//------------------------------// // 1 - Of Crystals and Cutie Marks // Story: A King's Return // by Maulkin //------------------------------// I couldn't help but smile as I looked over the beautiful mica crystal. The clearly defined layers of cleavage, the cloudy transparency, the sharp angles and stark edges... It, like nearly every other crystal I've ever come across, touched me like nothing else in nature could. You can keep your flowers, your trees, your scenic vistas – I know that true beauty in nature lay in the perfect form of crystals. “I knew you'd like that,” my boss chuckled, watching my reaction as I held it delicately in my hands. I had always loved crystals and gemstones, but it was only when I started working at the church run thrift shop/food pantry that it came into full bloom – or crystal clarity, if you can tolerate the terrible pun. Crystals were donated all the time – jewelry, objets d'art, raw or partially processed stones... I even managed to score an old tobacco pipe box full of half finished cabochons, some still on their dop sticks. My love for the little beauties only grew, as did my collection, and soon I had several shelves dedicated to opals, onyxes, all manners of quartz, jade, hematite, bauxite... Several I couldn't even identify – yet – but delighted in them all the same. I tried to hide my smile as the pastor, my manager, started trying to come up with a cock-and-bull story on the spot, fishing for a famous person associated with rocks and minerals. “You know, that was once owned by, umm... Michelangelo. Yes, he actually considered incorporating mica into the Sistine Chapel, and was inspired by this very stone!” I tried not to smile at the old game we played. “Wow! How much for this priceless historical artifact?” I asked, feigning awe. “You know, that belongs in a museum... But I suppose a collector like yourself would appreciate it more. I can let it go for, oh, say, twelve hundred dollars.” “SOLD!” I called out excitedly, slapping my hand on the counter. He gave another chuckle, the smile never having left his face the entire time. “It's your birthday, so just take it,” he said, putting away his carney salesman pitch once the gag had run its course. I grinned, cheered by the good company and generosity, but especially excited about my new acquisition. 'All mine,' a small, greedy part of me thought. I tried not to feel too guilty about that feeling – everyone had their passions, after all, and feeling pride in ownership and control over a crystal was just a simple pleasure, right? A harmless little hobby, even if I did guard it jealously. I wrapped the pretty stone in a protective layer of paper towels and dropped it into my pocket, looking through the rest of the box of donated goods with the hope of seeing a few more stones. Unfortunately, it was all mundane stuff – clothes, old toys, bits of old treasures and forgotten detritus that their former owners had either not cared to throw out themselves or felt too guilty to put them in the bin. I shrugged, having long since accepted the fact that I was essentially sorting through people's unwanted refuse, and started worked on autopilot. That garment had a stain, it goes away. That garment is fine, it gets put in the pre-sort pile. That toy is complete but cheap, it goes in the toy box. That looks old, I'll save it for the pastor. That- I stopped, mentally shaking myself out of the sorting-induced meditative state. I had long since developed a set of pre-set instructions that would effectively let me work all day with minimal mental effort, letting my mind wander. While it was nice to let the hours slip by as my mind followed the precise set of instructions, a customer was waiting to be helped – and that couldn't be done on autopilot. I put a smile on my face, trying not to feel or look annoyed at the interruption, and helped them. Even this had an almost sublime order to it; pleasant greeting, inquiry as to whether they needed help with something, await further instructions. This one was ready to make her purchases, so I gave a small, polite nod, and went to work. I grouped the same priced items together for simplicity tallying them, estimated the total as they waited, and gave them an exact total when I finished with the calculator – all automatic, all practiced, all running smooth as sapphire. The entire procedure continued like it had countless times before, my own design, making things run smoothly and efficiently and getting me plenty of compliments from customers and commendations from my boss. Life was ordered, life was black and white, life was crystal clear... life was good. Which is why the sudden burning, tingling sensation on my thighs broke me out of my happy haze, an unwelcome wrench in the works. The customer frowned, noticing my discomfiture. “You okay?” she asked, more curious than worried. I gave a quick nod and plastered the smile on my face again – no sense letting her worry. “Yeah, just a rash,” I said, though I had been fine that morning and could find no reason for the sudden pain. Nonetheless, she seemed to accept this answer. I handed her the bagged items ('plastic handle held stretched so they don't fumble and embarrass themselves', I thought automatically, having identified and solved that particular problem long ago, my hands automatically performing the well-practiced motion), and wished her a nice day. With the customer satisfied and out the door, I took a moment and felt around the area of the mystery pain. The itchy, burning sensation had faded to a tingle, and finally stopped a second later. My curiosity got the better of me. I asked my brother, Luke, (who also worked there) to watch the front while I used the restroom. He nodded, distracted, and I snickered as he struggled to figure out a customer's total - he always had trouble keeping things orderly - but left him to his work. 'Not my fault he can't stay organized,' I thought, locking the restroom door behind me. Once my dignity and modesty were protected, I undid my belt and dropped my pants, carefully looking over the problem areas. And I saw... ...Nothing. No redness, no inflammation. I felt at the spots, scratching them to see if I could find anything different, but both sides felt like ordinary patches of skin. There was simply no reason for them to suddenly itch. I shrugged it off and thought no more of it,going back to work. I glanced over Luke's receipt as he started adding them up on a calculator, apparently having abandoned trying to do it in his head. "Sixteen sixty two," I said automatically, and smirked when he rewarded me with a scowl. When the customer took her purchases and left, I whispered, "Not everyone can be smart - some of us have to be good at running around like a fool and face-planting on gym mats." I snickered as he threw a shirt at me. "Hey, a few scrapes and bruises are a small price to pay to watch the women's yoga... But hey, if you're not into that I can respect your sexual preferences," he retorted, and snickered as I threw the shirt right back. Unfortunately, our banter was interrupted as someone stepped up to the counter - and the look on his face just screamed 'trouble'. Working in customer service gives one a feel for those sort of people, the people that always sought exceptions and special treatment, who expected the world for a discount. This particular 'customer' - and I use the term loosely - reeked of self-entitlement, and I took a deep breath to prepare myself for the onslaught. "Hello, can I help you with something?" I asked brightly, smiling as a last ditch effort to divert the coming storm. It wasn't to be. "Yes," he said, already testy, "I found these two items." He held up two similar shirts with their price tags showing, "They're priced differently, and I think they should both be the lower price." 'Of course they are, dumbshit,' I thought, carefully keeping my face bland, 'several people sort stuff here, you can't expect us to keep tabs on everything!' I couldn't say that, of course, so I settled with, "I'm sorry sir, but the prices are firm - we can only honor the prices as they are - you can certainly buy the lower priced one, if you wish." "But they're the same thing!" the customer frowned, growing irate. "They should be the same price!" "Again, sir," I said, growing impatient, "prices are firm. I can raise the prices to the same price - that will make them both the same price, will it not?" I gave him a falsely sweet smile, daring him to complain. The customer glowered at me, but before he could speak my brother broke in. "I think the boss wanted you to make up some food boxes in the back," he said, his face carefully blank. I frowned, wanting to give the 'customer' enough rope to hang himself with... But it just wasn't worth it. With a shrug, I strode quickly to the back before I said something I would regret. Besides, Luke knew the rules; the 'customer' would be getting what was coming to him. There wasn't much to do in the back, but it occupied me long enough for the man to leave. When the door bells rang with his departure, I grinned and hurried to the front. "Did you get his name?" I asked, walking behind the counter once more. "If he was a fool enough to give it, we could tell the Pastor what happened and get the bastard banned..." "He's not getting banned," Luke replied, sighing. "I gave him a food box and one of the shirts - the cheaper one, before you ask - because he'd just lost his job." I stared at him, shocked. He just... gave him the shirt? After all the shit he put me through?! "What the hell? He's a dick!" I hissed, glad there were no customers in the store. "I was expecting you to kick him out, not-" "Is there a problem, gentlemen?" the pastor broke in. Seriously, it was spooky how he could do that. "No, sir," I muttered, still incensed that Luke had let the guy go without so much as a verbal warning. It was like he didn't even care about the shop rules! I didn't talk to Luke for the rest of the shift - nothing more than what was necessary for the job, anyway. Once the shift ended, I clocked out and made a beeline for my car. I had driven him to work that day, and since he had to grab some of things from the break room I was able to leave before he realized my plan. "Teach you to be a douche," I muttered, cheered considerably as I left him to walk home. I rolled windows down, enjoying the wind in my hair – or, at least, I would have. My hair was getting into my eyes more than usual, and I had to keep pulling the dirty blond stuff out of the way so I could drive. Just when I managed to tame that, my phone beeped with a text message. 'dud wat da hell' I could read out of the corner of my eye - but ignored it. "Can't text and drive." I muttered to myself, smirking. It wasn't like he had a long way to go, anyway - we were a mile from work, at most. When I parked in front of the house I typed back, 'Please learn to spell properly. Besides, you can practice some of your 'parkour' on your way home - I'm helping you, if you think about it'. Smirking as I heaped insult upon injury, I strode inside and immediately plopped down in front of my computer for some relaxation time, all annoyances and troubles forgotten Even if I hadn't given my brother his comeuppance, it was hard to stay mad; my parents were gone all weekend, and it was pony night. I started loading the MLP videos while I heated up some of last night's chili, and as soon as it finished I sat down for a pony marathon. I started with first and second parts of "The Crystal Empire". Those two episodes had always bugged me; for all the backstory and potential the writers gave the main antagonist, he only gave a few lines about crystals and some menacing growls. Still, I hadn't seen it in a while, and they were otherwise decent episodes. I considered turning off the video as I heard my brother (twin, in fact) walk up the front steps. Luke wasn't a brony, exactly – he hadn't watched more than a few episodes, and I couldn't convince him to watch any more than he had. No, he was a brony fan. He specifically liked the high quality – and clean – music and videos that seemed to sprout forth from the fandom like weeds. The custom animations, the parodies, the songs - he could appreciate those even if he couldn't stand the show. We both enjoyed an appropriately timed “stay outta my shed” reference from time to time, even. What I did not expect was anger. “Alright James, you sickfuck,” he said without preamble, striding into the room with the air of barely controlled rage, “I'm impressed, but that was messed up.” I stared at him, bemused – all that over a little prank. “What?” was all I could manage on such short notice. I had expected annoyance, but he was seriously pissed. He was having none of that, however, and my confusion only made him more annoyed. “Really not in the mood for games, ass-douch. Just tell me how to get rid of them,” he says, stubbornly refusing to make any sort of sense. Something wasn't parsing correctly, and I wasn't sure what it was. “What?” I asked again, unable to think of anything else. He just glared, trying to find a hint of a smile, any sign of disguised glee... but found only more confusion etched in every line of my face. “Sooo... You didn't do it.,” he finally said, flopping down on the couch. “Crap, who else could it have been...? Mom and dad don't watch the show,” he asks, more to himself than to me. “Soooo... this isn't about having to walk home?” I asked, still unable to understand what happened and why it was so important that it should interrupt my carefully planned and scheduled Pony Time. He sighed. “No, no, but I'll be getting you for that one,” he said with a ghost of a smile. He coughed awkwardly and blushed. "No, I've got... Marks. Tattoos, I think - I tried to scrub 'em off, but they wouldn't go away." “Where?” I asked, relieved that I could finally ask meaningful questions. The situation didn't make any sense, but at least I could grasp it. “I don't see any tattoos...” He scratched the back of his head awkwardly – the conversation wasn't going as he expected either, apparently. “It's not in a place one normally shows to the public...” I gave a short bark of laughter at that, unable to help myself. “Holy hell, did you get drunk last night or something? Someone slip you a roofie?” It was nice having the upper hand for once, usually I was the one in the socially awkward situation. He shook his head, glowering. "No, dick. I didn't have it this morning before work. When I stopped in a convenience store to use their bathroom on the way home, though, I found... them." He scratched his head, thinking hard. "I can't figure out how they did it, to be honest. I mean, I guess maybe it could have been last night, but I could have sworn they weren't there when I showered this morning.” I laughed again, rubbing my hands together with anticipation. “'They'? As in plural? As in more than one tattoo? Do warn me before you tell mom and dad, I wanna get that on tape!” “Wait... do you think it was them?” he asked, livid as his suspicions shifted from me to our parents. I wasn't going to be distracted, though - not when I had something so hilariously funny “I'm sure I have no clue,” I said airily, brushing his concerns aside. “Now, come on, you've held me in suspense long enough, what do they look like? I mean, if it's not somewhere gross - I don't wanna see your junk or anything - but show me!” What were they, I wondered? Dicks? Butts? Dickbutts? The suspense was almost too much to bear. He he gave a fake grin and a 'knowing' smile. “I know you just wanna see this hot bod,” he said with false machismo, trying to salvage what remained of his dignity. I rolled my eyes, unimpressed, and he carefully pulled up the side of his shorts until I could see... “...Is that a lightning bolt with wings?” I asked, nonplussed. It wasn't even a funny tattoo. What a letdown. “Eeeyup,” he said, turning to the other side, showing me the same symbol. “The exact same tattoo on both sides, in bright, cartoony colors. Sound familiar?” he asked. He grew very smug at my continued look of confusion. I kept staring for several seconds, trying to figure out what he was hinting at... Finally, it clicked. “Wait,” I said hesitantly, hoping I didn't make myself look ridiculous, “are those supposed to be cutie marks?” “Took you long enough,” he gloated – it wasn't very often that he could rub things in my face like that, as he was always the more athletic one while I favored mental pursuits. “Now, you tell me what it means, you're the big brony fanboy,” he teased. “I thought it might be Rainbow's, but hers has clouds and these have wings.” “Sorry, I don't recognize them,” I said, shrugging. “It's not like I sit there watching the show, writing down all the ponies and their cutie marks.” He groaned. “Oh come oooon... you're supposed to know this stuff! You're the one who remembers all the pointless trivia that I don't give a shit about,” he said, only half joking. We went on like that for a while, teasing each other – he got more hits than I did, he was always better at that kind of humor than me – before sitting down with another sigh. “So... No ideas where it came from?” he asked. “Nope, sorry,” I said, shaking my head. “I mean, it's technically possible it was mom and dad, but they don't like tattoos OR ponies... not that I ever introduced them to the latter,” I said sheepishly. “Ah well,” he said tiredly, no longer having the energy to care. “I'mma hit the hay, seeya. Oh by the way, did you try dying your hair again?” he asked, almost as an afterthought. “Because it looks shitty. I mean, it's not as bad as the last time you tried dying it, but it's all patchy and goth – are you trying to counteract the ponyfag?” he teased. I cocked my head, confused. “What are you talking about?” “Your hair, it's turning all black,” he said, eying me curiously. “So... you didn't dye your hair?” “Noooo,” I said, frowning... then snorted. “What's this? Pull the plank from your own eye – I thought only grannies dyed their hair blue.” It dawned on him first. “...Shit, did someone dye our hair?!” he asked, rushing to the bathroom. I followed him with trepidation – it was one thing to watch him getting pranked, but now that I was dragged into it... Yeah, it wasn't as funny anymore. I stood next to him, running a hand through my now-darker hair. It looked like I'd shoved my head up a dirty chimney, everything was black at the tips. I made a face at that, but it wasn't so bad. Not compared to- “Seriously what the fuck I can't handle this shit,” Luke groaned, facepalming as he examined his distinctly blue-tinted hair. I couldn't help but snicker, even though we were in similar boats. “You were saying something about my hair?” I asked, smirking a little. “What were your words? 'Patchy and goth'? I suppose it doesn't compare to 'otaku animu fag',” I started to say, only stopping when I had to dodge away from his halfhearted punches. “Graaaah,” he groaned when he gave up assaulting me, “what the hell am I gonna do?! I can't go to work like this!” He looked around for something, anything, to help him solve the hair problem, but there was no answer forthcoming. Neither of us dyed our hair – not recently, anyway, and I only had a brief, unfortunate experience years ago (don't ask). “Weeelp,” he sighing resignedly, “I'm not gonna get enough sleep, but I gotta fix this. I'm going to the store for some hair dye, we can take your car-” I snicker at that last part. “What? I'm not going to the store. I'm fine with my hair, you're the one who looks like you belong in a bad anime. You can go if you want, I'm gonna watch ponies,” I said with a self satisfied smirk. He glared at me, the look on his face hinting at fratricide and violations of the Geneva Convention, but he ultimately couldn't find a good reason for me to come along. Satisfied, I sat back down to continue the marathon – I had already lost too much time with that debacle, and that was pony time lost I already had it back on and playing as he walked out the door, muttering darkly at my unwillingness to help. I just shrugged – if the situation had been reversed, he would have probably been just as much of a douche.... right? That was fair, wasn't it? I finished the second part of the Crystal Empire episodes just as I heard his car pull in, and greeted him automatically as he walked past the TV... Then stopped. Right in front of it. Even though he clearly knew it was Pony Time, and he was violating the single most important rule of TV etiquette . “Move!” I snapped, but he just continued to stand there. Incensed, I glared up at him... but his expression gave me pause. “What?” I asked cautiously as he eyed me nervously. “James... your eyes...” I looked up at him, annoyance slowly turning to uneasines. “What about my eyes,” I asked, afraid of the answer. He just stared at me, unable to speak. “Well?” I barked, starting to panic. “What's wrong with my eyes!?” He breaks out of his fugue and finally manages to say, his voice oddly distant, “They're red.” I stared at him for a few moments as the words refused to sink in. Red? That was silly. I must have misheard, or he was being stupid, or... or... I ran to the bathroom for the second time that night, hurting my hand as I nearly busted the light switch in my haste. Even for all that, though, I couldn't immediately bring myself to look into the mirror. A change in hair color is one thing; it's conceivable that someone could have dyed it in my sleep, or something. But a change in eye color? That required surgery or contact lenses, and neither of those could have happened in the past hour. My mind raced over the possibilities, but there were no forthcoming explanations; I had been alone, and my eyes had apparently changed on their own without any conceivable reason. Reluctantly, I looked up. My hopes that it had been a trick of the light or some sort of twisted joke on my brother's part died instantly; my eyes were red. Not just dirty brownish red, not pinkish like an albino's, but RED. And if that weren't enough, my hair was no longer the patchy, bad dye-job black – somehow it had become completely jet black during the time my brother had gone to the store. And.... Wait, were those fangs?! I opened my mouth wide, hoping I hadn't seen them properly... Nope. My eyes were working fine, even if they were a sinister blood-red. I ran my tongue over one of the fangs, and stifled a groan. I had to hold myself up on my elbows as I stared at my reflection, my legs having decided to stop obeying me some time prior. “What the fuck,” I growled, resisting the urge to bang by forehead on the faux-marble countertop. “First my brother becomes a weeaboo, and now I'm some sort of Edward Cullen wanna-be vampire douche," I mumble, staring at my reflection in disbelief. What the hell. I just wanted to get along with my life and watch ponies. Was that too much to ask?