Pleasured Viscera: Whispers Beneath The Boards

My vest felt itchy. It didn't help with raw, rain-slick rubbings. I bought it after my third contract. A kevlar vest, however, did little to stop a sniper's kiss. The nest atop my apartment looked fairly blank. Slated since nothing but me scoured those streets. Concrete streets and dirtied pavement met my gaze. Though I wanted to start right away, my instructions were strict and so was my employer. Not one bullet, or two, but three. Wherever, Silver Slam stated prior, but only after an adequate distraction. I hated having my back to a door. Somepony was 'scheduled' to shadow and spot for me; an hour's wait did little to sate my paranoia. Most days, I didn't fear death. Today, I did. What would Lily think. What would Silver Spoon assume. Was I a tool, or just another gun-toting pansy.

A black, compact suitcase clicked in greeting. Yes. Snipers ready for assembly; priceless commodities in our dog-eat-dog world. I sung a wordless song, loving peace beneath the sky. Wind ruffled my mane and, for once, I felt awake. Doctor Brazen needed my thanks. Snapping, locking, twisting components find their places. Suppressor. Scope. Stock. Then came that tripod for laying prone. A large, booming celebration kicks-off and Twilight's rule greets the day. Various, melding equines and griffins take the streets below, like faces I can't parse. They're legion and make me homesick. Vibrant, resplendent palettes of lavender, cosmic violet and beet-washed pink burst to life. Uniformed mares and soldiers march across an endless stretch of pavement, like ants with millions and millions of siblings cheering their mission. One, sky-scraping hot-air balloon soars above, but, thanks to Merry Slams, the entire vantage point had a blanket of microscopic mirror patterns, specialized lighting and warmth for electron efficiency.

The door creaked, not half a meter behind. I crouched in-turn, back-arched and instinctively chest-aimed. Behind her half-shown features of wit and prestige, a grey, secretary-esque mare watched my barrel. Both, it seemed, from her utter, lid-scrunched disgust. Warm, noir buttons adorned her white dress-vest, followed by short-pants frilly at the bottoms. I didn't know her face, but, I gathered her name twice-over. My friend, bored with brow-cocked poise said 'look upon my works, ye mighty. and despair.'

"Oh, Celestia... Dollie Deadless." The artist gasped, dropping her coffee flask..

"I know you, miss. Off-grey coat. Graphite grey mane. And, of course, excellent manners. You're Octavia, aren't you." Lily inferred, suddenly the world's best detective.

Despite her prior reluctance, Octavia turned her frown upside-down. Clearly, though, she felt... relieved. But, somehow, the air spelled sorrow. Pity. Why, I had no idea. Octavia, armed with four pistols shoulder-holstered and four knives at her thighs, descended her sandy throne. 'Il Melodia Inquietante', some called her. I found it fitting. Every, nearing hoofstep made me tense. Not outward, but absentmindedly; my body caught whiff of blue-blood. Miss Octavia love-tapped my shoulders, smiling bright like we were sisters.

"Little Dollie. You're a pretty mare, you know.... Prettier than I've heard, yes? You don't have to do anything. Let me shoot and watch the stairs; here, I have some juice for you. Don't drink it all at once, now~" The mare rasped, eyes glazed in red with understanding I myself never read.

My friend, like an aunt I never knew, bade me well and sniffled mid-positioning. For some, celestial reason, I felt spider webs all over my body. As if a pony-sized widow caught me for old time's sake. My episode was short and each limb, shaken timid, felt hugged. Was Octavia, my new asset, one of those third eye practitioners?

The stairs, I knew, were mine to keep.