A street lamp shines down in an alleyway of downtown Manehattan. It was just the beginning of night.The moon's luminous glow was blocked by a thick cloudcover blanketing the sky. This turned the small town into a longing imatation of the night sky. Everypony had gone to bed that night dreaming a reality all their own. Well... almost everpony...

In the alleyway, a door opens and two stallions emerge.They both wear suit vests over white, button-up T-shirts, but one is obviously older than the other..

"Thank-you again for staying later than expected, Bill," the elder stallion says walking out first.

"Oh, no problem Mr. Haypenny," Bill answers politely shutting the door behind him.

"I know how arduos it is for those last minute withdrawl paperwork," Bill explains while shuffling in his pocket for his keys.

"Don't worry, Bill. I can lock up shop.I've been around the bank since the first foundation block was laid. After all, it's the least I can do for your help." Mr. Haypenny retrieves a set of keys that glitter in the light of the lamp.

"Alright," Bill yawns turning to go home. "See ya Monday," he says cantering down the alleyway.

"Yes, yes, goodbye." The elder stallion locks the door and walks in the other direction whistling a whistful tune. The sound echoes of the walls of the alley and into the dark. After a while, all is silent again. Manehatten resumes it's slumber.

A few hours pass into the dead of night. The street lamp buzzes inaudibly occaisionally flickering drenching everything in pitch black. From a rooftop, a figure as dark as the night appears looking down at the backdoor bathing in the light. It leaps from the ledge and drifts silently downward. The figure lands just outside the lamp's circle silently. It would be impossible to see if it weren't for two silvery blue disks reflecting the street light. The lamp flickers once more. The figure takes a step towards the the light as the lamp flickers and shuts off. The shadowy silhouette walks in silence as the door unlocks with a click and swings open. It shuts behind the figure as it enters. After a few seconds the lamp flicks back on.

The cloaked shape takes a few steps inside, the hoofsteps soft muffles against the wooden floor. The figure's head turning in long gradual sweeps for something. Suddenly, the figure froze. A small sound faintly echoed in a repetition. It was not the clocks, for all the clocks in the bank had a similar rhythm. It was the sound that cold water makes against a hot pan. The sound was continuous and barely audible over the clocks, taking more concentration to pinpoint it. The figure stood a moment, but then gasped taking a step back towards the door, but it was too late. The once peaceful night of downtown was interupted by a thunderous crack as smoke and fire billowed into the cloudy sky.

Out of the flaming wreckage flew a dark purple pony. The pony landed on the rooftop before and gazed at the burning bank. In the distance, there were sirens. The resting ponies awoke with alarm, gasping and shouting. Some were awestruck while others chatted as the police and fireponies arrived. No one seemed to notice the purple pony above them, watching with silver-blue disks reflecting the fire.

Author's Notes:

I know. It's short, but what do you expect? It's a prolougue!