The Moon Also Rises

by Nicroburst

Thirty-Six

A note of practicality: Harmony, though broken, remains our most powerful tool against the Storm. Should, as Luna feared, it break free once again, it is in Harmony that we shall find salvation.

Nevertheless, I have ushered in a peace, away from the turmoil of the world. And so, I leave these words against a future that turns away from love, a future that returns to the turmoil and chaos of the Storm. I leave these words that I might be understood.

Even though they do not love me, I love them. And what I do, I do for love.

Thirty-Six

BOUNDLESS BROUGHT HIS FRONT HOOVES down on the table, causing the papers resting there—maps, mostly, and lists—to jump slightly. The ponies gathered about copied the action. Yes, he had their fear. Plain Sight, fearful, still, and grateful enough for his rescue to . . . acquiesce with Boundless’ further plans, had brought others from his crew, just ordinary criminals, acting not from wrath or envy or boredom, but necessity.

He could see it in the way they stood, shying away from him, heads turned away just slightly. He could hear their hurried breathing, their nervous stamping.

Innocence exposed them to him, gave him control, power. How he relished watching them startle, hang on his every word! A smile split his lips, tongue extending to wet them, ears standing on end, eyes narrowed. More than glorification, it was a vindication, and it pushed him onwards.

They weren’t ready, not yet. Not for what he needed. That dragon was hounding him, appearing around every corner, a shadow across every doorway. Leaving Hornwall quietly, invisible in the night, was now out of the question. He needed a distraction, a big one, something to bind his pursuers here, to occupy them.

Well, there was one solution that presented itself. He had but one talent that could not be mimicked, or bandied about, one calling card that announced his presence without flicker of doubt.

And if it gave them pause, so much the better.

“What I have to offer doesn’t fit your careful little worldview,” he said, speaking slowly, quietly, making them pay attention. “It isn’t riches, or power, or social standing. You will not be freed from poverty, or envy. Your lives will not improve.

“There exists a compulsion, upon all of you, all of your neighbours and friends, betters and leaders, everypony, everywhere. It is intrusive and controlling. It tells you not so much how to think as how to feel. You may know of what I speak. Your leader, Plain Sight,” now gesturing with an outstretched hoof, “does. He saw it first hand, some days ago.”

Plain Sight had seemed eager. That had dissipated almost immediately—the stories that had seemed so incredible to him from across the country took on another face entirely when he saw them close up. But though he had proven incapable of freeing himself, of participating, he hadn’t run, either, hadn’t talked to the guards.

Right now, he shuddered, the memory coming over him once again. He recoiled from Boundless, just a little, subtly, every time he reached out. He didn’t argue, or even question. Fear, which had pushed Trixie into an impossible situation, which now pushed Plain Sight into abdicating his leadership, fear gave Boundless control. And they were afraid.

“What I have to offer,” he said, “is freedom itself. I seek to return your minds to you, to entrust your morality to you and you alone. To emancipate you from this . . . this control, this barrier. I will make you the architects of your own destinies, not the path marked out for you by a foal’s drawing on your flank!” He slammed a hoof down onto the table again.

But they were still shying away. Where was the spark of attention, of desire? The will to push forward, alongside him? He had hoped . . . no matter.

“Enough,” he said. “You understand, and you will obey.”

They were uncomfortable. Of course they were, the dears. Still, he worried. Trixie had passed with flying colours, even stuck by him in the aftermath. A rousing success, more than he’d truly hoped for. But just one subject, just one trial . . . he could not be sure that these, these pathetic creatures, snivelling before him, would follow through, would even be capable of doing so.

“Some of you harbour doubts,” he said, being sure to glance at each of them in turn. “Some of you will prove unable, unfit to be at this table. I’m afraid,” smiling, now, “that we’re going to have try-outs.”

Plain Sight’s eyes bulged forward, and he lost his relaxed stance, leaning against the doorframe. “Try-outs,” he said, mouth moving wordlessly for some time. “You can’t just . . .”

“I can, and I will,” Boundless said. “There is no other way.” Addressing the whole room once again, “you must be ready. A dragon hounds me, and I cannot proceed with him on my trail. To you, then, falls the task of laying a false trail.”

One of them raised a trembling hoof. “A-a d-dr-dragon?”

“Yes, a dragon. I don’t know his name. I don’t know why he’s here. But he has stuck his snout in my—in our—business.”

“H-how do we . . .”

“It is a simple matter to announce my presence,” Boundless said. “You will cut a swathe of destruction: east, south, west, I don’t care. A riot, the likes of which Equestria has not seen before.”

A good half of the ponies gathered passed out, their heads slapping the table like dominos. Comical, really, had it not been so sad to see.

“Plain Sight,” Boundless beckoned, “you first.”

Slowly, he approached. Boundless took his arm, lifted his hoof, pressed into it a small knife, taken from a kitchen, small flecks of vegetable still speckling the metal. Plain Sight shuddered, eyes squeezed shut. But he offered only a token resistance as Boundless guided him forward—hoof holding his mane tightly, pressing into the small of his neck, offering no escape.

These ponies did not possess the will Trixie had. They would never, could never, bring themselves to cross over. He needed something else, some new push in addition . . . something else, to heighten their terror. So, instead, he didn’t give Plain Sight a choice. Perhaps this would not be enough to free him entirely. Even then, however . . .

Holding Plain Sight’s arm, hoof, the knife, all in his magic, Boundless stepped forward, guided them cleanly across the throat of one of the unconscious ponies, slumped over at the table. Crimson blood gushed forth, spilling down, matting his fur and staining the wood . . . the scent of rusted iron filled the air.

Little whinnies filled the air, a gentle buzz of terror, beyond any wild surge of desperation, any attempt to flee. Those still awake followed their friends’ lead, heads thunking onto the table, collapsing backwards to slump across the floor.

Plain Sight, released, fell forward, his body draped over the one he’d just killed.

Well, Boundless had had a hoof, certainly. But he had with Trixie as well. Should Plain Sight still be blinded by the Veil, it would confirm that it was a choice, not an action that broke one free. And even then, it was another step closer. Another milestone passed.

Boundless stretched, stepped back from the mess with a twist of his lips. Progress, but still slow, too slow. Filling a bucket of water, he set about reviving those slumped onto the table. Handling the water itself with telekinesis would be more efficient, yes, but he never had picked up the knack for that. Easier to hold solids.

Moving around the room, he noticed one pony: backed up into a corner, shoulders quivering, tears running down his face, that sort of thing. He paused for a moment, considering, watching as the pony drew back still further, compressing himself into a tight ball of fur.

“You,” Boundless said, careful to enunciate clearly, trying to hang weight on each word, “show promise.”

“Wrong,” the pony said. He wouldn’t look up. “This is wrong.”

“No. But not good, either.”

“Wrong,” the pony said. “This is wrong.”

Ah, mumbling, incoherent. Boundless spared him the water, but moved on nonetheless. With nothing but shock to keep them down, it wasn’t long before he had just about everypony conscious, though they refused to look towards the blood, shied away from the smell, many glancing back to the door leading out, out into the sunshine and the smiles and the rules. There was no salvation for them that way. Barred and locked, Boundless would be on top of any who attempted to flee before they could so much as buck.

Moment of truth, now. Plain Sight was on the floor, back pressed up against the wall, staring at the blade gripped in his hoof . . . veins stood out on his forearm, and he held it outstretched, at an angle, keeping the gore from his fur.

“It seems impossible,” Boundless said, addressing Plain Sight—but loud enough to ensure every other soul in the room could hear him. “But it isn’t. And the fear you all feel; the horror . . . that is precisely what blinds you. You don’t have to like doing this. You just have to let go.”

***

Daerev hurtled across the rooftops. One, two steps, running flat out, and then a jump, gliding, short hops propelled him through the city. On occasion, he rose high enough to skip the next building entirely. He was glad that whoever had designed this place had elected to expand outwards, not upwards: unlike Canterlot or, Celestia forbid, Manehattan, the buildings here seemed mostly to conform to a uniform height. It reminded him of home.

He’d lost track of Pinkie. She’d turned into a pink blur—literally—and vanished, just a few seconds before Cloud Burst had come tumbling through the window, feathers askew, panic written all over him. Not more than a sentence later, and Daerev was hot on her tail, spurred on by the same screams that had sent Burst to them in the first place.

Just a few streets further. Daerev came swooping down to land in a courtyard, erstwhile a marketplace, where farmers could sell their goods. Large streets, to fit wagons, extending to the east and west through it, gave them easy access, connected the outside world to the centre of the city, it was a forum—in a word, public.

And they were using that to good effect, now. Tied up, arranged in a row, bodies lay slumped over one another, small pools of blood gathering underneath them. Some few stood over them, moving from one to the next. It was barbaric, horrific, nauseating, yes. Daerev set that aside. More importantly, it was . . . ritualistic.

Not that there was anypony left to see them. The courtyard was deserted, clouds of dust taking their time to settle at the mouths of the alleys and streets leading away. Ponies would panic at a rabbit stampede, for crying out loud. This, this would have them rioting.

He crashed forwards, straight at the murderers, jaws open, a flood of fire and noise roaring forth. They scattered, darting left and right, leaving the bodies to slump forward, and though he snapped his teeth and swung around at the one or two stragglers, he let them flee.

Their victims were unconscious—the ones still alive, anyway. They’d only gotten to a few, bleeding out from gashes across their throats. Daerev squeezed his eyes shut. His fault. He wasn’t so self-pitying as to believe that, truly, but . . . he could have been more active. He could have tried harder, pushed further, ignored the guards and their hobbling. No more. He was going to end this, today.

He took a deep breath, brought forth his fire as a thin stream of heat, almost invisible. It only took a few seconds for his claw, held in the stream, to heat till it was glowing, cherry-red. Grasping the bodies on the ground, he pressed the talon to their wounds, one by one, ignoring the sizzle and the smell of charred meat.

Their wounds cauterized, the bleeding stopped, Daerev left them where they lay, heading north. He didn’t know the layout of the city, had no idea where these ponies might have gone. But he did know Boundless, had some idea of his endgame. And, just as Daerev and Pinkie had originally intended merely to pass through Hornwall, it lay in the Crystal Empire.

So he ran, doubling back on the odd dead-end, choosing left and right indiscriminately, occasionally leaping over low houses outright, but always turning back to north. There was a gate there. Plenty of time for Boundless to escape in the confusion.

He ran into several groups of ponies, running amok. They tended to band together, a herd mentality taking over, and at the sight of him, they screamed, turned, galloped away. That suited him just fine.

Boundless’ crew . . . he saw signs of them through the streets, though none of them had stuck around long enough to get caught. Where’d they come from? The jailbreak Daerev has interrupted the other day stood out. He’d failed there, just that little bit too slow, or, perhaps, too squeamish? He could have left the hostage, chased after them. Was that his greatest mistake, then? To cling to life—to his past, really, to Spike—just that touch too desperately?

How had he broken these souls? Daerev understood the reluctance to kill well, the moral imperative, drawing the mind itself away. He’d lived with it for most of his life. These, these disciples, they would not have approached Boundless willingly. They could not.

He remembered Trixie, as he saw her in the aftermath. For all her repentance, he could see how badly she’d been broken. How far she’d been pushed. She stood tall, back straight, eyes downcast . . . shattered strength coalescing against Twilight’s intrusion, building herself back up in the image of her victim and saviour.

Crashing around a corner, panting, and the street ahead opened up, widening as it ran north. Just a few hundred metres ahead, the northern gate towered over the buildings. And, yes, there they were—Daerev’s eyes focusing, the world rushing forward around him—three ponies, unicorns, holding knives in their magic, a body, motionless, at their hooves, and . . . oh, no.

Daerev blinked rapidly, shaking away the disorientation that accompanied telescopic vision. Careening forward, as fast as he could move, claws slipping on the packed dirt, slick with something, wings outstretched, holding his balance, he cried at the top of his lungs.

“Pinkie!”

It only took seconds to reach them, claws digging into the ground, wings twisting, spreading vertically, to rob him of his forward momentum. Pinkie turned, flashed her teeth at him. Immediately, Daerev engulfed her, wrapping her in a great hug, hiding her from the world outside. She didn’t need to see this.

The unicorns each took a step back at his arrival, air rushing past them, against them. They stared at him, then split three smiles, and took off in three directions. Dust clouds rose at their hooves.

Damn them. Daerev clenched his teeth. How many of these ponies were there? He couldn’t . . . he couldn’t get to them all. He couldn’t protect anypony.

Inside the envelope of his wings, Pinkie was trembling. Gently, he opened, lifted her chin with a claw to peer into her eyes.

“W-why?” she asked. Tears leaked from the corners of her eyes—just a few drops, rather than her trademark waterfall. Somehow, that was more disconcerting.

“I don’t know,” he said, pulling her into a tight hug. This was why he hadn’t wanted to bring her, damn it. Whatever reason Agyrt had for Pinkie’s presence, it wasn’t good enough. “But we can stop them, Pinkie. We can.”

“I saved them,” she said, sniffling. “They-they-they were gonna . . .”

“They didn’t,” Daerev said. “They won’t.”

“W-where are the guards?”

“I don’t know.” Daerev shut his eyes, forced himself to slow down, think. The Guard wasn’t equipped to handle something like this. Even so, Boundless surely would have targeted them first. Was he going to find Spear and Burst murdered? Lying in some alley, in the gutter, blood matting their coats?

Except . . . why were they doing this? Boundless wanted to move north, right? Once out of the city, on the plain, he couldn’t hide, couldn’t run, and couldn’t fight. He’d be completely exposed. So why not sneak out at night?

He hadn’t created killers like this before. If Trixie could be considered a test, a successful experiment, then . . . he was escalating, pushing the limits. Hornwall wasn’t just a gateway into the Crystal Empire, it was another test. A crucible. In that case, Boundless would still be here.

In his arms, Pinkie stiffened. He glanced down, concerned, saw her body spasm briefly.

“The train station,” Pinkie said. “Daerev, he’s going to take a train.”

“A train? . . . the line’s been closed since Cadance cut off the Empire.”

“Come on,” Pinkie said, twisting herself free. In moments, she was gone, tearing east along the wall, towards the station. Daerev ran after her, momentary paralysis giving way to trust. The line was closed, yes, but the trains themselves . . . there could well be one still here. Ah. Yes, that made sense. A distraction, a delay, not long enough to escape on hoof, but more than enough to steal a train.

So they ran, doing their best to ignore the panic, palpable, pulsing, that ruled the streets.

***

The blade scored a shallow stab into his side. Both ponies fell, the murdered and the murderer together, the weight of their sudden collapse driving the blade home, all the way to its hilt. The body stiffened, relaxed.

Boundless turned his back, nodding at two survivors by the door. They would collect the winner of the duel, wake him up, and welcome him to his new life. He surveyed the group arrayed before him—so different, now. He’d had just a half day with them, but each now stood tall, with that familiar glint in their eye. Regrettable, the methods he’d had to resort to, but the wasted potential in bodies was more than made up for in the sheer speed of the process, the efficiency.

A little under half of the ponies Plain Sight had brought to him remained, just seven souls, freed. It was a triumph.

He gave their newest member a little time: time to roll his shoulders, flex his muscles, finish the kill to spare his victim any further pain, and then to delight in the ease with which he cut that pony’s throat, the dissolution of any prohibition, the dizziness of freedom. And, as he claimed one of the empty places around the table, Boundless addressed them.

“I promised you freedom, and I gave it to you. Do not regret that its taste is that of blood and sweat. I have found that that is true of most things worthwhile.

“None of you have any reason to fear me, not anymore. Anything, everything I am capable of, so are you. There are no depths to which we have not already sunk. There is no boundary we have not crossed.

“You will find these . . . traits, to be most useful. It is an understated power, but it is power nonetheless. Nopony can stop you. Nopony can match you. You will walk unfettered among slaves, eyes open amid the blind.

“I am leaving Hornwall, today. I intend to move north, deeper into the Crystal Empire. I require your aid in this.

“Some of you may have heard of a dragon in the city. He is following me. He will try to stop me, however he can. You,” Boundless swept the room with his gaze, “are to get in his way.”

One raised a hoof. “An’ how’re we supposed to stop a dragon?”

“I don’t really care.” Boundless shrugged. “There’s a train here. It's been sitting in the station for over a week. Plain Sight," nodding, "assures me he can steal it. Once I leave the city, I’m clear.”

“So what’s the problem?” another interjected. “Just take the train and leave. Dragon’s not going to catch you.”

“But he’ll follow. I need more time,” Boundless fell back into his prepared speech, “time to survey, to plan, and then to act. I can’t do that with an overgrown lizard on my back.

“I want you all to reveal yourselves. Dump these bodies,” flicking a hoof over his shoulder, “on the streets, take a few hostages, and drive the citizens into a panic. A full-blown riot. Get his attention, and then flee.”

“What’s that supposed to accomplish?”

Truth be told, Boundless wasn’t totally sure. He told himself that he had all these grand plans, ambitions, reasons for living. Sometimes, he even believed them. But more often, he just felt, well, lost. Doing things to see where they lead, chasing ideas because to lose sight of them before seeing their end would be giving up. He couldn’t say precisely what he was trying to accomplish with this little plot. Just that it felt right, instinctively. That there was a reason, even if he couldn’t put it to words.

“You’re to take his eyes off us while we flee,” Plain Sight said. “That dragon knows about Boundless. It knows what he can do. But it doesn’t know about us.”

“You want to diffuse its targets,” somepony said. “Confuse it. Track blood all over town, until even that nose can’t follow it.”

“Yes. But it’s more than that. This is a message, too, a deterrent and a demonstration. We will become as a plague to it, an infection to be eradicated, each of us with the potential to continue, to free more, and more, and still more.”

Ah, Plain Sight to the rescue. Yes, that made sense to him. A bit of a relief, really. And from it, Boundless could construct several other benefits . . . a leap of logic it appeared the others also made. There were no other questions.

They filed out in silence, each carrying their own victim by some unspoken consensus. They split into groups of two or three, moving slowly under the afternoon sun, Boundless and Plain Sight moving straight to the train station. It only took a few minutes for the first screams to reach their ears.

***

Boundless wasn’t at the train station, nor was there any train resting on the tracks. But that wasn’t to say that the station was deserted.

Daerev slowed alongside Pinkie, face-to-face with yet another hostage situation. What was this, the third, no, fourth time? That he could say he looked at this with something approaching familiarity was dismaying.

Out loud, “Again? Haven’t you guys got anything new?”

“It’s a classic,” the pony before him said. The one held before him, throat surrounded in a pale light, whimpered.

“You . . . you let him go!” Pinkie said, taking a step forward. Daerev reached out, pulled her back.

“Leave it, Pinkie,” Daerev said. “Just, just let me handle this.”

“No! I don’t want you sheltering me, Daerev. I’m a grown mare, I can handle the world!”

Daerev blinked, turning away to face Pinkie.

“Just because I’m happy, o-or bubbly, it doesn’t mean I’m infantile! Everypony left me behind, everybody but you. Damn it, Daerev! Why am I even here?!”

Daerev opened his mouth, hesitated, and closed it.

“Hey!” The pony opposite them dropped his hostage to the ground. “I’m right here.”

Pinkie snapped her neck to the right, focused on him. Daerev felt the world bend around him, Pinkie blurring forward to snap a hoof against the pony’s face, reach down with her other to curl it around the hostage, and then . . . she was back at his side. In less than the time it took to blink. The hostage got to his hooves, eyes rolling wildly from his captor—now on the ground—and his rescuers, before scampering off.

“I’m not helpless,” Pinkie said, softly.

“I know that,” Daerev said. “We’re all well aware of just how scary you can be.” Heck, after that one time . . . well, he hadn’t slept well for a week. “That’s not it.”

“What, then?” Pinkie demanded, throwing her hooves in the air. “You want to martyr yourself? Take all this filth on yourself in some misguided notion of protection?”

“Yes!” Exactly that. Daerev couldn’t stand the trembling lower lip, the wide eyes. He hated himself for bringing her here, hated the lack of feeling with which he’d delivered the news of Shining Armour’s murder. That memory still plagued him at night.

He needed it to mean something. Needed the compromises, the uncertainty over how far he was going to go to accomplish some goal. If he could just keep the grime off her hooves . . . sink into the gutter himself, holding her up all the while.

A sickly green aura appeared around her throat.

“Selfish,” Pinkie said. “You don’t think I want to fight? You don’t think I need to act?” Oh, Celestia, she was crying now. How’d this gone so wrong? “I’m not some ideal for you to put in a damn box!”

Daerev half-lifted an arm toward her, struggling to find words.

“Would you two shut up?”

Both twisted to look at the pony. Hopping from side to side, he twitched, cocked his head. Pinkie was yanked towards him—limbs trailing, eyes turning to track Daerev . . . He leapt forwards, only to have the pony pummel him with telekinesis and jump backwards.

“Ah-ah-aah,” he sang, waving Pinkie in Daerev’s face. “You’d better not move, dragon.”

He began introducing himself—Plain Sight—rambling on about this and that. Daerev didn’t really pay attention. Instead, he focused, inching forward whenever Plain Sight’s eyes slipped from him.

Silence. Daerev froze. “And what then, hmm?” he said, taking a wild stab. Probably should have paid more attention. But Pinkie was still hanging there, eyes still following him.

“We’re going to kill,” Plain Sight said. “And kill. And kill. Until every pony left is one of us.”

Daerev growled. Pinkie stiffened. Plain Sight opened his mouth. The green aura flexed, shimmered, and Pinkie fell to the ground, landing nimbly on four hooves. Daerev jumped forward, instinct taking over, fire rising to ball in his mouth.

He landed, back feet digging into the ground, wrapping himself around Plain Sight, mouth closing above his back. Daerev paused, struggling to hold the fire back. Oh, how it roared and raged in his throat. Little drops spilled from around his lips, sizzling against Plain Sight’s fur.

This . . . this thing. He was not going to stop. Whatever Boundless had done had clearly snapped his mind, broken something inside. They could hold him, suppress his magic, and restrain his body. It wouldn’t matter. The danger remained, ever looming, hanging over all of Equestria. Not just of more killings, but the threat of creation to, of spreading this disease to others.

Too dangerous. Daerev tried not to question, to think. Just for a second, he relaxed, let down the resistance, the thin edge of control. It only took a moment. Fire rushed forth.

***

Pinkie wanted to scream. Recoiling from Daerev’s sudden jump, stumbling to the side, twisting to see the torrent of green heat explode from his mouth, she felt it rising in her chest, her throat. But nothing came out.

Her mouth opened and closed like a fish. She stepped back, once, twice. Plain Sight dropped from Daerev’s grip, meat steaming, fire still licking at his body. The smell of it caused her to gag.

“Wha-“ she tried to speak, choked on her words.

Daerev flinched, dunking his head. “I’m sorry, Pinkie.”

“What . . . what did you do?!”

“I- I stopped him.”

Pinkie fell onto her rump. Oh, no, no no no. This couldn’t happen. Not Spike, not their little dragon. He wasn’t a monster. He wasn’t. And yet, there he was, shuffling away from the corpse. She heard a loud buzzing, a static that blocked out all other noise.

The world went black. She’d done this a thousand times, but never so desperately, never with such a tremendous imperative—a need. The city trembled, and the scream raging inside her found voice. Time twisted around her, and she whispered to herself. A message, a warning, a premonition: she became that niggling sense of dread, imparted with an intent and such strength as to consume her mind.

Clarity. Light flooded in, replacing nothingness. She felt . . . not tired. It wasn’t physical energy that she expended. She felt calm. As if everything that coloured life had been stripped away. Tranquillity, and—she shuddered, a spontaneous series of itches running over her fur, a code she didn’t decipher so much as understand—intent.

Daerev stood to the side, gazing forward intently, at Plain Sight, with his hostage firmly held in front of him. Pinkie snarled, stepping forward, only to feel a claw press against her chest. This was familiar. She’d done this before.

She batted away the claw and pounced forward, twisting around the reflexive blast of magic that came out to meet her. Plain Sight had no chance of hitting her. Not even Twilight had proven able to pin her down, nor Rainbow capable of keeping up.

She smacked him upside the head, caught the poor pony as he fell, set him on his way. Then, turning, she spread herself wide, facing Daerev.

“Don’t you hurt him!”

Daerev paused. Plain Sight didn’t. Recovering from the blow, he reached out, recapturing the hostage in his grip. And, with a vicious little grunt, he squeezed.

“No!” Daerev, rushing forward, wings outspread, an avenging demon. Pinkie felt the world stop for the second time, turned slowly to see the hostage slump sideways. Not moving. Behind her, a blast of heat sent tingles down her spine.

“Pinkie?”

“Why . . .” She hit the ground, felt her eyes begin to brim with tears. Why can’t I save anypony? No time left, now, no hope to effect change. Just as with Shining Armour, just as with Cadence's letter.

“Oh, Pinkie.” Daerev stepped closer, enveloped her in his warm embrace. She pushed against him, wanting out but suddenly unwillingly to bend physics, slide out as she had so thoughtlessly before. He didn’t give way, and soon she collapsed, breaking down to sob against him.

“I’m so sorry,” Daerev said. Damn him. He regretted it, of course he did. But he still did it. Still did it. “They’re murderers, Pinkie. Someone has to . . . has to stop them.” He stood up, met her eyes, searching for something.

Pinkie just stared at him, the accusation clear in her opaque blue eyes.

The End of Part Three

Author's Note:

Notes: Chapter Thirty-Six

Comments

[RTStephens]

Pretty gruesome and terrible what Boundless is doing. It's going to be a satisfying confrontation when Trixie catches up to him.

Keep at it!