RUN
There's only one rule: never stop moving.
"We're like sharks," Dripshine says, hoof tap-tap-tapping on the sandstone roof. "Land sharks. We're the top of the food chain, the best in the world, until we stop moving. Then we sink and fall and die. So all you have to do—" Those ice-glass eyes catch the rusty Manehattan sunlight, and for half a second they're almost too bright to look at. "Is never stop. Don't look back. Always have a goal and always chase it." He's shifting back and forth, tensing and untensing his hind legs. Like a nervous cat. He turns to me. "Give me a goal."
I let the skyline sink into my eyes, etching every detail somewhere behind my retina. Giants made of edges and right angles and chipped facades stare back, sunset-glazed monsters. The writers— they get it wrong. The city's not our playground. It's not a conduit or a jungle gym. The buildings aren't steps, aren't walkways, they're buildings, and they have no respect for flimsy flesh and blood. If you fall, you have no one to blame. It's their space; they were there first.
"Left," I say, flicking my forehoof out towards a double-decker storefront. "Left to the store, bounce the canopy onto the apartment facade, climb up, vault to the next block and go from there." Right now, 'go from there' means 'I'll follow you'. It used to mean 'catch me if you can', and before that it meant other things, warmer-softer-tangled-mane-flat-on-my-back-against-the-sandstone things, but that's past. Don't look back. Never stop moving.
Shine shakes his head. "Too easy. You're feeding me minnows, Scoots." His lips twitch out in a half-version of that gutpunch smile, the one that makes— used to make— my coat shiver and my blood turn to sparks. "Give me something I can sink my teeth into."
I don't want to think about the feelings so I focus on the words, and I give a little half-smile too, dangerously close to a laugh. Him and his similes. Today we're sharks. A week ago we were birds. Always anything but what we are. "Fine," I say, my smile melting as I concentrate. "How about—"
There. The route draws itself in the red-orange negative space in front of me, and the half-smile yo-yos back again. The run I've found is a work of art: a smooth, flowing line that bounces off walls, soars over alleys, ricochets between parapets and curls around spires. There's beauty in Manehattan, but you won't find it in the buildings or the ponies. It's in the movement. The pulse.
I look at him, and this time, it's a full smile on my face, a full half-moon-watermelon-slice-midsummer grin. "All right, I got it. Follow me." The challenge drips off the words like hot butter, pooling in the air as Shine's eyes narrow but I'm
already
gone, off the crumbling edge and into the air, riding that breath-catch-stomach-suck feeling as the next building races toward me. I feel my wings itch at my sides, ready to unfurl, but I ignore them—
"Gliding is a crutch," Shine says, shaking his head as his eyes rake across my wings. I take the moment to admire those eyes, again, like I have every day of the week— only a week?— I've known him. They're glimmering, iridescent, somewhere between sun-caught ice and glass, and right now they're staring at me and his mouth is set in a frown—
"—and if I don't need it, neither do you. You got that?"
I nod, bite back a sigh, refurl my wings, my pitiful, stunted, dead-weight-too-small-feather-lumps that even when I was a filly could barely maintain a hover, forget anything else—
And then there's a warmth on my neck and Dripshine's looking at me and his frown is gone and his forehoof is hooked around my crest and goddess, he's warm, so warm, like he's pumping fire under my skin, and then
he
leans
in…
And I'm back in reality as my hooves smack against the sandstone; I grunt and leap-roll-throw myself forward, coiling the shockwave around me like a spring. Another hoof-smack-grunt from behind me, and I can practically feel the sweat on the air as Shine vaults up from his roll, ready seconds after I am but I'm already off, the war-drum-rhythm of my hooves hitting between the beats of my breaths and my heart, thump-breath-thump, per-cus-sive.
There's a wall here, a stairwell block, twice my height plus a little more. I draw a line through it with my eyes before my muscles yank me up, onto, over and there's the stomach-suck feeling again, and I'm flying over sandstone only inches from my nose— pull your hind legs up, don't scrape, don't catch, don't fall, don't twist, now focus, brace
for
IMPACT; I land buttery-smooth, flawless, a sweat-soaked ballerina on a city-sized stage.
The line tugs me to the right, to the Manehatten Daily building with its marble-dome top and sky-pierce-needle-spire, and I veer off, covering feet in seconds. Shine's behind me, close, and I can feel the cold burn on my neck; his eyes are locked on me, laser-focused. Blood in the water. Shark's hunting. I push the ground away, and the wind snatches at my mane with scrabbling fingers, throwing it around, tangled mess of sunset purple that I need to trim—
I only remember the words.
"You know, you could always cut it short. It'd get in the way less."
"You could always go to hell."
"Not quite a fair trade. Really. You'd look good with short hair."
"Maybe. Dunno. I'd have to think on it. Always had it this way. 'S easy. Free. Low-pressure. Not sure if I wanna change that."
"The mane makes the mare, huh? All right, whatever. At least tie it back."
"You know I've tried. Not worth the forty-five minutes it takes, not
even
close…"
TOO CLOSE— I can see the stone-pores inches from my muzzle as I'm inches from an almost-smear of blood, an almost-scream of pain—
I force my hooves down and they hit the ground first, jolting me, saving me, and then I STOP. Blood's humming in my ears, in, not spattered against the rooftop, and I relax, catching my breath. Only seconds, but they're l-o-n-g seconds, stretched by the backflow of time against me, me not-moving-not-running-not-living.
"Good?" The word comes from behind me, squeezed out between Shine's quiet, panting breaths. I nod twice, quickly and jerkily, up-down-up-down.
"Good." It's automatic, a safety check we've built into each other over years of almost-blood, almost-pain, almost-death.
"Go?" Will you?
"Go." How could I not?
The air rushes against my skin like a sigh of relief as I burst into a gallop and beat a path into the wind-smoothed marble, trespassing freely and easily through This Place I Should Not Be. I— we know the stakes: discovery means death, maybe not literally, but as good as. If we're found, if we're known, if we're public, we will lose the city and ourselves, or so he says—
Shine looks at me, disapproving. "Not selfish, self-preserving," he says. "It's not like we're stopping anypony from coming out and doing what we do, right?
I nod, slowly, doubtfully. "I guess." You're wrong but I'm too scared of breaking us to say it.
"Besides, do you really want all of this…" He steps forward, wraps one forehoof around my shoulder— tingling sparks shoot through my leg, my heart, my veins— and gestures out at the rooftops surrounding us with the other. "To belong to everyone? Imagine it: Popularity, recognition, fame. Our way of life would be the latest craze, and everypony and their mother would come swarming across these rooftops, making noise, getting themselves hurt and killed looking for a cheap adrenaline hit. Is that what you want?"
What I want is freedom. What I want is friends. What I want is something, anything other than you. Just for once.
I realize the silence has gone too long when Shine breaks it, half-concerned. "Scoots?"
I can't read his tone but I know it's not a happy one, so I nod more vigorously. We've been stretched thin already these past few days, the Couple's First Fight coming on slowly, years late. No point making it worse. "No. You're right. I like this. I like this… this…" I trail off, searching for a word, and Shine cracks a smile.
"Solitude?" Perfect. The word choice, not him. He's a long way from it. But I don't want an argument, not here, not now, so I give in.
"Yeah. That's how it should be. Just us. Solitude..."
I flip and spin all the way through my free-fall, wrap the humid-city-smog air around me like a quilt and making one, two, three revolutions as I depose that dictator gravity over and over again. But she's persistent as ever, and soon I find the ground, or the ground finds me— I've always wondered, are we running from or seeking it?— and hit in sequence, one-two-three, first front then back then the rest, tumbling. The world does a few flips of its own before I'm up again, looking ahead—
Whoa.
Every jump is a sliding scale between 'possible' and 'deadly' that can tip back and forth in half a blink. This one is already skewed hard towards 'bloody pavement smear': a l-o-n-g gap to a storefront roof even with this one— a sixty-foot drop at least— bridged by a billboard, Pony Joe's Fresh 'N Hot, perfect for wallrunning. I smile. Smile and look back at Shine, who's landed behind me, his face mask-like, unreadable. Calculating, considering.
He thinks too much.
"Go?" I ask, and back comes that melted-butter challenge, seeping into the air and soaking us in tension. He doesn't answer for a while, still lost in his own scale, letting it tick-tick back and forth. Worth the rush? Worth my life?
Finally, he looks at me and the mask shatters and his eyes are hot, not sexy-hot, wildfire-hot, bright and vivid and ready. "Go."
I clear the rest of the roof in a burst of adrenaline, throwing myself over the edge full-throttle. You can't half-ass life and death, especially not when death holds favor…
"You ever… think about it?" I suck all the emotion out of my voice before it leaves my mouth, letting the empty word-husks drift through the air. I don't like holding back, but if I don't my feelings will just get in the way.
"About what?" He doesn't do the same. His question is soaked in emotion, mostly confusion with a dash of concern like a shake of pepper. Concern for me. He's worried about me, the cripple— he hates that word but it fits— he's known for barely two weeks. My stomach flutters.
"Death. Dying." I let the word fall dry and heavy from my lips. No point in skirting around it.
Shine pauses for a while. Stays silent. Thoughtful. Then he shakes his head. "Honestly, no. Not really. No point in it. I guess when risk is just a part of your life, it sort of fades into the background, you know?" Another pause. Then he looks at me, frowning, and my stomach flutters again. "Why? Have you been…"
I nod. "Yeah. A little." More gutted words.
"Don't." More emotions. Gentleness and conviction, both at once. It's a heady cocktail. "Trust me, Scoots. It's so much better that way. Just live, and when you die, you die. Accept it and move on. Don't worry about something you stare in the face every time you wake up."
I nod again. "Right." A tiny bit of grateful confidence squeezes into the word, but he's not done.
"Hell, if I could die anywhere, I would want it to be while I was up here. It'd be almost peaceful, in a way. Just close your eyes and let the ground catch you." My jaw clenches a little at that, but I see more concern in his eyes so I force myself to relax.
"Would you scream?" It's a random, morbid thought, but I need something to occupy my mind, something to beat back the suffocating silence.
Shine chuckles. "My mom used to tell me that if you screamed before you died, your soul would leave through your mouth and you wouldn't return to the stars."
A half-smile pulls at my lips. "Your mom was a crazy salt-blasted bitch."
"True, but I still don't think I would. You only scream when you're scared, and I wouldn't be scared, I don't think."
I stare at him. "You say that now."
He shrugs. "Maybe, maybe not. We'll find out eventually, but for now,—" He cuffs me lightly on the back of the head with his forehoof, a good-natured 'get over yourself'. "Quit thinking about it. Don't worry,
just
live…"
In this second I am more alive than I have ever been.
I twist sideways, letting my hooves glide against the metal of the Pony Joe's board before I push, one-two-three-four off and up. The lip of the building shoots closer, closer— forehooves out GET READY— thump.
I'm hanging by my front legs, dangling over death, over infinity, for one-two-three-PULL, up and onto, and then I'm panting, gasping, swaying back and forth from my all-natural high, drunk on adrenaline and terror and freedom.
I hear Shine jump but again, I don't look back. It was a promise of ours, unanimous and unspoken: neither of us would ever watch the other die, to keep those final seconds alive and untainted.
The sounds are as good as movie frames: The sandstone-scrabble of the takeoff, the thump-metal-squeak of his hooves against the billboard, the half-grunt as he pushes out into the air, the silence…
The silence-silence-SILENCE-SILENCE, TOO-LONG-TOO-LOUD, DEAFENING. My stomach feels like it's folding in on itself but I push off, forward, faster, burning away the emotions with my body heat. I don’t acknowledge it, can’t acknowledge it, no-please-NO...
I'm half a building away when he hits the ground.
I blink and the world strobes bright-dark-bright, feeding my brain snapshots that I take in slowly, letting each one sink in.
Blink.
Wall. Dull-white. Stained.
Blink.
Dresser. Oak wood. Scratched.
Blink.
Window. Blinds shut. Closed.
Blink.
Pillow. Next to me. Empty.
Blink.
Shine. Not here. Gone.
I snap my eyes open and let the light hit them, taking in the apartment in all its shabby second-hoof glory. Everything's here, in its place, in the almost-neat way he had insisted we keep it…
Had.
My brain grinds to a halt as it hits that word, dousing me in a rapid-fire slideshow of memories. We had been friends, had been lovers, had been each other's only competition, had had had had, right up until a day—, no, not even, hours ago…
I flop back down against the sagging bed and resist the urge to shut my eyes and pretend everything will melt away. Not falling into that trap, that downward spiral. Not now or ever. Set a goal, meet a goal. I need a goal.
Coffee. I need coffee.
I get up. Slowly. My joints pop, crack-crack-crack, and I grimace. Didn't stretch last night. Paying for it now. Not that it matters.
The machine is in the corner of the tiny kitchenette, next to a few bags of rubber-banded Pony Joe's. I skim the labels:
Zebrican Harvest. My usual favorite, but I need something stronger.
PJ's Signature. Decaf. As if.
Manehatten Black. Sharp and dark and bitter…
"Like the ponies." He smiles at me, and I bounce it off my confused expression. Redirecting, so I don't have to deal with the fact that yes there is a cute earth pony colt with gorgeous eyes sitting across from me and yes, he is interested…
"What?" Questions are blameless and effortless. No one can fault you for asking one, and with a few upraised syllables all the focus is off you again. Questions are the reason a lot of ponies confuse insecurity with curiosity.
"You know. Black coffee. Dark and bitter. I mean, Manehatten's not exactly sunshine and rainbows, right?" He pauses, shakes his head, and the smile turns embarrassed. "Ah, never mind. Dumb joke. Sorry."
"No, it's fine." My reply is so quiet he has to lean in to hear, and when I notice I flush and force the next sentence louder. "I liked it. Just took me a second. Dark and bitter, heh." It's almost convincing.
"Oh. Yeah, hah." His words fade, and the silence pours in to replace them. It streeeeeetches on, stifling, until finally he sighs out through his nose and locks his eyes— oh my Celestia he has pretty eyes— with mine. "So, uh…"
It takes me a half-second to realize he wants my name and another to decide whether I should let him have it. "Scootal— I mean, Scoots. Just Scoots." It's a knee-jerk correction, reflex, and I grit my teeth as I realize I've said it out loud, but he pushes on anyway, brushing it off with another smile. Smooth as silk to my sandpaper.
"Okay, Scoots." That's what his voice is, the voice that's made me search for a simile the entire conversation: Warm-silky-sandpaper. Soft and smooth with just the right amount of grit. I bask in it as he speaks again: "Look, I like you, but I can tell you're pushing me back— fuck, that sounds so cliché, doesn't it?" He half-laughs even as I frown, almost startled by the curse, the way it sounds coming out of his mouth. "But you're still uncomfortable here, I can see it, and honestly, so am I. So I want to show you something." He stands up, turns toward the door, looks back at me…
And this would be the point where I would coolly tell him that no, you're wrong, you can't tell, nopony can put emotions in my head, you arrogant prick, and then I would walk away but he's right, which makes it worse, and goddess-damn is he good-looking…
"Are you coming, or should I leave?" The question would've sounded prickly and irritated from anypony else, but the way he says it reshapes the words, rubs them smooth. Neutral.
I consider. He's a risk, I know, a walking-talking warning sign— UNKNOWN TERRITORY, DANGEROUS, STAY AWAY— but maybe risk is what I need. Maybe, but maybe's enough.
"Sure. But…" I pause and hate myself for doing it, because now I have time to backtrack and I'm almost certain I will if I take long enough— "I need your name." It's true, I do, but I also need a way to end the sentence, to close off the safe option before I take it.
He nods. "Right. I'm Dripshi— I mean, Shine. Just Shine." The words— the mistake are mine, but he takes them and makes them his own, and instead of being mocking, they're encouraging. Yes, you screwed up, and that's fine. That's more than fine. You are more than fine...
And in that moment I love him more than I've ever loved anything else.
I love the smell of brewing coffee.
Any kind, even the ones I hate, it doesn't matter. The rich, warm, earthy smell makes you alert-but-calm, bright, awake, vivid. Ready. I lose myself in it, close my eyes and breathe in, letting the drip-drip-drip of the machine count the seconds. When I exhale, my eyes open, and I don't feel calm, but close enough…
Close enough didn't save him.
I breathe in again, deeper, letting the sharp coffee-air fill my head until my eyes water. Forcing out the thoughts, thoughts I won't have, refuse to have—
There's a knock at the door.
I FREEZE. Period, full-stop, legs-locked-solid. The knock comes again. Three hits, not taps. Loud and urgent. Thunk-thunk-thunk. For half a second I'm choked, giddy and insane with impossible hope, and then reality hits like a brick to the muzzle. Why would he knock? And not that loud, anyway.
Thunk-thunk-thunk. Whoever's at the door isn't giving up. I pull my hooves up from the floor one at a time, like it's made of mud, and slowly walk across the kitchen. The door is inches away when I hear the fourth knock, and this time, I respond, quietly-but-not-quite-calmly: "Who's there?"
The answer is relieving and terrifying. "Manehatten Watch. Open up." The voice is low, gruff and masculine, the perfect match for a Grizzled Protector of the City. There's a pause, then it adds, "don't worry. You're not in any trouble. We just need to ask you some questions."
The stallion behind the door can't see my fake-indifferent shrug, so I try to put it in my words. "Then ask them." I need to tear the answers out of myself now, quick and clean, before they fester-spoil-rot into real emotions, ones I'll have to deal with.
"We will. Down at the Watch building. It'll only take a few hours." The voice isn't annoyed yet, but it's close and getting closer. "Open the door, please."
"I have coffee brewing," I reply, stalling with the first stupid excuse that I can think of. It's bad, but better than 'don't you need a warrant for this?' The Watch's integrity matches their paychecks: barely any, dropping every year.
"It can wait. Open the door." There's the annoyance. Slow and simmering, but there. I sigh, trot back to the coffee machine and flick the switch OFF with a wingtip— only thing they're good for— and before the guard can speak again I throw the door open and come face-to-face with a grim wall of grey and bronze. The colors of the Watch. Of the sky. Of the city. There are three of them, stallions, and I cycle through the usual panic-responses as I take them in. Fight or flight? Trick question, since I can't do either.
The guard in front— the speaker— gives me a curt nod and jabs his hoof down the hallway. His mouth says "follow us," but his voice says "don't push me if you want this to end well."
I hear his armor-plates clank as he pivots military-style and starts walking, just fast enough that I have to trot to keep up. He knows— he saw me, saw my height, saw that my legs were shorter, but he doesn't slow. Intimidation tactics. Pushing me down. 'Not in any trouble'. Right.
I grit my teeth and walk.
The name of the detective who's interrogating— interviewing me is Golden Glass. He's a unicorn, just about middle-aged, with dark eyes and a scruffy half-beard and a pelt that reminds me more of sunflowers than gold. I know his name because it's on a placard on his desk, engraved in the fake-silver on a backdrop of fake-wood, thin spindly letters that dip and curl in the usual too-perfect-to-be-hoofwritten way. Golden Glass, Police Detective. Me, Unwilling Suspect. Right now he's looking down, brow furrowed as he scans a stack of papers, so I sit, quiet, and look around.
His office is on the third floor, which means he gets a window: a scratched-smudged pane of glass looking out on the dirty rooftop next door, but it's still a luxury. Besides that window, the room is dull, almost bare. No pictures, no magazines, no pinned-up quotes, only the essentials: desk, chairs, cabinets, table. Nothing to look at but him and the window, but that's too far left to see without turning my head. It's intentional, I realize, more ways to get inside my head. Nowhere to rest my eyes. No distractions. No escape. Then Golden Glass speaks, and I look at him, grateful for something, anything, to focus on.
"So, miss…" There's a pause as he skim his notes, picking out the biggest pieces of me from the black-and-white and filing them away for later. I am not a Pony. I am not a Victim. I am Evidence. "Scootaloo?"
He knows he's said the wrong thing from the way my jaw clenches, and before his frown is even finished forming I've spat out, "Scoots. Just Scoots, please." The last word is fake-polite, forced-annoyed-polite, but Glass— credit to him— doesn't miss a beat.
"Scoots, then. I understand you were close to Dripshine—"
"Shine." No politeness this time. Not out of respect for the dead— lifeless tissue clinging to slow-dissolving bones— but out of respect for him. Who he once was, who we once were…
Was and were. Past tense. They feel so strange.
"Right, of course. My apologies," Glass says, blinking. He's not sorry, I can tell, but I don't blame him. Empathy is probably difficult when you're dealing with a Murder Suspect. "But you were close to him, correct?"
"Yes." No hesitation, no avoidance, no 'you could say that' or 'I guess' or 'maybe'. Give them the answers they want to hear and they won't hear anything else.
"All right. Could you tell me what happened yesterday afternoon?"
"Yes." Not 'I could'. Not 'I'd rather not'. Just a confirmation. Freeze them out with cold compliance.
"Please do. Take as long as you need." He leans back in his desk chair and his horn lights up, wrapping a quill pen in shimmering almost-sunlight. I watch him dip it in his the inkwell, wetting the nib one-two-three times, and when his eyes are back on me, I speak.
"And, that's what happened?" Glass says, quill still scratch-scratching on the second— or was it third?— sheet of parchment. I nod, not fast or slow, neutral.
"Yes." No emotion. No emphasis. Just agreement. The lie had been easy— believeable, I wasn't sure— but definitely easy. Alcohol and bravado and stupidity and heights, and me as the grieving marefriend, forced into sullen near-silence by the shock. It wrote itself.
"I see." He sighs through his nose, and my blood freezes. That sigh was doubt. Suspicion. I am not Evidence. I am a Suspect.
"You said he was drunk?" he asks, keeping his voice just as neutral as mine. I nod again. No words this time, not when I'm being hot-frozen from the inside out. "You do know there were autopsies, correct? Blood tests? There wasn't a drop of alcohol in his system, Scootal— sorry, Scoots. Are you sure that's the story you want to give?"
My blood is winter-dirt-slush in my veins around a stomach like a chunk of concrete. I open my mouth but I can't form words, so Glass fills the silence with his instead.
"Were there any altercations between the two of you before the incident? Any fights? Disagreements? Even small ones."
The memories flood back, still sharp-prickly-clear, and they hurt but at least now I'm feeling something, the numbness is gone, and so I nod. "Yes. There was a fight."
"When?" Still neutral. He's good at this. I try to match him.
"A few weeks ago." Close but not close enough.
"And what was it about?"
"It was…"
Watching Shine get angry is like stoking a fire: his voice doesn't lose any of that warm-bladed-honey edge, it just flares up. Gets stronger. Right now it's coat-singe-hot, and I'm standing in the inferno, quiet and defiant.
"They saw you."
"And?" No hiding this time, no bitten-back emotions; I let the anger-irritation-contempt flow free, firefighting with fire.
"Don't bullshit me, Scoots." I blink, half-surprised at the curse, but he plows on, oblivious: "you know why we can't do that. I've told you. Again and again and—"
I cut him off, my flames leaping over his, smothering them. "What about what I told you? About not being so goddess-damned scared of other ponies, no, of the whole fucking world? What about friends, the ones I've never had? What about keeping it alive after we're gone?" I stop to glare, and he glares back, eyes bright, furious.
"Who says we need to?" Calm and quiet, like he's speaking to a tantrum-throwing filly. My stomach coils itself over and over, twisting into rage-filled knots. "Why do we need to leave a mark, Scoots? Why can't we just live?"
"Because I'm not a selfish fuck." The words are choking me, forehooves-in-my-throat, but I spit them out before I suffocate. "Because there's something in making another pony happy." I'm on a hair-trigger, on the verge of— screaming, sobbing, running, I don't know what—
"You make me happy… "
Trigger-pull.
"You. You you you, it's all fucking about you, isn't it?" I say in a half-whisper, hoarse and guttural. It's worse than a scream, low and grating and horrible, and I feel a burst of savage-animal-joy at the look on his face when he hears it. "Nothing's worth it unless it makes you happy, huh?"
"It's not about me, it's about us!" He's shouting now, and the words are treacle-smooth-fireballs echo-bouncing off the buildings below us. "It's always been about us!"
"Maybe to you, it was," I snarl back, then I spin around and begin to stalk away, half-angry-triumphant, half-frozen-shattered—
"Wait! Scoots!" Desperation. It's an ugly fit for his voice, but it catches my attention, makes me stop, slow. "Please! I don't care if you hate me, but think of the city! Think of this!" I turn— on impulse— and see him pointing out over the rooftops, sandstone bones under a blood-and-fire sky. "Is everything we've done— everything we love— is it really worth destroying, just for your selfish revenge?" The word 'selfish' stings me like a slap, but it pushes me forward, too, one last time. "Is it worth it?" he asks again, and this time, I have an answer, even as I feel the hot-angry-helpless-tears prick at the corners of my eyes…
"It's worth you," I choke out, and the teardrops spatter on the stone as I turn and run from the best years of my life.
Golden Glass is staring at me. His eyes are sharp and dark, so dark I see my reflection in them, my pupils in his, and then I blink away the memories and I can speak again. "It was nothing. We wanted to go different places for dinner and it blew up from there. But that was it. Just a fight. We made up." The lies stack like bricks, my cool impassiveness is the mortar. Building my wall. They'll never touch me, never touch us.
He nods. "I see." Silence for a while, then he sighs one more time and stands up from his desk, motions for me to do the same. "That's everything we need from you right now, but don't be surprised if you're called in again over the next few days. Inconvenient, I know, but it's just the way the system works."
I bite down on a bitter-hot reply, nod, and turn to leave. As I'm walking out the door, his voice stops me, and this time, I read it like a billboard: sympathy, thick and cloying.
"Scoots?"
I don't turn, don't speak, just nod. Yes?
"I'm sorry for your loss." The needle-prick-words sound sincere, but that doesn't make them hurt any less. I nod again, trusting my muscles over my mouth, and walk out the office door, the lobby door, the building door— so many, entranceways to entranceways— and into the warm-muggy-afternoon sun. It soaks through the clouds and sloshes on the pavement in shimmering waves of— not half-light, it's brighter than that, three-quarter light, maybe— and I bathe my hooves in it as I walk, washing them clean.
The days fall into a rhythm, strange but predictable:
Wake. Half-glance at the empty pillow. Turn away.
Rise. Coffee. Breakfast if I can stomach it.
Wait. Some days the guards come later, but they always come.
Walk. No words, just hoofsteps and tension.
Sit. Listen to Glass. Talk when I need to. Build my wall.
Leave. Drag out the trip back so I don't have to deal with home, with empty, with alone.
Eat. The cabinets are emptying one by one, but they're not empty yet. I don't fill them. Don't plan on staying much longer anyway.
Sleep. Restless. Taunting. Soaked in what was and what could've been.
Wake-Rise-Wait-Walk-Sit-Leave-Eat-Sleep-Wake… they start to blur together after a while, and soon the only thing that's clear are the memories, but goddess are they still clear, bright and sharp like sunlight off a razor. I hold them, trap them, live them over and over, like rivers carving canyons through my head, but then they melt into the rhythm too, smudging and fading, bad photographs, cracked mirrors, murky water, and the days-minutes-hours go on and on and on and on…
It's been a week— maybe more, less— when it all
finally
breaks.
Golden Glass is staring at me. His eyes are sharp and dark, so dark I see my reflection in them, my pupils in his…
I realize he's speaking so I tear my gaze away and listen.
"They're finishing the documentation right now, and releasing the story tomorrow." Late. As usual. No death gets in the papers before it's been wrapped-up-scrubbed-clean-sucked-dry by the Watch. "You're in no trouble, free to go, actually, but they…" He glances around, looking almost— is that guilty?— and leans in close, close enough I can feel his breath on my skin and it's all I can do not to scream-shove-leap-bolt…
"They're reporting it as a suicide."
My breath catches. Stuck on the words, they're a wall, a pit, a trap, ropes, binding, crushing…
"Why?" I whisper, so soft he almost leans in closer. "Why?" Questions are blameless and effortless. "He didn't…"
Glass shakes his head slowly, sadly. "Easier to believe. What's more likely? A healthy, sober, mentally balanced earth pony— the most sure-hoofed of all the equine races, no less— just happens to be alone on the roof of the Manehatten Daily building, nowhere near where he lives, and then just happens to think climbing the Pony Joe's billboard near it is a good idea…" He stops, leans back, sighs. "Or a depressed earth pony, devastated over the breakup with his marefriend, decides to end it all in a single jump. It's just more plausible…" His eyes narrow, hardening to glittering specks of coal. "Assuming what you told us is true."
I am paralyzed. Can't-move-speak-can't-think, but if I don't, this will be his legacy: fake-words, fake-sadness, a half-paragraph in the Manehatten Daily, no photo, and they'll shake their heads and sigh, 'such a waste of a life' and then he will be GONE.
He wanted a quiet death, but— no. Not like this. Not cleaned, shined, shackled to lifeless ink-on-paper. He deserves better. Anyone deserves better. I deserve better. If he fades away, dust-to-dust, what am I left with? Empty pillows, empty sunsets, empty city. No movement, no rhythm, no life.
Selfish, maybe, but it's a sin I can live with.
"Scoota— er, Scoots?" Glass says, mouth twisting, half-concerned-still-suspicious.
I smile at him, teeth-baring-burning-ember-hot. My blood hums in my ears, pulsing alive with that runner's instinct, and now, suddenly, I am clear. I have a goal. Time to chase it.
The line traces itself through the room, through my lips-hooves-heart-head, and I follow it, clean and easy, effortless, buttery-smooth. "It wasn't true," I say, and a laugh— how long has it been since I laughed?— coats my voice as I see his coal-glint-eyes widen. "None of it's true. He didn't fall, he was pushed. I pushed him. I killed Dripshine." More lies, mixing, layering, but this time they'll save-not-cage me. I'll be a Convict, but I'll have a Reason To Live.
Glass is standing up, mouth wide, ready to yell— let him yell, let him tell them all, let them follow, oh please goddess let them follow— and I'm already at the window, hooves under the clasps, screech-sliding it up and open, shoving out the screen—
And there's Glass behind me: eyes hard, face grim, hooves around my hind leg, and I laugh— a verge-of-death-nothing-left-can't-stop-won't-stop whooping-scream of joy— and twist away, kick him back, pushing off hard,
up
over
out…
The next rooftop twists with my confidence, fades in and out, far-close-far; I barely remember my hooves until they almost miss the lip, then I grab-tense-pull and gasp with joy, fear, relief, all of those and more. Here, now, I'm untouchable, a sun-hazed shadow dancing on twisted walls— never-here, never-there, always-in-between, moving-shifting-flickering— and here, now, as long as I'm breathing, I have a purpose: Escape. Evade. Survive. RUN.
I burst into a sprint and the sun-kissed sandstone warms me until I could be glowing, bright and flickering, a fading sun, a dying star, and there's a yell from the window behind me, rough-scabbed with rage, and I don't look back but I do smile wider. Let them rage, let them scream, let them hunt-me-chase-me-curse-me-hate-me, let the city sink and collapse and crumble to dust, let be what will be, let come what will come, but no matter what comes, they will never touch us...
And we will never, ever stop running.
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A note to those who use nonstandard chapter font sizes (basically anything but the default 'Normal' size): there is a fair amount of formatting in the story, and using any font size but Normal will result in it breaking. I suggest temporarily changing it if you want to experience the intended effect.
EDIT: apparently this happens on mobile devices (like IPads) too. I may consider making a formatting-free version if there's enough demand for it.
First things first:
There's a typo about a third of the way through the story. "Blood in the water. Shark's hunting." -> "Sharks." Shortly after there's an asterisk next to an "I", I'm not sure if that's intentional (I'm inclined to believe it is, because later there's a "*He").
I don't remember who's supposed to say which line, but I am fairly confident they're not both Scoots, as is implied here, because it doesn't make sense as is.
Now, the interesting part. It's great to see you experimenting with formatting, and I really like the distinct voice you use in this story. It's very Hemingway. I do like what you did with the non-linear series of events, but I felt like you could have made it a little bit more clear when you were changing the time (I didn't actually know for at least the first thousand words. I did notice that the length of time that Scoots was mentioning was changing, but I didn't make the connection to the actual time changing, if that makes sense. Maybe I'm just stupid.)
Regarding what I guess could be called your "Word Waterfall", where you write
like
this:
Again, it's cool that you're trying new things with the formatting. Something like this is /incredibly/ jarring to read, and forces the reader to stop, think. It's great that you're doing this in a juxtaposition to the general fast pace of the story, and you usually used it to demonstrate Scoots' control of the situation; that time was slowing down in her perspective and she was living in the moment. It was really cool that this effect stopped in the interval between Shine's death and her confession, showing all of the events blurring together and implying that she was dazed. The problem, however, comes in a couple of the times you used it when this /wasn't/ the intention - usually in dialogue, especially Shine's, when Scoots is conflicting with him. In those situations, Scoots isn't in control; she's not running; the pace should be more... I don't know the right word, maybe "viscous"? I'm having trouble expressing my thoughts about this, but a perfect example is when Shine says "solitude."
One last thing, I'm confused about your inclusion of Scootaloo as a character in this. Having her around begs a lot of questions that you don't really address, and while I can see the value in that in general, Scootaloo is completely different from Scoots, and I brought a lot of preconceived notions about her that weren't valid in this case. I'm not sure what she's adding to the story, and I can see a lot of things she's detracting (i.e. reader confusion). I'm legitimately curious as to why you chose her instead of just writing about two OCs.
Criticism aside, I did enjoy the story. It's always a treat when you get something new out. It might be a bit more of a treat if that "something new" had been The Eternal Song (HINT HINT), but I digress.
(Just to be clear, that was a joke. Definitely write whatever you want, don't let some stupid Sheep tell you what to do)
Edit: Oh, and by the way, I've been sleep deprived for the better part of the month, so if none of this makes sense I blame the copious amounts of caffeine in my bloodstream.
2911791
Yay, a comment!
All right, I'll go through your concerns one by one:
First, the 'typo' was intentional. I just truncated the sentence "the shark's hunting" (the shark being Dripshine).
The asterisks, however, aren't intentional, they're what my word processor uses for italics tags and they shouldn't be there. I'll fix them at some point.
Not sure how the death-dying line doesn't make sense. The scene starts with Scoots asking Shine if he's "ever thought about it" with 'it' being death. Let me know if that still doesn't make sense.
The timeskips: funny you should mention those, since I originally had actual time tags until my editor told me to remove them and replace them with subtler indicators. Evidently, they were too subtle. Might re-add them at some point.
Formatting: the general idea was to use the kinetic linebreaks ('word waterfalls') to sort of match the pace and direction of Scoots' running; you'll notice I only use them when she's jumping or falling. Th words drifting down are supposed to mirror the flow of gravity and symbolize her re-grounding herself in reality.
Why I used a chicken: fun fact, the story was originally going to be about Scoots dealing with Applebloom's death under similar circumstances, with Dripshine playing the role of detective, but I eventually realized that would overcomplicate a story that was really only supposed to be about two characters. Scoots stayed as the protagonist because I wanted to write a 'flightless-Scootaloo' fic without it devolving into saccharine wish-fulfillment or sadporn, and because IMO a flightless pegasus is a much more interesting candidate for a freerunner than a generic earth pony.
also because I would have to find new cover art if I changed the character and I really don't feel like doing that
Hope this answers your questions at least somewhat.
2911900 Re: "Death, dying":
Scoots asks if Shine has ever thought about it, Shine asks about what, Scoots says "Death," and then the next line says "[Scoots] nods. 'Yeah'", and then Shine tells her not to.
Re-reading it, it looks like you might have lost a line. Maybe what it was meant to say is:
Could be wrong about that, if so, please explain how it's supposed to read.
I don't think time tags are really necessary, and they'd probably do more harm than good. I agree with the editor on this one. I'm sure it's a really hard line to walk between "too blunt" (time tags) and "too subtle" (present state). I don't envy the task, but if you have to err, I'd say err on the side of subtlety. I prefer this state to time tags.
I understand what the "kinetic linebreaks" are supposed to be, and they are really great when they're used like you say, when she's running or falling. The problem is that they aren't only used for that. Examples:
Like I said in my first comment, I really like their effect when they're used in the right context, but I think you missed the mark with them a couple of times.
2911964
Oh shit, I did miss a line. Will fix soon. As for the linebreaks, they are all kinetic. The ones you mentioned are supposed to be 'transitions' of sorts, taking he from reflection back into the real world. If you look at the paragraphs directly after the ones you quoted you'll see what I mean. But I dunno, if you think they detract from the flow too much I can nix them.
2911991 I looked back through at all of the linebreaks, and honestly I only have a problem with the "solitude" one. After reading it the first time, I remembered disliking their application in at least one place, and just looked for ones that "looked" wrong, without looking more in depth. So yeah, having checked again I like all of them except "solitude".
I think if you just collapse that one linebreak you'd be fine. But again, it's probably bad practice to take artistic advice from Sheeps.
animalpictures123.org/wp-content/uploads/2012/05/Domestic-Sheeps.jpg
Seriously, what does that guy know? Probably nothing.
You know how people think they remember seeing bambi's mother get shot when really it happened off-screen? I feel the same way about Shine.
This is excellently written. Really, the prose is great, even if it borderlines on artsy pretentious a little every now and then. Unfortunately, the prose and the formatting are so in-your-face, that they actually overshadow the story itself. It ends up sort fading into the background, and the emotions feel muted as a result. I never really felt sad for Dripshine, I never really got a chance to know him, I never fully felt what he meant to Scootaloo, or what she feels now that he's gone.
I did greatly enjoy this, if only for the writing. I like the story, I like the idea, but it's lacking in execution, and would have benefited from a more defined plot.
2951080
Thanks for the concrit!
Yeah, this was really more an experiment in that kinetic stream-of-consciousness style (a la Chuck Palahniuk) than anything else. I agree that prose should be the vehicle for the plot (hah) and not the other way around, but I decided to disregard that just this once for the sake of making something different.
Pity the words got in the way, though. I tried to make the emotions shine through as clearly and viscerally as possible, especially after the thing happens, but obviously I didn't do a good enough job
There are so many qualities to this story that I'm a sucker for: Palahniuk, pretense, non-linear narrative, free-running, raw emotion transcribed with a style that drips off the page... the idea is that this is the kind of thing I could read every day of my life, and I'm sure you get it by now. It's not Fight Club, but I'd have been disappointed if it had been. I like it much more this way, admirable for its adherence to the trappings of my favorite book, unique because of where it deviates and carves out its own line to connect those dots. You called this an experiment, so I guess I'm going to keep an eye on you in the hopes of seeing some repeated trials. Good stuff.
2995406
Ahhh, Aquaman likes my story! :D
But seriously, without sounding too kiss-assy, your stuff (Harmony and Like Gravity in particular) was a big part of why I started writing pone in the first place. I'm glad you approve.
Also, funny you should mention Fight Club, since my main inspiration for this was actually Invisible Monsters. I loved the rapid, tangential jumps between scenes so much that I had to try and put them in something of my own.
2995708
Well, now you've gone and made me feel all warm and fuzzy inside. This has been a good weekend for that. It's always awesome to hear that people like my stuff at all, let alone that it actually inspired them to write themselves. It's kind of late for this to make my day, so I'll probably just push it to making my tomorrow.
Hey, at least it wasn't inspired by Corn. There are certain things style can't quite save.
This is sad AND exhilarating, which is a really rare combination and one that's electrifying when written as well as it is here. Fantastic work.
Forlorn and tragic, with a slap-you-in-the-face pace worthy of any action thriller. This is a fantastic story.
3024511
Thank you!
I really enjoyed this. Quick and snappy, both in prose and pace, but never feeling rushed. I also liked the Scootaloo you painted here. The writing style here would have easily caused the story to crumble had it not felt convincing coming from the narrator's mouth, but it never once felt forced. Although we only got little glances of this Manehattan, it was definitely a world I'd like to see explored more in the future. Excellent job. I'll be keeping my eye on you.
fanfic or otherwise this is the most beautiful thing i've read in a while
thank you for sharing
3024995
no problem
Very enjoyable. Short but tells a lot, and that is always very impressive.
I would definitely like to see a continued version of this, one where it tells of different places and area Scoots runs around while being chased and such.
3026877
The possibility of a sequel was originally zero but is now becoming increasingly likely.
3027930 YES! I like increasing likely hoods! They mean sequels! And sequels means awesomeness and awesomeness means that I get to compliment someone and get another sequel. Then the happy cycle repeats!
This didn't happen to be inspired by Mirrors Edge. Did it? Sounds awfully familiar.
3028602
That was part of the inspiration, yes.
Amazing
>>>Our way of life would be the latest craze, and everypony and their mother would come swarming across these rooftops, making noise, getting themselves hurt and killed looking for a cheap adrenaline hit.>>>
I call that 'natural selection at work'.
>>>The lies stack like bricks, my cool impassiveness is the mortar. Building my wall. They'll never touch me, never touch us.>>>
Lies are like bricks made of snow. The burning light of TRUTH quickly melts them and the walls come tumbling down upon those who quiver behind them. Lies are like a glass wall, those hiding behind are yet exposed to the world, for they are never as clever as they believe. And one solid hit from a hammer of FACT shatters their delusions and the jagged shards tear them to pieces.
And when one builds up one's own life upon a foundation of lies, when it crumbles, they are thrown screaming into the abyss to their utter destruction.
>>>they will never touch us...
And we will never, ever stop running.>>>
Just then, Alondro slips his sword out in front of the fleeing Scoots' throat. The flawless blade is drawn back in a smooth motion as the foolish foal's momentum carries her foreward. Her head topples back to the ground as her body takes a few final reflexive steps, the last impulses travelling down her spinal collumn before the connection was severed, before it tumbles to the ground.
Alondro turns Scoot's head toward himself with a soft smile and fixes his gaze upon the wide, shocked, still-blinking eyes. "A pity. One should always remember to look more carefully where one is running, lest she tumble into the many snares set by more clever predators." He allows her head to roll from his hands and once more vanishes into the shadows. The Perfect Predator has made yet another flawless kill.
(And this is why I shall rule the world....
)
3035151
i.imgur.com/s0UGtTk.png
3035223 *attacks you while you're confused!* Another victim!
Anyone else read Scoots' lines in the voice of Faith?
This is really beautiful.
Tragic, too, but that's just how these things are some times, hmm?
This was a pretty cool story. The prose was vivid and powerful (although I'm not quite sure if the nonstandard formatting was necessary), and I liked the stop-start dynamic, switching between past and present, interweaving the two throughout the story. I can kind of relate to the characters because I can remember as a child, sitting in the back of my parents car stuck in traffic on the elevated freeways cutting through downtown Los Angeles, looking out at the buildings and imagining running across the rooftops like Scoots and Shine.
After reading this story, I sort of get the sense that, although they think themselves to be running toward a goal, Scoots and Shine really seem to be running away from something. Underlying Scoot's narration, there seems to be some deep dissatisfaction with their lives from which they're trying to escape. But what are they running from? What is it that drives these two to want to live only for the moment, to escape the confines of society and run free along the Manehattan skyline, to risk their lives only for the imaginary goals they place on the horizon. There are some tantalizing hints in the story, but this is something I wish the story explored more deeply.
I often read stories, even my favorite stories, and notice absolutely nothing but the flaws.
So I guess I must have just let this story go by without ever reading a single word of it, letting it pass over me and through me until I turn my inner eye to see its path and see nothing--only the feels remain.
Regardless, I will try to say some stuff anyway:
Another commenter said that a bit more could be done with the love story, and I agree. We see a flashback of her having it bad for him, and we see them meeting, but that doesn't really tell us what it was like for them to be together. I mean, I saw the chance for this, and I'm surprised you didn't do it... You can imagine, I'm sure, what *I* would have written in order to show their passion for each other.
I also think that more should have been done to make this story be about Scootaloo. Her flightlessness, her "you don't understand me" attitude, her desire to distance herself from her Ponyville origins... it's a waste not to use that. It also, you know, makes this thing non-pony.
More than anything else, I have this to say:
This story stands up to the best of the fandom. This plays on even ground with Short Skirts, Blueshift, darf, name it. This story is, in my opinion, in the top echelon of fanfics on this site.
I think the reason I like this more than any of your others is because its prose is more than just the fun and drive of a strong character voice--it's not just a voice, it's the whole point of the fic, almost as if the story is a way to drive Scootaloo's narration, not the other way around.
I guess I'm just such a sucker for non-standard things and rebellion against norms that you've dazzled me with this and destroyed my ability to be impartial. This is how I want my writing to be--dirty and dangerous, but alive and wonderful.
Very well written, and extremely entrancing, with well written characters and interesting plot, even if the "Rebel without a cause" angle was a bit hard to sympathize. The structuralism was a great fit, considering just how urbane the story is;.
I think this is your best work yet. Thank you for the story.
Why the alternate universe tag?
3295221
*shrugs*
I think my interpretation of Manehatten (semi-dystopian, full of run-down sandstone buildings and bitter ponies) is far enough removed from the show version that we've seen (a bustling 40s-style metropolis complete with slick high-society types) that it warrants the tag.
And thank you for the praise.
Quick question. Have you ever practiced parkour or free running or had a friend who did so? Because I seriously can't tell if you have or haven't, sometimes it seems you have other times not so much. Either way it was an awesome story and made even better if you have a little experience with parkour.
3304338
I've beaten Mirror's Edge like 5 times, does that count? :V
But seriously, if there are any mistakes in the terminology or believability in relation to the parkour aspects, let me know. Since I am (totally) inexperienced with it, there's bound to be a few screw-ups.
Thanks for the praise.
3304571
Not until you finish it without shooting anyone (It's fun try it)
Reading through your story there was hardly any wrong terminology. I think there may have been one time but that wasn't actually wrong, it was just my preference was different.
Ur welcome ^^
3307513I
I've done a 'hardcore runner' playthrough already (hard difficulty, runner vision off, no combat allowed, including disarms) and it was great fun. Super excited for ME2.
3307666
Well I've been one upped! Haven't done that. And yeah it's gonna be one of the three games I'm gonna buy in a long long time. I'm also looking forward to dying light although the parkour mechanics aren't as good (but at least there are zombies!).
I don't know why, but this song always reminds me of this fic.
I like this a lot. Parkour and love? Who ever thought of this?!
This was a reasonable enough story, though the ending felt pretty much out of nowhere.
It really isn't a pony story at all, though.
You should consider fixing "I hear the his armor plates" because this is the best story I have ever read and it should rightly be without flaw.
I'm surprised nobody compared it with Air.
Quite a way of putting it.
Your short insights like this are scattered throughout, and I know that stuff is hard to do. Hard to come up with; easy to come up with deep-sounding trivialities; hard to tie them to the story. Scoots and Shine are running, but are they running to something or from something? It's hard to get a read on whether you think they're wise or crazy, whether they run because it makes them feel alive or because something else makes them not feel alive. Does Shine really like running, or does he have a death wish? Does Scoots really like running, or does she just like Shine? Those are probably the two most-important questions. They can remain ambiguous, but even so, they should perhaps be highlighted more, to make sure the reader thinks about them.
Also, why does Shine run / want to die? We could see more of that by seeing Scoots reflecting on it.
The interrogations with the inspector at the end are a great chance for her to reflect on these things. When she lied about their fight, you could have, say, narrated the lie first, then later described the actual fight, and used the things that Scoots concealed in her lie to the police to show her feelings about it. You could have told the entire story as flashback, opening in the middle of an interrogation, flashing back as she tries to describe it, and done that repeatedly until the end. That might have been a better structure.
... hinting that Scoots likes Shine more than she likes running. Subtle.
This is a great example of when to write "A and B and C" instead of "A, B, and C" or "A. B. C." So many authors overdo it. Also just a great description.
I wish I could write descriptive metaphors+similes like this. (Bit of a mixed metaphor in that last line, but "marinated in emotion" might sound funny.)
The writing is astonishing. Did those descriptive metaphors drop out like that in the first draft? Did you labor over individual sentences? How do you come up with things like "We were the summer-sunset-wind, warm and wild and untouchable. We were rulers of a crumbled-down kingdom, prince-and-princess of the sandstone sky", "ice-glass eyes", "the rusty Manehattan sunlight", "Giants made of edges and right angles and chipped facades stare back, sunset-glazed monsters," I'd love to be able to write like that, and I'd like
to dissect your brainany advice or info on how you did it.I found only three possible typos, other than some ungrammatical uses of commas that were probably deliberate:
(okay, PP found that, I didn't)
and a missing linebreak after
The style is amazing. There's some unneeded confusion about their relationship--that whole bit about Scoots being lonely, them having a fight, their not having sex anymore, Shine not wanting to share the rooftop with anyone--I spent most of my time wondering about that, it was so sketchy that it was more disruptive and distracting than interesting, and I don't know if it should be part of the story at all. I'd rather have it been something along the lines of Scoots fighting with him because she doesn't, at bottom, want to keep doing this, and she knows Shine will keep doing it until he dies, and she has to do it with him to hold onto him but also feels like she's killing him, and feels at the end like she's murdered him (which, kinda, sorta, she has).
I'm a little perplexed at the end because what Scoots does for Shine seems like something he wouldn't have wanted.
You appear to have a doublespace in your description.
This seems to be another one of those stories I just can't get anything from. However, I think Present Perfect may have done a good job at elucidating why:
I can't see that. I see two ponies who 'give a fuck' about far too much, ruled by fear and barely living at all. It's about life and how to miss it completely—scared and humbled by the enormity of it all. These characters feel remarkably soulless.
That said, that doesn't mean they don't feel real. That, unfortunately, actually killed it for me more than if they were a little disjointed and arbitrary—to me is was sad, but neither a tragedy nor a romance.
Add to that that I'm not even sure what the formatting 'tricks' are supposed to mean (which kind of left them as being merely annoying) and it's not a surprise that I didn't find anything here. The characters were broken at the start and were broken at the end. For a lot of action, nothing really happened.
-Scott
Man, 4323540's review brought the whole constructive criticism brigade over.
Don't take 4329011 too hard. He's either an alien observer, a professional contrarian, or some kind of writing bodhisattva, who lingers in our imperfect world to puncture authors' egos in ways that help them transcend with him to a higher plane which we can but dimly comprehend.
A damn insightful guy, but someday someone will figure out how to write a story that pleases both him and the public, and the seals of heaven will rend.
I think both he and PP are wrong, though. It's not about giving a fuck or not giving a fuck. It's about two ponies who can't live lives where they're whole, and can't survive being broken. So they cobble together what they can in that liminal state, one tiny wobble from disaster, concentrating sensation and sharpening it and dancing on the edge of the knife until the moment they slip and the blade neatly bisects them. It's not valuing life, it's not seeking death, it's denial and rejection but it's passion and celebration, it's living for experience, for experience concentrate. They died long ago, and this is their underworld. You have described a state with no name and this story is like marinating in it.
So yeah. Well done.
4329559
To be honest, I was so dazzled by this story that I couldn't entirely form words with regard to what all it was about. I'm just lucky I could sort out "the meaning of a life" from everything. :D