Severed Roots

by Bad_Seed_72

First published 22nd of April, 2013

Third installment in the "Tangled Roots" timeline. When our heroes of the West and our villains in the East clash at last, who will be left standing?

Far in the West, out in the frontier, Babs Seed and Apple Bloom have found an adventurous, satisfying life. Business at their bar is booming and supporting Sweet Apple Acres, ending Applejack's economic woes (for the time being). Babs has reunited with her father and the savior of her foalhood, Turner. North of no-pony's land, Citrus, Libra, and Braeburn are thriving in Appleloosa, though tensions between the locals and an influx of emigrants threaten to shatter peace in the tiny town.

Far in the East, in the belly of the beast, the once-glorious city of Manehatten has collapsed into a haze of unimaginable chaos and depravity at the hooves of its King. A King whose chessboard is rapidly expanding and whose Knights march to conquer and annex in the name of their Master.

When East and West clash at last, who will be left standing?

Third installment in the alternate universe timeline started by Tangled Roots. Preceded by Sweet Apple Anthology and beginning from the first story's Epilogue.

Coverart by the awesome artist Lulubell.

Now with a TVTropes page! Thanks to vren55 for putting it up!

Rated Teen for strong violence, language, and darker elements. Sex tag is for implied sexual situations.

Page Turner

Beyond the confines of civilization, a reunion defying all expectation was held in whispered excitement. Three ponies in the boomtown’s bar huddled together around the counter, the proprietors announcing last call, sending the majority of their stumbling patrons scurrying away into the night.

Apple Bloom had been the one to rise and flip the sign in the window, displaying a mournful, “Sorry! We’re closed!” apology to the disappointment of the West’s fledgling alcoholics. She chased the only remaining patron, who was currently hammering away a disjointed harmony on the piano, out of her bar. Pinkie Pie protested, flailing her hooves and offering one last jaunty saloon tune. Apple Bloom reassured her, "Don't worry, Pinkie, we'll be open back up tomorrowa at sundown 'gain!"

"But, but! I wanted to play just one more song! One more super-duper congratulations-on-not-dying-in-the-desert song!" Pinkie objected, frowning, the feather in her mane (which completed her "classy" saloon outfit) visibly deflating.

Apple Bloom glanced over her shoulder. Babs Seed and her savior (and father) chortled heartily together, slamming the oak with their forehooves, lost in some traveler's tale. She raised an eyebrow and offered a gentle smile to the rambunctious party pony. "Can this wait, Pinkie? Ah've kinda got somethin' important goin' on right now."

Sighing overdramatically, Pinkie rolled her eyes and relented, "I guesssss. Geez, you and Babs can't wait, can you?"

"Ah beg yer pardon?" Apple Bloom glared at her, her muzzle hotly matching her mane.

"Oh, nothing, silly! Now, my Pinkie Sense is telling me if I don't run off to the hotel and get a room right now, your ol' pal Pinkie's gonna be sleeping in a cactus! Again!"

Spinning on a bit, Pinkie Pie burst through the saloon doors and galloped towards the settlement's inn.

Muttering disbelief—just how had Pinkie found them out here, anyway?—Apple Bloom locked the doors and joined Babs Seed and Turner at the bar. Witching Hour was upon them, yet, in the glow of the strongest time for magic, nopony felt fatigued. Even if that had been a lie, she would’ve swallowed it with glee.

It wasn’t every day that one met a stallion who, if the cards were played correctly, might become one’s father-in-law.

"So... I neva asked dis, long 'go, but, what's youze full name?" Babs Seed asked of the stallion, absentmindedly cleaning a shot glass as she spoke. "Can't jus' be 'Turner,' are youze?"

He coughed into a forehoof and cleared his throat. "Ha! Well, I am, ta most. Youze see, ma parents weren't exactly the kindest in the namin' department. Ta me an' ma brotha both. He got the worst o' it. But me..."

The stallion broke eye contact for a second, taking in the scene before him. This oasis in the sands was constructed expertly, not one nail out of place. Every decoration that hung on its walls whispered of The Watering Hole. He smiled, an unfamiliar but welcome fatherly pride swelling in his heart. Turning back to Babs Seed, Turner finished, "Ma full name is Page Turner. But please, Babs Seed, jus' call me Turner."

Jus' like when I was a foal, Babs thought with a grin.

"An' jus' call me Babs," she replied as she smiled back. Doubt and skepticism should have flooded her mind, demanding further inquiry and analysis. How could the bartender and barber of The Watering Hole, the savior on the dusty Manehatten street, been her father, and not Bernie Madhoof, as she'd been led to believe? And why had her mother said nothing of this?

His eyes met hers again, and she knew once more, all defiant rationality swept away by the forehooves of recognition. He was tall and strong, muscles chiseled by a thousand trials visible and rippling beneath his thick coat. In his eyes, she found the same taunting light in her own. His manecut matched hers. While that was an artificial construct, the resemblance was uncanny. He, too, never shook his Manehatten accent, no matter how much he willed it.

To deny their connection would be foalish.

Despite geography, he had always been there (though immaterial most of the time) through her darkness to guide her. He was the figure of the wasteland, the beacon and the fleeting shadow. And he was here.

"An' ya can jus' call me Bloom," Apple Bloom said, her countenance bright. Turner nodded and grinned.

Babs asked him, "Youze want mo' Daniel's?"

"Iffa youze please, m'lady," he said with a chuckle.

Babs topped off his glass and passed it to the stallion. "Thank youze."

Turner brought the glass to his lips and took a sip. He smacked his lips and mused, "Youze know, when I first saw youze walk in, I saw dat cutiemark o' youze. Neva seen anythin' like it. Must mean summat pretty special, eh?"

Bloom and seed exchanged knowing smiles. "Youze could say dat, Turner."

He chuckled. "Good kid. Youze'll have ta tell me the story sometime." Rising a bit from his stool, he gestured to his own marked flank. There blazed a single black compass rose. "An' I'll tell youze 'bout dis one. Story fo' story?"

Holding out a forehoof with a sly smile, savior vowed to ward, knowing that both tales would surely spin and entwine, surpassing the boundaries of their lost time.

Babs accepted the gesture with a laugh. "O' course."

The mare beside her smiled at her observation. Truly, there was no reason for agnosticism; Babs and Turner were mirror images of each other, mare and stallion, and their reunion would make a believer out of the most disillusioned.

"Oh, we've got some stories fer ya, Turner," Apple Bloom said, winking.

"I'm sure youze do. Both o' youze. Vagabonds always do."

"Heh... not sure iffa youze can call us dat quite yet, but we've definitely got some stories. Now," Babs began, her tone inching towards a more serious matter, "I know dis is a pretty deep question ta ask o' youze so soon, considerin'... how things are. But, Turner, how did youze an' Lib—ma motha, I mean—meet?" An' why has she neva said anythin' ta me 'bout youze? O'... wait...

After another sip of his whiskey, Turner replied as he wiped his muzzle with one of his grizzled forehooves, "I thought youze would neva ask, Babs..."

~

Summertime in Trottingham was a glory to behold. The shining city on the water came into full bloom with the turning and promise of new life in the glow of the strongest rays. Wildflowers blossomed throughout the entire city, rows of every color under Celestia's sun. Even from the view of his seventh-story casino window, a young stallion marveled at the sight.

He'd been on his hooves all day, serving drinks for pittance wages. Sweat trickled down his neck and shoulders, soaking his stained apron and ridiculous red-and-white bowtie. The so-called "guests" he was obliged to serve treated him as a mere whipping-colt, barking orders and occasionally tossing their drinks in his face when the cards didn't fall in their favor. So much for luck.

A young Page Turner stared out the window until a gruff edict pulled him away. "You! More beer!"

Snorting angrily, Turner spun on his hooves and trotted over to the latest "guest". An obese, bearded unicorn stallion, a fat cigar hanging from his lips and polluting the overheated air of the casino, narrowed his eyes and scowled as the lowly wait-pony fulfilled his request. "Took you long enough, boy! Quit staring out the window and get back to work, before I call the manager!"

"Yes, sir," Turner mumbled, suppressing a sigh. He turned away, noting that the serving-tray in his forehovees was now depleted of fresh drinks. He began to stride towards the filthy kitchens when another command—this one far less venomous—halted him.

"Excuse me, sir?"

He glanced over his shoulder. At a blackjack table behind him, a lily-white Earth pony mare smiled sweetly. His breath caught in his throat as he turned to face her. She was beyond beautiful, a sight for his tired eyes. She ran a forehoof absentmindedly through her long, flowing tangerine mane. "Yes, you, sir," she said, chuckling slightly and beckoning him.

"H-h-hello, um, ma'am. What can I g-get y-youze?" he stuttered, the tray in his hooves suddenly tripling in its weight.

"I don't know. You tell me. I want something... sweet. Something sweet and dark," replied the mare, a wide grin streaking across her muzzle.

She leaned towards him, resting her forehooves under her chin, her tail swishing behind her. The other gamblers at the table rolled their eyes and turned their attention to the next deal. The dealer snuck one of her chips into his pot, although he skipped dealing her into the round. She did not notice. Well, maybe she did, but she didn't care. And, somehow, neither did the stallion blushing and chuckling before her.

"Uh, er, um... I'll be right back, ma'am," Turner said finally. Before he could stop himself, he cantered into the kitchen, nearly knocking over a fellow waiter and his own towering tray of drinks.

"'Ey, Turner, youze alright?" asked one of the chefs, raising a concerned eyebrow.

Panting, Turner spat, "There's! A! Mare! Out! There! She's—"

"Aww, does ol' Turner have some lil' mare givin' him the ol' come-on?" The chef bellowed a hearty laugh, slapping his stomach in delight.

"S-s-shuddup!" Slamming the tray onto a kitchen counter, Turner pleaded, "Quick! She asked fo' summat 'sweet an' dark' ta drink! What should I make her?"

Biting his tongue, the chef mused, "Well, I can think o' a few things. Nothin' youze can put in a glass, though—"

"Oh, youze is useless!"

~

"Heeya y-youze g-go." His teeth chattering, Turner offered a drink to the mare whose eyes captivated him and forced him to leave thoughts of this worthless wage-slavery behind. She accepted with a gracious wink and took a small sip of the creation.

Rubbing the back of his neck with a forehoof, Turner muttered, "Hope y-youze like it. J-jus' summat I like t-ta drink, maself..."

"It's very good," she said, licking her lips and setting the drink down. "Thank you. What's your name?"

"T-T-Turner, ma'am."

"Just 'Turner'?"

"Uh... no..." He stared at the gaudy carpeting below his hooves. "P-Page T-Turner..."

There was that sweet smile again. "So your parents weren't the best with names, either? Same here. My name is Libra Scales."

Offering a forehoof to him, Libra surrendered her current blackjack deal and pulled her chips away from the table. She had no intention of playing games anymore—with cards, at least.

Hesitating a bit, the stallion grasped her hoof with his, finding a current that set his entire being aflame. He wanted to kick himself where it counted for being so foalish, but found no power to do so. The mare before him--perhaps a few years younger than he, although acting all the wiser--rendered him beyond most speech.

"It's nice to meet you, Page Turner," Libra greeted, matching his blush when she finally pulled her forehoof away. "You're quite good at what you do. How long have you been working here?"

Finding his words by the grace of Most High itself, Turner answered, "Uh... um... jus' fo' a few weeks. Temporary gig. Heh, heh."

"Ah. What is your 'permanent gig'?"

"Umm... it's a long s-story, ma'am--"

"Please, Turner, call me Libra."

"Ahhh, right. L-Libra."

The stallion swept his gaze over the casino floor. Rows of poker and blackjack tables filled with impatient drunkards awaited his stretched patience. Duty called. He could sense the squat stallion from an earlier table glaring at him, doubtlessly intent on fulfilling his threat. Reluctant nonetheless, Turner began to turn away, helplessly explaining, "I... I'd betta get goin'..."

"Wait." Libra rose from her stool, cradling the last of her chips. "What time are you off?"

Turner blinked. "S-say dat again?"

"What time are you off work?"

"Oh." Of course. Mustering a grin, Turner said, "Ten o' clock. Stayin' at the hotel in the casino."

"So am I. What room?"

"19B."

"Great. Not far from my own. Would you mind if we continued our conversation then and there?"

Sincere, the stallion gathered his courage and answered, "No, Libra. Not at all."

"Good." She brushed against his coat as she trotted away, whispering, "See you then."

The next four hours were the longest of Page Turner's life.

~

"... We stayed up all night, dat night, talkin', laughin'. 'Bout everythin'. I told her everythin'. First pony I'd spoken ta in years who didn't judge me, it felt like. She was there fo' almost a week at the casino. On business, she said. Neva mentioned bein' married. I wouldn't have iffa she did. An'... uh... Well, the last night she was there, things kinda... happened."

Cracking an awkward smile, he continued, "I thought nothin' o' it. She said she couldn't have anymo' foals. Least, she thought she couldn't, I s'pose. Afta dat job, I went ta Las Pegasus fo' a while, became a security guard. I neva heard from her again. I heard many years later, through the grapevine, dat she had anotha foal. An' I jus' knew... but... I... I was younga, then, an' afraid, an'—"

An unshorn orange fetlock covered his grizzled beige one. "It's alright," Babs said gently. How could youze have known befo' then? O' even found her?

Though she frowned on such infidelity—and was more surprised by her mother’s adultery than she should’ve been—she couldn't resent either of them. Not when such a union (however complicated and unexpected it had been) had, in multiple ways, made her the mare she was today. "I'm not mad at youze, Turner."

"Thanks, kid. I... I jus' missed out on so much, youze know?"

"But yer here now," Apple Bloom said, shooting him with her best smile. "An' that's what matters, right?"

Turner sniffed and took another sip of his drink. The finest whiskey in all of Equestria, poured to perfection by the finest filly he’d ever met, stroked the fires of his reminiscence. He'd never imagined he'd reunite with the foal on the Manehatten cobblestone, much less realize she was his long-lost daughter. Libra Scales had disappeared out of his life as quickly as she'd arrived. After leaving The Watering Hole behind, he pricked his ears through his travels, hoping, praying to hear her name, to see her again.

Over seven years later, his prayers were answered: half of her sat before him, truth made flesh.

Regretting still the lost time and his own foolishness—he’d known from the moment he’d seen that shivering filly that there was something unmistakable about her—Turner hoped that, no matter how much longer his nomadic hooves would permit him to remain tethered to this patch of soil, he could learn as much as possible as he could about his daughter. Perhaps, they could even be friends, and truly, family, someday, he reasoned.

"Yea, youze is right," he remarked after a slight silence. He nodded approvingly towards his daughter's mare. "I can see why youze keep her 'round, Babs. Heh. She's a beautiful mare. She has Libra's eyes."

“Heh, mom sure's pretty, alright." Babs laughed and scooted closer to Apple Bloom behind the bar. “Not as pretty as Apple Bloom, though,” she added as she nuzzled her mare, leading to a blush on yellow cheeks and the melting of a hardened heart.

“Youze two are… adorable. An’ dat is a word I don’t use very often, youze see, so take it as a major compliment. Ha. So, how did youze too meet, then? One story fo’ anotha.” Turner tipped back his glass.

Two sets of eyes met and exchanged worried glances for a second before Apple Bloom answered, “Um, Turner, that’s a… a real long story. We might not have time ta, uh, tell it properly.”

“Yea, um… it’s… an interestin' story,” Babs said, unsure if the stallion would be among those to question the connection between them, or if he would prove to be as unprejudiced now as he had been then. "I don't judge nopony!" youze said. Youze true ta dat now?

“I’ve got all the time in the world, Babs, Bloom,” Turner said, drumming a forehoof on the bar counter.

Sweat trickled down Babs Seed's neck. “Um… alright. But, er, jus’… keep an open mind, okay?”

The stallion laughed as gently as he could in the wake of both mares’ apparent nervousness. “Kid, look, I don’t judge nopony. I’ve seen it all in my travels, including things dat should’ve neva been. But youze two? Why, youze love fo’ each other is apparent, an' I don’t care iffa youze are two mares."

Apple Bloom nuzzled Babs Seed’s neck reassuringly, silently requesting her approval. Slowly, Babs nodded, swallowing the lump in her throat.

Apple Bloom looked into the eyes of the stallion and began to tell their story, realizing with dread that she was doing something she’d usually been lucky to avoid amongst her friends.

Trying to impress, and win the approval of, her fillyfriend’s father.

~

Over the horizon of the desert plains, flat but for the uplifting limbs of cacti in their prickly prayers, quiet but for the rustle of tumbleweeds, Celestia embraced the land with her caress, raising the sun to greet the dawn as her sister retired for much-needed slumber. Within the saloon, two expectant, anxious mares were surprised to see the stallion, his eyes bloodshot from a mix of both weariness and a few tears, rise from his stool and trot around their side of the bar to crush them both in a bear hug.

Returning the gesture with the pure, unrefined joy, Apple Bloom heard Turner declare proudly, “Now, Babs, I know it must not mean much ta youze, in light o’ the suddenness o’ dis… reunion… but youze both have my blessin'.”

“Really?!” Babs exclaimed, clapping her tired forehooves together in delight. Stallion and marefriend both released her from their embrace after an eternity, all three muzzles splitting in two from their joy.

All these years, an’ I always said I didn’t need nopony ta approve. Only Celestia could’ve known dis, but I guess I needed somepony else’s nod, too. An’ he’s jus' gonna give it? Wowza.

The wise old stallion nodded. “Youze are happy, an' dat’s all dat matters ta me. Maybe a lil’ close fo’ some ponies’ comfort, but I don’t have no problem wit’ it. Anypony does, jus' give me a holler, an' I’ll take care o’ dat,” he added with a wink and a nudge to Babs's ribs.

“O' course.” Babs exhaled, feeling waves of tension dissipate from her muscles into the floorboards. “I really appreciate it, Turner.”

“Heh. Maybe someday youze can call me Da’, Babs?”

Babs Seed felt a slight smile snake its way across her face. “Maybe.”

Turner cast his gaze to Apple Bloom and suggested coyly, “An’ maybe youze can too, someday, lil’ lady?”

Apple Bloom squeaked in response, flushing hotly with embarrassment. “Um, uh, heh, Ah d-don’t know, sir." From the peripheral of her pupils, she noticed her mare's muzzle was just as red, rivaling the skies above as they began to burn with the dawn’s flame.

“Well, I think I’ve done a great job o’ embarassin’ youze both, jus’ like any good parent!” Turner laughed merrily, packing up both of his saddlebags. The weight of his long, momentous journey commanded him to seek shelter and slumber at last. “Enough o' dat fo’ now. Either o’ youze have somewhere fo’ me ta sleep?”

Babs Seed shook her head. “We jus' sleep in one o’ the hotel rooms, Turner. We're not settlers, ha. But we can get youze a room on discount. I know the owner.” An uneasy grin did its best to distract from her deep blush.

Her long-last father gathered his belongings and answered in the affirmative. The three exited the bar as dawn broke across the desert's looming horizon. They knew that, even if their sleep schedules would be thrown off their delicate tracks for the next few days (if not weeks), it was worth it in the long haul.

Things had come full circle, after all.

Shield And Dice

Between another dusk and dawn on the Manehatten cobblestone, the rain came, thief in the night. Somepony would surmise its torrent had begun when the first shot was fired; others would guess it followed the third, marking and marring its charm. Regardless, the storm wrought its judgment upon the city of dreams and desolation.

The unfortunate mare who’d been assigned to the most unpredictable post in all of the Manehatten Police Department found her nap interrupted sometime between moon and sun by a frantic pounding of hooves on the station’s glass door.

“There’s two dead ponies outside o’ ma business! Help!” a panicked stallion screamed, his voice trembling with pure and utter terror. His eyes caught the sleepy gaze of the incompetent watch-pony, only amplifying his shrieks and knocks.

In the mare’s experience, some nights on this watch were silent and hypnotic in their boredom. Then, the city slumbered, peacefully and ominously, dragon content upon his horde. Others were insane, filled to the brim with chaos beyond Discord’s imagination. Tonight was clearly one of the nights when the dragon had been awakened.

She smacked her lips and trotted over to the door, shaking sleep from her eyes. As she opened it, she immediately spat, “Where?”

“Down on the south side o’ Main Street! I’m the owna o’ the general store there!” His eyes were wide with the shattered innocence of one who’d never seen a corpse before.

The seasoned law-pony sighed and muttered before turning away, “We’ll get somepony down there wit’ youze. Wait heeya fo’ a bit.”

Within a few minutes, the night watch trotted into the depths of the station and located the graveyard-shift-officer’s quarters. One rough smack across a muzzle later, the rising star of the Investigations team, Officer Rustler, had been roused from his slumber.

Thirsting for street justice, Officer Rustler welcomed the mare’s summons (if not her forehoof) and snapped on his uniform, quickly equipping his pistol, baton, hoof-cuffs, and flashlight, among other tools. He stretched and cracked his joints, willing away his yawns. He followed the mare and met the reporting party at the door, who was now one emotional trauma away from curling into the fetal position on the steps.

Cursing his interrupted dream, Rustler galloped into the night after the shrieking civilian. The stallion’s panicked recollections merged with the rhythmic thunder of hooves against the dusty street, inaudible. Dawn’s grey light beckoned over the horizon and through the relentless rain. The cobblestones were soaked and cold, howling winds foreshadowing winter's dark grasp delaying spring in the ghetto.

His heart pounding furiously, Officer Rustler arrived at the crime scene just as his lungs began to betray him. The general store owner stumbled in his tracks a few feet ahead, nearly falling to the street as he muttered to himself and pointed towards an alleyway behind his business.

Rustler asked, “Where are dey?”

Eyes full of fearful tears, the trembling stallion replied between breaths, “Back… there, Offica! In… the… alleyway! So much... so much blood, I—”

“Do youze need an ambulance?” Rustler asked gruffly. “Youze breathin' hard. Asthma o' summat?”

“No, no, s-sir.”

“Good. Calm down. What did youze see? Hear anythin', eitha?”

The stallion nodded and summoned his composure. “Ma store's been closed since the sun went down. I live above ma shop. Went ta bed early. I woke up in the night, couldn’t sleep. 'Round 0400, I think. Looked out the window. I heard shots fired, saw groups o’ stallions runnin’ up both sides o’ the street... Then, I saw two mares trottin’ through the alleyway, an’ then… I…”

He buried his muzzle in his forehooves, sobs rendering him incapable of completion. Rustler made his best attempt to console the stallion, awkwardly patting him on the shoulder. This seemed to calm him, if only for a moment.

Jotting down some notes on parchment after retrieving it from a pocket of his uniform, Officer Rustler said, “Youze know I can’t jus’ let it go at dat. I'm gonna have ta ask youze mo’ questions later. Fo’ now, lemme get youze info down, an’ I’ll go take a look. We’ve got the meat-wagon on its way fo’ the bodies. Now, what’s youze name, stallion?”

After reiterating the reporting party’s account of the incident and asking a few more questions, the investigator was satisfied that the stallion most likely was nothing more than a traumatized discoverer. Officer Rustler ducked around the store and into the alleyway behind it.

True to the stallion’s word, two bodies lay muzzle-down on the pavement—both Earth pony mares. One was light-green with a yellowish mane; the other was white with a pink mane.

Officer Rustler swallowed the sickening lump in his throat. Recognition rocketed through his mind, leaving his hindlimbs trembling. For a moment, he was no longer a police officer; he was a mourner. "No... not youze two...

"First, Turn Key defected ta the streets, an' now, dis..."

Rustler felt a tear of his own mix with the rain.

~

King Crazy perched on his throne, surrounded by golden towers of bits, a rich mahogany desk under his hindhooves in his hideout. This structure was no shack. It was a true and complete upgrade from the little edifice of his youth. Within his four walls, King Crazy commanded his empire, all from the comfort of his plush chair.

His desk drawers were filled with all the avoidance, distraction, and escape he needed in his high honor—bottle after bottle of liquor, bag after bag of every street drug in existence, and boxes of fine cigars. Life as a true ringleader, king of kings, gangster in pinstripe suit and gem-pommeled cane, was both a paradise and an exercise in madness.

There were no straightjackets or padded walls in Equestria that could contain King Crazy.

In the spiraling years that followed his truce and alliance with King Orange, King Crazy had found his own crown and power. Colthood dreams of vengeance transformed into dark realities of wait and bide, wait and bide, wait and bide. King Orange supplied a steady stream of bits and resources, rivers of wealth and prestige that King Crazy was reluctant to evaporate.

But the time would soon be at hoof.

The Manehatten Kings hadn’t scratched or crawled to the top of the heap. No, they had earned their ascent to the summit, paying for it ten times over in bits and blood. After almost five years of gang warfare, they rose to the top of the food chain, towering above the Manehatten Mafia and all other dreamers.

King Crazy was not entirely sure of the size of his army. Perhaps several hundred if he counted associates and prospects. He had enough delegates and underlings to manage day-to-day operations. When not meeting with his own Master, King Crazy stayed in his hideout these days, enjoying his bounty and dreaming of a mansion in flames.

Blue may have been the color of justice in the ghetto--at least to the lessers and civilians—but King Crazy knew that all colors eventually ran. And, sometimes, blue could become gray and disharmonized... especially in the presence of gold.

Lighting a cigar, his thoughts drifted to the latest thorn in his side. King Orange had, in recent years, become fixated on the city’s alcohol supply. The leader of the Manehatten Kings was assigned with the task of ensuring that only Orange Enterprises beverages were served in the city. It was a bizarre request, but it was the last one that he would indulge—that was an unbreakable vow.

So far, his underlings and spies reported that all bars, restaurants, and stores in the city were stocked only with orange-flavored or orange-derived spirits, not one apple to be found among the sea of citrus. For now. King Crazy knew that, sooner a later, a rebel or an ignorant immigrant would make the mistake of stocking or serving something else.

King Crazy laughed at the thought. Chaos and mayhem. Tempest and torrent. Fire and rain.

While his Master fretted over apples and oranges, King Crazy would build his army, devise his plan, and, once the sky was dark enough, launch an assault on the only stallion who terrified him. When the Most Low gave his sign, King would raise steel and lead against King, and revenge would be sweet at last.

“It’s only a matta o’ time befo’ there can be only one o’ us,” he muttered, taking in a deep drag of the fine cigar. He was safe and secure within his four walls, deep in the heart of the ghetto, armed guards around his palace all hours of the cursed clock.

It had been almost eight years, but he would soon avenge his family gravestones. Or die trying.

And that was alright.

Feeling that a fine cigar deserved a fine drink alongside it, Card Slinger searched within the drawers of his hoof-carved desk, dim light creeping through his bay window.

~

Officer Rustler regained his composure sometime later. If asked, he would be unable to account for the minutes between report and discovery. He shook his muzzle until it ached to snap himself back into reality. To the task at hoof. The bodies. Examine the bodies...

Both had suffered extensive gunshot wounds to the neck and chest, bullets riddling their bodies without prejudice. From the angle of their sprawled hooves, the budding investigator and second-year officer of the Manehatten Police Department discerned that the pair had been galloping towards a set of low-income apartment buildings across the street.

Unfortunately, their egress had been cut short by, doubtless, the war that had doused the city in cruel crimson for almost five years now.

Officer Rustler grimaced and examined the bodies as respectfully as he could. The scent of freshly spilt blood was one that haunted his nightmares and poked holes in his philosophy. He shook a wave of rain droplets from his fur, ruffling through the pockets of his blue-and-silver uniform and retrieving his notepad.

“Two mares… Aged ‘round twenty o’ so… 0500, Thursday.” His words were professional; his voice was not. Nine words toppled his anorexic hope and cast aside his foalhood adventuring as useless in the end.

Nopony could escape Manehatten. One either waged war against the ghetto or within it. And all would fall. Even Crusaders.

He leaned over the pair, writing down as much as he could observe. The rain taunted his ink and jumbled his words into pithy nonsense. He continued anyway. He glanced for a second towards his back pockets and his flank, where his cutiemark—a simple silver shield—seemed to mock him. Justice. That’s what it meant. That was all he sought. And where was justice now?

Bleeding, of course, upon the gray construct of ponykind, staining it crimson forever.

Officer Rustler sighed and kept writing, dictating his notes as he took them. “Main Street, downtown Manehatten, behind the general store, across from a clusta o’ apartments…”

There were no shells or misfired bullets that he could discern in the dim light. The budding investigator surmised that, whomever had killed these individuals, the pony (or ponies) responsible had definite marksmanship skills. The shots were precise and clean--definitely the work of somepony accustomed to the mayhem in Manehatten.

Creaky wheels in the distance marked the arrival of the meat-wagon. A blackened carriage pulled near the alleyway. Quickly, two morgue-ponies leapt from their carriage and joined the officer in the alleyway.

“Two mo’, Rustla?” one of them asked, studying the scene.

Officer Rustler nodded. He plastered his stoic mask across his muzzle. “Indeed. Most likely mo’ victims o’ gang warfare. Collateral. Dat’ll be the third shootin' dis week.”

“Horseapples, mate. Can’t youze end dis madness at some point?”

Glaring at him, Rustler snapped, “Do youze think we sit on our haunches eatin’ bonbons all day o’ summat?! Dat’s what the force's been tryin’ ta do these past eight years! Even when I was still a lil’ colt, the P.D. was tryin’. An’ it worked fo’ a while.”

The other employee began unrolling a black body bag for one of the mares, observing the exchange. He caught pupils with Rustler and smirked. “Fo’ a while? Well, dat helps us a lot now, Offica. At least it keeps me an’ ma boys in business.”

Officer Rustler bit his tongue so hard that he swore he’d mixed his blood with that of his former friends on the dusty street below him. His baton whispered from his shoulder, crying out for reaction. He wanted nothing more than to wipe the indignant smirk off the morgue-pony’s muzzle.

Nevertheless, Rustler stayed strong and silent. He did everything by the book.

He contemplated the taste of his blood—it tasted like bits, almost—oblivious to the echo of trotting hooves joining him in the alleyway.

“Got anythin’ fo’ me, Offica Rustla?” a gruff voice inquired.

Rustler snapped his head around. Chief Brutus had arrived along with the morgue-ponies. Their meat-wagon (oh, how that euphemism kept him up at night, bump in the night) beckoned beyond the crime scene, hungry and expectant. The approaching, thickly muscled Chief of Manehatten Police seemed to be ravenous also, but for something far less sinister.

Rustler shook his muzzle. “Nothin’ much, sir. Looks ta be collateral damage so far. Don’t see any reason ta s’pose these mares were gangstas.”

The Chief snorted, his exhalation visible in the waning dark and cold. “An’ how are youze ta rule dat out? Youze know Kings an’ Mafia both got tons o’ mares workin’ fo’ ‘em, soldiers an’ sirens alike.”

“S’cuse us,” one of the morgue employees muttered, brushing past the pair of law-ponies. He dragged a body bag behind him, a sickening smile shining on his muzzle.

Five years of savagery and twisted alliances had kept the morgue in booming business. The whispered incompetence of the two uniformed stallions (and of the Manehatten P.D. in general) guaranteed his coffers would be full for many years to come.

Ignoring them, Officer Rustler said, “True, sir. I am not doubtin’ it ‘cuz dey are mares. I’m doubtin’ it due..."

He paused, stopping himself from saying ta the fact dat dey would neva do summat like dat. "Due ta the eyewitness account. Accordin’ ta the owna o’ dis store heeya, who lives above the buildin’—“ he gestured up to the ramshackle edifice, its walls emblazoned with weeks of fresh gang graffiti—“shots came from two sets o’ stallions firin’ at each otha from both sides o’ the street around 0400. Turf war, I bet. An’ then these mares came trottin’ along from way back, down past the alleyway near his buildin'... an’…”

He bit his lip and tore his eyes away from his superior’s stare. Though barely two years out of the Academy, Rustler should’ve had his weakness beaten and tempered out of him nonetheless. His instructors broke his mind and body through two months of grueling training. However, of all they stole, his heart was not included. That, of course, would be taken eventually, piece by piece, bit by bit, by mornings such as this.

Chief Brutus rolled his eyes. He smacked the lowly stallion on the shoulder and grunted, “Get ahold o' youzeself! Got waterworks goin’ on all ‘round us already, don’t need it from youze lil’—“

“Chief!”

Brutus and Rustler turned towards a third baritone. There, galloping across the street, his uniform soaked with rain, came another law-pony.

The orange stallion with a snow-white mane (said mane hanging unshorn in front of his eyes) was a mere patrol officer, even more green than Rustler. The two dice adorning his flank should’ve counted him among the lawless and the suspect. Fate, of course, has other ideas, and this stallion proved to have risen beyond his mark, his roots, and his destiny.

“Toss! What youze doin’ heeya?” Rustler growled, clenching his teeth.

Joining equal and superior, Lucky Toss said casually, “Oh, youze know, a shootin’ in the street usually brings the fuzz ‘round! ‘Specially when it’s in ma assignment.”

“Speakin’ o’ which, Offica Lucky Toss,” spat the Chief, “where are youze last few patrol reports? Haven’t seen anythin’ wit’ youze hoof-writin’ on ma desk fo’ almost a week now!”

Toss stammered, splashing a forehoof into a brewing puddle on the ground, “A-ah s-sir, I, uh, well, I’ve almost got ‘em—“

“Get dem on ma desk by 1600 today, o’ youze ass is grass.” Chief Brutus adjusted his badge and brought a forehoof to his shoulder-holster menacingly. His Colt .45 awaited there, beckoning, a rush of energy flowing at his touch. He suppressed the impulse to pistol-whip the incompetent patrol officer stuttering before him. There were much more pressing matters at hoof.

Watching the morgue-ponies secure the two statistics of Manehatten law into their blackened carriage, Chief Brutus barked to his wards, “Get ta the bottom o’ dis one, an’ quick. Collateral? ‘Specially wit’ young mares? Press’ll be all ova it. An’ youze know how Celestia hates the press.”

“Yes, Chief, o’ course.” Rustler tugged at the pockets of his uniform, averting his superior’s glare.

Toss chimed, “Y-yes s-sir!” He, too, avoided the glance of Chief Brutus, not eager to join the ranks of those who suffered his infamous wrath.

Lucky Toss was of average size and strength for a stallion and slightly larger than the flank-kissing investigator beside him. Unfortunately, both were lesser than the scarred police chief, and both valued their bodily autonomy far too much to cross him.

Chief Brutus snorted his disdain once more, shaking his mane clean of rain. Without a word, the Chief took to his hooves, leaving them in his dust. Each hoof-step echoed on the cobblestones and accompanied the rhythmic pitter-patter of raindrops.

The storm increased its crescendo with the gentle, hesitant break of gray dawn over the horizon, seeking to cleanse the city of its sin.

~

“Checkmate.”

King Orange grinned, his perfectly polished molars shining in the flicker of a candle flame. His rotund assistant swept his gaze over the chessboard. There, his lone white king laid cornered, a black bishop, knight, and rook entrapping him in unavoidable capture.

“Very good, sir,” mused the assistant, nodding slowly. “Dat must be a new record fo’ youze. Only ‘bout fifteen moves dis time.”

“Thank whatever deities you waste your breath praying to that you have disciplined yourself to be this much of a challenge for me,” snarled King Orange, knocking the white king off the board with a casual flick of a forehoof. His assistant quickly picked the piece off the floor and began to pack up the game. The Master chuckled. “At the very least, you have not once fallen into Fool’s Mate, like so many of your fellows.”

“Aye, yes, sir. The notorious two-move loss. No, sir, ma King, I would neva bore youze wit’ such nonsense. Although, nopony in Manehatten o’ Equestria itself shall eva topple youze in the game o’ kings!”

The Master rose from his desk and trotted over to a map of Equestria mounted onto the west wall. “Hmph.” He ran a hoof across the parchment, following a tangled mess of railroad lines. “Have you heard anything from your latest… associates?” he asked, watching the assistant pack up the game from his peripherals.

Grunting, the obese stallion peeled himself from his chair and put the chessboard away on a shelf across the room. “No, sir. Last I know, dey got tickets ta leave tomorrowa mornin' ova there. Mafia membas, these ones. Lil’ easier ta control than Manehatten Kings.”

A slight smirk graced the King's countenance with its haughty presence. “They are all easy to control, you fool.”

He tapped a far, western corner of the map. “Many—especially those of so-called noble stock—try to convince themselves otherwise, braying that they cannot fall victim to the manipulation of their carnal desires. But they all do. Everypony has a price.”

The assistant felt a slight shiver traverse down his spine. “I see, sir.”

The Master looked over his shoulder and chortled. “Oh, come now, surely you of all ponies must know this?” He trotted over to his squat Knight, circling him slowly. “After all, was it not your own brother who betrayed me? All because I made a careless, foalish mistake?”

A single drop of sweat slicked down the stallion’s thick neck and multiple chins. “Sir, as youze know, I’m very sorry dat he did such a thing… Iffa I knew where he was, I would bring him ta youze, ta dem!” He gestured towards a pair of armed guards beside the door, who stood steadfast, forehooves maintaining a tight grip on their loaded rifles.

King Orange clicked his tongue. “Oh, you poor, pathetic little worm. You really think I still hold that against you? Why, if suffering the misfortune of being related to a disappointment of a brother was a crime, many of our finest would be imprisoned.”

He paused, his grin growing wider at the sight of his subject’s nervousness. “No. I merely reminded you of it to ensure that the terms and conditions of our agreement are still in good standing. I am satisfied with your work. You, I presume, are satisfied with your payment?”

“Y-y-yes s-s-sir!” He nodded vigorously, more droplets of sweat joining the first in his exertion. The stallion mustered a smile and bowed before his King, leaning down on his aching hooves. All four shook with the strain of his massive weight.

Snickering, King Orange turned around and trotted back to his bay window. Without so much as a nod of approval, he dismissed his assistant. “Keep tabs on those little lackeys of yours,” he ordered. “If they discover anything out in that wasteland, I must know before they lift a single fetlock in opposition. They are Knights and shall serve their King, even if it is a mere commoner who set them in motion to begin with.”

“O-o’ c-course, sir! Thank youze!”

The assistant stumbled out of the office, almost smacking his head on the double doors. Both guards secured the entry immediately afterwards. Stoic as usual, they watched their Master stride away from the window and towards the map once more.

Bernie Madhoof caressed the parchment, making slow circles around a dot on the map marked with a pushpin. A demon in a black velvet suit, he muttered, his voice barely above a whisper, “Expand the game, beyond the horizon…”

Thief In The Night

It was not the blaze of the boomtown sun that awoke Babs Seed from her peaceful dreams. Nor was it the sound of her father sawing an entire forest of logs in the adjacent hotel room. No, it was the SMACK! of pegasus flesh careening into a stubborn glass window that jarred her from her sleep sometime around high noon.

Groaning, Babs rubbed her eyes and glanced across the room to the window. A grey pegasus mare was pressed flat against the glass, her pupils spinning within their sockets. “Aww, horseapples, not again!” Babs groaned, face-hoofing.

Apple Bloom rolled over and smacked her lips sleepily. “That’s Derpy, ain’t it?”

“Mmhmm.” Tossing the sheets aside, Babs rose from the bed and trotted over to the window. Carefully, she unlocked one side of the double-pane glass, swinging it outwards. “Youze alright, Derpy?”

Derpy shook her muzzle a few times and pried herself from the strong glass (not even a crack in the pane), her wings flapping steadily. Hovering in the air, she happily nodded and retrieved a scroll from her mailbag. “I’m alright, Babs! I’ve got another letter for yoooou!”

Nothin’ fazes her. Thank Celestia she’s the one deliverin’ out heeya. Most days, I thank Celestia, anyway. Except fo’ dat one time she dropped AJ’s letta back ta us in dat cactus. Accepting the parchment, Babs grinned and thanked the vigilant mailmare. “Be careful next time, alright? There is a front entrance ta the inn, youze know.”

“I know! But that letter’s marked urgent!" Derpy reasoned, saluting nopony in particular. She kicked her hindhooves and with a mighty flap of her wings, shot off into the clear blue. There were more deliveries to be made and not a minute to spare.

Apple Bloom yawned and reckoned five hours of sleep was enough. Shaking Sandmare's dust from her eyelids, she joined Babs at the windowsill, mumbling, “Ah swear, one o’ these days that poor mare’s gonna get a concussion… again.”

“I think dat might fix what’s wrong wit’ her.”

“Babs!” Apple Bloom smacked the witty mare on the shoulder.

“What?” Babs asked innocently, smirking. “Everypony needs a good knock ta the head now an’ then.”

Apple Bloom rolled her eyes and swiped the letter from her marefriend. “Ah’m not forgettin’ that one.”

“Usin’ ma own words against me? Now, dat’s no fair.”

“Ah make the rules, remember, sugarcube?” Apple Bloom teased as she unrolled the scroll. She sat on the corner of the bed, her eyes lighting up immediately. “It’s from Scoots! Ah’ve been hopin’ she’d write us back soon!”

Sitting beside her, Babs's muzzle soon matched her counterpart’s in glee. “I was gettin’ worried fo’ a bit there. Gonna have ta give dat filly some grief next time I see her. She don’t write enough.”

“Ah’m sure she says the same ‘bout us.” Apple Bloom ran a forehoof over the surface of the letter, her smile growing wider by the second. “An’ it looks like you’ll have that chance soon, Babsy.”

“What youze mean?”

Passing the parchment to her, Apple Bloom grinned and rose from the bed. “Jus’ look fer yerself,” she called, opening the door and heading into the hallway. “Ah’ll be back in a few. Gonna go get breakfast.”

“Bring me back summat!” Babs yelled after her. She locked the door behind her mare and returned to the letter. There, in clumsy hoof-writing, Scootaloo simply stated:

“Dear Babs and Bloom—

Hope you two have enough Applejack Daniel’s for a Wonderbolt, a singing sensation, and their special someponies! Sweetie and I both are gonna be on a break soon, so prepare yourselves. I don’t know about Sweetie Belle, but after flying into that wasteland of yours, I’m gonna be as thirsty as a… Well, you know.

See you soon!

~Scoots

P.S. Glad to hear things back home in Ponyville are going good. You two are simply awesome, you know that?”

Running a mental inventory, Babs chuckled and turned over the scroll. After obtaining a quill and inkpot, she scrawled on the other side, “Get your flanks over here, and quick. Got a delivery of fresh cider tomorrow with your name all over it, you crazy flier. Babs."

Once finished, she thrust the window open, hanging her forehooves over the side. Now, when’s dat crazy pegasus gonna be comin’ back? Maybe iffa I leave some muffins on dis windowsill…

~

CRACK!

A clash of relentless hindhooves burst the cactus wide open near its prayerful limbs. Three ripe fig cactus fruit, now freed, tumbled to the ground. The wind teased the sands, tickling the mare's nostrils and eliciting the occasional sneeze. The sun set the desert afire to a lesser intensity in the aftermath of winter. While winter had faded in the plains and would soon be fully forgotten in the blaze, spring would, in a few weeks, be in full bloom throughout Equestria.

Gathering the fruit, Apple Bloom recalled the beauty that was Ponyville in spring. The apples had awakened from their dormancy and would soon be ripe. The next shipment of Apple Family cider would be fresh from the trees. Drooling at the mere thought, she clutched her prizes close to her chest and hummed to herself.

The seasons, they were a-changing. And time with it. But there was nowhere else in the entirety of The All itself she wanted to be than here in nopony’s land, with her mare and, now, the one stallion she'd never thought she'd meet. Surpassing the insurmountable hurdle that was a fillyfriend's father had never been a worry for her. There had been Libra's skepticism, but that seemed to have finally waned. Apple Bloom thought there was no more opposition after her aunt's acceptance.

After all, Bernie Madhoof may as well have been a ghost.

When she’d carried their breakfast about halfway back to the circle of buildings that ponies of stronger bonds may have designated as “town,” she was met near the middle by a grizzled muzzle. “Good mornin’, kiddo! O’, should I say, afternoon."

“Howdy, Turner!” Apple Bloom trotted up to him, offering a piece of fruit to the stallion. “Want some breakfast?”

He sniffed at the offering. “Fig cactus? Horseapples, I haven’t had any o’ dat since I made a wrong turn at Dodge City. Spent almost three weeks in dat desert. Lived off these things an’ a few cans o’ beans.”

“Oh. So… um… ya don’t want any, then?”

“Entirely the opposite! Love 'em,” he said as he accepted the morsel. The stallion scarfed it down instantaneously and patted his stomach. “Thanks, Bloom.”

“Wow. Ah never thought Ah’d find somepony who eats faster than me!” She laughed and sat on her haunches beside him, digging into one of the figs. “So,” she began between bites, “how long are ya gonna stick ‘round, Turner?”

He shrugged and plopped down on his haunches, stretching his forehooves. “I dunno, kiddo. Youze don’t mind iffa I call youze dat, by the way, right?” At her negation, he smiled. “Ah, good. Hate ta offend youze. Anyway, I was originally jus’ gonna pass on through until I found a minin’ claim ta jump onta, but—“

“Ya know, Ah bet Babsy an’ Ah could—“

“Babsy?”

Apple Bloom flattened her ears and blushed slightly. “Uh, don’t tell her Ah called her that name in front o’ ya. She’ll get all embarrassed.”

“Haha! Isn’t dat mo’ o’ a reason ta say summat?” Turner whooped, nudging her on the shoulder. She joined his laughter and half-shrugged, half-nodded. “Alright, kiddo, I won’t say nothin’. Heh. Anyway, youze know summat ‘bout minin’ ‘round heeya?”

“Much mo’ than that.” Rising off the ground, the mare brushed sand from her hooves and flanks. “’Member when Ah said we have lotsa stories ta tell?” He nodded. “Well, that’s one o’ ‘em. We’re gonna be openin’ the bar up at sundown like always… Come by fer a free drink an’ some o’ that story, won’t ya?”

Turner grinned and rose to his hooves beside her. “Wouldn’t miss it fo’ anythin’.”

~

“No, no, sir, we don’t have any vodka wit’ gold flakes in it. Nope, nay, an’ eenope.” Babs continued cleaning a beer mug and rolled her eyes at the repeated request. Gesturing with a forehoof to the stocked shelves behind her, she shot back, “We’ve got cider, whiskey, vodka without precious metals, rum, an’ gin. Plus beer an’ wine. Jus’ pick summat.”

“I was told this was the finest establishment this far southwest,” grumbled the unicorn stallion at the bar, crossing his forehooves. “How dare you not carry Goldslick Vodka?”

“Look, eitha pick summat o’ get outta heeya!” Babs barked, pointing towards the double saloon doors. “What else are youze gonna drink, anyhow? Cactus water?”

With a flick of his snout and a harrumph, the haughty unicorn left his seat and stomped out the door. His bits still jingled within his wallet, unspent and unworthy. His patronage would not be missed. Tonight, their bar was filled to the brim with vagrants, vagabonds, and visitors alike. Pinkie Pie had returned as promised, occupying the piano in the corner and adding to the overall chaotic atmosphere.

The sun had barely snuck below the void in the deep, and already Babs Seed had put her forehooves to good use, throwing out one vicious drunk and breaking up a tussle between two harmless ones. Well, mostly harmless. Alcohol, she had learned over these six months, mimicked the spirit of Chaos itself in one very alarming way: it could transform the harmonious into the discordant, revealing the monsters hidden within.

Apple Bloom busied herself with drink orders and kept an eye out for Turner. The remainder of the day between breakfast and business had been a mostly uneventful one. The stallion seemingly disappeared after their parting of ways, but it didn’t worry either mare. A nomad, after all, is one who is only comfortable when experiencing velocity.

For the two mares behind the bar counter, there was no greater velocity than keeping order in a lawless land, with only their hooves and wits about them.

“’Ey! Pinkie! Can youze play summat otha than dat sharin' song fo’ pony’s sake? I’m gonna go crazy iffa I hear dat one mo’ time!” Babs shouted over the roar of clinking glasses and excited exchanges. She mustered a slight grin and caught eyes with Pinkie, clarifying, “It’s a good song! I jus’… I need summat mo’… fittin’ fo’ the bar!”

“Fitting? What do you mean? I don’t see anypony getting dressed!” Pinkie tugged at the collar of her saloon outfit. “Speaking of clothes, can I take this off? Pretty-pretty-please?”

“Pinkie, Ah don’t even know where ya got that!” Apple Bloom giggled, shaking her head. “Ya can take it off whenever ya like… Jus’, please, play somethin’ else fer everypony!”

Ripping off the “saloon-mare’s” getup in less than a millisecond, Pinkie Pie clapped her forehooves together and hopped excitedly on alternating hindhooves. “Ooh, alrighty! What should I play? What should I play? What should I play?”

“How ‘bout Ah play somethin’ fer y’all?” a baritone at the door answered.

Babs and Apple Bloom snapped their necks towards the voice. Immediately, they grinned wildly. Babs slammed the mug in her forehooves down on the counter and jumped over the bar. Rushing to the stallion, she exclaimed, “Soapy!”

“Well, howdy, Babs!” He extended a forehoof to the mare, who eagerly returned the greeting, grasping his hoof tightly.

Dyea stood beside the weathered stallion, her eyes wide with awe. “Wow… so the stories were true. There really was an amazing oasis out here in the badlands.”

“Youze found youze place! Come on! A drink fo’ youze both on the house,” Babs urged, leading them through the crowd. She retrieved two spare stools from the back and set them in front of the counter for her honored guests. A third stool waited patiently for another who was yet to arrive.

Pinkie Pie, watching the exchange, shrugged after a moment and took her place at the piano, beginning with a few opening chords of a new song.

Apple Bloom trotted over and shook hooves with Dyea and Soapy. “Ah’m mighty glad ta see y’all! How’s minin’ been?”

Setting down two glasses of Equestria’s finest whiskey in front of them, Babs Seed added excitedly, “Yea! Find anymo’ gold out there?”

“Gold? Pfft,” Dyea scoffed, waving a forehoof. “Silver’s where all the demand is now. That, and I think that haul you two helped bring in was the last in those veins for a while. That’s what brought us here. Silver."

"I see. 'Ey, where's Allspice?" Babs asked.

Dyea shrugged. "Not quite sure where she is now. After a few more unsuccessful claims, she packed up and went with another mining crew. I'm sure she's alright, though," she said, smiling slightly. "She's a tough ol' mare. Right, Soapy?"

The stallion tipped the glass back and drained it in one long gulp.

Dyea nudged him in the chest. “Right, Soapy?”

Setting the glass down, he turned to the mare and muttered, “R-right w-what?”

“Oh, horseapples!” Face-hoofing, she groaned, “Were you even listening to anything I said?”

“’Course Ah was! … Er, what was the question ‘gain?”

With an unspoken agreement and some shared, awkward chuckles, the bartenders busied themselves in other tasks for a few moments. “We’re gonna, uh, leave y’all alone fer a bit,” Apple Bloom muttered, following Babs into the stockroom behind the bar.

Grabbing a fresh bottle of Applejack Daniel’s from a box, Babs mumbled, “Dey act jus’ like a married couple, dem two. I should’ve known.”

“You didn’t?” Apple Bloom asked, confused. “Ah thought everypony knew.”

“Hmm. Guess not. Explains a lot, though.” Babs's left ear pricked. “Sounds like we got some more customers, Bloom. Sure is busy ta-night.”

“Ah know. Ain’t it great?” Following her partner back behind the counter, Apple Bloom said, “Applejack will have ta send us a new delivery within a week o’ so, Ah reckon, the way everythin’s sellin’!”

When they emerged, two additional figures filed into the packed bar. One was Turner, shaking sand from his mane and walking up to take the final stool at the counter beside the two feuding miners. The other was clad in black from muzzle to tail, the cowl of the cloak obscuring the newcomer’s face.

Despite the gradual cooling of the desert plains, Babs Seed suspected the robe had been donned for a more sinister purpose. A pit of ice blossomed in her belly, freezing her nerves from torso upwards. She paused, placing her forehooves on the counter and watching the figure trot through the crowd. Black. All black. Like dat pony in the Appleloosa saloon. No. Like both o’ ‘em, wasn’t it?

“Sorry I was late, Babs, Bloom.” Turner leaned over the bar and took a deep breath. “I went far south as I could, but didn’t find nothin’ ‘bout no minin’ claims—“

“Minin’?” Ending his half of the argument, Soapy turned to face him. “Why, if minin’s what yer lookin’ fer, stranger, Ah should have a job fer ya soon! Silver minin’! Ma name’s Skagway, but..." He hiccuped, his muzzle flushed with whiskey as he finished, "You can call me ‘Soapy’!”

Turner laughed and made his acquaintance. “Nice ta meet youze, Soapy. Bloom, does he have anythin’ ta do wit’ youze minin’ ventures?”

Apple Bloom said, “Sure does! He even made Babs’ earring fer her! Right, Babs?”

“Uh-huh…” Tracking every movement of the cloaked figure, Babs Seed barely registered the conversation brewing in front of her, father and ex-employer exchanging excited tales of fortune and hardship. Noticing this, Apple Bloom stared in the direction of Babs’s gaze. Her own pupils dilated and locked onto the stranger, watching as it weaved through the overflowing establishment and took a seat in the corner.

“’Cuse me fo’ a moment,” Babs said as she slicked out from behind the bar. Apple Bloom clenched her forehooves and leaned up against the counter, watching intently for any sign of sudden movement from the mysterious customer.

Heart fluttering with each step, Babs Seed made her way to the far corner of her bar. Pinkie Pie was flooding the atmosphere with such a haphazard tune that some of the patrons were beginning to protest, calling for somepony who wasn’t tone-deaf to take a seat at the instrument. At this, Soapy jumped from his stool to his hooves and trotted over, pushing the pink mare aside. Babs ignored the resulting ruckus, counting her movements until she reached the figure in black.

“Can I help youze?” She spoke from the top of her lungs, injecting obvious venom into her words. Oh, Celestia help youze, iffa youze reach inside dat cloak o’ youze, I’ll buck youze teeth in so fast it’ll make youze head spin.

No discernible coat color was visible behind the darkness of the cowl. Nor were the stranger’s hooves outstretched enough to tell. From beneath the cloak came a monotonous reply. “Yes. I would like some orange gin, please.”

The words carried no rhythm or rhyme, belonging to both and neither gender in the same instance.

What the…?

Tapping her intact ear, Babs repeated, “Orange gin?” Shaking her muzzle, she chuckled, “I’m sorry, youze must not be from ‘round heeya. Nopony out heeya drinks orange-flavored anythin’. Not fo' desert ponies. Only a special kind o’ apple can survive in the desert—an’ those are in Appleloosa. Everythin’ heeya is imported.”

“I see,” muttered the stranger. Bringing its forehooves together, the cloaked figure posed a second question. “Can you then tell me where I can find any?”

Again, Babs said, “I’m sorry. I can’t help youze wit’ dat. Far east o’ heeya is all I can think o’. But I’m gonna have ta ask youze ta leave. Youze is scarin’ the otha customas wit’ youze getup,” she lied, standing firm.

To her surprise, the mysterious pony dismounted from the stool and made a decent pace for the exit. Just as it reached the double saloon doors, it glanced towards Babs Seed once more, countenance concealed and offering no clues to the identity of its possessor.

To her relief, it took to its hooves, galloping into the desert night.

Composing herself with a quick, calculated breath, Babs rejoined the land of the real and caught a circle of commotion from the corner of her emerald iris. There, surrounded by a gaggle of intoxicated mares and stallions, Soapy hammered out a joyous tune on the piano. Slurring his words, he began to sing, his eyes fixated on Dyea:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WcKYTBWSIz4

Babs groaned. “Oh, fo’ the love o’—“

A soothing voice exhaled hotly into her left ear, “Ya alright, sugarcube?”

“Huh?” Blinking, Babs found Apple Bloom’s eyes staring straight into hers. “O-oh. U-uh, yeah, I’m f-fine.”

“Good.” Nuzzling her cheek, Apple Bloom said, “Ah was watchin’ ya talk ta that strange pony over there. Don’t worry. Ah’ve got yer back.”

Wrapping a forehoof around her torso, Babs giggled and replied, “I know. Heh.”

Diverting attention from the heat on her muzzle, Babs nudged in the direction of the piano and its howling pianist—who, by all accounts, was too drunk to carry a tune in his Stetson. “Uh, so, I guess he’s singin’ fo’ Dyea, huh?”

“He’s singin’ fer everypony. Don’t ya see how happy they all are?”

Indeed, the entire bar—from wary poker players, to weathered miners, to one giddy pink mare—joined in the rendition, their eyes seeking and finding would-be lovers, their voices serenading those long lost or far away. Even Turner, who perched on his stool from afar, seemed to enjoy the music, drumming a hoof on the counter in time with the chorus.

“Yeah. I guess dey are.”

“Are you?” Apple Bloom asked.

Pushing the mysterious figure in black to the back of her mind, Babs Seed answered in the affirmative. “Mo’ than anythin’.”

An enormous grin on his muzzle, Turner watched daughter and her mare dance in time and step with the others, the boomtown’s bar filled from wall to wall with more spirit than could be contained within glass. In the shadows of his hazy, buzzing consciousness, it was not Babs Seed and Apple Bloom sashaying to Soapy braying “Darlin’ Companion.”

It was he and Libra Scales, almost twenty years ago.

Turner smiled.

~

He waited. Curling his body into a ball behind two catci, the stallion waited, squeezing his eyelids securely shut and covering his muzzle when the winds came with a vengeance. He reasoned he must have fallen asleep at some point. When his eyes snapped open, the moon had already begun its descent. Judging from the position of the parish lantern, it was about 0300.

Perfect.

Shaking sand from his hooves and cloak, he galloped towards the bar once more, taking the long road. He twisted and turned behind rows of cacti and the few nearby buildings. Once he’d reached the bar, he sidled along the back wall near the stockroom. The wood was cool and calming under his forehooves, not one splinter to be found. Truly, this bar was a work of art.

How unfortunate.

He counted his breaths, watching them become telltale steam in the night. At any moment, he expected that monstrous mare to pounce on him. He praised his steel resolve. Earlier, he’d gathered every ounce of courage within him to stay strong in her glare. He was a stallion, and should’ve feared no mare.

No, he was far more than just a stallion, and had no reason to fear anypony but one.

Maybe two.

A minute or hour passed. He wasn’t sure. Once satisfied that he was truly and utterly alone, he trotted hastily to the back door. He tried the doorknob. Locked. Of course. No matter and no trouble.

Fishing a set of lock-picks from a pocket inside his cloak, he tried several within the tumbler. The lock was sturdy but unremarkable. After a few miscalculations, he located a pick that mimicked the key enough to release the strike. Slowly, he opened the door, leaving it wide enough to slip inside before shutting it again. He thanked his dark gods that the door did not creak.

Not a single lantern or candle burned within. He paused, pricking his ears. Nothing. He was alone. Truly and utterly alone.

Good.

His task was simple enough. There was no way he could buck this one up. There was no way he would fall by the wayside in the wasteland like the others before him. No. He would succeed, and please his Don and, subsequently, his Master.

In the stockroom were a few bottles of Applejack Daniel’s, a few bottles of hard cider, a few bottles of apple juice, one bottle of rum, and a half-gallon of vodka.

“Dey gettin’ low. Good thing I came when I did,” he mumbled. Snatching a bottle of the whiskey, the stallion tucked it beneath his cloak and trotted cautiously towards the door.

He took one last, long look at the bar before departing. Pity. It was a grand construction, elegant in its simplicity. In another life, he would’ve loved to join in the gambling and the singing, the drinking and the banter.

But in this one, it was not meant to be.

Using the same faux key, the stallion locked the door upon his exit, checking the doorknob to ensure it was secure. Nopony would be the wiser. One bottle of whiskey could easily be dismissed as a mistake of inventory or a forgotten transaction. Nopony would notice.

And, truth be told, he had no thirst for whiskey. He was more of a gin stallion anyway. The label on the bottle was what mattered. The proof.

With a final sweep of the sands, Turn Key galloped into the night, heading north first. He vowed to make it to Appleloosa and the train station before the sandstorm came. The night taunted him, threatened him, wished to bury him.

Contraband

“Youze look like youze could use some coffee.”

Turner offered a steaming mug to Soapy, who grunted in acceptance. Soapy joined him at the downstairs table in the inn’s lobby, rubbing his hangover from his eyes. Taking a quick, deep gulp, realizing that he was still slightly intoxicated, Soapy steadied himself in his chair and cast a sideways glance at his companion. “Ya could say that. Ah don’t remember much after that first glass o’ whiskey.”

“Oh, don’t youze worry. Youze were a pretty fun drunk,” Turner replied with a slight smirk. He raised his mug to his lips, chasing his own caffeine high. A long night of drinking and (with some coaxing from Babs and Bloom) dancing had left the grizzled stallion in need of a pick-me-up. He drained his cup and turned to get more. “Though youze singin’ leaves much ta be desired. Anyway, youze want any mo’?”

“Naw, Ah shouldn’t. Dyea’s gonna be wakin’ up soon, an’ then we’ll get goin’. Say, Turner—“

Turner glanced over his shoulder as he poured more coffee. “Yes, Soapy?”

“Ya know, our silver camp ain’t gonna be mo’ than a few miles from here. Ya wanna come ‘long? Ah need a few mo’ hooves fer sluicin’,” Soapy offered, passing the mug back and forth between his forehooves.

Retrieving a fresh cup, Turner trotted back to the table and chewed on the stallion’s words. His savings would only cover his stay for a few weeks. After that, he’d be forced to take whatever work he could find. Soapy and his crew could've traveled to the ends of Equestria by then. He contemplated the prospect, glancing up the stairs and towards the second level of the inn.

Soapy leaned in close to whisper, “Ah know what yer thinkin’. Don’t worry, Ah wouldn’t want ta come between a stallion an’ his family. We work sunup ‘til sundown, but after that, the day is yers. Jus’ give it a thought, alright?”

Turner conceded, “Alright, Soapy, I’ll think ‘bout it an’ let youze know.”

“Great! Now, Ah’d best be gettin’ back upstairs befo’ Dyea—“

“Before I what?” Dyea asked, standing right behind him and tapping a forehoof on the floorboards. Soapy's muzzle paled as he nearly choked on his words.

Turner snorted into his coffee.

~

Turn Key slipped inside the train seconds before it began to pull away from the Appleloosa station. Stumbling on his hooves, he kept the stolen whiskey bottle tucked close under his cloak and lurched forward. He peeked his muzzle out of his cowl as he searched within the rows of sleeper cabs. His Don had promised him that he would not be alone in this venture. Surely, there was another here, marked to him and indistinguishable to the others.

He strode past rows of unmarked cabs. The laughter of a foal in a nearby seat set his teeth on edge. Once a foal, Turn Key was now a stallion, and had left behind foalish things. He’d exchanged his colthood for a tattoo, and received all he’d ever wanted in return.

“Sir, please, find your seat!” called a disgruntled station-guard.

Turn Key merely snorted in reply and stomped his hooves down the aisle. Finally, near the very back of the train, he located his signal. An orange peel was stuck in the sliding-glass door of a sleeper cab. There.

Without hesitation, Turn Key pried the door open, sliding the peel into one of the pockets of his cloak. A beige-and-cream stallion sat on his haunches beside the window, staring out into the grey desert dawn. The flatlands swelled with a brimming sandstorm; Turn Key had been just in time.

“Youze the otha?” Turn Key asked, taking a seat beside him.

The strange stallion kept his eyes glued to the window and grunted, each word strained and slow, “Conceal your voice again. You don’t want them to know where we’re from.”

Clearing his throat, Turn Key shook his muzzle in apology. “Sorry.” Checking to ensure that the cab door was completely closed, he fished the bottle from his cloak and tapped his cab-mate on the shoulder with it. “Look what I got.” His wicked grin betrayed his practiced, stoic nature as he held out his discovery to his brother-in-arms.

The stallion, growing bored of the scenery, turned to face him. He wordlessly accepted the offering and rotated the bottle in his hooves, reading the label. “Applejack Daniel’s, huh? They have some of this at the Appleloosa saloon, too. The drink of choice here.”

“Were you able to get anything from there?”

“Nope. Saloon owner was passed out in the stockroom. Wasn’t willing to risk it. We can’t do anything more direct until the Master says so, anyway," he explained. He ran a forehoof through his mane and crossed them both across his chest. Yawning and closing his eyes, he warned, “Whatever. Gonna be a long ride, buddy, so don’t try anything funny.”

Ignoring his implications, Turn Key took the bottle away from the stallion and removed his cloak, wrapping it around the bottle. Making himself comfortable, he asked one more question. “So, you're Mafia, right?”

“Kings.”

Turn Key froze.

The stallion opened one eye and smirked. “And you’re Mafia, ain’t you, buddy?”

Stammering, feeling a wave of revulsion pass over him and settle in his stomach, Turn Key said, “I-I was t-told—“

“That only Mafia would be on this mission?” The stallion snickered. “Fool. Gullible fool. We're all Knights here.”

He rolled over to face him, getting up on his hooves. “But once we’re back in Manehatten, you’d better watch yourself. I’ve killed many of your brothers with a smile on my face, and I’ll do the same to you,” he vowed, his unshorn fetlock right in front of Turn Key’s eyes, steady, firm.

Turn Key glanced to the stallion’s flank. There, a liquor bottle declared his dubious special talent. In the back of his mind, he recalled a schoolyard bully, a crimson cape, a gang of four that he left for higher things. Once remembered, he shoved it away.

That was years ago. He was a Knight now, a Mafia member, serving Don and King. Poverty and weakness had been abandoned in the dust for glory and power.

Still, a name danced on the tip of his tongue; his cab-mate was no stranger. Try as he might in the seconds that passed, their soulless pupils exchanging daggers between each other, he could not put name to mane.

Losing the staring contest, Turn Key plopped down in the cab and snorted his derision. “Whatever.”

Boone pretended to sleep the rest of the journey back, watching the brainwashed stallion snoring beside him. King Orange was nopony's friend. This joker was a fool to believe him and to serve him.

Truthfully, Boone could've stolen from the Appleloosa saloon, but why bother? It was a worthless mission, a petty distraction from the real aim. In time enough, Bernie Madhoof would serve him, and, perhaps then, he would be the one sent on wild goose chases.

Nevertheless, Boone kept a keen eye on the slumbering stallion. That bottle, if broken, would make a fine knife.

~

“So, Soapy offered youze a minin’ job, eh?” Babs Seed twisted the cap off a bottle of Applejack Daniel’s and poured a double shot into a glass. The hands of the clock hadn't reached five, the sun still blazing in the sky, hours from sunset. However, the bartender made an exception for this customer.

Passing the drink to Turner, she inquired, slight hesitation in her voice, “Well... what did youze say?”

“Dat’s what I wanted ta talk ta youze ‘bout.” Sipping his drink, Turner said, “I’ve been thinkin’ ‘bout it all day. I really do wanna stay an’ get ta know youze an’ Bloom, but I really can’t stick around fo’ too long. Vagabonds ain’t exactly the best with bits, youze see,” he admitted, staring into his glass.

“Oh.” Babs placed the bottle on a shelf behind the bar and mustered a slight smile. “Well, dat’s alright. I understand. I’m sure I’ll see youze ‘round soon.” Iffa it’s anythin’ like what Bloom an’ I did, won’t see youze fo’ months. Aww, what’s it matta? Youze went youze whole life without—

Apple Bloom poked her muzzle out from the stockroom. “Um, Babs, could ya come back here fer a second, please?”

Sighing, Babs joked, “Iffa I’m not back in a few minutes, send the Guard afta me, alright?” Nudging him playfully in the shoulder, Babs trotted off after her mare, leaving the stallion to his thoughts.

Joining Apple Bloom in the stockroom, dim but for the light of one lamp burning in the center, Babs asked, “What is it?”

Apple Bloom stretched up on her hindhooves, running her forehooves along their liquor shelf. She struggled to reach the top and grumbled, “Ah thought we had at least one mo’… Ah swear we did…”

“What are youze talkin’ ‘bout?” The taller mare rose to her hindhooves and matched the level of the shelf. “What youze need? I think we’re all stocked up in the front.”

“Yes, Babs, but we’re all out o’ Daniel’s back here,” Apple Bloom explained. Giving up, she sat back down on her haunches and tapped her chin thoughtfully. “Ah coulda sworn we had at least one mo’ bottle o’ whiskey ta hold us over. Ah think what ya jus’ opened fer Turner was the last one.”

Horseapples! Face-hoofing, Babs returned to her hooves and groaned. “Dammit. Dis place is gettin’ mo’ popular by the night. Gonna have ta steer lots o' ponies ta summat else.” She dug through a box on the floor, hoping it contained one more solitary bottle. It was to no avail, only kicking up more dust in the stockroom.

“Aw, don’t worry. Ah’ll jus’ get a letter ta Applejack an’ ask her ta send mo’ sooner. Hey, have you seen Pinkie Pie at all, by the way? Ah’m sure she wouldn’t mind deliverin’ it.”

“I did. She took off fo' Appleloosa earlier ta-day wit’ a bunch of minin’-ponies,” Babs answered, shoving the empty box away. "She looked pretty happy, though. Wearin' dat silly outfit an' singin' 'bout sharin' again."

"Oh. Ah see." Following behind Babs Seed as they returned from the stockroom, Apple Bloom felt compelled to raise more questions, but decided against it. After all, if anypony could find their way back through the desert plains to Appleloosa, it would be Pinkie Pie. That mare had far too many tricks up her... hooves.

"I was jus' 'bout ta call the Guard!" Turner teased, raising his glass. Finishing his drink, he wiped the back of his muzzle and said, "I s'pose I don't get seconds fo' delayin'?"

"Hmm, I dunno... What do youze think, Bloom? He deserves anotha drink?"

Apple Bloom laughed. "Ah dunno. This is our last bottle, after all," she replied, winking at the stallion. She nudged Babs and added gingerly, "But didn't Ah interrupt a mo' important discussion?"

Turner cleared his throat and forced a grin. "Ah heh heh, um, yes, I think youze did... Er... See, it's jus'..."

He paused, sighing, staring at the liquor shelf for a few seconds before turning back to Babs. "I really don't wanna jus' up an' leave youze so soon, 'specially afta... everythin'. But I need the work, an' Soapy says we won't be far away."

"Soapy's an honest foreman. Ah would trust him," Apple Bloom said, tilting the scales a bit. Although it had only been two days since their reunion, Apple Bloom knew that Babs and Turner both yearned to make up their lost time with as few interruptions as possible. Her mare hadn't explicitly said it, but she understood the reason Babs hadn't referred to the stallion as "father" quite yet. The definition, accurate as it was, couldn't bridge the gap between them. Only time could.

Babs Seed drummed a forehoof on the counter, lost in thought. True. He always did pay us, even when he hated me, an' things were bad. I don't think Soapy would lie. But I jus' don't know iffa I wanna say goodbye ta... him... so soon.

"I'll come back heeya every night, an' catch up wit' youze," Turner promised, placing one of his forehooves on top of Babs's own. He swallowed the lump in his throat and continued, "An' we can tell those stories we've been meanin' ta tell. I'm sure youze have a lot, as do I. Babs, I'm real sorry dat—"

"No, it's alright," Babs dismissed, although she did not brush him away. She smiled slightly in return. "Youze need the bits, an' youze won't be far from heeya. I think it's perfect. Jus' promise me one thing, alright?"

"O' course. Anythin'."

"Youze strike silver, youze splittin' wit' me, got it?" Flicking her right ear, Babs joked, "I need dis ear ta match the left one eventually!"

"Oh, no, you don't!" Apple Bloom chuckled into a forehoof, an impish grin on her muzzle. "Ah'm not gonna watch you pass out again."

"... Bloom!" Blushing, Babs glared at her mare, who merely threw up her forehooves in surrender.

"What? You don't remember, sugarcube? Why, ya were white as a ghost!"

"Oh, so she's a fainta," Turner deduced with a laugh. "Would've fooled me."

The other two joined him in his jest, and their little jokes and jabs at each other soon filled the gap between five o' clock somewhere and five o' clock in the saloon.

Once the sun began its descent, Apple Bloom flipped the sign on the bar, inviting the rest of the West to come and share in their merriment. The West responded as it always did, mares and stallions of all varieties filing in. Between the hustle and bustle of drink and serve and banter, the remaining tale of Babs Seed's and Apple Bloom's gold mining adventures in Yukon (as well as the piercing mishap) was retold, to the slight embarrassment of one mare and a stallion's amusement.

Despite all the fights she'd been in through the years with ponies and timberwolves and coyotes, it was the piercing on the nicked ear that hurt the most. The irony never failed to elude Babs Seed; the "first piercing" right above it had been far more cruel, though it, too, had stolen her consciousness.

For better or worse, the holes in her ear were a reminder of all she'd been through—what they had been through—and Babs vowed never to forget it.

On that night in the desert plains, the first night before Turner took to the mining game in the hoof-steps of his daughter, Manehatten seemed impossibly far away. A lifetime away.

~

“Where did you get this?”

“I-I-in a b-b-bar in the w-wasteland,” Turn Key mumbled, his entire body shaking as he lie prone on his Master’s carpet. His words melded with the thick, white fabric and shattered any illusion of courage or might. In the presence of his one and true Master—the only stallion he feared in the entire city—Turn Key was a cowering slave.

The Master tossed the whiskey bottle between his forehooves, back and forth, back and forth. “Wasteland,” he repeated grimly. “Wasteland.”

Rising from his chair, he left the bottle on his mahogany desk and studied his map intensely. “Waste… land…” His words circled around the circumference of his office, lingering in the ears of the guards and jester bowing before him. With a forehoof, he circled over the Equestrian map.

Silence filled the room, interrupted occasionally by the scratch of a fetlock rubbing its strands against parchment.

Then, there was a CRASH! of glass bottle striking the opposite wall of the office, narrowly missing the muzzle of a guard as it flew.

“WASTELAND?!”

Turn Key gasped as a pair of forehooves grabbed him by the collar of his cloak and lifted him into the air. He flailed his hindhooves uselessly. The Master surpassed him in wealth, health, intellect, and strength. And he knew it.

Turn Key whimpered pitifully, all four of his hooves trembling. “P-p-please…”

“What kind of IDIOT do you think I am?!” Madhoof pulled the fool up to meet his eyes. They were wild and empty in the same instance, cold fire burning in the blackness. “Wasteland! You come into my office, bring me this contraband, and tell me it’s from a bucking wasteland?!

“Deserts don’t have water, imbecile! How, tell me, would somepony open a bar in the middle of bucking nowhere?!” He covered his Knight in his spittle, muzzle-to-muzzle with him, observing the cowardly Mafia gangster devolve into a sniveling foal in his grasp. Violently he shook the jester, wiping that smug smirk off his face. “Answer me, nitwit!”

“I-I-I d-don’t know!” Turn Key cried, a shameful tear streaking down his cheek. Now he’d done it. In an instant, his Master’s rage dissipated, replaced with a growing, devilish smile. Chills froze his spine and all its matching limbs. “I-I went o-out, w-way out, fartha than A-Appleloosa… Dey got it there, too, sir! In th-the d-desert town…”

“Then, why didn’t your little coltfriend bring me anything? Or did you steal this from him?”

Madhoof kicked off his hindhooves and slammed the pitiful stallion into the wall, grinning when he groaned in pain. “All of you pithy little Knights are mere pawns to me, but I have more faith in that idiot than you! At least he can string a sentence together!”

“P-please,” whined Turn Key, his back throbbing with white-hot pain. “P-please, put me d-down, sir.”

“What did you say?!”

“I-I a-asked—“

“ENOUGH!”

With one quick motion, Bernie Madhoof flung the Knight across the room. The stallion landed against the map with a THUD! and slid down, tearing the parchment in the process.

Enraged, Bernie Madhoof clapped his forehooves together. Zebra and stallion guard jumped upon the jester, pressing the barrels of their rifles against his temples.

With nothing left to lose, Turn Key began to sob, flailing his limbs and whimpering in agony. He had done as he was told. He had broken into a bar in the West and retrieved the contraband, the proof that its owners were selling something other than his Master’s brew. He had survived the train ride with his enemy and returned to the Mansion, bearing gifts for his King. He had done everything right.

So, why, then, was the Master standing over him, laughing, rejoicing in his pain and misery?

“You want to know a secret, little Knight?”

“Y-y-yes, s-sir.” Turn Key sniffled as he peered up into his eyes.

Bernie Madhoof leaned down to whisper in his ear. “That whiskey you brought me is the work of clumsy, inferior hooves. Hooves that will soon come to know my wrath. I know not where you got it from, Appleloosa or beyond, but my Knights shall find and destroy the bar you burglarized.”

A flicker of hope surged through his heart. He raised his head up slightly, letting the hint of a smile grace his countenance. “S-so, I d-did good, Masta?”

“The best,” answered King Orange. And then, with a grin towards his guards, he ordered, “Kill him.”

With the squeeze of two triggers, the thief in the night had nothing to fear anymore.

Annexation

Outside the inn, Dyea and Soapy waited, their mining team in tow. Today marked the first day of their trek back into the relentless plains. Babs Seed’s and Apple Bloom’s bar, lovely as it was, contained no silver hidden within its depths. And Soapy would’ve bet all the precious metal in the West that Dyea would soon tire of his drunken serenades, anyway.

Just as dawn broke, Turner headed out of the inn with the two bartenders in tow. “Good mornin’, Turner! Ya ready?” Soapy asked, striding up to meet him.

“As ready as I’ll eva be,” Turner replied, smiling. He turned back to his daughter, who nodded encouragingly. C’mon, it’s alright. We’ll see youze soon. Soapy takes good care o’ his team.

Dyea said cheerfully, “Glad to hear! Now, Babs, Bloom, in case you ever wanted to hike out and see us—maybe even stay for dinner—I’d be pleased to give our coordinates.”

“Right now?” Babs yawned and rubbed her eyes. Meh, maybe I should start drinkin’ coffee o’ summat. O’ stop goin’ ta bed in the twilight. “But we don’t have any—“

“What are they, Dyea?” Apple Bloom asked, the gears within her mind already set to full whirl, no caffeine necessary.

Dyea recited perfectly, “Thirty-three degrees north, one-hundred-fourteen degrees west. About five miles south of here, so maybe an hour’s trot if you’re really taking your time.”

“Got it. Ah won't forget.” Wrapping her forehooves around Turner, Apple Bloom vowed, “Now, if we don’t see ya ‘round every sundown, Turner, Ah’m gonna go hike out an’ find ya!”

The group burst in a fit of hearty chuckles. Babs added as she hugged her father, “O’ maybe I should jus’ call the Guard afta youze!”

“Hah! Maybe youze should! ‘Ey, Soapy, are there lots o’ pretty mares in yer camp?”

Looking away for a second, Soapy coyly replied, “Well, actually, there’s this one real pretty unic—“

“Oh, for Celestia’s sake!” Dyea rolled her eyes and playfully nudged Soapy in the shoulder. Then, in a more serious turn, she focused her gaze on Babs Seed. “You are always welcome with us, Babs. I’ll never began to thank you enough for what you did for us. Or for this fool here,” she finished, poking Soapy.

Another round of laughter. Then, Turner set his hooves towards the wild, following two new friends and leaving two behind. Though distance was no obstacle, easily surmounted, he couldn’t help but allow a little tear accompany his smile as he looked back.

Babs Seed and Apple Bloom watched him go, until he was a mere shadow against the horizon.

~

The Big Orange was Manehatten’s premiere bar among the working-class. The Big Orange, akin to all other bars, restaurants, and liquor stores in the city, sold primarily orange-flavored or orange-derived beverages. Gin, vodka, rum, and even beer were infused with the zest of citrus. Orange juice proved to be the mixer of choice to accompany all plain spirits. A far less-popular drink called hooch was made entirely of fermented oranges and yeast. A terrible, sour drink, only the most hardened of alcoholics could stomach it. Nevertheless, there were enough in the city to keep it stocked among the liquor-shelf of The Big Orange.

Another maddening shift having passed him by, Officer Rustler ordered a simple orange-wheat beer and took a seat at a table in the corner of The Big Orange. Still in uniform, he ignored the prying eyes that followed his every move. This bar was rumored to be controlled by one of the warring street gangs in Manehatten, but Rustler didn’t care. It was five o’ clock, finally. He could relax. He could forget.

His peace proved to be an illusion. Officer Lucky Toss entered the bar, chatting up a beautiful white mare with a curly black mane. The mare wore the same uniform as Lucky and Rustler, only with higher accolades. She was Detective White Dove, the head of Manehatten’s laughably-named “Anti-Gang Unit”.

“C’mon, Dove, please!” Lucky Toss whined, following White Dove to the bar counter. “Let me buy youze a drink.”

“How many times do I have ta turn youze down befo’ youze get the point?” she growled back, slamming a few bits on the counter. The bartender accepted them and began fixing her drink. It was the same every night. It had been so these past two years. Vodka on the rocks. Straight up, but not enough.

Lucky Toss ordered a wheat-orange beer, tapping his forehooves impatiently on the counter. The detective broke free of him for a few seconds, drink in hoof. Her eyes scanned the establishment and rested on a table in the corner.

Officer Rustler faked a smile as she pulled up a stool beside him. “’Ey, Detective. How goes things?”

“I could ask the same o’ youze.” She sipped on her drink and unbuttoned the collar of her uniform as she slumped into her stool. “I hear Chief’s gave youze a nice talkin’-ta dis afternoon. No leads on the shootin’ o’ the mares by the general store? O' maybe the body dat was found in Manehatten Lake? The stallion?”

Rustler sneered and replied with a rhetorical question of his own. “Any leads on the tattooed gang?”

White Dove locked her pupils onto his, not backing down. Still staring at him, she took another sip of her vodka.

“’Ey, where’s the party at?” Lucky Toss joined the two, to the groans of both. He opened his forehooves as he asked innocently, “What? Was it summat I said?”

“Toss, please, I told youze fo’ the hundredth time. Youze have a betta chance o’ winnin’ a beauty pageant than goin’ on a date wit’ me,” Dove mumbled, breaking her gaze from Rustler.

“But ain’t I jus’ the prettiest stallion youze eva seen?” Lucky teased, shining his pearly whites to an unimpressed detective. “Awww, c’mon! Alright, I’ll stop. Let’s jus’ be friends, right? Dove? Rustla?”

Officer Rustler snorted and drained the last of his beer. “Ain’t no friends in dis city. ‘Specially wit’ a stallion who used ta bully innocent foals an’ run wit' gang-ponies. Gang-ponies dat probably still wreck havoc in dis city.”

Both White Dove and Lucky Toss felt a wave of sickness pass through them. Both said nothing, becoming intently interested in their drinks.

To his own surprise, Rustler sighed and confessed, “Those two mares in the alleyway… dey… dey were ma friends, when I was lil’. When we graduated, dey moved away ta Canterlot o’ summat, I think, fo’ a while. Only heard from ‘em once, but I was hopin’ dey would write back, o’ I’d see ‘em again. An' the stallion... anotha colthood friend gone down the wrong path. I hoped someday he'd change, he'd see the light, an' I'd see him as he truly was.”

Rustler's grip on his empty beer bottle was nearly tight enough to shatter the glass, righteous rage surging in his veins. “I neva thought I’d see dem… dat way…”

Reaching over to pat him on the shoulder, Officer Lucky Toss attempted to console him. “Wow, Rustla, dat’s rough, buddy. I’m really sorry.”

“Aww, what do youze care?” Rustler huffed, shoving his forehoof away. “Youze were no betta than the gangstas who probably murdered dem! An’ as fo’ youze,” he said, turning his attention back to White Dove, “what’s youze excuse? Two years youze been workin’ at savin’ dis city from its demons, an’ fo’ what? Nothin’!”

He slammed a forehoof on the table, hard enough to send their drinks skywards. Luckily, Toss and Dove caught theirs, while Rustler’s empty bottle fell to the floor, shattering into a hundred pieces. All eyes within the bar turned to the corner table, chatter and clamor seizing.

Leaping off his stool and kicking it to the side, Officer Rustler stomped out of the bar, his badge feeling unusually heavy against his heart as he exited into the night.

~

“Get outta our town!”

“Yer not welcome here!”

“City-slickin’ varmint!”

Three stallions pinned a fourth to the floor of the Appleloosian saloon, mocking his pained cries. The fourth stallion—meek, frail, tears streaming down his cheeks—squirmed and thrashed with all his might. To his dread, three figures entered the hushed saloon, all with silver stars pinned to their clothing.

“What seems ta be the problem here?” Braeburn thundered, stomping towards the madness.

“Lookit what we’ve got here, Deputy!” Pickaxe, one of the captors, whooped. “Got a right ol’ troublemaker right here!” Grinning impishly, he slammed the stallion’s muzzle into the floorboards once more, his laughter reminiscent of demons of old.

His captive sobbed through his agony, “P-please! L-Let me go! I-I didn’t do anythin’ t-ta youze!”

“What’s the meanin’ o’ this?!” Silverstar trudged over to the group and shoved Pickaxe off the wailing stallion. Glaring at the others, who hastily complied with his unspoken edict, Sheriff Silverstar helped the stallion to his hooves.

The third law-pony, a gray, black-maned stallion named Deuce, failed to conceal his rage. “What is the matter wit’ youze?! What did he do?! O’ are youze jus’ playin’ youze sick lil’ games again o’ summat?!”

All three turned their muzzles away from the former Manehattenite. “Ah don’t have nothin’ ta do wit’ the likes o’ ya,” Pickaxe snarled, spitting on the floor. He’d loathed Deuce from the moment Silverstar deputized him, over six cruel months ago. Rounding on the other two, he explained, “This one here tried ta start a fight wit’ me!”

Both his companions clenched their forehooves and glared at Deuce in agreement. Braeburn, however, narrowed his gaze, seeing straight through Pickaxe's deceit. This was far from the first time he’d caught the grimy stallion attacking one of the visitors or refugees from the infamous East.

Braeburn shoved his muzzle into Pickaxe’s face, staring straight into his wild, maniacal eyes. “Ah don’t buy that fer a damn second, Pickaxe. Don’t make me kick yer lyin’ ass inta the sands, again, ‘cuz Ah’ll do it, again.” One of his forehooves hovered above his holster, steel itching and poised to wipe the smug stallion clean of his superiority.

Silverstar gently patted the victim on the shoulder and led him aside to the double doors of the saloon. Whispering, he assured, “Now, don’t ya fret. We’ll take care o’ these three. T’ain’t nothin’ ta do wit’ you. They’re jus'—“

“Assholes?” guessed the stallion, rubbing his bruised snout.

Silverstar laughed. “Well, Ah was gonna be a might more polite than that, but yer right. Ah’m sorry fer what happened. Ah hope ya don’t think we’re all like this,” he added, frowning slightly.

The stallion sighed and brushed dust from his coat. “Not youze fault, so don’t apologize. I think I’ll go check out the salt-bar instead.” He gave the Sheriff a meager, forced smile and strode towards the door, refusing to look at the three riff-raff corralled in the corner.

There, Braeburn, Deuce, and Silverstar began a polite discussion with the three locals regarding the ramifications of their continued prejudice towards immigrants into Appleloosa. When that proved insufficient, there was a cloud of fresh dust kicked up from the saloon floor, six sets of hooves struggling for dominance, and, when it was over, Pickaxe and his two drunken friends found themselves muzzle-down in the sand.

“An’ stay out!” called the saloon owner, clicking his tongue and crossing his forehooves. He shook his muzzle and glared out his doors, no feelings spared for the three groaning on the ground. Snapping his neck towards the three law-ponies, he said, “Thanks, y’all. Ah’m mighty sorry this keeps happenin’.”

“It’s alright,” Deuce said, adjusting his shoulder holster, his weapon almost knocked loose during the tussle. “Everypony will settle down once dey jus’ get mo’ used ta the sound o’ us Manehatten voices, heh.”

Braeburn bit his tongue. He had nearly three years of desert patrols tucked under his belt. Unlike the promises of old, the best had not been the last. During this past year, he and Silverstar had fought off two gun-toting stallions who’d set to assault this very bar. Once Deuce had made their duo a trio, there had been no more tattooed, cloaked assailants. He wondered if the addition of a third law-pony spooked the criminals enough to keep them at bay.

Perhaps that was true. Unfortunately, even with a thick Manehatten accent guarding Appleloosa, many ponies still didn’t trust those from the East. Even Deuce. Even, Braeburn acknowledged with gritted teeth, his own family.

“Ah s’pose so,” Silverstar said, though he disbelieved his own statement. Rage rushed through his veins when the civilians he’d sworn to protect and defend spoke ill of Manehatten, Trottingham, and Canterlot ponies. Some were so bold to speak ill of Citrus and Libra.

Those ones, of course, often emerged from such conversations bruised, tripping over their own words.

The saloon-owner nodded, thanked the three, and offered a free glass of Applejack Daniel’s or cider. His offer, although enticing, was politely declined. Daylight burned on the horizon. Soon, night would blanket the settlement, requiring the sharpest of senses. No room for depressants.

Braeburn, Silverstar, and Deuce exited the bar. Braeburn was delighted to see that Pickaxe and his cronies were now nowhere in sight. Presumably, they'd gotten the message, galloping off with tails tucked between their legs. “So, which one o’ us is gonna be doin’ night-patrol, Sheriff?”

Sheriff Silverstar adjusted his Stetson absentmindedly. “Actually, Brae, Ah was thinkin’ Ah could. Y’all been workin’ hard,” he reasoned, nodding approvingly towards his deputies. “Why don’t y’all take the night off? Go home, git some good rest. Ah’ll see ya bright an’ early, an’ Ah’ll get ma sleep in, then.”

“Youze sure?” Deuce asked, concerned. “Youze look tired, Sheriff.” The gray in Silverstar’s mane seemed more prominent than it had in recent months. His forehooves seemed clumsier, not as proficient on the quick-draw.

Of course, Silverstar denied their prior concerns, and this one as well. “Ah’m fine.” He stretched his hindhooves and chuckled. “Jus’ a lil' rusty on the hinges, but Ah’ll be fine. Ah’ll see y'all tomorrowa mornin’, alright?”

Braeburn shook his head. “But, Sheriff—“

“Ah said go home, Braeburn.” Silverstar placed a forehoof on Braeburn's shoulder. “Ah’ll be fine. Ah reckon this lil’ tussle’s worst ta-day has in store fer us. An’ you've been workin’ too hard. Go home ta Citrus an’ Libra. Ah heard Citrus is gonna be makin’ apple cobbler ta-night,” he said with a wink.

“Homemade apple cobbler?” A wide grin streaked across Deuce’s face. “Oh, aren’t youze a lucky stallion! Wish I had somepony ta make me a good home-cooked meal. Youze betta treat dat mare right, Brae!”

“Uh, it’s not like that, Deuce,” Braeburn mumbled, a slight blush on his muzzle. Changing the subject, he offered, “But hey! If ya want some, there’ll be plenty ta go ‘round. Why don’t ya come wit’ me an’ have supper?”

“Really?”

“O’ course! Ah know Auntie an’ Citrus won’t mind.”

“Well, sounds like y’all have some great dinner plans, jus’ like Ah hoped.” Silverstar slung a forehoof around each Deputy’s shoulder, chortling so deep his mustache shook. “Now, Ah’d best be gettin’ on night watch. Take care!”

The two waved their forehooves in a rapid farewell before taking off towards Braeburn’s cabin, the thought of cobbler removing all prior fatigue.

Sheriff Silverstar, despite his protests, couldn’t defy his biology. A few hours past sunset, the grizzled stallion sat on the porch of his office, taking his favorite seat. He put his hindhooves up on the railing, as he always did. He checked the chambers in his revolver, ensuring that they were loaded, ready to fire if need be.

Appleloosa was beginning to tuck in its hooves for the night. The towns-ponies were scurrying to their cabins, hotels, tents, and other shelters. Soon, only the tumbleweeds and coyotes in the distance would be his companions, here out in the West in the best. His hometown, his love.

“The most beautiful town in Equestria,” Sheriff Silverstar muttered, resting his eyes. Soon, he found himself drawn into the hooves of the Sandmare, unable to resist her grasp.

~

A mare crawled out of her tent in the barren wasteland. She and her comrades were camped just outside the Appleloosian city limits. All day, they’d battled the heat, sweating buckets and drinking even more. City-ponies they were, unaccustomed to such temperatures.

She looked up into the sky and checked the position of the moon. It shone, radiant, highest point in the heavens. A devilish smile on her muzzle, she jumped from tent to tent in the tight-knit camp, awakening her fellows.

“Dammit, Switch, what is it?!” one half-asleep stallion growled. Switch recognized his voice instantly; he, too, was a Manehatten King. The others crawling out of their tents and readying their weaponry were a mix of Mafia, Kings, and ponies with no gang affiliation at all. Other than the true army, of course.

Their tattoos kept them united on this hour, delaying the war that would be inevitable otherwise.

“Time ta ride,” Switch hissed, adjusting her shoulder holster. Many of her fellow Knights brought rifles or shotguns for this mission. She, however, would rely only on her trusty pistol. It was this gun that had seen her through tens of battles on the Manehatten streets.

Overall, she was unenthusiastic for this mission. It would be an excellent chance to prove herself--here she was, commanding both equals and lessers, among both her fellows and her enemies. The mere mention of the Manehatten Mafia made her sick to her stomach; fighting alongside their members was truly an exercise in tolerance.

Regardless, here, she ultimately served the only colt she’d ever loved—even if she was only a mere pawn to him.

Slinga, she thought to herself. I’m doin’ dis fo’ Slinga.

“Get a move on, youze mooks!” she ordered, galloping from tent to tent, stomping her hooves on the cold sands. With minimal opposition, the others shook sleep from their eyes and readied their weapons. Chambers were checked, cartridges were loaded, holsters were adjusted. Knives were sharpened and sheathed.

Thirteen of them they stood, eyes towards the settlement in the distance.

Switch strode back and forth in front of them, hashing her rehearsed speech. “The Masta’s plan fo’ us ta-night is simple: take down the three law-ponies heeya, an’ then destroy both the saloon an’ the salt-bar. Breach the back stockroom an’ destroy everythin’. Then, set the whole place on fire. Suffer nopony ta live. Five o’ us will go afta the pigs, four ta the saloon, an’ four ta the salt-bar. Any questions?”

Silence.

“Good.” Switch grinned, emboldened and swelling with pride. If only Card Slinger could see her now! Commanding troops—some of whom were his—into the first raid of annexation, the first wave of what was surely to be a new rule in the West. Surely, then, he would feel the same...

She drew her pistol, spurring the same motion from the twelve. On her signal nod, they pivoted their hooves, breathing one last, deep breath. Rifles, shotguns, and hoof-guns at the ready, they bolted into the darkness, led by the light of the moon towards Appleloosa.

Fallen Star

Toss, turn. Toss, turn. Toss. Turn.

Braeburn groaned and rubbed his eyes, willing himself to sleep. Deuce, full of more cobbler and cider than the stallion could handle, lay fast asleep in the guest room. Aunt and cousin were lost to Equestria, snoring contentedly in the bedroom next to his. Braeburn sought but did not find sleep, watching the moon rise through his window.

His thoughts drifted back to Deuce’s teasing comment after the saloon brawl. “Youze betta treat dat mare right, Brae.” Of course he did. He always had, from the moment Citrus and Libra showed up at his door, almost eight years ago. He’d kept their secrets, kept them safe, kept them loved.

Love…

A soft thud of four hooves hitting the floorboards pricked Braeburn’s ears alert. He fumbled in the darkness, quickly locating a box of matches with one hoof and grabbing his Stetson with the other. He lit the lamp on his nightstand. A dim, flickering flame illuminated the room. Braeburn tensed a bit, sliding one forehoof under his pillow, where his revolver awaited in its holster.

At his door came a gentle rapping of hoof against oak and a mare’s voice. “Braeburn? Are you awake?”

“C-Citrus?”

Cautiously, Citrus Blossom opened the door and shut it behind her. She trotted over to the stallion’s bed, her eyes half-opened and weighed with weariness. “I hope I didn’t wake you. I’m sorry if I did,” she said, keeping her voice low.

Braeburn shook his muzzle and relaxed. “No, cuz, Ah was already awake.”

He swung his hindhooves off the bed and gestured for her to sit beside him. She did so without a word, absentmindedly running a forehoof through her mane. Her long, flowing mane, her mane that matched her eyes, which glowed in the moonlight pouring in through his window.

“Oh, that’s good.” Citrus tapped her hindhooves together on the floor and sighed. “I tried to sleep, but I kept having nightmares.”

“Nightmares, huh?” Braeburn removed his Stetson and gripped it tightly, turning it in circles in his grasp. “’Bout what?”

“See, that’s the thing. I don’t really know. All I knew was that it was dark, and cold.” She turned to face him, a tense smile on her muzzle. “Did I ever tell you what happened when Babs and I went to Canterlot a few years ago?”

Braeburn snorted and slammed his hat on his head. “What? That them Canterlot numbskulls blew off one o’ the mo' beautiful mares in Appleloosa? Yeah, Ah remember that.”

Breaking her gaze, Citrus looked to the floor, then back to Braeburn, then back again. “Thank you, Brae, but I know you don’t mean that.”

“’Course Ah mean that!” he snapped back, startling both of them. “Ah… Ah mean,” he muttered, flustered, speaking softer this time, “Ah’m not one fer lies, Citrus. Heh. Ah’m an honest Deputy.”

“Hmm.” Citrus scooted closer to him on the bed, tilting her head as if observing a particularly interesting specimen for the first time. “I’m not sure… Doesn’t absolute power corrupt absolutely, Braeburn?” she mused. “And, besides… they were right, anyway.”

“Naw! Don’t you believe that fer a damn second.” Pulling her into a hug, Braeburn whispered, “Are ya sure that’s what this is all ‘bout? Canterlot?”

Wrapping her forehooves around him, Citrus Blossom buried her muzzle in his chest and replied, muffled, “N-no, I-I’m sc-scared that—“

~

Up, up, up the cliffs they galloped, hooves sliding and sinking into the sands. Unfamiliar steps they were, and unfamiliar ponies, too, unaccustomed to the ruthless blanket of white-and-beige that spurred their movements. The thirteen Earth ponies here found a new and strange power, a surge of energy that rocketed them through camp and into the tiny settlement. For many of them, this was the first night they’d ran on something other than concrete, and it gave them life.

“SPLIT UP!” Switch bellowed, her voice echoing against the cliff-faces and empty buildings.

On her signal, four set off towards the north end of Appleloosa, towards the salt-bar. Four more went towards the western corner, where the saloon awaited. She and four of her fellows were eastward bound, choosing a course for the Sheriff’s Office.

All was ripe for the pillaging.

Switch made haste, leading three stallions and another mare. The sands grew easier to traverse with each step, and the leader of the company discovered a rush of adrenaline that lit her entire being aflame.

All around them, the town was silent, quiet. Other than Switch's edicts, none of the thirteen made a sound. The entire company was prepped for battle, dressed in black from muzzle to tail, indistinguishable from shadows.

Seemingly, a few seconds passed between the cliffs and the porch of the Sheriff’s Office. A grizzled stallion was fast asleep in a rocking chair, but not for long.

While one of the stallions kicked in the door to the station—a few bucks of his iron hooves easily breaching the entry—Switch leapt on the sleeping stallion, crashing him down to the ground.

“What in tarnation?!”

WHACK! Switch beat the stallion once, twice, three times on the snout with the barrel of her pistol. He began to howl in agony, silenced by a forehoof shoved into his mouth.

“Shut up, shut up, shut up!” she hissed, spraying him with spittle. He struggled, flailing his hooves, kicking her between her flanks. Useless against a mare—and this one in particular—Switch laughed and brought the barrel of her gun upon his snout once more.

Sheriff Silverstar whimpered, blood gushing from his nose, and fumbled for his own weapon. Switch connected with his searching forehoof, hard, setting his neurons afire. The mare had all but broken his forelimb. Wasting no time, Switch grabbed his revolver and pressed it against his forehead.

“Where are youze Deputies?!”

“Mmprh mrr mmph!”

Removing her forehoof from his mouth, Switch repeated, “Where are youze Deputies?! Spill it, fucka, o’ I’ll blow youze brains out!”

“Ah ain’t tellin’ ya!”

“Wrong answer!” The mare stomped where it counted and shoved the barrel of her pistol into the stallion’s gaping maw. He screeched around the metal, seeing stars from somewhere more sinister than the wondrous skies above him.

Leaning in close, letting him see the pure, unbridled rage in her pupils, Switch commanded, “Last time: tell me where youze deputies are, o’ I’ll kill youze. Right now.”

From within the office came a shout. “Switch! Switch!”

“What is it?!” Switch kept her eyes glued to the bleeding, bruised, still-struggling Sheriff beneath her. Laughing, she slammed his head into the porch, watching his pupils spin around inside his eye sockets.

“Dey got the locations o’ the two Deputies' houses marked on a map inside heeya!” the same stallion replied, waving a piece of parchment. “It’s the stars on the map!”

Beaming, she called out, “So, I don’t need dis snivelin’ wreck out heeya?”

“Nope! Nopony else inside heeya, so go ‘head an’ waste him.”

“Wit’ pleasure.”

Switch shoved the barrel deeper down the stallion’s throat, laughing all the way. Sheriff Silverstar made one last attempt to save himself, wrapping both forehooves around the pistol and shoving it up. The seasoned gang-pony, however, saw right through his ruse, and pulled the trigger before he could even make it budge.

Above, the skies shone a bit brighter for a second, a silenced shot ringing through the night.

~

Before Citrus Blossom could reveal her true and deepest fear, she was interrupted by the sound of wood splitting and a series of hooves charging into the living room.

Braeburn immediately fished his revolver from beneath his pillow and jumped from the bed, shoving Citrus towards the wall. “Stay here!”

She sat on her haunches, frozen, watching the stallion scamper to the door to his room, revolver in forehoof, armed and ready.

From beyond the oak, Braeburn heard muffled shouts and commands. Four ponies. One heading towards the guest room, one towards his aunt and cousin’s room, and one towards his.

He couldn’t delay a second longer.

Swinging the door open with his unarmed hoof, Braeburn took quick aim. Right in front of him, his balaclava torn off, stood the same stallion from the saloon—the one who’d been pinned by the others. Immediately, Braeburn squeezed the trigger.

BANG!

The stallion collapsed to the floor, a perfect hole between his eyes. Seven shots remained.

“AUNTIE! LOCK YER DOOR!”

Leaping over the body, Braeburn took cover near a bookshelf and swept the scene. He was in the living room now. A stallion stood by the door and spun towards him, rifle raised. Saved by the split-second, Braeburn fired again, sending hot lead straight into the stallion’s neck.

From the guest room came a loud bellow and an even louder BANG! Unsure which sound belonged to Deuce and which belonged to the intruder, Braeburn had no choice but to kick off his hooves, speeding towards his aunt’s bedroom.

“AUNTIE!”

~

The saloon went first, both wood and spirits making fine kindling. First, the team of four smashed the contents within, paying special attention to the Applejack Daniel’s, apple cider, and apple juice. For reasons unbeknownst to the thugs, the Master had commanded all things apple be destroyed, first.

The other liquors were gathered and dumped throughout the saloon: on the counters, stools, and walls, both inside and out. Within a few minutes, the wood reeked of alcohol, prime for ignition.

Once his brothers were safely outside the bar, the pyrotechnic of the bunch positioned the broken-down back door of the saloon in the threshold and lit it aflame with a single match. The door had been thoroughly soaked in alcohol. A small, flickering ember soon became a ball of flame, and then another, and then another, setting off a chain reaction of tempest and torrent, the walls and ceiling bursting into tongues of fire.

“Go! Go! Go! Go!” called the pyrotechnic, panicking. The fire accelerated faster than he expected. He took off towards the cliff-faces, the corner of his eye focused on the burning saloon. He was shocked and horrified to see one of his brothers caught up in the flames near the door, burning, screaming, howling to the empty heavens.

He swallowed his sorrow and pressed on. Another loss. Another night.

The remaining three were about halfway to the cliffs overlooking the orchards when the devils came.

~

Mere feet from the door to Libra Scales’ room, the remaining stallion turned and pumped his shotgun, focusing it on the blur rushing towards him. The stallion smirked and squeezed off a few quick rounds.

BOOM! BOOM!

One soared over Braeburn’s Stetson, missing both hat and mane by a tiny degree. The other grazed the Deputy in the shoulder, wounding him as it met its destination in the floorboards. Groaning in pain and gritting his teeth, he rolled under the coffee table and stretched out his forehooves, returning fire.

BANG! BANG!

“AHHHHHHH!” The stallion dropped his shotgun and fell to his stomach, setting off the trigger as the weapon clattered to the floor. The shot ricocheted and whizzed from wall to ceiling to wall, finishing in its master’s side. He screamed again.

Bleeding, running off pure adrenaline, Braeburn stumbled to his hooves and rushed to the door. The injured stallion reached for his weapon, his motion ended by a quick bullet to the forehead. Four shots now.

No regard for carpentry, Braeburn kicked in the door. “AUNTIE!”

“BRAEBURN!” Libra Scales rushed to meet him, a knife in her forehooves, her entire body trembling from a fetid concoction of primal fear and white-hot rage. “What’s happening?! Where’s Citrus?! Where’s—“

“She’s—“

A mare’s scream from the next room sent them both galloping again.

~

“Freeze right there!”

Pickaxe and his two cronies raised their revolvers, pointing squarely at the gang of three. “Drop yer weapons! Drop ‘em, now!” he commanded, his forehooves shaking, unskilled and unsteady.

The three exchanged gazes. Thoroughly encased and disguised in black, their eyes spoke what their muzzles could not. Together, the three King’s Knights raised their weapons and fired.

Pickaxe, caught off-guard, took an immediate bullet to the stomach. He fell to the sand, staining it crimson, his vision fading. With rapidly-draining strength, he shouted, “Fuck you!” and brought his revolver up, emptying the chamber into his attacker.

The two other Appleloosians met bullet for bullet, and soon the scene was a haze of gunsmoke and dust and sand and lead. The towns-ponies were awakened now, the armed rushing into town square towards the sound of the chaos, the unarmed locking their doors and praying to whatever Higher Powers they reckoned would listen.

When the haze cleared, three Knights laid on the ground, freed from their endless, maddening toil.

Three Appleloosian trouble-makers laid down as well for the last time, the rowdiest among them whispering, “Ah was right, Celestia-damned city folk...”

Pickaxe took his last breath, his last thought being of starlight.

~

Citrus pressed her back into the wall, standing up on her hindhooves. “Keep away from me! Keep away from me!!” she shrieked, fumbling in the dim light of the lamp for something, anything. A hammer. A rope. A knife. A gun.

The mare trotted towards her, slowly, deliberately. The pistol in her grasp was steady, perfectly aimed, perfectly wielded. “Such a pretty mare,” Switch hissed, her molars reflecting the steady light of the lamp’s flame. “All alone. Dey left youze all alone, pretty mare. Maybe me an’ ma coltfriends should have some fun wit’ youze.”

“G-g-get a-away!”

“Youze would make a fine mare fo’ King’s Ransom,” muttered the intruder, taunting her further. She was halfway to the bed now, her weapon locked on the distraught mare. She was feeling particularly playful tonight; if she had the time, she would do far more than just kill this one, and all those within the despicable deputy’s house.

“Youze know what King’s Ransom is? Fo’ stallions, it’s death. Fo’ mares, it’s a fate far worse. Unless youze a slut. Which I bet youze are, aren’t youze?”

Citrus Blossom gulped, her forehooves finding nothing hanging on the wall or on the shelf above Braeburn’s bed or on top of the dresser beside it or anywhere between. The pistol was trained on her, and she knew the mare would shoot to kill. Terror strangled her, rendering her muscles and her muzzle useless.

Citrus knew that no amount of rippling muscle or bucking hindhooves could save her now. All those seasons in the orchards, working until her hooves ached and her mane was wild and she smelled like a stallion—all of that was for naught.

She was unarmed, and would pay the price for her foalish mistake.

One last time, she warned her empty threat. “Get away from me.”

Switch chuckled and said, “I don’t think so, sweetheart,” then reached for the trigger.

~

Four King’s Knights had barely struck a match when the Appleloosians, at least twenty of them, came galloping. Pistols, revolvers, shotguns, rifles, knives, pickaxes, pitchforks, and hooves rose to meet them. The four would-be arsonists raised their weapons in futile opposition.

The battle was quick, but the end did not come. The Knights howled and screamed and begged and pleaded and forgot their orders. They lost all dignity, all semblance of courage or self-control, as the towns-ponies pinned them, tied their hooves, kicked and punched and stomped them. Appleloosa itself was a slumbering dragon, now awakened, raging, bloodthirsty and wild.

They were disarmed, beaten, spat on, tormented. The night raged on, beautiful and silent, the moon bright and illuminating all their debauchery. To their horror, the King’s Knights soon discovered nooses around their necks, and sets of hooves flinging them onto strong stallion’s backs.

As they approached the highest point in town—the clock-tower, and an Equestrian flag hanging from a pole near the top—the remaining Knights thought of their brothers-and-sisters-in-arms, their gangs, and, vaguely, their true families.

Then, they thought of the Master, and his promises of wealth and security and safety and sanity and justice in an unjust world.

The Appleloosians hung them up, one by one, onto the now-barren flagpole. And, each time, a Knight realized his tattoo burned more than ever, far after its healing.

~

“CITRUS, GET DOWN!”

Switch snapped her neck around. There, Braeburn depleted another round of his revolver. The bullet whipped around the approaching mare and stuck firmly in his mattress. Citrus Blossom jumped onto the bed and covered her head with her forehooves, unable to cry, unable to speak anymore, unable to do anything but shiver and watch with inexplicable fascination.

From beyond the threshold came another scream, and a scramble, and Braeburn knew that Deuce had made the bellow of agony. Not his attacker. His attacker and Libra were wrestling now, shouting and screaming and biting and thrashing, and he had to act fast.

Three rounds. Braeburn rolled into a corner, leaned up on his hindhooves, and fired again.

BANG!

Lead embedded in the floor as the intruder leapt to the side. Two.

BANG!

Switch jumped again, just in time.

The lamp shattered, blanketing the room in darkness. One.

Dark. The bedroom was dark, except for the glow of their eyes and the fire in the distance beyond his window and the moon even farther away, sickeningly away, where the goddesses watched and did not care, where the Most High did not smile or intervene.

“Youze a bad shot!” Switch taunted, popping off a quick round of her own.

BOOM!

Braeburn dodged, leaping from his corner to the threshold. One more bullet. “Yer worse!”

His shoulder throbbed, his body ached, but he jumped again, missing another, and another, until he was dancing, dancing in his bedroom, from corner to threshold to corner until—

Until Switch’s trigger fired no more. Empty.

Unfazed, she lunged at the stallion, knocking him off his hindhooves in mid-jump. Switch pinned Braeburn to the floor, thrashing against him, locking her hindhooves around his flanks. She pulled his head up by his mane and slammed his head into the wall.

WHACK!

Stars in front of his eyes. So beautiful.

WHACK!

A million of them. A thousand. A thousand points of light.

WHACK!

How he loved them. How he loved it all. His town. His family. His everything.

His…

Switch drew his muzzle back, bleeding and bruised. She could sense the life fading from him, the way his breathing slowed, the way his flailing ceased. She was close. Oh, how she should’ve brought a knife! Slinger loved knives. Slinger would love her.

“Time ta die,” Switch whispered, and pulled Braeburn's head back.

Suddenly, there was a THUD! of forehooves striking against the floorboards. Those forehooves, as they came down, caught Switch in the side.

Switch rolled and gasped, agony in her torso, certain she’d shattered ribs. The meek mare was on top of her, pinning her to the ground.

Citrus pummeled Switch, no tears, no screams. She went mute, focused only on their attacker, on making her stop, stop, stop. Though a true farm-pony by now, she was not as strong as a gang-pony, and Switch soon flipped their positions. Now, Switch was on top of Citrus, a demonic grin on her face and fire in her eyes.

Switch brought her forehooves down around the mare’s neck and began to squeeze. Citrus, too, saw the stars, how beautiful they were.

Braeburn shook out of his daze, dizzy still, and grabbed his revolver. He flopped down on his belly and aimed at the intruder's neck. Last shot in the chamber.

BANG!

Switch drew her forehooves back, her pupils dilating. Once lead kissed her vertebrae, she slumped down on top of Citrus Blossom, and went to Tartarus to await her love.

Citrus, gasping for breath, managed to shove the mare’s body off herself before she collapsed, muzzle-down, into the floor.

Libra Scales, too, emerged from her battle, kicking a stallion’s body out from under her. In her forehooves was the knife she’d hidden in her nightstand—a simple kitchen knife. The stainless steel blade would be forever stained crimson.

She tossed it to the floor, letting it clatter, and crawled over to her daughter.

Braeburn, clutching at his shoulder, crawled on his belly, dragging himself across the blood-stained floorboards of their cabin. He held his empty revolver in his other forehoof. He crawled over to Citrus and Libra, and waited.

And waited.

In the distance, Braeburn could hear the jeers and whoops, the shouts of triumph and rage from town square, and he knew he was not alone. Hell had not just come to him.

Hell had come to them all.

“Deuce?” Braeburn asked at last, his words barely audible over his pained breathing.

Silence.

Libra Scales pulled her daughter up off the floor and into her forehooves. Citrus, although mostly unharmed—unmarred, except for a few dark, purple bruises around her neck—began to sob.

Libra and Braeburn held her close for a few minutes, or maybe a few hours.

Finally, Citrus brought her face out from her forehooves and sniffed, looking at Braeburn. “You’re bleeding.”

Braeburn examined the wound on his shoulder. It was about the size of a bit, nowhere near deep enough to need stitches. “Ah’m lucky. It’s jus’ a flesh wound. Ah’ll bandage up in a minute. Are ya okay?”

“Thanks to you, I am,” Citrus answered, a few remaining tears streaming down her cheeks. She pulled Braeburn closer to her, hugging him tight. “Thank you. Thank you. Thank you,” she whispered, her voice shaking.

“Yer the one that saved me,” Braeburn whispered back as he squeezed her tight.

Libra Scales threw her forehooves around daughter and nephew, held them close, and allowed herself to cry for the first time that night.

After a few minutes, they pulled away, sitting on their haunches in a strange, sickening silence.

Then, without warning, Citrus Blossom grabbed Braeburn by the muzzle and kissed him.

“C-Citrus?!” Braeburn pulled away from her, blushing a deep crimson.

Citrus blushed in return, her cream-colored muzzle bright red. “S-sorry.”

Libra Scales, on any other night, would’ve objected, or at least asked a few questions. Tonight, she could only smile.

Braeburn paused, and, then, kissed her back.

In the distance, the flames began to fade, and five new stars rose in the night sky.

Crusaders And Kings

Rearranging the stools around the bar counter (some of which had been kicked aside during one of last night’s brawls), Apple Bloom looked worriedly out the window. Babs Seed was in the stockroom, tallying up their meager inventory. It had been almost a week since Applejack had written the pair and announced a pending delivery.

While Big Macintosh had made the initial deliveries once the bar had opened, the past few had been handled by Caramel, who was compensated in both cider and bits for his assistance. This was cause for both celebration and disappointment. Sweet Apple Acres had not only returned to its previous economic stability—it was simply flourishing.

The influx of migrants and wanderers into the badlands seemed to only amplify by the week. Most of them were thirsty for the finest whiskey and cider in Equestria. Those who weren’t (usually out-of-town investors and speculators) were usually drinkers nonetheless, and the two mares were prepared for them as well.

Although Big Macintosh would be a more welcome sight, Caramel was one sign of the Apples’ growing economic prosperity. He was the first hired hoof they'd had in years. Soon, Apple Bloom reasoned, their family would be financially secure, more than able to fix that rusty ol’ plow, and maybe Granny’s rusty ol’ hip, too.

“’Ey, Bloom?” Babs called out from the stockroom.

Finally finished tidying up the main room, Apple Bloom trotted over to the liquor shelves and started re-arranging their wares. “Yea, Babs?”

“Youze see Mac o’ Caramel yet?”

“No! Ah’m thinkin’ we might have ta wait a few mo’ days.”

Emerging from the back room, Babs shook dust from her mane and sneezed. Rubbing her snout, she groaned as she said, “Dey’d betta get heeya soon! We’re down ta our back stock o’ everythin’, an’ completely outta cider an’ whiskey now.”

“Aw, well... Ah guess everypony will have ta drink somethin’ else." Apple Bloom began dusting off the bar counter. “An’ besides. We got a few hours befo’ sundown an’ we open up again. Maybe he’s jus’ runnin’ late?”

“Sure hope so.” Babs Seed pulled a cleaning rag from under the counter and began to clean an assortment of glasses. She glanced towards the window and the double saloon-doors in the front of the bar occasionally, a mixture of suspicion and irritation weighing heavily on her mind. Applejack ain’t neva late on a delivery fo’ us. Been near a week now, so it should be ta-day o’ tomorrowa…

A tap on her shoulder interrupted her thoughts. “Ah’m gonna go back ta the room fer a bit, alright, sugarcube?” Apple Bloom kissed her on the cheek and smiled.

“Heh, sure. Summat wrong?” Babs asked, nuzzling her neck.

“No. Ah’m jus’ gonna go start on a letter ta Auntie, Brae, an’ Citrus. Haven’t heard from ‘em in a while. Say,” Apple Bloom began, turning around and pausing as she trotted towards the door, “have ya seen Derpy ‘round at all? Ah haven’t seen her all day.”

Babs shook her head. “Nope. Haven’t seen her fo’ a few days, actually. Iffa I do, I tell her youze is lookin’ fo’ her.”

“Thanks, Babsy.” Her hooves light, Apple Bloom strode towards the door, her egress halted by a furious thundering of hooves on the front oak.

~

“Switch didn’t make it back from the mission last night,” Boone said, shuffling a deck of cards for a quick round of blackjack. He and his best friend and King sat in plush, luxurious chairs on opposite sides of Card Slinger’s mahogany desk. It was a more-than-suitable upgrade from the beanbags and coffee tables of their youth.

“She didn’t, huh?” Card Slinger counted out a stack of chips and passed some to his right-hoof stallion. “Dat’s too bad. One o’ the best shots we had in the streets. An’ a good spy, too. She was watchin’ bars fo’ the Masta.”

“What’s his issue wit’ bars, anyway?”

Shrugging, Slinger answered, “Hay iffa I know. Does it matta anymo’?” His rhetorical question hung in the air of his hideout’s office, interrupted intermittently by the clink! of casino chips being stacked and arranged.

Once it was thoroughly shuffled, Boone passed his true King the deck of cards. Slinger shook his head and busied himself with his chips, making even taller towers of them. “Youze be deala.”

Boone huffed, objecting, “I’m always deala!”

“An’ who’s the leada o’ dis gang?” Slinger taunted, shoving the deck back to his second-in-command. “Dat’s right. Go ‘head an’ deal. I’ll rob youze blind again, anyway.”

“Whateva.”

A few rounds of cards passed between them before either stallion spoke. The game was simple, repetitive, mind-numbing. The two Manehatten Kings enjoyed passing the time with it during their tense meetings, when the pressing matters at hoof would sit in the corner and merrily munch on popcorn while they dawdled in distraction.

Gathering the cards for another deal, Boone glanced at Slinger from the corner of his eye. “So… Have youze decided when?”

Card Slinger paused, taking in his luxurious surroundings for the umpteenth time. Bernie Madhoof’s contract had bought him the power and prestige he’d long dreamed of achieving. He’d never again have to live as one of the lesser, and he would always have enough intoxicants to drown out his nightmares and haunting regrets. Master treated this particular slave well.

On the other hoof, slavery delayed his revenge, his siege, his last stand against the stallion who’d stolen his colthood and ruined any chance of a normal life. No amount of bits could raise the dead, or heal a heart blackened long ago. Even Slinger, in his heresy, knew this.

“Soon,” Card Slinger muttered, the word sticking to his tongue. He broke down one of his towers of chips and built it back up again, over and over, becoming lost in the monotony.

Boone did not reply, focusing on his chips as well. Nearly five years ago, he’d vowed to follow Card Slinger into rule over Manehatten. In that same breath, he’d vowed to follow him into the dark. And the dark would come and embrace them on the Manehatten Hill. He was sure of it.

Slinger repeated, “Soon. I’m gettin’ real sick o’ his shit. Sendin’ a bunch o’ Knights out inta the buckin’ desert? Jus’ ta burn down two bars an’ kill three ponies? Buck. Does he have any idea what he’s doin’?! Thirteen was nowhere near enough ta take dat city siege. Hay, he’s lucky dey even got a bar, a deputy, an’ the Sheriff outta it befo’ dey hung up the rest o’ 'em.

“Iffa I was him, I woulda sent at least three times dat numba out there.”

No. The dark would not find them, Boone thought. Card Slinger was the master of it: the steel-eyed, soulless, master of the darkness. They had eluded everything tossed their way: rivals, traitors, the law, and the Master’s wrath. They could survive until the end. They could be victorious in the end.

Boone nodded and dealt the next round, revealing blackjack for Slinger. Paying him his rightful chips, he replied, grinning widely, “An’ dis is why youze deserve dat Mansion, an’ dat power, an’ not him.”

Card Slinger clasped his forehooves together and matched his counterpart’s smile. “An’ dis is why youze ma right-hoof stallion. The time will come soon, Boone, an’ youze an’ I will ride.

“We’ll ride ta King Orange, an’ destroy him. An’ it will be glorious.”

~

Raising an eyebrow, Apple Bloom unlocked the front doors to the bar and pulled them open.

There, four sets of eager eyes and, impossibly, even more enthusiastic grins awaited her. Two of them belonged to an orange pegasus and a white unicorn, who jumped on Apple Bloom, laughing all the way.

“Bloom!”

“Sweetie! Scoots!”

“It’s so great to see you!”

Setting down a beer mug on the bar, Babs galloped over, eyes wide and bright and an enormous grin on her muzzle. “Sweetie! Scoots!”

The three Crusaders on the floor laughed and rolled, while the other two guests casually trotted inside.

Featherweight—once a lanky, awkward colt, now a tall and lithe stallion—greeted the bartender as she brushed past him and jumped into the tangle of hooves and fur on the floor. Silver Spoon, calm and collected, nodded and returned a similar pleasantry, leaving her marefriend and her friends to their reunion.

Babs squeezed Scootaloo tight, laughing and shaking her head. “Dammit, it’s been too long! How youze been, youze crazy flier?!”

“Nothing short of awesome!” Scootaloo exclaimed, returning the hug and dissolving into a fit of giggles. “Told you you’d better be ready!”

Sweetie Belle assisted Apple Bloom to her hooves as she giggled. “Heh, sorry for tackling you, Apple Bloom. We were just too happy to see you! It’s been too long!”

“Ah’ll say!” Apple Bloom wrapped a forehoof around the unicorn and grinned. “If we woulda known y’all were comin’ today, we would’ve already had the bar opened an’ had a mighty celebration goin’ on!”

Featherweight swept his gaze around the immaculate bar and whistled. “Damn, Scoots, you weren’t kidding,” he said, joining the Crusaders. “This place is amazing! Babs, Bloom, how long did it take you two to build this?”

“One day fo’ the structure, ‘bout a month fo’ supplies an’ furniture.” Babs laughed and ruffled Featherweight’s mane playfully. “So, youze still togetha wit’ dis mook?” she teased, nudging Scootaloo, smirking.

Scoots rolled her eyes and smacked her friend jokingly. “Of course! As one of the top fliers in Equestria, he knows if he tries to fly away, he can’t escape me!” She rubbed her forehooves together and cackled evilly, prompting a raised eyebrow from her stallion and laughter from the others.

After a quick, silent appraisal of the establishment, Silver Spoon re-joined the group and nodded approvingly to the bar-ponies. “This is one of the nicer bars I’ve seen. A lot of the joints in Canterlot are just downright trashy. But this? Especially out here in… er…” She turned to Featherweight. “Where exactly are we again?”

Featherweight shrugged. “How should I know?”

“Because you flew me here! We got separated from Sweetie and Scoots and had to fly another route here, remember?”

“Oh, right.” Featherweight tapped Apple Bloom on the shoulder and whispered, “And we would’ve been here sooner, too, if I would’ve just flown Sweetie instead of this one—“

“Hey! I heard that!” Silver huffed, glaring at him. “Are you calling me fat?”

The stallion darted his eyes towards a nearby wall, intensely interested in a few pickaxes and shovels hanging there. “Well, uh, um, you see—“

“Featherweight! Apologize to Silver Spoon!” Scootaloo ordered, poking him in the chest.

“But… I didn’t—”

“So!” Apple Bloom clapped her forehooves together and beamed (almost painfully) towards her four friends, seeking to dispel the tension. “Anypony want a drink? We won’t be openin’ up officially fer a few hours, but Ah think we can break the rules fer y’all. Right, Babs?”

Iffa dat means dem two can sit down an’ shuddup, o’ course. “Right!” Babs agreed, turning towards the bar. Leading the group to the counter, she smiled and declared, “Youze neva had a drink ‘till youze had one made by me o’ Bloom!"

~

“Thirteen causalities, sir,” the assistant quietly announced, sitting across from his King at his desk. His King was turned away from him at the moment, staring out his bay window in his skyscraper. Today, unlike most days to date, King Orange wished to be in his office rather than his mansion.

His office suite was nestled on the thirty-third floor of the tallest building in Manehatten. The skyscraper contained the headquarters of every major corporation in the city—and some from beyond. The suite on the thirty-third floor, however, did not announce its presence with fancy letterhead flyers or grand signage. Instead, it was listed as an insurance office (for a corporation that existed only in name), guarded with enough armed security officers to keep both perimeter and interior away from prying eyes at all times.

With a few bits tossed his way, the owner of the building kept its true tenant a secret.

The assistant paused for a bit, awaiting a response from his Master. There was none, only a slow exhalation of cigar smoke from the Master's lips. Pausing for a nervous breath, the assistant continued, “The entire company we sent out there is dead an’ gone. Dey couldn’t get the salt-bar, an’ only got the Sheriff an’ one Deputy. But the saloon, from the reports we got, was damaged enough dat dey won’t be openin’ back up fo’ a while.”

Silence.

Feeling bold, the lowly stallion began to unleash a torrent of burning questions circling at the forefront of his consciousness.

“Sir, I do not wish ta question youze, but ain’t dis goin’ a bit too far? Youze got the P.D. on lockdown heeya in Manehatten—nopony gets arrested o’ exposed unless youze want ‘em ta. Youze got the press in youze grasp, so dat nopony prints anythin’ ‘bout what’s goin’ on heeya—the last one who did, three years ‘go, ain’t no mo’. Youze got the postmasta on youze payroll, too, monitorin’ letters an' telegrams goin’ in an’ outta the city so nopony’s bangin’ on Celestia’s door ‘bout all dis…

“But…” He sighed and stared at the floor, mentally deliberating his next words. The Master’s temper had been quite short lately. If he placed one hoof incorrectly in this tango and entanglement, questioning too much or too little, he feared he may be the next pony to feel the wrath of King Orange’s hoof or lead upon him.

At last, the Master spoke, a cloud of smoke following his reply. “But what, little worm?”

“But… How can youze expand an’ expect nopony ta act on it? The Knights… the Knights must be in thousands now, but most o’ ‘em are Earth ponies, an’ none o’ ‘em could stand up ta a Princess.”

Bernie Madhoof craned his neck to look at his assistant. He smiled—an eerie sight. “Oh, little worm,” he muttered, bringing the cigar to his lips. Inhale. Exhale. “Little worm, little worm, little worm,” repeated the stallion, almost affectionately.

Confused, his assistant tilted his head slightly to the side. “S-sir?”

Rising from his chair, Madhoof extinguished the cigar in an ashtray and stared into his assistant. “You think you know of all my dealings, little worm. You think you have my plans all figured out, all moves on my chessboard anticipated. You suppose yourself to be quite wise, don’t you? Assistant to the great King Orange, true and honorable ruler of Manehatten, Master of the King’s Knights, foe and friend of all complacent and clueless…”

“S-sir? N-no, I—“

Bernie Madhoof grabbed his assistant’s muzzle and brought it to his, close enough for the other stallion to smell the remnants of his cigar in his nostrils. “Perhaps I should seek your advice for my next move? For my every move? Why, little worm, shall I inquire of your infinite wisdom regarding when I should excuse myself to defecate?”

Blinking, the assistant stuttered, “S-s-sir, I-I d-don’t—“

“No, you don’t,” Madhoof snarled, dropping his facade. He squeezed around the stallion’s chin, making his gray flesh white in his touch. “You don’t know all of my dealings. You don’t know my schemes. You, too, precious, beautiful little worm, are a mere pawn to me.”

Releasing him, Madhoof shoved his assistant away and spun to his window, to his cobblestone, his lordship presiding over all below. “As were the thirteen dead in the sand. Mere pawns. Appleloosa is the first stop. Next shall be the place from which that sniveling purple idiot stole that bottle of whiskey. Mail and telegram services in the western desert have been cut off until further notice.”

Rubbing his chin, doing his best to calm his galloping heart, the assistant asked, “Mail an' telegram services, sir? How?”

“My loyal Manehatten postmaster has connections to the postmaster in Appleloosa, who also dispatches mail-pegasi to Yukon and the surrounding wastelands. A few bits and a choice visit from one of my more temperamental underlings convinced our Manehatten postmaster to utilize said connection. A few bits and some blackmail, and nopony will be sending or receiving letters in the West until my targets have been acquired.”

Chewing on his words, the assistant remained silent, in both awe and fear. His Master, clearly, was thinking ahead of his chessboard, anticipating his pieces’ next moves. One nagging thought, however, could not dislodge itself from his mind until he gave it breath. “But… but, sir. Surely, wouldn’t it be easier ta go afta the manufactura o’ dis swill? The whiskey, I mean?”

“Easier?” Madhoof turned around and laughed. “Well, of course. It would’ve also been easier to go to Appleloosa myself, bring a few hundred Knights, and demand the town's surrender. Riff-raff they may be—and armed, apparently—but they aren’t dumb enough to have said no.

“The manufacturer of this competing brew is one small family farm in Ponyville. Ponyville, of course, is famous for being the site of Celestia’s numerous failings. Return of Nightmare Moon, attack of Discord, parasprite invasions, what have you.”

Plopping down in his chair, Madhoof placed his hindhooves on his desk and crossed them, smirking. “Some of her little pets also live there. ‘Elements of Harmony,’ they are. So, that haughty little alicorn pays special attention to that town. Oh, yes, little worm, I’ve done my research. How I wish I could just simply burn that farm to the ground, slaughter all who waste their breath there! But that would be too easy, both for my purpose and my downfall.

“Hence, my secrecy. The gangs, the police, the press, the postmaster. All four seemingly unconnected entities, united by a tiny tattoo that nopony can see unless you knock hooves with them or something equally disgusting.”

Casually, he ran a forehoof through his mane, admiring his reflection in a mirror across the room. “With the Manehatten police chief on my side, nopony shall be able to piece the four entities together, or any of their individual pieces. For almost six years, I have kept this empire a secret, little worm. Those who know of it are bound by contract to silence. King’s Ransom is the penalty.”

Removing his hindhooves from the desk, Madhoof leaned forward, a smug grin spreading across his muzzle. “Do you understand now, you slimy, squalid, obese little worm? Do you wish to question me further?”

The assistant, his gray coat disharmonized, fading into a lighter and lighter shade, until he was more of a ghost than a pony, swallowed, sensing a shift in the atmosphere. His Master waited expectantly, his forehooves brought together, his smile rows and rows of piano teeth on Old Scratch’s keyboard.

Finally, from deep within his vocal cords, the assistant managed a quiet, “No, sir.”

“Good. Because you wouldn’t have the chance to.”

CLAP! CLAP!

Near his door, two guards snapped from their silent vigil, and began to stomp towards the gray stallion assistant.

“What was your brother’s name, little worm?” Madhoof asked, watching in amusement as the obese stallion began to panic, huffing and puffing and scrambling out of his stool.

Backing up on his hindhooves towards an opposite wall, the assistant choked, “D-Deuce.”

The guards stomped towards him, a Griffin and a zebra, rifles at the ready, eyes full of bloodlust. He took a step backwards, then another, then another, until he met the wall, caressed it, felt its grain.

"Deuce. Deuce may have failed me, little worm, but not as much as you."

The guards advanced, steel raised and lead ready to fly.

Pressing his back into the wall, the assistant pleaded, “No! No! Please, sir! P-please! I won’t tell nopony! I’m mo’ trustworthy than dem!” He pointed at the guards frantically. “P-p-please!”

Madhoof chuckled. “Oh, little worm, little worm. They are the most worthy of my trust. They do not question me, do not interrogate me. They only do what I pay them to do. Which,” he said, striking a match and lighting another fine cigar, “is to dispose of trash such as yourself."

Within a few seconds, the assistant joined his brother.

~

“Well, what do y’all think?”

Featherweight, Scootaloo, Sweetie Belle, and Silver Spoon sat on their respective stools at the bar, drinks in their forehooves. Both pegasi had decided to be bold—well, one did, and the meeker one followed her lead—and drank simple vodka on the rocks. Sweetie and Silver, however, opted for a fancier drink, something Apple Bloom swirled together out of cranberry juice, cactus water, sugar, gin, and rum.

All four of them murmured praise, glasses drained and hooves beginning to feel light.

Haha! Lightweights! “Youze ever drink befo’?” Babs asked, suppressing a laugh. Apple Bloom, too, noticed that tell-tale sway, her four friends downing their drinks far too fast to suggest any iota of experience.

“Hic! Of course! I’m a Wonderbolt!” Scootaloo bragged, “We have huge team parties… all the time! Spitfire, Soarin’, Rainbow Dash… Yeah!”

Featherweight raised a forehoof. “Actually, I’ve never drank before. We at the Cloudsdale Gazette usually spend our free time doing much more productive things.”

“Aww, lighten up, Feather!” teased Scootaloo, rubbing his shoulder blades between his wings.

Featherweight’s wings shot straight at attention, rocketing a blush across his muzzle and a frown and glare to complement it. “One, don’t call me that in public! And two, did you really just—“

“Awww, you two are so adorable!” Sweetie gushed, resting her head on her forehooves. She cast a sideways glance towards her mare. “Aren’t they adorable, Silvy?”

“P-please don’t call me that right now,” Silver Spoon muttered, staring into her glass. She blushed. “I-I feel tipsy.”

“Oh, you’re such a lightweight!” Grabbing her glass and levitating it with her magic, Sweetie Belle shoved it towards Babs Seed and offered a pleading grin. “Can I get another one of… whatever that was? Please?”

“Gee, I dunno. Bloom, youze think I should make her anotha one?”

Apple Bloom held up both forehooves. “Sweetie Belle, how many hooves am I holding up?”

“Um…” Tilting her head to the left, then the right, Sweetie answered, “I’m not sure. Can you stop the room for a minute? I can’t keep up with the spinning…”

Snorting, Babs swiped the glass from the intoxicated unicorn. “Alright, youze is cut off. In fact… all o’ youze is cut off.” She gathered the rest of the glasses and set them beneath the bar, ignoring Scootaloo’s protests and repeated assertions that she was “just fine”. Pffft. Lightweights. All lightweights.

… But I don’t really drink dat much, eitha. Too risky.

Taking their own seats behind the bar, the bartenders shared a knowing laugh between themselves. They’d seen enough red-faced patrons by now to be thoroughly accustomed and unsurprised by intoxicated ponies; to find that their friends were now among that lengthy list of customers who’d had “one too many” was, well, amusing, to say the least.

“So! How’s Canterlot, Silver Spoon?” Apple Bloom asked, leaning onto the counter. “Ah hear yer goin’ ta university there. Whatcha studyin’?”

“Business.” Silver Spoon leaned close to her mare and nuzzled her cheek. “I want to learn to be a successful business-pony and manager, so I can help my Sweetie become the top performer in Equestria!”

Now it was the unicorn’s turn to blush. “Awww! I’m not really that good…”

“Horseapples, you aren’t!” Scootaloo scoffed, grinning. “Babs, Bloom, you two should hear her new song… hey! That’s a piano over there, right?” she asked, gesturing to the instrument pushed up against one of the saloon’s walls.

“Dat’s right. ‘Ey, we’ll be openin’ the doors fo’ business soon. Always nice ta have somepony playin’ o’ singin’. Draws ponies in like nothin’ else,” Babs said. “Anypony heeya know how ta play piano?”

Grabbing her coltfriend, Scootaloo exclaimed, “Oh! Oh! Featherweight does! Right, Featherweight?”

“Uh… well… my mom did make me take lessons while I was in school… Apparently, I wasn’t already getting shoved around enough—“

“Great!” Scootaloo pushed the other pegasus off his stool, laughing as he caught himself. “Go play something for Sweetie to sing to!”

Sweetie Belle darted her eyes back and forth between the group and muttered, “Aww, no, that’s alright. It’s a new song, it’s really rusty—“

“Aww, c’mon, Sweetie! Fer us, fer old times?” Apple Bloom smiled and took her friend’s forehoof in hers. “That’s not much o’ a crusadin’ attitude, is it?”

After a short pause, Sweetie Belle matched her counterpart’s grin and nodded. “You’re right, it’s not. Babs, Bloom, why don’t you two open up? Featherweight and I will get the music started.”

“Wit’ pleasure!” Babs dismounted from her stool and trotted towards the door, checking a clock on the wall as she strode. Almost 1800. More than time enough to open the saloon to the thirsty throats of the West.

With a few quick movements, Babs Seed opened the doors and propped them, letting the cold night air greet her muzzle.

A familiar figure soon trotted towards her, sand clinging to his grizzled muzzle. “Turner! Jus’ in time!”

Leaping off the porch, Babs broke into a gallop to meet the stallion, running right into his awaiting forehooves.

“’Ey, kiddo! Jus’ caught youze as youze was openin’, huh?” He embraced her tightly and trotted beside her towards the bar. “Sorry I didn’t come an’ see youze two last night. First night o’ work’s always the hardest.”

Babs dismissed, “No problem, Da—Turner.” No. Not yet. Brushing it off, she asked, “How was youze second day?”

“Jus’ ‘bout as bad as the first!" Turner joked.

They returned to the bar, climbing up the steps onto the porch. Through the open door, a series of joyous notes and a serene voice drifted through their ears and into the desert night. “Wowza… Who’s dat singin’ inside?” Turner asked.

“One o’ ma friends. C’mon. I’ve got a few ponies ta introduce youze ta.”

Trotting beside him, Babs Seed guided her father into her bar, past and present soon to collide in more ways than one within its walls.

Night Flights

At the piano, Featherweight played an unshakeable, bold melody, its keys stirring a wave of enthusiasm throughout the saloon. Years and years of practice honed his notes, providing the tempo and harmony to Sweetie Belle’s crooning serenade.

Babs and Turner opened the doors to the bar and took a few steps within before stopping. There, levitating her empty glass with her magic, Sweetie sang into her mock microphone, each word, pure, serene:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wA4ppvp2IzY

Stirred by the thought of whiskey on their lips, a few miner-ponies and familiar muzzles trotted into the bar as the song began. Stepping aside for her patrons, Babs led her father over to the bar, where Apple Bloom waited with three glasses of vodka on the rocks.

The first customers did not bother with beverages yet. They took their seats at a few tables near the piano, mesmerized. Emboldened by drink and reunion, Sweetie Belle continued to sing, her gaze fixated on Silver Spoon, her smile beaming bright in the growing dark.

Scootaloo and Silver Spoon sat at the nearest table to the piano, the latter darting her eyes back and forth between her mare and the floorboards. Scoots nudged Silver and asked in a voice barely above a whisper, “What song is that? Never heard her sing that one before.”

“Not sure,” Silver whispered back from the corner of her muzzle. Sighing contentedly, she added, “She writes songs all the time… She calls me her muse.”

With a laugh, Scootaloo said, “Muse, huh? Wouldn’t have ever thought you’d be my best friend’s muse…”

“Things change.” Silver Spoon smiled, a speck of regret behind her countenance. “I know it was a long time ago, but, Scoots—“

“Don’t worry about it. The past is the past.”

Silence took up residence between them, anything but unwelcome.

More and more hooves began to make their way inside the frontier’s bar, many foregoing their initial drink order to enjoy the music. The two bartenders and Turner looked on, sipping at their glasses. Sweetie Belle soon finished her number and, pausing only to whisper a request to Featherweight, began a new song once his music led her:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=93dCIYaB4Os

Behind the bar, amongst stacks of empty bottles, cleaning rags, and glasses of all shapes and sizes, Babs Seed found one of Apple Bloom's forehooves and gripped it tightly with her own, giving it a gentle squeeze.

Turner tore his eyes from the singer and smiled towards his favorite mares in all the sands. “She’s youze friend, eh? What a voice.”

“Ah know. It’s beautiful, ain’t it? Never seen a bar full o’ drinkers sit an’ listen ta music instead o’ orderin’ like this.” Apple Bloom squeezed her mare’s forehoof back, the lyrics not lost on either of them.

Babs nodded to the stallion. “She’s gonna be the biggest voice in all o’ Equestria soon. An’ I’m honored ta call her one o’ ma best friends.”

“Good kid,” Turner said. “All o’ youze. Good kids.” A grin twitched at the corners of his muzzle, falling away at some wayward thought in his mind.

“Summat wrong, Turner?”

Sipping on his vodka, Turner answered, “Oh, it’s nothin’. Jus’… jus’ makes me think, youze know? Her songs. Songs ‘bout love. Dey make youze think.”

Concerned, Apple Bloom asked, leaning a little closer to him, “Well… Do ya have a special somepony back home, Turner? Somepony waitin’ fer ya?”

Swirling the last of his intoxication in the bottom of its glass, Turner stared off into some unknown point in the distance, in the east. And then, as the last notes of Sweetie Belle’s song rose to a crescendo—the entire saloon watching and listening, tears shining in many weathered eyes—he muttered, “I hope there is, kiddo.”

A chorus of whoops and hollers accompanied Sweetie Belle’s bow, her cheeks crimson from a mix of gratitude and alcohol. She staggered over to Scootaloo and Silver Spoon’s table, Featherweight trotting behind her.

Glancing to the bar, Babs beckoned the four friends to join them. With more than a few crossed hooves and near-mishaps, four stools filled, filing next to Turner.

Proudly, Babs Seed clapped her forehooves, directing the attention of her friends. Flinging a forehoof around his shoulders, she announced, “Everypony, dis is somepony I want youze all ta meet. Dis is—“ she paused before finishing—“Turner. Turner, dis is Scootaloo, Featherweight, Silver Spoon, an’ Sweetie.”

He lifted a forehoof in greeting. “Nice ta meet all o’ youze!”

Four muzzles beamed and offered, “Nice to meet you!” in return and uniformity, prompting a fit of laughter from the group.

Though Babs had been unable to utter the final and sacred truth, nopony along the counter was a fool. Nevertheless, they did not comment on her hesitation, themselves tangled in their own unspoken words in one manner or the other.

Cursing her hesitation, Babs distracted herself for a few moments with refilling Turner’s glass. Stupid, stupid! Why can I jus’ say it? He’s ma fatha… So what iffa it’s been almost eight years since I saw him, an’ twenty befo’ I knew? The past is the past. I can't fault him fo'... things dat happened.

“So, everypony… How did I do?” Sweetie asked, sprawling her forehooves on the counter and hanging on. The saloon before her eyes was unreal, intangible, adrenaline and alcohol battling in her blood for dominance.

“Just wonderful,” Silver Spoon answered, chuckling and nuzzling the unicorn. “Those are new songs, aren’t they, Sweetie?”

Blushing, she looked away from her inspiration. “Heh, yeah. For my next album. Hope you all liked them. I’ll be recording them soon. Oh… and thanks, Featherweight, for the music!”

Lifting his empty glass, Featherweight cheerfully replied, “No problem.” He, too, felt light as his namesake, the clamor of tens of chatting patrons all melding into one comforting background noise. “Hey, Babs, Bloom, can I get some more vodka?”

Before a bartender could swipe the glass from him, Scootaloo pushed his forehoof away, shaking her muzzle. “No, no, no, don’t serve him any more. We have a long flight ahead of us tonight.”

“Flight?” Babs inquired, confused. She capped a bottle of high-quality vodka and tucked it back on the shelf. So soon?

Tilting her head slightly, Scootaloo asked in disbelief, “You didn’t read the letter?”

“What letter, Scoots?” Apple Bloom took Featherweight’s empty glass and stashed it beneath the counter. “We haven’t had any post at all today.”

“Ah. Well, tomorrow morning, Featherweight’s got some kind of press conference to attend in Cloudsdale. Something about the location of this year’s water supply. I think it’ll be Fillydelphia again,” Scootaloo explained, yawning. “And Spitfire’s asked me to be at the same conference… the bit—“

“Scoots! That’s your boss!” Featherweight scolded, face-hoofing. Rolling his eyes, he huffed as he said, “You can’t talk that way about your boss!”

Smirking at her stallion, Scootaloo shot back, “Tell me again how much you simply love your manager. What’s his name again? Press Time? No? Whatever.

"Anyway, Babs, Bloom, you’ve gotta hear this. So, one day, I come home from training, and what’s Featherweight doing? Sitting on the couch, writing a list of ways he would ki—“

“Well, dat jus’ means he’s normal!” Turner smacked the table and laughed. Once he calmed, he began addressing the group of six. “Kids, there’s a support group out there fo’ ponies who hate their jobs. Lots o’ ponies attend. Wanna know what it is?”

They all nodded.

Leaning forward, Turner whispered, “It’s called a bar, an’ dey meet at five o’ clock.”

All but a swaying Sweetie Belle dissolved into a chorus of laughter. The unicorn blinked away the stars buzzing in front of her eyes and stared curiously at her fetlock. “But… but… it’s not five o’ clock anymore…”

Laughing, Babs Seed tapped the counter in front of Sweetie, snapping her from her stupor. “Heh, no, it’s not. Far past dat. But youze all know what time it really is?”

“What’s that?” Scootaloo asked, tucking in her outstretched wings and glancing coyly at her coltfriend from the corner of her eye.

Babs grabbed a glass of her own and filled it half-full with Equestria’s finest vodka. Apple Bloom, knowing her mare far too well, mimicked the action and whipped up a drink for herself.

Raising her drink, Babs announced, “A time ta toast. Ta friends,” she said, making eye contact with each and every pony at the bar. “Ta ol’ times, an’ new ta come. Ta new careers, new homes, new adventures. Ta what lies ahead an’ what we’ve overcome. Ta yesterday an’ tomorrowa."

“Ta the friendship ‘tween us, dat’ll neva fade, no matter the distance.”

An’, she thought, stealing a glance at both the weathered stallion in front of her and the beautiful mare beside her, ta love, an’ family, an’ things dat’ll always be. Foreva be.

Seven glasses clinked together merrily, their resonation rising above the clamor of the saloon.

~

The night galloped through their reunion, chomping through several hours of precious time long before anypony was willing to admit they were ready to leave. Stories were hashed, told, and retold with vigor and wonder, erasing the lost time between Cloudsdale, Canterlot, and the west.

Scootaloo and Sweetie Belle, true Crusaders they were, were fulfilling their dreams, launching into the forefront of their careers, which were far from over. The loyal, loving special someponies by their side guaranteed that there would be no giving up or giving in. They pressed each other onwards, forwards, no matter how radically different their goals.

Featherweight and Silver Spoon, although initially somewhat hostile to each other, bonded over embarrassing stories about their lovers. Apple Bloom and Babs Seed recounted their own tales of survival and toil, reunion and revelation, to the amazement and wonder of the others. Their journeys, they assured their friends, were far from over. This latest venture in the frontier was one but one link in a chain they planned to stretch far into the future, perhaps even further beyond the deceptive horizon.

There was an entire world to explore, after all.

Turner offered up no stories of his own, listening intently. His second drink gave way to three, and then four, the entire night a blur of laughter and revelation and high-hooves. To most, meeting the friends of one's daughter (especially in these complicated circumstances) would have been an exercise in patience and withholding at best. To this particular stallion, however, he found himself jettisoned back to his own colthood through their stories. This proved to be a blessing and a curse in the same instance.

The moon had almost reached its highest point in the sky when the inevitable was brought forth at last. With a quick glance out the window of the bar, Scootaloo said, “Well…nit’s getting pretty late. We’ve got a long flight back to Canterlot. Gonna drop these two flightless wonders off before me and my coltfriend here wing it back home.” She stretched a wing around Featherweight’s torso, wiggling her eyebrows and grinning.

Oh, Celestia, Scoots. Ugh. Babs Seed stuck out her tongue and retched.

“Hey!” Rolling her eyes, Scootaloo said cheekily, “Me and Sweetie had to put up with you and Apple Bloom being lovey-dovey for, what, almost eight years?”

Smirking, Apple Bloom hopped off her stool and muttered as she trotted past her mare, “She’s got ya there, sugarcube.”

… Dammit. “Whateva.” Taking to all four of her hooves, Babs asked, “Youze all takin’ off now? O’ maybe wanna stick ‘round fo’ a bit mo’?” Damn, stupid, cross-eyed pegasus, slackin’ on the job an’ I had ma hopes up…

“We’d better,” Featherweight said, attempting to divert attention from his flushed muzzle. He helped Sweetie and Silver (who, lacking any transportation responsibilities, had continued to imbibe) to the floor. “Gotta get these two home and get some sleep before the big show tomorrow morning. Boss stallion says it’s a big chance for me to shine.”

“An’ ya will! You always were a great Editor-In-Chief fer the Foal Free Press,” Apple Bloom chimed in, bringing up the rear of the pack. She steadied Sweetie Belle, letting the unicorn lean on her as they made their way towards the front doors of the bar.

Many of the regulars had already left the saloon, spurred to action by thoughts of love forgotten and forsaken. Those who remained buried themselves in their glasses, mourning hearts long broken. The group of six friends brushed past a table of Earth pony stallions playing a round of poker, dodging unseen daggers hurled their way by the grumbling gamblers.

Turner accompanied them, following as they burst the saloon doors wide open and trotted into the cool of night. The air was crisp and clear, a blanket of bright stars awaiting the four for their night flight back to the east.

A pleasant wind brushed past their muzzles, teasing their manes, beckoning them to follow. In the south, a distant column of smoke pierced the stillness and billowed up to the heavens. Soapy’s cookin’ fire. O’, watch-fire now.

Babs followed after her friends and Apple Bloom off the porch onto the cool, welcoming ground, glancing over her shoulder as she did so. Turner stood on the porch to the bar, waiting patiently, willing ready blood into his tired hooves. Five miles lay between him and the smoke in the south.

Goodbye is the hardest word…

Stretching her wings, Scootaloo smirked at her coltfriend. “You know, Feather, if you’re feeling tired, I bet I could fly both Sweetie and Silver on my back all the way to Canterlot. That little flight here was nothing!” she bragged, stomping her hooves excitedly into the sand.

Featherweight snorted and rolled his eyes. Sweetie Belle leaned against Silver Spoon, her face flushed scarlet with lingering vodka, laughing and pointing to a cactus. “It looks like a ‘W’! Like a letter! What do they call this desert? The ‘W’ desert? Hehehehe!”

Silver Spoon caught eyes with Featherweight and whispered from the corner of her muzzle, “Wanna trade dates for tonight?”

Scootaloo shot off her hindhooves, wings outstretched, up into the air, screeching, “Hey everypony! Wanna see me fly through a cactus?”

Featherweight groaned. “You really wanna deal with her instead, Silver?”

“… You have a point.”

“Scoots! Git down from there!” Apple Bloom scolded in vain. Scootaloo climbed up, up, up, streamlining her wings and slicing cleanly through the desert night. She made one counter-clockwise loop upon reaching the height of her thermal, then sent herself careening towards a cactus near the bar.

Face-hoofing, Babs muttered, “I can’t watch dis…”

WHOMP!

Missing her target by only a few inches, Scootaloo smacked straight into one of the outstretched arms of the prickly plant, mumbling, “I’m okay...” as she slid down and landed, face-first, into the sand.

“Yeah...” Silver Spoon steadied her mare upright with a groan. “I think I’ll stick with Sweetie. Featherweight, be a dear and peel Scoots off the ground, will you?”

Concerned, Babs turned to Apple Bloom and muttered, “Uh… should we let dem go an’ fly? I mean, I don’t think Featherweight’s strong enough ta fly ‘em all—“

“I heard that!” Featherweight snapped, pulling Scootaloo to her hooves.

“Yea, yea, whateva.” Blowing a strand of mane from in front of her eyes, Babs continued, “Bloom, maybe we should get ‘em rooms at the inn fo’ the night?”

Shaking herself back down to Equestria, Scootaloo rejoined the group and piped, “No can do! Too much important stuff going on tomorrow morning, remember?”

“I know, Scoots, but—“

“Babs, you worry too much! We’ll be fine! Right, Feather?”

The stallion ruffled his feathers and looked away, grumbling, “I told you not to call me that.”

“Oh, you big whiner! You’ll pay for this later. Alright, enough dawdling!” Scootaloo exclaimed, leaning down on her forehooves and stretching her wings to their full, impressive wingspan. “Now who wants to ride back to Canterlot on a Wonderbolt?”

Snickering, Babs remarked under her breath to her mare, “I think I can make a few guesses…”

Waving a forehoof excitedly, Sweetie Belle half-hopped, half-tripped over to Scootaloo, hiccuping and laughing all the way. Featherweight, shrugging, prepped himself for flight beside the other pegasus. He held back a snarl of discomfort as Silver Spoon climbed on his back and tightly gripped his mane, lacking reins (which, he reasoned, would only be slightly more humiliating).

“Y’all ready?” Apple Bloom giggled and stomped her hooves in amusement, shaking her head. “Don’t get in trouble fer drinkin’ an’ flyin’, Scoots! If Ah hear ya smack inta another cactus o’ somethin’ equally stupid, yer cut off fer life from us!”

“Aw, horseapples!” Scoots countered, raising her wings. “We’ll be fine! And we’ll be back soon, so you’d better have some Applejack Daniels for us next time!”

“Only fo’ youze, Scoots. I’ll save youze one,” Babs joked, wrapping her forehooves around the daredevil pegasus.

Exchanging near-tearful hugs for the final time with their fellow Crusaders and their special someponies, Apple Bloom and Babs Seed took a few hoof-steps back towards their bar, nodding.

Featherweight and Scootaloo, after an unspoken affirmation, lifted their wings and extended them to full sail, ready for flight. Weighed down only slightly by their precious cargo, they kicked off their hindhooves, forehooves outstretched. Sweetie Belle, clinging to Scootaloo, snapped her head around and called out, “Next song!”

“What’s that, Sweetie Belle?” Apple Bloom yelled back.

“Next song… I… Hic!... Write is gonna be… for you and Babs…” she replied drunkenly, closing her eyes. She slumped onto Scootaloo’s back as she was lifted into the cool desert night, first a few feet, then a few more.

Hovering side-by-side, Featherweight and Scootaloo (along with the one conscious passenger) waved frantic farewells. Babs, Apple Bloom, and Turner called out to them, wishes of good luck and good flight and see-you-again-soon.

They didn’t stop waving, even as Featherweight and Scootaloo became indistinguishable against the blue-black of the horizon, rocketing towards the east, the beast.

Something more than dust in the wind irritated one of Babs’s eyes, prompting a tear.

~

“So, what youze think?” Babs asked, trotting beside Turner as the three of them headed back to their bar after a few minutes of quiet contemplation.

He grinned and patted her on the shoulder with a forehoof. “Good friends. Good kid. Youze did well in dat department, too, it seems. Now, iffa youze jus’ go an’ have good fo—“

“Horseapples, that shootin’ in Appleloosa was sure one hell o’ a damned mess…”

The bellow of a gruff stallion’s voice shattered Turner’s words and froze two sets of hooves in their egress.

Babs Seed rushed up the steps and barreled through the double doors, the hinges creaking in protest. “Who said dat?” she asked, hissing through her teeth and narrowing her eyes.

“Babs!” Apple Bloom cantered to meet her, Turner in slower tow. “Did ya hear what Ah think Ah—“

One of the poker-playing Earth pony stallions whipped around in his stool, a half-chewed, extinguished cigar dangling from his lips. “Ah said that. What’s it ta ya, barkeep?” he asked, defiant, daring.

Lacking any discernible target for the primal fight-or-flight response, adrenaline nonetheless began to fire in Babs Seed’s blood, reaching her stomach first. An invisible forehoof socked her square there, sending a wave of nausea upwards. Leaping towards him, Babs slammed her forehooves onto the stallions’ poker table, chips flying in disarray.

“What in tarnation?!” one of the others growled, scrambling to pick up his chips.

Ignoring him, Babs rounded on the first stallion, demanding, “Where did youze hear dat? Shootin’ in Appleloosa? When?” Derpy’s only been gone fo’ a few days, an’ summat like dis happens! What iffa Ma, o’ Citrus, o’ Brae tried ta write? What iffa—

“Quit wit’ the interrogatin’, an’ Ah’ll tell ya!” the stallion snarled, placing the cards in his forehooves face-down on the table and reaching down to retrieve a few (of the others’) chips off the floor.

Adding them to his bounty, he chewed nosily on his cigar and began to explain. “Went inta Appleloosa earlier this morn ta get some supplies. Everypony’s riled up there, bodies hangin’ from the clock-tower an’ a huge public funeral scheduled fer this evenin’. Was a huge shootin’ last night. Bunch o’ scoundrels came in, set fire ta the saloon there an’ tried ta burn down the salt-bar too. Townsponies got hold o’ ‘em, but after the bar was already in flames. Only the shell o’ it survived. All the booze’s gone.

“An’ they attacked the Sheriff an’ the Deputies too…”

Apple Bloom, now standing right beside Babs Seed, swallowed uselessly, her throat drier than the relentless wasteland. To her horror, the words began to echo… The Sheriff and his Deputies, Deputies, Deputies…

“A... Are dey... alright?” Babs choked, her muzzle rapidly draining its color.

The stallion shook his head. “Ah’m not sure. Ah know that Silverstar's dead, an' one o' the Deputies lived, an' one died. That’s all Ah know."

Babs's forehooves slipped from the table, leaving marks in the wood. They met the floor, somehow, her consciousness struggling to rise from the deep. It’d taken the plunge at the word funeral and dove deeper still at Deputies.

Brae, Ma, Citrus…

“Youze two alright?” Turner joined them at last, clutching his side and panting. “S-sorry. I tripped a bit there on the steps, but I’m fine now. Youze two look like youze seen a ghost. Summat wrong?”

Dey attacked the Sheriff an’ the Deputies too.

“Kiddo?”

Apple Bloom was the first to break through her fog. Wrapping a forehoof around her mare’s neck and shoulders, she gently pulled her away from the stallions’ poker table, avoiding their suspicious glares and mutters of displeasure.

Turner, eyes wide, followed behind, one mare leading the other. The other, breathless, wordless, rode on a carousel of two words, two words that injected deep into her veins.

Once outside, Apple Bloom lifted Babs’s chin to face her. “Sugarcube… Are ya in there, sugarcube?”

“What’s goin’ on, Apple Bloom?” Turner stood nervously beside his daughter, who squeezed her eyes shut.

And began to hyperventilate.

Appleloosa… Shootin’… Deputies… Funeral…

“Babs! Snap outta it!”

One lived an’ one died…

In, out, in, out. Stars. Stars everywhere.

Last night… thirty-five miles away…

A pair of forehooves gripping her muzzle and shaking it snapped her eyes open and ceased her rapid breath.

“Babs! Ah’m here! Ah’m right here!”

Catching it. Catching it somewhere between Appleloosa, Yukon, and no-pony’s land, somewhere around midnight or 0100 or maybe even Witching Hour. Catching it somewhere with Apple Bloom’s eyes shining in front of her and her forehooves on her muzzle and Turner’s forehooves around her shoulders.

Catching her breath, her heartbeat beginning to slow, Babs Seed said, “Appleloosa… Sheriff’s dead, a Deputy’s dead...

She shook her muzzle, releasing it from Apple Bloom’s grasp. Her eyes wild, she whispered, “But which one? Which one, Apple Bloom? Is Brae alright? Is Citrus alright? An’ Ma—“

“Wait!” Removing his forehooves, Turner leaned down to meet his daughter’s eye level. “Youze motha lives in Appleloosa?”

“Yea,” Babs said breathlessly, rubbing her muzzle and her eyes. Breathe. Breathe. Calm down. “An’ ma sister, too. An’ our cousin Braeburn. He’s a Deputy there.” One deputy dead. The otha alive.

The stallion brought a forehoof to his muzzle and turned away, lost for words.

Apple Bloom shoved Babs’s forehoof away from her face. “Are ya alright, sugarcube? You went white as a ghost an’ ya started—well, what ya did, you haven’t done since ya were a foal…”

“I-I’m fine,” Babs said, breaking away from her mare. She began to pace on the porch, to and fro, for eternal seconds, the night pressing down on her, suffocating her, the sounds of joy and celebration within the saloon fading far away.

In silence, one paced, one watched the pacer, and one leaned against the porch-railing of the bar, dread taking up the space within and without them all.

And then, her tone barely above a growl, Babs halted her pacing, looked to the northeast, and declared, “We’re closin’ early ta-night, Apple Bloom.”

Apple Bloom trotted over to her, placing a forehoof on her shoulder. She asked no questions, knowing the answer already.

Babs Seed said, staring into her, “We’re goin’ ta Appleloosa.

“Now.”

Gunslinger

The protests of the bar’s patrons fell on deaf ears. Once Babs Seed found her venom again, she injected it deeply into the thirsting frontier, declaring at the top of her lungs, “We’re closin’! We’re closin’ NOW! ‘Ey! Dat means youze too, ol’ fool! Hidin’ behind the piano won’t help!”

“Sorry, y’all… s-sorry… No, ya can’t take that outside…” Apple Bloom offered an uneasy smile and apologized profusely, seeking to dispel the rowdiest among the exiting group. Urgency may have justified their early closure, but disrespect had no justification—among either patron or proprietor.

When one weathered miner ducked behind the piano and dumped an entire pitcher of beer down his throat, Apple Bloom made no apologies when her mare grabbed him by the mane and tossed him out, pitcher and all. Some things could not be justified.

Once empty, the two mares hastily blew out the lamps and lanterns and ensured that the stockroom door was locked. They retrieved the front door key and their hotel room key, hidden as always inside a cash box inside the stockroom. Not even bothering to re-arrange stools and chairs strewn carelessly about, both bartenders trotted out of their bar. Any previous drowsiness or brewing intoxication was overpowered by the adrenaline hissing, “Go, go, go, now, now, NOW!” within.

Fumbling with the lock and key, Babs glanced over her shoulders to see Turner standing patiently near the porch railing. “Summat wrong, Turner?” After rattling the saloon doors a few times, satisfied that only the most daring of thieves would pursue the meager stock within, she turned around to face him.

Turner tapped a forehoof on the boards below. “Nothin’, Babs. Aye, I was jus’… Well, I was jus’ thinkin’ dat, maybe… maybe, I could come wit’ youze two?”

“R-really?” Both mares exchanged curious glances. “Are youze sure? It’s a long way out there. An’ what ‘bout Soapy?”

Mustering a slight smile, the stallion answered, “Already thought o’ dat. Camp ain’t mo’ than a few miles outta the way. Tell youze two what. I’ll take off, let him know we’ve got a bit o’ a family emergency goin’ on, an’ meet youze two at the Appleloosian city limit. Sound fair?”

Soapy won’t mind, I know, but—

Concerned, Apple Bloom asked, “Are ya sure? Wouldn’t want ya ta get lost. We could always go wit’ ya.”

With a growing grin and a gentle shake of his muzzle, Turner gestured to the black compass rose on his flank. “Someday, I’ll tell both o’ youze the story o’ dis mark, an’ youze’ll know why I ain’t worried. But, fo’ now, jus’ trust me. Not all who wander are lost, an’ I’m one o’ the mo’ wanderin’ youze’ll eva meet.”

Babs Seed contemplated his dismissal for a moment, precious seconds draining from the hourglass. There was not much time to spare. Every passing moment of uncertainty began to chew its way upwards from her nausea, tensing her muscles and drumming sweat down her nape.

After torturous silence, Babs exhaled and accepted his offer. “Alright. See youze there. But we’re gonna hoof it befo’ dawn breaks. Iffa I don’t see youze at first light, I’m goin’ afta youze. Youze got dat, ol’ stallion?” She smirked, nudging him in the chest.

“Ha! Youze’ll see, lil’ mare. I’ll have been twiddlin' ma forehooves fo' hours by the time youze show up!"

Rolling her eyes (in jest, of course), Babs followed Turner and Apple Bloom off the porch, checking the front doors one last time. They appeared to be as secure as ever, strong locks on both entries daring anypony to breach them. Turner, his saddlebags already retrieved from the bar prior and slung over his back, gave them one last knowing nod before taking to his hooves, kicking up dust from the midnight sands as he galloped.

Apple Bloom started towards the hotel, calling to her mare, "Ah'll go get a bag packed quick, an' we'll take off. Alright, sugarcube?"

Anything but alright, Babs Seed nodded, her mind occupied, making mental calculations of vital time and looming distance.

~

Thirty-five miles dwarfed to twenty before they stopped for a spell. Their coats covered in glistening sweat, the two mares stood silent, coming to rest among a grove of fig cactus. Panting, Babs Seed strode over to one and kicked its trunk open near the middle. A slight stream of fresh water trickled free, but the rest remained cradled inside the plant.

Reaching for the tightly-packed saddlebag on her back—Apple Bloom had carried it first, passing it to her partner a few miles before they stopped—Babs retrieved two canteens and filled them both. She offered one to the other mare, who swiped it quickly, draining half of it one her muzzle and drinking the rest.

The dip in the mercury, however welcome, was little consolation to either of them. Twenty miles to go on hoof. Twenty more. They'd galloped and cantered through most of it, no words exchanged, fueled by fear and urgency.

Taking a huge swig of water from her canteen, Babs wiped her muzzle with a fetlock and peered around. Not one sign o' life, no cookin'-fire smoke, no coyote mournin' in the distance. Truly barren on this patch of soil, the wasteland offered no relief, no reassurance, no approaching hooves of a vagabond with a Manehatten accent.

"What's wrong?" Apple Bloom asked, tensing. She squinted through the darkness, searching for the source of Babs's preoccupation. "Do ya see somethin'?"

"It's what I don't see dat bothers me."

Trotting over to refill their canteens, Apple Bloom offered a gentle, reassuring smile. "Don't worry. Ah'm sure he's headin' this way. Probably jus' got sidetracked talkin' wit' Soapy an' all."

Babs plopped her haunches in the sand and removed the saddlebag, sighing. "I sure hope so. Horseapples, iffa summat happens ta him too, I'll—"

"Shh. Ah'm sure everypony's okay at home." Apple Bloom sat beside her and tucked their canteens away. Giving her mare a sideways hug and a gentle kiss on the cheek, she said, "Let's jus' git there as soon as we can, an' save worryin' fer then. Don't ya think?"

"I guess youze is right." Babs wrestled her mare into her forehooves and chuckled. "Been only a few hours. We should be able ta get there befo' daybreak."

Indeed, the night was strong and dark, barely reaching twilight. The stars and moon burned brightly, serving as a secondary compass to the one within their saddlebags. By now, Babs Seed could determine their path by the beacons above, and would never be lost again. Not even if the Earth itself reversed polarity and rendered all compasses useless.

"Hey, Babs?" Apple Bloom whispered, looking up at her.

"Yea?"

"Why don't you refer ta Turner as yer dad?"

Silence.

"Ah mean—ya don't have ta!" Apple Bloom clarified, fearing she'd brought a particularly sensitive nerve to a white-hot touch. "Ya don't. Not unless ya want ta. Ah mean, Ah guess if Ah were you, Ah probably wouldn't, either. But Ah do like him. He's a good stallion."

"... He is." Gazing towards the south, Babs Seed muttered, "I jus'... It jus' doesn't feel right ta say dat right now. Does dat make me a bad pony?"

Apple Bloom shook her head. "If Ah know anythin' 'bout ya, it's that yer anythin' but a bad pony. Jus'... jus' try callin' him that someday. Fer me, please?"

"... Okay, Apple Bloom," Babs said, hopeful. Someday.

~

The words on the page blurred and merged together, creating sentences and paragraphs of immense magnitude and negligible worth. He tried to lose himself in the story, in the tale of ancient treasures and adventuring stallions and beautiful mares, but it proved useless. Sighing, Braeburn slapped the novel onto his nightstand and took to pacing again.

Anxiety plagued him, refusing to allow him a moment of rest. His injured shoulder, treated with simple antiseptic they'd had on hoof and bandaged generously, throbbed in pain. His mind was in far worse a state. Everything in the last twenty-four hours had been one heap of broken images, smashed together into bits and pieces of madness.

The break-in. The attacks. The bullets, the haze. Libra and her kitchen knife, covered in blood. Citrus knocking the pink mare off him, then gasping for breath. The last bullet. The silence. Citrus... Citrus kissing him. And he kissing her. More silence. The funerals the following morning—for Sheriff, Deputy, and scoundrels alike (Pickaxe, that fool, that blessed fool). The gang-ponies hanging from the town's clock-tower.

And the questions. Oh, the questions.

Braeburn trotted from wall to wall of his bedroom, back and forth, back and forth, ears pricked and breathing slow. The drone of his aunt and cousin's snores provided a soothing mantra to calm his relentless mind. The questions. The tattoos. They were all tattooed. They had to be of the same gang, the same organization, the same cartel, the same... something.

But why Appleloosa? Why? And why the mark—the black orange, the initials? What did it mean?

Braeburn, in the depths of his righteous heart, knew the answer. He gave it no breath, no life, believing that, if he didn't, it wouldn't be true. It couldn't be true. There was just no way in all of Hell's salt and fire that—

A gentle, hesitant knock at the front door. Soft, forgiving.

Grabbing his revolver with both forehooves, the stallion carefully made his way to his own door. Crossing the threshold, he entered then into the living room, pausing. Listening.

Knock, knock. Again.

His heart began to accelerate, wild thoughts of all stripes taunting him. Had they come again? No! That was ridiculous! Since when did criminals knock?

Well, if the gray stallion in the saloon was any indication, sometimes they played possum before striking. So, maybe, maybe he wasn't that crazy. On the other hoof, it could simply be a wandering soul in need of refuge. Where were his manners? Surely, his pioneering mother raised him better than to forego hospitality.

Swallowing his unease, Braeburn asked, keeping his voice steady, "Who is it?"

From beyond the oak came the voice of one former Manehattenite he'd always welcome. "'Ey! It's me an' Bloom!"

Setting his revolver on a nearby table, Braeburn grabbed the doorknob and swung it wide open. There, his cousins stood expectant, eyes weary and smiles gentle. Without a word, he pulled them both into a tight embrace, laughing. "Y'all don't have any idea how happy Ah am ta s-see y'all!"

Patting him on the back, Babs Seed squeezed him tight, laughing as well. "An' youze have no idea how happy we are ta see youze!" Oh, Celestia, iffa youze had been the one who didn't make it... I... I can't even...

She then moved her forehoof to nudge him in the right shoulder, prompting a groan of pain and a flinch from the stallion. Braeburn released them, rubbing at his wound and clenching his teeth.

Apple Bloom gasped. "Braeburn! Are ya alright?"

"Ah'm fine," he muttered, closing his eyes. He took a deep breath and tensed, catching the pain as it came back up his spine. With one forehoof, he tugged at his Stetson distractingly, and with the other, he soothed the tender, aching flesh.

Seeing through his ruse, Babs mumbled, "No, youze not!" A little louder, she demanded, "Who did dis? What happened? We heard, Brae, 'bout what—"

Inside the cabin came heavy, deliberate hoof-steps and a lowered voice. "Braeburn, who is it?"

Turning around, Braeburn opened his eyes and put his forehooves back on the floor. "Citrus, go wake Auntie. We have some visitors."

"Visitors?"

Citrus Blossom breached the darkness and trotted into the moonlight, half-awake and yawning. Once she noticed the two mares standing in the doorway, she immediately awakened, rushing over to them. "Babs! Bloom! You're alright! You're both alright! And you're h-here!" She held back tears of joy and relief, holding them tight, ecstatic.

An' youze is heeya, an' youze is alright, an' it sounds like Ma is, too.

The three shared a long, giggling hug, soon adding a fourth. Libra Scales, in a dreamlike trance, heard the commotion and cautiously entered the living room, running over at the sight of daughter and niece. Her joy plowed through taunting disbelief, unsure if this was still a dream. The tight grasp of four sets of forehooves hugging her told her it wasn't.

"I'm so thankful you two are alright!" Libra exclaimed, nuzzling Babs. "I was so worried that maybe, there were—"

Babs shushed her, nuzzling her back. "Let's talk 'bout dat later." Taking a step back, she said, "Ma, there's somepony else who came wit' me an' Bloom ta see youze."

"Somepony else?" Libra asked, puzzled. She, Braeburn, and Citrus stood in the threshold, fading twilight illuminating the darkened cabin. Libra peered over the shoulders of their visitors, seeing nothing but approaching dawn, a dipping moon, and a silent desert. Still confused, she stared at Babs, eyebrow raised. "I don't understand..."

"Youze will in a minute. Jus' wait." Babs snapped her head around, brought a forehoof to her muzzle, and called out into the night, "'EY! COME HEEYA, TURNER!"

Libra blinked, her confusion compounded. "T-Turner? Wait!" She grabbed Babs Seed's muzzle and forced her to face her, hissing, "Wait! Turner what? I know that name! Somehow..."

Could it be? Could it be the stallion from years and years before, the one she'd always hoped to see, out here in the beyond? The vagabond, the tramp, the wanderer, the wait-pony with strange and wild dreams...

Apple Bloom placed a forehoof on her aunt's shoulder, grinning wildly. "Jus' wait, Auntie. He's a-comin'." She and Babs exchanged knowing nods and turned to face the horizon, eliciting the same action from the other three.

Their wait was not long. From behind a group of cacti on the horizon, a stallion emerged, his coat beige, his short mane black and wild. On his back, he carried one bursting saddlebag, his other safely watched by a gracious prospector who offered encouraging words. Those words of encouragement spurred his steps, one after the other.

Babs Seed and Apple Bloom watched with baited breath. Libra Scales trotted a few steps forward, staring at the stallion, gears of the past whirring and churning within her mind. Breathless, wordless, she stepped closer, closer, closer still.

And so did he.

Meeting in the middle a few yards in front of the cabin, Turner said, his words trembling, "Do youze rememba me?"

He mustered a soft, hopeful smile, praying silently to the Most High that she did. He recognized her immediately, twenty years older and just as lovely. He remembered it all—her mane, her coat, her words then. He hoped for a reply, her words now.

The mare strode up to the stallion, studying him carefully. Her eyes darted back between his smiling countenance and that of her daughter's. The desert, it seemed, held up a mirror between them, and in an instant, her deepest fear and fondest hope were confirmed.

It had been him. It had been him all along.

Dipping into the recesses of her mind, Libra Scales plucked a decades-old name and let it roll off her tongue. "Page... Page Turner?"

"Yes." He smiled down at her, muzzle-to-muzzle close. "It's good ta finally see youze again afta all these years, Libra Scales."

Libra Scales reached up, and smacked him, hard, across the snout.

"Ma! What the hay are youze doin'?!"

Ignoring her, Libra grabbed the stallion's bruised snout, meeting his eye level. Her entire being shook with an alarming mixture of emotions—relief, recognition, rage, and regret swirled together. She growled to her daughter's father, "Do you know how many years I looked for you?! How many years I hoped to see you, to run into you? Do you know how much I dragged my worthless scumbag of a husband to Trottingham, hoping I'd see you again?! Do you know how many nights I stayed up, worrying that you were the father of my foal, instead of that bastard I married? Do you KNOW?!"

Stammering, he chose not to resist, deserving the pain. "L-Libra, I-I... I-I looked fo' y-youze, too! I w-wandered all ova Equestria, an' in ma travels, I hoped ta see youze, ta find youze... Did youze change youze name?"

"I went by titles, yes, but that doesn't excuse it!" She held his snout tight in her forehooves, boring daggers into his surrendering copper irises. Her own burned like the flames they were, gazing into him, into the windows of his soul.

Babs Seed lurched forward, hackles raised. Apple Bloom nipped her by the tail and tugged sharply. "'Ey! Lemme—"

"No, sugarcube," Apple Bloom scolded.

Babs blurted, "But! But, I—"

Citrus pulled her sister back into the doorway, shaking her head. "No. This isn't your battle to fight. This is between them."

Braeburn fiddled with his Stetson. "Maybe... maybe we should leave 'em alone?"

Grinning, Citrus whispered, "I didn't say we couldn't watch."

Babs rolled her eyes but didn't object, observing the scene in silence this time. C'mon, Ma, jus' give him a chance... jus' give... Turner... a chance.

Surrendering, Turner kept silent, his heart beating so rapidly that he feared that it would quit on him at last. Thirty-five miles of pure exhaustion, coupled with the weight of his own regret, rendered any words he could utter useless. He could only wait and see what else Libra had to say.

She continued, maintaining her grip on him, "I went through twenty years of marriage to a worthless sack of shit. Six of them before I met you. And when I met you... I hoped that it wouldn't be a one-time thing. I hoped that we could meet again, and maybe, one day, I'd be brave enough to leave him. And all this time, almost twenty years, when I looked at my youngest, I saw my sister... and I saw you."

Silence.

With one last rush of vitrol, Libra whispered, "And do you know what else I've wanted to do, if I ever saw you again, Page?"

"W-what?"

"This," she said, and kissed him deeply.

Under her breath, Citrus muttered what crossed all four of their minds. "Horseapples..."

Smirking, Braeburn nudged her playfully. "Ah've never heard ya cuss, Citrus."

Citrus returned his gesture and nuzzled him, spreading scarlet across his cheeks. "Oh, there's a lot of things you haven't heard me say, Braeburn."

"Heh, heh. Like what?"

Before Citrus could reply, Babs tore her eyes from the bewildering scene and snapped towards her sister and cousin. "Wait a minute! Are youze two... uh..."

Giggling, Apple Bloom took her by a forehoof and began to lead her towards the guest bedroom. "C'mon, Babsy, let's go ta sleep. Looks like everypony's fine now."

But! 'Ey! Wait a sec! Babs resisted, planting her hooves firmly into the floorboards. "But! But, Ma an' Turner, an' Citrus! Citrus, Brae, are youze—"

"Oh, go to sleep, Babs," Citrus taunted, dismissing her with a wave of a forehoof. "We'll all talk more in the morning. Right, Braeburn?"

Beside himself, the stallion darted his gaze between his aunt and Turner, to Babs and Bloom, to the smirking mare in front of him. He rubbed his neck and muttered, "Er... right. Talk."

Citrus pulled him close to her and smiled. "Goodnight, Babs, Bloom. Sleep well. Braeburn, don't you think we should be going to sleep, too?"

"Uh..."

The eyes in the back of her head ever-functional, Libra Scales broke her kiss and snapped around to glare at her daughter. "No, you are sleeping in my bedroom, and Turner is going to sleep in Braeburn's. Right, Brae?"

"Uh..."

Citrus groaned and rolled her eyes. She spun around, seeking the input of either Babs Seed or Apple Bloom. They, however, had already slunk silently away, shutting the guest room door behind them, offering no assistance. Sputtering, she looked back to her mother, who was leading Turner inside. "But! Babs and Apple Bloom are—"

"I've had almost eight years to get used to that." Libra huffed. "Now, get back to bed before I whoop you one, missy."

"I'm almost twenty-six!"

"And I'm almost on my last nerve." Libra Scales smiled warmly towards the vagabond stallion, gesturing to Braeburn. "My nephew here will kindly share his bedroom with you. It's almost dawn, but we'll be sleeping late today. Citrus and I will be up around noon to make brunch. Now, sleep tight, you two."

With a forehoof slung around her protesting daughter, Libra trotted into her bedroom, practically shoving Citrus inside, leaving two confused stallions standing at the threshold.

Braeburn reached up to touch his muzzle, assuring himself he was awake. Turner took in the cabin, noting its expert craftmanship and welcoming design. He quietly shut and locked the door behind him, then cleared his throat and asked, "So, youze room... does it have bunk beds?"

"No, unfortunately not. Here, let me git that," Braeburn offered, grabbing Turner's saddlebag. Hoisting it onto his back, he gritted his teeth, awkwardly smiling nonetheless. "Uh, follow me."

"No bunk beds, eh?" Turner snorted and laughed. "Well, apologies in advance iffa I stink. Jus' galloped thirty-five miles out o' the wasteland ta git heeya. Hope youze don't mind."

~

Brunch was an awkward affair, to say the least. No other adjective summed up the tension at the table that high noon more succinctly. Babs Seed and Apple Bloom, questions of all varieties swimming in their minds, busied themselves with their apple pancakes. Turner, thoroughly confused by Libra's contradictory antics, buried his muzzle in his plate, slurping down seconds and asking for thirds.

Citrus and Libra worked the kitchen in near-silence, agreeing before the others awoke that all true and fervent discussion would be best reserved for supper. Then, and only then, would they breach the subject of the shooting. Braeburn scarfed down his meal and retreated to his bedroom.

There, he retrieved two additional revolvers tucked away in a drawer of his nightstand. Placing the other two weapons beside his own, he cleaned all three while the others finished breakfast.

"Great pancakes, Auntie!" Apple Bloom exclaimed, finishing her plate. She reached for her fork and moved it slowly towards Babs's plate.

"'Ey! Get youze own!" Babs smacked her fork away with a forehoof, grinning. "What's wit' youze always tryin' ta steal ma food?" I swear, dat mare's like six inches shorter an' half ma size, yet she eats mo' than me. Horseapples!

Apple Bloom laughed and grinned at Turner, eying his plate. "Well, if ma own mare ain't gonna share, maybe her dad will?"

Turner pushed his half-full plate forward, not skipping a beat. "Go ahead, kid. I asked fo' too much anyway." He turned in his stool and called into the kitchen, "Great breakfast, Libra!"

"You can thank my daughter for that," Libra answered, smirking. "She cooked it, set the table, and did the dishes. I just did the hard work: managing." This prompted a groan and an eye-roll from her eldest, which only made her laugh. "Oh, c'mon, Citrus! At least I'm not worried you'll burn down the kitchen anymore."

Emerging from his room, Braeburn trotted over to his cousins and Turner, one revolver in his shoulder-holster (now tied around his left, uninjured shoulder). He carried the others, secure in their holsters, and gently set the two weapons down on the table. Pulling up a stool, he said, "Guess what we're doin' this mornin', y'all?"

Glancing curiously at the weapons, Babs guessed, "Uh... kickin' flank an' takin' names?"

Braeburn laughed and adjusted his Stetson. "Good guess. Nope. Ah'm gonna teach y'all how ta shoot."

Pausing in mid-bite, Babs dropped her fork, letting it clatter to the plate. "... Say dat again, Braeburn? I thought I had summat crazy in ma ear."

"Ah'm teachin' y'all how ta shoot," Braeburn repeated sternly. He motioned towards the two revolvers on the table. "These are spares from the... office." He gulped, pained to make any mention of Silverstar. The death of his mentor and best friend was one that would wound him for many years to come. Forever, maybe. If it were not for Silverstar, the Deputy wasn't sure where any of them—his family or the Appleloosians—would be.

Composing himself, Braeburn continued, "Ah'll explain the whole story at supper, but fer now, lemme jus' say this. Ah ain't comfortable wit' y'all bein' out there in no-pony's land unarmed. Ah hope ya never have ta use 'em—" he gestured to the revolvers again, their grips polished to a perfect shine—"but Ah'd rather y'all have 'em, in case."

Apple Bloom said, "Well, that's mighty kind o' ya, Brae. Ah really don't wanna have ta use 'em either, but Ah guess it's better ta have 'em than not, right?"

Slowly, Babs Seed replied, though skeptical, "I suppose so."

Turner said, "I've neva been one fo' fightin' o' fo' weapons. Ma hooves is all I need. Dat's jus' ma opinion, though," he added, glancing at the mares. "Don't let it color youze."

"Thank ya, Turner." Braeburn asked, "Y'all ready ta learn?"

Two nods and a few hoof-steps later, Braeburn led them out the door and into the desert.

~

Outside of the apple orchard, the cliffs at their backs, two mares and a stallion stood firm against the horizon. There, a few scattered fig cacti waited, perfect targets and ripe for the shooting.

Braeburn first launched into a quick lecture on gun safety. "Always treat a gun like it's loaded. Neva, ever point it at somepony unless ya intend ta shoot 'em. Never point it towards you. Keep yer hooves 'way from the trigger unless ya want ta fire."

He demonstrated with his own revolver, releasing the cylinder and holding it up to the sun, showing that all eight chambers were empty. Slowly, he loaded each chamber with a fresh round. Stretching out one forehoof straight, he gripped the revolver and explained, "First, get it steady wit' yer dominant forehoof. Mine is ma right. Y'all wanna make sure ya have a tight grip befo' ya bring the other one into this. Never use only one hoof ta grip if ya can; ya risk hurtin' yerself."

Once steady, Braeburn met his right forehoof with his left, standing up on his hindhooves. He trained his weapon towards one of the fig cactus in the distance, glancing sideways at Babs Seed and Apple Bloom. "Any questions yet?"

"Yeah. What's it feel like?" Babs asked, tilting her head slightly.

"What's what feel like, Babs?" Braeburn replied, posing a question of his own.

She trotted closer, staring at the weapon. "Well, it's enchanted so Earth ponies an' pegasi can use it, right? Iffa dat's the case... I dunno, do youze feel anythin' when ya touch it?"

Braeburn shook his head. "Ah think Ah know what ya mean, but Ah don't anymo'. Not since Ah've had ta use it so much," he answered sadly. The impulse, the rush of energy, the feeling of steel and lead becoming alive at his touch had long ago faded, becoming only a dull familiarity. Here in the west and the best, the law of hoof and gun would reign, he feared, far longer than desired. "But you two should."

Taking aim, he said, "Now, look at ma stance. Hindhooves firm, shoulders up—" he flinched slightly as he moved his injured limb—"an' starin' straight at the target. It'll take a lil' fer ya ta get used ta it, an' every weapon fires differently. Keep yer forehooves steady, an' when yer ready, take the one closest ta the trigger an'—"

BANG!

The shot cut straight and true across the plains, imbedding itself smack-dab into the center of the fig cactus. A perfect hole ripped through the trunk, sending a stream of water rocketing from the point of entry. Braeburn smiled in satisfaction and turned to the mares, who looked on in pure amazement. "Alright! Who's first?"

"Ah'll try!" Apple Bloom strode over, an excited grin on her muzzle.

Braeburn chuckled and plucked one of the revolvers from the ground, showing Apple Bloom how to tie the holster around her shoulder. "See, yer right-forehoofed, right?" She nodded. "Good. Alright, so let's tie this 'round yer left shoulder, high as we can so ya can reach it easily." He adjusted the holster and checked the rope, making sure it was snug but not too taut. "Feel alright?"

"Eeyup! Now, what am Ah gonna be shootin' at?"

Braeburn pointed towards one of the adjacent cacti near its bleeding brother. "Take yer pick, Bloom. Put it straight in its trunk, near the top limbs."

"C'mon, Bloom," Babs encouraged, a toothy grin on her muzzle. "Show dat prickly lil' bastard who's the boss!"

Apple Bloom laughed and reached for the revolver, taking it first in her right forehoof. Once she made contact with its grip, she felt a rush of energy and adrenaline, the steel awakening at her touch. She stared at the weapon in awe, her forehoof shaking slightly as she outstretched it and brought the left one to join it.

Braeburn stood beside her, watching in approval. "Ya ready?"

"Ah'm... Ah'm ready."

A quick squeeze of the trigger, and Apple Bloom fired the second weapon she'd ever held.

BANG!

The bullet hissed as it sliced through the atmosphere, making contact with the cactus a foot or so below the intended target. Nevertheless, the hot lead pierced its prickly flesh, sending some precious water free to mingle with the sand.

"Not bad! How did it feel, cuz?" Braeburn asked.

"Yea, dat was pretty good, Bloom!" Babs added, trotting over to her mare.

Securing the revolver back its holster, Apple Bloom said, surprised, "Wasn't as bad as Ah thought it would be! Ah guess Ah was expectin' it ta be a lot harder than it looked. Pretty darn loud, but... Ah guess ya jus' get used ta the sound."

"That ya do," Braeburn agreed. "Now, Babs, yer up."

Apple Bloom brushed against her mare's coat as she strode past her, offering encouragement in her nicked ear. "Ah know you'll do jus' fine, sugarcube."

What? Me? Nervous? Ha! Plastering a confident grin on her countenance, Babs Seed stood tall, offering her left shoulder to Braeburn. He, too, demonstrated the proper application of the holster. The stallion matched the mare in height, meeting her gaze. "Ah want ya ta shoot the cactus ta the left o' Bloom's. Same spot. Think ya can do it, cuz?"

"I know I can," Babs muttered, urging herself to believe. The weapon beckoned in its holster, steel and lead awaiting her forehooves. The Deputy backed away once finished, giving her much-needed space.

"Whenever yer ready, Babs." Braeburn tugged on his Stetson and sat down, patient. Apple Bloom sat beside him on her haunches, expectant.

Babs slowly lifted her right forehoof to the weapon, caressing the grip. Cold to her touch at first, a warmth soon radiated through the steel. Tightening her grasp, she drew the revolver. Sunlight reflected off the metal, blinding her briefly. It feels so... alive. So capable. Like it would have a mind o' it's own, iffa it could. Marveling at the power literally in her forehooves, Babs Seed brought the weapon to bear, stretching out her strong forelimb completely. She wrapped her other forehoof around the same grip and stared down the barrel.

Tense, she tried to relax. One deep breath. Then another. First shot. Think o' it as somepony youze hate. Images of blue and black and red rushed through her mind.

Raising the revolver high, Babs Seed aimed square at the third cactus.

BANG!

The bullet connected just where Braeburn had wanted it—right in the middle of the trunk. An outpouring of fresh cactus water joined the whoops and cheers of both her cousins, pumping their forehooves into the air.

"Ah'll be damned!" Braeburn exclaimed. "Ya hit it right where it counted! An' on yer first try!"

"Wow! Guess guns aren't all that bad, huh, Babs?" Apple Bloom teased.

Babs Seed, her forelimbs trembling with aftershock, holstered the revolver and turned around. Three grins grew on three muzzles, Babs finding an adrenaline rush that left her in want. "Guess not. Say, Brae, got anythin' mo' fer us ta shoot?"

Braeburn smacked his uninjured shoulder, whooping. "Oh, Celestia, ta think Ah'd call ya gunslinger, but Ah will! Yes, o' course! C'mon, y'all, let's see what else Ah can teach ya. We need mo' water at home, anyway."

~

".. .So, that's what happened. As far as Ah know, the gang-ponies attacked the Sheriff's Office first, killed him, an' took off fer the saloon an' salt-bar. They set fire ta the saloon but didn't get the other bar. Pickaxe an' two o' his friends took out the saloon arsonists, an' the towns-ponies got the rest o' 'em. Saloon owner wasn't in the bar when it was burnin', luckily, but it'll take some good time ta fix it. They got Deuce too, rest he an' the Sheriff." Braeburn removed his Stetson and placed it over his heart, closing his eyes.

Everypony's plates were neglected throughout his recounting of that awful night, apple pie going untouched. Turner, Citrus, Libra, Babs, and Bloom let the silence hush and hiss, fitting for times such as these. Believers them all, they silently prayed that this was the end of the madness, the strange assault on the West that had begun almost a year ago with one disguised stallion in one Appleloosian bar.

Tucking his hat back on his head, Braeburn said, "Ah could barely stomach the funeral yesterday. Ah... Silverstar was ma best friend, Ah jus'..." A single tear rolled down his cheek, dripping to his plate.

"I'm sorry, Brae," Babs whispered, fiddling with her napkin. She gripped it tight, the fibers threatening to tear. Iffa only I had been heeya. Iffa I woulda jus' stayed. I coulda heard 'em, saved 'em. I know I coulda.

"Not yer fault." He wiped his tear away, sitting up straight. "Ah know Ah gotta get back ta work soon as ma shoulder's healed up. In the meantime, we've got a posse patrollin' both day an' night. Ah wish Ah jus' knew why this is happenin'. These attacks, these...monsters!" He growled, voice rough and gravelly. "Why here? Why Appleloosa? What did we ever do ta 'em?"

"I'm sure youze did nothin'," Turner answered, pushing the remnants of his pie around with a fork. "I've been ta all sorts o' corners o' Equestria, seen riff-raff o' all stripes. Some ponies jus' live fo' mayhem an' madness, get off on hurtin' othas." The words rolled off his tongue slowly, thick and sour. He gazed up at the Deputy. "Youze tried goin' ta Canterlot 'bout it?"

Braeburn said, "Ah'm thinkin' 'bout it. As far as Ah know, from talkin' ta Deuce an' a few others who came outta the East, some ponies have already written ta the princesses 'bout it. The Chief o' Police there is said ta be in direct contact wit' Celestia herself, constantly meetin' wit' her o' her representatives. But nothin' changes. Economy there's still bad, crime's still bad. Ponies comin' here fer a fresh start.

"An' besides," Braeburn finished, pushing his plate away, "wit' how things are in other parts o' Equestria now—an' not jus' troubles with ponies, wit' Griffins an' zebras too—Ah'm not sure random crime in the West matters much. 'Specially when we have our own law here."

Silence followed his final words, apple pie being thoroughly demolished by wayward forks or scrutinized by frowning muzzles. Supper arrived far too quickly, leaving all with insufficient time to fully anticipate this conversation. Braeburn's recounting of the tale left both Babs Seed and Apple Bloom quiet, stewing in their own anger, their own fear, their own relief and sorrow.

A thought came to Babs Seed's mind, unshakeable. Black orange tattoo. Black orange. Orange. Could it be...? "Braeburn, have youze thought iffa maybe... The tattoos... oranges, youze said, right?"

He nodded.

Carefully, letting her words ruminate within before giving them life, Babs stated, "Well... maybe... do youze think... it could be... summat ta do wit'... him?"

Him. Him.

All oxygen at the supper table evaporated. All mares and one of the stallions experienced sudden chills, the cold desert night invading through the floorboards, past the walls, between the locks. In the minds of two of them, a black flame roared and blazed, bringing ice instead of ember.

Turner, however, only raised an eyebrow, puzzled. "Him? Who's him?"

Libra Scales turned to him, laying a forehoof on top of his. "Ah, I knew this would come up sooner or later. You see, um, Turner... Well... He is my ex-husband."

"I see." Turner speared a piece of apple pie on his fork and brought it towards his mouth.

"Yes, I was married for twenty years to the most powerful and wealthy stallion in Manehatten. The most heinous, too. He lusted only for money and power, not for love or family. Bernie Madhoof," she spat, the name poisonous on her tongue. "If I ever—"

CLANG!

Five heads snapped towards the noise. Turner's fork laid on the plate, landing straight on top of his slice. His offending forehoof trembled, his pupils dilated, sweat rolling down his nape. "S-say h-his n-name a-a-again."

Libra Scales said, "Bernie Madhoof. How he hated his name. How I hated it more."

Turner's muzzle went white. "I-I s-see. Excuse me," he blurted, rising from his stool.

Immediately, Turner jumped from his seat and rushed to the door, thrusting it open. Without warning, he crossed the threshold and broke off into a gallop, thundering his hooves on the ground.

Babs Seed leapt off her stool and took after him, pumping her hooves. "Turner!"

From the kitchen, to the living room, out the door, into the night she ran. Her quarry was faster than his age intended, a streak of beige against the glistening sands. By the light of the moon, Babs Seed galloped, galloped after him, daughter pursuing father into the darkness, calling his name until her throat ached.

"TURNER!"

Libra's Stallion

He was weathered but not rusted, limbs as a locomotive streaking across the plains. The wind teased his breath away, drawing it from his lungs with every heavy step. Long accustomed to the sink and sway of sand beneath his hooves, Turner was no easy prey.

He was old—old by his own measures, his youth long dissolved over relentless nights on the road—but not weak. He flattened his ears and did his best to drown out the sound of his daughter calling after him, her own powerful hooves thundering in time with his.

Soon, Turner knew, she would meet him, or overtake him.

An eerie silence accompanied him as he galloped through town, broken only by the pounding of his own hooves synchronizing with that of another set not far behind him. In the distance, a gang of stallions stood on the porch of the mourning Sheriff's Office, revolvers steady and eyes wide for trouble. Avoiding their gaze, Turner ducked behind the post office and leaned towards the apple orchards. Towards the city limit. Freedom.

No.

Not freedom.

He was running again. Page Turner was running, just as he always had, always did, always would...

~

"Ma, why do I have ta go ta work? Why can't I go ta school like all the otha foals?"

The mother mare smiled softly, disguising her sorrow. She knelt down in front of her oldest colt, barely eight and on his way to his first day of work in a Trottingham textile factory. She, her husband, and two foals lived in the woodlands near the growing city of Trottingham. Beyond quick trips to the market and other necessities, the tiny family lived in near-isolation. No neighbors surrounded them, no prying hooves knocking on their oak. This, her husband always rationalized, ensured that they would never be bothered.

She knew this to be a lie, but lacked any power to fight the truth.

Ruffling his mane, she whispered, "Now, Page, Mama's already explained this to you. Daddy is very sick, Mama can't find work, and your brother is too young to work." Which was mostly true. For now. Soon, her youngest would join her eldest there, slaving away for bits under the blind eyes of corrupted government and heartless business-ponies.

Page stared at the floor. "Daddy's sick?"

She glanced from the colts' bedroom towards the living room of their squalid shack. Rows and rows of liquor bottles littered the floors, the shelves, the thresholds. Every spare inch of square footage or cabinet space welcomed at least one vessel, empty or full. She'd long forgotten their breeds and brands, reckoning that every variety of alcohol had made it into their home at some point. "Yes, Page, Daddy is very sick. Now, be a good colt and work hard."

She offered him a paper sack packed with a can of beans and a spoon.

Page reluctantly accepted the lunchbag and peered inside. He frowned instantly. "Beans? Again?"

Swallowing a tear, she muttered, "I'm sorry, sweetie."

He huffed in protest, planting his hooves firmly into the rotting floorboards. The distance between the bedroom he shared with his strange, silent younger brother and the front door loomed greater than any horizon. His mother pushed through her own reservations and dragged him by the tail out of his room and towards the front door, his whimpers and whines through every torturous inch breaking her heart.

She released him at the doorway and shoved directions to the factory into his forehooves. Patting him on the head one final time, she opened the door, letting dawn settle and beckon him to follow.

"Now, be a good colt, and go to work."

~

Fasta, fasta. The fire in her lungs and her limbs accelerated, roaring and blazing within. Nevertheless, Babs Seed pressed on, flattening her ears and lowering her muzzle against the growing winds.

Turner proved to be the most evasive prey she'd ever pursued. Once he'd darted behind the post office, narrowly eluding the gaze of Appleloosa's latest posse, he took for the trees, for their foliage below. Knowing now he would only halt to hooves—he was fast and strong, no dim-witted colt or lumbering timberwolf or aging prospector—she saved her breath, designating every spare bit of oxygen to the churning muscles beneath her coat.

Fartha, fartha, fartha. Her father was about ten yards ahead of her, scrambling past the cliff overlooking the orchard and rocketing downwards using the well-worn path below. Pivoting on her hooves, Babs redirected her position and searched within, grasping for a new burst of speed.

Turner twisted and snaked around several thick apple trees, drawing closer and closer towards the city limits.

C'mon, c'mon! He's gettin' away!

~

Exhausted, Page laid down in his bare mattress on the floor, staring up at the ceiling. His forehooves burned with a new, strange pain, tingling and sore. The constant repetition of factory work was beginning to wear upon him only a week into his venture. He remembered one of the older workers mentioning something called "arthritis". Perhaps, he reckoned, this was its onset.

But how could it be? It was only a week since that fateful morning, when his mother cruelly tossed him into the morning mist, demanding a colt become a stallion. He couldn't be hurt after a week, could he? No. Pain was for foals, and at eight years old, he was long past a foal.

Or maybe, his first day had been two weeks ago. Or a month. He wasn't sure. All the days merged and clumped together, entwining into one coagulated mess of moments.

Foalhood innocence belonged to those far more privileged than he, in their ivory towers and offices full of mahogany furniture. He heard the screams, the thuds, the things that went bump in the night—and they were far from monsters of lore and legend. They were the hooves of his father smacking across the muzzle of his mother. They were his father's slurred and hateful words, screamed at him, his mother, his brother. They were the stares of pure hatred and disgust shot towards his way at every opportunity.

He'd long run out of tears to cry, and dreamed instead. He dreamed of fields of green and sands of gold, of legend and adventure, of pirates, magicians, military stallions, and pioneers. Guarded by the moon, he could escape, and took to sleeping frequently when not on the assembly line.

His eyelids beginning to droop, Page rolled onto his side in time to see his younger brother trot into the room. "'Ey. Did youze have fun playin' in the woods ta-day?"

Silence and a stare were his reply.

Accustomed to this, Page shrugged and stared back at him, waiting. Too poor to afford doctors, his mother nevertheless diagnosed his sibling with selective mutism, hoping that "someday" he would speak to one of them. Any sound would be welcome. Anything to shatter the interval between tense silence and utter chaos within their walls.

The four-year-old colt trotted into a corner of the room and plopped onto his haunches. He cradled something carefully between his forehooves. He stared down at them, fascinated, holding something that appeared to be squirming. Curious, Page rose from the mattress and strode over to his sibling.

"'Ey, what youze got there?"

Opening his forehooves gradually, his brother revealed a twitching salamander. The tiny amphibian appeared to be gravely injured, blood trickling from a wound in its side, its eyes wide open in sheer terror and primal instinct.

Taking a few steps back, Page whispered, "Whoa.. Llil' bro, youze betta put dat back outside where youze found it. Poor thing looks like it's dyin'."

His brother spoke no words per usual, choosing instead to observe the animal, watching with a smile on his face as it breathed its last. He sat in the corner for hours, long past his brother's awkward headshake and droning snores, contemplating the way the salamander's life drained, the way it was silent, like him.

~

Trees. Trees, their branches full of blooming, ripening apples, provided substantial cover and camouflage. They could not, however, calm his accelerating heart, cardiac threatening. They could not extinguish the fires in his limbs, or refill the oxygen in his lungs, or make his adrenaline release any faster. They couldn't mask his pain or his age.

Turner slowed and stumbled over his hooves. He tumbled to the ground, landing smack-dab on his muzzle, the rest of his body following. Groaning, he rubbed his twice-bruised snout and stared up at the stars. Lying there—spread-hooved, vulnerable, aching—he could think only again of running away, running away, like the vagabond he was, like the scoundrel he was, even as Babs Seed drew ever closer...

~

He'd gotten as far as Trottingham when the police came.

It was foalish, really. There was no food to spare in the tiny shack, and the meager bits he earned went straight into treating his father's "illness". His tattered mess of a family was more impoverished than the peeling paint and holey floorboards suggested.

Nevertheless, enough was enough. Lacking the essentials, Page simply decided on the eve of his tenth birthday that he was not returning to the factory, to the cabin, to the woods, to any of them. Rather be overtaken by hunger or thirst than suffer any longer, he snuck out in the twilight, hoofing it towards redemption.

Like his mother, he knew his father's forehooves, and knew them well. He knew his rage, his vitriol, his prejudice, his condemnation of anypony and everypony. Nopony was good enough for his father. Especially Page. He was done pretending, done trying, done begging for his father's love.

His first runaway attempt had been a disaster. Once discovered by the strong forehooves of the law and escorted back to his hell, Page was left vulnerable again, on the porch, alone.

Reaching up to knock on the door, the colt gasped when it swung open and his father appeared in the threshold.

Bottle in forehoof, the beige stallion with a long jet-black mane swayed in the doorway, snickering. "So, youze couldn't get 'way eitha, could youze? Ha! Iffa runnin' did anythin', I woulda done it a long time ago. Would've done it ta get free from youze whore o' a motha."

Rehearsed well in these scenarios, Page kept his muzzle low and slowly trotted inside, staring into nothingness. His mother waited on the couch, a deep, black bruise marring her beautiful face. She smiled weakly, ever-willing to pay the price of her foals' mistakes.

"Page, honey, I'm so glad you're home!" she exclaimed, trotting over to her eldest. She began to pull him into an embrace. "I was so worried that—"

A harsh bellow dismissed her words. "Shut up, bitch!"

THUD!

The stallion slammed his mare into the wall with one swing of a forehoof. She groaned and crumpled into a ball on the floor, sobbing quietly into herself. White-hot adrenaline rushed through Page's veins, his muscles tensing. He felt his lips retracting, molars bared in an ancient threat. He was young, and short, and weak, but none of that mattered. The only thing that mattered was the broken mare weeping on the ground.

He watched in silence as his father trotted away, hating him with every inch and fiber of his being.

Helping his mother to her hooves, Page whispered lovingly, "Shhhh. It's okay, Ma. I'm heeya. He's... he's goin' away."

The younger colt, almost six now, trotted into the kitchen, a grin on his muzzle. Page turned to his mute brother, ears failing to prick. There was no need. Although he knew his only reply would be his own imagination, Page asked, "'Ey there, lil' bro. Youze alright?"

His brother pointed to his mother's bruise and laughed, laughed, laughed.

~

With a final push off her hindhooves, Babs Seed seized her opportunity, and leapt.

Landing right beside him, she leaned down and whispered in his ear, "Caught youze."

Turner groaned, defeated, making no attempt to resist.

Rushing over to face him, the mare leaned down and grabbed his forehooves. "Youze gave me a pretty good run! Granted, I haven't ran afta a full-grown stallion who wasn't one hoof in the grave yet, but I don't think I did so bad, right?" she joked, her weak attempt failing to instigate even a chuckle.

Alright, alright, joke time is long ova. I know everypony's stressed right now, an' jus' runnin'—maybe literally—but enough is enough. She started to pull him up, mumbling, "Let's get youze up—"

"No." Turner wrestled his forehooves away, burying his muzzle in them. He covered his eyes and willed himself off the carousel, the endless loop of reminiscence replaying itself within his consciousness. "No. Leave me alone."

Horseapples. Now I've done it. Now I've really buckin' done it. Babs slowly rose to her hooves, blowing a strand of mane from her eyes. He clearly wants ta be alone, an' youze jus' run afta him like he's some kinda thief o' summat! What the hay is wrong wit' youze? Youze can't call him youze dad, youze resent him, yet, when he does take off, youze freak out? What's goin' on wit' dat?

The internal monologue plunged Babs Seed down into defeat within him. Those emerald eyes began to shine, reflecting the light of the silent, watchful moon as they sparkled with tears. Oh, yes, cry, cry like a lil' damn foal now. Youze didn't cry ova Appleloosa, an' now youze cryin' ova dis? Total sense.

Irrational as it was, the point of no return had been reached. She'd hunted her father like she would a criminal or a rampaging beast, damaging what little they had forever. Marring it. Destroying it, as she did so much else, and so easily.

The destroyer muttered, voice trembling, "T-Turner... p-please..."

The stallion laid there, unmoving but for deep, heaving breaths, shivering, uncertain. Wounds long healed (or so he'd thought) rose to the surface, torn open and bleeding with a vengeance. And all at the mention of his name, the pony he hated and feared the most.

The pony he'd failed.

Tears flowing freely down her cheeks, Babs sniffled and took a step towards Appleloosa. "I-I'm s-sorry... I shoulda jus' let youze go, but I had ta go an' hurt youze." I always hurt who I love... It was only a matta o' time befo' I hurt youze, too. "I'm real s-sorry. G-goodbye..."

A forehoof tugging at one of her hindhooves stopped her.

Over her shoulder, her emerald crashed into his onyx, finding tears there, too. "T-Turner... Why... why are youze cryin'?"

"Come heeya," he said, almost inaudible. He said it a second time, his chin trembling as she spoke. "Come heeya, Babs."

She laid down beside him on the cool, dew-kissed sands. Beneath the canopy of apple trees and starlight, the stallion draped a forehoof around the mare, holding her close. She did the same, two sets of tears falling quietly, echoing in the unwelcome silence between them as they landed.

Turner gazed off towards some unknown point in the horizon. Keeping his sights glued there, he whispered, "I should be the one who's sorry."

Wiping away her shameful tears, Babs replied, "No. I should be. I hurt youze."

Turner shook his muzzle. "No, youze didn't. I was in pain long befo' youze found me."

A coyote howled in the distance, seeking the comfort of his companions on this lone desert night.

Confused, Babs contemplated a question, tossing it aside after another moment of silence. No, no. Don't press him. Don't make things worse than dey are.

"I was in pain fo' many years."

Turning to face her, the stallion frowned, ready to weep once more. Many days and nights had passed him by in stoic denial, unwilling to ruminate over things that once were and would never be again. Unwilling to mourn all he'd lost, all he'd left behind, all he could never change.

"Youze were?"

"Yes." Turner tore his eyes off his daughter, returning them to the void beyond. "There are... many things 'bout me youze don't know. Many things nopony knows. Things I've done, o' shoulda done. Things I left behind. Ponies I left behind."

Babs Seed stared into her forehooves, unsure of a reply. So have I, but... But why did youze run? Why did youze run at the mention o' dat bastard's name? Unless...

"Babs Seed, do youze want ta know why I ran away when... when Libra said dat name?"

She merely nodded, staring into him, into the corners of his eyes, where she could see herself.

He took a final breath, and began.

~

Page Turner was twelve going on thirty.

Four years of his young life were lost to his father's demands and his mother's surrender. The stallion of the house refused to work or look for work, spending his days in drunken stupor and rambling nonsense. The mare of the cabin could find none, her reputation ruined by her own husband's misdeeds. His father waxed poetic about every subject under the sun—politics, religion, mares and stallions, meaning and life—spewing filth that disgusted his eldest son.

His youngest, however, would listen and learn with rapt attention, mirroring his father's movements and gesticulations. He soaked up every bit of shocking opinion and questionable fact, fascinated, amazed. After almost seven years of silence, the youngest colt in the cabin began to speak. And all his words were his father's words.

But tonight was the last night. Page Turner, the blankflanked beige colt with a jet-black mane—a smaller version of his father in appearance alone—packed his saddlebags on a cool summer's night. He fumbled through the dresser and closet he and his brother shared, stashing away his most prized possessions.

There were few, but they were treasures, indeed. Among them were a simple map of Equestria and a simple compass, gifts from his grandmother—a mare he'd met only once, before the twelve-hour shifts and beans and corn and hunger and bruises and alcohol and screaming and his brother's chilling smile dominated his memory.

His saddlebag packed, Page hoisted his belongings onto his back and stared out the window. Freedom beckoned for the infinite time. This time, however, he would steer clear of the law. They were of no use. Even when he went to them with the truth, the horrible truth, nopony believed him. He was a dirty scoundrel of a colt, unwashed, uncultured, with a strange tongue that belonged to a place called "Manehatten"—a place his father spoke of venomously, but he'd never seen. He was not to be trusted, only imprisoned.

Sighing, he offered a humble, silent prayer to an entity called "the Most High". He'd heard whispers of this name on the assembly lines from some of the older workers. The Most High, they said, was the Source of All Things, including Celestia and Luna. It, unlike them, knew all, saw all, and loved all. His young mind questioned the existence of a benevolent being in the world he knew. He was not cynical enough yet, however, to dismiss it entirely.

He just hoped, above all, that there was Somepony who watched him and loved him, and could guide him to someplace that would truly be home.

His mother couldn't protect him. She never could. He hated her for staying, for cowering, for crying, for dragging them into this abyss.

Tonight, he would break free. He would follow the horizon, the Most High.

Page Turner jumped from the windowsill and started towards his bedroom door. His younger brother trotted slowly into view, blocking the threshold.

"'Ey, there, lil' bro," Page greeted, like he always did.

"Youze leavin' again?" His brother's voice was rough, low, angry. It was his father's voice, shrunk down into a short, blue colt with a jet-black mane, a colt who had his mother's eyes but none of her love.

Fighting the urge to vomit—how he hated his father's voice and words, even in the maw of another—Page simply nodded. "Yes. I'm sorry ta say I won't be comin' back dis time, lil' bro."

Glaring at him, the other colt hissed, "Why? So I can take youze place an' break ma back workin' in the factory, too? Youze know dat's what Ma's gonna have me do iffa youze leave!"

"Please, lil' bro—"

"Oh, fuck youze, Page!" Stomping a forehoof on the floor in protest, the colt felt his hackles rise. He remained in the doorway, staying strong, impeding his older brother's exit.

"'Ey! Watch youze mouth!" Page scolded, furrowing his brow. "Where did youze learn ta talk like dat?" He mentally answered his own question as soon as he asked, filing it somewhere among the annals of the most ridiculous questions of all time.

"From the best stallion in all o' Equestria, an' it's a damn shame he's stuck wit' a piece o' shit son like youze."

There was that smile again, that toothy grin that sent chills down his spine. Keys on the devil's piano they were, glistening white against the poverty that stole everything else from them. Innocence, security, family, love, friendship, education, and dignity fell by the wayside, but his younger brother still had that grin, and would forever.

"Snap outta it! Don't youze see what he does ta Ma?"

"I do. An' she deserves every minute o' it."

Enraged, Page slammed into his brother, dropping a shoulder and charging forward. The blue colt smacked against the wall easily, yelping in pain. His cries were silenced with a forehoof shoved into his muzzle, a pair of wild copper irises boring into him. "Youze say dat again, an' I'll kill youze. I'll buckin' kill youze."

Shoving his forehooves away, his brother kicked him in the stomach, doubling Page over in agony. Suddenly, he was lying on the floor, his brother weeping and screeching and pummeling him over and over.

"Youze leavin' me! Youze buckin' leavin' me ta rot! Ta be like youze! Worthless piece o' shit! Youze leavin' me!"

Never before had Page Turner heard his brother voice any affection, any semblance of attachment or normal family relation towards him. He'd done his best to protect him over the years since his shattered innocence began, shielding him from his father's anger, directing him towards his mother's love. He tried to talk with him, to dream with him, to level with him. All for naught but silence, strange stares, evil smiles, haunting laughter, and a fascination with all things dark and despicable.

He still remembered his brother's smile as that tiny, helpless creature died in his forehooves almost four years ago. He still remembered it, and was terrified when he did.

Here he was, pleading with him to stay in his own morbid, twisted way.

Long tired of fulfilling promises, Page would not grant this request, no matter how profane his brother became.

Page Turner, older and stronger, rolled over and shoved his brother in the chest, sending him toppling. He struggled to his hooves, pushing through the pain. Emboldened by his agony, he grabbed his brother by the mane and pinned him down with his hindhooves, saying the words that would come to define them forever.

"I'm leavin', an' don't youze follow me, Bernie Madhoof. I HATE youze, an' I neva want ta see youze again."

~

"No."

Running her forehooves through her mane, twisting her strands, Babs repeated her disbelief.

"No."

Impossible. Simply impossible. There had been no uncles, no aunts, no grandparents in the Orange Family Mansion. There had been no cousins but the Apples. That was the extent of their family—Citrus, Libra, Bernie, and the Apples. All. Final.

"No."

She buried her muzzle in the sand, not caring as it speckled her coat and entered her nostrils, making her nose itch. She slammed her eyelids shut. She tugged tighter at her mane, pulling it taut. The thought of ripping it all away and starting anew seemed more sane than what Turner had just told her.

"No."

Turner dug a forehoof under her chin and lifted it, gently wiping sand from her snout. "Kid, I—"

"NO!" Babs shook him off, crawling away from him. "NO! Dis isn't true! Youze—youze a liar! Youze must be one o' his lil' cronies, ain't youze? Is dat it?!" she demanded, baring her teeth and glaring at him. "Did he hire youze ta torch the mansion? Huh? Are youze some kinda ex-thug o' summat? O' maybe youze ain't even—"

"I have no idea what youze is talkin' 'bout!" Turner shook his muzzle frantically. "No! No! I'm not a criminal, neva have been!"

"Like hell youze haven't! How else would youze know somepony like him?!" No! No! Dis can't be true! Dis can't be happenin'!

"Babs Seed," he said calmly, "I know dis must be a lot fo' youze ta take, but—"

"O' course it is! Don't youze understand?!" Rising to her hooves, she instinctively poised into a battle stance, her muscles unable to distinguish between an argument and an assault. "Don't youze know what he did ta our family? Ta me?! How much he hated me, obviously hated me, as long as I could rememba?!"

"Babs—"

"An' I wanted him ta love me!" Her words raced her mind, clearly victorious. "Yes! Yes, dat's right! I hated him, an' I wanted him ta love me, deep down, still! Even through everythin'. Do youze know how confusin' dat was, how much it hurt? Do youze know, even afta we left him, how much it hurt ta know he didn't want us! Ta know he didn't want me?! Ta know he wanted ta... ta..."

Turner grunted in pain, standing up slowly beside Babs Seed. Exhausted from the meager effort, he leaned up against her, bracing himself against her shoulder. "Look, Babs, I—"

"No! Did youze own fatha want ta kill youze?!"

Silence. Two billows of steam sending their signal into the night, slow exhalations of rage and frustration tapping out their message on an invisible keyboard of the soul. There were no need for words.

Taking a few steps to the side, his hooves burning, Turner hung his head low. "Yes, kiddo, he did."

An icy dagger sliced through Babs's heart, leaving her breathless, wordless.

"I know he did. Ma fatha hated me, an' ma brotha hated me, too. Dey both didn't want me 'round anymo'." He glanced sideways at her, his eyes misting. "Afta I ran away dat final time... I didn't come back until years past dat night. By dat time, it was too late. Ma motha really was sick, ma fatha was gettin' yellow-eyed, an' Bernie was pullin' doubles in the factory. I visited from time ta time ova the years, only a few days at a time. Couldn't handle it."

"I was a coward," Turner admitted, shame brewing and aggravating his nausea and disgust. "I let ma lil' brotha decay in there. I knew, I jus' knew summat was wrong wit' him from day one. He wasn't like otha foals, otha colts. I only knew how dey interacted from the marketplace an' such, but I knew he wasn't playin' wit' a full deck. An' I left him. I left him ta rot, an' ma motha, too. I abandoned 'em, left 'em ta him, dat awful stallion. I left 'em, an' I didn't even try ta free 'em."

Turner laid down in the sand again, laughing through his tears. The moon seemed to mock him, providing perfect illumination to accompany his downfall. "An'—youze know what? Ma motha... ma motha died befo' ma fatha... Bernie was still livin' at home then. We had a small lil' funeral, which I paid fo'. An' then ma fatha died, I think 'bout ten o' so years later? I really don't rememba.

"I didn't see ma brotha afta he left fo' college, but he found me through the mail sometimes. An' when our fatha died, Bernie wrote dat he didn't want me there, but I paid fo' it anyway. Still didn't go. Buck dat abusive, alcoholic bastard. I hope he's burnin' in salt an' fire now. Sold dat ramshackle lil' cabin—ended up bein' demolished, the filthy thing—an' hit the road fo' real."

Babs Seed, remaining skeptical, stretched out beside him. She reined in her anger, giving her confusion a voice instead. "But, wait... what 'bout his marriage? Didn't youze know he had a daughta, too?" Ma sista? Well, half-sista?

Turner shook his muzzle sadly. "Didn't want me there when he got married, didn't tell me her name, nothin'. Didn't want anythin' ta do wit' me. I knew he was married, an' heard from the grapevine he had a foal, but nothin' otha than dat. Had no idea he was married ta Libra, o' dat she was married, o' dat she was married ta ma brotha..."

"... Dammit," he whispered, half-sniffling, half-chuckling. "What a mess. All o' dis. What a mess."

Lost for words, Babs leaned into him and closed her eyes. Too much. It was far too much. Everything. Everything was connected, tangled. Everything and everypony had a story. She wondered, Then, does everythin' have an end? Is dat what makes things special—because dey have ta end?

Do I want dis ta end? Dis... whateva I have, wit' whateva he is?

He placed his muzzle on her forehead, resting his eyes. "So... do youze have anythin' ta say?"

"I... I don't know, Turner," she answered honestly. "I don't... I don't understand."

"Well, kiddo, what don't youze understand?"

Shifting slightly, urging herself to be calm and rational for once, Babs explained, "I jus'... I... I don't want youze ta feel bad, but... how could youze run 'way from dem like dat? An'..."

She paused and bit her bottom lip, almost making herself bleed. "Turner... how could youze take dis long ta find Ma? Ta find me?"

He lifted his head from hers, peering into her eyes. On his muzzle, the faintest hint of a smile evaporated, replaced by a stoic, emotionless, blank expression. Denial would not save him now.

Choosing his words carefully, each of them bearing the weight of twenty years, Turner replied, "I should have done mo'. I should have tried harder. I should have done all sorts o' things. I'm sorry, ki—Babs. I'm sorry, Babs. I really am. Ta youze an' youze motha."

In his eyes, she detected no malice, no lies. Scrying was far from her special talent, or a talent at all. Yet, in spite of everything, Babs knew that Turner was no liar. This, coupled with another voice inside her mind—"Jus' try callin' him that sometime, fer me, please?"—ushered her into silence.

He waited patiently, heart racing, faith wavering.

After a moment of contemplation, Babs smiled slightly. "Youze know what?"

"What?" he asked, intrigued.

"I... I like havin' youze around. It gives me lots o' answas I need. An' Ma was really happy ta see youze, too. An' I don' think I'll be alright wit' dis—wit' any o' dis—fo' a long time, but I'm gonna try." Fo' Bloom. Fo' Ma. Fo' everypony. "An' I... I forgive youze, Turner," she finished, nuzzling him gently.

A flicker of a grin sparked and spread across his muzzle. The stallion nuzzled her back and rustled her mane a bit before hobbling up onto his hooves again. "Good. 'Cuz I wanna try makin' things right now. I can't go back an' change anythin', but I can make ta-day betta. There is one thing, though, Babs."

Standing beside him, starting back towards Appleloosa, Babs asked, "Yea, what's dat?"

"... How am I gonna explain dis ta youze motha?"

~

Spreading his wings, the Griffon guard flew up to the second floor of his Master's mansion once he'd safely entered. Running low on time, he hoped against hope that his Master's patience had not worn too thin. The message had been delivered to all but two of the affected Knights. The next round of annexation hovered on his glorious Master's horizon, and he'd be damned if he would fail his true and ultimate King.

Once the two guards on the outside of the office door granted him entry, the Griffon scrambled into the finely furnished office, wings flared and talons waving. "Master! Master! Please forgive my tardiness, I—"

"You'd better have a good excuse." The Master growled, facing away from his visitor. He sat in his favorite, familiar chair, smoking his favorite, familiar cigar, watching out his window at his favorite, familiar city. The hustle and bustle of daytime facade had long faded, replaced with the empty, lifeless streets below. Beautiful and tranquil, he couldn't wait for another round of madness to pierce the silence and set his blackened heart aflame. How he loved a good street-scuffle.

"I... was..." The Griffon heaved between words, catching his frantic breath. "I... was... visiting my brother in the hospital... sir... Please... forgive me. It won't... happen again."

"A pathetic excuse. I have no interest in your personal affairs." The Master snarled, impatient. "Tell me: have the messages been relayed?"

"All but two, sir," the guard answered. Lowering his wings to his sides, he clarified, "And I will ensure those two are notified as soon as possible, my King. The company should be ready within a few days."

Refusing to swivel in his chair, the Master grunted in response, waving him away with a forehoof. Acceptable news. Far from great, but he would take what he could glean from these useless, pithy pawns. His front-door guard was no exception. Although valued for his quick wit and quicker trigger-talon, he was a pawn in the end, disposable.

Bowing low, the Griffon muttered a thousand superfluous apologies before rushing out the door to resume his post.

Bernie Madhoof snickered. "Visiting a brother in the hospital? What a fool. Insignificant, worthless time-wasting fool. Brotherhood. Ha!"

Taking a deep drag of his cigar, he whispered, "I know nothing of brotherhood."

Stubborn Love

Towards silent cliff-faces they strode, emerging out of the canopy of the apple orchards. Though their minds ran rampant, they kept their muzzles shut, choosing to ponder instead of speak. Babs Seed caught eyes with Turner several times as their hooves ascended up the well-worn path, a slight smile on his face. She yearned to return the gesture in earnest, but the night’s revelation and her own fatigue prevented her from doing so sincerely. Horseapples, now we’re gonna have ta tell everypony once we get home 'bout dis mess… Ma’s not gonna be happy ‘bout dis, not at all.

Meeting the edge of the path, Babs climbed over the edge and onto level ground. She sat on her haunches, waiting for Turner to meet her. With a grimace and strained effort, the exhausted stallion pulled himself over the edge and onto the cliff above the orchard. Tumbleweeds and a lone coyote’s howl their only apparent companions, father and daughter rested a spell before continuing onwards.

To their hooves they rose again. Past the sleepy, untouched salt-bar they trotted, nopony in sight. Babs swore she could smell the smoldering ashes of the saloon wafting in the wind from the other side of town. Buckin’ scum. Wouldn’t be surprised iffa it’s his lil’ cronies comin’ out heeya, causin’ trouble an’ terrorizin’ everypony… Would love ta give ‘em a piece o’ ma mind, o' summat else.

As they turned towards home, Turner broke the silence, clearing his throat. “So, er, Babs,” he mumbled, pupils darting through the dark, ensuring they were alone, “how exactly are we gonna tell everypony... dis?"

“Jus' tell the truth... the whole truth... right?” She answered him with a question of her own, ears flattening in a mixture of confusion and annoyance. Didn’t youze say youze were gonna tell Ma the whole story? I’m not the best at keepin’ secrets, o' lyin', neitha.

He sighed. “Youze is right. I jus’ can’t keep—“

The commotion of five sets of hooves springing to attention and rushing towards them interrupted Turner’s confession. In his fatigue, he'd neglected to notice the approaching shadows from his peripherals. Babs spun around, mortified to see an Appleloosian posse of five galloping their way, weapons raised and eyes wild. Shit! Shit! Shit!

“Y’all don’t move a muscle, o’ we’ll shoot!” one of them—a disheveled-looking stallion, his coat and mane covered in grime—threatened. The revolver in his forehooves trembled slightly, betraying his bravado. He was clearly new to asserting his authority.

Nevertheless, their quarry complied, staying frozen, silent. Hackles raising and muscles tensing, Babs Seed suppressed a primal growl, eyes tracking the posse’s every motion. Staying strong, Turner narrowed his gaze and bit his tongue, long accustomed to suspicion. Nopony could wander without questions or, occasionally, hooves raised their way.

The five stallions circled around the pair, keeping their weapons trained on the strangers. The leader of the posse gazed curiously at them, threatening with the barrel of his gun. “Never seen y'all befo'! Jus’ what in tarnation were y’all doin’ out there in our orchard?!”

Baring her teeth, Babs growled and spat, “Dat’s none o’ youze business!”

Once her brash, disrespectful tongue stumbled onto dat, all five of the posse members clutched their steel tighter, forehooves achingly close to triggers and icy hatred rushing through their hearts. That tongue. That accursed, wretched, despicable tongue, and all its street-borne speech.

"Y'all are Manehattenites, ain't ya?” the dirty stallion snapped, glaring at Babs Seed. “We don’t take too kindly ta yer folk no mo’ ‘round these parts—“

“Our folk?! Braeburn is ma cousin!” She snarled, stomping a forehoof into the sand.

Snorting, the would-be leader countered, “Likely story, ya city-slickin’—“

Turner leaned down and whispered in his daughter’s ear, his words hesitant and low, “Babs... maybe we should—“

“Hey!” The stallion rounded on Turner, shaking his weapon threateningly. “Conspirin’, are ya?! Well, it’s five ‘gainst one, so maybe y’all should turn 'round an' go back ta where ya came from!”

Failing to conceal her rage, Babs rose from her passive position, rationality overridden by anger. She leaned back on her hindhooves, ready to pounce, mind held hostage by the grime-coated aggressor’s prejudiced tongue. In the fire of her anger, their weapons dissolved, and she only knew ancient instincts—caring not how foalish they were.

Five sets of eyes focused on her, the rising one.

Before anypony could react, a distant BANG! sliced through the night.

Braeburn rushed towards them, his revolver billowing smoke to the heavens. His shot echoed through the atmosphere towards the orchard, landing far and safely away from anypony. Apple Bloom galloped beside him, her mane wild and reckless, the bows in her red strands and tail hanging on by mere threads.

“What in tarnation is goin’ on here?!” Braeburn screeched as he approached, holstering his weapon and tossing unseen daggers towards the posse leader.

“D-Deputy!” the filthy stallion stammered, stepping away from his captives. He removed his dusty Stetson and hung his head low, eliciting the same respectful gesture from the other four. “Ah—we—found these two trouble-makin’, city-slickin’—“

“Ya mean, two o' ma family?!” Stomping towards him, Braeburn hissed through his teeth, “If ya ever—an’ Ah mean ever—put a hoof on these two, Ah’ll put ma hoof up yer ass so far, you’ll be singin’ soprano when Ah’m through wit’ you!” He shook his muzzle and pierced his pupils through the lowly four. “Y’all should be ashamed o’ yerselves! They ain’t botherin’ nopony!”

One of the posse dared to question him. “B-but, b-but Deputy, them two were in our orchard!”

“The orchard I helped harvest!” Babs added, blood boiling. Why, I oughta—

Apple Bloom broke through the posse and pulled her mare away, dragging her by a reluctant forehoof and prompting Turner to follow them. The three joined the Deputy's side, two of them holding the third, preventing her from springing to her hooves and serving as living target practice.

“Y’all break this up an’ git back ta the Sheriff’s Office!” Braeburn ordered the posse, spitting on the ground in disgust. He motioned with his forehooves, refusing to back down. “Go on, git!”

The five quickly holstered their weapons and galloped away, the would-be leader of their crew shooting Babs one last scowl before departing.

Relieved that they were safe, Braeburn turned his attention next to Babs Seed and Turner. “Jus’ what in the hay was that all ‘bout, y’all? Why did ya take off like that, Turner? We were worried sick after y’all didn’t come back!”

Digging a forehoof into the sand, Turner muttered from the corner of his muzzle, “Aye, uh, well, Brae, youze see—“ He glanced towards his daughter, who urged him to continue with an irritated nod. C'mon. Youze can't hide foreva.

Swallowing, Turner finished, “I’ll explain when we get back ta the house.”

Reckoning that it wouldn’t be the wisest idea to press the issue, Braeburn ceased to reply. After eying Turner for a few moments, he turned away, shrugging. He trotted to the front of the pack and began to lead the group back towards the cabin.

Apple Bloom pulled Babs Seed back, letting the stallions overtake their progress. “What was that all ‘bout?” she whispered, speaking into Babs’s sensitive ear.

Shivering from the contact, Babs quietly replied, “Youze’ll see.” She leaned close to her mare, willing her heart rate to return to normal. She felt her rage seemingly empty from her soul, traversing down her limbs and into the cool Earth. The foalishness of her blind, reckless actions was not lost on her. Horseapples, iffa Brae didn't show up, I—

“Are you alright, sugarcube?" Apple Bloom asked, brushing against her coat. She patted Babs on the shoulder, shaking her gently, ripping her from the forehooves of her thoughts.

Babs blinked rapidly and shook her muzzle. "Yes! No! ... I don't know, I guess." As they caught up to the stallions, she sighed and repeated, “Youze’ll see, Bloom.” It won’t be fo’ too much longa.

~

A livid Libra Scales swung the cabin door open before Braeburn could knock once. Heat seemed to proliferate from her fiery irises and pristine coat, increasing the temperature in the threshold. Without a word, she motioned the four inside, gesturing back to the dining table. Four defeated muzzles (two of them especially tense) made their way inside.

Citrus Blossom emerged from the kitchen, dropping a half-finished piece of apple pie and scrambling to meet them. “Babs! Turner! You’re alright!” she exclaimed, disregarding the mess on the kitchen floor.

Babs chuckled nervously and strode over to her sister. Citrus opened her forehooves and threw them around her sister, scolding, “Don’t you ever run out like that again!”

“Citrus, we’re fine,” Babs dismissed, hugging her. As she pulled away, she added, “I’m not a lil’ foal anymo’, sis.”

"No excuse!" Libra snapped, rounding on her daughter. She grabbed Babs by her muzzle, taking it between her forehooves. Through her narrow glare, she hissed, "Don't you run off like that on me again. Especially right now. Do you understand, young mare?

"And you!"

Releasing Babs Seed, Libra stomped towards Turner, shaking the Earth with each step. The stallion stood firm as she approached, although his pupils betrayed him, fixated on the front door.

Libra reached him in a blur, leaning up on her hindhooves to reach his muzzle. "You look at me when I'm talking to you! Right now, Page!"

"Y-yes ma'am!" he stammered, sweat trickling down his nape. His evening run paled in comparison to the tightness of her forehooves around his snout and the fire in her eyes. A million thoughts competed for dominance in Turner's mind. How to tell her? When? Perhaps he should tell her privately first? Or would it be better to blurt the truth all at once?

"What in Tartarus is wrong with you?! Why did you run out on me like that?!"

Turner swallowed.

Babs Seed took one hoof-step forward, warning, "Ma..."

Libra snapped her neck around to face her, although she didn't relinquish her grip on the stallion. "What is it, Babs?!"

"Be nice ta him!" Another step forward. "He has a good reason ta—"

"To run out on me? Again?"

"L-Libra, please," Turner muttered, shaking his snout, hoping she would let go. She did not. He shook his muzzle again, but Libra Scales only squeezed tighter, boring holes into his skull with her gaze.

Fuse lit at his flight, Libra Scales exploded, "No! YOU please! You shut up and listen, Page! Here I am, opening my home and—"

She paused, taking a deep, heaving breath before continuing, "My heart to you, you deadbeat tramp! I'm opening up to you, right after our home, our family, and our town have just about been destroyed, and what do you do?!"

"Ma..." Dammit, Ma, don't youze—

Citrus Blossom stood beside her sister. "Mother, calm down."

Braeburn clutched his Stetson in his forehooves tightly, stepping forward to act as mediator. "Auntie, Ah think ya should stop doin' that... yer hurtin' him..."

Turner shook his head. "No, she's fine. Libra, look, I—"

Yanking him forward and below so that the stallion was muzzle-to-muzzle with her, Libra Scales demanded, "What do you know about him, huh?! Are you one of his little worshipers or something?!"

"Mother! Enough!"

Even Apple Bloom could take no more. She reached towards her aunt's tail, poised to pull her away as she warned, "Auntie, ya better stop what yer doin' right now. This ain't right! Jus' look at him!"

Turner made no motion to break free or resist. He stared back at Libra Scales—the mare who'd captured his heart and soul twenty years ago and imprisoned it through all their lost time. The mare who, through some unfortunate timing of Nature and Fate itself, managed to unite with him—entwine with him—and create the tall mare standing behind her.

Libra Scales. His mare. Page Turner. Her stallion. His mare for a week... And... his brother's, his despicable, psychotic, sociopathic, soulless, twisted, wicked brother's mare for twenty years of doubtless hell.

Page Turner was an old soul, forced to become a stallion and raise himself from an early age. He'd seen the bottom of the barrel, the lowest of the low, sleeping in more than one dumpster throughout his wanderings. He was strong, physically and emotionally. Or, at least, he appeared to be, on any other night.

Tonight, he allowed a mare half his size to silence and restrain him. She couldn't hurt him any more than he'd already injured himself. He deserved it, unlike her. She didn't deserve the words that he would utter, the words that would shatter any chance of rekindling their friendship or—who was he kidding?—love from long past.

She paused, relaxing her grip and letting his head hang. He stared at the floorboards of his own accord, closing his eyes, wishing it all away. The Most High granted him no favors. When Turner opened his eyes, Libra was still staring into him, the entire cabin filled with unbearable silence.

Libra Scales whispered, "Page... How do you know my ex-husband? How do you know Bernie Madhoof?"

Babs Seed dug at the floorboards with him, neither finding relief there. Apple Bloom and Citrus, noticing Babs's longtime coping mechanism, found their uneasiness amplified in the seconds that passed. Braeburn, too, couldn't deny the tension in the air, fiddling with his hat over and over again.

Finally, Turner sighed and looked at the mare, sadness shining on his muzzle.

"Libra, Bernie Madhoof is ma brotha."

A Stetson found the floor, its owner's jaw hanging agape. Citrus's muzzle paled in disbelief. Apple Bloom bit her tongue, repressing a curse of skepticism that would've made her mare blush, and stared worriedly at Babs Seed.

Horseapples. Heeya we go. Retracting her hoof-steps, Babs stood in between sibling and cousin, looking on at the scene unfolding before them.

Libra Scales backed away, away, away from the stallion, knocking over a stool and smacking her flanks into the dining table. She searched desperately for something to latch onto, flailing her forehooves over untouched plates and cold slices of apple pie. "No. No. No! You're—you're a liar! There's no way! You would've told me if—"

"I did tell youze," Turner replied calmly. "I did tell youze I had a brotha. I told youze I had an estranged brotha who was married an' had a foal. I didn't know until ta-night dat it was him... dat it was youze he was married ta. Don't youze rememba me tellin' youze dat? Dat I had a brotha?"

Refusing to believe, the mare rapidly shook her muzzle. "No! No! This—no! There's no way!"

"Libra, please," the stallion pleaded, stepping towards her. Stretching out a forehoof, he said, "I know dis is hard fo' youze—fo' all o' youze—" he glanced apologetically around the cabin—"ta handle. I didn't wanna believe it, eitha. Dat's why I ran. I—"

"Get out." Libra snarled, rage resurfacing.

"What?" Turner stepped closer to the mare, reaching for her shoulder.

Smacking him away, she reiterated, "Get. Out!"

Babs lurched forward, the other two mares too hypnotized by the spectacle to stop her. She rushed in between her parents and rounded on her mother first. "Ma, please, jus' give him a chance! He's nothin' like—"

"How do you know that?!" Scrambling further away, back towards the opposite kitchen wall, Libra demanded, "How do you know anything anymore?! He's your father, and now Bernie's your uncle?!"

Climbing out of his stupor, Braeburn started towards his aunt. "Auntie, Ah think—"

"First, we get assaulted in the middle of the night by a pack of roving gangsters, and now this?! Now I come to find my daughter's father is not her father, but her uncle?!"

Her chest heaving, Libra smacked up against the wall, tears of rage and sorrow clouding her vision. She stared up at the ceiling, shaking a forehoof towards the silent One watching all below. "What?! What are you gonna do to me NOW?!"

Four muzzles snapped silent.

Turner opened his mouth, his formless words cast aside by her spewing rage.

"—My daughter's father is her uncle, and her real father is a worthless vagabond—"

The fifth joined them.

"—And the entire West is exploding around me! What do you have for me now, motherbucker?! Huh? HUH?!" She taunted the empty Heavens, shaking her forehooves, before falling to her hindhooves in defeat. Sobs wracked her body—great, wretched sobs, shattering the night with her cries, everything falling into pieces around her...

The first forehoof to touch her chin was that of the worthless vagabond, looking deep into her eyes, her soul.

Sniffling, Libra hissed, "Get out, Page."

"There's summat I want youze ta know, Libra Scales, befo' I go."

"What's that? Got any more dirty secrets?" she choked through her tears, four sets of forehooves on her back and shoulders failing to calm her.

Turner caught eyes with each of them—Babs, Bloom, Citrus, and Braeburn—committing their muzzles to memory. He'd hoped this day would never come. He hoped that, if he was so blessed to see a reunion, it would be an eternal moment in time. He'd hope that he'd forge something from the wreckage of his regret, something beautiful and pure and holy.

Not all things, he knew, were meant to be.

Turner said, "I'm sorry, Libra. Youze... youze were ma first love, an' I'm sorry fo' everythin' dat happened 'tween us."

He leaned down and kissed her forehead, bracing himself for the blow that was sure to come.

When it didn't, he hesitated, stepping slowly towards the front door.

One step, two, three.

On the fourth, he heard a noise that barely registered above his own heartbeat.

"... Please..."

Her voice.

Halting, Turner pricked his ears, urging them to let him hear. The tears streaming down his muzzle demanded he face forward. Little to his knowledge, not one dry eye rested within the walls of the Appleloosians' home. C'mon, Ma, please, jus' please give him a chance.. afta all dis time, jus'... please.

Here, in the lovingly hoof-crafted cabin under Luna's parish lantern, Libra Scales wrestled with her rationality. Decision-making was her specialty, her cutiemark testifying to her balance in all manner of things.

Here, in this faraway land of snow and sunlight, fire and ice, balance had long eluded her. Whenever it was discovered, something (or somepony) managed to upset her homeostasis, eventually. Such was life, Libra Scales knew—an endless series of mountains and valleys, flatland resting between.

Whether this was the precipice of descent or the first step towards the ascending summit, she did not know. All Libra Scales knew was that, despite and against her better judgment, she wasn't ready to say goodbye.

If she had not fought for her life a few nights before, if she had not been forced to take another's, if she had not watched her nephew and daughter tip-hoof along the brink of life and death, Libra Scales wouldn't have done what she did next. Or, at least, that's what she rationalized.

"Please... don't go..."

Rising slowly to her hooves with the assistance of her niece, nephew, and daughters, Libra Scales trotted over to Page Turner. She leaned up to meet his gaze, wiping her tears away. "I'm sorry... I... I don't know why, but... please... please don't leave..."

Pulling her close into a hug, Turner whispered, "I won't, Libra. I won't, unless youze want me ta."

Chewing on his words, she paused, letting them freeze in the atmosphere between them. Page Turner the vagabond, brother of the despicable Bernie Madhoof, waited, his heart thundering, his breath catching in his throat.

Libra Scales the business-mare, the accountant, the mother, the long-lost lover, went against everything she knew, and decided to let the cards fall as they may. After twenty years, she'd finally found her stallion, and,in spite of all this mess, this absolute mess, she wasn't ready to let go.

Foalish or not, she bet on a second chance.

"... I don't want you to."

Apple Bloom leaned into Babs Seed, and Citrus Blossom into Braeburn, the four of them allowing their final tears to plummet to the floor. At last, they were tears of joy.

"C'mon, y'all, let's leave 'em be," Braeburn whispered, retrieving his Stetson and securing it on his head.

No objections raised, Babs Seed and Apple Bloom retreated to the guest room, looking over their shoulders with a smile. Braeburn and Citrus, respectful of Libra's wishes, retired to their rooms separately, although they did so with a nuzzle and a kiss beforehoof.

Libra Scales and Page Turner remained there for a long, long time, embracing, reminiscing.

Rational or not, Libra knew she made the right decision.

~

"Youze think dey are still out there?"

Stretching out on the bed, Babs yawned, rubbing sleepiness from her eyes. Moonlight poured in from the guest-room window, lulling her to chase the Sandmare into oblivion. She vowed to stay awake until Turner and her mother retired to their rooms. O' maybe it'll jus' be the same room ta-night, heh, she mischievously thought, grinning.

Apple Bloom pressed her ear against the oak, the faint sound of two hushed voices emanating from Braeburn's room. About to make a quick wisecrack—"Ah guess Brae an' Citrus couldn't keep their promise ta Auntie, huh?"—Apple Bloom recognized the speakers as Turner and Braeburn. She chuckled and strode from the door towards the bed. "Sounds like Turner's bunkin' wit' Brae 'gain. Guess it couldn't have gone too well, sugarcube."

Babs snorted. Dat Braeburn's got mo' self-control than Pinkie Pie tryin' ta keep her own Pinkie Promise in a cupcake factory. "Well," she said, scooting over on the bed when Apple Bloom jumped up beside her, "I guess the fact he's still heeya is a good sign."

Leaning over to move the solitary strand of mane from in front of Babs' eyes, Apple Bloom replied, "Jus' give it time. She'll come 'round. Ya gotta give 'em time... Twenty years, an' all that's goin' on, too? Jus' be patient, an' understandin', Babsy—they're holdin' up good in spite o' everythin', somehow."

"I guess youze is right." Wrapping her forehooves around her torso, Babs pulled her mare closer to her. Frowning, she muttered, "I feel awful 'bout what happened, though..."

"It ain't yer fault, sugarcube." Apple Bloom kissed her softly on the cheek, then the lips, seeking to calm her mare. "Ya didn't do anythin' wrong."

"Yes, but—"

"But what?"

Rolling them over so that Apple Bloom was lying on top of her, Babs whispered, "But... I shoulda been heeya. I shoulda been heeya ta stop dem. Ta stop dem bastards," she spat, furrowing her brow and revealing her teeth instinctively. An' now, 'cuz o' dat, everypony in Appleloosa ain't gonna look at me o' Turner o' anypony harmless from Manehatten wit' a straight face, we're all scum an' criminals ta 'em.

Sighing, Apple Bloom shook her head and clicked her tongue. "That's ma Babsy," she murmured, running a forehoof through her mane and down her chest. "Always wantin' ta protect everypony. It'll be alright, sugarcube, Ah promise. Brae, Citrus, an' Auntie are strong. An' besides, Ah don't think them criminals will be comin' back after what the townsponies did ta 'em.

"Now... let's jus' relax, alright?"

Leaning in close, Apple Bloom exhaled hotly into her mare's left ear, then nibbled gently on its tip.

Babs Seed pulled her closer, chills galloping down her spine. "Hah... not... so—"

Knock, knock.

"Aww, horseapples." Apple Bloom groaned, flopped off her mare, and stumbled to the floor. She reached the door and opened it slowly, revealing a grinning and giggling Citrus Blossom.

"Was I... interrupting anything?" Citrus teased, winking. Two blushes confirmed her suspicions. "I see. Well, Mom's asleep, so, I was wondering... Can we talk?"

Rolling onto her stomach, Babs sighed and gestured for Citrus to enter. Citrus carefully shut the door behind her and strode happily over to the bed, light on her hooves. Exchanging frustrated glances, Apple Bloom and Babs Seed made room for a third pony to stretch out on the guest-room bed.

"So!" Citrus happily chirped, keeping her volume low, "How are my two favorite mares?" She plastered a grin onto her muzzle, transparent to both her counterparts.

"What's on youze mind, Citrus?" Babs pressed, possessing saddlebags full of bits but still too poor to buy Citrus's facade.

Citrus visibly deflated, her ears flattening and her mask falling to the floor. "I just... I don't think I'll be able to sleep well for a long time, if ever..." She paused, staring towards the guest-room door.

Apple Bloom asked, "Hear somethin'?"

"... I just think I did. I'm sure I'll be hearing things all the time," admitted Citrus, sighing. "I just... I just don't understand. Why here? Why Appleloosa? Why... us?"

Babs Seed shook her head, flopping over onto her back. "Hay iffa I know. Iffa it ain't dat ol' bastard, who knows? Let's jus' hope dey don't come back again, an' blow 'em away iffa dey do." She closed her eyes, seeking a few precious minutes of rest. The moon taunted her, minutes to midnight, beckoning her far and away towards shapeless landscapes.

Citrus shivered, remembering the screeching pink mare and her soulless eyes. "Hope isn't much, but I'll take it for now." A tear glistening in the corner of her eye, she laid her head on a pillow and blinked the image away. "It's just... Mother and I came here to escape... Manehatten," she said carefully, mindful of her mother's burden.

Unbeknownst to Citrus, one of the two lying beside her knew it to the fullest extent; the other had been sheltered out of love. Nevertheless, she continued, "We came here because we thought it would be safe. We thought we would be safe. And for a while, we were, especially with Braeburn. But..."

"I just wonder... If Appleloosa goes the way of Manehatten, where will we run, then?"

Lifting her chin with a forehoof, Apple Bloom nuzzled Citrus, assuring her, "Now, now, don't ya worry. Brae an' his posse—idiots they may be, but still—they won't let this happen again. Ah know they won't. Especially ta you. An' besides, worst comes ta worst, y'all can come back ta Sweet Apple Acres! Right, Babs?"

Silence.

"Babs?"

Looking up from the pillow, Citrus laughed. "Looks like somepony had a hard day." Her little sister—sister full in the blood of the heart—lay fast asleep, snores beginning and sure to rise to a symphony and crescendo.

Apple Bloom face-hoofed and shook her muzzle. "Ah wish Ah could sleep that easy."

"Don't we all?" Citrus agreed.

"Eeyup. But don't worry, Citrus. Worst comes ta worst, me an' Babs will come an' show 'em what fer! Heh. That is... if we can manage ta learn ta shoot anythin' other than a cactus."

"Heh. I suppose you're right. Thanks."

"Yer welcome."

They permitted silence to settle between them, letting it sing of promises of a new tomorrow. In the past few days, a myriad of events had shattered their paradigms, leaving them all to an uncertain dawn. Whether it was murderous arsonists in Appleloosa, encounters with beloved friends, or reunion with one long lost, nopony within the cabin remained unfazed by it all.

Their coping mechanisms varied—paranoia, humor, mood swings, silence—but they remained standing, refusing to surrender into despair. For the most part, the Apples (and Turner, too) seemed to be keeping it together. The two alert mares in the guest room knew from experience, however, that these long nights of the soul were far from over.

A cold Appleloosian wind rushing past the ajar window seemed to whisper that they were just beginning.

After a while, Citrus turned over to face her cousin, breaking the silence quietly. "I've been meaning to ask... Forgive me if it's inappropriate, but... I just need to talk about something other than the shootings."

Apple Bloom nodded, urging her silently to continue.

Citrus asked, "So, um... Have you and Babs ever talked about... you know?”

Confused, Apple Bloom asked, “’You know’ what?”

“Important things, big things,” Citrus clarified, running a forehoof repeatedly through her mane. “Like… settling down someday?”

“'Settlin’ down'? Wait, ya can’t mean—“ Apple Bloom gasped, covering her mouth with a forehoof. Scarlet spread across her snout and muzzle. She stared at Citrus, whispering, “Please don’t tell me yer talkin’ ‘bout what Ah think yer talkin’ ‘bout.”

Citrus giggled softly and stretched out on the bed, leaning her head on top of her forehooves. “Mmhmm, I am. It’s been long enough, don’t you think?”

“Ah…” Avoiding her gaze, Apple Bloom mumbled, “Ah, Ah dunno. Ah mean, sometimes... Ah think it would be nice if—if we do that someday. But Ah don’t think Babs an’ Ah are ready fer that.”

“Hmm. Well, have you talked about it with her?”

Still unable to look Citrus in the eye, Apple Bloom wished she could disappear. Why was this subject—of all subjects—worrying her the most? In her current state, perhaps everything was magnified beyond its significance, she reckoned. So much had transpired in the past two days, enough to render the benevolent (albeit terrifying) topic at hoof a monstrosity.

Citrus smiled and snuggled up next to her. “C’mon. I won’t tell anypony about this. Not even Babs. And you don’t have to tell me anything if you don't want. But,” she said gingerly, “I thought you might have had something in mind when you two came out here last year. You said something about wanting to get to know me and Mother more?”

“Eeyup,” Apple Bloom admitted, blushing deeper still and burying her muzzle into her forehooves.

“What was that about?”

Refusing to look up, Apple Bloom coughed and began, “Ah… Well, Ah...”

“It's alright, Bloom,” Citrus said. She gestured to her snoring sister, who was currently lying flat on her back, all four hooves twitching with hazy R.EM. sleep. A small river of drool trickled from her wide-open muzzle and drenched the pillow, a casualty of the Sandmare's onslaught. “She can’t hear us.”

Unconvinced, Apple Bloom countered, “But what if she does, Citrus? Ah haven’t even talked ‘bout this wit’ her. Ah can’t. Ah jus' can't. Ah don’t… Ah don’t know if Ah’m ready. If we’re ready.”

Citrus leaned one inch closer. “Ready for what?”

Apple Bloom sighed, defeated, knowing that the grinning mare wouldn’t take silence or tip-hoofing around the issue for an answer. Citrus would continue to poke and prod until her cousin finally threw up her forehooves in surrender. And, although it was far less dramatic than she’d envisioned, saying it proved a momentous feat in itself.

“M-marriage.”

Her smile posed to split her muzzle in two, Citrus hugged Apple Bloom tightly. She whispered, “See? That wasn’t that hard, now, was it?”

Apple Bloom shook her head. “Ah guess not,” she admitted, mane and muzzle matching their hues. She sighed. “Ah’ve been wit’ her fer so long, Citrus. Ah don’t wanna stop bein’ wit' her.”

Apple Bloom rolled from her side onto her back, looking up at Citrus with a smile. “Ah think sometimes that, after all these adventures an’ we both figure out what we wanna do wit’ our lives, maybe we can settle down. Ah dunno where. It doesn’t matter ta me. Ah jus’ wanna be wit’ her an’ her wit’ me. An’ Ah do want it ta be official. Ah want it ta be fer forever.”

"And there's nothing wrong with that. Though, I do hope you talk with her about this sooner, rather than later." Joining her in ceiling-gazing, Citrus mischievously nudged he cousin and posed another loaded question. “So... Have you two ever talked about... foals?"

“F-foals?!” Apple Bloom cast a curious sideways glance to the mare, nostrils flared. “Citrus! Ah'm—we're—only twenty!"

Citrus smirked. “You didn't answer the question."

“… Seriously?!” Apple Bloom glared at her.

Casually checking her fetlocks (unshorn and dusty as usual), Citrus replied off-hoof, “Oh, come now, Apple Bloom. I was just curious. It's just something to think about, and talk about, someday.” She leaned up on her forehooves again, yawning. “There are ways two mares can have a foal, you know. There’s always adoption. Or finding a rather… accommodating stallion friend.”

Apple Bloom snorted her derision at that particular notion. “An' what exactly brought this conversation 'bout?"

Citrus hummed to herself. "Well, to be honest, I just wanted to kind of change the subject after... what we were talking about earlier," she sheepishly confessed. "And... I guess... I guess I just wonder about those sort of things sometimes. Marriage, foals. I wonder if... I wonder if they'll ever be for me, you know?"

Offering a encouraging smile, Apple Bloom took Citrus' forehooves in her own and said, "Ah know they will be. You'd be a great mare an' mother fer anypony ta have. A great mare... even fer ma cousin Braeburn," she added teasingly, winking.

Now it was Citrus Blossom's turn to blush. She chuckled but didn't immediately reply. Rolling over onto her side, Citrus hopped off the bed and rose to her hooves, mindful of the oblivious mare sawing logs in the corner of the bed.

"Thanks, Apple Bloom. I guess you're right. Everything that's been going on, it just makes me think, and worry... But... I know everything will be alright in the end. After everything we've been through... we can get through this."

Apple Bloom nodded. "Ah hope so, Citrus."

Citrus mustered a smile, more genuine this time. "Goodnight, Apple Boom," she whispered before trotting out the door.

Apple Bloom returned the slight smile. "Goodnight, Citrus."

She stared at the door for a few tense moments, wondering if Citrus would return. The trotting of hooves towards Libra's room negated this possibility. Apple Bloom found herself simultaneously relieved and disappointed. She and Citrus hadn't had many deep conversations, and this first one in a long while left her with too many rampant thoughts.

Once she was sure they were alone again, Apple Bloom laid down next to Babs Seed, wrapping her forehooves around the slumbering mare. She snuggled into her chest and rested there, the scent of perspiration and night air in her thick fur inducing a content sigh. Beneath that was her scent: a blend of apples and oranges, sweet and sour. Her scent, always. Comforting. Always.

She tucked those rampaging thoughts away for later contemplation.

Babs smacked her lips in her sleep and instinctively pulled her mare close, wandering through her dreams.

“Ah love you, Babsy,” Apple Bloom murmured, kissing her mare softly on the neck. Predictably, she stirred but did not wake, a long, emotionally draining night rendering her useless until dawn.

The tempo of her mare's heartbeat drew her to the stars beyond, the moon urging her to chase it past the higher plains. She learned its rhythm, marveling at how it was in sync with hers. And always would be.

Before closing her eyes, Apple Bloom muttered through a yawn, “Goodnight…”

In Apple Bloom's dreams, they galloped side-by-side through endless fields of green and gold. Their journey ended at the sunset, where the sky was ablaze with yellow, orange, red. Their colors. They always had been, through all these years, from the last night to this one, over eight years later.

And there, at the end of the end—the edge of the edge—she spoke her true and sacred heart.

And Babs Seed answered the only way she knew how.

Second Thoughts

Deep within the heart of the Manehatten ghetto—in its arteries, if one probed far enough—Boone waited in an alleyway for his King. He tapped his hooves against the cobblestone, squinting up into the sky. Dark gray clouds signaled that the rain would soon come and cleanse the city once more. He snickered. What a ruse. The sin within the concrete jungle would never be washed away, no matter how much holy water the skies and their pegasi mustered.

His King enjoyed the spoils of his privileged position a few houses down the street. A plain, white house with a red door housed some of those mares unfortunate enough to owe King's Ransom. A company of armed guards ensured they would live out their ransom until the end of their days.

Boone wanted nothing to do with such foalishness. Mares. What a waste of time. Slinger, on the other hoof, visited the house frequently, to Boone's annoyance and—on rare occasions when honesty became a policy of his at all—slight jealousy.

He pressed his back into the building behind him, sliding down onto his haunches. Graffiti, thick and ugly, dominated the walls around the stallion, spelling out Manehatten's truth in a way the newspapers never would. Boone smirked. In spite of his utter hatred of Bernie Madhoof, he had to concede one point: monster or not, Madhoof had the entire city on lock.

Most did not know the full extent of his or the city's corruption, from media, to police force, to industry, to communications. Those who caught a rare glimpse into the madness, often dismayed that nopony seemed to care or notice their suffering, fled, or gave in to despair. Or were swallowed by the streets themselves.

As long as King Orange continued to set his sights elsewhere, oblivious to the brewing thunder within his own territory, the true crown would soon be his King's. Madhoof would come to regret his annexation, his baffling fixation with small-town bars and dealings in the desert. Boone remembered an old saying from his colthood: "Do not let your right forehoof know what your left is doing."

While Madhoof appeared to be obeying this ancient command, Boone knew that it would soon be his downfall. He couldn't juggle more than one operation without something plummeting to the ground in the process.

The stallion closed his eyes and sighed, waiting, waiting, waiting...

"'Ey."

He opened his eyes, turning towards the familiar voice. Card Slinger stood near the alleyway, his jet-black mane wild and tangled, his crimson fur dripping with a combination of slow-falling rain and sweat.

Boone nodded and immediately rose to his hooves. "'Ey."

"Youze sure youze don't wanna drop in fo' a lil'... fun?" Card Slinger grinned, shaking sweat from his mane with a quick flick of his muzzle. "Madhoof's got all kinds o' mares on his payroll there. Take youze pick. We're Kings, ma stallion. Kings. We deserve a lil'... release... now an' then."

"No thanks," Boone spat, trotting up to meet him. He pupils darted from one side of the street to the other, then back towards the alleyway. Peering through the rain, he saw that they were alone, but knew it would not be for long. The walls in Manehatten had eyes and ears of their own. "C'mon, Slinga. Let's go befo' anypony sees us."

Pricking his ears, Slinger grunted in affirmation and followed his right-hoof stallion through a twisting, turning maze of alleyways and ramshackle buildings. He glanced up at the occasional edifice, taking note of the graffiti. Mafia marks dotted the gray landscape. Of course those bastards had dared to invade his territory. Once Madhoof was removed from his throne, Slinger vowed, they would stamp out the Manehatten Mafia next. They would make their pathetic Don rue the day he'd abandoned his own Kinghood.

The journey back to their hideout was a silent one, interrupted only by the rhythm of their hooves and the rain. The heavens wept for Manehatten on this spring day, thunderheads a suitable backdrop for the concrete and cobblestone. Gray. It was always gray. Card Slinger neither loved nor hated it—he was neutral, as was the color.

Truth be told, emotions beyond wrath, lust, and greed had mostly vacated King Crazy's consciousness. His soul was black as his mane, black but for one tiny, whispering, urgent corner, a corner that tugged at his mind on this return towards the hideout.

Halfway through the journey, Card Slinger suddenly halted, leaning against an alleyway wall.

Spinning around, Boone asked, "Youze alright? Summat wrong?" He trotted over to his best and only friend, glancing worriedly at the stallion. "Did youze catch summat from one o' dem mares?"

Card Slinger snorted and shook his muzzle. "When did youze become such a pussy? I'm fine."

Glaring at his leader, Boone pivoted on his hooves and began to trot away.

"Boone, wait," Slinger ordered, holding up a forehoof.

"What?" Boone barked, snapping his head towards the stallion.

"Come heeya."

Groaning, Boone strode over to Card Slinger and leaned up against an opposite trash can. "What? Slinga, youze know I ain't one ta question things, but we'd betta get movin' soon. These walls have ears, youze know."

Slinger snapped, "Don't youze think I know dat?! Buck, Boone, I know dis city like the back o' ma forehoof! I know where all his lil' messengers go an' play. No, come heeya befo' I change ma mind."

"'Bout what?"

Turning towards him, Slinger sighed and let his shoulders droop. When visiting the Ransom house, any weapons he concealed or carried would be confiscated. He never holstered up when he sought to ravish the spoils of his victory—not even his trusty dagger found a home on his shoulder or in his mane then. Thus, he was left vulnerable, and from the looks of it, Boone had left their sanctuary unarmed as well.

Time of the essence, Card Slinger hoped this would go quickly, and well.

"Look," he whispered, lowering his voice so that the rain would drown him, "I've jus' been thinkin'. I'm 'bout ready ta—ta pull the trigga on our whole lil' scheme, youze get what I mean?"

Understanding instantly, follower nodded and silently encouraged leader to continue.

Leaning close into the alleyway, gesturing for the stallion to do the same, Slinger said, "I've jus' 'bout had enough o' dis madness. I'm tired o' bein' a pawn. I'm tired o' bein' a Knight. An' I've decided... One mo' mission, Boone. One mo' lil' game, an' then I'm not playin' anymo'. The bars an' restaurants heeya ain't bitin'; ol' fool's got nothin' ta worry 'bout."

"Slinga," Boone said firmly, "can't we save dis fo' when we're back? Where it's safe?"

Dismissing him with a stomp of a forehoof, Slinger cursed, "Dammit, Boone, jus' listen! Buck him! Buck his bloody blue bastard hide! I don't care anymo'! We've got him outnumbered, an' I'm tired o' his shit. I'm so damn tired o' it."

"Alright!" Boone relented backing up slightly. He knew the fire of his leader's rage burned steadily, igniting at the mention of his worst and greatest enemy. "Alright! I get it, Slinga. I get it. An' I know youze know, but I'll say it 'gain: I will follow youze inta battle, inta the dark, no matta what happens."

An odd look graced Slinger's muzzle. Boone squinted through the rain. Was Slinger... frowning? Why was he frowning at Boone's declaration of loyalty and brotherhood—the closest he'd ever get to expressing something remotely resembling respect or, hay, love for another pony?

"What's wrong, boss?"

Slinger snorted. "Sit down, Boone."

"But—"

"Sit down!"

Kicking a beer bottle with a hindhoof, Boone complied, plopping down on his haunches and narrowing his eyes at the stallion. "Slinga, I really don't think—"

"Jus' shut up, Boone! Shut the buck up o' jus'—jus' forget it!" Gritting his teeth, Card Slinger flirted with the thought of changing his mind. Aggravated, he hissed through his jaws, "Jus' sit down an' listen! It'll only take a second, an' then we'll gallop away befo' the Masta starts pullin' his lil' strings, alright? Alright?!"

Calmly, Boone replied, "Alright, Slinga. Spill it."

Taking a deep breath, Card Slinger suppressed his rage the best he could, though his words were interspersed with venom. "It's comin' high time, Boone. I've decided dat enough is enough. I'll do ONE mo' mission, jus' one mo', an' afta dat, I'm layin' siege. I've waited long enough," he deadpanned, bucking the lid off a trash can and sending it flying.

"Alright, Slinga, I—"

"Don't youze buckin' interrupt me!" Lurching forward, Slinger grabbed Boone by his chin, forcing him to stare into his empty eyes. "I'll beat youze, Boone! I'll beat youze inta a bloody pulp iffa youze don't shut youze muzzle right now! Don't make me regret dis!"

Mindful of his leader's raised forehoof, Boone stayed silent.

Card Slinger jerked the stallion closer, close enough that he could smell the liquor on his lips. "I've thought long an' hard 'bout dis, an' I've decided—I'm gonna do summat fo' youze I won't do fo' anypony else. I'm givin' youze a chance nopony gave ta me."

Boone opened his mouth briefly, but thought better of it, and nodded instead.

"Boone... iffa youze don't wanna follow me inta the dark, iffa youze don't want dis madness anymo'... youze can leave."

"L-leave?" Blinking, Boone chuckled and shook his head. "Slinga, youze feelin' alright?"

Surely, this was a cruel joke, a satirical interlude. Nopony, once welcomed into the ranks of the Manehatten Kings, could leave without paying the ultimate price. Only two places awaited a gang-pony: prison, or the grave. And Boone was keen on avoiding both.

Placing both forehooves in his right-hoof-stallion's mane, Card Slinger raised his best and only friend to meet his gaze. Trembling from a combination of rage and some strange, gut-wrenching sensation, he said, "Dis is the only time I'll eva say it ta youze, so listen up, bastard! Listen up! Iffa youze want ta run, then run. I won't follow youze, I won't hunt youze, I will let youze go.

"Because," Slinger explained, holding him high, "dis is ma battle. Dis is ma prey, ma target. An' youze... youze built dis empire wit' me, youze made me what I am. An' I want youze ta build it back up when I'm gone."

His stone heart sank into the depths of his stomach, settling there. He was King Crazy: insane, inane, and irrational, but no fool.

The Mansion on the hilltop would be the fight of his life. Perhaps, the final one.

Resisting the temptation to struggle, Boone swallowed and nodded. When would he be gone? How? Why? Card Slinger was the ultimate gang-pony—strong, fast, clever, with enough bits and hooves to topple the most powerful stallion in Manehatten. What was this talk of being "gone"?

Card Slinger threw his friend to the ground, his muzzle blank, emotionless. Boone groaned and picked himself off the cobblestone, his hooves shaking as he stood. "Do youze understand, Boone?"

"Y-yes, Slinga. An'," Boone said, shaking off his pain, "I ain't goin' anywhere."

There it was: that gut-wrenching feeling again. Unfamiliar, strange. Liquor would chase it away, as it did everything else. Scanning the alleyway one more time, Card Slinger motioned for Boone to follow him.

They quickly took to their hooves, pounding them against the dusty streets in pursuit of refuge.

~

Two more days passed by the Appleloosian clan. In the aftermath of the Reaper's tango and an equally disturbing revelation, everypony busied themselves with their own coping mechanisms. Braeburn found sleep fleeting, awake long after Turner's snores began to mock his insomnia. Every creaking floorboard underhoof, every passing shadow over the moon, and every coyote's howl spurred his adrenaline and brought him to his hooves. The Deputy (soon to be Sheriff) paced and paced, turning his revolver over in his forehooves and worrying if, and when, Appleloosa would be safe ever again.

Citrus Blossom distracted herself with idle chat and poorly timed wisecracks, mostly directed towards her sister. In her mind's eye, she saw that pink mare again, and the attacker's pure and utter hatred towards herself and Braeburn. The constant question of why taunted her. She feared she may never know. Nevertheless, in light of her mother's happiness and her own—fledgling, but happiness still—she carried on, as true Apples do.

Libra Scales wrestled with a swarm of emotions, holding them close beneath her coat as best she could. Regretting her outbursts, she apologized to everypony the morning after Turner's revelation. This was accepted sincerely, and understandably so. The mare of the house, Libra lost herself in ensuring everypony's needs were met. She only visibly allowed her worry to resurface at night, when her nephew's pacing and her eldest's snores failed to soothe her into slumber.

Babs Seed and Apple Bloom, although reluctant to do so, decided to return to their bar on their fourth evening back in Appleloosa. Given recent events, they agreed that they couldn't afford to risk leaving their establishment unguarded for too much longer. They still remembered the days when Appleloosa itself had no need for locks—before the assaults, before the tattooed ones. Locks were now only a deterrence, not a guarantee of safety.

Turner, too, couldn't prolong his visit forever. Soapy and his crew would soon be moving to better veins, and the vagabond's empty bit-jars negated the possibility of passing up steady work. He decided to follow his daughter and her mare back to the badlands, vowing to Libra that he would visit as often as possible, and seek work in Appleloosa once he'd saved sufficiently.

The departing trio's announcement, made over their final dinner, was met with understanding and poorly concealed disappointment.

That night, Libra pulled Apple Bloom aside to speak in private. She led her into her room and closed the door.

"I know I've told you this before, Apple Bloom but... Take care of Babs out there, alright? And her father, too. Things are getting pretty wild out there. And that daughter of mine, while I love her to death, isn't exactly the most rational pony around." Libra shook her muzzle in frustration. "I still can't believe she was about to jump at the posse a few nights ago."

"Don't worry. Ah will take good care o' 'em, Auntie," Apple Bloom said, offering a nod and a smile.

"Good. You are the stronger of you two," Libra observed, grinning slightly. "And, as much as I have... mixed feelings... about Turner, I want to make sure he's alright, too. That mining work is grueling. Old fool, breaking his back out there." She snorted and rolled her eyes.

Apple Bloom assured, "Aw, Auntie, if Babs an' Ah could do it, he could do it. Don't worry. Things will calm down. Everypony will be fine."

Libra hugged her niece and sighed. "I hope so."

~

After dinner, Braeburn presented Babs Seed and Apple Bloom with the two spare revolvers and holsters. "Ah'm sorry we didn't get much time ta practice," he admitted sheepishly. He rubbed his injured shoulder. "Guess Ah won't be doin' too much shootin' fer a few more days. Aggravated somethin' when Ah fired that warnin' shot few nights 'go."

Chuckling awkwardly and digging a forehoof into the sand, Babs muttered, "Heh, sorry 'bout dat, Brae..." 'Course youze is hurt now afta youze had ta go save us... Great, jus' great. Hope nopony comes out heeya until youze is healed. Dat posse looks like dey couldn't shoot a flea.

"S'alright. But, y'all better practice when ya get back out there. Even if y'all can hit a cactus pretty decent, ain't nothin' like shootin' a movin' coyote o' pony."

"Don't worry, Brae, we will. Ah'm sure we can find a cactus o' two ta punish. O' maybe some tumbleweeds," answered Apple Bloom, giggling.

Braeburn laughed and tied their holsters carefully to their shoulders, reiterating a quick demonstration. Once they were secure, he enveloped them in a bone-crushing hug. Through their laughter, he said, "Y'all be careful! An' you too, Turner. Been mighty nice meetin' ya." The Deputy released his cousins and held out a forehoof to the stallion.

Turner shook it. "An' very nice meetin' youze too, Braeburn."

"Come back soon, ya hear?" Braeburn grinned and tipped his Stetson to the three.

Citrus Blossom and Libra Scales said their goodbyes next, drawing Babs and Bloom into tender hugs and extracting promises from the younger mares. Scoffing at her mother's repetition, Babs mumbled, "Yes, Ma, we'll be careful, we'll be sure ta write, we'll be—"

"Oh, hush." Libra leaned up and nuzzled her daughter. "You may be a young mare instead of a foal, but I'm still your mother. And will always be. So, keep your promises and watch yourself," she added, winking towards Apple Bloom.

Apple Bloom hugged Citrus tightly and winked back, determined to keep her promise.

On the fourth night following their return, three sets of hooves made their way back to the badlands. Three other sets of hooves watched them become shadows in the dark, praying that their next meeting would be soon, and under happier circumstances.

~

Dawn peeked over the horizon by the time Babs Seed, Apple Bloom, and Turner saw the boomtown in the distance, muzzles drenched in sweat and hooves aching. Her mane frazzled, Apple Bloom stumbled over to a cactus and bucked it wide open. Precious water spewed from the plant all over the sands and into her forehooves. She slurped greedily, forgoing a canteen, while her companions did the same with two unfortunate cacti.

Splashing fresh water onto his muzzle, Turner said, relieved, “Iffa we were too much fartha… I fear ta say it, but I probably woulda jus’ gone ta sleep right heeya an’ now.” Once replenished, he tumbled down onto his back and placed his forehooves behind his neck, staring up at the sky.

Babs Seed drank her fill and flopped down on her belly, removing her saddlebag with a sigh. “I hear youze, Turner. Feels 'bout time fo' a nap. ‘Ey, Bloom, youze alright?”

Apple Bloom trotted over and laid down in between them, closing her eyes and stretching her hooves. “Mmm… Maybe we should forget the inn an’ jus’ go ta sleep right here.”

Chuckling, Turner shielded his face from the rapidly rising sun, rolling over onto his side. “Heh, youze betta not. Can’t tell youze how many times I did dat an’ woke up dizzy an’ sick, o’ worse.” He grumbled under his breath, “I still miss dat ol’ pocket watch…”

I bet youze have the best stories. “Sometime, youze should tell us some o’ youze stories, Turner.” Yawning, Babs snuggled into the cool sands, leaning against her mare. It’s so nice out heeya… an’ I’m… so… tired…

They laid there quietly, catching their breath beneath the desert dawn for several minutes. The steady rhythm of hooves hitting the sand and heading their way roused Apple Bloom—THUD! THUD! THUD!

“What the—?”

Rising to her hooves, a figure emerged from the wavering light and galloped towards her. Fumbling for her revolver, Apple Bloom braced her hooves into the sand and called out to the others. “Babs! Turner! We’ve got company!”

“Huh?!” Snapping from her haze, Babs scrambled up and reached for her weapon as well. With noticeable effort, Turner joined the mares, unarmed but poised nonetheless.

Holding a forehoof above his eyes, he muttered, “Who the hay is dat?”

“Ah think it’s…”

Apple Bloom squeezed her forehooves around the grip of her weapon and leaned into the light, peering through a growing haze of dust. She discerned the figure of a stallion first, then saw a large, heavy cart behind him. Stepping closer and closer—closing the gap between them—her muzzle lit up with recognition. “It’s Caramel! That’s Caramel, y’all!”

Both mares holstered their weapons, no threat to confront.

“Caramel?” Turner asked, confused. He nudged Babs Seed. “Who the hay is Caramel?”

“One o’ ma cousin Applejack’s friends,” Babs explained. “He does deliveries fo’ the bar fo’ us sometimes. ‘Ey, Caramel!” she called, cupping her forehooves around her muzzle. “’Ey! ‘Ey! Ova heeya! It’s me an’ Bloom!”

Caramel grunted and waved a forehoof weakly, pulling the cart as fast as he could over the barren plains. He skidded to a halt in front of them, digging his hooves into the ground and panting. Thick, circular bags marred his eyes. His eyes themselves seemed lifeless, bloodshot, testifying to insomnia or worse.

“H-hey everypony,” he greeted weakly, coughing at the dust. Once it settled, he tried again, his tongue thick and dry against the roof of his mouth. “’Bout… 'bout time you two showed up.”

Apple Bloom quickly bucked a hole into a fresh cactus and filled her canteen. Offering it to the stallion, she ordered, “Drink this befo’ ya say anythin’ else! Ya look like yer ‘bout ready ta pass out, Caramel! What happened?”

Caramel slurped hungrily, soothing his parched throat. He dumped the rest over his mane and muzzle, rubbing his dried eyes and sighing with relief. Breathing deep, he passed the canteen back and unyoked himself from the cart. “Th-thank you. Just… just give me a sec, okay, please?”

Babs Seed raised an eyebrow and trotted around the cart, taking careful stock of its contents. Several barrels full of fifths of Applejack Daniel’s, apple juice, and both varieties of apple cider filled the cart, stacked upon each other and held taut with strong rope. Nothing seemed in disarray—she found no signs of damage from coyotes, rustlers, or thieves. The wheels of the cart, although dusty, seemed in perfect working condition. “Everythin’ heeya looks good. Anypony give youze trouble?”

Turner glanced curiously at Caramel. Feeling the stallion’s stare, Caramel glanced up and flared his nostrils. “What?”

“Youze look a lil’ sun-sick. Youze sure youze alright?” Babs asked.

“I’m fine,” Caramel dismissed, sitting down and leaning against the cart. “Luckily, I’m fine. It took me almost two days to get out here! I got to Appleloosa early, didn't even have time to talk to anypony. Got lost through the wilderness, barely slept on the way. I was too worried about somepony stealing the liquor! Mac was supposed to help me take this big delivery out here, but—“

“But what?” Apple Bloom asked, worried. “Is everythin’ alright at the farm?”

“It’s fine. He and AJ were just busy with the cider and all. He didn’t have time to escort me out here. Annnnnnyway,” he said, visibly annoyed, “once I got here, I waited all night for you two to show up!”

Caramel smacked the ground in annoyance, his brow furrowing at the bar-ponies. “Applejack said you two were staying at the inn, so when the bar wasn’t open, I checked there! They said you checked out two nights ago! I was about ready to turn tail and head back, but I got tired and fell asleep outside the inn!”

“Right, right. So, everythin's intact? All good?” Babs climbed up into the cart and checked the barrels. None appeared to have been tampered with or otherwise disturbed. Sure looks like it. Don't look too heavy, neitha. Why were youze so slow, then? Two whole days?

“Yeah it is, Babs. Thanks for being so concerned!” Shaking sand from his coat, Caramel jabbed, “Where the hay were you two anyway? And who’s he?” He gestured towards Turner, taking note of his grizzled, weathered appearance and heavy saddlebag upon his back. He found his own question absurd when the stranger stood beside Babs Seed.

“We were in Appleloosa. An’ he’s…” Babs shook her muzzle. “Nevamind.” Buck, what the hay is wrong wit’ me? C’mon! “Not dat youze care, but there was a shootin’ in Appleloosa, Caramel.”

Caramel awakened instantly. “A shooting?! Is Braeburn alright?!” he exclaimed, eyes wide and wild. He jumped towards Babs and Apple Bloom, shaking them both on the shoulders. “What happened?!”

“Everythin’s fine, Caramel,” Apple Bloom stated calmly, brushing his forehoof away. “Well… fine might be pushin’ it. But Brae, Auntie, an’ Citrus are all doin’ okay. Can’t say the same ‘bout—“ she looked away—“Silverstar, o’ the other deputy there, though.”

Ice rushed through Babs Seed’s veins. Horseapples, don’t even get me started. Caramel fumbled his lips speechlessly, stuttering nonsense. “Yea, now youze see where ma concern is, Caramel? Yeah, I thought so. Now, let’s jus’ get dis cart back ta the bar, everypony. A thousand thanks, Caramel," she said sarcastically, rolling her eyes and yoking herself into the cart.

Caramel objected, “But—but—“

“Tell Applejack we’re fine. I’m sure she’s worried, an’ the damn mail-pony ain’t nowhere ta be seen lately. Damn Derpy.” Checking the yoke one more time, Babs began to pull the cart towards the boomtown, leaving Caramel to his confusion and fear. "Oh, an' I'll make sure dey get the cart back. I'll get one o' the fasta stallions ta deliver it back ta town."

Caramel furrowed his brow and flattened his ears. He snapped his muzzle shut, deciding an argument wasn't worth the insult.

Turner shrugged and started after his daughter. Pleasantries did not outweigh his fatigue, and the vagabond reasoned he could be forgiven for his lack of manners later. “Nice ta meet youze,” he muttered to the other stallion. He tightened the straps of his saddlebags and followed after Babs towards the settlement in the distance.

Apple Bloom sighed and gave Caramel a quick hug. “Ah’m mighty sorry ‘bout that, Caramel. She’s jus’… she’s jus’ stressed. Heh.” Rubbing her neck with a forehoof, she added, “Things are gettin’ pretty crazy ‘round here.”

“That explains the guns.” Caramel pointed to the holstered weapon tied to her shoulder. “Wish I had one of those out here. Can’t tell you how many times I thought I heard somepony sneaking up on me, only to find a tumbleweed trailing along.”

Caramel broke the embrace and snorted. “You’d better watch that mare of yours. Your family might be alright with it, but not everypony is. And her acting like a brute doesn’t help things.”

Apple Bloom stared at her hooves. “Ah… Ah know. S-sorry, Caramel.”

“It’s fine.” He mustered a weak smile. “I’ve got a train to catch. I’ll see you around, alright? Come visit Ponyville when you get a chance.”

She chuckled slightly, forcing her humor. “Come visit… right… Ah’ll be sure ta get on that.”

The stallion nodded and set his hooves towards Appleloosa. “Goodbye, Apple Bloom.”

“Goodbye, Caramel.”

Merging with the dawn, Caramel disappeared over the horizon. His words were not as expedient, lingering in Apple Bloom’s mind through her return journey. Her mare and Turner were far ahead, but she made no effort to match their pace.

~

The leader of the Manehatten Kings and his masculine queen were only a few blocks away from sanctuary when a rustling of wings caught their attention. Boone and Slinger peered into the sky, searching for a brash pegasus with a death wish. Black storm clouds greeted them instead.

Boone began, “Youze hear—“

Card Slinger silenced him with a forehoof. They searched the skies silently, tucking into a dimly lit alleyway. The light-tenders had just begun their evening rounds, lighting candles in the dark of Manehatten.

A series of hearty chuckles spun them both around again.

“Looking for somepony? Or, perhaps, some Griffon?”

Standing right in front of them, a Griffon Knight adjusted the collar of his suit with one talon and smacked his belly heartily with the other. “Ha! You need to sharpen your senses, little Knights. A pity if somepony were to attack from above.”

“What do youze want?!” Card Slinger sneered, advancing towards the Griffon. “What, did the Masta let his lil’ pet out fo’ a walk?”

The Griffon upturned his beak into a semblance of a smile. “Oh, Card Slinger and Boone. The Master has a special place on his payroll for you both. Which is why I’ve come to meet you two lovebirds.”

Boone and Slinger snorted their collective disgust. Boone spat, “Spill it, bird-brain! The walls have eyes an’ ears—“

“And I am some of those,” the Griffon said calmly. Unfazed, he continued, “Now, let’s get this over with, and quickly. Unlike you two, I do not have much time for idle chat.” He dug through an inside pocket of his suit and withdrew two train tickets, passing one to each stallion.

Card Slinger held the ticket close to his eyes and read the inscription. “Appleloosa? Again? Why the buck did youze jus’ give us tickets ta Appleloosa, youze feathered bas—“

WHUMP!

Card Slinger groaned and doubled over, clutching his stomach in agony. The Griffon brandished the offending weapon—a collapsible baton—tauntingly. “Ahh, that’s much better. Forgive me, but I tire of your voice.

"Anyway,” the Griffon continued, swinging the baton back and forth between his talons, “the Master has prepared a company to head out into the badlands. There is evidence to suggest that there is another establishment out there. An establishment that will make fine kindling for the fires of annexation.”

Boone assisted Card Slinger to his hooves, his leader leaning against him for stability. “There? Where the buck is there?”

“You shall see. You both will meet the rest of your company in the wasteland, beyond the Appleloosian city limit. There, one of the Knights will have the coordinates and intel necessary for the company to locate the establishment and execute the mission.” Collapsing his baton and tucking it back inside his suit, the Griffon smirked. “The Master will be most pleased if you succeed. He is offering ten thousand bits to each of you if the mission is completed.”

Slinger blinked through his pain, sure his ears betrayed him. “Ten thousand? Each?”

The messenger nodded. “Of course, if you don’t want to… you know what your debt shall be.” There was that twisted sort-of-smile again, toothless and wicked, piercing through them to their blackened hearts.

The Griffon spread his wings, his pristine feathers glistening in the darkness. “Tomorrow evening, you shall catch the train. Within twenty-four hours of arriving in Appleloosa, you are to find your target, and do what thugs like you do best. Understand?”

At their slow, unenthusiastic nods, the Griffon pushed off his paws and shot straight into the growing night, chuckling to himself.

Card Slinger slung himself off Boone and put all four hooves on the ground. He tucked the ticket into his mane and smiled impishly. “Guess dis is the sign, ain’t it, Boone? Last mission?"

Through his skepticism, Boone mustered, “Yes.”

~

A busy night at the bar behind her, Babs Seed crawled into bed. Thankfully, the inn owner had saved a room for the mares, patiently awaiting their return. The first night back in the wasteland was mostly uneventful. The West and its alcoholics rejoiced the return of the bar-mares, hammering out joyful saloon tunes and emptying their bit jars for the finest whiskey and cider in Equestria.

Turner stumbled out of the bar early, making his way back towards camp and Soapy. As he’d promised Libra, the vagabond would be working only as long as necessary on the prospector’s latest mining venture before returning to Appleloosa. There, father and daughter hoped, he would find replacement work—and, perhaps, something far more valuable.

Apple Bloom hunched over writing desk in the corner of the room, scribbling furiously on a piece of parchment. Although it was late and she was exhausted, she couldn’t stop if she wanted to. Words circled and galloped and rushed through her mind, and her forehooves ached to spell them out and extract sense from within.

“What youze writin’ ova there?” Babs called, smiling, her voice lighter than usual. She rolled over onto her side and brushed the sheets with a forehoof. “Ain’t youze tired?”

“Ah’m jus’ finishin’ somethin’ up real quick, sugarcube,” Apple Bloom mumbled, glued to her task.

“Youze know we can’t send any lettas until Derpy o’ anotha mail-pony comes out heeya, right?” Well, I suppose iffa it was urgent, I might be able ta hire one o’ the tramps out heeya ta do it, but dem bastards drive a hard bargain fo’ messenga-work.

Apple Bloom paused, clutching her quill tightly. She sighed. “Ah know, Babs. Ah’ll… Ah’ll be there in a minute, alright?”

Babs Seed raised an eyebrow and hopped from the bed. “Summat wrong? Youze seem tense…”

“Ah’m fine…”

Reaching the desk, Babs leaned over and squinted through the dark. “C’mon, show me—“

“Babs!” Apple Bloom grabbed the parchment and concealed it under the desk. “Don’t—don’t peek at what Ah’m writin’!” She blushed furiously, shaking her muzzle. “Ah’m almost done! Jus’ wait over there, alright? Please!”

“S-sorry,” Babs muttered, staring at the floorboards. Curiosity probed at the corners of her mind, but she reckoned it wasn’t worth further upsetting her mare. “I’m sorry. Dat was rude o' me.” She turned towards the bed and began to trot away.

Frowning, Apple Bloom rolled up the parchment and stashed it in her nearby saddlebag. She met her mare and whispered sadly, “No, Ah’m sorry, Babsy. Ah jus’ flew off the handle there. Ah didn’t mean it.”

“It’s alright.” Babs nuzzled her cheek. “We’re both not exactly ourselves ‘gain yet, are we?”

“Ah guess not.” Apple Bloom brushed her cheek against Babs’s neck and sighed, closing her eyes. “Let’s jus’ relax an’ go ta sleep. Tomorrowa will be a betta day.”

Babs nodded. She lowered her voice, making it sultry, and teased, “When youze say ‘relax,’ do youze mean…?”

Apple Bloom kissed her deeply and answered with her eyes.

~

Holding Apple Bloom in her forehooves, Babs Seed stared blankly towards the ceiling. The moon beckoned twilight to return in the heavens, dawn’s light fast approaching. Her mare lay fast asleep in her grasp, snoring softly on her chest.

Sleep eluded her, curiosity taking hold of her once more. She glanced several times over to Apple Bloom’s saddlebag. However, she respected her privacy, brushing aside all thoughts of invading it and discovering what had been written there. Nevertheless, she was worried. Bloom’s neva held anythin’ from me. She’s an open book. But… not me. I’ve held things from her. So... what could dis be 'bout?

Heh...

... I guess it’s only fair…

The wind howled outside their window, cold, biting. Cold. Dark. Babs Seed's mind drifted to a desert's revelation: dark, cold flame, tongues of strange fire reaching towards the heavens amongst a tribe of buffalo.

Somehow, I think there’ll be mo’ important things ta worry ‘bout then the note in dat saddlebag…

“I love youze, Bloom,” she murmured, kissing her forehead gently. Apple Bloom stirred and smiled in her sleep but did not wake. Babs yawned and closed her eyes, soon beside her in dreams.

But, I hope I’m wrong.

Harder Than A Coffin Nail

Knock, knock, knock.

Officer Rustler fidgeted his hindhooves, shifting his weight back and forth aimlessly. In his forehooves, he clutched his finished incident reports and other paperwork. Barely a week past two gruesome discoveries left him with dark circles under his sunken eyes. He felt hollow, lifeless. Tossing around the question of why yielded no answers. All he possessed were the facts—plain, simple, worthless.

Now, nearing the end of his shift, he was ready to offer up his meager reports, to dispose of the imagery they summoned along with the parchment.

From behind his mahogany door, Chief Brutus grunted, “Come in.”

Rustler opened the door cautiously, mindful of his Chief’s temper. Brutus leaned lazily back in his favorite chair, hindhooves on his desk and one forehoof swirling a glass of scotch absentmindedly. “So, youze finally finished dem reports fo’ me, did youze?”

Rustler nodded and stood beside the desk, his papers shaking. “Y-yes, Chief. I-I did.”

“Good. An’ what did youze conclude, Offica Rustla?”

“Well, ah, Chief…” Staring at a clock hanging on the wall, Rustler said, “I think dat the two incidents were related.”

Brutus wrinkled his snout. “An’ what makes youze think dat?”

“Well, youze see… Both the two mares near the general store an’ the stallion at the bottom o’ Manehatten Lake were sorta... connected—“

“How so?” asked the Chief, sipping his liquor. “Surely, youze know by now dat there is lil’ rhyme o’ reason ta our fair city.” He chortled at his own jest, motioning with his glass towards the darkening streets outside his window. “Manehatten is a beast, lil’ colt, an’ nopony can break her. She’s a vagabond an’ a destroyer, wild an’ ruthless. Nopony can stop her. Jus’ ask youze marefriend, Detective White Dove—“

Stomping a forehoof, Rustler snapped, “She’s not ma marefriend!”

Chief Brutus blinked in disbelief. Then, when he realized his lesser’s insubordination, he slammed the glass down onto his mahogany, rising slowly from his seat.

Rustler waved his forehooves apologetically, backing slowly away from the desk. “I’m sorry, Chief! I-I didn’t mean ta snap at youze! I jus’ thought dat, maybe—“

The overbearing stallion snatched the paperwork from the other’s forehooves, pinning it to the desk. “Don’t youze waste ma time wit’ youze petty drama, Rustla!” he snarled, retracting his lips involuntarily into an enraged display of perfectly-polished molars. “Jus’ do youze job, an’ do as I say. There’s nothin’ connected ta a pithy lil’ Manehatten Mafia thug gettin’ what he deserved, an’ two mares who had nothin’ ta do wit’ it. There are no connections in dis hellhole, jus’ random horseshit!

“Now,” Brutus said with a scowl, “get the buck outta ma office befo’ I fire youze! Go an’ do some paperwork o’ summat useful—don’t come cryin’ ta me! I've got a very important meetin' wit' a representative o' Celestia next, an' I can't waste anymo' time wit' the likes o' youze!”

Defeated, Officer Rustler nodded and mumbled his gratitude to his better. On his way out the door, he brushed past a haughty, prancing Griffon dressed in a tuxedo and tie. The Griffon strode towards Brutus’s office confidently, winking at the investigator as he passed, something that could only be eerily described as a smile blaring on his beak.

~

“Here ya are. Thank ya kindly,” Apple Bloom said, pushing a glass of Applejack Daniel’s towards a familiar patron. The recipient tipped his Stetson and hopped from the barstool, stumbling hazily towards a nearby poker table. She added the bits into one of the jars concealed beneath the counter and grinned.

Carrying several new bottles of Daniel’s, Babs Seed returned to the counter from the stockroom and set to work restocking. Nightfall had brought in the best of the West tonight, filling the wasteland’s bar with joyful piano music and more games of poker than the bartenders could count. And with business came the bits, half to Applejack, half to themselves.

“Pretty full tonight, ain’t it?” Apple Bloom said, wiping down the counter.

Babs nodded. “Eeyup. Seen Turner yet?”

Apple Bloom shook her muzzle. “Nope, can’t say Ah have. Don’t’ worry,” she assured, a frown spreading across her mare’s countenance. “Ah’m sure he’ll be here soon. Soapy might jus’ have ‘em workin’ late.”

“I hope so.” Exchanging empty bottles for full ones on the shelves, Babs mumbled, “He shoulda stayed in Appleloosa.”

Wringing out the rag, Apple Bloom raised an eyebrow. “An’ why do ya say that?”

“Jus’… he was makin’ Ma so happy. Well, mad too, but happy in the end.” Babs got down from the shelves and took a stool behind the counter, busying herself with a cleaning rag and a beer mug. “She deserves ta be happy. Been through so much, her, Brae, Citrus.” An’ I hope dat dis is the end o’ dis madness fo’ ‘em. Posse can hate on me an’ Turner all dey want—I’ll take it, long as dey are safe.

“Ah know. Don’t ya remember what he said?” Apple Bloom stashed away the cleaning rag and trotted over to the other side of the bar, offering a slight smile. Climbing up on a stool opposite Babs Seed, she explained, “Turner said he’ll only be here until he’s stable, an’ then he’ll be goin’ back ta Appleloosa. Which won’t be too long. Soapy’s good on payin’ times.”

“Yea, I guess youze is right,” Babs conceded, deciding not to argue. Since last night’s strange chain of events—Apple Bloom seemingly concealing something from her, then dismissing it, then erasing it from discussion entirely—there was a strange, curious tension between them. Babs Seed surmised this was mostly her emotion. Don’t wanna start a fight wit’ youze, but… I jus’ got dis feelin’. I jus’ want Ma ta be happy, ta be happy wit’… him.

“So,” Babs began, steering the conversation towards a new direction, “what’ll it be, beautiful?” She lowered her eyelids and flirted, reaching across the counter to take Apple Bloom’s forehooves in her own. “Haven’t seen a pretty mare like youze on dis side o’ the counter befo’. Tell youze what. Anythin’ youze want, it’s on the house.”

“Silly filly,” Apple Bloom teased back, giggling, her cheeks burning slightly. “Actually...” She brushed her mare’s fetlocks with hers. “Ah think Ah’m gonna turn in early.”

Glancing at the desert’s clock—the slowly rising moon beyond the window speaking of a time far earlier than midnight—Babs asked, “Really? So soon? Youze feelin’ alright?”

Yawning, Apple Bloom nodded. “Ah'm jus'... tired... Babs. Ah think Ah’m gonna head back ta the room an’ lie down.” Dismounting from her stool, she trotted around to kiss the confused bartender on the cheek and whisper, “Wake me up when yer ready fer bed, alright?”

“Heh. A-alright.” Returning the kiss, Babs watched her trot over to the double saloon doors, taking her sweet time in doing so. Apple Bloom winked and grinned, catching her mare in the act. Babs ducked behind the bar and busied herself with the bit-jars, mercury rising within the saloon. Dammit! She saw youze starin’! Perv.

Bits of gold and silver rattled around in the twin Mason jars. Money and materialism were of no interest to either mare, and they sent half their profits to Sweet Apple Acres without reservation. Babs lifted one jar to the moonlight and swirled the coins around, caring not if her patrons saw. The revolver strapped to her left shoulder issued a challenge to thieves and worse.

So much… so many… horseapples, iffa we decided ta close, we’d have enough ta travel fo’ at least a year without workin’. Maybe longa. Hmm…

A hoarse voice stated, “Heh, youze sure rollin’ in the dough wit’ dis place.”

Looking over her shoulder, Babs Seed's muzzle upturned into an instant grin.

“Turner! ‘Bout time youze showed up.” Placing the jar back where it belonged, she rose up on her hindhooves, grabbing a glass and a bottle of Equestria’s finest whiskey. There was no need for the approaching stallion to place an order; she would only pour, and he would only accept, his favorite.

Turner took his favorite stool, pulling himself up slowly. Several joints popped and his forehooves burned from a long day’s work. Grasping the fresh glass of whiskey, Turner took a deep gulp before saying, “Sorry. Had a lot ta sluice ta-day. Got a lil’ bit o’ silver dust dis time.”

“Really? Horesapples. Youze must be close ta strikin’ it, then.” Topping off his glass, Babs re-corked the whiskey bottle and placed it behind her. “How’s Dyea an’ Soapy doin’?”

Turner smirked. “Dem walls o’ his tent ain’t thick ‘nough. Dat’s all I have ta say.”

Babs snorted. “Heh. Glad ta hear it’s workin’ out, though. Dey deserve it.”

“Mmhmm.”

“An’ strikin’ it rich will only make it worse.”

Turner laughed and sipped his whiskey. “Heh. I could tell youze some stories from the casino I worked at. There’s a reason most o’ ‘em are hotels, too. Sell mo’ rooms when ponies are winnin’, dat’s fo’ sure.”

“Heh, I bet so.”

Turner chuckled and wiggled his eyebrows. “An’ I bet the inn owna heeya can tell me lots ‘bout thin walls too, kiddo.”

Her ears and cheeks flushed scarlet, Babs turned away from him and watched a nearby poker game, laughing as one stallion threw his cards to the table in disgust. “Heh, heh. I don’t know what youze talkin’ ‘bout. ‘Ey, look ova there! Somepony got a full house!” An’ dat otha poor bastard’s goin’ home broke.

“Babs…” Turner said sternly, nudging her in the shoulder.

Attention caught, she glanced back at him, although reluctantly. “Yea?”

“There’s summat important I wanted ta talk ta youze ‘bout." He drained the last of his glass. Wiping his muzzle, he added with a sly grin, “Though, I need some mo’ Daniel’s, first.”

“No problem.” Refilling the glass, Babs was grateful to have attention shifted back to the stallion. Apparently, he was no fool, and, though he did so politely, couldn’t help but indulge in a little harmless prodding. Dammit. Buckin’ cheap inn.

Babs Seed passed the drink to Turner and leaned forward, expectant. “So… what’s on youze mind?”

“Well,” he mused, smiling down at his glass, “I saw how full youze bit-jars was when I was trottin’ in. Youze savin’ up fo’ summat special?”

“Hah, no. Actually, half o’ dat we send ta ma cousin Applejack every month. It’s her products dat bring in the bits, anyway. Vodka, gin, beer an’ wine we import from othas, but the Daniel’s, cider, an’ apple juice sell the most.”

“I see.” Turner leaned forward, smirking. “Dat still doesn’t answa ma question, kiddo.”

“Hah… well… I guess I don’t have an answa, Turner,” she admitted, sensing his question probed deeper than mere curiosity. What youze gettin’ at? “We jus’ do dis because we want ta help Applejack. Things were bad on the farm fo’ a while, youze know.”

Again, he simply said, “I see.” Turner downed the rest of his whiskey and patted his stomach, warmth spreading through his veins and chasing away his headache. Light and friendly, he nudged her again and hinted, “No big purchases planned?”

Pouring him a third glass, Babs Seed gave him a skeptical sideways stare and asked, “Since when do youze speak in riddles?”

The stallion stretched and sighed. “Ahh, well, I think I’ve said too much anyway. Iffa youze know what I was talkin’ ‘bout, youze woulda answered me. Anyway—“

“Wait. What are youze talkin’ ‘bout?”

Turner swept the saloon, peering into every noisy corner. “Where’s youze mare?”

“She went back ta our room. Why?”

He shook his muzzle. “Nevamind, then.”

“Alright,” Babs relented, distracting herself with a cleaning rag and another rack of glasses. First, Bloom’s hidin’ summat from me, an’ now youze are? Horseapples, are youze all plannin’ a surprise party o’ summat? Ma birthday’s not fo’ months…

Silence passed between bartender and vagabond. The saloon did not comply, rising to a zenith of laughter and curses and drunken ramblings, midnight looming and the parties just beginning. Furiously wiping away at a shot glass, Babs ignored Turner’s stare. The stallion eyed her curiously, contemplating and puzzled.

Finally, he asked, “Are youze a heavy sleeper?”

She nodded and grabbed another dirty glass. “Always have been.”

Turner simply replied, “Ah,” and moved on to a different topic. “So, I think I should be able ta return ta Appleloosa soon. Might be as soon as a few weeks.”

“Really?” Babs turned towards him, beaming. “Ma would like dat.”

“I know she would, kiddo.” Turner smiled and pushed his glass forward, nodding in request for more. “I wanna make up fo’ everythin’. I wanna make her happy. A mare like her deserves it.”

Knowing this full well, Babs Seed smiled back. “Yes. Yes, she does.”

~

Harsh gusts of wind kicked up the sand, entwining with tumbleweeds and skeletons of unfortunate field mice and other critters. The wind sent this fetid combination skywards, tunneling towards the East and the beast. Card Slinger, coughing frequently enough to set his stomach churning, raised a foreleg to shield his eyes and cursed.

Beside him, Boone pressed on, his long, sand-dusted mane halting the sand from irritating his eyes. Behind the leader and his right-hoof stallion, eleven assorted mares and stallions—Kings all, thankfully—followed. All but one were Earth ponies. The odd stallion out was a unicorn, one whose special talent (per his bragging) was sharpshooting. Slinger despised seeing such arrogance among his company’s ranks, but given the haste of their task, wasted little time on snide remarks.

Twelve of the thirteen experienced newfound strength and agility once their hooves met the Appleloosian sand. They'd been careful to jettison to the city limits with as much haste as possible, avoiding many passerby and the prying eyes of the wishful law. That was three hours ago. Now, it was near midnight, and per their maps and instructions, the company was only ten miles or so from their destination. Still, the wasteland impeded their journey, mustering sandstorms and howling coyotes and suspicious shifting shadows on the horizon.

“Buckin’ hate dis place!” Slinger barked over the relentless breeze, slamming his eyelids shut. “How much furtha, Boone?”

Boone coughed, expelling dust from his mouth before answering, “Should only be a few mo’ hours, Slinga! The Masta’s map says it’s southwest o’ Yukon, an’ dat ain’t too much fartha!”

“Good!” The leader of the company snapped his muzzle around and opened his eyes to glare at his troops. “Keep a move on, youze mothabuckas! Ready youze weapons in case the coyotes come ‘gain!”

The eleven gave weak nods, mindful of the torrent of sand raining down upon them from a multitude of angles. The winds intensified their fury, churning the desert plains. The wind was a beast, snarling, snapping, trying to drive away the stomping company of Knights.

Card Slinger and Boone, on the night of their final mission under King Orange’s rule, pressed on, determined, strong, invincible.

~

Three glasses, four glasses, five glasses, six… Turner wasn’t sure how many shots of splendid whiskey escaped their vessels and churned their way down his throat, settling happily in his stomach. By the time his daughter—strong and steadfast, bowing or backing to none within the saloon—chased the final vagrant from her establishment, all he knew was flight. A wingless, ground-bound Earth pony, he nonetheless soared inside his mind, inside his soul…

“Turner? Youze alright?”

Babs had teleported to his side, crossing the distance from front door to bar counter in a blink of a hazy eye. The stallion nodded and chuckled, free, careless. “Heh… I’m fine, Babs… really fine…”

No “kiddo,” eh? An’ youze muzzle is matchin’ ma mane. Heh. Shoulda known I was pourin’ too much an’ too fast fo’ youze, ol’ stallion.

Slinging a forehoof across his shoulders, Babs motioned for him to dismount his bar stool. “C’mon, Turner, let’s get youze inta a room. Youze aren’t gonna be able ta get back ta Soapy’s like dis.”

“Like what?” He blinked slowly, peering around the empty saloon. “’Ey, we’ve got the whole bar ta ourselves. Hah! I know!” Shaking out of her grip, he jumped to all four hooves and stumbled drunkenly over to the piano. Smirking, he turned towards her and said, “Youze know how ta play?”

She chuckled and shook her muzzle, trotting to meet him. “No, Turner. Musical instruments neva been ma special talent. I ain’t no nerd like Feathaweight was!”

He slapped his belly and chortled heartily, baritone echoing off the empty walls off the bar. “Hahaha! I guess not! Haha!” After he seized a chance to catch his breath, Turner suggested, “Well, iffa we can’t play, how ‘bout we dance instead? Fatha-daughta dance?”

Babs ran a forehoof through her mane, displeased to note how long it had become. “Uh, um, heh, Turner, youze is drunk,” she deflected, wishing Apple Bloom was with her. She would best know how ta handle him… I’m neva good wit’ drunk ponies, mostly jus’ throw dem outta heeya. But I won’t do dat ta him.

“No, I’m not!” Rising on his hindhooves, Turner leaned against the piano, resting his muzzle there. “I’m jus’ tired. Youze should know! Minin’ work makes youze tired!”

“I am tired,” she admitted, turning towards the stockroom. “I’m tired, Turner, an’ I’m gonna be closin’ up shop. Now, do youze want me ta get youze a room? I’m sure the owna has a few left. O’ do youze want me ta escort youze back ta Soapy’s camp?”

“Escort?” He blinked, confused. Turner returned his hooves to the floor again, amazed at how smooth the floorboards were. Not one splinter prickled him. Not one board had been hammered haphazardly out of place. Art. This bar was a work of art, and it was modeled after his bar.

A torch had been passed, little to his knowledge, lit aflame eight years ago from one simple act of kindness. It was incredible. His bar had become his daughter’s bar. Mesmerized, he stared at the walls, at the counter, at the shelves. His daughter’s bar…

His daughter stood before him, placing a forehoof under his chin. “Youze sure youze alright?” she asked, forcing a chuckle. “Yes, I said escort. It’s dangerous out heeya now, youze know. An’ youze don’t have no revolva ta protect youze.”

He guffawed and leaned back against the piano. “An’ youze ain’t no good shot, neitha! Did youze an’ Bloom practice ta-day?”

“Sorta. We tried shootin’ some tumbleweeds. Apparently, I can shoot cacti real good, but can barely hit summat movin’. She’s a lil’ betta,” Babs explained, feigning bitterness and sticking out her tongue.

Turner let loose a loud, booming laugh, almost in tears. “Haha! Dat lil’ mare can outshoot youze, huh? Oh, maybe I should get her ta take me back instead!”

Babs laughed with him and strode over, nudging him in the shoulder to move. “C’mon, Turner, take youze pick. Camp o’ inn are youze choices. There’s no way I’m gonna let youze—“

“’Ey, why don’t youze call me ‘Da’?”

Babs stepped away from the stallion. Sure that she had misheard, she hesitated before asking, “What did youze say?”

Turner rose slowly to his hooves, the saloon beginning to spin around him. “Why don’t youze call me ‘Da’?” he repeated, staring into her, eyes brimming with sad suspicion.

Oh, shit. Not dis. Not now.

Blaming it on his intoxication, Babs Seed left his words to the silence. She wrapped a forehoof up and around his shoulders, directing him towards the door. “Heeya, why don’t youze go ta the inn an’ tell the owna who youze are, she’ll give youze a room an’ I’ll take care o’ it in the mo—“

“So, youze ain’t gonna answa?” Turner sighed and hung his muzzle low. “Guess I shoulda jus’ kept dat ta maself. I shouldn’t expect youze ta do dat…”

“It’s fine. Youze is drunk, youze’ll forget. Hay, I’ll forget. It’s late, youze know,” Babs rationalized, burying the hurt. His question was a jab in her chest, a palpitation she couldn’t write off as anxiety. Pointing her hooves towards the door, she urged, “C’mon, Turner, jus’ get some sleep, an’—“

He flopped down on his haunches, brow furrowed, eyes shining with darkness. “No.” He grunted, staying put. “I want ta be alone fo’ a while.”

“Turner, youze can’t—“

“I need a drink.”

Babs shot back, irritated, “Youze is already drunk.” Horseapples, don’t make me do dis.

“Not enough. Give me anotha,” he demanded, voice low, muscles tensing, hooves planted firmly into the perfectly-sanded wood grain. Even in his irrational state of mind, Turner knew his natural inclinations. The temper of his colthood—a demon following in his hoof-steps—had never truly been exorcised. Age, and thus wisdom, had slowly eroded it. Alcohol could beckon it to return with a vengeance.

Tonight, it whispered in his ear, longing for its forgotten friend.

Feeling anger brewing in his bloodstream, Turner repeated, “Give me anotha. Please… Babs. Please.”

Exasperated, she stomped over to the bar, snatching a bottle off the wall and a glass from underneath the counter. Youze want anotha buckin’ drink? Fine, have anotha buckin’ drink. Youze startin’ ta piss me off royal, an’ I don’t wanna deal wit’ youze right now. Silently, she filled a glass full of whiskey and left it on the counter, returning to the stockroom.

In the dim room, lit only by the moonlight, Babs fumbled for the lock to the back door. A click of strike and tumbler secured the door, her task easily completed. Fuming silently beneath her coat, Babs Seed gritted her teeth and emerged from the stockroom.

Turner was already at the counter, sipping sloppily at his whiskey. Striding right past him, she called out, “Bang on our door when youze is done an’ I’ll come an’ lock up.”

“Oh,” he began, turning around in his seat, “so youze won’t give me the keys? I used ta run the bar youze built dis one off o’, youze know. I know how ta lock up a bar.”

Babs stopped in her tracks, glanced over her shoulder, and sneered at him.

“What?” He threw up his forehooves and crossed them across his chest. “Is dis because I asked youze why youze don’t—“

“Goodnight, Turner.”

Before he could get another word in edgewise, Babs galloped out of the bar, her hooves meeting the sand. Though the distance between inn and bar was miniscule, it seemed to drag infinitely, her mind taunting her with its question.

Why don’t youze? Why don’t youze? Why don’t youze?

Why?

~

Once the dust settled, Card Slinger kicked up his hooves, prompting the others to do the same. Boone churned his muscles, life flowing through them in a way he'd never experienced. They galloped mostly, cantering occasionally, needing only the crisp, clean air in their lungs. The same breeze--now hesitant, gentle—slicked away their sweat, and brought them closer, closer, closer to their destination.

His troops were mostly silent, all obedient. Most carried simple pistols or revolvers. The unicorn was equipped with a double-barreled shotgun. A few others brandished rifles. Along with his trusty pistol holstered to his left shoulder, Card Slinger brought along his loyal black blade. It was freshly sharpened and sheathed to his right shoulder, poised and thirsty for blood.

And blood there would be, staining the sand crimson forever. His jaws clenched and his nostrils flared at the thought. So much blood. Blood that would make his Master happy, distracting him, satiating him.

He would never expect such a loyal minion to commit the ultimate mutiny.

"Youze ready, Boone?" he hissed, looking towards his companion, their hooves thundering against the plains.

Boone smirked and yelled back, "Always have been, Slinga!"

Card Slinger chuckled and stared at the horizon, drawing closer and closer to its boundary. There, in the distance, he saw a flicker of flame and rising smoke. "Dat must be Yukon," he said, raising his voice to be heard over the rhythm of thirteen sets of hooves.

"Yea," Boone agreed, gazing towards the southwest. "An' our target must not be far off."

~

Apple Bloom was waiting for her, wide awake and on her haunches.

“Bloom? What youze doin’ up?” Closing their door and locking it, Babs strode over to her mare, sitting down beside her on the bed. “Summat wrong?”

Leaning into her mare, Apple Bloom didn’t answer right away, closing her eyes. When she opened them a few seconds later, Babs was muzzle-to-muzzle with her, close enough that she could count her freckles and trace the patterns they created. The smile on her tired muzzle was visibly forced, stressed. Tense.

No. Now was not the time. Far from the time.

“No,” Apple Bloom said finally. “Nothin’, sugarcube. Ah jus’ was waitin’ fer ya ta get off work so we could talk.”

Well, maybe it wasn’t so much a lie as a half-truth. There was something she wanted to talk about, although she decided it would have to wait for another night. She could see right through her Babs Seed, and her Babs Seed was not herself tonight.

Talk? “’Bout what?” asked Babs, holding her now. “Tell me.”

Apple Bloom shook her head. “No… Ah… Ah think Ah should wait ta talk ‘bout it. Ya look real stressed, Babs. What’s wrong? Talk ta me...”

Babs sighed. “It’s… it’s summat Turner said ta me. He got drunk—kinda ma fault, really—an’ said some things I know he didn’t mean. An’ so did I. I jus’ hope he doesn’t rememba in the mornin’.”

“What did he say?” Apple Bloom leaned against her, looking up into her emerald eyes, which were conflicted, a tempest in themselves.

This time, Babs was the one to motion in the negative. “I don’t wanna talk ‘bout it.”

Although she was certain she could place a hoof on the cause, Apple Bloom nodded and decided not to press the issue, falling into her mare’s forehooves. "Alright, sugarcube. Ya don't have ta unless ya want ta."

Silence.

Babs Seed suppressed a curse and sighed again, angry, angry at herself, her father, her mare, everything. She determined a sort-of-tension in the atmosphere between them, between them all. Something… something wasn’t right. Something was off.

It scared her.

“Babs?”

Her mare's gentle voice shook her from her daze, and she peered down into her eyes, mustering a slight smile. “Yea?”

Apple Bloom reached up and kissed her chin, stroking her mane with her forehooves. “Are you gonna be alright?"

Babs nodded. "Yea... What 'bout youze? Youze gonna tell me what's on youze mind?" Because youze'll neva be as good a liar as me, an' I can see summat weighin' on youze mind.

Caught, Apple Bloom knew she couldn't escape. Babs would chase the truth now, hounding her until she revealed it all, weighty as it was. She gulped.

Nervous, Apple Bloom kissed her mare again, buying a few precious seconds. Her heart made its presence known in her chest, accelerating rapidly, soon to be a crescendo. It wasn’t the right time to discuss this. She knew it wasn’t. Her letter had yet to meet its destination—she'd paid a traveling merchant to ensure it would reach the right hooves, but its recipient was yet to offer advice in return. Without that trusted advice, she wasn't sure how to best approach the situation, how to bring up the subject without sending everything to ruin.

Not all the cards were on the table. Still, here she was, placing her bet before the dealer passed the action to her.

After a nerve-wracking, deep breath, Apple Bloom tested the waters.

~

Soapy tugged at the brim of his Stetson, one-hundred-percent certain that his eyes betrayed him.

He removed his hat and clutched it tightly, squinting through the dark, the wind, the sand.

Several hoof-fulls of figures galloped towards the unnamed settlement, the uncharted territory where two of the bravest mares he knew tended bar and braved the sun. The place where an old vagabond sought to rebuild his life, to atone for the sins of his past. The place where many found their tabula rasa, where hope was not so much a dream as it was a livable reality.

And in the hooves of the shadowy figures were the unmistakable, threatening shapes of steel and lead.

The stallion spun on his hooves, almost tripping, and rushed back to his camp, drawing his revolver. Even if he were young and spry, even if his vision was perfect, and even if his hooves did not ache with each momentous step, he would be powerless to stop them alone.

The seasoned sourdoughs and reckless greenhooves slumbering within their tents, however, might tip the scales in their favor. He had to try, if nothing else. Though the settlement in the distance was not his wards', Skagway the prospector—Soapy to his friends—would never allow innocents to suffer.

And the sight of an approaching onslaught of outlaws only spurred his ancient blood, and wiped away his fatigue, and gave thunder to his voice.

"GET UP! GET UP! EVERYPONY, GET UP!"

~

"Sugarcube, do ya ever think 'bout... the future?"

"Apple Bloom...." Babs pulled her close. "We've talked 'bout dis befo'."

"Right! An' when we do, ya say that you don't know what you see yerself doin' in five, ten, fifteen years. Right?"

"Right."

"Well..." Apple Bloom swallowed, her words trailing off into nothingness. "Do ya at least... see yerself as... Ah dunno... a family mare?"

"Family mare?" Babs raised an eyebrow, confused. "Youze know how much ma family is important ta me, Bloom. Why else would I have wanted ta build dis bar? Ta gallop off ta Appleloosa at the drop o' a hat?"

"That's not what Ah mean!" Apple Bloom shook her muzzle, fear and frustration battling for dominance in her voice. "Ah... Ah mean... do you ever want—"

A sudden cacophony of pounding hooves and victorious whoops outside the inn bolted them to their hooves. Scrambling, Babs Seed reached the windowsill first, Apple Bloom joining her.

Together, through the glass, they watched a tight-knit group of ponies storm towards the settlement, kicking up a torrent of dust. In their forehooves were weapons of all sizes and shapes—knives sharp and guns loaded.

Hot on their heels galloped a familiar prospector, several of his workers trailing behind them. Soapy was screaming at the top of his lungs, challenging the invaders and rousing the slumbering wasteland, firing off his revolver into the sky as warning.

Visions of black flame danced before Babs Seed and Apple Bloom.

Here it was.

The darkness was upon them.

And it was cold.

Salt And Fire

Grabbing her holster and shoving a few spare bullets inside, making her revolver almost pop out of its compartment, Babs quickly strapped the weapon to her shoulder. Rushing for the door, she knew only a sickening, pulsating fear, a fear that sent her head-over-hooves into fight, rather than flight. Apple Bloom was beckoned by the same summons, scrambling for her own weapon and taking to her hooves after her mare.

"Buck! Buck! Buck!" Babs struggled with the locks on her own door. The symphony of hooves and whoops and shots outside amplified. Nearby rooms began to stir with a similar thunder, ponies scrambling either for their weapons or their locks, adrenaline demanding action.

"Buckin' door! Stupid buckin' door!" The strike and tumbler became complicated machines in her urgency.

Apple Bloom shoved her aside and flipped the deadbolt, the door-chain, and the final lock. "Calm down!" She spun on her mare. "Where's Turner, Babs?"

Charging the door, Babs hissed, "The bar!"

"What?! Why did ya leave him there?!" Apple Bloom demanded, fear and rage jousting within, sharp lances wielded and rushing towards each other. The bar. The second bar in the West.

They both feared and dreaded what would come. They chose not to articulate it.

WHACK! The door gave way easily, oak powerless in the wake of a bullet train. Venom—self-inflicted and self-administered—coursed through Babs Seed's words as she barked back, "Because I'm a fuckin' idiot, Apple Bloom!"

Bursting through the threshold, she stomped down the stairs, her mare a shadow on her heels, feeling nothing but regret, regret, regret.

~

He finished his drink, swaying, the room growing small, hot. He slipped off his bar stool, almost tumbling to the floor in the process. Laughing, the stallion shakily rose to his hooves and pivoted towards the door.

THUD!

His hooves became a mess of tangled limbs, betraying their owner. Turner laughed harder, louder, tears streaming down his cheeks. He was drunk! Completely, utterly head-over-heels drunk! He hadn't been this intoxicated in years!

How freeing, it was.

It was an accident, he concluded through his fog. A happy accident! Here he was, in his daughter's glorious bar—a reflection of his own, his pride and joy then—drunk off Equestria's finest whiskey and laughing to himself.

If only Libra was right here with him...

Turner began to rise. His ears pricked. A ruckus in the distance seemed to be heading his way, fast, fast, fast. A flurry of hoof-beats, shouts, and shots approached the bar, a tidal wave in the sands.

Turner, drunk but not dumb, rose to his hooves and stood there. Paralyzed—not by yeast, but by fear.

They were coming.

In a moment of understanding, he lurched forward towards the door.

He fell down again.

~

A group of five outraged stallions—six, if one counted the weathered prospector leading the pack—charged after the invading King’s Knights. Only about twenty yards or so separated them, that distance closing fast. The leader of the Master's annexation felt the Earth tremble beneath their combined hoof-beats, each step echoing throughout the barren wasteland.

Card Slinger snapped his neck around as his hooves churned, enraged to see that their strike had been anticipated, interrupted. Madhoof’s crony had said nothing of armed vigilantes! Madhoof’s crony had said nothing of opposition!

This was supposed to be easy. Madhoof had lied.

Death was here, taunting, laughing, waiting in the shadows.

No. He was so close—so achingly, painstakingly close—and he wasn’t going to give up the ghost to a bunch of grime-coated vagabonds. No. Not this King.

Last mission. Last. Final.

After this, all would be right again.

Slinger called out to his company, directing with his pistol towards the bar, “Go! Go! Go! Forget the liquor! Burn dis buckin’ place down an’ let’s go!”

At his edict, half of the company turned sharply towards the abandoned bar. The other half, including the sharpshooting unicorn, who scrambled for cover, his magic levitating his rifle, scattered before the settlement, seeking shelter. The would-be arsonists’ saddlebags were full of kerosene and matches, ready to ignite if the liquor was unavailable.

Slinger’s orders were to ensure that all inside the bar was ransacked and destroyed, all witnesses slaughtered. In a sickening irony, his arsonists were to begin the tempest by using the spirits of the defeated. Their message would be much more haunting that way.

It looked like there would be little time for such formalities.

Boone gripped his weapon with both forehooves and dove into a cactus grove, crouching behind one of the mighty plants. Slamming his back into his cover, he groaned in hot, burning pain. The plant punished him with its vengeful needles, driving into his coat. Swallowing the urge to bolt away, Boone turned to the side and began opening fire, leaning out into the sand.

Card Slinger chose a cactus near his right-hoof stallion, leaning his forehooves up against it. His hooves were hardened by concrete and cobblestone, nullifying the protests of the cactus' spines. Reaching for the trigger, he squeezed off several quick shots, bullets flying through the haze towards the approaching miners.

BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!

Six Knights galloped towards the bar, and seven stood their ground amongst measly cacti.

~

Soapy’s warnings and the rising crescendo of voices roused the uncharted territory from its one-eyed slumber. The inn owner herself bolted out of bed, searching for the revolver hidden under her pillow. Her guests were just as fast on their hooves, arming themselves or double-checking the locks on their doors. For many, this was not their first encounter with the reckless and wild ways of the west.

Long ago, they learned that, beyond Appleloosa, nopony would be there to save them but themselves.

Reaching the first level, precious seconds ticking away, Babs Seed peered through the congested group of startled guests. The commotion of frightened and angry ponies nearly drowned her own frantic thoughts.

“What in tarnation?!

“What the HAY is goin’ on?!”

“It’s a raid! Get out an’ defend yerselves!”

“Turner!” Babs Seed exclaimed, hoping he had already returned, hoping he was not trapped inside what surely would soon be—

NO!

Apple Bloom galloped up beside her mare, eyes wild, searching the inn’s lobby. Surely, Turner was here. Somewhere. Safely locked up in his room, or huddled in the crowd beside them. Surely, he must have galloped out of the bar at Soapy’s first warning shot.

Surely, this wasn’t happening.

A thick-necked stallion, his revolver drawn, rushed past them, bursting through the door. Five other stallions followed after him, determination in their steely eyes. They rushed after the first without reservation, ready to defend what little they possessed.

None of these six were Turner. Nor were any of the remaining in the inn’s lobby.

Disbelieving, Babs Seed looked again and again, wasting time.

Buck! Buck! Buck! Where is he? Where is he?!

He must have left! He must have! He can’t still be there, alone…

No, no, no, please…

Finding no vagabond within the distraught crowd—at least, not her vagabond—Babs started towards the door to the inn, one forehoof darting towards her holster.

Apple Bloom grabbed her by the shoulder and shouted above the crowd, “STOP!”

“NO!” No time for idle chat, Babs spun around and shouted back, “I’m goin’ ta get him outta there!”

Beyond the oak came a rapid exchange of gunfire.

Apple Bloom pulled Babs by the mane, yanking away from the door. No. Too dangerous. Wait. He must be here. He must be here.

“NO! BABS—“

"STAY HEEYA!"

"BUT—"

Rendered incapable of rational thought, Babs Seed growled and shook out of her mare’s grasp. Forgetting doorknobs, forgetting a haze of bullets, forgetting everything but Turner in the bar, Babs Seed lowered her shoulder and charged the door, emerging into the night.

~

The Earth was something they never understood, never desired. Without the familiar canopy of skyscrapers and city lights, they felt vulnerable, naked. Nevertheless, the energy from the forsaken ground surged into their hooves and gave them new life, new speed, new strength.

Six King’s Knights hurried towards the bar, the all-important, targeted bar. Two of them carried bursting saddlebags, their contents rattling within. Kerosene and matches. Flint and steel. Holy flames would soon burn for their Master, becoming a pleasing scent to his nostrils, far and away.

Still, they couldn't help but wonder: why? Why were they dispatched here—into the middle of nowhere?

Another voice—his voice—silenced their skepticism. Why were they questioning Him?

As they neared the bar, several armed stallions charged their way, revolvers trained and bullets flying.

The sharpshooting unicorn called from his cover to the pyromaniacs, “Go! Go! I’ve got dem bastards!”

Obeying, the six called upon the sacred sands, and galloped as fast as their hooves could carry them.

~

Turner collapsed to the floorboards, panting heavily. His limbs depleted of synchronization and strength, the stallion groaned and tried to pull himself to his hooves. Keratin dissipated and was replaced by a strange sort of gelatin. Every step he struggled to take ended up in a heaping mess of limbs on the ground.

This was far more than alcohol, he reasoned. Perhaps it was exhaustion that paralyzed him, making his motions foolish and weak. Perhaps he had pushed himself too far, mining twelve hours a day and journeying several miles back and forth between camp and bar.

Perhaps it was just fear. They were coming.

Shouts in the distance—growing ever closer—made his hackles raise. A hellish series of gunshots—one after the other, in rapid, rapid succession—seized upon his nerves and strangled them, paralyzing him for a heart-wrenching second. His mind struggled to acknowledge his adrenaline. Fight or flight. Fight or flight. Fight—

CRASH!

Snapping his head towards the source of the noise, Turner saw a flash of light.

Of fire.

~

A bottle of kerosene with a rag wedged in its neck was more than suitable for the job. It was no traitorous bottle of whiskey or cider, but it sufficed. With the strike of a match, the bottle was lit ablaze, beacon in the night.

Gripping it in his forehoof, the Manehatten King chucked the bottle through the back window of the bar’s stockroom. It sliced through the glass easily, landing smack-dab in the middle of rows and rows of fresh liquor.

Perfect.

Laughing, the six Knights watched a tiny spark grow into a tiny flame. Then, when the Manehatten cocktail met the stockroom and its contraband occupants, it shook fingers of flame with them and included them as its own. Building, becoming a tempest, one bottle soon would amplify to the worth of many.

A gruff bellow snapped six cackling necks around.

“HEY!”

Standing a few yards away from them under the moonlight—cursing his slowness, his old age—Soapy began to empty his revolver into the group of arsonists. From the corner of his eye, tongues of fire danced and entwined, catching the attention of floorboard after floorboard, liquor bottle after liquor bottle…

~

Time stretched and stretched and stretched. Less than twenty yards between one side of the settlement to the other became an insurmountable Mount Improbable to climb. Her hooves pummeled the sand, one after the other, wheels of a locomotive.

All moving in slow, slow, slow motion.

To the east, seven ponies exchanged rapid fire with their antagonists beyond. From beyond the cacti grove, Babs Seed recognized several of her fellow miners on Soapy’s crew, as well as Dyea. Dyea currently levitated a rifle, squeezing desperately at its trigger towards the odd unicorn cowering behind a prickly plant.

She hesitated for a second, contemplating drawing her weapon and exchanging fire with them. The miners and Dyea seemed to be on the losing side of this unreal, unimaginable haze—dodging bullets left and right, jumping to the sands, struggling to reload.

A quick turn towards the bar cast aside all stray thoughts and made her hooves churn again.

“TURNER! TURNER!”

And from behind her, “BABS!”

And from within the bar, a panicked stallion’s howl.

~

“Dammit, these buckas don’t know when ta stop!” Card Slinger leapt behind his cactus. He searched within his empty holster, nabbing a few spare rounds for his pistol. Almost on empty, he bellowed across their distance, “Youze alright, Boone?!”

“Fine! Focus!” Boone shouted as he rolled to the side. A bullet planted roots in the Earth where he previously crouched. The stallion cursed and groaned, more needles digging into his coat.

Darting one of his soulless, wild eyes towards their resident sharpshooter, Slinger ordered, “Get the ones approachin’! Don’t waste youze time on the ones behind us!”

“Dey’re runnin’ at the ones at the bar!” the sharpshooter barked back, using his magic to squeeze off two more rounds towards the settlement’s vigilantes. Slumber was no longer a possibility for anypony within the uncharted territory. More continued to rouse from their tents, their rooms, their hasty shelters, more hooves thundering towards the seven Knights.

Panicking, Slinger hissed through his teeth, “Let ‘em die! Dey did dey job, let ‘em die!”

The sharpshooter nodded grimly and leaned around his cactus. With expert precision, he rocketed a piece of hot lead into a rampaging miner-stallion. He snapped his attention towards an approaching unicorn mare, raising his rifle in defiance of hers.

Before he could fire his round, Dyea's magic pulled her trigger.

~

Smoke billowed out of the bar’s stockroom, flames snaking up the wooden shelves and onto the walls, the rafters, the ceiling. Turner watched in horror as the swirl of red, orange, and yellow ate its way from the back room to the bar counter, traveling up the shelves and chewing up all wood within.

Black tendrils of smoke filled the main room and his nostrils, sending him into a coughing fit. Turner stumbled to his hooves, squeezing his eyes shut. They wouldn’t be of much use anyway. Dark smoke coupled with dark night cast him into near-blindness, and he wished for a cane.

Fighting the urge to vomit, Turner moved one forehoof forward, then the other, then attempted with his hindhooves. Surprisingly, he didn’t collapse this time, though his limbs shook under his weight. He wished upon all his lucky stars and moved from a trot to a canter.

The door couldn’t be that far away.

The heat in the bar was overwhelming, robbing him of breath and steam. Blindly, Turner stomped his hooves towards the door, praying with all his silent might that he would not fall. Drunk or not, old or not, exhausted or not, he would not concede defeat to the taunting Reaper.

Suddenly, just as he began to be overcome by the fumes, Turner heard a ear-splitting CRACK!

WHOMP!

“AAAAAAAAAARGGGGGGGGGGH!”

Turner fell to the floor, a rafter pressing into his spine, and laid there.

~

Pushing past a charging group of vagabonds and miners and vagrants and dreamers and schemers, Apple Bloom stood on the porch of the inn, revolver in her forehooves and pupils searching frantically for a bobtail mare.

Babs Seed galloped across no-pony’s land, from one side of the settlement to the other. An blur on four relentless hooves, Apple Bloom followed her with eyes and revolver, crying out her name. “BABS! BE CAREFUL!”

Again, Babs shouted back, "STAY THERE! COVER FO' ME!"

She wrestled with her fear and indecision, driven on one hoof to follow after her mare, on the other to stay and provide covering fire if needed. Apple Bloom compromised, deciding that she would gallop after her if she was taking too much time, too much precious, precious time.

Chaos and Tartarus broke out all around them. Thankfully, none of the dueling scum in the cactus grove appeared to be even looking at the ba—

BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG!

Exchanged gunfire from behind the bar pricked Apple Bloom’s ears and accelerated her heart, and she tightened her grip on the revolver, sweeping the scene, prime to shoot. She caught sight of Soapy—his revolver raised, his muzzle determined—and felt her heart simultaneously soar and sink.

~

Eight shots in the chamber.

Skagway the prospector—ironically known as “Soapy” to his friends (bars of soap were gold in the wasteland, and he was mighty poor in that regard)—popped off four rounds at the arsonists before they returned fire.

Three scumbag excuses for stallions fell to the ground, one bullet barely missing its targets. All were chest shots: close range and effective. His old eyes and clumsy hooves couldn’t allow for much more.

That closeness, that intimacy of steel and lead, came with a price. The remaining three emptied their own weapons into him, several shots easily finding purchase. The explosion of hot lead slicing through the air shattered his eardrums, the force of their assault sending him flying backwards.

Falling onto his back in more pain than he’d ever been, and ever would be, Soapy cocked his muzzle towards the cactus grove behind them. There, his mare pulled off furious round after furious round, sending a haughty unicorn tumbling to the plains and scattering the remaining invaders.

Dyea. The stronger and better of the two. Always had been.

Always would be.

Revolver still in his forehooves, Soapy utilized the remainder of his strength to pull the trigger four more times, emptying the chamber.

BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG!

He squinted through the light, the light that shone greater than any star in Luna’s endless blanket.

He wasn’t sure, but he thought a few of those final shots connected. He would never know. After his revolver clicked empty, the remaining arsonists took to their hooves, screaming something about reinforcements and retreat.

Fools…

Flames and smoke erupted from the bar in front of him. All began to fade before his eyes, visions of orange, yellow, red, a tempest in the West, the best, the stars in the sky…

He coughed up a river of red, agony proliferating through his grizzled old being. He knew it was time. He didn’t have the strength to laugh in the face of the Reaper, to jest and taunt and insult him. It didn’t matter anymore. He was old. They were young. He would go; they would stay.

The natural order of things.

Shouts in the distance. Babs Seed. The most foolish mare he’d ever known. And one of the strongest.

And another mare’s voice… Dyea… the one he’d miss the most.

Soapy closed his eyes and let the light overtake him.

~

His sharpshooter staggered and howled, crimson spreading across a hole in his stomach. Two of his female Manehatten Kings met their match with the unicorn mare, their bullets whizzing past her. They slumped against their cacti, defeated. Raucous gunfire and screams of agony identified at least three of arsonists as useless.

Panicking, scrambling, Card Slinger swept the scene. Only Boone and two other stallions remained within the grove. The unicorn mare and two other miners exchanged shot for shot, ducking for cover behind their own cacti. Shots from the settlement sent them ducking and flying from the other end, squeezing the remaining company into a vice from both sides.

From the corner of his eye, Card Slinger saw the flames, and grinned. “Boone! Let’s go!” he ordered, triumph in his voice. It was done. The tempest had been ignited, rapidly turning the fetid old fool’s rivals into ashes. There was no more need to play his silly games.

The two other Kings turned their attention to the unicorn mare, firing frantic shots towards her. Slinger smirked when one of them connected, sending the mare flying, but made no move to assist. This was not his war. The deed had been done.

All he and Boone needed to do now was survive.

Boone, heaving deep breaths, covered in sweat from muzzle to tail, reloading the last of his rounds into his pistol, nodded and darted his gaze through the wasteland. To the north were the remaining miners, bullets flying. To the south were the settlers, approaching fast. To the east were the bodies of the fallen.

To the west, the bar…

Boone held his weapon tightly and took to his hooves, panting, praying to his dark gods that he would be lost in the flurry and blur. He bounded towards the west, seeking to escape beyond the horizon of the flames.

Card Slinger, once his opposition paused for reload, galloped after his best and only friend.

~

Tunnel-visioned and foalish, Babs Seed bolted from one side of the settlement to the other, arriving unscathed. Raising her forehooves, the scent of thick, sickening smoke filled her nostrils. Columns of acrid smoke and hissing fire climbed past the bar’s roof and touched the skies.

Apple Bloom’s forehooves were steady around her revolver, searching for opposition. A group of her allies were shouting, “FIRE! FIRE! FIRE!” She could see barrels of water beginning to be located and hoisted onto strong stallion's backs. The noise of gunfire proved continuous, weapons of all varieties exchanging blows. She began to cough violently even as her forehooves came down, down, down upon her saloon doors, swinging them wide open.

Tears dotting her eyes from the intense heat—mind blank, empty, acting on instincts alone—Babs squinted and discerned the outline of a large figure lying on the floor, trapped beneath what appeared to be a support beam.

“Turner!” she exclaimed, hoping, hoping, hoping—

“Ba… Babs…”

His voice was weak, shaky. His words hollow, betraying. A thick curtain of gray and black smoke entwined with the midnight haze, cloaking everything in darkness. Nevertheless, Babs Seed would know that voice forevermore. Once it pierced her consciousness, she recognized it immediately, and stumbled through the dark. Her eyes burned when she opened them even briefly, so she kept them slammed shut, relying on her hearing, on her sensitive ear….

“Ooof!” Turner groaned as one of her hindhooves accidentally connected with his stomach. “Down… here…”

Crouching low, Babs felt around for the stallion’s limbs, hacking. Smoke completely dominated the atmosphere within the walls. All she, Apple Bloom, and her family had worked so tenaciously to build rapidly turned to ash around them. But she could not think of such lowly matters. Bits were nothing to the mare, never had been. They could rebuild. They could rise again. The bar was replaceable.

Her father, however, was a different story.

“Can—cough!—youze move?” she asked, attempting to slip her neck under his.

Turner shook his muzzle and spat a mouthful of blackened spit onto the floor. Coughing up spittle, he managed, “N-no! G-get dis beam off me!”

Reaching up, Babs discovered the obstacle. One of the long support beams that previously braced the ceiling against the roof of the bar pinned the stallion. Grains of sand in both their hourglasses trickling by with each passing moment, she shoved the rafter forwards, while Turner struggled to arch his back.

He howled in burning pain, feeling something slip, and crumpled again.

“Hang on!” The rafter refused to budge, trapped against the floor and the opposite wall. Babs Seed tried a different route, and leaned against Turner. “I’m gonna shove—hack!—youze out instead!”

Mustering all her might, she shoved her sides and hooves into him, eventually freeing him from his wedge. The rafter skidded forward but did not topple. Babs Seed rushed over, calling his name. She'd lost him again, the room beginning to spin around her. “TURNER!”

“Ova heeya!” He weakly waved a forehoof, stars appearing before his eyes. Whether minutes or seconds passed between his answer and her response, he wasn’t sure. All he knew was that, suddenly, Babs Seed was slipping her neck below his, the rest of her body following.

Hooves shaking, lungs burning, mind blank, and eyes watering, Babs Seed slowly lifted her father onto her back. Pain tunneled through her nerves, neurotransmitters decrying out her foalish mistake. He was not heavier than carts full of ore, nor did he sink his forehooves into her sides like a rampaging timberwolf or a starving pack of coyotes. Nevertheless, she grunted in exhaustion and agony as she rose to her hooves. He rested there, groaning, wrapping his forehooves around her neck.

She began to stomp blindly through the dark, the smoke stealing their breath, their strength…

Calling upon the last of her might, Babs Seed cut across the haze, moving towards the door.

~

As Boone and Card Slinger galloped towards the bar, an orange mare appeared through its doors, carrying an unconscious, beige stallion on her back. The stallion was enormous—even bigger than the monstrous mare. She paused once reaching freedom, coughing and hacking, spitting black onto the sand.

Across the way, a group of settlers, including a yellow mare with a red mane and a raised revolver, bolted towards her.

Although the orange mare was armed, a holster clearly visible on her left shoulder, she made no motion to fight or even turn towards King Crazy and his masculine queen. She swayed and stumbled, inching closer to the opposite side of the makeshift town, the refuge in the sands.

Card Slinger plucked a memory from his weary archives. It was a memory that would not elude or evade his memory, no matter how much whiskey or cider or gin or vodka or beer or wine he chased down his throat.

He remembered a clearing near Manehatten Lake, two blank-flanked foals, and hooves of iron that pummeled his body and brought him to the brink of life and death.

And he remembered mercy.

Freezing, Slinger stared at the mare, remembering her form but not her name, while the bullets whipped around him, while sets of hooves thundered towards them, and found in the corner of his heart a sort of...

Strange realization...

A bystander, she was. A bystander, such as he had been, all those years ago. An innocent. Caught in time. Sins of the father, repented by the daughter. She was clean compared to him. Her father was a monster, and he would soon—

From the corner of his eye, Boone raised his pistol.

~

Once Babs Seed breached the bar, she gasped for breath, her lungs crying out for relief. Inhale, exhale. Inhale, exhale. It became a mantra. She had repeated it three times before her chest protested, hacking coughs dragging her closer and closer to the sand...

"Aaaah! Aaah! S-shit!" She wheezed, expelling smoke-drenched saliva onto the Earth. Turner stirred and groaned on her back but made no other noise. Beyond feeling his rising and falling chest, she realized with a chill that she wasn't sure if he had made it.

"BABS!" Apple Bloom scrambled down from the porch of the inn and galloped towards her. A group of inn guests followed after her, one of them wearing a white doctor's coat. She took a few tentative steps towards her mare, swaying, stumbling. Past her smog, she thought, A doctor! We're gonna be alright! We're gonna be—

BANG!

Babs Seed howled in absolute agony. She fell to the ground, clutching at her holster-less shoulder, where a hot cylinder of lead embedded itself, smoking steam into the night. Turner landed with a THUD! on top of her as she tumbled, amplifying her misery. She opened her muzzle to scream, but no sound came out. All she knew was pain, and stars, starlight...

She turned to face her attackers.

And knew.

They hadn't changed.

Especially...

Him.

~

Next to Card Slinger, Boone stood triumphant, his revolver smoking with traces of his perfect shot. He threw back his mane and laughed, smirking. "Ha! Got dat witness good!"

"Youze buckin' idiot!" Slinger shoved his friend forward, urging them on their hooves.

No.

He'd promised mercy—an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth—should they meet again. And now, the mare was bleeding, trembling, and her friends were galloping after them, guns raised...

~

"BABS!"

Apple Bloom trained her revolver on the laughing palomino stallion and pulled the trigger, over and over and over and over again, not caring if she hit, not caring if he returned fire, not caring about anything or anypony but her mare lying on the porch of their burning bar, bleeding and howling and crying out in absolute horror and agony.

The third time she used a weapon, she missed seven times, her bullets flying past the two invading stallions' muzzles and manes.

The eighth and final shot met its target.

The palomino stallion clutched at his side and fell to the ground, staining everything crimson.

Apple Bloom tossed her revolver aside and rushed over to Babs Seed, screaming for medic, doctor, help, salvation.

For anywhere but here.

~

"BOONE!"

Card Slinger watched in abject, timeless horror. His right-hoof stallion—his friend of almost eight years, his blood brother of almost five—collapsed. Behind him, the ominous screeches of his final two Manehatten Kings signaled the end of their raid, their annexation, their mission.

To his right, the bar blazed in a sea of holy fire, tongues of flame touching the empty Heavens. Stallions and mares began to scramble for barrels and buckets of water, hooves bursting open cacti and searching saddlebags and passing out lines of relief.

And the rest of the West was closing around him, as he jumped and weaved and dodged bullet after bullet, some of them grazing past his shoulders, his flanks, his neck. Tiny shards of steel bit and nicked him, supreme pain rocketing through his body.

Card Slinger had a decision to make, and he made the foalish one.

Slipping under Boone, he threw the smaller stallion onto his back, and galloped off into the night.

"Hang on, Boone!"

"HANG ON!"

~

There were ponies everywhere, ponies of all shapes and sizes and genders and colors. And they were slowly lifting her onto one of their backs—onto the back of a stallion who would've matched Big Macintosh in height, or even towered over him.

Apple Bloom was there, her muzzle whispering things to her. At least, they sounded like whispers, because everything strung together, all the words and sentences becoming one jumbled, inaudible noise.

And Turner was there, too. They took him off her back and put them onto the back of another stallion, this one a little smaller but just as strong. She blinked and tilted her muzzle to look at the sky.

It was night, but there was no alicorn to swoop down into her dreams this time. She was a foal no more.

She was a mare now...

~

A swarm of enraged settlers descended upon Card Slinger, firing, firing, firing. Slinger—bleeding, bruised, the weight of his friend on his back slowing him down—galloped in a zig-zag pattern, leaping from angle to angle and ignoring the burning his limbs and lungs. Freedom. They had to get to freedom.

Only his pistol and his knife remained. They'd packed no other possessions. Squeezing off return fire with one forehoof, Slinger found that the trigger soon became horribly useless. He pulled and pulled and pulled, even as more galloped towards them, ropes in their forehooves and fire in their eyes.

Tossing the depleted pistol away, Card Slinger doubled his efforts, pushing past the pain. Long accustomed to street warfare, he was strong and swift. Smaller than some of the enormous stallions headed his way, he possessed the advantages of aerodynamics, and churned his hooves, faster, faster...

The horizon came closer and closer. Heaving, wheezing, he shouted once more, "Hang on, Boone!" and kicked his hooves.

Boone groaned, but didn't move.

~

From bar-porch to inn-porch to innkeeper's room, Apple Bloom galloped beside the stallion carrying her mare, talking to her, keeping her awake. The doctor who carried her—a brute of an Earth pony stallion, tall and thick—told her that, no matter what happened next, she couldn't let Babs Seed fall asleep.

"Sugarcube, it's gonna be alright, Ah promise... Look at me, jus' please.. .look at me..." She lied through her teeth, swallowing her tears, trying her hardest not to stare at the gaping wound in her mare's shoulder, and the bullet that peeked out from inside it.

Babs Seed blinked and groaned, struggling to keep her muzzle straight, to not slide off the stallion's back. Her mind buzzed with pain and confusion as she muttered, "Bloom... I..."

The doctor stallion leaned down near the innkeeper's bed. The innkeeper nodded and gestured to two miner stallions, who—as gently as possible—pulled Babs off the doctor's back. Babs howled and thrashed, strange ponies grabbing her, hurting her...

"Babs! They're—they're gonna help you!" Apple Bloom grabbed her by the muzzle and stared straight into her eyes. The miners lowered her onto her stomach and down onto the bed.

Apple Bloom crouched low, meeting Babs's level. "Look at me, sugarcube. Look at me. Don't look at 'em. Look at me."

Babs nodded weakly, perplexed. "What... what's happenin'?"

The doctor turned to the miners and the innkeeper. "Quick, start a fire in the fireplace. Get me alcohol, knives, bandages, and rags. And a big stick." All three scrambled to their tasks, while the doctor waited, preparing for the task at hoof.

The bullet was still visible, and while the mare wasn't bleeding too profusely, the risk of infection was too probable to disregard. Far from any hospital or medical facility, they would make due, or risk far worse.

Panicking, sure she'd misheard, Babs repeated, "What's happenin', Bloom? What's goin' on?!"

The innkeeper darted towards her cold fireplace and gathered a bundle of tumbleweeds for kindling. Striking a match and tossing it into the pile, the hearth roared with a mighty flame, cracking logs and robbing the room of its cold.

"Babsy, it's alright," Apple Blooms whispered softly, holding up her muzzle with both forehooves, stroking her cheek. She swallowed the trembling in her throat and the nausea in her stomach. "Look at me. Talk ta me."

"Where's Turner?"

"He's in one o' the other rooms." Apple Bloom added, doing her best to sound sincere, "He's gonna be jus' fine, sugarcube. Jus' got a lil' bump on the head, that's all."

Her pupils dilating, Babs slowly nodded, mind blank, thoughts haphazard and disjointed. Apple Bloom ran a forehoof through her mare's mane, seeking to calm her as the two miners returned with the necessary supplies.

"Is she ready?" the doctor asked.

Apple Bloom nodded, staying strong for her mare. She tightened her grip on Babs Seed's muzzle and reminded, "Look at me, sugarcube. Look at me, alright? Ya need ta stay awake."

Awake? A single thought pierced through the smog of her pain, exhaustion, fear, anger, and sorrow. Why would she need to stay awake? The room was safely away from the chaos beyond, from the smoke and fire and bullets. The fire pleasantly warmed the room, and her beloved was here right in front of her. Why would—

"MMPRH!"

The handle of an old pickaxe was shoved into Babs Seed's mouth, making her gag. She clamped down on it with her jaws and raised a forehoof to remove it. Apple Bloom shoved her hoof away, shaking her muzzle and her fledgling tears.

"Sugarcube, jus' look at me. Don't do anythin' else."

Coughing on the rotten, fetid piece of wood—the word "foul" failing to even barely begin to describe it—she nodded and stared into her eyes, red-orange, like rubies that were on fire. Aflame. Ablaze. Fire.

"Mmrph mrrphened mrr durr mrrr?" What happened ta the bar?

Apple Bloom shook her muzzle. "No talkin', Babsy. Jus' look at me, beautiful." She hated this already. Glancing up at the doctor from the corner of her eye, Apple Bloom knew she would come to simply despise it in a few minutes.

Leaning over the injured mare's right shoulder, the doctor examined the wound, shaking his muzzle sadly. "I'm sorry," he said, frowning at Apple Bloom, "I have no choice. If we leave it in, she'll get infected. It needs to come out."

Unrefined fear and adrenaline shot through Babs Seed's veins, clearing the endorphins away. Now, as the stallion's breath made contact with the gaping bullet wound, her agony returned, and she began to groan around the axe handle, squeezing her eyes shut...

Card Slinga...

I saw him...

At his command, the innkeeper and the prospectors held down the mare's hooves, while Apple Bloom held her muzzle and talked to her, rambling. "Babs, it's gonna be alright, mostly everypony's alright, an' Ah think they even got the fire put out befo' everythin'—"

Lies, it was all lies. Everypony knew it.

Card Slinga...

... He was heeya...

The doctor pulled the cork out of a bottle of fresh whiskey and poured it all over the wound. In response, his patient thrashed and squirmed, the burning sensation nearly as unbearable as the first contact. "MMMRPH!"

"I'm sorry," the doctor whispered sincerely, leaning closer. "That'll keep this from hurting more." He balanced a knife between his forehooves.

Babs Seed started to panic, her eyes darting to the silver blade. "Mmproom! Mmrph mrree mrrrphin'?!"

Apple Bloom snapped Babs Seed to face her and leaned in close. "Close yer eyes! Close yer eyes an' listen ta ma voice! Please! Please... Babs..." Her voice shook on her final two words, tears glistening in the corners of her eyes.

To her relief, Babs obeyed, slamming her eyelids shut.

"Don't ya have any pain medicine?!" Apple Bloom pleaded, rounding on the doctor. "Can't ya at least give her whiskey?!"

The stallion passed her the bottle. "Only a little. I'll need the rest to sterilize."

The innkeeper offered Apple Bloom a glass, which she accepted with a simple nod and a sniffle. Quickly pouring a double-shot of whiskey, she pulled the ax handle out of Babs's mouth and pressed the glass to her lips. "Drink this."

Pure fire tunneled down her throat, but Babs drank it all, every last drop. She opened her eyes briefly, finding Apple Bloom watching her, biting her lower lip, transparent as a ghost. "Bloom... I don't... I don't understand...

"What happened?"

"Ya got shot, sugarcube."

"... I did?"

"Yes. Now," Apple Bloom said, bringing the axe handle back up, "bite down on this an' close yer eyes, an' listen ta me, an' it'll be over befo' ya know it..."

What'll be ova?

Biting down on the rotting wood, Babs suppressed the urge to vomit and closed her eyes. Two strong, yet gentle forehooves caressed her mane and cheeks, their owner whispering to her. Three pairs of rough forehooves held her down. A fourth set of hooves trotted somewhere behind her and then back towards her, their owner exhaling on her injured shoulder, irritating it.

I rememba chargin' in, an' gettin' Turner, an' comin' out... An' then, I was on somepony's back... An' now...

The whiskey spurred within her veins, and Babs Seed felt her head grow heavy, beginning to droop. Apple Bloom raised her chin and said, "Stay wit' me, Babs. Ah'm right here. But ya can't sleep jus' yet, okay?"

"Mmmrph." Okay.

~

Fire-lines formed, passing barrels and canteens full of water and dumping them on the blaze. Buckets of sand also found their way onto the flames. Although this fire was a particularly hungry and vengeful tempest, it slowly began to flicker away, as the oasis in the sands came together to save (for many) one of their favorite establishments.

At first, almost an entire company of vigilantes galloped after the last stallion and his wounded friend. They came closer and closer—within ten yards of him—but they soon found their weapons empty and his hooves light. When the stallion tossed his pistol away in the ultimate act of surrender, a few hesitated, confused.

That was enough for Card Slinger to escape.

Finding new strength in the strange, backwards land, Card Slinger called upon all his might and ran, ran, ran. No bullets riddled his body. Endorphins and adrenaline masked the pain of his wounds. He dove towards the horizon, towards the northeast, towards home.

With a blazing bar to save, one survivor bleeding, and the other crazy as Tartarus itself, the vigilantes gave up their chase and pivoted back towards town.

~

Awake...

Feeling the doctor stallion's heavy breath on her shoulder and the movement of one of the miner-stallions towards the blazing fire, Babs Seed knew what was to come, and willed herself away.

Apple Bloom, sensing this, began to ramble again, about higher things, things beyond the wasteland. She hoped her words would keep her strong for Babs Seed, and keep her mare awake, distracted.

It was a hopeless venture, but she spoke up anyway, her words trembling, difficult.

"Babs... First thing we're gonna do when we visit back home is go fer big milkshakes in that one lil' shop ya used ta love... We'll both get strawberry ones, with lots o' whipped cream on top, an'..."

His patient tensed. The doctor said to relax.

Babs tried to.

"... An' then we'll go ta town, an' see how everypony's doin'... All the shops, the ponies..."

The doctor pinned her right foreleg into the mattress with his, both his forehooves clutching the knife.

"... An' then we'll go back home, an' see everypony... It's been far too long..."

Inhaling deep through his nostrils, the doctor willed himself to relax in return. Hypocritically, he did nothing of the sort, and slowly brought the knife—now a tool—towards the wound. Three sets of eyes stared into him, one were squeezed shut, and one stared into another's eyelids.

"... There'll be fresh apples soon, an' pie, an' cobbler, an' cake... an'..."

Nothing could have prepared her for this.

"MMRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRPH!"

Quick as he could, sweat on his brow, the doctor removed the bullet from his patient. The lead was still hot to the touch as it exited, leaving trails of crimson in its wake.

Indescribable pain became her reality, endorphins and adrenaline rising to silence it, to numb it. Babs struggled and shuddered, briefly opening her eyes to discover Apple Bloom's snout against hers, her countenance a poor mask.

"Stay wit' me... It's almost over... Ah promise," she pleaded, stroking her mane, keeping her awake, awake, awake.

Because, if she didn't...

The doctor passed another knife to a miner, applying a fresh round of whiskey to the wound. More.

"MMMMMRRRRPH! MMMMMRRRRPHOOOOOOM!"

"Ah'm... Ah'm.... S-sorry... Babs, c-c-close yer eyes...."

Understanding, the miner stuck the blade in the fireplace, warming it. Applying pressure to the wound, the doctor ordered, "Quickly! That's hot enough! Give it to me!"

Babs Seed, upon hearing this, clenched her jaws so tightly around the axe handle, she was certain she would snap it in two. She squeezed her eyes shut and braced for what was to come.

Apple Bloom—mustering every ounce of self-control to prevent herself from breaking down right then and there—stroked her mare's mane and began to ramble, though she watched the blade from the corner of her eye...

"An' then we'll be home 'gain, it'll be nice an' beautiful an' spring, an' everythin' will be alive, an' our friends an' neighbors an' family will be havin' foals soon, an' then we can go wherever ya want, Babsy! We can go ta Dodge Junction o' Hollow Shades o' Trottingham o' Las Pegasus o' anywhere...

"Anywhere..."

In one swift motion, the doctor cauterized his patient's wound.

~

Hooves hit sand, endless, repetitive.

Card Slinger, long out of steam, swayed on his hooves, the Earth spinning below him. He pressed his stomach into the cold ground, stretching out for a selfish second. Then, he gently tilted his back, allowing his right-hoof stallion freedom.

Card Slinger rolled over and grabbed Boone, saying, "Boone! Boone! Wake up! We're alright! Dey gone! Dey—"

"S-S-Slinga." Boone weakly opened his eyes, clinging to life. He looked around, finding themselves alone. "W-w-where—"

"I don't know. I don't know, Boone, but we got 'way. We got 'way, an' everythin's gonna be fine."

Pressing a forehoof into his bleeding side, Boone mumbled dreamily in response, "No, it ain't."

Fumbling for his knife, Slinger assured, "Don't worry! I'll get dat outta youze, an' it'll be fine! It'll all be fine, an' then we'll get out o' dis stinkin' hellhole, an' be back in our prime, an' we'll—"

"Slinga—"

"We'll show dat buckin' piece o' shit what for, 'cause we played his silly game, an' now—"

"Slinga—"

"Now, it's all up ta—"

"SLINGA!"

Spending all of his remaining energy on that one word, Boone hacked and rolled over, streams of scarlet staining his fur, the Earth, everything. Peering up into his leader's muzzle, the world tightening to a black ellipsis, he muttered, "Jus'... jus' shut up..."

For the first time since their return to Manehatten, Card Slinger obeyed Boone, and laid down quietly beside him.

In silence, he held his best and only friend, until the end. It had been ages since he cried, but tonight broke that streak, sickening, weak, salty tears trailing down his cheeks.

Before he went, Boone turned his muzzle slowly towards his King. "Slinga?"

"Yea?"

"I see dem."

"Who?"

"Youze parents."

"..."

"Dey say we won't see dem fo' a long time."

"Why's dat?"

Boone mumbled, "Salt an' fire first. Fo' us all."

He shuddered, and breathed his last, in the forehooves of his only.

His body was lighter now, black soul finding home.

~

Once Apple Bloom pulled the axe handle from her mouth, Babs Seed collapsed, her muzzle falling into her mare's forehooves. Apple Bloom began to shake her, stopped by the doctor's rough forehoof on her shoulder. "She can sleep now. The risk of shock has passed now that it's over."

Apple Bloom threw her forehooves around her neck and held her, relieved to hear her breathe and begin to snore against her shoulders. The two miner stallions and the inkeeper released her hooves, trotting over to Apple Bloom's side. The innkeeper asked, "What do... what do we do now, Doctor?"

"We wait and see," he bluntly replied, hanging his muzzle. "The bleeding's stopped, and the wound's sealed up very well. Let's keep it clean and give it a few days. She's a tough ol' mare."

"She sure is," answered the innkeeper. Glancing down at the bar-mares, she looked to the other three and motioned for the door. "Let's give 'em some privacy..."

The doctor nodded. "Let us check on the other patient. My colleague is taking care of him a few rooms over."

Quietly, four sets of hooves found the exit and trotted past the threshold, closing the door slowly behind them.

In the innkeeper's room, Babs Seed fell into the black. A new, dark, ugly wound hid on her right shoulder below a layer of bandages, forever to remind them of this awful night. This awful night, in the cold, black wasteland, where the fire still burned, the smoke still billowed, and all the omens of yesteryear culminated into this...

Almost losing her...

Having stayed strong through their entire ordeal, Apple Bloom finally held Babs Seed close and cried into her mane.

~

Far from Yukon, Little Strongheart looked into the flames of her campfire and remembered.

Cold fire.

She looked towards Appleloosa, and then further west.

The night was dark. Too dark.

She wished to disbelieve in her own magic.

But, she knew it was true.

She remembered a saying of her tribe, but took no comfort in it.

"Everypony must be salted with fire..."

As Above, So Below

He laid there, remaining still for the longest he’d been in years.

All the madness danced before his eyes, embers raked over hot coals. Decision. Declaration. Knighthood. Mission after mission, dispatch after dispatch. All the days he had wasted in servitude to the most powerful and heartless stallion in Manehatten. And all for what? For bits? Fame? Fortune? The empire he’d always dreamed of?

A gust of desert wind tossed a hoof-full of sand into his eyes. He groaned and rubbed his eyelids, squinting through the darkness.

Five years of Boone by his side, mastering the ways of concrete and cobblestone. Five years of blood and honor, blazing glory shining through the ghetto. All shattered, fallen, staining the ground crimson. Even after changing winds and shifting sands and coyotes’ tongues lapping hungrily, it would be there forever. He would know.

Everything was gone. The Master had his way. Twelve of the thirteen met their end. They were pawns, Card Slinger realized. Just as he had always said. Always wanted. Pawns on the chessboard, warring fruitlessly against each other, in Manehatten and beyond. Finding resolution here, in the barren wasteland, the madhouse of sand…

Sand. It was all for sand.

Clinging to his best and only friend, he seized upon his last words, chewing them thoroughly. Even as the lonely moon began to rise, rise, rise, he held him. Even as the coyotes began their mournful chorus—weeping with him, in a sick, twisted sort of way—he refused to budge. While the night dipped low into its deep, constant contradiction, extinguishing the memory of the inferno with a bone-chilling cold, he thought not of revenge.

Only… sorrow. And salt and fire. And, most of all, Boone.

Hours passed before Card Slinger rose to his hooves and began to dig.

~

She pretended to sleep, or tried to. She curled beside her on the left side—the ear side, she would now refer to it as, not the shoulder side. Apple Bloom held Babs as close as she could without aggravating her injuries. Babs slept but did not snore anymore, twitching occasionally in what her mare hoped were dreams.

First came the tears. It was too close. Far too close. Losing her was a contemplation so horrible, so dreadful, so heart-wrenchingly awful that she didn’t linger on it for long. But it was there, sitting, whispering, taunting, demon in the corner roasting popcorn on his pitchfork.

The idea of Babs Seed being stolen from her after almost eight years of trial, tribulation, revelation, and, ultimately, what she could only describe as love, was simply incomprehensible. She hated herself for even thinking of it—as if the mere thought of such a possibility could breathe life into its bones.

Next came the questions. Why? Why Appleloosa? Why here? Why anywhere? The violence she’d witnessed and experienced during her foalhood years was tame compared to the sheer brutality of tonight. What motivated them? Why did they hate them so? And why wasn't anypony stopping them?

Manehatten all they seemed—and, Apple Bloom figured, tattooed all they would be as well. A gang. It had to be. Like the one who’d tormented the slumbering mare beside her almost eight years ago, on the night that had defined them forever.

But hadn't the Royal Guard taken over the city since then? Wasn't the Police Department supposed to keep peace in the city? Or, at the very least, confine it?

Most of the immigrants who came out west said they sought freedom, redemption, opportunity. They spoke of chaos in Manehatten, but never elaborated upon it much. They seemed despondent when mentioning it.

But, Appleloosa, and... here. Here.

A chill rushed down Apple Bloom's spine at the memory of the palomino stallion taking aim upon her mare. In his blackened eyes, she'd seen no life, no light. He'd shown no remorse, laughing his fool head off, even as she bore into him, bullet after bullet.

It was if he didn't care. But, the blood-red stallion beside him... he cared...

She thought she saw something akin to fear in his eyes, or regret.

Apple Bloom stretched out next to Babs Seed and closed her eyes. That night. The clearing. The knife. Any mention of it in Babs’s presence was angrily dismissed. The name of her attacker had never been revealed to Applejack, Citrus, Libra, or anypony else. It was their secret. It was nowhere close to a juicy one, or even an interesting one. It was just something they never spoke of—there was no need to do so.

There was no reason to think about it. It was over a long, long time ago.

But, the more she thought about it, Apple Bloom realized something. While the sadistic palomino was a stranger to her, the one beside him was not. The time between the shot being fired and the resulting bullet being pried from her mare’s shoulder passed with all the hesitation of a freight train. Everything blurred and twisted into one awful, awful night. The imagery of those two stallions, however, rose clear above her haze, her lost time.

She knew the red one was him. The same. He had to be. She knew.

And she was sure Babs did, too.

A grunt and a rustling of hooves interrupted her thoughts.

“Babs?” Apple Bloom whispered, stretching a forehoof around her and looking towards her muzzle.

Babs coughed and groaned, her eyes slammed shut. “… Wha…”

The utterance of a single word sent her into a violent coughing fit. She creaked her heavy eyelids slowly open in a haze, jarred. What? Where am I? What is dis place? Everything was out of place. The room was far too grand to be their own. Was that a fireplace blazing in the corner? Hacking up spittle, she tried to remember.

Waves of agony rushed through her muscles, draining them of life. All her neurons screamed that something was very, very wrong. Babs grunted nonsense and shook her muzzle slowly, closing her eyes. C'mon, think! Think!

Babs tried to remember, but found nothing but a heap of broken images: a blazing bar; Turner, pinned to the floor; stallions rushing towards shots fired in the distance; Soapy, shooting his pistol into the air. Nothing seemed coherent or chronological.

Babs strained to remember, cursing her weakness. The pain was too much, blocking her memories. When she tried to make sense of where she was, or what had ultimately transpired, she came up with only blackness. She shivered, suddenly cold. Everything was strange. Everything hurt.

Apple Bloom stretched a forehoof towards the nightstand, grabbing a glass of water waiting patiently there. She held it carefully between her forehooves and raised it to her mare’s lips. “Drink, sugarcube."

Parched, Babs sipped at the glass greedily, rising her right forehoof to do so. A bolt of white-hot pain shot through her, punishing her mistake. She grimaced. Horseapples, dat hurt! What the hay? Why did dat hurt?

Babs started to crane her neck to look at her limb. Seeing this, Apple Bloom shook her muzzle to stop her and tilted the glass. With her assistance, Babs drained the glass completely.

Opening her eyes fully now, she looked towards Apple Bloom and mouthed for more. The empty glass was replaced with a second, full glass from the nightstand. Apple Bloom was prepared. She'd had to do something in between sobbing and pacing.

Apple Bloom helped her drink again, not that she minded. Once Babs was finished, she rubbed her back gently and asked, "Are ya hungry, sugarcube? Cold?"

"Cold," Babs muttered, rubbing at her nose with her left forehoof. This one did not hurt like the other.

Curious, she turned her head to her right foreleg at last. Finding a layer of white bandages wrapped around her shoulder, she began to wrack her mind, searching for any recollection. What?! How the hay did dat happen?! I was fine when I got outta the bar, wasn't I? What's goin' on? Why don't I rememba anythin'?

Babs sniffed and looked quizzically at Apple Bloom as she rose off the bed in search of a blanket, confused and a little panicked. "Where are we?"

"The innkeeper's room," Apple Bloom said quietly, locating a thick blanket hidden in a closet. Lifting it with her mouth, she trotted over and threw it over her mare's back, tucking it in but staying mindful of her injury.

Climbing up beside her, Apple Bloom stroked her cheek and hesitated. Memory was obviously failing her. The doctor hadn't warned about this. Nevertheless, it was understandable. Everypony in town who was still lucky enough to be capable of memory was, without a doubt, cursing their blessing.

It would be a long road to recovery for them all. The road to ruin had been so short, so unexpected.

Babs closed her eyes and practically purred at Apple Bloom's touch. Dis has ta be a dream. Jus' a really weird dream. Fireplace... innkeeper's room... Hurt... No. Everypony's fine. I'm fine. Dis is jus' a dream. No way dis could be real.

Sighing contentedly, Babs fell into her mare's forehooves, flopping over on her left side. In a dream-like trance, she looked up into those red-orange eyes and smiled. "Youze have... pretty eyes..." she whispered, trying her best to resist the forehooves of the Sandmare and failing thoroughly. Speaking and drinking seemed to have sapped what little strength she had away, and her mind and body pleaded for rest.

Apple Bloom forced a chuckle and held Babs gently in her hooves. "Go back ta sleep, silly filly. Ah'll be right here."

To her relief, Babs Seed nodded and closed her eyes, falling into two sets of awaiting hooves and being led away to somewhere brighter. Apple Bloom ran a forehoof through her mane, letting her own dreadful thoughts run rampant.

There would be plenty of time to relieve their hell, their tempest. Thousands of questions dotted on their horizon. What had become of the bar—and what would become of it now? What of the settlement and all the ponies within they cared about? Had they made it through? Would they come again? Would Babs be alright? Would Turner be alright?

Would they be alright?

Peace finally found Babs Seed, announcing its presence through her snoring. At least that was the same now. Apple Bloom knew, through the rest of her sleepless night, that nothing else would be.

~

THUD! THUD! THUD! THUD!

Where his energy came from, he would never know. Card Slinger knew that if he was in Manehatten right now, he would be lying on the cobblestones, an easy target. He would be flailing his forehooves at the empty, blackened skies, mocking their deaf, blind, and mute overseer. Why? Why did he take his best friend away from him, too? Weren't his parents enough?

Wasn't his soul enough?

The plains were silent, empty. The steady rhythm of all four hooves churning the ground in a constant gallop shattered the night. Above him, he heard a rush of wings. Bothering not to look, he assumed it was simply a hawk. Or, he realized with ice in his veins, a vulture. A bird of carrion would feast like a king tonight, amongst Knights and settlers both.

He knew he should be angry. In fact, he wished he was angry. And he was underneath another sickening emotion—something that commanded him to run, run, run, far and away from it.

"...Y ouze parents..."

Gritting his teeth, Slinger sucked in a lungful of clean air and altered his course, passing rows and rows of oasis cacti. His throat burned. He'd tossed aside his pistol a few minutes or miles ago, after he'd paid his last respects. Only his trusty black blade remained holstered to his shoulder. In a strange rush of remorse, he'd contemplated leaving it there, with him...

It was all he had to give, all that remained of the foal he'd once been.

It was the hardest thing he'd ever done—harder than any day in the quarry, harder than struggling to his hooves after any fight, harder than even groveling at the hindhooves of Manehatten's puppetmaster.

Ponies were supposed to say a few words during those kind of things, weren't they? He'd reckoned so. He'd never attended a funeral—not for his parents, not for his uncle, not for any of his most loyal followers. All those ideas dwarfed in appeal next to a stiff shot of whiskey and a joint or two.

Even so, he had no words to speak. He tried, opening and closing his mouth uselessly. Eventually, he left his friend to rest, in what he hoped (but knew wasn't) was peace.

"... Salt an' fire..."

He'd brought no saddlebag. He'd seen no reason to. A simple mission. One more arson, one more shootout if necessary. Those ponies in the uncharted territory, said the Master's messenger, would be few, and unarmed.

Ha! How wrong he'd been. And what a dear price they'd paid. Seasoned gang members they were, all but one taken down in the process. But how? They were mere Earth ponies. Even the unicorn sharpshooter had met his match, although it'd taken another unicorn to send him flying.

Card Slinger's throat quivered as he realized that, if had not been for Boone's thick-headed foalishness, he would not be galloping alone.

"... Fo' us all..."

He shook his muzzle, aggravated, and pressed on. Appleloosa couldn't be much farther. He'd been galloping non-stop for hours. He couldn't believe his strength.

On the cobblestones, his speed and endurance paled in comparison to this. It was incredible. But his momentum couldn't outrun his thoughts, his regrets...

Emotions! Stupid, petty emotions! They were beneath the leader of the Manehatten Kings. They were below King Crazy. They were things mares and weak stallions had. They were not something he possessed. Anger was not an emotion; it was a motivation. And he was the most motivated stallion in Manehatten, his enemy being the most manipulative and powerful of them all.

And, soon, he would—

WHOOSH!

A rush of wings slicing wind passed over him. Card Slinger snapped his eyes to the skies. Nothing. He slowed his tempo, downgrading from a gallop to a canter. "Jus' a buckin' hawk," he grumbled, head turned away from the plains.

WHOMP!

Card Slinger laid muzzle-down in the cool sand before he could face forward. He laid on his belly, all four hooves spread, dull pain shooting through his body. He groaned and raised his muzzle, spitting out a mouthful of sand. Standing before him was the Master's messenger, cackling with glee.

The haughty Griffon wore a finely pressed suit with silver buttons and a matching red silk tie. He wiggled his offending paw. "Ha! Watch where you're going, little Knight! If I had hooves instead of paws, why, you'd be practically bloody right now, wouldn't you? Tripping all over yourself! Ha!" He smacked his belly with a talon, each black claw glistening in the moonlight. He laughed and laughed and laughed, positively beside himself, pointing as the sand-coated Knight struggled to gain his bearings.

"What the buck are youze doin' heeya?!" Slinger snarled, his limbs trembling as he rose. He brushed sand from his fur and checked his shoulders and flanks. A rapidly blackening purple bruise graced his left shoulder where he'd crashed to the relentless Earth.

Snorting, flattening his ears, Slinger readied himself to strike. The Griffon's smile doubled. Slinger again found himself wanting to wipe it away, with hooves and steel.

The Griffon checked his talons casually and mused, "It was a beautiful night for a flight. What can I say? I thoroughly enjoy the rush of thermals through my feathers, especially strange winds."

The stallion stomped a forehoof in annoyance. "Horseapples! Youze were followin' me! How long youze been followin' me?!"

"Long enough to see you choke up over your poor wittle fwiend," the Griffon mocked, rubbing his cheeks. Feigning sadness, he brought a mighty talon up to his forehead and droned to the heavens, "Oh, poor wittle stal-win! Wost his wittle friend in the wittle wastewand! Oh, poor wittle stal-win, whatever shall you do?"

Hackles rising, Card Slinger exhaled a torrent of steam from his nostrils. His blade spoke to him, whispering its bloodthirst. So easy. It would be so easy to draw and slash, cutting the Griffon's wretched throat free from its master's rotting windpipe.

"Shut up! Shut the buck up!" Slinger growled, leaning forward.

Laughing, the Griffon strode over and draped a wing over the stallion in mock sympathy. "Oh, come now, little Card Slinger—"

"How did youze know ma name?!"

"I know everything. " His beak turned upwards into a sort-of-smile, sending a sort-of-chill down Slinger's spine.

"I am the Master's eyes and ears in Manehatten and beyond. I watched your company's pathetic excuse for an assault on that vagabond camp. Twelve dead on your side, twelve on theirs? Even match? Stalemate? Oh, silly Card Slinger, you know nothing of chess." His feathers tickled the stallion's mane and neck, provoking him into a primal growl. "Oh, come now, am I not pretty enough for you? Perhaps if I got down on all fours and sung your praises just like that little coltfriend of yours did, you would—"

Slinger slipped out of his grasp and drew his black blade. "Enough! Youze want a piece o' me?! Huh? HUH?!"

He brandished his weapon, thrusting it in the air towards the Griffon. His opponent remained stoic, snickering. This only provoked the insane King even further. "What the buck is youze problem wit' me?! What did I eva do ta youze?! Ain't we all Knights?!"

Chuckling heartily, the Griffon stood firm, making no motion to draw a weapon of his own or brandish his talons. He flared his wings to full length, majestic and bold. "Ah, the five stages of grief. It seems you have progressed to anger already. Quite touching. However, while I would love to continue our little exchange, I'm afraid I am called of higher things."

The messenger reached inside his suit, eliciting a flinch and battle stance from the opposing Knight. The Griffon shook his head and laughed again. "Don't worry. If I were going to draw my weapon, I would've already. You don't scare me. I know you have no intentions of fighting me."

"An' how do youze know dat?!" Card Slinger challenged, unfazed.

"Because you are a coward. I saw how you performed out there, cowering behind a cactus like some little lost colt. Even when your little lover went down, you didn't have the mettle to avenge him."

"He's not ma—"

He raised a single claw to stop him. "Silence! Before I change my mind!"

Slinger's lips began to form the words, "Change youze mind 'bout what," when the Griffon located his prize and revealed it.

In one strong talon, he clutched a heavy bag of bits, coins struggling against the weak container and practically crying out to escape. It was a fairly large moneybag, holding at least a hundred thousand bits, Slinger guessed.

Such a sight would've made even the most humble and pious of ponies fall to their hooves in rapture, worshiping the mammon before their eyes. Everypony who was anypony would've sold their souls to the Master to possess such wealth—and many did.

Card Slinger, however, merely blinked, saying nothing. He sheathed his blade and stared into the Griffon's empty eyes.

The Griffon shook the bag, setting off a string of happy jingling and chimes within it. "One hundred and thirty thousand bits," he explained, holding the prize high. "Payment for this wave of annexation. While those vagrants may have managed to partially save their bar—I took flight when they'd just about put the flames out—the message has surely been delivered. Although it pains me to do so, I must bestow this payment upon you."

The messenger held out a tiny percentage of his Master's wealth.

Card Slinger didn't move a muscle.

Smirking, the Griffon continued, "I am sure you are wondering why I am giving you such an enormous payment. Well, I suppose your kind never was one for fancy mathematics, so I shall explain. Ten thousand was your ransom—each. Thirteen of you. And now—"

"There's only me."

"Precisely, little colt." The Griffon patted his head with a talon, father of darkness. His would-be son—the prince—squirmed from his touch, nauseated, holding back the urge to retch his innards in disgust. How dare he. How dare he contemplate paying him after all of this...

The bits may as well been bathed in Boone's blood.

"It is yours," the Griffon said, shoving the bag in his muzzle.

Card Slinger shook his head. "No."

Tilting his head, the Griffon asked, "Say again?"

"NO," Slinger repeated, speaking from the bottom of his blackened soul. "Take youze bits an' shove 'em up youze ass. I don't want any o' it."

Pivoting on his hooves, he started towards his destination, only to be blocked by the Griffon again. Snorting, he warned, "Youze tryin' the lil' o' ma patience, fool."

The Griffon smiled his eerie smile again, and chucked the entire bag to his hooves. The moneybag landed with a satisfying WHOMP! coins happily jingling and clicking together in the process.

"It is yours," the Griffon simply said, raising his wings. Catching the breeze in his perfectly preened primary feathers, he snarled and added, "Take it, bury it, spend it, melt it, eat it, give it away, shove it where the sun doesn't shine. I don't care. I've frankly had enough of our little chat."

"Dat makes two o' us." Slinger made no movement towards the overflowing wealth at his hooves.

"Very well. Until we meet again, little Knight."

Jumping into the air, the Griffon pushed himself up into the atmosphere with a mighty flap of his wings, soon climbing higher and higher into the cloudless night.

Card Slinger stared at the coins. One hundred and thirty thousand. Enough to buy a mansion of his own, on a hilltop of his own. Enough to employ guards of his own, and not just those under threat of life and death. Enough to drown himself in rivers of fine whiskey and suffocate his sorrow in the manes of the finest mares. Enough to erase his past and change his future forever.

It would not be enough to raise the dead.

The Reaper drove a hard bargain. Only by raising that black blade would Card Slinger be able to follow his one and only friend into the dark, into the black. Into the salt and fire.

He exhaled slowly, staring off into the night. No. He was not a coward. No.

He was a monster.

Card Slinger was a monster, and monsters do not fall by their own hooves. They exist simply to be, and destroy, and consume, until they are freed by somepony worthy of slaying them. They exist to exert chaos and destruction upon the mad, mad world, so that everypony can know them, and, by knowing them, know their pain.

Leaving the bits to thieves, Card Slinger the monster took to his hooves, in search of Appleloosa, Manehatten, and redemption.

~

Sometime around dawn, Apple Bloom closed her eyes for the shortest spell of her young life. She'd barely succumbed to exhaustion when the slow trotting of hooves into the innkeeper's room roused her from her sleep. She fumbled blindly for her revolver, remembering one of the miner-ponies had retrieved it. She'd stashed it under her pillow, and felt the cold form of its steel waiting for her. She creaked one eye open and spun around, ready to draw it if needed.

"Howdy," a gentle voice greeted. Gradually, the innkeeper emerged into her (own) room, a smile painted on her muzzle.

Apple Bloom sighed and withdrew her forehoof, leaving the weapon where it slept. "Howdy," she greeted in return, no enthusiasm in her words. She, too, dug up a smile from the depths of her disposition, and plastered it in false joy.

"She sleepin' good?" the innkeeper asked, trotting over to a stool in the corner of the room. She was a graying Earth pony mare with an unkempt, brown mane and a dull, yellow coat speckled with sand. A simple cutiemark of a lit candle graced her flank. Bags under her eyes attested to an expected insomnia. She was an average mare, Apple Bloom knew, but possessed a heart that exceeded all benchmarks. She opened her inn to the west, offering cheap rates and warm smiles.

Curiously, however, the innkeeper never introduced herself, nor spoke to either Babs Seed or Apple Bloom beyond simple greetings. She'd never visited their bar—and probably never would, now. Such formality (or was it shyness?) was unheard of in these parts, until her.

Apple Bloom nodded and glanced over to her mare, snoring contentedly. "Yeah. She got up an' talked a lil'. Ah gave her some water an' got her a blanket. She woke up a few mo' times but didn't say nothin', jus' kinda opened her eyes an' then fell right back asleep." She moved a strand of mane out of Babs's eyes and sighed. "Ah don't think she remembers anythin', Miss..."

Chuckling awkwardly, Apple Bloom brought a forehoof up to her muzzle. "Ah'm sorry. Ah don't think Ah've ever properly introduced maself!"

Shaking her head, Apple Bloom flushed in embarrassment, amazed at how long it had been without a proper introduction. Sure, it had been a busy six months or so, but still... What would Applejack say? "Ah'm—"

"Apple Bloom, Ah know." The innkeeper smiled. "An' she's Babs Seed."

Confused, Apple Bloom blinked herself awake. "How did ya—:

"Ah know a lot o' things ya don't know, honey. Ah jus' prefer ta keep 'em ta maself." Hopping off the stool, she trotted over to Apple Bloom and stook a forehoof out to greet her. "Ah'm Thyme."

"Nice ta meet ya, Thyme," Apple Bloom said, shaking forehooves.

"Meeting" somepony she'd seen on nearly a regular basis for half a year—and under such circumstances, no less—was an incredibly odd feeling, but she chose not to comment on it. Time spent in the wild taught her that everypony had a story, and some chose to keep them to themselves. Some chose to flaunt their names proudly, and some chose to tuck them away, or conceal them under nicknames. Like "Soapy" for a perpetually dirty prospector stallion.

Babs grunted in her sleep but did not wake.

Thyme sat down on her haunches beside the bed, tilting her head in concern. "You haven't slept a wink, have ya, Apple Bloom?"

Apple Bloom shook her head. "Ah can't. Ah jus'... Ah don't even know where ta begin," she admitted. Great heaping hoof-fulls of emotions struggled for dominance within her, piling on top of the exhaustion that pulled her eyelids tauntingly down. She'd fought her sleep all night, staying strong, remembering Libra's words.

Thyme nodded and looked away, speaking to the floorboards. "Neither do Ah. Whole lot o' us up in hooves 'bout what happened. Twelve o' our friends, gone..." She bit her lip and allowed a tear to fall. "Managed ta save some o' yer bar, by the way..."

Apple Bloom knew she should express gratitude. She didn't. It seemed strange to say thanks for anything that happened in the wake of last night, in the haze of bullets and flame. So, she didn't respond, and resumed to quietly stroking Babs Seed's mane.

Sniffling, Thyme said, "Yeah... It was amazin' how the town pulled together, made a whole fire line an' everythin'. Ceilin's gone, but most o' the supportin' walls are still there. Y'all can rebuild, if ya want. But..." She swallowed her tears and choked, "Ah can't believe... Ah can't..."

A pair of forehooves pulled her into a hug. Thyme looked up to find Apple Bloom's eyes shining with their own tears.

"Ah can't either," Apple Bloom whispered. "Ah wish this was a bad dream. Ah mean..." Glancing over to the slumbering mare, she let her words hang in the air. Innkeeper understood bartender and nodded slightly, returning the embrace.

"Ah guess... Ah guess we'll jus' have ta all pick up the pieces now..."

Pulling away, Apple Bloom mumbled, "Ah guess..."

Wiping at her eyes, Thyme composed herself and sighed, staring down at the floor again. "Ah'd better get everypony up an' rousin'. We have a lot ta do ta-day... lots o' funerals..."

Apple Bloom nodded, looking away.

"Ah'll miss Skagway an' Dyea the most," Thyme said. She forced a laugh. "Without 'em, who knows where these lands would be. Why, they practically started the gold rush, all them years ago—"

"S-S-Skagway? D-D-Dyea?" Apple Bloom scooted backwards on the bed, forcing distance between Thyme's words and her ears. "No! No! Ya can't mean—"

Wordlessly excusing herself, choking down her sobs, Thyme rose and rushed out the door, leaving Apple Bloom to the denial coursing through her soul.

This simply wasn't real. First, that sadistic scumbag had rocketed a bullet into her mare's shoulder, and now, two of her best friends in the west—second only to Turner himself—were counted among those lost in the madness...

Skagway and Dyea, Apple Bloom understood, had lost their lives, lost their lives saving their settlement, their bar, their hides. Miles away, they'd fired off warning shots, charging into chaos, and now...

All that remained was the golden ring in her mare's ear.

Apple Bloom looked worriedly towards Babs Seed. Not only would she have to deal with this awful, incomprehensible nightmare of a reality, she would have to explain it to the injured (and surely distraught) mare. Icy hooves poked and prodded at her core, beginning to pull her down, down, down—

No. She had to be strong.

She had to be.

Thankfully, another set of hooves roused Apple Bloom from the nightmarish asylum of her thoughts.

The doctor stood in the doorway, his muzzle grizzled and weathered. He, too, appeared to be one step away from collapsing to the floor. He motioned with a forehoof for Apple Bloom to come to him.

Apple Bloom rose from the bed and trotted worriedly over, glancing at Babs Seed every step of the way. "Mornin', Doc," she whispered, forcing a smile.

Casting aside the charade, the doctor gruffly asked, "Did she sleep through the night?"

"Mostly. She woke up once an' talked a bit, an' woke up a few other times but jus' closed her eyes an' went back ta sleep. She doesn't know where she is o' what happened..."

"Don't be alarmed. That's to be expected." He ran a forehoof through his mane, professional composure wearing thin in wake of the most chaotic night of his life. "The stallion she rescued is—"

"Turner?!"

The stallion shrugged and nodded. "I suppose so. My assistant is taking care of him, but didn't ask his name, either.

"Anyway, he is recuperating fairly well. He's awake and alert right now, though he only remembers bits and pieces. Traumatic events can sometimes leave a lasting amnesia upon the survivor, depending on the severity of the event, their mental health, and other—"

"Babs is not crazy," Apple Bloom snapped, stomping a forehoof. "She'll remember! Ah know she will! Jus' give it time!"

Raising his forehooves in submission, the doctor explained, "I was not inferring anything of the sort. I'm merely saying, ma'am, that she may or may not remember. That remains to be seen.

"In the meantime, just make sure she is eating and drinking, and keep her off her hooves for a few days. Clean the wound at least twice a day and change the bandages, and all should be well."

Flattening her ears, Apple Bloom mentally scolded her outburst. "Thank ya, Doc," she mumbled from the corner of her muzzle, staring past the doorway.

In the hotel lobby, an assorted group of ponies were sipping coffee and tea in silence, a few munching on some pastries one had brought. From a window near the door, she could see the bar they had built with their own hooves—half-burnt and crumbling, windows shattered and rafters fallen.

Her heart sank and fired a sickening wave of angry adrenaline, sorrow and rage smouldering like the ashes beyond.

The towering stallion patted her shoulder gently and pasted a grin onto his countenance. "You look very tired, Miss, ah—"

"Apple Bloom."

"Miss Apple Bloom. Yes. You were very brave for your mare last night. Have you slept at all?" At her negative, he urged, "Why don't you go ahead and rest a bit? I'll sit in here and watch your mare, ah—"

"Babs Seed."

"Babs Seed, right. Yes, I'll watch her for you if you like. I'm Doctor Triage, by the way," he said, offering a forehoof to the mare.

For the second time that insane morning, Apple Bloom shook forehooves, meeting a new face with reluctance and a thin mask. "Thank ya kindly, Doctor Triage. Ah'll be right back."

Nodding, he trotted inside the innkeeper's room and pulled up a stool in the corner, observing his slumbering patient. A tough ol' mare indeed, she appeared to be lost to the world, deep in dreams. The bandage on her right shoulder remained intact, dotted here and there with spots of blood. She grunted occasionally between snores, but didn't seem to be in too much pain. Good.

Luckily for her, she had a strong mare who kept her awake through it all, out of shock, alive.

~

Without bits, without a train ticket, he snuck on board, stowing away in a sleeper cab near the back of the train. Dodging the patrol of a feeble old guard-pony, Card Slinger boarded the train to Manehatten, to the beast. He hoped that whomever found the bits he'd left lying on the barren ground choked on them.

Blood money. Blood money that killed his blood brother.

For the first time in almost four years, he questioned his rise to power. Hundreds of ponies called him their King. Substances of all varieties and strengths found a home in his grandiose hideout. Mares of all shades were proud to throw themselves at him. He was certain that he was the second most feared stallion in Manehatten—second only to the living, breathing slime that hid himself within the walls of his mansion and his skyscraper...

Oh, yes. Card Slinger knew his home on the thirty-third floor, disguised under some insurance agent's name. He'd extracted the information not too long ago from one of his own, a double-agent guard who patrolled the Master's very perimeter with a wink and a smile. He knew. Card Slinger knew, and would use that knowledge to his advantage.

Almost twenty-one now, he mumbled as he did when he was thirteen, "Revenge..."

He laid down in the cab and curled into his hooves, visions of salt and fire dancing before his eyes.

~

Being only the sister of the Element of Honesty (rather than the Bearer herself), Apple Bloom was able to lie without sputtering all over herself and making a mess of things. At least, she hoped she didn't.

Ignoring Doctor Triage's advice, she made her way through the inn, pressing her ear to several doors in search of Turner. A gruff stallion's voice barking, "Easy! Easy! Ahh! Dat stings!" declared she had located him at last.

Knock, knock.

A thin, lanky unicorn stallion held the door slightly ajar with his magic, peering curiously at her. "Yes? Can I help you?"

"Is Turner in here?"

"Apple Bloom?!"

Shoving past the unicorn before he could close the door, Apple Bloom burst into the room, galloping to his bedside. "Turner! Turner! Yer alright!" she exclaimed, relieved, happy tears forming in her eyes.

The stallion laid on his stomach on the bed, all four hooves curled towards himself. His muzzle and coat were marred with various bruises and cuts—some bandaged, some left to heal in the open air. He wore a slight smile on his face, overjoyed to see one of his two favorite mares standing before him.

Turner pulled himself closer to her with his forehooves and outstretched them. Apple Bloom accepted them eagerly, squeezing him tight.

"Ahhh, not so tight," he groaned, her forehooves snaking around his torso.

Jerking away, Apple Bloom muttered, "Heh, s-sorry."

The unicorn trotted over to them and shot a disapproving gaze towards the mare. "Watch your hooves! He's strained some of his back and torso muscles." He then rounded on the stallion. "Don't exert yourself. You need to be off your hooves for at least a week."

Turner rolled his eyes and snorted. "'Cuse me, Doc, but I'll be fine, an' I'll hug anypony I want ta." Speaking to Apple Bloom, he mumbled, "Don't listen ta dis kook. Now," he said, facing the unicorn, "can youze give us some privacy, please? I want ta speak ta Apple Bloom, alone."

Dismissing them both with a flick of his head, the doctor exited the room, making sure to slam the door on his way out. Ungrateful patients, them all.

Patting a spot on the bed beside him, Turner urged Apple Bloom to come up with a wink and a smile. She obliged, stretching out carefully next to the stallion. This time, when she smiled, it didn't feel (or seem) as obviously forced. "How ya feelin'?"

"Good as I can, I guess," he said, laughing a bit. "How I managed ta get through all o' dat, an' still be sittin' heeya... Most High only knows. How's Babs? Is she alright?" He stared into her, eyes wide and muzzle trembling.

"She's fine," Apple Bloom said, unsure if she spoke the truth or lies. She elaborated, "Physically, Doc says as long as she rests, she'll be alright. They had ta..." She looked away. "Take the bullet out... Outta... h-her..."

Laying a forehoof across her shoulders, Turner soothed, "But... dat's good. She won't get no infection dat way... An'...she'll be alright. She's tough. She's like me," he joked, failing to inject humor into the situation.

Weakly nodding, the mare placed her forehoof on top of his. "She is tough. She's strong. But... she doesn't remember, Turner. She woke up last night, coughin' an' askin' fer water. Which is good, Ah think, but... she didn't remember what happened."

"I didn't at first, neitha." Turner explained, "Jus' woke up a few hours 'go, an' dat bastard o' a doctor had ta explain ta me what happened. Youze jus' give it time. She'll be fine."

"Ah hope so. Ah don't..." Burying her muzzle into her other forehoof, Apple Bloom muttered, ashamed, "Ah don't want ta explain it. Ah don't want ta relive it. Ah don't wanna talk 'bout it. Not yet..."

"An' dat's alright," Turner assured. "It's alright ta not want ta. Horseapples, everypony's in shock. We're all dealin' wit' it different. Buck. I heard dey gonna be doin' all the funerals ta-day, even..."

Lost for words, Apple Bloom forced her tears away, managing another nod. She was grateful for the universal sign language of "no" and "yes". These gestures kept her words from betraying her.

Stay strong, stay strong, stay strong, Apple Bloom thought, rhythmic mantra on endless loop. Babs would soon stir and wake, and would need somepony composed and resilient—not one who could barely handle simple conversation.

"'Ey. Look at me, kiddo," Turner said, lowering his gaze. "It's gonna be alright. I promise. Now, please, look at me."

Apple Bloom peeked out from her forehoof and met his eyes, copper into fiery-rubies. Staring past her mask, he knew her struggle, battling her own need for catharsis. He, too, had wept once he'd been told and recalled, everything crashing down upon him harder than any bar rafter.

Turner knew he could hash out what happened with his daughter's mare, relive it from every second he knew in his drunken lucidity. He knew he could guide her through those moments, navigating through the horror as skillfully as he did the mountains and plains. But he knew also, ultimately, that she would not be willing to do so—for a reason far more than sheer shock.

Taking a deep breath, Turner said, "Look, I know dis ain't the right time o' place ta be talkin' 'bout dis, but..."

Silence. He let his words sink hang in the air for a few moments, before he let the hammer drop.

"I heard youze an' Citrus talkin' dat night."

Apple Bloom lifted her muzzle and stared at him, jaw agape. "Wh-what are you talkin' 'bout?!"

"When I ran off an' came back, dat night in Appleloosa... I heard youze an' Citrus talkin', while Babs was asleep."

Blushing, she flattened her ears and stared at the wall. "Turner, Ah don't—"

"Crazy dat I'm bringin' dis up right now, ain't it?"

Disrespectful as it was, she nodded anyway.

Turner stared at an opposite wall, digesting his own words. Crazy. It was crazy. So was everything else. Why not add in a bit of his own insanity? And, hay, if it pried a truth from Apple Bloom, who was trying so desperately to hold it together for everypony right now, then he would be even crazier not to pursue it further.

"Look, youze don't have ta talk 'bout it iffa youze don't want ta. I won't make youze, an' I don't plan on sayin' anythin' ta Babs—"

"Ya haven't, right?" She turned to face him, muzzle a mix of worry and embarrassment.

"I have not. I wouldn't do dat ta eitha o' youze. But, Bloom..."

Turner sighed and flicked his ears, contemplating. "See, reunitin' wit' her, an' Libra, an' then goin' through last night... seein' ma life flash befo' ma eyes, thinkin' it was the end..."

Turner started straight at her, unashamed of the tear brimming in his eye. "Youze think a lot 'bout life, then. Youze think 'bout who youze are, who youze wanna be. Who youze wanna be wit'. Things youze woulda done differently.

"I wish I would've tried harder ta find Libra, ta find Babs. I knew there was summat 'bout her when I met her in Manehatten, but I convinced maself she was too old ta be mine. I knew Libra musta lived somewhere in Manehatten, but I didn't try ta find her. I was scared. I think back on all dat, an'..."

Lip quivering, Turner said, "Twenty years, Apple Bloom. Twenty years, I wasted."

"Ah'm... Ah'm sorry, Turner." Apple Bloom leaned forward and nuzzled his cheek gently, careful not to aggravate any of his injures. He smiled and returned the gesture, although he let the tear tumble down his cheek. "That must've been real hard," she whispered dumbly, feeling powerless to comfort him.

"It was, kiddo. But, youze know why I bring it up?"

"Why?"

Turner said, "Ma point is... life's too short ta bury how youze feel. It's too short ta not go afta the ones youze love, ta be happy. Now," he warned, holding up a forehoof, "it's not ma business, it's not ma relationship, but... I do bless youze, no matta what youze decide. Jus'... think on it, alright?"

"A-alright," Apple Bloom relented, unwilling to argue. Her thoughts drifted to the letter stashed in her saddlebag. So foalish now, insignificant.

Even if Derpy the mail-mare herself shot straight into their room, wings outstretched and begging for a delivery to make, she wouldn't unearth that parchment. Not even if Derpy threatened to go on a hunger strike. More muffins for everypony, and more important things for Apple Bloom and Babs Seed.

She hated herself for even thinking of it...

"Youze alright?"

"Y-yeah," she muttered doing her best to perk up. "T-thanks, Turner. Ah... Ah hope ya feel better soon."

Apple Bloom carefully climbed off the bed and to all four of her hooves. "Ah'm gonna see how Babs is doin' an' try ta get some sleep. An' then Ah'll be back ta see ya, alright?"

Although he knew better, Turner let her go. "Alright."

~

When Babs Seed opened her eyes, the first thing she realized was that she was not alone.

What the—

"Ahh, you're awake." Rising to his hooves, Doctor Triage trotted over to his patient. "Do you remember me?"

Babs Seed shook her muzzle, rubbing her forehead with a forehoof. A hammer befitting any blacksmith currently waged war upon her temples. Her throat burned, forcing her to cough again. Hissing pain surging through her right shoulder, Babs glanced over to her bandages. Oh, horseapples, I really am hurt. It wasn't a dream...But... how did dis happen?

"'Ey," she spat between coughs, "who are youze? Why youze in ma room?" The innkeeper's room, but still...

"I am Doctor Triage," he gingerly replied, plopping down on his haunches. "I am just making sure you are alright. Apple Bloom will be back soon."

"Bloom? Is she alright?"

His nod sent relief crashing over her. "Yes, Babs Seed, she is alright. Shaken up, of course, but we all are."

"'Shaken up'?"

He tilted his head. "What do you remember?"

Groaning, she calmed her coughing and tapped her chin with a forehoof. While she racked her aching head, he fetched another glass of water. She eagerly accepted, drinking it quickly. "I... I dunno, Doc." She passed the empty glass to him. "I rememba shots goin' off, Turner was in the bar. I went in got him out, an'... then..."

She fell silent, prying at her archives. C'mon! Summat happened ta youze. Look at youze. Dat's a pretty big bandage, must be a big wound... Hah... C'mon, Babs...

Triage encouraged, "Do you remember anything once you left the bar?"

"Yeah," Babs muttered, looking towards him. "So much smoke, an' fire... I was coughin' up good, smoke in ma spit. An' I leaned down ta catch ma breath, an'..."

Her muzzle went white.

Babs Seed remembered a bullet charging through her shoulder, sending her to the ground and Turner tumbling. She remembered being lifted onto Doctor Triage's back and carried into the inn. She remembered three ponies holding her down along with Apple Bloom, who rambled and held her as the doctor removed the bullet and she screamed around a disgusting axe handle. So much pain....

Above it all rose one image... Card Slinger...

Standing there, pistol in his forehooves...

Her pupils dilated to the size of a Yukon haul.

He shot me.

HE shot me.

HE SHOT ME.

"Babs?"

Lying on a mattress in a hotel room—a hoof-made construct—she was disconnected, apart from the source of her strength. Lacking power from the Earth, the mare nevertheless found her magic here, in this hour, from the past, from the roots she’d abandoned, and she remembered...

~

“Go."

“What?! Are youze fuckin’ crazy?! Youze jus' gonna let me go?!”

“GO! GO! Get outta my sight. If I eva, I mean, EVA catch youze on ma property o' harmin' anypony else again… whether it’s me, o’ ma family, o' some foal down the street… I will find youze, Card Slinga. An' I will kill youze.”

“... Youze are a better pony than youze father eva was, Babs Seed.”

~

The doctor was right in front of her, staring into her emerald eyes.

“Babs?"

She was on her stomach, lying silent.

"Babs Seed?"

Her shoulder was throbbing, injured, useless.

The stallion clapped his forehooves in front of her.

She was in a clearing.

Her thousand-yard stare remained unbroken.

Card Slinger was on the ground.

Doctor Triage asked, "Babs, do you remember now?"

The knife was in her forehooves now.

She took a slight, shaky breath, agony traversing down her shoulder and through her forelimb, as if she'd been shot a second time. The world began to spin again, beckoning her to join its carousel. She squeezed her eyes and willed it all away.

She had all power over him.

Doctor Triage leaned up slightly, taking her forehooves in hers. "You're having a flashback. It's going to be alright. I'm here."

She could kill him, if she wanted to.

She pleaded wordlessly for him to shut up. His words were thundering hammers on the iron anvil of her consciousness, agonizing sparks flying to and fro’ carelessly. They hissed and burned and bore holes through her haze. They made her remember more.

But she didn’t.

The stallion was nodding, muttering something about trauma.

She was not a bully.

Babs Seed stared past the wall of the innkeeper's room, past the inn, past the west, past Appleloosa, past Ponyville, into Manehatten.

She was not a bad seed.

Gently, keeping his words low, Doctor Triage encouraged, "What do you see? What do you remember? Talk to me, Babs Seed."

She was a lover and a fighter, a dreamer and a deceiver. She was in pain: physical, emotional, spiritual. She was terrified. She was enraged. She was in mourning. She knew, even in her insignificant, meaningless twelve years of life as a living, breathing spirit, that she would be perfectly justified in killing him right and then there. But she didn’t.

Finding strength somehow, among the haze and the ashes, her pain and fear, she muttered, "He's comin' fo' me."

The stallion asked, confused, "Who?"

She was better than him. She was stronger than him. She had been shown mercy, and forgiveness, and love, and what it meant to be saved.

A bartender.

A butler.

A sister.

A mother.

Two fillies.

Two cousins.

A grandmother.

A chef.

Four foals.

One colt.

And one filly shivering beside her.

“Him. He came heeya ta kill me."

Eights years ago, Babs Seed spared Card Slinger’s life.

Eight years later, he tried to take hers again.

"It's all ma fault," Babs told Triage, staring into his eyes, a total stranger. He came fo' me. He wanted his revenge. He always did. Appleloosa first, an' then, when I wasn't there, out heeya. I got all dem ponies killed. Silverstar. The otha deputy. An'—

"Triage, how many ponies died last night?"

"Twelve," Triage answered. He stared at the floor. "Heroes all."

"Who were dey?"

"Salt Sphere, Blackjack, Storm Cloud, Skagway, Dyea—"

"SOAPY?!"

Babs struggled out of his forehooves, eyes wild, heart aflame as it sank. Grabbing him by the muzzle, she hissed, "Youze a liar! Youze lyin'! Soapy an' Dyea are alright! Soapy an' Dyea are alright!"

No! No! No, no, no, no! Not dem! Please, iffa Youze are there, please, let it be a mistake. Let dem be alright! Not dem!

Wrestling from her grasp, Triage held her forehooves down, shaking his muzzle. "I'm so, so sorry. I wasn't able to save them, or anypony else. Just you and the stallion you carried—"

"Turner?!"

Babs struggled against his grip, hooves itching to burst. She began to rise, demanding, "He's alright, isn't he?! Youze fixed him, didn't youze?!"

"Stay down!" Triage barked, shoving her back down as carefully as he could. "He's fine! Recuperating in a few rooms down, but fine! You need to—"

Ignoring him, Babs gathered her strength and jumped from the bed. She took one step forward with her right forelimb before collapsing, shrieking in agony.

She laid there, taking deep, heaving breaths, knowing nothing but the burning pain rocketing through her nerves. She didn't hear Doctor Triage's soothing words, or Apple Bloom's hoof-steps galloping towards her, or the weeping in nearby rooms. She didn't feel two sets of hooves lifting her up and onto the bed, or see the worry on their muzzles. She didn't feel the nervous kiss of her mare on her cheek, and her distraught forehoof running through her mane.

In her mind's eye, she saw two stallions: one blood-red with a mane black as night; the other, cream-and-beige with a black mane. She felt the heat and fury of their stares, their weapons raised towards her.

Those same weapons were raised towards her aunt, sister, cousin, mother, father, and mare. Those same stallions set her bar ablaze, doubtlessly transforming it into a pile of ash and smouldering wood. Those same wretched, awful, soulless, psychotic, evil stallions inflicted immeasurable pain onto those she loved and cherished, stealing them away, hurting them, killing them...

Because of her.

It was all because of her.

Babs Seed fell inside the black.

~

"MMMPPPPRRRRGHHHH!"

The panicked pegasus stallion struggled his wings against their binds, futile. The balled-up tie stuffed in his mouth and bandana around his muzzle rendered his frantic cries for help a mere annoyance. An annoyance that made the Master chuckle, complementing his fine cigar and glass of orange juice rather nicely.

"So, Care Package, you understand the terms and conditions of our agreement, don't you? Or would you rather one of my guards knocks some sense into you again?" He nodded to the guards beside his double doors.

Care Package, headmaster of the Ponyville mail service, nodded rapidly, wide-eyed and fearful. Without warning, he'd been knocked out of the skies a few hours earlier, a pair of rough talons seizing him by his shoulders and knocking him out cold. He'd awoken later in this magnificent office, bound and gagged, watching the blue stallion—the Master—smirk and laugh at him.

The Master strode in front of the bound pegasus, leaning close to exhale citrus scent upon his muzzle. "Oh, you certainly didn't get very good marks in flight school, did you, little worm? Getting knocked out of the sky and into my Griffon's talons."

At his mention, the finely dressed Griffon puffed his chest. The guard beside him rolled his eyes and tightened his grip on his rifle.

Care Package let loose another "MMMMRPH!" of protest.

The Master grinned, his teeth a haunting, perfect white. "Listen here, worm," he sneered, taking the pegasus's chin into his forehoof. "You do as I say, and you will be rewarded. Not only will I pay you generously, but I will spare your life as well.

"You are to monitor all outgoing letters to Canterlot—particularly, those to the Princesses. You will open them and read all mail to them before sending it through. I'm sure a postmaster such as yourself knows how to do this undetected. You are not to question me, or to hesitate. I already have several of your staff members on my payroll already, and they will be advised of your new duties."

Care Package stared in wide disbelief, not even bothering to squirm, struggle, or shout.

The stallion's rough forehoof released his chin. "Oh, yes. You will soon come to love me very much, little worm. Just as everypony else does. I will pay you well, take care of you, give you all you want. In exchange, all I want is loyalty. Many, you see, come to me for such assistance. I, however, am merely being proactive with our relationship."

Mortified, Care Package nodded quickly, praying his ordeal was soon over. Monitor letters sent to the Princesses? A strange and illegal request it was. Nopony had ever asked such a vile thing of him. At first, he mentally refused outright. However, the threat of steel at the door nullified his ethical obligations.

He valued his heartbeat too much, wishing not to part from it. The guns blazing towards him terrified him; he'd never seen anything like them before.

Thus, Care Package nodded again and again in agreement, accepting the terms of his release. If it be the cost of his loyalty... so be it, though it pained him to the core.

The Master nodded to his zebra guard. "Come here. Let us make this one a Knight."

Confined to a desk job, Care Package regretted his weak flying skills.

Confined in the office of the mysterious Master, he regretted them even more.

Reversing Polarity

The air was thick and dry underneath the high-noon sun. Together, the entirety of the uncharted territory in the southwest filed from their tents, rooms, and shanties when Celestia rose her beacon to the highest point in the skies.

Vagabonds, vagrants, settlers, nomads, prospectors, and dreamers alike marched their way through town towards a small gathering of stallions near the cacti-grove. There, a team of ten had paid the last honors to the fallen, performing grim but necessary work. With ten sets of weathered, weary hooves, they plunged deep into the chasms of the Earth, laying their heroes to rest within the source of their might.

A myriad of ponies marched side-by-side towards the grove, muzzles low, eyes on the horizon. Their hoof-steps were slow, deliberate, churning up a cloud of holy dust in their weary wake. All but five among the territory’s populace arrived, casting aside their own worry and fever dreams to attend. There were names to be spoken, rest to be granted.

One of the awaiting stallions—a veteran of the Royal Guard, thickly muscled and battle-scarred—nodded as the masses approached him. Sweat glistened on his brow. His steel-gray eyes were dim but sharp, staring into the soul of each arriving pony. He found no malice in them. Only sorrow.

The veteran respectfully chose to maintain his silence. He directed the arrivals to the center of the cacti-grove, where twelve patches of freshly disturbed sand slumbered. There, the West held its best lovingly tight, but let their spirits stray.

In solemn silence, the gathering of wayward ponies sat and listened as the veteran strode before them and began last rites. His voice boomed throughout the entire wasteland, quaking the Earth beneath their hooves. He recited the words he had been taught long ago, dismayed to repeat them once again.

“Friends, we are gathered here to honor those brave ponies who gave their lives last night, protecting and defending this patch of soil. Nay, protecting us, this conglomerate of dreamers and deserters, tramps and travelers. These ponies here—may they rest in peace—rushed to meet evil in the flesh, with courage and honor that behooves us all. In all my years as a Royal Guard, I never saw courage like I saw last night on the muzzles of those who rushed to impede the invaders…”

Shuffling his hooves, the stallion cleared his throat and spoke to the skies, to the past.

“Equestria has known conflict, and chaos, and war, and hate. Yes, it is the truth—the awful truth. My years in the Guard showed me that. Equestria is vast and wide, with ponies and Griffons and zebras and others of all stripes and shades. We are many, and yet, somehow, we are one. Somehow, we live in together in these lands, in harmony.

“We live in harmony because of those brave enough to stand up to evil, and madness, and Discord Itself. For although the spirit of chaos and mayhem may have been imprisoned in stone, his terror manifests in us all, lying in wait for the right trigger. The capacity for evil exists within all of us. So does the capacity for good. For unbelievable, amicable good.”

He turned to the twelve now, addressing them as if they were his own soldiers. A single tear formed in his right eye, sparkling in the sunlight.

“Thank you all for your courage, your honor, your sacrifice. It was because of you that, despite everything, this place still stands. That we still stand. That I still stand.

"Your bravery shall never be forgotten, and shall go down in the annals of the West. May the old stories be true,” he said, lip quivering, “and may Galaxia herself greet you in peace and open wings.”

Facing the crowd, the stallion slowly withdrew his revolver from his holster. The weapon trembled in his forehooves as he aimed away from the sun and up towards the heavens. Six of the other stallion who’d assisted him in his grim task did the same, until there were seven shaking barrels of steel shining in the light.

Like the Guard had taught him, he barked the command. In those times, it had been cannonballs piercing the silence, leading the fallen to their refuge above. But times had changed. And so, he salvaged the old ways and the old ritual, here in the chaotic now.

Seven guns, three volleys each.

Twenty-one bullets flying free.

The noise echoed throughout the plains. All in attendance hoped they were heard, loud and clear, and would not only honor the brave below, but stir the action of the silent above.

When the smoke cleared, the veteran stallion held a forehoof to his heart, and let his tears fall freely.

The settlement sat on its haunches for a while, reminiscing, praying. All but five within its invisible borders let the silence that followed serenade their heroes to the great beyond.

Despite the heat, everypony was chilled to the bone.

~

Babs Seed emerged gradually from the well of the black, inch by torturous inch. Sound spurred her first, vision clasped firmly in the forehooves of her dreamless sleep. She was stirred ever-so-slightly by the hushed whispers emanating all around her. The voices were familiar and strange, belonging to mares she knew she knew, but her mind swore were unknown.

“… Ya think it was the same ponies, Auntie?..."

"... Has to be... No way in Tartarus this was a coincidence..."

"... Mother, what do you think... This means, then?"

Slowly peering one eye open, a scene of three fidgeting mares flashed before her. All three played with their hooves, lying on their bellies on the floorboards. Coming up for the depths of a treacherous ocean, Babs Seed felt the haze obscure her vision, rendering her visitors mysterious.

Horseapples... What... where's dat doctor? Did he slip me summat? I know dat I know dem, I jus’ can’t… think straight. What the hay? Dis can’t be a dream.

Pain coursing through her veins and thundering in her skull denied that possibility. No, it was real, so very, achingly real.

One of them spoke up again, sighing and shaking her head. Her features began to fade into focus, crisp with concern: flattened ears, tired eyes, a frowning muzzle. "... I don't know, Citrus. I don’t know what any of this means, or who these ponies are. I wish I knew."

The next voice pricked Babs's left ear to attention. Her words were melodic, comforting, imprinted. As the awakening mare’s attention shifted to her, her concern and confusion became evident as well. She sighed softly before saying, "Auntie, there was this stallion out there when it all happened, an’ he—"

Another mare's eyes caught her sibling's solitary pupil and lit up immediately. Her frown transformed to a slight smile, her piercing orange eyes boring into the curious green.

Awash in joy, Citrus Blossom rose from the floor and strode over to Babs's bedside. The other two took note and quietly rose to follow her.

Leaning up on her forehooves, Citrus nuzzled her sibling and whispered, "Babs? Are you awake, hon?”

A grunt and slow, pained nod were her affirmation.

"Babs..." Apple Bloom clambered up on the innkeeper's bed and laid down carefully beside her, steadying her mare with a forehoof as she groaned and lifted her head. "How do ya feel, sugarcube?"

Instead of answering, Babs Seed blinked a few times and gazed around the room in disbelief. I knew it! I knew it was dem! Had ta be. But… how? Why? "Ma? Citrus? What're youze doin' heeya?"

Libra Scales sat down on her haunches in front of her daughter and kissed her cheek. Overcome with relief—thankful to see her alive, conscious, and in one (broken) piece—she leaned down to speak to her. "We came as quickly as we could once we heard what happened. Are you alright?" She frowned. "I know about this,” she said, pointing at the bandage on her shoulder. “The doctor says that’ll be alright in a few days. But, Babs, dear, we heard you had a bit of a... spell."

A spell. Yes. That was the simplest way Apple Bloom could describe it to them. Truthfully, she was convinced that what had transpired was nothing short of a full-blown trance. Never before had Babs Seed acted so terrifyingly strange. Even her blank, emotionless stare following the news of Appleloosa’s shooting had been minor in comparison.

Doctor Triage attempted to bury the truth in nonsense medical jargon, speaking haughty of “post-traumatic stress”. However, Apple Bloom knew her mare, knew her well, and knew the darkness dancing before her eyes.

She had returned there, where she'd found herself, where they'd found each other, in all of its terrifying significance. She had been a foal again, attacked by a maniac and a monster with hatred in his eyes. A monster who stalked her steps…

Babs Seed weakly titled her head and stared sideways at her mother. "'Spell?' What are youze talkin' 'bout?" Huh? Magic? Is dis what dis is—some black magic?

The three exchanged worried looks. Guiding her muzzle and turning to face her, Apple Bloom explained, "Sugarcube… What she's talkin' 'bout is that, that state you went inta befo' ya passed out.”

“’Passed out’? When did I do dat?”

“Yesterday mornin’.” The answer was simple, crisp, clear, arriving suddenly. It departed with a deadpan, nauseating silence.

More confusion. “What? Youze sayin’ I’ve been sleepin’ ova a day?” Babs raised her head up, slipping out of Apple Bloom’s grasp. Such an ordinary act seemed to require extraordinary effort. She grimaced.

Apple Bloom scooted closer. Citrus and Libra stepped closer, urging her not to strain her voice. “That’s right, hon. You’ve been asleep since yesterday mornin’. It’s noon now, the next day. Doc’s been checkin’ on ya an’ says ya should be feelin’ better soon. Ya don’t remember me wakin’ ya up ta get water?”

Babs Seed shook her head.

Citrus, fighting back tears, murmured, “What do you remember? Do you remember anything?”

“Yea… jus’… Jus’ gimme a sec, alright?” Babs huffed, pulling herself up on her forehooves. She flattened her ears and gritted her teeth, drained of all strength. Keen to change the subject, she glanced at her mother. “How did youze find dis place, anyhow? Been so long since youze last came. Thought youze woulda forgot.”

Libra forced a chuckle. Of course, it was her daughter of all ponies who, even injured and amnesiac, would inject humor into the situation. “Actually, we had a bit of help. I suppose it’s alright if I let her in?” she asked, trotting towards the door.

“’She’?” Babs looked to Apple Bloom for answers, who shrugged in response. Horseapples, iffa there’s any mo’ estrogen in dis room, I think I’ll pass out ‘gain... Where is dat doctor, anyway? Prolly can’t hang wit’ us mares, heh, she thought, her bewildered mind resorting to absurdity. Nodding, Babs focused on the events of the past few days, wracking her brain to remember again.

Libra opened the door and called out into the hallway, “You can come in now. She’s awake.”

~

“’Ey, so how were the funerals?”

Doctor Triage kept his head down, concentrating on the task at hoof. He peeled away a bandage on his patient’s side, careful not to aggravate the forming scab underneath. Washing the area with soap and water, he mumbled, “Didn’t go. Was busy checking on your daughter.”

“Ah.” Turner clenched his jaws at the stinging contact. “How… how’s she doin’?”

“Still was asleep. This whole thing has done a number on her mind, and understandably so.” Triage applied a fresh bandage and moved on to the next scrape. “I’m almost done, Turner.” He turned his head around towards his assistant, who was leaning against an opposite wall on his hindhooves. “Can you grab some more gauze from the medical bag, Dexterity?”

The assistant groaned and rolled his eyes. “Doc, I’ve told you a thousand times. Please, call me Dexter.”

Triage snorted. “Keep up your whining and I’ll call you Poindexter instead.”

Dexterity huffed but complied. Doctor Triage glanced up at his patient and offered a slight smile. “Your wounds are healing up nicely. A few more days off your hooves, and you should be in the clear.”

“An’ Babs?” Turner immediately asked in reply.

“I’m sure she will be in time. Physically, I’m not worried. Psychologically, I’m sure it’ll take a while.” Accepting the needed supplies from his assistant, he continued, “There are a lot of ponies—myself included—who require attention and healing my brand of medicine cannot offer. Although, I’m sure that her mother and sister being here will—“

“Dey’re heeya?!” Turner blurted, eyes wide. Awakened from his own weariness, his countenance alighted with determination. He stared at the physician, incredulous.

Flinching through his second treatment—that blasted soap stinging evermore—Turner demanded, “Hurry dat up! Befo’ dey leave! I want ta see dem an’ Babs.”

“Mister Turner, you cannot—“

“The hay I can’t!” Defiantly, he squirmed away from the doctor’s forehooves, scooting towards the edge of the bed. Reckless and in disregard for his own injuries, he declared, “I’m gonna go see dem, right now!”

Turner placed one hoof on the floorboards, springing the lazy assistant to action. Dexterity focused his magic, his horn sparking with brilliant azure light. With one swift motion, he levitated the injured stallion into the air.

“’EY! PUT ME DOWN!”

Turner glared at him, lips pursing back in a primal snarl. He flailed all four of his hooves uselessly, caught in Dexterity’s magical grip. Shooting daggers his way, he tensed his sore muscles and vowed, “Why, when youze put me down, I’m gonna—“

Triage whooped and smacked his belly, shaking his head in disbelief. “Quick thinking, Dexterity. I guess you unicorns are good for something.”

Dexterity flared his nostrils and flattened his ears, keeping Turner levitated. The spell required noticeable effort, beads of sweat forming on his forehead. “Whatever, Triage.”

“That’s Doctor Triage to you.”

“’EY! Are youze two gonna keep flirtin’ o’ let me see ma daughta?!”

“Oh, right.” Triage glanced towards his levitating patient, smirking impishly. “I suppose it would be rather rude of us to leave you hanging, wouldn’t it?”

Turner face-hoofed, encased in a bubble of sparkling blue magic.

“Dexterity,” Triage ordered, packing up his medical bag, “please assist our patient to Babs Seed’s room. Make sure he is comfortable when he arrives, but leave him be once he is settled. The family has requested privacy for a few hours.”

Dexterity almost let the enormous Earth pony fall out of his magic. “Are you serious right now?! You want me to carry this big oaf all the way across the inn?!”

“’EY!” Turner protested a third time. “Are youze callin’ me fat?! I’m a nomad, youze numbskull! I’ve covered mo’ miles wit’ ma hooves than youze’ll eva hope ta trot! Why, I could out-gallop youze lanky flank an’ leave youze in so much dust, youze be—“

“Gentlecolts!” Doctor Triage stomped a forehoof, thoroughly unamused. “There are much more important matters to attend to than pithy arguing right now!

"Dexterity, take him down to his daughter’s room. That’s an order. I need to check our supplies and reconfigure our travel plans, as well as write some letters. Thyme said the mail-pegasi are beginning to return.”

Reluctantly, the assistant obeyed. He began to levitate a victorious vagabond down the hallway, straining noticeably with each step. Dexterity mumbled under his breath as they made their way out the door, “I don’t get paid enough for this…”

~

“It’s good to see you again, Babs Seed.”

Little Strongheart mustered a gentle smile, crossing the threshold. She wore her traditional headdress, the sole eagle feather as pristine as it had been since their first meeting almost a year prior. Dust in the desert’s relentless wind had not marred it. On her back were a pair of saddlebags embroidered with gemstones, several more feathers—hawk, falcon, eagle—tied to them with thick, strong twine.

Apple Bloom hopped off the bed and gave the Buffalo a quick hug. “It’s good ta see ya ‘gain, too, Lil’ Strongheart! Been far too long.”

“Yes, it has,” Strongheart said sitting down. “It is a shame we must reunite under such circumstances.” She removed her saddlebags and gestured to Citrus and Libra. “These two were wandering through the plains near our camp. I was more than happy to guide them here.”

“And we are forever grateful,” Libra said sincerely, lowering her head in respect. Citrus did the same, grinning her thanks.

Strongheart dismissed them both with a wave of a forehoof. “Please. Any family of Braeburn’s is a friend of our tribe.” She trotted over to Babs’s bedside and offered a forehoof in friendship.

Babs shook it and forced a smile. “Heh, nice ta see youze ‘gain, too, Strongheart.” She raised an eyebrow and shifted her gaze to Libra. “So, heh, sorry, I guess I’m still—“ she paused, thinking of the easiest way to explain—“comin’ out o’ all dis.

"So… When did youze get heeya? How did youze hear ‘bout what happened? An’ where’s Brae?”

Apple Bloom said, “They got here a few hours ‘go—“

Libra added, “And we heard from some ponies passing through town, and—“

Citrus finished, “Braeburn wasn’t healed up quite enough to go.”

“… I see.” Bringing her forehooves up to both sides of her head, Babs groaned and struggled to remember again. Let’s see… Burnin’ bar… Got Turner out… Got shot by Slinga…

… Wait… Slinga…

“Are you alright, sis?” Citrus pressed a forehoof to Babs’s forehead. “You don’t look so good…”

… Slinga did dis… He did all o’ dis. Soapy, Dyea, Sheriff. Brae’s shoulder. Mine. All o’ it was him.

Apple Bloom shuffled her hooves. “Babs?”

All o’ it was him, an’ it was because o’ me. He was lookin’ fo’ me. He wanted revenge on me. I brought dis heeya.

Libra spun around, opening the door to the room once more. “Where is that damn doctor?!”

I brought dis on ma family.

Everything rushed back to her in a single, momentous recollection, and Babs Seed felt her muzzle pale. She blinked and coughed a few times, crashing back down into the nightmare of reality.

Card Slinger. It had always been Card Slinger—then and now.

Piercing the surface tension of her consciousness, Babs stared at Little Strongheart, thinking of cold fire. She grinned, imperfect molars glistening in the high noon. “Cold fire. Youze rememba, don’t youze?”

“Huh?” Citrus looked at her cousin. “What is she talking about, Bloom?”

Chills proliferated through Apple Bloom’s blood, becoming ice. Nevertheless, it urged her forward, ice and fire battling within. She returned to her mare’s side and slung a forehoof around her. “Shhhhh. None of that, sugarcube,” she whispered, skeptical of her own words.

Ever since Soapy first fired a warning shot into the desert sky, all she could think of was a bonfire in the Buffalo’s camp, tongues of orange, yellow, and red blackening into frigid flame. Now, the very one who’d shown them this horror stood right before her.

What a small place the wide world of Equestria was revealed to be.

Little Strongheart nodded gravely. “Yes, Babs Seed, I remember.” She smiled weakly towards Apple Bloom. "Do you remember, Apple Bloom? Do you remember what you both saw?"

Libra stomped a forehoof impatiently and turned away from the door. “I told him we wanted privacy, not for him to leave completely.”

“Mother, please! Come here. Right now,” Citrus urged. Libra joined the group at her daughter’s bedside.

“Are you alright, Babs?” Libra asked.

“Yes, Lil’ Strongheart, Ah remember—“

Babs snapped, “No, I’m not.”

Both conversations fell to silence. Libra glanced several times at the door, willing Triage to appear. She worried as only a mother does, taking in all of her daughter’s injuries. Babs Seed was now awake and alert, and, but for the wound on her shoulder, appeared to be alright. However, her strange mutterings and fixation on their Buffalo guide testified to something… something that was surely wrong.

Of course, Libra knew, they all were not in the right state of mind, and wouldn’t be for a long, long time. But something… something about her daughter’s answer rendered her at a loss for words.

Comprehending now, Babs Seed stared into the Buffalo, and spoke boldly, fervently. “Cold fire! Youze had me an’ Bloom look inta it, an’ what did it show? Coldness, blackness. Things ta come. Isn’t dat how it works? It shows youze things ta come?”

Little Strongheart nodded. “But—“

“No!” Narrowing her eyes, Babs lurched forward, jaws tensed. Apple Bloom pulled her back. She rounded on Strongheart again, forehooves hanging off the edge of the mattress and poised to pounce.“No! Youze don’t interrupt me!”

Emerald irises pierced their antagonist, twin blades of green. It’s youze! Youze I shoulda listened ta! Youze tried ta warn me, an’ I didn’t listen, but now youze will listen, youze all will listen, because it’s all me, it’s all me an’ all o’ dis is because o’ me, all dis pain an’ hate an’ death an’ it’s ‘cuz o’ me, ‘cuz o’ me, ‘cuz o’ cold fire, an’ I’ll be damned iffa—

Little Strongheart took a step back, stuttering, “I-I’m s-sorry—“

Apple Bloom pulled her mare back, tens of opposing emotions swirling inside her mind. Why was she suddenly so angry? Why had she blanked out again? Was she… growling at Little Strongheart? “Babs! What in tarnation is wrong wit’ you?!”

“Listen! All o’ youze! LISTEN!” Babs barked, hackles raising. Sudden and unexpected vitriol flowed through her, manifesting in her bitter words. “I rememba now! He shot me! He shot me an’ it’s all ma fault!”

“All whose fault?!” Libra Scales took a step back as well, convinced that her daughter had gone mad. She stole another glance at the open doorway, ears pricked for doctors’ hooves.

She didn't have to wait long. Heavy hoof-steps echoed from the ghostly hallways of the abandoned inn, most of its occupants currently drowning their tears in the high-noon sun outside. Libra craned her neck through the threshold, and gasped at what she saw.

A visibly annoyed unicorn carried a thrashing Turner in his magic. The unicorn exhaled hotly, four hooves shaking with each step. He growled to his captive, "For a nomad, you sure seem to eat an awful lot..."

"What is it, Auntie?" Apple Bloom stroked Babs's back in a futile attempt to calm her. Babs could barely contain her rage, clenching her muscles involuntarily, teeth bared for all to see. Little Strongheart glanced towards the door, then to Babs Seed, then to Citrus and Libra, searching for the right words, the right thoughts.

Citrus Blossom approached her mother, brow raised. "Mother, please, what is so—"

"CITRUS? LIBRA?!"

Turner spent his remaining energy on bellowing their names, practically pony-paddling in the thick sea of brilliant blue magic entrapping him. Dexterity grimaced and pressed on, all but exhausted through his efforts. The unicorn was relieved when they reached the innkeeper's room at last, five sets of eyes focused on his squirming, levitating patient.

One pair of eyes finally opened to meet him. Rage dissipating in her relief, Babs cried, "Turner! Turner! Youze alright! Youze really alright!" She begin to rise to her hooves, only to be pushed down by Apple Bloom, who shook her smiling muzzle.

"BABS!" Turner laughed and laughed, his aches forgotten in his joy. He'd believed the good doctor, but seeing those he'd loved the most in the flesh lifted an enormous burden from his pained shoulders.

Turner steered himself towards the bed, snapping down to the weak assistant, "'Ey, bucko, put me down beside ma daughta!"

Dexterity smirked and all but tossed Turner onto the bed behind Babs and Apple Bloom. Chuckling to himself, he grunted once and spun on his hooves, allowing the family some privacy and his tested muscles some relief. He exited swiftly, muttering to himself about bits and plus-sized stallions.

Throwing her forehooves around his neck, Babs nuzzled Turner, tears of joy finding escape at last. "Youze really alright, youze really are," she mumbled, riding her relief. Conflicting, contradictory emotion swelled and brimmed—anger, despair, guilt, relief, joy, confusion—but in the simple act of hugging her father, she found a moment of peace.

Turner nuzzled her back, saying softly, "Yes, an' I'm all right 'cuz o' youze, kiddo. Youze saved ma life."

Citrus and Libra trotted over, and with Apple Bloom, embraced both of them tightly. Little Strongheart took a few steps towards the door, beaming in awe of the calm within the tumultuous storm.

For a moment, there were no shootings. There were no wounds. There were no deaths. There was no hate, no rage, no sadism, no chaos, no confusion. There was only a family, five sets of forehooves finding each other, holding each other close, letting their tears and grins and shaky exhalations testify to what words could never capture.

~

The few weather-pegasi of Manehatten's payroll kicked up a hell of a storm, gathering flocks of dark, gray clouds, transforming the skies into an endless pasture of bleating protest. The thunderheads roared and the downfall came, rivers of cold rain sending street vendors and their customers to seek shelter. It was far from the hour of the light-tenders, but many shopkeepers boarded up early.

Storms like this brought the night out in full swing, demons crawling out from under Manehatten's rug to frolic and tap-dance on the cobblestones. Most were wise to avoid them, locking doors and windows, huddling together, keeping the cold and the evil out.

Card Slinger strode silently through the barren streets, paying rushing passers-by no piece of his tormented mine. He kept his muzzle hung low, staring at his hooves as he trotted.

Inexplicably, once he'd returned back to the East and the beast—to his turf, his territory, his kingdom—Slinger felt a sudden and distressing void, as if he'd lost some precious power within him, something that he could never experience again.

Loss. He had lost something vital to him, something paramount, sacred. The streets, once his concrete jungle, his endless graffitied playground, seemed mean for the first time in his rule as a king of Kings.

He looked past his shoulder to his tail, knowing the ugliness that burned near its base. Four years after a vicious Zebra carved into him with a pot of black ink and a sharpened quill, his tattoo throbbed and pulsed, just as it had when it was fresh and healing. Card Slinger growled to nopony in particular, cursing his foalishness.

King's Knight. Never.

King's Pawn. Always.

Lost in thought, he realized he'd come across the Manehatten Police Deparment, situated in the heart of the ghetto. The police station was an unimpressive, drab building, indistinguishable from the other concrete boxes that lined the streets. A dim lamp burned near its signage. Through the glass door, Slinger could discern several shadowy figures moving about.

Police officers. Police officers that arrested only when commanded to do so, that met with Celestia herself; so went the rumors and the media, but Slinger knew better. Police officers that allowed the streets to fill with enough monsters to cause sufficient chaos and wage endless war, but not enough to attract the focus of Canterlot.

There were King's Knights in there, he knew. But not all of them were. It was impossible.

The rain slicked his muzzle and his mane, chilling him to the bone.

For a moment, Card Slinger considered doing something ridiculous. He galloped off before he made the biggest mistake of his wretched existence.

~

An eternity later, Turner relayed the events of the attacks to Citrus, Libra, and Little Strongheart to the best of his ability. His introduction to the latter had been matched with a story of his own. Apparently, Turner had learned his own survival tricks from Chief Thunderhooves years and years ago, before Appleloosa claimed its own dot on the map.

All listened intently to the stallion's recollections, eyes wide with horror. Citrus, Libra, and Strongheart had caught a glimpse of the bar in their haste, dismayed and alarmed to see it half-burnt, rafters and roof damaged and broken, entire portions of side-walls missing, turned to piles of ashes scattered by the wind.

Libra glanced at her daughter when Turner spoke of the mare lifting him onto her back. A slight smile appeared across her muzzle, consumed by pride. It did not last long when it came time for Babs Seed to speak.

"It's still hard fo' me ta rememba. I rememba hearin' Soapy whoopin' an' firin' out shots outside our window, an' then I remembered Turner was still in the bar. I ran in ta save him, nearly got trapped in there. Then..." She swallowed, turning to Apple Bloom.

Her mare cracked a smile and rubbed her uninjured shoulder. Silently, she conveyed what Babs Seed desperately needed to hear.

It's alright. You can tell 'em. Ah'm here.

"Then what, Babs?" Citrus asked.

"Then, he shot me," Babs said.

"Who shot youze?!" Turner snarled. Unconscious before even leaving the bar, he'd caught no glimpse of his daughter's attacker. Adrenaline sparked through his veins, instincts long left underutilized called to light.

Babs sighed. Alright, gotta be calm 'bout dis. I know what it's gonna bring. I wish I woulda neva had ta talk 'bout dis. I neva did then, an' I sure as hell don't wanna now.

The emotional rollercoaster of her own uncontrollable, irrational rage left her exhausted. Babs closed her eyes for a moment, leaning against her mare.

Apple Bloom, the stronger, pulled her close and turned to Little Strongheart. "Ah hope Ah'm not askin' too much, but... Ya don't happen ta have any medicine that could help her, do ya? She's in a lot o' pain."

Normally, Babs Seed would've resorted to denial, but she said nothing. Instead, she sighed again, preparing herself for the explanation and declaration of a lifetime.

Little Strongheart nodded. Grabbing her saddlebag, she rustled through its contents, retrieving an unfamiliar plant. Apple Bloom titled her head and glanced curiously at it. It was long and triangular, with small, protruding spines along its sides. One end of the plant appeared to be cut open.

Strongheart held the plant tightly and trotted over to Babs's right side. "If you could take the bandage off, I have something that will help with the burn."

Turner asked, "Burn?"

Citrus nodded and muttered sickly, "Apple Bloom told us before she woke up that they had to... cauterize..."

Turner swallowed thickly, grateful he'd declined Triage's offer of lunch.

"Yes, it felt jus' wonderful," Babs mumbled, shaking her head. She opened her eyes and said Strongheart, "Go ahead." Anythin' ta make dis ache stop, an' buy me time. Youze all 'bout ta hate me...

Apple Bloom reached over and removed the fresh bandage, careful not to catch any stray strands of fur in the process. Once fresh air met the blackened burn, Babs inhaled sharply. Turner whistled. "Geez, kiddo. Dat's gonna be a pretty big scar when it's all healed up."

"Thank heavens you're both alright. Scars are the least of our problems. I'm just glad you both are safe now." Libra Scales joined Turner's bedside and kissed the stallion on the cheek. "A little scar won't hurt nopony."

Citrus, too, tried to make light of the situation, watching intently as Little Strongheart began to squeeze one end of the strange plant. "Yeah! And mares dig scars. Right, Apple Bloom?"

"Ah, heh... Ah guess so," Apple Bloom conceded, blushing. Changing the subject, she pointed at the green plant and asked, "What's that, Lil' Strongheart?"

"This is another desert plant, called aloe vera. It grows even farther west from here, towards the ocean and the San Palomino Desert. When my tribe stampedes and travel, we come across it, and harvest it for its medicinal properties. It can be used to treat burns," Strongheart explained. Squeezing the plant with one forehoof, she collected a clear, coagulated liquid in the other. She faced Babs Seed and reached towards her shoulder. "This might feel strange, but it'll help the burn heal and extinguish some of the heat."

Babs began a retort, which dissolved once the Buffalo's forehoof pressed the cold, slick substance to her shoulder. Biting her bottom lip, she let loose a grunt at the strange sensation. Little Strongheart covered the cauterized skin with a thick coating of aloe vera.

Mere moments later, Babs Seed felt the throbbing pain and heat begin to disappear, draining away. "Heh, thanks," she managed, smiling towards Little Strongheart. Guess pouncin' on youze was worth it afta all.

"Now," said Libra Scales, sitting down, "finish what you were telling us, Babs Seed."

"Yes, tell us who the bastard who shot youze is, so I can kick his rotten flank." Turner growled.

Forcing a chuckle at Turner's remark, Babs took a deep breath and began, "Well, Turner, youze rememba how I told youze what happened ta me an' Apple Bloom when we were foals? The crazy dat attacked us in the park?"

The stallion paused for a moment, tapping his chin. "I think so."

"Auntie an' Citrus already know," Apple Bloom quietly chimed in.

Babs nuzzled into her, seeking comfort. Yes, an' I told dem it was jus' a random mugga in the park. Some asshole colt lookin' fo' bits. But dat ain't the truth. It neva was. He wanted me. He was afta me. He was afta me then, an' afta me now. An' both times, ma family was in his sights, in his way, an' he tried ta hurt dem, too.

... I shoulda killed him when I had the chance.

"Yes. What about that little bastard?" Libra hissed, clenching her jaws.

"Well..."

"What is it, sis?" Citrus approached her sibling closer. She smiled softly, urging, "It's alright. He's gone. That was a long time ago, and you kicked the living... tar out of him."

"Yes, I did. But..." Knowing that the next words would decide her next steps—their next steps—and, perhaps, her family's fate forever, Babs Seed let her words hang in the air before finishing at last.

"He wasn't some random mugga-pone, some gang thug dat was jus' lookin' fo' a rush. I knew him. He hated me. He made ma life a livin' hell. He held me down when the othas cut ma tail an' ma mane... "

Turner looked away, enraged and solemn.

"He tormented me from the moment he had class wit' me. He—"

Libra asked, "So, it was a school bully that attacked you?"

"Yes, Ma, it was. A school bully who wanted ta kill me an' Apple Bloom."

Silence made its presence known again, forcing its nauseating presence down everypony's throat. Even Little Strongheart, who stood awkwardly by the door, unsure of whether to leave or listen, felt dread rising to the surface, hoping that their suspicions were false, that this was not the same—

But it was.

"An' dat same jackass was there dat night, an' he shot me."

Quiet.

"He shot me. He tried ta kill me, 'gain. He wants his revenge. He came ta Appleloosa first, an' then out heeya when he couldn't find me."

Sickening, buzzing nothingness.

Babs Seed stared at her aching forehooves, right shoulder now numb, left ear burning as intensely as it did on that dark night almost eight years ago. "Dis is all ma fault. Soapy, Dyea, Sheriff Silverstar. Dey're all dead 'cuz o' me."

Horrified, Apple Bloom looked directly into her eyes. "Sugarcube—"

"Don't youze 'sugarcube' me!" Babs blurted, backing away to the shock of all. Determination surged through her. She was sure of this. Absolutely sure. "Youze rememba, don't youze? The hate in his eyes? Dat soulless look on his face? He's a mad-pony, an' he's afta me! Me! An' all... all o' youze are gettin' hurt because o' it."

On her final words, Babs crumbled, burying her muzzle in her forehooves.

Little Strongheart reached for the door. "I... I'm very sorry for what has happened... I'd... I'd best leave you all to be. Babs, I hope you feel bet—"

"No!" Looking up, tears running down her cheeks, Babs choked, "T-tell me h-how ta s-stop it. S-start y-youze f-fire an' th-throw the s-sand on it 'g-gain."

"I'm sorry." Little Strongheart hung her head. "I cannot predict the future, nor change the casting of the sand. What the cold fire has showed you, I cannot change. You will continue to see it until the future changes."

"Th-then, b-build it! B-build it an' w-we'll s-see."

"Sugarcube, Ah don't think that's a good—"

"Stop... stop it!" Babs rounded on Apple Bloom, ears flattened, molars visible. "Don't youze get it?! It's 'cuz o' me! It's 'cuz o' me youze in danger! Youze all in danger!"

Babs glanced at each and every one of her family members, visions of torrent and tempest holding her mind hostage. She snapped back to Little Strongheart. "Tell me! Tell me what ta do ta make it stop! Don't youze see what youze done?!"

"I have done nothing wrong. I've only tried to help you," Strongheart calmly reiterated. She sighed. "I am very sorry to hear what has happened to you, to all of you. Trust me, my whole tribe is. We know the mail-pegasi have been out for a while, but they cannot fly away forever. They will return soon, and perhaps you can get in touch with somepony who could—"

"Somepony who could what?" Doctor Triage appeared in the threshold, blocking Strongheart's egress. He raised an eyebrow and glanced sideways at the cow beneath his towering figure. "Can I help you?"

"S-sorry. I was just about to leave."

"What were you saying about help?"

Little Strongheart smiled sadly at her friends, dismayed she could do little to assist their predicament. Cold fire couldn't offer guidance, and dreams were not ever-reliable guardians. Even the spirits of the wind, sun, and stars were known to their own treachery. Truthfully, she knew not the reasoning behind the assaults on the west, nor the identity of their perpetrators. "I was saying, uh, sir, that since the mail-pegasi are returning, perhaps—"

Doctor Triage snorted, cutting her off. "Let them come. Let them deliver a mountain of letters to Canterlot. Nothing shall be done."

"And why do you say that?" Libra Scales challenged, glaring at him.

"I suspect these villains are from Manehatten. Manehatten's Chief of Police meets with representatives of Celestia on a weekly basis, even the Princess herself on some occasions. She is well aware of the crime there. Chief Brutus, along with many of his top officers, are ex-Royal Guard. They are doing the best they can—or, at least, that's what they say. What the papers say. What the immigrants say."

"See?" Babs gestured towards Triage. "He knows it's Manehatten doin' dis, too! Jus' like dat... dat bastard!"

Libra ignored her, rounding on the doctor. "And how would you know?"

"I used to be one of the top physicians in Manehatten, doctoring the elite themselves. I left only recently, in search of gold and economic freedom. Everything in that city..." Triage shook his muzzle grimly. "Everything is fine and dandy according to the papers, but my experience and that of countless others testifies otherwise."

"Hmph." Turning her attention to her daughter, Libra assured, "Babs, I'm sure you're mistaken. There's no way it could be—"

"I know it's him! I know it's him, an' I know why he's doin' it! An' dat's why, once I'm all patched up, I'm gonna be headin' back ta the rotten city—"

"What?!" Apple Bloom, her jaw agape, tapped her ears, sure she was losing her mind. "Jus' what in tarnation is wrong wit' you, Babs?! Ya can't go back there!"

"Damn straight you can't go back there!" Libra barked, her own hackles rising.

"Why would you?" Citrus asked, dumbfounded, chills racing down her spine. Babs Seed was no longer in the dark about her uncle's misdeeds. Surely, the awful stallion was still there, Citrus suspected, as sociopathic and heartless as ever.

In the midst of the chaos, Little Strongheart snuck out the door, taking to her hooves. There was nothing she could do. She had guided the two mares and applied healing to another. What madness spewed from Babs Seed's mouth was beyond her control, cold fire or not.

Doctor Triage, however, leaned against the doorway and listened.

"Iffa I don't, he'll jus' come back." Her voice trembling, Babs said, "How many mo' have ta suffer because o' me? How many mo' buildin's have ta go up in flames?"

Apple Bloom reasoned, "Babs, honey, we can rebuild the bar—"

"Buck the bar!" Babs snarled, losing control. "I'll burn it down maself iffa it keeps everypony safe. I would hate maself iffa anythin' happened ta youze, Bloom. O' youze, Citrus. O' youze, Ma. O'..."

Babs Seed stared into her father's eyes, eight years of misery relinquished with a title. "O' youze, Da'."

Page Turner smiled and nuzzled her. "No. O' course youze don't want anythin' bad ta happen ta anypony, Babs," he mumbled, tears of tainted joy rolling freely down his cheeks. "But dat doesn't mean youze—"

"That doesn't mean you're going to... to go back there." Libra stomped a forehoof. "I forbid this. I absolutely forbid this."

"I'm not a foal anymo', Ma."

"I don't care! I've... I've almost lost both of my children, and my niece, and my nephew, and... my friends--" Libra looked to Turner, who mustered a smile—"to these psychopaths. I'll be damned if I'll just stand by and let it happen."

Babs frowned. "Ma, please..."

"Babs..." Citrus sniffled, nuzzling her sibling. "Please. Please don't do this. That city is dangerous. He... he is still there."

Turner had no need to ask; he already knew, and felt sick as a result. Two "he's". Two stallions who made their lives—all of their lives—Tartarus on Earth. Evil manifest, running rampant in the flesh. And his daughter playing dragon slayer.

Lost for words, Turner stayed silent.

"Buck him too. I won't let ponies I love get hurt," Babs affirmed, staying strong. Look at dem... dey all are cryin', cryin' 'cuz o' youze. Look at what youze do. Everypony youze hurt...

Apple Bloom hid her face, turning away. Babs felt her heart sink.

O' course, youze even hurt her...

"Please, Bloom." Babs wrapped a forehoof around her mare, urging her to look at her. "Please. I'm jus' doin' what is best fo' us."

"An' what's yer master plan, Babs?" Apple Bloom snapped, tear-stained muzzle inches from hers. "What exactly do ya think yer gonna do? Go git... go git yerself killed?!"

"Bloom, I—"

"Yer bein'... yer' bein' stupid!"

"Bloom, please—"

A deep cough sliced her words, and turned five muzzles towards the doorway.

"Forgive me for eavesdropping," Triage said, stepping into full view. "But, I believe I may have a solution to your problem."

"Buck off, bucko," Turner warned, placing a forehoof on his daughter's back. "Dis is none o' youze business. Thanks fo' savin' our lives an' all, but dis is a family matter."

Doctor Triage raised his forehooves in surrender. "It certainly is. And I am sorry to intrude. I shall leave you be if you wish, but first, let me make a suggestion."

Libra sniffed angrily and glared at him. "And what exactly is your suggestion?"

"I happen to know of an ex-Royal Guard officer who works on the Manehatten police force. She is the head of their Anti-Gang Unit. I have spoken to her muzzle-to-muzzle about some of the criminal activity there. She has been investigating the orange-tattooed gang. I understand that the invaders who were gunned down last night had these marks, according to what some of the townsponies have said." Triage spoke slowly, clearly, no haughtiness in his words. While brash and blunt, deep within his healer's heart, he meant every word he spoke.

Babs Seed snapped back, "What's dis offica's name?"

"Detective, actually. Detective White Dove." Triage leaned down, placing all four hooves on the floor. "If you believe that these monsters are Manehattenites—as I, myself, suspect—and you have a name, I'm sure she can find the pony. It is a mere suggestion, of course," he said, trotting towards the opposite hallway and a scowling Dexterity.

Chuckling awkwardly, Babs mused, "White Dove. What a pansy name fo' a detective."

Apple Bloom glared at her.

"Don't change the subject," Libra deadpanned. "You aren't going to Manehatten. I forbid it."

Babs said once more, "I'm not a foal anymo'. Youze can't control me. Right, Da'?"

Turner shook his head. "Look, Babs, I... I don't think youze are thinkin' dis through clearly. I think youze are makin' a big mistake ta blame youzeself."

Babs groaned, face-hoofing. "I knew youze all wouldn't understand."

Citrus frowned, patting her sibling on her uninjured shoulder. "Babs, I... I can't stop you. But, please. You're not being rational about this. I'm sure it has nothing to do with you."

"No, it has everythin' ta do wit' me." Babs Seed shook her muzzle, standing firm. "See dis?" She gestured towards her cutiemark. "Dis means protectin' somepony. It means sacrifice. Dat's who I am, what I am. I'm a brute. Dat's all I do. I hurt. I hurt othas. An' me bein' out heeya got youze all hurt."

Breathing deep, Babs swallowed her tears and announced, "I'm not gonna let anypony else get hurt. I'm gonna go find dis White Dove, an' dat bastard, an' I'm gonna make sure nopony else gets hurt."

Libra Scales, exhausted and emotionally drained, drew a forehoof back. Babs Seed stared into her, silently urging her to do it, do it, do it. Hit me. See iffa I care. Hurt me. Fine. I jus' hurt everypony else. Fine.

Libra didn't.

Exasperated, heartbroken, defeated, and irrational, the wise Libra Scales threw up her forehooves to the empty heavens. "Fine. You know what? Fine. You're a stubborn mare, and there's no reasoning with you. You're being foalish and selfish right now, you know that? You're going to get hurt, you're going to make us worry, you're going to hurt us. If that's what you want, fine."

Libra Scales mare took to her hooves, galloping out the door, out of the inn, out of her mind.

Citrus Blossom sighed and stared out the open threshold. "I'd better go get her..." She glanced one more time at her stubborn, reckless sibling, more tears shining in her eyes. "Please, Babs... please, don't do this. But, if you do... please, be careful. Be very, very careful."

"Youze ain't gonna fight me?" Babs asked, incredulous.

"I've known you long enough to know that you will do what you want to do, as you always have. You may be a little older, but you're still the foal who would sneak out at night and run the Manehatten streets alone." Sadness hidden behind her smile, Citrus leaned Blossom down and kissed her on the cheek. Before leaving, she nodded to Apple Bloom, saying everything with her eyes.

Babs Seed, now with father and mare only, turned to the stallion first. "Turner? What youze think?"

"I think youze are makin' a mistake, an' I don't want youze ta do it. I want youze safe," he answered honestly. "But, I have no power o' right ta stop youze."

Grateful and honored and privileged to called father at last, Turner nevertheless knew his own position was more of a friend than a guide, and saw in her his own youthful foalishness. Arguing had already proved futile. There was nothing more he could do but bless and hope.

Last but not least, Babs Seed leaned into her mare, nuzzling her cheek before asking, "Bloom?"

Eight years rushed before Apple Bloom's eyes. Eight years of mountains and valleys, questions and certainty. Eight years of learning to love, learning to forgive, learning to be, learning to build. Learning to become the mare she wanted to be, and the mare she yearned to be for the one she owed everything to.

And here that mare was, and irrational as it was—foalish, idiotic, stupid, against all logic and reason and sanity—she knew she could only do one thing.

She could only keep her promise to that mare's mother, and be strong, and keep her safe.

Apple Bloom slowly nuzzled her back. "If that's what ya really want ta do... If that's what ya think is right, Ah won't stop you. An', Ah'll come wit' you."

Babs hesitated, taken aback. "Youze sure?"

For the first time in a long while, Apple Bloom hesitated in return before answering, "Yes."

~

Libra Scales made one last-ditch attempt to persuade her stubborn daughter to change her irrational mind. The mare whose special talent was rationality, reason, and balance met her match in a mare whose talent for destruction and defense was matched by her curt, biting tongue. There were shouting matches and sobbing sessions, but, in the end, Babs Seed stood firm.

She caused this madness, and she would be the one to end it.

Citrus Blossom, although heartbroken just as deeply, left her sister to her decision. She was a grown mare—far too grown for almost twenty. It was understandable, however. She had truly been a mare in Citrus's eyes at age twelve, when she made the decision to crawl out of the belly of her beast. Now, she vowed to return to it, for entirely different reasons, but with just as much determination. And there was nothing she could do to stop her.

A victim of circumstance in many ways, Citrus knew she would only hope, and pray, and perhaps convince Braeburn to pay them an unexpected visit.

Turner made peace with Libra the best he could, bemoaning his decision to leave Appleloosa behind. With Soapy and Dyea resting in peace—bless their souls, bless their gold-mining souls—there was nothing left for him on this patch of soil. Relying on true courage (none of it liquid), he asked Libra Scales if she could reconsider moving that offer to stay in Appleloosa a few months ahead to "when I'm done healin'."

Libra accepted, and kissed him again.

Derpy Hooves returned to the settlement. Her mailbag was soon weighed down heavily with letters, bound for the Appleloosa processing station. "Heh, my boss says it'll make it go faster this way! He has a whole team of pegasi to sort the mail now before we send them out!"

Derpy knocked on the window of the innkeeper's room the morning after Babs's revelation, alerting Apple Bloom. Babs was snoozing on the mattress and Thyme was curled up on a cot in her own room in the corner (gracious mare she was).

"Hey! Apple Bloom! Got any letters for me? I'm just about to head out!" Derpy chirped happily, nodding and giggling like a schoolfilly.

Apple Bloom glanced at her saddlebag, then at Babs Seed, then at Derpy.

"Life's too short, kiddo..."

No. There were more important things.

It could wait.

"Naw, not today, Derpy," Apple Bloom said, shrugging. "Hold on. Ah think Ah've got an apple muffin ya can have, though."

~

A week later, Babs Seed was steady enough on her hooves to declare the time had arrived. The aloe vera had certainly helped. No pain remained in the burn, although that patch of fur and skin would be forever scarred. No worries. Mares dig scars.

Citrus, Libra, and Turner had left the day before, no dry eyes to be found in the Thyme's room. Even the innkeeper wept from the lobby after hearing their goodbyes. Fervent promises to be safe, and to write, and to only speak to the detective and not get involved in any nonsense were the only things that pried Libra's hooves away from her stubborn, reckless brute of a daughter.

To Apple Bloom, Libra whispered, embracing her tightly, "Take care of her, alright? Make sure she doesn't do anything too stupid."

And Apple Bloom, ever the nurturer, nodded and vowed, "Ah will, Auntie. Ah will."

The following evening, when Luna rose her beacon into the heavens, the two nomads set off towards the East and the beast, saddlebags packed, goodbyes said, tips left for a gracious Thyme.

They paused a moment to gaze up at their abandoned, burned bar, and weep for what was, what could've been, and what would never be.

~

In Appleloosa, Manehatten, and Ponyville, every received letter was opened over hot steam, breaking the seal of the adhesive. Each piece of parchment was scanned and screened by the postmaster in secrecy. Upon his orders, all incoming mail was delievered to him before it could be sent. He promised termination to anypony who questioned his judgment or spoke of his orders to anypony else.

Many found their way into the fireplace as a result. Fine, suitable kindling. Three postmasters valued the bits in their pockets and the beat of their hearts more than a broken vow, or righteousness itself.

In the fireplace of Thyme's room in the settlement, another letter turned to ash, needing no postmaster's rejection to be cast aside. There were more important things.

There always were.

Belly Of The Beast

Nomads, by colloquial definition, are only content when experiencing velocity. Stability and normalcy are alien to them. The drudgery of nine-to-five monotony is viewed as little more than voluntary slavery, exchanging freedom and adventure for the thinly-veiled notion of security. Thus, nomads characteristically experience elation when taking to their hooves, galloping against the wind.

Babs Seed and Apple Bloom were not nomads this night.

Together, they trudged through the seemingly endless ocean of sand and cacti, stopping occasionally to quench their thirst from one of the praying plants. Haste was forgotten, urgency cast aside. There was no anticipation of thrill and possibility in this journey.

Manehatten loomed, darker than the skies above. Drawing ever and ever closer with each hoof-step. Waiting. Biding. A hungry beast, licking its lips in want.

To the East they strode, silent mostly, while the elements began to rage against them. Nary a weather-pegasi could be found out here in the lawless, the disconnected, the relentless wasteland.

Babs cast a disapproving glare to the heavens and scoffed. "Dark clouds? What, are we gonna get caught up in some freak snowstorm o' summat?"

Apple Bloom flared her nostrils and groaned. "Ah hope not. We've still got 'bout three hours ta go 'fore we'll reach the Appleloosian city limit."

Great. Her shoulder aching with each step, Babs spat on the sand and growled under her breath, "Hope we don't run inta dat damn Buffalo..."

Glancing at her mare, Apple Bloom raised an eyebrow and narrowed her eyes. "An' why do ya say that?"

"'Cuz!" Babs stopped in tracks, staring back at her partner. "Iffa she would've jus' been mo' specific wit' her lil' 'cold fire' deal, none o' dis shit woulda happened! Youze know dat iffa I—"

"Ya heard her back there!" Gesturing with a forehoof, Apple Bloom shot back, "She didn't know what it meant, Babs! No mo' than we did! This ain't her fault, an' it's not yers, eit—"

Babs immediately began stomping towards the East again. "I'm not gonna argue wit' youze right now," she said flatly, dismissing any possibility of discussion. Dammit, Bloom, iffa youze were gonna be like dis, youze jus' coulda stayed... o' went home...

... I even offered dat ta youze last night, an' still youze say no. Youze wanna go in dis hell... dis hell o' mine. Hell o' ma own creation.

Babs Seed flattened her ears against the growing wind, steps deliberate and slow. After a few, she paused, watching from the corner of her eye. A silent commander, she waited for her mare, impatient and wordless.

With a sigh and an adjustment of her saddlebags, Apple Bloom followed behind her, looking up towards the empty skies. Blackened thunderclouds began to corral themselves in a taut circle. The atmosphere was tense with the possibility of thunder and lightning, rage and retribution.

Her own heart a tempest of its own, Apple Bloom swallowed her anger, and trudged on.

~

Nightfall cast a blackened curtain over Manehatten's grinning muzzle, tucking in her angels for the night. Her demons—myriad, ruthless, winking and chuckling—emerged from the shadows, choosing to congregate at the far north end of town, beyond the edifice of the Master's mansion and his watchful gaze.

Surrounding the still waters of Manehatten Lake, a gathering of Manehatten Kings waited on spry hooves. About thirty in number, they represented a mere fifth of King Crazy's forces. Mainly Earth pony stallions *though a few of other gender and race made token appearances), they passed their anxious time restlessly, challenging each other to hoof-wrestling matches or sparring in the grass.

The order had been disseminated quickly, passed from the epicenter of the ghetto to the reaches beyond. The highest-ranking (and most-respected) Kings had been called to this midnight meeting near the lake, when the city slept and the police force planted most of its officers to the poorer areas. While the ghetto was rife with meddling blue, Manehatten Hill and its accompanying lake proved to be a prime location for the meeting.

Throughout the crowd, a small group of armed, disguised hench-stallions kept watch for the arrival of their leader. King Crazy had provided no reason for this meetingm only ordering it be swift and expedient. His hooves had barely touched Manehatten soil a week ago. During that time, he'd kept himself locked up in his hideout, smoking and drinking through the remnants of his stashes. His guards heard him rant and rave then, smashing various sculptures and other trinkets in his luxurious room, but were forbidden to enter.

One guard who'd been foalish enough to disregard this request regretted it now, squinting through two swollen eyes as he made his patrols around the perimeter of the lake.

Among the Kings, hushed whispers were exchanged. "What do youze think dis is 'bout?" said one short, squat Earth pony stallion to his lanky pegasus friend. He nudged his associate in the ribs. "Maybe we gonna be goin' afta dem buckin' Mafia once an' fo' all, eh?"

The pegasus rolled his eyes and shook his muzzle. "Who knows what King Crazy wants. He ain't no easy pone ta crack. Dat's why we call him dat, idiot."

Another King joined the conversation. He cackled and rubbed his muzzle. "Ha! Youze tell him, Couch Potato! Nopony knows what's floatin' 'round in dat empty head o' his!"

Couch Potato smacked his newest companion in the shoulder and grunted, "Hush! He could be heeya any moment, an' youze know he don't take too kindly ta anypony talkin' 'bout him dat way!"

Before the third King could offer up a gem of wisdom in response, one of the armed guards hissed through the star-kissed night, "He's heeya! Everypony stand ta attention!"

From the edge of the park and towards the lake stomped Card Slinger, tuxedoed and somber, his suit obscuring his cutiemark and his sleeves concealing fresh scars near his front fetlocks. His troops obeyed immediately, leaving taunts unanswered, wrestling matches to draw, and cutting remarks to hang.

The tie around his neck threatening to strangle him, Card Slinger made his way to the front of his pack, a King in many ways but feeling lower than the grass beneath his hooves.

~

No Buffalo crossed their reluctant paths. Or, at least, none made themselves known. Babs Seed and Apple Bloom made no haste but took no rest, stomping on in silence. A vast array of emotions swirled within them, although neither made the effort to converse much.

It was evident, Apple Bloom knew, that her mare was as stubborn as her own sister—and just as blunt. Nothing would change her mind. Not even Auntie Citrus, whose cutiemark was a literal testament to her reason, could persuade the stubborn mare.

Reason failing, Apple Bloom desperately contemplated appealing to emotion. But what could she possibly say to convince Babs Seed of her delusion? Surely, the attacks couldn't have been made just to target one pony. If that had been the case, why had the laughing assailant shot at her mare in the shoulder, of all places? Surely, couldn't he have...

No. Apple Bloom gulped and buried that thought in the ashes of the bar they'd left behind. No. Her hero was safe—scarred, but not broken. She would be alright. They would be alright. Just see the detective and go.

Go where? she wondered. The answer: anywhere. Anywhere but there, but that awful, awful place, a place no foal should have known. A place meant for monsters, not ponies.

"Bloom?" Babs's low, gruff voice wrestled Apple Bloom from her thoughts.

"Huh?" Apple Bloom blinked and crashed back down to Equestria. A quick glance at the descent of the moon and the slowly-growing light beneath the ugly skies announced that it was near dawn. The thunderheads had failed to fulfill their promises. Their descent towards the East had been uneventful, weather-wise. Here, however, they seemed ever-present, omnipresent, almost if they were watching—

"Bloom! 'Ey!" Babs placed a forehoof on her shoulder and cocked her head sideways. "Youze in there?"

"S-sorry," Apple Bloom muttered. She tore her eyes from above and glanced straight ahead. A thick grove of apple trees and a leering cliff confirmed their journey by hoof was almost over. "We're already in Appleloosa?"

Babs nodded and removed her forehoof, her limbs aching. Been lyin' in dat damn bed too long. Gonna be a bit ta get ma strength back, she realized, annoyed. "Yea, Bloom. Jus' a lil' furtha. First train should be comin' soon, so we won't have ta wait long." She snorted and stretched her hindhooves, leaning forward. "An' good riddance. Eight hours ta damn Manehatten."

Sitting down on her haunches, Apple Bloom removed her saddlebags and checked their supplies. "At least we'll have time ta nap. Let's make sure we have everythin' we need befo' we take off, though. Ah bet everythin's mo' expensive in the city."

"Everythin's worse in the city," Babs grumbled, stretching her forehooves next. She groaned as she stretched the right one, the fresh, scarred skin hesitant on complying. Dammit, when I get ma hooves on Slinga, I'm gonna—

"Food fer three days, extra water, maps, compasses, blankets... Babs, can Ah see yer bag?"

Passing her the saddlebag, Babs sprawled onto her stomach and laid against the cool sands. Shielding her eyes from the sun, she murmured, "Yea, sure. Heh... Let's hurry up, though, befo' I fall asleep..."

"Ah'll only take a second." Rifling through the bag, Apple Bloom felt relief wash over her. She'd remembered to pack both of their revolvers. In her haste, she'd feared she'd left them behind in the settlement. Though one was completely emptied of bullets, the presence of one defense comforted her slightly. She snapped the bag shut and chuckled at her mare. "Gonna take a nap, aren't ya?"

Muffled, Babs answered, "I'm not tired. Jus' feels nice... sand... cool..."

Apple Bloom gently prodded her partner in the ribs and assisted her to her hooves. After a quick, courageous breath, she said, "Look, sugarcube. Ah know yer not in the best o' moods, but—"

"I'm fine," snapped Babs Seed, wiping sand off her stomach. She turned to face her mare, frowning at the sorrow in her eyes. "Sorry. I didn't mean ta snap at youze back there. O' heeya," she added, looking away.

"It's alright," Apple Bloom replied, nuzzling her neck. "Ah know it's nothin' 'tween us. Anyway, what Ah was gonna say was..."

Apple Bloom paused, looking at her forehooves. She sighed again. "Let's jus' get this over wit' fast as we can, an' then go home an' stay wit' Applejack fer a while. Then we can figure out what ta do."

"Sounds good ta me. We'll jus' use Manehatten post. Much fasta than these desert stragglers." Forcing a smile, Babs Seed grabbed her saddlebag and slung it over her back. "I was thinkin' we should get a message ta her soon as we can an' let her know not ta send any mo' deliveries'. Uh, might be a problem later on. Heh..."

Neither of them laughed.

Gathering her own saddlebags, Apple Bloom began to lead Babs Seed into the Appleloosian orchard and towards the climbing cliff. Her neck and cheek burned where her mare had failed to nuzzle her back. She cursed herself mentally, so foalish and stupid for missing romance in times such as these.

~

Almost forty pairs of soulless, black, empty pupils drilled holes into the void where his soul should've been. Standing atop a large stone near the edge of the lake, Card Slinger knew he should've felt powerful, commanding, haughty. His Kings looked up to him as the highest, the Most High on Earth. He was the leader of their organization, their enterprise. A father of sorts. And a brother.

Father. Brother.

Nopony dared to raise a hoof to crush a blade of grass. All waited with baited breath, laying unworthy eyes upon their dear leader. Not many—not even his highest-ranking thugs—were blessed to have seen King Crazy in the flesh more than once or twice. Even veteran Kings with years of gang warfare tucked in their manes had not been graced with such an honor in ages.

His mane wild and unkempt, his eyes bloodshot, and his tail frayed, Card Slinger was a wreck. His tuxedo, expensive and tailored to fit his form, custom made to order from a designer in Trottingham, served no purpose other than to conceal and distract. Inside his front sleeves, nights of guilt and sorrow testified in a series of slashing scars, and bruises spoke of his drunken stumbling and fits of rage.

His hideout was a mess, more than his own body. He was King Crazy in the truest sense of the title. Standing before a crowd of his loyal followers, his right hoof missing its stallion, Card Slinger felt nothing like a King. Like a Manehatten King.

Or a Knight, for that matter.

Finally, after terse, awkward silence, King Crazy found his voice, and let it boom and slice through fading Luna's night, racing the clock and the moon.

"Thank youze all fo' comin'. 'Specially on such short notice."

A simple greeting and statement was met with whoops and hollers of elation, Kings surging with pride at the sight of their general looming above them.

Card Slinger raised a forehoof, silencing them. His lips drew back in a snarl. "I'm not a pony youze should be so damn happy ta see," he said gruffly, leaning back against the wind as he stood. He stomped his raised forehoof down into the stone. "I'm afraid I bring ugly news fo' youze all."

His guards exchanged curious glances at each other, shrugging. Worse news? Word of Boone's death (and that of the others) had rocketed through the ghetto, and many were still in mourning. Boone was far more... charismatic than his King, and second only in hierarchy to the stallion before them. What could possibly be worse?

Slinger cleared his throat and stared them down. "As many o' youze probably know, ma right-hoof stallion, the second-in-command, an' ma best friend in dis bucked-up shithole o' a city died a week 'go, doin' deeds fo' the Masta."

At mention of the Masta, any lingering chatter or shifting hooves ceased. A black orange tattoo rested near the base of every tail. Many wallets and bit-jars overflowed to the brim as a result. And just as many—though none would admit—received brutality and riddles along with their monetary payment.

"Yes, dat's right," Slinger affirmed, his muscles tensing and flexing. "The Masta. The Masta sent us ta the wasteland, ta Appleloosa, an' fo' what? Fo' what? Ta die?" he challenged.

A wave of unease swept over his audience.

Card Slinger smiled, his molars sparkling in the tease of dawn. "Oh, yes, ma fools. Dat's what he did. An' youze know what? He is our—"

"Sir," interrupted one of his hench-stallions, rushing up to the stone, "perhaps dis is not the best time o' place—"

"Fo' what?!" Card Slinger lurched forward and met his guard's muzzle, snarling. "Youze gonna accuse me o' treason? Is dat what youze were gonna say?!"

Backing up, the guard fumbled, "No! No! O' course not, sir! It's jus'... dis is a public place, an'—"

Slinger snickered and drew back from his opponent, puffing out his chest. Standing tall, he shook his muzzle and scoffed. "Dem who have ears, let 'em hear. Let 'em hear what we have ta say heeya. What I have ta say."

"What do youze have ta say, ma King?" asked the unicorn stallion in the crowd, bowing low. "Why have youze called us heeya?"

"I have come ta issue an important command, as a result o' dis ugly news." Jumping from the stone, Card Slinger strode back and forth in front of his crowd, pacing. He tugged at the crimson tie completing his tuxedo, hesitating.

Gathering strength, he let his mind drift to memories of Boone. His only friend. His best friend. His best and only friend. His right-hoof stallion. Building the gang from the ground up. Seeking out the Master. Growing rich and powerful. Rich and powerful. Having all they wanted. All they needed. Waiting. Biding. Planning for revenge.

All gone in a haze of bullets.

Because of the stallion on the Hill, the recluse in his mansion on the Hill, the recluse who bribed the media, bribed the police, bribed the mail-ponies, bribed and bought and sold all and manufactured lies and swept his secrets under the dust and waged war and manipulated the economy and sent his warriors to die in an unforgiving tomb of sand and dust, an unforgiving tomb of sand and dust that swallowed Boone whole and embraced him in its sacrosanct depths, to sleep forever in the torrent of salt and fire, the salt and fire that awaited us all, that took his parents too, it was the desert, undoubtedly the same desert, and it was all because of him.

Because of Bernie Madhoof.

Taking a deep breath, Card Slinger ceased his pacing, turning his full attention to his crowd. "From dis point on, our rivalry wit' the Manehatten Mafia ends."

A collective gasp passed through the audience. They exchanged confused and bewildered glances, staring at their leader in disbelief. The Manehatten Mafia? The second-largest gang in the city? Their main rivals in the drug trade, black market weapon sales, bit-laundering, and all their other schemes? The same Manehatten Mafia that had slain many of their brothers?

Nopony dared to challenge King Crazy at first, seeing the fire blaze in his eyes.

Card Slinger cackled and threw his mane back to the blackened heavens. "Oh," he said, coming back down, "yes, youze heard me. No mo' fightin' wit' dem! No mo' encroachin' on dey turf. No mo' goin' afta dey little troops, o' dey big fish, jus' like youzeselves. No. It ends now."

"But," protested Couch Potato, leaning forward on shaking hooves, "why, boss? Dey... dey are our biggest enemies! Youze know what dey've done ta us—ta our families! We can't jus' let dat go, can we?!" A chorus of murmurs followed his statement in agreement.

Card Slinger laughed and stomped towards Couch Potato. "Fool!" he spat, retracting his lips in another snarl. His eyes raged with vengeful fire, focused, leering. "Youze really think the Mafia is youze problem? The Mafia is the reason dis city so damn unsafe an' poor? The Mafia is the reason youze had ta become a gang thug?!"

The enraged stallion drawing closer and closer, Couch Potato backed up on his hindhooves, the crowd parting around him. "N-n-no, b-boss! I-I neva s-said dat!"

Slinger pressed his snout to the weaker male's, exhaling a cloud of whiskey-breath upon him. "Youze idiot. Youze fool. Youze listen ta me—all o' youze!" he barked, looking up from his victim. He pointed an accusatory forehoof towards his troops. "Youze stay 'way from the damn Mafia, stay 'way from their territory!"

Another voice piped up from the sea of Manehatten Kings, "But, why, boss?"

Card Slinger trotted away from Couch Potato, dismissing the sweating stallion with a flick of his tail. "Youze'll see. Fo' now, leave dem be, iffa youze know what's good fo' youze." He nodded to his guards, who tightened the grip on the rifles in their hooves.

Luna yielding to her older and wiser sister above them, Card Slinger announced, "Dis meetin' is ova. Get outta heeya befo' somepony sees youze, an' don't forget what we talked 'bout ta-night."

~

The distance between the outskirts of Appleloosa and the train station seemed insurmountable. Babs Seed swayed in her hoof-steps, dizzy with fatigue. With Apple Bloom's assistance, she found a bench and fell back into it, removing her saddlebags and lying down on her back.

"Horseapples... Buck... Arrrghhh..." She squeezed her eyes shut, irritated by the rising sun. "Bloom, go get us tickets..."

"Ah'll go check the ticket booth. Ah think it's still open. If not, we'll get 'em from one o' the train guards. Jus' rest. Ah'll git yer bags, too," Apple Bloom said, swiping her mare's bags and placing them on her back. In any other year, she wouldn't worry about leaving them next to the barely-conscious mare.

The Appleloosa of her foalhood, however, was gone, and she feared it would never return.

Flipping over on her side, Babs murmured, "Mmm, 'kay," fighting for shut-eye. She'd barely managed to dig for the Sandmare behind her haze when the slow approach of hooves pried her eyes open.

Before her, Braeburn trotted up, the bandages on his shoulder absent as well. To his vest was pinned a shining silver star, perfectly polished in the growing light. A pair of saddlebags were slung over his back, and his revolver was holstered and secured to his unmarred shoulder.

The stallion smiled warmly and greeted his cousin, "Mornin', Babs! Ah figured you an' Bloom be headin' out ta-day."

Babs groaned and struggled to sit up. "Citrus an' Ma tell youze?"

"Sure did." He sat down in front of her. He looked towards the ticket booth and waved at Apple Bloom, who waved excitedly back, to the irritation of the booth attendant. "Wow," he said, looking back at Babs. "Y'all really are goin' there, ain't ya?"

Babs nodded weakly, slumping her back against the bench. What an awkward way ta sit. Why the hay do dey even make these things? "Eeyup. Gonna do what dat Triage bastard said an' talk ta some pansy detective. But," she said, leaning close and keeping her voice low, "'tween youze an' me, Braeburn, I think I'd be betta off jus' gettin' Slinga maself."

Braeburn shook his muzzle and clicked his tongue, glancing over his shoulder towards his Apple Bloom. She appeared oblivious to their conversation, digging in one of the saddlebags for some bits. "Now," he warned, lowering his voice accordingly, "Ah'm gonna pretend Ah jus' didn't hear ya say somethin' as stupid as that."

"Stupid? How in the hay is dat stupid?" Babs argued. "He's responsible fo' dis, Brae! I know he is!" She slapped a forehoof against the bench. "He's the reason fo' all dis, I know he is!"

"No need ta repeat yerself. An' yer wrong." Braeburn hopped up on the bench beside her, sitting on his haunches. He removed his Stetson and ran a forehoof around its brim. "Look..." He sighed. "Ah know what it's like ta feel guilty. Why, when ma Ma died, Ah..."

Braeburn swallowed his words, staring off into the distance.

Babs Seed placed a forehoof on his shoulder. "'Ey. I'm real sorry."

Braeburn had never discussed Aunt Barbara in front of her—never in front of any of them, for that matter. In his eyes, she detected a hint of a spark, a glistening tear buried deep, struggling to the surface.

Composing himself, Braeburn sighed and hung his head. "Ah know what it's like ta feel guilty. Ta think things are yer fault. But, it don't mean they are." He smiled weakly at his cousin, facing her. "But guilt's a powerful emotion, Babs. No matter how much Ah tell ya this ain't yer fault, yer not gonna believe me until ya believe it yerself."

Unsure of how to respond, she nodded again.

Braeburn lifted his saddlebags onto his lap and opened them. "Auntie made me promise Ah'd try an catch y'all befo' ya left an' give ya these."

"What?"

Pulling out two boxes of twenty bullets, Braeburn smirked. "Ya both still have yer guns, don't y'all?"

"Babs! Ah got the tickets." Apple Bloom joined them, a wide smile on her muzzle. At the sight of the ammunition, her grin twisted to a look of bewilderment. "Brae? What ya got there?"

"First, Ah need ta know if y'all got yer weapons," Braeburn said. He offered the boxes to Apple Bloom. "'Cuz if ya don't, these are plumb worthless."

"Ah, don't worry, we got 'em," Apple Bloom said, setting her saddlebags down. Accepting the gift, she expressed her gratitude with a quick hug around his neck before stashing the ammunition inside one of her bags.

Confused, Babs Seed turned to Apple Bloom, rising from the bench. "Youze kept dem?"

Casually, Apple Bloom answered, "Ah didn't see the reason in not."

"'Cuz dey cause trouble." Babs sneered in disgust. "No offense, Brae," she added sheepishly, casting a quick glance towards the stallion.

"None taken. But it ain't the guns doin' this, Babs. Ah'd rather y'all have 'em than not. That's why Ah gave 'em ta ya an' taught ya how ta shoot. Ah can see why ya don't want 'em now—" he looked towards the scar tissue on her shoulder, then back into her eyes—"but ya never know what can happen. Though, Ah think it's best y'all don't wear 'em in the city like we do out here. Jus' keep 'em in yer saddlebags, an' if ya need 'em, draw 'em. Understood?"

"Understood, Sheriff," Apple Bloom joked, grinning wildly. Braeburn chuckled, humoring her. Even Babs mustered a little laugh, though she reckoned her fatigue made that possible. Horseapples, ma memory's been so shoddy lately. Be damned iffa I rememba half o' dis once we get on dat damn train.

On cue, the first train to Manehatten pulled into the Appleloosian station, announcing its arrival with a burst of angry steam.

A tight, lingering embrace, promises of letters, safety, haste, and a few tears later, the two mares boarded the train, the stallion watching their every step.

Sheriff Braeburn stood there until the locomotive pulled away, setting off on its iron hooves towards the East and the beast. Once he did, his thoughts drifted to Ponyville, and how long it had been since he'd seen Cousin Applejack.

He mused under his breath, "Maybe Ah can train up some deputies 'nough ta leave the town ta 'em fer a few days..."

~

"Now arriving—Manehatten train station!"

A stallion's booming voice roused Apple Bloom from her slumber. She laid down in the sleeper cab just a few minutes ago, or so it seemed. She lifted her head dreamily, Babs Seed entwined in her forehooves. Babs snored lazily, twitching in her sleep.

"Babs..." She nudged her muzzle with her own. "C'mon, Babsy. We're here," she mumbled, yawning.

"... Mmm... No... I don't want any bananas, neitha..."

"Babs... come on." Apple Bloom poked her side with minimal force.

Startled, her mare drew her forehooves close to herself and rolled over onto her back, maw agape. "Huh? Whatsa?"

"We made it." Yawning again, Apple Bloom rose to her hooves and picked up one of their saddlebags, slinging it across her back. She held out the other set to her slowly awakening mare. "C'mon. They aren't gonna wait forever ta let us off this damn train."

Returning the yawn, Babs smacked her lips and stood up, slipping the saddlebags over her back. New energy pulsed through her, renewed by eight hours of blissful slumber. In her dreams, they were headed not to Manehatten, but to a faraway paradise, a land where sand and sea united. An' it was a damn good dream, too...

Ushering her with a forehoof, Apple Bloom led the way out of the locomotive. She nodded in acknowledgment to an impatient guard-pony, who tapped a hindhoof and pointed to his pocket watchf. "Yea, yea, we're gettin' off," she grumbled, emerging from the stuffy atmosphere of the train into the cold Manehatten evening.

The train station was crowded, many ponies boarding the train they'd just departed. Crossing the wooden planks of the platform, Apple Bloom and Babs Seed made their way through the crowd as quickly as they could, careful not to bump anypony.

Once her hooves first met the sidewalk, Apple Bloom felt a strange, sudden sickness rising up within, forming in her stomach and proliferating through her bloodstream. She froze, looking up towards the skies. Surely, they were weather-pegasi here, weren't there?

Gray. A haze of gray clouds and looming thunderheads hanging above a concrete jungle of skyscrapers and office buildings, blasphemous edifices pointing towards the Most High in defiance of the holy. A chilling wind rushed past her, tugging at her mane, her tail, her coat. Not playful. Forceful.

Dark. And cold.

"Bloom, are youze—"

Babs Seed's words were cut short by that same sickening feeling when her forehooves made contact with gray cobblestone. Chills traversed through every inch of her nervous system. All prior energy seemed to deplete, leaving her, abandoning her. So... cold. Cold. Dark. Black.

Blackness. Coldness. Darkness.

"B-Babs?"

"Y-yea?"

Apple Bloom craned her muzzle towards her mare. "D-do ya feel that?"

"Y-yeah." Scanning their surroundings, Babs Seed noted a variety of Earth ponies of all shapes, sizes, and ages milling about. None seemed to share in their plight, their muzzles glued to the ground or their hooves. The few exceptions seemed entranced by the wares of a nearby vendor, flashing their bits, eager for purchase. The few pegasi or unicorns also seemed unaffected, and more chipper than their ground-bound and magic-less counterparts.

"Let's jus' keep goin'," Babs urged, trotting close beside her mare. She trotted a hair faster, steering them both in the direction of downtown Manehatten. Doubt dis place changed too much in eight years. Bet the P.D. is always where it used ta be.

Apple Bloom agreed, her voice shaking, "A-alright."

Keeping close to Babs Seed, Apple Bloom took in the sights and sounds of the dreary city for the first time in eight years. The entire scene was surreal. More of a drunken dream than any lucid reality. Graffiti littered the back and side walls of several buildings they passed. Everypony seemed lost within their own imaginary world, muzzles low, hooves slow, muzzles tense. Those who chose to interact with others seemed... worse.

On a balcony of a high-rise apartment building, a mare and a stallion exchanged curses, forehooves raised and pointing towards each other. At a nearby ice-cream vendor's cart, a customer argued with the seller, shaking his forehoof threateningly. In the shadows of an alley they strode past, Apple Bloom swore that she spotted a stallion pass a bag full of white powder to a mare, both their eyes as dark as the skies.

"Youze alright?" Babs nudged her in the shoulder.

"Y-yeah. Ah'm fine." Apple Bloom swallowed, shook her head, and steered the conversation away. "Ya sure ya know where the police station is?"

"I don't think it's changed dat much since I was a foal. It used ta be downtown, deep in the heart o' it all." Shrugging, Babs forced a small smile. "Let's jus get dis ova wit'. Iffa we hurry an' talk ta the detective fast as we can, hay, we might be able ta catch a train ta Ponyville."

"That would be nice." Apple Bloom smiled and nuzzled her mare affectionately, a shred of warmth at the touch countering the strange hollowness spreading through her. The wind was mild here in comparison to the desert's reckless sandstorms. No rain poured down from the skies. Why, then, did she feel so cold?

Babs chuckled. "Yea. It would," she said, spitting her words out as fast as she could. She noted a few stallions hanging near one of the apartment buildings, eying them with curiosity. Glaring in their direction, she pressed onwards, striding closer beside Apple Bloom. What are youze lookin' at, punks? Huh? C'mon, c'mere an' I'll show youze—

"Babs?"

"Yea, Bloom?"

"Is... Is somethin' botherin' ya?"

"Well—"

"Ah mean... somethin' 'bout... us?"

Babs shook her muzzle and turned a corner, heading down another main street towards downtown. Flattening her ears, she muttered, "What do youze mean?"

Her muzzle flushing crimson, Apple Bloom looked away briefly, muttering back, "Ah don't know... Ya jus' seem like yer... yer mad at me o' somethin'."

"No. I'm not," Babs mumbled, keen to her surroundings. Her eyes were not betraying her. Another apartment building. Another group of stallions watching them pass, staring, silent. What? Youze neva seen mares befo'? Buck!

"C'mon," Babs urged, placing a forehoof on her mare's shoulder. "Let's hurry up an' get there befo' it gets dark, an' we'll talk mo' 'bout dis stuff later, alright?"

"Alright," Apple Bloom relented, sensing her anxiety. She quickened her pace and followed close beside Babs Seed, as the two of them plunged into the heart of Manehatten's darkness.

~

"I'm sorry, Detective White Dove ain't seein' nopony else ta-night."

The officer running the front desk of the Manehatten Police Department was a small mare, her blue uniform engulfing her in a swarm of azure. The silver badge pinned to her uniform shined in the light of her desk lamp. She glanced briefly up at her visitors, then back down to the magazine between her forehooves, smacking her gum all the way.

She dwarfed in comparison to Babs Seed (or even Apple Bloom, for that matter) but didn't appear to be intimidated in the least, even as Babs struggled to contain her outrage right in front of her.

"What do youze mean she ain't seein' nopony?!" Babs barked, leaning forward on her forehooves. "Damn sun ain't down! What the hell is youze problem, huh?!"

The officer looked up from her copy of Hoof Beat and sneered. "Ain't got no problem, 'cept wit' punks like youze," she muttered, snarling back.

"Who do ya think yer callin' punks?!" Apple Bloom stepped forward, glaring at the mare. She shifted back and forth on her hooves. "We came a long way ta see this Detective! Jus' let us talk ta her! Won't take mo' than a few minutes."

Sighing, the officer set down her magazine and sat up straight in her stool. Crossing her forehooves on the desk, she reiterated, "Look, gals. Detective White Dove has gone out fo' the night. She won't be back 'til mornin'. Sorry." Blowing a bubble of pink gum (which she promptly popped and cracked), she stared at the door, nudging her muzzle in obvious implication.

THUD!

"Babs!"

Babs Seed slammed a forehoof down on the desk, sending the magazine flying. She leaned up on her hindhooves, boring holes into the officer. "What do youze mean she's gone?! How the buck can an offica o' the law be off the clock?! Where is she?!"

Apple Bloom reached up and pulled her back, wrapping her forehooves around her torso. "Ah, heh heh, sorry, Officer. Yer gonna have ta excuse her. She's not herself—"

"I don't give a buck what she is o' isn't!" snapped the officer, leaning up on her hindhooves and staring at the enraged mare. "Youze betta get outta heeya right now, o' I'll throw youze both in cuffs!"

Growling, Babs lurched forward again, only to be pulled back in the nick of time. Struggling against the larger mare, Apple Bloom exclaimed, "Babs! Calm down! Let's jus' go git a hotel o' somethin'! We can come back tomorrowa!"

"'EY! WHAT'S GOIN' ON HEEYA?!"

Around the corner, another officer of Manehatten blue emerged. A stocky, well-built stallion, orange in coat and snow-white in mane, rushed towards the deck, a baton in his forehoof. "We gotta problem heeya?!"

"No! No, Officer, no problem!" Mustering all her might, Apple Bloom jerked Babs Seed away from the clerk's desk, pulling her down to all four hooves. "We... we were jus' leavin, an'—"

"Toss?!"

The stallion blinked dumbly, shaking his mane from in front of his eyes. "Wha?"

Squirming out of Apple Bloom's forehooves, Babs Seed trotted up to the stallion, glancing at his cutiemark from the corner of her eye. A pair o' dice. Just as I remembered.

Rising above the haze of the past week—her memory loss, her strange haze, and even the cold and darkness of Manehatten—Babs Seed remembered a struggling orange colt pinned under her hooves. She remembered a warning. She remembered... pity. Sorrow. Empathy. Empathy from a bully, a bully who even if he didn't realize it, may have saved her from a far worse fate, if only because he hesitated, if only because he snitched.

"Youze rememba me?" Babs asked, flashing him a smile.

The stallion slipped his baton back through its holster attached to his right shoulder. "Wait..." He took several hoof-steps towards the orange mare, studying her carefully. Red-and-pink mane. Freckles. Short mane... and tail. By circumstance, not design.

"Youze... youze is Babs Seed," he said at last, his eyes widening.

"An' youze is Lucky Toss," Babs replied, smiling wider. "I thought I'd neva see youze 'gain."

"Me neitha," Lucky Toss said, incredulous. His eyes drifting to the mare behind Babs Seed, he gasped and exclaimed, "Oh, where are ma manners? Heh. I'm Offica Lucky Toss, o' the Manehatten P.D." He grinned and trotted towards her. "An' youze are?"

"Apple Bloom." She offered a forehoof to him.

"Apple Bloom, huh?" Toss smirked and shook hooves. "Wowza. Such a pretty mare in such an ugly city."

Babs Seed laughed and sidled up alongside her, wrapping a forehoof around her neck. "Yea. Ma pretty mare," she said confidently, shooting the stallion with a glare.

"Oh!" Lucky Toss rubbed the back of his neck with a forehoof and cracked an awkward grin. "Ah. S-sorry." He turned to his sister of the badge. "So, uh, Cotton, anythin' I need ta help youze wit'?"

"Well, sorry ta interrupt youze lil' reunion," Cotton snapped, rolling her eyes and rising from her desk, "but dis one heeya was actin' threatenin' towards me!" Drawing her baton, she pointed at Babs Seed menacingly. "She's lucky I didn't jus' throw her sorry ass in jail!"

Feeling her mare tense again, Apple Bloom quickly intervened, chuckling half-heartedly. "Oh, Ah don't think that'll be necessary, ma'am," she assured, offering a smile to Cotton. "We've jus' been travelin' all day. She's tired. We'll get in a nice hotel an' talk ta the detective tomorrowa."

"Hmph." Tapping the baton to her opposite forehoof, Cotton clicked off the lamp on her desk and made her way around the corner. "I'm goin' on break. Youze take the front desk, Toss."

"Heh, sure." Toss plopped down at the stool and stretched his hindhooves on the desk. "So... youze two wantin' ta talk ta Dove, huh?"

"Dat's right." Babs explained, "There was a bit o' a... incident out where we live, an' I'm pretty sure I know who's responsible. A Manehatten pony."

Babs paused, contemplating telling Lucky Toss—surely he would know where Slinger was, wouldn't he?—but brushed that notion aside. "Somepony she can help us find."

Lucky Toss snorted, balancing a pencil on his forehoof. "Hah. Sure. Detective White Dove an' Offica Rustla got demselves a lil' competition o' incompetence goin' on right now. Both o' dem tryin' ta solve cases wit' no end."

Babs Seed raised an eyebrow. Rustla? Could it be...?

"Then what do ya do?" Apple Bloom asked, tilting her head. "If yer not a detective o' somethin'."

"Patrol offica! Hittin' the streets, beatin' criminals, makin' arrests... dat's ma game." The pencil slipped and fell off his forehoof, clattering to the desk. Lucky chuckled, a slight hint of crimson spreading across his muzzle. "Heh. Anyway, it was nice ta see youze 'gain, Babs Seed," he said, stretching out a forehoof.

Babs shook it, returning the sentiment. "It was nice ta see youze 'gain, too, Toss. Good ta see youze ain't bullyin' nopony no mo'."

"Ha! Well, I don't know 'bout dat," he joked, running a forehoof through his mane. "Say... iffa youze mares gonna be up fo' a while, why don't youze come down ta The Big Orange an' get a drink wit' me?" A sly grin spread across his muzzle as he winked towards Apple Bloom teasingly.

Apple Bloom rolled her eyes and sighed. "A bar?" Noticing Babs's frown, she shook her head. "Thank ya kindly, Lucky, but Ah think we're jus' gonna turn in fer the night."

"Oh. No problem! Catch youze both tomorrowa, then. Come in befo' six. Dat's when Dove heads home."

"Sure thing. Maybe we'll take youze up on youze offer anotha time," Babs said, pulling Apple Bloom close to her. "C'mon, Bloom. Let's go."

Together, the two mares spoke final goodbyes to Officer Lucky Toss, making a hasty exit. Leaving the stallion behind, he sighed, staring into his forehooves.

There was no reason to be cheerful, he knew, but he did it anyway.

~

The night was cold and barren outside, no stars visible above the clinging gray. The light-tenders had come out in full swing, dotting the maze of cobblestone with orange, red, and yellow flame, casting shadows to catch the demons.

"So... A hotel, youze said?"

Apple Bloom nodded, shivering.

"Cold?"

"Yes... No. Ah dunno," Apple Bloom admitted, leaning close to her mare. "Ah don't feel right, Babs. Let's git outta the streets, an' quick."

Nodding, Babs Seed led the way out of the belly of the beast.

Bottom Of The Glass

Eager to get out of the impending rain and away from the strange, haunting glances of many passerby—were those really ponies in the Manehatten streets, or zombies in fur and keratin?—Babs Seed and Apple Bloom stopped at the first hotel they saw. Comfort Inn read the shoddy lettering on the decaying sign above the door. The building was a blasphemous obelisk of concrete, rising some ten stories or more towards the Heavens. Pointing. Smiling. Smug. Nothing comfortable about it whatsoever.

“Dis one alright?” Babs asked, turning to her mare. “I know it ain’t the prettiest, but—“

“It’s good,” Apple Bloom snapped, a little too harshly. Softening her tone, she added, “Ah jus’ wanna turn in, have some dinner, an’ go ta bed as soon as we can. An’ git this over wit’, Babs.”

Nodding her agreement, Babs led the pair up the steps and opened the heavy, dusty door.

Inside the lobby, a lone reception-pony sat at a shoddy desk, low-quality nails visible and sticking out of the oak at odd, random intervals. “Welcome ta the Comfort Inn,” she droned, turning the page of a fashion magazine. The mare was young, maybe a few years older than either Apple, but spoke her words with the weariness of an elder. Barely glancing up from her page, she mumbled thickly, “Can I help youze?”

“We need a room fo’ the night.” Removing her saddlebag, Babs fished around for a bit-jar and removed the lid. “How much?”

“Twenty bits,” answered the receptionist while staring at a perfume advertisement.

“Twenty?!” Babs felt her hackles rising. “We pay less than dat fo' a week back at the inn out west!”

Unfazed, the receptionist said, “Twenty bits. Take it o’ leave it.”

“Ah’m sorry,” Apple Bloom said, scrunching her snout. “Is there a… cheaper inn ‘round here? An’ maybe a…” She glanced around the lobby, cobwebs gathering in the corners of the ceiling and fading, peeling wallpaper completing the ambiance. “Nicer one?”

Closing her magazine, the receptionist glared at Apple Bloom and scowled. “Dis is the cheapest hotel ‘round, mare. Take it o’ leave it.”

Flushed with anger, Babs lurched forward. “’Ey! Don’t youze talk ta her dat way!”

Apple Bloom face-hoofed, pulling Babs by the left shoulder. Not this ‘gain, she thought grimly. “That’ll be jus’ fine, ma’am,” she muttered, wrestling the conversation away. They’d barely been inside the lobby a minute, and she could already feel the heat of the mare’s glare, the venom rushing through her veins. And Babs wasn’t faring too well, either.

Babs shook her muzzle and began to pack up her saddlebag. “No, Bloom, let’s jus’ go some—“

Clink, clink. “That should be twenty bits, ma’am.”

“… Nevamind,” Babs Seed grunted, shaking dust from her mane. Horseapples. Dis place is a dump. An’ she already paid. Buuuuuck.

“Thank youze. At least one o’ youze has manners.” The receptionist sneered. Reaching for a drawer full of keys, she located one and passed it to Apple Bloom. “Youze in luck. Room 203. Second floor, up the stairway ta youze left. All the othas are up on tenth floor o’ higha, but I’ll give youze dis last one fo’ bein’ polite.”

Sticking her tongue out at the receptionist, Babs was the one to follow this time. Mentally cursing just about everything with a vocabulary that would make Discord blush, she stomped her way up the stairwell behind Apple Bloom, certain that the floorboards would rot and bottom out beneath her.

~

The room proved to be better kept than the lobby. Although it was small, about the same size as their room out west, it at least had a bathroom and running water. Both mares hadn't been graced with indoor plumbing in ages and welcomed the sight. After the initial unpacking and a quick shower, Apple Bloom relaxed on the bed, while Babs Seed took to pacing.

One side of the tiny room to the other, back and forth she trotted, thinking, thinking. Tomorrowa. We have ta wait until tomorrowa. What iffa summat happens? I swear, lotsa ponies were lookin’ at us strange… why? What iffa summat happens out west ‘gain? I can’t… I can’t lose any mo’ friends, o’ family.

“Babs… Ah brought some cider an’ apple pie…” Grinning, Apple Bloom patted the bed beside her and pulled her saddlebag onto it with her jaws. “See?” She held the bottle and laid it beside her. “C’mere, relax… you've been tense all day.”

“I’m fine,” Babs snapped, turning around before resuming her pacing. Her furrowed brow and scowling muzzle declared otherwise.

With a frustrated sigh, Apple Bloom snapped back, “What’s yer problem, Babs? Ah swear, you’ve been so surly an’ rude since we got here.”

“What do youze expect from me, Bloom?” Rounding on her, Babs barked, “I hate dis damn place. I don’t wanna be heeya! An’,” she added, “I know youze don’t wanna be, eitha. I told youze ta go an’ stay wit’ AJ fo’ a while o’ summat.”

“Ah’m not gonna leave ya here, an’ ya know it.” Biting her tongue, Apple Bloom swallowed her anger and tried once more, offering honey instead of the vinegar in her veins. “Please, Babs. Let’s jus’ have a nice dinner an’ relax. We’ll sleep early an’ talk ta the detective in the mornin’.” She hopped off the bed and threw a forehoof around her thick neck, smiling as seductively as she could. “Please… Babsy?”

Not gonna work dis time. Thicker in the skull, Babs shook Apple Bloom off and stomped towards the door. “I’m goin’ out. I need ta take a walk.”

“W-w-what?” Apple Bloom followed after her. “What's wrong? Was it somethin’ Ah said?”

Buck. Don’t youze get it? Turning around, Babs faked a sad smile and answered with a half-truth. “No, Apple Bloom. Everythin’s fine. I jus’ wanna get some air, alright?”

Staring at the floorboards, Apple Bloom dug a hoof into the creaking wood and reluctantly agreed, “Alright. Jus’ git back—“

SLAM!

“… Soon." She was talking to the wall. Babs Seed was already gone.

~

Surrounded by seven armed guards, Card Slinger was nonetheless tense. His eyes darted back and forth in the shadows of the ghetto as he and his entourage passed slumbering boarded-up buildings and ramshackle apartments. The cobblestone under his hooves echoed with each step in a familiar tempo.

Everything was the same. Everything was different. He stared at a passed-out drunk in the streets and remembered words long forgotten, spoken by somepony many called a sage.

Those who forget the past are doomed to repeat it.

“Boss?” One of his cronies hung his muzzle low and whispered into the ear of his King. “Boss?”

“What?!” he hissed back, furrowing his brow.

CLINK!

Eight heads snapped to the source of the noise. Lying a few feet ahead in their path was a solitary stone—another speckle of gray rippling through a vast sea of concrete. Just a stone. No glowing eyes in the dark. No ambush.

Nothing to be concerned about.

Card Slinger scoffed, irritated, and gestured for his guards to carry on.

Turning to the nosy one as they picked up their pace, he said again, “What?! What is it? Youze betta make dis quick, Dodge. I ain’t in no chattin’ mood.”

Dodge, one of the more amicable guards on his payroll, nodded and bowed his head low. “Boss… ’bout all dis ta-night… Are youze… youze plannin’ ta—“

WHUMP!

Dodge stifled a pained cry and rubbed his snout. Message delivered. Submitting to his second master, he nodded in silent affirmation and strode away from Slinger, taking his place at the front of the pack.

Spitting on the ground, Slinger mumbled under his breath, “Youze’ll see. Youze’ll all see.”

His gaze found the Mansion in the distance, and he spat again.

Above him came a rush of thermals and a mighty flapping of wings.

~

Shooting the receptionist with another dirty look on her way out, Babs Seed burst into the dark streets of Manehatten. Stormclouds above threatened to cleanse the city of its sin. Preferring not to be caught in the rain—it's gotta come sometime, ain't it?—she left the steps of the Comfort Inn and steered back towards the police station.

Dis is wrong. Dis is wrong. Youze lyin' ta her, an' dis is wrong. Street vendors packed up their carts for the day, racing the falling sun. She wove through a thick crowd of teenage fillies and colts, clamoring amongst themselves and filling the streets with their laughter. Babs made her way back into the rumbling belly of the hungry beast, a hunger of her own driving her hooves.

Or, rather, a thirst.

The angel on her shoulder plead its case. Youze gonna worry her. "Take a walk"? Ha! Dat's a lie an' youze know it. C'mon, youze jus' runnin'... runnin' like youze always have. Can't do it always, can youze?

On the opposite and wounded shoulder, a trickster-devil of her conscience poked and prodded. C'mon. Youze need ta relax, don't youze? Jus' pop in fo' a few minutes, a quick sip, clear youze head... youze'll be back in no time, an' Apple Bloom will have forgot youze lil' tantrum, anyway.

Here, in Manehatten, Babs Seed stumbled, giving in to the suggestion, ignoring the better angel of her nature.

She considered turning back once The Big Orange came into full view. Last chance, said the angel. C'mon... youze know dis ain't right... Stopping in her tracks, she turned around.

"I shouldn't be heeya," she mumbled to nopony in particular. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, trying to calm her mind. C'mon, whispered temptation again. Youze had a rough day. Jus' one lil' drink won't hurt. It'll help youze relax.

... Well, Babs rationalized, I do need ta relax.

Her decision made, Babs Seed quickly crossed the street and ducked into The Big Orange, looking back all the while. Apple Bloom wasn't following. She was on a walk, after all. That's all. There would be no reason to follow after her. She was being responsible. Reasonable. She'd taken a walk, and gotten thirsty along the way. One quick drink would not only be forgivable, it would be understandable.

Trotting in slowly, Babs marveled at the bar's architecture. It bore all the trademarks of a working-class pub: tools from various trades, street signs, simplistic paintings, and faded photographs decorated the walls. Directly above the bar counter hung a shotgun mounted on a cherry-wood plaque. Two pool tables in opposite corners of the bar drew most of the attention, groups of stallions crowded around both and throwing bits on the felt. A few other customers gathered near the back, rolling dice and counting bits. Most of the patrons appeared to be Earth ponies.

Babs's face fell. Damn. It's kinda like... how ours was...

"Why, 'ello there!" called a cheerful stallion's voice.

Babs shook out of her trance and turned around. Behind the counter, a brown Earth pony stallion with a coal-black mane waved her over. He wore a white apron and black bowtie, an enormous smile on his muzzle. He cleaned a beer stein and greeted, "'Ello! You must be new 'ere! Never seen your muzzle 'round these parts."

"Heh, yeah... I'm jus'... passin' through," she muttered, taking inventory of the liquors and labels on the shelves. Gin, rum, vodka, whiskey... no cider. No Daniel's. Applejack did say she had trouble gettin' sales heeya. Dat's weird. Don't seem ta be any apple products. Strange...

"Please, my dear. Have a seat," the bartender offered, gesturing to one of the bar stools. Shrugging, Babs climbed up and stretched, staring intensely at the liquor shelves again. Not one speck of Apple Family product could be found.

"Excuse me," said a mare's voice. "Is this seat taken?"

"Eh?" Babs turned around. A light-green pegasus mare with a light-blue mane, wineglass in forehoof, beamed and placed her other forehoof on the stool directly next to her. "Uh, no. It's not taken," Babs said, forcing a slight smile.

The mare giggled and hopped up onto a stool. She down her glass and leaned forward, resting her head on her forehooves. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to eavesdrop, but I couldn't help it... You said you're just passing through Manehatten?"

"Dat's right."

"Oh, a traveler, are you? Oh, we can most certainly relate, can't we?" she said, turning to the bartender, smiling wide enough to split her muzzle.

The stallion laughed merrily. "Most definitely, Flicker! Two travelers we are, indeed." He gasped and shifted to his newest customer. "Oh, I'm so sorry! Where are my manners? Welcome to The Big Orange, lovely! Summat I can get fo' you to drink, Miss, uh...?"

"Babs Seed. An' I'll jus' have vodka on the rocks," Babs said quickly, trying her best not to look at the pegasus mare. Sheesh... take a picture o' summat...

"Citrus or plain, Babs?" asked the bartender, grabbing a glass from beneath the counter.

With a snort, Babs replied, "Jus' plain." Who the hay puts citrus in vodka? Horseapples, dat sounds downright disgustin'. "So," she began, focusing on the stallion, "can I ask youze a question?"

He nodded and passed her a bowl of pretzels. "O' course, love. Here, have a snack."

"Thanks." Crunching down a hoof-full of pretzels while he measured out the perfect portion of vodka to accompany her ice, she asked, "Why don't youze have anythin' but..." Squinting, she double-checked the labels on the shelves and finished, "Orange fo' flavorin'?"

"Why, it's the most popular flavor," answered the stallion simply. He smirked and brought a forehoof to his muzzle. "And our suppliers are quite generous with wholesale pricing. Stuff practically sells itself at that point."

He finished the drink and set it down in front of Babs Seed, trotting away with a wink and a smile. "Let me know if you need anything else, lovely. I do hope you enjoy your stay in Manehatten, Babs Seed."

"Heh, thanks, uh... sir," she mumbled. Horseapples, I didn't get his name. Ah, well. He's gonna be busy ta-night anyway.

Flicker giggled and leaned even closer. Uh... dat's weird. Taking a small sip, Babs shrugged and tried to ignore the sweat rolling down her nape and the growing heat on her muzzle.

"So..." Edging closer in her stool, Flicker winked, her wings extending to full length as she approached. She murmured, sultry, "Where are you from, cutie?"

"U-uh!" Alarms of all sorts activating in Babs Seed's mind, she tightened her grip on her glass and turned to face the pegasus, fumbling for a reply. Stop it! What's wrong wit' youze?! I know she's pretty, but—dammit, mind, stop betrayin' me!

After a long, awkward silence, Babs stammered, "M-me an' m-ma mare are f-from P-Ponyville."

Flicker instantly recoiled, her nostrils flaring. "Oh. You and... your marefriend?"

Babs swallowed. Dammit! Stop! "Y-yes, ma'am."

"Oh, I see. What a shame," she grumbled, taking a sip of her wine. With a sigh, she drummed a forehoof on the counter and proceeded to ignore her previous object of flirtation.

Sheesh. Glad dat's ova. Babs Seed sat in silence, watching a game at one of the pool tables. Stallions of all statures and colors roared with laughter and clamor, bits exchanging hooves, bets won and lost. Shaking her muzzle, she stared into her vodka, taking another drink. A longer one. The liquor burned its way down her throat, leaving fire in her belly.

Even as a bartender, she'd never been too much of a drinker, but figured one wasn't going to be enough tonight. Back heeya, in dis Celestia-damned place... I feel sick... I feel weird... I jus' wanna get outta heeya. Why wasn't dat damn detective there? She sure as shit ain't doin' her job right iffa things are as dey are.

Sighing, Babs downed the rest of her drink, chasing the ice. Maybe dat Triage was jus' full o' it. Maybe—

"Fo' the last time, Rustla, maybe youze should jus' lighten up!"

"An' fo' the last time, Toss, maybe youze should jus' grow up an' pay buckin' attention! Don't youze see what's goin' on heeya?!"

Oh, great.

From the corner of her eye, Babs watched the two officers, both still cloaked in Manehatten blue and silver, continue their verbal spat, trotting into the bar and trading daggers with each other. Babs hunched over her drink and tucked her bobtail between her hindlegs, praying against all hope that Lucky Toss wouldn't see her, that she could just maybe have one more round and then—

"Babs! I thought youze wasn't comin'!" Toss shouted excitedly, smacking her playfully on the shoulder. The stallion pulled up a stool right beside her, a big, goofy grin on his muzzle. He pounded on the counter and called out, "'Ey! Bartenda! A round o' citrus beer fo' me an' ma friend heeya!"

"Oh, Toss..." Flicker rose from her stool and trotted over to the patrol officer, smirking. “I’m so glad you made it tonight. The Big Orange is nothing without you... you big orange.” She giggled into her wine and winked at the stallion.

Babs face-hoofed. She should get punished fo’ dat one.

His muzzle flushing, Lucky Toss brushed a forehoof over his uniform and brought it up to his chest. “Well, Flicka, ain’t it nice ta see a pretty muzzle ‘round heeya. Well, along wit’ Babs, o’ course.”

Babs rolled her eyes. “Leave me outta dis,” she mumbled, swirling the ice in her empty glass. No way I can get outta dis now. Dey gonna be chattin’ it up... ugggh...

“Oh, you’re no fun,” Flicker joked, placing a forehoof on Lucky’s shoulder. “So... what took you so long, big stallion?

Pointing at the stallion beside him, Toss explained, "Dis one caught me on ma way out an' wanted ta talk politics wit' me! But politics neva been ma thing. 'Ey, Rustla?"

Her ears flattening at the mention of the name Rustla, Flicker caressed Lucky’s chin and said gruffly, “I'll be playing pool if you need me, sweetie."

“Ahhh, alright,” Toss replied, frowning. “I’ll be there soon. Jus’ give me a bit, alright?” He watched her slink away, giggling, his jaw slightly agape and a little river of saliva following.

Babs clapped her forehooves in front of his face. “‘Ey! Lovaboy! Wake up!”

“Huh?” Lucky muttered, a dreamy expression on his muzzle. “Oh!” He chuckled and fumbled with the buttons on his uniform, searching for a distraction. “Oh... Heh, s-sorry. Anyway... Rustla, youze met Babs Seed befo'?"

Wait... Rustla? Could it... could it be?

Turning in her seat, Babs Seed sized up the other law-pony. Dark blue mane. Light blue coat. Blue eyes, steely with determination. He was indeed the same colt he'd been all those years ago, having grown into his own—strong, tall, a cutiemark of a silver shield on his flank.

"Well, I'll be damned," Babs mused, a grin spreading across her muzzle. "Youze look jus' like when youze were a colt. 'Cept dat, o' course," she added, gesturing to his cutiemark. "Dat's new!"

Officer Rustler raised a suspicious eyebrow. "I thought youze seemed familiar. Youze haven't changed eitha, Babs Seed."

"How youze been?" Babs asked.

"Jus' fine," Rustler shot back, making no movement to join her at the bar.

Paying the bartender for two citrus beers, Lucky Toss passed one to Babs and brought the other to his lips. After a quick, deep gulp, he wiped his mouth and said pointedly, "Awww, c'mon, Rustla! Join us fo' a beer o' two. Catch up. We all rememba each otha, an' it's been so long, youze know?"

"Yes, it has," Rustler said, his lips drawing back in a scowl. Shifting to Babs Seed, he inquired gruffly, "Do youze want ta know what became o' youze lil' club, all those years 'go, Babs?"

Choking down a sip of the beer—horseapples, dat is foul—Babs sputtered, "S-s-sure! I always did wonda what happened ta all o' youze." Which was true. Curiosity, however, never compelled her enough to journey back to the concrete jungle of Manehatten. Promises she'd made then (and only broke now in the most extreme of circumstances) kept her far and away, among other reasons.

"Let's see." Babs brought a forehoof to her chin. "There was... youze, an'... anotha colt, an' two fillies. But I mostly rememba youze. Youze were quite the vocal one."

"Dat's our Rustla!" Toss whooped and took another gulp of his beer. "Always talkin', always analyzin'! Dat's why the Chief made youze an investigator!" He laid a forehoof on the other stallion's shoulder. "Blabbermouth, dat's youze!"

Rustler pushed the forehoof away and glared at his brother in the badge. "Dat's not why. He appointed me ta internal investigator because I'm good at siftin' through youze nonsense." Frowning, he said to Babs Seed, "Don't let dis one fool youze. He's still the bully he was back then ta youze an' me."

"'Ey! I went ta the Academy, I ran the gamut. I got ma badge. An' I learned a lot from when I was a scoundrel an' a thug."

"Whateva," Rustler dismissed, ignoring him. His eyes narrowed further when they fixated on the mare again, eight years of his own questions battling within. "As fo' youze... How could youze jus' leave like dat?"

Seriously? "Rustla," Babs began slowly, passing the half-empty bottle of citrus beer between her forehooves, "dat was a long time 'go. A lot o' things—"

"Ponies said youze moved ta Appleloosa. Was dat true, Babs?"

"No, but—"

"Why did youze even botha wit' us, iffa youze were jus' gonna leave? Huh?" The investigator sneered, his nostrils flaring in anger. He stomped a few hoof-steps closer to them with no intent on joining them in a friendly round. Lucky Toss had been and always would be a bully and a beast; he was not to be trusted. And Babs Seed left huge horseshoes to fill—something Rustler, deep down, feared he had failed to accomplish.

After all, as one of two remaining Cutie Mark Crusaders, it all seemed for naught in the end.

Slamming his beer onto the counter, Lucky turned in his stool and warned, "Rustla, drop it. Dat was long time 'go. We were jus' foals then. I'm sure Babs had a good reason fo' doin' what she did."

"Thank youze," Babs replied, nodding to him. To Rustler, she asked again, "What happened ta all o' youze, Rustla? I'm sorry I wasn't 'round, but—"

Officer Rustler leaned close to her, pressing his muzzle against hers. Deep, sapphire eyes brimming and blazing with rage, his hackles raised, he growled and said grimly, "Dey all gone. Dey dead."

Sure she'd gone insane or deaf or both, Babs stammered, "W-what?!" But! Dey ma age! Our age! How? Youze gotta be pullin' ma hooves!

Rustler began to snarl a reply, but thought the better of it. Backing up on his hindhooves, he cursed, "Buck youze both. Always runnin'. While I clean up youze shit." Thirst forgotten, the investigator tossed one last glare at his fellow officer, then took to his hooves, galloping out of The Big Orange.

Shaking slightly, Babs placed her empty beer back on the counter and called for another. Dead? Dey dead? Fl... Flora? Quick Step? Turn Key? All o' dem? But how? An' why? A rough fetlock found her shoulder, patting her reassuringly.

"'Ey," Toss said, lowering his voice, "don't worry 'bout him. Rustla's had a stick up his rear fo' Celestia knows how long 'bout anythin' an' everythin'. He don't get along wit' nopony. It's nothin' 'gainst youze. What we did as foals was... Well, it's the past, right?" He gave her another pat on the shoulder before pulling away.

Liquor beginning to cast its spell, making her light of hoof and thought—or was that something else?—Babs nodded weakly, although she didn't fully agree. The past is the past, but it seems like it doesn't wanna stay there. "Toss... Is what he said, though, 'bout the Crusadas... Is dat true?"

The bartender arrived with two more beers, both of which were eagerly accepted. Sighing, Lucky replied sorrowfully, "I'm 'fraid it is. City swallows a lot o' us. An' he's been workin' on dem two cases himself. Poor stallion."

"Yes..." Staring at the floorboards, Babs whispered, "Poor Rustla." Even iffa Toss is right, an' he is an ass, dat... dat's still awful. Hay, I barely knew dem, an'... Horseapples. I can't even put it inta thoughts.

In silent synchronization, Babs and Toss took a long, deep drink of their beer. The brew tasted awful, almost unpalatable on Babs Seed's tongue. Nevertheless, with each passing sip, she felt her anxiety and anger dissipate. Citrus liquor was an affront to all she knew, and drunkenness even more so. Babs Seed the bar-pony had never been drunk.

A trickster voice at the back of her mind decided to change that.

~

For the next two hours, Babs Seed bonded with one of her foalhood bullies, empty bottles of citrus beer piling up beside them. Lucky Toss recounted what he'd done in the wake of his then-best-friend's arrest. He didn't bother to mention him by name. Both of them knew. Even when speaking of him vaguely, his anger seethed below the surface, evident in the furrow of his brow and the slow tempo of his words.

Babs Seed, when asked, told the stallion she'd moved to Ponyville, and nothing more. There was simply too much story to tell, and the more and more she chased the yeast, the less any of it seemed to matter. Troubles, worries... that strange, sickening feeling in her stomach... all came to pass.

And time, of course, ticked by slowly, almost two hours creeping by before Babs finally looked up at a clock on the wall. "Aw, horseapples," she spat, swaying in her stool.

"What's wrong?" Toss tipped back his bottle and drained the last of his beer. "Need ta take a leak?"

She snort-laughed and shook her muzzle. "No! Haha! Good one, though. Naw, I need ta get back ta the hotel. I told Bloom I was goin' fo' a walk."

"Really? Shit." Spitting on the floor, Toss unbuttoned the top button of his uniform and smirked. "She's gonna be pissed when youze get back. Tell her 'ey fo' me, alright?"

Hopping off the stool, stumbling on her hooves, Babs leaned against the bar and chuckled. "I ain't tellin' her nothin'! Far as she knows, I walked ta the city limits an' traced the train-tracks until I thought betta o' it."

Taking his empty bottle in a forehoof, Toss gesticulated wildly and snorted. "Youze an' me both, pal. Horseapples, I hate dis place. So much chaos, anytime, anywhere. Weather sucks too. Everypony's a brute o' some sort. Hay, once I save up enough bits, I'm gonna get the buck outta dis place. Move out west o' summat."

"West?"

"Yea." Lucky grinned. Pulling himself off the stool and onto his hooves, he explained, "Lots o' ponies I know headin' out there. Lots o' opportunity, free land, free livin'. Peace an' quiet too."

Babs rubbed the back of her neck and looked away. "Heh. Funny youze should say dat."

"Why? Oh!" His eyes lighting up, Lucky hopped a bit on his hooves excitedly. "Youze from there, ain't youze? Oh, Celestia, youze gotta tell me all 'bout—"

"It ain't safe no mo'," Babs said, digging a forehoof into the floorboards. "Dat's why I'm heeya, Toss. Why me an' Bloom are heeya." Turning to face him, she frowned and sighed. "There was some... shootin's out there."

"Shootin's? Wild-west shootouts?"

"No. Like... assaults. Attacks. Invasions."

Officer Lucky Toss gulped and sat on his haunches, silent.

"Yes... Two o' ma best friends are not wit' us 'cuz o' it." Liquid courage tempering the impact of her words and recollections, Babs Seed continued, "An' it ain't nothin' nopony out there is doin'. Sure, there's some crime an' clashin', but it's nothin' like dat. Dem perpetrators are from heeya. An' I think I know who dey are."

Whistling low, the stallion shook his muzzle and groaned. "Sheesh. Well, I'm real sorry ta hear dat, Babs. Tell youze what." Flinging a forehoof across her neck, he vowed, "I'll do ma best ta make sure Dove sees youze an' helps youze two. An' I'll do ma best, anyway I can."

Returning the gesture, Babs smiled slightly and nodded. "Thank youze, Lucky. Now, iffa youze don't mind," she said, slipping out of his grasp, "I'd betta be gettin' home befo' ma mare gets too worried."

"Youze sure youze don't need an escort? Eh? Police professional?" Lucky Toss teased, removing his baton and flicking it to full length.

The pair burst into a series of hearty laughs, smacking their bellies and forgetting their roots. Former bully and former victim exchanged pleasantries, well wishes in the night. Their intoxication assisted their camaraderie, and Babs Seed thought through her haze as she stumbled out the door, Maybe dis was a good idea, afta all.

Meanwhile, as she slowly made her way back to the Comfort Inn—tripping over her hooves, falling deeper and deeper into the forehooves of yeast—Apple Bloom resumed her pacing and looked at the clock for the umpteenth time that night.

~

CRASH! THUD! WHUMP!

A set of leather-bound encyclopedias he’d never read and never would. A statue of a pair of rampant golden lions, rising to their haunches against a field of azure. His hoof-carved chess set, each piece painted painstakingly perfect and inscribed with his initials. All found its way to the floor, tearing and shattering and smashing.

Drowning his rage in whiskey, Card Slinger threw his mane back and howled to the ceiling, howled to the moon, howled like the timberwolf he was. He was no monster, or even a mad-pony. He was a bloodthirsty beast, hell-bent on vengeance, distributing his anger amongst all the things he’d purchased in exchange for his soul.

On his mahogany desk laid a simple letter, one that had sent his mood spiraling from a smug satisfaction and brooding contemplation to outright rage.

“MADHOOF! MAAAAAAAAAADHOOOOOOOOOOOOOOF!”

Bucking his hindhooves, Card Slinger toppled an entire bookshelf to the floor. Rearing on those same iron hooves, he stomped down and smashed it in two. Splinters embedded in his fetlocks, but the adrenaline in his veins prevented any semblance of pain from reaching his fetid mind.

“MADHOOF! YOUZE BUCKIN’ PIECE O’ SHIIIIIIIIIIIIT!”

A simple letter. A simple letter threw a wrench into his carefully thought-out system. Simple parchment and ink defied his ace in the hole, the dealer winking and revealing his wild card. His five of a kind. His impossibility.

His entire team of guards stood fast by the door, weapons at the ready. Exchanging nervous glances, they made no motion to enter the office. Dodge’s bruise was black and deep. Another guard still nursed a sprained forelimb.

Screeching, howling, giving into primal and ancient anger, Card Slinger grabbed a priceless painting and flung it across the room. It smacked against the opposite wall, shattering its glass case and marring its surface. Madhoof’s every injustice and smirk and sneer and insult and injury coursing through his veins, Card Slinger moved to the desk next, pulling out the drawers and locating his stash. His addiction.

A bottle of whiskey. Applejack Daniel’s. The last. The stolen.

The final.

All because of this… because of this… Boone…

“BASTARD!”

The bottle sliced through the air, a hell-bound missile shattering into a million little pieces on the floor. The thick scent of fresh whiskey filled his nostrils and teased him. But the timberwolf Slinger rose triumphant above the alcoholic Slinger, and made no motion to greedily lap it up out of the carpet, as he would’ve in his lesser years.

Fuming, the stallion grabbed the letter on his desk and re-read it for the thousandth time.

It simply stated:

“One week from today. Appleloosa by Luna.

Lesser Knights left one meddler. Take care of him. Wait and bide, and then strike.

It was a beautiful night for a flight.”

No signature was necessary. The parchment reeked of night air. Of feathers.

Card Slinger crumpled the letter in his forehooves. “No.” He grunted, shaking his muzzle in response to an imaginary Madhoof. “No. No mo’. No mo’. No.

“Youze stole everythin’ from me. I ain’t doin’ it no mo’.”

He stared at the crumpled-up parchment, then shoved it down his venomous maw. Chewed. Resisted the urge to vomit. Chewed some more. A week. A week? That was all? A week to topple the Master from above? A week for revenge? A week for redemption?

Not enough.

Card Slinger heaved. Shoving his forehooves over his mouth, he willed his jaws to cooperate, to chew, chew, chew. A week. A week. His troops in the hundreds. Madhoof’s... more. He wasn’t sure how many. But he couldn’t do this…

Not alone…

The ink was foul, staining the roof of his mouth and his tongue and his teeth and oh Celestia was it foul. Chew. Chew. Sawdust in his mouth. There was sawdust in his mouth.

A week. A week. A week until he would be dead.

There was sawdust in his mouth and the ink was so bitter and rancid. He chewed. Chew. Chew.

Until he would join his best and only friend.

Ponies went to the desert to die.

Chew, chew, chew.

Like they had, so long ago…

Chew, chew, chew.

Even though nopony could prove it.

He heaved again, fighting the urge to vomit. It was so strong, so incredibly strong, and everything was sick and wrong and disgusting and awful and—

OhforCelestia’ssakepleasechew,pleasechewpleaseswallowit’ssawdust,sawdustinmymouthandinksofoulandittastessodamnawful,ittasteslikehimandheissinandIamsinandweareallbeforethesaltandfireandpleaseifYouaretherepleasemakeitst—

Card Slinger swallowed the letter.

Collapsing to his stomach, he commanded his esophagus to comply, and forced it down. Swallowed again and again. Swallowed. Let it become him. Part of him. The last order.

The last order, which he would never fulfill.

Fearing the worst, Dodge knocked on his King's mahogany. Fearing the silence. Fearing what it may mean for them all.

“Boss? Youze alright?”

“D-Dodge!” he choked, battling his stomach.

The bruised guard called back, “Yes, it's me! Are youze alright, ma King?”

“Don’t open the door!” Slinger coughed and hacked, spitting ink into his forehooves. “Don’t—don’t youze open the door, iffa youze know what’s good fo’ youze!”

Struggling to his hooves, Card Slinger bellowed, “Whoeva wants ta get in ma graces, I got a favor fo’ youze slime!” He stumbled as he rose, tasting bitter acid in his mouth. “Hack! Somepony—hack!—send a message ta the Mafia Don. ASAP! I’m comin’ ta meet ‘im tomorrowa night at midnight, his choice where. Unarmed.”

A clamor of stricken, surprised exclamations rose outside his door. “SHUDDUP!” Slinger shouted, bracing himself against a hole-ridden wall. “Shuddup an’ do as I say! O’… O’… It’s youze head! It’s youze head on a platta, got it?!”

When nopony immediately replied, Slinger bellowed once more, “GOT IT?!”

Various shouts of “Yes, sir!” and “Yes, ma King!” brought a smug smirk to his countenance. He took deep, heaving breaths, enjoying the sensation of the cold drywall against his fur and skin. Card Slinger grinned, taking in the sight of his destroyed office.

Madhoof’s bits, all gone to waste. Destroyed. Shattered. Broken. Wasted.

“Tomorrowa,” he whispered to himself. “Tomorrowa, me an’ the Don gonna strike up a nice lil’ deal, an’ gonna put youze bastard ta sleep. Sleep wit’ fishes an’ the flames.” He brought his forehooves together and rubbed them back and forth, back and forth, back and forth…

“Enough… enough… enough…” A mantra, repeated on endless loop.

Behind the irises and engorged blood vessels, his eyes began to turn yellow.

“No mo’.”

~

SLAM!

"There ya are!" Apple Bloom huffed, rising from the bed in the corner of the hotel room. She stomped towards her visitor, a swaying Babs Seed, her emerald eyes half-visible through heavy eyelids and a laughing muzzle.

"Heh... hic! O' course I'm heeeya... where... hic! Else wooould I beeee?" Babs slurred, almost tripping over her own hooves. She stumbled from the door, sniggering like a schoolfilly at her mare's unimpressed muzzle. Vodka had worked its magic. She was light as a feather, practically gliding across the floor.

Stomping a forehoof, Apple Bloom demanded, "What's so damn funny?! Ah've been waitin' fer ya fer hours, Babs! There's no way in Tartarus it took ya that damn long ta jus' go fer a damn walk!"

With a hiccup and a sway, Babs repeated, dumbfounded, "Walk?"

"Yes, Babs," hissed Apple Bloom, gritting her teeth. Approaching her, she said harshly, "You said you were goin' fer a walk, an' ya'd be back soon! Didn't ya say that?! Ah swear ya did!"

Horseapples, what's her problem? "'Ey! I went fo' a walk! I even... I got us dinna! Why, it's..."

Slinging off her saddlebag, Babs Seed blinked hazily, concentrating. The bag at her forehooves fell lazily over, nothing within to hold it steady. A shaky, panicked forehoof rifled through it. I got summat from the bar befo' I left, right? O' afta? I went ta dat store... right? "It's s'posed ta be right—hic!—heeya, I told Toss I would—"

"Toss?!" Apple Bloom flared her nostrils. "So that's where ya were—wanderin' 'round wit' that goon, leavin' me worried sick here?!" Anger rising, she drew closer and closer to her mare, ears flattened, muscles clenching. "We turned him down already ta go... go drink! An' you went anyway! Were ya plannin' this the whole time, huh?!"

Babs Seed paused, noting the contours of her mare's body for what seemed like the very first time. She was lithe, sleek, perfect in timing and rhythm with each step of her soft, elegant hooves—dangerous and moving. Her eyes, her mane, her coat—the colors of sunset, all beautiful, intoxicating, permeating deeper than the liquor that coursed through her blood. Apple Bloom was truly the most beautiful mare she'd ever seen, or would see.

Ma mare.

Babs Seed remained still and silent, following her with her eyes, drinking in all of her.

Mine.

Everything rushed at once—all the stress, turmoil, disappointment and anger snowballed into one unignorable rage. Babs Seed had lied to her. Not tried to protect her. Not denied her own truth. She'd lied.

Apple Bloom stomped forward again. "Well?! Don't you have somethin' ta say fer yourself?!"

Her voice. Usually soprano, dropping a little alto, approaching. Closer, closer. The scent of her breath, her mane, her fur. Sweet. Apple blossoms on a spring tree. Hypnotizing. Filling her nostrils.

Apple Bloom glared into her, raising a forehoof to Babs's muzzle and pulling her down and forward. "Well?!" she demanded again, shaking her slightly.

Then, after an intoxicated fortnight of silence, Babs Seed smirked and wiggled out of her grasp. She brushed her muzzle into her shoulders and side, trotting slowly, committing her scent and texture to memory.

Blushing at the sudden contact, Apple Bloom exclaimed, "Babs! What are ya doin'?!"

Her voice again. Curious, but with a hint of anger behind it. Babs giggled and flicked her tail under her mare's chin, tickling softly. "Yooouze kn-know," she slurred, brushing against her other side, enjoying the sensation of their coats crossing, "i-iffa yooouze wanted some 'ttention, yooouze coulda jus' a-a-asked..."

Apple Bloom's ears flared and her pupils dilated. "What?!" She began to turn her head around, only to be met by Babs's lips mashing hungrily against hers. "Mmmmmf!" A tongue—wet, thick, tasting of alcohol—invaded her mouth, parting her lips.

Drunkenly maneuvering a forehoof onto her lover's back, Babs began to direct Apple Bloom towards the bed. She closed her eyes, mind flooded and overwhelmed by liqour and lust, pulling her deeper and deeper into the apathetic, welcoming blackness, where there were no more shootings, no more criminals, no more wounds, just—

"Mmmffff! Babs!" Escaping from her grasp, Apple Bloom stared at her lover in shock, planting her hindhooves against the bed frame. "Ah don't—what's gotten inta ya?! Don't ya think Ah'm jus' gonna let ya—"

"Oh, soooo youze gonna play dat way, huh?" Sniggering and shorting, almost losing her vodka in her glee, Babs strode around her mare, then climbed up on top of her back. "Oh ho ho, youze naughty—"

"Babs! Git off me! We're not doin' this right now!" Seething with anger, Apple Bloom planted all four hooves firmly on the shoddy floorboards and arched her back, hoping Babs would take the hint.

A low, gruff voice slurring near her ear, "Ma naughty mare," denied that request. And in those words, Apple Bloom brought forth all the pieces of Babs Seed's strange puzzle and completed the grotesque picture before her.

Liquor on her breath. Swaying hooves. Slurred words. Fumbling forehooves snaking around her waist, and rough, sharp teeth making their way across her ears and shoulders.

Babs was drunk. Completely drunk. Drunk out of her mind.

This was wrong. It wasn't supposed to be like this.

Nevertheless, Apple Bloom was a mare of many weaknesses, the primary one being the giggling, nibbling one on top of her. She let out a high-pitched squeak at the first contact of teeth on cartilage. She began to relax at the second, her muzzle flushing into a deeper scarlet.

Wrong or not, she wanted this, she needed this... She'd wanted this for far too long lately, and wasn't going to pass it up by any means. It was too dark and cold to chase this little sliver of light away.

Surrendering, she murmured her name and arched her back. "Ba... Babs..."

Aggressive adrenaline accumulating in her arteries, Babs Seed opted for a bold step, moving from her mare's ears to her neck. She gathered as much of her scruff nape as she could between her jaws.

And bit down. Hard.

"Aaah!" Apple Bloom shrieked, white-hot pain proliferating from her neck. She snapped her head around and glared up at her partner. "Babs! Yer bein' too rough!"

Rolling her eyes, the intoxicated mare snapped back, "Oh, quit youze—"

WHUMP!

Babs Seed was on her back before she even realized how she'd got there.

A pair of strong forehooves pinned her chest into the floorboards, slamming angrily into her, eliciting a delayed YELP! of surprise. "What in tarnation's wrong wit' you?!" Apple Bloom pressed her muzzle against Babs Seed's, staring her down.

Confused, Babs looked helplessly up into the wildfires of Apple Bloom's eyes. Twin flames they were, blazing, burning, boring down into her. She began to raise her forehooves, only to have them pinned as well. Horseapples. Youze's strong. Holy... Coughing weakly, she slurred, "Bloom... I... Icanexplaaaain—"

"Yer drunk! Ya went an' got drunk wit' him, didn't ya? Ya lied ta me! Ya said you didn't wanna go! Ya lied ta me! Didn't ya, Babs Seed? Huh?!"

Gone was the meek, placid mare, the one who buried her own emotions, her own desires. Towering over the seed was the bloom—strong, determined, sharp of mind and wit and hoof. Apple Bloom pressed her snout against her mare's, letting her feel her hot exhalation, her steam and iron.

Buck, buck, buck. Sputtering, Babs choked, "B-b-but! I-I didn't m-mean t-ta—"

"You think jus' 'cuz yer bigger than me that ya can push me 'round?! Is that how it is?!"

What?! "N-no! I w-would n-neva—"

The forehooves pressed harder, making her squirm. Little beads of vodka-scented sweat rolled off her forehead and nape, staining her muzzle. Babs tried again. "Bloom, I—"

Apple Bloom shook her muzzle rapidly, drowning out her cries. When she resumed her focus, she shouted, "NO! Yer gonna listen ta me right now, ya hear?!"

Leaning low, Apple Bloom let loose a torrent and tempest of emotion, stoking the coals within. Days and weeks and months of repression flowed free, and she let her maw outrace her mind, let its hooves stomp upon her tormentor without regard to absolutely anything else.

"You've been such a... such a bitch ta me lately!" Apple Bloom hissed, making her partner flinch. Babs had never, ever, ever heard Apple Bloom refer to anypony that way. Not even Diamond Tiara during their schoolfilly days. She blinked in disbelief, her muzzle blank with shock.

Apple Bloom continued, "Ah deserve betta than this... then yer... yer disrespect! You never listen ta me! Ah do so much fer you! Celestia knows how many times Ah've had ta patch ya up, o' cool ya down, o' apologize on yer behalf, an' ya never even listen ta me! You almost got us thrown in jail, o' out o' this hotel, jus' 'cuz ya can't shut yer damn mouth! Yer always tryin' ta be macho, tryin' ta be some Celestia-damned hero! An' what do Ah git fer it, Babs?! What do Ah git?!"

Babs opened and closed her mouth, deciding in a moment of drunken lucidity to remain silent.

"Ah git ta watch ya hurt yerself! Ah git ta watch ya damn near git yerself killed, runnin' yer mouth! Ah got ta watch ya break yer back in Yukon, all 'cuz ya wanted ta prove a stupid point! Ah got ta watch ya pick fights wit' our own customers, an' mistreat yer dad, an' drag us inta this hellhole jus' 'cuz ya blame yerself! It ain't yer fault, dammit!"

Heaving, catching her breath, Apple Bloom leaned down and whispered, "An' ya know what else?"

Terrified—never before had she seen such unrefined rage and pure dominion from her meek, beautiful mare—Babs merely shook her muzzle in surrender.

"You. Hurt. Me." Apple Bloom brought a forehoof up to Babs Seed's cheek and stared into her eyes. Trembling, fighting tears, she said, "You never hurt me 'gain, ya understand? You do it again, an' you'll regret it. You will," she vowed, sincere.

Stroking her mare's cheek repeatedly, Apple Bloom managed through a blurred veil of tears, "You may be bigger an' stronger than me, Babs Seed, but that doesn't give ya no right ta do what ya want an' mistreat me. Yer not the 'leader' o' us. You ain't the boss. We're partners. We're equals. An Ah'm not... Ah'm not... yer toy, Babs."

Babs Seed's heart sank. No no no no no, look what youze are doin', look what youze are ruinin'! "Bloom, I... I... I neva..."

Apple Bloom shook her muzzle and silenced her with a forehoof. "Ah know ya didn't. But ya did. An' Ah can't forgive ya fer that jus' yet."

Apple Bloom withdrew her forehoof slowly. For a moment, they stared into each other in silence—one in rage, the other in deep, sickening regret, even as the vodka churned, even as the walls began to spin and she flew as a pegasus inside her wretched Earth pony mind.

Babs broke the aching silence. "How can I—"

Lowering her tone and her eyelids, Apple Bloom shushed her mare. "Hush." Strong on her hooves, she gently flipped Babs Seed onto her stomach.

"Shut yer muzzle, ya drunk." Apple Bloom growled, placing a forehoof between her mare's shoulders, pinning her down. Anger salting her fire, she whispered, "Let me do the forgivin' while ya think 'bout what you've done..."

~

Entwined, twisted, tangled. Together. Two becoming one. Brought together in the moonless night inside the innards of the ghetto, lying silent in the forehooves of their only. Their beloved.

Catching their breath, somewhere between paradismal then and horrendous now. Lying somewhere on that plane of space-time continuum where things were not as they had and have been, and will be. Resting and contemplating in some alternate reality—a place where they were not here, in Discord’s kitchen itself, salted with fire and marching into the dark.

Apple Bloom held Babs Seed. She held her close, tight, strong in her hooves. The cutiemark against her flank testified to her determination and dexterity, and although the mare in her grasp was no rotted roof or eroded foundation or broken windowsill, she was broken and wounded nonetheless. And had been. Always.

There were some things that time would never heal.

So, in the silence, Apple Bloom grabbed the reins of Time's reckless steed and healed Babs. Healed her with the light touch of soft lips on her neck, with the nuzzles of her gentle cheek and snout against her bristled fur. Healed her with the rough forgiveness of her hooves tracing across her scars. Healed her with the assurance of her own heartbeat against Babs Seed's back, the other mare's rhythm resounding back in perfect metronome. Rage forgotten, love remaining.

Time ceased to exist for the second instance in their lives. The first was on a moonlit sky and amidst a torrent of rain, in a beautiful park marred by red and black. The second was on that soiled, rock-hard hotel mattress, while Luna hid her lantern and let Discord himself light up the night with his chaos instead.

Both times had been in Manehatten, in moments that would come to define them, shape them, create them.

Builder held destroyer, rebuilding her love. Doing what she'd always done, what she was born to do. Repair. Renew. Refresh. Rebuild.

Cultivate. Earth pony, full of magic.

“Ah love you.” A kiss on Babs's jawline, stealing her breath away. “Ah love you.” A kiss on her neck as she was rolled onto her back, by the smaller and stronger and wiser and better of their halves. Another kiss, as sacred and holy as the first. Her voice: smoky, sultry, low, a knife through the haze and into her heart. “Ah love you, Babs Seed...”

Denounement from their crescendo, piercing in the night. And yet remained a question hanging in Babs Seed's mind, when the liquor demon shuffled back under his rug and guilty sobriety took up the mantle once more. Why? Why, afta all dis? Why, afta I almost—

Noticing her silence, Apple Bloom brought a forehoof to Babs chin. “Hey. Look at me.”

Obeying, Babs tilted her head upwards. Surrendering. Submitting. “W-why?” she asked, barely audible, her voice cracking.

“Why what?” Apple Bloom answered calmly, holding her close. Still. Safe. Sober.

Hers.

“Why… why do youze…”

Struggling with the words, Babs groaned and moved a forehoof to her muzzle. Squeezing her snout, she willed herself to think through the pain. Get a grip, get a grip, get a grip. Youze mo’ than sober now. Get a Celestia-damned grip on youzeself!

Silently, Apple Bloom encouraged her, teasing the words from her with gentle, patient eyes. No venom, vitriol or malice could be mapped within the sunset-mare, all anger extinguished prior in lips, teeth, and tongue. All ill will had been cast aside with words and hooves, leaving only the truth. Their truth. The truth that blared towards the heavens like the outstreched limbs of praying cacti. The truth that stalked the night like the murderous Manehatten thugs.

The truth that both have never met, but always known.

Apple Bloom anticipated her words and braced herself, drawing in a sharp breath.

Finally, thrusting her eyes open, Babs blurted her question before she could rationalize it away. “Why do youze still love me?”

Six words spread from their epicenter and touched everything between them. Eight years of trials, tribulations, mountains and valleys and deserts and orchards and everything, everything flashed before their eyes, emeralds and fiery rubies and there was a moment, only a moment, a moment where oxygen molecules ceased to exist and lungs ceased to inhale and quantum physics itself suspended its holy laws and there was fear, there was panic and she regretted it instantly, every syllable, every intonation—

Apple Bloom giggled, clearing the fog. "Silly filly."

Babs blinked, dumbfounded. Silly? "What?"

Two forehooves found her torso and pulled her close. Laying her head gently on her chest, Apple Bloom sighed and clicked her tongue. "Ah know yer not always this dense. O' course Ah love ya, even if yer a damn fool sometimes. Heh." She sighed again, more sorrowfully this time. Running a forehoof up and down her mare's chest, she remarked, "This city's gettin' ta ya, ain't it?"

"The city?" Babs shook her head, confused. "I don't see what dat has ta do wit' it." Jus' me bein' stupid... I shoulda known betta. Known betta 'bout a lot o' things.

"O' course it's the city. It has everythin' ta do wit' it." Shifting her weight, Apple Bloom closed her eyes and mumbled, "Earth ponies don't belong in cities like this. Applejack told me that a long time 'go."

"She... she did, huh?"

Apple Bloom nodded. "Right when we came ta see ya," she whispered, nuzzling her neck, "all those years 'go. She told me, 'Apple Bloom, if Babs acts mighty different here than she did back home, it's not necessarily her doin' it... the city does strange things ta an Earth pony.'"

Babs Seed raised an eyebrow. "It does?" Could... could dat be why me an' Citrus felt so weird in Canterlot? An' why I felt so weird heeya? Why I still do? Uneasy... tense... hollow? An' why I wanted ta...

"Makes sense ta me. That's part o' the reason Ah didn't wanna come here. The otha part," explained Apple Bloom, looking her square in the eye and bringing a forehoof to her cheek, "was that Ah didn't wanna see ya get hurt again."

"Apple Bloom, I—"

"Do you..." Apple Bloom's eyes darted towards a nearby wall, focusing on the peeling, ancient wallpaper for a few seconds. Then, she returned to her mare, taking in another sharp breath. "Do you know why Ah first fell in love wit' you, Babs Seed?"

Blushing, Babs joked, "Uh... I always assumed it's 'cuz o' ma dashin' good looks, o' summat like dat."

Apple Bloom chuckled and snort-laughed, sending both of them into a spiral of giggles. "No, silly filly," she said, once calmed and a little more serious, "that's not why."

Playing with Babs Seed's mane, moving that one strand back and forth in front of her eyes, Apple Bloom said, "Ah've never actually told anypony this, so... It'll be our secret. Alright, Babsy?"

Kissing her cheek assuringly, her mare answered, "Alright, Bloom." Emboldened, she wrapped her forehooves around her and held her close. Keep youze safe, jus' as youze keep me.

"Well, Ah'm sure ya know already... Ah'm sure Applejack o' Granny told ya when we were livin' there what happened wit' ma parents," Apple Bloom stated matter-of-factly, plain and crisp.

Babs's silence answered for her.

"It's alright," Apple Bloom whispered. "Ah figured somepony woulda told ya, if Auntie didn't. O' ya would have asked."

"Bloom , I—"

Apple Bloom shushed her. "Let me finish, sugarcube."

"O... Okay."

"Good filly." After a quick kiss to her cheek, Apple Bloom regained her composure, anticipating the rush.

"Anyways... Ah... Sometimes Ah try ta remember 'em, ya know? Ah close ma eyes an' Ah try ta think o' what Pa looked like, o' maybe if Ah heard Ma's voice somehow . Ah know Ah was really, really young. Ah know that foals ain't s'posed ta remember things that young. But Ah try anyway. Ah guess..."

Apple Bloom drifted away for a moment, tracing circles on Babs's chest. "Ah guess that's ma way sometimes o' tryin' ta make maself feel better."

Sniffling, Babs squeezed her tightly and mumbled, "I'm so sorry, Apple Bloom."

"Don't be." Taking her forehooves in her own, Apple Bloom continued, "What Ah'm gettin' at is... Ah never knew 'em. Growin' up, Ah didn't really notice a problem 'till Ah started goin' ta school. All the otha fillies an' colts had moms o' dads. But Ah jus' had ma big bro, big sis, an' ma Granny. Ah think Ah was... six back then. Six, yes. An' Applejack was... thirteen o' fourteen. Well, anyway... Ah asked her, an' she sat me down an' told me what happened ta 'em.

"At first, Ah didn't really understand. What foal could, ya know?" Babs shook her muzzle and kissed her snout, eliciting a half-hearted smile. "Yes. Ah didn't understand. It took me a few years ta do so, an' when Ah did..."

Apple Bloom paused, then buried her muzzle in Babs' chest, sobbing quietly.

Stroking her mane and back, Babs Seed willed her tears away, willed her strength to return. She stood fast and strong and silent, holding her, lost for words. There were no words.

There was just the truth. Their truth.

Dampening her mare's fur, Apple Bloom looked up and forced a laugh. "Even now... Ah can't talk 'bout it without becomin' like this. It's one o' those things a pony jus' neva gets over. Heh. But—"

Wiping her tears, Babs said again, "I'm sorry."

Youze idiot. Dat's all youze can say? Dis mare gives youze Equestria itself an' dat's all youze can say when she reveals her most painful secret ta youze? Youze buckin' idiot... youze buckin', buckin'—

"Shhh." Shaking her head, Apple Bloom repeated, "Let me finish."

Babs nodded, silently cursing herself.

"So... Ah guess what Ah'm gettin' at is... Ah had a lot on ma plate as a lil' foal." Looking at the moonless sky briefly, Apple Bloom returned to Babs's eyes and shrugged. "Maybe it was ma fault fer wonderin'. But the truth was bound ta come eventually.

"This is somethin', Babs, Ah haven't even talked ta Sweetie o' Scoots 'bout. Not this much, really. They know ma folks passed away when Ah was jus' a lil' foal, but they don't know the full story.

"So here Ah am... A lil' filly, growin' up, tryin' anythin' an' everythin' ta get ma cutiemark. Tryin' ta fit in. Ta find maself. An' on top o' that, Ah have this guilt. 'Cuz it was me, Babs."

Apple Bloom leaned close to her mare, close enough that Babs Seed could taste her tears, taste the quiver in her words. "It was me."

"No, Bloom, it wasn't..."

"Maybe not." Apple Bloom sniffled. "Maybe it wasn't. But it sure as hell felt that way."

Silence.

"Babs..." Apple Bloom mustered a small smile.

Youze smilin' at me. Even now, youze smilin' at me. Youze are the stronga. Always have been.

Her long, wavy red mane falling in cascades of crimson to her shoulders, Apple Bloom removed her bow and took Babs Seed's muzzle in her forehooves, staring straight into her. "When Ah first met you... Ah thought you were cute, yes," she admitted with a blush. "Ah knew Ah liked fillies a bit befo' that. Unfortunately, ma first crush didn't feel the same."

"Who was youze first crush?"

"Scoots."

Babs snorted and started to laugh. "R-really?"

Apple Bloom rolled her eyes and facehoofed. "Jus' don't tell her, alright? Ah... Ah kinda figured out she wasn't like that early on, anyway. Crazy filly was makin' 'em heart-eyes at Featherweight an' Rumble from day one. Her lil' obsession wit' Rainbow Dash didn't fool me."

"Pffft!" Babs whooped. "H-horseapples!"

Giggling, Apple Bloom re-focused her mare, nudging her muzzle to face her. "Yes. Anyways," she said firmly, steering the conversation, "Ah did like ya. O' course, then all that stuff happened, but it's not worth mentionin' really. That was so long 'go, an' Ah forgive ya, anyway.

"But that night... That night when ya told me what yer life was like—the things ya went through, the things ya went through every day, the way ya really felt—somethin'... somethin' in me jus'... jus' sparked, Ah guess," Apple Bloom explained, smiling down at her mare.

"It wasn't that Ah felt sorry fer ya. It was mo' that Ah met somepony who knew how it felt ta hurt, Ah guess. Ah guess Ah found somethin' o' maself in you, Babs. Ah found that, an' Ah wanted ta take care o' ya so badly, an' make ya happy, an' be yer friend... an'..."

Apple Bloom leaned in close to her nicked ear and finished, her countenance crimson, "Love you..."

"Haah... youze..." Babs Seed stumbled in disbelief, "Youze wanted ta... ta love me?"

"Yes," Apple Bloom said quietly, kissing her wound. "Ah wanted ta love you. Ah didn't care that you were a filly, o' that you were ma cuz. Ah jus' wanted ta love you, Babs. Ta love ya, ta hold ya, ta kiss ya. Ta make ya feel safe, an' make ya happy. An' then, that night... that night happened... in the park... an' then...

"Ah knew Ah really did love you, even if it took me years ta say it."

Pulling back, Apple Bloom loomed over her, muzzle-to-muzzle close. Months of indecision swirling within, she finally let it go, let it loose. Let it loose without guidance, without advice, without divine intervention. Letting her love speak.

"Ah love you, Babs Seed. Ah always have an' always will, even if yer a damned fool an' a stupid mare sometimes. Yer a stubborn, crude, brute o' a mare sometimes," Apple Bloom quipped, smirking, "but Ah love you. Nothin' can o' will change that. But..."

"Yes, Bloom?" Babs Seed murmured, on the verge of joyful tears.

"There is somethin' Ah want, Babs Seed."

"Anythin', Bloom. Anythin'. Tell me. Youze want Luna's moon?" Babs declared through a veil and haze of saccharine, salty tears, "I'll sprout Celestia-damned pegasus wings an' steal it maself. Youze want Celestia's sun? I'll bribe Discord outta his stone an' have him morph it inta a damned glass o' chocolate milk.

"I'll do anythin' fo' youze, Apple Bloom."

"Then," Apple Bloom said, her words trembling with the magnitude of Equestria itself, "promise me somethin'."

"Anythin'."

"When this is all is said an' done... when we git outta this hellhole..."

"Yes?"

Apple Bloom said, her muzzle darkening to deep crimson, "Ah... Ah want ta get married, Babs."

Matching her blush, Babs began, "Bloom, I—"

"Ah want ta be yer wife, Babs. Ah want ya ta be mine." Apple Bloom wrapped her forehooves around her neck. "An' Ah don't... Ah don't wanna feel like yer draggin' me o' Ah'm draggin' ya. So many couples play games, Applejack told me long 'go. Games o' power an' trust. Ah don't wanna play any games. Ah love you, Babs Seed, an' Ah want ta marry ya an' raise foals wit' you an' Ah—"

"F-f-foals?" Youze didn't fall asleep durin' biology class, did youze?

"D-down the line... But!" Apple Bloom lowered her eyelids. "Ah wanna see Equestria wit' ya, Babs Seed. Ah wanna travel an' have adventures an' meet all kinds o' wonderful ponies again... Ah don't wanna truly settle down until we're ready. But... Ah want ta be yers, an' you be mine.

"Ah want all o' Equestria ta know Ah love you."

Silence.

Without a ring, Apple Bloom proposed to her anyway.

"Will you marry me, Babs Seed?"

Quiet.

Two hearts, two sets of hooves, two baited breaths.

And then, after eternity rose and fell—after the Most High and Old Scratch battled in the heavens, after the end of the age—Babs Seed answered at last, in the only way she knew how.

"Yes," she said, and kissed her mare.

~

Shouts and curses from a nearby hotel room woke Babs Seed up far too early. Groaning, slick with vodka-scented sweat, she stumbled from the bed to her hooves. Careful not to awaken her fiancée, she walked over to the bathroom sink and turned the water on as high as it could go.

Splashing cool, refreshing, dank city water onto her face, she mentally grumbled, I’m neva drinkin’ ‘gain. Least, not like dat. Horseapples. The weather-pegasi are kickin’ up a storm in ma head. She wiped her hooves and sighed. An alien thirst and scratchiness in her throat drove her to turn on the sink again. She stuck her tongue under the faucet, lapping up enough to drown all of Appleloosa in a monstrous sea.

While futilely attempting to quench her thirst, Babs heard Apple Bloom yawn, stretch, and hop off the bed. She trotted into the tiny bathroom with an enormous smirk on her muzzle. “Hungova, are ya?” she teased, hugging her from behind.

Yea yea, laugh it up. Babs ignored her, chasing the fire in her throat. The flames never seemed to end, no matter how much she drank. She’d just closed her eyes for a few seconds, relishing a brief moment of relief before the sink stopped.

“What da—‘ey!” Shooting Apple Bloom a glare, Babs whined, “I was drinkin’ dat!”

“Ain’t enough water in Equestria ta fix yer thirst,” Apple Bloom scolded. “Only time will heal that. Now, come on, let’s git ready ta go see the Detective.”

“Already? But—but what ‘bout breakfast?” argued Babs, her stomach rumbling in protest.

Apple Bloom raised an eyebrow. “Babs, ya really think you can keep anythin’ down this mornin’?” She added smugly, “O’ maybe ya wanna make a wager outta it?”

Good point. I may be hungry, but food sounds like a pretty bad idea right ‘bout now. Babs snorted and trotted away from the sink and into the main room. “Whateva! Some support youze are. Makin’ fun o’ somepony who’s sick," she grumbled with a smile.

“S’alright if the pony did it ta themselves!” Washing her face, Apple Bloom called out, “Ah may forgive ya, but Ah still have a right ta make fun o’ ya.”

Babs relented with a snort, “Fine.”

Dodging the hammers in her head, she did her best to make her brutish self look presentable. There was nothing that could be done about the scar and notch. Though, dey certainly don’t help ta make me look like summat otha than the thugs she’s used ta dealin’ wit’. Oh well. She briefly considered removing her earring, but decided against it. Such a gift should be removed for cleaning only, and nothing more.

Be damned iffa I disrespect his memory.

Stretching her back on the bed, cursing her hangover, Babs muttered, “Ready when youze are.”

Closing the door to the bathroom and joining her side, Apple Bloom shook her head and clicked her tongue. “Tsk-tsk, Babs.”

“What? What did I do now?”

“Yer gonna go talk ta the Detective lookin’ like that?”

“What’s wrong wit’ how I look, huh?”

Chuckling, Apple Bloom kissed her cheek and replied, “Nothin’. Just flingin’ some right back at ya. Think ya can get up without pukin’?”

“Jus’ watch me.” Babs smirked, lifted herself up, and promptly fell off the bed.

Apple Bloom face-hoofed. "It's gonna be a loooooong day..."

~

Lucky Toss stared at his newspaper, reading the same headline over and over. His mug of steaming hot coffee soon became tepid and unpalatable. He groaned, rubbing his temples, willing the hammer and anvil within to leave him be. “Ayyyyye… neva drinkin’ on a work night ‘gain… Horseapples…”

Officer Rustler walked by slowly, snorting his derision. A pile of paperwork balanced between his forehooves, he scowled and said, “Get back ta work, youze lazy patrol-pony! Dem Incident Reports ain’t gonna write demselves.”

“Fuck off, Rustla,” Lucky snarled, looking up at the stallion and narrowing his eyes. “Youze ain’t the boss o’ me. Dat’s our beloved Chief’s job.”

Rustler shot back, “An’ Brutus has been on ma flank ta make sure youze all get youze reports in, on time an’ accurate. Hurry it up, Toss! How long can it take ta write ‘bout one lil’ petty-theft?” Trotting away, he threw his mane back and groaned, “Horseapples, what I put up wit’!”

“’Ey! Dat mare may have been old, but she gave quite the chase!” Lucky snapped, taking a sip of his coffee. “Blech! Dat jus’ made ma hangova worse!” He stuck out his tongue and wiped it with the newspaper.

“’Ey, Toss!” Cotton approached the front desk, grinning like a schoolfilly and pointing at him. “Dat right there—what youze is doin’—is the opposite o’ sexy. Dove ain’t gonna even look at youze twice iffa she sees youze like dis.”

The stallion rolled his eyes and grumbled, “Yea, whateva.” Rolling his newspaper up, he casually swatted a wayward fly and asked, “By the way, is she in yet? Babs an’ Apple Bloom gonna be heeya any minute ta see her, I bet.”

Cotton grimaced. “Youze mean brute an’ hillbilly?”

Lucky smacked the desk with a forehoof. THUD! “’Ey! What did I tell youze ‘bout bein’ nice?!”

“Dat bitch was gonna pop me one, Toss!” Cotton sat on her haunches and pulled a cigarette from one of her uniform pockets and a pack of matches from another. Striking one against her forehoof and lighting up, she took a deep drag, growling as she exhaled, “She’s damn lucky she ain’t rottin’ wit’ the big dogs right ‘bout now. Jus’ ‘cuz she’s youze friend—“

“She ain’t ma friend, Cotton. Now,” Toss began, waving off a cloud of smoke headed his direction, “go outside an’ indulge youze filthy habit there. Nopony wants ta smell dat in the office.”

Cotton argued, “Dove smokes in her office all the time an’ youze don’t say shit, lovaboy.”

“Whateva, Cotton. She’s a detective. She can do whateva the hay she wants,” Lucky quipped, putting his hindhooves up on the desk. “An’,” he said pointedly, glaring at her, “I’m not jus’ sayin’ dat ‘cuz—“

“Howdy, Lucky Toss!”

Lucky Toss looked up, almost spilling his lukewarm coffee onto his uniform. Apple Bloom led the way confidently into the station, a reluctant Babs Seed in tow. A smug grin spread across his muzzle at the sight of the hungover mare.

“Well! Iffa it ain’t Babs Seed an’ her beau-ti-ful mare,” he greeted, whistling. Apple Bloom rolled her eyes. The symphony in Babs’s skull prevented her from responding with much more than a scowl. “Oh, come now, youze both know it was a joke! Youze know! Funny ha-ha?”

Meeting his desk, Apple Bloom said, “Yeah, yeah, whatever, Lucky. Ah should rip ya a new one fer gettin’ her drunk last night!” She shot a glare towards her mare, who joined them and sat down, rubbing her forehead.

Raising his forehooves in surrender, Toss gasped and repeated,“I got her drunk? Pffft!” Smacking his chest with a forehoof, he roared with laughter, drilling holes in Babs’s skull. Ahh, not so loud, youze damn brute! Buck!

“Youze mare drank far mo' than me! She can handle her liquor, haha! Horseapples, I believe she really was a bartenda back in no-pony’s land! Hahaha!”

Covering her ears with her forehooves, Babs growled and muttered, “Can youze shut youze damn muzzle an’ jus’ get us ta Dove, Lucky?! Horseapples, youze is loud!”

Calming down, he caught his breath and relented, “Aww, alright. Party poopers.” Returning all three mares’ glares with a cheeky grin, Lucky Toss strode from his desk and into the hallway, leaving Cotton to her treasured visitors.

The mare puffed on her cigarette and exhaled slowly, blowing a cloud of smoke straight into Babs’s face. Bitch. Coughing, Babs Seed gritted her teeth and grumbled, “Can’t youze do dat somewhere else?”

“I deal wit’ punks like youze all Celestia-damned day,” Cotton replied flatly, plopping down on her haunches. Enjoying her tobacco, she snapped, “I’ll do what I want, an’ youze two jus’ sit tight an’ wait. Iffa youze know what’s good fo’ youze, dat is.”

Babs Seed began to rise off her haunches, only to be pushed down by her mare. Dismissing her with a simple shake of her head, Apple Bloom coughed and mumbled, “It’s not worth it, Babs. Let’s jus’ wait.”

They did not wait for much longer. Just as soon as he’d disappeared, Officer Lucky Toss emerged back into the hallway, light on his hooves. With a triumphant smile, he exclaimed, “It’s youze lucky day! Youze caught Dove jus’ befo’ she’s got a meetin’ wit’ the Chief."

“How much time do we have?” Apple Bloom asked.

“Half an’ hour.” Beckoning them to follow, Lucky added, “Make it count. She’s a tough nut ta crack.”

Cotton rolled her eyes and muttered under her breath, “Mo’ nuts than youze’ll eva have, kiss-ass.”

The three of them, oblivious to the spiteful remark, made their way through the main hallway of the Manehatten Police Department. Dodging passing police-ponies—many with mounds of paperwork in their hooves—they reached their destination with more than a few instances of “’Cuse me” and “Sorry.”

At the end of the hallway, a closed, oak door with a small window near the top awaited them. Already, a steady stream of gray smoke filled the office, billowing out from the crack at the bottom of the door. An embossed brass sign announced its owner: Detective White Dove—Lead Investigator, Anti-Gang Unit.

“Dis is it,” Lucky said softly. “Let me introduce youze first, alright?”

Both mares nodded. Babs felt her muscles involuntarily clench. We came all the way inta dis hellhole and threatened our relationship an’ our lives ta be in dis dark place. She betta listen. O’ else.

Apple Bloom laid a forehoof on her shoulder assuringly and mouthed the words “It’ll be alright.”

I hope so.

Knock, knock.

“Dove?”

From within came a gruff, deep mare’s voice. “What is it, Toss? Fo’ the last buckin’ time, I ain’t goin’ on no dates wit’ youze, asshole!”

“Uh…” Blushing, Lucky Toss rubbed his nape and muttered to Babs and Apple Bloom, “Sorry youze had ta hear dat. She an’ I—as Babs knows by now—have a, uh, tense relationship.”

“Lovely.” Apple Bloom face-hoofed.

“Heh. Sorry. Don’t worry. Won’t affect youze two.” Leaning up on his hindhooves, Lucky shouted, “It’s not ‘bout dat, Dove! I got two mares heeya who want ta talk ta youze!”

Stomp, stomp, stomp.

The door swung wide open. In the threshold stood a tall, white mare, her mane and tail a mess of black curls. Dark circles testified to insomnia beneath her eyes, which were a determined, steely gray. A cutiemark of a dark-pink shield with a white chevron adorned her flank. She wore the same uniform as her brothers and sisters in the badge—blue, with polished silver buttons and perfectly ironed creases. A cigarette hung lazily from her lips, burning rapidly towards its filter.

Babs Seed sized up the detective. White Dove was almost as tall as her—missing only by one or two inches. Massive for a mare. In her eyes was that same spark and fire she recognized in her own, the one that was quick to judge and snap and pounce. Her muscles were visible and rippling beneath her coat, strong and conditioned. She was an officer, after all. And, apparently, a fiery one.

Oh, ho, ho… Dis is gonna be fun.

“Who are youze two?!” barked White Dove. She flared her nostrils at Babs Seed, leaning closer. Close enough to exhale toxic, cancerous fumes all over her face. “Scars, earring. Youze some punk in the ghetto, huh? Lookin’ fo’ snitch bits, are youze?”

Suppressing the urge to cough, Babs simply shook her head.

White Dove shifted her gaze to the smaller mare. “An’ youze…” She smirked, her expression softening a bit. Her voice smoother this time, she said, “Youze sure don’t look like youze belong wit’ a punk, lil’ mare. O’ in dis city at all.”

“We ain’t from here, ma’am,” Apple Bloom answered politely, smiling a bit. “This is ma fiancée, Babs Seed. An’ Ah’m Apple Bloom.”

“Fiancée?” Lucky repeated, dumbfounded. He nudged Babs in the shoulder. “Whoa, dat sure happened fa—“

“Youze know these two, Lucky?” The detective took another puff of her tobacco.

He nodded. “I do. Dey came from pretty far ta see youze, Dove, an’ there’s a good reason why. Give ‘em a chance, Dove, would youze? Please?” he added, pouting, giving her the best puppy-dog look he could muster.

Detective White Dove groaned and face-hoofed, then adjusted the badge on her uniform. “Alright, fine. C’mon, youze two. Come in an’ have a seat an’ we’ll talk.”

Pivoting on her hooves, Dove trotted back inside her office, pulling up the stool to her desk. Two others waited for them on the opposite side.

“Good luck,” the stallion said, holding the door open for them.

As they slowly made their way inside and to their seats, Lucky Toss realized he truly meant it.

And he was a stallion of easy words.

He looked at the clock. 0900. Thirty minutes, starting now.

The Longest Hour

For a detective, White Dove worked in cramped, dismal conditions. The office was about half the size of the Comfort Inn's glorious hotel room. A scratched desk with one broken leg (fixed with duct tape), three stools, and a pair of filing cabinets were the only items of furniture. On the desk, leaning towers of paperwork obscured a few discernible objects: an oil lamp, a box of matches, an ashtray, a set of quills and ink, and a single framed photograph.

Babs narrowed her eyes and tried to make out the picture, but couldn't from this angle.

As she sat down, the detective took a deep drag of her cigarette and snorted, exhaling smoke-rings through her nostrils. "Sorry fo' the mess. I been behind on ma reports lately." Flicking her mane back behind her ears, she let her nostrils flare in obvious contempt. Detective White Dove was not one to welcome visitors.

Brushing a stack aside and littering the floor with parchment, White Dove kicked up her hindhooves on the desk and reclined, leaning her back against a filing cabinet. She flicked ash away from the cherry of her cigarette casually. "Normally, I woulda searched youze both befo' I let youze inta ma office, but since youze know Lucky, I don't think dat'll be necessary."

"Search? What do youze mean?" Babs scrunched up her snout. Geez, do we really look dat threatenin'? O' are youze jus' paranoid?

"We've had a few incidents in the past wit' ponies comin' ta 'talk' ta one o' us havin' a shiv o' two tucked inta their mane o' summat," Dove explained, her lips curling back for a second. "But, neva mind dat. I don't have much time fo' small talk, so let's get started. First, what are youze names?"

"Apple Bloom."

"Babs Seed."

Reluctantly, the detective stretched a forehoof across the desk and shook hooves with both mares. "Nice ta meet youze. Pleasure's all mine. Hope youze enjoyin' Manehatten. Blah, blah, blah."

Dove snorted derisively and rolled her eyes, far too tired and preoccupied to deal with pleasantries. What exactly was so damn important that these mares had to interrupt her prior to a meeting with the Chief? Certainly, the mocking Most High must have assumed the stress of Brutus' hemming and hawing wasn't sufficient. Nope, it was time for brute and hillbilly to amplify the rainfall on her pathetic parade.

White Dove ignored their blank stares and silently cursed Lucky Toss. That stallion would get it later. For now, she needed a little liquid apathy. Something to make this little chat evermore briefer. Opening a drawer of the desk, Dove pulled out a bottle of blue-label scotch and a shot glass. Nonchalantly, she measured out a drink and knocked it back immediately.

"Um..." Apple Bloom and Babs Seed exchanged confused glances. "Um, Detective, Ah don't think yer s'posed ta be drinkin' on the job, are ya?"

"O' dis early," Babs chimed in, glancing at a clock on the wall. Sheesh, looks like the famed Detective White Dove is an alkie. Thanks, Doc. Dis gonna be great. Jus' great.

Dove smirked and wiped her muzzle with a forehoof. "Chief don't give no shits, an' neitha do I. An' I ain't the only one hidin' a lil' liquid courage 'round heeya. Youze try ta keep orda in dis madhouse an' stay sober, an' I'll give youze a damned medal." Tucking the bottle and glass away, she leaned back and reclined again. "Now, make dis quick. I ain't gonna be lectured 'bout ma habits by some punk an' her marefriend."

"Fiancée," Apple Bloom corrected. She crossed her forehooves and huffed begrudgingly, "An' sorry 'bout that. We jus'..." She paused, recalling something Applejack had shown them in the newspaper long ago. "We jus' were under the impression that the Royal Guard was in charge o' the Manehatten P.D."

"An' most o' us are." Straightening in her seat, White Dove removed her hindhooves from the desk and leaned forward, shifting her focus between the two as they spoke. "Chief Brutus was one o' Celestia's top officas in his day. I served few years in the Guard as well befo' joinin' the force. Otha than Lucky an' Rustla, an' maybe one o' two othas, most o' us heeya are ex-military."

"Well, then," Babs said, leaning forward in her stool, "iffa dis force is made up o' military, why is the city so damn... awful?"

"Yea, why is that? An' why don't the papers report any differently?" Apple Bloom asked. "We had no idea things were like this in Manehatten befo'—"

Her brow furrowing, White Dove bit her lip briefly, tempering her bitter anger. Slowly, she replied, interrupting the smaller mare, "Don't youze think we're workin' on both dem things? What do youze think ma job is?"

"From the looks o' things, ma guess is chain-smokin' an' takin' shots." Her lips drawing back in a snarl, Babs felt a low, guttural growl rising up from her belly into her throat. A quick, pointed look from Apple Bloom silenced it. Stay calm. She ain't gonna be no help ta us iffa I piss her off too much.

Dismissing the assumption and insult, White Dove stared her visitors down for a moment, mentally bucking Lucky Toss where the sun never shined. She stole a glance at the clock. 0908, and her day was already proving to be a challenge.

Perfect.

Dove sighed and gritted her teeth. "Well, Babs Seed, the answa is a lot mo' complicated than dat. An' I don't have time ta explain everythin' ta youze. I will say dis, though. I appreciate youze concerns 'bout the city an' the press, but we do all we can.

"Now, iffa dat's all youze came heeya ta say—"

"It's not, Detective." Apple Bloom frowned and pawed a hindhoof at the floor. "There's actually somethin' we were hopin' you could help us wit'."

Grabbing a blank Incident Report form (figuring she might as well be productive during this waste of her time), Dove muttered, "Youze need ta file a police report wit' Cotton at the front desk. Whateva happened ta youze must be documented an' somepony will be assigned ta youze case. Mo' likely, it won't be me."

Pushing the form towards the mares, Dove glanced up, tilting her head in mock concern. "What happened? Did somepony put dat hole in youze ear, Babs Seed? Hmm? Did the Mafia boss beat youze fo' gettin' out o' line?"

"I am not a gang memba!" Babs hissed, her ears flattening in anger. Muscles clenching, she fought the urge to lurch at the mocking mare. Way ta be observant, youze snide little... "An' what happened heeya—" she pointed to her left ear—"is none o' youze business."

"Fine, then." The detective took another guess, dipping a quill in ink as she did so. "Let me try 'gain. Somepony rob youze? Break inta youze apartment? Piss on youze lawn?"

"We don't live here, Detective." Apple Bloom corrected her once again. "We came from someplace far, far away ta see you."

"Oh?" Curiosity piqued, White Dove set down her quill and tapped her chin. "Well... youze have the Manehattenite tongue," she said, nudging her head towards Babs, "so youze coulda fooled me. As fo' youze, Apple Bloom, I've neva heard dat accent befo'. Not sure how far from home youze are. But I figured dis brute musta fooled youze inta followin' her heeya."

Ohhhhh no. Youze buckin' lil—

"What did youze say?!" Losing her temper with only twenty minutes to go, Babs Seed started to rise off her hooves. A firm grip on her shoulder halted her.

"Babs," Apple Bloom said, moving to whisper in her mare's ear, "let me handle this."

"Yes, Babs, why don't youze let youze mare handle dis?" Detective White Dove stood tall on her hindhooves, peering down at Babs Seed with a smug grin on her face. Letting her muscles ripple under her thick, white coat, she took another deep drag of her cigarette and blew the smoke directly into Babs's muzzle.

Fighting the urge to spit into the eyes of an officer of the law, Babs Seed gritted her teeth, her hackles raising.

"Iffa youze two want ma help, youze betta get outta heeya, punk," Dove seethed, glaring. She leaned closer, chewing on the filter of her cigarette. "Youze don't fool me. Youze got the tongue an' the ring, an' I don't trust youze far as I can throw youze fa—"

"Alright, that's enough!" Springing to her hooves, Apple Bloom slung a forehoof around Babs Seed and shot daggers at Dove. "We came sixteen hours 'way ta see you, an' all you've done is insult ma fiancee!"

Beneath her furrowed brow and visible molars, Babs let loose a primal growl.

White Dove laughed, tugging at the badge on her uniform. "Youze see dis? Youze see dis, right heeya? Youze think I'm scared o' either o' youze?"

"We ain't tryin' ta scare ya!" Tightening her grip on her mare, Apple Bloom said, "We want yer help! "

"I told youze already—file a damn Incident Report. I can't do nothin' without no paper trail."

With a snort, Apple Bloom shot a glance towards the towers of parchment on the detective's desk. "Clearly, ya don't do anythin' wit' it, neither!"

THUD!

White Dove brought down both forehooves onto her desk, sending stacks of forms scattered skywards. "That's it! I've had enough o' youze horseshit!"

Flushed with anger, Dove narrowed her eyelids and looked at the clock, ignoring her visitors. "Mothabucka! Ten minutes until I have ta sit down wit' dat asshole, Brutus!" Turning back to the mares, she scowled. "Thanks a lot fo' wastin' ma time. Now, get out, befo' I show youze out."

The detective spun around, staring at the wall behind her desk, inhaling her escape once more.

"Fine!" With furrowed brow and clenched jaws, Apple Bloom tugged on Babs's shoulder, motioning towards the door. "C'mon, Babs. We can find somepony else ta help us." Under her breath, she added, "Ah guess Doc Triage was jus' full o' it."

Behind White Dove, the smaller mare began to drag the other, four hooves scraping against the floorboards, four bracing themselves and calling upon their sapped strength.

White Dove started to take another drag, then froze at the word Triage.

Snapping her neck around, Dove glanced over her shoulder. "Did youze say... Triage?"

"Yea, urgh, Triage!" Though Apple Bloom willed her adrenaline to fire, she was in no way, shape, or form, as furious as last night. Additionally, her anger was focused on the mare in blue, not the mare in orange. Babs, standing firm as a statue, wouldn't budge. Apple Bloom pulled harder around Babs's chest and torso, straining. "Argh! C'mon, Babs! Snap outta it! We're leavin'!"

Babs Seed solidified her stance, snarling, staring up at the detective. How dare youze insult me! Insult us! Insult her! Youze buckin'... Why, iffa youze weren't no offica, I swear on all dat's Most High I would—

"Wait."

Both mares raised an eyebrow and stared at White Dove. "Huh?" Apple Bloom loosened her grip on her mare. "Why?"

"Youze said Doc Triage sent youze heeya?"

Exhaling hotly, Babs spoke up at last. "Dat's right! What's it ta youze?"

White Dove narrowed her eyes. "Nothin' o' youze concern. But," she said, shifting to Apple Bloom, "I'm curious as ta what dat ol' stallion said 'bout me."

Apple Bloom looked at the clock. 0925. "Ah thought ya said you didn't have time fer small talk."

The detective followed her eyes. Five minutes. "I don't. But I do have time ta talk ta youze, Apple Bloom. Youze, specifically." She flared her nostrils and nudged her muzzle from Babs Seed to the door.

"'Ey! What do youze have ta say youze can't say ta both o' us?!"

"That's right! Ah don't get what game yer playin', Detective, but we're ain't joinin'!"

"Iffa Babs Seed leaves," offered White Dove, slowly sitting back down, "I will talk ta youze, Apple Bloom. I will talk ta youze an' listen ta what youze have ta say."

Apple Bloom's ears flattened. "Seriously?!"

What's youze buckin' problem wit' me?! Growling again, Babs tensed and leaned back on her hindhooves, wondering what the punishment for assaulting a police officer would be. Ready to spring, she thought grimly, Be betta than havin' ta watch dis bitch give herself cancer.

"Yes, seriously, App—"

"Dove?" Cotton slowly opened the door to the office, her eyes widening. "Whoa! Everythin' alright in heeya?"

Dove scowled. "What do youze want, Cotton?"

"Chief is lookin' fo' youze. It's 0928, Dove."

White Dove extinguished the last of her cigarette, grinding it into an ashtray. Settling into her seat, she rummaged through the drawers of the desk. After locating a box of matches, she struck one alight and said, "Buck him."

Silence, three muzzles hanging agape, venom draining from two.

"... What was dat?" Cotton rubbed one of her ears. "I think I jus' heard youze—"

"Yeah, yeah, ol' 'had summat crazy in youze ear' joke. Enough, Cotton." Pointing at Babs, Dove ordered, "Get dis one outta ma sight, an' tell Brutus I'll be late."

Cotton blinked slowly. "Youze... youze want me ta tell the Chief youze'll be late?"

Finding another cigarette, White Dove inhaled sharply, holding her escape tight in her chest. She exhaled her cloud, letting her meager concern for Chief Brutus dissipate along with the smoke. "Youze deaf? Yes, Cotton, buckin' tell him already!" Dove slapped a pile of papers out of her way, leaning her forehooves on the desk. "Horseapples! Buck!"

Complying—albeit very reluctantly—Cotton upturned her muzzle at the brute and hillbilly. "C'mon, youze heard the mare. Let's go, bru—"

"Her name is Babs Seed!" Apple Bloom snapped, unslinging her forehoof from her mare. "An' you," she snarled, pointing at Cotton, "better watch yer tongue!"

"Oh, yeah?" Cotton scoffed and ran a forehoof up her uniform to her badge, wiping a smudge off the silver. "What are youze gonna do 'bout it?!"

"ENOUGH!"

Again, three muzzles fell silent.

"Cotton, iffa youze don't want Brutus ta know youze bangin' half his boys in blue, youze betta escort our friend Babs Seed outta heeya—" White Dove lurched forward, practically leaping on top of her desk—"o' youze'll be outta a job befo' youze can fall on youze hooves fo' forgiveness! Got it?!"

Cotton glared at her superior, then relented, sighing audible annoyance. Trotting over to Babs Seed and Apple Bloom, she muttered from the corner of her muzzle, "C'mon, Babs Seed. Youze can wait near the front desk."

Apple Bloom, skeptical still, patted her mare's back and pushed her slightly forward. "Ya heard her, Babs. It'll jus' be a minute. Ah promise."

Babs started to object, turning to her mare, "But, Bloom—"

"No buts. Follow Cotton." Apple Bloom gave her a quick nuzzle on the chest, trying to soothe her. To Cotton, she shot a warning glance, a fire burning in her eyes. A fire, which declared, "You mistreat my mare, and you'll regret underestimating me."

Cursing under her breath, Babs Seed finally complied, following Cotton out of the detective's office. She returned Apple Bloom's slight smile with a half-hearted grunt. Youze betta behave, Dove, she warned inwardly, flaring her nostrils. Lucky Toss o' no, I don't have any respect fo' any o' youze.

A shuffling of hooves, and two ponies exited, leaving two to remain. 0932.

~

The first glass of orange juice was the most delectable. Freshly squeezed and picked from the ripest fruit, it was an experience in itself. Cool, crisp, refreshing. Sliding down the throat easily, no burn of alcohol, no retch of medicine. It was his medicine. The King's medicine.

His life's work.

Bernie Madhoof swirled his glass and stared out his bay window. Here, on the thirty-third floor of his skyscraper, Manehatten and its urchins appeared as they truly were. Tiny. Insignificant. A mass of equine flesh, scurrying to and fro, insects on the cobblestone. Carrying about their pathetic daily errands, as if they amounted to more than nothing.

King Orange laughed to himself.

He'd finished his first glass of orange juice and started on his second when he was rudely interrupted.

Knock, knock, scritch.

"This better be good," he grumbled, clapping his forehooves. On command, his pair of armed guards opened the doors. The King neglected to turn around, eying his concrete jungle, sipping his orange juice.

He knew who it was, anyway.

A rustling of feathers and scratching of unsheathed claws against his carpet pierced his ears. He flattened them in response, grimacing. His guards closed and bolted the doors behind the intruder, adding to his irritation.

So much damned noise. Too much.

"You've interrupted my breakfast." The Master brought the glass to his lips, wiping the excess with a powerful forehoof. Still facing away from his familiar intruder, he said, "Tell me why, little worm, and it better be a damned good reason. You know I don't like to be interrupted."

Bowing deep and low, the Griffon fell to his paws and talons, hanging his head. "Master, please forgive this interruption. I apologize profusely and sincerely for interrupting your morning routine." His words were carefully plucked, uttered slowly, reverently, as if in prayer.

The Master chuckled and sipped his juice again. "I didn't ask for an apology, little worm." Normally, the steel and lead would be drawn already, temples threatened and jaws clenching. But Bernie Madhoof was in a rather jovial mood. High in his skyscraper, he towered above the lessers of his wretched species, ruling rightfully above them.

And, due to the wonders of annexation, soon, that would cease to be only a mere metaphor.

The Knight opened his beak to apologize further, then decided against it. Glossing over his error, he dove straight into the heart of his intent. "My King, I bring grave news. Yesterday—"

King Orange turned around in his chair, facing his groveling Knight in all his glory. His mane was freshly washed and brushed with imported, expensive products. His teeth glistened in the morning light, rows of piano keys on Old Scratch's organ. He wore a fine, black silk suit with a matching silk tie—the color of his majestic, piercing eyes. Sapphire blue, contrasting completely and perfectly against the brilliant orange of his cutiemark.

King Orange, perched in his tower, looked as regal as could be.

The Griffon paused, basking in awe. The puppetmaster of Manehatten and beyond brought his forehooves together, a wide grin on his muzzle.

The two guards near his door felt a chill run down their spines.

"Let me guess... Yesterday, two mares from the West arrived."

"S-sir... my King..."

"Two mares from the West arrived, and booked a cheap hotel. They arrived late in the evening, intent on seeing Detective White Dove of the Manehatten Police Department. One of them became profusely drunk at a local bar, where she clinked glasses with one of the..." Madhoof gritted his teeth. "One of the officers who refuse to bestow my mark upon their ungrateful, unworthy flesh."

On the carpet, all color drained from the Knight's countenance. How? How could the Master already have known? There were no other Griffons taking to the skies, neither pegasi. He and he alone patrolled last night, finding the meddlers as soon as they'd set hoof in the Master's holy city.

He choked, "H-h-how, s-sir, d-di—"

Bernie Madhoof raised a forehoof to halt him, chuckling deeper this time. "Ah, little worm, little worm."

Rising off his chair,the King trotted around the desk and towered above his Knight. "Little worm, little worm," he repeated, almost soothingly, as if he were a father, and the Griffon his fussy son. "Little worm, little worm, little worm...

"You are not as useful as you wish to be."

Sweat from his feathered neck traversed down his furred chest, settling there, icy to the touch. The Griffon kept his head low, avoiding his Master's eyes. "Sir—"

The weight of a forehoof upon his neck forced him down and silenced his words. The Master held his forehoof steady, enough to pressure him, but not enough to asphyxiate. No.

There was more to be said, first.

"Little worm." The Master's voice was in his ear, close enough to smell the citrus on his breath. "Little worm. I have many eyes and ears. My Knights are far and wide, ranging in every industry, organization, and service you can imagine. Even the filthy nobles of Canterlot have known my mark."

The Griffon tilted his head slightly, enough to spy the opposite wall. There, a map of Equestria, once dotted with a few pushpins, was littered with black and orange tacks, a constellation of conquest. The horizon was expanded. The onslaught and tempest was continuing.

He noticed a few spots on the map he didn't recognize, and felt the cold embrace of the Reaper saunter through the closed door. The Master was continuing. The Master was annexing. The Master was marching.

Without him. Without his Knight, his right-hoof Knight.

Bernie Madhoof glanced up at his guards, an unspoken command issued. They marched forward, clenching their rifles tightly. Moving their hooves towards the trigger.

The Griffon began to spread his wings. The Master pressed harder on his neck. Coughing, the lowly Knight knew what was to come, and retracted them. It would soon be over.

He would follow in the steps of his predecessor, having become obsolete.

"Little worm, little worm. Be still, little worm." That voice, mockingly sweet, slick as a sidewinder.

But there was something more. There was one last hope.

The Griffon cast his last rope, clinging to the possibility of life, as the guards approached, as his King pressed firmer down on his neck, burying his beak into the carpet.

"M-Master! T-there's something else!"

"Oh?" King Orange leaned close, exhaling warm, orange-scented breath onto his face. "Tell me, little worm." His voice. Sarcastically soothing. Bordering on erotic. Slick, disgusting, filthy.

"T-the M-Manehatten K-King's leader! H-he-he's going t-to..."

Two cold barrels made contact with his shoulders, just below his wings. Cold, unforgiving.

Chills spreading through his limbs, numbing him, the Griffon Knight began to stammer further, pleading, pleading. "H-h-he's m-meeting w-with the M-Mafia! He-he's g-going to, g-g-going to—"

Bernie Madhoof threw back his mane and laughed. His deep bellow of a laugh echoed throughout his office. Echoing off the vaulted ceiling, ricocheting off the finely-decorated walls, it burrowed deep into the brains of his Knights, into their blackened hearts, and nestled there. Nestled there, and planted a seed of fear, blooming immediately into a twisted snare of dread.

Near his tail feathers, the Griffon's tattoo burned, burned black as sin and night.

"Little worm, I already know that. I've known that for a long time that Card Slinger would betray me."

A name. The Master spoke a name. The Master never, ever spoke his name. Somehow, that broke him further, casting away any will to fly or fight back.

"I sent him to die in those sands, just with all the others. Did you think I chose random Knights?" King Orange paced back in forth in front of his trapped Knight, smiling wider still. Nodding approvingly as the guards buried the barrels of their rifles in the feathers and fur of their brother-in-arms. "I sent the troublesome ones to die in the wastleland, just as I sent those who outlived their purpose here to their graves. I have no use for meddlers, little worm.

"And, I have no use for those who know too much."

Bernie Madhoof lifted the chin of his Knight, staring into him with his haunting, empty blue eyes.

"Soon, little worm, the loose ends shall be severed. The mares in town? I know them. But to execute them now would be a waste. They will soon return to the desert, and will die there in less than a week's time. Card Slinger? If he chooses to betray me, he shall fail, and fall for others. If he backs out, he shall join the mares in the sand. I am sure of it. After all, the desert is a grand place to hide bodies—or be forgotten—as many have learned."

Lacking will to spread his wings or slash his talons, the Griffon muttered, "Please... Please... Master..."

Bernie Madhoof brought his chin up higher, as a lover would. "Little worm," he whispered, "do you know how long I've planned your death? How much I've envisioned this moment? How much I've contemplated how it would feel to dispose of you, you worthless little worm, you living garbage?"

The Griffon remained silent.

"You are all nothing but pawns to me. Pawns on the chessboard. And pawns are the first to sacrifice to protect the King."

King Orange gently relinquished his grip, letting his Knight fall to the floor. Placing his forehoof back on his neck, he declared for one, final time, "You have done well, little worm, but you are of no use to me anymore."

With a nod to his guards, Bernie Madhoof took care of his interruption, and soon resumed his breakfast.

~

Detective White Dove left her cigarette burning in the ashtray and trotted over to the door, grumbling to herself. "Buckin' Cotton. Always interruptin' me, tryin' ta keep an eye on me..."

While her back was turned, Apple Bloom took a seat and looked curiously at the detective's desk. In the wake of a tidal wave of parchment cast aside, the sole photograph had toppled over, facing her. Curious, Apple Bloom stole a glance at it, inching it towards her minutely.

There, in a simple frame, was a picture of two mares. One, Apple Bloom instantly recognized as a younger (and, most likely, more sober) version of White Dove. She was beaming brightly, one forehoof wrapped around the shoulders of the other mare in the photograph. This mare was pink with a white mane, a belt around her waist. Attached to her belt was the scabbard of a flail. The two appeared to be indoors, and rows of bleacher seats could be spotted in the background, as well as—

"'EY!"

Fuming, White Dove slapped Apple Bloom's offending forehoof away from her desk and leaned forward on her forehooves. "What the buck are youze doin'?!"

"S-sorry!" Bringing both her forehooves into her lap, Apple Bloom, blushing slightly, mumbled, "Ah... Ah was jus'—"

"Youze was jus' pokin' youze nose in things dat ain't youze, wasn't youze?!" Temperature rising, White Dove began to breathe rapidly, exhaling steam from her nostrils. "Huh?! Youze think youze can jus' poke 'round in what youze wanna?! I'm a police offica, fo' Celestia's sake! Don't youze be touchin' anythin' o' mine! Youze understand?!"

"Ah-Ah'm sorry! Ah didn't mean ta!" Backing away in her stool, Apple Bloom threw up her forehooves in submission. "Ah wasn't tryin' ta be nosy, honest! It was jus' lyin' there, an' Ah happened ta—"

"Horseshit! Nopony touches ma shit!" Detective White Dove swiped the photograph and thrust it into an open drawer of the desk in the blink of an eye. "Youze forget what youze jus' saw," she warned, pressing her muzzle closer to Apple Bloom's, "youze got dat?!"

For several precious seconds, the two let silence fall between them, one towering and fuming, one low and submitting.

Then, Apple Bloom realized two things.

First was Detective White Dove's lack of jewelry. Mares who were married advertised their status in two ways: a ring strung on a chain around the neck, or one enlarged and stretched into a hoofband and worn around the left forehoof. This applied equally to all married mares, regardless of the gender they favored. Apple Bloom couldn't spot either on the detective.

Second was her demeanor and outrage upon viewing the photograph. While Apple Bloom didn't have much to base her hypothesis on, it was reasonable to assume that most ponies were proud of having a special somepony, and would display such a photograph to brag about their status or partner. Perhaps the mare in the picture was not a marefriend—perhaps she was a sister or dear friend? That possibility graced Apple Bloom's mind in the silent seconds, but she dismissed it, too. There was no reason to become angered upon somepony viewing a picture of a relative, especially if that picture was easily accessible.

Something was amiss. The only reason Detective White Dove would be so angry at her for looking at the photo would be...

Apple Bloom's expression softened, falling into a sad sort of smile.

"Youze think dis is funny, Apple Bloom?" Dove challenged, eyes steely with resolve. "Huh? Maybe I should jus' kick youze outta ma office like I did youze marefriend. Would youze like dat? Huh?!"

"Dove..."

"Iffa youze gonna apologize ta me, cut the crap." Flopping down in her stool, Dove reclined for a third time and groaned. "Jus' get on wit' it, already. Youze already made me late. Jus' spill the buckin' beans."

"Dove..." Apple Bloom scooted closer, resting her forehooves on the desk. "Ah'm... Ah'm sorry."

Dove dismissed her with a flick of her muzzle. "Don't sweat it. Now, why are youze heeya?"

Apple Bloom shook her head, sighing. "No, Dove, that's not what Ah'm talkin' 'bout."

The detective blinked. "... What?"

"Dove, Ah'm sorry 'bout..."

Biting her lip, Apple Bloom took the leap anyway. There was only one possible explanation.

"Ah'm sorry 'bout yer mare."

White Dove's muzzle paled to the shade of her coat.

Apple Bloom's heart sank. She was right. She wished she wasn't.

Reaching across the desk, she placed her forehoof on the detective's.

"Ah'm sorry."

In the ashtray, White Dove's cigarette burnt to the filter.

Dove's bottom lip trembled a bit, but she said nothing, seemingly paralyzed. The fires of her fury faded, replaced by a void in her eyes, focusing on nothing but staring into the smaller mare.

Apple Bloom gave her forehoof a squeeze. "Ah didn't know. If Ah knew, Ah wouldn't have looked. Ah'm really sorry. Ah won't tell nopony."

She started to get up, eyes on the door.

White Dove pulled her back at the last second.

Her voice, monotonous, broke the silence with a single word. "How...?"

Apple Bloom smiled sadly. "Ah can read ponies well. Maybe too well. Yer like ma mare in a lot o' ways. Stubborn, angry. Protective. Tryin' ta make up fer somethin' ya thought ya screwed up.

"An Ah would hate ta lose her, too."

Apple Bloom started towards the door again.

White Dove tugged once more.

"Sit down, Apple Bloom."

Apple Bloom obeyed.

Without knowing why, kicking herself as the very thought passed through her mind, and the very words rolled off her tongue, Detective White Dove said, "I'm gonna tell youze summat I haven't told anypony in a long, long time..."

~

"Youze know, I don't need an escort. I can take care o' maself."

"Iffa dat was true, Dove wouldn't have kicked youze outta her office. Now, sit down!" barked Cotton, leading the brute into the front office of the Manehatten P.D. Returning to her desk, she flicked open a magazine and propped her hindhooves up.

With a snort, Babs Seed shook her head and sat down on her haunches, leaning against a bench. Wonda what's so damn secretive dat Dove didn't want me in her office...

No, it's probably 'cuz I was a jackass ta her. No offense ta donkeys. Horseapples, I gotta work on dis... Ah, well. Rather get the wrath o' some hot-shot detective than Bloom's anyway.

Babs sighed and rubbed her neck. Maybe Bloom was right. Maybe dis ain't ma fault. Maybe we should jus' go home. Even if Dove somehow ends up helpin' us, what does it matta? Dis is a big city, an' it's easy fo' a little worm ta hide...

Cotton smacked her lips loudly, chewing several wads of bubblegum. She flipped through her magazine and landed on a particularly amusing article, chortling to herself. Babs face-hoofed. Horseapples! Royal Guard, ma flank! How the hay can Celestia be puttin' up wit' dis? I ain't no clean slate maself, but I know how law-ponies are s'posed ta be. An' dey definitely ain't like dis.

"Pssst!"

Babs turned around. There, leaning against the corner of the hallway, Lucky Toss beckoned her with a forehoof. "Pssst, Babs! C'mon!"

Cotton, engrossed in her exhaustive duties, failed to notice the stallion. Shrugging, Babs Seed walked over to meet him, then followed him down a hallway. They turned to the left and ducked away into a second hallway in silence. Lucky finally stopped at a door at the end of the corridor.

"So, what's up?" Babs asked. "Otha than rescuin' me from Cotton. Thanks, by the way."

"No problem." Lucky tugged at the collar of his uniform. "Er, sorry 'bout dat. One o' the stallions down in Internal Investigations dumped her a bit ago, an' she's been bitchy ever since."

Babs snorted. "O' course. I don't blame him."

Toss chuckled and slapped his belly. "Ha! Ha! Yeah... Cotton's a real winna, dat's fo' sure."

"I can see dat. So," she asked, squinting to read a small sign at the top of the door, "where are we?"

The sign answered before he did:

Daycare: Hours — 0800 - 1700

"Daycare? Uh, as much as I love blocks an' stuff, Lucky, I think I'm a bit old fo' daycare."

"Pffft!" Lucky threw back his mane and held his forehooves to his belly, guffawing like a buffoon. "Pffft! Blocks! Bloooocks! Ha! Ha! Horseapples!"

"Heh, heh, yeah, I guess," Babs muttered, shrugging. "Well, anyway, why are we heeya?"

Opening the door for her, Lucky explained, "I spend a lotta time heeya 'tween patrols an' on breaks. Nice ta get 'way from all the grown ponies sometimes, youze know?"

Why is he...? Raising both eyebrows, she muttered, "Ah... uh..."

The stallion's face twisted in disgust, reading her confusion. "Oh, come on, Babs! Youze is sick!" Huffing, he led the way into the daycare. Reluctantly, Babs Seed followed behind him, closing the door with a hindhoof.

Inside, several uniformed officers kept an eye on a half-dozen foals. In addition to keeping vigil, badges and batons visible, the adult ponies let down their masks and entertained the giggling youngsters. A stallion sat on a stool in the corner, reading a story to three foals. Three mares engaged the remaining foals in various play, building towers of blocks or racing matchbox cars on the carpet.

Standing near a bookcase, Officer Lucky Toss sat on his haunches and smiled. "Ain't dey cute?" He looked over his shoulder, meeting Babs's eyes. "We rotate shifts watchin' 'em. Sometimes, I read 'em stories, o' play hoofball wit' 'em."

"Indoor hoofball? Youze got room fo' dat?" While the room was spacious, colorful, and grabbed the attention of any foal between the age of four and twelve, inviting tiny hooves to send objects flying within it was just asking for trouble.

"Meh, we make room," Toss answered, shrugging. He sighed. "Sometimes, it gets real tough 'round heeya. These are all foals o' ponies on the force. Many o' 'em are single parents, o' have a sick partna at home. Dat's why we put the daycare in. Chief was 'gainst it at first, 'cuz o' budget, but we manage."

"Ah." Babs grinned. Within her mental tally, the Manehatten Police Department obtained one solitary tick mark.

Suddenly, a young Earth pony colt tore away from the stallion's reading circle and galloped over to them. "Offica Lucky! Offica Lucky!"

"Aww, there youze are!" Laughing, Lucky Toss met the colt in the middle and picked him up, lifting him into the air by his sides. The colt squealed in delight. Spinning him around, Toss exclaimed, "Who wants ta be an eagle? Shootin' Star wants ta be an eaaaaaaaaaaagle!"

"Whee! I'm an eagle! I'm an eagle!" cried Shooting Star, tears of laughter rolling down his cheeks.

Alright, two tallies. One fo' dis place, an' one fo Lucky Toss.

~

"I'm actually from Canterlot. Can youze believe it? An Earth pony, in Canterlot? It was absurd," White Dove began, pouring herself another shot glass. "I had family livin' heeya in Manehatten, so I visited from time ta time. Visited enough ta pick up the accent, an' neva shake it."

Filling the glass with her liqour of choice, Dove screwed the cap back on the bottle and stashed it away. "Crazy how Manehatten does dat ta a pony."

"So Ah've noticed. Babs an' Ah haven't been here fer almost eight years, an' try as she might, she jus' talks like that. Not that Ah mind," Apple Bloom said. A speckle of crimson found her muzzle. "It's kinda cute, really."

"Heh. Yeah, I've heard dat befo'." White Dove picked up her shot glass, but didn't drink it immediately. "Anyway, so I'm not really from 'round heeya. I lived in Canterlot an' went ta a pretty decent school. Nothin' fancy. Was neva one fo' book-learnin', really."

"Those damned, fancy mathematics."

"Exactly. Anyhow..." Dove glanced at the clock. 0935. What did it matter anymore? Brutus could wait. Brutus never listened, anyway.

"Anyhow," Dove continued, "I was 'bout twenty-two when I met her, right afta I got outta the Guard an' returned ta Canterlot. Met her. Dat mare in the picture."

Apple Bloom nodded.

"Her name was Fencer."

Apple Bloom's ears pricked at her words. Fencer. That name... Why was it so...

When it dawned on her, Apple Bloom felt one more bead of sweat find her nape, her shoulders, her back.

The filly in the alley. The filly with the cider bottle, all those years ago.

The filly that, in some, twisted way, brought Apple Bloom and Babs Seed together.

And that filly's mare sat before her now, a Detective of the Manehatten Police Department, beautiful and dangerous.

"Ah see," was all she could say.

"How did we meet? Well," Dove said, bringing the liquor to her lips, "it doesn't really matta anymo'." Quickly, she pounded the shot, throwing her head back and slinging the antidote to her overdose within. The liquor burned on its way down again, fire in her belly and courage in her veins. Antidote to this poisonous, toxic environment and situation and life and past and future.

Antidote to Manehatten, the land of drunks and gangsters.

"Ya don't have ta tell me." Apple Bloom knew anyway. The picture was worth a thousand words.

"Good. I'm givin' youze the summarized version."

"That's fine."

"Alright." Clearing her throat and putting the glass away, White Dove sat straight up, steading herself. Petty introductions and exposition were beneath her. The mare before her exposed years of pain and guilt in less than a minute, with a clockwork mind she'd surely underestimated. There was nothing to do but dive deep into the truth.

Even if Apple Bloom knew it, White Dove needed to hear her own story.

"We were togetha fo' only 'bout two years, but it was the best two years o' ma life. She was trainin' ta be in the Equestria Games. One o' the top athletes o' her sport. Horseapples... she made ma hoof-ta-hoof combat look like foal's play." Dove paused, a grin spreading across her muzzle. "She was smart, funny, kind... She told me when she was a filly, she was a bit o' a brute an' a gangsta, but given the circumstances, I couldn't blame her.

"Far as I knew, afta Celestia implemented the Royal Guard in Manehatten, usurping the corrupt force, things were alright 'gain. Jus' as dey were in the old days."

Unsure of what to say, Apple Bloom nodded, gently urging her to continue.

"We were engaged ta be married. Well, we woulda been... iffa I had the guts." Dove chuckled darkly. "I was twenty-four an' a veteran, but when it came ta love, I was a foal. I thought 'bout it, even picked out a ring, but couldn't think o' how ta do it. I was waitin', I guess, fo' the right time. The right moment."

White Dove meet Apple Bloom's eyes.

"It neva came."

"Ah'm sorry."

Apple Bloom reached across the desk again.

This time, White Dove made their connection, needing it.

"We... We went ta Manehatten fo' a weekend. Jus' a weekend. Jus' ta visit ma folks." Her pace began to quicken, her words becoming softer, faster, lower. "We stayed in a hotel. A nice one. Indoor pool an' everythin'. Some kinda unicorn magic ta keep it warm an' clean. Unicorns in Manehatten? Dat's like Earth ponies in Canterlot. Unheard o', but it happens. We stayed there, a weekend. It was amazin'. Stayed wit' ma folks. Had some nice dinners. Went dancin'."

Detective White Dove turned away for a second, mumbling something incoherent under her breath.

Apple Bloom didn't press her as to what it was, but she knew. It was too private, but it had to be said, if only in secret. She squeezed the detective's forehoof gently.

"I can't believe I'm tellin' youze dis." White Dove laughed, leaning back a bit in her stool. "It's been... horseapples... almost two years since then? Two years, an' the only ponies who know dis are ma family, her family, an' Brutus. Maybe some o' the otha officas. I don't know. I don't ask. Dey don't, eitha."

"Dove... ya don't have ta—"

"No, but I do. I do."

"Alright."

Taking a deep breath before continuing, Detective White Dove ventured into her darkest night, her longest hour.

"We... we were headin' home. We were leavin' the hotel, gonna go catch the train ta Canterlot. The sun hadn't risen yet. Luna was still playin', but it was close enough ta dawn dat I figured it would be alright. An' I'm ex-Guard, fo' Celestia's sake, an' built like a buckin' minotaur. Ain't nopony gonna mess wit' me, o' her...

"But... I didn't have a gun.

"An' dey did."

Silence. Another squeeze. One back.

"Dove..."

"Dey... dey weren't targetin' us. Dey were shootin' at each otha." Her laugh again. Hollow. Forced. "Gang warfare. Civilians caught in the crossfire. Happens, right? Well, not accordin' ta the papers. Not accordin' ta the force, at least, not then. Not accordin' ta anypony. Ta me. Ta her.

"I heard 'em raise their weapons, an' told Fenca ta run. She was in pretty good shape, agile. Fast.

"But..."

White Dove ran her tongue over her teeth and clenched her jaws. She squeezed her eyes shut for a moment, willing sorrow to anger. Willing stoicism. Willing her mask to reappear and disguise her, rendering her a faceless shade in the city of angels and demons.

"She wasn't fast enough."

Apple Bloom squeezed her forehoof, an empty gesture. There was no gesture. There were no words. She tried anyway. "Ah'm... Ah'm so sorry..."

White Dove pulled her forehoof away.

"Doc Triage... He tried ta save her... he did. But... dis city screwed him up, like it screwed us all up. He left not too long 'go. Couldn't take it anymo', I think. City screwed him up. I don't think he remembas me, the way I was, befo' all dis."

Apple Bloom averted her eyes for a second, pretending she didn't see the weathered detective rub her snout and eyes.

After a while, White Dove asked, "Do youze know, Apple Bloom, what it's like, ta lose the only thing dat eva meant anythin' ta youze?"

Copper crashed into fiery-rubies, hanging together in the aftermath.

And Apple Bloom answered, "No, but Ah know what it's like ta almost lose it."

"It hurts, doesn't it?"

"It does."

White Dove rose from her stool and trotted over to the wall the clock adorned. She glanced up at the vessel of time, watching it as it slowly ticked away the seconds, the minutes, the hours. Watching it create a gulf and expanse between what she was then, and what she was now.

Creating an ocean between when she was alive, and when she was a police officer.

Apple Bloom placed a forehoof on her shoulder.

"Ah'm real sorry."

White Dove nodded and smiled. "I am, too."

~

"Alright, buddy, go play wit' youze friends," Lucky ordered, setting Shooting Star back on the floor. He rustled the colt's mane playfully, eliciting a chorus of laughter from the pair. With one last, joyous grin, Shooting Star galloped away from Babs and Lucky, joining the rest of the foals, who were organizing a matchbox car race.

"Damn, Toss," Babs said, sitting down on her haunches beside him, "would've neva taken youze fo' a fathaly type."

He snorted. "Fatha? I'm not sure iffa I would go dat far. I've always wanted ta be somepony's uncle. Youze know, one o' 'em cool uncles who lets his nieces an' nephews have candy an' ice cream wheneva dey want, an' lets 'em stay up wayyyy past dey bedtime."

Babs Seed laughed and smacked him on the shoulder. "Horseapples! I feel sorry fo' youze brotha o' sista."

"I'm an only foal, Babs."

They both laughed uproariously.

"Aye," she replied, wiping laughter off her muzzle, "dat might be a problem wit' the whole 'becomin' an uncle' thing, then!"

"I know. Instead o' adoptin' a foal, I think I'll adopt a grown pony, an' bribe 'em ta have a foal."

"Pffft. Youze fiend."

They laughed again, simple, sincere.

"So..." Steering the conversation, Lucky Toss turned to her and asked, his muzzle hardening to a more serious expression, "What's goin' on wit' youze mare an' Dove in there?"

Babs shrugged. "No clue. Dove didn't want me in there."

"Figures. She can't take nopony flickin' her sh—I mean, horseapples," he corrected, eying the foals nearby, "without goin' inta a rage."

Babs challenged, "How did youze know I would do dat?"

"Babs..." Toss chuckled into a forehoof and nudged her in the side. "Did youze forget 'bout dat time youze hunted me down an' tackled me when we were foals? It's not like youze jus' let things slide."

"Oh... hah, I guess youze is right." Blowing a stray stand of mane from in front of her eyes, Babs added, "Thanks fo' dat, by the way."

"No problem." Lucky Toss cleared his throat, fidgeting his hindhooves.

A quick silence befell them, but it wasn't unwelcome. It was necessary. Any tip-hoofing mention of the blood-red colt with the mane black as night sent them into a spiral of tension. A few quick moments of foals' laughter shattered it, however, and Toss turned to Babs once more.

"So..."

"Yea, Lucky?"

"Youze an' Apple Bloom gonna adopt o' summat?"

Her muzzle paling and flushing to scarlet in the same moment, Babs stuttered, "C-c-come 'g-'gain?"

Smiling warmly, Lucky Toss looped a forehoof over her shoulder, giving her a sideways hug. "Aw, c'mon. Jus' pokin' a lil' fun at youze, dat's all."

"Oh, right." Hugging him back, Babs darted her gaze around and rubbed her neck. Haven't even set a damn date yet, youze twat! Horseapples! Besides, I don't even like foals...

Rising to his hooves, Lucky Toss flicked his mane towards the door. "Let's go an' see iffa youze mare an' Dove are at each otha's throats yet. Heh. Maybe, sometime, I can say dat sentence as 'youze mare an' ma mare,'" he suggested, looking particularly pleased with himself.

Rolling her eyes, Babs followed him out of the daycare, somewhat disappointed to have left so soon.

~

"Card Slinga, youze said?"

"That's right."

Dipping her quill in a pot of ink, Detective White Dove began to scrawl notes furiously on the parchment. "How old do youze think he is?"

"Well, if Ah rememba correctly, he's a lil' older than me an' Babs," Apple Bloom said, tapping her chin. "Ah would say... somewhere between twenty-one an' twenty-four, but probably on the younger side."

"Uh-huh. Let's see..." Going over her notes, Dove recited, "Card Slinga, 'tween twenty-one an' twenty-four, red coat, black mane, cutiemark o' Ace an' King crossed, Manehatten accent, last seen southwest o' Yukon, took off few weeks 'go afta the shootin's?"

"Ah think that's everythin'." Apple Bloom began to rise from her stool, stretching her hooves. "Are ya sure this is alright?"

"Apple Bloom, afta hearin' youze story, an' youze hearin' mine, it's damn alright." A slight grin twitched at the corners of the detective's muzzle. "I know it's outside our jurisdiction, an' Brutus'll give me hay fo' it, but iffa dis bastard is Manehattenite, he's our problem, too. An' I'll be damned iffa I let anotha one o' these bastards outta ma sight."

"Thank you. Ah really appreciate it," Apple Bloom said, bowing, "mo' than Ah can express."

"No, Apple Bloom." Setting down her quill, White Dove stretched her forehoof across her desk. "Thank youze."

Smiling, Ponyville shook hooves with Canterlot, west meeting east in the middle, in the concrete jungle of past and present.

Behind them, the door slowly opened, two muzzles poking inside. "Apple Bloom?"

Finishing the hoofshake, Apple Bloom turned around. "Oh, howdy, Babs. Lucky," she added, with obvious disdain. More so now that White Dove's reason for rejecting the flirtatious stallion was all too clear. "We're almost finished."

"Actually, youze can go iffa youze want. I've got the rest from heeya. Where did youze two say youze were stayin'?" Dove asked, moving the completed Incident Report on Card Slinger's assault to the top of her parchment pile.

Joining her mare, Babs Seed shot back, "Comfort Inn." What's it ta youze? Gonna go through our stuff, thinkin' we're gang-bangas?

White Dove scribbled the name of the hotel down. "Good. Iffa I find anythin' on youze case, I'll come knockin' fo' youze. How much longa youze gonna be in Manehatten?"

Apple Bloom answered this time. "Maybe a few mo' days. Afta that, we've got some family ta visit," she added, kissing her mare on the cheek. "Don't we, Babs?"

"Heh, yes, we do," Babs said, returning the kiss.

In the threshold, Lucky Toss stuck out his tongue and retched in mock disgust.

"Oh, shuddup." Babs huffed, rolling her eyes. "Jealous bastard."

"As eva." Lucky Toss trotted in, shuffling his hooves nervously in the detective's office. "Say, um, Dove..."

"Yea?" Dove asked, not looking up from her paperwork.

"Brutus was pretty adamant dat youze see him soon as youze was done in heeya. Jus' saw him in the break room. He didn't seem happy."

"Fine." White Dove snarled, sighing over-dramatically. Hopping off her stool, she gave the two mares one final nod and smile before exiting, her long, curly black tail pulling the door closed as she departed.

Lucky Toss led the way for the two mares, escorting them out of the Manehatten Police Department. With mumbled apologies to Apple Bloom regarding the night before, relations were improved (if not fully smoothed over) between builder and officer. Destroyer, of course, requested to return to their hotel room, feeling her headache returning with a vengeance.

Apple Bloom, after a little more teasing, led Babs Seed back, the two of them waving goodbye to Lucky Toss.

The clocks read 1000, and the skies were beginning to darken already, shrouding the sun in an embrace of gray.

~

Alone, unarmed, Card Slinger made his way through the streets of Manehatten. The finest suit he possessed cloaked his coat and cutiemark, black as his mane. A thick, blue tie around his neck covered his neck, hiding several scars. His muzzle was visible, of course, but there wasn't too much more he could do about that.

The rain came in spurts, starting with a slow, steady drizzle, rapidly progressing to a torrential downpour. The rain soaked him to the bone, ruining his expensive, imported suit. Sighing, Card Slinger ducked into a nearby alleyway and fished his pocket watch from one of the inside pockets of the suit.

2350. Ten minutes until midnight. He'd arrive on time, barring any ridiculous interruptions.

Pressing on, Card Slinger trekked through the streets, keeping mostly to the shadows. There was no telling what surprises awaited him in the dark; he was certain they would not be welcome revelations. No, the leader of the Manehatten Kings kept his muzzle hidden as best as he could, no matter that he soon would be no leader of anything.

And no follower, either.

Dodge had performed well and received his reward accordingly. The trusty guard-pony delivered the message to Eight Ball, the Don of the Manehatten Mafia, around 1000. Eight Ball's response came at 1200:

"Mor's Spaghetti Restaurant, 0000 sharp. Come alone, no steel or lead."

Leaving his black blade and his pistol behind, Card Slinger submitted, bowing symbolically to the lesser stallion. Eight Ball was a notorious glutton, squat and round. An all-you-can-eat spaghetti restaurant suited his unending hunger and served as a perfect midnight snack. Card Slinger kicked himself for not placing a bet on that location. He would've walked away a millionaire.

Slinger smiled to himself as he trotted. Although he would be abdicating, it nevertheless amused him that he held the upper hoof in this negotiation. The Manehatten Mafia and Eight Ball were a laughingstock compared to him and the Manehatten Kings.

On the other hoof, this only served to Slinger's advantage. Of course the lesser stallion would grovel to his hooves, overjoyed at the opportunity to seize his wealth, his turf, his arsenal of flesh, steel, and lead.

And then, with their combined efforts, King Orange would fall from his throne.

So very, very simple.

Lost in a daze of glory, Card Slinger nearly stumbled over his own hooves. Cursing, he glanced up. Mor's Spaghetti came into full view, its brightly painted sign barely visible through the curtain of rain. Shaking his muzzle and tail, the stallion gave himself a quick once-over, making himself as presentable as he could before he entered the restaurant.

The interior was almost completely empty, save for one booth near the back. There, a single, obese, black-and-white Earth pony stallion occupied one side of the booth, chomping down at a plate of pasta. Across from him, four Earth pony stallions, dressed from neck to tail in black, obscuring their coats and cutiemarks, snapped their heads towards the new arrival.

The Don and his entourage, ready to meet the King and his empty hooves.

"Slinga!" Eight Ball called out, putting down his fork for a miraculous moment. "C'mere, Slinga! Right on time, ma friend. Come. Let us talk."

The distance from the front door to the booth in the back was the longest Card Slinger would ever cross. With each step, he thought of Boone, and sand, and salt and fire.

And wondered if this was, indeed, the right thing.

Treason

Card Slinger slipped into his seat, locking eyes with Eight Ball. The obese stallion gave a strange sort of smile, one littered with pasta-sauce-stained molars and bits of spaghetti hiding between them. Slinger's stomach gurgled, churning its contents. He braced himself with his forehooves on the table as he sat down, utilizing every bit of self-control left in him to stay calm.

He was not nauseous from hunger or indigestion. Not in the slightest.

"Youze look like youze seen a ghost," Eight Ball muttered, licking his lips free of wayward sauce. He smirked and swirled a huge bite of spaghetti around his fork. "An' pretty skinny, too. Been a long time since we've talked face-ta-face, Slinga."

Sharing a table with a traitor was not in Slinger's nature. Unarmed, he would rely on his hooves if need be. Even if he were allowed to do bring it tonight, he would've left his trusty pistol behind. The temptation to put a bullet between the eyes of his greatest rival and enemy—second on both accounts only to Madhoof—was far too strong. But he needed Eight Ball alive for this to work.

Slinger scowled, but did not reply.

"Dey feedin' youze at all ova there in youze lil' shitbox?" Eight Ball laughed and slurped his noodles, gulping down the entire bite in seconds. "Horseapples, I'm surprised youze got ova heeya without gettin' blown ova." He patted his stomach and ordered one of his guards, "Bring him a plate."

"Dat won't be necessary," Card Slinger replied dryly. He adjusted his tie and drummed his other forehoof on the table, keeping both in the open. Unarmed. Nonthreatening. "I already had dinna."

The Don snickered. "Oh, youze don't trust me, is dat it?"

Staring straight into those treacherous eyes, Card Slinger gave the fat stallion no reward. He focused on Boone, Madhoof, and his mission. He ignored the red-hot stares of the four guards, and didn't budge when a full plate of spaghetti was placed before him.

Eight Ball didn't flinch, holding the stare. He shoved the plate towards his enemy. "Eat."

His muscles tensing beneath his suit, Slinger simply said, "No."

"Youze come heeya, inta ma territory, wantin' ta talk, an' youze won't accept ma hospitality?" Feigning offense, Eight Ball brought a forehoof to his chest. "Why so rude, Slinga? What eva have I done ta youze?"

Narrowing his gaze, Card Slinger growled and said, "The graves o' ma brothas should tell youze."

"An' the graves o' mine speak the same." The Don's nostrils flared, his eyes never dropping from the King's. Pushing both plates of spaghetti aside, Eight Ball seethed, "Let's cut the horseshit heeya, shall we?"

"Gladly," Slinger shot back, leaning forward in his seat.

Eight Ball matched him, coming closer. "Youze are one lucky son o' a bitch, youze know dat?"

Slinger thought of the desert, of three bodies the sands had swallowed whole. Calm. Stay calm. He opened his mouth to retort, but silenced his tongue. No. In order to atone fully, pride would have to be abandoned. Here, nearly defenseless, it was only a liability. Pride stood in the way of retribution.

"Dat's what I thought." The Don laughed, his greasy mane shining in the dim light of the restaurant. He cleared his meaty throat and focused back on his rival. He spoke again, his many chins and jowls bobbing in tempo with his thick tongue. "I should jus' kill youze right now, youze worthless piece o' shit. I should slit youze throat, right heeya an' now."

Across the table, King Crazy felt his heart thunder in rage, his street name crying out to be justified. Eight Ball was so close. Far too close. Close to enough to strangle. To snap his filthy neck.

The Don leaned closer. "What's stoppin' me, Slinga? What's stoppin' me from takin' down ma one an' only obstacle? Youze stand 'tween me an' Manehatten. 'Tween me an' takin' it all.

"Give me one good reason why I shouldn't jus' shoot youze right now."

This was it. Three muzzles pressed on Card Slinger's mind. Depending on him. Willing him.

"Because," Slinger answered, staring straight into the soulless glutton, "I am not youze only obstacle."

Eight Ball raised an eyebrow, tilting his head in suspicion.

Card Slinger, aware of his cue, lowered his head, avoiding the eyes of the traitor. He submitted. He submitted, nausea washing over him, and did everything he could to continue speaking. "Because—"

"Because?" pressed the Don, lifting Card Slinger's chin to meet him.

Foreign. Intimate. Weak. Disgusting.

But it had to be done.

"Because," Card Slinger said, his voice low, "we are all marked fo' slaughta."

A draft of wind blew through a nearby window, chilling and settling over the six of them. Slinger's words, however, did far more to provoke the silence. The Mafia guards exchanged confused glances. Eight Ball exhaled slowly, his breath foul, hot steam on Card Slinger's face. Slinger stood firm, refusing to flinch.

Eight Ball tightened his grip on the stallion's chin. "Slaughta... by who?"

"The Masta," Card Slinger said, sealing his fate in two words.

~

In eternal contrast, the desert night dipped to the lowest low and caressed Braeburn's fur, chilling him. He gritted his teeth and planted his hooves into the ground, shifting his weight from one hoof to the other. His saddlebag, although light, seemed to weigh him down, as if filled with the magnitude of the past month. In a way, it was.

He checked his pocket watch, then stashed it back in his saddlebag. A few minutes to midnight. A few minutes before the last train to Ponyville arrived, and with it, he departed.

Sheriff Braeburn wasn't sure if he could trust leaving his home in the hooves of his posse, but he had no other choice. Applejack still hadn't replied to any of their letters, and, in light of recent events, his anxiety would keep him restless until he confirmed that she was alright.

That they would all be alright...

"Braeburn?"

He turned around. Citrus Blossom trotted up to him, a worried frown on her muzzle. She brushed up against the stallion, tingling his skin. Her lips found his cheek, kissing him softly.

"What are ya doin' out here, Citrus?" he asked, blushing as he did so.

She sat down in front of him and leaned back between his forehooves, looking up at him. "I don't think I gave you a proper farewell earlier. I wanted to be sure."

He grinned knowingly and nuzzled her cheek. "Citrus, it's only gonna be fer a few days. Maybe a week. Ah'll be alright."

She reached up and tugged at his Stetson, pulling it over his eyes. They laughed, their joint melody piercing the Appleloosian silence. "You know how I worry."

He adjusted the brim of his hat and chuckled to himself. "Not as much as Auntie, but ya worry too much, still."

Citrus sighed contentedly as he sat on his haunches, wrapping his forehooves around her and pulling her close. "I know. I take after Mother too much, I guess." Better than taking after Bernie, she thought.

Bernie Madhoof. The name hadn't graced her mind or her lips for a very, very long time. Why it did now, she didn't know.

Braeburn smiled. "Ah guess so. But don't you fret, Citrus. Ah'm jus' goin' ta Applejack's."

Again, Citrus replied, "I know." Knowing did little to assuage her fears.

The wind picked up again, and they huddled closer, waiting for the train. Braeburn exhaled, his breath becoming mist in the night. He mused, "Ah thought it was kinda funny how Auntie managed ta persuade Turner ta stay here. He really wanted ta go ta Manehatten."

She nodded and twirled a lock of her mane around a forehoof. "Mother does have her ways..."

"So she does. An' like mother," he leaned down, whispering in her ear, "like daughter."

Citrus squirmed a little, his words tickling her ear. "Yes," she said, tilting her head to look into his eyes, "that's what they say." Shifting to seriousness, she admitted, "I'm happy for Mother, but I wish she would've let Turner go. He's really worried about Babs and Apple Bloom."

"It's only been a few days. Ah'm sure they're fine," Braeburn assured. "Ah know the post takes a while ta get sent outta the bigger cities. Not as long as here, o' course, but they got all 'em other ponies' letters an' such ta send, right?"

"True, but don't they have more staff to make up for that?"

"Maybe." Braeburn sighed and straightened his Stetson. "Ah think if we hadn't heard from 'em in a week, Auntie be less justified in calmin' him. Can't say Ah blame him. If it were ma daughter an' her mare in that city..." He shook his head. "Too big an' too dangerous. Easy ta get lost, o' forgotten."

Switching to a happier tone, Braeburn added, "That's part o' why I love it here." He gestured to the cliff-faces and orchard, to the vast horizon, to the slumbering stillness that was Appleloosa at night. "It's small, but it's home. In spite o' everythin', it's still a wonderful place ta be, an'... It's beautiful, ain't it?"

"Yes," Citrus agreed, "it is, Braeburn."

He murmured, kissing her forehead, "But not as beautiful as you."

Crimson stained her muzzle. She looked away, nuzzling his chest with her cheek.

From the east came a low, mournful whistle, eliciting howls of agreement from coyotes in the distance. The churning of metal against metal announced the arrival of the beast, chewing its way west to return eastward. Citrus and Braeburn looked up to meet the metal monster, the locomotive slowly coming to a stop before them.

Once the brakes were set in place, a train guard emerged from the doors, calling out as he stepped onto the platform, "Last train to Ponyville for the night! All aboard!"

"Guess that's ma cue," Braeburn joked, his own muzzle scarlet. The stallion slowly rose to his hooves and assisted Citrus to hers. "Ah'll jus' be gone fer a few days. If anythin' changes, an' Ah'll be gone a little longer," he explained, hoping that it would not have to be so, "Ah'll send y'all a letter, alright?"

Reluctantly, Citrus agreed, "Alright," and kissed him deeply.

He held her close for a while, the only passenger on the midnight train. The guard, disregarding his post orders, didn't rush his passenger, and took the Sheriff's ticket once he was finally ready to board.

Citrus Blossom waved goodbye, then sat there for a while, enjoying one of the first quiet nights she'd had in weeks.

~

Detective White Dove closed the door to her office carefully, listening for approaching hoof-steps. She looked around the darkened police station. In the front lobby, Cotton burned the midnight oil—or, rather, caught up on the latest Hoof Beat. The detective scowled and shook her muzzle. Incompetence everywhere, above and below.

Her scowl quickly turned to a smug little smile, her thoughts drifting back to her very late meeting with Brutus that morning. Brutus had been predictably enraged. He'd tried to dissect her, hurling insults her way and doing his best to tear her down. Normally, the Chief's anger would've at least gotten a little under her skin, but today and tonight, White Dove couldn't care less.

His words echoed in her ears. "What was so Celestia-damned important dat youze delayed our meetin' fo' almost an hour?!"

Her answer had been only a smile and a change of subject, no matter how much he persisted. Groaning in frustration, he soon gave up, then launched into a less-than-favorable "performance review" of her. She didn't care. Catharsis was hers alone, and she wouldn't let anypony take that from her. Her hooves were lighter, and no nonsense from the Chief would change that.

She locked the door to her office and slipped her key-ring into one of the pockets of her uniform. Checking to ensure she had a full book of matches in another, Dove walked from her office into another hallway towards the basement. She made her way to the lower level quickly, checking behind her as she trotted.

Nopony following. Good.

Chief Brutus always hated her. She wasn't quite sure why. Any attempts to secure more funding, resources, or officers for the Anti-Gang Unit were denied by the short-tempered stallion. When confronted, his explanations always quickly dissolved into a rant about budgets, and Celestia, and keeping the press quiet and the citizens happy, and "Dammit Dove, why don't youze go on solvin' the cases youze is on already an' get some damned paperwork done? Or are youze dat incompetent?"

Dove gritted her teeth and descended the stairs into the lower level of the Manehatten P.D. Solving cases. Easier said than done. It was impossible to solve cases when most gang-ponies eluded capture, skipped town, made bail, or were released from jail on some technicality. It'd happened so much that White Dove wrote several letters to her former Commander-In-Chief in protest.

She'd never gotten a response.

She'd given up soon afterwards in a sense, going through the motions, but with no heart that justice would be served. No hope. Just anger.

That didn't matter now. Now, she had a name and a description, and at least two witnesses—far more than with most cases thrown her way. There was a sliver of hope. At least her prey wasn't some demon in the shadows this time, no warring nameless, faceless thugs.

She hadn't muttered a word of her conversation with Apple Bloom to the enraged Chief. Surely, he would've commanded her to leave it alone. She heard his hypothetical, ghostly replies—"Dat ain't our jurisdiction! Don't youze have somethin' betta ta do than help out a couple o' hicks?!"

Reaching her destination, White Dove mumbled to the imaginary Brutus, "Buck youze."

She looked up, reading the sign on the door. "Records Department. Keep Out. Authorized Officers Only."

Pressing a forehoof to the frame, she fished around for her keyring. Dove snickered as she located the key. "Did youze think I'd only go down heeya when youze wanted me ta, Brutus? Fat chance."

Key met lock and tumbler turned. The door creaked as it opened, heavy and reluctant. Putting her keys away, Detective White Dove crept inside, then locked the door behind her.

Inside the Records Department was an array of filing cabinets—an entire wall of them, four or five drawers each. Several tables in the middle were littered with various reports, forms, notices, warrants. Quills and ink sat on each table, some ink pots overturned and leaking onto the wood. At each, opposite end of the room were two small tables, oil lamps and candles on each.

Although electricity was wired and working in most parts of the building, two rooms were not blessed with modern technology. The Records Department and the Detective's office were still in the dark ages. Brutus explained the former as due to frugality, and the latter as due to faulty wiring. Both were never resolved. Dove knew why.

White Dove went over to one of the tables and removed a book of matches from her pocket. Striking a few, she lit two lamps and two candles, providing plenty of light. The flames illuminated the darkness, casting her shadow away from the door.

Hunkering down for a long night of searching, Detective White Dove walked to the first file cabinet, opened it with a separate key, and began to dig.

~

Eight Ball blinked, certain he'd misheard. Bringing a forehoof up to one of his flared ears, he scratched it, willing years of wax to retreat. "What... what did youze say?" He clenched his jaws. He was wrong. He had to be wrong.

Otherwise, King Crazy lived up to his name.

"The Masta," Slinger repeated, his tone lowering an octave. "Youze think he is youze friend, but dat'll only last fo' a lil' while. An' not much longa, I bet."

The Don paused, pulling away from the muzzle of the insane stallion. He shook his filthy mane, rubbing it with both forehooves. His eyes widened in horror. The Master was the source from which all things flowed, the undercurrent of the Manehatten underworld. What little assets and influence the Mafia had came from The Master. "Youze... youze outta youze buckin' mind?!"

From the corner of his eye, Slinger saw four sets of forehooves maneuver under their black disguises, doubtlessly in search for a trigger. Cold sweat trickled down his neck. He was losing the battle before it began.

When Card Slinger hesitated, Eight Ball lurched forward, grabbing him by the collar of his suit. Pressing his fetid muzzle against Slinger's, he barked, "Youze ain't suggestin' what I think youze is suggestin', are youze?!"

"Eight Ball," Slinger croaked, bringing his forehooves to meet the stallion's at his collar, "listen ta me."

"Why should I?! Youze... youze suggestin' treason!"

"Listen ta me—"

"Youze... youze idiot!" screeched the Don, slamming Card Slinger against the booth. Slinger flinched but silenced a groan. Eight Ball began to heave his breaths, each one bringing another wave of halitosis crashing over Slinger's muzzle. "Youze know what happened ta ponies who talk! Youze know what happens ta ponies who lie!

"You know what happens ta ponies who disobey, o' worse!" Shaking the stupid stallion, Eight Ball hissed, "What in Tartarus is wrong wit' youze?!"

Card Slinger pleaded, submitting to his lesser, "Listen, Eight Ball. Please, listen."

The Don paused, grasping the King tightly by the collar of his suit. "What did youze say?"

"Please," he said, cautiously looking up to meet his eyes. In his own dark pupils burned a smouldering fire, growing stronger by the second. Card Slinger wasn't sure how much time he had left.

"Please. Listen ta me. He is not youze friend. He is youze enemy. He may pay youze, an' give youze weapons an' connections, but youze are nothin' ta him.

"Youze are a pawn—I am a pawn—ta him. We all are," Card Slinger said, making eye contact with the four guards at the table. "He sent two troops o' ponies ta die in the desert, an' he'll send mo'. An' not jus' out west. He's gonna start lookin' furtha, go ta the bigger cities. Even Canterlot."

Slinger swallowed. He met Eight Ball's slick, greasy forehooves with his own again, gently pushing them off his collar. "He'll dispose o' us when we're no longa useful ta him. Youze think he's givin' youze freedom, but he's not.

"He's a puppetmasta, an' we all have strings."

His lower lip quivering with forgotten pasta sauce, Eight Ball stared at Card Slinger in silence, slowly releasing him from his grasp. The entire restaurant fell into the silence. The establishment was abandoned but for the King, the Mafia, and the kitchen crew, who pretended to work through the tension, scrubbing pots and pans and banging utensils around.

Card Slinger tried to hide his unease, sitting up straight in his side of the booth. He brought both his forehooves onto the table. Deciding to continue, he said, "I've seen it happen ta ma own gang. Ta youze gang. Ta his closest confidants, his right-hoof stallions. Dey ain't heeya no mo'. He's tyin' up the loose ends, don't youze see?"

King stared into Mafia and vice versa, rivals in the highest, sitting in the aftermath of the unarmed one's words.

Finally, the Don spoke, but not to Card Slinger. He waved one of his guards over. The guard leaned low and perked an ear. Eight Ball whispered into his guard's ear, his words pure, inaudible gibberish. Card Slinger watched intently. Once he'd received the message, the guard nodded once and slowly walked away, exiting out of the restaurant through the back door.

Card Slinger raised an eyebrow. "What was—"

"He's jus' goin' on smoke break," Eight Ball dismissed, waving his question off with a forehoof. He leaned across the table, meeting Slinger's snout with his own. "Iffa all youze say is true, scumbag, why are youze tellin' me? Why ain't youze skippin' town o' summat? Surely, dat's a betta bet than..." He winced. "Than what youze is suggestin'."

"Iffa anypony deserts him, he'll find dem, too. He knows where ta hide the bodies. He knows how ta cover up his deeds, an' bribe the police an' the press, an' keep everythin' outta Canterlot's reach." For now, Slinger failed to add.

Moving away, Eight Ball glanced out the window at the rain-soaked cobblestone streets of Manehatten. He turned back to Slinger after contemplating his words for what felt like the millionth time. "So... What do youze want from me?" he asked, stroking his chin.

Slinger drew in a shaky breath before replying, "Well... Youze see... I was... I was thinkin'—"

"Dat I'd help youze overthrow him?"

Slinger nodded.

Eight Ball scoffed and leaned back in his seat, crossing his forehooves over his chest. "No."

"But," Slinger objected, reaching across the table a bit, "iffa we combine forces, we can take him down. He's strong, an' he's got tons o' Knights, but iffa we—"

"Why should I work wit' youze?" The Don shook his muzzle. "Look, Slinga, maybe what youze say is true. Still, why should I? Ma colts have enough on their hooves dealin' wit' youze an' youze gang everyday. Add in some business wit'... him... an' youze jus' buc—"

"I'll give youze everythin' I have."

Eight Ball titled his muzzle, skeptical. "What do youze mean?"

Card Slinger opened his forehooves in a gesture of sincerity and desperation. "Everythin'. All ma bits, all ma possessions, all ma territory, all ma gang."

The three remaining guards looked at one another and burst into laughter. The Don's baritone joined them, laughing so hard he wiped tears from his eyes.

Card Slinger narrowed his gaze, flexing beneath his suit. "What's so damn funny?"

"Youze... youze seriously gonna give me dem?" Eight Ball roared, throwing his mane back. "Why would I want dem?! Screw-ups like youze?! Hahahaha!"

Slinger seethed, his heart thundering. On the brink of reaching across the table and strangling the fat stallion, he rose to his hindhooves.

Immediately, the three guards halted their laughter and rushed over, weapons drawn. Three pistols jabbed at Card Slinger's sides and temples, slamming him against the booth.

"Arrrgh! Stop! Stop!" Throwing up his forehooves, Slinger spat, "I'm unarmed! I ain't gonna hurt him! Buck!"

Eight Ball smirked and clapped his forehoves. The guards released Card Slinger as quickly as they captured him, throwing him down into the seat. Slinger hit his head on the table on his way down. He groaned and rubbed his forehead, seeing stars.

"Slinga." Eight Ball grabbed a cigar from the pocket of his suit and stuffed it into his maw. "While the thought o' takin' youze bits an' turf sets ma heart aflutter—" the guards snickered, one of them pretending to faint—"frankly, I have no use fo' youze gangstas."

"Fine, then," Card Slinger countered, gritting his teeth. "Don't take 'em. Take the bits an' the turf. But let dem go, iffa dey don't want ta serve youze."

The Don grinned, his teeth rows and rows of bloodied piano keys. "No can do, Slinga. Youze is a traitor," Eight Ball said, lighting his cigar aflame, "an' youze gangstas are scum. Murderas o' ma brothas. I will gladly rob youze o' all youze have, but iffa youze 'pect mercy fo' the othas, youze a fool.

"Eitha youze give me everythin', an' I do wit' 'em as I see fit, o' we're done heeya."

Card Slinger narrowed his eyes, nothing but the most unrefined hatred rushing through his veins. With a simple, determined shake of his muzzle, he answered in the negative finality. Eight Ball took a deep drag of his tobacco, exhaling perfect smoke rings into his rival's eyes.

"I think we're done heeya, Slinga."

With another clap of the Don's forehooves, the three guards rose to their hooves. Their weapons were holstered but at the ready. Without a word, Card Slinger hopped from the booth to his hooves and began stomping towards the door, hanging his muzzle low.

Behind him, Eight Ball slicked his way from the booth to the back door, opened it, and exhaled a cloud of smoke.

~

White Dove hunched over a file cabinet, clutching one folder between her jaws, running a forehoof through the rest. Many lay scattered on the floor, worthless discards. Alabaster. Nope. Backdraft. Getting closer. Domino. Way, way too far.

She returned to the files in between her second and third selection, fishing for a "C". In her maw was a folder titled Juvenile Records, which had been found in the first filing cabinet. The second had yielded nothing of importance. On the third, she finally found an alphabetized of adult criminal records, and dug eagerly, certain she'd find her stallion.

Most criminals, Dove knew, had a long and tumultuous history. Especially violent criminals. At the very least, this "Card Slinger" was doubtlessly guilty of theft, vandalism, racketeering, extortion, drug charges... something. There was no possible way he could've behaved like an angel his entire existence, then given into the temptations of the Most Low once he'd reached the drinking age.

Then again, nothing could surprise her anymore.

White Dove spit out the folder onto the floor, twisting her tongue in disgust. "Blech! Buckin' dust! How long has it been since anypony's been down heeya?" Shaking her head in disappointment, she continued to search through the folders, frequently doubling back. Comet Tail. Way ahead. Camomile. A little too far back. Ca—

THUD! THUD! THUD! THUD!

"Shit!"

In a flurry of parchment, White Dove shoved as many of the files as she could into the cabinet, scooping the fallen ones off the floor and cramming them into the drawer. She slammed the drawer as hard as she could. The drawer failed to shut, thick stacks of arrest records, warrants, and court notes impeding it. The knocking at the door grew louder. "Shit! Shit!"

Her mask slipping, Detective White Dove shoved the files in further, slamming the drawer one more time.

THUD! THUD! "'EY!" THUD! THUD! "DOVE?"

She froze. "L-Lucky?!"

"OH, IT IS YOUZE! LET ME IN!"

Groaning, White Dove nearly slumped over in relief. Shaking her muzzle vigorously, she rushed over to the door and flung it open.

The patrol officer before her wore a big, goofy grin on his face. "'Ey, why are youze—oof!"

Yanking him inside the room, Dove slammed the door shut and flipped the deadbolt. She checked the door a few times, shaking it furiously. Once she'd confirmed it was secure, she spun on her hooves and hissed, "What the buck is wrong wit' youze, Lucky?! Youze coulda given me a heart attack, fo' Celestia's sake!"

"Heh, heh, heart attack..." Toss guffawed, running a forehoof through his mane. "Youze know, I've always thought I was pretty dashin', but—"

"No! I'm not—agh! Jus'... jus' shut up!" Dove huffed, stomping back to the third file cabinet. Pulling it open, she started pulling out the files smashed and stacked on top. Almost an hour's worth of work was wasted now. She glared at Lucky with a scowl. "Thanks a lot, asshole! Now I have ta sort through all these again!"

"Huh?" His eyes found the pile of folders and parchment, all in disarray. Lucky's ears drooped. "Oh... s-sorry. I-I didn't mean ta scare youze," he muttered, flushing slightly in embarrassment.

"Yeah, well... What's so damn important, Lucky? Youze don't even have access down heeya!" she exclaimed, brushing his apology aside. She'd been so close.

"Well, I..." He rubbed his neck. "I was actually gonna ask youze 'bout Babs an' Bloom's case."

Dove raised an eyebrow and snorted. "What 'bout it? Dat's ma job anyway. I'm the Detective. Youze are jus' a patrol-pony," she said, starting to tear through the pile. White Dove turned her back on him. "I can handle it maself. Go home. I thought youze were off work at 1800, anyway."

"I was." Lucky Toss trotted up beside her, sat down, and dug a forehoof into the floor. "I took one o' the otha offica's shifts, though. Worked a few mo' hours."

Digging through the folders, she didn't turn back as she asked, "Why's dat? Youze ain't the generous type."

"What's dat supposed ta mean?"

"What I said. Now, why?"

"Jus' been... been savin' up, I guess. Needed the ovatime."

She snorted in reply. Ignoring his presence, White Dove focused on the task at hoof, slowly sorting through the files. She was about halfway through the pile when the stallion spoke up again.

"Look... Um... I don't really wanna get inta it, but..." Toss looked away for a moment, watching one of the candle flames flicker to nothingness. He shuffled his hooves and resumed his focus, glancing at Dove as she looked at parchment and cardboard. "I want ta help wit' dis case."

"Youze ain't got the skills ta be a detective, Toss," she dismissed, placing a folder back in the cabinet. "Besides, youze need ta wait a few mo' years. Youze as green as the Canterlot Gardens right now."

Lucky stomped a forehoof, the noise echoing through the tiny, darkened chamber. "Dat's not what dis is 'bout, Dove! Horseapples, I ain't some kiss-ass like Rustla!"

Dove paused, slowly turning around to face him. "What is dis 'bout, then?"

Toss stared at the floor. "I... I don't wanna get inta it, but dis case is kinda... close ta home fo' me."

"How so?"

"Well... er—"

"Wait!" Dove rose to her hooves and pointed at him. "Youze know dat bastard, don't youze?"

There was no need to clarify. They both knew.

Lucky Toss nodded sadly, then looked up into her eyes. "He... he almost ruined ma life, Dove. He was ma best friend, a long, long time 'go, when we were both stupid foals. I watched him slip inta some deep shit, an' I didn't do anythin' ta stop him." He shook his head, scoffing at the memory. "I was such a little wuss back then. I didn't have the stones ta follow him..."

"It's a good thing youze didn't," she said, sitting down again. "Youze wouldn't make a good criminal."

"Why youze say dat?"

"Youze got too much o' a heart. Now," White Dove said, taking hold of the conversation, "I don't have time fo' small talk. Celestia knows iffa Rustla's still heeya, an' iffa he finds out I'm goin' behind the Chief's back ta work on dis case, it'll be ma head on a platta. So, I need ta get dis done as soon as possible.

"So... even though youze jus' a lil' beat-pone, I guess I'll let youze help me." Lucky's frown instantly flipped into a grin. "However," she warned, raising a forehoof, "youze say one word o' dis ta anypony, an' youze'll regret it."

"Deal," he agreed, sidling over to the other side of the filing cabinet.

~

Once he reached the street, Card Slinger took off at full gallop. He stared straight ahead, pricking his ears for the sound of pistols being drawn, of guns being aimed, triggers being tested.

He failed. He failed everything all over again, and it was because of his greed and his pride and his lust for power and blood that Boone was dead. It was because of his rotten tongue and his rough hooves and his hatred that Eight Ball wouldn't cooperate. It was because of his own carnal, primal, selfish, materialistic desires that he had a tattoo at the base of his tail, a tattoo that burned in the rain and sealed him away as a slave and a wanted stallion.

The cobblestones thundering beneath his hooves, his rhythm and tempo increasing in his panic, Card Slinger ran faster and faster out of the heart of Manehatten. Where he would go, he didn't know. He was certain that Eight Ball's guards would leap out from the shadows any moment, weapons blazing, steel and lead granting him the darkness he deserved.

Sweat rolled down his forehead and mane, mixing with the rain. His lungs burned, but he pressed on, churning his hooves as fast as they could carry him. Slinger felt his tie come undone of its Windsor knot and the buttons of his suit slip as he galloped, but he didn't stop.

There was nothing to do anymore. He'd destroyed his office, lost his best friend, ordered his gang to practically surrender to their rivals—making them as good as dead—and failed to enlist the help of the one pony with enough underlings to take down Madhoof with him. He knew he could try to confront him with his own gang, but he knew it wouldn't be enough.

There was only one option left: a drawer full of white powder in his overturned desk, and the biggest, baddest rifle in his armory. Card Slinger knew as he rushed through the rainy streets of Manehatten that he was doomed, but at least he could go down fighting.

He'd just turned the corner of an alleyway when he heard the commotion.

Coming towards him from the other side of town, a set of wheels creaked and groaned and squeaked. Slinger pressed his back into the wall of an apartment building in the alleyway, pricking his ears further to listen as he gulped down breaths. A carriage. Just a carriage. Could be a late-night delivery, or a taxi-carriage ferrying some drunkards home, or—

"CARD SLINGA!"

"Shit."

"CARD SLINGA! DIS IS THE MANEHATTEN POLICE DEPARTMENT! WE KNOW YOUZE IN THE AREA! COME OUT WIT' YOUZE HOOVES UP!"

Kicking a hindhoof against the wall, Slinger cursed, "Dat wasn't no fuckin' smoke break."

The voice from the carriage, a gruff stallion's, continued, "IFFA YOUZE DON'T COME OUT ON THE COUNT O' THREE, WE'RE COMIN' AFTA YOUZE, AN' WE'LL SHOOT!"

Sidling alongside the wall, careful not to trip over any of the trash that littered the ground, Card Slinger kept to the shadows. For a moment, he was thankful he'd worn the black suit. It blended in with the alleyway's creeping darkness, black as his mane. He counted his breaths, willing himself to calm, to breathe slowly, to escape, escape, escape, unseen.

"ONE..."

Card Slinger reached the end of the alleyway. Perpendicular to this alleyway was another, which was clothed in the light of a street-lamp. He spat on the ground in annoyance. The police carriage was in plain sight from this angle. It was painted a bright blue and silver, pulled by two enormous stallions. Within the passenger compartment, he could see the gruff, shouting stallion and two mares. All five were clad in Manehatten blues—badges, batons, pepper spray, hoof-cuffs, and pistols in view.

If he timed it correctly, he could make a break for it.

"TWO..."

If he didn't, it was all over.

Card Slinger's breath caught in his throat.

"THREE!"

The carriage halted in the middle of the street, the two drivers removing their yokes and drawing their pistols. The three other officers jumped from the carriage, following suit. Their steel glistened in the moonlight and the rain.

Card Slinger glanced to his left. The alleyway ended here, blocked by the adjacent wall of a neighboring complex. His eyes darted to his right. Already, he heard approaching hooves churning down the opposite alley. Clip-clop, clip-clop, clip-clop, in time with his frantic heartbeats.

Kicking off his hindhooves, Card Slinger burst into a gallop, mustering all his might. He sprinted into the lit alleway, rushing towards the street.

"There he is!" one of the mares shouted, catching sight of him as he emerged into the street. She waved to her comrades and took off on her hooves after the fugitive. "Get him! Get him! GET HIM!"

Inside Card Slinger's mind circled the mantra, Buck! Buck! Buck! Buck! Go! Go! Go! His muscles rippled beneath his coat, sinews and tendons crying out in protest. The cobblestones were hard and unforgiving beneath his hooves. Puddles dotted the streets, splashing his fetlocks, his suit, his muzzle. The Heavens released their judgment above, the rain coming down in violent torrents, cleansing the city of its sin.

One of Manehatten's biggest sinners ducked into another alleyway, five police officers pursuing him, firing warning shots in the air. Lights flickered on and lamps were lit in the nearby apartment buildings and hotels. Terrified civilians poked their muzzles out their windows, watching the law-ponies pursue their prey. Card Slinger twisted and turned through a maze of alleys, each one seeming to stretch on forever. All the while, he willed himself to run, run, run.

"STOP!" The gruff stallion screamed again, firing off another shot into the air. BANG! "FREEZE! GIVE IT UP!"

Coming upon another dead end, Card Slinger scanned the scene frantically. There! The ladder of a fire escape hung off a dilapidated apartment building.

Skidding to a stop, the stallion reoriented himself, facing towards his escape. Leaning down, he pushed off his hindhooves once more, leaping into the air.

A little more than thirty yards behind him, one of the officers cried, "UP THE ESCAPE! UP THE ESCAPE!"

Hanging from the escape, Card Slinger groaned and reached a forehoof up, struggling for a hold. The ladder was as neglected as the building that held it, rungs rusted and chipped. Concentrating he found one hoof-hold and lifted himself up one step. His hindhooves hung in the air, kicking uselessly. Stretching his opposite forehoof, he quickly found another hold. Heaving, Card Slinger pulled himself up another few feet, close enough so that his hindhooves were touching the bottom of the fire escape.

Pausing for breath, he briefly glanced over his shoulder.

A mistake.

The officers had him surrounded now, five muzzles steely with determination and triumph, five loaded pistols trained on him. Standing in the alleyway side-by-side, they pointed perfect shots on the stallion, painting imaginary points of entry. Card Slinger looked back up. At least thirty feet of fire escape laid before him before he'd reach the roof. The rain poured down the rungs constantly, making his hooves slippery. He coughed in a mixture of fear and pain, feeling one of his forehooves begin to lose its grip.

"DROP DOWN, AN' WE WON'T SHOOT!" barked another stallion, his pistol unwavering, pointed straight at Card Slinger's heart. "MOVE ONE MO' STEP UP, AN' IT'S LIGHTS OUT, BUDDY!"

Any sliver of hope washed away with the rain. "What do youze want wit' me?!" he screamed, almost pleading.

"Youze is unda arrest fo' the murdas o' Turn Key, Quick Step, an' Flora!" one of the mares called back, tightening the grip on her gun. "Now, come down, o' youze is CROW BAIT!"

Time froze. The five officers below and the hundreds of faces staring out their windows ceased to exist. Card Slinger was one with the rainfall, one with the rusty steel rung that he clung to for dear life. He stopped kicking his hindhooves, resigning to his fate. He was too slow. He was too weak. He was too stupid. He was too greedy. He was too thick-skulled to see where this would all lead.

He'd exchanged his freedom for power and money, and lost anything that ever mattered to him. Now, he hung there, a sinner in a saintless city, about to be arrested for three murders he didn't commit. The only three murders he didn't commit, in all his twisted honesty. He would be arrested for Madhoof's crimes, and most likely never be seen or heard from again.

He'd never redeem himself.

Raindrops fell onto his mane, slipping down his forehead onto the bridge of his snout. For a moment, Card Slinger closed his eyes, letting the storm embrace him. Letting it wrap its cold hooves around him, chilling him to the bone. Letting it soak his fur and run over his tattoo, washing it away, if only just for a moment.

When he closed his eyes, he could see the three Madhoof had stolen from him, and he smiled.

Again, the Manehatten Police Department, using the voice of the deep, ordered, "Get DOWN!"

And Card Slinger did.

Releasing his grip, he plummetted, falling thirteen feet. He landed on his back in a puddle, smack-dab in the middle of the officers. He relished the pain that echoed through his bones and muscles, sending numbing chills through his nerves. He closed his eyes and spread his hooves, letting go. Letting everything go. It was over. It was finally over.

Letting Manehatten embrace him, whisking him away into the dark.

Card Slinger was blissfully unaware of what happened next, but only for a moment. Even though he squeezed his eyes shut, he could still feel the rough hooves flipping him over, tearing his suit off, examining his cutiemark. Loud voices whooping, confirming he was the one they were after. Congratulating each other. They'd caught not only a murderer, but the rumored leader of the city's largest gang.

He could feel the first baton crack over his shoulders, driving him into the puddle muzzle-first. Card Slinger coughed and choked, relieved when another set of hooves yanked him out of the water by his mane. The second blow smacked across his flanks. He heard somepony scream. He recognized his own voice after the third strike, square across his spine.

No longer ignorant, Card Slinger tried to curl into a ball, but this only seemed to provoke his tormentors. Hindhooves and batons and forehooves pummelled him, over and over and over, finding his shoulders and his back and his flanks and his limbs, and one even rolled him onto his back and stomped his groin, making him howl, and for a moment he opened his eyes and swore Babs Seed was standing in front of him again, her red cape darkening with her own blood, and for a moment he was not a Manehatten King, he was not a King's Knight, and he was not a stallion.

He was a little foal, a little colt, lying on his back and sobbing and screaming as he paid the price of his sin, his judge and jury tempering him like a piece of white-hot iron between the hammer and anvil.

His vision switched back and forth between images of Babs Seed the foal, Babs Seed the mare in the West, and a savage female police officer, her molars as glistening white as the keys on Old Scratch's piano.

Around the time that the hoof-cuffs found his fetlocks, Card Slinger fell into the black.

It was warm, comforting. Like a mother's mane.

~

"Shit! Youze gotta be kiddin' me! Dat's the last one!"

Lucky Toss slumped into a corner, tugging his mane. He kicked the filing cabinet in frustration. A mountain of folders and parchment littered the floor around each cabinet. He shook his muzzle and groaned.

White Dove, giving up, fell onto her haunches and searched for a cigarette in her pockets. Finding her last one, she stuck it between her lips. While she struck a fresh match, she muttered, "Not one single fuckin' leaf on dis asshole."

"It's impossible!" Toss threw up his forehooves. "I know fo' a fact he got 'rrested when he was a colt, an' he ain't even in the juvenile files!"

"Well," White Dove began, taking a quick puff of her cigarette, "what does dat tell youze?"

Lucky tapped his chin. "Well, iffa I didn't know any betta—"

"An' youze don't—"

He rolled his eyes. "Are youze askin' me a serious question?"

"Kinda." Flicking away some ash, she replied, "I know the answa, but I wanna see iffa youze know."

"Well..." Lucky sighed and looked around the trashed Records Department. He didn't want to admit it, but there was no other explanation. He caved to his suspicions and answered, his eyes sorrowful as they stared into hers, "Dat means there's somepony on the inside, messin' wit' everythin'."

"Bingo." Dove exhaled a cloud of smoke and started gathering up some of the folders. "Jus' as I feared. Been thinkin' fo' a while there's somethin' strange goin' on heeya, but now I know there is. Now, help me put these 'way befo' anypony thinks ta come down heeya."

Officer Lucky Toss nodded and assisted Detective White Dove. They worked in hasty silence, putting the files back as best they could. They'd combed through every cabinet and every relevant folder, utilizing the names of other known gang-ponies, or rumored ones, but found no trace of Card Slinger. He may as well have disappeared. Without an address, aliases, accomplices, or any other information, finding one bit of chaos in Discord's kitchen itself would be an exhaustive task.

Already beat, White Dove pushed those thoughts away, concentrating on her cigarette and parchment. After a few minutes, the pair had nearly completed the task when Lucky Toss broke the silence.

"Dove?"

"Yea?"

"Iffa youze..."

"Iffa I what?"

Lucky Toss closed a drawer and joined her side, playing with one of the pockets on his uniform. "Iffa youze don't like me, jus' tell me. I... I was thinkin' 'bout it earlier today, an'...youze probably have enough on youze plate without me harassin' youze every day. I mean, the Chief, Rustla, all youze cases."

Toss chuckled awkwardly, eliciting only a stoic glance from the mare. Clearing his throat, he added, "An' iffa youze don't like me, dat's alright. No hard feelin's."

Closing the last cabinet, White Dove turned her attention to him, sitting down. "Lucky..." She sighed heavily, shaking her muzzle. "It's not dat I don't like youze as a pony. It's jus'—"

"Is it 'cuz I'm a stallion?"

Dove blinked.

"'Cuz," he said urgently, holding up a forehoof, "iffa dat's why, dat's no problem! I mean, some mares ain't inta stallions, an' some stallions ain' inta mares, an' dat's alright, I don't judge, an'—"

"Lucky—"

"Well, it turned out one o' ma female friends growin' up was inta mares, an' I think one o' ma male friends was inta stallions, but he'd neva admit it, an'—"

She nudged him in the shoulder, halting his rant. "Lucky. Look at me."

Lucky Toss flattened his ears and grinned sheepishly. "Sorry."

Dove sighed again. "Look, it's not dat. I don't have anythin' 'gainst stallions o' mares. Both are fine. Not dat it's any o' youze business anyway, but dat's not the reason."

"Oh," Toss said, looking slightly intrigued, "well, then... Can I ask why?"

Avoiding his gaze, she mumbled, "Ah, well, it's jus'—"

CLIP-CLOP! CLIP-CLOP! CLIP-CLOP!

Both their muzzles snapped to attention. Beyond the door and up the stairs came waves of pounding hoof-beats. Sharing a confused glance, the patrol officer and the Detective darted for the door. Lucky Toss spun around and rushed over to blow out the candles and oil lamps, while White Dove held the door open for him. Thankful that they'd cleaned up just in time, the two law-ponies locked the door behind them and scrambled up the stairwell.

Once they reached the first floor, they galloped towards the lobby, one forehoof on the grip of their pistols. "What's goin' on, Cotton?!" the Detective called, snaking around the corners towards reception as fast as she could.

From the lobby, Cotton shouted back, "Dove! I was jus' bout ta call youze! Come heeya, quick!"

"What happened?!"

Cotton strode over out of the lobby and into the hallway. Lucky Toss and White Dove skidded to a stop in front of her, peering around the mare. Cotton said, "Lucky?! What are youze doin' heeya?!"

He ignored her. So did White Dove.

There, in the lobby, blackened and bruised, was Card Slinger, each of his limbs held by a different police officer. The gangster kept his muzzle to the floor, his eyes slammed shut. He was mumbling something incoherent under his breath.

A fourth officer trotted over to Cotton, Dove, and Lucky, a triumphant grin on his face. "Cotton got a late-night tip dat dis bastard was braggin' 'bout those three murdas, Dove! The ones youze an' Offica Rustla are workin' on! She rounded up me an' Ironhoof, an' we got three mo' officas ta come in off-duty ta help."

The grinning stallion stepped aside, motioning towards his prize. "Card Slinga, right?"

"Yeah," Dove answered wordlessly, staring at the blood-red stallion with the mane black as night.

Lucky Toss stared too, grateful that Card Slinger hadn't opened his eyes yet.

~

"Ma, Citrus, and Braeburn—

Sorry this letter is a little late. Bloom and I had a hell (excuse my language, Ma, sorry) of a night and a day today. I won't go into details, because there's some things that just need to be shared muzzle-to-muzzle. But, I will say that I have two very good pieces of news.

The first is that we were able to find White Dove. Through some magic of hers, Apple Bloom managed to convince her to help us. I'm not sure what she said... I wasn't allowed to be in the office with them. Yeah, this White Dove doesn't like me all that much. That's alright, because I don't like her, either. She reminded me of a really rude, vulgar version of myself.

The second piece of good news... Well, I can't say much, but—"

Knock, knock.

Babs Seed glanced up from her parchment, confused. Who could be knockin' at dis hour? She looked over to the opposite side of the room. Apple Bloom snoozed peacefully, her hooves wrapped around her now-absent mare.

Once her hangover subsided, Babs Seed found that sleep eluded her, her mind running wild with a mixture of excitement and fear. She'd tossed and turned for hours before giving up and trying her hoof at writing a letter, hoping it would soothe her to slumber. Now, it seemed, that would have to wait even longer.

The rapping resumed, a little more forcefully. Knock, knock, knock.

Groaning, Babs Seed got off the stool and trotted away from the desk towards the door. "Who is it?" she asked, as quietly as possible. One eye was trained on Apple Bloom, hoping she wouldn't wake her.

"Police!" came the answer. "Open up!"

What?! Anxiety and anticipation battling for dominance within, Babs Seed hurried to the door. Unhooking the door-chain and flipping the deadbolt, she slowly opened the door, stepping back when her visitors were revealed.

Clad in full uniform, Lucky Toss and White Dove stood in the threshold. "'Ey, Babs," Lucky greeted, no humor or enthusiasm in his voice. She glanced at his eyes. Not tired, but... there's summat in youze eyes. Like youze seen a ghost o' summat.

"'Ey, Lucky. Detective," she added, a little disdainfully.

"Babs Seed," White Dove greeted back, monotonous.

"What's goin' on?" Babs asked, stepping into the threshold. She glanced quickly back at Apple Bloom, who rolled over and smacked her lips in her sleep. "It's pretty damn late, youze know."

"I don't think dat matters right now." Detective White Dove ordered, "Wake youze mare an' get ready ta leave."

"Leave?" Babs's ears flattened in a spark of confused anger. "Why the buck are we leavin'?"

"Babs," Lucky said gently, putting a forehoof on her shoulder, "dey got him."

Dey got him.

A part of her acknowledged and understood his code. Another part didn't want to, feigning ignorance.

On the bed, Apple Bloom rolled onto her side and creaked her eyelids open. "Mmm... Babs? What are ya doin'?" The rest of the room and the ajar door came into focus. Her pupils dilated. "Dove? Lucky?"

Slinging the covers off herself, Apple Bloom stumbled to her hooves and walked towards them, yawning. "What's goin' on?"

White Dove shifted her focus to the half-asleep mare. "Apple Bloom, we got him."

"Got who?" Babs blurted, hoping against all hope that it wasn't who she both feared and prayed it was.

"Youze colt," answered the Detective, staring into Babs Seed. "We got him.

"We got Card Slinga."

Burning Jacob's Ladder

Card Slinger stared at the floor, barely registering the whoops and jeers and rush of hooves around him. The tight grasp of three officers baring down on his shoulders and neck faded away into a hollow, taunting numbness. There was no agony, no struggle, no pain. He hung like a rag doll in the forehooves of a fickle foal, strung up and sure to fall at any second.

When the patternless concrete below his defeated hooves began to blend into a sea of gray, Card Slinger closed his eyes. Visions of a palomino stallion galloping across cool sands danced across his thoughts. He gritted his teeth and furrowed his brow. Soon, soon enough. The hooves of Manehatten justice were weak and slow purposefully, but when their puppetmaster commanded a swift execution, they did not yield.

There was no need for a trial in order to enact the death penalty.

"'Ey! Scumbag!" The mare who'd chased him down the cobblestone maze barked in his ear. Shaking him, she growled, "Wake the buck up!"

Card Slinger grunted but did not comply.

One of the stallions tightened his grip on the defeated gangster's neck, his putrid tobacco-infused breath nauseating on Slinger's muzzle. "Youze don't get ta take youze nap jus' quite yet, asshole." The stallion turned to the other two officers and nodded. "Think we should get him ready fo' Rustla?"

The gruff, smug stallion of the group grinned and agreed, "Yea. Cotton's got a runna headed ta the Chief ta let him know. Ain't sure 'bout Rustla, though."

Cotton, stationed again at the reception-desk, glanced sideways at the trio and their captive. "Got somepony goin' ta wake him up, too. Get him in the chamba, would youze?"

Slinger shivered slightly. Chamber. Madhoof's legion would of course have a "chamber". Just what that entailed wasn't quite clear, but he'd heard enough through the twisted grapevine to raise a lump in his throat. Slinger coughed, earning himself a rough nudge in the ribs from the police-mare holding him.

"Quiet, youze!" She scowled and raised one of his forehooves. The opposite officer did the same, enough so that Slinger's hindhooves lazily brushed across the floor. "C'mon, fellas," she said eagerly to her comrades, "let's get dis one ready fo' his special meetin' wit' the investigator, yea?"

The hooves were moving again, dragging the failure through a series of darkened corridors. Card Slinger closed his eyes, bracing himself for what would come, and thought of the sand and the stallion again.

In the sand appeared the figures of another stallion and a mare, and they were smiling.

~

Manehatten was a relentless workaholic, paying no heed to the clock or the demands of biology. She tossed and turned and rumbled in the night, keeping all but the most heavy of sleepers awake. She rang out through the silence with shouts and arguments, the clatter of rubbish on the cobblestone, and the occasional blare of gunfire. Not even the thick, deep undercurrent of liquor beneath her countenance could sedate her.

Tonight, this night of nights, was no different. The rhythm of rain cleansing the streets was accompanied by the march of four sets of hooves. Side-by-side, Detective White Dove and Officer Lucky Toss escorted the two mares from their hotel room through the fussy city, one forehoof resting constantly on their shoulder holsters. After all, their uniforms had proven before to be a target rather than a deterrent. There was no covert in Manehatten. Not anymore.

"How did ya find him?" Apple Bloom asked through a yawn, rubbing sleep and rain from her eyes.

"We didn't," Dove whispered, her eyes darting through the twilight. They trotted down the main road, in clear view of the beacon streetlights. Manehatten, of course, was not one to hide all her secrets; the main streets were as dangerous as the shadowed alleys. Dove knew, more than anypony else, that there was no such adjective as safe within the city limits.

"What do youze mean?" Babs glanced sideways at her and shook her muzzle dry, suspicious still. How? It hasn't even been a day! How could youze have found him, iffa nopony else has fo' all these years?

Lucky Toss turned his head and whispered, "We should save dat talk fo' when we get ta the station, Babs."

"But—"

Apple Bloom nudged her and shook her head. Babs snorted, her breath steam in the night. Autumn was coming soon, and with it, winter. She sighed and shrugged, then pressed on.

Both officers kept their triggers ready, but they were not needed. From the hotel to the station, they walked slowly, taking in the sights and sounds of the groaning city. Rats shrieked and scrambled in the alleys, arguing couples pushed and shoved in apartments above, and various silent stallions sidled past them. They stared at the group as they passed, giving little nods of acknowledgment to the officers. Dove or Toss would greet them. The strangers would grunt and return the courtesy, then hurry on their way.

Thankfully, they had not intruded or studied the group further. Nevertheless, Babs Seed felt her hackles rise at their appearances.

Mo' ponies jus' starin' at us? What are we ta dem?

Dove hissed, "Calm down," to Babs Seed once another staring stallion turned past them and disappeared into an alleyway.

"I am calm," Babs snapped back.

Dove snickered. "I can sense youze. Youze can't let dem gawkers get too much ta youze in dis city. These colts are harmless. Not a weapon on 'em. Dey jus' lookin' 'round. Takin' everythin' in. Manehatten's a walkin', breathin' freak show, youze know."

"I know." I used ta live heeya, bitch.

Lucky shushed them, stopping in his tracks to give both bickering mares a glare. "We're almost there! Don't draw any mo' attention ta us, would youze?"

At his words, from the top of the street, a fat stallion wearing a pinstriped suit emerged from the void, accompanied by several other stallions, one of whom carried an umbrella for the leader. The fit stallions were cloaked in black from neck to tail. All wore stoic expressions.

Instinctively, Detective White Dove sensed that something was not right. She exchanged a knowing glance with Officer Lucky Toss, then stopped walking. "Stay back wit' dem," Dove told him.

Lucky nodded and motioned for Babs and Apple Bloom to stand close beside him. They complied, both watching the detective approach the others.

Dove tensed her hindhooves, escalated to a canter, and called ahead to the new arrivals, "'Cuse me, fellas!"

The fat stallion halted and sat down on the street. He gave a little bow as she approached, patting his enormous belly as he bent. "Evenin', Offica," he said politely. He slowly raised his head to meet her eyes as they bore into him. "Can I help youze?"

White Dove eyed his entourage keenly. They stared straight ahead, refusing to meet her gaze. She looked over their sweaters and cloaks, masking their cutiemarks and most of their coats. A few of them were scarred in the face, bearing the wounds of a thousand street battles. Most importantly, she could make out the bulge of holsters and firearms beneath their disguises.

Dove turned to the squat stallion. "Awful late ta be out ta-night, ain't it?"

The stallion laughed and rose to his hooves. "I guess so, Offica. Me an' ma friends don't want any trouble. We were jus' headin' home."

White Dove said nothing, trotting in circles around them. "Got any weapons?" she asked the apparent ringleader, her words crisp and biting.

"It is not illegal ta carry within' the city limits. Youze know how dangerous dis city is."

Dove bit her lip, eying the ringleader.

He continued, "I assure youze, ma'am, ma colts an' I are jus' headin' home. We don't want any trouble."

"Got any drugs?"

He smirked. "I don't do any."

"So, youze a deala, then?"

The stallion smiled again.

About twenty yards away, Lucky Toss led the two mares into an alleyway. "What's goin' on, Lucky?" Babs asked, continuing to watch the scene unfolding beneath the streetlamps.

Lucky drew his pistol and tensed his muscles. "Youze two got weapons?"

Babs and Apple Bloom shook their muzzles.

"Alright. Then stay back," he warned, stretching out his forehooves. He kept his weapon at the ready, prepared to train and fire. "I have a feelin' these heeya are gangstas. I dunno what dey'll do now dat Dove's approached 'em," he said quietly, keeping his voice below the rain.

Apple Bloom peered around the stallion's shoulder. "It don't look like they're lookin' fer a fight."

"Maybe so," he said, "but dat don't mean nothin'."

Babs Seed stood closer to Apple Bloom, leaning forward on her forehooves in a defensive stance. "Youze a good shot, Lucky?"

"The best o' the patrol team," he said with a smirk.

Babs grinned. "Good."

Apple Bloom, shaking herself awake and free of rain, mimicked her mare's stance and stood at the ready, watching. Seeing this, Lucky Toss nonetheless made no motion to discourage them. Tightening his grip, he stared intently, waiting for any sign of trouble from his partner.

The three waited with bated breath as the fat stallion smiled again at White Dove's question, his teeth glistening in the rain and moonlight.

~

The creaking of a heavy steel door awoke Card Slinger from his vision. In his mind's eye, the ghostly stallion and mare in the desert smiled and waved him to follow, flicking their tails and tossing their manes into the wasteland winds. Slinger tried to pursue, but his hooves were too weak and slow, bound by a thousand black oranges that weighed him down and rendered him useless.

"'EY! SCUMBAG!"

The gruff stallion shook him rapidly, bringing his muzzle up with a forehoof. Card Slinger blinked and looked into the eyes of his captor. The other two officers snickered. "Do youze know where we've taken youze, slimeball?"

Slinger blinked.

A visage of Madhoof flickered before the disgraced Knight's eyes. His captor's smile was as toothy and piercing as Old Scratch's himself. The stallion pointed inside the room.

A flood of gray invaded Card Slinger's vision. Gray walls, gray ceiling, gray concrete floor. In the exact center, a single gray, steel desk and two gray, steel chairs awaited patiently.

Upon closer examination, Slinger could see sets of chains trailing from the frame and legs of the chair, as well as some from the desk. On the desk was a lone electric lamp, plugged into an outlet on the wall. A small triangle of light pierced through the monotony, bright and blinding.

The mare spoke up, her voice Griffon's claws on Tartarus's blackboard. "Youze will learn ta love dis lil' room ova the next few days, scumbag. Many o' youze lil' friends have already made dey presence known."

Hanging limp, Card Slinger's head fell downwards as the stallion released him. That stallion laughed and laughed, his voice echoing off the walls off the gray room and tunneling through Slinger's eardrums. "Ha! Ha! Youze will love it, mothabucka! Youze will love it, iffa youze know what's good fo' youze! Ha ha!"

His hindhooves scraping against the cold, lifeless floor, Card Slinger was dragged next into the room. The mare and gruff stallion trotted him towards the desk, while the third stallion kept the heavy door open, washing pale light from the darkened department inside.

The gatekeeper chuckled under his breath, visions of glory tangoing before his eyes. They'd caught one of the most notorious Manehatten gangsters. They'd caught him, and would soon extract whatever information remained within his wretched mind before sending him to his fate. If the Chief and the judge had any say in it, he'd never see the light of day again.

The city would soon become clean once more.

Two sets of rough forehooves held him high and dangled him above one of the steel chairs.

Suddenly, those same forehooves released him, sending him plummeting.

Card Slinger shrieked as he landed on the chair, his splayed hindhooves hitting the concrete and his most sensitive of flesh smacking against the cold steel. He threw back his mane and howled, pain shooting through his veins.

WHACK! A thick forehoof silenced his cry, slapping him clean across the muzzle.

"Shut up!" the mare ordered, pinning his back to the chair with a forehoof on his chest. "Dat's jus' the beginnin'."

Slinger squeezed his eyes shut, whimpering, a few shameful tears leaking from his eyes.

A rattle of chains, and soon, ice-cold steel wrapped around one of his hindhooves. The links of the chain tugged at his fur as they snaked around, then locked in place with the quick turn of a key against a tiny tumbler. His heart raced as he struggled to move that hindhoof. It refused to budge.

"Don't even botha, asshole," the gruff stallion muttered, snorting. He laughed again, deep and hollow. Moving to the other side of the chair, he quickly snapped Slinger's other hindhoof into place. "Youze won't be movin' fo' a long time."

"Dat's right," said the mare, as cheerful and light as a schoolfilly. She hummed while she worked, chaining his forehooves behind his back and to the steel chair. "Rock, flail, buck, an' squirm all youze want, hotshot. Youze ain't gettin' outta heeya."

Sweat dripping down his forehead, Slinger broke his brooding silence at last, panicking. "Wh-what are youze g-gonna d-do ta me?!"

The officers chuckled. "Dat ain't up ta us, sweetheart," she said, stepping away from the prisoner. Bright molars of taunting starlight greeted him—an angel in blue. "Let's jus' hope Rustla is nice ta youze. Some o' our otha investigators aren't so much."

"Y-youze can't do dis!" Mustering his forgotten strength, Slinger began to rock back and forth in the chair rhythmically. The links of his chains tugged at his crimson fur, pulling strands here and there against his grain. Gritting his teeth, he ignored this pain, anticipating what would come. "D-dis is illegal!"

"Maybe so," admitted the gruff stallion, beaming broadly, "but so is killin' three innocent ponies. Ain't dat right, youze piece o' shit?"

He brought his forehoof to Slinger's chin again, almost lovingly, then smacked him hard across the cheek.

Card Slinger groaned, spitting blood.

Exchanging a victorious grin between them, both officers began to trot away towards the open door. The gatekeeper awaited patiently, nodding approvingly towards the bound prisoner. Sweet, sweet justice. He licked his lips, practically savoring the thought.

As they trotted away, the gruff stallion stopped in his tracks, looked over his shoulder, and smiled at his prisoner. "One mo' thing, scumbag."

Refusing to acknowledge him, Card Slinger rocked harder and harder in the chair, squirming and flexing his muscles.

"Rememba... King's Ransom."

Card Slinger froze.

With a final smile, the stallion nodded to his sister of the badge, following after her. He flicked his tail upwards for one slow, minute movement.

As he did so, Slinger observed a dot of black against his light-brown coat, and felt his blackened heart fall into his stomach.

~

Eight Ball ran a forehoof through his mane and chuckled. "Alright, mare, let's cut the crap, shall we?"

Dove shifted, distributing her weight on her hindhooves. Her right forehoof crept closer to her holster. "Youze five are lookin' fo' trouble, ain't youze?"

The Don laughed. "One could say dat, but trouble always seems ta find us."

The comforting sensation of steel against fur and keratin, brushing against her.

"An' I could say the same 'bout youze... lil' mare patrollin' all alone," he jabbed, looking slightly up into her eyes. Eight Ball patted his belly and belched. Glancing at his guards from the corner of his eye, he mumbled, "Lil' mare... all alone..."

White Dove rested her forehoof against the grip of the gun, feeling it come alive, the enchantment within stirring it to respond to her Earth pony magic. Although weak in the concrete jungle, it was enough for steel and lead. Enough to send it firing.

"Lil' mare... nosy mare..."

Narrowing her eyes, Detective White Dove ordered, "Move 'long now, befo' youze get what youze is lookin' fo'."

"Police mare... foalish mare..."

Arrogant, haughty, fueled by his latest conquest, Eight Ball knew no fear. The Manehatten Police Department was a joke, a tool of his Master. And his Master smiled upon him. This mare was obviously not part of the puzzle, no pawn on the chessboard. A piece out of place...

Which needed to be destroyed.

Spaghetti sauce stained his foul molars, entwining with the other odors of his putrid breath. He exhaled coolly, a mocking dragon in the Manehatten night. The city rolled over and opened her eye when he peered over her shoulder and spotted a glint of pistol staring back at him.

Not tonight.

"What was dat?" Dove challenged, staring straight into him.

Eight Ball sighed and bowed again, submissive and sick. "I'm sorry, ma'am. Forgive me."

White Dove raised an eyebrow.

Lucky Toss kept his weapon trained on the speckled stallion.

"I merely mistook youze fo' somepony else."

"Wit' a uniform?" She snorted.

"Youze would be surprised how much scum pretend ta be officas."

"What's dat supposed ta mean?"

"I've already said too much." He nodded to his guards, then shifted back to the police officer. "We don't want any trouble, Offica. We're headin' back home now. Youze can search us iffa youze want, but youze won't find anythin'."

Detective White Dove looked into his soulless eyes, then the empty windows of his counterparts, then to the moon rising in the sky. The known criminal had been apprehended, awaiting her interrogation. Awaiting justice.

While she couldn't put her hoof on it, she surmised that this bastard standing before her was probably cut from the same cloth, she couldn't be entirely sure. And assumption was the mother of disaster.

"Move along," Dove said gruffly, waving him forward.

Eight Ball grinned and nodded, willing his weak hooves to move, left, right, left. The Don of the Manehatten Mafia shuffled past the detective, scheming, living to see another day.

Once she was alone, White Dove retreated towards the shadows, motioning for Toss, Apple Bloom, and Babs Seed to rejoin her.

"What was dat all 'bout?" Babs asked.

Checking to ensure her holster was snug, White Dove spat back, "Don't worry 'bout it. Jus' some punk lookin' fo' trouble. Smart dat he decided it wasn't worth it."

Lucky Toss holstered his pistol. "Youze alright, Dove?" he asked, putting a forehoof on her shoulder.

She nodded but didn't brush him away. "I'm fine. C'mon," she urged, nudging in the direction of the station, "we've got a scumbag waitin' fo' us, an' we're takin' our sweet time."

~

Huffing and puffing, a lanky, thin Earth pony stallion stumbled into the Manehatten Police Department, his oversized uniform soaked with rain. "Cotton! Cotton!"

"Eh?" She glanced up from her magazine, chewing a cheekful of tobacco. "What?!"

"I... Hah... I... could... Hah... Hah..." Scrambling for breath, he slumped down, his chest heaving.

"Spit it out already, Shootin' Star! I ain't got time fo' youze horseapples! Did youze tell the Chief an' Rustla what happened?"

"He... Rustla... on... his... way... Haah..."

"Well, dat's good ta hear. Now," she said, moving on to more important matters, "where's the Chief? Did youze tell him? Is he on his way?"

Catching his breath at last, Shooting Star rose to meet her eyes and shook his head grimly.

THUD!

Cotton slammed a forehoof down on the desk and bolted forward, grabbing him by the collar of his uniform. "What do youze MEAN no?!"

"I! Cotton! He wasn't—"

"He wasn't what?!"

"He wasn't home!"

Cotton paused, loosening her grip on the rookie's collar. "What did youze say?" she asked, more confused than incredulous.

Fumbling at his collar, trying to slip out of her grasp, Shooting Star replied, "I-I said, he wasn't home! Not home, Cotton! The Chief wasn't there!"

"Did youze try the Big Orange?"

Chief Brutus was a notorious drinker, and the downtown bar was his favorite hangout, next to his bedroom and the company of several fine mares (or so went the stories).

"Y-yes! O' course I did!" Shooting Star nodded rapidly, still struggling to release himself from her grip. "He wasn't there eitha! The bartenda said he hadn't been in all night!"

Wordlessly, Cotton released the rookie officer, sending him to the floor with a WHUMP!

"Not home... not at the bar...

"Where could he be?" Cotton asked, talking to the wall behind her desk.

Groaning, Shooting Star rubbed his head and muttered, "Hay iffa I know..."

The opening of the department door snapped both muzzles to attention.

Officer Rustler, his eyes bloodshot and exhausted, moseyed into the station. His uniform, normally ironed and shined to crease-less, glistening perfection, appeared disheveled and hastily-donned. Rubbing a forehoof through his tangled, matted mess of blue mane, he grunted and grumbled, "Dis betta be good, Cotton."

She snickered and shook her head. "Pull youze from a date night, did we?"

Rustler glared at her.

Cotton sighed. "Guess youze ain't dat lucky."

"Whateva," Rustler said coldly, trotting into the lobby area. He ignored Shooting Star and marched straight to Cotton. "Youze lil' message-pony said youze had a big gangsta pone in custody?"

Cotton fired a glare towards the rookie. "Youze didn't say the name?!"

"I forgot!" Shooting Star whined, tending to a bruise forming on his forehead.

"Figures," Cotton groaned, face-hoofing.

"Well, who is it?" Rustler asked, tapping a hindhoof.

Cotton smiled slightly and looked up at him. "Card Slinga."

Another stallion lost his breath for a second, not sure where he'd find it again.

~

"You understand the significance of this, yes?"

Bernie Madhoof brought his forehooves together and gazed out his bay window down at his chessboard. His sleepless city tossed and turned and groaned on her checkerboard, pieces moving into place. Moving into place and forming an exquisite tapestry, worthy of the adoration of any true King. Perched high in his skyscraper, thirty-three stories above his pawns, he was a true chessmaster, puppetmaster, a monarch as regal as any smug alicorn.

Across his desk, squeezing into an office chair, Chief Brutus sipped at his scotch and mumbled in affirmation, "Yes, ma King."

"The press has been coming dangerously close to letting something slip," Madhoof remarked, his grin dissolving into a dissatisfied frown. "And while our efforts in communications have remained victorious, there is no telling when small-town pretender may deem himself tired of our little agreement."

"I see."

"So far, my efforts in the West have been met with little resistance, if any at all." Swiveling around in his chair, Madhoof said boldly, "Such results foretell of similar possibilities to the East."

Chief Brutus coughed into his glass. "East?"

"The chessboard cannot go only to the West. The pieces must dance across all squares, mastering the compass rose." Madhoof smirked. "Waiting and biding cannot last forever."

"Do youze have any contacts there?"

Madhoof laughed, propping his hindhooves on his mahogany. "Oh, little worm," he mused, clicking his tongue. "Fool!" He glared at the thickly muscled police chief. "Don't fool yourself into thinking that you can replace any of the others quite yet."

Condensation dripped down his glass onto his fetlock, warmer than the ice in his veins. "O-othas, M-Masta?"

Bernie Madhoof leaned back, placing his forehooves behind his head. He stared at his office ceiling, enjoying the freshly painted mural that adorned it. It was a red-and-black checkerboard pattern dotted by occasional chess pieces—all of them knights. "That is not for you to worry about, little worm. You have earned my favor so far, if that assuages the pithy little fears of your pathetic little heart."

Chief Brutus chose to chase his scotch in reply.

Tracing the patterns of his chessboard above and below, Madhoof ordered, "Ensure that our latest guest down at the P.D. does not forget his tongue."

"An' iffa he does?" the Chief asked, his heart hammering in his chest.

King Orange smiled. "Choke him with it."

Before Brutus could reply, Bernie Madhoof reached into one of the drawers of his desk, retrieved a large bag of bits, and tossed it to his Knight in blue.

"Make sure he savors the flavor."

~

The rest of their journey was uneventful. Thankfully.

Climbing up the steps to the Manehatten P.D., White Dove shifted her focus to Babs Seed and Apple Bloom. "Now, befo' we go inside, I wanna lay out some ground rules."

Lucky Toss glanced at her curiously. "Like what, Dove?"

"Stay quiet unless I ask summat o' youze," she explained, nodding to the two mares. "Nopony knows 'bout what happened wit' youze three out West, 'cept fo' me, Lucky, an' anypony else youze may have told—"

"We didn't tell anypony but youze," Babs said crossly.

Apple Bloom rubbed her mare's back, silently urging her to be calm. "Nopony else knows but y'all," she assured, offering the officers a small smile. "Not in this city, at least."

"Well, dat's good ta hear. Let's keep it dat way." White Dove turned back towards the steps and began to climb the remaining ones. "As far as everypony else knows, youze two are witnesses ta him spoutin' his mouth. Gotcha?"

Why do youze even want us heeya? Shaking the thought away, Babs grunted and managed a nod. Apple Bloom met her with a stern glare and a forceful but gentle stroke of her short mane. "Alright," Babs mumbled, giving her mare a nuzzle.

"Be nice," Apple Bloom whispered, barely audible. "She doesn't have ta do this fer us, ya know."

"I know."

"Youze two alright back there?" Lucky Toss asked. The stallion opened the door and held it open for the two. White Dove had already ducked inside.

"We're fine, Lucky," Babs said, forcing a smile.

He noted her mask but said nothing, choosing to smile softly in return.

Both Apples crossed the threshold into the darkened, dimly lit station. Once inside, Babs Seed pricked her ears and glanced around curiously. There was nopony in the lobby but that foul Cotton, munching on something in her cheek and occasionally spitting into a vase near her desk. Her ears flattened. Tobbaco-chewa? Saw a few o' those back at the bar. Always disgustin'. Horseapples, I hate dis mare mo' by—

Apple Bloom nipped at her left ear, snapping Babs's muzzle around and drawing a light blush on her cheeks. "Bloom! What the hay—"

"Ah said, be nice," Apple Bloom said sternly.

Babs gestured widely with a forehoof. "An' Dove said ta be quiet!" I can't do dat iffa youze gonna be—

Cotton spat into the vase and droned, "I can hear both o' youze, jus' so youze know."

Babs Seed face-hoofed and groaned. Apple Bloom rolled her eyes.

Trotting into the lobby, Lucky Toss greeted, "'Ey, Cotton! Burnin' the midnight oil, are youze?"

Cotton snorted and looked at him briefly. "Ain't gonna work, Lucky."

"Horseapples, I do mo' than jus' flirt!"

"Sure youze do."

He dismissed her with a flop of his forehoof and a scoff. "Whateva. Youze seen Dove? She slipped inside befo' I could catch her."

Smirking, Cotton replied, "Dat sounds like a private sorta problem."

Babs snort-laughed into a forehoof. Apple Bloom nipped at her ear again in annoyance, forcing her mare to stifle a much less taunting noise.

Lucky Toss was not amused. He slumped down on his haunches and tapped a hindhoof, crossing his forehooves across his chest.

"She's headed ta the chamba," Cotton answered after a few moments, rolling her eyes. "Gonna talk ta Rustla befo' he goes in, I think. Anyway, horseapples, o' anypony in dis depressin' joint, I thought youze would appreciate dat joke!"

"No time fo' jokes," Toss snapped, rising to his hooves. He motioned for Babs and Apple Bloom to follow. "C'mon. It ain't too far 'way."

As they departed, Cotton stuffed another wad of tobacco into her cheek and grumbled, "Buckin' stallions..."

~

Each grain of sand in Time's unforgiving hourglass crept by slowly, slowly, slowly, thick molasses dripping down a wall of sprawling brambles. Card Slinger rocked with all his mind, flexing his strong limbs against the chains, willing them to stretch, to give, to break, Celestia damn it, break. The sea of gray taunted him, mocking him, laughing at him with its waves of haunting hoof-steps and sickening silence.

Enveloped in an ocean of shade, Card Slinger sat a speck of crimson against the backdrop of his prison. The walls, ceiling, and floor seemed to cave in around him, approaching with hooves bared and talons unsheathed and barrels blazing. He rocked and rocked and rocked, squirming every whence way and angle, mustering up enough sweat to cleanse his soul of every sin and atrocity he'd committed or ever would.

Even so, his baptism of sweat and ceaseless fidgeting served absolutely no purpose. He remained tethered to the chair, his entire being lit aflame with agony. Soreness or discomfort couldn't even begin to describe it. The sacred space between his flanks burned from the impact of being dropped into the steel chair. His back, shoulders, and neck groaned from their beating and subsequent capture.

Card Slinger cursed under his breath at first. When the situation grew even more hopeless, he took to muttering a mantra. Something to calm him. Something to keep him focused on escape, on freedom, away from this dark, gray place.

"Salt an' fire, salt an' fire, salt an' fire, salt an' fire..."

He flexed his shoulders and squirmed from side to side, dragging links of rusted steel chain through his fur and against his skin. Chafing. Burning.

Card Slinger groaned and flattened his ears, slamming his eyes shut. Desert.

"Salt an' fire, salt an' fire, salt an' fire, salt an' fire..."

The chains clinked against the cold steel. The legs of the chair scraped against the floor, rising slightly. There!

Emboldened by this small success, Slinger writhed in his prison, moving his shoulders back and forth and flexing his tired flanks and hindlegs. Rocking back on his rump, he continued to chant, growing evermore louder, "Salt an' fire, salt an' fire, SALT AN' FIRE, SALT AN' FIRE, SALT AN' FIRE!"

His voice drowned out the gray, washing it away into a wasteland on a moonlit night. The scraping of steel against concrete grew louder and louder. He flattened his ears, trying to escape the piercing noise.

"SALT AN' FIRE, SALT AN' FIRE—"

The chair began to tip.

"SALT AN' FIRE! SALT AN' FIRE!"

THUD!

"BUUUUUUCK!"

Still chained to the chair, Slinger's skull smacked against the concrete, rocketing numbness through his head. He shook his head fervently, rapidly, vigorously, seeing stars, starlight, starlight on the moonlight night on the plains—

"BUCK! BUCK! BUCK!"

Everything hurt, everything hurt and nothing was alright, nothing was alright because everything was wrong, because he wasn't on the plains, he wasn't free, he wasn't churning his hooves and flexing his muscles with the strength of a thousand stallions—

"BUCK! BUCK! BUCK!"

He was here in Manehatten, sweet, sweet, Manehatten, the city that never slept and that stole everything from him, the city that taunted him and embraced him and told him it would be okay, soothed him like a mother, but it was no loving mother, it was an abusive mother and she had tied up her son and now she was opening the door, striding in with a belt and a spoon and a switch and far, far worse—

"BUCK! BUCK! BUCK!"

He thrashed and howled and sobbed, rolling from side to side, tears streaming down his cheeks. Giving up his facade, he became what he was and always had been—an orphaned foal, a grieving little colt, crying for a mother who would never love him again, and a father who would never teach him the ways of a stallion, and so here he was, a slave and a scumbag and a pathetic waste of equine flesh.

Card Slinger slammed his head back onto the pavement, conjuring the stars before his eyes. Wanting it to end. Wanting it—

Creeeeeeeeeak.

The torturous dim light poured into his prison of gray. In the doorway stood a light-blue stallion, his mane a darker shade of blue, his eyes narrowed and piercing into the chamber.

"Youze havin' a buckin' party in heeya, o' what?"

His words echoed in Card Slinger's ears. He blinked several times, sure he was delirious.

The door slammed shut.

The stallion strode inside. Once he trotted further within, Card Slinger saw the blue uniform, the silver buttons, the silver badge. The baton and pistol holstered on his opposite shoulders. The pockets bulging, doubtlessly with further instruments of torture and pain.

The stallion smiled, reaching the desk. He sat down and peered down his snout at the fallen captive. "Looks comfy down there," he said quietly.

Card Slinger stared at him.

Sighing, the stallion stretched his forehooves over the desk. "I'll admit, I neva thought I would see dis day."

Slinger choked, paddling desperately through a haze of pain, "W-what day?"

The stallion laughed. "The day I'd get ta interrogate one o' ma colthood bullies."

"C-colthood...?"

"Youze don't rememba me, do youze?"

Slinger shook his head.

The stallion sighed. "I was pretty sure youze didn't. All the drugs an' drink probably robbed youze o' all youze colthood memories."

Not the worst ones, Slinger thought, staying silent.

Straightening his haphazard mane, the stallion sighed again, heavier this time. "Couldn't have youze picked a betta time ta get arrested?"

Silence.

"Guess not. Youze wanna lay on the floor like dat?" The stallion rose from his chair and trotted towards him. "Heeya, let me help youze up."

Slinger thrashed his hindhooves in desperate response, rocking the chair from side to side on the ground. He had to escape. Had to. Escape. The stallion was approaching, closer, closer, closer, and Celestia knows what was in his pockets, and he already had a gun and a baton, and this room was so full of gray and the officers had laughed and that one knew King's Ransom and the Master had let this happen, he knew it, he had to have, and—

The door flew open, groaning heavily as it smacked against the opposite wall.

"RUSTLA!"

In the doorway stood a white mare, her mane a mess of black curls. Slinger squinted. She, too, was decked out in Manehatten blue and silver, an enraged glare on her muzzle.

Officer Rustler pivoted on his hindhooves and spun around, facing her. Curling his lips back in a snarl, he growled and muttered, "Dove. Who gave youze the key?"

"I already have one, numbskull," she snapped back, stomping to meet him. The door slammed shut behind her, but neither officer paid it any mind. Dove narrowed her gaze further. "Dis is ma prisoner."

"Ma flank it is." Rustler hissed, stomping forward. They met in the middle. Pressing his snout against hers, he scowled and said harshly, "Dey woke me up in the middle o' the buckin' night ta come heeya, not youze. Dis ain't youze gig."

"The hell he ain't!" She lurched violently, forcing his muzzle backwards. Rustler's hooves remained steadfast, bracing him against her approach.

"How would youze know? He's wanted fo' ma murder cases!"

Dove snorted. "Youze really believe dat?"

"Why wouldn't I?" Rustler challenged.

"Iffa dat's the case, why does dis asshole have a clean record?"

Startled, Rustler took one step back. "Dat's impossible."

White Dove removed her muzzle from his and frowned. "There's no record o' him, Rustla. Not in the Records Department. Not a single line. Not even some horseapples from when he was a lil' colt.

"Almost iffa he neva existed."

Silence fell between them, settling thickly.

It wasn't the voice of justice that broke it.

"I can tell youze why..."

Detective White Dove and Officer Rustler spun around.

Lying on the floor, defeated, vulnerable, and exposed, a King's Knight made another offer of treason. "I can tell youze why dat is... why everythin' is how it is...

"But I want summat in return..."

"Youze ain't in a position ta be makin' bargains, bucko," snapped Dove, trotting towards him. Rustler followed suit.

"Maybe so," Slinger croaked, his sea of gray churning and whirring and melting around him, "but neitha are youze two. Youze think capturin' me changes anythin'?"

"Stop speakin' in riddles!" Rustler boomed, his hackles rising. "What are youze gettin' at?"

"The root o' dis all."

Rustler and Dove exchanged confused glances.

"An' what do youze want in return?" Rustler asked, after a long silence.

"Don't torture me...

"Please," Card Slinger begged, the stars twinkling before his eyes.

"Torture?" Dove shook her head in disbelief. "Who said anythin' 'bout torture?"

"The one wit' the orange unda his tail," Slinger said, and then passed out.

~

Lucky Toss led Babs Seed and Apple Bloom behind "the chamber," as it was known amongst the officers. Besides the front door into the interrogation room, there was a second door in the back. This door, however, did not lead directly into the room. Instead, it led to a small partition within it, separated by a thick, gray wall.

A thick pane of glass on the inside of the partition allowed the occupants to see into the chamber. An enchantment, cast once by a very strong, now-retired officer of the Manehatten P.D., masked the window from sight. Within, it revealed all that transpired inside the chamber, providing a... show of sorts.

Lucky Toss opened the door, using the key White Dove had snuck to him before she'd crept inside the chamber. He'd made Apple Bloom and Babs Seed wait in her office first, fearing that Rustler had already begun his work within the concrete walls. While he wasn't entirely certain that he had anything to fear, he reckoned it was best to have the mares wait, lest they'd see something that would haunt their nightmares.

Toss hadn't been so fortunate, forced to watch an "enhanced interrogation" of a journalist by the Chief within his first week of training. He hadn't slept properly since.

"Take a seat, whicheva youze like," Toss said, closing and locking the door behind him. Four simple wooden stools waited before the large window.

Shrugging, Babs took one on the left, Apple Bloom sitting down beside her. Lucky Toss took the seat beside Apple Bloom and sighed, leaning forward and rubbing his forehooves together. "So, he got picked up on a tip. Somepony reported ta us dat he was braggin' 'bout some murdas we been tryin' ta solve."

Three spines felt the chill.

"I really hope dis goes well," Lucky muttered, stretching his neck. "We were lucky as hay ta get him, so I'm hopin' he doesn't put up too much o' a fight."

"So... youze gonna make some popcorn, o' what?" Babs huffed, slumping down in her stool.

Apple Bloom nodded, choosing to disregard the joke (no matter how poor its taste). "Lucky... Why do ya want us ta see this?" She cringed. Babs wrapped a forehoof around her and pulled her close. Settling against her mare's chest, Apple Bloom relaxed a bit and asked the stallion, "Is this really... necessary?"

Lucky sighed, playing with the buttons of his uniform. "Dove said she wants youze ta see dis. Dat youze deserve it. Dat youze deserve the truth from dis asshole," he spat, the thought of Card Slinger filthy and fetid on his tongue, "an' youze deserve ta see him locked up foreva."

A strange sort of comforting anger swelled up in Babs' chest. Maybe iffa I play ma cards right, I can get a shot at dis asshole, kick him straight where he counts, mothabuckin'—

"Hay," Lucky said, rubbing his snout, "maybe Dove will let youze take a shot at him. Heh."

Apple Bloom furrowed her brow and tensed. "Ah wouldn't take jus' one."

"Me neitha," Babs agreed, adrenaline beginning to flow. The entirety of the past few weeks bore heavily on her mind. Everythin' is because o' him, everythin', an' there he is... jus' in dat room beyond dis window...

Babs Seed gingerly placed a forehoof on the glass.

"Don't worry. He can't see youze," Toss explained with a yawn.

"I want him ta see me." Babs growled.

Apple Bloom leaned against her mare and nuzzled her chest. "Save it fer when he can," she warned, visions of Babs Seed launching herself at the wall rushing through her mind.

"She's right. Glass is enchanted, Babs."

"Buck." Damn unicorns.

"Yup. Now, let's see where dis goes."

~

Officer Rustler and Detective White Dove pulled Card Slinger's restraint chair up and brought it to the desk. Once he was secured, they slapped him twice across the muzzle, waking him. Once he was coherent, grunting in pain, they moved to the other side, Rustler taking the stool, while Dove leaned forward, resting her forehooves on the desk.

"Tell us everythin' youze know," Dove said flatly, out of time and patience.

"Tell us 'bout the murdas o' Quick Step, Flora, an' Turn Key," Rustler added.

Slinger smirked, his venom returning. "I know nothin' 'bout dem three."

Rustler snorted. "Horseshit."

"I don't."

White Dove reached across the desk, grabbed the head of the lamp, and shined the light into Slinger's limitless pupils.

Flinching, Slinger squeezed his eyes shut, groaning in pain. "Youze said youze wouldn't torture me!"

"Youze think dat's torture?" Trotting in a slow circle around him, Dove shook her mane and laughed coldly. "Youze should see what some o' ma fellow officas have done ta some o' youze lil' gangstas."

Rustler affirmed, "Dey weren't in good shape aftawards."

The light poked at his eyelids, willing them to open. He resisted with all his might, black dots spotting his inner vision. Slinger rocked back and forth in the chair again, trying to escape the heat and blare of the fiery light. "Get it 'way from me!"

"Tell us 'bout the murdas," Rustler said calmly.

"Tell us all youze know," Dove said.

"I will! I will!" Card Slinger cried, a painful tear leaking from his eye. "Get the light out! Get the light out!"

"Tell us why youze killed dem."

"Iffa not youze, who killed dem, an' why."

"I don't know!"

"We don't take kindly ta liars." A second set of hooves began to circle him.

"We may hate each otha," Dove muttered, sharing a smirk with Rustler, "but we hate scum like youze mo'."

"I don't know who killed dem!" Card Slinger insisted, starting to thrash at his bonds.

"Tell us all youze know."

"Tell us 'bout the black orange."

Struggling to keep his eyes shut, Slinger muttered, "Get the light out... iffa youze want ta know..."

Rustler bellowed a laugh. "No, scumbag. Dat's not how it works."

Dove's shrill chuckle joined the stallion's. "It's not. Rustla may be an idiot, but he's got dat right."

"An' Dove may be a bitch, but she knows how ta make somepony hurt."

"I don't know 'bout the murdas!" Slinger began to squirm violently. The light was adjusted and raised towards his eyes. He struggled as hard and fast as he could, trying to break free. He'd been a fool to trust his captors. He'd been a fool to take their word. He knew this was just the beginning, sick waves of fear proliferating through his innards. It would only get worse from here.

A rough forehoof found his chin. "Why did youze say an offica had a black orange unda his tail?"

"Because he does!" Card Slinger howled, another tear escaping from the prison of his pained eyes.

WHACK!

"Wrong ANSWA!"

Slinger screamed as a second forehoof came across his cheek.

"Enough o' the games!"

The forehooves began to alternate, both rough, both angry.

WHACK!

"Turn off the light! Please!"

WHACK!

"Tell us why!"

"Who else have youze killed?!"

"Please!"

WHACK!

"What does the black orange mean?!"

"What drugs does youze gang deal?!"

"PLEASE!"

WHACK!

"Who funds youze?!"

"Why did youze kill those ponies?!"

"PLEASE! IT HURTS!"

WHACK!

"Scream all youze want!"

"Nopony will come an' help youze!"

"PLEASE!"

Slinger rocked back and forth, squirming, struggling, crying and sobbing. He thrust his eyes open, unable to take it anymore, immediately becoming blinded by the light.

White Dove pulled her forehoof back towards Canterlot, ready to swing again. Rustler grabbed both sides of Card Slinger's muzzle, holding him steady.

It was too late.

Suddenly, Card Slinger gave his insanity a voice, and began to screech, his words mixed with incoherent babble.

"SALT AN' FIRE! ANNEXATION! THE WEST IS THE BEST! CONQUEST! KING'S KNIGHT! CHESSBOARD! CHECKABOARD! KING! MASTA! KINGS! MAFIA! BOONE! SALT AN' FIRE!"

White Dove paused. So did Rustler.

"KING! KING! MASTA! SALT AN' FIRE! SALT AN' FIRE! OLD SCRATCH! MOST HIGH!"

Card Slinger flailed and thrashed with all his might, sobbing freely, the final straw snapping his back and sending him tumbling to the waiting hooves of the desert.

"WEST IS THE BEST! ANNEXATION! BARS! BOOZE! FIRE! ORANGE! APPLE! SALT! SALT AN' FIRE!

"MADHOOF! MADHOOF! MADHOOF!"

"Wait..."

Officer Rustler slipped a forehoof over Slinger's mouth. Slinger continued to scream, muffled cries of insanity and incomprehensibilty vibrating beneath Rustler's forehoof.

Rustler nudged towards the lamp. "Dove, turn it off."

"But he's jus'—"

"TURN IT OFF, DOVE!

The light shut off.

Dove glared at her unwilling partner.

Rustler glared back and removed his forehoof.

Spinning his head around, flailing and thrashing, bucking against his chains like a mad-pony in an asylum, Card Slinger screeched, "MADHOOF! MADHOOF! BLACK BLADE! KINGS! MAFIA! MASTA! TATTOO! ORANGE! BOONE! BOONE! SALT! FIRE! ANNEXATION! THE WEST IS THE BEST!

"BABS SEED!"

Behind the unseen window, three chatting muzzles froze.

"What the..." Rustler's flattened ears pricked.

"BABS SEED! I'M SORRY!"

"Sorry 'bout what?" Dove grabbed Slinger by the chest, forcing him towards her. "Sorry 'bout what, youze fuckin' lunatic?!"

"MAKE HIM STOP! MAKE HIM STOP! MADHOOF! MAKE HIM STOP!"

"Make what stop?!"

"FATHA! FATHA! SINS O' THE FATHA! PASSED TA THE DAUGHTA! MADHOOF! BABS SEED!"

"Babs Seed's fatha?" Rustler asked, his muzzle blank. He blinked and turned to face White Dove. "But—"

"MAKE IT STOP! MAKE HIM STOP!"

The detective was gone.

The door thrust open.

A set of hooves bolted towards the rear of the chamber.

The door slammed shut.

~

Inside the rear of the chamber, Lucky Toss turned around, staring at Babs Seed.

Apple Bloom tightened her grip on her mare.

Babs began, "Lucky, he's not—"

THUD! THUD! THUD! THUD!

"OPEN THE BUCKIN' DOOR, BABS!

"OPEN THE DAMN DOOR!"

Devil In The Church

THUD! THUD! THUD!

White Dove barreled into the door, lowering her shoulder and slamming into the steel-reinforced barrier with all her might. White-hot rage boiled in her bloodstream. She’d risked her career for this? She’d let a strange mare into her checkered past for this? For a thug and her lying mare?

THUD! THUD! THUD!

“I’M GONNA COUNT TA THREE, BABS!”

Each slam against the unrelenting metal sent numbing pain shooting through her shoulder. Strengthened by both the Guard and the Academy, Detective White Dove bit her lip and continued, throwing herself at the door for all she was worth.

“OPEN THE BUCKIN’ DOOR, RIGHT NOW!”

Dove heard muffled, frantic voices beyond the door of the chamber, but paid them no heed. Panting, huffing and puffing, she paused, shaking with adrenaline. The pistol on her holster whispered to her, itching to be drawn. Another gangster. Another thug. Another layer of scum at the bottom of Manehatten Lake, separated from her vengeance by only a few inches of thick steel.

Steadying herself, Dove yelled, “ONE!”

Nothing.

She leaned back on her hindhooves, rippling sinew and muscle beneath her coat. “TWO!”

Nothing.

White Dove snorted angrily. Furiously, she screamed again, offering one more chance that Babs Seed did not deserve. “THREE!”

Slowly, the door swung open.

White Dove galloped into the threshold, just as Lucky Toss emerged.

The stallion threw himself forward, meeting her velocity with his. Stopping her.

Two immovable objects they were, smacking together in unstoppable force. Slightly taller and a little stronger, the patrol officer halted the detective in the threshold. Twin exhalations of rage were exchanged, dragons both, close enough to smell the other's breath.

"DOVE!"

Lucky grabbed her firmly by the shoulders and braced his hindhooves, stomping them into the concrete floor of the chamber. His nostrils flared and his brow furrowed, his jaws clenching as he spat through them, "Don't listen ta him! He's jus' a—"

"BUCK YOUZE, LUCKY!" White Dove snapped her gaze over his shoulder and struggled against him, flailing to worm her way out of his grasp.

There, Babs Seed was standing tall on four steady hooves in front of Apple Bloom. Every hair across her spine and neck bristled to attention. Dove could practically taste the venom in her blood from across the room. Across Babs's muzzle was the grimace of a demon, her ears flattened, her teeth glistening in the dim light in contrast to the darkness.

Babs dug a forehoof into the floor, letting loose a low, guttural growl.

Come at me, youze buckin' bitch.

Struggling to hold her, Lucky snapped, "Buck youze!! Youze 'bout ready ta tear a mare in half jus' because o' what some scumbag says?!"

Ignoring him, White Dove took a deep breath, then bashed her skull against Lucky's with all her might.

WHUMP!

Dazed, the stallion fell backwards into the chamber, echoing with a THUD! as he landed against the cold floor. Shaking off her own resounding dizziness, Detective White Dove sprang off her hindhooves like the Guard she'd been, pouncing towards her enemy.

There was no spear, sword, or gun in her forehooves, but she was just as deadly.

As soon as she saw the detective coil, Babs Seed called upon her own strength, and jumped up in time with her.

~

On the other side of the glass, Card Slinger shred his last thread of sanity, rocking and bucking and squirming with every ounce of strength he had left. Throwing his neck back, he howled to the gray room, as mournful as a timberwolf on a moonless night. His screeching dissolved into incomprehensible gibberish.

"What the buck is wrong wit' youze?! Get a hold o' youzeself!" Officer Rustler grabbed the stallion by the muzzle and smacked him for the umpteenth time, hard.

WHACK!

"Aaarrrrrrrraggggggggggggaaaaaaaa!"

WHACK!

"Shut up!"

WHACK!

Blood trickled down Card Slinger's snout, his nose throbbing in searing pain. He thrashed harder, flexing his tired muscles against the chains. Iron chafed against his flesh with every minute movement, sounding all manner of alarms within his mind. His whole world was nothing but pain, all rational thought burnt to ashes.

Growing increasingly frustrated, Rustler drew his baton from its sheath. The wild eyes of his captive focused on it immediately, a drop of blackness against the infinite sea of gray. Card Slinger screeched and throbbed in his chair.

"Iffa youze don't shut up, asshole, youze gonna know a whole new world of pain."

THWACK! THWACK! THWACK! Slinger started rocking the chair from side to side again, desperately flexing against the chains.

Channeling his rage through the gentle stroke of a forehoof against the baton, Rustler murmured, mockingly soft, "C'mon now, Card Slinga. Youze jus' hurtin' youzeself. Calm down. All I wanna do is talk."

THWACK! THWACK! THWACK!

"C'mon now, lil' fella. Use youze words."

THWACK! THWACK! THWACK!

"I know youze can."

Around his forehooves, which were pinned helplessly to his sweat-soaked back, links of chain grinded against each other, over and over again, jagged tongues of metal struggling for dominance. Neither was the victor. Both began to submit. Friction of indescribable magnitude sent pain soaring through Card Slinger, but all he could do was continue, rocking harder, thrashing faster.

Rustler tapped his baton against his opposite forehoof. "I'm gonna count ta three."

THWACK! THWACK! THWACK!

Some of the links were rusted. Others were simply thinner, worn down by countless interrogations. Card Slinger knew that the Master sent many to die here, and that if his desperate plan didn't succeed, he would soon join the ranks of the forever damned.

"One..."

THWACK! THWACK! THWACK!

Screeching. Howling. Screaming. Thrashing. Rocking. Grinding. Flexing. Gnashing his teeth.

"Two..."

THWACK! THWACK! THWACK!

Card Slinger had never touched true Earth in his life before the wasteland. Even the clearing in Manehatten Lake had been but a tiny spark in a world of darkness. He was an Earth pony by definition only. He had never know true strength or connection or love or spirit. By fates both beyond his control and within his own doing, he'd imprisoned himself in the concrete jungle, never to know what he might have been.

THWACK! THWACK! THWACK!

But, in spite of being weaker than he could be, he wanted to live.

And that was enough.

"THREE!"

~

If Lucky Toss and White Dove were two immovable objects meeting with unstoppable force, then she and Babs Seed were a locomotive and a bullet train flying off the rails and crashing in the middle.

SMACK!

Driving her iron forehooves into Dove's shoulders, Babs Seed pinned the detective against the wall. Dove, although slightly smaller, was caught off-guard by her strength. Despite being here, in the hallowed halls of ponykind's pathetic edifice, separated eternally from the Earth, Babs was still an Earth pony, and a magical one, at that.

White Dove groaned in pain and flung her forehooves over Babs's neck in response, starting to squeeze. "Youze buckin' thug! Youze behind all dis shit?!"

Babs Seed stomped on one of Dove's hindhooves in reply.

Dove howled and released her neck, waves of agony flooding through her. She snapped at Babs Seed, biting down on her left ear and tugging at it.

Babs brought a forehoof up to her ear and screeched, blood dripping from the freshly opened nick and down her earring. Bitch! How did she...?! She closed her eyes for a moment—a mistake.

WHUMP!

White Dove returned the first favor, launching into Babs Seed and sending them flying against the opposite wall. She hadn't had her pinned for more then a few seconds until Dove was on the floor again, the thug sprawled on top of her, pummeling her muzzle without remorse.

Right hook, left hook. Right hook, left hook. Take! Dat! Youze! Buckin'! BITCH!

Hooves of white and orange found each other, coats exchanging positions in a twisted tango of fur and keratin, as the two Minotaurs in mare's clothing matched blow for blow, hold for hold, a sea of writhing, screeching flesh on the concrete. They kicked up a cloud of dust from the dirty floor, further blurring their haze of limbs and chorus of off-key howls and screeches.

All of this transpired within less than a minute. Lucky Toss groaned and rolled on the floor, held hostage by the clutches of Dove's blow. Apple Bloom watched the bizarre scene unfold before her, fumbling for a weapon she didn't possess, her hooves trembling with paralyzing fear. There was nothing she could do, she knew. Detective White Dove was stronger than her—about as strong as Babs Seed—and there was no liquor or love to weaken the officer or hold her back. And White Dove had—

THUD!

White Dove was on top of Babs Seed now, squeezing around her barrel with her hindhooves. Babs thrashed and bucked, but the detective held tight, fumbling with her forehooves towards the pockets of her blues—

Apple Bloom's eyes widened. No.

Rolling them over, Babs Seed was the stronger again, smacking White Dove square across the muzzle. Spitting blood, the detective grabbed both sides of Babs's head, then drove her skull upwards into her chin, hate and malice in her veins.

The tiny viewing chamber began to dissolve into a blanket of black, a thousand points of light twinkling back at her. Babs groaned and started to sway, her breath catching in her throat. Unable to breathe or even think, she started to fall towards the floor.

Just in time, Detective White Dove grabbed her and flipped her over. She straddled her back a second time, hanging tight, fumbling for something in her pockets, and then withdrawing it, a flash of silver—

No. No.

NO!

WHUMP!

"AAAAAH! FUCK!"

The pistol slid across the floor, smacking into the opposite wall, barrel first.

The trigger remained untouched.

Suddenly, White Dove was flat on her back on the floor, mere feet from the door and her dazed fellow officer. An enraged mare towered over her, slamming her shoulders into the ground repeatedly.

Eyes full of fire, Apple Bloom screeched into Dove's face, spraying her with spittle, "DON'T YOU TOUCH HER!"

Near the one-way glass, Babs Seed leaned against the wall and coughed, gasping for breath.

White Dove drew a forehoof back, only to be met with one whipping across her cheek. Once. Then twice. Then three times, a muddled blur sending pain proliferating through her face and down her spine and up her spine. She coughed up blood and flailed, knowing this mare was far weaker and smaller than her, but couldn't even open her eyes, so much was the pain...

"DON'T YOU FUCKIN' TOUCH HER! YA UNDERSTAND ME?!"

Shallow, ragged breaths bringing Equestria back into focus, Babs Seed opened one eye and looked towards the corner. Ap-Apple Bloom?

"WE AREN'T GANGSTAS!"

WHAP! WHAP! WHAP!

White Dove brought her forehooves to her face, opening and closing her mouth in a silent scream. All she wanted now was for it to stop, stop, Oh please, Celestia, ma Princess, please make dis buckin' mare stop—

"THEY TRIED TA KILL OUR FAMILY!"

Please, please, Celestia, ma Lady, please, please, let me go, I have ta go home ta Manehatten—

"THEY TRIED TA KILL US!"

Because dat's where ma mare is, an' let me be wit' her—

Apple Bloom punched Detective White Dove square in the snout one last time, the river of blood dripping down her nose as scarlet as her own mane.

Apple Bloom rolled off the detective, dragged herself into a corner, retched, and vomited.

Letting everything go, everything unspeakable and disgusting and disturbing and wrong and black, so much black, so much black and gray and blue.

Apple Bloom emptied the contents of her stomach until she could barely hold herself up off the ruined floor, coughing, spitting, dry heaving, and gagging, tears rolling down her cheeks. It burned. Oh, Celestia, did it burn.

For an even longer minute, the back chamber was silent, but for weeping and gnashing of teeth.

Heavy hoof-steps approached her. Then, a set of forehooves wrapped themselves gently around her stomach.

"Babs..."

"Shhh..."

Babs Seed held her mare as she threw up the last of poisonous Manehatten, stroking her mane and whispering sweetly to her. Dots of blood found Babs's neck and her mane from her ear, deep, black bruises erupting over her face and chest. But that didn't matter. Nor did the two Manehatten police officers groaning in agony on the floor, or the thrashing, flailing, screaming madpony beyond the glass.

For a second time, Apple Bloom repaid a debt she didn't owe, and all Babs Seed could do was hold her.

Wiping her muzzle, Apple Bloom leaned back into Babs Seed, closing her eyes and catching her breath. For a moment, they were in their own little world, where everything was alright.

A rough, low cough yanked them from that perfect paradise, settling them once again in Tartarus.

Babs Seed turned around, rising to her four hooves, shielding Apple Bloom's weakened body with hers.

White Dove gurgled and rolled over, staring daggers into the Manehatten thug. "So..." She choked and gasped, her breath coming out in little wheezes. "So... dis is how it ends, does it?"

Dove glanced over to her pistol at the opposite side of the chamber and to the one still holstered on Lucky Toss' shoulder.

Too far away.

Her hackles rising, Babs said darkly, "I don't kill ponies."

Dove laughed, hollow and cruel. "Not... ack!... accordin' ta youze buddy ova there." She nodded towards the glass, where Card Slinger was snapping back and forth like a whip behind it, a maniac escaped from the asylum.

"He's not... her buddy... ack..."

Three muzzles turned towards the corner, right next to the steel door.

Opening one eye, then another, Lucky Toss coughed and smiled weakly. He turned to the mare who'd robbed him of a few minutes of his consciousness and gave him a goose-egg on his forehead instead. "Dat's what I was tryin' ta tell youze..."

Toss gritted his teeth and shakily sat up on his haunches. "Youze stupid, buckin' bitch."

White Dove started to speak, but thought better of it, biting her lip.

With sudden energy, he barked, "LOOK WHAT YOUZE DONE!"

Lucky Toss gestured to the two mares in the corner, savior of each other, huddled closely now. Babs was whispering comforting words to Apple Bloom as the smaller mare examined her injuries, both of them with their peripherals on White Dove.

The stallion stomped towards the detective, standing over her, one of his forehooves moving dangerously close to his baton. "I should beat the shit outta youze! Youze assaulted a fellow officer an' two innocent ponies, youze piece o' shit!

"What in Tartarus is WRONG wit' youze?!"

"Lucky, I—"

"Celestia, have youze gone so buckin' far off the deep end dat youze'll jus' attack anypony who points a hoof at anypony else?!"

"Lucky—"

He lowered his head to her level.

"NO!" Lucky Toss bellowed, his baritone drilling its way into White Dove's ears. She howled and thrashed, but didn't make a move to stand up or strike him, something within her finally breaking, giving way. Giving way to the truth.

White Dove didn't join the force for justice. She joined it for revenge—for the thrill of taking away from others what had been denied to her.

She was just as mad as Card Slinger, the screeching, babbling mess beyond the glass, who, no matter how many times Officer Rustler continued to strike him, could say nothing but cryptic nonsense.

Lucky Toss looked up from his disgraced partner towards the mares. Flattening his ears in shared shame, he approached them gently, placing a forehoof on Babs's shoulder. "Are youze two alright?"

"No," Babs said, wrapping a forehoof around Apple Bloom protectively, "but we'll be fine." She glared at the sprawled detective, strangely elated to see bruises erupting all over her as well. Youze buckin' bitch. We trusted youze. We came all the way fo' dis, an' we trusted youze.

Nodding sadly, Officer Lucky Toss whirled around on White Dove.

"Youze ain't nothin' but a thug youzeself, hurtin' innocent ponies. Nothin' but a thug, youze is. Hay, dis whole department is. Dis whole city."

"I've had enough," he said.

And drew his baton.

Dove glanced again across the room, towards the gun. She looked over to her own baton, still nestled in its sheath.

Too far away. Too close. Too much. Too little.

Too everything.

Lucky Toss held his weapon high.

Flinching at the sight, Babs Seed looked away, and Apple Bloom with her. They found their hindhooves frozen, cemented to the floor. They huddled together, longing to return to that little world again, at least until Lucky Toss escorted them out.

And then, that would be the end of it.

Lucky Toss stared down at White Dove, stared at the mare who would be his mentor, his partner, his mare in a perfect world.

But he knew that this was no perfect world.

The baton shook in his forehooves, nopony saying a word but the demon in chains on the other side of them.

Finally, his heart thundering, Lucky Toss dropped his baton and, with one swift motion, tore the silver badge off his blue uniform.

It clinked against the concrete as it landed, while the baton rolled away, joining Dove's pistol. The two weapons nestled against each other against the wall, harmless without the hooves of demons wielding them.

"I quit."

Turning again to Babs Seed and Apple Bloom, Lucky urged, "C'mon. Let's go."

Babs began to object, "But, Lucky, we don't—"

"It's ova. C'mon. Let's go."

Babs Seed waited for Apple Bloom to look up from her chest and nod before rising to her hooves.

~

SNAP! SNAP! SNAP!

The chains around his forehooves finally let loose.

And so did Card Slinger.

Lurching forward, he grabbed both Officer Rustler by the neck and squeezed, twisting side-to-side.

Rustler howled at the burning pain and rose his baton.

That's when Card Slinger tipped the chair backwards again.

They fell, blue stallion on top of red, Rustler landing with an "OOF!" Slinger's back smacked against the concrete, resounding loudly throughout the empty chamber. But that, however, only seemed to fuel him.

Squeezing tightly around Rustler's neck, he barked, "Lemme go! Lemme go o' I'll buckin' strangle youze!"

Clutching Slinger's fetlocks, Rustler choked, "No—way—in—hell—dirtbag!"

Slinger responded by squeezing tighter while rolling his hips side-to-side, grinding together steel links that he knew could be broken. Every minute movement dug into his flesh, and he could discern the subtle shade of a different red marring his coat. But adrenaline fueled him, and little victories—such as choking the investigator—spurred him onward, making him forget his pain.

Turning a deeper shade of blue, Officer Rustler thrashed and rolled, whipping out of Slinger's grasp and sliding across the floor. Coughing, fumbling for air, he tried to drew his weapon, his forehoof moving lazily in front of his eyes as if he were underwater. The gray sea began to rock him, singing its lullaby, mighty waves of tempting unconsciousness rising and falling before his eyes...

THWACK! THWACK! THWACK!

Counting the seconds, Slinger cursed, "Come on! Come on! Fuck youze chains, c'mon!"

THWACK! THWACK! THWACK!

The grinding of metal against metal—and then, with a mighty snap, the links binding Card Slinger's hindhooves to the steel chair fell away, snipped like his sanity.

Panicking, Officer Rustler wretched his forehooves to the grip of his pistol, then slowly began to pull it from his sheath.

Cackling, howling in triumph, madpony without restraints, Card Slinger leapt at the officer, forehooves outstretched.

It was time for King Crazy to play.

~

"Wait!"

Crawling on her belly, a snake in uniform, White Dove weakly rolled onto her side and looked up to the three. "Wait!"

"It's ova, Dove," Lucky Toss deadpanned. He spat on the ground and stomped a few steps away from her.

Breaking her silence at last, Apple Bloom spun around out of Babs Seed's hooves and shrieked, "Ah shoulda shot ya wit' yer own gun, ya dumb bitch!"

Stones of all manner and weight settling in her throat, chest, and stomach, Dove stuttered, "B-Babs, Bl-Bloom, I—"

"Ah trusted you!"

Now, it was Apple Bloom's turn to stomp and shout. Babs Seed sidled up and stood beside her, hurling daggers towards White Dove with a piercing, razor-sharp glare.

"Ah listened ta yer whole sorry life story, an' this is what ya do?!" Lurching forward, ears flattened, Apple Bloom stared into the detective. Stains of tear-streaks shining in the dim light, she demanded, "Ya repay ma kindness wit' tryin' ta shoot us?! What kinda detective are ya?!"

"I—"

"Ah bet ya know who went out West!"

"I—"

"Ah bet yer one o' 'em!"

To the surprise of Lucky, Babs, and Dove herself, Apple Bloom rushed around and lifted the mare's tail. Dove blushed a deep scarlet and squirmed angrily, rolling herself onto her back. "'EY! What are youze—"

"Where's the orange?! Huh?!"

This time, it was Lucky who spoke up. "Apple Bloom—"

"WHERE'S THE ORANGE?!"

Babs Seed trotted over to her, the rational one for once in her lifetime. Placing a forehoof on Apple Bloom's shoulder, she whispered, leaning close, "Bloom, let's go. Dis is a waste o'—"

"HELP!!!"

Instinctively, Babs Seed spun around, pulling Apple Bloom with her.

Beyond the glass, Card Slinger stood on four free hooves, pinning Rustler down to the floor and beating him with his own baton, the weapon clutched tightly between his jaws.

Officer Rustler, staring into the false wall, screamed once more. Begging. Pleading. "DOVE! HELP ME!"

Card Slinga.

The root o' all dis.

Free.

"Babs!"

Bruised but not broken, Babs Seed shot off her hooves as fast as they could carry her, Apple Bloom churning after her. Lucky Toss spat one more time on the ground, drew his pistol, and galloped after the mares.

Detective White Dove rose slowly to her hooves, trotted over to her pistol, holstered it, and exited the chamber.

She shut the door behind her, the stench of blood and vomit and deception and foalishness and evil sealing inside.

~

Officer Rustler rolled from one side to the other, dodging blows from his own weapon by inches or less. Adrenaline making it impossible to rationalize, he broke one of the cardinal rules of being a male and kicked upwards between Card Slinger's flanks.

"Son o' a—AAAAH!"

Falling to the floor, Card Slinger clutched at his most sensitive of flesh, abused for a second time this horrid day. Shameful tears leaked from his eyes as he writhed, willing the pain away. Rustler, breathing deep, scrambled to his hooves and drew his gun, training it on the stallion.

"Youze... wouldn't... dare..." Slinger managed between groans, amazed that he was still alive in spite of everything.

"Make... ma... day... bucka..." Rustler challenged, the pistol shaking in his grip, stars and swirls still dotting his vision.

Grunting, Card Slinger rose to his hooves, brushing one of his flanks against his tender injury. "Heh. Kill me an' all ma information dies."

"Youze... ain't gonna... talk, anyway..."

Slinger smiled.

"Well, then...

"Let's jus' play..."

Card Slinger jumped at Rustler.

BANG!

The bullet sliced through the air and underneath the leaping stallion, embedding itself in the wall of the interrogation room. Tackling the investigator to the ground, Card Slinger grabbed the gun and flung it in his teeth, tossing it against the wall.

BANG!

A second round, a misfire, unloaded, sending both stallions covering their heads with their forehooves. Ricocheting off the wall, then the ceiling, then another wall, the bullet finally stopped right behind Card Slinger, miraculously missing him.

"Must be ma lucky day," Slinger said with a chuckle before slamming Rustler's head into the wall.

WHACK! WHACK! WHACK! Slinger held him tightly, pinning the officer's hindhooves with his, pressing his weight against Rustler as he bashed his head in, over and over again.

"Dat... all youze got...?" Rustler gasped, numbing pain immobilizing his limbs.

WHACK! WHACK! WHACK!

The stars appeared once more, bright and beautiful. "Kill me like a stallion, fucka..."

WHACK! WHACK! WHACK!

Officer Rustler saw three ponies rear up in his mind's eye: two mares, one stallion. He'd failed them all. He didn't deserve to join them, but he was going to, despite all his best efforts.

Rustler pleaded once more, wanting a proper death. "Not like dis, youze thug..."

Drawing the investigator's head back one more time, Card Slinger prepared for the killing blow.

Unholy light poured into the room in the blink of an eye, blinding him as he spun to look at it.

A creature from his nightmares, bruised and bloodied, rage oozing off her with every breath and every blink, galloped into the gray chamber, leaping over the desk and calling his name.

"CARD SLINGA!"

~

It was everything and nothing in the same moment. It was all she'd envisioned and nothing she'd dreamt. It was redemption and damnation in the same bound, holy sin, as she brought her forehooves down, stretching out her body as fear as she could, then bearing down upon him.

Barreling into him. Pinning him against the wall.

Face-to-face, muzzle-to-muzzle.

The stallion who, in some twisted way, she owed herself to, if only to finish what they'd started oh so long ago.

She remembered her vow.

If I eva, I mean, EVA catch youze on ma property o' harmin' anypony else again… whether it’s me, o’ ma family, o' some foal down the street… I will find youze, Card Slinga. An' I will kill youze.

She pressed a forehoof to his neck, threw all of her weight against it.

Red turned to white.

He laid there, making no move to stop her.

If anypony was going to kill him, Card Slinger reasoned, it would be the one who'd spared his life to begin with. Not some dirty cop. Not some servant of Madhoof.

Despite his ramblings, he knew, somewhere in his dark heart, that she was not a Knight.

And he didn't want to die by one.

White turned to blue.

"Youze killed ma friends..."

Three sets of hooves rushing into the chamber with her.

Rustler scrambled his, swaying, trying to stand.

"Youze killed dem in cold blood..."

Card Slinger's eyes wide, black as onyx.

Babs Seed's eyes narrow, green as emerald.

"Youze tried ta kill me..."

Staring into her.

Staring into him.

"Ta kill ma mare..."

Staring into each other.

Intimate in a way that no love could explain. Intimate in the bonds of death and darkness and misfortune and bad decisions and fate and hate and anger and rage and blood, so much blood, so many battles in the forest and the street and the sand and everything leading up to this moment, passing over their eyes.

Kill me, he said silently. Let it be ova.

Card Slinger moved a forehoof up to hers.

Let it be ova.

Babs Seed closed her eyes.

Youze don't deserve it ta be ova.

And let him go.

~

Card Slinger fell to the floor, gasping wildly, a fish out of Manehatten Lake.

Babs Seed backed away, staring at the ground.

"Babs! Youze alright?"

"Babs! Are ya okay?!"

BANG!

White Dove fired a warning shot into the ceiling, burying the bullet above. Three ponies dropped to the ground, then rose when the danger passed.

Holstering her smoking gun, Dove galloped over. Card Slinger lay flat on his back on the floor, gasping, choking, sputtering, coughing for oxygen. Officer Rustler swayed and leaned back against the wall, rubbing his neck and muttering to himself.

Babs Seed stood there, motionless, Apple Bloom rubbing her shoulders and nuzzling her neck. Reversing roles. Equal now. As they had been. As they always would be.

Drawing a pair of hoof-cuffs from his defunct uniform pocket, Lucky Toss wretched Card Slinger's forehooves behind his back. He met no resistance. Yanking him up by his mane, Lucky brought Slinger back to the steel chair, put it upright, set him down, and cursed.

"Fuckin' psycho broke the chains."

Without addressing her, Toss turned around, speaking to the floor. "Give me youze hoof-cuffs."

Dove complied.

Making do, Lucky Toss shackled one of Slinger's hindhooves to the leg of the chair. Slinger continued to pant, the stars slowly fading from his eyes.

Lucky Toss trotted over to Officer Rustler and assisted him to his hooves, flinging the investigator's forehoof over his shoulder. "Youze alright, buddy?"

"I... I think so..."

"Okay. I need youze hoof-cuffs real quick—"

"Wha... Who...?" Rustler looked from Babs Seed and Apple Bloom, to Dove, to Lucky, to Slinger, his mind blanking.

Lucky shook his head. "We'll get ta dat in a minute. Right now, we need ta restrain dis prisoner, then decide what ta do wit' him."

"Okay." Rustler retrieved a set of hoof-cuffs from one of his pockets and passed it to Lucky Toss.

A few more clicks of metal and steel, and Card Slinger was restrained once more.

For a moment, all was silent but for the deep breathing of Rustler and Slinger.

Lucky Toss sat beside Babs Seed and rubbed her shoulder. "What happened?"

"It's alright, Babs. Ah'm here," Apple Bloom said quietly, nuzzling the stoic mare. "Tell us."

Babs sighed.

"Did he hurt youze?"

All faces turned to Dove.

Babs glared at her. "What do youze care?"

"I, well—"

Babs answered anyway, "No, he didn't."

"He didn't?" Lucky asked, flabbergasted.

"I could've killed him, but I didn't," Babs said.

Silence.

And then, from the chair, a reply.

"Youze should have."

Card Slinger looked up.

Babs Seed trotted over to the desk, sitting down across from him.

"Youze don't deserve ta die jus' yet," Babs Seed said, her fury demonstrated in her monotonous tempo.

Slinger raised an eyebrow.

Babs Seed looked over to Lucky Toss and Rustler, refusing to acknowledge White Dove. "He knows what happened in the West."

"Yes," Apple Bloom said, joining Babs's side and shooting a look meant to kill towards Slinger, "he does."

"The West?" Rustler rubbed his forehead and grunted. "What 'bout the West?"

Lucky Toss sighed. "It's a long story."

"Is dat why we have two civilians in heeya?"

Normally, such a breach of protocol would've sent Officer Rustler into a fit of righteous rage. Since Babs Seed's foalish and stupid actions had saved him from becoming a puddle of blood on the pavement, he cast aside all thoughts of formality for now.

"Yes." White Dove strode up, standing next to Lucky Toss and Rustler. "Yes, Rustla," she explained, "dat is why. Dey reported ta us dat he led an' assault on the West. Lucky an' I were actually tryin' ta find records o' him earlier, befo' he got 'rrested."

"Youze won't find any records o' me," Slinger replied snidely.

"We know," Rustler snapped, flaring his nostrils towards the gangster.

"No 'mount o' beatin' is gonna get the truth outta youze, is it?" Lucky glared at his former best friend, knowing that if he were alone with Slinger—officer or no—he wouldn't have been as merciful as Babs Seed.

Card Slinger shook his head. "Why should I? Youze ain't no help. The police neva are." He neglected to add, I was a fool fo' thinkin' so.

"Can't argue wit' dat," Babs mumbled, glaring at White Dove. She pulled Apple Bloom close to her and turned towards both male officers. "Well, youze can thank me later fo' savin' youze life." Both o' youze. Celestia knows what Dove would've done ta Lucky iffa...

Shuddering at the thought, Babs smiled weakly towards her mare. "C'mon, Bloom. Let's go home."

They had only walked a few steps, tails entwining, when somepony shouted, "WAIT!"

They stopped.

White Dove looked hopefully towards the mares.

She said weakly, trotting up to them, "Babs... Apple Bloom... I'm sorry."

Rustler prodded Lucky in the shoulder, realization dawning on him. All four of them were bruised and scratched—not enough to warrant a doctor, but bad enough. "Whoa! Did summat happen back there between youze four?"

Lucky Toss whispered back, "Dove an' Babs went at it, an' Bloom, too. Dove lost her shit. Was gonna shoot somepony. Oh," he added, mock-cheerfully, "an' I quit the force."

Lost for rational thought, Rustler shook his head. "Horseapples..."

Although aware of their hushed exchange, White Dove said nothing, standing beside Babs Seed and Apple Bloom. She pulled her badge off her uniform and threw it on the ground. "I admit it, alright?"

"Admit what?" Babs asked, her anger beginning to rise once more. Youze lucky I have some shred o' morality...

The disgraced mare removed the holsters of her baton and pistol, laying them carefully beside her badge. Vulnerable, Dove sat down before both mares, and spoke her final apology, no longer caring what anypony knew, what anypony thought, what anypony believed.

Manehatten could know. Equestria could know. The Earth itself could know. It was all over, anyway.

"I joined the force ta get revenge. Ta get back at those who hurt me. Who killed ma mare."

Babs stiffened, eyes wide. Apple Bloom nodded and murmured to her mare, "It's true, sugarcube."

"Is... is dat what youze were talkin' 'bout earlier? Dat youze wouldn't tell me 'bout?" Babs asked of both Apple Bloom and White Dove. Both nodded.

Oh, wow.

Babs looked at her hooves. "I'm... I'm sorry ta hear dat."

Dove shrugged. "Don't be. Ain't youze fault."

Before anypony could get a word in edgewise, Dove continued, "I joined on false pretenses ta get back at the killas. Ta clean the streets. Ta make Manehatten ma home again. Because it was s'posed ta be.

"It was s'posed ta be our home."

The others, Card Slinger included, stayed silent.

"All I've done these past two years is hate. Hate an' hurt an' rage an' drink. I lost it when dis asshole—" Dove pointed to Slinger, who remained stoic and still in his chains—"called youze out. I should've known dat it wasn't true. I hurt youze both," she said to the mares, "an' ma partna," she finished, looking at Lucky Toss.

"So, I'm sorry. I'm goin' back ta Canterlot. Maybe Celestia will forgive me."

White Dove unbuttoned the top few buttons of her uniform and started towards the door.

Her steps echoed in the silent ocean of gray.

Clip-clop.

Clip-clop.

Cli—

"Wait."

She stopped.

All turned to Card Slinger.

"Who was youze mare?"

Dove answered the scum of Manehatten Lake, having nothing left to lose.

"Her name was Fenca."

Lucky Toss, Card Slinger, and Babs Seed went white.

Ma bully?! The bitch who whacked off ma tail an' tried ta wit' ma mane?!

Slinger said, "She wasn't a hit."

"Say dat 'gain?" Lucky demanded.

Card Slinger repeated, "She wasn't a hit."

Dove raised an eyebrow. "How do youze know?" she asked flatly, no emotion left in her voice.

"Because," Slinger said, taking a deep breath, "I know all the hits in Manehatten. King ones, at least. An' lots o' the Mafia, too. Far as I know, she didn't have one on her. No reason ta. She was jus' unlucky."

"Like dat matters," Dove spat, scrunching up her snout. "What do youze care anyway, asshole?"

Toss looked uneasily towards her. "Dove..."

"Yes, Lucky?"

Lucky Toss rubbed his neck and met her eyes. "Dove, Fenca was one o' ma best friends when I was a colt."

White Dove blinked.

"An' she was mine, too." Card Slinger laughed coldly. "Way back in the day, befo' all o' dis."

"What's 'dis'?" Rustla asked, trotting up to the desk.

Card Slinger grinned. "Madhoof, o' course."

Twin hearts in twin coats fell into twin stomachs, Babs Seed and Apple Bloom turning to each other.

"Oh, right..." Dove walked up to Babs Seed. "Youze fatha."

"He's not ma fatha!" Babs barked, tensing her muscles as she spun around to face the disgraced mare.

"He's not?" Slinger asked incredulously, everything he'd ever known grinding to a halt before him. A bit odd, he'd thought, for the rotten Orange King's own daughter to be out there in the land of annexation, but he'd seen stranger things...

"NO!" Babs stomped the floor with enough magnitude to shake the lamp on the desk. "Dat bastard is NOT ma fatha!"

"It's true," affirmed Apple Bloom, stepping in front of Babs Seed and glaring at Dove. "He ain't her dad! We found out who her real dad is, an' he ain't that flankhole!"

One officer and two recent retirees shot stares to Card Slinger.

"Well," Slinger mumbled, the gray tomb spinning around him, "I guess I was wrong.

"Youze ain't the daughta o' a devil."

WHACK!

Spitting blood before he understood why, Card Slinger weakly met Babs Seed's piercing glare. Pulling him forward by his mane, she hissed through her teeth and warned, "Neva, eva, EVA refer ta Madhoof as ma fatha 'gain, got it?!"

Swallowing, Slinger nodded.

"Good." Babs threw him back into the chair, then turned around. "Now, then. Dove..."

Dove looked up, meeting Babs Seed's gaze.

"I don't forgive youze, but... I'm sorry fo' what happened ta youze."

"Yea. Um, Ah really don't forgive ya, either," said Apple Bloom, stern and honest, "but Ah appreciate ya tryin'."

White Dove nodded, mustering a weak smile.

"Alright... uh..." Rubbing his temples, Lucky Toss mumbled, "Dis sure is a mess, ain't it?"

Rustler agreed, "Sure is. Uh... well... Iffa youze four ain't on the force anymo', I guess youze should leave. Right?"

"An' miss all the fun?" Throwing back his mane, Card Slinger laughed, shaking his binds a little as he did.

"What the buck are youze talkin' 'bout?!" Babs pulled herself up onto the desk and stared into him.

"Look," Card Slinger said, sweeping his gaze among the five, "I've got nothin' left ta lose. Iffa somepony in ma own gang don't kill me, one o' youze officas will."

"Not without a judge!" Rustla rolled his eyes. "Idiot."

Slinger smirked. "Some o' youze officas are in ma gang—"

"'Orange unda his tail.' Yeah, yeah, we get it, asshole." Dove snickered.

Slinger's grin grew wide. "Oh? Youze don't believe me?"

"'Course we don't!" Lucky snapped, smacking a forehoof against the desk.

"Let me ask youze dis," Slinger said slyly, his reptilian self emerging behind the pony visage. "Have youze eva seen Chief Brutus standin' up? Has he eva stood in front o' youze in line? Gone swimmin'? Gone dancin'? Knocked hooves?"

Dove, Lucky, and Rustler gagged. Babs and Apple Bloom shared a confused glance.

Dove exclaimed, "Hell no!"

"Neva gotten a look unda his tail, have youze?"

"Why would we?" Rustler snorted and clicked his tongue. "Not all o' us are buckin' perverts like youze," he said derisively, crossing his forehooves across his chest.

Slinger replied, "Maybe so, but most ponies don't mind standin' o' walkin' in front o' youze. Simple shit, ain't it? Does Brutus eva walk in front o' youze?"

Three hooves tapped three chins. It was an odd question. A stupid one.

And yet, the more they thought about it, the more credible it seemed.

"What are youze suggestin', Slinga?" Babs Seed turned to him, flattening her ears. "Are youze suggestin' the Chief o' Manehatten Police, the highest offica in dis twisted city, ex-Royal Guard from what I rememba, is... is a memba o' the black orange gang?"

Slinger chuckled.

"Ah don't see what's so damn funny, asshole."

"'Black orange gang'. Dat's a good one." Slinger laughed again.

"Well, iffa dat's not the name, what is it?" Dove asked, her patience growing thin. "An' how do youze know our Chief is in it?"

"We are King's Knights," Card Slinger answered, smiling wide enough to split his muzzle, "an' there are many o' us. Many in heeya, in youze department. Not jus' the Chief. But I have no mo' use fo' dat shit. I can show youze who dey all are, every last one. But dat really won't matta. Youze could hunt every single one down an' lock 'em up o' kill 'em, an' it won't matta. Things will still be as dey are."

"An' why is dat?" Babs demanded, staring into his soulless eyes.

"Because, Babs Seed," Card Slinger said, "iffa youze wanna change dis city, youze gotta sever the root."

~

Ponyville's clock-tower chimed 0800 as the first train from Appleloosa pulled sharply into the station, squealing its brakes. Its slumbering, sole passenger rolled out of his cab and onto the floor. He groaned and rubbed his head, slowly standing to his hooves as the sleepy-eyed train-guard called out, "Pulling into Ponyville Station! Please gather your belongings before leaving!"

Mumbling profanity, Braeburn stood up and slung his saddlebags over his back. He made his way out of the train, nearly stumbling over his hooves. When he emerged into the fresh morning mist, he yawned heavily, taking in a deep breath of fresh air. He'd forgotten how long eight hours could drag on. At least he'd made it, rather than oversleeping and missing his stop as he'd feared.

He pressed on through town as quickly as he could, fighting the Sandmare tugging at his eyelids. Sleep had come only after a long period of contemplating and rehearsing. Did Applejack really know what was going on in the West? Had she received any of the letters? Would she even be home? Perhaps she had gone to see the authorities herself. All of these worries and more went bump in Braeburn's night.

Yawning, he passed by a cherry stand and a carrot stand setting up in the middle of town square. His stomach rumbled, but he scolded it and trotted on. Breakfast would come later. For now, there was business to attend to.

Through the center of town to the outskirts, up the grassy knoll, towards Sweet Apple Acres strode Sheriff Braeburn, feeling vulnerable here in the shady twilight of his dreamscape. Maybe, he thought with another yawn, he was still asleep on the train after all. The landscape was picturesque enough to be of a dream. Rows and rows of apple trees heavy with fruit dotted his vision, their green leaves beginning to hint at fall. Shades of brown, yellow, red, and orange broke the monotony of green.

Following the path, Braeburn let his mind wander for the time being, becoming lost within. He was so engrossed in his own worries that he barely heard the call of his own name, over and over again, until—

SMACK!

"Aargh!"

Braeburn fell flat on his back, rubbing his forehead.

Above him stood Big Macintosh, pulling a cart full of empty baskets. He didn't even flinch from the contact, his mighty collar the guilty perpetrator of Braeburn's fall. "Ya alright, cuz?" he asked, offering a forehoof to pull Braeburn up.

Shaking the dust from his mane, Braeburn nodded weakly and accepted Big Mac's offer. Rising to his hooves, he shook himself awake and muttered, "Sorry 'bout that, Big Mac. Ah was jus' kinda—"

"Lost?"

"Yea." Forcing a smile, he looked up at his enormous cousin. "Ah guess so."

Big Mac grinned. "Been far too long, Braeburn."

"It sure has, Big Mac."

They shared a quick hug.

Adjusting his collar, Big Mac gestured towards the orchards. "Ah was jus' 'bout ta get a start on the harvestin' fer the mornin'. Ah would ask ya ta join me, but ya look plumb exhausted, Brae."

"Sure am," Braeburn said with a yawn. "Hate ta see ya off so quick, Cousin Mac, but is Applejack around?"

Big Mac nodded. "She's makin' breakfast inside, Brae. Why? Somethin' wrong?" he pressed, flicking his ears. Something didn't seem quite right to the wise stallion.

Shuffling on his hooves, Braeburn chuckled awkwardly and mused, "Well... can't say that somethin' ain't wrong."

"What happened?"

"Er, Ah hope ya don't mind, Mac, but... Ah really need ta talk ta Applejack 'bout that first," Braeburn said sheepishly, tearing away from his gaze.

Big Mac offered him another gentle smile. "Ah understand. Like Ah said, she should be in the farmhouse downstairs, makin' breakfast." Giving the ropes connected to his collar one final check for sturdiness, he added, "If ya need me, Brae, Ah'll be gettin' an early start on ta-day's work in the orchards. Stay a while, would ya?"

Braeburn tipped his Stetson. "Ah sure will, Big Mac."

Honest as an Apple, he had a feeling it was going to be a long stay.

Jericho

Five sets of eyes drilled daggers into Card Slinger's darkened windows, the intensity of their gaze boring down into the nothingness that comprised his soul. Card Slinger let root slide off his tongue like a curse word, thick and bitter, making him retch. He looked around the room, then settled on Babs Seed.

"Whateva Madhoof is ta youze, he is the root o' dis all," he said darkly, narrowing his eyes. He rocked slightly in his chair, but made no effort to escape. Without the threat of pain or blindness, he settled on his original plan. And prayed in his agnosticism that somepony would listen.

Flattening her ears, Babs Seed shook her muzzle and snorted. "Why should we believe youze?" A filthy thug an' a criminal, an' an attempted murdera, at the very least. I don't trust dis psycho far as I can throw him.

Officer Rustler stomped towards the steel desk and rose to Slinger's eye level, propping himself up on his forehooves. "Youze were jus' bashin' ma buckin' head inta the wall, an' youze think we're gonna take anythin' youze have ta say seriously, scumbag?"

"Iffa youze had any intention o' bein' useful," Lucky tossed in, approaching him with anger in his eyes, "then youze shoulda controlled youze psychosis, Slinga." The name tasted filthy and fetid on his tongue. He smacked his lips and furrowed his brow.

Flicking his muzzle towards Dove and Rustler, Slinger objected, "Then these two shoulda kept dey promise. Show me a lil' respect, an' I'll—"

"How dare you!" Apple Bloom lunged towards him, caught mid-air by a quick snap of Babs's jaws on her tail. Gritting her teeth, Apple Bloom fought against her mare's grasp and exclaimed, "Respect? Respect?! Ya buckin' tried ta kill me an' Babs, ya buck—"

"What?!" Rustler and White Dove shouted in unison.

Lucky Toss averted his eyes to the floor, digging a forehoof into the unforgiving ground.

"When did dat happen?" asked Rustler, turning to Apple Bloom. Dove stared hard into Card Slinger as well, mentally adding two attempted murders to the scumbag's potential rap sheet.

Babs yanked Apple Bloom to her side with a firm tug on her tail and answered for her. "When we were foals. Dis asshole attacked us outta nowhere," she spat, glaring at him. With a snicker and the beginnings of a devilish grin, she added, "An' I beat the livin' shit outta him."

Card Slinger stared into the desk, biting his tongue.

"So, lemme get dis straight," said Officer Rustler, addressing Card Slinger while trotting back and forth in front of the desk. "Youze tried ta kill these two—" he pointed to the Apple mares—"when youze was a lil' colt, an' now youze went an' killed—"

"I neva killed nopony but Mafia!" Slinger blurted, darting his eyes around the room.

"Horseshit!" White Dove shouted, to the surprise of the others. Pointing an angry forehoof at him, she glanced at Apple Bloom before saying, "Dis bastard went out west an' killed some o' their friends!"

"An' attacked our family!" Apple Bloom shouted, her ears flattened, hooves twitching with anger.

Slinger started to protest, but was cut off once more by Officer Rustler.

"Youze killed ma friends, Slinga!" Stomping both forehooves on the desk, Rustler rose up and towered above living, breathing slime. He took deep, heaving breaths, his chest rising and falling with the intensity of his adrenaline. Fire in his cold, calculating blue eyes, he muttered through clenched teeth, "Youze killed ma friends. Two innocent mares, an' a stallion who lost his way."

"I didn't kill dem, Rustla!"

Officer Rustler lurched forward, pressing his snout against Slinger's. "Don't youze address me!" he yelled, spraying spittle onto Slinger's muzzle. "Youze buckin' piece o' shit! Youze come in heeya, a confessed murdera, nearly beat me ta death, nearly escape, an' youze expect me ta believe anythin' comin' out youze mouth?!"

Four sets of eyes looking on in hungry silence, Card Slinger wormed his muzzle away from the other stallion's, shaking his head. "No! I didn't confess ta nothin'!"

"Horseshit! We've got eyewitnesses!" Rustler grabbed both sides of Slinger's head and brought him forward again. Any confusion or delirium from his injuries had dissipated. Earth pony strong, he confronted his attacker, not twitching in his gaze. "Youze gonna go 'way fo' a long time, understand dat?"

"Youze got the wrong colt!" Squirming, Card Slinger tried to wrestle out of his grip, but failed. Rustler held him strong and fast as ever, keen on making him see the rage in his eyes. "Youze don't get it!"

"What's there ta get?!" Toss snapped, breaking his silence. Joining Rustler's side, he regarded Card Slinger with the same gaze he would any other career criminal. "Cut wit' the lies already!"

"I ain't lyin'!" Shaking his muzzle from side to side, Slinger began to hyperventilate, fighting the urge to scream. He squirmed against his restraints, his plan slipping away from him. "I ain't lyin'! I didn't kill dem, Rustla! I didn't!"

"Even iffa he's tellin' the truth," Babs said coldly, her hackles beginning to rise as she stepped in front of Apple Bloom, "he's still the bastard who came out an' killed our friends!" Muscles tensing, she planted her hooves firmly in the ground, resisting the urge to pounce on him again and teach him a lesson he'd never forget... again.

Babs continued, stomping towards him, "It's because o' youze the bar is gone! It's because o' youze ma fatha was hurt! It's because o' youze I have—"

Card Slinger opened his eyes. "Dat was youze bar?"

"Yea, it was, asshole!"

"Arson, too?" Rustler snorted, exhaling hot breath over Slinger's face. He pulled away from him in pure disgust, flexing his forehooves as he leaned against the desk. "Youze gonna go 'way fo' a long time, Slinga. Dat is, iffa youze live."

Card Slinger swept his gaze over the room one more time. Babs Seed was mere feet away from the desk, every inch of her being seeming ablaze with hate. Apple Bloom stood fast beside her, ears flattened, teeth bared, just as ready to spring again as she had a few minutes beforehoof. Officer Rustler seemed to possess iron willpower, though the fury on his muzzle attested that, if he allowed himself to do so, he would tear the disgraced stallion limb-from-limb.

Even White Dove, as sinful as he, could barely contain her rage, arming herself with the baton and pistol she'd placed on the floor during her confession to the others.

They wouldn't listen. He'd given up, given in, cashed his chips, and they still wouldn't listen.

A part of Card Slinger's black heart whispered to him, reminding him of the untapped strength within his veins. He could break the hoofcuffs easily if he wanted to—they were weaker than the iron chains of before. With three guns in the room and five sets of hooves, he would stand little chance once freed, but he had long thought to himself that he would rather go down in flames than anything else.

Another part was louder, crawling up onto his shoulder and whispering into his ear. The last chance. His last chance. Not just for revenge.

For truth.

For justice.

For his parents. For Boone. For himself.

Card Slinger closed his eyes, composed himself the best he could, and opened his eyes. He stepped into the threshold between Tartarus and purgatory, and proclaimed himself a repentant sinner. His final act would be in defiance to the stallion who'd marred his flesh and ruined his life.

Who, in ways none of them could fully understand, ruined all of their lives.

"I'm as good as dead, no matta o' what any judge says, but hear me out."

Card Slinger looked up into the eyes of the law, then into the eyes of mercy. Into Babs Seed.

"Please."

Noticing the direction of his gaze, four muzzles turned to Babs Seed.

They regarded her in silence. For, as inexplicably as Card Slinger was connected to each and every one of them, she was the one who, if anypony else, deserved to decide his fate.

Card Slinger shifted uncomfortably on the steel chair, wounds prior and present aching him. Onyx met emeralds across the room. "Please. Whateva Madhoof is—iffa he is anythin' ta youze—youze are in danga. We all are in danga. Dis is all him. King's Knights, Manehatten, the West, everythin'.

"I know youze have no reason ta believe me. I know I deserve prison, an' worse. How youze could've come face-ta-face wit' me an' not killed me, I don't understand."

Because youze don't deserve peace.

Soapy an' Dyea didn't deserve ta die, but at least dey know peace now.

Youze ain't worthy o' it.

Slinger looked at Rustler. "I didn't kill youze friends. But I know who did. Not directly, but... The one who makes everythin' the way it is 'round heeya, a whole big mess o' hell an' hate, I know who. I can tell youze everythin' I know. Youze can choose not ta believe me, youze can lock me up an' throw 'way the key."

Slinger paused, taking a slow breath, standing in the threshold, making his last-ditch effort.

"Please... jus' let me tell youze these things. An' then, youze can decide what ta do wit' 'em."

Three officers looked again to a civilian for guidance.

Apple Bloom looked up at Babs Seed, seeming to silently ask, "What do you think?"

Dis ain't even ma problem. Dis ain't ma city. Dis ain't ma home. These aren't ma ponies. But...

Iffa Madhoof is really behind everythin'...

Then dat means...

"Youze sure dis has ta do wit' Madhoof?"

"Positive."

Babs Seed sat down on her haunches and sighed, staring across the room into the second most despicable stallion she'd ever had the misfortune to know.

Looking at the others, Babs said, "Let's see what he has ta say."

~

Trying his best to stay upright on his hooves, Braeburn swayed his way to the Apple Family farmhouse. The sweet scent of homemade apple fritters greeted his nostrils as he climbed up onto the porch. His stomach rumbling, the sleepy stallion licked his lips and smiled. While the nature of his visit wasn't a cheerful one by any means, he couldn't help but fantasize about Applejack's famous fritters as he trotted up to the door and gave it a quick knock.

An elderly mare's voice shrieked inside, "Who is it?!"

Another mare called, "Ah'll git it, Granny! Jus' go back ta yer nap!"

Braeburn fidgeted with the brim of his Stetson as he waited, inhaling the aroma of apples and cinnamon greedily. His stomach growled at him again and he rolled his eyes. "Got more important business than fritters," he mumbled from the corner of his mouth.

Suddenly, the door swung open, a perplexed Applejack standing in the threshold. "Braeburn?!"

"Uh, howdy, cuz!" Braeburn tipped his hat. Plastering a smile across his face, he asked, "Can Ah come in?"

"Er, sure!" Applejack backed away from the door and ushered him inside.

In the living room, Granny Smith reclined in her favorite chair and blinked rapidly, rubbing sleep from her eyes. "Well, Ah'll be darned! Either there's a real handsome new stallion in town, o' it's yer Cousin Braeburn, Applejack!"

Braeburn returned the laugh and rubbed his neck. "Heh, thanks, Granny."

"Aw, don't be a stranger!" Granny Smith pushed herself off the chair and started walking as quickly as her old hooves could take her towards the stallion. "C'mere an' give yer Granny Smith a hug!"

Trotting up to her, Braeburn embraced the old mare gently, then asked, "How have things been, Granny?"

Granny Smith yawned and smacked her lips. "Well," she said, rubbing at one of her ears, "it'll be harvest season soon, ya know. So we've been a might busy. Ah, fer one, haven't had enough time ta take all ma naps—"

"Heh, heh. Yeah, we've sure been busy, Granny," Applejack chimed in, turning to Braeburn.

Granny chuckled. "An' Ah swear, it's been far too long since yer hide's been 'round—"

Applejack laughed and nodded. "Eeyup, it's been far too long since we've seen ya, Braeburn. So," she began, placing a forehoof on his shoulder, "what brings ya here?"

"Well, er, heh..." Braeburn forced a laugh, looking nervously around the room. The living room and the rest of the farmhouse appeared to be in good shape—even better than that. Many of the worn furnishings seemed to have been repaired, and the old wood stove apparently had been replaced with a new one.

"Oh, ya like our new stove?" Applejack asked, a huge grin on her muzzle. "Keeps the house nice an' warm!"

Granny Smith nodded, then nudged the stallion in the ribs. "A lil' too warm some nights."

Braeburn tilted his head and looked at Applejack. Glancing quizzically at her grandmother, she said, "Well, Granny, if the stove gets the house too hot, Ah could always—"

"Oh, don't ya be playin' like ya don't know what Ah mean!" Granny whooped, smacking Applejack on the back. She said to Braeburn, "Why, this one's been havin' that rather nice stallion 'round lately—err, what's his name? The one wit' the horseshoes on his—"

"Granny!" Crimson dotting her cheeks, Applejack said quietly, "Maybe you should finish up yer nap. Yer soundin' all sorts o' crazy."

Braeburn, on the other hoof, merely looked away and shook unpleasant imagery from his mind, stifling a chuckle. Embarrassed on Applejack's behalf, he studied the intricate patterns of the walls and ceiling.

Granny Smith chuckled and dismissed the embarrassed mare with a forehoof, walking over towards her trusty chair. "Aw, Ah get it. Ah get it. Sheesh! Anyway, nice ta see ya 'round, Braeburn," she said, looking over her shoulder and shooting him a wink.

"Er, thank ya kindly, Granny," he replied. Smoothing the creases of his vest, Braeburn turned to Applejack. "Anyway, Ah've got some things ta ask ya 'bout, Applejack."

Applejack raised an eyebrow. "Things? What kinda things?"

"Uh, well..." Braeburn looked over to see that Granny Smith had already settled in her chair and was closing her eyes. "Maybe we should talk in the kitchen?" he asked, tempted by the strong scent of fritters along with a yearning for privacy.

Applejack nodded, smiling as the old mare began to snore once more. Throwing a forehoof over his shoulders, she said, "C'mon, Brae. Ah made enough fritters fer everypony, plus extra."

~

He held nothing back, not one single drop in the polluted dam that churned Manehatten's toxic undercurrent. He began at the beginning, as colts are oft to do. He began with his own sin—his own greed and lust for power, and for revenge.

Ah, revenge. The single thread connecting him to Bernie Madhoof, eternally it seemed, and the one he'd never snipped, despite countless opportunities to do so. That thread became a chain with the addition of a black orange and two letters almost four years ago.

As he spoke, the reactions of the two stallions and three mares hopped in between outrage, disgust, and, most infrequently, pity. Card Slinger detailed everything he knew of Madhoof's operation, the King's Knights, and how that related to his own, probably defunct gang.

"So," Slinger said carefully, finishing up,"as youze can see, there is far mo' ta dis than jus' Kings an' Mafia. Kings an' Mafia is jus' a distraction from the real thing, the real deal. Sure, there is a rivalry there—o', eh, was—but it's intentional. Madhoof funds both sides, an' makes 'em fight, an' othas, too. Not jus' Manehatten, but Manehatten is his ground zero. His square one. Square on on the chessboard."

"Chessboard...?" Rustler tilted his head.

Slinger laughed. "The whole world is a chessboard ta him. A silly lil' game. Nothin' mattas. Killin' ponies, robbin' 'em, burnin' down their homes an' businesses..."

Slinger paused, glancing at the two Apple mares for a moment. Both regarded him with steely eyes and silent muzzles. He looked to the three law-ponies and continued, "It's all a big, cosmic game ta him. Madhoof thinks himself betta than Celestia, he does."

This time, White Dove was the one to break the silence, booming a laugh. She started to dissolve into a fit of unrestrained laughter, clutching at her stomach and throwing her head back, howling at the moonless gray. "Bwhahaha! B-better than C-Celestia?! Bahahaha!"

Rustler snapped, rounding on her, "What's so buckin' funny, Dove?!"

"B-because—hehe!—dat dumbass—haha!—s-seriously t-thinks he can—pfft!—beat C-Celestia?!" Dove rocked on her hindhooves, dissolving into tears of amusement. She wiped her tears away as she continued to howl and laugh, oblivious to Rustler's cold stare.

Card Slinger flattened his ears and growled, "It's true!"

Lucky Toss blew a raspberry. "Now, all o' dis shit is crazy enough as it is, but dat bastard thinks he could take on the Princess?"

"'Ey!" Babs Seed stomped a forehoof. The resulting THUD! echoed off the walls and turned three muzzles towards her, silencing Dove's laughter.

She and Apple Bloom shared a silent exchange before turning back to the others. "We believe him," Apple Bloom said, wrapping a forehoof around one of Babs's forelegs.

"Youze do?" Rustler scoffed. "Nopony is dat stupid!"

"Madhoof is," Babs shot back. Horseapples. I can't say dat name without wantin' ta vomit.

Babs shook her muzzle. "Iffa anythin o' what he says is true, dat is. Madhoof is..." She let her words trail off, struggling for the appropriate adjectives. A bastard? Dipshit? Scum-for-brains, murderous, treacherous, slimy, despicable, infamous—

Apple Bloom finished for her. "The worst pony under Celestia's sun. If anypony would be some kind o'... puppet-master crime-lord, it would be him."

"An' how do youze know?" Rustler challenged.

"Don't ask," both answered.

Rustler gritted his teeth but didn't reply, turning back to Card Slinger instead. "So, dis asshole thinks he can outwit the Princesses?"

"Oh, he doesn't think he can! He already has!" Card Slinger half-barked, half-whooped. Leaning back in his chair, he declared to the ceiling, "Madhoof's pullin' all the damn strings, makin' sure none o' dis shit gets ta Canterlot Castle!"

"Dat's impossible," Dove said angrily, her muscles tensing visibly beneath her white coat. "How the hay could none o' dis get ta her? 'Specially since it's been... four years, youze say?"

"As much as I hate ta agree with him," Rustler said, glaring at Card Slinger, "he's right 'bout the timeline, Dove. Was four years ago when everythin' went ta shit. I was still a schoolcolt then." He hesitated before saying, "I was plannin' on bein' a Royal Guard maself, when Manehatten started ta crack."

Toss rubbed his neck. "Heh. I was gonna open a casino when things started goin' south."

Officer Rustler flared his nostrils and turned away from the other stallion. White Dove, however, asked, "What made youze change youze mind?"

"Actually," Toss said, averting his eyes to the floor, "it was when I heard 'bout Fenca gettin' shot..."

Silence.

Apple Bloom and Babs Seed exchanged knowing glances before leaning a little closer to each other. Ta think, dat coulda been me o' Bloom, iffa we woulda lived heeya... o', even, earlier... when all those stallions were lookin' at us...

Wait...

"Slinga!" Babs exclaimed, shattering the silence.

Card Slinger, who'd been staring at his hooves, looked up. "Yea?"

"Does he..." Babs swallowed. "Does he know we're heeya?"

Slinger paused. "Not... Not as far as I know."

Babs Seed turned to the three in uniform. "Not gonna get inta details, but iffa Madhoof is behind all dis shit West—all the shootin's, all the crime—an' he finds out me an' Bloom are heeya... it's not gonna be... good."

"Why did he send those ponies out West?" Apple Bloom asked, narrowing her eyes at Card Slinger. "The way ya say it, it seems like he jus' wants power. Why would he send ponies ta terrorize a sleepy lil' settlement out in the middle o' nowhere?"

Card Slinger shrugged. "He's got an obsession wit' oranges, an' makin' sure places he stakes his claim only sell orange-flavored beverages. All we were told was ta get any law-ponies, an' the saloons, because dey didn't sell his products."

A collective chill ran down the spines of Babs Seed and Apple Bloom. So dat's what dis is 'bout... oranges... apples... Oh, shit, dat means—

Apple Bloom froze, her eyes wide. "He hasn't sent nopony ta Ponyville... has he?"

"Ponyville? Ain't dat where youze from, Babs?" Lucky Toss asked.

"Ponyville?" Rustler said, "I thought when youze up an' left all those years 'go, youze went out ta Appleloosa."

Babs shook her head. "Dat's where ma Ma an' sis went." Before he could inquire further, she lifted a forehoof to halt him. "Not youze business. Now, Slinga," she stated firmly, glaring at him, "answa me dat one."

"As far as I know, no. But," Slinger warned, his voice beginning to wax raspy, "he's got his hooves everywhere. In everythin'. Hay, far as I know, he could have connections there. Spies. Ponies in the local government, o' the post office. Watchin' shit. Takin' notes. Plottin'. He thinks himself invincible, an' thinks Celestia can't touch him."

"Well, then why hasn't nopony told Celestia?" Dove dug a forehoof into the concrete. "I'll admit, when I was in the Guard, she wasn't exactly as invincible o' perfect as most ponies think she is. But she wasn't stupid, o' neglectful. We had minor skirmishes wit' the Griffon an' Zebra kingdoms when I was in fo' smaller shit than what goes on in Manehatten!"

"Well, why haven't youze told her, then?" Slinger shot back.

Gritting her teeth, White Dove stomped the floor. "I have! Youze wanna see how many lettas I wrote ta her befo' I gave up? How many—"

"Why did youze give up?" Card Slinger asked, his grin growing wider.

Dove threw back her mane and exclaimed, "Because! Because I neva heard back, an' things neva got betta, maybe we got mo' Officas o' mo' weapons, but things didn't get betta. Dey would calm down fo' a bit, then dey would pick up, somepony would go missin', o' somepony found at the bottom o' Manehatten Lake, o'... o'..."

Before five sets of eyes, an unseen puzzle hovered, the pieces slowly coming together.

"Post office," Apple Bloom said. "Ya said he's got his hooves in there."

Slinger nodded. "Dat's right."

"An' I'd be willin' ta bet he's got his hooves on some o' the Canterlot nobles. Maybe even the Royal Guard," Lucky Toss said, finally tearing away from the desk. He sat on his haunches, the room starting to constrict around him. "Shit, iffa Slinga's right, he's got the money ta buy the entire... force... iffa he wanted ta..."

"He does," Babs Seed said. "In fact, accordin' ta ma Ma, he used ta practically own the force befo' Celestia had the Guard come in."

White Dove bit her lip, her brow furrowing, everything she'd come to know grinding to a halt. "But—but—"

A silent realization crept up between Apple Bloom and Babs Seed during the former detective's stuttering. Babs interrupted her, staring at Card Slinger as she asked, "Do youze know what his future plans are?"

Dove continued to stammer, her eyes darting around the room, "But—then—dat—no—"

Slinger said coolly, a smug smile on his muzzle, "He's got a map in his office with a bunch o' pushpins. Map o' Equestria, an' all the places he's been o' wants ta go."

"Office?" Toss asked.

"The Orange Family Mansion," Slinger replied, one eye on Babs Seed, who only stiffened. "There on the second floor, an' anotha. The one way up high. On the thirty-third floor o' the Manehatten skyscrapa. His towa." He snickered. "His stronghold."

Rustler began, "Are youze—"

"ENOUGH!"

White Dove bucked her hindhooves against one of the walls, resounding pain shooting through her limbs and a roaring WHOMP! echoing through the chamber. She reared up on her aching hindhooves, barking, "How can youze all seriously believe dis?! There's no way somepony could've built an entire organization without the Princesses knowin'!"

Lucky Toss pulled her down to the floor with a forehoof on her shoulder. "Dove! Get ahold o' youzeself!"

"Easy fo' youze ta say!" she snapped. "Youze tryin' ta tell me dat the Princesses jus' lets dis shit happen?!"

"Isn't dat what youze were thinkin' already?" Rustler challenged, stomping towards her. "Youze always complainin', whinin', waxin' 'bout how incompetent everypony else is, includin' Brutus an' the Princesses, when youze couldn't even solve a damn case!"

"Cut it out!" Toss shouted, glaring daggers at him.

"Youze Chief is a Knight, an' youze Princess don't know shit!" Card Slinger exclaimed, rocking in his chair. He groaned, his hooves aching, deep indentations from the hoof-cuffs cutting into his flesh.

"How could she not know?!" Dove shot back.

"She ain't God, youze idiot!" Card Slinger said, sweat rolling down his brow. "Youze said it youzeself she ain't perfect! Madhoof has everythin' in his hooves, pullin' all the right strings—"

Dove spun around and crossed her forehooves, shaking her head. "No way. Dis... dis is takin' it too far," she said grimly, eying the others. "Youze all bein' taken fo' foals. There's jus'... in all ma years... no—"

"Dammit, Dove!" Babs stomped the floor with her forehooves, iron and concrete piercing the stammering silence. "I don't think youze get it! Iffa what dis... dis... scumbag says is true, an' dat monsta is the one who sent ponies out west, an' makes the gangs fight each otha, an' is buyin' ponies' silence an' stoppin' things from reachin' Canterlot—"

As much as I don't want dat ta be true—

"Then it doesn't matter what happens ta Slinga! An' ya know what else?" Apple Bloom approached the incredulous mare with determined hoofsteps. "If that's right, then not only are Babs an' Ah in danger, everypony is, until Madhoof's stopped."

He's the only pony really capable o' it.

"Sever the root," Card Slinger said again, grinning in the dim light of the chamber. "Sever it. Not fo' me. I despise dat bastard mo' than any o' youze can relate—"

Fat chance.

"But, iffa nothin' else, youze need ta go afta him fo' youze own sake, too. Unless youze are Knights, o' course," Card Slinger finished, his smile fading.

"Don't youze even think we're gonna present ta youze fo' a second," snapped Officer Rustler, whipping his tail against his flanks. He hopped down from the desk and approached White Dove.

Lucky Toss and Babs Seed joined him, completing a circle of four surrounding the skeptical mare. "Look," Rustler said through his teeth, staring at her, "dis may be a long shot, but it's the first one we've got in ages."

"We?" Dove snorted. "Who is dis 'we'? Youze antagonized me from the moment youze rookie flank joined the damn force! Always kissin' flank up ta Bru—"

"'Ey! 'Ey! 'Ey!" Separating the two with his forehooves, Lucky rounded on White Dove. "Dat's not gonna help us any!"

Rustler countered, "Yeah, well, until ta-night, I jus' thought youze were some arrogant know-it-all wit' a short fuse! Ta-night, I learned youze had youze motivations fo' bein' so. Still don't like youze, but we gotta work togetha."

"Youze see a badge on ma uniform?" Dove objected. "O' one on Lucky's? We're done."

Lucky Toss hesitated, looking from White Dove, to Card Slinger, to Apple Bloom and Babs Seed, and, finally, to Rustler. Rustler—his former victim, and the first colt who'd ever dare stand up to him—stood tall in his uniform, staring back at him, a similar ocean of snide remarks and tumultuous history reflecting back into his eyes. Nevertheless, the investigator stayed silent, as did the rest of the room, even Card Slinger waiting to see what Lucky would do.

"Well, I'm gonna find it, then," Lucky Toss said at last. Shifting his focus to Babs and Apple Bloom, he said, "I promised I would help youze two, an' I'll be damned iffa I break dat promise jus' because o' the actions o' somepony else."

Looking at White Dove, Toss lowered his gaze and sighed. "Who knows iffa Slinga is right o' not? But iffa he is—"

"We're all in danga." Babs Seed turned to Apple Bloom and sighed. "Dis ain't our fight, but..."

"Ah know, sugarcube," Apple Bloom said gently, placing a forehoof on top of one of Babs's. "If ya weren't gonna say it, Ah was."

Apple Bloom turned around and faced the others. "Lucky, Rustla, if there's anythin' we can do ta help, we're gonna." She added firmly, "Ah know we ain't law-ponies, but if Madhoof is causin' all this, then we're in danger, an' so is our family. An' we Apples don't let anythin' happen ta our family."

Officer Rustler tapped his chin, then nodded. "Iffa youze hadn't saved ma life, Babs, then I would think a lil' differently. An' from what I think went on in the back room, youze pretty strong, too, Bloom. Youze two know how ta shoot?"

"Somewhat," Babs answered.

"Good enough. Er..." Forcing a cough, Rustler played with one of the pockets of his uniform and mumbled, "Sorry fo' bein' a right jackass ta both o' youze earlier."

"We forgive ya," Apple Bloom said with a smile.

Card Slinger said mockingly, "Awww! Look at dat! Ol' foalhood friends reunited!" He started to laugh, rocking back and forth in the chair.

White Dove was the first to spin around and snap at him, "Shut the buck up o' I'll give youze summat ta cry 'bout, scumbag!"

Blowing a raspberry, Card Slinger leaned back in his chair and clicked his tongue. "Whateva."

"An' fo' youze!" White Dove pointed at Rustler and Lucky. "Youze seriously gonna check out what he's sayin'?"

"What else can we do?" Lucky asked, throwing up his forehooves. "Iffa he is right, bout the gangs, 'bout the post offices, 'bout all these connections, then it would be unethical an' unlawful o' us ta not pursue the leads. Not dat youze seemed ta care dat much 'bout ethics."

Shifting her gaze between the Apples and the officers, White Dove defended, "I apologized already, alright? What mo' do youze want from me?"

"Well, ya did promise ta help us, too," Apple Bloom pointed out, taking a step towards her. "Ah know it sounds downright ridiculous, but Ah'm tellin' ya, Dove—if he's right, an' Madhoof is behind all this, things are gonna get worse. He's rich, he's got power, an' he's worse than heartless. He's downright evil. He's Nightmare an' Discord in pony flesh."

The room fell silent but for the rocking of Card Slinger's steel chair against the wall of the chamber.

Finally, White Dove answered by trotting over to her discarded badge, picking it up, and pinning it to her uniform. "Alright... Card Slinga," she said, disgusted by the roll of the words off her tongue, "where is dis office o' his?"

Babs answered, "We can tell youze where the mansion is." I happen ta know it quite well...

Horseapples, dis is weird... No, not weird. Bizarre. Who in the hay woulda thought I'd eva come back heeya, afta so long, an' find out ma old home is a crime den?

"Mo' than likely, he's got dat place heavily guarded, Babs," Detective White Dove said.

Card Slinger snickered. "Understatement o' the year."

"Fine, then." Officer Rustler approached Card Slinger again. "Where is his otha office?"

"Like I said: thirty-third floor o' the skyscrapa downtown. Can't miss it."

"What's it labeled as?" asked Officer Lucky Toss.

"I think it's labeled unda some insurance company," Slinger stated. "Iffa youze check the back o' products, like orange juice an' citrus beer, dat he makes an' owns, youze won't find his name. He goes unda a ton o' aliases. Bastard's got all the bases covered."

"Very well." Detective White Dove turned to the rest of the group. "It's been a long night. Hell, it's probably mornin' by now..." Reaching inside one of the pockets of her uniform, she fished for her pocketwatch and flipped it open. "Dammit. Glass is cracked."

Youze welcome. Babs smiled to herself.

"Horseapples... it's almost 0800." Resisting the urge to yawn, White Dove acknowledged the others with a sweeping gaze. "Let's say we get dis asshole locked up, an' meet at The Big Orange 'round 1800 tomorrow?"

Apple Bloom blinked. "Meetin'? Fer what?"

"What do youze mean, 'locked up'?!" demanded Card Slinger, blurting his question at the same time as Apple Bloom.

Officer Rustler growled t and spun on Slinger. "Put youze in jail, scumbag! We'll investigate youze claims, an' hold off on puttin' youze befo' a judge until then. Iffa we can get proof dat youze didn't kill..." He swallowed, then continued, "Those three ponies, an' dat Madhoof is responsible, we'll go from there. But we can't keep youze in dis room foreva."

"Iffa youze think we were bad, jus' have us have Cotton watch ova youze." Dove laughed darkly, Rustler and Toss soon joining her. Babs Seed and Apple Bloom just shrugged, having no desire to understand the grim joke.

"Alright. Well, in dat case, we're gonna head back. C'mon, Apple Bloom." Throwing a forehoof around her mare's shoulders, Babs Seed began to lead the pair out of the room.

Lucky Toss trotted up to meet them. "'Ey! Aren't youze two stayin' in a hotel o' summat?"

Stopping in her tracks, Babs looked over her shoulder. "Yeah... why?"

"Well, uh, did youze check in unda youze real names?"

"Yes. What are ya gettin' at, Lucky?" asked Apple Bloom, raising an eyebrow.

"Might not be the safest idea, assumin' Slinga ain't full o' it. Tell youze what. I'll escort youze back, an' youze two can stay in ma guest room. Iffa youze want, o' course," he added quickly, shooting them a sheepish grin.

"I'm not sure iffa—"

"That sounds great, Lucky. Follow us," Apple Bloom said, tugging on Babs's forehoof and leading her out of the room.

Lucky Toss grinned triumphantly and followed after them, turning around to mouth to his fellow officers, "catch youze two 'round noon".

As Apple Bloom stopped to push the door open, Babs protested, "But—but—he's—"

"Betta than stayin' in the middle o' the city where anypony can ask where we are," Apple Bloom explained, shoving the door open. She blinked and groaned at the resulting light. So did Babs Seed. Spent far too long in dat gray room...

"Can't argue wit' dat," Babs admitted.

"Don't worry!" Lucky assured, slinging a forehoof around both of their shoulders. "I may be a bachelor, but I keep things clean. An' I sleep most o' the day, anyway, iffa youze wanted some privacy." He winked and nudged Babs in the shoulder.

Both mares face-hoofed as they stepped into the hallway.

~

"Coffee o' apple juice, Braeburn?" Applejack offered, grabbing a plate from a cupboard in the kitchen. She selected a fresh apple fritter cooling on the tray and placed it on the dish, then set it down on the table in front of Braeburn.

Braeburn removed his Stetson, letting it hang off the back of the chair. Stretching his tired hindhooves beneath the table, he yawned and mumbled, "Mmm... coffee's probably the best idea right 'bout now."

With a laugh, Applejack poured him a fresh cup. "Yer lucky me an' Mac need our caffeine in the mornin'." She placed the mug next to his apple fritter and sat down beside him. "So, tell me, Braeburn, how's things out in Appleloosa?"

Taking a bite of the fritter, Braeburn chewed slowly, using his full mouth as an excuse to contemplate his answer. The fritter tasted even better than it smelled, if that was even possible. Swallowing, he set down the pastry and replied carefully, "Well... er, things could definitely be... better."

"Oh?" Applejack sipped her coffee. "Somethin' wrong? That troublemaker Pickaxe stirrin' stuff up?"

He blinked. "P-Pickaxe?"

"Yea!" Wiping her muzzle with the back of a forehoof, she explained, "Apple Bloom an' Babs said in their letters a while back that there was some stallion causin' trouble a bit. Tried ta pick up on Bloom o' somethin'."

Applejack chuckled, shaking her muzzle. "Hoo-ey! Ah'm sure glad Ah wasn't that stallion. Ah imagine Babs musta kicked his flank." She paused. "Ah think that was the same day somepony came an' shot up the salt bar..."

"It was, Applejack," Braeburn confirmed, nodding grimly. "Ah was the one who gunned him down."

She grinned. "That's our Braeburn. Gonna be Sheriff soon."

"Er, Applejack—"

"Why, Ah can't see Silverstar pickin' nopony but you, Brae!" Applejack took another sip of her coffee. "Yer obviously a decent shot, not ta mention the most hardworkin', family-oriented, kindest damn stallion Ah've ever known. Next ta Mac, o' course," she added with a chuckle. "An' don't even git me started on how ya handled that situation wit' the Buffalo."

"Applejack—"

"Nope, Ah can't think o' nopony who'd be a better Sheriff than you, Braeburn," Applejack finished, grinning from ear to ear. She regarded him with a proud nod, then took another drink of steaming caffeine. She licked her lips and glanced out the kitchen window. "You came out at a nice time, Braeburn. Everythin's startin' ta turn all red, orange, an' yell—"

"Applejack!" Braeburn exclaimed, grabbing one of her forehooves. His outburst startled both his cousin and his grandmother, Granny Smith nearly jumping out of her chair.

"What was that?!"

"Jus' Braeburn, Granny! Go back ta sleep!" Applejack called into the living room. Turning back to the stallion, she squeezed his forehoof and forced a chuckle. "Er, sorry. Ah didn't mean ta ramble, there. O' interrupt ya. Now," she said, releasing her grip, "what's on yer mind?"

"Applejack..." Braeburn paused, his mind running rampant with disbelief. Had she truly heard nothing? Not about the first shooting? Not the about second, beyond Yukon? Was she completely oblivious to the... arson? To everything? Had not a single letter made its way to Ponyville?

He spoke again, taking a different route. "Applejack, when's the last time you heard from Babs, Bloom, o' Citrus?"

"Hmmm..." Applejack tapped her chin and looked away. Far in the orchards, she could barely see the cherry-red figure of Big Macintosh harvesting a fresh orchard. She looked back to Braeburn.

"Come ta think o' it, it has been a while since Ah got a letter. But Caramel said Babs an' Apple Bloom are fine... though Babs needs ta watch her tongue a bit," Applejack grumbled, snorting. "Always been a bit irrational, that filly."

"Alright, but..." Braeburn pushed his fritter around his plate for a few moments before looking her in the eye. "Can ya tell me the last time you got a letter from Appleloosa, o' Babs an' Bloom?"

"Ah'd have ta say it's been close ta a month now. Maybe even a lil' mo' tha—wait. Is everythin' alright?" Applejack stared straight into him, alarmed to see the stallion flinch in her gaze. "Braeburn..."

Pushing his plate away, Braeburn brought his forehooves in front of him and took a deep breath.

Sensing bad news on the horizon, Applejack removed her own Stetson and steadied herself. "Braeburn... what's goin' on?"

"A lot, Applejack," Braeburn deadpanned. "An' none o' it is good."

~

By some miracle, Babs Seed and Apple Bloom managed to collect their belongings from their room without forgetting anything. Sleep tugged at both of their eyes, but the events in both the hidden and interrogation chambers weighed heavily on their minds. Lucky Toss waited patiently outside their door, then led them out and into the busy Manehatten streets once they'd checked and double-checked their saddlebags and turned in their key.

Weaving and twisting through the beginning, morning crowds, they followed the stallion, who was still in his Manehatten blues, with bags under his eyes and his mane a mess of frazzled white, through the city. Babs Seed couldn't help but notice that several stallions eyed them curiously as they passed. After pointing this out to Apple Bloom, they quickened their pace, walking side-by-side with the police officer instead of behind him.

Finally, after navigating through a maze of abandoned storefronts, junk-food-peddling vendors, and a legion of half-awake, harried passerby, the three reached a large apartment building. "Shady Oaks Apartment Homes" read the lettering on the front, glass door. The front door was locked, accessible only to residents via a special key.

Fumbling around for the key in his uniform pockets, Toss said, "I know it don't look dat good, but it's betta than most places 'round heeya."

"Ah don't see a single oak tree 'round here," Apple Bloom grumbled.

Babs added, "Youze couldn't afford betta on an offica's salary?"

Finding the key, Lucky Toss opened the door and held it open for them to enter. He sighed. "I do ma best. Got some debts I'm... not proud o'."

Glancing at the dice on his flank, Babs nodded in understanding, following after Apple Bloom. Once all three were inside, Lucky Toss led the mares through a series of hallways and up the stairs, stopping on the second level. Another turn of a corridor, and he gestured to one of the doors. Apartment 22.

After locating another key, Lucky Toss opened another door. "Welcome ta ma castle! A mansion ta rival anypony's. Heh, heh."

Trotting inside, the first thing Babs and Apple Bloom noticed were takeout containers. Empty boxes of veggie and cheese pizzas, discarded containers of pasta, and pie tins left to soak in the sink dominated the scene, all coupled with an array of crumbs, sauce stains, and odors that they were not particularly interested in discerning.

Apple Bloom managed a grin and said, politely as she could, "It's, uh... very nice, Toss."

"Uh, yeah..." Looking around, Babs spotted a mess of empty food cans, newspapers, cider, and beer bottles littering the kitchen table, kitchen countertops, coffee table, and even a bookshelf. "Youze doin' pretty nice fo' youzeself."

Locking his front door, Lucky shrugged and muttered, "Best I can do. Heeya, let me show youze the guest room."

Thankfully, the guest room off the main hallway of the apartment was in pristine condition, appearing to have never been used. A queen-sized bed, nightstand, writing desk, chair, and lamp were the only items contrasting against the blaringly-white walls. "Sorry it ain't decorated. Didn't really have the bits fo' dat jus' yet," Toss said, looking ashamed.

"It's no problem. Thanks fo' lettin' us stay heeya, Lucky."

"You really didn't have ta! Very nice o' ya." Apple Bloom yawned, the other two soon joining her.

"Sh... Sheesh..." Babs trotted over to the window and shut the blinds, rubbing her muzzle with a forehoof. "Been up almost twenty-four hours now..."

Toss laughed. "Yea, it was a long night fo' all o' us. I'll be headin' ta bed, too," he said, unbuttoning his uniform. Grabbing the doorknob, he began to close the door, stopping to say, "I'll get youze two up at 1700, jus' so we ain't late. Oh, an' the walls are thin, so—"

Both glared at him.

"Alright, alright... horseapples!" Shaking his head, the stallion grinned as he closed the door, saying, "Goodnight, youze two."

"Goodnight, Lucky!"

"Night, Toss."

Once the door was shut, they quickly settled into bed. Happily, it was soft and warm, thick blankets and fine sheets making them more than comfortable. Snuggling into her mare, Apple Bloom pulled the blankets over themselves, muttering, "Ah wish this was jus' a dream..."

Yawning, Babs said, "Me... hah... too. Maybe iffa we go ta sleep, we'll wake up from it."

Apple Bloom laughed and wrapped a forehoof around Babs Seed, stroking her back gently. "Ah sure hope so."

"Mmm. Let's try an' get some sleep, alright?"

"Alright..." Apple Bloom closed her eyes and curled up against her mare's chest.

In spite of the sun and shadows, they fell asleep quickly.

And dreamt of the West, and Ponyville.

~

"Braeburn... Ah... Ah jus' don't know..."

"Ah know it's a lot ta take in, cuz, but Ah'm tellin' you... we wrote ya, we sent all those letters out..."

"Ah... Ah didn't git a single one. Are ya sure 'bout this?"

"Ah know Ah'm sure, Applejack. Ah saw everythin' wit' ma own eyes. As fer Babs an' Bloom, well, Citrus an' Libra went out there when it happened. Ah had ta stay back. But Ah saw 'em when they came back ta Appleloosa. Babs has a huge scar on her shoulder now... they had ta dig the bullet out, Applejack."

"Ah... Ah..."

"Applejack..."

"Ah jus'... Ah jus'... stuff like that? Stuff like that doesn't happen 'round here! 'Specially not out in the middle o'—"

"We've had troubles befo' wit' outlaws, wit' criminals. That's why we had Silverstar. That's why he trained me up. Because things jus' started gettin' bad, Applejack."

"Ah know, but... why?"

"Ah'm pretty damn sure somethin' in Manehatten has ta do wit' it. The orange.. the black orange... it's a gang, Applejack. It's a gang, an' Ah'll be damned if it ain't comin' from back East."

"Braeburn... Ah... Ah hate ta call ya a liar, but—"

"Ah ain't lyin'! This is the truth, Applejack. The damned truth."

"Ah know, but... it's jus' so hard ta believe. Hasn't anypony told the Princesses?"

"As far as Ah know, a bunch o' townsfolk sent letters out that way. Most o' us are strugglin', so gettin' bits together ta go visit Canterlot ain't somethin' most ponies can do, much less gettin' an' audience wit' the Princesses. But as far as Ah know, a bunch o' messages were sent out. But if you didn't get ours, then maybe—"

"Nopony got theirs ta Canterlot."

"That's what Ah'm afraid o'."

"But... but who would..."

"You know... Ah've been thinkin'... It's crazy, but... there is one stallion. Assumin' he's still alive..."

"You don't mean—"

"Ah do. Ah do, Applejack. An' Ah'm scared Ah might be right."

~

1700 arrived rather rudely with a stomp of hooves on the hardwood and a call of, "Please tell me youze two are jus' sleepin'!"

1700 pulled Apple Bloom and Babs Seed from the depth of their dreams, which was a daunting task, considering how pleasant they had been. Fields of gold and green replaced seas of gray, apple trees with limbs outstretched springing up where concrete obelisks once stood.

Last night had taught them in many ways that the nightmare was not over, and so they rose, taming messy manes and shoveling down the only food in Lucky Toss' apartment that didn't appear to be of questionable age or origin.

"Ah can't believe Ah'm eatin' ice cream fer breakfast," Apple Bloom grumbled, slurping down a spoonful.

"At least it's strawberry," Babs Seed said with a groan, licking the spoon.

Lucky Toss, decked out in a fresh uniform, rolled his eyes and took a bite of some pasta from a takeout container. "'Ey! I offered ta share ma spaghetti, but it was youze two who refused!"

"Shuddup, Toss." Babs snickered and stole a final bite of ice cream. Setting the spoon in the muddy, slightly soapy water in the sink, she asked him, "Do youze have any idea what we're gonna do ta-night?"

He shrugged. "I couldn't sleep very well, so I actually got up at noon an' went an' talked ta Dove. She's keepin' it all hush-hush fo' now. Only youze two, me, an' Rustla know. She said we'll discuss the plan at the bar." Jamming another forkful of pasta into his maw, he smacked as he chewed, shaking his muzzle slowly. "Youze two still sure youze wanna be involved in dis?"

"Isn't that what y'all should be askin'?" Apple Bloom challenged, putting her spoon in the sink as well. She turned to face him. "Afta all, we ain't law-ponies. Isn't this illegal? Helpin' y'all wit' an investigation?"

"Technically, no. There's a lot youze can do legally ta help us as civilians."

"Includin' what we're gonna do ta-night?" Babs asked.

Finishing his pasta, Toss chucked the empty container into a mountain of them on the countertop. Wiping his forehooves on a disheveled kitchen towel, he said, "Depends. I'm not sure. An' I'm pretty sure dat, afta what we learned last night, Brutus ain't gonna be hearin' o' it, neitha. Dat opens up our options."

Babs raised an eyebrow. "An' Rustla's gonna keep his mouth shut 'bout dis? Doesn't he always suck up ta the Chief?"

"Sounded like he'd changed his heart last night. Let's hope he keeps his muzzle shut." Glancing at a clock on the wall, Lucky Toss ushered them with a forehoof. "C'mon, we're burnin' daylight."

They followed closely behind him out of the squalid apartment, bellies full but stomachs churning.

~

Bernie Madhoof relaxed in his home office, leaning back in his favorite char and propping his hindhooves on the desk. A fat cigar hanging from his lips, he chuckled and exhaled a thick smoke ring towards his visitor. "What news do you bring me today, little worm?"

Bowing before his King, Chief Brutus replied to the carpet, his words muffled and incomprehensible.

Reaching over, Madhoof flicked hot ash onto the snow-white stallion's neck.

Yelping, Brutus rubbed his neck, gritting his teeth and fighting back the urge to make any further noise. The rough stomp of hooves against carpet announced he had already trespassed against his Master.

Grabbing the stallion by the mane, King Orange yanked his lowly subject up, forcing him to meet his eyes. "You will speak up clearly when you address me! Do you understand, little worm?!" he demanded, grabbing the cigar and bringing it directly in front of the stallion's eyes.

"Y-Yes, s-sir!"

"Good!" Releasing him, Madhoof grinned at the satisfying THUMP! the large stallion made when he landed. He grinned further at the little worm's pathetic grunt of pain. "Now, tell me of our newest... friend being held downtown."

Rubbing the burn on his neck, Chief Brutus spoke clearly, avoiding his Master's gaze but speaking in his direction. "Card Slinga's got a jail cell all ta himself. As far as ma Officas tell me, he was interrogated last night, but nothin' came o' it. In fact, the Officas who interrogated him threw him in the cell once mornin' hit. Officas Rustla an' White Dove interrogated him, an' submitted no new reports o' follow-up to me. I spoke ta some o' ma otha officas, an' they know nothin' o' it. He's still charged wit' the three murdas, an' we should be gettin' him in front o' a judge fo' a few days."

The Master's smile grew ever wider, threatening to split his muzzle. "Very good, little worm! Why, that little rat can rot in prison for the rest of his life for all I care. As long as the little birdy doesn't sing, let him keep flapping his tiny wings." Taking another drag of his cigar, he said with a chuckle, "I'm sure his fellow prisoners are quite enjoying the little faggot."

Chief Brutus nodded, repressing a laugh.

"Very good, little worm. The city needs somepony to go to prison for a prolific crime. Something to... satiate the masses, if you will. Besides... he has outlived his purpose. Make sure he doesn't talk, and those bits are yours. And if he does..."

The King gestured for the worm to finish for him.

"M-make sure he chokes on his tongue?"

Madhoof laughed. "You may prove yourself useful just yet, little worm. Yes. Make sure his death is a painful one."

He looked out the window of his glorious mansion towards his skyscraper in the distance—his tower, reaching the empty Heavens, peering down at all the skittish ants below.

Him above, them below.

The King smiled. The sun was setting. Soon would come the night.

In a few more days, he would go again to the West, to the wasteland. Soon, he would move the chessboard in a different direction, and strike down the source of his opposition once and for all.

Ponyville.

Har-Meggido

Applejack opened her saddlebag and threw several ripe apples inside, along with a few bottles of fresh cider. She packed quickly. Hesitation didn't even have a chance of crossing her mind. While it wasn’t even noon yet, she still felt the daylight burning away on the horizon, and was fueled by the fire in her veins.

Meanwhile, Braeburn waited in the living room with a snoozing Granny Smith. He studied the walls and the wrinkles on the elderly mare's jawline while he tried to stop his teeth from chattering. Darting his eyes from floor to ceiling and back again, he took a few slow, deep breaths, willing himself to be patient.

Easier said than done. If he and Applejack were correct, this was big. Bigger than his cousin still working the orchards. Bigger than the uncharted territory beyond Appleloosa's meager city limit.

Bigger than anything Braeburn could have ever thought possible.

Granny, on the other hoof, slept in blissful ignorance. "Zzzz... mmm... Apple Strudel, Ah told ya ta put that in the cupboard..." Her head lolled onto her shoulder, a trail of drool trickling down her muzzle. "Mmm... Apple Rose... not now..."

Braeburn cleared his throat and adjusted his Stetson, his saddlebags feeling heavy across his back. Within was but one weapon—one tool to dismantle everything he hoped was just wild speculation on his behalf. One revolver. About fifty rounds of ammunition. Nothing nowhere near what would be needed, if his suspicions were correct. If theirs were.

Just as he'd begun shuffling his hooves, switching his gaze between Granny Smith and a very interesting stain on the couch, Applejack emerged from the kitchen. Across her back were her own pair of saddlebags, heavy with provisions for the long ride. On her head sat her trusty Stetson, which she tugged at once, twice, a third time, as if she could straighten out everything else the way she did her hat.

"All packed up?" Braeburn asked, breaking the silence. His words ebbed and flowed as he spoke.

Applejack nodded, saying nothing.

"Alright," he said, trying to sound casual. As if there's anythin' casual 'bout this.

With a nod, Applejack trotted over to her grandmother and nudged her in the shoulder.

Granny Smith’s head lolled to her other shoulder. "Zzzz... No... not ma gumdrop buttons..."

"Granny, wake up." Applejack nudged her a little harder this time.

Granny twitched in her sleep and snored loudly in response.

Applejack sighed and looked back at the stallion. "Can ya go tell Big Mac we're headin' out?" she asked in a voice near a whisper, though not on account of the mare snoozing in the rocking chair.

Braeburn tugged at his Stetson again. "'Course, Applejack. Want me ta wait up, o'—"

"Yeah, jus' wait on the porch when yer done." Applejack looked back at her slumbering Granny, then sighed. "She's awful hard ta wake up, so this might take a while."

Though a part of him screamed for urgency, Braeburn could only nod and offer her a soft smile. He opened the front door and closed it behind him, stepping out into the cool, crisp, mid-morning air.

Celestia had just begun to raise her star to its highest point in the canvas of sky. The only sound was the distant thumping of Big Macintosh’s hooves against yielding tree trunks in the fields beyond. The scent of fall filled Braeburn’s nostrils—the scent of ripe apples, and falling leaves, and change.

He paused for only a moment, relishing the peace of the wind through his mane.

~

The Big Orange was packed from wall-to-wall-to-wall, corner-to-corner-to-corner. If there had been more pegasi who called Manehatten home, the ceiling would've been full as well. It was a menagerie of ponies of all shapes and sizes and colors and genders, flagons of cider and ale and pitchers and pints of beer and glasses of wine and cocktail glasses and shot glasses of all concoctions in their drunken hooves.

It was night in the ghetto, and that meant escape.

Officer Lucky Toss led the two mares inside, adjusting the collar on his uniform as he made his heavy steps. He paused and scanned the establishment, looking for any sign of a mare or a stallion in a getup matching his own.

"Geez, this place is packed," Apple Bloom said, sweeping her eyes around the room.

Babs nodded and grimaced. "Dove picked the most popular bar."

But was dat a good decision, o' a bad one?

"Yeah, a lil' easier ta get lost in the crowd," Lucky said, turning to look at the mares for a second. "Youze know, even afta everythin', she's—oof!" He stumbled backwards a bit, almost stepping on one of Babs's hooves.

"'Ey, watch where youze standin'!" blurted a tall, husky gray stallion, baring his teeth. He rounded on Lucky Toss, his eyes looking for a fight.

When the rowdy stallion's eyes alighted upon the deep blue of his uniform and the silver badge pinned to it, his countenance immediately fell. Raising both his forehooves in apology, he took a few steps back. "Er, sorry, Offica."

"No problem." Lucky Toss nodded at him before throwing a forehoof across both mares' shoulders. "C'mon, let's find 'em'."

Who was dat stallion?

Apple Bloom and Babs Seed followed after Lucky Toss. As they did, Babs stole a glance over her shoulder, watching the stallion who'd bumped into their friend weave his way back through the crowd.

Seeing him take a seat at a table of thuggish-looking stallions, Babs narrowed her eyes and tapped Toss on the shoulder. "'Ey, Toss, I think—"

"There youze two are!"

At one of the smaller tables in the corner, White Dove and Rustler turned away from their conversation and gestured for the three to join them. Before them sat two full pints of citrus beer. Around them waited three stools, each coupled with its own glass of beer.

"'Ey! Youze buyin’ ta-night, eh?" Lucky Toss chuckled and plopped down into his seat.

White Dove took a bitter sip at her beer and glared at him in wordless disapproval.

"Youze late," Rustler said snidely, taking a drink of his own brew.

Apple Bloom and Babs Seed pulled up their stools in between Lucky Toss and White Dove. Choosing to sit closer to Toss than Dove, Babs merely snorted at Rustler's remark. "Late?" She looked over towards a clock on the wall. "It's 'bout five minutes befo' 1800!"

"Late fo' bein' early, then." Rustler nipped at his beer again. "Whateva. At least youze all is heeya."

"Told youze we'd be. Say, Babs," Toss began, turning to her, "what were youze gonna say back by the door?"

Babs Seed gestured with a flick of her mane towards the opposite side of bar. "Youze know dat stallion who bumped inta youze?" Toss nodded. "Well, he went an' sat down wit' a bunch o' thugs."

"So what?"

All eyes shifted to White Dove. "'So what'?" Babs raised an eyebrow.

Dove nodded and chased more of her beer, her brow furrowing. She bit her tongue in distaste before replying. "Dat don't matta right now. Dis ain't the best o' bars, but it's big. 'Sides, we ain't gonna be in heeya fo' long."

Apple Bloom stood up on her hindhooves, peering over the multicolored sea of equine flesh that writhed and churned around the bar. In the very corner that Babs referred to, she noticed that two tables had been pushed together to accommodate the twelve stallions who hunched around it.

All the occupants appeared to be quite large and well-muscled, many with scars marring their faces or necks. Along the two tables, twenty-four eyes stared back at Apple Bloom. In front of the stallions rested no glasses of any shape or size.

The bar became a much more confined place to be.

"Dove, Ah think Babs is onta somethin'." Apple Bloom glanced at her mare before turning back to the detective. "They're starin' at us. Looks like trouble."

Rustler turned around in his stool and drank the last of his beer as he looked over.

Dove pulled him back around with a forehoof on his shoulder, forcing him forward. "'Ey! Don't youze be drawin' mo' attention ta us than we've already got."

Lucky crossed his forehooves in his lap, looking over from the corner of his eye. He set down his beer, not one sip crossing his lips. "Er, Dove, I think dey got a po—"

"Youze really think we're gonna stay heeya?" Dove snapped, slamming her glass down on the table. "Youze don't think three ponies in uniform gonna draw attention?"

Babs flattened her ears. "We didn't say—"

"Look! We're gonna go soon as we finish our drinks. Then we'll head ta the station an' get dis ironed out. I know dey're starin', but there ain't anythin' we can do 'bout it." Dove rolled her eyes and picked up her glass again.

"Then why did ya want us all here?" Apple Bloom shared a confused glance with Babs Seed. "Lucky said you'd be tellin' us everythin' here. An' Ah'll be honest, Dove. Ah really don't understand why we're meetin' here, o' all places."

White Dove mumbled something under her breath, then buried it in another deep drink of her beer.

"What's dat, Dove?" Toss asked.

Glass met wood harshly once more. "I said, 'Always need a stiff drink befo' nights like dis.'" Dove scowled and wiped her muzzle clean of foam.

Three sets of eyes focused on Officer Rustler. Though the adversary of the gruff mare beside him for as long as anypony knew or could remember, he said nothing at her outburst, simply sipping his glass.

Babs brought her forehooves up to both sides of her mane and tugged at it, groaning. "Okay, okay... Youze tellin' me dat, whateva it is youze draggin' me an' Bloom inta, youze need ta drink befo' it?"

"I ain't draggin' nopony!" A pair of dark eyes met Babs's green. Dove pointed the door on the other side of the bar. "Youze want outta dis, fine! There's the buckin' door!"

Lucky Toss looked around as he picked up his beer, swallowing as he realized several sets of eyes were upon their table now. "Dove..."

Babs lurched forward in her stool, leaning on her forehooves. "Cut wit' the vague crap already! The way youze talkin', it's like we're goin' ta war o' summat!"

Toss shifted in his seat. "Dove..."

"Don't youze joke 'bout things like dat!" The corners of White Dove's muzzle twitched, threatening to break.

To his surprise, Lucky Toss saw the twelve stallions at the faraway table begin to rise to their hooves. One of the smaller brutes tapped a larger one on the shoulder and pointed in their direction. "D-Dove..."

"'Ey! 'Ey!" Yanking the detective's glass away, Rustler rounded on her. "Youze had enough. Calm down. Youze gonna make a scene, Miss Covert Ops!"

Apple Bloom wedged a forehoof between them, pushing Babs back down and shooting Dove a glare. "Cut it out, both o' ya!"

Babs stifled a growl as she turned to her mare. "But! But!"

"Ain't no buts 'bout it! We can't keep arguin' like this!" Apple Bloom pushed both her and Babs’s beers aside. “Let’s jus’ get outta here already.”

"She's right," Rustler said, gulping down the last of his drink before his fellow officer could swipe it for herself. "I already told youze, Dove, I don't exactly like the sound o' dis plan, but..." He bit his lip. "I kept quiet from the Chief today an' met youze heeya 'cuz—"

“Guys,” Lucky Toss whispered, leaning down as he set his drink back down on the table, ”we need ta get goin’.”

At his hushed words, White Dove finally looked over her shoulder.

The twelve stallions who were previously glaring at them from the other side of the bar were now on their hooves and staring straight at them as they stood beside their empty table. Twenty-four eyes drilled into White Dove at her slightest glance, sending a fiery chill through her spine. She let loose a low growl and slammed her glass down.

“Forget ‘bout the drinks,” Dove muttered, rounding on the others.

Not like I need ta be told twice. Afta what I almost did… I ain’t touchin’ any o’ dis crap no mo’. Babs pushed her glass away, full and untouched. She rose from her stool and stood close beside Apple Bloom, who did the same.

While Lucky and Rustler also rose to their hooves, sweeping their eyes around the bar—which felt even more crowded now—Babs couldn’t help but feel the heat from the thugs’ gaze.

Dey know us. An’ dey know… him. Don’t need no tail-liftin’ ta know dat, Babs thought as her muscles began to clench beneath her coat.

“C’mon! C’mon!” Dove pounded the table with a forehoof, almost sending two empty glasses, two full ones, and one-half full mug skywards. “Let’s jus’ get down ta the station.

“Ain’t gonna be ready fo’ dis, anyhow.”

White Dove and Rustler led the way, trotting side-by-side as they slipped around a few crowded tables and towards the exit. Lucky Toss followed closely behind them, one forehoof resting on the pocket near his pistol. He kept his eyes on both mares as they followed behind him.

As the five strode, they couldn’t help but notice the unflinching, unwavering gaze of the twelve at the table. The gray stallion, Babs noticed, was particularly haunting in his stare.

There appeared to be no light in his eyes—only hunger.

Without visible incident, three officers and two civilians slithered out of The Big Orange and back into the belly of the beast, alcohol doing little more than naught to calm the acceleration of their fearful adrenaline.

He knows us…

~

WHACK!

An entire tree’s worth of apples tumbled unceremoniously into the basket. Big Macintosh looked at his work and smiled. Chuckling to himself, he slipped under the full basket and placed it on the increasingly heavy cart, not one muscle flinching at the graceful act.

He paused for a moment, watching as more leaves were whisked away by the impartial winds of autumn. The sound of hooves approaching snapped him from his peaceful routine. Big Macintosh looked over his shoulder and grinned.

“Howdy, Braeburn. Had a nice long chat wit’ Applejack, huh?”

Braeburn tugged at his Stetson and forced a laugh as he approached. “Heh, yeah, ya could say that, cuz.”

Narrowing his eyes, Big Mac brought a forehoof to his chin and tapped it lightly. “Somethin’ botherin’ ya, Brae?”

Reaching the stallion and his cart, Braeburn coughed and rubbed his neck. “Heh, well, er… Big Mac…” His words trailed off as he stared at the grass, then back up to the stallion.

Sitting down on his haunches, Big Mac placed a forehoof on Braeburn’s shoulder. “Now, Brae, you know ya can tell me anythin’, right?”

Braeburn nodded. “O’ course.”

“No matter what it’s ‘bout. Ah’ll always be here fer you, cuz.”

“Th-thanks.” Braeburn gently pushed Mac’s forehoof away, eliciting the raise of an eyebrow from the larger stallion. “Big Mac… Ah… Ah don’t really know how Ah’m s’posed ta tell ya this, but—”

“But what?” Letting a little smile spread across his muzzle, Big Mac said, “Jus’ tell me, Braeburn.”

Braeburn sighed and removed his saddlebags from his back. This was even more difficult than he’d imagined; somehow, as he looked up into those trusting eyes, the thought of revealing this terrible possibility to Big Mac was worse than speaking of it to Applejack. Then again, she had faced down literal monsters before.

Yet, Big Macintosh stayed strong, urging, “C’mon, cuz. Tell me.”

“Alright.” Braeburn sighed, fiddling with the straps on his saddlebag. “Ya know… ya know Bernie Madhoof, right?”

At the mention of that dreadful name, Big Macintosh’s gentle and open expression was exchanged for flattened ears, flared nostrils, and a stern frown. “What ‘bout that bastard?”

Braeburn swallowed. “Well, Mac, ya see, a lil’ over a month ago…”

~

Through the Manehatten streets they sliced, cutting through the crowds, a knife in the heart of the ghetto. Twisted surgeons they were, the three officers and two civilians, racing against the dusk. With fall came the approaching darkness. The skies did not disappoint, shrouding Manehatten in a curtain of gray.

By the time they reached the Police Department—with no apparent followers, thankfully—the light-tenders had stirred to duty, illuminating dim candles against the dark. Detective White Dove opened the door and ushered the others inside.

Apple Bloom looked around as she walked inside. “Dove, what are we—”

Dove shushed her. “Not a word. Follow Rustla.”

Rustler flicked his mane and nodded to Apple Bloom and Babs Seed. Shooting them a half-smile, he gestured for them to follow.

Babs paused and looked uneasily at Apple Bloom. Tilting her head, she asked with her eyes, Should we really…?

With a nudge to her shoulder, Apple Bloom nodded and prompted Babs to move. Alright, iffa youze say so…

As they followed Officer Rustler, Babs Seed couldn’t help but feel that there was something… off within the station. Although it was near quitting time for most officers, there weren’t any to be found. Not even Cotton and her magazine were found wasting taxpayer dollars in the reception area.

Each hoof-step from any of the five echoed and ricocheted off the empty walls. The dimly lit hallways soon twisted and turned into the lower level as they walked down the steps and through yet another abandoned corridor.

Finally, just as Babs Seed began to find the eerie silence difficult, Officer Rustler stopped in front of a door labeled, “Records Department”.

Babs raised an eyebrow. “Records De—“

Dove round on her immediately, bringing a forehoof to Babs’s muzzle to silence her. Babs squirmed away and glared at her, backing up against the corner. The detective returned the gesture with a scowl that could paint a frown on Discord’s twisted maw.

“Don’t youze two start,” Rustler whispered gruffly as he dug a key out from one of his pockets. He fished out the proper key and mated it with the lock before either of the silently seething mares could raise hooves against each other.

Their adrenaline would soon be put to better use.

Opening the door to the dusty Records Department, Rustler ushered Apple Bloom and Babs Seed inside.

“Forget ‘bout that,” Apple Bloom scolded her mare, pulling her by the forehoof into the room. Babs furrowed her brow and shot one more glare towards White Dove before turning around and walking inside.

Once both mares slipped into the dusty embrace of the empty room, so did Detective White Dove and Officer Lucky Toss. Then, and only then, did Officer Rustler step inside and lock the door behind him, deadbolt and tumbler and, if he could, door-chain.

~

“… And me an’ AJ are pretty sure that’s what’s been goin’ on, Mac.”

Braeburn looked up from his hooves at last and into the eyes of his cousin.

Big Macintosh was staring at the ground, chewing on the inside of his cheek like a hearty wad of tobacco. He didn’t speak.

“… Big Mac?” Braeburn played with the brim of his Stetson, twisting it to the left, then the right. “Are ya alright?”

Though he continued gnawing against his cheek, Big Macintosh made no motion to indicate he’d heard a word Braeburn had said. Rather than try to prompt him one last time, Braeburn stayed silent, glancing from the corner of his eye as more swirls of autumn leaves joined the watchful wind.

Just as a large, red leaf flew through Braeburn’s vision, Big Macintosh finally spoke up.

“Ah’m goin’ wit’ you.”

“W-what?” Braeburn shifted his full attention to the larger stallion, who rose his eyes to meet his own. Twin shades of green regarded each other for a second. “But, but Ma—“

“Ah’ll be damned if Ah let that son o’ a bitch hurt ma family!”

Snorting a full trail of hot steam from his nostrils, Big Macintosh stood tall on his hooves. He leaned down and lifted the last of the baskets back onto the cart.

Braeburn blinked and brought a forehoof up to his ear, his eyes wide. Did he… did he jus’—

“Madhoof’s lucky it was AJ who went ta git Babs Seed outta that hellhole all those years ago, not me.” For a split second, Big Macintosh bared his molars and snarled, more intimidating than any timberwolf the orchards had ever seen. Tugging at the ropes tied to his collar to make sure they were secured, he started to pull the cart towards the farmhouse. “C’mon, Brae.”

Shaking his head to snap himself back into reality, Braeburn rose to his hooves and began to follow after him. “But—but, Mac! What ‘bout the farm?”

Big Mac didn’t slow a single step. “Farm’ll be fine. Ah was almost done wit’ this last orchard, anyway. Few rotten apples won’t matter.”

“Ah… Ah gu-guess so,” Braeburn stammered, quickening his pace to match the long, determined steps of his cousin.

The wind began to pick up as they strode towards the farmhouse, howling in his ears. They continued in silence, one stallion stomping and the other scampering, until a second question popped into Braeburn’s head.

“What ‘bout Granny?”

Big Mac froze and tilted his head at Braeburn.

“Mac… if all o’ this is true… an’ he’s got his sights on… Apples, then—“

Yanking his head back so fast that Braeburn could hear it pop, Big Mac snorted another volcano’s worth of steam. “Don’t ya even go there, Brae. C’mon.” He started to pull the cart again, faster this time. “’Sides, AJ’s talkin’ wit’ Granny ‘bout it, right?”

“Yeah, Ah think so," Braeburn said with a nod, following after him once more.

The rest of the short trek back passed by with all the courtesy of molasses through marmalade. Braeburn’s heart thundered in his chest every momentous step. Big Macintosh said nothing more, only staring straight ahead, a steely glint in his keen eyes that almost sent fear jolting through the Sheriff.

Never before had Braeburn heard the reserved, soft-spoken Big Macintosh swear, nor had he ever heard him disregard his work, in word or in spirit.

By the time they crested the last hill, Applejack and Granny Smith were waiting for them on the porch.

“There ya are, Braeburn!” Applejack called, chuckling nervously. She shifted from one hoof to another, her saddlebags teetering as she swayed. “Thought ya might have gotten lost. Heh, heh. Heh…”

Braeburn held tight to his Stetson as he came down the hill. “Heh, here we are!” He looked over to Big Macintosh, who stood silent and still.

“Howdy, Mac!” Applejack called out again, her voice losing its cheer. “Did… did Braeburn tell ya…?”

Macintosh looked from the mares on the porch, to the stallion beside him, then back again. He nodded.

Applejack removed her Stetson and squeezed it between her forehooves. “Ah… Ah see…”

Big Macintosh nudged Braeburn in the shoulder. “Ah’ll be right back. Fill her in, Braeburn,” he mumbled as he began to pull away, leading the cart and its bouncing apples towards the barn on the other side of the property.

Braeburn swallowed, nodded, then walked down to the porch. While Granny Smith followed Braeburn’s every motion, Applejack glued her eyes to Big Macintosh while he pulled further and further away.

“What’s ma brother doin’?” Applejack asked, turning to Braeburn.

Braeburn rubbed his neck. “Well… he’s…he’s, er—“

“He’s what? Spill it, Braeburn,” Applejack said, slamming her hat back on her head. She resumed a normal stance and mustered up her determination. “We gotta git goin’ soon if we want ta make it ta Canterlot befo’ it gets too late.”

"Yeah... 'bout that..." Braeburn coughed and looked over, watching Macintosh slip into the barn with the cart. He turned back to the skeptical mare before him. "Applejack, he's comin' wit' us."

Applejack's jaw went agape. "Wh-wh-what?!"

"Ah told him what we think is goin' on, an' he wants ta come!" Braeburn's eyes widened. "He was... he was madder than the hounds o' hell hearin' that, Applejack! 'Bout... 'bout Madhoof," he spat, his muzzle turning up into a snarl.

"Well—Ah—but—" Looking around in desperate panic, Applejack countered, "What 'bout the farm? Who's gonna watch the farm?"

Braeburn shrugged. "He's says everythin' will be fine, cuz. Hay, if we're right, this won't even take a day. Ah think we should—"

"No!" Applejack stomped against the floorboards. "No! Somepony's gotta stay here an' protect the farm! You don't have any idea o' what that... bastard is capable o' doin'!" She glanced at Granny Smith from the corner of her eye, who didn't appear to be fazed one bit by her curse. Only a furrowed brow and an expressionless muzzle stared back at her.

Now it was Braeburn's turn to stomp. "Dammit, Applejack, Ah do know what he's capable o'! Ah've seen it an' heard it first-hoof!"

"Oh yeah? An' how's that so?"

"Ah..." He looked away and pawed a hoof at the ground, relieved to see that Big Mac was now approaching them, freed of cart and collar. "Ah can't tell ya... Ah made a promise, long time ago."

Applejack tilted her head and narrowed her eyes. "Promise ta—"

"Let's git goin'," Big Mac said firmly, his hooves stomping against the floorboards as he joined the other Apples on the porch. "C'mon. It's almost noon."

Her question cast aside by more pressing matters, stubborn Applejack turned to her even more stubborn brother. "Big Mac, ya gotta stay here! We need somepony ta watch the farm while—"

"Farm will be jus' fine, AJ." With a furrow of his brow and a flick of his muzzle, Big Mac dismissed her and shifted swiftly to Braeburn. "You all packed an' ready?"

Glancing from one cousin to the other, Braeburn said uneasily, "Ah... Ah guess so..."

"Good. Ah'm ready ta go, too." Turning next to Granny Smith, Big Mac said, "Ah'm gonna go wit' 'em, Granny."

Applejack's eyes widened. "Now, ya listen here jus' a darn minute, Big Mac!"

He didn't turn to look at her. "Ma mind's made up."

Braeburn began, "Now, look, AJ—"

Applejack lifted a hoof again. "But, what if Mad—"

"Aw, what if that old son o' a bitch does what?!"

Three sets of identical green eyes froze in the autumn wind and focused on the source of the outburst.

Leaning on her forehooves against the railing of the farmhouse, Granny Smith spat on the grass and glared up at all of them. "That Madhoof's always been one hoof in the grave wit' me. Libra may not have been ma direct daughter-in-law, but she's damn close, an' might as well have been."

Granny paused, staring off at something in the distance. "What that rotten, slimy, despicable..." All three of her grandchildren could feel the fury in her words and the heat in her gaze as she continued to rant at the skies. "Hateful, spiteful, immoral, an' downright evil son o' a bitch Bernie Madhoof did ta them fillies, ta our whole family..."

Granny Smith moved back down to the porch and stared for a second in each of their eyes, lowering her weathered voice below the wind. "If he o' one o' his lil' cronies shows their hides 'round here, Ah ain't holdin' back no mo'."

Silence swept over Sweet Apple Acres, gusts and thermals spiraling from West to East.

"That's..." Applejack sighed, sitting down next to her grandmother and placing a forehoof on her shoulder. "That's mighty fine, Granny, but..." She bit her lip. "No offense, but... yer jus' one mare, an' an ol—"

Granny cackled and shoved her forehoof away. "Oh, ya don't think Ah can take care o' maself, is that it, Applejack? Me, the one who kept a farm runnin' by maself fer years an' years, an' raised three foals at the same time?"

"Er... Welllll... ya see..." Applejack looked to Braeburn and Big Macintosh for assistance. They simply stared back at her. She sighed again. "Madhoof, ya see, Granny... he an' his boys have, well... firepower."

A knowing smirk spread across the elderly mare's muzzle. "Ah thought you'd never ask. Wait here a minute, child."

As Granny Smith began to slowly make her way back inside, Applejack whirled around, saying, "Wh-what do ya mean, ask? Ah didn't ask a damn thing!"

Waving her off with a forehoof, Granny called out cheerfully, "Jus' waaaaaaaait a minute!"

After she turned back to the stallions, Applejack simply opened her forehooves and shrugged. Big Macintosh and Braeburn tapped their hooves in response, idle seconds and minutes ticking by. The sands of their hourglass were draining, and each grain that escaped its confines and disappeared doubled the weight on their minds.

By the time the three heard hooves approaching the front door again, they could barely keep themselves still, fidgeting and adjusting Stetsons and rubbing necks and running hooves through manes. At the sound of the front door opening, Applejack turned back around with a scoff.

"Alright, Granny, what is it ya wanted t—WHOA NELLY!"

If their heads hadn't been attached to their shoulders, Braeburn and Big Macintosh would've found their skulls rolling around on the porch now, eyes popped and tongues hanging.

There, in Granny Smith's hooves, was a double-barreled shotgun.

Her jaw practically dragging on the floor, Applejack bounced her gaze from a smirking Granny Smith, to a shining shotgun, to the elderly mare, and back to the weapon. "Bu—bu—bu—bu—how—wha—wha—wha—what?!"

Braeburn lifted a shaking forehoof and pointed at the surprise of surprises in Granny's hooves. "Is—is that a... a... an actual—"

"Genuine Colt double-barreled shotgun, enchanted to be held and operated by Earth pony hooves, yes indeedy," Granny Smith said with a smug smile. "An' you can bet yer hide Ah've got enough bullets ta make that Orange bastard an' his lil' pawns regret even comin' here."

Closing and opening her mouth several times in wordless awe, Applejack looked again to Braeburn and Big Macintosh. One of the stallions had nothing further to say, and the other could only utter one simple word.

"Eey... up."

"Now that y'all know Ah can handle maself, why don't y'all git ta Canterlot already? Ah'm sure the Princesses will jus' love ta hear 'bout this one." Resting her shotgun against one of the support-beams of the house, Granny Smith meandered over to her favorite rocking chair beside it.

As she climbed into the chair, she picked up the gun and laid it across her lap. "An' make it snappy while yer at it. Ah would hate ta have ta clean up Orange gunk from ma apple orchards."

Applejack raised her forehoof one last time. "But—"

"Applejack Sunshine Apple! Yer goin' ta the train station right now, o' Ah'll tan yer hide red! An' don't you think fer a second Ah'm bluffin'," Granny Smith warned, narrowing her eyes and pointing off to the east. "Now, all o' y'all, git!"

Never before had three Apples galloped so quickly from the presence of another... well, not since the great Apple Family Reunion of '88. But that was another story for another time.

Regardless, Granny Smith gave them all a wave as they kicked up their dust and barreled over the hills, towards the train station, towards Canterlot, towards the East and the beast.

Running a hoof over the barrel of her weapon, Granny Smith smirked to herself. "Best thing outta a catalog Ah ever ordered... next ta that girdle, o' course..."

~

In the darkness of the Records Department, Officer Rustler, Detective White Dove, and Officer Lucky Toss joined Babs Seed, standing in the middle of the silence.

With nothing but filing cabinets, wayward files, tables, parchment, ink stains, and broken quills to greet her, Babs's confusion only amplified. What the hay did dey drag us down heeya fo'? There's nothing in heeya! Jus' an old archive! What the hay—are we gonna read some files an' try ta find dirt on Madhoof? Like dat'll ever happen...

Much as I hate ta admit it, Slinga... he might be right 'bout summat in his miserable life.

White Dove was the first to break the dusty ice, nudging Rustler in the chest. "Everythin' clear?"

Rustler nodded.

"Good." Dove looked up at the Apple mares, skepticism and (for one) annoyance staring back at her. "Thank youze fo' comin' down wit' us ta-night. Befo' I tell youze what the plan is, know dis...

"Dis is completely voluntary. Iffa youze decide dis is too dangerous, o' too difficult, o' too... anythin'..." Dove snorted, narrowing her eyes and sweeping her gaze between them again before continuing, "Then youze don't have ta do it. I'll tell youze our plan, an' afta youze hear it, youze can go, o' youze can stay. Up ta youze. Dat door is only locked from the outside," she said, thrusting a forehoof towards the darkened door at the front of the room.

"Understood?" Dove asked, addressing them with all the bitterness in her voice as she would two lowly privates in her squad.

Apple Bloom nodded.

Babs Seed grunted.

"I'll take dat as a yes," Dove said, shooting a glare to Babs Seed. "Now, then... Rustla, why don't youze take it from heeya, ma friend," she prompted mockingly, stepping aside to make room for the investigator.

Ignoring the jab, Officer Rustler stood before the mares and cleared his throat. "Well... as youze might have already guessed, what we're 'bout ta do ta-night ain't entirely... by the book."

"An' what book is dat?" Babs asked coolly, leaning forward.

"Well... it ain' in the Chief's book, dat's fo' sure," Rustler answered, shifting on his hooves. "Much as I don't like doin' things much less... complicated than dis without the Chief's approval, he can't know 'bout dis."

"An' why is that?" Apple Bloom asked, tilting her head at him.

"Because..." Rustler paused, searching for the right words.

White Dove gave them to him. "Because," she said grimly, her voice gravel crunching beneath hooves, "iffa dis jackass Card Slinga is right, then tellin' the Chief would be suicide.

"Literal suicide."

Taking a step back, Lucky Toss glanced between both of his fellow officers, his wide eyes nearly protruding from his skull. "Wait a minute! I know youze told me dat youze didn't tell the Chief, but... it's because o' summat dangerous?!"

"What did youze think we were gonna do, Lucky?" Dove rounded on him. "Ask ol' Mista King Orange Puppet-Masta ta give up the ghost an' lay down fo' us? Ask him ta show us his charts an' graphs an' payroll an' stashes? His drughouses an' whorehouses an' his hired thugs?!"

Dove stomped towards him, challenging, "Was dat youze plan?!"

"'Ey!" With a snap of his jaws, Rustler yanked the detective back by the collar of her uniform, making her growl. "Dis ain't gonna work iffa youze can't keep youze hooves off everypony! Calm down! We ain't fightin' each otha!"

"He's right!" Smacking a hoof against the concrete, Apple Bloom said with a little growl of her own, "If yer jus' gonna keep tryin' ta hurt everypony who questions ya, Dove, we ain't followin' ya!" She scowled. "Ah would've thought a Royal Guard would have a lil' more discipline than that."

Babs smirked at her mare. Nice one. Where's the ice?

White Dove whirled around and opened her mouth, then decided it against it. Biting her lip, she sighed and shook her head. "Sorry, Toss."

"It's fine," Toss said, crossing his forehooves over his chest. "Jus' wish youze woulda told me dis soona, but whateva. Continue, Rustla."

With a smile small towards him, Rustler nodded, then focused back on the mares.

"Thanks. Anyway, dis plan is outta the Chief's eyes. While we have had some false leads in the past, it's rare we got somepony ta spill it like Slinga did. An', horseapples, did he spill."

Rustler paced back and forth as he talked, trotting from one side of the room to the other. "Iffa he's right 'bout Madhoof, then it explains everythin'. It explains why everythin's been goin' on so long, an' the tattoos, an' the gangs. It explains why nopony we locked up o' hunted down was willin' ta spill the whole truth...

"Because," Rustler said, stopping to glance at each of them with cold, determined eyes, "he's dat powerful. An' takin' out his cronies won't stop him. Lockin' up Slinga, o' the Mafia Don, o' even every lil' gang-pone in dis whole cursed city won't change a damn thing.

"Youze gotta topple these things from above. Sever the root."

Rustler asked the mares, "Youze follow me so far?"

"Yes," Apple Bloom said, nodding slightly.

"Yeah..." Looking up from her hooves, Babs said with increasing determination, "Youze... youze wanna go afta..." Dat bastard. "Madhoof. Youze wanna..." Give him what he deserves. "Arrest him."

Investigator looked to detective. Both were silent.

"Erm..." Rustler kicked at a pebble on the floor. "Iffa... iffa all dis is true...

"We won't have the chance ta arrest him."

With that sentence, the breath in every nonchalant lung was extinguished. One pair of determined eyes and three pairs of paralyzed ones drilled into Officer Rustler, who stood silent in the Records Department as he prepared to dismantle everything he'd ever known or thought he'd known about law, order, justice, and mercy.

Rustler turned away, staring at the wall. "Iffa... iffa he is dis kingpin, puppet-masta, crime lord, Don o' Dons, King o' Kings...

"He won't go down without a fight."

Rustler turned back around.

"Dey never do, an' never will."

While Lucky Toss merely stared straight ahead, a twinge of fear rolling through him, Apple Bloom and Babs Seed stared wordlessly at each other, eyes wide and maws agape, racing Rustler's words through the endless maze of his metaphor.

Without a fight...

Oh, horseapples.

"Why... why do you—"

Raising a forehoof to stop her, Rustler said, "Apple Bloom... lemme say jus' summat befo' I answer youze."

Swallowing, Apple Bloom nodded, then sat down on her haunches. Babs Seed sat down beside her.

Lucky Toss blinked slowly, willing himself back to reality. Although he had patrolled the streets of Manehatten enough dark days and darker nights to fill a memoir's worth of madness, he had never done anything like this.

"Ta-night... we're goin' straight ta the source. No sneakin' 'round, no spyin', no informants, no callin' in fancy unicorn magic from Canterlot o' summat ta enchant his office an' listen in on it. No posin' as gang-ponies o' gettin' black oranges unda our tails. None o' dat.

"Ta-night... we're goin' ta the tower. An' iffa we git the evidence we need...

"We're goin' ta the mansion, next."

If she hadn't been sitting, Babs Seed would be falling. Even with her haunches and hooves pressed against the lifeless, cold concrete, she still felt the mad world around her begin to spin a little, twisting and turning closer into an ellipse. The tower... the mansion...

His office... his home...

Seeing this, Apple Bloom wrapped a forehoof around Babs Seed's neck and tugged gently. "Babs?"

"I'm f-fine." Nudging her mare to convince both of them of that statement, Babs Seed shook herself back to Equestria and stared down Rustler, who was just as fearless and bold as ever. "Youze... youze seriously gonna do dis? Ta-night? Right now?"

"Yes, Babs Seed," Rustler said. "Right now."

The sound of a match striking broke the silence. All eyes turned to White Dove, who had lit herself a cigarette, inhaling deeply before she channeled her nerves into a cloud of gray.

"What?" Dove forced a laugh. "I always have ta smoke befo' things like dis."

At last, Lucky Toss joined the land of the living, coughing and waving a forehoof in front of his face. "Fo' Celestia's sake, Dove, youze really have ta do dat right now?"

"Yea..." White Dove hissed, taking a drag. "I do."

With a roll of his eyes, Lucky Toss turned away from her and back to Rustler. "Okay, okay..." He brought a forehoof to his head and scratched, sure he had been hearing things. "So... us five... are gonna go ta a tower... full o' guards... ta find... what, exactly?"

"Evidence," Rustler said. "Anythin'. Documents. Payrolls. Large sums o' bits. Photographs. Witnesses. Anythin' dat can ID dat thirty-third floor as bein' Madhoof's lair, an' tyin' him ta the black orange gang. Right now, it's listed as bein' an insurance office. Had Cotton do some diggin," he explained with a grin. "Iffa we can find dat it ain't, an' dat it belongs ta dis 'King Orange,' dat's all we need ta prove dat Card Slinga is right."

Toss cleared his throat and rubbed his chest. "I... I see."

Dove nodded and blew smoke rings over her shoulder.

Rustler looked up at Apple Bloom and Babs Seed. "So..."

"So... what? Youze think youze can seriously jus' wanna drag me an' Bloom inta a death-trap an' think we're okay wit' it?!" Babs lurched towards him, hackles raised and eyes fiery. "DIS is what youze wanted us fo'?! Ta drag us down wit' youze?!"

Rustler calmly raised a forehoof. "Iffa youze don't wanna go, then, fine."

"Like hell we're gonna go!" Seething, Babs rounded on him more, taking another step towards the investigator. "Horseapples, I thought dat maybe youze were gonna have us look at some lineup, o' help youze interrogate some jackass, not—"

"Since youze know him, we were thinkin' youze could ID him fo' us," Rustler cut in, his calm demeanor gradually giving way. "Afta all.... Fo' betta o' fo' worse, youze know him. Youze two ain't tattooed, so youze ain't gang-membas, but...

"Youze know summat 'bout him, an' youze can help bring him down."

Babs's left ear began to twitch. "Youze... youze... youze buckin'... seriously... youze—"

"Look, youze is the one who brought youze shit in the West heeya!" Rustler barked, his hackles raising as he approached the enraged mare. "He went afta youze friends an' family, didn't he? He went afta youze mare, didn't he?!"

Crouching down, Babs paused, feeling the adrenaline but holding it tight.

"Youze don't even have ta go in! Jus' tag along, stay safe in the shadows, an' when we find a photo o' summat, look at it fo' five buckin' seconds!" His muscles rippling within his coat and his heart pounding, Officer Rustler snorted, frustration and anger bubbling to the surface. "Iffa ol' King Crazy is right, dis is the bastard who not only killed youze friends, but mine!

"But ours, Babs Seed!"

Breathing heavily, Apple Bloom laying a forehoof on her shoulder to hold her back, Babs scoffed and shouted, "Oh yeah?! Who did he kill?! Some orange-tagged cop on youze force?!"

Lowering his eyes and bowing his head, Rustler whispered, "No.

"He killed the ones I vowed ta protect..."

Rustler looked up at her.

"The ones youze left behind."

For a second, something flickered behind the investigator's eyes, and Babs Seed saw him almost eight years ago. A little peregrine colt stood before her, a crimson cape tied tightly around his neck. Around him were three other sets of hooves, all matched with smiling muzzles and innocent eyes...

Three who had gone the way of the grizzled stallion and his unicorn mare in the desert...

Icy recognition surged through her, melting the fire of her adrenaline, and Babs Seed knew.

In that silence, Lucky Toss and White Dove ceased their coping mechanisms of choice and watched as Babs Seed backed down, sitting up again and staring at her hooves.

"I'm... I'm sorry."

Apple Bloom looked from her mare to Rustler in confusion.

"It's fine," Rustler said coldly, letting his hooves fall against the floor as he stood up. "But now, youze see, Babs Seed, we all have a stake in this game." He looked around the room, meeting each and every eye. "All o' us have been affected in some way by dis Orange piece o' shit. Whether it was our friends... our family... o' somepony we loved...

"Madhoof, in some way o' the otha, took it from us, o' tried ta."

A cigarette fell to the floor and was extinguished, its owner seeking fresh air in the haze of his words. Lucky Toss sat down quietly, letting everything fall before him.

And Babs Seed and Apple Bloom stood side-by-side, thinking, wondering, waiting.

"... He's right, sugarcube," Apple Bloom said under her breath, moving her muzzle close to Babs's good ear. "We came all this way 'cuz... 'cuz we don't want anythin' ta happen ta mo' o' our friends. O'..."

Apple Bloom paused, taking a shaky breath. "Family... o'... each other."

She put a forehoof on her shoulder again. "Ah really... Ah really think we can help 'em."

Babs Seed pulled back a bit and looked at her. "Youze sure youze wanna do dis?"

Apple Bloom took a moment, then said, her voice rising, "Ah know that, if we don't, there's a good chance we'll regret it. As crazy as it is... Ah do think it's... him behind this, an' Ah'll be damned if Ah almost lose you again."

As Apple Bloom pulled away, Babs Seed saw the tears in her eyes, and knew what had to be done.

Holding both of her mare's forehooves in her own, Babs Seed turned around and faced them.

"Alright.

"We'll help youze."

~

Somehow, Big Macintosh, Braeburn, and Applejack crammed themselves into the last cab on the noon train to Canterlot, curling their hooves across the aisle and against the door. Big Macintosh, though he'd brought no saddlebags, took up an entire side of the cab by himself. He'd only brought one last stick of wheat to chew between his teeth as the train whirred and churned towards Canterlot, not nearly as fast enough as it should have in a just world.

"Good thing Granny kicked us out," Braeburn said, injecting a little laugh into his words. "Would've been late fer this train if she hadn't... heh, heh heh."

Neither cousin reacted in any visible way to his poor joke. "Ah, heh, heh... yeah... Granny an' her shotgun... That'll be a story someday," Braeburn mused, observing the floral patterns of the cab wallpaper.

"Eeyup," Big Mac replied automatically, chewing on his wheat.

Applejack crossed her forehooves. "Damn train ain't movin' fast enough."

Nodding, Braeburn squirmed and tried to make himself comfortable.

Swinging one of her hindhooves off the seat, Applejack muttered, "Damn Twilight had ta go ta Canterlot..."

"What's that, cuz?" Braeburn asked, rummaging around in his saddlebag.

"Oh..." Applejack looked back up at him and sighed. "Ma friend Twilight... Ah've told ya a lot 'bout her, haven't Ah?" Braeburn nodded. "Yeah, she lived here fer a long time, in Ponyville, ya know. Even after she became the Princess o' Magic. Damn near six years, if Ah remember right..."

"Eeyup," Big Mac confirmed, biting his wheat down to the chaff.

"Oh, Ah see." Coughing, Braeburn watched Ponyville begin to ebb away out the window. "Shame she ain't here."

"Yer tellin' me!" Applejack laughed a cold, bitter laugh. "Why, her lil' dragon friend—Spike, though he's a lil' bigger now—he'd always write his letters ta the Princess fer her."

"Mmmhmm." The shapes and colors of Ponyville's town center and marketplace began to meld and melt into the pure green of the meadows and the blue sky above. Braeburn rubbed his growling stomach, no appetite in him.

"He can do this thing, ya see... dragon-magic..." Smacking a forehoof on her belly, Applejack started to laugh. "He can... he can send any message... any letter... in... instantly..."

Braeburn looked over, his eyes widening in slow recognition. Big Macintosh said nothing, grinding wheat between his molars in solemn silence.

"Instantly! Jus'... poof! Anythin' ta Celestia! Right then an' there!" Applejack threw her forehooves in the air and shadowboxed them against the door of the cart. "Wham-bam! Jus' like that! No fuss, no Royal Court meetin's, no goin' through mail-pegasi o' anythin' silly like that!"

Throwing her head back, Applejack began to chuckle heartily, smacking her belly with her forehooves. "But he's g-gone! An' now we have t-ta take this e-eight hour tr-train! Ha! Ha! Ha ha ha!"

"Uh..." Wrapping a forehoof around her shoulder, Braeburn asked, "You alright, cuz?"

While Applejack continued to howl with laughter in response, tears dotting her eyes, Braeburn turned to Big Mac. "Should... should we be worried?"

"Eenope," Big Macintosh said, spitting out the chaff into a wastebasket. "Jus' Applejack tryin' ta cope. Better than her passin' out."

Applejack squirmed and writhed as she laughed, as if their predicament was the most hilarious thing in the entire plane of existence. She laughed and laughed, until her stomach ached, until tears ran down her cheeks, until the only thing that filled her mind was that damn Princess of Magic and her damn dragon assistant, oh-so-far-away in Canterlot.

All the while, the stallions watched the spectacle in silence. Only Braeburn was alarmed when Applejack slumped back in her seat, took a few deep breaths, pulled her hat over her face, and promptly passed out.

"No, Brae," Big Mac warned, pushing Braeburn's approaching forehoof away, "give her a few minutes. Trust me on this."

"If ya say so, Mac," Braeburn said, swallowing hard. He fiddled with his Stetson and glanced nervously at Applejack's heavily breathing, unconscious self.

Big Macintosh laid his head down on his forehooves and closed his eyes.

It was going to be a long eight hours.

~

Into the cold tomb of Manehatten dark, five ponies stepped out into the rising moonlight. Manehatten's clock-tower read near 2000, and the normally crowded streets were already barren. Though no rainfall graced the sinful night to cleanse it, the scent of approaching torrent could still be discerned, as if the skies were only waiting for everything to align.

Babs Seed tugged uncomfortably at the swath of blue cloth on her chest. Now, I can understand them givin' us the guns... She glanced at the twin pistols holstered on her shoulders—shiny Colt hoof-guns, full of ammo and with much more to spare in opposite pockets—and grinned. But these uniforms? Horseapples... ugh...

I neva, eva, EVA wanna be a police-pony... I musta been crazy when I thought like dat back as a filly.

She felt a nudge on her neck and looked over to see Apple Bloom, clad in the same Manehatten blue and brandishing the same weapons, smiling back at her. In front of them were the three true law-ponies, all with a pair of pistols and a shotgun or rifle slung over their backs as well (though sheathed). They waited on the cobblestones for their two newest deputies, eyes steely but muzzles somewhat welcoming.

"Youze ready?" Toss asked, urging them with a little smile.

After a quick nuzzle, Babs Seed looked at him and forced a tiny grin. "As we'll eva be."

"Good," Dove said, her tone slightly warmer than usual. She motioned towards the right side of the street. "Let's head dis way, behind these buildin's an' outta the streetlights. Hopefully those guns we gave youze are jus' fo' show, an' it's easy ta get some info from dem guards, o' git inside. An' hopefully ours are jus' props too, heh."

"Youze two do know how ta shoot, right?" Rustler asked, picking up his hooves to follow after Dove, who was heading towards a boarded-up apartment building.

Following behind him and Lucky, and beside Babs, Apple Bloom replied, "Know enough." She smiled at her mare and winked.

Even in the darkness, a grateful blush spread across Babs's muzzle.

"Alright, then," Rustler said quietly, picking up his pace as Dove did the same. "Not a word, anypony. Let's get ta dat tower as fast as we can."

~

From the heart of the west and the best, Appleloosa, another train began to move its creaking wheels. This train, like only a few others before it, headed back to where many had come from—where many had abandoned their old way of life and their old fears in exchange for an entirely new set of challenges.

This train was one of the few of its route, and only boasted a few passengers within its belly. One of them leaned against his window as the locomotive began to awaken like the metal monster it was, prepared to barrel him back to a place he'd swore never to set hoof in ever again.

Words of an earlier argument drifted through his mind as the train began to pick up slack and speed. Although he knew what he was doing was right, he also knew he was harming two others who deserved anything but more anguish. Nevertheless, a little voice had nagged at the back of his mind the past few days, and he could do nothing to extinguish it.

When the little voice became an uproarious bellow, the stallion knew what had to be done.

On this quiet night on the plains, Appleloosa passed him by, shades of ghostly gold underneath the black, starless sky. He sat silently in his cab, only one saddlebag beside him—and that held only enough bits for a few meals and another ticket. After all, he wasn't planning to stay there, in that Celestia-forsaken place.

He just needed to check on some things, that was all.

Or, rather, some ponies.

Opening his window, Turner tasted the scent of impending rainfall in his nostrils. He sighed and slumped against his seat again, stretching out his hindhooves and closing his eyes.

"I don't know why, but... I jus' gotta see youze, Babs. I jus' gotta see youze.

"Summat doesn't feel right..."

Gehenna

Under the unsuspecting moon, five ponies in Manehatten blue crept through the cover of night. The stars and the parish lantern above served as their only beacons through this journey. Avoiding the dying light of the streetlamps, the five crouched and cowered, seeking salvation in the alleyways.

Babs Seed could smell the rain coming. She sensed its impeding relinquish in the still night, knowing that, despite all appearances to the contrary, a storm was brewing.

The streets were empty now. 2000 was long past the boundary between night and day. It might as well have been the difference between Heaven and Earth in this concrete jungle. The night, notorious as it was, provided them with at least some refuge.

The fasta we get ta the tower downtown, the betta. No tellin’ when the night crawlas come out from unda the Earth. An’ I ain’t talkin’ worms.

Keeping close beside Apple Bloom, Babs ducked into an alleyway when their de-facto leader of this suicide mission beckoned them to do so.

Detective White Dove led the way. Officers Lucky Toss and Rustler brought up the rear, shielding the two faux police-ponies between them. Both stallions drew close to the Apple mares, forming a circle as their keen eyes wandered through the foreboding dark.

The detective continued to lead them through behind boarded-up buildings, abandoned storefronts, and loading docks. Though the circumstances were vast in difference, Babs recognized one of the docks as belonging to the building that had once been The Watering Hole.

While Babs sidled through the shadows with her fiancée, her foalhood friend, her foalhood bully, and a law-breaking law-pony, she couldn’t help but remember that night, almost eight years ago.

That night, in a different world and as different ponies, the patrol-stallion and his two hooligan friends broke into a vendor’s cart and stole its liquor. That night, they caught her spying, wrestled her to the ground, cut her mane, and changed everything.

There was a long series of long nights in Babs Seed’s life, but that one was, in hindsight, one of the most significant. That night reared its head when she passed by that same building.

When they had laid against the side of the loading dock, chasing their cider and howling at the moon, did they know then that they had stolen from the stallion who she would one day know as her father? When they abused and threatened her, did they know then that, if it weren’t for their abuse, she would have never become the mare she was today, with the mare she loved today?

Back then, did they know their true power? Did anypony?

Did Madhoof?

A dank alley decorated with overflowing trash cans and chattering vermin swallowed them whole. The group slowed down. They were close.

When Babs saw Dove come to a halt, the others did the same. Babs complied, albeit confused, in need of a spare thought. Allowing her mind to wander again, she stared straight ahead and asked herself a question in the buzzing, all-encompassing silence of Manehatten night.

Iffa Slinga is right… Iffa dis is all Madhoof… Iffa one pony can really go an’ cause all o’ dis... What chance do we have o' stoppin' him?

A nudge to her cheek pulled her from her thoughts.

The filly who held her when she recounted that night long ago spoke to her now through the gentle eyes of a mare who needed no words.

Apple Bloom, looking directly at her, seemed to say, It’ll be alright. We can do this.