We Are Legion

I’m the first one back to Ormond, which surprises me. Sweetie Belle lives a lot closer, out in Whitetail, and we all left at the same time, so she should have been back first. Scootaloo already said she’d be delayed, probably because her dad was going to shout her ear off about her playing hooky.

If he tries to lock her up in her room again, we’ll just go and bust her out though. Her old man installed a window lock on the outside, but it’s a cheap one, and easy to pick.

On another note, that’s how I learned that Sweetie Belle can pick locks. I haven’t asked her how or where she learned it and I’m not sure I’ve got the stones to do so in the future.

With the afternoon crawling onward and still no sign of my friends, I try to fight off the encroaching Greys by busying myself with keeping Ormond from falling apart. The good news is that, with all the construction equipment, abandoned tools, and old materials, better than half the stuff is still useable. I block up a few more windows with thick wooden planks to keep the worst of the wind and snow out, and slather on a coat of tar on each before spraying it down with a fixative to keep the stuff from peeling too bad in the weather. I chop some more wood too, refilling the lumber box after reaching down deep and dragging out the oldest stuff.

I throw the old logs into the firepit along with kindling, and get to work starting the fire. The early evening has fallen and darkness spilled across the mountain by the time I hear someone else enter the lodge of Mount Ormond.

I’d recognise those quiet footsteps anywhere.

“Hey.”

I look up from the merrily burning fire at Sweetie Belle, who’s stepping gingerly through the old halls and into the main den of the lodge where we dragged the mattresses.

“Hey,” I say softly. “Thought y’all were comin’ right back.”

“I got caught up.” Sweetie’s reply is hollow, but I’m not sure if it’s because of the Greys or if she’s trying to hide something.

My bet is the latter.

I take a deep breath and with the smell of campfire ash and snow comes the gentle scent of Sweetie Belle’s shampoo, her lip balm, and beneath that is the smell of antiseptic spray, rubbing alcohol, the course fibrous smell of new bandages, and under all of that is the familiar copper smell of—

“—blood.”

Sweetie doesn’t move or recoil, she just looks at me with those empty eyes that are still full of the Greys from being apart for a whole day

“C’mere.” I nod towards myself and hold out my hands, palms up.

She puts her hands in mine, her left in my right, her right in my left, and I run my thumbs over her knuckles before turning them over.

“I can’t help it,” Sweetie says quietly. “It hurts. Even when everything is still grey at least it still hurts. It makes the world stop shaking, and it makes the Fog go away.”

I let go of her hands, put an arm over her shoulder, and I walk her over to the mattress where we sit down. Sweetie shrugs off her jacket, despite the cold, and rolls up the sleeves of her hoodie to show arms wrapped in fresh bandages. The small stains on the linen are still faintly red, and I count five, six, seven… eight stains. Small and red.

My throat is like a vice that’s been cranked shut and it’s choking me from the inside. It’s worse because there’s nothing I can say that I ain’t already said.

No matter how much I want her to stop, no matter how much Scootaloo wants her to stop, she doesn’t. She says she can’t and maybe that’s true. I don’t know, and I don’t understand, all I know is that she’s hurting, and all she does is trade one kind of hurt for another that’s easier to deal with.

Maybe that just makes Sweetie the smart one.

“Sorry,” she whispers.

“Why?” I ask through my closing throat. “Ain’t yer fault… Ah’m the one who can’t help ya.”

“Not everything is your fault, Bloom,” Sweetie says, finally looking up at me.

Her eyes are so green. It’s like looking at sunshine coming through the leaves of an apple tree in the spring.

“Does it hurt?”

Sweetie shrugs.

“I guess so?” She says quietly. “But everything hurts, so it’s more like letting something go after holding on too long. Like when you’re playing tug-of-war and you’re pulling so hard that the rope is cutting your skin, but you don’t feel it until you let go and the air hits it, and then it’s over and it’s… it’s a relief.”

Rather than answer, I reach out and put both hands over her bandaged left arm, and run my palm along the rough linen until I find the little butterfly pin that keeps it in place. Carefully, I undo the pin, and for a moment I think Sweetie is going to stop me, but she doesn’t. She just waits and watches.

It’s like unwrapping a Christmas present.

That’s the completely absurd and idiotic thought that passes through my head as I slowly unwind the bandage from around her arm. When I get down to the skin it sticks to the bloody patches of the wounds. I pull at cloth cautiously, trying to be careful not to tear any scabs, until finally the stained roll of bandages falls freely to the mattress.

Her skin is pale as Granny’s good porcelain, but now there are ridges like chips and notches on tea cups covering her arm. Those are just the healed ones though. The open wounds are ragged and wicked, like she’d used some kind of dull piece of scrap metal instead of a knife. The worst part is I can see the flesh knitting and the wound closing with unnatural speed.

“They close so fast now,” Sweetie says shakily as she looks down at her arm with me. “My skin doesn’t feel real. It’s like trying to c-cut through soft wood, and when I do, it just seals up unless it’s deep and ragged and… and even then it closes so quickly.”

“Somethin’ changed us when we went to that place,” I say as I lay a hand over the wound nearest to her wrist. Her skin is warm, and the blood is warmer. “Ain’t sure what, but it twisted us all up on the inside.”

Sweetie Belle starts to shake as I hold on to her hand. The Greys are going away, and the feeling of being alive is flooding back in. The hate, the shame, the guilt, and all the grief is flooding back in like water into a reservoir.

“P-Please stop looking,” Sweetie begs through wet sobs. “P-Please… I’m… I know it’s d-disgusting and u-ugly a-and—”

I bring her damaged arm up and kiss the palm of her hand.

“Ain’t ugly,” I mumble against her fingers. “Y’all ain’t even halfway t’ugly… yer the most beautiful girl in the whole world, Sweetie. Always have been.”

She doesn’t reply. She just hangs her head and cries quietly.

We stay like that for a little while, and while she cries I pull out the first aid box I took from the kitchen and crack it open. I take out some of the bactine spray, and a new roll of bandages, and wrap up Sweetie’s arm. Then I move to her right arm, which ain’t no less of a mess than her left, and carefully replace the bandages there too.

If that’s all I can do anymore, then I’ll do it.

When Scootaloo finally shows up, it’s past eight at night, and she looks awful. Her head is hung low and covered by her hood, and her hands are shoved in the front pockets as she walks over to where Sweetie and I had settled in on the mattress by the fire-pit with me sitting behind her and my arms wrapped around her middle, and her head resting sleepily against my shoulder.

“Hey,” I call out quietly, trying not to disturb Sweetie.

“Sorry I’m late,” Scootaloo answers.

The words come out rough and raw, and I frown at the sound as she drops down on the mattress beside us, sidles closer and lays her head on my shoulder.

“You okay?”

She shakes her head silently.

“Yeah, me neither.”

We watch the flames for a while, maybe an hour, before Scootaloo finally speaks up.

“My parents are getting a divorce.”

I turn my head slowly to stare at Scootaloo, and even Sweetie Belle snaps out of her grim malaise to look worriedly over at our friend. I swallow thickly and look between Sweetie and Scootaloo a few times before settling back on Scootaloo.

“W—What?”

Scootaloo sniffles and moves a little closer to us, and Sweetie Belle moves around to wrap her arms around Scootaloo’s middle while I put my arms around both of them until we’re surrounding our crying friend.

“Dad f-fucking snapped tonight,” Scootaloo sobs, and her words come out thick and clumsy. “We were having d-dinner, and Mom was doing that thing where she’s acting like everything is fine and shit, and he just snaps and starts screaming at Mom and me, about how I’m a m-murderer and how he can’t show his face anywhere. Then M-Mom started screaming back, and then he h-hit her, and I yelled at him and—”

She looks up at me and my heart lodges in my throat. Her face is a mess of bruises, and her nose is bent wrong, there’s dried blood dripping over a split lip, and her right eye is almost swollen shut.

“Here, lay down,” Sweetie says gently as she pulls Scootaloo away from me and nudges her down to the mattress.

There isn’t much resistance left in Scootaloo, so she lets Sweetie lay her back and pull her hood away. Sweetie doesn’t flinch at the mess Scootaloo’s face is in, she just reaches over the edge of the mattress and picks up the first aid kit from where I left it, and cracks it open.

Cotton swabs clenched in a pair of tweezers and dabbed with rubbing alcohol go first to wipe up the blood and mucus around her face, cleaning up Scootaloo’s nose, lips, and the space around her eyes. Sweetie Belle’s hands are careful and precise, just like her sister’s, and once that’s done she pulls out a box of small white adhesive strips to put on the cuts on her lip, the ones over and under her eyes, and all the while she whispers soft, calming words.

All I can do is just cradle Scootaloo while Sweetie Belle works. I lay down beside her and wrap her in my arms and wait out the pain, all the while knowing we have no choice now.

“Deep breath, Scoots,” Sweetie says as she braces Scootaloo’s nose with her finger and thumb. “On three… one, tw—”

CRACK

“MOTHERFUCKER!” Scootaloo snarls as she jerks in my arms, and I tighten my grip to keep her from spasming out of Sweetie’s hands.

“Sorry,” Sweetie says with a brittle chuckle. “It uhm… it’s supposed to hurt less if you’re not expecting it.”

Using a roll of cotton and some tape from the kit, Sweetie fashions a makeshift brace for Scootaloo’s nose, wipes up the blood one more time, then pulls back.

“There,” she says softly. “That’s not so bad.”

Scootaloo sits up and gently lays a hand over her nose. Her eyes are hollow and miserable as she loudly clears her throat, snorts, and hocks a massive, bloody loogie into the shadows past the fire-pit.

“Gross.” I say, trying for a laugh as I sit up with her.

“I think he was really trying to kill me,” Scootaloo says grimly, and Sweetie and I share a worried look. “Like, if it weren’t for whatever happened to us between here and Sunset’s crazy fucking Trial that made us tougher, I really think Dad woulda killed me.”

“That’s… that ain’t right, is it?” I ask cautiously. “Ah mean, he… he wouldn’t’a just…”

Scootaloo shakes her head.

“You didn’t see him, Bloom,” she says shakily. “The look in his eyes… he was really gonna kill me. If I hadn’t gotten outta there, he would’ve just beat me to death. My own dad hates me.”

“Rarity and my parents hate me too,” Sweetie says quietly. “Or maybe… I don’t know… it’s like they pretend I don’t exist.”

“Ah wish AJ would pretend Ah don’t exist,” I grumble, then I relax a little as I remember this morning. “But… but Twilight ain’t so bad. Treats me okay, Ah guess. Suppose Ah’m the lucky one.”

Not that it matters. I’m glad Twilight is a good person. I’m glad that she’s with Applejack and that she’s maybe helping my sister through all this shit because that’s the thing; Applejack may hate me, but I don’t hate her. She’s right to hate me. I’m the one who fucked up and made life miserable for everyone. If anyone’s gonna be hated then it oughta be me.

So yeah, I’m glad that Twilight’s around, but that don’t mean I’m going to be sticking around. Especially not with Scootaloo this way.

“Well, if we weren’t certain ‘fore this then we are now, huh?” I say as I reach back and grab my backpack, pull it up, and unzip it. “I ain’t lettin’ your dad take you anywhere, no way, no how, and yer mom’ll probably wanna skip town.”

“Pff, over my dead body,” Scootaloo grumbles. “I’m not leaving you girls… ever.”

“Same here,” Sweetie says firmly.

“So… guess we’re doing this?”

I reach into the backpack and pull out the burlap-wrapped masks. I pull the thick, rough cloth away to reveal the first one, mine, and pick it up. Scootaloo takes hers and turns it over in her hands, then smiles at the unsettling grin on it. Sweetie smiles too at the rough, shattered mess of her mask, and picks it up. She’s careful at first, then gives it a few test tugs and pulls before looking up at me with a grin brighter than I’ve seen in weeks.

Bright enough that I smile back at her.

“I love it,” she says happily.

She fits it over her face and then lets go, and it settles easily. I can see her bright, leaf-green eyes through the cracks I’d widened just enough to allow them to serve as eyeholes without compromising the integrity.

“Am I still beautiful?” Sweetie asks, her voice sounding strange through the mask.

Frantic… almost breathless.

“Prettiest girl in the world,” I say weakly, and Scootaloo gives me a wry grin before nudging me with her foot.

I respond with an elbow to her ribs and she laughs as she fits her own mask, and I put on mine. As one, we reach back and pull our hoods over our heads, with Sweetie and I tucking our hair back behind our collars.

“So…” Scootaloo says through her vicious, painted grin. “Where to?”

It takes us two more nights to find a good spot for our first try.

The outer roads to Canterlot stretch out into the distance a long ways to the east, the west, and the south. There’s another road, though, on the other side of the mountain, carving up north, that not many people use, and up that road is a small convenience store and gas stop.

It’s the last little bit of civilization you see before you get into the main mountain passes where it’s all woods and wilderness and deep, dark snow.

The three of us come out of the woods from behind the place, hoods up and masks down.

Of the three of us, Scootaloo is the quickest and the sharpest. She spent the last day and night watching the place from the trees. Memorizing the patterns. There are only three employees. Two in the day, and one at night. I’m pretty sure that’s some kinda violation. I remember someone once telling me you’re always supposed to have two folks working a gas stop at night.

Y’know… in case it gets robbed.

But I guess some people just don’t wanna pay that extra person, huh? Lucky me and lucky us. Unlucky them.

“In and out,” I say as we move around the side of the building in the dark. “Ah ain’t stickin’ around for someone to swing by for gas on their way through the mountains.”

“Two minutes, maybe three,” Scootaloo says quietly. “We get in, crack open the register, take the cash, and take off.”

“What about the attendant?” I ask.

“I’ll take care of it,” Sweetie says softly.

Scootaloo and I both look over at her. Her expression is that same odd, hollow look as we crouch down in the snow near the lone dumpster along the side of the gas stop.

“Okay,” I say quietly. “Weapons?”

I reach into my jacket and tighten my hand around the grip of the hunting knife I’d tied under my arm and pull it free with an oiled whisper. Scootaloo draws out her keyhole saw from her pocket and nods. We both look over at Sweetie Belle, who—

“What the fuck is that?” Scootaloo blurts.

I don’t say anything but I can’t help but quietly agree with the sentiment. Sweetie Belle isn’t gripping a weapon so much as it is some kind of torture implement, and it takes me a second to recognise what it even is.

It’s an old metal school ruler.

The bottom third is wrapped in duct tape where she’s gripping it, while the top quarter has been carved at and sharpened into something like a stake. There are a half-dozen or more heavy sewing needles taped to it that stick out at odd angles that would prick, rip, and tear at any skin it touches if you were to actually cut someone with the thing.

My stomach lurches as I realise the tip of the tool is already stained faintly rust-brown, and as I glance at Scootaloo I see her come to the same conclusion that I just did.

“Hey, uh… S-Sweetie, is tha—urk!”

I cut Scootaloo off with an elbow to the gut and shoot her a glare. She gives me a silent, apologetic grimace before shaking her head and looking back up at Sweetie Belle.

“Okay, smash and grab?” Scootaloo asks.

“Smash and grab,” I repeat, and Sweetie nods.

Masked, gloved, and silent, the three of us pull our hoods up as we stand and walk around the corner to the front of the shop. My heart is my throat and my stomach is in knots. The sweat on my palms is making my grip slick on my knife, and I keep having to wipe my hands on my jacket.

“Three,” I say as we reach the door.

“Two,” Scootaloo chimes in as she shoves it open, prompting the jingle of the brass bell atop the door.

“One.”

Sweetie Belle bolts past both of us as she hisses the word out. She moves in a flash of violent motion and the attendant barely has time to look up with a sleepy, rote greeting dying on his tongue as his eyes go wide for a brief second at the sight of Sweetie’s shattered mask before she vaults the counter and plants two booted feet in the poor guy’s gut.

The air leaves him in a soundless wheeze as Sweetie bears him to the ground, slamming him against the floor and putting the tip of her weapon to his throat.

“Hi~”

The voice that comes out from under her mask sounds only superficially like the girl who makes my heart beat faster, and it sends a chill up my spine.

“Shit, S—” Scootaloo clamps her mouth shut before she blurts out Sweetie’s name, and amends herself—“Fucking relax!”

I keep my mouth shut as I vault the counter too and land, jam my knife into the space between the till and the cash drawer, and jerk hard.

Something snaps inside the machine and it pops open with a tinny clang. I don’t bother to count the cash inside, I just grab everything. Scootaloo sweeps around and opens a small bag and in go rolled up clumps of bills, fistfuls of change, and someone’s credit card they probably left in the gas reader. I lift the drawer and grab a few more stray bills, toss them into the bag, then drop it and vault back over the counter.

“C’mon! Let’s go!” Scootaloo snaps at Sweetie before bolting out the door with the cash.

I turn back to Sweetie, and she looks up, giggles, then looks back down at the terrified attendant before leaning in close.

“Sshh,” Sweetie coos. “Or I’ll cut you.”

He yelps as she pricks his cheek, then she grabs him by the forehead and slams the back of his head into the ground hard, before scrambling to her feet and hurtling over the counter to barrel out the door. I spare a glance for the stunned attendant, cuss under my breath, then bolt for the outside.

Sweetie Belle is right behind me and she’s laughing. I haven’t heard her laugh like this since before Anon-A-Miss and the Trials, and as weird as she was acting in the gas stop, the sound of her laughter?

Entirely worth it.

We sprint into the woods, up through the foothills that wind and climb through the mountains. Even if they went looking for us here right away, rather than along the road like a sane person, they’d never find us. It’s winter in Canterlot and the snow comes down like god dumped it clean out of a trough. Within hours our tracks will be covered.

In a day it’ll be like were never here.

All three of us are laughing over an hour later as we stumble into the grounds of Ormond, red-faced, sweaty, and high on adrenaline. I’m so warm right now I don’t even need a fire, but we grab a few logs on our way into the main lodge anyway.

“That was nuts!” Scootaloo groans as she slumps onto the mattress still clutching the bag of cash. “We actually did it!”

“Mah sister’s gonna kill me,” I mutter as I drop down to sit beside her.

Sweetie just sidles in silently against me and rests her head on my shoulder as I reach up to pry the mask off my face. I gasp at the shock of cold air that hits my lungs. I hadn’t realised how hard I’d been breathing til now, and the mask was good, but it weren’t exactly made for common usage.

“Only if we get caught,” Scootaloo says as she sits up and pops her own mask off. “And we’ll only get caught if we get stupid… speaking which, hey Sweetie? What the hell was that?”

She doesn’t answer right away. Instead she turns to face Scootaloo and cocks her head quizzically. Her face is still hidden behind her shattered and unsettling mask.

“What do you mean?” Her voice comes out slightly tinny.

Frantic, almost.

“That poor attendant,” I say, gesturing back towards the forest we came from. “Poor fella’s just workin’ his nine-ta-five, y’all didn’t have to body’im like that.”

Sweetie draws back a little, then shrugs.

“I didn’t really hurt him,” she says, giggling.

The noise sounds weirdly distorted and hollow coming from under the mask, and on an impulse I snap out a hand and yank the mask off of her face.

I get a brief glimpse of Sweetie’s expression going slack with shock, her pupils shrinking to pinpricks, and the blood draining from her features, before her whole face contorts in rage and she lets out a high, raw shriek.

“MINE!”

Sweetie lunges at me, and at the mask, with her fingers curled into rabid claws, and she hits me like a bronco, carrying me straight off the mattress and down onto the cold stone floor of Ormond Lodge as she straddles me with her fingers wrapped around me neck.

“GIVE IT BACK!” Her voice cracks and breaks as she screams.

The mask isn’t even in my hands anymore, it’s tumbled out of numb fingers as I grasp and scrabble at Sweetie’s hands. She’s so insanely strong. Her grip is completely solid; no amount of prying at her fingers gives me purchase, and my vision starts to narrow to a dark tunnel.

“GIVE IT—hurk!”

Her weight vanishes from me and I gasp for air, dragging gulps of it down my abused throat as I massage my neck and sit up, coughing and hacking for all I’m worth.

“What the FUCK, Sweetie?!” Scootaloo snarls as she drags Sweetie Belle backward.

She has Sweetie in a standing rear triangle choke, like something out of one of those MMA fights Mac watches. Sweetie is kicking and thrashing like a mad horse, but only for a moment. Slowly, the fight drains out of her, until finally she’s hanging slack in Scootaloo’s grip and making small wheezing noises.

“Let’er go, Scoots!” I snap as I stand on shaky legs.

My vision swims as Scootaloo gives me a look like I’ve lost my mind, but I fix her with a good glare.

“Scoots.” My voice rumbles low as I advance on them. “Ah said y’all let’er go!”

She grimaces, but nods as she releases her hold, and Sweetie topples down onto the mattress coughing, and a moment later she’s curling up in a ball and sobbing.

“Bloom…” Scootaloo starts.

“Ah don’t wanna hear it,” I say, shaking my head as I walk over to Sweetie and sit down beside her before wrapping my arms around her.

“We’re talking about this,” Scootaloo says.

I don’t argue. Ain’t no point in it. When Scootaloo gets a bug up her ass about something she ain’t the type to let it go, and frankly, I don’t think she’ll be happy til we do talk about this. She’s probably right anyhow.

“I’m sorry,” Sweetie sobs. “I’m sorry I… I don’t know what happened!”

“S’okay, Ah ain’t mad,” I say quietly.

That said, I don’t think I can say the same of Scootaloo. From the look on her face I can’t tell if she’s mad or just scared. Little bit of both is probably right, and in fairness I don’t think either of us have ever seen Sweetie freak out like that before.

Scootaloo kneels after a moment and puts a hand on Sweetie’s shoulder while looking at me cautiously.

I mouth the word ‘later’ at her, and she grimaces, but nods. I don’t know why these two still trust me after all the crap I’ve gotten them into but they do. Best I can do now is look after them, for whatever good that does.

So I hold onto Sweetie Belle while she cries herself out. If anything, it seems like she’s more scared than either of us of what happened. She crashes an hour later, and I have to extract myself from her grip to lay her down on the mattress before tossing a couple of the blankets over her.

My joints pop as I stretch to get the blood flowing again. Even despite the fire I know that it’s freezing out, but the cold still doesn’t touch me, and I nod to Scootaloo as I walk past her. She’s up and following me a moment later, her eyes settle right on the back of my neck as we walk out into the icy grounds of Ormond.

Snow is thick on the ground, and more is falling in heavy clumps as we find a clear spot beneath and awning and sit down.

Scootaloo reaches into her pocket and pulls out a pack of cigarettes, still wrapped in plastic, and I frown.

“When’d y’all start smokin’?”

She doesn’t answer. She just peels the plastic off the pack, pops the top, pulls away the aluminium wrapping, and nudges out one of the sticks before taking between her lips. Scootaloo stuffs the pack back into her front hoodie pocket, and when her hand comes back out it’s holding a cheap plastic lighter that she flicks a few times before lighting the cigarette.

The moment Scootaloo takes a breath she starts hacking and coughing, then she spits, breathes in, and does it again.

“Five”—cough, cough—“seconds ago.”

She hacks the words out like a bad lung, before settling in and puffing on the cigarette a little more sedately, coughing every so often between drags.

“We ain’t eighteen,” I say.

“We just robbed a bodega.”

I don’t really have an argument for that one, so I let it lie. Instead, I settle in beside her and stare up at the snow-shrouded night sky and track the drifting snow.

“How much we make?”

Scootaloo shrugs, then tucks the cigarette back between her lips before pulling out a bundle of cash from her hoodie pocket.

She passes the roll of bills to me. “It’s like, three hundred and some.”

The roll is bound with a thick blue rubber band that I pull off. The bills are all different ages, some are new, but most are heavily worn and wrinkled, and I smooth them out as I count. Scoots hadn’t bothered to sort them so it takes me a bit, but eventually I roll them back up and rubberband them again.

“Three hundred’n forty-seven bucks,” I say quietly. “Plus whatever loose change y’all got left.”

“Couple rolls of quarters,” Scootaloo replies.

“Nowhere near enough t’get outta here,” I say.

“Nope.”

“Guess we gotta do it again, huh?” I say.

Scootaloo looks over at me, her eyes flashing strangely in the dark and her face lit only by the ember of her stolen cigarette as it slowly works its way closer to the filter. We’ve been friends long enough that I don’t need to ask her what she’s thinking. I can see written plain as day over her bruised eyes and cheeks.

How did we end up here? How did it come to this?

The answer to that one is easy: me.

“As many times as it takes, huh?”

“Yeah.” I nod as I tuck away the money. “As many as it takes.”