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Birds of a Feather: A One Shot

By: PaleNarrator on Jul 10th, 2012 | syntax: None | size: 11.49 KB | hits: 390 | expires: Never

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http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kcv7-rPqaxs&feature=BFa&list=SP0B80EA34DA09E5C4
>Rain.
>It always seemed to rain around here.
>The streets glistened as the water reflected the dim, orange glow of street lamps from its slick surface.
>You picked a damn fine day to not wear a raincoat.
>Taking the final drag of the cigarette in your mouth, you pull out your lighter and prepare another one.
>You don’t really know when you picked up the habit, but quitting wasn’t anywhere in your mind at the moment.
>It was hell on your lungs, but you relished the burn of the smoke and the soothing sensation of the nicotine hitting your system.
>Your shoes were wet, but not soaked, as you tried to make some good time on your destination.
>Got a call in on the radio as you sat in that shit hole you called an office not thirty minutes ago.
>Another body.
>It matched the same patterns as the others.
>So, you were heading out to check it out.
>Your hat shielded your eyes from the rain that was falling to the ground, and you were at least thankful for that.
>Spitting out the butt of your previous smoke, you place the next one in-between your lips and light it.
>Like you said, a good burn.
>As you flick your lighter shut, you spot a police colt standing outside of an alleyway that was taped off from the rest of the street.
>He sees you, and waves you over.
>”Detective.”
“Captain.”
>”Glad you could make it.”
“How bad is it?”
>The old stallion sighs, twitching his faded blonde mustache.
>”It’s bad, Anonymous. From what we can tell, this is the fifth victim this month. Whoever’s doing this, they’re getting bolder.”
>You take a drag and nod towards the alley in question, and the Captain leads you down to the crime scene.
>While the main street had the luxury of a few flickering street lamps, this alleyway was black as all hell.
>You pull out the flashlight on your belt, and flick it on.
>The sight before you is… grisly, to say the least.
>The old captain shudders at the sight of the lifeless corpse taking up residence in the center of the alley.
>You approach the cadaver, crouching down and inspecting its wounds.
“Any clue as to what her name was?”
>”It was hard to say, but we think her name was Spitfire.”
“The Wonderbolt?”
>”Yes. Her cutie mark was badly lacerated, just like the others, but her coat and mane are almost unmistakable.”
>Hm.
>You reach a hand to her chin, turning her head slightly and exposing the deep gash along her neck.
>Cut down in the prime of her life.
>Life had a funny way of throwing curveballs at you from the corner of your eye.
>Resting her head down on the ground you begin looking for any shred of a clue as to what happened to her.
>Her hoofs had scrape marks along them, indicating some sort of struggle.
>The bruises along her torso also showed signs that she had put up a fight before she was ended.
>But there was something… off, about her wounds.
>The other victims’ throats were slashed from left to right.
>From what you could tell about the gash on Spitfire’s neck, she was killed by someone who was left handed.
>Strange.
>Other than that, you couldn’t really find any sort of sign of a second party.
>Your concentration is drawn behind you as a new sound enters the alleyway.
>The soft pat of paws against soaked concrete, as well as the clack of talons.
>”Anonymous.”
“Detective.”
>You raise yourself up and turn to face your partner, a griffon by the name of Gilda.
>She stood before you, a grim expression on her face, her eyes hard as she spots the body behind you.
>”Slashed neck?”
“And a desecrated cutie mark, yes. Same as the other ones. Something is wrong about the killing wound, though.”
>Gilda walks up to you and leans down to check your finding.
>”Left handed… that doesn’t fit the profile.”
>She was still sharp as ever. Good. You’d need her.
“You think it might not be the same guy?”
>”I don’t know… everything matches up so far with the rest of the killings. If it’s a copy-cat, it’s a damn good copy-cat.”
>Gilda flicks her tail to and fro, slightly sniffing the body.
“G, what the hell are you doing?”
>”You smell that?”
>She turns to you, motioning to the body.
>You crouch down and smell the air.
>…
>You reach out to Spitfire’s limp head, tilting it and bring your nose to her mouth.
“Bourbon.”
>”Thought so. She was drunk off her pretty little ass when this happened.”
“Which means that the guy who killed her probably wanted to get her liquored up. Make things easier.”
>You rise and turn to the captain behind you.
“Mahonie, I’m going to need a list of local bars and pubs near this area, now.”
>Gilda speaks up before he can answer.
>”Don’t bother. Take a look at this.”
>Walking back to the griffon you called friend, you see that she’s holding a small, soggy matchbox.
>Emblazoned along it was the name of a bar, “Scaffidi’s Hideout.”
>”I found it a few feet from her body. It’s wet, but it’s certainly new.”
>You crack a grin to Gilda, who nods back at you.
>You had a lead.
>Scaffidi’s Hideout.
>What a shithole.
>This place had seen better days, you were sure of that.
>The days that were ahead of it weren’t looking great, however.
>You pull open the door, letting Gilda step in as she ruffles her feathers free of the cold rainwater.
>Stepping into the dark bar, you take off your fedora and shake it free of water, placing it back on your head.
>There weren’t many patrons in here, but then again could you blame them?
>This place was the grimiest dive you’d ever encountered.
>How in the hell did a pseudo-celebrity like Spitfire find herself in a place like this?
>”You chat up the bartender. I’ll go rough up a few patrons.”
“Be gentle, G. Don’t need to muck this place up any more than it already is.”
>”Anything for you, Anon.”
>She walks off towards a group of colts playing poker, while you walk to the bar.
>Glancing back at her for a split-second, you’re reminded of years gone by.
>Happier times that weren’t plagued by chilling rain and serial killers.
>Days where you could just relax and stroke her feathers to the music of an old record player.
>But those were old days, far behind you now.
>Reaching the bar, you give the wooden table a hard tap, catching the attention of the bartender.
>”Whadd’ya want?”
“Information.”
>”Heh. Nice. I sell drinks here, not advice for tourists. Either get a drink or get out.”
>You consider taking out your badge for him to see, but you pass, choosing instead to go with his offer.
“Whiskey.”
>”That’s better.”
>The stallion fills a small glass with the dark amber liquid, sliding it down to you from where he stands.
>You give the cup a sniff and cringe at the scent of it.
>It was watered down to all hell, that much was certain.
“Now that I got a drink, you think you could answer a few questions?”
>”Possibly. What do you wanna know?”
>You force down a swig of the swill this ass called booze as best you can, and look straight at him.
“There was a mare in here earlier. Young, pretty thing. Wild, fiery mane. You can’t have missed her.”
>”Who, her? Yeah I saw her in here about… what, six hours ago?”
“Was she with anyone?”
>”You got a lot of questions there, chief.”
“I’m a very curious guy. Now, tell me. Who was she with?”
>The bartender eyes you with suspicion, but shrugs.
>”Some colt. Blue coat, same thing with his mane, only it was darker. Not much else to go by.”
“What were they doing? Did it seem like she knew him well.”
>”Hell, that girl was all over him. Wouldn’t stop talking to him the whole night. Poor basterd made me shell out a heft amount of booze just to get her tipsy.”
“So she was drinking heavily.”
>”Ho, you have no idea, buddy.”
>Fumbling this over in your mind, you down the rest of the whiskey and flick a bit onto the counter.
“Thanks.”
>…
>”Hey.”
>You turn back to him.
>”She kept calling him by his name. I think it was… Soarin’ or somethin’.”
>You nod, flicking another bit onto the counter in appreciation.
"Gilda, I have a name for-"
>God dammit.
>Gilda is in the middle of "persuading" one of the colts for information.
>Her persuasion techniques usually involved her talons against someone's face.
>"Don't make me beat the shit out of you, just give me a NAME."
"Gilda!"
>She stops mid strike, glancing over to you.
"I have a name."
>She looks to you, then back to the colt, dropping him to the floor.
>"Lucky day, isn't it kiddo? Now scram."
>The colt scrambles to his hooves and darts out of the bar, while you and Gilda walk to the door.
>"What do we got?"
"Name's Soarin, he was last seen here with her."
>"Radio into dispatch and get an address or something. We're finding this guy tonight."
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mQ3KQWScTCg&feature=related
Thirty Minutes Later
>This was the hotel.
>This is where he'd be.
>You and Gilda calmly walk up to the front desk, asking the secretary there which room Soarin' was staying in.
>Fifth floor, room 32B.
>Rather than waiting on an elevator, the two of you hoof it up the stairs to make better time.
>As you make it to the door of Soarin's room, Gilda stops you.
>"By the book?"
>...
"No."
>She smiles.
>You thought she would.
>You back away from the door.
"Fillydelphian PD, put your hooves in the air!"
>And then you connect the heel of your foot into the door, sending it flying open.
>Glida rushes into the room along with you, and you spot the colt in question by the window of his suite.
>He panics, and leaps through the glass and into the air.
>You're right behind him though, and you leap out and grab hold of his torso as he struggles to stay in flight.
>You prove too heavy, and you tumble to the ground with Soarin' almost falling fifty feet were it not for Gilda grabbing hold of your ankle and slowing your fall.
>SOAR: "Let go of me! I didn't mean it! I swear I just-"
>You cut off his speech when the tip of your pistol gets planted to his temple.
"Talk."
>SOAR: "Oh god..."
"Talk. Now."
>SOAR: "I... I wanted her gone, alright?! She was ruining my life! Do you have any idea what it's like to be upstaged by some floozy day in and day out? It's fucking maddening."
>"So you killed her... you make me sick you son-of-a-bitch."
"What about the others?"
>Soarin' looks at you with confused eyes.
>SOAR: "Others? What others?"
>You press the gun harder against his head.
"The others, Soarin'!"
>SOAR: "I don't know what you're talking about! Honest! Please, just don't-"
>Gilda grabs the pistol from your hand and cracks Soarin' across the face with it as hard as she can, knocking him out.
>"Just get some cuffs on him already. He's making my stomach churn."
>Brushing yourself of small glass shards, you take Soarin's front hooves and wings, binding them.
"Radio dispatch. We got the killer, but not the guy behind the rest of the murders."
>"Already on it."
>You take out a cigarette, lighting it with a flick of your small metal lighter.
>You hold out your cigarette to Gilda, who takes it and breathes in a deep drag.
"Never gets any easier, eh G?"
>"Hmph. Not really, Annie. Not really."
>It was a sad sort of humor that made it's way into your head.
>A while ago, you would have been embracing her after a job well done.
>In a way, you still wanted to.
>Taking back your cigarette, you look into the glowing embers at its tip.
>But those days were long, long gone.
~END~
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FPAe6MYlp1w&feature=related

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http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kcv7-rPqaxs&feature=BFa&list=SP0B80EA34DA09E5C4

>Rain.
>It always seemed to rain around here.
>The streets glistened as the water reflected the dim, orange glow of street lamps from its slick surface.
>You picked a damn fine day to not wear a raincoat.
>Taking the final drag of the cigarette in your mouth, you pull out your lighter and prepare another one.
>You don’t really know when you picked up the habit, but quitting wasn’t anywhere in your mind at the moment.
>It was hell on your lungs, but you relished the burn of the smoke and the soothing sensation of the nicotine hitting your system.
>Your shoes were wet, but not soaked, as you tried to make some good time on your destination.
>Got a call in on the radio as you sat in that shit hole you called an office not thirty minutes ago.
>Another body.
>It matched the same patterns as the others.
>So, you were heading out to check it out.
>Your hat shielded your eyes from the rain that was falling to the ground, and you were at least thankful for that.
>Spitting out the butt of your previous smoke, you place the next one in-between your lips and light it.
>Like you said, a good burn.
>As you flick your lighter shut, you spot a police colt standing outside of an alleyway that was taped off from the rest of the street.
>He sees you, and waves you over.

>”Detective.”
“Captain.”
>”Glad you could make it.”
“How bad is it?”
>The old stallion sighs, twitching his faded blonde mustache.
>”It’s bad, Anonymous. From what we can tell, this is the fifth victim this month. Whoever’s doing this, they’re getting bolder.”
>You take a drag and nod towards the alley in question, and the Captain leads you down to the crime scene.
>While the main street had the luxury of a few flickering street lamps, this alleyway was black as all hell.
>You pull out the flashlight on your belt, and flick it on.
>The sight before you is… grisly, to say the least.
>The old captain shudders at the sight of the lifeless corpse taking up residence in the center of the alley.
>You approach the cadaver, crouching down and inspecting its wounds.
“Any clue as to what her name was?”
>”It was hard to say, but we think her name was Spitfire.”
“The Wonderbolt?”
>”Yes. Her cutie mark was badly lacerated, just like the others, but her coat and mane are almost unmistakable.”
>Hm.
>You reach a hand to her chin, turning her head slightly and exposing the deep gash along her neck.
>Cut down in the prime of her life.
>Life had a funny way of throwing curveballs at you from the corner of your eye.

>Resting her head down on the ground you begin looking for any shred of a clue as to what happened to her.
>Her hoofs had scrape marks along them, indicating some sort of struggle.
>The bruises along her torso also showed signs that she had put up a fight before she was ended.
>But there was something… off, about her wounds.
>The other victims’ throats were slashed from left to right.
>From what you could tell about the gash on Spitfire’s neck, she was killed by someone who was left handed.
>Strange.
>Other than that, you couldn’t really find any sort of sign of a second party.
>Your concentration is drawn behind you as a new sound enters the alleyway.
>The soft pat of paws against soaked concrete, as well as the clack of talons.
>”Anonymous.”
“Detective.”
>You raise yourself up and turn to face your partner, a griffon by the name of Gilda.
>She stood before you, a grim expression on her face, her eyes hard as she spots the body behind you.
>”Slashed neck?”
“And a desecrated cutie mark, yes. Same as the other ones. Something is wrong about the killing wound, though.”
>Gilda walks up to you and leans down to check your finding.
>”Left handed… that doesn’t fit the profile.”
>She was still sharp as ever. Good. You’d need her.
“You think it might not be the same guy?”
>”I don’t know… everything matches up so far with the rest of the killings. If it’s a copy-cat, it’s a damn good copy-cat.”

>Gilda flicks her tail to and fro, slightly sniffing the body.
“G, what the hell are you doing?”
>”You smell that?”
>She turns to you, motioning to the body.
>You crouch down and smell the air.
>…
>You reach out to Spitfire’s limp head, tilting it and bring your nose to her mouth.
“Bourbon.”
>”Thought so. She was drunk off her pretty little ass when this happened.”
“Which means that the guy who killed her probably wanted to get her liquored up. Make things easier.”
>You rise and turn to the captain behind you.
“Mahonie, I’m going to need a list of local bars and pubs near this area, now.”
>Gilda speaks up before he can answer.
>”Don’t bother. Take a look at this.”
>Walking back to the griffon you called friend, you see that she’s holding a small, soggy matchbox.
>Emblazoned along it was the name of a bar, “Scaffidi’s Hideout.”
>”I found it a few feet from her body. It’s wet, but it’s certainly new.”
>You crack a grin to Gilda, who nods back at you.
>You had a lead.

>Scaffidi’s Hideout.
>What a shithole.
>This place had seen better days, you were sure of that.
>The days that were ahead of it weren’t looking great, however.
>You pull open the door, letting Gilda step in as she ruffles her feathers free of the cold rainwater.
>Stepping into the dark bar, you take off your fedora and shake it free of water, placing it back on your head.
>There weren’t many patrons in here, but then again could you blame them?
>This place was the grimiest dive you’d ever encountered.
>How in the hell did a pseudo-celebrity like Spitfire find herself in a place like this?
>”You chat up the bartender. I’ll go rough up a few patrons.”
“Be gentle, G. Don’t need to muck this place up any more than it already is.”
>”Anything for you, Anon.”
>She walks off towards a group of colts playing poker, while you walk to the bar.
>Glancing back at her for a split-second, you’re reminded of years gone by.
>Happier times that weren’t plagued by chilling rain and serial killers.
>Days where you could just relax and stroke her feathers to the music of an old record player.
>But those were old days, far behind you now.

>Reaching the bar, you give the wooden table a hard tap, catching the attention of the bartender.
>”Whadd’ya want?”
“Information.”
>”Heh. Nice. I sell drinks here, not advice for tourists. Either get a drink or get out.”
>You consider taking out your badge for him to see, but you pass, choosing instead to go with his offer.
“Whiskey.”
>”That’s better.”
>The stallion fills a small glass with the dark amber liquid, sliding it down to you from where he stands.
>You give the cup a sniff and cringe at the scent of it.
>It was watered down to all hell, that much was certain.
“Now that I got a drink, you think you could answer a few questions?”
>”Possibly. What do you wanna know?”
>You force down a swig of the swill this ass called booze as best you can, and look straight at him.
“There was a mare in here earlier. Young, pretty thing. Wild, fiery mane. You can’t have missed her.”
>”Who, her? Yeah I saw her in here about… what, six hours ago?”
“Was she with anyone?”
>”You got a lot of questions there, chief.”
“I’m a very curious guy. Now, tell me. Who was she with?”

>The bartender eyes you with suspicion, but shrugs.
>”Some colt. Blue coat, same thing with his mane, only it was darker. Not much else to go by.”
“What were they doing? Did it seem like she knew him well.”
>”Hell, that girl was all over him. Wouldn’t stop talking to him the whole night. Poor basterd made me shell out a heft amount of booze just to get her tipsy.”
“So she was drinking heavily.”
>”Ho, you have no idea, buddy.”
>Fumbling this over in your mind, you down the rest of the whiskey and flick a bit onto the counter.
“Thanks.”
>…
>”Hey.”
>You turn back to him.
>”She kept calling him by his name. I think it was… Soarin’ or somethin’.”
>You nod, flicking another bit onto the counter in appreciation.
"Gilda, I have a name for-"
>God dammit.
>Gilda is in the middle of "persuading" one of the colts for information.
>Her persuasion techniques usually involved her talons against someone's face.
>"Don't make me beat the shit out of you, just give me a NAME."
"Gilda!"
>She stops mid strike, glancing over to you.
"I have a name."
>She looks to you, then back to the colt, dropping him to the floor.
>"Lucky day, isn't it kiddo? Now scram."
>The colt scrambles to his hooves and darts out of the bar, while you and Gilda walk to the door.
>"What do we got?"
"Name's Soarin, he was last seen here with her."
>"Radio into dispatch and get an address or something. We're finding this guy tonight."

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mQ3KQWScTCg&feature=related

Thirty Minutes Later

>This was the hotel.
>This is where he'd be.
>You and Gilda calmly walk up to the front desk, asking the secretary there which room Soarin' was staying in.
>Fifth floor, room 32B.
>Rather than waiting on an elevator, the two of you hoof it up the stairs to make better time.
>As you make it to the door of Soarin's room, Gilda stops you.
>"By the book?"
>...
"No."
>She smiles.
>You thought she would.
>You back away from the door.
"Fillydelphian PD, put your hooves in the air!"
>And then you connect the heel of your foot into the door, sending it flying open.
>Glida rushes into the room along with you, and you spot the colt in question by the window of his suite.
>He panics, and leaps through the glass and into the air.
>You're right behind him though, and you leap out and grab hold of his torso as he struggles to stay in flight.
>You prove too heavy, and you tumble to the ground with Soarin' almost falling fifty feet were it not for Gilda grabbing hold of your ankle and slowing your fall.
>SOAR: "Let go of me! I didn't mean it! I swear I just-"
>You cut off his speech when the tip of your pistol gets planted to his temple.

"Talk."
>SOAR: "Oh god..."
"Talk. Now."
>SOAR: "I... I wanted her gone, alright?! She was ruining my life! Do you have any idea what it's like to be upstaged by some floozy day in and day out? It's fucking maddening."
>"So you killed her... you make me sick you son-of-a-bitch."
"What about the others?"
>Soarin' looks at you with confused eyes.
>SOAR: "Others? What others?"
>You press the gun harder against his head.
"The others, Soarin'!"
>SOAR: "I don't know what you're talking about! Honest! Please, just don't-"
>Gilda grabs the pistol from your hand and cracks Soarin' across the face with it as hard as she can, knocking him out.
>"Just get some cuffs on him already. He's making my stomach churn."
>Brushing yourself of small glass shards, you take Soarin's front hooves and wings, binding them.
"Radio dispatch. We got the killer, but not the guy behind the rest of the murders."
>"Already on it."
>You take out a cigarette, lighting it with a flick of your small metal lighter.
>You hold out your cigarette to Gilda, who takes it and breathes in a deep drag.
"Never gets any easier, eh G?"
>"Hmph. Not really, Annie. Not really."
>It was a sad sort of humor that made it's way into your head.
>A while ago, you would have been embracing her after a job well done.
>In a way, you still wanted to.
>Taking back your cigarette, you look into the glowing embers at its tip.
>But those days were long, long gone.

~END~

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FPAe6MYlp1w&feature=related

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