Author's Note

I feel like I need to give a WARNING here. The chapter will contain some serious violence, references to non-consensual drug use, and general nastiness surrounding sexual violence and being subjected to it repeatedly.

To skip the section that includes serious violence, it starts and ends with ~*~

Here is what this section contains: Wild hunts down and brutally murders his rapists, inflicting torture as well, and enjoying it all.

Post-chapter note will be posted as a comment instead.

Chapter 40: Old Memory, New Perspective

Wild left very shortly after the talk, saying something about having to think about things. Luna nodded and gave him a smile, telling him to take care of himself. Of course, it was for the best that she didn't bring up anything else - Wild was shaken by her words, and it would do no good to push him any further. She could see the struggle within him, and it pained her to see that something as plain as acceptance of an inseparable part of him was so foreign to him. What he thought of himself, what he revealed to her, it painted a picture of self-loathing that he carried within him for a long time, and she knew this talk would not bring it to the end. There was also the hug he allowed her to give him, and Luna was glad to know he was more comfortable with affectionate touch. She didn’t know what species Wild was before, but she knew that any social species relied on physical contact as both communication and a form of comfort. To see that Wild was denied that through no fault of his own, it made her heart ache for him.

Ponies were considered the most affectionate sapient species around the known world, and for a good reason. Hugs, bumps, brushes, taps, there was an entire language of touch, one that the absolute majority of ponies learned as they grew. There was a concept that many cultures had that was called skinship - a relationship built on and nurtured by skin-to-skin contact. Ponies pioneered the term and taught it to others at every age, and Luna suspected Wild had not been exposed to something like it before. Fortunately, being that the Royal Orphanage relatively often housed those who did not appreciate being touched just yet, everyone was taught to be respectful of those who refused social touches. Luna shuddered to think how much stress Wild would be subjected to if he was exposed to pony society in a less controlled manner, especially since his own case was extreme, far from reality any pony was likely to ever experience within the borders of Equestria.

Luna wrote down her observations to go over them again later, and then retired for the day.

***

Wild couldn’t help but repeat the conversation he had had with Luna over and over again in his head even as the day ended and he was in bed, ready - or, at least, wishing - to go to sleep. The outside was quiet, and this allowed his thoughts to roam free when he had nothing else to focus on.

He knew something monumental had happened. Never before had he really talked to anyone about his... sadism. He considered it a dirty, unpleasant word, one he shunned, one he didn’t want to be associated with him. He enjoyed causing pain, yes, but... he had never been cruel to animals. Stomping on bugs, squashing spiders, pulling cats’ tails, throwing rocks at birds, he had never done any of that, and so he couldn’t even think about calling himself a sadist. He had been angry often, yes. He had exploded more times than he could count on people who didn’t really deserve it, and even more times on those who he believed did deserve it. He had fought often, yes, but he didn’t go out of his way to cause pain, not without provocation. He didn’t pull at anyone’s hair when sitting behind them in a classroom, never kicked anyone’s chair, never pushed anyone just because... he had done many things, he knew, but he had never purposefully went to hurt random people or animals.

He was not a sadist. He couldn’t be.

And yet he was. Sadism was a part of him, inseparable, ever-present since as long as he could remember.

“I must admit, I do not know much about sadism, but I can certainly say that being a sadist, in itself, is neither good nor bad.”

For the longest time, he thought being a sadist was a stain on his soul. In truth, he didn’t think that much differently even now. If being a sadist wasn’t bad, then why was his soul black?

“I must admit, I do not know.”

Luna, someone who lived for over a thousand years, didn’t know why his soul was black, so who was he to decide what it meant?

Most importantly, Luna didn’t call him evil. She didn’t recoil from him when he admitted that his very self was the color of darkness edged and crossed all over with blood. She didn’t throw him out, claiming it was for the best that he, from then on, would have to stay away from the ponykind, that she would protect them from someone as vile as him.

Instead, he was... validated. He felt seen. Heard. While he doubted anyone else would accept him, he could deal with it. What was between him and Luna would stay that way. Patient confidentiality, wasn’t it? He didn’t know if their talk was therapy. It... felt like therapy would feel like, once he got all the negative connotations away from it. He remembered that he wouldn’t be locked up, wouldn’t be taken away anywhere unless he was an active danger to others or himself. Apparently, that didn’t mean that his entire existence was an active danger.

He felt slightly giddy at it. For the first time in who even knew how long, he felt as if there was something for him to live through, although he didn’t know whether that made sense or not. He was driven by revenge before he died. After his death, he wasn’t driven at all, merely allowing the currents of events to take him on a ride. His future was limited to the next day at best, and he didn’t exactly have to think much about anything. Food, water, shelter, entertainment, education, healthcare, all those things were freely given to him, and he took advantage of them all, and they allowed him to... stabilize. To relax, even, as limited as it was due to his own state of mind.

As he lay on his bed, the sun gone and the moon shining from up above, memories came to him, memories he tried not to think about ever since he died. However, he believed now it was time to approach them again, to relive them in spirit if not in body. Those memories, the last of his days as a human, were filled with a singular purpose - to strike back against those who wronged him, and then he would rest. It was both the peak of his sadism and the peak of his despair.

He remembered how thin he was. His eyes were always deep-set, shadowed by his eyebrows, and now even more so with dark circles around them. Sleep was rare and it brought no relief, only a void between one day and the next. His body ached, having never received appropriate care since before. However, lack of food, lack of shelter, lack of everything that could’ve allowed him to recover, all of it was replaced by the burning need of revenge. It drove him forward when his stomach tied itself into knots in hunger. It fueled him when he would have otherwise fallen over from exhaustion.

Those who captured him, held him down, restrained him as they violated his body, they would soon pay for everything they’ve done to him and others. He had managed to escape, clawing his way to freedom even as he struggled to remain aware as the drugs ravaged his mind, the same drugs that kept him down when he wasn’t in the room. He didn’t know what they were, but he knew their purpose was to prevent him from thinking straight, from trying to form a plan when he was locked up, outside the room, outside of the view of the camera.

He didn’t know what guided him, what let him escape from wherever he was being held. He only found out later that it had once been a farm, now overgrown, shielded from the rest by bushes, weeds, and scattered trees. He scratched himself quite badly as he made his way through it all, never stopping, not until he was a long way away from that place.

He wandered the unfamiliar surroundings, shivering from the cold, aching from the bruises. These were the sensations he remembered, and the rest was a blur, which was perhaps a blessing. He remembered how his hands shook, how his entire body would tremble, how something inside him would crave whatever drug he was forced to take, how he would sweat and feel as if his heart would burst out of his chest.

He struggled to survive, sleeping whenever and wherever he could, stealing food in order to stave off starvation just for a little while longer, just so that his brain wasn’t in a constant deep fog. He had almost forgotten what luxuries such as having a flushing toilet or a shower were. He had been lucky to find a revolver as well, carelessly left in some bushes by a road. Last he had heard, it could have been related to some murder investigation going on at the time, and he thought there was something gang-related about it all. At the time, however, he didn’t care - the revolver became his safety. Just four bullets, nothing extra, all in a sturdy package, ready to use. If his aim was true, he could take out three people before turning the weapon on himself.

He remembered the faces of the three who had broken him. Three bullets, one for each. It was as if fate itself was standing behind his revenge, lending him assistance. It only made him more bitter - where was this luck before? Where was this fate when he was younger? Where was it all even before he was born? He didn’t want a revolver, he wanted his life back. He didn't want to enjoy pain, he wanted to be a regular person. He didn't want this desire for revenge, he wanted his parents to be with him and love him and soothe him whenever he felt bad. He wanted to wake up from his life, he wanted it to be a dream, and he wanted it to fade from memory like one.

Unfortunately, fate had other ideas about him, and he could do nothing but follow what was laid before him. He had what he had, and he would make do with what he had.

He was on a hunt. As destitute as he was, he was still driven, still doing his best to survive as long as it took. Nothing would stop him now, that much he could promise, and this promise he intended to fulfill.

~*~

The Cameraman was an unassuming man in his late twenties. He was studying media production before Wild tracked him down to his home. The Cameraman had never partaken in the action himself, but he was always there, always watching, always recording. The lock in his front door was unimpressive, unlocked in barely five seconds with a simple handmade wave rack. Wild was grateful he learned how to pick locks, it proved more useful by the day.

The Cameraman lived completely alone, so Wild didn’t have to worry about being interrupted. He had thought about how he would use the very same camera the action was filmed on to film the Cameraman’s brutal death. He had fantasized about it for a long time, and he found his hands shaking slightly as he came closer to it, the anticipation thickening. However, he recognized that it would be best for him not to leave any good evidence behind.

Wild awoke him by viciously stabbing him through his hand, then his leg. As the Cameraman screamed, attempting to push off Wild, he stabbed again and again, feeling the flesh part under the blows, the red of the blood quickly welling up, staining the body and the knife. Even as he felt his blows weakening, nothing could stop the joy he felt with every stab, with every second the scream of pain went on. It was revenge, pure and simple, and he was finally delivering it with his own hands, smearing them with blood, feeling the droplets splatter him.

The victim’s thrashing became weaker and weaker, and Wild took pleasure in seeing genuine horror in the Cameraman’s face. While their roles weren’t exactly switched, Wild still enjoyed the sense of having power over the Cameraman, being in full control of the situation. It brought him a deep sense of satisfaction to see just how afraid the Cameraman was of him, to see that the Cameraman could experience emotions, and that Wild could make him hurt.

Despite the numerous stab wounds, despite the bed already soaked in his blood, the Cameraman was not dead yet. He was whimpering, curling up in a fetal position, no energy left even for begging for his life. It was a pathetic sight, and rage boiled inside Wild, knowing full well that his own whimpers never brought anything but more pain. He jumped on the bed, then aimed a powerful kick, then another, and then yet another, and he kept kicking everywhere, not even looking because it didn't matter, because all that mattered was the pain he was causing.

His boots were too large for him, and he could feel them becoming slick with blood, and he knew his feet would ache later. However, his own pain did not matter, not now when he held the power, when he was on top, when he was in control. He kicked and kicked, aiming for the groin and the face, and then stomped as hard as he could, anywhere he could, breathing hard and fast, his weakened body already stressed.

The Cameraman was yet alive, somehow, wheezing and conscious, his breath a rattle of pierced lungs that somehow still worked. Soon, Wild knew, he would die of blood loss if he didn't choke on blood first. However, he didn’t intend to let the Cameraman live this long. He pulled out the revolver, and the Cameraman’s eyes widened at it, a word coming out of his mouth in a gurgle. Wild didn’t listen, didn’t hear it over the rushing of blood in his ears. His arms were surprisingly steady as he cocked the hammer and aimed the revolver right at the Cameraman’s head, right between his eyes. Wild pulled the trigger, and the deafening bang made him wince, yet it didn't matter. The Cameraman immediately slumped, lifeless, his unseeing stare still filled with the horror of pain and death as blood soaked the ruffled pillow under his head.

Wild took a few seconds to drink in the sight, to feel the elation of the kill, to know the joy of pain delivered on the one who stood aside when Wild was violated. Afterwards, he quickly looted various electronics around the house, as well as some food and bottled water. He didn’t do a particularly thorough job of making it look like a robbery, but it was good enough, and so he disappeared into the night. The expensive electronics were broken and dumped in a random hole elsewhere - he had no need of them. He couldn’t exactly easily sell them nor could he plant them somewhere to be found. Whatever recordings of what happened to Wild and others existed, he knew the Cameraman wasn’t stupid enough to store them inside his home.

By the time the investigation into the Cameraman’s death was on its way, Wild was already planning his second kill. Just like with the Cameraman, he didn’t know his name, and only knew him as the Streamer. He had something that passed as a cheerful and engaging personality, and perhaps it could even be enjoyed if not for what was being streamed.

“And here is the slut for today!” he would say right before the action began. Wild hated his voice, hated the words he said, hated everything about him. Oftentimes, he was just running commentary, commentary that Wild hated with an all-consuming rage, as hopeless and as helpless as it was back then. Even when the Streamer joined in on the action, he never once lost his disposition, and for that, Wild hated him even more.

The Streamer was rather well-off, owning a good sized house in an upper middle class neighborhood. Wild didn’t know whether the money came from the donations to his streams or because his family was rich, but he didn’t care. What was important is that he tracked him down. Unfortunately, there was a problem - his house had an alarm, cameras, and a lock that would probably not be as easy to pick. Wild knew he was decent at picking locks, but he didn’t have the experience to crack the harder locks. It wasn’t like he had a habit of breaking into homes, so he never needed to know more than how to get into a shop closed for the night. They didn’t tend to have anything more than a ‘please don’t enter’ kind of lock, after all.

Instead of going for a risky break-in, Wild planned a trap instead.. He collected nails, pieces of sharp glass, and generously scattered them on the road not too far away from the Streamer’s home. He knew the Streamer’s schedule by that point - he would often drive around on Saturday nights, predictably enough that Wild could know exactly when to make his move.

It worked as expected, one of the wheels luckily going flat, forcing the Streamer to stop and get out of his car to inspect the damage. As the Streamer bent down and muttered about the wheel, Wild almost soundlessly rushed in, his heart beating hard and fast. He hit the Streamer with the force of a battering ram, making him fall right on the road, and Wild immediately started swinging a hammer at him, aiming for the kneecaps first. A sickening crack and a yelp signified his success, and so he struck elsewhere, everywhere, not bothering to aim at all as he was overcome with desire for pain that could not be denied. The Streamer screamed, a song to Wild's ears, as he attempted to shield himself from Wild’s vicious strikes, trying to get up and get away yet failing. It was immensely satisfying to see someone always maliciously cheerful being filled with pain and horror, and so Wild struck more viciously, a twisted snarl-grin on his face. With every thwack of flesh, with every crack of bone, he gained strength, gained vigor, when there was a sudden bang that made him jump. The Streamer managed to pull out some kind of small pistol, but he, thankfully, missed the shot. Wild’s hammer immediately struck at the hand holding the pistol, breaking the fingers, which prompted another shot that went wide. Soon enough, the Streamer could struggle no more, barely conscious.

“P-please,” he managed to croak, “I, I can give y-you money, please, don’t kill me!”

Wild paused for a moment as if he considered it. Then he let out a sound one couldn't immediately recognize - something like a series of barks, as vicious as a rabid dog. It was laughter, and he enjoyed it even as it scraped his throat raw, even as it turned into a coughing fit.

Finally, finally the Streamer was down, begging, his whole personality reduced to nothing, and no more could he comment with glee, no more could he be in a position of power over Wild. And Wild, of course, didn't care at all about the money, he wasn’t long for this world anyway. Right now, he only cared about the pain he caused, and he laughed at how fearful, how pathetic the Streamer was, completely at odds with how he usually presented himself. Wild aimed and struck a nasty kick against the man’s groin, then another, and then another, and then he gripped his hammer tightly and brought it down. He heard something pop, something crack, and a choked scream tore from the Streamer's mouth.

Wild then stepped away, breathing heavily. Blood mixed with something else was now staining the Streamer's pants, and he now only moaned in pain, not in pleasure, and never would he feel pleasure again. However, Wild was not done - even if it would be immensely satisfying to leave the Streamer to experience pain for the rest of his days, Wild did not intend to let him have more than the next few minutes. He picked up the fallen pistol and aimed at the Streamer, who struggled to push the words out yet the pain overwhelmed him, rendering him unable to speak.

Good, Wild thought, You will die in worse pain than mine.

Even with the efforts of speaking resulting in nothing, the Streamer was clearly trying to beg for his life, just like Wild had once tried to beg for his.

BANG

The Streamer screamed, his broken hands going to the hole in his stomach.

BANG BANG BANG

He gurgled and wheezed now, one of his lungs riddled with holes. Surprisingly, not yet dead, still clinging to life, still conscious. Wild was not surprised - he knew what someone could endure before death. He had been a curious child, and the internet was a place a child should not explore without adult guidance. Since then, he also got some firsthand experience in just how much a human body could tolerate before it finally died. It was perhaps humorous in a morbid way that he still had all his limbs and all his digits intact. That considered, what he experienced was not the worst.

That didn't mean Wild would forgive and forget nor would it stop him from his revenge. He wished he could inflict all the pain he had suffered, but he had limited time. With a disappointed shrug, he threw the Streamer's pistol away, now empty, lamenting that there weren't more bullets - it would have been more satisfying if he could put some more holes through him, but alas, that was not to be.

Finally, with a deliberate movement, almost one of reverence, he pulled out his revolver. A shot to the head finished him off, and this time Wild didn’t flinch from the loud bang of his revolver. He then quickly patted the cooling corpse down for any money - unsurprisingly, there was some cash on hand, fortunately not stained by blood yet - and quickly ran away, knowing that someone would have definitely called the police by then. He didn’t want to stage any sort of ordinary crime scene nor did he cared enough to do it. What was done was done, and he would have to be satisfied with that.

The third and the final person was the Organizer. He was the main ‘star’ of the entire show. Cruel, arrogant, confident. Able to mask his monstrosity behind a veneer of respectability and charisma. Before Wild learned his cruelty firsthand, he had heard of him being accused by multiple women of unwanted sexual advances. Naturally, none of those incidents and accusations stuck - his father was a police chief. At the time, Wild didn’t believe he was guilty, swallowed as Wild was by an idea spread around that a lot of people lied about having been victims of sexual violence or generally inappropriate behavior. The Organizer, he thought, was a community leader. Oftentimes, he could be seen distributing food and water to those in need.

Wild remembered how they first met - the Organizer invited him into his house.

“It’s disgusting that our city lets this happen,” he said so convincingly then, “No one, especially as young as you are, deserves to be out on the streets without support. Come, I’ll cook you something, not just some canned beans but the real good stuff. That’s the least you deserve for having to endure this.”

Wild bought it hook, line, and sinker. He followed the Organizer without a second thought, focusing only on the promise of food, possibly shelter, and likely some decent company. Wild hadn’t been broken then, still clinging to his old name, still having hope that everything would be fine, still thinking that he had a future. Perhaps he would be able to get a job to support himself for long enough to rent something, anything, and maybe he would eventually get enough money to go to college, get some good education, and then finally pull himself up, achieve the American Dream his parents struggled with and couldn’t manage to get to.

“Take off your shoes, please,” the Organizer told him as he led Wild into his house, “Put on those slippers right there. There’s a closet, I’ll show you where to put your backpack. Must be hard carrying everything all day on yourself, huh?”

The Organizer opened the door, but it didn’t lead to a closet - instead, there were stairs leading to the basement. Wild frowned, confused, and then he was shoved hard from behind. He stumbled, and then he was kicked, and he rolled down the stairs, hitting them painfully, and hitting his head on one of them hard enough to be thrown unconscious.

What followed were the worst days of Wild’s life. First were the days of deprivation. Barely enough water, not nearly enough food, and a constant bright light glaring at him from the ceiling, and loud noise intermittently sounding from a well-hidden and well-protected speaker. At some point, he simply collapsed into unconsciousness, and it was then when he was taken away from that basement and into the old farmhouse where the real nightmare began.

After he was stripped of all that he had physically, his dignity was torn, his will broken, and everything that made him a person was struck again and again and again until all he could do was try to imagine himself elsewhere, try to think that it would be over, that he would die, that this was all a bad dream, that this would end well for him.

He had gotten his shelter. He had gotten food and water. But, in turn, he had lost the shreds of freedom that remained. He was used and abused in ways he hadn’t experienced before. Despair, loneliness, horror, desire to die, all of it mixed inside of him until he couldn’t feel a thing, until he could only wish days would go by faster, until days were going by faster, as if parts of them were erased from his mind, as if he merely slept dreamlessly through it all.

Wild reminded himself that he escaped, that he was free. There was only one thing left to do before he freed himself from his suffering, and that was revenge.

Wild came for the Organizer in the morning. He placed an empty cardboard box on the porch, rang the bell, stepped away from the line of sight, and waited, hidden. The door opened, and the Organizer looked at the package in surprise. He bent down to pick it up, and at that point Wild swiftly stepped in. The Organizer shuddered in surprise, straightening, shock clear on his face.

In one hand, Wild held his revolver, close to his body, aimed at him. In the other, he held a cheap smartphone with a text-to-speech program opened, some lines already written and ready.

“Raise your hands, go back inside with your back to me. Do not scream, do not do anything else or you will die,” the program said in a dispassionate voice.

“Easy there,” the Organizer raised his hands and obeyed.

“Do not do anything else or you will die,” Wild made the program repeat.

“Alright,” the Organizer slowly nodded, “I can give you my stuff, there is no need to shoot me, okay?”

“Silence,” the program said, “Walk.”

Wild closed the door behind him, making sure that the Organizer remained facing away and at a decent distance from him. That man was relatively muscular and quite strong, and Wild wasn’t going to take any chances.

It was clear Wild did well by wearing a face mask and glasses. With what was going on in the world back then, no one looked at him twice in his apparel, and not even the Organizer recognized him. Not yet.

“What is behind the door on the right?” the program voiced. The very same door that led to the basement.

“Storage. I don’t really have anything there, old furniture and the like,” the Organizer answered, his voice tighter.

“Open the door.”

The Organizer seemed to hesitate.

“Open the door. Do not do anything else or you will die.”

He obeyed. Wild felt a dark sense of satisfaction at ordering the Organizer around. However, gloating would come later. He rolled his shoulders a bit, feeling the backpack shift slightly. He would indeed take it off soon - it was certainly hard carrying it around all day.

The two descended, and Wild ordered the Organizer to turn on the lights. The basement was bare, having just some shelves with junk, a door to the deprivation chamber, and some sort of pipe bolted to the ceiling and the floor. Wild knew very well that the basement was soundproof. He tossed the Organizer a pair of steel cuffs.

“Cuff both your hands behind you, the chain must be on the other side of the pipe,” he ordered through the smartphone.

“Hey hey hey, listen, no need for that, okay?” the Organizer’s fear was a balm on Wild’s shattered soul.

“Lock yourself as told. I do not need you running away to call the cops as I take your stuff. I will give you the key once I am done. Now move or I will shoot you.”

The Organizer, hesitantly, obeyed. Wild ordered him to test the cuffs once all was done, and everything was done just right. Wild took off his backpack and placed it on the floor, still a good distance away from the Organizer. Thankfully, the basement was spacious enough that there was no chance the Organizer could reach him, and the cuffs were sturdy enough he wouldn’t be able to easily break them.

Wild pulled out a hammer, the very same hammer he used to strike the Streamer with. A nasty, twisted grin spread on his face behind the medical mask. He swiftly turned around and the hammer hit the Organizer’s face with a satisfying crack.

“Ah shit!” he swore, spitting parts of his teeth out, “Fuck! Shit! The fuck was that for?”

At that, Wild went low and struck his right leg at the kneecap. The Organizer went down with a cry of pain.

“F-fuck! Shit!” he yelled, “Ah fuck! Why did you do that?”

Finally, Wild didn’t hide his satisfaction as he took off his sunglasses and the mask. The Organizer’s eyes went wide, recognition obvious and evident.

“Ah shit, it’s you,” he said, “Fuck, didn’t expect your skinny ass to survive. Fuck, we should’ve searched better, shit...”

Wild tapped on the smartphone, his hands shaking as he made the message.

“I survived. The others are dead. Now it is your turn.”

“I should’ve realized that, shit...” the Organizer swore, but then a nasty expression appeared on his face as he sneered at Wild, “But, you know, you are still our bitch. Nothing you can do to me will wash out the taste of my cock from y-”

Wild viciously struck him, snarling, and he felt deep satisfaction as he heard another crack and a scream of pain from the Organizer. His jaw was now clearly broken.

“Fffuuuuck!” the Organizer groaned, “You f-f-fucking bitch...”

Over the course of the rest of the day, Wild let his sadism go, unwound and free. A hammer, a knife, a saw, all saw their uses. He broke bones, cut skin, sawed off fingers. Every scream a pleasant symphony, every twitch and shudder a beautiful dance. In that moment, he was the closest to euphoria, putting every bit of pain, hatred, anger, rage into his actions, returning them all to the one who had violated him the most. The Organizer swore and threatened, then whimpered, and, by the end, he was begging.

“Phleasss kill me!” he cried, “Phleasss! You won! Phleasss!”

Hearing that, hearing the Organizer beg, hearing the Organizer so pathetic, so down beneath what he himself once thought he would never be because he had held all the power, was extremely pleasing. Wild, however, didn’t plan on giving him a clean, painless death. The last thing came out of the backpack - a can full of gasoline.

He splashed the Organizer with it first, ignoring his pleas, ignoring his horror, ignoring his insistence that Wild couldn’t do it.

“You see, w-we bof enjhoy phain,” he rushed to speak, words tumbling out of his bloodied mouth past his broken teeth and cut lips, “Iph y-you dfo this, you’ll b’come juss like me.”

Wild stopped then and set the can down. He typed three sentences on the smartphone.

“I am not like you and never will be. I will always be better than you in every way. You will die painfully and I will enjoy it.”

Once he doused everything in the entire house with gasoline, he went back to the Organizer. Slowly, carefully, he lit a match, letting the Organizer watch as it burned for a moment, drinking in the horror on his face. Then he threw it. Quickly, the fire rose, enveloping the Organizer, and screams unlike any other filled the air. Wild, as much as he could enjoy pain, shuddered anyway, feeling that he might have stepped over a line. He shook his head - no, for a man like the Organizer, even this was barely enough.

It was then when he ran upstairs from the basement, stripped the rest of his belongings off his body except his backpack and his revolver. The cartridge that he ended up not spending on the Organizer was tossed aside, leaving the last one, the one for himself. Even if the Organizer somehow survived, he would live the rest of his days in absolute agony, unable to harm anyone, unable to even look at himself in the mirror, and Wild would be very much content with that.

The Organizer deserved death and living in pain in equal measures, so Wild let the chance decide it.

As he tossed another match behind him and watched the insides of the house lighting up, he put the revolver in the backpack, slung it across his bare shoulders, and made his way out. His next destination was a lake - he often found himself there. Despite it being out in the open, it was a safe place to rest, and it was fitting that his final rest would be there as well.

~*~

Back in the present, back in his bed at the Equestrian Royal Orphanage, Wild drifted off to peaceful sleep, the memory accepted. His revenge was done, his pleasure in it accepted. He would forever bear the consequences of what he did then and what was done to him before, but he could let a part of this lie. He enjoyed the pain he caused, the harm he inflicted on monsters.

I am not evil, he repeated inside his head. He reminded himself of the fact that he wasn’t punished for what he was about to do to the changeling ‘princess’ when he held her at literal knife’s edge. He reminded himself that Luna said it was good that he destroyed the Nightmare.

I am not evil, he repeated again. Sadism was a part of him. Luna, he knew, would not begrudge him the pleasure he had taken in his revenge. He had rules, those that couldn’t be broken if he wished to experience pleasure from the pain he caused and not guilt and shame.

There was no guilt over the brutal killing of monsters.

There was no shame in enjoying getting the world rid of them.

I am not evil, they were, and they are dead, and I enjoyed killing them, he told himself. Luna would accept this. Luna would not judge him for this.

His sleep was peaceful and undisturbed.