CRASH!
Heavy breathing was the only sound that remained after the cascade of glass clattered to the floor in hundreds of satisfying crunches. Syntax’s hard panting felt as though they directly opened her veins and allowed her blood pressure to lower. The heat behind her ears dissipated with every exhale, and the high of destruction steadied her legs.
She trudged her way back into her chair in the middle of the room, in front of her the idle typewriter that felt a little too empty. It had been one day since she finished her story, and she was on her way to publishing the story. Just a quick talk to her editor in the morning, and it’d be in the papers within a week.
Only, one thing had changed. The boy came to meet her. In a rousing turn of events, he had informed her that he... wasn’t angry with her. That this didn’t change his desire to know her. This was the first time a source had approached her after the fact and actually... forgave her.
After all of her scheming, lying, and betrayal, Sketch was still giving her a chance. Astonishing on so many levels...
There was no way Syntax was going to let that slide. She had an even larger opportunity now. Sketch had a misguided trust in her, and it would be a shame to not take advantage of it. Maybe she could get an interview with the batfolk, or perhaps get the boy to spill about her origins. All she had to do was ride this a little further, and she could get the story of the millennia, instead of a mere story of the century.
As soon as that thought had entered her head, she threw her wine glass at the wall. It hadn’t even been filled, she most likely grabbed it for the sole purpose of destroying it, though to be frank, she wasn’t really thinking about it. Now, as she sat in front of her typewriter, she had another mission to go on.
Should she feel bad about this? No, he already told me he was okay with it. It’s only fair that I get the most out of the story so the public has the most truth to work with. It’s not my fault if somepony makes assumptions about the bats when they had the whole truth in front of them. I plan to tell everypony about how they saved me from a horrid gravity-related death. Of course, the truth goes both ways, I would also put a disclaimer about how the act isn’t necessarily indicative of their plans or nature. My article would be void of bias; the bias of the public would be their own. Even after her self-assurances, there seemed to be a heavyweight in the air. Not one that directly weighed her down, but just made it a little harder to move through the air. A proxy feeling of dread, one that had no place in her own heart. She didn’t feel bad about what she had to do, but the atmosphere still made her feel uneasy.
She gently caressed her typewriter. She was much too tired to write... but that never mattered. One must do what one must do.
Knock, knock, knock, the door sang. The sound bounced off the walls before residing firmly in her chest. Her ears perked, and she looked up from her desk, to the door. That was why her work station was in the center of the living room. It was so she had direct line of sight with the front door. It made everything feel... safer somehow.
Knock, knock, knock.
One could tell a lot from a pony’s knock. Different temperaments for different patterns. The triple knock, the most common pattern, often dictated a pony’s class. Most would pass the test since it was a matter of common decency, but the most rowdy and unruly of individuals would make up a rhythm for their knocking, and casual souls usually stuck to the shave and a haircut tune. Knocks in general also meant personal business, as one who wished to do business would use the doorbell.
Knock, knock, knock. There was also the pause between sets of knocking. Long pauses usually meant the individual was of a shy sort, thinking all sorts of excuses as to why the host was taking so long to answer the door. Medium pauses were reserved for the confident type, and extremely personal visits between family and long time friends.
Knock knock... knock... Short pauses? That was a very rare knock... usually reserved for hostility. When it was paired with the classy triple knock, that meant a patient hostility. The kind law enforcement use, or royalty with a bone to pick. She was used to that knock. Royals never did like what she had to say.
Syntax approached the door and looked through the peephole. She couldn’t see anypony, just like when Sketch came by earlier today. He was the only one that had ever done that, the little rascal, so he must be by again. Then again, she really couldn’t think of a reason why he’d be back so quickly, it was only a few hours after he left, and he should be getting to bed soon for school tomorrow. Well, she wasn’t his mom, so may as well let him in. She turned the knob and swung the door open. “Sketch, what are you doing here so-”
Syntax was interrupted by a large grey blob dropping from above and landing on all fours. As the shape began to form in front of her in the sunset of the afternoon, Syntax realized in horror that Sketch was not the pony who was knocking. The pony slowly rose his head and met her eyes as he straightened up with his chest out. He almost looked regal. His wings flared, and he bore his teeth.
It wasn’t a normal pony.
It was the batstallion that had saved Sketch from his fall. And now he was standing right in front her, looking down at her, his eyes half open, as if he was expecting something from her, and he was unimpressed. He wore no scowl. He wore no anger. He was a blank slate. That was probably the most terrifying part.
He didn’t need to say anything. His bulky build and intimidating presence said it all, as he started to take unhindered steps forward into Syntax’s house. She made room for him as he walked, and before she could react in any way, he was already through the front door. He closed the door behind him in silence, and then turned the deadbolt lock.
What transpired after that, was akin to a foalhood staring contest. Except it felt that she’d have her neck wrung if she lost this one. He was daring her to move, to speak. But as it became clear that she had hoofed control over to him, he spoke, his smooth, gravelly voice embracing Syntax’s head, betraying the cold dread she felt in her heart.
“I’m going to make this simple for you,” he slowly, evenly said. Lucky me.
He casually started to brush his hoof over a shelf and checked it for dust. “You destroy that photo you took, and all of your blood remains on the inside of your body.”
Syntax furrowed her brow, her composure finally catching up with her. Something about his voice soothed her anxieties, though the effect was just as disorienting as the anxiety itself. However, mention of the photo reminded her of Sketch, and combined with the stallion’s cool temper, made her brain start formulating a plan.
This stallion was here because he valued Sketch, not himself. The evidence was his speed in saving the boy’s life, and his contentedness with letting Syntax fall to her death. He clearly wasn’t just trying to be a hero, and Sketch’s casual mentions of him suggested they had a friendship or some such. Therefore, the batstallion would probably ease off if he knew Sketch was alright with the photo existing. She had to play a power card, get control of the conversation back. So she stomped her right hoof forward. “Not happening.”
The bat widened his eyes just a tad, not expecting resistance. “Perhaps I didn’t make myself clear. This isn’t up for negotiation.”
“I’m calling your bluff,” she said calmly, more calm than she was feeling at the moment. “You wouldn’t hurt me.”
“Try me,” he replied, his steely gaze unchanging. He took a step forward, but Syntax held her ground this time.
“You must not care about Sketch, then,” she challenged, stomping her hoof in emphasis. Barely, just barely, his eyes widened, and his leg twitched slightly. She grinned, and narrowed her own eyes, newfound confidence fueling her words. “Because he was just here, telling me how grateful he was that I saved his life.”
He remained silent, no doubt sussing his mind for what to say. But Syntax wouldn’t let him take the floor, she had to remain on stage. “The police won’t help me cause they wouldn’t believe me. But... I could tell Sketch. He would be furious.”
He looked off to the side, a symbol of surrender. Syntax didn’t have time to celebrate her victory, since he quickly trotted past her and started to go through drawers and cupboards. “Doesn’t matter,” he assured as he tossed a ashtray onto the floor, causing it to shatter. “I’ll just find it and destroy it myself.”
Uh-oh. Not much she could do about that. Except... “Oh, cosme on, Mr. Bats, you underestimate me. You don’t think I’d have copies?” This was one of her favorite bluffs, since no pony ever thinks to validate her claims. She did have one copy, sure, but it was sitting on a shelf in her bedroom, not exactly hidden. “I have ten copies, and half of them are in my cabinet at the office.” She was hoping that he wouldn’t point out the fact she could’ve have just abided his demand and used these mythical copies without his knowing, but something told her he wasn’t very bright aside from his vocabulary.
He grimaced, angrily knocking over the last good vase she had into pieces on the floor. “Well then, we’re at an impasse.”
What?
“What are you talking about? I’m at the advantage, you have nothing on me.” She folded her forelegs. “I know you must be some weird big-hoof esque social outcast or whatever, but you just lost this debate.”
“Is that right?” he asked incredulously. “I could just not leave.”
“Come again?” she asked, her voice level.
“I’m not going to leave until you take care of the photo. I’ll stay here, eat your food, relax on your furniture, and if you ever try to get help, I’ll just fly out the window.”
“You can’t be serious,” she sarcastically droned.
“What are you going to do? Beat me up? Call the police? I’d be gone before the get here. Everyone would call you crazy. They might even arrest you. You’d be the lady who cried bat.” he folded his forelegs in a mock stance.
“While that sounds annoying,” she started, cocking her head. “What are you going to do when I publish the story? I wouldn’t be crazy then.”
“Then I’d set fire to your place,” he stated, as a matter-of-fact.
Shit. If she publishes the story, he’d have nothing to lose at that point, and Sketch would probably forgive him eventually if she wasn’t harmed. They were at an impasse, and in fact, she was at a disadvantage considering her leverage wasn’t actually real. “Well then? What do you propose?”
“I was hoping that you would have an offer,” he said. “I know you want your story. How about you implicate only me?”
Syntax laughed. “I don’t think you understand why I’m doing this, Mr. Bats. It’s for...” She stopped, her jaw dropping as something came to her mind. She could use this. Bats’ cooperation could make her story of the millennia, the story of the entirety of history. Or it might actually make her story worse, but her journalistic ambition was never the goal; it was integrity. She can get Sketch’s story, and Bats’ story in one go, and clarify any confusion and any questions the public might have. It might even equinize them so much that the public accepts them even faster, if they do end up not being dangerous. Everypony wins. Not that it matters, but it's nice to think about. Of course she can’t be having Bats know about her intentions. “You know what? I think I can work something out.”
He rose his brow in response, the first budge his stale face had made since he walked in.
“I have ten copies of the photo, and multiple copies of my article. I’ll cut you a deal. You let me interview you ten times, and take photos of you, and maybe some other light tests, and I’ll destroy a photo for every session.” She nodded for emphasis. “As a bonus, I’ll destroy all the extra copies of my article immediately, only leaving the original, after the first session.” She trotted up to Bats and placed a sturdy hoof on his shoulder. “We have a deal?”
Bats put a hoof to his chin, and after a few moment, closed his eyes and sagely nodded. “That is acceptable. Anything to spare Sketch and Trust their hardships. They don’t deserve any of this.” He looked out of the window, and despite his sorrowful words, his tone remained even. “I, however... well, the jury is still out.”
“Is that right?” Syntax asked, rhetorically. “Well you can tell me all about it... as soon as I get my notepad.” She began her trek to her bedroom up the stairs, but looked back when she was near the top. “Oh, one more thing.
“You can’t tell Sketch.”
Syntax Axiom (Interviewer): “Okay. So I know that you haven’t really done anything like this before-”
Royal (Batpony Interviewee): “You are the fifth pony I have ever spoken to.”
S: “Yes, so I just wanted to tell you a few things before we start. First, this device I am holding is a ‘tape recorder’. Don’t ask me how it works, because I have no clue. But when I press this button it will keep an exact record of every sound made, and store it in this ejectable tape. One can then rewind and play it back, and it will remake all the sounds previously made. This can be done as many times as necessary.”
R: “Interesting... Can it record music?”
S: “Uhh, yes, well, I just said it records all sounds. Why?”
R: “... Just wondering.”
S: “Okay. One other thing, but you seem to be natural at this, but try to pretend like you’re not being recorded. I want nothing but genuinity from you.”
R: “You don’t have to be wearisome of that.”
S: “Alright! So let’s start off simple. What’s your name Bats?”
R: “I don’t have a name. At least, not in the traditional sense. I didn’t have parents, or at least, I am not aware that I did, so I was not given a name at birth. I go by ‘Royal’ by the select few ponies that know me, though I just picked a random word I heard when I was young and decided that it would be my label.”
S: “Royal, huh? I prefer Bats, but-”
R: “It doesn’t really matter to me. I don’t care about what ponies call me, only that they have something to call me. It’s more for their convenience than mine.”
S: “So you’re not going to be offended by me calling you Bats?”
R: “No. That would be inane. I am offended by the other things you do.”
Syntax looked up from her notepad, distracting herself from the shorthoof she was writing in accompance with the recording to pass Bats a glare. Bizarrely, he wasn’t smiling, which was pretty unsettling considering the ribbing he was delivering. Syntax cleared her throat and continued.
S: “Okay, then, Bats. How old are you?”
R: “Like many things, I’m not quite sure. I think eighteen, when I started to keep track. But I was cognizant as far back as I can remember, so I must have been at least three years old when I started to keep track. So, twenty one? Twenty two? Somewhere around there.”
S: “What do you mean cognizant? Are you saying you remember nothing about who took care of you when you were a newborn?”
R: “Not even sure if anypony did. The oldest thing I can remember was waking up in the forest, alone, tired, and afraid. My... instincts, I guess you would call it, were fairly strong, and I didn’t have much trouble finding food and water. It was hard, but I don’t think I was ever in danger of being malnourished or dehydrated.”
S: “You can’t be telling me that you survived completely on your own, in the wild, when you were just a colt.”
Royal seemed to grow uncomfortable at her last statement, clutching his leg and looking down out of the corner of his eye. Syntax rose her brow, but allowed the pause.
R: “No, of course not. I... I tried asking for help when I first woke up. I knew very basic equish already. Of course... the individuals I approached... they did not... see me as non-hostile.”
S: “Really...?”
R: “The exact words were ‘demon-child’. Needless to say, I was not about to reveal myself again any time soon.”
S: “So, did anypony help you?”
R: “Not directly. There was a college south of Canterlot, north of the small village of Ponyville, that was old and about to be shut down. I hid in the attics one night, and pilfered their food and medicine whenever its residents were away. That was also where I learned my advanced equish; that class had a hole in its ceiling, letting me listen in to the lessons. I spent twelve years sheltered there, before the building was torn down.”
S: “I see...”
R: “I only spoke to one pony in all my time hiding there. An old janitor, at the end of his years. His eyes were too bad to see who I was in the dark, so he thought me a normal stallion. When I encountered him, he told me he knew that someone was hiding out there in the dark, as he noticed the missing food and supplies being reported throughout the years. In the end, though, he said he wouldn’t tell anypony about me, and mentioned that he knew how rough life can be.”
S: “So... no direct care?”
R: “No. I did everything myself. It got very rough a few times, having to nurse my own wounds and illnesses, but the embrace of death never took me. Though, that may be because I’m made of sterner stuff than normal ponies.”
S: “Elaborate, please.”
R: “Nothing too special. I simply get hurt less, sick less, and have keener senses. The only real special element I have is, for some reason, the cold doesn’t affect me. I feel the cold, and it can get uncomfortable, but it won’t get me sick or harm me in any way. I can also see in the dark, and apparently my eyes glow.
S: “Apparently?”
R: “I never noticed myself, as I don’t see any light reflecting off of surfaces. But I’ve been told. Might not be real light, but a sort of illusion only ponies or living creatures can see. A kind of magic, I suppose.”
S: “Interesting.”
Syntax looked up from her notepad and noticed Bats looked a little more solemn than before. His attitude had changed, ever so slightly, since the mention of the college. She shuffled in her seat, before clicking the stop button on her tape recorder. “Off the record,” she said, setting down her notepad. “Why are you doing this for Sketch?”
“Why does it matter?” he shot back, folding his forelegs.
“Well, it doesn’t. That’s why I’m asking off the record.” She got up from her seat and headed toward the kitchen, grabbing two glasses and a bottle of whisky. She shook her head once she re-read the label, deciding whisky was probably a little too strong for Bats, and grabbed a bottle of wine from the cabinet instead. She thought about grabbing wine glasses and trading the cups she had already grabbed for the sake of decency, but then thought better of it. Bats was the type of person to not care, and she may as well take advantage of it since she didn’t care either. She poured the two glasses and walked up to him, hoofing him the glass. “I just want you to satiate my curiosity. I guess you don’t really have to answer if you don’t want to.”
Bats eyed the glass and then her, then back to the glass. He finally grabbed it, before retracting his hoof and cradling it close. “Well... I saw him speak to Trust. The understanding, and empathy... that is why I’m doing this. I never knew that a pony could be capable of giving us a chance, and he seems to make it so simple, so easy. I just want to pay it forward, in a way. The first time we spoke, he seemed to not even notice that I had these damned wings. If he did, he didn’t care. He simply made sure I wasn’t a danger to Trust, and then acted as if he knew me all his life. He laughed and joked and talked, like it was nothing. In a way, I feel as if ponies like him are the only chance we have in making a community. One that I may take part in one day.” He rose the glass to his lips and coughed once the alcohol hit his throat. “Geh. Is this alcohol?”
She laughed, still recovering from his heartfelt explanation. It seemed as if he thought about this a lot. “Yes. I almost gave you whisky by mistake, that probably would have torn you apart.”
“It burns my sinuses.” he commented, rubbing his nose. “It tastes a little like some of the medicines I stole from the school.”
“Some medicines have alcohol,” she confided, taking a long sip of her wine. Seeing her do it in confidence, he took another drink as well.
“Its... pleasant. Barely. I think.” For the first time, he struggled with his words, like he didn’t quite know how to describe it.
“Its an aquired taste,” she said, swishing the glass around. “All alcohol is. Wine is one of the weaker ones. Beer usually beats it to the seat of the weakest, but it also tastes horrid, so I wouldn’t subject you to that.” She found herself still standing next to him, despite ample chances to take her seat again. “The burn is quite refreshing when you’re in the mood for it, though.”
“Why would somepony drink something that didn’t taste good?” he asked, taking another sip in spite of himself. “I mean other than to just get drunk.”
Syntax hmmed, and cocked her head. “The same reason you watch a tragic play, or read a book in which the main character makes frustratingly wrong choices.” She took another sip. “It doesn’t make you happy, per se, but it brings out feelings that a comedy or a book with a competent hero wouldn’t be able to.”
“Hmm...” He stared at the solid dark liquid in his glass. “I suppose I can see that. Filling certain... holes.”
Syntax frowned. “Well, I wouldn’t put it like that, but...”
“All of the sudden you’re the optimist?” he deadpanned, his even tone helping his delivery.
She laughed, and walked back to the sofa. “Touche.” She cleared her throat, set her glass down, and picked up the notepad once again. There was a small click as she pressed the record button on her tape recorder.
S: “Okay. So let’s be clear. You had no real contact with ponies during your life?”
R: “...No.”
S: “Did you want to?”
R. “...N...no... No... I... Well, there.... No.”
“Okay, Bats, what’s wrong?” Syntax asked, turning off her interview voice, but allowing the tape recorder to remain on. When he didn’t answer, and had his usual dead stare, she sighed, and slapped her notepad on the couch. “Come on, Bats. Think about our deal. You need to tell me the whole truth, or it’s off.”
He slowly sighed, placing a hoof on his head. “Fine,” he folded, running the hoof down his face.
R: “There was the equish professor. I must have been... sixteen. She was new, replaced the old stallion that was there before her. She was very young, though I don’t know how much. She was so upbeat and intelligent... I wanted to speak to her.”
S: “You had feelings for her?”
R: “I was young, and stupid. I know now that it was naive to have a one-sided romance with me borderline stalking her from the ceiling. I also didn’t understand the more... biological side at the time. But you have to understand that the only experience with these kinds of feelings were from fiction I heard the students reading in the classroom. A lot of Shake Spear. She liked Shake Spear.”
S: “So how did... she react to you?”
R: “I never got the chance to gather the courage to talk to her.”
S: “What happened? Did she leave the school?”
R: “She killed herself.”
Syntax dropped her notepad and her jaw, unable to even process what she had just heard. Silence filled the room, and Bats’ simply stared at her with his usual expression.
Syntax was pretty resilient when it came to news. She had seen and heard her fair share of atrocities and tragedies, assaults and murders. But it was always after the fact, and those she dealt with during interviews were ponies she didn’t know, personally or by association. And they usually sounded sad, or angry, depending on their relation to the event.
But Royal simply said it like he would answer a math question. Totally dead.
Not to mention, this is the first suicide she has had to deal with. She didn’t think it would leave her feeling so... empty. Like lost potential.
S: “O... oh... I’m so... I’m so sorry. W-why?”
R: “I never knew why. I heard about it by some of the faculty gossiping in her empty classroom. They said she didn’t leave a note, just whoever found her saw her... her... hanging from the ceiling.
S: “Fuck...”
Syntax didn’t feel it would be right to apologize for her language. It was more appropriate to let it sit.
R: “It doesn’t matter anymore. It was so long ago. I left shortly after. Everything that reminded me of the place made me nauseous.”
S: “That’s understandable.”
R: “At that point, I was old enough and strong enough to live off the land. I did some very basic gardening, though it took a while for me to get good at it since I was just doing guesswork. I mostly hunted and gathered.”
S: “Hunted? You eat meat?”
R: “Don’t... all... ponies?”
Uh oh. Pretty much all hope that ponies would accept the batponies was now in the garbage. It took hundreds of years for ponies to not view griffins as the bane of all existence, and the relationship was still shaky at best. Many ponies were still protesting the sale of synthetic meat, and it was illegal in certain cities, and that’s synthetic meat. It’s just a bunch of soy and vegetables mashed together to mimic the consistency of meat, and that was still considered taboo. Syntax chuckled nervously as she decided how to handle this.
S: ”... uh... hehe... no... we don’t. We actually just aren’t able to, our bodies can’t handle it. We’re herbivores, we can only eat non-meats. Well, technically we could eat meat, but it’d probably be very hard on our stomachs and might get some ponies sick.”
R: “Oh. I didn’t know that. Meat has always tasted the best out of all the food I found.”
Syntax felt her stomach churn. He really shouldn’t have said that, she could feel the heat of the torches the angry mob no doubt had. Personally, even though the thought made her sick, she didn’t care about what he put in his mouth, and she was one of the advocates for griffin sympathizing. But her personal preference didn’t matter. He was committing political suicide.
And the thought of suicide just made her more ill.
R: “Especially rabbit. Very tender.”
S: “Alright, alright, that’s enough! Ahem. So let’s make sure I got all this straight. You woke up in the forest by yourself, you were chased out of a town by some scared ponies, you seeked shelter in a college where you learned equish, and you stuck there until you were around sixteen, and you’ve been living in the forest by yourself for... six years?”
R: “Seems about right.”
S: “So that seems like your story.”
R: “Suppose so. How are you going to get nine more of these out of me? I’ve told you everything about me.”
S: “Not necessarily. I know your history, but we still got your feelings, emotions, preferences, biology, abilities, talents... You don’t know how thorough I can be.”
R: “Sounds invasive.”
S: “You agreed to this.”
R: “I suppose I did. Doesn’t make it any less invasive.”
“Come on,” she egged on, “you’re enjoying this.” She pressed the stop button on her recorder, and jotted down a last few notes in her pad. To her surprise, he actually took an inquisitive look.
“I haven’t had to speak this much in all my life,” he stated. “I can’t lie, it is nice.” He took a long sip of the last of the wine in his glass. “Even though this is all artificial.”
“Say what you will of interviews,” she said, chugging the rest of her wine, abandoning any pretense of formality. “You’re a natural at it. I can’t tell you how many ponies put up an act when they know they’re being listened to.”
“I have no act to use.”
Syntax’s eyes shot open at that, but she couldn’t figure out why. It was a simple statement, maybe a little poetic, but nothing to really write home about. Still... maybe it was because he was right. Unlike every single pony she had ever spoken to, he was the first stallion that had absolutely nothing to hide. Not even Sketch could’ve said that, charming as the boy was. “Yeah,” she said, not really listening to herself.
“I suppose I will be back... tomorrow?”
“Mhmm,” she confirmed, just now regaining her composure. She shot up from the couch and held a hoof to stop him. “Wait! Still got to take pictures.”
He nearly turned green. “Do we have to? That flash on the night of the incident made me feel like my eyes were going to explode.”
She was about to explain how necessary it was, before realizing that it would be a lie. “Uhh, I can turn the flash off as long as the environment is well lit enough, if you can stand the light.”
“Light is tough to look at sometimes,” he admitted. “But anything will be better than that explosion that was the flash.”
“Good, good, just let me get my lights.” She was going to have to improvise a mini-studio of sorts, but considering the plain white walls and the quality of her camera, it should be acceptable. She grabbed every lamp she had and every fire lantern she could find, setting them up on her typewriter table and facing then towards the wall. She grabbed a tomato from her basket as she worked, and Bats had taken a seat on the more comfortable couch, abandoning the wooden chair at the desk he was originally using. As she bit into the tomato, she elbowed the stationary batpony on her sofa.
“Want a tomato?” The sheer absurdity of her current situation, for the first time since he showed up, finally hit her. A weird vampony that a high schooler was hiding from her just showed up in her apartment, demanding that she destroy the evidence of their existence. Said highschooler and vamponies saved her life from a malfunction skytram, and was the only reason she trusted their presence. And now she was offering it a tomato, as he sat on her sofa.
“Sure,” he accepted. Syntax threw away her initial musings of her life and abided, trotting back to the basket and grabbing a delicious, perfect, red tomato. She should really take the time to properly thank Sketch for them, but she was a bit stressed out during his visit. “Think fast,” she warned before throwing the tomato vaguely in his direction. She was off on her throw, it was a little high and far off to the right, but he impressively leaped out of the chair and front flipped as he caught the red missile in a way that preserved its shape. He had a three-point landing, with the tomato safely in his last limb. Afterwards he casually returned to the couch, calmly taking a bite of the tomato.
“Wow,” she stated, “that was pretty cool.”
“I caught a vegetable. Not a big deal,” he humbly admitted.
“Tomatoes are fruits, Bats.” She tapped her head in a ‘the more you know’ fashion. He shrugged in silence.
It took a minute, but the lights were finally set up. Her apartment was now a mess, but she never needed help to do that before, so it wasn’t really worth getting bent out of shape about it. “Alright, Bats, stand right here.”
Bats obeyed, setting aside the scraps left of the tomato on the table. “Okay.”
“So we’re just going to do a couple standard anatomy shots, since I need more time to take anything more dynamic with this equipment. One side profile, one front profile, and an alternate side profile. I’ll take some closeups next time, and I’m going to have to take an undercarriage shot eventually, even though it might be a little... embarrassing.” Syntax set the camera up as he took his first position, and she prepared her shot. That was until she saw something unacceptable. “Are you serious?”
“What?”
“You have tomato juice all over you,” she scolded, sighing in exasperation. She quickly grabbed a washcloth from the kitchen and trotted up to him. There was a faint red liquid running down his chin and his chest was disheveled and sticky with bits of tomato in it. “Holy crap how did you manage this?”
“I don’t know if you’ve ever eaten a tomato before, but...” he jolted suddenly when Syntax began to wipe his neck with the washcloth. “It sprays,” he teetered off as she ran the towel across his neck.
“I know, but I didn’t expect you to tear into it like a frickin’ dog.” She ran the cloth up to his chin and put extra effort into cleaning that up. He needed to look at least presentable to the camera. She suddenly felt a sharp pain in her leg nearing her hoof. “Ouch!”
Bats seemed dumbfounded and at a loss for words, but snapped out of it one he heard her exclamation of pain. “Y-you alright?”
“Yeah, yeah, something nicked me.” She inspected her hoof, and saw a small speck of blood drip down her leg. She looked back up and spotted the offender, Bats’ fangs sticking out a near inch from his mouth. Funny, she never really notices them very often. “I think it was your dumb teeth.”
At hearing he caused it, he immediately reached for her hoof and inspected it, nearly causing Syntax to fall to the side in astonishment. “Fresh!” she spat, but not really doing anything about it. To her horror, a fast consequence of not pulling away, was Bats lowering his head and running his tongue along her leg. She was too shocked to react at first, but then pushed him away when it looked like he was going for a second lap. “What the hell!” she yelled, pulling her leg close to her chest. “What the fuck was that?!”
He appeared confused, and he looked behind him to make sure she was talking to him. After verifying, he turned back to her. “I was licking your wound.”
“Frickin’ why?!” she yelled, no longer paying caution to her volume. Bats rose his eyebrow, unsure of why she was raising her voice.
“You were... hurt?” he said in the form of a question. His quizzical nature suggested like what he did was the most normal thing in the world. “That’s what you do when you’re hurt,” he finished as if he were explaining it to a child.
“I could just wash it in the sink! Or, or, lick it myself if I really had to!” Syntax growled, blood rushing to her face. “You don’t just lick other ponies, Bats!”
“Oh,” he oh’d, rubbing the back of his mane. “I see animals do it all the time, I thought...”
Syntax blinked, and then sighed as she forced her frustration out of her body. “Right, right, I forgot. Sorry. You’re so good with words I keep forgetting that you haven’t really been a social butterfly. That’s not something you just do to other ponies.”
“Oh,” he said again, remaining silent this time. His usual even demeanor had fallen somewhat, as he looked off to the side with his brows furrowed.
“It’s fine, Bats. Just ask next time, alright?” Syntax coughed awkwardly.
“Okay,” he agreed. He was clearly embarrassed even though he was very good at not showing it. “So then, when would it be okay?”
“Licking wounds? Never really, we have medicine for that now.” Syntax cleared her throat, struggling to get her next sentence out. “Sometimes other ponies would lick each other when they’re getting... intimate... but... that’s still like, somewhat rare. Except in uh... ahem... certain places.”
“Oh,” he said once again, this time with wider eyes than usual.
“Alright, alright, let’s just forget this ever...” Syntax inspected her hoof again and strangely saw... that the cut was smaller? And it was already clotting. “Woah.”
“What’s wrong?” he asked, cocking his head. The fact he got over it so quickly made Syntax a little jealous since she was still reeling from it.
“Uhh... nothing, really. I just stopped bleeding. That was fast.” She remembered what she was doing before the ‘saliva debacle’ as she was now calling it. “Right, we gotta get you clean before you stain your fur.” She approached him again and started to clean the last of the tomato on his chest. But now... she felt kinda weird doing it. In the back of her mind, she realized how this must look if there were a third observer in the room, with her running her hooves all over him. To be fair, that’s probably why he felt like doing what he did would have been acceptable. Not that she’d ever take the blame for him, but she felt like neither of them really did anything wrong. Well except for right now, considering she was still doing it despite her revelation. And she kept doing it. Why isn’t she stopping? She could just give him the towel and tell him to do it himself. Buuut... well she’s almost done, right? No point in wasting time. Even though nothing time sensitive was happening anytime soon, and she wasn’t terribly tired.
“Miss Syntax?” Bats asked, blinking a few times. The use of her name snapped her out of her reverie, where she noted in her stupor that this was the first time he used her name. He also called her ‘miss’ which was weird but not unacceptable.
“Yes, right,” she coughed, throwing the towel off to the side. “Try not to ruin your hide again.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it, just don’t hand me another ‘fruit’.” he dryly retorted. She smirked at him as she approached her camera, silently asking herself why she just gave him the satisfaction of smiling at his joke.
“Okay, stand a little straighter. A little more regal, royal, Royal.” She cursed herself at her terrible joke at his name, but kept herself focused on the job. He puffed his chest out and rose his chin, doing way too good of a job at appearing regally. “Okay, cool it a bit, lower your chin.” He obeyed, but he subconsciously leaned on his left leg as he did, making him appear more awkward than before. “Jeez, lemme just..” She trotted up to him and put her hoof on his neck. “Okay rear your head a little bit...” She tapped his chin. “Keep your chin level...” She placed one hoof on his back and pushed, with her other hoof lightly pressed against his chest. “Puff out your chest, but not so much like you’re gonna blow down a little pig’s house or something.” She kept her hoof on his back and reached down to his leg. “And don’t...”
She looked up to look at him in the eye as she spoke, and found herself choking on her words as she met him. She didn’t notice it before, probably because of the light pollution of the near setting sun, but his eyes really did glow. Feral-looking cat eyes, was the closest thing she could describe it as. That’s when something hit her. Why wasn’t she scared of him? Everything about him were things that she should fear, his beastly, unnatural attributes. But even when he was threatening her, the only thing that was scary about him was that he was a big, very fit, muscular stallion. In truth, she maybe found him too fascinating to be scary. She practically jumped at the chance to interview him, and could not cease her curiosity even when he was standing right in front of her. The dark purple and blue hues of his mane and fur seemed to change almost in front of her eyes, just barely, as if the light level itself changed it. Bizarrely, it seemed as the sun grew dimmer, his colors contrasted more, instead of becoming dimmer as well like a normal pony. His bat wing, which felt very leathery, brushed up against her as he shifted for some reason. She was going to have to take a look at them when she got the chance.
“Miss Syntax?” he asked suddenly, snapping her out of her reverie where she blinked a few times. He had turned his head to look at her more completely, and his brows were furrowed as he appeared concerned. She shook her head and cleared her throat.
“And don’t bend your knees,” she finished, feeling her ears burn. Why was she slipping so much recently? She was never this sloppy. I blame Sketch. The fact he knew so much about her when she thought she was doing a good job with the masks she wore put her on edge. She began turning on all of the lamps she had in the area, having a shadow of a hope the light would be even all the way through. Bats winced every time a light clicked on. She ran back to her camera and snapped a photo without really making sure his pose was right. Though a second look revealed that her directions were followed to a T. “Now forward.” Click! “Now the left side.” Click!
She quickly trotted to the lamps and turned them all off, for his sake. He rubbed his eyes in mild discomfort after the fact, blinking to right his pupil size. “Thank you.”
“For what?” she asked, taking down her camera and inspecting the lens.
“I was skeptical when Trust told me that Sketch was fond of you. After everything you’ve done I thought it impossible for him to have any reason, but...”
“But...?”
Bats approached her and looked her in the eye again. “I can very much see that you aren’t completely spiteful for no reason, like I had guessed.” Syntax puffed her cheeks out in feign offense, which actually made Bats crack a small smile. The smile alone nearly broke her brain, seeing the first expression other than bored indifference adorn his face. “But you are decent and reasonable otherwise. Obviously you are doing what you are doing for a reason other than for the sake of being mean.”
Syntax didn’t reply, but instead just wore the same expression he usually did, and stared him in the eyes.
“Someday I hope you would tell me why,” he said, his smile fading.
“Why? What good would knowing do?”
“Knowing that my failure helped a greater cause would be comforting.” He folded his forelegs. “You do know that I never planned on hurting you? I don’t have it in me. Even if you didn’t use Sketch for leverage, all it ever was, was empty threats.”
Syntax snorted a laugh, and immediately covered her muzzle in embarrassment. She was really going to have to stop doing that. “Good to know.”
“See? That’s what good knowing does.” he said, the ghost of a smile appearing on his lips. The rarity of said smile made it all the more warm. It was making her feel weird.
“Whatever,” she spat, but couldn’t keep the smile from stretching across her lips. “See you tomorrow.”
“See you tomorrow, Miss Syntax.”
“What’s with the ‘Miss’ thing,” she finally found the courage to ask. To her surprise, he shrugged half-heartedly.
“You just seem like a ‘Miss’ to me. The stories I would hear in the attic, characters always referred to the classy mares as ‘Miss’.”
Syntax blinked. Was that a compliment? She couldn’t tell, he didn’t have the tone for it.
“Do you want me to stop?”
Don’t say ‘call me Mistress’, don’t say ‘call me Mistress’. “No,” she answered, keeping her blank face.
“Okay.”