Author's Notes:

Chapter one, as the title of this entry suggest, was an extremely difficult chapter to write, mostly because I struggled endlessly to actually start. I must have spent at least a week gazing at an empty page before inspirations truck I wrote the whole first draft of the chapter in the single day. Naturally though, I was not happy with how it turned out, so I went back to fix it, and then I want back to fix it some more. Chapter one likely has had the most revisions done, to the point where I must have scrapped at least thirty versions of it, all of which have been lost to the ether, sadly.

Another struggle was getting the mood just right. I wanted to open dark, but not too dark. I also didn’t want the opener to be lighthearted. I wanted readers to know just what kind of story this was from the very first words. In hindsight, opening the chapter with an info-dump from the main character’s view is a horrible, HORRIBLE idea. It’s something no one should ever do, as it not only bores the reader, but it detracts entirely from the point of having character development. It’s not telling that wins the day in these types of stories, but showing.

The subsequent scenes I am actually prod of to this day. The way I show the Bogart running after his target, how he fires at her, how I show all of this with virtually no dialogue or an info-dump, this is exactly how I should have just opened the entire story. Tossing the character into an action opener is the best way to engage the reader. The rest of the world can be expanded on as the story moves on.

The rest of the chapter, I’m kind of ashamed of. What follows is a lot of saidism abuse, lots of wrong comma usage, and of course, lots and lots of telling. The one idea I am still using to this day however, is the letter and image idea. There is a bit of text later that’s written in the language that would later become the incantations of Blood Magic for the story “The Fifth.” I give a short explanation of what the translation is supposed to mean, but again, this translates to telling instead of showing. The other instance is the use of in-story letters. These are good for delivering information directly to the main character without compromising the ideology of showing. There is a reason I still use them.

Naturally, this chapter continues to show how my titles are derived from the story's end quotes. This idea I got from reading some of Alan Moore's work, most prominently, Watchmen (which this story takes many cues from). The title alludes to the idea that if you fight something long enough, you'll eventually become the very thing you hunted. This quote by Nietzsche was so powerful, that I ended up using it for "The Fifth" as well. It became one of the main building themes, along with "Half truths make people into craftsmen of destruction" as well as the idea that in order to prevent wrong from happening, one must do what is necessary, including giving up everything they hold dear.

Once again, this chapter has had no alterations from its original form other than spacing fixes. Hope you all enjoy it.

My name’s Bogart Maltese, a rather bland charcoal-coated, green eyed and light-gray maned unicorn born in the far off continent known as the Federation. When on duty, I wear black and grey riot gear similar to the one once worn by Civil Protection soldiers on top of which I sported a weathered brown duster that had at one point had been my partner’s. I go about my job as a detective seeking the truth within the lies and shooting up all types of criminal scum along the way. It shouldn’t come as too big a surprise when I say that truth and I don’t look eye to eye. My association with truth is fundamental but ultimately flawed; the image portrayed refracting confusingly like fragmented glass. Truth is the core of my life, the endgame of every last one of my moves and motives, yet I pursue it with strategies painstakingly constructed of lies. In many ways, truth to me is like the most desirable filly in the world, and I to her would be the most jealous of lovers, instinctively denying anyone else the slightest glimpse of her, yet for all my zeal, I am an unfaithful lover, for I betray her routinely. I spend most of my time knee-deep in falsehoods only to turn back to her with the lover’s ultimate Mobius strip: but I only did it because I love you so much…

Truth - if she had a voice and will - would likely call me a scumbag…

Ones does not go into my profession, – or, if one does go into it, last very long – without some natural affinity for its rather paradoxical demands: ruthlessness and compassion; having a heart while sheeting it with an inch-thick coat of metal, and above all else, revere the truth as sacred all the while functioning under the principle of deception. As Regulators, we are above the law, enforcing justice by any means at our disposal. We are judges and executioners, the only thing standing between order and utter chaos, prepared to do what is necessary to uphold peace through Equestria.

Scumbag… the most prolific term in my vocabulary. What constitutes a scumbag? The signs are too numerous to list, but I don't need to; I know a scumbag when I see one. I myself would qualify as one, but that’s giving me too much credit where it isn’t due. The unicorn running away from me at this very moment, this filly in street clothes and a wide-eyed look of terror, to my colleges and superiors, was a grade-A example of what a real scumbag was, but to me, she was little more than the victim of a cruel law, one that I was duty-bound to enforce regardless of my personal feelings on the matter.

She ran—flying almost—as I pursued her in a steady trot, heavy earthen pony revolver tightly gripped in my mouth.

She ran fast for somepony her age. Then again, the filly’s looks were meant to deceive. Her true form was all that mattered, something that wouldn’t become evident till she either wished it, or was killed.

Killing her happened to be my mandate…

The Unicorn’s ragged red robes concealed just how dangerous the piece of filth was, and the scum was as vile as you could get: a foal-raping, mass-murdering cultist who was mere seconds away from having his brains become part of the pavement…

I have quite the knack for imagery, especially the cheap morbid kind. In this world, it’s about the only type that exists in spades. I could theoretically see myself as the lone figure of justice in a wasteland of depravity, but that’s an outright lie. I hold no delusions of being some golden-armored knight galloping off into the heart of shadow; what I do is crude, crass and nasty.

The cultist nearly collapsed from exhaustion and pain. He staggered towards the nearest wall, standing on his rear legs in order to grab on for support with his tattered hoof.

I aimed my revolver - a modified blue-finished marksman’s Peacekeeper I had nicknamed “Negotiator” - and magicked the trigger.

The bullet struck the cultist right below the left shoulder, blowing a two-inch hole in its wake. The shot was a through and through, which explained why the wound was so small; a .44 bullet, especially if it left the barrel tumbling, could have easily blown half the unicorn’s torso away.

The cultist let out a yell of pain as he tripped over his own legs, stumbling to the left, straight through a pane of glass that was the storefront to an old furniture shop.

I holstered Negotiator and walked over to the Cultist’s broken remains. He was still alive, dragging his body over the shards of broken glass, struggling to get back up. I was amazed at the fact that the unicorn was still attempting to escape. I actually felt some pity for him as he gasped and wheezed as I stood over his soon-to-be corpse. He turned himself over to face me, and then... he began to laugh, cackling like some demented psychopath.

This shocked me. I slowly backed away as the cultist steadily rose up, as if possessed by some external force. He looked me in the eye, smiling widely and sinisterly. “Kill me you may,” he whispered, “but none can stop their arrival. They will come, past the walls of reality, past the walls of sanity…” he cackled, producing a small sawed-off shotgun seemingly out of thin air, clicking the hammers into place. “Crudox Cruo Nakad’mus!” he growled loudly, pointing the weapon at my head.

My eyes widened, hairs standing on end. I reached for Negotiator, but it was already too late. I stepped back instinctively, knowing full well it wouldn't do a damn thing to save my sorry rear; my head was about to be blown into a fine red paste. I gritted my teeth, anger sweltering inside me.

Then, the cultist did something unexpected: he turned the shotgun on his head and pulled the trigger with the aid of his kinetic manipulators - horseshoe-shaped apparatuses that allowed an equine to manipulate his or her environment.

I heard the hammers click against shells in a fraction of a second, followed by a loud bang. I covered my face, eyes closed in a flinching reaction. The blast caused my ears to ring for a good five seconds, during which time I tried to make sense of the situation. When I finally regained my composure, I was met with a gruesome sight. The cultist’s head was no longer on his shoulders, instead having become little more than a new coat of paint on the glass and walls around him. His body was still rigid, but it soon slumped over, blood flowing from the stump that was his neck like an overturned milk carton. Pieces of his skull and brain were scattered all over the place.

I exhaled, still shaky from the adrenaline rush. I looked at my reflection in one of the still intact glass panes. Sure enough, I was covered head to hoof in blood and pieces of skull and brain. I used my magic to lift all the liquid and body bits off my duster, coat, and hair. I rolled it all up into a nice little sphere, floated the ball of gore on top of the cultist's corpse and released it, drenching his already filthy robes with even more filth. I then looked around as a large crowd started to gather around the scene: stallions, mares, fillies and even a few griffins; all were looking at the scene with a wide mix of emotions as varied as a rainbow. Some displayed fear and revulsion, others wonder and excitement, but most simply didn't care or simply didn't choose to display sentiment, instead looking on with empty gazes; the chilling result of ten years of senseless violence just like this.

As I looked at the scene, I could relate to those who no longer wished to display emotions; I myself had to hide my true feelings while on the job. Feelings were a liability in war, and this was a war.

Looking up at the dark sky, I couldn't help but feel a void forming in my chest. The words “he who hunts monsters…” echoed in the back of my mind. Some part of me, likely my sense of reason and morality, told me the only sensible response to these feelings of emptiness was to cry. Tears, however, would do nothing. Tears wouldn't stop the murders, tears wouldn't stop the rapists; they wouldn't wash away the blood that had coagulated in the gutters and sewers after who knows how many dead bodies had rested on the pavement; they would do absolutely nothing…

And yet, tears were precious, more so than all the riches in the world combined. Tears represented the only sign of sensibility left in this hellhole of a city. Tears represented innocence lost so long ago.

Soon, the crowd began to disperse. Some took pictures of the crime scene, others talked about it with little in the way of emotion; most looked on with tired faces. I looked down at the corpse, strong feelings forming in my chest. I wanted to hate the cultist, that mass murdering equine, but aside from his crimes - which were unforgivable in their own right - I had no reason to hate the unicorn; no reason to jeer and scorn at the now lifeless body. For all I knew, maybe the unicorn hadn't even raped a filly or killed an innocent civilian; maybe this cultist had been an initiate - a kid who sought power above all else - brainwashed into becoming yet another disposable pawn in a sick game of chess. I wanted to hate the dead cultist, but I knew damn well that it wasn't him who I actually hated, but those who pulled his strings.

Sirens rang in the night; the police had arrived. They had come to clean up the mess I had caused. They arrived in their fancy armored cars, stepping out to take the glory of the kill all for themselves. Their white and blue riot gear did nothing to hide their true nature; most were cowards at best, corrupted at worst. Years of brutality and senseless violence had changed them into something they originally couldn’t have imagined. Money, greed, power: all of these turn the rookies - who always came into the force eager to clean up the city - into apathetic equines out to serve only themselves.

I stepped out of the way and let the policecolts tape up the scene. They went through the usual motions, gathering evidence and questioning me about the incident. They asked me why I had blown the equine's head off, to which I replied that he had done it himself either due to brainwashing or because he wanted to send a grisly last message. The officers scoffed in open ridicule, but wrote it down anyway. They told me they would take care of the mess, and congratulated me on another flawless take-down. They offered me some cash; likely dirty money from a large, violent drug bust or sale, possibly some gang related extermination, or even perhaps a weapon deal. Either way, the money was foul, and I refused to take it. I gave them a glare. It was all they needed to pocket the cash and back off. They knew better. I could feel the dirty looks, but I merely smiled to myself. I drew out Negotiator and spun her around several times. Almost immediately, the few policecolts that were eyeing me with contempt looked away.

Yes, they knew better.

I again looked at the spot where the cultist had taken his own life; yet another spot out of thousands where someone had violently perished. I turned around and headed back to my office - which also happened to be my apartment.

My apartment… Just thinking about what happened there was enough to bring my blood to a boil and chill me to the bone all at the same time. The scene of a horrible crime; the place where she died…

It had been a rough night; our unit had just taken down an entire group of red robed psychopaths, the “Crux Nado” everypony feared so much. The battle had been bloody; half of our unit had been wiped out by the group, whose members had all attacked with little concern about their own welfare, chanting in an unknown and twisted tongue. Despite the heavy losses, we ended up securing the warehouse which served as their hideout. What we found inside, however, proved too much for many of us to bear. Bodies everywhere; hung up by hooks, wires and all manner of improvised tools and contraptions. Half-eaten corpses lined the floors and walls; a freezer was stuffed to the brim with body parts from all conceivable races. The bastards were fulfilling sick and twisted fetishes using flesh and bone...

Many of us emptied our guts right then and there. The sights I saw that night lingered in my mind for months to come, but the stench of it all remains with me even today. I was glad my partner had decided to stay at the office to get some paperwork finished; her gut was not on the strong side.

Our unit called for backup and started the daunting task of cleaning up the building, but many just couldn't bring themselves to go back into the warehouse. Haggar himself showed up, and was just as repulsed and horrified as many of the other troops. Unable to stand the sight of the now hellish warehouse, he decided to torch it, a funeral pyre for the innocent who had been butchered.

Unable to maintain my attentiveness any longer, I asked permission to leave, which Haggar granted. I got in my vehicle and drove back to the office, wanting nothing more than a cold shower and a long night's rest.

But as soon as I opened the door, I came face to face with another nightmare…

My partner had been pinned to the ceiling using rusty railroad nails. Her entrails had been ripped out of her abdomen, violently spread over the floor in intricate patterns that evoked images of evil rituals. On the wall was a message, written in a cryptic, evil language:

“Kill a man; one is a murderer. Kill thousands; one is a conqueror. Kill them all; one is a god.”

For the second time that night, I puked with little control, screaming in horror so loudly that I lost my voice for a few days.

After the funeral, I dedicated myself to finding those responsible for the murder. I promised myself to, “Hunt down the ones responsible for her death. I'll hunt them all down and end them once and for all – for her sake; for everypony's sake.”

Ten years have passed since Princess Celestia and Princess Luna disappeared, leaving us all to fend for ourselves in this brave new world.

Five years have now passed since the Regulators’ formation, and we have made almost no progress in destroying the Crux Nado. Crime remains just as rampant as before, and the populace still remains as hopeless and uncaring as ever.

Two years have passed since my partner's murder, and I still have nothing to show for all my work…

I sighed in hopelessness; nothing to do but head over to the office, put more clues together, try and piece together this incomplete puzzle, and bang my head against the wall in frustration, just like I have done for the last two years.

This was going to be a very long night…

Suddenly, a white and gray car pulled up next to me; a Regulator's armored patrol car.

I stopped in my tracks, knowing full well who was behind the wheel.

The door opened and out stepped Haggar Finn, one of the only truly righteous stallions left in Equestrian soil. His mane was starting to show age, graying here and there, almost devoid of the fiery glow it had once bared. What could be seen of his coat through the heavy trench coat he wore still retained its silvery blue sheen from days long gone however, hinting that perhaps he wasn't getting as old as I had originally assumed. He smiled at me, stepping out of his car. “Long time no see Bogart,” he said in a soft yet stern voice that carried with it the wisdom and courage that this city lacked. “I heard you've been keeping busy chasing cultists and all manner of lowlifes. Is that to be believed?”

“Yes sir,” I said with forced resentment. “Come to try and give me a more appropriate assignment, sir?” I asked, already knowing full well what his answer would be. I held nothing but respect for the old Kirin, but when I had made my choice to leave the main force to work solo, Haggar had scorned it, calling it foolish and dangerous. Haggar of course had been wholly correct, but my desire for retribution at the time had been so intense, instead of taking his words as the absolute truth, I had screamed and cursed, calling him all manner of ill, non-deserving names that I still felt shameful of using. Rather than taking my words with rage, he took it all in like a father took his kid’s rants.

Now, as the old kirin stood before me, I wanted nothing more than to apologize for the things I had once said, but I didn’t know how to do it, so I instead feigned resentment, if only to cover up how pathetically lost I felt.

“Actually, I've come to lend you a helping hoof,” Haggar said, smiling with all the self confidence of a war hero. “Come, I'll drive you back to your office; maybe get some nice hot coffee on the way.”

“Coffee would be nice,” I said with a slight smile. I got into Haggar's passenger seat and fastened my seat belt. He then drove off rather quickly, keeping his eyes wholly on the road ahead.

“I’ve been doing some digging around,” Haggar started, eyes never parting from the road, “and I believe I've found something that might interest you.” He motioned to his glove compartment. I opened it and pulled out a file; it was rather thin, almost as if it bore absolutely nothing. I opened the file and started reading its contents. Suddenly, I felt the car pull over, glancing to the side with my peripheral vision, I noticed we had arrived at a coffee shop, crowded with many young fillies and colts enjoying the last few hours of their night before it became too dangerous to roam outside.

Haggar prodded my shoulder before stepping out. “What are you having?” he asked. I looked at him, mulling over my coffee options.

“Something strong,” I started, “with lots of sugar and cream and oh yeah; ask the clerk if she can mix some chocolate into the bottom of the cup.”

“Alright, I'll be back in a few minutes.” Haggar said as he closed his door and walked into the coffee shop, where he was immediately surrounded by a large group of young colts who had undoubtedly recognized him as Haggar Finn, war hero and supreme “judge” of the Regulators. They all wanted his autograph and picture.

I half-laughed at his predicament, but then returned my full attention to the files Haggar had compiled. Not much to go with, but what was there was rather intriguing.

Some fifteen minutes later, Haggar stepped out of the café, still swarmed by groups of young colts and fillies. He was smiling, but I could tell the foals were being a nuisance to Haggar, who was just too polite to say anything harsh to the young ones. Somehow, he managed to make his way past the swarms of pre-pubescent fans and back to the car. He had a holder with two broiling hot cups of coffee. He walked over to my door and opened it using his magic, he then handed me my cup, careful not to spill any of the contents. I closed the door while he walked to his seat. He set his cup in the holder, turned the car’s engine on and got ready to pull out of the parking lot. As he did, I noticed a rather warm smile on his face. He drove off rather slowly at first, but then sped up as he entered the main street.

It took about twenty minutes to reach the apartment complex that housed my “office”. During that time, I had re-read the files Haggar had collected at least twice, and despite the information being clear as day, what it pertained to was anything but. It appeared to be missing several critical portions, almost as if it skipped pages.

Haggar drove down into the lower parking lots and pulled into the nearest parking space. The entire parking complex was eerily empty. He set the car to park and turned over the engine.

“So,” he suddenly asked as he took a sip of his coffee, a very strong, almost mud-like black brew. “Anything in those files relevant to your ‘case’?” he asked with a certain hint of expectancy in his voice. He knew this wasn’t really an official Regulator case, but he treated it as such, if only to make sure I had backing should things go out of control.

“Yes,” I told him, taking a sip of my now cold coffee, “though I can’t help but feel there is missing information.” I opened the files and read a small excerpt of the research notes:

Crux Nado cultists are known for keeping their attacks secretive. However, when they do launch an attack, the victims are usually random, though there are exceptions. The blood of the victim is often used as a means of sending cryptic messages to the authorities, though this is not always the case. More often than not, the very nature of the crimes, coupled with the militated state of the victims is enough to serve the Crux Nado’s purpose, which is to inflict terror on the populace.

Out of all murder cases in this category, one stands out as particularly chilling in its method of execution: the murder of a Regulator operative whose name has been withdrawn until full investigations are complete.

I looked at Haggar. “Her murder no doubt…” I took another sip of my coffee and continued reading.

Random attacks are one of the many methods the Crux Nado employs in their campaigns of terror, but it isn’t the only method they favor. According to a very reliable source by the name of ******, one of the most carefully planned methods of terrorization at the Crux Nado’s disposals is the “execution” method.

Unlike normal attacks, executions are carried out with the intention of terminating a certain target, living or otherwise. The attack is not considered ritualistic; it is carried out with precision and swiftness, often leaving little in the way of evidence.

Many murder cases have been compiled since the Crux Nado’s rise to prominence. It is quite possible that the Cult hires out assassins or trains its own to take out high priority targets. Analyses of these assassinations have turned up almost no patterns. It isn’t clear why they are done, or just what purpose they serve, though its theorized they are meant to eliminate potentially dangerous and/or troublesome assets.

The Crux Nado’s apparent bloodlust however, is not the most worrisome aspect the Cult seems to display. Questioning of Crux Nado source ****** has turned up vital information that points to a dark endgame.

The Crux Nado appears to be in the planning stages, putting the final touches to some twisted arrangement. ****** revealed over the course of several interrogation sessions that for the last twenty years, the Crux Nado has moved to capture and control several points of interest in and around Equestrian soil. ****** mentioned several names, including the now infamously mysterious Salty Shores, a town that was wiped off the map by the Regime some months before it was toppled. ****** warned that Salty Shores was but the first of many, and that the Crux Nado’s true goal was unfathomable, and that it had to be stopped.

All the locations pointed out by ****** however, shared one common property: they were all focal points for energies now recognized as the consciousness grid of most higher-intelligence creatures, including Equines, Griffins, Dragons, Humans, and Deer.

I closed the thin folder and looked at Haggar. “The files seem to go on, but that information cuts off. Also, I’m interested on who this blacked-out source is.”

“The ‘source’ the files refer to is former Crux Nado,” he answered, “he’s… different; a unique case.”

“Unique?” I asked, “How so?”

“It’s complex.” Haggar replied. “I guess the best way to put it would be to say that this individual is quite important. Standard procedures weren’t going to cut it with him.” He opened his door and stepped out of the car, carefully taking his coffee along. “You’ll be working on the case, so you’ll need to be filled in on the finer details. They are however, sensitive. It’s something we can’t discuss out in public.” Haggar looked around, as if to make sure there were no unwanted ears around. “It’s best if we talk about this in your office, away from unwanted ears.”

“Fine by me,” I replied, agreeing wholly to Haggar’s statement. Exchanging sensitive intelligence out in public was good ways to get unwanted interest. He magicked his cup of coffee and downed the brew in a single gulp, sighing with satisfaction. He then closed his door and levitated his now empty cup of coffee to the nearest trash bin.

I took a sip of my coffee, though I didn’t want to down it all at once. I walked up to Haggar, was in the middle of locking his car’s door. He levitated his keys and pressed a small controller. The car chirped twice, signaling it was now locked. I turned to face him, “Is there anything you can tell me out here?” I asked, expecting him to say no. Instead, he rubbed his chin and nodded. “Yes,” he replied, “as I mentioned earlier, our source is ‘unique’. He’s not your average individual. We had to take certain precautions when we dealt with him and the information he provided.”

“Is he some type of cultist psychopath, or was the information he provided that important?” I asked.

“They guy was quite worn out, but rather sane far as the Crux Nado goes.” Haggar answered. “It was the info he provided that warranted the unique precautions.” Haggar said that in a slightly dark tone. He walked ahead, towards the elevator leading to my floor. He called down the elevator, keeping quiet.

About a minute passed before the elevator’s door opened, allowing us to step in. I pressed the second floor button, making sure there was no one else in need of a lift, I then turned to Haggar. “Was this guy a turncoat of high knowledge?” I asked. “Was he some type of Cleric?”

The elevator rumbled to life, slowly acceding towards its destination.

“Not a Cleric Bogart; one of the Chosen…” Haggar replied.

“The Chosen…?” I repeated. Haggar nodded in reply.

My eyes widened at the revelation. At this, the elevator’s door slid open. I stepped out first, leading the way down the rather unkempt hallway. I magicked my office key and opened the door. On the front was a faded sign. It had my name on it. Next to my name was the removed shadow of a hazy forename. I sighed at the sight of it. Haggar placed a hoof on my shoulder, as if to tell me he felt my pain. I half scoffed, but it came out more like a cough.

I opened the door, allowing Haggar to walk in first. I then entered and closed the door tightly. Once I was sure the door was sealed, I turned to face Haggar. “One of the Chosen… Sweet Celestia, this… this could be it…”

“Regrettably, it’s a sign that events have taken a turn for the worse. There is a reason this Chosen turned away from the cult.” Haggar walked up to my desk and sat down facing me. He looked over my desk and spotted a small radio, one I usually turned on when things got too quiet even for me.

He looked up. “Do you mind?” he asked, motioning to the small radio. I nodded in reply.

He pressed his hoof and turned the small apparatus to the first station it could pick up, one I hadn’t changed for a good few months.

“Evening fillies and gentlecolts, this is your good friend Octavia Stradivari, and tonight we have a very special selection of soothing classics picked out juts for you. We’ll begin the night with an oldie re-mastered by the lovely and talented Sapphire Shores. Here is her number one single for eight weeks in a row: ‘I always kill the thing I love’”

“Ah, Sapphire Shores,” Haggar said with a warm smile, “what a pretty filly; damn good voice on her as well.”

“Yeah,” I replied to Bogart’s previous statement. “Filly has talent, especially considering the fact that she has no cutie mark of her own.”

“Right,” Haggar smiled as he looked at me. “Of course, she isn’t the only ‘blank flank’ out there.”

“You got that right.” I said in a slightly solemn tone. I looked to my own flank, which was as blank as a newborn foal’s. I sighed as I turned to look at Haggar. “You were saying about this Chosen.”

Haggar’s face darkened. “Bogart, they tried to kill him...”

“The Cult tried to kill one of its most powerful members? They must be crazier than I thought.”

“’Member’,” Haggar corrected, “The other Chosen are already dead; betrayed by the enigmatic heads of the Crux Nado.”

“Damn…” I said as I sat down in my partner’s old chair. “No wonder we had to take special care with that turncoat. The guy must be a gold mine of information, if he lives long enough to spill any of it that is.”

“That’s where the trouble comes in.” Haggar said as a new song started playing on the radio, a classic Cello tune, likely performed by Octavia herself. “The Crux Nado launched ten attempts at his life while under custody, all within three days. The attempts failed, but we lost five good agents in the ensuing gunfights. The turncoat was deemed too dangerous to keep under custody, so we had to place hid him.”

“Witness protection?” I asked, standing up in the process. “So the turncoat’s out there living under a fake identity?”

“Yes,” Haggar replied, “we had no choice. We made it appear as if he committed suicide. The attacks stopped soon after that information was ‘leaked’, so it’s safe to assume it worked… for now.” Haggar looked at me. “I personally don’t buy it; The Crux Nado’s not known for giving up so easily. Fifth agrees with me as well.”

“Fifth is in on this?”

“Yes; it’s because of him that the plan was concocted in the first place. Fifth provided the authority to override any court mandate; this is a matter of national security after all.”

“This is…” I half scoffed as I thought about it. “…This is conspiracy material right here Haggar! The Regulators harboring a monster, hiding him among civilians while the Crux Nado runs rampant!” I shook my head, “This guy’s info wasn’t even that earth shattering! Most of that information we could have gotten from a low ranking member!”

“That’s because you’ve only read a small fraction of the files Bogart.” Haggar replied in a serious tone. He reached into his coat and pulled out a small memory card, the kind used in most PDA and personal computers. “See this? This card contains over ten gigs of files, photos, detailed plans and information, all given by the turncoat. Only two copies exist; Fifth holds the other one.” He placed the small card back in his coat. “No one else knows any of this. If what the turncoat said is true, no one must know…”

I looked at Haggar in the eye. “Why are you telling me this then? Why do you trust me with such information?”

“The Crux Nado took from us not only a good agent, but a good friend.” Haggar sighed. “I have duties; I can’t just go out to look for the truth, neither can Fifth…” Haggar looked at my desk, directly at a picture of her. “The other Regulators can’t be trusted with this either. You however, you can be trusted. You lived through the Civil War without becoming some depraved monster in the process.”

“I never lost sight of my true orders as Civil Protection,” I answered unceremoniously. “What the other soldiers did was wrong. It wasn’t our job to fall into temptation; we had clear orders.”

“And those orders made you a hero in the eyes of many.”

“No; they made me a pariah...” I hissed at Haggar. “My own men called me weak, saying I had no desire to see the Regime survive its imminent fall! Then they had the audacity to…” I slammed my hoof on the table. “They called me a traitor!” I sat down and sighed, bitterly shaking my head. “The one order I should have ignored, but couldn’t bring myself to.”

“If you had, you would have been killed,” Haggar uttered as he turned the radio off, “but because you stuck to your orders; you stood your ground and surrendered. Your squad may have betrayed you, but it was you who survived the war, not them. It was you who was found innocent of all war crimes while your fellow lieutenants and commanders were found guilty and executed.” Haggar smiled, “Following that order saved your future.”

I returned Haggar’s smile, but I couldn’t match his optimism.

Haggar and Fifth had led a squadron of guards and troopers to rout the last of the Regime forces. At the time, I had been charged with stalling the guard’s forces; a supposed last stand. Then, my general ordered our unit, the 605th infantry Roughnecks to surrender.

The squad found the order appalling, and by extension, they found me appalling for even agreeing to follow the order. That was when they turned on me and my general. They killed him and stuck me in a prison cell. Then they fought off the siege, a battle that couldn’t possibly be won. Many wised up to this fact and ran for it, oh, but not her…

I laughed softly, in a manner that would have somewhat come off as sarcastic. Of course, Haggar could tell I wasn’t being sarcastic at all; Haggar could always tell.

“You give me too much credit Haggar.” I said with another chuckle, this one filled with bitterness. “My hoofs are still stained with blood from the war.”

“That’s not the point Bogart,” Haggar expressed as he shook his head. “What you did in the war was out of your hoofs, you should already know that.”

“I still feel guilty about it. That’s going to stay with me till the day I die.”

“But you won’t die anytime soon,” Haggar said in a stern tone, “not until you find out who killed her.”

“…Yes.” I said in a soft, yet ominous tone. I once again felt my blood boil and my rage rise. I looked around my office, feeling both sorrow and fury. Two years ago, I stepped into this place to find her nailed to the ceiling. I could almost hear her screams of pain as the act took place…

I shook my head once again, this time determination filled my gaze.

Haggar suddenly got up and walked up to me. He placed a hoof on my shoulder, all the while looking like he too was fighting to keep his cool in check.

“You’re going to need to know everything--” He suddenly stopped, looking up and around, darting his eyes about, as if suddenly alarmed by something unseen. “I’m sorry Bogart… but can’t divulge the information even here…”

“But you said--” I started, but Haggar quickly placed a hoof over my mouth, cutting off my words instantly. He looked around with a worried gaze, as if expecting danger all of a sudden.

“Keep your voice low,” he ordered in a serious tone. He let go of my mouth and slowly stood up. His horn suddenly glowed, its magic wrapping itself around his pistol, a rather hefty looking .38 revolver. He suddenly swung the gun at the window and took two shots without so much as looking. The bullets shattered the window, the curtains turning red. I suddenly heard a groan of pain followed by a scream, and then a nasty wet thud.

Haggar raced towards the window and shoved the curtains out of the way. He aimed his gun down at the ground and fired several more shots, only this time, someone fired back at him with automatic weapons. He ducked, two bullets impacting my roof just above the window. Haggar took the opportunity to reload his weapon.

I trotted towards my closet, swinging the door open violently. I concentrated, wrapping my magic around the only thing that could help: Deckard.

Deckard was a modified carbine rifle modeled after a Chicoalt Typewriter, the weapon popularized by the gangsters and detectives of New Yolk City of all places. I had modified Deckard further, adding a holographic sight, a collapsible stock, an ammunition replenisher system mark II, lighter titanium components, and a muzzle break to decrease recoil. Despite being based off a submachine gun, Deckard used .7.62 rounds, qualifying the weapon as a carbine.

With Deckard floating next to me, I trotted towards the window full sprint, ready to fire. I pressed myself against the right wall, looking at Haggar, who was ducking to the left. I gave him a nod and then stepped out of cover, eye down the sights. I magicked the trigger, and within two seconds, I had emptied almost forty rounds down the street. Deckard’s A.R.mkII system ensured unlimited firepower, but it wasn’t without its drawbacks; I couldn’t fire the gun for more than fifteen seconds without it overheating. I had to regulate my firepower.

My shots tore up their first target: a red robbed cultist sporting a combat shotgun and some combat armor. My bullets ensured the stallion’s organs were exposed to the light.

The other five cultists fired back with their sub-machineguns, spraying the window with an awesome amount of firepower.

I jammed Deckard’s bullet selector to burst fire and shot the nearest cultist in my sight square in the head; three bullets tore at his skull, causing half of his cranium to burst open like a watermelon, spilling brains into the sidewalk.

I aimed at the other Cultists, further setting my weapon to single fire for further accuracy. I let loose two shots, one hit a cultist dead in the chest, flooring him instantly The other struck a cultist in the eye, blowing a hole in the back of the head large enough to fit a hoof in. I then returned to cultist now lying on the floor and shot him in the heart. He wasn’t going to get back up again.

The remaining three cultists fired back, but their accuracy was laughable. I took aim and fired three shots, each one to the head. Two struck their marks, but the third missed. The cultist picked up his fallen comrade’s weapon and held them akimbo style. He then began spraying the window with little regard for precision. The amount of fire was such that I had to take cover, for even the small pistol caliber bullets were beginning to penetrate the thick brick walls.

The Cultist stopped firing, presumably to reload. I popped from cover, ready to floor the bastard, but by then, I realized he hadn’t stopped to reload, but to escape. By the time my sights fell on him, he was over a thousand yards away. I had little chance of hitting him. Not long after that, he vanished in a bright flash of light; bastard had teleported away.

I looked down at Haggar, who nodded at me. I placed the safety on my weapon, walking away from the window. “Your senses are as sharp as ever. You placed two rounds into that cultist without even aiming.”

“Bastard was a mouth breather,” Haggar replied, “I heard him almost a mile away. I didn’t think he was a threat until he pulled out his pistol and aimed it at me.” Haggar shook his head, “They knew about this meeting. Did any of them get away?”

“Yes; one… bastard teleported before I could shoot him.”

“Dammit... this changes everything.”

“This changes what?” I asked.

“I was going to tell you all I know about the Crux Nado, but damn bastards seem to know what I was up to. If the bastards knew about this meeting... then there’s no telling what they know by now.”

“You think the turncoat’s in danger?”

“The Crux Nado’s full of crafty sons o’ bitches; they have ways of tracking their own.” Haggar sighed; he holstered his revolver and turned to face me. “Looks like you’re the only one I can turn to now. The turncoat’s a valuable asset, he still knows far more than he’s led us to believe. I need you to pay him a visit, now.”

“Now?” I asked, “As in, right now right now?”

“Yes!” Haggar snapped, “The clock’s ticking Bogart!”

“Fine,” I said in a rather bitter manner, “but I’m going to need information; details, ideas, revelations; now!”

“The turncoat’s in Ponyville,” Haggar started, “the only safe place we could find that hadn’t been tainted by the Crux Nado scum. He’s living under a new alias: ‘Raize’.”

“Do you know where he’s currently living?”

“Last I checked he was living in--” Haggar stopped mid sentence, gazing around before looking me in the eye. “I’m sorry, but I can’t divulge that out loud.” he walked up to my desk and picked up a blank sheet of white paper. He then used his magic to lift a pencil and started writing down all the information he could not speak out loud. Once he finished, he folded the paper and floated it towards me. I used my magic to pick it up and stuff it in my duster’s inner pocket, making sure it was secure. I nodded, acknowledging Haggar’s intention.

“Get whatever belongings you can; I’ll teleport you to the train station. Once there, take the express to Ponyville. You should arrive by morning. From there, I strongly suggest you head to the town citizen record’s office and find the address I wrote down in the paper. Find ‘Raize’, keep him safe by any means.”

“Wait, can’t you teleport me straight to Ponyville?”

“I’m not that powerful Bogart. Magic of that magnitude requires augmentation or a powerful enough source of energy. I have neither. Teleporting you to the train station is all I can manage right now and even that’s going to strain me beyond my abilities.” Hagar stretched his head side to side as he prepared himself. “I won’t be able to accompany you until I fully recover my magic reserves. I also have to clean up this mess before it attracts unwanted attention. I’m sorry Bogart, but you’ll be on your own for a while.”

“Typical.” I half scoffed. “Can’t I have some back up at very least? Why not pair me up with Applejack? I hear Ponyville’s her hometown.”

“I’m sorry, but we just don’t have the time to coordinate. Besides, Applejack’s on assignment.”

“Damn…” I said out loud. Though I didn’t fully agree with Haggar’s plan to send me out all alone, I couldn’t see any other choice in the matter. Ironic considering I often liked working alone.

I nodded in reply to Haggar, I then raced towards my closet and pulled out Deckard’s travel case - a violin-shaped suitcase and placed the carbine inside nice and comfy. Once I was sure Deckard was packed, I took out a set of four saddlebags, which I quickly filled with several changes of underwear, some loose clothing in case I had to blend in with civilians of Ponyville, and a few miscellaneous items, including my notepad.

I looked down at my duster and armor; I wanted to shower in order to get some of the gunk out of my coat, but there wasn’t time. The last thing I did was check to see if Negotiator was prepped for travel.

“You got everything?” Haggar asked me in a rushed tone. I nodded in reply. Haggar took a deep breath of air and focused his magic. Being a Kirin, he had the blood of a unicorn and a dragon flowing through him, two immensely powerful and magical creatures.

The hairs around his head and beard began to glow a vivid white, giving off a fiery heat. I could hear the cracking of energy flowing through his mane, making the air feel thick with an electric charge. Streaks of blue appeared in his coat, forming intricate patterns that shined like stars. Hagar’s very eyes glowed with power, erupting into orbs of white flames. Before I knew it, I was wrapped in a thick veil of blue magic. Haggar was slowly disappearing from sight.

“Remember!” Haggar suddenly called out, “find ‘Raize’ and secure him with your life!” Haggar’s voice echoed in the distance, barely recognizable.

What! Is what I wanted to yell at him, but it was too late; soon as the thought materialized in my head, I was tossed into a vortex of blue and white flames.

The sensation of swirling and spinning engulfed all of my senses, giving me the sensation of great unease. I wanted to yell, but I had no voice. I saw sights that shouldn’t have been, places I had never even see, yet somehow knew by heart.

Is this what it’s like to teleport? I asked myself. Then, just as suddenly as it had begun, it all stopped. I blinked several times, unsure of whether I was back in reality, or if I was just looking into some image. I took a step forward, which reassured me I was indeed back to reality.

I now found myself outside the gates to Manehattan’s central station. Though the hour was rather late, I could still hear the rumbling of train engines as they awaited the arrival of passengers. The air was thick with a slight fog, making the streets look barren and ominous.

I took a deep breath of air; all I had to do now was board the express train heading to Ponyville. I had my weapons in case things turned nasty, but I was without backup. I still wasn’t entirely sure of what to do, so the first thing I did was opt to read Hagar’s letter. I took the piece of paper out and looked it over.

Bogart, I’m sorry I can’t tell you this information directly, but the walls have ears, and nobody can be trusted.

The turncoat’s real name is Caleb Armitage, though you’ll first know him by the name of ‘Raize’. He will not trust you at first; the only way he will know you are working with me and Fifth is through a password. Tell him, “Those who hunt monsters” and he should open up to questioning. Next to me and Fifth, he has all the details you seek. Be very careful Bogart, you may not like what you hear.

His last known whereabouts were 96 Moonbeam Str. Just in case, head to the town records to verify he is still living in that address. If he has moved, it should be noted there. If for some reason, he has vanished from the records, then do not hesitate to contact me.

Find him; keep him safe and alive by all means. Watch your own back as well; dark forces are stirring in the shadows.

I closed the note and stuffed it again into my duster. I picked up Deckard’s case and trotted towards the ticket vendor, all the while looking around for signs of trouble. I could feel many eyes fall on me, but I was unsure which were hostile, and which were of curious ponies. Regardless, I kept my magic tightly wrapped around Negotiator.

"He who fights monsters should see to it that he himself does not become a monster. And if you gaze for long into an abyss, the abyss gazes also into you."

-Friedrich Nietzsche