Arc TWO: Chapter 3

Walk down the right alley in Manehattan and you can find anything. Few knew this better than Digger, who had, in the past, discovered every manner of comfort and atrocity lurking in this city's derelict alleyways.

Mostly he found desperation, usually in the form of strung out drug addicts, wounded strays or snoozing drunks. He didn't mind the drunks—they always looked so peaceful napping on cardboard mattresses—but the addicts and strays never failed to break his heart. He had been one of them, years ago, when he was younger, dumber and hungry enough flee from the cage he once called home.

Compared to the rest of Manehattan, Shanty Alley felt like one giant alleyway, complete with its own cesspool of addicts that shot up on the sidewalks during broad daylight, like it was the most natural thing in the world. The lack of police surveillance counted for much of their brazenness; Manehattan's finest rarely ventured this deep into Discord's Kitchen. Here on the upper westside—as far west as one could go before reaching city limits—peace was kept by the Daughters of Discord... which of course meant it wasn't kept at all.

Of all the gangs in Manehattan, Digger hated and feared the Daughters most of all. They weren't the city's most dangerous criminals; their lack of resources and organization rendered them incapable of seizing the kind of power enjoyed by Filthy Rich or the Oranges. But they were the only gang that occasionally went prowling through uptown looking for innocents kidnap, rape and butcher for no discernible reason. Digger likened each of them to The Prankster. It was difficult to fathom—hundreds of Prankster clones running amuck, doing whatever they liked to whomever they liked—but that was the Daughters in a nutshell. Now if only they had one functioning brain between them—then they'd really be dangerous.

Still, as bad as they were, the Daughters were the only gang whose primary commodity was drugs, so Digger had to put up with them if he wanted his fix. Filthy and his crew did a little pushing, but he mostly dealt in transportation, sneaking foreign drugs into Manehattan and using his legitimate business as a cover to move them around the country. He had little to offer in terms of street-level narcotics, and what he did sell was well out of Digger's price range.

Anxious, Digger remembered the discomfort of needles piercing his hide as he wandered down an alley between two derelict tower blocks. Finding a decent vein to puncture had given him trouble in the past, and after his reunion with The Prankster the prospect of being stabbed with anything dismayed him.

No needles tonight. He would find something to smoke or snort or swallow—but no needles.

He walked the entire alleyway from beginning to end, then returned to the middle and sat down on the edge of a closed dumpster, grumbling. He was early. The dealer that usually worked this part of town had yet to arrive, if he was coming at all. Digger had been away from the drug scene for five years; he didn't know what had changed and what still remained the same.

After sitting and waiting for fifty minutes, he decided that hanging around alone in Shanty Alley was a terrible idea. A handful of seedy-looking locals wandered down the alley during his stakeout, many of them mistaking him for a dealer, and then growing annoyed after learning that he wasn't. Most settled for calling him a faggot and moving on, while a select few threatened him with bodily harm, claiming they would “bash in his bloody skull!” if he looked at them cross again.

But the worst were the ones that recognized him. They smiled and laughed and tried to goad him down off the dumpster with promises of wild parties, good booze and better sex. Every one of them was a Daughter. Digger’s old status as a regular customer made him infamous here in Shanty Alley. Some were surprised by his return, others amused, but all grew bored with the stodgy mutt after he shot down their offers. Digger knew what kinds of things happened at parties hosted by the Daughters, and was in no mood for any of it. He just wanted his drugs, and a quiet, secluded place to get high and forget about Manehattan until he came down.

Finally, the stallion Digger had been waiting for arrived. He almost walked right by the perched diamond dog, and Digger almost let him. Seeing the dealer again gave the mutt second thoughts. His eyes swept over the fishnet stockings that hugged the stallion's ice blue hind legs. They glided down to a pair of heavy boots before trailing back up to examine a mini tube skirt and tied-at-the-midriff blouse that fit the stallion snugly enough to look uncomfortable. The skirt was so short it resembled a second belt; it did nothing to shield Digger's gaze from the red-as-sin panties molded to the stallion's croup.

He hadn't meant to stare, but Crest, the Daughters' second in command, had always had that effect on him. With his effeminate clothing, painted lips and made-up eyes, Crest wasn't an image of femininity, but a parody of it, a joke that nopony outside of the Daughters of Discord understood.

Crest did a double-take before recognizing Digger, then flashed two rows of flawless teeth. “By Twilight's lucky little twat,” he said, his Trottingham accent adding a dash of charm to his vulgar language. “I do believe me eyes are having a go at me. Is that really you, Digs?”

Digger glanced at the heavy pipe wrench that hung from Crest's belt, stifling a cringe. “Crest's eyes aren't lying. Digger is back. And looking to buy.” He hopped down off the dumpster.

“Thought you were clean these days, lovely?” His smile faded, replaced by a suspicious half-squint. “You ain't down here in Shanty Alley poking around on behalf of your boss Grift, are you?” He stepped closer, forcing Digger to backpedal.

“Digger is just looking for a fix,” he rasped. “Grift doesn't even know Digger is here.”

“I hope that's the bloody case, Digs, I really do. 'Cause if one’a Big Sis's rivals learned something they ain't supposed to learn, she'd send me to make 'em unlearn it. And I ain't too bright, you know? I can't reach into a mutt's skull and make him forget what he knows the way that freak Temporal can.” Crest glanced back at the wrench hanging from his belt, forcing Digger to involuntarily do the same. “Nah, I ain't too smart at all. The best way I know to make a mutt unlearn something is to bash his skull in until he can't remember it no more. Trouble is that way ain't so precise, you know? Mutts tend forget a bunch of other stuff when I do it that way—stuff I don't mean for them to forget.” Crest thrusted a forehoof into Digger's chest, pinning him against dumpster. “Simple things. Like how to breath.”

“Digger just wants his fix,” he insisted. “And since when do Daughters keep secrets?”

“Little Junebug and me sisters just cooked up something new, Digs. Something special. It's gonna turn this city on its bloody head, and we can't have no competition stealing Junebug's recipe.”

“Something new?”

The hoof pressed to Digger's chest drew back and struck his gut, making him cough. “You getting ideas, love?” said Crest.

Well, Digger had one idea. It involved his teeth and Crest's neck and several pints of blood.

“Digger just wants fix.” He snarled and closed his huge fist around Crest's foreleg. The monster in his gut stirred. A trifle more provocation and it would wake, hungry.

“Oh, you'll get more than that, lovely.” Crest looked up and gave a whistle, and Digger looked up with him, his eyes gaping as several of the tower block fire escapes filled with pegasi. They seemed to come from nowhere, perching shoulder to shoulder on rusted railings like pigeons on a powerline. “Ex-Shadowbolts,” said Crest, smiling up at his minions. “Don't they look pretty in their little blouses?” His gaze returned to Digger, his muscles tensing. “You ready to let me go, lovely?”

Digger growled. Letting go was definitely the smart move, but the predator in his gut had never been a beast of intelligence or reason. It was a creature of want, and right now it wanted a fix of its own.

“Go on, then,” said Crest. “Give me a bloody reason.”

Crest pulled to retrieve his snared limb, but Digger held it tighter. His grip didn't loosen until the pegasi started swooping down. Suddenly he realized what he was doing, remembered where he was, and fell to his knees before Crest, hugging the stallion's foreleg.

“Digger is sorry! Digger just wanted fix, he didn't mean to—”

Crest's cannon blast of a laugh interrupted the mutt's pleading. “Relax, Digs. Me and the girls was only having a go at you.”

“What?” Digger looked up. The others were laughing along with Crest.

“One of me sisters said he saw you out here all alone. Said it was a good chance to have a little fun.”

Digger rose back to his feet. “Fun for Crest, maybe.”

“What’s that, lovely? Don't tell me you're sore over a little teasing. A blighter like you should be used to this sort of thing by now.”

Was that supposed to make him feel better? Damn, he had forgotten what assholes the Daughters could be. Still, getting laughed at was better than being jumped by a dozen stallions in panties and stockings.

“Okay, okay, so maybe the gut shot was a bit much,” Crest admitted. He threw his foreleg around Digger's neck and pulled him into a friendly half-hug. “No worries though, lovely. I already know how to make it up to you.”

“Oh?” said Digger with a rasp and a grin. He was feeling better already.

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

Frowning, Berry Punch stood in the doorway of a room that resembled the inside of the world’s least secure bank vault. Rows of file cabinets lined the walls, most of them ajar and vomiting files and forms that were probably too important to be hanging from the lips of open drawers. Some of the cabinets were so stuffed with paperwork they could no longer be closed properly, while others were empty and seemingly useless.

“I’m not going in there,” said Berry.

Carrot laughed and shoved her from behind. “Come on, Berry, looking through the paperwork won’t be that bad. We’ll be like Batmare and her trusty sidekick Quail, breaking into the police records and scouring their files for clues. It’ll be fun!”

“You’re an idiot.”

“Nuh-uh. I’m Batmare.” Carrot lowered her voice to growl, mimicking actress Hay Bale’s terrible rendition of the caped crime-fighter.

“Please,” said Berry. “If there’s a Batmare in this outfit we both know that’d be me.”

“Awww, but you always get to play the fearless leader. And you really suck at it.”

“It’s not that I’m a good leader, you’re just obvious sidekick material.”

Carrot cocked an eyebrow. “How do you figure?”

“Question: which of us is the squealing fan girl who just compared our two-mare detective team to Batmare and fucking Quail?”

“Fair point,” said Carrot, nodding thoughtfully. “Besides, I’d look better in the little shorts anyway.”

“Whoa now,” laughed Berry. “I don’t know about all that.”

“Did either of you ladies come here to work?” Vigil appeared from behind a cluttered desk near the back of the room, his horn glowing as he levitated a stack of papers above his helmeted head.

Berry started to answer with a quip, but stopped shy of uttering even one syllable.. This was the first time she had seen Vigil in his Royal Blue armor. She had caught glances of such a sight in passing, as they trotted by each other on stairwells or in hallways, both avoiding eye contact. But now that near proximity and a lack of escape routes had forced her take a closer look, she had to admit she liked what she saw. The armor made him seem… imposing. This Vigil looked like he could handle himself in a fight; he was hardly the same brat who had challenged Berry in the commissioner’s office.

Or maybe he was. With Berry’s reputation, there weren’t too many officers in this department courageous enough to get in her face like that. She had thought little of it then, but reflecting on it now, and seeing Vigil decked out in his armor, she couldn’t deny that his brazenness had been… kind of hot. Stupid, sure—but still kind of hot.

“Well there’s the answer to our little dilemma,” said Berry, finally stepping inside. “Super cop here can be our Quail.”

“Yeah?” said Carrot. “Which one?”

“The one that gets himself killed.”

Vigil set the floating papers down on the desk. “I might be offended if I had the slightest idea as to what you are talking about. Who is this ‘Quail’ pony you’re comparing me to?”

Carrot’s mouth fell open. “That’s it, I can’t work with this guy.”

“Nor can I with either of you.” Vigil removed his helmet and placed it beside a heap of papers on the desk. “But, orders are orders.”

“I expect nothing less from the department’s own super cop,” said Berry. “You even know what you’re supposed to be looking for in here?”

“I was merely straightening up in anticipation of your arrival,” he admitted. “Isn’t there usually somepony in charge of keeping the records in order?”

“Order in the MPD? Now there’s a thought...” Stepping over fallen papers, Berry wandered to a section of cabinets marked “P-S” and pulled open a drawer. “We’re looking for a zebra. Wears a pinstripe suit and likes getting pounded in the ass.”

“Yikes. Sounds like a bad foreign porno.” Carrot joined Berry by the open drawer. “Any reason we’re looking for a zebra?”

“He was at The Ringer on the night of massacre. Made a joke about The Prankster coming to kill him, along with everypony in the building.”

“Funny and psychic. So, you finally ready to pin this on the clown?”

“Don’t get cute. All I’m saying is the zebra knew something about the hit on Blitzkrieg. He might know something about the killer who’s targeting the Shadowbolts.”

“He informed you that The Prankster was coming to kill him, correct?” asked Vigil, to which Berry answered with a nod. “How can we be certain that your zebra friend is still alive?”

“Carrot, you read the reports for that one, didn’t you?” asked Berry. “Any striped corpses found at the scene?”

“Not a one.” Carrot wandered away from Berry and the open cabinet, her eyes scanning the other alphabetized drawers. “So the guy cracks a joke about Pranky coming to off him, then walks away like nothing happened? Sounds a mite suspicious.”

“And let’s not forget our very own Berry Punch just happened to be at the club that night as well,” said Vigil. “How convenient that somepony was there to tip you off an hour or so before the shooting started.”

“I’m gonna stop you right there, Super Cop,” said Berry, “before you go and say something that gets you hurt.”

“That’s quite the defensive response, Ms. Punch. Are you hiding something?”

“I’ll be hiding your corpse after I throttle you, smart ass!”

Berry started toward Vigil, prompting him to follow suit and meet her halfway. He snorted, tickling her face with a gust of steamy breath.

“The fuck is your problem, kid? Of all the dirty cops in this department I’m hardly the worst—”

“That’s debatable,” Carrot interjected.

“—so what’s this really about? Why such a big hard-on for me? I remind you of your deadbeat mother or something?”

“My mother was a model citizen and an exemplary parent. What you remind me of, Ms. Punch, are the dozens of drunken, disorderly ‘parents’ I dealt with while handling this city’s troubling number of domestic disputes.”

“That one of your buttons, kid? Watching a grown mare slap around some little brat?”

“You are a mother, Ms. Punch,” said Vigil, glaring. “I imagine it would be one of yours.”

Berry let that one hang for a moment, unsure of how to respond. Her instincts told her to spin around and start throwing kicks, but if she succumbed to that impulse now Silverstar would surely throw her off the case. She didn’t completely trust that the new commissioner could fulfill his lofty promise, or if little Pinchy even wanted to see her again, but she needed to cling to this—she had never been given a chance like this before.

“I don’t know what kind of hero you think you are, super cop, but all this save-the-world crap is gonna get you killed. If you want to stand there and judge me because of something you overheard in the commissioner’s office—something that was none of your fucking business, I might add—then that’s on you. I know what kind of mare I am, and right now I’m trying really, really hard to not be her. I'm digging through paperwork for leads when I could be on the street snapping kneecaps. I haven’t had a drink in days, and at this very moment I’m not strangling you—all because I want to see my little filly again.” Berry took a backwards step, calmly breathing. “So how about we both cut the macho, self-righteous crap and just get through this. Okay?” Her speech ended with the reluctant peace offering of an outstretched foreleg. “Partners?”

Vigil glanced down at the pleading hoof. Then pushed it aside. “Maybe when you mean it.”

Berry’s face flushed. Her jaw became rigid, as if imaginary screws had drilled through her mandibles and wounded themselves painfully tight. All that spared Vigil from the worst beating of his young life was a mother’s love for her child, and the well-timed interjection of a fool.

“Got him,” said Carrot Top, a thin stack of folders tucked under her foreleg. “Turns out our striped friend has a record. And get this—the guy’s a Bolt.”

Berry wheeled around and trotted over to Carrot, grateful that she had something new to occupy her thoughts. She wrenched the folders from under Carrot’s leg, making her jump, then ignored her partner’s complaints while riffling through the documents.

“Good work for once, Carrot,” she said upon finding a picture of the suspect in question. It was him, all right. Same striped vest. Same brick red tie. Berry smiled down at the picture, remembering how Pinstripe had repeatedly adjusted that tie.

Vigil took note of the expression, but remained silent.

“You sure this is our guy?” said Carrot, less confident in her detective work now that she was reviewing the files. “Says here his two biggest offenses were traffic violations and soliciting prostitutes. Not exactly the type to work alongside The Prankster.”

“Stop mentioning the clown,” Berry snapped. “We have no proof any of this is her.”

“I hate to agree with Ms. Punch, but she does have a point,” said Vigil. “The commissioner contacted the asylum earlier this morning to confirm The Prankster’s escape.”

“And?” said Carrot, still holding onto her suspicions.

“According to the staff she’s still in her cell. And doing quite well, they added.”

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

A crisp breeze flavored with sea salt blew in from the east, nipping at Filthy’s ears. He paced back and forth at the edge of the docks, trying without success to calm his nerves. This was wrong. All wrong. He had gone to such great lengths to shield his family from his criminal lifestyle. They lived in an estate hidden deep in the unassuming town of Hollow Shades: close enough to lessen the inconvenience of traveling for visits, but far enough, or so he had believed, to protect them from his enemies here in the city. The estate was well protected; how had that scarred lunatic managed to… And wasn’t she supposed to be locked up… ?

Filthy recalled the extensive news coverage of the Red Light Massacre, kicking himself for not seeing it before. The suspects had slaughtered dozens of ponies and then avoided capture by parading down the street protected by a swarm of flesh-eating parasprites. Filthy had assumed the parasprites were Blood Orange’s pets: there wasn’t another psychopath in the city with his talent for weaponizing exotic monsters. But the parading—the singing and dancing mentioned during the radio broadcasts—that could only have been her.

And there was one other thing: a photograph that had appeared on the front page of the Manehattan Post, but was later recanted after complaints that it was obscene and disrespectful. The photo had been of a dead earth mare with a chocolate brown coat, her face hacked to ribbons. The damage was so extensive, her features so mangled...

Filthy had only glanced at the image, having been repulsed himself. He remembered folding up the paper and leaving it on his work desk, grateful that his wife and child didn’t live in this city. The mare in the photo had suffered greatly before passing, and for the remainder of that day he had fixated on her, imagining what she had felt in those last horrific moments.

Only now, pacing back and forth on this long stretch of peer, did he wonder about her smile.

“Boss,” came a voice from behind. “I think she’s ready to talk now.”

Filthy turned to find the twins, Tenor and his sister Bass, waiting for him at opposite end of dock. Despite the situation, he was happy to see them. Of all his bodyguards and hired thugs, few could set his mind at ease like the two second youngest members of the Choir Boys.

They dressed like their siblings, Soprano and Baritone, the ends of their dark jackets swaying in the salt-seasoned breeze. Near-identical genes had given them the same androgynous features, and lives fraught with violence and horror had awarded them matching stony demeanors. If this business with the Prankster had dismayed either of them, it didn't show on the face they seemed to share.

“Are you sure?” said Filthy, anxious.

“Positive,” answered Bass. “You asked us to beat her until she stopped laughing. She’s been quiet for the past few minutes.”

“Good. Then let’s not waste any more time.”

Time—or rather, the efficient management of it—was one of the reasons Filthy felt so at ease beside the twins. Unlike their brothers, Tenor and Bass completed their tasks quickly and effectively. After Alto contacted the twins via a far-reaching telepathy spell, they arrived at the scene, tended to their boss and brother (in that order), and then, at Filthy’s command, hustled everypony into a carriage and headed for the shipping warehouses at the docks. They had taken the bodies of the slain foreigners with them, and even cleaned the hotel room before leaving.

Both had completed the task without asking a single question.

Filthy trusted them completely, but faith alone failed to enliven his step as he trudged toward the long row of sealed shipping warehouse buildings. His gait was that of a stallion marching toward his own execution, or worse, toward his daughter's. He imagined her weeping alone in a wooden casket some six feet underground, raking the ceiling with the points of trembling forehooves. Was she screaming? Calling out for him?

The image turned his stomach. He tried to conjure a surge of anger to counter this mounting sickness, but worry and doubt had expanded in him like rising gas, leaving no room for rage. He wished Alto was still at his side, to be angry on his behalf, but Tenor and Bass had left him in the care of a doctor on Filthy Rich's payroll—a flamboyant cobalt blue earth stallion whose name escaped Filthy at the moment. For now, his only company was the impassive twins.

They entered one of the warehouse's many buildings and navigated several aisles of varying widths and lengths. Like most everything in Manehattan, the warehouse lingered in a perpetual state of disarray. Stacks of mislabeled crates, barrels and cargo boxes lined every aisle, flanking the trio of hustling criminals. As they cantered, automated ceiling lights flickered on to illuminate their path. The glow created shadows that hid the faded blood stains on the floor, cloaking the warehouse in new secrecy, even as it lessened the mystery of the imported cargo.

Many ponies had met bad ends in this place. Some had been Filthy's personal enemies, others perfect strangers that had become liabilities. Dealing with the latter was always the hardest, but this place, with its familiar sights and smells, made the murdering easier.

As a younger stallion, Filthy had claimed his first life here at the docks: a young filly with a paper route who had seen something she shouldn't have. Filthy had wanted to pay her off, but Tenor and Bass—ruthless, even then—had insisted he not take any unneeded risks. Weeks after dumping her body in the sea, he discovered that the “filly” was actually an undercover Guard using age-reversing magic while staking out one of his safe-houses.

The twins had been right to want her dead, but knowledge of the Guard's mission had come too late. Had he known before sawing off her horn and hanging her upside down to bleed out, it may have lessened the trauma of the ordeal. But that wasn't the case. And though his logical mind rejected the truth of his wrongdoing, his heart reminded him over and over, in his most privates moments, that he was a stallion capable of torturing and murdering a foal.

He purchased the shipping warehouses shortly after the would-be child’s death. It was his way of never forgetting.

When he saw The Prankster’s body hanging a upside down, her hind legs bound by a heavy chain, body limp, unmoving, he worried one more pony had perished here at these seaside gallows. A steady trickle of blood oozed from her battered muzzle, sluicing down strands of tangled mane before pooling into a vague butterfly shape on the floor. Beneath her sat the hammer she had used to break Alto's jaw, along with a bloodstained two-by-four that was chipped at one end.

Her eyes were shut. Her chest still.

“Is she...” Filthy started, his tone stricken by a horror he never imagined he would experience. This should have been dream come true, a fantasy realized, a cause for celebration. He and the Choir Boys should have been lounging on a private beach, clinking glasses of champagne as they toasted the clown's demise. How long had Filthy Rich wanted this? How many hours had been lost to plotting her end, how many resources wasted in failed attempts to seize this victory? And now that he had it...

“Idiots!” he roared, wheeling on his lackeys. “I needed her alive! I needed her...” There it was, the anger he had failed to summon earlier. It burned away the sickness in his stomach, like fire purging infection as it cauterized a wound. “You've killed her! You've killed my daughter!”

At 'daughter,' a loud, pretend-snore from Pinks cracked through Filthy's tantrum. Her chest rose and fell dramatically, and a snot bubble had formed in her nostril, growing and shrinking with ever-exaggerated breath.

Confounded, Filthy turned back and stared blankly.

Tenor stepped forward. His horn sparked, and the hammer lying beneath Pinks hopped up to conk the back of her skull.

“Geez,” she said, rubbing her head. “Can’t anyone in this town take a joke anymore?” She started to laugh, but a hammer blow to the chest made her cough instead.

“Enough jokes!” Filthy shouted. “Where’s my daughter! If you’ve hurt her... if you’ve touched a single hair on her…” Filthy paused. Took a breath. Gathered his wits. No emotion, he reminded himself. No anger. Anger is exactly what she wanted.

“Go on,” said Pinks. “You were saying something about your daughter’s hair. It’s lovely by the way. So soft and fine, just like her mother’s.”

“What do you want?”

Pinks ignored the question. “She has a lovely voice, too. Did you know she still mumbles in her sleep? All that time and money wasted on Equestria’s best therapists, but she still remembers what you did to that Orange…”

Filthy remembered as well. He remembered the thug who had broken into his home, and the frantic struggle, and the point of his daughter’s tiara, and how easily it had pierced the intruder’s skull.

“Stop it, Daddy…” Pinks whispered through a wicked grin. “Why are you hurting that pony? Why are you—hahahahaha!” Her farce ended in a fit of laughter; she couldn't keep it up with a straight face.

“How could you know about that?” asked Filthy. “Who told you?”

“Don’t be silly, Mr. Rich; nopony told me anything. I was there that night. I’m the boogiemare under your daughter’s bed, coming and going as often as I like.” Her laugh was low and rumbling. “Sometimes I like to crawl under there and listen to all the sad sounds she makes. The muttered pleas. The sobs. And on the rare night’s when she sleeps like a baby and doesn’t make a sound... I like to listen to her breathe.” Pinks took a deep, satisfying breath, as if grateful for the privilege. “I wonder how she’s breathing now. You know how stuffy those pine boxes can be, especially when buried six feet under. Tick-tock, Mr. Rich. Tick-tock.”

Tenor moved to strike The Prankster again, and Bass moved to join him, but a wave from Filthy kept them both at bay. “You’ve always loved the sound of your own voice, clown. So talk. I’m listening.”

“How about cutting me down first?”

Filthy gave a nod. Bass’s horn sparked and the chain snapped, dropping Pinks on her head. Rubbing her skull again, she rose to all fours and attempted to wipe the blood from her face with the back of a ragged sleeve. It didn’t work.

“Mind if I wash up a bit?”

“Just tell me—!”

“Tick-tock, Mr. Rich. Tick. Tock.”

Filthy bit his tongue as Pinks strolled out to the edge of the peer, knelt and dipped her gloves in the water. She splashed her face several times, rinsing away globs of caked blood, then ran both forehooves through her matted mane. When her face was clean and her mane tamed, for the most part, she glanced up at Filthy, freezing the crime boss with a glare.

Much of her makeup had melted away, leaving patches of what looked like cracked paint sticking to her cheeks and brow. Several white splotches remained, clinging with an almost conscious tenacity, as if reluctant to relinquish their role as protectors of the jester’s identity. A good deal of her lipstick had survived the washing as well, but the black circles that caged her cerulean gaze were gone. Her eyes were free now, and her mane, cleansed of its green tint, hung lower and straighter.

She stood erect. “You wanna know how I got these scars? Hm?” Waves of polluted ocean water lapped at the shoreline, like giant blue tongues licking hungry lips.

Filthy and the twins stood stock still.

Filthy blinked.

The twins didn’t.

“Heh, another time then.” Pinks trotted by the trio as if they weren’t there, her gait steadier, her calculated wobble less severe. “There are some guns in my basement I need taken off my hooves. They belong to Grift and her friends. TO MY FRIENDS!” She shouted suddenly, stomping an angry forehoof. Filthy gave a start, and matching lights appeared on the twins' matching horns, but faded after a moment. “My friends… they’ve been bad, not sharing their toys with me…”

Filthy followed a few paces behind Pinks. “And that’s it? I take the guns and you release my daughter?”

“One more thing,” said The Prankster. “I love you, Rich, and I know you just adore me, but we really must stop meeting like this. What will the other crime lords think?”

“What’re you saying?”

“I’m saying you and me are done. You get your daughter back. You get the guns. Then I bounce off into the sunset and we never cross paths again. I stay off your porch, and you stay off mine. I want your word, Rich.” She offered Filthy a gloved forehoof. “You are a pony of your word, aren’t you? I am.”

Filthy hesitated. “I'll agree to nothing until my daughter is safe.”

“Tick-tock,” said Pinks, grinning. “Tick… Tock…”

“Fine, I agree!” Filthy took the gloved hoof and shook. “Just please... tell me where you buried my daughter.”

“Ummm... no. Get the guns first, then you get the girl.”

“I don't have time for that!”

“Wrong!—you have plenty of time. Thirty-seven hours to be exact.”

Filthy choked on a mouthful of curses. His face reddened, a vein pulsing along his forehead. “You said she was buried.”

“She is. It's a big pine box. Big as a bedroom. And comfy, too.”

Filthy drew back. Inhaled. Looked away. Exhaled. Looked back. “She's... she's not buried is she...?”

Pinks flashed a small grin—all scars and no teeth.

“Okay, okay. Thirty-seven hours, right?” said Filthy. “Where? Tell me where the guns are and I'll bring them to you.”

“Not to me, silly-billy. The guns are for you. You steal them, and you keep them. If not, the deal’s off, and I feed the filly to my Carnies.”

Pinks told him where to find the guns. Underground; in the tunnels beneath Little Gryffindor.

Behind Filthy, Tenor and Bass exchanged suspicious glances. The crime boss looked to them for council, as he so often did, and a silent message passed from employees to employer. Their shared face expressed little to nothing, but it was a nothing Filthy had learned to read.

Stealing weapons? Thirty-seven hours? Underground tunnels? This was a trap and the twins knew it. He knew it as well, but what could he do?

“Find Baritone,” Filthy said to his underlings. “He and the two of you will retrieve The Prankster’s firearms and bring them to me.” He turned to face Pinks. “We’ll make our trade here. Twenty-four hours from now.”