Bellton wasn’t much of a town, not even a hundred years ago. Never was, never will be. Northeast of New Orleans, situated right on the coastline, or what was left of it. All it was back in the day was a place to moor a boat for a night. Then the boat crews started gambling, and before you knew it, another gambling den had popped up in Louisiana and, somehow, grew into a meager city. Barely anyone even knows how it got called Bellton. Nothing special then, nothing special now.

Until a few days ago, thought Agent Willard Pascal as he drove through Bellton’s quiet streets in the rainstorm. Gray clouds all above, bitter-tasting rain pouring down, hardly a soul on the road or sidewalks. His standard black luxury sedan rolled through the streets, towards the heart of the city. Bellton Police Department, Second Precinct was his destination, and he wasn’t looking forward to getting there. Truth be told, he didn’t want to be involved in this mess. He wanted to stay back home in Boston with his family, his wife and daughters, and the few relatives he had left. But they needed the best they could to help out, and Pascal was one of the best–well, more like the best they could afford to spare.

He pulled the car up next to the sidewalk between two parked police cruisers. He peered through the passenger window, past the raindrops splashing on it. Not an impressive building, just a few stories tall, lined up with all the other buildings on the block. Garage access was probably around the corner, but Agent Pascal didn’t feel like wasting anymore time. All he wanted was to do his job, then head back home.

The driver-side door opened, and he stepped out. The rain poured down on him, soaking his olive dress shirt and brown tie, and quickly made work ruining his cleanly combed black hair. The agent reached back into the backseat of his car for his standard black FBI windbreaker, slipping it on. Kept the rain off and concealed his holster. All while looking stylish, he chuckled to himself. He shut the door and hit the lock button attached to his key-chain, the sedan making the classic bleep bleep sound that confirmed the alarm was active. Slipping his keys into his black trousers, Pascal made his way up the concrete steps and into the station. He didn’t want to be here, but at least he’d be out of the rain.

- - - - - - - - - - -

The station was abuzz with activity, as it had every right to be. Even in the state of the world where towns are practically being abandoned overnight, when a crisis is capable of attracting international attention, everyone gets involved. Pascal looked across the lobby, noting that the place looked surprisingly clean and tidy. White tiles for the floor, photographs adorning the walls of older, better days, and furnishings that looked to be made of actual wood. Officers of the law passed back and forth across the room, holding papers and files. The receptionist looked overloaded with incoming phone calls. It’s almost as if everything went back to normal, if just for a little while, Willard couldn’t help but think to himself. In the lobby sat over a dozen people, none of them looking well. Several were adorned with bandages, some covered with bruises, while others looked sleepless and weary.

And many of them were ponies.

He’d seen ponies before. Talked to them. But he’d never seen so many ponies that looked like they’d been through hell. The people sitting on benches looked bad but the ponies sitting with them seemed even worse off, pure misery in their eyes..

Is it because they can’t handle this kind of stress? No, I have a pretty good idea why...

Shaking his head, the federal agent walked past all of them, straight to the front desk. The woman sitting there looked like she’d pulled three all-nighters back-to-back. Messed hair, wrinkled clothes, looking just plain overworked. Papers were scattered everywhere and it appeared she couldn’t let go of that phone for more than four seconds. I better make this quick.

“Ma’am, I’m Agent Willard Pascal, Federal Bureau of Investigation,” he plainly stated to her, retrieving his badge from his pocket. The woman gave him a glance, then gave the badge another one. Pulling the phone away from her mouth for a moment, she said to him, “We’ve been expecting you. Head on in and let them know you’re here, I can’t take the time to page them. Just ask for Lieutenant Gagnon.”

Nodding his head, Pascal pocketed his badge and walked by.

- - - - - - - - - - -

Lieutenant Gagnon was in one of the interrogation rooms, and as the agent entered, he immediately noted that the lieutenant was a large man. Tall, stocky, looked as solid as a brick wall. He didn’t look much better than anyone else did either; disheveled brown hair, beard, and clothes–wrinkled yellow shirt and khaki pants, obviously another person who’d been worked to the bone recently. Pascal felt a little smaller just by being in the same room as him, though; the man looked like he went above seven feet tall. Gagnon hovered over a scrawny, blonde, bespectacled man in a meager brown coat who, in contrast to practically everyone else in the building, looked like he actually cleaned himself up this morning.

Gagnon turned to face Pascal when he heard the door open, a stern look in his eyes. “Let me guess,” he began, his voice exactly matching his gruff-looking exterior, “you’re the one the boys in Washington sent? I can tell that you’re not from anywhere around here.”

He didn’t ponder what made himself look so foreign, Pascal just nodded. “They said I could find Lieutenant Gagnon in here. I guess that’s you, isn’t it?” The lieutenant curtly nodded, and motioned at the clean-cut man sitting at the table. “This is Doctor Howards. He worked as an assistant in the Bureau. I’ve been waiting for you to arrive before I started asking any important questions. I take it you’ve reviewed the files we sent you?”

“Mostly.” This response earned a brief scowl from Gagnon, but Pascal didn’t pay it any mind as he took a seat next to the doctor. Looking at him, the young doctor seemed very nervous, avoiding eye contact, and constant fidgeting in his seat.

“Dr. Howards, I’m Agent Pascal with the FBI. I’m sure you know why I’m here to talk to you. I need you to tell me what you can about–“

”I-I already told the police, I wasn’t even there that day. It was m-my day off, I was at home. I can’t tell you anything about what happened at the Bureau, I didn’t even know what was going on until they started showing it on the news.” Howards stared off into the wall, tapping his finger on the table out of nervous compulsion.

“I know, I know you weren’t there, but you worked there the days beforehand. We need you to tell us if you saw anything suspicious, anything that could help us figure out more about this incident.” Pascal looked over to Gagnon, who was learning against the concrete wall with his arms crossed, looking as immovable as a mountain, and observing just as quietly as one. The lieutenant was obviously gauging him, wanting to see if he could handle this. It was clear that Gagnon was not the type to be easily impressed, but in truth, Pascal didn’t care what the lieutenant thought of him as long as he did not interfere.

“...I...I don’t really remember seeing anything...weird...” Howards stammered after a period of tense silence, adjusting his glasses that were slowly sliding down his nose. “It was just normal. Typical people, typical conversions, typical d-day...if-if I’d seen something, I woulda told someone.”

Willard sighed, pulling back a few strands of hair that had fallen into his face, and said, “Dr. Howards, you’re a terrible liar. Please stop trying. I’m a trained federal agent, and you couldn’t convince a rookie patrolman you weren’t speeding. This is stressful for everyone, and we can’t afford to waste time prying the truth out of you with threats of jail time and fines for lying to authorities. Just give me the truth. Anything, any information at all can make a difference. The more we know about what happened, the better we can prevent it from happening again.”

The doctor sighed, and crossed his arms. A defensive action. It was clear that Howards did not want to be involved in this, and it was clear that he was afraid of something. What that fear was, however, was not so obvious.

“...I don’t want to be blamed for what happened,” Howards coldly muttered after a solid minute of silence. “From what I know, the Bureaus get threats from radicals all the time that are never followed through, just like anything else. I didn’t figure this was anything different...”

“You’re saying that your Bureau received a threat? A threat of what, and how?”

“I-I didn’t understand it at all. I mean, it didn’t...w-well...I guess it was...out of the ordinary. But I just shrugged it off as typical craziness. I bet you know how wild things have been. Protests, assaults, people are getting hurt out there because everyone can’t stop...” He sighed and bowed his head, rubbing the back of his neck. “I mean...I don’t know anymore, it’s hard to keep up with everything. I’ve just focused on my work in the Bureau. I worked there as a doctor back when it was just a clinic, you know. When they came along and changed it into a ponification center, I just kept hanging on. Didn’t see a reason to quit. It was still helping people, right?”

Pascal leaned back in his metal folding chair, stretching his legs a bit before continuing the interview. “Dr. Howards, when did you receive this ‘threat’? What did it say, where’d you find it, tell me all about it.”

“It was the day before...th-that happened. It was...around noon I guess. I’d been working for only an hour when the-the pony in charge of the Bureau came in. We were...well, friends, and it was a slow day, so we started talking. I walked with her to her office...”

Next Chapter: Shuffling the Cards Estimated time remaining: 46 Minutes