thunderhoof.

Octavia was becoming increasingly concerned about the nature of Thunderhoof's case. "Is there something you aren't telling me?" she asked.

"Some things are best kept to oneself," responded the major. "I mean, I like you very much, but I have to keep some secrets." He grinned to his marefriend, who, after considering what her stallion had just said, smiled back at him.

"Fair enough," she said, putting her concerns to the back of her mind.

Thunderhoof looked at his pocket watch. "Lunch?" he asked. "I hear they make a good wedge salad."

Chapter ten: The backroom backstabber

Thunderhoof's memoirs

I'd be lying if I told you that I firmly believe Whinnston's whole conspiracy theory. But it seems crazy enough to be plausible (if that makes sense), and Whinnston seems to actually be convinced of it. He promised to resign if I uncover the pony behind it, and he has a reputation for honesty. Getting him out of office and into retirement is what I'm getting paid for, so I’m prettty sure Celestia will be pleased with it.

He seems convinced that whatever this conspiracy is, his deputy Prime Minister and Foreign Secretary Anton Gardener has something to do with it. Gardener has been in Whinnston's shadow for a long time, and it's common knowledge that he wants to be the next PM. If I knew no better, I'd say that it's a good enough motive for him to be a suspect, but he doesn't seem to be the sort of stallion to conspire. He's suggestible, if not outright gullible, and weak. Physically and mentally. I don't think he is the conspirator I'm looking for. Or at least if he is, I am sure that he isn't acting alone.

"POINTLESS PERIODICALS: FEELINGS FOIL FACTS," read the tag-line of the Trottingham Times.

"With the controversy about the Special Court for Kudanda monopolising the press as of late, it can be healthy to take a step back and poke fun at a convenient target: People and Lifestyle magazines.

Since 'The Weekly Beak', a Manehattan-based fashion and lifestyle magazine, was taken over by Sangbleu Publishing, it has been pumping out more and more obscene, offensive, and downright shocking material than any other periodical of the same genre. Among its most controversial articles are ones such as "The whore of the East Coast", which slandered the mayor of Manehattan, and "Pumping Armor", which made very intrusive and personal remarks about Princess Cadance
and her consort's private lives. Both articles' contents were very damaging to the ponies involved

The mayor of Manehattan and Princess Cadance, although initially upset by how the articles had treated them, were ultimately indifferent to them. In an official statement some time ago, the mayor stated "what can I say? Free Speech is a double-edged sword after all."

"There's that name again," thought Thunderhoof. "Sangbleu..."

An earth pony wearing a tweed suit and flat cap sat down next to Thunderhoof, who was sitting on a bench, muzzle buried deep in a newspaper. "What you sayin' mah G?" he asked.

"'Ite, bruv, you been doin' bits?" answered Thunderhoof. He folded the newspaper. "What you sayin?"

"Pone's got yer info," said the earth stallion. "Pone heard your stallion's in 'hospital."

"Is he ill?"

"Stallion's got bare illness, yeah," said the informant. "Reckon he won't be back for a while. "

"Do you have his address?"

"Yeah, stallion lives in the endz. West endz." The informant got a piece of paper out of his pocket and gave it to Thunderhoof.

"Alright," said the PI. "Here's your payment." He got a bag of coins out of his suit jacket and gave it to his informant.

" 'Ite mah G, gotta go. If the fuzz ask we never met, yeah?" The informant trotted away.

Thunderhoof checked the paper, and took notice of the address. Anton Gardener lived in a big house on Haysington boulevard, in the west end.

Thunderhoof's objective was to intrude into the Foreign Secretary's house, and find a clue as to why he would want Whinnston Chestnut out of office.

Unlike the rest of Their Highnesses' government, Anton Gardener lived away from Praetorian Street, where he could be shielded from the prying eyes of the journalists. His poor health, which was even worse than Whinnston's for that matter, was known of throughout the population and had attracted a lot of unwanted attention. He was also known to be Whinnston's successor. Now that Thunderhoof thought of that, it didn't make much sense that the princesses were trying to give Whinnston the axe because he was unwell. Whinnston's thesis started to make a lot more sense.

Thunderhoof sat on a bench, and observed Anton's century-old house from across the street. The Foreign Secretary's mansion had been built between two others, and his stuck out as the biggest. It had three floors, and Thunderhoof knew exactly what to expect on each one. Having been to several statesponies' homes before, he knew that the ground floor (first floor to continentals) was the house's atrium, and the place where most of the care goes. A living room, a dining room, a trophy room and maybe a music room somewhere. The first floor (second floor to continentals) was where the statespony usually worked: an office, and probably a few other rooms that are of no interest anyway. Finally, there was the second floor (third floor): that was where Anton Gardener slept.

The two floors that were of any interest to Thunderhoof were the first and second. Entering would be relatively easy. A single, almost token policecolt was standing guard in front of the door. However, the investigator couldn't enter through the front door or one of the balconies. He couldn't risk being seen breaking into a house in broad daylight. Least of all the Foreign Secretary's house.

Therefore, Thunderhoof had two options: either he could wait until the fall of night to enter, or he could find a more discreet way of entering. As he didn't want to leave Octavia alone at the hotel for too long, he decided on the latter. He went into a secluded alleyway, and took off into the sky. Once he was above the clouds, he dove down to the roof of the minister's house, aiming for one of the chimneys. Just as he was about to go through the hole, he slowed down, placed his forelegs forward, and slid right inside.

Soon enough, the investigator found himself in the middle of a spotless hearth. He brushed a bit of soot of his jacket, and stepped onto a handsome crimson rug. A grandfather clock was ticking, and two comfortable-looking chairs were facing the fireplace. The whisky-filled decanter, the tumblers that were disposed around it, and the military medals that were on display indicated that this was Anton Gardener's living room. A half-empty cup of cold tea on the coffee table indicated that the maid wasn't there and hadn't been there for a while. If one was scheduled to come in today, Thunderhoof would hear her enter.

As nothing really was in his way, the private eye made his way up the stairs to the first floor. Once there, he found a large door, which had a plaque on it that simply read "office". Carefully, Thunderhoof pushed the door open, and stepped into the room.

Gardener's office was just as Thunderhoof had pictured it. The Foreign Secretary's desk was placed perpendicularly to the balcony's French window, and on the mantelpiece behind the desk were pictures of Princesses Celestia, Luna, Cadance and Twilight. A framed picture of a mare that had at a time been on the mantelpiece (judging by the gap between two of its' ornaments) lay discarded atop a pile of month-old periodicals. A more discreet (and unframed) picture of a different mare lay on the desk.

If any evidence of the Foreign Secretary's sycophancy existed, it would surely be within this very room. So Thunderhoof had a look around. Not at all concerned with time, the investigator arrogantly went around the room, taking note of every detail.

"Now, now, Anton, what are your secrets?" thought the investigator, almost sarcastically, taking in the diverse papers that littered the desk. Before focusing on the top of it, Thunderhoof elected to search the drawers, to see if he'd find something interesting. He opened the top drawer, and found a carved wooden box, which was sitting on top of a set of files. Curious, the detective extracted the box, and gently opened it. Inside were two syringes, full of a pale white liquid.

Thunderhoof wasn't surprised. Stories of Gardener's substance abuse were pretty common after all. However it did bring back the question of how Gardener could possibly be judged as healthier than Whinnston. Thunderhoof turned his attention to the letters on the desk.

Most of them had been piled and set in a corner of the desk. In the middle was an unfinished letter addressed to 'Daisy'. Many a mare was called Daisy, and the letter seemed to be a heartfelt one, so Thunderhoof elected to stay out of it. However, a cleanly opened envelope had been set aside from the rest, and put in the corner of the desk, stocked under a paperweight, meaning it was important somehow. Intrigued, Thunderhoof picked the envelope up, and extracted the letter from it.

"Dearest Anton,

I really do not wish to seem too insistent, but I think it would be best for you and for Equestria if you moved onto W.C sooner rather than later. He has caused countless scandals already, and his health is worsening from day to day. Make no mistake, I look up to the stallion, but when one has to go... one has to go! Equestria needs a refreshing and dynamic Prime Minister, who can still stay true to principle and to the Fieldist Party's ideal, and I think that you can provide this balance.

Speaking of which, somepony working in the Stableist party's office told me that the leader of the opposition will be calling for a vote of no confidence if W.C doesn't step down soon. It is therefore a matter of national stability that you gain access to the office before the radicals do. Alternatively, my contact told me that some stallion has been put on the case, with the goal of taking him down. He might be in touch. You've been in Chestnut's shadow for too long, Anton. It's your time to shine.

If you wish to discuss methods and tactics directly, I am in Trottingham until the end of the month. I have a room at The Prudence Bathhouse, you can meet me there.

Warm Regards,
H. Sabot"

The contents of the letter were disturbing. They confirmed what Thunderhoof had thought. Anton Gardener was involved in a conspiracy to oust Whinnston Chestnut, and there were other ponies involved in it. First and foremost was 'H. Sabot', whoever that was. Moreover, the letter referenced someone who had been 'put on the case', presumably with the aim of taking Whinnston down. Was the letter talking about Thunderhoof himself? It seemed likely.

Thunderhoof now had to discover who 'H. Sabot' was and why he wanted Chestnut out of office. The letter by itself could explain the endgame of all of this: get Whinnston out of power in favour of Anton, who, in spite of everything, was younger and more diplomatic than the current fieldist leader. But H. Sabot was not a congresspony or a noble (that Thunderhoof knew of anyway), and that meant that somepony could have a private interest in the deposition of Whinnston Chestnut, which in any situation was never good.

All in all, Thunderhoof decided that he had to get to the bottom of this. And the worst part of this whole letter, to Thunderhoof at least, wasn't that Whinnston was at the centre of a conspiracy or that he might have been on the brink of participating in it at some point. It was simply the place where H. Sabot was staying: the Prudence Bathhouse.

Brothels seemed to naturally grow around the distilleries of Trottingham. Or was it the other way around... no-one truly knew. But one of them seemed to compliment the other. These two were the flour and yeast of Trottingham.

Just past Sadler Street, a stone's throw away from the Blackwood Bottler's company, stood the pinnacle of all debauchery in Trottingham. The place where gangsters, policecolts, and politicians found something in common. The place where virtue died by the minute, if not the second. The place where many a pony would enter to satisfy their urges, without ever confessing to doing so. The end of the East End: The Prudence Bathhouse.

In a way, the bathhouse was an island of wealth in an archipelago of poverty. Unlike other brothels in the East End, only the rich could afford Prudence's services. The crème de la crème of Trottingham. Did that somehow make the place better than the other brothels around town? That wasn't very likely. The personnel that staffed the corridors of the bathhouse couldn't be more different from the ponies that came to buy their services. Colts or fillies, mares or stallions, unicorns, pegasi or earth ponies, in the end their biology and characteristics didn't account for much. In the end, they were all the same under the surface: ponies out of options. Fillies and colts from distant farmyards. Mouths that couldn't be fed. In the end, they were all victims of someone. They'd all somehow arrived at Prudence's, and had been whipped into meekness, into submission.

Even "The Right Honourable" Thunderhoof had bathed in Prudence's debauchery, at a time. Several working mares were standing around Sadler Street, showing off their worn-out yet beautiful features to the passing investigator, who was trying very hard not to pay any mind to them.

"Streetwalkers," thought the detective. "Only rats can spread disease faster than them."

He was wearing his newsboy cap and a grey tweed suit, trying to look inconspicuous. For the first time, he wasn't entering to be serviced. Instead, he wanted to get in, meet 'H. Sabot", whoever that was and get out again.

An abnormally large amount of policecolts were hanging around Small Heap's favourite brothel on that particular day. Thunderhoof, who had at some point been a regular of Prudence's, had never seen more than two constables there. Thunderhoof reasoned that they were probably under the wing of some notable who was taking care of his urges inside. Probably Sabot.

Thunderhoof looked around to check that no-one was looking, and sneaked a peek at the upper floors of the bathhouse. More policecolts had been deployed on the balconies and terraces.

"Like what you see, darlin'?" asked one of the courtesans, showing off her curves to a police officer.

"I am very sorry, Miss, but I am on duty," answered the constable, courteously.

"Are ya sure, darlin'? Don't you want to sneak away to have a bit of fun?"

"And risk losing my job? Shove off!"

"Well I'm sorry," said the courtesan, visibly offended. "I'm just doing my job!"

"As am I," responded the policecolt. "Now go away."

As he walked by and heard that conversation, Thunderhoof started wondering whether or not the city of Trottingham could be saved from the vice held within her.

Soon enough, Thunderhoof found himself in front of a pair of familiar wrought iron gates, with a sign running next to them:

Prudence Bath House and Massage Parlour
A sophisticated Establishment for sophisticated ponies
Open twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, all year around!

Underneath that charming introduction was a list of rules that Thunderhoof knew very well. He just strode through the gate, and entered the building proper.

The décor of Prudence's was rather charming in its classicism. It was fairly elaborate, with several paintings, a red and crimson colour scheme, with some comfortable red velvet furniture, and a handsome industrial-era clock that had just chimed.

The investigator walked towards the front desk, and knocked on the redwood surface to catch the receptionist's attention.

"Good day, sir," said the receptionist, adjusting her glasses as she came to the desk. "What service can we provide you with today?"

"One hour, one pony," said Thunderhoof, drily.

"Can we interest you in our Frustration package? It includes-"

"No."

"Very good, sir. Which worker and room will you choose?" she asked, getting the ledger. "I'm very sorry, but the second floor is out of bounds until next moon."

"Spring Quill," answered Thunderhoof, immediately. "And that's okay, I'll take the silver room."

"Very well, she'll be there shortly," said the receptionist. She called a bouncer over, who accompanied the major up the stairs, and to the handsome door of the silver room. As they climbed up the stairs, Thunderhoof caught a glimpse of the other set of steps that lead to the second floor.

Two beefy policecolts were standing guard at the foot of the staircase. But they weren't just any kind of policecolts. Those two had a special insignia stitched to the foreleg of their tunic. It read "RTCSR" or "Royal Trottingham Constabulary Special Reserve". That unit, just like the defunct RCCSR in Canterlot, were a special branch of the Royal Trottingham Constabulary, was in charge of large-scale riot response, response to threats, and assistance in case of invasion. In effect, they were more like a paramilitary force than a branch of the constabulary. The fact that they had been deployed to protect the bathhouse's special guest was most intriguing. Close protection jobs were usually given to the Escort desk of the RTC, if they weren't already being hoofed by privately hired bodyguards.

"Make yourself comfortable, sir," said the bouncer, holding the door open for the major, who stepped in. "Spring Quill will be with you shortly."

Thunderhoof looked around at the room that was so familiar to him. At some point, this room and its comforts had almost been a second home to him. Unlike some of the more expensive rooms in the brothel, the silver room retained the overall style of the building itself, but the furniture had been built upon that style to make it look nice. It was circular, and its balcony had a nice view onto the ocean. If one had a good eyesight, they could just spy the eastern beaches of the Celestial Sea.

Figuring that he'd be in the room for a little while, the investigator got rid of his jacket and newsboy cap.

The door opened. A frail earth mare entered, yawning. The sound of her hooves gently tapping the floor was like music to the investigator's ears. She had a flaming red, curly mane, a turquoise coat, and eyes that went through different shades of grey. It saddened Thunderhoof to see that she was still there, to see that beautiful face and that beautiful body, which had both been abused beyond imagination, standing there.

"Hello," she said, smiling. She'd always been very sweet to the customers of the brothel. The makeup that covered her face also masked the bags under her eyes.

Thunderhoof looked squarely at the courtesan, and gave her a courteous smile.

"Thunderhoof?" asked Spring Quill, surprised beyond measure. Her smile changed to a face of concern. "I wasn't expecting to see you here."

"Neither was I, to be honest," answered the investigator.

"Well, it is what it is," said Spring Quill, before locking the door, advancing towards Thunderhoof, gently pushing him onto the bed, and sitting down next to him. She seized the major's left foreleg and started massaging it. "You paid for an hour, right?"

"Yeah," answered Thunderhoof. "It's been a while."

"Well I'll say," answered Spring.

"Have they been treating you well?" asked Thunderhoof.

Spring Quill looked up at her customer, shooting bolts out of her eyes. "I already told you, I don't need you to care for me."

"Just asking for an update," retorted Thunderhoof defensively.

"It's been alright," said Spring. "What about you? You're a lawyer now, aren't you?"

"Private eye," Thunderhoof corrected.

Spring Quill snorted. "Yeah, you always had a thing for other people's business."

"Yeah," admitted Thunderhoof. "That's just me, innit?"

"What took you so long?" asked the courtesan.

"Huh?"

"It's been years."

Thunderhoof looked down at his non-massaged hoof, trying to avoid any vision of the courtesan's body. He didn't answer.

"I'd assumed that you were dead," said Spring. "Where were you?"

"Scattering my sorrow in the heartless sea."

"What?"

"It's not important."

"It is to me," retorted the worker. "You promised to come back for me. To get me out of this mess."

"I thought you didn't need me."

"I don't," said Spring. "Not anymore. I've learnt to... fend for myself."

Thunderhoof stayed quiet. He didn't want to know what Spring Quill meant when she said that.

"But why did you come back?" she asked.

"Because I need something," answered Thunderhoof, frankly.

Spring Quill didn't know what to say. She was a little upset that the client who hadn't kept his promise would come waltzing back in after so many years, not to apologise but by interest. At the same time, she couldn't really blame him. She had her problems, he had his. And, when all is thought about, Thunderhoof always paid well for whatever he bought. "I'm listening," she said.

"I've heard that you have a special guest staying here," said Thunderhoof.

"Yeah, we do," answered Spring Quill. "The madame hasn't talked about anything else for at least two months. And he's rich enough to get a whole floor reserved. For a whole month, nonetheless."

"And do you know who he is?"

"Nah. Reckon he's just some rich guy killing time. I know I've seen him here before, though," Spring Quill answered.

"Had any visitors?"

"He was supposed to have one today. Tea, cakes, the whole shebang. But the guy didn't show up, so he's alone for now. Why?"

"I want to talk to him," answered Thunderhoof. "Help me or don't, your choice."

Spring Quill stopped massaging the investigator's hoof, and looked up at him. "I can help you. But it's gonna cost you."

"Alright," said Thunderhoof. "What do you want?"

"That depends entirely on what you need."

"I want access to the second floor."

"Why do you need me, then? Why don't you go ask one of the policecolts to let you through?"

"I saw the coppers on the second floor balconies, and there's no way these lumps are letting me through."

"I still don't know what you want."

"You know the layout of the second floor, and you've probably seen what's there. Also, I need to get there undetected."

"The coppers are barring the exits. That means the stairwells and the balconies. But they aren't anywhere on the floor, unless they're moving from one place to the other. If you want to get there undetected, you can use the private stairwell. There's a bathroom that connects the main structure to the stairwell, you can use it. I've got the key. I can give it to you, but you'll have to pay me first."

"What'll it be?"

Spring Quill looked at Thunderhoof, rubbing her right leg with her left hoof. She looked at the ground, then at the ceiling. "Why did you leave?" she asked, finally. "Why did you leave me here, when you promised that you'd come back for me?"

"Very well," said Thunderhoof. "I suppose you have a right to know."

"So?" asked Spring Quill. "Tell me."

"The war happened," said Thunderhoof. "It did something to me. I became... violent. And that... was that. I just couldn't risk hurting you. You couldn't see me like that. And the more time I spent away from you... the more I thought I didn't deserve you."

Spring Quill stayed silent for a few seconds. She felt sympathetic towards the stallion, but she was also angry. What sort of excuse was that? She got the key from her belt, and chucked it at Thunderhoof, who caught it. "Take it," she said. "Take it, and never come back."

"Fine," said Thunderhoof. "Goodbye," he added, as he gathered his clothes and went through the door to the main room. Looking to his left, Thunderhoof found the bathroom, and made for it. He entered, and immediately found another door, to his right. He was about to unlock it when he heard hoofsteps on the other side. Thinking that everything would be better if no-one saw him, he rushed to one of the old-fashioned cubicles, and pulled the curtain back, leaving a small gap between the fabric and the wall to peep.

Two courtesans entered, one slightly younger than the other. The older one locked the door behind her. They went to a sink on the other side of the room, and looked at themselves, putting on some more makeup.

"I don't even know where I am anymore," said the younger one, before opening a bottle of medicine and shoving a few pills down her throat. "Hurting all over."

"Don't worry, you get used to it," responded the older one. Then, looking at her coworker, "you've got a black eye, lass."

"I know. Nothing some makeup won't cover."

"Good girl."

"So what's that Sabot stallion about, then?" asked the newbie, covering her injury with foundation that matched her coat.

"Well he's rich, and... mostly clean, so that's a good thing. And he's polite too," answered the older courtesan.

"Whitelock told me that all she did was massage his hoof and talk about politics with him."

"There are some in this place who really do get paid for no work. Like those coppers. Three days, they've been here, haven't seen one move an inch."

"Mmh-hmm." The younger courtesan dabbed at her eye one last time, blinked into the mirror. "How do I look?"

"Like an angel. Come on, let's get to work."

Thunderhoof saw the two mares leave the room, and got out of his hiding spot. He went to the door that lead to the stairwell, unlocked it, and accessed the staircase itself. He went up one floor, and entered the bathroom that was just above the one below. Then, he went over to the main room.

As Spring Quill had said, the floor was completely deserted. The detective slowly went around the room, inspecting the different doors and making sure to avoid the windows. As he was about to stick his ear against the door to the Gold Room, however, the french window to the balcony opened, and two custodian-helmeted stallions emerged. Thunderhoof ducked behind a conveniently-placed thin screen.

"Do they have a bar, here?" asked one of the Specials.

"I know a good pub down the road," said the other. "They've got some good ale. Do you think the boss'll mind if we go for a pint?"

"Nah, it's fine. It's lunch time, innit?"

"Guess you're right. Sabot hasn't left that damn room anyway."

"So what's he doing here anyway? Doesn't he run mines or sommat?"

"Got a cousin who's made foreman in one of his silver mines, down in Griffonstone. Says they're almost dry."

"Huh. Can't say I blame 'im. I'd be drinkin' and shaggin' if I knew my wallet was aboutta go bust."

"Guess that's the plan. Wait out the end 'ere, and throw 'imself into the river once it's done, eh?"

"Yeah."

Thunderhoof waited until the two coppers had disappeared down the stairs, and went to inspect the door to the room. He could hear two voices, one male and one female. But some chamber music was playing, so the investigator couldn't make out what they were saying. Thunderhoof realized he would have to get inside physically if he wanted to know more. He went over to the newly deserted balcony, stepped out onto it, and trotted around to the room's backmost french window. It was closed and the curtains were shut. However, just above it was a smaller window that was open.

Thunderhoof leaped up, and silently squeezed through the opening. He landed on the soft carpet behind the bed, and peeked around at the two ponies.

There, wearing a waistcoat and shirt, a watch's chain sticking out of the pockets, was an earth stallion. He had an undercut brown mane that was waved to the side, and a beige coat. Standing in front of him was one of the courtesans.

"Who should I be today, sir?"

"Ugh," said the stallion, in an upper-class Manehattanite accent. "The archbishop of Canterford-Upon-Crowhaven, for all that it matters."

The courtesan giggled. "Some have compared me to Princess Cadenzia, Sir."

"Cadance," said Sabot, a tone of hatred in his voice. "I too would be laughing about now if I'd been hooved some barren, crystal-rich lands to mine. I wouldn't be having to sell all my belongings and fire my servants."

"I didn't want to offend you, Sir," apologised the courtesan.

"No, it's alright. Tell you what, that's actually a good idea. I'm going to teach her a lesson," he said, maliciously.

"Do you want me to dress up, Sir?"

"Yes, do that. Wear a crown, or something."

The courtesan curtsied, and left the room.

Thunderhoof took that opportunity to confront Sabot. He pulled his hanky out of his breast pocket, tied it around his muzzle, and walked over to Sabot.

"So you're Sabot," he said, in an intimidatingly deep voice.

H. Sabot spun around, and faced Thunderhoof. He seemed shocked, but his expression turned back to normal within seconds. "Oh," he said. "Yes. Who are you?"

"Someone," answered Thunderhoof. "Someone who's trying to get to the bottom of your little scheme to oust the PM."

"I have no idea what you're talking about."

"That's not what your letter to the Foreign Secretary says," said Thunderhoof.

"What? How did you? That isn't-"

"Come on, don't insult me," said Thunderhoof. "Now you're gonna answer my question: why?"

Sabot gulped. "I... would you believe me if I told you I didn't know?"

"No, I wouldn't."

"Look, I'm not the one who wants Chestnut out of office. It's all... it's bigger than me. It's bigger than you... whoever you are."

"Then tell me, what's your interest in all of this? Why are you even here? What's the endgame?"

"I was coerced into all of this," answered Sabot. "Some stallion came to me, told me that he knew my mines were running dry. It's no secret, after all. But he told me that if I helped them get rid of the PM, they'd give me lands, full of untapped resources. All I had to do was motivate Anton Gardener into taking over."

"So that's what you're doing."

"Look, I didn't want anything to do with this. But they threatened me."

"How so?"

Sabot shook his head and sighed. "If I told you, I'd have to kill you."

"So it's blackmail, then?"

"Yes."

"I'm willing to believe you," said Thunderhoof, cautiously. "But you're going to tell me who is blackmailing you."

"No."

Thunderhoof was about to threaten Sabot, but he thought it'd be better not to antagonise him. "I'm not about to threaten you, to be clear," he clarified.

"Oh, how kind," chuckled Sabot. "But, ya know..." Sabot went over to a decanter, and poured himself a tumbler of rye (Thunderhoof could tell by the smell), and dumped an ice cube in the amber liquid. "I suppose getting killed is preferable to getting my whole livelihood ruined. So go ahead, knock yourself out if you so wish."

"There must be something you know about them. If you help me, I can get you out of this mess."

"I don't know where to start," responded Sabot. I don't even know their name. But I can... take you to them."

"Deal," Thunderhoof said. "Do that."

Sabot lead Thunderhoof to the desk. "The police guarding this place, they aren't here to protect me. They're here to make sure I don't leave. One of them acts as a courier between me and... them. If you follow him, he'll take you to them."

The tycoon got a quill, and as he was about to put it to paper, there was a knock on the door. "Sir?" said the courtesan. "I'm ready."

"Just a minute," said Sabot. "Can you get the policecolt by the front door?"

"Yes, sir."

Sabot hurriedly wrote a letter, shoved it in an envelope, sealed it, and waited for the policecolt to arrive. "Well I suppose it's the good time to tell you that if you get me out of this mess, I'll be extremely grateful to you. Also, it'd be better if you left before they see you."

"I know," said Thunderhoof. "Until we meet again. Which, and I mean this in a very professional way, I hope we never have to."

"Likewise."

Thunderhoof flew off the balcony, and landed in an alleyway. He trotted over to the front of the establishment, and sat on a bench, discreetly surveying the front door.

A few minutes later, a Special wearing a saddlebag left the building, and trotted through the front gate and down the street towards the distilleries, checking his six o'clock every so often. Thunderhoof flew up to the rooftops, and followed the constable from there. He went through some dingy alleyways, and once or twice he looked up to the sky, but saw no-one there, so he continued his trek. It was around lunch time, and most creatures in the city were either getting a lunchtime pint or simply weren't anywhere to be seen, making Thunderhoof's job much easier.

After about ten minutes, the copper arrived in front of a pub, dumped the saddlebag at the hooves of an earth filly, who picked it up and raced down the street. The filly skipped all the way to Trottingham Bridge, and gave the bag to a griffon. The griffon flew up into the air, across the river into Central Trottingham, and dropped it near a suited unicorn stallion. The stallion loaded the bag onto his back, and went all the way to John Cantering Boulevard.

Thunderhoof was very intrigued. It seemed that whoever was to receive the letter, and ostensibly put up this entire courier network, was obsessively precise with what they did. "Haven't had this much fun in ages," the investigator thought to himself, observing the suited unicorn from his newest rooftop.

The unicorn stopped at the end of the boulevard and entered a generic upper-class tea house, the sort that seemed to grow out of the cobbles in West Trottingham.

Thunderhoof flew down, walked to the tea house, and arrived just in time to hear the unicorn say, "delivery for mister B," before leaving.

The investigator had struck the core. He waited for a few minutes, before entering. He removed his cap, and adopted his upper-class manners again.

"Good afternoon, Sir," said the receptionist, once Thunderhoof had attained the front desk. "Do you have a reservation?"

"No," said Thunderhoof. "But Mister B is waiting for me."

The receptionist bowed. "Ah, of course, your Lordship. Your brother is waiting for you down there."

Surprised, Thunderhoof managed to smile courteously at the receptionist, who lead him to a tea room. He opened the door, and bowed again as Thunderhoof entered, closing it behind him.

Sitting on the sofa was none other than Haysley Butterscotch. Thunderhoof was mildly surprised that his own brother would be involved in the plot. But after a bit of reflection on the matter, this was the sort of thing that the investigator expected him to do.

He looked up from the very letter that Sabot had hurriedly written. "Ah, brother dear," he said. "You're a bit late, but I see that you received my letter."

"Yes," lied Thunderhoof, who was more confused than surprised at that point. "What do you want?"

"Unsurprisingly, I am in charge of monitoring your progress with that Royal Mission," said Haysley. "What have you gathered thus far?"

"Uh..." said Thunderhoof. "Nothing workable, thus far, I'm afraid."

"Mmh, I see," responded Haysley. "Well, you are carrying out a very important mission, I'll leave you some latitude in how you schedule your work." He chuckled almost heartily, in a way that just didn't seem his own. It rubbed Thunderhoof the wrong way. "If worst comes to worst, I can have the Foreign Secretary lend you a hand."

"I'll be fine," said Thunderhoof. "I do have a question for you, though."

"Alright," said Haysley.

"What's your interest in this?"

"Excuse me?"

"Come on," said Thunderhoof. "We both know you wouldn't touch this with a six-feet barge pole if you didn't have something to gain from all of this."

Haysley folded the letter and placed it on the table. "Well it seems that I've underestimated you again, brother dear." He started wiping his glasses. "And I won't insult your intelligence by denying it. Yes, I will be profiting from all of this, in ways that are... simply beyond your comprehension."

"How beyond?" asked Thunderhoof.

"This whole affair is beyond your comprehension, and I will not waste time explaining how and why," retorted Thunderhoof's elder brother. "You have your part to play in it. Play it good, and you get paid. That's all you need to know."

"Fine," said Thunderhoof. "I'll... keep you posted." But as he was about to make for the door, he put an ultimate question to his brother. "One last thing," said Thunderhoof. "Whatever this scheme is, it seems... ingenious. Did you put this all together yourself?" he asked, faking an impressed tone.

"Oh, please," said Haysley, too flattered to realise that he was playing into his brother's trick. "No, no, I didn't come up with this. You could say that... certain ponies just wanted my talent."

"I see."

"Prime Minister?" asked Thunderhoof, walking into the PM's office.

Half-slouched over his desk, two bottles of brandy sitting next to his papers, one empty and the other half-full, was Whinnston Chestnut. "Ah, Thunderhoof, old boy," said Whinnston.

"I've come to report my findings."

"Fill us in, old boy," said Whinnston.

"You were right, Sir," said Thunderhoof. "Someone is conspiring against you, and as you thought, Sir Gardener is involved."

"Ah," said Whinnston, getting a fat carrot. "So my... hunch was right."

"I'm afraid so," said Thunderhoof."I inspected Gardener's house, and found this letter addressed to him." He placed the letter from Sabot on the desk, and Whinnston read it. "I went to find this Sabot stallion, who claimed to have been coerced into influencing Gardener to take over."

"Coerced by whom?" asked Whinnston.

Thunderhoof hesitated, before finally saying "my brother, Haysley, among others."

Whinnston Chestnut looked up at Thunderhoof in disbelief. "Really?"

Thunderhoof sighed and nodded. "I'm afraid I had to... break a few legal barriers to get this."

"I can imagine," remarked the Prime Minister. "But never mind, this won't be a matter for the courts."

"Haysley did say that he had been approached by somepony else to do this," said Thunderhoof.

"So, to summarise," said Whinnston. "Some unknown party, through Haysley, is trying to get me out of office, for the benefit of some mystery guest we know nothing about."

"Sounds about right," said Thunderhoof.

"Mmh, yes..." grunted Whinnston. "But at least it isn't all doom and gloom," he added. "We know they're after me, and whatever... ignominious plot they're preparing, having me out of commission is important for it to work. That means that I can slow them down by refusing to resign. At least for now."

"In the meantime, I'll try to get to the bottom of this," stated Thunderhoof.

"Be careful, now," said Whinnston.

"Thunder, is that you?" asked Octavia, as she heard her coltfriend walk into the bedroom. She was playing her cello, back to the door.

"Yes, it's me," answered Thunderhoof.

He sat down on the bed, opened his suitcase, and extracted a bottle of gin. Its label read "Butterscotch Family Gin: distilled for the curation of seemingly incurable sadness." Thunderhoof ripped the cork off.

Octavia sniffed the air. "I smell juniper," she said, before spinning around. "Are you going to share?"

"Sure," said Thunderhoof. The investigator poured two glasses of gin.

"Cheers," said Octavia.

Thunderhoof downed his glass of gin, while Octavia delicately sipped hers. "Something wrong?" she asked.

"No," lied Thunderhoof. "I'm fine."

"Are you sure?" asked the cellist.

"Yes."

Octavia considered her coltfriend for a few seconds. "Look, you can lie to the other mares that you've dated, but I can see you aren't well."

"What makes you say that?"

"I just know it, alright?" Octavia placed her hoof on her coltfriend's arm, and stroked it gently. "You can tell me when you're not okay. Don't be afraid, alright?"

"It's far beyond my understanding," retorted Thunderhoof. "Let alone yours."

"But I can try to understand," said Octavia.

"Tavy, I..."

"Please?"

Thunderhoof sighed. "Fine," he said. He went on to recount everything that he'd learnt thus far. Octavia listened to him with baited breath, her eyes wide.

"So your brother is leading the conspiracy?"

"No, he said that he'd been approached by somepony to do all of this," answered Thunderhoof.

"And that thing with the judges? It's related?"

"It could be."

"Oh, dear..." said Octavia. She took another sip of gin. "What are you planning to do?"

"I don't know," answered Thunderhoof. "Haysley is my only lead. And if I ask him too many questions he'll get suspicious."

"I understand," said Octavia. She stayed silent for a few seconds. "You could try... you know... squeezing it out of him?"

Thunderhoof looked up at his marefriend. "What do you mean?"

"You could try confronting him with what you have," said Octavia.

"I don't have any solid proof, just an eyewitness account from myself," responded Thunderhoof.

"Or you could... blackmail him?"

"With what?"

"Come on, you've known him for almost thirty years, surely you have something!"

Thunderhoof thought about that last statement. Octavia was right. There had to be something that Haysley didn't want known, or something he wanted more than anything else...

And then, it clicked.

Chapter eleven: Backup's backed down

Thunderhoof's memoirs

This deployment wasn't supposed to change anything. I had been to war before. How would Kudanda be any different?

How would the enemy be any different from the bandits of Griffonstone or the rebels of Saddle Arabia?

But it was. And they were.

General Delherbe said it himself: the rebels had a cause, and the bandits, less so, but they at least fought for self-preservation. In war, that's as good a reason to fight as any, as far as I'm concerned. The Army of Kudanda and its militias, they didn't have a cause. They killed. They sought to destroy, nothing more. They were fighting against an exploitative system that was long gone anyway. The generals and politicians today look back at this slaughter with regret, and shame. "Looking back," they say, "we should have done things differently. We should have intervened sooner, when the massacre wasn't yet happening." But it isn't how it works.

"I hope things are quiet between here and the capital," said Captain Rosebush. She levitated her brush, dipped it in a small container of polish, and expertly applied it on her hoof.

"They should be," responded Thunderhoof, who was reading a book titled 'Sublime Zebra Rhymes'. "Or I suppose we'd be somewhere else by now."

"Fair point." Rosebush rubbed a cloth on her hoof until it was shiny. She looked up and saw that Major Thunderhoof's kit and tunic were still dirty. A few hours ago, he had gone down the valley to help a Lieutenant of Engineers to build a bridge. "I shall tell one of my fusiliers to clean your kit," she said.

"No need," responded Thunderhoof.

"As you wish. But an officer ought to look smart in front of the soldiers," she said.

Thunderhoof chuckled. "I'll get to it soon," he claimed.

Rosebush got to her newly-polished hooves, and stretched like a cat, cracking her back. Thunderhoof peered over the tip of his book, and looked at the captain. She looked very pretty, from her two shining hooves, to her deep blue coat, to the sheen of her flaming red mane.

"Oh!" she exclaimed. "I almost forgot, congratulations on your commendation!"

"My what?" frowned the major.

"You haven't heard?" said Rosebush, surprised. "It was in the papers yesterday. You know, when you and your Rangers captured this place. Apparently General Delherbe has recommended you for the Cadance Gallantry Medal."

"Oh," said Thunderhoof. "No, I... hadn't."

"Well now you have," smiled Rosebush. She donned her officer's cap, and levitated a clipboard in front of her. "I'll be on my rounds," she said. "I'll see you at choir tonight." She saluted, and left the hut.

Thunderhoof looked at the captain as she went towards the refugee's barracks with her zebra interpreter, Lieutenant Foday. She had served in the logistics corps before being transferred to an infantry regiment, so naturally she was in charge of allocating rations to the refugees who were too weak to move forward. As he had nothing to do, and that book of zebra rhymes was starting to bore him, the major donned his khaki tunic, grabbed his pipe and herbs, and left the hut.

For a fortnight, since what he'd seen at Pundaville, Thunderhoof hadn't been able to sleep properly. After a brief visit to the doctor's, he'd been prescribed a mix of smoking herbs to soothe him. They were pretty calming, but they seemed less and less so after two weeks' repetitive use.

The major passed the makeshift drill square, where the soldiers were preparing for the noon inspection, and went to his quiet spot, just outside the entrance. He sat down on a rock, and started packing his pipe with his mix. It included muellin, skullcap and coltsfoot, with a touch of mint to make the flavour more interesting. He packed the pipe, squashed down the herbs with his tamper, struck a match and ignited the mixture.

The sweet aroma of the herbs filled his mouth, and the smoke slightly burnt his trachea as it made its way into his lungs. As he blew out the fumes, the white wisps danced in front of him before vanishing into the air.

"The kudu are silent," pondered the major, as he contemplated the horizon. "Is it the end? Or is this... a calm before the storm?" He frowned. "No, no. It can't be... or at least I hope it isn't..."

Thunderhoof stayed there for a good ten minutes, puffing away at his pipe. The herbs were somewhat damper than was ideal for smoking, so he had to reignite them a fair few times.

As he puffed away, Thunderhoof saw two pegasi approach from up ahead. They bore the Wonderbolts' blue uniform. They landed inside the guardpost. The major wondered what exactly they were there for.

And not a moment after Thunderhoof had emptied his pipe's ash onto the ground, a bugle call sounded the assembly. The major hurriedly stored his pipe, and ran to the drill square of the guardpost. Colonel Mayflower was standing next to the bugler.

"Ten-shun!" shouted the mutton-chopped Colour Sergeant Hardyhoof. The ponies stamped their right forehooves and held themselves straight.

"Alright, people," shouted Mayflower. "Sky patrol's just informed me that a kudu column is headed towards our position. There are about two thousand of them. We're outnumbered, and we have no chance to win this one. We're evacuating this outpost. I want everypony ready in ten minutes!"

Thunderhoof followed the colonel and the two Wonderbolts back to commandant's hut, and shut the door behind them.

The colonel levitated a suitcase onto his desk, and started packing. "Get something to eat and drink, and go back to the base camp. Tell them we're evacuating," he said.

"Yes, sir," the two wonderbolts said in unison. They left the building.

"Colonel?" asked Thunderhoof, once the Wonderbolts had left.

Colonel Mayflower turned to face Thunderhoof. "Major?" he retorted. "I am slightly preoccupied. Is something wrong?" The unicorn levitated his pens, pencils and papers off the desk, and stuffed them into his case.

"Why are we evacuating?" asked Thunderhoof, glaring at the commandant.

The colonel turned around a second time, eyebrow raised. "I believe that my announcement made it pretty clear," he said. He looked through the window at the confused-looking zebra refugees who were being ushered out of their barracks and into an orderly line. "We need to get them out of here before the kudu arrive."

"How did they get through to here without us noticing?" asked Thunderhoof.

"They're the natives, they know these lands better than us. Dismissed."

"Our orders are to hold this line, Sir," objected the major.

"They might well be," said Mayflower, "but I have an obligation to protect these refugees from harm."

"And what, evacuate an entire garrison?" retorted Thunderhoof.

Mayflower paused his packing, and looked up at the ranger. "I... Well... have you ever been to staff school, Major?"

"No, Sir."

"And you dare question my choice?"

"Sir, ordering an entire garrison to escort a slow moving convoy of zebras through a valley, with no-one to hold the foe back at the chokepoint... it's suicide!"

"I said, dismissed!"

"And as you said, they know these parts better than anyone! They'll catch up with you in a matter of minutes! And I've seen the kudu charge, they can run way faster than ponies!"

The colonel rolled his eyes. "Listen, if we get out of here soon, we won't even have to care about them," responded Mayflower, trying his very best to be calm. "No-one of us has to die here today."

"You don't know what you're talking about!" said Thunderhoof, through gritted teeth. "If they get through this post, we're all dead!"

"Alright, that's it!" snapped Mayflower. "When we get back to the base camp, I'm writing a report, I'm having you court-martialed!"

"Oh yeah? On what counts?"

"Insubordination!"

Thunderhoof's demeanor went from angry to smug. "Fine," he spat. "I'll make sure you get there in one piece, then. Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go assemble some volunteers."

"What?"

"The Royal Military Protocol states that unconventional troops can commandeer willing outsiders to their units if need be."

The colonel's eye twitched. He knew about that particular law of the protocol. "As you wish," he said, venomously. "But as you'll soon discover, courage and delusions of a moral high ground don't account for much when you're outnumbered fifteen-to-one."

"Sounds like good odds to me," retorted Thunderhoof, mockingly saluting the colonel and leaving the hut.

Lieutenant Hoofington was waiting just outside the colonel's hut, along with eight other pathfinders, and the two airponies.

"Airpony!" snapped Thunderhoof at one of the Wonderbolts

"Yes, Major?" he asked.

"You go back to base and tell them to send a relief force," ordered Thunderhoof.

"Yes, Sir."

"On the double," specified Thunderhoof.

The airponies took off and flew towards the base camp.

"So what are the orders?" asked Hoofington.

"Rangers never yield," responded Thunderhoof. "McCanter, Hoofington, you go up that hill and observe, come back when you have eyes on them. The rest of you, start fortifying this palissade."

The pathfinders nodded, saluted, and got to work. Thunderhoof flew up to the top of the Colonel's hut, ruffled his feathers, and bellowed at the rest of the camp. "Listen up!" he shouted.

The infantry ponies looked up at the major.

"As you know, a kudu column is advancing on our post. The colonel has ordered our evacuation, but I have elected to hold the kudu back!" he shouted. "If they get past this outpost, they'll run down this valley, and they'll catch up to you. And they'll kill every single last one of these refugees!" he pointed at the zebras, who were lined up just next to the southern exit of the post. "But if we hold this line, all of them may very well live!" shouted Thunderhoof. "They will get to reunite with their families! Those of you who wish to put yourselves at risk, to give these souls another chance at life, step forwards!"

The company's colour sergeant took one look at the refugees, then at Thunderhoof, and moved forwards. He raised his hoof to the brim of his helmet. "SIR!" he shouted. "I am at your command!"

Inspired by sergeant Hardyhoof's courage, and by the Ranger's speech, more ponies moved forwards, and stood at attention. In all, there were about fifty volunteers. The rest would be escorting the zebra out of Antler's Drift.

Thunderhoof descended from the roof, and went to change into his battle uniform. He entered his hut, to see Captain Rosebush doing the same.

"What are you doing?" asked Thunderhoof.

"I'm volunteering," answered the captain, fastening the strap of her helmet.

"But..." protested Thunderhoof.

"But what?"

"You don't... have you ever been in a battle?"

"Well we all have to start somewhere."

Thunderhoof thought of protesting. He didn't want Rosebush to get hurt. But in the end, it was her choice. "Very well," he said, hoofing the mare her crossbow. He got out of his formal uniform, and donned his combat one: olive-green fatigues, reinforced horseshoes, and his green pathfinder beret. As he fastened his utility belt, Rosebush levitated the crossbow towards him. Thunderhoof took it under his wing, and they both left the hut.

"Alright, this is it!" shouted Thunderhoof to his men, seeing the kudu antlers shine as they came atop the hill.

The major scanned the ranks of the enemy. There were well over a thousand of them. They were confident, armed with spears and clubs, and their hate for zebras trumped their fear of death. They were getting ready to charge down the hill, then back up at Antler Drift's garrison.

Anyone would have expected at least one soldier to come out with the line "I didn't sign up for this", but truth be told, the soldiers of Equestria knew that this was exactly what they'd signed up for.

Everypony was silent, looking ahead, sometimes shifting their eyes towards the Major, Captain Rosebush, Lieutenant Hoofington or even Colour Sergeant Hardyhoof, expecting one of them to say something.

A solid line of spear-wielding kudu had formed atop the hill, their antlers shining as they seemed to contemplate the enemy before them. And at that moment happened something that would change Thunderhoof forever. Something that made him lose his will to fight.

From under the adult kudu, who had formed a formidable line, and from their sides, advanced smaller creatures, similar to the large ones in every way. But those ones didn't have antlers.

"Calves," Thunderhoof breathed. "Child soldiers!" he exclaimed.

Everypony looked at him.

Thunderhoof had heard the rumours of child soldiers within the ranks of the kudu militias. But he had hoped that he'd never have to confront one, let alone a column.

"What d'we do?" asked Hoofington.

"They're trying to make us doubt," said Thunderhoof. "They're trying to make us hesitate."

"Those bastards!" interjected Rosebush.

"I'm sorry to do this to you, soldiers," said Thunderhoof. "But if we have to kill them... that's what we'll do."

The ponies did not utter a word. They knew that this was necessary.

From across the hills, the kudu started chanting. It was a mournful chant at first, that Thunderhoof had heard before. But as the song progressed, the tone of the song went from mournful to increasingly violent. They tempered the whole song with the stomping of hooves, and their characteristic barks.

Thunderhoof knew the lyrics to the song. Or at least, what they meant in Ponish. It's title was "We shall wash our antlers in their treacherous blood".

The stomping, the barking, the gnashing were getting louder and louder. With each stanza, the hair on the ponies' backs would stand up a little straighter. They were terrified, facing an enemy who was ten times as hateful and destructive as they could ever be.

"Do you think we ponies can do better than that, Rosebush?" asked Thunderhoof.

Rosebush sniggered. "They've got a very good bass section," she said. "But no top tenors, that's for damn certain."

Thunderhoof looked at Hoofington. "Lieutenant, if you'll give us the key..."

Hoofington smiled, nodded, and whistled the melody of the Rangers' anthem. If there was an occasion to use those choir sessions, it was now.

Thunderhoof started singing.

"Hark! I see the foe advancing!
Savage hooves the ground are pounding!
Antlers in the sun are 'dvancing,
To this battlefield."

The rest of the garrison was hesitant to join in the singing, but as the rangers all sang, Colour Sergeant Hardyhoof contributed his bass voice to the choir.

"You, our noble 'Questria's finest,
Know that freedom rings the loudest,
Freedom, marching, proudly chanting,
"Rangers never Yield!""

In a matter of seconds, everypony was defiantly singing, and couldn't hear the kudu's chant anymore.

"Shall their voices, wailing,
Now be unavailing,
Soon, to rouse, who never yet,
In battle's hour were failing!

Ranger Ponies march to glory,
This will ever be your story,
Keep these burning words before ye,
" 'Questria scorns to yield!"

Ranger Ponies, halt your resting,
Can't you see their antlers gleaming?
Quick, and deadly, foes are streaming,
To this battlefield!

Ranger Ponies, stand ye steady!
It cannot be ever said ye,
For the battle, were not ready,
Rangers, never Yield!

From the hills, rebounding,
Let the war cry sounding
Summon all at 'Questria's call
The mighty foe surrounding!

Ranger ponies onto glory!
This will ever be your story!
Keep your fighting words before ye,
"Rangers, will not yield!""

As if enraged by the ponies' posturing, the kudu shouted their battlecry, and set off down the hill. Thunderhoof turned to the Colour Sergeant, and nodded.

"Company will fix bayonets!" shouted Hardyhoof. "Fix..."

The soldiers of the garrison reached for their bayonets.

"Bayonets!"

The soldiers brought their bayonets to the tips of their crossbows, and, in unison, inserted the knives.

"Atten- SHUN!"

The entire company stood at attention.

The kudus reached the very bottom of the valley, and started effortlessly charging up the hill.

"At one hundred yards!" shouted Thunderhoof.

The soldiers loaded their crossbows, and rested them on the top of the sandbags.

"Volley fire present!"

The soldiers aimed down the sights of their guns at the solid line of kudu.

"FIRE!"

Thunderhoof woke up, gasping, teary-eyed. He sat up, and looked at his alarm clock. It was seven AM. The detective sighed. Had what Fluttershy said even helped at all? He'd sworn to himself that he would one day move on from this, and seek help. And whatever he seemed to do it never helped. He felt Octavia's hoof rub his back. "It's alright," she said. "Just a bad dream, alright?"

"Yeah..."

Octavia hugged her coltfriend. "It's okay. You're safe now."

Thunderhoof snorted. "Yeah." But at the same time he thought "tell that to my memories."

"I think it's about time you tell me about your dreams," said Octavia, firmly and gently at the same time.

Thunderhoof hesitated. "Alright, fine," he said. "It was during the war- the Kudandan war, I mean. The Army's main task was to ensure the evacuation of some zebra refugees. We had a whole network of paths used for evacuation. During a recon operation with the rest of my squad, we discovered a Kudandan outpost, nestled in a valley. General Delherbe, who was the operational commander, realised that if we could move the refugees through the valley we could shave an hour or two off their travel, and this outpost could provide an ideal location for a makeshift field hospital, in case some of the refugees were wounded. So our order was to take it."

"So, what happened?" asked Octavia.

"That was what we did," answered Thunderhoof. "General Delherbe sent fifty Rangers with me at the lead to take the settlement. We took it, and the army used it as Delherbe intended. A couple of surgeons set up shop, we fortified the palissades, and a whole infantry battalion was posted there."

"I think I know the rest," said Octavia.

"Huh?"

Octavia got to her hooves, and went to her suitcase. She opened it, shifted a few items, and found what she was looking for: a newspaper page. She went over to her coltfriend and gave it to him.

It was a half-decade-old page from the Official Equestrian Gazette. It bore several nominations for awards. Amongst them, he found his own:

"Her Royal Highness Princess Celestia, By Grace of the Fates Prime Princess of Equestria, Head of the Pan-Equestrian Commonwealth, Defender of the Equestrian Protectorates Beyond the Seas, Supreme Commander of the Equestrian Forces, Defender of the Faith, has been graciously pleased to approve the award of the Celestia Cross to:

96839125587 Major Thunderhoof Sparklemoore Mountague Butterscotch, 1st Pathfinder Platoon, The Ranger Regiment.
62573618527 Captain Filomena Thorne Rosebush, Coldriver Guards, 51st Regiment of Infantry (Fallen for Equestria).
47291673281 Corporal 1st Class Bighton Haybyrne, Coldriver Guards, 51st Regiment of Infantry (Fallen for Equestria).
97847518656 Ranger Ridgemoore McCanter, 1st Pathfinder Platoon, The Ranger Regiment (Fallen for Equestria).
84236754186 Guardspony 1st Class Gustave Lefoin, Coldriver Guards, 51st Regiment of Infantry (Fallen for Equestria).

At 1236 hours, on the 6th day of August, Major Butterscotch's unit, which was posted at Antler Drift Guard Post, received news that a thousand-strong kudu column that had thus far evaded surveillance was on its way to Antler Drift. Despite the garrison commandant's intention to commit all of his soldiers to the evacuation of zebra refugees who were present, Major Thunderhoof elected to assemble volunteers and conduct a last-ditch defence of the outpost.

At 1311 hours, as kudu spears and antlers were spotted across from the outpost, Thunderhoof and Captain Rosebush lead a volley defence from the front, placing himself in danger of getting killed.

The actions of Major Butterscotch and his posse ensured that the convoy of refugees arrived safely at the base camp. General Delherbe, field commander of the Kudandan Theatre, even claims on accounts of his own strategic expertise that Butterscotch's actions were essential to their survival.

Major Thunderhoof Butterscotch could have retreated along with the garrisoned troops, thus leaving the field of battle. His duty did not require him to conduct such a heroic defence, and he and his troops were well aware of the dangers that lay in relentlessly defending Antler Drift Guard Post, proving that his and his squadmates' actions were well beyond the call of duty, and deserve national praise and recognition.

For utmost courage and leadership well beyond the call of duty, exercised in the face of the enemy, the aforementioned soldiers of Equestria are to be awarded the Celestia Cross."

Next to the article was a picture of Thunderhoof, wearing his uniform.

Thunderhoof stared at the article for a few seconds. "You... kept this?" he asked.

"Yes," beamed Octavia. "I kept track of you, for all those years, remember?"

She expected Thunderhoof to be happy, or at least express some form of gratitude. But all that happened was that Thunderhoof dropped the paper on the ground. He was shaking.

"Thunder?" asked Octavia.

Thunderhoof's eyes were wide in shock. He was staring at the wall opposite, muttering something to himself.

"Thunderhoof?" repeated Octavia. She reached a hoof out to him, but he slapped it back.

"Don't touch me," said Thunderhoof, breathlessly.

Octavia stared at her mate, alarmed. "Th- Thunderhoof?"

The major's eyes began to water. A few tears rolled down his muzzle and dropped onto the ground. He buried his head in his hooves. "I'm sorry," he said. "I'm so, so sorry." He tried reaching out to Octavia, but it was her turn to move away from her mate. They looked at each other, and for the first time, Thunderhoof saw distrust in his marefriend's eyes. He felt ashamed. He felt wrong, disgusted with himself.

Octavia considered him for a minute. Her instinct was telling her to run, to leave Thunderhoof before he became too violent. But her deep-seated respect and knowledge of Thunderhoof told her that this fit of anger was a result of his experience, of something that was now beyond his control. He needed someone, and Octavia was that someone. She cautiously put her hoof on Thunder's back, as if testing the temperature of her bathwater. And when she saw that he wasn't reacting violently, she started rubbing gently. "It's okay," she said. "I forgive you, alright?"

"Thanks," said Thunderhoof, placing his head on Octavia's shoulder. "It's just... this paper doesn't tell everything."

"It doesn't?"

"The kudu," said the major. "They weren't just adults. There were calves too. The youngest of them were about... I'd say five years old at most. Out of their minds, following the grown ones' orders. It didn't feel right." He shuddered, holding Octavia closer to him.

"I can only imagine," said Octavia. "And I'm sorry for you, Thunderhoof..."

"It's... It's just so... horrible."

Octavia put a hoof under her coltfriend's chin and brought it up to face hers. "You did what you had to do. You're a hero. Nothing less, alright?"

"Thanks, Tavi," smiled Thunderhoof. "But I... I can't help but think about what would've happened if..."

"Thunderhoof," interrupted Octavia. "What did Fluttershy say, when you went to visit her in hospital? She told you to move on. She told you to stop bucking yourself for what happened. I think it's about time you did that. Don't you?"

"I guess it is," answered Thunderhoof. He smiled. "I'm glad I have you in my life."

"I'm glad I have you in mine," responded Octavia, smiling serenely.

Chapter Twelve: Don't be afraid to love again.

Thunderhoof's memoirs

At the end of the day, I cannot really say that I'm surprised by the fact that Haysley was using blackmail to get whatever he wanted. It fits into his character, I suppose. And off I am to blackmail him myself. Hurrah.

The comb ran through the silky black mane until it was sleek and straight, almost flowing like a river.

Octavia gently put the comb down, and turned around to look at Thunderhoof. He was sitting at the desk, completely silent. The only sound that could be heard was the one of his quill scratching the paper.

"Writing your memoirs?" asked Octavia, nonchalantly.

"No," answered Thunderhoof. "Just a few letters. Don't forget to pack your things tonight."

"Uh-huh."

Thunderhoof carefully folded the two letters, and delicately placed them in their envelopes. He scribbled the addresses, and let them sit on the top of the desk. Peering over his shoulder, Octavia could barely make out 'The Right Honourable Earl Butterscotch' on the topmost one.

"That's a very solemn way to address one's father," thought the mare.

A loud whinny sounded from outside. The detective picked up the letters and stuffed them into his pocket. "I'll be off now," he said, walking over to his marefriend and kissing her on the forehead. "See you in a bit."

"Be safe," answered Octavia, nuzzling her coltfriend.

Thunderhoof left the hotel room, and went downstairs to the bar, where a mug of tea and a newspaper were already waiting for him on the bar. He gulped down the brew, picked up the newspaper and went out into the street where he climbed into the carriage that was waiting for him, pulled by one of his father's employees. "Haysley's," he said.

"Ite, sir," answered the coach-puller, setting off down the street.

As the carriage went around a corner, Thunderhoof picked up his newspaper and read it.

"Perspicacious Prosecutor Pronto: Court Closed due to Corruption," read the headline of the Trottingham Times

"The Right Honourable Canta del Pronto, prosecutor for the Special Court for Kudanda, has announced that the council for prosecution has demanded more time to study the evidence and make their case, therefore adjourning the court for an indefinite amount of time.

In a surprise press conference yesterday, Pronto announced that her council would retire 'until outside influence within the court is purged from the court itself.' A surprising, yet natural move for her to take, given the fact that the SCK's last verdict sparked a diplomatic incident between Equestria and the Zebrican Kingdom. Lord Fasu, ambassador for Zebrica, has declared the prosecutor's decision to be a 'smart move'. However, Fasu did temper his praise of Zebrica with a stern warning to the court itself. He warned that 'if [the Special Court for Kudanda] did not resume and hoof out just punishments for the war criminals' , Zebrica would demand custody of the accused and try them on their own terms.

Given that the Special Court for Kudanda is the first court of its kind (i.e an international court designed to render global justice), this could spell disaster for the future of so-called 'international law'. Canta Del Pronto therefore has a lot of pressure on her shoulders. "

From his hilltop house, Haysley looked down at the city of Trottingham. No-one knew it, but from his vantage point, the unicorn stallion could spot every single house and business that his family held; name the political majority and House representative for every constituency; he could even name every preacher of every parish in the city.

It was almost safe to say that not even a bit could change hooves in the city without Haysley knowing.

The unicorn smiled at himself, and brought his glass of cognac to his lips. He took a gulp, raised his hoof, and slowly swept it across the view. "Small Heap North. Stableist. Baleton," he thought. "Small Heap South. Fieldist. Hayfew. Albion shore. Fieldist. Hoofsley. Blackchapel-"

A roll of thunder interrupted Haysley's internal monologue. "I own this place," he said to his invisible conversation partner, disdainfully. "I own it and everything within it."

The cream unicorn turned around, and made his way to his desk as the rain started to pour down, making sure to step on each tile only once. That was a preoccupation that he couldn't chase from his mind.

Sitting down at his recently varnished desk, Haysley slightly shifted its ornaments, ever so slightly to the right or to the left. Everything had to be in order. He then donned his glasses, and picked up his work where he had left off. Unlike his brother Thunderhoof, Haysley was very invested in the management of the family business. He dipped his nose into about everything: accounting, acquisitions, research and development... if there was a department, he was the one to micromanage it. In his mind, he had already inherited of the holdings, and was therefore free to act as he pleased.

Once he'd finished writing letters, marking certain employees as 'expendable' and dipping into the company profits to organise a riot at one of the Haysingtons' wire-cutting shops, Haysley picked up his diary and opened it at the following day, to check if there wasn't something he could do to optimise his schedule. As he brought the tip of his hoof to '6:15 AM: shower, he remembered that he was almost out of honey-almond coat scrub. He made a note to his butler to buy more.

A secretary walked in. "Sir, your brother Thunderhoof is here to see you."

"Ah, excellent," responded Haysley. "Send him in."

The secretary left, and Thunderhoof entered. Haysley was pleased to see that despite Thunderhoof's military discipline and general air of well-kemptness, his mane was still messy and he had bags under his eyes. Overall, Thunderhoof didn't look as good as he did.

" 'Ite bruv?" asked Thunderhoof.

"Please, don't bring this street talk into my office," said Haysley, irritably, putting his ears back. "Now, brother dear, what do you have for me?"

"Questions."

Haysley looked up at his brother. "What?"

"Yes, questions," responded Thunderhoof.

"What sort of questions?"

"Does the name 'Sabot' mean anything to you?" asked the investigator.

"What? No."

"Come on," said Thunderhoof. "Promises of rich silver deposits... blackmail... you must know something about it all."

"I don't know what you're talking about," said Haysley, huffily.

"Don't lie to me," snarled Thunderhoof. "I followed that string of emissaries back to your tea house. I know they brought that letter to you."

Haysley's face twitched, and for a few seconds, he wore a murderous look on his face. But it soon reverted to its natural, arrogant self. "Fine," he said. "Yes. I did blackmail him. But you can't prove anything, and you're not getting anything from me."

"Then tell me one thing," said Thunderhoof. "What are you getting from this?"

"I already told you," said Haysley, irritably. "Profit."

"And how? What's your plan? Why do you want Chestnut out of office?"

"All I can tell you is that it's necessary."

"I didn't want to do this," said Thunderhoof. "But you're not exactly leaving me a choice, Haysley. Either you tell me exactly what the endgame is, or I'll go to see Chestnut with what I have. Tell him about how my brother, and him alone, wants him out of commission."

Haysley's murderous gaze was back. "Well, well, brother dear," said Haysley. "It seems that I've misjudged you once more. It's funny. I, as well as other ponies who've hired you... we've always seen you as little more than... a pawn."

"I feel offended," said Thunderhoof, sarcastically.

"Well, maybe not just a pawn. A rook. A bishop. A knight, dare we dream..." Haysley took a sip from his cognac. "A fine piece for whoever controls you."

Thunderhoof sighed. "You're stalling," he said.

"Fine," said Haysley, in a disinterested fashion. "What do you want from me to keep your mouth shut? Go on, name your price." He leaned onto his hoof and looked into his brother's eyes, intently.

"Some things, we do for honour, Haysley," answered Thunderhoof.

Haysley continued staring into his brother's eyes. His whole body quivered, and his face tore up. He laughed. He laughed in a sincere manner, that was very uncharacteristic of him. Thunderhoof didn't like it one bit. After a few seconds of pure mirth, Haysley looked up at his younger brother, saw the latter's unimpressed and dead-serious expression, and his face fell. "What? You're serious?"

The detective raised an eyebrow. "Yeah."

"Not telling you."

"Look," said Thunderhoof. "I want to know what the finality is in all of this. Yeah, but I want to make sure I'm not causing damage to someone else at the same time."

"It's none of your concern," stated Haysley, plainly. "All that matters is that everyone is doing their part."

Just as Thunderhoof had thought, trying to appeal to Haysley's potential sense of honour had demonstrated itself as useless. And he was willing to bet anything he owned that trying to buy the answer off Haysley would be useless. So there was the final option.

"Very well, Haysley," said Thunderhoof. "You know, I was up at Father's, the other day. He knows a lot of things about you. I suppose that this time, we both somewhat misjudged him."

"What do you mean?" asked Haysley, cautiously.

"For one thing, he knows of your intentions, and he knows exactly what sort of filth you are."

"Well that's insulting."

"We both know it's deserved," said Thunderhoof.

"And? What do you expect me to answer? Yes, I am prioritising profit. Yes, I am ambitious. Is it so wrong to want success in this damned world?" piped up Haysley. "Come on! From day one in my life, it's been drilled into my mind that success and wealth are the two most important things in life!"

"Not dignity?" asked Thunderhoof. "Grace? Actual nobility?"

"Listen here, you," said Haysley. "You went to Saddlehurst Military Academy, became a soldier. Stableton went to Canterford Seminary, became a pastor. Mother sent me to Oxenford, to study business and management. I became a businesspony."

"Don't try to deflect responsibility," answered Thunderhoof. "Mother was a whore. But don't blame her for your shortcomings."

"IT'S JUST LIKE YOU WITH YOUR DAMNED WAR!" shouted Haysley, getting up from his seat so violently that he knocked his chair over. His murderous stare was even more vicious. He was breathing heavily, and a vein was throbbing in his temple. "Survivor's guilt! Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder! Oh, yes, it's alright when it's you, you STUPID BASTARD! But when it's me, it's all a matter of..."

The door opened, and the secretary peeked inside. "Is everything alright, My Lord?"

"GO AWAY!" shouted Haysley and Thunderhoof in unison.

The secretary left.

"I... I"m sorry, brother dear," said Haylsey, running a hoof through his mane. He levitated his chair back to its previous place, and sat down.

"Maybe I should tell you about what Father and I discussed," said Thunderhoof.

Haysley looked up at his brother intently.

"As I said, he knows what you are. And he wants to preserve the family name, you see. We... have a reputation to uphold."

"What are you getting at?"

"He wants me to inherit the family fortune. The title, the holdings, everything."

Haysley's eye twitched. A nervous smile appeared on his lips, and he let out a slight chuckle, that seemed shrill and unnatural. "You're bluffing," he said.

"Do you want to take a bet on that?" asked Thunderhoof.

Haysley took a sip from his cognac, and looked Thunderhoof up and down, as if sizing him up. "Let's suppose for a second, shall we? That what you are saying is... true. Why are you telling me this?"

"Well," said Thunderhoof. "If you tell me precisely what you're up to and who else is in on this whole thing... I might just let you have some of the inheritance."

Haysley didn't answer.

"Oh, and your associates," added Thunderhoof.

Still, Haysley didn't utter a word.

"Or would you rather I went to Chestnut and say that you were the only conspirator?" asked Thunderhoof. "That'll be some pretty hefty charges. Conspiracy, blackmail... you're facing a good twenty years."

Once again, Haysley remained silent.

"Come on, bruv, make your mind up."

"Very well," said Haysley. "Alright, I'll tell you about what I want. You see, what I promised Sabot in an attempt to get his cooperation was lands. Lands full of-"

"Untapped resources?" finished Thunderhoof.

"Yes. Well, it's what I promised if he accepted to cooperate, but as he didn't, I had to blackmail him. Or rather that was what I was told to do. But anyway, that's beyond the point. The point is that I was promised these lands. I was to cut Sabot into the deal."

"Because you thought it'd be easier if you didn't antagonise him?"

"Precisely. But that ship has sailed..."

"Alright," said Thunderhoof. "So that's the endgame. Resources."

"Yes."

"So this begs the question," said Thunderhoof. "How were you to acquire those lands?"

Haysley's eyebrows raised in a nonplussed fashion, and shrugged.

"You mean to say you don't know?" asked Thunderhoof, glaring in disbelief.

"Well look at it this way," said Haysley. "Somepony sent me a letter one day. In the letter it said that they needed to make some moves in Trottingham. Our family essentially owns this wretched place: we have eyes, ears, hooves and muzzles all around it, therefore anypony wanting anything needs my permission to do anything in my city. So instead of letting a potential threat operate in my territory with my blessing, I offered to do whatever they needed for them, in exchange for a slice of the pie."

"Makes sense."

"So anyway, they simply wanted me to get Chestnut out of office and bring in Gardener, preferably through his friend H. Sabot. You know the rest."

"So you're just a go-between?" asked Thunderhoof. "A pawn?" he mused.

"I fancy myself more of a queen," snorted Haysley in return.

"Whatever," retorted Thunderhoof. "I'm more surprised by the fact that you blindly accepted a deal with somepony you don't even know anything about."

Haysley chuckled smugly. "I never sign with my own name."

"Good for you, I guess," said Thunderhoof. "So here's what's going to happen: you're going to help me find the ponies behind the conspiracy."

"Fine," shrugged Haysley. "If it can spare me twenty years in prison, it's fine by me. So, how can I help you?"

"If I could know who else is behind this and what they intend on doing to get to those minerals, I can work from there."

"As I said, I don't know. Not for lack of trying though. You see, I've been trying to find that out myself. But every time I have a lead, it just turns into a dead end."

"Well you must have some idea," retorted Thunderhoof. "A lead that hasn't yet been exploited yet?"

"Well there is... one thing," said Haysley.

"What is it?"

"Somepony has been... meddling in my employers' affairs, and... well, as she falls within my jurisdiction, they have... asked me to take her out of action."

"And who would that be?" asked Thunderhoof.

"Canta del Pronto."

"Really?" responded Thunderhoof, trying his best to seem the least moved as possible at this revelation. "I'd ask how you were planning to do that, but truth be told, the better question is 'why'?"

Haysley shrugged. "How should I know?" he asked. "But they insisted that it should be done urgently."

"Alright," said Thunderhoof, getting up and going to the door. "Then I'll go look for her."

"Very well," said Haysley. "Oh, and... if there's anything else I can do to... avoid jail time, just tell me."

Thunderhoof gave a grunt of acknowledgement, and made his way to the door. But as he was about to cross the threshold, he turned around to face his brother again. "I'm curious," he said. "On the off chance that you do get caught by the authorities, what was your plan?"

Haysley smirked. "Create a bigger problem, to divert their attention," he answered. "I was planning on having the key congressponies of Trottingham declare the Griffish Isles an independent country and presumably sail off into the ocean. I even came up with a catchy name for it: 'Grexit'.

Thunderhoof sighed and shook his head in disbelief, and left his brother's house without another word.

Haysley waited until he heard the front door close, before getting a piece of parchment and writing down three words:

"Do it yourself.

-H"

"If they want to get rid of Canta, it's obviously because it's important to them," deduced Thunderhoof, walking down the street. He didn't wonder too long on what exact reasons they had for wanting to do so. Canta would probably have the answer. Finding her was the most important task at hoof.

The investigator got into his carriage, gave an address to the pull-pony, and it set off towards the city centre. Thunderhoof didn't know where the prosecutor was, but he knew someone who did.

"Sir?" asked the secretary, peeking his into the office.

"Yes?" asked the large stallion sitting behind his desk.

"Someone here to see you. On court business."

"Ah, yes," said the stallion. "Send them in."

"Barleigh," said Thunderhooof, cheerfully entering the office.

"Ah, Thunderhoof!" retorted Barleigh, rushing to shake the investigator's hoof. "How are you, old chuffer?"

"I'm alright, thanks," said Thunderhoof. "We should get together more often, maybe have a spot of lunch together."

Barleigh laughed heartily through his bushy moustache. "You left the Army a while ago, didn't you?"

"Oh, yes, I'm working in the private sector nowadays."

"So I've heard. Not doing too bad for yourself, I hear?"

"Well, it has its ups and downs," shrugged the investigator. "And I heard you were working with the prosecution for the SCK?"

"Yes, I'm their military law expert," Barleigh explained. "Bit of an upgrade from legal officers, you know. But anyway, enough chit-chat. You're here regarding the court, I hear."

"Indeed," said Thunderhoof. "Look, I have reason to believe that Canta Del Pronto is in danger."

Barleigh frowned, and began to look incredibly serious. "You have?"

"Yes," said Thunderhoof. "Danger of death."

"What? How?"

"Look, the less I tell you about it the better. But can you tell me where she is?"

"Oh, she's..." started Barleigh, before faltering. "Wait a second... how do I know you aren't trying to..."

"Come on, Barleigh, you can't possibly suspect me of..."

"I ruddy well can!" exclaimed the legal expert, furiously. "I take threats such as these very seriously, I'll have you know! And I'm very sorry, Thunderhoof, but in light of the three stooges the court let out the last time, I cannot possibly-"

"Oh, what's all this racket?" asked a voice.

The two stallions turned around, and saw the Prosecutor for Kudanda walk into the office. She was wearing sunglasses and levitating a travel mug in front of her.

"Major?" asked Canta, levitating the sunglasses off her muzzle and stuffing them into her saddlebag. "What are you doing here?"

"Missus Pronto," said Thunderhoof. "Do you mind if we have a word?"

"Look, Major Butterscotch, I'm a busy mare, and right now I have to make a case that can make or break our relationship with Zebrica. So I don't have the time for-"

"You'll find this important, trust me," said Thunderhoof.

The prosecutor hesitated. "Ugh, fine," she said after a few seconds.

Pronto and Thunderhoof went to a side room, and the investigator summarised the whole affair to her. By the end, she looked aghast. At the PI's suggestion, he and the prosecutor boarded a coach to Praetorian Street, where they were ushered into Whinnston's bedroom.

The Prime Minister of Equestria was laying in his bed, chewing a carrot, a secretary taking notes.

"That'll be all. Dismissed," said Whinnston, finally.

The secretary bowed and left the room.

"Now then," said Whinnston, reaching for his bottle of whisky and pouring a dose into his tumbler glass, before filling it to the brim with soda water. "What is the problem?"

"It's about the conspiracy," said Thunderhoof.

"Ah, excellent," said Whinnston. He downed his glass, got up, and, still in his dressing gown, lead his two companions to his office.

"Alright, then," said Thunderhoof. "I managed to get it out of Haysley that the conspirators were planning to get rid of Canta, in some way."

"I see," said Whinnston. "Why, exactly?"

"He didn't say," answered Thunderhoof. "But it's important to them. Essential, even."

"So whoever is behind this wants to get rid of me and Canta. Obviously we can't let this happen," said Whinnston.

"I think the best course of action is to discover what their motives are," suggested Canta.

"Exactly," said Thunderhoof. "Why would they want to get rid of the Prime Minister and the Prosecutor for the first international court?"

"Logic would dictate that they're planning to take over our positions," said Canta.

"But that's only opening a whole other crate of bad apples," said Whinnston. "If they are trying to take over, why? What are they planning?"

"I think we should call for a press conference," said Thunderhoof. "Warn the people about the conspiracy, expose the perpetrators. Surely they'd stop if they know we're onto them?"

"That's no good," said Canta. "It might delay them, but they'd still be at large. And free to start everything all over again."

"The way I see it," said Thunderhoof, "the best thing for you to do is stay put. Whinnston, you do what you usually do. Missus Pronto, you should make yourself scarce for a while."

"But I can't," protested Pronto. "I have to meet somepony this evening."

"Who?"

"Somepony who has information regarding the last trial," answered Canta. "They say that they know why the judges backed down and let the culprits walk."

The two other ponies stared at her.

"You do realise that sounds a lot like a trap, right?" asked Thunderhoof.

"Well I-"

"We can't risk it," said Thunderhoof.

"But what if it isn't a trap?"

"I'll go instead of you," said Thunderhoof. "Just give me the time and the place."

Canta reluctantly hoofed a small piece of paper to Thunderhoof, who pocketed it. "Alright, then," said the investigator. "Now if you'll excuse me, I have to... do something."

The whole thing stank. The mysterious pony whom Canta was supposed to meet had given her a rendez-vous in an abandoned steel mill in the East End, at 2030 hours. Thunderhoof was fully aware that he was most certainly walking into a trap, so he decided to, in his own words "make his peace".

"No, don't drag the knife," said Octavia, gently taking Thunderhoof's wing and pulling it across the canvas. "Slide it, and pull down."

"Alright," said Thunderhoof. He took a deep breath, put the painting knife on the canvas, and gently brought it downwards. And like that, he had created a mountain above the clouds.

"Well done!" said Octavia, beaming. "My turn." The gray earth mare picked up her fan brush with her mouth, delicately dipped it in a dark green mix, and drew a tree at the base of the painting. First the centre, before making branches.

Thunderhoof picked up his own fan brush, dipped it in the same green mix, and imitated her, drawing a tree just next to Octavia's. It was more messy, but Thunderhoof looked proud of it. "Because everyone needs a friend," he chuckled.

Octavia giggled, and nuzzled her boyfriend.

The couple sat there for a good half hour, painting a landscape together from their hotel room, laughing all the time. They felt content, peaceful, and happy to be alive, in a way that they had scarcely felt before.

"You know, when I was in the grenadiers, there was a soldier who could paint very well," said Thunderhoof, once they had finished. "He was a nice chap. Artistic, but not pretentious. He had his reservations, but he wasn't shy. He was a gentle soul."

"Was?" asked Octavia.

"He died in the badlands," said Thunderhoof. "It was a pity. I liked him."

"I feel you on that one," sighed Octavia. "I had a friend in finishing school. She had a bad case of shakehoof, but that didn't stop her from creating. She had a good ear, so she composed music, and I'd play it back to her. She was an adorable filly."

"What happened to her?" asked Thunderhoof.)

"We lost contact after finishing school," said Octavia, sadly. "A year later, I opened the newspaper, and in the obituaries, there was... there was..."

Octavia burst into tears. Thunderhoof wrapped a wing around her, and pulled her into an embrace. "Shh." He rubbed his hoof down her spine as she dribbled onto his shoulder.

"I'm sorry," she sniffed.

"It's okay..." said Thunderhoof, softly. "It's alright."

The couple stayed like that for a good half hour. And by the end of their long embrace, Octavia brought her mouth to her partner's ear, and said three words: "I love you."

They broke apart, and Thunderhoof looked into his marefriend's deep purple eyes. And as he did so, his baby blue ones began to water. It was his turn to collapse and cry, wetting the bedsheets with his tears. "I'm sorry," he croaked.

"What's wrong?" asked Octavia, delicately pulling her coltfriend's chin up.

"I..." spluttered Thunderhoof. "I've heard it said before... and every time, either I or...they only got hurt."

Octavia pulled Thunderhoof into another embrace. "It's alright," she whispered. "Don't be afraid... You're not the only one afraid to fall in love..."

As he drank from his flask, Thunderhoof could remember having already visited this abandoned factory. Its roof had given way to the bombings of the Storm King's assault on the griffish isles. The owner and director had died in the bombing, and as the owner had no heir, the property had just... become public property of sorts. Thunderhoof had temporarily retaken his role as a Royal Ranger, and had set up a recruitment station at the centre of this factory floor. A smile made its way onto his lips as he reminisced about his wooden booth, where flat-capped earth ponies would come and sign up for the army. They had all been inspired by Whinnston Chestnut's rousing speech the day before.

Thunderhoof closed his eyes, and remembered the PM's speech, which had been broadcast across the Isles.

"We shall fight in the squares of Canterlot... we shall fight in the acres of Fillydelphia... we shall fight on the seas and oceans... we shall fight, with great courage in the air! We shall defend our country, whatever the cost may be. We shall fight on the beaches, we shall fight in the dark, gray clouds... we shall fight in the fields, and in the streets. We shall fight in the hills if we must... WE SHALL NEVER SURRENDER!"

It was said that Whinnston's speech could be heard across the oceans, and had frozen the hearts of the Storm King's most valliant troops.

Thunderhoof started feeling doubt, as he had felt in Kudanda. Certainty, as he'd felt in San Palomino. Pride, as he'd felt in the Badlands. Sorrow, grief, regret, impending doom, everything. A solid minute of everything at once. A soldier's minute.

You'll see him in your nightmares
You'll see him in your dreams
He'll appear out of nowhere but
He ain't what he seems

You'll see him in your head
On the theater's screen
And hey buddy, I'm warning
You to walk it off

He's a god, he's a pone
He's a ghost, he's a guru
You're one microscopic cog
In a case with no proof
Designed and directed by
His red right hoof

The minute seemed to drag on for an eternity. How many "soldier's minutes" had he had? How many minutes of his life had felt like his last? Every time that such minutes had reached their ends, Thunderhoof had lost a part of himself. And he knew that this time was no different. The only thing he could think of was how much of him would be left by the end of it all?

As half-past eight reared its head, so did a slender gray unicorn stallion, on the other side of the assembly floor. He was wearing a suit and fedora. Just the type of pony that Thunderhoof expected. He probably wasn't alone, but Thunderhoof didn't care. The PI sat up, and trotted towards the stallion.

As Thunderhoof made out his conversation partner's face, he saw unease in the stallion's face.

The stallion ran his green eyes up and down Thunderhoof, as if sizing him up. He seemed daunted. "You're..." he said, "you're not... her?" He sounded like he was from Manehattan.

"Detective Inspector Butterscotch, Royal Trottingham Constabulary," lied Thunderhoof. "What do you have for me?"

"It's about the court. I... it's blackmail. It's all blackmail. I can't tell you who, they'll figure that I talked. But they threaten the judges to... to destroy their lives, with... with secrets. They even plan to get the prosecutor!"

"Ah, so it wasn't a trap," thought Thunderhoof, triumphantly.

Out of the corner of his eye, Thunderhoof saw a figure move to his left. He turned around, and saw that three stallions were blocking what had been the hangar door. Turning around again, he saw that three others had blocked the other one. Out of the offices at the back came two more. And a prickling sensation at the back of Thunderhoof's neck indicated that he was being watched from behind.

"Not... intentionally, at least."

The snitch whimpered as he looked around. They were surrounded.

"Ya talk too much, whoever you are," said one of the stallions, in a similarly manehattanite accent.

The snitch turned back to Thunderhoof, and uttered four words: "eyes on the newspaper." And before anything else could happen, the snitch lit up his horn and disappeared.

One of the burly stallions lunged at Thunderhoof, who agilely dodged, and flew up into the air. He landed behind a foe unicorn, grabbed him around the neck, and thrust him into one of his partners.

"COME GET A PIECE OF ME!" shouted Thunderhoof, a manic glint in his eye.

A unicorn shot a ball of light at Thunderhoof, who flew up just in time, let himself drop onto the unicorn, and broke the latter's spine with his front hooves. But he felt a strong foreleg wrap around his throat and lift him off the ground; from the front, he saw another pony charge towards him. Thunderhoof swung his hind legs forwards, and brought them right back into the strangler's groin. He released himself just in time to soar up and see the pony charge into the choker.

The investigator landed on the floor, and as he started to back towards the door, he felt something sharp stab him in the abdomen. Looking down, he saw that the unicorn whose back he'd just broke had crawled up to him, and jabbed his horn into Thunderhoof's belly. The mobster unicorn wrenched his horn out of Thunderhoof, and smiled a malevolent grin, blood trickling down his face.

Thunderhoof had stared at the unicorn a second too long. All of a sudden, he felt two strong legs kick him backwards, sending him to the floor. Blood gushing all over his suit, his heart pumping ever more madly, Thunderhoof could only close his eyes as he felt eight pairs of hooves kick him, break him, destroy him. He tried kicking back, but his attempts were fruitless. As he felt his bones break, excruciating pain invading his senses, the noise became muffled.

"It's the end," thought Thunderhoof. "They've won."

But as he slipped into a world blacker than black, Thunderhoof could hear the shrill sound of a whistle being blown. More ponies were joining the battle, it seemed.

Thunderhoof opened his eyes for the last time, and as he lifted his head he could see the foes scarper as blue-uniformed ponies entered the scene. One of the policecolts bent over him, and shouted something that Thunderhoof could no longer hear. It didn't seem to be directed at him anyway.

His eyes rolled back into his head. He could only feel a pool of blood underneath him. As his heart stopped, Thunderhoof's thoughts went back to Octavia, the only pony he loved.

Chapter Thirteen: Friends in High Places

Blackjack had moved his desk, so as to face the window. Through it, he could see the cold, gray Griffish sky and the gardens of his estate. He heard the doors open, and his guest stepped in.

"Your Lordship," said Hoofington.

"Hoofington," retorted Blackjack, not turning around. "You received my message."

"Yeah."

"Good," said Blackjack. He sounded tired, older than he was, and weak. But his voice retained a rather majestic and soothing charm. "I wasn't planning on coming out of retirement, but Thunderhoof left me no choice."

"Well after what they did to your son..."

"His suspicions were proven right," said Blackjack. "It was an ambush. They must have followed the snitch to Trottingham and then... a few minutes before, he told me about the meeting point. I told the police to intervene, but as it turned out, they arrived just a few minutes too late."

"How did you respond?" asked Hoofington.

"Immediate disinformation campaign," said Blackjack. "The cover story says something about a party gone south. Most of the press bought into it, but not everyone. Still, I managed to hide the fact that Thunderhoof survived. Which should at least buy us some time. I also assumed Haysley's role in the conspiracy, and informed them that Thunderhoof was the only pony to be dealt with. They'll be none the wiser."

"So where is he?" asked Hoofington.

"En route to an old foxhole of mine," answered Blackjack. "If Haysley's lot are as powerful as Thunderhoof made them out to be, the government can't be trusted. Ironically enough, Whinnston Chestnut lead the effort to move him there."

"The PM?" asked Hoofington, surprised.

"Don't worry," retorted the earl. "Whinnston is the main pony being targeted by the conspiracy. Besides, I've known him long enough to trust him."

"I don't know what you're gonna ask from me," said Hoofington, in a rather passive-aggressive manner, "but whatever it is, I sure was reluctant to help you, after you pulled him out of the Army. You destroyed his caree-"

"Yes, yes," interrupted Blackjack. "I understand that you don't want to bury the hatchet between us. Some things just won't happen. Even a stubborn old carcass like myself can accept that. But I don't want my son to die. And I want whoever did this to get their judgement. Surely we can come together on that, can't we?"

"I guess we can," answered Hoofington. "What is it you want me to do?"

"You are a... pony of the... underworld, are you not?"

"I guess you could say that," answered Hoofington. "But I, uh... I'm not as... let's just say I know what I want. And I have what I want. I'm not going further."

"I am not passing judgement upon you for choosing that path, Hoofington," said Blackjack, in a tone that was simultaneously reassuring and cold. "I just happen to know that an army pension wouldn't be enough to start the most successful nightclub in Canterlot."

"So what's your point?"

"You have contacts in the underworld, Hoofington. Thunderhoof is going to need them once he awakens."

"Okay," said Hoofington. "How do I know when he... you know, when he's awake?"

"I'll drop a letter," answered Blackjack.

"Alright."

"One more thing."

"Yes?"

"Find Octavia Melody, and send her to me," he said. "She still has an important role to play."

"Where is he?" asked Octavia, walking into the room.

Blackjack took a sip from his tea. "You were hard to find, I hear," he responded nonchalantly. "Please, sit down."

Octavia Melody sat down. "Where is he?" the mare repeated.

"He's safe," answered Blackjack. "He's comatose, but stable. If all goes well he'll awaken in a few weeks."

"WHERE IS HE?" shouted Octavia, slamming her hooves on the desk, tears in her eyes.

Blackjack, undisturbed, pushed a platter of digestives towards his guest. "Have one," he said. "And please, settle down. I'll explain everything."

The earl's lack of reaction put out Octavia, in a way. She blinked, sat back down, and grabbed one of the biscuits without a word.

"I ordered Thunderhoof to be moved once he was stabilised. I'm sorry if it came as a surprise to you," explained Blackjack.

"I was wondering why they kept blocking me out of the room," said Octavia.

"Surely you understand," said Blackjack. "Medical treatment in the East End can be catastrophically abysmal. I moved him somewhere I trust."

"I see," said Octavia, munching on her biscuit.

"Besides, this was in Thunderhoof's letter. He said that if he were to disappear, anypony looking for him would be looking for you."

"Understandable," said a grieved Octavia. "I'm worried. I think you can understand. The entry in the obituary. That was you, wasn't it?"

"A necessary precaution, I assure you," said Blackjack. "Regardless of what problems could arise, I still have a job for you."

"Yes?"

"A funeral service is going to be held tomorrow. Closed casket, obviously. I would like you to deliver the eulogy."

"Very well."

"It's already written here," said Blackjack, giving her a piece of paper. "Quite a number of ponies are going to be there. The objective is to show the enemy that Thunderhoof, their only problem, is six feet under. We need to see their next play. Hopefully we'll know who they are. After the funeral, I will give you a few train tickets and some money. I want you to pretend to be grieving the loss of your significant other."

"Alright," responded Octavia, bitterly.

"Miss Melody, I know this has been hard on you too," said Blackjack. "But it's necessary."

Octavia nodded heavily, and got up. "I'll see you at the funeral," she said.

"There is one last... matter I need to address."

"Yes?"

"I'm sick," said Blackjack. "I'm dying."

"So I've heard," answered Octavia.

"I... I know that I have never been a good father to Thunderhoof. But I love him. Dearly."

"I know," said Octavia. "You wouldn't have gone to such lengths to help him if you didn't."

"I..." Blackjack's eyes began to tear up. "What happens when Thunderhoof wakes up, what he does, where he goes... it is in his hooves. But I won't be there anymore. And I know what... what you mean to him, Octavia. I do not know what he means to you, but... bring him happiness. Bring him love. Please."

The doctor heard hoofsteps in the corridor. He sighed, and went to the bed that was surrounded by curtains. He opened them, and picked up the clipboard that was at the end of the patient's bed.

The white pegasus stallion was in a considerably better state than when he'd come in. A deep stab wound in his abdomen had been sown up and bandaged, and had cured itself well. Fractures in his skull and leg bones had been magically clamped shut, and several cuts on his body had been sown up. He was being kept in a medically induced coma to hasten his recovery. Intravenous drips were hooked up to his front legs, and an oxygen tube was attached to his muzzle. The electrocardiograph was showing stable levels, and emitted a regular beep.

The door opened. In came three stallions: two beefy pegasi sporting the Wonderbolts' blue uniform, standing tall above a tired unicorn, wearing a business suit. The unicorn gave one sad look at the bed-ridden patient. "Go," he said.

The two pegasi left the room courteously closing the door behind them.

"I almost thought you wouldn't come," said the doctor, empathically.

"Well," grunted Blackjack, taking in the white walls and furniture. "Well, you're supposed to visit hospital before you die."

"How did you get here?"

"My friends in the Air Cavalry know how to keep a secret," answered Blackjack. "The cloudwalking charm and the trip to the airport were... a little dramatic, but the rest was easy. Still, I've had smoother rides."

"I see," said the doctor.

"I won't be staying long," said Blackjack.

"I understand."

Blackjack slowly walked over to his son, and looked at him. "How many... other doctors have come?"

"Eight," answered the doctor.

"And his face... it was..."

"Bandaged during the operations, yes. I was the one to operate on the skull. We did just as you instructed, sir."

"Good," said Blackjack. "He hasn't... woken at all?"

"No, sir."

"Not once?"

"Not in two weeks."

"Good. Very good. And... how long will he be there?"

The doctor looked at his clipboard. "It'll be at least three more weeks before we can wake him," he said.

"Not earlier?"

"We can't," said the doctor. "Three weeks is the minimum. And even then, I would be remiss if I didn't tell you that he won't be in a good shape. I'd advise more."

"Three weeks, not one day more," replied Blackjack, sternly.

"Very well," sighed the medic. "We do move his muscles every four hours. It'll lessen the atrophy."

"Good," said Blackjack. "I am most grateful to you, for all of this."

"It's fine."

"Could you... give us a moment?" asked Blackjack.

"Of course." The doctor left the room and shut the door behind him.

"Thunderhoof?" asked Blackjack to his comatose son. "Can you hear me?"

Thunderhoof remained lifeless.

Blackjack looked out of the window at the evening sky above the clouds. "Nice place, isn't it?" he said. "I went to a lot of trouble to bring you here. Here, where... no one will find you."

Thunderhoof's mask and tube emitted their sounds, and his electrocardiograph beat on at a stable level.

"Do you remember the first time I visited you in hospital?" asked Blackjack. "You were fifteen. You were injured by one of your hoofball teammates. Fractured one of your legs." He gave a chuckle. "You were happy to see me. I was the only one there... we ate dinner together, if I remember correctly. Ah, the good old days..."

As Thunderhoof remained lifeless, Blackjack went on.

"I... I never apologised for... pulling you out of the army, and hastening your discharge," said Blackjack. "Even now, I do believe it was the responsible thing to do. And I know it might seem... a bit old fashioned to say it, but... maybe it was your fate. If you weren't right here, right now, who would be fighting this whole nasty conspiracy? Speaking of which, I've berated Haysley about his role in the plot. I've sent him far away, and I doubt he'll be coming back anytime soon. Maybe knowing this, you'll... sleep better."

The ECG machine just beeped on.

"In any case," said Blackjack, "my biggest regret is about not spending more time with you... who knows how much of it I have left... by the time you'll be awake, I'll be gone. I'll be somewhere even you won't be able to find. The doctors are trying to hide it from me, but I know I don't have much time left. A few months... a year, if I'm lucky. But please, wake up soon, my son... time is running short."

Blackjack closed his eyes, and started walking towards the door. But he was about half-way there when all of a sudden, he heard Thunderhoof give a grunt. The earl turned around, and walked over to the bed, hardly daring to believe it.

"Newspapers," grunted Thunderhoof, before resuming his deep sleep.

Chapter Fifteen: The City that will never sleep again

Thunderhoof's memoirs

Well it's off to Manehattan with me, then. I thought I'd seen enough of that city last year to last me a lifetime. 'The City than Never Sleeps', they call it. I'd rather say 'The city that'll never sleep again'. Yes, in spite of the Mayor's efforts, in spite of what Rarity and Applejack have done to mend the city, crime families like Cavallo, Ferdkop, O'Horseshoe... they'll never truly disappear from it. They're lurking in the shadows, biding their time. They'll be back soon enough.

At least Octavia seems happy to see me.

Mango Twist brought his towel across the counter, wiping the stains that had been left by a previous customer. As he looked into the waxed wood, a yellow unicorn stallion with a flaming orange mane looked back at him. Miserable, as if he still had a mortgage to pay for a property he'd bought six years prior. Bored out of his mind, as if he'd been stuck in a boring routine for an equal amount of time. Why was he even here?

"You and me both, brother," said Mango Twist to his reflection.

A roll of thunder made itself known. The bartender looked over at the wall on his right, at a newspaper article that he'd framed. The headline simply said "MANEHATTANITE GENIUS CREATES DAZZLING COCKTAIL FOR THE ONES-VERSARY".

"Why did I even bother?" he thought to himself. "Never liked that stupid drink anyways."

A pegasus stallion walked in. Pearly white, a messy black mane that was partly covered by a fedora. He walked with a slight limp in his right forehoof. He looked groggy.

"Hi," said Mango Twist, not even trying to shift his look of boredom. "What can I get you?"

"Gin and tonic," answered the stallion in a posh Trottinghamite accent, placing his hat on the counter.

"Coming up." He got a tumbler from under the counter, and went over to his bottles. "D'you have a preference?"

"Trottingham, dry."

The bartender poured a third of gin into the glass, before filling it up with tonic water and dropping a lime wedge into the cocktail. He served it to his customer. "Here ya go."

"Thank you very much," said the pegasus.

"Something else I can getcha, rich boy?" asked the bartender. "You're here on business, right?"

"As it happens," said the gentlecolt, "I've come here about an outstanding balance of information."

"Lemme guess," said Mango Twist. "Hoofington sent ya."

"I sent myself," retorted Thunderhoof. "On Hoofington's recommendation."

"So what exactly do ya want?"

"You know where Don Gianni Cavallo is," said Thunderhoof. "And I want to see him."

"No deal, rich boy," said Mango. "I don't particularly wanna get my head bashed in, thank ya."

"Surely getting your head bashed in with a rusty horseshoe is a preferable alternative to whatever Hoofington might do to you if you refuse," retorted Thunderhoof.

"He's a softie," said Mango Twist. "I'm not scared of him."

"Au contraire, fellow," said Thunderhoof. "He was pretty good with a crossbow, back in the day."

The bartender thought for a few seconds. "Alright," he said. "Make it worth my while, and I'll take you to Don Cavallo."

"Sadly I can't," said Thunderhoof. "For you see, after being bedridden for four weeks in an ICU on a cloud in the middle of nowhere, and waking up with a splitting headache, I discovered two things. First of all, that I now need glasses to read the newspaper. Secondly, that as I've been pronounced legally dead, all the money in my savings account went to my father."

"Then why should I help ya?"

"Well, even if I can't make it worth your while, the Don might be able to."

"Well now I'm curious," said Mango Twist. "Why would he?"

"He wants me dead," responded Thunderhoof.

"Huh?"

"Well, I mean," said Thunderhoof, before taking a sip of his drink, "I assumed as much when he sent five of his chumps after me."

"Hold up a second," said Mango Twist. "You're the guy who sent the Don's nephew to the clink?"

"Do you have an issue with that?" asked Thunderhoof, coolly.

"But you're dead," said the bartender, frowning in confusion. "How in the hay did you..."

"I got better," answered Thunderhoof. "Now, I'm no mobster myself, but I'm betting the Don would love to see me dead, and would probably pay you handsomely for this. Do we have a deal?"

"Yeah."

"Alright then," said Thunderhoof. He drained his glass. "Shall we go?"

"Yeah," said Mango Twist. And as Thunderhoof went to the door, "Hey, you've gotta pay for your drink."

"Well surely, I've just bought you an early retirement and I'm about to get killed, you could at least let that slide."

Mango Twist shrugged.

"So why are you doing this?" asked Mango Twist as they set off down the street.

"No money, nothing to my name, so I suppose I'm looking for somepony to put me out of my misery," said the Private Investigator, sarcastically.

"And have you always been a smart aleck?" retorted Mango. He honestly couldn't believe that he was talking to somepony actually looking forward to being killed. "Seriously, though, why are you doing this?"

"Is it your job to ask questions?"

Mango didn't talk for the rest of the journey. Eventually, the two ponies arrived in front of a wrought iron gate, which was locked with a chain. A suited mobster was standing guard just behind it. As the pair approached, he came over. "Mango," he said. "How the hay are ya?"

"I'm fine," said Mango, in his bored tone. "I've come here to pay my respects to the Don." He jerked his head towards Thunderhoof.

The mafioso looked Thunderhoof up and down, curiously. But then something clicked in his mind. "Is he who I think he is?" he asked.

"Yeah," said Mango.

The mobster hurriedly opened the gate, and escorted the pair into the massive mansion, which was heavily guarded by more suited mobsters. Their hoofsteps echoed in the empty hallways, which reminded Thunderhoof of his family hall. He wasn't sure whether he liked that or not.

The mobster who was escorting Mango Twist and Thunderhoof opened a door, and gestured for Thunderhoof to enter. As Mango Twist was about to follow suit, the gangster held him back. "The boss is comin'." He closed the door behind Thunderhoof.

The Private Eye was inside an office. It was old, just like the entire mansion. An empty chair sat behind the oak desk. A clock was hanging on the wall, its pendulum swaying. It would need rewinding within the following two hours. Unlike the hallways, the floors of which where tiled, a carpet covered the office floor, and an orange rug sat in front of the fireplace. All in all, one could almost forget that this was the base of operations of a merciless criminal.

Thunderhoof picked up the issue of 'The Manehattanite' that lay atop the desk.

"CLASHES AT BORDER BETWEEN ZEBRICA AND KUDANDA: IS A NEW WAR ON THE HORIZON?" asked the headline.

"What started just a few weeks ago as a peaceful protest at the border between Zebrica and Equestrian-annexed Kudanda took a turn for the worst, yesterday, when a bottle of flaming alcohol was lobbed at an Equestrian Military Policecolt on a routine patrol. Thankfully he wasn't harmed, but the culprit wasn't found. What's more, given the recent and rapid militarisation of the border, members of the Zebrican Militia have been mobilised to the border, reporting that Equestrian patrols have been found on Zebra territory.

Obviously enough, several ponies haven't been letting this crisis go to waste. One such pony is Field Marshal Prince Blueblood, the Duke of Fillydelphia. With the recent rise in international tension, the Prince has been appointed by Princess Celestia to be the supreme commander for the Kudandan theatre, effectively replacing General Delherbe, who used to hold that title. The duke was on hoof to give his side of the story.

"Don't worry," declared the newly appointed marshal. "Those savages on the other side of the fence still fight with rocks and believe in fancy potions. Attacking a country such as ours would be suicide. If they are sane, which isn't saying much, they wouldn't dare."

"Well the answer is obvious," thought Thunderhoof. "But is this his doing alone?"

After a few minutes, somepony entered. Thunderhoof didn't even look around, and saw the stallion known as Don Gianni Cavallo, flanked by two bodyguards. The gray-maned and moustached mob boss was wearing a black tuxedo, a red rose sticking out of his lapel, and a white hanky sticking out of his pocket.

"So you're the private investigator who cost me millions, last year," said Gianni in his coarse, imposing voice, walking around the room and sitting behind his desk. "And just a few months ago, you sent four of my best guys to jail. You sent four more, including my nephew, to hospital when they hunted you down for revenge. You stuck your nose into my benefactor's business, and right when I think I'm done with you, you dare appear before me. You're a tough guy to kill."

"I like to think of myself as lucky," retorted Thunderhoof.

"So?" asked the Don. "What do you have to say for yourself?"

"It's a matter of perspective, Don Cavallo," said Thunderhoof. "I can understand that I've been a pain in your neck because of what I've done, but it's only business. Unfortunately for you, somepony else hired me. If you had hired me to get Poppy Heart, none of this would have happened."

The Don breathed in through his nose. "You come into my home... you make fun of my judgement, you insult my family, you disrespect me in front of my people? I really want to kill you, right now."

"Well you could do that," said Thunderhoof, "but if you don't, I can tell you what I need from you."

The don smirked, nodding his head slightly. "You've got a lot of mouth," he said. "Normally, I despise ponies who do, but you have the credentials to back it up." He gestured the bodyguards to leave the room. "I'm listening."

"You sent your boys to silence Colt Whistle before he could say anything compromising," said Thunderhoof. "On orders of your benefactor, I imagine. Which means that you two work for the same pony. I have an idea of who they are, but I need confirmation before anything else. I need to know what you know about them."

"I don't know much more than you, Mister Butterscotch," responded Cavallo. "I just do what they tell me. I don't even know why they want me to do it. I didn't get big in this business by asking questions. You, a PI of all ponies, you should be able to understand that."

"I suppose you're right," said Thunderhoof. "But surely you're profiting from this, aren't you?"

"I am," said the Don. "Last year, the mayor's policies ruined me. Profits were low, I couldn't run protection. Nothing. And then somepony came to me with a deal. I did what they wanted, in exchange for immunity and money. They helped me bounce back. And that's why, even if I did know who they were, I wouldn't tell you."

"Come on," smirked Thunderhoof. "You know very well that there's no loyalty among thieves. Once they get what they want, they'll be coming after you. Loose ends, that sort of stuff."

"I told you, I'll tell you again," said Cavallo. "I don't even know who they are. Besides, I have my insurance policy."

"Money and street muscle won't account for much when your benefactor sends every single policecolt in the country and their mother after you," retorted Thunderhoof.

"Come on," smirked Don Gianni Cavallo. "You think I'm that stupid?"

"Prove me wrong," said Thunderhoof.

"You think I'm a joker, don't you, Mister Thunderhoof?" asked Cavallo.

"Am I laughing?"

Don Cavallo considered Thunderhoof for a moment. "So, tell me," he said, "when you find my benefactor, who is to turn on me sooner or later, you will take them out, right?"

"Obviously."

"In that case," said Cavallo, "maybe I should tell you about that insurance policy of mine."

Thunderhoof immediately became suspicious. "Why would you do that?"

"Because you're right," answered the boss. "No loyalty among thieves, and... well, big eats small. I have my insurance, and that guarantees that they can't come after me. But you seem to know what they're up to and what they want. I have enough money to buy my immunity somewhere else than Manehattan. If you take my benefactor out, I can live in peace. Never have to worry about them again."

"Thinking about the future, huh?" asked Thunderhoof. "Very well, I suppose. What's your insurance policy?"

"Well, you know when I sent my boys after that journalist guy?"

"How could I forget?" spat Thunderhoof. His body was still aching, and he felt dizzy from the wounds that Cavallo's gang had inflicted on him.

"Well, he disappeared, but I eventually found him. He knows stuff. Stuff that none of us should know. I figured he knows who your foe is. So instead of killing him, I brought him here. You can talk to him. Be my guest." The Don called a name, and one of the bodyguards came in. "Bring Mister Thunderhoof to our guest," he said.

"Well, thank you for your cooperation," said Thunderhoof.

And as Thunderhoof got up to follow the bodyguard, Don Cavallo gave Thunderhoof a last piece of 'advice'. "Just one more thing," he said. "You still have a debt towards me. A debt of blood. Honor. For my nephew."

"I know about your customs," said Thunderhoof, arrogantly. "And I don't care."

"Suit yourself," said Cavallo. "But this debt is beyond profit. It's beyond everything else. And one way or another, it'll be settled."

Thunderhoof nodded, and was lead out of the room by the bodyguard. They went down the hall, and stopped in front of a door, from behind which some music was playing.

"Have fun," said the bodyguard, leaving Thunderhoof.

The Private Eye pushed the door open, entered, and shut the door behind him. He found himself in the guest room. It was a far cry from his hotel, but it looked comfortable enough: carpets, walls painted white, and a desk, on which there was a typewriter with a half-full page inserted in it and a record player. And in the corner of the room sat a bed, a pony laying on it.

"Colt Whistle, I presume," said Thunderhoof.

The unicorn woke up with a start, and faced Thunderhoof. It was almost funny how to the columnist, the limping, groggy, weakened, not at all well-rested Private Investigator looked like as scary as a timberwolf.

"What?" shouted the columnist breathlessly, his whole body quivering, tears forming in his eyes. "Cavallo told me I was safe! Wha- what are you doing here?"

"You know the answer to this question," said Thunderhoof, menacingly. "Now you're going to tell me everything you know about your boss."

"But I- I can't! I told you I can't! He'll gut me if I tell you!"

"Oh, so it's a 'he'?" asked Thunderhoof.

"I- I didn't say that it was- I was just say-"

"Oh, it sounded like 'he'."

The journalist breathed in, closed his eyes, and tried to square up to Thunderhoof. "I won't tell you."

"Is that so?" retorted Thunderhoof, calmly. "Why not?"

"Because it's my only leverage!" answered Colt Whistle. "You don't understand, detective. If I tell you, you'll tell somepony else, and soon everypony will know! And then he'll come for me!"

Thunderhoof, mentally exhausted, having one of his post-awakening headaches, grabbed a chair, and stuck it under the doorknob. "I'm going to need calm for this," he said.

"W-what are you doing?" asked Colt Whistle, as Thunderhoof opened the only window.

Without a word, Thunderhoof zoomed towards Colt Whistle, grabbed him under his front legs, and carried him over to the window. He pushed him against the windowsill, and held the columnist's throat with one hoof. "Are you going to talk?" asked Thunderhoof, calmly as if he wasn't threatening to give a poor street cleaner a bad start to their day.

"Go to hell!" Colt Whistle shouted back. "I'm protected class, dammit! You can't do this to me!"

Thunderhoof pulled the journalist back into the guest room, and set him down.

"That's right," sneered the columnist. "Don't you dare threa-"

Before he could finish his sentence, Colt Whistle found himself zooming out into the sky and above the clouds, Cavallo's home seeming like a dollhouse from his perspective.

Thunderhoof held his captive by the leg, easily fluttering above the clouds. "This is your last chance!" he shouted. "WHO IS CALLING THE SHOTS?"

"IT'S BLUEBLOOD!" answered Colt Whistle, somewhere between a whimper and a shout. "IT'S ALL HIM!"

Thunderhoof threw Colt Whistle higher, and caught him in midair, seizing him by the lapels. "Are you sure?" he asked, his mad glint back in his eyes.

"YES!"

Thunderhoof dove back down, and for a few seconds it seemed to the journalist as if the major was about to crash into the ground. But at long last, without knowing it, he found himself inside Don Cavallo's guest room. He staggered across the floor, and emptied his breakfast onto the floor.

"How do you know that Blueblood is the only instigator?" asked Thunderhoof, once Colt Whistle had regained a semblance of composure.

"He trusted me," answered Colt Whistle. "He thought I was too much of a coward to tell anypony else. He came to me with
incriminating pictures, letters, and reports, and he ordered me to write articles on them. What he's got on the princesses... it's dynamite! It could set the country on fire!"

"And do you happen to know where he keeps his material?" asked Thunderhoof.

"Close to him," answered Colt Whistle. "I don't know exactly where, but he brought them all to me directly, which means that they're on hoof whenever he wants them."

"And where is he now?" asked Thunderhoof.

"No idea," answered the journalist. "But I know where he might be headed."

"Where?"

Colt Whistle reached for his wallet, and from it he produced a narrow piece of paper. He hoofed it to Thunderhoof.

It was an invitation for the 'Royal Fillydelphia Derby'. It featured an exclusive Wonderbolts air show, and apparently an open bar. "It's tomorrow. He never misses that show," said the journalist. "I was supposed to go with him, but it seems that I'll be spending the day here."

Thunderhoof pocketed the invitation. "Thank you for your cooperation," he said.

"You're insane," said Colt Whistle, breathing heavily.

"I'm not insane," retorted Thunderhoof. "I'm just desperate."

"So?" asked Octavia, as Thunderhoof entered their tiny hotel room. "Any luck?"

"It's Blueblood," answered Thunderhoof. "He's in Fillydelphia, he'll be at the derby."

"So you're going there?" asked Octavia. "What's your plan?"

"The journalist said that Blueblood has his extortion material close to him. That means he'll probably be carrying it with him."

"I hope you're going to make him pay," said Octavia, in a tone of almost uncharacteristic vindictiveness.

"Sadly, I can't," said Thunderhoof. "I have to do all of this in the shadows."

"I see," said Octavia. "Do you want me to come with you?"

"I thought you hated Blueblood," frowned Thunderhoof.

"Oh, I do," said Octavia. "But you need all the help you can get. Even though I am pretty useless."

Thunderhoof sat down on the bed. "Suit yourself." He looked down at his hoof, which was twitching. "Huh. I'm getting the shakes again."

Octavia looked at her partner, smiled, and went to sit down next to Thunderhoof. She started stroking his hoof with her own, smiling. "You've got this," she said. "I believe in you."

Chapter Sixteen: We're all whores

Thunderhoof's memoirs

So this is it, at long last. I'm about to confront Blueblood, and put an end to his conspiracy. To cut off the serpent's head. If only there was more I could do than just stop him. If only I could drag him to court for his crimes.

Just outside Fillydelphia proper, and past the mulberry fields, stood the imposing royal racetrack, where the derby was to take place. Having had been built in the last century by Prince Blueblood's father,had entertained the princess, foreign dignitaries, nobles and even priests. The duke of Fillydelphia, Equestria's most eligible bachelor, had made sure to desecrate every single room of the building.

All of this was unknown to the freelance cellist and the legally dead private investigator who were walking towards the entrance, but they hated every single bit of that building, only because of who was associated with it.

The weather was hot and clear, and a distant clocktower rang six o'clock. Thunderhoof grabbed his flask, and took a hefty swig of spiced rum. He gave it to Octavia, who raised it, and took an even bigger swig before giving it back.

"Are you ready for this?" asked Thunderhoof, as the queue in front of the door loomed closer.

"As ready as I'll ever be," answered Octavia.

They took their place at the back of the queue, and waited at least ten minutes for the line to advance. Thunderhoof showed his invitation to the doorpony, who thankfully didn't ask anything about the PI's identity, and they entered the racecourse.

The halls of the building were decorated in a tasteful manner, at least. A crimson carpet lay on the floor, and the furniture seemed to be made of rather nice-looking mahogany.

The couple went up a flight of stairs, and emerged in the amphitheatre, which had a view on the tracks. They went up the stairs and into the VIP section, where Thunderhoof was sure to find the Duke of Fillydelphia. But Blueblood didn't seem to be there. Had Colt Whistle lied, or was the prince just late?

The manager asked for Thunderhoof's invitation, and upon seeing it, sat the Private Investigator and his marefriend at an empty table.

"Well this is exciting," smiled Octavia, once she'd sat down. "I've never been to a racecourse before."

"Really?" asked Thunderhoof. "My parents used to take me to the Trottingham Ascot every once in a while. It's a pity Father isn't here, he usually likes that sort of thing."

A waiter came by the couple's table. "Can I get you a drink?"

"A gin and tonic," said Octavia.

"Make that two," said Thunderhoof.

The waiter wrote the orders down, and went over to the bar.

"Do you know anypony here?" asked Octavia.

Thunderhoof looked around. Facing him, on the other side of the terrace, the major recognised Anton Gardener, the newest Prime Minister, at a table with the rest of his cabinet. He had a gray mane and moustache, a dark gray coat, and pale cyan eyes. He looked deeply unwell and tired, even more so than Thunderhoof. They caught each other's eye, and the Prime Minister gave Thunderhoof a weak smile.

"There's the PM," said Thunderhoof.

"Unsurprisingly," responded Octavia. "Are you feeling any better?"

"Not really," answered Thunderhoof. "There's still the pain and the... you know, the shakes."

Octavia placed her hoof on Thunderhoof's, and stroked it gently, smiling, as she did whenever Thunderhoof was unwell. Such a simple gesture, yet it was so powerful.

The waiter returned, and gave the couple their drinks.

"So where's the stallion of the hour?" asked Thunderhoof, as he started writing a cheque.

"The Duke?" answered the waiter. "He'll be out in a few minutes."

"I'm surprised he's here at all," said Thunderhoof. "With his recent promotion, you'd think he'd be in Kudanda by now."

"He always makes time for the derby," retorted the waiter. "Do you know him?"

"I'm an old friend," said Thunderhoof, casually. "He invited me here, I thought I'd be at the table of honour."

"Oh," said the waiter. "There must have been a mix-up with the seating. If you'd be so kind as to follow me-"

Thunderhoof and Octavia got up, and followed the waiter to the gigantic table where the PM and his cabinet were seated.

"Nice move," muttered Octavia, as they sat down next to each other. "Now we're at the heart of the action."

As if on cue, a set of double doors opened from behind the table, and everypony present sat up from their seats, and bowed down to the Prince, who had just entered, flanked by his personal bodyguard unit.

His head bowed, Thunderhoof shot an eye at Prince Blueblood, who was wearing a swanky light gray officer's uniform, which bore many patches and lapel badges of no official value, probably to compensate for the lack of any actual military medals.

"Rise," said the Prince, carelessly. Everypony present rose.

The Prime Minister was the first to greet the duke. "Congratulations on your appointment, Your Grace. Or should I say Field Marshal?"

"Thank you very much, Prime Minister," responded Blueblood, taking Gardener's hoof. He brought his mouth closer to the statespony's ear, and Thunderhoof heard the duke say "How's Daisy?"

The PM quivered, and laughed the thinly veiled threat off. They all sat down at the table.

Thunderhoof took this opportunity to look at the four mares he had an allegiance to. The princesses looked fearful, and they remained silent and still, as if their willpower belonged to somepony else at that table. Princess Celestia caught Thunderhoof's eye, and frowned at him in a curious fashion. She nudged her sister, and discretely indicated the investigator. It was Luna's turn to frown. They thought that Thunderhoof was dead.

"Any drinks, Your Highnesses, Dames and Sirs?"

Blueblood considered, magically twirling his swagger stick. "I'll have a Brigadier 75," he said, finally.

"We're fresh out of Prosecco, Sir," said the waiter.

Blueblood's annoyingly smug expression gave way to a very bad-tempered look. "Remind me, who's the manager, here?" he asked.

"Buck Fizz, sir."

Blueblood produced a pen and notebook from one of his pockets, and scribbled the name down. "I'll have a dirty martini."

"Your Grace, I understand it is a big day for you, tomorrow," said one of the cabinet members. "I do hope you'll fare well in Kudanda."

Blueblood chuckled. "Don't worry," he said. "I'll be beset on all sides by our country's finest. Even the zebras wouldn't be stupid enough to attempt anything."

The members of the cabinet laughed at the duke's quip. Those weren't genuine laughs. On the contrary, they sounded shrill and unnatural. It was obviously a question of winning the duke's favour, or in Anton Gardener's case, a question of survival.

"I hear that Anton has a lot of faith in you, Your Grace," said another minister. "I hope that the locals will treat you well."

"Oh, I've sent some of my ponies forwards, they're moving my things into my headquarters as we speak."

"I take it you'll be bunking with General Delherbe, then," said Thunderhoof, who judged it best to mingle in as best as possible.

"Certainly not," snorted the prince. "This whole barracks and base camp business might very well be suitable for his ilk, but I've reserved the old Royal Hotel to myself. It's a far cry from my estate, but it'll be enough."

At that moment, the waiter arrived, and gave everypony their drinks. Nopony present save for Thnderhoof and Octavia even looked at the waiter. It was as if he didn't exist.

A loud voice resounded from the racetrack. "Fillies and Gentlecolts, I welcome you all to the Royal Fillydelphia Derby, brought to you by the Sangbleu Entertainment Company."

The ministers got up, and went towards the edge of the terrace to peer at the tracks. Only Thunderhoof, Octavia, and Prince Blueblood remained at the table. "Go and watch," whispered Thunderhoof to Octavia.

Octavia stood up, and joined the cabinet ministers at the edge of the terrace. Thunderhoof looked around, and shifted himself towards the Prince.

"Quite an impressive show you're putting on, Your Grace," said Thunderhoof.

"You're supposed to be dead, Major Butterscotch," answered Blueblood. "And you aren't. So we have a bit of a pickle, here."

"I'm flattered that you know my name," retorted Thunderhoof.

"In case you're going to try and kill me," said the prince, "I'll have you know that those guards, standing at the corners of this terrace have been instructed to kill anypony who threatens me."

"Come on," smirked Thunderhoof. "I'm not stupid."

"So why exactly are you here?" asked Blueblood. "Surely you wouldn't expose yourself like that if you weren't planning on doing something to me, right?"

"I've come with a proposition," answered Thunderhoof.

"Does it end with you crying and begging me for mercy as one of my guards prepares to stomp on your head?"

"No."

"Then I'm not interested. They're wearing heavy horseshoes, I'll have you know."

"I have something more interesting," said Thunderhoof.

Blueblood lifted his pale blue eyes from the table, and looked into Thunderhoof's steel blue ones. "My god, it's like looking into a mirror," he said. "You know, one of them that makes your face all distorted and funny."

Thunderhoof smirked.

"Anyway, I'm listening," said Blueblood.

"I'm betting Haysley told you that I was the only thorn in your side," said Thunderhoof. "The only one to know anything about your little conspiracy."

"Indeed he did," frowned Blueblood. "Why, was he wrong?"

"Well, you see, there's quite a few ponies who know," said Thunderhoof. "And I'd be ready to surrender a list of names."

"In exchange for what?" asked Blueblood.

"I want in," answered Thunderhoof. "If you can't beat them, join them. I want to help you. Besides, as a sweetener, let me give you this piece of wisdom: I know that the occupation of Zebrica will go much better if you put the right ponies in charge."

"Why, you think you're qualified?"

"I know several of their tribal chiefs," said Thunderhoof. "They like me. If I can get them to support the Equestrian invasion, the rest will keep quiet."

"Why would I need that?" asked the duke, contemptuously.

"You might be a field marshal, your Grace," said Thunderhoof. "Supreme commander of the Kudu-Zebrican axis, but you don't have what it takes to occupy a country. You need legitimacy. And if you put me in charge, you'll be able to mine gold and diamonds in peace."

"So that's what it's all about," said Blueblood. "Power. I'm not surprised. Tell you what, I'll accept that deal. The list of knowledgeable ponies and your cooperation in Zebrica, in exchange for your immunity."

"Perfect," said Thunderhoof.

"There is, however, one last thing I would... require."

"Oh?" said Thunderhoof. "What is that?"

"Your friend," said Blueblood, looking over at Octavia, who was back to him. "Your wife?"

"No," answered Thunderhoof. "Marefriend."

"She reminds me of somepony," said Blueblood. "Somepony I knew, a long time ago. Nice filly, a bit wild. I was supposed to marry her, but..."

"She didn't love you back?" asked Thunderhoof.

Blueblood looked at Thunderhoof, surprised. "Yes, exactly."

"Tell me about it," said Thunderhoof. "So, what do you need with my friend?"

"Well, you see, this filly I've just told you about... I've searched high and low for a pony even remotely like her... but sadly I never found one. What I want, is two hours with your marefriend. And then we'll have a deal."

Thunderhoof started sweating under his hat. "Really?" he asked. "Are you sure you want that?"

"You know the alternative," answered Blueblood.

Thunderhoof had no choice. "I'll go speak to her."

"You do that," said Blueblood. "There's a good business partner."

Thunderhoof got up, and went towards his marefriend, who had her hooves resting on the railing, standing apart from the other ministers. He stood next to her, and gazed at the Wonderbolts' race that was happening on the track. "Look," he said, in a croaky voice. "I need your help."

"Something wrong?" asked Octavia, looking at her coltrfriend. She could recognise his tone of unwellness.

"It's Blueblood," said Thunderhoof. He could feel the prince's gaze upon him. "He wants to see you, for two hours. Alone."

Octavia tried not to look disbelieving. She dropped her voice. "You're joking," she hissed.

"It's necessary, Tavy," he said. "Don't worry. I'll arrive before he can do anything to you, alright?"

Octavia breathed heavily. "Not this. No. No, this is just..." she buried her head in her hooves. Then, she looked at Thunderhoof, this time not hiding her disbelief. "You think I'm a whore?" she hissed, almost venemously.

"We're all whores, Octavia," said Thunderhoof. "We all just sell different parts of ourselves."

Octavia breathed heavily again. "Fine. I'll do it."

"I'll be there before anything happens."

"I sure hope so."

Thunderhoof went back to Prince Blueblood, who looked expectantly at the investigator. "Well?" he asked.

"She'll do it," nodded Thunderhoof. "Just... take it slow, she's very sensitive, alright."

"Of course," said Blueblood, almost carelessly. He went over to Octavia, and placed his leg around her shoulders, which seemed to make her very uncomfortable.

Thunderhoof bit his lip, and resisted the urge to run up to Blueblood and kick him over the railing.

From the bushes, Thunderhoof observed the Blueblood estate through his binoculars. A gold-ornate carriage was parked before the front door, indicating that Blueblood and Octavia had arrived. Guardponies from Blueblood's Prince's Own Infantry Corps were standing guard, making sure no unauthorised pony would enter.

"No more mobsters or militia," thought Thunderhoof. "These guys are trained just like me."

He took stock of the entrances and exits, and tried to guess where everything was inside the mansion. The least guarded entrance was the one that lead to the basement, on the eastern side of the manor. A single guardpony stood in front of the stairs. His favourite way of breaking into a house was usually through the chimney, but Blueblood's manor had many of those, built all over the roof with no clear pipework on the outside indicating where they started. So the basement door was his best bet.

"Why am I here again?" thought Thunderhoof, starting to feel groggy again. "Oh, yes the extorsion material."

According to Colt Whistle, the prince kept his blackmail material close to him. This meant that it was either in Blueblood's study, or in his bedroom. And from what one of his maids had said over some drinks at the bar, he spent most of his days sleeping, and even did most of his work in his bedroom. So that was his best bet.

Thunderhoof took off, and flew into the sky. He landed on the roof, and went to the easternmost edge. He peeked over, and saw the guard. The investigator leaned over, and let himself fall down, aiming his forehooves squarely at the guard's shoulders.

In one sudden, slick movement, Thunderhoof grabbed the guard around the neck with his front legs, and pulled it with all his might, choking him. And before the soldier had even realised what was going on, he was unconscious. Thunderhoof quickly pulled the unconscious earth pony to the roof, and laid him on his side, making sure he didn't choke on his tongue while out.

When that was done, Thunderhoof went back down, climbed down the stairs, and picked the lock on the basement's door. It took about twenty seconds, and the investigator's mind still hadn't caught up with his body. Once the lock came loose, Thunderhoof slowly opened the door, and went inside.

"Wine?" asked the prince. "It's a very expensive chardonnay."

"Yes, please," answered Octavia, trying to move as little as possible. She was scared of the prince, and every thought in her mind was wishing for Thunderhoof to come crashing through the drawing room door and save her.

The prince poured some wine into a glass, and levitated it towards Octavia, who took it. "Thank you," she said.

Blueblood sat down on the sofa. "See these curtains?" he asked, indicating the white drapes on either side of the massive drawing room windows. "Silk."

"Nice colouring," remarked Octavia.

"That's bone," said Blueblood. "And this carpet is something called alizarin crimson."

Octavia took a sip from her wine. "Impressive."

"I had the entire house renovated last year," said Blueblood. "And the year before that. It cost me over a million bits, in all."

"That's pennies to you, I imagine," said Octavia.

Blueblood smiled in a proud manner. He just loved it when somepony acknowledged his wealth. "Oh, yes," he said.

Octavia saw the prince get rid of his jacket, and could guess what he was about to do. She had to delay him, somehow. "Tell me about this house," she said. "It has a bit of history, doesn't it?"

"It was built over three centuries ago," explained Blueblood, revelling in the opportunity to talk about his possessions. "It first belonged to the Viscount of Foxborough. My family acquired it about-"

The dumbwaiter's bell dinged, and the small trap opened, revealing Thunderhoof, who had managed to squeeze himself in. He peeked his head out, and as nopony was there, he emerged onto the fifth floor.

Thunderhoof slowly and silently walked around the landing, trying to guess which one of those doors led to the duke's bedroom. Creeping around the floor, he nonetheless gazed at the countless paintings that were hung on the walls, and the ornamental vases that sat on top of tables. The landing was almost too decorated for Thunderhoof's liking. And all of this didn't match at all with what the prince truly was like. It was very clear that the prince only cared for what others thought of him.

All of a sudden, Thunderhoof saw a door open on the other side of the landing. And a sound from behind him indicated that somepony else was coming. In a split second, Thunderhoof went down a narrow corridor, only to see a third door open in front of him. In a heartbeat, he jumped up, and spread his legs, effectively holding himself onto the walls.

A guard appeared underneath Thunderhoof, and nonchalantly walked over to the centre of the landing, where the two other guards joined him.

"Report," said one of them.

"Calm as always," answered the second one.

"Ditto," answered the third.

"Good," said the first. "He insisted that we don't interrupt him in the drawing room.

"Poor girl," remarked one of the guards.

"Go back to your posts," ordered the leaders. "I'm going to check on the bedroom. If you have anything else to report, I'll be in my office afterwards."

"Yes, sir."

The group dispersed, and Thunderhoof followed the leader from the ceiling, trying not to flap too hard. Eventually, the guard halted in front of a door, levitated a key into it, unlocked the door, and entered. With baited breath, Thunderhoof waited for the guard to come out. And after two minutes or so, he did, locking the door behind him. Hooking his keys to his cross belt, he set off down the hallway, presumably to his office.

The guard levitated a checklist before him, looking to see if he'd forgotten anything. He felt something brush against his skin, and spun around, but the hallway was empty. He looked to his right, then to his left, but nopony was there.

"Hello?" called the guard. "Anypony there?"

There was no response.

Almost certain that he'd felt somepony touch him, he retreated towards the stairs, looking back every five feet or so, just to be sure.

Thunderhoof emerged from the narrow corridor, holding the bundle of keys in his mouth. He went over to the bedroom, opened the door, and stepped in.

The bedroom was just as Thunderhoof had imagined: large, opulent, but not in any way impressive. Not to Thunderhoof, anyway. Ignoring the king-sized bed with satin sheets, the ornaments, expensive paintings, and rich mahogany mantelpiece, what the investigator was really after was the extorsion material. Where could it be? How much of it was there?

Thunderhoof checked the desk's drawers, but only found blank paper, ink, and spare quills. He checked the dresser, but only found pyjamas. The wardrobe was full of suits.

There stood a second wardrobe, just like the other one. But this one seemed to be bolted to the wall. Thunderhoof tried to open it but it was locked. After trying a few keys on it, Thunderhoof remembered that this extortion material was for Blueblood's eyes only, and elected to pick the lock instead. Behind it stood a thin wood panel, that gave way when Thunderhoof pushed it slightly.

Behind the wooden panel was a small room which, if the piping and white tiles were anything to go by, had once been an en-suite bathroom. But the walls were almost invisible behind a row of filing cabinets, which were sorted alphabetically.

"Bingo," thought Thunderhoof. This was the room that held Equestria's dirty little secrets, one and all. Without its contents, Blueblood's conspiracy would fall apart.

Emma Skulate had asked for the material to be transported and burned in her presence, but there was too much for one pony to carry. So Thunderhoof decided to extract the most important documents, and burn the rest in Blueblood's bedroom fireplace. Without any further ado, he got to work. He looked over his shoulder in case an unexpected guest (other than him) was watching, and looked through the filing cabinets.

"Princess Celestia," thought Thunderhoof, opening the cabinet that was labelled 'C'. He flipped through the notes, and eventually came across a file titled 'Celestia, Luna and Cadance."

Thunderhoof was about to pack it into his saddlebag, but as he reached for the buckle, his curiosity got the better of him. He opened the file, and took a peek at what was inside.

There were many words to describe the contents of the file that Prince Blueblood had on his aunts and distant cousin. 'Obscene' was one of them. 'Embarrassing' was another, although this clearly went beyond embarrassment. This was humiliation.

But the one that Thunderhoof found most surprising was the one that Blueblood had on Princess Cadance. It was simply an old picture, taken a long time ago, of Thunderhoof and Cadance kissing.

"I've seen enough," thought Thunderhoof, packing the file into his saddlebag, and checking for other noteworthy names. He found several, including the Prime Minister, Canta Del Pronto, several cabinet members, congressponies, the judges for the Special Court for Kudanda, and other such figures.

Once he'd taken all of the files that pertained to the conspiracy and that his saddlebag couldn't be filled more, Thunderhoof grabbed the remaining contents (the cabinets weren't exactly packed), and brought them to the main bedroom. He put the files in the hearth, and struck a match to set them alight. Once the paper started burning, Thunderhoof went back to the secret room, and grabbed more. He repeated this process until no files remained.

"A good deed done," thought Thunderhoof, smirking at the blazing extortion material in the hearth.

"You remind me of somepony," said Blueblood. "Somepony I loved, with all my heart." He sat down next to Octavia, and started stroking her cheek with his hoof, while she was trying to back her head away from the prince.

"Was it really love?" retorted Octavia, shakily. "Or was it-"

"Leave that loser," said Blueblood. "He can't give you what I can."

"Please, go slower," Octavia snapped.

Blueblood looked at Octavia, blinked in surprise, and unhooked the bow-tie from around Octavia's neck. As she was about to protest, he put his hoof on her mouth. "Shhhh."

And as Blueblood brought his head in for a kiss, Octavia gave him an almighty slap, before pushing him away and getting up. "I request a drink," she said, sternly.

Eye twitching, still processing what had just happened, Blueblood got up from the sofa, and faced Octavia. "What did you just say?"

"I said I wanted a drink," snapped Octavia again.

"Now you listen here," said Blueblood, venemously. "When I want something, neither you, nor your coltfriend, HAS THE RIGHT TO REFUSE! NOW COME HERE!"

"No."

With his magic, Blueblood levitated Octavia, and pulled her towards him. And once she was in leg's reach, he forced her to the floor, and tried holding her down. "WHEN I TELL YOU TO DO SOMETHING, YOU DO IT AND YOU DON'T-"

The door slammed open, and in the threshold appeared the burly pegasus stallion. Thunderhoof had arrived.

"What are you doing here?" asked Blueblood. "I've still got another hour!"

"Look," panted Thunderhoof. "You don't want this!"

"Oh, really? And why the hay not?"

"Because... because... look, I didn't want to tell you, I thought you wouldn't believe me. I heard it from somepony else, I-"

"What are you going on about?" shouted Blueblood.

"She looks fine on the outside," said Thunderhoof. "But she's got the clap."

"What?" Blueblood violently got up from Octavia, and stood at a leg's length from her.

"Yeah. She's a whore. I wasn't going to tell you, but, er... I guess it's my better nature."

Octavia stormed out of the room.

"Sorry," said Thunderhoof. "Have a nice day."

"Tavy, wait up," said Thunderhoof, trying to catch up with Octavia, who was cantering down the driveway. He placed his hoof on her shoulder, but she pushed him away.

"Get off me!" she yelled, breathlessly, tears in her eyes.

"Tavy, please..." Thunderhoof too was on the verge of tears.

Octavia stopped. "This afternoon, I was the marefriend of a gentle stallion, whom, I thought, would never force me into anything. And two hours later, I'm a whore. With the clap."

"It was necessary, Octavia. I had to gain his..."

"You sold me out!" shouted Octavia. Her purple eyes were heavy with tears, her makeup running down her muzzle.

"It's not like that," said Thunderhoof.

"Oh, I didn't want to believe what others had said about you. They said that you're the guy who uses his friends, and then sells them out when he doesn't need them anymore. And for a moment, I thought you loved me. That you actually cared about me."

"But I do love you."

"Goodbye, Thunderhoof. I should have seen what you are a while ago."

The agent threw more brandy onto the fire. Emma Skulate reached her mug of cocoa out to the agent, who poured some of the liquor into her cup before emtying the bottle onto the pit.

"Well, damn," said Emma, looking at her watch. "He's late."

"I hope nothing's happened to him," worried Shining Armor.

"He'll be there," interjected Hoofington.

"He'd better," said Emma.

"I'm wondering," said Hoofington, "do you think the princesses hired Thunderhoof because they knew he'd catch on to what was happening?"

"Well that would explain some things," said Emma. "But I guess we'll never know." She took a sip of her brandy-flavoured cocoa. "I know this is supposed to be a professional gathering, but I'm curious: what do you have planned once all of this is over?"

"Well it'll be back to normal for me," said the prince. "I've got to help Cadance run the Empire and I have a daughter."

"Back to running my club, I guess," said Hoofington. "And you?"

"Well I'd just love to get a commendation, but this is strictly off the record," said Emma Skulate.

"It is?" asked one of the two agents who was tending to the flames.

"Trust me," said Emma. "You don't want to know." She then looked into the distance. "Ah," she said. "He's here."

Indeed, marching towards the group with a bulging saddlebag on his bag was Thunderhoof.

Hoofington reached into the crate he was leaning on, and produced a bottle of whisky. "What kept you?" he asked, as the pegasus stallion drew closer.

"Train was delayed," said Thunderhoof. He placed the saddlebag onto the ground, and reached inside. First, he got the heavy file on the princesses. "This goes first," he ordered.

Emma, who was visibly curious as to the contents of the dossier but had enough self-restraint to not satisfy her curiosity, levitated the dossier and placed it into the fire pit. The agents then got the rest of the paper, and burned it under the watchful eyes of Thunderhoof, Emma Skulate and Shining Armor.

"You know what scares me?" asked Shining Armor. "The prospect that this might not be all of it. Maybe he made copies, you know?"

"Probably not," answered Thunderhoof. "Whatever material he was using for his extortion, he wouldn't make copies."

"Why not?"

"If you make copies of your material, you're exposing yourself to the possibility of them reaching somepony else."

"Fair enough."

Hoofington reached the bottle of whisky to Thunderhoof, who took a hearty swig from it before passing it around. Emma, Shining Armor, the two agents and finally Hoofington all took a sip. When the bottle finally came back to Thunderhoof, he took a final swig before emptying it on top of the fire, watching the fire hiss as it disintegrated the paper.

"You've just stopped a war before it even started," said Shining Armor. "We're all very grateful."

"Mmh-hm," answered Thunderhoof, in a very bored manner. "Alright, I'm going to head out." He went over to Emma, and presented his badge. "I won't be needing this anymore," he said.

"Keep it," answered Emma. "Something tells me that you'll be needing it some time soon."

"Also, Luna wants you to drop by Canterlot Castle, one day," said Shining Armor.

"I probably won't," responded Thunderhoof. "Not soon, anyway."

Thunderhoof signed one last letter, stuffed it into an envelope, and put it in the basket that Belle Weather was levitating. "That'll be all," he said. "Thank you for staying up."

"But of course. It's good to have you back, Sir," answered Belle Weather. "And, er... happy birthday, sir."

"What?" Thunderhoof looked at the clock, which was indicating a quarter past midnight, and looked at his calendar. Indeed, it was his birthday. "Oh. Thank you."

As Belle Weather made her way to the door, Thunderhoof looked at his drinks cabinet, then at his secretary. "Wait a minute," he said.

"Yes?" asked Belle Weather.

"I was just thinking," said Thunderhoof, "we've never had a drink together, have we?"

"No, we haven't."

"Well... why don't we have one now?"

"Why not indeed?" Belle Weather sat down on the other side of the desk, a smile on her face.

Thunderhoof went towards his drinks cabinet. "What'll it be?" he asked.

"I'll have a... rye on the rocks," he said.

Thunderhoof dumped some ice cubes into two glasses, and poured some rye whisky over the ice. He then brought the tumblers over to his desk.

"It's nice, thank you," said Belle Weather, after taking a sip.

"Didn't want to drink alone," said Thunderhoof.

"It's preferable not to," responded Belle.

Thunderhoof nodded, and vacantly stared at his desk.

"Is something wrong?" asked Thunderhoof's secretary.

"It's nothing," answered the investigator. "Things have been moving so fast... it's just hard to keep up."

"Well, I'd be the same if I'd been comatose for a whole month," said Belle. "And then I'd woke up to find that my country's going to war."

"It won't," interjected Thunderhoof, in a dry manner. "There won't be a war."

"How can you be so certain?"

"There are ponies working in the shadows," said Thunderhoof. "To make sure the war doesn't happen."

"I see," said Belle, in a mixture of curiosity and astonishment. "Who was it who said 'We sleep soundly in our beds because rough stallions stand ready in the night to visit violence on those who would do us harm'? Wasn't it Whinnston Chestnut?"

"No," said Thunderhoof. "Wasn't it... General Pat-on? Mountgomery? Or was it George Pawwell?"

"I'll do my research," chuckled Belle. "Now, I'm sorry to leave you like this, but I have dinner with my coltfriend. Happy Birthday, Sir. And, thanks for the drink."

"Ah, Your Lordship," said James, as Thunderhoof crossed the threshold of the Butterscotch hotel.

"Hello, James," said Thunderhoof. His tie was loose and he looked tired. He hoofed his hat to his Maître d'Hotel. "How's the place been?"

"It's been faring well. I assume that Lady Amazing is following you?" asked James.

"I'm sorry?" frowned Thunderhoof. He then realised what James was going on about. "Oh, Octavia. No, she won't."

James looked sad. "Did something happen, Your Lordship?"

"She won't be coming back."

"Oh."

Thunderhoof ate his dinner in a dark mood. The rest of the massive dining room was empty. Once he'd finished, James came in to clear up.

"Tell the chef it's nice to be back," said Thunderhoof.

"I'll be sure to tell her, sir."

Thunderhoof got up from his chair, and went towards the exit. But as he did so, he noticed a painting that was hanging on the wall. A very nice landscape of Canterlot. He'd never noticed it before, even though it had been there for a long time. After all, Thunderhoof could distinctly remember ordering landscapes to decorate the dining room, a while ago.

And then it dawned on him. Last time he'd visited his father, he'd seen the ornaments of Butterscotch hall, and he'd thought that absolutely no-one had ever stopped to appreciate them. He'd wondered if he'd end up the same way. Well he had. There was this beautiful painting that somepony had put a lot of effort into. But he hadn't noticed it until now.

Thunderhoof sniggered at the irony, left the dining room, and took the elevator up to his suite. Once he'd changed into his lounge robe, Thunderhoof went to his salon, and curled up on the sofa.

"A digéstif, Sir?" asked James, who had just appeared with a bottle of brandy.

"Just leave the bottle," responded Thunderhoof, in a hoarse voice.

"Very good, Sir."

"Thank you."

"Her ladyship told me to give you this on your birthday," said James, levitating a large parcel towards Thunderhoof. "Do you want to open it?"

Thunderhoof looked at the present, and shrugged. "Might as well," he sighed.

Thunderhoof tore the wrapping paper apart, and looked at what was inside. It was a violin. The neck was made of maple, and the body of spruce and willow. Its shape was elegant and graceful, nearing perfection, if there existed such a thing. The major looked at the bow. It was pitch-black. Thunderhoof had stroked enough of Octavia's mane to know that this was what the bow was made of.

A note was wrapped around the bow. Thunderhoof unravelled it, and read the letter left by Octavia.

"Carry me wherever you go," it simply said.

Thunderhoof cried.

It had been a whole week since Thunderhoof had come back to Canterlot. Sitting on the terrace, sipping a cool glass of orange juice. He grabbed a muffin from his plate, smeared it with jam, and stuffed it whole into his mouth.

The day before, a letter had come for Thunderhoof. It explained that Blackjack, pained and accepting of his fate, had elected to be put to sleep, to make his last days less painful. Thunderhoof hadn't gone to visit, as to him, there was no point in talking to a sleeping pony. It also said that the Butterscotch Family Holdings and Blackjack's personal possessions had been transferred to him. So as well as essentially owning a quarter of Trottingham, Thunderhoof was now a cash billionaire.

Thunderhoof had everything. He had enough money to buy anything he wanted, power, influence, everything. Yet he was unhappy. For next to him sat an empty chair. Maybe somepony would come to sit down, filling the void that Octavia had left in her wake.

James came outside. "Enjoying the sun, milord?" he asked.

"Yeah," answered Thunderhoof. "Any post?"

"Yes, sir. Most of it is business-related, so I took the liberty of putting it on your desk."

"And what's in the news?"

"Let's see," said James, bringing a pince-museau to his eyes, and looked at the newspaper. "The Special Court for Kudanda has reopened, and the next trials should be taking place in a few weeks. Oh, and the Hearthswarming honour's list has been updated."

"Let's hear it."

"Canta del Pronto is to receive an award... Poppy Heart is to receive a knighthood... Oh, and here's an interesting one." James cleared his throat. "For special services to the crown and gallant contribution to national security, Major Thunderhoof Butterscotch is to receive the Lunar Award for National Security."

"Nice."

"Well that's another feather in your cap, milord," said James.

"And what a feather it is," answered Thunderhoof. "Any personal mail?" he asked, hopefully.

"No, Sir. Now, if you'll excuse me, Sir, some guests are having a late breakfast."

"Carry on," said Thunderhoof.

Thunderhoof finished his breakfast in a dark mood, before going back inside and into his office. There, on his desk, he found the paperwork that James had mentioned earlier. He sat down, donned his round spectacles, and started sifting through it.

"This is boring me already," he thought, going through the accounts.

As he signed more papers, slouched over his desk, Thunderhoof started fantasising about what could have been. What if he'd never left the army? Maybe he'd be leading an army into Zebrica by now. What if he'd taken up Hoofington on his offer, and left Blueblood's conspiracy to unfold? Maybe he'd be starting a new life, in a beach house far away with Octavia still at his side? And finally, what if, instead of burning the extorsion material as he'd been ordered to do, he'd used it himself? Not for his profit, but maybe just leaked it to the press, and watched Equestria promptly descend into anarchy?

"Sir?" asked James, who had entered once more.

"What is it?" asked Thunderhoof, not lifting his eyes from his paperwork.

"Somepony is here to see you," explained James.

"Dammit, James, I told you I didn't want unexpected..."

"It's the Duke of Fillydelphia, Milord."

"What?" asked Thunderhoof.

"Yes, Prince Blueblood himself."

"Oh," said Thunderhoof. He nervously wiped his forehead, and straightened his back. "Yes, send him in."

James opened the door, and in came Blueblood, wearing his Field Marshal's uniform and a smug smile. The butler left the room.

"Well hello," said Thunderhoof. "How's your little conspiracy coming along?"

"Well you should know," sniggered the prince.

It was Thunderhoof's turn to snigger. "In case you're bitter about me ruining your little scheme," he said, "I'll tell you what I told Cavallo: if you had hired me, I wouldn't have been as much of a pain."

Cavallo chuckled, and eyed Thunderhoof's decanter. "You know, it's customary for the landlord to offer a drink to his guest."

"Did I invite you?" asked Thunderhoof.

"No," responded Blueblood.

"So are you my guest?"

Blueblood's smug expression gave way to a very venomous one, reminiscent of Haysley's. His horn lit up, and Thunderhoof's decanter tipped over, spreading whisky all over the carpet. "Whoops," he mused.

Thunderhoof lifted his glasses and sighed. "Do you always act like a spoilt brat?" he asked. "When somepony refuses something to you, do you just throw a tantrum? That whisky was expensive."

"And do you always act like a self-righteous bastard?" asked Blueblood in return. "Did the servant's inferior genes make you stupid?"

"Yeah, my mum was a whore," said Thunderhoof, casually. "What is that to a cousin-banger like yourself?"

Blueblood's eye twitched again. "Did she have the clap?" he asked, nastily.

"Oh, how original," said Thunderhoof. "Did that telegraph-pole-shaped family tree numb your originality?"

"Laugh all you want, Lord Butterscotch," said Blueblood. "I'll be the one laughing when my regiment marches into Zebrica."

Thunderhoof suddenly took note of Blueblood's pearl-white uniform. His extorsion material was gone in flames, and his invasion should have been called off by now. He should have been displaced from the high command. "Excuse me?" he asked.

"Well as it stands, I don't really need my papers anymore," said the duke. "Thank you for burning them, by the way, they were taking an awful lot of space."

"What?" asked Thunderhoof.

"You see, tomorrow at around lunch time, a Wonderbolt patrol will fly a little close to the border with Zebrica. The zebras, with these powerful and accurate anti-air cannons that I sold them will tear them to shreds. And once the news gets out, the entirety of Equestria will cry for war. Their stories, and stories of their families will be spread throughout my papers. Pressured by parliament, Anton Gardener will give me the order. And then..."

Thunderhoof snorted. "You do realise that with a quick letter to Princess Celestia, I can have your command rescinded and your garrison disbanded, right?" he asked, arrogantly.

"You don't want to do that," said Blueblood.

"And why not?"

Blueblood leaned over the desk. "I have Octavia," he said.

Thunderhoof looked shocked. "What?"

"Oh, yes," said Blueblood. "Octavia Melody... or Amazing Grace, as is her real name... I knew I'd seen her somewhere before."

"Well you're out of luck," said Thunderhoof. "Octavia and I broke up. She doesn't mean anything to me anymore."

Blueblood snorted. "Come on, now," he said. "I've read up on you. They say that you're one of those happy-go-lucky types... but I know the truth. I know that Octavia is different."

"So you're telling me all of this," said Thunderhoof. "Why, exactly? What's the point?"

"Well, you've meddled in my affairs. Therefore I have a score to settle with you. Normally I'd just, you know, have you publicly shamed with some wild accusation of some sort. But I have a bargaining chip, and you have something I want."

"Which is?"

"Your family businesses, of course," said Blueblood. "I want you to sign them over to me. Oh, and, erm... precisely two billion, twenty three million, three hundred and seventeen thousand bits."

"How did you..."

"It doesn't matter," said Blueblood. "What matters is that I have Octavia, and if you want to see her again, you'd better do what I ask. I'm not a monster... I'll let you think on it."

Thunderhoof didn't answer.

"Now, if you'll excuse me, I have an army to lead. You know where to find me." And without any further ado, Blueblood left the room.

As soon as the prince was gone, Thunderhoof looked down at his desk, thinking very hard of what to do. "What did I ever do to deserve this?" he thought.

He started pacing around the room, tears of anger and distress rolling down his face. He went over to his knocked over decanter, and drank the drops that remained in it. Then, in a fit of rage, he threw the expensive piece of glassware against the wall, shattering it.

"Sir?" asked James, peeking his head into the door. "Is everything alright?"

Thunderhoof came to a halt. He looked at James for a few seconds, breathing heavily. And all of a sudden, he made his decision. "Call Princess Twilight," he said. "She's our only hope."

Chapter one: Griffish Stoicism

Hoofington Gentlecolts' Club

It was just another day at the Hoofington Gentlecolts' Club. Waiters were prowling around the stage room in their pearly white tuxedos, taking orders and serving refreshments to the club's patrons before tonight's entertainment started. Every night the Club hosted a show of different musicians and showponies. Some were local talents trying to start a career in music, hoping a record label owner would be sitting at a table somewhere. Some had already made their career, and they had decided or been invited to play on the stage. Anyone, from a ragtag company of My Fair Filly to a big band playing smooth jazz could play on Hoofington's stage. That was what made Hoofington's Gentlecolts' Club so successful. That, and the fact that theoretically anypony could come along and watch, so long as they had a drink or something. No dress codes, no hoof-picking the patrons.

And once the clamor of the bar and restaurant had died down, the show could begin. It always started in the same way. Hoofington, the club's owner and chairpony, would trot onto the stage, wearing his checkered suit jacket and bow tie, briefly entertain the audience with his jokes, and disappear behind the curtains, shouting "LIGHTS!" as he did so.

And the lights, as if they responded by the sound of his voice, would focus on the center of the stage, where the first act would appear. This was the moment of apprehension, when everypony present would hold their breath. Nopony ever knew exactly who would come out from behind these curtains. It was customary for Hoofington to never reveal who would play on that stage on each night.

There was one of the club's regulars who stood out from the rest: Thunderhoof. The Pegasus stallion was sitting at his table, just in front of the scene. He was pearly-white, with a jet-black mane and tail. His eyes were steel blue and his cutie mark depicted three identical thunderbolts. The waiters hadn't waltzed over and taken his order as they had done with the rest of the patrons. Everyone who worked in the club from Hoofington himself down to the janitor knew that Thunderhoof always had the same thing: a glass of Trottingham Dry Gin and a carrot stew. Indeed, the drink and the dish had been placed in front of him the moment he took his seat.

Thunderhoof watched as the first act made its way onto the stage: a stand-up comedian who went by the name 'Rocktail'. Pitiful, as far as Thunderhoof was concerned. But there was one unspoken rule about Hoofington's club. You had to stay until the end, to see if there was something you might like.

The second act was just as bad as the first, if not worse. Something so boring that Thunderhoof slipped into a torpor as he downed a glass of gin. Three seconds after the act ended, he’d already forgotten what it was.

The rest of the evening's acts were just as boring, and Thunderhoof had already knocked back two glasses of liquor by the fourth one. At one point, he turned his head, and looked around for a poster or something, just to make sure he hadn't stumbled into amateur night at the Canterlot hospital head injury ward.

But at the very end of the show, Thunderhoof saw something he liked. Or rather, somepony he liked. The lights dimmed for the penultimate time, and the sound of dainty hoofsteps could be heard making their way onto the stage.

And for the last time, the projectors focused on the centre-stage, where an Earth Pony mare had appeared, left hoof over the hoofboard of a cello, right hoof firmly wrapped around a bow. Her coat was light-gray, and her mane was jet black. Her cutie mark depicted a treble clef. She was wearing a purple bow-tie around her neck that matched her eyes. And that expression on her face... It was undiscernible. Her face was relaxed, and at first glance, she seemed bored, bordering on apathetic. But her smile told a different story. It was curled slightly upwards, showing a serene and tender expression, breaking any image of boredom that Thunderhoof had in mind. Only she could possibly know what was going on inside her head.

Alone, she stood in the middle of the stage. Holding herself with such grace that everypony could not help but look up from their food and watch her start playing. Even Thunderhoof had- no. Especially Thunderhoof had been pulled out of his trance to look at the filly on stage. She started expertly rubbing her bow on the strings, not lifting her eyes from the score. She had played in front of audiences before; Thunderhoof could tell. Her unfazed expression told him that she was used to playing in front of large audiences, and to her, the club was no different to an opera house.

The white stallion wondered whether or not she wore that stoic expression and adopted that graceful stance all the time. Maybe that was just her stage attitude. Or maybe not. Climbing onto a stage, in many ways, was just like donning a mask. Sometimes you wear the mask for so long that you get used to it, forgetting its existence. But Thunderhoof liked that mask. And more than that, he wondered what she'd be like would she unveil herself of that mask. He began to take interrest in the mare on the stage. Thunderhoof found himself mesmerized by the mare's grace and her graceful music.

Eventually, once her number was over, the cellist bowed to the applause of the crowd, before disappearing behind the curtains, lights going out for the last time. And once she'd disappeared from the stage, Thunderhoof found himself sinking into an emotion he hadn't really felt before, for it seemed that the cellist was taking a part of Thunderhoof with her, and soon enough, there was a hole in his heart.

"Enjoying yourself?" asked Hoofington, who was tending the bar.

"Surprisingly, yes!" answered Thunderhoof. "Listen, Hoofy, erm... I don't know how to put this, but..."

"Ah, I know what you're gonna ask, baby!" said Hoofington. "I saw you lookin' at Octavia Melody!"

"Octavia Melody, huh?" asked Thunderhoof. "That's a nice name."

Hoofington dropped his voice. "I've gotta warn you, though. That cat's got her muzzle so high in the air, you can't even see it above the clouds!"

"Rich?" asked Thunderhoof.

"Octavia? Nah! Though rumor has it she comes from a good family. Or so they say."

"I see," said Thunderhoof, clearly not interrested in the privileges that Octavia may or may not have. "Where is she now?"

"I'd check her lodge if I were you, but I w-"

"Dry gin and tonic, please, Hoofington," said an alto voice.

The two stallions violently turned their heads. Octavia had just sat down on the seat next to Thunderhoof.

"Well?" she asked, one eyebrow raised. Her voice and accent could only be described as posh. West Trottingham, just like Thunderhoof's. It matched her elegant demeanor.

"She neighs the neigh," thought Thunderhoof. "Does she trot the trot?"

"Trottingham?" asked Hoofington, prompting Octavia to nod. He poured Octavia's drink, served Thunderhoof his usual, and went to the other side of the bar, so as to give them some room, leaving the bottle of gin behind for Thunderhoof.

"Longing for the homeland?" joked Thunderhoof, indicating the bottle's label.

Octavia smiled. "You could say that." But her smile wasn't the stoic one she'd been wearing on the stage. No, this one looked hollow; sad. Maybe Thunderhoof had struck a chord.

"Your accent- West Trottingham?" asked Thunderhoof.

"Yours too, unless I am mistaken."

"I'm sorry," said Thunderhoof. "Let me introduce myself. My name's Thunderhoof. Private Investigator."

"Major Thunderhoof Butterscotch, with the billion and a half post-nominals?" asked Octavia, her stoic ad serene visage giving way to enthusiasm. "Son of the Earl Blackjack Butterscotch?"

"The same," replied Thunderhoof, surprised that she'd recognize him so quickly. But to his even greater surprise, Octavia started chuckling softly.

"Where were you, five years ago?" she snorted.

"Kudanda," replied Thunderhoof.

"I was being rhetorical, Major."

"Just Thunderhoof, if you don't mind. But tell me, what happened three ye-"

At that moment, Thunderhoof was interrupted by a loud whinny from outside.

"It's been a pleasure, Major, but I've got to go. Until next time." And without further ado, Octavia rushed outside while somepony else hauled her case to the door.

"The hay was that about?" asked Hoofington, approaching his number one patron again.

"Feathered if I know, Hoofy," replied Thunderhoof, sinking back into his torpor.

Hoofington looked at Octavia's would-be drink and said "You're gonna have to pay for her, you know?"

"Alright," said Thunderhoof. "How much for this glass of frustration?" Then, he grabbed the bottle of gin. "And the remedy to such frustrations?"

Chapter Fourteen: You always kill the things you love.

"Come on, we're almost at the green line," Thunderhoof panted, as he dragged his lieutenant across the plain.

Fog had descended over the landscape, and the major couldn't see more than ten feet around him. Sergeant Redwood looked over her shoulder. "Where's Mareston?" she asked.

Thunderhoof looked around. He couldn't see Corporal Mareston. "I think we lost her," he said, breathlessly. "We have to wait for her. Redwood, help me."

Sergeant Redwood helped Thunderhoof settle Hoofington up against a rock. "Major," he mumbled, in a barely audible voice. "I think it's open."

Thunderhoof lifted the lieutenant's tunic. Sure enough, Hoofington's deep stab wound was oozing blood all over his fur, in spite of the bandages.

"Redwood, I've got to take care of Hoofington. Cover me," said Thunderhoof. He wiped sweat off his brow, and looked for his bandages.

"What about Mareston?" asked Redwood. "We can't just leave her behind!"

"If Hoofington doesn't get aid soon, he might die," retorted Thunderhoof.

"Go get Mareston," croaked Hoofington. "Leave me here."

"Don't say that," said Thunderhoof. "We've lost enough ponies here already."

Hoofington grabbed his commanding officer by the lapel, and pulled him close. "Listen here, sir. I'm not goin' anywhere until we're all regrouped."

Thunderhoof pursed his lips, but didn't answer. Instead, he looked at Redwood. "You stay here and take care of him. I'll go out to look for her."

As Redwood started applying the bandages, Thunderhoof backtracked along the hoofprints that he could see in the mud. "Where have you gone?" he thought.

After a few minutes of backtracking, checking his surroundings for hostiles, Thunderhoof found a divergence in the hoofprints. A set of them were heading to the left. He followed them, and after a while, they came to an end. Collapsed on her side was a lifeless, drab-clothed body.

"Mareston?" whispered Thunderhoof. He went over, and tried shaking her back into consciousness, but she didn't respond. He put his hoof on her shoulder, and rotated her. Her eyes were staring, and a red cut in her throat was gushing blood onto the soil.

The major heard a soft thump from behind him. He let go of the body, and turned around, grabbing his crossbow and preparing to strike with his bayonet. There, facing him, was a griffon.

The creature bore the insignia of the Kudandan Patriotic Front on the arm of her tunic. She had an eyepatch, and was holding what appeared to be a dagger. It was covered in blood.

For a few seconds, both parties froze. Both were scared. The griffon's eye twitched. And suddenly, she raised the knife, and ran towards the major.

Thunderhoof raised his weapon, and sunk its bayonet deep into the mercenary's chest. She gagged and spluttered. Thunder twisted the blade, and was about to wrench it out when the griffon grabbed his right leg, and pulled it towards her, sinking the blade even deeper. With her unarmed talon, she clawed at the ranger's face.

Feeling the scratches, Thunderhoof parried the griffon's strike, and thrust his weapon forward to get her off his blade.

The griffon lunged at Thunderhoof, and screeched at him, revealing the inside of her beak. The major brought the bayonet back, and thrust it into his assailant's mouth, before wrenching it out.

She looked shocked, as her mouth started gushing blood. As she gave her last throes and spasms, Thunderhoof readied his blade for a third strike, but the griffon collapsed to the floor, dead.

As the ranger contemplated his latest victim, the fog gave way to rain, and three winged equines landed, some ten feet away. As their leader removed his goggles and looked at the griffon's body, Thunderhoof recognised their leader: Blitzhoof.

"Where were you, thirty minutes ago?" he asked sardonically.

"Look at me, please," said the doctor, as his patient opened his eyes.

Thunderhoof blinked, swept the room with his eyes, fought against the urge to punch the doctor in the face, and looked at him squarely in the eyes.

"How are you feeling?" asked the doctor.

"Tavy... where is she?"

The doctor didn't answer. Thunderhoof tried to sit up straight, but the male nurse held him back, and gently pushed him down.

"Where am I?"

"Norringcloud base," answered the doctor.

Thunderhoof looked around at the room, noticed that he was in a hospital, and deduced that he had been in some sort of coma. "How long was I..."

"Four weeks," answered the doctor.

Thunderhoof lifted his hoof and looked at it. "Not too long, then, I suppose," he coughed. His mouth felt dry. "Can I have some water?"

The doctor nodded at the nurse, who went to the sink and got Thunderhoof a glass of water. "Drink slowly," he said, giving the glass to Thunderhoof with his wing.

"Thank you," said the Private Eye as he drank the water, taking little sips.

"My name is Doctor Brighthoof," said the Doctor. He then indicated the nurse. "And this is Corporal Muzzleflash of the Pegarescue Corps."

The nurse gave Thunderhoof a weak smile.

"So I suppose my father put me here," said Thunderhoof.

"Yes."

"How long do I have to stay here?" asked the major, groggily.

"Your father told me to wake you up as soon as possible. If it were up to me I would have had you under for a few more weeks, but he did insist. So, against my better judgement, you are awake."

"And free to leave?" asked Thunderhoof.

"You're legally obligated to have a spot of lunch first," said the doc. "How does beans on toast sound?"

"Perfect," said Thunderhoof. "Better than whatever's in those drips, I'm sure." he chuckled, pulling on his IV-dripped leg.

"You might feel groggy and dizzy for the next four to six weeks," said the Doctor. "And some pain from those ribs of yours I've written a prescription for painkillers."

"Thanks, doc," said Thunderhoof. And as the doctor and nurse were about to leave, Thunderhoof asked, "oh, and can I have the newspaper?"

"Oh, yes, I almost forgot," said the doctor. "Your father told me to get you every single newspaper I could find and bring them to you daily." He pointed at a hitherto unnoticed pile of newspapers, sitting on a chair.

Thunderhoof blinked at the massive pile of newspapers. A few tabloids and magazines had fallen from the heap onto the floor.

The nurse eventually came back, holding Thunderhoof's lunch. He was surprised to see that the major had sat up straight, put on his round glasses and started reading a month-old issue of 'The Weekly Beak'. A pile of presumably already-read newspapers lay on the floor.

"Thank you very much," said the Private Investigator, not looking up from his magazine as the nurse placed the plate of beans on toast on the tray.

The nurse left the room.

As Thunderhoof busied himself with his luncheon, another pony entered the room. It was Hoofington.

"Heya, Hoofy," said Thunderhoof.

"How the hay you doin'?" asked Hoofington, approaching his friend and giving him a short hug. "I missed ya."

"Me too, Hoofy," answered Thunderhoof.

"They said they sowed you up like a hoofball," said Hoofington. "Police say it was some Cavallo guys who got ya."

"Is that so?" asked Thunderhoof, through a mouthful of beans.

"While you were under, I reached out to some ponies who can help us get payback," said Hoofington. "Ponies who have a stake in stoppin' this. Ponies who'll be glad to help."

"Who?" asked Thunderhoof.

"Can't tell ya here, ya never know who can be listening. Finish up, and we'll leave."

Once Thunderhoof had finished his lunch, and packed his newspapers, he and Hoofington left Norringcloud Base by hot air balloon, and arrived at Canterlot. As usual when he didn't want to be recognised, Thunderhoof had gone for his tweed suit and newsboy cap. He still felt dizzy, and walked with a slight limp.

"Well I can't say I haven't missed the sun," said Thunderhoof, looking up at the clear sky, as he and his companion made their way to Hoofington's Gentlecolts' Club.

They went up to Hoofington's penthouse, and set up shop in the study.

"So, the pony who wants Whinnston Chestnut out of action also wants Canta del Pronto out of the picture," said Hoofington. "All of this for the benefit of a mystery guest we know nothing about," said Hoofington, looking at the rather rudimentary conspiracy wall that they'd put together on a cork noticeboard.

"Yeah," said Thunderhoof, before taking a sip of his black tea.

"And the informant didn't say anything?"

"Just 'eyes on the newspapers'," said Thunderhoof. He looked at the pile of periodicals that were piled on the table. "Better get cracking, I guess."

Sifting through four weeks' worth of newspapers and magazines to find clues was easier said than done. But after a while, Thunderhoof happened upon an issue of the Trotty Telegraph, the tag-line of which read "CANTA DEL PRONTO ACCUSED OF INACTION"

Intrigued, Thunderhoof read further.

"Yesterday, an article surfaced in The Weekly Beak magazine, putting forward allegations of tampering vis-a-vis Canta Del Pronto, Prosecutor for the Special Court for Kudanda, and Whinnston Chestnut. The article accuses Mrs Pronto and Chestnut of delaying the delivery of justice by constantly putting back the trials, and even calling for their resignation. Given the Weekly Beak's reputation for publishing fake news and misleading articles, it is possible that this is just another attempt to make capital off a dire situation. Mrs Pronto was not on hoof to give comment.

But for once, shouldn't we give the periodical the benefit of the doubt? Given that Canta Del Pronto has not yet been capable of delivering proof of a single crime on the defenders' part, maybe she is simply unfit for the job. And given that the fate of Zebra-Equine relations hangs in the balance, maybe the journalists at the Weekly Beak are simply trying to do some good."

Sifting through several issues of the Weekly Beak, Thunderhoof discovered several other articles targeting Canta del Pronto, Whinnston Chestnut and several senior members of parliament. Every time, they called for the resignation of the aforementioned ponies. The tone of the magazines was desperate, to say the least.

"Might be something worth checking out here, Hoofy," said Thunderhoof, giving the magazine to Hoofington. "They've consistently been trying to get Canta and Whinnston out of power."

"Huh," said Hoofington. "Canta went full dark a few weeks ago. No-one knows where she is. As for Whinnston..."

"What about him?" asked Thunderhoof.

Hoofington looked through the pile of newspapers, and chucked one at Thunderhoof. It was a week-old issue of The Canterlot Gazette.

"THE NATION WORRIES AS THE GREAT COMMONER'S STATE WORSENS," read the tag-line.

"At approximately 5 AM yesterday, The Right Honourable Whinnston Chestnut suffered a minor stroke, which has nonetheless left him bedridden for at least two weeks. His deputy prime minister and foreign secretary, Anton Gardener, has temporarily taken over. For undisclosed reasons, Gardener's first official action as Prime Minister was to place the Equestrian Armed Forces on secondary alert. In bases all over the country, and in forward operating bases beyond the seas, serviceponies of all branches have been taking part in extensive drill sessions. Even more worryingly, sources close to the border between Zebrica and the Equestrian Kudanda Occupation Zone report that Equestrian troops have started patrolling close to the border, sometimes carrying out training exercises within Zebrica.

Responding to what is seen as a challenge and a 'criminal provocation', Lord Fasu, Zebrican ambassador to Equestria, has called for Equestria's immediate withdrawal from Kudanda and the extradition of the Kudu suspects of war crimes."

Thunderhoof looked worried. "If what I'm reading is true," he said, "it means we have to move fast."

"So what do we do?" asked Hoofington.

"Gardener is acting this way for a reason. If we go after his chief of staff or-"

"That's no good," interrupted Hoofington, shaking his head. "Odds are that anypony involved is just like Sabot. Blackmailed into working for whoever."

Thunderhoof tore the articles off the issues of The Weekly Beak, and went over to pin them to the cork noticeboard. "We know they're behind it," he said.

"Or maybe just one of them," retorted Hoofington.

Thunderhoof took a closer look at the articles. Each one of them had been written by a different columnist. "I doubt that," he said, pointing out the different names of the journalists.

"Well I dunno... the editor-in-chief, then."

At that moment, one of the bouncers walked into the room. He nodded at Thunderhoof, recognising him. "Hoofy?" he asked. "There's the prince here to see ya. And some other guy, says he's an agent or somethin'."

"Send 'em in."

The bouncer disappeared onto the landing, and came back about a minute later, escorting Shining Armour, who was wearing an inconspicuous outfit and looking particularly somber, and the 'agent', whom Thunderhoof didn't know.

"Well this is a turn-up, isn't it?" asked Thunderhoof, as Shining Armor sat down.

"Thought you were dead," said Shining Armor, reproachfully.

"I thought I was too," retorted Thunderhoof, wearing a face of fed-up-ness. "Why are you here anyway?"

Hoofington spoke. "Shining's wife is being blackmailed. He has a stake in stopping this."

"And you?" Thunderhoof asked to the other pony.

She was a young unicorn mare, with a magenta coat, a purple mane, and sharp grey-blue eyes. She looked stern, strong, and even more daunting than Shining Armor, who looked like a teddy bear in comparison.

"I am Emma Skulate, here on the behalf of the Pan-Equestrian Criminal Police," answered the mare, in a stern voice.

Thunderhoof wanted to ask her to elaborate, but Hoofington took the floor. "So, what d'we have?" he asked. "Your Highness?"

Shining Armor levitated a few papers from his saddlebag and laid them on the table. "My contact in the Ministry of Defense informed me that the top brass aren't just planning on defending the Equestrian annexation zone in case of a Zebrican attack. They're planning an invasion."

"Or they could be planning a counter attack," suggested Emma.

"Trust me, they aren't," retorted Shining Armor. "I know they aren't."

Emma blinked. "I'd like to know who is this contact of yours," she stated. "If they truly have divulges Equestrian battle plans, they are guilty of High Treason."

"He's protected class," retorted Shining. "You won't get your hooves on him." He shot a glare at Thunderhoof, indicating that this 'contact' was someone that the major knew.

"We'll see about that," said the agent.

"Why are you here, again?" asked Thunderhoof.

"Because my organisation spent months, if not years, gathering evidence of Kudandan War Crimes, and whoever is behind this plot is also blackmailing judges and giving free passes to the culprits," responded Emma. "So to answer your question, this whole plot is getting on my nerves."

"Fair enough."

"Let me ask you this, Major: what have you discovered thus far?" asked the agent.

Thunderhoof went over to the board, and indicated the articles that were tacked to it. He explained that four different journalists had been attacking Canta del Pronto and Whinnston Chestnut.

"I recognise one of those names," said Emma. "Colt Whistle. He's been under investigation for libel for a few years now. We lost all trace of him at about the same time as when you went into your coma." She slid a file over to Thunderhoof, who opened it to reveal the face of the pony he'd met at the factory in Trottingham.

"I met him," said Thunderhoof. "He told me to keep an eye on the newspapers before disappearing." He took a closer look at the file.

EQUESTRIAN INTELLIGENCE COMMUNITY
FILE NO.5392- COLT WHISTLE

Legal information:
Full Name: COLT DOGGINGTON WHISTLE.
Also Known as: N/A
Occuptation(s): Columnist.
Place of birth: Manehattan, North-Eastern Equestria
Residence: Corner Fifth and Blaze, Manehattan
Family: Dog Whistle (Father); Saville Orange (Mother)

Biological information:
Species: Unicorn (M-Earth Pony F-Unicorn).
Sex: Male.
Mane: Flaming red.
Coat: Gray.
Eyes: Emerald
Height: 5 ft
Cutie mark: Quill and blank parchment.

Alma Mater:
Studied Journalism and political science at Hayvard University

General information

Colt Whistle has been on both the PECP and the RIB's radar for over two years, ever since he published shameful articles in The Weekly Beak, slandering dignitaries from Equestria and other foreign countries, such as the Mayor of Manehattan, Princess Cadance, Lord Fasu of Zebrica and Prince Shining Armor.

"Well that complicates matters," said Emma. "If what you're saying is true, this means that Colt Whistle isn't acting on his own."

"He knows who is behind the conspiracy," said Thunderhoof. "If we can find him, we'll have our culprit."

Hoofington chimed in. "What I wanna know is what they want."

"Minerals," responded Thunderhoof. "Haysley said that they were after minerals."

"He didn't say where they were?" asked the agent.

"No."

"Now that you mention it, it seems obvious," said Shining Armor. "Zebrica is rich with gold, iron, gems, all those kinds of stuff. I'd bet anything that they want to invade Zebrica to secure those resources for themselves."

"That doesn't make much sense," said Thunderhoof. "Just because you invade a country doesn't mean you get their mines. Who owns the rights to those minerals?"

"No-one," answered Emma. "Well, the Zebrican government does. They're very conservative about what they take from underground, so mining operations are almost nonexistent, and are heavily taxed. That would obviously change if the country became annexed by Equestria."

"So what we need to do is find out which companies would have an interest in obtaining mining rights to Zebrica," said Shining Armor.

"What, all of them?" said Hoofington, sarcastically.

Emma sighed, scribbled a note on a spare bit of parchment, and made it disappear with a flick of her horn. A few seconds later, the hearth lit up and spat out a few rolls. She picked one up and unravelled it. "Fancy Pants Natural Resources?" she asked.

"Possible," answered Thunderhoof.

"Rarity Gemstones Limited?"

Thunderhoof could hardly imagine Rarity plotting the invasion of a foreign country. "No."

"The Sabot Mining company?"

"Their owner is involved," said Thunderhoof. "Unwillingly."

"Sangbleu Natural Resources?"

"I've heard that name before," said Thunderhoof.

Hoofington shuffled uneasily. Emma Skulate obviously noticed that, because she said, "something you aren't telling us, mister Hoofington?"

"What? No."

"Then stop fidgeting," spat Emma.

"Oh, they're the company that-" started Thunderhoof, but he stopped when Hoofington shot him a meaningful glare. "-acquired the Weekly Beak, I think."

"Sangbleu Publishing, yes," said Emma. "Both companies belong to the Sangbleu Holdings Group."

"Well that solves part of our problem," said Thunderhoof. "I think we have a picture of what's going on."

"Go ahead," said Shining Armor.

"First things first," said Thunderhoof. "Their goal is to acquire Zebrican natural resources by instigating a war between Zebrica and Equestria. To do so, they have to build up tension between the two countries. That's why they're blackmailing judges to have the war criminals let off by the court. Tensions between Zebrica and Equestria are tensed up by the court's verdict. Once that is done, they get somepony they know into power by disgracing the incumbent. That's why they've been attacking Chestnut and Pronto. Once the executive power is within their hooves, they prepare for war. And to silence anypony who would be unfavourable to the invasion, they blackmail the three Commanders-in-chief of the Armed Forces."

"And now we have an idea of who they are," said Shining Armor. "The Sangbleu Holding Group."

"We can't jump to conclusions just yet," said Emma. "We don't know if it is the whole corporation that's after the mines, or if it's just one of their board doing this."

"You're right," said Shining Armor. "But how do we find that out?"

The room fell into silence. But after a while, Thunderhoof spoke. "There's something we're missing," he said. "Hoofington told me that the mobsters back in Trottingham were part of the Cavallo crime family."

"You mean," said Emma, "the same family that held Fluttershy hostage and..." her face fell. "Tried to kill Poppy Heart!"

"Well that's a name I haven't heard in a while," said Thunderhoof. But then he understood what she meant. "You don't think... that the Cavallo Family are part of this, do you?"

"It's a possibility," said Emma.

"Come to think of it," said Hoofington, "The Cavallos might have some idea of where Colt Whistle is. If they lead us to him, we can ask him who's behind all of this."

"So what do I need to do?" asked Thunderhoof.

"Find who they are, and find their blackmail material," instructed Emma. "Then-"

"Then I bring them to justice?" asked Thunderhoof.

"No," answered Emma.

"I'm sorry?"

"When you find the extortion material that they're using to blackmail our civil servants, I want you to acquire it and burn it in my presence," said the agent.

"But we need to-"

"Look, Thunder," said Shining Armor. "Emma and I have discussed this. If we take it in as evidence to use against them in court, even if we win, this could question the princesses' entire legitimacy. Not to mention the entire system's legitimacy. It's best if we just incapacitate them. Behind the scenes."

"What, you're agreeing to this?" asked Thunderhoof in disbelief.

"Essentially."

Thunderhoof pointed at Emma Skulate. "You're an agent of the Crown!" he explained. "You're supposed to defend the truth, whatever it is!" He then looked at Shining Armor. "And you're the prince! You don't want to see justice done to your wife?"

"It's for the greater good, Major," said the agent.

Thunderhoof looked at Hoofington for some backup, but Hoofington just looked down at the floor. Mouth wide, isolated, Thunderhoof admitted that he was defeated. "Very well," he said. "I'll do as you ask."

"Good," said Emma. "Also, gentlecolts, I think it is best if we don't talk again until everything is resolved. I'll be waiting on you, Major." She shuffled her papers, put them into her saddlebag, and got up. She gave a business card to Thunderhoof. "One last thing." she pulled a badge out of her saddlebag and levitated it into Thunderhoof's pocket. "You're now a probationary agent. It should get you behind closed doors." She then cleared her throat. "Major, Hoofington, Your Highness..." She nodded at them before leaving the room. Shining Armor imitated her.

"So, would you mind telling me what your relation to these Sangbleu fellas is?" asked Thunderhoof, as he entered his hotel suite, huffing. "They're the guys who cut your supplies off, right?"

"It's nothin'," answered Hoofington. "They tried to recruit me, but I didn't wanna. So, I dunno, they just cut me off I guess."

Thunderhoof started packing his suitcase. "And you wouldn't happen to know anything about who is behind it all?"

"Nah."

"I see."

"Are ya mad at me?" asked Hoofington.

"If you'd told me about them before, it would have saved me a lot of trouble," answered Thunderhoof. "But it's unimportant."

"Look, Thunder," said Hoofington. "There's somethin' I need to tell ya."

"Oh, is that so?" asked Thunderhoof, sarcastically. "Come on, I am absolutely DYING to hear it."

"Big eats small, Thunderhoof," said Hoofington. "And right now, you're biting off more than you can chew."

"Your point being?"

"You don't have to do this. I mean, come on, an invasion of Zebrica... it ain't as if we're the most evil country around, right?"

"Look, somepony has to do it," said Thunderhoof.

"I can get ya out of here," said Hoofington. "A new identity, a new house, a new life. A fresh start."

"No."

"And there's nothin' else I can say to change your mind?"

"No." Hoofington threw a few suits into his suitcase. "So how am I getting to the Cavallos?"

"There's a bartender I know in Manehattan. Name's Mango Twist, he can lead you to them. Owes me a favour anyway."

"Fine," said Thunderhoof. "Tell Octavia to join me at the station."

"You can't be serious?" asked Hoofington in disbelief.

"I'm dead serious," answered Thunderhoof. "I love her, Hoofy," he said. He packed the last of what he needed into the suitcase, and violently slammed the lid down.

"Why do you do it?" asked Hoofington. "Why risk your neck like this to stop... a tin-foil-hat conspiracy? Why can't you just let go?"

"Well somepony has to do it. I mean, I might as well."

"And there's ya catchphrase again," said Hoofington, exasperated. "Hold the press! Big Stallion Thunderhoof's gonna save the world with his ego!"

"Essentially," said Thunderhoof. "We'll talk about my ego more if I come back alive."

"Ya see?" said Hoofington. "You don't even have the common sense to leave your girlfriend behind. To not bring her into your misadventures. You're gonna get Octavia killed!"

Thunderhoof didn't respond.

"And that's what always happens! You always kill the things ya love!"

"You watch your mouth!" Thunderhoof snapped.

"Oh yeah? Rosebush! What about her, huh? She only died 'cuz you dragged her into the battle! Everypony knew you were screwin' her! And what about your other girlfriends, huh? Your whores? Everypony else? That zebra you left in Zebrica?"

"WELL MAYBE IF I'D HAD A BETTER LIEUTENANT EVERYPONY WOULD HAVE LIVED!" shouted Thunderhoof. "MAYBE IF I HAD A FRIEND WHO ACTUALLY CARED ABOUT MY LIFE AND DIDN'T JUST WANT MONEY OUT OF ME, THE WORLD WOULD BE A DAMNED BETTER PLACE!"

There was an awkward silence.

"Alright," retorted Hoofington. "Then I suppose it's goodbyes for us, then."

"Look, I'm sorry," said Thunderhoof.

Hoofington nodded, but made sure not to look at his friend. "Sure you are." He went over to the door. "Be careful, Thunder."