Fatelocked: Bone Song

Your “reward” was an immediate reassignment: command of Unit Y. The last team’s disappearance in Hayseed Swamp was still a sensitive topic,if not a warning. Their investigation into the swamp’s “ancient machines” ended in tragedy, though the details were scarce.

Officially, the report said the case had been transferred to S.M.I.L.E. on the Crown’s orders. In reality, everypony in P.H.E.E.R. knew what that meant,whatever they’d found in that swamp wasn’t meant to see daylight.

Either way, you have a unit to lead, well soon they will be arriving today. At least you get a chance to meet them. You’ve been living in an old stone and thatch cottage sat in on the moors a little east of baltimare.

You glance down at the paperwork on your desk, it is littered with operative dossiers and casefiles. You flick though them, it’s been a long week organising the paperwork and getting this place livable. Well at least it isn’t lonely.

 

You glance up as a faint red glow flickers across the room, humming like static. The light gathers at your desk, forming into a ghostly mare clad in the old leather armor once standard for operatives decades ago. The spectral figure bears a gaping hole where her heart should be,its edges frayed and blackened, as though torn away by time itself.

“Doodles,” you sigh, rubbing a hoof over your face. “You know my unit’s due any minute. Didn’t we agree you’d keep hidden?”

“I’m bored,” she complains, her voice carrying that airy echo unique to the dead. “It’s not like I can pick up a quill or chalk and start, well- doodling or something.” She waves a hoof through the quill and inkwell, making them ripple faintly as if disturbed by a cold breeze.

“You could, you know… cross over,” you tease, smirking. “Or I can find you a new paddle boat to haunt.”

Her cheeks puff indignantly, eyes glowing faintly red as she glares at you. “You don’t have to be rude!”

You chuckle softly and return your attention to the papers scattered across your desk. Having a spirit tethered to you isn’t exactly regulation, but after a week with Doodles hovering nearby, you’ve almost gotten used to the company. Almost.

“Did you pick your new operatives yet?” she asks, her tone hovering somewhere between curiosity and mischief.

“I did,” you reply, rubbing your temples as you stare at the stack of dossiers spread across your desk. “Though I’m struggling to remember who I actually accepted.”

Paper rustles as Doodles drifts closer, her translucent hoof phasing through the top file. “You really should sleep more, The living kind of need that.”

You sigh. “Tell that to the paperwork waiting on my desk.”

You glance back at the pile of paperwork, realizing you’d forgotten you’d placed the accepted dossiers on the left side of your desk. Pulling three files from the stack, you spread them in front of you as you read off the names aloud.

“Shimmering Vale — Paranormal Field Engineer. Elder Stitch — Medic. Shadow Murk — Scout.”

“No rune specialist, then?” Doodles asks as she loops lazily through the air, pausing upside down to peer at you. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Well, I know a few runes,” you reply dryly. “And I’ve got you.”

“Aaaand are you implying I work for free?” she retorts, flipping upright with her forelegs crossed.

“You’re using my energy to stay visible. Maybe I wouldn’t be so tired if you didn’t keep borrowing it,” you grumble.

The ghost gives a sharp tsk. “Fine,” she huffs, then swiftly changes the subject. “What about a researcher?”

“Eh, we’ll share the workload,” you shrug.

Before she can respond, there’s a knock at the door — your “office,” though it’s really just a converted living room. The living quarters have long since been moved down to the basement. You wave Doodles away, and she vanishes in a quick flash of red light.

“Enter,” you call.

The door creaks open to reveal an older stallion with glasses and a greying brown mane. His beige coat has the faint, worn look of somepony who’s spent a lifetime in the field. He speaks in a low, gravelly voice tinged with a frontier accent.

“Ya Marrow?”

“I am. Come in,” you reply, gesturing toward the desk. “Elder Stitch, I presume?”

“Ah, just call me Doc.”

He steps inside, and you can’t help but notice the small safety pin piercing his upper ear, a tiny, unassuming detail that somehow fits him perfectly.

 

“I’m going to cut to the chase,” you say, scanning his dossier. “How efficiently can you mend somepony’s wounds under pressure — limited time, limited resources?”

Doc lets out a low hum. “Straight to the point, huh?” He studies your expression for a moment before nodding. “A’right, I can work with that. Pretty well, I’d say. But don’t expect miracles.”

“Can you serve as both an operative and a medic?” you ask, raising a brow.

“I’d rather be an operative,” Doc replies with a faint grin. “If I’m healin’, then something’s already gone wrong.”

You lean back slightly in your chair. “Alright, tell me one thing you can absolutely be trusted with, and one thing you’d rather not do alone.”

He chuckles under his breath. “Now that’s a new one.” After a pause, he nods to himself. “Patient confidentiality. You could stand me up at Tartarus’s gates, and I still wouldn’t mutter a word. As for what I’d rather not do alone? Heavy liftin’. Let’s face it, I’m past my prime.”

You smirk faintly. “Fair enough. How’d your last mission go?”

“Other than patchin’ a few scrapes from dealin’ with a building full of angry poltergeists, pretty well,” he says with a nostalgic nod. A small smile flickers across his muzzle, though his eyes drift for a moment. You can tell he’s thinking about his old team, whoever they were, and that maybe it’s better to save the question about his transfer for another time.

You glance down at the notes on his dossier. “Now… about your fate.”

Doc lets out a low chuckle, the kind that sounds more tired than amused. “Ah, there it is. I knew that’d come up sooner or later.” He takes a moment to choose his words. “I took the oath to help anypony who asks. Guess fate’s got a twisted sense of humor. I heal something that shouldn’t be alive.”

You tilt your head. “As in?”

He scratches the back of his neck, eyes unfocused as he recalls the vision. “Don’t rightly know. Looked like a mare, but she was… stitched together. Her limbs, her wings -none of ’em hers.”

Your gaze flicks to another note in the file. “What about the pinned shadow?”

Doc’s expression tightens. “That’s in the notes too, huh? Guess HQ really do keep tabs on a pony.” He sighs through his nose, tone quieter now. “Not somethin’ I like talkin’ about much, but… that shadow ain’t mine.”

Your eyes drift to the small safety pin piercing his ear. “And that pin’s what holds it?”

He nods once. “It has since I was a colt. Done me well so far.”

You don’t press further. There’s something in the way he says it, a tone that suggests the pin’s the only thing standing between him and something far worse.

You watch a faint red glow flicker across the floor, it hovers near Doc’s shadow for a heartbeat before darting away like smoke caught in a breeze. You pretend not to notice.

“Last question,” you say, steering the conversation elsewhere. “How can an attached or possessed pony compensate for the energy drain?”

Doc raises a brow at that,“The better question is why the pony keeps the spirit around.” He pauses, the lines around his eyes deepening as he thinks. “But if you’re talkin’ about coping, eat well, rest often, and for Luna’s sake, keep your emotions steady. Anger, guilt, grief, they’re open doors. It all depends on the spirit’s intent.”

He leans back, his tone turning grim. “Most attachments are parasites. They’d rather you never know they’re there, just feed off your spark ‘til there’s nothin’ left.”

You give a slow nod, though your thoughts drift elsewhere.

The spirit attached to you isn’t feeding, or hiding.

 

 

“That’ll be all,” you say, leaning back in your chair. “Feel free to set up your bunk. You’re the first here, so…first dibs, I suppose.”

The old stallion nods once and turns to leave, but pauses at the door. “I hope the rooms aren’t small. Where are the bunks?”

“Upstairs,” you reply, motioning vaguely with a hoof. “Office and kitchen are on this floor, living area’s in the basement. And if you see anypony else arrive, send them my way.”

“You didn’t mention the size of the rooms,” Doc remarks, halfway through the doorframe.

“At least we’re not sharing like the other bases,” you counter with a faint smirk.

He exhales through his nose, part sigh, part laugh. “Suppose that’s somethin’.”

The door creaks shut behind him, leaving the office quiet once more.

“You know I’m not going to do that, right?” comes Doodles’ disembodied voice from somewhere above you.

“Do what?” you ask, glancing around the dimly lit office.

“Well…drain your spark until there’s nothing left. Like that stallion put it.” Her voice grows clearer as her form shimmers into view across the desk. She props her forehooves on the surface, resting her chin on them with a ghostly sigh.

You arch a brow. “Then what are your intentions with me?”

She shrugs faintly, eyes flicking away. “Honestly? I didn’t exactly plan to stick around this long…” she admits, her tone softening near the end.

You tut under your breath. “You can’t cross over, can you?”

For a moment, Doodles says nothing. Then, with a reluctant nod, she confirms, “…No.”

“Unfinished business?” you press.

Her ears lower slightly as she meets your gaze. “Unfinished business,” she echoes quietly.

“Well, your body’s miles under by now, along with that ship,” you say after a long pause, rubbing your temples. “I don’t think I can help with that.”

She shakes her head quickly. “No, no. It’s not my body. It’s who I am.”

“A nobody?” you tease with a faint smirk.

Doodles puffs out her cheeks in a pout, and the air temperature drops several degrees. A cold gust sweeps across your desk, sending your paperwork fluttering to the floor. “Not funny! I’m being serious here!”

“Damn it, Doodles,” you mutter, ducking to retrieve the papers. “I’m messing around…”

“You shouldn’t make fun of ponies with disabilities,” she huffs, crossing her forelegs. “It’s rude.”

You groan, shuffling the papers back into place. “Being dead isn’t a disability. Besides, wasn’t it common fifty years ago to toss the disabled into asylums?”

“Well, yeah,” she says matter-of-factly. “But medical science was advancing! Mana shock therapy was just becoming a thing. I can’t imagine what it’s like now.” Her eyes light up suddenly. “Oh! They’ve probably found a cure for thestralism by now!”

You glare at her for a long moment before dragging your hooves down your face. “Doodles, stop. We’re getting off topic.” You make a mental note not to repeat the conversation from a few days ago. “So, what makes you you?”

Her expression softens. The ghostly mare looks down, her red eyes dimming as she searches for an answer. “I don’t know,” she finally admits, her ghostly wings drooping. “It’s like I was supposed to do something… something I didn’t finish. Maybe fate’s giving me a chance to make it right before I go.”

“And you don’t know what that is,” you say quietly.

 

She floats a little higher. “Well you can figure it out! You’re part of P.H.E.E.R., for the Goddess’s sake!”

You meet her gaze with a weary look. Maybe telling Doc about Doodles soon would be worthwhile.

The spirit drifts down and perches on your desk, her tail swaying lazily through a stack of papers.

“Has anypony told you your ear twitches when you’re thinking?” she teases.

You ignore the remark, exhaling through your nose. “You wouldn’t happen to know anypony still alive today, would you?”

Doodles taps her chin, her expression thoughtful. “I can’t think of anypony. I was the youngest in my team, and I doubt anypony in P.H.E.E.R. from my time’s still around.”

“The longest-serving operative would be the leader of Unit C…” you murmur, trailing off as your thoughts drift. You’ve met her a few times, those gem-like eyes of hers could chill even a ghost. Rumor has it she’s been around since before P.H.E.E.R. had its name. You pull a quill from the inkwell and start jotting notes.

“Did you have a family?” you ask, quill still between your teeth.

“Other than my sister, no,” Doodles says softly. “I don’t know if she crossed over or if she’s still trapped on the ship. I searched for her, but…” Her voice fades. “I never found her.”

You nod and write that down. There’s no point asking about parents, they’d be long gone. “Alright. I’ll look into it. But for now, I need to finish setting up the unit.”

“Thank you!” Doodles beams and darts forward, attempting to hug you,only to pass straight through your chest. The shock of icy energy makes you shudder. She recoils quickly, hooves fidgeting as she sinks halfway through the desk. “Sorry…”

You rub your foreleg, the chill still lingering in your bones. “Just… warn me next time.”

You finish jotting down your notes, leaving one last bullet point open, ask about double-circled runes.

 

Doodles glances toward the door, her expression unreadable, before fading out of sight in a wisp of red light.

Right on cue, the door swings open. A young unicorn steps in, her light blue mane a tangled mess with a pair of worn leather goggles strapped loosely beneath it.

“Are you the chief? Some old stallion told me to report to you,” she says, voice brisk and confident.

“I take it you’re Shimmering Vale?” you ask, raising a brow as your eyes flick to the matching dossier on your desk.

“Just Vale,” she corrects, brushing at a few invisible flecks of dust on her off-white coat.

“That old stallion is one of your teammates, Vale,” you say.

“Really?” Vale chuckles. “Guess we’ll be picking him up on the Ki-meter before long.”

“Experience is hard to come by,” you reply, leaning back in your chair. “Let’s begin. Tell me one thing you can absolutely be trusted with,and one thing you’d really rather not do alone.”

“Whoa, tough question.” Vale’s smirk fades as she thinks. “Well, you can trust me to keep your equipment running. Saves you the trouble of sending it back to HQ or waiting on an inventory request.”

“That’s useful,” you admit. “P.H.E.E.R.’s logistics aren’t exactly… efficient at the best of times.” You tilt your head. “And the second part?”

“Hmm. Something I’d rather not do alone?” She shrugs. “Assignments. I don’t like working solo in the field. Back at base, sure—leave me be. But out there? No thanks.”

You nod, then glance down at her dossier. “This mini phonograph listed under your equipment—what’s that about?”

“Oh, that?” She perks up. “It records ghost voices. The new Ki-meter V2’s spirit speaker misses certain frequencies, so I use the phonograph to catch the ones that slip through. You know how the speaker only spits out a word or two? The phonograph gets everything.”

“I see.” You flip through the papers. “Is that standard issue for field engineers? It’s the first time I’ve seen your role listed as a specialist.”

“Not really,” Vale admits. “We engineers drag all kinds of gear with us. The phonograph’s just my thing. I guess you missed the memo, HQ’s been transferring some of us from R&D into the field after the budget cuts.”

“That explains it.” You tap the page with a hoof. “So, what exactly do field engineers do?”

“Pretty much what it says, repair Ki-meters, field-test new gizmos, and fill in wherever we’re needed. Otherwise, treat me like a regular operative.”

“Right…” You pause, eyeing the next line. “And about this phonograph again, it says here you record ghosts’ regrets?”

Vale groans. “They actually put that in there? Alright, cards on the table: I’m a bit musically inclined. I, uh… got caught remixing evidence cylinders and pressing them onto vinyl for a side hustle. Got reprimanded, already paid for it, so save the lecture.”

You wave a hoof dismissively. “As long as it doesn’t happen again, whatever. It’s your engineering skill that caught my eye, not your rhythm. So, why P.H.E.E.R.? Why not a normal engineering gig?”

She shrugs. “I don’t know. Saw the ad in the back of a newspaper, right in the obituaries section, actually. I’d flunked out of college and wanted to prove to my parents I could still make it as an engineer.”

You nod along, then ask quietly, “And your fate?”

The humor drains from her face. “That vision still haunts me,” she admits. “I was trapped in a room… all I could hear was static. Then I fell to the floor, shaking, biting my tongue until…” she stops herself, eyes distant. “It was pretty messed up.”

“Were you alone in this room? What kind of building was it?” you ask, tilting your head.

“I don’t know,” Vale says quietly. “The walls were stone, but I couldn’t see a door. No glowstick, no light source—just darkness.” She shakes her head.

You raise a hoof, motioning for her to stop. Her voice is trembling now, and you can tell the memory still stings. “I get it. Sounds vague—like mine.”

“Can I ask?” she says after a pause.

“Sure,” you reply. “I was running from dogs,or maybe Tarhounds,in the rain. I slip, then get mauled.”

“I suppose you avoid the rain now, huh?” she asks, a faint smirk returning.

“Yeah, I try,” you say, letting out a dry chuckle. “But the weatherponies tend to have other plans.” You try to lighten the mood, but curiosity pulls you back. “Ever since you saw your fate, has it affected your work at all? Maybe made you hesitate… or feel like the static’s still there, whispering? Guiding you?”

“Not really,” she says after thinking it over. “I haven’t had much field time anyway. Mostly temporary attachments or filling in for operatives out sick.”

You nod, jotting something down on the dossier. “How’s the field treated you so far?”

“It’s… something,” she admits. “R&D has no idea what you operatives go through. We used to joke about you all whining over faulty Ki-meters and glowsticks” she smirks faintly that quickly fades “but now I see why.”

“Well, that’s all from me,” you say, setting the quill down. “I’ll leave it to you to pick a room. This base has an odd layout - living areas in the basement, bunks are upstairs, and the kitchen’s next door.” You gesture toward the door.

Vale nods and turns to leave.

“Before you go,” you add, “the last operative to arrive is a batpony. If you see him, send him my way.”

“Sure,” she says, pausing at the door. “I was wondering if there’d be one.”

“Will that be a problem?” you ask.

“Pfft, no. Half the units I’ve worked with were mostly bats,” she replies with a grin before pulling the door shut behind her.

A faint silence settles before a familiar voice cuts through it. “Are you sure about her, Marrow?” Doodles asks, drifting into view.

 

You glance up from your desk. “Why? She seems fine. Maybe a bit of a troublemaker, but who isn’t in P.H.E.E.R.?”

“I don’t mean like that,” Doodles says, her tone dipping lower. “She’s a horn-head. Unicorns are extremely susceptible to possession. Their horns act like a direct gateway to the brain. They used to be forbidden from becoming operatives… or so I thought.”

“They can join,” you explain, leaning back in your chair. “They wear special rings that make sure energy can only flow one way. Still, it’s rare. The old stigma stuck around.”

You rise from your seat, joints cracking as you stretch. Sitting all day has left you stiff.

“Where are you going?” Doodles asks, floating after you.

“Nowhere. Just stretching my legs.” You roll your shoulders and walk to the window. The sun hangs low over the grassy flatlands, the horizon broken only by the dark silhouette of a lonely tree. “I also need to check the patrol orders soon,” you add quietly. “Though, I can’t imagine there’s much out here to keep an eye on.”

You trot back to your desk and start rummaging through the drawers. The largest one at the bottom rattles as you pull it open, revealing a neat file system. You flip through the folders, muttering each label under your breath,“Maintenance… Reporting… Accounting… Operatives…. Of course nothing in alphabetical order…Hah, Patrols.”

You tug the file free, and place it on the desk. As you flip through the documents, your brow furrows. The patrol order is dated over thirty years ago,no amendments, no redactions, not even a note from HQ or past unit leaders. Just blank untouched aging paper gathering dust. You turn it over and there is a scribbled note with a list of instructions.

 

You read it.

 

To all P.H.E.E.R. Operatives,

If you wish to survive the moorlands between assignments, you must follow these instructions precisely.

These lands are older than our records, and soaked with more blood than you can imagine.

By the brook: There is a tree where a songbird sings. If your thoughts turn uneasy while you listen-ignore them. They are not your own.

 

 

To the west, in the forest: If you see smoke through the trees and voices of those who stand watching-do not make eye contact. Salute once, then leave.

 

 

If there is a bustle in your hedgerow outside your cottage, leave a silver bit for the Fae Queen.

 

 

Along the road: If you hear a sound like crashing waves or humming bees, the Piper is calling you to join him. Do not follow the music.

 

 

At dawn: For those who stayed too long, the forest will echo with laughter. Do not move.

 

 

In the forest: If you find a staircase that should not be there, and hear whispers in the wind—do not climb, do not investigate, do not talk about it. Leave.

Remember:

Some things in the moorlands remember us better than we remember them. The locals remember well.

Take care.

 

You slide the note toward Doodles, who has drifted in close enough to hover over your shoulder. A faint chill grazes your cheek from her presence.

“What do you make of it?” you ask.

“It’s definitely not a patrol order,” she says, squinting at the page. “But back when I was alive, Unit Y was… well, very superstitious. Come to think of it, most units stationed in Eastern Equestria were.”

“With Hollow Shades and Blackhoof Hill just over the mountains north of here, I understand why.” You shrug and return to the stack of paperwork. Digging deeper, you pull out a thick operative file, it hits the desk with a heavy thunk. The folder bulges with dossier after dossier, some pages yellowed and brittle with age.

“Why Blackhoof? That’s a lovely little town, I used to vacation there. Very batpony-friendly, too…” Doodles drifts into your field of vision, confusion creasing her ghostly features.

“I think you need to catch up on some history,” you mutter. “That place is somewhere I’d rather never see again—and somewhere no modern PHEER operative should go, either.”

“Why’s that?” Doodles eases closer, curiosity pulling her forward.

“It’s an abandoned ghost town,” you say flatly. “We lost a lot of operatives there. Count yourself lucky that assignments in that region go to the expert units, A, B, or C.”

“Why would I be glad? I’m dead.” Doodles smirks, shrugging in that weightless way ghosts do.

“From what I’ve heard,” you huff, flicking through the remaining files, “even the dead aren’t safe there.”

You pause, frowning at the paperwork. “This should’ve been archived decades ago. The patrol folder is practically empty, and the operative folder is packed with… well, literally dead files, the accounting has questionable expenditures where they've been drinking at the local inn nearly every other night...I mean who authorised this at HQ?”

Doodles shrugged, “We just hid the expenditures in the minor repairs float…Besides it happened in my time too, we all like to drink.”

“All the units are guilty of it but this…” You hold up a copy of an approved invoice, “They basically put drinky time in the description, and drawn a smiley face…Then have a cheek to say it cost fifty bits. And it was approved.”

 

You glance down at the desk now covered in paperwork, you notice the sunlight has now dipped, as on cue the candles around the office flicker then spark into a flame that dances on the wicks.

“Did you do that?” Doodles asks.

“They’re auto-light candles. They have gems embedded beneath them that activate when it gets dark enough.” You reply. The batpony should be here soon, you hope he isn’t too tired getting up so early, being nocturnal and all.

You glance out the window. The world beyond has already sunk into near-total darkness, the flatlands swallowed whole by shadow. You can’t help but wonder what actually lurks out there—if anything the strange note hinted at is still true. A map would help. It should help.

 

You pull open drawers, rifling through them one by one, hoping for even a rough sketch of the area. Nothing. Not a scrap, not a chart—just empty wood and dust. There has to be one somewhere in this cottage.

A sudden knock breaks the silence.

“Come in!” you call, raising your voice.

Doodles vanishes in an instant, zipping straight up to the corner like a startled firefly.

A stallion batpony opens the door, his light grey fur glistens in the candle light, his purple eyes adjusts. “Are you the unit leader?”

You nod, “I am. You must be Shadow Murk”

“I am, and sorry for being late, can’t see anything with the sun-” Shadow Murk steps in then immediately pauses, he looks at you then around the room as if he is searching for something.

“Is there something wrong?” you ask.

The batpony pauses just inside the doorway, ears flicking as he scans the office. Only after a moment do his eyes settle on you again.

“Nothing… just felt like somepony else was here.”

“Are you sensitive to ki fluctuations?” you ask, though you already know—it’s in his dossier.

“A little,” he admits. “Don’t know if it’s instinct or training, but when I get a feeling, I trust it.”

You shuffle through the paperwork in front of you. “It says here you whisper your direction out loud to ‘keep spirits honest.’ What exactly does that mean?”

“It’s simple,” Murk replies. “Spirits tend to warn me when I’m about to step somewhere I shouldn’t. If I speak my intention, they usually steer clear… or steer me away.”

“Does it work?” you ask, genuinely curious.

“I’m still alive, aren’t I?” He gives a casual shrug of his wings.

“I suppose so.” You lean back in your chair. “Alright, next question. Tell me one thing you can absolutely be trusted with—and one thing you’d rather not do alone.”

“Trusted with? Easy. If you’re ever lost, I’ll find you. Being dead or alive, that’s more on you.” Murk chuckles lightly. “As for something I won’t do alone? Patrols. If you want me coming back, don’t send me out solo.”

“You’d refuse the order?” you ask with a raised brow.

“Don’t take it as insubordination. It’d be fate,” Murk says evenly.

“That leads into my next question,” you reply.

Murk nods, already knowing. He lets out a slow breath. “My vision? I saw myself take a wrong turn… then ended walking paths that never ends.”

“Anything else you can tell me about it?” you press.

“I presume I was on patrol,” Murk replies. “I had the full kit on—patrol orders tucked under my wing. That’s all I remember.”

“I see.” You close the folder on your desk. “I’ll keep your fate in mind when assigning you for night work—especially patrols.” After a brief pause, you continue, “How about your last assignment? How did it go?”

Murk huffs out a dry, almost tired laugh. “We got an emergency call from an amateur ghost hunter. His friends were trapped in the basement of an abandoned house he claimed was haunted. Said a spirit had sealed them in.” He rolls his eyes. “Turns out they were so panicked they didn’t try pulling the door. Just kept shoving at it.”

You can’t help but shake your head. “I’ve run into a few groups like that. The worst part is trying to warn them they’re in danger without actually telling them they are in danger.”

“Exactly.” Murk flicks an ear. “And they call themselves ghost hunters. Have you ever actually heard of one hunting a ghost?”

You snort softly. “Not once.”

“What about your Ki sensing gift, like helping ponies who are physically here but lost themselves?” You ask.

Murk looks at you for a moment, looking a bit confused, “As in undead? A husk? If you're talking on the spiritual or emotional level I’m no shrink.”

“Sorry it’s been a long week,” You rub your eyes, “I’ll rephrase it, can you sense any other energy?”

He shakes his head, “Just Ki, I look out for my team just as any good operative.”

“If one of our operatives goes missing, how are you able to track and find them?” You ask.

“Well research, find out how they are and how they think. Once I have a rough location, then it’s a matter of time I find them.”

You place Murks folder back into the drawer, “Well that seems a little vague.”

“Most of it is intuition.”

You glance at the massive folder of past operatives of unit Y, “You think the old unit Y will ever be found?”

“Well if we are the new unit Y, I suspect HQ are certain they aren't coming back. SMILE got that case shut tight. If you are thinking about sending me to the swamps then prepare to be disappointed.”

You shake your head, “Unless SMILE gives the case back to PHEER, then no.” you give a short huff, “Have a look at this.” You slide the old instructions written on the back of the patrol orders, towards him.

He takes a moment to read though, his brow furrows as he reads through it, "Instructions how to survive here? The moors is an active place being so underpopulated. Is this folklore, superstitions? Are there any other reports about this?”

“None, the patrol orders are empty, and no mention of it anywhere.” You reach forward then flip the paper over to show the empty patrol order. “It’s written on very old official paperwork. So it had to be a past operative.”

“Well the easiest way of finding out if the instructions are something we need to follow or not is to ask the locals. If they do it, so do we. Though a few of these should be reported as a case themselves. The Piper one is concerning enough, let alone a fae queen.”

“Do you know much about these moors?” You ask.

“Other than the land is flat. But in terms of history, a battle took place in the forest”

“Which were?” This piqued your interest.

“Ah,I need to think back to history class…” Murk scrunched up his face in thought, “I think, it was one of the last big battles of the pre-unification wars, between the separatist unicorns and the unificist. But this doesn’t add up, most battle-site hauntings are residual, not active.”

“There are no reports to say it’s active, the instructions say otherwise.”

“Then take my advice we need to talk to the locals, see what's going on.” Murk replies.

 

“I think I will. Can you call in the other two? I want everypony on the same page,” you order.

Murk gives a single nod. He whispers something under his breath thats barely audible,before slipping out the door.

As the latch clicks shut, a red glow begins to gather in the corner of the room. It swirls, tightens, and slowly shapes into a familiar form.

“He’s good,” Doodles remarks, her voice low. “I wasn’t even fully manifested and he still looked right at me.”

“Hence why it’s a good idea to reveal you to them now,” you reply. “It’ll only be a matter of time before they work it out.”

“I hope so,” Doodles murmurs, a fragile thread of hope in her voice.

The door creaks open again. Doc, Vale, and Murk file in, taking position in a neat line before your desk. Doc and Vale exchange a tense glance; neither looks eager to hear whatever comes next. Murk, however, doesn’t look at you at all, his eyes lock onto Doodles’ shimmering outline. He squints, head tilting, as though trying to force her fully into focus.

You glance toward Doodles. She’s giving Murk a small, hesitant wave,more playful than confident.

Murk’s brow furrows, eyes narrowing as if he’s trying to confirm whether he actually sees what he thinks he sees. Slowly, almost cautiously, he raises a hoof and returns the wave.

“As we’re all here…” You straighten up in your chair. “There are a few things I want to go over with you. But first, I need to confess something.”

“Sorry, Marrow, but we need to talk about the spirit to the left of you.” Murk blurts out before you can continue. “I knew something was off when I came in. I was going to mention it later, but this—”

 

You glance at Doodles as she drifts down from the air, ghostly hooves touching the floor with a soft shimmer. Doc and Vale look around the room, trying to locate whatever Murk is reacting to. You sit back, unsure whether to step in or let it unfold on its own.

“You see something?” Doc asks.

“There.” Murk points firmly. “There’s a shadow right next to Marrow. Looks like a mare… earth pony?”

Doodles snorts, trying not to laugh. She stretches out her wings in a dramatic flare.

“No—batpony. Now I see the outline of the wings…” Murk adds, squinting harder.

“I’m not seeing anything,” Vale mutters, giving him a confused look. “I suppose you bats have crazy vision…”

Doc looks from you to the empty corner where Doodles stands. “So we’ve got ourselves a haunted base.”

“Not exactly,” you interject. “The spirit is attached to me and,”

“Well go find an exorcist, you idiot!” Vale snaps.

You wave her down. “Let me finish. She’s called Doodles, member of Unit T, from fifty years ago. She followed me from my last assignment.”

“And you’re sure she isn’t a demon in disguise?” Vale presses.

You shake your head. “If she were, I’d be dead by now. It’s been a week.”

Doc draws in a slow breath, worry tightening his expression. “That explains the question from earlier.”

You nod. “I’m exhausted. I was hoping you’d have suggestions to alleviate the symptoms.”

“Attachments do that to you. It is a form of possession,” Doc explains. “Like I said before, eat well, rest. I’m guessing you can see her fully?”

“I can. Though sometimes she’s just a red light or a drifting voice.”

“I see. Well, Miss Doodles, if you can hear me,” Doc says, addressing the air, “try to limit manifesting when Marrow is already tired.”

Doodles tuts. “He can see me because we’re sharing the same energies. Or frequencies…” She trails off as Doc’s eyes drift blindly across the room. She sighs. “And he can’t hear a word I’m saying.”

“She says I can see and hear her because of the attachment,” you relay. “We’re sharing energies.”

“And why have you attached yourself to Marrow?” Doc asks.

You lift a hoof toward Doodles, signaling that you’ll handle it. “She needs help. She can’t cross over.”

“Unfinished business?” Doc asks.

“Unfinished business,” you confirm. “We’re still figuring out what that is.”

The old stallion nods slowly. “Well… if you’re alright living with a low-level possession, that’s on you. And as for Miss Doodles, if you’re sincere about needing help, find a way to communicate with me.”

You clear your throat. “Bottom line: I offered to help Doodles cross over, and that’s what I’m going to do. Isn’t that what we do? Help the living and the dead?”

Murk glances down at the floor. Vale breaks eye contact entirely, staring at the wall. Doc offers you a small, approving smile.

Not the reaction you wanted, but workable.

“Anyway,” you continue, shifting gears, “we’ve all seen enough ghosts not to freak out.” You slide the old patrol note across the desk. “I found this earlier while going through paperwork. Murk suggested talking to the locals about it, to confirm or deny its authenticity.”

Doc and Vale step forward, leaning in to read the note.

“Instructions?” Doc murmurs, tilting his head as he scans the page.

Vale’s brows knit together. She frowns at the scribbled lines, her jaw tightening, though she keeps her thoughts to herself.

“Have either of you seen anything like this before? Any idea what we’re dealing with?” you ask.

Doc shakes his head. “Nothin’ like this from the frontier.”

“Why leave instructions?” Vale finally says, breaking her silence.

“Less instructions and more warnings,” you reply. “The kind you find in folklore. But that’s all we’ve got. Old Unit Y either left no notes—which is hard to believe…”

“Well, they’d fail a base audit if that’s the case,” Doc grumbles.

“That’s my point. Either the records were removed, or Unit Y had terrible paperwork habits. And why would they do that? Murk, any ideas?”

You look up to find Murk still staring in Doodles’ direction.

“Uh… maybe?” He steps forward to join the others, whispering under his breath as he approaches the desk. “I know their case got passed to SMILE. Maybe when the files were classified, SMILE took most of the paperwork too? We all know what they’re like with secrecy.”

“Well, we’re not going to find answers sitting in this office.” You fall away from your chair onto your hooves. “I know it’s our first night, but we need to orientate ourselves and get this operation going.”

 

Your team responds with a chorus of low grumbles.

 

“We’re just going to look around the cottage tonight,” you tell them. “As you familiarise yourselves with the place, keep an eye out for any clues from old Unit Y. Let me know if you find anything.”

The three nod, then turn to leave.

You catch Murk giving Doodles one last, lingering look before the door shuts behind him.

“Well… that went okay,” you say, exhaling. Then you turn to Doodles. “We need to find some way for you to communicate with the rest of the team.”

Doodles trots straight through your desk and drifts toward the door. “Murk seems to be able to see me. Though he only mentioned me as a shadow…”

“Well, thanks to him seeing something, at least it proves I’m not going crazy.” You open the door and wave for her to go through.

“You know I can just walk through it,” Doodles chuckles.

“I was being a gentlecolt,” you groan, though truthfully, you just briefly forgot you’re talking to a ghost.

 

The hallway is short, lit only by a flickering lantern. You walk past the kitchen, where Vale is rummaging through cupboards with the intensity of a pony searching for hidden treasure.

You stop in the doorway just in time to see her pull out a dusty glass bottle. She squints at the label, pops the cork with a quick flash of magic, and takes a long, unapologetic swig.

You give her a sharp glare.

She wipes her mouth with a foreleg, “What?”

“What are you drinking? I can’t imagine that tastes okay,” you ask.

“I thought you were going to chew me out,” Vale replies, examining the bottle. “A port, I think. Tastes awful.”

“Maybe save the drinking for after the searching,” you say, stepping fully into the kitchen. Vale’s magic casts the room in a cool blue glow, the old logburner at your side warm with dust and disuse. Doodles drifts in behind you as an idea takes shape.

“But listen,your phonograph captures more frequencies than the spirit speaker, right?”

“It does. Much more sensitive.” Vale recorks the bottle but continues holding it aloft. “What are you suggesting?”

“Could you rig something specifically attuned to Doodles? Something that’ll let the rest of us hear her?”

Vale squints thoughtfully. “I can, but the phonograph is more of a record-then-play device. Not real-time, like your spirit speaker. That’s the trade-off.”

“I didn’t mention it earlier, but she’s a rune specialist,” you add. “Her input could be useful. And maybe she can pick up things in her… state… that we can’t.”

Vale mulls it over. “Personally, I don’t care about any of that.” She pauses, swirling the bottle in her magic as she purses her lips. “But… alright. I’ll do it.”

She lowers the bottle slightly, giving you a firm look.

“On two conditions: I keep this port and the other she helps me with my other projects, then we have a deal.”

“Sure. Just don’t get wasted or open another bottle until we’re done. If you can make something that lets the rest of us hear her, I’m sure she’d be happy to help,” you reply. You turn toward Doodles. “You alright with that?”

Doodles nods. “Sure. It’ll be nice to see what kit P.H.E.E.R. has now.”

“She says it’s fine,” you confirm.

“Then follow me,” Vale says, looking around as if she doesn’t see Doodles floating right in front of her. She steps through the ghost and passes you. “Now I can do what I do best.” She gives you a small smile.

You watch the unicorn leave, a faint red dot of light tracing her path.

“Did you check the other cabinets?” you call after her as she disappears into the hallway.

“Yeah. Just coffee and hay bars way past their date,” she shouts back.

“Well, you could put them in the bin,” you mutter, glancing around the kitchen. Some cupboards had been restocked by you earlier this week—you know there’s nothing of interest here. Your mind drifts to the living area in the basement; you’ve barely been down there, aside from dropping off supplies for assignments.

 

You leave the kitchen, walk along the hallway, and open a door leading to a candlelit stone stairway. The steps creak softly underfoot as you descend to the living area, which spans the length of the cottage.

Two sofas face a low wooden coffee table in the center of the room. To the left, bookshelves line the wall, crammed with hundreds of books, both large and small, new and worn. On the right, a massive engraving dominates the wall: a bold title reading UNIT Y, followed by a long list of names—those who met their fate. One entry stands out; instead of KIA or MIA, it simply reads Retired.

At the back of the room, a large fireplace sits flanked by neatly stacked wood, ready to be used. Above it hangs a massive silver-framed portrait: a male Alicorn in golden armor and a crown, locked in battle with a thestral. The Alicorn’s face is twisted in fear as he faces the dagger clenched in the thestral’s jaws.

 

You step closer to the picture above the fireplace, drawn in by its sheer scale. At first the Alicorn and thestral dominate the scene, but as your eyes adjust, the background pulls you in.

Behind the battling pair,on the alicorn’s side,the forest is a wall of fire. Unicorns hurl spell after spell into the burning treeline, each blast lighting up the smoke in violent flashes. Through the inferno, fleeing silhouettes stagger into view: pegasi and the occasional batpony, some limping, some dragging the fallen, and some… still burning.

The artist captured the panic too vividly; for a heartbeat, you swear you can hear the crackling wood and the distant screams.

Your gaze drifts to the thestral’s flank. There,partially hidden in the smoke,is a purple batpony wearing a hood. One hoof is raised toward the scorched ground, and ghostly wisps of light spiral up from the earth at her touch. A rune specialist, or something older?

You keep scanning. Far in the distance, three ponies clash violently on a ridge,one pegasus, one unicorn, and one earth pony, locked in a brutal triangular struggle. Off to the side, almost missed among the rocks, a small batpony peeks out from the mouth of a cave, eyes wide with terror or awe,you can’t tell which.

Finally, at the farthest point of the painting, almost swallowed by smoke and distance, you spot a grey pony with a pointed hat and a long, flowing beard. He stands atop a forested rocky ridge, horn blazing with silver light as he casts a wide protective shield over two tiny alicorn foals huddled beneath him.

But the longer you stare, the darker the scene becomes.

Silhouettes of unicorns burn inside the haze surrounding the shield, burning, collapsing, their outlines barely holding shape through the fire and smoke. And woven through that chaos, half-hidden behind the flames, are the faint shapes of batponies.

They’re laughing.

Not joyfully,more like a cruel, triumphant laugh echoing through the destruction. Their grins are sharp. Their eyes glint white through the haze. They watch the unicorns burn with a disturbingly calm amusement.

You lower your gaze to the bottom-left corner of the frame. Carved neatly into the silver border, in a style far older than the cottage itself, are the words:

The master of equines fall – White Spirit

 

You tear your eyes away from the picture. Your mind keeps trying to piece together its meaning, and you’re certain it has something to do with history. But those two battling equines in the foreground… something about them tugs at a familiar thread. Maybe it’s tied to those old legends the batponies in PHEER like to ramble about after a few too many drinks.

You shove the thought aside as your gaze settles on the engraved wall.

Your eyes drift to the beginning, scanning the earliest entries. To your surprise, you spot the name White Spirit, listed as the second pony ever to be KIA in Unit Y.

You follow the line of names down the cold stone, each carved letter carrying decades of weight. Then you pause. Near the very end, the one entry stands out, not marked KIA, not MIA.

Retired.

The only one on the entire wall.

Your ear flicks. That means there’s a chance this pony is still alive.

You lean in to read the name.

Brio Belle.