Eyes Without a Face

by theycallmejub

Rating: mature
Tags: Alternate Universe, Roseluck, Mare Do Well, My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic, Dark
Length: 113351

Daisy is dead. Lily is dead. Rose is dead... I shall become a mask.

"Criminals.
Criminals are terror.
Criminals are a terror. The face of terror. My terror. I must disguise my terror. Disguise my face.
Daisy is dead.
Lily is dead.
Rose is dead.

...I shall become a mask."

Published 2011-12-25 15:03:22 UTC
Last updated 2012-08-15 18:12:26 UTC

Nursed Back to Sickness

Chapter III: Nursed Back to Sickness

Six weeks. Maybe eight. That’s how long Redheart says I will have to lie in her bed, in her tiny flat, in one of the worst neighborhoods in Manehattan. It's the kind of neighborhood where you can bleed all over the steps of an apartment complex and nopony says or does anything about it. Worst kind there is. Six to eight weeks. I'll only need four.

For the first week Redheart is a water fly. She skirts about me on spindly legs as though I were the surface of a pond, making no ripples. For the first week she can't meet my gaze, and I can't meet hers, either. We talk little. When we do talk it's only during meals. Breakfast. Dinner. No lunch. No money for lunch. Just breakfast and dinner. Eggs and hay with half a cup of orange juice for breakfast, and the same with a full cup of water for dinner. For a week I watch Redheart pick uninterestedly at her food while she watches me do the same. Eggs and hay. Few words. Little eye contact. The first week is strange. We are both still numb from having wandered so near death’s door.

During this time I am bedridden. I can hardly move. The ache in my back crawls into my limbs, while the searing burn in my gut creeps up into my chest. I spend the first few nights staring at a dark ceiling, trying to breathe the fire out of my lungs and wiggle loose the bits of broken glass poking me from underneath my skin. I don’t sleep. Then one night I catch fever and whatever strength I had managed to cling to is chased out of my body like a mouse pursued by a cat. The first week is a long one.

Every morning Redheart brings me breakfast. Eggs. Hay. Orange juice. It's all she can afford. Juice is a bit pricey but I am bedridden with fever and Redheart insists I drink it. She can be old fashioned that way. She gives me antibiotics so I don’t get any sicker, but she has no money for painkillers. It’s antibiotics or painkillers, and only one will keep me alive while the other will only make my death more bearable. I plead with Redheart to bless me with an easy death, but she is too kind and so I am still alive. Eating breakfast every morning. Breathing fire every night.

With breakfast comes the morning paper, a real shit rag called the Manehattan Post. Every morning I comb through the paper because I am bedridden and have nothing else to do, and because one of my teachers---a would-be ex-professor at Canterlot University---insisted that as part of my training I familiarize myself with worldly events. He is a middle-aged earth pony with an hourglass for a cutie mark named Doctor Whooves. I do not think Whooves is his real name, nor do I believe he was ever a professor at Canter U. I suspect from the marks on his forelegs that he is a drug addict. I am sure he is completely mad.

The Manehattan Post is the kind of paper a self respecting pony wouldn’t so much as wipe his ass with, but I read it because it is the paper that Tracy Flash takes pictures for. Tracy has real talent and it is wasted on a rag like the Manehattan Post. The Post prints the same story on the front page of every paper. They go for the jugular with their headlines.

“LAID OFF FATHER STRANGLES TWELVE YEAR OLD IN HER SLEEP.”

“POLICE RAID DRUG DEN: FIFTEEN DEAD.”

“STUDENT HANGS HERSELF IN DORM ROOM CLOSET.”

Crime, desperation, despair. Every morning in plain black and white. Every morning in all caps. The Post makes pulp literature of real suffering. The narratives are sleazy things dipped in virgin blood and hallucinating on designer drugs. Hell, it would be a good read if it wasn’t all happening a block away from your home. If it wasn’t all so real.

So for one long week I am a fire-breathing invalid. I am force fed an unrelenting diet of eggs, hay, and orange juice by a water bug who skirts about me as though I were the surface of a pond. At night I lie awake in pain and in the morning I read distressing headlines that have been written in all caps for emphasis. As if the sentence, “GANG MEMBER SLAUGHTERS FAMILY OF FIVE,” needed to be emphasized.

The second week offers some relief. On Monday morning Redheart brings me the usual: breakfast and today’s post. The front page headline reads: “GILDA ‘GRIFT’ GRIFFIN SINKS HER CLAWS INTO MANEHATTAN POLICE DEPARTMENT.” Underneath the headline there is a picture of a young earth pony stallion dressed in a police uniform, shaking hooves with a female griffin. The griffin is all done up for the occasion. Suit and tie. She looks huge standing beside the cop, her claw swallowing his hoof whole as they shake. Underneath the picture the caption reads: “Gilda Griffin congratulates graduating police academy cadets. Photo by Tracy Flash.” It's a good photo. Tracy really captures the energy of the moment. The touch of apprehension in the stallion’s face as he forces a smile for the press, his body language screaming discomfort so loudly I can almost hear it through the captured still. Gilda’s grin stinks of self-satisfaction. It's a knowing grin. The type reserved for ponies in charge, or in this case, the griffin in charge.

About three lines into the article, Redheart pushes the paper down, replacing the image of the smiling griffin with her own smiling face. I can’t help but notice how the strong the contrast is. One is full of compassion while the other is completely devoid of it.

“Hey,” she says. “I’m going be out most of the day today. You gonna be okay here by yourself? You want me to call Dee? Have her keep an eye on you.”

“No,” I say. The harshness of my tone surprises both of us. I'm still mad about Redheart involving Dee in the first place. “No, that’s alright,” I try again, adjusting my tone. Then Redheart lets out something I'm sure she’s been keeping in this whole time. Doesn’t even try to be tactful about it. Just lets it fly.

“Promise me this'll be the last time,” she says. "No more looking for trouble, Rose. I mean it." Her words give me pause. I can’t. Redheart doesn’t understand. I let them die. Hid and watched them die. I can’t stop yet. I can’t.

I hesitate to answer. She searches my face for one before I give it. The words form in my mouth, but the breath I need to push them past my lips is caught in my chest and all that comes are a few painful coughs. Then the few become many, and each cough feels like a little bomb exploding in my lungs. I roll onto my side. Curl into a ball. The bombs keep going off. Little grenades bursting in my lungs. One after the other. One after the other. Boom, boom, boom. My eyes water. Redheart cradles me in her forelegs and holds me close until the coughing fit passes. When it’s over, I'm breathing heavily. Exhausted. I’d collapse if I weren’t already on my back. Ponyfeathers. Must be the fever. It’s getting worse.

“It’s all right if you don’t want to give me an answer now,” says Redheart. She leans in close and presses her forehead against mine. It's the closest we have been in a week. “Just say you’ll at least think about it.” I don’t answer. “Come on, at least say you’ll think about it.”

“Okay. I’ll think about it. No promises, though.”

“Okay. No promises,” she agrees. Then she kisses my forehead and leaves, skirting out the door like a water fly across the surface of a pond. No ripples. Gone like she was never here to begin with.

Desperate for distraction, I return my attention to the paper. To the young stallion dressed in police blues and the griffin with the joyless grin. Gilda “Grift” Griffin. Grift. It’s the name the Post gave her. She’s a favorite subject of the Manehattan Post. I haven’t been in this city long, but not long is all the time it takes to learn the name Grift. Grift’s a real gangster. An uptown gangster. The Post has been following her criminal career for years. From what I hear, Grift likes her stories printed in the Post. She’s got the whole newspaper in her pocket. Cops too. Local politicians. Business owners. If you’re worth talking about in Manehattan, you’re on Grift’s payroll, and if you want ponies to keep talking about you, you’ll stay on that payroll.

The cops, well the good ones -- the ones who are still convinced wearing the badge means something -- those cops have tried and are still trying to pin something on Grift. Cops, attorneys, even reporters have been known to get in on it. They try pinning her with anything and everything. Murder. Drugs. Guns. Prostitution. Kidnapping. Pony trafficking. Blackmail. Tax evasion. Credit fraud. Traffic violations. Trouble is, Grift’s like one of those fancy stainless steel skillets used by chefs on those awful cooking shows. Nothing sticks to her.

I flip through the rest of the paper but it offers me little else in the way of distractions. It’ll be a while before Redheart returns. For that while I am alone with my thoughts and my pain.

It’s late when Redheart finally does get back. She stumbles in the doorway. Wobbles over to the bedside, all red-faced and smiling a big, goofy, genuine smile. She’s been out drinking. The sight of her makes me smile too. Laugh, even. Redheart after a few drinks never fails to make me smile. She is the happiest drunk I have ever known. She can’t hold her liquor worth a damn, and she wobbles and smiles like an idiot, and she is invincible to all the worries of the world. Tomorrow when she wakes up hung over, Redheart will be her usual brooding thoughtful self, but tonight she floats into her tiny apartment like it's a mansion. Tonight she laughs like the world is a magical place where ponies can overcome any hardship so long as they draw the strength needed to persevere from their close friends. Watching her almost convinces me that such a world can exist.

“I’ve got something special for you, my little rose,” she says. “But I can’t show you…’cause it’s a secret,” she says, whispering the words ‘’cause it’s a secret,’ and gesturing toward the saddlebag fastened to her haunch. “So no peeking.”

She wobbles into the kitchen and turns on the stove. I caution her about cooking while drunk, but she turns around and sticks out her tongue at me. Like I’m a little filly who just found her kneeling behind an apple cart during a game of hide-and-seek. She tells me not to peek again.

When she brings dinner I realize the meal is not the surprise Redheart was giggling over. This disappoints me. It’s the same as breakfast. Eggs, some hay and a glass of water in place of the orange juice. But sitting on the nightstand beside the water are two little pills. In the dim light of Redheart’s apartment I almost miss them. Two little pills. Painkillers. Something to snuff the fire in my chest and to stop the bolts of lightning from ripping through me whenever I move. I reach for them immediately, but Redheart swats my hoof away.

“Eat first,” she giggles. When I finish she gives me the pills. Helps me sit upright. Insists on holding my head as she slowly pours the water into my mouth, making sure I don’t choke. Then she lays me back down. The drugs are strong. I feel their effect in less than an hour. By now it’s late. Redheart gets up from her seat on the edge of the bed and turns out the light. In the darkness I can’t see her, but I feel her front hooves cup my face. She presses her forehead against mine. Kisses it. But instead of getting up and going to the couch, she lies on top of me, and her face is warm from the alcohol, and her body is heavier than I thought it would be.

“Rose,” she says. In the darkness I can’t see if she is looking down at me. “Rose, you have to promise me. Promise me you won’t go looking for trouble anymore.” I want to. I want to tell her that I’ll never leave her side again. “Promise me. You have to, Rose. My little rose. You have to promise.”

“I promise…” I lie. The words sound far away as I say them. I lie. It’s an awful thing to do. Lying to Redheart after all she’s done for me. It feels like a betrayal. But I can’t stop. I watched them die. Hid. Daisy looked me right in the eye and I did nothing. I hid, and I'm alive because of it. Redheart doesn’t understand. She doesn’t understand, and I don’t expect her to. So tonight I lie and hope that tomorrow I will feel differently. I hope that by morning my lie will become truth.

We are cheek to cheek when Redheart passes out on top of me. Thanks to the drugs I am finally able to sleep.

I sleep, and the noose slips easily around Daisy’s neck. It tightens and she dies. She is lying on the ground, and her dead eyes are boring into me. Her dead, forgiving eyes. The worst thing about her vacant gaze is that it does not accuse me of cowardice. Her final expression is one of understanding -- no -- of gratefulness. Daisy is happy that I hide while she dies. She goes to her grave knowing that if I were not hidden, I would die too, and she is grateful that I will live. How much easier it would be if those eyes accused me. Condemned me. Instead they celebrate the life I will have.

The noose tightens and Daisy dies. She is gone. A second passes. Another second. Another. The hoof on Daisy's back leaves my line of sight. Another second, this one longer than the others. Then I hear Lily scream. Then I scream. The sounds bleed into each other and all at once I am awake, sitting up on Redheart’s bed.

“Rose,” Redheart calls to me. She rushes over to my side. “Rose, are you okay?” She sits beside me at the edge of the bed and wraps a foreleg around my shoulders.

“Don’t touch me!” I snap, slapping Redheart’s hoof away. I can hardly breathe, and cold sweat is running down my face, and down my neck, and down my back, and needles are stabbing my chest and stomach, and…and…

...Catch your breath Rose, I tell myself. Slowly, I stand up. I desperately need to get out of Redheart’s bed, so I stand up and pace the room for a moment while I gather myself.

“I’m sorry, Redheart. I didn’t mean…”

“I know.” Redheart lies down on the couch. “It’s good to see you up and about. I made breakfast. It’s on the counter if you want any.” I don’t. Instead, pick up this morning’s paper up off the kitchen counter before joining Redheart on the couch. It’s even stiffer than the bed. Grift is in the paper again. This time she and the mayor are cutting a ribbon in commemoration of a new hospital opening somewhere uptown. Same suit and tie. Same self-satisfied grin. A similar caption explains the details captured in the image, and in parentheses under the image the text reads, “Photo by Tracy Flash.”

“Why do you read that trash?” says Redheart. She leans on me. Rests her head on my shoulder.

“I have a friend that works for this paper.” I point out the name “Tracy Flash” to Redheart. She feigns interest.

“She’s an okay photographer. Why does she waste her talent on a rag like the Post?” Why indeed. As I scan through the paper, Redheart slips her forelegs around my torso. Cuddles me. First she passes out on top of me, and now she is cuddling. The gesture is a loving one. Much more romantic than motherly. We stay like that all morning. Me reading the paper. Redheart cuddling.

I spend the next two weeks trying to make my lie a truth. Redheart makes it easier. Ever since she came home drunk that night she has changed. She is bubbly now. Needy. She swoons when I give her attention and pines when I don’t. We spend more and more time together. Redheart is between jobs right now so we spend entire days together. Every day spent at my side is another day regained by Redheart. She seems to age in reverse, becoming younger and younger right before my eyes. She is again the spry young filly she was in her youth. She starts wearing makeup. Her cheeks glow, and the color in her eyes pop, and when her pink mane catches the sunlight that snakes through the open blinds, it shimmers. She is beautiful. I have always thought of Redheart as attractive, despite her age, perhaps because of it; but during these two weeks I notice for the first time how beautiful she is. I used to be so relaxed around her, but now I find myself nervous in her presence. My chest tightens at the sight of her some mornings when she comes prancing out of the shower all made up. All for me.

We talk for hours. At first we keep our conversations light and impersonal. Redheart tells me about what a pain it is searching for work. She tells me about how her friend Junebug gives her discounts on medicine. She is a “life saver” by Redheart’s own testament. I tell her about any interesting stories I come across in the paper. She feigns interest.

The week ages. It grows older while Redheart grows younger. In the week’s retirement days our conversations become more intimate. Redheart tells me about her father. She tells me he was a soldier in the Royal Guard, one of the few earth ponies to ever serve at the princess's side. He was a field medic. His name was Braveheart, and he was an old stallion when Redheart’s mother gave birth to her first and only daughter. They met in Canterlot, Braveheart and his wife, and when it came time for the old stallion to retire, they moved to the city. Redheart says her mother was always a city girl at heart. A hurt look comes over her face when she mentions her mother. She beams as she remembers her father, but her face dims at the mention of her mother.

His name was Braveheart, she tells me, and the name suited him well. But in his old age, Redheart explains, her father became senile. Paranoid. She says the city made him paranoid. The city with its bright lights and violent sounds. He made Redheart learn medicine, insisting that one day it would save her life. He wouldn't let her play with the other kids, and he forbade his wife from ever leaving the house without him. His paranoia ruled him, she tells me. Eventually it got to be too much for his wife, and on a somber Wednesday afternoon Redheart came home from school and her mother just wasn’t there. His wife leaving was more than the poor old stallion’s already fragmented mind could handle. He broke. They broke. Shattered into pieces. Her father died a senile old stallion. Redheart never heard from her mother again. Before old Braveheart died, his daughter spent what was left of his life trying to pick up all those pieces and put them back together. She’s been picking them up ever since.

I tell Redheart about Daisy and Lily. It’s a story she already knows but she lets me tell it anyway.

Then we reminisce about the day we first met in a homely little diner a few blocks away from my brownstone. Two tired, lonely souls. A chance meeting. Was it love that we felt for each other then? No. No, I suppose it wasn’t. I was broken then and Redheart just needed something to fix. That was it. That's all it was.

I smile at the thought. I can’t help it. I smile at how broken we still are.

This is how we spend the last two weeks of my recovery. Talking and falling in love. I start to think my lie has become truth. I let myself believe that I can forget about what happened. That Redheart and I can start over. Fall in love and start over and get it right this time. I still have nightmares. Every night. I still wake up screaming and sweating, but I tell myself we can get through it. We can find work. Save up so that I can see a therapist. We can beat it. We can beat it, I tell myself. So long as we have each other we'll be all right.

On the last night of the fourth week of my recovery, Redheart suggests we go to that little diner for old time sake. It is a cool, crisp Saturday night. A night for living. For living and loving and wishing and stealing kisses beneath park trees painted pale blue by moonlight.

“We shouldn’t,” I say, my face buried in the Post. Lately I’ve been reading the rag from front to back, fascinated with this city. Its crime and sleaze and despair. I say we shouldn’t but Redheart insists. She tells me she has some money saved up, and it is a homely little diner, and it won’t be too expensive. She says we should celebrate my full recovery. Four weeks, just like I told her.

“Just you and me and couple slices of pie,” she insists, batting her eyelashes and smiling with a face so perfect I melt. It’s getting impossible to say no that face these days.

We call a cab. Stand on the curb and wait. I’m feeling much better now that I’m outside of Redheart’s tiny apartment. I’m getting stronger ever day. I’m as fit as I have been in weeks, but I almost have a heart attack that puts me right back in bed when I see Yoosee Dee pulling up to meet us. A spring in her step and a glint in her electric blue eyes.

“Oh my Celestia! Dee, is that you?” exclaims Redheart, throwing her forelegs around her friend's neck.

“But your job? Your carriage? Your boss? What happened?” I stammer excitedly.

“I told the dumb son-of-a-mule I was rushing some pony who got himself mugged to the hospital,” she laughed. “Told him the mug got himself stabbed and I was saving a life.”

“And he bought that?” Redheart asks.

“Bought it? The idiot practically hung a medal around my neck. Said I was an upstanding citizen. Said this city needs more ponies like me.” Her boss is right. She may have a golden bit sign for a cutie mark but if this city was full of Yoosee Dees it would be paradise compared to what it is now.

“More ponies like me, he said. Can you believe that? He didn’t call the cops or anything. We burned the carriage and that was that. More ponies like me, he said. I can’t believe it.” I can. “Get in you two and let’s go. Wherever you want. On me.” I nearly had a heart attack earlier and now I’m about to go into shock. Yoosee Dee, the filly with golden bit sign cutie mark. Yoosee Dee, the cabbie who insists on pulling a carriage by herself so she doesn’t have to split her tips -- that very same Yoosee Dee is offering us a free ride? I don’t believe it.

Maybe we can start over. Maybe we can make it. The three of us. Rose, Redheart, and Yoosee Dee. Us against the world. I let myself believe it. I let my lie twist itself into the truth. I’m so excited to live my new life; I spring up on my hind legs and scoop up Redheart in my forelegs, lifting her easily. She squeals like a blushing bride, impressed by my strength. I’ve been on my back for a month, and my injuries haven’t healed completely yet, but I’m still strong. Old Storm Chaser trained this body of mine well, I think. No. Stop that. I can’t think about him now. Not about old Storm Chaser, or Doctor Hooves, or any of my teachers. Forget your training. That life is over. I hoist Redheart up into the carriage. She blushes. Dee laughs out loud, and I laugh right along with her as the words forget your training run laps around the inside of my skull. I repeat the words over and over but the voice in my head doesn’t sound convincing. I can tell her heart isn’t in it.

Redheart tells Dee to take us to that little diner a few blocks from where I live. Her instructions are vague. It dawns on both of us that we don't even know the name of the place, but Dee is a Manehattan cabbie and it is her job know the city better than she knows herself. She gets us there in no time. Redheart reaches into a purse slung around her shoulder and pulls out a few bits. Offers a modest tip but Dee refuses it.

“Thank you, Dee,” says Redheart. She and Yoosee Dee have been friends for a long time. She trusts her completely and now I fully understand why. “Thank you for everything.” But Dee doesn’t say anything in return. She winks one of her intense electric blue eyes and then she is gone. Trotting off to offer some other Manehattan citizen the promise of a safe journey.

Redheart and I sit at the counter and order one slice of pie between the two of us. The waiter eyes us carefully as we take our order, and there is music in his step as he leaves. A ballad. A love song. He brings out an extra big slice and two cups of coffee. The coffee is on the house.

“Something special for the happy couple,” he says. Happy couple, says. It must be all over our faces. Happy couple. We must be glowing.

We eat our pie quickly while it's still hot, then drink our coffee slow. We talk. We talk about Dee’s good luck. About the spring in her step. The glint in her eye. I tell Redheart I think it’s weird that Dee and Tracy both wear the same kind of hat. Same color. Same pattern.

“Must be a photographer thing,” she says, leaving it at that. That hat. That hat. The one that saved my life. The thought sneaks into my head. Careful and silent like a stalking predator. I push it out. Push it out and focus on Redheart. I think about how beautiful she is. And then I tell her.

“You are beautiful,” I say. She blushes. Cherry red blush against a flawless white coat. I never noticed before but Redheart is beautiful. Cherry red against white. Like the faceless smile. I scream inside my head for the voice to shut up and push the thought out. My heart beats a little quicker. Must be the caffeine mixing with all the meds I’m on. Redheart must notice I’m a bit rattled because she gives me a concerned look and asks if I’m okay.

“Yeah, just a little excited is all. Guess I’m not one hundred percent yet.” This is all Redheart needs to hear. She pays the bill. Leaves a modest tip. Then we’re on the street, walking back to my brownstone. It’s late but my place is close and Redheart insists. I agree. If anything happens on the way there I’m confident I can protect her. I've been training for months. I’m young and strong, and no Manehattan lowlife mugger is going to stand between me and my new life. We walk close. Leaning on one another.

On our way to my apartment the sky splits in two. The pegasus ponies working in the weather factory that floats above the upper east side must be behind schedule on their monthly rain quota, because it starts coming down on me and Redheart like it won’t ever stop. Each drop is an ice-cold needle on my back. The pegasi kick thunder out of the clouds. I know that sound well. Those are the seasonal workers. The swing shift. Tracy’s shift. Bunch of twenty-somethings, some of them having a go at their very first thunderheads. Bunch of young colts and fillies. Frustrated by rents they can’t pay and pissed off at ponies who won’t sleep with them. They vent on the clouds. They bang those thunderheads like war drums, and their song is passionate – jazzed up on sex, drugs, angst, and raw youth. Loud and off key.

Redheart squeals as the pegasi kick thunder out of the clouds. She grabs hold of me. Her body is warm. The rain stings, and her body is warm, and the pegasi kick thunder out of the clouds, and they hurl down bolts of lightning, making a show of it. For the first time since I leapt off the roof of my brownstone I feel alive. I take Redheart by the hoof, giggling like a love-struck teenager. We duck under the doorway of a quaint little bookstore. It’s only a few blocks from where I live but I didn’t even know it was here. I’d go inside except it’s late and the place is closed by now. So Redheart and I just stay under the doorway. Shivering. Giggling. We’re a couple of kids in love. Redheart looks half her age now. Raindrops have smeared her makeup. She looks like some brat out on prom night. Like some young club-hopping runaway with fifty bits to her name and a fake ID. I love it. I love her. I love her like misery loves company.

“I love you,” I say plainly. Before she can say “I love you too,” I take her in my forelegs, all dripping wet and shivering, and I kiss her. Her mouth is warm. Lips soft. Tongue wet and inviting.

I’m alive! Celestia damn it, I’m alive!

It’s morning when the storm lets up. Celestia’s just started dragging the sun up past the horizon. Redheart and I have spent the entire night in the doorway of a bookstore. Kissing. Practically making love. We’ve been up all night but I’m not tired. When we get to the steps of my brownstone I feel like I’m on fire. I want to throw Redheart on my stiff mattress and take her every way you can take a mare. I’m so excited I don’t even realize my keys aren’t on me. They were in my boots along with the cell phone that broke. Luckily Redheart thought to bring them. She pulls them out of her purse. I take them from her, and I kiss her, and I turn the lock, and…and what’s this, I think to myself as I pick up this morning’s issue of the Manehattan Post from off my doorstep. Some paper colt is making his rounds early this morning.

I just keep on winning. A perfect night with Redheart and now I start off the first morning of the rest of my life with an issue of the Post. Absent mindedly, I eye the bundle of paper as I let Redheart and myself inside. I tell her to have a seat anywhere she likes and help herself to something to drink, though there’s likely nothing in the fridge. I’m only planning to glance at the Post. I used to think it was such a rag but these past few weeks I’ve picked up a habit for it. I can’t help it. The vulgarity spelled out in black and white, the headlines written in all caps to accent things that don’t need accenting. I can’t help it. I only plan to glance at it. I’ll just glance at it, then I’ll take Redheart on my stiff mattress.

I tear away the plastic covering meant to protect it from the rain. Pull off the rubber band that binds it. I’m eager to unfold it. This surprises me. Perhaps I have become too attached to the Manehattan Post. And wasn’t I only reading it at the order of my old teacher? The crazy stallion with the syringe marks in his forelegs and the hourglass on his flank. Solemnly, I decide this will be my last glance at the Post. It is a remnant of my old life and if I’m to move on, I will have to let go of it as well. But it is the last remnant of that life. I take my time saying goodbye.

I glance down at the front page. I glance down at the front page, and my jaw makes a dull thud as it hits the ground, and the city starts laughing at me.

The front page headline reads, “MOB DOCTOR SUSPECTED OF PATCHING PSYCHOPATH.”

The picture below is of two adult stallions walking side by side. One of the stallions has his foreleg around the other’s shoulders, while the other is waving, apparently at the camera. They both smile big as they walk down what looks like the steps of a courthouse toward a clamoring crowd of ponies holding mikes and tape recorders. They smile big for the press. The caption beneath the picture reads, “Controversial doctor Stephen Scope seen celebrating with his lawyer after having all charges of his alleged involvement with Manehattan’s organized crime syndicates dropped. Photo by Tracy Flash”

Tracy Flash, you bastard. You’ve outdone yourself with this one.

The photograph is a side shot. Once again Tracy captures the atmosphere flawlessly. But more important, because the shot is taken from the side I get a full view of the stallion in the foreground. The doctor called Stephen Scope. In the photograph he is wearing a suit jacket, collar and tie, but nothing to cover his lower body. His cutie mark is a scalpel. His coat is a sharp blue, almost cobalt, and his mane is grey.

My eyes drink in his image. Stephen Scope. His name is Stephen Scope and he has a feminine frame. His haunches and hindquarters curve delicately like a mare’s.

The city is laughing at me and I let her. She throws her head back. Clutches her stomach. Her eyes tear up, she’s laughing so hard. So hard she can barely breathe. I let her enjoy her laugh. She’s earned it. Letting me think this whole time that things could be different. Luring me in. Making me soft. Allowing me a taste of love. A glimpse at the prospect of a better life. Gave me firm ground to stand on, only to later pull it out from underneath me and to watch me fall. I am the final twelve pins of the last frame and Manehattan is bowling a perfect three hundred. She sets me up. Knocks me down.

“Rose?” Redheart calls out to me. She’s right behind me but her voice sounds miles away. I should put the Post down. Shouldn’t have looked at in the first place.

"Rose? You okay, Rose?” I should put the post down and throw Redheart on my stiff mattress. I should take her. She’s mine now and I should take her. I should,but something inside of me says differently. Something I’ve been trying to suppress. A voice I can’t silence. The Chase. That must be it.

I look back down at the image of the doctor smiling with his lawyer and reread the words, “Photo by Tracy Flash.”

The chase. I’d nearly forgotten. Someday I’ll have to thank Tracy for reminding me of the chase.

A Grin Without Expression

Chapter V: A Grin Without Expression

I pray to Luna that Redheart isn't home as I pick the lock to her apartment door. Hooves taught me how to pick locks once. It was a brief lesson. Vague. Most of his lessons are. Brief and vague, but I remember enough to break into Redheart’s flat with nothing but a paperclip I found at the bottom of Fedora’s wallet. Lucky break. If not for the paperclip I'd have to kick in the door or break a window.

Picking the lock takes a decade. A century. By the turn of the millennium the lock finally clicks, and I pray to Luna for a little more luck as I slowly push the door open.

I tread lightly. About four steps into the room I realize I’m holding my breath and shaking like a leaf for no reason. Redheart isn’t here. Her hat and coat aren’t on the rack by the door. She's not in her bed or on the couch. Probably out drinking with Dee.

I swallow hard. My heart has been in my throat since I arrived on Redheart’s doorstep, so I swallow hard and wait for it to slide down back where it belongs. When I’m sure it’s beating in my chest again, I flip on the light and get back to work.

The apartment is small. It doesn't take long to find what I came for. Tucked in a trash a bag in very back of the closet, my equipment is waiting for me. Batons. Vest. The grappling hook I used that first night on the streets. That first terrifying night. All adrenaline and trembling. Seems like a lifetime ago now. Like it happened to somepony else.

I only need the batons. I have three identical grappling hooks, one of which is tied around my waist right now, and the vest is ruined. There’s a bad memory still lodged in its chest and a worse one that tore through its gut, and I have enough bad memories without strapping two more to my chest. I leave the vest. Only need the batons.

I stole the batons off a couple of dirty cops I ran into after a night of training with old Storm Chaser. We were coming out of the Ringer when we caught them harassing one of Storm’s girls in the alley around back. They pinned her against the alley wall. Felt her up. Touched her every place no mare wants to be touched by Manehattan’s finest. Couple of crooked cops looking to have some crooked fun. One mare. One stallion. Both unicorns. Batons, badges, guns, and magic. Bad combination. Me and old Storm Chaser played it smart. Had I charged in the way I've been charging in all night tonight, those cops would’ve turned me inside out. But me and Storm played it smart. Sneaky. It was fun. I remember the sounds the mare made as I choked her with her own baton. She sounded hurt. Scared. Two of my favorite sounds in the whole world.

I take one of the batons in my mouth and for a while we just get a feel for each other. She’s cold and solid, just like I remember. Cold in that way only something inanimate can be. I give her a few practice swings and she cuts the empty air in Redheart's apartment like a blunt blade. Slowly we fall back into sync. It’s been a while. We don’t rush it. We take our time. Then I spit her into my hooves, and with a smile on my face, I tell her what I have planned for this city. I whisper to her, and without life or lips, she smiles back. Eager to carry out her grim work. When I’m satisfied, I slide the batons into their holsters before fastening them around my haunches.

I lock the door behind me and make for the roof. The gear weighs on me. Batons. Boots. Hook and cord. The gear is heavy, and I've been up all night, but Tracy’s gust doesn't want me to stop. It presses against my back like a pair of friendly hooves, pushing me forward. With Tracy’s help, I fly. I’m heading uptown. The doc is waiting for me there, and more than likely so is Tiger Voice and his gang. Maybe even this supposed psychopath as well. The thought makes me cringe. Shudder and shake like the frightened child this city knows I am. But I don’t let the fear stop me. It’s always with me. I carry it everywhere I go, but it can’t stop me anymore. Daisy is dead. Lily is dead. Redheart is gone. I have nothing more to lose. No reason left to flee and every reason to chase.

By the time I make it uptown, Celestia has already taken her sister’s place in the sky. I am accosted by the morning noises. I hate the morning noises. Hate Celestia and her ball of fire with its incessant light and warmth. The light makes me feel exposed. Makes me feel like every eye in the city is watching me. I take shelter in a motel. The cheapest one I can find, but not much of anything is cheap uptown. Pay for a room with Fedora’s money. He had plenty. I pay for a room. Hole up. Sleep. Wait for Luna to come back out and watch me play.

Sleep is fleeting. I wake up several times during the day. The nightmares are bad. Worst they’ve been in awhile. The scene projected against the inside of my eyelids has been remastered. The colors pop with new life. Daisy’s velveteen purple coat, and sand colored noose, and her lifeless eyes staring at me in the near perfect darkness. Noises are sharper too. Lily’s scream pierces my ears and hurls me back into the daylight.

The first two times I try to sleep, I wake up panting. Sweating. The third time I wake up screaming. Shaking. Pressing a hoof to my chest, as if fearful my heart will leap out and onto the floor. At one point an attendant knocks on my door. Asks if I'm all right. Asks if I need anything. I lie. Tell her I'm fine. By the fourth failed attempt I finally accept that it’s no good. I can’t sleep. I’m too wound up. The nightmares are always bad when I’m wound up. I pace back and forth in my room for a few hours. Then I wander downstairs, then out onto the street where I find a newsstand and buy today’s Post. The front page headline makes me smile. Almost makes me laugh out loud.

“VIGILANTE TERRORIZES CRIMINAL UNDERGROUND.” Underneath the headline is a police sketch artist’s rendition of what I can only assume is supposed to be me. Two images. One is of my face. The other is a side view. A profile sketch. The paper claims that both images were drawn by one of the precincts most capable artist, but honestly it looks more like something you’d see in a comic book. My mane and tail are almost perfect, but the face is all wrong. My features are too sharp. Too rugged. I look like some Hollyhoof antihero. Some thirteen-year-old’s idea of a badass. The face isn't mine, but the eyes—the eyes are flawless. The Rose looking back at me from the front page of the Manehattan Post has an animal’s eyes. A starving animal. Desperate and ravenous and lonely and scared, and just the tiniest bit mad. Her gaze is empty and searching for something to consume. Broken and crying out to be made whole. I've often wondered what the city sees when she looks at me. Often wondered and now I know. I’m nothing but an animal to her. A mangy little thing with hungry eyes. I can't help but smile. It suits me. Fits me like glove.

It’s late when I leap out the window of my motel room. I’m uptown tonight. As far uptown as you can go. Manehattan puts on her finest clothes for me. She does her makeup carefully. Lipstick. Eye shadow. Blush. She holds nothing back tonight. Puts on her best pair of heels and struts like a runway model; wears her mane up, stylish and sophisticated. Dilapidation has marred just about every inch of this city, but its left uptown untouched. Manehattan tries to hide her ugly face from me, but I see her for what she is. Beneath her awe-inspiring thirty story skyscrapers, her luxury hotels and casinos, her dazzling lights and deafening, prurient clamor—beneath all her glam and her false promises, I see her. I see her just as clearly as she sees me. I hike up her fancy dress and underneath it there she is. There’s my Manehattan. No curves; all corners and rough edges. Ugly as all hell. Ugly as sin. I lift up her dress and give her naked flank a hard smack. Let her know who’s in charge tonight.

Uptown belongs to the real criminals. Criminals like Grift and the types that hire stallions like Stephen Scope. Fedora told me Scope has hideouts all over uptown, which means he has connections. Ponies with connections in Manehattan think they’re bucking invincible. Bucking alicorns. They don’t like staying hidden. They like the night life; throwing away money and warming their beds with beautiful mares. If Scope is as uptown as I think he is, then he’s out tonight, and he’s got his lips wrapped tight around Manehattan’s teat, sucking the poor old mule dry.

I make for the Upper East Side. My hook claws into the side of a twenty-story high-rise and I fly higher than I’ve ever flown before. Uptown, the looming edifices are tall. The height is dizzying. I swing. At the top of my arc I chance a downward glance and nearly piss myself. The rush is too much. The right kind of too much. Kind that taps you on the shoulder and lets you know you’re still breathing. If I had some wind to ride I’d really feel alive, but the dumb kids up in the weather factory must have gotten into trouble with their boss for making such a ruckus the past few nights, because tonight’s breeze is a dying breath. As sad as it is shallow. I fly from rooftop to rooftop, looking up at the sky, hoping for Tracy and her gang to kick thunder out of the clouds or whip this miserable little wind into a roaring gust—really get my blood pumping. I get nothing. Guess I’m on my own tonight.

As much as I don’t like the dead air, it sets a nice mood. Tonight I play it the way me and old Storm Chaser played it in that alley around back of The Ringer. Sneaky. Quick and quiet. No loose cannon cowpony shit. Not tonight. Not while I’m uptown. Uptown is full of bright lights and crooked Manehattan cops. Cops on payrolls. Cops with loyalties to more than just the badge and the good citizens of Manehattan. I still crack plenty of skulls, difference is tonight I muffle the noises. Quick and quiet. Tonight it’s my turn to be a water fly. I skirt about the city on spindly legs. Holding up Scope’s picture. Asking questions. Making no ripples. I hit every place I might find a stallion like Scope. I sneak into expensive clubs and high-end strip joints. Luxury hotels. Casinos. I have plenty of fun making wet sounds with lowlifes in empty public restrooms. Feels even better with the batons. They flash their inanimate grins, whistling as they go about their grim work. Grim and gritty and pure, pure bliss.

Downtown was such a chore. For every ass I kicked downtown, I got my own ass kicked twice as hard. Downtown was a dead end job. Long hours. Little pay. Even less respect. But uptown is a paid vacation. The crooks don’t fight back uptown. They roll over on their backs like whimpering whores, their painted lips loose, ready and willing to talk. The high life has made them soft. Squishy. They scare easy. Whimpering painted whores. I throw uptown Manehattan on her back, and her legs quiver as I spread them wide. As I take the little whore any way I like.

And in no time at all I have the poor old mule squealing the name Stephen Scope.

Uptown knows Stephen Scope well. He leaves his hoof prints all over the city's ugly face. I cross paths with his former employers, his patients—and after choking down a few swallows of their own blood, they’re all too willing to feed him to me. I ask where he is and they tell me. They give me an address. An apartment building in the Upper East Side. The Bad Weather Beat. That’s what the cops who make their rounds up east nicknamed it: because when the kids working the fall and winter swing shifts up in the weather factory make their ruckus, the worst of comes down on their beat.

I find the place easy enough. I come down on the roof and start making my way down the fire escape when I realize I have company. A suspicious looking carriage pulls up to the curb. Jet black. Long. Tinted windows. The earth ponies pulling the carriage are four of the largest stallions I've ever seen.

The door slides open and out steps a small stallion wearing a long brown overcoat. Dress shirt. Tie. Black gloves on his forehooves and a wide brimmed hat that hides the horn on his head. He’s smaller than I remember, but I’m sure it’s him: Tiger Voice.

Damn it. Too late.

Tiger Voice is already here, and there are too many of them this time. Damn it. Just the sight of him makes my pulse quicken. My stomach does a backflip. Stop it, Rose, I tell myself just as my hooves start trembling. Remember your training. With some effort I bring my limbs under control, and with a little more I manage to clear my head. Think straight. There are only five of them. Only five and they haven’t seen me yet. I still have surprise working for me. Only five. If I take down Tiger Voice first, I’ll have a chance. He might be the smallest but he’s the only unicorn, and I already know he’s armed. He has that silver revolver tucked in his overcoat. The earth ponies are big, but if they are anything like the one I fought on the roof that night, they’re slow. I’ll have a chance. There are four of them, and they're huge, but if I can take down the unicorn first, I'll have a chance.

Tiger Voice starts talking with one of the stallions. I watch them. Looks like they're waiting for something. I plan it out. Visualize it. One at a time. I breathe deep. Remember my training. Remember the promise I made to my batons last night. The plans we made for the criminals.

Criminals. I hate them. Hate them and fear them. Them and this whole city. But the fear can't stop me anymore. I carry it everywhere I go, but it can't stop me anymore.

I breathe deep. Plan it out.

First: pounce on Tiger Voice. Take his gun.

One of the earth ponies points up toward the building and says something to Tiger Voice in a hushed tone. I can’t hear what he’s saying, but I can see his lips moving under the streetlight.

Drop the biggest one next. Buckle his knees. Handicap him. Take him out of the fight and deal with him last.

He’s explaining something. I watch his lips. Read them.

Then attack the smallest. Trachea. Temple. He’ll go down quick. When he falls, stomp the back of his head.

He’s telling Tiger Voice where Scope’s room is. He thinks it’s 113, but I know it’s 110. Three doors away. Good. That will buy me some time.

The last two will be ready for me. They’ll come at me together. No surprises. No tricks. Fight them head on. Use my speed. My weapons.

Tiger Voice sticks his head back into the carriage and shouts something at whoever’s still inside. I’m just about to make my move when I see the first paw touch the sidewalk. Then the smell hits me like a blow. Rotten meat. Sewage. My stomach lurches from the sudden stink. A cold realization takes hold of me; then a raw, potent terror, as pure and putrid as the smell wafting up from the sidewalk. The stink. The fear. They crawl into my nose and settle in my stomach.

Diamond Dogs.

I try not to vomit, but it’s too much. The stink. The fear. I try holding it back. Try hard, but it's too much. I lean over the railing of the fire escape and what I cough up is hot and thick. The dogs’ ears perk up at the sound of my retching. Keen noses hone in on the scent of fresh puke as it spills over the rail.

“Up,” one of dogs bellows. Tiger Voice’s eyes crawl up the side of the building. Fix on me. I don’t wait for him to order his dogs to fetch. I make for the roof, panting, shaking, sweating, and stumbling the whole way up.

Buck. Diamond dogs. Buck, buck.

I wasn’t ready for this. For Tiger Voice and his gang, yes, but not this. Diamond dogs. Two of them. Fast. Strong. Stupid. They move on instincts, and their instincts are sharp.

I sprint for the roof’s edge, hook already twirling over my head. Ready to throw. Ready to fly away. The distance between me and the next building shrinks like a deflating balloon. The dogs are right behind me. I hear them snarling at my back. Smell them. I had almost a four story head start, but they’re already right on top of me.

I’m ready to jump when I remember Scope. Stephen Scope in room 110. Tiger Voice and his gang are headed to room 113. He’s got some time, but if I don’t stop them, Scope will die tonight. He’s being chased. Chased by Tiger Voice. By this city. Chasing. Fleeing. Fleeing is the reason Daisy and Lily are dead. The reason I can’t be with Redheart. I was afraid. I let them die because I was afraid, and I can’t let that happen to Scope. Not again. Never again. If I flee now, I will be fleeing for rest of my life. No more fleeing. No more fear. No more.

I shut my eyes and the noose slips easily around Daisy’s neck.

Then I open them. I open them and for the first time since I came to this city, I see the way forward. No more fleeing. I remember that tonight, and every night that comes after, I am chasing.

Before I reach the end of the roof, I skid to hard stop. Pivot on my hind legs. Spin. Let my hook fly. It claws into the shoulder of one of the charging diamond dogs. I give the cord a swift jerk, but his momentum does most of the work for me.

I give the cord a jerk, and he’s charging too hard and too fast, and the distance between him and the edge of the roof shrinks like a deflating balloon. When all of the air escapes the balloon, his body folds against the wall of the adjacent building. He tumbles. Bounces between the alley walls. It’s an ugly fall. All corners and rough edges the whole way down. When my ears catch the jarring, wet smacking that springs up from the sidewalk a moment later, I know the hound is gone. Just another blemish on this city's already hideous face.

The remaining dog pounces on me; and If I cried out as he sank his teeth into my foreleg I didn’t hear it. I kick in his eye with my free front hoof. He stumbles backward. Clutches his face. I scramble back to my hooves and draw one of my batons from the holster on my haunch. She’s cold and solid in my mouth, just like I remember, and when I bury her deep in the diamond dog’s gut, she flashes her inanimate grin. He doesn't go down on the first hit. I don’t expect him to.

While we circle each other I somehow manage to keep my hooves from shaking as I plan my next move. Then he takes a swipe at me with an open paw. Misses. Tries again with a closed fist that fits snuggly in the space right between my eyes. Sends me reeling. Staggering backwards on unsteady legs. He rushes. I'm off balance but before the dog can land his next blow, I counter. My baton comes down on his kneecap, buckling him momentarily. The next blow finds his chin; the one after that his wet nose; and the one after that his groin. Still, he doesn't go down. I bury the blunt blade in his chest. It's a solid hit. The kind that dives into your torso and rattles all the way up to your teeth. He gasps. Falls.

From there the work is grim. Grisly. Fun. He's tough. Too tough for his own good. It takes a lot of hits to put him down, and a lot more to keep him down. My baton smiles her inanimate grin, whistling a jaunty melody as we beat him into submission. The sounds are wet. He whines. I try not to enjoy it too much. I don’t kill him, but tomorrow morning when he wakes up his body will hurt all over and he’ll wish I had.

When the work is done my hooves are trembling again and my heart is pounding. I tear off the sleeve of my sweatshirt and use it to bind the wound on my foreleg. It doesn’t help much.

Four stories below, Tiger Voice and his gang are likely kicking in the door to room 110. If they started with 113 I may still have some time before—

—A sound catches my ear. Shouting. Struggling. I peek over the edge of the roof and spot Tiger Voice making his way out of the complex. Scope is floating a few inches above his head, thrashing as if struggling against some invisible restraint. Thrashing and bathed in light. Light from Tiger Voice’s horn.

No. Damn it. Damn it!

By the time I realize my grappling hook is on the sidewalk—still lodged into whatever is left of the diamond dog—Tiger Voice is already shoving Scope inside of the long black carriage.

The door shuts behind the unicorn and his prisoner.

I back to the opposite end of the rooftop, giving myself a running start.

My ears catch the first hoof-falls of the four stallions as they pull away from the curb.

Scope screams.

Scope screams, and the carriage rumbles forward, and with nothing twirling above my head, I make a dash for the edge of the building. There’s no more time for thinking. No time and no need. I let the instincts take over. I let out the scared hungry animal whose eyes stared back at me from the front page of the Manehattan Post. I pull the bars apart with my bare hooves. She's been waiting. Chomping at the bit, and she can't wait another second longer.

I dash. Leap. My forelegs come down on the neck of a streetlight and are already in the air by the time my back legs catch up. The neck is thin. The margin for error astronomically small. It takes balance and timing and dexterity, and I accomplish all three in one swift motion. Swifter than a wind. When my back legs catch up I kick off the streetlight’s neck and fly. It’s impossible. Like leaping blind off a mountainside and landing on the head of a pin. Impossible, but I manage it in one swift move. I was born an earth pony but tonight I am an alicorn. There is nothing I cannot do.

My hooves come down on the ceiling of the carriage. Two of the stallions pulling it look back at me, eyes wide with disbelief, while the two out front focus on the road. They sprint into oncoming traffic. Dodging and weaving and forcing other drivers off the road.

I don’t waste any time. No thinking. No need. I make a dive for one of the leading stallions. My front hooves come down on the back of his head. It’s a hard blow. World shattering. But as hard as it is, it doesn't put him to sleep. He’s still conscious as the two of us tumble to the ground and are trampled under the rushing hooves of the pony immediately behind. I hear the both of them scream as our limbs tangle and we roll underneath the carriage. It’s loud. The wails melt together into one horrible uniform cry—and for one eternal instant, they scream in my ears and it is the worst sound I’ve ever heard a living thing make. Then the front wheel of the carriage rolls over one of their windpipes, crushing it, cutting the sound in half. The cart skips. I tumble. Somehow the front wheel misses me. Then the back wheel rolls over my torso and the world turns white. A bomb denotes in my lower back. I feel an earsplitting scream tear out of my throat, but I don't hear it over roar of twisting metal and splintering wood and the other agonized voices.

I go blind. Something hard tries to crack my head open, and then something else splashes in my face, and then there isn't anything. Nothing at all. The next few seconds of my life tick away without me.

When the world comes spinning back everything is still white. It takes a while for the colors, and the shapes, and the dimensions, and the textures to catch up.

The textures come first. I’m lying on something hard, warm, slick. A bloody Manehattan street.

Next the shapes arrive. I make out the form of a limp body sprawled on the street a few feet from me. A few yards ahead I see a second body, and a few yards ahead of that, a crumbled heap of something vaguely rectangular that must be Tiger Voice's getaway carriage.

I’m on my hooves and sprinting toward the carriage before the dimensions find their way back. At first it’s like I’m running in place. My legs charge forward and my hooves clop against the street, but the carriage doesn't get any closer. Then the dimensions appear, and I skid to a hasty stop before almost running smack into the carriage. The carriage is upside down, lying on its head, and as I slide the door open the colors come rushing back in waves.

White light.

Silver revolver.

Tiger Voice is ready for me. We are inches apart. His gun barks. The muzzle flashes. Smokes. We are inches apart when he fires but he’s too slow. He misses by a blink. It's impossible. When we first met, Tiger Voice put a slug in my gut that nearly ended me. On that night he was shooting at earth pony, but tonight his gun barks at an alicorn and he misses by a blink. It's impossible, but tonight the impossible is just another trick up my sleeve. Tonight there is nothing I can’t do.

Before he can fire again my front hoof lands on his chin. Breaks his concentration. The wisp of magic that was holding the revolver disappears and his weapon falls to the floor. I kick it way. He roars. His horn sparks again just as I pull him out of the carriage and slam him head first into Manehattan’s ugly face. Their lips meet. It’s a gritty, bloody kiss they share. Then they share many more kisses, each one rougher and sloppier than the one before. I stomp Tiger Voice’s lower back. His pelvis trusts into the city. They grow more intimate. More passionate. I stomp, and slam, and stomp, and stomp, and slam. He groans and so does she as I pummel him into the pavement, pushing him deeper and deeper into Manehattan’s assuaging embrace. I push, and stomp, and slam, and leap onto his back—and their mouths come together, and his bloody tongue slips past her lips, and his broken pelvis thrusts, and when Tiger Voice finally passes out from the strain of his lovemaking the two of them have become one.

It’s beautiful, really. They belong together. This city and her criminal.

I step over what’s left of Tiger Voice and crawl into the back seat of the long carriage in search of Scope. When I find him he’s unconscious. Knocked out but still breathing. I drag him from the wreckage and prop him upright against the overturned vehicle while I take a moment to catch my breath. Figure out my next move.

His eyes flutter open just as delicately as his haunches and hindquarters curve. He looks up at me. The eyes behind his glasses are soft and scared. He is beautiful. Maybe it’s just his feminine features that I’m attracted to, but I can’t help noticing how beautiful Stephen Scope is. I watch as he tries to blink the haziness out of his eyes, the way a mother watches her newborn baby colt as he wakes from a nap. Then a smile wanders into his bruised cheeks. It’s a lazy smile. The type Redheart used to make on those nights when she’d come home drunk.

“You came for me,” he says, staring at me. Poor bastard. Must be in shock. “You came, I knew you would.”

“Yeah, I did. Now come on we need to get you out of here.”

“You came. Please help me. Filthy's thugs are after me. You have to help me.”

He’s rambling. Must be in shock. I’m just about to pick him up and get him off the street, when I notice he’s not staring at me. He’s staring past me. Over my shoulder. And whatever he’s staring at, he’s seen it before.

Then the city laughs. Right in my ear. Right over my shoulder.

I turn around and freeze, still as a corpse. There is a nightmare standing behind me. My nightmare. A featureless white face. Cherry-red lips. No eyes. No ears. No nose. Nothing but a red mouth.

The mouth twists itself into a smile. No…A frown?

Just as my hooves begin trembling, something solid and flat rakes the back of my head. A star dies behind my eyes and I see colors that don’t exist. I fall into them. Then into blackness.

The last thing I hear before the noose slips around Daisy’s neck is the city’s laughter. Hot. Haughty. Then the noose tightens. The life is draining from Daisy's eyes. Before the life drains completely, she looks at me. Looks at me and then dies.

Lily screams but I don't wake up. Something is wrong. Lily always wakes me up. She screams long and loud. Then another sound bleeds into the scream, growing louder as Lily's voice shrinks into a distant echo. Laughter. Not hot and haughty like the city's, but low and rumbling and mad.

When I wake, I wake with a start. Daylight is shining in through an open window. The floor beneath me is stiff. No. Not the floor. A mattress. My mattress. I'm home.

Something's wrong.

I sit up. Head feels heavy. Whole body. Something is wrong but I'm too tired and too sore to give it much thought. I sit up. Look around the room and spot something that shouldn't be there. A piece of paper taped to my closet door. Reluctantly, I walk over to the closet and pull off the piece of paper with tentative hooves.

It's a note. The words are large. Red. Sloppy.

"KNOCK, KNOCK."

I turn the paper over.

"WHO'S THERE?"

I open the door. My hooves start trembling. I thought I was finally past the fear. Thought I had finally beaten it when I beat Tiger Voice, but it slithers back into my limbs and makes them shake. If not for my empty stomach, I'd be vomiting.

I open the door and Stephen Scope falls out of my closet, barely making a sound as he comes to rest on the carpet. His throat cut. His soft, scared, beautiful eyes still open.

No. Before another thought pops into my head, I hear a knock at the front door.

"Police! Open up! We know you're in there!"

Shapeless, Formless

Chapter VI: Shapeless, Formless

The cops allow me a few minutes to panic before they knock again. Sadistic bucks. They know they have me. They let me stew in it. Let me simmer. Give the harsh reality a few minutes to really work its way in before they pry the door clean off its hinges and have their fun. Sadistic bucks, every last one of them. Just the thought makes my blood boil.

Something that must be anger rubs itself against the inside of my cheeks and the friction turns them red hot. White hot. But the sensation leaves as quickly as it comes. I can’t hold onto the anger. There are a million and one thoughts and feelings pinging around in my head right now, and the image of the cops standing outside my door grinning like fiends is only one of them, and it has plenty of competition. The anger leaves and right away grief takes its place.

Scope is dead. He was beautiful and now he's dead. This city is a jealous old mule. When she sees something beautiful she taints it, and what she can’t taint she kills outright. Stephen Scope probably wasn’t innocent but he deserved better than this. Better than lying face down on the carpet in my shitty apartment with his throat cut; his soft, sad eyes staring listlessly at the floor. I kneel down at his side and close them.

The grief passes. Paranoia takes its place. Scope is dead; I’m in my bedroom; Cops are at my door. A set up. I don’t know how, but Tiger Voice set me up. He knows where I live. But how? How’s he know where I live? Damn it, I have been too careless. Too loud and too loose.

The police knock again. One of them shouts. Tells me to come out. Put my hooves where he can see them.

Buck! What else does he know? Where I live…where Redheart lives!? I quiet the thought. Take a breath. He can’t know about Redheart and after what I did to him last night, he’s likely dead. But if not Tiger Voice and his gang, then who? The nightmare? The faceless grin? No. That wasn’t real, I tell myself. That was nothing, just a—

—Another shout reaches me from outside. Another knock. When I fail to answer a fiery red aura swallows my front door and the thick wood shrieks as it splinters. The aura crumples it into a ball as if it were a sheet of paper. Magic. Unicorn magic. If there’s one thing I hate almost as much as this city and its criminals, it’s unicorns and their bucking magic.

The aura flares and the door crumples. The sound of it pushes out the paranoia and plunges me right back into panic. Dread. Suddenly there’s no more time for thinking. No time. No need. I’m out my bedroom window before the first shots go off. Not bullets. Concentrations of raw concussive force, fired in bolts from the horns of Manehattan’s finest. It’s their calling card. A spell designed to subdue without killing. Not bullets, but a bullet would hurt a hell of a lot less.

My hook digs into the wall of the adjacent building. I swing. My back hooves come down on the edge of a windowsill. Balancing is difficult. I’m tired. Head still swimming from the beating I took last night. Movements are sluggish. Sloppy. I throw myself straight up and grab hold of the sill directly above me. Then I pull myself up just as a magic bolt tears through the window below, sending shards of glass raining down onto the sidewalk. They sparkle in the morning light. The glass in Manehattan always does.

I throw myself again. Pull myself up. More bolts impact the wall, knocking chunks of brick loose. Scattering debris. I throw myself again. Pull. The strain on my limbs is almost unbearable, like something’s trying to wrench my legs out of their sockets. Trying, and very close to succeeding. Again. Throw. Pull. Throw. Pull. The length of cord in my mouth feels heavier than usual. It tastes of iron from the blood on my lips. Again. I throw. Pull. Again.

By the fourth window one of the cops hurls a shout into my ears that somehow overtakes the sound of magic bolts impacting against the city’s ugly face. Breaks my concentration. Nearly peels me from the side of the wall.

“This is Commissioner Sparkle of the MPD.” No, not a shout. Somepony speaking into a bullhorn. “This is your last warning. We have you surrounded. Surrender now and I give you my word you will not be harmed.” I chance a downward glance and see that Sparkle isn’t lying. There must be at least a dozen squad carriages waiting for me down on the street. Squad carriages and a sea of blue uniforms. And horns. Almost every single one of them is a unicorn. I hate unicorns.

Another magic bolt impacts the wall a few inches from me. They're playing with me. If the pony who let off that shot wanted to hit me, he could have. Hell if he wanted to, he could scrape me off the side of the wall like a piece of gum stuck to his boot, or light me on fire, or who knows what else—but they want me to run. It’s no fun otherwise. They want me panting as they lay into me with their batons. Panting and gasping and struggling. It’s no fun otherwise, and no one in the city knows how to show a girl good time like Manehattan’s finest. I oblige them. Wouldn’t want to disappoint.

Three more windowsills and two bolts later, I finally make it to the roof. I sprint for edge. The cord in my mouth tastes raw as I twirl the hook overhead. I let it fly. Then I fly. My hooves come down on the next rooftop. I sprint. Build speed. Find my stride. Leap. Land. Leap again. Faster. Faster.

The bolts have stopped, but I can still hear the sirens following along on the ground. I head further downtown, along 22nd street. If I can make it to the projects where Redheart lives, I can lose them. Duck into the right alley and lose them. The buildings lean on each other. The going is easy.

I leap. Land on the steps of a fire escape. Climb. When I reach the top I see a flash about a foot in front of me. Then there are more flashes, like lights from a paparazzo’s camera. When the camera stops snapping the rooftop is full of ponies dressed in riot gear. Small round shields secured to their right forelegs. Batons at the ready. Horns glowing.

Unicorns. I really hate unicorns.

They back me to the roof’s edge. Six of them. Four mares. Two stallions. They back me to the edge, and their horns are still sparking, and my hooves start trembling—and then one of them does something very stupid. The mare out in front, the one with the red aura who ripped my door of its hinges, she steps forward. The glow radiating from her horn fades. She must be the lieutenant because the others do as she does and their horns go dull as well. Then she smiles at me. She has her baton in her mouth, but I can see the slight upturn in her cheeks as she and the others close in. Sadistic bucks. Cocky, stupid, miserable, sadistic bucks. They want it the hard way. It’s not fun otherwise, I suppose. Bunch of crooked cops looking to have some crooked fun. They rake the ground threateningly with their front hooves as they close in. The mare with the red aura snorts. One of the stallions gives an aggressive neigh. Shakes his mane. Stupid, sadistic bucks. They want to do this the hard way. My way. I oblige them.

I was born an earth pony and there’s a reason we earth ponies excel at tasks requiring physical prowess. Today I teach six of Manehattan’s finest exactly what that reason is.

I don’t hold anything back. I let myself enjoy it.

Red Aura lets out a cry as I spin around on my front legs and shove my boots into her facemask. The facemask absorbs some of the blow but not nearly enough. She cries. Staggers backwards. The baton drops out of her mouth and I catch it in mine. From there it’s easy. Like blowing the heads off dandelions.

Red Aura staggers backwards. I hit her again and she is falling.

Before she reaches the concrete, the first mare charges. Takes a swing at me. I duck. When I come back up my baton strikes her under the chin. That’s all it takes.

Red Aura’s back meets the concrete with a dull thud. The impact makes her gasp. Knocks the wind out of her.

Another of the mares makes her move. She springs up on her hind legs. Kicks at me. Leaves her soft underbelly exposed. It takes two hits. Stomach. Groin. She sputters and falls.

Red Aura spits blood into her cracked facemask. Her head rolls. A clumsy foreleg kicks off her helmet.

A stallion comes at me from behind. I duck. His baton grazes the top of my mane. I sweep his forelegs. He falls forward. I jump. When his muzzle makes contact with the rooftop, my front hooves come down on the back of his head with a satisfying crunch.

Red Aura rolls off her back and onto her stomach. She stands up slowly. Her legs wobble as she forces them to stay underneath her.

The other stallion bucks at me from the side. I dodge. He’s still balanced on his forelegs when my baton buckles his knee. He screams. Falls, but quickly springs back to his hind legs. It takes three more hits. Temple. Neck. Collar bone. He goes down and stays there.

Red Aura finds her footing. Stumbles once. Catches herself. Finds it again.

The last mare rushes at me head on. She bounces up on her hind legs. Jabs with her fore. I step into the kick. It lands on my cheek but I take it. Roll with it. Then I drive my shoulder into her underbelly and wrap my forelegs around her waist. Lift. Slam.

I drop all of them. Lay them down like children at naptime. It feels amazing. I feel amazing. I was born an earth pony but today I am an alicorn, and my own power gives me pause.

When Red Aura finally recovers her senses it’s just me and her. Her fellow officers are sprawled out on the rooftop. Lying at her hooves unconscious or in too much pain to move. I think at least one of them is dead. Red Aura takes it all in. Then she looks at me.

She looks into the eyes of an alicorn. A wingless, hornless alicorn. I don’t know exactly what it is she sees, but it turns her face pale. Makes her cringe. Stutter and stammer. I inch forward. She inches back. Her bottom lip quivers like a little filly who wants to cry but is trying hard to look tough in front of her friends. I inch a closer and my advance makes her legs shake so hard, she falls flat on her haunches. Then she scoots away from me, her tail dragging across the rooftop as she tries to flee.

She’s afraid of me. Feels different. Feels good. Another living thing is cowering in my presence, and it is the best feeling I’ve ever experienced. Fedora was afraid of me that night in the bathroom stall, but this is different. More carnal. More immediate. Intoxicating. Intoxicating, but not enough. Not nearly. I want more. I want her to scream. Squeal. Shriek. I want her to tremble. I want to watch her vomit. Listen to her beg for mercy as she soils herself. As she sits in a puddle of her own piss, and shit, and puke, and pretty ruby red blood. Redheart was right. I am broken. Broken, but I don’t give a damn.

For the very first time I look at Manehattan through her own eyes, and I understand why she does the things she does. The horrible, horrible things. I know what rapists know when they corner a defenseless child. What murderers know when they push a blade into something living—something moving—and drive it deeper and deeper until the movement stops. For the very first time I really see this city, and there is a smile on my lips and a laugh in my throat.

Red Aura is paralyzed with fear. She could spark up that horn of hers and turn me inside out, if only she wasn’t so damn afraid. Afraid of me. Feels different being on the other end. Feels good. I spit the baton out of my mouth and all poor Red Aura can do is mumble “no, no,” as I lay it across her neck and drive down as hard as I can.

The baton lies easily across her neck, as if it were made special for her. It is jet black and the contrast it creates against the vibrant blue of her uniform is striking. The life is draining from her eyes. Her body flails uselessly against mine, and I press harder, drive the baton deeper into the crook of her neck, and the life is draining from her eyes and—and…

…And the life is draining from her eyes…and if I do not stop soon she will die. Then Lily will die next.

I leap away from Red Aura. She coughs and writhes on the floor.

Life draining from eyes.

My heart races and so does my mind, as if the two are in competition. I forget how to breathe.

Life draining.

My head aches and my hooves are trembling. My stomach does a cartwheel. Then dances a little jig.

Draining from eyes. Life is…calm down Rose. Calm down. It takes a while for me to remember how to breathe. The world is spinning and I try to slow it down. Try to focus on one thing at a time. I start with the sounds.

Police sirens. Red Aura panting and sobbing quietly. Shouting from down below. A crowed has formed: bunch of looky-loos come to enjoy the show. I listen close. Look around. There’s something else. Something I’m not seeing or hearing, but I can feel it. Something shifting the air. Rushing. Something slight and swift.

Shit.

I make a dash for the edge of the roof but I’m too slow. Before my hooves kick off the edge, something moving too fast and too gracefully slams into my side, sending me reeling. Falling. The sky rushes by but the ground doesn’t get any closer. Then I look down and see that the sidewalk is retreating.

“Nothing funny, earth pony, or I put you down nice and gentle like,” says the pegasus pony as she carries me into the air. Her voice is rough and masculine, and she’s dressed in the same riot gear as Red Aura and the other unicorns. “We understand each other?”

I look down at the city and despite everything that’s happened in past forty-eight hours—my run in with Tiger Voice, the appearance of my nightmare, Scope’s death, Red Aura and her unicorns—despite the fact that I am dangling half a mile above the ground, completely at the mercy one of Manehattan's finest—despite all the craziness, a sudden calm comes over me.

I’ve never flown this high before. This must be what the kids up in the weather factory see when they make it storm and thunder. This must be what Tracy sees. Through the eyes of a pegasus Manehattan doesn’t seem so ugly. I look down at her and she looks up at me, and I remember what I learned on the rooftop only a few minutes ago. I remember that first moment I really saw her and somehow this moment seems like an extension of that one. It doesn't last long but Manehattan and I lock eyes, and for the first time we really take a hard, honest look at each other. When I get back to ground, when I feel her ugly face against the bottom of my hooves, I know in my heart we will be enemies again; but for at least a fleeting moment we are able acknowledge each other. We are reflections of one another, this city and I, and for the entirety of exactly one moment we set our differences aside and reach some kind of understanding. It is the closest, I fear, we will ever come to love.

“Hey, I’m talking to you, earth pony,” the pegasus says. I nod. She takes me back down to the street, and there are dozens of them. Clad in riot gear. Brandishing their batons. Waiting for me. The pegasus laughs out loud and the others cheer as she drops me into the pool of blue suits and multicolored horns.

Manehattan welcomes me back with open hooves. Her embrace is suffocating. The ground is hard. The batons cold. Cold in that way only something inanimate can be.

Her embrace is suffocating, and I curl into a ball on the hard sidewalk, and the blows from the batons rain down like long black hailstones. The world falls away. Spins itself into a torrent of blunt trauma and violence and blackness.

The rest is a blur.

The beating. The arrest. The ride to the station. Booking. All a blur. I lie in the back seat of a carriage. I stand in a room and wait for somepony behind a counter to take my hoof prints. Somepony else asks me questions about myself. I get my picture taken. All a blur. Even as they are happening, the events come to me in bits and pieces. Fragments. Like memories from my childhood. Many of which my old teacher, Dr. Hooves, claims I have suppressed.

As part of the training of my mind, Hooves told me that I must overcome my fears, and to do so, I must face those I experienced in childhood. Those fears that have so profoundly shaped my psyche today. He had little success.

As the world turns without me, I find myself recalling Hooves’ lessons. He’s right about me suppressing memories. And not just those from my childhood. Even my most vivid memories are missing details. Even the memory of Daisy and Lily’s murder. Some of the details pop. The sand colored noose. Daisy’s velveteen purple coat. Her eyes. Lily’s scream. Some details pop while others are strangely absent. In the memory I know that I am hiding, and I know that Daisy can see me and her killer can’t, but I don’t know where I am. I might be under a bed or in a closet. My hiding place is small. Confined. That’s all I remember.

I never see Lily die. I know from the police reports that she was strangled after receiving several stab wounds to her abdomen, but I never see her die.

I think about the missing details and eventually my mind drifts back to my nightmare. I separate the image of the faceless grin from all the other images and—

—and suddenly I become aware of a metallic jangling sound, followed shortly by a thud. Then a voice. It's not until I hear the voice chuckle something about me enjoying my stay that the pair of shackles restricting my legs become real. Then something heavy and made of metal slides into place with a loud, taunting clang.

I’m exhausted. The floor is so cold it feels damp and the shackles are too tight, but I’m so tired and beat up that I fall asleep anyway. I drift off with thoughts of the fear that Hooves tried to help me overcome. The fear that I carry with me always. I was afraid. Daisy and Lily died because I was afraid, and I can’t be afraid anymore.

Before sleep takes me completely, I pray to Luna. Not silently this time. This time I whisper to her in a hushed voice. I ask her to take away the fear. Help me fight it. Fight the fear and the city and her criminals.

I pray and for the first time Luna answers. She sends me a weapon against my enemies. It comes in the form of a nightmare. My first nightmare. It’s a memory I’d buried long ago, but Luna helps to unearth it.

I close my eyes.

I close my eyes and am just a child again. A little filly. A stupid little filly lost in the Everfree Forest after wandering in on a dare. At my back I hear the jeers of my fellow classmates. They tease me. Call me coward. I am no coward. I go. Go where none of the other fillies or colts will go.

It’s dark. As dark as it ever gets. I wander deep into the forest. Deeper than I should, my confidence growing with every forward step. There is nothing to be afraid of, I tell myself. I imagine the dumbfounded faces of the bullies who teased me as I emerge from the forest unharmed, and the thought makes me smile. Makes me feel invincible.

I imagine, and I wander deeper, and I feel invincible—and then I see them. A pair of eyes in the darkness. Narrow slits of white light peeking out of a void, trapping me with their flawless gaze. A gaze untouched by love or hate or desire. Patient. Unblinking. Pure. Perfect. Horribly, beautifully, fearfully, wonderfully perfect. One with the lonely abyss. Concealed. Disguised. The eyes have no body. No nose. No ears. No mouth. No need for such things. Nothing. Nothing but eyes and blackness. Eyes without a face; belonging perhaps to some formless animal or monster or god.

The forest falls away. Then the world. Then time. For the briefest of eternities I am alone with the narrow slits of light, and I experience a fear I do not understand. For the very first time I feel my hooves begin to tremble. The eyes swallow me. Consume me. The fear does the same.

When I wake from my nightmare, I wake peacefully. My mind clear. I know how I will beat them. This city and her criminals. I will turn my oldest enemy into my greatest ally. I will frighten them. I will become something perfect. Perfect and pure like those eyes that watched me from the shadows. I will become formless. Shapeless. One with the lonely abyss. From darkness I will watch them, and when their eyes fall upon mine they will be afraid.

I need something to write with.

I bang the cell bars. Shout. One of the guards shouts back. Tells me to shut the hay up. I bang louder. As loud as I can. The guard gets up and walks over to my cell. He starts to shout something else as he makes his way, but then he sees me and a look of recognition flashes across his face. Recognition and something else. Concern? Yes, genuine concern for other living things.

“Hey, now! Lookie what I found,” he says, his face a mask of amusement. “I thought I told you to watch yourself, asshole.” I recognize the amused look. The voice. They belong to the bouncer who stands outside the entrance of The Ringer. Looks like he found himself a new job after all.

I ask him for a pen and some paper. He’s friendly with me. Leaves. Returns with a spiral bound notepad and a pencil.

“I heard about what you did to that SWAT unit up on the rooftop,” he says as he passes the writing supplies through the bars. “I was wrong about you, asshole. You’re a hell of a fighter. You get banged up plenty, but you’re a hell of a fighter,” he says, laughing as he walks off.

I get to work. Draw my disguise. It must be simple. Formless. Shapeless. It must be the color of the night and it must conceal me. To this day I don’t know what sort of creature it was that watched me in the forest. It could have been a manticore. A lone timberwolf. I never saw enough of it. The night concealed it well and so too must my disguise.

I draw it out.

A cape to hide the wings I do not have.

A wide brimmed hat to cover the horn that is not on my head.

When I melt into the shadows as if by some magic, they will think me a unicorn, and when I fly they will think me a pegasus, and when I buck they will think me an earth pony—but never will they know for certain.

Finally, I must have a mask. A featureless mask. Something to cover my muzzle, my ears. But not my eyes. The eyes must be narrow slits of white light. They must be unblinking. Haunting.

When my disguise is finished, I tear the slip of paper from the rest of the pad and hold it up in my shackled hooves. I admire it. Smile. It’s perfect.

“Thank you Luna,” I hear myself say aloud. Then I fold the slip of paper and hide it in one of my boots.

A few hours tick by—at least that’s what it feels like. Hours alone in my cell. No company but the walls and my thoughts. I wait for one of the guards to offer me my phone call. You do get a phone call when you get arrested, don't you? But then this is a Manehattan jail, and I probably won't be given even that small comfort.

I'm just about to bang on the bars and demand my phone call when the guard wanders back over to my cell and unlocks it. The amusement has flushed out of his face. There’s only concern in his expression now. He opens my cell and tells me the commissioner would like to have a word with me.

Prison Without Bars

Chapter VII: Prison Without Bars

Commissioner Sparkle. Didn’t think anything of the name when I first heard it over the bullhorn. Probably because I was clinging to the side of a wall seven stories up, trying not to get split in half by unicorn magic. Sparkle. Commissioner Sparkle. The name rolls around in my head right alongside the fog and the splitting headache. Must have heard it wrong. Not thinking straight. Ears are still ringing from when the cops beat the hell out of me. Cops tossed me in a cell. Dragged me out. Dragged me down down a hall. Down a flight of stairs. Then they beat the hell out of me some more before cuffing me to a chair in a small room.

In this small room. Small and oppressive and box-like and white. White as innocence. The room has four white walls. A white door. A lone light bulb hanging from the ceiling. A beetle-black window I can't see out of. A gun-metal grey table directly in front of me.

Commissioner Sparkle. The words run a victory lap around the inside of my skull, pleased with themselves, having a laugh at me for disbelieving so stubbornly. I must have heard it wrong. I’m beat up. Disoriented. Not thinking straight. Can't be real. Commissioner Sparkle. No. Can't be real.

It doesn’t hit me until she comes in the room. The oppressive room. Kind of room ponies get tortured in. The walls echo with the lost pleas of innocent stallions and mares. Innocents picked and poked until they cried guilty for crimes never committed. Just echoes now. Small sounds haunting a small room.

It doesn’t hit me until she comes in. Doesn't become real until I see her. Purple coat. Blue mane interrupted by two streaks of lighter colors: one violet streak and other pink. Her bangs lie neatly against her forehead, ending just above a pair of flat, no-nonsense eyebrows. Her horn is hidden beneath a black fedora that matches her black overcoat. She comes in and sits down in a chair waiting for her at the opposite end of the table. I recognize her. It’s been while but I recognize her. Commissioner Sparkle. Commissioner Twilight Sparkle. What the hell is an Element of Harmony doing in this city, and how the hell did she become commissioner of Manehattan's finest?

I know for a fact that Twilight left Ponyville long before I did. Two years, I think. Two years before Daisy and Lily were murdered. Killed in my own home while I hid. Two years before. I'm not sure why Sparkle left. Ponyville is a small town with small town gossip. There was talk. Talk that she and her friends had a falling out. Talk of a break up. Fights. Just talk. Small town gossip. I wrote it off then as nothing but empty rumors filling empty heads. All I know for sure about Sparkle is that something happened and she couldn’t stay. I suppose she and I have that in common.

Seeing Sparkle here and now makes me think of home. Ponyville. Ponyville is a beautiful place and those lucky enough to count themselves among her populace know it. She's nothing like Manehattan. Ponyville loves. She's beautiful but her beauty doesn't come without a price. Ponyville has a way of reminding you of things you've lost. Daisy and Lily died in Ponyville, and the sleepy little town never let me forget. She held up images of my dead friends everywhere I went. The market place. The school where we first met. I saw them in the flower gardens tended by my neighbors. Saw their smiling faces glinting in the sunshine, and heard their voices in the easy laughter of children playing that in Ponyville has a way of finding you not matter where you are. Everything reminded me of them, and everywhere I went, there they were also. Haunting me. I had to be rid of them. Had to flee. Flee to someplace ugly. They still haunt me but Manehattan is full to the brim and spilling over with haunting things. My dead friends have plenty of competition.

Something happened and Sparkle couldn't stay. Something made her flee to Manehattan. I suppose we have that in common. We warred with demons under Celestia’s day and were defeated, so we fled to Manehattan to fight them under the cover of her sister’s night. Fight them on our own terms.

Sparkle trots into the room. Sits down. Eyes me. There’s no recognition in her face. She doesn’t remember me. I’m not surprised. We never really knew each other and my face is a forgettable one.

She eyes me. Glares. The table shrinks a few inches. The walls move in closer, eager to hear what Sparkle has to say. The walls are, but I’m not. My head is throbbing. Limbs are whining. Begging to be moved. I try to explain that I’m cuffed to a chair, and that the cuffs are too tight, but they keep on complaining, bawling and begging like spoiled children.

Sparkle doesn't say a word at first. Just looks at me as she sets a vanilla colored folder down on the table. She opens the folder and pulls out a newspaper clipping.

“You gave Lieutenant Smolder quite a scare up on that rooftop earlier today,” she says casually as she lays the clipping on the table. I glance at it. It’s the picture of me from the post. The sketch. I glance back up at Sparkle. She adjusts her tie. It's as purple as the streak in her mane and something about the way she handles it seems odd. Clumsy, almost. Like she’s unfamiliar with it.

“In fact, I understand you’ve been giving much of this city quite the scare,” she says, pulling more pictures and papers from the envelope. “My city. Your hoofprints are all over my city, Rose. They’re calling you a vigilante. Is that what you are, Rose? Are you a vigilante?” Something about Sparkle’s tone feels off. It’s as condescending and loveless as I'd expect the head of Manehattan's finest to be, but it feels forced. Feels like an act. A good one. Good enough to fool most but Hooves taught me well. Taught me how to read ponies. Their expressions. Body language. The subtle twitches in their facial muscles and the fluctuations in their voices. Their smallest gestures; the ones they make absent thought. Like Sparkle with her tie. She adjusts it again. Then her hat. It’s a nervous tick. Something has her rattled.

“I want my phone call,” I tell her. It’s the only thing I plan on telling her. Sparkle ignores me. She gets right down to business, and the business is grim.

She pulls her badge from around her neck and tosses it on the table. Metal falls upon metal with an ominous clang. No...Not the clang. The movement. The movement is whats ominous. The action of pulling off her badge and tossing it. Something about the way Sparkle moves unnerves me. Makes me uneasy.

“You know what that is, Rose?” she asks. I don’t give her an answer. She doesn’t wait for one. “That is my second cutie mark. Matter of fact, it’s more important to me than the one on my flank. See, I got this cutie mark because my special talent is doing whatever I want, to whomever I want, whenever I want to.” Sparkle leans forward and I see a cruelty in her features that almost seems real. Almost, but It’s just another part of her act. A good act but I’m not convinced. Either Sparkle is lousy at this or she’s hiding something from me. From me or from somepony else.

“Now you can cooperate with me and make this easier on the both of us, or you can keep doing what you’re doing and I can show you exactly how I got my second cutie mark.”

We eye each other carefully. Size each other up. Sparkle’s looking for a way to break me. She has a predator’s eyes. Gauging. Searching for weakness.

“Buck you,” I say. “I want my phone call.”

It’s the answer she wanted to hear. Sparkle grins like a fiend. Smacks me. Once. Twice. She hits like a foal. Nothing on her slaps at all. She slaps me again. Again. When Sparkle gets bored of taunting me with her feeble slaps, she grabs the back of my head and slams me face first into the table; then jabs the base of my skull with an aroused front hoof. I see spots. Random blotches of fuzzy light splattered carelessly on a black-grey canvas. Then something solid and loveless bludgeons my cheek. Then my side. My neck. The oppressive little box-like room churns, blinks, then disappears with an odd, moist, slapping sound. I squint into the blotchy splatter of nothing for a few long, labored breaths. Then a mocking pain giggles at me from inside my own aching skull and Twilight's face slowly comes back into focus, like a radio with its dial between stations.

Sparkle leans in close, pinning my head to table with that same aroused front hoof. I feel her breath brush against my ear. Quick breaths. Quick and hot and excited.

“There are two unicorns watching us through that window,” Sparkle says in a hushed voice. Her tone changes. The superior attitude becomes a bad memory. She tells me we're being watched and my eyes move without me giving the go-ahead, flicking in the direction of the window.

"Don’t look," Sparkle warns, "listen. Two unicorns are about to come into this room. They're Feds but they work for a crime boss named Filthy Rich. They think you killed the doctor, and they know you killed Baritone.” Sparkle talks fast. I try to keep up but my head is still swimming and she’s not making any sense. “I’m going torture you for information. You are not going to tell me anything. You are not going to cooperate. Blink once if you understand.” I blink. She glances toward the door just as it begins to open. “Follow my lead and I’ll make this as bearable for you as possible.” Sparkle turns me over and looks me square in the eye, her brow furrowed with concentration and worry and weakness and fear and something else. Something stalwart. Frightened but unflinching. I meet her gaze and in it I spy something familiar. Something in her eyes that I often see in my own. I decide to trust her. I don't like unicorns and I don't make a habit of trusting them, but I decide to trust Sparkle. Before the first Fed gets all four legs through the doorway, Sparkle silently mouths the words “get ready,” before letting me up.

The unicorns come in the room. One mare. One stallion. They aren't cops. I can tell just by looking at them. Not cops and not from Manehattan. Too poised. Rigid. They have the look of ponies who live disciplined lives. Definitely not from Manehattan. Manehattan has a way of loosening you up. I can tell Sparkle’s been here for a while; she’s looser than a cheap whore, but these two are stiff as boards. Canterlot types. Royal Guard types. They aren’t dressed in armor but they’re guard ponies all right. They’ve traded their golden armor for matching suits, matching grey gloves, and matching blank expressions. Their manes are sea foam green and their coats are pale. Almost identical. Definitely brother and sister. Maybe twins.

Sparkle leans back in her chair. She clears her throat. Adjusts her tie. Then her hat.

“Agent Temporal. Agent Thymus. How good of you to join us. Miss Rose here was just about to explain where we can find her accomplices.”

Accomplices…? Scope’s killer had help? The thought is jarring. Rattles me. Gets my attention. Gets my heart, lungs, and brain working a little harder.

“Partners? I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say. It's true, I don't.

Her face twists into a sadistic grin as she fleshes out her role of crooked Manehattan cop. It’s an act I have a feeling she’s played before and one she enjoys. The small oppressive room is her set. The twin unicorns and the echoing walls, her audience. She puts on a hell of a show, and as I watch her up on stage, I become aware of something inherently and acutely dangerous about Commissioner Sparkle. Something she manages to hide from the guards standing on either side of her but not from me. Sparkle is having fun. Call it a hunch. Call it predator’s intuition. Call it whatever you want but I can feel it. Sparkle is having a ball. Enjoying the chase. She has these bastards by the balls, at least she thinks she does, and she’s having herself a time.

Sparkle throws her weight around and the title of police commissioner makes her plenty heavy. She tells me she's going to make me talk. Break me. She asks where my partners are. I tell her I don't know what she's talking about. Tell her I want my phone call.

Sparkle turns to the mare at her side and nods. When she turns back to me the mare’s horn lights up and I feel a small tickle swim through my body, like a feather brushing against my insides. At first I think I’m just imagining it. The feather starts in my chest and swims down into my stomach. It circles. Drifts this way and that as if looking for something. At first I think I’m just imagining it, but when the feather settles on one of my ribs, I know it’s real. The feather leans against the rib. It tickles. Feels odd. Almost pleasant.

Sparkle asks where my accomplices are. I tell her to go buck herself. Tell her I want my phone call.

The mare’s horn glows brighter, and the feather leaning against my rib becomes heavier, and the tickle is replaced by a slight pressure.

Sparkle asks one more time. Same question. I give her the same answer. She asks, and when I fail to answer, the feather becomes an anvil. The pressure builds. Swells. Then Sparkle gives a nod—and the bone splinters—and the sound it makes as it gives is horrible, and the ache is worse. The ache is a living thing. It skulks into my body and squeezes its way between the jagged fissures of my fractured bone. Squeezes. Skulks. Sneaks about on careful hooves and finds places to have its fun. The ache doubles me over and likely would have floored me if not for the cuffs keeping me shackled to the arms of the chair.

"It stops as soon as you tell me what I want to hear, Rose.” I don’t answer. Don't even try.

The mare with the glowing horn doesn't wait for Sparkle to nod again. The feather finds another rib. Becomes an anvil. The bone creeks. Resists. When it gives, the most pathetic sound I've ever heard a living thing make wriggles up my throat, falls from my slack mouth, and joins the chorus echoing from the walls: the voices of those tortured innocents. They moan their welcome to me. Call me sister and accept me, eager to share in my suffering. Yesterday’s agony weaves into today’s, and the sounds are sad, and the pain in my side dances. Shakes and gyrates to the music of our dirge.

Sparkle says something I don’t understand. Her voice reaches me. The texture of it. The tone. But the words are a gnarled. They tumble out of a cruel mouth and plop uselessly on deaf ears. Another rib breaks. Snaps like a dry cactus needle. I gasp. Inhale sharply. Grit my teeth. Sparkle says something else but I miss it. Then the feather spreads itself thin across my spine, and I shut my eyes just as it begins to twist.

I shut my eyes and the noose slips easily around Daisy's neck, and her coat is a vibrant velveteen purple: practically glowing in the near perfect darkness—and the noose is the color of sand: sand carried from the shores of some insane, apocalyptic beach waiting for me at the end of the flat, flat earth, and...and...

...And then the door swings open—is swinging open; the moment bright and searing in my mind, like the glimmering end of a heated cattle prod, branding me with its severe intensity.

The door swings open, and a sharply dressed baby dragon enters the room carrying something under his arm. I pray silently to Luna, thanking her for her divine intervention. The dragon talks with Sparkle a moment. She frowns. Then he says something I can’t make out to the twins before the three of them shuffle out hurriedly.

Once the door closes behind them, Sparkle doesn't waste anytime. She talks fast. Excited.

“We have a few minutes before Filthy’s thugs come back in here and finish what they started,” she says as she unlocks my cuffs with a key tucked away in her coat pocket. Her eyes flash. Something wild stirs behind them. Something hungry. Looking to consume.

She unlocks my cuffs. Does it with her hooves. Reaches in her pocket, pulls out the key, and unlocks the cuffs with her bare hooves. My limbs sigh with relief as the restraints fall away.

“My partner is distracting them with a false lead on the whereabouts of Scope’s murderers. Once they believe they know where to find the other two, you'll be of no more use to them.”

"So there are two of them?" I hear myself ask, the words forming absent thought.

"Not now," Sparkle says in a hurried voice. "I'll tell soon. Tell you everything I know, but not now."

Sparkle removes a cord of some kind from her sleeve and begins tying one end of it around each front hoof. When she has it nice and tight, she pulls the cord taut, testing it. I don't like it. There’s something unnerving—almost phallic—about the way the cord goes from limp to rigid.

When I see the cord go rigid, I finally figure it out. Figure out what it is about Sparkle's movements that make me so uncomfortable. Sparkle does everything with her hooves. She's a unicorn, one of the most powerful in Equestria, yet she insists on manipulating things with her bare hooves. Her tie. Her hat. The key, and now the cord. It's unnerving. The way she touches everything. The way her limbs come alive, stirring with fearful, anxious, excited energy.

Sparkle lays my head down on the table so that I’m facing away from the door. Then she pushes a hoof into my side. Feels around. Counts the number of broken ribs. Her touch is rough. Makes me wince.

"Can you fight?” she questions. It’s the kind of question that only has one answer. Like the captain of a sinking ship asking his first mate whether or not he can swim.

“I’ve been through worse,” I say. It’s true. I have.

“Good. When the Filthy’s thugs come back in this room, you and I are going to kill them,” she says plainly. At least she tries to say it plainly. Tries to sound in control, but Sparkle is rattled. On edge. Straddling. Teetering. Staring down into the abyss that awaits her should she fall. Teetering and staring down and trembling with nervous energy. Trying hard to stay in control. Trying to keep the fiendish grin that’s tugging at the corners of her mouth from spreading itself wide across her face. Intoxicated by the promise of conflict. Drunk and aroused and frightened and loving every second of it. Sparkle’s having fun. Having herself a time, and that only makes what we’re about to do all the more dangerous.

Then Sparkle surprises me. Without warning, she cups my chin. Lifts my head off the table. Closes her lips around mine and has herself a bit more fun. Sparkle's lips are steel. Her tongue is iron. Rusted. During our impromptu kiss she slips something other than her tongue into my mouth and I realize that it, not Sparkle's kiss, is responsible for the metallic taste. It’s small. Sharp. A razor. A weapon. Meant to give me an edge against the unicorns and their magic. I tuck it under my tongue. Our lips come apart and Sparkle’s hooves disappear under the table just as the door is opening.

As I lay my cheek back town on the table like Sparkle instructed, I catch one last glimpse of the unicorn, and I see a focus in her expression that is sexual in its intensity. I see fire, and ice, and lust, and anger, and longing—and something else as well. Something completely mad. It’s the same something I see so often in myself. Sparkle has been where I have been. Seen what I have seen. She peers out at the living world through dead eyes. Whatever was left of the kindhearted filly who once upon a time harnessed the Elements of Harmony—the magic of friendship—to save all of Equestria is gone. Gone from Celestia's green earth.

I take a moment to mourn her passing. When beautiful things die they deserve to be mourned. Daisy and Lily taught me that. I close my eyes. Clear my head. Focus on the ugly work that needs doing. I'm beat up. Tired. I've been in more fights than I can count, but somehow I know this fight will be different. This will be the first time I fight not to protect my life or the life of another. This time I will fight to kill. I've killed before but it's never been my sole intention. I've always held back when I could. I can't now. The thought makes my hooves tremble.

Yes, this time will be different, and when it is over I know in my heart that I'll be different as well. I tremble. Part of me is afraid and some other, darker part delighted. I close my eyes for one very long instant and recall all of the times before.

I close my eyes and the noose is slipping easily around Daisy’s neck, and Lily is screaming, and Grift is grinning from the cover of the Manehattan Post, and Tracy and the swing shift are kicking thunder out of the clouds, and Fedora is spitting red water and curses, and Blondie smells like fresh picked fruit, and Tiger Voice is making love to Manehattan, and Stephen Scope is lying face down on the carpet in my bedroom, and Red Aura is cowering at my hooves, and Sparkle is grinning like a fiend, and Redheart…

…Redheart is leaving. Skirting out the front door of my apartment. She is a water fly and as she goes, she doesn't leave a single ripple in her wake.

When I open my eyes Sparkle is already making her move. It happens fast but the details are so rich I will be able to recall this moment for the rest of my life. It will stay with me forever. Another nightmare to haunt me day and night.

Sparkle makes her move. She springs up on her hind legs and throws herself at the female unicorn. The length of cord stretched taunt between her excited hooves slips easily around the guard pony’s neck, and the guard gasps as the two of them tumble to floor.

The stallion’s horn is sparking.

It happens fast. No—it is happening fast. Fast and slow and right now. I take a deep breath. Remember my training. I am taking a deep breath and the air is hot in my lungs. Smoldering. Billowing. Hot and thick like smoke rising above a burning forest. I focus on it. I focus. Am focusing. Focusing on my breath and on the light and nothing else.

The stallion’s horn is sparking and the light is pale green. It is a shade that does not exist anywhere in nature. Impossible. Beautiful. He turns—is turning—aiming his glowing horn at the ball of flailing limbs that used to be Sparkle and his sister.

I accidently nick the inside of my cheek as I move the razor from under my tongue and hold it between clenched teeth. Then I exhale—then I am exhaling. Pushing the smoke out of my nostrils and coming alive. My limbs burst into flame. The three broken ribs on my left side curse me. Hate me. The pain dances—is dancing. I let it have its fun. Push it from my thoughts and focus on the pale green light.

There is nothing else. Nothing in the world but the pale green light.

I leap at it. My wings unfold—are unfolding. My horn is spiraling out of my forehead and igniting, splashing the white walls with light from my own special brand of magic. My limbs catch fire, and my ribs hate me, and it takes every ounce of strength I can muster but I leap over the table and slash at the stallion. It's impossible. In my condition I shouldn't be able move at all. Impossible. I was born an earth pony, and if tonight is the night I am to die, then I will die an alicorn.

The blade nicks his face. Opens a small gash under his eye.

Then I spit the razor from between my clenched teeth and his eye becomes the gash. He clutches his face, blinded by sharp steel and crimson mist. I buck him. He falls. I bite the back of his shirt collar. It takes everything I have, and my limbs are on fire, and my ribs will never forgive me—but I bite the back of his shirt collar, and his hooves leave the ground as I swing him the into the wall. His body cuts the air like a living blunt blade and when his back meets the solid white surface, I swear I hear his spine shatter. He goes limp in my grasp. Feels good. So, so good. I let myself feel it. Enjoy it. I forget the dancing pain and let glee take its place. Let it sneak into my broken mind and find places to have its own fun.

The unicorn goes limp. He’s done. He is but I’m not. I’m just getting started. I swing him into another wall. Another. I drag his nearly lifeless form across the room and throw him into another. He groans. Cries. I swing him again. Drag him. Swing him. Again. Swing. Drag. Swing. Again. Again. Drag. Swing—swing. Again.

He is a rag doll in my grip. Helpless and weak and fragile as I bounce his dying body off the white walls. I don’t hold anything back. I lose myself—no—I give myself freely to the dark impulses. To that ugly broken part of me that hurts and smiles when other things learn of its pain.

The suffering of the dying unicorn mixes with my own and together we create a new melody for the walls echo. It’s an angry song we sing. One of revenge for those picked and poked until they plead guilty for crimes never committed. Vengeful and angry and sad. The cries of today and those of days past bump and grind against one another as they melt into a singular, awe-inquiringly venomous lament. I lose myself in the echoes. The dirge. The music of things soft and wet meeting things solid and dry. My partner and I dance, and when the dancing is done the white walls are streaked red and all of the echoes fall silent.

I spit out the dead unicorn’s collar and step back, my head spinning. Spinning fast. Too fast. I try to slow it down. Focus. I Look at what I’ve done. At what I can do. I take it all in.

The stark contrast of blood-red against white gives me pause. Makes me sick. Makes my stomach curl into itself. I take it in. Don’t like it. Red against white. Reminds me of my nightmare. Don’t like it. For some unknown number of seconds or minutes I stand trembling in the wake of my own fury, trying to calm myself. Slow my breathing. Think of my next move. After the ruckus I kicked up, this place is sure to swarming with officers any minute. But Sparkle likely already has a plan. She’s been pulling all the strings right up until this point. She has a plan.

I turn in search of her. Sparkle has a way out of this. I know she does. I turn to her…

…I turn to her and I don’t like what I see. Sparkle is sitting upright on the mare’s back, cord still wrapped around the guard pony’s neck. She leans in close. Whispers something to her victim. Nibbles the guard's ear. The cord loosens. The mare beneath her gasps, inhaling sharply. Desperately. The mare gasps, and Sparkle makes the sort of sound that forbidden lovers make when they sneak away to touch each other in secret. When the mare’s horn starts to shine, Sparkle pulls the cord tighter and the light leaping from it dims again.

I watch Sparkle as if in a daze. Fascinated by her cruelty.

The cord loosens. Sparkle whispers something. Nibbles the mare’s ear. Her horn shines. The cord tightens. The light dims.

Again.

Cord loosens. Sparkle whispers. Nibbles ear. Horn Shines. Cord Tightens. Light dims.

Again.

Loosens. Whispers. Nibbles. Shines. Tightens. Dims.

Again.

I watch Sparkle as if in a daze and all at once I realize what miserable creatures we all are. This is what we look like. Mangy things killing and dying. Chasing. Fleeing. Breaking. I watch Sparkle as she toys with her prey. Sparkle and her prey: they are the entire city in microcosm. All of her hatred summarized. All of her apathy condensed. Her brutality, and her misery, and her loneliness, and her anger, and her fear—all of it captured, brought to light and made plain by one simple senseless act of violence. Together they are chasing and fleeing in its purest form, and as I gaze into Sparkle's mad eyes, I realize that Sparkle is me.

No.

Worse.

I realize that she is all of us. She is every broken thing that ever was, and ever will be, and she is mad, and there is no hope for her. No hope for any of us. Redheart was right. We are too broken. Broken—and we can't be fixed.

The city is laughing at me. Laughing. The sound of it shakes me from my daze. Reminds me of the moment I shared with the old mule up on the rooftop, and the one after as I sailed miles above her ugly face. Our understanding. This is what she wants. Manehattan, the old mule—this is exactly what she wants. I should have seen it sooner, but it takes me killing a pony in cold blood and the image of Sparkle doing the same before I get it. This is what she wants. To taint me. Taint me the way she's tainted Sparkle. It was never her desire to kill me. That wouldn’t be good enough for her. No, our hatred of each other runs too deep to be resolved by something as kind as death. As humane as murder. Not good enough. Not nearly. Manehattan wants me for herself. She wants me to be like her. To be another of her criminals.

Criminals. I hate criminals. I’m afraid of them. Still. I am still afraid of them.

With trembling hooves I charge headlong into Sparkle, knocking her away from her victim. I look down at the mare whose brother I murdered, and she looks back. There’s no fight left in her eyes. I rise up on my hind legs, and when I return to all fours, I close them for her. Not permanently. I don’t kill her but tomorrow when she wakes up in a hospital bed, she’ll know she came close.

Before I can make another move, Sparkle returns the favor. She tackles me from behind. Wrestles me to the floor. She’s not very strong but I’m in bad shape, and she gets the better of me. Wrestles me to the floor. Then she stands me up on my hind legs, before bringing me down hard on the table. She pins me. Pushes my face into the dented surface and straddles my hindquarters while an eager front hoof goes to work groping my haunches. She kicks my legs apart, and I feel a shiver run up my spine as Sparkle traces the curve of my inner thigh with her tail.

She leans forward, her chest heavy against my back, her breath sultry and sinister on my face.

“I see why AJ wanted you so bad,” Sparkle purrs like a cat in heat. “The way you killed that unicorn was...overwhelming. You’re an animal, Rose. A real monster.”

Sparkle purrs and my heart skips. A wild gust of butterflies make a home of my stomach, fluttering about and crashing into each other in a crazed orgy of beating wings. Sparkle bites her bottom lip. I blush. My cheeks flush; then catch fire.

I’m not sure exactly what it is I feel but Sparkle feels it right along with me. Anger or lust or some insane merging of the two.

Sparkle replaces her tail with a hoof. She slides it up my inner thigh, cupping my crotch. Her touch is rough. Loveless. I gasp. Her lips press against the back of my neck and my body quivers. Quivers with rage. Quivers with pleasure. She nibbles my ear the way she nibbled the ear of the pony she was murdering only moments ago. It's disgusting. A cold-blooded murderer is nibbling my ear, and my body is quivering, and my breathing is hot and heavy, and—and it’s not enough. I want more. I hate cops. Hate unicorns. Hate Sparkle. Hate the way she plays with her prey. The way she tortures them. Takes pleasure in their pain. I hate her but that ugly part of me that smiles at the suffering of others is madly in love. I want to hate Sparkle, but it wants her touch. Needs it. Her rough excited touch that reaches for things as for the first time. As if everything in the world was new and mysterious and bubbling with possibility. So raw. So consuming. I give myself to her touch and it consumes me as well. Claims me as its own and promises to never let go.

Sparkle cups my chin. Lifts my head up off the table. Closes her lips around mine. It's a bloody, gritty kiss we share. No love in it. More brutal than it is carnal and more feeble than anything else. What I had with Redheart was real love, and what I had with Blondie was lust, and what I had with Fedora and Tiger Voice and Red Aura was at least some sick perversion of the two. But with Sparkle... What Sparkle and I have is that confused little something that makes its home between disgust and desire. When our lips come together we make love and war, and it's as passionate as it is violent, and as beautiful as it is ugly.

If there is a name for what we have, I don’t know it.

We kiss. Then all of sudden the door swings open, and I hear the end of my ecstasy, as well as my freedom from madness, come marching clumsily into the room. Half dozen cops. No riot gear. Only a few horns.

Sparkle makes a small surprised sound as Manehattan herself forces our lips apart.

“They hay is going in here, Commissioner?” one of the officers asks. Sparkle inhales sharply.

“The prisoner managed to escape during interrogation. She had a weapon, a razor blade tucked under her tongue.” Sparkle doesn't miss a beat. She shakes the shock out of her face and falls right back into character. “She took agents Temporal and Thymus by surprise, but I managed to subdue her.” Sparkle pulls me upright by my mane and forces my forelegs behind my back. The cops at the door inch toward us.

“Follow my lead,” Sparkle whispers in my ear. She's focused again. Still excited as all hell, but focused at least. It takes me a few seconds to find my rhythm. To get back into the swing of things

She marches me over to the group of cops. Warns them to be careful. Tells them I’m dangerous. Tells them I’m a real animal. A beast pushed out off the festering womb of the Everfree Forest. Half a dozen unsuspecting gazes spy the blood-streaked walls, and one by one the color drips out the cops’ faces. Sparkle warns them. Tells her fellow officers I’m a monster. Then she lets me go and I show them. I show a half dozen of Manehattan’s finest what a real monster looks like. Six of them. With Sparkle's help it doesn't take long.

Sparkle has herself a time. I suppose we both do. She puts one headfirst through the beetle-black window. Breaks another one’s jaw. Sparkle butts and bites and bucks and stomps. She takes as good as she gets but it doesn't stop her from enjoying the brawl. Having Sparkle at my side makes the whole confused tumult of kicks and butts and bites seem otherworldly. Surreal. Out of the corner of my eye I glimpse Twilight Sparkle—the tenderhearted filly from Ponyville who always had her nose in a book—break a cop’s nose by smashing him in the face with one of the chairs, and it just doesn’t seem real. The world has gone mad, and Sparkle loves it and I suppose I love it too. We have ourselves a time. Wild-eyed and drunk off the sheer hateful craziness of it all.

Once the room is clear, Sparkle and I make a run for it. She leads me down a hallway. Through a door. Down another hallway. Takes me by the foreleg and as we flee I'm reminded of a similar experience I shared with Redheart. I remember taking her by the hoof and fleeing from the rain. The drops like ice-cold needles on my back. The pegasi kicking thunder out of the clouds. As we run, Sparkle looks at me from over her shoulder and my heart flutters. I blush. My cheeks ignite. Catch fire. I feel dizzy. Light. High off the adrenalin leaking out of my ears, the residual taste of Sparkle's tongue in my mouth, and even the soreness in my limbs and the ache in my ribs.

I'm alive. Celestia damn it, I'm alive!

Eventually our flight leads us around the back of the police station. It’s dark out. Luna’s cool night air caresses my face. Silvery strands of moonlight find me. Welcome me. The goddess’ touch is like that of a concerned mother. She missed me. Silently, I tell Luna that I missed her too, and I assure her I’m fine and thank her for watching over me.

Sparkle leads me around back. She takes a moment to catch her breath. To let the drunken excitement work its way out of her system. Then she talks. Talks fast.

“I've made arrangements to get you out of here. Had my partner send a pick up for you.”

“A friend of yours?” I ask.

“No. A friend of yours. When she arrives, she'll be out front. Wait about ten minutes after I leave before you make your way around, and make sure nopony sees you. When you get out of here whatever you do, do not go home. Scope’s killers know where you live, and after what we did too his foot soldiers, Filthy Rich will likely be looking for you too.”

“Why are you helping me, Sparkle?” I finally ask. The question has been sticking to the back of my head since Sparkle first warned me about Filthy’s goons, but things have only slowed down enough now for me to get the words out.

“I’m not helping you. I’m helping myself,” Sparkle says. Her answer doesn't surprise me. “The ponies that killed Scope and set you up—they took something from me. Now I have to take something from them. I let you live because I believe you can yet be of some help.”

“So you’re just using me to take revenge?” Sparkle opens her mouth to say something but then turns away, sullenly. Thought takes her from me for a moment. A long moment. She is with me but she is gone, her mind wandering elsewhere. I don't know where she goes but I miss her for as long as we are apart, and I find myself waiting impatiently for her return. Sparkle is mad. She is a unicorn, and worse than that she is a cop, and her mind is fractured beyond repair...and yet I find myself hanging on her every word. I swoon when she gives me attention and pine when she withholds it.

“They cost me everything I have,” she finally manages. “I don’t know what you get out of it, Rose. I don’t know who Stephen Scope was to you. I don’t know why you jump off rooftops and beat the hell out ponies twice your size. I don't know and I don’t care. If you want to play vigilante that's your business, but I’m not here to save the world. I played that game once and look where it landed me. This is personal. This is between me and them. The rest of it doesn't matter.”

"You keep saying them. Who are they?" Sparkle has left me with a lot of questions in this past hour. I ask a few. "Who is Baritone, and who is this Filthy Rich pony you keep talking about?"

"Not now," she says. She rubs her brow with a tired hoof. "I'll be in touch. I'll tell you everything, but not now."

"Why? I can't help you if you insist on keeping secrets."

"Because you're dangerous,” Sparkle snaps. “You’re too emotional. If I tell you now you'll likely go looking for trouble and after the shit we stirred up tonight, the both of us need to lay low for awhile," she says. ‘Dangerous,’ she says. ‘Too emotional.’ Sparkle has some nerve.

"Me, ‘too emotional!?’ What the hay was that back there?"

"That was...it's just I..." Sparkle's words stumble over each other. They trip up and fall flat. "I can't always think straight when I get excited...Not since..."

“Since what? What happened to you, Sparkle?” I ask. It’s another question that’s been bothering me. Nagging me ever since she first trotted into that oppressive little room. “What happened to you? How did you get here?” Sparkle doesn’t answer. She turns her back to me. Turns to leave but then stops suddenly.

“You know Redheart will never understand you, Rose. Not the way I can.” Redheart's name falls from Sparkle's mouth and gives me pause. Words lose their meaning. We fall silent and search each other’s empty gazes for things we know are not there.

Sparkle adjusts her tie. Then her hat. Then she takes it off.

Twilight Sparkle drops her hat and it is falling. It is the last lonely leaf of autumn; the last delicate memory of a passing season, and it is falling, drifting down from atop the highest branch of a naked tree. When the tree from which it fell dies in the harsh winter, another will grow in its place. The dark world will turn beneath it as it wilts, and when it is gone only the leaves of the new season will cry. Dew from spring showers will run down their smooth green faces and they will cry, but no one else. The hat is falling, and tomorrow is the first day of winter, and somehow I know Sparkle will not survive it.

Sparkle brushes her mane aside and I see a scar on her head where her horn should be, and all at once I understand. Understand that what was taken from her can never be replaced. She was Celestia’s number one student. The bearer of the Element of Magic. One of the most capable magicians to grace Equestria in decades. And what is she now? A hornless unicorn; her entire life no doubt torn apart by some random thoughtless act of violence. I know the feeling. Know it a lot better than I’d like to.

I hate unicorns. I hate them and I hate their magic, but somehow what’s happened to Sparkle doesn’t seem fair. She was beautiful, once. I never knew her well, but you didn't need to know her to see that Twilight Sparkle was beautiful in every way a pony could be. The best kind of pony there is. I'm the worst kind. Trash like me belongs here, but Sparkle was too good for this place. The city had no right to taint her. Break her. We are kindred spirits, Sparkle and I. She is broken but I know in my heart that she is still beautiful, and as I grope blindly in the darkness for something to do or say, I find myself longing to help her. Fix her. Beneath all her cunning and her depravity, Sparkle is just a frightened child. Empty and crying out to be made whole. And as I gaze into the pair of lavender abysses before me, I see in Sparkle’s eyes what Redheart must see in mine.

I press my forehead against Sparkle's before kissing it tenderly. A pair of phantom lips return my affection. It is a silhouette of a kiss—a mere suggestion of intimacy—but it is the only one Sparkle gives me that comes from a place of sincerity. The only one that makes me want another.

Then she turns to leave. Before she escapes I reach into my boot and remove the plans for my disguise. I ask Sparkle if she can get the little slip of paper to a friend of hers, another unicorn named Rarity who still lives in Ponyville. She is a seamstress. The best I ever knew, though I never knew many, and the only pony I trust with the creation of my disguise. Sparkle smiles when I mention her old friend. It’s one of those laugh-so-you-don’t-cry smiles. They type ponies make when it hurts so bad it’s funny.

“We don’t really keep in touch anymore,” she says, suddenly unable to meet my gaze.

“Please,” I insist. “At least try.”

Sparkle lets out a tired sigh. “Okay. No promises, though,” she says. And then she is gone. Just another water fly skirting out of my life. I watch her disappear into the night. I watch her. Waiting to see if she leaves any ripples in her wake.

I watch. Wait. She doesn’t.

I wait awhile like Sparkle instructed before sneaking around to the front of the police station, eyes scanning with hurried care for this friend of mine that’s supposed to pick me up. It doesn’t take long for her intense electric blue gaze to spot me from the curb. She runs up the sidewalk and throws her forelegs around me. The display seems like a bit much coming from Yoosee Dee.

“Oh shit, I was worried about you,” she says. Her words collide into each other as she talks. “I got this letter that appeared by magic—you know like baby dragon magic—that told me to come find you outside the police station. The damn thing appeared out of nowhere in my bedroom. I was just about to go to sleep too, when this green flame scared the shit out of me and dropped the note on the edge of my bed.” Dee smiles big, happy to see me alive and, for the most part, in one piece. I’m happy to see her too. As we make our way to the carriage I stumble but Dee catches me, breaking my fall with her strong back.

“Whoa, you okay, Rose? You look horrible. You’re not in trouble, are you? They hay am I saying, of course you're in trouble.” Dee throws my front leg around her shoulder to keep me from stumbling again. “Let’s hurry up and get you out of here.” I lean on Dee as we walk. She keeps right on babbling, her words coming so quick they're nearly incomprehensible. I let her talk. I lean on her. She’s strong. Manages to keep me standing.

I nearly fall over again when I see a single white hoof step out of the backseat of Dee’s carriage. My breath catches in my throat when I glimpse her full pink mane, and when our eyes meet my heart skips a beat. We are still a few feet apart when she steps out of the backseat and onto the sidewalk, but I feel as though we have never been closer.

She opens her mouth to speak and the sound of her voice makes me feel faint. Makes me forget all about Sparkle. The image of my beautiful hornless unicorn fades from memory, no match at all for the kindhearted mare leaning against Dee's carriage. She opens her mouth and the sound of her voice sweeps the entire world aside. Every living thing and every dead thing and every inanimate thing on Celestia’s green earth clears out. Makes way for just the two of us.

She opens her mouth. I hear her voice. My Luna, her voice. It’s only been a few days but I’d almost forgotten what it sounds like.

“Hi, Rose,” she says plainly.

“Hi, Redheart,” I reply.

Storm Without an Eye

Chapter VIII: Storm Without an Eye

I give myself a few days to recover. A few. A few are all I can afford. Scope’s killers are still out there and who knows what madness Sparkle is planning. I need to keep ahead of them. All of them. The stakes are higher now. The chips have been stacked to the ceiling; and the players sitting around the table have been sitting for too long; and there’s been too much time, effort, blood, tears, and grit invested in the game for any of us to just up and walk away now.

Me. Sparkle. Scope. Tiger voice. The pair of murderers. We all had our chances to walk. Mine was the night Tiger Voice put that slug in my gut. I could’ve left it alone after that, but I had to play brokenhearted little avenger. Had to rage against the city and her criminals. Stupid. After everything that’s happened I finally see how stupid I’ve been. Doesn’t matter now, though. Too late to walk. Too late to do anything but keep on wading through this sea of shit I’ve gotten myself stuck in and pray to Luna it doesn’t get any higher. Pray I don’t drown in it.

A few days are all I can afford. Just a few. I spend them loving Redheart. During the mornings and afternoons we share meals and laughs, and in the evening we share a bed. We make love. Sleep little. The time we spend together isn’t much but I thank Luna for it because it’s a lot more than I deserve.

In between meals and laughs and love-making, Redheart puts me back together. She has a talent for it. For fixing things. Picking up pieces and placing them where they belong. It’s a talent I envy. My only talent is for breaking things. During our time together Redheart gets me back into fighting condition. Gets me ready to break a few more things that need breaking. She never asks about what I do after hours. After Celestia and her ball of fire sink below the Manehattan skyline, and the decent mares and stallions call their children in for supper, and the street lights come on, and the city comes alive with the wet, dull sounds of ponies making war. Fighting. Dying. Spinning themselves out of existence and taking as much with them to the next life as they can carry. Redheart never asks. I suppose she knows our time is short. Doesn’t want to ruin it. Soil it with scary stories. With talk of monsters and their dealings under Luna’s ever vigilant moon. She never asks and even if she did, I doubt I’d have any good answers.

I never ask Redheart why she came back. I’m just not strong enough, I suppose.

A few days. That’s it. That’s all. All I can afford. It’s not much but for a few days Redheart is mine again, and we are happier than we have ever been.

On the first Friday night of the new season, Manehattan calls me away from Redheart’s bed. She’s been calling to me for days. Calling. Threatening. Taunting. Laughing. Manehattan wants me. She misses me and I’d be lying if I said some part of me doesn’t miss her, too. The old mule has something planned for me. Something big. She’s been calling for days and I can’t ignore her another second.

I slip out the bed and shift through the closet expecting to find my equipment waiting for me. The vest is still there. So is the spare hook and wire, but my batons are gone. Ponyfeathers. They were in my apartment when the cops kicked in my door. Damn cops. Probably turned the place upside-down after they arrested me. Probably found my weapons. Confiscated them. My batons. My batons are probably waiting for me down at the station. Waiting in an evidence locker. Zipped up in plastic. Suffocating. Forgotten and suffocating. Ponyfeathers.

As I stare into the open closet, I feel a curious sort of sadness wash over me. I miss them. The feel of them: cold and solid between my clenched teeth. The flash of their inaimate grins and the whistle on their lips as they went about their grim work. They were mean as all hell but they were reliable. I miss them. I’ll have to go back for them. Can’t let them rot in the possession of Manehattan’s finest. Later. I’ll have to go back for them later.

With a pang in my chest, I put on my boots, pull my sweatshirt over my head and tie the length of cord around my waist. Then I make for the window.

My heart drops into my stomach as I trot past the bed. Redheart is still sleeping soundly. She is lying on her side and the breath in her chest causes it to rise and fall gently. Life animates her. Moves her even when she is sleeping.

I trot over to the bedside and kiss my Redheart gingerly on the forehead. She stirs. Turns over in her sleep. For a moment it seems as though she will wake, but the moment passes quickly and thankfully she doesn’t. How peaceful she looks in her sleep. How peaceful we all must look. I gaze down at Redheart’s sleeping face and wonder if maybe the city has something more to offer me than suffering. I gaze down at her and remember the days I spent trying to make my lie a truth. Believing we could have a life together. Start over. Get it right.

I pull the blanket up to her neck and whisper a prayer to Luna. I thank the moon goddess for returning my lover to me, and I ask her to keep Redheart safe while I’m gone. While I’m chasing.

Then I force her out of my head. Doing it hurts, but I don’t need the memory of these past few days slowing me down while I chase. I force her out. Shut my eyes and remind myself why it is I let her go in the first place.

I shut my eyes the noose slips easily around Daisy’s neck, as if it were made special for her. It is the color of sand, and the contrast it creates against her velveteen purple coat is striking.

The noose tightens.

I’m out the window before the life begins draining from Daisy’s eyes. Long before Lily screams.

I’m out the window. My hook claws into one of the city’s many corners. I swing. Fly. When I land, my hooves come down on Manehattan’s ugly face, and I nearly slip on the slick surface. The kids up in the weather factory are playing my song tonight. They beat the thunderheads like war drums, making it come down like it won’t ever stop. It is the first rain of the winter season. First of many. I don’t know if it’s the cold that does it, or the long nights, or just the stress that comes with being young -- but when the winter season rolls in, the kids working up in the factor that hangs above the Bad Weather Beat lose their minds. They go crazy up there. They party in the heavens. Tear the sky open, smear the make-up on Manehattan’s ugly face with their downpour, and hurl lightning bolts way the old gods used to. Tracy and her gang -- they are winter in Manehattan, and as long as they’re up there it’s only going to get colder and louder and nastier.

I love a good Manehattan storm. Helps me think. Helps get the gears in my head turning and the blood in my limbs flowing. Back home in Ponyville you had to wait for the weather patrol to get behind schedule before you could expect any really crazy weather, and even then the downpours where always tame enough not to drown the farmers crops, or put too much pressure on the old dam on the outskirts of town. But in Manehattan the kids up in the weather factory go nuts, and the wind whips, and the air turns electric, and the electricity supercharges all my senses. I breathe in and my nostrils work better than usual. The nighttime sounds come in clearer. The sirens. The rushing hooves. My heart kicks against my chest like it belongs to a thoroughbred; and the blood between my ears pounds; and the blood in my limbs rushes, and boils, and swirls, and promises me I’ll never be tired again.

I’m heading downtown tonight. Sparkle told me to lay low for a while but the hay with that. The hay with her. My hornless unicorn may be beautiful and her madness may not be entirely her fault, but the hay with her. She’s dangerous. Sitting on too much information. She promised to tell me everything she knows but only at a time of her choosing. She only mentioned things in passing. A few names. Filthy Rich. Baritone. A few names mentioned in passing. Sparkle is hiding something from me. Plotting. I don’t trust her. She’s hiding something and I’m sure my reunion with Dee and Redheart, grateful as I am for it, was meant to be a threat. A threat masquerading as a show of good faith. Sparkle wanted me to know that she was capable of finding my loved ones. Capable of finding them and capable of hurting them should I ever step out of line. I’ll make her pay for that. Next time I see her, I’ll make her pay. Pay in blood and dignity. I won’t kill her, but when I’m finished she’ll know better than to involve the ponies I care about in her sick little head games.

No, I can’t trust Sparkle, so instead I’m heading downtown to find somepony I can trust. A certain stallion who knows a thing or two about the inner workings of Manehattan’s criminal underground. I ask around for him, and it doesn’t take long to squeeze a name and address out of the right lowlife.

When I kick the door to his apartment off the hinges, he looks surprised to see me. And when I throw him through his own window seven stories up, his surprise turns to shock. Somewhere between the broken glass and about the fifth story, the poor stallion screams and I can tell his shock is gone. Chased away by raw terror.

Before he joins the other blemishes on Manehattan’s ugly face, I toss my hook after him and it claws into the back of his jacket. Then I give the cord a swift jerk, praying to Luna I don’t accidently break the bastard’s neck as it goes taut. His fall stops abruptly. He gasps. Paws the open air desperately for his hat. Tries to catch it as it falls off his head and drifts down to the sidewalk. Once again I see that he is just an earth pony. No horn. No magic to worry about. I reel him in a few feet, then hold the length of cord between my hooves as best I can. It’s tricky. The cord is slick with raindrops. Tricky, but I manage.

“Fedora!” I call down to him, leaning my head out the broken window. “It’s been awhile hasn’t it?” Fedora flails. Curses. Shouts. I can barely hear him over the heavy downpour. The pitter-patter of raindrops colliding into him, splashing on his thin jacket.

“Crazy dyke!” he shouts. He remembers me. How sweet of him. “Bucking crazy dyke!” I loosen my grip. Let a few inches of cord slide between my hooves. Let Fedora feel the air comb through his mane as he falls. When I catch it again, I feel a sharp jerk. The slick cord nearly gets away from me for an instant, and I almost drop the poor bastard to his death. He squeals. Twists awkwardly on the end of the cord Strains his neck to look up at me.

“You should know I’m up here holding this rope with only my bare hooves. They’re not very dexterous things are they? Hooves, I mean. And mine are especially clumsy.” I play it loose. Loose cannon. Cowpony. I’m downtown tonight. I’m in my own backyard and there’s no reason to play it any way but my way.

“Buck you, you stupid bucking --” I let the cord go again and the word ‘dyke’ becomes several syllables longer. When I reel him back up the second time, he’s almost ready to talk.

“Crazy dyke. How did you even find me?”

“Turns out you’re not very well liked. A few of your friends down at The Ringer sold you out. Even told me your real name. Jimmy Two Scents,’ they called you. ‘Rat,’ they called you. Don’t worry though, you’ll always be Fedora to me.” I look down at Jimmy and he takes a long, hard look at the sidewalk seven stories below.

“What do you want now?” he whines, sounding more annoyed than anything else. I drop him one more time to let him know I’m serious.

“My legs are getting tired, Jimmy. I don’t know if I can catch you again with these clumsy hooves of mine.”

“Just tell me what you want!” My ears drink in the fearful tremor ringing true in his voice. Good. Fear I can work with.

“Filthy Rich,” I say plainly. “Who is he and what was his relation to Stephen Scope?”

“Scope? I heard that idiot got himself killed. Bet it was you that did it, too.”

I give the cord a slight tug and Jimmy lets out an embarrassing yelp. “Focus, Jimmy. Filthy Rich. What do you know? And I better find your answer damn informative, because if not -- well I don’t need to tell you it’s a long way down.”

Lucky for me, Jimmy is in the know.

“He’s a greasy looking motherbucker -- ah…slicked back mane. Has a picture of money bags on his flank -- ah, ah -- three of them I think.”

“Spare me the small talk. What’s his game, Jimmy.” Jimmy doesn’t say anything for a second. I give the cord another shake.

“Drug racket, okay -- the new drug racket! Mostly shipping. Uses his legit business as guise to move the stuff. Zap Apple Jam or something like that,” he says, pushing all the words out in one hasty breath. Not a bad start but I know Jimmy’s got more for me.

“Talk faster, kid. My hooves are getting tired,” I taunt. He tries to start again but a million and one “ums,” and “ahs,” fill his cheeks, tripping him up as they tumble haphazardly from between his quavering lips.

“He -- ah, he started his operation out in the boonies. Some hick town – ah, um -- um, Ponyville! Yeah that’s it Ponyville! He started there and -- and his operation has been growing like a weed ever since! Look that’s all I know okay. That’s all I know.” His breath is coming in heavy pants now. He’s getting hysterical. I tell him to calm down. Ask him what he knows about Filthy’s relationship to Stephen Scope. Ask him why Filthy sent his goons after the good doctor.

He tells me. Tells me Filthy is Grift’s newest competitor. Tells me the two of them have been punching it out over territory ever since Filthy Rich brought his operation to Manehattan, and during the exchange Filthy got himself hurt. Got himself cut. Jimmy says Grift tore his gut open with her own talons. I don’t doubt it. Grift’s known for getting her talons dirty.

“So I take it this Filthy stallion got himself hurt and Scope saved his life.”

“Yeah, yeah, now let me up.” Jimmy’s not making any sense. The night when I saved Scope from Tiger Voice, the doc said Filthy’s goons were after him. I take it Tiger Voice was one of Filthy’s goons. Doesn’t make sense. If Scope saved this guy’s life, why have him killed? Tiger Voice mentioned something about money. Said Scope owned him, and Scope even claimed to have the money -- just not on him. Said it was back home in Fillydelphia.

“What about the money?” I ask. Better wrap this up quick. My limbs are starting to go numb and I really don’t want Jimmy’s blood on my conscience. He’s an asshole, sure, but not one that deserves to die in such a horrible way. Thrown to his death out of the window of his own home. No. I don’t do that anymore. Kill. Not anymore. Not after what happened in that oppressive little room with the white walls. That’s not who I am. Not anymore.

“All I know is he made a whole bunch of cash when he did the job for that psychopath. That’s it. That’s all I know.”

“That’s not what I asked. What about the money he owed Filthy? Where'd the debt come from?”

“I -- I don’t know? How should I know?”

“Don’t lie to me, Jimmy!” I shout, suddenly. I change tactics. Ditch the cool confident John Mane persona for something that sounds a bit more desperate. A bit more unstable. A bit more like my real self. “You lie to me and it’ll be the last lie you ever tell.” I play bad cop. I give the cord a shake and it scares the living shit out of Jimmy. It’s fun. I try hard not to lose myself. Try to remember I’m not that pony who takes pleasure in suffering. Not anymore. I try, but Jimmy’s not helping any. He’s making it too easy. Sniffing and crying like a fillyscout. Too easy and too much fun. I play bad cop and there’s no good cop coming to Jimmy’s rescue tonight.

“I don’t know! Honest! Come on you crazy dyke, I got a wife! I got kids! Let me up!”

“Jimmy, what did I just say about lying?”

“Please! Please don’t kill me!” Jimmy’s in tears now. It’s still coming down like it won’t ever stop. I can’t see the tears rolling down his cheeks through all the rain, but the poor bastard looks up at me and I can tell he’s crying. Jimmy’s crying and I’m grinning down at him like a fiend. My blood’s boiling. Rushing. Whispering promises. I’m wound up. Ready to burst. It’s not enough. I want more. I want Jimmy to scream for me. I want to reel him back up and hammer his face until pisses himself. I want to maim him. Pull his teeth out and…and…I want to…

…I want…I…

…Calm down Rose. That’s not who you are. Not anymore. You’re better than all that. Call down. Focus. Remember why you’re here.

I take a deep breath. Relax. Slow my heart rate a bit and push out all the ugly thoughts. Remember what I’m doing and focus on it. Information. I’m here for information. That’s all. That’s it.

“…And the job for the killer,” I ask, playing it cool again. “It happened in Filly, right?”

“Right. Now please let me up. I got a family, you crazy dyke. Cut me a break, would ya?”

I pull Jimmy back into his apartment. Before I make my leave, I ask him where I can find Filthy. He tells me I shouldn’t be looking for a guy like Filthy. Says a stallion like that is nothing but trouble. I kick him in the mouth. Grab the back of his mane and force his head out the window.

“Alright, alright!” Jimmy shouts. “He stays uptown with the Oranges. Lives in a penthouse suite in one of their hotels.”

I start to pull Jimmy back in. Thank him for his cooperation. Pat him on his head and leave him with one last idle threat before leaping out the window. But then just as I start pulling him back in, Jimmy says something that really gets me going.

“I’m tellin’ ya, ya crazy dyke,” he says. “Whatever it is you’re planning -- it’s a mistake. Just walk away.”

Just walk away, he says

Just walk away!

Sets me off. Here I am trying to hold back. Trying to control myself and Jimmy insists on pushing my buttons. Just walk away, he says. Sets me right off.

“There’s no walking away, Jimmy. Not now. Not with the way things are. The way things are going.” I hoist Jimmy up. Dangle him over the edge of the windowsill with my bare hooves. I hold him by his tail and around his middle, and I dangle the idiot out of the window, and I think long and hard about dropping him.

“Don’t you get it, Jimmy? Don’t you see where things are going? It’s the old days again. The bad old days. The cold days. The days of Discord -- before Heath’s Warming, or Equestria, or the Elements of Harmony, or the so called magic of friendship…”

Jimmy pleads for me to pull him in. He’s not listening. He’s pleading. Begging. Not listening. Idiot. I pull him in. Make him listen. Make him look at me.

“…And there’s going to be feuding again. Only it won’t be unicorn against pegasus against earth pony like it was. It’ll be a free for all. Every pony cutting every other pony’s throat. Fighting over scraps of food that won’t fill them and shelter that won’t protect them. And all the lowlifes and the honest ponies, and all the guilty ones and the innocents will look to their goddesses for help. They’ll look up -- big eyed and afraid -- and their goddesses will look down, and they won’t care. They won’t give a damn. The eldest will hide behind her ball of fire and the youngest will only watch. She’ll hang her moon in the sky and watch us eat each other.”

Jimmy is shaking like a leaf. Asking for it. I want to hit him. Hurt him. I want break every bone in his face and tear every muscle in his body. I want his heart in my mouth, but that’s not who I am anymore. I hold back. Hold him still. Make him look at me. Make him listen.

“Get ready, Jimmy. Get ready because it’s going be loud, and it’s going to be ugly, and it’s going to be damn stupid and pointless. And when it’s over I’ll be sitting on a high-rise somewhere, watching this city burn, or I’ll be in a cell or in the ground -- and no matter which it is, it’ll be right where I belong. Right where I’m supposed to be.”

By the time I’m finished, I’m out of breath. Jimmy is shaking like a leaf. He keeps looking at me like I’m not making any sense, but I’m making perfect sense. I’m making the most sense I’ve made in years, and poor Jimmy is to damn stupid to see the truth. Too scared. He’s scared and shivering and he should be. He’s right to be. It’s all coming to a head.

I leap out the window and leave Jimmy to his shaking. I’m shaking too but for a different reason. It’s all coming to a head, and I’m right smack in the middle of it, and there’s no place I’d rather be. I’m alive like never before. The whole world is new and clear and scary as all hell, but the fear can’t stop me anymore. This city. Her criminals. They can’t stop me. Not anymore. I’ve challenged Manehattan’s thugs, and I’ve escaped her prisons, and I even got the love of my life back. This city couldn’t keep me and Redheart apart. It can’t do anything to me anymore. I think about the past few days I spent loving Redheart, and the memory fills me up. Makes me feel invincible.

On my way back to Redheart’s flat, I try to make sense of the info I scared out of Jimmy. If I had a head like Sparkle’s or even one like Dr. Hooves’ I’d have pieced this thing together days ago, but all I have is a head like mine, so I make the most of it. I relax. Clear out all the cobwebs and all the junk that tells me I should just go home and forget all of it. There’s no walking away now. I had my chance. Back when Tiger Voice put that slug in me. I could’ve put a stop to it then. Could’ve been satisfied with saving Scope that first time. With flying…

…No. No, I suppose that isn’t true. I hid. Watched my friends die. I suppose that was the real point of no return. There was never any hope for me. Daisy and Lily died and that was it. No walking away since then. No walking away now. I relax. Clear out the cobwebs. Get the gears turning.

Without thinking, I throw my hook and Manehattan shrinks beneath me as I swing from a gargoyle jutting from the side of an old uptown theater. I don’t think about the rain freezing my matted coat, or the mass of empty black nothing separating me from the sidewalk, or the thrilling, terrifying freedom of unimpeded forward movement. My flight above uptown Manehattan happens without me. I move forward while my mind moves back. I focus. Focus on the chase and nothing else.

I start with Sparkle and the guard ponies. Sparkle said, “They think you killed the doc, and they know you killed Baritone.” So this Filthy Rich guy knows I offed one of his thugs: Baritone, Sparkle called him. Baritone must have been Tiger Voice, or at the very least, he must have been a member of Tiger Voice’s gang. The name definitely fits, and while I didn’t stick around to make sure, I’m positive Tiger Voice died at my hooves that night. Died cradled lovingly in Manehattan’s embrace.

So Baritone was working for Filthy Rich; he was supposed to find Scope and collect the money owed to his boss. Simple enough. Simple right up until Scope got away. Ran home to Fillydelphia and while he was there, he did a job for this supposed “psycho,” or “psychos,” as Sparkle seems to think. Psychos. Two of them, Sparkle said. By her own testament, she already knows exactly who they are. She said ‘they took something’ from her. Her horn. Carved it right out of her head, or at least that’s what she told me. All I have to go on is her testimony. Words that could very well be the ramblings of a mad hornless unicorn. Can I really trust Sparkle?

I picture the beautiful face of my beautiful hornless unicorn and a loud anxiousness shatters my focus. Sparkle betrayed me. She reunited me with my friends, but likely only so she can use them against me. She wanted me to know. A pony as sharp as Sparkle and as connected as the Police Commissioner of Manehattan’s finest could’ve sent anyone to come pick me up. She could’ve had her partner do it, or one the officers under her command. I’m sure she wanted to keep my escape under wraps. Make it look like I got away on my own. Even so she could have had anyone do it. She chose Dee and Redheart because she wanted to threaten me. Wanted me to know that she could find my loved ones. Find them. Hurt them.

She’ll pay for that. Pay in blood and dignity. She and Filthy Rich and the murderers and anypony else I find out was involved with the doc’s murder. He probably wasn’t innocent but his was the first life I ever tried to save, and I bucked it up. He was beautiful and I bucked it up. Scope meant something to me. What exactly, I’m not sure, but he meant something and his death won’t go unpunished. Sparkle pays first for threatening my friends. Filthy pays next. Pays in blood and dignity. I won’t kill him. I won’t have to. I’m going scare him. Break him. Break him in half and if he’s stupid enough to hire another pony like Scope to put him back together, then I’ll break him again and again, and I’ll keep on breaking him until he stays broken.

Instead of going home to Redheart, I decide to make a detour. I pay the police station a visit. I play it quick and quiet. Sneaky. Soundless. Quick and quiet like a dagger in the back. Stupid Manehattan cops never even know I’m there. It takes some time. More time than I planned, but I find them. I find them waiting for me in an evidence locker. Zipped up in plastic. Suffocating. Forgotten and suffocating. My batons. I could’ve jumped some cops and stolen another pair of batons. A new pair. But I want my pair. My weapons. My friends. I free them. Cradle them. Hold them tight against my chest and tell them how much I missed them, and about the storm that’s coming, and about Filthy Rich and what we have to do to him. To all of them. I tell them the whole sad story and they flash their inanimate grins, eager to return to their grim, grim work.

On my way out the opportunity for such work presents itself. As I make for the roof of the building adjacent to the police station, I spy Sparkle and her partner, the small sharply dressed baby dragon, coming out around back. I remember the ugly thoughts that snuck into my mind earlier tonight as I dealt with Jimmy Two Scents. The fear in his livid face. The missed opportunity to smash my hooves against something soft and breakable.

I jump Sparkle. I shouldn’t. I know I shouldn’t. I try to tell myself I am not that pony anymore. The one who takes pleasure in the suffering of others. I try to convince myself that she is gone for good.

I try. I fail.

I jump Sparkle. Jump on Sparkle. My hooves come down her backside and she screams. Folds. Crumples underneath me. Sparkle is so weak. Crumpling her is easy. Like balling up a plastic bag.

Her partner lets out a surprised hiss as I come down on Sparkle. He springs away on nimble legs. For a moment he’s confused. They both are. The baby dragon gropes around in the darkness, searching for his senses, gathering his wits. When his senses and wits are back in order, his mouths drops open and he coughs a bright green flame in my direction.

He looks surprised when he misses me by miles, and even more surprised when one of my boots bounces off his head, sending him pitching through the air. He lands with a thud. I kick him again and he skips across the sidewalk like a flat, smooth stone across the surface of a pond.

Somewhere behind me Sparkle is still slumped on the ground, as the little dragon slowly forces his legs underneath him, leaning against a dumpster for support.

“Walk away,” I tell him. He’s brave. He hisses. Bares his teeth. Doesn’t budge. Doesn’t move an inch.

“No – no way,” he stammers. He’s brave. Too brave for his own good.

“Walk. This doesn’t concern you.”

“Go on, Spike,” Sparkle calls out from behind me. I turn around and find her standing on unsure legs, still visibly shaken by the blow I dealt her. “Go on, I’ll be fine. Rose just wants to talk to me,” she assures her partner. He doesn’t buy it for even a second. He hesitates. Stares down self-consciously at his open claws for a brief moment. Then the open claws snap into tight, frustrated fists, and he slams one against the dumpster before scurrying off. Nose pointing to the ground. Tail tucked between his legs as he goes.

“What’s this about, Rose?” says Sparkle, playing dumb.

“Don’t buck with me. You know what this is about.”

“Humor me,” she says, her expression humorless.

I don’t. I drag Sparkle down the nearest alley and beat her senseless. I beat her till she begs me to stop. Till she cries. Till she’s pissing herself, and puking, and spitting blood and curses. I beat her till she’s a lumpy pile of bleeding flesh lying listlessly at my hooves. Then I beat her some more.

“Yoosee Dee. Redheart. Forget their names,” I tell her between stomps.

“Forget their faces.” I stomp Sparkle’s face. My hoof comes down on her jaw. Then her cheek. Then her eye.

“Forget where they work. Forget where they live.” I stomp her midsection. A rib cracks. She coughs. Writhes. Sputters. Feels bad. Nothing like before. Like with Jimmy earlier tonight. Feels bad but it needs to be done. Sparkle needs to pay. Pay in blood and dignity. I stomp her again. Again.

“Contact either of them again and I will break your neck. Try to use them against me in any way and I will break your neck. Threaten them in any way and I will break your neck. We understand each other, Sparkle?”

Sparkle makes a gurgling sound. She curls into a fetal position. Tries to shield her head and neck with a pair of badly bruised front legs but the blows keep raining down.

“I asked you a question, Sparkle. It stops as soon as you tell me what I want to hear,” I say, praying to Luna that Sparkle will takes the out offered to her. Praying that I will not have to continue hurting my beautiful hornless unicorn.

“You paranoid…idiot. You’re…making…a huge…mistake…” She just barely manages to force the words out of her busted lips. “You don’t want me as…as an enemy, Rose.”

“We’re not enemies Sparkle,” I tell her as I hoist her upright, forcing her to stand on her hind legs. I push her stomach into the damp alley wall. Pin her forelegs behind her back. “If we were enemies you’d be a red smear on one of these of walls,” I tell her. Then I kick her legs apart and caress the inside of her thigh with my baton. Drag it up between her legs and tap her crotch lightly with the head.

“No, no, no, we’re not enemies. But if you ever so much as think about either of my friends after tonight, we will be. And believe me when I say, it’s you who doesn’t want to make an enemy of me.” Sparkle grunts and struggles. I tap her crotch. Her struggling doubles. She squirms. Struggles and squirms, but she’s too weak to stop me. It should be fun. It’s not. No fun. No fun at all.

“Now I really do like you, Sparkle. And I really don’t want to hurt you anymore. So I’m going to ask you one more time. Do we understand each other?” Sparkle stays quiet. I smash the wall with her face. Ask her again.

“They are going to…going to bleed for this,” Sparkle mumbles through a broken jaw. Her voice is low. Raspy. Unafraid. “The cab driver. That cunt, Redheart…they’re going bleed for this, Rose. You just dated their gravestones.”

An ugly sound climbs out of Sparkle’s throat as I slowly force the head of the baton between her cheeks. With nothing but cold, hard rainwater to aid her, my baton digs into Sparkle’s anus and out of the unicorn’s mouth climb some of the ugliest sounds I have ever heard a living thing make. Sparkle shrieks. Her body tenses. Her eyes water. It’s still raining buckets but I can tell she’s crying.

“Now what did I say about making threats?”

“Please…please stop.” Sparkle whimpers.

“It stops when you tell me what I want to hear.”

Sparkle curses. Begs. Not what I want to hear. I push harder. Drive the baton deeper. She cries. A thin trickle of something much warmer than rain rolls down the baton’s shaft and is washed away before reaching the handle, my trembling hooves, or Manehattan’s ugly face. Sparkle whimpers. Bleats and bays and moans like a whore as I stuff her. And the whole time she’s crying and sniffing and begging, she’s not apologizing. Not promising me she’ll leave my friends alone. Only thinking about herself.

I push her face into the wall. She struggles. The sounds escaping her now are desperate. Pitiful. I spread her. Spread her legs and her cheeks as wide as they’ll go, and I force the baton in as deep as I can, and she cries, and pants, and begs -- and I don’t enjoy it. I don’t enjoy hurting my beautiful hornless unicorn but she needs to learn her lesson. Underneath all her intellect and bravado, Sparkle is nothing but a frightened child and children need to be taught. Sometimes they need to be taught the hard way. My way. I don’t spare the rod. Sparkle’s a smart kid. A quick study. I’m sure she’ll learn fast enough.

Sparkle’s a quick study and my baton is a harsh teacher. Unforgiving of mistakes. Cruel. Mean as all hell. I don’t enjoy it one bit, but I can’t say the same for her. Without life or lips she flashes her inanimate grin, whistling as she goes about her grim, grim work.

Best Enemies

Best Enemies

Chapter IX: Best Enemies

Redheart’s normally serene face vanishes behind a mask of anger and worry as she stuffs what few things she owns into a worn suitcase. From the doorway I watch her hooves as they work carelessly. Tossing things. Dropping things. She packs a few trinkets into the suitcase. Some clothes. A small sack of bits and a pair of shoes she only wears on special occasions. Watching her pack is almost sad. Her entire life, everything she has to show for forty plus years on Celestia’s green earth; it all fits so neatly into one suitcase. No one’s life should be so sparse. So empty. They are only material possessions, I know, but as I watch Redheart fumble with her trinkets, I can’t help feeling that a pony Redheart’s age should have more…more things. Trophies. Lockets. Books. Gifts given by friends or lovers. Redheart doesn’t have anything of the sort. All she has are some trinkets and a few memories.

But then, I suppose you can’t pack memories into a suitcase. Can’t the stretch the worn leather seams with thoughts of a mother who left you and a father who died in your forelegs, pissing into a bag and muttering nonsense in his final moments. You can’t pack up the happy days you spent in a shitty apartment, in a shitty part of town with the only pony who will look your way. Acknowledge your presence. Huh... As I watch Redheart pack it occurs to me that even her memories must be sparse. The good ones at least. She could fit them all in that sad worn suitcase, if only suitcases could hold something as delicate as a memory. As fragile as a deferred dream or a broken heart. I watch her. It’s almost sad. Almost makes me want to lie down on the carpet and curl into a ball. Cry. I want to hide my face and cry, but instead I set my mind to the task of filling Redheart's sparse life.

A gift. I’ll get Redheart a gift. A necklace. A ring. Something material. Tangible. Something she can put in that worn out suitcase of hers that won’t make me feel like shit when I watch her pack. Something that will be here when the two of us are gone. Proof that we were ever here at all.

It’s a silly thing to think of now. A gift. With things being as bad as they are. With me insisting that Redheart leave her tiny flat to go stay with old Storm Chaser until I’ve settled the score with Manehattan and her criminals. I can’t have her staying here with me where one of my enemies could find her. Hurt her. I sent Sparkle a pretty clear message on the matter a few nights ago.

Sparkle…I was too hard on her. To rough. A point needed to be made. Still, I was too hard on her. I let myself forget the important lesson learned in that oppressive room. Those white walls. Those echoes…

But at least Sparkle isn’t stupid. She got the message. She knows I’ll snap her like a twig if she tries anything. Sparkle’s taken care of, at least for the moment, but I can’t say the same for the others. Filthy Rich. Scope’s killers. Redheart is in danger. Whether she wants to acknowledge it or not, she’s in danger, so I’m sending her away. Somewhere safe. Convincing her hasn’t been easy.

“And what about you, huh?” Redheart says. She slams her suitcase closed, exaggerating the action to make clear how furious she is with me. “What will you do when you come home all busted up, and I’m not here kiss your boo-boos? I swear you’re such a child, Rose. Living out some stupid superhero fantasy while I sit at home worrying myself sick.” Redheart zips up the poor worn thing, then turns to face me. Stares. Waits for me to say something. I don’t. She sighs. Starts again.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that about you playing superhero. It’s just -- I wish you would let me in, Rose.” Redheart moves closer and swallows me in a tight hug. I look over her shoulder at the bag lying on her bed and try to feel something other than dread. Redheart helps. She hugs me tight. Squeezes me until it hurts to breathe. Until a cool blue hue spreads itself thin across my cream colored face. For a while I just inhale her scent and feel her warmth against my coat. For a while I don’t move. I hold Redheart as tight as I can. I squeeze her until the effort makes my forelegs hurt, and for a moment that doesn’t last long enough we become indistinguishable. For a moment I am lost. Unable to tell where Redheart ends and I begin.

“I’m not trying replace Daisy or Lily, and I won’t pretend I understand what you’re going through. But let me stay. I can help you.”

“You already have. You’ve done more than enough.”

“I just don’t want to see you hurt is all.” The space between us widens. Redheart leans away and caresses the scar on my underbelly, remembering a night not as peaceful as this. Remembering what was perhaps our most intimate moment together. A shame. All of my most intimate moments seem to be moments of suffering. Violent suffering.

Redheart’s searing cherry-red knife digging the slug out of my gut.

Baritone's bellowing as I pushed him into Manehattan's embrace.

Sparkle’s cord around the mare’s throat. Her rough lips against mine and then my baton between her thighs.

Daisy’s eyes as the life leaked out of them and onto the floor -- or wherever life goes when it leaves a body. Her eyes. She was happy then. She loved me as fully as one pony can love another, and I loved her even more. Were the two of us ever as close to one another as we were then? At the end of it all?

It hasn’t even been that long, but I remember so little about Daisy other than her velveteen purple coat and her happy lifeless stare. As if I’d never know her before the noose slipped easily around her neck. As if the day she died had been the day we first met. The childhood we spent together is hazy. The classes we slept through, and the colts we giggled over, and the jobs we groaned about, and the gardens we tended together. The flowers we grew, we smelled, we ate. My lilies. And Lily’s daisies. And Daisy’s roses. Twenty plus years. Twenty plus years of memories suddenly made cloudy and muddled. Replaced by the face of a dying mare I hardly even knew.

I stroke the scar on my underbelly and make a promise that this will not be the most intimate moment Redheart and I share. I’ll get her gift. Make it special. Make it as intimate as a thing can be.

“Nothing like this will ever happen again,” I say, still groping the bad memory, not believing the words even as they leave my mouth. I take Redheart’s hoof in my own and the look she’s wearing tells me she doesn’t believe it either.

“You have to go now. Don't worry, old Storm Chaser will take care of you. He's a bit of an ass, but he's a good stallion. He'll take care of you,” I hear myself say, not liking the way I say it. I sound like somepony who’s speaking from her deathbed. Like somepony who’s saying goodbye forever. “I have to go too...I’m sorry.”

“No you’re not,” Redheart almost scoffs. She rests her chin on my shoulder as we embrace one final time. I don’t see her smile. I feel it. I feel it spread across her face as if it were spreading across my own. It’s her laugh-so-you-don’t-cry smile. The kind that tugs at the corners her mouth when everything hurts so bad it’s funny.

“Really, I am sorry. Not just about this, but all of it.”

“No, you’re not,” Redheart says again. “Look, I don’t care about any of that.” She presses her forehead against mine and before she kisses me, she says, “I don’t care what you do, and I don’t care why you do it, and I don't care who you do it to. Just come back me. You come back to me, and you come back in one piece. Okay?”

“Okay.”

“You have to promise me. Really promise me this time. No lies like before.”

“Okay. I promise.” Redheart presses her forehead against mine. Then she kisses me. It is a mother’s kiss pressing against the face of a sick child: healing. A partner’s kiss caressing the face of a lonely lover: promising.

I feel the old fear start leave me. The tremble in my hooves grasps at my fur as Redheart takes the burden from me and bears it up on her own shoulders. I grasp at it too. My fear. My fear has been with me for as long as I can remember and even though I hate it, being without it is unthinkable. I need it. My fear. My tremble. I need it. It’s who I am. It’s all I have. All I deserve.

A cold tremor skulks through my forelegs from shoulder to hoof.

“None of that now,” Redheart coos. “Give it here,” she says, “you don’t need it anymore.”

The coldest tremor I've ever felt skulks through my forelegs from shoulder to hoof, and I shake in Redheart’s forelegs like the coward she knows I have been for years.

I feel my hooves tremble for what I know will be the last time…

…And then it's gone. Redheart takes it from me. She takes my tremble.

Then she picks up the last of my pieces. She’s been picking them up ever since that night she rescued me from the hydra’s neck. Ever since we first met in that sleepy little diner. Ever since her mother left her alone to care for her senile old father. She’s been picking up pieces, and picking up pieces, and picking up pieces, and now finally all the little broken bits are starting to knit themselves back together. Now all the pieces are falling into place. Falling and settling right where they’re supposed to be.

I don’t think Redheart sees it, but in the darkness, I smile. I can’t help it. We aren’t broken anymore. I can’t help but smile.

“Go on,” I tell her, “Dee is waiting for you outside.” Reluctantly, we let go of each other. Redheart leaves. She isn’t a water fly anymore. As she goes the ripples created in her wake are tremendous. They sweep me up in their tide and nearly pull my hooves out from under me.

Redheart says she doesn’t care about my reasons but as I watch her go, I become aware of a strong desire to know hers.

I call after her. “Why did you come back, Redheart?”

Redheart pauses. Looks over her shoulder. “I guess I just needed something to fix,” she says thoughtfully. The words hang in air long after Redheart disappears through the doorway, down the stairs, and into the taxi carriage waiting for her on the sidewalk four stories below. The words and the ripples. They are still in the room, floating up by the ceiling fan as I leap out the window. My hook claws into one of the city’s many rough edges. I swing. Fly. Come down running.

I was born an earth pony and tonight Redheart reminds me that I am just that. An earth pony. Not a pegasus or a unicorn or an alicorn. Not a creature of the night. Not a mangy thing with hungry eyes. Not a vigilante. Not a shapeless, formless animal. Or a monster. Or a god. Tonight I am just a pony. Just a mare with some cord, and a hook, and a pair of batons and a sturdy pair of boots. Tonight I have something to fight for other than revenge. I have a mare to protect. Not just her but every single pony like her. Ever pony like Stephen Scope. Like Sparkle. Daisy. Lilly…And even me. Even Rose. I may be just a mare, but tonight I will show Manehattan that there will not always be chasing and fleeing. That one pony with a mended heart and some cord can do something to change it after all.

The glass sparkles brilliantly in the silver moonlight as it shatters. The broken bits sprinkle down to the sidewalk below in small shards, their luminescence otherworldly. Like stardust. Like flecks of light made tangible, given shape and form and depth and texture by the moon goddess herself.

My hind hooves crash through the window of Filthy Rich’s penthouse suite, and the glass sparkles as it shatters, and the small flecks of hard light travel down to the sidewalk nineteen stories below. Glittering. Decorating Manehattan’s ugly face.

I hear a small, alarmed yelp come from somewhere in the dark bedroom, followed shortly by the click of a light switch being flipped. Then somepony who must be Filthy shouts for his bodyguards. The lights come on. I catch a glimpse of a stallion dressed in a bathrobe with a greasy slicked-back tail and a greasier slicked-back mane as he slips out the bedroom door. He slips out and one of his bodyguards slip in, a dusty grey-faced diamond dog, his collar adorned with precious stones.

The dog's ears perk. His nose perks. He snarls. Bears his teeth. Charges. Dives headlong. The speed and raw recklessness of his attack surprise me. I’ve dealt with diamond dogs before, but always their speed surprises me. Catches me off guard.

The grey-face dog charges, and his limbs are gangly, like old branches on a dying tree, and as he reaches for me, I almost misjudge the distance. Almost miscalculate the number of seconds it will take him to snuff the space between us and tear out my throat.

Almost.

I sidestep. Bite his collar. Spin. Use his own weight and momentum to send him careening.

A jagged fissure tears into in the wall behind me as his nose meets the solid surface. Before he can peel his face off the plaster, I slam both hind hooves into the back of his head, and the fissure stretches. Widens. Deepens. I kick the hound again and his body spasms. Then falls to floor like broken toy.

Another bodyguard comes in the bedroom. Flies in. A surprisingly small pegasus with a sickly yellow coat and a clever face. He looks at me. Then over my shoulder at the diamond dog lying unconscious, slumped against the wall. He twitches. Hesitates. His eyebrow arches. He looks back to me. Then away. Then back. Away. Back.

“I don’t get paid nearly enough,” he mutters before zipping out the way he came in.

As I pass through the doorway the bedroom shrinks behind me, giving way to a colossal common area. It is the biggest room I have ever seen. The theme appears to be some interior designer’s interpretation of the Ancient Romane Empire. Great silvery cloud-white pillars stretch from floor to ceiling, and the walls and ceiling are painted to look like a clear blue sky. A hot tub is bubbling in the center of the room, and all around it are leather couches and sofas, sprouting up from the cream-colored carpet like pony-made bushes. To the left of the hot tub there is a bar annexed to the dining room, and to the right there is a griffin.

To the right there is an enormous monster of a griffin. Her feathers are pointed. They are the color of mud, and her talons are the color of brass, and her beak is the color of brass, and if the cry resonating from it had a color it would be brass as well.

…A griffin?

Before I can make sense of what I’m seeing, a brass talon rakes across my side, yanking the floor out from underneath me and sending the colossal room pitching. Turning. Wheeling. The suite spins as if swept up in a hurricane, and for a few long seconds there is nowhere to stand and nothing to grasp as the Ancient Romanenian villa is carried away by a storm.

It’s not until my back crashes into the shelf of glass bottles behind the bar that I realize it’s me pitching through the air and not the room. The shelf erupts with a flurry of breaking glass that scratches my back and splashes liquor into the newly opened cuts. The pain is sharp. I wail. The shrill sound escapes my open mouth like a prisoner escaping her cell.

Somewhere in the room a heavy wing beat announces itself, and then a cry that’s somewhere between an eagle’s scream and a lion’s roar erupts from behind the bar counter. A few seconds later a head appears above me, and the head has a scowling face, and the face has a fierce beak, and the beak has a brass hook at the end of it. A baleful brass hook. Ready and eager to sink into me. To make a meal of my intestines. To relieve me of the thumping in my chest, the heaving in my lungs.

I try to stand but slip on dizziness and wasted liquor

The griffon dives. Leads with her brass talons. Her brass hook. Last night such a sight would’ve terrified me but earlier this night Redheart took my fear. Carved it out and carried it away on her shoulders.

The griffon dives.

My legs are under me now. I meet her face to face. Hook to muzzle.

I meet her. Move against her like a strong wind. My mouth finds the hilt of a baton holstered on my hip, and my teeth clench, and the strain on my neck is almost unbearable as I set every muscle in my body to the task of cutting the air with my blunt blade.

My baton whistles. Flashes her inanimate grin.

Somewhere out in the storm raging beyond these walls a pegasus kicks thunder out of a raincloud.

Then a wicked vibration sprints through my neck, and the griffin’s body goes slack in midair before crashing into me.

The next few seconds tick away without me. The moment of impact. The feel of my baton’s inanimate grin kissing the griffin’s head. I miss it. The griffin dives, and I meet her, and my neck strains, and my baton grins -- and the next thing I know she is on top of me, flattening me, her body completely limp. Like a ragdoll. Like a broken toy.

It takes some doing, but I manage to roll the heavy beast off my chest. She’s out like a light, and her temple has already changed color and started to swell, but she’ll live. So will I. For a long moment I’m content with just being alive. Happy to have survived both attacks without having to take kill anyone. Happy with my small victories. Then I look around the massive empty room and the small victories become a bit smaller.

Buck!

I slam a frustrated hoof into an unbroken wine bottle on the self. Damn griffin slowed me down. Let Filthy get away. Damn griffin. Filthy Rich must be in a bad way if he’s employing bucking monsters to protect him. Diamond dogs and griffins and Luna knows what else. Was he expecting me? Damn it. Damn it. Damn it! I put the thought on repeat as I look down at the defenseless griffin and stifle a sudden surge of violent impulses. The urge to snap her neck. Grind her beak into powder. I think about the lovely popping sound her bones will make as I break her talons one by one. As I dislocate her wings. Fortunately for the griffin, thoughts of Redheart stay my hooves. The image of her lips against mine flashes through my head, and a voice speaking from behind the memory tells me to let it go. Tells me I’m not that pony anymore. That I’m better than all that.

Still, I'm sure tearing those mud brown wings out of her back would make me feel better.

…Mud brown wings…Her wings. Wings! That’s right. Filthy doesn’t have wings. He can’t have gotten far. If he’s fleeing, he’s fleeing on the street. He’s in a carriage down on the street, and even if he’s already a few blocks away, I can catch him. He can’t fly, but I can. I can catch him. He can’t have gotten far.

I sprint back to the bedroom window, twirling my hook overhead as I go. Ready to leap. Ready to fly. To chase.

I sprint to the window but before I leap, a long black carriage barrels past the open window. I was wrong. Filthy Rich can fly. Unlike Baritone’s, Filthy’s getaway carriage is drawn by a pair of pegasi.

I sprint to the window where I made my entrance, but I'm too late. The carriage barrels past me.

...No…

…The carriage is barreling past me. I am sprinting. My hook is twirling. It is happening now. Fast and slow and right now.

There’s still time. No time for thinking, but there’s still time to catch the flying cart.

It's happening. I am sprinting. My hook is twirling. The carriage is barreling. The wings of the pegasi drawing the cart are beating, and their chests are heaving, and the night sky is wet with rain. As I leap out the window, the drops are ice cold on my cheeks and neck and shoulders and back and limbs.

And then I'm airborne. Flying. Chasing.

It is happening…

Something is growling at my back.

...Happening now…

I am throwing my hook, and the bedroom is falling away, and the window is falling away, and the broken glass is falling away--and the distance between me and the flying carriage is shrinking like a deflating balloon.

...All of it. All together…

A sudden pain is darting up my left hind leg. Something is growling at my back, and something else is digging into my hind leg. Digging. Holding. Sinking into my skin--and as it sinks, I am becoming heavier. Plunging. Drowning in Luna’s wet night sky.

...All of it at once... all of it…right…now!

Then my hook catches the back wheel of the flying carriage, and when the cord goes taut--pulls itself straight with a wicked snap--it stops happening. My teeth try to rattle themselves out of my skull, and my neck nearly gives as the cord bungees, and then all it once it stops happening. The world turns slower. My senses go dull. Fail me. I don’t have a heartbeat. I can’t breathe. Can’t smell. Can’t see or hear or feel anything. It stops happening. Nothing is happening. Nothing. There is only the vague sensation of movement, and the rusted taste of blood and cord in my mouth, and the empty, oppressive void tugging at me from someplace out in the black, black night.

I go numb.

The city has herself a chuckle. Just an earth pony? she laughs from inside my own head. What happened to the alicorn that killed so many of my criminals, she sneers. What happened to the mangy thing with the hungry eyes? Where are your dark parts? Your ugly parts? Where’s the real Rose? You can’t fight me without her.

I tell her to shut up. Tell her I’m not that pony anymore.

You need her. You’ll die without her.

“Shut up.” I hear myself mumble aloud through a mouthful of cord.

They all will. Sparkle. Dee. Redheart. You can’t protect them without her.

“Shut up.”

She doesn't. She laughs. Manehattan laughs. She throws her head back, and she clutches her stomach, and she laughs. Hot and haughty and madder than Lord Discord himself.

“SHUT UP!”

The sensation of falling sharpens my senses. Brings me back to reality. Back to the screaming carriage dragging me through the wet sky. Me and whatever is clinging to my back leg. Once again I bite the cord I involuntarily spat out a moment ago while screaming at a voice in my head. The city has never spoken to me before. She laughs, but she’s never spoken to me directly. Her voice is haunting. I shuddered at the sound of it. Shuddered because her voice sounds so much like my own.

I hear the growl billow up from beneath me. Same one I heard at my back as fly out the window. I hear the growl. Then the growl becomes words. Broken words. Like an animal trying to speak.

“Flower pony bad. Kill friend.” I look down and see the silhouette of the diamond dog with the glittering collar gripping my back leg, his body flailing dangerously.

“Now flower pony die.” His voice heaves. Quivers. I can’t tell if he’s crying through all the rain, but it sounds like he might be.

With my free leg I kick him square in his face. He holds on. I kick him again. I feel his teeth rattle. A few of them give. He holds on. I kick again. Again. I feel his nose go squishy under my boot. He holds on. Doesn’t let go. Then he reaches for me with his free paw, scaling me as if I were a mountainside. I kick. He reaches. The nails of his free paw pierce my hip like a climber’s pick piercing the edge of a cliff.

“Flower pony kill friend. Best friend. Only friend.”

The diamond dog scales higher. Is scaling higher.

The cord is in my mouth, and it is slippery, and my grip is weakening. I try to slow the hound’s climb. I kick at him with my front legs, but his advance is implacable.

“Flower pony bad.” He climbs. “Flower pony die now.” His maw opens and his breath is the breath of Cerberus.

With nothing tethering me to Celestia’s green earth but the cord in my mouth, I hold back the hound’s gaping maw with tired forelegs. He growls. Snarls. My eyes narrow. They fix on his diamond collar. Glinting. Reflecting my weathered face.

The maw inches closer. A vindictive tongue laps at my throat, anticipating the coming meal.

The maw inches closer. It is voracious. The tongue laps. Closer. Laps. Closer. Laps. Closer. Closer. Laps.

Then a bolt of lightning illuminates the night sky, and I see the dog’s face clearly. The light comes and goes faster than a pony can blink, but it’s enough time for my sharp eyes to drink in the image. The features are so rich. So vivid. I’ll never forget them. The face belongs to the diamond dog I nearly beat to death on the rooftop outside of Scope’s apartment, three stories above room 110. And the dog I threw off the rooftop must have been this one’s…his what? His friend? Funny. How callous of me. How cruel. It never occurred to me that these things can feel.

The maw is just about to end me when one of the long black carriage’s long black doors slides open. A pony pokes its head out. Wind and hasty forward movement whip its mane about, obstructing the pony’s features. It’s not until I see the hot yellow light illuminate his face that I realize he is a stallion, and that he is a unicorn, and that he must be one of the many officers of Manehattan’s Finest on Filthy’s payroll, because the charge gathering at the tip of his horn is the first sign of their calling card. Their signature. Not a bullet, but a bullet would hurt a hell of a lot less.

His horn sparks.

First there is light. Then sound. Then fury.

A shrill cry escapes the diamond dog as a magic bolt explodes against the top of his head. The heat from the blast brushes against my face, kissing my cheeks with lips made of smoke. The hound's flesh steams. Bubbles. The smell is rancid. It bucks inside my nostrils and makes me gag. Almost makes me spit out the cord.

The dog's grip loosens, but his desire for revenge, to taste my throat in his mouth, keeps him tied to me for one moment longer.

Tied to me. A part of me. I took from this poor hound what was taken from me, and I did it without a second thought, and I enjoyed it. I did it with a smile on my face, and something like glee in my chest, and something else like mad lust in my loins. Once again I see my own face reflected in the face of my enemy. Once again I hear the city laugh as she reminds me what I really am. What we all are.

“Kill friend…flower pony…” he tries to say more but he is falling.

“I’m sorry,” I say. Or perhaps I only try to say it as I reach for him. “I’m sorry.”

No time for thinking. There’s plenty of need for it but no time.

I spit out the cord tethering me to the flying carriage. To the world. I spit it out.

The diamond dog is falling.

I am falling.

And the aggressive stallion is falling.

And the hound's only friend is falling.

And Stephen Scope is falling, tumbling out of my closet and onto the carpet.

And Sparkle's hat is falling...

We are falling... All of us. All together. We are all together, and we are the same, and we are always falling. Chasing. Fleeing. Falling. Going to meet the sidewalk. To rest in Manehattan's assuaging embrace.

“I’m sorry…”

I catch the cord with my tail, hanging upside down and scissoring the cord uneasily between my hind legs. Then I catch the falling hound. Stop his fall. My teeth find his collar and I hold him like I won’t ever let go.

His collar. It is adorned with precious stones. It is glinting. It is beautiful, and so is he; and for one impossibly wonderful, impossibly harrowing, impossibly beautiful, impossibly morose, impossibly precious, silent, intimate moment, my teeth find his collar, and they alone are enough to stop his fall. To stop all the falling.

The unicorn fires another magic bolt. I don’t see his horn spark, but I feel a malicious, ill-tempered heat graze my coat. I smell it. Stinking. Like brimstone. Like sulfur. Like the end of days.

If I cried out as the plume of fiery yellow light tore the diamond dog from my grip, from Celestia’s green earth, I didn’t hear it.

And then the diamond dog is falling. Going to the place where the dead are reunited with their loved ones. Where the blemishes go when the winter storms come and wipe Manehattan’s face clean.

“Forgive me.” I don’t say it. I want to, but I don’t. I don’t deserve it. I took from him what was taken from me. Something that must be guilt worms its way behind my eyes and makes them water. Makes them puff up and cry.

Another intimate moment ending in violence. How many more will I have to endure before it ends, I wonder almost idly.

The diamond dog disappears into the lonely abyss. His collar is still in my mouth. Glinting. I spit it out. Spit it into tired hooves. Stare at it. Into it. I stare at it, and without life or eyes, it stares back.

…I'll get Redheart a gift...

It’s a crazy thing to think of now. Hanging half a mile above Manehattan. Dangling from the back wheel of a flying carriage. Barreling through the empty wet sky. Crazy thing to think of…Crazy.

I put on the collar -- the glinting memory of a fallen kindred spirit. I put it on. Fasten it around my neck.

I put the collar on just as another bolt whizzes by. Is whizzing by. Missing me by inches.

The unicorn’s horn is glowing as I crawl along the cord toward the back wheel of the carriage. It’s not easy. My limbs are sore, and hooves are clumsy things, and the cord is slick with rainwater -- but I focus on the light of the unicorn’s horn and I climb. He fires at me but with the extra weight of the diamond dog gone, the cord and I sway wildly in the storm. He misses. Sometimes by miles. I whisper a prayer to Luna as I crawl along the cord. I ask the moon goddess to forgive me for what I am going to do the unicorn, and for what I going to do to Filthy Rich -- to all of them. To this city and her criminals.

He fires, but Luna protects me as I crawl along the cord toward the back wheel of the barreling carriage. He fires. Misses. I climb.

I become a spark creeping up a lit fuse. I move swiftly and purposely, and when I reach my destination, I explode.

Falling Up

Chapter X: Falling Up

Rushing, breaking, pitching, swirling, spiraling, crunching -- wood is shattering like glass, glass is splintering like wood, broken bones are poking through broken skin, agony-sharpened cries are stabbing the empty air and metal is screaming and twisting as only metal can scream and twist.

Crashing.

Hooves are crashing into faces. Across spines. Across necks. Rain is crashing on the head of the carriage. The head of the carriage is crashing into the sidewalk. Into the face of a looming edifice. The face of a looming edifice is crashing into hooves and across spines and across necks, and again, and again: looping, repeating, looping, repeating.

Folding.

The head of the carriage is folding against the building’s face, then against the ground with a bursting thunderclap. The pegasus pony’s wings are folding in hooves, and then his neck is folding against the head of the carriage, and then the head of the carriage is folding against the ground, then against the building’s face with a bursting thunderclap.

Snapping.

Bones are snapping beneath stomping hooves made thoughtless by blinding fury, and against the face of a looming edifice, and against the walls, the ceiling and the floor of the spinning, plummeting carriage. The walls. The ceiling. The floor. The walls -- the ceiling -- the floor. The floor -- and then the ceiling -- and then the walls.

Snapping. Snapping.

Wings are snapping: popping out of place like doll heads plucked from plush shoulders. Necks are snapping: cracking with whip-like suddenness and spines are doing the same.

And splashing. The sky is splashing. Cries are splashing, silent and stillborn in breathless throats. Shards of destroyed glass are splashing, twinkling in the living night like lost stars. And blood. Blood and stranger fluids are splashing in my face and mouth, hot and sticky like seed spilling from the head of Discord’s throbbing erection as the chaos lord strokes himself to the sweet, prurient music of the miserable orgy; the ugly, loveless pornography of gruff grunts and mashing teeth and ruffling feathers; the chaotic scene playing itself out in a cushy universe made of fine wood and finer leather -- venturing aimlessly and with reckless abandon through a mad world -- a new uncharted continent -- a country or state or city upside-down, inverted, disordered: a falling ocean where the sky should be, a star speckled night where the ground should be, a gutted skyscraper, a twitching red smear, a pony lying on his stomach but staring up, an airborne carriage pulled straight down by corpses, then by ghosts, then by the pale horse himself -- and the distant unmistakable exploding, booming, booming, clop, clop, clop of pegasi kicking thunder out of rainclouds.

It is happening now. Fast and slow, and all at once, and in no particular order.

And somewhere between my grinning, whistling baton bludgeoning the yellow-horned unicorn into a twitching pile of red pulp on the wood floor, and my front hooves coming down on a pegasus pony’s back, and the audible pop of his wing and shoulder blade slipping out of alignment, and the carriage smashing into the face of a skyscraper, and my hook clawing into the naked neck of a streetlight, and the smattering of new blemishes dotting Manehattan’s hideous face -- somewhere between the beginning of it and the end of it, I am falling. Reaching up toward the endless heaven stretching itself wide overhead and screaming out the name of my goddess. Praying to her. Worshiping her. Loving her. Desperately, desperately needing her.

And to my surprise, and to my horror, she appears. The moon -- her ever-hanging, ever-vigilant third eye – blinks, and from the ether the goddess appears, weaving herself out of the stark nothing of an empty sky. Coming to me. Coming not in the shape of the smiling gentle-faced princess, but as she once was. As she truly is. She comes to me shrouded in darkness so pure, so void of light or life or meaning that it shines. She comes to me adorned in armor forged in lore and myth, fashioned from concepts; armor made of thoughts and feelings, of lessons taught to children through the telling of fairy tales and of timeless wisdom scrawled on leaflets of parchment by the ancients who came before Equestria, and in stone by the ancients before them.

On her hooves are shoes made of bright sorrow collected from the wet eyes of ponies who have known great loss, and on her chest is a breastplate made of the pride that swells in the hearts of great conquerors, and atop her immaculate head sits a crown made of absence. Of lack and want and vivid nonexistence. She comes to me in this form. Her old and true form. She comes clad in the trappings of the day-killer. The animate nightmare. The shadow casting shadows. The Mare in the Moon.

“Nightmare Moon!” I call to her, shutting my eyes against the sheer incomprehensibility of her divine image even as I beg her to spare my life. To deliver me from my cowardice and forgive me for my transgressions. My many, many wrongdoings.

I pray. The moon goddess gives her answer. Her eyes are apathy. Her voice is fear. Her judgment is decisive. I am weighed. Measured. Found wanting. Forsaken. I’m to fall with the others. I’m to go and meet the sidewalk. Give myself to the city’s assuaging embrace. To Manehattan.

Manehattan. Ugly as sin, Manehattan. All corners and rough edges, Manehattan. The hateful old mule. The dilapidated city. Home to criminals and horrors, to things that flee and things that chase and things that fall, to looming edifices and great crystalline sheets of sparkling glass. Twinkling glass. Twinkling reflections. My refection. Staring back at me from Daisy’s perfect spring-green mirrors. From Sparkle’s lavender abysses. From the diamond dog’s collar adorned with precious stones. Manehattan. Manehattan.

And in those last few defining moments, it is not the memory of my murdered friends or even of Redheart that comfort me as I face the inevitable end. I go with thoughts of her. The city. In the very end I remember what old Storm Chaser once told me about the intimacy we share with our lovers and with our enemies. That there is a longing for, a love for, a closeness and a oneness we share with our enemies that we will never know with our lovers. It’s always been about me and her. Me and the city.

My city. My Manehattan.

Manehattan!

I call to her.

Manehattan! Manehattan!

I go to her.

Manehattan! Help me! Save me! Catch me. I am falling. Your enemy is falling. Your friend is falling. Your vigilante is falling; your mangy thing with hungry eyes is falling; your alicorn is falling -- your star-crossed lover, your stepdaughter -- she is falling and she does not want to die.

The city welcomes me back with outstretched forelegs. The color falls away. The light. I hear only the faint outline of sounds, the whisper of shrieking ponies, falling rubble; the carriage meeting the city’s face and becoming nothing; the pegasi meeting the city’s face and becoming nothing, flying apart in big pieces and smalls pieces, in wood and metal and gore. I feel the phantom tug of my cord going taut as the hook claws into the bare neck of a streetlight and a mean-faced, mocking pain shoot up and down my right foreleg as the cord jerks, dislocating my shoulder with a shocking pop. And I taste Discord's spunk still fresh and salty on my lips and I try to spit it out, and if I cried out as any of it was happening, I didn't hear it. When I finally come to my senses, I find myself dangling from the neck of a streetlight, and I find the long black carriage in pieces beneath me, and the pair of pegasi who were drawing it in pieces beneath me, and Celestia’s ball of fire slowly peeking its head up over the Manehattan skyline.

When I get back to ground; when I feel her ugly face against the bottom of my hooves, I know in my heart we will be enemies again. I will resume plotting her demise and she mine, and neither of us would want it any other way. But for at least a fleeting moment we are once again able acknowledge each other.

I look down at her and she up at me. A red hue spreads itself thin across her ugly face. She is blushing. I suppose I am too.

She blushes and then laughs. Hot and haughty. Long and hot and haughty. She looks up, flush-faced, head thrown back, body convulsing with seizure-like fervor. Laughing. Laughing out loud. I let her enjoy it. Let her have her fun. Then I join her. We laugh together. At each other. With each other. We laugh until our eyes water. Until we’re clutching our sides and kicking our hind legs like ecstatic children, intoxicated by the sheer insane, hateful craziness of it all.

Daughters Without a Father, Part 1

Chapter XI: Daughters Without a Father, Part 1

I pop my dislocated shoulder back into place and try not to bite through my bottom lip as the best pain I’ve ever felt floods my senses. Hurts like hell but it’s the good kind of hurt. Kind that taps you on the shoulder and lets you know you’re still alive.

Manehattan feels less than real beneath my hooves, a shadowy whisper of her usual self. The streets are quiet. Empty. I stand on the sidewalk expecting to be swarmed by a crowd of curious onlookers come to gawk at the pile of misfortune gathered on the ground, or to be accosted by the wail of police sirens, but all the city has for me is silence. A deep, probing silence. Kind of silence that drapes itself across the shoulders of alcoholics and drug addicts when their potions wear off and they’re left sitting with memories of the life they destroyed. A deep silence. It’s all she has for me. After everything we went through last night, it’s all she has for me.

Way up above the silent sidewalk, dawn is breaking. The swing shift’s storm has dried away but I can still feel the dainty electric chill tickling my coat. The wind combing through my mane. It’s chilly out. Cool but not cold. I swallow a mouthful of morning air like it’s a drink of water, hoping it’ll refresh me.

It doesn’t.

The hangover from last night’s punch-drunken rampage gets to pounding against the inside of my skull, threatening to split it clean in two. A hollow feeling in my gut slithers into my ear and tells me to go home. Tells it’s daylight out. You’re no good when it's daylight out. You’re beat to hell, and you can barely see straight, and you’re standing on two good legs at best. Go home, it tells me. It’s daylight out. Get on a bus and go home.

And I’d listen—except Filthy Rich is still alive. He’s crawling away from the wreckage, willing what’s left of his broken body forward with nothing but the basest of survival instincts and the bravest foreleg I’ve ever seen. Both his hind legs look broken, and his other foreleg doesn’t look broken—it is broken. There’s a bone poking through his skin like it wanted to escape, but lost the will for such bold work about halfway out. He’s dragging himself, the poor bastard. Slithering on his stomach like a pile of road kill that’s too stubborn or to damn stupid to know it’s supposed to be dead. Watching him breaks my heart. Dragging himself. Whole city knows he’s dead except him.

I paw absentmindedly at the collar around my neck, watching him like I’m watching the last scene of one of those old revenge movies. The ones where the good guy finally corners the stallion who raped his wife or murdered his sister, and he’s standing over them as they limp away, aiming a gun or brandishing a knife. Waiting. Savoring the moment before the kill. Before the faces of the ponies in the theater light up with that giddy naiveté usually reserved for children, tickled pink by the thrill of witnessing clean justice. Before the credits role and the seats empty and the fantasy ends and reality sinks back in during the long walk through that dimly lit hallway, past the glass double doors, and back out into the careless bustle of the big city streets.

I watch him like one of those old movies. Except it’s not. Except I have the bad guy cornered, have him right where I want him, but I can’t bring myself to do anything but watch him because this isn’t one of those old movies. Because the bad guys are real, and I’m one of them, and it’s my life, and I’m don’t want anything to do with it.

I think about last night. About the impact; the thrill of reckless movement suddenly and violently halted by unshakable stillness. About the fall. No corners or rough edges. Just the whirring in my ears, and the wet night speeding by, and the bright sidewalk growing longer and wider and brighter and realer. Growing fast. Not giving the seconds a chance to tick away. I think about the snapping and the crunching and Luna’s glowing shadows and the city catching me, and it’s too real and don’t want anything to do with it.

Then, almost idly, almost like I’m trudging through a foggy swamp, I take a few steps in his direction. I catch up to the bastard and walk alongside him as he drags himself. The streets are empty. Not another soul anywhere in sight. Odd. It’s broad daylight out and there isn’t another soul anywhere in sight, but I’m so caught up in the surrealistic cluster-buck that has become my life I don’t even really notice. Don’t care at all. For awhile it’s just me and Filthy Rich and the cracks on the sidewalk. For awhile I’m watching him drag himself, wondering with mild interest how far down the block he’ll get before he keels over and dies.

Eventually Filthy notices me. He looks up. Most of his face is gone. His right eye socket is crushed and the eye is missing, but the left one looks up at me, flickering with terrified recognition. He crawls faster. Tries to escape. I step right in front of him, and the poor bastard tries his damndest to crawl around me.

“Stop it,” I tell him, “I’m not going to hurt you.” Actually, I’m not sure what I’m going to do at this point. The plan was to scare the piss out of Filthy Rich. Slap him around a little. Maybe cripple him if I had to. Plan was to break him until he stayed broken, not to kill him. Didn’t want him dead. Didn’t want anypony dead. But the diamond dog…That yellow horned piece of shit killed the diamond dog and…

…Shit…

Went overboard again. Forgot the promise I made after I streaked that white room red. Promised there wouldn’t be any more blood on my hooves. Promised. Damn it. Damn it all.

Well, looks like you got what you wanted, Rose, I think, looking down at Filthy. He’s broken all right. I look down at him, and I remember the promise, and the fall and all the bullshit, and I know I should feel bad—feel something—but the hangover leaves me numb. Empty. I should be pissed about Luna letting me to fall to my death and Manehattan coming to my rescue, but I can’t bring myself to care. Not now. It’ll catch up with me later. Buck me in the gut and double me over and have me crying like a foal with a scarped knee and no mother kiss away the pain. It’ll catch up. Always does.

Filthy looks up, his lone eye wide with loud desperation, his face small and sorry. The nearly toothless mess that is his mouth works wordlessly; low mumbles are the best he can manage. His bottom jaw quivers. Flaps. Seems to hang on dearly, looking as though it could drop off at any moment.

“P-p-please, kill me…” Suddenly Filthy’s mouth is working. His horrid rasp of a voice racks my ears like a blow. “…B-but leave…p-please leave my little girl. She’s a-all—” His breath catches sharply in his throat, cutting his words short, mincing them to bits. His bottom lip quivers. He tries to speak, but the words sprinkle out of his broken face and fly away on the indifferent breeze.

I kneel down beside him. “What?”

“She’s all…” he tries again.

“What, what?” I grab him suddenly and immediately regret doing it. His body feels like a wet leather sack full of broken glass. He tries to say more but his chest heaves. He sputters. Rattles in my grip and pisses himself before dying with one final hideous groan.

A minute passes. Another. A pigeon perches on a power line and tilts his head as if confused; unable, or unwilling to make sense of the sad story coming to a sadder end a few stories below his perch. Another minute passes. The streets are empty. Another.

I look down at Filthy, not sure what I’m supposed to be feeling. Remorse for a lost life? Guilt for having taken it? Pleasure? The little bastard got what he deserved, didn’t he? He was one of Manehattan’s criminals. One of her worst. He got what he deserved, didn’t he... Didn’t he?

A few minutes pass—or maybe only seconds. I don’t know.

Silence…

Silence…

Then the clop, clop of clamoring hooves finds me. Startles me. I hear carriage wheels rolling over the cracks in the streets. Voices. Panicked voices. And then shouts. Calls for help. Calls for the police.

Manhattan is waking up. Stretching her sore limbs. Yawning her long lazy yawn. The morning noises startle me. I dash away from what little is left of Filthy Rich. A crowd forms around him. Around the crash site: the ruined carriage and the city’s new blemishes.

Manehattan wakes up. A crowd forms. I wade out into the sea of shocked expressions and disappear.

Somewhere above me a camera flashes. I look up and catch a glimpse of a familiar plain-looking white shirt, and a red and white cap, and a bright smile. And then there are more flashes and more jostling bodies, brushing elbows and knocking shoulders and wanting a better look at the broken, bleeding tragedy splayed out in the street—and there are more calls for help, and for the cops, and mixing with the calls are excited sounds: hoots and jeers and even a few laughs, and then the city’s laugh; the unmistakable hot, haughty, whooping bray of an old mule sating her morbid lust, quenching her thirst with the blood-wet suffering of another—

And then I’m gone. Vanishing in broad daylight. Hiding in it. From it. From the morning noises, and the bustling crowd, and Celestia’s ball of fire, and the thousands of imaginary prying eyes I know are not watching me.

“Are you sure you wouldn’t rather have a seat inside, Miss?” asks the waiter as he lays a menu on the table. “We still have plenty of room, and it’s rather chilly out this morning.”

“I’m fine,” I answer.

“Right. Can I start you off with something to drink, then?”

“Coffee.”

The waiter nods and trots off. Leaves me alone with my thoughts, with the memory of last night’s snow storm and the morning sounds: The rumble of buses pulling up to the curb, gathering their passengers, then pulling away again. The wail of upset foals in their strollers. The bittersweet strum of a street performer’s lyre, and the metallic jingle of coins dropping into an upturned bowler hat at her side. She’s playing on the sidewalk just outside of the café, her striped scarf and mint green mane swaying, dancing to the strum of her lyre in the breeze. She’s playing a song I haven’t heard since I left Ponyville. Every note stabs me with bittersweet nostalgia.

“…Let’s finish our holiday cheer…” I sing aloud without meaning to, my voice soft, the lyrics and the memories they conjure too delicate to hold up under anything heavier than a whisper. Winter is far from over and the unicorn strumming her lyre knows it, because she’s playing that old song like spring isn’t going to make it this year. Like she’s trying her hardest to warm the frigid morning sky and melt the snow that’s blanketed the rooftops. Like she’s trying to chase away winter with the power of her music alone. Strumming and strumming and wishing for a spring she’s afraid may never come.

The waiter brings my coffee. Sets it down on the table. Nods. Asks if I’m having anything else. I’m not.

“Indeed,” he says politely, his uptown accent tempered and charming.

A shooting pain cuts through my right shoulder as I reach for the steaming mug. The pain reminds me of the fall. It’s been more than a week since the fall, and the memory is a bitter one. It was board daylight out when I came down. A crowd formed. Ending up running off so fast I didn’t think to grab my grappling hook. Left it dangling from the neck of that streetlight. Limped off into the nearest subway station. Stupid. Wasn’t thinking. Was numb. Scared. Not thinking. Stupid.

Thought about going back to old Storm Chaser’s place and having Redheart take a look at my shoulder, but decided against it. Decided not to go back until me and the city are all done working out our differences. Until I find the ponies who killed Scope and make them pay. Pay in blood and dignity. I reach for the mug and the bitter memory darts up my shoulder. One more bitter memory. One more among dozens.

Since the fall I’ve been staying at a hotel in Discord’s Kitchen. Had to pawn a few of the stones on the diamond dog’s collar to pay for a room. Felt bad doing it. Felt wrong, but I need the bits. Turns out the hound had expensive taste. The stones on his collar were worth plenty.

Been staying in the Kitchen. She is a living thing, this city, and Discord’s Kitchen is her black, black heart. Dilapidation has rotted most of Manehattan to the bone, but Discord’s Kitchen is where her depravity is most deeply felt. It’s the poorest place in the city. Meanest, too. It’s the only part of uptown that’s as rotted through as downtown. Only place where the windows don’t shine. Where they don’t sparkle when shattered.

There’s a sleepy little hole-in-the-wall café in the Kitchen called Peachy’s Pies. That’s where I am now, sipping coffee and listening to what feels like my own personal serenade. The pies at Peachy’s are shit, but the coffee is decent. Atmosphere isn’t bad either.

It takes her a while to show up. Takes about half a cup of the black stuff and two songs from the street performer, and when she finally does show, Yoosee Dee looks haggard. There are bags under her eyes like she hasn’t slept in days, and some of the usual intensity has left her electric blue stare. Her cheeks are bruised. Her neck. Lips are a bit swollen. She looks pissed. Sits across from me. Plucks the mug up off the table and gulps down the last of my coffee in one arduous swallow.

“You wanted to see me?” I ask. Dee fidgets in her seat. Looks around apprehensively. When she doesn’t find whatever it is she’s looking for, her face disappears into a saddle bag on her hip and reappears, a newspaper in her mouth. She unfolds it. Lays it flat on the table. Slides it over to me and points to the headline, tapping her hoof against the table beneath the paper in an overt display of shortness. It’s an old issue of the Post. The headline reads, “SUCCESSFUL BUSINESS MOGUL DIES IN HORRIFIC CARRIAGE ACCIDENT.” Beneath the headline is a picture of the crash site, and beneath that a caption that reads, “Remains of Filthy Rich’s Reins Royce found on 67th Street in the upper west side. Police suspect foul play. Photo by Tracy Flash.”

“This your doing?” Dee asks. She looks pissed. Serious. I don’t answer. Dee leans forward. Slams her hoof on the table, knocking over the empty mug and earning a few stares from the ponies seated around us. “Don’t—do not play dumb with me, Rose. You did this, didn’t you?”

“Celestia’s sake, Dee, keep it down. Or have you forgotten that one of us is a wanted fugitive?” I say in a hushed voice, starting to regret agreeing to this meeting. “How did you even find me?” I ask. Nopony knows I’ve been staying uptown in the Kitchen, but somehow Dee managed to find me. Sent me a letter two days ago. Left it for me at the hotel’s front desk. Impressive. Dee managed to find me. Impressive but a bit unnerving. I’ll have to cover my tracks better. If Dee could find me, there’s no telling who else knows where I am.

I ask Dee how she found me. Her hooves shake. She leans back into her seat. Closes her eyes. Rubs her brow. “You’re a real piece of work, you know that? Jumping off rooftops. Bumping off crime bosses. And look at you—you look like shit. You even stop to think what all this is doing to Redheart? She’s not stupid. She knows what you’re doing up here.”

“You really come all this way to lecture me?” I ask. The waiter comes back to refill my coffee. I order a cup for Dee. She waits until the waiter goes back inside. Then she sits up straight and unbuttons her jacket to show me a bandage tapped to her underbelly.

“The cops showed up at my place and started asking questions about you. Two days later some thugs put a brick through my window and a knife in my gut. Bastards dragged me into the back seat of a carriage, beat the hell out of me, and cut me open,” she hisses. Her coffee comes. She buttons her jacket. Sips her drink. Settles down a bit before continuing. “They were looking for you. The little shit-eaters told me they were going to kill me unless I told them where you were. I bled you for you, asshole,” she says, trying hard not to shout.

“You didn’t tell them anything, did—” I stop short, kicking myself for being so selfish. “I mean...shit. Dee, I’m sorry.”

“Spare me the bullshit sentiment. We both know you don’t give a rat’s ass about anypony but yourself. And no, I didn’t tell them anything. I fought my way out of that back seat.” Dee shuts up. Glares at me. Waits for me to say something. I don’t. I don’t know what to say. “Bucking hell, Rose, why didn’t you give me a heads up or something? Redheart told me you sent her to stay with one of your friends. She gets a bodyguard and you just leave me to it, is that?

“I figured you could handle yourself,” I say, sounding pathetic when I say it. At this Dee settles down even more. She sips her coffee.

“Well, yeah—of course I can handle myself,” she says with a faint self-satisfied grin. “But a warning would’ve been nice. I mean, I did almost die.” Dee drinks the last of her coffee, then reaches into her saddle bag and produces a pack of smokes. She calls the waiter over. Asks for a light. The waiter’s horn ignites and so does the end of Dee’s cigarette. She thanks him. Promises there’ll be a generous tip waiting for him when the two of us leave.

“Didn’t know you smoked,” I say.

“It’s not the worst vice. Did you want one?” she asks, offering me the pack. I don’t. She takes a small buff. Exhales. “Look, all that talk about me getting busted up ain’t the reason I needed to see you.” Dee leans in close, her expression dark and serious. “See that unicorn sitting off to your right about two tables away from us?” I glance in the direction Dee’s indicating. Catch a glimpse of the unicorn. Mare. Dressed conservatively. Posture near perfect. Poised. Rigid. Stiff as a board. “I’m pretty sure she’s been following me for the past three days.” I can tell Dee doesn’t want me to hear it, but there’s a very real pang of fear ringing true in her voice.

I glance. Only catch a glimpse. I can’t see her pelt under the long-sleeved jacket she’s wearing, but I see her mane. Just a glance but a glance is all my sharp eyes need to drink in the image. It’s her all right. Same rigid posture. Same sea foam green mane. The Fed. Agent Temporal, I think her name was.

“She’s been following you?” I ask.

“Since the day Filthy’s goon’s jumped me.” Dee must see the sudden flash of recognition come over my face, because the next thing out of her mouth is, “Wait, do you know that pony?”

“Yeah, I know her,” I say. “Stay here.”

I get up and walk by Temporal’s table. I make eye contact as I pass by. Make sure she sees me. Make sure she sees the rage and the raw, vindictive hate pulsing behind my glare. I want her to know what’s coming. I want her to know there won’t be any holding back. It’s going to hurt, and it’s going to be loud, and it’s going to be nasty, and there won’t be any holding back. Coming after me is one thing, but making trouble for my loved ones, that’s…that’s… Luna help me, I’m going to hurt her. Her and anypony else I find out put their filthy bucking hooves on Dee.

I look her right in the eye. Let her know what’s coming. She looks back. Starts to get up and follow me. Hesitates. I look her in the eye, and she looks back, and she can’t hide the fear flickering bright behind her pupils. I walk by her. Look over my shoulder and silently mouth the words, “Meet me in the kitchen.” Then I bluster into the restaurant like a quiet storm, thunder in my hooves, lighting cracking and snaking through my limbs.

I make for the back of the café. I hardly see the waiters as I push past them, knocking them over and spilling food and drinks. I hardly see them. Everything is tinted red. The waiters with their trays, and the customers in their seats—and then when I reach the kitchen the cooks in their white aprons and their white mane-nets and their white hats. Red. All of it tinted red by the blinding intensity of my own anger.

“Hey! You can’t just come back here!” shouts one of the cooks. I ignore him. The kitchen is small. Doesn’t take long to find what I’m looking for. I shove one of the cooks aside and bite down on the handle of a whistling tea kettle that’s sitting on the stove.

“What gives, lady? Put that down,” shouts another cook. He tries to wrestle the kettle away from me. I kick him in the throat. He makes a gurgling sound. Falls. The others stare at me. Dumbfounded. Not sure what to do next.

Then a light blue aura bucks the door off its hinges. It flies inwards, smashing into an unsuspecting cook, splitting his skull like an overripe melon and sending him pitching into the back wall. He comes to rest in a pile of bent metal and gore. A shriek rises up from the others, and suddenly the kitchen is lousy with shouts of, “Oh my gosh, oh my gosh!” and, “Somepony call the police!”

Temporal gets two legs through the doorway before I blind her with scolding tea. She screams. Falls. Curls into a ball on the floor, clutching her face.

She steps into the kitchen, and I let the kettle fly, aiming for her face, her eyes. The lid falls away in midair, and the kettle lands on her nose, and the scalding tea drenches her face, and she screams. She falls to the floor and screams like she won’t ever stop.

I smash the back of her head with the tea kettle, enjoying it, loving the dull thump, thump of cast iron smacking into flesh and bone. She tries to protect herself but the blows keep coming.

Eventually I stop hitting her and spit out the kettle. “You and your friends like ganging up on ponies, do you?” I hear myself say, the words hot with rage, singeing my tongue and lips as they leave my mouth. “What was it? Three against one? Four?”

Temporal tries to crawl away. I grab her shoulders, stand her up on all fours and drive her face-first into the stove. I do it a second time, and a gash opens on her forehead. Blood paints the stove door. Drips into her eyes. Her mouth. I bite her jacket collar and swing her into a wall. Then I swing her again, this time folding her against a counter. I hear her ribs crack. A sucking, sputtering sound escapes her bruised lips. She coughs. Starts to cry.

“And after I let you live. After I—” I spy something moving out of the corner of my eye. “What the buck are you looking at!” I shout, noticing that two of the cooks are still in the kitchen. Watching me with wide eyes. Eyes fascinated cruelty. “Out!” I shout. They stare. Confused. Afraid. Enamored—their aroused, frightened faces drinking in the violent scene, wanting to see it to its conclusion. Disgusting. How disgusting we all are. “I said, get out,” I repeat, not shouting this time. Letting the words crawl from my mouth like a hungry predator lumbering out of his den.

Something about the low rumbling quality of my voice must get the message to sink in because the two of them finally leave, shuffling out with their heads down like children being sent to their rooms. Disgusting. Not just them. The ones at the crash site, too. Jeering and laughing and taking pictures. Watching it and getting themselves off. Drooling over it, as if all the suffering in the world was their own personal snuff flick. Disgusting, every last one of them. I watch the cooks go. Hating them. Wanting to hurt them.

Temporal tries to crawl away. Tries to slink across the kitchen floor like the worm she is. When crawling doesn’t work she tries to mumble for mercy trough a broken jaw. I answer her. I pick her up and hurl over the counter and into a knife rack. She lands with a satisfying thud. The knives land on and around her, nicking her skin and dropping to the tiled floor in a clamor of sharp, metallic pinging.

“You should’ve stayed away,” I say, more to myself than to the barely conscious unicorn lying flat on her back on the other side of the kitchen. “I let you live. You should’ve just stayed away. Just let it go.” I half walk, half limp over to the stove. My shoulder is aching and the initial rush of adrenaline is beginning to fade. My hoof finds a dial. A flame leaps up from the stove top. A cool, blue ring of fire.

I take Temporal’s jacket collar in my mouth. Drag her across the floor. Across the kitchen. Toward the stove. The cool, blue ring of fire. Then I stand her up on her hind legs, holding her over the blue ring, my front hooves gripping the back of her mane.

“Your friends. The ones who jumped Dee,” I say. “I want their names. I want to know where they sleep. Where their children sleep. I want them, and you’re going to give them to me.” Temporal stays quiet. She sobs. Sniffs. Then her horn sparks, and I push the side of her face into the open flame. She screams and squirms in my grasp but her horn doesn’t dim.

I push harder, burning the tips of my hooves.

She pushes against me, the light from her horn flickering on and off, on and off, blinking like an old light bulb that’s ready to burn out.

I push harder. The foul stink of burning flesh leaps into my nostrils and spins my head like a top. Makes me dizzy. The stink spins my head, and the rising smoke wrings water from my eyes. Makes my stomach lurch. Churn. I choke down a threatening lump of vomit, and I push harder, and she pushes right back.

And then I feel a familiar tickle swim through my body, like a feather brushing against my insides. The feather starts in my chest, swims into my stomach, then starts swirling around randomly. She can’t focus. The feather can’t find a bone to lean against. She can’t focus but not from lack of trying. She’s concentrating so hard that her nose is bleeding, but it’s no good. Her feather can’t find a bone to lean against. To break.

The smell leaps. The feather swims randomly. I push. She pushes back.

One second. Two seconds. Three.

Smell wafts. Feather swims randomly. I push. She pushes back.

Six seconds. Seven. Eight.

Wafts. Swims. Push. Push.

Eleven. Twelve. Thirteen.

Push. Push. Push… Pushing and burning and wafting and flickering and swimming, and pushing—pushing—pushing, and…

“Rose! Stop it! Get off of her!”

I look away from Temporal’s bleeding, burning face, and her flickering horn, and I see Dee standing in the doorway, her expression a haunting portrait of distress.

“I told you to stay outside,” I growl.

“Stop!” Dee rushes over. Tries to push me away from Temporal. “You’re going to kill her, you bucking psychopath. She wasn’t even there. She wasn’t one of the thugs who jumped me, okay! She’s just been following me. Please Rose, get off her.”

Dee is strong. She pulls one of my forelegs away. I lose my balance, and the two of us tumble to the floor. Temporal hits the floor. I scramble to my hooves. Dee scrambles to her hooves. Temporal doesn’t move. She lies still. Doesn’t move an inch.

“Come on,” Dee says anxiously, "Let’s get out of here before the cops come.”

“They aren’t coming,” I say. On shaky legs and burned front hooves, I start trudging toward Temporal.

“The hay are you talking about? Let’s go, Rose.” Dee grabs my shoulder. “Seriously let’s go. Now, Rose. Rose? Damnit, Rose?!”

Dee keeps talking. Complaining. Cursing. I ignore her. On shaky legs, I trudge toward Temporal. Stand over her. Look down at her. Half her face is black and red and swollen and starting to peel, and her nose is bleeding profusely, and her one good eye is looking up at me, squinting through a small stream of tears.

Her mouth works soundlessly for a moment. Searching for the right word. For what might be her last word. Searching soundlessly. Then she finds the word. Finds it and spits it in my face.

“Monster,” she says, her voice quavering with fear and indignation. Her horn is still flickering. Blinking. Even now. She’s too weak to work her magic. She knows that she can’t hurt me now—that she never really could. I saw it her eyes when I first walked by. She knew even then that she couldn’t hurt me. Perhaps she’s known since the white room. Since I bounced her brother off the walls, decorating the room with the last of his life. She came here knowing there was nothing she could do to stop me. Knowing that she’d never have revenge for her brother, and yet here she is anyway. Lying at my mercy. Hating me. Looking up through one teary eye and hating me.

“Monster,” she says again. It’s a good word. Suits me. Makes me smile. Almost makes me laugh out loud.

Dee tugs at my shoulder, and Temporal slips into unconsciousness, and outside on the sidewalk the unicorn is still strumming her lyre. Still pouring her whole being into that old song and praying the winter doesn’t last a day longer.

The cops don’t come. They never do in Discord’s Kitchen.

Daughters Without a Father, Part 2

Chapter XII: Daughters Without a Father, Part 2

For the first time since the night I nearly bled to death in the back seat of her carriage, Dee gets sentimental on me. I think watching me torture Temporal got to her. She can't look me in the face as the two of us tear out Peachy's, carrying Temporal's limb body between us like some strange life sized doll. It's an awkward, crazy shuffle from the kitchen, out the back door, and across the street to where Dee's carriage is parked.

Dee gets sentimental on me. Doesn't want to leave Temporal to die alone on the floor of shitty hole-in-the-wall café in a shitty part of town. She gets sentimental. Goes soft. Squishy. Must have spooked her. Stupid. I told her to stay outside. Didn't want her to see what I was going to do to Temporal. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

We dump the unicorn in the back seat. I crawl in beside the poor bastard, and then all at once Dee is pulling away from the curb like a pony possessed. Suddenly the carriage is shooting over the slushy road, and the Kitchen is racing by, and the street signs and the other carriages and the homely shops and the chain restaurants are blurring and melting into each other, dissolving into a messy gray smear. I shout for Dee to slow down before she gets us killed, and she shouts back, telling me to shut the buck up. Telling me she needs to get to where she's going quickly or Temporal won't make it.

We shoot across the slushy road. Dodge traffic. Run lights. Every time we turn the cart skids. Tips up on two wheels. Dee nearly loses control about a dozen times; nearly sends us hurtling into oncoming traffic or into a stop sign or some unsuspecting pedestrian. We scare the living shit out of a lot unsuspecting pedestrians.

It's fun. The rush. The insane, reckless thrill of tear-assing down the icy road. Faster. Faster. In the back seat of Dee's carriage I experience a different sort of flying than the sort I'm used to. A new, horrifying sort that has my heart hammering as I brace myself against the seat in front of me. As I hold on like my life depends on it, secretly hoping for a few squad carriages to show up and chase us likes in those stupid action movies.

I laugh out loud at the thought. I imagine Sparkle leaning out the window of her squad cart, shouting for me to pull over, screaming bloody murder into her bullhorn; and me shouting back, telling her to go buck herself. Telling her that she and the rest of Manehattan's finest will never take me alive. I let my imagination run rampant, and I hold on, and I throw my head back, loving the feel of the frigid wind clawing at my face. I laugh out loud. Beside me Temporal is sleeping soundly, dying if she isn't dead already, but who gives a buck. I have speed and I have distance, and they are all I have ever needed to keep reality from touching me.

Outside of the carriage, the city is racing by. Changing. Shrinking and shriveling and seeming to age right before my eyes. Outside of the carriage, Manehattan shows me a side of herself I have never seen before. A side she hides behind her glitz and glam, her false promises and ugly powdered face and her hot, haughty laugh. Outside, the tall buildings are shrinking into small houses as we move away from the heart of the Kitchen and into a residential area. They shrink into small houses, and then the small houses shrivel into smaller houses, then wilt into crude shacks and flimsy, dusty tents and—

"Damnit, Dee! What the hay do you think you're doing?" I shout, jumping forward, grabbing hold of the reins and giving them a jerking tug. We stop so abruptly that I'm nearly thrown out of the carriage. Dee rears up on her hind legs, startled. Neighing furiously. She shakes her mane. Snorts.

"Relax," Dee says, looking at me from over her shoulder. "I got a friend who stays here. She can take care of the unicorn. You know, the one you tried to murder in cold blood."

The carriage stops. It takes reality all of two seconds to catch up and buck me upside the head as punishment for making it chase after me. I don't know if it's the sudden lack of movement that does it. I don't know if it's the way she says it, or if it's the look in her intense electric blue eyes, or if it's some combination of everything—but I hear the word murder slither its way out of her mouth and something in me snaps. Comes unglued. Dee starts trotting again. I give the reins another tug, stopping her cold.

“Tug on my reins again, and I swear I’m gonna—”

"I wasn't going to kill her!" I shout. The outburst comes from someplace deep in my gut and when it comes, it comes big and nasty. Dee's whole body clenches. She looks away. Doesn't say anything. I jump down from the carriage, scarcely aware of my legs as they stomp up to meet Dee where she's standing on the side of the road. She's cowering. Retreating into herself as I near her.

"You hear me?" ask her. She tries to turn away, but I grab her by the mane and force her to look at me. "I wasn't going to kill her."

"Okay," Dee squeaks. Quivering.

"I wasn't," I say, again, more in control of myself now.

"Okay." Dee's voice is small. She nods. Keeps her gaze pointed towards the ground.

A few heads poke out from the windows and the doorways of the shanties lining the street, watching us. The shanties are literally leaning against one another. Leaning against one another and standing on each other's shoulders and heads, and at each other's backs, so close you can hardly tell where one crude shack ends and the next dusty tent begins. The windows seem to have been cut out randomly. The doors too, giving the impression that some of the homes have two or three entrances while some have none at all.

A few heads poke out. Watch us.

I shove Dee before climbing back into my seat. Dee doesn't say anything else until we get to where we're going. Neither do I.

We're west of the Bad Weather Beat. As far west as you can go before you reach city limits. The carriage climbs a hill and in the distance I see the Golden Bit Bridge that connects Manehattan to her sister Hooflyn. If we were to cross that bridge and keep heading west through Hooflyn we'd find ourselves in Reinchester, and then in Little Foals, and then eventually we'd make it to the edge of New Colt State. From there we could get on the right train heading northwest and in a few days' time wind up on the pristine streets of Canterlot, all haggard, red-eyed and dressed in rags; the three of us looking like piles of trash that washed up on a white sand beach. Ponyville is just one train ride away from the capitol. One more train ride and I'd be home.

We go as far west as you can go without leaving the city. I'm closer to home than I've been in years, but somehow I know I've never been further. I look down at my burned, blood-flecked hooves and I think about all the awful things I've done and all the awful things that still need doing, and I wonder if Ponyville is even still there. If it was ever there—or if it was just something I dreamed up. Some false paradise conjured in a broken mind. Something I could pretend to lose so I'd have an excuse to be angry and break things and hate. A beautiful place. Perfect setting for the perfect tragedy. Daisy. Lily. I shut my eyes for a moment and watch them die, and I pray to a goddess who doesn't love me that I didn't dream them up too. They seem so far away now.

We climb a hill and Dee stops a moment to catch her breath. It's midday and the light from Celestia's ball of fire has a forlorn feel to it as it splashes down on Dee's mane and tail. She stops and for a moment she looks completely lost. Sad. Trounced. Beaten up and beaten down by loving hooves and by loveless hooves, both pairs treating her same. Treating her like the living, breathing, blinking ball of meaningless shit that she is. That we all are. She stops a minute to catch her breath. Stops on a hill. We are perched at the edge of Manehattan. Feels like the edge of the world.

The place is called Shanty Alley. It's the poorest neighborhood in Discord's Kitchen—in the entire city—and it's also home to the notorious street gang, the Daughters of Discord. The Daughters are the only uptown street gang because they're the only ponies crazy enough to make trouble for the uptown gangsters. Gangsters like Grift and Filthy Rich, though I suppose the latter of those two is no longer in the game. They've even picked fights with Manehattan's biggest, wealthiest, most organized crime family, the Oranges. The Daughters run Shanty Alley, all of the Kitchen and most of the upper west side. And they hate outsiders.

Dee's carriage rumbles to a stop outside of a shack that looks slightly less disheveled than the others. She takes off her harness. Tells me to stay with Temporal. Trots up to the shack and raps on a large sheet of rusted metal that I assume is supposed to be the front door. The metal sheet slides aside and a timid looking earth pony mare with an orange-cream mane and bright green eyes appears in the entrance. She and Dee talk for a moment. I don't hear what they say, but I see the mare's eyes flick left and right like she's worried somepony is watching her. Her eyes flick, bright and glinting like polished spring green mirrors. They remind me of Daisy's.

The two of them trot back to the carriage. Orange-cream's pretty green eyes fall on me, then on the sleeping unicorn at my side. She takes a moment to assess the damage. Snorts. Mumbles something under her breath. Shakes her head, tossing her lush mane this way and that.

"You, h-h-help me get h-her inside," she says to me. "Dee, g-g-go inside and g-g-get the bed ready."

I help Orange-cream carry Temporal inside. She doesn't say another word. Doesn't ask any questions. Raise any protests. Just orders Dee to ready a bed, then orders me to help her with Temporal. She's calm. She's done this sort of thing before.

The inside of the shack is surprisingly large. To my left there is a couch, a coffee table in front of the couch, and a worn bookcase slouching against the wall like a tired old stallion. At far end of the room is a darkened hallway entrance, mysterious and gaping like the maw of some hungry predatory waiting for some unsuspicious pony to wander in. It doesn't seem to lead anywhere. Above us is a ceiling fan, its blades spinning lazily. A lamp on the coffee table provides the only light in the room. Both it and the ceiling fan must be battery powered because neither of them has power a cord, and even if they did, I can't imagine a place like this having electricity.

Together we lay Temporal down on the couch. An odd smell finds my nose. I look around in search of its origin and find several rusted shelves built into the wall opposite the bookcase. Sitting on the shelves are an assortment of medicines and other drugs I doubt cure anything. Bottles of pills. Vials of colorful liquids. Syringes. Needles. Boxes of bandages. Scalpels. In the corner of the room is a big vat full of bubbling liquid. Whatever's in the vat is what’s causing the smell.

Orange-cream must notice that I'm staring because she touches my shoulder and says, "Z-z-zebra voodoo. Learned a bit w-w-when I w-was with the relief e-effort." A proud smile graces her gentle face as she does her best to navigate clumsily through the sentence. "Stuff's d-d-dangerous if you d-d-don't know what you're d-doing."

"Hello, dying unicorn over here," Dee says, waving for Orange-cream's attention as she slides a pillow beneath Temporal's head.

Orange-cream mumbles something to Dee, and then Dee disappears into the predator's mouth. Orange-cream reaches underneath the couch and pulls out a plain white box with a red cross on the lid that makes me think of Redheart's cutie mark, and her shimmering pink mane, her lips warm against my forehead.

Dee returns with a large bowl of water and a few towels. I half watch the two of them clean the dried blood from Temporal's sleeping face, my mind preoccupied with thoughts of Redheart. They do their best to put Temporal back together, picking up her pieces and placing them where they belong. Orange-cream gives orders. Tells Dee to retrieve things from the shelves. Burn ointment. Strange-smelling herbs. A vial full of whatever is bubbling in the vat. She gives orders, her voice resolute. Hard with authority despite her stutter. She gives orders and Dee does her best to keep up. Half the time she doesn't know what is what, and she can hardly tell one drug from another, but she does her best to keep up. She grumbles and complains and whines the entire time, but she does her best to keep up, desperate to make right my wrong.

I watch the two of them, not sure what I should be doing with myself. I watch them. Watch Orange-cream's hooves work that special kind of magic that only healers know. She has hooves like Redheart's. Steady. Firm but gentle. Loving. Made for fixing things. I watch her hooves work their magic, and I watch her mouth work as she gives her orders, and I notice how full her lips are, how sweet her voice is, the rhythm of it soothing, the constant repetition of sounds melodic and song-like. Her mouth. Her lips. So full. So wet. Dripping with life and confidence and music.

Her lips…

"Rose! Wipe that stupid look off your face and grab that syringe off the shelf," Dee snaps. The sound of her voice whips me awake, pulling my focus away from Orange-cream's lips. I shake the fantasy out of my head and face Dee. She shrinks for moment. Retreats. Then, determined not to be bullied, she puts on a tough face and talks to me the way she usually does. "Not that one, you idiot," Dee snaps, "The one beneath it. Yes… Yes that one, shit for brains." She snaps and snaps and keeps on snapping. When I pass her the syringe she takes it and turns away from me quickly as if disgusted by the sight of me.

I don't like it. I know it's my fault, not hers. I know she has every right to be upset with me. Afraid of me, even. I know, but I don't like it. Dee keeps looking at me sideways, like I'm some dangerous animal she's been warned to stay away from. I'm not some animal. I'm not... I wasn't going to kill Temporal. I wasn't. I wish Dee could understand that.

"I'm going to pull my carriage around back," she says, making for the door. "Gotta make sure nopony puts it up on blocks or something."

I step in front of her. "You want some help?" I ask, trying to be nice. Trying hard to keep the anger swelling up in my chest at bay.

"No," she says dismissively. She tries to shove by me but I grab her shoulder. Stop her cold.

"You sure?" I try again, even forcing a small smile this time.

"I'm sure. Let go of me." Dee looks at me with those intense electric blue eyes. Judging me. Looking at me like I'm an animal. Like I'm going to hurt her—and if she doesn't stop looking at me like that, I just might. "Seriously, Rose." Her voice is solemn. Grave. "Let go of me."

I let her go. "I'm sorry about what happened back there on the road. That wasn't me. I mean…I shouldn't have done that. I'm sorry." I let her go. She turns away sharply and I have to fight the urge to grab her again. "Hey, we're okay right?" I ask, sounding a bit more desperate that I would've liked. "You and me. We're okay, aren't we?"

"Yeah," she says, nodding. She blinks. Takes a short breath. "Yeah…of course we are."

Dee leaves. The door slides shut behind her. Shuts in my face. I stare down at the floor, feeling hurt.

"Your shoulder," says Orange-cream from behind. The sound of her melodic voice soothes away the tension still hanging in the room. "It's b-b-bothering you."

I rub my right shoulder reflexively. "How did you know that?" I ask, impressed.

"Y-y-your leaning all y-your weight on one s-sss-sss—" Poor Orange-cream has trouble with her "S" sounds. The effort it takes to get the word out seems to drain her. "—Side," she finally manages. "Here, let me ss-sss-ssssee-ssssee— let me look at it."

She leads me through the predator's mouth, and to my surprise it leads to short hallway. Orange-cream must see the bewilderment spreading across my face, because she tells me, in her stammering way, that her shack is connected to a few of the shanties. She says she and her neighbors are good friends and she likes to keep a close eye on them.

We head through a door that leads to a staircase. Climb. Despite going up the place has an underground feel to it. Trapping. Claustrophobic. The stairs lead us to another doorway, and the doorway opens up to a cozy bedroom barely big enough for the two of us.

Orange-cream asks me to please have a seat, stammering over the word 'seat' for what feels like a full minute. I sit at the edge of the bed. She sits at my side. Examines my shoulder for a minute. Asks me where it hurts. How badly. She gives me something for the pain, then begins bandaging my shoulder.

"T-that f-f-feel better?" she stammers.

"Yeah," I answer, my voice hollow. "Yeah, that's better."

"You're w-welcome to sleep up h-here in my room if y-you like." I thank her but decline. I tell her Dee and I won't be staying long. She nods. Seems upset.

Orange-cream goes to work massaging my shoulders. Her touch is soothing. Firm and sure and soothing. Feeling better, I paw absentmindedly at the collar around my neck and find myself looking around without really seeing anything. There isn't much to see in the little room. A few pictures of Orange-cream posing with ponies who look a lot like her. Family I assume. There's a nightstand beside the bed with a lamp sitting on it: same kind that was on the coffee table in the room downstairs. Beside the lamp is an odd looking alarm clock and beside that is…huh?

My eyes fall on a picture teetering so close to the edge of the nightstand, it looks ready to topple over the edge. I take a closer look at the photograph, and my breath catches in my throat. I suppress a tiny gasp as I reach for it. The picture is in a wooden frame. I reach for it. Hold it. Stare at it with disbelieving eyes.

"My h-husband," says Orange-cream, taking the picture from me gently but defensively. She looks down at it like she hasn't seen it in a long time. Like she's trying to remember what it is. What it means. "Back when h-he and I w-were with the relief e-effort. W-w-we were happy then, I think."

In the picture Orange-cream is standing beside a stallion. He has one of his forelegs around her neck, holding her close to his side like he never wants to let go. Orange-cream is looking at the camera, smiling bashfully; but the stallion is looking at her; and all around them, tugging at their pant legs and pulling their tails, is a small group of young zebras. Some of them very young. Only foals. Orange-cream is cradling one of the baby zebras in her foreleg. Everypony is smiling. It's a nice picture. Sight of it breaks my heart.

"Where were you when this was taken?" I ask.

"Z-z-ebrica. It's where we met. My husband and I were p-part of the relief effort. H-h-helped out a lot of s-s-ssss-s-ssss-sick kids," she says, almost choking on the word sick. "Lot of poor f-f-families." Then she pauses and looks away from the picture. She leans against me, perhaps seeking comfort as she remembers something unpleasant.

"Where is he now," I hear myself ask, already knowing the answer.

"Not around. N-not anymore," she says, sounding far away. "He was a g-g-good husband. W-weak, maybe, but a g-g-good husband. Had t-to many v-v-vices, though. Gambling. Drinking. P-p-partying. He always d-did have a taste for the f-f-finer things. He used to tell m-m-me he wanted to give me the w-w-world." I watch her lips as she talks. I can't pull my eyes away from them. So full and wet and melodious. They have to work so hard to articulate ideas. Harder than most. I watch them. Wanting them. Wanting them pressed against my mouth, and under my chin, and against my neck, and between my thighs. I watch her lips. Wanting them. Wanting her.

A bitter laugh plays on her perfect lips. Marring them. Stinging them. Hurting them and making me want them even more.

"He g-gambled away all our m-m-m-money. L-lost his job. Started w-working for the m-m-mob. He told me it would only be for awhile. Only until he g-g-got back on his h-hooves. But h-h-he couldn't control it. Couldn't control himself. He never really could…

"They found him w-w-with his throat cut in some apartment d-d-downtown. They f-f-found him there with a n-note. A joke," she says, suddenly angry. "Whoever k-k-killed him left behind s-s-s-s-some s-s-s-s-stupid knock-knock joke!"

She stops a moment to catch her breath. Puts a hoof to her brow and shakes her head. Closes her eyes and laughs her bitter laugh. "I w-w-wish I could say h-he didn't have it coming. W-wish I could say he d-d-didn't deserve it."

"He didn't," I say, wanting to comfort her. "Nopony deserves to die that way." She leans deeper into me. Her cheek is soft against my chest. Her mane plush and feathery under my chin. Her breath warm on my coat. Her lips… So close. Her lips…

"No, h-he did. He was w-w-weak. I knew he w-w-was weak but I l-l-loved him anyway. I l-l-love… I l-l-loved… I—" She pauses and takes a deep breath. Pushes it out slow and takes another.

"I loved him," she says, pronouncing each word carefully. I get the feeling she needed to be able to say those words without stammering. She needed them to be real, and she needed to sure of them, and she knew they couldn't be either if they were breaking and cracking. If they were wild and uncontrolled as they left her mouth. The effort of annunciation seems to drain her. She nuzzles deeper into me. Me. A perfect stranger. Suddenly it occurs to me that I don't even know her name.

"I'm Rose," I say plainly.

"J-j-junebug," she says morosely, as if upset that she was unable to articulate her own name without stuttering.

"'Junebug?' You're Redheart's friend." Junebug nods. She looks up at me and smiles weakly. I comfort her. Hold her. Hold her tight.

I hold her and she holds the picture. I look down at her and she looks down at it.

Junebug. Her name is Junebug and the stallion standing beside her in the picture has a deep blue coat and a gray mane, and his cutie mark is a scalpel, and the eyes behind his glasses are soft and beautiful and loving—and his haunches and hindquarters curve delicately like a mare's.

Dee and I spend the next few days living with Junebug. I sleep on the dusty floor of her dusty shack in the worst neighborhood in Manehattan. Probably in all of Equestria.

The first night is a rough one. Dee sleeps with Junebug in her bedroom. I sleep on the floor beside Temporal. I'm not sure if I want to be near her, or just away from Dee's judging eyes and Junebug's perfect, full lips. I sleep beside Temporal. Junebug brings me a pillow. A blanket. I fall asleep thinking about Scope. His soft, scared eyes. The gash in his throat, grinning like a second mouth under his chin. I fall asleep thinking about Scope, and about Junebug and all those cute little zebra kids, and when I wake up, I wake up screaming.

I must scream pretty damn loud because Junebug hears me and comes darting to my side. Startled. Flustered.

"W-w-w-w-what happened?" she stammers frantically. Her stutter is much worse when she's flustered. "A-a-a-a-a-a-are you o-o-o-o-o –"

"I'm fine," I say, sitting up. "I have nightmares sometimes. That's all it was. Just a nightmare." Junebug looks at me, confused. Then she lays me back down before lying down with me, encircling my waist in her forelegs.

"What are you doing?" I ask.

"What you did for me," she says without stammering. She pulls the blanket over us. Rests her chin on my shoulder. Presses her chest against my back. Holds me. Holds me tight. I spend the rest of the night trying not to think about her lips. I remember the promise I made to Redheart. That I'd come back to her in one piece. That I'd come back to her. To her. I remember my promise, and I try hard not to think about Junebug's lips, and when I fail I fight to keep my hoof from sliding between my legs and having a little fun with me. I fight. Thankfully I don't fail a second time. The first night is rough one.

In the morning, Dee wanders in. Finds me and Junebug cuddling on the floor. She doesn't say anything, just glares at me with those judging eyes. Those intense electric blue eyes. Then she slides the door open and disappears. Where she goes I don't know, but I'm glad she's gone. A few very violent thoughts sprint through my head, and I'm glad Dee’s gone before they grow bored of being thoughts and decide becoming actions would be more fun.

Junebug and I talk over breakfast. She tells me about herself. Tells me that she is a drug dealer working for the Daughters.

Junebug is a drug dealer. Before she moved to the city she was a physician working for a nonprofit organization called Helping Hooves. She was one of the good ones. Used to tour all over the world with Scope and bunch of other charitable types. Bleeding heart types. Touring all over the world. Rolling around in there convoys through poor neighborhoods. Passing out loaves of bread and boxes of bandages. Repairing damaged homes. Fixing old roads. Building schools. Hospitals. Bunch of bleeding heart types with heads full of ideas and hearts full of good intentions. Touring. Rolling around the ugly, ugly world in their convoys and letting themselves believe they could change it.

Junebug is a drug dealer now. The Daughters supply her with the raw ingredients she needs to cook drugs for the gang, and in return they leave her alone and they make sure everypony else does the same. Like Stephen Scope, Junebug is well known in the underworld, but not very well liked. She knows drugs. The stuff she cooks up in her little shack in her vat of zebra legend and lore is heads and shoulders above anything else on the streets. She claims to have cooked up at least three designer drugs, all them big hits in the clubs, uptown and downtown alike. She knows drugs and she's good at what she does. Too good. the competition hates her. There are a lot of ponies that want Junebug either on their payroll or in the ground, napping beside the earthworms. The Daughters protect her. They claim it's a business agreement but Junebug is no idiot. She knows she's being held hostage.

She tells me that every once in a while the Daughters like to drop in on her. Pay her a visit. Rough her up a bit. They never hurt her too badly, she says. They black her pretty green eyes, and they bruise her pretty cheeks, and they cut her pretty face. They bust her lips. Her perfect full, wet lips. They bust them. Make them swell and paint them red. They rough her up plenty but they never hurt her too badly, Junebug tells me. I want to believe her but Hooves taught me well. Taught me how to read ponies. I want to believe her but Junebug is a lousy liar. When she lies, she gets anxious, and when she gets anxious her stutter gets a lot worse. Lousy liar. I like that about her.

I spend a few days with Junebug. Every morning she wakes up early and makes breakfast. Steamed vegetables. Fruit. Coffee. Same thing every morning. Reminds me of Redheart. When I tell her about Redheart and what she used to make me for breakfast, Junebug wrinkles her nose. She doesn't like eggs, though she tells me that she used to make them for her husband. She asks about her old friend. Tells me she and Redheart toured through Tarandroland, together. Reindeer country. Junebug tell me that Redheart was much younger then and that when they first met, Redheart had a little crush on her. The thought of a young Redheart blushing over an old crush makes me smile. As Junebug talks, I imagine the four of us, me and Redheart, Junebug and Scope, all sitting comfy around a dining room table enjoying a meal together. Junebug teasing Redheart about dating a mare who's so much younger. Scope and I laughing, exchanging knowing glances. I imagine the four us. Together. Enjoying meal. A small pleasure. Happy. In another life, maybe. In newer kinder, gentler, braver Equestria, maybe.

I sit with Junebug and I watch her mouth struggle to work through each sentence, watch her lips trip and stumble and slip up on nearly every word as the old memories of traipsing about the world with Scope and Redheart make her voice swell with passion for days long behind her.

When breakfast is finished Junebug fills a syringe with whatever is bubbling in the vat in the corner of the room, and injects it into Temporal's neck. I ask her if the liquid in the vat is what's keeping Temporal asleep. She's been out cold since the day we brought her here. Junebug shakes her head.

"It's for when s-s-sssshhh—when she wakes up," Junebug struggles to say. There's a small victorious glint in her eye when she overcomes the difficult 'S' sound. "It'll k-keep her from using her m-m-magic."

I never tell Junebug who Temporal is. She figures out on her own that the unicorn is no friend of mine or Dee's. That the two of us are hiding something. She's sharp. I never tell her what I do either, and she doesn't ask, though I suspect she might know something. My face is a forgettable one but it's been the paper before. I have a reputation, though it's possible I'm not as well known uptown as I am downtown. If Junebug does know anything, she doesn't let on. She never asks me questions about myself. In fact, she's happy to do most of the talking. Despite her stutter, Junebug is natural born talker. I can tell she enjoys hearing the sound of her own voice. She should. It's a good voice. Like music. Gentle and passionate and only a little off-key.

Later that same day, Junebug takes me with her as she makes her rounds. During her free time, she likes to go knocking on doors, checking in with some of the poorer families living in Shanty Alley. She treats them like patients. She warns a handsome older earth pony stallion to stay off his bad leg. Checks in on a young pregnant mare who's expecting soon. Rewards a foal with a lollipop for being brave and not flinching while she replaces an old bandage around the kid's head with a fresh one. The little colt's face lights up as she gives him the candy.

"Thank you so much, June," says the mother, leaning in the doorway of her shanty. It's much smaller and much more run down than Junebug's. "I promise I'll get you the money I owe as soon as I can. It's just…since I got laid off at the factory things have been rough, especially for little—"

"It's n-no problem, Ms. Blitz. Don't w-worry about it," says Junebug, smiling with her perfect lips. Ms. Blitz thanks Junebug again. Goes back inside. Closes the door behind her.

"That was a nice thing you did for that mother and her kid," I tell Junebug once the two of us are alone on the street, heading toward the next place on her list. She blushes. Looks away. Stutters something completely incomprehensible that makes me smile. Almost makes me laugh out loud. "You're one of the good ones, you know that?" Her blush deepens. Her stammer gets worse.

Junebug spends the rest of the day trying to impress me with acts of kindness. She glances my way to make sure I'm watching as she carefully wraps an injured foreleg or refuses to accept payment for her service. She glances my way. Blushes. Smiles at me with those perfect full lips. Lips made for sharing sloppy kisses. Made for sinning. I can't help but stare. Can't take my eyes off them.

It's late when we finally get back to Junebug's home. Dee's carriage isn't parked around back. Temporal is still sleeping soundly. Junebug tells me that since Dee is gone, I can sleep in the back room. Her bedroom. I tell her I'd rather stay beside Temporal. She could wake up anytime, and when she does the two of us will need to talk. At first she looks crushed. Defeated. Then she saunters over to me slowly. Runs an aroused front hoof through my mane. Asks again. Asks me if I'm sure I wouldn't rather share the upstairs bed with her. I tell her I'm fine, and I thank her for the offer but I'd really rather stay out front with Temporal. Junebug doesn't give up. She must have noticed me staring at her lips all day because she bites her bottom lip and gives me a pout sexy enough to excite a corpse. She bites her bottom lip. Pouts. Pokes me with a look like she wants me to take her right here and now. Take her every way you can take a mare.

I almost do it. She bites that perfect bottom lip, and she pouts, and gives me a look like she wants me take her right there in the doorway—and hell I almost do it. I almost push her down on her knees and force those full lips of hers between my thighs. I almost do it. Almost.

When I don't, Junebug stomps off to her room. Angry. Hurt. I sleep on the floor beside Temporal, wondering what the buck I'm doing here in Shanty Alley at all.

The next day Junebug is visited by three stallions dressed in odd provocative clothing. They are wearing fishnet stockings on their hind legs, and long boots on their hind hooves, and short skirts, and blouses, and piercings in their ears, and in their eyebrows, and in their lips and tongues. Their skirts aren’t long enough to completely cover their flanks. The initials D.O.D. have been tattooed over the cutie marks on their left sides, like graffiti on a street sign. They're Daughters, Junebug tells me. She says all the male Daughters dress in mare's clothing. I must have a stupefied look on my face when the three of them come sauntering in, swinging their hips and tossing their manes like runway models, because the three of them burst into hysterical laughter.

"What's the matter, lovely?" one of them laughs. He’s an earth pony, and he’s tall, and his mane is spiked and cut shorter than the other two.

"This one ain't never seen a prettier bunch of stallions, is all," laughs another, batting his eyelashes and blowing me a kiss. His lips are painted a summery yellow, and his eye shadow is the same color. He's a unicorn and his horn is longer than most. It seems to announce itself as he enters, drawing attention and robbing the stallion of his much desired femininity.

"I don't much care for mares but this one is cute, Juney," says the third stallion, addressing Junebug. "So butch. Bet her balls are bigger than mine. She yours?"

Junebug blushes. "Rose is just a f-f-friend," she stammers.

"Well if you don't want her," he says, moving closer. The hips partially hidden by his pleated skirt swing vulgarly as he circles me, licking the ring in his bottom lip and molesting me with his stare. Drinking in my figure. Tasting me. Giving me a long once over and liking what he sees. He runs his blue and white tail across my flank as he circles. Brushing my side. Circling. Caressing my neck. My face. Circling. Swimming around me like shark.

He is an earth pony. Tells me to call him Crest. Whispers his name in my ear and promises the two of us will have a good time together. I feel his breath tickle my ear as he whispers. Then I feel his tongue lap at my earlobe, and I have to stifle the urge to bite it and tear the disgusting, slithering thing out his head.

"Sorry. I don't much care for stallions," I say plainly. Controlling myself. Not wanting to make trouble with the Daughters on their turf.

"Oh pooh," he pouts. He has a silly face to match his silly clothing and demeanor. "Knew she was a dyke." The three of them giggle amongst themselves like excited school fillies. Hard to believe these three clowns belong to the notorious Daughters of Discord.

"Sisters, sisters, honestly now," says Crest. His voice is shrill and girly, but unlike the other two, he doesn't seem to be forcing it. His accent is Trottingham, I think. "We're here for business, not pleasure."

Junebug nods. Disappears through the predator's dark mouth, then reappears a moment later with a clear plastic bag full of blue-green powder. One of the stallions takes the bag in his mouth. Junebug tells them that there are more bags waiting for them in the back. Two of them trot off to retrieve them. Crest stays, his silly face suddenly hardening. Becoming stoic. Serious. He traces the curve of Junebug's cheek with his front hoof. Cups her chin.

"Sorry about this, lovely," he says in a low throaty voice.

He traces the curve of her cheek. Cups her chin. Then he slaps her. Hard. The force of it turns her head. Wobbles her. She touches her cheek where Crest's hoof landed. Without thinking, I take a fighting stance. Junebug touches her cheek. Looks down at the floor. The stallion sighs. Shakes his head.

"Afraid it's gonna be a bad one this time. Big Sis don’t much like you being chummy with the locals. She wants us to send a message, you know how it goes."

Junebug looks down at the floor. Nods. The stallion reaches into the saddle bag on his hip. Pulls out pipe wrench. Mumbles the words "I'm so sorry," through a mouthful of steel.

Sorry is right. Sorry is definitely the right word.

I step between him and Junebug just as the other two Daughters are coming back in, their mouths full of plastic bags. The bags full of blue-green powder.

I step between him and Junebug. "Drop it and walk away," I tell him, my voice low. Threatening. He shoots me a confused look. The unicorn spits the plastic bag from his mouth.

"The buck you think you're talking to like that, lovely? Don't you know who we are?" he says. He spits out the bag. The other one does the same. Crest inches closer.

"You sure you want to get your pretty face mashed up for some drug peddlin' whore?" one of them taunts. Before I make my move, I feel Junebug's hoof on my shoulder.

"It's okay," she says calmly, her stutter gone, if only for the moment. "This is how it is. It's just their way of keeping up appearances. Feeling in control. It's okay. It's never too bad." Her perfect lips form a perfect smile. A perfect lie. She doesn't stutter once.

"Well then beat me too," I say, surprising myself. "If it really isn't that bad, then beat me too. I don't want Junebug to go through it alone."

The stallions hesitate for a second. A few short, sideways glances skirt across the room as the three of them discuss the matter without speaking. Communicating with their expressions. Their body language.

They hesitate for a second, and during that second Junebug is smiling at me, and I am smiling back—and then the wrench is bouncing off my skull, and some mischievous god is giving the room a playful buck, making it twirl fast and frantic like a graceless dancer. My ears are ringing. The floor jumps up and plants a rough kiss on my temple.

The wrench bounces. The room twirls. Dances. The floor jumps, and then flat, living hailstones begin raining down on my head and stomach and limbs, and one of them is longer than the others and colder and heavier and crueler.

The hailstones rain down on me—living, cold and heavy—before bouncing up toward the ceiling and raining down again. The pain is dizzying. Maddening. Intoxicating. The last sane part of my mind tells me that the hailstones are hooves, and that the longer one is a wrench, and that the wrench is in Crest's mouth. The last sane part, the last little cog in my head that's still working tells me that it's just hooves and a wrench, and it tells me to protect myself. To shield my face. My head. But the last sane part is small, and the other parts driven mad by a life of violence, of breaking and breaking and breaking—those parts of me are bulbous. Swollen. Pregnant with sweet, sweet nightmares, and they've been gorging on the mean-faced, wide-grinning suffering of others for so long they can't tell which way is up anymore. They can't tell what's real and what isn't, and they couldn't care less if they tried. It's all the same to them. The dark parts. The swollen mad parts. It's all the same to them. Pain. Pleasure. Rape. Sex. A blow to the temple or peck on the cheek. Doesn't matter. It's all the same to them.

I look for Junebug through the storm of hailstones and falling metal and stomping hooves, and when I find her I find her still smiling, her perfect lips puffy and painted red. She's lying on her back or on her stomach or on her side. Or maybe she's rolling around like a foal playing in the snow—I'm so disoriented I can't tell—but she's there, on the floor, lying still or rolling around, and her eyes find me she blushes.

Our eyes meet. Gazes lock. She blushes. Her cheeks are a warm red, and then a blistering hot red, and then a blood red. Dark and sloppy and wild with a strange sort of arousal. She smiles at me. Or maybe she frowns. I'm so disoriented, so hurt and so madly in love I can't tell. A surprisingly timid front hoof kicks her face, and her nose bursts, wetting her cheeks. Deepening her blush. Making her pretty face that much prettier. She moans. Whines. I watch her, waiting with my breath in my throat for the hoof kick her again. Wanting it. Needing her moan and her whine. Lusting for her destruction. Waiting on baited breath for the hailstones to fall on her, and to black her pretty green eyes, and bruise her pretty cheeks, and cut her pretty face. To break her and take her all to pieces.

The hoof kicks her again. She moans. I squeal. Something digs into my midsection and a wonderfully soothing agony flounders through my gut in great lapping waves.

The hoof kicks Junebug. Her lips burst and she turns, puckering at me and blowing a kiss made of dripping rubies. A gritty, bloody kiss that drifts across the room like the wet, matted feather of a bird brought down by a hunting rifle. It finds my cheek and settles there. I try to return the kiss, but Junebug turns away as another blow scrapes across her mouth. She turns away. Rolls onto her side and laughs out loud.

"Come on! H-h-harder!" she shouts between great whooping hysterical laughs. Something blunt crashes into my side. A hailstone drops onto the crown of my head. Blood rolls down my face and into my eyes, painting the room a murky red.

"Is that all you got!" I shout, liking the way I sound when I shout it. I shout the way a vault door would if vault doors could speak. Resolute. Unbreakable. "Harder, you bunch of candy-ass faggot bastards!"

A hoof lands on my neck that makes me choke. I squint against the blood flowing into my eyes and see the wrench sink into Junebug's soft underbelly. She sputters. Rolls. Clutches her stomach. I can't tell if the tears in her eyes are from the beating or the feverish, hysterical laughter.

"Is that y-y-your best, faggots," she jeers right before another hoof finds her smiling mouth. The blow rocks her. She turns over slowly. Spits blood. A tooth.

And then suddenly the blows grow in mass and weight and volume. The ceiling opens up like a fresh wound and the hailstones come down like an avalanche. The blows stop stinging and start really hurting. The mean-faced mocking pain begins dancing his little jig. Having his fun. Having his way with me.

He has his way with me. And me—I'm a cheap whore and the pain's a big hard throbbing cock and I want him in my ass, and in my mouth, and between my thighs. I want him anywhere he'll fit and everywhere else he won't. I'm a cheap whore, and he's got me screaming his name, and moaning, and begging him to punish me.

And Junebug—Junebug's lying right there beside me, face down and ass up, and she's been bad, and the pain has enough cock for the both of us. He rides us long, and he rides us hard, and when he finishes, he finishes inside of us; between our thighs, and in our asses, and in our mouths, and all over our faces.

It's amazing. Painful and sexy and loving and hateful, and just bucking amazing. Junebug and I lose ourselves. It's amazing. I love it. The freedom of being taken. Not fighting. Bending over and for once in my life just letting it happen. Not fighting. Just letting all the pain and the ugly shit in, and letting it have its way with me. It's amazing. I feel amazing. Free and unbreakable and alive.

I'm alive! Ha, ha, Celestia damnit, I'm alive!

Eventually the Daughters leave. Leave me and Junebug lying in shallow pool of our own blood. Giggling like idiots. Intoxicated. Drunk on our own suffering. On sheer hateful craziness of it all.

I was born and earth pony, and we earth ponies are built tougher than unicorns or pegasi. Our bones are stronger, and our hides are thicker, and our tolerance for pain is much, much higher. We heal faster too. Might not seem like much compared to magic or flight, but when you get your ass kicked as often as I do, you learn quick that a strong back is worth more than cheap parlor tricks seven days out of the week. I've snapped unicorns like they were twigs. They're such fragile things. If I had been born a unicorn I might never walk straight again after what happened last night, but thankfully I was born an earth pony. I come away from the beating with some nasty bruises and a right eye so swollen I can hardly see out of it and a very sore upper body, but nothing I haven't shaken off before. Not too bad. Fun, even. Most fun I've had in awhile.

Hard to believe this is only the third time I've woken up beside Junebug on the dusty floor of her dusty little shack all the way at the edge of Manehattan. I wake up, and my whole body aches, and Junebug is still sleeping soundly beside me, and Temporal is still sleeping soundly on the couch. Idly, I glance over at her and wonder if she'll ever wake up. Junebug told me that she was able to stabilize the poor unicorn, and that she's been out of any real danger for days. But looking at her now, I just don't know. Looks like she could just go on lying on Junebug's couch forever.

I look down at Junebug and for the first time since I arrived it occurs to me that I could just stay. I could just hide out at the edge of Manehattan with Junebug for the rest of my life. I could stay. I look down at Junebug; then around the little shack, wondering if something as immense as time can touch a place as small as this one. Wondering if the passing years or the shifting seasons even know we're here. This place seems to hide from the hours. It's been three days and so much has happened…but I don't know. I can't shake the feeling that I'm standing still. That the world beyond Manehattan's edge is still spinning towards oblivion, and the city and her criminals are still chasing and fleeing but inside of Junebug's shanty, down here on the floor beside the couch and under this blanket none of that seems to matter. Everything is still. Unbreakable.

…Huh? In the past I've always needed speed and distance to get away from all the messiness of the city. Of life. I've always needed my heart in my throat and my hooves shaking to get away before. But up here, perched on a hilltop at the edge of the world, I escape into quiet stillness. No speed. No distance. No need for such things. I look down at Junebug and allow myself to believe it could just go on forever.

When Junebug wakes up, she wakes up in much worse shape than me, though she tries not to let on. She doesn't complain. We spend the whole morning joking about it. Laughing. Flirting. After last night we can't keep our eyes off of each other. Our hooves either. We shower together. The plumbing in Junebug's shanty is awe-inspiringly horrible. The water pressure is shit and the stuff slopping lazily out of the rusty shower-head is cold enough to drink. We shower together. Wash each other's backs. Wash the caked blood out each other’s coats and manes. Towel each other off. I can't keep my eyes off her. Hooves either. I give her flank a playful smack as she limps out of the bathroom. She blushes. Smiles. Her perfect lips are busted. Swollen. Makes me want them even more.

After our shower Junebug does her best to put the both of us back together. She cooks up a healing potion in her vat of zebra myth and lore. Smoke leaps from the pot as she goes to work, filling the tiny room with strange smells. When she's finished she spoons out the potion and begins rubbing it on my face, over my cuts and bruises. It stings. She tells me not to flinch. Tells me the tonic will help close the cuts and reduce the swelling and ease the pain. Then she checks for any broken bones. Fractures. I come away with a few cracked ribs. She comes away with a lot more. She bandages me, then shows me how it's done so I can do the same for her. I take my time, liking the feel of it: Rubbing the lotion like tonic into her coat. Wrapping her midsection in bandages. I take my time, enjoying it. Liking the feel of it. The feel of healing. Of fixing rather than breaking.

Our flirting gets worse during breakfast. We sit on the floor in front of her medicine shelf, feeding each other strawberries from a large bowl. I ask her what all the herbs do and what's in all the bottles and jars and things. Junebug tries to explain but the medical jargon goes over my head. I keep asking her questions though, if only so I can watch her mouth move and listen to her voice maneuver around her words. Clumsily. Passionately.

"And this one. What's this called," I say reaching for a potted plant, an elegant blue flower on one of the lower shelves only a little ways from where we're sitting.

"D-d-d-d-d-don't!" Junebug shouts, startling me. She spits the half eaten strawberry in her mouth back into the bowl and reaches forward, swatting my hoof away. "D-don't touch t-that one. That's a Poison J-j-joke. It's dangerous."

Junebug tells me all about the Poison Joke. Where it grows. What it does. I don't hear a word of it. I watch her mouth and I listen closely to the texture of her voice. I pick up the strawberry she failed to finish and feed it to her. Her lips part, then brush against my hoof as her mouth closes around the piece of fruit.

"Your voice is beautiful," I say without thinking. "Your stutter is sexy. Your lips are perfect."

Junebug squeals my name. She blushes. I must have her flustered because my name comes out of her mouth several syllables longer than it is. I love the sound of it: my name stretched long as it fumbles clumsily out of her mouth.

I press my forehead against Junebug's. "Say it again," I whisper.

"R-r-r-r-r-r—Rose…" she says slowly. I listen to my name glide out from between her lips and float up toward the ceiling. Airy. Weightless.

The door slides open with a taunting, metallic scrape just as I'm about to kiss her. Take her right there on the floor. Dee blows in like a quiet storm. Me and Junebug turn away from each other hurriedly. I turn away from Dee too, unable to face her accusing glare.

"How's our patient doing?" Dee asks, trotting over to the still sleeping Temporal. "Wow, she's still out huh?" A guilty look comes over her face.

"Hey Junebug, don't you have to…ya know…run out today and get that one herb or something," Dee says, trying and falling in her attempt to sound nonchalant. Junebug stares at her, not understanding what Dee means. She tilts her head. "That herb. The one we talked about. The one you needed to go out and buy today. Now."

"R-right," says Junebug, playing along now. She gets up. Leaves. I watch her tail drag across the floor as she goes, counting the ripples she leaves in her wake. Feeling them.

"What do you want, Dee?" I ask, a surge of anger bubbling in my chest.

"Really, Rose? Really," Dee begins. "You really think this is okay? I mean, I knew you where selfish piece of shit, but this is just—I mean this is a new low even for you."

"You're hardly one to lecture somepony on selfishness," I say. I stand up straight. Dee trots up to me and stands so close I can feel her breath on my muzzle.

"You might think it's cute, jumping off rooftops and 'fighting crime' or whatever stupid bullshit you've convinced yourself that you're out here doing. And you might think it's cute leaving Redheart to slum it with that old fart Storm Chaser—who is a disgusting buck, by the way—while you're out in the streets taking advantage of lonely widows. And you might think it's cute to do that," she fumes, pointing at the still unconscious Temporal lying on Junebug's bed, "to ponies. But it's not cute, Rose. It's not cute at all."

"Make your point, Dee," I growl, staring into her judging eyes and wanting to tear them out of her head.

"It stops now, Rose. I know you hate yourself and everypony else, but Redheart…" Dee sighs, "...Redheart loves you. I don't know why, and I think she's crazy for it, but she loves you. She's my friend, and if you think I'm just going to stand here and let you hurt my friend, well then you've got—what? What the buck is so funny?" She stops, realizing that I've started chuckling at her. "You sick bucking sack of shit, what the hay are you laughing at?" Dee stomps her hoof. Glares. I keep chuckling.

"Come on, Dee," I say, shaking my head. Then all of the humor drops out of my voice. I go deadpan. Monotone. "What are you going to do to me?"

Dee doesn't back off. Doesn't flinch.

"I'm not afraid of you. I know what you are. Redheart told me all about it," she says, zapping me with that electric blue glare. "About how you let your friends die. How you did nothing, just hid and watched some sick bastard have her way with them. I'm not like you, Rose. I'm not afraid to fight for the ponies I love. You're nothing but a chicken-shit bully. A coward."

The word 'coward' comes out slow. Digs into me like a knife.

Coward…

I feel my hooves start to tremble for the first time in a long while. Not with fear. With rage. Hot and raw and violent.

Coward… Let them die… Hid…

I see red. I grab Dee by the collar of her jacket. Slam her into the medicine shelf. Pill bottles burst against the ground. Strange liquids spill. A harsh cacophony of odors rise up from the mess on the floor.

I grab her jacket collar. Push her into the shelf. Pin her.

"Take it back!" I roar. Dee smiles at me. Laughs in my face.

"I bet you liked it too, huh? Bet you were nice and cozy in your little hiding place getting yourself off the whole time."

"Shut up! You shut your bucking mouth right bucking now, Dee!"

"The one with the pretty green eyes—what was her name?—Daisy, I think. She was cute. I bet you liked watching that noose slip around her neck."

I feel the air leave Dee's body and splash against my face as I slam her into the shelves.

"I've had just about enough of your shit," I tell her. She squirms in my grip but I keep her up on her hind legs, pinning her back uncomfortably against the shelves. "You get one more chance. Take back what you said, or so help me, I will…"

"You'll do what exactly? You gonna hit me? Hurt me?" Dee jeers. Her face is the picture of triumph. "Go ahead, Rose. It's the only thing you know how to do anyway. Only thing your good for."

"Take it back," I say, wanting to hurt her.

"Hit me."

"Take it back, Dee."

"Hit me. Come on. Do it. Do it!"

"I said, take it back."

"And I said hit me! Hit me, Rose! Hit me—"

Dee freezes. Goes stiff as a board and pale as a ghost as my front hoof shoots by her head and crashes into the wall, missing her face by hopes and prayers and dreams and thinner, frailer things than even those. Dee freezes. There are tears in her eyes. In mine as well.

"I'm not a coward," I say. Needing the words to be true. Needing them to be real enough to touch, and hard enough to lean against, and sure enough to stand on. "I'm not a coward…I'm not…" I say again, wishing I was stronger. Wishing I didn't need to lean on repetition to cement my shallow claims.

I let Dee go. She sniffs. Wipes her face with a jacket sleeve. Takes a moment to regain her composer.

"She loves you, you idiot," Dee says after a long pause. "Prove to her what you just proved to me. Show her that you're not empty. That you know how to do more than just break things," she says. Her intense electric blue eyes bore into me and I see something in them that is almost sympathy, but not quite. "She loves you. Don't screw it up."

It's hard for Dee to say anything kind to me. I can hear it in her voice. It's hard. She's afraid of me. She hates me. I hear it in her voice.

"Thank you, Dee," I say, sounding hurt when I say it. Dee doesn't say anything in return. She steps over the spilled medicine and then she's gone. When she leaves this time, I get the feeling that it's for good.

It's late when Junebug and I finally finish cleaning all of her wasted drugs and herbs and medicines up off the ground. Junebug forgives me too easily. I want her to be upset with me. To shout at me the way Dee did. Reprimand me. Instead she just smiles her perfect smile, and says that's it fine. Insists that it was an accident. That it's okay so long as I didn't mean to.

"I w-w-wanted to thank you f-for what you did, R-Rose," says Junebug timidly. She's standing up on her hind legs and looking down at the head of the broom in her hooves. Her face morose. Tired.

"Thank me for what?" I ask as I absentmindedly paw at the collar around my neck.

"For w-w-what you did when the Daughters c-c-came. You m-made it easier f-f-for me. Thank you."

"No problem…" I answer, remembering the punch-drunken fiasco and smiling. "What was that stuff in the bags you gave them? I've never seen any drug like that before?" At this, Junebug brightens and I spy something mischievous stirring behind her eyes. Junebug knows drugs, and though she doesn't show it often, she's very proud of her work.

With new energy in her limbs she wanders off into her bedroom then wanders back with a bag of the blue-green powder.

It's called Shard, she tells me. She's excited when she tells me, and she has trouble with her "S" sounds. The sentence is only three words, but it nearly strangles her.

It's called Shard. A few gemstones ground into a fine powder and then soaked in a powerful potion she learned from a mystic in Zebrica. The potion, she tells me, is basically a poison. It slows brain functions. Heart rate. Dulls the senses. Causes intense migraines and in some cases, lucid nightmarish hallucinations. It does just about every bad thing you do to a body other than kill it.

"And ponies take this willingly?" I ask. Junebug chuckles.

"They d-do once I a-a-add the s-sss-s-sss-sssss—secret ingredient," she says, gesturing toward the Poison Joke plant, its ceramic pot still in once piece. "That f-f-flower produces nectar that reverses the p-p-potions effects. It plays a little j-j-joke on the poison. Turns it into an amazing high."

"Did you come up with that yourself?" I ask, impressed. She beams.

"My h-h-husband helped," she says modestly. "W-we tried to use it as a p-p-panacea while we were still in Z-z-zebrica. Thought we c-c-could cure most any d-disease with the stuff. Turns out the acidic p-p-properties of the p-p-poison dissolve too much of the n-n-nectar to cause any permanent effects. Guess the j-joke was on us," she laughs weakly.

"That's too bad," I say, placing a hoof on her shoulder. Her expression dims. She looks down, suddenly unable to meet my gaze.

"M-my husband was v-v-very upset. He thought our m-m-miracle drug could c-c-cure the one thing he always hated about me," she says.

"Your stutter…" I almost whisper. "He wanted to cure your stutter." Junebug looks down. I touch her face. Trace the curve of her cheek. Cup her chin. "Your stutter is a part of you. It's beautiful. You're beautiful."

Her lips work noiselessly for moment. Stuttering and stammering and not making a sound.

"…Do you want to try some?" she finally manages to say.

"I'm not really one for drugs use," I admit, a bit taken aback by her forwardness. "I don't even drink."

"No wonder you're so serious," she laughs, opening the bag. "Trust me, it'll be amazing," she says. It's the most I've ever heard her say without stuttering.

She opens the bag. Sprinkles the blue-green powder onto the coffee table. Shapes the powder into two neat lines with the edge of a coin. Covers one nostril with her front hoof. Leans forward. Shuts her eyes.

"Wait," I practically shout. "Is it really safe to ingest crushed gemstones?"

Junebug looks at me like I'm an idiot. Laughs. "Of c-c-course not," she says. Then she drags her face across the flat surface and the blue-green trail disappears into her nostril. A second later she falls back on her haunches, blinking furiously.

"Junebug? Junebug, are you okay?" I grab her shoulders and shake her. Her head moves side to side like it's on a swivel. "Junebug?" My voice grows frantic. She answers by pointing toward the nightstand. To where my own line of Shard is waiting for me.

I don't think about it, I just do it. I cover one nostril, and I close my eyes, and the noose slips easily around Daisy's neck, and I drag my face across the flat surface, sucking the line of blue-green powder into my nose with one powerful sniff. I sit down beside Junebug. Unconsciously touch my nose. My whole face. At first I'm not sure if it's working. At first I'm sitting beside Junebug, and she's looking at me, smiling stupidly, her eyes dull, and I'm wondering if maybe I did something wrong.

And then I hear light.

I hear light, and the light is coming from inside my head, shooting out through the holes in my face. Through my eyes and mouth and ears and nose.

I hear light, and then I hear the orange-cream color in Junebug's mane, and it's singing or playing some string instrument, and the music tastes like cotton candy, sweet and fluffy and light in my mouth. Dancing on my tongue. I blink and make out an intricate pattern carved into the inside of my eyelids. I try to close my eyes, try to read the pattern more closely but my eyelids keep flying back open. I'm blinking. Blinking furiously and I can't stop.

And then it hits me. Suddenly all my cuts and bruises and scrapes turn into little pools of fresh water and evaporate. I feel electric. I feel like I'm on fire, and the fire is ice cold, and I'm floating away from the ground. Away from the Junebug's little shack. Away from the city. From every trouble the world has to offer. From it all. I float up, up and away. I fly. Without hook or wire or wings or magic, I fly. I was born and earth pony but tonight I fly like a pegasus.

"I'm never coming down," I hear somepony say with my voice. "I'm never ever coming down. Not for all the bleeding hearts in Equestria."

"Rose, you're talking nonsense," laughs somepony else. "It's your first time, though, so I guess that's expected." I squint in the direction I think the voice is coming from, and slowly the high starts to wane and things gradually begin making sense again.

I'm not floating. I'm lying on my back in the center of the room with my front and hind legs spread wide, staring up at Junebug's smiling face. Her perfect busted, swollen lips.

"How do you feel?" she asks, giggling.

"Like I'm dying a glorious death," I hear myself say, only vaguely aware of what I mean.

"You're still talking nonsense. Don't worry, it shouldn't last too much longer. Though, I kind of like you as a babbling twit. It's cute."

"Junebug!" I exclaim. "Your stutter. It's all gone! Did you lose it? Shit, we better find it!" I exclaim. I try to get up and help Junebug look for her missing stutter but the task is beyond me. I stay on my back, staring up at the ceiling and wondering what a disembodied stutter would even look like.

Junebug laughs. She lies down on the floor beside me.

"My stutter always goes away when I'm on Shard. How do I sound?"

"Like everypony else," I say, finally regaining my senses. I sit upright and look Junebug in the face. "I liked you better when you sounded like nopony else. When you sounded like Junebug." Junebug blushes. Then she turns away from me and stares at the ceiling. I do the same. There are stars twinkling inside her shack.

"My husband always liked the way I talked when I was on Shard…" she says, sounding far away. "It's on nights like these when I miss him most… Hey, you want to see something cool?" she asks, her new voice bursting with excitement. I nod. "Follow me," she squeals, taking me by the hoof and leading me through the backroom, and then through a back door that leads into another small shack, and then out onto the street. We run up the hillside, giggling like drunken lovers.

Junebug leads me up to the top of the hill at the edge of Shanty Alley. At the edge of Manehattan and the entire world.

"Ta-dah!" she exclaims, pointing out toward the city in a grandiose gesture.

I look out at Manehattan and can hardly believe what I'm seeing. She is beautiful. Her corners and rough edges are gone, replaced by sexy curves, and her hideous face is gorgeous, and her hot, haughty laugh is easy and genuine and full of love. Manehattan is beautiful. She's a young filly, not an old mule, and she is beautiful.

"Is this really the same city?" I wonder aloud.

"Cool huh? Me and my husband used to do a few lines and then find someplace really high up where we could see nearly all of the city." Junebug beams. I look out and see the Golden Bit Bridge, all aglow; a distant promise of safe passage to a better tomorrow, outlined by the dazzling city lights. Looking peaceful. Hopeful. Maybe someday I'll cross it, I think I to myself, feeling small and fragile standing on the hilltop beside Junebug. Maybe someday I'll cross it, and I'll ride all those trains, and I'll see Ponyville again. Somehow I know it's still out there, waiting to welcome me back.

Time stands still. I stand still. No speed. No distance. No chasing or fleeing or falling. Just quiet stillness. Real peace.

In the distance I hear the familiar sound of ambulance sirens and the thundering of hooves racing down poorly maintained Manehattan streets...or maybe I only imagine it.

"I knew him," I say looking Junebug square in the eyes. A puzzled expression comes over her. I don't know why I choose now to tell her. Maybe it's the drugs or maybe it's the otherworldly impossibility of gazing out at a beautiful Manehattan, but I choose now to tell her. I paw absentmindedly at the collar around my neck, and I tell her.

"I knew him. I tried to save him but couldn't," I say.

Junebug's voice comes out hollow. "You're talking nonsense again, Rose."

"No, really. I knew him. He was being chased by some thugs. I ran into him up on a rooftop downtown. I saved him then, but in the end the city took him. There was nothing I could do." I don't say his name. I don't need too. Junebug understands, though the hurt expression on her face tells me she wishes she didn't.

"Then you're…you really are the pony from the papers," Junebug gasps.

"The vigilante. Yeah, that's me."

"I thought you might be, but…wow. I mean…wow…"

"I'm so sorry, Junebug; I couldn't save him."

"It's alright," she says, tears rolling freely down her face now. "He was weak. The only pony he needed saving from was himself, and he was too weak for that."

Junebug presses her forehead against mine. "But you're not like him. You're strong, Rose. I love you." She says it plainly. Without her stutter the words seem less than real.

She leans forward, and she kisses me, and I let her. She opens her mouth and so do I, and I let her tongue slip past my teeth and find places to have its fun. She kisses me and I kiss her back. I lean into it. Into her. She kisses me and I kiss her back, and it's sloppy and sinful, and it's hot and wet, and she tastes like longing and loss and rhythm and old love songs and mistakes. Like a bitter drunken mishap in the back of a dimly lit bar made by a couple of lonely hearts.

She kisses me. I lean into it. Into her. Into those perfect busted, bruised lips. I lean into it. And then I lean away.

"I'm sorry. I can't," the words come out as whispers. I'm scared to give them volume. Scared to make them any realer than they already are. "I can't. There's somepony waiting for me back home." I lean away and I hear Junebug's heart break. It might just be the drugs, but I swear I hear it splinter and snap under the weight of few whispers.

"Yeah…yeah, okay. I understand," she says. Somehow without her stammer, Junebug seems frailer. Lighter. Like the wind could pick up and carry her away at any moment. "Okay. Let's get down from here, I'm freezing."

Back inside Junebug's shack the two of us do one more line. Junebug tells me that the Shard will help me sleep. She remembers the night I woke her with my wailing, and she tells me the drug will help me sleep.

We do one more line, then we lie down on the floor beside the couch and the still sleeping Temporal. We crawl underneath the blanket and drift off to sleep wrapped in each other's forelegs.

I close my eyes.

I close my eyes the noose slips easily from around Daisy's neck. It is the color of sand and the contrast it creates lying harmlessly on the floor at her hooves is muted. Her eyes are bursting with new life. She is standing upright on her hind legs, her forelegs outstretched, reaching for me. The noose is lying at her hooves, and her eyes are bursting with new life, and she is standing upright, unharmed, reaching for me—and we are so close that I see myself in her eyes, my visage glowing with unknowable joy. Free. Forever reflected in a pair of perfect spring green mirrors.

Lily shouts. She is so happy to see me, she shouts. Runs to me. Embraces me.

Daisy is alive.

Lily is alive.

Rose is alive.

We are alive, and we are together, and we are holding each other, and we are happy.

When I wake, I wake in tears. It's a cruel joke. I wake up on the floor of Junebug's shanty, and Daisy is still dead, and Lilly is still dead, and I am still alive. It's a cruel joke. Mean-faced. Mocking. Then I roll over and find Junebug lying beside me, and I realize I haven't even reached the punch line yet.

"No," I whisper to nopony but myself.

I roll over. Stand up straight. Stand up slowly.

I roll over. Stand up. Look down at Junebug. Her eyes are still open, and her nose is bleeding, and sitting on the floor a little ways away from her is a half empty bag of the blue-green powder. The coffee table is sprinkled with the stuff. Her eyes are still open. Her lips are parted in a smile. Her lips. Perfect and full and busted and frozen to her lifeless face.

"Why?" I wonder aloud. "Why?"

I allow myself to wonder but in my heart I know exactly why. Because in the end Junebug wasn't strong enough either. She held on longer than her late husband, but in the end she wasn't strong enough. In the end, one more heartbreak turned out to be one more than she could take. One more too many. I try to convince myself that this isn't my fault. That I didn't kill her. Didn't fill her body with poison. She did that, I tell myself. She did it to herself because she wasn't strong enough.

But that isn't true. I broke her heart. Broke her. I touched her, and I kissed her, and I loved her, and that was enough to do it. I touched her and everything I touch breaks. Goes to pieces in my hooves.

Her eyes are still open. Lips still parted in a smile. Her perfect, full lips. I shut her eyes for her, but I don't touch her lips. I leave them alone. Leave them as they are. It's how I want to remember them. Stuttering and stammering and smiling. It's how I want to remember them. How I want to remember her.

Goodbye, Junebug. I don't say it. I can't. I close her eyes. Start to leave. I don't know what else to do so I make for the door, skirting away like a water fly. Afraid to leave any ripples.

I start to leave. There's nothing left to do but leave. I slowed down. Thought I could escape into timeless stillness. Should've known better. Speed and distance have always been the only way. Should've known better.

I start to leave, but as I go a hollow sound catches my ear and a light flashes in the corner of my eye. I turn around. I am at the door, and it is sliding open, and a hollow sound is resonating and behind me a light is flashing. I turn around. Am turning around. Slowly. Hesitantly.

I turn around. Temporal is awake. She is standing beside the couch and her horn is glowing.

Daughters Without a Father, Part 3

Daughters Without a Father, Part 3

Chapter XIII: Daughters Without a Father, Part 3

A star gathers at the tip of a horn.

Heat rises.

Ruby red snot gushes from a busted muzzle.

Four legs tremble.

A pair of deep-set eyes haunt a face made ugly by boiling water and blue flame. The eyes blink—then focus. Fierce. Sharp. Passionate. Deep like a lover’s stare. Longing. Longing for me. Wanting me. Needing me…

Temporal is standing behind the coffee table; and a star is gathering at the tip of her horn; and heat is rising; and her legs are shaking; and she is looking at me as if there were nothing else in the world to see.

She wants me to know it’s going to hurt. That there won’t be any holding back. It’s going to be loud and messy and gritty and rough, and it won't to stop till one of us is sprawled on the floor beside Junebug. She wants me to know it’ll hurt, and that she’ll be to enjoying every wild, hateful, hot-and-heavy moment of it. Temporal wants me. She wants me: mind, body, and soul.

And normally I’d want her too—except Junebug is dead, and Daisy and Lily are still dead, and Dee hates me, and I haven’t felt the warmth of Redheart’s forehead against mine in what seems like ages. Except there’s a sour memory hanging around my neck that I’ve been pawing at for the past few days like a scab. Like a burn on the roof of my mouth that would heal if only I could just stop tonguing it. The fight’s gone out of me. I don’t want her. I don’t want any of this anymore.

A star gathers and I stand silently in the doorway, waiting for it. Some part of me wants to die. Wants to lie down and make myself cozy on the floor beside Junebug. To shut my eyes and sleep that never-waking sleep and dream of the night Daisy and Lily were taken from me. Dream that same never ending nightmare until eternity gets bored and calls it quits. I wait for it, hoping Temporal takes her time with me. I want it slow. I want to feel it. Want it to hurt. Need it to.

Solar flares leap violently from the star. The tremor in her legs worsens. Blood pours from her nose. Her eyes lose focus. Dim. Then she collapses, knocking over the lamp as she falls and banging her head against the edge of the coffee table.

I watch her as if in a daze, still waiting for a painful death that isn’t coming. She tries to stand but stumbles and falls again. Tries to ignite her horn but it flares sporadically, throwing useless beams of light about the room. I keep watching. Keep waiting for her to stop messing around and kill me. I watch. Wait. When standing doesn’t work, Temporal tries crawling toward me. Her nose still bleeding. Legs still shaking. Horn still tossing beams of light. Eyes losing focus, then finding it again. Losing focus, then finding it. Losing, then finding. Losing. Finding…Losing…Finding…Losing…Losing…Finding…

…Crawling—Bleeding—Shaking—Sparking—Losing…

…Finding…Finding…Finding!

“Stop it!” I say, sick to my stomach from watching her and needing to say something. “Just, please stop it.”

Temporal doesn’t listen. She doesn’t stop. Her legs are scraping at the ground now. She’s crawling in place, looking like a corpse that’s too stubborn or too stupid to know that dead things are supposed to lie still.

"Stop it. You've been drugged," I say, remembering what Junebug told me. Remembering that whatever she was injecting into Temporal was to keep her from using her magic when she woke up. "I don't know how long it'll last, but I'll be gone before it wears off—so just stop it already.”

“…Going to kill you…monster…” she wheezes.

“Of course you will,” I say, shaking my head and almost laughing in her face. “Look, I’m getting the hay out of here. When you’ve come to your senses I suggest you do the same. See that mare on the floor there?” Temporal’s eyes flick to where Junebug is lying on the floor, lose focus, then find me again. “She was important to some very dangerous ponies. If they come looking for her and find you lying beside her corpse, they won’t give you a chance to explain yourself. They’ll turn you inside out.”

“You can’t go,” she groans.

I slide the door open and a rush of frozen air hits me in the chest that nearly floors me. The world beyond Junebug’s shanty is white and virginal and new.

“Wait… Don’t…” Temporal says between labored breaths. “I know where they are.”

“What?” I say, glancing over my shoulder. Temporal’s ears perk up when she notices she has my attention again. She tries to stand, but a dizzy spell puts her back down on the floor.

“The ponies who killed Scope—you’re looking for them, aren’t you?” she says hurriedly.

“How do you know that?” I ask, not sure I really want to hear the answer. Temporal’s head rolls to one side. Her eyes shut. She tries to right herself. Fails. Sighs. Mumbles curses. Takes a deep breath before answering my question.

“Twilight Sparkle,” she says. It’s the only thing she needs to say.

“And you’re saying you found them? You found Scope’s murderers? How?” I ask. “And if I think you’re lying to me—” I finish the thought with a swift jab to Temporal’s throat. Let her know I’m serious. Let her know who’s in charge. She twists around on the floor for a couple seconds, choking and clutching her neck with both hooves. When Temporal finally regains her composure she talks. Tells me that she and her brother used to work for Filthy Rich and that a few weeks before I killed him, two mares paid the poor bastard a visit. Temporal says the pair broke into Filthy’s home. Smacked him around. Murdered his wife outright. Kidnapped his daughter.

“Kid’s name is Diamond Tiara,” Temporal tells me. “Filthy hired me to find the foal. I picked up a few leads. Squeezed info out of the right ponies. Eventually I found out where the mares where hiding. Same two that killed the Doc.”

“Bullshit,” I snort. “You’re a Fed on the payroll of one of the most powerful bosses in Manehattan. You must have connections. Resources. If you knew where they were, you’d have them strung up by their tails by now.”

“I got sidetracked,” Temporal says, her eyes flashing. Boring into me. Wanting me. “During my investigation I stole a few peeks at Twilight’s personal files to see if she had anything on the killers’ whereabouts. Turns out she didn’t have too much on them, but she’s got plenty on you, vigilante. Names of relatives. Close friends.”

That bucking cunt Sparkle! I scream inside my own skull. Something that must be anger rubs itself against the inside of my cheeks and turns them red hot. I knew it! Let her off easy. Next time I see her…

“I take it that’s how you found Dee,” I say, taking a deep breath and trying calm down.

“Figured she’d lead me right to you if I tailed her for long enough,” says Temporal. “I was going to follow your marefriend, but she—”

I jab Temporal in the throat again. She rolls over on her side, hacking and coughing.

“Careful, unicorn,” I warn her. “Wouldn’t want to say something you might regret later.” I roll her onto her back. Stomp her chest. Pin her. “Just give me the killers’ names. Where they’re hiding. And don’t forget what I said about lying?”

Temporal doesn’t answer me.

“Names,” I repeat. “Now.”

Temporal hesitates. “I don’t know,” she says, trying to keep her voice steady. Hoping I don’t notice the pinch of fear in her eyes hiding behind the all the bloodlust and the longing. Temporal hesitates. Makes that same face she made when I walked by her table at Peachy’s Pies. When I let her know it was going to hurt. Temporal’s afraid of me. I’m the biggest, meanest shark in the tank, and there’s blood in the water. She’s afraid. I can smell it on her. I can almost taste it.

“Lie to me again,” I say, liking the way I say it. “Go on, lie to me again. Give me an excuse. I’ll sleep a lot better if you give me an excuse.”

“I told you, I don’t know,” she says.

“But you do know where they are, right?” I ask.

“Yes,” she answers. “But I’ll only tell you on one condition.”

“No conditions. Talk.” I kneel down and look Temporal dead in the eye. I kneel down until we are practically nose to nose.

Temporal stays quiet. Tries to turn away from me. I smack her in the mouth. Cup her chin. Make her look at me.

“I really don’t want to hurt you, but you’re making it difficult not to. Now we’ve both been having a rough time lately, and this morning isn’t going much better—I get that,” I say. “A lot has happened, so I’m going to be understanding and give you one more chance to tell me what I want to hear. One chance. But if you keep bucking with me, it’s going to get real loud real quick.”

Temporal spits in my face. Hawks a sloppy red wad that lands on my cheek just under the eye.

She spit in my face. I offered her an out and the cunt spit in my face.

My temper flares. Jumps up and explodes like a firecracker. I grab Temporal by the mane, hoist her onto her hind legs, and slam her nose first into the coffee table. I’m so pissed I almost overdo it. I slam her hard enough to put a deep crack in the wood. Almost knock her out cold. Almost overdo do it.

“You want a condition, huh? How’s this for a condition,” I growl. “You tell me where they are, and I don’t rip off your horn and ass-rape you with it.”

Temporal doesn’t say anything at first. She’s still woozy from the bit of head trauma I just dealt her. I press her face into the wood. Drag it across the tabletop like chalk across a chalkboard, smearing the smooth surface an ugly shade of red. Temporal groans. Doesn’t talk.

“Where are they?” I snarl, slapping the back of her head. She doesn’t answer. My cheeks catch fire. I breathe smoke. Then I scare the shit out of myself when I lean forward and sink my teeth into Temporal’s ear like the starved animal she knows I am. Warm blood gushes in my mouth. Temporal wails.

“Get off me!” she shouts, squirming under my weight. “Get off me, you bucking animal!”

I don’t. Instead I tear off a chunk of her ear. She wails. Struggles harder. Then she starts crying, and I’d be lying through my teeth if I said the sound of her sobbing like a filly with a bruised flank doesn’t get me just a little hot.

I spit out the chunk of flesh, missing the taste of it as it flies from my mouth and lands noiselessly on the floor. Temporal tries to shove me away but I keep her pinned to the tabletop. I listen to her agony-laden cries, and I feel the muscles in her back strain as I lean my full weight on her.

“Get off me,” she groans, her breath short. It drives me wild. The closeness. Her weak voice. Her heavy panting. The sweat beading on her back, and the crisp stink of her blood, and the plush feathery texture of her mane in my hooves. It drives me wild. I want her. Temporal moans for me. Pants and sweats and struggles for me. I want her. I forget the rest. Forget about Junebug lying dead in her own home. Forget the two little shits who killed her husband, and the supposed filly they kidnapped and are doing Celestia knows what to right now. I forget all that meaningless shit. There’s nothing else. Just me and Temporal and nothing else.

I smack her flank. Hard. I smack her flank. Spank her. Slip a hoof between her hind legs. Grab her crotch. Temporal squirms like mad, but she’s too weak to stop me. I grab her crotch, and I force her thighs apart, and she’s dryer than scorched earth down there. I can barely control myself, and Temporal here is bone-dry.

“What’s wrong, you don’t like me?” I taunt, having fun now. Most fun I’ve had since me and Temporal’s first round in that kitchen.

“Buck you!” she shouts into the tabletop.

“That’s the idea, sweetheart,” I purr, giving her flank another hard smack. “You and me—we’re going have a good time.” Suddenly I feel light. High again. My heart is pounding, and my lungs are working too hard, and the blood in my limbs is rushing and swirling and promising I’ll never be tired again.

I must be cackling like a madmare because Temporal twists in my grip and shouts, “The buck is so funny, you sick piece of shit!” She struggles as hard as she can. She twists and squirms and kicks and it drives me wild. “I swear to Celestia, when I get up I’m going kill you! You hear me! I’m going kill you!”

“That’s it, that’s it! Tell me,” I purr, leaning in close and blowing the words into her torn ear. “Tell me it’s going to hurt. Promise me. You have to promise me, okay.” I twist Temporal’s head to one side. Press her cheek against the tabletop so I can see the look on her face. So I can make her look at me.

“Promise me. You have to promise me it’s going to hurt,” I plead, my voice burning with arousal. Temporal winces. I trace the bottom of her jaw with my lips, and she tries to bite me.

“Get off me!” she shouts.

I lick her horn. Take the length of it in my mouth, lapping and sucking greedily. Liking the taste of it. Of her.

“Get off, you sick…” the words are lost, muffled by the hoof now covering her mouth. I lay her down flat across the table and crawl on top of her. Her struggling weakens. Her tight flank bucks against my crotch, and I almost lose it right there and then.

A hoof covers a mouth, smothering its cries.

Another goes to work between a pair of hind legs.

A moan escapes: Not of pain, but pleasure. Sloppy and shameless and wet and completely mad.

My lips leave Temporal’s horn and find the back of her neck. She swoons under my touch. Mumbles curses into my hoof. I free her mouth, wanting to hear them.

“I swear I’m going to…” she huffs.

I kiss the back of her neck. “Yes…”

“…Going to gut you…”

I breathe in the scent of her mane. Her blood. “Yes, yes…”

“…Break every bone in…”

I taste her bruises. Her burns and lacerations. “Mmm, what else…tell me what else?”

“…Pluck out your eyes…and…”

“Will it hurt? Promise me it’ll hurt.”

“It will…”

“Promise me you’ll do it slow. Take your time. Promise me.”

“I’ll take all the time in the world. I’ll hurt you forever… I’ll never stop hurting you…”

“Promise me.”

“Of course. I promise…”

Our voices become indistinguishable. My lips move, and I hear the words, but I can’t tell which are Temporal’s and which belong to me. Our voices become one. Our bodies too. We are so close I can’t tell where Temporal ends and I begin.

I close my mouth around hers, and she bites my tongue until it bleeds. Feels like she might bite clean through it. Like she might rip it from between my lips and spit it on the floor beside her chunk of ear. It’s a bloody, gritty kiss we share. Drives me wild.

I think about what old Storm Chaser told me once, about the intimacy we share we share with our enemies—and I think of Sparkle, wishing it was her trying to bite off my tongue right now—and think of Junebug and the beating we endured together—and I think of Daisy’s happy, lifeless stare, and I wonder if I ever really loved her before the night that noose slipped around her neck. Pleasure and pain. Violence and intimacy. Love. Hate. I bleed into Temporal’s mouth and I wonder if the difference matters.

Then I think of Redheart, and the last sane part of my mind screams for me to stop.

Our lips come apart with a gasp. “I’m gonna buck you,” I hiss, sucking in a lungful of the frigid air wafting in from the open door. “Then I think maybe I’ll bounce you off these walls, huh? You were twins, right? Funny that you should die in the same way.” I hiss. Suck the frigid air.

Then Temporal’s horn ignites and I realize I’ve made a mistake. Lost myself. Got too caught up in the moment. I mention Temporal’s brother, and her horn ignites. Goes off like a bomb, and I realize I’ve made a mistake.

Hot needles stab my eyes, blinding me.

Something weightless coils around my throat, squeezing and burning my neck like a snake made of fire.

A spear pierces my shoulder and I fall backwards—am falling backwards—and something that must be Temporal is falling with me. We are tumbling to the floor, embracing one another like clumsy, drunken lovers. Temporal’s breath is on my face, and my name is on her lips, and I am holding her, and she is holding me, choking me with something that isn’t there.

We are falling. Falling slowly—as if the ground were very far away—and my eyes must be shut, because the noose is slipping around Daisy’s neck, and it is tightening, and I am watching her die the whole way down.

I land on something soft and fleshy, and Temporal lands on me, and together we become a pile of frayed manes and flailing limbs as we wrestle on the floor.

For the longest instant of my life, I have no idea what is going on. My body is hot and aching. I can’t see. Can hardly breathe. Hardly even move. Temporal is on me, or under me, or beside me; I’m so disoriented I can’t tell.

We wrestle. Bite. Kick. Butt heads.

We are wrestling—or maybe we are making love. I can’t tell. We are biting or kissing, and kicking or caressing, and butting heads or… Or maybe I am pressing my forehead against Temporal’s and she is doing the same. Maybe our foreheads are pressed together and I am thinking about kissing her, and secretly I am hoping she will kiss me. I don’t know. Can’t tell. For one long instant, I have no idea what is happening.

Then something strong and bone-hard whips across my bottom jaw, and I know I’m in a fight. I know the caresses are actually kicks, because Temporal digs into my midsection with a beauty of a kick. I scramble back to my hooves. Another kick finds my neck that nearly puts me on my ass.

Another kick finds my chest. Knocks the air out of me. I try to get it back, but the burning snake is still coiled around my neck.

Another kick. Pain rises. I still can’t see, but Temporal makes plenty of noise for me. Telegraphs her next move. I sidestep and feel the ghost of a limb graze my ear as it passes. The next one hits me in the chest. A glancing blow. The next one I roll off my shoulder, and the one after that misses my nose by inches.

Temporal grunts in frustration. Sucks the air. Pants. She’s exhausted and so am I. I rush her head on. Take her next kick right on the chin because I know I can. It’s a clean hit, but the steam has gone out of her kicks.

I rush her head on. Take the kick. Spring up on my front legs. Spin. My boots connect with something soft, and It wails, and I press the attack. My front hoof bites into bone. Feels like a sternum. I press. Bite into bone. Then nothing. Bone. Cartilage. Nothing. Muscle. Bone. Nothing. Nothing.

Then something that must be the lamp shatters over my skull just as my vision starts to come back. I go down hard, and then somepony that seems too heavy to be Temporal is sitting on me—and the noose is the color of sand—and something bone-hard and flat is bludgeoning my muzzle—and the life is draining out of Daisy’s eyes—and my mouth is wet and leaking at the corners—and the noose is tightening—and the burning snake is coiling around my neck—and in a few more seconds Daisy will be dead.

It’s not until I hear Lily scream that I realize my eyes are closed. When I open them I see dancing neon spots and blurry shapes, and somewhere behind the spots and blurs I see Temporal. She is sitting on me, and her horn is glowing, and her nose is bleeding profusely as she smashes me in the face again and again with a hoof made of lead. I squint under the blows; my teeth rattling as I involuntarily gulp down a mouthful of my own blood. Swallowing it. Choking on it. Choking.

With the last of my strength, I grab Temporal’s head with both hooves and pull her down with a sharp jerk. The bridge of her nose meets my forehead, and the star at the end of her horn dies, and the burning snake around my neck dies, and the heat from the supernova singes my cheeks.

Temporal falls off my chest, while I roll over and…and I…

…I roll over and I am face to face with Junebug. She is lying on her back and I am lying on her.

I leap away like a frightened cat, my fur standing on end. Temporal tries to stand but only gets as far as her knees. We stare at one another, panting. I’m beat to hell. Temporal looks half dead. Junebug is lying on the floor between us. I glance down at her, then back up at Temporal. All the fight’s gone out of me. Temporal too. We stare at each for a long time and suddenly, I can’t remember why I’m fighting.

“Okay,” I say breathlessly. “Okay. Alright, fine. You win. Is that what you wanted? You beat me. You win. Let’s just…stop, okay. Let’s stop this.”

“Not until one of us is dead,” says Temporal. She’s so tired and beat up she can’t even lift her head to look at me, but that doesn’t stop her from trying to stand. “That’s the condition. I tell you were you can find Scope’s murderers, but only if you give me a chance to kill you.”

“What?!” I hear myself say, sounding genuinely astounded.

“Give me a real chance. Let me heal up for a week or two, and then we do this again, and we do it right. Me and you. No weapons. No magic. A fair fight. A real chance.”

“That’s crazy!” I shout. “Why, Temporal? Why keep doing this? I let you go. Sparkle was going to kill you, but I stopped her. I gave you an out.”

“You killed my brother, Rose,” she says plainly. “Don’t pretend we can settle this another way.”

“But…” I start slowly. Doubtfully. Finding the words is difficult. “But… I’ll kill you. It could be now. Tomorrow. A month from now. A year. Whenever it is, I’ll kill you. Every time we’ve fought, I’ve won.”

“I know,” she says, her voice suddenly airy. Dove-like.

“Even with your magic, you wouldn’t stand a chance.”

“I know.”

“Then why agree to fight without it? Why, Temporal? Why not just walk away?” I plead, practically in tears myself. “I’m letting you walk. That’s twice now I’ve let you walk. I don’t understand.”

“I think you do, Rose,” she says. A strange, sad sort of smile appears on her bloodied and bruised face. “I think you understand perfectly.”

I start to say something but the words never leave my mouth. Silence descends on the edge of Manehattan. Frigid white air whistles in through the open door, stinging my lungs with every labored breath.

Silence descends. It falls on the shoulders of everypony in Shanty Alley, and for a while I’m sitting on the floor beside Junebug, and I can’t think of anything to do other than listen to my own breathing.

“I thought about you all the time, Rose,” says Temporal. The sound of her voice startles me. Pulls me away from my daydreaming.

“Stop it!” I shout, unable to control myself a second longer. “Stop it! Stop it right now!”

“All the time,” she continues, her voice still airy. Dove-like. Sounding like an echo. Like it’s coming from someplace far away. “Ever since you killed my brother. I remember you looking down at me before everything went black. You looked…almost sorry then. Do you remember?”

“Damn it, Temporal, I said stop it! This is crazy. You’re talking crazy.”

“My brother and I did everything together,” she says, refusing to hear a word I say. “I was so depressed when he died, I… I don’t know…I guess I wanted to die too. But it was thoughts of you that kept me going.”

“Temporal, don’t...”

“You’re my whole reason for living, Rose. You’re my purpose.”

“Temporal, please…”

“That’s why you have to give me a chance. Killing you is all I have, Rose. You’re all I have. You have to give me a chance.”

I sit down and bury my face in my hooves, wanting to cry but discovering I don’t have any tears left. Junebug is dead, and Daisy and Lily are still dead, and Dee hates me, and I haven’t felt Redheart’s forehead warm against mine in what seems like ages. I don’t have any tears.

Temporal gingerly pulls my hooves from my face. Her wanting eyes find me and I feel something for her I know isn’t there. Isn’t even real.

“Please, Rose.”

“Okay,” I say, thoroughly exhausted. “You get your chance.”

“If I lose, you have to promise you’ll kill me.”

“I can’t,” I say looking away. “I don’t…that’s not who I am anymore.”

Temporal’s expression softens. Her ears wilt and hang at the sides of her head. She squeezes my hoof. “Please, Rose. You have to promise me.” Her expression softens. Hard to believe this is the same mare from a few minutes ago. Hard believe she’s one of Manehattan’s criminals.

“I promise,” I say, laughing weakly on the inside. I must be out of my mind. I must finally be completely gone.

The room is quiet again, and for a while it’s just the three of us and the wind. Just three corpses enjoying each other’s company, only one smart enough to know she’s dead.

“Was she special to you?” asks Temporal, gesturing toward Junebug.

“No,” I say, shaking my head, not sure if I’m lying or not. “No… She was just somepony.”

“Just somepony, huh?” she asks.

“Yeah. Just somepony…”

Temporal doesn’t believe me. She’s so emotional. So easy to read. I suppose I am too. Temporal doesn’t believe me and I’m not sure I believe myself either.

“Does it ever get easier?” she asks, looking away now. “Dealing with all the suffering? I’ve spent most of my life doing bad things. Making ponies suffer. Does it ever get easier?”

“It can,” I say, looking down at Junebug. She is still smiling. Despite it all she is still smiling. “We just don’t let it. We don’t know when to walk away.” Temporal and I share a laugh.

“No, I guess we don’t,” she says, still smiling her strange, sad smile.

A week later I kill Temporal. I let her pick the time and place, and she chooses a nameless backstreet on a frozen winter night in Shanty Alley. The kids up in the weather factory shake snow out of the clouds for us. The cold numbs some of the pain. Takes the edge off.

I try to be quick about it. See that she doesn’t suffer too much. I wish I could say she died bravely, but there’s no bravery in what we do. I wish I could say she at least put up a good fight, but without her magic she goes to pieces under my hooves like a dandelion caught in a strong breeze.

In the very end she looks up at me from where she’s lying broken on the sidewalk, smiling her strange, sad smile. In the very end she’s not afraid to die. Not afraid of me. I suppose she wins in her own way. In a harsh way that only ponies like us can understand, Temporal beats me. She doesn’t kill me, and she doesn’t avenge her brother’s death, and I split her skull open on the sidewalk, and she bleeds out like a wounded stray dog behind an alley dumpster. She dies in the street like an animal, but she beats me that night. She wins. In her own way, she wins.

At the very end of it, she looks up at me and I look down at her, and it’s me who’s scared out my mind. It’s me who needs to be reminded why we do it.

I look down at her. Rear up on my hind legs. Listen to my breathing. Feel the sting of winter swirling in my chest. I take a moment to remember why we do it. Why I do it. Why I don’t just walk away.

I shut my eyes.

The noose slips around Daisy’s neck.

Lily screams.

And the rest is easy.

Cold as Flame

Chapter XIV: Cold as Flame

Temporal keeps her word. Before I bash her skull against the sidewalk, she talks. Tells me Scope’s killers have been hiding out right here in Discord’s Kitchen. Tells me they’ve been doing jobs for the Daughters, and that they may’ve even joined the gang outright. Temporal doesn’t give me names, just descriptions: Earth ponies. Drab coats. Grey manes. Related: cousins if not sisters. Not a lot to go on, but still the best lead I’ve had to date. I’m close now. Close to finding the shit-eating, sub-equine parasites that cut Stephen Scope’s throat and tried to pin the whole rap on me. I’m close now. I can feel it.

Temporal keeps her word. I keep mine as well. Before she died, she made me promise to leave her body at an address somewhere in the heart of Discord’s Kitchen. Poor, dumb mare knew she didn’t have a chance against me, but she loved her brother or just plain hated me too much to let it go. Poor Temporal. Poor dumb mare. Her only sin was never learning how to love anything that wasn’t hers, and her only mistake was wanting to trade blows with a pony who was just like her in all the wrong ways. Poor, dumb mare. Died the way a pony ought to die, though. Wasn’t scared in the end.

It’s late, and it’s freezing, and Temporal is heavier than she ought to be, and I’m running on fumes, but I somehow make it from Shanty Alley all the way back to Peachy’s Pies. I stick to the backstreets. Creep down only the darkest alleyways. Stay in the shadows. Keep out of sight. It’s a long, dreary trudge but I make it to Peachy’s without running into any trouble. I leave her body around back like I promised I would. She didn’t say why she wanted to be left at Peachy’s, and I didn’t ask. Temporal went into this thing knowing she wouldn’t be walking away, and she had a week to plan it out. Probably arranged for her body to be found by somepony she trusted. I can’t say for sure. Don’t know. Didn’t ask.

There’s a hollow feeling in my chest where my heart should be as I lay Temporal down outside the backdoor. I lay her down carefully, whishing I had flowers or something to leave at her side, and then laughing bitterly at such a stupid notion. Flowers for a pony I murdered and dumped outside of some shitty café in a shitty part of town: stupid notion. I lay her down, then I stand over her for a spell, trying to squeeze out a few tears in her memory. The water works don’t come. Faucet’s dried up. Temporal deserves at least a few tears but I can’t even give her that. Can’t feel a thing. It’s the same as it was when I looked down at Filthy Rich. I’m empty. Numb. Can’t feel a thing. The wind tugs at my mane, as if warning me against the danger of lingering any longer. I head the warning, say my goodbye, then start off in no particular direction.

It’s late. Dark. Dark as it gets. The streets are alive with the cocky jeers of dealers harassing junkies, and the snores of the drunken winos slumped against dumpsters, and the perfumed tang hovering around the working mares that dot the corners like zits on Manehattan’s ugly face. The night sounds—and a few smells and tastes mixed in for good measure. I trot. Listen for sirens. Don’t hear any. I never hear any sirens in the Kitchen.

I trot and already my mind is buzzing with thoughts of finding Scope’s killers. I’m close now, but If the Daughters are involved, that means I’ll have to go back to Shanty Alley. And if they've found Junebug, which they likely have by now, then I won’t have too many friends waiting for me when I return. I was the last pony seen with Junebug before she died, and I’ve been gone for a week now. It doesn’t take a head like Sparkle’s to connect those dots. They’ll be gunning for me if they aren’t already, and if I have to deal with both the Daughters and Scope’s killers I might as well get comfy on the ground beside Temporal now because I’m already dead.

I trot. Think. The street goes airy under my hooves, like I’m a pegasus strolling along the silver lining of a cloud. My thoughts drift from the Daughters to Junebug. She might still be there. Still lying on the floor in her shack, wrapped in a bed sheet where I left her. Maybe the Daughters haven’t found her, I let myself believe. Maybe she’s there now.

Still lying there. Still smiling…

…The thought gives me an idea. A light I didn’t know was there flickers to life in the back of my head, and I see my next move as clear as day. I get an idea. A horrible idea. A mistake in the making. A long shot in every sense of the word—but if it works I won’t have to worry about the Daughters getting in my way while I search for Scope’s killers. If it works I’ll have the whole gang on my side. In my back pocket. But only if works. If it doesn’t, I’m dead for sure and Scope’s killers get off scot-free. They get away with taking Junebug’s husband from her, and framing me, and carving out Sparkle’s horn, and kidnapping Filthy’s daughter…

… Just a filly, Temporal said. Just a little foal, frightened out of her mind right now if those monsters haven't already butchered her.

With the memory of Filthy’s last words ringing in my ears, I spin around hurriedly and make my way back to Peachy’s. The idea warps itself into something vaguely resembling a plan of action—and then there’s no more time for thinking. No time and no need. It’s late. I’m running out of moonlight. In a few hours it’ll be morning, and Celestia will come out to hog the playground with her ball of fire, and every eye in the city will flutter open and watch me, and by then it’ll be too late.

No time for thinking. No need.

I gallop back to Peachy’s. Back to Temporal. When I find her, I whisper a worthless apology in her unhearing ear. Then, hooves trembling from fatigue, I scoop her up and drape her lifeless form across my back, wearing her like a bleeding cape. Then I pray to a goddess who doesn’t love me that Temporal doesn’t slide off my back as I start my mad dash back to Junebug’s place. The bruises on my face scream as the wind stabs them with needles so cold they burn. I try not to think about it. Try to ignore it.

Stupid.

It and the shooting pains playing tag in my front legs.

Stupid plan. Won’t work. Stupid. Stupid.

And the obvious blood trail I’m leaving all over the snow-topped sidewalk, and the weight of the dead thing bobbing on my back.

Stupid. Damn it, Rose! So bucking stupid.

And the snow crunching under my boots, slowing my dash, making every step a slippery battle.

Stupid! Stupid! Stupid!

And the bratty, self-loathing voice in the back of my head that isn’t convinced this plan of mine will work. The one that’s obsessing over every stinking detail. Panicking. Worried about the blood trail. Worried that Junebug has been dead for too long or that the Daughters have already found her.

I try to ignore all of it as I flee down the back backstreets, down the darkest alleys, away from the heart of the Kitchen and back to Shanty Alley. Back to where I hope Junebug is still lying dead in her shack. Still smiling.

A carriage tears by, traveling opposite the direction of my frantic charge. I see light from the lanterns mounted on the carriage—and as it passes I steal a fleeting vision of blue and white.

A squad cart? In the Kitchen?

My heart skips a full beat. The ache in my limbs flares. The freezing, burning needles sharpen. Sharpen.

Did they see me? I think. Then I feel a threatening glow at my back. I try to glance over my shoulder, sure now that the cops are following me, only to catch an eyeful of Temporal’s tail wafting beside mine, the both of them looking like rippling black specters against the white screen charging from behind.

If I cried out as I stumbled and fell, I didn’t hear it over the thundering hooves, or the soggy plop of Temporal’s corpse landing gracelessly in the snow. The carriage barrels by harmlessly. Not a squad cart. Not blue and white. Yellow and black. A taxi. Not cops. A taxi. Just a taxi.

Get up, stupid. Get up or the plan won’t work.

I scramble back to all fours. Pulse pounding. Hooves trembling. I scramble. Scoop up Temporal. Gallop a step faster. A step faster. Faster.

And then the night sounds find me. Chase me.

The wind picks up, howling with an animal’s voice.

Another carriage barrels by. Another.

A gun barks.

The shriek of something scared and helpless echoes from someplace far, far away.

The night sounds chase me: the unsubtle discord of things chasing and things fleeing. Thundering hooves and blaring sirens and shattering glass—and above it all, the city’s hot, haughty laugh, rising up toward the starless night sky like smoke over a holocaust.

…And then all at once the night sounds fall away. The streetlights retreat behind me, and the looming edifices shrink into small houses, and the small houses give way to tents and shacks. The heart of Discord’s Kitchen recedes at my back, noisy and scary as all hell. Finally—I’ve made it back to Shanty Alley.

With the lights from the Kitchen behind me, the night seems to grow thicker. Realer. It’s dark now. As dark as it gets. My hooves echo through the dense midnight veil, the layer of snow coating the sidewalk unable to muffle the sound as I charge on blindly. Franticly. Mind racing. Chest heaving. Pulse pounding like a drumbeat.

I sprint through the dark for a decade, a century, unable to shake a new, forbidding feeling that something is watching me. My eyes dart left and right, but there’s nothing to see. Nothing but the vague outline of tent houses pitched in the abyss. I sprint for a century. At the turn of the millennium, I find the light from the Golden Bit Bridge peeking at me as I climb the hill that leads to Junebug’s home.

When I slide the scrap metal door open a foul stink tackles me, trying to drag my aching body to the ground. I slump in the doorway, dizzy. Legs weak. Stomach churning.

Stupid. Smell is too strong. Too obvious. Won’t work. Stupid. Stupid.

I push the voice out of my head. Gather myself. Focus. Focus on the plan and nothing else.

I toss Temporal’s carcass, not caring where it falls. I don’t waste any time. Don’t think. No thinking. No need. I get straight to work, and the work is grim.

Forced entry. Needs to look like a forced entry.

Scrap metal moans like a dying thing as straining muscles rip it from the face of the shanty.

Then a fight. Make it look like a fight. Make it good.

Hoof sized holes appear in the flimsy walls. The bookcase crashes to the floor in a small quake of crunching wood and flapping pages. A few spastic stomps split the already cracked tabletop in half.

I don’t think. Don’t waste time. I find a scalpel on the shelves. Slash my cheek. Cut the corner of my mouth. Nick one of my forelegs.

Make it good, Rose. Come on, make it good.

Then I suck a lungful of foul air and try not to bite through my bottom lip as I stand up on my hind legs and jam the blade into my side.

“Bucking Ponyfeathers,” I swear aloud, stumbling but managing to catch myself before I topple over. “Shit! Shit!” Too deep. “Shit.” Too deep. I’m nervous. Frantic. Hooves are trembling. Stabbed too deep. Not focused. Not careful. Too deep. Bleeding out too fast. My head goes light. Front hoof reaches out for something to steady myself with. Finds the medicine shelves. I lean against them; balanced on my hind legs, clutching my side, trying hard not to panic, to stay in control. Focus. Focus on the plan and nothing else.

Ignore it, I tell myself. It’s nothing. Ignore it. Focus.

Slowly, I limp over to where Junebug is wrapped in a bed sheet, lying motionless on the dusty floor. It’s not until I pull the sheet away from her face, that the full gravity of what I’m about to do falls on me. I don’t think. If I think I won’t be able to do what needs doing. I don’t think. I take the scalpel in my mouth, and I remind myself that it needs to look good, and I mutter a prayer of forgiveness to a goddess who doesn’t love me—and when blade comes down, it comes down slow and stops just shy of biting into Junebug’s throat.

I can’t do it.

I start to drive the scalpel through Junebug’s neck. Make it look like she was murdered. Make it look good. I start to, but stop just shy of piercing flesh. I can’t do it. Can’t defile her corpse. And anyway it’s no good. The body’s too old. Smell’s too strong. If I cut her now the Daughters might figure out that the wound was made after death. Can’t do it. Can’t risk defiling Junebug’s corpse for the sake of a plan that might not work. She deserves better than that. There has to be another way. A better way.

I cover Junebug’s face with the bed sheet.

Think, Rose. Better way. Get rid of the smell. Make it look good. The voice between my ears is lousy with panic as I dash through the predator’s maw and up to the bedroom. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.

I shove the voice out. Ignore it. Sprint up to the bedroom. Search under the bed. Grab Junebug’s first aid kit. Pop the lid. Rummage around before finding something useful: rubbing alcohol. The bottle is half empty but it should be enough. I shove it back into the white box; then, not finished searching just yet, I throw open a closet.

Nothing.

Rifle through drawers.

Nothing.

Check under the bed again.

Nothing…

Come on Junebug, you’re a bucking drug dealer. Ponies smoke drugs, don’t they? You must have a lighter. A box of matches. Something.

I dash back to the newly destroyed room. Flustered. Body aching. Head throbbing. Dizzy from blood loss. I dash back. Search the medicine shelves. Find vials. Bottles. Herbs. Powders. No good. No lighters. No matches. No good.

Stupid. Knew it wouldn’t work. Stupid. Stupid.

Then my spirits leap when I see the plant that Junebug warned me not to touch. The Poison Joke.

I spit out the first aid kit and grab the pot, remembering what Junebug said about the plant. Remembering that it played a ‘joke’ on the poison. Reversed the symptoms. Reversed my nightmare too. Made me think Daisy and Lily where alive.

I grab the pot. Hurry outside. Set it down. Scoop up a mound of snow and drop it on the plant. It’s a long shot, but then so is this whole crazy cluster-buck I’ve stumbled into. Long shot, but I’ve got nothing to lose.

I grab the pot in trembling hooves, and I nearly trip over myself as I hurry outside, and I almost drop the stupid thing when I set it down, and I scoop up a mound of snow, and…

…And then I laugh out loud. Bright yellow flames leap out of the pot, licking ravenously at the night air—and I laugh out loud. The plant plays its joke. Turns the snow into fire. It’s a good joke. Funny. Crazy. I laugh out loud. Snow becoming fire. Crazy. The whole damn world is crazy.

Something about staring down at the ceramic pot of dancing, crackling impossibility calms me down. Reminds me of a time when I was just a filly; when me and Daisy and Lily were small kids with big eyes, watching Celestia drag her ball of fire up past the taut, blue horizon during the annual Summer Sun Celebration. I had thought it was the most amazing display of power back then. Power enough to command that the sun shine. Power grand and absolute, and yet nothing but a cheap parlor trick compared to the tiny miracle dancing in a pot on the sidewalk outside of a ruined shanty. Dancing at the edge of the world, to pure and perfect and innocent to know what horrible purpose it was created for.

Snow into fire. Cold into warmth. A good joke. Funny. Crazy as all hell.

I take my dancing miracle back inside. Set it on the floor. Open the white box. Soak the medicine shelf in rubbing alcohol. Then I take one last look around this wonderful, horrible, timeless place nopony should ever have to call home, and there’s a pang in my chest when I realize it won’t be here in the morning.

In the low light of the dancing miracle, I kneel beside Junebug and pull the sheet away from her face. “I’m sorry, Junebug,” I say, pressing my forehead against hers. She’s cold. Pale. “I’m sorry. I couldn’t save your husband and I couldn’t save you. You deserved so much better than this.”

I press my forehead against hers. Then I kiss her.

And then the dancing miracle is in my hooves. And then it is leaving them, leaving me, sailing dream-like through the stale air before bursting in splash of golden sparks.

Vials catch and crack, and bottles explode, and herbs wilt and blacken, and powders cook and turn the color of ash—and in the savage passing of cures and poisons a new miracle is born; one that leaps into the ceiling and falls onto the floor. Dividing. Increasing. Spanning. Consuming aged wood and ancient rust, licking with a yellow tongue, chewing with red-orange fangs. And dancing. Still dancing its innocent dance.

I watch the blaze devour the shanty, breathing in the myriad of foul stenches, ignoring the searing sting in my foreleg. Feeling calm. Clean. I watch the blaze; then I kneel down beside Junebug one last time.

“Goodbye, Junebug,” I say plainly. “I love you too.” I kiss her forehead. Then I drag Temporal’s carcass back out into the snow and steel myself for what’s coming next. All that’s left is to get into character. Become the loose cannon cowpony that squeezed information out of Two Cents. Play it tough. Action movie tough.

Bittersweet acceptance washes over me as I wait for Shanty Alley to wake with a start—for a few Daughters to rush out in search of the pony making trouble in their territory. I feel calm. Clean. For a short moment I feel like the alicorn that busted all those heads before Luna let me fall to my death. Before the city caught me. Things have been so…different since that night. Since I’ve been living in Discord’s Kitchen. Up on the rooftops I felt invincible. Up there I could fly and fight. I was faster than everypony. Stronger. Smarter. I had my equipment. My weapons. My hook and line. But down here it’s like—it’s like…like…

The thought drowns under a wave of confused shouts. A few of the Daughters have woken up, and they’re already shouting and arguing as they gallop out onto the street, looking to all the world like a huddled mass of bewilderment outlined in the firelight.

“What’s all this, then?” asks one of the stallions. I don’t recognize him from the group that beat me and Junebug, but I know he’s part of the gang. He’s wearing the boldest pair of short-shorts I’ve ever seen and his lip gloss is an odd color I can’t make out in the near perfect darkness. “Is that Juney’s bloody shack going up in smoke?” He stands up on his hind legs and shoves two dainty hooves into his cheeks dramatically. His accent is Trottingham too.

“Big Sis will have our nads on plate if something’s happened to Juney,” pipes another stallion, his voice shrill and boyish.

“Well don’t just stand about, you dopey lot. Go and see what’s what!” One of them orders. His voice is familiar: girly like the other stallions, but not forced. Natural. “Now! Be of then!” He rears up on his hind legs, waving for the others to go investigate the blaze. The fire illuminates his mane and once again I see a vision of blue and white. The others hesitate a moment, then run off into the burning shack, leaving Crest on the sidewalk to fidget fretfully in solitude. He hasn’t noticed me standing off a little ways away. Good. I let him sit in it for a while longer. Let him sweat. He fidgets. Mumbles incompressible little nothings. Starts pacing. I let him. Watch him.

Then I whisper another worthless apology to Temporal, and I remind myself to stay in character, to make it look good.

I go to work on the dead unicorn. Swearing at unhearing ears. Stomping an unfeeling midsection. Hating every second of it. Feels bad. Broke my promise. Told Temporal I’d leave her at Peachy’s. Leave her with somepony she trusted, but instead here I am pummeling her remains into the snow.

“Stupid bucking cunt,” I swear, aiming the insults at myself. Feeling each of them like knives twisting in my gut.

“You miserable…”

Stomp.

“…Worthless…”

Stomp.

“…Bucking…”

Stomp. Stomp.

“…Monster… I hate you... I hate...”

I stomp. Swear. Hate every second of it. Hate myself.

There are tears in my eyes by the time I get Crest’s attention. I hear him say something about me calming down, and I feel his hooves pull at me, wrestling me away from the dead unicorn.

“Easy, lovely,” he says. “Easy. What’s all this, then?”

“This piece of shit killed Junebug,” I hiss, blinking hot tears out of my eyes. I get in a few more stomps before Crest manages to wrench me away from what’s left of Temporal, spinning me around with surprising ease so that now I’m standing on my hind legs, facing the blaze. He holds me upright for a moment. Then, off balance, the two of us teeter and fall face first into the snow. He keeps holding me. He’s strong. Warm. Close. The scent of his perfumed fur floods my senses, and his breath is a frigid cloud as it brushes the back of my neck. I pretend to struggle in his grip a little longer, milking the vengeful lover bit for all it’s worth.

“It’s all right now,” he says. “It’s all right. Just talk to me.” He loosens his grip but doesn’t let me up. He wants me. If I remember right, Crest seemed to have a thing for me the first time we met. I change tactics. Ditch the vengeful lover bit and play vulnerable. Play damsel in distress—hurt, confused, heartbroken and looking for comfort in the forelegs of a strong male. I play vulnerable. Soften my tone. Let my ears sag. Sob. Sniff. I play vulnerable and poor Crest eats it up.

I tell Crest everything. I tell him how Temporal came storming in, shouting something about Junebug’s product turning up on her block, driving down her business. How she blasted poor Junebug with a magic bolt that lit the shack on fire. How we wrecked the place brawling, and how she stuck me in the side with her horn, and how I smashed a lamp over her head. How I busted her head open, and how she tried to run for it, and how I chased her out here to finish the job. I tell Crest everything. I feed him bullshit by the wheel barrel, and I do it with a mock shiver in my voice and a real pang in my chest, and he holds me, swallowing every bitter lie I feed him.

Together we get back to our hooves. Crest throws one of my forelegs around his neck and lets me lean on him. He holds me close to his side, nuzzling my cheek with his muzzle.

“Oh—oh wow. You’re hurt,” he says gently, noticing my self-inflicted wounds. My burned foreleg. The hole in my side.

“It’s nothing,” I assure him. “Just a few nicks.”

He holds me close. Nuzzles my cheek. My neck. Hard to believe he’s a member of the most notorious street gang in the city. Hard to believe he’s one of Manehattan’s criminals. So kind. So strong. I lean on him, trying vainly to convince myself the heat rising in my cheeks is just another part of my act.

The other Daughters come running back, bustling and talking over each other in varied tones.

“Some pony went and tore the door off, sis—”

“Holes in the walls, and books and things everywhere—”

“What about the fire, sis—”

“Looked like a right mad squabble went down in there. Right mad—”

“Blood and puke on the floor and—”

“The fire, sis. It’s spreading—”

Now all the heads poking out of the shacks and tents are turned towards the miracle dancing across the hunched back of what was once Junebug’s home. Spreading. Licking and chewing at the tent city for at least one block in both directions. Gobbling the shacks. Gulping down the tents and the smaller homes in easy swallows and chasing frightened ponies out onto the street: mares and stallions carrying bundles of clothing, radios, picture frames, foals—pieces of lives now shattering under the miracle’s destructive dance. Mares and stallions—fathers and mothers and friends and lovers—choking on heavy smoke as they skitter away from the exploding, crackling orgy of light and color and heat. Skittering like water flies.

Dozens of skittering water flies and not a single ripple to be felt.

The Daughters stop their chattering. Crest falls silent and stays that way. I don’t say anything either. In silence we watch the miracle dance its innocent dance, entranced by the marriage of beauty and destruction. I think of Junebug wrapped in her bed sheet, and the sheet wrapped in yellow and red. I think of the flames consuming her, growing broader and taller, living on the hide of a dead thing. A knot in my gut comes undone. An ache in my heart ebbs away. The bittersweet calm finds me again. I feel calm. Clean.

I think of Junebug’s perfect lips blackening and sacrificing none of their perfection. My eyes fall on Temporal. Silently I thank her for the help, and I promise to burn her too.

“I want to join the gang. Become a Daughter,” I lie, confident now in my ability to manipulate Crest’s feelings. “I… I don’t have anywhere to go now. Junebug was my only friend and she’s…” I end the thought with a few sobs for good measure. Milk the bit for all it’s worth, and it’s worth plenty.

“Is that a fact, lovely?” he answers, his accent charming, his voice carrying an air of evanescence. “Should warn you though, now ain’t a great time. Big Sis is going to be steamed about all this.”

“You let me worry about that.”

“Well, guess it’s our funeral then,” he laughs darkly.

By now all the heads poking out of doorways and windows are facing the blaze. It’s still spreading. Fast. I think of the plant’s joke and I laugh out loud. Crest and the others look at me sideways. Look at me like I’ve lost my mind, but they have absolutely no idea. Snow into fire. Good joke. Funny. Crazy. I laugh out loud. I watch one trifling flower make snow into fire—make a fool of the Manehattan winter—and I laugh out loud.

Discordant Order

Chapter XV: Discordant Order

Crest is aggressive tonight. Rough. Hungry. His hooves are pulling at my mane and his teeth are pulling at my bottom lip as the two of us swap spit in a bathroom stall in what might be the seediest bar in Discord’s kitchen. Crest is sitting on a cold porcelain lid, and I’m sitting on a warm bulge, and tonight he tastes like whisky and lip gloss, and he smells like cheap perfume. He’s got on this frilly blouse number that’s about two sizes too small along with that infamous pleated skirt he’s so found of. I’m done up in a snug fitting leather jacket that’s so small the sleeves only reach half way down my front legs. Not the most comfortable, but all the Daughters were tight clothes, and Crest says if I want to be a Daughter I’d better start dressing like one.

Crest pulls his face away from mine long enough to suck in a much needed breath. He whispers in my ear. Tells me I’m his little rosy-haired whore. Tells me tonight he’s going to smack me around and take me anyway he likes. I nibble his ear, and I call him a faggot, and I tell him he’s welcome to try so long as he remembers I’m not the one wearing the skirt.

Outside the bathroom a few of Crest’s friends are working the bar, moving the last of the Shard. There isn’t any more coming, so they get away with selling it to the strung-out junkies for double what it’s worth. And Outside the bar a few more of his friends are working the street, puckering their lips and blowing kisses at every carriage that rolls within shouting range.

Lying on the floor beside the toilet is a splintered wooden bat, the broken edge stained red with the memory of a bad time. About six blocks east of this place there’s a well known drug den, and in that drug den, lying face down in a puddle of his own blood, puke and piss, is a lowlife junkie who owes Big Sis fifty bits. Earlier tonight me and Crest had the pleasure of reminding the poor stiff that it’s not a good idea to buck with Big Sis’s money. The bat barely held up under all the punishment I dished out and the junkie didn’t fare much better. Crest pounded his ribcage to pulp with that pipe wrench of his, but the terror didn’t really sink in till the poor stiff looked down and saw what a pretty job I’d done of mangling his hind legs. He didn’t even scream. Just sort of stared and shook.

We didn’t get a cent out of the junkie, but Crest says a message needed to be sent. We crippled a stallion over fifty bits. Fifty lousy bits. Hell of a way to spend a night out on the town.

It’s been three weeks since the Alley went up in smoke. Three weeks I’ve spent proving my loyalty to the Daughters. Nights like this have become routine for me and Crest. We hit the streets, paint the old mule’s face a nice rosy red, then find a bar or club to unwind in. Crest usually downs enough booze to fill a bathtub, doesn’t pay for a drop of it, then drags me off to a bathroom stall and the two of us go at it like a couple of hormone crazy teenagers.

Actually, we’re supposed to be working right now. Supposed to be out with the Daughters moving the last batch of Junebug’s drugs, but we’re not because Crest does whatever he wants. He’s one of Big Sis’s most trusted lieutenants, and apparently he’s a big bucking deal among the Daughters. Nopony in the gang messes with Crest. He does what he wants and right now the only things he wants is me.

We kiss. Grope. Bump and grind. I try not to think of Redheart. Bottom line is this: Crest wants me. It doesn’t matter that I don’t want him, or that I’ve got the best mare in world waiting for me back at old Storm Chaser’s place. Crest wants me. He’s my meal ticket. My invitation to the party. I keep Crest happy, and I stay out of trouble with the Daughters. It’s as simple as that.

Still, fooling around with Crest isn’t a total bust. He does have a certain charm to him, and I love watching him prance around in that pleated skirt and those devil-red lace panties of his. He’s just about to wiggle his tight flank out of them and take me anyway he likes, when somepony works up the nerve to interrupt us.

“Sis,” somepony shouts. The voice is feminine. The accent denser than Crest’s. “We got trouble out ‘round back.”

Crest ignores her. Unzips my jacket with his teeth.

“Come on, sis. Pull your bloody face ‘way from that slut for a spell. We got work needs doing.”

Crest must recognize the mare’s voice because he address her by name. “Clear off, Olive,” he says in a low voice. His lips brush neck, working their way down to my chest. I stop him. Grab hold of his chin and guide his mouth back to up mine.

The mare shouts again. Bangs the door. I lap at Crest’s tongue ring, hoping she gets tired of being ignored and bucks off. Crest tilts his head. Deepens the kiss. I shift my weight on his lap, and scissor my hind legs around his middle.

Silence outside. Guess she took the hint.

Crest is tugging at his panties again when the mare gives another shout.

“Clear off, I said!” he repeats.

The mare bangs the door again. Crest lets out a humph like the spoiled brat he is, sighs, apologizes to me, then sets me down on the toilet and opens the door. The mare who was doing all the banging shoots Crest a look like she’s about to drag him out of the stall and strangle him. She’s a pegasus. Deep green coat. Messy burgundy mane. The rings poking through her bottom lip are three of the biggest I’ve seen any of the Daughters wear.

The mare talks quietly. I don’t think she wants me to overhear, and that’s fine with me because I’m not listening anyway. I’m staring at Crest’s tail, and at his tight flank, his muscular legs, and I’m missing the feel of our chests pressed together. I’m staring at Crest and wondering how I ever let things get this out of control. How I went from chasing criminals across rooftops, to fooling around with them in bathroom stalls. I keep telling myself things need to be this way. That I need to play along with these animals. I keep telling myself that I’m not like them, and that I haven’t been having the time of my life these past few nights. I keep telling myself this is all so I can get closer to finding Scope’s killers, but suddenly—staring at Crest’s tail, peeking at those devil-red panties barely hidden by his skirt—suddenly I’m not sure that’s still true.

During their conversation I overhear the mare say something about Big Sis returning to Manehattan in a few days time. I can’t see Crest’s face, but I know he’s gone white as sheet at the mention of his boss.

“Big Sis” is what the Daughters call the gang leader. I haven’t met her yet, but I’ve been breaking legs for this Big Sis character for the better part of three weeks now. Turns out she was away on business in Trottingham during the big blaze. Turns out the Daughters are just the Manehattan chapter of a much larger gang that got its start in Trottingham called the Trottingham Mandem—or the “Trotts” for short. According to Crest, the Trotts don’t care for the way Big Sis runs her chapter. He said there had been talk among the gang leaders about dissolving the Manehattan chapter. Shutting down the Daughters of Discord. Big Sis didn’t like that. Crest told me that a little while before I showed up, his boss and a few of her top enforcers flew out to Trottingham to “negotiate” with the Mandem. See if the Daughters and the Trotts could reach some kind of agreement.

Crest is worried that when his boss comes back and learns that one of her biggest money-makers burned up along with half the Alley there’ll be hell to pay. Me and Crest have been running around like a couple of headless chickens trying to scrape together as many bits as possible to offer Big Sis as a peace offering. Crest says if I really want to be a Daughter that this is a good way to start.

And if that stack of shit wasn’t high enough, the Daughters have also been busy harassing the Kitchen’s small time dealers, hoping to find out what crew Junebug’s killer belonged to. I’ve got them chasing a fantasy. Looking for something that just plain isn’t there. I’ve got them eating shit out of my hooves, and right now I’ve got Crest in my back pocket. My plan worked. It cost Junebug and Temporal the decency of a dignified burial, and it cost me what little bit of my soul I was still carrying around like so many pieces of broken glass—but it worked. Some innocent families lost their homes in the blaze, and with poverty being what it is in the Alley bouncing back will be tough for them.

Was it worth it? Probably not, but I can’t let myself feel for all those ponies right now. I can’t. I’ve been soft ever since that night I fell out of the sky, abandoned by Luna only to be saved from death by the old mule herself. When the city reached out and caught me, answered my call when even my beloved moon goddess refused, I… I don’t know… I let my guard down. Let Dee get under my skin when I should’ve told her to buck off and take care of herself. Let Junebug get to close, and then turned around and let things get out of control with Temporal too. I’ve been soft. Manehattan is no place for soft ponies. I need to focus. I’m close now. All the pieces are finally starting to fall into place. I’m close. I can feel it.

I’m so deep in thought that it takes me a while to realize Crest and the mare have left the bathroom. I don’t remember Crest saying anything to me before leaving, and I don’t remember wandering out of the stall either. Don’t how much time I lose to my brooding, but when I come back down to earth I’m standing in front of the sink, and water cold enough to drink is pouring from the faucet. I splash my face a few times, keeping my gaze pointed toward the bowl. Facing my reflection takes courage. The mirror is cracked in the center and so is the face of the mare staring back at me.

I hardly recognize her. Her rose colored mane is a shade duller, and her cream coat has lost its sheen. There are scars streaking across her face and down her neck like lines on a map, a map of the city, of Manehattan, each line leading back to a corner, or a rooftop, or down a backstreet or an alleyway. Each one leading back in time, reminding me of all the close calls. They’ve only been getting closer since the fall.

Why’d you do it, Manehattan? You had me right where you wanted me that night. Had me dead to rights. I was a heartbeat away from becoming another ugly blemish on your ugly face, but you just wouldn’t let me go. You couldn’t, could you? You had me long before that night I dropped out of the sky and into your lap like some wounded bird. You’ve had me at knifepoint this hold time, but you can’t bring yourself to carve out my beating heart, can you? You want me all for yourself. I know you. You want to break me the way you broke Sparkle. Taint me. Make me one of your criminals... Is that it? Is that why I’m still alive? Why I’m still...

“You still here in the loo, Rosy?” The sound of Crest’s voice jars me. Pulls me from my brooding. “Come on, come on. Me sisters found a pony who might know something about the mare who bumped off Juney. Figured you’d want a go at the little uni cunt yourself.”

From the sound of it Crest’s found himself another small time dealer to slap around. I wander back to the stall and pick up the bat, laughing to myself. Uni. I love that. It’s is short for unicorn. I guess it’s supposed to be some kind of racial slur, because Crest and the other Daughters are always tossing the word around like a curse. Like something that would make your grandparents blush.

Uni. I hate unicorns. Shame it took me this long to learn the slur. Uni. I love it.

I pick up the bat. Crest leads me out of the bathroom, his pipe wrench swinging from his belt as he prances ahead.

The lights in the bar are low and the air is hazy with cigarette smoke. It’s loud. Every pony is shouting. Two Daughters at the door are shouting for everypony not with the gang to clear out. Most of the bar's patrons are shouting back as the other Daughters herd them through the entrance like cattle. It’s loud. Can’t believe I didn’t hear it before. Everypony is shouting. Place lousy with noise.

“Take it outside!” shouts the barkeep, an old earth pony stallion with a pair of glasses balanced at the edge of his muzzle. He’s waving his hoof like he means to fight, knowing all too well there’s nothing he can do to stop what’s coming next. “Bunch of ungrateful hooligans. After all I’ve done for the Daughters. All I’ve done and you don’t even have the decency to take it outside.”

A mare reaches across the counter and smacks the barkeep in the ear. Same mare that butted in on me and Crest. Pegasus. Green coat. Unruly Mane. Crest called her ‘Olive’, I think. She tells the barkeep to shut up or she’s going to shut him up.

“Take it outside, I said!”

But the Daughters don’t take it outside. They drag it in from off the street and lay into it as it kicks and twists and fights for its life.

“I didn’t see anything!” shouts the unicorn as they lug her across the floor. She’s a mare by the sound of her voice, but I can’t see her through the mob of bodies kicking and stomping her. “I didn’t! Please! Please let me go! I don’t know what you’re talking about!”

Her horn glows. A stool enveloped in light floats up on its own and flings itself at the mob, striking one of the Daughters: a pegasus with an ice-blue coat.

“Stupid uni cunt,” grumbles the pegasus, rubbing his backside where the stool landed. Crest laughs out loud as we approach, prompting the others to laugh as well. A few of the Daughters shove the pegasus. Call him a nancy. A poof. They laugh at him. Tease him.

“Stupid, bloody uni cunt,” he grumbles.

The gang laughs, forming a bullies’ circle around the unicorn and Ice-blue. He picks up the stool and goes to work on the unicorn; the sopping thump of wood crashing into flesh is almost enough to drown out the laughing. Almost.

“Damn you, monsters!” the barkeep shouts. “Ungrateful bunch of brats. Take it outside!” He shouts. Olive slaps him. Tells him to shut up before she shuts him up.

Crest laughs.

I stand at his side and watch it happen. I watch the stool rise above the bullies’ circle, then fall. Rise then fall. Rise then fall—coming up redder and a bit less intact every time Ice-Blue lifts it overhead. He lays into her like he won’t ever stop, his eyes gleaming with something I see in my own whenever I look in a mirror.

Crest laughs.

The unicorn cries. “Please I don’t know anything. I don’t…”

The barkeep roars. “Out! I said take it outside!”

The Daughters shout, talking over each other like they always do. “Stupid, bloody uni cunt—”

“You ready to talk, uni—?”

“I say we bleed her out. Bleed her out right slow—”

And then all of them. All together. All at once.

“Outside! Not in my bar. Take it out—”

“I say we mash her up some more—”

“Hear that, uni? Me friend here wants to bleed you dry. Sure you don’t want to talk—?”

“Please, I… Please….”

“Stupid. Bloody. Uni. Cunt—”

“Hey, ease up with the uni cracks already. Some of us have horns, you know—”

“Sure you don’t have something to say to me, uni—?”

“Please…”

“Outside! Outside now!”

Without saying a word, Olive rears up on her hind legs, reaches over the counter, grabs the barkeep by his shirt collar and throws over her shoulder, slamming him down on the floor.

“All I’ve done,” he shouts again, as if hoping the sentence will protect him. Olive stomps his mouth, pushing teeth into the back of his throat. He chokes. Makes a gurgling sound. Olive stomps his nose, shattering his glasses. He cries out. Hurt. Afraid. Olive stomps him again. Again. Her eyes go starry, sizzling in their sockets like a couple of eggs frying in a pan. I have to fight the urge to march over there and feed her my bat.

Can’t get in their way, Rose. You get in their way now, and you blow everything.

Olive keeps stomping. Then a collective gasp soars up from the bullies’ circle, and the fight to control myself gets that much harder.

“You stabbed her,” shouts one of the Daughters. “Are you dizzy? Are you bloody mental?”

“What you go and stab her for?”

“What? I thought we was gonna bleed her?”

“Look at that. You got blood on me new boots.”

“Mental. He’s bloody mental, this one is.”

Crest smiles like a father watching his kids play tag at the park. “Come on then, lovely,” he says to me “Better hurry while there’s still some to go around.”

I spit out the bat so I can tell Crest I’m sitting this one out. I tell him it’s too personal. Too close to home, what with Junebug being my only friend. I warn Crest that I might lose control and kill the unicorn before the gang can get anything useful out of her. Crest buys it. I’m not surprised; he buys everything I’m selling, whenever I’m selling it. And anyway it’s only a partial lie: I really am worried I might lose control and kill somepony.

Criminals. I hate criminals. Them and this whole rotten city. This bucking—worthless—rotten…

Keep a lid on it, Rose. Lose your cool now and it’s over. They’re not going to kill her. Just rough her up a bit. Not going to kill her. Keep a lid on it.

Crest prances off and joins his friends in the bullies’ circle. Olive is still pounding the barkeep into the floorboards. The unicorn is groaning on the floor. The Daughters are arguing, talking over each other like always.

I don’t move a muscle. Olive is pummeling the barkeep, and the Daughters are tormenting some unicorn who doesn’t know anything because there isn’t anything to know, and I don’t move a muscle. I let it happen. I mash my teeth, and I let it happen.

Crest looks down at his prey and whistles. “Get her up on a pool table. Hurry now, don’t want her bleeding out on us.”

From where I’m standing, I watch the Daughters drag the unicorn to the corner of the room and throw her up on a pool table. They lay her down spread-eagle. Hold her legs so she doesn’t squirm. The pony who stabbed her brandishes his knife, ready to slit her throat should Crest give the order.

And Crest—the smug piece of shit—he pulls up a stool beside the pool table. Sits down. Get’s comfortable. I move closer and watch as he taps the unicorn’s cheek, trying to keep her from dozing. After the beating she took it’s a miracle she’s still alive, never mind awake. I move closer. Listen.

“A good mate of mine told me you spend lots of time out on the streets. Told me you sleep on the sidewalk. I’ll bet you see all sorts of things sleeping on the sidewalk, like you do.” Crest leans forward and blows the words in the unicorn’s ear. She shudders. Swallows hard. “Bet you seen lots and lots a deals go down out here. Seen lots of faces coming and going.”

“I told you…” the unicorn says weakly, “I d-didn’t see anything. I-I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Crest belts her across the face, then curses, shaking his hoof. “Me mate seems to think different. He’s a humble stallion, me mate. Honest stallion. Works for that crook Peachy in a shitty café in a shitty part of town. Gets paid next to nothing to slave away over a hot stove all day long. He’s a bloody a cook, me mate. Makes food. I ask you, is there a more honest, more wholesome way to make a living than feeding the hungry?”

The unicorn doesn’t say anything. Crest belts her again. “I’m chatting with you, uni.”

“Stupid, bloody uni cunt, this one,” says Ice-blue with a smirk. The others chime in.

“She don’t know shite, sis. We’re wasting our time.”

“Aye. Let’s bleed the cunt and be off.”

“I say we mash her up.”

“Stupid, bloody uni.”

“Relax with the uni cracks already,” says the only other unicorn in the room. I’ve seen him before. I recognize his yellow lipstick. His matching eye-shadow. His unusually long horn.

Crest grins. Traces the curve of the unicorn’s cheek and pets her again. “Hear that, uni cunt? Looks like you got yourself a friend.” The others laugh. “Guess you uni types have to stick together, huh?”

“Bet she’s a cop. Every stinkin’ uni in this town’s a stinkin’ cop—”

“Relax with the bloody uni cracks—”

“Come off it all ready, she don’t know nothing—”

“Aye. Bleed the bitch and let’s be off!”

“Let me have her,” says Ice-Blue. He has the greediest, hungriest eyes I’ve ever seen. “Let me have the little uni cu—”

And then there’s a thunderclap followed by a spray of red mist rising smoke. I jump at the sound. The Daughters jump at the sound. Ice-blue coughs blood. Gurgles. Drops to the floor. He twitches like a half-crushed bug, blood gushing from a coin-sized hole under his chin, greedy eyes wide and wondering why they can’t blink anymore.

It takes the other Daughters a few seconds to realize what’s happened.

“Bleedin’ uni this and uni that,” shouts the unicorn with the long horn, red-faced from anger and drunkenness. “I warned you, didn’t I? Bleedin’ uni this and that. I warned you.” His horn is glowing. A gun is floating at his side, enveloped in the same light surrounding his horn.

“Put that bucking gun down, you mental chase,” says Crest. The others look on in horror.

“I warned you, didn’t I?”

The mare lying on the pool table sobs.

I look on indifferently. I could stop this. I could take down the shooter. He’s distracted. Waving his piece around the bullies’ circle, not paying me any attention. I doubt he even knows I’m here. I could stop this. Dart across the room, fling myself over a few fallen chairs, and blindside him. Kick the gun away and smash that erection on his forehead through the nearest wall. It’d be easy, like blowing the head off a dandelion. I could stop this, but I’m more than happy to leave them to it. Hell, I’m ecstatic. I pull up a stool at the bar, and I poor myself a drink from the tap, and with smile on my lips I watch the animals eat each other.

“I warned you!”

“Put the gun down!”

“Warned you didn’t I. Uni this and uni that; well I’ve had me fill of it!”

“Damn it, sis! Put. The gun. Down.”

One of the Daughter’s gets brave and lunges at Long Horn. The gun barks again. The muzzle flashes. Smokes. One of them gets brave. Lunges. Her bravery gets her a bullet through the chest. She falls. Sucks desperately at the haze floating overhead before going limp.

The others jump the unicorn all at once. The gun barks like a rabid dog as they swarm him. A mare takes two in the gut. Screams curses and clutches her stomach as she falls on her ass. Another catches a bullet in his hind leg, but it doesn’t stop him from smashing Long Horn’s face with both front hooves. Long Horn staggers but keeps shooting.

They swarm him. The gun keeps barking until the pony with the knife slides the blade between Long Horn’s ribs. Then he gives the handle a twist, and the unicorn gives a sharp holler, and the light gripping the gun vanishes.

“That’s it. Bleed the damn uni prick. That’ll teach him—”

“The dizzy uni shot me…”

“Mash the bastard’s face—”

“Buckin’ Uni prick—”

“Can’t believe it… He actually shot me…”

Crest snatches the knife from the other pony and goes to town on Long Horn, stabbing him repeatedly in the stomach and chest. Long Horn’s legs flail. His horn flickers. The sounds are slick and gruesome. I sip my drink, grinning, enjoying the show.

When it’s over Crest and the others are panting hard and staring at each other. No pony says anything. The only sounds in the room are the groans coming from the mare with the slugs in her gut, and the soft sobs of the unicorn still sprawled out on the pool table, too beat up to move. I watch Crest. He looks around at the mortified faces of the other Daughters. Judging by his expression, I’d say he doesn’t like what he sees.

It’s quiet for a long while. Then one of them starts giggling nervously.

“What a nancy colt, that one was,” she chuckles, gesturing toward the lifeless unicorn. “Couldn’t even take a few digs.”

Another of the Daughters chuckles. A stallion this time. “We was only havin’ a go at him and he starts shooting up the place. You believe that?”

The giggle spreads around the room like a flu virus before erupting into hysterical laughter.

“Bleedin’ uni this and uni that,” one them jokes, mocking Long Horn’s voice.

“Did you see Crest’s face when that uni pulled his piece out?” one of them laughs. “I thought you was gonna piss yourself, sis. Thought you was gonna cry, you little poof.”

“Of course I almost pissed me self,” Crest laughs, unfazed by the dig. “Did you see the size of that cannon? Where the hell was he hiding it? I’ve seen newborn foals smaller than that piece.”

They laugh. Get back to their hooves and dust themselves off like nothing happened. Like they didn’t just gut one of their own and watch another two get blown away. The Daughters are either hard as nails or bat-shit crazy. Crest especially. There’s a glint in his eye that tells me he wouldn’t mind doing this again tomorrow night. Crest’s cruelty is frightening. Hard to believe he’s the same stallion that held me so gently the night I torched Junebug’s place. He seemed so earnest then—and what really scares me is that he seems just as earnest now.

“One of you grab up sis down there.” Crest gestures toward the mare who’s moaning and clutching her stomach. “Let's be off before she bleeds out like a stuffed pig.”

“What about our dead, sis?” asks one of the Daughters.

“Leave them,” says Crest dismissively. “You die in the gutter; you lie in the gutter. That’s Kitchen law. And one of you take care of that uni cunt lying about on the table.” Crest starts for the door, leaving the others to carry the wounded behind him. “Olive, Rosy, we’re off.” He waves for me and Olive to follow.

“I’ll take care of her,” I say.

Crest eyes me carefully. “And just where were you when I was about to get me tail blasted off?”

“It looked like you had him.” I take a sip of my drink and shoot Crest my best you-get-me-so-wet-you-big-strong-sexy-hunk-of-a-stallion smile. He smiles back, knowing later tonight I’m going to treat him like a king.

Crest tosses a thoughtless glance back at the unicorn on the table. “Be quick about it.” He grins. Blows me a kiss. Winks and waves prettily before prancing out onto the street. The others shuffle out after Crest, still laughing and making jokes about what just happened. All of them except Olive. Olive is still leaning against the counter, staring down at her front hooves. Shaking. Sobbing. She reminds me of myself on that night I made Fedora scream for me.

I trot over to Olive and place a hoof on her shoulder, offering her what passes for a gentle touch these days. She looks at me and for the first time I realize how young she is.

“First time, kid?”

She nods. Looks down at her trembling hooves. “You must think I’m punk. Standin’ off to the side and shakin’ like a bloody leaf.”

“No.” I look down at my own hooves. They’re still. Steady. “It’s when you stop shaking that you run into problems. Beat it kid. You don’t want to see what happens next.”

Olive scurries off with her tail between her legs. Poor kid has no business running and gunning with these animals. Happens to a lot kids born in the Kitchen. You can either join the gang or spend the rest of your life getting harassed by them. Poor kid. Least she didn’t end up on the corner with the working mares tonight.

I wait till the Daughters are good and gone. Trot over to the barkeep. Check his pulse. Either little Olive hits like a foal or she doesn’t have the heart for ending lives yet, because the old stallion is still breathing.

“Lucky break, old timer.”

I step over Ice-blue. Trot by Long Horn and the mare he blasted in the chest. Three dead Daughters of Discord. Three dead criminals. Their passing leaves the world no poorer.

When I lay eyes on the unicorn my stomach tries to bounce up into my throat. She’s dressed in rags. Her eyes are closed but her lungs are still working, her chest still rising and falling. She’s only passed out. Not dead. Only passed out. I can’t say for sure if my eyes go all big and stupid when I see her, but if feels like they do. I had it wrong. She’s no small time dealer. Had it all wrong.

I nudge her awake. Her eyes open centimeters at a time, and for a second it looks like she might recognize me. My face is a forgettable one, but for a split second I’m sure she knows who I am. Then the second ticks away and her senses come rushing back to her. She falls off the table as she scrambles away from me.

“Please…” she mutters, bumping into a fallen chair as she crawls away. “Please, I…”

“Can you stand?” I extend my foreleg. Offer her what passes for a friendly touch these days. She hesitates.

“I—yeah I think so.” She takes my hoof in hers. I help her back to all-fours. She winces. Wobbles. Starts to fall, but I catch her.

“Easy now. I got you. Just lie on my back, okay.” I kneel down for her. She hesitates again.

“Go on. Don’t worry, I got you,” I say patiently. She hesitates. Pushes out a sigh, then she eases onto my back, wrapping her front legs around my neck while resting her chin on my shoulder.

“Why are you helping?” she asks. I take a moment to consider my answer as I stand up straight, testing her weight. She’s light as feather. As a song.

“Because I’m not like them,” I tell her, speaking more to myself than to her. The answer is good enough for the mare. She doesn’t say another word.

I make for the backdoor. I’m not sure what I’m thinking or where I’m going, but I make for the back door with the unicorn in tow. Crest will be wondering why it took me so long to meet up with the gang, but I don’t worry about that now. I make for the backdoor, and I step onto the sidewalk, out into the cool night air, and I don’t worry about anything at all.

It’s a shame the unicorn doesn’t remember me. I remember her. I remember her stripped scarf, and her mint green mane, and the strum of her lyre, and the jingle of coins dropping into her upturned bowler hat.

As I trot, I whistle a few bars of that old song—and the mare resting on my back puckers her lips and joins me.

Wingless, Hornless

Wingless, Hornless

Chapter XVI: Wingless, Hornless

The days fall way. At first nothing changes. Me and Crest fall right back into our routine. We break legs. Hit up bars. Drink ourselves sick. Fool around in bathroom stalls. Harass innocent unicorns. I keep an eye out for Scope’s killers, searching for them among the ranks of the Daughters of Discord. I come up with nothing. Big lumpy heaps of nothing. I start to suspect Temporal fed me bad information. Nothing changes. Days go by and nothing changes.

Then one day the last of the Shard runs out and everything changes.

The drug game counts for more than half of the Daughters total income, and when Junebug died, she took half the gang’s future cash with her. The Daughters apparently have no shortage of raw materials and laboratory types capable of cooking up more of the stuff, but Junebug kept the recipe for Shard in her head. Never wrote it down. Now the idiots are up shit’s creek and there isn’t a paddle in sight. Crest has connived himself that Big Sis is going to have him killed on the spot soon as her flight touches down in Manehattan at the end of this week. He was supposed to be in charge while she was away. Supposed to be protecting Junebug and the rest of the gang’s assets. Crest is sure he’s a dead pony, and after what happened a few nights ago at that bar, part of me hopes he’s right. Trouble is I can’t let Crest get himself killed. Not yet. He’s still my invitation to the party. My golden ticket to the Grand bucking Galloping Gala. If he falls out of favor with Daughters then so do I.

The drugs run out. Everything changes.

With Junebug’s product off the streets the junkies start looking elsewhere for their fixes—and just like that, suddenly Discord’s Kitchen is open for new business. Not just open to the small time independents Crest and I have been chasing out of drug dens, either. The disappearance of Shard is a sloppy wet dream come true for the big players in Manehattan’s criminal underground: the uptown gangsters. Crooks like Grift; the Oranges; and some new player named Blitzkrieg, an earth pony who stepped up to fill the void left by the late Filthy Rich. They’ve all started muscling their way into the Daughters’ territory, slugging it out to see who’s going to be the Kitchen’s new drug kingpin.

This new guy Blitzkrieg has been giving the Daughters the most trouble. Krieg’s an old stallion. Born in Maneich. Raised in Stalliongrad. Story goes Krieg got his start running guns down in the Unikraine, but got sick being an earth pony trying to make a name for himself in a country run by unicorns. Figured he’d never get a fair shake back there and decided to try his luck in the big city. He had to ditch his old racket because there’s no market for guns in Manehattan. Only unicorns can shoot the damn things, and the unicorn population in Manehattan is too small to create much demand. That, and most of the unicorns that do live here are cops.

Krieg’s new game is drugs and prostitution. Same game the Daughters have been playing for years, but for the most part it’s been a game of solitaire. Now it’s a full blown high-stakes poker match, and the Daughters have the least amount of chips on the table, and they’re about one bad hoof away from losing it all.

Worst part is that with the uptown gangsters staging their takeover, me and Crest and a few of the biggest, meanest goons in the gang get stuck running damage control. That means we tear-ass all over town making sure the competition doesn’t muscle us out our territory. Trouble is the uptowners don’t scare easy, and the Daughters are used to scaring the piss out of every pony who crosses them. They aren’t used to pushing around ponies who can push back. The Daughters may be the only street level gang crazy enough to cross the uptown bosses, but they aren’t ready to go war with any of them, let alone all of them at once.

The only break the Daughters catch is that the uptowners are also fighting each other over possession of Kitchen; it’s a free-for-all and the Daughters are right at home in all the chaos. And the only break I catch is that all this new trouble forces Crest to give up his crusade to avenge Junebug’s murder.

Part of me is upset I can’t tell him the truth. Crest is one of Manehattan’s criminals—one of the worst—but he seems genuinely to have cared for Junebug. He seems to genuinely care for me too. There are nights when I wake up in his bed, sweating and shaking, and his strong forelegs encircle me, and we are so close I feel his heart beating against my chest—and I… I can’t believe he’s the vicious killer that stabbed his friend to death, then dusted himself off and laughed about it. There are nights when he rocks me to sleep with soft words and softer kisses, and I just can’t bring myself to admit that he’s one of Manehattan’s criminals.

…And then there nights like tonight. Nights when Crest reminds me exactly why the Daughters of Discord bear the namesake of the Lord of Chaos himself. It’s a namesake they almost live up to…

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Crest lift one of the Stalliongrad earth pony goons over his head and chuck the stallion clear across the bar. The barkeep ducks just in time to avoid getting a face full of one of the largest ponies I’ve ever seen, and the goon smashes into the shelves of liquor behind the counter. They grow them big out east, but Crest is strong. He pitches the stallion like a shot-put then leaps over the counter to finish the job, his pipe wrench hanging out his mouth and looking eager to break something.

The display impresses me. Distracts me long enough for another Krieg’s thugs to get the drop on me. He bucks me just above my temple and the lights hanging from the ceiling flicker and die as I skip across the floor like a stone over the surface of a pond. Just as the lights start blinking back to life, something heavy and wet breaks over my head and then something sharp scrapes along my back. I hear Olive scream. When the stallion kicks me again, bouncing me of a wall like a rubber ball, I realize the bar’s electricity is working fine. I realize the blackness was only my eyes forgetting how to work after I ate that first buck to the head.

He hits me again. I lose a moment. I’m weightless. Floating. Gone. When reality comes spinning back so does the stallion who’s tossing me around like I’m a child. I try to stand, but my legs aren’t having it. I lie on my side, squinting at the monster of a pony through the almost visible pain throbbing behind my eyes. He’s twice my size at least. Built like a wall. He spits out the broken bottle—the something heavy and wet that broke over my skull—and he lumbers toward me, kicking upturned chairs out his way as he nears. He takes his time. He’s got all the time in the world and he knows it.

I take a breath that does a number on my ribcage; then I scrunch my face and push out a hurt, gasping noise, hoping to make the pain look worse than it is. Big colt here thinks he’s got me beat. Hell, he just might, so I go ahead and let him think it. Let him get comfortable with idea of crushing my head under one of those anvils he’s got at the end of each leg. He takes his time and I let him.

“You be good little filly for me, yes,” he taunts as he lumbers toward me. His voice is as enormous as the rest of him. “You lie still and take lumps like mare and maybe I am letting you live. Maybe I am sending you back to your boss in wheelchair.” He laughs. Lumbers. Takes his time.

When he’s good and close I shove my boot into one of his front legs, and his knee bends the wrong way, and all that size weighs down on the joint, and it gives with a nasty snap. He curses. Topples like a stone tower in an earthquake. Goes down and stays there.

From where I’m lying I see Crest struggling with a pegasus mare who’s giving him all he can handle. Olive is mixing it up with two of the brutes in the center of the bar. She’s holding her own, but if one of these Stalliongrad thugs is twice my size, then they're at least three times as big as Olive.

It’s been four nights of this shit in a row. Four nights of me and Crest and little Olive getting our teeth rattled by Krieg’s goons: mountainous earth ponies and pegasi who look too big to fly. Four nights of us trying to run them off corners, chase them out of bars and drug dens and clubs. Four long, painful nights. Crest says we need to keep up the pressure. Show them we mean business. I’ve been trying to sit out these little crusades of his, but Crest says I’m the gang’s best fighter and insists I come along every night. It’s true, of course. I am the gang’s best fighter, though right now little Olive is giving me a run for my money.

Olive is fighting two of them. She holds them off for a year or two while I force my legs to stay underneath me. When I sure I’m not going to topple over, I grab a pool cue from the rack leaning against the wall and charge at one of the brutes from behind. The pool cue snaps uselessly across her back. She wheels around with surprising speed for an earth pony her size, looking more annoyed than anything else. Without thinking, I jab the splintered end of the cue into her shoulder. That gets her attention. She cries out. Doesn’t go down. She’s big, but there are weaknesses no amount of size or muscle can negate. I remember my training—remember that I’m the only pony in this barroom brawl who really knows how to fight.

Dropping her only takes two more hits: one to the throat and another to temple. She goes down hard but she’s still conscious.

“Bleedin’ hell, Rosy!” Olive shouts, forgetting where she is for a moment. “Where you learn to mash a pony like that!”

Crest throws the mare he’s tangling with through a window. Laughs. Spits out his pipe wrench. “You lot of hulking, vodka swigging mouth-breathers had best clear off,” he trumpets. Idiot. Drops his weapon so he can shit talk. That’s just like him. Idiot. “This is Daughter country and ‘round here we don’t—”

Crest stops short at the sound of it, but we all hear the noise a split second before he shuts up.

Sirens. Police sirens.

All the heads in the room, The Daughters and Krieg’s goons alike—they all turn toward the windows. We squint into the night. It’s dark out. As dark as it gets and most of the streetlights on this block are busted. We squint. I see blue and red flashes. Movement. Ponies shuffling into position. We squint. Hold our breath. Wait.

Then comes the unmistakable crack of a bullhorn waking up. “This is the police. We have the place surrounded. Surrender now and you have my word you will not be harmed.”

The shock of confronting Manehattan’s finest in the Kitchen proves too much for us. We stand frozen in the bar, unable to wrap our heads around what’s happening.

The bullhorn cracks again. “I repeat: surrender now. Drop whatever weapons you may be carrying and come out slowly with your hooves in plain sight.”

“Is this happening, sis?” Olive pipes. Her voice is small and childish. More confused than afraid. “Is this, like, is this for real?” She looks to Crest. Crest looks to me. I look to Olive.

Then a cluster of sharp stars pierce the blackness beyond the windows, as if Luna herself had stomped the night sky down onto the sidewalk. Not gathering like the star at the end of Temporal’s horn, but blinking into existence, appearing rapidly, then hanging in the air like motionless fireflies.

“Bloody—uni—cunts!” The curses creep out Crest’s mouth in slow motion. The stars flicker—and then light is taking the bar to pieces.

Crest is swearing, and I am lunging at Olive, and I am tackling Olive to the floor, and I am covering Olive’s head—and if she is screaming I don’t hear it over the wail of Krieg’s thugs or the boom of magic bolts shattering glass and wood and bone.

It’s chaos inside the bar: all lights and sounds and fury, none of it making any sense. I look around and find Crest kneeling, using an overturned table as an improvised shield. Our eyes meet. He points toward the row of windows at the other end of the building. I nod in understanding. Cops said they had the place surrounded, but the blasts are only coming from one direction. Could mean they're playing it smart: shooting one way to avoid any friendly fire. Could mean they're trying to funnel us out through the back where they’ve got an ambush waiting. Crest is betting it’s neither. The smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth tells me he doesn’t buy it for a second. Tells me he thinks that bit about us being surrounded was a bluff.

Crest is smirking, the crazy bastard. The end of days is whizzing by his head like a swarm of hungry parasprites, and he’s smirking. Daughters of Discord is right. Crest is at home in all this head-turning insanity. It’s where he belongs. Where I belong as well. Can’t say the same for little Olive. She’s shaking underneath me like she won’t ever stop.

Crest nods. Smirks. I get a feeling in my gut like I’m two breaths away from hurling. I tell Olive we have to make a run for it, and all around me the bar and most everypony in it is getting hammered to pieces by thunder and lightning.

And then I’m on all fours, galloping, chest burning, heart pounding—and Olive is dashing ahead, bolting past me with that pegasus speed of hers—and the room is stretching, and the window is receding, moving further and further away with every step I take.

Next thing I know I’m in the air, and there’s glass biting my face and winter cold patting my back, applauding me for making it out alive. The sidewalk jumps up quicker than I expect, throwing itself at me like a long separated love. I’m spitting out a mouthful of snow when I hear Crest shout for Olive to hit sky and not look back. It’s hard to catch a pegasus once she gets off the ground, and Crest figures there’s no sense in all three of us getting arrested tonight. Olive doesn’t think twice. The cops must see her shooting into the sky, because a few magic bolts soar up after her, missing by miles.

A squad cart tears around the corner.

Glowing horns charge through the ruined bar.

“Meet you back at the Alley, lovely. Don’t keep me waiting too long.” Crest winks, then hurls himself headlong at the squad cart. A second before he's trampled, Crest bounds over the pair of unicorns pulling the cart and dives back hooves first through the windshield—shattering glass and laughing like the maniac he is.

I make a run for it, not bothering to see what comes of Crest’s stunt. I’m not worried about that stallion. There isn’t a cop in Manehattan who rolls out of bed early enough to catch Crest; and there isn’t a prison this city’s built that can hold him. They’ll have to kill the bastard—which Manehattan’s finest will have no problem doing—and if they do kill him, he’ll leave the world no poorer.

I don’t worry about Crest and I don’t worry about little Olive: one is light-years away by now and the other is uncatchable. I worry about me. I run for it.

Cops in the Kitchen? What the hell are cops doing in the Kitchen?

Light flashes about a yard ahead of me. A unicorn appears in a rush of parting air. Teleportation spell. He pops into existence, standing directly in my path. His horn is glowing. I don’t stop. Don’t change paths. I lower my head and spear the bastard right in the chest. Run him over like a bullet train. We tumble. I roll. Spring back to my hooves. He doesn’t. I sprint off, leaving the stunned cop lying in the snow.

I turn into the mouth of the first alley I see just as magic bolt whizzes by, missing me by hopes and prayers.

Damn cops won’t let up. Can’t believe it. Cops in the Kitchen.

I turn into the alley’s mouth. There’s a dead end waiting for me at the back of its throat, but that’s fine by me. I’m looking for a way up, not through.

“Freeze!” A bolt smashes into the back of the alley’s throat. “Hold it right there! Hold it, I said!”

I leap for the low hanging ladder of a fire escape. The rungs are slick with frost, but I manage to not slide off as I pull myself up. Two stories later, a bolt smashes into the underside of the steps and the whole fire escape lurches like an upset stomach.

Two flashes of light.

Two cops appear.

One of them manages to get a shot off that grazes my ear before I shove my front hooves in his face and he careens over the railing. The other watches his buddy become a twitching pile of broken bones on the concrete and loses his nerve. Reality gasps and the unicorn vanishes, leaving me alone to pant and sweat and freak out in private.

I take a moment to find my second wind. Listen for more cops. Don’t hear any. Must have lost them. Between me, Crest and Olive, I can’t imagine it was easy for Manehattan’s finest to keep pace. They probably settled for arresting Krieg’s thugs. I don’t think any of those brutes made it out once the shooting started.

I’m in the homestretch now. I don’t know the Kitchen all that well, and I have no idea where I am right now, but it’ll be easier getting back Shanty Alley if I take the rooftops. I haven’t flown in a long time, not since that night I dropped out the sky. Had to hurry off the next morning. Left my hook and line dangling from a streetlight. Stupid. I don’t have my equipment, but in the Kitchen everything is built right on top of everything else. The buildings lean on each other. The going will be easy.

I climb toward the rooftop, my pace slowed by heavy thoughts. My heart is still banging away at a mile a minute, but I’ve finally calmed down enough to think straight.

First the fire in Shanty Alley, followed by the all out gang war erupting in the Kitchen: it’s no wonder the cops have shown up in force. My guess is the warring gangs have been making so much noise that the mayor and all those crooked politicians sitting on the city council can’t go on ignoring it. Manehattan has always been a city of sin, but the crooks who really run things usually keep all that ugliness in check for fear of attracting attention from state officials. I know for a fact the fire in Shanty Alley was covered up. I read all of one article about the fire, and it wasn’t even a front page headliner. I don’t know how they did it, but the ponies who really run Manehattan didn’t let the media anywhere near that one.

And that was small time. That was a few dozen street urchins nopony gives two shits about—nopony even knows are there—burning up in the junk piles poverty had forced them to call home. But if word that uptown has become a warzone were to reach the capital, all the crooked politicians and all the uptown gangsters would have white knight types like that clown Shining Armor showing up at their party to tell them the music is too loud.

And all this is only going to mean more distractions for me. It’s been almost a month since I’ve thrown in with this pack of wolves and I’m no closer than the day I cracked Temporal’s head open on the sidewalk…

Poor Temporal. I never did get a chance to burn her. Lay her to rest like I promised. After I fed Crest that bullshit about Temporal killing Junebug, the Daughters got the bright idea to cut the corpse's head off and send it to whatever crew she was running with as a warning. Animals. I let those animals butcher her, and for what? A fantasy. A vendetta against a bunch of characters from a story…

A storm of emotions rage in my heart and mind as I climb the fire escape. I think about Temporal, and I think about all the other lives I had to destroy to get where I am now. I think about Temporal and about Junebug, and Filthy Rich and the diamond dog and Sparkle and Baritone and Stephen Scope—and I wonder what will be left when I do find Scope’s killers. He was beautiful and his was the first life I ever tried to save. It’s a life that deserves to be avenged, but at what cost? So many lives for just one. So many. And in the end who will avenge all of them?

I climb the fire escape, and I think of all those lives, and I wonder what force, what terrible will, what sort of heartbroken avenger will come for me on their behalf.

I climb. Think. When I reach the rooftop, the storm raging in my chest and between my ears wanes, then dies. I back to the roof’s edge to give myself a running start and everything else falls way behind me, just so much noise filling the background. I haven’t flown in a long time. Not since the fall. Not since the city caught me and everything changed. A breeze nudges me, and I imagine the weight of the hook that once dangled from around my midsection. I remember the feel of metal brushing against fur—and I let it remind me where I am, and where I’ve been, and why it is I do what I do. Let it remind me that tonight I am chasing.

I back to the edge of the roof. It’s like coming home.

And then I break into a sprint, eyes narrowed, focused, squinting against the night and the cold and all the nagging memories. I sprint, and I find my stride, and the wind claws through my mane, my tail.

I sprint.

Faster.

Faster.

Faster.

The space separating me from the from the roof’s edge shrinks like a deflating balloon. But before all the air escapes, something blindsides me. Slams hard into my right shoulder, running me down like a charging buffalo. I tumble. Skid. Almost go over the edge. I try to scramble back to my hooves, but there’s something heavy on my back. I lose my head. Panic.

Another cop? How? Didn’t see the light flash. Didn’t feel the air part. How? How?

“You’re as predictable as ever, Roseluck.”

The voice is familiar.

“I knew you would scurry up the first rooftop you saw. Is it because you feel safe way up here? Feel like nopony can touch. Can put their filthy bucking hooves on you.”

The voice is familiar and so is the cord encircling my neck as I try to stand. I don’t see it, but when I feel it go taut around my windpipe I know it has to be that same cord. That same cord held by that same pair of aroused hooves.

“You didn’t think I’d just let you walk, did you? Didn’t think I’d just let you… let you get away with what you did…” Sparkle keeps talking but I lose her voice because…because…

Shit. No air. Can’t breathe. Dizzy. Can’t breathe. Can’t…

And then all at once I feel some of the color return to my face as Sparkle loosens her grip enough for me to gulp down a few short, sweet breaths. Her voice comes back. I make out something about her wanting to strangle Redheart while I watch before the cord goes taut again and loss of air makes it hard to think straight. I come real close to passing out before Sparkle decides to ease up again.

“…You think you can just have your way with me. Every… Everypony thinks they can just—just have their way with me! I’m not some toy. I’m not here so you sick pieces of filth can get off…”

Sparkle pulls tighter, and I tug uselessly at the cord, and I feel something warm and moist drip onto the back of my neck, and—and…

…Celestia. Is…is she crying…?

“You hear me, Roseluck! I’m not your little plaything!”

Getting dark again. Can’t breathe. Come on, Rose, focus. Work through this. Think. You’re not dead yet, so think damn it.

“You hear me!”

Think. Think about Sparkle. She’s not a monster. Not like Manehattan’s criminals. She’s not a monster. Just a scared kid. Just a hurt, scared kid. Use that.

“You hear—”

“I’m sorry…” my voice comes out as thin and taut as the cord around my neck. Sparkle goes quiet as a grave. The cord loosens a bit. I gasp. Inhale sharply.

“I’m sorry… I shouldn’t have done that to you.”

“Sorry doesn’t cut it. We’re past apologies, Roseluck.” The hate in her voice cuts me like glass, but the cord doesn’t get any tighter.

Good. You got her listening. Keep it up. Keep talking.

“Spar—Twilight, please, listen to me. Listen to yourself. This isn’t you. I know you.”

“You don’t know anything about me!” She gives the cord a yank that nearly takes my head off.

“I do. You know I do. That’s why you said those things about us being together. That’s why you kissed me…”

“I… That wasn’t…”

“I only did it because I wanted you,” I hear myself say. Damn. Wasn’t expecting to take it this far. I try to stop. Try to shut the floodgates before all the water comes rushing out. “I wanted you, but I couldn’t betray Redheart. I was frustrated. Confused. I wanted you and I knew I couldn’t have you, so… I took you. Took you by force… I’m sorry.” I try hold it back, but the floodgates burst and the water comes rushing just the same.

Sparkle’s cord loosens. She’s sobbing openly now. Sucking and sniffing and whimpering like the scared, hurt child she is.

“That’s what they all say…” her sobbing grows in intensity. “They all say the same thing. That they wanted me. That they couldn’t control themselves. You, and the ponies who took my horn and…and all of them…” Sparkle’s voice is far away. I don’t know who she’s talking to right now, but it’s not me.

The sobs grow. Climb. Change. At first the sounds are hurt and ashamed, and then dark and hateful, and then wryly amused, and then hysterical—loud and hot and haughty. Sparkle’s sobs twist into laughter, the city's laughter—hot and haughty and mad as all hell.

She leans close. Presses her cheek against mine. Gives the cord a violent yank. I feel her breath against my face, burning, warm enough to melt snow.

“All I’ve ever done is give, give, give. And all you ponies ever do is want and take and take. Well you can’t have me, Roseluck. Nopony can. You can’t have me, and you don’t get to apologize. We’re past apologies.”

Aroused hooves pull the cord taut.

“You took something from me, Roseluck. Something I’ll never get back. Now I have to take something from you. And then I’m going to find Yoosee Dee and Redheart and anypony else you’ve ever cared about, and I’m going to take something from them as well.”

Aroused hooves pull the cord taut. No sense in trying to fight it anymore. I’m done fighting. Done kicking and screaming and breaking things. Done playing the city's game. At least this way Manehattan doesn’t win in the end. This way she can’t taint me. Can’t make me one her criminals.

Funny. In the very end, as the shadows creep in from the corners of my eyes and the world goes black and cold and stops its incessant turning, it’s not Daisy or Lily that I think about. It’s not Stephen Scope or Junebug or Temporal or Crest. It’s not Dee… It’s not even Redheart.

It’s her. It’s Sparkle. I go to meet my end comforted by thoughts of my beautiful hornless unicorn.

I shut my eyes.

The noose slips easily around Daisy’s neck.

Lily screams.

Is screaming…

Is still screaming…

And then air is filling my lungs so fast I choke on it. I twist onto my side, clutching my throat, feeling the imprint left by the cord. My eyes snap open and Lily is still screaming.

“A hornless uni cunt is still a uni cunt you ask me.”

No. Not Lily screaming. Sparkle is screaming. She’s lying on her back, and Olive is stomping her face into the rooftop, and she is kicking and screaming.

“You got some nads showing your face ‘round the Kitchen, Commissioner. That much I’ll give you.”

Sparkle tries to fight back, but Olive is too fast for her. She pummels Sparkle with that pegasus speed of hers. Pummels her till she stops moving.

“You alright, sis?” Olive offers me a friendly hoof.

“I’m fine. She got the drop on me is all,” I say, standing up on my own. “Why did—what are you doing here?”

“I was worried maybe you and Crest didn’t get away, so I doubled back. And it’s a good thing I did too. You was gettin’ your arse whipped right proper, you was.” Olive laughs. Shoves me playfully.

“I said she got the drop on me. She came out of nowhere.” I shove Olive back, laughing in spite of what's just happened. In spite of myself.

And then somehow I know this is the moment. I know it’s happening now. It didn’t happen when I comforted her after the shooting, and it didn’t happen when I protected her from the wave of magic bolts ripping the bar apart. It didn’t even happen the moment I realized she’d come to save my life. It’s happening now. Happening with a shove and a laugh. Someday, I’ll look back on this moment, and I’ll remember the night when me and Olive—me and one of Manehattan’s criminals—became friends.

“Wait till the others hear I mashed up Twilight bleedin’ Sparkle,” Olive pipes. Her voice rises like a tea kettle. She’s still just a filly. Still so young. “I’ll have Crest’s job by tomorrow mornin’. Why, they’ll make me Big Sis’ right hoof.”

“We should get out of here,” I say, cutting Olive’s celebration short. “Think you can make it back to the Alley while carrying me?”

Olive nods. Smiles. I smile back, wondering how this happened. How I became friends with one of Manehattan’s criminals. We leave Sparkle where she’s lying and wander over to the roof’s edge. I tell myself to forget her. I wanted her—I still want her—but I tell myself I can’t—

“YOU CAN’T HAVE ME!”

Sparkle screams from behind. It is the last scream of dying animal. I turn around slowly. The animal is charging toward me. Its muzzle bleeding. Its mouth a twisted scar. Its eyes wide: each one a perfect gaping lavender abyss.

“YOU CAN’T HAVE ME!”

It charges. Screams. Bleeds. It doesn’t realize the cord is still wrapped loosely around its front hooves. Doesn’t realize till it’s too late. Till it stumbles, and pitches forward, and rolls, and tumbles.

I turn around slow and watch it. Amazed. Horrified. Captivated. I turn around slow, but Olive is fast. Olive is so, so fast.

I turn around—am turning around—and the animal is charging—and Olive is so fast—and the animal is stumbling—and Olive is grabbing me—and the animal is pitching forward—and Olive is lifting me—and the animal is rolling and tumbling and falling and falling and falling…

“YOU CAN’T—”

And I am reaching for her, but Olive is lifting me, and the animal is falling—

“HAVE—”

And she is falling. And she is breaking. The sidewalk is talking her to pieces.

And then she is gone. My beautiful hornless unicorn is gone.

All the Colors of the Monochrome

All the Colors of the Monochrome

Chapter XVII: All the Colors of the Monochrome

Off in the distance old Mare Liberty is standing on Equine Island’s back, holding up her torch and her tablet and all those false promises she’s so proud of. She’s out there stranded in the middle of Manehattan Harbor, a big, dumb copper castaway with nothing better to do than pose for clueless tourists as they drift by on ferries.

The Golden Bit Bridge feels less than real beneath me as I lean against its rails, looking out at the place in the distance where the grey sky lays flat across the Hoofson River. The carriages rolling along behind me seem even less real than the bridge. Especially the ones traveling west toward Hooflyn, tragically unaware that the world ended miles away back at Shanty Alley. I turn to watch the carts as they skitter by like water flies on wheels, half expecting them to drop off at the west end, and tumble over the edge of the flat world.

It’s early. Celestia only just finished dragging her ball of fire up past the Manehattan skyline, though I can’t see it behind the restless grey clouds. The whole sky is on edge, and I know why: it’s the last week of winter. For now it’s cool without being cold, but later tonight when the old timers punch-out and Tracy and her gang take over things are gonna get loud and messy and nasty.

This is it for the kids up in the weather factory. Come this time next week it’ll be spring. The trees will grow new leaves, and the parks will be painted in floral colors, and the breezes will be lazy, and the drizzles will be pleasant—and the kids up in the factory will hate it. They might stick around for a bit and stomp out a few piss-poor drizzles, if only because they need the money, but they’ll be sick of it by April. I know Tracy and her gang. For them it’s all about the fall and winter seasonal work. They like their sky ugly and their wind wild. Like to bang those thunderheads of theirs like war drums and to play that music they’re so crazy about. Play it loud and off key.

This week marks the beginning of their last hurrah. Tonight they’ll whip the wind into a frenzy and they’ll shake piles of snow out of the sky. Tonight their music will climb to its crescendo but for now it’s nice, and it’s quiet, and I’m all kinds of grateful for it. I’ve had more than my fill of excitement these past two seasons, and I’m long overdue for some peace.

Hard to believe winter is almost over in Manehattan. Leaning against the rails, looking off past Mare Liberty, my mind drifts back to that last autumn night when I watched Sparkle’s hat drift down to the sidewalk. I think I knew right then and there that Sparkle wouldn’t live to see spring. She made it pretty damn close, but in the end she wasn’t fast enough to keep up with all the chasing and fleeing. She couldn’t catch the ponies who stole her horn—her magic—anymore than she could outrun the demons that sent her chasing in the first place.

And I couldn’t save her. I don’t know what it was she saw in me, but she thought I could help her get through it. She kissed me, and she made the mistake of loving me, and she went to pieces just like all the others. She died in agony; agony I added to that night I cornered her and took her any way I liked. I don’t know who she was talking to up on that rooftop. Don’t know what demon she was trying slay with her taut cord and her aroused hooves, but it wasn’t me, and it wasn’t the ponies who stole her magic either. ‘You can’t have me.’ Those were her last words. I don’t know what horror wanted Sparkle, and now I’ll never know, but in the end I guess she got away.

And the worst part is they’ll mourn her. They’ll mourn Twilight Sparkle. All of them. Equestria will cry her eyes out over the loss of her favorite daughter, and she’ll reminisce about the good old days—the days when Sparkle and her friends saved us from those silly bucking comic book villains—and they’ll never know who the real villains are. Never know what Sparkle had become the night the sidewalk took her to pieces. Never know the animal with the taut cord and the aroused hooves—or they will know, know exactly what she was, and none of them will have the nerve to talk about it.

They’ll bury her, and they’ll cry, and they’ll live the rest of their lives thinking they loved her, when the truth is they never knew her at all. And ponies like Junebug and Temporal and all the rest—ponies like them will keep on suffering in silence, and the world will keep on turning, and Equestria won’t give damn.

…Doesn’t matter now. Sparkle’s gone, and that means I’ve got a whole new set of problems to lose sleep over. Once word gets back to the capital that Celestia’s number one student had to be hosed off the sidewalk, that clown Shining Armor and the whole bucking Royal Guard are going to come down on this city like a guillotine. It’s going to be fire and brimstone and blood in the streets. It’s all finally catching up to the old mule. All the sin and the decadence, and the apathy—and all the ponies who thought they could go on doing whatever they want to whoever they want, whenever they wanted are about to get a rude awaking. There’s a storm coming, and there won’t be any calm before it gets here, and there won’t be an eye to hide in while the wind and the rain are raging, tearing the old mule apart.

And I’ll be right in the middle of it—me and all the ponies like me. Funny thing is I always knew in my gut it was coming. I tried to warn Two Cents that night I dangled him out of his apartment. Tried to hold him still and make him look at me; and he was shaking like a leaf the whole time, not understanding or just plain not wanting to see the truth. It’s going to be the old days again, I told him. The bad old days. The days before Hearth’s Warming. All feuding and fighting and hatred and ageless cold.

So here I am: leaning against the rail of a bridge that exists somewhere beyond the edge of the world—and Crest is standing beside me—and overhead little Olive is circling the two of us, anxiously—and out in the distance Mare Liberty is stranded; she’s holding up her torch and signaling for a passing boat to come rescue her. Come take her far, far away from Manehattan.

Two ugly seasons and a big stinking heap of bodies in my rearview, and here I am: standing on the Golden Bit Bridge. Waiting to meet Crest’s boss. Waiting to meet Big Sis. Moving one step closer to the end of things, turning yet another page in this big city tragedy of mine.

We’re a strange bucking sight, us Daughters of Discord. Crest is on the verge of puking. Olive is a nervous wreck. Most of the gang is lined up along the railing, looking like a school for cross-dressing hooligans out on a field trip. Crest woke us up early this morning. Told us Big Sis had contacted him, and that she was planning a meet out on the bridge. Said she wanted us to show up in force. Show the cops and the uptowners we aren’t going to hide in our own territory. Big sis is flying in from Trottingham today. Bringing a few of the Mandem with her. Apparently negations went well.

We’ve been standing up here for almost an hour, attracting plenty of attention from passerbys. No attention from cops though. None from rival gangs either. Crest and Olive are on edge. All the Daughters are. I suppose I am too.

We wait in tense silence, none of us sure of anything.

And then I see her out in distance. She’s a pegasus pony, and she’s coasting down toward the bridge from some imaginary place beyond the edge of the word. I see her, and for a time there isn’t anything else. I don’t know where the bridge goes, or the skittering water flies on wheels. I don’t know where the gang goes or even where I go—but while we're gone the only thing remaining in our absence is her. Just the sky and the water and her, gliding easily somewhere in between. Suddenly nothing is real and nothing makes sense, and I’d laugh out loud except I’m gone with Crest and Olive and rest of the hopelessly, nonsensical world.

It’s not until the pegasus pony’s hooves touch the pavement that everything comes spinning back, and the sheer wild-faced ridiculousness of what I’m seeing spits in my eye. I feel the last of whatever sanity I’ve managed to hold onto melt away, and to be honest I’m glad to see it go.

The pegasus pony purposely lands a few yards away on the bridge, just so she can swagger up to us. She’s got a walk like the whole world belongs to her. Like she lugged the sun up over the horizon this morning all by herself and she’s planning to raise the moon at nightfall.

I move away from the railing and turn to face her, trying to make sense of what I’m seeing. Crest is literally hiding behind me now, probably only a few seconds away from pissing his panties. The other Daughters mutter to themselves, talking over each other like always. Olive surprises me. She puts on a brave face and floats out to meet the swaggering pegasus.

“Cheers, Big Sis,” she says, offering the pegasus a friendly hoof. “It’s, ah, it’s right good to see you again. Things go well in Trottingham?”

Big Sis trots by Olive, not paying her any attention. She passes the Daughters lining the rails. They don’t say a word as she makes a beeline for Crest, her eyebrows slanted in anger, her stride hastened by ill will.

You’re seeing things, I try to convince myself. That’s not her. It can’t be her. The world isn’t that crazy.

But it is her. She’s wearing tight clothing like the other Daughters, and her face is full of piercings, but I’m sure it’s her. Her mane is cut differently from when I knew her back in Ponyville. It’s long on one side of her head and shaved bald on the other, but that’s her mane all right. It’s unmistakable. That’s her multicolored mane and tail. Her cyan coat. Her gait. Confident. Arrogant. Like the world is hers. The sun and the sky and the clouds—like she’s the only reason any of it's allowed to be up there.

Without saying a word she shoves past me, grabs Crest by the collar of his blouse and starts slapping him across the face. Crest tries to tell her to calm down. To wait a minute. To let him explain himself. She doesn’t. She grabs hold of his collar and goes to town on him. Me and Olive and the rest of the gang don’t say a thing. Nopony budges an inch.

Then Big Sis opens her mouth to speak and I breathe a sigh of relief. She starts talking and world starts making sense again.

“Crest, Crest, Crest. You bloody useless bloody worthless stack of shite, what am I gonna do with you?”

I sigh. Reclaim my lost sanity. She looks the same, but the voice is all wrong. Her accent is Trottingham, same as all the others, but damn it all if Big Sis doesn’t look just like Rainbow bucking Dash.

“Now sis, just give me a second and I’ll explain—” Crest tries again.

“You’ll explain what, exactly?” Big Sis slaps him again. “Explain why me biggest earner is a bloody corpse?”

Slap

“Why me hometown is an ashtray?”

Slap.

“Why the uptown twats and the uni cunt task force are moving in on me territory?”

Slap.

“Or better yet, would you care to spell out—because this one I just really can’t wrap me blinkin’ head ‘round—why you thought it was okay to up and bump off TWILIGHT BLEEDIN’ SPARKLE, YOU DIZZY RAT BASTARD NACY CUNT!?”

Slap. Slap. Slap.

“Sis, please. I… I just… I didn’t mean…” Crest begs and pleads and sniffs, shaking in Big Sis’s grip.

“Inches, Crest,” she says, her voice jagged like broken glass. “I’m gonna pull you apart one inch at a time. You’ll be begging me to kill you long before I’m done.”

Crest sniffs. Sobs. Big Sis shoves him to the ground. He cowers. Shields his face, expecting another slap. But she doesn’t hit him again. She laughs. She does a whimsical little cartwheel in the air, then comes to hover just above the pavement, clutching her stomach, pointing, laughing in Crest’s face. A second later Olive is laughing too, and then so is Crest as soon as he figures out what’s going on. The laugh spreads like a flu virus and pretty soon they’re all laughing. Pointing and whooping and tearing up and having themselves a time.

“All right, all right. You got me, sis,” says Crest, dusting himself, smiling and being a good sport even though the joke was at his expense. “So… Does this mean you’re not mad then?”

“Mad?” Big Sis tousles Crest’s mane, rubbing the top of his head the way a real older sibling might. “Buck no. I should have left you in charge years ago. This place has been too quiet for too long. ‘Bout time somepony set fire to the Kitchen, I say.”

“But aren’t you worried about what’ll happen when word gets out that Twilight’s dead?” says little Olive, her voice much smaller than usual in the presence of Big Sis. “They’ll send in the Guard. That twat Shinin’ Armor will come and he’ll bring all the rest with him.”

“Shinin’ Armor…” says Big Sis, looking away thoughtfully. “Now there’s a uni cunt whose horn I wouldn’t mind havin’ mounted over me fireplace. Hell, send ‘em all. I hope Celestia stomps down here herself. Graces us with her royal presence and all that. I’ve always wondered if alicorns bleed red, same as the rest of us.”

“You’re madder than a March Hare,” laughs Crest. Big Sis laughs too. She talks of slaughtering a goddess and laughs. Scary thing is: there’s a glint in Big Sis’s eye that tells me she really thinks she could do it. She really thinks Celestia’s green earth belongs to her. I see now why Crest was so afraid of her.

“Sis, there’s somepony here I’d like you to meet.” Crest gestures toward me proudly, like a soon-to-be husband introducing his fiancée. “This is Rosy. She wants to join up with the Daughters.”

“Does she, now?” Big Sis swaggers up to me, looking me up and down, her eyes suddenly dangerous and cunning. “We met before, lovely? You look right familiar.”

“I doubt it,” I say causally. My voice must give me away, because there’s recognition in her expression now, where before there was only nagging suspicion.

“No, I’m sure I seen you before.” Her expression dims. Dims. Dims… Then brightens all at once, like a light switch being flipped. “Ohmegosh, ohmegosh, ohmegosh!” she exclaims, running the three words into one, and then doing it two more times. “I’d know that rosy mane anywhere. You’re one of Storm’s girls. You used to fight at the Ringer. I made a ton of money bettin’ on you!”

Big Sis grabs my face between her hooves. Kisses my cheeks. Pulls me into a hug. Kisses me again.

“Crest, why didn’t you tell me there was a livin’ legend joinin’ up with the Daughters?”

“Well, I don’t know about legend,” I say, breathing a sigh of relief for the second time today. “But I did all right for myself.”

“Did all right? I remember when you knocked out that big, mouth breathin’ blighter Heavy Hoof with a beauty of one-two.” Big Sis bounces up on her hind legs, doing her best impersonation of me the night I won my first fight at old Storm Chaser’s club. As part of my training the old stallion used to throw in me in the ring with ponies twice my size and experience. Got my ass kicked dozens of times before he put me in with Heavy Hoof. That was an ugly fight. Long. Brutal. Must have been fun to watch.

“The odds where six to one against you that night—six to bloody one. Oh, but I took one look at you and I said to me self, ‘now there’s a fighter born,’ and I put every bit I had on you. You never disappointed me after that night.”

It’s true. After I beat Heavy Hoof I held onto my winning streak until Storm figured I’d learned all I could from him. Still, I’m pretty sure I ended my career with a record of seven and sixteen. Primary must be out of her mind to have put money on a fighter like me.

“Or how ‘bout your match against Cheeks? Or Silver Mane? I’ll bet his muzzle never healed straight after that headbutt you fed him.”

Big Sis bounces around on her hind legs, shadowboxing and grinning like a sick orphan kid whose favorite celebrity is visiting her in the hospital. I can’t help but smile with her. She tells me to show her some of that famous hoofwork of mine, and I remember my training, and I show Big Sis how to bob and how to weave, and she does her best to keep up. And little Olive circles overhead, clapping and cheering. And Crest stands off to side, beaming, a lazy breeze slow dancing through his blue and white mane. And all around us the Daughters of Discord are laughing and joking and having themselves a time way up on the Golden Bit Bridge.

And for a moment I wish didn’t have to end it feels almost...normal. For a moment we’re just a couple of friends, out seeing the sights, sharing a laugh and just plain enjoying each other’s company. For a moment there’s no dead commissioner, no rival gangs, no killers I need to hunt down, no helpless little filly that needs saving. No chasing or fleeing or falling. No Manehattan and no criminals—just mares and stallions and fillies and colts who love each other. Just a couple of ponies out seeing the sites. Friends. Family, even. Me and the Daughters of Discord. Me and Manehattan’s criminals.

We stay up on the bridge for a long while, just leaning on the rail and looking out at the grey sky, and at poor, dumb, stranded Mare Liberty. Crest is leaning against me, and Olive is telling Big Sis about how she ‘mashed up’ Sparkle, her voice rising like a tea kettle, and the Daughters are listening eagerly and interjecting at random, talking over each other like they always do.

Then Crest surprises me. For the very first time since we’ve been together, he kisses me on the lips without opening his mouth. For the first time he pecks me the way real lovers ought to when they’re out having a good time with their friends. It’s not an “I want you” kiss, like all the others he’s given me. It’s an “I want to be with you,” kiss. An “I love you,” kiss. The only one he gives me that makes me want another.

“She must be special, this one, if she’s got that horn-dog Crest making with the puppy eyes and all that,” says Big Sis glancing over at us with a knowing smile. And then Crest does something else I’ve never seen him do before: he blushes. His white cheeks go as rosy as my mane. It like it on him. It’s cute.

“You take good care of me Crest now, Rosy,” says Big Sis, messing my mane the way she messed up Crest’s. “He’s a big pile of stupid, that one, but he’s me favorite big pile of stupid. You so much as harm one hair on his tail, and I’ll carve out you bleedin’ heart.”

“Aye. Don’t go temptin’ her,” chirps Olive. “She’ll do it. She’s done it before.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it, Big Sis.” I kiss Crest back. He blushes furiously.

“Enough of this Big Sis talk. Call me by the name me mum gave me: Primary.”

Huh? When I hear her name, I realize for the first time that she only has three colors in her mane: red, yellow and blue. Not nearly enough to be Rainbow Dash after all. But the cyan coat is a perfect match. So are the eyes and so is that gait of hers.

We hang around a little longer. I get a chance to talk with Primary one on one, and I swear it feels more like a reunion than a first meeting. She goes on and on about the old fight club, smiling big as recalls all the ‘blighters’ whose daylights I kicked out. She tells me about all the money she made betting on me. Money she would win down in the fight club only to throw away on strippers the very same night. She says the Ringer has the best strippers in the red-light district, and her jaw hits the ground when I tell her about me and Blondie and that rank bathroom stall.

We talk and it’s like I’ve known Primary Bolt my whole life. She’s rude and arrogant and more than a little obnoxious, but there’s an ease about her that makes hating her tricky. She’s carefree. Charming. Witty. The type of pony who could say anything about you, or do anything to you, and no matter how bad it was you’d write it off as her just being her.

Time gets away from us. By the time Crest suggests we get going, hours have gone by. Primary tells him we can’t leave without the others: the enforcers she took with her to Trottingham, as well as a few dozen members of the Mandem. She says they're traveling by carriage. Says she was traveling with them, but got bored of being cramped up in the cart and decided to fly out ahead.

It takes some time for Primary’s crew to show up, and it’s no wonder why. The carriages are huge and there are two of them, each being pulled by only two pegasi. The pegasi touchdown square in the center of the bridge, not giving half a damn that they're holding up traffic. The ponies driving along the bridge don’t say or do anything about it; they just pull their carriages around. They see the clothing and the piercings and the D.O.D. tattoos, and they decide it’s not worth the trouble.

It’s a strange sight. Suddenly the field trip for cross-dressers has become a convention. The carriage doors slide open, and the Daughters on the bridge hurry over to meet the newcomers, hugging and kissing and bumping hooves, turning the Golden Bit Bridge into their own personal family reunion.

Olive and Primary both hurry off to meet with the others. Crest and I stay near the railing. He turns to me. His expression soft. His eyes kind.

“Well, what do you think?” he says, waiting for me to be impressed.

“It’s nice,” I say dreamily. I mean it too. It is nice. Almost normal. Like we’re a family. One big happy, crazy family.

Crest pecks me on the cheek. “You look happy, lovely,” he says with a sweet smile. “You never look happy.”

“I never am,” I say, surprising myself. Thinking the words but really expecting to voice them. “It’s not for ponies like me. Still, this is nice.”

Bodies are pouring out carriages, and others are rushing up to meet them, and Crest is telling me I look happy. It’s sort of happening all at once. It’s almost overwhelming. Almost normal. Almost.

I let myself enjoy for a bit longer. I’ve already found what I’m looking for. What I’ve been looking for this whole time. I spotted the two of them climb out of a carriage together: Mares. Earth ponies. Drab coats. Grey manes. I spotted them the instant Crest kissed my cheek, but I figured why ruin the moment. I’ve found them and they aren’t going anywhere, and after today there won’t be any more moments like this one. I let myself enjoy it. Bask in it. They might be criminals, and they might be monsters in their own right, but they’re my monsters. My family.

I let myself enjoy it, then I peck Crest on the lips and I shoo him away. Tell him to go and be with his sisters where he belongs.

“You’re part of the gang now too, Rosy,” he says. The eagerness in his voice breaks my heart.

“No, it’s all right.” My voice comes out thin. Fragile. “Go on. I’m fine right here.”

He hesitates.

“Go on. It’s where you belong.”

I kiss him again, and I promise to still be here when he gets back. I lie to Crest one last time and he buys it. I’m not surprised. He always buys whatever I’m selling.

Goodbye Crest.

I don’t say it. I think it loud like a hopeless plea, and desperate like the last wish of a dying mare, but don’t say it. Crest prances off to join his family, and I watch him go, and I don’t say it.

I start trudging away, slowly, heading west along the edge of the bridge toward Manehattan’s sister Hooflyn. Scope’s killers have spotted me too. They start wading through the crowd. Following me.

Makes sense.

I chuckle to myself as the three of us pull further and further away from the Daughters. Temporal said they were doing jobs for the Daughters, which really meant they were working for Big Sis. My guess is Primary figured she’d run into trouble while dealing with the Mandem, so she hired herself a couple of sociopaths to watch her back over in Trottingham. Reason I couldn’t find them these past few weeks was because they weren’t here.

Makes sense. Stupid. Should’ve put it together sooner.

When I’m good and far away from my family’s reunion, I find a spot along the rail that’s as good as any other. I stand up on my hind legs, and I cross them, and I shove my front hooves in the pockets on my leather jacket, and I lean against the rail. I wait. The grey mares take their time catching up. They’ve got all the time in the world and they know it.

I wait.

The breeze picks up.

A carriage rumbles by. Another.

Waves lick silently at the bridge’s support beams.

I wait.

It’s funny. After everything that’s happened, I always figured I’d be mad when I finally found them. Figured I’d feel the anger rub against my cheeks and see red and lose control. But there’s no anger in me now. Just a sense of duty and that small sadness a pony feels when she finally gets a hold of something she’s wanted for a long time. Something she’s been chasing for so long that when she finally catches it, she’s got no clue what to do next.

Heh…chasing. The thought comes to me clothed in serene nostalgia. Chasing and fleeing. There won’t be any more of that come spring time.

“Took you long enough,” I say once they’ve finally caught up to me.

“We could say the same of you,” one of them says. The breeze pulls romantically at her overcoat. Her grey mane.

“So how do you want to do this?” says the other. Her voice is thin. Ghostly. “We could let you pick a time? A place?”

They stare nervously. Awkwardly. Like they’re meeting me out here for a blind date.

“Here and now works for me.” I shift my weight against the rails. Feeling calm. Clean. “So, which of you is gonna starts us off?”

“We assumed you would want the first move—” One starts.

“—it is two against one, after all.” And the other finishes.

“I’ve waited all this time. I think I can stand to wait a little longer.”

The two of them look at each other, unsure.

“One more thing before we start,” I say, preparing to ask a question I’m not sure I want answered. “Sparkle. Scope. Filthy’s kid. Why? Why’d you do it?”

One of them looks away longingly. The other giggles nervously and plays with her mane, twirling the end of it sheepishly.

“…For love…”

“…Your love…”

They blush with the same grey cheeks and smile the same demure smile.

“Love,” I echo thoughtfully. I glance over edge. Waves lick silently. It’s a long way down.

I glance, and I remember old Storm Chaser’s words: what he said about the intimacy we share with our enemies, and I realize how badly I’ve wanted to meet Scope’s killers. Not just to find them and hurt them for what they did to Scope and to Junebug and to Sparkle, but to meet them. To see them and touch them and smell them and taste their blood wet and sweet on my lips. I’ve been living for this moment for two seasons now. Living for them.

“Love.” I let out a small laugh, idly wondering what that word is supposed to mean. “It never was a tragedy, was it? It’s a love story. It’s been a love story this whole time.”

I remember, and I laugh, and I wonder, and I glance over the edge—and the waves lick, and it’s a long way down. A good death.

“Well,” I say. My back to the rails. Hind legs crossed. Front hooves in my pockets. “Whenever you’re ready.”

They look at each other nervously. Awkwardly. Hesitantly.

Then one of them rushes me. Springs up on her hind legs and jabs with her fore. I bend slightly at the waist and tilt my head to the right, smiling as the blow grazes my cheek. Still balanced on her hind legs, she takes a quick half step back and tries again, faster this time. Her front hoof rockets forward like a bullet spiraling out of a rifle’s barrel. Lighting fast. Impressive-for-a-pegasus, impossible-for-an-earth-pony fast.

…But somehow still so slow. It’s like she’s moving underwater. I know it’s a fast kick, because I feel the air getting out of her way as she throws it, and I see her hips pivot perfectly, and I see her turn her shoulder into it like a pro. Like she knows exactly what she’s doing—but it’s still too slow. So slow I could reach out and touch it. So I do. My hooves dart out of my pockets, and the look on her face when I catch her kick is somewhere between blind terror and pure ecstasy.

I catch her front leg, and I turn, and her hind legs leave the pavement, and she doesn’t cry out as I swing her over rail. She blushes like a kid in love, but she doesn’t make a sound.

The only sound I hear is the mechanical click of a switch blade flipping open. I spin around, and the blade is in her mouth, she’s up on her hind legs and so am I, and point is cutting through the air, on its way finding a home in my throat.

It’s happening fast, and It’s happening slow, and I’m raising my foreleg, trying to shield myself—but the point is to close, and either I’m too slow or she’s too fast, because she’s got all the time in the world.

The point is nearing, growing larger and closer and realer—and somewhere between the rapidly shrinking space separating hard steel from soft flesh are her eyes, and my eyes, meeting—locking—relating—understanding—accepting—loving.

Our eyes meet.

I think of Redheart.

She hesitates.

I don’t know what she sees when our eyes lock, but it scares her. Makes her hesitate. Slows her down just enough for me catch the knife in my foreleg; the is blade so sharp I barely feel it as it stabs clean through my ankle. Frustration makes her growl. Blood stains her face as she drives the knife in deeper. Deeper. I reel back on my hind legs, my free hoof reaching, reaching, then grabbing the collar of her overcoat and holding on. Keeping me from tumbling over the rail.

Blood drips.

Waves lick.

She jerks her head back and the knife slides out of my ankle as easily as it stabbed through. Freeing the blade throws her off balance. Creates and opening. It’s a small one, but still enough room for me to trust my bleeding foreleg into her throat. The shot makes her spit out the knife but there’s not enough power behind it to put her down. She’s too close. Can’t get any leverage.

She stumbles back. Before I can peel my spine off the rail and hit her again, her hooves find my neck. Squeezing. Pushing. Trying to force me over the edge.

“That was wonderful,” she says, her voice a husky purr. “You saw through our feint. Read my sister’s moves perfectly. It’s so easy for you. It’s second nature.”

Hooves are squeezing. Pushing. Forcing me over the edge. I’m pushing back, but it’s no good.

The rail is digging into my spine.

Blood is dripping.

Waves are licking.

Hooves… Hooves are squeezing.

“I knew you were good, but that was—that was wonderful! You’re wonderful, Rose. You’re perfect.”

Rail digging.

Waves licking

Blushing. The mare is blushing, smiling her demure smile.

Squeezing. Pushing. Digging. Dripping. Licking. Waves are licking. Manehattan Harbor is getting closer. Closer…

“Rosy!”

And then somepony is calling for me.

“Rosy!”

I twist my head and see that somepony is coming for me. Galloping. Thundering. Blue and white and dressed like a mare. And not just him. All of them. My family. My family is coming for me. Galloping to my rescue.

A gray mane rustles. A flushed face looks away from me, then back. A smile melts away.

“You can’t go back to them, Rose.” Her cheeks are crimson. Her eyes are big and teary and longing. “You can’t. If you stay, they’ll only get hurt.” She squeezes harder. Pushes harder. My front hooves are pawing her face. Her flushed face. Her burning cheeks. Pawing. Trying to grab hold of something, but it’s no use. The water is getting closer. The waves are licking. Savoring the coming meal.

“You can’t go back. Come with me. Let’s go together?” Her voice is desperation. It is want and longing and need. “Come with me, Rose. You belong with me. To me.”

“Rosy! Rosy, no!”

My family is galloping. They’re close now. So close I could reach out and touch them…

…But, no… I can’t. I can’t touch them. She’s right. If I touch them, they’ll only break. Everything I touch breaks. Goes to pieces in my hooves.

“We’ll…go together, won’t we?” I say. “I don’t… I’m scared. I don’t want to go alone…”

“Of course we’ll go together.” Red cheeks turn upwards on a gray face. “You and me and sister. We’ll all go together. We’ll be together.”

She leans forward. Leans in close, and pulls my chest tight to hers, and kisses me.

She pushes.

I don’t push back.

We tumble like lovers.

Somepony up on the bridge shouts my name. Somepony else dives.

The waves lick silently. We don’t cry out. Don’t make a sound.

Cry So You Don't Laugh

Chapter XVIII: Cry So You Don’t Laugh

For a while I’m surrounded on all sides by hollow blackness, like a night sky Luna forgot to dot with stars. Only there’s none of the usual midnight cold sinking its claws into my pelt. No bone-deep feeling of dread that usually scurries up my spine when the sky darkens and the lowlifes come out to kick up trouble. It’s a clean night. An honest, secretless dark. Baring all rather than hiding. I tumble through it, weightless as a thought.

Eventually the blackness gives way to familiar images. I shift through them like a flipbook in reverse: everything thing from the cold splash of the licking waves to the noose slipping easily around Daisy’s neck.

I got them, Daisy. Lily. I got them. They weren’t the ones who took you away from me, but they’d taken plenty away from others. They hurt ponies, and they killed, and they trampled all over innocent lives, and to get my hooves on them I had to do the same. They dragged me and ponies better than me down to their level. Rolled us in piss and shit until we were as filthy as the rest of the gutter trash—but I got them. I finally got them, and it only cost me a few broken lives and my soul. My damned, cowardly soul, and that’s fine by me because the thing was never worth much anyway. My only regret is that they didn’t scream for me. They didn’t cry out—didn’t make a sound when I sent them plunging into the next life.

Daisy. Lily. I got them. Got them for you. I’m coming to see you very soon…

For awhile it’s quiet. Warm. Peaceful.

Then the pain worms its way in and finds places to have its fun. It dances up and down my knotted spine. Plays my fractured ribs like a xylophone. The living, breathing, mean-faced pain—worming and dancing and playing—jeering at me because I’m still alive after all. Still around for it to have its fun.

I shift through the flipbook from end to beginning, then again from beginning to end. The pages at the end are smudged. The ink is running and the images printed on them are blurred. Only a few of them make any sense.

I see licking waves sucking me into oblivion.

Deep green hooves reaching for me. Grabbing me.

Strands of soaked burgundy mane.

The last image has a sound playing behind it. A filly’s voice. Whining. Its pitch rising like a tea kettle.

A smell finds my nose just as I finish flipping through the book. Fresh. Salty.

Something hard comes down on my shoulder with a laugh. Taunting me. Calling me a punk and daring me to do something about it. It hits me again in the gut, having itself a time.

Voices tunnel into my ears and knock around inside my skull.

Blackness wanes.

Light grows.

I dive for it.

“…Thought you could pull one over on me, did you?” The voice is hot and haughty, talking the way the city would if the old mule had a Trottingham accent. “You think I’m daft, lovely? I’ve been smacking ‘round shite like you since me mum pushed me out her bleedin’ cunt.”

Primary gives a nod and one of the Daughters deals me a punishing blow to the jaw that rattles my teeth. I hit the ground with a thud and stay there.

“Discord’s Kitchen belongs to me. This whole city is mine, Rosy.”

She gives another nod and some asshole stomps my lower back. I try to turtle up. Try to shield my head and neck from the next blow, but my front hooves are tied behind my back.

Panic darts behind my eyes.

I lose my head for a minute. Another.

Beads of sweat as thick and hard as bullets drip down my brow. I struggle vainly against my bindings for one frantic, fear-inspired moment. Can't think straight. Can't focus.

Somewhere behind the sirens blaring between my ears, Primary is still running her mouth, going on and on about how she’s untouchable. How ponies with twice my brains have tried to whack her but none have come close. She says something about knowing I’m the vigilante from the papers. Something about the Pie sisters warning her about me. About my plot to kill her. I spit blood, wishing she’d stop raving long enough for me to shake the cobwebs out of my head.

I look around and count four Daughters standing over me. Surrounding me. With Primary that makes five. Five ponies—and I can hardly see straight, and my back is shouting curses at me, and my hooves are tied—and...and...

...Calm down, Rose, I tell myself. I have to say it three more times for the words to stick. My heart stops trying to smash my chest open and settles for just pounding really hard, really fast. Damn thing sounds like it's right next to my ear.

And the whole time I'm freaking out, Primary is glaring down at me, the fury in her face hot and cold at the same time. She looks ready to eat me alive. This’ll be tricky.

“Those two sick bucks are lying to you,” I say. The effort it takes to get my jaw working right is tremendous. Talking drains me. “Whatever they told you is bullshit. I’m here for them not you. A whole lot of ponies have died over this; now untie me so I can finish what I started.”

Primary doesn’t give another nod; she opts to kick in my ribs herself. I grit my teeth, absorbing the blow as best I can.

“And why should I believe the word of a vigilante over me own mates? Inkie and Blinkie had me back in Trottingham. I’m head of the Mandem now, thanks to them. What have you done but lie to me and me sisters?”

“Primary, just listen to—”

“Should have let you drown in that harbor,” she growls, kicking me again. Something in my side comes loose. Feels like it's floating. Must be a rib. I let out a groan and roll onto my back, gasping. Primary says something else, but I don’t hear it over the blood pulsing between my ears. I look up at the high ceiling and already my training is kicking in. Doing what it does best. Keeping me alive.

“…But Olive insisted I give you a chance. Hear your side of it, and all that…”

The training takes over. It starts by assessing the damage done to me. I doze for a bit and let it do its thing.

No broken limbs. No internal bleeding. Ribs on my left side are a mess. Foreleg is still bleeding from the knife wound. Hurts pretty bad. Could be a problem if I need to run for it.

Primary keeps talking, in love with the sound of her own voice. She kicks me every few seconds to make sure I’m still listening. I’m not. I’m taking in my surroundings. Figuring out where I am and how to escape.

Big room. Paved floor. High ceiling. Crates stacked along the walls. Forklift parked in front of wide double doors. Salty breeze drifting in through high windows. Must be a shipping warehouse. Near the docks I’d guess—

My train of thought goes pitching off the rails as Primary stomps her cyan hoof down on my cheek and keeps it there. I try to muscle her off, but it’s no use without my forelegs. She bends down. Looks me square in the eye.

“And poor Crest. Broke his heart to find out you’d been playin’ him this whole time.” Her expression dims. “You hurt him, Rosy. Remember what I said would happen and if you went and did that?” The words billow out like smoke from a dragon’s flared nostrils.

She stands up straight. Looms. The hardly-there glow from the light fixture hanging overhead drops down on Primary at angle that lays her shadow across me like a shameless lover.

“Inkie. Blinkie. Get over here,” she orders.

A pair of grey phantoms appear. I don’t see which direction they come from. Don’t hear them approach. They spin themselves out of some dark corner of the warehouse and trot up beside Primary. They look down at me, their shadows lying down on either side Primary’s, adding to the depravity on the floor.

Primary beats her wings. Hovers. Floats between the grey phantoms. She throws her forelegs around each of their necks, kissing their cheeks with an exaggerated lip-smacking sound.

“I take it you’ve already met Inkie and Blinkie here?”

An obnoxious grin claims her face, holding it hostage. I can scarcely make out the expression in the strange lighting, but it’s there all right. The phantoms wear matching blank expressions. The contrast between them and Primary is disturbing.

“They don’t look like much, I know, but these are two of the scariest blighters I’ve ever laid me eyes on. And when the shite hits the fan, and Celestia send sends her guards stompin’ ‘bout me kitchen in them golden horseshoes and all that—me and these two, we’re gonna butcher the lot of them.”

Primary’s eyes flash with that distinct Manehattan brand of madness. The kind they don’t make anywhere else in the world.

“I’m gonna ass rape that cunt alicorn with her own horn. Tear off them pretty white wings of hers and wear 'em like a cape.” She pauses. Lets out a satisfied sigh. Then her grin shrinks till it’s nothing but a straight line on her face. “Wish you could be here to share it with me, Rosy. Could’ve been like sisters, you and me. And Crest and little Olive and the whole gang. Could’ve been one right happy family.”

There’s something like sadness in her voice when she says it. Like she really believes it could’ve worked.

“Yeah. I guess we could’ve…” I say, knowing deep down in my gut that could never be true. Knowing that Primary and the Daughters are just more of Manehattan’s criminals. This is their world and there’s no place for me here. After everything that’s happened, I’m not sure there’s a place for me anywhere.

“I won’t lie, I’m gonna miss you, Rosy,” she says, her hooves returning to the floor.

She kneels down and tousles my mane, rubbing the top of my head the way a real older sibling might. Then she stands up straight and turns to leave.

“Kill this tosser,” she says, heading toward the wide double doors, not looking back as she swaggers away. Her is stride confident. Arrogant. Like the world belongs to her. Like she’s the only reason it’s allowed to exist.

She swaggers off but for all her bravado she’s just one more water fly to me. One more thing this city won’t let me have. She skirts away and doesn’t leave a single ripple as she goes.

The other Daughters file out behind her, leaving me alone in the warehouse with the grey ghosts. They stare down at me, their cheeks suddenly rosy with barely stifled passion. Blushing. Hot with that strange sort of lust and wanting that only ponies like us can understand.

“They didn’t hurt you did they?” one of them says in a bashful voice. She inches toward me timidly. Kneels down. Wipes blood from forehead. From the corners of my mouth. Then she rolls me onto my back, wincing at the angry red welts on my left side. Timidly, she leans forward and kisses them, her lips too soft and too loving to belong to a murderer. My skin crawls but I let her kiss me, not sure yet how I’m going to play this.

The other one sits down and lays my head across her lap. She plays with my mane. Strokes my ears. Our eyes meet and the splash of red on her cheeks brightens. She brushes a shock of grey mane back behind her ear. Leans forward. Kisses me.

“You’re wonderful,” she says. “Isn’t she wonderful, Blinkie?”

“She’s perfect.” The one kissing my bruised body lies down beside me, resting her head on one foreleg while tracing little circles on my chest with the other. They wear the same shy expression. Smile the same demure smile. Speak with the same bashful voice.

Inkie and Blinkie. 'The Pie sisters,' Primary called them.

Pie? Now there’s a name I haven’t heard in years. Can’t be right though. The Pie I remember back in Ponyville was an angel. A little eccentric maybe, but a harmless fool. Can’t be right. These two can’t be related to her.

Inkie plays with my mane. Strokes my ears.

Blinkie traces little circles on my chest.

I lie still. Let them have their fun until I think of something.

“We knew you were special, Rose—” Inkie starts.

“—that’s why we had to kill the doctor,” Blinkie finishes, their voices in perfect rhythm with each other.

“How do you figure that?” I say, deciding to play along.

Their faces light up when I actually respond to them. My sudden interest in their depravity has them all aglow, and they can’t wait to tell me the whole sad story.

“He had to die—”

“—because you wanted him to live. It’s the same reason we took Sparkle’s horn.”

“We had to or she’d have never known herself—”

“—known what she really is—

“—what so many of them are.”

They beam at the mention of Sparkle, no doubt remembering the night when they stripped the unicorn of her magic, the disgusting bucks. When I don’t say anything, they take it as cue to keep going.

“When we found Twilight we were so excited—”

“—we could hardly contain ourselves—”

“—everypony thought she was so pure—”

“—but we knew better.” A fit of laughter throws them out of sync for a moment.

“We knew what she was—”

“—what so many of them are.”

“All Twilight needed was a push—”

“—a tragedy—”

“—a loss—”

“So you took her horn,” I finish, glaring up at Inkie. Wishing that she’d stop touching me. Stop playing with my mane.

“Took her magic!” they exclaim in unison. Their eyes go all starry and lovesick. Inkie kisses my face. Blinkie rolls on top of me and starts nibbling my neck, working her way down my shoulders.

“All you ever have to do is take something of theirs,” says Inkie. “Something they love or want to protect. Something they think they need. And then you show you who they really are.”

“You ruined her,” I say, not liking the way they talk about Sparkle. Like they cared about her. Like they were doing her some kind of favor. “You made a monster of her.”

Blinkie sits up, straddling my hips. “She was already a monster,” she says thoughtfully. “We just gave her an excuse to let it out—”

“—something to point her claws at,” Inkie finishes. Then she sighs. Leans back on her forelegs and looks up at the ceiling, as if searching for something. “But Twilight was a failure in the end. She was always trying to fight it.”

“We thought we had something when she followed us to Fillydelphia and tried to kill us,” says Blinkie. Then, addressing her sister, “Remember when she threw you out of that moving train?”

Inkie giggles. “That was wonderful. I thought she was the one that day. Thought I could go on loving her forever.” Inkie giggles. My stomach does a summersault. I pull at the rope binding my front hooves, wanting to be free of it. Wanting very badly to hurt these two.

“But even then, I could tell Twilight’s heart wasn’t in it. She was willing to chase and to hurt, but she never enjoyed it. Not the way you do, Rose,” says Blinkie. “We killed the doctor knowing you would chase us—”

“—and break everything in your way until you found us,” Inkie finishes. “We knew the moment we watched you trample the little unicorn.”

“The hate in your eyes!” exclaims one half of the shared voice.

“The anger! The hurt!” says the other.

“The love!” they say in unison, sounding like one pony rather than two speaking at the same time.

“So we killed the doctor that same night—”

“—because you wanted to save him—”

“—because we wanted to know the real you—”

“—the animal—”

“—the breaker—”

“—the monster—”

Teeth graze my neck.

Lips brush my face.

“You’re wonderful, Rose—”

“—you’re perfect, Rose—”

“—and you’re ours—”

“—all ours.”

And then they laugh. Hot and haughty and mad. They laugh with the same voice, but at that moment I realize it doesn’t belong to either of them. When they laugh I know it’s her voice. It’s her. It’s always been her.

And then just like that—with a blush and grin and laugh—just like that it all makes sense. The Pies never wanted me dead. That’s why they framed me for Scope’s murder instead of just killing me when they had the chance. That’s why Inkie hesitated up on the bridge. She had me dead to rights. Had me in her crosshairs but she blinked. Flinched. And all that talk about us going together. That was just nerves. Inkie saw the Daughters coming to stop her and she panicked. She didn’t see another way out, so she settled for sharing my end. Or maybe she knew Primary wouldn’t let us die. Either way the truth is obvious now: They never wanted me dead. They can’t do it. She can’t do it.

They laugh. Hot. Haughty. Mad. They laugh—and it all makes sense—and then suddenly I’m laughing too. Suddenly my hind legs are kicking, and my sides are splitting, and my eyes are tearing up, and the Pie sisters are staring down at me, confused, not knowing what to do—and I’m laughing. I’m going on like I won’t ever stop.

“You can’t do it,” I practically shout between big snorting laughs. “You’ve had me this whole time. You had every chance in the world. You had knives and guns and cops and crooks and lonely broken hearts. You had ever weapon lying right there at your hooves but you can’t do it.”

I laugh. Laugh until it hurts. Laugh until I cry. And Inkie and Blinkie are looking down at me, blank-faced, the color in their cheeks wiped away by uncertainty. They don’t know what to do, and they don’t have a clue what any of it means, and that’s fine by me. What I have to say isn’t for their ears. It’s for hers. This love story of mine: it’s a tale of unrequited affections—of tragic, star-crossed lovers—and it’s always been about me and her.

“You were so scared that night I fell out of the sky. You were terrified. That’s why caught me. You had me that night. Had me right where you wanted me, but you can’t do it,” I laugh. It’s finally my turn to laugh. “You pathetic, ugly old mule, you can’t do it!”

It all makes sense now. This is her doing. This was her plan all along. She’s been setting me up for this from the very beginning. Creating tragedy after tragedy. Horror after horror after nightmarish horror. The Pie sisters are just two more of those horrors. They're pawns in all this. Nothing but two of Manehattan’s criminals. Trying to break me. Drag me down to their level. Taint me. She’s a jealous old mule, this city is. When she sees something beautiful she taints it, and what she can’t taint she kills.

“But you never could kill me, could you, Manehattan? You love the way I break things. Nopony can satisfy you the way I can. You can’t do it. I’m you’re favorite, and you love me, and you can’t do it.”

I laugh until I’m breathless—and when the laughing's done there’s only one more thing that still needs doing. One more thing, and then the old mule will know for sure that she’ll never have me.

“Where’s the kid?” I ask. It’s only question that still needs asking.

As soon as the Pie sisters hear the words leave my mouth, the fantasy world they’ve built for themselves comes down around them like a house made of glass. They look at each other, then down at me—and they know right away that I’m just another failure.

And Manehattan—she’s on her knees begging and pleading and whining and crying, because after everything we’ve been through she needs me. I’m her favorite adopted daughter, and she loves me because nopony can break things the way I can. She loves me so much it hurts, and she can’t stand knowing I hate her.

She begs. Pleads. Whines. Cries. She wants me. The poor ugly old mule, she loves me.

And with one honest, unselfish action—with just three little magic words, I smash Manehattan’s heart all to pieces.

“Where is she?” I ask. It’s the only question that still needs asking. Only way to settle the score.

“How do you know about her?” says Inkie. She kneels down and runs a longing hoof through my mane. Her eyes are big and sad and beautiful. “Never mind the brat. We’re finally together, Rose. After all this time we’re finally together.”

“The kid. Where is she?” I repeat with a voice made of iron. The words hit her like a blow.

“It doesn’t have to be that way.” Her sad eyes blink away a tear. “We’re together now. We understand each other. We know what real love is.”

“The kid? If you’re not going to tell me, you’d better kill me now.”

“You can’t go back out there.” Anger flares behind her sad eyes. She frowns. “There’s no place for you out there. They can’t love you the way I can. You’ll keep breaking them, Rose. They’ll run away from you. Call you a monster. They won’t understand. They won’t know you’re just trying to love them…”

“The kid.”

“…But I’ll love you. You won’t break me. I’m stronger than them. We can hurt each other forever, and I’ll never break.”

“Where is she?”

“Rose, please…”

“Where is she?”

“Rose, I promise… Promise I won’t break.” Tears roll down her grey face. “Rose stay with me. I love you. I’m the only pony who can love you…”

“Where is—”

“You’re the only pony who can love me!” she shouts. The words come out of Inkie’s mouth, but I know better. I know Manehattan’s voice when I hear it. “Please, Rose! Stay with me! Love me.”

She stares down at me. The city stares. Manehattan. Crying. Hurting. Loving me in her sad, strange way. I stare at her. Into her. And for the first time I think I truly understand what old Storm Chaser was trying to tell me. It’s not ponies like Inkie or Blinkie that we call enemy. It’s not even the city or her criminals. It’s something else. Something bigger and uglier than the old mule. It’s losing somepony you love. It’s having a part of yourself ripped away, leaving you less than whole. Less than what you’re supposed to be. It’s moment in time, or a place, or a pony that made you think twice about yourself. About the state of things. That took your world and turned it upside-down and shook it until everything you thought you knew tumbled out of your head and smashed against the unforgiving ground.

For me it was Daisy and Lily. For Sparkle it was her magic.

I finally understand old Storm Chaser’s words. ‘There is an intimacy we experience with our enemies that we will never know with our lovers.’ Because our enemies—our loss and our suffering and our want and our personal demons—those are the things that teach us. That build us up or tear us down. That show us who we really are.

I understand, and I stare up at Inkie’s sad grey face, and I wonder what enemy she fought against and lost.

I whisper for her to lean forward. I Press my forehead against hers. And then I kiss her.

“You know I can’t do that. I can’t love you. You killed Scope. You hurt Sparkle. I couldn’t save them, but I can still save the kid. Now tell me where she is.” The words leave my mouth gently. Almost lovingly. Almost.

“I’ve heard enough of this,” Blinkie growls. Furious. Heartbroken. She pulls a small knife out of her boot, and I watch with big, startled eyes as the blade flips open with a metallic click. “She’s not who we thought she was. She’s no different from the others, and I’ve heard enough.”

Blinkie growls.

Blinkie is growling.

Blinkie is growling—and then the blade is falling toward my chest—and the hooves holding it are trembling even as they move to end me.

She trembles. In the end it’s my turn to laugh and Manehattan’s turn to tremble. She’s afraid. Afraid to say goodbye to her beloved adopted daughter.

“DON’T YOU TOUCH HER!” Inkie roars, her half of the voice gross and monstrous. She lunges at her sister. Tackles her to the floor.

“DON’T YOU DARE! I’LL KILL YOU!”

They wrestle, fighting over the knife. I watch, mesmerized as it passes between their hooves. Passes from mouth to mouth.

Stabs a gut.

Slashes a flank. A shoulder.

Tears open a thigh.

Slices a tongue. An eye.

“DON’T YOU TOUCH HER…!”

The blade passes between the two of them. Just one blade. They share it in that same way they share everything else. The knife passes between them, until finally it finds a chest. A heart.

“DON’T…!”

And finds it again.

“…KILL YOU!”

And again.

“…KILL…”

And again.

...The sounds are wet and slick and tragic.

When it’s over the winner is straddling her dead sister’s hips, clutching the knife between trembling hooves. She looks down at the knife, then past it, staring with gaping eyes at the gash across her underbelly. Then she wobbles and topples over, bleeding out on the floor like the animal she is.

It takes me awhile to slink over to where she dropped the knife and cut the rope from around my front hooves. Getting back to all fours is a challenge. Everything hurts, but it’s that good kind of hurt. Kind that taps you on the shoulder and lets you know you’re still alive.

I waist one minute with a goodbye, then, finally done with this gruesome life, I turn and start to skirt away.

“Wait…” one of the corpses calls to me. It’s the winner. The one with the gash across her underbelly. I turn to face her, unable to tell whether she's Inkie or Blinkie. “She’s here… The kid…crates with…holes in lids.”

“Thank you,” I say, loving her dearly in that moment.

“One…one more thing…p-please…”

I trot over to where she’s lying and look down at her, wishing that somehow this could have ended differently.

“Why did you do it…? The d-doctor…why were you…p-protecting him…”

“Because a long time ago I did nothing,” I tell her. “I hid, and I watched my two best friends die, and I did nothing to stop it. I was afraid, and I couldn’t be afraid anymore. This was the only way I knew how to beat the fear.”

“And d-did you…? Did you… beat it…?”

I answer with a nod.

“…Wonderful…” she says, smiling her demure smile. “…You’re wonderful, Rose. You’re perfect…”

Whatever’s in her rustles as it leaves. I close her eyes for her. I do the same for her sister. It’s more than they deserve, but I do it anyway.

After a few decades of limping around the warehouse, searching for something I can use to pry open one of the crates, I find a crowbar somepony left sitting on the seat of the forklift. Lucky break. This whole night has been one long lucky break.

I hobble over to the stack of crates, my body cursing at me. There are only a few crates with holes in the lids. They’re stacked against the wall pyramid-style. I take a strong breath. My body curses me. I climb the pyramid. Drag down one of the two crates on the very top. Somehow I manage it without breaking my neck.

Not until I peel the stubborn lid away do I realize I have no idea what my plan is if I actually find the kid. The shape I’m in, it’d be a miracle if I could carry her out of here. And even if I do, then what? And why the hell would she be in a crate in some warehouse in the…first…place…

I look inside the crate. There are five of them: five blank-flanked foals curled up beside each other, looking like baby hamsters. Sleeping soundly. Probably drugged. Given something to keep them under till they get to where ever they’re going. Something strong if all that racket I made opening the crate didn’t wake them.

Five of them. Five foals. All earth pony colts. I look inside the crate, then up at the wooden pyramid. This is bigger than just some random kidnapping. Bigger than Inkie and Blinkie. It’s not their M.O. This is some kind of trafficking operation, and it’s a damn crude one at that. Drugged foals in sealed crates? Air holes are punched through the lids, sure, but how are the jokers running this thing keeping their merchandise fed? What about seeing that the kids can piss and shit without doing it all over each other? Making each other sick.

This isn’t just amateur, it’s downright stupid. Has to be the Daughters’ handy work. No other criminal outfit in the city is this sloppy, at least not one with enough resources to pull something like this. I’ve seen a lot foul shit since I started down this bath, but this is…this is just… I don't have words for what this is.

After a few days of nosing around the Kitchen, I learn about the pony trafficking racket Primary had been setting up since before she left for Trottingham. She uses mostly foals from Shanty Alley because she knows they won’t be missed. Cops sure as hell won’t stomp down to the edge of the city looking for a few dozen missing street urchins. Kids’ parents probably won’t give a damn either. A little filly goes missing in a place as poor as the Alley, the parents will likely see it as a blessing. They'll see it as one less mouth they have to feed, and the bastards won’t give a damn.

Primary is sharp, I’ll give her that much. She must have known it was only a matter of time before some asshole got brave and decide to punch Junebug’s ticket. This trafficking racket must have been her contingency plan for when the drug game went belly up. The Daughters have always had their hooves in prostitution as well as drugs; and Primary probably figured it was time to stop selling sex and start selling sex slaves.

I never find Filthy Rich’s daughter. Never figure out why Primary had the Pie sisters kidnapped her in the first place. If the plan was to use foals nopony would go looking for, why abduct the daughter of a known crime boss? Was Primary just bucking with Filthy? Did she do it just see if she could? She’s certainly arrogant enough to pull something like that solely for the challenge. Certainly careless enough too, but…I don’t know. Guess I never will, now...

After a few days of nosing around, learning about Primary and about all those missing foals, I decide to head downtown. Decide to leave an anonymous letter on the backdoor of the police station. It’s dark out and there’s nopony around to see me tape the envelope to the doorknob. Tomorrow morning when somepony finds the letter, Manehattan’s finest will know the warehouse’s location, and they’ll know what’s in those crates, and they’ll know who’s responsible. I wrote down everything I’d learned about the operation. I even wrote “FROM THE VIGILANTE” on the envelope in big, bold letters to ensure the message didn’t get ignored. Manehattan’s finest aren’t exactly what I’d call reliable, but it’s up to them to deal with the city and her criminals now.

Every inch of me wants to go back. The thrill of chase is still rattling around in my bones, but I know in my gut those days are past me now. It’s up to the cops. It has to be. My score has been settled. I’m done. I’m on my way home.

It’s a thrill to fly again. To sprint. Leap. Land. I don’t have my grappling hook, and I haven’t fully recovered from the spanking Big Sis and her goons gave me, and Tracy and her gang are trying to bury the city in snow—but Celestia damn it, it feels good to fly again. I’m downtown tonight. I’m home. The buildings downtown lean on each other like drunken friends stumbling out of bar, stupid-faced and worriless.

It’s been too long. The rooftops and fire escapes have missed me. The corners and the rough edges too. They ask me where the hay I’ve been for the past two seasons and I tell them the whole sad story, except this time it’s one they’ve never heard before. A story that doesn’t end as awfully as it should have. They listen closely. Captivated. Moved.

I’m still a long way from the red-light district when I’ve finished telling my story. The corners and the rough edges aren’t too satisfied with the ending and honestly neither am I. There are still pieces missing. Still things nagging at me: like what Stephen Scope said to Baritone up on that rooftop the night my chase began.

‘If you waste me she’ll find out’, he said all those nights ago. ‘I’m working with her now. You hurt me and she’ll come after you’.

She’ll. Her. One mare. Just one.

Scope was only expecting one mare to bail him out of trouble with Filthy Rich. Two Scents said the same thing. Said Scope was ‘working with that crazy now.’ He only mentioned one mare too. What did he mean by that? Did Scope never meet both of the Pie sisters? And if he didn’t, what reason could they have had to hide anything from him? He was just one stallion on the run from the mob; he couldn’t have posed any threat to monsters like Inkie or Blinkie.

In the end I guess it doesn’t matter. Scope. Sparkle. Inkie and Blinkie. They were all connected in some way, and they aren’t exactly still around to answer any of the hard questions. And even if they were, those aren't my questions to ask anymore. I chased, and I caught who I was chasing, and I beat Manehattan and her criminals, and I overcame the old fear, the tremble in my hooves—and now I’m done. The scores been settled, and everypony who needed to pay in blood and dignity has paid in full. Now all that’s left is to fulfill a promise I made to a certain special somepony.

I dash. Leap. Land. Dash. Faster. Faster.

The moment I see the neon sign blinking in the distance a swarm of butterflies decide to make a home of my stomach. There it is, a little less than two blocks away now: the bright neon image of a twirling horseshoe, blinking and becoming a twirling mare. Storm’s place. The Ringer, just two blocks away.

Suddenly Redheart’s gift—the pendant hanging around my neck—suddenly it feels like a wrecking ball. Like one of those giant hooks you see dangling at the end of cranes. I had the thing made a few days ago. Found a halfway decent jeweler while I was still uptown and had him make it using the stone’s from the diamond dog’s collar. Traded the worn leather strap for a simple silver chain. Traded the sour memory for new one. The new memory slaps against my chest as I sprint along the rooftops.

What will I say if she asks me where it came from?I wonder, shuddering at the thought. What will I say if she asks me where I’ve been, or what I’ve seen, or what I’ve done?

The thoughts weigh on me. Slow me down. I take my time flying the rest of the way, in no hurry to face Redheart and her questions. I watch the sign blink. Watch the mare replace the horseshoe, the horseshoe replace the mare, both twirling, dancing the sort of dance you only ever see in the red-light district. I’m one building away from the sign when I notice something about the twirling mare I hadn’t before. I notice her neon-orange hind legs scissoring the stake as she spins. Her front hoof waving a ten gallon hat. Her freckled face shooting me a wink that could excite a corpse. For the first time I see the spurs. The pair of chaps hiding her cutie mark. It’s Blondie. I'd never noticed before, but the Ringer’s sign is modeled after Blondie.

Blondie. The name I gave her pops into my head accompanied by her sweet scent. She’s one of the few good memories to come out of all this craziness. I let my mind drift back to the night I spent tasting her. Breathing in that sweet smell. I remember her. And then all them. I remember Blondie’s scent, like fresh picked fruit. I remember Sparkle’s aroused hooves and her taunt cord. Junebug’s full, perfect lips. Temporal’s burned face, and Crest’s devil-red panties, and the demure smile shared by Inkie and Blinkie. I think about their lips pressed to mine. Their tongues in my mouth. Their hooves running through my mane. Their hips straddling me. Their chests heaving. Their breath splashing against my face and neck. I think about the dull wet sounds, and the seedy bathroom stalls, and all those bloody, gritty kisses we stole from each other. All those nights lost to dark, empty passion.

I remember my old lovers and the pedant around my neck grows that much heavier.

After several minutes of stalling, I decide to go in through Storm’s bedroom window. Old Storm Chaser lives in a two bedroom flat above his club that looks, smells, and feels like every nine bit flop house in downtown Manehattan. I go in through his window because I know he isn’t home. It’s a weekend night, which means the old stallion is likely downstairs enjoying the company of his dancers—or downstairs in his basement fight club, kicking the snot out of some young punk the way he used to kick the snot out of me during our training sessions.

The butterflies in my gut flutter like mad as I stand in the middle of Storm’s room, hooves glued to the floor by indecision. Redheart is sleeping soundly just one room away. The reality of it is overwhelming. My gut tightens. Mouth dries out. Head spins. I tremble. Shake like I won’t ever stop.

Then a cowardly thought pops into my head, and I allow myself to indulge it for just one second. I glance over my shoulder, glance back at the open window, and I think about leaping out the way I came. I think about flying to someplace far away, someplace where trash like me belongs. A tiny, nagging voice finds me from behind the thought. It tells me that Redheart will be safer if I go now and stay gone. Tells me she’ll live a happier life. A long, full, safe, happy life—and to make it happen all I need do is turn around. Leap out the window. Never look back.

I indulge the thought. Then I box it up and burry it someplace deep down in my being where it can’t bother me. If I leap out that window now, I’d be fleeing. Can’t do that. Can’t do that ever again. Score’s been settled. There’s nopony left to chase. No more reason left to flee.

I take a deep breath—the sort of breath a mare takes before she does something very brave or very stupid—and I focus on my forelegs. Focus on putting one in front of the other.

I step through the doorway. Step into my new life.

I step through the doorway, and the end of the world is waiting for me just outside of Storm’s room. It is sticking to the second bedroom door in the flat: the room where I know Redheart is sleeping soundly. I’m still a few paces away when I see the slip of paper stuck to the door—

—And then all at once I’m right in front of it, and I am pulling it off the door, and I am holding it, and I am looking at it for a long time without reading it, and I am wondering what it is. What it means.

It’s a note. The words are large. Sloppy. Red.

“LAUGH SO YOU DON’T CRY,” the note says. I almost do.

I am reading the note—and then the door is opening slowly, and lights are flicking on, and blackness is waning inside the room, and brightness is growing, and the unforgiving realness of it all is coming into existence.

The light flicks on and there is a noose around Redheart’s neck. She is hanging from the ceiling fan and there is a noose around her neck, looking as though it were made just for her. It is the color of sand and the contrast it creates against Redheart’s pristine white coat is striking. The life has already drained from her eyes. She is hanging from the ceiling fan, and there is no life in her eyes, and she is smiling. Two gashes have been carved into her face. They begin at the corners of her mouth, and they curve upwards along her cheeks, and they are red and gnarled and dripping, and she is smiling. Redheart is smiling. It’s her laugh-so-you-don’t-cry smile. The one she makes when everything hurts so bad it’s funny…

Red against white… The thought forms in my mind lazily. That smile. My nightmare. Red against white.

I collapse. No—I am collapsing. Breaking. It is happening now. It will always be happening.

I am breaking. Pieces of me are raining down onto the carpet with a sound like shattering glass. The promise I made to Redheart was the only thing keeping me together, and now she is dead and so am I. She is hanging from the ceiling, smiling—and I am breaking, pieces of me are raining down, down, down… It's still happening. It will always be happening. It won’t ever stop...

“All right, Manehattan. You got me.”

I wait for the old mule to throw her head back. To clutch her sides and wipe tears from her eyes as she laughs her hot, haughty laugh. I wait. She doesn’t. She just watches me, sullen-faced, ashamed of herself for having to resort to this. For having to stoop this low.

“You just couldn’t lose gracefully. Couldn’t stand that I beat you.” A tiny laugh tickles the back of my throat. I try to push it out but a sob comes instead. “Well you finally got me, Manehattan. You got me. You win.”

We sit together, my city and I. She is my tragic star-crossed lover, and I am her favorite adopted daughter. We sit together in the face of our tragedy, sharing the fault in equal measures. It is the closest, I fear, we will ever come to love.

Rest in Turmoil

Rest in Turmoil

Chapter XIX: Rest in Turmoil

Manehattan Memorial. Names upon names scrawled on stone, like end credits for a big-budget snuff flick. Names and dates. Dates of birth. Dates of death. The difference between them often as little as thirty years.

Manehattan Memorial is crowded with young ponies.

A romantic springtime breeze has my newly dyed tail slow dancing to music that isn’t there. Auburn. It doesn’t complement my cream coat as well, but I don’t hate it. It suits me fine, especially now that my cutie mark is no longer a rose. I had the marks on my flanks bleached; right now they’re as cream as the rest of me. Hard thing to do, giving up my cutie mark, but I’m a wanted mare and having a cutie mark would make it too easy for the cops to ID me.

The funeral ceremony has already started by the time I arrive. The turnout is bigger than I imagined it would be; mostly older ponies I’ve never met before. Never even heard of, but then Redheart never was one to on about her family or ponies she’s known in the past.

Standing near the very front of the group is an old mare with a white pelt and pink mane that must be the mother of the deceased. She’s dressed all in black. So is everypony else.

There are chairs set up but the mourners have elected to stand in stony silence. It’s quiet. Quiet enough to hear a pony's thoughts from a hundred yards out.

Dee is standing in front of a casket. She’s facing everypony else, her bottom lip quivering like she’s about to cry, her expression one of grief well on its way to anger. She looks drunk. Very drunk. She’s about to say something.

It’s midday in Manehattan Memorial and Redheart is dead and so am I, and Dee is about to speak on behalf of her best friend. Before she begins, I slip furtively behind the small herd of mourners and watch the ceremony from the very back of the group.

“I paid for this whole thing myself, did you know that?” Dee begins. More than a few of her words fumble out horribly slurred, but the mourners don’t say anything. They indulge her, each of them no doubt familiar the pain of loss that inevitably finds every citizen of Manehattan. They indulge her. Chose to understand, rather than judge. “Paid for it out of pocket. The coffin. The hearse. This asshole,” she says through her teeth, pointing at a stallion dressed in robes and wearing a white collar. “You have any idea much assholes like this prick charge? I mean the bitch is dead, right? Cut her a bucking break.” A dark chuckle plays on her lips. The stallion in the white collar wrinkles his nose but holds his peace.

“But no, I just had pay for it. Bought the nicest wooden box I could find.” Dee almost trips as she turns to gesture toward the coffin. “I mean look at that. That’s some fancy bucking craftsmanship. Hoof made. Set me back... You have no idea how much it set me back. And the stupid bitch always used to say I was cheap. Cheap and greedy.” Her upper body flops across the coffin, and her backside wiggles and wags at the mourners. She laughs a cruel laugh as the golden bit sign on her flank catches the midday sunlight and shines like real coin. “Hell, I guess I am. She was always giving and giving and giving—and I never gave anypony a damn thing. I told her those damn vultures”—her voices soars and breaks at the top of its arc as she wheels around spastically, pointing an angry front hoof at no pony in particular, her face flushed with drunkenness—“you damn vultures—I told her you’d pick her bones bucking clean and leave her with nothing! I told her! But she kept right on giving, the idiot. Always trying to fix everypony’s problems. Always trying to fix every damn thing.”

I can’t see any of the mourners’ faces, but judging from their silence I’d say they haven’t lost their patience with Dee yet. Though the way she’s carrying on they might be close.

Dee leans one foreleg against the coffin. Faces downward. Shakes her head. “Well, buck me. Guess this is part where I’m supposed to tell you what a stand-up mare she was. Tell you why you’re supposed to give a shit now that she’s gone," she says. I can almost taste the bitterness in every word. "Well all right then, here it comes: she was my friend.” Tears now. Trickling. Not pouring. Not yet. Trickling—angry, sad, drunk and helpless. “She was my friend, and I loved her, and now she’s dead. She was a better pony than me, but I guess that doesn’t matter because she’s the one in the box, and I’m the one stuck here staring at your sorry faces, telling you about it.”

It’s quiet for a moment. Stone silent again. Dee scratches her head. Stares down at the coffin with a blank face. Like she wants to say more—wants to let out all the pain and the humiliating grief and the rage—but the dull look in her once intense electric blue eyes tells me there’s no more coming. No more words. No more of those strong, searing emotions. Heartbroken and hurting for her, I watch all those heavy feelings drain out her features and pool at her hooves as tears.

“I guess that’s it.” Numbness touches each word as they leave her mouth. “She was my friend and now she’s dead. That’s it.” Dee shakes her head slightly. Her intense electric blue eyes short out and dim. She sucks back a lungful of springtime air, then pushes out a deep, defeated sigh. “Yeah… Yeah, that’s it…”

She pats the coffin lid twice. Turns. Stumbles. Nearly falls. Then she wobbles off in no particular direction. The last water fly. I watch her skirt away and wonder if I’ll ever see her again.

I don’t pay attention to much of the service after Dee leaves. Some other ponies say a few words. A unicorn uses magic to lower Redheart into the ground before covering her with heaps of earth. The stallion in the white collar recites an old prayer to the Royal Sisters. The mourners leave flowers, then trudge off.

Redheart’s mother is the last to leave. Before she goes she spots me at a glance and trots up to me, her gait weathered by too many years of trudging.

She runs her hoof through my mane, comforting me as if I were her own daughter. “Oh, you poor dear. You were her lover, yes?” Her voice and face are solemn. She looks the way Redheart would have, if only the city had let us grow old together.

“How did you know that?” I ask.

“It’s in your eyes. I fell in love with a pair of eyes like yours once.” She lets the whisper of smile play at the corners of her solemn face. “You no doubt reminded my sweet Redheart of her father. Just look at you. You’re beautiful in that lonely sort of way. And these scars on your face… My Redheart always did obsess over scars. Lasting wounds that never heal quite right.” Thoughtfulness finds a home behind her timeless gaze. She pauses, then says, “She couldn’t fix you, could she?”

I answer her question with one of my own. “Why did you leave? Redheart told me that you walked out on your husband. On your family.” Something like anger takes hold of me when I ask. Like anger but quieter. Cooler. Something that wants to understand, not condemn. “Why’d you do it? Why’d you leave Braveheart?”

Pain invades her features. “Because I couldn’t fix him either," she says. "If you were broken enough for my Redheart to love you, then I predict your hardships have only just begun.” She sighs, then straightens the collar of my snug fitting leather jacket. The gesture is deeply motherly. “And still so young. I’ll pray for you, dear.”

Standing off near a parked carriage, a finely dressed unicorn stallion calls for her attention. “Miss Proudheart,” he says in that tempered manner that belongs solely to Manehattan’s upper class, “there are other engagements you must attend to today. It’s nearly dusk, ma’am. We need to get going.”

“Of course, of course,” she calls back, waving for her driver to be patient a moment longer. “I’m afraid I have to go. Take care of yourself as best you can, dear.” Her forehead is warm against mine for a cluster of seconds that doesn’t last long enough—and then her lips are brushing my face, and soon after that her graying tail is bobbing up and down as she trots toward the street where her ride is waiting for her.

I watch her climb into the carriage. Watch it rumble away from the curb, then vanish around the first corner on the main street. Gone.

When I turn back, me and Redheart are finally alone.

Her headstone is simple and finely cut. She would have liked it.

“Auburn… I know, right?” I begin. I’ve been planning for this moment for days, but suddenly, faced with suffocating reality of it, all the words I’d spent hours shaping in my head melt away like the last of the winter frost. “I’m not crazy about it either, but it seemed like a good idea when Tracy suggested it. You don’t know Tracy do you? She’s a friend of mine. I’m staying with her and her mother now; for how long, I don't know. Shame you two never met. I think you’d have gotten along with Tracy. She’s always talking and joking and smiling. She can be a bit exhausting, but I think you’d have liked her.

“The mane’s not the only thing that’s new. I had my cutie mark bleached the same color as my coat. Had to. Cops are looking for me, I’m sure, and so will the whole Royal Guard once Shining Armor sticks his nose into the Pie Sisters case. There are guards all over the city now, so I have to be careful. Celestia’s declared a ‘zero-tolerance’ policy on crime in Manehattan. Shame it took her losing Sparkle to realize not every place in the country is as peaceful as Canterlot.

“…I met your mother,” I say after a long pause. “She’s very beautiful. The two of you look just alike.” Another pause. This one shorter. “I think… I think she wanted to love you but wasn’t strong enough. She was scared. I won’t condone what she did to you and your father, but I’ve been afraid myself. I understand. I hope you didn’t die resenting her.”

I talk and talk, the words spewing out uncontrollably. I say more to Redheart’s headstone than I ever said to the mare buried underneath. Death is funny that way, isn’t it? The pony you care about is no longer around to hear it, and suddenly you realize there are so many things that need saying.

I talk and skirt and dance around the issue for as long as I can—and when I can’t anymore, I go ahead and say needs saying. “I...look I’m sorry for everything I put you through. And I…well… I…” It’s the hardest thing I’ve ever had to say, but it needs saying just the same. “…Goodbye, Redheart.” I force the words out. They rise up in my throat kicking and screaming the whole way, but I force them out.

And then that’s it. That was the only thing left to say, and now that it's said I turn to take my leave. Where I’m going I don’t know yet, but I... Oh hell, I just plain don't—

“I don’t know. I think you look pretty good as a brunette.” The voice comes from behind me, too easy-going and too upbeat for somepony visiting Manehattan Memorial. I've heard it before. Where, I’m not sure. “Black would’ve been a bit cliché. Blond might’ve gotten a few laughs out of my pals here, though.”

I turn in search of the voice. What I find rattles me. It’s Sparkle’s assistant; the sharply dressed baby dragon. He’s leaning against a tree a few yards from Redheart’s grave, dressed just as sharply now as he was when I first saw him. He’s wearing a tailored suit, black with cherry-red pinstripes and a matching cherry-red shirt. His green crest is hidden under a black fedora that looks about a size to big for his head. It’s Sparkle’s hat. The one that fell to the sidewalk on the last night of autumn.

Hovering on either side of him are two pegasus guards. They’re old: about Storm Chaser’s age. Their pelts are white and their armor is gold, though not as lustrous as that of the average guard.

“Not here,” I say, my voice a threatening rumble. I knew this day was coming. Didn’t think it would come so soon. “This is a resting place. We aren’t doing this here.”

“Chill out, would ya.” The dragon digs into his pocket. I take a fighting stance, snorting menacingly. “Easy,” he says, removing a pack of cigarettes from his suit jacket. He taps the bottom of the pack with practiced care and up pops a cigarette. “I didn’t come looking for a fight. Just the opposite actually. I come bearing gifts.”

He stands there under the tree, smirking, waiting for me to relax.

I don’t.

“So, are we gonna make mean faces at each other all day, or are you gonna come over and join me in the shade?” The cigarette in his mouth bobs as he talks. He takes a breath and the end lights seemingly on its own.

Reluctantly, I join him in the shade. Up close he looks bigger than he did a moment ago. The guards look smaller. Older.

“What’s this about?” I say.

“Not one for manners I see,” he says out of the corner of his mouth. He holds out his claw, waiting for me to shake it. When I don’t, he huffs and says, “Oh hey, how’s it going? I’m Spike and these two handsome gents are the Sword Brothers.” He gestures toward the guards, a mock smile spread thin across his face. “Long, Broad, say hello.” The floating pegasi snort. “There. You see how not difficult that is? Now you try.”

Eyeing him carefully, I let him take my hoof in his claw. His grip is surprisingly firm. “You already know who I am,” I say.

“Doesn’t mean I can’t be polite.” The brim of the too-large hat falls in front of his face as he takes a puff from his cigarette. He pushes the brim upward with his thumb, looking like a kid dressed in his father’s clothing. I can’t help but notice how charming his sharp-toothed grin is, though not nearly as charming as he thinks.

I stare him down in silence until my gaze makes him uncomfortable. “How long you planning on pretending you aren’t afraid of me?” I say, wetting my voice with bravado the way I used to while shaking down thugs. Some habits die hard, I suppose.

The guards look to each other, then back to me. They float forward a smidge.

Spike holds up a claw and they float back. “You’re making my friends nervous with the whole Boogiemare routine.”

“You’re a lousy actor, kid. Sparkle was too.”

Spike’s temper flares when I mention Sparkle. His eyes go hot. Visceral. A snarl threatens to curl his lips, and for the first time since he opened his mouth, the little dragon loses his cool. It only lasts a second. One second of fury and blood-red hate. Then he straightens his hat, takes long drag from his cigarette, and just like that his composure returns.

“Sparkle,” he says with a sharp laugh, the word enveloped in a cloud of white smoke as it leaves his lips. “I like it: very ‘Hollyhoof Antihero.’ Bet your internal monologue sounds like a black and white crime drama.”

“Drop the calm, collected act. You’re shaking like a leaf behind that poker face. Quit stalling and tell me what you want.”

Spike finishes his cigarette. Flicks it away and fishes another out of his pocket. “And here I thought you of all ponies would appreciate a little drama.”

I inch forward and that dab of fear he’s been keeping at bay flashes behind his eyes. He tries to back-peddle, forgetting in his brief moment of panic that his back is against a tree trunk. When he realizes his misstep, he goes ahead and enjoys a small laugh at his own expense.

“Fair enough,” he says, smiling again as he turns a shoulder toward me. “You get two for making me flinch, but that’s it.”

My patience gone, I snarl. Lunge forward.

One of the guards moves to protect Spike, swatting my kick aside with his wing like I’m an amateur. Without uncrossing his forelegs, the hovering pegasus swings his helmeted head downward, cracking me on the bridge of my nose.

Rattled, I take a quick half step back. He smirks, forelegs still crossed about his board chest.

Ready for him this time, I spring up on my hind legs just as the second guard pony lands. The first one beats his wings. Starts toward me—

“Come on guys, I was just funnin’ with ya.” And then, as if by some magic, Spike is standing between us before any more blows are thrown. Quick little bastard. I didn't even see him move.

He waits for me and the guards to settle down before taking a more serious tone and saying, “I came to tell you Manehattan PD has officially kicked you loose. Your name’s been scratched off the most wanted list, so you won’t have to worry about hiding from us. Though you should keep the—what is that, auburn?—it looks good on you.”

It takes me a minute to make sense of Spike’s words. “What?” I don’t know if my eyes go all big and stupid when I hear the news, but judging by the surprise in my voice I’m guessing they do. “You can’t… can you really do something like that?”

“Can, and already have.” He takes a drag from his cigarette and leans back against the tree trunk, enjoying the look of shock I must be wearing. “Don’t forget I was the assistant to Celestia’s number one student; I’ve got connections of my own in Canterlot. All it took were a few letters to the right ponies and, poof, there goes your criminal record.” He touches a claw to his chin in thought. “Well, not entirely: Manehattan will remember you as a disturbed mental case who stopped taking her happy pills and decided to live out a couple of her favorite comic book fantasies. At least that’s what it says in your new files. Finding a job will probably be a pain, but other than that you’re off the hook.”

“R-really?”

“Well I can’t promise you Twilight’s big bro will leave you alone. My ponies buried your real case file, but Shining tends to be… thorough. He’s not stupid, and you can’t bribe the guy like you can these other so-called officers of the law.” Spike takes another drag and blows it out slow before going on to say, “Soon as he gets wise to your part in his sis’s death—and trust me, he will—it’s gonna be all fire and brimstone. Skip town if you like, but I doubt it’ll do any good. The Guard knows every inch of Equestria forwards and backwards. He’ll find you.”

The dragon’s expression dims. He takes another drag and looks off at nothing in particular. “And when he does, he won’t have you banished or imprisoned. He’ll turn you over to the princess… Celestia trapped her own flesh and blood on the moon for a thousand years—hate to think what she’d do to a perfect stranger who got her fave student killed.”

He looks off at the stretching expanse of headstones, all lined up in neat rows like tallies on giant scoreboard. I look off with him, wondering how many others died random, violent deaths. Wondering if there will be place for me here—if there will even be anything left to bury should Celestia get her hooves on me.

“I don’t understand,” I say. My voice sounds like it’s coming from far away. “Why let me go? I’m as much to blame as anypony else. I didn’t throw her off that rooftop, but I might as well have. I—”

“Don’t give yourself too much credit, Rose,” says Spike, cutting my thought short. “Twilight’s trouble started long before she met you. Long before she met Inkie or Blinkie to... Not long after she met me, though.” He utters the last sentence with a thoughtfulness that surprises me. He looks away from the sea of headstones. Looks back to me. Then past me. “You mind?” He nods in the direction of Redheart’s grave. “I’d like to pay my respects.”

Less than a minute later, I’m once again facing Redheart’s grave. Spike is beside me. He shuts his eyes. Removes his hat. Holds it against his chest. Over his heart. The guard ponies land and do the same with their helmets. I lower my head—and I’d shut my eyes too, if not for Daisy and her noose and Lilly and her scream waiting for me behind my eyelids.

When Spike opens his eyes again and the guards return their helmets to their heads, I ask my question a second time. “Why let me go?”

“It’s my way of forgiving you,” he says as he adjusts his hat. Lights his third cigarette.

“I don’t understand.”

“You wouldn’t,” he says, mildly amused. “A lot of you ponies probably wouldn’t. Hell, I know for a fact that Long and Broad here think I should tear out your throat for what you did to Twilight.” The stoic pegasi let out another snort but don’t say anything. “But I’m not a pony, Rose. I’m a dragon. I’m gonna be around for a long, long while. And a couple dozen centuries is a whole lotta’ time to lug around all that bitterness, know what I mean?”

I stare down at him, puzzled.

“Well just look where it gets us. Look where it got you. Somepony hurt you, so you go looking to hurt somepony else, right? You run into Twilight, who’s already a big ball of angst, and you take it out on her. Then she tries to get back at you and gets herself killed. And now her brother is here in the city looking to do the same thing. Who knows, maybe he gets lucky. Maybe he’s the one who takes you down—but then how long before somepony who loves you goes after him?” He takes a drag. Frustration twists his face.

“It never ends, get it? Just keeps going round and round, getting bigger and bigger and sucking everypony in like a black hole. An eye for an eye and pretty soon we’re all blind.” He cocks his head to face me. “We’ll I’m not adding to it. I know it won’t stop just because I want it to, but I won’t be a part of it. I can’t.”

Hearing him say those words, suddenly I feel horrible for Spike. We’ve all suffered plenty, but looking down at him now—dressed in his suit, smoking his cigarette, wearing Sparkle’s hat, her memory to dark and too big for a child to bear—looking down now, I realize Spike has suffered more than all of us. Or if not more, then in a much different, much more tragic way.

He’s so mature. Too mature for someone his age. My love story cost ponies their hearts and their minds and their lives, but poor Spike had to pay the price of admission with his childhood. He’s the only truly innocent soul caught in this ugly mess. The youngest and the smallest, but the only one wise enough to let go of all the hate. I wish I were as brave.

“You’ve had to grow up fast,” I say. “I’m sorry about that.”

“Yeah, well, don’t be,” he huffs, adjusting his over-sized hat. “What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, right? And anyway I got to play real life cops and robbers. I was part of a murder mystery. Even got my ass kicked in an alleyway. What kid doesn’t want that?” He lets some of the charm sneak back into his voice as he speaks.

He’ll be alright, I let myself believe. He’s stronger and braver than all of us. He’ll be alright.

“Speaking of kids at play.” Without warning, Spike throws his head back and blows a jet of green fire into the air. The suddenness of it startles me. He laughs at my reaction as he catches the quill and the roll of parchment he just summoned. “Cooler than just belching the stuff up, huh?” he chuckles, nudging me with a pointy elbow.

Nimble claws unroll the scroll. “Now I’m gonna need to take down your address.”

I cock an eyebrow. “Thought you said I was off the wanted list?”

“It’s not so I can keep tabs on you or nothing. There’s something I need to send your way. Something Twilight wanted you to have.” The cheer in his tone drops noticeably when he mentions Sparkle.

“Why would Sparkle want to give me anything after I…”

“I know,” he interrupts, gently, not giving me chance to choke on the words. He goes mute for a long time before saying, “she sort of believed in you, I guess.” He rolls up the parchment and tucks it under his armpit. Places the quill behind one of the frills on the side of his head. “The first time she ever saw you was when you fought off those cops on that rooftop. Before then she’d been investigating, but it was all rumors and, you know, assumptions and stuff. She’d heard about what you did to Filthy’s thugs. How you were trying to save the doctor. I mean she was a cop; it was her job to know that kinda stuff.”

Spike fishes into his pocket for another smoke and frowns when he finds the box empty. “But that day when you were kicking all kinds of tail up on that rooftop, and Twilight was watching you down on the ground with her bullhorn—I think she fell in love that day. You were so fast and strong. I mean six ponies, six unicorns, and they couldn't touch you! You are all like pow, and bang, and crack—” The baby dragon puts up his dukes, circling, fighting off an imaginary gang of crooked cops. The sight of him playing makes me smile. For a moment Spike lowers his defenses, drops his poker face and lets himself beam the way I child ought to.

“And you were beating up the bad guys!” he exclaims. “The gangsters and the dirty cops, and you were doing it a way nopony had ever done it before.”

“So, what? You two thought I was some kind of hero?” I say grimly. Me, a hero. I almost smile at the absurdity of it. Almost laugh out loud.

“Well I did,” Spike admits. “But for Twilight you were… I don’t know, you were something else. You stood for something to her. You meant something.” He gropes in the empty air for the right word or phrase. His expression tells me he doesn't find it, but what he does find is close enough.

“Think about it, Rose. Is it really any wonder she fell for you? I mean she’d just lost her horn a few years back. She was in a real dark place. She woke up one morning and her cutie mark didn’t mean anything anymore. She’d lost her special talent. Forgotten who she was.” A pause. Short but pronounced. “I mean—for crying out loud, she was a unicorn with no magic!” He shouts at the indignity of it. At the unfairness. “And then there you were, Rose…" His voice lowers noticeably. Calms. "...An earth pony who could fly.”

Spike takes off Sparkle’s hat and holds it to his chest.

I paw absentmindedly at the pendant that was meant for Redheart.

Together we stare out at row after row of headstones. Brooding. Languishing with the

memory of things taken. Things lost.

After I don’t know how long, Spike’s hat finds its way back to the dragon's head. He unrolls the parchment. I give him Tracy’s address. Make him promise to send me whatever Sparkle wanted me to have, then lose it. Enough ponies have suffered, I tell him. I make it clear I don’t want anything happening to Tracy.

“I’ll burn it myself,” he says. Then he blows on the scroll and quill, and both vanish in a wisp of green flame. “I mean I’ll actually burn it.” He winks. Straightens his hat. Then he signals for one of the pegasi to land and climbs onto the guard’s broad back, still as sturdy as stone bridge despite the stallion’s many years. The pegasus beats his wings with ageless grace. He and Spike are hovering a little overhead when I ask:

“All that stuff about forgiving me. About letting go. Did you mean that?”

Spike chuckles from atop his mount. “I hope so,” he says darkly. “Don’t get me wrong, Rose. I hate you. You raped my best friend. I can’t prove that you killed her, so I won’t blame you for that, but you did hurt her. You hurt her, and right now I hate. I hope some day I won't.” Then a mischievous grin appears on his face, and for only the second time during our conversation, Spike looks like a child. “But who knows—maybe someday when I’ve grown into a big scary dragon I’ll come back and gobble you up.”

He winks.

The guard flaps his wings. Takes to the sky.

“One more thing,” I shout as Spike and his mount climb upward. “You paid your respects to Redheart. Did you know her?”

He pauses for thought. “Does that really matter?” he shouts back, waving goodbye.

“No,” I say to myself, as I watch him and the guards shrink, shrink, then disappear into the dusk sky. “No. I suppose it doesn’t.”

The days that follow Redheart’s funeral melt and blur into each other until can’t tell where one ends the next begins. The details of each day’s happenings escape me. I wander through what’s left of my pitiful life in a haze, only vaguely aware of what I do. Where I go. Life happens in snippets. I take in little freeze frames here and there, like a slideshow in real time. Except the freeze frames aren’t frozen. They move. Make noise. Have tastes and smells and textures.

In one frame I am shouting curses at old Storm Chaser, blaming him for Redheart’s death. I am asking him why he didn’t protect her like he promised, and then I am hurling myself at him, furious, attacking him with every trick he ever taught me.

We fight for a long time.

In the next frame I’m lying on Tracy Flash’s welcome mat, bloodied and broken, kicking the front door to her apartment with all the strength I can muster and praying somepony answers before I black out. Tracy lives at least five stories up and there isn’t a single working elevator in her building. The details of how I made the climb are absent from the frame.

The slide clicks and for a fraction of second there’s static, like an old television flipping channels. When the next frame comes into focus Tracy’s mother is shouting. Warning her daughter that I’m trouble, threatening to throw me out of her home.

In the next one Tracy is talking me down from edge of her windowsill. I am leaning over the side, explaining to her that I’m only reaching for her cap. I know she doesn’t like it when her mother hangs it from the clothesline. She is afraid somepony might steal it, and I am only trying to get it down for her.

She says please about a dozen times before grabbing my tail and yanking me back inside. And then I am shouting at her and crying into my hooves.

A little after that I’m stumbling into Tracy’s room in the middle of the night. She’s lying in bed and I’m crawling under the sheets, snuggling up beside her, telling her that she’s beautiful and holding her close and kissing her face.

She pushes me away, muttering something about her mother being right.

And then I’m waking up from a nightmare. Screaming. Crying. Sitting up on the couch in Tracy’s living room and whipping tears and snot from my face like the hurt filly I’ve been for past couple of… What has it been now? Days? Weeks? I don’t know and honestly I couldn’t give a damn. Redheart is dead and so am I, and for what feels like a lifetime I’m content to just cry and sniff and let the world go on turning without me. I let depression take me and do whatever it likes with me. I act out. Make an ass of myself. Cry. Pick fights with Tracy. Why not? What’s the point? What’s the use in acting right anymore? Redheart is dead and so am I.

The days go by in a haze. Eventually Tracy tires of babysitting me. She tells me she understands my loss—understands that I’m in pain—but that doesn’t give me an excuse to take advantage of her and treat her like shit. She tells me I have to find work and start pulling my own weight, or she’s going to put me out on the street.

And the whole time she’s telling me all this, she’s staring at me in that way I hate. That same way Dee stared at me. Like I’m some kind of animal. Something that needs to be put on a leash. In a cage. I listen to Tracy’s lecture and when she’s done running her mouth, I decide to go before I lose control of myself and hurt her.

I take a walk through downtown, going wherever my legs want to take me. The streets look different. Feel different. Manehattan is restless. She’s been feeling depressed too. Ever since I broke her heart, the old mule has really let herself go. There are cops on damn near every corner, something the old Manehattan would’ve never allowed, and I have to duck out of sight whenever I see a patrolling guard pegasus circling overheard. Lucky for me all that gold armor makes them easy to spot in board daylight. I avoid them without too much trouble.

At one point during my aimless stroll, I stumble upon a bustling crowd of protestors gathered in the street. Marching. Holding up sighs and shouting their heads off about ‘curfews’ and ‘resisting marshal law.’ Trotting alongside the mob, I spot a gangly looking pegasus stallion carrying a sign that reads “The End Is Nigh,” and I ask him what this is all about.

“Haven’t you heard?” he pipes nervously. “Celestia’s pupil got herself killed uptown by some gangsters or something. Now the princess has the nerve to send in her Guard and pretend she gives a damn about us. They say it’s to protect us from all the gangs and stuff, but we know better.” His head whips from side to side, and his tone dips to almost a whisper as he says, “It’s fascist is what it is. Like, this is supposed to be free country. We got rights, ya know. I got rights.”

He’s about to say more just as shove past him and duck into the marching mob, hiding as best I can from a pair of guards whose approach I didn’t notice until it was nearly too late.

“On the run, huh?” says the nervous pegasus. “I know that feel. You’d better be careful. She’s watching us now.” His gaze leaves my face and, eyes half-lidded, he squints up at Celestia’s ball of fire. “She’s got her eye on all of us.”

The rally takes me northbound down a main road, heading toward the projects where I used to live. After enduring a good twenty minutes ponies jostling me and shouting in my ears, the mob spits me out in front of newsstand as it rounds a corner. The mare working the stand shakes her head and mumbles, “Damn bunch of trouble makers.” She rolls a thin, dry stalk of hay from one corner of her mouth to the other, chewing lazily. “They should stop whining and get themselves jobs. Hey, stranger,” she says to me, “buy something or move along.”

I buy a paper. Have a seat on a bench beside the stand and skim through a story about the gang war waging uptown in Discord’s Kitchen. It’s a long article. I skim it. Get the gist of it. Pick out a few facts: Dozens murdered. More injured. Thousands lost in property damage. Spike in narcotics use. Spike in gun smuggling. Spike in violent crime rates across the board.

Law enforcement makes little headway. No foreseeable end in sight.

I pick out a few details. Get the gist of it. The story starts on the front page, and I have to flip through about seven pages and half a dozen more stories just like it before I find the end.

There’s a picture on the page where the story continues, a black and white photo of a crime scene. When I see it the hole in my chest where my heart should be widens be inches.

The caption reads, “Three dangerous criminals killed in conflict with Royal Guard. Several more apprehended.” It’s a bird’s-eye view shot, probably taken by a pegasus floating directly overhead, putting the three dangerous criminals on full display. They’re lying on the floor in a row as a stocky, short-tailed unicorn guard uses his magic to tape off the crime scene.

The criminals are Daughters; the odd clothing and face piercings are proof enough of that. Two of them I don’t recognize—but the one lying on the far left the coin-sized holes in her chest and gut—that one I recognize. One of her forelegs is lying limp across her face, covering her eyes and most of her forehead, as if she were trying to shield herself from whatever killed her. I can’t see her eyes, but I don’t need to. I see the three large rings poking through her bottom lip, and that’s enough. That’s all I need to be sure it’s her. I see those three rings, and I know right away that little Olive is dead.

I crumble the paper into a ball and toss it in the first trashcan I see.

“Tell me about it, stranger,” sighs the mare behind the newsstand. She rolls the stalk of hay she’s still working on from one corner of her mouth to other, chewing lazily.

Leaving the newsstand behind me, I trudge on. By now my legs have taken me to the homely little diner where me and Redheart first met.

A surge of nostalgia I’m not ready for rolls through me. Nearly floors me. The bittersweet feeling stays with me for a few heartbeats, then flees—chased away by something that would be dread or grief if this day hadn’t already left me so emotionally drained.

The diner. The place where I first met Redheart all those years ago. It’s boarded up. Abandoned.

Wasn’t I here just two seasons ago? Just a few months? I wonder, stunned.

I waste one minute with a goodbye, not wanting to make a fuss of it. It’s been a long day. A long fall, and a long winter, and I've got a feeling it’ll be a longer spring. I’ve seen enough. Been through enough. I decide not to make a fuss of this one. I make with my silent goodbye, then turn around and start back the way I came.

As soon as I turn around, I spy yet another change. A big one. Maybe the biggest of them all. How I missed it, I have no idea. It’s a big one. It’s huge.

Towering high above the sidewalk is a massive billboard I’ve never seen before. On the billboard there’s an image of a dashing young unicorn stallion dressed in the uniform of an officer of the Royal Guard. His expression is serious but not severe. His eyes hard but not intimidating. Confident but not arrogant. Tempered. Controlled. He has the square-jawed look of a protector. The chiseled features that belong to so many stallions who still believe in justice. He gazes down at me—at all of downtown Manehattan—his brave face promising a brighter, better tomorrow. Even from way down here I can tell it’s a promise he intends to make good on.

Written at the base of the image in bold lettering are the words, “WE BELIEVE IN SHINING ARMOR.”

Cops. Guards. Protests. Warring gangs. Manehattan is sick. All those years of wallowing in sin, of feeding her depravity and shitting where she eats—it’s all finally catching up with the old mule. Manehattan is sick and what she’s got must be contagious, because walking up down her ugly face has me feeling queasy. I practically run back to Tracy’s place, eager to get it off the streets. To get away from the sunlight and springtime air, and the cops and the guards, and the newsstands and the boarded up dinners, and all the rest of it.

The apology I owe Tracy pokes at the base of my skull the whole way back. Only pony in the world left who still gives a damn about me and I treat her like shit. Like she’s the one who killed Redheart. Who murdered Daisy and Lily and sent me screaming down this path of self destruction. It’s not Tracy’s fault. Shouldn’t have taken it out on her. Not her fault. Nopony’s fault but mine.

The apology pokes me while the animal in my gut, the mangy thing with hungry eyes that stared at me from the front page of the Manehattan Post—she’s lurking behind the bars of her cage, sharpening her claws and filing her fangs into razors. She’s fuming. Chomping at the bit. There’s and itch she’s been dying to scratch, and its face is white and its grin is red, and it’s responsible for the murders Daisy, Lily, and now Redheart. The animal is sick of moping and pissing and moaning, and every square inch of her is feeling good and dangerous and ready to get back to knocking heads.

She tells me we’ve got Manehattan on the ropes. Got her reeling. The poor old mule is heartbroken and completely out of it, and the animal insists that if we’re going to make a move, we’d better make it now.

But the mangy thing in my gut doesn’t get it. I don’t have it in me anymore. Redheart is dead and whatever was left of me died with her. I was right there beside her that night, my neck in the same nose. Smiling. Hurting. Hurting so bad it was funny.

No… No, I suppose even that isn’t the real truth. The real truth is I died hiding in a closet, staring into the bulging eyes of my best friend as she was strangled to death. I died a coward’s death that night, and I’ve died a thousand more since. The animal in my gut wants revenge but she’s trapped inside me—trapped inside Rose—and Rose has always been a spineless bully. A coward. There’s nothing she can do now… There was never anything she could do.

I’m still lost in thought when I arrive at Tracy’s apartment, but the sight of a package sitting on the welcome mat guides me back to the world outside of my head.

I look down the package. It's an ornate box. All done up in ribbon and glitter and looking like a present at a filly’s Cuteceanera party. The words “Carousel Boutique,” are written on the box’s lid so eloquently they're nearly illegible. Other than two those words, the package is unmarked. Tracy’s name isn’t on it and neither is her mother’s.

‘Something Twilight wanted you to have.’ Spike’s words ripple through my mind. I hear them clearly, as if they were being uttered at this very moment. Could this be it, I wonder, almost aloud.

I don’t waste any time. I tear the away the gaudy ribbon. Open the lid. Peer inside.

When I see what’s in the box my heart flutters and skips at the same time. An emotion I can’t make sense of slams into my chest like a battering ram, and an old flame I thought had gone out for good sparks and catches and burns behind my eyes.

The animal in my gut stirs and wakes with a long yawn, happy to see I’ve finally come to my senses.

I peer down into the box and just like that, all the doubt and the depression and the self-loathing I’ve been lugging around evaporates. It rises out of my pores like steam and disappears.

Sparkle remembered. To think, I’d nearly forgotten. Nearly forgotten the forest and the eyes—and the nightmare and the prison cell—and Sparkle’s lips and her falling hat—and the slip of paper that passed between our hooves.

The promise to reach out to an old friend.

The plans for my disguise. My weapon against Manehattan and her criminals.

Sparkle remembered. Even after what I did to her. After I took her any way I liked. She remembered. She loved me even though I hurt her. Loved me in that strange way only ponies like us can understand. She loved me, and she didn’t forget. Sparkle got in touch with Rarity, just like I asked. Contacted the best seamstress I ever knew; the only pony I trusted with the creation of my disguise. Sparkle reached out to her old friend for me. It must have been hard for her, coming face-to-face with her past like that. It must have been hard, but she did it. Did it for me. Remembered me. My beautiful hornless unicorn remembered me.

An earth pony who could fly. I almost say the words aloud. Almost. No. You were wrong, Sparkle. Wrong to put your faith in a loser like me. I’m no hero. You believed in me, and you loved me, and in the end you came through me. Even after I failed you. Failed them all. Couldn't save one. Not one.

But I was wrong too. Wrong about you. I thought you’d thrown in with the city. Thought you’d sold your soul for a chance at revenge, and maybe you did, but some part of the old you—the real you—was still holding on. Your last words: ‘You can’t have me.’ They were for the city’s ears, weren’t they? For the lousy, no-good hours in our lives that try to break us down. Change us into something perverted and deformed. You never really stopped fighting and that’s why Manehattan had to kill you. She couldn’t taint you after all—not completely—and what she can’t taint she has to kill.

I was wrong. You’re the real hero, Twilight Sparkle. You've saved me with this gift of yours. Saved me just like you saved Equestria. You did again. You’re my hero, Twilight Sparkle. My beautiful hornless unicorn. I love you.

I peer down at the box for a bit longer, then close it up quick and hurry inside. Out here in the sunlight is no place for the sort of gift Sparkle has given me. It’s useless under the warmth and the light and all the prying eyes. I hide it in its box. Hide it from the light.

I hurry back inside. And then I wait.

Wait for Celestia to take her ball of fire and scurry home to hide behind her personal Guard, and her mountainside castle, and her ivory towers, and all those high walls she had built to distance herself from ponies like me.

From ponies like me—and from the Equestria all the royals, and all the aristocrats, and all the intellectuals and the smooth talkers are afraid to bring up over dinner. The Equestria they shield their children from. The one they pretend doesn’t exist. My Equestria. My Manehattan. I’ve already broken her heart, and tonight I’ll break the rest of her as well. I’ll smash this city to pieces and offer the rubble to the ponies who deserve it. Ponies like the ones I couldn’t save. Ponies like Sparkle and Junebug and Redheart—the good ones. I’ll give them Manehattan in chunks and scraps and charred bits, and let them reshape this city into something of their own choosing. I meant something to Sparkle, Spike said. Now I'll use her gift to mean something to them all.

But not yet. For now I wait. Wait for Luna to hang her third eye high above the Manehattan skyline and watch me repent for my sins. I wait for the night. Luna’s night. The night she was driven mad for. The night she was willing to destroy for. The night she suffered a thousand years for. The night—precious and horrible and sacred and ominous and black.

I wait for the night. For the chase. Tonight I will be chasing.

Noose Without a Hangmare

Chapter I: Noose Without a Hangmare

I shut my eyes and the noose slips around Daisy's neck.

She is lying on her stomach, and the noose slips easily around her neck as if it were made just for her. It is the color of sand and the contrast it creates against Daisy's velveteen purple coat is striking. The life is draining out of her eyes. There is a hoof on her back, and she is lying on her stomach, and the life is draining out of her eyes. In a few moments she will be dead. Lily will die next if I do not open my eyes soon. This is what I see whenever they are closed. There's a projector in my head that plays the scene over and over and over.

When I open my eyes the city greets me with the familiar sound of ambulance sirens and thundering hooves racing down poorly maintained streets under the vigilant gaze of Luna’s full moon. Fleeing. Chasing. That's all this city is. Just fleeing and chasing. Tonight I am chasing.

From the roof of my brownstone downtown Manehattan looks like an affront on Celestia's green earth. Less a city and more a declaration of war on all things natural. I've heard it called the "concrete jungle" but the metaphor does wildlife a disservice. The city is nothing but miserable urban sprawl. It stands as a testament to squandered pony potential: seeds of avarice, lust, and pride sewn in barren land, and from them sprout the looming edifices of stone, iron, brick, mortar, concrete, stainless steel, and glass. Great sheets of crystalline glass. Dilapidation has rotted most of this city to the bone, but the windows are always kept clean. They sparkle when shattered.

A harsh laughter plays games in my ears as Manehattan watches me up on the roof of my brownstone. Watches my hooves tremble like the coward she knows I am. She is a living thing, this city, and tonight there is a smile on her lips because she knows I am afraid of her. She’s laughing. Hot and haughty. I let her enjoy it. Let her have her fun.

A breeze nudges the hook dangling from a length of cord tied around my midsection. Metal brushes against fur, reminding me where I am and where I’ve been and why I’m doing what I’m doing. I take a deep breath. Remember my training. Remember that tonight I am chasing. I back to the roof’s edge, making sure to give myself enough room for a running start.

I back to roof’s edge and listen. Listen to the laughter playing its games in my ears and the bustling carriages and the countless shuffling hooves on the sidewalk below. The night sounds. The city’s pulse. Her heartbeat.

Then I take the hook-tipped length of cord in my mouth and begin twirling it above my head. My legs come alive. My whole body. I hurl myself forward. Sprinting. I Charge forward on uneasy legs at first, but about halfway across the rooftop I find my stride. The space that separates me from the edge of the building shrinks like a deflating balloon. I sprint. When all of the air in the balloon escapes, I leap, throwing myself and my hook forward with every ounce of strength I can muster.

The brownstone becomes a memory.

The sidewalk recedes.

The city shrinks and so does her laughter.

I sprint. Leap. Throw.

I was born an earth pony but tonight I fly like a pegasus.

My hook finds the edge of the adjacent building and holds fast, like a swooping owl clawing into its prey. The first swing is terrifying. The cold air combs through the rose colored mane on my head for which I am named, and despite all my equipment---the grappling hook, the Kevlar vest, the boots, the pair of batons on my hip---I feel naked. Exposed. For a second I close my eyes and the noose slips easily around Daisy's neck. The life begins draining from her eyes just as I open my mine and land safely atop another brownstone. I come down running, pulling the cord behind me as I go. Not slowing down. Faster. Faster. The speed again reminds me that tonight I am chasing. The buildings downtown are practically leaning on each other. The next few rooftops I clear in easy bounds.

Despite my fear of this city, I allow a smile to grace my lips as I gallivant upon her. She’s ugly. All corners and rough edges. All of it slowly falling to ruin. But the many blemishes on her face make her easy to climb. Fun. I swing from her. Trample her. I am a child and she is my playground. This is the closest, I fear, we will ever come to love.

For a long time the city is quiet, and I begin to worry I am perhaps only chasing ghosts. At first I'm upset. Then relieved. I tell myself it is better I not find what I am looking for. Not catch what I am chasing. It will solve nothing. Change nothing. There will always be fleeing and chasing. What can one pony with a Kevlar vest and some cord do to change all that?

I've almost convinced myself that it has been enough to fly---that I should go back to my brownstone and curl up on the stiff mattress waiting for me there---when suddenly something catches the corner of my eye. On the roof of an apartment complex across the street, I make out the shape of four ponies moving toward the roof's edge. I move to investigate and already my pulse is starting to quicken.

Three of the ponies, all of them earth stallions, have the fourth surrounded, cornering her so that her back is digging into the short wall that separates the edge of the roof from the sidewalk four stories below. One of the three stallions is especially aggressive. He trusts a threatening hoof into the filly's chest. She shrugs. Sinks deeper into the short wall. Her gesture is meant to be disarming. Submissive. A plea for negotiation. The filly says something but I’m too far away to hear it clearly, and it’s too dark to read her lips. She says something else. Then the smallest of the stallions raises one of his front hooves, and the aggressive one backs off a bit.

As the scene plays out before me, I notice how they regard each other with familiarity. Without hearing a word of the conversation, it’s obvious they all know each other. This is no random shakedown. They've done this before. Good. That means I have a little time.

I sneak up on them using the fire escape on the opposite side of the building. It’s not until I hear their voices coming in clearly that I realize just how close I am to the action.

"…Would you just listen for one second," the filly pleads. Upon hearing her voice I realize that she is actually a stallion too. He has a dainty feminine frame and his haunches and hindquarters curve like a mare's. "I got the bits okay. I just don't got them with me is all." Despite his brave face, I hear a pang of fear ringing true in his voice.

"Don't play games with me, Doc," says the smallest stallion. His voice is a tiger's growl billowing out of a house cat. "I know all about the job you did for that psychopath back in Fillydelphia. Heard you patched her up real good too. Heard she paid you a pretty bit for your services. You owe me a pretty bit, Doc. Lots of pretty bits."

"I already told you I got the money but it’s back home in Filly. I got busted and had to leave it with a guy, an old patient, when I made a run for it." This upsets the small stallion with the tiger's voice. The aggressive thug grabs the feminine stallion by the collar with both hooves, shoving him so that his whole upper body is leaning over the side of the short wall.

If I'm going to make a move at all I ought to make it now, but my legs are trembling so hard I’m scared I might fall off the ladder. I duck my head down suddenly for fear of being seen and stare at the wall through the rungs. What am I thinking? I could go now. Leave this ‘Doc’ character to a fate he probably deserves. From the sound of his talk he’s likely a criminal too.

Criminals. I hate criminals. I'm afraid of them. Afraid of this whole city.

"Wait! Wait!" I hear the feminine stallion scream, the panic dense in his voice. "If you waste me she'll find out! I'm working with her now. You hurt me and she'll come after you."

"You threatening me, Doc?" The tiger's growl becomes a roar.

I try to bring my limbs under control, stop them from shaking, but I can't. My stomach lurches. Heaves. I want to cry. I shut my eyes.

I shut my eyes and the noose slips easily around Daisy's neck. It is the color of sand and the contrast it creates against Daisy's velveteen purple coat is striking.

I'm up the ladder before the noose begins to tighten. Eyes wide. Focused.

I was born an earth pony but tonight I materialize upon the roof as if by magic and charge headlong into the aggressive stallion. He shouts. A mixture of agony and surprise bubbles up out of his throat as the crown of my head sinks into his soft midsection. He shouts. Tumbles over the edge, threatening to take the feminine stallion with him, but I catch the doc's tail in my mouth and manage to pull him back to safety with one swift yank. My own strength surprises me. It’s good to know I haven’t been training all this time in vain.

The aggressive stallion is aggressive no more. He’s little more than a mangled red stain on the concrete now. Another blemish on the city's already hideous face.

I wheel around, baton already in mouth, and smash the face of the other goon. He's sturdy. Doesn't go down. Sturdy but slow. He tries to retaliate, kicking at me with his forelegs, but I sidestep him easily and strike his trachea. Now he falls. Then something sharp sticks me from behind. It doesn't hurt all that much, but it staggers me for a second and that's all the time the thug needs to kick my legs out from underneath me. Then all of a sudden he is on top of me, and he is heavy, and his front hooves are coming down on my face. Hoof meets head, then head meets cement. Sparks flicker behind my eyes. For a few uncomfortable seconds I am a heated piece of iron being forged into a sword, my imperfections hammered out between mallet and anvil.

He stomps.

Sparks flicker.

He stomps.

My head spins.

He stomps.

My senses dull. Dull. Dull. Then a splash of rusty iron fills my mouth, travels down my throat, and all at once the lights come back on. When his hoof comes down again I catch it with my forelegs.

I was born an earth pony and tonight I buck like one. My hind leg finds the thug's groin. The blow doubles him over. Folds him in half. He falls. I scramble back to my hooves and stomp the back of his head, knocking him out cold.

With my head still spinning, I look around for the doc and the pony with the tiger's voice. The doc is gone but I spot the last of the thugs running along rooftops, already two buildings away. I try to convince myself that I've done enough for tonight. I put my training to good use. Flew. Saved a pony's life. I should go home now. I should go but something inside me pushes my hooves forward. The chase. That must be it. I remember that tonight I am chasing.

My heart is in my throat, pulsing violently against my voice box, and wild reckless adrenaline is leaking out of my ears as I dash after the pony with the tiger's voice. He’s fast but he’s a stranger to my playground. The blemishes on her ugly face trip him up but only hasten my advance.

Our game of fleeing and chasing leads us several stories up. Downtown Manehattan seems to stretch on forever, her buildings as numerous as trees in a forest. He grows bolder. Climbs higher.

He leaps.

Lands on the steps of a fire escape.

Climbs.

I do the same, but faster. By the time he ascends the fire escape to the rooftop, I’m right on top of him. But this rooftop is small. He covers the distance quickly and leaps again. Lands. It's a long jump but he makes it.

My hind legs kick off the edge and by the time I see it, it's already too late. A flash silver light cuts a swath across the night, illuminating the small stallion's face. His hat floats off of his head revealing a small spiraled horn.

Shit. A unicorn. I bucking hate unicorns.

It happens in less than a second but the details are so rich I will be able to recall this moment for the rest of my life.

The unicorn's coat opens and out floats a silver revolver. A ghostly silver revolver. Hauntingly bright in the darkness. Hanging in the open air. Gripped and wielded and ordered to kill by intangible forces. By things as fragile as white light and thoughts.

The gun fires four times. The sound is world shattering. Three of the rounds hit me. Only one is stopped by the Kevlar. Another rips through my right foreleg a little above the elbow, and the worst of them buries itself in my soft underbelly.

If I cried out as I fell into the alley between the pair of buildings, I didn't hear it. It's an ugly fall. All corners and rough edges the whole way down. During my tumble I grasp at a clothesline and though I can't quite get a hold of it, it slows my fall considerably and is likely the reason I am still alive. My back meets the lid of a sturdy dumpster and the two of them become very well acquainted. I feel whatever stabbed me earlier jab itself deep into my lower back. Air flees from my body. My chest flutters. Blood sputters from my lips. I forget how to breathe. My eyelids become lead weights. I try to keep them open but they are falling...

The noose slips easily around Daisy's neck.

My eyes snap open. Try to sit up. Focus. Remember your training, I whisper aloud to myself before taking a moment to assess the damage. Bullet in the gut. Something lodged in my lower back. The something that stabbed me earlier. A knife. Must be knife.

I try to roll off the dumpster lid and onto the sidewalk but the task is beyond me. When I fail to roll off the dumpster, I reach across my body for the boot on my left hind hoof. There is a cell-phone in the boot on my left hind hoof, and if I can reach it I might not die tonight. The effort it takes is enormous. As I reach across my stomach, I see the bullet hole in my gut and my body stiffens. Flash freezes. I'm scared. I hear the city laugh at me. I'm scared, but if I start shaking now I will die for sure. I strain to reach the boot. Grit my teeth, shut my eyes and remember a time when I was more frightened than I am now. The memory gives me the strength I need.

I flip the phone open and dial just one key on the pad. I have a friend who has agreed to help me out tonight should I need it, and I definitely do. She’s on speed dial. I put the phone to me ear and it is ringing.

The phone rings once.

A child is born. A filly. A pegasus. Her skin is soft and the feathers in her wings are light and delicate. A loving mother cradles the baby in her forelegs for the first time. She is beautiful. They are happy together.

The phone rings a second time.

The filly grows into a lovely young mare. She finishes school. It is a low-income school in one of the worst neighborhoods in Manehattan, but she finishes at top of her class. She gains admission to several prestigious universities. Colleges in Ponyville. Canterlot. Her future is bright.

The phone rings a third time.

Her mother falls ill. Medical bills are high. School is expensive. She takes time away from school to work so that she can take care of her loving mother. Her mother pleads with her to reconsider. She does not wish for her daughter to throw away her bright future for the sake of a dying old mare. The daughter refuses. Eventually it gets to be too much and she drops out. Works full time.

The phone rings a fourth time.

The treatments are expensive. Work is difficult to find. She turns to stripping. Prostitution. Still it is not enough. Her once soft skin has aged and her light delicate wings have dulled. During her work in the streets she acquires a drug habit that spells the end for her. Her mother dies alone in a hospital bed and she under a freeway overpass. When her body is discovered a week later the doctors will say it is just another overdose and put her with the others.

A lifetime. A long, sad, lonely Manehattan lifetime begins and ends in the space of those four rings. At least that's what it feels like as I lie on the lid of random dumpster in a random alleyway. Bleeding out. Waiting for Redheart to pick up the phone.

I lie. Bleed. Wait. When the call goes to voicemail, I scream out loud. Dial again. This time she answers on the first ring.

"Rose?" The phone is cheap and the signal is shit. I can barely hear her. "Rose, is that you?"

"I need…a pick up," I manage to say without gagging. The sound of my own voice scares me. I sound like somepony who's about to die.

"Where are you?" The nervousness in her voice makes me tremble. I look down the alley and hope to see a street sign from where I'm lying. I don't.

"I don't know," I hear myself say, sounding surprisingly calm. Perhaps I have given up.

Remember your training, I tell myself. I take in my surroundings. Look for something that will give me a clue as to where I am.

Then the clothesline saves me again. Hanging from it are three hideously worn out, plain looking white collared shirts with holes cut into them for pegasus wings. A standard weather factory worker's uniform. This bit of information is useless, except hanging beside the shirts is a red and white baseball cap with a powder blue brim. I recognize the hat. The shirts and hat belong to a young freelance reporter who supplements her income by working part-time at the weather factory that floats above Manehattan's upper east side. Her name is Tracy Flash and she has a bright smile befitting her namesake. I only met her for a brief moment when I first moved here from Ponyville, but I remember her complaining about how her mother insisted on washing her hat and then hanging it on the clothesline. It is her favorite hat and she is worried somepony might steal it.

"You're new here," she told me when I first met her in a line at an unemployment office on the upper east side, "so if you ever need a friend call me." Then she gave me a slip of paper with a phone number and an address scribbled on it. I don't know the number by heart, but I know she lives on 1st and 18th. I know where I am. Someday I'll have to thank Tracy for saving my life.

"…1st and 18th," I mumble into the receiver.

"You're sure?" asks Redheart.

"Yeah. And please hurry. I'm...bleeding all over myself. Starting to feel dizzy too," I say with a self-conscious, almost embarrassed laugh. Redheart mumbles something into the receiver about coming to get me. I don’t hear it. Nor do I hear the sound of the phone breaking against the concrete after it drops from between hooves made clumsy by pain, fatigue, and a fresh slick scarlet coating.

Blood loss makes my eyelids heavy. I fight to keep them open, not wanting to relive the nightmare. I have endured it dozens of times, but it never becomes any less real. If I can just hold out until Redheart gets here. If I can just…

…My eyes shut and the noose slips easily around Daisy's neck as if it were made special. Made just for her. It is the color of sand and the contrast it creates against Daisy's velveteen purple coat is striking. The life is draining out of her eyes. There is a hoof on her back, and she is lying on her stomach, and her legs are flailing uselessly, and the life is draining out of her eyes. Before it is wrung out completely, Daisy looks at me. Into me. Our eyes meet just as hers are becoming glass, and we are so close that I see myself in them, the reflection of my visage pale with unknowable terror. Trapped. Forever locked away behind a pair of perfect spring green mirrors.

If I do not open my eyes soon, Lily will die next.

Stitched Apart

Chapter II: Stitched Apart

Consciousness grabs me roughly by the scruff of my neck and drags me back to the waking world, kicking and screaming and mumbling curses under my breath the whole way. At first I don’t know where I am, only that I'm moving, slowly and that my tail is leaving a sticky red smear in its wake like a brush against an ugly canvas. It’s not until I hear the handle of the knife grinding against the ground that I realize Redheart is dragging me down the alleyway toward the street. The knife is still lodged in my back. The sound of it scraping along the cement mixes with Redheart’s grunting and panting, and together the noises wrap around each other and around the claustrophobic silence in the alleyway, strangling it. With the return of my senses comes the return of the pain. The living pain. The mean-faced, mocking pain. It squirms its way in through the hole in my gut, swimming against the tide of rushing blood. Squirming. Swimming. Filling me. Filling me to bursting and finding places to have its fun.

The alley is a hydra’s neck. It stretches endlessly. I watch Tracy’s hat shrink in the dim glow of the streetlight for thousands of years. Then the red stained ground falls out from underneath me and the brush stroke stops abruptly, leaving the ugly canvas looking unfinished. I hear the city laughing, having a go at me as Redheart lays my broken body across the backseat of a taxi carriage.

The city laughs. Has herself a chuckle. I haven’t earned her respect yet. She laughs. Hot. Haughty. I let her enjoy it. Let her have her fun.

Redheart lays me in the taxi, and the city laughs, and it feels like a swarm of butterflies have decided to make a home of my stomach. Stupid. The word runs laps around the inside of my skull. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. I trusted Redheart to keep this a secret. Me. Her. No one else. No one, I told her. Stupid.

I try to form the word in my mouth, but the task is beyond me. My lips part and the groan I've been holding down in my gut billows up instead. The pain. It's too much. The butterflies in my stomach have razor wings. They flutter. Tear away at my insides. I curl into a ball in the back seat, clutching my gut as if this will do anything to keep them from fluttering. My hind legs squirm absent my will. I can’t stop squirming. Squirming and groaning like a whore as I bleed to death in the backseat of a Manehattan taxi.

Redheart wastes no time once I'm in the taxi. She's seized by old instincts. Instincts sharpened by hardships endured long before we met. She begins assessing the damage while I begin dozing from blood loss. Seems like too much. More blood than anypony should be able to bleed. I doze. My eyes droop. Then shut.

My eyes shut and the noose slips easily around Daisy’s neck. Before I can make out its color, Redheart slaps me lightly on the cheek and my eyelids flutter open like startled moths.

“None of that now,” she says, her voice hard as her hooves go to work on my wounds. “Talk to me, Rose.”

“No, no, no, no, no!” I hear the taxi driver shout, her voice reaching me from someplace far, far away. That voice. I recognize it. Without looking up I know who it is. Stupid. The word does another lap inside my head.

I try to shout at Redheart. Reprimand her for her stupidity, but the sudden outburst racks my chest with coughs. Redheart shushes me with a stern look and places a sterner hoof over my mouth.

“None of that. Talk to me,” she says.

“Oh no. Celestia no, no, no,” whines the taxi driver. I swat Redheart’s hoof away from my mouth. The effort it takes is enormous.

“What are you doing here?” I manage between coughs.

“Don’t talk to her, talk to me,” says Redheart as she rummages through a bag at her hind hooves on the floor of the carriage. “Focus.”

“Oh Celestia, she’s bleeding all over my backseat.” The taxi driver keeps up her whining. “Crazy bitch is bleeding all over my backseat.”

“…Stomach…back,” I mumble. Redheart finds the knife in my back. The blade isn’t all that long, but after crashing into solid dumpster lid some of the handle has buried itself inside of me along with the full length of the blade. I don’t see if Redheart winces, but I hear her make the sort of sharp inhaling sound that usually accompanies a wince. She doesn’t pull the knife out. Instead she turns me over and focuses on the hole in my gut.

“Went right through the Kevlar huh? Cheap thing.” She pulls the vest off. Puts a wad of something in my hooves and tells me to press it against my stomach. I do as I’m told.

“Harder. Press harder,” she tells me. I press harder. Inky red life soaks the wad in my hooves. I groan. My legs squirm. Can’t stop squirming.

“I’m not doing this,” gasps the taxi driver. “Look at her. She’s bleeding all over my backseat. You didn’t tell me she’d be bleeding all over my backseat.”

Redheart ignores her. Focuses on me. “That’s too hard. Not too hard,” she says as she wraps my wounded foreleg in the same stuff I'm pressing against my stomach. “Better. That’s better.”

Then she adds, “Dee why aren’t we moving?” as if she has only just noticed we are still sitting on the curb at the end of the Hydra’s open mouth. I look out the window of the cab but in the dim streetlight I can no longer see Tracy’s hat.

“No. I don’t need this. Not in my cab. Get her out of my cab.”

“Don’t back out on me Dee,” says Redheart. She finishes with my foreleg, then rummages through the bag at her hind hooves.

I groan. My legs squirm.

“Get her out of my cab.”

Redheart finds what she is looking for.

“Seriously Redheart, get her out of my cab, now.”

She holds up a needle and thread, and I grimace at the thought of what’s coming next. The number of frenzied butterflies in my stomach doubles. Then triples.

“What am I gonna tell my boss, Redheart!” shouts the taxi driver.

“Shut the hay up, Dee!” Redheart shouts back. She pulls a bottle of something from the bag at her hooves. A tall crystalline glass bottle full of clear liquid. “Why aren’t we moving?” she adds after removing the bottle’s lid.

“There’s blood all over the backseat of my taxi, Redheart! What the hay am I going to tell my boss?” Suddenly I realize that the cab driver is right. There is blood all over her backseat. All over Redheart too. All of it mine. Hard to believe all of it is mine. Seems like too much. I must be close. I'm dying. I’m dying and the realization makes my hooves tremble so hard I can barely keep the blood soaked wad pressed to my stomach.

“Celestia damn it, Dee! Shut the hay up and get moving.” Redheart’s voice sounds far away. Her face blurs. Splits. Suddenly there are two Redhearts. Then three. The three of them notice I’ve started trembling and place their hooves over mine. “None of that now,” they coo in unison, as though I am their child and they have woken in the night to find me crying in my crib. Six tiny moonlight oceans look down at me. Then the disorienting sensation fooling around in the back my skull accidently nudges the wrong switch, and my brain stops working. It flickers like an old light fixture hanging from the ceiling of subway tunnel.

I see static. No. I don’t see static. I feel static. I feel it. Actually I’m not even all that sure I feel it but somehow I know it’s there, and I know it’s the reason my senses have suddenly gone cloudy. There's white noise in my nostrils. Paste in my ears. Ice in my mouth. Haze in my limbs. My legs are still squirming, except now it feels like they're paddling through water. Everything slows down. Calms down. The colors go dull. My blood isn't as red as it should be, and Redheart's eyes aren't blue enough, and her hair isn’t pink enough, and her coat isn't white enough. Everything dims. The whole world sighs with content and a strange, almost dangerous sort of peace washes over me.

Then some angry god spits liquid fire into the hole in my gut, and a hundred sights crawl down my throat, and a thousand sounds jab me in the eyes, and a million tastes lick my ears---and the whole blotchy, chaotic eddy of confused sensations jump up to bludgeon my body to mush.

I'm struck with the sudden realization that I've been holding my breath. I try to exhale but there’s no air in my chest to push out; and when my lungs involuntarily try to drink all the oxygen in the carriage in one long, powerful sniff, my whole body spasms. The flavors and the paste dislodge from my ears, and I hear Redheart and the taxi driver cussing at each other.

Then Celestia or Luna or some other rambunctious deity gives the world a playful spin, and the colors pop and time picks back up, and the dangerous peace chokes on a mouthful of harsh reality and dies. Things finally start making sense again. I’m ice cold. Naked in a blizzard cold and there is hardly any feeling left in my extremities. Must have slipped into shock from loss of blood. Must be close now. I'm freezing. Trembling. Squirming. Can't stop squirming. Must be close.

The angry god spits more liquid fire, except it’s not fire; it’s only alcohol poured from the clear glass bottle in Redheart’s hooves. Only alcohol. An improvised disinfectant. The sting of it splashing against my open wound is intense. I’m grateful for it. Right now it's the only thing I can feel at all.

"No. No I’m not doing this,” gasps the taxi driver. Her voice sounds so far off now I’m sure I’m only imagining it. Then she turns her head to look at us and becomes as real as the carriage she isn’t pulling. Her eyes are an intense electric blue. Her mane is blond and cream, and it's cut short, and she is wearing a hat that resembles the one that saved my life earlier tonight.

“I’m sorry, but I’m not doing this.” I recognize the voice. Her name is Yoosee Dee. She is an earth pony: a paparazzo by trade who supplements her income by working as a taxi driver in downtown Manehattan. I have known Yoosee Dee for almost as long as I have known Redheart, though I see much less of her. I like exactly nothing about her. Her cutie mark is a golden bit sign. I try not to draw conclusions about ponies based on their cutie marks alone, but a bit sign on the flank says a lot about one’s character. She and Redheart have been friends for a long time. Redheart seems to trust her. Why, I do not know.

“Don’t you back out on me Dee,” says Redheart as she cradles my head in her forelegs. “You promised. Now get going.”

“I’m gonna lose my job over this for sure.”

“I’ll think of something.”

“I need this job. I’m gonna lose it for sure. Shit. I’m gonna lose it for sure.”

“Dee, please. I’ll think of something but right now we need to go.”

“Shit. I’m gonna go to jail. I’m gonna lose this job and go to jail for sure.”

“Dee, please!” Redheart pleads. For me, she isn't above begging. Her mother should have named her Bleeding Heart. “She’s dying. Please.”

Dee hesitates. Turns away. Turns back. She fixes her intense electric blue eyes on me, and in them I see something that is almost sympathy but not quite.

And then we are moving.

“Thank you, Dee,” says Redheart. Dee says nothing in return. She pulls away from the curb. Dee is strong. Most cabbies work in pairs but Dee insists on hauling her carriage and its passengers on her own. That way she doesn't have to split her tips with anypony. She has a golden bit sign for a cutie mark. I try not to draw conclusions about ponies based solely on their cutie marks, but ponies like Yoosee Dee make it hard not to.

I try to nestle deeper into Redhearts embrace. I’m freezing. Shaking myself into quiet oblivion. I try to nestle deeper. Try to feel her warmth against my fur but it’s no good. The world is fleeing from me. Melting into a blurry mess.

“Drink this,” I think I hear Redheart say as she tilts my head back and pours the contents of the glass bottle down my throat. “This is going to hurt.” That I'm sure I hear. I hear it right before Redheart stuffs the blood stained wad between my teeth and tells me to bite down. Then she goes to work with the needle and thread.

Redheart was born an earth pony but tonight she stitches me up like a unicorn, as if by magic. Most doctors are unicorns because their magic is better suited for intricate procedures. Hooves do not provide the dexterity needed for stitching. That Redheart can sew a wound with her mouth is testament to her skill.

I bite down on the blood soaked wad, but it offers little support. I bite through the gauze. Feel my teeth come together. I groan. Squirm. Grit my teeth. Shut my eyes.

I shut my eyes and the noose slips easily around Daisy’s neck. She is lying on her stomach and the noose slips easily around her neck, as if it were made just for her. It is the color of sand and the contrast it creates against Daisy’s velveteen purple coat is striking. The life is draining out of her eyes. There is a hoof on her back, and the noose tightens -- and this is all Redheart allows me to see. She knows about my waking nightmare. About the terror and shame that hide behind my eyelids.

She slaps my cheek lightly. “None of that,” she coos. I open my eyes. Find the hole in my stomach stitched closed. “A little longer. Just hold on, okay.” She presses her forehead against mine before kissing it. Her lips are warm. I'm freezing but thankfully Redheart's lips are warm. She kisses me. Whether she kisses me with a mother’s love or a partner’s, I don't know, though I like to imagine it is both.

Then she turns me over, pulls the knife out of my back and does the same, working her own kind of magic with the needle and thread. If I cried out as she removed the knife, I didn’t hear it. I do hear the sound of Dee’s thundering hooves as she races down a poorly maintained street under the vigilant gaze of Luna's full moon. I whisper a prayer of thanks to Luna. It's a small prayer but I think she hears it

Dee's carriage creaks to a halt beside the curb outside of Redheart’s building. Redheart and Dee help me out of the backseat. I’m still too weak to walk on my own, and Redheart lives on the fourth floor, and there isn’t a working elevator in the whole building. The going is rough. The two of them half carry, half drag me up the stairs, and Dee complains about getting blood on her, and she asks Redheart what we'll do if we're spotted, and she asks what will be done about her cab. Her job.

Redheart ignores her. The going is rough and Dee's whining only makes it rougher, but we make it. We leave blood all over the steps, but we make it. Our trail is obvious. Doesn’t matter, though. Redheart lives too deep in the projects to worry about law enforcement poking around her building. The blood will go ignored. Happenings this far downtown always do.

Redheart unlocks the door to her apartment and leads me inside while Dee runs back downstairs to fetch my gear and Redheart’s supply bag.

The apartment is small. Redheart flicks a switch on the wall and the room glows with a dim light.

The apartment is small. So small you can see all of it from the door. The old hardwood floor creaks under our hooves as Redheart guides me to her bed. Lays me down gently. Takes off my boots. Fluffs a pillow and rests my head on it. The mattress is old. Stiff. Softer than the one that waits for me back home but that isn’t saying much. The mattress is stiff, but I’m grateful for it just the same.

Yoosee Dee comes back up with my gear and Redheart’s supply bag. They stand at the door and discuss something in hushed voices. I can’t hear what they’re saying but the conversation makes both of them frown. Then Dee stomps her hoof loudly and glares a hole through Redheart’s skull. For a moment it looks as though they are about to start fighting right there in the doorway. I sit up. Watch them closely. Redheart is brave but she isn't the spry young filly she was in her youth and Dee is strong. Much younger and much, much stronger. She’d trample Redheart easily.

I sit up. Watch them closely. Read them. Everything hurts. I can hardly move but I force myself to sit up. Whether my body wants to cooperate or not matters little, because if Dee so much as breaths too heavily in Redheart’s direction, I will get out of this bed, and I will break her bucking neck.

For one long uncomfortable moment the three of us are on edge, and I feel my hooves begin to tremble with rage at the thought of Redheart being harmed. A million ugly thoughts crawl into the back of my head and take root, while something that must be my own heart thumps lividly against the inside of my chest.

I see red.

Then Redheart walks across the room. The distance is short. She walks across the room and opens one of the drawers on a dresser against the wall. From the drawer she produces a small sack of coins. The coins jingle as she riffles through them for a moment.

“Is this all of it?” Dee asks anxiously.

“It’s all I have,” answers Redheart.

Dee opens the sack and riffles through it herself. “It’s not even half of what we agreed.”

“It’s all I have.”

Dee grumbles under her breath. Turns to leave. Stops. Her intense electric blue eyes meet Redheart’s, then they fall on me where I lie on the bed. She regards the two of us with a look that is almost sympathy, but not quite, before suddenly shoving the bag of coins back into Redheart’s forelegs.

Dee gives back Redheart’s sack of bits, and gives me exactly one thing to like about her.

“Thank you, Dee,” says Redheart. Dee says nothing in return. And then she is gone.

From where I lie on Redheart’s sad, stiff bed I watch her make her way from the door over to what is supposed to be a kitchen. She turns on the stove. It's in such bad shape she seems surprised to see it light. Then she makes her way to the sink. Turns on the water. Splashes her face. Twists the handle as far as it will go, so that the water splashes violently when it reaches the sink. She does this, I assume, hoping that the sound of the rushing water will drown out the pitiful choking, gasping, gurgling noises that escape her as she vomits into the sink. I hear her. I see her too, even in the dim light. She has likely been holding in that little episode since she found me lying in the alley. Held it in and now she tries to hide it. She doesn’t want me to see her in her moment of weakness. Afraid to be vulnerable around me. Thinks she needs to put on a brave face for me. For me. The filly who chases criminals across rooftops in combat boots and a Kevlar vest. She has to be brave because I’m the weak one. The coward. The thought makes me smile. I can’t help but smile at how broken we are.

She sniffs and sobs for a few more minutes at the sink. Then I watch as she produces a knife from one the drawers underneath the kitchen counter. She holds the blade over the open flame on the stove. I’m exhausted. I want very much to sleep. I’m even willing to brave the projector in my head if it means finally getting some rest, but there is still one more thing that Redheart must do before all of my pieces are back in place.

She heats the blade until it glows a dull cherry red in the dim light. Turns off the stove and leaves it there to cool a bit while she walks to the bathroom. I must look like an idiot smiling in the dim light, because when Redheart makes her way back to the bed with a towel, she gives me a confused look.

“What’re you smiling at?” she asks as she twists the towel in her hooves.

“Us,” I say plainly, still smiling.

“Drink,” she says, ignoring me, offering me more of the bitter liquor to help numb the pain. I take a long swig and hope that it will be enough.

“Now bite down on this.” I can tell she’s trying hard to keep any emotion from showing in her face. I know the only emotion she’s feeling right now is dread, and she doesn’t want me to see it and be afraid. Does she think I am a child? Or maybe she does it to protect herself. I smile at her. Then I open my mouth wide, and Redheart stuffs the twisted up thing between my teeth, gagging me as gently as you can gag somepony. She leaves my side. Returns with the cherry-red knife glowing in her mouth---and suddenly I can’t find anything to smile about.

Redheart mounts me. She was born an earth pony but tonight she will attempt a procedure usually only performed by unicorns. The bullet that hit my foreleg went clean through but the one in my gut is still there.

I feel the heat radiating from the knife as it hovers inches above my abdomen. Redheart waits for me to nod. To let her know I’m ready. She looks down at me and there is so much love in her eyes it makes my heart ache. Her mother should have named her Bleeding Heart.

I nod.

I nod and the searing knife mauls me. I wail into the towel. It is the worst pain I have ever felt, and I feel it with every fiber of my being. The living pain. The real burning, mocking, hateful, spiteful pain.

I wail.

The searing knife mauls me, and I wail, and Redheart has not even begun digging the bullet out. She has only broken the stitches. I try not to thrash. Try to stay still. Thrashing will only make things harder for Redheart, so I try to lie still as the blade plunges deep into my hide and my teeth deep into the twisted towel.

I try not to thrash. My head spins. I close my eyes.

I close my eyes and the noose slips easily around Daisy’s neck.

It's all happening at once.

The noose slips easily around Daisy’s neck and the searing knife plunges into my flesh.

The noose tightens. It is the color of sand and the contrast it creates against Daisy’s velveteen purple coat is striking.

The blade plunges. It is a dull cherry-red in the dim light---similar to the rose colored mane on my head for which I am named---and it complements my own milky cream coat very well.

Noose.

Knife.

Tightens.

Plunges.

The noose tightens around my stomach. There is a hoof on my chest and the noose tightens around my stomach.

The blade plunges into Daisy’s neck. Her blood is a dull cherry-red in the dim light---similar to the rose colored mane on my head for which I am named.

No. This is wrong.

The hoof on my chest is the same cherry-red as the blade. Or is it pink? And the mouth holding the knife doesn’t have a face. No eyes. No nose. No ears. Only a mouth. Only a long narrow slit cut into a stark white void.

The blade plunges into Daisy’s neck, and she bleeds, and her blood is a dull cherry-red in the dim, dim light. It stains the lips of the faceless mouth.

The noose tightens around my stomach, and I feel the razor-winged butterflies squeeze themselves out through the hole in my gut.

No, no. This isn’t right.

I feel the butterflies squeezing their way out, razor wings shredding my insides as they flutter like mad. Before they are ringed out completely, the faceless mouth turns toward me and smiles. Or does it frown?

No. No. No!

The face turns to me and smiles or frowns, and if I do not open my eyes soon, Lily will die next.

Then the mouth spits out the blade and calls my name.

Rose. Rose.

“Rose!” I hear Redheart shouting my name and it takes me a few seconds to realize I am awake, sitting up in her bed. Redheart is beside me. There’s something small, metal, blood-specked, and pulverized sitting on the night stand beside the bed. For a moment I don’t know where I am. Then it comes back. All of it. All at once. Chasing. Fleeing. The stallion with the tiger’s voice and the one whose haunches and hindquarters curve like mare’s. Falling: all corners and rough edges the whole way down. The hole in my gut. Tracy’s hat. The blood soaked backseat. All of it.

Redheart is sitting up on the bed beside me. I look for the hole in my gut but find it mended. Find all my pieces back in place.

“You were having a nightmare,” she says, trying very hard to keep from crying. “You passed out while I was digging the slug out of you.” She gestures toward the little metal thing on the nightstand. Then she lays me down on the bed. “You should get some rest,” she tells me. “It’s been a long night.” She’s right. It has.

She lays me down on the bed. Presses her forehead against mine and then kisses it before pulling a blanket over me. It and the bed are bloodstained, but Redheart is too tired to bother cleaning up. She pulls a blanket over me then gets up and goes to sleep on the couch. I want to tell her to stay in the bed with me but don’t. She gets up. Flicks the light switch off. Lies down on the couch. I want call her back to bed but don’t. I try but the words are sitting at the bottom of my stomach, comfortable right where they are.

I want to call to her. Words fail me. I don’t. Instead I find myself feeling around in the dark for the little hunk of lead on the nightstand. When I find it, I hold it up between my hooves. Wanting to look at it. To see it. I can't. It's too dark.

I hold the little hunk of lead in my hooves, pressing it to my chest longingly.

"A little closer and you would've had me, you little bastard," I whisper to the small inanimate thing. "A little closer and I would've been free of my fear and my shame and my nightmares. Just a little closer."

I tuck the little bastard under my pillow for safekeeping. Then I close my eyes and let the nightmares take me.

Speed Without Distance

Chapter IV: Speed Without Distance

Stephen Scope. Stephen Scope is somewhere in the city and he owes money to wrong sort of ponies. The sort that have no qualms with dangling you off a rooftop if it means getting what they want. I saved his life that night, but for how long? Types like Tiger Voice and his gang don’t give up because some filly chases them off a rooftop. They're likely still looking for him. Still looking, if they haven't found him already.

I start tearing the article out of the paper for safekeeping when I notice Redheart standing at my side, stabbing me with sharpest glare I've ever seen her wear. She takes one look at me. I don’t know exactly what it is she sees, but she takes one look, and that’s it. That’s the end of it. She makes a beeline for the door. Doesn’t say a word. Just looks at me. One look and we’re done for good. It’s over. I know it’s over but I try to stop her anyway. Try to grab her by the foreleg but she pulls away sharply.

“Redheart, wait,” I call after her.

“You said you were done with all this.” She pulls away. I stand her up on her hind legs and grab her shoulders. She pulls away. Turns away. My hooves close around her cheeks, and I force her to turn back. I make her look at me. Make her listen.

“I am, Redheart, it’s just…” How do I explain this? Redheart doesn’t understand. She doesn’t understand and I need her to. “I have to do this one. Just this one, okay.”

“Why, Rose? Is this about your friends?" she almost shouts, smacking my hooves away from her face. "Doing this won’t bring them back. It won't change a thing.”

“I know that. I’m not trying to bring anypony back.”

“Then what? Revenge? Justice? What is it you think you’ll gain from all this?”

“I just—I—”

“You just lied to me is what you just did!” she yells. I shake her. I’m so furious I want to hit her, but I could never hurt Redheart, so I shake her. “Let go of me you damn, no good, lying—”

“I hid, Redheart!” I shout. No. I explode. My voice pushes all the other sounds out of the room. “I hid! Do you even know what that means?! Do you know what that feels like?!” Then I shut up quick and all the sounds come flooding back. Manehattan is just waking up. She yawns long and lazy as she shakes last night’s drinking binge out of her limbs. Her yawn is the neighbor's dog barking. The bell on the paper colt's bike as he makes his rounds. The morning sounds. So foreign to me. So different from the night sounds. For a while the two of us stay quiet and just listen to the morning sounds. Then I find my voice. Clear my throat.

“I hid… I watched them die. They're gone because I was too afraid to do anything.” I look Redheart in the eye and search for that part of her I know would do anything for me. I hold her still. Make her look at me. “I don’t want to be afraid anymore. I can’t.”

Redheart presses her forehead against mine. She puts her forelegs around me and we hold each other for what I know will be the last time.

Then she looks up at me and smiles. It’s one of those laugh-so-you-don’t-cry smiles. The kind ponies make when it hurts so bad it’s funny.

“You’re just in too many pieces,” she says. Her eyes start to water but she keeps smiling. “This is my fault. I tried to fix you, but you’re beyond repair. You’re too broken, Rose. I’m sorry for not seeing that sooner. I’m sorry for making you think this could work.”

“No. It can work. We can work. You just have to let me do this. You have to understand.”

But Redheart doesn’t understand. She can’t. I let them die. I was afraid. I can’t be afraid anymore, and this is the only way I know how to beat it. If I stop now I’ll be scared for the rest of my life.

Redheart’s forehead is warm against mine. I think she still loves me. I lied to her, and I’ve upset her, and she’s about to turn around and walk out of my life and never look back, but I think she still loves me. I know I still love her.

She presses her forehead against mine, whispers good-bye, and then kisses me. She becomes a water fly again, skirting out the door on spindly legs. No ripples. Redheart shuts the door behind her. She doesn’t slam it, but the sound the door makes as it swings closed is deafening. Numbing. And then she is gone. The best thing in my life is gone. It takes a while for me to feel it. I stand there, staring at the door, waiting to feel it. Waiting for it buck me in the gut.

At first there’s nothing. I’m empty. Numb. I float up out of my own skin and watch some sad sack with a rose colored mane as she stares at the door to her apartment, her expression unreadable. It’s happening to her, not me. For a long while I am floating up by the ceiling fan watching somepony else, and I can’t bring myself to give a damn.

When it finally does hit, it hits hard. Almost floors me. Suddenly I feel faint. Light headed. I nearly collapse. There you are, I whisper to the ache in heart. The twists in my stomach. Been waiting for you. I lean on the door for support. If not for the door holding me up I would be on the floor, and if I fall now, I might never stand again. I press my face into the closed door as if it were Redheart’s forehead and try to remember her warmth. I shut my eyes.

I shut my eyes and the noose slips easily around Daisy’s neck. I make myself watch her die as punishment for my cowardice. I force myself to remember the fear. The fear. It reminds me why I just let the best thing in my life walk out the door.

The life drains from Daisy’s eyes.

Lily screams.

When I open my eyes again, I’m ready. The chase. Tonight, I will be chasing.

I stay in my room all day, staring out the window, waiting for Celestia to take her ball of fire and get the buck off my playground. Waiting for the innocent stallions and mares to call their kids in for dinner before the streetlights come on. What I have planned for Manehattan doesn’t concern them. I don’t want them getting hurt. This is between me and the city. Me and the lowlifes who think they can do whatever they want to whoever they want, whenever they want. The ones who did this to me. The criminals. I hate criminals. I’m afraid of them. Afraid of this whole city. As I wait for Luna to come out and to watch me play, I think about the criminals and what I am going to do to them tonight. The thought makes my hooves tremble. I fear for them. For them, and for myself as well.

It’s early when I hit the streets. A little before seven. Celestia’s only just finished dragging the sun below the Manehattan skyline. Luna has taken her sister's place in the sky, her silver eye hanging, watching me as I gallivant upon my playground. It has been too long. The rooftops and fire escapes have missed me. The corners and rough edges too. They say hello as my hook claws into them and I fly. They ask me where the hay I have been for the past month and I tell them the whole sad story. Heartbreak. It's a tale they know better than most, but they let me tell it anyway.

Then I whisper to them what I have planned for this city and they shudder. I dash across the rooftops like a pony possessed. Faster. Faster. I try to outrun the memory of Redheart, her forehead warm against mine. If I slow down it will catch me. Floor me. The fear and rage bubbling up inside my stomach and chest twist themselves together like coupling snakes, making wet sounds as they weave into each other. I push Redheart out of my thoughts and focus on their lovemaking. Fear. Rage. Speed. My constant companions. I’m grateful for their company as I chase.

The wind combs through my mane with teeth carved from ice. The breeze is slow. Doesn’t make a sound as it rolls lackadaisically over the city’s looming edifices. Not a peep. Cold and quiet like a dagger in the back. I know this breeze. There isn’t another one like it anywhere else in the world. It’s the shift before Tracy’s. The old timers. The winds will be roaring once they punch out and the kids take over, but for now I'm grateful to have some peace. Still, I wish it wasn't so cold. I have nothing on but my boots and a thin hooded sweatshirt to conceal the bandages wrapped around my midsection. My vest was ruined last time out, and my batons are still at Redheart’s place. Doesn't matter though. I won’t need them. Not tonight. Tonight the only weapons I need are the jagged edges of my broken heart and my own four hooves. Tonight I am a spark creeping down a lit fuse. I move swiftly and purposely, and when I reach my destination I explode.

I hit every dive in town. Every dive. Every back alley. Every drug den. I hit all the shady corners of all the shady streets. All the places I’m usually too chickenshit to go to. Too scared. I’m just as scared tonight. I’m petrified—only difference is tonight I don’t give a damn. This morning I watched the best thing in my life walk out on me, and the emptiness leaves me feeling invincible. I play it loose cannon. I hit every rat-infested hole I know in downtown Manehattan, and I know plenty. I turn over rocks and the roaches scatter.

I crack skulls. Snap limbs. Dangle ponies out of windows. I spend the whole night kicking in doors, and flipping tables, and chasing stallions down alleyways—jumping on backs and smashing teeth into sidewalk. Kicking ass and getting my ass kicked plenty in return. I ask questions. I flash the image of Scope waving for Tracy’s camera to every lowlife who steps into my field of vision, and I ask them what they know. I ask, and when then don’t answer, I make them. I figure if Scope really is a mob doc then he does jobs for shady types. Types who get themselves banged up but can’t go to a hospital for fear of dealing with the cops. Types who wander into the dives, and the back alleys, and the drug dens. I admit it’s not much of an angle. Scope likely deals with uptown crooks, and the places I kick in are about as downtown as it gets in Manehattan. Not much of an angle, but it’s the only one I have. I keep at it all night. I buck Manehattan’s criminal underbelly until it vomits, but the old mule doesn’t puke up anything useful.

Hours go by. The peaceful breeze picks up. The old timers have clocked out and the kids are getting started. They whip the easy breeze into a heavy gust. Must be late. I’ve been at it all night. I’m tired. Spent. Everything hurts. Legs. Hooves. Joints. Shoulders. Haunches. My chest feels like something’s been chewing on it, and my gut is sore from being bucked by stallions twice my size. I’ve been to every dive I know but come up with nothing. It's been a long night. My body is ready to call it quits. My body, but not me. I’m only just getting started.

I head further downtown, faster and faster with every forward step. I run against the wind. It's loud in my ears. Blocks out the night sounds. Makes flying difficult.

Eventually my hook catches the bottom of its first neon sign, and I know I’m in the red-light district. The city lets her mane down for me. She puckers her painted lips and shows me a side of herself I don’t see very often. She’s still as ugly as ever. Ugly as sin. Hideous face. No curves; just corners and rough edges. But she doesn’t let her looks keep her from having a good time. She is a living thing, this city, and the red light district is her pulse. Her lifeblood. Blood as rich and red as the lights for which the district is named. Down here the buildings have a greater respect for personal space than the ones I’m used to. I have to really put my back into it as I throw my hook to nearest rooftop, and my back hasn’t fully healed yet. Every leap and landing is a bitter reminder of the bullet Redheart carved out of my gut. The knife she dug out of my back.

I fly to old Storm Chaser’s place. Last place on my list. It’s been awhile since I’ve seen the old stallion. The stallion responsible for training this body of mine. Taught it how to fight and how to fly.

His name is Storm Chaser and he used to be a member of the Royal Guard. ‘Unnecessary force when subduing enemies of the crown.’ It’s the reason he’s no longer a guard pony. He told me Celestia handed out the sentence herself. Banishment. Not from the country, just from the guard and from Canterlot. Idiot got himself thrown out. Landed down here with the rest of the trash. Now he owns a gentlecolt’s club called The Ringer in Manehattan’s red light district. As seedy as the place is on its own, it’s just a front for Storm’s underground fight club circuit. The Ringer. The perfect marriage of sex and violence. The whole city in microcosm. Old Storm Chaser once told me that there’s an intimacy we experience with our enemies that we’ll never know with our lovers. I suppose tonight we share that disposition.

On top of Storm Chaser's place there is a neon sign that says “Ringer” in blinking lights that alternate between orange, pink, green, yellow, and red. Below the name there is a flashing image of a horseshoe twirling around a stake. Then the image blinks and the horseshoe is replaced by a twirling mare dressed in provocative clothing.

I push past the swinging saloon doors. The whole place is done up in a western theme. Storm Chaser told me that after he left Canterlot, he tried his luck in Appleloosa. Said he loved everything about the place except for the cops. Said the country isn’t as lawless as it was back in his day. A smile crosses my lips at the thought. Appleloosa not lawless enough? That’s old Storm Chaser though. As raw as they ever made them, and they don’t make them like him anymore.

The bouncer eyes me funny as I causally walk by without paying.

“Hey asshole,” he shouts from behind. “You a dancer or a fighter? Only dancers and fighters get in free.” I tell him I’m a fighter. He doesn't buy it. Calls me an asshole again. Tells me to pay or he’s going to feed me a few of my own teeth. I roll up my sleeve and show him the bandage wrapped around my foreleg from where I took a bullet a month ago. He’s not impressed. Then I lift up my sweatshirt and show him the one around my underbelly. It does the trick.

“Must not be much of a fighter, you get banged up that bad,” he says with an amused smile. “You watch yourself in there, asshole. Storm's fighters are as mean as they get. You watch yourself.” Despite his amused grin, I pick up something genuine in his voice. Real concern for the well being of others. He should get a new job. Bouncer at place like this shouldn’t be so soft.

I slip inside. Make for the bar. Barkeep asks me what I’m having.

“Whatever’s cheapest,” I say. He shoots me a look that says too many ponies are drinking what I’m drinking tonight, and that means several hours of lousy tips for him. Then his hooves disappear behind the counter and reappear with a cup full of something golden brown he just poured from the tap. I reach into my sweatshirt pocket and toss a few bits on the counter. He eyes the money like I just paid for my drink with a used condom before begrudgingly scooping it up. I take a whiff of the glass. Smells like he peed in it. For what I paid he might as well have. I’m not much of a drinker but if you come in a place like this and don’t order something, ponies start giving you dirty looks. Kind of looks that lead to you getting stuck with something short and sharp in the alley around back.

I spin around on my stool and watch the show. A Manehattan strip club is a strange sight if you happen to be a filly from Ponyville. I grew up around ponies who walk around stark naked all hours of the day, so I don’t see the appeal of paying to watch mares take their clothes off. Manehattan ponies think their gutter of a city is bucking Canterlot, though. Most of them wear clothing when they’re out and about. It’s a class thing. Having clothes means you're somepony worth talking about. The site of a naked mare in a public place isn’t as normal in Manehattan as it is in Ponyville; still, I can't see how this is worth money. That said, there are plenty of ponies here eager to throw their hard earned bits at a pretty little something who'd never give them the time of day otherwise. Plenty of them. Mares and stallions alike.

One mare in particular is getting the most tips. Her stage is a wishing well. Coins fall in and dreams come true. She is an earth pony. Young. Orange coat. Blond mane. Freckles. Something about the way she works her lasso for the crowed seems familiar. A pair of chaps she hasn't taken off yet hides her cutie mark from me. She’s wearing spurs too. Goes with the western theme, I suppose. She lassos one of the stallions by the neck and pulls him closer. Rubs her tail in his face. The crowd loves it. More coins drop into her wishing well. When Blondie’s good and finished teasing the lucky stiff, she looks over her shoulder and blows the crowd a kiss that would excite a corpse. Huh, I think. Maybe there’s something to this stripping thing after all. Not one second after the thought pops into my head, Blondie looks past the crowd and finds me sitting at the bar sipping piss out of my glass. Our eyes meet. She looks right at me and bites her bottom lip. Crosses her svelte forelegs sensuously. Bats her eyelashes. At least I think she is looking at me. I might be imagining it, but I’m grateful either way. Blondie gets my pulse going. Blood flowing. I was starting to slow down just sitting here sipping piss, but she gets me breathing a bit heavier. Moving a bit faster. Faster. Faster or Redheart’s warmth will catch me. Floor me.

My eyes drink in their fill of Blondie and her lasso; then I spin around on the stool and get back to work.

I show the barkeeper the picture of Scope. Ask him if the knows anything. He doesn’t. Then I ask him if any of the regulars at this dive might.

“What’s in it for me?” he asks. I play it loose cannon. Cowpony. I arch my eyebrow and give him a look like I’m bucking John Mane.

“I let you keep all your teeth,” I say with a smile, before taking a devious sip of my drink. He smiles back at me. Wipes the inside of a glass. Sets it down. Doesn’t say anything—just keeps on smiling. It’s a nervous grin. So is mine. I take another sip and manage to keep my hooves from shaking as I bring the cup up to my lips. About nine seconds into our staring match, he cracks. Cracks wide open. Points out a group of four stallions sitting at a table. One pegasus. Two earth ponies. The fourth stallion is wingless and wearing a fedora. Nice hat. Can’t tell if he’s a unicorn or just another earth pony, though.

Two of them get up and toss coins on Blondie’s stage. I wait. Sitting still is damn near impossible but I wait, watching them closely as the static in my limbs dances a jig. The remaining two, the earth pony and the one with the hat, are still sitting at their table. Talking. Laughing. I wait.

Taking swigs from their drinks.

I wait.

Grinning. Smacking a waitress on the flank as she walks by, then cackling in her face like a pair of callow school colts flipping skirts on a blacktop.

I wait, watching them carefully.

I wait until I can get one of them alone. I’m tired. Beat up. No way I can shake the both of them down in this condition, especially if one of them is a unicorn. I wait. Wait until one of them has to use the restroom. They’re knocking them back at a speedy clip. One of them will have to get up and piss soon enough. I wait. The waiting slows me down. Slows me down, and I need to move faster.

Blondie helps me out. She works her lasso for the crowd, curving in all the right places, and moving in all the right ways, and making all the right kind of noises. Shakes that gorgeous tail of hers for all its worth, and it’s worth plenty. Blondie’s got me on the wrong side of excited. The static in my limbs sets my hoof tapping against the counter. I’m anxious. Anxious and just about to do something stupid when Fedora gets up out of his seat. He’s drunk. Starts wobbling toward the restroom on unsure legs. I whisper a silent prayer of thanks to Luna as I jump down off the stool to follow after him. He wobbles slowly. I try to settle down but the fuse is shrinking smaller and smaller with every forward step, and when we get to the restroom I explode.

He doesn’t notice me stepping in after him. I close the door behind us and hope nopony else wanders in while I’m exploding. He stumbles into a stall, nearly slipping on his own drunkenness. I hear trickling. Flushing. He stumbles out. When he gets to the sink I make my move. He doesn’t even know I’m there until I crack the mirror with his face. He squeals. I take the back of his mane in both hooves and smash his head into the sink. His hat falls off of his striped, red and white mane, and I see he’s just another earth pony. No horn. No magic to worry about. I smash his face again. Again. The sounds are wet. Dull. Again. I soften him up until he’s spitting blood and curses, trying my hardest not to enjoy it too much.

When I’ve got him good and malleable, I drag him into a stall and work him over a bit more with my bare hooves. Feels better with my bare hooves. I hit him until my right hoof goes a bit numb. Then I hit with the left. Not too many to the head, though. I need him conscious and coherent enough to answer my questions. I play it tough. Action movie tough. John bucking Mane tough.

I pull out the picture of Scope and show it to him. “Barkeep says you might know something about this stallion here,” I say, liking the way I say it. He looks up at me, too scared, confused, drunk, stupid, and beat the buck up to answer. I shove his face into the toilet. Help wash out some of the cobwebs. He struggles. Splashes. His cries are lost in the water. They float up to the surface as choked gurgles.

“His name is Scope. Barkeep says you might know something. I tend to trust Manehattan barkeeps. They have ears for these kinds of things. Eyes too.” I let him up. He starts mumbling something through the gasps and the blind terror, but it doesn’t sound like the answer to my question. Sounds like’s he’s begging me to stop. Demanding to know who the buck I think I am. I shove his head in the toilet again. Longer this time. He struggles. Kicks. Flails. His body struggles desperately against mine, and I like the feel of it. I push harder. Really put my weight into it. Shove him until he kisses the bottom of the bowl. Until his kicking and flailing starts to weaken. Then I pull his face out and try not to smile as he gasps and spits up red water.

“Hey asshole, you should know I’m having a pretty bad night tonight. One of the worst I’ve had in a long time. But I’m having fun now. I can’t remember the last time I had fun like this. In fact, I think I could do this all for a good, long while.” The toilet water must have washed out the cobwebs plenty, because Fedora gets brave all of a sudden.

“Buck you,” he says. He starts to say something else just I smash his head against the rim of the toilet. I do it a second time to let him know I’m serious, before giving his face another swimming lesson. When I let him up the third time, he’s almost ready to talk.

“Why the buck you looking for a guy like that? Guy like that is nothing but trouble,” he says. I like the sound of his voice. Hurt. Scared. I love it.

I smack the back of his head and start to give him another dunk. His lips kiss the surface of the water.

“Okay, okay,” he says through a mouthful of water, his voice quivering. “What do you want?”

“Where can I find him? Some bad ponies are looking for him, and I need to find him first.”

He tells me Scope stays uptown. He says he hired the doc once to patch a friend of his after a hit that went bad. Says he’s been working with the doc ever since, and that Scope has hideouts all over Manehattan, most of them uptown.

“Doc’s not from here, though,” he says, “He’s from Filly. Only comes down to the city for work. If somepony worth hiding from is looking for him out here, then he’s probably skipped town by now.”

That’s right. Up on the rooftop he told Tiger Voice his money was back home in Filly. He got busted. Left it with a patient. One memory sparks another, and suddenly I recall something else Scope told Tiger Voice up on that rooftop.

I ask Fedora what kind of jobs Doc has been up to lately. I ask him about this supposed psycho. His face goes white. Pale as death.

“You’re making a mistake, you crazy dyke,” he stammers. His voice is shakier now. “You don’t know what you’re walking into. He’s with that crazy now. If you’re smart you’ll leave it alone.”

Leave it alone, he says. Crazy, he says. Crazy. I don’t know if it’s the tremor in his voice or the way he’s looking up at me like he’s about to piss himself, but something in me comes unhinged. I like it. Like the feel of him trembling at my hooves. The way his voice breaks and his bottom lip quivers like he’s on the verge of tears. I like it, but it’s not enough. I want more. I make him scream. Squeal. Cry. I make him curse his father for spilling seed into his mother, and I make him curse his mother for not digging him out of her pregnant belly with a coat hanger and sparing him the hell I inflict. I make him beg, and I do it because it’s cold and cruel, and because the emptiness has me feeling invincible, and because I can. I can and there’s nothing he can do to stop me.

When he finally passes out I search him and find a few pouches of bits that I’m not ashamed to stuff into my sweatshirt pocket. Then I step out of the stall and wash as much of his blood off my hooves as I can. I take a look at myself in the mirror. Don’t like what I see. What am I doing? My mind records the thought and pushes repeat. It plays over and over as I stare at the filly with the bloody hooves and the rose colored mane in the mirror. She looks back at me and judging by her expression, I’d say she doesn’t like what she’s seeing either. Then my hooves start trembling. I look back at the stall where I left Fedora unconscious, and they tremble a touch harder.

I need to go. Need to get out of here.

Redheart’s face sneaks into my thoughts and realize I’ve slowed down again.

I practically run out of the bathroom. During my impromptu flight I bump into Blondie in the hallway that leads to restrooms. She’s finished her routine. Never took off the chaps after all. Or the spurs. Her coat is glistening with sweat and she smells like freshly picked fruit.

Blondie gasps when she sees me. I must look revolting: worn down and beat up from a night of causing trouble. I throw the hood of my sweatshirt up over my head and start to trot away, but Blondie steps in front of me. Stops me cold. Walking into her is like walking into a wall. She’s strong. Doesn’t budge. Then she pulls the hood off my head and runs one of her svelte hooves through my mane. I let her, liking the feel of her so close to me. The smell of her. She traces the curve of my bruised face, the lust in her eyes gushing. I half expect her to press her forehead against mine. I’m glad when she doesn’t. Instead, Blondie leads me into the little filly’s room. Then into a stall. She doesn't say a word.

It’s rough and sloppy, and the sounds are wet and dull, and the tastes are sweet like fresh picked fruit, and I try not to think of Redheart—and when it’s over there’s a pang in my chest because it doesn’t last nearly long enough. Blondie gets my blood flowing again. She curves in all the right places, and moves in all the right ways, and makes all the right sounds. We have our fun and when the fun's over, Blondie gets up and leaves without saying a word. Her spurs jingle as she makes for the door. She’s no water fly. Blondie makes plenty of ripples. When she leaves, she leaves knowing she left her mark on me. Her scent. Like fresh fruit.

When Blondie’s good and gone, a thought crawls into my head that makes me cringe. Makes me swear at the walls of the empty restroom. Makes me hate myself more than I already do. I remember what old Storm Chaser once told me about the intimacy we share with our enemies and our lovers. I curse at the walls because the old fool was right. Me and Blondie had our fun alright, but it was nothing compared to the time I had with Fedora. I’d trade her sweet scent on my coat for the stink of Fedora’s blood any day. I’m empty. Maybe Redheart was right. Maybe I am too broken.

I hit the streets thinking about Blondie and about Fedora, and Scope and Tiger Voice—and all that thinking keeps Redheart out of my head.

Tracy and the swing shift make the buildings sway with the gust they whip up. It’s loud in my ears and cool in my lungs as I kick off the Ringer’s neon sign. My hooves come down on the city's face. Her ugly blemishes and her corners and rough edges. She has no laughter in her throat tonight. She can’t laugh. She can hardly breathe. I’ve had my hoof on her neck all night, and the only sounds out her have been pleas for mercy. I let her beg. I’m not done yet. The night is aging and the kids up in the weather factory are already making their ruckus. Pretty soon Celestia will be back, hogging the playground with her ball of fire, but I’m not done yet. Far from it. Before I’m through I’ll have this city on her back, legs spread wide as I take her anyway I like.

I’m heading uptown. It’s been awhile since I’ve been uptown. I twirl the hook above my head, holding it fast between clenched teeth. Let it fly. When I come down, I come down galloping. Sprinting hard. Trying to outrun the memory of Redheart’s warmth. But no matter how quickly I move, the distance between us never seems to shrink. I fly and come down galloping. Moving with the wind. I'm exhausted. Running on fumes and willpower but the wind pushes me forward. The wind. That’s one more thank you I owe Tracy.

I was born an earth pony but tonight I catch Tracy’s gust and ride the rushing air like a pegasus. I fly.

Faster. Faster.

Epilogue: Eyes Without a Face

Epilogue: Eyes Without a Face

Epilogue: Eyes Without a Face

It’s good and late when I decide to open up the box again. Dark. As dark as it gets. Tracy has already left to start work for the spring season up in the weather factory. She did nothing but complain about it all day. Poor Tracy; she needs the money, but I know already that she won’t last long. Come April she’ll be sick of it and looking for work elsewhere. She'll never make it through the entire spring season. The kids up in the factory never do.

I feel free to use Tracy’s room while she’s out. Place is messy. Cluttered. There’s clothing strewn about the floor, and magazines and comics littering her nightstand, and posters plastered over every inch of every wall. Whole place reeks of youth.

I open the window to let in some fresh air and moonlight, and the sight of clothes hanging from the line that tethers this building to the adjacent one gives me pause. I can’t actually see the clothesline that saved my life all those nights ago; it’s invisible under the silver glow of Luna’s moon, making it appear as though the shirts and pants and blouses on the line are levitating. Held in place by some unicorn's spell. On an impulse, I stick my head out the window and squint down at the stretch of sidewalk where I nearly bled to death on that first terrible, wonderful night.

What was I looking for then? Revenge? Justice? A way to bring my friends back? To make up for losing them in the first place?

No... It was to beat the fear. They died because I was afraid, and I couldn’t be afraid anymore.

I stare down at the sidewalk, and I imagine the Rose of two seasons past lying there. Writhing on the ground. Bleeding out. Gasping and choking on her own mortality, clawing and scraping and somehow still managing to survive. Living through a night that should’ve killed her. I picture the old Rose way down on Manehattan’s ugly face, broken and crumbled and twitching like a crushed bug, and I whisper goodbye to her. Redheart is dead and so is she; and if I’m to lay Manehattan low I can’t have the old Rose getting in my way. She was the worst kind of pony. A coward. A bully. An animal. A monster. The worst kind, and It’s about time somepony laid her rest.

I open the window and then the ornate box. It’s sitting on the floor in front of a tall mirror that's leaning against the wall beside Tracy’s closet. Inside the box my oldest enemy is waiting for me. My very first fear. Hooves throbbing with anticipation remove the box's lid, and there he is, peering up at me with eyes untouched by love or hate or desire. He is the color of the night, and he is shapeless and he is formless, and his gaze is every bit as flawless as I remember. He is peering up, staring into me through narrow slits of white light. He his pure. Perfect.

I free him from his ornate prison and, balanced on my hind legs, I hold him up to the mirror. Illuminated by silver moonlight, he dangles slack in my front hooves. Shapeless. Formless. Even now he has no body. No nose. No ears. No mouth. No need for such things. Just eyes. I hold him up in the moonlight and stare into those eyes, trapped once again by the perfection of his gaze.

And then I give myself to him and he does the same for me. We become one. I offer him shape. Form. Give him strong muscles, and hard bones, and a lithe mind. And in return he gives me the abyss. Gives me a means to conceal myself.

A cape to hide the wings I don’t have.

A wide brimmed hat to cloak the horn that’s not on my head.

A featureless mask. No nose. No mouth. No ears. No need for such things.

And then, our transformation nearly completely, my old enemy blesses me with his most precious gift: his eyes. His narrow slits of white light. Unblinking. Haunting.

Finally he demands I give up my weakness. The weakness that hides behind my eyelids. He tells me that my gaze must be untouched by love or hate or desire, if I wish to become something as perfect as him. To be pure, to beat Manehattan and her criminals, I must bury the old Rose, and that means finally burying Daisy and Lily as well.

Hesitation renders me powerless, but only for the briefest instant. Then I breathe into the thin cloth of my new face, and I lower my head, and I close my eyes—and I watch my friends die for what I know will be the last time.

I close my eyes.

The noose slips easily around Daisy’s neck.

Lily Screams.

It is still happening. The life is still draining from Daisy’s eyes. Lily is still screaming. They are still dying. Behind my eyelids, Daisy and Lily are still dying.

I close my eyes. When I open them again I know the ghosts of my loved ones will finally be gone for good. Finally allowed to rest in peace. They will be gone, and Rose will be gone, and I will become something perfect. Something like the eyes that watched me in forest all those years ago. Something able to stop Manehattan and her criminals…

…Criminals.

Criminals are terror.

Criminals are a terror.

The face of terror. My terror. I must disguise my terror. Disguise my face.

Daisy is dead.

Lily is dead.

Rose is dead.

…I shall become a mask.

END

A/N: Please see blog post for special thanks, dedications, and further notes regarding sequels (yes there's a sequel coming, so please don't nail me to a freaking cross for leaving so many loose ends untied) and upcoming projects.

And---as always---thanks for reading.