The Lost Girls

“Another chocolate milk,” I demand irritably. “Extra cream and marshmallows.”

“Lady, don't you think you had enough?” the grizzled old earth pony barkeep asks me as he eyes me with his one good eye. The other eye likely got scratched out due to some earlier rough horsing no doubt.

He is a big pony, too. Not many other patrons in this bar, or any other for that matter, would have considered it wise to mess with this bartender. This pony obviously doesn't need to hire a bouncer. He is the bouncer. His spiked leather vest only added to the “I'm warning you, don't cross me” kind of motif that I have only seen matched by none other than the Diamond Dogs.

But, unfortunately for him, he is not addressing an ordinary pegasus anymore, and I am not in the mood to deal with any of his crap tonight!

All at once, before anypony in the bar could blink, I fly over the bar counter, snatch up the hulking earth pony and slam him hard against the wall behind him. Not only that, I nail him to that wall two feet off the ground and I did it with ease.

Despite my obviously supernaturally augmented strength and speed, I don't think that is what terrified him. No. If it were that alone, I think he would merely be stunned.

I think it is because, when he gets a good look in my eyes, he must have seen something there that warns him that his very life might be on the line. I really don't think he's accustomed to that. This pony can crush two heads together and make them explode like crushing watermelons if he wasn't careful, yet nothing he had ever seen paralyzed him with such terror as the look in my eyes.

And, quite frankly, I'm not accustomed to this either. Not yet, at any rate. Had I been thinking straighter, I might have had the wisdom to be more subtle in public about my new abilities, too, but right now I'm far beyond caring. If he won't give me my pony bucking chocolate milk, I'll take what I need from his very hide!

“I'm going to make this as clear as I possibly can right now,” I tell him in a low growl. “And be warned, I am not in the mood to be crossed. Give me . . . my chocolate milk . . . or I'll appease my hunger from something else of yours.” I fly up a bit to press my muzzle against his as I ask him, “Am I making myself clear, Sir?”

“Yes, Ma'am!” answers the terrified bartender. “Completely clear, Ma'am.”

“Good!” I tell him while I'm still pressed to his face like I'm about to kiss him, but I don’t. “You do that, then.”

At last, I let him down. I think the fact that what I have done didn't cause me to break a sweat is another reason he does.

But whatever. I am way beyond caring on this night. Nightmare Night too of all nights. The irony of that is almost hilarious.

I take my time flying over the bar and landing back in my seat. When I do, I notice something that I've only recently got accustomed to, and that is my new augmented sensations. Specifically, I can see and feel the energy of every pony in this bar. I can also smell their coat, their breath, their sweat. More than that, I both smell, see and feel their hearts race faster. They all know, on both instinctual and logical levels, that their very lives might be in danger too. Here I am, a pony who is obviously more than she seems, and I just demonstrated that I'm in a bad mood to boot.

I grimace and flinch as I feel the heartbeats of every pony in the room. I press my hooves into my face as I struggle against the hunger that is driving me crazy, especially as the taste of chocolate milk slowly dries from my tongue. In its place, my body longs for something else to replace it. Something old. Something primal.

What am I doing here? Coming here is like starving dogs coming to a barn full of sheep.

Then again, I guess caution has never been my strong suit. Never was, really. I was proud of it for the longest time.

Not so much anymore.

“Here you go, Ma'am,” the bartender says nervously as he delivers my new glass of chocolate milk to me but he ends up shaking it so hard in fright that he ends up spilling half the drink upon delivery. I look at the half empty cup before me then shift my eyes back up to him. As I do so, I swear I see his face flash red for a brief second. A light that probably came from the brief glow of my own predatory eyes.

“I'm sorry, Ma'am!” he cries out to me in terror. “Here. You keep that while I pour you another. Do you want cinnamon, or mint chocolate next time?”

I calm down as I think about it, then tell him, “I'll take cinnamon chocolate next time but with extra chocolate shavings.”

“Yes Ma'am!” he wails. He seems only too happy to leave my compony, if only for a moment.

I lift what should be a scalding hot drink and down it all before slamming the glass back down the counter with enough force to easily shatter it. I flinch slightly as a new waft of blood drifts to my nostrils. I glance down at my hooves and notice a tiny cut caused by the glass shattering which is just below my left hoof. But also, before my very eyes, that wound heals up in seconds. Not two seconds later I see I no longer have a scratch on me.

I still feel eyes upon my back. Feeling fed up with it, I spin about to face the rest of the bar as I cry out irritably, “What are you all staring at? Haven't you ever seen a pony drink chocolate milk before?” I use my elbows, and wings, to push away from the counter behind me as I lean forward and add, “Or perhaps you want me to show you something else?”

I leave that thinly veiled threat lingering in the air.

The message seems to be very clear. Most of the patrons start to look away and they do so very deliberately. They pretend to do whatever they were doing before, but I can still smell the tension in the air. I feel it pumping in my veins. It cries out for me to do something far more savage, but I fight it down with all that I have.

I really am not accustomed to resisting my impulses. That's probably why it's hitting me all the harder now.

But times have changed for me in more ways than one. As much as that pains me, it has forced me to adapt.

My message seems pretty clear. Before I turn about to face the counter, however, I notice one pony who seems out of place with the rest because, unlike every other pony in the bar, this one remains calm.

Too calm.

In fact, for a brief moment, I thought he was dead. Or undead, sort of like me.

But no. As I peer at him carefully, I observe that this pony is in an isolated corner of the bar. He wears a long trench coat and wide brim hat which conceals his face, especially since he is tilting the edge of his hat down a bit. I soon realize I can't distinguish much of anything about him, even with my newly augmented vampony eyes.

It takes me a while to realize that I do feel his heartbeat, but it is slow. Steady. Calm. He might be staring at my general direction, but without seeing his face, it is very hard to tell.

In fact, I cannot even tell what breed of pony he is until I finally see a bubble pipe float to his lips. The pipe itself is wrapped in a golden aura.

So he's a unicorn most likely. Glad I got that much established at least. His hat is hiding his horn, perhaps deliberately. I heard that can be as annoying to unicorns as wearing heavy gear is to a pegasus who wants to fly well. Some things just don't go together easily, but one still encounters exceptions on occasion.

As I stare at that mysterious pony, a very slight edge of nervousness creeps within me that I did not expect to feel tonight. After all, the level of cool I'm feeling from this pony feels professional to me.

There is an instinct that rings in my ears that my life might be in danger too. That would have stung more if I truly cared, but as it stands, I don't really mind if somepony kills me tonight. In fact, on some levels, I even welcome it. That's why the chill in my system feels only slight.

But again, whatever. If he's here to kill me, that's fine. It wouldn't be less than I deserve anyway right now for I am, indeed, a monster.

Once again, I start to turn back to face the bar but, along the way, something else catches my eye and, this time, it seizes it. In the opposite end to the only pony who remained calm here, I see a single stage built into the corner of this bar. On that stage there is a single stool, and lying next to that stool is a single acoustic guitar.

My eyes linger on it far more than I would have initially suspected. I'm honestly surprised at the degree of my interest in it.

As I muse on it further, it occurs to me I don't have much to lose or care about anymore, so why not press for this one last indulgence?

I almost considered asking for permission to use it, but again, I don't really care right now. I'm not in the mood to be polite, and besides, I'm impulsive. Same as always.

So, without another word to anypony, I slide off the stool I was sitting on and trot my way to the stage. I do so slowly and deliberately this time.

Very few ponies actually look at me, but I can still feel their attention linger on me. Even the calm one, or perhaps I should say especially the calm one. Most pretend to look elsewhere, but they probably steal a few glances at me.

Whatever. I'm beyond caring right now. I just make my way to the stage, step on, climb up to sit on the stool, then pick up the guitar. Initially I pick it up with my wings since it has a longer reach. Using that, I transfer the guitar from my wings to my hooves. When the transfer is complete, my gaze lingers on my wings as I adopt a musing expression at my mint colored feathered wings which are the same as the rest of my body with the exception of my mane and tail. That, instead, is a mix of stripes of bright gold and dark gold.

My eyes linger on my wings the most, for I know I can transform them if I give into my unnatural hunger without restraint. A bat pony, some call it.

I release a slow breath as I turn my attention back to the guitar. I hold the guitar against my chest. As I do so, I feel this act ground me somehow. Some semblance of desperately needed normalcy settles into me.

What I am . . . the cursed monster I have become . . . it's something that I never really knew about as a foal, but if I did, I probably would have pounced on it with far more recklessness than I have even in my adult years. Just the sheer idea of becoming both powerful and immortal, it is a far greater temptation than my younger self would ever require. She'd say, “Just sign me up!” She'd leap upon it and not look back.

I guess I was a Washout at heart even back then. It is ever the motto of The Washouts, “Leap before you look!”

Aye. I've done that many times by now. I lived my whole life with reckless abandon. Just throw all caution to the wind and simply fly as fast as I can. Fly so hard, so high, and so fast that the abrasion of the wind through my fur and wings is just something I grew accustomed to. I've even grown to think of it like the sky hugging me. It surrounds me with its presence as tangibly as it could, and I loved every second of it!

The speed! The thrill! The exhilaration! The danger! I loved it all.

Deep down, there was always something I've wondered about in my life. I desperately wanted to know what my true limits were. Sometimes I even wondered if I had limits at all. That's why I've been so reckless. It's because I am impatient to find out. It is a serious goal deep in my heart. I just had to know and I'm not going to let anything or anypony stand in my way!

Heck, even if they try to stand in my way, I can literally fly circles around them, give them the raspberry, then shoot off as fast as a blur. Only my lightning trail behind me would provide any hint that I was ever really there.

I could do all that even when I was a mortal pony. Who knows how fast I can fly now, but the one difference between now and then is I no longer care. I probably can fly much faster now, though notably only at night time. Despite these new and recent boons, it doesn't matter to me anymore because it feels like cheating. I can't feel as proud of myself when I have an unnatural advantage. If that were my only problem, I probably could've gotten used to it, but the real wrench in the cogwheels is the price I have to pay for that strength. I am immortal . . . as long as I keep killing for that strength. As long as I steal that strength. So, no matter what, my accomplishments can't be attributed to me alone anymore. It is ripped from others.

I have been reckless in my life and I've been reckless with others. That, to me, is almost fine, but a line is crossed when others become the deliberate target for execution. Intentional murder goes too far in my heart. I have never really been that cold before.

I lift my hooves across this guitar as I feel myself sink into a sort of trance. I move my hooves across each of the strings one by one to sort of test it. I listen to the reverberation of each note hanging in the air for a few seconds. I savor it.

Then I play.

As I play, my life replays before my eyes. It's not a flash, but it's not too slow either, nor is it complete. Just certain moments stand up before me. More important is the feeling I get behind each moment.

For instance, the time I applied for the Wonderbolts. The funny thing is, I never questioned it to be my destiny as I grew up. I knew I was way, way too good at flying to consider the fact that I'd fail the Academy. I knew they were the best of the best, but I was the best too. To me, the Wonderbolts stood as a symbol in my life which represented what I already knew about myself. I only joined them to receive that validation. To wear their uniform as an affirmation to myself and the rest of the world, “See? See?! I told you! I told you I was the best, and now I have the proof.”

For some reason, though, it never occurred to me that I'd meet my match until I got there, but Rainbow did impress me, and then I thought, “But ah! This is the Academy for the Wonderbolts. Where else could I go where I am more likely to find my equal?”

Maybe some part of me should have felt threatened by the fact that anypony came even close to being my equal, but at the time, I felt thrilled. I enjoyed the challenge and the knowledge that I no longer had to fly alone anymore. Rainbow was a kindred spirit. I knew that almost immediately. She knew that same thrill to fly in the sky that I always have.

Or so I thought. It soon became apparent we were flying on different wind currents after all. It turns out the thrill of flying was the only thing we could see eye to eye on. She had strict standards about everything else, especially safety, but to me? It kind of felt cowardly for somepony like that to say, “I won't cross this line no matter what.” To me, what it really sounded like is, “I'm not really interested in testing my limits to its maximum potential.”

Rainbow was always like that. This far and no further. That eventually made me realize that I hadn’t met my true equal after all.

It's not that I can't see things her way, though. Part of me can, especially the part about endangering others. Testing myself to my absolute limits is great, but I don't want to involve others if they don't wish to be involved. I really do think forcing others to be involved is morally wrong. That's why I used to prefer practicing in totally isolated areas, or at least as isolated as I was aware of. This was especially true for a few years after I got kicked out of the Academy. I said to myself, “Don't endanger others? Fine, then! I'll just go practice by myself, but that doesn't mean I'll hold back in any other way.”

Probably the only real “others” I endangered during those years were the giant eels in Ghastly Gorge. I practically dared them, taunted them even, by zipping by their holes so fast. I veered back and forth through that twisted Gorge. I almost wanted them to try to stop me. I'd probably shatter right through their teeth for their effort, although it was likely that I would fare no better. Crashing into things is an impact that goes both ways, and I'm usually softer than most other things I could potentially crash into. But still, wow! I sure would leave a mark behind.

That might be all that really matters to me. Wherever I go and whatever I do, leaving a mark behind is my truest goal. I want to cement my existence. To leave undeniable proof that I was there. I want to ensure that everypony would say, “Whoa! There goes Lightning Dust! She's easily the fastest and most talented pony who ever graced the skies.”

When I work to prove my worth, I'm not just doing it to impress myself. I'm not just doing it to challenge myself, I'm doing it so that I know others can't ignore me. At least, not when I want to be noticed. I'll admit there are times I might like to cry in some dark corner. Whenever I feel weak, that's when I like to disappear. However, if I am feeling strong and confident, that is when I'll stop at nothing to ensure my glory explodes for all to see.

That's what it means to be the best at something. It takes knowing that one is the best. To leave no doubt or room to question it.

The cruelest irony is, when I finally did become immortal and am all but totally indestructible, it came with a price that is too high for my soul to bear.

Challenging myself is fine. I live for it, but being a burden to others is a problem I quickly reach my limits on. I can tolerate it to some degree, especially if they volunteer to follow me, but forcing the burden truly is beyond me. I can't live with myself anymore if that becomes required for me to continue to live.

I had a good thing going with the rest of The Washouts. I truly did enjoy their compony, and they likewise felt the same. Even Short Fuse. As angry as he usually gets pretty much all the time, there was always this mutual respect we’d see when we looked into each other's eyes. The kind of look that says, “Yeah! You get me.”

After I “washed out” of the Wonderbolts (hence the name), I had given up on finding my own tribe. Before I knew it, however, I came to a bar, like this one, and listened to another pony brag about how she had washed out of the Wonderbolts too. More important than that was the fact that she was proud of what she had done. She knew what she stood for. She was thrilled to push her limits beyond the point of safety. Any pony willing to go that far truly understood that they wouldn't let anything hold them back in life. Just go for it. Push one's limits without any sense of restraint. To know there truly wasn't anything more one could give, and nothing else stood in the way significantly enough to matter.

When I heard his story, a light bulb suddenly went off in my head. At that moment I had another epiphany that only my cutie mark awakening could possibly compare to.

All at once, I finally knew, I found my tribe.

Thus The Washouts was formed. We thrilled crowds all across Equestria with our daring stunts. Even if we should die during our performance, at least we'd know we went out with a BANG. We have a whole crowd to witness our demise. Every single one of them would remember us and likely pass on the story. Our glory would live forever on. It was undeniable proof that we existed and that we mattered.

That was enough for us. We'd sit back and relax on a cloud knowing we had put in a good day's work. We pushed our limits and probably extended them too. As well, we impressed a crowd at the same time if it was a live performance.

Aye. That was the life for us. Tasting that danger and giving death itself a big old fat kiss on the lips then flying away and saying, “So long, Sucker! Perhaps next time you'll catch me. Who knows? But whatever the case may be, we shall always dance again, my all too familiar friend.”

But the thrill of dancing with death loses its charm when becoming both immortal and virtually unkillable. There was a reason all these things were exciting as a mortal. A game can only be fun if it's possible to lose.

I would have stuck with The Washouts to the very end as well if it weren't for other factors in my life.

I wince tightly as I sink into a deeper trance while unknowingly continuing to play my music.