15th of the Moon of Harvest, 1933.

He stood at attention in formation with more than three dozen other ponies, donkeys, and griffons, all of them wearing the white short-sleeved shirt of a police academy trainee. The sun, just barely cresting over the horizon, provided them with only minor protection from the early fall air as they stood in the parade grounds in front of the brick building that would be their home and schoolhouse for the next six weeks. Several of the other rookies fidgeted where they stood, as if mimicking the motions of the Equestrian and city flags flapping from the metal poles behind them.

“So, this is the newest class of recruits,” the instructor growled, pacing in front of them. The tall, steel gray pegasus had a stormcloud as a cutie mark and wore the familiar gray shirt and flat cover. “What a bunch of sorry flanks you lot are,” he grunted.

The instructor started stalking down the front row, examining each pony with a criticizing eye. “What the hell do you think you’re doing here, boy?!” he shouted at a trembling stallion who had clearly floated in on his dreams out of high school and was just now receiving his first slap in the face from reality.

“T-training,” the little unicorn squeaked.

“Training, WHAT?!” the instructor barked.

“Training, sir!” the unicorn cried out, his voice high with terror.

With a disgusted grunt, the instructor moved on to the next pony to berate them. Sixth in line, Phillip just stood straight ahead, silent and unmoving. It wasn’t hard, and at the end of the day, words were words: they couldn’t hurt you unless you let them. Why couldn’t the others handle it?

He glanced to his left. The unicorn mare next to him was standing tall, almost a half head taller than him. She had a white coat, pure as snow, and a short, dark blue mane that tumbled down like water. She stared straight ahead, not moving, not trembling, expression neutral. But even as plain as she was, as stern and serious, Phillip had to admit she was far from hard on the eyes, or on the peripheral vision.

The instructor reached the mare and paused. “Now, this one,” he grunted, a note of interest in his voice. “This one knows how to handle herself. You all could learn from this one.” He circled the mare, who remained as still as a statue.

“Yes,” the instructor said very quietly, his cold eyes tracing the curves of the mare’s flanks. “You might find things very easy here, missy. If you do right by me.”

The mare reacted for the first time, her face flushing up with embarrassment and rage. A shudder ran down her spine, her hooves shook, but she didn’t turn around, didn’t speak. Phillip saw a flash of fear in her eyes, and realized that saying no would put everything she had worked for at risk.

White-hot anger stirred in Phillip’s gut, and raced up to his throat. Before he could stop himself, he snapped, “I don’t think she’s your type.”

Everything stopped. All was silent: even the wind seemed to have stopped blowing, so that the flapping of the flags ceased. The snowy mare turned to stare at Phillip, eyes wide. The instructor glared at Phillip, slowly stalking over until they were nose to nose.

“What did you say?” the instructor hissed, his voice audible to all.

Phillip barely heard him over the thudding of his heart in his ears. “I said, I don’t think she’s your type...sir,” he spat, not daring to blink.

The instructor glared into his soul for a few seconds more, then snarled, “Push-ups, Down Under. Until I tell you to stop.”

Phillip glared, but got down to the position and began to do push-ups as ordered, working at a steady pace, puffing out loudly with every push. The instructor launched into a brief lambasting of the class, lecturing them on the importance of obedience and not talking back, and how their instructors were there to shape them into new ponies, ready to serve and protect as officers of the Ponyville Police Department. The lecture dragged out into many minutes; Phillip continued to do push-ups, glaring at the ground as he dropped down to brush his nose against the grass before pushing himself back up again.

“Dismissed,” the instructor finally barked. “Be in class by 0800. And those dorms better be spotless, or you’ll all end up like Down Under here.” He stalked past Phillip, who shot a glare at his back. Not until the instructor had walked out of sight around the corner of a building did he finally stop, collapsing onto the ground. Sweat dripped down his forehead, his lungs burned with every breath, and his forelegs felt like they’d been turned into noodles, aching dully.

Hoofsteps crunched in the grass next to him and a shadow fell over him. He looked up to see the snowy unicorn mare standing over him, looking down at him with an unreadable expression.

“You didn’t have to do that,” she said.

Phillip had to take a moment to catch his breath before answering. “It was the right thing to do. If I didn’t say something, might as well pack up and go home right now.”

The mare stared for a beat, then smiled and held out a hoof. “Cold Case,” she introduced herself.

Phillip gratefully took her hoof and let her help him up. “Phillip Finder,” he smiled. “Ripper to meet you.”

“You too,” Cold Case nodded, tucking her head beneath his foreleg and helping him walk back to the cafeteria, where breakfast awaited them.

“You don’t have to—” Phillip started to say.

“It’s the right thing to do,” Cold Case replied.

Phillip and Cold's relationship is a fairly complex one, but it started simply enough: the two were friends who trusted each other once. And they can again.

“So you played baseball in college?” Flash asked, studying the yellowed photograph. He almost could not recognize his mentor amidst the cluster of stallions in their white and orange uniforms and caps, each with “Pranceton Chimeras” splashed across their chest; but the earth pony crouching in the front row, third from the right, was definitely him, though his hair had yet to gray and his eyes were bright and happy, a small smile on his face.

“Yeah,” Phillip said, looking over his shoulder. “Hooley dooley, haven’t seen that pic in years.” He looked over at the cardboard box that Flash had pulled the picture from. “Meant to throw that stuff out.”

Flash chuckled, looking back into the box, which was full of old knick-knacks and other junk, illuminated by the bare bulbs on the angled ceiling of the attic of 221 Honeybee Bakery. “Yeah, my mom’s the same way,” he commented, leaning forward to examine the box’s contents more closely, the floorboards creaking beneath his weight. “You should see our attic back home, stuffed with old boxes. She’s got this big crate with dad’s stuff…”

His voice trailed off and his posture slumped, his head lowering. His eyes were pointed at the box, but his gaze was far off, as if staring right through the floorboards. Phillip paused in his search for the spare microscope to study the younger stallion, one hoof partially raising off the ground to reach out to him.

The moment passed quickly and Flash shook himself off. “So were you good?” he asked, picking up a dusty Chimeras cap.

“Like to think I was,” Phillip admitted, returning to his search.

“I liked sports when I was a kid,” Flash continued, trying onto the cap and quickly finding that the dust of years made it too itchy to wear. “Baseball and basketball were my favorites; also liked soccer, street hockey, rugby. I always wanted to try out for a high school team, but I was too busy working and studying.” He sighed as he pulled out a grass and dirt-stained jersey with “Finder” and the number 15 splashed across the back. “I kinda wish I had the time for it.”

“You wanted to support your mom after the accident,” Phillip said. “That was the mature thing to do, the right thing. No one should think less of you for that, least of all yourself.”

“Yeah, I know,” Flash said, pulling out two old and creaking but still functional baseball gloves. “But seeing all this makes me realize I haven’t even touched a ball in ages, and—” He looked into the bottom of the box and gasped. “No. Way.”

“What?” Phillip asked, looking up.

Flash reached into the box and extracted a baseball with a faded but still legible signature in blue ink between the seams. “This is signed by Foal Ruth!” he cried, eyes wide with amazement. “Where did you—?!”

“Oh, that,” Phillip said with a soft smile, taking the ball and examining it. “Forgot all about that. It was from a charity raffle the team put on: donate some money for the team, have a chance to win some prizes. Dad won the ball, but he never cared much for baseball; he just wanted to support me. Gave me the ball after.”

“Your dad sounds like a great guy,” Flash said, his eyes fixated on the autographed baseball.

“Yeah,” Phillip nodded. He tossed the baseball to Flash. “You can have it.”

Flash tried not to squeal in excitement. “Really?” he squeaked, grinning from ear to ear.

“Not doing anypony any good sitting in a box in my attic,” Phillip pointed out, turning and rummaging in the box he’d been searching. “Ah, there you are,” he declared, pulling out an old microscope. He peeked through the lenses. “Bit dusty, but still usable.”

Flash looked out the small round window in the attic. Outside was a perfect early spring day: the sun was shining, there were a few white clouds lazily drifting through the blue sky, and the ground was finally starting to dry after the great melt.

“Hey, you gonna be busy?” he asked, looking down at the baseball gloves.

Twenty minutes later, the two were in the backyard, tossing the autographed ball back and forth to one another. The thumping of the ball against the pleather of the gloves resounded through the crisp air.

“Put more of your shoulder into it,” Phillip instructed Flash as he tossed the ball back to the pegasus. “You’ll get faster, more accurate throws that way.”

His tongue between his teeth, Flash wound up, and swung his hips and shoulders into his throw, sending the ball arcing low into Phillip’s waiting glove. “Like that?”

“Better,” Phillip said, throwing the ball back. “But don’t swing your shoulders so much. You want to aim your whole body at the target, like you’re trying to push your shoulder into my glove. Not that different from throwing a punch.” He crouched down and held his glove in front of his chest. “Try it again.”

Flash paused, focusing on his target, the glove. He cocked one leg, then took a long step forward as he wound up like a spring, then thrust his whole body, hoof, hips, and shoulders forward. The ball streaked through the air and landed in Phillip’s glove with a solid whap, sending his hoof back into his chest.

“Ow, crikey!” Phillip yelped, staggering slightly. He took the glove off and shook his hoof out.

“You okay?” Flash called.

“I’m fine,” Phillip said, recollecting the glove and ball and tossing it back to Flash. “You’ve got the arm of a pitcher, jackaroo.”

“You think I could try out for the PPD team this year?” Flash asked, lazily throwing it back.

“It might help ‘em win against the fire department wankers at next year’s charity game,” Phillip replied with a small smile. “Mother knows they could use the help.”

Flash laughed as he caught the next toss. They continued their practice, chatting idly about things of no consequence, until the sun was dipping towards the western horizon.

Few things say father and son relationship like some catch in the backyard.

Cold Case stared at the doorway with the blue and yellow lanterns set beside it and thoughtfully blew a cloud of smoke from the pipe clenched in her teeth, standing in the snow growing around her hooves. The Apple Pie in Your Eye was public, bright, and vibrant, full of ponies. It was one of the last places on Earth that she wanted to be.

She looked up at the hanging sign of the three ponies around a table, slowly swinging in the snowy breeze with a faint squeaking of hinges. She could hear music from inside, the conversation and laughter of ponies. The sound was so...unfamiliar to her, it might as well have been an alien language.

To step inside that tavern, she felt, would be like entering the Everfree Forest: dark, unmapped, and full of strange creatures.

Maybe she should just go home. Go home and be alone. Alone was familiar. Alone was safe. Alone was…

Alone meant the red poppydust. Alone meant another hit. Alone meant floating through a high before drifting off to sleep, then waking up with itchy eyes, a burning nose, and a spinning head and stomach. Alone meant alone with the monster.

She reached into her trenchcoat and pulled the gift out of her pocket with her magic. A small purple coin embossed with a ten floated in front of her gaze. Phillip had given her that, his own coin. Because he believed in her.

She looked up at the door, then took in a deep breath of cherry and pine tobacco and replaced the coin in her pocket. Dousing the pipe with her magic, she tapped the ashes out onto the ground, then strode forward and opened the door.

The warmth, the noise, the smells, they hit Cold Case like a wall and nearly knocked her off balance. Shaking her head, she put on her mask of ice and walked forward through the tables, observing the faces around her (smiling, relaxed, no sign of any hostility), taking note of the exits (door behind her, emergency door behind the bar, windows, stairs to second floor), and mentally ensuring that the pistol in her shoulder holster was still snug to her side.

She reached the bar and found an empty stool to sit upon. While she waited for the bartender to notice her, she listened to the ivory mare up on stage, playing piano and singing a love song. Coloratura, Cold Case recalled: she was one of the mares that Phillip had told her to look up.

The blonde bartender walked up to her. “How can I help you?” she asked with a smile.

“I’m looking for Applejack,” Cold Case said.

“You found her,” Applejack nodded, tipping her hat. “You’re the new police chief, ain’t you?”

Cold Case nodded. “Phillip sent me here. He said you and Coloratura could…” She hesitated, the doors to her trust remaining shut for a moment, then she sighed. She pulled the coin out of her pocket and slapped it on the table.

Applejack studied the coin for a moment, frowning, then looked up at Cold Case. Cold stared back at her, the icy mask firmly in place.

“You ain’t gotta try to hide behind yourself here,” Applejack said gently, placing a hoof on Cold’s shoulder. Cold regarded her hoof in silence, confusion and flickers of sadness showing behind the cracks that were spreading across her mask. “Rara over there, it ain’t no secret that she used poppydust, and was a pretty heavy drinker. But I helped her through it. And we’ve helped other ponies kick the habit...even Phil.”

Cold Case looked up, allowing the mask to melt away, letting the exhaustion and doubt and fear bubble up to the surface of her face. “And you are sure you can help me?” she asked.

Applejack patted her on the shoulder with a comforting smile, then handed her the coin back. “You’d best hang onto this for now,” she said. “It’ll give you something to work towards.”

Cold looked at the coin. The embossed ten stared back at her, taunting her.

“Don’t think of the ten,” Applejack advised her. “Think of just one at a time. One month at a time. One day at a time. That’s how you build yourself up.” She looked up at the stage. “Rara’s almost finished her set. Just stick around, and the two of us can get you set up. Meantime, how about something to warm the blood?”

Cold Case smiled at last and pocketed the coin. “As long as that something is drizzled in maple syrup.”

After the revelation of Cold's vice in Case Six, I wanted to give her this story to show her start on the path of quitting. Also, giving AJ a bit more time is always a pleasure.

The music was indescribably wonderful, a mixture of thumping drums, the wild and cheerful wails and whoops of flutes, all mixed with the jingling of little bells and beads, like rain on a rooftop.

Sirba stood in the middle of the troupe of zebras on the stage of the Apple Pie, leading the entire group in dance. They pounded their feet, swaying left and right, every movement perfectly in sync; their voices joined in a chorus, the song echoing off the walls. They shook their manes and tails, the beads that decorated their hair ringing out musically. Amidst the two drummers, Muziqaa stood with his flute, stamping his hind legs to the rhythm as he played.

Two of the zebras broke off from the group and stood at opposite ends of the stage, shaking their tails to produce a constant rattling. Every zebra except Sirba stepped back, continuing to stamp their hooves in rhythm. Sirba stood in one place, hopping from hoof to hoof. The flutes all held a single note as the drums began pounding louder and faster. The audience watched, breath bated: what was going to happen?

Without any warning, both of the zebras sprinted towards Sirba. Just when it seemed like they might gallop right into her, she ducked, and they both jumped. They both tucked into a perfect flip, passing so close to one another that they nearly touched, and landed on all fours. Sirba gave a shout in her native tongue, which the other zebras echoed, followed by a undulating cheer as the music stopped. The crowd stared for a beat, then burst into applause, the cheers seeming to make the windows of the tavern vibrate in their settings.

“Wow,” Daring commented, applauding along with the rest from her stool at the bar. “She’s great.”

“She is wonderful,” Suunkii commented from beside her, his eyes on his wife. A wide, bright smile was on his face, and his eyes glittered with love as they focused on Sirba. She, in turn, waved to him and blew him a brief kiss. Muziqaa waved as well.

“Say, how’d you two meet anyway?” Daring asked, swirling her drink. “Kinda hard to see somepony like her with...well, you know, you.”

Suunkii raised an eyebrow at her briefly, then chuckled once: a sound that seemed completely alien coming from him. “I take no offense, Daring Do,” he answered. “As a matter of fact, it was largely through dance that I met her.”

He took a bite of the grinder that he’d ordered before continuing. “Ten years ago, when Phillip Finder was still an officer in the department, he managed to convince me to go out and do something on the weekend. I was initially hesitant, but we decided upon a performance of a zebra dance troupe.

“As soon as the dancers came out, I forgot about the music, the crowd, everything around me. My eyes focused upon a single mare, the leader of the troupe. Sirba. She was…” He smiled and let out a happy sigh, his eyes drifting up towards the ceiling in reverie. “She was, as a statement of fact, the most beautiful mare I had ever seen in my life.”

“Never thought I’d hear words like that coming out of your mouth,” Daring commented.

“I state it because it is true,” Suunkii replied. “I was transfixed, utterly focused upon her; the way she moved, her voice, the smile upon her face, were all a joy to behold. In fact, it was not until after the performance was almost over that Phillip pointed out that I had had a…” He blushed furiously and cleared his throat. “Physical reaction to her appearance.”

Daring stared at him. “Physical…?”

Suunkii blushed and glanced down between his hind legs. Daring stared for a moment longer, then burst out laughing. “Oh, my...you…” She planted her face against the table, vibrating with laughter.

“It is a physical reaction, a part of evolution,” Suunkii grumbled. “It was not something that I had any conscious control over.”

“Ah, it happens, right?” Daring snorted. “I know I’ve accidentally let a few ponies get a peek while I’m flying around.” She smirked and glanced over at Phillip, who was sitting at another table, speaking to Twilight. “Granted, not all of them were accidents.”

“In any case,” Suunkii continued. “Phillip arranged for me to meet the dancer on a blind date. I believe it was partially a joke on his part.”

“Didn’t know that he had a sense of humor,” Daring commented.

“Well, the first meeting was...somewhat awkward on my part, but fortunately, she was very open-minded,” Suunkii continued. “And the rest, as the saying goes, is history.”

“Sounds like a fairy tale, almost,” Daring said, turning back to the stage. Sirba was currently dancing in place, hopping on her hooves, with Muziqaa dancing on her back.

“My tribe believes in rationality and logic above all things,” Suunkii stated. “But even stories have a place in our lives. My forefathers knew that there are some things that cannot be explained. Love is one of them.”

Daring looked over to Phillip. Seeming to sense her gaze, Phillip looked up at her. Their eyes met and he smiled at her.

“Can’t be explained,” Daring said to herself, smiling back.

Suunkii and Phil's past is something I've always wanted to devote more time and focus to. The two were once best friends, and in many ways, still are, after all, and Suunkii's family is an important part of Phil's life as well. Giving Suunkii and his wife and son a chance to shine was a nice diversion.

With the care of an artist placing a small dot of paint on a canvas to represent a pony’s pupil, Twilight placed a single drop of the clear liquid into the beaker. The brown liquid inside quickly turned a bright shade of yellow.

“So far so good,” she announced to her partner. “What we have now is a universal antibody to equine blood. It should react only to the unique variety of antibodies and magic-infused elements that are present in a pony’s blood.”

Phillip blinked back at her through his safety goggles. “And the theory is we can narrow it down to specific blood types.”

“Right!” Twilight nodded. “We have different types of blood here.” She indicated a row of test tubes, each filled with a dark red liquid and labeled with the different blood types. “If we can figure out how to make this work, we’ll be at the forefront of one of the most important discoveries in forensic science!”

“If you don’t blow up the living room,” Daring commented dryly from the couch, where she sat with Spike, both of them currently engrossed in a book: Daring with Hayana Pones, and Spike with the latest adventures of Batmare.

“Relax,” Twilight said placidly. “Nothing’s going to happen.”

“Says the pony who once set Phillip’s mane on fire,” Daring replied, rolling her eyes.

“And nearly burned down her house experimenting with dragonfire,” Spike added, not looking up from his comic.

“And turned me into a butterfly-pony-thing,” Daring continued.

“And once turned herself into a banana tree,” Spike said. “And once reversed gravity inside the school, which meant that everypony had to take their tests on the ceiling. And—”

“Okay, okay, I get it,” Twilight grumbled, shooting them both a vicious glare. Phillip turned away so no one could see that he was smiling.

“Hey, you know we like having you two over; makes for a nice break,” Daring commented. “Just wish you wouldn’t drive our home insurance costs up.”

“In my defense, magic can be kind of unpredictable at times,” Twilight huffed.

“Well, so can life,” Phillip said placidly.

“Truer words were never spoken,” Twilight nodded. “Now, shall we get to work?”

“Right,” Phillip nodded. “Where do we start?”

Twilight began to list theories and possibilities while carefully drawing several tubes of liquids and powders out of a saddlebag. Daring and Spike returned to their books, but kept an ear on the conversation.

“You sure that’s enough?” Phillip asked Twilight, a distinct note of sandpaper-like dryness in his voice. Daring and Spike both looked up to see Twilight spooning a white powder into the yellow liquid.

“I’m sure,” Twilight said. “I did some experiments on my own and got encouraging results with this compound, but I think just a little bit more should be enough…”

Daring and Spike exchanged glances, then simultaneously dove behind the couch. They crouched down and covered their ears.

“Just one more scoop…”

Twilight’s sentence was punctuated by a loud bang and a flash of purple light. Daring and Spike waited for a count of five to make sure there were no follow-up explosions, then carefully peeked over the top of the couch.

The flask of yellow liquid lay on the floor, its smoking contents spilled everywhere. Phillip and Twilight were nowhere to be found.

“Twi!” Spike called, walking around from behind the couch. “Twi! Phil!”

“Down here,” a high-pitched voice called. Daring and Spike looked down and paused.

Phillip and Twilight looked back up at them. They seemed unharmed, but both of them had been shrunk down to the size of kittens. Daring and Spike stared for a moment, then both of them collapsed against each other, howling with laughter.

“Well, back to the old drawing board,” Twilight muttered, her voice having risen to a comically high pitch. “As soon as we figure out how to get back to our normal size.”

Being the two scientifically-minded nerds that they are, it's only natural that Phillip and Twilight would get along and want to put their heads together to push the boundaries of science and discovery.

If only they wouldn't do that in the living room.

With a hiss, the fishing hook shot out through the air and splashed gently down into the water. Trace settled back onto the lawn chair with a sigh, tilting his cap down over his eyes to shield his face from the sun.

“Beer?” Lug Wrench asked from his left.

“You gotta ask?” Trace mumbled, adjusting his grip on the fishing pole.

Lug Wrench dug into the cooler next to him, the ice ratting around, and pulled out a bottle of beer, tossing it to Trace from across the deck of the houseboat. Trace caught the bottle in his magic and popped the top off with his magic. He took a long draught of the beer, which tingled and bubbled pleasantly as it trickled down his throat.

“Little help here, Trace?” Red called from his right. Trace turned to see Red standing on the other side of the houseboat’s deck, leaning against the side. He was currently trying to pull the top off his bottle of beer with his teeth, growling like a dog with a bone.

Trace sighed and took the bottle in his magic, easily twisting the top off and handing it back to Red with a small smirk.

“Wipe that smug grin off your face,” Red grunted, taking a long draught of the beer. He leaned against the railing, looking out over the waters of the Maresippi. The light brown houseboat bobbed up and down on the blue water, riding the wake of a speedboat that had passed by a few minutes ago. The shore was about three miles away: he could just vaguely see the ant-sized outlines walking on the golden sands of Horsehead Beach. The sky above was clear and blue, with only a few streaks of white clouds. A few other boats bobbed lazily in the water around them, all of them a safe distance away.

"How's Lion Wing?" Lug asked.

"He's doing good," Red nodded. "Honeydew told me he had all As on his last report card."

"Hey, that's great!" Lug said. "You ever think about bringing him out with us?"

Red snorted. "Don't think Honeydew would be keen on having her kid out with us, drinking beers and hauling in slimy fish."

"Hey, fathers are supposed to take their kids fishing," Trace commented, casting his line out again with a hiss. "It's a tradition."

"So when are you gonna get one so you can take him fishing?" Red smirked.

"Lion was more than enough for me," Trace replied, slowly drawing his lure through the water, trying to tempt some silvery fish towards the bait.

“What is it about fishing that’s so attractive?” Red pondered, taking another draught of the beer. “It’s just sitting out on the water and trying to get a fish to eat a worm on a string.”

“Least you got cheap beer that you ain’t gotta pay for,” Trace commented, lightly jiggling the line to try to attract a tempting-looking perch, who unfortunately seemed to decide after a moment that he had better things to do. “Better than a bar.”

“And she smells better then a bar,” Lug added, patting the side of the Dancing Leaf.

“Can’t argue with that,” Red shrugged.

“And, you know, maybe some ponies like getting away from the world for a while,” Trace commented, lazily examining the water. “Maybe some ponies like spending some time just out with their friends, doing nothing for a while.”

Red and Lug were both silent for a while, then Red chuckled and took another sip of beer. “Yeah, sure. ‘Course that’s it.”

“Love you guys, too,” Lug Wrench laughed, hauling another beer out of the cooler.

The fishing line suddenly jerked in Trace’s hooves. He seized it in both hooves, bolting up to try to brace himself. A large, plump white bass, silvery in the water, had seized the hook and was jerking around in the water, trying to pry itself loose. Its violent attempts to escape nearly pulled the pole from Trace’s grasp.

“I gotcha!” Red shouted, dropping the beer and seizing the pole. Lug Wrench quickly joined them, the trio battling against the single fish. The bass jumped and jerked, switching direction in the blink of an eye and forcing them to continually adjust.

“Fucking hell, has this thing been taking fish steroids?!” Red shouted, flapping his wings to try to counteract the fish’s pull.

“I think it’s tiring,” Trace panted. “Okay, on the count of three, we all pull. One...two...three!”

As one, the ponies heaved. The pole bent under the weight of the bass’ struggles, the line taut and creaking in protest. Trace took a step back, but failed to notice the beer that Red had spilled. He slipped on the beer, dragging all three ponies down with him in a chorus of surprised shouts and crashes. The fishing pole slipped from their grasp and disappeared into the water with a splash as the bass made good his escape.

Trace, Red, and Lug Wrench looked at one another for a long moment of silence, trapped in a tangle of limbs, then simultaneously burst out laughing.

Red and Trace are two of the more important characters in the story, and yet I've never had much chance to touch on their relationship with each other, and I've never given much time to Trace's relationship to Lug Wrench. Even if the two partners will never say it, the two are best friends, and I wanted to have them spend some time together without having to worry about their duties.

The .38 Official Police revolver barked in Wheellock’s hoof, its retort muffled by the earplugs in her ears. Twenty meters away, a hole the size of a marble appeared in the forehead of the paper silhouette target, a feather’s breadth to the left of the center. She fired off the rest of her rounds at a steady pace, exhaling with each squeeze of the trigger. The gun kicked firmly with every shot, and the hole in the paper target expanded to slightly larger than a bit.

“Hmm,” Wheellock mused, shaking the empty cartridges out of her chamber and sweeping them into the garbage bag next to her. “Front sights are off a bit.”

She set the revolver down and started carefully adjusting the front sights with her multitool, tweaking it to the right a little. Three booths down from her, a pegasus stallion stepped away from the booth, unloading his weapon and taking off his safety equipment. His partner, a tall blue earth pony who had been standing behind him, slapped him on the back heartily and they exchanged traditional testosterone-laden friendly taunts and jabs. The two walked off, already talking of plans for grabbing a few ciders later. As they passed by Wheellock, she felt the pegasus’ gaze trace over her hind legs and flank, his step never slowing.

Wheellock sighed. Bad enough that she was a young, pretty mare in the force, she was the young, pretty inexperienced mare. The one that all the stallions would glance at as they walked past, the one who would always get the proposals for a romp in the hay, the manner of which ranged from clumsy and shallow to sleazy and arrogant. How many times would she have to repeat “I’m gay” like a broken record before they started believing it?

A bitter sigh escaped her. She’d honestly mind it less, she thought, if it wasn’t the only attention she’d been getting for the last couple moons. Her superiors mostly ignored her unless she did something seriously wrong, in which case they’d bark at her for a few minutes like angry dogs then resume ignoring her. Her colleagues also regarded her as seemingly beneath their notice. The rotation of partners that she’d gone through had all regarded her with the same stony silence. Beats had turned into hours of torture as they patrolled the sidewalks, never speaking to one another.

Maybe she’d like to go out for a few drinks after work! Or just have a friendly chat while walking the beat! Did any of them ever think of that? Did…

Wheellock suddenly realized that she had moved the sights way too far to the right. With an irritated grunt, she began to correct her mistake.

“Nice shooting,” a male voice said behind her.

Wheellock turned and saw a gold-coated griffon behind her: the rangemaster, she recalled.

“I haven’t seen a grouping that tight in years,” the griffon said, nodding at the paper target. He held out a claw. “Sergeant MacWillard.”

It took Wheellock a second to realize that this was actually happening. He was looking her in the eyes with a steady gaze and a small smile, his gaze never wandering to try to trace her flanks, and the talon he was extending was the very picture of a friendly gesture. She almost forgot to shake the offered limb. “Officer Wheellock, sir,” she nodded.

“No need to sir me here,” MacWillard grinned. He reeled in the paper target and replaced it with a fresh one. “You fix those sights?”

“Yes, sir,” Wheellock nodded.

“What did I just say, Wheellock?” MacWillard said, raising an eyebrow.

Wheellock cringed. “Sorry.”

“S’all right,” MacWillard said. He reeled the target out to the twenty meter marker. “Show me.”

Wheellock blinked. “Um...now?”

“Well, at least before my shift is over,” MacWillard said dryly, though a smile tugged at the corner of his beak.

Wheellock looked at the target, then at MacWillard, who gave her an encouraging nod. She swallowed and reloaded her pistol with her magic. Snapping the chamber shut, she stepped into her shooting stance.

Wheellock took in a slow breath, held it for a moment, then exhaled it. She forgot that there was someone watching her, judging her. She forgot about the range, the sounds and smells of other ponies, the chatter in the background of her own mind. She forgot about everything except the target and the gun in her hoof.

She inhaled and raised her weapon, then held the breath in her lungs as she aimed, aligning the sights with the center of the silhouette’s forehead. She exhaled slowly, steadying her aim, stilling her mind. The slow beat of her heart sounded against her chest: once...twice...now.

She squeezed the trigger and the .38 kicked once, letting out a sharp clap. A hole appeared in the silhouette’s forehead, and she felt a thrill of victory. She inhaled once more, allowing herself to savor the tingle, then released it on the next exhale, steadying her aim again. She fired five more times, emptying the chamber, then shook out the empty cartridges and placed them in the disposal bag. She reeled in the target to give it a proper examination.

Drilled directly into the center target was a hole no bigger than the size of a bit. Wheellock allowed herself a proud smile, puffing out her chest slightly as she turned to face MacWillard, who gave her an impressed nod and smile.

“Very good,” he said. “You a sniper?”

“No,” Wheellock shook her head. “I just grew up with guns. My parents own a gun shop in Fillydelphia, and they have a side business restoring old weapons. Plus, my uncle Flintlock used to give me lessons when I was old enough.”

MacWillard’s eyebrows raised. “Flintlock?” he asked. “As in Flintlock Rapidfire, the most famous trick shooter in Equestria?”

“The same,” Wheellock boasted, puffing out her chest even further.

“Bull. Shit. He’s your uncle?!” MacWillard gaped, his jaw hanging open.

“Yup. He taught me how to do his trick where he fans the hammer and shoots three coins in midair,” Wheellock boasted. She paused for a moment, suddenly feeling like a diver standing on the edge of a diving board high over a freezing pool. Words tickled the tip of her tongue, waiting to be properly formed. MacWillard was looking at her with his head tilted to the side, one eyebrow raised as he waited for her to continue.

Wheellock inhaled, then exhaled, then spoke. “I could show you if you want,” she declared with what she hoped was a convincing smile.

MacWillard frowned. “Not in my range, you won’t,” he said sternly.

Wheellock’s face fell and she nodded. “Right,” she admitted. “Wouldn’t be responsible—”

“But I’d be willing to let you show me somewhere else,” MacWillard continued. “There’s an empty lot right behind a bar I know on Flotsam, great place for some target practice.”

Wheellock looked up. The griffon was smiling at her, a genuine expression. Still his eyes did not wander; instead, they were focused on hers, hopefully awaiting her answer.

She smiled back at him. “Um,” she stammered. “I, um...I’m gay, just so you kno—” She covered her mouth with her hooves, a furious blush spreading across her face as she cursed her big, stupid mouth.

MacWillard chuckled heartily. “Well, I’m married, so fair’s fair. Meet up at eight?” He stuck out his claw.

Wheellock smiled back, her blush fading, and shook. “Eight,” she agreed. “I’ll bring the bits.”

“You’d better,” MacWillard grunted through a grin.

MacWillard and Wheellock were initially meant to be no more than one-off characters, but they wound up getting used again a few times. So I felt that they deserved a little time in the spotlight, if for nothing else than to show off their relationship with each other.

A scream resounded through the upper halls of the Apple Pie in Your Eye. Pinkie Pie jolted awake, the blankets of her bed tumbling off her form. She tumbled off her bed and sped towards the door, pushing it open and nearly knocking the framed photograph of herself with Mister and Mrs. Cake off the wall. She emerged into the hallway of the second floor of the tavern. Moonlight streamed into the hallway from the window to her left, casting everything in a silvery glow. Right across from her was another door, from behind which Pinkie could hear crying.

She opened the door and entered a guest bedroom, though the term guest had not applied for a long time. It was decorated fairly simply: there was a stack of records in one corner near the shaded windows, and another corner held a music stand with sheet music from musicals and operas scattered about it. The bed was in the middle of the room, its sheets a dark blue color.

Steamed Carrot sat in the bed, hugging her knees and sniffling. Her tear tracks shone in what little moonlight was allowed to filter through the drawn curtains.

“Steamed?” Pinkie Pie asked.

The pegasus gasped and started, grabbing a pillow as though attempting to use it as a shield. It took a moment for her to recognize Pinkie. She let out a breath and slowly relaxed, fresh tears trickling from her eyes.

“Did you have another nightmare?” Pinkie asked, approaching slowly.

Steamed nodded. “I thought they’d go away…”

Pinkie Pie gently climbed up onto the bed and hugged Steamed. Her friend laid her face against her shoulder, her tears staining Pinkie’s unkempt mane and coat.

“It’s been months since...that happened,” Steamed whispered. “I’ve been seeing therapy, I’m getting more confident going out on my own...why do I still have dreams?”

“Steamed, when I was a filly, I was scared of the dark,” Pinkie said, still hugging her. “Granny Pie taught me how to be brave in the dark, to face my fears, but I still felt scared sometimes at night.” She squeezed Steamed gently. “It takes time, but it’ll get better.”

They remained in a silent embrace for several moments longer, until Steamed Carrot’s tears finally subsided. “Pinkie?” she asked quietly.

“Yeah?”

“Tell me a joke,” Steamed asked. “Something stupid and corny. Make me laugh.”

Pinkie thought for a moment, then smiled. “You know that new can opener where we bought for the kitchen?”

“Yeah,” Steamed nodded.

“It doesn’t work,” Pinkie said. “I guess it’s a can’t opener!”

Steamed snorted and began to quiver with laughter.

“I had to sell my vacuum cleaner last week,” Pinkie continued. “All it was doing was collecting dust. And do you know the difference between a rabbit and a radish? Both are purple except for the rabbit.”

Steamed giggled and chortled, still hugging Pinkie. She finally sighed and laid back down. “Thank you, Pinkie,” she smiled.

“You’re welcome!” Pinkie chirped, hopping off the bed and tucking Steamed back into the covers. With a quick nuzzle, she turned to go. “You’ll feel better in the morning. Good ni—”

“Pinkie?” Steamed asked.

Pinkie paused at the door, turning back. “Yeah?”

Steamed Carrot’s face glowed faintly with a blush in the dark of the room. “Would you...stay with me? At least until I fall asleep?” she asked hesitatingly.

Pinkie smiled and walked back, climbing up on top of the bed, hugging Steamed to her. Steamed gently nuzzled Pinkie’s coat: she smelled of flour, chocolate, and sugar. It was a comforting smell, reminding her of her foalhood, baking cookies and bread with her mother in the barewood floor kitchen.

“Thank you,” she whispered, already feeling sleep pulling her into the depths.

“Of course,” Pinkie whispered.

They lay in silence for a while longer. The curtains shivered faintly in the wind, allowing the moonlight to pass through the window, casting the two mares in a silvery glow. Aside from a quiet wind that whispered past the house, the only sounds were two soft rhythms of breath.

“I like elephants,” Pinkie Pie whispered. “Everything else is irrelephant.”

Steamed giggled in her sleep.

Originally, Steamed Carrot was supposed to be a willing minion of the drug gangs along with Silver Polish and Soap Sud. However, my proofreader at the time, Magic Step, convinced me otherwise to lighten the tone a little bit and give Phil and Daring an innocent to save.

The sad thing with her is that I don't have a lot of time to spare to show her growth and development as she tries to deal with the trauma of what she went through. She is getting better, I can assure you, but her road to recovery is a long one. Thankfully, she has the mare of endless laughter and optimism to help her with that.

Twilight took a single bite of the hayburger and her eyes widened in joy. “This is amazing!” she cried, licking ketchup off her lips.

“See, I told you,” Flash grinned from the stool next to her. “Sweetcream makes the best hayburgers in this city.”

The two were sitting at the counter of Sweetcream Scoop’s, perched atop the red-cushioned stools. All around them was the chatter of voices from diners sitting on the counter and in the booths all around them, accompanied by dings and clatters from the arcade in the back. Snow danced in the windows in the front of the restaurant; Hearth’s Warming music played from a jukebox in the corner. Above the jukebox, a clock displayed that there were four days, three hours, and twenty-seven minutes left until 1950.

“Aw, shucks, Flashy, you flatter me!” Sweetcream herself smirked, sliding up to them on roller-skates. The sherbert green unicorn shook her yellow and pink mane out of her eyes and rolled over to behind the counter, hopping out of her skates. She plucked two tall glasses out from behind the counter, filled them both up to the brim with chocolate milkshakes, and slid them over to the dining ponies. “Here, sugar. On the house.”

“Oh, Sweetcream, you don’t have to—” Flash protested.

“Ah, think nothing of it,” Sweetcream waved him off. “Why shouldn’t this be special for you?”

Flash blushed faintly and gave Sweetcream a grateful smile. “Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it,” Sweetcream smirked back at him. She leaned against the counter and studied Twilight for a moment. “So, this is the mare you’ve been pining after for moons?”

“Sweetcream!” Flash cried, his blush deepening. “D-don’t tell her!”

“Tell me what?” Twilight asked, slurping up some milkshake.

Sweetcream snorted with laughter. “Oh, you should’ve heard him talking to me about you! Praised you to the moon, he did.” She put on a passable imitation of Flash’s voice. “‘She’s just so smart, and so cool, and so beautiful! When she smiles, it lights up the room! I feel like I can’t talk to her. Maybe if I read more books, that’d give me something to talk to her about. What books would a smart mare like her read?’”

“Oh, shut up,” Flash whined, his face now red as a tomato.

Sweetcream hooted and clapped Flash on the shoulder. “Hey, I told you to buck up and ask her out, and now look where you are! What would you do without me, kid?”

“So you two know each other?” Twilight asked, an amused smile on her slightly red face.

“I’ve known this dork since he was a little colt,” Sweetcream said. “His mom worked as a waitress here back when my parents ran this place. I babysat him quite a few times when he was growing up, and his first job was working here as a dishwasher after school.”

“I owe a lot to Sweetcream,” Flash stated.

“And don’t you forget it, hon,” she smirked, booping him. She tousled his mane affectionately, then quickly strapped her skates back on. “If either of you needs anything, lemme know, okay sugar?”

“Thanks, Sweetcream,” Flash sighed as she skated off to handle other customers.

Twilight giggled to herself. “She’s awfully nice,” she commented.

“Yeah,” Flash muttered, his face still red.

The two were silent for a few minutes, slurping at their milkshakes as the jukebox continued to play through Hearth’s Warming music, then Twilight asked, “Flash?”

“Yes?” Flash asked.

“Did you really say all those nice things about me?”

Flash choked on his drink, his face coloring again. He looked over at Twilight, who had a small smile hovering on her lips, head cocked to one side. Her wide lavender eyes seemed to reflect the glow of the lights, enhancing the natural beauty that always made him feel weak at the knees. He stared with his mouth hanging open slightly for a few moments, then swallowed, cleared his throat, and spoke.

“Yes,” he admitted. “Yes, I...I told Sweetcream all about you.”

Twilight blushed faintly and twirled her mane. “You...you really think I’m beautiful?”

Flash swallowed and looked up at her, drinking in every detail of her gorgeous face like a thirsty pony at a well: her eyes, her shy smile, the faint blush coloring her dimpled cheeks, her sleek tri-colored mane.

“I did. Do!” he caught himself. “You...you’re the most beautiful mare I’ve ever…”

Something dropped into his field of view from above. He looked up and his voice trailed off as he stared at the intrusive object in question: a green plant with white berries and round leaves, floating in a light green aura. Twilight stared up at it, letting out an embarrassed squeak of shock.

“Sweetcream!” Flash cried, glaring at the mare as she skated past.

“What?” Sweetcream asked, her face the picture of innocence. “That was there already!”

“No, it wasn’t!” Flash protested, his face even redder than before.

Sweetcream giggled. “Well, regardless, you know what the rules are. Go on, kiss her, you big dummy!”

Flash and Twilight both looked at each other, each of them red. Twilight’s eyes were wide, Flash’s brow was furrowed in irritation.

“You’re going to keep teasing us about it until we kiss, aren’t you?” he sighed in irritation.

“Yup!” Sweetcream smirked.

The two stared at one another for a few seconds of silence. “Um…” Flash finally stammered. “So…”

“You know,” Twilight said slowly. “I read in Traditions and Tales of Hearth’s Warming about the origins of the mistletoe kiss, and there’s nothing that says that it has to be on the lips…”

Flash sighed in relief, blessing Twilight’s love of reading and steel-trap memory. “So, on the cheek?” he asked, his heart doing tap dance in his chest.

“I suppose,” Twilight nodded, looking down to the side nervously.

Sweetcream sighed. “Well, it’ll have to do. Now, come on, we don’t have all night.”

Flash swallowed, feeling like a pony standing on the edge of a great precipice, looking down at the water far below. Twilight looked at him, the gorgeous jewels that were her eyes glittering, and turned her red cheek aside as an invitation. He slowly leaned in close, his heart thumping out a marching beat against his ribs, and closed his eyes.

Her skin was warm; her hairs of her coat tingled against his lips as he brushed them against her cheek. The warmth of her skin traveled down his spine, sending tingles of delight all the way down to his hooves and the tips of his wings. He pulled away from her, blushing even harder. A nervous giggle bubbled up through his throat and he turned away.

Then he felt her breath on his cheek, smelling faintly of peppermint and chocolate. Her lips brushed against his cheek, soft and wet and warm. The same tingling joy spread down his cheeks and all the way through to his wings and his hooves, making him feel as though he was floating momentarily.

He discovered that he actually was floating when his wings stopped buzzing a moment later and gravity arranged a reunion between his rear and the stool. He grunted in surprise at the impact, causing Twilight to burst into melodious giggles, which he quickly followed.

Twilight leaned up against him, pressing her head against his shoulder. “Thank you for this, Flash,” she sighed.

It took Flash a moment to remember how to breathe. “You’re welcome,” he said, stealing a quick nuzzle on the top of her head; her soft mane smelled of lavender.

Sweetcream cleared her throat pointedly. “Yes, and thank you, too, Sweetcream,” Flash rolled his eyes.

“You’re welcome!” she said as she skated off, taking the mistletoe with her. Chuckling, Twilight returned to her hayburger, munching happily. With a contented sigh, Flash returned to his meal as well.

Because there's never enough Flashlight sweetness.

26th of the Moon of Frost, 1949.

Dear Mom and Dad,

Thanks for the licorice and the new whittling knife. I’ve already put it to use carving another boomerang. You always come up with the best birthday gifts.

Winter’s on the way up here: we’re scheduled to have some snow in the coming weeks; 1950 is almost here. You know, I’ve solved more cases than there are kangaroos in uncle Rob’s ranch, but I still can’t figure out what the point of snow is. Twilight Sparkle--the sheila from the crime lab, you remember her?--said something about keeping the earth cool because of the proximity to the sun. I asked her why Celestia can’t just move the bloody sun further away from the earth, and she got that glimmer in her eyes that told me she was planning a lecture that would’ve taken an hour or so and would’ve been way over my head. Thankfully, Suunkii came to my rescue and pulled her away.

Speaking of Suunkii, he’s doing well. I haven’t seen Sirba or Muziqaa in a while, but I’m trying to find time to see them again (maybe at the Hearth’s Warming dinner: it’d be nice to see Joy again, too), and I’m going to be getting Muziqaa a harmonica for Hearth’s Warming. Can’t believe he’s eight years old already: I still remember holding him when he was a baby, and then it seems like I blinked and the little ankle-biter’s on stage with his mom doing flips like a professional.

Is that how you feel when you look at me? Do you wonder where the last thirty-nine years went? And do you ever think that I'm lucky to have made it this far? I know I have, especially last moon: had to take on a lunatic mare who could conjure dragonfire. Good news is, we're closing in on Silvertongue.

But I don't want you worrying about me. How have you and the band been? The sandingoes been rowdy this year, too? I hear Siren and Play are talking about having a foal. Best wishes to them both. And is it true that Sax finally got a marefriend? I was starting to think that he was cursed or something.

Speaking of marefriends...I’ve met somepony. Relax, mom, we’ve only known each other a few moons now.

Her name’s Daring Do. She got released from prison last Moon of Grain and I took her in as my partner; figured her blood would be worth bottling. I was more than right; she’s saved my life a couple times already (even helped me take on that mare with the dragonfire), and she’s become a bloody amazing partner. Yes, in both meanings of the word.

I can’t believe I’m actually admitting this, but...I love her. I want to spend the rest of my life with her.

I can’t wait for you to come up this summer. It’s always ripper to see you and the rest of the band again, to play on the stage with you. It reminds me of being a foal, back when I was barely tall enough to even hold that sax but you had me up there with you. And this year, you’ll have Daring to meet. I’ve brought it up a few times, and she says that she’s looking forward to it, too. I think she’s a bit nervous, actually. Not sure why: I’m sure you’ll love her.

I’m already oiling the saxophone in anticipation. Give my best to the rest.

Love you,

Phillip.

This was sent sometime after Case Five in Volume One. Phil's parents are a big part of his life and his future characterization, and they'll soon be important to Daring as well.

Phil's birthday is the day before this. He turned 38.

“And there we go,” Vitae Mortis stated, reverently sliding the body on the slab back into the freezer. “You just rest in there, friend. You’ll have your day in court soon enough.” She closed the door with a final smile, then removed her gloves and facemask, tossing them both into the trash bag with the biological warning symbol.

With a sigh, she walked over to the desk in the corner and sat down, pulling the lamp down to light up her typewriter. With a magical tug, she pulled the wheeled table carrying her tape recorder over next to her desk and rewound the tape with her findings. Reaching the beginning of the tape, she pressed the play button and placed her hooves on the two rotating dials of the typewriter.

“The victim is positively identified by cutie mark as Hailstorm, a fifty-year old male pegasus,” her own voice repeated back to her, and Mortis began to transcribe her notes on the typewriter. “Exterior examination: the most notable injury is a collection of bruises around the neck. The bruises are…”

There was a knock at the door of the morgue and Mortis looked up, pausing the tape. Twilight Sparkle stood at the doorway, her lab coat smooth as always and a stack of papers in her magic.

“Doctor, here’s the analysis of the stomach contents for Honey Bun that you asked from,” Twilight stated, walking into the room.

“Thank you, Twilight,” Mortis smiled, taking the files and flipping through them. “Ah, good, I thought so. Last meal was about eight hours before death and...yup. Shrimp.”

“What does that mean?” Twilight asked, studying the papers over Mortis’ shoulder.

“There was an empty bag for shrimp in the kitchen trash can,” Mortis explained, placing the files down and pushing her chair over to the filing cabinet in the corner. “Opened that morning, based on the looks of it.”

“What made you think to double check that?” Twilight asked.

“Well, during my initial autopsy, I noticed that she’d vomited repeatedly before death, and had some very nasty diarrhea,” Mortis explained. “They initially thought it was symptoms of a drug overdose and were willing to write that off, but I found no other signs of recent drug use: no needle pricks, no irritation in the nostrils, nothing of the sort. So I thought of the other option: food poisoning. That’s why I wanted you to check the stomach contents, and why I checked the scene again.”

She clicked her tongue as she pulled the drawer open and plucked out the folder. "Red Cholera bacteria, I presume. Poor Honey. If Gustav’s Seafood packaged their shrimp properly, she might be alive. And now, because of her, the company is going to get covered in lawsuits.”

“I should hope so; ponies shouldn’t die because of a company’s incompetence,” Twilight nodded. She watched Mortis scribbling down her findings on Honey Bun’s file, then cleared her throat. “So, what made you want to become a mortician?”

Mortis looked at her over her shoulder, her pen pausing over the paper. “Um...well, if I tell you, do you promise not to think I’m a freak?” she asked, forcing a small smile.

“Why would I think you were a freak?” Twilight asked.

Mortis cleared her throat. “Well, it started when I was six years old. My family had a dog that I adored. His name was Letizia; I loved taking him for walks and playing with him. But then one day, he got really sick and died.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Twilight said.

Mortis nodded. “I was super upset; bawled for hours. My parents buried him in the backyard, but I was so upset, I wasn’t ready to say goodbye. So, being the silly six-year-old I was, decided to dig him up again and spend some time with him.

“So, one night, I snuck out back with a shovel and dug up Letizia,” she continued. “But when I finally got to him...well, I’m pretty sure you know what happens to a body after about five days.”

Twilight slowly nodded.

“But when I saw him in there, I was...fascinated,” Mortis continued. “I wanted to know what had happened to Letizia, why he’d gotten so green and bloated…” She paused and looked at Twilight. “Does that make me a freak?” she asked.

Twilight stared at Mortis for a beat, then smiled and patted her on the shoulder. “No, not at all,” she replied. “It just makes you curious and inquisitive.”

Mortis smiled at her. "I'm glad you think so." She frowned and looked down, rubbing her foreleg. "My mom and dad didn't think that way. They sent me to a therapist. I wound up seeing more of the therapist than my father." She scoffed. "They wanted me to become an apothecarist like mom or a Crystal Priest like dad, but nope. Neither of them made much effort to hide how much of a shame to my ancestors I was and all that."

"That sounds awful," Twilight frowned, patting Mortis on the back.

"Well..." Mortis mused. "I suppose it was kind of justified. Especially after that time I ate a tarantula."

Twilight stared for several seconds. "You did what?" she asked.

"Um..." Mortis said slowly, rubbing the back of her head. "I read in a book on survivor skills about how to cook and eat insects, and I wanted to try it, so I bought a tarantula and cooked it and ate it.." She looked up at Twilight, who was know staring at her with an expression of complete confusion.

"I...think you know why ponies call me a freak," Mortis shrugged, giving a weak laugh.

Twilight stared for a beat more, then smiled and patted Mortis' back. "Oh, I can understand being curious," she said. "I once tried a spell I read in an advanced magical book. Unfortunately, I wasn't quite ready for it, and I wound up..." She chuckled quietly, her face reddening. "I wound up turning my parents and my brother into coconuts."

Mortis blinked, then laughed loudly. "Wow! I don't think a therapist would help with that!"

Twilight laughed along. "No, I don't think so," she agreed.

“So, yeah. That’s how I got interested in forensic science,” Mortis stated. “Twenty-six years and lots of student debt later, here I am.”

“I’m sure you’ve got a lot of interesting stories to tell,” Twilight said. “I could learn so much from you!”

"Like what tarantula tastes like?" Mortis asked.

"Er...no, I think I'd rather not know that," Twilight admitted.

Mortis’ smile broadened. “Hey, you think maybe we could get lunch somewhere sometime?”

“As long as it's not tarantula!” Twilight nodded. “My friend Applejack runs the Apple Pie in Your Eye, we can drop by there and exchange theories sometime after work!”

“That sounds great,” Mortis replied, smiling up at her new friend.

Originally, Mortis was going to be a dormant serial killer and necrophiliac who would be ousted in one story and subsequently imprisoned or killed. However, that idea fell by the wayside, which was probably for the better. Of course, that left me the task of making Mortis less creepy and more quirky and weird. I've always tried to make her memorable and vibrant in every scene, but she hasn't had much time to shine on her own.

Chapter One: In the Beginning

Within this Covenant Journal, you shall find the tales of the Holy Mother, how She came to be, and the path that She laid out for all who would follow Her in joy and love and the magic of companionship.

In the beginning, there was nothing save the swirling, formless energies that would one day become magic. Pools of this energy shaped themselves into the first things: the Earth, the Sun, the Moon, and the stars. And from the energy of the Earth sprang living things: trees, insects, fish, land animals, and finally, ponies and other such creatures.

But from the magic contained in the Sun and the Moon sprang vastly different beings, beings without solid form, made of pure magic; the first of the beings that would become known as gods. The god of the Sun and the goddess of the Moon both thought that they were the superior, that their light should be the only one that shone upon the Earth and the creatures that walked, swam, and flew. They battled one another with the rays of the sun and the shadows of the night, each fighting for domain of the skies, but their power was equally matched.

Seeking another way to gain an advantage, they looked down upon the ponies of the Earth, who did not yet know of the magic within them, and both came to the same plan: if they could make those ponies beneath worship them, they might draw power from their fear, enough to overcome the other. So they descended to the Earth and appeared before the earth ponies, the pegasi, and the unicorns, demanding their worship and their obedience. Cowed by the power that these deities held, the ponies had no choice but to obey; they named the god of the sun Daybreaker, and the goddess of the moon Nightmare Moon. With their fear and worship, the two gods grew stronger and their battles continued.

And so the ponies of the Earth were caught in a great war between the two deities. Worshiping Daybreaker could provoke the wrath of Nightmare Moon, who tormented ponies with horrendous visions in their sleep and by refusing the lower the moon and end the biting cold that it brought; but praising Nightmare Moon might enrage Daybreaker, who would bring great heat and blinding light with his sun and send the weather in turmoil, destroying homes and crops.

To worsen the torment of the ponies, other gods soon emerged from the chaos and demanded worship in turn, including Discord, the sly trickster who delighted in playing cruel jokes that brought suffering to all, and Tirek, the god of war and death who turned neighbor against neighbor, friend against friend, brother against sister. Unaware of the magic within themselves, the ponies were wholly dependent upon the fickle nature of the gods for survival; life for the ponies was short and harsh, with little time to think of anything else but oneself.

But in a little village called Navah, there dwelled three young mares; an earth pony named Emunah, who toiled the wheat fields every day; a pegasus named Chesed, who scouted the skies for incoming weather; and a unicorn named Tiqvah, a scholar who collected all the written knowledge that she could find. The three were steadfast friends, always willing to help those in need, and their goodness and purity of heart brought a faint glimmer of hope to the lives of their neighbors.

One night, the three friends stayed out late, talking of their hopes and dreams of the future, the hopes that they held for a better life. As they were returning home, a bright light appeared before them. The mares flinched, sore afraid, but a voice spoke from the light: “Be not afraid, little ones, for I come with glad tidings.”

“Who are you?” Tiqvah asked.

“I am the magic that was born of the seeds you planted in your hearts: the seeds of kindness, generosity, honesty, hope, loyalty, and wisdom,” the voice said. “I am the blossom of the goodness that you planted amidst your ponies. I have seen the suffering of you ponies, and have come to help you. I will teach you a way of harmony, to use the magic contained within yourselves to seize your own lives, and you shall overthrow the false gods and become free of their tyranny.”

“What shall we call you?” Chesed asked the light.

“I do not have a name yet,” the voice spoke. “What would you wish to call me?”

It was Emunah who came up with the name: “We shall call you the Mother, for You come to guide and care for us as though we were Your own children.”

The Holy Mother taught Emunah to communicate with the earth, to grow crops even in the least fertile soil and protect them against harsh weather. To Chesed, the Holy Mother revealed the secrets of crafting clouds and controlling the weather. As for Tiqvah, the Holy Mother showed her how to use her unicorn magic for more than moving objects; She showed her how to weave complex spells for healing and protection, and how to move the sun and the moon.

The three mares spread their teachings throughout the village, and the word of the Holy Mother who had come to bring them together in harmony. The villagers learned quickly and discovered they no longer needed to worship the gods, not when they could control their own lives. The earth ponies raised bountiful crops, the pegasi brought the rain and the snow where and when it was needed, and the unicorns wrested the sun and the moon from the hooves of Daybreaker and Nightmare Moon and brought them under control. Peace and prosperity reigned in Navah.

Their teachings spread across the land, and ponies abandoned their hopelessness and loneliness for companionship and joy. Their power waning, the furious gods visited every wrath they could summon upon the ponies, but they weathered every assault. In time, the worship of the Old Gods had faded away entirely, and the gods, broken by the disbelief of the ponies, fell into the empty void of Tartarus. There they lie still, plotting ways to return to power, yet thwarted at every turn.

Still today the Holy Mother lives among us. Wherever two or three are gathered in the name of goodness, in spreading the teachings brought to us by Emunah, Chesed, and Tiqvah, She is there with us, and will always guide us through our troubles; for those who extend a heart and a hoof to help another will find that they have also helped themselves.

Navahism, being the primary religion among Equestrians, is something that I've always been trying to show more about. Originally, it was going to be nothing more than Christianity by another name, but over time, it became much more, with its own lore and beliefs, as well as becoming tied into the overall lore of the Noireverse. I hope that this cleared up some questions about it!

Credit to Enduring Man-Child for helping with the Hebrew in this story. Emunah, Chesed, and Tiqvah translate to "faith, hope, and charity," respectively.

23rd of the Moon of Hunters, 1946.

The cool wind embraced Prowl as she glided and tumbled, as light and free as a leaf. Her wings spread wide open and she turned in midair, twisting to float on her back as she looked up at the stallion above her.

Maple Leaf glided above her, smiling down at her, his dark purple mane fluttering in the breeze. As their eyes met, he suddenly crossed his eyes, scrunched up his nose, and stuck his tongue out. Her laughter rose up into the night sky, and she nearly lost control of her wings, tumbling to the ground.

With two final twists and loops, the pair of thestrals glided down to the grass beneath them, loose leaves crunching beneath their hooves. Prowl took a single step forward and gently brushed her nose against Maple’s.

“See?” he grinned as he nuzzled her back. “I told you skydancing was fun.”

“And it’s great exercise,” she agreed, drawing away.

Maple sighed and rolled his eyes playfully. “And yes, that.”

He draped his wing over her body and she allowed herself to melt into the embrace as they strolled along the beaten pathway through the park, his leathery touch warming her through the coat she wore. They trotted past a bronze statue of Stinking Rich, benefactor of Ponyville, his proud stature appearing ludicrous in the empty park, silent save for the wind through the leaves. Up above them, the goddess Candrama had revealed her full face, shining down on them with her argent light, and her multitudes of children were cavorting across the indigo sky, dancing in and out of the few clouds that gently floated past.

They passed by a row of benches, and Prowl moved to sit down upon the third one. Maple Leaf joined her, his wing still wrapped around her.

“Have you been sleeping better?” Maple asked.

“You know I have,” Prowl smirked, nuzzling the tickle spot where his neck and shoulder joined. He giggled and gently pushed her away.

“No, seriously,” he asked, concern glittering in his eyes. “Are you still having nightmares?”

Prowl frowned and tucked her head against his chest; he smelled of oak leaves and potting soil. “They’ve been getting better,” she stated. “I...still have them, but they’re not as bad anymore.”

“Good,” Maple nodded.

“Honestly,” Prowl admitted. “This is the best I’ve felt since I was discharged.”

“I’m really glad to hear that,” Maple said, kissing her on the cheek. The warmth from his touch spread across Prowl’s entire body.

“And…” Prowl swallowed, her face coloring. Some part of her brain rolled their eyes at her: she had flown into heavy fire to rescue trapped soldiers, and this is what was scaring her? She took a deep breath and looked up at Maple’s eyes.

“You’ve been a big part of that,” she said, picking her words carefully. “When I came back to Ponyville, I was a wreck. I couldn’t even keep an apartment, I wasn’t taking care of myself; even Bumblebee couldn’t get through to me. But you took me in, gave me a home, made me go to therapy…”

“Had to drag you,” Maple muttered through a grin. She bapped him on the head with a wing, but couldn’t hold back a chuckle.

“I can’t thank you enough for everything you’ve done,” Prowl admitted, lowering her gaze. “But...I can start with this.”

She reached into the pocket of her coat and extracted a small velvet box, which she held up. Maple Leaf’s eyes widened and his jaw dropped open as she opened up the box. Inside was a silver ring on a chain the color of autumnal leaves, the ring decorated with carved images of leaves.

“I love you, Maple Leaf,” Prowl whispered. “Will you marry me?”

He stared at the ring in silence for a moment, then slowly reached out to take it in his hooves. Tears of joy rolled down his cheeks, shining in Candrama’s glow.

“I dreamed of this moment ever since you pulled me out of that river,” he breathed, slowly placing the necklace over his head. The ring settled into his chest. “Well...I imagined myself proposing, honestly,” he chuckled. “But...how could I say no?”

A glow of joy spread through Prowl’s chest and she let out a bubbling laugh, tears leaking from her eyes. She embraced him tightly and kissed him on the lips, and he hugged and kissed her back, their tears mixing together. The wind still sang through the trees, and Candrama and her children smiled down upon them both.

“Thank you,” Prowl whispered, pressing her muzzle against his chest.

“No, Prowl,” Maple said. “Thank you.”

Prowl's one of my favorite side characters, and she deserves more moments of adorableness, especially when they involve her dork of a husband. It was love at first (concussed) sight for him, but it took quite a few years and letters for her to start to return the sentiment. But once that bond was forged, it has become unbreakable.

Art by Miyathegoldenflower!

“Thanks, Marcus,” Flash said, taking his double carrot dog from the burro’s hooves.

“You cops keep my business alive, officer,” Marcus grinned at him, placing another dog into the food cart’s grill. “My pleasure to provide some fuel for Ponyville’s finest.”

Flash waved at him with a wing as he trotted back up the park pathway, passing a late-evening jogger and a couple sitting on a bench, forelegs wrapped about each other as they admired the stars. Prowl and Bumblebee were both waiting for him at the end of the path, standing beneath an arch of oak branches that glowed ethereally in the light of the setting sun.

“Like I said, best damn grill in the city,” Bumblebee said, munching down on his hayburger and licking mustard from his lips. “I hope Marcus never dies.”

Prowl took the last bite of her dog and finished it off with a honey-glazed cricket chaser, the bug crunching loudly as she chewed. “I know Maple will be wishing that I was eating more regularly,” she lamented.

“Part of the cop life, Prowl,” Bumblebee grinned.

Prowl smirked a bit. “Yeah. Where would we be without fast food, disposable coffee cups, and food carts?”

Flash sighed happily and looked up at the stars. “You know, I could get used to second shift. It’s been awful qui—”

“Shhhh!” Prowl and Bumblebee both hissed, causing Flash to nearly jump out of his skin.

“What?” he cried.

“Never say the Q word!” Prowl snapped through her fangs.

Flash stared at them for a beat, then blinked slowly. “You can’t be serious,” he scoffed. “It’s a superstition.”

“I thought it was, too,” Prowl said quietly. “Back when I was a fresh rookie. Right up until I told my sergeant that it was a q night.” She paused for a beat, frowning heavily. “And then we got the call about the urine balloon pranks.”

“The what?” Flash asked.

“Bunch of college kids thought it’d be a good idea to run around town, throwing piss balloons at ponies,” Prowl grumbled, chomping down on another cricket. “Piss and other things. By the time we rounded all of them up, I was soaked. Smell didn’t come out of my mane for a week and I had to pay for a new uniform.”

“For me, it was the Great Pigeon Gang,” Bumblebee said, giving the title proper emphasis in his speech. “Told my partner that it was great to have a q evening like this. Next thing I know, we’re running around chasing a group of trained pigeons that some thief was using to snatch up ponies’ wallets.” He shuddered. “I got pooped on in places I never thought I’d get pooped on.”

Flash blinked at his partners. “You’re serious?” he asked as they passed a couple out for a walk. The mare and stallion gave the officers bewildered stares as they passed, mouths inverted in contemplative frowns as they tried to process what they had just overheard.

“You’ve seen some of the weird shit we get ourselves into already, Flash,” Prowl said. “There’s a reason why these superstitions exist.”

“You know that those things would’ve happened regardless of whether or not you said ‘qui–’”

“NO!” Bee and Prowl shouted as one.

“Fine. Whether or not you said the q word,” Flash rolled his eyes.

“Maybe,” Bumblebee shrugged. “But I figure, why push my luck?”

“Agreed,” Prowl nodded as they continued up the sidewalk. The evening was still and calm; the only other ponies they saw on their beat walked past in a calm, languid pace, a few nodding to them.

A dark brown jenny with a gray mane waited at a crosswalk ahead, leaning on a cane and watching the cars speeding past with a concerned brow. Flash sped up a bit and offered her his foreleg.

“Oh, thank you, young stallion,” she said with a smile, taking it with one hoof and allowing him to escort her across the street, cars halting to allow them to pass. “So nice of you to take time from your busy life to help me.”

“No trouble at all, ma’am,” Flash nodded as they reached the other side of the street. “It’s a nice quiet night.”

The word slipped out of his mouth before he even registered its presence, and he noticed it as it slipped out of his lips. The brief pause was quickly washed away by self-chastisement, and Flash snorted to himself at his own ridiculousness. Maybe he was spending too much time with Prowl and Bee…

And then his radio crackled to life. “Any units, 10-54 at Fifth Street Bank. Witnesses report a flock of chickens is running loose in the bank lobby…”

Flash stared at his radio, then turned back and faced his two partners. Both Prowl and Bumblebee shook their heads at him, annoyance set deep in their eyes.

“Nice work, Flash,” Prowl sighed. “Nice work.”

Even long after my stint in corrections, I still get the urge to knock wood after I hear someone say the q-word. You just don't say it. You don't.

“So what’s this one from?” Daring asked, tracing a red line on Phillip’s foreleg.

“Knife fight with three wankers,” Phillip responded, shifting his position on the couch slightly. “The biggest one was trained; managed to get that cut in when I went for his head.”

“How’d you deal with him?” Daring asked.

“Through some sand into his eyes and broke his kneecaps, then dealt with the others in half the time,” Phillip replied.

“Not bad,” Daring said. She pointed to a scattering of red marks along her side. “This one was when I was sneaking into some banker’s home. The wife woke up while I was cracking the safe and went for the shotgun just as I was flying out the window. I still managed to get back to the hideout with five pellets in me.”

Phillip looked at her and raised an eyebrow. “Are we really doing this?”

“I don’t have a dick, so we can’t compare those,” Daring smirked, rolling over onto her side. “Go on, top mine.”

Phillip stared at her for a few moments, then pointed to a jagged red scar on his back. “Bar brawl five months into patrol work. This one bloke with a gutful of piss tried to smash a bottle on the bar, but broke the table instead. Grabbed a shard of wood and stuck me with it while my back was turned. Wound got infected, put me out of action for three days.”

“Unicorn guard,” Daring boasted, pointing to some spiderweb-shaped scars on her left stifle, just in front of her cutie mark. “Walked right into him sneaking out of a bank. He zapped me with that while I was flying up into a vent. Leg was lame for almost a week.”

“Hmm,” Phillip nodded, tilting his head to the side. His eyes panned down to Daring’s upper back, to a series of red lines that criss-crossed her shoulderblades. “And those?”

Daring froze, the smile on her face vanishing in a moment. She turned away, crossing her forelegs across her chest.

“Daring?” Phillip asked, drawing closer to her.

“I…” Daring took a shaky breath. “Those are from Mojo,” she admitted quietly, still not looking at him. “It was the first time I said no to him. He sent me after this drug dealer in the Everfree District. I scouted out his house, stole most of his bits and tossed a good portion of his shit in the river...but Mojo wanted me to go back and kill him. We’d been hired for it, it’d pay good, we’d be getting rid of this drug dealing bastard...but…” She shivered. “I’d killed before in self-defense, but this was murder. It was wrong. So I told him no.”

She hugged herself tighter, her shaking becoming pronounced. “He...two of the Family members, two of my brothers, held me down and Mojo...whipped me. Until I bled. And he said, ‘Let that be a lesson to you all.’” She shivered and let out a strangled noise that she desperately hoped wasn’t a whimper. “And they just...left me there…”

She swallowed back the tears that had begun to sting at her eyes, hugging herself tighter. A small, quivering laugh escaped her. “I once read in a book that scars are like a roadmap of our lives,” she muttered. She lifted her right hoof and glared at the brand mark on her skin. “Guess my map’s got some pretty shitty places on it.”

Phillip reached around and took her right hoof. As Daring watched, he lifted it up to his lips and gently kissed the scar. His smooth, warm, slightly moist lips brushed gently against the hard, rough skin.

“But that map led you here,” he said, squeezing her hoof in both of his.

Daring stared at him for a moment, then let out a low laugh, shaking her head as her shaking slowly abated. “You are unbelievably cheesy sometimes.”

“You once said the cheesy stuff sometimes works,” Phillip replied.

Daring smiled and booped him. “I said that to Cheeseball Sentry, not you.”

“Still applies,” Phillip answered, grinning.

Daring laughed quietly and booped him. “I guess it does.” She leaned in for a kiss, which Phillip was more than happy to oblige.

You don't go through everything Phil and Daring have gone through without some marks, and every one has a story behind them.

Originally, the Family brand that Daring has was supposed to be symbolic of the bias against her that comes with her criminal background, a bias that she's spent an entire story trying to overcome. The idea that it hurts whenever she gets angry or upset kind of fell into the story at some point—I'm not sure when—and I liked it at the time, so I kept it. In hindsight, that's an idea I might not have included if I could do it all over again.

With a grunt, Daring sprawled facedown across the matted floor of the basement gym, her nose filling with the scent of sweat and rubber. She turned to look up at Phillip, who was pinning her down with an arm bar.

“I win,” he grinned down at her.

“That’s what...you...think!” Daring replied, trying to squirm out of his grasp. She pushed towards him, tried to get her hind legs underneath her, attempted to roll out of the lock. But every move she made, he anticipated and cut off, keeping her pinned down to the floor.

“You’re not getting out of this,” he told her, not loosening his hold in the slightest.

Daring scowled up at him, then grinned as an idea suddenly struck her. Phillip’s face fell into a worried expression in response. “What are you thinking?” he said slowly.

He found out a moment later when Daring extended her wing and started rapidly stroking her primary feather up and down his exposed side. Phillip’s eyes widened and he began squirming, attempting to cover up his vulnerable side while maintaining his lock. “S-s-stop that!” he cried, fighting down a wide smile. “That’s cheating!”

“We didn’t agree on rules,” Daring sang, pressing her attack.

Phillip pulled away from her assault and his grip on her arm loosened. Instantly, Daring sprang up and tackled Phillip to the ground. Her hooves dug into his armpits while both her wings continued to assault his sides, probing for weak spots. Phillip squirmed and flailed helplessly beneath her, his laughter and snorts filling the room; every time he tried to cover up one of his more ticklish areas, Daring quickly switched to another one, keeping him trapped beneath her.

“Nooooo!” he howled, trying and failing to push her off. “S-stop!”

“Say uncle!” Daring taunted, leaning in close.

Too late, she noticed that Phillip had managed to get his hind hooves underneath him. He suddenly bucked his hips upwards, pushing her off him and onto the mat beside him. He quickly rolled over on top of her and began to tickle her back, attacking her belly. Wriggling and sputtering with laughter, Daring counterattacked with her wings. The two wrestled across the mats, rolling over and over as they fought for the dominant position, laughing and giggling.

Daring managed to get Phillip in her guard, batting her hooves away from her belly as she did so, and pushed him away. She tried to roll away as fast as she could, but Phillip pounced on her, trapping her in side control. He shot her an evil grin, then took in a deep breath, planted his lips over her belly button and blew a loud raspberry.

Daring squealed with laughter, kicking her legs wildly. Her training forgotten, she tried to push his head away, but he continued blowing raspberries on her belly, rendering her helpless, unable to focus beyond her own laughter.

“Okay, okay! Uncle!” she cried, slapping the mat to signal submission.

Phillip relented and sat back up, looking down at her. Both of them were breathing heavily and covered in sweat, their damp manes hanging down over their faces, eyes shining with remnants of laughter. Daring crossed her eyes and stuck her tongue out at Phillip.

“You are ridiculous,” Phillip chuckled.

“And you’re too serious,” Daring replied, booping him on the nose. “You know, laughing’s good for your health. I’m just trying to look out for you, old-timer.”

Phillip just rolled his eyes.

I dunno. I just wanted to have a scene of Phil and Daring having a tickle fight.

11th of the Moon of Berries, 1942.

The waiting room of the hospital was too clean. Normally, Phillip didn’t mind an environment that had some elements of chaos; it was inevitable that any order would crumble and fade over time. It was partly why he enjoyed Suunkii’s laboratory so much: the denizen of calm and order never failed to soothe even his most rattled nerves.

But now, as he paced from one end of the room to the other, he found himself wishing he could find some imperfection, some detail that he could occupy himself with. He’d already studied the rows of chairs along the walls, all of them unoccupied. He’d already counted the white ceiling tiles on the roof over his head (58) several times. The box of foal’s books and toys in the corner held no interest to him. There was nothing to occupy his mind with.

Nothing except what was in the room seven doors down on the left in the hallway. Mere yards away, Suunkii sat by his wife’s side as she lay sprawled on a bed, attended by nurses who were attempting to carefully coax the baby from her womb. The couple had been expecting the birth for weeks now, but Sirba’s labor had come without warning. When Suunkii got her call in the middle of a test, the panic had sent him flying from the laboratory so quickly that he left a Bunsen burner on. Sergeant Cold Case had been kind enough to give him a police escort to his home and to the hospital.

Phillip had arrived a half hour ago, after being informed by Cold what had happened. The doctors had told him that the patients were stable and instructed him to wait. And so he had waited, pacing the waiting room back and forth, feeling as though ants were crawling about inside his hooves, aware of every heavy beat of his heart that hammered against his ribs like a blacksmith striking an anvil.

A loud cry sounded from the door. Phillip stopped and looked up, his tail twitching in time with his spiking heartbeat. He had to fight down the urge to run inside; he wouldn’t help anything and would only get in the way.

He let out the breath that he hadn’t realized that he’d been holding and continued his pacing. If this was how he felt, then he could only imagine what Suunkii was going through.

The hours ticked by slowly, marked by Phillip’s progress from one end of the waiting room to the other. Every so often, Sirba would cry out again from behind the door, prompting him to pause and stare, tail twitching as the logical part of his brain fought with the protective instinct that surged inside him. After a moment, he would return to pacing. Ponies filed in and out of the waiting room, doctors and nurses passed in the hallway, and yet he barely acknowledged any of it. All he could think about was his friend and his wife in the room, surrounded by doctors, all of them just waiting and hoping.

After many hours, a particularly loud cry rang down the hallway, followed by another sound: the distinctive, earsplitting yet wonderful music of a baby’s first cries. Phillip stopped, his heart leaping up into his throat, and he stared down the hallway in silence as the cries slowly quieted.

Finally, the seventh door on the left opened and a figure stumbled out. Phillip looked up to see Suunkii walking slowly towards him. His mane drooped about his face, and there were lines etched deep into his expression; every step was uneven, and he weaved slightly from side to side as though drunk. And yet, upon Suunkii’s face, was a rare ear-to-ear smile, his deep-set eyes practically glowing.

“A boy,” Suunkii breathed in a dry, cracked tone as he approached Phillip. “It is a boy.”

A smile crossed Phillip’s face. He strode forward and pulled Suunkii into a hug, which the zebra immediately returned.

“He is beautiful. The most beautiful thing I have ever seen,” Suunkii said, joyful tears running down his face and onto Phillip’s shoulder. “My son...my son. Phil, I am a father.”

“You’re gonna do great, Suun,” Phillip said, patting him on the back. “That kid’s got some of the best parents ever.”

“Thank you, Phillip,” Suunkii replied, pressing his forehead against Phillip’s briefly. “And we are both grateful for your offer to be the promise father.”

“It’s my honor,” Phillip grinned. “Can I see him?”

“Yes. Yes, please,” Suunkii nodded. “I must...get some water. I am suddenly incredibly tired...” He staggered off, still murmuring happily about his son.

Phillip walked over to the door and peeped inside. Sirba was laying on a bed; the beads had been removed from her long mane, which was damp with sweat and hung from her head like tangled ropes. Her exhausted eyes were focused upon the little bundle she held in her forelegs.

“Come inside, don’t be discrete,” Sirba greeted him, her voice soft from exhaustion, but carrying the genuine music of happiness. “There is somepony I’d like you to meet.”

Phillip entered, moving slowly, every step soft. He sat down on a chair next to the bed and studied the little figure wrapped up in a blue blanket.

The colt shifted and turned towards the intruder. Bright green eyes, the color of a grassy field in summer, peeked out at him, full of wonder and curiosity. A tiny hoof clumsily extracted itself from the blue blanket and swiped at a tuft of frizzy black hair atop its hair; a little voice let out a soft coo.

Phillip suddenly felt a great warmth spreading through his body, all the way up to his face, gently tugging his lips into a broad smiler. He reached out and the tiny little hoof grasped his, so warm and fragile in his own grip.

“G’day, anklebiter,” Phillip cooed. “I’m your uncle.”

As I've said, Suunkii and his family were once a big part of Phillip's life. Being best friends, it's only natural that I figured that Phil would've been present at Muziqaa's birth. He might not particularly like kids (and dealing with Muzi during his terrible twos turned him off from ever having kids of his own), but there can never be doubt in anyone's mind that he loves his spiritual nephew.

“So what’s this movie called again?” Daring asked, tossing another hooful of popcorn into her mouth and nestling up against Phil’s chest.

“Twelve Angry Ponies,” Phillip said, laying back watching the projection cast onto the wall before them, observing the black and white gathered ponies arguing over the switchblade stabbed into the table. Their angry shouts overlapped with the faint clicking of the movie projector behind them.

Daring snorted. “That’s an appropriate title if I ever heard one,” she commented, pulling the blanket up a little higher over them both.

Phillip reached around her and grasped some of the popcorn from the bowl in Daring’s lap as she lay in between his hind legs. “One of my favorite movies,” he stated. “My father would take me out to the cinema to see a movie every new year's.” He chewed the popcorn. “Popcorn there was shit, though.”

Daring snorted. “Bet the seats weren’t as comfy, either.”

“Definitely not,” Phillip said, nuzzling the top of Daring’s head.

Daring watched the movie in silence for a few moments longer, the surmounting evidence convincing her of the young changeling’s innocence more and more by the moment. She gave a quiet sigh and settled into her seat a little more.

“Something wrong?” Phillip asked.

“Why would something be wrong?” Daring asked.

“Because that’s your ‘I’m upset about something’ silence,” Phillip stated.

Daring let out another quiet snort, drawing a hoof through the bowl of popcorn. “You know me pretty well,” she muttered.

“We’ve been working together since the Moon of Sun. We’ve saved each other lives. We’ve slept together. I think I bloody well should,” Phillip stated.

Daring sighed again, shifting in her seat. “I…” She grunted. “I just kinda wish that I had a dad who took me out to movies and stuff,” she mumbled.

Phillip’s forelegs slowly draped themselves around her stomach, squeezing slightly. The silence, filled with tinny voices and the clicking of the film reel, prompted her to continue.

“My mom was a piece of shit all the way through,” Daring stated, acid in every syllable. “Drunk in the morning, sleeping off the poppydust by afternoon. She died of a drug overdose back in...'35, I think, when I was around twenty-four.” She snarled. “Fuck her.”

“And your father?” Phillip asked.

Daring shrugged. “He was okay, for a while. He got me a library card when he found out I liked reading...got me a couple presents. Once or twice, he took me out for ice cream on my birthday, I think.” She sighed through her nostrils. “But after a while, mom got him under her hoof with the booze and the drugs and the sex, and he...it’s like he forgot I existed. So I ran away, and ran into Sparks, and the Family. And then, all those years later, wound up in prison...”

The projection became blurred and Daring was about to tell Phil to adjust the focus when she realized her eyes were burning. She quickly wiped her face off with a foreleg. “Didn’t visit. Didn’t write. Never saw him again,” she added. “So fuck him, too.”

Phillip squeezed her a bit tighter, his breath tickling her ears. “I’m sorry,” he whispered.

“Don’t be,” Daring said.

“If it’s any consolation, I’m sure my parents will be better,” Phillip said.

“Definitely,” Daring shifted, watching as one of the jurors lunged at Marey Fonda, snarling in hate as the other jurors held him back.

But Phillip could feel her tensing. “You nervous about meeting them?” he asked.

“No,” Daring denied.

His silence spoke volumes. “Okay, a little,” Daring muttered. “I...just really want them to like me…”

“They will. Trust me,” Phillip whispered.

“And if they don’t?” she asked.

He kissed the tip of her left ear and squeezed her a bit tighter. "You're my family now. They have to like you. Or, at least, tolerate you." Both ponies giggled.

Daring glanced at Phillip’s watch. “Hey, look at that. It’s been 1950 for seven minutes.”

“Well, crikey,” Phillip said and kissed her on the head. “Happy New Year, Daring.”

She turned around, being careful not to drop the bowl of popcorn, and kissed him on the lips. “Happy New Year, Phil,” she smiled, nuzzling him.

He wrapped his forelegs tight around his back and she tucked her head beneath his chin, using her wing to draw the blanket closer to them both. By the time the end credits were rolling, both ponies had fallen deep asleep.

Yes, I know Twelve Angry Men (which, for the record, actually is one of my favorite movies) came out in 1957. Roll with it. I wanted a scene of Phil and Daring having a new year's kiss.

Give Phillip the most hardened killer. Give him gangs of thugs, find the most tangled web of intrigue and crime that could be constructed and lay it out before him.

Any of that would be preferable to having to stand before the white door of 1273 Golden Oak Road just after noon on that cold midwinter morning, with Sirba scowling at him from over the threshold. She'd opened it before he'd even had a chance to knock at it, greeting him with those cold eyes that only a married mare could use.

He fought back a swallow and shifted in the damnably cold snow. "Suunkii relayed your message," he reported. "Said that you needed to talk to me."

Part of him wanted to complain about how her call had pulled him away from a bank robbery investigation that he had been called in on, and that he'd jogged all the way over from the precinct in the biting cold because he was short on cash and needed to save the cab fare, but something told him that that would be a really bad idea.

"You need to speak to Muziqaa: he was sent home today from school," Sirba reported, stepping back to allow him to enter. "He got in a fight at recess; never before has he broken a rule."

"A fight?" Phillip asked, eyebrows rising in surprise as he stamped the snow from his hooves onto the carpet. "With whom?"

"Two bullies, whose actions are plain, but it's his motive that gives me pains," Sirba scowled at him. "He swung first and when they stopped, he hit them still. He told me that it would be the same with Uncle Phil."

"With uncle...?" Phillip's ears rang with the accusation. The image in his mind refused to solidify: Muziqaa, the little zebra colt that he'd held as a baby, whom he'd watched take his first steps and then grow into a dancer as talented as his mother, who skirted around bugs on the ground so that he wouldn't accidentally step on them...fighting? It didn't make any sense.

With Uncle Phil.

He scowled back at Sirba, instinctual anger flaring up in his stomach. "Are you accusing me?" he asked.

Sirba started to speak, then stopped herself, closing her eyes with a long sigh. "No: for his actions, you are not to blame. But you should speak to him all the same. He needs to understand that his intentions were correct, but getting into fights will only have negative effects."

"Right," Phillip nodded, looking up the stairs towards Muziqaa's room. "You already talk to him?"

"Yes, but he needs to hear this from you," Sirba stated. "This is something alone I cannot do."

And how am I supposed to do that? Phillip asked silently, but Sirba gestured at him with her head. Sighing, Phillip ascended the stairs to the second floor and trotted up to the door at the end of the hall. The door had a paper tacked to the door with a drawing of a drum and the words "Muzi's room" drawn on it.

"Muziqaa?" he called, knocking at the door.

"Come in," a voice grunted from inside. Phillip opened the door and entered.

Muziqaa's room would've put almost anypony in doubt that he was Suunkii's son. There was a mess in every corner, with clothes tossed around, comics and books scattered everywhere, and drawings taped to almost every inch of the wall. Muziqaa was sitting on the bed, sulking and holding the harmonica that Phillip had gotten him for Hearth's Warming, mere moons ago.

"Hi, Uncle Phil," he grumbled as Phillip entered.

"Hey, anklebiter," Phillip said, sitting down on the mattress. There was a long pause as he considered his words, then cleared his throat. "So, I hear you got in a fight at school."

"They deserved it," Muziqaa grumbled.

"Tell me what happened," Phillip said, looking his adoptive nephew in the eyes.

"There are these two bullies at school, Silver Bar and High Peak," Muziqaa explained. "They pick on me and the other students." He shifted for a moment and flicked his tail, producing a faint rattling from the beads that he had expertly woven into the strands. "You know, students that are...different."

Phillip frowned. "And?"

"They were in the playground, picking on one of the younger colts," Muziqaa continued. "Throwing snow at him, laughing at him, calling him names. No one else was standing up to him, so I decided to do what you would do."

Phillip raised an eyebrow. "Which was?"

"I ran up to Silver and punched him," Muziqaa said, sitting up with an infusion of pride. "And then I punched High Peak. And I kept hitting them until one of the teachers pulled me off." He scowled. "And I got in trouble for it! Why?"

Phillip took a breath. "Muziqaa, I know that you were trying to do the right thing, but...hitting those boys was wrong."

"Why?" Muziqaa asked, clearly bewildered. "You punish bad guys, too! I was just punishing them, like you!"

"Muzi, I..." Phillip sighed and lowered his face onto his hoof, briefly reflecting that this would be enough to turn him off from ever having kids if Muzi's terrible twos hadn't done that already.

He took a long breath to give him time to think, then spoke carefully. "Muzi, when I was an officer, I had rules on when I could and could not use force," he explained. "Those rules were an important part of my work: they were there to stop me from hurting the wrong ponies, from violating other ponies' rights."

Muziqaa cocked his head in confusion. "But I thought that you could always hurt the bad guys. It was your job."

Phillip winced. Where is he getting these ideas?

"My job was—and is—to save lives," Phillip stated. "I could only use force to save ponies' lives from imminent danger." He paused for another moment to think.

"Um...Muziqaa, would you trust police officers if they had the right to beat up anypony they wanted?" he asked. "If they could attack you because..." He had to let the gears spin for a moment to come up with something. "They heard a rumor that you were mean to others?"

Muziqaa pondered the question for a long moment with a frown, then slowly shook his head. "No..."

"So, when you attacked those bullies, what if you'd been wrong?" Phillip pressed. "What if you'd gotten the wrong guys? Or maybe they said some mean words, does that justify beating them up?"

Muziqaa squirmed, doubt opening the door to allow shame to enter. "I guess you're right..."

"Muziqaa, there's a reason that good guys have rules," Phillip said, draping a hoof over the little colt's shoulders. "Because those rules separate us from the bad guys. I had rules that I had to follow as a police officer, rules I have to follow as a civilian. And you have rules to follow as a student. And one of those rules is no fighting. It's not your job to punish bullies."

"But they keep bullying us," Muziqaa whined. "I thought if somepony stood up to them..."

"Muzi, one of the bad things about the world is that there will always be ponies who pick on ponies who are different, or who they think are weaker," Phillip said, squeezing him to his side. "Ponies who think that they can make themselves feel better by hurting others. But there's a way to deal with them."

"What's that?" Muziqaa asked, looking up hopefully.

"Ignore them," Phillip smiled. "I know it seems like words can hurt, but they hurt more if you give them the power to. If you ignore them, let them slide off your back, they can't hurt you."

"But how?" Muziqaa asked.

"Tell yourself that they're wrong," Phillip said. "You're a smart, talented, kind, and all-around amazing kid who will someday become a smart, talented, kind, all-around amazing adult, and one of the best dancers and musicians this side of the Lunar Sea. And odds are, they'll still be dumb, ugly, mean tossers who wish they were half as great as you."

Muziqaa smiled briefly and hugged Phillip around the barrel. "Thanks, Uncle Phil."

"So, no more fighting in school, right?" Phillip said, patting his adaptive nephew on the head.

"Okay," Muziqaa nodded. "But can I call them dumb, ugly, mean tossers?"

Phillip fought down a chuckle. "Probably not when they or the teachers can hear you, all right?" He ruffled Muziqaa's mane and started to get up, the mattress creaking beneath his weight. "Right. I gotta get back to work."

"Wait, wait!" Muziqaa cried. "I was working on a new song. Please stay and listen to it!"

"Muzi, there's things to do—"

Phillip's protest was interrupted by Muziqaa giving a little whimper, accompanied by a wide-eyed look of innocent hope. Phillip paused for a long beat, then sighed and nodded with a weary smile, settling back onto the mattress. "Okay. One song."

"Yay!" Muziqaa clapped. He took up the harmonica and sat up straight. He brought the harmonica up to his lips and inhaled as he shook his tail expertly, producing a low rattling like raindrops on a tin roof. A low, soulful melody wafted from the miniature instrument, the notes running smoothly down Phillip's body as he settled back against the wall. The creaking of the stairs formed a prelude to Sirba's entrance: she glided in with a smile and sat down next to them, occasionally adding to the music with a shake of her own beaded mane and tail.

For a few moments, there was nothing. Nothing but the family in the small room and the music.

I really wish I could give Phil more time with his nephew in the main stories, but I can't do it without distracting from the plots too much. That, and a problem I had here: portraying Phillip, the hardboiled detective who rarely shows emotion, as a softie. I had to work hard here to show that while he does love the little anklebiter, he's not really good with little kids.

Hope you enjoyed!

Prowl dragged herself to the door and opened it wide, pulling herself through with a groan. "Finally..." she moaned, her eyes turning to focus on her target: that big, beautiful, soft couch in the center. She staggered over and collapsed onto it, sinking into the cushions with a sigh.

The sound of hoofsteps approached and she felt a hoof rubbing her back in slow circles. "Long day, hon?" Maple Leaf asked.

"Chickens," she mumbled into the cushion. "So. Many. Chickens."

Maple chuckled faintly and Prowl felt him run a hoof through her mane, plucking at something. "I kinda guessed," he admitted, tossing aside the loose feather that Prowl's quick after-shift shower had failed to clean off. "Well, at least tomorrow is your weekend."

A pattering of tiny hooves made Prowl look up just in time to see the most beautiful pair of blue eyes in the world locked onto hers. "Mama home!" Skysong babbled, carrying herself over with her hooves and tiny flapping wings.

"Hey, honey," Prowl smiled faintly, turning over to scoop up her daughter. Skysong planted a sloppy kiss on Prowl's forehead, her wings buzzing in joy.

"I'm going to draw up a bath for you," Maple Leaf said, getting up and trotting off to the bathroom. "I'll let you know when it's ready."

Prowl began to play softly with her daughter, tossing her up in the air so she could practice hovering, simple rounds of pattycake, and tossing a small ball around. Skysong threw the ball into the corner, giggling. "Catch, mama!" she gurgled.

Prowl smiled feebly, but her hooves protested as she stood up and retrieved the ball.

"Your bath is ready, madame!" Maple sang, reentering. "Allow me to take care of our daughter."

"Thank you, hon," Prowl moaned as Maple retrieved the ball and began to juggle it while making silly faces at Skysong, rolling his eyes and sticking out his tongue. A giggling Skysong didn't protest in the slightest as Prowl shambled her way over to the bathroom.

The bath was full of water topped with a layer of pink bubbles; the steam that wafted from it smelled of roses and citrus. Clean, fluffy towels were stacked next to the tub and a small record player in the corner was playing her favorite album of violin music. Prowl inhaled the scent deeply with a contented sigh before climbing into the tub, which was just the right temperature. Moaning in satisfaction, she settled down into the tub, allowing the soreness of her muscles to seep through her pores into the warm water.

She lay there in the water for several minutes, allowing her mane and tail to play about in the currents that she created, scrubbing every inch of her body to clean off the dust (and feathers and chicken scat) of her work. When the record finally finished, she climbed out and dried herself off, wrapping a fuzzy towel around herself. She sniffed the cloth: citrus and roses.

"Okay, Maple, what's your game?" she mumbled with a faint smile as she headed for the bedroom. As she passed the nursery, she instinctively glanced inside.

The toys were all packed in the chest in the corner, the changing table was neatly organized, and the night light plugged into the wall, casting a soft blue-white glow over the flowers painted on the wall. Skysong was curled up in her crib, sucking gently on her wing, the sheets tucked around her slowly rising and falling with her breath. Prowl smiled to herself and proceeded to the master bedroom.

As soon as she entered, she paused and stared. The bed was neatly made and rose petals were scattered across the surface, their perfume mixing with the faint smoke of citrus and jade incense in the burners. A bowl of sliced fruit sat on the bedside table next to a chocolate fondue bowl. Sax music crooned out of the other record player in the corner.

Maple Leaf approached with a soft smile and gently lifted the towel from her body. "Allow me, my lady," he purred, gently guiding her over to the bed.

"Okay, what's this about?" Prowl asked, even as she laid down amidst the rose petals, her body betraying her exhaustion.

Maple Leaf dipped an apple slice in the chocolate and held it in front of her lips. "I can't show my beloved wife a good time because I love her?" he asked innocently, kissing her forehead.

Prowl nibbled at the fruit, barely suppressing her moans of delight at the rich chocolate mixing with the sweet tang of the apple. "I guess you can," she admitted. "But what's the occasion? Did something happ—"

She gasped as a thrill of horror rushed through her body, forcing her upright. "Did I forget our anniversary?!" she cried. "Maple, I am so sorry, I—"

Her cries were muffled by Maple placing his lips upon hers in a kiss. Her panic quickly melted away and she closed her eyes, kissing him back, losing herself in the warmth of his embrace and allowing him to gently push her back down onto the bed.

"Honey, it's the Moon of Rain," Maple smiled, booping her. "Our wedding was in the fall."

"Oh," Prowl mumbled, her face reddening. "Maple, I'm sorry. I really did think I forgot it, and I know I forgot the last two years, but—"

"Shh," Maple cooed, placing another chocolate-dipped fruit at her lips. "I know you work hard to provide for us, and I'm proud of you. That's why I did this for you: you deserve some time to relax."

Prowl smiled and kissed Maple again. "Thank you, honey. I love you."

"I love you, too," Maple smiled, nuzzling her. "Now let me pamper you."

Prowl smiled and closed her eyes, opening her mouth as he lifted another treat to her lips.

Maple and Skysong really haven't gotten enough attention from me, to my great shame. I just wanted to write this brief snippet to show a glimpse into Prowl's life as a wife and a mother. She provides as much as she can for her family, and Maple makes certain that she's adequately rewarded for it.

And yes, this takes place right after The Q Word.

Rara stepped out into the frosty air, her footsteps crunching into the snow as she trotted out of the farmhouse. She glanced behind her at the lit windows of Sweet Apple Acres. Inside, she could see the Apples and the Pies gathered around the fire, stockings and Hearth's Warming dolls—both fabric and stone—decorating the mantelpiece. Granny was conversing with Igneous and Cloudy over hot cocoa, Limestone was arm-wrestling Big Mac as Marble looked on, and Maud was curled up with Apple Bloom and Pinkie, helping Apple Bloom write some apple poetry to go along with Maud's rock poetry.

The Pies were...interesting ponies, but once you got used to their quirks, they were all quite nice. Igneous and Cloudy were full of sage advice, Limestone was a surprisingly good cook, Marble was quite sweet and a wonderful listener and advisor, and Maud's poetry had given her a new appreciation for geology.

But there was one pony absent from the quiet celebration at the moment. Rara had noticed that Applejack had disappeared towards the end of Maud's recitation of this year's compositions, and she suspected she knew where she'd gone.

Tightening her scarf around her neck, Rara proceeded across the apple orchards; the trees, bare of any fruit or leaves, were decorated with baubles and string lights, providing some beautiful coloration against the otherwise dark gray skies. Snow fell gently atop the white blankets that covered the sleeping hills, making the city a picturesque Hearth's Warming Eve stage.

Rara walked through the northern orchards and through a thick grove of pear trees. Finally, she emerged into a clearing, surrounded by apple and pear trees. In the center of the small pasture was a pair of trees, a Macintosh apple and a Bartlett pear, gracefully intertwined around one another. Applejack sat before the trees, her hat in her hooves.

Rara paused at the perimeter of the clearing and coughed to announce her presence. Applejack looked up in surprise, then her face melted in a quiet smile and she nodded to grant Rara permission to enter.

"You're missing out on the festivities," Rara said, trotting up to Applejack and greeting her with a kiss on the lips as she sat down next to her.

"I know," Applejack said quietly, leaning against Rara. "I just...needed some time with ma and pa."

Rara sighed and looked up at the trees before them, decorated only by the snow that clung to it like a coat of white paint. She remembered distinctly Applejack taking her out here soon after she'd officially moved onto the farm, telling her all about her parents' forbidden love story and secret wedding. She'd often spoken fondly of her parents, of her mother's kindness and love of music, of her father's warm humor and determined streak.

"I miss 'em, Rara," Applejack whispered, wiping at her eyes.

"I know, hon. I wish I'd known them," Rara nodded, nuzzling Applejack's golden mane. Even in winter, her mane carried that wonderful, familiar aroma of apple juice and honey.

They sat for a long time in silent contemplation, nestled in each other's warmth. One question itched at Rara's mind, one thing that she did not know, but she did not dare ask.

"I...I ever tell you how they died?" Applejack whispered, as if it were some forbidden secret.

Rara looked over at Applejack, who had her eyes fixed on the bare branches above them. "No," Rara said slowly. "But you don't have to..."

"No, I may as well," Applejack said. She swallowed and blinked.

"You remember when the Crystal War started, Rara?" AJ asked. "Back in 1940, when Sombra declared war, blaming Celestia and Luna for Empress Amore's death." She snorted. "What kind of monster has a mare like Amore killed just so he can declare war on their neighbors?

"Anyway, in '41, when the bombs were falling over Ponyville, the draft went out and Pa got drafted. He told us it'd be over by Hearth's Warming, and he'd come home safe." She sniffled and wiped her eyes. "Should've known better...

"The bombs kept falling until '43. Mom and Big Mac and Granny and I were volunteering at emergency shelters most days, saving who we could."

"I know how it is," Rara nodded. "I was stuck in Manehattan during most of the war. I volunteered to help out in the shelters there, too, even did shows for the soldiers; it didn't amount to much, but I like to think it helped."

"It did," Applejack said with a brief smile. "We lost a lot...but saved many more."

Her smile faded away in an instant. "Pa kept sending us letters throughout the war, keeping us updated. In '43, it looked like things were turning around. The griffons and yaks had surrendered, the dragons were on our side, and we were advancing north. And then..."

She closed her eyes for a moment and took a breath, her shivering increasing. Rara gently hugged her closer, a sick feeling of anticipation forming her stomach.

"He was in Vanhoover," Applejack whispered.

Rara flinched and hugged Applejack tighter. The same images flashed through both of their minds: newspaper photographs of a second sun erupting over the horizon, blossoming into a red, black and golden mushroom cloud. Aerial pictures of empty plains where a city once stood. Buildings shoved aside and crushed like children's toys that had been stepped on. The Magic Dome, reduced to a skeleton.

"There wasn't even enough of him to bury," Applejack whimpered, tears running down her face. "Ma was heartbroken, cried every night for a week."

"And she...?" Rara hesitated to ask.

"Got hit by a drunk driver coming home from the store a couple months later," Applejack whimpered, burying her face into Rara's neck.

Rara stroked Applejack's mane as she cried quietly into her shoulder. "I'm so sorry, honey," she whispered.

"It was hard for all of us," Applejack admitted. "Especially Apple Bloom; just a baby and she'd lost her parents in the same year. I tried burying myself in the work to hide the pain, but it didn't help; just made it worse. Eventually, Granny and my friends helped me move past it." She wiped her face. "I still miss them."

"I know," Rara said, kissing her forehead. "But they still love you. And they'd want you to be happy, not moping around on Hearth's Warming Eve when your family's inside, having fun without you." She dusted some snow off of Applejack's head.

"Of course they would," Applejack nodded, blinking away the last of the tears and smiling. "I'm sorry I messed up Hearth's Warming for you, sugarcube. Didn't mean to bring you down like an overripe apple."

"It's okay," Rara hugged her and helped her stand up. Intertwining her hoof with Applejack's, she started to guide her back towards the house.

Applejack looked up at her parents' shrine with a smile. "Rara?" she asked.

"Yes?"

"I'm gonna marry you beneath those trees," Applejack declared.

Rara froze, letting out a squeak as her face turned red.

"I mean it," Applejack said, hugging Rara to her side. "I love you, Rara. And I know Ma and Pa would want you to be a part of the family."

A wide smile broke across Rara's face and she kissed Applejack on the lips again, the embrace tasting of maple syrup and peppermint. "I love you, too, Applejack," she said.

The two mares hugged for a moment in the snow, then continued on their way back to the farmhouse, towards the inviting light and warmth of the home and family.

"So," Rara said with a grin. "Should we get some mistletoe and move Mac and Marble underneath it?"

Applejack giggled. "It might be what finally gets them to move forward!"

I know it's the wrong time of year for this, but this is something I had floating around in my head for a bit. In addition to just wanting to write a sweet Rarajack story in its own right, I also wanted to explain what happened to Pear and Bright Mac in this AU, and give a bit more of a glimpse into the events of the Crystal War. I'd like to have more opportunities to reveal the events of the war, especially since it was such an important event in this universe's history.

Also Marblemac is canon in my AU because I can do that, fite me IRL Sugarmac shippers.

"Things have changed, haven't they?"

Bottgilia looked up from the bottled meads behind the bar and studied Gallus. The blue griffon was still wearing his stevedore overalls, the heavy fabric stained with oil and dust. His cap sat on the bar, next to his whiskey sour, which was strangely untouched.

"What makes you say that, amico?" Bottgilia asked, leaning against the bar.

Gallus flicked a talon at the glass, blinking at the yellow liquid as it shuddered within its container. "Mavri's dead," he said quietly, still staring at his drink.

Bottgilia glanced over at the empty stool next to Gallus with a frown, eroded and worn down over the years like its cousins. For just a moment, he could almost picture the dark griffon sitting there, spiced mead in one claw, another patting the pocket on his old fishing vest where the Crystal Crown cigars sat.

"Yeah," he nodded. "Yeah, he is."

Gallus sighed and glanced down at his foreleg. Bottgilia tried to avert his eyes, but his pupils still drifted automatically to the red marks that lined the inside of the younger griffon's arm.

"And Whitestone's dead, too," Gallus said, in a tone that made it clear that he was still struggling to come to terms with the sudden absence.

Again, Bottgilia tried to keep his eyes forward. Again, his eyes moved of their own accord to the photograph of the Gold Griffon's Head hanging up on the wall next to the bottle rack. For a moment, he could see right through the framed picture at the bullet hole that remained in the woodwork (one of these days, he was really going to have to fix that).

"Things are completely different," Gallus continued to muse. "A couple moons ago, every griffon knew that if you just kept your head down and your beak shut and didn't talk to cops, you'd be fine. Now...now we've got PIs and cops coming up to griffons and actually talking to each other. Helping each other." He took a long drink. "It's like the world's flipped on its head."

"I get what you mean," Bottgilia nodded. "Things are very different now." He cast his gaze across his bar, at the few patrons scattered across the tables. Usually, the patrons would be bent low over their drinks and plates, avoiding eye contact with everyone. Now, the griffons, thestrals, hippogriffs, and zebras who made up the Dockside's population were, even if they weren't quite up to sitting together, were sending friendly comments to one another in a warm, slow-flowing stream of background noise. It was a sound that Bottgilia only vaguely recalled.

"Do you remember a time when Whitestone wasn't here?" Gallus asked.

Bottgilia had to remember that Gallus had only lived in Ponyville for a little over a year: the city had a way of aging its citizens quickly. "Yes," he nodded, placing the next few bottles up onto the rack. "I've been here twelve years, amico; Whitestone only showed up around '43."

"Only seven years?" Gallus asked, his eyebrows rising in astonishment.

"Yup," Bottgilia nodded. "But it can feel like forever." He finished placing the mead onto the rack and turned to face the younger griffon, who was once more contemplating the whiskey sour.

"I do remember what it was like before her," he said softly. "And honestly, we griffons kept to ourselves back then, too. The truth is, it wasn't just fear that made us quiet and obedient; it was pride. We decided we didn't need help from the city, we were above it. Whitestone knew that about us griffons, knew she could count on it to keep us in line. And we paid for it in blood."

Gallus looked up at him from beneath his furrowed brows.

"The world is changing, Gallus," Bottgilia mused. "And nogriff will admit it, but it's scary for us. Seven years is a long time to get set in your ways. But you..." He smiled and patted the griffon's shoulder. "You're young. You're smart. This is a new chance for you, lad."

Gallus snorted. "All of the hopes and dreams of griffonkind are riding on my shoulders?" he asked dryly. "No pressure or anything."

Bottgilia's smile faded and he sighed. "Mavri wanted better for you," he said. "So do I."

"I'm a GED holder working 45 hours a week on the docks just to scrape by," Gallus grumbled. "What am I supposed to do?"

"I don't know," Bottgilia admitted. "But I do know that nothing will change for you if you don't try."

Gallus just blinked at his drink, then downed the rest of it in one go. "Thanks for the drink," he grunted, slapping a few bits down onto the bar and getting up. Bottgilia watched the younger griffon go, bent heavy beneath the weight of life.

Out on the street, Gallus looked up and down as he walked down the sidewalk, watching the griffons passing by. Nogriff was paying too much attention to him, nogriff looked like they were hanging around waiting for trouble...but there was something unusual.

It took him a minute to put his talon on it. The few griffons walking and flying by were smiling. Some were even looking up at the sky, cast in beautiful golden hues from the setting sun.

And even more bizarrely, there was a police officer, a dark green griffon, trotting down the sidewalk, and the other griffons weren't avoiding him like he was a bearer of the plague! A hen with her young chick even nodded at him as they passed! The officer—"Pond," his nametag read—nodded at Gallus as they passed each other on opposite sides. Gallus briefly nodded back and kept moving.

It was then that he spotted something that was familiar. And familiarly detestable.

The dark red griffon with the matted, greasy plumage and the ratty coat was leaning against the side of the shop, tossing a denarius to himself. He looked up at Gallus as he walked past and smirked. "You know you want some," he crooned, opening up his coat to reveal the inner pockets lined with little white sticks that smelled of flowers.

Red poppydust. Half of Gallus' coworkers were users; you could tell who they were with their red eyes and frequent sniffling as they struggled through the withdrawals. It sapped the strength, enslaved the mind, and ate away at your wallet. But they was gentle chains, rattling with a siren's call of relief, of freedom.

A call that Gallus had heard before.

Gallus paused for a moment, listening to the faint song brought to him on sweet miasma, then walked on. The dealer snorted and muttered an insult at his back.

Gallus should've walked on. He should've just gone back to his apartment and climbed into bed to await the next day.

What he did was turn around and head back. The officer was still strolling down the sidewalk. "Hey, officer," Gallus called, catching up to him.

Officer Pond turned around; from up close, Gallus saw that the officer couldn't have been more than a year older than himself, still fresh-faced with a hint of eagerness in his eyes. "Yes?" he asked.

Gallus paused for a moment, then gathered up his courage in a breath and let it out slowly. "There's, uh...there's a guy dealing drugs down there," he said, pointing.

The officer's eyebrows raised, then narrowed. "Where?" he asked.

"It's a red griffon in a jacket," Gallus said, leading the officer down the street.

They rounded the corner and saw the dealer still manning his post. The yellow eyes widened in shock when he saw the officer.

"Sir, could I speak to you for a moment?" Officer Pond asked.

"Pig!" the dealer snarled, one claw whipping for a pocket in his jacket as fast as a snake.

Gallus froze as the .38 revolver emerged from the pocket, the black eye rising to face him.

Officer Pond was faster. With one motion, he shoved Gallus out of the way, sending the griffon sprawling across the ground, and dove for the gun. The weapon barked once, the bullet flying harmlessly into the brick wall before it was tugged from the dealer's grip.

Snarling, the dealer headbutted Officer Pond in the jaw, knocking his hat off. The two griffons tumbled against one another in the alley dust before the red griffon managed to get on top. His fists began to hammer down on the officer, who covered his face with his forelegs, squirming and struggling to escape.

Before he had time to think, before he even knew what he was doing, Gallus pounced and wrapped his foreleg around the dealer's neck, pulling him back and driving a knee into his spine. The dealer spluttered in rage, claws flailing at Gallus' face, scrabbling at whatever flesh he could reach. A talon dug into Gallus' cheek just under his eye and he reeled away.

Officer Pond's fist crashed into the dealer's jaw with a crash of bone. The red griffon grunted once and sprawled across the ground, his jacket spilling open and revealing his illicit cargo as if to betray him.

Panting, the two strange allies stared down at the unconscious dealer. "Thanks," Officer Pond said, retrieving his cap. "What's our name, buddy?"

"Gallus," Gallus nodded. "You okay?"

"Yeah. You?"

"Yeah," Gallus said, touching his face where the dealer's claws had scratched at him. His gaze fell upon the golden badge pinned to Pond's chest as he cuffed the unconscious griffon. The seal of Ponyville and its motto, "Domus Pro Omnibum."

"A home for all."

Gallus looked down the road, to where his apartment waited ten blocks away. Where his hard bed and a fitful night's sleep before the morning shift waited. Then he looked back at Pond.

"Hey," he found the words slithering out of his mouth. "What's the recruitment for cops like?"

I have plans for Gallus, and I hope to use him more in the main stories soon.

Anyway, I hope I did him justice in this chapter and that you enjoyed!

A low wailing sounded through the dim room and Applejack opened her eyes with a groan. "Here we go again," she mumbled, flailing through the dark for a few seconds before she managed to find the bedside lamp. She winced as light flooded her bedroom and sat up in bed, shaking her mane out of her eyes and reluctantly pulling herself from Rara's warm embrace.

The night sky out the window was clear and speckled with stars, with a waxing crescent shining directly into their room. The floorboards creaked beneath her hooves as she climbed out of bed and walked over to the crib in the corner. The hoofmade rocking crib had an apple carved into the headboard: beneath it was a bundle of white and green blankets, from which the wailing was coming. Applejack gently lifted the blankets aside to behold a pale gold unicorn, baby blue curls wrapped around his horn. The little colt stopped crying when he saw her, blinking up at her with teary silver eyes and whimpering.

"Hey now, sugarcube. It's okay," Applejack whispered as Rara woke up with a grumble, rubbing her eyes as she sat up.

"What's wrong with him?" Rara asked through a yawn as Applejack gently lifted Endeavor out of the crib.

Applejack sniffed quickly. "Well, he doesn't need changing. We literally fed him a half hour ago. Guess he just wanted some attention."

Rara chuckled softly as Applejack carried Endeavor over to the rocking chair and sat down, slowly rocking back and forth with a soft creaking. "Is it going to be like this for the next few years?"

"Eeyup," Applejack smiled, cuddling the colt to her chest.

"Is it too late to return him?" Rara joked, pushing some of her curls back behind her ears.

"Sorry; I threw away the receipt," Applejack grinned back. "Besides, I think it's too late once you sign the papers."

Rara sighed with a smile, sitting on the edge of the mattress as she watched their son. Endeavor stretched in Applejack's arms, inserting Applejack's mane into his mouth and chewing on it. Applejack smiled wearily as drool started to run down her hair.

"I still love him. Mess and all," Rara replied.

"Me too," Applejack said, kissing Endeavor on the forehead. He cooed and reached up to bat at her mane.

Endeavor turned to look over at Rara, the tears gone from his eyes. "Ma," he gurgled with a toothless smile.

The smile vanished from Rara's face for a moment and she dropped her gaze to the floor, a small storm rumbling in the back of her mind.

"Rara? What's wrong?" Applejack asked.

"What are we gonna tell him?" Rara replied.

Applejack tilted her head to the side. "What d'you mean?"

"About his mother," Rara answered, nodding at Endeavor. "What are we gonna tell him about that?" She blinked at the wide silver eyes, curiosity shimmering in the irides. "Does he even remember her?"

Applejack frowned. "We do have to tell him one day," she said. "He deserves the truth."

"But..." Rara sighed and mopped her face. "You're right...but what do we say? Your real mother was a criminal who gave you up while she went to jail for murder?"

"Rara!" Applejack cried, cuddling Endeavor closer to her chest as if to shield him.

"Sorry, sorry," Rara shook her head. "But..."

"What we're going to tell him is that his birth mother loves him very much, but she made some bad choices and needed to answer for them," Applejack said, continuing to rock back and forth on the chair with a rhythmic creaking. "We'll tell him that we took him in because he needed more than a home, he needed a family who would raise him right, would love him. And we'll tell him that his two mothers and his uncle and aunt and great-grandma love him very, very much."

Rara was silent for a long moment, contemplating the little colt in her fiancée's arms, then leaned forward and stroked his face, rubbing a strand of blue hair out of his eyes. Endeavor babbled and gently nibbled on her hoof. Rara giggled and leaned forward, kissing Endeavor's warm, fluffy forehead. A warmth spread through her chest, emanating from her heart.

"Okay," she nodded. She stroked Applejack's face, running a hoof through her golden, apple-scented mane and kissed her on her soft lips that tasted of honey and warm milk. "I love you, AJ."

"I love you, Rara," Applejack whispered, nuzzling her.

Endeavor gurgled and started to play with AJ's mane again. "Ouch!" Applejack cried as he tugged on a snag. "Great, now he's wound up."

"I got it," Rara said, plucking a guitar from a stand on the other side of her bed. She strummed the strings a few times, then began to play a low tune, recalling an old lullaby that her Fillypino grandfather would sing to her.

The words flowed from her lips, carried by the music of the guitar to Endeavor's ears. He paused with a curious coo, turning his gaze to Rara. She smiled at her song, continuing to play and sing. Applejack began to slowly rock back and forth in time to the lullaby.

Endeavor had fallen deep asleep by the time Rara finished the song. Both mares gave him one last kiss on the forehead and Applejack gently set him down in the crib, carefully tucking him in.

With contented smiles, the young mothers climbed back into bed and pulled the sheets up over themselves as Applejack turned out the light, leaving only the glow of the stars and moon to light the room.

Parenthood is never an easy proposal, especially for first-time adoptive mothers. But I'm sure that the entire Apple family will be willing to support Rara and AJ's new chapter in their life.

Really, I wanted to write this to address the issues that came with them adopting Endeavor. Yes, they are his official parents now: Bright Sparks surrendered custody in jail. Yes, they are aware that there's going to be some hard questions from him down the road. And yes, they love him.

The real-life Lena Hall has Filipino ancestry through her paternal grandfather, so it made sense to me that she'd know some Fillypino language and culture.

"Enjoy the moment of passing time, enjoy the moment of a kite flying in the sky! Enjoy the moment of a naughty smile, and crack up laughing when everything goes fine!"

Rara's voice rang out clearly over the crowd at the Apple Pie in Your Eye, carried by the piano melody that she was summoning from the ivory keys. Backing up her music was a low droning and whooping from Rain Rhythm's didgeridoo, the Aborigineigh swaying in her wheelchair. Next to her, Bobby Baseline blasted out a counterpoint on his trumpet, and Phillip ran his hooves up and down his saxophone as they swung into the chorus.

Phillip kept his eyes closed, one hoof tapping against the stage floor. He could feel the rhythm through his hooves, the vibrations running up his spine to his head: his heart thumped in time to the beat, his breath controlled to carry the music. A quick inhale on the rest, then push it out slowly, let your hooves move on their own. Instinct and memory brought the tune to life, sometimes following his parents' improvisations, sometimes carrying them along with him.

Rara whooped as the song ended, and the bar burst into applause and cheers. Phillip released the reed from his mouth and smiled as the sound washed over him. He, his parents, and Rara all bowed, accepting the crowd's laudation.

"All right, we're going to take a quick break, so don't go away," Rara announced into the microphone before hopping off stage. She trotted over to the bar, where a smiling Applejack greeted her with a warm kiss. The matching golden rings that each more wore around their neck glinted in the light.

Phillip smiled briefly at the sight as he hopped off the stage.

"That was a great run, boys," Rain commented, her wheelchair humming as she carried herself up to the edge of the stage. The wheels of her chair glowed blue as she activated the levitation charm, gently floating off of the stage and onto the floor.

"I sometimes wish we could be on stage all the time," Phillip admitted. "Never have to worry about anything."

"So do I, son," Bobby said, giving him a brief squeeze. "But the real world calls."

Phillip nodded. "Speaking of which, I need a cig," he said, noting the itch in his throat. He proceeded out the front door and headed off to the side, away from where ponies would entering and exiting the tavern. Ponyville in the Moon of Grain was warm and wet, the air smelling of the river, with evenings blessed by a scarlet and orange sunset. Smiling to himself, Phillip pulled a fag out from his pocket and stuck it into his mouth.

"Mind if I join you?" Rara asked, stepping outside.

"Nah," Phillip said, flicking open his lighter and igniting his cigarette. He sucked in a breath of the mint flavor, held it in his mouth for a moment, then exhaled it slowly, turning away so the light wind wouldn't blow back in her face.

"How have you been?' Rara asked.

"I've been..." Phillip braced himself knowing that the wave of memories was coming, but they came all the same. The sunset turned into an unnatural crimson, the buildings faded away to leave behind only the doors, standing like trees. He felt, more than heard, the thing slithering up behind him, chuckles rumbling from an inequine throat...

"Phil? Phil?"

Rara's voice pulled him back to reality, and he shook his head to fling away the last of the visions. "I'm fine," he said. "Well...not fine, but I'm getting better."

"Glad to hear it," Rara said. "You know you can talk to AJ and I if you need to."

"Thanks," Phillip nodded.

"And we also wanted to ask," Rara continued, shuffling one hoof nervously. "With everything that's been going on, have you ever been tempted to...?"

Phillip smiled and shook his head. "I kicked the habit long ago. No more red poppydust, ever again."

"Good," Rara nodded. "I ask because I know that hard times can make it harder to keep sober. When I was trying to quit alcohol, I'd have a bad day or two and all I could think about would be getting a drink."

"Glad you're concerned, but I've never gotten tempted," Phillip said. "And I'm better for it. I wouldn't have kicked it if it hadn't been for yours and AJ's help." He smiled at Rara and patted her shoulder. "Thanks for that."

"You're welcome," Rara said, giving him a one-armed hug.

"And since we're on the subject," Phillip added. "Cold?"

"She's doing great," Rara said with a smile. "Completely clean for moons now."

"Good," Phillip nodded. The conversation paused and he filled the silence by taking another drag on his cigarette, puffing out the smoke.

"Phil, there's one other thing," Rara asked. "AJ and I are planning on having our wedding soon, and we wanted to ask you and your parents would be the musicians for the reception."

Phillip's eyebrows shot up into his mane. "Really? Didn't think you'd go for our music."

"We both agree: we want our family to be a part of this," Rara smiled at him.

"...family?" Phillip whispered, a strange, warm tingle running through his chest.

"You've worked with us for a long time, Phil," Rara said. "We've seen you through thick and thin, and you've been a part of our lives, too. You're kin, Phil. And we want you to be a part of this."

Phillip stared at her in silence for a beat, then the warmth that was spreading through his chest ran up to his face and a wide smile crossed his countenance. "Thank you," he nodded.

Rara smiled broadly and hugged him tight, eliciting a grunt of surprise and knocking the cigarette from his lips before he hugged his kin back.

"I'd better practice more if I'm going to perform at a wedding," Phillip said, releasing her.

Rara giggled. "You'd better!" she said, booping him as the two headed back inside.

Just a quick one I wanted to write featuring Rara and Phil. They don't get a lot of time together, but I did want to show that they are still friends.