White Hat woke with a start, looking around herself anxiously.

She had been dreaming of blue skies and wide, green expanses. A common dream in recent years, and the kind that made her wake up with a sigh, her heart aching as she wiped her eyes dry.

But this time, the dream had been strangely different at the end.

The wind brushing comfortingly against her hair. The ever-so-slight scent of freshly turned earth. A voice breaking gently, nervously through the clouds like a reluctant stranger.

It’s okay. I’m a prisoner, too.

Sitting up, White Hat looked around her police-issued room. Shelves of electronics, a few books, a mini fridge and the world’s tiniest electric stove. A microwave. Her computers, of course, and multiple monitors in front of her usual chair, its back towards the door.

Man, she thought, I must have been more tired than I thought.

She yawned, ran a hand through her crimson hair. Reached over to her side table, grabbed her glasses, put them on. Glanced at the door – closed and locked, as usual – and then at the clock hanging on the concrete wall.

She shrugged, stood, stretched. Yawned again, stretched again. She’d have to get up in twenty minutes anyway. Might as well get started on the day’s labors.

White Hat grabbed a ramen cup, filled it with water. Microwaved it for a couple of minutes, added one egg and spice packet, stirred. Contemplated the playlists on her phone for a moment, feeling the need for some old school. Selected NWA, hit shuffle and loop. Grabbed a soda from the fridge.

Then, into the chair and back to the salt mines, alternating between typing and munching as she worked.

For the last week, White Hat had been expanding her reach outward from the police department. Last night she’d thought she’d found some Sparkleprints (as she had come to think of them) in the airport’s security records. And it had looked pretty good at the time, but finally she’d been having trouble keeping her eyes focused and had to crash.

Now, feeling much more rested, she started again.

There was certainly some indication of computer-based interference, during the time period when the Rainbooms had been lying low. Which meant that someone important to them had been there that night.

Flying out? Flying in? Meeting someone?

She grinned.

Let’s find out.

Just tracking down the ticket itself took about an hour. White Hat was impressed; the gangster had covered her tracks well. But it remained: someone from in-town had gone there with a ticket for Flight 305.

The airport’s facial recognition, predictably, had failed to identify whoever it was. Which wasn’t surprising; Armor had told her about Sparkle’s role in that technology’s development. So, it was to be expected that using security’s identification records would be useless. But when White Hat used that failure itself as a tool of detection...

People traveling through that terminal in the span of a few hours? Hundreds, easily.

People that the system had failed to scan, here and there? A few dozen.

People that the system had failed to scan literally every single time they were on any camera on or around airport property?

Only one.

And even as craptastic as the airport’s security records were, even as low res as the existing footage of the ticket holder was... just how many yellow-skinned young women were hanging out with the Rainbooms?

Again, only one.

White Hat sipped her soda and started typing frantically.

“Oh, you are sly,” she smiled as she worked, “but so am I...”

The flight from the terminal in question had gone to Manehattan. Which made sense; from Manehattan, you could go literally anywhere. Manehattan International didn’t have any similar failures in their own facial recognition drones, so it looked like Apple Bloom had just stayed on board, taking the plane’s next flight all the way across the ocean to...

...Faraway.

Kenneth International Airport, in Faraway. Smack in the middle of southern Alkebulan.

White Hat frowned.

Okay, she thought, but why?

White Hat called up Apple Bloom’s file again. She read about her family, the farm. She read about her breaking out of prison with Twilight Sparkle. She read the entry about how Apple Bloom had helped break out Rainbow Dash. About the disguise she’d used, rhyming speech and striped body paint. And then, White Hat called up Apple Bloom’s high school records.

There it was. Freshman year, she’d been enrolled in a chemistry internship with a striped woman named Zecora.

And Zecora came from Faraway.

A few more keystrokes, and White Hat had the older woman’s photo, her current address – back in Faraway, coincidentally – and her personal history.

But again, the question remained: Why?

The next several hours were spent reconstructing the video footage from Canterlot International. The result was choppy and still low rez, but far better than anyone else could have done.

White Hat watched Apple Bloom move through the airport. Watched her pass through security and into the terminal. Watched her sit alone until it was time to board. Head down. Unmoving.

Geez, the kid looks devastated, White Hat thought. No way this is what she wanted.

Then, the blurry figure took something purple out of her purse, obviously the bow she’d been wearing in the prison footage. The figure seemed to consider it for a time, then dropped it in the trash.

White Hat stopped the playback. Leaned back, stunned.

Holy crap, she thought. They told her to leave.

One of their biggest assets, and they sent her away. Hurt her feelings in the process, too. Pretty bad, by the looks of it.

But she’s still going.

She’s leaving the Life, White Hat realized, still staring. Starting a new life somewhere else. At the other Rainbooms’ insistence.

White Hat re-opened the files she had on the teenager, skimming and cross-referencing them, frowning at what she found.

Applejack. Rarity. Sweetie Belle. Sweet Apple Acres, and the entire Apple clan.

Family and lifelong friends, all murdered.

White Hat sighed and leaned back, staring at the ceiling, thinking.

The rural neighborhood around Sweet Apple Acres, being on the edge of the city, would have been the closest thing near Canterlot to living in a small town. White Hat thought back to her own childhood in Kensington, a small Midwest town with one high school and no college. The bonds she’d shared with the folks she’d grown up with.

Her chair creaked as she settled forward again, looking at the files on her various screens.

So, yeah, she thought, the other Rainbooms told her to leave.

Doesn’t take a genius to figure out why.

When she’d been caught, White Hat had been maybe Apple Bloom’s age. Full of dreams about how she’d use her skills to be a modern-day Robin Hood. Punish the corporate CEOs who were running the world into the ground. Give money to the poor. All that nonsense.

But then, she’d gotten in too deep, let herself get blackmailed into writing code to access bank accounts and drain them dry. And afterwards, she’d been left to take the fall.

I was young, she thought to herself bitterly. Young and stupid.

For a while, she’d thought she’d gotten away with it. She’d refocused on her grades, brought them back up to where they’d been before everything had gone south. Made her mom proud, had her little sister looking up to her again.

But then the FIB had showed up at her mom’s door, and she’d known it was over.

The feds had arrested her, terrified her, threatened her and her family, and finally made her an offer: she could go to prison, or she could work for them, taking down people like the ones who had blackmailed her and set her up.

She’d been a bureau girl ever since. A special consultant, always under the careful supervision of the FIB. A monitor always on her ankle, making sure she didn’t stray.

Usually, it was set to a two-mile limit. Sometimes only one. Now, it was set to the confines of the police station. Almost certainly part of the deal the Commish had made with the feds. She was under his supervision instead of theirs, and he was certainly a friendlier prison warden than they were. But in exchange, she couldn’t even leave the building.

A kinder and gentler prison, sure. But a much smaller one. And she, as always, remained a prisoner. And freedom, while a frequent and beautiful dream, remained always a dream. A memory. And always out of reach.

But now, those days were over. She’d been handed this ridiculous, impossible case, and she’d broken it, single-handed. And not just any case, either.

She’d made the break in the biggest gangster case. In over. One. Hundred. Years.

I can lead them right to Apple Bloom, she thought. Hand her to them, gift-wrapped in a bright purple bow.

Even if the girl was in another country – which she obviously was – there were ways to capture and extradite. And from there, all they had to do was get her to talk. Even if she didn’t know where Twilight Sparkle was, she would know someone who did.

A strange kind of thrill flooded through White Hat, her face and hands growing cold.

There was no way the bureau could justify holding her anymore, she realized. Not with almost two of her five years already served. This was the kind of thing her lawyer had talked about when she’d first taken the deal. A heroic act, proof that she was a good citizen now and grounds for a commuted sentence. Between this and her non-stop good behavior...

White Hat blinked back tears.

She’d be able to see her mom again. Give her a reason to be proud of her again. Visit her dad’s grave without needing permission. Without an ankle bracelet. Without a fed squinting at her through their sunglasses the whole time. Without her little sister looking away from her in shame.

She could have a home again. A family again. Hell, she could have friends again.

What would that be worth?

With what she’d put together, they’d catch up to Apple Bloom, easy, plus the Farawayan she was with. But that was fine. She wasn’t a big fish, after all. It was Twilight Sparkle they wanted.

She could just cut a deal.

Just... just like I did.

For a while, White Hat didn’t move. She just sat, staring at the multiple screens before her.

Then, feeling a little lightheaded, White Hat very gently, very deliberately, took hold of the mouse.

She took in a fortifying breath. Let it go.

Moved the cursor to the folder containing her conclusions.

Right click. Scroll down.

Delete.

There was a quick knock at the door, and Armor was suddenly in the room.

“Some of the guys are working late,” he said, “and they’re ordering pizza. Do you want anything?”

White Hat was a little surprised by her own calm. No sense closing the files that were still visible; that would just look suspicious. And anyway, they were just walls of text.

So instead, she just frowned over her shoulder at him, asking, “Is it that late already?”

The commissioner nodded. “It’s close to ten. Let me guess: you found a lead and spent all day on it, running on nothing but that cup of ramen on your desk.”

In her own defense, White Hat held up her empty soda can.

Armor rolled his eyes.

“You’re impossible,” he said. “Can you kill the music for a second?”

White Hat picked up her phone and hit pause, freezing the live version of Fuck tha Police in mid-phrase.

“Thank you.”

“Sure.”

“So. Pizza,” he pressed. “Yay or nay?”

White Hat considered the matter.

“I think nay,” she said at last. “I’m not exactly one of the guys here. Best if I keep to myself. Besides, I’ve got plenty of provisions.”

“Well, just make sure to eat something,” he nodded. “Techie doth not live by ramen alone.”

She shrugged. “Okay, fine.”

Armor gave another slight nod, leaning against the wall next to him. “Meanwhile, find anything yet?”

White Hat shook her head. “Just a ping at the University. I couldn’t get a valid trace, but I think I’m figuring out how to compensate for the way she’s bypassing security systems. Once that’s done, tracking her should be that much faster.”

“That’s great. Let me know.” The commissioner paused, then asked, “What do you mean a ‘valid trace’? Are there invalid traces, somehow?”

White Hat smiled, swiveling her chair to face him completely. “Well, I was technically able to trace her activity on campus to an address.”

Commissioner Armor cocked an eyebrow. “And that address is?”

“Ten-sixty West Addison Street, Chicagcolt.”

Armor frowned for a moment, then winced and sighed, looking upwards for strength.

“Of course she did,” he said.

“Also, I’m not sure if it was an automatic response to the trace or not, but I was sent a digital Shazam Gas coupon. It seems genuine, guaranteeing me a full tank of gas, a half-sized pack of cigarettes, sunglasses...”

“Yes, okay, fine,” Armor grumped, waving the details away. “Just let me know when you actually have something, will you?”

White Hat nodded, turning back to her computer. “You know I will.”

“Thank you. Oh, and by the way, you left the door open.”

“I did?” White Hat frowned. She could have sworn she’d closed and locked the door as usual. Granted, the commissioner had a key, but she didn’t like the idea of his subordinates having easy access to where she slept.

Armor gave her one of his rare smiles. “Well, only in that it wasn’t latched properly. I wouldn’t worry about it. Just remember to get some rest now and then, you look exhausted. And eat something, will you?”

She smiled back. “Back atcha, boss.”

Once the door was closed, she rose and locked it. Then she sat again, pulling up the master file on everything she’d done with the airport security footage. Her mouse moved slowly at first, then faster and faster, deleting file after file of reconstructed images, trace evidence, flight plans.

Finally, she came to the blurry, heartbroken face of the wanted criminal known as Apple Bloom. White Hat contemplated it a moment longer, and then deleted it along with the rest.

Good luck, kid.

With a few more clicks, White Hat started the scrubbing process, eliminating any traces of the deleted files from her drive. Then, she leaned back again, eyes closed, imagining again and again the Midwestern sky. She imagined seeing it by herself, with a friend, even with a lover. But always she imagined herself as she had so many times before, untethered and unmonitored, free to come and go as she pleased beneath a limitless sky.

Author's Note

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Ending Credits: Fly like an Eagle, by The Steve Miller Band.