Your human and you: Harmony and heresy

by An everfree rat

Rating: teen
Tags: My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic, Dark, Death, Warhammer, Original Character, Profanity, Violence, Crossover, Human
Length: 9271

Magic is a strange thing, and Equus is darker than most realize, but when a piece of the grimdark future is dragged through, a cop and her human friend become awash in bodies and a hate mandated from the divine.

A 40k imperial guardsman from an inquisitorial retinue finds himself in ponyland. Murder and fear begin to cloud the streets of Baltimare as constable Dusty Trails and her Earth human friend Trace try to uncover the mystery of this murder spree and the strange religious symbolism left behind.

Will Baltimare be able to come back from these brutal crimes or will it be another victim to a dying galaxy in its death throws, echoing to the laughter of thirsting gods?

Set in the Your human and you-verse, roughly, with RGRE seasoning.
Updates sporadically, no time to look over first drafts, thats why theres errors.

Published 2018-10-09 23:40:01 UTC
Last updated 2019-01-29 13:46:16 UTC

Chapter 1

Author's Note

My first story, expect the worst! Trying to play with some ideas here with the setting and characters. Aint perfect but its an experiment, so if i'm likeing it I'll try to write more.

Much as i love the Empire, they are badguys in a setting full of badguys, so i want to make a show of a character of mine who was considered a good guy and put him into a place where he's a monster for his beliefs.

Enjoy!

+Thought of the day: Hope is the first step on the road to dissapointment.+

Chapter 1

++Baltimare. Night time.++

Gasping loudly wasn't the right thing to do upon waking, as it only lead to inhaling more than a desirable amount of puddle water from the night darkened alley.

Coughing and sputtering, he scrabbled up, onto his knees to gag at the stagnant water sliding down his esophagus, bringing a rancid taste to the back of the mouth and causing ancient instincts of panic over drowning to expell it back out in the least gentle means, scraping his throat raw.

Moments of horrible bodily reactions, causing him to hack out the taste from his throat, he's able to glance around at the alleyway, eyes half glazed from disorientation from something not just relating to the violent fit, but something that felt more on par with the effects of minor concussion. The problem is, he doesn't remember hitting his head on anything. Infact, he doesn't remember how he got here at all.

A wave of nausea builds up like a chemical fog, bubbling through his body, bringing dry heaves with it, and leaving him just as it came, ebbing into a haze he would liken to a dull yellow fog of crippling illness, dissipating and leaving him feeling..

Better?

Taking a few breaths, he closed his eyes tight to focus on his breathing. Body reducing the trembling that he didn't notice was there, losing its strength and restoring him to clarity with each breath. The air tasted clean. The trash around him coloured the tight space, but over it all the usual city scent wasn't there; pollution of petrol chemicals, ozone stink from various generators, the smell of despair, more of a feeling that clung to places like a stink, all of it missing. All but one he could pick up as his mind begins sorting itself out.

He stands wearily, the scuff of his heavy boot tread and the long scattering scrape of his rifle, the polymer strap still loosely wrapped around his torso, bringing more noise to his surroundings, in what he realizes is the back alley to what smells like a bakery.

Wood smoke. Bread.

The two scents bring flashes of old feelings. This wasn't his first time smelling those, rare as they are, he had been to a world of less blessed ways of life. The darkened brickwork of the squat buildings verifying his assessment. Taking another breath of the quaintly perfumed air, both to get his head clear of idle thought and perhaps a sinfully indulgent sample of the untainted night, he adjusts the plates of his grey armour that shuffled out of place to sit uncomfortably and gripping his weapon in both hands, he starts for the alley entrance, feeling bolder and more sturdy than minutes ago on the filth of the ground.

Girding his will further by pulling a winged amulet to his lips, silently breathing ancient prayers both to his Lord and to the war spirits of his rifle, keeping them below a whisper from a throat feeling to painfully raw for speech, he brings himself forth to find anything that will fill the still fuzzy hole in his memory and put him back on the path to..

To what?

Duty.

Obviously, but what was his last immediate purpose before waking here? A cautious glance from the shadows of the ally mouth reveal nothing to illuminate his failed memory. An empty street of what seems to be shops accessible at street level, all wood and clay brick. Above, settled on top of the ground level merchant spaces, lights shon from what he assumed to be hab dwellings for the business owners and their families, came from upper floors. Strange how short the buildings were, leaving only a few feet between windows, like a city built for those half the size of a man.

Frowning at the new puzzle, he casts his gaze around the cobbled streets for a quick moment, side to side. With nothing standing out to his immediate attention he withdraws back into the darkened alley, near the fenced end to collect his thoughts while sitting on a refuse bin, letting all the drifting pieces of his mind come together.

John Pyke. Adderack third auxiliary. Imperial guard. Last stationed at...

Grimacing as the thoughts begin to drift again, just out of reach he shakes his head to rattle something back into place.

John Pyke, Adderack.. Former auxiliary. Seconded to Kaelus. Who the bloody hell is Kaelus?

Clutching his head he can feel the scars through the stubble of his hair, reminders of a mad general and his abhuman guard, and the near death by a stray chainblade bigger than it had the right to be, leaving jagged, claw like marks down the left side of his scalp, just one more momento picked up in the service of-

The flash of a gilded icon burns up out of the fog in his mind. It's presence brief but its meaning is everything terrible and righteous. Bringing him near parade attention on reflex to its recall.

The Inquisition.

A rattle of trash from the bins near the mouth of the alley cut the moment down, replacing his attention is a figure,human, shaggy, short and wearing nothing as he roots around the refuse, grunting and sniffing like an animal in the trash.

Approaching cautiously through the alley, Pyke tilts his head to observe the man. An unfortunate, possibly mad or on some chem that has him in such a state that he surely wouldn't react well to being snuck up on. Might not react well to an armed guardsman in carapace armour bearing off world rankings either, but the empire wide propaganda should make the man compliment to a figure of authority. Taking a breath not ten paces away he opens his mouth to call out to the man and nearly chokes on his own tongue. ripping pain grinds his voice down and leaves him in a loud coughing fit, clutching his throat in shock.

Throne blessed, what in the frak was..!

The sound of a feral keening, wild and angry, with rushing footsteps was all that saved him from taking a full hit from the man, his dirty fist swinging for his head and missing with the mad haymaker when John pivots on his boot toe and heel to swing himself away from the rushing lunatics fist, half bent over to standing at a full height in a moment as guard training kicks in, almost hopping off the cobblestones in his reaction. Unfortunately the lunge was not avoided as well, the opponent forcing his balance off when their bodies collide, falling to the same puddle he had awoke in. On top of being assaulted by a hairy lunatic junkie, this indignity angered him more than anything at the moment, taking personal offense at his warp blighted luck to soak the other side in that same damn puddle.

The snarling figure above him drew his attention back from the galaxies Ill humour to the slavering madman who for all intents seems to be trying to bite at his face. if not for a plated forearm pressed against the throat and keeping him back, those disgusting yellowed teeth would have added another scar to his embarrassingly growing collection. Limbs flailing, scrabbling at one another in defense and animal like snaps and slaps by dirty hands, Pyke growls out as he works a leg between them, pushing up and to the side, levering the man away to the dirty ground and off of him. Swinging a booted foot out from prone to catch the savage in the side out of spite before rolling away and onto his feet with a clatter of ceramite plate, facing off with the other already rushing to him for another lunge.

This time the blatant attack hadn't the advantage of shock and surprise, Pyke simply darting to the left and bringing a knee against the leg of the attacker, pitching him off balance, allowing Pyke to use his lower center of gravity to shove the man down, taking his arm and following him down in a controlled descent, pinning the lanky figure back into the puddle face down with a knee on his back and arm wrenched behind him. A howl of pain escapes the wild man as his arm is pulled back further, dislocating the joint from his shoulder moments after the fall, he doesn't get a second chance to shout as plated knuckles slam into the back of his head, hammering down until he stops moving in short remorseless strikes.

Dropping the man's arm to let it flop to the cobbles below at an unhealthy angle, the guardsman takes time to breath down his panic, reciting litanies to calm himself, or he would, but the moment he speaks the tearing pain returns, sending him into a coughing fit that has him left on one knee and panting for breath.

Ave imperator. Blessed is his light. Ave dominus. Blessed is your touch. Dear Emperor, make the fraking pain stop already!

Taking the time to wobble back to his feet, weighed down by the armour and feeling like the fourth night in boot, he makes his way to the alley mouth, lasgun clattering against his side along with the scabbard chainsword, silver chasing and inscriptions along its casing. Another momento from the mad general. His scuffing steps end and he leans against the wall to gather himself. It wouldn't do to not be prepared for another madman or under hiver, or whatever these worlds called their dregs.

As his breaths came in deeply, lessening to normative levels, he was able to get a look of this new location for a sense of where to go, only to squint in confusion. Was it him, or are all the buildings even shorter than they should be?

staggering lightly out of the alley mouth, coughing wetly to clear his throat, he stepped out into the now obviously squat, coloured structures around him, glancing at doorways and carved window sills. Heart shapes and flowers with flowing lines adorning all wood in varying skill. A community with more frivolous hope than pragmatism it seemed. still it was pleasant to see the optimism in the decore, naive or not.

Placing a hand onto the wall to steady himself, he gives a glance over of the storefront and the glass display, finding just as he expected. Bread. He was right in that at least, but what sort of pygmy folk dwell here he didn't know, but they seemed to have a love of their pets, if the pict prints were anything to go by. Throne they loved their colourful equines.

He almost started down the street before he remembered the miscreant in the alley and turned back to haul the foul smelling wretch to the nearest Arbites, when a noise was heard across the way, causing him to stagger in an instinctive about face to the sudden sounds of a door opening and an old voice calling out.

“Missy! Come girl. Come for walkies.”

Raising his hand and taking a step forward he begins to hail the woman walking out the door with an, oh Lord it has to be a hooved creature doesn’t it. Stopping his forward motion at the sight of the small equine shape with purple fur and gray mane and tail, bringing up the sting of a phobia gained late in life from his first encounter with the wildlife on another back water, he flapped his mouth uncertainly, realizing he couldn't call out anyways and would need to jog across the way to get the young woman with the elderly voice to lend aid.

The young, naked woman. With a collar and leash about her neck. Walking hunched and dumbly behind the hooved monstrosity that was tugging on the leash and speaking to her.

Scrambling backwards he makes it into the darkened alley with enough noise to simply turn their heads but giving nothing more than a cautious glance to the dark alley, shadows too thick to see into, before moving on.

Pyke for his part was leaning against the wall, with hand on his mouth and the other tightly gripping his lasrifle, trying to come to terms with the horrific scene of the alien beast towing her human pet along.

As the two moved on out of hearing, Pyke aggressively rubs his face, as if to clear away the sight like mud in his eyes. Pacing back and forth, mind whirling with ideas too agitated to stick, it was the pained moan of the taller man he had beaten that directed his thoughts to a path of reason beyond gaping in horror. Now, cold logic and training took over for scattered panic as he marched over to the hairy mess of a man, wrenching his head back while sitting on his back to keep him down and pinned. Pulling at his dog-tags he flashed his rank/name at the man, grunting and gagging once at his inability to demand answers verbally.

Pitiful mewls of pain and fear was all he received, even as he shook the tages at the man, indicating his status in the guard, the man could only submissively whine and keen at him. Any other man would at least be begging or trying to communicate back, not making this animal sounds. Frustrated Pyke shoves the man back down into the puddle, pushing off the greasy torso onto his own feet. The wildman scrambles away to huddle miserably in fear against the wooden fence closing the alley off.

Like an animal.

Observing the man he thinks on it. The way the monster was treating the woman, like a beloved pet. The glazed look in her eye as the woman was led. This waste of a life, whining like a dog against the fence. There was something wrong here. Wholey, deeply wrong. Moving back to the bakery window out front, he looked over the pict captures again. More equines. More mutant or alien creatures. A city of them if the buildings were a clue. A world even likely.

He was trapped here with them.

Rage started mingling with the panic, the need to end something almost making him put a fist through the glass show window before he redirected his wrath, turning about for something that wouldn't be so noisy and obvious, or at least a direction to give him a plan to follow to soothe the anger and fear.

Purple fur, gray tail, and a naked woman in tow.

They were turning down a street over a block away. He centered on the sight as they both disappeared down the street when something crystalized in him. Something so pure and cold it locked everything in like a blessing from divinity.

Hate, the Emperor's greatest gift to man. It showed him the way. He now had a course to follow. It was the only way it should be.

He moved off, locked onto the corner the two had taken, the hiss of his combat knife leaving its sheath and the ring of its blade the opening tune to tonight's work.

=][=

Across town, east Baltimare.

The modern hollow core, ‘wooden’ door opened with a slam against older wallpaper and slats behind with a hollow thud.

“Ponyfeathers, Trace! Trace can you come get some of these?” Shuffling in backwards the golden yellow pegasus mare, now self appointed pack mule called out to her apartments second resident, wherever she was. “Trace! I’m dropping stuff, c’mon already!”

Steps shuffled over the carpet to the door. Red hair, freckles and green eyes, the human female moved up from a shamble to a scramble as the bags adorning the mare were slipping dangerously to the side, off tired wings holding them up.

“Its slipping, its slipping! Getitgetitgetit!” Trying to balance half a dozen bags already the pony could only lean on two hooves so much before everything else would fall, luckily her ‘roommate’ snatched up the tragedy to come with deft hands. After all, Lucky layers cakes were too pure for this candy coated world to let anything as monstrous as gravity harm them. The ginger woman holding the bag up and turning on the spot with a pleased expression, leaving the mare to her other burdens. “Trace! I swear if you don’t take something else i’m going to make you eat your-!”

More bags vanished off her back, giving the golden mare the chance to glare daggers at the grinning spawn of Discord she called a friend for the last two years. Growling in a way that would make a diamond dog proud, she just stepped inside, hoofing the door closed with a back leg and clip clopped her way to the kitchen where her reason to drink was reverently pulling the blue cardboard box from the cloth bags with the paislie and cake motifs indicating the confectioner of this fine creation.

“Trace I swear, if you eat more than your share on this one, i’m dragging you out with me on morning jogs. Six Am, Trace. Celestia's own breakfast!” The pout turned her way would have melted her heart if she didn’t know the pest wasn’t working thus didn’t pay her way. Hay, she COULDN’T pay her way! Humans can’t think, can’t smile, don’t talk. And certainly don’t eat all the sweets in the place without telling, so if her red haired friend started tossing out resumes around town, Dusty Trails would certainly lose more than her badge.

Hoofing a few bags onto the counter she looked back to the pouting human, locking her into a glare, showing her displeasure with all the force a hard boiled beat cop could muster.

She blinked first.

‘Damn freckles. Why does she have to be such a cute breed.’

“Alright, fine!” She drags the words out as she turns back to the scarred wood counter. “You can have one slice, but a foal sized! No excuses about growing bodies needing more, you already spilled that little tidbit last month, its not gonna work again.” The snap of fingers signifying her victory as behind her back the red head sulked at forgetting she had drunkenly given up one of her cons.

“Serves you right miss ‘twenty five isn’t elderly.’ Now go get the cards, it's your turn tonight to deal, I'll get supper ready.” The clapping behind her was briefly followed by footsteps away, till they returned and the sound of boxed cake being murdered gleefully was heard before more footsteps back towards the living room. Dusty could only sigh and shake her head, smiling ruefully. “Productive adult member of society my tattooed rump.”

Giving her two toned green tail a flick, dusty returned to laying out and organizing tonight's meal and future lunch for both of them. Really, pulse crop diets weren't that bad, she should have switched to them years ago.

Chapter 2

Something has gone wrong. We don't seem to have an archived copy of that chapter.

Chapter 3

+++An active street, one day after incident+++

Many ponies walking up and down the cobblestone roads of the old port town were enjoying the sunny day, for once, without the stifling humidity. Though Celestia's sun felt less like a soft balm today and more like a stern pat on their backs, it was welcome all the same. Two such individuals were strolling along, taking in the scent of sea, baking brickwork and vendors fares. The taller of the two began clapping and snapping their fingers in an odd staccato, causing some of the pony folk they passed to raise an eyebrow or quirk an ear in confusion before continuing to canter on to places to be enjoyed or needed to be present at.

Snap-snap-snap pat-pat-pat..

“That's still not funny” Dusty didn’t even bother to frown anymore. Just scowl inwardly. The giggling made it an outward.

“Trace! Watch the smiling, you know better.” Dusty hissed to the human walking next to her, tugging the leash trailing high to reach the neck of the pest. A false set of coughs engineered by the human to cover her smile up before the erratic sounding snaps of her fingers and clapping returned.

Ear lifted to take in the quick and slow pace of the sounds, dusty just sighed before the last sentence was completed.

“I thought you didn’t want anything to do with beat work, miss ‘Eee em tee.’ You already made it well apparent how messed up you guys are, this sounds like it should give you flashbacks.”

There was a brief pause of time before a response.

Dusty groaned, ears folding back. If she let that slip, then this was already hitting her harder than she though.

“I don’t really wanna talk about it. It's a nice day for once, the sun is out and I can dry out my primaries from last night. Felt like the rain was crawling into my fur, ech.” A revolted shudder shakes the mares strong frame, wings spreading to half width to shake off the feeling. Cooing in sympathy, Trace reaches down to stroke her silly pony head, eliciting excited response from a passing filly, who was now pointing and squealing with delight, later to beg her mother for a pet human who can pet her.

The two canter on down the familiar street, letting the shining rays of a cloudless day colour the air like paintbrush strokes of the divine. Dusty remaining silent as they move by the store fronts. Trace could wait. She knew her pony friend, knew that she herself was the only one in the whole world dusty could confide in without fear of secrets slipping when the peace officer wanted to get sensitive work details off her chest. After all, Trace had a bigger secret to keep by just being herself in this horse town.

Country. World. Whatever.

A defeated sigh next to her hip brings a smile of triumph to her lips before she has to cover it up.

“You see. Its just, I don’t know.” She stops in place by a railing, settling down onto her rump. Head down in thought, she doesn't feel like making eye contact right now. She has her own emotions to work through than to process someone else's at the same time.

“Something about this is just too wrong. It's already wrong. I dunno how, but this just feels worse. Like something about it is just the next level of wrong on top of something this horrible. You know what I mean?” Looking up to Trace for some shared pain or understanding, her tall ginger friend opens her mouth like she is about to comment but a voice interrupts the both of them.

“That's because it is. There is quite the story of rage in this plot.” The mellow tones drift over the railing from the cafe patio they stopped next to, Dusty only flinching slightly at the vocal ambush. Turning to find Doctor Epitaph' sipping at a mug hooked into the thumb of his batwing, a book open to him on the table. Looking like a detached piece of the night sitting in the day, he felt like an anomaly in the golden rays with his dusky brown fur and iron grey eyes, pupils like thin slits to filter the light to something manageable for his nightbreed background. His smile as calm and a little sad as ever.

The giant brimmed straw hat however, was ruining his theme.

Smiling to dusty in a more playful way he says to the discombobulated mare, “talking to your pets too? I didn’t see that quirk in you. I need to reassess your profile.” A lazy giggle rolls from his throat in a coltish way at Dusty's black stare before taking a sip of the mug again, he motions to an empty seat. “Please join me, we can start now. I’ll buy.”

Slipping into her game mode, Dusty smirks and sits up. “Well someone's gotta hear it. The precinct Shrink is too cooky to wanna share this stuff with and Trace is a better snuggler.” Making a show of tugging on the leash Dusty moves around the railing, taking a seat on the opposite side of the table. The human gives a little frown of petulence when she realizes there's no chair for her and dragging one over would be suspiciously clever. Instead she just plops down on the wood planks of the patio floor.

Blinking in bemusement as a dusky brown hoof pets at her hair.

“Good girl. So well behaved you are.” The coroner says as he strokes the thoroughly confused human who can’t seem to decide how to respond, blinking owlishly as she glances at the two ponies. Before she could do anything the hoof is gone and Dusty is smiling into the back of her hoof, trying to look like she’s leaning forward on it.

“You uh. You normally pet random humans you don’t know, doc?” The smirk was getting bigger. Trace noticed and squinted her eyes at her roommate.

“Certainly not, they are often temperamental with strangers or things they don’t know. Most ape species are like that. But your girl seemed like the mild type. Usually it takes them to old age to get that way but she seems a young specimen.” Placing a bookmark into his page, he closes the paperback and sets it aside. "Besides, you may come off as somepony who would get a watch-dog with a spiked collar, I know you prefer something loveable at home to come back to."

“Yeah well most people think you’re an old man with the way you act and talk. Gotta be catching up though aren't ya?” Dusty grins at him, his response is to drop his muzzle and peer at her over a pair of round, tinted glass spectacles.

“My dear, I am only forty two and in perfect health. I can’t help the way ponies see me. Us Nightbreeds are very solemn by nature.” His free wing flitters a bit as he takes a dignified poise in his seat.

“Funerary is more like it. I am never going to another one of your families birthday parties until you get a few more fruit bats for inlaws.”

Frowning, mug paused under his lip he gives her a reproachful look. “Dusty, that is not an appropriate name to call the Duskbreeds. You can’t just call them fruit bats, its offensive.”

“Right, I’m sorry. Old habits, I’m working on it.” She waves a hoove placatingly to him, actually feeling a bit embarrassed for the slip.

Snap-clap-clap snap-clap..

It was the doctors turn to blink in confusion, staring at the noise making of the red haired human, distracting him conveniently from the glare Dusty was shooting her way.

“How odd. Does she normally do that? Is she restless?”

“Uuuhhh yeah, it's a thing she does. Perfectly fine normally but does that alot. I think something in her head is broken.” Dusty said, leveling a look at the ginger to keep her comments to herself.

Less audibly, Traces tapped out her message on the wood planks.

Dusty could only sigh deeply and try to focus on Epitaph. “So doc, what’re you doing out this bright and early? Working late?”

Still holding the mug up he smiles, crossing his hooves on the table. “I was just enjoying a late tea before flying home. I couldn’t get away from poor miss Dainty Threads before she told me more.”

“And did she?” There was a pensive silence as the two moved into darker lines of dialog.

Working his tongue over an incisor Epitaph finally spoke, slow at first. “Yes. She has told me much I assumed. Some things I still haven't a scene yet, but the lines are all there. Who ever it was, for one, knew where to stick that knife. Knew exactly how much pressure to put on it and did not waste effort as the wounds were not ragged. They know how to kill and probably have done before. Many times.”

“Like a soldier?”

“Or like a hunter.” He says, looking grimly to his friend.

Leaning back in her chair, Dusty lets her hooves rest on the table. “ Griffon.” She says without making it a question.

Shrugging, Epitaph leans back against his own chair, moving the other wing to hold his mug, toying with it slowly in thought. “It would make sense, but I don’t want to say it is. We have no proof for or against the idea.”

“But it makes the most sense. I’ve met hunters before. Real ones. Predators. They aren’t some joy seeking noble or a mouser on hard times, they have this look to them. They know what things see before they die. The dangerous ones make sure its them. But the scary ones, they don’t let their prey see anythings wrong till they're bleeding out on the ground..”

Giving a little smirk, Epitaph looks up to her from the mug. “You do remember we nightbreeds hunt as well?”

“Yeah, but there's a difference to eating parasprites and giant moths and killin somethin with fur and big eyes. That.. Aren’t moths.”

“I understand what you mean.” He chuckled after. “But i have to warn you, I don’t have anything solid on this idea and you shouldn’t be seeking out poor griffons who chase rabbits on their spare time, I can only interpret what I see from a single victim. For all we know, it was a lucky hit.”

“The bruises on her human didn’t look so lucky. In fact, it looked like she got them before she was laid out. There was blood under her nails. You don’t get that deep without taking a big hit, and i know I’ll be looking for somepony, or griff, with bad pelt damage.”

“Nails.” Epitaph quirks his head in thought. “That's a minotaur term for claws, is it not?”

“Huh? Oh, yeah.” Glancing to Trace and back she adds “Old habits. Pick up other creatures words for things.”

“Mmn hmm, speaking of roving diplomats, how are your parents?”

“Ugh, can we not go there? They still want me to have Woods move in with me. I told them I have enough stress in my life without my sister taking up space and inviting strange mares home.” Clopping a hoof on the table in finality. The action seems to shake the rather quiet looking human next to the table who jolts and looks between the two.

“Ah well. Family is always the same. Regardless, I must be off. It is late for me and I have my work tonight.” Shifting out of his seat gracefully, the batpony leaves the mug, now empty, on the table with an extra bit for the wait staff. “My dear, do try and be nice to your sister, and don’t let this case bother you when you are not even on it. Let the good detectives do their work, yes?”

Giving a non-committal grumble, The mare just leans into her crossed hooves. After a quick, friendly farwell the doctor flew off past the apartments, silly hat and all, leaving the two women to their thoughts. It wasn’t long before a tapping sounded out between them on the table.

Snap-pat pat-pat..

“I’m really creeped out how you said that with that calm look on your face. You weren’t even an officer, just how many murders DID you deal with?”

“Oh Celestia..”

“Stop, stoop! I don’t even wanna think of this! Suns and stars why?” Flailing her hooves as if to ward off the conversation, by the end of the tapping code, the mare simply covered her ears.

“Uuugh, why is this even funny to you? We’re talking about innocent ponies!”

With a shrug, Trace just tapped out a reply.

“Wait. Gee aye ell… gallows? Whats a gallows? Is this another ‘Earth’ thing?”

Mouth forming a thin line, the woman paused for a moment and carefully tapped out a

Doing just that, Dusty leans on the table again, looking a bit worn. “I’ll try, but it's so hard to not when it's your duty.”

Before a reply came, a stallion in a green shirt and even greener apron saddled next to the table, notepad in horn-glow.

“And would you like something to drink with this conversation, or do you two need more time?”

She was sure he was trying to be funny, but his studbun and beard were obviously snarking her.

“Yeah, something hot, sweet and that’ll make me jittery, and if you make some comment about when you go on break I’ll break something alright.” The glare was enough to send him on his way, but the sharpness in her voice got him cantering while she breathed out some stress from her system.

“One, don’t tell me how to abuse my civilians, two, don’t shortin the words. I’m still getting used to your alphabet and your 'Morice code.' I don’t need to trip over your speech impediment..tapping..thing.”

“Shut up.”

Smiling at her victory for the moment, Trace took her time to humm quietly till the server came by with the drink. He was tipped an extra bit.

=][=

+++Later that morning, elsewhere.+++

The glow of the Lho stick gave its orange hue in the less sunny corner of the room, the pale smoke slithering about the air around the slouched figure on a crate that had held old ink bottles. Pyke sat and started at the dust motes cavorting in the rays of light streaming in from the window. It was early in the day, but he had been awake for hours now.

He took another drag on the stick, its light narcotic quantity bringing a humm to his system, as well as calming his nerves. It was too early to move right now, and sitting around in enemy territory with no goals bothered him. Survival was a result of goals. Victory, assuredly. But idling. That was a path to sloth, or worse, desperation.

Standing and walking to the window again, he looked through its old soot-caked glass into the street. From the second story he was able to get a better look around and have less eyes on him as he learned more of the locals habits as he’d done numerous times earlier that morning.

Blowing out the smoke as he watched multi coloured aliens walking about the cobbled streets when they passed, though his newfound residence was light on traffic, they still pranced by when they did come into view. Too chipper. Some dragging humans along by leashes, the wretches acting like animals to the equines. Walking on all fours sometimes, all hunched, sniffing at things, sniffing at each other, hooting and grunting. Pissing on corners and alley ways. Disgusting. Demeaning.

Walking away from the window with heavy treading steps, the floor boards creaked and clunked hollow with each step under the hard rubber boot soles. Out of the light and possible passing glances he made his way to the next room, loose boards continuing to groan in protest. The mildewed room next door over had seen use this morning, old maps found of what he assumed was the city, found in an old steamer chest in a storage room were pinned to the walls with thin wood stakes he carved to keep the map up. String and twine scavenged from the building were pinned into place with old rusting sewing needles he found in a small disused sewing machine. The strings ran like a developing spiderweb, other places had notes pinned, scribbled in the Emperors alphabet.

He may have been a simple guardsman, but he learned quick. The inquisitor had a pick of many more skilled warriors, he reasoned, he must have been chosen for service due to being able to adapt to problems than dig a foxhole and wait for reinforcements.

Oh and how had he been busy.

The few hours he had been awake, not in silent, choking prayer, he had put his mind to more productive, and distracting, things to do. Newspapers filched from the front stoop of the residence across the cobble street lay in orderly chaos. Pictures of equines with news articles removed, placed next to scribbled notes in low Gothic. The map had two pictures on it already next to pinned notes and twine lines. Thanks to the local News sheets, he was getting an idea of important areas and the figures residing there.

True he didn’t know the language, but some how, perhaps the warp twisted his brain some how, but he was able to understand most of the language. This had caused him panic at first the night prior after a frantic jog through shadowed streets, realizing he understood shop signs and street names, but now he accepted it as a tool to use against this new enemy. Learning this tongue was a challenge, given that it was of different roots from Gothic and mostly due to being a filthy, blasphemous tongue of these xenos, he still took effort to do as the inquisitor taught him; look, assess, make judgment.

Taking another drag of the Lho-stick, he felt he would be making a judgment very soon.

Tapping the picture of the older mare in a suit, standing next to a curly haired unicorn, fashion boutique behind them, strings leading to notes, and more importantly, street locations.

Come nightfall, he could begin his duty to the Emperor.

Suffer not the Xeno to live. Ave Imperator.

Author's Note

Dear Celestia,

I've learned that trying to write 1500 words can be a simple breeze one day, and a daunting task the next, lets say, nearly a month. Life is a fickle bitch but procrastination is a crazy drugged up crack head with a broken bottle. I'll try and actually get something done sooner.

You're less than stellar student via correspondence course,
Jabbers, an everfree rat.
P.s. AH DIDN'T LEARN ANYTHIN!
.....
I really didn't mean for this to take so long to you my...*squints and leans in* five, followers. Shit hit the fan for a minute and transformed into dumb rays for a month. By now i'm hoping to start getting past introductions and right into the sorta cop/noir story its supposed to be, (Till chaos starts happening), and i can feel comfortable with how i'm doing this.

Once again, no editors, no fate, no fear!

+++Thought of the day; Idlness leads to angry peers.+++

Chapter 4

+++2104 hours, downtown, Baltimare+++

Sterling warrant was a fastidious stallion. His name signified the family expectations of going into law or the maintaining of as one of the fine peace officers of Baltimare, luck happened upon his life path first, finding a career as a clerk in City Hall.

While not a glamorous, as his family kept implying in biting tones, it was important work, and most of all, safe. No one was angry at clerks when the budget doesn’t meet the public's standards, nor does it put you at odds with dangerous ponies, or other beings, in the line of duty. No, Warrant enjoyed the quiet, sociable nature of the office. The ease of a desk job and the bi-monthly muffin brunches in the break room, where he could bashfully make eyes at Gliding Scholes while Ivy League could give the well worn, employee appreciation speech, followed soon after by the equally well worn, ‘we expect better from you with less resources’ talk.

Warrant was sure this week was the week Scholes would ask him to join her meager sized herd, and he could move out of the bachelor apartment and into the new condo sholes and her herd mates just bought! No more having to take three cable cars to work anymore.

Snap

Blinking in mild surprise before sinking into a frown, he reviewed the damage of a broken quill and the ink now coating his neat columns of numbers.

Clucking his tongue in consternation, horn glow already lifting the broken quill, ink pot lid and stained sheets to clear up the mess and set about the job of finding another writing implement. The scuff of his chair echoing over the candle lit office as boards creaked under his slight weight.

The door opened with a comforting squeak, reminding him of leisurely days and quiet flirting with his hopefully, soon to be special somepony. The office was a refuge and a buffer between the dark, often wet cobbles of Baltimare.

Moving past the more modern gas lights fixed in the halls, where the classic firefly ones were yet to be interchanged with, his hoofsteps drummed along down the hall. A careful eye counting the nails in the floorboards as a novel way to identify his distance from the supply room.

This also kept a shadow shifting to detach from a dim cubical to remain unseen.

Four years. Four years since the return of Princess Luna and you would think city counsel would opt for a night staff. It wasn’t like there was a lack of work, they could afford to hire a few bat ponies to pull nightshift. It was their city after all. Well, historically. Shame how it all carried on after the newly revealed Lunar fall a millenia ago.

A low creak in the hallway, floorboards. Ear perked first as he turned to survey an empty hall, pausing to turn enough to face the way behind.

A moment later he takes a breath, steadying himself and carries on. Its an old building, old wood. They always creak, like right now when he put his hoof down. Nothing to be worried about. Regardless, he decided to just look for the marked door and leave the nail counting till later.

The clink of rummaging through the quillboxes did much to calm him. Banal, everyday, and best of all, annoying, the task was a decent distraction. They were out of number three primaries. The pegasi staff must have forgot their donations this week, sure a number seven was just as good but it was the little details that-

Movement.

His heart leapt in his throat. He saw the shadow, he was sure of it. Just past the doorway, in the lamplight.

“Just the flame, Warrant, just the flame. Just get back to the office and remember to not have so much coffee at night.” His light voice was certainly not as sure as he wished it sounded.

Squaring shoulders, he took a couple Seven’s, glowing in the aura of baby blue, like his eyes, as he peeked out the hall. Nothing, just the occasional lamp flicker. The door squeaked as he gently shouldered his way past, now away from the sturdy wood shield of the door and into openspace. The now ominous, creaky and not any longer comforting, squeaky floorboards.

Ears on a swivel, he was sure his own paranoia and caffeine overdose was the cause of his jitters, it wasn't the first time he pulled a late night to balance this or that. He really ought to switch to tea like his mother said. Much more dignified, less caffeinated too. But not as cheap as the beans in the breakroom.

Something brushed his ear! He could feel it, like a ghostly claw! He jumped around, four hooves leaving the ground at once and returning in a defensive pose, nothing! His breathing was picking up, coming in and out of his mouth now as his body demanded more oxygen for the fear adrenaline that it helpfully started pumping.

Almost whimpering he took a number of steps back, not to entice whatever it was that must be stalking him, from pouncing. A few easy paces back and he was confident enough to turn about to face the direction of the hallway he meant to go, but just as he was halfway about, something shaded the light from behind. A shriek and a clattering of his hooves on floorboards as he galloped hard in an instant.

Where to hide? Where oh where to hide? His office was behind a glass pane with a wooden frame that quite vainly like to call itself a door, but it wouldn't stop the thing behind him. Where? Broom closet? No, small death trap, the heaviest door and safest room here should be..

The Mayor's office! The flight of stairs coming up on his right reminded him of the heavy, oak door of her office. Lots of heavy furniture to pile up too if needed.

Scampering up the two flights felp like a single landing for all the time he spent climbing, fear motivating him well. He could almost smell the thing as he ran towards the door at the end of the hall.

The Mayor never locked her office door, confident of the secured filing cabinet she had built for such a thing, so it was an easy matter to shove the heavy door open and slamming it behind himself, leaning against the hard wood to breath.

A moment later and there was a fluttering shadow in the hallway, seen from the hoof wide, obscuring glass work of a decorative window on the door that held the mayor's name and title. A tinking noise, like one tapping at the glass cover of the gaslights. Light, but insistent, almost like.. no.

Taking a breath to steel himself he opened the door, peering out through the crack. A solitary Starry moth, the kind the size of your hoof, was battering itself against the glass, two in fact. Down the hall he could see another attempting to reach the light.

A shaky sigh of relief flooded from his lungs as he slumped back against the door. He’d been so silly, of course it was starry moth season, what else would be making a nuisance of itself in a dark hallway. He was glad no one was about to see him make a foal of himself, but it did remind him to set about buying mothballs. It was mating season and those things by the next season would have their squirmy offspring chewing out all his good linen! If Scholes could see him now.

A creak. He looked up. Meeting eye to eye with a human.

Freezing for a moment, he noticed the poor thing was peeking over the large desk at the back of the room near the window. Looks like it was crawling from behind the desk and was now looking at him in confusion and shock.

“Oh, hello there. Who do you belong to?” He could tell it had an owner if the tailored outfit it was wearing was anything to go by. Must have been a police or security colts pet, it looked like it was in uniform, badges included.

Getting up to move closer he cautiously stepped forward. He liked animals, he could get the poor thing relaxed and report a found human the next morning. “Hey there, it's alright, you can come out from there. Come on boy, come on.”

Smiling without showing teeth, he had read that was important somewhere, he motioned for the groomed male biped to come closer, it seemed to be working as he stood up and was looking to Warrant with intensity. Must be nervous. The poor thing was well trained obviously, he was coming when called. Well, it certainly was some ponies lucky night.

=][=

+++0807 hours, city hall, front doors.+++

Officer Dusty could only shake her head as the poor stallions body was wheeled out on the gurney. His body was stuffed in a black canvas bag like so much broken tools.

Warrant, Sterling. His staff ID said he was in accounting, second floor. So it was a shock to find him dead of a broken neck in the bottom of the dumbwaiter, the mayor's personal one. Looks like he fell all the way, as there was only two access points, the kitchen and the office, and a neck doesn't bend like that from falling the tail length of the service door to crawl in.

The body was loaded up into the ambulance, thankfully out of sight from the public and the wreck of a mare at the steps.

“Hey, Time Date?” She asks, head tilted to the stallion near her in uniform similar to her own. “If it was kitchen staff that found his body this, who’s the mare looking like she needs to hit something?”

The white and off grey earth pony turned to look where Dusty indicated with a nod, assuming he had turned to look. His face took a sour twist to it. “A miss scholes, apparently she was going to invite him into her herd. Sometime this weekend.” He shook his head in sympathy.

Dusty simply let out a sigh, taking a moment to give the grieving mare one last look before turning back to her co-worker. “Well that's not a great way to start the week. That poor colt’s family are going to eat town hall alive with lawsuits.”

“Its a bad sign.”

“Oh no, Time..” Dusty groaned out his name with the broken patience of long suffering.

“It is the Starry moth season, it aligns with the constellation of the Manticore this decade.”

“Time, we talked about this,”

“Its as my grandfather said, bad omens and dark tidings in the year of the stinging moth.” His stoic response got an exasperated noise from Dusty as she grit her teeth at the sky like it would come to her aid in dealing with the doofus.
“Here comes the deputy mayor.”

Looking down quickly to the front steps she could spot the mare in the grey pantsuit approaching and stepped back into position. Straightening up into something resembling a professional officer of the law before the public, or at least someone who would make her day miserable, the mayor’s second was talking to an assistant, or maybe a go-for, and was just about at Dusty and officer Time when a mare in a cleaner suit than Dusty felt she ever owned, finished what seemed to be a mad gallop to the retreating figure.

“Ma’am! Ma’am!” Gasping and half stumbling as she came to a halt before her now irritated target, who seemed to be tolerating the interruption with the grace of a hydra, the runner took a few heavy breaths as she managed to cough out something like information. “Door -gasp- office -haah- mayor office -wheeze- symbol-in-door -gasp cough-”

Growling at the new method of depriving the good detective of her first morning coffee fate or Discord seemed to throw at her she turned fully to the slighter and more out of shape mare. “What symbol? Where was this when the arriving officers did an inspection?”

“Th-the door, was open, so they couldn’t-” she was almost pushed aside as the detective stomped past like a boulder taken to animation.

“Forget it, I’ll have a look myself. No one else seems to be able to get details for me.” A few sputtering apologies were to follow by the exhausted mare struggling to keep up on wobbly legs.

“Nevermind all that! If it's not one thing it’s another. If it wasn’t for me sometimes I swear things would just blow up.”

Dusty would like to claim the timing was fated by some twisted divinity, but the truth was the explosion that went off from the fourth floor window, only let itself be know a few hoofbeats after, but the shock was nothing less than if the Faust-mare herself had smote the window personally.

The body of a mayoral aid plummeting from the now shattered, open space would be just one of many shocks that day for a great many beings inhabiting the city.

=][=
+++0830 hours, temporary imperial HQ+++

The winged ones were all over the place now. Obviously his trap was discovered one way or another. Simple string tied to the frag ‘nade set to trigger when the desk drawer was opened. He hoped it wasn’t a waste of a frag, but it covered more area of effect than the lone krak he had. That he would need as a last ditch effort.

The ability to accomplish his mission was as upsetting as it was fortuitous. His ability to understand the speech and writings of the creatures was almost fluent now and was rising by the hour. Words, concepts and slang were becoming legible, names recognisable, locations mappable. This wasn't learning, this was something other.

Something was placing an understanding of these things blasphemous words into his mind. It had already bypassed his barriers the Inquisition taught him to errect. It wasn't psyonics by any means, just the tools man was gifted with of will, thought and creativity, but he never even felt them breached. He felt sullied. He felt used and had no way to clean himself, so he did what he could to fight back and to cleanse his soul. He prayed.

On his knees, hands clasped in the spreadwing pattern of the Aquila over his chest, he prayed with the humility a good, honest man.

“Fa-kch! Fa-chkgh!” The fit of coughing breaking his attempts once again, only goading him further till he was spitting blood from his torn throat and wheezing his breath. Teeth grit bloody pink in frustration, he was forced to recite the creeds in his head once again, mouthing the litanies and hymns as he swallowed at the feel of a lump in his throat that was the sign of inflamed flesh.

His hands clenched and unclenched in silent fury. He would spit if he could, but to do so in suplication would be tantamount to spitting in His presence, so he swallowed the bloody saliva.

They took his words, now they took his blood, he was going to make sure he took much more from them for whatever vulgar spells they had forced upon him. One did not need to shout the Emperor's truth. Action, after all, spoke louder than words.

The litres of kerosene he lifted from the store on the way back would just help out that much more.

Ave imperator. Cleanse the impure.

=][=

Author's Note

Sorry it took a while, but my job eats up time, energy and the will to live. Subject to season! I managed to get out some action of sorts to kick up the stress.

P.s. i totally added the I at the end to round off the word count.