Arc ONE: Chapter 10, Part 1

A squadron of policecolts arrived at The Ringer and parked their carriages and Steamers around back. The neon shine of Manehattan’s red light district washed over them as they fanned out across the street, coloring their matte breastplates and worn metallic shoes with a forbidding red tint. They leaned against their vehicles while awaiting their sergeant’s orders, chatting, picking their noses, and generally showing no interest in doing their jobs. They were all unicorns, clad in armor that resembled the trappings of the Royal Guard. Their Crown-issued armor earned them the nickname 'Royal Blues'—a nickname that, depending on the context, could only be indifferent or derogatory.

They were ten in all, Manehattan’s Royal Blues, a small but formidable squadron. Unbeknownst to them, a much larger force of mindful gazes was presently eyeing their every move. Hotel balconies, Store windows. Bar entrances. The denizens of the red light district watched the police in silence, just as they had watched ponies flee from The Ringer during the prior calamity—a calamity that might have been prevented, or at least mitigated, had the authorities cared enough to arrive before the damage had been done.

Sergeant Long Arm, a wiry stallion in his middle years, plopped down on the hood of squad car, sullen-faced, a grumble forming under his thick mustache.

“Vigil—intel,” he said to the young stallion standing beside his car, his tone terse.

Vigil’s horn sparked, and the yellow irises behind his round glasses brightened as he scanned the building for potential threats. The spell he cast was a difficult one. It combined x-ray vision with infrared imaging, allowing him to see through solid objects and simultaneously detect heat signatures. It was a spell of his own invention, developed for surveillance purposes, and he was immensely proud of it. His personal hero Twilight Sparkle had been renowned for inventing spells as well, and he aspired to be like her in most every way he could.

“I’ve got eight warm bodies, sir: three griffins, two diamond dogs, and three more equines,” said Vigil. “The rest are cold. Have been for a while.”

“Armed?” grunted Long Arm.

“The griffins are, sir.”

“Hostages?”

Vigil shook his head. “Like I said, the other bodies are cold.”

Long Arm pondered a moment. “No hostages? Then why the buck are they still there?” he thought aloud, annoyed. It had taken his squad a full fifteen minutes to arrive on scene, giving the culprits plenty of time to escape. He should’ve been securing a crime scene right now, not preparing to raid a strip club. “What the hay are they doing?”

Vigil squinted, adjusted his glasses. “It looks like they’re… talking, sir.”

Long Arm sighed, then noticed a cluster wagon gathering at the end of the block, their drivers parking to watch the police. He sighed again. This was going to be long night.

“Tell four of my officers to clear out the spectators and block off this street at least three blocks in either direction,” he said, making a sweeping gesture with his front hoof. “We’re going in guns hot, and the last thing we need is civvies getting caught in our crosshairs.” The expression ‘guns hot’ wasn’t literal. His squad was one of the best in the MPD; each officer under his command was a powerful spellcaster. They didn’t carry guns. They didn’t need to.

“‘Block off?’” Vigil gave the sergeant an unsure look. “Hard light shields, sir?”

“No need to overdo it. A few parked carriages and some yellow tape will do.”

Vigil nodded. His glowing eyes dulled, and the shine radiating from his horn intensified. Using a telepathy to spell, he mentally relayed the order to four of his fellow officers.

“It’s done, sir,” he stated promptly.

The sergeant communicated his satisfaction with a curt, “Very good,” then signaled for his troops to move in.

One of those troops was Ballistic, a mare of unremarkable stature with a pink coat that looked stonewashed beneath her armor, and an ash grey tail that followed her like a wisp of smoke. A toothy grin broke across her features as she sidled toward the curb.

Her horn was already glowing. It always glowed, not brightly, but enough to stand out in the dark night. It shined constantly because Ballistic suffered from a rare disease unique to unicorns called Magic Excess Syndrome, or, ‘Twilight’s Sparkle’ as it was better known on the streets. The disease afflicted its carrier with an excess of magical energy that immensely raised one’s body temperature and caused violent fevers. The illness was terminal. There were two known ways to mitigate it: with expensive medications only available to the very rich, or by ‘Dripping’—a slow and constant release of magical energy through simple spells, the most common being illumination spells.

Unlike most unicorns afflicted with this sickness, Ballistic chose to Drip of her own volition. Her family was wealthy, and she could have afforded the medications had she wanted them, but she preferred to Drip. She didn’t mind the migraines or body aches that resulted from constant magic expulsion. She loved the feel of it—like she was a raging thunderhead walking the earth on lightning bolt legs. A disaster that trotted like a mare.

Long Arm watched Ballistic and the others from where he sat. He ordered Vigil to remain at his side where he could keep an eye on him.

“But, sir,” Vigil protested, “three of the suspects are armed. Would it not be wise for us to maximize our chances for success by utilizing all available—”

Long Arm cut him short with a gruff chuckle. “Listen, colt,” he said. “You see that little mare there—the one whose armor fits her a bit a loose?” Long Arm pointed a hoof at Ballistic, who had taken up position outside of the building’s back door. “When I give the signal from my comfy seat here, she’s gonna use her magic to grab the opposite ends of that building—really sink her hooks in into the walls—and then she’s gonna pull them apart. And it’s gonna be easy for her, like opening a bag of chips. Trust me, colt, you and I are over here for a reason.”

Vigil bottled his frustration and followed the sergeant’s orders. He didn’t like the sound of this Ballistic character possibly causing unnecessary casualties (and thousands in property damage) by tearing down The Ringer, but Long Arm was in charge, not him. “Of course, sir,” he responded.

Long Arm was about to order Vigil to give another telepathic command, but paused at the sound of rapid hoof falls approaching from down the street. He twisted in his seat, and his eyes widened at the sight of a cross-eyed pegasus mare sprinting toward him from three blocks away. The pegasus wore a harness and was hauling something. Something heavy by the look of it.

“Lazy morons,” grumbled Long Arm. “I thought I told them to block off the street.”

Vigil blinked in bewilderment, not trusting his usually sharp eyes. At first glance he thought the mare was hauling an armored wagon, but closer inspection revealed that it was actually some kind of mobile strongroom, perhaps a small bank vault that had been mounted on four wheels. The bass drum strapped to the charging mare’s lower back added to her load—and to her absurd appearance—as did the massive sousaphone coiled around her upper body. Such burdens would have slowed a normal pony, but the Tongueless, aloof to the fire of effort searing her muscles, was actually gaining speed.

And if the Tongueless wasn’t an odd enough sight, Vigil’s mouth fell open when he saw Twenty standing atop the metal box, reins clamped between her front hooves as she fought to keep her balance on the vault’s roof. Two bulky duffle bags hung from her shoulders in such a way that their straps crossed diagonally, forming a leather “X” on her chest. She still wore the belt she’d stolen from the murdered Orange, but her strangest peice of cargo was the champagne-colored saxophone strapped to her back.

Vigil blinked again. Lifted his glasses, rubbed his eyes. “What in the…” The sentence died in his throat, smothered by his utter puzzlement. He looked to Long Arm, who was grumbling as he hopped down from his seat and marched to the center of the road, his horn surging with magical energy.

With two hooves in each lane of traffic, the sergeant held his head high and ordered Twenty and the Tongueless to halt. But Twenty didn’t halt. She was done halting for the city’s armor clad thugs. Last night the bars of her jail cell had yielded to her—the city had groaned and bleated its submission—and now she was confident this drove of pigs would do the same.

Her lips canted in a smirk as she gave the reins a tug. Startled, the Tongueless neighed and skidded to a hard stop, wings flaring as she pivoted on her hooves. Her body turned with feline agility, and the vault turned with her, swinging wide at Long Arm like an improvised wrecking ball. Attacking with the actual vault, instead of its contents, wasn’t part of Flour’s plan, but it had been too long since Twenty had killed any cops. She was feeling reckless, invincible, and watching this pig get flatten by a ton of iron would make for a great start to her evening.

Not that she was going to see it. Her eyes were screwed shut, and cold air whipped her face as she held the reins and tried not to fly off the swinging the vault. Perhaps, she mused in mid-arc, this wasn’t such a good idea.

The masses watching from their hideaways drew sharp breaths as the vault whipped forward. There was many a clench of anticipation. A yearning for the crunch of metal upon flesh and bone, a desire to witness justice—to see one of their oppressors reduced to road kill.

Long Arm snorted his annoyance, his horn shining brightly, throwing shafts of light in every direction.

A second later, a strident clang exploded in Twenty’s ears as the swinging strong room rebounded off some kind of invisible barrier. It tumbled to its side, sliding as if on ice and dragging the harnessed Tongueless with it for several yards. The sousaphone fell from around her shoulders, skidding across the street, but the bass drum remained fastened to her lower back, even as she tumbled.

Twenty pitched off the vault’s roof and crashed down on her face, jostling the contents of her bags. She had been thrown clear across the street, and landed on the sidewalk opposite The Ringer and the squad of police. The vault skidded in the same direction, coming to rest in front of a fire hydrant with chipped, yellow paint.

More stunned than hurt, she peeled herself off the ground, shook her head clear, and then shouted for the Tongueless to flee. The Tongueless, still harnessed to the overturned vault, shot Twenty a quizzical look.

“Zebra friend, remember?” shouted Twenty, pointing a hoof across the street at The Ringer. “Go to zebra friend. Go now—hurry!”

Her order came just in time. Ballistic, who was sprinting across the street from the curb, was nearly upon the cross-eyed mare, leaving hoof-shaped puddles of molten asphalt in her wake. Sparks crackled about her horn, and a shaft of light projected from her slightly parted lips, like headlights announcing the approach of a train.

She was burning out of control, all sparks and fury, and the sight of her approach conjured a nameless, primal fear in the Tongueless. The pegasus had lost many faculties, but her primitive survival instinct still lingered. In a single swift motion, she shucked off her harness, beat her wings, and darted away into to the sky.

“Ballistic!” Long Arm shouted, his eyes climbing upward as he watched the pegasus attempt to escape. He pointed a hoof at the fleeing Tongueless and barked his order. “Intercept!”

The officers who had been charging at Ballistic’s heels suddenly broke off, dispersing in all directions. The sparks crackling about her horn gathered into a tiny blue star on its tip. She slid to a sudden stop, inhaling deeply.

Her chest expended.

The ground shook.

Her chest deflated.

The ground cracked.

The star brightened… grew larger… and for a few impossible seconds, the night was visited by daylight.

Fleets of civilian eyes marveled at the bolt of magic energy as it shot from Ballistic’s horn, awe-struck. It blurred past the fleeing Tongueless, grazing her wing, and exploded high in the sky. The resulting shockwave shattered windows in their frames, and sent a squall of hot air billowing in every direction.

A wall of that hot air crashed into the Tongueless, throwing her into a downward spiral.

“Cadenza’s cunt!” shouted Long Arm, tearing his eyes from the Tongueless as she pitched toward the sidewalk. “Ballistic, what the Fuck do you think you’re doing!”

Ballistic couldn’t hear the sergeant over the pounding between her ears, like hundreds of gongs being struck in succession. Steam rose from her pores, licking the night air, and a satisfied tingle danced down her spine, making her tail twitch.

A sigh escaped her, illuminated by the headlight reaching out from the back of her throat. That felt good. She hadn’t fired a blast like that in… her memory failed her. She stood in a newly formed crater beneath her hooves, her legs twitching with pleasure-spasms. For a moment she felt empty. It was gone. All of her magic reserves had been cleaned out in a single shot. Feeling stiff, she shook out her right front hoof, then smiled with glowing teeth as her power came surging back, like oil gushing up from a geyser. It never stayed gone for long. It didn’t know how.

She aimed her horn at the falling Tongueless, and this time her fellow officers joined her. They opened fire all at once, and the night came alive with dazzling lights and thunderous sounds. Seconds before the magic volley eviscerated her, the Tongueless pulled out of her freefall. Her wings flared as she banked hard and burst through the third story window of a motel at the end of the block, narrowly avoiding certain death.

Most of the magic bolts exploded harmlessly in the air, their brief lives climaxing in a splashes of falling sparks. But Ballistic’s shot flew farther and faster than the others, accidentally punching a hole in a high-flying press blimp. It spiraled into a harrowing tailspin, flames leaping from its damaged hull. The police tossed up a collective whooping laugh as the blimp crashed into a billboard several blocks away. Flames and thick clouds of oily black smoke rose above the city, as did shrieks from the terrified citizens—those few who hadn’t lost the stomach for watching the cops’ blundering.

Vigil grimaced as he looked toward the crash site, feeling helpless and disoriented, as if he had been in the crash himself. Then his eyes flicked all around, and he spotted several faces poking out of windows and doorways, watching. Some were scrunched in anger, while others sagged from the weight of sorrow. All stared with hateful eyes. He tried to turn away, too look elsewhere, but was surrounded.

But one pair of eyes showed no interest him or his fellow officers; they belonged to a unicorn mare leaning out of a motel window. A plush bathrobe sagged off her shoulder, and a raised front hoof covered her mouth. She was looking off in the direction of the blimp crash. Two adjacent buildings had caught fire far down the road, one of which was a low-rent apartment complex.

Vigil watched the mare watch the climbing smoke. Then her head turned and her eyes dropped down on him. Her hoof fell away from her mouth, her lips moved. She mouthed something, a single word, but what was it? Run? Go? Vigil wasn’t sure, his normally sharp eyes had failed him. Then she hastily drew her curtains and retreated into her room, perhaps having seen enough suffering for one night.

Vigil stared at the closed window a moment longer. He knew what he had to do.

“Quick little bitch,” chortled Long Arm. “I’ll give her that much.” He trotted over to his fellow officers, who were standing huddled in the middle of the road, joking and shoving each other playfully.

“Sir,” Vigil spoke up, a knot in his throat. “Permission to take three officers with me to assist the blimp crash victims, sir.”

“What?” said Long Arm. “Why would you want to—”

“Sir,” Vigil tried again, sterner this time. “Permission to do the right thing, sir.”

Long Arm stepped closer to Vigil, his thick mustache curling into a scowl. “No, you can’t run off and pull ponies out of a burning building. And who do you think you’re talking to like that? You’d better watch your tone around me, colt.”

The younger officer held his ground. “I’m not asking you. I’m telling you. Sir.”

Before Long Arm could offer a rebuttal, Vigil shoved past him, sprinting down the road toward the crash site.

-------------------

During the commotion with the Tongueless and the felled blimp, Twenty had dragged the vault up on the curb, putting between herself and the distracted officers. Angry hairs bristled on her neck as she hurried to unlock it. She didn't care about the Tongueless mare's well being, but watching so many cops gang up on one pony filled her with a familiar, mindless rage. She would kill them all, she promised, her hooves fumbling with the vault's combination lock. They would scream and bleed and die tonight, and tomorrow morning the sun would rise over a brighter, better, healthier world.

She twisted the lock, mouthing each number as she found them on the dial.

Since the box was on its side, the door dropped open like a lowered drawbridge, forcing Twenty to step away before being crushed. The walls of the box had been thick enough to block out the noisy stirring of the creatures trapped inside, but now that the door stood open, the police heard a steady buzzing sound. They ceased their jabbering and searched for the sound’s origin.

The buzzing grew monstrous as a swarm of parasprites billowed out from the open vault, slobber wetting their mouths like rabid dogs. The district’s neon light reflected off their opaque eyes. Each pair was a different color, and together they resembled a swarm of stained glass shards as they fanned out above the street.

They had been Blood Orange’s parasprites before Twenty and Flour stole them earlier today. And like all of Blood’s pets, they were very, very hungry. Flour claimed that Blood had altered them in strange ways, given them a taste for flesh. A frightening thought, one that Twenty had hoped wasn’t true.

Long Arm gave a start. “Officers, fall back!” he ordered. Then he pointed a hoof at the swarm and shouted, “Barricade, contain!”

A short, pudgy unicorn remained in the center of the road, while the others fled back the sidewalk, ducking behind parked carriages. Sun-yellow light appeared on his stubby horn. As it grew brighter, a yellow sphere of hard light began forming around the cloud of advancing parasprites.

The spell was simple—an elementary force field—but containing the great buzzing, shuddering mass of parasprites proved a grueling task. There were droves of them, and they were multiplying inside the sphere, coughing up their offspring in that disturbing way of theirs.

As difficult as it was, Barricade suffered from the same illness as Ballistic, making him immensely powerful. But instead of maintaining a constant illumination spell, Barricade’s Drip took the form of a hard-light shield that covered his body like a second skin. The shield was thin, only capable of protecting him from minor impacts. He didn’t burn as hot as Ballistic, no steam rose from his pores, but the shield made his fur glow, adding a faint yellow tint to his otherwise drab grey coat.

He trapped the swarm easily enough, and managed to hold them despite their multiplying.

Long Arm wiped his brow and breathed a sigh of relief. Barricade turned to his fellow officers and began swaggering back toward the curb, beaming stupidly, his prize of a thousand or so parasprites in tow.

He didn’t hear the clang of hooves impacting steel, nor did he see the vault leap up from behind him and arc through the air. But he felt it. He felt the heavy metal box crash down on his lower back, shattering his spine. It crushed his waist, his hips, his back legs. A horrid cry flew from him. The pain was unbearable, but his hard-light shield kept him from slipping into shock and losing consciousness. It did more than protect his body, it protected his mind as well, his senses, keeping him awake and alert. It also kept the initial impact from killing him outright.

The sphere trapping the parasprites popped like a soap bubble, and the newly freed insects swarmed him. Sparks jumped as they chomped at his magic exoskeleton, singeing their faces but not getting through.

A triumphant neigh escaped Twenty. Again, she was impressed with her own power. First the bars, then the Orange’s neck, and now this! Bucking the vault with enough force to move it would have been impressive on its own, but she had launched it through the air, tossed it like a bale of hay. She stood on the curb opposite the cop’s position, smiling at the Long Arm. She felt invincible. Indomitable! If a bullet had struck her chest at that exact moment, it would have bounced off.

Now the stage was set. The police on one side of the street. Twenty on the other. And a cloud of hungry parasprites in between.

“Fuck me,” groaned Long Arm. His horn ignited as he and his officers hurried to eliminate the parasprites. They fired volleys into the swarm, but the insects were still multiplying, quickly becoming too numerous to deal with.

Neighing like a bronco, Twenty sprinted headlong through the swarm and attacked any officer she could get her hooves on. It was a crazy thing to do, but tonight was a crazy night. And anyway, she was invincible. If Manehattan could no longer hurt her, neither could a few thousand starving insects.

The officers fought back, but their magic was proving useless against the little monsters. They were too numerous, and their numbers grew with every passing second. Only Ballistic was safe. She was burning so hot that all attacking parasprites were cooked before coming too near, like moths electrified by a pony-shaped bug-zapper. They dropped to the ground as she strolled through the swarm, their wings twitching in their final moments of life.

She trotted toward Twenty, who was towering above the broken officer and repeatedly stomping his skull. Five parasprites had latched onto various parts of her body, their teeth digging into skin, drawing blood, but she was invincible and paying them no mind. They couldn’t hurt her; she would deal with them in a moment.

As Ballistic neared, her aura scorched the parasprites clinging to Twenty’s body, killing them. Feeling the sudden heatwave, Twenty looked up from the dead officer and found Ballistic standing in front of her. Their eyes met, and something sinister passed between them—a strange understanding of some kind. They were drawn to each other, naturally, like lightning to a lightning rod.

The streets raged around them. The swarm snatched up fleeing civilians, ripping them apart in seconds, and stray attacks unleashed by the police added to the slaughter. The carnage that had manifested inside the club was repeating itself on the street, but neither Twenty nor her unicorn counterpart paid it any mind. Their worlds had shrunken to a single focus: each other. For now, nothing else mattered.

“Ballistic,” said the unicorn.

“Twenty,” replied the earth pony.

“You tossed that vault on little Barricade, yeah? How’d you do that without magic?”

Twenty smirked. “I am having my own kind of magic, comrade,” she said, raising a hoof off the ground. “And I am not needing horn to use it. Is in hooves. Is good for breaking useless things like asshole pigs, da?” Twenty rested her hoof of what was left of the dead cop’s smashed head.

Ballistic inched closer. “Can I?” She gestured toward one of Twenty’s forelegs.

Twenty indulged the officer, raising her leg and flexing it.

“Oh,” said Ballistic, placing a hoof on Twenty’s brawny foreleg. “That is something. But tell me, Twenty: do you feel that?” Ballistic kept her hoof on Twenty’s leg and raised her body temperature, burning hair and skin. “That’s real magic. Real power. You’re strong, yeah, and you’re even kind of cute. But let’s not kid ourselves; I could turn you inside out with a thought.”

“You could, comrade,” agreed Twenty. “But I think you are wanting fairer fight. I suspect it is reason I am still breathing.”

Ballistic backed away from Twenty. The light from her jack-o-lantern grin dimmed. “One sixth,” she said confidently. “You get one sixth of my full power. Think your muscles can keep up with that?”

“You are underestimating me, comrade. By all means, use all of your magic if you like. I will be crushing your skull just the same.”

A delighted shiver coursed through Ballistic, like what a mare feels under a tender kiss. The thought of somepony being able to crush her skull—to even lay a hoof on her was… exhilarating. How long had she lived in this cardboard world that couldn’t hurt her, couldn’t even touch her? Years ago, she decided to move to Manehattan because she’d heard it was the most dangerous place in Equestria; and she joined the force in hopes of throwing herself at the forefront of that danger.

But she had been lied to. Manehattan was no more dangerous than any other place she had visited. It was all hype—a city made of plush concrete. And its so-called criminals were the worst. They carried popguns and brandished toy knives, foals pretending to be hardened killers.

Ballistic stripped away her armor.

Twenty dropped her saxophone, her duffle bags.

Ballistic snorted. Twenty neighed. And an unstoppable force met an immovable object.