The stallion at the desk rubbed his eyes wearily with his hooves. The candle on his desk flickered weakly, having melted down to its nub, barely illuminating the writing implements and the few pieces of paper littering the dull wooden surface. With exhaustion from the long day scrawled across his face, the lanky police chief, known by his colleagues as Rusted Key, looked upon his inglorious kingdom in the fading light.

Before him lay the office of the Old Town police station. At one desk sat his… deputy?.... lieutenant?... his second in command, Spit Polish, an overweight, well-meaning stallion, light gray of coat and blue of mane. Rusted himself was, of course, rust red of coat, with a mud brown mane sprouting from his scalp.

Adding to the contrast of the two stallions, where the chief's desk was in a state of slight disorganization and barrenness, Polish's desk was crowded, but organized. The desk of a bureaucrat, Rusted thought ruefully.

The office itself was neither as clear as the desk of its chief, nor as organized as its second officer. It was cluttered, dimly lit, and usually a very sleepy place. Spiders had free roam of the upper corners, lazily spinning ever-growing webs. The lamps were dim, some sort of attempt at saving a bit of fuel, not that they were too low on funds yet.

Rust languidly got off his chair, turned his neck until a few satisfying cracks reached his ears, and turned to Spit Polish. "Heading below. Checking on the bird and tank." Spit Polish gave a simple reply: "Nearly done." With that, Rusted Key gave a nod, and headed downstairs.

The downstairs area held two vastly different worlds: the world of the salt lickers, and the world of the Old Town police coroner. One was rarely used, the other constantly occupied. One was frequently neglected, the other constantly washed down and sanitized. One was home to shouts, curses, and grumbles, the other to breaking bones and dropping liquids. However, they both held one similarity: neither place was being used for their intended purpose.

The generously titled coroner of the station was a griffin by the name of Gendril. The only reason he was in this position was because of his inability to find a medical school that was willing to teach him. His solution? Borrow some medical texts from the library, kill a few rats, and… hope that no blood splatters on the pages.

"Easy, now…" the avian chimera muttered through his beak. Gendril had a strange look for a griffin. Where many examples of his kind had clear avian and leonin features, often distinguished by different colors, Gendril was a plain golden brown, with no clear indication where the lion ended and eagle began.

Further separating him from his chimeric kind was his pursuit of medical knowledge, rather than the standard thirst for gold.

Knowledge that he was currently practicing.

"Incision made in the chest, removal of skin and muscle layer complete, ribs exposed." He gingerly reached for the bone hammer, lightly tapping on the sternum. "Rib cage is now broken open. Internal organs exposed. Now making an attempt to sever the… aorta, using an undercut incision."

Gently, with more than a little trepidation, he brought the scalpel to press against the large artery, unaware of the door opening behind him.

Careful—

*knock knock*

"Agh!"

"How're you doing?"

The knock sounded on the open door, causing Gendril to jump, losing control of the scalpel and cutting the large artery at just the wrong angle, creating a small fountain of blood that splashed in the griffin's face.

Standing in the doorway was a smirking Rusted Key. Gendril treated the chief with a great amount of respect, seeing as it was because of him that he had this position as coroner in the first place. One might even charitably call them friends. The only thing that kept them from crossing that line from colleagues to compatriots was a tension that refused to go away: respect on Gendril's part, and a slight fear on the part of Rusted. What that fear was, however, he couldn't figure out.

He let out a huff, and slowly turned to face his superior. "Can I help you?", he said flatly.

Rusts' smirk quickly dropped, replaced with a look of concern. "You okay?"

Gendril closed his eyes, let out a sigh and then glared at the pony. "I'm not hurt, but I would really appreciate it if you wouldn't barge in like that! I'm studying!"

Rusted quickly lifted a hoof in a placating manner. "Okay! Okay! I'm sorry. I'll try not to do that again."

The griffin rushed over to the nearby basin to wash off the blood on his face. As he waited for Gendril to clean himself, Rusted Key took a moment to take in the laboratory.

Compared to the rest of the station, the lab was practically cutting edge. Steel counters, a large metal examination table with a magic-powered overhead light, a high-pressure water hose for cleaning, grates in the floor for water and various other fluids to drip down, a magical freezer unit for storing bodies, a closet well-stocked with bleach, rags, mops, various other cleaning supplies, not to mention a large basin with which to wash your hooves (or in this case, talons) and medical tools. Hay, there was even a small shower! All in all, probably the most impressive, most expensive, and, in Rusted's mind, most worthless part of the station. The station hadn't seen a murder victim in years, decades even, and this space had been a constant drain on resources, so he was more than happy to let Gendril put it to use. Better to let a wannabe doctor make use of it than let it just sit there and throw bits down the gutter.

He liked Gendril well enough, he supposed. He respected him, maybe teased him a little. But there was just one nagging fear that kept him from calling Gendril a friend: he was a griffin, and thus a predator at heart. He had seen Gendril at work sometimes, and each time he swore a look of hunger came into the chimera's eyes, as if he was starved for flesh.

Thank goodness for Grimm, he thought.

"So to what do I owe the pleasure of your abrupt visit?"

Rusted shook himself from his reverie. "*Ahem* Well, I was just checking on you, seeing how it is getting fairly late."

Gendril slowly blinked. ".... What time is it?"

"7:45, last I checked. Sun's going down."

Gendril's expression turned sheepish. "I had lunch at 11:30…."

The smirk came back onto Rust's face. "Which means you've been down here for-"

"Eight hours." Gendril finished the sentence, slapping a talon to his beaked face. "Sweet Celestia, time goes fast down here."

"I'm surprised there are still any rodents down here, with all the work you do. Are you hungry?"

The griffin rubbed the back of his head. "Well…"

Rusted sighed, and internally shivered at the griffin's response. "Again?"

Gendril shrugged. "Less cleanup."

Rusted swore, for almost a moment, he saw a smudge of blood, likely one that he missed in his cleaning.

"Fair enough. Clean up here, sign out, get a light dinner and get some sleep. You'll need it if you're gonna try the college tomorrow morning."

The griffin gave a mock salute. "You got it, Chief."

"In the meantime, I need to check on the salt lickers in the cells. See you tomorrow."

As the train came to a total stop, a light blue changeling with red eyes got up from his seat with a bit of difficulty, stiff from the long train ride. Standing up, he was reminded of the weight of the Polaroid camera attached to the cord hanging around his neck. He put his saddlebags on his back, and stepped off the train with a group of other passengers.

Stepping away from the station, he pulled a map from his saddlebag, and began looking. "Let's see, that way leads to Restaurant Row, this path goes to the palace… which way is it?"

"Pardon me, good fellow! Which way might you be headed?"

His head jolted up, hearing someone address him, a stallion with a rather refined accent. Looking towards the source of the voice, he saw two ponies approaching him. One was a pale, slender mare with a light pink mane. The other was a pale stallion with a well-styled blue mane, groomed moustache, suit and a monocle.

”Oh! I'm looking for Old Town. Would you happen to know how to get there?”

The stallion's expression morphed to one of surprise. "Old Town? You're sure you're looking for Old Town?"

"That's right. A family is hosting me there for the duration of my stay here in Canterlot."

"Ah. I see. It's not a very tricky route, but if you get lost, ask a nearby guard for help. What you want to do is…" From there, the well-dressed stallion gave the directions, with the changeling nodding all the while.

"Thank you so much, Mister…?"

"Oh! Where are my manners? You may call me Fancy Pants. Might I have your name as well?"

"Oculus, sir."

"Well! Good evening to you, Oculus. I hope you enjoy your stay in Old Town."

"I hope so as well. Good evening, Fancy Pants."

The sun at last went down, and the lamps of Old Town came to life with little more than a light sputtering. The night owls of the precinct made their ways onto the streets, passing through like shades in the lamplight.

Old Town was a historic section of Canterlot that many considered infamous, though if asked why, they would not be able to give a straight answer. This view of infamy was mostly held by the especially snobby of the Canterlot upper crust, who saw it as a boil on the backside of their fine city. They had even taken to calling it by another name: the Trough. For the more easygoing Canterlot resident, it was less of a constant annoyance, and more a place to be ignored. If someone asked for directions to it, a look of surprise was customary. To them, it was the place that never caught up to the times, the place with gas lamps, old fashions and archaic business. Nothing happened there. Especially true when you took into account that it was quite out of sight. No one coming to Canterlot for a casual visit or tour was likely to find it, as it was behind Canterlot Castle, and lower down the mountain as well.

There were a few prides that Old Town held- low costs, a distinguished medical university, not to mention historical acclaim, being sanctioned by Princess Celestia as a reminder of how far Equestria had come where technological and social progress were concerned. It had since been a place of great interest to the more historically-minded creature. But along with these prides, it had it's stains- gangs of young colts and fillies looking to cause mischief toward outsiders, sometimes whores could be seen standing on the corners, and it had a tendency toward neglect.

It was a slow place. Nothing happened there. It was a narrow place. Nothing could hide. It was sprawling. It was dark. But above all else-

It was quiet.

Officer Dim Lamp wearily made her rounds. It was well past midnight, likely 2:00 am or thereabouts, and she was good and ready to declare that all was well. She held a police lamp in her mouth, illuminating the path before her, some of the light reflecting from the stone to show her light yellow coat and short, dark pink mane.

As she swept the light back and forth, her eyes caught sight of a pony collapsed by a weakly glowing street lamp. Great, she thought. Another salt licker. She turned towards the pony, put the lamp in her hoof, and called out in a thick Trottingham accent, "Oi! Yew alroight?!” She received no response. She rolled her eyes and trotted closer. At this distance she could see that this pony was a mare with a red coat and pink mane, who was currently lying belly down, facing away from the street.

"Damn salt lickers, passin' out an' makin' me-"

She froze.

Blood.

The pony was bleeding. Profusely, if the puddle she was seeing was any indication. She dropped her lantern and immediately galloped over.

"MISS! Talk to me, say sumthin'!"

No reply.

The moment she came up to this mystery mare, Dim's eyes widened in horror. The mare's eyes were wide open. Her body was still. No breath entered her lungs. Dim Lamp touched the mare; long cold. And the blood… was that?...

Her evening meal found it's way onto the stone path. She shakily wiped her mouth and reached for the bag hanging from her side. From the bag, she pulled out a blue crystal which she placed on the ground. Then, steeling her resolve, she reared up on her back hooves, and, bringing her full weight to bear, smashed the crystal.

With a sound like thunder and a blinding flash, the stillness of the night was no more. Any who cared to look would now see a bright blue ball of light now hovering over part of Canterlot. And if anyone in Canterlot cared to see where it originated from, they would feel a jolt of fear. For they knew what it meant.

The impossible. The unthinkable.

The quiet of Old Town…. had broken.

Author's Note

Welcome to my first story! I hope you enjoy it!