“How loud?” I ask.

Zephyr doesn’t answer right away, he just shakes and makes these frustrating little mewling sounds of terror.

“HEY!” I snap my fingers in front of him. The noise is a flanged screech of metal that jars him out of his stupor. “How. Loud?”

“Uh-Uhm, q-quiet… but it’s getting louder!” He says. “Where are your friends?!”

“On their way, just hang tight,” I flash him a grin with a level of confidence I’m not sure I’m feeling. “They won’t get you.”

I turn on my heel and snap my hands out wide, brandishing my claws and baring my ragged teeth like an animal.

“Please… please!” Zephyr moans.

His tepid and terrified voice grates on my nerves. My instincts say ‘Kill’. They tell me to end him. To rattle the hook and the chain. To ring the dinner bell for the Old Stain. It won’t be the Entity that comes if I do though, oh no.

No, it will be the Thief.

It will be the one who stole from the Old Stain. Who took its power like jewels from a trove only to fritter them away on meaninglessness.

My mind is buzzing as a figure steps into view at the far end of the alley. Their baggy clothes obscure their outline, but I still recognise them. I know them from the dead vagrant’s memories. The stained denim jacket over a thin hoodie and a mask of old stained plaster with two crude circles with notches down the center where eyes would be, and a crude painted grin for a mouth.

Silently, they pull out a hunting knife from a leather sheathe at their hip. It’s an old one, heavy and made of good, solid steel. The kind of hunting knife you'd use to skin a deer or cut through leather. It's the kind of knife that could slice through flesh and bone alike with enough effort. It's also the kind of thing an overly-edgy teenager might threaten someone with, but the way the figure spins the blade on the palm of their hand tells me this isn’t one of those types of people. The weapon is balanced, and the one holding it moves with a fluid, violent economy of motion that suggests they know exactly what they’re going to do with it.

"Is it you?" I ask.

They take one step forward, silent and menacing, then another.

"Damn it, Apple Bloom is that you under there?!"

I barely see the third step. One moment they’re approaching with careful stalking movement, and the next they’re in my face, their bloody blade caught in the metal net of my fingers to grind against them with unnerving power and mad, frothing grit. Their breath comes in sharp, rapid gasps, and even for a Killer they’re freakishly strong.

But they’re still unfinished.

“Out of the way, newblood!” I slash forward, driving the full weight of my unnatural biology at them and sending them barreling backward in a stumble.

My turn.

I duck low and swing wide, and my claws rip through the cheap denim and find soft flesh beneath. Fogforged metal splits skin, muscle, and sinew, opening them up and releasing a swelter of gore onto the filth-caked ground.

Zephyr screams something but I’m too deep in my own bloodlust to catch any of it.

That turns out to be to my detriment when, a moment later, another one of the little bastards jumps me from behind, screaming like a banshee as they plunge a blade into my back over and over. The sound that leaves me is less a roar and more of a bellow as I flail back and forth. The fledgling Killer clings to me with preternatural strength and agility so, lacking any other option, I straighten out, lunge backward, slam my attacker into the brick wall of the alley to pin them in place, and plunge all ten of my silver fingerblades behind my head and deep into either side of their skull.

Its shriek is unearthly, and I can't help but wonder who I just hurt.

Sweetie? Scootaloo? Is it them?

The figure slumps bonelessly off of me just as the first one regains its bearing. The wound that would have been instantly lethal to any normal being has already stopped bleeding and sealed over as they lunge at me in a feral frenzy, knife raised high to drive it into my heart.

All these things have is rage; no training, no skill, just blind rage, and if I had been any other Killer that might be enough.

My grip on reality has always been a little… loosey-goosey… ever since my conversion into a Killer, though, and I loosen that grip with a mental flex of will.

Space and conscious thought fold around me, and to their eyes, I will have simply ceased to exist for a split second. Only that brief quarter-beat of time, though, but it’s enough.

More than enough actually.

One of the downsides to having all of your senses cranked to eleven is that if you lose your target it’s like suddenly going blind.

Their blade swings through the space I occupied a moment ago and the greenhorn Killer howls as all of its weight and power hammers through empty air and they bury their knife three inches straight into the concrete ground.

Then I'm back, looming over my little half-born sibling. Two swings, back and forth, and I flay open their back.

I can kill them now. Massive trauma is the only way to destroy a Killer, even temporarily, and I would do it in an instant if I thought it would be a mercy. I still don’t know for certain if my elder siblings ever remanifested after they were taken apart during the Exodus. I suspect they did, but these ones, if it is them then I don’t know how much of them is still human and how much is Killer.

How much of them is Fog.

If I kill them now, it might mean a permanent death. No returning to the arms of the Thief to be reborn, and no more murders on the streets of Canterlot. That would be a mercy.

So I show mercy.

I swing for the neck, and I would have gotten them too if I weren’t so lost in my own head that I somehow forgot that they travel in threes.

From somewhere above me, maybe even the roof of the building, another, slighter figure drops down with a feral, tinny shriek. I whip around at the noise, trying to move out of the way, but it’s far too late.

The fledgling slams me to the ground. This one's weapon isn't a knife, but a metal school ruler that's been sharpened to a point and had long, heavy needles bonded to it, and they plunge the makeshift blade into me repeatedly, ripping and tearing and leaving deep, ragged wounds. I try to take a swing at them but the one in the denim jacket lunges and lands hard on my right arm. The one I brained is already up as well and pins my left, nailing it to the ground with a keyhole saw.

I try to flicker, but I have nowhere to go. It’s not like teleportation, I just briefly phase myself, and without a place to move to I remain stuck underneath them. The best I can do is jostle their grip, but that won’t be enough.

The one straddling me cackles in mad glee as they raise their crude weapon high over my face.

What an incredibly stupid way to die.

I don’t properly see what happens next. One moment, the frothing psychopath is straddling me, ready to empty the contents of my skull onto the pavement, and the next she’s just gone with a noise like a bag of quarters impacting a brick wall.

Blood showers me and paints the alleyway, and I blink in confusion, as shocked by the sudden turn of events as the two murder-happy idiots that are pinning my arms.

All three of us stare down the alley as the body of the Killer who had jumped me from above lands with a boneless, meaty thud better than five meters away to lie gruesomely twitching with all of their limbs pointed in the wrong directions.

Then, as one, we turn to look up.

Its breath is a heavy, ursine sound coming from deep within its barrel chest as it stands from its hunched posture to tower better than two and a half meters tall. The armour it’s wearing looks like something out of mythology, bronze or brass, I think, and what skin isn’t being covered by the ancient style of armour is the colour of a fresh and terrible bruise. Its face is covered by a mask that looks like the deformed skull of some kind of demon, and it’s painted in a riot of blacks and reds, and from the top and back of the skullplate is a horse-like mane of fiery red hair that looks to be literally burning with rage.

And in that moment, I recall just how close to the East End we are.

The Ogre of the East… guess I was wrong about my pissed-off-cop theory.

Without warning, the thing arches its back and bellows in primordial rage. The noise rattles in my skull and shakes my ribcage, and although I can see Zephyr screaming from the hook I can’t hear it over the cacophony of hate the Ogre is pouring out.

The little freak with the hunting knife lets out a snarl as it leaps from my arm at the giant avatar of violence standing over it, raising a knife that looks hilariously pitiful compared to the Ogre.

The denim-clad murderer doesn’t even make it all the way to the Ogre. With a twitch of one massive arm, the thing swings what looks like the better part of a tree with pieces of sharp black stone sticking out at the midair Killer.

Another wet thwack, and they’re sent flying like a sock full of loose, damp rice.

The third one still has some semblance of survival instinct and yanks their saw from my arm before turning to run, putting their back to the Ogre and sprinting away. For a moment I think their unnatural speed might get them out, except… then the Ogre hunches forward, grinds its feet into the ground, and then runs.

It covers the whole of the alley in the space of a breath. Nothing that big has any right to move that fast! The Ogre overtakes the smaller Killer in a moment, takes one massive overhead swing and—

BANG!

A thunderous gunshot report splits the air and something bolts over and past me, down the alley, to bury itself deep in the meat of the Ogre’s back.

Some kind of harpoon-and-spike arrangement attached to a chain goes taut as I turn onto my side coughing and hacking as blood wells up from cuts that refuse to heal to follow the chain to its source. I need to see them, to know what I’m fighting, because if I’m right then this can only be one thing.

The Legions’ handler.

My pain-blurred vision betrays me here and there but I get the broad strokes well enough. They’re tall and lupine, and dressed in an old style of duster that’s worn and grey with a heavy mantle over an old three-piece suit. On their head is a broad, notched hat that’s tipped low to cover their face, but I can see one eye, white and gleaming like a soulless headlight, peering through one of the notches of the hat to eyeball the Ogre.

And in their hands is their weapon: what’s clearly a custom-built longarm modified with a winch and chain that’s attached to a cruel bolt of barbed steel, and with a curved and wicked underslung bayonet to cap it off.

Setting their feet firmly on the ground, the new Killer, the handler, takes a grip on the winch and starts to crank the feed of the chain back in and, impossibly, the Ogre starts to move.

It thrashes and howls, swinging wildly behind itself to try and get to the chain, but it’s too big. Its muscles actually get in their way. Not only that, its top-heavy body is canted by the pressure of the gunslinger's chain pulling it back so the Ogre can’t get its feet under it to get any kind of leverage.

Redheart was right. This Killer actually knows what they’re doing.

The gunslinger drags the Ogre back and away from the lesser Killers who hobble to their feet.

“GIT!” The one in the denim jacket rasps wetly as they stagger to their feet, gesturing sharply with an arm that isn’t quite healed.

They sprint for the far end of the alley, pausing only to kneel down and scoop up the still-dazed body of their third and smallest companion before scrambling out of the alley and back into the Fog to heal.

Damn it.

At the far other end of the alley, the gunslinger gives one final, mighty heave on their chain before lunging forward and burying the blade of their bayonet in the Ogre’s spine. With a snarl of hate, the gunslinger gives a massive lurch and upends the Ogre over their head, past them and down to the ground to slam face-first into the concrete.

For a moment, while the Ogre is stunned, the gunslinger pauses and turns its covered face to me. I can feel its headlamp eye on me, shining as it stares me down. In that same span of time, its hands flip through the calm motions of reloading, ratcheting back the bolt to eject the spent cartridge before sliding a new one home.

The gunslinger turns its back on me and moves past the Ogre who’s already getting to its feet, roars, and turns to follow its attacker in a mad rage. I doubt that thing will catch the ‘Slinger though. That Killer seems far too canny to be caught by a rage-fueled monster like the Ogre.

La-la la-la la-la-la~

I start to laugh in a brittle crackle as Adagio’s lullaby approaches. At least no one is going to be able to finish me off with her here, so instead of moving I just relax back onto the ground, breathing hard, and bleeding harder while I try to focus on staying alive.

Something is seriously wrong… I’m not healing. It’s not that I expected to heal as fast as I did in the Trials where I was surrounded by Fog and magic, but no… I’m not healing at all anymore.

“Shit!” Starlight swears as she comes around the corner with Aria, Sour Sweet, and Adagio hot on her heels stopping only for a second to look over me before running to my side and dropping to her knees. “Oh, c’mon, Shimmer, what the hell did you do?”

“H-Had to,” I cough and sputter black blood from between chapped lips. “ Can’t let them… complete… a s-sacrifice… too dangerous.”

I’ve definitely got a collapsed lung. It’s only my impossible biology that’s keeping me going this long.

“How the fuck are you...?” Starlight looks pale as Sour Sweet carefully gets under Zephyr to lift him and get him down off of the hook. “How are you like this?!”

“Move!” Aria snaps as she drops beside Starlight and starts looking me over. “Damn it, Red, you’re losing a lot of blood here… assuming this is blood.”

“I h-had to m-manifest physically,” I reply with a weak chuckle. “Didn’t think I’d… be useless… though.”

It’s infuriating. Understandable, but infuriating. A Killer can’t help a Survivor, it’s not how we’re wired, so I have no idea why I thought I would be any use to that poor bastard on the hook.

Moreover, that means we need to keep Tempest, Sour, Aria, and Starlight on the front lines with Adagio and I. If someone is hooked then we need to have at least one of them there to free the victim.

“Why isn't she healing?” Sour asks as she turns away from Zephyr towards Aria, jarring me from my thoughts.

I was drifting, I realise, and my limbs have gone leaden.

“The Fog,” Adagio says quietly from behind Starlight and her sister. “It’s the Fog that heals us.”

I frown but nod.

“How much of your Fog is being used to keep you physical?” Adagio asks.

Oh. Right.

For a genius, I can be a real dumbass sometimes. Of course I’m not healing! My body produces Fog, but this isn’t my body it’s a facsimile made from ambient power I’m projecting into! It’s a shell that can feel pain! It has my Killer body’s biology and powers but it has to rely on surrounding Fog to stay solid, and here, outside the Trials, there just isn’t enough of it.

“I’m going b-back to my body,” I say. “Take c-care of him, okay?”

I nod over to Zephyr, and my friends each nod back. Adagio crouches near me and shifts her mask to the side, and as she does so the lullaby on her lips dies out.

“I’ll keep an eye on our family,” Adagio says quietly, brushing a hand over my head before looking up at Aria, “and you should head back to the apartment, just in case.”

Aria nods and steps back as I let out a laboured, rattling breath, and allow my form to fall away into Fog once more.

My vision fades to black as I fall backward into the Dreamtime, caught on the tides of the endless ocean that makes up the collective unconscious of the universe, and allow it to carry me back to my body.

Weight is always the first sensation. The astral weightlessness of my wandering dreamform is one of total freedom, anchored by nothing physical. The next, oddly, is always my sense of taste. I taste… blood?

I gasp out a raw rattling croak as pain floods my senses. The stink of copper is filling my nose, and I can barely breathe. I’m lying in something hot and wet, and as I force my eyes open I look down, and swallow hard.

My body is a ruin.

Holes are punched through my torso, and probably my back too, given the amount of blood soaking the mattress. Sympathetic wounds reflected onto my body from the projection I'd forced into the real world!

“Sh-Shit!” I reach for my phone on the end table. Pick it up, and speed-dial Redheart.

I can’t have nine-one-one coming in on me like this. They’ll have questions. They’ll want to know why I’m not dead. Redheart buried most of my medical records from the night I was brought in. The ones that showed my unnatural biology. Once I was conscious I took care of the memories of the EMT crew that brought me in, as well as the few members of the hospital staff that might’ve seen me.

//Shimmer? What’s—//

“I need help!” I gasp, and I hear Redheart take in a sharp breath at my tone. “I’m h-hurt… I don’t know if I can h-heal through it!”

//Isn’t Aria there? She was going to you! Where are you?!//

“At h-home… the apartment,” I gasp out. “The inhaler… is it ready?”

//It’s… shit! I don’t know! Maybe?//

“Bring it!” I snarl. “I don’t know if I’m gonna heal through this one!”

The line goes dead as my phone tumbles from numb fingers. By rights I should already be dead. Only my nature as a Killer is keeping me alive right now. I’ve lost more blood than any normal human could hope to lose without suffering permanent brain damage.

Extreme trauma. It’s the only thing that kills a Killer, and I’m right on the edge of it. I can feel my life ebbing and flowing. The genetic sorcery of the Entity’s priesthood is keeping me alive, but only barely, and I have no idea if it will win out against the wounds those little bastards inflicted on me.

“Breathe,” I say to myself. “Just… keep breathing.”

Inhale, exhale.

In and out.

I try to focus through the pain and wracking spasms of coughing. Everything hurts, and I’ve definitely fucked up at least one of my lungs.

For the first time since Aria and Redheart told me the truth, I actually feel grateful for the Fog suffusing my body. I have no idea if my breathing is doing anything beyond the normal, but I figure if I produce Fog, if I exhale it with every breath, then maybe it will give my body a little more to work with.

I have no idea how much time passes, but it can’t be all that much before the sound of a door crashing open reaches my ears. I can barely focus my eyes, all I can think to do is to keep breathing.

“Sunset?!” Redheart calls my name from the living room, but I can’t respond. I don’t have enough energy.

Her rapid footfalls bring her closer, and then the door to mine and Tempest’s room bursts open, and Redheart stumbles in, takes one look at me, and goes white as a sheet.

“Oh God.” She lifts a hand to her mouth and I think I hear her mutter a prayer.

Funny. I didn’t know Redheart was religious. I wonder if she’s always been that way. All that time spent in the ED and the old adage of atheists and foxholes seems relevant. I can’t say I’m the same, however often I swear by Written’s Quill, and unlike most of my race, my native race that is, I know that Celestia isn’t truly a Goddess. She’s close, very close… but she’s not one.

No. I’ve met a real god, and I can’t say I recommend it.

“Hold still, don’t move,” Redheart drops something that looks like a heavy kitbag beside the bed and kneels. “I’m going to have to cut your clothes off, okay? Hold very still.”

I watch as she takes out a pair of heavy shears and begins slicing straight up from my blood-soaked sleep shirt, through the clasp of my bra, and up to my neck. Once it’s free she peels away the fabric she visibly winces at whatever she sees when she examines my bare torso.

“What the hell?” Redheart breathes the words out as she gets to work mopping up the blood, probably trying to find the wounds themselves. “What did this to you?”

“My own… b-bad choices,” I sputtered, “per usual.”

“Shit, this is bad,” Redheart mutters. “Your blood is trying to clot but these wounds are too deep, every time you breathe it just tears the wounds open again.”

“Sounds about right,” I cough. “Probably like the other victims, huh?”

Redheart doesn’t answer but the lines around her face grow deeper as her expression tightens. Out of the kitbag comes a large white case with a red cross on it, and she begins pulling out large pads of clean white linen that she sprays with something, probably a disinfectant.

“I have no clue how to deal with this,” Redheart says while she works. “Anyone else would be dead… but I’ll try.”

“No rush,” I say with a laugh. “I’m bleeding out both sides though, just so you know.”

“And if we’re lucky the mattress has clogged up most of those,” Redheart snaps. “Now we just have to keep you from leaking whatever blood you still have left in you out this direction.”

She sprays down my whole body with a thickly scented antibacterial before laying out thick pads of linen, each one three or four individual pads deep, across sections of my torso. The swathes of cloth get pinned down with surgical tape. More and more go over me, each one soaking through almost immediately with my black, inhuman blood.

“Okay,” Redheart says. “I think I’ve got most of it,” she yanks off a pair of plastic gloves, wipes down her hands, and dons a new set. “I can’t even try and look at your back without risking everything though.”

“Don’t sweat it,” I say weakly. I’m starting to get really light-headed, which is probably bad, but my breathing is coming a little easier. “I think my healing factor patched up my lung, but it’s probably struggling with the deep tissue damage.”

“Well, bully for your lung,” Redheart replies acidly. “You’re going to need it up and running if we want this to have its best chance at working.”

She reaches into her pocket and pulls out a little white cylinder.

“This is a soft mist inhaler,” she says, holding it up in front of my face. “I’m going to put the nozzle into your mouth and when I say go, I need you to breathe in as long and as deeply as you can, do you understand me?”

I nod. Words are getting hard to form but I get it.

“Good girl.” Redheart pops open one side of the device, slots in a small tube, then closes it. “First take three, quick, sharp breaths in a row, then let it all out. Do it!”

I nod again, and inhale sharply three times, before breathing out shakily.

Then she fits the nozzle between my lips, braces her thumb over the trigger, and with her other hand cradles my head so my throat doesn’t close up.

“Breathe!” She shouts as she depresses the trigger.

The flavor is strange on my tongue as I take in a long, deep breath. It’s nostalgic, like those soft lumps of sweet fried dough I would get from Donut Joe’s as a filly with Princess Celestia. The sense-memory is comforting and familiar as the concentrated burst of Fog floods down into my lungs and spreads through my body like tendrils of cool air.

Instantly I can feel the difference. My breathing evens out, the pain recedes, and my focus starts to fill back in. My vision, which had been starting to gray out, snaps back into sharp coloured contrast.

“Oh… Shit…” Redheart stands slowly up from me and starts backing away.

I don’t know why she looks so frightened. I feel great. I start to sit up, my skin is itching a little, almost like there are thousands of insects marching across it, but it’s not an unpleasant feeling by any means. I take a deep breath, in and out, and the Fog fills my mouth like nectar.

A flick of my finger peels the linens from my skin. I don’t need them anymore, the holes are already closing. My fingers twitch with spastic reflex, metal rasps on metal as I stand up from the bed. Redheart is backing away still, but I don’t know why.

Everything is fine. It’s all going to be fine.

“One, two, Sunny’s coming for you~” I chant. I can’t help but laugh. It’s funny. It really is! Everything is so funny!

And so, so, red.

“Sunset, please, you have to listen to me!” Redheart sounds frightened, so I smile for her.

It doesn’t seem to help. Maybe it’s because she’s a mess. She’s covered in beautiful black blood, and while I certainly have no problem with it I know Redheart is the tidy type. I flicker forward, crossing the span of the room with a step, and Redheart lets out a startled yelp as she stumbles back and pins herself to the wall.

I follow her, closing the distance until we’re practically nose to nose. I can see what Aria sees in her. She’s pretty, with her bright eyes, pink hair, and pale-cream skin. I draw a single silver fingerblade down her face, tracing the pattern of a tear, and she grits her teeth as I break the skin just slightly.

Just enough to well up a single ruby teardrop.

“Hello~ Nurse.” I grin, lean in, and run my tongue along her cheek.

She sobs and shivers as a sugary copper tang rolls over my palate. It’s thick and strong. It’s rich with hope. Hope and despair.

“You know…” I murr against her cheek. “I do like a lady in uniform~.” Redheart lets out a quiet sob of terror that sends a thrill up my spine. “And I’m sure you know I’ve always had a little bit of a… thing… for Aria. If you ever feel like joining Tempest and I? I’m sure she wouldn’t mi~nd.”

“Sunset, please, this isn’t—!” Redheart starts, but I put a single bladed finger to her lips, and her words cut off.

“Sshh… it’s okay,” I coo. “I know how you look at me, even when you’re with Aria… it’s flattering really,” I chuckle as I lick my lips. “You can’t help it though, can you?”

I grip her chin and force her to look me in the eyes, something she had pointedly avoided doing until now.

“I’m right in your ‘strike zone’ as it were, aren’t I?” I bare my teeth in an ecstatic grin. “Young, pretty, and talented… just like the last one.”

“This isn’t you!” Redheart sobs. “This isn’t really you!”

“Does Aria know?” I ask, feeling laughter welling up in my chest. It’s a spectacular bit of fun, really. “About how your last fling wasn’t even out of her residency? Nineteen years old when you met, a student… wow, you sure do like’m yo—”

“SUNSET!”

Aria’s voice shocks through me, and I stagger back from Redheart before turning to look over my shoulder. Aria is standing at the door to the bedroom, and her hand is raised and gripping a familiar weapon. Shame spreads like poison through my stomach, and the feeling is punctuated by the hammer of Tempest’s old Colt forty-five that she keeps in the desk drawer being cocked back.

“Back away from her, Red,” Aria says. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

A raw and ragged smile stretches across my face like an open wound as I turn my head to face her.

“You can’t hurt me anyway, Ari’,” I hiss. “Not with that thing… not with anything!”

I’m in front of Aria before she can react. I tear the gun from her hand and pitch it onto the bloodstained bed.

“NO ONE CAN EVER HURT ME AGAIN!”

I ram my claws two knuckles deep into the wooden doorframe by Aria’s head, but she doesn’t flinch. Aria never flinches, though. She’s absolutely fearless, and unlike Redheart I don’t have to make her look at me.

“I won’t hurt you like they did, Red,” she says. “No matter what you do to me, I will never hurt one of my sisters that way.”

She closes the distance and wraps her arms around me, and I freeze. Disgust fills me and closes my throat. My hate, my anger, and my confidence wash away in a sluice of bile and ugly guilt.

I’m hideous. She’s touching me but I’m hideous. I’m a monster! I—!

Aria’s hand settles on the back of my head and she pulls me down. It’s insistent but gentle. Just a soft request for me to come closer, and almost against my own will, I oblige and bury my face against her shoulder.

“Sshh, it’s okay,” Aria whispers softly. “Come back to me, Red… you’re safe, I promise… you’re safe here.”

Her fingers card through my matted hair making gentle petting motions. Aria really is completely unafraid. Even though I’m one of them. A Killer. A Priest of the Old Stain, she’s holding me like a child. Even though I’m literally the stuff of my friends—my real friends—actual nightmares, she’s still here.

She’s still on my side.

Tears run down my cheeks, and I sob against Aria’s shoulder as grief suddenly overwhelms me. My whole body is rigid, like someone ran a livewire through my skin and locked up every muscle. I want to curl up in a ball and cry, and I want to run, and I want to kill everyone in this room and just forget about who I am.

It’s such a tempting prospect. To just… accept it. To accept my nature.

And give up everything else.

“It’s alright,” Aria says. “You’re alright, Red… you’re safe.”

I grip her tightly, taking care not to cut her, and I let her draw me out of the Fog. I follow the voice and scent of my sister out of the shadows and into the light, even though the light burns my eyes, it’s where she is. It’s where Tempest and Sour and Starlight and Redheart are.

Aria leads me out of the Fog, and I want to tell her to just let go. To leave me there. It’s not her responsibility to keep pulling me out of the darkness. It’s not on her to drag my worthless, ungrateful ass out of the Fog and back into the daylight.

But she does it anyway.

“Come back to me.” Aria presses her lips to my crown and runs her hands over my hair. “Come back to your family.”

I sink to my knees, sobbing, and Aria follows me down. The Killer in me drifts back into the Fog leaving me behind, weak and spent, in my sisters arms.

The worst part is, I know I’ll go back. I’ll go back into the Fog to find that power over and over again, and the people I love will have to keep dragging me out, kicking and screaming, only to watch me crawl back in again.

But right now, she’s real and warm beneath me, and she’s cradling me in her lap, and muttering soft words in her native tongue as she rocks me back and forth while I sob my way through my self-hatred.

“There you are, Red” Aria says after a few moments, pulling away to look down at me, smiling.

“I’m sorry,” I sob quietly.

“I know.”

She rubs my back and rocks me back and forth, and in the back of the apartment I can hear Redheart still hyperventilating. I’m not sure what it means that Aria stays with me, but as guilty as it makes me feel, it’s… it’s nice to be chosen.

This is what family is, I guess.

Real family always sides with family.

And Aria? She’s my family.

Author's Note

Dispatch this thug in brutal fashion!

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