Flash stepped off the bus, and the first thing he saw was her. His heart twisted—or perhaps it was his stomach. Either way, the bile rose, and he twisted his neck until her violet-streaked hair was far out of his gaze... the high ponytail and the alien reading glasses. She said something—carried aloft by the melodic voice of an angel, and he hated himself for the dull thuds he still felt through his aching chest.
Then another voice replied from afar, empathetic with a hint of fiery passion. It melted the awkwardness away, replacing it with an old familiar pain. By the time Flash sensed Sunset's head tilting, he had long hurried up the steps. He could feel the eyes of the other six ripping sword-slices down his back. If he stayed any longer, they would pierce an artery. He couldn't give anyone the satisfaction, although Flash no longer knew exactly who was preying on him anymore or why. When he glanced into the shadows, he saw eyes glaring back. Folded arms and books being hugged indignantly to supple chests. Flexing forelimbs and furrowed brows. Cell phone casings pretending to hide stone faces. Flash never looked long enough to ever fill the rest of those shady portraits. He knew that if he allowed that to happen, he would freeze in place, and there was no telling how long it would take to pick all the shattered parts back up—although he no longer knew the reason to preserve them.
He ignored the rising waters by keeping his head empty, his mind buoyant. He rode the bobbing surface of the first few hours, and soon he was limping his way towards third period. His mind was meandering the same familiar stain he had come to memorize across the ceiling of the science wing—when he bumped into a tall middle-aged man wearing an even taller suit.
"Mr. Sentry!" the faculty member exclaimed with genuine surprise. In a plastic blink, he slapped on a fake smile. "Flash! I'm so glad I ran into you!"
The teenager winced so hard that he nearly imploded. Somehow—miraculously—he summoned a convincingly deep voice from the far corners of his lungs. "Mr. Turner. My bad. I... uhm... I need to get to my Biology class—"
"Did you get my memo, Flash?" the guidance counselor asked, his voice full of plastic merriment.
Flash rubbed the back of his neck, avoiding Time Turner's imploring gaze. "I... uhm..." He glanced aside—instantly wishing he hadn't. Boys and girls drifted by. Eyes stabbed his way. There were smirks, snickers. "I... haven't been on the Internet much lately..."
"I had my e-mail delivered to your homeroom late last week! On Friday, remember?"
"Uhm..."
"Anyways, we need to talk." A warm hand slapped heavily on Flash's shoulder. There was a wink. Flash smelled cheap deoderant and a whiff of microwaved spaghetti. "It's about your future, young sir. Did you ever get a chance to pursue those college applications you sent in?"
"Another time, perhaps. I... really need to get to my Biology class, Mr. Turner. If I'm late again..."
"Heh! It's alright, Mr. Sentry! I'll sign you a hall pass!"
"Oh... huh..."
And by the next blink—or third—Flash found himself sitting awkwardly in a chair across from Counselor Turner's desk. Metal balls collided with each other in the corner, suspended by wire frames. Flash imagined a million sibling spheres doing the same in his gut, and all of them laced with rusted iron.
"...it's about your application to the Rainbow Falls Musical Academy," Time Turner continued, although Flash couldn't at the moment remember where he had begun—or how. "Now... they are accepting entry fees that—from the look of things—are well within your price range, but it's not about how you get in, Mr. Flash." The guidance counselor shuffled through a few papers, slapping them against the desktop for punctuation. "But it's how you stay the course."
"Uh huh." Flash scratched his elbows, hunching over, shrinking deeper and deeper into the plush chair seat. Dead cats hung off the posters. Flowers that withered days after they were photographed, and months before their motivational phrases were slathered against them. "I'm pretty sure I can keep my attendance up for... y'know... a college degree... and stuff."
"It's not all about attendance, Mr. Flash, and even still I'm sorry to say that that has been a rather... challenged area for you as of late." Time Turner cleared his throat. "But if you can't make regular payments each semester, you can kiss those entry-level courses good-bye."
Flash squinted up at him. "I've got the money to ride, Mr. Turner."
"From what? A job?" The guidance counselor raised an eyebrow. "Or from selling your car?"
Flash bit his lip. He wondered how Time Turner knew. But then—with a pallid stab to his spine—he felt twice as stupid as he did walking into that office. Of course, Mr. Turner knew. Everyone had to know. The rides Flash took on the bus. How he walked everywhere these days—even around town—when scarcely a year ago he cruised from street to street in some of the slickest wheels known to Canterlot High. At some point, he realized he didn't really need something so flashy, plus a major gas guzzler. So he sold it and put the resulting funds into a savings account. Of course, that's all that Flash did. Afterwards, there was no progress, no college-hunting, no pursuit whatsoever of a college application or even the semblance of a career. Flash could still play music, and that meant something—or so he told himself... if only to excuse the waste he had made out of an expensive gift from his parents that he only used for two-thirds of his junior year. He gave it up as a proactive gesture, to make them happy. Of course, it only made the arguments and shouting matches double, and still neither of them blamed him exclusively.
After building a mountain out of failures, Flash was beginning to wonder how guilt made its way through the labyrinthine caverns to chill his veins. No wonder it always felt so numb... so diluted... except for abrasively lucid moments like this eye-twitching staredown with the middle-aged golem before him.
"...too late to attempt an athletic sports degree," Time Turner was muttering, and that was how Flash realized he had missed an entire five minutes of conversation. The counselor slapped an old, worn scrap of paper in his grasp. "Remember that you had written down here as an alternative? Perhaps if you had pursued extra-curricular physical education activities this semester and last, then maybe you could have paved a fine road to applying at Crystal University or North Lake Academy. They have spectacular athletic scholarships being offered. Tell me, Mr. Flash, was there a specific reason why you took on so many psychology electives this semester?"
Flash blinked hard, his head reeling. "Paved... road...?" He nearly belched at the forced analogy.
Time Turner sighed heavily—the first honest breath exchanged between them since Flash arrived there. "Flash..." He folded his fingers neatly together and leaned forward. "...I think it's high time you got your priorities straight. I'm doing my best to help you." He raised an eyebrow. "But at this rate—if you're not careful—you're going to waste these precious young years left ahead of you."
Flash lingered in confusion, pondering as to why Time Turner was speaking so ardently about "waste" in the future tense. The thought perplexed him minutes later, even as he shuffled down the lunch line with an empty tray, waddling elbow to elbow with other seniors while his eyes watered from steam rising off trays of cooking grease.
"My invisibility cooldown would run out, and—I swear to Christ—every goddam time he'd snipe me!" rasped an acne-faced thing to Flash's right. An old lady's crinkled hand scooped noodles up with a fork, slapped it into a styrofoam tray, and slathered it with chunky tomato sauce. "From across the map too! I tried to report his ass, but the damn faggot must be hacking the server or some shit."
"Goddam try-hards," muttered a masculine voice down the line. He wheezed against the sneeze guard, stifling a cough. Flash could catch the glint of a vape stick peeking out from his backpack's side pocket. "We should catch that retard streaming and SWAT-call his ass the next time he tries that."
"Hahaha! Yeah!"
A half-empty tray of spaghetti rattled atop Flash's tray, staining his wrist. He breathed out, catching a flicker of light to his left. A student was sporadically reading news headlines on her phone, swiping through apocalyptic one-liners: Pakistan and India doing military drills on their borders, North Korea hanging a tourist, some coral reef dying off the coast of Borneo... or perhaps it was Indonesia. Flash blinked, and the news was replaced with a gif of Beyonce's flouncing derriere along with several cartoon drops of defecation.
"You know what you need?" To Flash's right, someone was munching on his food before he paid for it. "A lag-spike button. Torrent the latest Mazerunner movie or some shit. Just to mess up his game, y'know? Give the jewtard something to sob into his mommy's tits about."
"On his own server?"
"Hell yeah! Send a message! About time those wall-hacking Twitchfags watched their subscriber count plummet!"
"Heheheh!"
Flash paid for his meal with a few crinkled bills. The moment passed in a tense breath as he felt his wallet flatten inside his jacket pocket. He imagined his old sports car disentegrating one wheel at a time. Time Turner's brown eyebrows lingered before him like a phantom. He walked through, balancing plastic spaghetti on a plastic tray. He passed a pair of blonde figures flanking the entrance to the lunch hall.
"The thing I don't get is—if the pipeline is good for everyone—then why all the lame protests?" blathered one.
"Yeah! I know! I mean... just how many Navajo or whoever are left anyways?" The other tossed her hairs, struggling with the wi-fi. "This is the Twentieth-Century. Just fucking die out already."
Laughter and four letter words. There was spilled ketchup and a vomit stain on the floor. Flash walked around it; he walked around all of it. The lunch room smelled the same, but it had a different shape each day. It was only a matter of time, but Flash would eventually find its lone corner—hidden and obscured—and at last he'd be sitting.
He kept his eyes forward. It pained him to side-step, for that meant granting more faces to his peripheral—and already he could sense the scrutinous eyes scraping him, trying to find the polish that had faded from the once-popular teenager's surface over the past few months. So many conversations unfinished since Camp Everfree. So many palms left hanging. Flash struggled not to drown in the bedlam in between, and his ears ached with every turn.
"Just look at what Trixie Lulamoron is wearing today. Her family's sooooo on food stamps."
"If I was in charge, I'd send in our finest bombers. Wipe all those shitty towns off the desert. Damn waste of oil, y'know what I mean?"
"But—like—if you manage to get the condom out an hour later, you won't get pregnant, right?"
"Are the bleeding hearts running this country fucking stupid or something? God made you to either piss standing up or piss standing down. It's not that hard to understand, people!"
"I know exactly why he unfriended me. And you know what? I'm not taking back those comments. He can post all the selfies from the gun range that he wants. Stinkin' fascist will end up with a hole in his head someday."
"I'll tell you why he's still quarterback. 'Cuz he's banging the head coach's daughter! You see what that bitch wears? Hell, I'd be banging her too!"
Flash's steps slowed slightly. He clenched his eyes tight, weathering the moment.
On the other end of the tunnel, he heard a soft voice—kind and melodic: "I only have the science wing left. Once I'm done putting up all of the fliers, I'll be more than happy to help practice for the new concert."
"Oh, Fluttershy, darling!" Rarity's voice returned. "You needn't do all that hard work on your own!"
"It really isn't all that much left to do..."
"Nonsense! Any help we can lend you means more time you get to spend with the rest of us! And we so do adore your presence. Isn't that right, girls?"
"Heck yeah!" Rainbow's voice rasped. "Count me in! We'll make sure all of Canterlot High catches wind of your gerbil fundraiser!"
"Hamster."
"Whatever."
Flash breathed a little more easily. He even braved a glance at the warm table—
"Actually—even though gerbils and hamsters are completely different species—using a generalized term such as 'Rodent Roundup'' could be more eye-catching!" A pair of violet fingers adjusted glasses over an adorable, perky smile. "I've been studying up on advertising in my Economics class. Sometimes it pays to appeal to a shallow attention span!" The twin lenses glinted in Flash's direction.
He winced, nearly tossing his food as he used the tray to block his face. He pivoted from the table—from her. His shoulders were already shuddering by the time that Sunset's voice joined in:
"I... think it's not really that big of a deal what it's called. Fluttershy's long finished the design process, and she's sent out fliers like this plenty of times before. If you ask me, I say we just leave this in Fluttershy's court."
"Really?" That nerdy voice squeaked. "Is she playing tennis or something?"
Pinkie Pie laughed—leading the rest of the table to giggle. "Oh Twilight..."
"What???"
"Surely you meant to say that in jest, darling."
"I'm really curious! What does Fluttershy's court have to do with her fliers—ohhhhhhh."
"A little slow on the draw, sugarcube. Might wanna rest yer book-readin' eyes and use yer ears more often."
"Look. I know this is only my second semester here, but... I-I'm still getting used to regular conversations... y'know... with friends."
"And we're here to help you, Twilight." Sunset. Warm. Kind. "You're not alone."
Flash stared at the moving floor, imagining turquoise eyes and fiery hair. He stumbled upon a petite pair of sandals facing him and was forced to look up—but not that far. "Uhhhh..." He truly, honestly struggled with a mess of conflicting memories as he studied a teenage girl's face. "Yes?"
Her expression was deadpan—with a hint of passive consternation beneath those plump cheeks. Suddenly—and with curious grace—she bore a doll-like smile. "Hiya, Flash." The voice had a certain chirpiness to it. It was an instant reminder—like a ringtone.
"Flower Print!" Flash blinked, his fingers kneading the edges of is tray as he held it between them—awkwardly. He took a few lagging seconds to put on a smile. He somehow knew he would regret it. "How you've been? Uhm..." He fidgeted. "Calculus treating you okay?"
"I finished all of my math courses last semester," she said bluntly. "No thanks to you."
Flash's throat itched. "Oh..." He glanced aside at the rows of hunched bodies and greasy food dishes. "Uhhh..."
"There's a new music competition coming up," Flower Print said, standing tall despite her stout stature. Her blouse was fiery as her tone—the collar flaring. "The Stylin' Summer Shakedown. All of Canterlot High's coolest bands will be performing." She arched an eyebrow like one would cock an arrow. "You're going to be playing your guitar on stage again, won't you?"
"I... erm..." Flash sighed, his eyes drifting earthward as the breath carried the somber confession out of him. It almost felt like the first time he had the courage to say it to anyone. "I'm... no longer performing in my band... my former band."
"Oh?" Flower Print hummed.
"Yeah... Hank? Kyle? Chris?" Flash shrugged. "We... don't exactly hang out much anymore."
"Yeah." Flower Print nodded. "I know." She nodded again. "Hank told me."
Flash's eyes darted up. "He... did?"
"Yeah. We're going out together now."
"Really?" Flash tilted his head aside. "Since when?"
"Ever since Camp Everfree... though I don't how you'd even notice. Hank says you up and ducked out of all their jam sessions," she huffed, folding her arms. "Lamed out and became a total ghost."
"Errrr..."
"But it doesn't matter. Hank can play both rhythm and bass. He's even teaching me the strings every time we hang out. This Saturday, he's taking me to the Silver Ampitheatre out by the boardwalk."
"Oh yeah?"
"Oh yeah." That said, Flower Print leaned forward with a caustic smirk. "So... who's out of whose 'league' now?"
Flash bit his lip. He leaned back from the girl who was a full foot shorter than him. His ears tickled with Sunset's voice from a distance. There was laughter. Warmth. The scant, rippling edges of a volcano. He sighed heavily, a frown forming from deep within. There were a million things he didn't need to say, but that didn't stop him from pulling one from beneath an invisible hat.
"You're asking me?" Flash muttered. "I'm a ghost, remember? How would I know... or care?"
Flower Print blinked. A deer in headlights, for she hadn't expected that. The lapse in venom didn't last more than a few seconds, and suddenly that deer grew horns. She slapped both hands up with a grunt, knocking Flash's tray into his chest.
The boy stumbled back as his t-shirt and jacket were utterly doused with spaghetti noodles and tomato sauce. The loud clap of his falling tray attracted half the lunch room's faces, and the following outburst lassoed the rest:
"You're such an unbelievable asshole, Flash Sentry!" Flower Print barked, veins showing beneath two chins. "How could you possibly say such a thing?!"
"Flower Print!" Flash winced, shaking the Italian detritus off his wrists as he reeled. Panicked eyes mirrored a cyclonic sea of blinking faces. "I just meant—!"
"I don't care! I can't believe I ever did!" She stomped her foot and clicked her tongue, tears forming on command. "When will you ever stop being so full of yourself?! Is it any wonder that nobody here fucking likes you?!" And with a pent-up sob, Flower Print turned around, covered her face, and scrambled away.
Flash Sentry stood alone, his arms dangling like a tomatoed crucifix over ground zero. He heard muttering voices. Glancing aside, he saw bored glares and shaking heads. The only thing that unnerved the boy was how long those faces remained glued to him. A cold lump formed in his throat. He heard other mutters—softer and more harmonious. In his peripheral, he could sense seven colorful faces glancing his way. He looked down at his feet, at the crater of noodles and sauce.
Flash simply sighed, stepped over the litter, and made a bee-line for the hallway outside.
Fourth period was an adventure. Flash sat in the middle of the classroom, battle-scarred with tomato sauce. Every student spent the entire lesson staring at him. The teacher said nothing, choosing instead to go about her long-winded lecture as she sketched and sketched on the chalkboard. She didn't want to be there any more than Flash did. The teenager tried not to pass out from the sheer absurdity.
The bell rang and Flash sped out the door. He rushed through the halls, making straightway for his locker, hoping against hope that there'd be a spare gym shirt from weeks ago that he could wear like a monk's shroud to cover his shame.
He had just nearly finished spinning the combination lock when he heard a familiar voice shouting from behind: "Hey! Sentry!"
Whoever hollered was angry. Raging. Flash stupidly turned around.
He saw Hank's snarling face, followed immediatley by Hank's sailing fist.
Flash took the punch like a pro. Somehow, that made the whole thing twice as embarrassing. He clutched his chin, speaking through the numb cloud spreading through his jaw: "Yo! Dude! Chill!"
Hank simply threw another fist. This time, Flash was even less prepared, and the impact sent him stumbling back against the lockers. A pair of squeaking freshmen scattered while the rest of the students formed a gawking barricade a few blurry steps away.
"Hank!" Flash spat, feeling an iron hotness dribbling past his molars. He held a hand up—trembling. "Cool it—!"
"Fuck you, I'll cool it!" Hank loomed over him, seething. "Where do you get off treating my girl like that?!"
"Huh?!" Flash's voice legitimately cracked. His lungs heaved. "Like what?!" His body slid up while his vocal chords traveled roads they hadn't touched in months. "Dude. One moment, I'm walking through the lunch room with my tray, and then the next thing I know Flower Print's going ballistic on me—"
"Go to Hell, Flash," Hank grunted, leaning forward with both weapons clenched. "You were being a total shit to her. You were always being shitty to her. Don't think you can get away from this scott-free, asshole!"
"Hank..." Flash sighed, dropping his gaze as he slipped his bangs back. "Back then, I..." He gulped. "Things were different. I was a different guy. And... I mean Flower Print? Hank, I never... I-I mean I would never—"
A sharp eyebrow rose. "Never what?"
Flash clenched his teeth. He stifled a groan and folded his arms. "Whatever—"
Hank's answer was to shove him against the lockers once more with his palm. The other finger was used to point violently into the nape of Flash's neck. "If I catch you so much as looking at my girl again, I'm going to paint the football bleachers with your balls. Got it?"
"Yeah." Flash dribbled unethusiastically. "Got it."
Hank's brow furrowed. His fists shook as he squirmed in place—as if expecting more of a challenge. Perhaps even wanting it. At last, he threw the moment off with an aggrivated shrug and thundered off down the aisle of gawkers. Tense breaths melted, giving away to scoffing titters as every student smiled pathetically in Flash's direction.
Flash rubbed his chin again. As the pain in his face settled, he became reacquainted with his own nostrils—and the sour smell of dried spaghetti sauce. He faintly remembered scrambling to his locker a century ago. He ultimately slumped away without opening it.
Sixth period: the last class of the day. The teacher asked for everyone to turn in their homework assignments. Flash had left his notebook in his locker. The teacher sighed, then gave him a full minute and a half tongue lashing. Flash stared at the floor beneath his desk the whole time.
The rest of the class lurched on in a guilty slump. Flash's heart didn't start pulsing until the last ten minutes. Finally, the long hand of the clock finished its rotation, and the bell rang. Flash left the class first, racing past the teacher's slicing frown. He was nearly to the blissfully bright front entrance when—
"Yo!" Kyle lazily strolled in with his lazy eyes. He stood right in the way. "Flash. Hold up."
"Shit!" Flash spat against the insides of his teeth. He skidded to a stop, huffing. "Look, Kyle, I gotta—"
"Man. Aren't we bro's anymore?" Kyle shrugged, leaning in every direction Flash attempted to skirt away. "We mean so little to you now that you gotta blow past like a damned freight train every time?"
Flash slumped in place with a defeated sigh. "What do you want, Kyle?"
"Just like that! Tch... what's this all about, man?"
"Kyle, please—"
"Yo, Flash, the The Stylin' Summer Shakedown is coming up."
"You don't say."
"Man, we ain't shit without your sick guitar riffs, bro!" Kyle flung his forearms with a half-hearted smirk, digging at Flash's stained shirt and whatever semblance of a heart may have still remained within. "I ain't kidding! The band's a total joke without you, man! Why won't you come back to us? Just for one more jam session!"
"I... can't..."
"The hell you can't! What's the big deal, yo?" Kyle's smile vanished as swiftly as his grace. He frowned through the waft of diesel fumes seeping in from the bus pick-up area outside. Students exited briskly all around the two, making Flash more and more antsy. "Were we getting our 'lameness' all up in your grill or something? Man, we used to chill on stage like icebergs, dawg!"
"Kyle..." Flash rubbed his forehead, squinting at the yellow vehicles outside. "Don't say 'dawg.' I swear, every time that you do—"
"Just for one night! For realsies! Hank sucks every time he gets off the bass, and poor Chris is hammerin' away for nothing! We need you, man! I swear—we'll have the competition in the bag!"
"I... I-I..." Flash winced as he saw the buses pulling away, one by one. He stumbled forward, shivering. "I just can't..."
"Why not?"
Flash bolted past him. "I sold my guitar, okay?!" he lied.
"You what?!"
"I gotta go, Kyle—"
"Dude, not cool!" A stronger grip than Flash expected spun him back ground. Kyle stared daggers, his ears turning red. "Just like that—you abandon us? What gives you the friggin' nerve? We depended on you man! How come you had to bail on your homies like that?! I mean... shit... you wanna crawl into a hole and die—do it on your own time!"
Flash's face contorted. "... ... ...do you ever hear yourself, dude?"
"Yo, at least I've still got buddies who will listen to me." Kyle waved his forearms again. "What the hell have you got these days?"
Flash said nothing.
Kyle squinted at the other boy's chin. He nodded. "Hank do that?"
Flash sighed, avoiding his gaze. "Yeah."
"Tch..." Kyle backstepped, arching an eyebrow. "Man, Flash... you've become a total pussy." He dug his hands into his pockets, turned, and shuffled off.
Flash blinked. Then—with a gasp that shook him out of the awkwardness—he spun and rushed outside...
...only to come to a scuffling stop in front of a completely empty bus lane.
"Ass!" Flash hissed through his teeth. He looked left and then right. There was no golden shuttle in sight. He felt like cussing again, but just like so many other things in his life—he failed. He closed his eyes, fuming... fuming... and then—at last—the anger was over.
It was the first kind of passion he had felt in as long as he could remember, and he was almost sorry that it was gone.
His backpack draped in his grip as he lurched forward, shuffling around the edge of the campus. Off to the side, he could hear the well-timed chants of the football team as they ran laps beyond a metal fence. The track and field team was performing warm-ups in the grass. Cracked open windows of the school building allowed band music to waft out, filling the air with charisma, purpose, life.
Flash got a taste of what he was missing, and now he hated missing the bus even more.
He followed the seams in the sidewalk, and they took him to the front entrance. He heard the flapping of plastic in the afternoon breeze, and his tired eyes finally lifted.
Yellow construction tape had been erected cautiously around the front courtyard's statue. To any outsider driving by, the scene looked like nothing more than a statue that needed refurbishment ever since the marble prancing horse atop it had inexplicably fallen apart. But Flash knew better. Every student did.
It was a cataclysmic torrent of magic that shattered the statue. A mysterious force from another world was the actual reason for the destruction, and it had ironically ruined a piece of the foundation that housed the secret portal within. Perhaps there was refurbishment to be had—to restore the long lost mascot of Canterlot High. In truth, though, the tape was there as a temporary measure until Principals Celestia and Luna—along with Sunset Shimmer and her fellow friends—had come up with a safe plan to block access to the portal completely. Flash imagined an iron fence, or a gate, or even a mausoleum. He imagined many things; he had to. The secret "committee" that had been formed to ascertain a solution for the doorway to beyond was assembled without him. Not that he didn't have a chance to take part. The group was organized at Camp Everfree, or so he had heard... or thought he had heard. In truth, that was the time when Flash Sentry started falling asleep before daylight... and waking up before the morning dawn. Alone.
There was a time when things felt brighter. Flash was certain of it, though it all was obscured beyond a familiar fog now. All it had taken was one shove, one cold truth forged into a club that knocked him upside the head. At the time, it felt necessary... even healthy. But now... Flash couldn't pass any true judgment. He only knew that one moment he was talking to Sunset Shimmer, and the next moment he was talking to himself... silently... in a conversation that had no puntcuation.
It was difficult to mean something when he knew that he never actually meant anything in the first place.
The gateway to the other world was dangerous... off-limits... and strictly forbidden to all students. Flash remembered this the moment that he saw his wide, blinking eyes, and that's how he realized he had drifted close enough to the foundation see his own reflection. The boy gasped, stepping back, nearly tripping over the yellow tape circled tightly around that statue's base. He looked up, squinting at the bright afternoon sky where the silver legs of a prancing horse used to be. For all the good that magic had done, it sure performed a lot of destruction to get things to such a "harmonious" point. Flash briefly pondered how better off the world would be if he was obliterated too.
And when he had run out of things to ponder—which didn't take very long at all—he hoisted the empty weight of it all over his shoulder... and made the long walk home.