Arc TWO: Chapter 1

Three months had passed since the catastrophe the press had dubbed the Red Light Massacre, and the tragedy had brought some much needed change to Manehattan. The mass murder had attracted national attention, and for the first time since the Southside Riots more than thirty years ago, the city’s police department had come under serious scrutiny. The national authorities had stepped in—the Guard—and were still in the processes investigating the records and backgrounds of several MPD officers. Many of Manehattan's finest were arrested outright, including the officers who had been present during the massacre. Long Arm, Ballistic, Barricade—each of them had been detained and were presently meandering through the Equestrian legal system, still awaiting their trials. Only one of the officers in Long Arm’s squad had managed to dodge a court date: Midnight Vigil.

Vigil hadn’t enjoyed a night of restful sleep in three months. His dreams teemed with vague burning shapes, screaming shapes, deformed black shapes reaching up from under piles of ash and rubble. Withered, charred and gnarled shapes, with mouths that knew how to wail and eyes that boiled in sockets like egg whites poured in a sizzling pan.

Black, burned shapes. Not ponies. Not anymore. Just shapes.

He sat up in his bed, thinking hard about ripping down the newspaper clippings pinned to the bedroom wall. He had grown sick of waking up to the all-caps, black and white headings that read, “HERO COP RESCUES FAMILY FROM DOWNTOWN BLAZE,” and “LOCAL HERO AWARDED KEY TO THE CITY.”

He didn’t feel like a hero. And even if he did, what hero in his right mind would want the key to Manehattan’s black heart? After shaking hooves with the mayor and claiming his reward, Vigil had rushed home like a schoolboy with an A-plus paper and mounted the key on his living room wall. Now the gaudy hunk of gold-painted iron was gathering dust in a closet. He couldn’t bring himself to throw it away, though. He didn’t know why.

Since the blimp crash, Vigil’s name had appeared in numerous newspapers. The press interviewed him, he posed for pictures with city officials, the commissioner gave him a raise... He had become the MPD’s poster colt, a shining example of the ideal police officer, and the physical embodiment of the department's values, morals and high standards.

Garbage. All of it. Vigil might have been young, but he wasn’t stupid. The department and the reporters and the politicians had manufactured a hero to counter the outpouring of negative press stirred up by the Red Light Massacre. Vigil wasn’t a hero; he was a prop in stage play.

He stared hard at the strips of newspaper pinned to his wall. They had to come down. He couldn’t bear their taunts any longer.

He climbed out of bed and trotted up to the wall, his horn glowing, ready to snatch down the clippings with fingers of hard light.

“HERO COP RESCUES FAMILY FROM DOWNTOWN BLAZE.”

The headline seemed to shout at him. Below it was a photograph of an earth mare sitting on the curb with a colt clutched to her chest, soot and tears staining her round face. The colt hugged her back, trying hard to loop his short forelegs around her middle, his eyes bolted shut, his mouth parted in sob.

Behind them stood a scuffed-up earth stallion, head bowed as he nuzzled the side the mare’s neck. His eyes were shut in a dreamy kind of way. He looked content. Not overjoyed. Not rapturous. Just content for the moment, like a condemned prisoner enjoying a brief reprieve.

“Family reunited after successful police rescue,” said the caption beneath the picture. One line below the terse sentence Vigil read the words, “Photo by Tracy Flash.”

He stared at the photograph, blinked in slow motion. Seconds stretched into minutes, minutes into so much useless ticking of the clock on his nightstand. He placed a forehoof on the picture and let his mind tumble back to that night. He conjured a mental image of the family, the wreckage, the ominous tongues of fire lapping at the night sky. They had been immortalized in the photo pinned to his wall, but the scene in his mind was clearer.

And the family… those three haggard survivors... they were ponies, weren't they? Not burned things. Not black shapes. Ponies. Weeping, grasping, kissing, hugging ponies. Alive and well because he had been there that night.

Vigil wandered off to the restroom to begin his morning routine. He would take the clippings down later. Maybe. Right now there was someplace he needed to be.

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

Over the past few months organized chaos had made a home in Manehattan's midtown police station. Vigil trotted through the buzzing beehive now, nudging shoulders with hobbled ponies being lead about by Royal Blues.

A steady din of curses and shouts echoed throughout the building. Beat cops argued with Royal Guards. Civilians complained to officers standing behind counters. Insults flew this way and that. Threats were declared, accompanied by glowers and aggressive pointing hooves.

And yet everything had been running much smoother since the federal invasion. To begin, arrests were finally being made. Vigil had never seen the station so crowded with future convicts, though, he hoped they were all actually guilty of some crime. Thanks to federal oversight, drugs remained in evidence lockers, cases were followed through to completion and officers were punished for accepting bribes. Even paperwork was being completed in a timely manner, which might have been a bad thing, as it was likely a sign that the end times were upon them.

Police brutality was still up, though. Way up. More and more stressed cops had been using the streets as a dumping ground for their frustrations, and even the Guard couldn’t be everywhere at once. So while the feds punished Manehattan’s police, the police punished her citizens. That fact discouraged Vigil. It seemed things were destined to get worse before they got better.

Rounding a corner at the end of the hallway, Vigil arrived at the commissioner’s office. The Guard had arrested the old police commissioner just one month ago, and had since appointed a new one of their own choosing. This new head of the department had ordered Vigil to meet him this morning at 7:00am sharp. Vigil was ten minutes early when he pushed open the office door, unsure of what to expect.

The blinds were drawn inside the office. A shaded lamp standing abreast to a potted plant emitted a low shine, counting for all the light in the room. Vigil blinked. His horn sparked, his irises lit up behind a pair of thin-framed glasses and his vision adapted to the low light.

The commissioner was lazing in his office chair, an amused glint in his grey-blue eyes. His neat mustache curled fancifully at the ends, jet black, whereas the mane under his Stetson hat was dark brown. The two colors were nearly indistinguishable, a sight that Vigil found odd.

“Quick, son, what color is my mane?” said the commissioner.

Vigil hesitated before saying, “Excuse me, sir?”

“My mane, son? What color is it?”

“It’s… brown, sir.”

“And my handsome mustache?”

A head scratch. “Black?” Vigil had no idea where this was going.

“Well smack my cutie mark and call me the town tart! You really can see in the dark.” The commissioner pushed his hat back and scratched his time-creased forehead. “That there is a mighty useful talent to have in a Celestia-forsaken city like Manehattan. Why, I figure the force could do with more ponies like you.”

The commissioner spoke with an upbeat Appleloosian accent that lent him a certain natural magnetism. He had the kind of voice ponies enjoyed listening to, like that of a singer or a superb actor.

“The name’s Silverstar, son.” He reached a friendly hoof across his desk. “And you must be Vigil. I ain’t been in this city but a few weeks and I’ve already seen more of your mug then I seen of my own kids in years. You’ve won yourself quite a bit of celebrity.”

Vigil shook hooves with the new commissioner. “Thank you, sir.”

“That weren’t a compliment, son. Just an observation.” Vigil frowned at that remark, though he kept it slight and brief. “You seem wound a little tight. Please, grab yourself a seat. And strip off all that dang armor; you look like a rusted up colt’s action figure in that getup.”

Without question, Vigil used a telekinesis spell to remove his armor and helmet, revealing the humble physique hidden underneath. His beige coat resembled the color of a classified folder, minus the red stamp, and his tawny close-cropped mane possessed a stolid militant quality. He piled his armor beside the coat rack, neatly, and took a seat in a chair opposite Silverstar.

“You grew up in Appleloosa, correct?” said Vigil. “And in a town just west of Dodge, judging by the lighter drawl of your accent.”

Silverstar brightened. “Well now, you just went and earned yourself some brownie points with the new boss,” he laughed. “I’m a mite surprised at you, son. Most city folks don’t know an Appleloosan twang from from a Dodge city drawl from the sound of a bear breaking wind. Y’all don’t get out enough is the problem. Why, if I had myself a big enough needle I’d pop the bubble all you blasted fools are living in. Not that I’m saying you’re a blasted fool, son.”

“Of course not, sir.” Vigil hesitated a moment before saying, “If you don’t mind me asking, why did you summon me this morning?”

“As a matter of fact I do mind.” Silverstar reached under his desktop and pulled open a drawer, his face disappearing behind the brim of his hat as he looked down. “We got all morning to get 'round to all that boring business,” he added, rummaging through the drawer.

“Actually, sir, my shift begins in about an hour.” Vigil glanced up at a clock hanging from the wall over the lamp. “Forty-seven minutes, to be exact.”

“Is that a fact?” The tan face reappeared. Silverstar produced a bottle of whiskey and two glasses, setting all three items on his desk. “I hope you don’t take your liquor over ice, ‘cause I plum forgot how to open this here mini…” His voice trailed off as he bent forward again and fumbled with handle of the miniature freezer tucked in a nook under his desk. “I can’t stand these new fangled models with their damnable, useless… Wait a minute!” He sat up straight, facing Vigil. “I plum forgot I’m in the company of a unicorn; you don’t see too many of your type where I’m from. Tell me son: how’re your summoning skills?”

Vigil answered by sparking his horn. There was a pop, a flash, and then three ice cubes materialized out of thin air and dropped into one of the glasses, tinkling. Silverstar waited for Vigil to the fill the second glass, but no more ice appeared.

“Not a drinker?” asked Silverstar.

“No, sir.”

“Ponyfeathers, son. You’re gonna wear an old stallion into the ground with all that blasted stricture.” He leaned forward in his seat and nodded down toward his glass. “You mind?”

Vigil took the hint and used a levitation spell to fill Silverstar’s cup. “Isn’t it a bit early for a drink, sir?”

Silverstar laughed at the notion. “One pony’s early is another pony’s late. I’ll have you know I was out fighting crime all last night—most of it right here in this blasted department. A stallion’s entitled to a drink after an honest day’s work, ain’t he?”

Vigil nodded but said nothing.

“You sure you don’t want a glass, son? No offense, but you look like you’ve been sharing apartment space with a hurricane.”

Vigil touched a hoof to his sleep-deprived face, suddenly conscious of his shabby appearance. “I don’t drink, sir. But thank you.”

“Well, I reckon that’s alright. The liquor ain’t for you no way. It ain’t for me neither, to be perfectly honest.” He laughed and took a long guzzle, emptying the glass in a few gulps. “If that don’t hit the spot every time. Pour me another barkeep; I’m celebrating tonight!”

Vigil did as instructed, disappointed by Silverstar’s behavior. The commissioner had seemed like an upstanding officer at first, if not a bit odd, but watching him drink on the job reminded Vigil of everything he hated about the force. He couldn’t complain too much, though. After all, a Manehattan cop was a Manehattan cop. Even the good ones were a little bad.

Vigil glanced up at the clock again. Thirty-three minutes till his shift began.

“What are you celebrating, sir?” he asked, at a loss for anything else to say.

“You, son! Ain’t every day a tired old horse like me gets to rub shoulders with a department’s golden colt.”

Vigil thought of the newspaper clippings tacked to his wall. “I’m nopony’s ‘golden colt’, sir. Just another officer doing his job.”

Silverstar frowned, the expression slight and barely perceptible under his mustache. His gentle eyes transformed into scrutinizing lenses, watching like a security camera. Vigil expected a remark, but Silverstar silently opened a manila envelope on his desk and shuffled through a stack of papers.

“No golden colt indeed,” said Silverstar. He lifted a single sheet of paper and tapped its edge. “Says here you tried out for the guard a few times but failed to make the cut. Is that right?” There was something new and biting in the commissioner’s tone, something that cut Vigil like a knife.

The young officer stiffened in his seat. “Three times to be precise.” A pause. “And yes, I was rejected each time.”

“Does the guard have some kinda cap on how many times a pony can have a go at joining?”

A hard swallow. “Not to my knowledge, sir.”

Silverstar smirked with razor wire lips, cutting even deeper into Vigil’s composure. “Well, maybe they should. According to this here record your pappy had himself a go at being a Guard, too.” He let out a loud whistle, surprised by what he read. “Thirteen rejection slips. I reckon the old stallion deserves points for effort.”

“That’s correct, sir. My father… he was never accepted either.”

Silverstar closed the envelope. “Well ain’t that something else. I never knew failure could run in a pony’s family.”

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me, son.”

Vigil sat forward, his colorless eyes glowering. Silverstar held his gaze for several seconds, making a contest of their stare down.

“Good,” the commissioner finally said, blinking. “That’s good, son. I wasn’t sure that baby face of yours knew how to get mean. Ain’t no place in law enforcement for ponies who can’t get mean.” He took a drink from his glass, looking like he needed it after their staring contest. “And this thing with your father… It ain’t gonna be a problem, is it?”

“I don’t know what you mean,” Vigil said, angry.

“Look, I know the job can get personal for some ponies,” said Silverstar, the cutting edge leaving his voice. “And I know plenty of ponies who joined the Guard after serving as police officers for a few years. It’s obvious you're using this job as springboard to get you where you’re going. And I don’t have no problem with that—everypony needs to get where they’re going.” He rested his elbows on the desktop and pointed a forehoof at Vigil’s chest. “But I need to know something right here and now. Are you here for yourself… or for your pappy?”

“With all due respect, sir, you don’t know my father, and you don’t know me either.” There was bass in Vigil’s voice now. He glanced up at the clock again. Twenty minutes left.

“You’re right, son. I was a mite out of line with all that talk about your pappy. I’m sorry. But believe me, I been around a long time and I seen plenty of stallion’s my age trying to live vicariously through their sons and—”

Silverstar laughed suddenly and slapped the desktop, making Vigil jump.

“Vicariously!” he shouted, beaming. “Hot damn—how’s that for ten bits worth of fancy vocabulary!”

“Sir?” said Vigil

“Oh don’t you mind me none,” replied Silverstar. “I done went and got myself addicted to them little ‘word of the day’ calendars since coming to this city is all. Now I ain’t been forcing the fancy talk none, but every once in awhile a little gem slips out real natural like. Not that a sharp city slicker like you would be impressed.”

“No, no, it’s quite impressive,” Vigil heard himself say, his tone softening. “Broadening one’s mind is always a worthwhile endeavor.” He tried to stay angry at the commissioner for mentioning his father, but couldn’t. There was a breezy kind of charm in Silverstar’s cadence that the younger stallion found irresistible.

“Now that there is what I like about you, son. You’re a thinking pony, and you got them eyes to boot. You and me—we’re gonna make a heck of a team.”

“Team?” Vigil looked puzzled. “Sir, if you don’t mind me asking—”

“Jiminy, you ask a lot of questions.” The commissioner nodded toward his empty glass. Vigil responded, using his magic to pour more liquor from the bottle. “Don’t you worry none,” he said before taking a drink. “You’ll get your answers just as soon as your plus-one gets here. Though, I wouldn’t bet three bits on her showing up on time.”

“That’s too bad—you could’ve been three bits richer,” came a voice from the open doorway, followed shortly by a yawn.

Vigil turned his head and watched Detective Berry Punch amble up to Silverstar’s desk, sporting a black eye and a noticeable limp in her step.

“Good morning, Detective Punch,” said Silverstar. “Care for a drink?”

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

Berry Punch finished off the bottle, drowning her hangover beneath a flood of new drunkenness. The drum-like throbbing in her black eye diminished, as did the ache in her bottom jaw, a harsh lesson in the effectiveness of weaponized barstools.

She rubbed her jaw as the memory of last night assailed her booze-addled mind, much in the way she had assailed that gang of Oranges, and at a dive bar in Discord’s Kitchen of all places. Of course she hadn’t known they were Oranges at the time; she had been much too drunk and incoherent.

The Oranges had been hassling a small pegasus stallion at the end of the bar. One of them kept spilling his drink and making him order another, while the others spat threats in his ear and repeatedly swatted the back of his head. Sandbox bullying—the kind of stupid, juvenile crap that made Berry gnash her teeth.

Nopony in the bar did anything to stop it, and Berry might have joined them in their apathy, if not for the unmistakable cadence of the victim’s accent. That infernal Stalliongrad accent. It had grabbed something deep in Berry’s chest and yanked her down off her barstool.

The memory ceased making sense after that. The mental pictures came in vaguely interconnected flashes, like a flipbook with missing pages. Berry remembered the barstool connecting with her jaw. She remembered the iron tang of blood on her lips, the moist thumping the sounds, the acidic burn of urine running down her hind leg.

A self-deprecating smirk curled the corner of her mouth. She hadn’t pissed herself in years—not since her first raid as a SWAT officer, and there had been bullets zipping around her head then. Maybe she was getting soft. Or maybe Manehattan had finally gotten too hard.

“You alright, Detective Punch? You look a mite under the weather.” Silverstar’s voice reached Berry through a mire of drunkenness.

She belched and said, “What’s this about, Jackboot? And why is super cop here?” Then she squinted hard at Silverstar, realizing that he wasn’t Jackboot: the old police commissioner. “And who the fuck are you?”

“Name’s Silverstar, ma’am. I’m the commissioner of this fine department as of one month.” He reached across the desk for a hoofshake that wasn’t going to happen.

“Cadenza’s soggy cunt, nopony tells me anything anymore.” Berry looked at the young officer seated beside her. “And I reiterate, what the fuck is super cop doing here?”

“The commissioner called me into his office, same as you,” Vigil responded, irritated.

“I’m sorry, was I talking to you?”

“Adjust your tone, Detective Punch,” said Vigil, glaring. “And watch your language. We are in the presence of a superior officer.”

“Did you just give me an order, junior?”

“No, I just gave you two. And I’ll give one more if you fail to control yourself a moment longer.”

Berry’s eye twitched. Two orders followed by a threat? Who did this little snot think he was talking to?

She rose from her seat. “Say that again.”

Vigil rose as well. “Control. Yourself.”

They stood face to face, so close their muzzles nearly touched.

“You need to learn some manners, super cop.”

“Likewise.”

Berry pushed her forehead into Vigil’s and blew a booze-tainted breath in his face.

He answered with a snort, challenging her.

“Sit down—both of you!” Silverstar scolded, slamming an irate hoof on his desktop. “You two halfwits can flirt on your damn time!”

Vigil pulled away from Berry, startled by the bass in the commissioner’s voice. “But, sir, she—”

“Not a word out of you, son,” said Silverstar. “I expect this kind of crap from Punch, but you ought to know better.”

Vigil returned to his seat, mortified, and Berry stood over him with a smirk. “Daddy’s got you on a short leash already.”

“Not half as short as yours, Punch,” said Silverstar. “Now put your ass in that chair before I put it there myself.”

Berry sat down and crossed her forelegs about her chest. It was too damn early for this crap. “Seriously, what is this about?” she repeated.

Silverstar reached across his desk and grabbed a folder labeled “SHADOWBOLT” in bold black letters. “I’m sure this ain’t news to you, Punch, but Vigil here ain’t up to speed,” he said, flipping the folder open. It was filled with photographs and paperwork. He lifted one photo and gave Vigil a nod. Reading the gesture, Vigil sparked his horn and floated the picture into his forehooves.

Berry couldn’t see the photo, but she saw the look of disgust on Vigil’s face. Not that his type was difficult to disgust.

“Give it here before you vomit,” she said, gesturing for Vigil to pass her photo. A wisp of light carried it her hooves. She looked down at the picture, her nose wrinkling. “Ponyfeathers… Is this a new one?”

“Yep, that there is a fresh one,” said Silverstar. “A couple of Guards found that poor bastard in an abandoned house way up in Discord's Kitchen.”

“Is this one even a Bolt?”

“See for yourself.”

Berry took a second look at the photo, wincing at the image of a decapitated pegasus. The body was lying on its side, the front and back legs bound together by a thick rope. The killer had hacked off a wing and shoved it up the victim’s anus, while the head lay beside the body, resting on one of its temples. The eyes had been carved out of their sockets, and the victim’s genitals were crammed in his open mouth.

Berry noticed the double lightning bolt tattoo behind the victim’s ear. “Yeah, he was a Bolt alright. Emphasis on was.” She tossed the photograph onto Silverstar’s desk.

“It gets worse.” Silverstar passed Berry the entire folder. She shifted through the documents and pictures, finding several more like the one she had just seen. There were photos of decapitated stallions, their heads hacked off and sewn to their own crotches or anuses. There were pictures of stallions with severed limbs jammed up their asses, with tongues and genitals stapled to their foreheads.

“No kidding.” Berry flipped through photo after photo, her morbid curiosity slowly giving way to nausea. “I’ve seen some bad ones since the start of the Bolt killings, but this is insane. These crazy bastards are getting tribal with this shit.”

“Bastards is it? So you agree there’s more than one?” asked Silverstar.

“There has to be. The bodies are turning up too fast for it be the work of one killer. But this…” Berry continued shifting through pictures, the file sitting open on her lap. “I mean, what the fuck happened? The murders were random before. Gunshots. Stabbings. Beatings. The targets haven’t changed, but where did this new M.O. come from? And why all the sexual mutilation?”

“It’s only with the males, too,” Silverstar added. “The lady Bolts still turn up dead in the usual ways. It’s just the stallions getting this special treatment.”

“What are you two talking about?” Vigil cut in. “This is the first I've heard of Shadowbolts being massacred.”

Silverstar tapped his hoof on the desktop, prodding both officers to look his way. “It’s been going on since Krieg got himself whacked. We suspect that whoever killed him has been running around the city cleaning house for the past three months.”

“Three months?” Vigil repeated. “How is this not common knowledge?”

“Because nopony in this department gives a shit,” said Berry. “That old lowlife Krieg got what he deserved and now so are the Bolts. You wanna catch the guy cutting their nuts off? Fuck that, I say we pin a medal on his chest.”

“And you call yourself a police officer.”

“I call myself Detective Berry-fucking-Punch,” she replied. “Get with the program, junior, ‘cause your little colt scout routine is starting to really get under my skin.” She flipped the folder closed and tossed it back on the desk. “What does any of this have to do with me anyway?” she asked the commissioner.

“Simple, ma’am.” Silverstar reached for a new folder amid the clutter on his desk. “I’m putting you on the case.”

“I’d love to, boss—really I would—but my partner is currently behind bars. So...”

“I know; I put her there myself,” said Silverstar. “You’ll be proud to know she didn’t go quietly. Me and a few Guards had to rough her up some before she started feeling cooperative.”

“Fuck you,” Berry snapped, fuming. Silverstar had no idea how lucky he was. If he weren’t the police commissioner, Berry would have flung herself over the desk and pummeled him half to death for having the bad sense to put his hooves on Carrot Top. Seething, she made a silent vow to learn the names of the Guards who had ‘roughed up’ her partner.

With his nose facing the desk, Silverstar opened the folder and flipped through yet another stack of paperwork. “What if I told you Vigil here is gonna be your new partner?”

“What if I told you to blow me?”

“I’m serious.” Silverstar found the file he was looking for. “You’re gonna take this case, or you and Detective Top will be sharing a cell in Stableblock.” He lifted a small stack of papers off his desk and leaned back in his chair. “You’ve got quite the impressive record, Punch. Says here you put a lot of crooks in Stableblock. I can’t imagine you’d have too many friends in place like that.”

Berry felt her muscles tense. Ponyfeathers, Silverstar was right. She wouldn’t last a night in Stableblock. She put on her best poker face and said, “I’m a big girl. I think I can handle a few crooks living in boxes.”

After flipping to the next page in his stack, the commissioner placed the papers back on the desktop and flashed a smirk.

“Well have a gander at you,” he said, the sawtooth quality back in his voice. “I figure you must be one tough pony, Detective Punch—what with all them bruises and cuts marring your pretty face. And that shiner!” He tossed up a laugh and slapped a hoof on his desk. “I’d bet the farm back home you got that beauty in a heck of scrap! Say now: how many ponies does a mare have to tussle with to get a shiner like that? Four? Five?”

Berry rubbed the cheek under her black eye. “Just three.”

“I bet they was three big bruisers, though. I bet each of them was twice your damn size.” He laughed at her through a taunting smirk. “Yes sir, you certainly are one tough pony, Punch. Toughest I ever seen, and I seen plenty.”

Berry’s eyes narrowed. “The Fuck are you getting at?”

Silverstar placed a hoof on the stack’s top sheet of paper. “Says here you had your drinking problem long before before you joined the force. Says you had a little run in with the law back in your hometown. A domestic case—something about abuse…” Silverstar leaned forward, his grey-blue eyes boring into Berry’s. “Did that make you feel big, Punch? Coming home drunk and smacking around your sweet little filly. That make you feel tough?”

Vigil fixed Berry with a look of derision, but she didn’t notice. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, beating back a wave of violent impulses.

“I’m gonna pretend I didn’t hear that,” she said, slowly. “And I’m gonna get out of this chair. And I’m gonna walk out the door. And you’re gonna go home tonight and tell your wife she owes me a thank you for not caving in her husband’s skull.”

Berry had stomached enough bullshit for one morning. She stood up and started to leave. She got as far as the door before Silverstar said: “You want to see her again, don’t you?”

Berry stopped. She placed a hoof on the closed door, her head bowed in thought.

“I’m a powerful stallion, Punch. I have powerful friends. Catch these killers for me and child services, the restraining orders, all the bureaucratic bullshit—it goes away. Just like that. No questions asked.”

Berry looked over her shoulder. “No questions asked?”she echoed, her insides twisting in knots.

“No, ma’am. You get your baby girl back, but only—and I do mean only—if she wants you back.”

“You can’t be serious, sir,” Vigil cut in. “Such an abuse of power would be—”

“You’re done here, son,” said Silverstar. “This matter don’t concern you. Put on your armor and get to work. You’re dismissed.”

“But, sir—”

“Dismissed.” Silverstar’s tone was parental—fatherly—and the bass in his voice made Vigil recoil in his seat. He hesitated a moment, trauma present on his face, his eyes, then rose to all fours and did as he was told.

Berry’s gaze caught Vigil’s as he opened the door, and neither made any effort to mask their disdain. When he was gone, Berry trotted closer to Silverstar’s desk.

“You mean what you said just now? Can you really get her back?” she asked, struggling to suppress the note of anxiety in her voice.

The commissioner nodded. “I can. But only if you earn it.”

“I’ve caught bad guys before. I can do it again.”

“I know you can.” He rose from his seat and walked around his desk. “But not in your usual way. No roughing up suspects, no searching private property without warrants and no cutting deals with criminals. No fear. No intimidation. You hear me, Punch? We’re doing this by the book.”

“You’ll never get shit done that way,” she said. “This killer—he feeds stallions their own nut sacks and fucks them with severed wings. The books weren’t written to catch animals like that. We do this my way or not at all.”

Silverstar pushed out a hollow sigh. He shook his head slowly, and for the first time since Berry had laid eyes on him he looked like an old stallion.

“It can’t be your way no more,” he insisted. “We can’t fight them on their terms. That’s what they want.”

“Then why choose me? I get why you picked super cop for your little crusade, but why me? You’ve seen my record. You know what I’m about. I’m the wrong mare for this job and you know it.”

“It’s because you’re the wrong mare,” said Silverstar. “You are the worst of the worst, Detective Punch, and I don’t mean that in no nice way. You’re a worthless drunk, a bully and the biggest chicken shit I’ve ever had misfortune of meeting face to face. You’re garbage, Punch. You're the worst kind of trash and everypony knows it…

“And when this here city sees you, Detective Berry Punch, step up and do the right thing… it’ll change them. It’ll change you, too.”

Berry let out a scornful laugh, a pained sound that resonated from deep inside her core. “Nothing ever changes. This little song and dance you and the Guard have going—it won’t last. They pulled this same shit five years ago right before The Prankster’s arrest. They do it all the damn time.

“They storm the city, make arrests, take control. And when things calm down and all the self-righteous pricks feel better about themselves—they climb into their golden chariots, fly back to their ivory towers and keep on pretending we don’t exist.”

“It’ll be different this time,” said Silverstar.

“How?”

“I ain’t worked out all the messy details just yet.” He placed a tender hoof on Berry’s cheek and turned her head to the side, examining her bruised face. “Horse apples… That really is one heck of a shiner. You wanna tell me how you got it?”

Berry remembered limping away from the bar with her foreleg slung around the Stalliongrad pony’s neck, their battered cheeks nuzzling. She recalled his smile. His gratitude.

“It was just a stupid fight.” She brushed his hoof aside, though, some part of her appreciated the contact. “Okay, Silverstar, you win. I’ll catch your killers, and I’ll even play it straight, but I’m not working without Carrot Top. Spring her, or this thing doesn’t happen.”

Silverstar tipped his hat. “Consider it done, ma’am.”