Author's Note

I know it's in the tags but for peace of mind.
CW: For depictions of self-harm and drug-use in this chapter.

Losing Touch

I pull the backpack taut against my back as I sprint through the alleys of the Commons. The whole world is a blur, and I know where I need to go, but I’m having a real hard time focusing on it for more than a minute or two because of how hyped I am.

I’ve already done three runs this week. This one’s a special delivery, last minute, and Chase promised me my bonus early, plus some extra, if I got the stuff to his guy before midnight. It was half-past ten when he called me up to do it.

I told him it was good as done.

It took me all of half an hour to get out to the drop, pick up the stuff, and start running.

Can’t risk taking it by car, especially not out in the Commons. Cops like to stop us for no fuckin’ reason at all, and then hassle us about whatever they feel like. Basically, it's just them razzing the poor because they’re bored. Chase prefers to use the old tried-and-true methods anyway. Street runners aren’t as fast as cars, but they’re cheaper, don’t run on gas, don’t really break down, and are a helluva lot harder for fat pigs in uniform to run down.

Plus, there’s always more runners on the off chance one does ‘break’.

Chase was skeptical when I told him I’d have it there before midnight. The club I’m running this stuff out to is clear up on the north side. It’s a ritzy part of town, and usually one of Chase’s more ‘professional’ runners would take this stuff out there, but apparently the guy who was supposed to do this one got nailed for possession yesterday and conveniently forgot to mention it to Chase.

‘This is big money.’ He’d told me. ‘Don’t fuck me on this, Dash.’

I chuckle as I bounce between two walls and vault over a fence into another alley. I’m faster than anyone in the city; Chase knows it, I know it, and by now every runner in the East End knows it.

Of course, no one knows why.

My mouth fills with the taste of ash and blood, and my smile splits wider as the world turns gray. Time slows to a languid crawl as I dig my heels into the dirty concrete, angle forward, and push off into a dead sprint in the cold, grey night.

Canterlot is a city of mist. The frigid Lake Canter is fed from the icy Canterhorn mountains that border the northeastern side of the city, and the cold drifts off of it in thick banks that swallow the whole city from time to time.

This isn’t mist though.

It’s Fog.

I don’t know how I can touch it from here, or why the thing in the dark doesn’t just yank me into its world completely, but I can, and it doesn’t. All I do know is that if I try really hard, if I think about her and get past the gut-wrenching, soul-swallowing pain and guilt so I can see her face in my mind, I can run through the Fog. Only a little, but it lets me skip whole city blocks.

The first time it happened, I didn’t even notice. The second time I thought I was going crazy. The third time, I knew it was real, and now I run whenever I can. Anything to see her again, or to hear her voice.

‘One, two, Sunny’s coming for you~’

A shiver goes up my spine as I skip between here and there. I grip the backpack tighter as the world drifts between Canterlot and somewhere else… somewhere darker.

“Come on,” I whisper into the Fog. “Just take me… do it… do it.”

The thing in the dark never does though, no matter how many times I taunt it. No matter how often I get into the Fog and no matter how much I tempt it, I always end up coming out, and I don’t know why.

Maybe Sunset isn’t letting it take me just to torture me.

I lower my head and put on another burst of speed. I can hear Sunset behind me, running me down through the Fog. Her footsteps are like a metronome, lazy and consistent, but eating up the yards anyway as she closes in on me with that strange, slow, supernatural speed of hers.

She doesn’t catch me, then again she isn't trying.

I stumble out of an alley a few blocks down from where I’m supposed to make the drop. I flip my business phone open and grin. The dull display reads thirty-five minutes past eleven. That was decent time for a car going from the armpit of the East End all the way to the clubs on the north side in the middle of evening weekend traffic.

Shaking my head clear of the smell of the Fog, I skip past the well-dressed club-goers, each of them wearing outfits that Abby one of which would have bought me a month's worth of crappy dinners at the diner down the road from the station.

I get a lot of ugly looks from them too. Upturned noses and scowls drag across me, and I give as good as I get as I pass them by. They can judge me all they want, but they have no idea what they have. I bet if they ended up in Sunset’s Trial grounds they would probably go nuts in the first couple of minutes.

The club’s music reaches me even before the dark neon flashes of its sign do. It has a dark, grim bassline that thuds through the concrete sidewalk and up my legs as I approach. If it’s this loud from out here I can’t even imagine how bad it is inside. Just the thought of being surrounded by that many people makes me want to crawl out of my own skin, to say nothing of them touching me.

I shiver.

That never used to be a problem, but ever since I got back from the Trials things have been different. It was only a couple of Trials I went through, nothing like the rest of them, but since I got out it feels like everything in my head is dialed up to eleven.

Sounds are louder, colours are brighter, the air tastes… weird. Air shouldn’t even have a flavor but it does, at least to me. Smells are the same way.

My sense of touch is the worst though. It helps when I’m fixing that generator in the back room, but out here it’s like I’ve got a livewire in my skin. It’s why I cover up head to toe.

Everyone around me right now is wearing skimpy outfits for a night spent clubbing, and here’s me in a bulky canvas jacket, heavy cargo pants, a thick orange beanie over my head that used to belong to Sunset if the hairs left behind are anything to go by, and a pair of black gloves. I look like a hobo, and the funny thing is, it has nothing to do with the fact that I sort of am.

I slip past the people crowding towards the entrance of the club. It’s a goth club called Danse Macabre, so naturally everyone is wearing black leather, fishnets, and enough makeup to supply a regiment of clowns.

Part of me wishes I hadn’t said yes to Chase as I step into the alley leading down to the service entrance. I’m practically vibrating being this close to so many people. I can barely keep myself focused, and it’s only as I get out of the crowd and into the mostly-empty alley that I let out the breath I didn’t realise I’d been holding and take a long, ragged gulp of air.

“Blech.” I hang my tongue out. “The air tastes like piss and garbage.”

“Probably because it’s full of piss and garbage,” a voice says from the service door that’s already opening. “You Chase’s girl?”

I scowl and spit on the ground. “I’m nobody’s girl, I’m his runner.”

The man who steps out is tall, lanky, and fashionably skeletal-looking, wearing a tight black corset over fishnet and his face is painted pale with artfully done black streaks dragging down like tears under his eyes. His hair is dyed black and tied back in a long ponytail that reaches to his waist.

“Whatever,” he shrugs and smirks. “Come on in.”

That is just about the last thing I want to do. I do it anyway, though. I promised Chase I’d make the drop.

‘Don’t you want to stay, Dashie?’

I shiver as Sunset’s voice slithers over my ears, and I look over my shoulder to see her leaning against the wall opposite the door.

Her skin is angry red and split with veins of icy blue that match her eyes. Her hair is hanging in matted, lank strands around her face as she licks her sharp teeth before winking at me. Her coat reminds me of the one she used to wear to school; all black leather and studs, but this one is longer and worn out, more ragged around the edges, and cinched tight from her neck to her waist where it flares out around her legs.

And her hands.

Those fingers, and the way they taper off to bright silver blades, make me shudder, and not with fear. I stare at the sharp edges of them, and I want to touch them. I want them to touch me. I want to feel her again, and I don’t care how.

“Hey!”

I turn back to club-guy and glare at him, then glance back at Sunset.

She’s gone.

“Yeah, I’m coming,” I snarl as I step into the club.

I almost choke on the wet, sweaty heat of the air inside the Danse Macabre. It’s cloying and it stinks like someone dumped a pile of used incense ashes into a fog machine and set it to high. I have to swallow hard to keep my gorge down. I want to vomit the taste of the place up, but I force myself to take another step inside, then another, and another as I follow club-guy into what looks like a break room with two other people inside. One is a short girl with an undercut, a gray complexion, and lime green hair, who's wearing a goth-punk outfit straight out of a Beetlejuice porn parody, and the other is a big guy with tattoos and a security vest who has ‘Bouncer’ written all over his face.

“Where’s the shit, Tuesday?” The girl snaps. “Chase promised his ‘best runner’ would show up,” she leans in at me then wrinkles her nose, and pulls back waving her hand in front of her face. “Oh god, you smell like a dumpster.”

“Thanks, I’ve been working on it all week,” I say dryly as I toss the backpack on the table. “Here, now where’s my cut?”

Tuesday pulls the backpack open and eyeballs the contents, nods, and passes it over to the girl. “It’s all here, Tally, go get selling.”

The girl, ‘Tally’ takes a look herself, and her face goes from condescending to confused.

“Yeah, this is the usual drop.” She looks up at me and narrows her eyes. “How the fuck did you get it here so fast?”

“Did all that dye leak into your brain?” I snarl, earning an ugly scowl from the girl. “Chase said he was sending his best runner, right? Not his laziest. I got it here, and now I want my fucking cut.”

I hold out a hand, palm up and wait, meeting Tally’s gaze evenly. She has pretty eyes the color of strawberries, and I imagine Sunset would have lots of fun putting them out over and over again. I smile as I picture it, and whatever it is that Tally see’s on my face makes her pull back, scowl again, this time at skinny club-guy, Tuesday, then snatch up the backpack and storm out followed by the silent bouncer.

“Damn, that was tough as nails,” Tuesday says with a low chuckle as he watches her go, then turns back to me. “Not many people can just glare down Tallymark like that.”

“I’m not here for compliments,” I say. I’m starting to get pissed off as I hold out my hand to him now. “I’m here because Chase asked me to do him a solid, and he promised me a bigger cut, now hand it over.”

“Huh, guess Chase was right, you’re a hard-nosed bitch,” Tuesday says soberly before reaching into his vest and pulling out a money clip and handing it over. “Here.”

I snatch it out of his hand and thumb over the bills. A hundred bucks. Fifty for the delivery, fifty for doing it ASAP. It was good money and it would tide me over for a while. I wouldn’t stop doing runs, obviously, nothing can stop me from running, but it’s a nice chunk of change.

But it’s not what I’m really here for.

“Cool, thanks,” I snap as I tuck the money away, “now give me my real cut.”

His face falls as he looks me up and down, his eyes lingering on my open hand. The longer he waits the more impatient I get. I don’t want to be here. It’s too hot, the air is thick with sweat, and it stinks. I want to go home, back to my cot, and my shitty ramen dinner, and…

...and Sunset.

Sunset’s waiting for me. I need to get home.

“Look, you… you’re what, eighteen?” Tuesday asks after a moment.

“You’re not my type,” I hiss, “now give over.”

“That’s not what I-” He bites his lip then shakes his head. “Look, I know what you want, but I’ll give you two hundred to just walk out of here, okay? You can get help, I’ll even help if you need it.”

‘You don’t need help,’ Sunset hisses, stepping into my peripheral vision with that manic grin of hers. I can almost feel her fingers trailing along my back. ‘You’ve got me… I’ll give you all the help you need.’

“Fuck your help.” I jerk my hand pointedly. “Give. Me. My. Shit. Unless you want me to mention this to Chase, and have him take it out of your ass!”

Tuesday sighs heavily, then shrugs. “Fine, whatever, suit yourself.”

‘That’s right, suit yourself,’ Sunset puts a hand on my shoulder and leans in close enough that I can feel the feverish heat of her breath on my ear. ‘That’s all you ever do.’

I swallow back a lump of rage as Tuesday turns his back on me and walks over to the door at the end of the break room, opens it up, and steps in, gesturing for me to follow. Inside is a crummy little office that doesn’t fit the goth vibe at all. It’s more like middle management’s shitty younger brother.

It takes a minute as he fishes through some clutter on his desk before finding what he was looking for, a small key to one of the drawers on the desk, and opens up the second drawer down on the left.

Inside the drawer is a small lockbox that he pops open, and his face twists as he examines the contents. After a moment, he nods to himself, closes the lid and looks over at me.

“Last chance, kid,” Tuesday says quietly as he holds out my reward. “I’m serious, this stuff isn’t even that pure. It could kill you.”

‘If only.’ The specter of Sunset is sitting languidly on the desk, rocking her legs back and forth and smiling at me.

I stare at her for a moment before looking away and snatching the box out of his hand to tuck it inside my jacket.

“No, it can’t,” I say bitterly as I turn my back on him. “Believe me, I’ve tried.”

I storm out of the Danse Macabre’s back room. My whole body is itching after spending that long in close proximity to that many people, and the stink of used incense is clinging to the inside of my nostrils.

It’s cold outside, and it feels good. I need the cold. I get too hot, too fast lately. I barely even use the space heater despite having plenty of gas and spare parts for the generator anymore, I just don’t need it.

As soon as I’m out of the alley and on the street I flip open my phone and shoot a text to Chase, letting him know his stuff was delivered and that it’s probably getting sold as we speak. Once it’s sent I tuck the phone away and start to run again, dipping through the alleys and letting the Fog swallow me and take me back home.

Every time I step into the Fog I pray I step out in the empty halls of Sunset’s Trial, but I never do. The weird way that time works when I slip into the Fog spits me out near the train station office just fifteen minutes later, give or take.

I lick my lips, savoring the flavor of the Fog as I step out of it and take a breath of the relatively clean air of the East End.

Ducking past the boards and through the broken down doors, I make my way through the dismal, abandoned station and down the hall towards the main office. I fit the key and release the deadbolts before shouldering the heavy door open.

‘Three, four, better lock your door.’ Sunset’s voice sings from around me.

“I know, I know,” I say quietly as I slip past the door, then close it and rack the bolts into place. “I only forgot once in the, like, six months we’ve lived here, but you’re never gonna let it go, huh?”

I turn around, smiling tiredly at the far end of the office. “I can’t believe that guy tried to ‘save’ me.”

The picture of Sunset is smiling back at me from the open chest of the cabinet I’d dragged in here last month. It had been the tail end of August at the height of move-in season. The notes in Sunset’s journal clued me in that it was the best time to collect new furniture. People leave all kinds of crap on the sides of the road that they don’t have room for in their new place.

The cabinet was nice, like a small armoire. I took the doors off easily enough, and the top and bottom shelves inside, then set up the picture right in the middle shelf where I could see it. I put a few other things around it too, stuff I thought Sunset would have liked, or things that remind me of her.

A lock of her hair I collected from the beanie. A studded black leather armband. Some candles that smell a little like the conditioner she used to use.

And knives.

Lots of knives.

Which reminds me…

“Hey, I found the last one while I was out today,” I say brightly as I step over to the cabinet and sit down on the chair I’d put in front of it. “I can finally finish the glove.”

I shed my coat and toss it on a coat stand that I scavenged around the same time I found the cabinet, and my beanie goes with it. The lockbox gets set on the floor beside the chair.

“Here, look!” I reach down to my belt and start unwinding the cord that kept it secured. “See? I found it in a pawn shop!”

My hand is shaking a little as I hold up the knife. It’s an antique silver steak knife with a four inch long blade. It had cost me almost a hundred bucks, but it had been worth it. I already have the other four, and they were already affixed.

I scoot the chair a little closer and set the blade down next to the photograph.

“It’s… It’s good right?” I ask quietly, forcing a smile onto my face as I push it a little closer to the picture.

I swallow the lump in my throat as I slide out of the chair and onto my knees. The tears come a few seconds later as I curl up and pull my knees hard against my chest before resting my chin on them. I let the tears fall, I don’t hide them anymore. Why should I?

I’m all alone.

“I think I’m crazy,” I sob after a few minutes of quiet crying. “I saw you again when I was running to the Danse, and I know it’s not you. I know it’s not real, but I keep seeing you like you were when you…” I trail off with a sniffle and wipe at my eyes. “I uh… I think I’m really losing it, Sunset. I don’t even know if I’m really running through the Fog, or if it’s… it’s something else.”

The picture is silent, like always.

“I’m sorry.” I slump my face against my knees, muffling my tears. “I just miss you, Sunset… I miss you so much. I w-wanna hear your voice again so bad, and I m-miss hanging out with you, and just-.”

I lose it. All the pieces of me fall to the floor and I just start crying all over again, like always. I can never hold it together for long, but I try. The only time I can stay together is when I’m…

Not yet, though. I need to finish. I finally have the last knife, so I have to finish the glove. It’s important, because… shit, I don’t know. It’s a little bit more of her I can cling on to.

I pull myself together enough to stand on shaky legs and grab the chair to drag it over to the full-length mirror I set up in the corner and sit back down. My hair and vest are stained with sweat just from the short amount of time I spent in Danse’s back room, so I pull the vest off and throw it near my cot before running my fingers through my hair a few times.

God, I’m a mess.

Ace bandages are wrapped around most of the exposed skin that lay beneath my vest, and continue down my arms, tied off or secured with butterfly clips that I’ve used and reused so many times I forgot when I got most of them. The bandages themselves are stained and dirty, but I ran out of my last roll a week ago. The money I got from this last run will help, though. I’ll get some more tomorrow.

I grab the small end table I’ve been working with, a sturdy thing from back when Sunset lived here, and drag it between me at the mirror, then open up the drawer.

Inside is a thick wood panel whose surface is covered in nicks and cuts from my work. On top of the panel is a leather wrap tied off with a sturdy cord, and something else wrapped in a microfiber cloth.

The metal parts beneath the cloth clink and clatter as I carefully lift the wood panel up and out of the draw and it on top of the end table. I gingerly pull the at the corners of the cloth, taking care not to yank anything. If I did, and the cloth caught, it would tear, or worse, it might damage the glove.

With the cloth pulled away, a smile for real for the first in hours.

The base is a thick old leather glove, the kind that you’d wear while handling a welder. It’s heavy-duty enough to stand up to a lot of punishment, which I needed in order to build over it.

Each finger is covered in an articulated metal brace. They were easy enough to make, it was just a matter of shaping the metal around an old, heavy, railway bolt with a hammer. They were screwed together around a joint at each finger to make sure the wearer can still move their hands. That was important.

The back of the hand has another smooth metal plate, and it took me the better part of fourteen hours and five discarded failures to get the divided sun symbol that Sunset always wore looking right on it. I had to use a nail and hammer to carefully etch it out, and I eventually learned that I had to switch to a new nail the moment the last one dulled.

The toughest part was the blades.

Each finger was fitted with a five-inch silver blade, and they had to be silver.

Hers are silver, so these ones have to be too. Real silver, not some cheap silver-plated knockoff either. I’m not going to make her hand on the cheap. That’s… that’s just wrong.

The first three blades were luck. I spotted a mismatched set of knives at a garage sale. The guy hocking the stuff was just trying to get rid of his dead grandpa’s hoarded junk, and had no idea the silverware set he was selling was real silver.

There were only three knives in the set though, and it took me two more months to find another matching knife.

That had been a good day. I’d finished the four main fingers and it… it had been good. It had felt good.

But now I have the last one. The thumb. It’s a little shorter, and that was the real bitch. I remember that Sunset’s thumb-blade was an inch shorter than the rest of her fingers, and it took me all the way until now to find a matching blade.

I’d thought about getting a five-incher and just knocking an inch off, but for one, I wasn’t sure I could do it without breaking the knife, and two, that just felt like cheating.

I wanted to do this right.

And now I can.

I’ve already built the joint for the glove, now I just have to remove the blade from the knife, clean up the end, and bond it to the metal thumbcap, so I grab the leather wrap that has all of my tools bundled up in it, untie it and get to work.

I work for almost two hours, carefully hammering away at the old bone handle of the knife until I’ve chipped it away enough to start working on the tang of the silver blade. It takes me another three hours to get that part right. I do it slowly, I can’t risk damaging the blade itself, I might not find another one for a long time, and there’s no guarantee I’ll have the money to buy it even if I do.

It’s not that I mind taking the time, though. It’s… what would Rarity call it?

A labor of love.

Yeah. This is a labor of love. It has to be done right, and if that means working until the wee hours of the morning, then fine.

Another hour of work with the cheap old welder I got out of a backdoor sale from an auto shop that was shut down, and it’s almost done. The backs of my eyes are burning with exhausting as I look up at the watch I have hung from a piece of string near the cot.

It’s almost six in the morning and I’m almost done.

I just need to wait for the bond to set and cool. It might not be the sturdiest thing ever made in the history of metalworking, but it should hold together. While it’s cooling, I get my little ‘reward’ ready. I deserve a reward.

I deserve to be able to hear her again.

My kit is in the small alcove under the main space of the cabinet where I keep Sunset’s photo. I brush my fingers over her smiling face again, and I find myself smiling back at her a little more honestly this time.

The candle goes up first, and a little rig I made out of a wrist brace goes over it so the well of a bent spoon rests just over where the candleflame burns. I grab a handful of cotton balls, another strip of leather cord, and a set of new needles.

Then I grab the lockbox, open it up, and pull out one of the dozen small packets that constituted my weekly ‘bonus’, only this time there were some extras in there, as promised by Chase.

I peel the first one open and nudge out the gobbet of sticky black tar onto the spoon before lighting the candle, and wrinkle my nose. Tuesday wasn’t kidding, this definitely isn’t what you’d call ‘the good stuff’.

Whatever, it’s not like it’s gonna kill me. It never does.

While the heroin cooks, I unwrap the bandages on my arms and torso. The track marks from last Saturday are already healed. They look like little pockmarks. All the pictures I’d ever seen of this stuff in the few anti-drug orientations and assemblies that had been hosted at CHS had shown some pretty horrible crap, but for me I just… healed up.

No matter what I did to myself, I always healed.

The track marks aren’t even really obvious past the other scars. I shudder as I lay my fingers over the patterns I’d drawn in my skin over the past few months.

Thin scars, all in patterns of four lines matching the spacing of my fingers, criss-cross up and down my arms and all along my ribs. I run my fingers along the lines, each pattern, each individual set of four lines.

Four isn’t right, though. She has five blades.

Five.

Now I can finally do it right.

My oversensitive nose tells me the moment the heroin is done, and I blow out the candle, pull up a needle, clear it, and lay a cotton ball over the liquid in the spoon before sliding the needle in with practised ease, and draw up a large measure of the drug.

It’s more than I should be taking. More than anyone should be taking. When he first gave me the stuff and taught me how to use it, Chase told me only to use a little at a time or I’d OD. Except the little that he gave me barely did anything.

So I tried more, and more, and more, and eventually, I was taking enough to knock out a bodybuilder.

But it was enough.

I stare at the liquid in the barrel of the syringe. I want it right now, but I can’t. I’m not ready. I… I have to get ready.

I set the syringe down and get up, walk over to the end table and pick up the glove. It feels good. Nice and weighty, and the balance is finally feeling right with the blade on the thumb affixed. I test the bond tentatively, then a little more harshly, and I smile as it doesn’t show any give.

Good.

Flipping the glove over, I slip my right hand inside and pull it taut and my heart starts to beat faster. It looks so much like her hand did. Finally, it looks right.

I pull the glove off, carry it over to my kit, and sit down.

Then I pick up the cord, flex my bicep a few times to get the blood going, and wrap the cord around it before giving my forearm a few good slaps to get the veins to rise.

“Finally,” I whisper, as I lift the syringe and set the needle to a vein, press down, and press the plunger.

Welcome warmth starts to cloud my mind. It’s not instant, it never is. I have enough of my mind left to get up and drag myself to my cot, flick the lone light off, and lay down before fitting my newly made glove over my right hand again and securing the straps.

I breathe deep and slow, letting my heart do all the work. My body starts to feel warm and fuzzy, and I smile as I raise my hand and turn it over and over. The metal glints a little in the dark, and I admire how sleek and sharp the blades are.

They’re beautiful. Just like her.

“Sunset,” I call softly.

‘Rainbow,’ Sunset’s voice is near and distant at the same time.

“I love you…” I sob.

‘I will never stop hating you.’

“I know.” I tighten my grip, and gasp as the tips of the blades pierce my skin.

It feels so much like the last time she touched me that I’m practically crying with relief. I see her next to me, kneeling over my cot, her eyes burning like embers of blue fire set into pits of merciless black. Her expression, flat and disgusted, is still better than not seeing her ever again, and her hand- my hand- her hand closes tighter over my ribs and drags.

Skin splits, and the copper tang of blood fills the air. The cuts must be deep, but it doesn’t matter. It won’t kill me. It never does. No matter much I shoot up, or how deep I cut, I always wake up.

I hate that I always wake up.

I’m shaking and sobbing as the blades lift from my bloody side and come to rest on my shoulder. I stare up at the vision of Sunset that's glaring down at me with her eyes hooded with contempt.

‘You’re going to remember me…’

Always.

I’ll always… always remember you.

She- I- She tightens her fingers… and drags.