LP Noire

Everyone knows a city is only as good as what they say.

So what did they say about us?

A city, on the brink of valor, pride. Where everypony could live proudly in its confine.

A city of dreams, where those who only aspired could achieve everything they wanted.

The city of freedom: where the automobile carried us not only to our workplace, but to our independence as well.

The city of high learning: where all shared and distributed the wealth of knowledge, the power of intelligence.

The city that once followed, but now stands as a model for all.

A place with no boundaries, no restraints. One destined to reach out beyond the clouds, beyond the stars.

Generously expanding, no end to it at all.

That's what they said.

But everything is not always as good as what they say...

In the army, they taught you to never second guess. Never question anypony, especially your superiors. To accept everything at face value. That was it.

But overcoming that is important. Seeking to question everything, to understand what lies at the bottom, is an important part of living.

Chasing the darkness the moment it steps right in front of you is important to preserve purity, to impose order. But it always moves, always runs. It never stays and rests. It always stays out of our grip, never to be caught. What do we do then?

"Car 12-Abbey, 12-Abbey, come in, over."

Well, I guess we all find our hoofing someday.

"Car 12-Abbey, 12-Abbey, Code 1, please respond, over."

Pelt Palmer sighed from the passenger seat of his coworkers police cruiser, bored, longing to be back in his apartment. The light from a streetlight shone onto his navy blue Patrol uniform, light tan coat, and fair, brown mane. He instinctively closed his eyes to avoid the glare. His irises, which were bright blue, had specks of red in it that appeared after a curious incident. They glinted strangely when in the presence of bright light. His partner, Dune, sat next to him, tapping on the wheel in impatience. She arched her eyebrows at him, which were almost the same yellow dusty color of her coat and mane, making them almost impossible to see. A fact that Palmer found amusing, especially in times like this.

"You gonna pick that up, or what? M-LEL gets really mad if you don't pick it up," she remarked, looking back at the car in front of them, which had stopped at a red light.

"Yeah, sure," replied Palmer with apathy. He flicked the output switch and keyed the microphone on the radio near him.

"M-LEL, this is Car 12-Abbey, go ahead."

"12-Abbey," came the slightly distorted voice after a short burst of static. "Unit 11-Kettle has requested a pair of officers to assist in a street murder investigation. Corner of 14th and Apple Street, Code 2, sirens off. Please confirm."

Palmer's ears pricked up. This sounded like something infinitely more interesting than patrolling around the city on the last few minutes of his shift. "We'll get right on it. Over." He flipped the output switch off and swiveled the microphone away from him. Dune, meanwhile, began rolling her eyes at the car in front of them.

"Something wrong?" he asked. She shook her head, though she looked irritated.

"It's nonsense though," she said, but she pursed her lips all the same. "Homicide guys are getting really lazy. This is the third time I get called down to 'help' them in an investigation."

"You say it like we do all the work."

Dune sighed again in frustration. "That's because we actually do the work for them. Ridiculous!" She hit the steering wheel in frustration. "I mean, it'd be great if we get paid overtime, because they're basically adding 5 more hours to our shift, but no. It's all part of our duty, so we have to suck it up!" She huffed in irritation.

"Well, I heard the Homicide guys are getting a lot of work. They probably don't have time to check on a simple street crime."

"But to make it entirely our job to investigate? Now that's a crime, if I ever saw one," said Dune. "I say just let them stew in their own stew."

Palmer shook his head and then pointed toward the traffic light. "Green. Let's get going."

Dune cruised with the cars past the light and down the street they were in.

"You know, I think you're overreacting a little bit here." Palmer turned toward Dune, who was sucking at her lower lip, glaring out the windshield. "We signed up knowing we had a duty to do anything for the department-"

"You may have known it, Palmer," interjected Dune. "But I certainly didn't. I'm sorry, but when I put on this suit, cap, and badge, I didn't really expect to be covering for somepony else's laziness. I'm sure you would agree."

"Well," began Palmer slowly. "I didn't really expect to be covering for 'laziness,' but I certainly believed that anything related to the job was part of my job. That means any case that detectives are just too busy to take, we take in. You can't just pick out parts of the duty that you like and throw out the rest. That's not how the system works."

"Sure, I get what you mean Palmer." Dune's dismissive and irritated tone said otherwise though. "But I'm not putting in extra work into the 'system' just because somepony else won't work on their part of the system. You know what I mean? Just because somepony's lazy, doesn't mean I should hold their hoof or be held accountable for it."

Palmer thought for a minute before responding. "Well, I agree that laziness doesn't deserve to be ignored in the department, but laziness isn't really the main part of it. I'm sure if you looked at the Homicide guys, you'll find that they clocked in a lot of hours doing other stuff as well."

"So what you're saying is that because they said, and let me emphasize the 'said' part, they have more interesting and important stuff to do, we should be forced to do their leftovers that they don't want to chew up themselves. That's not right." Dune shook her head. "Listen, Palmer, I know you mean well and that you're trying to look at both sides of the argument right now, but the fact is, is that we can't be forced to do what the Homicide guys want just because they claim they can't find additional guys to check up on these cases. These Homicide guys took the buck and they should keep it."

"And what's our buck then?" asked Palmer, but Dune remained silent, so he shook his head and looked out his window. Arguing with Dune was already a fruitless pastime for him, especially when they were on the job. Already, he felt like he was getting a headache.

Crime Scene

9:50 p.m.

Aged streetlights caked the street with a dark orange color, with weeds pushing through the holes in the cracked sidewalk, trying to catch the dim light. Dilapidated buildings rose around them; some of them had lose articles on them that perched precariously over the street. Power lines hung low over the road; so low that in the middle that Palmer felt he could probably reach up and touch them, although they looked dangerous to him.

"Of course. The Shades. Something like this would happen here," said Dune as she pulled up to the concrete sidewalk near a large alleyway. She parked the car, unbuckled, and was just about to get out when Palmer grabbed her right hoof.

"Somepony's coming." Palmer pointed down the alleyway, where two specks of light were approaching the car.

Dune looked at the two dots of light in the alleyway, bobbing up and down as they made their way over to them. "Relax, Pelt, it's the Homicide guys." She got out, straightened, and walked over to the two detectives, now coming into view in the orange light of the dying streetlights nearby. Palmer got out as well and walked around the car to where Dune and the two detectives were.

"You two my placers?" the senior one asked, looking at both Dune and Palmer. He seemed to assess them carefully and disdainfully. Palmer got the impression from the disapproving look on the detective's face that he wasn't satisfied with his backup. The other detective leaned against a nearby wall, smoking a cigar while reading a newspaper, engrossed and inattentive toward the others.

Dune nodded. "Where's the victim, sir?" she asked. Her tone at the honorific term was casually bitter and resentful. If the detective heard, he didn't lose his composure and continued on.

"Down at the end of the alleyway." He motioned to the area behind him, which was so dark Palmer couldn't even see to the end. "Victim is a male Earth pony, twenty-five to thirty years of age. He has a yellow coat, magenta mane and tail, and a flank mark of a car wheel. Died from a gunshot wound to the face. A nearby witness said the killer backed the vic against the wall, shot him, and tossed the piece to the roof of that building over there."

The detective nodded toward a small, nearby building placed to the side of the alleyway.

"Did he say what the killer looked like?" Palmer asked. The detective shook his head.

"The witness said the killer was in a dark cloak with a hood. Didn't catch anything about him."

"And the victim?" added Palmer.

"The shot blew his face off but the flank mark, luckily, was in the database. His name's Wheel Deal."

"Terrific, a name," muttered Dune sarcastically. The head detective's eyes narrowed this time, but he didn't say anything else. His partner meanwhile folded up the newspaper and tossed it on the ground, taking a puff from his cigar.

"Come on. We've still got a case to solve," the head detective said, waving to his partner. "Coroner will be here in around thirty minutes. I'm afraid Central is too busy for your stuff, so find the gun, then bag it, and take it back to your Homicide guys. Happy hunting." Both of the detectives turned and walked back out of the alleyway, leaving the two officers to do the work.

"Great. All alone," said Dune, reluctantly turning back to the alleyway with Palmer. He took out his flashlight from his right pocket and stuck it in his pocket on his uniform. Dune did the same.

"Let's get down the end, find the body," started Dune.

"Hold on a moment," said Palmer. He trotted over to the newspaper and picked it up, scanning the front page for anything interesting.

"You're reading the newspaper? Come on, Palmer, we've got a case and I want to get it over as soon as possible! Shift ends in 5 minutes; I don't want to go overtime!"

"Well, last time I checked, solving these cases took some time. Why don't you get ahead of me? Get some things jotted down. It'll go faster." Palmer scanned the front of the newspaper. Dune stared at him for a second, made an impatient sound, and walked down by herself. Meanwhile, Palmer head the heading of the headline news, which read "University Professor Claims Miracle Work With Drug."

"Doctor! Professor, please wait!"

Professor Flowing Fountain turned as one of his students ran up to him in the hallway of the University of Las Pegasus. The day was sunny and bright and Hedge was just thinking of sneaking out the back to take a walk... if he even had the time. Ponies asking for assistance did not help with his strained schedule. The student's bag swung with the cumbering weight of his textbook as he rushed up to the professor.

"Yes, and how may I help you?" asked Flowing Fountain as the student skidded to a halt beside him, his bags comically pulling him and making him stagger a few more paces. Using his wings for balance, he straightened and took some deep breaths before speaking.

"Doctor, professor, sir-"

"Call me Fountain. Everypony here does. Or at least, the seniors and staff members do."

"Right, um, Mr. Fountain. Well, I'm one of your, er, pupils-"

"Ah, yes, I think I've seen you before in the front." Actually, Fountain never saw the pony in his life, but seeing as he had three lecturing sessions, each with three hundred ponies in them who came and went, and two classes, each with twenty ponies who attended only with a superficial interest in biology, it wasn't too much of a surprise that he couldn't really remember any of his students, as he pretty much didn't try.

"Oh, you have, that's great!" exclaimed the student. Fountain felt a wave of relief as he smiled congenially, allayed by the fact that he had guessed the position of the student correctly.

"My name's Wind Sweep. I'm an undergraduate here, freshman," rattled off the student.

"Indeed? What major are you studying currently?"

"I'm a pre-med student, but I've been coming into your advanced biology lessons; just for some extra knowledge."

"And how do you find my lessons?" asked Doctor Fountain, now starting to walk down the hallway again. Sweep followed on his trail.

"Oh, very informative, sir. With some luck, I'll be able to pass the my medical school exam."

"Indeed? Did you enjoy my previous one, the Rycobin one?"

"Oh, yes. I liked your explanation on it's mental restorative properties. In fact, I was coming here to talk to you about that."

Fountain stopped in his tracks. Wind Sweep almost crashed into him. "Rycobin?" asked Fountain, surprised. "For what reason?"

"Well, you see, I'm looking for a internship. You know, for graduate school. And I was wondering whether I could work in your clinic."

"My clinic?" hesitated Fountain. "Well, I don't necessarily hoof out internships." He thought about it for a moment while Wind Sweep looked at him in anticipation.

"Tell you what, Mr. Sweep. Drop by at my office at the end of the day and we'll work it out. But you best hurry back up to your class, Mr. Sweep."

As if on cue, the bell upstairs rang loudly, announcing the end of the morning session. The thundering and chattering of hundreds of ponies up above them echoed through the entire hallway. Fountain began shooing away Sweep with a wave of his hoof. "Tonight. My office, all right?" Fountain asked. Sweep nodded, quickly lifted himself off the ground, and flew up the stairs to lunch.

Palmer put the newspaper back down on the ground and straightened up, looking around for Dune. She had already made her way down to the end of the alleyway. Even far away from her, he could see her flashlight illuminating the blood splatter and the corpse on the brick wall of the building at the end. Palmer trotted up to Dune, looking around at the old, deteriorating slums around him. He noted with some slight concern the crumbling fire escapes and holes in the windows, which looked as though rocks and other projectiles had been flung at them.

"Well, look who showed up. You finished your article?" asked Dune snidely, still looking closely at the dead body and crouching to take a look at its cutie mark.

"Sorry. It was rather interesting."

"Oh?" she asked, looking up at him while taking her camera out from her side pouch.

"Sure. Something about how a professor at the University claimed he could solve post-traumatic stress disorder using Rycobin."

Dune took a few seconds snapping a photo of the two cutie marks, waited another minute as the camera rattled and shook as it developed and printed the film, and took another few seconds examining them.

"Right. HQ can do whatever the hell they usually do. I'm done with this." She flicked the two photos into her pouch along with her camera and sealed it up. "Oh, and for future reference, I hate science."

"So, what do we have?" he asked, looking at the body and the blood on the wall.

"Well," began Dune with extreme reluctance as she stood up. "I thought Detective Rose was exaggerating when he said the guy's face was blown off, but, as you can see right there, he wasn't really pulling our leg that much."

Both Dune and the detective were right. The victim's face was entirely gone. Palmer could see the insides of the head, including some of the bone cartilage from the skull, and the brain, or at least the parts that weren't crusting on the wall with the blood. It was impossible to tell what the snout looked like.

Dune looked around the alley and back down in disgust at the body. "From what I can tell, it looks like the killer shoved the victim on the wall and pulled the trigger. At point-blank range, especially it it's a heavy pistol, it has enough power to blow a hole through the head. Probably shot multiple times as well." She shook her head. "There's no telling what came after though. The killer may be miles ahead of us already, thanks to Homicide," she added bitterly.

"Well, all we need to do is find the gun, and if we move fast, we probably could catch him."

"That's if we're lucky," muttered Dune as both of them turned and headed back down the way they came. "Right, so, we're looking for the gun on that building."

Both of them looked at the sloped structure erected in the middle of the alley. Although it was only a third of the size of the towering yet rotting slums around them, it was still about two stories high. Neither of the two ponies were capable of reaching the top easily.

"And we're supposed to find a way up that?" Dune asked skeptically. "I say we just call a pegasus down here. I'll head back to the car."

Palmer, however, scratched his head, looked around, and spotted a gutter. He quickly ran to the pipe running down the side of the building, and jumped on it, grabbing it with his front hooves and digging his back ones into the cracks between the bricks of the building. Meanwhile, Dune watched him from below.

"Sure you can do that, Pelt? Looks kind of hard."

"Yeah, no worries," replied Palmer, speaking through his teeth as he mustered up his strength. He drew in a deep breath, exhaled, and started climbing, pulling up with his front hooves on the pipe and using his back ones as a force to keep him on the wall. After a few tense seconds, he finally placed his front hooves on the edge of the roof and pulled himself up and over, panting more from nervousness than exhaustion.

Slowly, he got back up and walked around, looking for the gun. It wasn't too long before he came across a glass square  on the roof, with a bulky gun lying on top. The glass underneath the gun was cracked; it looked as though it came down from the sky. The light shined through the window, which threw the shadow of the gun on the apartment wall. Palmer walked up to the gun and picked it up. On the side of the gun was a serial number.

"Two-nine-five-A-one-three-seven," muttered Palmer to himself. "This'll be easy enough." He slipped the gun into his pouch, walked back to the pipe, and slowly lowered himself down the side of the building. As he reached the bottom, the pipe began to give away and he jumped off in the last few feet, landing in front of Dune, who looked duly impressed.

"Nice. Where'd you learn to do that?" she asked curiously. Palmer shrugged.

"Picked it up myself."

Dune nodded slowly in response. Both of them turned and walked out the alleyway. Once back in the dying light of the streetlights again, Dune stretched and yawned. "All right, let's get this thing down to the station."

Palmer was slightly puzzled. "Aren't we finishing up the case though?"

Dune stared at him in surprise.

"It'll be simple," assured Palmer. "You promised, anyway." Dune still looked reluctant. "And I'll drive too," he added as a last thought. Dune seemed to strain herself in indecision for a minute before she huffed in frustration.

"I don't remember promising to anything," she said to herself, but she walked around to the passenger side of the car and opened the door. Palmer, meanwhile, got in the driver's seat and settled himself in carefully. Dune fished out her keys from her bag and threw them to Palmer.

"So where's the nearest gun shop?" he asked Dune, who was just getting settled for a nap. She opened one eye.

"Eagle Gun Shop, if I remember correctly. 13th and Orange Avenue. Pretty much at the end of the Shades."

"Right," replied Palmer. He started the engine and pulled into the street.

Eagle Gun Shop

10:20 p.m.

Palmer pulled up in front of a small group of buildings at the edge of the Shades, evidenced by the bridge over the Careening River that could be seen nearby. On one of the buildings was a large sign with a picture of a firearm on it. It included the words "Eagle Gun Shop" on it.

"So, lets get in there, find this pony, and get this case done, right?" Dune got out of the car and stretched. Palmer got out as well and walked to the front door, waiting for Dune. She quickly joined him and the two entered the shop.

Inside, the shop was well-lit by several lights aiming at several different firearms in cases lining the walls of the shop. The bell tinkled as the two walked in and a pony from the back came in, wiping a pistol using a cloth. He tossed it on the counter in front of him as Palmer and Dune walked up to it and looked up at them.

"Officers. How may I help you?" he said as they arrived at the counter.

"Officers Palmer and Dune, sir," began Palmer, pointing toward himself and Dune, who was eyeing in curiosity at the guns in cases surrounding the counter. "We're investigating a murder that occurred not to far from here."

"Ah, horse feathers. That sort of stuff happens every month or so," he said, shaking his head. "Did you recover the weapon at least?"

"Yes, in fact, we did." Palmer took the gun out of his pouch and placed it on the counter, next to the gun the proprietor was polishing. "Took some time, but we got it."

"Well, I'll be..." He picked up the gun. "I remember this piece."

"Is it special?" asked Palmer.

"You bet your hat it is, officer." The owner placed the gun back on the counter. "That right there, is a genuine first generation Pull and Lock, nickel-plated, and what's more, fully operable," he said proudly, pointing to the brand name on the front, which read "P&L." "You don't find these anymore. Most ponies tend to already have the third generation. They've already simplified the brand name, but as you can see officer, the original's still there. And a very powerful weapon as well. I'd hate to be on the barrel-end of this thing."

"Do you know who bought the gun?" asked Palmer, taking out his notebook and pencil. He held the pencil in his right hoof and opened his journal.

"The last purchaser of this piece was a male Earth pony. Probably, oh, I'd say, forty years old, maybe more. Grayish coat, green mane and tail. Had a cutie mark of a wrench and a wheel. I would say he was a mechanic. His name is Grimy Grease."

Palmer quickly jotted information down in his notebook as the proprietor talked. "Do you remember where he lives?" he asked, taking the pencil out of his mouth.

The proprietor thought for a moment and shook his head. "Not at the top of my head. But-" He reached down below the counter and slid a ledger on the top. "You can check out my ledger. All my purchases are put on it, even the cash ones, along with the names, address, and serial number. If I remember correctly, Grease was on the front. He was one of my first customers."

Palmer nodded and opened the ledger to the first page.

"Find it yet?" said Dune, who had appeared right behind Palmer.

"Don't pressure me," said Palmer, looking up in frustration.

"Sorry. What's the number again?"

Palmer stopped to remember for a moment. "Two-nine-five-A-one-three-seven, I think." He moved his hoof down the list of customers, finally reaching the corresponding number and name. He moved his hoof to the addresses and tapped on the target.

"8th and Orange Street. Lake Apartments. Just south of here," said Palmer. He quickly opened his notebook and wrote the address in. When he finished, he closed the ledger and slid it back to the proprietor, who picked it up and placed it back under the counter.

"You got it?" he asked. Palmer nodded.

"Great. Anything else?" the proprietor asked as Palmer slid the gun, the notebook, and the pencil back in his pouch. He shook his head. "No, that'll be all. Thank you for your help."

"No problem. Anything I can do for the L-double-PD."

Palmer beckoned to Dune, who was staring longingly at a long and powerful looking assault weapon. She turned reluctantly and followed Palmer out of the shop.

"We almost done?" she asked, yawning as they walked back to the car.

"Of course. We get there, we grab the guy if he's there, then we leave."

"Sounds good." She climbed back into the passenger's side and Palmer settled in the driver's seat. He started the car again, eased out of the side of the street, and drove back on Orange Avenue, cruising south silently among the other late-night driver.

"Did you hear about Ray?" asked Dune.

Palmer thought for a moment. "Never heard of her."

"Really?" Dune sat up, surprised. "You've never heard of Earnest Ray."

Palmer thought some more but didn't come up with anything. He shook his head.

"She's only the most corrupt and evil detective to ever step hoof into the department."

"Sounds like gossip," said Palmer as they stopped at a red light. Dune scoffed.

"Gossip? She just became Head Detective for Vice. Guess how it happened."

Palmer pushed breath out of lips. "I got nothing."

"Bribery. That's what got her through. Bribery," answered Dune, who leaned back in her seat and snorted in disgust. The light turned green and Palmer accelerated down the street again.

"Where'd she get the money?" asked Palmer. Dune shrugged.

"Don't ask me. But she's worked in Vice for, like, 10 years now. You know what those guys get into. Accepting bribes, taking payoffs, you know, those things that make the good guys cringe in their sleep. She probably got the money there."

Palmer shook his head. "For now, that shouldn't concern us."

"For now?" repeated Dune incredulously. "You're actually planning to go after those guys?"

"Well, no," replied Palmer. But apparently that wasn't satisfactory enough for Dune.

"Seriously, you don't want to mess with those guys. After what they did to Internal Affairs? I'm surprised they still have agents willing to search them out. They'd probably even go up against the Equestrian Marshals if they have to. A lonely, naive, zealous Patrol officer? They eat guys like you for breakfast, and then some.

"All right, okay, thanks, for your concern, seriously," reassured Palmer. "Don't worry, Dune, I got other things to do other than try to chase down superiors without evidence or prior knowledge."

"Now we're talking sensibly," said Dune. The two remained quiet for the rest of the ride.

Grease's Apartment

10:41 p.m.

Palmer and Dune stood in front of a low gate standing in the entrance in the wall surrounding the apartments. Ivy coursed down the aged walls, which were covered in mold and dirt. One of the two lights on the wall flickered incessantly as the two walked up to the gate. Palmer reached out and tried it, pushing it open. The rusty hinges squeaked loudly as the gate opened, but nopony came out to investigate.

Dune scoffed. "Whoever lives here must be extremely clueless. This'll be easy." Palmer thought otherwise though with her overconfidence and shook his head. "Let's just worry about grabbing the guy before he runs off."

The two trotted through the gates and passed through a courtyard in the middle. It was doubtlessly grand-looking when it was new, with an artfully designed fountain in the middle and four pathways leading up to it from the cardinal directions and large patches of grass bordered by flower pots in adjacent to the paths. Now, the fountain was cracked and the weathered stone was battered and rough. The pathways were all but eroded and the flower pots were empty. Dune coughed sardonically.

"Must be a really cheap place."

Palmer said nothing as the two walked past the fountain, up the opposite path, and under the awning that protected the doors of the apartments. At the end, directly across the entrance, were mailboxes, with slots for the different apartments. The brass was rusted and several letters were scattered on the floor. Palmer walked up and examined the apartment numbers on the slots while Dune reached down and picked up a random letter.

"Stripe, Red, apartment number 3. Not this one." She tossed it away and picked up another one. "Aha! Got it!" She straightened up and brandished the letter in Palmer's face. He leaned back instinctively.

"Great. What number?" asked Palmer, trying to see the name and apartment number in the dim light of the lamps above him.

"Um, apartment 5." Dune tossed the letter away and adjusted the collar of her uniform. "Ready?" she asked, turning to Palmer.

"Well, this is my first arrest, so-"

"No worries," assured Dune, zipping around to Palmer's side and pushing him toward the apartment. "It'll be easy."

Dune stopped pushing Palmer when they reached the front of apartment 5 and turned to him. "Now remember, we don't hurt the pony unless he puts up a fight. That's when we threaten to shoot him. Works every time. You'll stand behind me with your gun like this-" Dune mimed holding and aiming a gun. "And I'll cuff the pony, simple? If he puts up a struggle, fire a warning shot, but not at him."

Palmer tried to take this all in and nodded, taking out his issued pistol. He chambered a round and nodded to Dune, who turned around and rapped on the door.

"Open up in there! L-double-PD!"

The door opened slowly. A medium-build stallion with droopy eyes and fleshy cheeks stood in the doorway. "Yeah, whaddaya want?" he asked lazily. He swayed as he spoke, barely focusing on Dune and Palmer, his eyes droopy with exhaustion.

"L-double-PD, sir. We're investigating a murder that occurred not too far from here, with your weapon. You're to report down to Will Fire Station for interrogation and incarceration."

Grease looked surprised for a second and narrowed his eyebrows. "No way. Wheel Deal? He's my friend. Why would I want to kill him?"

Dune rolled her eyes. "Homicide can find that out, Mr. Grease. I'm afraid we're running late here, so if you'll just-"

"No way! I can prove that I didn't kill Wheel! My gun's right here, I'll show you!" Grease ran back into his apartment. Dune and Palmer walked after him as Grease opened a drawer. Lying inside were various personal possessions, but obviously the gun wasn't there. He stood stock still for second.

"What the heck is this?!" he asked indignantly. Dune stepped up, taking out a pair of hoof cuffs as she did so.

"Alright, Mr. Grease, don't make me say it again, you're under arrest, by order of the L-double-PD."

"No way! You coppers aren't taking me!" Grease made a wild, wide swing with his right hoof as Dune moved in on him. Surprised, Dune could only stop before the punch hit her jaw. She fell flat on her right side and didn't move.

Palmer was shocked and aimed his pistol, but then thought better of it. The stallion was unarmed, which meant it would be unethical to shoot him. Just as he resolved to fight Grease hoof to hoof, Grease seemed to finally notice him. He narrowed his eyes, shook his head, then stood on both back legs in an upright boxing posture.

"That was a very bad move, Mr. Grease," warned Palmer, trying to approach the aggressive stallion cautiously. Grease aimed a jab, which Palmer dodged skillfully.

"Come on, copper. Let's see whether the L-double-PD can dance just as well as they can cuff somepony!"

Grease stepped in and aimed an uppercut. Palmer dodged it again and reluctantly stood on his hind legs just as Grease aimed another jab at him. Palmer dodged and brought his front hoofs up to his face just as Grease followed with another uppercut. The blow hit Palmer's front hooves, staggering him.

"Come on, show me some skill!" laughed Grease. He tried for another straight punch but Palmer dodged him.

Grease pulled back and stepped in again. As he did so, he used his forward movement to provide force in a swinging roundhouse with his right hoof. Palmer reacted quickly, ducking and stepping in and to the left, Grease's right, instead of back. This move got him out of the range of Grease's swing and inside the dead zone where Grease couldn't easily follow up with either hoof.

Palmer took this fleeting advantage and balled up his left hoof and threw a hook, catching Grease in the head. Grease staggered heavily. Palmer didn't hesitate and followed up with an uppercut on Grease's open jaw. His head arced up from the blow and he fell on the floor.

His enemy vulnerable, Palmer quickly jumped forward and performed a heavy, finishing punch to Grease's head, knocking him out. He stood ready over Grease, prepared to follow up, but his opponent lay on the ground, limp and motionless. Palmer relaxed, dropping onto all four hooves again.

"Is he knocked out?"

Palmer turned in surprise to see Dune shakily standing up. She was rubbing her lower jaw and wincing.

"Idiot got me good." She looked at Palmer, who was looking back down at the unconscious Grease. Dune looked down as well. "Why didn't you shoot him?"

Palmer shrugged. "Police Code states that we must not use weapons on unarmed individuals."

Dune shook her head, clearly mystified by Palmer's laconic response. She reached down for her hoof cuffs, and cuffed the front and back legs of the unconscious stallion, then stood up and took out her pistol. "I'll keep watch over the guy. You look around."

Palmer nodded and turned around. The apartment was small; so small that even alone he could probably search it in 5 minutes. The first thing that caught his eye was a large black cloak draped over the back of a wooden chair. He lifted it up and examined it. It sported two back pockets and a hood.

"Well, the killer was wearing a black cloak," recalled Palmer.

Dune rolled her eyes. "His wardrobe must be interesting. Sure. Let's find something more substantial, yeah?"

Palmer walked up to the drawer that Grease had opened. Inside was a mountain of items, including some gold bits, a necklace, two rings, a pair of tweezers, and other miscellaneous objects. Lying in a corner were two bullets. Palmer picked one up.

"Standard .37 mm. rounds," he noted. "Homicide can probably connect that to the gun."

He placed it down and was about to close the drawer when something in the back caught his eye. He put his hoof in and slid it out, revealing it to be a small notebook with a letter inside. Palmer opened the notebook to the page the letter was stuck in. There was a telephone number and what appeared to be a smudged out and illiterate name, along with some random numbers under a column of names. Palmer slid out the letter and began reading it.

"Thanks for your help, Mr. Grease and Mr. Deal. When the deed is done, you two'll find your reward in a very compensating state."

"Enclosed is the phone number to a stock market employee who is my somewhat undercover agent in there. Just walk up to her, introduce yourselves, and hand her the bottom part of the letter, which contains my signature. She'll take it from there."

"And don't worry about the police. I'll take care of them. They won't find a clue."

"Best of luck, DC"

Palmer looked at the bottom of the letter, but the frayed edges evidenced that Grease had torn the letter. Palmer took a look at the phone number in the book again and quickly made up his mind.

He looked around the apartment again and saw a telephone on a stand in a dark corner.. He dived for it and clicked the connect button while Dune stared at him.

"Operator, how may I help you?" came the tinny voice from the clicking telephone.

"L-double-PD, ma'am. Officer Pelt Palmer, badge 1337. Could you please connect to A257?"

"One moment." Palmer heard the thud of machinery in the background and several clicks as the operator pressed a few buttons.

"I'm sorry sir, the line appears to be cut off right now. Can't get to it."

A pang of disappointment hit Palmer. "Thank you, ma'am. Have a nice evening." He pushed the receiver back in its place as Dune walked up, curious.

"What's up?"

Palmer looked up at Dune and shook his head.

"Nothing much, thought there was a new lead, but its dead now."

Dune wasn't satisfied though. "Listen Palmer, I know you want to go on, but right now, I just want to go home. If you want, we can call Homicide and put them on it, but I don't think it's going to be worth our time. We got the suspect, so lets just get out of here already."

As she was talking, she slid the unconscious stallion onto her back. "If he wakes up, shove him off and punch him again. And put that back where it belongs," she added pointing toward the book on the table. Palmer nodded but as she turned around to leave, he quickly put it in his pack.

Palmer took up position behind her back as they walked out the apartment door. Grease's head and back legs hit the doorway as they walked through, but both of them ignored the dull thumping sound.

Will Fire Police Station

11:17 p.m.

Dune's patrol car pulled up in the parking lot of the police station, which was almost empty except for a few personal cars. The station was tucked away in the corner of the quiet Will Fire district, so the sound of the commuting cars were only a distant rumble in the background. The station was perpetually covered by a large cloud, which made the area somehow even more darker despite the fact the sun wasn't out yet.

As Dune lifted the now awake and grumbling Grease to his hooves, Palmer went ahead and stepped into the building, walking in a low yet comfortably furnished hallway until he reached the lobby, where a bored Patrol officer sat in the reception window reading the newspaper. Palmer knocked on the window and officer looked up.

"Yeah, what's up?" he asked lazily.

"Is the Homicide Lieutenant still here?" asked Palmer.

"He's right here," replied a gravelly, hoarse voice. Palmer turned around while the receptionist immediately folded the newspaper clumsily and sat up straight. The Lieutenant was walking down the stairs with his suitcase floating in the air in front of him, held by a rather petite and attractive unicorn mare. The Lieutenant was a pallid white stallion with deep wrinkles set in his complexion. His faded, lank sky blue mane and tail gave the impression that he had once seen better days. Even his wings looked tired. Although folded up, they seemed to hang low and loosely.

The Lieutenant turned around to the unicorn carrying his bag and motioned for her to put it down with a nod of thanks. He then turned back toward Palmer and outstretched his hoof to shake. Palmer took it and shook for a second before reaching into his pack and withdrawing the small notebook with the letter. He placed it in the Lieutenant's hoof.

"My partner and I found this while investigating a street murder, sir. I thought it'd be of interest to you."

The Lieutenant opened it, read the letter, and looked at the page where the letter was originally at. He frowned with incomprehension.

"These are stock figures," he said. He perused the columns of numbers and furrowed his brow. "Mrs. Blossom, perhaps you'd make better sense of this than I will." He held the notebook to the unicorn, who levitated it in front of her and began reading herself.

"Hmm, these numbers are a little weird, but I can't say for myself." She continued to analyze them, muttering to herself and looking up once in a while to think. Eventually, see turned back to the Lieutenant. "Would you mind if I keep it with me?" she asked. He nodded.

"It'd be fine with me. But what about the officer here?" Both of them turned to Palmer now, who was struck that they were asking him. He made a small nod.

"Excellent." The unicorn stuck the letter back in the notebook and placed it in her suit. "This'll prove invaluable in my case." With that, she turned around and quickly walked up the stairs. The Lieutenant gave Palmer a small smile before snapping his suitcase on his back and trotting toward the door.

Las Pegasus Police Department

Patrol Officer Performance Report

The concerned officer Pelt Palmer has shown:

Proficient Investigative Initiative

High Physical Fitness

Final Assessment: Excellent Rating

It was a balmy, warm, June morning. The day had just finished beginning, so the sun wasn't too high and the air wasn't too humid. Anypony with any sense would be outside enjoying the weather, even though weather like this was common in a place were Palmer lived.

Unfortunately, or at least what was unfortunate enough for him, Palmer was stuck in class in the new school building. It was so new that the cedar floors still smelled of the forest and the blackboard was mostly clean, fresh, free from the choking, bitter dust of chalk, except for the area where the instructor had written the date. Although the room was rather bright and airy, Palmer felt like it was a prison. To him, it was a wonder that the windows weren't barred up.

Fortunately for him, they weren't, which allowed him to draw a bird that had alighted itself on a branch of a weeping willow nearby. Palmer had never seen anything so balanced, poised, or dexterous, and decided that it would complete the collage of artwork he had drawn in his notebook. Meanwhile, the teacher, Tin Can, was giving the class a lecture.

"Well, I see you all passed your finals. Some of you only by just the skin of your teeth. You know who you are."

He looked up from his papers to the class of teenage ponies, all with varied degrees of interest and focus on Tin Can. Several of them looked at their seatmates and shared looks of amusement. A couple of students were tapping pencils on their desk. One of them was sleeping, while his seatmate placed his schoolbooks on his head. Palmer was sketching the bird on a page in his journal, looking out occasionally to catch another look at the bird to sketch another part.

"But nevertheless," continued Tin Can. "You all have shown proficiency in your studies, some of you more than others. Now, it is time to consider what you may do after school. I need hardly remind you that your careers must be practical as well as enjoyable. The secret to happiness in life is to lead a successful one, not just to do what you want. Although some of us are thinking differently. Like perhaps... Palmer!"

Palmer jumped and almost dropped his pencil from his hoof, which he preferred to write and draw with instead of his mouth. The bird outside took flight at the sudden shout and disappeared. Palmer watched it go with mixed disappointment and sadness.

That was the least of his worries, for Can arrived where Palmer was sitting and looked down at him. The rest of the class immediately perked up, glad for some entertainment.

"Mr. Palmer. May I ask what you are doing?" Can asked dangerously.

Palmer's hoofs shook in nervousness but he forced them to remain still. "Um, drawing. Sir," he murmured, almost inaudibly.

"Sorry?" asked Can, leaning with his left ear facing Palmer. "Didn't quite catch that."

"I said I was drawing, sir," said Palmer more loudly and feverishly. He closed his eyes in embarrassment as several of his classmates scoffed.

"Again, with this art business, then, Mr. Palmer?" asked Tin Can loftily. In the background, several mares were snickering with derision. Tin Can rounded on them.

"Oy! What's with the talking? Need I remind you that the artist over here actually received a better final examination grade than many of you, no doubt? I advise you all to remain quiet."

That shut up everypony who was snorting and giggling behind their hooves, who immediately looked away from Can.

"Now, that's more like it. You know, this reminds me of something else I was meaning to say-"

At that moment, the bell rang and the rest of Can's lecture went unsaid. The students sighed in relief as they zipped up their packs and made for the doorway, ready to enjoy the summer sun and the weather. Can looked like he wanted to call them back but thought differently and turned around.

Palmer packed up his pack slowly and so was the last one out. He was just about to slip out when-

"Palmer! Wait. I wish to speak to you."

Palmer turned around again and walked up to Can's desk, where he was wiping up the blackboard.

"Palmer, sit down." Can indicated the seat in front of the desk while he finished wiping off the last bit of chalk.

Palmer sat down on the seat, while Can dropped the eraser back on the blackboard and sat down in his chair.

"Well Palmer, I see that your exam grades were excellent, excellent indeed, very exemplary."

"Thank you, sir." Palmer shifted in his seat, impatient.

"I can see that you wish to leave, Palmer, but please hear me. I understand that you wish to become an artist, no?"

"Yes, sir."

"Well, then you must consider that artists do make a good amount of money, but only if they become professionals. Flawless professionals. Once you're at the top, you'll certainly be earning a sizable paycheck. But getting there? Most might consider it not worthwhile. Only the best can truly make their way in the art world." Can looked at Palmer as he took a sip from a nearby cup of coffee, while Palmer looked down in thought.

"Now, I'm not trying to discourage you, Mr. Palmer, but please consider that being an artist will almost certainly lead to nothing. From what I saw in your works, I would say you'd make a great artist, but there are even better ones out there. Ones who can stand up to those nasty, head-biting critics I may add. Now, again, not saying you wouldn't be a fine artist, but I'm afraid you don't have the toughness that those at the top have."

Palmer nodded in acknowledgement. Can put down the cup and made an appreciative sigh. He focused on Palmer again.

"Well, I think I've made my point. In short, I'd say pick another career. Art is only a hobby, I'd say. A good hobby, to be certain, but only such. You should consider being a historian, or maybe even a politician. Your grades are certainly good enough for that."

"Yes, sir, I'll think about it, sir." As Palmer said this, he was already out of his seat and preparing to make his way down the classroom and out the doors. Something bitter inside him welled up as he passed the window where he spotted the bird, but he suppressed it, surprised that something like that came up. He broke into a run at the last few steps and seized the handle of the door.

Palmer burst out of the doors so fast that he almost crashed into the crowd of students waiting outside. He stopped in a skid and two of his friends, Rough Ash and Sunny Haven, walked up to him.

"What'd he say?" asked Ash. Palmer shrugged dismissively.

"Oh, you know. Him disapproving about me being an artist."

"Sounds like Can," Haven said. She turned to Ash. "So, you actually going?

"Doesn't look like I have a choice, now do I?" he asked, his tone casually sarcastic. He shook his long orange and gray hair away from eyes.

"What are you two talking about?" asked Palmer. For an answer, Ash raised a small card to Palmer's eye level for him to read.

" 'By order of the Royal Guard, the individual Bright Ash is to be drafted into service for the Royal Guard Expeditionary Force,' " read Palmer. He raised an eyebrow as Ash folded the card and put it back into his school bag. "You're being drafted? What for?"

"Not just him, Palmer," said a bitter voice. Palmer turned around to see his classmate Dill Pickle standing near him, holding another exact card and staring at it as though it was a personal insult. Dill, like Palmer, was a medium-built stallion with a dark gray coat and short, lime green mane that spiked at his bangs. His cutie mark was, unsurprisingly, of a pickle, but Dill seemed to slightly resent it. He always wore a long suit to cover it if he could.

Without looking away, he reached into his bag and held out another card.

"I was asked to bring this to you as well."

Palmer accepted the card with dread, unfolded it, and began to read. "By order of the Royal Guard, the individual Pelt Palmer is to be..."

Palmer felt slightly sick and stopped reading. He had pretty good idea what it said anyway.

"When are we moving out?" he asked shakily.

"Tomorrow," replied Pickle nonchalantly, but his magenta eyes still flashed bitterly. "Hope you got your affairs straight."

"I guess you could say it's nice of them to get this out as soon as you turned of age," commented Haven sadly.

Palmer slowly put the card in his pack, his legs trembling. Ash noticed and patted Palmer's back in reassurance, but this only made Palmer's legs buckle slightly.

"Ah, cheer up, old sport! I mean, it's not like the end of the world, right?"

"Maybe for you it isn't," said Pickle, finally putting his card back. "But not everypony wants to join the military, especially if it's compulsory. So, begging your pardon if rainbows and sunshine don't start pouring out of my mouth."

Ash was about to make a retort before Haven stepped in between them. "Look, you two, let's not get into an argument ,all right? Palmer, come on, let's get over to your house and I can help you start packing. Pickle, I can come over too and-"

"There's no need," said Dill. "I can do it by myself."

Ash shook his head. "I've already got my stuff packed, so-"

"Can it, Ashes, nopony asked you," interjected Dill.

"Okay, you two," said Haven. She pushed both of them away from each other. "Quite enough."

Dill and Ash glared at each other for a few seconds before turning away. Haven sighed.

"Palmer. Your place. Now," she ordered simply.

Palmer and Haven started down the street toward the afternoon sun, away from Dill and Ash, both of whom turned away as soon as they left and resumed their glaring contest.