Author's Notes:

ATTENTION READERS. THIS IS NOT AN UPDATE.

Sorry about the false update, guys. I am planning to post a new chapter soon (hopeful before the end of this week), but for now I'm just touching up a few things.This particular chapter was a bit long, so I split it in two--that's all.

See you in a few.

Arc TWO: Chapter 2

Acrylic didn’t wear a smock while he painted, observed Filthy Rich, and his ebony coat was perpetually splotched with a rainbow of metallic colors—shimmering greens and blues and reds and oranges. A yellow mane wreathed about his face in girlish curls, and his neon pink tail coiled like a chameleon’s. Filthy didn’t know which was his natural hair color—yellow or pink or neither—a topic he often mulled over while posing for the eccentric artist.

Well, not exactly posing. During their two hour sessions, Acrylic offered Filthy a pillow to sit on, or not, and told him to “be yourself”. Then he proceeded to stand behind his canvas and paint, holding his brush in a wisp of magical ebony light.

For Filthy Rich, ‘being himself’ usually involved a lot of pacing around Acrylic’s studio, a spacious rectangular ro

om hung with replicas of various masterpieces painted by the renowned artist himself. The originals, Acrylic claimed, resided in museums, the personal galleries of numerous Equestrian celebrities, and in piles at the city dump. When Filthy asked him once why he kept the replicas in his studio, Acrylic told him, “It’s a good for a stallion to remember his failures, or he’ll make the same ones again and again.”

Pacing the studio now, as he often did, Filthy gazed up at the paintings. One of them was an oil painting of the Wonderbolts, a portrait that won Acrylic national acclaim and was later made into a poster by advertising companies. His first and single greatest failure, according to the artist himself.

A myriad of other paintings lined the walls, the most fascinating of which was a portrait Equestria’s Elements of Harmony. Acrylic painted the six young heroines in a casual group-photo style pose, with black rectangular bars censoring their eyes, leaving their smiles visible underneath. Filthy wasn’t sure what kind of statement the artist had been trying to make, if any, but it was a fascinating conundrum to puzzle over.

Perhaps the most intriguing thing about Acrylic’s work was that he didn’t seem to have a style. There were shades of expressionism riddled throughout his work, mixed in with touches of realism, surrealism, abstraction, modernism, postmodernism, and a plethora of blatant plagiarisms stolen from other artists.

Torrid Cutie Mark—a painting of a young mare glancing at her flank to find the petals of her sunflower cutie mark wilting—was an exact copy of a painting of the same name by one of Acrylic’s peers: a talented Fillydelphia native named Stipple. Acrylic had claimed the piece was completely original, but it was rejected by critics until Stipple himself stepped forward and praised it as the single greatest contribution to the art world he had seen in decades. It was the only painting Acrylic didn’t consider a failure.

“What inspired it?” asked Filthy, pointing up at Torrid Cutie Mark. “Why copy another pony’s work?”

Acrylic glanced around his canvas. “If you think that painting is a replica of Stipple’s work, then you are a fool Mr. Rich. And if you think a style as intricate and masterful as Stipple’s can be replicated, than you are the biggest fool I know.”

He spoke boldly to Filthy Rich, as if he were just another pony who had wandered into his studio. Filthy liked that about Acrylic. There was something to be said about a stallion who could look down on the second most powerful crime boss in Manehattan and call him a fool.

“Have I ever told you how that painting came to be?” said Acrylic, returning to his work as he spoke. When Filthy didn’t answer, Acrylic took his silence to mean no. “One day Stipple came to me and requested a portrait, just as you have, and when I looked at him, I saw Torrid Cutie Mark. I paint what I see, Mr. Rich, I don’t know any other way.”

“You’re saying this is actually a portrait of Stipple?”

“I’m saying all of my paintings are portraits.”

Filthy’s eyes swept across the wall. He saw numerous paintings of ponies, but his eyes also fell on images of landscapes, objects, intricate line patterns—like blueprints drawn by an architect.

“I’ll never understand you artistic types,” said Filthy, a note of pompous dismal in his voice.

“What’s to understand?” asked Acrylic, earnestly. “A stallion is more than his face and his cutie mark. Stipple taught me that. Did you know he is a changeling?”

“Really?” Filthy had never imagined one of those parasites could be so intelligent or talented. He left Torrid Cutie Mark where it hung, scanning the walls for something new to admire.

“I couldn’t help but notice the range encapsulated in your work,” he said. “Your paintings don’t just look different. They feel different.”

“No two ponies are alike. I see them differently, and so I must paint them differently.”

Filthy let out a snorting laugh. “And I suppose you can ‘see into a pony’s soul’ or somesuch nonsense.”

“Don’t be absurd,” said Acrylic, returning Filthy’s laugh. “My powers of perception are no greater than anyone else’s. I only paint what I see, and I can only see what is shown to me. Perception is truer than the truth, Mr. Rich. There is no ‘true self’, no ‘real you’. We are all portraits to be seen and interpreted by others. My eyes validate your existence, and yours do the same for me.”

“Sounds like a lot of changeling philosophy to me” said Filthy. “The insignificance of the individual. The reliance on the community—the ‘other’—as a means of deriving purpose.”

“Ah, you know of changeling culture?” A new liveliness bloomed in Acrylic’s tone. He looked around his canvas at Filthy, a smile tugging at the corners of his tiny mouth. “I’ve always admired their elastic way of life. Did you know only the queen of a colony is born female? The rest are genderless. Can you imagine the social mores of a culture with such freedom of identity?”

Acrylic’s eyes lit up with something passionate and deeply infatuated. Filthy tossed him a knowing chuckle.

“You were in love with Stipple,” Filthy laughed. “You still are.”

Acrylic’s suddenly red face disappeared behind his canvas. “How could I not? He showed me exactly what I wanted to see.”

Filthy began pacing the room again, staring up at the other paintings. “Well I won’t deny a stallion his passions. But there’s nothing to your changeling philosophy.”

“No?”

“Of course not. A stallion makes his own way, he doesn’t need others to vindicate his existence. His hoofprints in the sand are vindication enough.”

“Again you show your ignorance, Mr. Rich,” said Acrylic. “The ‘other’ is not limited to ponies, or even other forms of life. A stallion must have sand shift if he is to leave an impression. He must have ground to walk on.”

“You are a gifted artist, my friend, but you spout nonsense.”

“That is the trouble with you wealthy stallions,” said Acrylic, speaking critically now. “You are islands. Detached from others and thinking only of yourselves.”

“We are towers,” Filthy returned. “We reach for greater heights.”

“Ah, but towers stand alone as well, don’t they? And unlike islands, time inevitably reduces them to rubble.”

Rubble? Impossible. Filthy Rich had seen rubble. His father had climbed up from the rubble of poverty, and he didn’t stop climbing until the highest mountaintop rested beneath his hooves. And now his son Filthy had reached the clouds—a featherless pegasus, or perhaps an alicorn without wings or a horn.

Acrylic loved the changelings because they could be whatever they wished. But Filthy knew that a pony could do the same, provided he had the proper resources.

Eventually Filthy’s pacing brought him to his favorite portrait in Acrylic’s gallery. It was not only the artist’s single most suburb piece of artwork, but the reason Filthy had sought Acrylic’s talents in the first place.

He looked up at an oil painting of his father, Stinkin’ Rich, admiring how thoroughly Acrylic had rendered the old stallion’s features: his strong jaw and brooding regal eyes. Filthy was standing beside Stinkin’ in the portrait, just a colt then, a miniature of his father that would someday loom larger than either parent or son ever dreamed possible.

Sometimes Filthy wondered what his father would think of Zap Apple Inc. if he were still alive to today. During his twilight years, Stinkin’ had expressed disapproval toward his son’s budding criminal enterprises, but in those days Filthy hadn’t been using his father’s international business as a cover to transport illicit drugs to and from the war torn griffin territories. The drug scene was much bigger overseas, and Filthy had moved the family business to Manehattan in order take to advantage of the city’s eastern seaports.

After migrating to Manehattan, he tripled his father’s fortune in less than a decade. Of course certain… measures had to be taken, some of them extreme. Enforcers were hired to protect his assets and his family. Police and politicians were paid to look the other way. And lives were bought, sold and traded like so much equine cattle, all the in the name of progress… Or perhaps greed…

“Did you know he died hating me?” said Filthy, staring up at the portrait of his father. “He wasn’t an altruistic stallion; he never used his money to improve the world beyond his own doorstep.” His voice was distant, almost sad. “But his ambitions had limits, whereas mine are boundless. There are nights when I lay awake and think about him. I can’t decide which of us is the better stallion.”

“No pony is better than another,” said Acrylic. He’d hardly touched his canvas during today’s session and the two hours were nearly up. “That’s another problem plaguing you wealthy fools. You think of everything as more or less, better or worse, when some things are simply different.”

“Different like loving a changeling?”

Acrylic smiled, though he heard disdain in Filthy’s voice. “Perhaps. But I promise you the changelings are wiser creatures than us equines.”

“They are parasites,” Filthy scoffed. “Lowly, desperate animals that feed on the love of others.”

At Filthy’s remark, a sudden peal of laughter flew from Acrylic’s throat, a vivacious sound that rebound off the walls, shaking the pictures in their frames. “And what else is there to eat!” he practically shouted. “I have encountered many simple minds in my days, but you are a special case, Mr. Rich.”

Filthy didn’t normally resent being called foolish by Acrylic, but something about the artist’s laugh upset him.

“Let me put it another way,” Acrylic continued. “When I was foal I wanted my friends and family to recognize my artistic talent. When I was a young stallion attending university, I wanted praise from peers, and when I graduated I wanted it from the critics. After winning both, I longed for the nation’s love. And now that I have Equestria, I want the world.” He paused and made a single stroke on his canvas. “You see, Mr. Rich, I am also a greedy stallion. But you and I are different in one crucial way.”

“And what way is that?”

“I understand that my road has no end, and in turn have learned to love the journey.” He gave his canvas another stroke, smiling as if something were finally emerging. “But you… You are forever seeking an end that is not coming. And worse, you expect to find some satisfaction when you reach it.”

“What use is having a goal you never plan to obtain?” Filthy’s patience with Acrylic had nearly reached its end. Normally he enjoyed his debates with the peculiar artist, but tonight too much of his being had come under scrutiny.

Filthy didn’t need the ‘other’. He didn’t need love or the philosophy of insects. He had exceeded his father and become his own stallion, and he had done it with his own wits.

“It’s been weeks now, Acrylic,” he said sternly. “I’ve given you enough time. Finish my portrait soon or I will take my business elsewhere.”

Acrylic made a few more lazy strokes, then stepped back from his canvas and took in the entire painting. He smiled. For the first time in a long time, he seemed happy with his work.

“Come and take look, Mr. Rich,” he said, waving for Filthy to join him behind the canvas. “And remember, a stallion is more than his face and his talent.”

Filthy Rich stood beside Acrylic and stared at his portrait, his cheeks flushing hot with anger.

“Is... is this your idea of joke!” he shouted.

“No. I simply painted what you showed me, Mr. Rich. Perhaps it is what you have been moving toward your entire life. Perhaps it is the end of your road.”

Filthy looked to Acrylic, fury in his face, then back to the painting.

The stallion in the portrait stared at Filthy Rich with dignified eyes that rival his father’s. A neatly parted mane sat atop his angular head—green and crisp like a newly printed bit note—and the handsome face beneath hid his advanced age. His humble tailored suit at once betrayed his affluence and likened him to the common pony. He might have been the CEO of a multibillion dollar corporation, or bricklayer dressed up in his Sunday’s best.

The mare standing beside him possessed a rare and stunning beauty, her sky blue eyes glowing with pride, and the rail-thin colt on his opposite side held an air of cunning that was far beyond his years.

They were attractive. Intelligent. Dignified. Wealthy…

Perfect.

They were the ideal Manehattan family, and the green-haired stallion knew it. The knowledge resided in his smug face; Filthy could see it in the faint upward curl of his handsome mouth. That nearly imperceptible smirk. Always there. Always taunting him.

As he stared at the portrait, it dawned on him that perhaps Acrylic was right. Perhaps these three perfect ponies were his ‘other’. Perhaps they had been placed on this earth—in this city—to validate his own existence.

Whatever the case, he felt their collective iron grip around his neck. They were holding him back, just as his father had tried to hold him back.

He needed to be rid of them. He needed to be rid of the Oranges.

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

Filthy Rich sat at the far end of a rectangular mahogany table, bored, his mind scurrying elsewhere and getting lost in a marshland of half-formed daydreams. His business associates were discussing stock shares, or fractional dips in monthly sales, or some other dull corporate drudgery that could no longer hold Filthy’s attention. He had conquered the corporate world years ago; it had no more challenges to fling at him, no more dilemmas to halt his never-slowing assent.

He half-listened to their meaningless prattle, his back hoof tapping out a monotone beat under the table. Everypony in the boardroom could hear the disruptive noise, but none dared suggest that Filthy stop. They continued discussing their business as if Filthy were invested in the conversation, periodically tossing him yes-or-no questions that he answered with nods, grunts, head shakes or vapid stares. He knew they had grown weary of his disinterest with company affairs, but he didn’t care in the slightest.

At the end of the board meeting somepony mentioned the minute loss of revenue a second time, and Filthy left the office building with thoughts of a different kind of financial loss weighing on his mind. Coinciding with Krieg’s murder, a new drug had flooded Discord’s Kitchen, and much of Filthy’s customer base had begun heading uptown to get their fixes.

Bothersome, especially since this new drug had originated in Discord's Kitchen, specifically in Shanty Alley on the far westside—as far west as one could go before reaching the ocean. Had the cooks and dealers been stationed anywhere else, Filthy might have had a chance to buy them off. But drugs in the Kitchen meant the Daughters were responsible, and Primary’s gang lived and died by their own code. They couldn’t be bought. Their brand of crazy wasn’t for sale.

It was still early in the nondescript winter day when Filthy arrived at the front entrance of Orange Groves Hotel and Casino, a grandiose assemblage of white-gold buildings that spanned the length of two city blocks. They loomed large at the edge of Manehattan’s upper eastside, the still waters of the Hoofson Bay serving as a majestic backdrop.

Filthy was there to meet with his overseas business associates to discuss what was to be done about this new drug, and about the loss of revenue. Most of them were griffins still living in their own war-torn country, frightening battle-tested creatures who had known nothing but conflict, famine and plight their entire lives. Filthy didn’t trust any of them. Still, he relied on the brutes to facilitate the exchange of narcotics between their countries.

He stepped through the revolving door and into a pristine lobby, where he spotted Alto, his bodyguard, flirting with a homely mare standing behind the receptionist’s desk. The mare toyed with her frayed mane as Alto showered her with insincere compliments, her eyes locked on his smooth-talking lips. A designer sweat jacket and matching scarf shielded Alto’s burgundy-coated frame from the cold. Both garments were Hoity Toity originals from this year’s winter line: five hundred bits for the jacket and another two-fifty for the scarf.

Ridiculous, Filthy thought with a wry head shake as he approached the counter. Even he didn’t spend that kind of money on clothing, and especially not on casual clothing.

Alto’s horn lit up, and a wisp of scarlet light reached into his jacket pocket and fished out a crumpled receipt from a five-star restaurant. “Tell you what, gorgeous,” he said to the mare, using his magic to pluck the pen from behind her ear. “I’m staying on the forty-fourth floor, room 4431—” He scribbled the number on the back of the receipt and slid it to her across the counter. “Stop by when you’re finished here and we’ll hit the town tonight. I can take you anywhere you—”

“Good afternoon miss. Or is it still morning? It’s so hard to tell with the dreary winter sky hanging overhead.” Filthy offered the mare an amiable smile, the expression as practiced as it was kind. “Could you help me, dear? I seem to have misplaced my card key and need a replacement right away. I’m staying in room 4431.”

The mare blanched and drew back. “Ra-ra-right away, Mr. Filthy—”

“Please,” he interrupted gently. “Call me Rich.”

“Right away, Mr. Rich.” The mare scurried off into a back room. Alto was sure she wasn’t coming back.

“Damn it, Filthy. Your crusty old mug just scared away tonight’s catch,” said Alto, his smooth voice gliding out like an R&B song.

Filthy started toward the elevator, gesturing for Alto to follow. “You should be thanking me, Alto,” he said with a laugh. “You were about to catch an angler.”

Alto trotted beside Filthy, his shaggy, wolf-like tail flagging behind him. “I like anglers. They appreciate nice things, and they work harder for the guy holding the fishing pole.”

Filthy chuckled and shook his head. “Where is your brother? I specifically told him to be here at noon.”

“Tony had some business to deal with downtown.”

“Business that was more important than a direct order from me?”

“Yeah. Something about settling a beef with Wisp. You know Wisp, right?

“The albino?” Filthy asked.

“That’s the one,” said Alto. “Apparently Wisp was pissed off about Tony capping some one-eyed broad. They’ve been kicking each others' asses up and down the lower westside for close to a week.” He gave Filthy a bemused look. “I’m surprised you don’t already know this, boss.”

Filthy was surprised too. “And you and your brothers have just been allowing this to go on? What if Baritone gets himself killed?”

“Tony’s a big colt, boss, he can handle himself.” said Alto. “And have you ever seen that Wisp guy? They say he can walk through walls and turn invisible and shit. No way I’m tangling with a freak like that.”

Filthy and Alto arrived at a hallway full of elevators. They approached the nearest one, and Alto pressed a button on the wall.

“And what about the others?” asked Filthy.

Alto’s mood dimmed. “Soprano had another episode two nights ago. Tenor’s with him at the hospital right now. The doctors say Soprano’s meds aren’t working anymore.”

Filthy’s mood dimmed as well. Soprano was a valuable asset, one he couldn’t afford to lose.

The elevator gave a soft ping and the doors slid open. A pair of earth stallions leaving the elevator gave a start upon seeing Filthy Rich. They glowered at Alto and Filthy as they walked by, and Alto glowered back, his horn lighting up reflexively. Filthy, however, simply offered his practiced smile and waited for them to pass by. Each had images of orange slices on their flanks.

“I’ve never seen those two around before,” said Alto, watching the stallions as they trotted down the hall. “They’re like fucking hydra heads. You chop off one and two more grow in its place.”

They stepped inside the elevator and Alto pressed the button marked “44”. The elevator’s back wall was made of glass, and once the metal box traveled high enough, the view became exquisite. Off in the distance the Statue of Harmony stood alone on her island, her torch needling toward the grey sky as she welcomed any and all westbound travelers to Equestria.

Alto noticed Filthy gazing out at the statue and joined him.

“She’s full of shit, ain’t she?” said Alto. “Standing out there with her torch and her little book and all her bullshit promises of a better life.” Alto turned to his boss and said, “What’s with you and this place, anyway? You hate the Oranges and the little bastards hate you right back. You shouldn’t hang around here so often, boss. It’s damn stupid, and stupid ain’t never been your style.”

“I like to get a feel for a piece of property before I buy it,” said Filthy, thoughtfully.

“Your wife’s gonna be buying you a casket if you keep messing with the Oranges.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. Mandarin has always honored Blitzkrieg’s truce. And he has nothing but the upmost respect for me.”

“Mandarin tolerates you, boss,” said Alto. “And in case you haven’t noticed, Krieg ain’t exactly around anymore to enforce his bullshit truce.”

“That’s why I have you,” Filthy replied. “Nopony is foolish enough to start trouble so long as you are by my side.”

The elevator reached the forty-fourth floor and the doors slid open.

“You talk about me like I’m bulletproof.” Alto stepped ahead of Filthy and started down a corridor lined with numbered doors. “There are plenty of ponies out there crazy enough to mix it up with me.”

“Indeed,” Filthy agreed, “but none of those ponies have oranges on their flanks.”

They came to room 4431. Alto withdrew his keycard and swiped it across the electronic card reader under the doorknob. The lock gave a small click, and a tiny cloud of light from Alto’s horn turned the knob. He pushed open the door and stepped in front of Filthy as he entered the room.

He paused. Scanned the room.

A second later he spun around to face his boss, alert, his horn rippling with energy. “Stay close to me.”

“Why? What’s wrong?”

Alto stepped aside, showing Filthy exactly what was wrong. A griffin dressed in a business suit was lying face down in a puddle of his own blood, the back of his skull caved in.

“Come on in, boys!” a playful voice shouted from inside the hotel room. “This party is open house! No invitations needed!”

Filthy heard the laugh first, then saw The Prankster stumble across the room as if she’d been shoved, moving with that same calculated wobble he had seen so many times before.

His mouth fell open. It was her. It was really her! He recognized her raggedy trench coat, her leather gloves and boots—and so did Alto as he spun to face her, sparks crackling at the end of his horn.

Alto’s cloud of magic light transformed into billowing thunderhead. He snatched up the glass coffee table in the center of the room and pitched it at The Prankster. It smashed into her painted face, shattering on impact and knocking Pinks off her hooves.

Alto snatched up shard of broken glass, legs pumping as he sprinted across the room. Then, standing over her crumbled form, he drove the shard of glass deep into her spine, ripping a tortured wail from her throat. She tried to crawl away, but he stabbed her a second time, a third, a fourth, fueled by a sudden charge of terror and adrenaline. He stabbed and stabbed and stabbed—not stopping until her writhing ceased and her screams died in her throat.

Filthy skulked up behind Alto, trembling, his face bleached white. “Did you get her?” he asked, peering over his bodyguard’s shoulder.

Alto kicked the dead body and let out curse. The corpse, he now realized, belonged to a dealer who had been on Filthy’s payroll. Her coat was only a shade darker than The Prankster’s, her mane almost as frizzy.

“Lucky decoy, huh?”

Alto wheeled around at the sound of her voice and shoved Filthy to the floor. He glanced down at his boss for a second—just one second—making certain Filthy hadn’t fallen on a shard of glass.

He didn’t see the hammer until he glanced back up, and by then it was too late. It clubbed him square in the muzzle, snapping his head back. He staggered backwards on his heels, laughter clawing at his eardrums, and a second blow broke his jaw and plunged him into darkness.

Filthy sprang up as Alto hit the floor, his lungs and throat squeezing themselves tight. He tried to flee, but Pinks spat out her hammer and bit down on his tail. A sharp yank. A quick pivot. And then his legs were flailing through the air as Pinks spun around and pitched him head-first into a wall.

Flashbulbs exploded behind his eyes. The room spun. A sound caught his ear. A laugh. Loud and long and gnarled.

Before Filthy could scramble away, a gloved hoof crashed down on his neck. He gurgled and squirmed and thrashed, his eyes welded shut in terror.

“Been awhile, huh Filthy?” said Pinks, leaning her weight Filthy’s throat. “Did you miss me? I missed you. I thought about you every night back at the asylum. Every. Single—”

A tail twitch—and then Pinks cried out in pain as she backed away from Filthy, clutching at a shard of glass lodged in her side.

“You stabbed me,” she laughed through a grimace. “You son of a mule. You actually stabbed me.”

She turned to find Alto standing on shaky legs, blood pouring from his slack mouth. He mumbled a curse through his broken jaw, snatched Pinks in his thunderhead and tossed her straight up. She smashed into the ceiling with a thud, then pitched straight down and landed on her side, screaming as the glass shard drove deeper into her flesh

And then they were towering over her—Filthy clutching the hammer in his mouth, and Alto grasping his jaw, shards of glass of floating around his head and shoulders.

“Wait, wait, wait!” said Pinks, holding up her hooves in surrender. “The filly… my coat… inside pocket…” She pointed at the trench coat draped across the dead pony’s shoulders.

Filthy and Alto exchanged a troubled look.

“Kill me if you want,” Pinks laughed, coughing blood as she spoke. “But the filly dies if I don’t go back for her. She’s buried alive, and only I—hehehehe—only I know where.”

Alto gave Filthy a nod, assuring him that Pinks wouldn’t be going anywhere. He dropped the hammer and limped over to the dead mare wrapped up in Pinks’ coat. Kneeling, he rummaged through the coat until he felt something hard and pointy. He pulled it free of the pocket, his heart skipping a beat.

It was a crystal tiara…

Filthy held it too his chest, limbs quivering with rage. He took a deep breath and let the intensity of the moment work itself out of his system. This psychopath had his daughter. He needed a clear head for this. His next decision couldn’t be an emotional one.

“What do you want, clown?” he said after a long pause.

Pinks giggled as she rose to back to all fours. Or maybe she was whimpering in pain.

“I need you… to steal something from me,” said Pinks. And then her legs buckled and she blacked out.