Pagliacci

Chapters

Arc ONE: Chapter 1
Arc ONE: Chapter 2
Arc ONE: Chapter 3
Arc ONE: Chapter 4
Arc ONE: Chapter 6
Arc ONE: Chapter 7
Arc ONE: Chapter 8
Arc ONE: Chapter 9
Arc ONE: Chapter 10, Part 1
Arc ONE: Chapter 10, Part 2
Bonus Chapter: A Simple Story About Killing Ponies
Arc TWO: Prologue
Arc TWO: Chapter 2
Arc TWO: Chapter 3
Arc TWO: Chapter 4
Arc TWO: Chapter 5
Arc ONE: Chapter 5
Arc TWO: Chapter 1

Arc ONE: Chapter 1

Arc ONE: Pink Stripes

Chapter 1

Blitzkrieg leaned back in a craggy wooden chair that was likely older than he was, a comforting thought for a stallion of his advanced age. Smiling with leather lips, he puffed his cigar and blew a ring of smoke, adding to the ashen haze already permeating the dive bar. He was a pegasus of great wealth and high class, but he smoked cheap cigars and drank cheap liquor purchased at cheap bars. He had money but allowed himself few luxuries. Money was power, he knew, but in his youth he had learned there was no power in luxury. Luxury was a wicked temptress, always taunting, teasing and promising, but rarely delivering when it mattered most. She was a sly voluptuary, a competent manipulator, and she had used her seductive wiles to lead many of Blitzkrieg’s friends and family astray.

But those dark days were long behind him now. Blitzkrieg was older, wiser, more experienced. He carried with him all the mistakes of his many years, as well as the memories of those fatal missteps made by the friends and lovers he had watched this city devour. Manehattan was a hungry beast of a city, one that fed on feeding, and to starve her, one had to be willing to starve himself.

A waitress, a dainty stick figure of a unicorn mare, approached the table where Blitzkrieg sat with Pinstripe: a zebra of unassuming stature dressed in an expensive suit. The mare set a tray of drinks on the table and asked, in a squeaky voice, if the pegasus or his friend would like anything else.

Blitzkrieg nodded personably and dismissed her with a regal wave. Then he lifted a glass to his nose and sniffed, grinning inwardly as he inhaled the foul aroma of cheap whiskey. Pinstripe followed suit, as he always did, lifting a mug of cider and sipping tentatively. His face scrunched as the bitter drink washed over his tongue.

Blitzkrieg couldn’t help but laugh when he saw the look of disgust invade friend’s expression. He was an excellent laugher. Time had taught him the proper technique, and now that he was a maven of the chortle, a master of the guffaw, a connoisseur of the snicker and the giggle, Blitzkrieg could find the humor in most anything.

“I am always telling you the cider is no good here,” he said, his chuckles shaking his sizable girth. “But you are never listening, comrade. Is trouble with youth these days. Never listening.” His voice was an enchanting guttural, and his rich Stalliongrad accent lent his words a certain sing-song quality.

Blitzkrieg was born in Maneich, raised in Stalliongrad, and currently living in Manehattan—all of which made him an oddity in Pinstripe’s eyes.

Though Pinstripe was a zebra, he had never seen his homeland. He had lived his entire life in Manehattan, and like most Manehattanites, he rarely encountered ponies as diversely cultured as Blitzkrieg.

Manehattan was a bubble. Ponies were born in Manehattan, they were raised in Manehattan, they died in Manehattan—such was the fate of those who called the lively east coast city their home. Most Manehattanites lived their entire lives without seeing the splendor of the capital Canterlot, the captivating beauty of Unicorn Range, the pure crystal blue of the mountains bordering the Frozen North. Their world was small and grey and pitiless, and their attitudes and ambitions reflected this bleak backdrop.

But Blitzkrieg was different. He existed in the foreground, very much a part of the big picture, but ahead of it, drawing the eye away from what lurked behind.

Pinstripe took a second sip of his drink, then a third, slowly growing used to the unpleasant taste. He did this every time he went out drinking with Blitzkrieg, which used to be often before the old pegasus was appointed head of the Shadowbolts. Pinstripe hated cheap drinks. He hated all cheap things—and his feelings about the burly leaf-green stallion sitting across from him were directly tied to his feelings about cheap things.

“Why you always dragging me to these lousy dives, Kriegy?” asked Pinstripe, setting his mug on the table. It was a question posed to Krieg many times. “We got cash enough to buy this place five times over.”

“We do, do we?” answered Krieg, wearing an amused expression. He didn’t laugh in Pinstripe’s face, though he might as well have.

Anger flashed behind Pinstripe's stone-gray eyes, there and gone before Krieg could notice it. “Hardy har har. You're hilarious, you know that?” He slipped a hoof inside his overcoat and produced a pack of cigarettes. Waving, he flagged down a unicorn waitress and asked her for a light. “Look, the point I’m trying to make is we are made equines, are we not?” He took a puff from his smoke, exhaling through his nostrils.

Krieg shook his head in a way that suggested he had endured this line of discourse from the young upstart before. Perhaps many times before. “Come on Kriegy, don’t give me that look. Am I lying? If I’m lying then say so and I’ll drop the whole thing right now.”

“You are having point, comrade,” Blitzkrieg admitted.

“You see that, I got a point,” Pinstripe returned, leaning forward eagerly. “We’re big fish now that the old boss is behind bars. We got no business swimming around with these guppies anymore.”

Blitzkrieg crossed his forelegs about his chest, grinning, his cigar hanging from the corner of his mouth. “Guppies…” he echoed thoughtfully, rolling the word on his tongue, savoring its flavor. “Guppies, you say? And yet when I look around, I am seeing no guppies. I am seeing sharks. Sharks swimming through dangerous waters.”

“What, you mean the ponies in this joint?” Pinstripe took a long drag and exhaled through his nose. “Nickel-and-dime pushers and two-bit hustlers. These guys are chumps. Us?—we’re rockstars! We should be sipping champagne with pricks like Fancy Pants and eating out Wonderbolts at them big celebrity parties they’re always throwing uptown.”

Krieg’s grin waned but didn't fade completely. He took a small puff of his cigar and leaned forward as well, resting his forelegs on the worn hardwood. “Allow me to pose question, comrade,” he said, prompting Pinstripe to roll his stony eyes. “Tell me, have you ever fallen asleep on bed of nails?”

“What kinda question is that? No, I ain’t never fallen asleep on no bed of nails. What does that have to do with anything?” Pinstripe took a long chug from his cup. When he spoke again, his tone was decidedly more cross. “This is why the uptown bosses and even those cross-dressing hooligans out west don’t respect us. Because of you, Kriegy. Because you don’t make no damn sense. You stopped making sense years ago.”

“What?” The laugh-lines in Blitzkrieg’s brow furrowed as the full strength of his previous grin reclaimed his face. “I am making perfect sense. Bed of nails. Is… how you say… figurative. Is simple metaphor. When you are understanding bed of nails, then you will know why I drink piss sold at hole-in-wall dive bar.”

“Sounds like more of your useless ‘back-in-old-country’ wisdom to me,” answered Pinstripe. “Now let me ask you a question: what’s the point in being an outlaw if you’re not gonna live like one? If I wanted to rub shoulders with losers in a dump like this I’d have gotten a job. I’m an earner, Kriegy, and so are you. We’ve earned money. We’ve earned power. But no respect. These uptowners—they’re laughing at us. They’re laughing at me.” And there was something very bitter in that last proclamation. Something very dangerous.

“No, I am laughing at you, comrade. Uptown bosses, they are not even knowing your name,” said Krieg with a dismissive wave, as if trying to shoo away Pinstripe’s haughty attitude. “You drive yourself mad over these things, and for what? For fame? Why are you all the time chasing fame? Fame is luxury, comrade. It will only make you soft—and you are soft enough in head already.”

Pinstripe smothered the glowing end of his cigarette in the ashtray on the table. He dusted a speck of ash from his suit and straightened his tie. Instead of responding to Blitzkrieg’s dig, he settled into his seat and seethed in silence.

He could be so childish, thought Krieg. So arrogant, impertinent, self-important... the list of his lesser personality traits went on and on. And worst of all, he was ungrateful for all his surrogate father had done for him.

But looking at the young zebra now, full to bursting with anger and self-loathing, Krieg wondered if he had done enough. It made his heart ache to see his friend in such pain, even if much of that pain was self-inflicted. The old stallion reached forward and placed a reassuring hoof on Pinstripe’s shoulder.

“Pinstripe,” he said with uncharacteristic severity. “You are like son to me. I am proud of you and I respect you deeply. I always have. Why is this not enough?”

Pinstripe started to respond with a flippant comment, but then thought better of it. Instead, he relaxed and let his dark countenance brighten, not because he accepted the old stallion’s sentiment, but because he finally felt he had some semblance of an answer to his original question.

Blitzkrieg could live as humbly as he did because he was not from where Pinstripe was from. That was it. That was the reason. Pinstripe realized it must be that simple when he heard Krieg use the word ‘enough.’ It was a word no criminal born in Manehattan would ever utter. In Manehattan there was more, and there was less, but there was never enough.

Pinstripe wanted more. More money. More power. More respect. And he would have it. If he had to burn this city the ground, he would have it.

“Thanks, Kriegy, that’s a nice sentiment. Real greeting card type stuff,” said Pinstripe, not attempting to mask his sardonic tone. “Now you gonna buy me another round, or are we gonna braid each other’s tails and talk about our feelings?”

Krieg’s laugh was short and heavy, and when it passed he snuffed his cigar in the tray beside his glass. “I am not drunk enough to braid your tail, comrade. Not yet.” Smiling easily again, he flagged down a waitress and ordered more disgusting liquor that he and his companion choked down earnestly. It was still early, only a little after nine, and Krieg had not seen his surrogate son in nearly two years. They had much catching up to do before the night aged and business beckoned them from their reunion.

Blitzkrieg struck up a conversation about nothing in particular: sports, mares, work—which was apparently going very well. As he spoke, a new, juvenescent energy invaded his tone that grated Pinstripe’s already raw nerves. He hated listening to the old fool prattle on, but what could he do? With the old boss behind bars, Blitzkrieg was now head of the Shadowbolts, and that meant, among other things, that the old bastard must be indulged. Pinstripe may have disagreed with Krieg, and he may have spoken out against him at times, but he knew better than to overstep his boundaries. It was true that Krieg thought of him as a son, but even the kindest fathers punish their children for misbehaving.

But Krieg was old now and full of stories, which he told with impressive verve over the plentiful drinks. If Pinstripe was merely indulging him, feigning interest, nodding and smiling when the conversation called for it, Blitzkrieg either didn’t notice or didn’t mind. Like any loving father, he was too swept up in the return of his long missed prodigal son to give anything else much thought.

As he and his son spoke, he couldn’t help but notice how much the young zebra had grown. He looked so dashing in his jet-black suit, so dapper in his sensible dress shirt and short red tie. He still wore his mane in a mohawk, an upstart’s haircut to Krieg’s decidedly conservative eye, but at least he kept it trimmed at a decent length, making it somewhat presentable. Krieg didn’t like the stud earrings or lip piercings his son had taken to wearing, but he equated this disagreement in taste to a simple difference in age. Often times, he had come to learn, the wedges driven between parent and child were simply manifestations of the inevitable divides that separate one generation from another. Taste in music. Taste in clothing. Taste in mares. The lifestyles of the young and the old always differed.

However, lately Krieg had begun to notice a widening in this natural divide. Every year the old seemed to grow older and the young younger, wilder, more reckless in pursuit of their tireless ambitions.

They talked for nearly three hours. During this time several of Krieg’s friends and business associates stopped in for a drink, paying them short visits.

Krieg and Pinstripe chatted briefly with Wisp, a snow-white unicorn dressed in an equally snow-white suit. The unicorn ordered a beer and complained about the increased police presence in Manehattan’s downtown areas. By his own proclamation, every city block east of Mustang Avenue and south of Clydesdale Boulevard was currently overrun with cops: a notion that both Blitzkrieg and Pinstripe couldn’t help but laugh at. Downtown was no more ‘overrun’ with cops than Cloudsdale was overrun with earth ponies.

Wisp wasn’t the least bit amused by their laughter. “I wouldn't expect a couple of leg-breakers like you to understand,” he said in his cool, detached way.

Wisp was no leg-breaker like Krieg or Pinstripe. He was an experienced kidnapper who lent his services to a few pony trafficking rings that operated out of the red light district, as well as one very large one run by the Daughters of Discord way up in Discord’s Kitchen. He had also lent his services to Blitzkrieg on several occasions, utilizing his talent for making ponies disappear. Wisp had done several favors for the Shadowbolts, and nopony knew where the bodies lay buried. Nopony but him.

Wisp uttered one last word of warning to Krieg and his companion before finishing his beer and leaving the bar. He exited through the front door, though he might as well have floated from the ground and phased through the ceiling for all the noise he made, or rather didn’t make, as he departed.

Later in the night, a sturdy earth mare with a muscular build visited them. One of her eyes was sharp, its color the same rich lavender as her cropped mane, while the other was grey and sightless. Blitzkrieg welcomed her to join his table, addressing her by her nickname, Twenty. She tried ordering a drink the waitress had never heard of, then settled for whiskey instead.

Pinstripe didn’t know Twenty, nor did he have any interest in learning more about her. The feeling was not mutual. The brawny earth mare fixed her one good eye on him and flirted with him for the entirety of her stay, which thankfully, wasn’t very long.

When she departed, Blitzkrieg gave Pinstripe a knowing nudge, prompting a wry chuckle and an eye roll from his son.

“What?” said Krieg, his voice ringing with exaggerated surprise. “Twenty is nice filly from old country. Is sturdy filly. Built like ox.”

“Is that supposed to be selling point?” laughed Pinstripe, earning a playful shove from his surrogate father.

More ponies came and went as the night aged. Whether criminal or law-abiding citizen, most everypony in downtown Manehattan knew Blitzkrieg, though few would have been able to pick Pinstripe out of a crowd. Despite having known each other for years, the old pegasus and the young zebra were rarely seen in public together; and when they were, both made sure to downplay the closeness of their relationship. It was no secret that Krieg had essentially adopted Pinstripe, but in the gang life zebras were not respected as full equals to their pony counterparts. Racial politics in Manehattan were treacherous waters to navigate, even in the criminal underworld. In summation, the heir to the infamous Shadowbolts, the nearly all pegasus gang that ran the biggest extortion racket in the city, couldn’t be a zebra. The backlash from within the gang would be overwhelming.

However, it was likely that none of that would matter after tonight. All the old politics were doomed to become moot points. All the infrastructures and safeguards Krieg had spent the last five years erecting and installing were about to fly apart like so much glass shattered by a wrecking ball. She was being released tonight; everything was destined to come undone. It was happening already. Krieg could feel it in his gut. He could taste it in the air, hear it on the wind. Celestia’s archangels were blowing their horns, and the walls were tumbling down.

Blitzkrieg glanced at his watch and saw that it was nearly midnight. He had enjoyed spending time with his son, and though the arrogant and moody Pinstripe would never admit it, he had enjoyed himself as well. But the hour for pleasantries was over now. It was time. Solemnly, Blitzkrieg started to explain the true reason they had met tonight.

“The old boss…they are saying she is cured of madness. They are letting her go.”

A shocked and stunted, “How?” was all Pinstripe could manage.

Blitzkrieg shrugged and shook his head wistfully.

“When?”

“Tonight.”

Pinstripe took a moment to chew on this, finding it difficult to shallow. “So what, you saying one of us has to go get her?” he concluded after a long pause.

“No, not one of us. It has to be you,” Krieg told him, though he didn’t say why. He thought it better that Pinstripe not know the Shadowbolts had specifically asked him to do the deed. This was her, after all. The don of dons. The boss of bosses. In the eyes of her underlings she was larger than life—less a pony and more a goddess of mischief. And should that goddess require appeasing in the form of a living sacrifice, which was often the case when she was angered, then it was better to feed her the lowest of the low.

Pinstripe was the natural choice. He was young, hungry, resourceful, and above all, expendable. He could get this one right, really knock it out of the park—or he could strike out and find himself belly up in a puddle of his own blood. It didn’t matter. Pinstripe didn’t matter. Maybe he did to Blitzkrieg, but not to the Shadowbolts or anypony else. He was nopony from nowhere. Just one more loser in a city brimming them.

And she… the old boss… she was the whole city in microcosm. The walking, talking, sinning embodiment of the shortcomings of weak minds and cowardly hearts. She was everything Krieg hated about Manehattan, and just thinking about her made him long for his old home across the eastern sea.

But she mattered. Like the rising sun or the moon pulling at the tide, she was not something that could be mediated or ignored. She was a disease, a plague on this city, spreading and infecting everything she touched.

“I am sorry son. Is out of my hooves,” Blitzkrieg intoned.

“Forget about it, Kriegy. It’s nothing. It’s no big deal,” said Pinstripe. Except it was a big deal. He was being fed to the meanest dog in the junkyard, and his so-called father was just standing by and letting it happen.

Pinstripe rose from his seat with a laugh. It was a hollow sound that hurt at the top of his throat. The Shadowbolts, he thought, sneering inwardly. They were nothing but old fools lounging on false thrones. Making decisions. Casting judgments. They were all so funny to him. They didn’t know if the old boss would kill whomever they sent; they were just afraid. They were cowardly, superstitious ponies, still jumping at shadows. And to think they looked down on him. Refused to respect him, to even bother learning his name.

But they knew her name, didn’t they? They gave it to her. They had given her many. The Clown Princess of Crime. The Mare who Laughs. The Prankster…

Rising as well, Blitzkrieg instructed Pinstripe to take his carriage. “Have the Tongueless take you up to asylum,” he said, following Pinstripe to the door. “And be careful, comrade. She is more than dangerous. She is danger. She is like nothing else in world.”

Weakly, Blitzkrieg patted the young zebra’s back. Then he returned to his table to order another drink. He would need many to get through this night.

“Heh,” Pinstripe tried to laugh again, but his chuckle came out sounding like a sigh. Unlike Blitzkrieg, he had always been a poor laugher.

When he touched the doorknob, a nervous tremor coursed through his limbs, halting him as the gravity of the situation settled on his shoulders. Heavy thoughts furrowed his brow. Then he twisted the knob and headed out into the parking lot.

Arc ONE: Chapter 2

Arc ONE: Chapter 2

It was dark but not quiet. The chirping of crickets and birds, and the rustling of autumn leaves surrounded Pinstripe—a veritable chorus of night sounds orchestrated by the moon goddess, or perhaps, by the now distant city itself. He stood beside his parked carriage, staring up at the ivory towers that comprised Manehattan’s asylum for the criminally insane.

Though it was considered one of the oldest buildings in the city, the asylum wasn’t actually in Manehattan. It had been built on the outskirts of Hollow Shades, a sleepy village just west of Manehattan that was nestled in the center of a dense wood.

Manehattan’s founders believed that during the era of Discord’s reign, weary travelers had found refuge from the constant cannonade of madness here in the forest that surrounded Hollow Shades.

Feeling bored, Pinstripe let his gaze wander down the stretch of road that had led him to this eerie place. It was a dirt road, flanked on both sides by dense woods. A great deal of the forest had been cleared away to make room for the construction of the asylum, though the cluster of buildings seemed to emerge from the forest as naturally as any tree or shrub. It stood darker than a tomb; there were no lamps to a road so far from the city. The only light came from a pair of lanterns mounted on the back of Pinstripe’s carriage. And the moon.

After ten minutes of this bored waiting, a dark shape approaching from the asylum caught Pinstripe's unprepared eye, startling him. It wasn’t fear that tightened his stomach as he watched the silhouetted figure approach the iron gate, its mane or tail or long overcoat trailing ghost-like in the wind. He wasn’t flooded with feelings of terror, only a heightened sense of discomfort.

The shadowy figure moved with a distinct, almost calculated wobble. It staggered toward the gate intently, seeming to make a point of stumbling every few steps. As it neared, its features began emerging, its veneer of mystery made plain in the lanterns' glow.

Now Pinstripe could see that the phantom was only a pony, a mare, judging by her size and stature. His eyes were drawn to those clumsy hooves. They carried her so precariously, and as she neared, he saw the thick leather gloves on her front hooves, as well as the worn boots on her back legs. Frizzy strands of mane caught the light, giving Pinstripe an eyeful of the tangled pink mess on her head. This surprised him. He acutely remembered Blitzkrieg telling him the boss’s mane was long, and straighter than a razor’s edge.

When she reached the gate, she stopped and shielded her face. At first Pinstripe thought she was giving her eyes time to adjust to the light. However, when she resumed her skillful staggering, moving on three legs now, he realized she wasn’t protecting her eyes from the sting of the lanterns' glow. No, she was hiding her face from him.

He took a step forward to meet her, and she made a harsh, blood-freezing sound that halted the zebra in his tracks. With wide eyes and raised brows, he stood rigid as a plank, waiting, for what he didn’t know.

She mimicked him, freezing ramrod straight as well. Both held this strange reflective stance for several seconds, neither budging an inch.

And then she started laughing.

“Hehehehehe—sorry, did I scare you?” The cadence of her voice surprised him more than her mane. Much more. It was rich, smooth and sugary sweet; she had a lilt one could pour over pancakes.

“Startled me, maybe,” answered Pinstripe. He straightened his tie, a little embarrassed.

“It’s alright if you were scared…heh heh heh… I’m a scary pony.”

No, not scary, Pinstripe thought. Disquieting, maybe. Odd, definitely. But not scary. He felt more awkward around her than frightened. “I’m here to… ah… pick you up, I guess,” he said tentatively. “Kriegy sent me. Blitzkrieg, I mean.”

She shuddered violently at the mention of Blitzkrieg’s name. With fear or rage, he didn’t know; the tremor came and went too quickly to tell.

“You got a name, zebra?” she asked.

“Pinstripe.”

She laughed again. “You got a name, Stripe.”

“I just told you. It’s Pinstripe.”

“A zebra named Stripe?”

“Pinstripe,” he tried again, emphasizing the “Pin”.

“Stripe…” she said as if she hadn’t heard him. “Heh… heh… hehehehe…” Her laughter

began as a deep rumble at the back of her throat, then exploded into something clamorous and manic. She reeled and swayed from the force of it. She folded double and clutched her sides, shaking as if in great pain, laughing long and loud. The longer she laughed the less her cackling sounded like laughter. The full-breasted guffaw warped into a dry cough, until eventually she was covering her mouth and hacking as if very sick. Pinstripe moved to help her, but she stayed him with an outstretched forehoof, panting as the last of the coughs waned and died in her throat.

“Zebra named Stripe…” She breathed deeply, attempting to catch her breath. “…And I thought my jokes were bad.” She stood up straight and turned her head so that her frizzy pink mane veiled her face.

Pinstripe’s discomfort became annoyance. The mare’s laughter conjured in him memories of his youth: the childhood he had spent in the slums being bullied by the Trottingham hooligans that lived in the shantytowns west of Discord’s Kitchen. He recalled their taunts, heard them in his memory as if those schoolyard bullies were here now.

What’s black and white and red all over, they had often jeered before dragging him to the playground restroom, where they proceeded to beat him senseless and leave him facedown in toilet full of red water. They pounded him, stole his money, spat on him, insulted his mother, his race—but nothing stung like their laughter. He loathed that sound. A sound that still haunted his nightmares to this day—and this pony… this mangy thing with the sweet voice and the tangled mane… her laugh tore into his heart with claws. It peeled away the ugly black scabs that marred his essence, opening old wounds.

Anger seized every muscle in his body, every fiber of his being. For a moment he forgot who she was and started toward her.

Then, a moment after that, Pinstripe took a calming breath that ended the rage rising in him. He was not a colt anymore. The bullies and the laughter still infuriated him, but now he knew better than to wear that anger on his sleeve. Anger was a form of power, he had learned, and if one could anger his enemy than one held the power. He hated being laughed at, but he hated being manipulated much, much more. “And what about you?” he said after regaining his composure. “You got a name, Prankster?”

The pink mare twisted her head, giving Pinstripe a view of the other side of her mane. Now he wasn’t sure if she was hiding her face or looking for something.

“That’s The Pranksterto the likes a you, ya mook,” she said playfully, twisting her sweet voice so that it sounded like the gangsters Pinstripe had seen in movies when he was young. He still had a soft spot for those old films, with their shameless and often silly glorification of the gang lifestyle. Despite himself, and the moment, he laughed at the Prankster’s gag.

“Hey, that’s pretty good,” he said.

She smiled behind her shield of pink mane, still refusing to show her face. “No, no, no, that’s no good at all,” she said. “The Prankster—that’s just some stupid name the papers gave me. You can call me… Pinks...” She said the name ponderously, as if using it for the first time.

“Pinks?” Pinstripe echoed. He wasn’t sure he liked this name any better.

“Pinks and Stripe… Stripe and Pinks…” she said slowly, testing how the names sounded beside each other.

“Ah…Pink Stripes…?” Pinstripe offered, hoping that playing along with this "Pinks" character would better aid him in understanding her odd behavior.

“Hehehehe. Another bad joke; we’re really slaying the audience tonight,” she giggled, looking all around as she moved closer to Pinstripe. “Yes—Pink Stripes! That’s what they’ll call our act. Ho ho, we’ll knock ‘em dead, you and me!”

Pinstripe noticed that Pinks was searching for something. He looked around too, but there wasn’t much to see. Nothing but crows perched on tree branches and miles of empty road that evaporated into darkness in both directions.

And the asylum. Somehow Pinstripe had forgotten it was there. Perhaps because the ancient collection of white walls, darkened corridors and flickering light fixtures had somehow walked through its own gates in the shape of this pink pony. She wasn’t terribly unpleasant, but Pinstripe had decided she was undoubtedly mad.

Remembering now that it was still there, Pinstripe looked to the asylum and wondered which was crazier: the madmare, or the madmare who had set this lunatic free?

When his gaze returned to Pinks, he noticed she was still looking around, being careful to keep her face hidden.

“Is something wrong with—”

“My face,” Pinks snapped. She turned toward him, but kept her eyes and mouth covered with her foreleg. “If Blitzkrieg sent you, I assume it’s in the trunk.”

Pinks marched past Pinstripe, who followed her as she circled the wagon, peering around before stopping at the trunk. She opened a latch and swung the trunk lid upwards.

Pinstripe watched her rummage around, hearing her giggle as she removed a plastic container of some kind. It was white, unlabeled and shaped like a jar. Pinks twisted the lid, then dabbed her gloved hoof into the nondescript container. Pinstripe saw that it was full of some kind of white cream. Makeup, he figured. He peered over Pinks' shoulder and into the trunk, and saw that there were other containers, spray-cans, and something that looked like a stick of lipstick.

Pinks began rubbing her face with the cream, but stopped after applying only a few dollops.

“You mind,” she growled in a new, knotted voice that made Pinstripe jump. He looked away, then slunk off to the front of the carriage where the Tongueless stood with animal-like patience, awaiting the order to return home. As Pinstripe neared them, they greeted him in their peculiar way. Both snorted and lowered their heads, welcoming the zebra to pet them. They were mares: one an earth pony and the other a pegasus. Pinstripe petted the pegasus.

“There’s a good girl,” he cooed, scratching her behind the ear. He reached into his coat and produced a sugar cube, then fed it to the mare. She chewed clumsily without the aid of a tongue, and neighed contently, though she couldn’t properly taste her treat.

Of all the Tongueless owned by Blitzkrieg, Pinstripe was most fond of this grey-coated pegasus mare. He didn't know her name. The Tongueless lost their names when they lost their tongues, and Pinstripe hadn’t known her while she was still working for Krieg.

All of the Tongueless were ex-Shadowbolts who had, at one point, failed Blitzkrieg in some unforgivable way. As punishment for their shortcomings, Krieg had them sent to a unicorn named Temporal who used her magic to lobotomize them. Afterwards, the nearly brain-dead ponies became the loyal, unthinking slaves of whomever held their reigns. Krieg mostly used them for drawing carts, because their clumsiness made them poor maids or house servants.

Pinstripe didn’t like the idea of his fellow equines, even if they were ponies, being turned into Tongueless. Not because he cared for them personally, but because he found the sight of mares and stallions behaving like common animals unnerving.

Still, he was always kind to them, and especially to this grey-coated pegasus. She had a charm about her that he couldn’t resist, with her lazy yellow eyes that never seemed to focus on the same thing at the same time.

“Your boss tried to turn me into one of those things.” Pink’s voice echoed from behind Pinstripe. It had lost much of its sweetness, and now resonated with something new and dangerous. “It was a long time ago, back when I still had a sense of humor. Sometimes I wish ol’ Temporal had lobotomized me. Then I’d be all smiles all the time, not a care in the world… Not that I have any now. Hee hee hee hee hee…”

She let out a deep, humorless laugh. It had a tumbling quality to it, and seemed to roll like an ocean wave. Pinstripe turned around and quickly found himself staring at Pinks. No… now he was staring at The Prankster, at the subject of so many Manehattan horror stories.

White makeup of some kind covered her pink face, except around her eyes, where the white was disrupted by inky black circles. A sloppily painted teardrop decorated her left cheek, but Pinstripe hardly noticed it, or the tinge of green now coloring the ends of her tangled mane.

He was busy staring at her scars.

“TA-DAAAAAA!” she shouted, springing upright and spreading her gloved hooves in a grandiose gesture. She twirled inelegantly, nearly tripping over her unlaced boots, before returning to all fours. “What do you think? I do have to look my best for her, you know. She’s always out there. Watching…”

“W-who is she?” asked Pinstripe, trying without success to tear his gaze from the mare’s painted scars. They began at the corners of her mouth, and the vibrancy of her red lipstick made them look like fresh wounds, as if she were bleeding at this very moment.

“Who is who?” asked Pinks, tilting her head in confusion and then looking up at the sky.

“Who is She?” Pinstripe tried again. “You said she was watching us.”

Pinks’ gaze dropped suddenly, as if weighted, and Pinstripe saw that she was the owner of two beautifully haunting, or perhaps haunting beautiful, blue eyes. They were a light shade of cerulean, all the more pronounced by the dark rings of paint that seemed to cage them. Both eyes were beehives of activity. They pondered and observed and focused and scanned and daydreamed—and without the black circles to keep them in place, Pinstripe worried they might fly from her face in search of new stimulus down the dirt road.

“Who is she?” Pinks echoed, her voice carrying a note of innocent curiosity. “Who is…hehehe…heh heh heh...WHAAAAHAHAHAHAHA!” She erupted into a storm of unbridled laughter. This laugh was new. It had a rapid spinning quality to it, like a cyclone, whirling and whirling and sucking everything into itself. “Why—haha…hoho…heh…heh…heeeee…why would I know that?” She moved closer and threw a foreleg around Pinstripe’s neck, making his whole body go stiff.

“I like you, Racing Stripe. You’re a funny zebra…” She pulled him closer so that they were cheek-to-cheek, stroking his mane without love or lust. Then, in a blur movement, seized his neck and slammed him into the side of the wagon, pinning him, strangling him with powerful forehooves. “But if you don’t stop staring at me by the time I count to three, I’m going to break your neck!”

Startled, the pair of Tongueless at the wagon’s helm rose to their hind legs, kicking and neighing.

In the span of one second, maybe two, Pinstripe watched The Prankster’s painted expression mutate from gleeful to livid. Her active eyes seemed to shake in her head, as if trying to free themselves from the black circles. She brought her muzzle close to his, staring at his face, into his eyes, watching his cheeks change color, watching him die by degrees.

“One…” she counted, twisting Pinstripe’s neck, tightening her grip. “Two…”

He let out an oxygen-starved gurgle, screwed his eyes shut and tried to turn away before Pinks reached the number three.

“There’s a good zebra,” she said brightly, releasing her hold and patting him on the head.

Pinstripe let out a gasp, shocked by the sudden flood of cool air filling his lungs. She was strong. Pinstripe knew that earth ponies were renowned for their superior physical strength, but Pinks was alarmingly powerful for a mare her size. Instinctively, he tugged at his shirt collar and adjusted his tie. Catching his breath proved difficult, and when he was breathing easy again, Pinstripe was careful not to look directly at Pinks.

The flustered zebra opened the carriage door for his new boss. “We should probably get out of—”

“It’s the scars, isn’t it,” interrupted Pinks, flashing her new friend a knowing smile. “The reason you were staring. It’s the scars, right? Tell me, do you have a knife, Awning Stripe?”

He nodded, indicating that he did.

“Give it here. And I’ll show you how I got them.”

Pinstripe started sweating. “Sorry, boss, but we really should get going. It’s… ah… late and...”

“Give. Me. The. Knife.” Her voice was murderous, each word a stab in Pinstripe's ears.

He stood paralyzed between the open door and the mare’s outstretched hoof. He swallowed hard and reached into his overcoat, searching for the handle of his butterfly knife. When he found it, he thought hard about using it on Pinks.

“Hurry now, we don’t have all night,” said Pinks.

Again Pinstripe’s eyes fixed on her scars, and he recalled how quickly the gloved hooves had found his neck. Could he draw the blade fast enough? Or would those strong, agile limbs of hers snake around his throat again, finishing the job for good this time? The slight upturn in her cheeks seemed to ask these questions and more. The expression challenged him. Dared him.

“There’s a good zebra,” said Pinks, as Pinstripe passed her knife without fuss. She flipped the blade open and bit down on the handle, gripping it between her teeth. Then she looked around one more time—searching again for her, or whatever apparition her deranged mind had conjured. After nearly a minute of this aimless searching, Pinstripe summoned his courage and attempted to reason with the unreasonable mare.

“You’re wasting my time and yours, boss. There ain’t nothing out there,” he said. “Let’s go already. Kriegy’s waiting for us to—Hey! Hey, what are you doing!”

Pinks ignored Pinstripe’s sudden outburst. She wandered to edge of the road where the woods began and knelt down. Fresh blood dripped from a new, self-inflicted wound on her foreleg, where she had cut herself moments ago. Humming pleasantly, she extended the bleeding limb, dangling it as if to bait some unseen predator.

“Here boy,” she said, speaking clearly despite the knife in her mouth. The blade hung comically from the corner of her mouth, bobbing as she spoke but refusing to fall, like a fat cigar in the mouth of cartoon character. “Heeere boy. Come to mama. Come and get it.”

“What are you…?” Pinstripe’s voice trailed off. His eyes shifted toward the line were the edge of the road ended and the wildlife began. That line… it seemed to separate civility from nature, sanity from madness, but on which side of the spectrum he stood, Pinstripe didn’t know.

Something rustled the undergrowth.

What happened next happened fast. Pinstripe heard the growl of a starving animal. He saw the diamond dog leap from the shrubs—leap at Pinks—its maw gaping, teeth gleaming yellow in the low light. And he saw the knife flash, a brilliant silver streak of violence that tore into the leaping dog’s stomach, cutting a crimson swath across the night.

But before any of that—before the growl and the leap and the knife—Pinstripe saw the Prankster’s tail twitch. He saw a tremor run from dock to tip, and after that her movements were more than just fluid and precise. They were anticipatory. She had known the dog was there. She had known when it would pounce and how fast— maybe even how high.

When it was over, Pinstripe rushed to her side.

Pinks stood above the diamond dog, staring down at it with something like sympathy in her active blue eyes. The animal lay on its back, whining as blood gushed from a gash in its stomach.

She spat the knife from her mouth. “Oh there, there, you poor dear.” She crouched down and lifted the animal’s head from the ground, cradling it in her forelegs. “It’s okay, it's okay. Ooohhhh, sh-sh-sh-sh-sh-sh, you’re gonna be fine.”

The dog looked up at her, its eyes unfocused, its long tongue hanging limp from its mouth. Then it let out a short yip as Pinks twisted its head, snapping its neck easily and without fuss. The deed done, she shut the dog’s eyes and gently laid it down on the ground.

“What did I say about staring?” She glowered at Pinstripe, who was now standing over her. He wore an expression that was at once appalled, frightened and deeply impressed.

“Sorry,” he said, quickly looking away. “How did you do that?”

“Do what?”

“You knew the dog was there. You knew when it was going to pounce. When it—”

“It probably wasn’t alone,” Pinks said thoughtfully, once again cutting Pinstripe short. “You’re right about that much.”

“I’m right about what? What are you talking about now?”

“I agree, it’s definitely one of Blood’s little mongrels. See how its ribs are showing? That crazy stallion—hehehe—he likes to keep his pets hungry. Thinks it makes them better hunters.”

“What? Stop it. Stop rambling and explain it to me!” Pinstripe shouted. Pinks glared at him and he shut up quick. Where that sudden surge of bravery had come from, he didn’t know. Perhaps he had been caught up in the moment, enamored by the quick kill. Perhaps he was losing his mind. It was a scary thought. One night on a dirt road with this lunatic and he was already going batty.

“Blood Orange. He’s an old playmate of mine. And this,”—she grabbed the dog’s tongue and starting playing with it, bobbing it up and down as if it were a cat’s toy—“this is—woohoo—woooo—hehehe—ha ha ha ha ha!—this is just a warning! There are more coming! More watching!"

Abruptly, Pinks released the tongue. She stood up. Her tail twitched again. “We should go now,” she said, her voice suddenly deadpan. “I’ll ride shotgun.”

A black suited stallion waited for Pinstripe’s carriage to pull away before stepping out of the woods. He strode to where his pet lay dead at the edge of the road, his deep maroon mane and tail swaying in the wind.

Sharp eyes noted the length of the dog’s wound. It stretched horizontally from one end of the animal’s abdomen to the other, a thin red cummerbund that cut a semicircle around its midsection. Smiling inwardly, the stallion knelt and slid a gloved hoof between the folds of broken skin.

“My, my,” he intoned, “two inches of penetration. And with a horizontal slash.” He parted the dog’s lips, checking its teeth for any traces of flesh, blood or hair. Then he checked the animal’s nails for the same. He found none. His pet hadn’t so much as scratched her.

But the blood here on the dirt road… not all of it was the dog’s.

The stallion’s chin fell lightly on the dirt, and he sniffed at the speckles of blood suspiciously. His tongue, quick and snake-like, flicked out to taste the red-stained ground. After a moment of thought, he was sure that some of the blood was hers.

His eyes found the dog again, fixing on the ribs that showed beneath the animal’s fur. She must have injured herself, he concluded, giving the dog a whiff of blood to lure it from hiding. She had used its hunger against it. Clever.

“You’re as dangerous as ever,” he mused aloud, his inward grin broadening. Nearly finished gauging the damage, he rolled the dog over and ran a hoof along the its neck, feeling a break in the vertebrae. “But why the quick death? Why the show of mercy? Unless…”

A message, perhaps? But no joke? No prank? Was she finally starting to take this seriously?

The inward smile breached his thin lips, becoming an outward grin. He didn’t laugh, though. He seldom ever did.

Arc ONE: Chapter 3

Arc ONE: Chapter 3

It was morning by the time they made it back to Manehattan. Pinstripe was tired, less from manning the reins all night and more from listening to The Prankster's never-ending stream of mindless chatter. She prattled on for hours about nothing of substance: the weather, the awful food at the asylum, how well the Manehattan Manticores were doing this season, the best place in the city to buy drugs, the best place in the city to go dancing, her favorite flavor of ice cream, Sapphire Shores’ newest album… She bounced from subject to subject with no discernible break in flow, making Pinstripe wonder how she could string together so many random, unrelated topics with such ease. At one point he had actually tried listening to her, but found the rambling impossible to follow.

By the time they reached the city, the ceaseless stream-of-consciousness jabber flowing from Pinks had fizzled into a steady hum of white noise that was actually rather relaxing. Pinstripe never could think in silence, and like an old, rattling air conditioning unit, The Prankster's chatter provided a useful stream of background noise.

Pinstripe pondered the facts surrounding the emaciated diamond dog. Pinks had claimed the animal belonged to Blood Orange, a truly cringe-worthy thought. Blood was the son of Mandarin and Navel Orange, and the single heir to Manehattan's most powerful, most affluent crime family. The Oranges themselves weren't the problem. They bent over backwards to avoid incurring The Prankster's wrath, same as any other gang in Manehattan. But their son Blood had history with the painted lunatic, and he was one of the few criminals in the city who was too crazy to be afraid of Pinks.

Pinstripe didn’t know much about Blood's methods or motivations. The Shadowbolts and the Oranges didn't always play nice, but they weren't enemies and usually kept out of each other’s business. It helped that their territories where so far apart; the Bolts' influence was strongest in the downtown areas south of Clydesdale Blvd, while the Oranges had a firm grip on all of mid and uptown.

Of course The Prankster's release complicated things. It wasn't likely that Blood Orange would continue to respect the truce between the gangs now that Pinks was back on the streets. He would come after her. Being an Orange meant he had resources, and if he was crazy enough to pick a fight with Pinks, Pinstripe figured he must be dangerous. He wasn't frightened by the thought of tangling with Blood; it was more like a sudden hyper-awareness had struck him. He needed to keep his eyes peeled for trouble.

It didn't help that a great deal of that trouble was currently seated beside him, Tartarus-bent on talking his ears off. When the shit hit the fan, a regular occurrence in Manehattan, Pinks was sure to be right in the center of the madness. And if Pinstripe was still chauffeuring her around town when that happened, then he was sure to be slightly to right of the madness—not high on his list of places he wanted to be.

As they turned onto Clydesdale, heading east toward Blitzkrieg’s main safe house on the other side of town, the wagon rolled over a particularly deep pothole. The jolt jostled the contents of Pinstripe's pocket, making four sugar cubes and a small pouch of bits clink and rustle as they thumped against his chest. Missing was the quiet metallic clink of his trusty butterfly knife. Pinks still hadn't given it back, and Pinstripe had yet to work up the nerve to ask for it. The knife was presently hanging from the corner of her mouth, bobbing as she spoke but showing no interest in falling out.

And while Pinstripe did wonder how she was doing that, he was more curious about her other trick: the one she did with her tail. He could still see the scene clearly in his mind, and the exhilaration he had felt while watching her in action had yet to completely dissipate. It wasn't the violence that had captivated him. He was still young, but his days of getting starry-eyed at the sight of a little blood were behind him. No, it was her command that had impressed him, of both her movements and the situation. The control she exerted was no cheap trick; it wasn't the sort of thing a pony could fake.

They were well into the lower east side now, riding at an even pace through the red light district. The place was eerily desolate during the day. There were no working mares traipsing up and down the sidewalks, blowing kisses and batting eyelashes at passing wagons, beckoning ponies to pull over and sample the city's more vulgar delicacies.

They drove past lonely nightclubs, brick and mortar structures that looked drab and empty without the long, raucous lines of ponies that typically girdled the buildings after dark. The red light district was downtown's beating heart. Its pulse. But during the day, when all the blinking neon signs were dark and still, that pulse weakened to a near flat line.

The odd pair carried on for a while longer, leaving several comatose city blocks behind them as they neared their destination. They were passing a popular gentlecolts’ club called The Ringer when Pinks ceased her chattering and leaned over the side of the carriage. She stared at the receding road for a long time, not saying anything.

"Turn around." The silence shattered under the weight of her severe tone. Pinstripe turned to face her as they halted for a red light. He started to tell her that turning around wasn't an option, but was interrupted by a pair of gloved hooves shoving him out of the wagon.

He let out a string of curses in his native tongue as the sidewalk hopped up to make a fool of him. Pinstripe had never visited his homeland and new little of his own culture, but his mother insisted he learn to speak fluent Zebrican. She claimed it would better connect him to his heritage, and keep him centered in a land whose populace didn't always practice the love and tolerance they so often preached.

A lot of good it had done him. He certainly didn’t feel centered now; he felt like an asshole chasing after a carriage being driven by a bigger asshole.

He chased Pinks for three blocks. At the end of the third, she spun the wagon around and forced him to continuing chasing for three more blocks in the opposite direction, then finally halted the long enough for Pinstripe to catch up. She pointed a hoof at him, giggling as he hauled himself into the passenger seat.

A sour expression met one that was teeming with innocent glee.

“Oh come on, I was just kidding,” she said, her voice syrupy sweet again. “Can’t you hardened thug types take a joke anymore? This town used to be a gas! But look at it now. So much… order.” Moving swiftly, she sprang down from her seat and landed on the back of the pegasus mare, who reared up on her hind legs, startled. “It’s all stopping on red and going on green these days.”

With a loud cry, Pinks gave the mare’s reigns a sharp tug, causing her mount to take off like a shot. Or rather, the poor animal attempted to take off, but the other Tongueless, having received no order to pull, held its ground, causing Pinks and the grey mare to fall flat on their faces.

“See what I mean? Exactly how is this fun?” Pinks whined, rubbing a sore spot on her bruised head.

“Boss, we’re not supposed to be having fun. We’re supposed to be getting back to the safe house. Krieg wants to talk to you and—”

“Not supposed to be having fun?” Pinks laughed at such a ludicrous notion. She freed the pegasus from her reins and re-mounted her, tying the mare’s blond mane around one of her forelegs. Then she gave the mane an experimental tug, testing her improvised bridle. “You’re an outlaw, Hairline Stripe! What’s the point in being a law-breaker if you can’t have fun doing it?”

Stripe looked on, his expression a cocktail of confusion, annoyance and mild amusement, as Pinks gave her mount’s barrel a kick. The two of them soared above the streetlights and began circling overhead.

“Boss, come down from there,” Pinstripe insisted. “It’s broad daylight; what if somepony sees you?” Of course it was already too late to worry about that. Several onlookers had already taken note of The Prankster’s antics.

Ponies gathered on the sidewalk to watch Pinks and the Tongueless perform an array of acrobatic stunts, mistaking the odd pair for harmless street performers. Pinks waved to her adoring public as the Tongueless banked, dipped, then pulled upward into a tight, arcing loop.

So many bright, smiling faces, she mused. So many…

A foal tugged at her father’s tail and pointed at the Tongueless still strapped in her harness, asking what was wrong with that pony.

Pinstripe started to panic.

“All right, boss, you’ve made your point,” he called up to Pinks. “Now can we please leave?”

“How about a game of tag?” Pinks called back.

Tag? Was she serious?

“Boss…”

“Pretty please.”

“Boss, we can’t just—”

“Pretty please with lots of sugar and sprinkles and syrup and sarsaparilla on top!”

Infuriating, thought Pinstripe. That must be how she did it. That must be how she managed to dominate Manehattan’s entire criminal underworld. Not through violence or intimidation, but by pestering the city’s crime lords into submission.

“Okay, okay, but you’ll have to come down, otherwise how am I gonna tag you?” he said, electing to play along if it meant getting back to the hideout.

Pinks flew in close enough to brush Pinstripe’s cheek with her tail, and said, “Nope,” before giving her mount another kick. The two of them rocketed onward, flying west above Clydesdale Blvd, and away from Krieg’s hideout on the lower east side.

Grumbling in Zebrican, Pinstripe cracked the remaining Tongueless’s reins and gave chase. As he followed Pinks, he remembered Wisp’s warning about the police crackdown in the lower east side. The last thing he needed now was to encounter some hero cop who wasn’t on the Shadowbolts’ payroll and to be forced to explain why he was speeding down a major street in a cart being pulled by a brain-dead pony.

Because I’m chasing a madmare so I can take her back to my boss’s safe house, where she’ll likely start planning to murder honest, hardworking citizens like yourself. Is that a problem, officer?

“Heh.” A shadow of a grin tugged at the corner of Pinstripe’s mouth. “Heh heh heh,” he giggled. It actually was kind of funny.

Pinks ordered the mare to slow her pace and flew alongside the carriage, laughing, her frizzy mane dancing as she sped through the air. “You’ll never catch me hauling all that extra weight!” she exclaimed. For the faintest instant Pinstripe was sure the knife would fall from her mouth, but it kept bobbing in place as she laughed.

“No fair!” shouted Pinstripe. “How come you get to ride the pegasus?”

“Because I’m the boss!” And with that she pulled ahead again, though now she flew lower to so that Pinstripe had a fair chance to tag her, that is, if he ever caught up.

They darted carelessly through stop signs and traffic lights.

They weaved in and out of lanes, dodging traffic.

Too fast and too agile, thought Pinstripe. Pinks was right, he would never catch her so long as he was lugging the carriage behind him.

He felt a minotaur's fist clench where his heart should have been. He felt it repeatedly punch the inside of his chest, each blow more jarring than the one before. But the punches caused him no harm. There was no pain in his body, only a lightness in his head and a looseness in the hooves that held the reins.

The reins? Tools for control. For restricting and manipulating another creature. He looked down at the leather straps as if they had suddenly mutated into poisonous snakes. Before the snakes could bite him, he threw them aside and bounded from his seat, landing on the Tongueless’s back with only a fraction of the grace Pinks had demonstrated before. He grabbed hold of the panting animal’s neck with one forelimb, his free hoof working hastily to unfasten his mount's harness.

Just as the straps were falling away, somepony hurled a scream in Pinstripe's direction. His head shot up just in time to spot a taxi barreling toward him.

Shock flashed in the cab puller’s intense electric blue eyes, and she stumbled haphazardly as she tried to swerve around the oncoming carriage.

The Tongueless, now unbridled and free of her heavy burden, zipped out of the taxi’s path with ease, leaving the cab puller and her charge to crash into the wagon Pinstripe had left behind. It was only by luck that the cabbie managed to swerve enough to avoid being seriously injured.

“Psychopath!” shouted the cabbie, popping her head out of a pile of broken wood and shaking her hoof indignantly.

“Hahahahahah!” roared Pinks as she looked over her shoulder and watched two more carriages rumble into the felled taxi, causing a minor pile up.

Pinstripe looked back as well. Something in his gut told him he should be angry at The Prankster’s recklessness, but the lightness in his head had succeeded in pulling the corners of his mouth into an exhilarated grin. He roped both forelimbs around the earth mare’s neck and leaned forward, urging her to greater efforts with kicks and shouts.

Pinks did the same, laughing hysterically as she directed the pegasus to fly even lower. She and her ride were mere inches from the ground now, and only a few paces ahead of Pinstripe and his earth mare.

Pinks leaned backwards, shut her eyes and flagged one foreleg high overhead, holding her improvised bridle of blond mane with the other. She beamed with childish innocence, laughed with real joy. When she noticed Pinstripe and his steed advancing, she leaned back even further, so that her back was parallel to that of her mount.

Pinstripe squinted against a rush of air and focused on her outstretched hoof. He extended one timid foreleg, reaching for the leather glove. But before he could touch it The Prankster’s eyes snapped open, mischief twinkling in her active blues. She stuck out her tongue and made a goofy face, then rocketed ahead again, screaming through an intersection and missing a slow-moving fruit cart be seconds.

Pinstripe let out a surprised cheer as his mount bounded over the fruit cart. “Good girl!” he breathed excitedly, stroking her neck. She responded with a neigh and doubled her sprint, gliding across the cracked road as easily as a fish through water.

The four of them were a bizarre sight: a painted mare riding a pegasus inches above the street, being chased by a zebra riding an earth pony, all of them laughing or neighing, too caught up in their game to pay the city any mind.

Had Pinstripe not been so thoroughly immersed in this moment, he would have noticed the red light district shrinking at his back, and the lower west side budding before his eyes. He would have seen the nightclubs shrivel away, replaced by decrepit apartment complexes that seemed to sprout from the cracked pavement. The slowly thinning traffic would have concerned him, and the unsettling, barely-there aroma of cooked meat now hanging overhead would have given him pause.

But nothing of the sort existed in Pinstripe’s rapidly shrinking world. Not yet. Not now. Now there was only the scarred smile, and the outstretched hoof, and the marrow-deep thrill of the chase.

The Prankster and her mount slowed their pace, flying beside Pinstripe and his charging steed. She licked her lips, smearing her lipstick, and mouthed the words, “Tag me,” before pulling ahead and cornering into a long alleyway.

Pinstripe yanked his steed’s mane, commanding her to follow Pinks down the alley. Without thinking, he rose to his hind legs, performing a peculiar balancing act on the mare’s back. He let out a self-congratulatory laugh, impressed with his own dexterity, then threw himself at the pink mare, tackling her and knocking her off the pegasus.

A tangled mess of limbs, manes and laughs tumbled into a pile of trash beside an overflowing dumpster.

Breath mingled.

One warm chest heaved against another.

Pinned beneath Pinstripe, Pinks blinked and licked her lips. “Looks like I’m it,” she breathed, her overactive eyes softening.

Pinstripe took in the sight beneath him. The frizzy mane splayed against a backdrop of torn trash bags. The hauntingly beautiful eyes. The red mouth, slightly ajar, baiting him with an amorous smile.

Then he blinked and took it in a second time. The scruffy pink mane decorated with rubbish. The hyperactive blues. The scars.

He leapt away with the swiftness of a frightened cat, shuddering. Pinks remained on her back, her hind legs kicking as she clutched her stomach and shook with mocking laughter. “Real smooth, Pins,” she said between chuckles. “It’s been awhile, hasn’t it?”

“Shut up,” he said defensively, straightening his tie.

Pinstripe brushed flecks of trash from his suit and kicked himself for getting swept up in The Prankster's shenanigans. She really was a disease, Stripe thought, and an increased heart rate was likely the first sign that he had been infected. He looked around the alley and mumbled more curses when he realized Pinks had led him to a part of town he didn't recognize. Little Gryffindor.

Little Gryffindor was home to the largest griffin population in Manehattan. Most had come to Equestria hoping to escape their own brutish culture, while others were criminals fleeing from a medieval justice system that still practiced public execution. The latter typically found their new lives in Manehattan quite liberating, while the former found only more brutality, more of the same.

So he was lost in a dangerous part of town with a dangerous psychopath, was he? Pinstripe took a moment to contemplate the severity of the situation, but his thoughts were disrupted by the rank smells crowding the alleyway. The place reeked of trash, urine and something else—something he couldn’t describe.

Covering his muzzle with a suit sleeve, he surveyed the area. He was standing between two buildings spaced far apart. At one end of the ally was a short chain link fence that Pinstripe and his steed must have bounded over while chasing Pinks, though he didn’t remember pulling a stunt like that.

At the opposite end, a thick metal door waited ominously.

Looking away, he spied Pinks and both Tongueless rolling about in the trash beside one of the alley walls. She looked like a filly playing with a pair of puppies. The Tongueless tried to lick her face, but without tongues their attempts resembled awkward kisses. Pinstripe watched her pet them and nuzzle their cheeks. He wasn't sure what to make of this scene.

“Come on in! The garbage is revolting!” yelled Pinks, waving for Pinstripe to join her and her new friends.

Pinstripe shook his head with histrionic austerity.

“Oh, just get a look at you,” said Pinks as she bounced out of the trash pile. “A perfectly good chance to have a little fun, and you just stand there with that sour look on your face. And they say I’m the crazy one.” She bounced to where he stood, as if her legs had suddenly become pogo-sticks. “Why don’t you just admit that you’re having a good time?”

“Because I’m not,” Pinstripe said plainly.

“Yes you are. You like me, Pins and Needles, you really do. It’s all over your cranky, cranky face.” She licked her lips again. Pinstripe wished she would stop doing that.

“Where are we?” asked Pinstripe, quickly changing the subject. Pinks answered by turning her back to the zebra and bouncing down the alleyway. She stopped at the metal door and then beckoned him to follow.

“We’re here to give out the invitations,” she said once Pinstripe made it to the door. “I want all my very special friends to attend this party.”

“Party?” Pinstripe echoed. He didn’t like the sound of that.

“The homecoming party, silly,” she chided playfully. “Didn’t you hear? Those crazy doctors down at the asylum—they set The Prankster free! Hee hee hee hee hee hee…”

There it was again. That joyless, deep-throated laugh; the one that rolled like an ocean wave. Pinstripe didn’t know if it was the rumbling laughter or the smells in the alley, but he suddenly felt nauseous.

“Well don’t just stand there, ring the buzzer,” Pinks insisted, gesturing toward the big red buzzer where the knob of a normal door would have been.

Pinstripe did as he was told. Nothing. No one came to the door.

“What’s the matter, Pins? You seem nervous,” said Pinks, leaning nonchalantly against the wall.

“I’m not,” he responded, adjusting his tie for the dozenth time.

Pinks waved for him to come closer. “Reach into your breast pocket.”

Lacking the energy to question this order, Pinstripe did as he was told. He inhaled sharply when he felt the hilt of the folded butterfly knife in his pocket. But when did she...?

“Little less nervous?” Pinks asked with a wink.

Pinstripe patted his pocket as if it held something precious. “Little less nervous,” he assured her.

He rang the buzzer again, heard a click and watched the door slide open.

“Tell your pets to wait for us outside,” said Pinks, before trotting through the open door.

Pinstripe fed both the Tongueless a sugar cube and told them to stay. He wasn’t positive they would heed his command, or if they even understood a word he was saying, but what choice did he have? Unlike the newly unbridled ponies, he was still very much subject the whims of a madmare.

“Pink Stripes, huh?” he pondered aloud, remembering the title of their two-equine comedy act. It seemed the show was going on the road, and like or not, Pinstripe was along for the ride.

Arc ONE: Chapter 4

Arc ONE: Chapter 4

Pinks hummed a jaunty tune as she led Pinstripe down a dark stairwell, bouncing along in that curious way of hers. Her reluctant companion treaded with greater care, urging her to do the same. He breathed a sigh of annoyance when she tripped and tumbled down the stairs, her body still bouncing, though with a fraction of the grace displayed a moment beforehand.

Grumbling, Pinstripe squinted at the darkness, straining to make out the shape of the pink pony slumped against a door at the bottom of the stairway. “Uh… you okay, boss?” he called to her.

She groaned a belated response. From the sound of her bellowing, Pinstripe decided she must be incapacitated—or at least stunned—and for the second time since meeting Pinks, he considered killing her. His heart rate climbed as he pawed the knife in his pocket. It would be easy, he assured himself. Just one spontaneous act of violence and he would be free of this painted lunatic and all the trouble she was sure to bring his way.

The only problem was that twitching tail of hers. Pinstripe recalled how easily Pinks had dispatched the diamond dog, and took a moment to access the situation. It was dark in the stairwell. Even if Pinks sensed him coming, she wouldn't see him coming, though, he wasn’t sure sightlessness gave him any real advantage in this instance. It was a mutual handicap; Pinstripe would be fighting blind as well.

He had a weapon, of course, and that gave him an edge, if only a slight one. Pinks was faster and stronger—insanely strong for a mare her size—but at least she was unarmed. Then again, at such close quarters Pinstripe knew that failure to secure a quick kill would result in a blind wrestling match with a mare who could crush his trachea like a beer can.

He shook the mental image from his mind. That wasn’t going to happen, and he was wasting time with all this deliberation. If he died at the bottom of this stairwell, it will have been indecision that killed him, not Pinks. It was important to analyze a situation before acting; he hadn’t survived as the only zebra in a gang of backstabbing pegasi for this long by leaping before he looked. Still, even practicality had its limits. There was a fine line between calculation and hesitation, one that Pinstripe often found himself straddling.

And for what? He had nothing to fear. Pinks was a killer, sure, but was she a fighter? If it came down him and her in a blind scrap at the bottom this stairwell, could she beat him? Pinstripe didn’t think so; she was in his element now. This would be gutter brawl: less a fight and more of a frantic scramble for survival. It would come down to heart, to who wanted it more. In Pinstripe’s experience, big shots like Pinks never had any heart. They were all about smarts and method and intimidation, but the minute their backs were against the wall they folded like the chicken-shit pansies they were.

The dons and the bosses had power but they ruled from afar, perched on the shoulders of their underlings. Pinstripe had been born and raised on the streets. He didn’t respect power like that.

Feeling confident, he drew his butterfly knife and hustled down the stairs. A few steps into his blind assault, he stumbled over something soft. He thought he heard a squeak, like that of a rubber duck, but the sound was quickly drowned out by his own surprised yelp.

He tripped himself, tumbled, and the edge of a concrete step bit into the back of his head, stunning him. Neon spots made a surrealist portrait of the stairwell—an interesting juxtaposition of light and darkness—as he rolled unceremoniously. At the bottom of the steps he crashed into something soft, electing lay against it until his wits returned.

“Careful,” coughed the pink pony Pinstripe was slumped against. “Those last few steps are a real doozy.”

Just then, a raspy voice whined from behind the door. “So much, commotion. Get door, Digger, get door. Why Digger always have to see about commotion? What if commotion is trouble?” The whines lapsed into a strained grunt as the owner of the voice struggled to open the door. “What if commotion is cops? Then Digger get arrested first, give others chance to escape…” The voice’s owner grunted again, strained, then quit with a melodramatic huff.

“Stupid door is stuck again,” muttered the voice. “Where did dragon go? Dragon is strongest. Dragon is dragon. Dragon should be getting door, seeing about commotion.”

After another histrionic grunt, the door finally budged. As it slid open, Pinstripe felt a rush of cold air sweep over him. With the door no longer in place to support them, Pinstripe and Pinks spilled out into the freezing room like the contents of an overstuffed closet.

Pinstripe peered up through the neon spots still muddling his vision. He saw a blue-grey diamond dog with well-brushed fur and a bottom jaw that was larger than the tops. The dog’s eyes were narrow slits, so narrow that Pinstripe couldn’t make out their color.

When the dog saw the cause of the commotion, he leaned forward and squinted down at the two of them.

“Boss?” he asked carefully. If there was surprise in his expression Pinstripe couldn’t see it, for when the dog squinted his eyes appeared closed.

“Grift!” the dog turned and shouted. “Digger thinks you might want to see this!”

But Grift, whoever she was, didn’t answer. The dog pouted. He was under the belief that Grift would be along to back him up in case the commotion was trouble, but apparently he was being left to fend for himself... again. When he turned back, he was met by a pair of active blue eyes.

“Rocky, is that you?” The Prankster’s face was only a nose away from Digger’s, causing him to pull away sharply.

“It is,” he responded, forcing a smile.

Pinks smothered Digger in an overzealous hug. She picked him up and spun around, squeezing tight enough to hurt him. “Oh Rocky!” she cried histrionically. “I thought I’d never see you again! There were all these cops, and this pony in a mask, and a huge explosion, and…” She paused and set Digger on the ground, her eyebrows narrowed in a look of suspicion. “Say… how did you get away from the cops and the pony in the mask and the huge explosion?”

Digger nervously cleared his throat. “Digger wasn’t there, remember, boss. Digger was already behind bars.”

Pinks scratch her chin and seemed to sink into deep thought.

Pinstripe stood, pocketed his knife and looked around. The room he now found himself in was spacious, dimly lit and cold. The floor was tiled and spotless.

Digger’s gaze shifted furtively from the pony to the zebra, then back to the pony. “You okay, boss,” he mumbled, twiddling his thumbs like a child before his stern-faced mother. “You look a little—”

“What’s wrong with the way I look?” Pinks interrupted gently.

“Oh, uh, nothing. Nothing’s wrong, Digger just meant…” His voice trailed off into a jumble of stammers.

“Rocky, I’m upset with you. I thought we were friends. I thought we could be honest with each other.” Pinks stepped closer to Digger, and a cloud of frigid breath splashed his face as she spoke. “If you have a problem with the way I look, just say so.”

Digger’s gaze darted around the room as he struggled to think of something to say.

“Hey,” Pinks asserted. She reared up on her hind legs and snatched the dog by his jewel-encrusted collar. “Hey—look at me.” She licked her lips and tilted her head, giggling softly as she followed his darting gaze. “Look at… I said look at me.”

“Digger is sorry, boss,” whined the dog. “Digger is sorry.”

“Sorry about what?” she said in a soothing voice, patting one of his cheeks. “Sorry about what, Rocky? It’s okay. Just look at me. That’s all you have to do. That’s it—just look at me.”

Digger mustered the courage to meet the mare’s gaze, but was silent.

“Is there something wrong with my looks, Rocky!” she exploded, shaking Digger. “Is there something wrong with my face!” Her tone spiked with anticipation. It was as if she were waiting for something—a cue or a signal—and the waiting had become more than she could bear.

“Stripe!” she shouted, her head swiveling with neck-snapping speed. “Stripe—is there something wrong with my face!”

Pinstripe jolted at the mention of his name. “Ah…” he stammered, not out of fear, but because he was distracted by that familiar rush of exhilaration—the same rush he’d felt during his game of tag with Pinks. This was the first time he had seen the effect she had on a creature other than a brainless Tongueless. This diamond dog was a sentient being, something that could think and feel and fear. And it was afraid of her.

“Ah, yeah, boss,” he said carefully. “It’s your makeup. Some of it rubbed off, that’s all Digger here was getting at.”

Pinks released the dog and touched a hoof to her cheek where the Tongueless had smudged her makeup. “Oh,” she said soberly. “Is that all it was, Rocky?”

Digger nodded, whining.

“Then why didn’t you just say so, you silly puppy?” She hugged him again, squeezing hard enough to hurt him. Then she gasped and drew back dramatically, covering her mouth as though something had surprised her. “Where’s Gummy? Did the coppers get him too?”

Happy to have some distance between himself and Pinks, Digger brightened a bit and said, “No. Gummy is fine. Gummy is here.”

“Oh Rocky, you big, strong, slab of hunky dog meat—I knew I could count on you!” She grabbed Digger by the shoulders and pulled him into a hard kiss, smearing lipstick on his face. Then she broke the kiss and began laughing maniacally as she bounced deeper into the cold dark room.

“Wait a minute, boss…” Pinstripe started to follow Pinks, but was suddenly paralyzed by the nightmarish sights that filled the room. He had been too enamored by Pinks and Digger to notice the eerie sights before, but with the drama over he stepped out of the doorway and took his first real look around.

He was standing in some kind of underground meat freezer. Skinned bovine carcasses had been split in half and hung from racks. Pinstripe had heard it was normal to find slaughterhouses in Little Gryffindor, since most of its residents were carnivores, but state law permitted only the butchering and consuming of non-sentient animals: hogs, pigs, chickens, turkeys, fish…

Pinstripe once had a thoughtful discussion with a cow over the best way to approach a mare at a club. He looked up at the hanging beef and shook his head deprecatingly. This was sick. Even for Manehattan, this was sick.

"Not pretty," said Digger, reading the look of disgust on Pinstripe’s face. He wiped his lipstick-stained mouth with the back of a wide paw and spat.

"I've seen worse." Pinstripe wasn't sure if that was a lie or not. He started to follow Pinks, but the dog stepped in his path and jammed an open paw into his chest

"Not so fast," rasped Digger. "Just who are you supposed to be?"

"I'm the guy who didn't just piss himself a minute ago," returned Pinstripe.

"Give it a few days," said Digger, shrugging off the insult. "Thanks for save by the way. Digger's name is Digger." He extended a paw to shake.

"That was my first guess," Pinstripe answered dryly, shaking hoof to paw. "Name's Pinstripe. I'm a Shadowbolt." He added as an afterthought, hoping it would lend his words more weight.

Digger looked him up and down. "Pinstripe is liar. Shadowbolts have wings. You Daughter, maybe. You look queer enough."

"I'm honorary. What is this place?" he asked, changing the subject.

"We in Carnie hideout. Digger is Carnie. Real gang, not like faggy Daughters. You leave now, yes. Pinstripe not welcome here."

Obviously.

“Not without Pinks,” Pinstripe heard himself say, the words sounding foreign to his ear. He had tried to kill her not even ten minutes ago, but that was before seeing the way Digger shook and stammered in her presence. He had been told many times that The Prankster was the stuff of nightmares, but now that he had seen firsthand, Pinstripe found himself… interested. He wanted to learn the secret of her power. She must be more than makeup and scars, he figured. She must be more than a scary campfire story.

Upon hearing the name Pinks, bewilderment flashed across Digger's face. It lasted for only a moment. “You mean Laughing Pony,” he said, not surprised to hear that The Prankster had adopted yet another identity. “Look, Digger has no quarrel with Pinstripe, but Pinstripe has to go. Grift will see Pinstripe, get mad at Digger.”

“Well my boss, Blitzkrieg of the Shadowbolts, will be get mad at Digger when I tell him you’re the reason I couldn’t bring the Prankster to him like I promised.”

Digger swallowed a lump that had formed in his throat. “Pinstripe knows Blitzkrieg? Then Pinstripe is Shadowbolt.” This bit of insight seemed to alarm him. “Fine. Pinstripe finds Laughing Pony and then leaves, yes?”

“Yeah,” answered Pinstripe in a disarming tone of voice, not wanting to upset the dog any further. After knowing him for just a few minutes, he was starting to like Digger. He found his constant whining amusing.

Digger led Pinstripe out of the freezer and into a noisy kitchen. The transition from cold to hot, silent to clamorous, jarred his senses. It was like stepping through a wormhole and being dumped into another world.

The kitchen was a hornets’ nest of bustling movement. Griffins bumped into each other, dropping food and kitchenware as they skittered and flew about the kitchen. Steam rose along with shouts and ruckus laughter as the odd pair of zebra and diamond dog walked by the cooks, most of whom were minding simmering pots on the stovetops. Stew of some kind, Pinstripe figured. He wrinkled his nose at the strong smell of cooking meat.

"Sorry about smell! We don’t get too many herbivores visiting here!" Digger had to shout over the cooks, who were calling out directions to one another.

"Obviously," answered Pinstripe, ducking in order to avoid being clipped by a low flying cook who was carrying several stacked pots in both claws. "What's today's special?"

"Beef stew. Best in town."

"Only in town," laughed one of the cooks who had overheard their conversation. He lifted a pot lid and breathed in the aroma of fresh cooked meat—a rare scent anywhere in Equestria.

A knife whistled overhead, seemingly aimless until a swift claw shot up to catch the blade before using it to dice carrots.

“Is there a holiday rush or something?” said Pinstripe, who was now trotting with one foreleg raised to shield his head from flying kitchenware.

Digger was unfazed by the calamity in the kitchen. “Carnie cooks are nuts,” he said dismissively. “This how they always work.”

After surviving their march through the kitchen, Digger pushed open a door that led to the dining area. Suddenly they had wandered into an upscale restaurant. Pinstripe marveled at the tiny crystal chandeliers that hung from the ceiling, like strange, ornate bates. The tables wore fine white cloths that clashed dramatically with the seedy appearance of the restaurants patrons—all of whom were scruffy diamond dogs, minatours or casually dressed griffins.

These doors, Pinstripe thought with a dry inward chuckle. Perhaps the next one leads to Princess Luna’s bedroom.

Well, maybe that was a bit extreme. The transitions from room to room weren’t that drastic: a meat freezer to a kitchen to a dining area. Clearly there was some fundamental logic at work in this secret underground facility, but the differences in atmosphere from one room to another were drastic indeed. During this venture the mood had switched from cold and lonely, to hot and lively, and now to sober and refined.

This must be what it's like inside The Prankster’s head, mused Pinstripe as he and Digger walked toward a huge circular booth in the very back of the dining area.

A griffin seated at the booth—a female of average build with a beak and talons the color of polished brass—looked up from her menu, frowning at Digger and his guest.

Digger skipped the formal introductions and got to the point. “Grift, where is Gummy?” he asked.

“Why you looking for Gummy?” returned Grift. Her bored gaze shifted from dog to zebra. “And what’s with the zebra? I thought I told you stop bringing those freaky, weirdo cannibal motherfuckers around me. They give me the creeps.”

“Yeah, they give her the creeps!” piped a much younger male griffin seated at Grift’s side. He tugged at the shoulder straps of his faded overalls and stuck out his tongue at Pinstripe.

Pinstripe started to protest his being a ‘weirdo cannibal motherfucker’, but was interrupted by a long, high-pitched whine from Digger.

"Pink Pony is looking for Gummy. Gummy is where Pink Pony is, understand?” said Digger.

Grift lifted her menu and flipped a page. "What're you going on about now?"

"Pinstripe came with Pink Pony," Digger responded hurriedly. "Pink Pony is back, Grift. Laughing Pony is back."

"Celestia help you, Digger, you been hitting the salt again?" Grift laughed without looking up from her menu. "Someone please get this mutt's dehydrated ass a drink before he passes out."

“Yeah, before he passes out!” parroted the little griffin.

A white-coated female diamond dog sitting at the end of the booth covered her mouth as she chuckled at Grift’s dig. Her laugh was a low rasp that vibrated her throat, causing her pearl-studded collar to shake slightly. Her eyes were wider than Digger’s—though not by much—and they were glassy and opaque, like the pearls around her neck.

A tall male griffin stood off to the side of the booth, seemingly uninterested in the conversation. He had the vacant stare of a Guard Pony working a double shift, and his posture was impeccable.

Pinstripe took in the curious bunch, making a mental note to stay alert.

“Digger not hitting salt,” said Digger, his frustration growing. It was true; Digger had kicked his addiction exactly five years ago, right after The Prankster’s incarceration. Though, now that his old boss was out and likely looking to stir up trouble, he wasn’t sure how well his sobriety would hold up. Stress fueled his old urges, and right the mutt was already thinking he could maybe use a few licks.

“This is serious, Grift,” Digger whined. “Laughing Pony is back. What are we going to do?”

Grift licked the tip of her talons and flipped to the final page of her menu, ignoring Digger—the smug bitch. Pinstripe had had too many run-ins with types like Grift: alpha dogs who thought they were above listening to their pack. He took a seat across from Grift, reached over the table and lowered her menu. “Hey, asshole,” he said. “Listen to the dog; he’s trying to tell you that Pinks is—”

"WHAAAAhahahaha!"

Pinstripe was cut short by a sudden burst of ruckus laughter coming from the kitchen.

Grift’s ears perked, her eyes bugling in shock as she dropped her menu. Digger wasn’t lying. That was her alright; there wasn’t another laugh like that in all of Equestria.

Other sounds echoed from the kitchen as well. Screams. Cries for help. Cries for mercy. Crunches. Bangs. Splashes. Metallic clangs. More screams. More laughter. The patrons stopped enjoying their meals and stared at the kitchen door, listening in shock and terror.

Silence descended in the kitchen.

Silence infiltrated the dining area.

Then the door swung open and out staggered one of the griffin cooks, screaming something about “his eyes, his eyes!” and clutching a face that had been doused in boiling broth. He reached forward and groped the empty space before him, searching for something to lean against. Finding nothing, he elected to lean against the empty air instead, hanging suspended for two impossibly long seconds before passing out and crashing peak-first into the floor. Those seated nearest to him gaped at the knife in his back.

The Prankster, who had been standing behind the cook, casually stepped over the dead griffin.

“Stop me if you’ve heard this one before,” announced Pinks through a mouthful of celery. Now even more of her makeup was smeared off, and her gloves and boots were blood-specked. “A clown walks into an illicit underground slaughterhouse… and murders all of the cooks!”

No one said anything. The room was silent except for The Prankster’s loud chewing.

“Hmm, tough crowd.” Pinks spat out the celery stick. She stood on her hind legs and opened her jacket, revealing several rows of grenades stitched into the fabric. “That one usually brings the house down—hahahahaha!” she laughed, playing with the ripcord hidden in her tie.

A roar of shouts, curses and screams filled the restaurant. Tables and chairs fell on their sides as the patrons scrambled towards the exits.

Grift remained calm, her bored expression unchanging, and the little griffin at her side did the same.

The female diamond dog’s ears perked. She sniffed the air excitedly, then stood on her seat and wagged her tail.

The tall griffin didn’t move. He blinked, and his lazy eye lolled precariously, as though it might drop from his skull and roll across the floor.

Pinstripe didn’t budge either. He stayed in the booth and watched Pinks shake with laughter as dozens of griffins and diamond dogs rushed away from her. When the patrons cleared out, Pinks bounced up to Grift and the others, humming that same tune she had hummed on her way down the steps. Everyone but Grift flinched as Pinks pulled a grenade from her coat, bit into it, then tossed it on the table.

“Pineapple grenade,” she said with a chuckle. “Get it?”

Actually it was a pear, but the Prankster wasn’t one to get hung up on details. Grift picked up the “grenade” and turned it over in her claw, examining it. Pinks had painted it with food dye and used a knife to carve ridges into its surface, giving it the appearance of a grenade. A bit slapdash, but believable given the distance was right and lighting low—both of which were factors Pinks had used to sell her prank. Being The Clown Princess of Crime didn't hurt either. Ponies tended to take her threats at face value.

“Grift!” Pinks exclaimed as she shoved Pinstripe aside to make room for herself in the booth. “It’s been what?—Five years, seven months, three weeks, two days, sixteen hours, and…” She looked down at her fetlock, checking the time on a watch made of crayon markings. “…Oh I don’t know, about nine minutes. Not that I’ve been keeping count.”

“Where does the time go,” said Grift dryly. She took a bite of the grenade.

Pinks and Grift held each other’s gazes for a long while, their expressions unreadable. The others in the room watched on tenterhooks, waiting for something to happen. Pinstripe expected something violent.

Grift cracked first. She giggled fitfully for a few seconds, then extended a friendly fist across the table for Pinks to bump. “Not gonna lie; I didn’t think I was ever gonna see you again, dweeb. I see you’re still pulling those lame pranks of yours.”

Pinks touched a bloody glove to the closed fist, smiling as she said, “Old habits, I suppose. Looks like the gang’s all here.” She paused to look around the table, and then the empty room. “Where’s Gummy?”

“How should I know? He’s your pet.” Grift’s eyes shifted to the cook who was lying on the floor. “There a reason you just killed my cooking staff, Diane?”

“Does there need to be?” she laughed, throwing a foreleg around Pinstripe’s neck. “Say, have you guys met my new pal? He’s a regular laugh riot, in a serious, never-smiles kind of way.”

Pinstripe looked around at the less-than-friendly stares boring into him. He shrank in the face of the carnivores, unaccustomed to feeling like a prey animal.

“Carnies this is Bowling Pin. Bowling Pin, meet my pals Grift, Rocky, Madame Le’ Flour, Sir Lintsalot and Mr. Turnip.”

Pinstripe nodded, but was clearly perplexed.

“What’s the matter, Pins? You don’t like my friends?” asked Pinks after noticing how tense Pinstriped was. “They aren’t so bad once you get over all the fangs and claws. And they have excellent taste in food! Rocky!” Pinks clapped her hooves together, beckoning Digger. “Be a good little puppy and run into the kitchen and fix Mommy something to eat.”

Digger grumbled and started toward the kitchen.

“So, you gonna tell us how you escaped?” asked Grift. Her bored expression finally cracked, and she leaned forward like a foal eager to enjoy a fable.

“Yeah, tell us how you escaped!” piped the little griffin, whom Pinks had apparently dubbed Sir Lintsalot.

“Escaped?” Pinks sounded insulted. “They let me out because I’m cured. I’m not crazy anymore.”

Grift and Lintsalot laughed aloud. Madame Le’ Flour—the female diamond dog—covered her mouth and chuckled in her sheepish way.

“You’re funnier, too,” said Grift. “Seriously, Diane, don’t spare any juicy details. Did you try the tunneling out with a spoon trick? No, wait, no—you’re more of the “hammer in the cake,” kind’a mare, right? Oh man, that’d be just like you.”

Pinstripe listened closely to Grift and couldn’t decide if she was being genuine or sarcastic.

“Come on, don’t leave me hanging over here,” Grift insisted. “Tell me how you did it.”

“Yeah. Tell her how you did it, boss,” parroted Lintsalot.

“Nope,” said Pinks. She crossed her forelegs behind her head and leaned back, resting her worn boots on the table. “I hate to bring up work over dinner, kiddies, but Mommy didn’t come down here to murder your cooks and scare away your customers. Well I did, but while I was boiling that guy’s face off”—she gestured over her shoulder toward the cook lying on the floor—“I remembered that I needed your help.”

Grift crossed her arms about her chest. Suddenly she seemed on guard. “I’m listening.”

“I’m getting the band back together. You and me and Rocky and the gang—we’re going back on the road. Pink Stripes!” she exclaimed, using a gloved hoof to trace the words in the sky. “It’s the name of our new act. I’m thinking of putting it on the tour bus, but I need a second opinion.”

“Stripes, huh?” Grift’s gaze flicked to the zebra, then back to Pinks. “You sure about this, Diane? A Lot has changed since you been away. Busting heads won’t be the cakewalk it used to be. Plenty of the families are still afraid of you, but there’s a dozen new crazies popping up every day that don’t know how to be afraid of anything.”

“I know. I made them.” Pinks grinned. “Unmaking them will be a gas. Whataya say?”

“I say what’s in it for me? I got a sweet business going here,” said Grift, gesturing toward the restaurant around her like a queen surveying her kingdom from a high balcony. “Good pay. Flexible hours. Plus all the red meat I could ever want. You think you can top that?”

“Half,” Pinks said plainly.

“Half of what?”

“Of Manehattan. I’m taking my city back. Help me, and half of it goes to you and the Carnies.”

Grift whistled. Lintsalot and Flour exchanged excited glances.

“That’s a big promise, dweeb,” said Grift. “Sure you can—”

Pinks cleared her throat loudly enough to quiet Grift. She swung her hind legs back under the table and leaned forward. “You didn’t let me finish,” she said, tapping her gloved hooves together under her chin. “I give you half of the city if you agree. If you disagree… Well, do you remember that mutual friend of ours? The one I promised not to hurt all those years ago…?”

Grift remembered. She reached into her coat, drew a handgun from her shoulder holster and casually placed it on the table. “I’m gonna ask you one time to not make threats in my place of business, Diane,” said Grift, her tone low and menacing.

The Prankster’s attention lingered on the gun for only a moment. Pinstripe, however, was transfixed by it. Guns were a rare site anywhere in Equestria, and Manehattan was no exception. They were griffin weapons; and since the griffin population was small, so was the demand for firearms. A pony could get one modified for quadrupeds, but such alterations were expensive and usually not worth the trouble. The Manehattan police department had only been issued firearms to combat the surge of griffin gangs that emerged during the South Manehattan race riots some thirty years back. After the riot fiasco was cleared up, firearms became standard issue. Only unicorns could fire them, which worked out well, since the MPD had always been disproportionately comprised of unicorns anyway.

Most of the griffin gangs never resurfaced after the overwhelming police crackdown. Grift and the Carnies were among the last remnants of an era that had run its course straight into the ground. And that meant they were one of the last gangs still packing heat.

Pinks never cared for guns herself, and not just because she was a non-magical quadruped. She disliked them for one simple reason: a good kill was like a good joke. Both were about timing, but with guns the punch line always came too soon.

“Before you shoot me…what if I told you I know this pegasus who lives up in Cloudsdale,” Pinks began, talking barely above a whisper. “And this pegasus I know—he’s just a regular pony, no different from any of the millions of happy-go-lucky souls skittering about this crazy mud ball of ours. Well, cloud ball in his chase—hehehehehe…”

Pinstripe’s eyes were glued to the gun as Grift fondled its handle.

“He works on a weather patrol team. Takes his wife out on their bi-weekly date nights. Donates money to charities. Sits through boring parent teacher conferences. He’s just a regular pony. Nothing special about him.”

Pinks didn’t even glance down at the talon now caressing the gun’s trigger.

“But he used to be special,” she continued in the same tone of voice. “He used to be a hired killer. He did jobs for the Shadowbolts, until one day he wanted out. You see, the guilt was eating him alive. He would wake up in the middle of night gasping and screaming and sweating… He used to say he could see their faces. He used to say he couldn’t forget their names.”

Pinks licked her lips and made a smacking sound.

“So one day this paid killer goes to his boss… Blitzkrieg… and he says, ‘I can’t do it anymore, boss. I can’t unsee their faces. I can’t forget their names...’” The Prankster did her best impression of a distressed stallion. “Now Blitzkrieg—he doesn't like what he’s hearing. This killer is good. One of the best, and Krieg can’t afford to lose him. He says no. He says nopony leaves the Shadowbolts and lives to tell about it.

“So this paid killer goes over Blitzkrieg’s head. He takes up his problem with Krieg’s boss. He takes it up with me…” The Prankster’s scarred mouth stretched into a wide and diabolical grin. “…And he says, ‘Prankster, please. I can’t do it anymore. The faces. The names. The faces! The names!’”

A moment of silence.

“And then he starts listing them!” Pinks exclaimed with a laugh. “He starts spitting out all these names. Cloud Kicker. Carrot Top. Thunderlane. Berry Punch. Blues. Caramel and Lyra and Bon Bon and Colgate and Ditsy Doo and Rumble...! He really couldn’t forget them. He wasn’t pulling my leg. He really still knew all those names.”

Pinks paused a moment to laugh as she remembered the story. “Now, by this point I feel awful for the poor guy. So I tell him, ‘Okay, okay. You can leave, so long as you promise to remember one more name'. And after I told him the name, he was so happy he ran home, packed his bags and jumped on the first blimp to Cloudsdale that very same day.”

Without saying anything, Grift raised the gun and aimed it at Pinks.

“Now he lives happily in Cloudsdale with his pretty wife and his two adorable foals. He’s free from his old life. Free as bird! He doesn’t have to worry about grimy old Manehattan anymore!” Pinks continued, undeterred by Grift and her gun. “But every six months he gets a letter in the mail… a letter from me... and written on that letter is a single name...”

“Shut up,” Grift growled, her claw shaking as she kept her weapon level with The Prankster’s head.

“Care to guess whose name is written on that letter, Grift? Or what happens if that average, nothing-special pony doesn’t hear from me every six months?”

“You’re lying." Grift's voice trembled. "You don’t know where she is.”

“You’re right, I am lying. I have absolutely no clue where our old friend is.” Pinks leaned forward, pressing her forehead against the gun’s barrel. “Or… maybe I’m lying about lying… hehehehehe…”

Grift thumbed back the hammer.

The Prankster’s grin widened.

The others watched on edge. Pinstripe held his breath.

“BANG!” shouted Pinks, causing Grift to flinch. She threw both forelegs around Pinstripe’s neck and squeezed him tight as she shook with laughter. “Did you see her face! Tell me you saw her face!”

“Y-you promised not to hurt her!” Grift blurted. “You swore you wouldn’t touch her so long as I joined your fucking gang! What the Tartarus, Diane? I thought we had a deal!”

“Relaaaaaax. I haven’t laid a single hoof on her, so don’t go giving me a reason too.” Pinks wiped away tears brought on by laughter. “It’s not like you to lose your cool, Grift. You’ll need that head of yours screwed on straight if you’re going to help me take back what’s mine. Now go find Gummy, and take your merry band of meat-eaters with you. I need a few moments alone with my Stripey~Wipey.” She nuzzled Pinstripe’s neck as the others got up to follow her order.

“Oh and Grift, one more thing,” she said sweetly, resting her head on Pinstripe's shoulder. Grift halted and turned to face her. “If you ever point that gun at me again... I’ll make you eat it.”

Grift flipped Pinks the bird before following the others.

“Tsk. Good help is so hard to find these days.” Pinks sighed melodramatically. “Thank Celestia I found you, Pinstripe. You’re my bestest buddy in this whole crazy, messed up world.”

Pinstripe was at a loss for words. That was the first time Pinks had used his real name; he didn’t know what to make of it. And what was her name again… Diane, was it? That’s what Grift had called her, right? Diane... He thought it was a strange name for a pony.

Pinks traced the curve of Pinstripe’s cheek, then ran a hoof across his lips. “Pinny, can I tell you something that’s been bothering me?” she said, her active blue eyes calm for once.

“S-sure, boss,” answered Pinstripe, trying hard not to stare at her scars.

“While I was down at the bottom of the staircase, I thought I felt a tiny twitchy-twitchy-twitch at the base of my tail,” she whispered. “You weren't thinking about hurting me… were you?”

Pinstripe’s blood turned to ice. The hair on his neck stood up. He couldn’t talk, couldn’t even breathe. The best he could manage was a slight head shake.

“Oh, goody,” she said in her familiar lollipop-sweet cadence. “I wasn't sure. I mean, I imagine all sorts of awful things all the time. Like that pony with his list of names. Yuck! What a scary figment of my imagination he was.” Pinks bounced out of the booth. “I’m super glad you’re not a figment of my imagination, Striped Shirt.”

Pinstripe sat alone in the booth and watched Pinks spring away toward an exit he hadn’t noticed before. So she had sensed him coming after all. Ponyfeathers. He would need to be more careful in the future.

After a few minutes of brooding, Pinstripe got up and followed after Grift. He’d had his fill of painted lunatics for now, and wanted to learn more about these so-called Carnies. He was also curious about this Gummy character.

As soon as the back exit closed behind Pinstripe, Digger kicked the kitchen door open and stumbled into the dining room carrying several trays of food and drink.

“Digger is sorry he took so long,” he stammered as he stumbled toward the table, his vision obstructed by his load. “The kitchen was a mess and Digger didn’t know what everyone wanted, so Digger just got a little of every…”

His voice trailed off when he realized he was talking to an empty booth. He pouted and carelessly dropped the trays of food and drink on the floor, fuming.

“Go get food, Digger. Go see about commotion, Digger. Go find Gummy, Digger,” he grumbled, nearly tripping over the dead cook as he wandered back into the kitchen to find a salt shaker.

Arc ONE: Chapter 6

Arc ONE: Chapter 6

A terrified howl flew from Digger’s mouth as he scrambled through the kitchen, fleeing from the glassy eyed horror at his back.

Not her, he thought frantically, the words pulsing in his skull as if alive. Not her! Not now!

He was seconds from reaching the exit when something snagged his collar and jerked him off his feet. He tried to scream again, this time for help, but his collar went taut and lassoed his neck, silencing him. His cry died before leaving his throat, a stillborn plea for a mercy that wasn’t coming. That he didn’t deserve.

Calling for help was pointless. The others couldn’t hear him, and even if they could they weren’t coming. Not for him. Not for cowardly little Digger. The Carnies weren’t his friends, his family or even his loyal partners in crime. Digger had no friends. He had nothing of the sort. Nothing at all. His only companions were his drugs and his salts and his bottles of cheap wine…

His bottle! He had dropped it just before trying to flee, and now he felt it again, nudging his paw as the monster dragged him away from the exit.

No… not a monster. Just a pony. Just a mare. Digger was the only monster in this room. The only Carnie and the only predator.

He grabbed the bottle by its neck, sprang up and took a blind swing at his attacker, eyes shut during the assault. He couldn’t look at her. If he did, he might lose what little courage he had mustered.

The bottle missed and broke against the floor, tossing up a spray of glass and whine. With what remained of his weapon, Digger took another swing, this one wild and hapless. His panic doubled as a mysterious limb shot out to catch his paw in mid-flight. The limb gave a sharp twist, snapping his wrist and making him drop the bottle. Wailing in pain, he took another swipe with his free paw but struck nothing. In his panic he swung again and again, clawing uselessly as he tried to fight a ghost in perfect self-induced darkness.

The predator sleeping in Digger’s gut roused and demanded that he open his eyes. His attacker wore darkness like a cloak, but her glowing eyes were always visible. If Digger opened his own, he would see her. And if he could see her, he could…

No. He would lose his nerve. He couldn’t face her. Not her. Anypony but her.

He continued thrashing in vain until something cement-hard barreled into his nose, crushing it on contact. Colorful dots blinked behind his eyelids, and he wobbled, dizzy and off balance. He told his legs to stagger backwards, to flee, but they kicked uselessly as his attacker hoisted him off the ground and threw him into a dish sink near the back of the kitchen.

A metallic clang rose up as Digger slammed into a heap of pots and pans. A sharp pain streaked across the length of his spine. His head spun, his wrist ached, everything hurt.

Slowly, he climbed down from the sink, baring his fangs and growling like the cornered animal he was. The low, guttural sound was alive with pangs of desperation, despair and something else. Something small and fierce that still remembered how to maim.

The predator in Digger’s gut was angry now, not with the shadowy monster, but with its host, the cowardly diamond dog. It urged Digger to bite and rip as he had bitten and ripped in the past. It told him to remember the cries. The loud and terrible laments of creatures dying as he stripped the flesh from their bones. As he drank their blood, swallowed their fear and fed on their agony.

Open your eyes, the predator rasped in a voice that was like Digger’s but ravenous. The predator was starving. For years Digger had tried to sate its appetite with drugs and dry its thirst with salts. It had worked for a time, but now it seemed that time was at an end. The predator craved meat and blood.

Raw meat.

Fresh blood.

His attacker sensed a change in the hunched diamond dog and held her offensive, circling him instead.

Digger searched the darkness for some trace of her, trusting his acute canine senses.

He sniffed, but she carried no scent.

Open your eyes.

He listened, but she made no sound.

Open… your… eyes…

Finally, Digger obeyed the predator. He opened his eyes... and there she was. There they were. Her eyes—those glowing portals of white light peeking out of a void. The opaque orbs shined in the dark as they glided toward him with ancient grace…

Seeking without wanting.

Glaring without hating.

Piercing.

Unblinking.

Haunting...

With fear and bloodlust swimming through his veins, Digger snarled and lunged.

A thunderous bang announced the Carnies’ arrival. The sound was caused by Turnip as he kicked the door from its hinges. It was followed by a hysteric caw, then a terse command—”Kill that freak!”—then the unmistakable metal-upon-metal chatter of guns being loaded and cocked.

The last noise jolted Digger from his blooddrunk trance, and he dropped to the floor.

Bullets whizzed overhead, chewing the kitchen to pieces like a swarm of hungry parasprites. They ricocheted off kitchenware and stovetops; they punched holes in walls, cupboards and the bodies of the already dead cooks strewn about the room.

Muzzle flashes decorated the walls and floor with animated shadows. They danced in the flickering light, a parade of dark shapes gyrating in celebration of the ensuing carnage. They shook to the chatter of Lintsalot's submachine gun, and swayed to the deafening boom, boom, boom of Turnip’s shotgun.

Only Grift, with her duel pistols, bothered to pick her shots carefully. Using the light from the blazing gun barrels, her calculating eyes scanned, gauged, targeted, narrowed... and then bulged—ablaze with shock and recognition.

Not her! Not her! Not her!

It was panic, not purpose, that swayed Grift to join the chaotic orchestra. She squeezed her triggers more recklessly than the others, her pistols blaring.

The intruder fled.

Grift shouted another command, and the Carnies gave chase. They charged past Digger and burst through the door at the end of the room, hustling out of the kitchen and into the freezer.

From where he lay on the floor, Digger heard the click-clack of guns being reloaded.

Shots echoed from the next room for what seemed like a long time. When they finally stopped, the lights came back on. Silence invaded both kitchen and meat freezer. Digger rested his head against floor, glad for the quiet.

“What the fuck was that?” asked a shaky voice.

Digger rubbed his eyes against the stinging light and squinted up at Pinstripe, who was standing over him with an outstretched foreleg. He accepted the helping hoof and rose back to his feet. “Mask Pony is back,” he said, hoping he didn’t look as terrified as he felt.

Grift holstered her guns and looked around the inside of the freezer, despairing as she surveyed the damage. Everything was ruined. Everything. The sides of beef hanging from the racks were riddled with shrapnel. The entire freezer was full of holes. Her kitchen was full of holes. Her cooks were full of holes—and they had been dead prior to the shooting anyway.

She groaned in frustration. Grift figured she could always slaughter more cows, find new cooks. Rebuild. Start over. But what was the point; the madness ceaselessly spiraling around Diane would destroy this place again. Her enemies would keep coming. She would keep coming. That faceless monster. She would return, and she wasn’t something Grift could fight with bullets. She wasn’t something Grift could fight at all. She was…

Grift placed a claw over her heart and felt it thump against her open palm. Too hard. Too fast. Now was no time to lose her head. Losing her head was the reason her kitchen was currently shot to pieces and her meat was ruined. If Grift was to weather this setback, she couldn’t afford to play the monster’s game. It was the same game that Diane played so well. Fear. Spectacle. Theatrics.

They were ghastly things, Diane and her monster, but at their individual cores Grift knew they were nothing but smoke and mirrors. They were ordinary ponies who hid behind masks and fancied themselves boogiemares. Neither had any real power, just disguises and scars and myths.

It was pathetic, Grift told herself, the way they needed their theatrics. The faceless monster needed darkness to terrify her prey, while Diane relied on racket to shock and confound. She needed her voice. Her—

“BWHAAAAAHAHAHAHAHA!” The Prankster’s laugh bolstered into the room before she did, a blast on the horn that heralded the mad clown’s entrance. “And here I thought you’d lost your sense of humor, Grift.”

Pinks bounced into the meat freezer, with Pinstripe and Digger following behind. Digger’s face was bloody and swollen. He clutched his broken wrist, dragging his feet as he trudged miserably.

“What is this? Some kind’a new party game?” said Pinks. “Oh boy, oh boy, let me guess. Is it called ‘pin the bullets on the butchered meat’?”

“Try ‘stick a fork in my livelihood’,” Grift said dryly.

“Awwww, what’s the matter, buddy? You seem a little down in the dumps.”

Grift didn’t answer, still shaken by what had just happened.

No… not just shaken. Scared. All of them looked scared.

Pinks’ hyperactive eyes darted in her skull, scanning the shell-shocked faces of her underlings. She had known Grift a long time, and she knew the calm, collected griffin didn’t scare easy.

Pinks broke out in what Grift judged to be a nervous sweat. “She was here, wasn’t she?”

Grift swallowed hard. “Try again, dweeb. A bunch of hero cops stormed in here and trashed all the meat. Wrecked the kitchen, too.”

“Grift, don’t lie to me,” said Pinks. She wiped her sweat-stained brow, smearing her makeup. “She was here. She was here and you were shooting at her...”

“Relax, Diane, you got it all wrong,” said Grift. “The cops raided the place and skipped out when we started shooting back.” A pause for thought. “Right, herb?”

“Ah, yeah, boss,” said Pinstripe, electing to play along. “It was cops like Grift said. One of the bastards even caught Dig—I mean, uh, Rocky here with a baton. Busted his ugly mug wide open.” Pinstripe nudged Digger, prompting him to nod in agreement.

“Not you too, Pincushion.” Pinks wheeled on Pinstripe with an abruptness that made him flinch. “I thought we were friends. Friends. Don’t. Lie. To. Friends.”

“Honest, boss,” Lintsalot chimed him. “We wouldn’t lie to ya. We’re your pals.”

“Yes, Laughing Pony is Flour’s best friend in whole world,” Flour added.

Even Turnip nodded, though he remained silent.

“Okay, okay. I see what’s going on here,” said Pinks, giggling. “Pranking the Prankster, hmm? Well—hehehehe—I can’t say it’s been done before.”

Pinks wobbled closer to Pinstripe, moving with that same calculated stumble she had displayed while leaving the asylum. She threw a foreleg around his neck and nuzzled his cheek without love or lust.

“Did you put them up to this, Pin Prick?” She seemed to unwind against her zebra friend, all traces of tension leaving her features.

“Sure boss,” said Pinstripe. “I figured you of all ponies would appreciate a good... gag...” He meant to say more, but his train of thought was disturbed by the appearance of a sharp pain between his ribs.

His knees buckled. He started to fall, but Pinks tightened her hold on his neck and kept him from sinking to the floor.

“That’s not funny,” she growled.

The knife slid from Pinstripe’s body with a wet sound. He groaned and tried to squirm free, but was stabbed a second time, a third, a fourth, until finally Pinks allowed him to slump to the floor.

A congregation of apathetic eyes watched Pinstripe writhe on the tiled floor like a wounded animal. Uncaring ears listened to him wretch and heave as he struggled to hold back the scarlet tide of mortality escaping through the holes in his side. Only Digger thought to help him, but stayed his own paw for fear of incurring more of The Prankster’s fury.

For a strange collection of seconds, Pinks stood over the felled lump of a zebra, and something resembling remorse lit her active blues. She stared down and blinked several times, looking confused. Pinstripe stared back from where he lay, and in that moment he was sure Pinks couldn’t see him. The hyperactive blues were distant. She was looking at something else. Something that wasn’t there, and the sight of it saddened her.

The moment was short lived. The last thing Pinstripe heard before plunging into unconsciousness was that laugh. That damn taunting laugh. Then the one laugh became many, and Pinstripe drifted off with thoughts of chanting bullies. What’s black and white and red all over, they repeated again and again. Some part of him smiled inwardly at the grim humor, as if only just now grasping the joke.

“Who’s hungry?” asked Pinks, returning the short switchblade to its hiding place in her sleeve.

At this the Carnies brightened.

“I could eat,” answered Grift.

“Yeah, I could eat too,” echoed Lintsalot.

Hammer and his brother Sickle, a pair of white-coated pegasi with shaved heads and short red tails, scoured the mini-mart in search of decent junk food.

Twenty rested her elbows on the front counter and waited for the cashier’s response, hoping she would have to repeat herself. Twenty loved the sound of her own voice. It was decidedly masculine, but not unattractively so, and complimented her androgynous features well. Her cheeks were full and girlish, her lips thick, but the shoulders beneath her poised neck seemed intent on obscuring her femininity. They were noticeably muscular, and stretched into a pair of brawny forelegs that put most adult stallions to shame.

The store owner, a middle-aged earth stallion with a mocha-colored coat named Decaf, was too spooked to give Twenty an answer. His nerve had left him the moment he noticed the double lightning bolt tattoos etched on Hammer and Sickle’s necks. The tattoos meant he was dealing with Shadowbolts, and the shaved heads and cropped tails meant they were some of the worst.

Decaf’s timid eyes shifted, unable to meet Twenty’s gaze. He couldn’t agree to her proposition. He didn’t have enough money to pay the Shadowbolts for protection, Filthy Rich was already bleeding him dry.

“I see you are having trouble making decision,” said Twenty in her gruff Stalliongrad accent. “Is fine. Is no trouble at all. I will, how you are saying, sweeten deal.”

Twenty whistled, prompting Hammer to dart up to the counter. He seize Decaf by the throat, hoisted him in the air and threw him over counter, slamming him headfirst into the floor. Hurt and disoriented, Decaf tried to roll away, only to find Hammer’s horseshoe driving into his throat, pinning him to the floor.

Standing over Decaf, Twenty bumped hooves with Hammer. She was enjoying herself for a change. Decaf’s convenience store marked the fourth place on her list of uptown businesses ripe for extortion, and so far things were going smoothly. Taking advantage of honest, hard-working citizens was something she did better than most. And now that The Prankster was free and working with the Bolts, those citizens would need extra insurance against her coming rampage. And for her that meant more work and more money in her pocket.

“Agree to terms now,” Twenty began, “and not only will the Shadowbolts offer protection for your lovely business, but my comrade Hammer here will also not be crushing your skull like oversized grape. Is win-win deal, da?”

“Yeah—I’m gonna go with no,” said a confident voice coming from the doorway. Twenty looked up from her fun, and a gale of anger roused in her chest as she fixed her one good eye on Berry Punch, who was pushing open the front door and strolling inside. Berry strutted with the same cocksure swagger shared by all of Manehattan’s finest. She didn’t even look at Twenty as she entered, opting to fix her attention on a nearby magazine rack instead.

“Detective Punch, is been too long,” said Twenty. “You are looking well. Tell me, how is your partner doing these days. Last I am hearing he is still not walking so good.”

“I got a new partner,” said Berry, coldly.

“You mean your silly comrade who watches too much TV?” Twenty chuckled at the thought of a pony as ridiculous as Carrot Top making detective. “She was promoted, da? Tell her I am saying congratulations.”

“Spare me the pleasantries,” said Berry, scanning the collection of magazines. “You're a long way from the South Side, Twenty. You and the Bolts aren't welcome here, and Filthy Rich takes his lines in the sand very seriously. Better tuck your tail and scurry on home before you end up somepony’s hit list.”

Sickle looked to Twenty, waiting for the order to dispose of the bothersome detective. Twenty gave no such order. Instead, she ambled closer to Berry and said, “Lines in sand are being redrawn. Shadowbolts are expanding. How you say… seizing opportunity.”

“And what opportunity is that?” said Berry. After failing to find anything appealing on the magazine rack, she shifted her attention to a stack of bound newspapers resting on the floor beside the door. Using her teeth, she tore the plastic tie, then picked up an issue of the Manehattan Post.

Twenty watched the arrogant detective with a look of disgust. She wanted to pounce on Berry and pummel her into a purple and red stain, but killing a cop wasn’t something she could afford to do without good reason. The MPD operated like gang, arguably the most insidious gang in Manehattan, and Twenty didn’t like the idea of starting a turf war with the police. Not just yet anyway.

“You haven’t heard news?” said Twenty. “Prankster is back on streets and working with Shadowbolts.”

Berry hid a surprised face behind her paper. “That’s twice now I’ve heard that load of shit,” she said, casually turning a page.

“Is no shit. She and Blitzkrieg are meeting as we speak.”

“Picking out party decorations, I'll bet. While you… do what exactly? Stick up convenience stores? Isn’t that a bit below your pay grade?”

“You are having story all wrong. I am doing store owner a favor. A storm is on horizon, comrade, and I am merely offering this poor stallion shelter. For a price, of course.”

“Of course,” Berry returned. “So let me guess: you and the Bolts spring Pranky from the asylum, then she does you a solid by stirring up a little mayhem. She starts bombing preschools, holding up banks—the usual shenanigans—and the only way to guarantee safety during her rampage is to pay up to Krieg.” Berry lowered the paper just enough to peer at Twenty, her eyes threatening narrow slits. “Well, am I in the ballpark?”

“You are having gist, comrade,” replied Twenty. At this Berry burst into laughter.

“Get the fuck out of here,” she said. “That’s got to be the biggest load of crap I’ve heard in weeks.” Berry dropped the paper and leaned her back against the magazine rack, crossing her hinds at the fetlocks. “I won’t lie, I was all kinds of nervous when I saw that Tongueless parked outside. Thought maybe I was dealing with Baritone or Primary. You know, a real gangster, not a couple of guppies.”

Twenty seethed but said nothing.

“Okay, okay, okay,” said Berry after a short pause, laughing at Twenty’s frustration. “Let’s pretend that this ‘return of The Prankster’ fantasy is legit. You mouth-breathers are crazy if you think she’ll work with youfor longer than half a second. She can’t be controlled.”

“Not controlled,” corrected Twenty. “Simply pointed in right direction. Perhaps… in your direction.”

With a snort, Berry returned to all fours and swaggered up to Twenty. “Oh I bet you’d like that,” she said. “That clown with her boot on my throat, saving you the trouble of getting back at me yourself. How long has been since I gave you that nickname, Twenty? Three years? Four? I’m not keeping count, but I’m sure you are.”

Actually it had been five years, right after The Prankster’s incarceration, and yes, Twenty was absolutely keeping count. Five years ago she and her family had been the victims of severe police brutality, and it was under Berry’s own callous baton that Twenty and her family had suffered. The cocksure detective—only a rookie then—a club, and several blows to the head were the reasons Twenty could no longer see out of her right eye.

Her brother was dead for the same reasons. Her mother as well.

“You press luck, Berry,” said Twenty, her cheeks growing hot with anger. “I am not same scared filly anymore, and you are not having half dozen pigs to watch your back this time.”

“I didn’t need the backup then, and I don’t need it now.” Berry lowered her head and snorted like a bull preparing to charge. “Whenever you’re ready. Comrade.”

Twenty lunged forward and tackled Berry, sending the two of them crashing into the magazine rack. They wrestled amid a mess of fluttering pages as magazines fell to floor. Twenty, despite her superior size and strength, she couldn’t seem to gain the advantage.

They appeared evenly matched, until finally Twenty managed to pin her adversary. She postured up to strike the Berry, but the detective’s hoof shot up and caught her on the jaw. The blow was jarring. Her upper body went slack, and as she slumped, the crown of Berry’s head snapped up to meet Twenty's nose. A moment of pain and blackness followed the headbutt, and then Twenty was on her back, a downpour blows crashing into face and neck and chest.

“What’s the matter, Twenty?” Berry taunted as she pummeled Twenty, her hinds straddling the larger mare's hips. “You’re fighting scared. Worried I’ll take your other eye?”

Berry held Twenty’s head with one hoof and bashed her good eye with other. She landed several blows, until Twenty managed to catch the bludgeoning hoof and sink her teeth into Berry’s fetlock. Jerking her hoof free, Berry cursed and aimed a smack at her rival’s cheek. But the brawny bear of a pony simultaneously rolled and bucked her hips, tossing Berry from her mount.

They separated, scrambled, then clashed again—tussling at close quarters and battering each other with wicked intent.

Hammer and Sickle cheered on their fellow Shadowbolt, but resolved to spare Twenty’s pride by staying out of the fight.

Meanwhile, Decaf had crawled away behind the counter. He shouted at the twin pegasi, ordering them to leave, but the command resounded through the store unheeded. They ignored him until the vicious thump of wood slamming into flesh and bone demanded their attention.

Hammer didn’t see the baseball bat until after it struck the nape of his brother’s neck. The blow turned Sickle into a rag doll; he tumbled to the floor completely limp.

Before Decaf could take another swing, Hammer seized the bat with his strong jaw and tore the weapon from Decaf’s grasp. Then, in one quick move, he dropped the bat and bit down on Decaf’s tail instead, seizing the earth stallion, spinning and then hurling him across the room. Decaf pitched through the air and crashed into a pyramidal display of soda bottles, rolling for a spell before coming to rest in a sticky pile of blood, cola and broken glass.

Before he could twitch a muscle, the enraged Shadowbolt was on him, pounding his barrel with stomps that lived up to Hammer’s namesake.

Berry and Twenty were only vaguely aware of this new melee that had erupted, too swept up in their own private war to care. Their fight was more even now, but the bruises on Twenty’s face and the welts on her side were clear indications that Berry was still winning, if only by a hair.

Berry aimed a left at Twenty’s eye, smiling as it landed with a cracking sound. Her rival staggered back, and she lunged forward and hit her again, this time clubbing her mouth and chipping a tooth.

The fire of struggle was in Twenty’s chest now, and with that undying flame came the memory of police officers trampling her family, snapping their limbs, caving in their skulls. She remembered the mad neigh on Berry Punch’s tongue, the stink of booze on her breath, and the stinging thud of her club—rising and falling, and falling and rising, and smashing the world to pieces.

Neighing, she spun around on her front legs and bucked Berry with both rear hooves, knocking her to the floor. A brawny front leg dropped onto Berry’s neck, making her gasp. She tried to roll away, but Twenty was too heavy, too strong. Berry clamped her hooves around the limb and struggled in vain to pry it from atop her throat.

Her world was growing darker, quieter, and somewhere out in the black, nearly-silent world, Berry heard voices cheering. Then the cheering was disrupted by a crash of shattering glass, a bone-rattling crack, an agonized cry.

The cry belonged to Twenty, and the crack was caused by Carrot Top as she barreled into the brawny wall of a mare at a full gallop. Seconds later Berry was on her hooves and Carrot was at her side, wearing a spooked expression that told Berry it was time to go.

“We need to get the hay out of—” began Carrot, but her voice was smothered by a sudden uproar of police sirens and rushing hooves.

And then Berry heard the wail, ghostly hollow but earthshakingly loud, and the blood in her veins turned to ice.

Carrot Top grabbed her partner, who was momentarily scared stiff, and together they galloped for the back exit.

A police Steamer pitched through the wall facing the street, crash-landing were Berry and Carrot had been standing moments ago. Carrot looked back, but only for a second, and then redoubled her efforts, galloping as fast as she could while half-dragging her badly battered partner.

They were at the back exit when the ground started to shake, and just as Carrot kicked the door open, a bright pink light enveloped one of a wall and began peeling it away.

Decaf shrieked in horror as he watched his store being torn apart. He started to run, but the pink light enveloped him, lifting his hooves off the floor. His limbs twisted. His joints snapped. He screamed. Then the light dissipated and he dropped to the floor, a veritable pretzel of mangled body parts.

The wall was gone now, and so was most of the ceiling. Out on the street a number of police Steamers and carriages had been overturned, and several officers lay in a state similar to Decaf's.

The wailing stopped. The light had faded.

Berry Punch and Carrot top were long gone, and so were Hammer and Sickle. Only Twenty remained, her lower body pinned under the car that had crashed through the wall.

Two unicorn stallions entered the ruined building, one walking ahead of the other. The stallion in front waddled toward Twenty on stubby legs, not caring that his long brown overcoat dragged across the floor. A wide-brimmed hat covered his stunted horn, partially hiding the tangle of orange and black mane that sprouted like weeds from his angular head.

The second unicorn loped forward on long, needle-like legs, making a conscious effort to trot slower than his small companion. His sickly yellow face caught the sunlight from a sideways angle, and the rays seemed to pass right through his cheeks, lending him an otherworldly translucent appearance. He wore the same manner of clothing as his small friend: an overcoat with a white button-down shirt, a tie, a hat and thin leather gloves.

“My boss Filthy Rich sends his regards,” said the little unicorn, his voice a tiger’s growl billowing out of a house cat. He stood over a trapped Twenty and telekinetically drew a long-barreled revolver from his jacket. The gun hovered over Twenty’s head, its barrel aimed straight down.

With a thought, the small unicorn ordered the gun to bark.

Blood splashed, and Twenty bellowed as a high caliber round punched a hole through her shoulder. It took her a moment to realize she wasn’t dead. When the notion sunk in, her breathing quickened.

“You tell Blitzkrieg him and his feathered friends aren’t welcome north of Clydesdale,” said the small stallion. “We stay out of his turf, he stays out of ours. That’s the way it’s always been.” Using his magic, he drove the gun barrel into Twenty’s wound, making her groan through gritted teeth. “And if I ever see you this far from your gutter again, I’ll put a bullet in your good eye. We understand each other?”

The gun barrel twisted, probing deeper into Twenty's wounded shoulder. She grimaced and mumbled her agreement.

More police arrived just as the small stallion holstered his gun. Five squad cars pulled up, sirens blaring as they surrounded the ruined minimart.

“Lot a trouble for still being broad daylight out,” said the small stallion, raising a hoof to shade his eyes against the bright sunbeams.

“T-tah-toooooo earlyyyy… for… tha-thi-thissss shit,” replied the taller unicorn, his voice a high-pitched and elongated whine.

“You said it,” said the small one. “Alright, get us out of here, Soprano.”

“Riiiiight…a-a-awayyyyy… Ba-Baritone…”

A bothered frown touched Baritone’s lips. He sighed. Then he and Soprano vanished in a pink flash, leaving the police to apprehend Twenty.

Arc ONE: Chapter 7

Arc ONE: Chapter 7

The savory aroma of steamed vegetables wafted through an open window in Stephen Scope’s kitchen, drifting up and away as it ventured out into the peaceful midtown neighborhood.

A curtain of tranquility seemed to surround this upscale section of Manehattan, shielding it from the casual mayhem that ran rampant in the downtown areas. It was late in the afternoon, and the streets were unusually quiet and still and serene and well.

Without a care in world, Stephen Scope pranced and twirled about his kitchen, his tie-dye apron flouncing like a filly’s skirt as he gathered up heaps of plates, drinking glasses, napkins, and silverware from various cupboards and drawers. He balanced one stack of tableware on his head, and another on his back, humming cheerily as he carried them from the kitchen to the dining room.

The round dining room table was a luxurious affair craved of imported ever-wood, a type of wood harvested from the snarling trees of the Everfree Forest. Scope set the table with meticulous care, arranging plates and glasses and placing silverware on folded napkins. He was expecting some important company today, and everything needed to be flawless.

Once the table was set, he took a moment to admire his handiwork. Just then, a kitchen timer sounded.

“Oh, the roast is finished!” he thought aloud, his effeminate voice tinkling like a bell.

Scope opened the oven and wrinkled his nose. Being an earth pony, he found the aroma of cooked meat repulsive, but his coming guests were carnivores and he wanted to impress them. His wife hated that he always kept meat in the freezer for occasions like this one; she didn’t share his keen appreciation for preparedness or his talent for expecting the unexpected.

With mitted hooves, he lifted the piping hot roast from the oven and set it on the stovetop to cool. Then he checked the clock on the oven, discovered that his guests were running late, and decided to use the extra time to freshen up. The smell of cooked food had seeped into his cobalt blue hide, and while it wasn't altogether unpleasant, he preferred to clothe himself in the flowery aromas of fine soaps, shampoos and colognes.

He slung his apron across the kitchen counter before prancing off to the restroom, where he washed his face and hooves, and spritzed his neck and shoulders with Opalescence, a new fragrance (for stallions of course) by famous fashionista Rarity. It had a rich vanilla scent that Scope adored, but currently couldn’t enjoy properly. There was another scent present in the restroom, a strong, foul odor that smothered his cologne.

Scope turned his head, touched a hoof to his chin and eyed the body bag lying in the bathtub, his face scrunched with mild revulsion. After standing in silence for almost a minute, he made a mental note to stop working in the restroom, then pranced off to his bedroom to get dressed, his mood unsullied.

Standing before his bedroom closet, Scope was torn between two nearly identical turtleneck sweaters. One was black with a white lattice pattern stitched across the chest, while the other was white with the same pattern stitched in black. He pouted as he compared the two, holding one of the sweaters up to his petite frame, and then the other. He wished his wife were here to help him decide which was best for tonight’s occasion, but she was away in Discord’s Kitchen on business.

After much deliberation, Scope chose the black sweater with the white pattern. He pulled it on over his bouncy grey mane and rolled the sleeves up to his knees.

He was posing with puckered lips in front of a mirror when the doorbell rang. Startled, Scope hurried downstairs to get the door for his guests. The moment his hoof touched the doorknob, a sudden ray of insight shined down on him.

“Music!” he chimed. The bell rang again. “Just a minute please.”

Beside the luxurious color television, which occupied most of the living room, sat an equally stupendous hoofmade record player. The record already resting in the player was the first album by the critically acclaimed ensemble, Second String: a two-mare duo whose members included the well established Octavia Philharmonica and her unconventional but ingenious partner, Lyra Heartstrings.

Do gangsters enjoy classical music, Scope pondered as he placed the needle on the record.

The doorbell rang again, this time accompanied by knocks and a raspy whine.

“Coming!” said Scope, as he pranced back to the door. He took a moment to adjust his horn-rimmed glasses, then twisted the knob and threw the door open. “Grift, darling, it’s been too long!” He extended one foreleg in a cordial gesture, fully expecting to be met with open arms. He wasn’t. He was greeted instead by the rumble of wheels on asphalt as a carriage raced from his driveway, and by the familiar hysterical laugh of Manehattan’s most notorious lunatic.

As the mysterious carriage speed away, Scope noticed something odd lying on his doorstep. He squinted down and saw that it was an unconscious zebra bound up in holiday themed wrapping paper. The whole of the zebra’s body was covered by the paper except for his neck and head, and a red ribbon was tied in a bow around his mouth. His eyes were shut, and his face looked pale and drawn, as if he were injured or very sick. The wrapping paper was a shiny metallic green, but much of it was stained blood-red.

A disappointed sigh flitted from Scope as he knelt down and picked up a sheet of paper taped to the zebra’s chest. It was a note that read: “Please return upon repair.”

After reading the note, Scope took a moment to reflect on the corpse resting in his upstairs bathroom. His lips pursed.

“Oh, pooh,” he thought aloud, wishing he had cleared his workspace last night.

Twenty's holding cell was oppressively small, and the cot she laid on was hard and lumpy. She was lying on her back, with her forelegs crossed about her broad chest and her one good eye fastened to a single crack on the ceiling. The crack was difficult to see; there were no bulbs or light fixtures of any kind her cell. The corridor beyond the archaic stone chamber was lit by dying ceiling lights, coughing and gasping weak visibility to the ground outside her cell.

Her shoulder wound had been treated and bandaged, but it still ached. Indeed, her entire body was racked with dull pain, a nagging reminder that she hadn't fared well in her clash with Berry Punch. Hours had gone by since the fight, but the electric charge of adrenaline in her veins had yet to fade, and the white-hot flush of hatred was still burning in her cheeks.

Since arriving at the jailhouse, Twenty had tried to relax and contemplate her next move, but the task was beyond her. Berry Punch had consumed her thoughts, made her restless. Her mind turned over their most recent conflict in the minimart. She analyzed the memory with supreme care, picking it apart with mental tweezers and scrutinizing every detail.

Why were they so equally matched, Twenty wondered. She was stronger than Berry. Faster. More durable. She had trained her body to its psychical peak, transforming it into something imposing and destructive. She had been weak the night her family was taken from her—the night her old self died and the criminal Twenty was born—but that was a long time ago. She was strong now; she should have been too strong for Berry Punch.

And yet they had been trading blows years now, locked in an eternal seesaw battle. Why? What was the problem? What was she missing?

With unanswered questions weighing on her heart, Twenty turned over on her side and curled into a sullen ball of tight, aching muscles. She wanted to cry but managed to resist the urge.

"You really screwed up this time, kid," said a hollow voice that seemed to spin itself from thin air. Twenty looked up from her moping and watched a ghost phase through the wall. It moved tentatively through the solid stone, as if not trusting the floor it walked on, and came to a stop beside Twenty’s cot. Her expression brightened as she watched the translucent specter solidify into a wiry, snow-white unicorn wearing a snow-white suit.

“Wisp, Comrade!” she exclaimed, practically leaping out of the cot. “Iz good to see you! You are coming to spring me, da!”

Wisp took a puff from the cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth. “Let’s keep the shouting a minimum, yeah?” His pink eyes shifted furtively in their sunken-in sockets, watching for any guards that happened to wander by. “And I’m not here to ‘spring’ anypony. I came to warn you about the price on your head.”

Twenty’s eyes gaped, one ablaze with shock, the other dim and listless. “Price?” was the only word she could muster.

“Fifty grand for the pony that whacks you,” said Wisp, his explanation terse and pitiless.

Twenty shook off her surprise. “Impossible,” she scoffed. “Baritone let me off with warning. Why iz he letting me live only put price on my head later?”

“Baritone’s a dumb thug; he doesn't write up hit lists. And before you ask, no, this ain't Filthy Rich’s doing either. It’s the Shadowbolts, Twenty. They're saying you've stepped out of line one too many times. They're saying you're a liability now.”

“But—” she tried to protest.

“But nothing, dumbass,” Wisp countered. “Turf is turf. You've been in the game long enough to know that.”

Twenty felt her stomach lurch. She paced the length of her cell, mumbling half-formed curses in her native tongue.

“Mind telling me what you were thinking, kid?” said Wisp. He took on the stoic air of a parent scolding his disobedient daughter, and Twenty hated the fatherly mix of concern and disappointment his pink eyes. It was a look meant for a child, and Twenty wasn't a child anymore.

“Shadowbolts are stuck in old ways,” she said. She stopped her pacing and came to a standstill in front of Wisp, staring daggers into his pink eyes. “They obey imaginary lines in sand without question and are all the time submitting to uptown gangsters.”

“The uptowners call the shots because they have the money and the power,” said Wisp. “You saw firsthoof what freaks like Baritone and Soprano can do.”

“I am not afraid of Filthy or his goons.”

“And that’s your problem right there, kid; you still got all that macho, street-tuff bullshit bouncing around in your head.” Wisp finished his cigarette, dropped it and crushed under his hoof. “You know that little tremble that dances down your spine when you hear something in the dark? That’s your body telling you wake up and pay attention. Only your body doesn’t do that anymore because you’ve trained it not too. You want to be fearless, go join the bucking Royal Guard. But if you want to make in it Manehattan, I suggest you teach yourself how to tremble.”

“I have done my share of trembling already, comrade,” Twenty intoned, “and so have my fellow Shadowbolts. Da, is true Filthy Rich is having his freaks. But you are forgetting that Shadowbolts are having biggest freak in city. The Prankster is free and siding with us. We should be taking advantage. We should be seizing opportunity and—”

“Pinstripe never came back,” Wisp interrupted.

“What?” Twenty’s jaw tightened.

“Blitzkrieg sent him to fetch ol’ Pranky and he never came back. The Bolts are assuming he’s dead.” Wisp placed a consoling forehoof on Twenty’s shoulder. “Sorry, kid, but you should’ve known better than to put your faith in that lunatic.”

“What…” Twenty swallowed a lump in her throat and retreated a few paces. “…What should I do now?” She was backed into a corner—she had been her entire life—and her best chance of escaping that corner had left on a suicide mission and wasn’t coming back. “What should I do, Wisp? What should I do?”

“You should confess to whatever charges the cops have pinned on you,” answered Wisp. “The Bolts want your head, and you'll be safer in here than on the streets.”

Twenty nodded weakly. Her jaw and muscles loosened, the fight gone out of her. “Did Blitzkrieg send you here to kill me?” she asked, already knowing the answer.

“He did,” Wisp answered plainly. “He knew I’d be quick about it. Didn’t want you to suffer, I suppose.”

“And what will you do...when Krieg discovers that you let me live?”

“I’ll do what I do best, kid” he said, his tone almost warm, his pink eyes on the verge of betraying some semblance of emotion.

“Hey!” shouted a guard unicorn as he approached Twenty’s cell. “Who are you talking to in there?” He peered inside suspiciously, but all he found was Twenty standing alone beside her cot.

“Nopony,” answered Twenty with a defeated sigh.

She glued her good eye to single spot on the floor—the spot where Wisp had dropped his cigarette butt. She was sure he had been standing right there when he crushed the butt under his hoof, but now it was nowhere to be seen. Any sooty residue was also gone, and even the stinging smell of tobacco had evaporated from the stale air in the cell.

Wisp had vanished without a trace, a true ghost of the daytime hours to rival Manehattan’s masked phantom of the night.

“There is nopony in here with me,” Twenty repeated sullenly. “Nopony at all…”

The underworld was much cleaner than Pinstripe expected it would be, much more hospitable. He had always pictured it as a cavern filled with stalagmites made of severed unicorn horns, and though he had never actually smelled sulfur, his imaginings of the afterlife were always teeming with the offense odor.

But this place was… pleasant. Cozy, even. There were no musical numbers or trannies, and that was disappointing, but the room he was in smelled of lilac and the tiled, onyx-black walls were spotless.

He was sitting in some kind of large bowl, no doubt a cauldron waiting to be filled with water before Discord’s minions lit a fire beneath it.

Did Discord rule over the underworld, Pinstripe asked himself. He didn’t know much about Equestria’s pantheon of deities, and he didn’t believe in the supposed spirits or gods his homeland. He had never put much stock in alicorns or deities, those overgrown children frolicking in their ivory towers while world rotted beneath them.

As far as Pinstripe knew, Discord was the only immortal whose name was synonymous with evil, so it seemed natural that he should lord over the damned.

Sinful...? Pinstripe turned the word over in his mind, measuring it, weighing it, pondering its meaning and its worth.

Did a word like that mean anything to zebra who had grown up in Manehattan? Was Manehattan a true den of sinners, a genuine wretched hive? Or was the place so packed with evil that the very concept of sin had be thrown out altogether? After all, Pinstripe reasoned, evil couldn’t exist in a world bereft of good, and the opposite was true as well. Like light and dark, male and female, left and right, one could only be understood so long as the other was present. And if there were no righteous ponies living in Manehattan, then perhaps there were no sinners either.

Oh well, Pinstripe mused, shutting his eyes while he made himself comfortable. In any case, this pseudo-philosophical line of circular ruminating hardly matter anymore. He was dead now, doomed to a never-ending existence of agony, of tortured wails and gnashing teeth.

“It’s like I never left home,” Pinstripe joked, finding comfort in the morbid gallows humor. “Is that why you’re always laughing, Pinks? Because it’s easier that way?”

The unanswered question raged in his mind like a madmare struggling to free herself from a straight jacket. Pinstripe was never good with questions; he had a tendency to ruminate on even the simplest ones for days. What a fitting castigation that would have been: an endless lashing and flogging of the mind by whips made of unanswerable questions.

That would have been more interesting than being boiled alive for the rest of eternity. Wasn’t never-ending suffering supposed to be ironic? Oh well, he mused once again, that odd humor keeping his mind in a state of unshakable ease. Being boiled alive wasn’t the worst punishment he could think of, and if the water heated up gradually enough, he figured the first few minutes might be relaxing, like soaking in a hot tub. He never had comforts like hot tubs while he was alive. Why, with the right attitude, Pinstripe thought this eternal damnation thing might not be so bad.

A clicking sound found his ears, like a button being pressed, and gradually the caldron began filling with hot water. The water bubbled up from tiny holes that had opened in the bottom of the pot, as if draining in reverse. Odd, Pinstripe thought, but then he was in Discord’s domain, so he figured anything was possible.

The torture had begun, but so far it was pleasant enough. He stretched his forelegs over his head and leaned his back against the rounded wall of the cauldron. A yawn pried his mouth open. He blinked, rubbed his eyes, then rested his forelegs along the cauldron’s lip. To his surprise, he found a tiny cocktail glass sitting on the lip. He lifted the glass with both forehooves and held it under his nose, breathing in its pleasing aroma before taking a sip.

“Mmmm, mimosa,” he said, giving the glass a small swish. “Discord, my friend, you have excellent taste! How ‘bout a toast!” He was surprised to hear himself shouting and so full of vigor.

“Sounds like somepony’s in a festive mood,” said a voice that tinkled like a wind chime. Pinstripe craned his neck in search of the voice’s owner, and found a petite earth stallion with a cobalt blue coat and a bouncy gray mane. He watched the naked pony circle the caldron, swallowing an eyeful of the his effeminate grace. Despite his slim build, the stallion’s haunches and hindquarters had a noticeable curve to them, and his hips rocked with a lewd, bewitching charm.

“Is that you, Discord?” Pinstripe blinked and rubbed his eyes. His vision was slightly blurry for some reason. “Trying to trick me by turning into a pony, huh? Get your ass in here and let’s have that toast!” he exclaimed, raising his glass for the Lord of Chaos.

Discord climbed into the caldron, slowly, treating his guest to a display of naked curves as he lifted himself over the pot’s lip. “And what are we toasting too?” He pressed a button on the cauldron’s lip and the water stopped rising. The pot was so full now that droplets splashed over the side as Pinstripe raised his glass for the toast.

“To sin!” Pinstripe said without meaning to. He couldn't straight; a dreamy haze had settled between his ears, and his face and hooves felt slightly numb, as if he were drunk.

“What a ghastly sentiment,” said Discord. He waded closer to Pinstripe, moving with the same grace he had exhibited on dry land. “You’ll have to excuse me, though. I don’t seem to have a glass.” He kissed the edge of Pinstripe’s glass before taking a long drink.

Unconscious of his actions, Pinstripe watched Discord’s throat flex as it swallowed the drink, enamored by the slight bob of the deity's adam’s apple. A single golden bead of mimosa dripped from the corner of Discord’s mouth and rolled down his chin. Pinstripe had to fight a sudden urge clean it away with his lips.

“You got a little—” said Pinstripe. He wiped his own chin to show Discord what he meant.

“Oh,” Discord replied with mock coyness. “I can be so messy at times. Could you get it for me?”

Pinstripe reached forward and whipped away the golden rivulet, letting his hoof linger awhile as it stroked the corner of Discord’s mouth.

“Tell me, dear,” said Discord, “what are you in for?” He pressed a hoof to Pinstripe’s chest, tittering as he felt the hard muscle beneath the zebra’s striped pelt.

“In for?” Feeling more comfortable now, Pinstripe grabbed Discord by his narrow waist and pulled him closer, earning a girlish squeak from the chaos lord.

“But of course, darling,” said Discord. “You don’t end up in Tartarus for being a model citizen.” The hoof on Pinstripe’s chest climbed upward, scaling the zebra’s neck and settling on a striped cheek. “It’s confession time, dear. Tell me your sins. All of them.”

His sins? That would be somewhat difficult; Pinstripe didn’t spend much time dwelling on past evil deeds. Absentmindedly, he kissed the hoof on his cheek as he took a mental tally of all his crimes.

Thinking nothing of the bizarre request, he told Discord about his first crime. When he was a young foal, he would often steal coins from his mother’s purse at night while she slept. He needed the money to pay off the neighborhood bullies when they jumped him most every day after school, and his mother was the only readily available source at the time.

He understood, even at a young age, that he and his mother were very poor, and that she worked hard doing jobs she hated to earn the money he so callously stole. He understood that it wasn’t fair to her—but the bullies didn’t hit him as hard when he paid them, and they didn’t shove his face in toilet bowls or urinate on the back of his head.

“That was my intro to crime, I guess,” he said, and it pained him deeply to know that his first sin was committed against his own mother. “Pfff, whatever, she was never around anyway. She had to work two jobs to keep the lights on. I hardly spent any time with her growing up.” A touch of anger invaded both his words and expression. It was small, but Discord noticed it.

“It’s always the ones we love that get the worst of us,” replied Discord, his tone thoughtful and understanding. He massaged Pinstripe’s cheek, earning a weak smile from the zebra that was on the verge of collapsing into a frown. “Let’s have more, dear. You must have been a violent soul to have ended up down here.”

Perhaps it was the barrage of sensual sights and touches playing upon his senses, or simply the light feeling in his head, but Pinstripe felt perfectly at ease stewing in hot water with this attractive pony version of Equestria’s Lord of Chaos. He seemed to hold some nameless power Pinstripe, and the source of that power was housed in the deity’s touch, in the bell-like tinkling of his voice. Pinstripe found himself wanting to please Discord, as a son intrinsically desires to please his mother.

He brushed Discord’s forehoof away from his cheek and clasped it between his own front hooves, squeezing lightly. Then he started a new story for Discord. A violent one.

“When I was twelve years old there was this piece of shit kid named Crest always following me around and giving me a hard time,” Pinstripe began. “Crest was an earth pony from Trottingham and a real shit-starter. The guy was barely fifteen years old and he already had beef with half the neighborhood tuffs in Discord’s—well, in your kitchen, I guess.”

The two of them laughed together, and Pinstripe unconsciously inched his muzzle closer to Discord’s, his wanting eyes fastened to the stallion’s lips.

“So one day this Crest asshole is following me around,” Pinstripe continued, “and he’s laying into me with the usual bullshit—calling me a poof and a nancy and all that. He tells me how he’s gonna kick my ass and bend me over a table, going on and on about how much I’m gonna love it.” Pinstripe laughed and shook his head at the memory. It seemed so perfectly absurd now, though it had been anything but at the time. “He’s really laying it on thick, and the whole time I just keep thinking, ‘for buck’s sake, it’s not even a school day’.”

“No?” Discord laughed, enjoying the liveliness in Pinstripe’s voice.

“No,” Pinstripe laughed back “it’s a Sunday, and I’m just trying to get home from the grocery story. I got milk and cheese stuffed in my saddlebags—the whole bucking nine yards. And the worst part is, I can’t go home ‘cause the last thing I need is this prick knowing where I live—ya get me?”

Discord nodded.

“So I come up with the bright idea to just wander around the neighborhood. I figure Crest will eventually get bored of following me, but no, this asshole is relentless. We walk around for at least an hour, and after awhile I realize that he’s never gonna let up unless I make him.

“So I lead him down an alleyway, drop my saddlebags and tell the asshole to buck off before I feed him a few of his own teeth.” Pinstripe smiled big. He shoved Discord playfully and raised his forelegs in a mock fighting pose, pantomiming the actions of his childhood self.

“But this Crest guy—he’s been around the block one too many times to fall for any of my bullshit threats. He sees through my bluff and starts laying into me like you wouldn’t believe. I’m talking, kicks, butts, bites… It was the worst ass kicking I ever got as a kid, and I got plenty. And the whole time he’s kicking my ass, he’s going on and on about how he’s gonna drag me behind a dumpster and fuck me till I can’t see straight.”

“Did he?” Discord purred. Without warning, he slapped the water’s surface with a dainty hoof, splashing Pinstripe in the face.

“Hey, cut that out; you’re distracting me,” said Pinstripe, splashing Discord back.

A jovial war of splashes broke out in the cauldron, and both Pinstripe and Discord beamed as they battered each other with airborne droplets of water. Eventually their long distance skirmish moved to close quarters. Abandoning his previous tactics, Pinstripe threw his forelegs around Discord’s neck and dragged him beneath the water’s surface, where they wrestled and teased each other with excited touches.

Though Discord had taken the form of an earth pony, he was by far the weaker of the two. Pinstripe muscled him clear across the length of the cauldron (which was much longer than it should have been), and pinned his back against the pot’s rounded wall. They were chest-to-chest now, and their flirtatious power struggle had left them winded and breathing heavily.

Discord’s front hooves found their way to his playmate’s shoulders, and Pinstripe could feel the raw desire to touch and grope and fondle that was trapped inside of them.

It was a heavenly feeling, to be touched and held and wanted. He couldn’t remember the last time somepony wanted him the way Discord wanted him now. It didn’t matter to him that Discord had taken the form of a stallion; his touch was intoxicating, and his body was soft, and his scent was sweet, and his lips were—

“Finish the story, dear,” Discord chimed, his voice tinkling like a bell.

“What?” Pinstripe said stupidly.

“The story, you silly lug. Finish it, and I’ll reward you with something special.” Discord ran his tail along Pinstripe’s inner thigh, making him shudder.

“Ummm…where was I again?”

“I believe Crest was throttling you, dear,” said Discord, laughing his tinkling laugh.

“Right, right,” said Pinstripe, remembering where he’d left off. “So like I was saying, I’m getting bounced off the walls like a rubber ball, when out of nowhere this group of colts creeps up from behind and pulls Crest off me. They shove him to the ground and start kicking him, shouting something about him owing them money.”

“Ah, a touch of retribution,” said Discord.

“Something like that,” said Pinstripe, and Discord was surprised to hear some of the luster drain from his voice.

Pinstripe went into greater detail about Crest’s beating, describing how Crest bellowed when the colts stomped his underbelly, and how blood sprayed from his nose when they lifted him and drove his face into the alley wall. He laughed cruelly and said that watching Crest get pummeled was worth the beating he had taken himself.

He seemed to be stalling, Discord noticed. He lingered a long while on the particulars of Crest’s beating, as if not wanting to continue the story. Discord took it upon himself to help move things along.

“Don’t be afraid,” he cooed, disrupting Pinstripe’s train of thought. “It’s all right dear, you can tell me what happened.”

But could he tell himself, Pinstripe wondered. He took a deep, solemn breath and tried to move the story forward.

“...So, thinking I just caught a lucky break, I pick myself up and try to sneak off while Crest is getting pounded. But one of the colts spots me limping away, and the little bastard decides to shake me down along with Crest…”

Little by little, Pinstripe seemed to deflate as he spoke.

“…He’s young, this colt. He’s an earth pony, only a little bigger than me, and he’s got this screwdriver in his mouth…” And then his voice trailed off entirely. He covered his mouth and looked away from Discord, his eyes fixing on one of the black walls. Suddenly he was lost in thought, staring at the wall but not really seeing anything.

“Go on,” Discord prodded, massaging Pinstripe’s shoulders.

“…He’s got this screwdriver in his mouth…” Pinstripe began again, speaking slowly, eyes still bolted to the wall. “…And he comes at me like he means to kill me. He doesn’t run at me or nothing like that. He just walks nice and slow—and it’s like I can see it in his eyes. I mean... he’s just a little foal, but I can see it. For as long as I had been getting bullied, nopony had ever looked at me like that.

“Before long I’m rolling on the floor trying to wrestle the screwdriver away from him. He’s a lot stronger than me, and the whole time we’re going at it I’m thinking about how much I really don’t want to die.

“Next thing I know the screwdriver is in my mouth and the colt is on his back, shaking and spitting and hacking while his friends crowd around him. Then I notice the blood. It’s in my mouth and all over my face and none of it’s mine.” Pinstripe sighed and ran a wet hoof through his mane. He looked away from the wall and back at Discord, a myriad of confused emotions stirring in his stony eyes. “The stuff was everywhere. I must've stuck him in the neck, ‘cause it was everywhere…”

After a long pause, he laughed and said, “Afterwards that asshole Crest yanked my tail and shouted me for me to run for it. We sprinted away together, side-by-side. Been friends ever since.”

“Did the poor little colt perish?” Discord asked.

“Buck if I know. He was still shaking on the sidewalk when me and Crest ran away,” said Pinstripe.

“Oh, you poor thing. The world has been so cruel to you.” Discord cupped Pinstripe’s chin and pressed his forehead against the zebra’s. “It’s because of your stripes, you know.”

Confusion invaded Pinstripe’s expression.

“The world is jealous of your colors,” Discord continued. “It wishes to be simple—to be black and white—but you remind it of how messy things can be. Steal or suffer. Kill or be killed. You remind the world that it is grey, and it has punished you for its own weakness.”

Pinstripe didn’t understand what Discord meant. The puzzling words entered in one ear, passed through the fog in his head, and tumbled uselessly out the other. He didn’t care, though. He didn’t want Discord’s words; he wanted his touch. There was a warmth and a kindness in his hooves that Pinstripe had seldom known while alive. And there must be magic in those slightly parted lips, he thought—the magic of closeness, and of skin caressing skin.

Pinstripe shut his eyes and searched the darkness for Discord’s lips, yearning for a taste of that magic.

“Tell me another story, dear,” said Discord. He drew his head back just as Pinstripe’s mouth came near his own, dodging the zebra’s kiss. “I want to hear about your life as a gangster.” He flattened himself against Pinstripe’s chest and pillowed his head on the zebra’s shoulder, his body radiating peace and comfort.

A pang of disappointment resonated within Pinstripe, but he didn’t let it spoil his good mood. He would have his taste of magic soon enough. In the meantime, he stroked Discord’s back lazily and started telling another story, this one about his relationship with Blitzkrieg.

He told of how they met, he and the leader of the Shadowbolts. Pinstripe, not knowing who Krieg was at the time, had tried to rob the old stallion at knifepoint outside of a bar in the lower east side. He was in his early teenage years then, and during those years robbery was his sole means of supporting himself.

The Pinstripe that attempted to mug Blitzkrieg back then was a wretched husk of an equine, dressed in threadbare clothing and brandishing a dull knife between his clenched teeth. The two Shadowbolts accompanying Blitzkrieg that night, Hammer and his brother Sickle, were upon the would-be mugger in seconds. They were young colts themselves, only a few years older than Pinstripe, but together they were more than a match for him.

They beat him bloody and disposed of him in a dumpster outside of the bar. But they didn’t kill him—Blitzkrieg had ordered his life be spared.

That night, Pinstripe laid awake in the dumpster until morning, not sleeping a wink, crying in pain and wondering why his miserable life had been spared. He couldn’t decide if this turn of fate was a blessing or a curse. He was alive, and he supposed that was a good thing, but he would have to get up in the morning and drag his broken body to a nearby subway station. He would have to ride the train home with an empty stomach. He would have to lie to his mother about where he had spent the night. And if all that weren’t awful enough, he would have to return to this side of town the next day and stalk the streets in search of new prey to rob.

It didn’t seem worth it. Rather than rise from the dumpster, he contemplated rooting around in the trash for a sharp piece of glass. His knife was dull, but with a sharp piece of glass he could cut his own throat and stain the black trash bags red with all the sorrow and hardship this miserable life had cursed him with.

He could just leave, he assured himself. His mother would be fine without him, probably better off, and the few friends he had made over the years wouldn’t mourn or miss him for very long. He could just up and leave, he told himself over and over again. There was no reason to stay; this world didn’t have anything for him.

And he might have taken his own life that night, if not for the fact that Blitzkrieg had spared it. He wanted to know why. He needed to—he wasn’t good with unanswered questions. So he climbed out of the dumpster the next morning, and every night after that he wandered down to that same bar, hoping to cross paths with the old stallion one more time…

“…And when I finally saw the old geezer again,” Pinstripe explained, “I walked right up to him and asked him why he didn’t kill me all those nights ago.”

“His answer?” Discord asked.

“He never said—just led me inside, bought me a hot meal, a cold drink, and started rambling about the ‘old country’.”

It was a fine story, Discord explained, but it wasn’t enough to sate his appetite for vicarious drama. He still wanted here about the gang life—about the violence, the luxury cars, the expensive prostitutes. The sharp suits and the witty one-liners delivered by gruff, chain-smoking, streetwise tuffs with pistols hidden under their long, black trench coats.

“My life wasn’t a movie.” Pinstripe laughed and gave Discord’s nose a flirtatious nuzzle.

“But all that violence and crime and freedom… It must have been…romantic,” said Discord, his lips and tongue fondling that last word as it left his mouth.

“Nah, it wasn’t anything like that. It was actually pretty dull up until I met The Prankster and her gang.”

Discord’s face lit up like child’s on Hearth’s Warming Eve. “You met The Prankster!”

“Yeah, she’s the reason I’m down here,” said Pinstripe with an odd kind of humor. “She killed—”

Before Pinstripe could finish his thought, Discord clasped his face and pressed his muzzle against the zebra’s, kissing him with bruising force. There was a brief moment of shock on Pinstripe’s part, followed by a much longer moment of bliss. He closed his eyes, tilted his head, and melted into the kiss, chasing away his loneliness with the magic hiding in Discord’s velveteen lips.

When the kiss ended, Pinstripe’s eyes fluttered open as if he were waking from a dream. “Wow… that was—”

“Inappropriate!” Discord interrupted. “Heinous! Egregious! Most grievous!”

“Okay, so I’m a little out of practice—”

“Oh no, dear, you were wonderful. It’s just—um—well you see…” Discord’s voice trailed off. He climbed out of the cauldron, dripping water as he walked to the opposite end of the room...

The bathroom, Pinstripe noticed for the first time, the realization aburt and jolting. He was in a bathroom, and he was sitting in a tub, not a cauldron. The fog clouding his mind had started to fade and suddenly his head throbbed with a stabbing pain.

“…I happen to be a married stallion,” Discord finished after clearing his throat.

“What?” Pinstripe started to pursue Discord, but a sharp pain lanced through his side as he tried to climb over the tub’s lip. The shock of it kicked the air from his lungs, and he clutched his side, fighting for breath as he slid back into the water. With a groan, he tried again, this time he managing to haul himself over the tub’s edge. He tried to stand, only to find his back legs couldn’t support his weight. He fell on his seat, then, feeling woozy, tipped over onto his side.

“Careful, careful,” Discord fussed as he kneeled at Pinstripe’s side. “You shouldn’t be up and about just yet.”

Pinstripe let out a rumbling bellow as the ache in his midsection worsened. He touched a hoof to his side, expecting to find a mark there, though, he wasn’t sure why.

A fit of strangled coughs erupted from his throat, beating the air from his lungs with thudding force. He curled into a ball and shut his eyes, hugging himself tight. His body convulsed and cold sweat spilled from every pore in his skin.

“Oh dear,” said Discord, “It seems your body is reacting adversely to the potion.”

“I-It hurts…” Pinstripe breathed. “Make it stop…”

Discord sat down on his haunches and pulled Pinstripe into a sitting position, placing the zebra’s rear in his lap. A striped back met a cobalt blue chest, and Pinstripe could feel Discord’s heartbeat as the chaos lord held him close.

“You’re okay,” said Discord. His tinkling voice tickled Pinstripe’s eardrum, and the sound alone eased much of the zebra’s pain. “It won’t hurt for much longer, I promise.” He gave the zebra a reassuring squeeze.

They stayed like that for several minutes: Pinstripe shaking and sweating, Discord squeezing and cooing and pouring soft words into a frightened mind. When the shaking finally stopped, Pinstripe’s body went slack, and Discord laid him down on the tiled floor, a mother’s worry present in his eyes.

Now the dreamy fog had lifted completely. The mystery of the afterlife faded along with the magic of closeness, and once again Pinstripe found himself lying on his back, suffering as he stared reality in its bleak face.

“Who are you?” Pinstripe groaned, gazing up at the petite earth stallion. His voice was weak. His head was still pounding, but the pain in his side was gone.

The pony whom Pinstripe had mistaken for Discord stood up straight and batted his eyelashes. “Doctor Stephen Scope,” he said with a delicate curtsy, “at your service.”

Arc ONE: Chapter 8

Arc ONE: Chapter 8

Like most every building on the outskirts of Manehattan, and much like the asylum near Hollow Shades, the jailhouse was very old. The outside had undergone much refurbishing, and now resembled a more modern structure—a modern cathedral to be exact—with its stark white walls and dramatically sloped roof. If its architects meant to rob the building of its macabre appearance, they had failed remarkably. It crouched at the eastern-most edge of the city, a stout, brick gargoyle dressed in the trappings of an angel.

The inside of the jailhouse looked its age. While the outside seemed new, the collection of underground cells resembled a medieval dungeon, with crumbling stone walls and rusted iron bars. The cells stood in two parallel, single-file lines that spanned the length of a long corridor. Twenty’s cell stood at the end of one of these lines, making it the farthest from the entrance.

She was sleeping fitfully now, dreaming of her past. The dream had the surreal quality of a well-acted stage play: close enough to reality to feel believable, but still fantastic enough to tickle the imagination. Twenty fulfilled the role of heroine, as all ponies fancy themselves the heroes of their life’s narrative. The villain was none other than Berry Punch, dressed from head to hoof in police riot gear and standing in the middle of a battle-torn street, eyes gleaming with confidence, lips smirking around the handle of a baton in her mouth. Despite the several yards of cracked asphalt that separated heroine from villain, Twenty could smell the booze on Berry’s breath. It was a sickening odor, one Twenty associated with death.

Slowly, Berry reached into the holster fastened to her hip. But instead of removing a gun, she withdrew a severed eye and balanced it on one upturned forehoof. Just as Twenty could smell the booze at such a great distance, she could also see the eye perfectly. It was grey. Dull. Sightless.

With an indignant cry, Twenty flung herself headlong at Berry punch, leaving a trail of hoof-shaped impressions in her wake. She was strong in her dream. Her steps were explosions that tossed up bits of gravel, and her cry shook windows in the faces of the buildings that lined the street. And she was fast as well; the backdrop of the city blurred into an unreadable grey mess as she sped along the street.

But for all her speed and strength, Twenty couldn’t reach the smirking villain. Manehattan was protecting Berry Punch. The street stretched longer and longer with every step that Twenty took, ensuring she would never make use of all that power.

She didn’t get any closer, but the eye became clearer. Now she could see that it was hollow and made of glass. There were two ponies trapped inside the glass eye: an old mare and a young stallion. Her mouth flew open to shout their names, but the dream had robbed her of such knowledge.

“Mother! Brother!” she shouted instead, stinging tears wetting her face as she sprinted.

“Help!” they shouted back. “Help us, Twenty! Save us!”

Twenty ran faster. Again, she tried shouting their names but couldn’t remember them. She couldn’t remember her own name either. It wasn’t Twenty. Twenty was a nickname given to her by Berry Punch, a slur dreamed up by a hateful mind to insult and humiliate her.

A dozen tiny hammers pounded nails into her fatigued muscles, but she ran on in spite of the pain. She was gaining now. The city had given up on shielding Berry from her fate; the street didn’t stretch another inch.

But Berry was unruffled. She waited with a predator’s patience until Twenty was only a few paces away. Then she placed the glass eye on the ground, reared up on her hind legs and neighed into her baton handle, blooddrunk, a cloud of white mist billowing from her nostrils.

With a helpless scream peeling back her bloodless lips, Twenty dove for the glass eye…

Her family shrieked…

And the baton came arcing down…

Then a silence-shattering bang catapulted her from the nightmare. She heard gunfire; somepony was shooting at the guards upstairs. A calamity of sparks, smoke and screaming metal had bolstered into the jailhouse, bringing mutilation and death to any in its path. Twenty flung herself from the cot and landed on all fours, her senses on high alert.

They were here. Blitzkrieg’s thugs—they had come for her.

The color drained from her face. Her body trembled, her nerves suddenly out of control. Her first impulse was to flee, but that was impossible; the walls and the bars had other plans for her…

The crumbling walls...

The rusting bars…

A half-mad thought flickered to life in her mind, like a lit match in perfect darkness. She sprang to her hind legs and jammed her front hooves between two adjacent bars in her cell door. Then she took a deep breath and tried to force her hooves apart, gritting her teeth as she struggled to widen the space between the bars. Her muscles strained. A dozen insect mandibles bit into her wounded shoulder, and a spider’s web of thick, crooked veins bulged beneath the skin of her flexing forelegs.

The bars didn’t budge.

The jailhouse guards were returning fire now; the pauses between gun reports had become shorter and less frequent. Twenty’s fellow prisoners scampered to the fronts of their cells, roused to action by the clamor coming from upstairs. Several poked their heads between bars. Some shrieked in panic, and a select few cackled like hyenas, cursing the guards and thanking Luna for this nightmare she had conjured to send their jailers to the next life.

The mare in the cell beside Twenty pointed a hoof and laughed, mocking her neighbor’s effort to escape. Then the gunfire ceased and a sudden hush came over the prisoners. Silence blanketed the dungeon like a pall covering a casket. Time was caught on hooks and hung suspended in space, unable to progress. Even Twenty had relinquished her mad ambition. Still standing on her hind legs, she rested her head against the cold iron bars. Her chest rose and fell slowly as she waited—for what, she didn’t know.

A uniformed earth stallion tumbled down the flight of stairs that led to the holding cells. At the bottom of the steps, he scrambled to his hooves and tried to flee, but a single bullet fired from the top of the staircase cut his flight short. The round punched a hole in the back of his head. He jerked from the impact and dropped with a thud, his final thoughts spilling out and staining the floor red.

A triad of griffins dressed in black coats descended the steps, walking in single file. Grift wore her usual bored expression, her brows flat with detachment. Lintsalot strolled behind her, clutching a snub-nosed revolver, and Mr. Turnip walked behind him, toting a shotgun, the barrel resting against his shoulder.

The Carnie leader approached the first cell. She poked her beak between the bars, eyes shifting, searching. The cell was empty. She approached the next one in line and did the same, this time finding a unicorn mare with a dull coat and an enchanted clasp fastened to her horn to hinder her magic. The mare backed away as Grift poked her face between the bars, squinting. A disappointed grumble escaped her, and she aimed her pistol into the dark cell.

The unicorn gasped sharply. She couldn’t find the breath to scream.

Twenty heard an explosion of shouts and gunfire erupt from the opposite end of the dungeon. They were coming for her—coming to gun her down like an animal, to dispose of her like so much trash piled high in an alley dumpster.

Anger erupted from deep within her being, a volcanic burst of pain and hate that boiled her insides in molten ferocity. With a curse on her lips, she breathed deep and began pulling at the bars once more. She wouldn’t die here, she told herself. She couldn’t die here; there were still too many ponies in this wretched city that needed to meet a slow end beneath her hooves.

Her powerful hooves! She was strong now. She hadn’t been the night Berry took her family from her, but she was now. With gritted teeth and eyes screwed shut in concentration, she pulled at the bars with every ounce of power she could muster.

A great wailing lament rose up from the prisoners, filling the dungeon with a groaning funeral dirge for the damned. Some banged on the bars of their cells and hurled curses at the griffins, lips flapping and foaming like rabid animals. Some cowered in the darkest corners of their cells, hoping the triad of murders wouldn’t see them in the dim light. Others wept, and the others still dropped to their haunches, clasped their front hooves together and stammered out half-coherent prayers.

A solemn few stood their ground, heads held high, and awaited their fate with dignity. They didn’t scream; they didn’t weep; they didn’t pray. But they did die. The triad of causal executioners strolled by their cells; and their bodies jerked as bullets ripped through their flesh; and their courage awarded them no reprieve from the smoke or the screaming metal.

Twenty redoubled her efforts, but still the bars refused to budge. She could hear the prisoner’s voices becoming quieter and fewer while the gunshots grew louder. How many more cells until they reached hers? How long did she have until—

She shoved the thought aside and pulled harder.

A shotgun blast exploded in an earth stallion’s face, practically decapitating him.

A revolver round punched a hole in a pegasus mare’s throat.

A unicorn stallion dropped to the floor after a bullet struck his side, shattering a rib, and he sputtered and writhed on his back as he fought for breath. Grift didn’t waste another round on him. She moved on to the next cell, leaving him to suffer as he bled out.

A hot snort billowed out from Twenty’s flared nostrils. Fat droplets of sweat rolled down her knitted brow, and frustrated grunts wormed through her gritted teeth. The stitches in her shoulder tore open, and a red spot appeared on the bandage binding her injury. She waded through the sea of fire in her limbs, in her open wound, and redoubled her efforts once more.

She was too strong for these bars, she told herself. She was too strong for this cell, too strong for this entire city. It couldn’t hold her.

Maybe once upon a time it could. Maybe when she was younger and smaller and weaker and could still see with both eyes. Maybe when she was just a foal and her mother woke her early on Monday mornings and cooked her breakfast before kissing her nose and hurrying off to work. Maybe when her older brother took her to the playground and pushed her on the rusted swing sets, his normally sullen face beaming, his rough, labor-weary hooves doing their best to be gentle as they caught her and pushed her, caught her and pushed her, caught her and pushed her... Maybe five years ago on her nineteenth birthday, when a gang of thugs in police uniforms trampled on her frail world, smashing it and scattering it to the wind.

Maybe the city had been able to hold her then. But not now. Not ever again.

With the same listless expression on her face, Grift leveled her pistol at a caged earth stallion and opened fire, not bothering to look where she aimed. He turned away as the gun barked and caught three rounds in the side of his midsection, and one more in the center of his cutie mark. Lintsalot laughed aloud as he walked by wounded pony’s cell, noticing that the fallen stallion’s cutie mark was a dartboard. He took a shot himself, trying to match Grift’s marksmanship, but missed and struck one of stallion’s stifles, earning an agonized yell from the defenselessly pony.

“Come on, quite moving around.” Lintsalot stuck out his tongue, shut one eye and aimed his gun again. The stallion tried to crawl and hide under his cot, but five more rounds sunk into his torso. He plunged into shock before dying an ugly death.

The gunshots were close now. Nearly all the screaming voices had fallen silent, but Twenty didn’t care about any of that anymore. Everything—the pain in her body, the wails of the dying, the gunfire, the old memories of her long dead family—everything was gone now, lost in her need to be stronger than she once was. She didn’t care about Blitzkrieg or the assassins he had sent to kill her. This was between her and the bars now. Her and the city.

Bits of gravel sprinkled down from the where bars met ceiling, iron met stone. Her chest heaved; her veins pulsed as if moments form bursting. Blood dripped from her shoulder wound and splashed on the stone floor. It hurt. Everything hurt—but she didn’t stop. She couldn’t. She dug deep and summoned whatever brute and uniquely earth pony strength she could still muster, assuring herself that it was enough.

A loud bang bludgeoned her eardrum, and the pony in the adjacent cell struck the floor like a dropped brick, dead before she had even started falling.

And then, with the low groan of bending iron, the city finally yielded to Twenty. A joyous half-grunting, half-laughing noise flew from her, and the bars opened like a door leading to a new world, a new life.

Her eyes were still shut when she felt the pistol’s hot barrel press against her forehead. They remained that way, closed and uncaring as a gale of hysterical laughter came gusting up from her exhausted lungs. She did it! She won! She had conquered the city with nothing but her will and her naked hooves, and soon she would do the same to Berry Punch.

When she finally opened her eyes, Twenty glanced up and saw an amber gaze peeking at her from beneath flat eyebrows.

“Twenty, right?” Grift holstered her pistol and extended a semi-friendly claw. “I’m Grift. My boss would like a word with you.”

Pinstripe sat at the dining room table and gnawed impassively at his plate of steamed vegetables. He felt famished, but the smell of cooked meat wafting in from the next room had diffused his appetite. He didn’t know how Stephen Scope could stand it.

He couldn’t cease pawing at his side where Pinks had stabbed him. The knife wounds were gone now, all traces of physical pain purged from his body, leaving him with nothing but the memory of the blade piercing his skin, and a deep emotional ache in the pit of his stomach. The pleasant fog that had settled in his mind was clear now, and he felt sick without it. He knew for certain that he was still alive. Somehow, the notion wasn’t as comforting as it should have been.

“Are you sure you don’t want any roast?” Stephen called from the kitchen. “I would hate for it to go to waste.”

Pinstripe massaged his temples and wondered why his hallucination of Tartarus had made more sense than the real world. Scope took his silence to mean that his guest wasn’t interested in the meat and promptly disposed of it. His mood unsullied, he pranced back to the dining room and pulled up a chair beside Pinstripe, casually brushing his tail against the zebra’s thigh as he did so.

“Are you feeling better now?” asked Scope. Pinstripe nodded but remained silent. “Oh, goodie!” He clapped his hooves together, the gesture reeking of girlishness. “I gave you such a strong dose I was worried I might have killed you. I’ve never treated a zebra before, and it turns out your physiology is closer to pegasi to earth ponies. Who knew?”

“A strong dose of what?” asked Pinstripe, uncertain if he really wanted the answer.

“Oh it’s just a simple healing potion Temporal and my wife have been working on for the past few months. It’s only good for closing flesh wounds now, but Temporal says it will be able to repair organs when it’s finished,” Scope explained. “I gave you a dose fit for an earth pony of your size. We earth ponies are built tougher than other equines, you see, and… well… as I said before, I’m terribly sorry.”

“Is that why I thought you were Discord?”

“Mild hallucinations are indeed a side effect. You’d be surprised how many of my patients mistake me for the Lord of Chaos. I’m quite comfortable in the role by now. Would you like something to drink?”

“I’m fine.” Out of habit, Pinstripe motioned to adjust his tie, discovering its absence. Feeling silly, he pretended he was only scratching his throat, but Scope saw through the clumsy pantomime and smiled cutely. Pinstripe could feel Scope’s eyes treading up and down his body, and was suddenly hyper-aware of his nakedness. To his surprise, he didn’t feel embarrassed. He scooted his chair closer to Scope and rested his front hooves on the tabletop. “You work for Blitzkrieg?” he asked.

“Huh?” Scope had been too lost in Pinstripe’s eyes to hear the question.

“Do you work for Blitzkrieg?” Pinstripe repeated. “You mentioned something about knowing Temporal, so I figure you must know Kriegy too.”

“I work with Blitzkrieg,” Scope corrected, “and only on occasion. I’m freelance, dear, I work with whoever is willing to pay.” He placed his forehooves on the tabletop and inched them toward Pinstripe’s.

“No loyalties, then?” Pinstripe took the doctor’s hooves in his own. They were so small, he thought, so small and smooth and girlish.

“I have a few,” said Scope, inching closer in spite of himself.

“She doesn’t have to know.” In one swift motion, Pinstripe pulled Scope out of his seat and into his lap, earning a delighted squeal from the doctor. He wasn’t under the drug’s spell any longer. He was thinking clearly now, and he knew exactly what he wanted.

“I envy you.” Scope made himself comfortable on Pinstripe’s lap, stroking the zebra’s mane gingerly. They were chest-to-chest now, and Scope could feel the pounding of Pinstripe’s heart, young and strong and full of hurt and longing. “I always wanted to be a gangster myself, but I’m too… frail, I’m afraid. This world didn’t bless me with the challenges it gave you.”

“That’s nothing to be jealous of.”

“It is. Those challenges led you here to me, and too the Prankster as well,” said Scope. “You should go back to her; she’ll take good care of you.”

“She killed me,” Pinstripe said with a curt laugh.

“If she had wanted you dead, you would be.” Scope climbed down from Pinstripe’s lap and started toward the kitchen.

“Oh come on,” Pinstripe complained, “you came on to me. The whole thing in the tub, and the questions, and… I spilled my guts for you, asshole! Now you’re just gonna leave?”

“I took advantage of you while you were drugged,” said Scope. “Don’t feel special; I do it to all my first time patients. I like hearing their stories, and they are always so eager to tell. Each of them believes their hardships are unique: abandoned by their parents, bullied as children, raised in poverty, raped, molested, mutilated, manipulated… I’ve heard it all countless times before, and your story was no different. Disappointing, really.”

So he was just a story to this stallion, was he? Just an amusing distraction, and apparently not even a good one. Another laugh escaped him. There was something dreadfully funny about that.

“If we’re all the same, then why keep drugging us?” said Pinstripe. “Why keep asking questions?”

“Every once in awhile somepony tells me a story about The Prankster,” Scope said thoughtfully. “She killed you, and I suppose hearing that excited me. I wish I could have seen it with my own eyes. It must have been… romantic.” With that, Stephen Scope skirted out of the kitchen, leaving Pinstripe alone with his empty stomach and his thoughts.

He ate his plate of vegetables in somber silence. The relief of being dead had left him and now he felt numb. Even the discovery of his apparent homosexuality didn’t quite register with him. He had never thought of himself as being gay before, and maybe he wasn’t now. Maybe he had just gone too long without being cradled in a loving embrace.

The thought sounded pathetic in his head. He munched on a mouthful of broccoli and tried to dream up some other reason for his unusual male attraction, but nothing came of his efforts.

It’s been awhile, huh? he heard Pinks say in his head, her voice dripping with its usual syrupy sweetness.

A new thought came to mind, one that seemed so obvious he wondered why it hadn’t occurred to him first. This was a prank. Pinks had stabbed him for the sole purpose of sending him to this mad doctor. She knew Scope would make a move, and that Pinstripe wouldn’t be able to resist his gentle touch because it had ‘been a while’.

At the thought, Pinstripe flew into a sudden rage and flipped the table, knocking the last of his food to the floor. Pinks was back at her stupid underground hideout right now, laughing at him, Pinstripe thought. She and her gang of carnivores were making fun of him, calling him a faggot and a pussy and a—

He picked up his chair and hurled it at the wall. “That’s not funny!” His cheeks grew hot with anger, and his heart thudded so heavily that his chest hurt and he could hardly breathe. Fury shrouded his vision like a mist, lending the dining room a red tint. He flew into a fitful tantrum, shouting curses at the empty room. He grabbed up another chair and repeatedly banged it against the wall until it turned to splinters between his hooves.

In that moment he hated everything in the world. He had been forced to relive all those traumatic memories, and for what? The amusement of some lunatic? He felt violated. Humiliated. And he could hear all of them laughing in his ear. Pinks and her Carnies. Blitzkrieg and his Shadowbolts. The uptown big-shots, the playground bullies… He wanted to scream. He wanted to tell them that his life wasn’t a joke, that he wasn’t a joke.

Then he remembered the bullies’ taunt. It echoed through his head like a voice calling from some faraway mountain top.

What’s black and white and red all over...

Normally the memory made him want to scream, but now it forced him to think of night he met Pinks. She had laughed at him then, but in that moment, outside of the asylum, he had remembered to control himself. He wasn’t a colt anymore, and he couldn’t afford to let his emotions be manipulated.

He took a deep breath and reclaimed his composure. He wasn’t afraid of Pinks, he assured himself. She was just a mare in makeup, nothing more. She was intelligent and manipulative, but that was it, and many Manehattan criminals possessed both of those qualities in abundance. From this moment forward, Pinstripe resolved to no longer fear her, and to pay her back for trying to kill him.

He also decided to find Scope. He wasn’t done with the good doctor just yet.

He wandered from the kitchen up to Scope’s bedroom, but didn’t find him there. Next, he walked into the bathroom where he had first laid eyes on the beautiful stallion. Again he found no trace of Scope; the only things to see were the tiled walls and floor, the massive tub and what looked like a body bag draped across the toilet.

Had that been there before? He thought to examine it, but his survival instinct trumped his curiosity, and he moved on to check another room.

He wandered around the entire house but found no trace of Scope. It was as if he were never there to begin with. Wondering why Scope would leave a stranger alone in his house, Pinstripe wandered back into the bedroom. There was still no sign of Scope, but he did notice an expensive looking suit-coat, shirt and tie laid out on the bed. It didn’t make sense for Scope to lay out clothing and then leave in the nude. Pinstripe moved closer and noticed a sheet of lined paper taped to the suit-coat. It read:

Dear Mister Pin the Tail On the Zebra

You have been cordially invited to attend The Prankster’s Welcome Back Party. Please arrive at the Ringer tomorrow at midnight… and make sure to wear something nice.

A burst of senseless fear filled him, and he backed away from the suit as if it might suddenly gain life and lunge for his throat. He looked around frantically, his mind racing. He wondered how long it had taken him to search the entire house. It was a big house to be sure, but Pinks couldn’t have had time to slip in here, lay out the clothes, leave the note.

Of course she had enough time, you idiot, Pinstripe chided himself. She wouldn’t have needed more than two minutes, and you definitely gave her that.

Did she take Scope? Was she still in the house? Still in the room? Suddenly any notions he had of not fearing Pinks were squashed like an insect carapace beneath a stomping boot. She was here! Maybe she had been here the whole time.

He threw open the closet door in burst of blind panic, fully expecting to find her sitting there beside Scope’s butchered corpse, clutching a bloody kitchen knife and grinning at some private joke. When he didn’t find her there, he dropped to his stomach and searched under the bed. The sight of a fuzzy pink slipper caused him to jump with fright, and it took his fear-addled mind several seconds to realize that it was only a shoe and not her tousled mane or tail.

“Ponyfeathers,” he cursed under his breath. She was in his head after all, poisoning his thoughts, sabotaging his sanity.

“Why don’t you just come and out so we can settle this face to face, you demated stack of shit!” he shouted at the empty room. “You scared I’ll wipe that ugly grin off your face?”

His nerves shot, he started to say more, started to demand that Pinks tell him what she had done with Scope... And then he remembered the body bag.

He stormed into the bathroom like a monsoon, all but kicking the door off its hinges. “If you’ve hurt him, I swear I’ll—!” His threat—that bold and furious declaration of war against the madmare—fizzled into a slew of half-coherent curses and hateful slurs. Frantic hooves reached for the body bag like the claws of some rabid predator reaching for fresh meat. But his hooves were useless here; this was a task better suited for talons or fangs or a razor sharp beak. Lacking these things, he clamped his teeth around the zipper and tugged.

The smell of dead flesh struck his nose like a punch. Now the corpse was exposed from the torso up—a dead caterpillar lying in a torn cocoon. It was an orange-haired stallion, and his green eyes were still open, still gaping in nameless terror at the last horror her ever knew.

Pinstripe jumped away, heart pounding, mouth gaping, throat shuddering as it filled with noiseless alarm. He stumbled backwards into a wall of shower curtains, yanking them down with thrashing limbs as he fell. The curtains smothered his cries as he wrestled with them. The more he struggled, the more entangled he became, until finally, with a desperate wriggling and squirming, he managed to kick them away. Once free, he ran from the bathroom, stumbled down the stairs and dashed headlong through the empty house, tripping several times as he fled.

And then he was gone, screaming and weeping and sprinting into the night.

A raucous blur of black and white raced down the sidewalk and nearly crashed into Hazelnut, an earth stallion who wore the hollow-cheeked face of a pony much older than himself. Hazel was sweeping the sidewalk outside of his liquor store, standing upright with a broom in his forehooves, when the blur sped by. It had been a sprinting zebra, he noticed, likely a junkie having a very bad trip. After a dejected headshake and a few more lackadaisical sweeps, he went back into his liquor store, wondering if he should stay open a bit later tonight.

Despite having lived much of his life in the most dangerous city in Equestria, Hazel had always been a chipper pony, but tonight he felt disenchanted. A friend of his had died earlier today, a fellow storeowner named Decaf, and Hazel was in no hurry to close shop and go home to face the silence of his darkened bedroom. After learning of Decaf’s death via news broadcast, he had kept himself busy all afternoon and evening by performing needless task after needless task. He rearranged items on shelves. He took and re-took inventory. And, most recently, he swept the sidewalk outside.

It was late now, and the store was empty and very quiet. Hazel stood behind the front counter and tried to distract himself with a magazine, but couldn’t concentrate on what he was reading. He would read a paragraph, his mind would drift back the news broadcast, and he would have to reread the same paragraph because he couldn’t remember it.

After attempting to read this same paragraph for a fifth time, a customer came in. Judging by her languid movements and threadbare clothing, Hazel assumed the customer was a homeless wino. They were a common sight on quiet nights like this, and often the last customers to shuffle into Hazel’s store. He set the magazine aside and greeted the old mare with a friendly smile and a nod, happy to have some distraction from the indecipherable paragraph and the memory of the reporter’s dour voice.

The wino stumbled through the store with a clownish, exaggerated wobble, as if meaning to draw attention to her apparent drunkenness. Hazel watched the hooded figure retrieve a bottle of liquor and wobble up the front counter. He grinned inwardly at the silly drunk. She was a comforting sight to him, as all the late night winos were. Most Manehattanites were short with the city’s homeless drunks: they shoved past them on crowded sidewalks and often ignored their humble requests for spare change. But Hazel had nothing but empathy for them, and he sometimes gave them discounts on alcohol when they were short a few bits. In strange way, he even envied them. Their lives seemed so simple; they were always too entranced by the spell of intoxication to realize what a miserable place Manehattan was.

The wino set her prize down in front of Hazel and asked for a pack of cigarettes and book of matches from behind the counter. Up close, he noticed a slight dreariness to the mare’s movements.

“Long day, stranger?” said Hazel as he rang up and bagged the items.

“The longest,” answered the wino, a faint slur in her words. “You hear about what happened at that store further uptown? Bunch’a crazy thugs tore it pieces. I was there, ya know. Saw the whole thing go down with my own two eyes.”

“Yeah, I heard.” Hazel’s heart plunged like boulder tossed in a lake. “A friend of mine died because of all that… senseless insanity.”

“What a coincidence…” Before Hazel knew what was happening, the wino’s gloved hooves shot forward and clamped around his neck, squeezing with a python’s strength. “…A friend of mine died today because of my senseless insanity—hehehehehehe!”

Hazel knocked over the plastic bag as he twisted in the mare’s grip. Scrambling to free himself, he lashed out at her face and managed to land a blow that snapped her head back. Her muzzle jerked up, facing the ceiling, and her hood fell away, revealing a thicket of frizzy pink hair. She laughed, front hooves still gripping his neck, and her gaze fell from the ceiling. It was heavy with murderous intent, dropping on him with the weight and sharpness of a guillotine.

With a lunatic’s strength, the mare hoisted Hazel up by his throat and threw him backwards. He crashed into the wall behind him before falling to his haunches, his head swimming more from fear than pain.

Before he could regain his senses, the mare’s gloved hooves were back around his throat, and his back was pressed hard to the wall. A knife slide from one of her sleeves, held in place by some hidden mechanism. She pressed it against Hazel’s neck, drawing a trickle of blood. The blade was cold, but not as cold as the active blue eyes or the scarred grin.

“Stop me if you’ve heard this one before.” Pinks licked her lips, smearing a bit of her makeup. “What do a bored griffin, a cowardly dog, a lonely zebra, a one-eyed earth mare, and a clown all have in common?”

“P-please don’t hurt me!” Hazel cried. “The combination to the safe is ‘23—4—12’. Just take whatever you want and go.”

“Ponyfeathers, I guess you have heard that one before,” she said, her lips curling down in a comical parody of a frown.

Hazel shut his eyes and tried to shrink away, but there was nowhere to go with his back to the wall. This wasn’t happening, he told himself. He had owned this store for five years and had never been the victim of even one robbery, so there was absolutely no way this was happening.

“Come on now! Let’s not be a scaredy-pony. No one likes a scaredy-pony!” Pinks patted one of Hazel’s cheeks, making him squirm. He kept his eyes shut tight. “It’s the scars, isn’t it? You won’t look at me because of the scars.” A giggle flitted up toward the ceiling. “It’s fine, really; they don’t bite, you know. Go ahead and take a look. If you do, I promise what comes next won’t hurt too badly.”

Hazel sniveled, fighting back a stream of threatening tears, and slowly opened his eyes.

“There’s a good pony,” she crooned. “Hey… you wanna know how I got ‘em?”

Hazel remained silent. Pinks didn’t wait for an answer. She wetted her lips and began her grim tale.

“My daddy was… a very loving stallion. He was always laughing, always smiling, always making up fun games for me and my sisters to play,” she began, her tone low and theatrical. “And one day, Daddy made up a very special game. It was a tickling game, and Daddy was very, very ticklish. The rules of the game were simple: Daddy would take turns tickling me and my sisters, and whoever laughed the quietest was the winner. Daddy said we had to play quietly or we’d wake Mommy. He said Mommy wouldn’t like the tickling game. He said it was just for Daddy’s and pretty little daughters.”

Pinks licked her lips and made a lewd smacking sound.

Hazel cringed but remained silent.

“But I loved Mommy very, very much, and I wanted to make her happy. I knew I wasn’t supposed to, but I told her about the tickling game. Daddy was so happy when he tickled me, and I wanted Mommy to share in that happiness.”

Hazel made the mistake of meeting The Prankster’s hyperactive gaze as she spoke. It was endless. Her eyes were bottomless pits, and every thinkable sin, every devious thought and violent impulse that had ever manifested in the collective consciousness of equine existence had been tossed into the pits—falling and falling and falling for entirety.

“But instead of making Mommy happy, the game made her very sad and very, very angry.” An expression like sadness came over Pinks, and her bottom lip quivered. “With tears rolling down her face, she took one of my sister’s dolls… And she sat me down on her bed… And she made me show her where Daddy had tickled me…”

She blinked. Licked her lips.

“…And I told Mommy that Daddy had tickled me here…”

The blade at Hazel’s throat slid down to his chest.

“…And here…”

It poked at his stomach.

“…And way down here…”

It tapped against his groin, its sheer coldness making his breath catch.

“After that, Mommy and Daddy got into a big fight, and she said we couldn’t play the tickling game anymore. You see, Daddy was right. He said Mommy wouldn’t like the tickling game. He said Mommy was jealous because she was old and ugly, and because he didn’t like tickling her anymore.

“When the fight was over, Mommy made Daddy promise to never play the game ever again. But Daddy didn’t listen, and Mommy didn’t like that…” She licked her lips, lifting the blade back to Hazel’s neck. “Not. One. Bit.

“So one night, as me and my sisters are laughing after another fun game, Mommy comes into my room… with a knife clutched in her hooves. She walks up to Inky and puts the blade in her mouth, crying while she does it…”

Hazel cringed and squirmed as Pinks forced the knife into his mouth, his tearful eyes begging for mercy.

“…And she says: WHAT’RE YOU SMILING AT!”

The blade sliced open the left side of Hazel’s face in one fluent stroke, carving a bloody gash from mouth to ear.

“…Then she puts the blade in Blinky’s mouth…” A titter rolled off her tongue. “…WHAT’RE YOU SMILING AT!”

Hazel screamed as the knife worked its terrible magic again, splitting the opposite side of his face with equal ease and brutality. He clutched at one shredded corner of his mouth, hot tears streaking down his red cheeks while bubbling snot ran from his nose.

“Then she put the blade in my mouth…” Pinks paused for a moment. “Hey—” she flashed a smile that was too wide for her face, amused by Hazel’s new crimson grin. “What’re you smiling at?”

With a crazed laugh that was almost a roar, Pinks pushed the knifepoint deep into Hazel’s mouth, feeding him the blade one bitter inch at a time. He gurgled, choking on a mouthful of blood as it pierced the back of his throat; and during his final moment a morbid kind of humor tickled his brain. He might have smiled if he were able to—he might have even laughed.

He couldn’t believe it. Five years without so much as a robbery, and now the city’s very own Clown Princess of Crime was stuffing a knife down his throat. Five years of buildup for one grisly five-second punch line. It’s all a joke, he thought, as the world around him grew quiet and dark. It’s all a stupid, unfunny prank.

Then his eyes rolled back, his body convulsed and he drowned in a cataract of his own blood.

Pinks withdrew her knife and watched Hazel’s lifeless form slide down the wall. He came to a final rest seated on his haunches, his head drooping forward, his forelegs flaccid at his sides like the limbs of a haggard doll. Blood continued pouring from his mouth, pooling in his lap and spilling onto the floor.

He was still smiling.

Pinks took a moment to bask in the artistry of her grim work. Her smile shrank from the grin of manic killer to the small, content expression of mare reveling in the joy of a simple pleasure.

She retrieved the bottle of liquor from the plastic bag, unscrewed the cap and took a long swig. Then she hopped up on the counter and spat the bitter liquid on the floor, and on the face of the dead stallion.

“Aw, what’s the matter?” said Pinks, staring into the security camera that hung from the ceiling. “Was that not funny enough for you?” She threw the bottle to floor, smashing it, then fumbled around in the bag for the book of matches. “Well then, stop me if you’ve heard this one before. A clown walks into a city… and sets it on fire…” She struck a match and dropped it, watching with childish glee as flames engulfed the dead stallion.

“Fine, don’t laugh, then,” She scoffed at the security camera. “You can stay quiet all you want, but I know you’re there, watching with those big scary eyes of yours.”

She sat down on the edge of the counter and made herself comfortable, swinging her hind legs like a foal sitting on a park bench.

“Do you know why they let me out of the asylum?” she asked the camera. “It’s because the doctors finally realized what you and I have known all along. I’m not crazy. I’m not. You’re the crazy one, with your silly little hat and your silly little cape. You’re the one who belongs in the madhouse. You’re the one who’s wrong this time. You!—not me!” She leaned forward and trusted an accusing hoof at the camera, flecks of spit flying from her lips. Then she fell quiet and listened to the flames crackle for what seemed like a long time.

“And these, uh, these so-called… innocents,” she began anew. “They don’t want to be saved. They don’t want your—hehehehe—your order. Your justice. They just want to laugh, and I’m gonna prove that.”

Her composure returned as she spoke, and her active blue eyes glinted in the firelight, vivid with renewed self-assurance. She was right. She had to be. She needed to be. It was the only thing she still needed—the last trace of the pony she had been before that fateful night of blood and pain and broken promises and shattered dreams.

And severed bonds. Ruined friendships.

Sometimes, if she screwed her eyes shut and concentrated very hard, she could still remember the vague shapes of their faces, those haunting specters of her old life, but she could never hold the shapes together for very long. They always blurred and twisted into a single black miasma, becoming a shapeless, formless smear of nonexistence. And if she stared at the smear for long enough, eventually a pair of eyes would emerge from it—her eyes—like glowing orbs rising to the surface of a tar pit.

Pinks reached into her pocket and withdrew a shred of tattered, blood-stained fabric. “The ponies of this city… they’re gonna run to me,” she said with an easy grin, “and they’re gonna beg me to make them smile.”

Carefully, she unfolded the piece of cloth, handling it the way one might handle a priceless heirloom. Indeed it was priceless. It was a simple dark purple mask, with two opaque lenses stitched into it for eyes.

She pulled the mask over her face and remembered the look of madness in Digger’s eyes as he lunged for her throat in the dark kitchen. She recalled the panic that shattered Grift’s poise, and the bark of her pistols firing blindly.

And she remembered the fear swimming through their features, so different from the terror she conjured with her scars and her laughs.

“They’re still afraid of you.” She caressed the tattered fabric on her face. “But you can’t rule them with fear alone; that’s the one thing you never understood. They’ll get bored of you. They’ll find a new monster to hide away under their beds—they always do.”

She sniffed at the mask and purred. It still smelled like her.

“But they’ll never get bored of me. Do you know why?” Pinks paused as if waiting for an answer. “It’s because they love me! The cops and the crooks—and the nice ponies, and the mean ones, and the ones who don’t care either way—they all love me! And the real goody-goodies… the ones like Celestia and Luna and Cadence and the so-called Elements of Harmony… they love me most of all. I tell all their favorite jokes. The ones they’re too scared to tell themselves.”

With a flick of her wrist, Pinks slid her knife from its hiding place in her sleeve. She parted her lips and cut a wide grin into the mask, drawing scarlet trickles from each corner of her mouth as she did so.

Standing upright on the counter, her eyes shifted from the security camera to the hanging monitor. She looked at herself, amused by what she saw. The mask more closely resembled a face now, though its eyes were cold and lifeless and its grin bereft of joy.

“What’re you smiling at!” she exclaimed to the empty room.

Then, cackling with a hyena’s voice, she hopped down from the counter and fled from the store, leaving Hazel to his vital work of sitting and burning. It was important work indeed; she had left him there to fulfill a solemn duty. He was to herald her return, for whoever happened upon his corpse—that blazing sacrifice laid upon Manhattan’s demonic altar—would know that madness had once again descended upon the city, and that this time, it was here to stay for good.

Everything was coming together according to plan. That was her greatest weakness, the only flaw in her methodology: she didn’t think The Prankster made plans. She couldn’t see the method hidden in the madness. Nopony could, and they would all burn for blindness...

Somewhere in Manehattan a griffin was cleaning her pistols, her face frozen in expressionless concentration.

Somewhere a diamond dog was baying at the moon, afraid of what he was and starving for a meal that would scream for him.

Somewhere an angry one-eyed earth mare was sleeping soundly for the first time in years, dreaming of revenge; and somewhere else her rival was doing the same.

Somewhere a grown zebra was weeping for his mother, yearning to be cradled and longing for the childhood this city had stolen from him.

And here—right here in the black heart of downtown Manehattan, the rotten, festering heart of Equestria, and maybe the entire world—a clown was laughing as she barreled down the street in a carriage drawn by tongue-less mares…

And somewhere high above them all, a faceless monster was watching…

Arc ONE: Chapter 9

Arc ONE: Chapter 9

Morning light filtered in through Blitzkrieg’s open blinds. He was sitting at the edge of his bed, staring blankly at a note in his hooves. The words on the paper were barely legible, the end result of manic pen strokes. The letters bent and slanted with unsettling aggression; Krieg could almost feel their desire to leap from the page and slash him with their sharp edges.

A sardonic chuckle tried to rumble up from his gut but was strangled by the dread knotting his throat. His impending doom was too bleak to dismiss with a laugh. A bloody coup was on the horizon; he felt in the marrow of his old bones. Soon the empire of reason and order he had worked so hard to build would be smashed and burned before his eyes. Soon the kings and queens of the Manehattan’s court of sinners would be ripped from their thrones, and the court jester would reclaim her rightful standing as the ruler of the city of fools. The thought was a tightly packed ball of maggots in his skull, squirming as it ate him from the inside out.

He could have killed The Prankster, insisted some callow remnant of his far away youth—he could have taken something hard and blunt to her skull years ago. Surely there must have been an opportunity for such work, a moment, even a fleeting one, when he was close enough and her guard was lowered. He pondered a minute, but couldn’t recall such a time.

The idea of lasting order in Manehattan seemed equally ludicrous now. Yes, there was order in Manehattan. It was the vicious order of the rich and the selfish, but it tempered many a lofty ambition and kept Manehattan from being destroyed by its own sinful nature.

Blitzkrieg had played a vital role in establishing this malignant order. After The Prankster’s incarceration five years ago, Krieg proposed a plan to divide her territories among the city’s four major gangs. The Oranges, the Shadowbolts, Filthy Rich and the Choir Boys, and the Daughters of Discord were each given their own section of the city to lord over, and Krieg had made certain that the newly established borders were respected by all. There had still been fighting among the groups, little skirmishes here and there, but over time the intelligent criminals like Filthy Rich and Mandarin Orange had come to live by a simple truth: peace in Manehattan was more profitable than constant war.

But now that The Prankster was free… Well, at least Krieg had done the smart thing and tried to appease her. She was, after all, still the leader of the Shadowbolts. Though he hated her with all his heart, Krieg had aligned himself with Pinks years ago in order to level the playing field between himself and the city’s wealthier, more resourceful criminals. He had been a hungry fool then, and had forgotten that Manehattan fed on hungry fools.

Or was he a fool now? He certainly felt like one as he shook in the morning chill, his hooves stayed by indecision. Almost lackadaisically, he began weighing his options.

He could fight, but then he would surely lose everything.

He could flee, but then he would lose the one thing that still mattered to him.

Or he could yield… It was the easiest choice of the three, and Blitzkrieg was growing too old to make the difficult choices. With his anxiety-induced nausea at its height, he rose from his bed and left the room, dropping the note as he went. He had finally come to terms with its message and no longer wished to look at it.

rInGeR…cOMe…KIlL…MIdNigHT…zEbrA…ALoNE…

were the only words he had been able to decipher, but the message was clear enough. He had done wrong by his son two nights ago when he sent him to retrieve The Prankster on his own. He wouldn’t make the same mistake twice. With his mind set to purpose, he headed downstairs and prepared to face his ruin.

He had come to a decision. He would pay her a visit tonight. He would go to The Prankster and try to reason with a force of nature.

Orange Rind Orange scratched his ear and yawned, much in same manner as Spade, the diamond dog hunched at his side. His legs were tired from standing for nearly two hours without rest, and the gear strapped to his belt—a flashlight, a baton, a ring of keys, a canister of mace—felt heavier than it had any right to be.

Also hanging from his belt was a metal rectangular box that resembled a child’s tin lunch pail. The box was a storage unit that housed a length of retractable cord. The cord projected from a button-sized opening on the belt, and by flipping a switch on the belt’s left side (which resembled a light switch), Rind could control the length of the cord, forcing more through the opening or retracting it back into the metal box.

The end of the cord was latched to Spade’s collar. Rind thought it was a rather complicated system for what ultimately amounted to a leash, but according to his fellow Oranges, the Pulley (its informal nickname) was originally used for other things. Some believed that before becoming a mass produced product, the Pulley had been designed by mysterious vigilante, The Mare-Do-Well, as a kind of grappling hook system.

Rind didn’t believe that. There were all sorts of rumors about the Mare-Do-Well’s tech being sold on the black-market after her disappearance five years ago, but they were all bogus. Such stories were merely the fanciful imaginings of the idle and the perpetually bored. Rind was sure of this because he fit neatly into both categories, and had done his share of rumor spreading in the past.

Rind was most always bored. He was bored now; he had grown sick of staring at the vacant lot that separated him from the road leading back to the heart of Manehattan.

The lot was ocean-expansive. It had been solid asphalt once, but over the years nature had been gradually reclaiming it. Brown grass, tangles of weeds and even a few drab flowers had busted up through fissures in the worn concrete—a battle-hardened battalion of foliage rising to seize the land by force. It was a full-scale revolt, and the violent clash between the natural and the hoof-made had left the lot cracked, brown and hideous.

A tall chain-link fence loomed off in the distance, militant-rigid and topped with barbed wire. Seeing it made Rind think of Stableblock Penitentiary, the island prison off the coast of Manehattan where he had spent the last three years of his life. The thought alone was enough to make his stomach squeeze into a golf ball. Prison life had nearly killed him, both literally and figuratively, and after his release, Rind swore he would never go back.

Behind him towered the metal roller door that served as the back entrance to The Pound. The Pound was a dilapidated three-story textile factory that Mandarin Orange had purchased and converted into a holding place for his son’s exotic pets. The Oranges who worked there nicknamed it ‘The Pound’ because when Blood was a young foal his father had filled the factory with nothing but various species of canine. Blood was fascinated by most every creature that walked the earth, but his infatuation with animals had begun with an interest in dogs.

Though the drudgery of working security at The Pound reminded Rind of prison life, he didn’t mind it too much. It was boring work indeed, but it was also criminally lucrative. The well-being of his pets was very important to Blood, and he paid ponies like Rind an absurd amount of money to stand in one place and stare at a fence for most of the day.

The only parts of the job that bothered him were the occupational hazards. The Pound was located in Discord’s Kitchen, the most dangerous place in Manehattan and far from Orange family territory. The Kitchen belonged to the Daughters of Discord, the most despised gang in Manehattan; and although they rarely meddled in Blood’s affairs, the glitzy piece of graffiti that read “D.O.D.” in highly stylized lettering on the factory’s rear entrance was a clear indication of who owned what in the Kitchen.

Spade whined and pawed at the collar of his leash, which, unlike most diamond dog collars, was not adorned with gemstones.

“Tell me about it, pal,” said Rind as he scratched Spade behind the ear, soothing away some of the dog’s restlessness. He reached into a pouch on his belt and withdrew a bone-shaped dog treat. Spade nearly bit Rind’s hoof getting at the treat, which he devoured in one covetous chomp. The snack was delicious, but rather than curb Spade’s hunger, the morsel only whetted his appetite. His ears wilted as he nuzzled Rind’s foreleg, hoping to coax another treat from his friend.

“Sorry, that was the last one.” Rind patted the dog’s head tenderly. “I promise once this shift is over I’ll see that you get real meal in your stomach. How’s that sound, boy?”

A puppy-like whine escaped Spade, and he looked off toward the fence, his drawn face a clear portrait of the hurt in his heart and the hollowness in his stomach. He understood that Rind meant well, but he was growing sick of being lied to every day. Spade was one Blood Orange’s slaves, and his master insisted that his dogs eat as little as possible. In his madness, Blood Orange believed that extreme hunger made his dogs fiercer hunters. He fed them only enough to keep them alive and relatively fit, though most inevitably grew weak and sickly from malnourishment.

Even as the words left his mouth, Rind knew he could never make good on the promise to get Spade a proper meal. It was a promise he made often but never kept. Members of the family who were caught feeding the Blood’s pets anything besides their daily rations were punished with extreme prejudice—usually by Blood himself, who had a fondness for dismemberment and enjoyed working with dull blades. There were also rumors that he kept the limbs of his dismembered victims, and that he slept with his favorite severed body parts tucked under his pillow.

Of course Rind didn’t believe any of that, but he had still never once worked up the nerve to make good on his promise to Spade. He liked the idea of it, and he sympathized with the plight of the slave dogs, but he wasn’t brave or foolish enough to risk incurring Blood’s fury.

They secured their post in silence for another two hours, intermittently pacing up and down the empty lot to stretch their legs. Spade was in an especially foul mood today, but even so, having the loyal dog at his side comforted Rind. That said, today, more so than any other day, he seemed to notice how skeletal Spade’s frame was. His limbs were wires that looked too scrawny to bear to his weight, and his neck was a miserable stalk of enfeebled muscle, straining under a heavy skull. And had his ribcage always been so pronounced? For fuck's sake, Rind could have counted each bone from two blocks away.

A rending pain flowered in Rind’s chest. It was that damn fence, he thought, with its wiry frame and barbed headdress, taunting him, reminding him of prison life—of the days when he was the dog, collared and leashed and fed scraps. He pressed his lips into a narrow line as he walked Spade around to the front of the building, nodding and making grunting sounds of acknowledgement at his fellow guards.

His cousin Orange Pulp Orange, who was posted at The Pound’s front entrance, regarded Rind with a granite look that warned the young stallion to stay at his post. Reluctantly, Rind obeyed the silent command and retook his position outside of the roller door. He was staring down at his hooves, hyperaware of the fence and fighting to keep his eyes from it, when he heard a rustling sound off in the distance.

He looked and spotted a white-furred female diamond dog wearing a pearl-encrusted collar. The female was digging hurriedly, apparently trying to burrow beneath the fence. Wild diamond dogs, Rind knew, where extraordinary diggers, but this one must have been born and raised in the city, because her shoveling was slow and imprecise.

He was just about yell out something vulgar, hoping to scare away the female, when he felt Spade lurch forward, pulling the leash rigid and nearly tugging Rind to the ground.

“Easy, boy.” Rind widened his stance and planted his hooves, becoming an anchor that halted Spade’s attempted advance.

Spade barked excitedly, his tail wagging. Hearing the bark, the female’s head jerked up to acknowledge Spade. She paused in her digging. Her ears perked, the tips pointing forward, and her jaw fell open to reveal a tongue that hung low and bobbed subtly. She sniffed the air, nostrils flaring as she delighted in a musky scent that was potent and replete with enticing masculinity. Then she faced down and resumed digging, until finally she shoveled away enough earth to squeeze under the fence.

Once inside she began walking, though not toward Rind and Spade. She hugged the fence, strutting with a lewd saunter that drew attention to her hips, thighs and rear. Spade pulled harder on the leash, slobbering, tail wagging eagerly. Rind didn’t notice his friend's behavior; he was so disgusted by the female’s display that it took him several seconds to realize what was happening.

“No fucking way!” he said once his brain had coiled around the situation. “We’re on the clock. What if Pulp or somepony else waders back here and sees you?”

Spade whined. He turned to face Rind, and his normally narrow eyes became dinner-plates, pleading with Rind, begging to be allowed this one thing. Just this one thing.

“Ponyfeathers.” Rind flicked a switch on his belt that unfastened the cord from the Spade’s collar. The line zipped back into the button-sized opening and folded neatly into the metal box. “Just… make it quick, okay.”

Spade licked Rind’s face in celebration, and Rind returned the show of affection with pets and scratches behind the ear. Then Spade ambled off to meet the white-furred female, and when she saw him approaching, she started forward and met him halfway.

They sniffed at each other’s muzzles, their snouts brushing cutely. She flirted with Spade, circling him and sniffing at his privates, her tail wagging ecstatically. She had a full, healthy, shapely body; she wasn’t drawn or gaunt like the females Spade had shared a cell with inside the pound. He spun round and sniffed her back, aroused by her smell, and by the warmth and closeness of her eager body.

Rind knew this was a bad idea, but as he watched the female lead Spade behind an especially thick pocket of shrubbery, he decided that it was the fair thing to do. Spade had been his best friend for years, but he had never truly gone out of his way to help alleviate the poor dog’s suffering. Even now he wasn’t inconveniencing himself all that much. Nopony ever wandered around back during his shift, which would be over in a few minutes anyway. So no, this wasn’t exactly him bending over backwards for his friend.

In fact, even this small miracle didn’t feel like enough. Spade had nothing. Absolutely nothing. He suffered immensely at the hooves of a sociopath: enduring hunger and cages, beatings and humiliations, collars and leashes…

Rind thought once more of his own bondage at Stableblock—how it had driven him half mad and filled him with an anger and emptiness he had never known before. In that moment, he resolved to finally make good on his promise to get Spade a proper meal. He had recently learned of a place downtown in griffin territory that served meat. Beef, even. Rind decided to go there after his shift and buy Spade a big, juicy steak. And if word that he had been feeding the slave dogs ever found Blood's ear… Well, he was sure there were worse fates than having his legs hacked off with a dull hatchet. He couldn’t think of any at the moment, but he was sure there must be at least a few.

Heavy pants, moans and wet noises sounded from behind the shrubs.

“Nasty,” Rind grumbled. He turned to face the roller door, thinking it might be rude to just stand there and watch the bushes tremble.

After the dogs had been going at it for a good while, Rind heard a piercing yip that was different from the other lovemaking sounds. He couldn’t tell which of the dogs had uttered it.

“Spade?” said Rind after a short silence, still facing the factory entrance. “Spade? You okay, pal? Spade? Spa—”

Before he could finish calling his friend’s name, a pair of strong forehooves seized his mane from behind and drove his face into the roller door. His nose shattered on impact; he tasted iron and blood. Stunned, his legs buckled and he dropped to the floor, plopping down flat on his stomach.

Disoriented, he heard barks and growls come from the bushes, followed by whines and hurt noises. He tried to stand and hurry to his friend’s aid, but his attacker—a massive earth stallion judging by the weight—stomped the center of his back. Something in his spine cracked, something important, and he screamed as sharp pain knifed through his back. He tried to scramble up, but his attacker’s haunches plopped down on his tailbone, pinning him to the ground.

He thrashed, but no avail; his attacker was too heavy and his spine too damaged to bear such a burden. He tried to scream for help, for his friend Spade, but a hoof found its way over his mouth, muffling the cries. It jerked his head back, lifting his chin off the ground, while another braced against back of his head. Rind grabbed frantically at his attacker’s hooves, desperately trying to break the powerful grip.

“You are strong for being such a little colt,” laughed the pony on his back, the voice gruff, but just feminine enough to be a mare’s.

The hooves began twisting Rind’s head, straining his neck. Tears streaked down his face; his back legs kicked uselessly; his tail flailed; his muscles screamed; bullet-sweat rolled down his brow. He grunted into his attacker’s hoof and tried to redouble his efforts, but his strength was fading fast.

Where was Spade? his fear addled mind shouted because his mouth couldn’t. Where was his loyal friend, and what right did he have to call on him now? He thought about the dog’s taut skin, the ribs he could count from two blocks away, and he hated himself for not being there when Spade needed him. He had no right to seek his friend's aid now. This was on him.

In a final effort to free himself, Rind pulled hard enough to adjust his attacker’s grip, so that her fetlock slid over his mouth. His teeth sank into her flesh, drawing a gush of blood into his mouth. He gagged on the iron taste, but locked his jaws and held on.

But even this final countermeasure was no good. His attacker only laughed at his efforts and continued twisting. Rind felt a heavy tension building in his neck, slowly, painstakingly, the mounting agony almost beyond comprehension. The world was turning clockwise. In his final moments, he thought about the promise he couldn’t keep, the meal he would never share with Spade—then his chin twisted past his shoulder and his vertebrae broke, not with a violent snap, but a horrible din of popping, crumbling, splintering noises.

Sure that her victim was dead, Twenty dropped the limp body and sat down on her haunches, winded. She sucked on her wounded fetlock and admired her work. She was impressed. Rind was lying on his stomach but staring up into the clear midday blue, his neck twisted a full one-hundred and eighty degrees.

She was still patting her own back when Flour appeared from behind the shrubbery, her fur matted, her maw wet with Spade’s blood. She approached the fresh corpse lying at Twenty’s hooves, ignoring the presence of the muscle-bound mare.

Groping with hurried paws, Flour searched Rind’s body for keys. While searching, her paw bumped the metal box that held the bundled cord, and she paused a moment, one eyebrow arched in puzzlement.

“Muscle Pony, tell Flour what this looks like,” she ordered, holding the metal box in her paw.

Twenty scratched her head. “Is small metal box?”

“Not box. Belt. Tell Flour what belt looks like.”

Twenty took a closer look. “Is black and full of pockets, like police belt. Why are you asking question? Dead pony is lying out in open; we should be hiding body.”

Flour ignored Twenty’s question and began searching the belt’s pouches. She had never seen it before, obviously, but she remembered hearing Grift describe it once: black, thick, full of pouches where Mask Pony kept her gadgets. When Flour’s paw brushed over the switch, she flipped it and listened to the whir of the unraveling cord. The line spilled out from an opening in the belt, spinning into a pile on the floor beside Rind’s corpse.

That was wrong, Flour thought. The cord was supposed to shoot out like a bullet, not spill so lazily. And where was the metal spike? Or was it a hook?

“We taking this too.” Flour stripped off Rind’s belt and handed it to Twenty. “Here, Muscle Pony wear it.”

Twenty fastened the belt around her waist and awaited further orders. She disliked taking orders from a mangy diamond dog, but she was working for The Prankster now and Flour was apparently the Carnies’ third in command, behind Grift and the Clown Princess of Crime herself. She was definitely craftier than the average brainless mutt, but Twenty wasn’t thrilled about being led around by a blind dog, especially since she was half-blind herself.

The blind leading the half-blind, Twenty pondered, mildly amused by the thought. While she was distracted, a pair of keys thrown by Flour bounced off her temple.

“Open door,” ordered Flour.

Rubbing her head, Twenty scowled at her new boss and lifted the keys off the floor. She looked down at the key ring in her hoof, then up at the roller door. “I can’t. The door is…” She groped for the right word. “Is like garage door. Like kind you are opening with push of button.”

Flour palmed the door’s surface, mumbling curses. Then she remembered the belt. “Muscle Pony search belt. Find button.”

Twenty did as instructed and found a button on the belt that was beside the switch. She pressed it, and the roller door started to raise, the letters ‘D.O.D.’ gradually disappearing from top to bottom.

The odd pair sidled inside the factory and closed the door behind them. A manticore bristled and growled from within its cage, making Twenty jump. There were cages everywhere she looked. Cages lining the walls. Cages hanging from the ceiling. Cages stacked upon cages that formed rows of growling, roaring, humming, buzzing, chirping, squawking walls.

Animals and monsters of all sorts inhabited the cages, and their arrangement was ungoverned by any sort of classification or order, at least none that Twenty could see.

Flour covered her mouth with a wide paw and tittered in her usual way. “Flour hoping Muscle Pony not scared of monsters. We here to steal monsters.”

The clangor of hooves stamping over pavement roused Pinstripe from sleep. The sun hurt his eyes and his body ached all over as he sat up and wiped a strand of saliva from his chin. He looked around, and when he realized where he was, a feeling of self-loathing tore at his heart with hooked talons.

He stood up slowly, his back in knots from having spent the night sleeping on concrete. Blinking away a threatening tear, his gaze climbed up the face of an ugly brown building that he recognized as his mother’s apartment complex. He couldn’t believe what he was seeing. Somehow, he’d once again found his back to this building.

He did this all the time. He wandered up to this building whenever life overwhelmed him, drawn by a deep-seated longing for his mother, and for the affection denied him as child. Sadly, he had never once summoned the courage to enter. His mother had disowned him when he was sixteen, after learning of his dealings with the Shadowbolts, and the scars of her rejection ran deep. He was afraid to see her again, terrified of what she might say or do. He had never forgotten the look of disgust in her eyes the night she threw him out, and, remembering it now, his mind drifted back to that gloomy night.

He had come home late after a night of running errands for Blitzkrieg: nothing serious or dangerous, just delivering packages for the old stallion. His mother had stayed up late that night, sick with worry over her son. When he arrived home, he was surprised to find her sitting in the old living room sofa—the one with the flat cushions and the copious stains—but part of him was glad that she was still awake. He had something exciting to show her that couldn’t wait until morning.

Buzzing with elation, he unfastened his saddlebag and tossed it down on the filthy carpet. The bag’s clasp flung open as it landed, and several coins spilled out, filling the sparse room with a metallic jangling sound.

“And this is just half of it, Moms,” Pinstripe declared proudly, beaming. “The rest I get tomorrow morning.” He scooped up a single coin, hurried to his mother’s side and placed it in one of her tiny hooves. “We got nothing to worry about anymore. I’m gonna buy you a big house uptown, and one of those fancy Steamer things, and all kinds of clothing and jewelry—and I’m gonna take you to the biggest, fanciest restaurants, and I’m gonna—”

“Where did you get all this?” His mother’s voice was distant. She looked down at the coin, eyes welling with sorrow, then glared up at her son. She repeated the question, sterner this time. “Where did you get this?”

“What does it matter?” Pinstripe wasn’t rattled in the slightest by his mother’s reaction. He had expected some resistance at first, but was sure the prospect of being rich would win her over. He just needed to wait for this new reality to sink in.

So he waited—and when his mother finally gave her reply, after a long, penetrating silence, the words that tumbled from her mouth crushed him.

“Get out.” That was it. That was all she had to say to her only son.

“But Moms,” he pleaded, a nervous laugh breaking at the back of his throat. “We ain’t never had anything before, and now we got a chance to have everything. So maybe I have to do a little dirt to get it. Maybe some ponies have to get stepped on. So what? It’s ours, Moms. It’s yours.” He scooped a big pile of coins in his hooves and held them up for her to see, begging her with eyes on the verge of tears.

“Get out of my home.”

Something in him snapped. He had never once considered raising a hoof to his mother, but now he wanted to slap her until she wised up and saw things his way. “What do you mean, ‘my home’?” He dropped the coins in her lap and placed his front hooves on her shoulders, pushing her deeper into the old cushions. “You think this shit hole is yours? You think you own this?” A dry scoff crawled up his throat; he spat it in his mother’s face. “Miss another month’s rent, Moms, and then let’s see what you own. You own don’t own a damn thing! None of this is yours—not when some asshole can take it away whenever he likes!”

He shook her soundly, but it was the truth of his words detonated the ticking time bomb in her chest.

“Get out!” She shoved her son away, causing him to slip on the spilled coins. He instantly jerked up to his haunches, and saw the saddlebag hurtling toward his face in a wide, looping arch. The bag struck his temple, heavy with the mass of coins that hadn’t spilled out.

Then it struck him second time, sending up a splash of bits—a jingling, jangling, twinkling, sparkling mist of solid gold. Pinstripe peeked up from between the forearms that shielded his face, watching coins twirl overhead. They seemed to hang there on invisible strings, and he saw his future gazing at him from their shiny faces. He saw the power that could one day be his, the respect, and he sprang to his back legs and threw open his front hooves, meaning to claim what was owed to him.

His mother shoved him again, her face red with hysteria, and again he fell to his haunches. “Get out!” Her scream was beastly, a monster’s roar erupting from her small frame.

“For Luna’s sake, Moms, would ya calm down a minute!” He tried to scoop up the spilled coins, but now his mother’s tiny hooves were beating against his shoulder, distracting him, making him drop one for every two he managed to gather. “Just let me… just... let…” There were too many bits, he realized—too many gleaming chances for a prosperous future—and he couldn’t hold them all. He tried to reach for the bag, but one of those glittering chances sailed through the air and struck his eye, making him yelp in pain.

“Get out! Get out!”

Now she was standing beside the couch and launching coins at him, tears streaming down her flushed face. Clutching his injured eye, Pinstripe snatched up his bag, shoveled in as many bits as he could and fled from his own home, taking the fire escape two and three steps at a time...

He tried to shake off the feeling of shame brought on by the memory but found the task beyond him. He had run from his own home that night, weeping and wailing and sniveling. He had run from the bullies and their taunts, and he had run from the little colt with the stab wound as well. He had run from Scope’s home just last night; and to make matters worse, he had run back his mother’s doorstep, to her teat like a hopelessly frightened foal.

And he was still running from The Prankster. She had planned this. Somehow she had known about his childhood traumas: the trouble with his mother, his attachment issues, his loneliness, his longing to be coddled and cared for, the bullies, the laughs…

She was laughing at him right now. He knew it; he could feel it deep in his boiling blood. The thought enraged him, but his was the helpless, ineffectual rage of a bullied child. He stared down at his front hooves as if they were alien objects. He didn’t know what do with them—he never had. His brain was saturated with desires and ambitions, but he lacked the means, the smarts, the willpower…

He sat down the steps, wallowing in misery and shame. He brooded for a long time… and then a light chuckle escaped him.

This was all a prank he rationalized. Somehow Pinks had known about his past, and she had spent the past twenty-four hours chipping away at his armor, setting him up for the big punch line.

“Okay, Pinks, you got me,” he said, laughing aloud. “I get it. I’m a cowardly little shit. I’m the joke. That’s why they laugh at me. That’s why you’re laughing right now.”

He backed away from the building and stared up at a random fourth story window. His mother lived on that floor. He didn’t honestly believe he was looking up at her window, but he might have been, and the thought brightened his mood.

Tomorrow he would come back here and go inside, he promised himself. Tonight he would go to The Ringer, meet with The Prankster, survive—and tomorrow he would come back this building and visit his mother. He was done running. Done being a joke. Done being laughed at.

He half-expected Pinks to leap out from a bush and congratulate him for getting her prank. When that didn’t happen, he let out a great whooping laugh at such a ridiculous notion and started down the street, practically bouncing.

He continued to laugh as he headed toward the nearest subway station. He had never been very good at laughing before, but he was getting better.

Berry Punch detested The Ringer. She hated the crappy music, the stink of crowded bodies and the sight of grown stallions drooling over naked mares while tossing wads of crumpled bills, or more often, heaps of loose change. She hated the dancers with their practiced smiles, their clothing that drifted to the floor like discarded napkins, their manes that gleamed with the aid of shampoos and leave-in conditioners. The very concept of a strip club baffled Berry; she couldn’t describe the absurdity of it with words. No, to adequately express her feelings about strip clubs, she needed something long and thin to cram down her throat until she gagged and vomited.

As she sat at the bar waiting on her drink, Berry recalled a time when her old partner had tried to explain the strip club phenomena to her. He claimed that the sight of a naked mare was rare in Manehattan because, much like in Canterlot, going around nude was considered culturally unacceptable. And while it was true that most Manehattanites put something on before leaving their homes, Berry still couldn’t see how this shameless spectacle was worth money.

But despite her hatred of this place, Berry came to The Ringer often because happy hour began at noon on weekdays, and didn’t end until midnight, making it less a happy ‘hour’ and more a happy ‘half the day.’ The bartender, a unicorn stallion with a pencil mustache traced on his upper lip, gave a friendly wave as he slid Berry’s mug of beer down the counter. Berry caught her mug and sighed as she watched him pour two more drinks and slide them in the same manner. He seemed determined to serve everypony at the bar without moving from where he stood.

So stupid, Berry thought. Everything in Manehattan was either stupid, inane, broken, or completely crazy, as if the city had been dreamed up by a child who was using comic book and video game references to make up for his lack of real-world knowledge. The Ringer was perhaps the uninspired pinnacle of this slapdash world-building. The top floor was a cathouse, the middle floor a strip club, and the basement, Berry knew, had been modified into a massive underground fight club by Storm Chaser, the crazy retired Guard Pony who owned the place.

A cathouse two floors above a fight club? Really? A virtual marriage of sex and violence, because that wasn’t the most obvious thing ever. Berry could almost hear the girlish squeal in Carrot Top’s voice as she exclaimed how ‘cool’ The Ringer was. How it was like ‘something out of a comic book’.

She took a drink, drowning the thought in cold beer. She loved her partner to pieces, but that didn’t change the fact that Carrot Top was an idiot. Her idiot, yes, but still an idiot. Berry rarely took Carrot out drinking with her because the rookie couldn’t hold her liquor very well. Berry, however, could hold enough booze to drown a large pig, so she didn’t care for the company of lightweights.

Some company was always nice, though. Having a drunken conversation with a stranger at a Manehattan strip club was rarely boring, and Berry came here most every night looking for exactly that.

She was four beers in, and thinking about ordering something stronger, when she noticed a potential impromptu drinking companion stroll up to the bar and take a seat three stools away. He was a zebra wearing a pressed white dress shirt and a tie tucked into a black vest. The pinstripe pattern on his vest matched the color of his tie, both of which were brick red. The zebra’s eyes were stony but inviting, and he seemed to be in high spirits from the way he eagerly flagged down the bartender.

“Sit a little closer and I’ll buy you a drink!” exclaimed Berry. She had to shout to be heard over the loud music.

A puzzled look came over Pinstripe, and he pointed an unsure front hoof at his own chest.

“Yes, you,” said Berry, waving him over.

Flashing a slight smile, Pinstripe hopped down from his stool and took a seat beside Berry. There was a bit of sizing up done by both parties. Pinstripe tried to be furtive about it, letting his eyes flutter about her shape without molesting her with his gaze. He noticed the bruises and scrapes that marked her body like terribly uncreative tattoos. There was a speckling of little square bandages sticking to her face, but other than that her injuries were uncovered and unabashed. She was a fighter, this one. Pinstripe made a mental note to keep an eye on her.

Berry, however, wasn’t the least bit restrained in her examination of Pinstripe. She didn’t care that her hard, scrutinizing stare was making him uncomfortable. “Stripes on stripes, hmm?” She flashed a half-amused, half-mocking smirk and gestured at Pinstripe’s vest. “Is that supposed to be cute?”

“Cute enough to get your attention.” Pinstripe waved at the bartender, who had just finished serving another customer. “A double-shot of whatever’s strongest. On the lady’s tab, if you please.” A moment later a small shot glass slid down the counter, stopping in front of Pinstripe. He drank it in one quick gulp, then raised his glass and asked for another, prompting a chuckle from Berry.

“Slow down there, killer, we got all night to get wasted. I’m Berry Punch, in case you care.” She offered her hoof, and as they shook, a look of uncertainty crept into Pinstripe’s face. That name… he thought it sounded familiar.

“Pinstripe—and no I don’t give a shit,” he said playfully before drinking his second double-shot. His face scrunched as the hard liquor burned his insides.

“A zebra named Stripe?” She made little attempt to hide her mocking smirk.

“Yeah, I get that a lot.”

“Your parents must hate you.”

“Since the day I was born. My mother especially.” He flagged down the bartender again and ordered another drink.

“So what’s your story, Stripe?” Berry took a big gulp and finished off her beer. “You come here often?”

Pinstripe raised an amused eyebrow. “Are you flirting with me? ‘Cause if so, you’re doing a lousy job of it.”

“Fuck off,” she laughed. “You aren’t my type. No offense, but I don’t make a habit of fooling around with zebras.”

“None taken. I don’t fool around with mares, so that makes us even.”

“Asses too flat? Yeah, I sort of get that. Once you go striped, right?”

Pinstripe snorted, nearly choking on his third shot. “No, that ain’t it,” he said through mild giggles and coughs. “I’m gay. Just found out last night.”

“You, my dad and everypony else.” The Bartender poured Berry another drink without being asked and slid it down the counter. “So what’s your story, faggot? What do you do for our fair city?”

“I’m a low rank career criminal with a tragic past.” The ugly truth rolled off his tongue nonchalantly, as if it were a story he was making up on the spot.

“Well I’m a jaded detective with a hilarious past,” said Berry, matching his carefree attitude. “Guess that makes us arch enemies.”

“Nah, it doesn’t have to be that way. I’m thinking of breaking into the comedy biz pretty soon. You could be my straight mare. You know, balance all my wacky shenanigans with that sour, jaded, battered face of yours.”

Berry’s battered face brightened, and she hid a smile behind her mug as she took another drink. “But I’m the one with the hilarious backstory, remember?”

“That’s the funny part. Don’t you know anything about comedy?”

“I know you’re the least funny zebra I’ve ever met.”

“I’m still learning.” Pinstripe patted the front of his vest in search of the pack of smokes in his pocket. When he found it, he reached into the pocket, then the box, and withdrew a single cigarette. “You smoke?” he said, holding it out for Berry. She took it, placed it between her lips and asked the bartender for a light. Without moving from where he stood, the bartender sparked his horn, conjuring an invisible flame that lit Berry’s cigarette. Pinstripe followed suit, enjoying the sight of Berry with a cigarette dangling from her bruised lips. She smoked like all the gangsters in his favorite mobster movies, inhaling deep enough to smoke nearly a quarter of the cigarette in one puff.

“So what’s a faggot comedian like yourself doing at The Ringer? I don’t want to disillusion you, but there aren’t too many stallions in cufflinks and bowties shaking their tails in here.” A thick cloud of smoke billowed from Berry’s nostrils. She pawed absentmindedly at a welt on her neck, a kind of dry curiosity apparent in her expression.

A shudder skirted through Pinstripe, though Berry didn’t seem to notice. “I’ve got a date,” he said, his tone betraying no anxiety.

“It’s your first day out of the closet and you’re meeting your future boy-toy at The Ringer?” Berry’s dry curiosity shifted to amused suspicion. She placed an elbow on the counter and rested a bandaged cheek in her hoof. “Maybe you missed the detective part of my character bio. Come on, faggot, think you can maybe bullshit me a little better than that?”

“You sure you wanna know?”

When Berry nodded, Pinstripe waved for her to lean closer to him. With an eye-roll, she played along, leaning in and turning her head as to offer Pinstripe an ear.

He whispered, “I’m here to meet The Prankster tonight at midnight. She’s gonna kill me, along with every single pony in this building.”

A moment of silence followed, during which, Pinstripe fastened a comically severe stare on Berry’s face. His nose crinkled at the bridge, and his eyebrows slanted dramatically. The look was a parody of intensity, like a child mimicking an expression he’d seen his father make.

Berry arched an eyebrow, bewildered but amused, and the sheer befuddlement in her features created a chink in Pinstripe’s iron face. One corner of his mouth twitched upward. He fought against the urge for as long as he could, but eventually a wide grin broke across his lips, ruining his stony facade. He had to cover his mouth to keep from exploding with laughter.

Berry did the same, clutching her stomach and covering her mouth as she snorted and tried to keep from bursting herself. Her eyes clamped shut, tears streaking from the corners, and the effort of bottling her sudden rush of merriment flushed her face bright red. Pinstripe had to look away from her for fear of his dam breaking, and together they laughed quietly but maniacally into their forehooves. The other bar patrons regarded them with queer, sideways glances, watching with muted interest as Berry and Pinstripe shook with barely contained elation.

It took a while, but when Berry finally found her breath she rested a cheek on the counter and looked over at Pinstripe. He was doing the same, a splash of red coloring the black and white of his face.

“That’s like the millionth time in two days I’ve heard that crock of shit about The Prankster,” said Berry. “First my partner, then that half-blind moron Twenty… It’s like there’s something in the water.”

“Nah, we just all go to same comedy club. It’s a kind of running gag we’ve got going.”

Berry sat up and dusted a mote of cigarette ash from her chest. “Thanks, faggot, I really needed that.” She was still in high spirits, drunk on booze, tobacco and heady laughter, but now Pinstripe heard a trace of sobriety sneak into her tone.

“Yeah?” He sat up as well and didn’t say anymore, waiting for Berry to continue.

“It’s just…” Her sobriety turned to reluctance, and though Pinstripe hadn’t known Berry for long, he had a feeling ‘reluctance’ wasn’t something she expressed often. “My kid’s birthday is coming up soon. She’s growing up so fast, while I’m stuck rotting away in this dump of a city, missing it all.” A wistful glow came over Berry as she spoke of her daughter. She pawed again at the welt on her neck, further irritating her injury

“You don’t see her anymore?”

“It’s a bullshit custody thing,” she said. “According to Child Services, I’m an unfit parent.”

“To be fair, you are having a drink with a career criminal in a strip club.”

Berry brightened at Pinstripe’s joke. “Touché. Though, I was hoping you’d be on my side.”

“Tragic past, remember. I hate unfit parents—especially unfit mothers.” Pinstripe waved for the bartender and ordered two more drinks.

“Easy there, faggot,” Berry chided in jest. “I’m not made of money.”

“Relax. I figure we can always murder the barkeep before he actually tries to charge you for anything.”

“I like the way you think.” Berry caught the fresh mug of beer that slid her way and took a drink.

She liked Pinstripe. Berry disliked most ponies she met (in fact she hated them), but she liked Pinstripe. She liked that he was a zebra who wore stripes. She liked the cadence of his voice, and how he treated everything like a joke. And she liked that despite having spent much of her adult life working as a detective, she couldn’t quite figure him out.

He was a bit off, she was certain of that much, but he was different from the usual crazies that scurried about Manehattan’s dives. Whereas the rest of the city’s loons were blind to their oddities, Pinstripe seemed fully aware of his own mild lunacy. He did more than just get life’s cruel joke. He was in on it.

They drank late into the night. They talked. They flirted. They pointed and laughed at the dancers who were all powdered and blushed and dolled up like a collection of sexy windup toys. Pinstripe, who had lived in Manehattan his entire life, tried explaining the appeal of strippers to Berry, talking around his drunken hiccups and random bursts of laughter. But Berry wasn’t interested. She kept interrupting his explanation to point out particularly eager stallions in the crowds that circled the stages.

After much joking and laughing, they began singling out individual dancers and making up imaginary lives for them. Berry’s favorite was the unicorn mare with the brilliant azure coat and silvery mane. According to Pinstripe, she was once a well-respected traveling performer whose mastery of the mystic arts was unparalleled. She had fame and fortune, until one day she was exposed as a fraud. Then, shamed and ostracized by the very ponies who had once admired her, she moved to Manehattan and became a stripper, her career over, her life fragmented, her dignity ground to dust and scattered to the wind.

It was a sadder pretend-life than the ones he dreamed up for the other dancers, but it was still Berry’s favorite. She listened and laughed; not because she found the tale amusing, but because she knew the blue-coated unicorn mare, and because Pinstripe would never know just how close he’d come to guessing her true life story.

After the story was told, Berry found herself liking him even more. Now she was certain that Pinstripe was in on the jest—the huge, unfunny cosmic gag that wreaked havoc on so many unsuspecting lives. And he wasn’t simply laughing along with the fate’s wicked joke the way Berry was. He was laughing at it. Perhaps, she mused, he was the one telling it.

It was ten minutes until midnight when Pinstripe and Berry stumbled out onto the sidewalk. Actually, it was Berry that did most of the stumbling. She was red-faced and her head was pounding; she couldn’t remember the last time she had drank herself sick like this. She leaned against Pinstripe as the two of them wandered toward the curb to flag down a cab.

When one arrived, the cab-puller’s electric blue eyes flashed over Pinstripe with vague recognition. Pinstripe thought he recognized the cabbie as well, but he couldn’t remember where he’d seen her before. After an awkward exchange between them, Pinstripe opened the door and stuffed Berry into the backseat.

“Where we going, faggot? Your place, I hope,” Berry slurred as she tried to pull Pinstripe into the cab with her.

“We aren’t going anywhere. You are going home.”

“Come on, you’re not really a queer. You just said that to be funny.”

Pinstripe managed to wrestle Berry into the cab. “Make sure she gets home in one piece,” he said to the cabbie. “If she’s too gone to tell you her address, take her up to the station and leave her in a drunk tank. She’s a cop. They’ll know what to do with her.”

“Whad'ya know, funny and a regular gentlecolt,” said Berry. “How ‘bout a goodbye kiss for the road? You owe me for all those drinks you bought on my tab.”

Pinstripe pondered a moment, looking away at the crowds of shuffling ponies that filled the streets.

What Berry wanted was a big, sloppy kiss, but what she got was a gentle hoof combing through her mane, a kind endearment and small peck on the cheek. Somehow, that was infinitely better.

“Am I ever gonna see you again, faggot?” A note of sobriety broke through her drunken slurring, and her eyes filled with a kind of vulnerability that caught Pinstripe off guard. She pawed at her welt again, perfectly unaware that she was touching it.

“It’s a small city, I’ll be around. You’re my straight mare remember? My comedy act isn’t the same without you,” he assured her with warm smile. “And quit poking at your bruises so much. You don’t have to cover them up, but you should leave them alone. Let them heal.”

With that, Pinstripe closed the door and nodded at the cabbie. He stood on the curb long after the taxi rounded a corner and disappeared into the black maw of the nighttime city streets. He didn’t realize what he was waiting for until it pulled up to the sidewalk and stepped out of a carriage drawn by a single unicorn stallion with a vacant expression. A Tongueless.

Pinstripe felt his gut tighten as Blitzkrieg trotted up to meet him.

“Is good to see you in one piece, comrade.”

Several seconds passed in silence. Both were overcome with mixed emotions, but neither granted their feelings the privilege of articulation.

“Did she send you a message too?” asked Pinstripe.

“Da. She told me I am to be coming alone or she would be killing you.”

Hearing Krieg utter those words touched Pinstripe; he wanted pull his surrogate father into a tight hug. The pores of his skin hungered for a comforting touch, but the memory of his mother’s looming apartment building ensured the desire would never become action.

“She isn’t here yet,” said Pinstripe. “You could still leave. Get the Bolts together. Think up a plan. Fight her.”

“And what about you, comrade? Why are you not leaving as well? Why did you even come in first place?”

“Because I’m done with being laughed at,” he declared.

“A strange reason to be seeing The Prankster.”

It was. Pinstripe might have grinned at the absurdity of it, but he was too scared to muster a smile.

Pinstripe was seated at a table that was near one of the stages, staring blankly at a dancer as she stripped off a frilly pair of panties and tossed them at her audience. Krieg was sitting beside him, his lips folded around a cartoonishly fat cigar. Both were lost in thought, their minds drifting away on clouds of uncertainty.

If not for the distraction of loud music and naked, gyrating mares, the clubgoers might have heard the sudden cacophony of horror-stricken shouts that had erupted just outside the front entrance. They might have heard the chatter of gunfire, the clangor of fleeing hooves, the blunt thumps of dead bodies striking the ground.

They did, however, hear the cannon blast—it was too thunderous to miss—and their heads swiveled as the club’s front entrance exploded. The blast mangled the double-doors and punched a hole in the surrounding wall. Dust rose. Shrieks rose.

And then the shooting started.

Pinstripe dove under his table and covered his head with both front hooves, stricken by wide-eyed terror as volleys of lead tore the club to pieces.

Blitzkrieg leaned back in his seat and took a drag from his cigar, not flinching as panic seized the clubgoers and roused them into a herd of senseless animals.

The room ignited with colorful flashes and short popping sounds. Unicorns—dozens of them vanishing in rapid succession.

An earth pony mare who had been sitting at the bar frantically grabbed at the bartender, shouting something about not wanting to be left behind. Though his horn was already glowing, hesitation seized him. The mare was paralyzing beautiful, with fur like caramel and eyes like bite-sized pieces of chocolate. In her minced, panic-stricken babbling she mentioned that her name was Catwalk—that she was a mother of two precious baby colts and she did not want to die.

The bartender wanted to help her—to sweep her up in his forelegs, and hold her close to his chest, and be her savior—but teleporting more than one body was difficult.

With a lead-heavy heart he shoved Catwalk to the floor, magical light gathering at the tip of his horn. Teary-eyed, she sprang up and lunged at him, furious, terrified, but she was one second too late, one fast-twitch motion too slow. He was already gone, leaving nothing in his wake but a pop and brief rush of air.

There was another ear-splitting boom, and a new section of the wall was blown to pieces.

More debris.

More dust.

Her heart racing, Catwalk shoved past the other fleeing ponies—all earth ponies and pegasi now—as she sprinted away. Blitzkrieg watched her and the others run by his table, shaking his head despairingly. He took another nonchalant drag from his cigar, staring impassively at the mass of rushing bodies.

They were all dead. They didn’t know it yet, but every pony in this room was already a memory.

Ignorant to this cruel fact, or perhaps rebelling against it, Catwalk ran through the crowded club, her mind reeling. Find a back entrance, she thought. And as she galloped, her hooves stomped over strange objects—objects that were too soft and squishy to be fallen chair legs, dropped coins or broken beer bottles. They made hurt noises as her hooffalls trampled them, but she kept her eyes facing front, refusing to acknowledge the strange objects that squirmed and writhed like dying things.

She was directly behind the leader of the charging herd, a nimble earth stallion who managed to reach the back exit first. He was already breathing a sigh of relief as he reached forward and flung the door open.

His celebration was premature. Mr. Turnip was standing in the doorway, waiting, shotgun in hand.

When Catwalk saw the gun, the world suddenly became a movie in slow motion. Time passed in frames that captured and magnified every detail: the grey of the gun barrel, the fore-end drawing back, the muzzle flashing, the smoke rising, the spent shell ejecting...

And then the pack leader’s skull exploded, splattering Catwalk’s face with a slew of gore. She blinked and slid to a stop and spun around and nearly slipped—and oh shit, oh shit, oh shit it was in her mouth! Bits of brain and skull were clinging to her tongue, and she couldn’t spit out the sticky mess fast enough.

The stink of blood mixed with gunpowder made her nostrils flare and her eyes water as she sprinted back the way she came. Her heart was in her throat when something bit into the back of her thigh. Blood spilled down her leg but she kept charging, undeterred, until eventually her front hoof snagged on one of those strange objects. Screaming, she toppled over and landed on her face. When she tried to stand the pain in her thigh flared, like a fire being fed gasoline, and the best she could manage was a brisk crawl.

A potent combination of pain and fear squeezed waterfalls from her chocolate eyes. Her mouth formed a slew colorful swears meant for bartender. That bastard had left her to die—looked her in the eye and shoved her aside—and in that moment, she hated him more than the monsters who were attacking the club.

She looked back to see if she was being followed. She wasn’t. The griffin with the shotgun had stayed in the doorway, though bullets were still whizzing randomly overhead. She was near the bar again, close to the entrance where all this madness had started. She hauled herself across the floor, then over the corpse of a pegasus mare who had been trampled during the chaos. Nearly every pony in the club was dead now, and the few that still lived had been fatally wounded.

After a long stint of dragging herself, Catwalk noticed the shooting had stopped. Still, she didn’t feel safe out in the open, so she slunk under a table that was still standing upright. She rolled onto her side and examined her injured thigh, cringing. It was bad. A pulpy hole gaped just below her cutie mark, gushing with dark, syrupy blood. She pawed at the edge of the wound, her teeth clenching involuntarily as the pain in her leg spiked.

“Wouldn’t do that if I were you,” said a voice that cracked with manic laughter as it spoke. “Stop—hehehehe—stop touching your bruises. You have to—hahahaha—you have to let them heal.”

Catwalk looked away from her wounded leg and fastened her eyes on the zebra who was sharing her hiding place. Pinstripe was lying on his stomach with his head covered, shaking. He was terrified—the fear swimming in his stony eyes was proof of that—but he was also smiling, practically from ear to ear.

A third explosion rocked the building, and a new cloud of dust rose to replace those that had faded.

A moment of silence. Then hoof beats. Then a voice.

“Hah… Hah… Hah… Hah… Hah…”

Catwalk gasped as something grabbed her tail and pulled. “Please!” she cried out, clawing at the floor as she was dragged from under the table. “Please! D-don’t hurt me!” She rolled to her back, eyes gaping saucer-wide, breath catching, limbs trembling, nerves shot, stomach turning and turning and turning and yearning to be empty.

A mare peered down at her. In the dim light of the bullet-riddled club, Catwalk couldn’t make out all the features of the mare’s face. Just the grin. It was impossibly curved, and bright red, practically glowing in the dark.

“Oh, I’m not going to hurt you,” said the glowing grin, its voice maple-sweet and giddy. “You won’t feel a thing. I promise.”

A marrow-deep shudder racked Catwalk when she felt the knife cut her face. The grin had lied to her. She felt it. She felt blood gush as the sharp edge slashed down her muzzle. She felt searing pain spread across her face. She felt cold steel rip her ear, then gouge her eye, then stab her cheek, then split her tongue, then cleave her bottom lip, then slash her gums…

Finished with her carving, Pinks sat down on Catwalk’s lifeless chest and admired her work. The once beautiful caramel face was now a scarlet mask of flayed flesh. What remained scarcely resembled anything equine, and that was good—that was the look Pinks had been aiming for—but something about the carving was still… off. She pursed her lips in thought, searching for a way for to improve her work.

A bolt of inspiration struck her. She placed both hooves on what remained of Catwalk’s cheeks and lifted them upward, forming a smile. “Perfect.”

Pinstripe, who had been watching Catwalk’s execution from under the table, found the courage to leave his hiding place and stand up straight. He adjusted his tie as he watched the Carnies file into the room.

Grift entered first, carrying a briefcase, with Digger trailing a few paces behind. The dog was pushing a bright pink cannon that was mounted on two rickety wheels, a wisp of smoke trailing from its barrel. Flour appeared from behind the bar (apparently she had been there the entire time), and Lintsalot and Turnip, who had been sealing off the other exits, straggled in last.

Without saying a word, both Pinstripe and Pinks joined Blitzkrieg at his unharmed table, while the Carnies stood around them in a circle. The atmosphere took on a ritualistic air, as if there was something sacred about this meeting.

It was Blitzkrieg who spoke first. “You are going through awful lot of trouble to kill me, comrade,” he said, finishing his cigar and tossing the butt aside. “Is not so good to be making too much noise. Cops will be here any minute to drag you back to asylum. Is—how you say—only a matter of time.”

“Oh, I already have something special planned for the little piggies,” Pinks laughed. “And you’re wrong about one thing, Krieg: I’m not going to kill you. Pinhead is.”

Pinstripe was taken aback. He started to protest but Krieg hushed him with a stern hoof. “And why is that, clown?”

“Because Piñata loves me.” Pinks unlatched the suitcase and slid it across the table toward Pinstripe. “Because I can give him something you never could.”

Pinstripe looked down at the open suitcase, finding the modified revolver inside. A single bullet lay beside the gun.

“You get one shot, Striped Bass, so choose carefully,” said Pinks. “Who's it gonna be? Me? Or daddy dearest? Hehehehehe…”

Pinstripe stared down at the gun. Then up at Blitzkrieg. Then over at Pinks.

Sirens blared in distance.

Radios crackled.

Tires screeched and skidded…

Arc ONE: Chapter 10, Part 1

Arc ONE: Chapter 10, Part 1

A squadron of policecolts arrived at The Ringer and parked their carriages and Steamers around back. The neon shine of Manehattan’s red light district washed over them as they fanned out across the street, coloring their matte breastplates and worn metallic shoes with a forbidding red tint. They leaned against their vehicles while awaiting their sergeant’s orders, chatting, picking their noses, and generally showing no interest in doing their jobs. They were all unicorns, clad in armor that resembled the trappings of the Royal Guard. Their Crown-issued armor earned them the nickname 'Royal Blues'—a nickname that, depending on the context, could only be indifferent or derogatory.

They were ten in all, Manehattan’s Royal Blues, a small but formidable squadron. Unbeknownst to them, a much larger force of mindful gazes was presently eyeing their every move. Hotel balconies, Store windows. Bar entrances. The denizens of the red light district watched the police in silence, just as they had watched ponies flee from The Ringer during the prior calamity—a calamity that might have been prevented, or at least mitigated, had the authorities cared enough to arrive before the damage had been done.

Sergeant Long Arm, a wiry stallion in his middle years, plopped down on the hood of squad car, sullen-faced, a grumble forming under his thick mustache.

“Vigil—intel,” he said to the young stallion standing beside his car, his tone terse.

Vigil’s horn sparked, and the yellow irises behind his round glasses brightened as he scanned the building for potential threats. The spell he cast was a difficult one. It combined x-ray vision with infrared imaging, allowing him to see through solid objects and simultaneously detect heat signatures. It was a spell of his own invention, developed for surveillance purposes, and he was immensely proud of it. His personal hero Twilight Sparkle had been renowned for inventing spells as well, and he aspired to be like her in most every way he could.

“I’ve got eight warm bodies, sir: three griffins, two diamond dogs, and three more equines,” said Vigil. “The rest are cold. Have been for a while.”

“Armed?” grunted Long Arm.

“The griffins are, sir.”

“Hostages?”

Vigil shook his head. “Like I said, the other bodies are cold.”

Long Arm pondered a moment. “No hostages? Then why the buck are they still there?” he thought aloud, annoyed. It had taken his squad a full fifteen minutes to arrive on scene, giving the culprits plenty of time to escape. He should’ve been securing a crime scene right now, not preparing to raid a strip club. “What the hay are they doing?”

Vigil squinted, adjusted his glasses. “It looks like they’re… talking, sir.”

Long Arm sighed, then noticed a cluster wagon gathering at the end of the block, their drivers parking to watch the police. He sighed again. This was going to be long night.

“Tell four of my officers to clear out the spectators and block off this street at least three blocks in either direction,” he said, making a sweeping gesture with his front hoof. “We’re going in guns hot, and the last thing we need is civvies getting caught in our crosshairs.” The expression ‘guns hot’ wasn’t literal. His squad was one of the best in the MPD; each officer under his command was a powerful spellcaster. They didn’t carry guns. They didn’t need to.

“‘Block off?’” Vigil gave the sergeant an unsure look. “Hard light shields, sir?”

“No need to overdo it. A few parked carriages and some yellow tape will do.”

Vigil nodded. His glowing eyes dulled, and the shine radiating from his horn intensified. Using a telepathy to spell, he mentally relayed the order to four of his fellow officers.

“It’s done, sir,” he stated promptly.

The sergeant communicated his satisfaction with a curt, “Very good,” then signaled for his troops to move in.

One of those troops was Ballistic, a mare of unremarkable stature with a pink coat that looked stonewashed beneath her armor, and an ash grey tail that followed her like a wisp of smoke. A toothy grin broke across her features as she sidled toward the curb.

Her horn was already glowing. It always glowed, not brightly, but enough to stand out in the dark night. It shined constantly because Ballistic suffered from a rare disease unique to unicorns called Magic Excess Syndrome, or, ‘Twilight’s Sparkle’ as it was better known on the streets. The disease afflicted its carrier with an excess of magical energy that immensely raised one’s body temperature and caused violent fevers. The illness was terminal. There were two known ways to mitigate it: with expensive medications only available to the very rich, or by ‘Dripping’—a slow and constant release of magical energy through simple spells, the most common being illumination spells.

Unlike most unicorns afflicted with this sickness, Ballistic chose to Drip of her own volition. Her family was wealthy, and she could have afforded the medications had she wanted them, but she preferred to Drip. She didn’t mind the migraines or body aches that resulted from constant magic expulsion. She loved the feel of it—like she was a raging thunderhead walking the earth on lightning bolt legs. A disaster that trotted like a mare.

Long Arm watched Ballistic and the others from where he sat. He ordered Vigil to remain at his side where he could keep an eye on him.

“But, sir,” Vigil protested, “three of the suspects are armed. Would it not be wise for us to maximize our chances for success by utilizing all available—”

Long Arm cut him short with a gruff chuckle. “Listen, colt,” he said. “You see that little mare there—the one whose armor fits her a bit a loose?” Long Arm pointed a hoof at Ballistic, who had taken up position outside of the building’s back door. “When I give the signal from my comfy seat here, she’s gonna use her magic to grab the opposite ends of that building—really sink her hooks in into the walls—and then she’s gonna pull them apart. And it’s gonna be easy for her, like opening a bag of chips. Trust me, colt, you and I are over here for a reason.”

Vigil bottled his frustration and followed the sergeant’s orders. He didn’t like the sound of this Ballistic character possibly causing unnecessary casualties (and thousands in property damage) by tearing down The Ringer, but Long Arm was in charge, not him. “Of course, sir,” he responded.

Long Arm was about to order Vigil to give another telepathic command, but paused at the sound of rapid hoof falls approaching from down the street. He twisted in his seat, and his eyes widened at the sight of a cross-eyed pegasus mare sprinting toward him from three blocks away. The pegasus wore a harness and was hauling something. Something heavy by the look of it.

“Lazy morons,” grumbled Long Arm. “I thought I told them to block off the street.”

Vigil blinked in bewilderment, not trusting his usually sharp eyes. At first glance he thought the mare was hauling an armored wagon, but closer inspection revealed that it was actually some kind of mobile strongroom, perhaps a small bank vault that had been mounted on four wheels. The bass drum strapped to the charging mare’s lower back added to her load—and to her absurd appearance—as did the massive sousaphone coiled around her upper body. Such burdens would have slowed a normal pony, but the Tongueless, aloof to the fire of effort searing her muscles, was actually gaining speed.

And if the Tongueless wasn’t an odd enough sight, Vigil’s mouth fell open when he saw Twenty standing atop the metal box, reins clamped between her front hooves as she fought to keep her balance on the vault’s roof. Two bulky duffle bags hung from her shoulders in such a way that their straps crossed diagonally, forming a leather “X” on her chest. She still wore the belt she’d stolen from the murdered Orange, but her strangest peice of cargo was the champagne-colored saxophone strapped to her back.

Vigil blinked again. Lifted his glasses, rubbed his eyes. “What in the…” The sentence died in his throat, smothered by his utter puzzlement. He looked to Long Arm, who was grumbling as he hopped down from his seat and marched to the center of the road, his horn surging with magical energy.

With two hooves in each lane of traffic, the sergeant held his head high and ordered Twenty and the Tongueless to halt. But Twenty didn’t halt. She was done halting for the city’s armor clad thugs. Last night the bars of her jail cell had yielded to her—the city had groaned and bleated its submission—and now she was confident this drove of pigs would do the same.

Her lips canted in a smirk as she gave the reins a tug. Startled, the Tongueless neighed and skidded to a hard stop, wings flaring as she pivoted on her hooves. Her body turned with feline agility, and the vault turned with her, swinging wide at Long Arm like an improvised wrecking ball. Attacking with the actual vault, instead of its contents, wasn’t part of Flour’s plan, but it had been too long since Twenty had killed any cops. She was feeling reckless, invincible, and watching this pig get flatten by a ton of iron would make for a great start to her evening.

Not that she was going to see it. Her eyes were screwed shut, and cold air whipped her face as she held the reins and tried not to fly off the swinging the vault. Perhaps, she mused in mid-arc, this wasn’t such a good idea.

The masses watching from their hideaways drew sharp breaths as the vault whipped forward. There was many a clench of anticipation. A yearning for the crunch of metal upon flesh and bone, a desire to witness justice—to see one of their oppressors reduced to road kill.

Long Arm snorted his annoyance, his horn shining brightly, throwing shafts of light in every direction.

A second later, a strident clang exploded in Twenty’s ears as the swinging strong room rebounded off some kind of invisible barrier. It tumbled to its side, sliding as if on ice and dragging the harnessed Tongueless with it for several yards. The sousaphone fell from around her shoulders, skidding across the street, but the bass drum remained fastened to her lower back, even as she tumbled.

Twenty pitched off the vault’s roof and crashed down on her face, jostling the contents of her bags. She had been thrown clear across the street, and landed on the sidewalk opposite The Ringer and the squad of police. The vault skidded in the same direction, coming to rest in front of a fire hydrant with chipped, yellow paint.

More stunned than hurt, she peeled herself off the ground, shook her head clear, and then shouted for the Tongueless to flee. The Tongueless, still harnessed to the overturned vault, shot Twenty a quizzical look.

“Zebra friend, remember?” shouted Twenty, pointing a hoof across the street at The Ringer. “Go to zebra friend. Go now—hurry!”

Her order came just in time. Ballistic, who was sprinting across the street from the curb, was nearly upon the cross-eyed mare, leaving hoof-shaped puddles of molten asphalt in her wake. Sparks crackled about her horn, and a shaft of light projected from her slightly parted lips, like headlights announcing the approach of a train.

She was burning out of control, all sparks and fury, and the sight of her approach conjured a nameless, primal fear in the Tongueless. The pegasus had lost many faculties, but her primitive survival instinct still lingered. In a single swift motion, she shucked off her harness, beat her wings, and darted away into to the sky.

“Ballistic!” Long Arm shouted, his eyes climbing upward as he watched the pegasus attempt to escape. He pointed a hoof at the fleeing Tongueless and barked his order. “Intercept!”

The officers who had been charging at Ballistic’s heels suddenly broke off, dispersing in all directions. The sparks crackling about her horn gathered into a tiny blue star on its tip. She slid to a sudden stop, inhaling deeply.

Her chest expended.

The ground shook.

Her chest deflated.

The ground cracked.

The star brightened… grew larger… and for a few impossible seconds, the night was visited by daylight.

Fleets of civilian eyes marveled at the bolt of magic energy as it shot from Ballistic’s horn, awe-struck. It blurred past the fleeing Tongueless, grazing her wing, and exploded high in the sky. The resulting shockwave shattered windows in their frames, and sent a squall of hot air billowing in every direction.

A wall of that hot air crashed into the Tongueless, throwing her into a downward spiral.

“Cadenza’s cunt!” shouted Long Arm, tearing his eyes from the Tongueless as she pitched toward the sidewalk. “Ballistic, what the Fuck do you think you’re doing!”

Ballistic couldn’t hear the sergeant over the pounding between her ears, like hundreds of gongs being struck in succession. Steam rose from her pores, licking the night air, and a satisfied tingle danced down her spine, making her tail twitch.

A sigh escaped her, illuminated by the headlight reaching out from the back of her throat. That felt good. She hadn’t fired a blast like that in… her memory failed her. She stood in a newly formed crater beneath her hooves, her legs twitching with pleasure-spasms. For a moment she felt empty. It was gone. All of her magic reserves had been cleaned out in a single shot. Feeling stiff, she shook out her right front hoof, then smiled with glowing teeth as her power came surging back, like oil gushing up from a geyser. It never stayed gone for long. It didn’t know how.

She aimed her horn at the falling Tongueless, and this time her fellow officers joined her. They opened fire all at once, and the night came alive with dazzling lights and thunderous sounds. Seconds before the magic volley eviscerated her, the Tongueless pulled out of her freefall. Her wings flared as she banked hard and burst through the third story window of a motel at the end of the block, narrowly avoiding certain death.

Most of the magic bolts exploded harmlessly in the air, their brief lives climaxing in a splashes of falling sparks. But Ballistic’s shot flew farther and faster than the others, accidentally punching a hole in a high-flying press blimp. It spiraled into a harrowing tailspin, flames leaping from its damaged hull. The police tossed up a collective whooping laugh as the blimp crashed into a billboard several blocks away. Flames and thick clouds of oily black smoke rose above the city, as did shrieks from the terrified citizens—those few who hadn’t lost the stomach for watching the cops’ blundering.

Vigil grimaced as he looked toward the crash site, feeling helpless and disoriented, as if he had been in the crash himself. Then his eyes flicked all around, and he spotted several faces poking out of windows and doorways, watching. Some were scrunched in anger, while others sagged from the weight of sorrow. All stared with hateful eyes. He tried to turn away, too look elsewhere, but was surrounded.

But one pair of eyes showed no interest him or his fellow officers; they belonged to a unicorn mare leaning out of a motel window. A plush bathrobe sagged off her shoulder, and a raised front hoof covered her mouth. She was looking off in the direction of the blimp crash. Two adjacent buildings had caught fire far down the road, one of which was a low-rent apartment complex.

Vigil watched the mare watch the climbing smoke. Then her head turned and her eyes dropped down on him. Her hoof fell away from her mouth, her lips moved. She mouthed something, a single word, but what was it? Run? Go? Vigil wasn’t sure, his normally sharp eyes had failed him. Then she hastily drew her curtains and retreated into her room, perhaps having seen enough suffering for one night.

Vigil stared at the closed window a moment longer. He knew what he had to do.

“Quick little bitch,” chortled Long Arm. “I’ll give her that much.” He trotted over to his fellow officers, who were standing huddled in the middle of the road, joking and shoving each other playfully.

“Sir,” Vigil spoke up, a knot in his throat. “Permission to take three officers with me to assist the blimp crash victims, sir.”

“What?” said Long Arm. “Why would you want to—”

“Sir,” Vigil tried again, sterner this time. “Permission to do the right thing, sir.”

Long Arm stepped closer to Vigil, his thick mustache curling into a scowl. “No, you can’t run off and pull ponies out of a burning building. And who do you think you’re talking to like that? You’d better watch your tone around me, colt.”

The younger officer held his ground. “I’m not asking you. I’m telling you. Sir.”

Before Long Arm could offer a rebuttal, Vigil shoved past him, sprinting down the road toward the crash site.

During the commotion with the Tongueless and the felled blimp, Twenty had dragged the vault up on the curb, putting between herself and the distracted officers. Angry hairs bristled on her neck as she hurried to unlock it. She didn't care about the Tongueless mare's well being, but watching so many cops gang up on one pony filled her with a familiar, mindless rage. She would kill them all, she promised, her hooves fumbling with the vault's combination lock. They would scream and bleed and die tonight, and tomorrow morning the sun would rise over a brighter, better, healthier world.

She twisted the lock, mouthing each number as she found them on the dial.

Since the box was on its side, the door dropped open like a lowered drawbridge, forcing Twenty to step away before being crushed. The walls of the box had been thick enough to block out the noisy stirring of the creatures trapped inside, but now that the door stood open, the police heard a steady buzzing sound. They ceased their jabbering and searched for the sound’s origin.

The buzzing grew monstrous as a swarm of parasprites billowed out from the open vault, slobber wetting their mouths like rabid dogs. The district’s neon light reflected off their opaque eyes. Each pair was a different color, and together they resembled a swarm of stained glass shards as they fanned out above the street.

They had been Blood Orange’s parasprites before Twenty and Flour stole them earlier today. And like all of Blood’s pets, they were very, very hungry. Flour claimed that Blood had altered them in strange ways, given them a taste for flesh. A frightening thought, one that Twenty had hoped wasn’t true.

Long Arm gave a start. “Officers, fall back!” he ordered. Then he pointed a hoof at the swarm and shouted, “Barricade, contain!”

A short, pudgy unicorn remained in the center of the road, while the others fled back the sidewalk, ducking behind parked carriages. Sun-yellow light appeared on his stubby horn. As it grew brighter, a yellow sphere of hard light began forming around the cloud of advancing parasprites.

The spell was simple—an elementary force field—but containing the great buzzing, shuddering mass of parasprites proved a grueling task. There were droves of them, and they were multiplying inside the sphere, coughing up their offspring in that disturbing way of theirs.

As difficult as it was, Barricade suffered from the same illness as Ballistic, making him immensely powerful. But instead of maintaining a constant illumination spell, Barricade’s Drip took the form of a hard-light shield that covered his body like a second skin. The shield was thin, only capable of protecting him from minor impacts. He didn’t burn as hot as Ballistic, no steam rose from his pores, but the shield made his fur glow, adding a faint yellow tint to his otherwise drab grey coat.

He trapped the swarm easily enough, and managed to hold them despite their multiplying.

Long Arm wiped his brow and breathed a sigh of relief. Barricade turned to his fellow officers and began swaggering back toward the curb, beaming stupidly, his prize of a thousand or so parasprites in tow.

He didn’t hear the clang of hooves impacting steel, nor did he see the vault leap up from behind him and arc through the air. But he felt it. He felt the heavy metal box crash down on his lower back, shattering his spine. It crushed his waist, his hips, his back legs. A horrid cry flew from him. The pain was unbearable, but his hard-light shield kept him from slipping into shock and losing consciousness. It did more than protect his body, it protected his mind as well, his senses, keeping him awake and alert. It also kept the initial impact from killing him outright.

The sphere trapping the parasprites popped like a soap bubble, and the newly freed insects swarmed him. Sparks jumped as they chomped at his magic exoskeleton, singeing their faces but not getting through.

A triumphant neigh escaped Twenty. Again, she was impressed with her own power. First the bars, then the Orange’s neck, and now this! Bucking the vault with enough force to move it would have been impressive on its own, but she had launched it through the air, tossed it like a bale of hay. She stood on the curb opposite the cop’s position, smiling at the Long Arm. She felt invincible. Indomitable! If a bullet had struck her chest at that exact moment, it would have bounced off.

Now the stage was set. The police on one side of the street. Twenty on the other. And a cloud of hungry parasprites in between.

“Fuck me,” groaned Long Arm. His horn ignited as he and his officers hurried to eliminate the parasprites. They fired volleys into the swarm, but the insects were still multiplying, quickly becoming too numerous to deal with.

Neighing like a bronco, Twenty sprinted headlong through the swarm and attacked any officer she could get her hooves on. It was a crazy thing to do, but tonight was a crazy night. And anyway, she was invincible. If Manehattan could no longer hurt her, neither could a few thousand starving insects.

The officers fought back, but their magic was proving useless against the little monsters. They were too numerous, and their numbers grew with every passing second. Only Ballistic was safe. She was burning so hot that all attacking parasprites were cooked before coming too near, like moths electrified by a pony-shaped bug-zapper. They dropped to the ground as she strolled through the swarm, their wings twitching in their final moments of life.

She trotted toward Twenty, who was towering above the broken officer and repeatedly stomping his skull. Five parasprites had latched onto various parts of her body, their teeth digging into skin, drawing blood, but she was invincible and paying them no mind. They couldn’t hurt her; she would deal with them in a moment.

As Ballistic neared, her aura scorched the parasprites clinging to Twenty’s body, killing them. Feeling the sudden heatwave, Twenty looked up from the dead officer and found Ballistic standing in front of her. Their eyes met, and something sinister passed between them—a strange understanding of some kind. They were drawn to each other, naturally, like lightning to a lightning rod.

The streets raged around them. The swarm snatched up fleeing civilians, ripping them apart in seconds, and stray attacks unleashed by the police added to the slaughter. The carnage that had manifested inside the club was repeating itself on the street, but neither Twenty nor her unicorn counterpart paid it any mind. Their worlds had shrunken to a single focus: each other. For now, nothing else mattered.

“Ballistic,” said the unicorn.

“Twenty,” replied the earth pony.

“You tossed that vault on little Barricade, yeah? How’d you do that without magic?”

Twenty smirked. “I am having my own kind of magic, comrade,” she said, raising a hoof off the ground. “And I am not needing horn to use it. Is in hooves. Is good for breaking useless things like asshole pigs, da?” Twenty rested her hoof of what was left of the dead cop’s smashed head.

Ballistic inched closer. “Can I?” She gestured toward one of Twenty’s forelegs.

Twenty indulged the officer, raising her leg and flexing it.

“Oh,” said Ballistic, placing a hoof on Twenty’s brawny foreleg. “That is something. But tell me, Twenty: do you feel that?” Ballistic kept her hoof on Twenty’s leg and raised her body temperature, burning hair and skin. “That’s real magic. Real power. You’re strong, yeah, and you’re even kind of cute. But let’s not kid ourselves; I could turn you inside out with a thought.”

“You could, comrade,” agreed Twenty. “But I think you are wanting fairer fight. I suspect it is reason I am still breathing.”

Ballistic backed away from Twenty. The light from her jack-o-lantern grin dimmed. “One sixth,” she said confidently. “You get one sixth of my full power. Think your muscles can keep up with that?”

“You are underestimating me, comrade. By all means, use all of your magic if you like. I will be crushing your skull just the same.”

A delighted shiver coursed through Ballistic, like what a mare feels under a tender kiss. The thought of somepony being able to crush her skull—to even lay a hoof on her was… exhilarating. How long had she lived in this cardboard world that couldn’t hurt her, couldn’t even touch her? Years ago, she decided to move to Manehattan because she’d heard it was the most dangerous place in Equestria; and she joined the force in hopes of throwing herself at the forefront of that danger.

But she had been lied to. Manehattan was no more dangerous than any other place she had visited. It was all hype—a city made of plush concrete. And its so-called criminals were the worst. They carried popguns and brandished toy knives, foals pretending to be hardened killers.

Ballistic stripped away her armor.

Twenty dropped her saxophone, her duffle bags.

Ballistic snorted. Twenty neighed. And an unstoppable force met an immovable object.

Arc ONE: Chapter 10, Part 2

Arc ONE: Chapter 10, Part 2

Meanwhile…

The whir of sirens echoed from outside the devastated strip club. Iron shoes clanked on concrete, the clamor penetrating the walls. Pinstripe felt the heavy thuds pound in his chest, as if the shoes were marching up and down his ribcage. Or was that his heartbeat?

He glanced down at the open briefcase sitting on the table, finding at the gun and the single bullet. An obvious thought came to mind, and a self-deprecating smirk broke across his muzzle. He didn’t even know how to load a gun; he’d only seen it done in old gangster movies.

He laughed. He was laughing. He was laughing? Why? What was funny about any of this?

Nervous, he loosened his tie and rolled up his sleeves. It was sweltering in the darkened club, muggy too, like the inside of a mouth. He inhaled a lungful stale air, tasting traces of cigarette smoke, of booze, of sweat and blood.

A crash sounded from outside, followed by the screech of skidding metal. Pinstripe whipped his head toward the back door. He blinked hard, feeling his eyelids come together.

“Worried?” The Prankster’s voice blew across the table like a warm breeze.

“Huh?” His head whipped back, his eyes bugged.

“You seem a bit… frazzled.”

“I’m good,” he heard himself say, unsure of why he’d answered the question. Maybe I’m just drunk, he considered. Pinks seemed unaffected by the stifling heat, and Blitzkrieg didn’t look bothered either.

Fearing her active eyes and disfigured grin, Pinstripe looked to Blitzkrieg, a subtle plea for help softening his features. The look returned to him was stoic, unruffled and supremely dignified—a visage fit for a king. Krieg was too calm, Pinstripe thought, too accepting of the circumstances.

“While we’re young,” Grift called from a stool in front of the bar, her eyebrows a pair of flat planks above her eyes.

“Yeah, while we’re young!” chimed Lintsalot, who was sitting on bar’s countertop, his short feline legs dangling over the edge. He fiddled with his snub-nosed revolver while he waited for Pinks and Pinstripe to finish their business, repeatedly flicking the cylinder open, spinning it, then closing it again. The submachine gun strapped to his back looked comical. It was nearly bigger than he was.

“Oh don’t listen to Grift, Pinny. She’s nothing but a big party-pooper, always has been.” Pinks tossed her unlaced boots on the tabletop and leaned back in her chair, her forelegs crossed behind her head. “Ya know, you two aren’t so different. Grift hated me when we first met. She thought I was trying to steal away her best friend. Silly little bird. She didn’t realize I already had—hehehehehe.”

Grift’s eyes narrowed to thin slits.

“She used to say my pranks were ‘lame’,” Pinks continued, “but after a few years of painting this town red, I grew on her.”

“Like a fungus,” Grift added with a scowl. Pinks poked her tongue out a Grift, like a filly resolving a sandbox dispute.

“Boring bird-cat is right,” rasped Flour. She looked equally as bored as Grift from her seat atop the pink cannon, her legs hanging on either side of the barrel. “Striped Pony is taking too long, and Flour is hungry.”

“Digger could eat, too,” added Digger, earning a disappointed look from Pinks. “What? Digger is just saying.” He was laying belly-down on the floor beside the corpse with the slashed face, his chin resting on his crossed arms.

“Come on, guys, where’s your sense of drama?” whined Pinks, emphasizing the last word.

The Carnies let out a collective huff, not at all amused.

“Just picture this with me,” Pinks insisted, rocking back so that her chair was up on two legs. “An ambitious zebra strikes out on his own, hoping to prove his worth to the gang that shunned him, and along the way, he rescues a beautiful maiden. They fight! They fall in love! She kills him! And then they meet up later at a strip joint and share some laughs before murdering his father. Heh heh, what’s not to love?”

“You really are nuts,” said Pinstripe, finally mustering the courage to speak. “And he’s not my father.”

“Uh oh. Sounds like somepony has mommy and daddy issues.” The unlaced boots swung back under the table. Pinks sat forward, resting her blood-sodden gloves on the tabletop. “It’s okay, you can tell Dr. Prankster all about it. I’ve got loads of experience in psychotherapy. Let’s start with your mother. What was she like?”

Pinstripe tensed at the mention of his mother, but stayed quiet.

“Ah, a closed book, I see” said Pinks. “Well that’s alright. I’ll get the ball rolling, tell you a bit about myself, and then you can jump in whenever you’re ready.” One of her gloves tapped her chin, speckling it with blood. “Let's see now… A long time ago, when I was a little filly and the sun was going down…”

Grift rolled her eyes. This was going to be a long night.

Pinstripe retreated into his thoughts as Pinks rambled. She loved the sound of her own voice, and her rambling (he had learned during the trip to the Carnies’ hideout) made the perfect background noise for thinking, like radio static, or the whir of an old fan. He had been trying to think his way around making a decision since Pinks opened the case, but he was coming up with heaps of nothing. He didn’t have a chance.

To begin, he severely doubted that the bullet he’d been given was indeed a live round. Pinks was crazy, but she hadn’t become Manehattan’s most notorious criminal by being an idiot. She wouldn’t fork over a loaded gun to a zebra who had every reason to kill her—who had tried to kill her in the past—unless she had some kind of contingency. She had planned for the cops, after all—that they hadn’t come stopping in here yet was evidence of that.

“…And that’s when Daddy invented the tickling game,” Pinks continued. “He said it was a game for Daddies and pretty little daughters, and that Mommy couldn’t play…”

Even if the round was live, he would still have to handle Mr. Turnip, who was standing directly behind him, shotgun in hand. If Pinstripe twitched the wrong way, he was sure Turnip would decorate the tabletop with zebra brain matter.

“…And after I beat little Featherweight to death, we all hung around for a bit and took pictures. There was one with Ms. Cheerilee and Featherweight. Another with me and the crowbar. One with just the crowbar—that was a good one. Oh, and another with…”

Then there was option number three: gun down Blitzkrieg… and then what? Stroll out of here like nothing happened? Face the Shadowbolts after killing Krieg? Run from the cops after walking away from this massacre? And who’s to say Pinks wouldn’t just up and kill him for no reason after he shot Krieg. She had done it before. She could do it again.

“…So I’m standing in line to get some cider when this jerk cuts in front of me. I mean… it’s like… you try to be a nice pony and look how the world repays you. Okay, so maybe suffocating his pregnant wife with that plastic bag was an overreaction. But can you blame a mare for being upset…”

Pinstripe felt his stomach muscles tense, his throat tighten. Despair slackened his shoulders. He was ready to surrender when, like a splash of ice water to the face, he recalled the promise he’d made on the steps outside his mother’s apartment. He couldn’t die as he had lived: rolling over for bullies and being laughed at.

He raised his chin, forcing a confident look. If death was coming for him tonight, it would have to look him in the eye and take him seriously.

“…And that’s how Equestria was—”

An explosion from outside shook the building, but only Pinstripe and Blitzkrieg reacted, flinching and looking up toward the ceiling.

Pinstripe found his composure. “What do you want with me, anyway?” he said, stalling. He hadn’t thought of a plan, but Pinks’ rant was winding down and he needed to keep her talking. “I’m nothing special; this city’s full of two-bit losers like me. So what’s your angle? Why the interest in little old Pinstripe?”

“Every pony has to start somewhere. You think I fell out from between Mommy Prankster’s legs already sporting these beauties?” Pinks traced the curve of her mouth, smearing lipstick. “Monsters aren’t born, Pinny, you have to make them. And that’s what I’m doing tonight. Making a monster.”

“You are sicker in head than I was thinking,” said Krieg, “if you are honestly believing that Pinstripe will be monster like you.”

“Glad to hear you join the conversation, Kriegy!” exclaimed Pinks. “And you’re right, Pinny will never be like me—I’m one of a kind! But the kid’s got potential. He reminds me of you back in our heyday. Oh, all the innocent souls we sent screaming into the next life…” Pinks pushed out a wistful sigh, a glove on her cheek. “What happened to us, Kriegy? We used to be so right for each other.”

“You were all the time slaughtering Shadowbolts. You killed many of my comrades for no good reason.”

“Well, if you’re gonna get upset over every little thing…”

“Enough games, clown,” said Krieg, enduring the taunts without flinching. “Let go of boy. We are both knowing this is between two of us.”

“This has nothing to do with you,” said Pinks, a shadow of agitation lurking in her tone. “You had your chance. I left you with everything, and you chose to turn this city into your personal retirement home.”

“I did what was best for business, and business has never been better. Crime lords are rulers of Manehattan now. We are, how you are saying… having city in back pocket. We are making rules now.”

“See, now that’s the problem right there. Rules.” Pinks wagged a dismissive hoof at Blitzkrieg. “Whether yours or theirs, it doesn’t matter to me. Reins are reins, Kriegy. I’m just here to butcher the pony holding them.”

“Then kill me yourself, clown!” Krieg growled. “Instead of toying with children and all the time hiding behind your animals.”

Flour bristled at Krieg’s remark, her lips drawing back in a snarl. She growled, a fierce guttural thrum at the back of her throat. The other Carnies made similar displays of aggression, bearing fangs or clenching claws, except for Turnip who remained quiet and expressionless.

“Easy with the name calling, herb,” said Grift, casually eyeing the talons of her left claw, as if worried they might be dull. “Us animals can be real testy when we’re hungry.”

Krieg’s head turned slowly as he examined the surrounding carnivores. They were glaring at him, and much too keenly for his liking. At least…” He stumbled over his words, ruffled for the first time tonight. “At least leave Pinstripe out of this. Please, Prankster, he—”

“He can speak for himself,” said Pinstripe.

“I’m afraid you are—how you are saying—out of your league, comrade,” said Krieg, his tone stern. “You should be letting me handle this.”

“You should shut your fucking mouth,” snapped Pinstripe. “You weren’t interested in ‘handling’ Pinks two nights ago. As I recall, you and your feathered ‘comrades’ sent me to do that job. Now shut up and let me do it.”

Pinks showed her approval with a grin and a round of applause. “So it has a pair after all, hmmm,” she said, earning a chuckle from the Carnies.

“A pair of ovaries, maybe,” added Grift with a sneer. “According to Scope, our little faggot here just wanted to cuddle like a lonely little filly. Awww, what’s the matter, baby herb? Mommy never tucked you in and kissed you beddy-byes?”

The chuckles grew louder, and even the normally expressionless Turnip allowed a slight smile to grace his expression.

Pinstripe gritted his teeth. The laughs battered his ears like blows from a club, but what really bothered him was Scope’s betrayal of his confidence. Had he also been laughing the whole time? Stephen Scope… who had smiled so cutely and listened with patience and understanding. Was he in on the joke too? What they had… was it all just part of the prank? The thought coiled around his heart and squeezed.

“I’ll give you something to laugh at,” he said under his breath. His anger was different now. His heart no longer throbbed with the fury of a bullied child, his eyes didn’t gleam white-hot and indignant. His anger was cold now. Focused. For the first time in years, he had something concrete to aim his frustrations at.

He snatched up the gun and slid the metal band around his fetlock. His brow knitted in frustration as he tried to remember how to open the cylinder. He had seen it done a dozen times in the old movies. He just had to… just had to…

The longer he fumbled with the weapon, the louder the snickers grew. Pinks chuckled into a blood-flecked glove and looked away at Digger. She pointed her other glove at Pinstripe and shook her head, prompting the dog to laugh all the louder.

Eventually Turnip ended Pinstripe’s mortification. He took the gun from the furious zebra, gently, and chambered the round before offering it back. Pinstripe snatched the revolver from his open claw and took aim at Pinks, his firing-hoof hovering above the hammer. That part he remembered perfectly. All he had to do was flick back the hammer, like in the old western films, and the painted clown would never laugh at him again.

“Hey now, careful where you point that thing.” Pinks raised her front hooves in a pantomime of apprehension, still snickering. “It’s not a toy. You could really put somepony’s eye—well—somepony’severything out with that. Hehehehehe.”

“Stop laughing—all of you!” Pinstripe snapped. Pinks fell silent, her teasing done—but the Carnies were caught in an unrelenting giggling fit.

“I said shut up!” he shouted, his hoof inching closer to the hammer. “Shut up, shut up!” he repeated. The Carnies ignored him, continuing to laugh. Lintsalot's cackling rose especially high. “I said shut up, or I’ll kill her! I swear I will!”

“Do us the favor, herb,” laughed Grift.

“Yeah, do us the favor!” piped Lintsalot. The pitch of his laugh climbed higher, becoming a bird-like trill.

“Hey. Lintsalot.” Pinks turned toward the small griffin and froze him with a murderous glare, her face, for once, cold and impassive. “The zebra told to you stop laughing.”

“S-s-sorry, boss,” mumbled Lintsalot.

“Don’t apologize to me. You weren’t laughing at me.”

“Sorry, Pinstripe…” He fastened his gaze to the floor, visibly shaken.

The laughter ceased. As the room fell silent, a buzzing sound grew louder and louder outside.

Pinstripe lowered his weapon but didn’t drop it. Part of him was dumbstruck, once again in awe of Pinks. A look, a few words, and suddenly the room full of meat-eaters fell silent, tamed by those active eyes. “Go on, Pinstripe,” she said.

“So it’s you or Krieg, right?” he responded, proud that he had navigated the sentence without stammering. “I waste one of you, and then I walk. No funny stuff, okay?”

“No promises.”

“Fuck your no promises. Look, clown, I don’t give two shits about that old bag of bones.” He aimed the gun at Krieg. “Yeah, he rescued me from a gutter or whatever, but I ain’t dying tonight for his sorry ass. I’ll shoot the prick, just like you want, but only if you promise not to sic your gang on me afterwards. Deal?”

“Save your deals for Discord,” said Pinks. “This isn’t Tartarus, Pinny. It’s Manehattan, and it’s a lot worse. You don’t get to bargain for your soul down here. You either give it to me, or you don’t. No deals. No promises.” She was... different, suddenly. Her syrupy sweet cadence had vanished, leaving something sour in its place. She wasn’t joking, wasn’t treating everything like a game. And the look in her face—it was… serious.

A breath shuddered in Pinstripe’s chest. Horse apples, he thought. Great big crates of fresh picked horse apples. His back was to the wall on this one. There was no right answer here; there was nothing he could do to save Krieg. That remark about him not caring for the old stallion was a bluff. His relationship with his surrogate father had never been perfect, but Krieg did spare his life all those years ago. He could’ve killed Pinstripe that night, but he gave him a pass. Better, he took him in, fed him, paid him well enough, looked after him as best he could. Like it or not, Krieg was the only family Pinstripe had.

And that meant something, didn’t it? Even in a gutter town like Manehattan, that meant something.

“Fuck it,” he thought aloud, aiming the gun at Pinks. “Krieg’s a prick, but I won’t kill him for your amusement.”

Upon hearing those words, Krieg looked to his son, and his son looked back, and a silent understanding passed between them. This was the end. The ship was sinking and they were going down together.

Pinks threw her head back and clutched her sides, taken by a wild fit of laughter. When the fit passed, she was herself again, smiles and all. “Oh… hahahahaha… okay, okay, now that was funny. But seriously, hurry up and shoot Kriegy so we can get out of here.”

Pinstripe kept the gun trained on Pinks, his face determined.

The Carnies bristled.

“This is all very cute,” said Pinks. “But you can’t kid a kidder, Pinny. We all know you aren’t going to shoot me.”

“How do you figure?” said Pinstripe, still hesitant to flick back the hammer.

“Because you want what I have. Power. Respect. Don’t think I haven’t noticed the way you watch her.” Pinks aimed a glove at Grift. “The way you watch all of them. The way your eyes light up every time I make them flinch.”

Pinks licked her lips, made a smacking sound.

“It’s the scars, you know,” she said, nodding. “You see, I have my scars. She has her eyes. But what do you have? Some stripes and a few bad memories?”

Pinstripe remained silent. Pinks was right. He didn’t know what to say in response.

“You want a deal, huh? Then let’s make a deal. You kill Blitzkrieg, and I’ll do better than tell you how I got my scars. I’ll give you your own. That’s what you want, isn’t it? What you’ve always wanted.” Pinks extended a friendly hoof across the table toward Pinstripe. “Stick with me, Pinstripe, and I swear they’ll never laugh at you again.”

Pinstripe lowered the gun, staring down at its barrel. The Prankster’s eyes turned to sparklers as the weapon rose again, aimed at Krieg. She smiled. Her work here was done, and done well.

Pinstripe matched her smile become a frown as he shifted targets, trading the old pegasus for the young earth pony. After all his stalling and ruminating, he’d finally reached a conclusion.

“The thing is, Pinks, I sort of already thought about that little detail,” boasted Pinstripe. “And the way I see it—if I flick this little hammer here, I go down in history as the guy who wasted The Prankster. Never mind fame and respect, I’ll be immortal. Your pets can tear me apart afterwards if they want. It won’t matter. I’m gonna live forever.”

Krieg shut his eyes and shook his head, smiling wryly to himself. So that was it. Pinstripe didn’t really care about his father, he’d just found a way to win. Well that was alright, Krieg supposed. It was better this way. More fitting that they should die for such a selfish cause. More honest.

“Looks like the joke’s on you, clown,” laughed Pinstripe. It was finally his turn to laugh, and damn it felt good. “Oh, and one more thing before you leave us, Pinks…” He shut one eye as he took aim, his hoof hovering above the gun’s rusty hammer. “Stop me if you’ve heard this one before...”

Pinstripe’s hoof twitched back.

Flour’s ears perked.

Digger gasped.

Turnip raised his shotgun, fumbling, nearly dropping it.

Lintsalot snapped his revolver’s cylinder in place. Took aim.

Krieg’s eyes widened. It was finally happening. The Prankster was going to die, and by his son’s own hooves. He would succeeded where his father failed, and the notion made Krieg’s chest swell with pride.

“Shit!” Grift drew her pistol, flicked off the safety, aimed, thumbed back the hammer, squeezed the trigger—all in the same measure of time it took Pinstripe to fire. If not for her gun jamming, she would have shot Pinstripe, diverted his shot, and saved The Prankster, consequently saving her friend in Cloudsdale as well.

As it turned out, The Prankster’s life wasn’t in any danger. Just as Grift’s pistol gave a harmless click, so did Pinstripe’s revolver. At first nothing happened. Everyone in the room froze, suspended on tenterhooks. Then a metal peg jutted from the gun’s barrel, a white flag hanging from it.

“WHAAAAAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHA!” The Prankster howled as she bent forward and beat a gloved hoof against the tabletop. Tears leaked from the corners of her eyes, and she shook in her seat, teetering as if she might topple over.

Pinstripe eyed the white flag, mildly amused. He was likely moments away from being brutally murdered, but even so, he couldn’t fight the smirk tugging at one corner of his mouth.

The word “BANG!!!” was written on the flag in blocky, black letters. He let a dry, unwitting giggle escape him as he read the word aloud, shaking his head. It was actually kind of funny.

“Your faces!” laughed Pinks. “Oh, if you could see your faces! I got all of you! You all fell for the same gag! This is the best welcome back party ever! WHAAAHAHAHAHA!”

The others looked around, confused.

“Wait,” Pinstripe began, giggling a bit himself. “You mean all this—taking me to your hideout, introducing me to your gang, ‘killing me’, having Scope treat me, slaughtering a club full of ponies—it was all set up for this stupid gag?”

“Well yeah,” Pinks answered plainly. “And don’t forget the part where I killed Grift’s cooks, then dressed up like her and tricked the Carnies into seasoning their meat with lead.” Pinks reached into her pocket and withdrew the tattered mask with the opaque eyes, holding it up triumphantly.

A half-roar, half-caw flew from Grift’s peak. “You little—!” She rushed Pinks and seized her by the throat, snatching the chuckling lunatic out of her seat. “That was you! You cost me my livelihood for some stupid prank!”

“How else was I… supposed to get you to come?” said Pinks, forcing the words through a rapidly closing windpipe.

“Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t throttle you.”

“How about two?” Pinks let out a gurgling chuckle and pointed a hoof over Grift’s shoulder. The fuming griffin craned her neck and saw Lintsalot still sitting on the bar behind her, his weapon trained on her back.

“Seriously?” Grift growled. “You’re choosing her over me? You forget who forged those Visas for you? Who smuggled you into this country? You’d be pulling shrapnel out of your tail feathers in some jungle overseas if not for me.”

“Sorry, Grift,” said Lintsalot. “You’re a good boss, but you ain’t no Prankster.”

Grift looked to Turnip and his raised shotgun. He offered a shrug and nothing more.

Grift brought The Prankster’s muzzle close to her beak, looking her square in the eye. “This isn’t over, Diane.” Her talons opened and Pinks dropped to the floor, knocking over her chair.

Pinstripe hopped down from his seat and helped Pinks back to her hooves. “Does this mean I get to walk?”

“Oh no,” said Pinks, massaging her throat. “I wasn’t joking about making you a monster. You’re going to join me, and you’re going to do it freely; I won’t make you.”

“I still don’t understand? Why me?”

“Because I have a point to prove. And I’m starting small.”

Without warning, Pinks grabbed the back of Pinstripe’s mane, slammed his face into tabletop and pinned him there. He started to struggle free of her grip, but stopped when he felt the familiar nip of her knife at his neck.

Before Blitzkrieg could react, Turnip bashed his skull with the butt of his shotgun, knocking the old stallion to the floor. He stomped Krieg’s back, forcing a hoarse cry from the old stallion. Then his free claw dug into one of Krieg’s shoulder blades, drawing blood as he lifted him off the ground and pinned him down on the opposite end of the table.

They were face to face now, surrogate father and adopted son.

“What is meaning of this, clown!” Krieg shouted. “You are already having your laugh! Stop this!”

Pinks ignored Krieg, focusing on Pinstripe instead. “You know, the, uh, the good doctor… he told me everything. About how Mommy wasn’t around. How you had no friends. And he didn’t even mention a father—a real one I mean.” She licked her lips inches from Pinstripe’s ear. “He told me how easy it was to win you over. How badly you wanted to hold him.”

“Shut up,” Pinstripe growled. “You don’t know shit about me.”

A piercing laugh stabbed his ear, high pitched and sharper than the knife at his neck. “Oh, I know plenty. That’s why I keep Scope around. He’s good at probing into a pony’s heart…” Pinks pushed her knife deeper into Pinstripe’s neck, drawing a rivulet of blood. “…And pulling out all the juicy bits inside. He’s done it to all my friends. He keeps trying with me too, but with there isn’t much to unearth. I’m crazy and I kill things. What you see is what you get—hehehehehe.”

A collective shiver ghosted through the Carnies as each of them remembered their time with the doctor. They’d all had stories they wanted to share with somepony, sad tales about sad lives, whispered in confidence. Each had left a piece of themselves with the doctor. They all hated, and still loved him, in their own ways.

“He’s seen your type so many times before, and so have I,” Pinks went on. “I know why guys like you are so obsessed with money and power and respect. You want to be seen. And these, uh—these stripes…” Her blade traced the curve of one black stripe on the back of his neck. “…they camouflage you. Keep you from being seen.

“Your real father never saw you once in his life. Your mother chose not to, and the bullies, well—hehehehehe—they couldn’t see past the stripes. But he could.” Strong hooves wrenched his head back, forcing him to look up at his surrogate father. “Of all the ponies in this miserable city, Blitzkrieg here is the only one who chose to acknowledge you. And that’s why I’m going to take him away.”

“Okay,” muttered Pinstripe. “Okay, you win. I’ll be your monster. I’ll do whatever you want, just let Krieg go. You’ve made your point, so… so you don’t have to hurt him. Please, Pinks, he’s all I got left. He’s my Fa—”

“Is okay, comrade,” Blitzkrieg interrupted gently. Turnip’s shotgun rose high, ready to thud down on Krieg’s skull, but Pinks stayed him with a glare. “I came here tonight knowing I would not be going home.”

“Why?” muttered Pinstripe, almost afraid to ask.

“Because lunatic was having my only son. She is telling me to come alone, or she will kill him. I was not knowing what else to do.”

Pinstripe’s heart felt heavy, like somepony had shoved a hunk of lead between his ribs. “No, not that. Why didn’t you kill me that night? Why did you take me in when I was a kid? I asked you back then, but you never answered.”

Blitzkrieg’s brow furrowed as a smile spread across his time-beaten face. “I am not having reason, comrade. It was random act of kindness. Was… how are you saying… spur of the moment. Nothing more.”

Pinstripe looked away from Krieg, his eyes falling hard on the tabletop. He had waited years to hear that answer. And now that he had, he felt cheated somehow. He wasn’t sure what he had been expecting but… no reason? A random act? If that was the punchline to fate’s cruel joke, it wasn’t funny.

Krieg turned away from his son as well. He glared up at The Prankster. “Do your worst, clown.”

“Oh, no. Not my worst,” said Pinks. “I believe you insulted my animals earlier, and, well… I might have ruined their underground restaurant to get them here tonight. They haven’t eaten anything in hours. I’d love to finish you myself, but I kinda owe them.”

A manic giggle flitted up from Pinks as the Carnies circled around the table, leering at Blitzkrieg him with hungry eyes.

Grift’s were the hungriest, the most primal and depraved. Pinstripe watched her shove Turnip aside and latch onto Krieg’s shoulders with talons the color of brass. She was different suddenly. Not quite ecstatic or excited or crazed like Pinks, not a cackling lunatic bouncing off the walls of a padded cell. Her verve was quieter, more subdued, but it was there. The chance to sink her talons into flesh had stirred something deep in her core.

She spun Krieg around, made him face the quiet madness skulking behind her eyes. She didn’t laugh. Didn’t smile. Beaks made for poor smiles, so fixed and rigid—lacking the dexterity of lips. Instead, she squeezed Krieg’s shoulders until they spurted rivulets of blood, her talons expressing all the manic, unbridled joy that her beak couldn’t.

She yanked Krieg away from the table and plunged her open beak into the crook where his neck and shoulder met. An agonized howl thundered up his throat. Instinctively, he tried to push her away, his wings fluttering like mad, but her hold was much too strong for his time-shriveled frame.

A new stab of pain lanced through his wound as Grift tossed her head back, ripping out a sizable chunk of flesh and swallowing it whole. He grew dizzy, a feeble moan in his throat as blackness haloed his vision. His hearing dulled. The din of The Prankster’s hysterical laughter sounded far off, a nightmare-echo resonating from the darkest corner of his own mind.

The talons released him, and he became aware of a vague falling sensation. Falling from his seat of power, from his throne where he had lorded over the gutters and the filth and the equine-cockroaches as one of Manehattan’s four kings. Only three after tonight. Three kings and a mad court jester, eager to reclaim her city of fools.

He didn’t feel his body flop against the floor, didn’t realize he was down until his feeble legs tried to pick him back up. What a terrible thing the survival instinct was, he mused wryly. Weak as his body was, it was still stronger than his mind, still clawing and fighting long after his spirit had surrendered. Terrible, terrible. He wanted to speak the words aloud but lacked the strength, so he settled for thinking them over and over. Terrible, terrible, terrible.

And then they were upon him. All five of them. Ripping and slashing and biting with their talons and beaks and fangs.

Ballistic’s semi-conscious form sailed through the night and crashed into The Ringer’s back entrance, knocking the door clear off its hinges. She tumbled into the building, a barely-alive mess of contusions, lacerations and fractured bones. Her injuries were many: several broken ribs, a dislocated right shoulder, a ruptured eardrum, a crushed pelvis, two concave cheekbones, a hyperextended knee… She would have been dead if not for the healing spell now meticulously repairing her mangled body.

Twenty limped over Ballistic's crumbled form, the duffle bags and saxophone heavy on her shoulders and back. She didn’t know anything about healing magic, didn’t understand why Ballistic’s horn was flickering on and off like a damaged neon sign. Nor did she care—she was spent from pounding away at the officer’s blistering skin. Scorch marks marred her hooves, and her shoulder wound had re-opened—again. At this rate, it would never heal right.

Leaving Ballistic behind, Twenty half-expected a wave of parasprites to follow her inside. But Flour had been right after all: the little monsters didn’t seem to like being indoors. She was clever for a diamond dog, but then, Twenty expected as much from one of The Prankster’s minions.

One the Prankster’s minions... The thought was enormous, leaving no room in her head for anything else. Shewas one of those minions now, wasn’t she? It seemed so absurd. She was a nopony, a common thug; what could The Prankster possibly want with a mare like her?

The sound of idle chatter surprised Twenty as she neared the bar. Entering the club’s main room, she was both disturbed and captivated by the sheer number of corpses lying about in compromising positions. There were dozens of stallions and mares strewn carelessly about the floor, and draped over toppled tables and chairs.

Twenty’s good eye turned away from the dead and focused on Pinks and the others. They were sitting at the bar, laughing as Pinks did impressions of Blitzkrieg. She paced back and forth on her hind legs, her elbows flared at her sides and flapping in a crude pantomime of pegasus wings. She made fun of his thick accent, saying ridiculous things about ‘old country’ and ending every sentence with ‘da’ or ‘comrade’.

Pinstripe sat on a stool in the middle of the group, his shoulders slack. He was stone silent and staring at the floor with dead eyes, looking misplaced among so many cheery faces.

“Well I’ll be damned. It lives,” said Grift. She was the first to notice Twenty limping toward the bar, bags and brass in tow. “You were right, dweeb,” she said to Pinks, “the herb didn’t get herself eaten after all.”

“That makes one,” joked Pinks. She spun around to meet Twenty, her gaze latching onto the injured mare.

Reflexively, Twenty took a half step back. She had never met The Prankster before, never seen the active blue eyes or the dark circles that held them in place. She was smaller than Twenty had imagined, and wasn’t her mane supposed to be long and straight? Was this raggedy little thing really the Clown Princess of Crime?

Without saying a word, Pinks stepped closer and placed a glove on Twenty’s cheek, turning her head to one side, then the other. Twenty flinched but resisted making any sudden movements. Her throat clenched as Pinks stared at her battered face. She kept turning Twenty’s head from side to side: examining her lavender eye, then her grey one.

“Ooooooohhhh,” she said after an uncomfortable silence. “Twenty. I get it.” A giggle flitted from her lips, brushing Twenty’s face. “Hehehehe—that’s pretty good. Almost as good as a zebra named Stripe. I like you already, Twenty.”

“Is good to finally be meeting you, Prankster.” Hearing the quiver in her voice, Twenty gave herself a hard mental kick.

“Please, The Prankster is my Mother’s name. Call me Pinks.”

Twenty nodded. “Da. Is Pinks then.”

“Mmmm, we’re gonna have to do something about that accent. It sort of reminds me of this pony I just had eaten alive. Try saying ‘Peter Pony picked a pack of pickled peppers’.”

Twenty scratched the back of her neck. “Peter Pony is picking pack of pickled peppers?”

“Hm. Don’t worry, we’ll work on it.” Pinks patted Twenty’s cheek. “In the meantime, I see you brought our exit strategy. But where is—”

Before Pinks could finish the sentence, the Tongueless mare ambled up behind Twenty, stumbling over a corpse. The bass drum was still fastened to her lower back.

“Oh,” said Pinks. “That was convenient.” She turned to face the gang of carnivores. “Well it’s been fun guys, but I think it’s time we made our daring escape. Twenty, if you would.”

Twenty dropped the duffle bags on the floor and unzipped them. Inside she found more musical instruments.

Pinks smiled at the look of confusion on Twenty’s face. She plucked up a harmonica from the bag and offered it to her. “Do you play?”

Twenty shook her head no.

“That’s okay, you can just hum along.”

Twenty stepped aside and silently watched the Carnies hop down from their seats and rifle through the bags. Each of them plucked up an instrument: a fiddle and bow for Flour, a horn for Digger, a tiny metal triangle for Lintsalot. Turnip took the bass drum from the Tongueless and strapped it to his chest. Then he bent down awkwardly, the drum getting in his way, and removed a pair of drumsticks from one of the bags.

“You mind, herb?” Grift towered over Twenty, her claw open and waiting.

Twenty blinked, then shook her head and quickly removed the saxophone still strapped to her back. She passed it to Grift, still keeping quiet.

The Carnies formed a single-file line, as if preparing to march, with Grift at the front and Turnip at the back. They took a moment to warm up and tune their instruments. The loud, jarring notes that barked and belched from their instruments rebounded off the walls.

Pinstripe glanced up from his stupor. When Pinks noticed him watching from his seat, she waved him over. “Don’t just sit there, Pinny! This is your party too!” she shouted, a broad, silly smile on her face.

Pinstripe didn’t budge.

“Party-pooper,” she muttered. “Come on, Carnies, let’s show our new friend how to have a good time!”

It started slowly, with Lintsalot snapping his talons, tapping his paws, humming an upbeat tune. The others listened a moment, and then Grift joined in, playing a few jazzy notes that rang out low and silky smooth. Her cheeks ballooned and her chest swelled with air as she blew into her saxophone.

Gradually, the music grew louder, more impassioned; and before long, Pinks and the others were tapping their hooves or paws. Heads nodded. Shoulders rolled and bobbed, settling into an easy rhythm.

Flour came in next, playing quickly, her bow doing more tapping and bouncing then strumming. The two separate tunes sounded odd beside each other, but not quite disharmonious.

“That’s it!” exclaimed Pinks, her body rocking as the music picked up. “Now you got it!”

Digger’s horn came in next, a blaring sound that was much more passion than skill.

“Hah hah! There it is!” Pinks shouted. “Quick, Twenty, count me in!”

Twenty was thrown off balance. She looked to Pinks and pointed a hoof at her own chest, cheeks flushed with embarrassment.

“Yes, you! Hurry up, hurry up!”

Twenty balked. She didn’t know anything about music, but she gave it her best shot.

“Uh… One…two… One—two—three—and—!”

I ain’t got time for you, Pinny!

Either you're mine, or you’re not!

Right on cue, Pinks bounded onto the bar’s countertop and burst into song, her voice loud and reverberant, soulful even.

Make up your mind, sweet Pinny!

Right here, right now is all we got!

She snatched up an empty beer bottle, using it like microphone.

A little party never killed nopony!

So we gon’ dance until we drop!

Mmmmmmm!

A little party never killed nopony!

Right here, right now is all we got!

“~Kit-mm-bah-dah-bop!~” trilled Lintsalot.

Grift bent forward and really blew, having fun with it now. The sullen, dull-faced griffin was gone, overtaken by this new, blithe musician, her beak smiling around her mouthpiece.

Pinstripe’s mouth fell open as he watched the dancing, playing, singing murderers. He thought he’d seen everything, but no, with Pinks there was always a little more, a new level of madness just below the one you were already standing on.

Bombings, butcherings—lives we didn’t spare!

It don’t mean a thang if I ain’t your mare!

She hopped down from the countertop, took Pinstripe’s hooves in her own, and yanked him from his seat, dancing and twirling as she sang.

A little party never killed nopony!

So we gon’ dance until we drop!

Mmmmmmm!

A little party never killed nopony!

Right here, right now is all we got!

Turnip finally jumped in after the second chorus, adding a drum beat to the ruckus inside the club.

Twenty stood back, her eye trained on Pinks and Pinstripe as they danced in front of the bar stools. Poor Pinstripe—he looked like a marionette in his partner’s forelegs, like she was the only thing keeping him on his back legs.

“Don’t just stand there, Muscles!” Lintsalot whooped at Twenty. “Dance! Ain’t you never been to a party before?”

Again Twenty balked. She didn’t ‘dance’, and even if she did, her body was in too much pain to match the kind of kinetic gymnastics Pinks and Pinstripe were displaying. But she didn’t want to upset her new gang—they did, after all, just murder a club full of ponies. For fun. She didn’t want to see what they were capable of while upset.

She began ‘dancing’, but then the line started forward and Lintsalot piped, “Nevermind, march! We’re outta here!”

“But streets are swarming with parasprites!” said Twenty, shouting over the music and Pinks singing.

“I know!” he shouted back. “It’s gonna be freaking awesome! Come on, come on! You’re up front!”

Reluctantly, she led the shabby, blood-caked marching band out onto the street where the police were still struggling to keep the swarm at bay.

Three dozen little monsters had cornered Long Arm against a carriage parked by the curb and were gnawing on the magic shield he’d cast to protect himself. They had closed in on all sides; he couldn’t see anything but beady eyes and rows and razor-edge teeth. His shield spell was strong, but it wouldn’t last forever—and after expending so much energy fighting, he couldn’t muster enough power for a teleportation spell.

Most of his officers had already fled and or been eaten, so nopony was coming to his rescue. Vigil had left as well, though he had been running toward danger, not from it. He hoped the young upstart hadn’t gotten himself killed playing hero at the blimp crash site. If Long Arm survived tonight, he would need help filling out heaps of paperwork after tonight’s fiasco.

The buzzing was starting to get to him. He charged the remainder of his energy into the tip of his horn, preparing for one final attack. He would vaporize most of the surrounding parasprites, create an opening and run for the nearest squad Steamer. And pray. He would do lots of praying.

He grumbled a few curses under his breath, steeled himself—but the swarm began flying away before he could make a move, its attention drawn elsewhere. Sighing, he let his body go slack against the carriage door, the coils in his gut unwinding. He watched the parasprites gather above something moving down the center of the street. A marching band? Long Arm blinked, shook his head, blinked again. “Heh. I’ve seen weirder,” he thought aloud.

Twenty grew nervous as the parasprites gathered around the marching musicians, but the tiny monsters weren’t interested in eating them. They were… dancing? Well, the parasprite equivalent to dancing anyway. They bobbed and zipped around the band in cartoonish synchronization, their ravenous snarls replaced by charming grins on round faces. Cute, Twenty thought, after shaking off her initial fear. She reached out to pet one that had flown very close, finding it soft.

The marching band paid the swarm little mind. This night had been a long one, but worth it in the end. A massacre, a live dinner, music, and now a parade of parasprites bobbing down the street in perfect unison. Incredible. At that moment, all of the Carnies, even Grift, remembered why the put up with The Prankster and her antics: because she knew how to party!

The Tongueless brought up the rear, pushing the pink cannon behind Turnip. Pinks and Pinstripe danced beside the line, sometimes weaving in and out of the gaps between players. Pinstripe was still only semi-coherent as he took in the strange, resplendent sight of a thousand or so bobbing parasprites. Like Pinks and her gang, they too had been terrorizing Manehattan only minutes ago. And now they were dancing, light and careless and free. It was crazy. The whole world was crazy.

“Grift! Solo!” shouted Lintsalot, pointing a talon at Grift.

The line stopped marching and broke off into something that resembled partygoers on a dance floor. Grift threw her head back, her cheeks inflated and flushed, her talons skittering across keys as she played an improvised solo, the notes coming to her on the fly. She shuffled as she played, and Lintsalot landed beside her, imitating her little jig. Watching them now, Pinstripe never would have guessed that one had threatened the other at gunpoint not so long ago.

Flour held her fiddle and bow in her mouth and snatched Digger’s paw without warning, spinning him around much in the same fashion as Pinks and Pinstripe. They danced clumsily on their short legs, not caring that they looked like perfect fools.

The entire gang was shuffling or sliding or twirling in the middle of the street. Even Twenty couldn’t resist tapping her hoof to Grift’s music, smirking as she watched the others dance. If this was to be her new life, she welcomed it. She could get used to this.

After an exhausting bout of pivoting and swiveling and leaping, Pinks slowed her furious pace to a steady swaying motion, her shoulders, neck and head rocking left and then right. She shot Grift a furtive wink, and the griffin’s the playing slowed a bit.

Smiling sweetly at Pinstripe, Pinks picked up a new verse. Her active blues bore into Pinstripe’s stony grays. She looked at him the way she had during their game of tag, when she stood on Tongueless mare’s back and mouthed the words ‘tag me’. Her smile was soft and inviting, the active blues serene, glinting in the neon wash of the red light district.

Could she see him, Pinstripe wondered? Had she been looking his way the whole time, or was this just another prank? The blue eyes blinked slowly, deliberately. The scars smiled, sweet and caring. If this was another prank, it didn’t feel like it.

Then the music leapt high, pounded fast, and the moment vanished—there and gone like it never happened. Maybe it didn’t.

Pinks began the chorus anew, and to her delight, Pinstripe joined her. He swept her up in his forelegs, dancing and singing along like a fool.

Author's Note

This concludes the first arc of Pagliacci. And well, it's been fun.

To begin I'd like to thank Brony_Fife and Y1 for assisting with proofreading. Understand this: I am terrible at writing in third person and my drafts are practically unreadable. Proofing for me is an experience I would never wish on my worst enemies, but Fife and Y1 have been patient, supportive, and as thorough as possible (though they didn't proof this author's note, so it's probably full of mistakes).

And of course I'd like to thank to all my readers as well. I hope you guys enjoyed my work, and please don't be shy about leaving comments and critiques. I'll likely be taking some time off Pag to work on other stuff, but don't worry I won't be gone long.

Thanks again for all the hits and up-votes and faves. This my first story to ever get featured and I couldn't have done it without all of you.

Later on.

Bonus Chapter: A Simple Story About Killing Ponies

Bonus Chapter: A Simple Story About Killing Ponies

Manehattan: five years before The Prankster's release...

This story begins at a Celestial Church of Harmony in Manehattan.

Can you believe that?—a church of all places. Not a dive bar, or a cathouse, or a squalid motel, or a barren street corner that’s lit up by one lonely lamp post. Not a place that smells like urine or poverty or corruption and makes you wrinkle your nose when you walk by.

No. Not a place like that. A church. A humble place of worship, all white walls, stone steps and a steeple that needles high into the night and looks misplaced in this city of demons and fiends. Every time I see it standing there, proud as sin and so pleased with itself, I wonder how it got there. How it arrived at the border-street that separates downtown from midtown, only three subway stops from a drug den I raided not even two weeks ago.

So the story begins at a church, and it features a rag-tag gaggle of corrupt cops. One of those cops is me. Berry Punch. MPD. SWAT. Little purple Berry Punch, who used to wear her badge like a second cutie mark. Who drinks on the job and carries a whisky flask in a pouch on her tactical vest. Whose face is bruise-colored and always sporting at least one square bandage over a bruised cheek, like a patch sewn into torn jeans.

That’s me. Little purple Berry Punch. The mare who lives in an empty whisky bottle and is one herself. Who sleeps on her side to avoid drowning and wakes up in strange places.

The mare who is drunk now—intoxicated in the back of a police van with four pony-shaped blurs that must be my fellow officers. They are hazy outlines sitting upright on two rows of benches—vague shapes made of silence and body armor and boots designed for chasing and stomping. Four blue silhouettes shrouded in dreary night time mystery—and the diver makes five, and I make six, and together we make one. One lynch mob, stalking through the frozen night with animal cunning.

Tonight we are stalking a predator. The worst kind of predator. The kind that smiles. Lures. Feeds on innocence. Cute, rosy-kneed innocence that is helpless against forehooves that reach out from black alcoves and touch and touch and touch…

Picture him for a moment, Manehattan’s worst kind of predator. Don’t hold the image for too long, or its foulness will make you crawl into a tub of soapy water and scrub and scrub and scrub until the skin peels off your bones. Until you are exposed muscle and sinew sitting in a bowl of red water, sure that you will never feel clean again.

But don’t run from the image, either. Don’t cower. He is proof of the depravity of the modern condition, and you need to see him.

Take a breath. Relax. Focus. Now tell me, can you see his face? His slight grin as he opens his refrigerator in the morning and finds just enough milk for one more bowl of cereal. His frown as he reads the paper and learns that his favorite baseball team has lost another game.

He looks like your brother, doesn’t he? Or like your roommate at university, the one who collected odd-looking paperweights and laughed aloud while listening to his favorite radio show. He looks like you. He looks like me too, and that’s the problem. That’s why it’s so important that you see him.

And not just see him, either, but hear him as well. Hear his voice that is creamy and whispering empty promises in little ears. Claiming that it won’t hurt. That it will feel good. That it will only take a minute. Can you see him now? If you could, you would understand we ride under the black sky. Because we must. Because we are officers of the law, and the law’s justice is not for the worst kind of predators.

But never mind us. Never mind the lynch mob, the predator, and especially me. The story isn’t about me, I’m just the pony telling it. Just little purple Berry Punch: the drunken SWAT officer dozing in the backseat of a van as it rumbles by a church...

"Have a gander at that, would ya?” The driver’s country twang pinches my ear, rousing me from mys stupor. The van lolls to a stop. There are no windows in the back, so I can't ‘have a gander’ at whatever the driver wants us to see.

Curious, I sidle up into the passenger seat and look out the window. One of the female officers follows me. She stands in the nook between the driver and passenger seats, her head tilted as she stares out the window as well.

The driver is furious; I can almost hear how hard his knees are coiling around the steering wheel. He is furious, and so is the mare in the nook, but I hardly feel a thing as I watch the drama unfold across the street.

I watch an earth mare in a parka shove a unicorn stallion into the doors of the church’s entrance. The stallion is old and wearing a black cloak, a white collar. The mare is young and holding a bat between her teeth. A priest and a street tough. One victim. One victimizer. Predictable stock characters in any Manehattan drama.

The priest raises a foreleg to shield his face. The bat clubs his temple. He sinks to the floor, cowering.

More blows follow. The tough drops her bat to speak. Words are exchanged: pleas from the priest, curses from the tough. Insults rain down on the priest. Blows again—brick-heavy stomps that pummel and thump. Then more words, terse and biting. Then a wad of spit that lands on the priest’s face.

Another stomp. Another. Less movement from the priest. Blood now. Blood from his nose. His mouth. Blood stains on the sealed doors. On the tough’s hooves. The sleeves of her parka…

And then the tough is trotting away from a pile of torn skin and broken bones. She canters off on anxious legs, taking the stone steps two at time, her unzipped parka fluttering from the speed of her descent.

It happens fast and slow. Fast enough that it ends before we can stop it—before we can even leave the van—but slow enough for every detail to burrow between the creases of our brains.

The driver starts to open his door, furious, but stops when the mare’s hoof falls on his shoulder. You remember the mare between the seats, right? Sorry, but I’m afraid there aren’t any names in this story. You’ll have to pay close attention, okay.

“Wait,” the mare whispers.

“We done waited too long already,” snaps the driver.

The three of us watch the tough climb into a topless stagecoach parked at on the curb. The drunken haze behind my eyes distorts the wagon’s features. They distort the tough as well. She looks ghoulish in her open parka, a big-city ghost seated atop her Flying Dutchmare.

The wagon pulls away from the curb, and so does the van. We follow the wagon. We follow because the mare between the seats has just finished relaying the drama to the others, and their blood is turning volcanic. Because they are much drunker than I am. Not with booze that numbs the passion of a pony’s spirit, but with power and petty indignation that supercharges it.

We wear badges, you see. Badges that validate our rage and justify our whims. Can you see us? Huddled in a van and armed for war. Seething and shaking in our body armor as we pretend to care about the sanctity of religion, of anything. A priest was assaulted tonight—and look how angry we are! Can you hear us mumbling curses under our breath? Can you hear our bombastic declarations of war? Our promises to ‘bash that bitches skull in’, to ‘teach her a lesson’, to ‘make an example’ of her.

And all this fury after we sat in the van, and watched, and didn’t raise a hoof to serve or protect the priest. The battered stallion of the cloth who is lying alone in the cold and likely staring up, straight up at the moon and stars, wondering where his goddess is. Well we were just across the street. Six of us. Six guardian angels that sat and watched, and now follow, because vengeance is more exhilarating than justice.

We follow the taxi to a squalid neighborhood nestled near the northernmost edge of Manehattan’s lower eastside. Shadowbolt territory. A neighborhood made of streets cracked by poverty and neglect. Of houses that squat miles apart, as if fearing contact. A neighborhood that doesn’t wake until noon and stays up well past four in the morning. That is awake now. Watching us, I’m sure.

We stalk quietly, always at a safe distance. The driver has done this sort of thing before. I watch him from the passenger seat with eyes made nebulous by booze and long hours of wakefulness. His face is long and scrunched with anger. He has defined, angular features, and a muzzle that pulls into a cone shape where his nose ends. A shape that makes me think of bullets or missile warheads.

His horn is short and lacks the signature spiral of most unicorn horns. It seems like an afterthought, his horn; like Celestia was making an earth pony and changed her mind at last moment.

“Ah’m in charge of this here operation,” he says to the mare still standing between the seats. She smirks at his use of the word ‘operation’, as if we were on some official mission. “What Ah say goes from here on out. What was y’all thinkin’ lettin’ her get back to her wagon like ya did? What if we’d a lost her?”

“Let me ask you something,” the mare responds. “Do you want to catch her out on the street while she’s alert? Expecting it?” She leans in close and ropes a foreleg around the driver’s neck, grinning with serpent lips. “Or do you want to catch her in her home? Her bed? Under her blankets where she thinks she's safe.”

“But the priest… We just left him there on the sidewalk. What if he was—”

“He was probably already dead,” she interrupts. “You saw what she did to him. A Fucking priest, for Cadenza’s sake! Beat him to death right outside a church, then climbed in her wagon and rolled away like nothing happened. In our city! In your city! Are you just gonna to let that slide?”

“But…” he tries to hide the tremor in his voice. “…What about the—”

“The kiddy fucker,” she growls. “He’ll get his soon enough. But first we gotta handle this priest-bashing bitch. Come on, kid, pony up! This whole thing was your idea in the first place, remember?”

There’s a tremor in her voice too. The others don’t hear it; they’re too busy lapping up her every word like a pack of thirsty dogs with their muzzles shoved in water dishes. But I hear it clear as day, even through the fog in my head that keeps me nice and numb.

The driver swallows hard and nods his agreement.

“That’s the way,” she says, triumph in her voice. Then she turns to me and says, “Berry, your flask?” her voice quivering from shot nerves.

I pull the flask from its hiding place in my vest and pass it to the mare. She takes a big gulp, thanks me, then passes it back. I take a gulp myself, plunging deeper into the fog.

The wagon rumbles into a cul-de-sac and parks in front of a house reminiscent of the shacks and shanties that line the streets of Discord’s Kitchen. A porch light reveals a fraction of the paint-peeled walls. There’s a broken window on one side of the house; I can barely see it as we pull up to the curb in silence, parking a good ways away from the house and the tough’s wagon.

The tough climbs off her ride and strolls up to the harnessed pony who pulled her all this way, a pegasus mare with yellow eyes that stare in two directions at once. A Tongueless.

“She’s a Bolt,” I hear myself say, the words breaking through the fog. “Maybe we should let her walk.”

“You saw what she did to that priest,” says the driver, his tone quaking with uncertainty. “And she’ll keep pulling shit like that—her and every lowlife like her—unless…” He swallows hard. Takes a breath. Finds his nerve. “…Unless we make them stop.”

The tough pets the Tongueless, trots up the paved walkway, then disappears into the house, leaving the pegasus mare harnessed to the wagon.

The Tongueless lies down on the sidewalk, tired, her body shivering. I watch her, and for the first time tonight I feel something. A twinge of remorse reaches me through the apathetic haze between my ears, and just like that a bit of the fog in my head lifts. Suddenly I have enough indignation pushing against my ribs to justify what the six of us are about to do.

We sit in the van for three hours, until we’re sure the tough is cozy in her bed.

It’s late when I finally step onto the sidewalk and crash face-first into a wall of frigid November air. I take a breath that stings on the way down my throat. Snow flurries overhead, tracing graceful acres and pasting itself to everything it can: fences, rooftops, treetops, parked wagons, paved walkways, porch steps, streetlights… It crunches under my boots, leaving imprints on the sidewalk.

A deep breath inflates my lungs, and the world makes more sense than it did earlier tonight. The others move to surround the house. I trot up to the Tongueless and rest a hoof on her mane, taking care not to wake her. She’s curled up in a tight ball, shivering. Why leave her out in the cold? It’d be so easy to let her sleep inside. She doesn’t need a bed or blankets, just a roof, four walls and a stretch of warm carpet. It would be easy, no trouble at all for the tough, so why make her sleep out here in the snow? Why this cruelty?

I march back to the van grab a jacket with word SWAT written in white letters across the back. Then I march back to the wagon and drape the jacket over the mare’s shivering body. She stirs, but doesn’t wake. Doesn’t shiver any less, either.

“What are you doing, Berry?” calls the driver, his voice hushed as he waves for me to hurry up.

I pull the flask from my vest and finish what’s left. Because I want to be numb for what happens next. Because the shivering Tongueless with the ash grey coat made me feel something tonight—something strong—and I don’t want to feel anything ever again.

Feelings only complicate things, and, you see, this really is just a very simple story. I’ve done my best to beautify it with ribbons of creative imagery. To decorate it with pretty bows made of metaphors and unconventional sentence structures. With lines that stretch on and on, and are serpentine, and bubble over with ‘ands’ and commas and semicolons and dashes, because there is always just a tiny bit more to say. Lines that stumble clumsy and ramble and remind us that there is no place for precision in the city of Manehattan.

But don’t think too hard about any of that. It really is a very simple story. There’s nothing special about it. But then… I guess that’s really for you to work out on your own.

We leave our firearms in the van. The six of us take only our body armor and our batons—because tonight we are teaching this city’s scum a lesson, and certain lessons need to be blunt and painful, or they won’t stick.

The driver orders us to circle the house and prepare to breach. Two at the front door. Two at the back. One at the living room window, and me at the bedroom window. There might be others in the house, so we try to be careful, or at least not too rash. I’m glad to be by the bedroom window. I just hope it’s the right one.

“On mah mark…” says the driver, speaking slow, his voice crackling through the radio transceiver strapped to my chest.

“Buck yeah! Let’s tear this bitch a new asshole!” says another voice.

“Right, lovelies. We gonna mash her up proper then,” says another, cocky, careless, no trace of worry at all.

“Break her in two—” says another.

“Teach her a lesson—” Another.

“Make an example…”

The last voice is mine. It’s almost a whisper as it flits through the receiver.

The driver gives the order to breach. I back up to get a running start, sprint, then hurl myself through the bedroom window—because that little trick never fails to scare the piss out of the bad guys.

I land on all fours, the thud of my boots accompanied by the tinkle of falling glass shards. The bedroom is dark, but I hear the mare give a loud start. She jerks upright on the bed, and her lavender eyes latch onto me. Tiny specks in the darkness. I latch onto them as well. Hold them fast.

Then I charge. Leap. My neck twists in mid-flight, and the baton in my mouth swings forward, catching the tough on the ear. She tumbles off the mattress, knocking her head against the nightstand beside her bed.

I land on the bed, then quickly hop down to the floor. I rear up on my back legs and move to stomp her with both front hooves, but her back leg swings out in a tight arc and sweeps my boots.

Sharp pain lances through my fetlocks, and the room tilts sideways as I fall. When I hit the ground, she pounces on my chest and her jaws snap around my ear. I cry out. We tussle on the floor. I drop my baton. She mounts me, postures up and drops a thunderbolt left that turns my nose to pulp. Blood sputters. Another blow lands on my jaw. Spots flicker behind my eyes. Another hits my cheek. The room spins.

I can’t see or hear anything—there are lights where my eyes should be and my head is ringing—but instinct has my upper body twisting as I throw a wild hook from off my back. My hoof blunts a patch of soft underbelly, and the tough gurgles and spits something warm and sticky on my face. It drips into my open mouth, its flavor like a sloppy kiss.

With a grunt, I buck my hips and shuck her off my lap. I scramble up to my back legs and launch a straight right aimed at her muzzle. To my surprise, she bounces to her back legs and catches my airborne foreleg with both of hers. Then her body pivots, her hips twist, her knees bend—and suddenly I’m sailing through the air and crashing into a dresser.

I’ll be damned. The bitch can fight.

Just as I find my hooves, the tough picks up my baton and rushes me. She closes, clubs me across the mouth. I stumble back into the dresser, hooves scrambling to find balance, and somehow manage to block the second strike with a raised foreleg. Then I time her third swing perfectly, catching one end of the baton in my mouth.

We fight over the weapon like dogs fighting over a bone, snarling and tugging as we try to jerk it free of the other’s grasp. It’s a give and take tussle, more a test of will than muscle.

I’m wondering where the others are when suddenly the tough trips over her own hooves and drags me down with her. Our heads knock against the fallen dresser, and the batons pops out from between our clenched teeth. It rolls across the room.

We stay on the ground for almost a full minute. Breathing heavy. Assessing our wounds. Watching each other in the dark.

Then we stand up, slowly. I take off my bulletproof vest and toss it the floor. It’s heavy. Slowing me down.

A scream echoing from another room grabs the tough’s attention. Her eyes leave mine, flicking over my shoulder at the door behind me. She inches toward me. I rise to my hind legs. Raise my fores. She does the same.

Now pay close attention to this next part. I don’t simply want you to see it. I want you feel it. To experience it.

I want you to feel the bone-jarring rattle that shakes all the way down to my boots as a right hook sinks into my side. The whiplash of her head snapping back under the force of my counter uppercut.

I want you to hear the faint tap, tap of hooves shuffling on carpet. The shotgun crack of punishing strikes finding their marks—of hooves and knees and skulls speaking in tongues to each other.

I want you to taste the rust-flavored droplets wetting the tough’s bottom lip. To smell the trickle of vomit that spews from me after a kick finds my gut and reminds me how drunk I am.

I want you to see the left cross that catches my temple; my shoulder that drives her body into a wall; our hind legs that are weary and slowly becoming gelatinous.

A headbutt.

A bite.

A kick.

A tackle.

A slam.

A dance, you see.

With last drop of energy she can muster, the tough rams me, slamming both of us into the door. We drop to the floor, exhausted. Before either of us can scramble up, the door swings open and a baton comes down on the back of the mare’s neck. She flops down on her belly, defenseless against the second blow that strikes the crown of her head.

Then she lies still.

I breathe a sigh of relief, glad it’s finally over.

“Up you go.” Rough hooves grab my shoulders and stand me upright. The driver’s hooves. He looks me up and down. “Ponyfeathers,” he laughs. “Gave ya a fight, did she?”

I don’t know why, but the first thing I notice about him is the baton holstered on his belt. It looks savage. Primitive. In a better world, that terrible club would be the sword of noble knight, never drawn in petty anger, never swung without a just and worthy cause.

I keep my eyes fixed on the club, even as the driver takes the tough’s tail in his mouth and drags her from the bedroom. Even as I limp after him down the hall, through a common room, out the back door. Out into the snow-chill air that pricks at my skin like a hungry mosquito.

And the longer I stare at the club, the more I wish it was sword. Because five years ago I joined the force in hopes of becoming a knight. Because on nights like this one—dark nights when the cold shocks me from my drunken stupor and makes me feel the weight of my badge… On nights like tonight, I remember the Berry Punch of a few years past who left her safe home in Ponyville because she wanted to make a difference. Because harmony had met a quick and brutal end, and the world was going to pieces, and she wanted to pick up the broken bits and glue them back together.

But there are too many broken bits now, flurrying overhead like jagged snowflakes. They fall too fast, too heavy, and they cut the skin on their way down, down, down to meet the sidewalk.

The driver shoves the street tough to the ground. We are standing in her backyard now. The fight has abandoned her body. She sits up on her haunches, her front hooves resting between her thighs like dog paws, her head drooping forward. Beaten down. Defeated.

Blood leaks from her nose, pooling on the snow. For the first time since witnessing her assault on the priest, I notice how young she is. How small. Fragile. I notice her cropped mane and tousled bangs that swoosh to one side in the November breeze. Her dainty shoulders that give me pause and make me wonder how she fought so hard for so long. She’s pretty—or she would be if not for the ugly welts and bruises that add new textures to her skin, especially the skin on her face. She has a face made of braille now. An expression a blind pony could read.

She looks up at the driver and hacks a wad of spit that falls short of his face. It lands on his foreleg instead, earning a hard kick that sends her sprawling in the snow.

“You are... cowardly pigs…” she says with a heavy Stalliongrad accent. Her voice comes out strained. She wipes her nose. Spits. “Attacking a defenseless filly in her bed… and with clubs and greater numbers…” She pauses frequently to suck back labored breaths.

The driver’s front hoof lashes out again, striking her underbelly, making her cough and curl into a ball.

“Is this… making you feel like big stallion?” she continues, forcing the words through a morass of raspy coughs.

The driver stomps her neck, pinning her beneath his hoof. “Did ya feel big while you was kicking the crap out of that old priest?” he says in menacing tone. “He’s dead now ‘cause a you. Well, answer me, ya little shit!”

“That was business.” She glares up at the driver, fearless.

“Well, Ah reckon this here is business too.”

“What you do… you are doing for pleasure…” she scoffs. “Is different… Is like night and day…”

The driver is about to rebuttal with another kick, when the other cops appear in the doorway, dragging two more earth ponies out into the yard. One of their prisoners is an older mare with eyes just like the tough. Blood is dripping from a gash in her shoulder, staining the snow. The other is a stallion who looks nothing like the mares. His broken foreleg flops grotesquely as two cops shove him into the snow. He's barely conscious, mumbling nonsense under his breath. Probably in shock.

“Wait! Stop!” the tough shouts, fighting to worm free of the driver’s hold. “L-leave them alone! They are having nothing to do with this!”

The driver smirks and kneels down close to his victim, their noses nearly touching. “But we found them here at the culprit’s hideout. Ah reckon that makes them accessories to the crime. Ain’t that right, Ms. Punch?”

I sniff and glare down at him, but don’t answer.

“No! They are not knowing about any of this!” she says frantically.

The older mare starts to say something, but a swift blow to the head keeps her quiet.

“Please!” the tough begs. “I am not even wanting to hurt priest. I am Shadowbolt. I am only taking orders. My boss—he is telling me to hurt priest tonight. Is test of loyalty. Like—how are you saying—initiation.”

“That how you sons of mules get your kicks? By beatin’ up some random pony?” The driver gives a nod and one of the cops kicks the older mare in her side. Another stomps the back the back her head.

“Not random!” yells the tough, tears streaking down her face. “Priest is rotten stallion. Is known for all the time raping little foals.”

The driver’s eyes go all wide and stupid when he hears that. I suppose mine do too.

“Is unacceptable in Shadowbolt territory,” she continues, her voice fervent. “My boss—he is sending me to teach priest a lesson tonight. To… how are you saying… make example of him.”

My stomach lurches.

The driver steps backwards. Nearly stumbles. He looks to me first, then to his fellow officers, eyes welling up with hurt and uncertainty. He tries to play it cool. Tries to pretend he’s still in control, still in the right, but by now he knows the truth. Or rather, he always knew the truth, and now he has to face it.

He knows that in Manehattan the good guys and the bad guys wear the same colors, and he can’t decide which of us is worse: the rapist of the cloth, or the gang member who is small and pretty and fragile, or the cops with their badges and their manufactured indignation. He doesn’t know who deserves retribution, or who has the right to carry it out. He reaches for his baton but it slips through all the uncertainty and indecision. We all watch it fall the ground, impotent.

We freeze for a long moment. All of us. We listen to the wind howl lonely lupine notes at the moon. We shift in the snow. We stare at each other, searching faces for answers that don’t exist.

And when we find nothing, I pick up the baton myself.

I do it because I’m feeling again, and I don’t want to. Because the driver and the tough and the cops and the priest are making the story too complicated. It’s a simple story, remember? So I pick up the baton, shove the driver aside and bash in the tough’s midsection, breaking ribs. A cry rings out from her throat, loud and sharp, and her body writhes like a dying thing. I hit her again, fracturing one of her back knees with a beauty of a downward swing.

The older earth mare screams for me to stop. She keeps screaming until somepony draws their baton and hits her over the head.

I keep working on the tough, my senses numbing, my eyes growing cold and focused. Eventually the driver finds the nerve to join me. He tramples the poor filly, who is curled into a ball like a hedgehog with no spines, accepting her punishment with hurt sounds and tears that freeze when they touch the snow.

My fellow officers do the same to other two earth ponies. It starts slow. A stomp here. A baton strike there. But as the terrified shrieks drift high into the night, the beating grows fiercer and fiercer. It grows until the cops are practically leaping on their victims’ bodies. Until their eyes bulge and their faces contort with sinister triumph.

Once I start the madness it can’t be stopped—and together we hammer three defenseless souls into the snow, all for the sake of keeping things simple. Because revenge is more exhilarating than justice. Because Manhattan’s worst kind of predator looks just like me, and that is the problem.

I’m so lost in our death dance that I don’t hear the riffle bark. I don’t smell the gunpowder, don’t see the muzzle flash or the smoke that plumes winter-white but is summertime-hot.

But I know the shooter is hidden somewhere off to my right. I know because I am standing over the fallen tough, still stomping her unmoving body, and the driver is standing in front of me, kicking and spewing out fervent laughter—and as I glance up, as our eyes meet for the final time, I see the bullet spiral into his left temple and barrel out the opposite end. I see his body jerk, his head snap to one side… but before either of those things happen, I see his face, frozen in death.

His final moment is strangely terrifying, precisely because there is no terror evident in his features. In his last second alive, pleasure and guilt are at war in his visage, and the result is a placid face that says nothing. An expressionless expression. If anything, he is a little confused—a tiny bit befuddled by the questionable morality of trampling a defenseless pony into the snow—but that is it.

And then he is dead.

And then he is falling.

And then the sky is bustling with pegasi—Shadowbolts—brandishing weapons and filling the air with hateful curses.

And then I am feeling too many things at once. The emotions come too fast. Burn too hot.

And then the Shadowbolts are swooping down—and I am running through the dark house—and two of my fellow cops are dying behind me—and my boots are crunching the snow—and I am leaping into the van—and I am fumbling with the ignition—and I am stomping the gas—and two more cops are screaming for me to stop, to wait, but they are too slow, and I am too scared, and I am already gunning it hard and fast out of the cul-de-sac, out of the neighborhood, out into the open road and away into the night…

And that’s it. That’s how the story ends.

So if you’re waiting for me to tell you the names of the other characters—the tough, the driver, the mare, the priest—then you’ll be waiting for a long time.

And if you’re waiting for me to explain why I decided to finish what the driver couldn’t—why it had to be me who simplified the story—then you haven’t been paying attention.

And if you’re waiting for an epilogue about the priest being identified as the rapist, or a next-day newspaper article about the five young SWAT officers who were slaughtered in known gang territory… well… you aren’t getting that either.

I could explain all of those things, but none of them matter now, do they? They aren’t important. They aren’t the point. You're just over-complicating things—getting hung up on insignificant details.

Because this really is a very straightforward narrative. There’s nothing to it. Nothing at all. It’s simple. Just a simple story about killing ponies.

Arc TWO: Prologue

Arc TWO: Apple Jam and Orange Peels

Prologue

Pinstripe’s eyes blinked open, his mind stranded in that liminal zone between wakefulness and sleep. He was only vaguely aware of the firm mattress beneath his back, downy blankets strewn across his torso. He rolled onto his side, sighing, and his foreleg fell across something warm and fleshy. Yawning, he pulled the fleshy thing closer and hugged it to his chest. It smelled sweet like powdered sugar.

“You awake, Pinny?” came a familiar cloying cadence.

“Mmm.” He nestled the fleshy thing into his lap, snuggling it, absorbing its warmth through hungry pores. Staggering through a thick haze, his mind fumbled to understand the thing enveloped in his forelegs. He pictured an effeminate face, steely blue and wearing a seductive grin. “Discord?” He forced the words out of his dry mouth. “Trying to fool me by turning into a pony again, huh? Well—” another yawn, longer and louder “—that won’t work twice.”

“No, not Discord, silly,” giggled the sweet voice. “But close. Very, very close.”

Pinstripe sat up on his elbows, still lost in that sleepy, not-quite-real place, and peered down at the vague shape of the pony lying beside him. “Scope?” He nudged one of the pony’s shoulders. Darkness obscured the figure’s details, but Pinstripe recognized the contour of Stephen Scope’s effeminate frame: the shapely hips and thighs, the flat stomach, the graceful neck, the frizzy pink mane that fell behind his ears in tangles.

Wait, Frizzy pink mane?

Gasping, Pinstripe leapt off the bed and thudded down on his butt. His tail dragged along the carpet as he scooted away from the stark, naked horror lying atop the bed. Sickness churned in his stomach, and he gave another start when he heard The Prankster’s laugh crash into him from behind. He craned his neck around and found her, sitting against a wall, laughing as her forelegs crossed around her chest while her back legs kicked.

Confused and frightened, Pinstripe stood up, inched towards the bed, and examined the mare he’d been cuddling. Curiosity drew his hooves to the frizzy mane. He gave it a tug, and to his surprise, the tangled locks came away with his hooves.

A wig?

Unnerved, he tossed it aside. With the distracting tangle of hair gone, he noticed that the mare’s eyes were open and unblinking and that her chest wasn’t rising or falling.

Pinstripe drew a slow, calming breath. He looked at the mare in the bed, then at Pinks, and then back at the mare. The mare was dead. Suffocation he guessed, given the lack of blood or visible wounds on her body. He rested his hoof on the mare’s face and shut her eyes.

She was still warm.

“Gotcha,” said Pinks, her laughter ebbing away.

It took a moment for the truth to sink in: He had been snuggling with a freshly murdered corpse, not The Prankster. He sighed and scratched behind his ear, finding the thought more comforting than it should have.

He looked around the moonlit room, the blue-silver light shafting in through the open blinds, and his eyes glanced over walls lined with neat wallpaper. “Where are we?” Pinstripe asked, not really expecting an answer.

Pinks sprang up to all fours. “Get dressed.” She pointed at a pile of clothing heaped against a closet door. “I want to show you something.”

Without protest, Pinstripe put on the clothes: a tailored shirt and a suit coat, both snug around his shoulders, and his brick-red tie. He was glad to have it around his neck again, the way a prisoner tortured to his breaking point is glad for the hangmare’s noose.

Pinks opened the door and stuck her head out into hall, scanning left and right, as if searching for something. When she didn’t find it, she shot Pinstripe a conniving glance and waved for him to follow her.

She led him down a spacious hallway, pitch-black and eerily silent, then through an oversized pantry and into a dining room, complete with an oval-shaped table and a crystal chandelier suspended from the ceiling. With a rascally titter, she quietly nudged open cupboards and drawers, gathering up several crystal glasses and fine ceramic plates.

“What are you doing?” whispered Pinstripe, his heart racing as he watched Pinks set the table.

“A magic trick.” She bit down on the edge of the tablecloth, gave it a swift tug, and for a moment, Pinstripe thought she might actually snatch away the sheet without disturbing the china. And why not? She had done stranger, more impressive things in the past: predicting the diamond dog’s attack, keeping the bobbing knife in the corner of her mouth, tricking a room full of carnivores with phony grenades, fooling Grift with the mask, killing Pinstripe himself… and his father. She was a veritable Renaissance Mare, her talents as boundless as they were destructive. She could do anything, go anywhere, kill any—

Dozens of glasses and ceramic plates shattered on the tiled floor, making Pinstripe flinch.

“Whoops,” Pinks giggled. “Looks like I just alerted all the guards.”

“What? What guards?” Pinstripe patted down his jacket pockets, searching for the butterfly knife that wasn’t there. “Shit, Pinks. What guards? What’s going on?” His head swiveled left and right, frantically.

He heard hooves shuffle down the hallway, accompanied by voices and loud snorts.

“Better hide, Pinny.”

Hide? Hide where?

He spun around in search of Pinks, expecting to follow her lead, but she had vanished.

“Shit,” he said aloud. “Shit, shit, shit!”

He scrambled into the adjacent room, a kitchen, and hid in a large cupboard under the sink. He thought to call out for Pinks but bit his tongue when he heard hoofbeats draw nearer, yet the hoofbeats were too loud and too heavy to belong to ponies.

“Hurry and check the pantry,” ordered a gruff voice. “And you—yes you, shit-for-brains—you search the kitchen. And be thorough. If the boss finds out there was a break in and we don’t show him a body...”

A body! Pinstripe didn’t hear any more after that; his heart began to pound harder, louder, drowning out the world beyond his hideaway. His muscles went stiff as if already dead, already afflicted with rigor mortis, and his lungs shriveled, refusing to draw breath. He blinked in slow motion, hyper-aware of his eyelids shutting and then opening wide.

A knife, he thought, the word a curse between his ears. He was in a kitchen now; he should’ve grabbed a knife before hiding. He put his ear to the cupboard door, listening, and waited for the hooves to clear out, the voices to dull. Then, taking a chance, he opened the cupboard door and—

“There you are,” said the hulking black buffalo now staring him in the face. He wore an ill-fitting flannel shirt and a hat that read “SECURITY” nestled between his horns. He was a peculiar sight, one Pinstripe might have laughed at if not for the nausea roiling his stomach acid.

The buffalo sank his teeth into Pinstripe’s foreleg, dragging him out of the cupboard and onto the floor. Pinstripe tried to scramble away, but a rib-bruising hoof stomped down on his barrel, forcing a breathless bellow from between his lips. A second stomp landed on his sternum, and he felt the world tilt sideways. There was no pain at first, just the shock of impact jarring his bones, sending a quake down each of his ribs. The pain came later, rolling in behind the blow like thunder following lighting, and he flopped onto his side, clutching at his breathless chest.

“Move an inch and I’ll trample you,” snorted the buffalo, his voice sounding far away in Pinstripe’s ringing ears. “Hey, guys!” the guard shouted, turning away from Pinstripe. “I found our trespasser. He’s laid out here in the kitchen like a fucking—”

Out of the corner of his eye, Pinstripe gleamed a flash of silver movement, and then the buffalo gurgled and collapsed on top of him. The guard’s slashed throat landed on Pinstripe's face, and a dark cataract of blood gushed into his eyes, his nose, his mouth, viscous and tasting of iron. He spat and shoved and just barely managed to roll the boulder of a corpse off his chest before drowning in the red downpour. His breath came in huffs as he lay sprawled on his back.

Standing over Pinstripe, Pinks dropped the kitchen knife clenched between her teeth and helped him back to his hooves. She patted the dead buffalo’s head and said, “Too big.” A sigh, a head shake, and then: “Come on, we gotta hurry.”

She grabbed Pinstripe by the foreleg and led him back the way they’d come, running past three other buffalo corpses as she went.

“Could we maybe slow down, Pinks?” said Pinstripe. “My chest is killing me and—”

“But we’re almost there! Just a little further, I promise!”

Pinks led him through a rotunda with a high dome ceiling, and then into a library where they hid from guards brandishing flashlights in their mouths. A few of them were earth stallions, but most were buffalo, lumbering about in the dark on anvils instead of hooves. Pinstriped wondered why they didn’t just turn on the lights.

One door gave way to a terrace, and a bracing gust of September air raked Pinstripe’s skin. The loud, whipping wind concealed their hoofbeats as they skulked up behind a stallion guard patrolling the grounds. Before he learned of their approach, Pinks pounced on his back and snapped his neck, earning a cringe from Pinstripe. She ordered Pinstripe to strip off his clothes and put on the guard’s uniform, and he obeyed, though he bunched the red tie into a ball and tucked it under his new hat, not wanting to leave without it.

They carried on in silence, reentering the building on the east end and sidling their way up a spiral staircase. Another group of buffalo guards awaited them on the upper level, but they avoided detection by slipping into an upstairs bedroom, a guest room Pinstripe thought, judging by its lack of occupants and perfectly made bed.

Pinstripe held his breath as he listened to the buffalo lumber by.

“You hear that crash earlier?” said a gruff voice. “Sounded like it came from downstairs.”

“Then let the guys downstairs worry about it,” said another. “It was probably just another clumsy maid anyway. I’d be more concerned about the power. If the boss finds out the power went dead again he’ll…” Their voices faded as they rounded a corner and vanished further down the hall.

Pinks ushered Pinstripe down a gallery hall, with walls exhibiting a surfeit of paintings hanging in ornate frames. The corridor ended at a “T” intersection, and Pinks led Pinstripe right, then down a narrow passageway and into another guest room. Once inside, Pinks stood by the door, holding it slightly ajar, and waited for another stallion guard to wander by.

Ten minutes became twenty; twenty became thirty; and thirty became an hour. Exhausted and still in pain, Pinstripe curled into a ball on the carpet and nodded off, dreaming of a world without buffalo sentries.

He woke to the sound of hooves kicking against the floor as Pinks dragged a stallion into the room by his neck, throttling him. Drowsy, he watched the life drain from the stallion’s eyes, perfectly numb to his suffering. Saliva bubbled and foamed on the guard’s tongue while Pinstripe scratched behind the ear, wondering what time it was. The last thing he remembered was twirling Pinks in his forelegs as they danced and sang the night away, surrounded by a swarm of festive parasprites.

It was nighttime now. Had a day passed? A week? He sat up and yawned again while Pinks dressed herself in the guard’s uniform.

“What are the uniforms for?” He clutched his barrel as he stood up, sure that he'd broken a rib.

“You’ll see in the morning,” Pinks answered. She stuck her head out the door and took a cautionary look around. “Come on, we’re almost done.”

They arrived at a bedroom door that was slightly ajar, light seeping into the hallway, and Pinks opened it just enough for the two of them to creep through. Pinstripe gave a start when he noticed a subtle stirring motion beneath a blanket on an oversized bed. As they crept further into the room, light snores settled in his ears, and he felt ill as he stood over the bed and found their place of origin.

A small filly with a serene face snoozed below him, her mauve, white-streaked mane splayed across her pillow, untamed by a brush or comb. Pinks edged down the filly’s blanket until her cutie mark was visible in the spectral glow of a fluorescent night light.

A wicked grin spread across her face. “Found you,” she whispered, active eyes riveted to the diamond tiara on the filly’s flank. She moved closer, and Pinstripe stepped in her path, afraid but holding his ground.

“No,” he said quietly. “You’ve had enough fun for one night, Pinks. I won’t stand here and watch you butcher a foal in her sleep.”

“Why?” She tilted her head, eyes alight with curiosity.

Pinstripe opened his mouth but no words came. He didn’t know why, didn’t have a real reason, only a vague feeling that a line was about to be crossed, a point of no return reached, and he wasn’t ready to gaze into the abyss just yet.

“It’s too much,” was all he could think to say. “Leave the kid alone, Pinks. Or I’ll have to kill you where you stand.” The threat was empty and he knew it. They both did.

Pinks ignored him, her active eyes flicking about the room. Her face brightened when she found a diamond tiara resting on the nightstand beside the bed, identical to the one on filly’s cutie mark. She plucked up the tiara and gave a whimsical twirl, her mane and tail flouncing.

“This is it,” she whispered. “This is what I wanted to show you. It’s for you. A present.” She held up the tiara for Pinstripe to see, eyes big with childish wonder.

Pinstripe made a bemused face. “Wait... You’re not gonna kill the kid?”

Pinks rolled her eyes. “Geeeeezzz. You slaughter a few hundred innocent ponies and suddenly everyone’s jumping to conclusions.”

Pinstripe eyed the tiara in Pinks’ hoof, an eyebrow raised. “Why would I want some kid’s tiara?”

“Cause you’re my pretty, pretty princess, Pinny.” She brushed off Pinstripe’s hat, and the bunched-up tie underneath, and placed the tiara on his head. “And you’ll always be my pretty princess... won’t you?” she asked. There was something new in the hyperactive blue eyes that Pinstripe had never seen before. Something sad and lonely and frail.

Pinstripe flashed a gentle smile, sighing. “The prettiest.” He covered his mouth to stifle a yawn, then rubbed his eyes.

“Uh-oh. Looks like Princess Pinny needs his beauty sleep.” Giggling, she took him by the foreleg and guided him under the filly’s bed.

“Is it okay for us to sleep under here?” he asked, too tired and frazzled to realize the absurdity of his question.

“I’ll wake you in a few hours and we’ll be gone before morning. I promise.”

Too exhausted to question this new brand of madness, Pinstripe rolled away from Pinks and pillowed his head on his forelegs. Pretty Princess Pinstripe, he thought, amused by his new royal status. But if he was the princess, what did that make The Prankster? His knight in shining armor, come to rescue him from his sanity?

In a strange way, he did feel rescued, or at least disillusioned. Or maybe Pinks had just desensitized him, worn his mind so dull that he didn’t care one way or the other. He’d seen so many things die since meeting The Prankster he figured it must all be pointless. A universe that valued life and decency would never permit The Prankster’s existence—if anything, her presence was proof that the do-gooders had it all wrong.

No… that everyone had it wrong. Madness or sanity. Life or death. Good or evil. None of it really mattered. At the end of the day everyone was just a guppy at the mercy of the current, and The Prankster was no exception. Someday that current would sweep her up and carry her downstream to where the water foamed white and the stones were high and sharp. And the rapids wouldn't care how cunning or strong-willed she was, and the rocks would be there no matter how hard she fought or how loud she screamed.

But she knew that already. And that, Pinstripe had learned, was the only real difference between Pinks and everyone else, between the truly insane and the sane. The Prankster knew the rocks were waiting for her downstream—and she didn't care.

“Pinstripe.” Hearing his name startled him. “I’m… I’m really sorry I had to kill your daddy…”

“It’s okay. He wasn’t my real father anyway.”

“Pinstripe,” she said again after a long pause. “Thanks for coming to get me.”

Pinstripe rolled over to face her, makeup, eyes, scars and all. “Thanks for coming to get me.”

“I mean it. I really hated being cooped up in that mad house.”

A half-smile appeared on his face, and he laughed with honest contentment. He had never been good at laughing, but he was getting better, and this was his best one yet.

“Yeah…” he said, running a hoof through The Prankster’s tangled mane. “Me too…”

He pulled her close and buried his muzzle in her chest, drinking in her powdered-sugar scent.

Or was that blood he smelled? Whatever it was, he found it comforting. Nestling deeper into her embrace, he thought of Stephen Scope, of Blitzkrieg, of his mother… Then fatigue and comfort gave way to a deep sleep, and he dreamed of children's laughter and smiling, frizzy-haired clowns.

Author's Note

The hiatus is finally over, and the Clown Princess of Crime is back and crazier than ever! But before we go any further, I'd to thank all my readers for... well... reading. Also, A few very, very, very minor changes have been made to the first arc. Nothing so drastic that it demands a re-read, unless you just really want to.

Again, thanks for reading, and I hope you'll stick with me till the bitter end. And trust me, it will be bitter.

Arc TWO: Chapter 2

Author's Note

ATTENTION READERS. THIS IS NOT AN UPDATE.

Sorry about the false update, guys. I am planning to post a new chapter soon (hopeful before the end of this week), but for now I'm just touching up a few things.This particular chapter was a bit long, so I split it in two--that's all.

See you in a few.

Arc TWO: Chapter 2

Arc TWO: Chapter 2

Acrylic didn’t wear a smock while he painted, observed Filthy Rich, and his ebony coat was perpetually splotched with a rainbow of metallic colors—shimmering greens and blues and reds and oranges. A yellow mane wreathed about his face in girlish curls, and his neon pink tail coiled like a chameleon’s. Filthy didn’t know which was his natural hair color—yellow or pink or neither—a topic he often mulled over while posing for the eccentric artist.

Well, not exactly posing. During their two hour sessions, Acrylic offered Filthy a pillow to sit on, or not, and told him to “be yourself”. Then he proceeded to stand behind his canvas and paint, holding his brush in a wisp of magical ebony light.

For Filthy Rich, ‘being himself’ usually involved a lot of pacing around Acrylic’s studio, a spacious rectangular ro

om hung with replicas of various masterpieces painted by the renowned artist himself. The originals, Acrylic claimed, resided in museums, the personal galleries of numerous Equestrian celebrities, and in piles at the city dump. When Filthy asked him once why he kept the replicas in his studio, Acrylic told him, “It’s a good for a stallion to remember his failures, or he’ll make the same ones again and again.”

Pacing the studio now, as he often did, Filthy gazed up at the paintings. One of them was an oil painting of the Wonderbolts, a portrait that won Acrylic national acclaim and was later made into a poster by advertising companies. His first and single greatest failure, according to the artist himself.

A myriad of other paintings lined the walls, the most fascinating of which was a portrait Equestria’s Elements of Harmony. Acrylic painted the six young heroines in a casual group-photo style pose, with black rectangular bars censoring their eyes, leaving their smiles visible underneath. Filthy wasn’t sure what kind of statement the artist had been trying to make, if any, but it was a fascinating conundrum to puzzle over.

Perhaps the most intriguing thing about Acrylic’s work was that he didn’t seem to have a style. There were shades of expressionism riddled throughout his work, mixed in with touches of realism, surrealism, abstraction, modernism, postmodernism, and a plethora of blatant plagiarisms stolen from other artists.

Torrid Cutie Mark—a painting of a young mare glancing at her flank to find the petals of her sunflower cutie mark wilting—was an exact copy of a painting of the same name by one of Acrylic’s peers: a talented Fillydelphia native named Stipple. Acrylic had claimed the piece was completely original, but it was rejected by critics until Stipple himself stepped forward and praised it as the single greatest contribution to the art world he had seen in decades. It was the only painting Acrylic didn’t consider a failure.

“What inspired it?” asked Filthy, pointing up at Torrid Cutie Mark. “Why copy another pony’s work?”

Acrylic glanced around his canvas. “If you think that painting is a replica of Stipple’s work, then you are a fool Mr. Rich. And if you think a style as intricate and masterful as Stipple’s can be replicated, than you are the biggest fool I know.”

He spoke boldly to Filthy Rich, as if he were just another pony who had wandered into his studio. Filthy liked that about Acrylic. There was something to be said about a stallion who could look down on the second most powerful crime boss in Manehattan and call him a fool.

“Have I ever told you how that painting came to be?” said Acrylic, returning to his work as he spoke. When Filthy didn’t answer, Acrylic took his silence to mean no. “One day Stipple came to me and requested a portrait, just as you have, and when I looked at him, I saw Torrid Cutie Mark. I paint what I see, Mr. Rich, I don’t know any other way.”

“You’re saying this is actually a portrait of Stipple?”

“I’m saying all of my paintings are portraits.”

Filthy’s eyes swept across the wall. He saw numerous paintings of ponies, but his eyes also fell on images of landscapes, objects, intricate line patterns—like blueprints drawn by an architect.

“I’ll never understand you artistic types,” said Filthy, a note of pompous dismal in his voice.

“What’s to understand?” asked Acrylic, earnestly. “A stallion is more than his face and his cutie mark. Stipple taught me that. Did you know he is a changeling?”

“Really?” Filthy had never imagined one of those parasites could be so intelligent or talented. He left Torrid Cutie Mark where it hung, scanning the walls for something new to admire.

“I couldn’t help but notice the range encapsulated in your work,” he said. “Your paintings don’t just look different. They feel different.”

“No two ponies are alike. I see them differently, and so I must paint them differently.”

Filthy let out a snorting laugh. “And I suppose you can ‘see into a pony’s soul’ or somesuch nonsense.”

“Don’t be absurd,” said Acrylic, returning Filthy’s laugh. “My powers of perception are no greater than anyone else’s. I only paint what I see, and I can only see what is shown to me. Perception is truer than the truth, Mr. Rich. There is no ‘true self’, no ‘real you’. We are all portraits to be seen and interpreted by others. My eyes validate your existence, and yours do the same for me.”

“Sounds like a lot of changeling philosophy to me” said Filthy. “The insignificance of the individual. The reliance on the community—the ‘other’—as a means of deriving purpose.”

“Ah, you know of changeling culture?” A new liveliness bloomed in Acrylic’s tone. He looked around his canvas at Filthy, a smile tugging at the corners of his tiny mouth. “I’ve always admired their elastic way of life. Did you know only the queen of a colony is born female? The rest are genderless. Can you imagine the social mores of a culture with such freedom of identity?”

Acrylic’s eyes lit up with something passionate and deeply infatuated. Filthy tossed him a knowing chuckle.

“You were in love with Stipple,” Filthy laughed. “You still are.”

Acrylic’s suddenly red face disappeared behind his canvas. “How could I not? He showed me exactly what I wanted to see.”

Filthy began pacing the room again, staring up at the other paintings. “Well I won’t deny a stallion his passions. But there’s nothing to your changeling philosophy.”

“No?”

“Of course not. A stallion makes his own way, he doesn’t need others to vindicate his existence. His hoofprints in the sand are vindication enough.”

“Again you show your ignorance, Mr. Rich,” said Acrylic. “The ‘other’ is not limited to ponies, or even other forms of life. A stallion must have sand shift if he is to leave an impression. He must have ground to walk on.”

“You are a gifted artist, my friend, but you spout nonsense.”

“That is the trouble with you wealthy stallions,” said Acrylic, speaking critically now. “You are islands. Detached from others and thinking only of yourselves.”

“We are towers,” Filthy returned. “We reach for greater heights.”

“Ah, but towers stand alone as well, don’t they? And unlike islands, time inevitably reduces them to rubble.”

Rubble? Impossible. Filthy Rich had seen rubble. His father had climbed up from the rubble of poverty, and he didn’t stop climbing until the highest mountaintop rested beneath his hooves. And now his son Filthy had reached the clouds—a featherless pegasus, or perhaps an alicorn without wings or a horn.

Acrylic loved the changelings because they could be whatever they wished. But Filthy knew that a pony could do the same, provided he had the proper resources.

Eventually Filthy’s pacing brought him to his favorite portrait in Acrylic’s gallery. It was not only the artist’s single most suburb piece of artwork, but the reason Filthy had sought Acrylic’s talents in the first place.

He looked up at an oil painting of his father, Stinkin’ Rich, admiring how thoroughly Acrylic had rendered the old stallion’s features: his strong jaw and brooding regal eyes. Filthy was standing beside Stinkin’ in the portrait, just a colt then, a miniature of his father that would someday loom larger than either parent or son ever dreamed possible.

Sometimes Filthy wondered what his father would think of Zap Apple Inc. if he were still alive to today. During his twilight years, Stinkin’ had expressed disapproval toward his son’s budding criminal enterprises, but in those days Filthy hadn’t been using his father’s international business as a cover to transport illicit drugs to and from the war torn griffin territories. The drug scene was much bigger overseas, and Filthy had moved the family business to Manehattan in order take to advantage of the city’s eastern seaports.

After migrating to Manehattan, he tripled his father’s fortune in less than a decade. Of course certain… measures had to be taken, some of them extreme. Enforcers were hired to protect his assets and his family. Police and politicians were paid to look the other way. And lives were bought, sold and traded like so much equine cattle, all the in the name of progress… Or perhaps greed…

“Did you know he died hating me?” said Filthy, staring up at the portrait of his father. “He wasn’t an altruistic stallion; he never used his money to improve the world beyond his own doorstep.” His voice was distant, almost sad. “But his ambitions had limits, whereas mine are boundless. There are nights when I lay awake and think about him. I can’t decide which of us is the better stallion.”

“No pony is better than another,” said Acrylic. He’d hardly touched his canvas during today’s session and the two hours were nearly up. “That’s another problem plaguing you wealthy fools. You think of everything as more or less, better or worse, when some things are simply different.”

“Different like loving a changeling?”

Acrylic smiled, though he heard disdain in Filthy’s voice. “Perhaps. But I promise you the changelings are wiser creatures than us equines.”

“They are parasites,” Filthy scoffed. “Lowly, desperate animals that feed on the love of others.”

At Filthy’s remark, a sudden peal of laughter flew from Acrylic’s throat, a vivacious sound that rebound off the walls, shaking the pictures in their frames. “And what else is there to eat!” he practically shouted. “I have encountered many simple minds in my days, but you are a special case, Mr. Rich.”

Filthy didn’t normally resent being called foolish by Acrylic, but something about the artist’s laugh upset him.

“Let me put it another way,” Acrylic continued. “When I was foal I wanted my friends and family to recognize my artistic talent. When I was a young stallion attending university, I wanted praise from peers, and when I graduated I wanted it from the critics. After winning both, I longed for the nation’s love. And now that I have Equestria, I want the world.” He paused and made a single stroke on his canvas. “You see, Mr. Rich, I am also a greedy stallion. But you and I are different in one crucial way.”

“And what way is that?”

“I understand that my road has no end, and in turn have learned to love the journey.” He gave his canvas another stroke, smiling as if something were finally emerging. “But you… You are forever seeking an end that is not coming. And worse, you expect to find some satisfaction when you reach it.”

“What use is having a goal you never plan to obtain?” Filthy’s patience with Acrylic had nearly reached its end. Normally he enjoyed his debates with the peculiar artist, but tonight too much of his being had come under scrutiny.

Filthy didn’t need the ‘other’. He didn’t need love or the philosophy of insects. He had exceeded his father and become his own stallion, and he had done it with his own wits.

“It’s been weeks now, Acrylic,” he said sternly. “I’ve given you enough time. Finish my portrait soon or I will take my business elsewhere.”

Acrylic made a few more lazy strokes, then stepped back from his canvas and took in the entire painting. He smiled. For the first time in a long time, he seemed happy with his work.

“Come and take look, Mr. Rich,” he said, waving for Filthy to join him behind the canvas. “And remember, a stallion is more than his face and his talent.”

Filthy Rich stood beside Acrylic and stared at his portrait, his cheeks flushing hot with anger.

“Is... is this your idea of joke!” he shouted.

“No. I simply painted what you showed me, Mr. Rich. Perhaps it is what you have been moving toward your entire life. Perhaps it is the end of your road.”

Filthy looked to Acrylic, fury in his face, then back to the painting.

The stallion in the portrait stared at Filthy Rich with dignified eyes that rival his father’s. A neatly parted mane sat atop his angular head—green and crisp like a newly printed bit note—and the handsome face beneath hid his advanced age. His humble tailored suit at once betrayed his affluence and likened him to the common pony. He might have been the CEO of a multibillion dollar corporation, or bricklayer dressed up in his Sunday’s best.

The mare standing beside him possessed a rare and stunning beauty, her sky blue eyes glowing with pride, and the rail-thin colt on his opposite side held an air of cunning that was far beyond his years.

They were attractive. Intelligent. Dignified. Wealthy…

Perfect.

They were the ideal Manehattan family, and the green-haired stallion knew it. The knowledge resided in his smug face; Filthy could see it in the faint upward curl of his handsome mouth. That nearly imperceptible smirk. Always there. Always taunting him.

As he stared at the portrait, it dawned on him that perhaps Acrylic was right. Perhaps these three perfect ponies were his ‘other’. Perhaps they had been placed on this earth—in this city—to validate his own existence.

Whatever the case, he felt their collective iron grip around his neck. They were holding him back, just as his father had tried to hold him back.

He needed to be rid of them. He needed to be rid of the Oranges.

Filthy Rich sat at the far end of a rectangular mahogany table, bored, his mind scurrying elsewhere and getting lost in a marshland of half-formed daydreams. His business associates were discussing stock shares, or fractional dips in monthly sales, or some other dull corporate drudgery that could no longer hold Filthy’s attention. He had conquered the corporate world years ago; it had no more challenges to fling at him, no more dilemmas to halt his never-slowing assent.

He half-listened to their meaningless prattle, his back hoof tapping out a monotone beat under the table. Everypony in the boardroom could hear the disruptive noise, but none dared suggest that Filthy stop. They continued discussing their business as if Filthy were invested in the conversation, periodically tossing him yes-or-no questions that he answered with nods, grunts, head shakes or vapid stares. He knew they had grown weary of his disinterest with company affairs, but he didn’t care in the slightest.

At the end of the board meeting somepony mentioned the minute loss of revenue a second time, and Filthy left the office building with thoughts of a different kind of financial loss weighing on his mind. Coinciding with Krieg’s murder, a new drug had flooded Discord’s Kitchen, and much of Filthy’s customer base had begun heading uptown to get their fixes.

Bothersome, especially since this new drug had originated in Discord's Kitchen, specifically in Shanty Alley on the far westside—as far west as one could go before reaching the ocean. Had the cooks and dealers been stationed anywhere else, Filthy might have had a chance to buy them off. But drugs in the Kitchen meant the Daughters were responsible, and Primary’s gang lived and died by their own code. They couldn’t be bought. Their brand of crazy wasn’t for sale.

It was still early in the nondescript winter day when Filthy arrived at the front entrance of Orange Groves Hotel and Casino, a grandiose assemblage of white-gold buildings that spanned the length of two city blocks. They loomed large at the edge of Manehattan’s upper eastside, the still waters of the Hoofson Bay serving as a majestic backdrop.

Filthy was there to meet with his overseas business associates to discuss what was to be done about this new drug, and about the loss of revenue. Most of them were griffins still living in their own war-torn country, frightening battle-tested creatures who had known nothing but conflict, famine and plight their entire lives. Filthy didn’t trust any of them. Still, he relied on the brutes to facilitate the exchange of narcotics between their countries.

He stepped through the revolving door and into a pristine lobby, where he spotted Alto, his bodyguard, flirting with a homely mare standing behind the receptionist’s desk. The mare toyed with her frayed mane as Alto showered her with insincere compliments, her eyes locked on his smooth-talking lips. A designer sweat jacket and matching scarf shielded Alto’s burgundy-coated frame from the cold. Both garments were Hoity Toity originals from this year’s winter line: five hundred bits for the jacket and another two-fifty for the scarf.

Ridiculous, Filthy thought with a wry head shake as he approached the counter. Even he didn’t spend that kind of money on clothing, and especially not on casual clothing.

Alto’s horn lit up, and a wisp of scarlet light reached into his jacket pocket and fished out a crumpled receipt from a five-star restaurant. “Tell you what, gorgeous,” he said to the mare, using his magic to pluck the pen from behind her ear. “I’m staying on the forty-fourth floor, room 4431—” He scribbled the number on the back of the receipt and slid it to her across the counter. “Stop by when you’re finished here and we’ll hit the town tonight. I can take you anywhere you—”

“Good afternoon miss. Or is it still morning? It’s so hard to tell with the dreary winter sky hanging overhead.” Filthy offered the mare an amiable smile, the expression as practiced as it was kind. “Could you help me, dear? I seem to have misplaced my card key and need a replacement right away. I’m staying in room 4431.”

The mare blanched and drew back. “Ra-ra-right away, Mr. Filthy—”

“Please,” he interrupted gently. “Call me Rich.”

“Right away, Mr. Rich.” The mare scurried off into a back room. Alto was sure she wasn’t coming back.

“Damn it, Filthy. Your crusty old mug just scared away tonight’s catch,” said Alto, his smooth voice gliding out like an R&B song.

Filthy started toward the elevator, gesturing for Alto to follow. “You should be thanking me, Alto,” he said with a laugh. “You were about to catch an angler.”

Alto trotted beside Filthy, his shaggy, wolf-like tail flagging behind him. “I like anglers. They appreciate nice things, and they work harder for the guy holding the fishing pole.”

Filthy chuckled and shook his head. “Where is your brother? I specifically told him to be here at noon.”

“Tony had some business to deal with downtown.”

“Business that was more important than a direct order from me?”

“Yeah. Something about settling a beef with Wisp. You know Wisp, right?

“The albino?” Filthy asked.

“That’s the one,” said Alto. “Apparently Wisp was pissed off about Tony capping some one-eyed broad. They’ve been kicking each others' asses up and down the lower westside for close to a week.” He gave Filthy a bemused look. “I’m surprised you don’t already know this, boss.”

Filthy was surprised too. “And you and your brothers have just been allowing this to go on? What if Baritone gets himself killed?”

“Tony’s a big colt, boss, he can handle himself.” said Alto. “And have you ever seen that Wisp guy? They say he can walk through walls and turn invisible and shit. No way I’m tangling with a freak like that.”

Filthy and Alto arrived at a hallway full of elevators. They approached the nearest one, and Alto pressed a button on the wall.

“And what about the others?” asked Filthy.

Alto’s mood dimmed. “Soprano had another episode two nights ago. Tenor’s with him at the hospital right now. The doctors say Soprano’s meds aren’t working anymore.”

Filthy’s mood dimmed as well. Soprano was a valuable asset, one he couldn’t afford to lose.

The elevator gave a soft ping and the doors slid open. A pair of earth stallions leaving the elevator gave a start upon seeing Filthy Rich. They glowered at Alto and Filthy as they walked by, and Alto glowered back, his horn lighting up reflexively. Filthy, however, simply offered his practiced smile and waited for them to pass by. Each had images of orange slices on their flanks.

“I’ve never seen those two around before,” said Alto, watching the stallions as they trotted down the hall. “They’re like fucking hydra heads. You chop off one and two more grow in its place.”

They stepped inside the elevator and Alto pressed the button marked “44”. The elevator’s back wall was made of glass, and once the metal box traveled high enough, the view became exquisite. Off in the distance the Statue of Harmony stood alone on her island, her torch needling toward the grey sky as she welcomed any and all westbound travelers to Equestria.

Alto noticed Filthy gazing out at the statue and joined him.

“She’s full of shit, ain’t she?” said Alto. “Standing out there with her torch and her little book and all her bullshit promises of a better life.” Alto turned to his boss and said, “What’s with you and this place, anyway? You hate the Oranges and the little bastards hate you right back. You shouldn’t hang around here so often, boss. It’s damn stupid, and stupid ain’t never been your style.”

“I like to get a feel for a piece of property before I buy it,” said Filthy, thoughtfully.

“Your wife’s gonna be buying you a casket if you keep messing with the Oranges.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. Mandarin has always honored Blitzkrieg’s truce. And he has nothing but the upmost respect for me.”

“Mandarin tolerates you, boss,” said Alto. “And in case you haven’t noticed, Krieg ain’t exactly around anymore to enforce his bullshit truce.”

“That’s why I have you,” Filthy replied. “Nopony is foolish enough to start trouble so long as you are by my side.”

The elevator reached the forty-fourth floor and the doors slid open.

“You talk about me like I’m bulletproof.” Alto stepped ahead of Filthy and started down a corridor lined with numbered doors. “There are plenty of ponies out there crazy enough to mix it up with me.”

“Indeed,” Filthy agreed, “but none of those ponies have oranges on their flanks.”

They came to room 4431. Alto withdrew his keycard and swiped it across the electronic card reader under the doorknob. The lock gave a small click, and a tiny cloud of light from Alto’s horn turned the knob. He pushed open the door and stepped in front of Filthy as he entered the room.

He paused. Scanned the room.

A second later he spun around to face his boss, alert, his horn rippling with energy. “Stay close to me.”

“Why? What’s wrong?”

Alto stepped aside, showing Filthy exactly what was wrong. A griffin dressed in a business suit was lying face down in a puddle of his own blood, the back of his skull caved in.

“Come on in, boys!” a playful voice shouted from inside the hotel room. “This party is open house! No invitations needed!”

Filthy heard the laugh first, then saw The Prankster stumble across the room as if she’d been shoved, moving with that same calculated wobble he had seen so many times before.

His mouth fell open. It was her. It was really her! He recognized her raggedy trench coat, her leather gloves and boots—and so did Alto as he spun to face her, sparks crackling at the end of his horn.

Alto’s cloud of magic light transformed into billowing thunderhead. He snatched up the glass coffee table in the center of the room and pitched it at The Prankster. It smashed into her painted face, shattering on impact and knocking Pinks off her hooves.

Alto snatched up shard of broken glass, legs pumping as he sprinted across the room. Then, standing over her crumbled form, he drove the shard of glass deep into her spine, ripping a tortured wail from her throat. She tried to crawl away, but he stabbed her a second time, a third, a fourth, fueled by a sudden charge of terror and adrenaline. He stabbed and stabbed and stabbed—not stopping until her writhing ceased and her screams died in her throat.

Filthy skulked up behind Alto, trembling, his face bleached white. “Did you get her?” he asked, peering over his bodyguard’s shoulder.

Alto kicked the dead body and let out curse. The corpse, he now realized, belonged to a dealer who had been on Filthy’s payroll. Her coat was only a shade darker than The Prankster’s, her mane almost as frizzy.

“Lucky decoy, huh?”

Alto wheeled around at the sound of her voice and shoved Filthy to the floor. He glanced down at his boss for a second—just one second—making certain Filthy hadn’t fallen on a shard of glass.

He didn’t see the hammer until he glanced back up, and by then it was too late. It clubbed him square in the muzzle, snapping his head back. He staggered backwards on his heels, laughter clawing at his eardrums, and a second blow broke his jaw and plunged him into darkness.

Filthy sprang up as Alto hit the floor, his lungs and throat squeezing themselves tight. He tried to flee, but Pinks spat out her hammer and bit down on his tail. A sharp yank. A quick pivot. And then his legs were flailing through the air as Pinks spun around and pitched him head-first into a wall.

Flashbulbs exploded behind his eyes. The room spun. A sound caught his ear. A laugh. Loud and long and gnarled.

Before Filthy could scramble away, a gloved hoof crashed down on his neck. He gurgled and squirmed and thrashed, his eyes welded shut in terror.

“Been awhile, huh Filthy?” said Pinks, leaning her weight Filthy’s throat. “Did you miss me? I missed you. I thought about you every night back at the asylum. Every. Single—”

A tail twitch—and then Pinks cried out in pain as she backed away from Filthy, clutching at a shard of glass lodged in her side.

“You stabbed me,” she laughed through a grimace. “You son of a mule. You actually stabbed me.”

She turned to find Alto standing on shaky legs, blood pouring from his slack mouth. He mumbled a curse through his broken jaw, snatched Pinks in his thunderhead and tossed her straight up. She smashed into the ceiling with a thud, then pitched straight down and landed on her side, screaming as the glass shard drove deeper into her flesh

And then they were towering over her—Filthy clutching the hammer in his mouth, and Alto grasping his jaw, shards of glass of floating around his head and shoulders.

“Wait, wait, wait!” said Pinks, holding up her hooves in surrender. “The filly… my coat… inside pocket…” She pointed at the trench coat draped across the dead pony’s shoulders.

Filthy and Alto exchanged a troubled look.

“Kill me if you want,” Pinks laughed, coughing blood as she spoke. “But the filly dies if I don’t go back for her. She’s buried alive, and only I—hehehehe—only I know where.”

Alto gave Filthy a nod, assuring him that Pinks wouldn’t be going anywhere. He dropped the hammer and limped over to the dead mare wrapped up in Pinks’ coat. Kneeling, he rummaged through the coat until he felt something hard and pointy. He pulled it free of the pocket, his heart skipping a beat.

It was a crystal tiara…

Filthy held it too his chest, limbs quivering with rage. He took a deep breath and let the intensity of the moment work itself out of his system. This psychopath had his daughter. He needed a clear head for this. His next decision couldn’t be an emotional one.

“What do you want, clown?” he said after a long pause.

Pinks giggled as she rose to back to all fours. Or maybe she was whimpering in pain.

“I need you… to steal something from me,” said Pinks. And then her legs buckled and she blacked out.

Arc TWO: Chapter 3

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

Arc TWO: Chapter 4

Arc TWO: Chapter 4

Blue-green smoke plumed from Digger’s nostrils, rising and dissolving before it reached the ceiling of a drug den he hadn’t visited in years. Discarded needles littered the dirt floor. Here and there, scraps of sheet metal covered holes in termite-eaten' walls, like rust-colored patches sewn into tarnished denim.

Digger was lying on a cot that reeked of urine and lovemaking. It smelled almost as bad as the crystal pegasus passed out in the corner, his coat as dingy as his clothing. He was young and pretty, likely a junkie turned prostitute. The Daughters were well known for dolling up addicts and pimping them to wealthy uptowners. They paid their whores with fixes instead of money, if they paid them at all.

The crystal pegasus lay curled in a ball, shivering.

Something foreign plucked at Digger's heartstrings. Maybe it was the drugs. Rising from the cot, he crawled to the corner, took off his leather vest and draped it across the pony's back. Seeing it on the stallion, he realized how ratty his own clothing looked. He pawed at the collar around his neck and considered discarding it as well; he had removed its gemstones before coming here, fearful that some knife-wielding junkie might try to rob him.

“You gonna give him a kiss and read him a bloody bedtime story?” Lying beside the cot, Crest rolled to his back and folded both forelegs against his chest, flirting with half-lidded eyes. “Come here and gimme a kiss then.” He ran his tongue over the snake bites in his bottom lip, then beckoned Digger with a blown kiss.

“Digger isn't high enough to kiss Crest.” Digger smiled to appease the Daughter as he returned to his resting place. He was feeling looser now—so loose he didn't mind that Crest had stripped down to just panties and fishnets and made himself comfy beside the cot. “When is Crest going to give Digger new drug? Old stuff doesn't work on Digger anymore. Too weak.”

“Not one for foreplay, huh?” Crest rolled to his stomach and rested his chin on two crossed forearms, kicking his hinds like a filly lounging on her bed. “We'll get to that soon enough. First I want to know what brought me best customer back to the Kitchen.”

“Stress,” answered Digger. “Sober life is overrated.”

“Running from your problems? That's no way to live.”

Digger laughed without humor. “Wow, Digger has fallen far. Cross-dressing drug dealer is telling Digger how to live.”

“Ain't nopony telling you how to live. I'm just telling you that problems are faster than mutts.”

Digger lifted his pipe and lighter off the cot. He had smoked most of the poison joke Crest had sold him. “Tell Digger something Crest,” he said, sparking his lighter and inhaling. “What else are drugs good for but running away?”

“How about running to. That's why me and me sisters get blown, lovely. It takes you someplace.” Smiling, Crest licked his lips a second time, then raised his tongue to reveal a tiny plastic bag underneath. “Give me your paw.”

Digger obliged, cringing as Crest's tongue lapped at his open palm. The Daughter took two furry fingers into his mouth, slowly, eyes shut as he suckled. Digger humored him, and when the sucking and lapping came to an end, the bag was resting in his open palm. It was full of seeds.

“Is this it?” he rasped, sounding unimpressed. He lifted the bag to his snout and sniffed. “What are they?”

“Poison joke seeds, lovely. Each of them is laced with a special brew. It's zebra voodoo.”

Zebra voodoo? Suddenly Digger wasn't so sure about this.

“It effects everyone differently,” Crest went on, reading the reluctance in Digger's features. “Think of it as a custom high. If you're looking to escape, nothing will get you further away than those beauties. You'll be on the moon, lovely. Just you and the dust and the stars.”

The moon? Digger liked the sound of that; he wouldn't find The Prankster or Grift or Crest on the moon. He wouldn't find her either—the faceless monster with the glowing gaze. He would be safely away from Manehattan. Alone—with nothing but the stars for company.

But could he trust Crest? Probably not, but his desire to escape had long ago overruled his common sense. He opened the bag and dropped one seed into his palm.

Crest extended an upturned forehoof. “No need to go it alone.”

Digger hesitated, then flipped the bag upside down and dropped a seed onto Crest's hoof. He pinched his own seed between index finger and thumb, tilting his head back as he lowered his bottom jaw.

He paused and glanced down at Crest. “How much?”

“First one's on the house,” said Crest. “The next will cost your bloody arm. And trust me, you'll be coming back for more.”

Digger dropped the seed on his tongue and swallowed it dry, wishing he had something to wash it down with.

A second later he was on the moon.

The moon was cold and silent. It looked similar to the drug den in a remote way that confused Digger. Everything was still in the same place: the cot, the napping crystal pegasus, Digger himself. Only Crest had gone missing, and he seemed to take a certain... something with him. Digger wasn't sure what that something was, but he felt more at ease now that it and Crest were gone.

The energy was different. Digger's mildew-ridden cot suddenly had all the makings of a memory-foam mattress. It cradled him with cloud-palms, bearing his modest weight.

Bearing weight? Yes, weight... he liked the sound of that word. Not long ago, while living in a cage as one of Blood Orange's pets, Digger had longed for weight, his emaciated frame crying out for fat, for pounds, for flesh to fortify his brittle bones. Blood had nearly starved him to death, as he did all his pets, and Digger knew of no death worse than starvation.

As a famished mutt he had endured a tiny death every day. He died in the morning, woken and murdered by the scent of servants preparing his master's breakfast: scrambled eggs, pancakes, hash-browns cooked to golden perfection. He died a new death later in the afternoon—the training hours—his nutrient starved limbs screaming as they endured hunting exercises that taught him to pounce, to rip, to devour—though there was never much devour. And he died again in the evening; he drowned beneath the floods of bellows pouring from his fellow slaves, the pleas to be sent to bed with full stomachs, the rattling cages, the barks, and then the lash—crack, crack, crack—the din of cruelty itself, of evil as callous as it was unchecked.

He suffered a hundred deaths—a thousand!—a thousand petite and agonal ends. But worse than the deaths were the rebirths, the scraps of stale meat and bread crusts delivered on rusted trays, morsels of hope shoved between iron bars. It was never enough to fill or satisfy, but the survival instinct is a strange and powerful thing. Even in a lowly mutt like Digger, it was strong.

A feeling of triumph accompanied the memory. Digger was full now. Wholly satisfied. He recalled the night when he and his fellow Carnies feasted on Blitzkrieg, almost laughing at what a meager meal he had been. And now, where pounds of raw flesh had left him wanting, a seed and a few puffs of smoke had filled his gut to bursting. He tried to lift his pipe and inhale another plume of poison joke, but the seed had paralyzed him. And he was fine with that.

After several minutes of idly trying to sit up, he settled for rolling to his side. The cot was wider than he remembered, and lying on it, nestled beside him, was a mare, a pegasus, her body stretched long like that of a lazy cat, or perhaps a feline of greater majesty, a panther, her back hooves near Digger's head, fetlocks crossed, croup turned up toward the ceiling. The cutie mark on her left flank—the flank that faced him—had been crossed out and replaced with a tattoo that read “D.O.D.” in bold letters.

Eying the mare’s flank woke the beast in Digger’s gut, whetting a different kind of appetite. It was naked, covered in nothing but coarse cyan fur and a fine speckling of dirt. Like her flanks, the rest of her was toned and streamlined. Muscles like frozen-in-time pond ripples rested beneath her coat, intermittently gathering whenever she stirred in her sleep, which was often.

He ogled the mare for so long he fell asleep. He napped pleasantly, then woke to find the mare was staring into his face, her cyan cheek pillowed atop a cyan hoof. Rebellious strands of multicolored mane cascaded before her violet eyes. Digger counted three colors in all: red, blue, yellow.

“There’s me favorite little blighter,” said the mare, smiling with jewelry studded lips. “You have yourself a proper nap then?” Her voice was rough and masculine, her accent Trottingham, and she must have been high on something strong, because she spoke with long, slow lip-flaps.

Digger opened his mouth to speak, but a low canine thrum came instead. The mare had reached behind his ear and begun stroking: a pleasure center that could reduce even the toughest diamond dog to a panting, slobbering mass of whines and pleasure-growls. Digger was soft to begin with; he couldn’t resist melting under the mare’s strokes.

“Something wrong, little Pipsqueak? You haven’t said a word since you woke up.” The mare’s hoof trailed from ear to neck, from neck to stomach, then halted its descent and began massaging. It rubbed back and forth. Up and down. Made little circles. “You’re not still sore about our little spat, are you?”

Digger shook his head no. It was the only gesture he could manage, though the drug’s paralyzing effects were beginning to wear off.

“That was an accident,” she insisted. “Just an accident, lovely. You know I’d never hurt you that bad on purpose… right?”

Digger nodded in agreement.

“Good. That’s good.” She crawled atop him, slowly, her muscles gathering as she straddled his waist with toned thighs. “But what happened that day was just as much your fault as it was mine. I don’t like putting me hooves on you, Pip, but when I tell you to do something I expect it to get done.” Her hooves reached down to pin his paws to the cot. “Well don’t just bloody lie there, you twit. Start making it up to me.”

The brush of her thighs against his side, and the weight of her, the strength, warmed Digger's blood and stood him up straight. The curve of his erection rose to cup her backside.

“Well, well, look who’s all bloody grown up,” she said with an impish laugh. “We been doing this a long time now. ‘Fraid you’re getting too old for me, lovely.” She laughed for a spell longer, then brought her face closer and whispered, “Come here,” her voice dropping to a seductive growl. Her lips mashed against Digger’s, quickening his pulse, but his chest didn’t flutter with new life until he tasted the bead of jewelry jammed through the mare’s tongue. It tunneled into his mouth, exploring with the familiarity of a long-time lover. Whoever this ‘Pipsqueak’ character was, the mare had kissed him before, on many occasions.

Digger kissed back, biceps and triceps flexing as he fought to peel his arms off the cot. He wanted to hold the mare, to hug her body tight to his chest and squeeze her, envelope her, crush her if he could—but forehooves denser than anvils drove down into his palms, pinning him. The mare smiled against his lips and flared her hinds, fortifying her base. Her lap bore down on his pelvis, and her already taut abdomen flexed against Digger’s torso. She was strong, heavy, in complete control.

Their kiss broke, and the mare jerked her head back in time to dodge the mutt’s snapping jaws. “Feisty tonight, are you?” she taunted, smiling down. Her grin became a grimace as Digger’s maw jolted up to claim her bottom lip, and a shriek flew from her. He growled and tugged, but, to his amazement, failed to draw blood.

“Fucking cunt!” she shouted after yanking her lip free. “Bloody fucking cunt!” An elbow strike accented that final syllable—cunt!—and Digger’s teeth rattled as the bone cracked his jaw.

Another curse rang out, followed by a headbutt that blunted the bridge of Digger’s nose. Dizzy, he roped his arms around the mare’s barrel and rolled, trying to pin her. Two strong cyan forelegs found his neck, coiled, tugged, pulling his muzzle close to hers—and then they were kissing again, roughly, tongues lapping, teeth biting.

Digger’s shaft ached as it brushed the bottom of the mare’s croup. The beast was awake now, hungry, and for once he was grateful for its company. He, or perhaps it, cupped the underside of a cyan thigh and lifted the mare's hind leg. She squealed as he forced her onto her side, spread her hinds—hugging one to his chest—and shoved his way in, breaching her entrance, sieging her.

"Slow... down... Pip..." the mare moaned, her words separated by breathy sucking sounds. But Pip wasn't there, only Digger and his beast, their shared tongue lolling out of a drug addled skull as they rutted her. She urged him to slow down a second time, then laughed through pants as the mutt prematurely blew his load, filling her with his seed.

Spent, Digger released the mare's hind and collapsed on her, his fur warm and sticky with sweat.

“See, now what'd I tell you?” Smiling, the mare rolled back to her stomach, her wings folded beneath Digger’s chest. “You're lucky I don't rip off your little wanker for making a mess of me fine linens. Now catch your fucking breath and give me a proper rutting, or I'll call Crest in here and have him give you a proper rutting.” Her tone was at once imperious and playful; she gave orders with the nonchalant air of a mare accustomed to having her way. Digger nibbled her ear, growling with pleasure as he sampled the metallic taste of numerous piercings.

Moving languidly, he plunged his snout into the mare's mane, sucking back a lungful of her ashen scent. She was a smoker; the smell of old tobacco perfumed her multicolored hair. It was bizarre, this rainbow that reeked of ash and vice, but Digger was high enough to revel in it. His snout traveled from mane to neck, teeth grazing skin as he nibbled and gnawed on his way down.

The taste of her rekindled his hunger, and the closeness pumped new blood into his semi-flaccid length. Feeling his arousal, the mare purred and spread her hinds. The words “Slowly now,” slid off her tongue, made silky by her prurient tone. Digger wasn't sure he could take it slow—the monster was thrashing about in his belly, urging him to slam away as he had before.

He bit her neck as he made his second entrance, plowing past lips turned slick and puffy. Teeth flirted with skin, drew blood, reminding Digger and his beast what a thrill it was crush a pony's throat, to rend a trachea and swallow buckets scarlet life. He fought the impulse to eat and bucked his hips instead, staving off one primal drive with another. His arm roped around the mare's neck, and his paw gripped her shoulder, held her, pinned her—his excitement building as she squirmed beneath his weight.

The mare moaned her lover's name—“Oh Pip, oh Pip, oh Pip”—again and again and again, like a chant to some Zebrican god of fertility and fornication. Digger loved the sound of it, so rich, so full pleasure. The name seemed to fill her up, to satisfy her in ways Digger's cock couldn't, and it pacified the beast as well, calming the bluster and haste in his strokes.

As he settled into a slower rocking motion, Digger realized the mare was no longer moving against him, but with him—finding his rhythm and making it her own. Panting now, her words long dissolved by the sweet release of being taken, she curled the bend of one knee around his forearm and squeezed. Her wings twitched against Digger's chest, as if meaning to unfurl but repeatedly failing.

Neither of them lasted much longer. The mare came first, moaning and clenching, and the tightness brought on by squeezing muscles flung Digger over the edge shortly after. He finished inside her for the second time.

“Better?” Digger rasped.

“Much.”

The mare craned her neck to kiss him, her tongue slipping past his lips, and soon they were at it again. Minutes became hours as they rutted the night away. Try as he might, Digger failed to keep count of how many climaxes his partner enjoyed as he took her every way she ordered him too. He gave little thought to his own pleasure, and instead fixated on hers, enjoying the faces and noises she made in the throes of her lovemaking. In seeking to fill himself he had accidentally filled another, and he found it more rewarding than the escape he had come searching for.

With their frantic kissing and humping at an end, Digger fell to his back and pulled the mare onto his chest. “What is pretty pony's name?” he rasped, knowing that it didn't matter. Once her drug induced haze wore off and she realized he wasn't Pip, Digger knew he would never see this mare again. But that didn't matter, he wanted her name. It was the most precious gem he’d ever found; he wanted to pluck it from her mouth and add it to the lesser stones adorning his collar. “Tell Digger your name,” he prodded again, earning a bemused look from his one-night lover

“I do believe I've finally fucked your brains out,” she said with a laugh. “Though, you have seemed a bit off all night. You weren't so afraid of me... like you usually are. Not that I blame you any. I've been... right awful to you, little Pip.” She smiled wistfully and planted a longing kiss on Digger's mouth. No tongue or slurping noises this time, just desire and passion. Maybe a dollop of love. “I don't mean to be the way I am,” she went on. “Just wired bad, I guess. You know how it is in Manehattan, Pip. Some of us are just wired bad.”

“Digger knows, and he isn't angry.” He placed a paw on her cheek, stroking fur with his thumb. “Just tell Digger your name.”

“You know me bloody—”

“Humor Digger.”

The mare smiled down at him, strands of rainbow mane falling to veil one of her eyes. He was on the moon. All was peaceful and quiet.

“Alright, alright,” she said. “Me name's Primary, lovely.”

“Mmmm, Primary.” Digger swished the name on his tongue, as though it were a fine wine. “Primary...” It sounded even better the second time. And familiar, too. Where had heard it before...

He blinked. “Wait, Primary?” By the third uttering his fine wine had soured. He did know that name. Damn Crest. Damn him and his fucking drugs. Fucking Primary. He would have noticed the mane if he hadn't been so high. Fucking Primary. Primary was Big Sis, and Big Sis was the title given to the leader of the Daughters of Discord.

The moon tilted to roll Digger off its surface, and the return to earth was harrowing.

Well shit; this was a fine mess. He eyed Primary’s neck, and the beast in his gut knew what needed doing. When the leader of the Daughters came to her senses and discovered that some mangy mutt had taken advantage of her, she would…

The business end of Crest’s wrench popped into Digger’s mind. He pictured it swinging down to shatter his collar bone, then rising and swinging again, aiming lower to burst his stomach and free the beast from its prison of ribs. A tempting reprieve. Without Digger serving as its host, the beast would spill out in a tangle of blood-soaked entrails, flopping as it died like a fetus ripped from its mother's womb.

For a lowly mutt like Digger, death would have proven the sweetest relief. But the survival instinct is a strange and irrational thing; despite the misery he would surely endure under the Prankster’s rule, Digger wanted to live. He knew what needed to be done.

Seizing her shoulders, gently, gently now… he pulled her closer and kissed her neck one last time. Her giggle made him hesitate, and a wild thought skittered through his mind, one that would surely get him killed. Once the drugs in her system had worn off, maybe she wouldn’t remember this moment at all. Or maybe she would. Maybe she would recall it fondly in her private moments, and maybe she would come to him one night—come with playful curses on her tongue and pleasure in her lap and Digger’s name on her lips. Not Pip, whoever he was, but Digger. Digger, Digger, Digger…

His lips formed a wistful smile against her neck. Mad. A mad thought for the mad city.

He whispered an apology, bared his fangs... and then a loud rumbling and pounding echoed from outside, the footfalls of a lumbering giant. Primary looked toward the door, frightened, and a new instinct came over Digger. He rolled atop her as the floor began to shake, hoping to shield her from whatever nightmare was marching their way.

Boom… boom… boom… went the footfalls, so loud and heavy they roused the crystal junkie from his stupor. He looked all around at the trembling hovel, more confused than scared, and Digger looked with him, wondering if he should take Primary and flee. He knew Shanty Alley well enough to beat a hasty escape, but if the monster stomping around outside spotted them…

There was no time to linger on that thought; his face snapped up as three massive, pointed shafts of wood stabbed through the ceiling.

Wooden shafts? Digger gawked in astonishment, wondering if the poison in his blood was still playing its joke. The shafts flexed like fingers, or perhaps claws, gripping one edge of the ceiling and tearing it away like the top of cereal box. One canine snarl met another as Digger growled up at the face of gargantuan timberwolf, likely a fusing of five or six of the wooden beasts.

Regretting his decision to not flee, he yanked Primary to her hooves and tried it now, but a wooden limb—an entire adult elm tree it seemed—stomped down to block the only exit. Primary shook where she stood, and Digger stood over her, snarling as the beast of lumber lowered its head into the room, crouching until its chin nearly touched the floor.

With the massive face closer now, Digger noticed, for the first time, an earth stallion perched atop its head. Swathed all in black, the stallion beat a slow descent down the monster’s snout, his gaunt frame creaking under tattered robes, iron shoes clanking, blood-shot eyes half-lidded and glaring. His mane was unclean and unkempt, different from the sleek perfection Digger remembered, but the deep maroon color was exactly the same. It was him: the tamer of all creatures that flew in the sky and swam through the sea and crawled on the ground. Digger’s old master. The mutt swallowed a lump in his throat, resisting an urge to run away and hide. After all these years, he had hoped a day would come when he could stand before Blood Orange without trembling.

Standing on the wolf’s snout, Blood pressed a button on the metal collar-like device fastened to his neck. The button blinked red, and, assisted by the device, he spoke with a robotic voice.

“Two of your companions kidnapped my pets: a muscle-bound earth mare and a mutt like yourself.” He leaned closer, his breath reeking of carrion. The buzz in his next words sounded especially mechanical. “Where. Are. They?”

Arc TWO: Chapter 5

Arc TWO: Chapter 5

Uptown. Bad Weather Beat. 9:57pm.

Baritone followed a blood trail through the back entrance of a craggy, boarded up coffee house. Sopping wet, his black jacket clung to his stocky build, highlighting the raises and dips of compact muscles that flexed with his movements. His gun hovered near his left shoulder, enveloped in ghostly light, cocked and ready to do its awful work.

Outside, thunder boomed with the frenetic passion of heavy metal guitar riffs, and lightning bolts made a laser show of the plum-colored night. Raindrops the size of bullets barraged the pavement, strangely warm and muggy, like sweat rolling off the body of some dancing giant.

It was raining here, in Manehattan’s upper eastside—the Bad Weather Beat—and no where else in the city. The BWB (a nickname devised by the police who patrolled the often rain-soaked beat) sat directly beneath the city’s weather control plant, whose seasonal working crew, composed of rowdy juveniles and restless college students, loved nothing more than kicking up unscheduled storms.

For the young pegasi, life in the clouds was a non-stop party—a party that Baritone envied in a vague way. He didn’t miss his own youth, didn’t long for his brothers' taunts of his father’s grumbles and snorts, but he wanted what the young weather workers had—wanted their music and their dance, their haphazard syncopation and the boom, boom, boom they stomped out of thunderheads.

Of its own accord, the back door swung closed behind Baritone, and the storm-music dulled to a distant rumble. A faint coffee-grounds smell perfumed the otherwise stale air, seasoned by even fainter wisps of beer, homemade food and the comfort of like-minded congregation. It was dark, too, and warm and cozy. A decent place to die, but horrible for the work of stealing lives.

A short hallway delivered Baritone to a long-abandoned lounge. Yellowed stuffing spilled from rips in ancient upholstered furniture, and dry rot had claimed the wooden tables and chairs set up near the bar, perhaps months ago, perhaps years, reducing their finely crafted surfaces to something akin to dry, cracked skin. The blood trail faded as Baritone stalked farther into the lounge, then disappeared entirely when he reached the steps of a stage. He hung his hat on a nearby chair and sparked his stubby horn, illuminating the neck of a microphone stand.

He scanned the empty room, blinking against the steady trickle of blood that washed over his eye, rolled down his chin and dripped onto the floor. Scowling, he pressed a hoof to the gash above his eyebrow, grumbled, applied pressure, whipped his face, then grumbled some more.

The damn cut wouldn’t stop bleeding. He would have sealed it with a spell, but his grasp of healing magic was poor at best and cataclysmic at worst. Such a spell, cast by a novice like himself, might heal the wound without fuss, or peel a sliver of skin off his face. The thought made him cringe. He had witnessed such mishaps before, back when Tenor and Bass were still learning the basics of healing magic.

Pff, healing magic—who needed it? Baritone was comfortable with his mastery of basic spells—levitation, limited telepathy (he could only form psychic bonds with his siblings, or others he knew especially well)—but anything more he viewed as a weakness unique to unicorns, a crutch for the unresourceful to lean on.

Dusty speakers flanked both sides of the stage, and a piano sat near the back and off to right, its keys chipped and yellowed. Amazing—Baritone was surprised to have found a building like this still standing here in uptown Manehattan. Years ago, during the city’s most financially prosperous era, several of uptown's family-owned diners and coffee shops had been chased away by chain restaurants. This one was clearly overdue for demolishing; Baritone doubted anypony had set foot on that stage in a good, long while.

Coffee, food, live music played by the city's own local talent... It must have been a nice place, he mused.

“Come on out, Wisp, and lets finish this someplace else,” said Baritone, calling out to the bare walls and empty room. “If it's all the same to you, I'd rather not kill you in such a quaint little coffee house. Don't feel right. Feels... disrespectful.” He trotted up the stage steps. Halted. Waited for a response.

Outside, a thunderhead boomed. Inside, nothing, only silence.

“Or better yet,” he went on, “I'm thinkin’ I don't need to kill you at all. I got nothing against you, Wisp. We've worked together, drank together, even hid a few bodies together.”

He padded across the stage, looked behind the Piano.

“Me plugging your pal Twenty—that was just business. She stepped out of line, you know that, so I had to do something. And because of that, you had to do something.” He touched a hoof to his slit brow. “An eye for an eye right?—yeah, I get that. But look, I didn't kill Twenty, so there's no reason for you to kill me, right?”

He paused, waiting for a response that wasn’t coming.

“You know what I like about, Wisp? You aren’t like the other crazies running around stirring up shit in our fair city. You've always been a reasonable stallion—real fucking reasonable—and right now I'm betting that slug I in put in your flank is really startin’ to fuck with your day...”

It must have been, Baritone hoped, unless Wisp knew some healing magic. At least twenty minutes had passed since their skirmish out in the rain, and Baritone’s bullet had done more damage than the ghost-stallion's knife. Wisp was no fighter. He had made the obvious tactical error of confronting Baritone in the rain, where the falling water silhouetted his invisible frame. He had surprised Baritone, and even disarmed him for a moment, but from there he underestimated the stout pony's reflexes and combat instincts. Even with his small size and limited reach, the dwarf was a fierce fighter, especially at close-quarters.

It's that whore's blood in your veins, his father used to say with a snort. The 'whore' in question was Falsetto, a beautiful earth pony with a songbird's voice, and his father's mistress—the mare he blamed for tearing his family apart.

Although each of the Choir Boys shared the same father—expert vocalist instructor and all-around hardass, Basso Profondo Fach—Falsetto was Baritone's mother alone, and her blessing of earth pony speed and strength had come at the cost of weakened magic, or so the Fach family believed. Her blood had also cost him much of their respect. And their love.

It's that whore's blood...

Baritone heard his father's voice as blood dripped from the gash above his eye. She would have liked this place, Falsetto, the old whore—she would have been right at home on this stage, her lips inches from the microphone as she breathed her canary tunes through the speakers. She was good with her voice but better with an instrument; she could play them all and her favorite was the piano. Shutting one eye against the blood stream, and the other because he was tired and it felt right, he pictured his mother there, sitting at the piano, her front hooves coaxing music and magic from the dusty instrument.

Ah, and there it was now, her music, so fragile, so faint. Suddenly Baritone was a colt again, melting under his mother's soothing melodies. She was playing her favorite song, a simple piece she had learned as a girl, before moving to Manehattan from a small town where she was born.

“Winter wrap up, winter wrap up...” Baritone sang, recalling the lyrics with a dreamy half-smile. His voice was low and rich and smooth, perfect for bellowing blues songs at an audience of lonely souls. It was all wrong for the cheerful lyrics of his mother's favorite song; she had said so herself a long time ago.

“...Let's finish our holiday cheer,” his mother chimed in, her songbird lilt contrasting enchantingly with her son's melancholy growl. She played slower now, making a ballad of the usually chipper folk song.

“It suits you better this way,” she told him once between verses, her front hooves flirting with the keys of his father's grand piano. He could hear her now. He could...

Wait.

He could hear her now. Literally hear her!

His eyes snapped open to find the piano playing itself, and his gun barked, firing at the vacant space where his mother would have been sitting had she actually been there. The live round punched a hole in the wall.

“Sick little fucker,” he stammered. “Think you can play games with me? Get in my head?”

A phantom spotlight blinked to life and shined down on the stage, creating a bright halo where it landed. Baritone looked up in search of its origin, but found nothing.

“Winter wrap up, winter wrap up...” went his mother's disembodied voice. “'Cause tomorrow spring is here!”

“How do you know that song?” said Baritone. “Who told you about her? Answer me!”

The music grew louder.

Something moved to Baritone's left. He wheeled around and fired, fired, fired, fired, fired—emptying his revolver.

“Stop fussing and sing along with your mother,” the voice insisted. “You always wanted to be singer, didn't you? Well now’s your chance.”

“Shut up!” A veil of magic threw back his jacket and reached for his ammo belt, dropping sells as it fumbled to reload. “You're not her! Stop using her voice!”

Once reloaded, he shot the piano full of holes, but the music continued pouring out.

“Go on,” his mother cooed. “It's what you've always wanted.” Gradually, the microphone stand’s neck lowered to Baritone's height, and the spotlight shifted, roaming about the empty tables and chairs. Except now they were noisy with applause—an audience had appeared, all of them clapping or shouting encouragements up at the befuddled performer.

This wasn't real, he told himself, even as his stumpy legs carried him toward the microphone. This wasn't real, this wasn't real, this wasn't real...

And yet... and yet there was his father, Basso Fach, old and grizzled and breaded, smiling in that slight way his. It was more a smirk than a beam, but it was the best the old stallion could muster. Baritone had seen it many times before, but never directed at himself. It was an expression of pride reserved for Soprano and for Tenor and for Bass and for Alto—always for Alto—handsome Alto, clever Alto, tall Alto; Alto who had his father's strong jaw and dark eyes; Alto whose mother was a unicorn, an aristocrat, a proper mare; Alto who didn't have a drop of whore's blood poisoning his veins...

But this particular smile wasn't for Alto; it was for Baritone. He couldn't let his father down now. Not again. Standing before the microphone, he glanced over at the piano, shaking.

“Go on,” prodded Falsetto. “He's right there. Watching you. It's what you've always wanted, right?”

Baritone's breath caught. “M-Mother?” She was just as beautiful as he remembered.

She gave him a nod and began playing anew, starting the song at the beginning.

Warmth flowered in Baritone's chest. He shut his eyes and hummed at first, just hummed, his voice resonating with that special soulful quality that was his and his alone. All of his siblings were talented vocalists, and Alto was better, more naturally inclined, but none of them could lay themselves bare before a listener the way he could.

The cheers ebbed into silence, and, outside, even the storm fell quiet in anticipation of the coming performance. He opened his mouth to sing and...

...and nothing. Nothing came out.

But that was okay, really it was, these things happened, happened all the time in fact, he was just nervous, that was all, just nervous, he could do this, just needed to clear his throat, needed some water, yes, some water would help, but he had none, and that was fine, too, that was okay, just needed a second, one more second and he would be fine, just fine, yes, just fine.

He tried again after taking a second, and... nothing. Still nothing.

Audience members murmured among themselves. His mother cooed, assuring him it was alright—that everything was alright.

His father was silent. Before shaking his head and getting up to leave—to walk out on his failure of a son, again—he mouthed something that failed to climb above the murmurs, the coos and the piano music. Baritone was no lip reader, but he hadn't missed Basso Fach's departing message. He heard it loud and clear. Perhaps louder and clearer than ever.

Must be that whore's blood...

The music clanged stridently, more opera house pipe organ than quaint cafe piano.

...that whore's blood...

The crowd booed and stomped.

...whore's blood...

Thunder boomed in the distance. And then closer, much closer, a second boom echoed from outside—the unmistakable crash of hooves kicking in a door. Baritone wheeled to face the front entrance, gun at the ready... but held his fire when he saw sister's face peek through the doorway. She was sopping wet.

“Are you alright, Baritone?” said Bass. “Tenor and I heard gunfire; we thought you might have been harmed.” There was no concern in her voice, no compassion or real interest in her brother's well-being. She had assessed the situation and was relaying information. That was all.

Baritone blinked, then looked over at the bullet-riddled piano. “It was nothing,” he said with a sigh and shiver. “Just shooting at ghosts.” He lowered his gun. His heart was still pounding. “How did... how did you even find me?”

Tenor entered and answered the question. “A regular at your favorite bar informed us. He said you and Wisp had been fighting all over town, and that he last saw you sprinting down Clydesdale Boulevard toward the Bad Weather Beat.” He came closer, eyeing the cut on his brother's brow. “Is your injury severe?”

“No, no—I'm fine,” said Baritone. “We fought for a bit, but he got the worst of it. He... he showed me things, though. Things about me and Dad and... I don't know, it was confusing.”

“You can explain later,” said Bass. “Filthy needs us.”

“Now?” Baritone groaned, wiping blood from his face. “It's been a long, fucked up night. Whatever Filthy needs can wait till—”

“It's about Diamond Tiara,” Tenor cut in. “She's been kidnapped... By The Prankster.”

“What?” was the best Baritone could muster. He took a moment to gather himself, then said, “Okay. What are we doing about this?”

Bass promised to explain on the way. As they left through the back exit, Baritone, paranoid, exhausted and bleary-eyed, chanced a backwards glance over his shoulder. He thought he saw a ghost—not Wisp, but his mother—smiling at him from the end of the short hall. There was a bullet hole above her right eye, marking the spot where Baritone had shot and killed her a decade ago. The fatal wound was bloodless now; it didn't seem to bother her.

He wiped his own eye one more time, begging the gash to stop bleeding, then trotted outside, happy for the rain and the storm-music.

Arc ONE: Chapter 5

Arc ONE: Chapter 5

“Ugh, my head is killing me.”

As Carrot Top sat behind the wheel of her squad car, listening to her partner whine about her hangover, it occurred to the detective that traffic was perhaps the greatest evil one could find in Manehattan. Being promoted to detective came with a neat gaggle of benefits, one of which was being able to ditch her carriage for a Steamer. Steamers were a new and wondrous piece of steam-powered technology that had greatly increased Carrot’s mobility, as well as her sense of freedom and independence… or at least that’s what all the commercials had said the stupid thing would do.

Her Steamer had granted her a new and exciting sense of freedom, but traffic, with its claustrophobic, bumper-to-bumper immobility, was in the businesses of undermining that freedom.

“Uuuuugh,” groaned Carrot’s partner, her whine wafting over from the passenger seat like an unrelenting wind. Her throbbing head lolled against the window, and she bellowed like a creature on its last breath. “What time is it?”

“It’s noon, Berry,” Carrot answered curtly.

Detective Berry Punch shook her head in disbelieve, though, really, she should’ve known better than to ask the time. If it wasn’t dark out in Manehattan, then it was noon. Always—without exception. Berry’s job didn’t require that she wake before midday, and the demons residing in her liquor cabinet didn’t allow it. She hadn’t seen a sunrise since the morning she left Ponyville in order to escape being smothered by the day-to-day drudgery of small town life. Berry had brought her best friend Carrot Top to city with her for a number of reasons, chief among them being her need of a designated driver. How they had become cops remained a mystery to her. She suspected the demons in her bottles were to blame, but she couldn’t be sure. There wasn’t much to be sure about these days, a fact that begged the question:

“Where are we?”

“We’re in midtown, Berry.”

Another stupid question. In Manehattan, if you weren’t downtown you were uptown; and if you weren’t uptown you were in midtown. Surely, she mused, Manehattan must be the only city in Equestria constructed with such inspired incomprehensibility. Where in the world did ponies live in a city as ass-backwards as Manehattan? Where were the residential areas, the luxurious estates and villas that were supposed to girdle the edges of big industrial cities? It seemed like everypony Berry knew lived in crappy two bedroom apartments that were fifteen minutes from their places of work; fifteen minutes from the public high school where they dumped their children for the day; fifteen minutes from the bars and nightclubs where they stoked their burning sorrows with booze, bad music and worse sex.

Fifteen minutes from everything! There was no place in Manehattan you couldn’t get to in fifteen minutes via subway, so how in sweet Celestia’s name had Berry let herself get talked into accepting one of the department’s squad Steamers?

Ass-backwards. That was the only word needed to describe Manehattan. It was no wonder the city churned out borderline cartoon super villains with the same regularity as Canterlot when producing pompous, self-entitled jerks. Madness was built into city’s foundation. It was the mortar that held the bricks together, the asphalt used to pave the roads.

It didn’t make sense to own a Steamer in Manehattan; everything was too close together to make driving practical. Wherever they were going, they would’ve been there by now had they taken the subway. Which left only one more question…

“Where are we going?”

“To work, Berry.” Carrot Top hung a left, turning onto a side street where the evils of traffic were less of a dominate force. “Didn’t you hear the bad news? They let the Prankster out. We’re going to work.”

The Carnies’ hideout was more than just an underground slaughterhouse. The illicit restaurant was but one stopping point in a complex network of underground tunnels that, according Grift, ran beneath the entire city. The tunnels were the oldest smuggling routes in Manehattan. They were almost as old as the city itself, and pre-dated Little Gryffindor by more than six decades. They were dug years ago by immigrant diamond dogs attempting to replicate the stony caverns of their homeland, and were later used by criminals to shuffle black market wares about the city in secret.

That, however, was a long time ago. The tunnels were inert now, and had been since the big police crackdown that followed the South Side Riots. After settling things with the griffin gangs, the police made it their mission to clear out the smuggling routes. Many of the tunnels had been filled in, but the mayor and the city officials of the time had neither the budget nor the horsepower to destroy them all.

Grift claimed that transforming the tunnels into a hideout was her idea, but the congregation of eye rolls from her fellow Carnies suggested otherwise. She read this unified gesture as a covert act mutiny, surely the first of many. Diane had been home for less than an hour, but Grift’s hold over the gang was already slipping away.

She also didn’t know what to make of this Pinstripe character. He seemed harmless enough, but if Diane had taken a shine to him he was probably as unstable as the rest of the gang, even if he didn’t know it yet. Diane had a talent for unearthing the latent darkness hidden in the hearts of every Manehattanite—maybe every living creature on the planet. Grift couldn’t count the number of times she had watched the pink lunatic reach into another's soul and drag out his or her worst qualities. The cops and the other gangsters liked to accuse her of infecting the city with her insanity, but Grift knew better. She had been with Diane long enough to realize that The Clown Princess of Crime didn’t spread madness; she fed on the preexisting insanity. She wasn’t the bad apple that spoiled the bunch, just a worm gorging on rotten fruit—one more bottom feeder in a city teeming with them.

And while Diane may have been a worm, she was a crafty one. Grift knew better than to pick fights with her. So, having no desire to upset her boss, she elected not to slit Pinstripe’s throat when he asked where they were going for the seventh time. She told him to shut it. Their destination was Carnie business, and Grift made it clear to Pinstripe that his presence was being tolerated only because Diane seemed to like him.

As Pinstripe endured Grift’s tongue-lashing, he made a mental note to stop following criminals down dark staircases, roads, alleys, or in this case, sewer tunnels.

The tunnel was cool and damp and reeked of spoiled food, bowel movements, and the promise of impending illness should one linger for too long. Rats scurried along the edge of the stone walkway, bony-tailed drunks that occasionally misstepped and fell into the stream of murky water. The current flowed adjacent to the walkway, and the water was the same oily black as the rats that swam through it.

Pinstripe watched the rats curiously. They dropped into the water, swam about for a spell, then waded back to dry land, only to repeat the process again and again.

One rat didn’t though. It dropped into the stream and was instantly sucked underneath. When it failed to resurface, Pinstripe squinted at the spot where it had disappeared. He thought he saw movement under the water.

Grift was in no hurry to be away from the foul smells and the peculiar rats. She and her band of carnivores strolled deeper into the tunnel with the haste of gorged sloths.

Walking three paces behind Pinstripe, Flour and Lintsalot chatted eagerly among themselves, already celebrating the future wealth promised to them by The Prankster. They spoke with the familiarity of childhood friends, finishing each other’s thoughts and giggling at inside jokes.

Mr. Turnip, the silent male griffin with the lazy eye, drifted overhead, his wings flapping inches below the jerry-rigged light fixtures that clung to the rounded ceiling. The lamps were ancient but dogged in their adherence to life, their blinks like the final defiant pulses of a weak heart. The constant flickering bothered Pinstripe, but Turnip glided on, unfazed.

Grift strolled at the group’s head, a brooding lioness leading her pride, her tail bouncing between rich brown thighs, practically tucked between her legs. She moved languidly, making poor use of the agile limbs that carried her strong body. She had left her coat lying on the dining room floor, and presently wore nothing but the dual shoulder straps that holstered her firearms.

“So what’s your story, herb?” Lintsalot chirped. “You supposed to be Diane’s apprentice or something?”

Oh Celestia in her ivory towers, is that what it looked like? Pinstripe fumbled with his response, then gasped and jumped when he felt Flour’s damp nose lodge itself between his thighs. The nose wiggled as it sniffed his privates, sucking back a deep drag of zebra musk.

“What the—!” he yelped, leaping away from Flour so hastily he nearly stumbled into the stream of sewage.

“He Laughing Pony’s squeeze, maybe,” said Flour, struggling to speak through her own raspy giggles. “He smell like want. Like bad want.” She covered her mouth with a paw and tittered in her sheepish way, though her actions a moment ago were anything but.

“It ain’t like that,” said Pinstripe defensively, straightening his tie as he gathered himself. “I work for Krieg. I’m just taking Pinks back to his place so they can talk is all.” After a short moment he added, “And what’s wrong with you animals? Who just shoves their face in a guy’s junk like that? It ain’t natural.”

“Flour is dog. It plenty natural. Like saying high,” Flour explained. Her tongue dangled from her open maw, her tail wagged gleefully. She liked the zebra’s scent. It was earthy and faintly muggy, like soil after a spring shower.

Distrust invaded Lintsalot’s expression. He cocked an eyebrow and said, “Hold up a tick. You saying you work for Krieg? As in Blitzkrieg? As in the Blitzkrieg?”

“There ain’t more than one,” answered Pinstripe.

“Pinstripe saying Pinstripe is Shadowbolt? Pinstripe is liar,” rasped Flour, sniffing at the zebra’s tail. “Pinstripe smell too pretty. Pinstripe is Daughter, maybe.”

“Why do you dogs keep saying that?” Pinstripe didn’t appreciate being likened to a Daughter of Discord. Few ponies did. “For the last time, I’m a Shadowbolt.”

“You’re gonna be my next meal if you don’t keep it down back there,” said Grift.

“What’s eating your boss?” asked Pinstripe, speaking softly as not to be overheard by Grift.

“Grift is always moody,” rasped Flour, her voice nearly a whisper. “Grift no like having fun. Work, work, work, always with Grift. Flour is glad Laughing Pony is back. Grift is boring. Always boring.”

“Aw, what do you know about it?” trilled Lintsalot, his high-pitched lilt distinctly more bird than cat. “Grift ain’t boring, she just ain’t crazy.”

Flour shrugged. “Grift is mad because she not boss anymore. Laughing Pony in charge now. Make Grift angry.”

“I can hear you back there,” said Grift, glaring over her shoulder.

Lintsalot fluttered above Pinstripe’s head and drifted toward Grift. He was a hair taller than the average baby dragon, too big to perch on Grift's shoulder as he used to, so he settled for nesting on the small of her back. “And I’m not angry,” she continued. “You think I care enough about that pink dweeb to let her ruffle my feathers? Pfff, dream on.”

“Yeah, dream on,” chirped Lintsalot. “Grift’s way too cool for that.”

Flour sped up and walked alongside Grift, leaving Pinstripe to bring up the rear by himself. She covered her mouth with a paw and laughed her raspy laugh. “Grift not cool when Laughing Pony mentioned ‘mutual friend’. Grift was scared. Flour know. Flour smell fear.”

Grift’s eyes narrowed to slits, but she said nothing.

“What do you know about it?” said Lintsalot, replying for the older griffin.

“Flour know plenty. Flour smell good. Smell better than you see.”

“You don’t know nothing. Dumb dog, you can’t even talk right.”

“Flour not dumb. Flour smarter than silly bird-cat.”

“If you’re so smart then talk right. Say I. Say I’m not dumb,” taunted the little griffin.

Flour shrugged off his insult and answered with one of her own. Their friendly schoolyard prattle transformed into a callow spat between children.

They argued until the group arrived at an iron door that disrupted the sameness of the tunnel walls. The door looked like something ripped from the pages of a Daring Do novel, an iron gate that guarded a priceless treasure. The sight of it might have surprised Pinstripe, if not for the six or seven other similar oddities he’d encountered on his way to this one.

While the tunnels were no longer in use, a number of stopping points were peppered throughout the labyrinth. Most of them were doors, like this one. When Pinstripe asked where the doors led, Flour explained that most of them were abandoned living quarters left over from when the diamond dogs still lived in the tunnels. Some of the doors even had numbers scrawled on their faces, like rooms in a hotel. When Pinstripe questioned the reasoning behind the numbers, Flour huffed, crossed her arms and said, “Diamond Dogs like nice things too.”

He wasn’t sure what that meant. Was this business of room numbers meant to be some imitation of surface society? Were they trying to live like equines, even as Equestria shunned them?

The padlock hanging from the door ruined its storybook veneer, divorcing it from fantasy and marrying it to reality. Grift barked for Lintsalot and Flour to stop arguing. Once they fell silent, she ordered Turnip to open the door.

Turnip landed, dug into his coat pocket and retrieved a key that looked too large for the lock. He fumbled with the lock for almost a minute before giving up on the key. Tossing it aside, he tried to pick the lock with his index talon. When that didn’t work either, he made a sound that was somewhere between a roar and caw and slashed the lock to pieces with a single stroke of his talons. The sound startled Pinstripe. It was the first time he had heard Turnip’s voice.

Grift sighed as Turnip opened the door. She would have to replace that lock later.

Pinstripe had been expecting a medieval dungeon; instead he found himself in some kind of storage room. The room was a cement box with walls the same stony grey as the tunnels, and a tiled floor as clean as the one in the meat freezer. Racks upon racks of guns divided the room into neat aisles, like bookcases packed with metal and hostility in place of paper and knowledge.

The weapons were arranged by type.

No—by make.

Size, maybe?

Color…?

He wasn’t sure; he didn’t know anything about firearms. The best he could do was distinguish the normal guns from the modified ones.

The normal guns looked like Grift’s pistols, and like the firearms carried by unicorn police. Griffins used this sort of gun, while the modified weapons had been altered to accommodate other species. Pinstripe thought the altered guns looked silly, like props from a low-budget science fiction movie. Among the hundreds of firearms, he spied clunky-looking things designed with a diamond dog’s paw in mind, and pistols as big as house cats that must have been for minotaurs. An oddly shaped rifle hung from the ceiling, larger than the iron door and marked by a white label that read “Drake E15.”

Pinstripe walked the aisles in search of equine firearms. He didn’t find any.

“What’s all this?” asked Pinstripe. Without thinking, he reached forward to touch the hilt of one particularly attractive revolver. The beetle-black firearm reminded Pinstripe of the sort used by the police.

Before Pinstripe could touch the revolver, Turnip seized the back of his neck and hoisted him into the air.

“Don’t touch anything on the racks,” Grift warned Pinstripe, who was trashing in Turnip’s gasp. “Those are for sale. And relax, Turnip’s not gonna hurt you. Quit trashing before you break something you can’t afford.”

Without waiting for a gesture or verbal command, Turnip dropped Pinstripe and stole away down the aisle, his long trench coat flagging with his movements. He seemed less a sentient creature and more an extension of Grift’s will, like a puppet she controlled with strings tethered to his mind.

Pinstripe mumbled curses in his native tongue. “For sale?” he echoed as he collected himself, straightening his tie for what must have been the hundredth time in the last few hours. “What do you need Pinks for if you’re running a smuggling job this big? This stuff must be worth hundreds of thousands.”

Grift smiled ruefully and smoothed a tuft of feathers on her head. “You really think I run all this?” She waved for Pinstripe join her at the back of the room. “These guns are due to be shipped overseas by the end of the month, and I promise you I don’t see a cent of that money.”

Overseas? But that meant they were exports, not imports. That didn’t seem right.

“The guns are made in Manehattan?” asked Pinstripe.

“Look at that, it can think too,” said Grift, clapping sardonically. The little griffin on her back mimicked the clap, his claws coming together in perfect rhythm with Grift’s.

“Where do they go?” asked Pinstripe, ignoring the patronizing remark.

“There’s always someone somewhere who wants someone else dead,” she said flatly. “Most of these babies are military grade. They’re on their way to my home country to help the warring tribes settle their differences.”

“I thought griffins designed guns. Why buy Equestrian?”

“Same reason everyone buys Equestrian.” Grift cocked an eyebrow and pointed her index talon upward. “You can’t make metal, rubber or plastic out of clouds. They don’t have the resources, get it?”

That made sense. Not all the griffin territories were sky cities like Cloudsdale, but enough were to make gathering sufficient resources for war tricky. Especially since Gryffindor was always at war.

“And you’re okay with giving your fellow griffins the means to off each other? I mean, it's your homeland, right? Doesn't that mean anything to you?” It was a loaded question, but Grift took it in stride.

“I'm not there now, am I?” she said with a smirk.

Spoken like a true Manehattanite. Pinstripe was almost proud.

“That junk on the racks ain’t for us,” said Grift, gesturing to the wall behind them. “The Carnies only play with the best toys.”

By ‘the best toys’ Pinstripe assumed she was referring to the few guns hanging from pegs nailed into the back wall, though, he could’ve been wrong. The griffin’s flat tone made distinguishing sarcasm from sincerity difficult.

A collection of rusty weapons hung from the wall, looking sterile compared to the sleek killing machines that lined the racks. These guns, Grift explained, were relics left over from the South Side Riots, which meant they were well over thirty years old. Grift claimed they were more reliable than the mass-produced junk that was heading overseas.

Pinstripe wasn't impressed. “Yeah... I say we use the new stuff.”

Grift reared up on her cat legs and pulled at her holster straps. Lintsalot hovered at her side, wings beating like a hummingbird's, and did the same with his overalls.

“I just told you that crap is for sale. I let anyone mess with the merchandise and it’ll be my ass,” said Grift. “And what’s this ‘we’ shit?” she added after a short pause. “There’s no ‘we’, herb. There’s you, there’s me, and there’s the freak calling the shots. We ain’t roomies in a fucking sitcom, so don’t go unpacking your shit just yet.”

“Yeah, don’t go unpacking your shit!” echoed Lintsalot.

“Come on, pinching a few can’t hurt,” insisted Pinstripe. “You mean to tell me Pinks doesn’t let her own gang use her guns?”

Apparently Pinstripe had said something funny, because both Lintsalot and Grift burst into laughter.

“As if Diane could pull this off,” Grift chuckled. “We’re talking about making money here, not bombing hospitals and orphanages. That dweeb doesn’t know the first thing about heading a business.”

Upon hearing this, Pinstripe, without meaning too, conjured a metal image of Pinks dressed in a pants suit and sitting at an office desk, her scarred faced taunt with concentration as she calculated her yearly earnings on a giant abacus. It would make a good sketch comedy skit, but he couldn’t seriously imagine Pinks being in charge of any black market dealings. In fact, now that he’d met her in person, he couldn’t imagine her being in charge of anything.

But if not Pinks or Grift, then who did this operation belong to? Pinstripe posed the question. He didn’t like the answer.

“The Oranges,” said Grift, her flat tone unwavering. She proceeded to casually explain her role in Mandarin Orange’s arms trafficking racket. It was simple enough: first weapon parts were brought into the city from various regions of Equestria. Then the guns were assembled in “Machine Shops”: makeshift factories peppered throughout uptown, usually disguised as legitimate businesses. Once manufactured, the guns were sent underground for storage, where they were watched over by Grift and the Carnies until they needed to be shipped. Grift’s job was to take inventory and make sure nopony stole, damaged or tampered with the merchandise. In essence, she was a glorified security guard.

Pinstripe listened to Grift’s explanation, his accusing glare probing deeper with every uttered word.

“Look herb, l only took the job because I wanted some start-up money for the restaurant,” Grift explained. “Diane was behind bars and I needed a new gig. Yeah it was a bonehead move, but it’s too late to bow out now. If I were to cut and run I’d be up to my neck in Oranges by tomorrow morning—and not the squishy kind you make juice out of.”

The name Blood Orange popped into Pinstripe’s head. He massaged the bridge of his nose, frustrated, and just the tiniest bit scared. “Does The Prankster know about this?” Another loaded question.

“Not yet,” answered Grift—and no more was spoken on the subject.

She then whistled for Turnip, who was hovering near the ceiling, admiring the Drake E15. Upon hearing her call, he floated down and landed beside her.

“Listen up, Carnies,” announced the gang leader. She raised her voice to indicate the beginning of a speech, and also to get Flour’s attention. The dog was fooling around with a bright pink cannon in the corner of the room. “Listen up, Carnies,” she repeated. Flour didn’t hear her the second time either; her head was stuck in the cannon’s mouth.

Grift gave Turnip a nod, and he stole across the room and yanked Flour free.

Then she began again. “I don’t know what Diane has planned for us, but if I know her it’ll be big, it’ll be dangerous, it’ll be stupid, and it’ll be soon. You guys know the drill. Racked guns are merch, all ammo is fair game. Turnip, you’re on boom-stick duty. Flour, grab down Digger’s rifle.”

Flour’s ears perked and excitement flared in her eyes.

“And before you ask, no, we aren’t bringing the cannon.”

Flour’s ears drooped, her excitement fizzled. “See, Grift is no fun. Laughing Pony is fun. Laughing pony always brings the cannon.”

“Stow it, Flour. Grab the rifle and as much ammo as you can carry. You too, herb,” said Grift, addressing Pinstripe. “There should be a suitcase leaning against one of the racks in the third aisle. Dump whatever’s in it and fill it with slugs. Turnip will show you which boxes to grab.” Grift pointed to the aisle she wanted Pinstripe to search, then raised her voice and said, “Alright Carnies, time to lock and load. Let’s get out of here in ten—and not a word about this to Diane, understand?”

The others exchanged anxious glances. They understood. They understood perfectly.

Pinstripe stayed where he was and watched Flour sniff at the guns hanging from the wall. She ran her nose over the rifles along the bottom row, and eventually settled on one that was longer than the others. She pulled it from the wall and strapped it to her back, then began searching for ammo, her nose hugging the floor.

Flour was blind, he noticed, though he hadn’t before.

“Hey, herb!” Grift called. “Quit standing around. I said I want us out in ten.” She pointed sternly in the direction of the third aisle.

“Yeah, she wants us out in ten, herb.” Lintsalot pointed as well.

Pinstripe found the suitcase. He opened it and started to dump its contents, but stopped when he saw what was inside. So there was treasure behind the storybook door after all, he mused, grinning a sly inward grin.

A dusty grey revolver sat nestled in the suitcase. In place of the gun’s handle was a metal band just wide enough for a pony to slip his hoof and fetlock through. Curious, Pinstripe slipped the weapon onto his right forearm, wearing it like a murderous bracelet.

It fit like a glove.

He stood on his back legs and aimed the gun at a make-believe foe, beaming and looking like a foal playing with his father’s gun. His fun was spoiled when he realized the weapon had no trigger. He lowered it and returned to three legs, eying the barrel curiously.

“Out in ten, herb!” Grift called from the adjacent aisle.

“In ten, herb!” Lintsalot echoed.

Pinstripe gave a start, then quickly shoved the gun back in the case and buried it under random boxes of ammunition. As he finished packing the case, he looked up and gave another start. Turnip was looming over him, watching his every move.

“It wasn’t on the racks,” the zebra stammered. “I was just gonna—”

Turnip placed his index talon over his beak, indicating for Pinstripe to be quiet.

“It’s cool, herb,” he said, his voice deep and smooth. He knelt at the zebra’s side and opened his trench coat, revealing a holstered sawn-off shotgun. “Everyone needs a partner in crime.”

Pinstripe nodded.

Turnip started down the aisle, stopped, turned back and said, “You have to flick the hammer.” Pinstripe gave him a puzzled look. “You know, like in the western movies.” Turnip pantomimed the action, drawing a pretend revolver from his hip and repeatedly flicking the hammer back. “Bang, bang. Like that.”

As Turnip turned to leave the aisle, Pinstripe aimed his own pretend pistol at the back of the tall griffin's head. “Yeah, bang, bang,” he said, one eye closed, a smile on his face. Then he grabbed the suitcase handle in with his mouth and started down the aisle to join the others.

The MPD headquarters was located near the northernmost edge of midtown, a fact that mildly distressed Carrot Top, because getting to utter the phrase “We’re talking you downtown” while shoving crooks into the back of her squad Steamer was the main reason she had become a cop in the first place. In every detective novel she had ever read the police station was always in the downtown area, the heart of the city’s ganglands, surrounded on all sides by urban decay, impending danger, corruption, violence—all the stuff of good crime drama.

There was no drama in building a police station in midtown. Of all the places in Manehattan, northern midtown most closely resembled what Carrot considered an average Equestrian city. One could find normal things in midtown; things like furniture stores, movie theaters, a college, market places, malls, banks… It wasn’t “another world,” or anything so dramatic, but the food tasted better, the streets were cleaner and the ponies dressed in finer clothing than was the case in the downtown areas.

Midtown reminded Carrot of Ponyville, which is precisely why it was a lousy place to build the police station.

Carrot found a nameless side street west of the main road that wasn’t flooded with other vehicles. Technically it was a “scenic route”, and would deliver them to their destination with no time saved, but Carrot preferred this alternative. She would rather drive for another twenty minutes then sit in traffic for another ten.

Impatience was not a good quality in a detective, Berry mused as the Steamer swerved in and out of lanes, driving around slower moving carriages. But then, neither was alcoholism or chronic underachievement, so Berry figured she was in no place to judge.

With the dull throb of last night’s drinking binge pulsing behind her eyes, Berry pulled the lever on the side of her seat and reclined. She reached into the saddlebag strapped to her hip, which was more of a pocket without pants, and removed a spiral bound notepad. The words “The Record: Vol. XX” were written sloppily on the notepad’s cover in black marker. She drew a pen from behind her ear.

From the corner of her eye, Carrot watched Berry flip open the notepad. “That better not be…” she started.

“It is,” Berry finished. She uncapped the pen and placed it her mouth. “For the record, I’m calling bullshit on your story about The Prankster,” she said, talking and writing at the same time. It was a trick she had dedicated many hours to mastering, but it was time well spent. She was now one of the few ponies in Manehattan who could, without the aid of magic, simultaneously explain and chronicle bullshit.

The Record was a yet-to-be-completed twenty volume chronicle of all the noteworthy bullshit that had transpired within the MPD for the past five years. It was passed around ritualistically from detective to detective, and since Carrot had just been promoted to the title, it was her and Berry’s turn to depart their wisdom (or lack of) onto the sacred tome.

Carrot hated the record. She didn’t like the idea of her bullshit being written down. Probably because she was full of it.

“Why would I make up something like that?” asked Carrot.

“Because you’re an insecure attention whore and a chronic liar,” answered Berry.

“Am I? Huh, that’s pretty bad. I should work on that,” Carrot said nonchalantly.

“Because you’re a sadistic bitch who enjoys jerking me around.”

“Not true. I enjoy jerking everyone around.”

“Because you’re a jaded twenty something who hates her job and has nothing better to do.”

“Come on, Berry, don’t make this about you.”

The conversation continued like this for several more exchanges. Neither listened to what the other said, neither needed to; they had been doing this song and dance for so long the lyrics had lost their meaning. Only the melody still mattered, only the gist. They weren’t talking, just gauging each other’s mood.

Carrot Top and Berry Punch had been partners for only a few weeks, but they had been best friends for most of their lives. They joined the academy at the same time, but Berry, despite of her lack of ambition and tendency to slack off, rose through the ranks quicker than Carrot. Within the MPD, Berry Punch was well known for being something of an idiot savant. Whereas Carrot Top was known for being an idiot.

“Because you’re a moron,” said Berry, still answering the same question. “You’re not lying. Somepony told you The Prankster is loose on the streets, and you, being a moron, believed them.”

“You’re such a child.”

“Did you by chance pay for this information? I’d love to add ‘gullible retard’ to my list of your best qualities.”

“Can you even hear yourself talk?”

“Come on, Carrot, what else you got? Shining Armor comes out of the closet? Neighboring griffin tribes declare piece after five decades of civil war? Don’t leave me hanging, partner. Vol. XX is still light on bullshit. I’ve got plenty of room.”

“Fuck off.” Carrot sped up to make a light, nearly clipping the back of a carriage as it passed through the intersection.

“I’m sorry, Carrot. Did I hurt your wittle feewings?”

Carrot glared at a stop sign as she yielded to it. “This is serious, Berry. You remember what happened five years ago, don’t you? What it’s like when she’s on the streets?”

“Yeah, it’s open season on blue-suits,” answered Berry, pitiless. “When she’s out there every punk with a ski mask suddenly thinks they’re a kingpin. She brings out the worst in this city’s scumbags, so what?”

“So what? They’ll come after us, that’s what. The Prankster hits the streets and all respect for the badge is lost. You remember how many we lost last time?”

“Yeah, I do,” Berry smirked. “How do you think I got promoted?”

Carrot sighed, her frustration building. “I don’t know about your dumbass, but I didn’t give up pulling carrot’s out of the ground so I could come to the big city and get my skull caved in by some groupie punk with a hard on for a clown in bad makeup.”

“I know. You gave up farming for the same reason you give up on everything. ‘Cause you suck at it.”

“Berry…”

“Oh, and in case you didn’t notice, it’s a stop sign not a brick wall,” said Berry, pointing a hoof toward the open road.

“Damn it, Berry, listen to me!” Carrot slammed her hooves on the steering wheel. “We’re gonna die, dipshit! That sound funny to you, because I promise it’ll be funny to her!”

Berry rubbed her forehead. Carrot’s little episode was making her headache worse. “Would you please relax and drive the damn car.” She put The Record back in its tiny pouch.

Begrudgingly, Carrot drove on. After five minutes of driving in silence, she ran out of backstreet and had to pull onto the main road again. They were near the station now.

“So how do you know about the clown’s comeback and I don’t?” Berry asked, after giving her partner enough time to cool off. “This is front page level stuff we’re talking about. What gives?”

“One of my sources contacted me.”

“One of your sources contacted you?” Berry repeated, her bullshit sensors flaring. She reached for The Record.

“Okay, okay. A friend of mine who works for the Post tipped me off,” Carrot admitted. “She said the story didn’t break because the mayor shut it down. Didn’t want the citizens freaking out, I guess.”

“More like he didn’t want to wave a flag for all the crazies. If she really is back, she’ll bring all the worst ones with her. She’s like this busted bug zapper my aunt used to have. Never killed a fucking thing, just attracted a bunch of moths.” Berry massaged her temple. Her head wasn't feeling any better. “So who’s this ‘source’ of yours? And if you say Tracy Flash—”

“I never said it was—”

“If you say Tracy Flash, I’m getting out of the Steamer.”

“Flash is a perfectly reliable—”

“That’s it, pull over.”

“Now who needs to calm down?”

“Flash is a greedy pervert, and you are a dumb motherfucker for trusting her. Now pull over and let and me out. I need a drink.”

“Berry...” Carrot’s voice rang with notes of distress and concern. She didn’t like Berry drinking during the day, as it usually meant she was in a bad way. Despite her reputation, Berry was actually a happy drunk. Her drinking during sun up meant something was bothering her, and that she was seeking solace in a bottle instead of from her friends.

Berry picked up on Carrot’s concern and banished it with a laugh. “I’m just messing with you.” She teasingly nudged her partner’s shoulder. “Geez, you’re on edge today. I just want some coffee. The caffeine does wonders for my hangovers.”

Carrot shook off her distress and smiled along with her friend. “Ah yes, booze and caffeine—the holistic approach to health.”

“Would you shut up and pull over,” Berry laughed, shoving her partner again.

Carrot started to pull into the driveway of a homely looking coffee house, but Berry said, “No, stop off at the mini-mart on the corner.”

“Their coffee tastes like gonorrhea discharge,” retorted Carrot, wrinkling her nose for effect.

“True, but it’s also cheap.”

“True, but it also tastes like gonorrhea discharge.”

“Just ignore the taste,” reasoned Berry. “Eat to live, Carrot, don’t live to eat. Only fatties enjoy what they ingest.”

Carrot rolled her eyes as she parked across the street from the mini-mart. “Fine, fine. Have it your way, Berry, but you’re buying. I’m not paying for gonorrhea discharge.” She opened the door and started to climb out, but stopped when Berry touched her shoulder.

“Hold up,” said Berry, her voice ringing with apprehension. “Do you see that?”

“See what?” Carrot sat back down and peered across the street. “What are we looking at?”

“That dopey-looking stallion there.” Berry pointed out a pegasus who was harnessed to a parked carriage across the street. The stallion flicked his ear and shook his head, neighing. A bug landed on the tip of his nose. He seemed engrossed by it.

“What? That weirdo standing outside of the mini-mart?” asked Carrot, making certain that she and Berry were seeing the same thing. “He’s probably on something—something good by the look of him. Wanna shake him down and lift whatever he’s smoking? I haven’t gotten high on contraband in ages.”

While Berry did like the way Carrot was thinking, now was hardly the time.

“Look closely, Carrot,” she said, squinting. “I’ve got fifty bits that say dopey there is missing a tongue.”

Carrot blinked. She could see it too; there was definitely something animal about the stallion’s mannerisms. “What’s a Tongueless doing this far into Midtown? The Bolts usually take all that territorial crap seriously.”

“He might be on loan to one of Filthy’s guys,” said Berry.

“They do that?”

Berry shrugged. “Crooks are lazy. They don’t like pulling their own wagons.” She opened the passenger door. “Wait here.”

“What are you doing?”

“I’m just getting us some coffee,” she said innocently.

“And what am I supposed to do?”

“Stay by the horn. If you hear shooting, call for backup.”

Carrot stroked the steering wheel, suddenly anxious. “Be careful," she said. "If they are Filthy’s thugs then… well, you know how it goes. We aren’t the law here, Berry.”

Berry glowered at the thought. Her head throbbed. “Neither are they,” she said, stepping onto the sidewalk.

Drunkenness settled into Digger's flushed face, numbing his lips and cheeks. He raised a bottle of wine to his mouth, too far under the liquor's spell to realize his drink had run dry. His head tilted back, hanging for several seconds before the bottle’s emptiness became apparent. With this knowledge came a sense of falling. His body lolled, and his back met the face of the prep-table he was sitting on.

The bottle rolled from his open paw. Fell. Shattered.

The noise made Digger laugh stupidly; it sounded like the crash of a weak will breaking under the stomping jackboot of vice. A familiar sound, one that tickled his funny bone with feathers made of painful truth.

There was a startling lack of salt in the kitchen, but plenty of liquor. And though Digger had never been much of a drinker, he decided intoxication was intoxication, and that one poison was no better than any other. Laying on his table-hammock, chuckled at his weighty thoughts as only the very drunk can.

And he was very drunk. He was one swallow away from puking, but thankfully he was too sated to rise and fetch another bottle. He was also too far gone to care about the horrors accosting his senses.

Lifeless, blood-coated bodies lay strewn about the kitchen, adorning the walls, counters and stove tops like terribly realistic Nightmare Night decorations. The faces of dead griffins were frozen in shock and horror, eyes wide, beaks contorted in unnatural shapes. Red gashes curved across slit throats like second mouths grinning beneath chins.

One of the cooks, a female griffin with glacier-blue feathers, was slumped against an oven door, her wings hacked from her back and shoved in her gaping beak. Digger giggled and wondered how The Prankster had found time to do that. The other cooks had been killed by quick slashes or stabs or bone-crunching strikes, their lives snuffed before they could gather their wits and protect themselves.

But butchering this blue-feathered griffin had taken time. She must have died last, Digger concluded, but more important than the how was the why. What had this one done to earn the most creative end? A wrong look? A curse or a shriek? Digger giggled. At times like this he often found himself giggling at The Prankster's antics. When he was alone, intoxicated and surrounded by the city's madness, he laughed because he knew what The Prankster knew. He got the joke. It wasn't funny, but he laughed just the same.

After some deliberation, Digger decided to have another drink. Vice be damned. Addiction be damned. His days of sobriety were over, and his days on this planet were numbered. The Prankster was back; he had no more use for clean living.

In a moment of weakness, he hopped down from the table and went to fetch another bottle of wine. For reasons he didn't understand, wine was shelved under the dish sink beside the cleaning supplies. Strange. Everything about this place was strange.

The lights died as Digger reached under the sink.

"Stupid power is out again," he grumbled. He stayed crouched by the sink, waiting for the power to return as it always did. In the meantime he uncorked a fresh bottle and drank.

A sound like rustling cloth startled him. It was faint, but Digger's canine senses were sharp enough to detect it. Alert now, he dropped the bottle and fell to all fours, eyes shifting blindly in the darkness.

"Grift?" he tried carefully, probing the blackness with a rasp. "Grift, power is out again."

No answer. Only silence.

Digger stood upright and scratched his temple. His panic waned. There was no one there, he reasoned; the alcohol was making him hear things. Giggling at his own paranoid behavior, he looked around one more time, just to be sure.

He didn't see the eyes until he looked up.

Arc TWO: Chapter 1

Arc TWO: Chapter 1

Three months had passed since the catastrophe the press had dubbed the Red Light Massacre, and the tragedy had brought some much needed change to Manehattan. The mass murder had attracted national attention, and for the first time since the Southside Riots more than thirty years ago, the city’s police department had come under serious scrutiny. The national authorities had stepped in—the Guard—and were still in the processes investigating the records and backgrounds of several MPD officers. Many of Manehattan's finest were arrested outright, including the officers who had been present during the massacre. Long Arm, Ballistic, Barricade—each of them had been detained and were presently meandering through the Equestrian legal system, still awaiting their trials. Only one of the officers in Long Arm’s squad had managed to dodge a court date: Midnight Vigil.

Vigil hadn’t enjoyed a night of restful sleep in three months. His dreams teemed with vague burning shapes, screaming shapes, deformed black shapes reaching up from under piles of ash and rubble. Withered, charred and gnarled shapes, with mouths that knew how to wail and eyes that boiled in sockets like egg whites poured in a sizzling pan.

Black, burned shapes. Not ponies. Not anymore. Just shapes.

He sat up in his bed, thinking hard about ripping down the newspaper clippings pinned to the bedroom wall. He had grown sick of waking up to the all-caps, black and white headings that read, “HERO COP RESCUES FAMILY FROM DOWNTOWN BLAZE,” and “LOCAL HERO AWARDED KEY TO THE CITY.”

He didn’t feel like a hero. And even if he did, what hero in his right mind would want the key to Manehattan’s black heart? After shaking hooves with the mayor and claiming his reward, Vigil had rushed home like a schoolboy with an A-plus paper and mounted the key on his living room wall. Now the gaudy hunk of gold-painted iron was gathering dust in a closet. He couldn’t bring himself to throw it away, though. He didn’t know why.

Since the blimp crash, Vigil’s name had appeared in numerous newspapers. The press interviewed him, he posed for pictures with city officials, the commissioner gave him a raise... He had become the MPD’s poster colt, a shining example of the ideal police officer, and the physical embodiment of the department's values, morals and high standards.

Garbage. All of it. Vigil might have been young, but he wasn’t stupid. The department and the reporters and the politicians had manufactured a hero to counter the outpouring of negative press stirred up by the Red Light Massacre. Vigil wasn’t a hero; he was a prop in stage play.

He stared hard at the strips of newspaper pinned to his wall. They had to come down. He couldn’t bear their taunts any longer.

He climbed out of bed and trotted up to the wall, his horn glowing, ready to snatch down the clippings with fingers of hard light.

“HERO COP RESCUES FAMILY FROM DOWNTOWN BLAZE.”

The headline seemed to shout at him. Below it was a photograph of an earth mare sitting on the curb with a colt clutched to her chest, soot and tears staining her round face. The colt hugged her back, trying hard to loop his short forelegs around her middle, his eyes bolted shut, his mouth parted in sob.

Behind them stood a scuffed-up earth stallion, head bowed as he nuzzled the side the mare’s neck. His eyes were shut in a dreamy kind of way. He looked content. Not overjoyed. Not rapturous. Just content for the moment, like a condemned prisoner enjoying a brief reprieve.

“Family reunited after successful police rescue,” said the caption beneath the picture. One line below the terse sentence Vigil read the words, “Photo by Tracy Flash.”

He stared at the photograph, blinked in slow motion. Seconds stretched into minutes, minutes into so much useless ticking of the clock on his nightstand. He placed a forehoof on the picture and let his mind tumble back to that night. He conjured a mental image of the family, the wreckage, the ominous tongues of fire lapping at the night sky. They had been immortalized in the photo pinned to his wall, but the scene in his mind was clearer.

And the family… those three haggard survivors... they were ponies, weren't they? Not burned things. Not black shapes. Ponies. Weeping, grasping, kissing, hugging ponies. Alive and well because he had been there that night.

Vigil wandered off to the restroom to begin his morning routine. He would take the clippings down later. Maybe. Right now there was someplace he needed to be.

Over the past few months organized chaos had made a home in Manehattan's midtown police station. Vigil trotted through the buzzing beehive now, nudging shoulders with hobbled ponies being lead about by Royal Blues.

A steady din of curses and shouts echoed throughout the building. Beat cops argued with Royal Guards. Civilians complained to officers standing behind counters. Insults flew this way and that. Threats were declared, accompanied by glowers and aggressive pointing hooves.

And yet everything had been running much smoother since the federal invasion. To begin, arrests were finally being made. Vigil had never seen the station so crowded with future convicts, though, he hoped they were all actually guilty of some crime. Thanks to federal oversight, drugs remained in evidence lockers, cases were followed through to completion and officers were punished for accepting bribes. Even paperwork was being completed in a timely manner, which might have been a bad thing, as it was likely a sign that the end times were upon them.

Police brutality was still up, though. Way up. More and more stressed cops had been using the streets as a dumping ground for their frustrations, and even the Guard couldn’t be everywhere at once. So while the feds punished Manehattan’s police, the police punished her citizens. That fact discouraged Vigil. It seemed things were destined to get worse before they got better.

Rounding a corner at the end of the hallway, Vigil arrived at the commissioner’s office. The Guard had arrested the old police commissioner just one month ago, and had since appointed a new one of their own choosing. This new head of the department had ordered Vigil to meet him this morning at 7:00am sharp. Vigil was ten minutes early when he pushed open the office door, unsure of what to expect.

The blinds were drawn inside the office. A shaded lamp standing abreast to a potted plant emitted a low shine, counting for all the light in the room. Vigil blinked. His horn sparked, his irises lit up behind a pair of thin-framed glasses and his vision adapted to the low light.

The commissioner was lazing in his office chair, an amused glint in his grey-blue eyes. His neat mustache curled fancifully at the ends, jet black, whereas the mane under his Stetson hat was dark brown. The two colors were nearly indistinguishable, a sight that Vigil found odd.

“Quick, son, what color is my mane?” said the commissioner.

Vigil hesitated before saying, “Excuse me, sir?”

“My mane, son? What color is it?”

“It’s… brown, sir.”

“And my handsome mustache?”

A head scratch. “Black?” Vigil had no idea where this was going.

“Well smack my cutie mark and call me the town tart! You really can see in the dark.” The commissioner pushed his hat back and scratched his time-creased forehead. “That there is a mighty useful talent to have in a Celestia-forsaken city like Manehattan. Why, I figure the force could do with more ponies like you.”

The commissioner spoke with an upbeat Appleloosian accent that lent him a certain natural magnetism. He had the kind of voice ponies enjoyed listening to, like that of a singer or a superb actor.

“The name’s Silverstar, son.” He reached a friendly hoof across his desk. “And you must be Vigil. I ain’t been in this city but a few weeks and I’ve already seen more of your mug then I seen of my own kids in years. You’ve won yourself quite a bit of celebrity.”

Vigil shook hooves with the new commissioner. “Thank you, sir.”

“That weren’t a compliment, son. Just an observation.” Vigil frowned at that remark, though he kept it slight and brief. “You seem wound a little tight. Please, grab yourself a seat. And strip off all that dang armor; you look like a rusted up colt’s action figure in that getup.”

Without question, Vigil used a telekinesis spell to remove his armor and helmet, revealing the humble physique hidden underneath. His beige coat resembled the color of a classified folder, minus the red stamp, and his tawny close-cropped mane possessed a stolid militant quality. He piled his armor beside the coat rack, neatly, and took a seat in a chair opposite Silverstar.

“You grew up in Appleloosa, correct?” said Vigil. “And in a town just west of Dodge, judging by the lighter drawl of your accent.”

Silverstar brightened. “Well now, you just went and earned yourself some brownie points with the new boss,” he laughed. “I’m a mite surprised at you, son. Most city folks don’t know an Appleloosan twang from from a Dodge city drawl from the sound of a bear breaking wind. Y’all don’t get out enough is the problem. Why, if I had myself a big enough needle I’d pop the bubble all you blasted fools are living in. Not that I’m saying you’re a blasted fool, son.”

“Of course not, sir.” Vigil hesitated a moment before saying, “If you don’t mind me asking, why did you summon me this morning?”

“As a matter of fact I do mind.” Silverstar reached under his desktop and pulled open a drawer, his face disappearing behind the brim of his hat as he looked down. “We got all morning to get 'round to all that boring business,” he added, rummaging through the drawer.

“Actually, sir, my shift begins in about an hour.” Vigil glanced up at a clock hanging from the wall over the lamp. “Forty-seven minutes, to be exact.”

“Is that a fact?” The tan face reappeared. Silverstar produced a bottle of whiskey and two glasses, setting all three items on his desk. “I hope you don’t take your liquor over ice, ‘cause I plum forgot how to open this here mini…” His voice trailed off as he bent forward again and fumbled with handle of the miniature freezer tucked in a nook under his desk. “I can’t stand these new fangled models with their damnable, useless… Wait a minute!” He sat up straight, facing Vigil. “I plum forgot I’m in the company of a unicorn; you don’t see too many of your type where I’m from. Tell me son: how’re your summoning skills?”

Vigil answered by sparking his horn. There was a pop, a flash, and then three ice cubes materialized out of thin air and dropped into one of the glasses, tinkling. Silverstar waited for Vigil to the fill the second glass, but no more ice appeared.

“Not a drinker?” asked Silverstar.

“No, sir.”

“Ponyfeathers, son. You’re gonna wear an old stallion into the ground with all that blasted stricture.” He leaned forward in his seat and nodded down toward his glass. “You mind?”

Vigil took the hint and used a levitation spell to fill Silverstar’s cup. “Isn’t it a bit early for a drink, sir?”

Silverstar laughed at the notion. “One pony’s early is another pony’s late. I’ll have you know I was out fighting crime all last night—most of it right here in this blasted department. A stallion’s entitled to a drink after an honest day’s work, ain’t he?”

Vigil nodded but said nothing.

“You sure you don’t want a glass, son? No offense, but you look like you’ve been sharing apartment space with a hurricane.”

Vigil touched a hoof to his sleep-deprived face, suddenly conscious of his shabby appearance. “I don’t drink, sir. But thank you.”

“Well, I reckon that’s alright. The liquor ain’t for you no way. It ain’t for me neither, to be perfectly honest.” He laughed and took a long guzzle, emptying the glass in a few gulps. “If that don’t hit the spot every time. Pour me another barkeep; I’m celebrating tonight!”

Vigil did as instructed, disappointed by Silverstar’s behavior. The commissioner had seemed like an upstanding officer at first, if not a bit odd, but watching him drink on the job reminded Vigil of everything he hated about the force. He couldn’t complain too much, though. After all, a Manehattan cop was a Manehattan cop. Even the good ones were a little bad.

Vigil glanced up at the clock again. Thirty-three minutes till his shift began.

“What are you celebrating, sir?” he asked, at a loss for anything else to say.

“You, son! Ain’t every day a tired old horse like me gets to rub shoulders with a department’s golden colt.”

Vigil thought of the newspaper clippings tacked to his wall. “I’m nopony’s ‘golden colt’, sir. Just another officer doing his job.”

Silverstar frowned, the expression slight and barely perceptible under his mustache. His gentle eyes transformed into scrutinizing lenses, watching like a security camera. Vigil expected a remark, but Silverstar silently opened a manila envelope on his desk and shuffled through a stack of papers.

“No golden colt indeed,” said Silverstar. He lifted a single sheet of paper and tapped its edge. “Says here you tried out for the guard a few times but failed to make the cut. Is that right?” There was something new and biting in the commissioner’s tone, something that cut Vigil like a knife.

The young officer stiffened in his seat. “Three times to be precise.” A pause. “And yes, I was rejected each time.”

“Does the guard have some kinda cap on how many times a pony can have a go at joining?”

A hard swallow. “Not to my knowledge, sir.”

Silverstar smirked with razor wire lips, cutting even deeper into Vigil’s composure. “Well, maybe they should. According to this here record your pappy had himself a go at being a Guard, too.” He let out a loud whistle, surprised by what he read. “Thirteen rejection slips. I reckon the old stallion deserves points for effort.”

“That’s correct, sir. My father… he was never accepted either.”

Silverstar closed the envelope. “Well ain’t that something else. I never knew failure could run in a pony’s family.”

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me, son.”

Vigil sat forward, his colorless eyes glowering. Silverstar held his gaze for several seconds, making a contest of their stare down.

“Good,” the commissioner finally said, blinking. “That’s good, son. I wasn’t sure that baby face of yours knew how to get mean. Ain’t no place in law enforcement for ponies who can’t get mean.” He took a drink from his glass, looking like he needed it after their staring contest. “And this thing with your father… It ain’t gonna be a problem, is it?”

“I don’t know what you mean,” Vigil said, angry.

“Look, I know the job can get personal for some ponies,” said Silverstar, the cutting edge leaving his voice. “And I know plenty of ponies who joined the Guard after serving as police officers for a few years. It’s obvious you're using this job as springboard to get you where you’re going. And I don’t have no problem with that—everypony needs to get where they’re going.” He rested his elbows on the desktop and pointed a forehoof at Vigil’s chest. “But I need to know something right here and now. Are you here for yourself… or for your pappy?”

“With all due respect, sir, you don’t know my father, and you don’t know me either.” There was bass in Vigil’s voice now. He glanced up at the clock again. Twenty minutes left.

“You’re right, son. I was a mite out of line with all that talk about your pappy. I’m sorry. But believe me, I been around a long time and I seen plenty of stallion’s my age trying to live vicariously through their sons and—”

Silverstar laughed suddenly and slapped the desktop, making Vigil jump.

“Vicariously!” he shouted, beaming. “Hot damn—how’s that for ten bits worth of fancy vocabulary!”

“Sir?” said Vigil

“Oh don’t you mind me none,” replied Silverstar. “I done went and got myself addicted to them little ‘word of the day’ calendars since coming to this city is all. Now I ain’t been forcing the fancy talk none, but every once in awhile a little gem slips out real natural like. Not that a sharp city slicker like you would be impressed.”

“No, no, it’s quite impressive,” Vigil heard himself say, his tone softening. “Broadening one’s mind is always a worthwhile endeavor.” He tried to stay angry at the commissioner for mentioning his father, but couldn’t. There was a breezy kind of charm in Silverstar’s cadence that the younger stallion found irresistible.

“Now that there is what I like about you, son. You’re a thinking pony, and you got them eyes to boot. You and me—we’re gonna make a heck of a team.”

“Team?” Vigil looked puzzled. “Sir, if you don’t mind me asking—”

“Jiminy, you ask a lot of questions.” The commissioner nodded toward his empty glass. Vigil responded, using his magic to pour more liquor from the bottle. “Don’t you worry none,” he said before taking a drink. “You’ll get your answers just as soon as your plus-one gets here. Though, I wouldn’t bet three bits on her showing up on time.”

“That’s too bad—you could’ve been three bits richer,” came a voice from the open doorway, followed shortly by a yawn.

Vigil turned his head and watched Detective Berry Punch amble up to Silverstar’s desk, sporting a black eye and a noticeable limp in her step.

“Good morning, Detective Punch,” said Silverstar. “Care for a drink?”

Berry Punch finished off the bottle, drowning her hangover beneath a flood of new drunkenness. The drum-like throbbing in her black eye diminished, as did the ache in her bottom jaw, a harsh lesson in the effectiveness of weaponized barstools.

She rubbed her jaw as the memory of last night assailed her booze-addled mind, much in the way she had assailed that gang of Oranges, and at a dive bar in Discord’s Kitchen of all places. Of course she hadn’t known they were Oranges at the time; she had been much too drunk and incoherent.

The Oranges had been hassling a small pegasus stallion at the end of the bar. One of them kept spilling his drink and making him order another, while the others spat threats in his ear and repeatedly swatted the back of his head. Sandbox bullying—the kind of stupid, juvenile crap that made Berry gnash her teeth.

Nopony in the bar did anything to stop it, and Berry might have joined them in their apathy, if not for the unmistakable cadence of the victim’s accent. That infernal Stalliongrad accent. It had grabbed something deep in Berry’s chest and yanked her down off her barstool.

The memory ceased making sense after that. The mental pictures came in vaguely interconnected flashes, like a flipbook with missing pages. Berry remembered the barstool connecting with her jaw. She remembered the iron tang of blood on her lips, the moist thumping the sounds, the acidic burn of urine running down her hind leg.

A self-deprecating smirk curled the corner of her mouth. She hadn’t pissed herself in years—not since her first raid as a SWAT officer, and there had been bullets zipping around her head then. Maybe she was getting soft. Or maybe Manehattan had finally gotten too hard.

“You alright, Detective Punch? You look a mite under the weather.” Silverstar’s voice reached Berry through a mire of drunkenness.

She belched and said, “What’s this about, Jackboot? And why is super cop here?” Then she squinted hard at Silverstar, realizing that he wasn’t Jackboot: the old police commissioner. “And who the fuck are you?”

“Name’s Silverstar, ma’am. I’m the commissioner of this fine department as of one month.” He reached across the desk for a hoofshake that wasn’t going to happen.

“Cadenza’s soggy cunt, nopony tells me anything anymore.” Berry looked at the young officer seated beside her. “And I reiterate, what the fuck is super cop doing here?”

“The commissioner called me into his office, same as you,” Vigil responded, irritated.

“I’m sorry, was I talking to you?”

“Adjust your tone, Detective Punch,” said Vigil, glaring. “And watch your language. We are in the presence of a superior officer.”

“Did you just give me an order, junior?”

“No, I just gave you two. And I’ll give one more if you fail to control yourself a moment longer.”

Berry’s eye twitched. Two orders followed by a threat? Who did this little snot think he was talking to?

She rose from her seat. “Say that again.”

Vigil rose as well. “Control. Yourself.”

They stood face to face, so close their muzzles nearly touched.

“You need to learn some manners, super cop.”

“Likewise.”

Berry pushed her forehead into Vigil’s and blew a booze-tainted breath in his face.

He answered with a snort, challenging her.

“Sit down—both of you!” Silverstar scolded, slamming an irate hoof on his desktop. “You two halfwits can flirt on your damn time!”

Vigil pulled away from Berry, startled by the bass in the commissioner’s voice. “But, sir, she—”

“Not a word out of you, son,” said Silverstar. “I expect this kind of crap from Punch, but you ought to know better.”

Vigil returned to his seat, mortified, and Berry stood over him with a smirk. “Daddy’s got you on a short leash already.”

“Not half as short as yours, Punch,” said Silverstar. “Now put your ass in that chair before I put it there myself.”

Berry sat down and crossed her forelegs about her chest. It was too damn early for this crap. “Seriously, what is this about?” she repeated.

Silverstar reached across his desk and grabbed a folder labeled “SHADOWBOLT” in bold black letters. “I’m sure this ain’t news to you, Punch, but Vigil here ain’t up to speed,” he said, flipping the folder open. It was filled with photographs and paperwork. He lifted one photo and gave Vigil a nod. Reading the gesture, Vigil sparked his horn and floated the picture into his forehooves.

Berry couldn’t see the photo, but she saw the look of disgust on Vigil’s face. Not that his type was difficult to disgust.

“Give it here before you vomit,” she said, gesturing for Vigil to pass her photo. A wisp of light carried it her hooves. She looked down at the picture, her nose wrinkling. “Ponyfeathers… Is this a new one?”

“Yep, that there is a fresh one,” said Silverstar. “A couple of Guards found that poor bastard in an abandoned house way up in Discord's Kitchen.”

“Is this one even a Bolt?”

“See for yourself.”

Berry took a second look at the photo, wincing at the image of a decapitated pegasus. The body was lying on its side, the front and back legs bound together by a thick rope. The killer had hacked off a wing and shoved it up the victim’s anus, while the head lay beside the body, resting on one of its temples. The eyes had been carved out of their sockets, and the victim’s genitals were crammed in his open mouth.

Berry noticed the double lightning bolt tattoo behind the victim’s ear. “Yeah, he was a Bolt alright. Emphasis on was.” She tossed the photograph onto Silverstar’s desk.

“It gets worse.” Silverstar passed Berry the entire folder. She shifted through the documents and pictures, finding several more like the one she had just seen. There were photos of decapitated stallions, their heads hacked off and sewn to their own crotches or anuses. There were pictures of stallions with severed limbs jammed up their asses, with tongues and genitals stapled to their foreheads.

“No kidding.” Berry flipped through photo after photo, her morbid curiosity slowly giving way to nausea. “I’ve seen some bad ones since the start of the Bolt killings, but this is insane. These crazy bastards are getting tribal with this shit.”

“Bastards is it? So you agree there’s more than one?” asked Silverstar.

“There has to be. The bodies are turning up too fast for it be the work of one killer. But this…” Berry continued shifting through pictures, the file sitting open on her lap. “I mean, what the fuck happened? The murders were random before. Gunshots. Stabbings. Beatings. The targets haven’t changed, but where did this new M.O. come from? And why all the sexual mutilation?”

“It’s only with the males, too,” Silverstar added. “The lady Bolts still turn up dead in the usual ways. It’s just the stallions getting this special treatment.”

“What are you two talking about?” Vigil cut in. “This is the first I've heard of Shadowbolts being massacred.”

Silverstar tapped his hoof on the desktop, prodding both officers to look his way. “It’s been going on since Krieg got himself whacked. We suspect that whoever killed him has been running around the city cleaning house for the past three months.”

“Three months?” Vigil repeated. “How is this not common knowledge?”

“Because nopony in this department gives a shit,” said Berry. “That old lowlife Krieg got what he deserved and now so are the Bolts. You wanna catch the guy cutting their nuts off? Fuck that, I say we pin a medal on his chest.”

“And you call yourself a police officer.”

“I call myself Detective Berry-fucking-Punch,” she replied. “Get with the program, junior, ‘cause your little colt scout routine is starting to really get under my skin.” She flipped the folder closed and tossed it back on the desk. “What does any of this have to do with me anyway?” she asked the commissioner.

“Simple, ma’am.” Silverstar reached for a new folder amid the clutter on his desk. “I’m putting you on the case.”

“I’d love to, boss—really I would—but my partner is currently behind bars. So...”

“I know; I put her there myself,” said Silverstar. “You’ll be proud to know she didn’t go quietly. Me and a few Guards had to rough her up some before she started feeling cooperative.”

“Fuck you,” Berry snapped, fuming. Silverstar had no idea how lucky he was. If he weren’t the police commissioner, Berry would have flung herself over the desk and pummeled him half to death for having the bad sense to put his hooves on Carrot Top. Seething, she made a silent vow to learn the names of the Guards who had ‘roughed up’ her partner.

With his nose facing the desk, Silverstar opened the folder and flipped through yet another stack of paperwork. “What if I told you Vigil here is gonna be your new partner?”

“What if I told you to blow me?”

“I’m serious.” Silverstar found the file he was looking for. “You’re gonna take this case, or you and Detective Top will be sharing a cell in Stableblock.” He lifted a small stack of papers off his desk and leaned back in his chair. “You’ve got quite the impressive record, Punch. Says here you put a lot of crooks in Stableblock. I can’t imagine you’d have too many friends in place like that.”

Berry felt her muscles tense. Ponyfeathers, Silverstar was right. She wouldn’t last a night in Stableblock. She put on her best poker face and said, “I’m a big girl. I think I can handle a few crooks living in boxes.”

After flipping to the next page in his stack, the commissioner placed the papers back on the desktop and flashed a smirk.

“Well have a gander at you,” he said, the sawtooth quality back in his voice. “I figure you must be one tough pony, Detective Punch—what with all them bruises and cuts marring your pretty face. And that shiner!” He tossed up a laugh and slapped a hoof on his desk. “I’d bet the farm back home you got that beauty in a heck of scrap! Say now: how many ponies does a mare have to tussle with to get a shiner like that? Four? Five?”

Berry rubbed the cheek under her black eye. “Just three.”

“I bet they was three big bruisers, though. I bet each of them was twice your damn size.” He laughed at her through a taunting smirk. “Yes sir, you certainly are one tough pony, Punch. Toughest I ever seen, and I seen plenty.”

Berry’s eyes narrowed. “The Fuck are you getting at?”

Silverstar placed a hoof on the stack’s top sheet of paper. “Says here you had your drinking problem long before before you joined the force. Says you had a little run in with the law back in your hometown. A domestic case—something about abuse…” Silverstar leaned forward, his grey-blue eyes boring into Berry’s. “Did that make you feel big, Punch? Coming home drunk and smacking around your sweet little filly. That make you feel tough?”

Vigil fixed Berry with a look of derision, but she didn’t notice. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, beating back a wave of violent impulses.

“I’m gonna pretend I didn’t hear that,” she said, slowly. “And I’m gonna get out of this chair. And I’m gonna walk out the door. And you’re gonna go home tonight and tell your wife she owes me a thank you for not caving in her husband’s skull.”

Berry had stomached enough bullshit for one morning. She stood up and started to leave. She got as far as the door before Silverstar said: “You want to see her again, don’t you?”

Berry stopped. She placed a hoof on the closed door, her head bowed in thought.

“I’m a powerful stallion, Punch. I have powerful friends. Catch these killers for me and child services, the restraining orders, all the bureaucratic bullshit—it goes away. Just like that. No questions asked.”

Berry looked over her shoulder. “No questions asked?”she echoed, her insides twisting in knots.

“No, ma’am. You get your baby girl back, but only—and I do mean only—if shewants you back.”

“You can’t be serious, sir,” Vigil cut in. “Such an abuse of power would be—”

“You’re done here, son,” said Silverstar. “This matter don’t concern you. Put on your armor and get to work. You’re dismissed.”

“But, sir—”

“Dismissed.” Silverstar’s tone was parental—fatherly—and the bass in his voice made Vigil recoil in his seat. He hesitated a moment, trauma present on his face, his eyes, then rose to all fours and did as he was told.

Berry’s gaze caught Vigil’s as he opened the door, and neither made any effort to mask their disdain. When he was gone, Berry trotted closer to Silverstar’s desk.

“You mean what you said just now? Can you really get her back?” she asked, struggling to suppress the note of anxiety in her voice.

The commissioner nodded. “I can. But only if you earn it.”

“I’ve caught bad guys before. I can do it again.”

“I know you can.” He rose from his seat and walked around his desk. “But not in your usual way. No roughing up suspects, no searching private property without warrants and no cutting deals with criminals. No fear. No intimidation. You hear me, Punch? We’re doing this by the book.”

“You’ll never get shit done that way,” she said. “This killer—he feeds stallions their own nut sacks and fucks them with severed wings. The books weren’t written to catch animals like that. We do this my way or not at all.”

Silverstar pushed out a hollow sigh. He shook his head slowly, and for the first time since Berry had laid eyes on him he looked like an old stallion.

“It can’t be your way no more,” he insisted. “We can’t fight them on their terms. That’s what they want.”

“Then why choose me? I get why you picked super cop for your little crusade, but why me? You’ve seen my record. You know what I’m about. I’m the wrong mare for this job and you know it.”

“It’s because you’re the wrong mare,” said Silverstar. “You are the worst of the worst, Detective Punch, and I don’t mean that in no nice way. You’re a worthless drunk, a bully and the biggest chicken shit I’ve ever had misfortune of meeting face to face. You’re garbage, Punch. You're the worst kind of trash and everypony knows it…

“And when this here city sees you, Detective Berry Punch, step up and do the right thing… it’ll change them. It’ll change you, too.”

Berry let out a scornful laugh, a pained sound that resonated from deep inside her core. “Nothing ever changes. This little song and dance you and the Guard have going—it won’t last. They pulled this same shit five years ago right before The Prankster’s arrest. They do it all the damn time.

“They storm the city, make arrests, take control. And when things calm down and all the self-righteous pricks feel better about themselves—they climb into their golden chariots, fly back to their ivory towers and keep on pretending we don’t exist.”

“It’ll be different this time,” said Silverstar.

“How?”

“I ain’t worked out all the messy details just yet.” He placed a tender hoof on Berry’s cheek and turned her head to the side, examining her bruised face. “Horse apples… That really is one heck of a shiner. You wanna tell me how you got it?”

Berry remembered limping away from the bar with her foreleg slung around the Stalliongrad pony’s neck, their battered cheeks nuzzling. She recalled his smile. His gratitude.

“It was just a stupid fight.” She brushed his hoof aside, though, some part of her appreciated the contact. “Okay, Silverstar, you win. I’ll catch your killers, and I’ll even play it straight, but I’m not working without Carrot Top. Spring her, or this thing doesn’t happen.”

Silverstar tipped his hat. “Consider it done, ma’am.”