Author's Note

Warning: This chapter contains minor descriptions of sexual violence and references to other types of nastiness.

Please like, comment and tell me any thoughts, feedback or anything you'd like to see from the story narratively.

That's all for now, - Paleface

TEN

Night had turned the barracks into a realm of uneasy quiet. The faint rustle of sleeping forms filled the air, but it was pierced by a sudden thrashing. Bistrena’s hooves kicked against her cot, her breaths coming in ragged gasps.

“Get off me!” she snarled, her voice thick with sleep and terror. She swung her legs violently, the blanket tangling around her limbs like the ghost of Blackguard trying to pull her down again.

Dusklight was at her side in a flash, shaking her gently. “Bistrena! Wake up. Bi, it’s just a dream!”

Bistrena jolted awake, her eyes wild, her pulse hammering against her throat. Her muscles were coiled, ready to strike, but Dusklight pressed a calming hoof against her shoulder.

“Shh, it’s okay. You’re safe. You’re safe, Bi.”

It took a few heartbeats for the nightmare to dissipate, and when it did, Bistrena’s shoulders sagged. She sat up, running a hoof over her sweat-dampened mane. Her breath felt heavy in her chest, her legs aching with the ghost of tension.

“I—” Her voice broke. She swallowed hard, then shook her head. “Damn it.”

All around them, groggy murmurs and annoyed muttering rose from the bunks. Bistrena glanced at the shadowy forms of her platoon mates. They were awake, but she didn’t care. She wasn’t about to apologize. They weren’t the ones who had to deal with what she had.

Dusklight didn’t move, just stayed close. “You alright?” she asked softly.

“No,” Bistrena muttered.

They sat in silence for a while, the tension between them unspoken but understood. Finally, Dusklight broke it. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“Not in the mood,” Bistrena replied, swinging her legs over the side of the cot. “I need some air.”

Dusklight looked wary. “If Jetstream catches you out there, we’ll all pay for it.”

“Then don’t tell him.”

Before Dusklight could argue, Bistrena grabbed her coat and slipped into the cold night.

Outside, the chill of the snow-covered ground bit into her hooves, but her boiling blood kept her warm. Her breath fogged in front of her as she took deep, grounding breaths. The world was dark; the camp maintained a strict blackout to avoid enemy detection. As her eyes adjusted, the shadows took on sharper forms.

Across the way, a figure moved, slipping along the edge of the barracks opposite hers. Head low, they seemed lost in thought, lingering near the mare’s shower block.

Her heart jumped, an irrational fear gripping her. Blackguard. It wasn’t possible, but her body didn’t care. She followed the figure, her hooves crunching softly in the snow as she crept closer.

When the figure disappeared inside the shower block, her gut twisted. Blackguard was dead, but the place where it had happened still carried his memory like a wound that wouldn’t heal.

The CAUTION, DO NOT CROSS tape fluttered in the faint wind, a barrier both symbolic and futile. Bistrena ducked under it, her anger a shield against any lingering fear. Whoever was in there, they were going to answer for it.

Inside, the shadows gave way to dim moonlight filtering through a crack in the roof. At first, she saw nothing. Then, a quiet voice broke the silence.

“Heard you coming a mile away.”

Bistrena’s ears swivelled toward the sound. Lockstep was sitting against the wall, her face calm but her eyes watchful as she scrutinised the impact where she'd swung Blackguard into it. “Couldn’t sleep?”

The anger drained from Bistrena’s shoulders. Her head drooped as sadness replaced it, heavy and unwelcome. “No,” she admitted, walking closer.

“Me neither,” Lockstep replied. She didn’t look away from the wall she was studying, her tone steady but tired.

Bistrena sat down across from her, leaning against the cool tile. “You come here often?” she asked dryly.

Lockstep snorted. “Yeah, it’s real cosy.”

They sat in silence for a moment, the weight of the space pressing down on them. Finally, Bistrena broke it. “How’d you do it?”

Lockstep turned to her. “Do what?”

“Kill him. Blackguard. Just… like that. It was so fast. One second, he was alive, and then…”

Lockstep’s expression darkened. She leaned back, her jaw tight. “You’re asking the wrong question.”

Bistrena frowned. “What’s the right one, then?”

Lockstep exhaled slowly, her voice softer now. “Why I did it. Not how.”

The room seemed to shrink as Lockstep began to speak. Her words came haltingly at first, but soon they flowed with raw, unfiltered emotion. She leaned back against the wall, eyes on the faint cracks in the tile as though they held the memories she was dredging up.

“Fillydelphia,” she began. “I’m from Fillydelphia originally. Place always smelled like smoke, iron, and rain—like the city couldn’t make up its mind if it wanted to burn itself down or drown.” She snorted faintly, then sighed. “Not much to tell about my folks. They were hardworking. My mom taught me to braid my mane so tight my scalp felt like it was about to peel off. My dad… he worked long hours. Came home tired, but he always had a joke, you know? Never anything fancy, just… something to make us laugh.”

Bistrena said nothing, letting Lockstep fill the space with her story.

“When I was twelve, I told them what my uncle had been doing to me. Took me years to work up the guts. Started when I was maybe... six or seven. Innocent, really, at first I mean - sharing a bed or helping with baths when my folks were too worn out, seemed normal, but... he started calling it our special playtime, I didn't understand, but, he was touching me, well, you know..." she paused while Bistrena inhaled sharply, just hearing it was difficult.

"One day, I was twelve, he came in my room and, well..." she motioned with her forelegs, trying to dig the word out. She looked Bistrena in the eye, "he raped me."

Bistrena turned away, her body taut with a surge of anger and unspent violence. The urge to go back in time and exact justice clawed at her. She imagined herself standing over the uncle, a mallet in her grip, bringing it down with all her strength. She pictured his skull fracturing, splintering like Blackguard’s had. That’s what ponies like him deserved—no trial, no appeals, just swift and merciless retribution. The thought burned hot in her chest, a grim comfort in its simplicity.

Lockstep glanced at Bistrena, her expression softening, one eyebrow raising slightly in concern. “You alright?” she asked, her voice gentler now. “I can skip ahead if it’s too much. I know you just went through something similar… well, not exactly, but—” She caught herself, fumbling for the right words. “Not to say what you’ve been through isn’t bad or anything, just—”

Bistrena held up a hoof to stop her, swallowing hard. Her throat worked visibly, like she was trying to choke back bile. “Sorry,” she said hoarsely, her voice cracking under the weight of something unspoken. “Keep going. I need to hear it.” She took a shaky breath and looked down, her voice quieter but no less resolute. “It’s just—I feel like I’m only just seeing the world for the first time. I never knew that stuff happened. Nopony talks about it.”

Lockstep gave a single, humourless laugh, the sound dry and bitter. “Hurts, don’t it?” She leaned back, her gaze hard and distant. “Life’s a bitch, and then you die. Sooner you come to terms with that, sooner you can learn to say ‘fuck the world’ and try and make a difference.”

Lockstep let out a slow breath, her ears flicking back briefly as if she was swatting away an unwanted thought. The brief silence hung heavy between them, but then she pressed on, her voice taking on that same steady, detached cadence she used to keep herself from breaking.

“And when I told them,” she continued, her tone sharpening like the edge of a blade, “they didn’t believe me. Said I must’ve been imagining things. He was ‘such a good stallion.’” She spat the last three words like venom, her lip curling slightly in disgust.

Her gaze drifted past Bistrena for a moment, as if she was staring into a distant memory, something that clawed at her even now. But she didn’t let it linger; she exhaled sharply, dismissing the thought, her eyes flicked to Bistrena’s, gauging her reaction, but Bistrena just nodded, urging her silently to go on.

“Couple months after that, my parents died in some freak accident. A bridge collapse, of all things. It wasn’t even raining. Just one of those things, I guess. Random and cruel.” She clenched her jaw. “Guess who my godparent was? Yep. Uncle Knitting Needle himself.”

“Knitting Needle?” Bistrena asked, her brow furrowing.

“Yeah,” Lockstep said with a humourless grin. “He was a tailor. Made suits, dresses, scarves, the works. Had a little shop down on Trotter’s Lane. Ponies loved him. ‘Such a talented stallion,’ they’d say. And the first night I stayed with him after my parents died, he decided to ‘comfort’ me. Said he needed it to help with his grief.”

Lockstep’s hoof scraped against the tile, her voice dropping to a low, cold rasp. “I’d already decided I wasn’t going to let him touch me again. I’d rather die. So I snuck one of his knitting needles into bed with me. An old iron spike, heavy as a hammer.” She drew a shaky breath, her eyes unfocused.

“When he came into my room that night, I pretended to be asleep. He got on top of me, muttering all this disgusting stuff about how I reminded him of my mom when she was young. He started… you know.” She glanced at Bistrena, then away again.

Bistrena’s face hardened, but she didn’t speak.

“That’s when I struck. Used every ounce of magic I had to drive that needle right through his eye socket. Felt it crunch through bone and… other stuff. He went stiff, made this weird sound—like air escaping a balloon—and then just collapsed on me. He was too heavy to move, so I lay there with him pinning me down until I could wiggle free.”

Lockstep shivered, but her voice steadied. “I left that night. Didn’t take anything, didn’t look back. Just ran. Spent a few weeks on the streets, barely surviving, until I managed to sneak onto a steamliner bound for Ocean City. I’d never even seen the sea before. It was… huge. Scary.”

Her lips twisted in a bitter smile. “Turns out foster care in Ocean City was just as bad as living close to my uncle in Fillydelphia. Different faces, same story. But I gave them a fake name—didn’t want anyone digging into my past and finding out about my uncle. Stayed there until I turned sixteen, then got the hell out. Joined the Fillydelphia Civil Defence. Figured if I could fight, maybe I could find a purpose," she smiled fondly, "then I got into the Coast Guard."

Bistrena tilted her head, her voice low but curious. “How’d you end up in the Coast Guard?”

Lockstep let out a mirthless chuckle, shaking her head. “Transferred when I was twenty. Thought I wanted to see more of the world. Big mistake. The world’s uglier than you think, kid. Worked on small cutters, patrolling the seas. Plenty of action—scavengers, smugglers, pirates. The works. Some nights, I wish I could forget half the shit I saw out there.”

Bistrena frowned. “Like what?”

“Like Gryphons ripping into sapient races for food. They call it a delicacy.” Her lip curled. “Minotaurs with slaves—herds of ‘em, chained up like animals. And Diamond Dogs?” Her voice dropped, colder than the snow outside. “Those bastards don’t care what it is, as long as it bleeds. They’ll fight it, fuck it, or both if they can manage. And the sex traffickers?” She paused her words like venom. “Every damn one I ever came across was a Dog. Not a single exception. Vicious, sick monsters.”

Bistrena’s jaw tightened, her voice barely above a whisper. “Sounds rough.”

“Rough?” Lockstep snorted, shaking her head. “Rough doesn’t even come close. Some of it you could stomach, you know? At least feel like we were better. Superior. Ponies, I mean...” Her face darkened, voice thick with contempt. “We were on that side of the line too. Plenty of smugglers and traffickers were ponies. Selling their own. Taking the weak and scared and shipping them off like cargo. That’s when you realize—it’s not species, it’s just the world. It’s rotten, all the way through.”

She exhaled sharply, her gaze hardening. “It was like staring straight into Tarturus, and some days, I swear, it was staring right back.”

Bistrena swallowed, the weight of Lockstep’s words settling over her.

Lockstep’s gaze softened, and she shrugged. “Anyway, I had a messy affair with an officer when I was twenty-three. Stupid of me. He was married, and it all blew up in my face. Transferred back into Civil Defence to get away from it. Ocean City was full, so I came to Baltimare. Been here ever since, teaching trainees how to lace their boots and clean toilets.” She smirked faintly. “It’s not glamorous, but I like the job. Mostly.”

Bistrena was quiet for a long moment, processing everything she’d heard. Finally, she said, “That’s how you were able to kill him, huh? Blackguard?”

Lockstep nodded. “Yeah. Once you’ve done it enough times, killing’s easy as breathing.”

The two mares sat in silence after that, the weight of the conversation settling like the snow outside.