> Truth Needs No Colors
>  by Lastingimage24
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

> Prologue. Sketchy Trust
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

Sketch nearly tripped over his picture of a very late bunny and nearly knocked another of a saucy mare with his muzzle. After regaining his balance, his hoof fell straight through the canvas yet another sketch. He winced before peeking at the broken canvas with one eye, and sighed in relief after realizing it was just the one of a bowl of fruit. He knew it was cliche, but he was bored and it seemed like good practice. He was just glad it wasn’t one of the pictures he particularly cared for.

It sucked being clumsy, especially since there was sharp utensils literally everywhere in his room. After sighing again, this time in shame, he decided he should take a small break from his canvas-covered walls and paper-covered desks to go splash some water on his face. He wasn’t the best sleeper so he consistently had to do this to keep himself awake when he wanted to not pass out. It was only 9:00 PM. Not even grade schoolers were asleep. His mom had it chalked up to insomnia which he begrudgingly agreed with. Giving a name to problems just made them worse, but you can’t argue with facts.

Taking a hazy stroll to the bathroom and dunking his muzzle in the ice cold water gave him the rush he needed. Only, as he turned off the faucet, he heard something. His ear involuntarily twitched as he turned his head to make sounds enter his ear better. He stood absolutely still for only just a moment when another noise was made, apparently from the kitchen downstairs.

Clank.

His heart began pounding as he realized someone might be in the house. He instinctively backed away from the door only for him to trip on the restroom rug and fall on his haunches. He was still for longer than he could perceive before deciding to stand up. No, he thought, it’s just your imagination Sketch. Your lack of sleep is just screwing with your head. You’re scaring yourself.

Despite succeeding in convincing himself, his heart disagreed. It was still beating faster than he could count. Deciding against rotting in the bathroom for the rest of his life, he resolved to reassure that there was no one else in the house by an investigation with his own eyes. He slowly creaked open the door and lightly stepped outside, down the stairs, and to the kitchen.

But halfway there, he was paralyzed by the fact that he could see. Normally that wouldn’t be news, but it 9:00 PM and he never turned on the lights. He scanned the kitchen and caught the dim rays of light coming from the kitchen, where he had heard the noise. With hesitance, he inched closer and closer to the tiled kitchen, past the sofa and large armchair that occupied the living room. He turned the corner to find...

The refrigerator open. Yup. The fridge. Sketch emptied his lungs, realizing only then he had been holding his breath. He smiled dumbly and approached the fridge to close it. As it slammed shut, something occurred to him. Wait... who opened it? He turned to inspect the rest of the kitchen, at least, until two big, upside-down, glowing, yellow, feral-looking eyes took up his entire visage. He stood, speechless, unable to react. Until, of course, the eyes spoke.

“Boo.”

Sketch screamed. He guessed his shout was very, very loud, but the adrenaline rushing to his ears made it quite hard to hear. He tried to back up, but instead he bumped into the fridge causing a bag of flour to drop on his head. It landed with a muffled thumpf and made him lose his balance, forcing him to topple to the floor on his side. He panicked and tried to scramble up to his feet, but he slipped on the powder and landed on his haunches one again. He scooted back until the cupboard behind him forced him to stop. He could not control his breathing and he lost almost all his motor function. He simply chose to accept his fate, whatever would happen.

Then, she laughed.

Yes, she did. “Pbbthhh, hahahahahahahahah! Oh sweet CELESTIA that was amazing.” Her voice was deeper than an average mare’s but was smooth as silk, and impossible to confuse for a stallion’s. As she spoke, she expertly dropped from hanging upside down and landed on all fours with only a couple milliseconds as a grace period. “You know, I knew you were going to be a complete punk, but I didn’t expect...” She gestured towards everything with her legs, “THAT!” Her pattern of speaking was strange, at best. She put emphasis on random words and spoke slowly, as if she was reciting poetry. Even with his eyes adjusting, he could barely make out the form of her body, only being able to tell it was in fact, equine, and even that was a stretch. Still relishing at the spectacle, she laughed some more, putting a hoof to her head in an attempt to contain herself.

Her laughing actually put Sketch at ease, as it proved that she had no malicious intent... well at least, not intending harm. His heart rate and breathing slowed as he just watched her laugh. It almost made him want to laugh.

Almost.

The strange pony finished off her long laugh with fits of chuckling, before settling herself with a big sigh. When she was finished, Sketch gathered the courage to speak up. “W... Who are you?”

“Me? Oh, I am just a humble guest at this very fancy home of yours, alright.” She chuckled, its effect more chilling this time around. “Nothing more.”

“What are you doing here?” Sketch had finally recovered enough to stand, although his knees shook from the effort.

“Oh don’t you worry, little boy. Messing with your perfect little life is the furthest thing from my mind right now.” As she said this, she sashayed towards Sketch and put her muzzle right up to his. She stayed there long enough for him to feel her breathing and for her glowing eyes to nearly blind him. She abruptly turned away before he could react however. From that little confrontation, he could see that she was only just as tall as he was, and he inferred they were about the same age, more or less.

“I’m... not a little boy,” he said, a little disappointed.

She chuckled again, “Yeah, right.” She opened the fridge.

That was when the truth blew up in Sketch’s face. The mare in front of him was relatively normal at first sight, sporting dark purple fur and navy blue hair. Aside from her odd eyes and apparent fangs, she would have been just... above average. But plastered to her sides were not feathered wings, no, they were... bat wings.

Silence stole Sketch’s words. He gaped continuously at the strange mare, unable to do much but stare.

“Tsk, tsk, tsk, tsk ,tsk,” she clicked her tongue as she inspected the fridge. “What to eat? What. To. Eat.” After scrutinizing the contents for a few moments, she frowned. “What the hell is all this crap? You got no food, man!”

“Food?” Sketch asked, his brain function slowly returning. The batpony had left the fridge to investigate the pantries for dry foods. She had left the fridge door open, so he had gone to close it. He was running on automatic habits right now since he was still a bit shaken at the batpony’s appearance. He took a look at the contents at the fridge himself and was confused to see a plethora of eggs, tomato sauce, tortillas, various fruits, etc. More than enough to make some kind of meal. He closed it and remembered how dark it actually was. His next move was to turn on the kitchen light.

“Yes! Sustenance! Grub! Other words for food! You don’t have anything.” She was quickly opening and closing all of the cupboards she possibly could, the speed of which accelerated as the number of cupboards rose. Sketch flipped the switch to the kitchen light. “Aww, bitch!” the batpony screamed as a cupboard whacked her in the face when she struggled to adjust to the sudden change in light. “Don’t be doing stuff like that, man!”

His thoughts were still a garbled mess, so he just said, “Your ears are fluffy.” Her ears were, in fact, really fluffy.

The batpony arched her brow and glanced at him. Smirking, she asked, “What?”

Realizing what he said was really out of place, he chose to ignore it and walked up to her. “We have a lot of food.”

She quizzically glared at him for a few moments before responding. She began looking through the pantry again. “No you don’t. You have nothing to just eat. I mean,” she brought out a small box. “The hell am I going to do with bread crumbs? Sniff ‘em?”

“They’re for-” After coming under the full recognition that she was in fact not dangerous, he became more firm as he trotted up to her. “They’re for making cooked foods crunchy.”

“SNOORE,” she exclaimed, turning her head fast enough for her long-locked hair to nearly whip him.  “Why cook things when you can just eat something pre-made?”

“You mean processed foods?” I’m arguing with a home invader. “Because home cooked meals taste better and are less hazardous to your health.”

The batpony made a fart noise and walked away, heading for the fridge again. Sketch stayed behind and stared at her, taking in her appearance without being freaked the hell out. He noticed just how faded the purple of her fur was; it was almost grey. The same with her hair, it looked a lot more black with the lights on. It was strange, like just the opposite of a normal pony...

...Fluffy ears.

Something about her attitude struck a chord in the back of his head. What was her motive for all of this? “...What are you?” Sketch asked sincerely.

“Sentient,” she said as-a-matter-of-factly. She turned her head and looked at him seriously. “That’s all you need to know.”

That answer was disappointing for Sketch. He really found himself curious of this... creature. “Well, uh... can you at least tell me your name?”

She looked at him again, but faced the fridge again in silence. After a couple moments of this, she sighed and stretched. “Well you have absolute jack. Thanks for nothing. See you never.”

Sketch was a bit taken aback at this abrupt change of heart by the batpony. However, he was completely prepared to let her leave, for his life to return to that same boring routine. For everything to go back to normal, and to forget he had ever met this mare. But... something hit him. She was looking for food.

Just... food. What does that mean? It means she’s hungry. She was hungry...

It didn’t matter that she was abnormal, and it didn’t matter how Sketch felt. All that mattered was that a pony was hungry, and he could change that, when no one else could. She’d never had a decent meal from the sounds of it...

“Wait.”

The batpony stopped, sighed, and turned. “What?”

“I’ll cook you something.” Then, quickly, he thought of something. “If you tell me your name, nothing else.”

The batpony opened her mouth, ready to protest and refuse. But her stomach growled, and she stopped to contemplate his offer. After mulling it over for a few moments she groaned. “Auugggghhhh. Fine.” She looked away and glanced at him with one eye through her hair. It was the first humbling sign from her. Begrudgingly, she said, “Trust.”



Trust.

Trust.

That was such a cool name! Sketch had no idea why she was so reluctant to say it. Still, the idea that he was cooking a meal for a mare that had broken in his home with the intent to steal from him was silly, at least just in concept. He knew he had nothing to fear about her though... well one thing did concern him. Was she a carnivore... or an omnivore? It seemed like she would be, with the fangs and all. Then again, don’t fruit bats only eat... fruit? Or something? Eh, whatever.

“Is it done yet?” Trust whined, looking over the boiling water, frowning.

“It’ll be done when it’s done.” Sketch felt compelled to whack her in the face with the ladle. “And don’t put your face over the water like that. It’s dangerous.”

“Auugggghhhh!” she groaned. “Why does it have to take soooo long.”

“If you want it to come out good you have to wait.” Sketch resisted the urge to facehoof and continued stirring. “Now will you just sit down.”
“Sit? Why?” she asked sharply.

Sketch beamed uncharacteristically. “‘Cause it’s done!” In front of him sat a freshly boiled vegatable soup, with all the seasonings and flavors one could possibly want.

The look of unprecedented joy on her face was quite remarkable. But as soon as it came, it vanished. “Gee, thanks. Only took like, four hours.”

“It took a hour.” Sketch deadpanned, taking out a few bowls and preparing it on the nearby table. It was a strange sight to see Trust sit. Her impatient attitude betrayed the fact she could clearly restrain herself when she wanted to. Plus the wings, fangs, and eyes still looked unnatural as all hell. “Here.”

Trust had already began to lower her head into her bowl, but Sketch immediately stopped her. “Use a spoon.” She glared at him in anger and hesitantly picked up the spoon that sat across from her. Sketch had to physically try to not laugh. She just looked so angry when she was so cool before.

Despite the fact she probably never used them, she was competent enough to know how to properly use silverware, although somewhat clumsily.

Her frustrated disposition melted away when she took her first bite. She simply just looked at the meal in confusion, trying to comprehend what she had just shoved into her gullet. A bit of time later, she had begun to eat again, this time calmer. But also pretty damn fast.

Neither of them spoke for a time. Sketch was content sitting across from her watching her gulp down spoonful by spoonful of the veggie soup. A sense of pride washed over him, even though he knew she probably would’ve liked anything he had put on a plate. She was nearly through when she slowed significantly, glancing at Sketch as she ate. They locked eyes for just a moment or two before she spoke.

“In all this... confusion, I never asked. What’s your name, kid?” Trust stared at him with solemn intent, something that confused his original impression of the girl. She was actually showing to be a bit reserved and humble, two things he did not assume she would have been capable of. It took him a while to answer because of this.

“Uhh... Art Sketch.” He rubbed the back of his mane apprehensively. “But everyone just calls me Sketch.”

“Hmm...” she grunted and continued eating. “Do you live alone?”

“...No?” Why does that matter? What would she say if I said yes?

She was surprised when she heard this. Her (fluffy) ears perked up as she stared at him like a suspicious doe. “Then who do you live with? Are they here?”

“I live with my parents, and no... they left yesterday to visit my sick aunt. Me and her were never close, so I decided to stay behind...” Sketch wasn’t sure why, but it was getting difficult to answer her questions. There was something piercing about them. Of course this difficulty was abolished when she started laughing again.

“Hah! You still live with your parents? Loser.” The smile returned to her face and she started gulping her soup again. Her change in mood was so drastic he couldn’t help but smile. He thought he was making progress with her when she began being more reserved and obedient, but there was a comforting sense of familiarity as she teased him that put him at ease.

“I’m seventeen,” he defended lightheartedly. “I can’t legally own property yet!”

“Tch, that’s no excuse.” She slyly put one last spoonful in her mouth and left it in there and gave him a taunting glare. They both laughed and it was... natural. That is, until Trust grunted and dropped her spoon. “Oop.”

“Are you okay?” Sketch was surprised at the amount of concern in his voice.

“Uh... yeah,” she assured with a nervous smile. Her eyes shifted to the left, then right, and asked, “Where’s your bathroom?”

“Err,” Sketch dumbly remarked before pointing upstairs with his hoof. “Upstairs at the end of the hall.”

She bolted from her chair and dexterously navigated up the stairs while flying. Sketch simply just couldn’t keep up; she was too fast. She was already in the bathroom by the time he got up there. Out of respect, he waited at the other end of the hall so he wouldn’t hear anything.

He couldn’t even begin to imagine what would happen next, and he didn’t know what to think for the first time in his life. It was invigorating.

And so was she.



“Whoo, you might not want to go in there for a while!” she said, waving her hoof in the air a few times.

“Classy,” Sketch deadpanned. To her credit, she might’ve been abruptive and unpredictable, but she was never very crude until now.

She was trotting towards Sketch until something caught her eye. It was a small canvas on a door next to the bathroom. In highly stylized lettering that was sharp and bubbly, “Sketch” adorned the canvas.

“S... Skeh... Skesshh. Sketch.” Trust had trouble reading the canvas, and although it was written in an artsy format, it shouldn’t have been that hard to read. Sketch came under the conclusion she probably wasn’t that educated, and a pang of sadness sounded within him, if only for just a moment. “This your room, hotshot?”

“Er, yeah.”

“Awesome.” Without much warning, she began to reach for the door. Sketch’s eyes shot open, and he took off for the door. He used his body as a shield to separate Trust from the room. “Hey, what gives?”

“Uhh, you can’t go in here, it’s my room!” he chuckled overtly after saying that, as if it was enough justification. Trust smiled and arched her brow.

“Oh yeah? Watch.”

She began trying to walk straight through him as though he just wasn’t there. He was shocked at how strong she was, her walking nearly tipped him over alone. “S-stop! It’s priv-”

“OO-WOPE,” Trust shouted as, in an incredible display of flexibility, juked around to his left and immediately climbed over him as he moved to block her. She laughed as he fumbled completely to the ground in a broken mess of appendages. “HA! Easy...”

Trust stopped and gaped at the spectacle before her. Dozens of sketches littered the walls and floors with every type of medium and utensil. Pens, pencils, crayons, pastels, colored pencils, paper, canvas, construction paper, cardboard... everything. “...peasy.”

Sketch sat in the doorway facing away from Trust and to the ground. There was a long silence. “Yeah,” he finally said. “I know... it’s a little...”

“AMAZING!” Trust shouted, causing him to jump out of his skin. “HOE-LEE DAMN, DUDE!” Giddily, the batpony jumped around the room and hovered at various points on the walls and floors, taking it all in. “You! You did all this?” She zipped from place to place before plowing full speed at Sketch, nearly taking his head off, only stopping a few centimeters away from his muzzle. He was just completely flabbergasted at her reaction.

“You mean... you like all this?”

“Sketchy, look at what you did,” she said, still taking it all in. “You drew all of this! This is just... beautiful.” She was delighted to see that even the ceiling was littered with drawings. Scenery, ponies, famous and not, she was surprised there was things still left to draw. She just sat and marveled at everything- especially the ceiling. She beamed.

She... loved it.

Sketch found himself just staring at her happy face.

She loved it.

She...

“So I noticed most of these are of mares,” she slyly taunted, giving him some bedroom eyes. “You sweet on someone? I bet they’re all of french girls.”

Sketch snapped back to reality as a result of her teasing and blushed. “No! I just... appreciate the artistic value of a mare’s figure is all.”

“Mhmm, sure.” Trust said sarcastically, sifting through some loose papers.

“I’m serious!” Sketch shouted in defense. He scoffed. “There’s just... no telling the elegance that a mare’s capable of achieving. While stallions are pretty standard through and through, mares can make anything look good through their ingenuity, their creativity. We just pull stuff.” Sketch was glad that she laughed at his summary. “I mean, you guys make fruit look good. And saddles, hats, jewelry, flowers, furniture...” Sketch paused, unsure whether or not he should say what he was going to say next. But just like she would, he threw caution to the wind and took a stab. It was just a simple compliment anyway. “...bat wings.”

Trust instantly dropped a picture of Manehatten after she heard that. Her face became completely red as she struggled to grasp onto the two words that came out of that crazy pony’s mouth.

He had basically just called her attractive. “Shut up!” she said, playfully punching him in the arm. Sketch felt the same exact pang of sadness that resonated when she was sounding out the letters on his door. She thinks I’m... joking.

“Trust, I was... serious,” he said, rubbing his arm. “Come on...”

She stared at him stupidly, like she couldn’t understand what he meant. An awkward silence followed. When she was gazing around the room, something attracted all of her attention. She completely forgot everything that was happening, and she walked straight toward this artifact.

“Trust?”

Like a magnet, her hooves grabbed a single paper without herself controlling them. “This...” It was a drawing of a large dark mare with an airy ethereal mare surrounding her. Her appearance was dastardly, but she looked... sad somehow. When he drew it, Sketch didn’t even mean to make her sad... it just kind of happened.

“She... looks familiar...” she said wistfully. “And... sad.”

Sketch didn’t appreciate the subject change, but there was something about her sudden connection that made him accept it. This looked important. “That’s Nightmare Moon. She was Celestia’s sister before she became mad from jealousy. I read about it in a book and... I just had to draw it.”

“I feel like... I know her.”

There was another silence. Sketch wanted to allow her to mull about it, but something occurred to him. Her mood was visibly deteriorating. And seeing her depressed, it didn’t fit. It was upsetting. Trust should be happy. She was a happy pony.

“Okay, enough of this. Just wait here, I got something I think you’d love.” Sketch left the room almost giddily, while Trust resisted the urge to ask him not to go...



“Damn... you’re pretty good at this,” Sketch yelped as Trust scored.

“Good? You’re totally screwing me!” Trust deadpanned, setting down the paddle. They were playing this new virtual machine that simulated a form of tennis, strangely called “pong”. Maybe it was table tennis? The dull green score was 23-12.

“Well considering it’s your first time, you’re very impressive.” Sketched eyed her intently. “When I first got this I had no idea how it worked.

The game was still frozen, waiting for the input to start a new round. She looked and Sketch with a comically distant face. “Are we still talking about the game?”

They both laughed in unison for a few seconds, stopped, then laughed again. Casually, Sketch turned to the side and saw the clock on his wall, nearly hidden by canvases. It was 4:00 AM.

“Aw, dammit! My parents are going to be here soon, you gotta leave!”

“What?” Trust asked blankly. Sketch was already getting up and trying to put his things away, as some sort of childish habit. He realized his error before moving to window and opening it.

“You have to leave!”

“But...” Trust looked at the floor sadly. “I thought you didn’t care I looked like a bat?”
Sketch stopped what he was doing and looked at her, confused. “What? Look like a...? Trust, I’m seventeen, it’s four AM, you’re a girl and in my room. I’m more concerned about that.”

“...Oh.”

Trust stood and walked hesitantly towards the open window and saw a chariot pull up. “Sketchy...”

“You’ll come back, right?” Sketch interrupted, leaving Trust stunned silent. “This isn’t the last time I’ll see you. You can come at night or when my parents aren’t here, and I’ll cook you something just like today.” Sketch’s smiling face, it warmed Trust’s heart for once. “Okay?”

Involuntarily, she smiled back. “Yeah.” There was an air of hesitance, one that neither could have sense.

“Trust...” Sketch held her back again, as she almost dived out. His legs were shaking again. Adrenaline rushed to all of his extremities. Was he really going to do this? He had been planning it for a while, and she said she was going to come back, but he wasn’t sure he believed that. The way she said yes was distant and insincere. “How old are you?”

“Uhh... Well I don’t know exactly, but... I know I’m around nineteen, why?”

“Because...” He might not be able to do it again. “Because...” And he really, really wanted to. Abruptly, he pushed his muzzle forward into hers. She tried to shout, but it was muffled by his tongue. Sketch was totally prepared to get his ass kicked, but the strangest thing happened. She pushed back. She closed her eyes and wrapped her legs around him and dug in further. They were both lost in each other, totally forgetting about their surroundings. And then Trust pulled back.

They locked eyes for just a moment or two. She asked “Why? I’m... weird.”

Sketch smiled and held her himself. Smiling, he said, “Y’know I thought that, too. Until... I realized just how damn weird I was. I mean,” he gestured to his room. “look at this crap. I’ve drawn so much stuff it could be considered obsessive, I sleep like a coffee drugged nine-year-old, and I own that.” He pointed to the Pong machine dramatically. “And you know what? That may not be such a bad thing...”

They both stared in each others eyes. It’s all they wanted to do. They heard a door slam below them. Trust chuckled and backed away, looking to the side. “Yeah, I should leave.” Her words shot through sketch like a bolt of electricity. It was certainly enough to floor a stallion.

Trust jumped out the window and expertly landed on the ground with almost no effort. He couldn't just let her walk away now, he couldn't bare the feeling. It was like he was loosing her... He had to do something, something to bring her back, if not today then eventually. Something that would prove how much he wanted her to be there. Something clicked in his brain. "Wait!" he yelled out the window.

“WHAT?!” she yelled with a hint of frustration..

Sketch dove towards his desk. Nearly ripping the drawers off its mechanism. In panic, he grabbed a certain piece, one that he was sure to hide from her as soon as it was done. It was meant to be for him, but now he felt she needed it more than he ever would. “I drew this when you were napping! I want you to have it!"

He tossed a small canvas down. Picking it up, she almost stopped breathing. On the canvas, there was a perfectly rendered Trust with pegasus wings standing aside a very joyous Sketch with batwings and fangs. They were holding each other with one of their forelegs and laughing innocently.

And... it was just perfect.

“I LOVE IT!” Trust yelled at the top of her lungs, not caring if anyone would hear. “Hahahaah! I LOVE IT!” Once more she glanced at it, focusing at Sketch's uncharacteristically playful smile. Under her breath, she repeated. "I... love it." No one has ever done this for her. Hell, she had never done anything like this for herself. She nearly shed a tear, and to save face, she turned away.

Trust flew away while hugging the momento, smiling harder than she ever had. “I love it.”

Sketch made sure to watch her every second he could. As she became smaller and smaller towards the horizon, Sketch exhaled, hanging out of the window in blissful silence. It took him time to suss out what the hell just happened in the past seven hours that led up to all of these... feelings... Something that has yet to happen in the past six years.

And it was...

Weird. Yes, that was it. Weird.



And that’s how the average son of an average family found out just how odd he truly was. Ignorance was embraced and coincidence was loved. The slow monotony of everyday life being sawed off in favor of the unusual, that’s what made life worth living. He would no longer try to be someone he’s not for the sake of others. Because one thing became increasingly obvious. Being weird?

It’s fun.

But as they say, it's all fun and games... until someone gets hurt.
> 1. The Day She Arrived is the Day I Died
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

Truth needs no colour, with his colour fix'd;
Beauty no pencil, beauty's truth to lay;
But best is best, if never intermix'd.
-William Shakespeare

Chapter 1

Tap, tap, tap.

Sketch’s ears perked at the sudden sound. He immediately tried to jump from his bed, unfortunately forgetting that he had been laying upside-down. After that tumbling discovery, he tried to rush to the window, only for his sheets to trip him up on the way over. What seemed like an epic journey later, he finally reached the source of the sound and slid open the window.

To his dismay, all he saw was the empty night. And that was disappointing. He wanted that night to be filled by this peculiar little batpony he could confidently call his friend. But that was nearly a week ago, and he had not seen her since. He didn’t want such a strong friendship from such an interesting creature to go unfulfilled. He had believed they had hit it off, and beside a particular lapse of judgement on Sketch’s part, kissing this woman he had only known for a day, he was sure the two would meet again. But as he stared at the darkness before him, he could only lament to himself.

That is, until he got his wish.

“Boo,” she shouted from below, prompting Sketch to look down. Her smiling face and bright glowing eyes gave him a start, but he was just too happy at her appearance to be frightened.

“Trust!” he yelped in excitement he absent-mindedly wrapped his arms around her in an embrace, remembering only then that she was flying outside. Trust felt the weight of her friend becoming more pronounced and dashed inside before he could hurt himself.

“Jeez, man! Contain yourself before you kill us both!” Trust scolded, rubbing her head in discomfort. Sketch was too overjoyed to care.

“Trust,” he said again, trotting to her and wrapping his forelegs around her neck once again. She found herself unable to respond to the hug properly, so she was content just sitting as he embraced her. Trust really didn’t want to admit how nice it felt. “I thought you weren’t coming back...”

“C’mon,” she whined, brushing some hair out of  her face. Sketch realized it had gotten a bit longer since they last met. “It’s only been a couple days.”

“Again, your grasp of time is remarkable.” Sketch put a hoof to his chin. “It’s been like, eight days.”

“Tch, you counted?” Trust taunted while smirking, same as she always did. Sketch missed that.

“Yeah, I did.”



“Are your parents home?” Trust asked, spinning her paddle just in time to catch the ball heading straight for the goal. She gave a little victory jump when she managed to catch it.
“Yeah, but they’re asleep, and they don’t go into my room without knocking first.” Sketch chuckled a bit. “I’m seventeen after all.” He looked at Trust and winked.

She quizzically shrugged after a while. “What?”

“Uhh, nevermind.” They played for a bit more, before Sketch felt the need to stare at her. She realized he had completely stopped playing.

“Er, what’s up?” she asked, chuckling softly. Sketch noticed how rude he must have been and quickly looked away.

“Oh! Uh, I... Trust, is there a reason that you don’t want to come over more?”

Trust exhaled, frustrated. “No.”

“Then why? We’re friends, right?”

“Of course we are, Sketchy.” she put down her paddle and sighed. “But I have to survive too, you know. I have to eat and sleep, and bathe occasionally.” She decided not to reveal she took a bath immediately before she got here.

Sketch stood up and and put some passion into his body language. “But I told you, I can cook for you! You can eat here.”

“I don’t want you providing for me, Sketchy!” she yelled. The anger in her voice took Sketch by surprise. “It’s not fair to you, or your parents. I may lift something to eat every day, but it’s always someone different. No one’s going to notice a missing sandwich, or instant noodles. I’m not a charity, Sketch. I’m a thief, and it doesn’t bother me a bit. ‘Cause I only steal what I need, and I don’t take any more.”

“I...” Despite him disagreeing with Trust on whether or not she could take his food, she had a airtight argument after mentioning his parents. After all, there was no way to just ask them. “Yeah, you’re right, I’m sorry.”

Trust’s jaw dropped for a second and she turned away. For some reason she found it hard to believe she just won an arguement. It felt weird. She closed her eyes and huffed. “Good.”

“Still, though... It wouldn’t hurt to see you more...” Sketch said while staring at his canvas laden floor.

Trust looked surprised for a moment, then just sad. She stared at the ground as well, in the opposite direction. She caught a glimpse of her batwing and felt a pang in her chest. She wanted to see him more too, and she had more than enough time to do so. Why was it so hard to go through with it, though?

“Hey,” she said, solemnly. “I’ll try... okay?”

Sketch smiled. He put a hoof on her shoulder. “Lemme cook you something.”



Sketch tip hoofed ever so carefully throughout his residence, careful not to fall victim to his many clumsy blunders he had become famous for. With homemade vegetable pizza close, he glid up the stairs and made it back to his room without so much as a fumble.

He entered his room to the sight of Trust scanning massive amounts of his drawings, staring intently, uttering a wistful groan, or chuckling softly as the appropriate moment came to pass. He set the pizza next to her and eyed what she was looking at. He was shocked to see one of his embarrassingly plentiful sketches of her, which he had believed to be locked inside a drawer in his desk. He quickly swiped it from her.

“Where did you find that?” he shouted, gathering the other drawings as many turned out to be Trust.

Trust snidely sauntered towards the pizza, laughing to herself. “I’m a thief, Sketchy, you don’t think I can pick a lock or two?”

“Pick it?” He asked, stuffing the drawings back. “With what?”

She chuckled and pointed to her fangs. He looked at them for a few seconds, failing to understand. A moment late, he facehoofed. “Oh.”

Trust lowered her head close to the warm food and sniffed a few times. “What is this?” she asked, drooling.

“It’s pizza,” he said plainly. He cocked his head as he took a step toward. “You don’t know what pizza is?”

“Well, I’ve seen this on signs and stuff before.” Trust carefully began to try to pick it up. “But I never had any... okay, how the hell do you eat this?” She had been trying to pick it up for the last couple of seconds before giving up and prodding it angrily. Sketch chuckled before he helped her.

“Here.” Sketch got up and took the knife that was next to the plate he had brought. He lifted and cut with a ridiculous amount of precision so that eight equal slices sat on the platter. “Now grab it by the crust.”

“Ooohh,” she oh’d, grabbing a slice and taking a large chomp out of it. “Thathh Shhmart,” she mumbled through chopped cheese, grease, bread, and tomato sauce. “Mmn.”

Sketch felt that same inexplicable joy he had felt the day they first met. It wasn’t so much he was proud, though, he was just glad she was so happy. It was hard to see her otherwise.

“Hey,” she uttered between bites. “Do I really look like that?”

The question caught Sketch off guard. Unknowing of her implications, he simply dropped what he was doing and looked at her. She had a new slice of pizza hanging straight out of her mouth as she stared at him expressionlessly with big blank eyes. Where was she going with this? “You mean my drawings of you?” he pondered aloud.

“Mmhmm,” she confirmed while taking a bite simultaneously. It was cute. “I kinda... avoid mirrors.”

Sketch’s heart fell to his hooves when he heard that. Was there really any way to convince her that she looked much better than any normal pony did? Even if he could, was he really willing to flatter her in that way? He thought for a bit longer before responding. “I would like to think you really look like that, they’re my sketches. But Trust... you look great.” He rubbed the back of his mane nervously. “I-I mean, I only draw things I like the look of.” That came out right... didn’t it?

Trust remained quiet for what seemed like the longest time, making Sketch more apprehensive with every moment. After a while, she just shrugged and took another bite of pizza. “You know,” she whispered. “You’re a good artist.”

Sketch smiled. This was all he wanted to do. He just wanted to talk to this absolutely fascinating creature. It felt like the more he spoke to her the more like her he realized he was. The more in common they were.

One of the first things that came to mind was that Sketch had no real friends, except for his parents and of course Trust. Well there was Anthem, but he was waaay out of the ballpark. An introvert he was, and he liked it that way. Relying on people always just sort of got in the way of what he wanted to accomplish. He just didn’t realize how nice it was for someone to rely on him.

He took a slice of the pizza for himself, as he noticed there were only two left and Trust was likely to gobble them down. They sat and ate in peace, content with the company of each other. It was nice.

But Sketch, pessimist that he was, couldn’t help but wonder; How long is this going to last? Nothing this nice lasts forever...



“What in Celestia’s name is that?” Trust asked, reaching out from under her chin to point at the ferris wheel the book shown. Sketch knew that she couldn’t read that well, so he had voluntarily went down to the basement to grab a elementary level book that Sketch had owned in the past. It was about a young immigrant griffin going to an amusement park for the first time and detailing all the new things she saw there. It was one of his favorites from his childhood. While not exactly an avid reader, when he got something he was actually fond of, he would go days without bothering to set it down, and he’d read it over and over again until it stopped being entertaining for him. He was glad he had an excuse to bring it up again, and he was doubly glad he could use it to teach Trust how to read properly. There was a lot of fond memories in those pages.

“It’s a ferris wheel. That giant wheel rotates while you sit on one of the seats.” There was unprecedented joy that came from teaching someone you lo- liked something. That feeling of getting to share an intimate experience of learning something was just... blissful.

“Holy crap, sweet as! Does it go super fast?” she asked again with renewed enthusiasm.

“Nah,” Sketch laughed. “It goes rather slow. It’s more of a casual ride.”

Disappointed, Trust scoffed and pouted. “Lame. What’s the point then?”

“It’s more for people who can’t fly. They get to relax and take in the view. Also, it’s to have some easy-going fun with another person. See, it seats two, so it’s popular for couples to go on and have a moment to themselves.” Sketch sighed and closed his eyes. “There’s nothing better than stopping at the very top so you can just take it all in. The thin cool air, and the smallness of the world around you. You really feel alone up there.” Sketch enjoyed his little imagine spot, looking down and seeing all the ants of ponies below. He looked to his side and... Trust was there too. She smiled at him shyly, not sure whether or not she wanted to avert his gaze...

“We should go some day.”

Sketch jerked out of his daydream and looked to Trust in shock. “Really?”

She thought for a while. “No,” she finally decided. “It’s a stupid idea, actually...”

Sketch felt his heart sink. Barely audible, he whispered, “Why?”

Trust smiled weakly and pointed to her wings and fluttered them a bit. Sketch had completely forgotten. “Oh yeah,” he said solemnly.

“I would like to, though,” she admitted.

“Yeah...” Desperate to change the subject, Sketch laughed a bit awkwardly. “Okay, try out the next paragraph.”

Trust sighed. While she enjoyed spending time with Sketch, it was just physically exhausting sounding out every damned word. “Okay...” She trailed her hoof on the page. “T-the. Heh, easy. The... s... small griffin... then... f... found... her...s-s...seehh... self. At... a g... gaa... game... thr...thro... throw... ing a ba... lll... at a... a...?”

“Pyramid.”

“The hell is that?” Trust asked, genuinely confused. Sketch struggled for a way to explain it.

“Well... It’s a triangle.”

“A triangle? That’s it? Why didn’t it just say so?”

“Er... well a triangle is always flat, but a pyramid is three-dee.” Sketch demonstrated it with his hooves.

“Dumb,” she deadpanned, causing Sketch to hang his head. “Ugh, enough reading!” Trust huffed and crossed her forelegs. “I’m tired of this. Could you just read it for me?”

Sketch was fully prepared to deny her that right, but as he looked at her puffed cheeks and angry eyes and crossed legs... it was freaking adorable. So he sighed. “Alright, you already read half of it anyway.” He picked up the book and leaned back on his bed. Trust followed suit, leaning next to him and resting her head on his shoulder. The contact made his heart nearly jump out of his throat. As his heart panicked, he managed to act nonchalantly on the outside.

Trust hadn’t had much experience with other people, so she couldn’t have known that’s classified of flirting. So that probably wasn’t her intention. Probably.

When they were both settled, he began to read.

The small griffin then found herself at a game, throwing a ball at a pyramid of bottles. The vendor pony smiled when she approached. He cleared his throat as she neared. “Gather ‘round, gather ‘round,” he boasted, nearly frightening the griffin. “Come, try your hoof at ‘bottle bowl’! Get three tries to knock down the stacks of stone bottles. Knock some down and win a small prize! Knock ‘em all down to win an exclusive prize! Miss all three shots and well... try to leave with your dignity.” The griffin gawked at the pony, the game, and the small prizes littered along the stall. She looked down at the silver bit her mom had given her and then spoke to the pony.

“What’s the exclusive prize?” she asked in her strange little accent, hopeful smile across her face.

“Oh-ho-ho, little griffin girl,” he replied. “If I told you, it wouldn’t be that exclusive, now would it?”

“Gee, I guess not,” she answered. After pondering her dilemma, she meekly rose the single silver bit. “Ball, please!”

“Are you sure, little girl?” he asked. “There are many things you can buy with a bit, all guaranteed wins.”

The little girl put her talon up to her chin, thinking long and hard. Finally she said, “Of course! But if I win, what I would get is worth more than a bit! It’s a smart risk, isn’t it?”

“Sure ‘nuff, kid! That is...” The vendor pony took three balls from below the stall and set them on the counter. “If you’re confident in your skill.”

BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP

Sketch’s ears perked as he suddenly stopped reading. Looking at his clock, he spied the time. Six o’clock? It’s that late already?

“What’s up?” Trust asked, confused as to why he had stopped reading. He really didn’t want to say.

“Uhh... my parents are getting up, Trust...” he explained, setting the book down. “I... have to go to school”

Becoming aware of what he meant, Trust frowned and her (fluffy) ears lowered with her smile. “Oh...”

“I’m sorry.”

“No,” she reassured, getting up to leave. “It’s not your fault or anything.” She nimbly hopped over to the window and caught herself on the sill. “Sketch?” she asked, hope in her voice.

“Yeah?”

“Thanks.” Trust slowly flew away, and with it, the joy in the room. “And... I’ll come back... soon.”

Sketch didn’t bother walking up to the window. He didn’t want to see her leave twice. Time for school...



Staying awake wasn’t exactly a skill Sketch had any talent of. At least, not when it was required of him to do so. And ever since he met Trust, it had been sleepless night after sleepless night waiting for her to return. And the fact she actually did return meant he wasn’t going to get the sleep he needs anytime soon.

Sketch wasn’t the best student anyways. He barely passed and only did the work when it was convenient for him. And although he worked well with logic and learned easily, booksmarts were the furthest from his priorities. Never before had school been so boring for the unicorn, now that a wonderous world of the unknown had been discovered by him. All he did all day was wish Sketch could’ve have been there next to him. He spoke to nearly no one the entire day, and he was ready to just leave, only after his favorite class, which happened to be his last. A Studio Art class.

It was a no-nonsense bare-bones art class with no gimmicks or handicaps. He was asked to draw something and he did, and then goofed around with his art the rest of the period. Despite all the monotony he knew he only had one year left in this boring prison. He could deal with it.

It was mostly for his parents, he realized one morning. If he had his way, he’d get an occupation in the arts, and an education was really unnecessary for that type of career path. Still, not like the knowledge could hurt him. Especially since he intended on sharing his education with Trust, knowing full well it’d be impossible for her to be schooled. She never even got the choice...

Finished with his assignment, he struggled to stay awake as he doodled mindlessly on his blank paper. He hadn’t even been paying attention when Miss Conté approached him from behind. Before he could react, she swiped his paper away from him.

“Enngh!” he grunted as he tried to hold on to it. Miss Conté was too fast, however, as he had no grip left. She scanned the paper for a good few seconds before offering any feedback.

“Interesting...” she said in her surprisingly soft french accent. “Hmm.” The art teacher had artichoke colored hair and mint-green fur. Her hair was very full and curled in multiple places, and her eyes were somewhat narrow and violet in color. A small mole adorned her left cheek. “This is a very unique concept, Sketch.”

“Er, yeah!” Sketch agreed, hooves buried between his legs. Miss Conté was a teacher he had formed a special bond with. One of his very few friends outside his family. Over the four years he attended Canterlot’s General Education University (a complicated way of saying you’re not sure what you want to learn, or you want to be a teacher) they had connected over their interests of the arts and their own special philosophy concerning it. “But, uh... what exactly did I draw?” It didn’t help that she was hot. Really hot. Like... smoking. There was an element of a crush at one point, but he conditioned it to just be an uncomfortable attraction. Hopefully.

“You don’t know what you’ve just drawn?” Miss Conté deadpanned, tilting her head.

“No, I was just... doodling.” Despite not knowing, Sketch had a pretty good idea what it was he had drawn.

“This, Sketch, is really quite something.” She leaned over, rubbing her shoulder against him and flipped over the paper. There sat Trust, staring at the audience, a tantalizing smile piercing through the fourth wall. Sketch blushed both from the contact of Miss Conté and the fact he had drawn Trust quite scantily. Maybe it wasn’t as bad as he thought, he drew mare all the time after all. Maybe... “How did you manage to think up such an intriguing creature?”

“Uhh...” Sketch searched for the correct words to format into a sentence. There was no way in hell he was going to tell her the truth, no matter how much he wanted to get into her pants. Or... that... to protect Trust! Of course. “She uh... she just came to me one night.”

...Technically not a lie, Sketch told himself.

“Hmm...” Miss Conté tapped her chin a few times looking at Sketch and the paper back and forth. Finally, her eyes fell into a state of concern. “Is there something the matter?”

“Wh,” Sketch started, knowing full well where this was headed. “Whatever do you mean?”

“You know what I mean, Sketch.” Miss Conté pulled a chair forward. It must suck without magic. “Your teachers told me you’ve been sleeping in class again. You only do that when something’s bothering you.”

Turning away, Sketch felt a revulsion against himself and his lack of self control. He wanted to stay awake, he really did, but... Trust was too important to forego. “It’s... it’s nothing... I really... I really can’t tell you, Miss Conté.”

She looked actually shocked at this, completely unexpecting his answer. “Really?! But you always tell me...” She made a mocking sad face and puffed her lip. 

Not gonna fall for it. Nuh-uh.

Not when so much hung in the balance.

“I know I do. So... you know it’s really important, okay?” Sketch rubbed his arm. “I just... I can’t tell you, at least, not yet.”

The art teacher studied him intently, the way he shook slightly at the hooves, and stared at her with that uncommon glare... he was very serious. “Okay, then, sure!” she said lightheartedly. “If it’s that important to you Sketch.”

“Heh...” he said, smiling at the sketch on his desk. “More than you know, Miss Conté...”



Sketch was going to go home. But he didn’t.

He couldn’t figure out what possibly made him come here, but the alternative was just going home and waiting around for Trust. Not that this was much better than the alternative, but it was a step above. 

He knocked on the door and once again questioned why he was doing this. The door opened to reveal a slightly disgruntled looking griffin. Her voice, however, betrayed her appearance; full of life and sounding quite content. “What’s up?”

“Uhh, I’m here for Anthem?” Sketch asked slowly, unsure of how to speak to a griffin. This was probably the first time he was face to face with one before. “I assume you’re Haren? My name’s Sketch.”

“Ohh-ho, little Sketchy,” she slammed her fist into her palm in some sort of ‘eureka’ gesture. “Yeah, Anthem’s told me all ‘bout you.”

“Likewise,” Sketch replied, walking inside after she gestured him in. She gave a short gasp.

“Really? What’d he say ‘bout me?” she asked, obviously trying to mask her enthusiasm. She clumsily sauntered off to the kitchen as she waited for a response.

“Uhh, nothing much, just some stories about your parties.” Sketch flumped down on the single sofa in the middle of the room. The room was very bare, except for an incredibly out-of-place projector sitting in the back of the space. It pointed towards a bare white wall. Films have gotten a bit of a lime-light in the past year or so, and Anthem had apparently inherited the projector from his late uncle-in-law. Anthem’s timing was impeccable. Now, Anthem had become somewhat of a film aficionado, being one of the only ponies in Equestria to own a projector. Ironic, considering his living standards.

“Oh,” she said, in no particular manner. Sketch was usually a great judge of character, but so far Haren had been a bit of a blank slate. Sketch looked over at her digging in her fridge. She was standard looking from the waist-down. But her head-feathers seemed very long, and strangely colored orange. Two small metal piercings took up the space above her right eye, and and ear ring only where her right ear was (he assumed, considering he couldn’t see her ears). He presumed she was considered quite attractive by male griffins, but he couldn’t speak for himself. She did have some savory elements, though he wasn’t quite sure how he felt about her. He had to admit her flicking tail was quite alluring. Oh, and there was a small ring on the end of her tail, too.

“Beer?” she offered from across the room.

“I’m seventeen,” he said as-a-matter of fact.

“Beer?” she repeated snidely. Sketch sighed in exasperation. 

“Got anything else?”

“Guh, jeez.” she took a beer and another bottle and close the fridge. “Soda?”

“Sure,” he finally agreed, catching the tossed soda with his magic. “Thanks.” Sketch was surprised that the cap had already been popped. He turned to Haren just in time to see her pop the cap with her talons.

“Holy crap,” he gawked at the display as she chugged a few gulps of the beer. “You just tore that thing off.”

She chuckled as she set the beer down as casually as possible. She then showed off her talons. “Razor sharp. Bottle caps aren’t the only thing they’re good fer tuggin’.” As Sketch’s face reddened at the image that had just been burned into his mind, he heard a voice come from the bedroom across from them.

“C’mon Haren, stop makin’ the kid blush.” Anthem, looking very rested, lazily trotted out and sat on the floor. “Hey, Sketch!” he said as if he barely realized he was there. “How you doin’, kid! Haven’t seen you in like, a month.”

“it’s been a little bit over a week,” Sketch clarified, face-hoofing. “How come nobody remembers how time passes?”

Anthem was a very sloppy individual. He had wrinkles around his eyes at the ripe old age of twenty-five, a muddy, dark blue coat and a very deep purple mane. Despite his appearance,  he generally took very good care of himself. He had to if he didn’t want to pass out from his taxing partying experiences.


“Well, it sure felt like a month.” he said, sincerely. “So what’s the issue? You usually try to pretend I’m not your friend until some shit goes down.”

“Yeah, sorry about that.” Sketch shifted uncomfortably on the couch. The couch, while comfortable in its own right, served to just make Sketch more nervous. “Well... There’s this girl-”

Haren snickered loudly and interjected. “A girl huh? How original. You’re asking Anthem for help on that?”

“Hey, hey hey,” Anthem said, waving his forelegs back and forth. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You aren’t exactly the least dense of individuals.”

“Guys, stop!” Sketch yelled, surprising himself. “It’s not like that. She’s just...” Oh crap, I didn’t think this through... I can’t really tell them anything. Come on, just think of something! “Really shy,” HA! Not a lie. Victory. “She has severe anxiety in groups. She needs something to relate to them first.” Wow, I’m on the ball today. “Uhh... like if people wore costumes!” Sketch proposed, giving them a chance to raise their brows. “Yeah. She has this really good gothic bat costume, so if you guys know any parties like that... we could go with. I just want her to have some fun with other people, you know?”

Haren and Anthem turned to each other and looked at each other quizzically, no doubt having a silent conversation. After what it seemed like a short argument, they smiled and looked back at Sketch. “Hearth’s Tearing Eve.”

Sketch remained silent while digesting the strange name in his head. He mused what it could possibly mean, before giving up and asking himself. “What’s that?”

“It’s a week before Hearth’s Warming, where a few bands go out and play in the Canterlot forests. It’s pretty well-known, but a lot of ponies skip it ‘coz it’s like, super cold then,” Anthem explained. Haren giggled and jumped in.

“Feathers, BOI!” she yelled without an ounce of sincerity.. “All the griffins in town go to Hearth’s Tearing. That’s not saying much, of course, since the ponies that do stick it out still outnumber us a little.” Haren shrugged and emitted a “Hm” sound. “It’s also pretty tame, as far as parties in the woods at night goes.”

“In all honesty,” Anthem began, rocking back and forth on the floor. “If she wore that costume at any party she’d blend right in, but I think Hearth’s Tearing is right up your alley.” He got up, brushed himself off, and approached Sketch, his tone getting lower and more even. “It’s still going to have the usual, though. Drugs, sex, loud music, obfuscating stupidity, obvious stupidity. You sure you’re up for this? This is a change for the ‘responsible and sensible’ Sketch.”

Sketch exhaled heavily and stared into his soda. He swished the bottle around a bit. “Don’t worry about me, Anthem. I never partied with you because I couldn’t handle it, I never partied with you because I didn’t find it particularly interesting.” Sketch leapt off the beaten couch and looked Anthem straight in the eye. “But I can handle it, trust me. I opt out of choice, not fear.”

The severe amount of determination on Sketch’s face was remarkable. This clearly meant a lot to him, Anthem figured. “This mare’s pretty important to you, huh?”

His head fell, now feeling more tired than ever. It’d been a long day. “More than you can realize...”

“Be here on the eleventh, then,” Haren interjected, “Twelve o’clock. Noon. Just kidding, midnight.”

Haren joked and corrected herself so fast Sketch didn’t have enough time to so much as laugh.  “Eh, sure.”

“Ha!” Anthem rose his fist in the air and pumped it. “I’ve been waiting for this moment for ages, Sketch!” He put his leg around Sketch and used his other one to point at the ceiling. He panned his hoof over the entire room as if it were the sky. “I’m going to show you all that life has to offer! What life is all about when you take control and toss everyone’s opinion down the shitter! You... are going to...” He suddenly shot forward and whispered into Sketch’s ear. “...live.”

“...Dammit.”



As Sketch walked down the street, desperately trying not to pass out, he mulled over the rather off-putting events of the day. Everything just seemed so hazy lately; he wondered if it had anything to do with Trust. It almost seemed to odd to be true: meeting this unique creature, and now his life revolved around it. It’s like when you read a storybook and you wonder what the heroes do after their adventure. Do they just go back home? Live out the rest of their days hoping for another one to come? After musing for a while, he chalked up the strange feelings to the fact his own life changed quite dramatically in literally fourteen minutes. Nothing would be the same after befriending Trust. He’d probably grow up to be a completely different stallion now. I guess that’s how chaos theory works.

And then there was Haren, that griffin. There was something... off about her. It had nothing to do with her functionally, no she was definitely of sound mind, but Sketch just felt this really strong field of suppression around her... the figurative kind of course. Her and Anthem had been roommates for a while now, a little over a year, and the two were thicker than a history textbook. Yet somehow there was a realm of unrealistic circumstances surrounding the two. She didn’t seem like the type of girl to hang around one place for too long, not at all. Then again, neither did Anthem, and he’d lived there for much longer than she had. Still...

Also, Sketch found out griffins can be strangely attractive. But sadly, the thought still disgusted him. He guessed that it required to have some sort of feather fetish or something. It must have just been the way she presented herself. Those piercing were not bad at all. He wondered if they’d look good on Tru-

Blomph!

“Agh, fuuuu...” Sketch rubbed his head in frustration and pain as he questioned his intelligence. He just trotted head-first into his front door without even attempting to open it. That required a special brand of stupidity, the kind only found in a Turkish black market. Walking through like an actual sentient being, Sketch was greeted by the heavenly smell of oatmeal cookies, and the voices of his parents.

“Hit your head on the way in, sport?” his caramel colored dad asked, using the word sport in an ironic fashion. He didn’t even look up from the newspaper.

“Just a little bit,” Sketch deadpanned, walking in and diving into the sofa in the living room. He just wanted to sleep. And also talk to Trust, but that obviously wasn’t going to happen.

“Where ya been, Art?” his dad asked, using his first name for more than obvious reasons.

“Hanging with Anthem,” he said truthfully. This sparked some action from dear old dad.

“Anthem?” he said, setting down his paper. He leaned forward sternly. “You know I don’t like you hanging out with that stallion. He’s bad news.”

“Dad, we’ve had this talk before.” Sketch buried his face into his arms. He really wasn’t in the mood for this. “I know he’s into some bad stuff, but he’s not a bad guy at all. ‘Peer pressure’ has no influence on me, and he’d never try to get me to do anything, he’s too nice.” Although Anthem jokingly tried to get Sketch to participate in the more sleazy parts of life, passing him drugs and offering him alcohol, he knew what his lifestyle did to an unprepared pony. He also knew that a clean life was marginally a smarter decision, and he respected that. But he also let Sketch make his own decisions and never tried to talk him in or out of anything. He had demonstrated that today.

His dad sighed and rubbed his aging eyes. “I know... But I only allow you continue to see him because you don’t have many friends, and you’ve never proven to be untrustworthy.”

“I never told you, but a girl also lives there an-”

“What?!”

Sketch jumped up and flung his hooves forward. “Lemme finish! She’s a griffin.”

His temporary face of rage melted into one of understanding. “Oh, sorry. Heh.”

“See, I forgot what I was going to say now.” Sketch exhaled a breath he’d been holding for what seemed like an entire day. Although today wasn’t very eventful, he knew shit was going to hit the fan sooner or later. But the feces could wait. He was pretty sure he was asleep before his back hit the sofa.

As always, Trust was there to keep himself some company, if only just his dreams.
> 2. Not Even a Passing Glance
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

No truth can be said to be seen as it is until it is seen in its 
relation to all other truths. In this relation only is it true.

-Elizabeth Prentiss

Chapter 2

Sketch’s heart jumped into his throat. There was a bitterly cold sensation that attacked his face without so much as a warning, causing him to twitch and convulse as he tried to defend himself. He finally gripped the source of the assault with his magic and flung it across the room, gasping and sputtering for air. It flumped to the ground, and Sketch finally saw the perpetrator, a rag sopping wet with the coldest water he has ever had the grace of feeling. He put a hoof to his chest as he tried desperately to calm his breathing down.

“Wake up, sleepy head,” his mother called, her voice dripping with feign sweetness. “Don’t indulge your insomnia like that by just sleeping whenever you want to.”

“Gah, Celestia!” Sketch cursed and fell back into the couch, panting. Of all the... “I couldn’t help it, I was tired!”

“You have to suck it up, Sketch; I mean, it’s not narcolepsy, you could stay awake if you wanted to.” His mom, Sweet Night, flicked her tail as she turned and trotted back to the kitchen, where a pot boiled some soup. She still had her nurse’s cap on so she must’ve just gotten home. Her hair was an average light brown but with red stripes and curled style. Her fur was nearly white with a tint of a soft velvet. “Still, I guess it isn’t fair to expect that of you, so you’ll still get dinner.”

“Tch, thanks.” He turned to see his dad resting his muzzle on his chest and holding his newspaper like a security blanket. Although his grey hair covered his eyes, it was obvious he was asleep. “How come Dad gets to sleep?”

“Because he works and isn’t an ass,” she stated as a matter-of-factly. “He’s a good husband.”

“Oh, so I’m an ass now?” Sketch jokingly asked, pretending to look hurt. His mom just shrugged.

“Hey, you said it,” his mom chuckled. “Can you hoof me that cilantro?”

“Ugh,” Sketch grunted, resisting the urge to throw up as he looked at the spice in disgust. He grabbed it with his magic and kept it far away as he trudged towards his mother. “Here you go.”

As he hoofed it to her and wrapped his leg around her and pecked her on the cheek, and proceeded to leave. She called to him before he got too far. “Sketch, I want you asleep by eleven.”

“Mmn,” he groaned, half-serious. His mother hit the pot with her ladle.

“Hey, you’re the one who doesn’t want medication.”

As he climbed the stairs to his room, he shot back. “You’re the one encouraging me to take drugs.” Sketch shut the door behind him, prompting his mother to sigh.

“Dumb boy,” she remarked, smiling.



The little griffin girl lifted the baseball and reared her talon. She threw with all her might, but no bottles fell to the toss. In her effort to throw as hard as she could, the ball missed at the absence of precision.

“Two more tries, little girl, two more tries.” The vendor pony brought out another baseball and set it on the counter. With determination anew, she lifted the ball and very carefully tossed the ball with accuracy.

While the ball hit the bottles, none fell to the decreased power of the throw. The griffin pouted as the ball rolled on the ground. Again, the vendor smiled and remarked, “Haha, too bad. You got one more throw, little one. Make it count.”

This time, as the griffin picked up the last ball, she stuck out her tongue and lifted to her eyes. She kept her eyes on the bottles as she reared her talons. She threw with all her might, not once trailing off her mark. With a loud crash, all the bottles fell to the floor one by one. She watched the bottles move on the floor for a bit before the fact clicked in the brain. She won!

“I won, I won!” She jumped up and down. The vendor laughed and fetched her prize, a large stuffed elephant. He handed it to the small foreign griffin girl. 

“Yes, you did. See what life is about, little girl. Trying new things and problem solving. Just remember. You only have a couple of tries.”

The small griffin frowned as she thought of this. She could have failed that last time. She would’ve lost her money, she would have gotten no prize. She wouldn’t have ever known what her premium prize was. But... then maybe she could’ve won on the first try! or the second...

What could have been... would never be experienced. It’s all lost within a number of moments and she didn’t even give a passing glance.



Sketch poked at his paper and pencil as he sighed, the inspiration drained from him. Trust was like a drug, and now he had gotten that second taste, all he wanted to do was talk to her again. He rested his head on his left hoof as he stared at nothing of importance.

“Someone’s a little grumpy~” Miss Conté sing-song’d at the corner of Sketch’s eye. He wanted to sigh in exasperation but held it in for her sake. “I hear you’ve been sleeping in class again.”

Sketch thought for a few moments before responding to his teacher. He had been a bit peeved as of late, simply because Trust refused to visit him every day. This time he truly believed her that she’d visit more often, but it wasn’t often enough. He needed his fix. There was also a bit of cruel irony mixed in; talking to Trust helped him sleep, but when she’d arrive he’d stay up the entire night to maximize their time together. He looked away from Miss Conté and grumbled a bit. 

She frowned and backed away with a more serious expression. “Sketch, I’m serious, you have to stay awake in school. It’s not just a formality.” She leaned in and lowered her voice. “Tell me what’s wrong, sweetie.”

The concern she held in her tone made Sketch rise in a gesture of respect. He looked off into a corner and contemplated his options. “Conté...” he began, choosing his words with the utmost care. “I... have you ever wanted to help someone... but you didn’t know how to go about doing it?”

Miss Conté furrowed her brow in confusion and stepped back. Sketch tapped at the desk nervously and continued. “I mean... I just want what’s best for her but I don’t think she’d appreciate it... or if she’d even accept it.”

It was silent for a while. It lead Sketch to catch the quiet conversations of the other students and the subtle sound of various crafts being made. He felt so detached from it all.

“...Well I can’t say I’ve been in a situation like that personally, but... Sketch, you just need to be honest with them and yourself. Don’t sell it short but don’t shove it down her throat. Make sure you force her to make a decision, but give her the freedom to turn it down. Make her feel like she’s the one asking for help in the end.” Miss Conté smiled weakly but truly, and put a gentle hoof on Sketch’s shoulder. “Look, Sketch. I don’t think you give yourself enough credit. You’re a sweet boy, I’m sure she’ll understand.”

Sketch just stared at her with his mouth open. While Miss Conté wasn’t exactly the most thick of individuals, Sketch didn’t take her to be so skilled with her words, or advice. He nodded slowly as he recovered from the wisdom. “Right...”

“You’ll do fine.” She sauntered by him and whacked him in the back of his head, thoroughly startling him and knocking him out of his stupor. “Now get some sleep!”

As Miss Conté walked away he could have sworn she had said some pretty deep stuff moments earlier...



“You again?” the griffin at the door asked, sounding very unimpressed. Sketch opened his mouth but no words came out, being unable to respond to such a mean spirited greeting. Haren laughed aloud at his reaction and put her forearm around his neck (a terrifying experience with her talons that close to a vital artery) and dragged him inside. “I’m kidding, calm down. I like you, kid. Didn’t I make that obvious yesterday?”

“Heh,” he laughed weakly. “Could’ve fooled me.”

“Cuts deep, kid,” she joked, loosely falling into one of the recliners in the main room as Sketch regained his balance on the sofa. “‘Sup, dude?”

“I came by to see what’s going to happen before Hearth’s Tearing.” Sketch leaned back and managed to relax, finding himself strangely comfortable with the griffin despite barely knowing her. Must’ve been her cool attitude. No wonder Anthem loved living with her... which begged the question, “Is Anthem here?”

Her face contorted into a mixture of frustration and goodwill at the mention of the pony. “Nah he went to go look for some Hearth’s Warming movie that was just released a few days ago. It’s a Something Life or another? I dunno.” She kept a smile on her face. “Wouldn’t shut up about it.”

“Oh,” he simply said, still waiting for his answer about Hearth’s Tearing. He noticed that Haren had done her feathers differently today, having them curved downwards and covering one eye. It was kind of flooring how good it looked on her. Also, she was wearing two earrings today instead of one, and of a different style. Sketch had to admit, she was very good on appearances.

“What’d you wanna know about Hearth’s Tearing?” she asked, lazily wrapping her arms over the rests and off to the sides of the chair and carrying one leg over the other as to not show too much (though she wasn’t trying too hard to hide anything, but regardless). Her posture would no doubt be eye candy to any male (and some female) griffins, that’s for sure.

“Well just a couple of things really,” he started, gesturing with his left foreleg. “Were we gonna meet here?”

“Yup,” she answered, a sly smirk stretching across her face that accompanied everything she said. “Bring your little girlfriend here at the designated time, a’ight?”

“She’s not my-” Sketch began, but settled on leaving it alone considering she only said that to get a reaction out of him. This was heralded by the fact that Haren was suppressing a giggle. Sketch scoffed and ignored the transgression. “Anything I need to know or have?”

“Nah, man. It’s all pretty standard shtick. All the little stereotypes of parties and raves will be there. So expect everything, but don’t be intimidated by it, capisce?”

“Alright,” he confirmed, breaking a smile just because of the absolutely cool vibe coming off of her. She was so similar to Anthem in personality that it was actually a bit endearing. Maybe they rubbed off on each other. That reminded Sketch of something. “You know I’ve known anthem for a while and I know you’ve been living here a while as well. I’m surprised we haven’t met until now.”

“Yeah, but that’s because I used to work afternoons at my job, but I got fired recently.” She said coolly, looking at the tips of her talons effeminately.

“Harsh,” Sketch commented, frowning.

“Eh, my fault for lifting drugs at a pharmacy. They catch on sooner or later,” she said, snickering.

“I guess...”



The ceiling looked good today, Sketch decided while resting his head on his forelegs. It was a strange position, but a comfortable one. He turned his head and looked at the clock. 12:34? And still wide awake... Sketch was simply to excited and anxious to tell Trust of Hearth's Tearing that he simply could not sleep. He suspected he'd be suffering the same way even without the insomnia, but it wasn't exactly helping either. Sheep, math, trivia, nothing even made him bat an eye as he lay on his back. Even as his eyes became heavier than stones, an inexplicable force kept them open, haggling with his brain for the control of slumber. Finally, as the sweet sanctuary of sleep came, another sound raised the price.

"Hello!~"

Suddenly from nowhere, a certain feral-looking face of a mare entered his vision from above. Her wide smile showed off her teeth, along with the fangs. "Trust?" he breathed, unsure if his mind was playing tricks on him. Maybe she was some kind of twilight dream.

She seemed kind of disappointed for some reason, her face contoured to that of one who had failed a prank. she rolled her eyes and flipped over onto Sketch proper, starling the poor boy.

"The one and only, Sketchy! Wassaup?" her beam of enthusiasm returned. She must have been quite oblivious to her quite scandalous position on Sketch. She sat there with no worries, legs spread across his lower stomach. Sketch felt his body temperature slowly climb, so he immediately tried to wriggle out to prevent the situation becoming more awkward. Admittedly, the frontflip she had done to achieve this position was quite impressive, but that was aside the point.

"Uhhhh," he droned nervously until he successfully wriggled into a less... crotch intensive posture. He rested his back against the bed frame and now Trusts forelegs rested on both sides of his stomach. Not exactly a flattering position for either of them but less risque than the one they were previously in. Hopefully she would realize the invasion of space her location held before he had to point it out to her. While she did seem like the type to not be naive of such things, her blatant inexperience with other ponies overrode that fact. Hell, she was probably a virgin.

With that thought now plaguing his mind, he decided to speak to Trust to distract him from it. "N-nothing much, I guess. I have had a lot of trouble sleeping these past couple of days. Insomnia's a bitch."

"In-what-a?" she asked, chuckling. She flew into the air and did a areola before she expertly landed on the floor. She pranced ironically to Sketch's desk and began inspecting his newer drawings. Most of were no consequence, waterfalls and serene environments. There was a couple of Trust in various poses, one of which in particular caught her attention. "Holy crap dude, how do you even do this when I'm not here?" The drawing was an elaborate one, depicting the batpony with an impish grin while her entire body had a drunken sway to it. Appendages were strewn about in many but easily visualized directions. It looked like she was in the middle of a playful dance, one that one does after playing some kind of joke. The movement depicted almost made it seem like it would start at any moment.

"It's nothing special," Sketch grumbled as he stepped over to the overly energetic pony. How the hell is she so... awake right now?

"Bull crap, I almost mistook this for a photo!" she exclaimed, arching her eyebrow. She hoofed it over to him for scrutinization. He looked at it half heartedly, finding the only redeemable factor of it that it held the image of Trust.

"It doesn't matter. It'll never be shown in galleries or the like. Even if it is good, there's always something better." He gave a wry laugh and walked away, eyes closed. Trust only could stare at him in disbelief and frustration.

"Sketchy... who cares? I love it, someone else will. You'll never know if you don't buck up and have some confidence."

That reminded Sketch of the party in the woods. Buck up and have some confidence... Maybe this would be easy after all. "Look, Trust, maybe you misunderstood me. I still plan on making art my occupation. I still want to get my art out there, but a little humility is good for the soul."

Trust's cheeks puffed up as she pouted and looked away with her nose in the air. "Whatever." She returned to the desk and sifted around a little. Sketch was deep in thought, trying to find a way to tell her about Hearth's Tearing.

"Tru-"

"Bahaha! What's this?" She leaned over on the desk and poked her nose into it to make sure she wasn't seeing things. Oh celestia, what did she find now, Sketch thought, rolling his eyes. "Dude," she picked it up and spread it out in front of  her. It was a picture of Sketch smiling with batwings and fangs, drawn a bit goofily. It was less serious and more satirical that the original drawing he gave Trust a week ago.

"Oh," he chuckled, only suffering from Trust's contagious laugh. "I forgot I drew that." 

“Why would you draw this?” she asked, laughing more.

“I dunno. Curious, I guess.” Sketch stepped next to Trust and put a hoof on one corner of the page. Curious of what, exactly?

“Can I keep it?” she asked, looking at Sketch, with a look of eager joy. He faced her, nearly taken aback by the endearingly cute face she had made. He had wanted to keep that particular piece, but who could say no to innocent little demonic bat filly?

“Sure...”

She stared at it intently, biting her lip and showing a wealth of conflicting emotions. “Thanks...”

Sketch remained silent for a while, pacing around the room trying to connect a way to segue into Hearth’s Tearing.  “Trust...” he began, rubbing his knee with another foreleg. “Uhh... Trust, have you ever thought what’d be like to just be another pony. That’s what I was thinking when I drew that. What’d like to be a bat pony. So...”

Trust was strangely quiet, looking at Sketch with an unusually blank expression. After a while, her gaze trailed to the ground and then the window. The silence made Sketch sweat a bit behind his neck, nervously awaiting her answer. Suddenly she spoke, “Maybe. But it’s impossible...”

Yes! Maybe is good enough. I can work with maybe. “Well... maybe not. I... have a proposition for you.”

Trust’s ears perked up, her expression stale along with some soft skepticism. “Wha...”

“Well, uh... Y’see there’s this thing... a party... Hearth’s tearing and-”

Trust interrupted with a loud groan and irritated scoff. “No, Sketch. I don’t do parties, no.”

“No, no, no, no listen. It’s a really small party, uhh, more of a small concert. And-”

“Sketchy, are you loco in your little melon head? Look at me!”

“Trust!” he interjected. “Look. People dress up at this concert  in some costumes, so you’d blend right in!”

Her blank face returned after this reveal of information, and she sat, her strong protest deflating.”But... I dunno Sketchy, I don’t think it’s a good idea. I don’t think I’d be good in crowds.”

“Oh come on, I’m sure you’d be fine, and you won’t know until you try.” Sketch plastered a smile onto his face, trying to ease Trust’s feelings of doubt.

“Sketchy, I just...” she stared at the ground and her voice wavered. “I thought...” She held her shoulder as if it ached. “I thought you didn’t care I was... you know. Batty.”

It took all of Sketch’s strength to not groan in frustration. Was she still on about this? “Trust, I don’t. Not in the slightest. I just want you to be happy, and I want to show you the world. I feel selfish keeping you cooped up in here, when you can be making even more friends. This has nothing to do with your... batness, just that you haven’t hung out with people at all. I don’t want you to miss out.”

Trust lay still for a while, contemplating sketch’s words. Although rational and sincere, she still felt unsure. A long time went by before anything was said, until Trust sighed. “I guess...”

Sketch jumped up with joy, clopping his hooves together in giddy joy. “Wonderful! I have a couple of friends that’ll go with us. I already told them you have a gothic bat costume and they’re completely on board.”

“Ugh... You’re gonna make me regret this Sketchy I swear,” she said, wearing a weak smile. “Hey,” shooting up from her sit, she sauntered over to Sketch’s bed and flopped upside-down on it, letting her head hang off the edge. “Read me something.”

Sketch tried to sound angry, but it failed pathetically as his lips curved to a smile. “Sure, whatever.”



She destroyed my life.



Sketch awoke with a start, knocking the book off his chest and disturbing the saliva that took its refuge along his chin. He looked at the clock that lay next to his bed on the nightstand and found the time. 9:00 AM, a bit late for school. He cursed under his breath and stood, first taking off the blanket he realized just now that covered him. He had fallen asleep leaning against the bed frame with Trust actually using the bed. She must have left afterwards not before putting a sheet on him. The thought warmed his heart, and with that comforting his mind, he left for yet another uneventful day at school. He slept well, he decided.
> 3. Waltz With Lady Luck
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

Clouds come floating into my life, 
no longer to carry rain or usher storm, 
but to add color to my sunset sky.
-Rabindranath Tagore


Never a dull moment in my exciting city life is there? Sketch’s head rested on the cold lifeless desk. As exciting as the history class of who cares was, there were other things he’d rather be doing. Such as anything. And everything that has ever existed. He had already been called out for doodling, successfully making him feel like an unruly third grader. So there wasn’t much to do except wait for his teacher to shut his damn mouth. Tolerance use to come easy before he met Trust. While he never liked school, he never made much of a scene and did his work silently, and he had the common decency to stay awake during lessons no matter how sleepy he was. But now, after everything that had happened, he began to question his place at this school more and more. What was the use of learning all of this if he was never going to utilize such knowledge, except maybe to sound like a pompous douche in public spouting useless trivia about the founding of a small city he was likely never going to travel to? Sketch never minded education, and he was thankful he had received it, but there comes a point where you’ve learned enough about something to pursue your dream. And be damned if he didn’t want to...

“Art!”

Sketch jutted up, surprised to realize he was starting to drift off. He mentally checked to see if he was harboring any drool and inhaled quickly. “Yeah?”

“Who was the mayor of Agister during the first part of Celestia’s Era?”

“Ugh,” Sketch groaned, really hesitant to dance this dance again. The teacher knew he was sleeping, why didn’t he scold or punish him and then get on with it? “Burlap Sack of the Sack family, brother of Ball Sa-”

“Mr. Sketch!” he yelled, effectively grating on the blackboard that was Sketch’s brain. The rest of the students befell that awkward silence that Sketch had actually learned to appreciate “I am certain that you have the capacity to sit up and pay attention. Don’t try to convince me otherwise.”

“It’s impossible to convince you of anything.” Sketch wanted to slam his hoof on the table. Generally, he was a very passive stallion, but the boredom he felt all day and the frustration of what everyone was forcing him to do, everything he wanted to do, it all slammed itself in his face at this moment. Plus he was tired, but that wasn’t anything new. Until now, he hadn’t realized how angry he was when he wasn’t with his friends or drawing... or learning something he was actually interested in.

“Look, sit down and shut up, or I’ll notify the principal.”

“Oh, dear Celestia help me, not the principal, why don’t you just kill me?” Sketch spat sarcastically, getting up from his seat and staring the teacher down.

“Mr. Sketch, if you don’t behave yourself immediately I will have to take disciplinary action! If you don’t learn anything you will not be successful in the world.”

“Bullshit!” Sketch shot back, taking a step. His ears felt hot and his heart raced. “I don’t need to be an educated jerkass like you in order to be happy or successful.”

“Fine then!” the teacher yelled, matching Sketch’s volume. “Associate yourself with the filth and the uneducated! See if I care!”

That’s when Sketch lost it. In technical terms, he had just call Trust filth, and Sketch would have none of that. “Fuck you!” The entirety of the class flinched, and the teacher’s jaw dropped. “I don’t need this. The next time you self-righteous assholes want to ‘help me learn something’, don’t bother!” Sketch stormed out of the classroom and ran once no one could see him. No doubt security would come looking for him once they hear what just happened, and walking around with no pass would be suspect enough for this conflict to be elongated. He was prepared to deal with the consequences of his actions, but right now he just needed a break... 

As he approached the unsettlingly quiet north gate, he looked back once, towards that all too familiar red building, isolated from the rest of the buildings like one would have a trailer. It was Miss Conté’s art class, alongside rooms reserved for music and the like. Sketch... felt low. The air felt heavy, and the it became thick enough to swallow; which he did. He squeezed his eyes shut and ran, trying to stop any tears from flowing out. Why do I want to cry? What the hell is wrong with me?! Why am I sad? I’m happy. I’m happy, dammit! Trust, and Anthem, and most recently Haren? And his dad, mom? Everything was going great! Sure school was boring, but there was nothing to be sad about!

Sketch skidded to a halt and rose his hooves to his head. He banged on his skull, trying to reason with himself. The past couple of weeks had been hard on Sketch, and the closer Hearth’s Tearing came the more stressed he got. The only upside to all of this was that Trust’s visits had became much more frequent, close to every day now. But it was so wonderful, so much fun, that whenever she wasn’t around it just made him spiteful.

Could that have been it? Maybe he was just angry that she couldn’t be with him all the time, not that she wasn’t. Just because she looked a little different! It was all their fault. It was everyone's fault that she can never have what he’s had. It wasn’t his fault, or her fault... it was their faults. Ponies...

“Sketch!”

Sketch gasped and jerked up at his name. He hadn’t realized that tears had ran down his cheeks during his thoughts. He turned to the voice with mouth agape; his face and ears felt incredibly hot. It took him awhile to associate the voice with the face, and in a moment, it came together.

“Miss Conté?” he mouthed, trying to make a sound, but miserably failing. “I... I don’t...”

“Shut up, Sketch,” she ordered almost mechanically as she wrapped her legs around Sketch’s neck and buried his face into her chest. She held him tight, and refused to let go. Sketch was surprised at first, but was then calmed by the sound of her heartbeat. And it was warm. And safe...

“How did you know-” Sketch started to ask, now stable.

“Fifth hour is my free period, Sketch. I heard what happened very quickly,” she explained, brushing Sketch’s head. “Sketchy...”

Sketch’s heart jumped at the use of his nickname. His nickname that Trust almost exclusively used...

“I know there’s a lot going through your mind right now, Sketchy. Just... don’t blame ponies for being ignorant... they’re just scared of things they don’t understand.”

“Everyone is, I guess.” Sketch reasoned. “Even me.”

“Just relax, Sketch. It’ll get better.”

Maybe... But I doubt it. I have to make it better. I have to. Sketch pushed Conté away and kept her at arms length. He wanted her next to him, but that wasn’t an option anymore. Sketch took a deep breath through his nose and exhaled out his mouth. “Thanks... This is gonna bite me in the ass...”

“Hey, you already screwed up. No use seething on it.” Conté giggled, placing her hoof on Sketch’s cheek. “Get some sleep.”



As Sketch strolled down the street, a certain surreal mist circled around him. It felt musty and humid, and he constantly had little itches all over. The buildings and establishments around him blurred into one giant bowl of grey soup as he passed, melding into a state of carelessness. This just wasn't like Sketch. He never cared about petty inconveniences and ill worded statements of disrespect. He would have just minded his own damn business any other day.

Sketch found himself turning right, into some sort of subconscious destination. PHILS GENERAL STORE, the sign read. Despite the subtraction of a necessary apostrophe in the sign, it was a pretty standard corner shop. Sighing, Sketch took a step inside, eyeing the shelves and spotting all of the familiar merchandise that occupied them. He trotted up to the cashier's counter after grabbing a small candy bar. He really didn’t want it; he was just stalling by now. He could've been home.

While waiting for the cashier, Sketch could've sworn he heard a familiar voice curse under its breath.

"Dammit..."

Sketch turned his head, and was surprised to see Haren, of all people, leaning on the counter, looking at some sort of tin can. "Haren?" he asked needlessly, as it was fairly obvious it was her. There were very few griffins in Canterlot, and even less had piercings on.

She turned towards Sketch abruptly, just as he did a moment ago, and appeared shocked. It faded quickly, then she donned that familiar sly look of confidence she always wore a variant of. "Hey, Sketchy! Funny meetin' you here."

"I could say the same. No offense, but aren't you outta the job? What're you shopping with?"

Haren just laughed as an answer, and exhaled heavily. "There are other ways to make money, dear boy." The 'dear boy' part of her sentence bled with irony. She winked and wiped the side of her cheek gingerly. Sketch knew well enough not to ask further.

Eager to change the subject, Sketch decided to question her purchase.

"This thing? 'It's a Wonderful Life' by Frank Capra." She looked at the film reel with a solemn intent, and a voice betraying the small smile she had across her beak spoke up. "You know... The director is a griffin..."

There was something off about Haren. Her attitude at the moment was unlike how he had ever seen Haren. Granted, he had only known her for about half a month, but her personality was very up front and in the open. It was such a contrast to how she usually behaved. Something hit Sketch. "Wasn't Anthem looking for that a couple weeks ago?"

Knocked out of her stupor, Haren grinned and held the tin up in a victorious pose. "Yup. This bad boy was in super high demand after the movie was shown in theaters. Now everyone wants this sucka. I asked my boy Phil here to hold a copy for me if he could find it." She glanced through the employees only door and snickered. "He owes me a few favors."

"Glad to do it!" Phil shouted from across the room. A few sounds came from the door. It sounded like he was sifting through some random objects. "Be right with ya, kid!"

"Take your time Phil Up! No rush." Sketch replied, happy that the stallion remembered his voice.

"Hey, kid. Aren't you supposed to be in school or something? I just remembered it's a weekday." Haren inquired, tapping at the counter rhythmically.

"Yeah. But I made a hell of an early exit..."

Haren slammed her fist into the counter with genuine enthusiasm. "Holy crap, dude! You ditched? You never pegged me as the type."

"Ugh, I'm not." With the sound he made, he was obviously disgusted with his ill-timed outburst. "I just got fed up with the place."

"I can hear that, but I can't say I empathize." She said, closing her eyes and letting her head roll back casually. Sketch was somewhat surprised of the strange spike in her vocabulary. Every time they spoke, she'd toss in a word like that naturally. Sketch sensed that she was actually fairly intelligent, but the front she gave obviously meant she wanted to hide that fact. Yesterday she had used the word "penultimate" when describing a party she was at.

“What do you mean?” Sketch asked, taking a few bits out of his bag. Only, he realized just then that he had left his saddlebags at school. He sighed in exasperation as Phil came out of his little den.

“That bar is two bits, Sketch,” Phil commented, leaning on the other side of the counter.

“I left my bag at school, Phil. Sorry.” Sketch pushed the candy bar further away from him towards Phil, but Phil stopped him before it came out of his possession. 

“Don’t worry about it, Sketch. I know you’re good for it.”

Sketch smiled at him and lifted the candy bar and put it in a small paper bag that was there for the taking. At least he’d look less ridiculous carrying around a brown bag rather than a candy bar.

“C’mon, dude. Let’s have lunch, my treat.” Haren suggested all-of-the-sudden. Sketch eyed the clock hanging in one of the upper corners of the store and saw that it was barely 1:30, a full hour before he would regularly get out of school. He was already in trouble, and this was a small offense.

“Sure.”



It was kinda hard to eat with a griffin staring at you, Sketch decided. Haren had ordered some kind of strange soup and was giving Sketch a piercing stare whilst casually stirring it. Unsettling for Sketch, to say the least, but not bad enough for his basic survival instincts to kick in. If they did, he would’ve bolted a long time ago. The smirk she wore made it easier to deal with.

“What did you mean back there?” Sketch asked, taking a nervous bite of a hay fry. “About saying you couldn’t empathize?”

“Hmph,” she grunted, smiling even harder and letting her head fall as she closed her eyes. There was a silence. Suddenly, she lifted her spoon and took a bite of her soup. “Griffins are very different than ponies, Sketch. Our culture differs greatly, and our ideals may not be what you’d expect.” 

“Such as...?” he inquired, tapping at the table curiously.

“Such as: males are considered the superior gender, where as here females are, or at least you’re just growing out of that mindset.”

Sketch’s eyes widened at this. Males? Seriously? What can we bring to the table that mares haven’t beat us to? Raw strength is next to useless here. “Why?”

“Because griffins don’t have magic, or at least we don’t anymore. Males are generally born physically superior, so that stigma was born. Practical application of physical abilities are very important to a griffin...”

Mouth agape, Sketch wondered why this isn’t the stuff he could’ve learned in school. It was fascinating.

“And because of that mindset, education, and the pursuit of it, is generally frowned upon. Scholars and teachers are shunned by their families, are considered useless.” She leaned into her talon and covered one eye with her thumb. The rest of her palm covered her beak and expression. “That’s why I can’t empathize.”

A cold wind blew in as the restaurant's door opened for a new customer. The waiter laughed as she showed a humble couple to their booth. She gave them menus and asked what they wanted for a drink. They answered and she walked away, eager to fulfil their wishes, secretly hoping they’d leave a big tip. A subconscious thought, but one without maliciousness, one not governing her treatment of them: an innocent thought.

Sketch felt a chill run up his back. That’s when Sketch really took a good look at Haren. Despite her nearly flooring appearances, and her carefree attitude, what she really looked like was... exhausted. Somber. A tolerance tested so far to nearly make her break. But she still found the joy of it all, somehow. Some kernel of radiance kept her going, and that was enough.

“Haren... I was... so wrong about you.”

“Hmmn?” Haren reacted, rearing and arching her eyebrow.

“How do you do it?”

It was Haren’s turn to stare at him with a dumbfounded expression. She didn’t answer. She just smiled again and looked the other way.

The couple received their food and thanked the waitress.

“Do what?” she asked innocently, cocking her head to the side, wearing a positively shit-eating grin. She lifted her spoon and took another bite of her soup, never taking her eyes off of Sketch.

“I guess... I need to find out for myself... huh?”

“You couldn’t be more wrong, kid.”



“She said yes, but... I don’t think she’s too into it.”

“She said yes, that means she’s interested. She probably secretly wants to have done something similar herself.”

Harens reasoning was sound, and he had no reason to doubt her. Sketch just had this feeling that he was forcing Trust into the party. Things like that, being forced into something that you don’t want to do, is generally what pissed of Sketch the most. He felt like a hypocrite, but it was the only way to get her comfortable around other ponies. Still...

“This is it right?” Haren asked, poking Sketch in the shoulder.

Sketch’s head jerked up and he confirmed that it was indeed his house that they had approached. Taking a walk with Haren felt unsettlingly natural, but it proved their friendship had grown in the past weeks. It was hard not to enjoy her company.

“You sure you’re gonna be fine?” she asked, concerned.

Sketch looked back before speaking. Haren’s tail flicked a couple times, eager for an answer. “Yeah,” Sketch decided. He didn’t know what to think at first. All of the stress accumulating in what seemed a head start into depression proved itself otherwise with the intervention of Miss Conté and Haren. They were true friends. They could understand his strife without actually knowing what kind of mess he was in. It was spectacular, really. “Yeah, I am.”

“Stay gold, ponyboy,” she quipped, winking. The small reference threw off Sketch enough to leave him speechless as she flew off. Maybe I still don’t know her... Sufficiently shaken, Sketch marched up to his front door and clenched his teeth. As much as he didn't care about other people's opinion of him, he would always value his parents'. He was afraid of disappointing them, most of all.

Still, there wasn't much that could be done now. He's just going to have to bite the bolt. Sheepishly, he opened the door and slowly strode in, awaiting his scolding....

A scolding that never came. Confused, Sketch had an investigate around, looking through every room in the house. Neither of them were there. He was thinking of checking his room before he spied a small paper laying on the table held down by a fork used as a paper weight. He lifted both with his magic and tossed the fork in the sink.

Sketch,

Your dad and I decided to have a little dinner date
to kill some time. I'm fairly certain you'll be able to
take care of yourself in the meantime, and at the very
least leave the foundation of the house hidden in the
burnt ashes of our possessions.

...but seriously, don't start any fires.

Love,
Mom

P.S. We probably won't be home until tomorrow ;)

"Ech," Sketch remarked in disgust of the implications. He set the note down and took a seat on the couch. The ceiling suddenly became a lot more interesting for him. "I guess I'm lucky," He said to no one, closing his eyes. "Or something..." He rested his head for a moment but then decided he should relax in his bed instead. Climbing up the stairs, he trudged to his room and opened the door...

...To find Trust fast asleep in his own bed.

About a billion thoughts flew through his mind, mostly of joy and shock, but a few having a trace of anger for her being so careless. Maybe he would scold her later, because she just looked way too peaceful to yell at right now. Assured that he was too tired to do anything about this debacle, he yawned and went limp at the side of the bed frame. It was around four o'clock; surely it was a poor time to sleep. But everybody had told him to get some rest, so that's exactly what he was going to do. Maybe it would be a bit easier this time, with Trust's soft breaths slowly enveloping and warming his ear. He was proved correct fairly quickly as the slippery character of sleep finally had a few words with him....



And now I have to pick up the pieces



Click, clock... Click clock... Click clock...

The second hand was a bit slow. The minute hand was aligned incorrectly. The hour hand had an inconsistent speed. Yet they all converged into an unexpectedly correct time. Or so it seemed on the surface.

Sketch rubbed his eyes, struggling to dig out the dirt that had accumulated in his sockets. He had lost track of how long he had been awake now. Maybe half an hour? More?

He inhaled sharply and leaned his head back, hitting the bed frame gently. He stretched his legs, and found himself at a disappointing level of groggy. It was midnight, so he slept for a good eight hours; by all intents and purposes he should be well rested. Still, that may come with the insomnia description. He yawned and twisted his neck to wake up Trust.

"Hey, squatter. Awake, freeloader," he joked, sniffing.

Sketch nearly jumped when Trust's eyes flew open, the soft glow they gave abruptly lighting the area around them. Her features familiarly were more aggressively colored in the dark, which perplexed him greatly to this day. Maybe it had something to do with her feral eyes and slitted pupils. Her initial burst of energy dwindled quickly, and she gave a more natural groggy moan. She lazily threw her sheets off of herself and took a normal stance on the bed. She gave an exaggerated stretch, and of course Sketch stared a bit at her form. What would anyone expect him to do?

"Good night, Sketchy." Trust said this with a shocking lack of irony, however she must have been aware of its oddity. 

"Good night," Sketch replied, unable to stop himself from smiling. "I see you took it upon yourself to take a nap in my bed."

"Hey, you said I could last night." She pouted without an ounce of sincerity and made sad eyes at the stallion. More than unamused, Sketch scoffed.

"I meant whenever I was here, Trust."

Trust seized the opportunity with lightning speed, gasping sarcastically. "Why Sketch, how scandalous of you! Trying to take advantage of an innocent, wide-eyed girl like little ol' me!" Her cadence was that of an old-timey ignorant country girl. Had the joke not have been so obviously at his expense, he may have blushed at the not so subtle innuendo. This was the first time she had been risqué with her teasing, and it surprised Sketch. He had always thought of her being slightly naive such subjects, but she has showed to at least be knowledgeable enough to get the basics of the intimacies of ponies. Sketch chalked it up to her having holes in her knowledge of that subject, just like she had with everything else.

"I know what you meant," Trust said, chuckling and rolling her eyes. "I just noticed your parents weren't here and decided to squat until you came back. I do it all the time."

"Fair enough, I guess." Honestly, Sketch could’ve cared less considering she was very aware of her surroundings. She probably knew that Sketch had come home earlier and fell back asleep. And the thought of Trust comfortably sleeping where he sleeps was... nice to know.

Trust yawned and bounced over to the door. She put a hoof on the knob and looked back. “Where’re your folks anyway?”

“Datenight,” he deadpanned, glancing at the moon. Trust stuck her tongue out in disgust and as a sign of sympathy. “Where you going?”

“Fridge,” she answered casually, already halfway down the hall. Sketch followed close behind. “Don’t be thinking you need to make me some fancy meal like you always do, I’ll just make a sandwich.”

He wanted to protest, but he knew it’d get him nowhere. The kind of tone she was using made it obvious she was standing her ground this time. As they made it to the kitchen, Sketch reached for the light switch.

“I’m gonna turn on the light, okay?” he stated, already putting pressure on it.

“Ew... yeah whatever.”

He did so, letting light burst into the kitchen. He saw her slitted pupils shrink suddenly, a sight that definitely made the ordeal worth it. It was adorable. She rubbed her eyes in discomfort for a moment and then returned to normal. “Stupid light.” She was taking out materials one would use to make a veggie sandwich (including butter, for some reason. It was less the fact it was weird on a sandwich, but the fact it was the only weird thing she brought out.)

That was when Sketch’s brain hatched an idea. His parents weren’t going to be home anytime soon, and the house kinda made Trust look cramped up, so...

“Hey, Trust?”

“Hmmn?” she questioned with a slice of cheese in her mouth.

“How about we take this outside?” The look of absolute astonishment on Trust’s face was a sight to behold.

“You want to fight me?” she asked completely befuddled.

“What? No.” Sketch uneasily pointed to the ingredients on the table. “How about we make the sandwiches and have a little picnic in the woods?”

“Pic... nic?” she inquired further.

It took a lot of strength for Sketch not to facehoof. “We can eat them there... in the wilderness.”

Trust’s look of puzzlement only faded a little, but however was still apparent. “Uhh... why? It’ll be dark.”

“It’ll be roman-” Sketch coughed to interrupt himself. Weird. Why did that almost slip out? He cleared his throat. “It’ll be fun. And silent. And dark. And it’ll smell a lot better than the city.”

“Oh.” She tapped her chin with her hoof, making audible sound off of her bare fang. “I guess i never thought of doing that. Sounds cool!”

Internally, Sketch set off some fireworks and danced in the impending flames. “Let me grab a basket.”



It didn’t get dark until Sketch had reached the outskirts of the city. The placement of canterlot city, while novel and beautiful, was a bit inconvenient at times. In order to reach the woods or its surrounding areas, one had to take a trolley, train, cave system, hike, or flight. Luckily there was an automated tram stationed for civilian use that Sketch had a lifetime ticket for, because of his dad’s occupation. Many of his cases involved the lower class cities around the base of the mountain, and therefore made regular use of the tram necessary. He was just glad no guards stopped to ask why he was out so late and find out his age. There was no curfew for the citizens of Canterlot, but an underaged unicorn asking to exit the city so late at night could raise some suspicion. Trust had assured Sketch that she would be behind him every step of the way in the shadows, and that she’d show up once they had gotten away from the crowds.

On cue, Trust landed expertly in the tram in mid-air. “Ta-da. Miss me?”

Sketch, although thoroughly impressed with her agility, looked up from a pamphlet he only picked up specifically for his joke. “Hmm? Oh hey, Trust, didn’t see you there.”

Trust clicked her tongue and pushed him in the shoulder. “Ha-ha, shut up.” She spun around on one leg and fell into the cushioned seats. She eyed the basket Sketch had brought. “You know, this seems like a lot of work to eat a couple sandwiches.”

“I think it’s worth it.”  Now that Sketch’s two bits were on the table, Trust waved her hooves assuredly, showing a small amount of blush.

“Nonono, I didn’t mean it wasn’t, I mean I wanted to do this...” She meekly touched her two hooftips together. “I just... I don’t understand why’d you want to waste the time...” She instinctively knew what Sketch was going to say next, a side effect of spending so much time with him. “And I don’t mean that I’m not worth it either, I’m just saying... we could’ve just ate them at your house and then done some other stuff. We would’ve had just as much fun, but with less work.”

Staring at her, Sketch had trouble thinking of justification. The fact that he wanted some private alone time with her was the obvious answer, but it was out of the question to share since it sounded too weird. It always felt like the house was somehow watching them too... not that it should’ve mattered.

“Well... hanging out at the house is fun and all... but this’ll be a new experience. I mean, you can always have new experiences by yourself, but it just means more when there’s someone else to share them with.”

Trust contemplated this for a few moments... and then blew a raspberry. “Sappy garbage...” She haughtily laughed and stuck her nose up in the air, closing her eyes. She opened one eye and looked down on him before sincerely adding, “...But I guess I can see the appeal.” The idea of Sketch making it in the woods must have been humorous for Trust, as she giggled when she sat on the floor. "Have you've ever been out here?"

Not one to be still, Sketch started to absently sift through the contents of their lunch. He casually shrugged. “Not really. I went camping one time, but we were pretty much set with high quality materials. Just short of like, air conditioning.” A small chuckle escaped Sketch’s lips as he closed the basket. “Haven’t been out of the city much, actually.”

“Really?” Trust asked, cocking her head as she always did. “Pretty strange for an artist.”

The tram stopped suddenly, the magic and the lamp being powered by it gradually dying. Sketch simply craned his neck and faced Trust. Sincerely, he confided. “Isn’t it?”



The air was crisp and the wind was raw. Dew plaqued itself onto the hooves of the two equines, and the leaves whistled at their passing. Sketch’s breathing had reached a rhythm, pacing itself at the slow beat of his heart. He noticed Trust had closed her eyes some time ago, guiding herself with the sound of Sketch’s steps. She was close... close enough to inhale the fresh smell of the wind carrying soothing petrichor every so often. And every time, she took a step closer. Sometimes, her batwing would brush up against his fur, delivering a surprisingly warm touch to the cold winter air.

He found what he was looking for...

“Here we are,” Sketch announced, gesturing to the large body of water that they had befallen. “Lake Gallop.”

“Hm.” Her voice contained a hint of dull surprise. “This is the spot, huh? Can’t say I’m disappointed.”

Sketch was halfway through the setup of the picnic, laying down that oh-so cliché red and white checkered blanket and removing the humble sandwiches contained within. “Rightly so.”

The next few minutes were spent in relative silence, the soft sound of chewing and the occasional question eating up the time. Sketch had no idea what time it was, nor did he care. It was late enough to be near pitch black, the only light coming from the moon, its reflection off Lake Gallop, and Trust’s eyes. Once they finished the sat and stared at the water, both wondering if one was trying to catch a glimpse of the other in the reflection of the water.

“Hey, Sketchy?” she suddenly asked, nearly making him jump at the sound.

“Yeah?”

“I wanna say thanks.”

“For what?”

“I know what you’re trying to do by inviting me to that stupid party.”

“Do you now?”

She puffed her cheeks. It was obvious because her raised cheeks cut off some of the light from her eyes. “Don’t play dumb, Sketchy. Just be glad I’m not throwing your pity back into your face.”

There was another silence, this one more content. “Trust... its pretty obvious you didn’t have much growing up. I don’t know how bad you had it, but I assume the worst. I... just want to show you something you could’ve missed otherwise... something I know somepony like you would love.”

Another silence.

“You sap!” she yelled, giggling. Sketch was suddenly knocked forward by Trust’s entire body, causing him to break face first into the water. He felt all his veins suddenly contract as the freezing brittle water strangled his body. Sketch could’ve sworn he had simply stopped living for a moment as his lungs were bled dry of oxygen. He desperately kicked for air, not wanting to drown. It took him a moment to realize he had never gone more than nose deep past the surface, and that the sheer temperature of the water had deceived him. As his body grew accustomed to the sudden change in climate, he began to yell. 

“D-d-d-d-damm-mm-mmit! Tr-t-t-trust! It-t-t-tsss wayyy to c-c-cold!!”

She was still on the ground laughing when he had finished his scolding. She refused to acknowledge that he was reaching his hoof out.

“Seriously, Trust! I can die from hypothermia!” Sketch growled, now more in control of his voice.

“Hypo-what-ia?” she questioned, taking deep breaths to calm herself. She didn’t know that a pony could die from just being too cold, so she quickened her pace to help him up. “You should’ve seen the look on your f-” Immediately as Trust’s hoof touched Sketch’s, he hooked his leg around hers and pulled her in with all his might. She instinctively tried to flap her wings, but his weight prevented that. In a less than graceful splash, both ponies were now soaked. “Dang it!”

“H-how do you like it?” Despite getting used to the water, it still chilled him to the bone. As such, he chittered his teeth every now and then. “Sly bitch...”

“What’d you say? You think you’re a bad-ass now, huh tough guy? Try to talk smack when your lungs are full of water!” She lunged at him, taking him by the neck and slamming him through the water. He hit the ground completely submerged. This time, he was prepared and held his breath. Then, using his extra leverage, kicked up and tossed her off of him. This continued for a few minutes, until finally she pushed him to the bank of lake and pinned him on the beach.

“Gotcha!” she celebrated in glee. She sported a huge toothy grin which contradicted the feral intimidation her fangs brought to the table. The juxtaposition made Sketch laugh as she eased her grip, in turn making her laugh. They returned to normal, and cleared their throats when they were done giggling like schoolfillies. All that Sketch could see were her glowing yellow eyes. They slowly dilated as her vision was focused on Sketch, away from the moon and lake. His pupils shrunk from the massive intake of light from her glowing irises. They sat there, apathetic to the vulnerable position they were in. Slowly, the light from her eyes began to get smaller. She was closing her eyes. Sketch didn't know why she would do that... He felt the pressure of her nose pressed up against him get stronger as the light turned into slits. They were almost all the way gone, when-

"ACH-OOO!!!" The process made Sketch jerk forward violently, but his muzzle hit nothing but air. Trust had thankfully dodged the sneezing blast rather quickly, her head off to the side. Whatever was happening stopped in one fell swoop. By the time Sketch recovered, Trust had already gotten off of him.

She giggled with a surprising amount of resolve. “You alright?”

“Yeah, just... ACH-OO! Cold.”

“Wait, you weren’t kidding about the cold thing?” she asked, perplexed. Sketch sat up, cradling himself to save from the cold.

“Of course not...”

“Oh, sorry! I thought you were just saying that to drop my guard!” She ran to their previous picnic location and grabbed the checkered blanket from the ground. She made sure the clean side was facing inward and wrapped it around Sketch. She held her body close to him to give him warmth.

Sketch couldn’t think straight. Whether it was because he was cold, he was flustered from Trust’s embrace, or some combination of the two, not a single clear thought entered his mind.

Water had soaked into the blanket already. Had it not been for Trust’s body heat, he would be freezing again despite the blanket. “Buhh....” Nice. Smooth, Sketch.

“Were... were you serious about the dying thing?” Sketch could barely see her face from his peripheral. It was difficult to breathe normally knowing her forelegs was wrapped around his neck and chest, but her face gave him a pang of sadness that rang through.

“Well... no, that’d only be if I was still in the water... and... alone.” He put on a smile to cheer her up. “But since you’re here it’s pretty much impossible.”

“Good.”

“So...” Becoming more rational, Sketch thought of a question. “Do you just not feel the cold?” Her body radiated a peculiar warmth, he noticed. Her biology was obviously ignoring the freezing temperatures.

“No, I do... it just doesn’t bother me. At most, it gets a little uncomfortable.”

It was hard to find words, for the both of them. They weren’t looking at anything in particular and their thoughts were empty. The only sounds emanating were the quiet rustles in the woods.

Sketch was okay with that. But he was not okay with the cold. Unfortunately he had to end this moment with a voice of protest.

“We should really get indoors,” he blurted aloud. It took a moment for Trust to react; she was too lost in thought.

“Hmm? Oh, yeah. The hypoglycemia or whatever.” She quickly flew over to the picnic basket and snatched it up with her teeth. She was at Sketch’s side once more in a matter of a second. Sketch stood and try to make sense of everything. Like what the hell was he exactly trying to accomplish? After analyzing his recent actions he figured subjectively that he was indeed trying to get romantic with Trust. But that was subjectively. He knew he wasn’t! But if he saw anyone else in his position it would be obvious what they were trying to do. Namely, Trust herself.

Everything felt like a mirage, or an illusion of some kind. Like a dream. He didn’t even feel he was in his own perspective anymore. He knew he was cold purely through calculation, he no longer felt it. He hardly felt anything other than Trust.

It was like a dream... one that he didn’t want to wake from.

Trust slowly eased her grip until it eventually became too loose to support its own weight. It was enough to snap Sketch back into reality. He stood, the cold going back to directly affecting him. Recovering, he took the time he was given to shake a bit of the freezing water off. "I really need to dry off," he commented while trying very hard not to shiver.

What in the hell am I trying to do... I don't even know myself anymore...

“Hearth’s Tearing Eve is in a few days now, isn’t it?” Trust suddenly asked with her back turned towards Sketch.

Not expecting the irrelevent question he had to think of an answer, one that quickly became, “Yes.”

She was silent and grabbed her knee nervously. She stuttered a bit. “I... hope I like it.”

“So do I, Trust. So do I...”



The little griffin child’s smile faded as she realized just how large the stuffed elephant prize was. It was twice her height and nearly just as big. She struggled with it for a while, trying to hold it in her beak only to have it drag across the floor, she attempted to put it on her back only to have it slide off within a moments notice. It seemed like nothing was going. to work out at all. She would have to leave her prize here, her pockets a couple of bits lighter. She sat on a nearby bench, thoroughly defeated. That was when a strange little pony approached the poor griffin.

“Hi,” he gingerly greeted. He had puffy orange hair and dark blue fur, and his thin-rimmed glasses hung a couple of centimeters above his nose. “You need help, little girl.”

“No!” she was quick to deny, holding her prize even tighter. The small pony backed up for her sake and stood cool.

“Are you sure? That wonderful prize is very big, and if I had won it I’d want someone to help me.”

The little griffin girl contemplated this for a moment, staring into the eyes of the gorgeous stuffed elephant. She nodded her head sheepishly, blushing like no tomorrow. “I... guess.”

“See, now? Isn’t it a good idea to admit you need help when you do?” The small pony laughed as he swung the elephant around his back, taking small strides next to the flushed little griffin girl.

“Centimeters?” Sketch asked under his breath as he laid the book beside him. “Guess I should have expected that from a book about a griffin.”

The room was too neat for his liking. When he and Trust came back from the lake, she immediately conked out in Sketch’s bed, which was rather strange considering she usually sleeps during the day. Because of his unexpected dip in the lake, Sketch was wide awake and decided to clean up his room to kill some time. It never bothered him before, but a clean room made him feel a little uncomfortable now. It was odd, really. Now Trust was gone and he needed to be at school, something he was dreading terribly.

He locked the door before leaving, just then realizing that the door was locked when he got there, meaning his parents were back. They must have been asleep. Sketch wondered when a school official would be over to tell his parents of his misconduct; after all, they must have missed them yesterday.

“Yo, kid!”

Sketch raised his head, seeing Haren’s tell-tale form in the distance, donning a brand new feather-style and jewelry. Today her feather’s were split in the middle and had her right eye obscured, with the tips making a graceful curve near the end that made them point outward. She was more cleaned up than yesterday, which was saying something since she didn’t look bad at all that day either.

Most importantly, she looked more smug than ever. Her mood had improved; yesterday she seemed a bit distant and troubled. Today she looked as if she could take on the world. Sketch waved as he hurried to her side.



“Pride.”

“Pride, huh? What do you mean?”

Haren lifted her talon to further her point (she still kept walking unperturbed, somehow). “Well, I know you ponies aren’t strangers to pride or anything, but it’s a big deal back east. A huge deal. People take attacks on their reputation personally, and more often than not get very violent with it.”

“Really? Wouldn’t they get in trouble with the police?”

“It’s not illegal.”

Sketch froze his limbs and choked on the air. “What?! You mean they just attack each other willy-nilly?”

“Yup. Personal quarrels can be carried out any way the individual sees fit, as long as they keep it amongst themselves. A lot of griffins have been killed because of this.”

“K-killed?”

“Yup. The only reason we have a court system is for corporate dishonesty and contract infringement. Political scandals and illegal deals, regulation disobeying, things like that.”

Sketch couldn’t believe a word. Her country cared more about honesty in business than they did the well-being of their citizens! “B-b-but what if it did get out of hand, what if innocents start to get hurt.”

“Then the police come. Well they aren’t really police, their members of the military in reserve. They’re a certain branch of the military you get sent to when they want to give veterans a break or they have a surplus of soldiers.”

“That’s utterly ridiculous!”

“Is it now?” she snapped, that smile still plastered on her face. The smile let Sketch know she was being light-hearted, but the tone made him realize she was being serious. “You never thought for one second that maybe random people’s pitiful squabbles don’t merit a court meeting?”

Sketch felt his stomach squeeze with nausea after hearing such a sharp tone from Haren. It was so odd hearing her talk like that; she was always so relaxed and easy-going. “Do you realize how much time and money goes into helping stuck up individuals sort out their dirty laundry after weeks of investigation? It’s their fault they got into any trouble anyways, yet they demand others to solve their own damn problems. An official court should only focus on societal and economic crimes, not the individual’s. They can sort that amongst themselves.”

Haren stopped in the middle of her rant to check on Sketch, who was walking a pace slower and had his ears down in defense. She realized that a raging griffin with razor sharp talons ranting about how violence was totally okay wasn’t exactly the most comforting thing to see. She calmed down and put her talon over her beak, a tick that Sketch had become familiar with whenever she was self conscious about something.

“Sorry. Told ya... pride.”

“No, no...” Sketch assured, his ears rising. “You... have a point.”

Haren looked actually surprised; dumbfounded even. A rare sight. She crossfaded into her usual smile and tried to hold in a hefty guffaw. “Ha! That’s why I love you, Sketchy.” She hooked her arm around his neck and rubbed his chest with her talon. Sketch was sort of confused how to feel about that. She removed herself and began to trot away with... her hind kind of in the air. She flicked her tail and winked at him. “Come by later, ‘kay Sketchy?” She tossed her talon at the wrist in a backwards salute. “Good luck at school, Sketchy.”

Sketch’s eyes lingered as he struggled to gather his thoughts. Ooookay... she’s gotten friendlier. What the hell happened yesterday? Sketch looked at the School’s doors and took one deep breath. Hopefully not the last one he has.



Sketch decided to save the school some time and immediately walk towards the Principal’s office. He expected everything.

Except laughter. That was the last thing he expected.

“Hahaha! In all my years at this school I’ve never had a student inviting punishment!” The stallion certainly had gusto, what with his thick grey mustache and large build. The only thing he was missing was a monocle. His fur was of the most pronounced blues. “That’s absolutely rich!”

“Uhh,” Sketch’s voice was cracking under pressure. “I’d like to disagree, sir... I just know I can’t get out of this one. No use fighting the cat’s grasp...”

“Haha! Fighting the cat’s grasp, how original!” Principal... Pulp, I think his name was, sat in his chair and clopped his hooves. “So, Sketch... I was actually to call you up later, so you got that right. I didn’t think you’d be so progressive about it.”

“Umm... thanks?” Is he calling me stupid, or...?

“We sent a teacher over to your house to inform your parents of this little... transgression, but they weren’t home. Where were they?”

“They uh... went on a ‘date night’ or something.” Sketch pouted (a rare sight) and blushed. 

"Hohoho! I can sympathize, my boy!" He guffawed greatly, clopping his hooves together once again. "You know, to anyone else, that would sound suspicious..."

"...But..?"

Principal Pulp chuckled, darker than usual. He arched his brow dramatically as his laugh petered out. "But not to me. I'm not daft, boy, I realize something's troubling you."

Sketch wanted to scream in frustration. Was it really that obvious? 

"I know troublemakers and their lot, and you're not a part of it. When a student misbehaves, they do so out of habit. They want power over our instructors and are too proud to admit they just want to disobey authority. But this is your first offense. Sketch, my boy, I understand that when you're under so much pressure that you're at your breaking point, the slightest insult can make you explode. We've all been there, lad. We can't deny it." Principal Pulp crossed his legs and mentioned one more thing offhand. "Your griffin friend came here yesterday and vouched for you, by the way. Said you deserved a second chance."

"Haren?" Sketch asked, more to himself.

"She was quite the seductress. I think she fancied me, too. Think of it, a griffin attracted to a pony. Ha! Ridiculous to even think of." 

“I... guess...” Sketch felt really dirty all of the sudden.

Principal Pulp sighed with the entire force of his lungs. “Look, my boy... I know it’s hard sometimes, so I’ll let this transgression slide....”

“Really?!”

“Indeed!” Pulp coughed with enthusiasm. “Don’t expect this to happen again, my boy,” he warned with a grim expression. 

“I...” Sketch sunk in his seat. The amount of good luck he was having lately put him on edge. “I wouldn’t take advantage of that...”

“Good,” he said, grinning. “You’d best thank that griffin. She was the one that made me second guess myself.”

“Yeah,” he agreed, smiling back. “She can do that to people.”



The rest of the day went by without much hindrance. Despite his history class being a bit tense, no mention was made of yesterday. It felt like a dream, and before he knew it, the dream was over. Miss Conté made it a point to avoid him today. Maybe she was just trying to give him some space. He felt he didn’t need it.

As Sketch made his way to Anthem's place, he couldn't help but get anxious over the party that was soon to pass. Giddy wasn't quite the way to describe his feelings, but was apt enough. Though there was no way to not worry about how Trust would take this whole thing. Of course that's ignoring the fact something might go horribly wrong without her help...

This was dangerous, that much was obvious. But if they never tried, what good would that do? Still, the whole thing left a bad taste in his mouth as many scenarios played out in his head, none of them good.

He was so distracted he walked right past Anthem’s apartment block. He quickly doubled back, self consciously looking around to make sure no one saw his little blunder. He walked up to the door and rose his hoof when it swung right open. 

“Yeah, I suppose,” was all Sketch heard of the conversation. Anthem nearly walked right into Sketch before realizing he was there. “Woah, Sketch! How you doin’?”

“Good, I think...” Sketch answered vaguely. He wasn’t quite sure how he felt, but when he looked at it subjectively it seemed he was blessed with some good fortune. “Is Haren here?”

“Yeah, she’s over there making... something.” Anthem scratched his head, unsure of how to word it.

“Where are you going?”

“I’m gonna pick up some cooking oil... for... a reason?” 

The amount of uncertainty that Anthem sported made Sketch a little nervous. He was acting a bit odd. It didn’t seem like there was much on his mind, nor did it seem like he was troubled. He just looked a bit confused.

“Alright... see you soon I guess.”

“Take care, Sketchy,” He immediately returned to his usual demeanor and slapped Sketch’s shoulder before leaving. Maybe he was drunk or something.

“Haren.” Sketch immediately walked over to the kitchen. Haren was cooking, a strange sight indeed. However, Sketch was notified by Anthem long ago that she was a good cook, she just hated to do it most of the time. She was in the middle of seasoning a pot filled with an assortment of foods. "Sup, little Sketchy?"

"Oh don't give me that." He poked her playfully, holding back the urge to laugh. "You know exactly 'what is up'."

She coughed out a chuckle. "Why, whatever do you mean, Sketchy?”

“You know, there was a school, and a teacher, and things were said...” Sketch looked at her with his head at an angle, a smug expression covering his face. The look of feign ignorance he sported caused Haren to burst into laughter. “But seriously... thanks. For everything.”

She covered her beak as she always did, this time sincerely. No words had to be said, her humble look and ambiguous smile said it all. “I really should be thanking you.”

Confused, Sketch cocked his head. “What?”

“Don’t worry about it.”

Sketch shrugged and walked up next to her. He took a seat and marvelled at just how much larger griffins were compared to him. One really never understood the scope since both species were the same height while standing. “What are you cooking anyway?”

Whatever she was boiling was dark, large, and had an odd texture. It seemed she was making some type of stew since there were various vegetables littering the sides and floating in its broth. She took out the makeshift ladle and flung a bit of the broth at him whilst covering the large pot. "It's roast beef."

"Beef?" He asked. Haren opened the pot again and took a chunk of the loaf out and handed it to him. He popped it in his mouth with his magic and chewed. It was stringy, and despite being tough and dense, it fell apart as he chewed. It was rather tasty.

"Yeah, beef. You know, cow."

Sketch spat up immediately, doubling over. "What?!"

"Calm down, kid," Haren laughed, barely able to keep her posture. "I'm joking."

"Oh... so it's not cow meat..." Sketch had to reassure himself in his mind repeatedly in order to keep from vomiting.

"Oh no, it is," Harem replied, keeping an eye on her food. Sketch gagged and his stomach started heaving. It took all of her strength to not fall over laughing. "Ha ha ha, calm down. It's synthetic."

"Blegh."  At some point Sketch had become very accustomed to the floor. The thought of eating something that once held political opinions nauseated him.

“Come on, did you honestly think I’d eat meat when I live with a pony? It’s disrespectful.” She turned off the burner and lifted the roasting pot off of the stove.

“I’m glad you think so,” Sketch commented incredulously. He stood, only to find his knees held no more strength. He quickly held on to the counter to support himself.

“Want some imitation innocent animal?” Haren inquired while grabbing a plate. She didn’t grab a second one what with already knowing Sketch’s answer.

“I really don’t like how you ruined what could have been an interesting meal for me.” Sketch grimaced a couple more times and finally sat on the sofa in the living room. Haren came over to the same sofa with her plate of food, setting it aside to allow it to cool off. Sketch noticed that Anthem’s projector was set up from what looked like last night, with a movie reel still in set. It was strange, Anthem usually took very meticulous care of his films, why would he leave it up like that. He was a bit of a scatterbrain today, maybe he was high last night or something. Would explain a few things.

“Scooch.” Haren leisurely flopped on the couch and sighed. There was a bit of a silence, when Haren faced him with a look of contentment. “It’s cool, innit?”

“Excuse me?” Sketch hung his head back and had to resist closing his eyes. “What is, exactly?”

“Just... everything, y’know? It’s all good.” Haren put her legs up and leaned up against Sketch’s side, completely catching him off guard. His heart immediately stopped, and within a moments notice, started up again with astonishing speed.

“Wutareyoudoin?” Sketch spat out instinctively. It seemed that Haren ignored him or didn’t notice him say anything since she acted like he had not protested. She made some type of gesture with her talons.

“It’s just... for the first time in a while... I know what the hell I want, and what I have. I know it ain’t gonna last, but... I have to appreciate it while it lasts. I don’t want what happened last time to happen again.”

Despite his more than awkward position, he didn’t want to appear insensitive. It really looked like she was pouring her heart out. Too bad his was about burst. Either way, he had no idea what she was talking about.

“U-uhh, L-last time?” He smiled inadvertently even though the position she was in didn’t give her the window to see it. 

“Yeah there was this thing...” She yawned and covered her beak. “I’ll tell you about it later.”

There was that distant look again, the one from that lunch yesterday, Sketch noticed. Her sad disposition distracted him from his anxiety for a couple moments where he started to show some concern for Haren. “...Are you... tired?”

“A little, but I just didn’t get much sleep. There’s nothing wrong. At all. Thanks.”

There was another silence, and Sketch’s feeling of anxiousness began to return. He couldn’t just bail, as much as he wanted to, so he decided to make some conversation to eat up the time. “Uh... I don’t know if you know, but uh... I’ve actually got insomnia... so... heh.”

“Hmn...” Haren grinned and looked up to Sketch’s face. It made an unsettling feeling across Sketch’s shoulders that made him tense up. “Yeah I remember Anthem saying something about that... Hey you know, if you want, you could chill in my bedroom and take a nap or something.”

NOPE, NOPE, NOPE, NOPE, ABORT, ABORT, ABORT, ABORT. Sketch sat up immediately and leapt off the couch, causing Haren’s head to hit the sofa. She was dumbfounded by the sudden gain of momentum.

“OOOKAY, I just remembered I have to do something with someone somewhere that involves some other stuff, so I’m gonna go, alright? Seeya.” Sketch raced out the door without a second thought, slamming it on the way out.

“Hmn...” Haren recovered and grabbed her plate of roast beef, grabbed her fork, and began to pick at it. “Weirdo.”



Okay, okay, okay. Calm down Sketch, you’re being irrational. She wasn’t making a move, no, she was just... just... being nice! Yeah totally.

The last half mile or so was spent by Sketch trying to rationalize what he just witnessed. Surely she wasn’t trying what it seemed like, right?

Sketch took a moment to himself and inhaled slowly. His heart rate decreased and his stance steadied. He decided that he was just a bit on edge and had just looked too much into her action. Even if it wasn’t true, he couldn’t let this affect his life in any way.

Still, what the hell was going on in her life to change her behavior so radically over the past couple of days? She had these unstoppable bouts of passion and beliefs, followed by some low energy glumness.

It’s her business, Sketch thought, I shouldn’t bother her about it.

Sketch blew a raspberry in frustration while stomping his hooves. A quick look around showed that he had achieved reaching his house while he was walking in deep thought. He rolled his eyes at himself, but realized it was probably better this than walking straight into his door like last time.

His father must have heard Sketch close the door behind him. He put down the newspaper he was buried in and smirked in Sketch’s direction. “You’re home late.”

“Oh, you know... just hanging out,” Sketch stated, lacking any enthusiasm. He shot a weak smile at his dad in an attempt to assure him.

“You alright?”

Sketch winced. Obviously his act didn’t convince him. Truth was, he was alright. Just a little flummoxed. “Yeah, I’m fine,” he said, a little more convincingly. “You know how it is; just a little overwhelmed.”

His dad inspected him a few more seconds and nodded, satisfied with his son’s vague explanation. Sketch took the opportunity to hop up his stairs and veer straight into his room. He hadn’t seen his mom anywhere, perhaps she was asleep or something. Some part of Sketch wished that when he opened the door to his room that he would find Trust there waiting for him, or for her to be taking a nap in his bed, but to no avail. It would be too dangerous with his parents there anyway, and as naive as she was, she was anything but stupid. 

Sketch sighed, tossing his bag across the room and bellyflopping onto his bed. Was he making a mistake with all of this? It didn’t matter, he could never find it in his heart to forsake Trust, or anyone for that matter. Even if this was a mistake, he was pretty much burned in at this point. Nothing he could do to snake out of it, even if he wanted to. At some point of this ordeal, any chance to return to his normal life was obliterated.

And you know what?

He was okay with that...



Anthem stared at the counter, trying to make sense of it all. He glanced at all the merchandise he had accumulated; oranges, bananas, ice, and of course Haren’s cooking oil all decorated the once clean counter.

“Sir? SIr.”

The mare’s voice knocked him out of his stupor. He shook his head to keep his fleeting consciousness and smiled sheepishly. “Uh, yes?”

“Fourteen bits, sir.”

“O-oh, of course.” He reached into his bag and sifted it’s contents for a bit, trying to grab loose change. It took some effort, but he achieved his small goal. As he laid it upon the counter, the cashier gave him a look of concern. “Are you alright, mister?”

“Huh?” Anthem asked, bringing a hoof to his forehead. It took him a moment, but he answered with certainty. “Yeah... yeah, I guess you could say that...”



> 4. Loud and Dirty
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Music gives color to the air of the moment.” 

― Karl Lagerfeld

Sketch woke in the most fabulous manner, drowning in crisp white sheets and sinking in the softest fabrics. He found himself to be very well rested, a feeling he was a stranger to for the most part, thanks to the insomnia. As he inhaled, he stretched out his limbs, savoring the refreshing subtle cracks of his joints extending to their apex. He's never had better sleep in his life, and he wasn't about to take that for granted. He decided to stay in bed a bit more. It occurred to him that his bed wasn't this comfortable from memory, but he dismissed this and decided not to look a gift horse in the mouth. There was small displacement in the sheets, so he rolled over to the side to take care of it. Satisfied, he finally rested his foreleg at his side, only for it to meet some kind of resistance.

That was strange. Up until now, everything was perfect, not one thing out of place save a pillow or two, and that added to the comfort. So why this alien object? Was it there to make this even better? Perhaps it was a backscratcher, or a massager. Eager to find out, Sketch lazily opened his eyes and slowly shifted over to the source of the disturbance. He moved a pillow out of his way and positioned himself for a better vantage. What he saw... didn’t really sit well with him.

At first, it was difficult to identify this foreign entity. It was sorta the same color of the bed, bar a few details. But it changed colors into some type of brown about of a third of the way down. Plus it had some oddly placed outstanding colors positioned in chaotic but somehow symmetrical locations. It was about as large as him, maybe just a little bigger. And it had this subtle movement to it that made it look almost alive.

That’s when it hit him. It was alive.

It was laying next to him, fast asleep.

It was a griffin.

It was female.

She was happy.

She was...

“Mornin’, kid.” Haren said, weakly opening one eye, smiling softly. “Would you mind not moving around so much? I’m still tired.”

“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAUUUUUU-”



“HHHHHHHHHHHHHHGGHHGGGHUHGH!” Sketch jolted up from his bed with lightning speed, mouth agape, eyes wide open. Had there been a fly in the room, this was the apt time lodge itself in his throat. His scream had taken his breath away, and he quickly worked to resolve that; his chest heaved with bated breaths. It took all his power not to vomit right into his lap. His bed was wet with his sweat already, he didn’t need vomit to stew itself along with his body.

He noticed his mom was standing next to him, a pail of water in her mouth. She stared at him with a startled expression, then, after a few awkward moments, quickly set the pail on her back, hiding it from Sketch’s view. She took some slow steps back with a wide, sheepish grin until she was all the way out, and then retreated downstairs.

It took Sketch a few moments to deduce what she had been planning, and then a few more moments to realize he didn’t care. Exhausted and spent, he sighed and fell back into his flat, sweat-soaked pillow.

He couldn’t take the picture of Haren’s cute, flirty face out of his mind. He slammed his hoof against his forehead in frustration. “Damn it all.”



School was school. With what happened that other day now out of the way, it went by just like normal. In fact, his history teacher kind of went easier on him now, for some reason. Maybe there was some level of respect between the two now. Maybe he took what Sketch told him to heart. He wouldn’t be able to figure it out, so Sketch just dropped it from his mind.

Art class was another thing, however. Miss Conté, being the vixen that she is, couldn’t resist to prod and pry as much as she could. She physically poked him a times, taunting him with little songs. “C’mon, c’mon, c’mon, just tell me~” She’d twist her head around until she had an upside-down profile of Sketch’s face. “How’d you get away scott free like that? I was never able to do that kind of stuff when I was in school!”

It would have been easy for Sketch to tell her about what Haren did, but it was entertaining to see her like this, not to mention kind of cute. She pouted and huffed when Sketch left the class only winking and not saying another word. No wonder her and Trust did that kind of stuff; it was fun.

So other than a few kinks, it was just a normal day... until he started to walk home did things get interesting.

Immediately after rounding a corner of an alleyway, he had bumped into somepony. This somepony was large, and male. Sketch recovered and apologized.

“Sorry, my fault.” Sketch dusted himself off and looked up at the stallion. He was... “Anthem?”

“Hey, kid!”

“What-” Sketch nervously looked behind himself and pushed Anthem deeper into the alley. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“Calm down, dude!” Anthem replied, a little too loudly. “I’m just here to remind you that Hearth’s Tearing’s happening tonight.”

“I know that, stupid.” Sketch punctuated his statement by jabbing him in the chest. “You didn’t have to come here to tell me that!”

“I wanted to make sure, man. It’d suck if you didn’t make it, and you’re so sporadic in your visits...” Even Anthem sounded unsure in his reasoning.

Sketch was left speechless. Who was he trying to kid? “What the heck is with you lately? Yesterday you said you were gonna get me a soda and then handed me a syringe. What was that syringe for, anyway?”

“Uhh, basting?”

Sketch shot him a skeptical look while Anthem rubbed the back of his head. He sighed, probably figuring out he was just too bad at lying to friends. “Okay, Sketchy, okay. Truth is... I just... I wanted an excuse to leave for a couple minutes.”

Woah. That sounded sad. Anthem’s never sad. “Why?”

“I... uhh... look, I’ll tell you later, Sketchy. But look, I really did want to remind you about tonight. You and your lady friend cool?”

“Huh? Oh yeah, we’re cool, we’re cool. Just...” Sketch decided it was time to honest to him, if a little purposefully vague. “Truth is... I’m really nervous, cause I don’t know how she’s gonna take it. She’s just... in a really unique situation, one that wouldn’t allow her to do stuff like this normally. She needs our help to pull through, know what I mean?”

Anthem’s confused reaction is just what he was looking for. It was a good thing Anthem was dense as hell, otherwise he would be able to snuff out just what Sketch was talking about when he saw Trust. Anyone else would be able to connect the dots, but Anthem wouldn’t even be able to find a pencil. “I guess?” Anthem scratched his head again which made Sketch wonder if he had some lice or something. “...Well, I gotta bounce, kid. I think it’s been long enough. See ya later.”

“Wait, you don’t wanna get something to eat first?” Sketch realized that the both of them haven’t really hung out outside of his apartment.

“Nah, Haren is uhh,” Anthem scratched his head again, closing one eye as he did so. “Gonna cook me something...” He left without another word, leaving Sketch puzzled.



BLAMF!

“SHIT!”

Sketch flung his pencil in the air in fright from the sudden crashing noise and curse. After checking to make sure his heart hadn’t stopped, he raced to the source of the disturbance: his lone window. He slid it open and looked down to see Trust hanging from the small balcony it harbored. Sketch immediately threw himself out and began to help Trust up, aiding them with his magic. “It’d be really awesome if you didn’t wake the entire continent up when we’re about to sneak out,” Sketch groaned in a whisper as he helped Trust in.

“What’s this ‘we’ crap? I’m not gonna get spanked by mommy if I get found out!”

“Don’t be a bitch, Trust,” Sketch commented lightheartedly while checking her body for injuries (with a little admiration).

“I’ll stop being a bitch when you start opening the damned window when you know I’m coming.” Trust spat, folding her forelegs in a pout.

“To your credit, you usually slow down to make sure you don’t hit glass at terminal velocity.” He folded his forelegs in mockery of her. “What’s up with you?”

“Don’t ask that like I’m not nervous as hell!” Her pout was replaced with a nervous glare to the side, eyeing some of the new art Sketch was working on. “I’m beginning to think this whole idea belongs in the friggin’ toilet.”

“C’mon, Trust, you can trust me.”

Trust incredulously glared at him, tightening her folded forelegs. Sketch chuckled.

“Sorry, bad choice of words.”

“Who’s gonna buy this ‘costume’ bologna?” She tugged on her own wing with her teeth, confirming that it didn’t taste or feel like cheap cardboard. She stuck out her tongue in disgust.

“Anthem’s going to, definitely. Haren on the other hoof...” Sketch hadn’t actually thought of that. It was clear that Haren was hiding her intelligence, and that she was in fact very bright. She was also perceptive, which could prove to be an issue. “She won’t be a problem as long as we don’t give her the chance to ask any questions. She’s a friend, it’ll be fine.”

“Whatever,” she spouted, her expression becoming darker. She always did that whenever he mentioned Haren.

"Look, I'm aware you're worried."

"Ya think?" She quipped, not ready to make light of the situation.

"But I've got it under control." Trying to instill some confidence, Sketch beamed with confidence of his own. "C'mon, Trust, when have I ever let you down?"

She eyed him with interest and her face contorted with thought. It looked like she realized the answer was 'never'. She smiled meekly.

"See?" Sketch danced around on his hooves nervously for a bit and then reached around her neck to give her a hug. She was surprised at first, but then slowly returned the favor. "We'll get through this, I promise. And you'll love it."

They separated, and Trust had difficulty looking him in the eye. She suddenly groaned loudly, likely growing tired of the tension. “Ugh, fine. It’s my funeral.”

“And spare no expense for it.” Sketch brushed off his shoulder (without really knowing why) and stepped up to his window. Thinking about it now, that window has seen a lot of traffic lately, and he was about to become part of it’s commute. Taking a deep breath, he opened the window and braced himself for the sudden rush of cold wind. Hopefully he wouldn’t get a cold at the end of this.

“Need any help?”

“No, I’ve done this before.” Sketch grinned.

Trust burst into a large guffaw, rivaling that of Sketch’s principal. “Really? You’ve snuck out of your parent’s house before, bad boy?”

Sketch stopped halfway through the window and looked back at her. “Yeah. When I couldn’t sleep when I was a kid, I’d take a walk in the dark.”

“Wow... I probably saw you at one point if you did that.” She slammed one hoof into her other. “Small world.”

“I guess.” Sketch lowered himself onto the first rung of the odd external decorations that he used as a makeshift ladder. His limbs shook as he struggled to keep his balance on the way down.

“Of course, I haven’t done this in a few years.” His hoof slipped off a particularly curvy protrusion. 

“Shit!” His body began to fall backwards, closer to the ground. 

He didn't have a chance to decipher the feeling of falling before his body stopped cold in midair. The strain on his hair and neck were suddenly apparent. It took him some effort to lift his head and see what caught him so quickly, but he had the faint idea Trust was his saviour. He looked up and found Trust’s face completely occupying his view, since she had to completely envelop him in her arms in order to keep him from falling.

It took a while for Sketch to notice the fact she appeared very annoyed. “You’ve done this before, huh?”

“Heh,” was all he managed before Trust tossed him to the ground from a safe height.

“C’mon Sketchy,” she moaned, rolling her eyes. “Let’s just get this over with already.”

“Well we’re not gonna have any fun with that attitude,” he bantered, dusting himself off.

“I doubt we’re gonna have any fun at all.”



“Okay, Trust, just act natural.” The door resonated at the contact of Sketch’s hoof. Trust marvelled a bit at Anthem’s apartment. It was more humble than anything she had seen around Canterlot for the most part. The town favored extravagance and unnecessary pizazz for just about everything in the entire city. It was hard to imagine that the stuck up community would be okay with some standard looking apartments anywhere within the city.

“Wonderful advice, Sketch, just, A plus.”

At that, the door opened, revealing a slightly disheveled Anthem. He had to focus on the two of them for a couple seconds before realizing what was going on. “O-oh! Sketch, you’re here.”

“Yeah,” he replied flatly, shuffling. “Yeah I am.”

“And uh, this is your friend you said so much about.” He gave Trust a once over, making Sketch a little uneasy. He was hoping that Anthem got the hint to not try any of his crap when he spoke of Trust the first time. “You are...?”

“Trust... and you?”

The comfort that Trust showed gave Sketch pause. He had expected her to be a lot shyer, maybe even going as far as to not speak. But then he remembered when they had first met and how well she interacted with him and he realized that maybe this would be a lot easier than he thought. She was even smiling....

Ech.

“Anthem. I’m sure Sketch has told you all about me.”

“Nope,” Trust stated matter-of-factly, rudely pushing past him and heading inside. Anthem was too taken aback to protest. It took all of Sketch’s strength to not laugh in Anthem’s face.

Sketch took a moment to himself to wonder why he was afraid Trust couldn’t handle this. When they first met, she showed a sort of confidence only shown by the bravest, and now was no different. Perhaps Sketch wanted for her to be shy and broken, so that he’d be able to fix her. No, that didn’t make much sense. Maybe he just wanted to be special...

“And... Haren, I believe?” Trust asked to the corner of the room. The griffin in question must have took this as a challenge, as she puffed out her chest and straightened out in order to appear taller. Sketch began to wonder if he’ll ever understand griffins...

Haren wore a different style than the day before, a fact that had become common for her since Sketch had known her. The feathers adorning her head were exceptionally curled except for the tips, where they curved inwards. They were split in a way that only left one eye unobscured, and one last feather, bigger than all the others, stuck up and to the side, forming the appearance of a cowilick that a pony would wear. All her piercings were in their normal places. “You believe correctly, Lady Trust.” She inspected Trust thoroughly, not bound by the social bondage of gender. “Nice costume,” she surmised.

“Thanks.” Trust smiled. “You too,” she quipped.

Sketch flinched. Did she really just say that?! No way she doesn’t know that it’s not a costume. He glanced at Trust, who held a burning glare for a very smug Haren. She knew.

There was a heavy silence that nearly broke some of Sketch’s bones, before it was lifted by a hearty chortle from Haren. “Ha! When Sketch told me about you, you weren’t at all what I expected.”

Trust looked back at Sketch with scrutiny. “I would hope so.”

Wait, now I’m her target? Sketch sighed, just glad that things miraculously hadn’t gone horribly wrong yet. There was so many ways this could just crash and burn, and they were dodging bolts without much space to spare. But this wasn’t just a fluke; Haren wasn’t stupid. Quite the contrary in fact. It was clear after the past few weeks that she was hiding her true intelligence, despite already appearing smart. No doubt she knew something was up, and she’d be able to find out just what had she the opportunity to ask a couple hard questions. But Sketch believe she chose to back off, for his sake. That was the only explanation for her restraint. Sketch decided to count his chickens only after they hatched, and keep it this way.

“So Trust,” Anthem sounded from the front door, having finally recovered from Trust’s smooth rejection. Sketch wondered if he had worked out the fact she was just kidding around; Sketch had told her about Anthem. Granted there wasn’t much to the guy other than he was awesome, but dense. “Have you ever been to party like this before?”

“Outside of my pants? No.”

“Hehe, well. It’s going to be pretty rough. Don’t worry, it’s nothing like some other... ‘parties’.” The air quotes around ‘party’ implied some disgust he shared for the hardcore scene. “But it ain’t gonna be no walk in the park either. You think you’re ready?”

“Don’t worry about her,” Sketch chimed in, much to everyone’s surprise. “She definitely has the constitution.” Indeed, she did. But that wasn’t the problem, it was personal interaction. “She’s been through a lot.”

Trust took a moment to smile at Sketch as thanks for the compliment.

“If you say so Sketchy.” Haren shrugged. Trust visibly convulsed at the use of Sketch’s nickname. She didn’t know it wasn’t exclusively hers anymore. Come to think of it, how the hell did that catch on? He would have to talk to her about this later... but, why? Why does she care so much? Sigh. Mares. “If either of you O.D. I aint calling the cops,” Haren finally noted.

“We wouldn’t be in any position to anyway,” Sketch whined, rolling his eyes.

“Hey, take it from me. You don’t need to consciously KNOW that you’re ingesting strange stuff,” Anthem chuckled, elbowing Trust dangerously close to her batwing. On the way over to Anthem’s, he had laid out some ground rules about her ‘costume’. She couldn’t decidedly move her wings at all, and she’d have to look away if she ate something. Also, she would have to make some effort not to get in any situations that’d put her disguise in jeopardy. Regular spy stuff.

Mmn.

Sketch’s ear picked up on some noise in the room, sounding like some sort of animalistic growl, right before it would pounce and tear a creature's throat out. It took him a while to see that it came from Haren. He compared it to a cat’s angry growl, right before the hiss. Despite the hostility of this sound, Haren looked pretty normal. She masked her anger very well. Question was, why was she angry?

Sketch shrugged it off, deciding Haren was confusing enough as she was.

“Well, we got to be going if we want to catch the concert,” Anthem stated, looking at his wrist as if there was a watch there.

“Concert?” Trust asked. Sketch was unsure whether this was simply new information for the batpony, or if she didn’t know what a concert was.

“Yeah, what’s a party without music? It’s always the best if it’s live, too. Good thing Hearth’s Tearing is popular enough that they’d bother getting a band.”

“Neato,” Haren said quickly, walking out the door. “Let’s just get going already.”

The walk was very uneventful. It was a fairly short walk to the forest cable car, a sky ride system that ran off the same principals as the tram Sketch and Trust took the other night, but Sketch still found some reason to be paranoid. There were a lot of ponies and griffins in costume  on the streets for the party, so Trust blended pretty well. So the only thing left to worry about was some authority figure stopping them and asking Sketch and Trust’s age. If they got stopped, there wouldn't be much that they could do. Not only that, but Haren and Anthem would be in huge trouble with the law, especially if they thought Anthem was trying to pick up Trust. They could always lie, but Sketch was an awful liar and there was the issue of I.D.s.

Despite it all, they made it to the forest, and they were pretty much home free since anything outside the city wasn’t very cared for by Canterlot. It was almost disheartening, but Sketch didn’t want to count those chickens yet.

Anthem and Haren were ahead of Trust and Sketch and were chatting quietly yet loud enough for Sketch to hear every other word. He wasn’t paying much attention, however, since he was constantly checking on Trust who hadn’t spoken for a while.

It wasn’t until now that Sketch became fully aware just how much taller Haren was compared to all of them. Even though she was only a couple inches above Anthem, who was also tall, but she was pretty much a mile taller than Trust. Sketch guessed that Haren’s height was mostly due to her being a griffin, but he didn’t have much to compare to. There was also one other thing, Haren was swaying a bit more than usual. She always had a feline saunter to her walk, but today it was a little exaggerated, he hind following an almost rehearsed rhythm with her tail. Almost as if-

“There a reason you’re staring at Haren’s ass?” Trust asked suddenly, giving him a death stare. Sketch tripped over a conveniently placed stone and nearly impaled himself on a nearby branch sticking from the ground. He barely had the strength to steady himself as the blood rushed to his cheeks.

“I AH I-I AM NO-”

Trust shoved her hoof in his mouth before he could embarrass himself. “Calm down, dude. I’m joking. Why does it matter?”

“Because she’s a griffin!” he exclaimed, raising his hoof.

“So?”

“Eh-” Sketch tried to explain why it was wrong, but found himself at a loss for words. Why was it wrong? He was sure that there was an answer, but he couldn’t find it in the dark cloud of his thoughts. He finally settled for something. “Because it’s just rude.”

Trust processed his reason and chuckled, appearing to be satisfied with his answer. “Alright, then.”

There was no sound except for the crunching of leaves, until Sketch heard Trust snerk rather strongly. He stomped and blew out his nose. “I WASN’T STARING AT HER A-”

“Hey, small females! We’re here,” Haren interjected whilst holding her talon out towards the event. There were still a small distance from it, but from what Sketch could see in the distance were a multitude of humble tents and small vendors. There was this... aura about the place, that actually had a visible diameter around the venue. First, there was forest, natural and clean; beautiful. Then there was Hearth’s Tearing, which looked like a warzone, or something out of a reefer awareness PSA. Something that Sketch found oddly comical was that the perimeter of trash and discarded clothing pretty much made a perfect circle. It was uncanny.

"Wow..." Trust was already impressed by the sound of it, despite having nothing to go on other than the garbage on the floor. 

"Trust me, girl, it gets a lot better once you get inside and get a nice proximity high." Haren chuckled, giving a little nuggie to the batpony. Sketch was a bit concerned with the distance between the two, but he was more worried about Haren getting her hooked on something. 

"Haren..." Sketch warned, giving her the stink eye. Haren waved her talon dismissively.

"Yeah, yeah, nothing illegal, I get it. Narc." She stuck her tongue out at him in a small, feeble rebellion.



The place actually looked pretty official. The vendors that lined predetermined paths were evidence of that. There were equal parts funnel cake stands, beer taps, and the more shady private vendors that were obviously distributing narcotics and paraphernalia. The only thing this place was missing was a giant burning bonfire. Trust was in awe, eyeing everything with this big goofy grin on her face. It was heartwarming thing to see, Trust losing her usual composure in front of dozens.

It took a while for him to realize, but Sketch now knew why Trust acted the way she did. She presented herself in a way that was not true to the way she felt. Sure, she is witty and a bit rash at times, but she was also quite reserved in front of Sketch, curiously prodding him every chance she got with honest questions. She gave him the time of day, seriously considering anything he said to her as a truth, inquisiting every chance she got. But when around strangers, she puts up a front. She acts tougher than she believes she is. She’s impolite and short around people. She doesn’t give them a chance to open up to her so she wouldn’t have to open up herself. It was a defense mechanism, something to protect herself from getting hurt.

It was becoming all too obvious that she has not had the best experience with ponies. Sketch only hoped that she had not been through much, but in the back of his head he knew that was too much to hope for.

“Pretty great, huh?” Sketch quipped, bringing his head closer to hers.

“Yeah... it’s so much better than the frou-frou, cramped streets of Canterlot,” the bat pony breathed. She sniffed aggressively and laughed. “Aw, it smells terrific.”

It actually smelt pretty awful, like a mix of cigarette butts and fecal matter, but ignoring that, it was a refreshing change of pace from the usual perfume musk that overpowered Canterlot. He was sure Trust was being ironic, and that theory was fortified when she gave an exaggerated gag. They both shared a chuckle as they continued to walk.

“Dude, I want to get super drunk.”

Sketch simply looked at her, sure she was joking. “That’s not something that will happen.”

“Tch, Anthem’s right, you are a narc.”

“I like it when people stay alive.” Sketch rebuttled. “I am not a narc.”

“Stay alive? You don’t have much faith in me, huh?” Trust stared at him with half mast eyes, and Sketch took a while to recover from the sweet sight. He then glanced at Haren, feeling a warmth stir in him. What the hell...

Sketch remembered he was in the middle of bantering in time to not appear like an asshole. “Not really. You nearly stuck your head in boiling water once.”

“Oh, c’mon. That was a long time ago.”

“Instills confidence. Really does.” Sketch deadpanned, not really hearing himself. He hoped Trust wouldn’t notice the front he was putting up. Her lack of pony skills were apparent as she showed no signs of noticing. It was hard to focus when your thoughts were being hijacked by two individuals at once. Trust was a welcome little thief, but he wanted Haren to get the hell out-- she was making a home for herself in Sketch’s brain train and he didn’t like it one bit. Sketch shook his head to clear his thoughts once Trust wasn’t looking and decided that it’d be best if they didn’t separate. “C’mon, we should catch up to the others.”

Trust turned her head. “Tch.”

Sketch froze, confused by the sound. “Something wrong?”

“It’s nothin’.” she said, still looking at the ground. He could tell something was indeed wrong, but it was clear he wasn’t going to be able to do much. The best he could do was try to raise her spirits.

“Want some food?”

Her ears perked up as she cocked her head in stunned silence. After a moment, she heaved a great guffaw and yelled, “Hell yeah!”

“I’ll buy us some sopapillas, you go ahead and wait with Anthem.”

“Sopa-what-uhs?”

“You’ll love ‘em, trust me,” Sketch said with confidence. Trust indignantly scoffed.

“Could you stop saying to trust you? It’s lame.”

Sketch coughed, only now catching the unintended pun. “Sorry.” Sketch began to walk away, but stopped himself after a short time. He cleared his throat. “Trust, listen. Keep your distance from Haren.”

One of Trust’s fluffy ears rose, leaving the other one level. “Why?”

“Cause she’s too damn smart, and nosy. It’ll just be safer. Don’t feel like you have to avoid her though, she’s a good gal, just be careful.”

“Tch, whatever. Just get me my food,” she joked, smirking and glancing at Sketch with one half-open eye.

“Of course, m’lady.” Sketch bowed and backed away as regally as possible. He could hear Trust chuckling to herself as he walked away, and he marked that as a personal victory. Sketch trotted around for a bit, trying to find a vendor that looked legit and wouldn’t sprinkle the fry bread with cocaine. The lanes of traffic were slowly becoming more crowded, it being saturated with ponies. Slowly, sketch started to see that three to one ratio Haren described when a bit more griffins started to show up. A lot of them looked very exotic, some of them sporting black fur and fluorescent tipped feathers. He couldn’t tell if they were dyed or if it was their natural colors. While most of the ponies were already drunk, high, or cheering at the top of their lungs, the griffins were a bit more reserved. Not to say they weren’t drunk or high as well, they just were a bit more classy about it. They stayed in small groups and barely opened their beaks. Sketch wondered how Anthem ever became friends with someone like that.

Sketch spotted a small stand with a large line behind it named “Oils and Grease Fry Bread”. Oddly enough, a bovine was at the stand, but it seemed she knew what she was doing. Sketch picked up his pace in order to get in line faster, but slipped on some wet dirt. He tried to regain his hoofing, only to find his other leg land right on a paper plate. He fell completely to the left side and nearly hit the ground, before another object stopped him completely. “OOFH!”

Sketch was still bracing for the cold wet ground, but shockingly, all he felt was a dry, soft warmth. “I’d hate to see how you’d handle yourself on a boat, pony.”

Sketch checked to see if he was actually supporting himself on another pony. After a few prods, he deduced that, yes, I am leaning on somepony. “Uhh...” He quickly regained his balance and dusted himself off. Just his luck, the pony he landed on was a pretty mare wearing some thick-rimmed glasses. She was a rust orange color with a beige, neatly piled mane and green eyes. She had the stature of a professional, someone with authority, but Sketch could tell that it was an act. But something told him that she was aware of that fact. “Thanks for the, uhh... leverage.”

“No problem, friend.” She said nothing more and faced the line to the stand. She was getting something at this place as well.

They stood for a while, and Sketch decided to ease the tension he felt was there. “So uh... hows it going?”

The mare smirked and looked at him before answering. “So you decided to brave the small talk, eh?” She stuck her hoof out formally. “Syntax.”

It took awhile for Sketch to figure out that it was her name that she just said. “Oh, uhh, Art Sketch.” He shook her hoof. “Everypony calls me Sketch.”

“Hmn. Sketch, huh? Can’t say I’ve met many of those.” Despite her rather cynical attitude, she remained light hearted in conversation. “What’s the deal then, Sketch? What is this place?”

“You mean you don’t know?” Sketch asked, raising his hoof back up.

“Nah, I just saw a bunch of ponies walking here and figured it’d be neat to check out. Maybe there’d be a story. Didn’t know there was going to be a proper Woodstock festival here.”

“Wow, that’s pretty amazing that you just stumbled on here. This is Hearth’s Tearing. happens a week before Hearth’s Warming. A tame party, considering. A lot of griffins come here. That’s pretty much it.”

“Wow, you made it sound really boring.”

“This isn’t exactly my cup of tea, actually. I don’t usually go to these kinds of things,” Sketch admitted. It was good to talk about this now, it was rare to find anyone that shared his kind of apathy for things like this.

“What do you usually do then? What’s your day job?”

“I uh...” Well, he didn’t have a job, but that wasn’t information he’d readily share. “I... am an artist.”

“Heh, right. You seemed like the type.”

“The type?” Sketch inquired, cocking his head a bit.

“Yeah, you know. Dark and broody. Upset with the world. The only outlet for your emotion being the grind of graphite against a crisp sheet of paper. That type.”

Well... she wasn’t exactly wrong. “Frighteningly accurate.”

“That’s my job,” she boasted, putting her hoof to her chest and closing her eyes. “Investigative journalist. Sometimes I take some photos, but I usually stick to writing.” She gave him a suave, very alluring look. “I can read you like a book, kid.”

“Can you now?” Sketch decided to challenge her. Of course, he instantly regretted the decision when it seemed like she bathed in the opportunity with carnal delight.

“Well... let’s see...” Syntax tapped on her chin playfully, only pretending to come up with a reading. It was obvious that she already had something in mind. “I can tell you don’t actually have a job.”

Sketch was taken aback at the accusation. How did she know?

“And your reaction confirms it,” she chuckled, looking down on him. “Before you ask me how I knew, let me tell you. It’s your stature. Your demeanor. Artists that have a reliable, paying job have a arrogant and somewhat superior stance about them. They’ll maintain eye contact and will make it a point to speak intelligently, even if the money they make is very little. They also wouldn’t strike up a conversation with a complete stranger, although they would still thank her for keeping them from falling on their face.”

Sketch blushed and looked away, answering her with his silence. She smiled coyly and bumped him with her elbow.

“Hahaha! See? Your book is wide open and dog-eared. Some hoofprints on it too.”

“Yeah, yeah, I get it. No need for the extended metaphor.” Sketch blew some of his hair out of his face. “Not like I’m in much position to get a job anyway,” he mumbled. Syntax tensed up a bit and eyed him with suspicion.

“Yeah... how old are you, anyway, kid?”

Sketch’s heart skipped a beat, figuring something he said had somehow given him away. He swallowed and tried to stay cool. “Forty-seven. Why do you ask?”

Syntax was stunned silent for a small time, before turning away with an uneasy smile on her face. “Heh. Okay, I get it. None of my business, right? Not like I could do anything about it.”

“About what?” Sketch acted out. “There’s nothing wrong about a middle-aged stallion like me hanging out at an alcohol and drug filled party now, is there? Look, my mane is grey and everything.”

Syntax clicked her tongue and punched Sketch lightly in the arm, laughing a bit. She coincided her defeat by dropping the subject. She looked at him for a bit with one eye, before putting on a confused expression. She gestured forward with her head and spoke. “Hey, you’re next, kid.”

“Hm?” Sketch asked, before answering himself with the simply turn of his neck. The vendor smiled, tapping patiently on the counter with her bovine hoof.

“‘Chu want?” she inquired. A distinct, yet unidentifiable accent masked her words well. Sketch was barely able to make out her words, figuring she must have have asked ‘What do you want?’.

“Uhh, two honey and sugar fry breads.” Sketch reached into his pack, pulling out the bits necessary. He had it ready before hand, to prevent any embarrassing fumblings for cash.

“A’ight dat’d be fiffeen bits, friend.”

Something told Sketch that her accent wasn’t native to her people. As he traded the money for the food, food that was promptly provided, Syntax bumped her elbow into Sketch to get his attention.

“Who are you with?” Syntax asked with a bit of sparkle in her eye. Something about her inquisitive nature made Sketch uneasy. It’s like she knew Sketch was hiding something incredibly unique, which disturbed him further since she’d be correct. Syntax was dangerous, that much was certain. It was a shame, she seemed like a very interesting pony.

“A couple of friends that are totally old enough to be here,” Sketch quipped with obvious sarcasm. Syntax rolled her eyes, actually appearing to be exasperated for a split second, before she put her original face back on. It seems she caught her own slip-up as she winced a bit under her facade. She probably figured out that Sketch knew she wanted something from him. She frowned and glanced behind her.

“Sure, kid. Look, I gotta go. There’s a story around here somewhere. Good luck, Sketch.”

I’m gonna need it, Sketch thought to himself, putting on a fake smile. “Thanks. See you later.”

She grinned, staring at him with purpose. “Definitely.”

Sketch stepped back, cautiously making sure he didn’t trip on anything or bump into Syntax, lest he spill his food. The whole conversation made Sketch feel uneasy, as if he were lying to somebody he cared about. He felt bad for not being more of a help to her. Maybe that was her intention, make Sketch want to trust her with information? She was a skilled speaker, and had swathes of curiosity to boot. Sketch just couldn’t risk getting to know her better; for the sake of Trust.

He tried to push the thought of the mare away, instead focusing  on where his hooves were landing on the the ground. He realized he had lost his sense of direction somewhere in the middle of his little adventure and almost panicked, but simmered down once he spotted Trust and the others. He noticed Anthem talking Trust’s ears off, blabbering about something he was apparently pretty passionate about. It was easy to tell from here that he was taking care not to flirt, as he had a stupid grin on his face and his eyes were fully open. Trust didn’t seem to mind the conversation, as she was smiling, even though it appeared she wasn’t exactly at her most comfortable. Trying to avoid any conflict, Sketch increased his pace and placed himself in between the two. Good thing Anthem was too dense to notice. Sketch found himself leaning on his absentmindedness a lot more than he usually did.

“Trust,” Sketch acknowledged, hoofing her the food. It seemed she was about to make some sort of witty comment, but stopped in her tracks once she saw the treat in front of her. It took her some strength to not immediately start drooling. She swiped the food from him and ate as quickly as she could in a respectful manner. Sketch chuckled and faced Anthem. “Where’s Haren?” Sketch asked.

“She’s just goin’ to the restroom real quick before the concert starts. That’s her favorite part.”

“They have restrooms here?” Sketch queried, taking a look around.

“No, we just shit in the woods.”

“Alright, alright, stupid question,” Sketch admitted under his breath. Anthem guffawed, a little too loudly for Sketch’s taste.

“They’re just porta-potties.” He turned his attention to Trust, who was in the middle of tearing a piece of bread and dipping it in the excess honey. How she managed to do that hooves, Sketch will never know. “How’s Trust liking that frybread?”

“Better company than you,” she answered coyly, taking a moment from her bliss. Anthem seemed legitimately fussed about her quip, but took a friendly approach.

He pretended to be stabbed and held his side in faux pain. “Oof, that hurts.”

She stuck out her tongue and smiled to show she wasn’t serious. That seemed to repair Anthem’s mood, as he laughed again, loudly and sincerely. He then turned around and frowned, looking in a random direction with a troubled expression; it only happened for a second. Although Sketch was concerned, there was no way to ask without insulting the stubborn stallion. It was the sort of thing one has to wait for in order to help. Suddenly, the vendors around the three lit up, along with the entire field in front of them. Trust yelped in pain while Sketch and Anthem blinked, struggling to adjust their eyes to the newly acquired light. Anthem hadn’t noticed Trust, but Sketch immediately went to her side.

“You okay?”

“Yeah! Yeah. Dammit,” Trust cursed, rubbing her eyes and slowly exposing them to the light. It was flooring just how dull her colors were now, her entire body nearly a mute grey. The only ounce of sharp color on her were her eyes. He noticed that her pupils were so shrunk they almost looked like they weren’t there. “The hell was th...”

Trust stopped in her tracks when she spotted the large makeshift stage that sat at the base of the hill they happen to be standing on. It was humble contraption, designed to be light and portable. However, there was an essence of craftsmanship about it; it looked incredibly solid and had no visible faults whatsoever. Impressive in its own right, but not something Trust would be interested in. “What is that?”

Or not.

“I take it’s a stage?” Sketch suggested.

“Yup. They’re gonna be starting soon.” Anthem blankly swiveled his head around, staring at nothing in particular, or maybe some force that was only visible to him. He transitioned into scratching his head with a confused look on his face. “I wonder when Haren will be back, she won’t want to miss this.” He looked very uneasy. Eventually, he seemed to come to some sort of a decision. “I’m gonna go look for her...” He formed the statement as a question, like he wasn’t sure he was supposed to say that. Sketch rose his eyebrow in curiosity, but decided not to question him. Trust was oblivious, however more due more to her food than a lack of foresight.

“Alright,” Sketch conceded, carefully looking for any tells. Anthem blankly turned and walked away. Sketch wondered if he even knew where he was going. He was walking with such purpose that it seemed that way.

“Hey, Sketch!” Trust demanded, prodding him sharply in the side. It derailed his train of thought and replaced it with a Trust train, encompassing all things Trust.

“Sup?”

“Get me another.” Trust shoved the wrapper of the frybread into his chest rudely, but obviously in jest.

“Damn, girl. Already?”

“Hey, you couldn’t honestly believe I’d only eat one.” She had a point there. Nothing would suggest otherwise.

He took a look around, reminding himself of Anthem’s behavior. “Are... you sure you’ll be okay alone?”

She chuckled, putting one leg over her knee. “Yeah... I like it here... it feels... right.”

As much as Sketch hated to do it, he didn’t want her to feel he was babysitting her. He respected her too much for that. He had faith she’d be smart about the other ponies here.

Taking a few reluctant steps, he decided to speed up and minimize the time away from her. No reason to take unnecessary risks. He found the vendor faster this time, yet this time there was no line. Presumably, everypony had shifted to the other side of the field to watch the concert. The bovine was reading a book at the stand, waiting diligently to serve any stragglers such as Sketch. Feeling the sudden urge of nature from so many mentions of it from Anthem, Sketch decided to take a slight detour and find a restroom. Taking one last look at the vendor and shrugging, Sketch set on his... “quest”.

He made it a point to trot in order to get it over with and quickly found a lone porta-potty sitting in the middle of the field. Checking to see if it was occupied and confirming that it was indeed vacant, he pulled open the door and proceeded to walk in.

That was difficult, however, seeing as there was already somepony in it. Along with somebody else. Sketch was simply confused at first, knowing that what he stumbled upon was supposed to be an empty outhouse rather than a somewhat crowded place. He then found that one individual, the one that happened to be on top of the other and curled in an odd position, was a bit feathery than the other, meaning that she was indeed a griffin. The pony on the bottom looked very familiar, with blue fur and purple hair. It was Anthem. His brain made the connection that the griffin must have been Haren, then. That was strange. Why would the two of them be sharing a bathroom?

That’s when something in Sketch’s head sparked. His jaw dropped and his eyes widened as he looked over Haren’s face to see a horrified and shocked expression. He scanned over to Anthem’s face to see an incredibly similar one. He then went to the meridian of the two points to see that he had indeed walked into what he thought he had walked into.

“Uhh... occupado.” Anthem breathed, trying to chuckle but failing miserably. After what seemed like ages but couldn’t have been more than a few seconds, Sketch simultaneously pushed with his hoof and his magic to close the door, slamming it so hard that the entire structure shook. He then felt faint, nearly falling over, before deciding to limply lean on the door with his back. His heart was beating a mile a minute and his breathing was labored. He was trying to believe what he just saw, but whenever he did he immediately wanted to forget about it, but in turn it made him forget why he wanted to forget it in the first place, which made him try to believe it again. It was vicious cycle that continued for about a minute, before he simply bolted in a single direction.

As he left, the door to the restroom opened, revealing the pair inside, unbeknownst to the troubled unicorn speeding away. Haren turned to face Anthem directly, as did Anthem to her.  Anthem sighed, being the first to regain his composure. “Dammit.”



Sketch kept a brisk pace through the paths leading back to Trust. He realized that he had been carrying another sopapilla, though he could not remember actually getting it. His body had been on autopilot since the... event, and he was pretty sure he had lost all feeling in his legs. He was still moving so he assumed that he had not, in fact, fallen over. Just yet, at least. So many things zipped through his head, so many thoughts, that he had abandoned all efforts to actually examine them. It was so surreal, he truly felt like he was having an out of body experience. That is until he felt the full force of an entire pony’s body come into contact with his.

“Oof,” Sketch exclaimed, his first utterance in about fifteen minutes. The mare he had bumped into turned and smiled through familiar thick-rimmed glasses.

“You should really make a habit out of actually walking instead of falling everywhere, Sketch.”

“Beh?” Was all that Sketch could muster, and the effort effectively sapped Sketch of all his strength. Syntax broke her cool stance and expression in favor of an uneasy and disturbed one. The last thing she expected the stallion to do was almost vomit in her face.

“Excuse me?”

“Sketchy, what’s wrong?” a new voice called. It was enough to knock Sketch out of his stupor for a couple of seconds. That was Trust’s voice, immediately following Syntax’s voice.

“Trust?” Sketch took a look at the voice, who was indeed the one he thought. He then faced Syntax again, to make sure he had seen and heard correctly. They must have been talking.

“You two know each other,” Syntax chimed in, stating it as fact rather than asking one of them. “How interesting, yet...” she glanced at Trust and then back at Sketch. “Predictable.”

“Syntax,” he said, grimly, looking at her through his hair. “Why are you talking to her?”

She seemed legitimately flummoxed, confused at his dark manner of speech. “Well, I... Well she just seemed a bit lonely here, by herself. I was a bit worried.”

So she doesn’t know then... that’s good. Then why would she bother...? Sketch noticed how young Trust looked, now. She was shorter than most ponies here, and probably seemed the most lost. It was common sense that Syntax would strike up a conversation with her like she did with Sketch. As slimy as Syntax seemed to Sketch, she was trying to be the responsible adult. Sketch was satisfied with her answer, as he knew that she was giving it hidden meaning only for him.

“Yes, well, she’s with me, and a few friends. She’ll be okay.”

There was a couple moment of silence between the three, each waiting for the other to make a move. Trust was absolutely confused as to what was actually going on.

Slowly, Syntax spoke, giving weight to every syllable. “I... see... well, she’s in good hooves.”

Sketch couldn’t hold back a smirk. The mare was not stupid. Quite the opposite, in fact. She was very intelligent. He knew she could see that Sketch was not trying anything funny with Trust. There was too much evidence to the contrary. Furthermore, she knew he knew her true nature, even if he only had a small idea of it. Encounters with the mare have turned into intellectual battles, both waiting for the other to slip. So far, Sketch was winning, but it felt like it was only by default.

Trust broke the silence that had formed between them. “Uhh... yeah. Sketch, Syntax is a really cool mare. She told me what band was playing.”

Sketch broke his locked stare with Syntax to eye Trust with confusion. He glanced back at Syntax and scoffed. “‘Just saw a bunch of ponies walking here’, huh?”

She smiled knowingly, but kept quiet, knowing she’d been caught in a lie. “The band is pretty well known for their rebellious songs. Perhaps you can relate, boy.” Syntax had reached the point where her words dripped with venom. Even the change of formality in calling Sketch “boy” was incredibly emasculating. Trust started to shift uncomfortably, wanting the awkward conversation to stop. Sketch noticed this and decided to be the bigger pony and disarm the metaphorical bomb.

“Thanks for looking out for her, Syntax.”

Her eyes widened for a moment before she decided to put on a smile. “Anytime.” There was a sharp noise, the sudden yet soft squeal of a speaker getting plugged in. All three ponies turned towards the stage where a single stallion stood. He had a drunken expression, a big dumb smile plastered over his longer-than-most muzzle. There was another static-laden squeal as he tapped the microphone. 

“Awright, awright. I gotta be honest with you folks, I was a bit nervous coming here what with all the griffins here.” There was a stunned silence among the crowd, most of which just couldn’t believe what he had just said. Before anyone could react, his voice boomed across the field once again. “But then I realized that it was bucking stupid to be nervous. Griffins are just like you and me, only feathererier. And they could probably kick your ass. But one they definitely are... they know how to bucking party!”

Sketch wasn’t sure that the stallion was wording any of this correctly, but it appears the crowd didn’t seem to care. There was a roar from the multitudes, and incredibly ear busting whistles coming from the griffins. The stallion on the mic got reinvigorated by this and grabbed the stand with one leg, pulling it closer to his mouth. “SO LET’S SHOW ‘EM A GOOD TIME, WHAT DO YA SAY?!” The crowd exploded once again, shattering all of Sketch’s senses. Even Trust had gotten in on the hype, cheering and thrusting her hoof in the air. Sketch was probably the most reserved one there, Trust’s enthusiasm the only thing getting a reaction from him. In the middle of all the noise, Syntax poked Sketch to get his attention.

“I don’t think there’s anything left for me here, so I’m gonna bounce.”

Sketch nodded, unsure whether or not he wanted her to stay.

“Awww, what a bummer,” Trust said, the smile never leaving her face.

“Tell you what, kid. You ever got anything you want to tell me, I’m always around.” Syntax fished a business card out of her saddlebags and hoofed it to Sketch. He took it from her without protest.

“I’ll consider it,” he said, honestly.

“See that you do.” And with that, Syntax turned to leave. As she walked away, Sketch flipped the card up and inspected it. Canterlot City Confidential - 4533 E Boardtrot / Personal - 4398 E Capricot. He flipped to the other side. Written in red ink, it said, Don’t think I don’t know you have something for me, hotshot. I can get to the bottom of it without even stepping on your toes ;) Sketch’s heart raced at the hoofwritten warning. She had this prewritten; she was expecting to see him again after their first meeting. Does that mean she knew Trust and I came here together, too? He shuddered at the thought. Trust was eying the business card too, but he was confident she couldn’t read cursive, or at least not that fast, and he decided not to worry her about it.

“What’d it say?” she asked. It seemed he was right.

“Ah, nothing important.” Sketch pocketed the card and returned his focus to the frybread that was still hovering next to him. He hoped that it hadn’t gotten cold yet. “Here you go, Trust. Just for you.”

“Aw, sweet, I almost forgot!” She greedily swiped it from Sketch’s magical grasp and took a huge chunk out of it, licking her lips and smacking them all the while. Sketch tried not to watch for obvious reasons. It was easier to ignore when a small band prepared their instruments on stage. There were a few test strums and beats before the lead singer said a few words.

“Enjoy yourselves, every moment you get. Life isn’t all hardship, and you can push through by appreciating the time you have right now. Everything ahead of you is small compared to you. Everyone makes a difference; don’t wait for the world to do it for you. You ready?” And the [url]song began[/url].

“Like a new day rising,
Like a calm before the storm
Like fog lifting from valleys
On a sleeping forest floors
Eyes open slowly, as the dust is shaken off
To gaze upon the wreckage
That the midnight hands have wrought!”

The melody was unlike anything Sketch had ever heard. Loud and dirty, but poetic in its message, keeping to a moral high, and an aim to spread awareness and objectivity. Sketch couldn’t decipher the lyrics exactly, but he had already decided he agreed with them. Music was usually a thing Sketch couldn’t exactly understand. It could sound nice, sometimes, but it never resonated the same way others swear by. While he could never fully appreciate the raw power a good song such as this had, he could see why somepony could be so taken by simple sounds. It was art, it always was.

Trust had closed her eyes and rose her nose in the air, almost bathing in the notes and chords as the shook her to the core. She was clearly enjoying this more than he was. And that was just the way he wanted it. Sketch couldn’t help but stare... she just seemed so peaceful. Sketch sighed and closed his eyes as well. He inhaled the sticky and dirt-laden night air, and decided it wasn’t half bad. He wondered where Haren was-- she would enjoy this.

Hrk! Sketch jaw locked so tight he nearly bit off his own tongue. He completely forgot about those two!



“Out of freakin’ everyone, it had to be him! There’s like five hundred ponies and griffins here and it had to be him.”

Haren couldn’t face her friend. She kept her eyes on the ground at a forty five degree angle. It was just too embarrassing. She was searching for words, anything that would comfort Anthem. “At least it was someone we know.”

“That makes it worse, Haren!” Anthem yelled, slamming his hoof into the ground. “If it was a stranger we could have just laughed it off. But Sketch? I see that boy every other day. I mean-” There was a loud thonk! which Haren assumed to be his hoof hitting his forehead in frustration. “Argh!”

“Sketchy’s a nice kid, and smart, too. He’ll get it, and he won’t care, he’s just that kind of guy.”

“Then why didn’t he say anything? Or stay behind to talk? You keep forgetting that he isn’t an adult just yet. There’s still a lot of things he doesn’t know how to deal with, even as smart as he is.”

Haren was impressed with Anthem’s reasoning. He really was considerate and thoughtful. However his density would be his downfall, since it’s pretty obvious that this is something he can definitely empathize with. Of course, she couldn’t just tell him that.

“I just... I just... dammit! How the hell did we even get in this mess?”

While the question was rhetorical, Haren couldn’t help but answer it in her head. It was my fault. I did this. Haren tried to hold back her tears, and she succeeded; something that she’s had way too much practice in. It was a good thing that Sketch was a lot more mature than Anthem thought. A strange occurrence, considering that the both of them had asked him for advice more than once.

Haren sighed, disappointed in herself for being so stupidly selfish. She had already crossed the line, and then she decided to dance on the other side whilst playing with gasoline and matches. It was stupid. “Look, he’ll get over it. I know you have trouble remembering, but ignoring all the shit he gives us, Sketch really likes us. We’re nearly his only friends.” Weird, calling him a friend and putting myself in the same boat as Anthem. They knew each other a lot longer than I knew Sketch. But he seemed really eager to get to know me, and he voluntarily hung out with me just as much as him. I really love the little guy. Haren smiled at the thought. Unlike Anthem, Haren really appreciated the fact it was Sketch. Now she had someone to talk to...

“Yeah... yeah, you’re right. I’m sorry, I just I... don’t know what to do...”

Haren wanted to tell him to have a little bit of faith, but she was skeptical as well. She felt so vulnerable... it was disturbing. resisting the urge to throw up, she sat as soon as Anthem did, watching the ensuing concert. Haren hadn’t even noticed the music until now... either that or it had just started playing. Good music.

Haren sighed once again, an itch forming beneath her skin. She had dropped the mask, even for just a moment, and it bothered the hell out of her. She held her own shoulder with her talon, guarding herself from nothing in particular. She shifted her eyes and caught Sketch in the corner of her vision. She perked up and began to shift her weight towards him, before realizing it would make Anthem uncomfortable and decided against it, frowning. It would have to wait. She kept her eyes on Sketch, however. For the first time she fully appreciated the weight he had in her life in such a remarkably short period of time. He had his eyes closed and was facing the sky along with his lady friend, a smile on his face, presumably to fully enjoy the music. Sketch never struck her as a music man, however he totally struck her as a Trust man. She really hoped he realized how much he actually liked the girl, but like Anthem said, he was still young. Young love is so difficult.

“It’s easy to see how those two became friends, huh?” Anthem spoke suddenly, sounding a bit more relaxed.

“I’m surprised they hadn’t met each other earlier,” Haren agreed.

“Almost makes you think there was a reason, huh?” Anthem coyly suggested, with one brow arched up. Haren nearly gasped when she looked at him. She was impressed, usually Anthem didn’t even care enough to notice any subtleties. Anthem noticed her astonished reaction and laughed. “I don’t look as stupid as I am, huh?”

Haren continued to stare, trying to comprehend what she just heard. Anthem’s sly, confident look slowly dissolved as he reviewed the statement in his head. One could almost hear his brain grind to a halt.

“...Wait.”



The music started to die down, more tame songs being played by more obscure bands, and the crowd began to disperse. Sketch was strangely calm, a feeling of warmth and a soft tingling sensation going down his spine. Due to recent events, he shouldn’t be this relaxed. But something about it... it actually helped. Now that he had time to think, he wondered why he was so bothered by it. Well... it was weird... really weird... but no weirder than Trust was, and that didn’t matter. Something did hit on a personal matter, though... perhaps he was upset they hadn’t felt it was safe to tell him, or that he wouldn’t approve. Then again, why would they care? They never care about anything, a very endearing, if frustrating, character trait.

Sketch shook his head and the corresponding thoughts followed suit. He decided not to dwell on this any further; this night had been more eventful than he would’ve liked. Still, Trust had received no damage and actually enjoyed herself. That was the important thing. When Sketch had pursued this endeavor, he thought that the hardest thing to deal with was going to be Trust and her awkwardness. Little did he know that he would walk in on two of his closest friends chumming it up. No, it was worse than that, it was like seeing your grandpa passionately kissing your grandpa from your other parent’s side. Not only is it nauseating, but it seems friggin impossible until you see it.

There was also that mare, Syntax. SKetch wasn’t sure what to think about her. Whether or not her intentions were pure was another matter, Sketch was just interested about what it was she wanted exactly, and how much she knew. There were times where he felt that she was watching them, just out of their peripheral. He wasn’t entirely convinced that it was just nerves.

Before he knew it, Sketch and Trust were walking back to the cable car they had gotten to the party with. Trust was nervously looking behind herself and around Sketch. She had stopped raving about how awesome the party was long enough for SKetch to become concerned. He faced her sincerely. “What’s wrong?”

“Where’s Haren and the dumb stallion?”

Sketch frowned and kicked at the dirt as they walked. “Uhh.... I don’t know if we’ll see them again tonight.

Trust seemed genuinely upset, stamping her hoof in the dirt as well. “Why not?”

“Uhh...” Sketch wasn’t exactly sure he knew how to word what he was going to say. It all happened so fast, but it also felt like ages. All concept of time disappeared for a few seconds as he experienced it. It made him uncomfortable at best. “I uhh..” SKetch cleared his throat and swallowed the phlegm. “I kind of... had to go to the restroom while I was getting your food and... and...”

“Did you pee on them or something?”

Sketch nearly stopped walking on account of Trust’s odd remark. “What? No. I uh... I kind of walked in on them while... while they were... interlocked.” After hearing it, Sketch decided that was the absolute worst word he could have used to describe their position.

Trust’s jaw dropped and made an audible squeak as it reached its apex. “R-r-really?!”

“Yeah... in a... porta-potty.” He wasn’t sure if they would be okay with Sketch sharing the details, but he ultimately didn’t care. He wasn’t going to keep anything from Trust, even if he didn’t necessarily have to share.

“Woah. Like full-on sex?”

Sketch’s entire body went red. It was like being asked about his mother’s love life. It breached every barrier of okay that Sketch had built since his birth. “I-I DON’T KNOW! I didn’t stick around long enough to find out!” He had to really hold back vomit.

“Dude... heavy.” Sketch was a little bit annoyed at the nonchalance of her comments. She found this more entertaining than anything. Of course, it was not like Sketch could really blame her for it. She didn’t know them like he did.

Sketch stepped onto the cable car without actually making the conscious decision to. His partner started making some strange noises and tried to nudge him in the shoulder. “Uhh, Sketch?”

Sketch was in the middle of a thought and decided to voice it. “Look, it was very strange for all of us, and I just want to forget it happened.”

“Sketch.” Trust said under her breath again, poking him sharply in the ribs.

“Ow, what?” She motioned toward the other side of the car, making an odd face. Sketch turned to see Anthem and Haren staring everywhere but the direction Sketch was in, sitting sheepishly on seats that were a little too small for them. The distance between the two was a little too close for Sketch’s comfort. “Oh.”

Haren opened her beak to say something, but decided against it when realizing nobody in the car was actually looking at anyone else. She turned to face the outside of the window once again. The silence was louder than anyone would’ve imagined. A few of them feared they would go deaf from it. Sketch tried to focus on the cool wind hitting his face from the speed of the car. The air was a bit fresher than at Hearth’s Tearing, and Sketch wasn’t sure if he preferred it or not. Someone audibly sniffed and immediately regretted it, so they tried to be even quieter than before and somehow succeeded. After about thirty seven centuries, the car finally got to Canterlot once again. The four passengers immediately ran off, desperately cautious to not make contact with each other. As soon as they got outside they immediately began to disperse, leaving in pairs.

Sketch, deciding that this was not the optimal to end an otherwise wonderful night when ignoring the incident, cleared his throat. “Hey.”

Anthem winced, while Haren slowly turned and offered a nervous smile. “Yeah?” she asked.

“See you guys tomorrow.” Sketch wore the most genuine smile he could’ve given, trying to reassure the two that he wasn’t angry with them. He had gotten the impression that they believed this while in the car. Those two acted like children sometimes. Haren visibly lit up and Anthem seemed to loosen up. Haren nodded, feeling nothing more needed to be said. They walked off into the night.

Sketch turned back leading the way back to his house. He wondered what time it was. He judged about three in the morning, but it wasn’t like he could read the moon’s positioning or anything so there was no way to confirm it. Eager to make some conversation with Trust, he decided to ask her.

“Like two forty-six,” She answered with complete confidence. Sketch glanced at her and took a double take.

“How do you know?”

“I dunno, I just do.” She shrugged. “I’ve always known. At least at night.”

“Huh.”

“Hey, Sketch?”

Trust’s voice had a slight shrill to it. “Yeah?”

“What do you think... about the two of them, I mean.”

Sketch didn’t really understand the question, but there was something he wanted to share. “It’s weird, but that’s their business. Knowing those two, they’re just fooling around, or experimenting. I’m just a little pissed they didn’t tell me, it’s obvious it wasn’t their first time.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Their attitude. They would have just laughed it off otherwise. They were... ashamed, almost.”

Sketch just realized something very important. This was probably the reason Anthem was acting so odd lately. It made sense, the question was why would he continue fooling around with Haren if it made him so uncomfortable all the time. Sketch would have to ask him soon...

It only took the two of them a few minutes to get back to Sketch’s place. He sat and stared at his window, some place that seemed so far away, further than it ever seemed before. Everything looked different than yesterday.Everything was... smaller. He sighed, unsure if he even wanted to return to this world. But he had to someday, sooner than later.

Right?

“Need some help?”

“Huh?” Sketch asked, totally unaware what she meant. He looked at her, then the window. “Uh, no I don-”

Trust was already enveloping Sketch in her forelegs as he answered. He only stopped trying to talk when a large amount of pressure formed along his stomach. “Hrk!” he grunted, trying to replace the air he just lost. He spinned around mid-air until he was facing Trust belly-up. He presumed he was just easier to carry this way, but too many thoughts were rushing through his head in order to rationalize anything. They were already in the air, and Sketch silently commended Trust’s extreme strength and dexterity. They even made it through the window without much resistance. Trust sloppily landed on his bed, forming a soft thud noise as the both of them loosely flopped onto the surface. Sketch was able to gather himself to think once again, but even that was hard to do when she was just staring right at him It was especially hard because his room was dark, which meant Trust’s eyes were once again glowing. His eyes adjusted to their light until she was the only thing he could see.

“Why’d you put me in my bed?” he asked, with a blank monotone.

There was a silence. He could almost feel her seductive smile. “‘Cos you’re tired right?”

“Not really,” he answered truthfully. He should’ve been tired. He wasn’t.

“Oh, well. Whoops.” She shrugged, sending chills down his spine. A bunch of less wholesome scenarios played through Sketch’s head involving a number of solutions to this problem that wasn’t actually a problem. He forced himself to keep his mind away from any of that, but Trust’s presence was making it very difficult. “Good morning, Sketch.”

“Good morning.” Trust, agonizingly slowly, stood up and gently floated  to the ground, keeping eye contact with Sketch all the while. She even jumped out the window like that. As soon as she slipped out of his field of vision, Sketch’s heart sank. Today had ended all too soon.

But at least it happened at all.



Sketch was standing in light, standing on nothing, breathing stale air, and tasting something akin to a child’s medicine. It wasn’t awful, but something felt... safe about it. And for the first time in his life, that sounded like a bad thing. He just kind of... existed for a while. He simply wore a bored expression on his face, unsure of what to do or what to care about. A lot of people would have found this relaxing, but he absolutely hated it. It didn’t make him angry, however. It was a passive distaste, one he probably wouldn’t have noticed if there was some other form of stimuli wherever he was.

Suddenly, a darkness appeared in the corner of his eyes. He knew it must’ve been a blinding dark, but not matter how hard he tried, he could never get it past his peripheral. It was frustrating, He began to walk, with hopes of getting closer. It was hard to move his legs, and he constantly felt like he was going to trip, but he could not figure out why he had such difficulty. Before he knew it, the darkness consumed his entire being. He could not remember when he had gotten so far, as it was hard to focus on anything, let alone the passage of time. Sooner or later, Sketch found himself in the center in a small tiled room, like a bathroom or something. It was claustrophobic and bare, nothing to focus on once again. He began to experience that familiar medicine taste in the back of his throat. Suddenly, yet somehow also predictably, a presence entered the room. Sketch felt a pressure on his shoulder. Instead of being scared, or startled, he calmly turned to the source. Much to his surprise, it was a grey mare with bat wings: Trust. Before he could speak, she put a hoof to his muzzle. She grinned, and only said one phrase.

“You’ll do nicely.”



Sketch woke up in a cold sweat to the sound of his alarm clock. Six o’clock. Too early. He slammed his clock and turned over, dreading the fact he has to actually get up afterward. The memories of the dream he had were quickly fading, and he tried his best to catalogue them, but unfortunately all that was left were fragments. He remembered Trust being in there. That was good. He also remembered not thinking dirty thoughts about Haren. That was... good? Sketch shrugged, and using all of energy to get up.

It took all his strength to not pass out.


> 5. Words Without Water
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Meeting you was fate, 
becoming your friend was a choice, 
but falling in love with you I had no control over.”

―Unkown


The sun must have had some vendetta against poor Sketch’s eyes. They mercilessly assaulted the defenceless spheres, squeezing and prodding until he could hold them open for no longer. He blinked.

Sketch had spent the day gliding along to school. Well, it had only been around fifteen minutes but it felt like an entire day. Canterlot, decidedly being cruel for no good reason, chose not to have a cloud in the sky the one day Sketch got even less sleep than he usually did. The white, reflective surfaces of the city didn’t help any either. He thought he could do it. Force himself to stay awake, at least until he got to his easier classes in school. But as he drifted off once again, nearly bumping into a wall that had somehow gotten closer to him, he thought maybe he wasn’t in any position to be going anywhere, much less someplace that expected him to give a damn.

Because of all the things he was giving at the moment, a damn was not one of them.

As he tumbled once again, barely dodging a mare who subsequently cursed under her breath, and into a table, he decided that he was much too dangerous to be anywhere public at the moment. He tried to find what establishment the table belonged, and after seeing that it was something he could afford, he threw his body onto one of the seats. Maybe if he ate something it would give him enough energy to find out what he wanted to do. An uneasy waitress, no doubt having witnessed the strange spectacle of a barely conscious unicorn dumping himself carelessly into one of her seats, walked up and cautiously pulled a pen she stuck behind her ear. “Uhhhmm... may I... help you?”


Sketch decided to be kind to the mare and assure her as fast as possible that he wasn’t drunk or crazy. He put on his best smile and exhaled and spoke at the same time. “Yes, please. I’d like a sandwich, something everypony gets.”

Her mood visibly improved once she knew that he wouldn’t be any trouble and she smiled back at him. “The Hayseed Special, comin’ up! WIll that be all?”

“Yeah,” he said, resting his head onto his hoof. She beamed once again and walked off, presumably to fetch his food. As soon as she was out of sight, he let his head fall to the the table nose-first, unable to keep it propped up with his neck alone.

The noise of the streets and the restaurant became front and center now that his vision was gone. The clanking of silverware, hooves hitting the ground, and idle chatter was all that he could hear. He tried focusing on an isolated conversation to see if he could eavesdrop on any nearby ponies, but there was simply too much noise.

He thought of that waitress that had just taken his order. He had already forgotten what she looked like, but he remembered her being attractive. Picking up his head, he tried to make it seem as if he wasn’t trying to sleep, in respect for the working mare. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a black griffin having dinner with a white one. He turned his head in mild shock, such a sight being a rare encounter in Canterlot. There were a few other ponies also passively staring at the two female griffins, just out of spectacle rather than unease. He wondered if they were more exotic than the average griffin or if it was just unimportant genes that determined color, like a pony’s fur color. They seemed to be having fun, laughing and taking bites in equal order. They looked to be related in some way, with their structure sharing blatant similarities, such as beak shape, body proportions, and facial features.

Suddenly, the two turned towards Sketch and flashed him a mischievous smile. Sketch jumped and hit his knee on the bottom of the table, hard. He quickly turned straight ahead of him as blood and warmth rushed to his cheeks. He could hear the two laughing at the sight, which made him blush a bit more. When they went back to talking, he noticed it was in some other language. They must have been recent immigrants.

Stupid Haren made the idea of Griffins that much more appealing to him, and now he was catching himself staring at others as well. If only being a teenager wasn’t so... difficult. 

“Here’s your meal sir.”

Sketch faced the waitress and smiled. He got up in order to give enough space to a plate, a humble yet well made sandwich. He ate it slowly, trying to focus on the food in order to stay awake. It actually wasn’t helping much, considering there wasn’t much to think about. He exhaled as he finished, thankful he didn’t choke on account of falling asleep with food in his mouth. And then he fell asleep...

...

...

...

“You’re a regular badass, aren’t you?”

Sketch’s heart stopped for a moment as he rose immediately, He slammed his hoof on the table in a strange act of defence. He reared, a scrutinizing look adorning his face. What the hell is she doing here?!

“Going to late night parties, hanging out with bad crowds, skipping school...” That familiar face smiled, and she looked at him with one eye as she faced somewhere else. “You’re such a bad kid.”

“Syntax,” was all Sketch could muster. He was angry for some reason. It was her attitude, he was sure of it. She knew something. Sketch scowled, dragging his hoof across the table and back into his lap. Sketch knew he hadn’t seen the last of her, but he didn’t think it’d be this soon.

“Howdy.” Syntax tapped her hoof on her nose in a very taunting way, her smile becoming more malicious after each playful tap. She stopped eventually, slowly bringing both of her hooves down onto the table and facing Sketch for real. “I didn’t think I was going to have to see you this early, but... hoo boy do you got some ‘splaining to do.”

Her confidence made sketch nervous. His heart was beating at an incredible pace, and his sweat provided the most uncomfortable environment for him. He decided not to answer, lest he say something damning.

“You know, I almost forgot about you. You were a weird kid, that’s for sure, but nothing newsworthy. Hell, nothing about you or your stupid friends is newsworthy. But the thing about the best stories is that the people involved usually aren’t newsworthy. Just the person the story’s about. So I thought, ‘why not?’ And damn if your record isn’t interesting.”

Sketch wanted to say something. He wanted to scream. But the only thing that escaped him was a frustrated growl. How did this even happen, in retrospect? He was fine just a second ago. He didn’t think that this mare was even that maschevious. Yet here they were. 

“So, let’s go over this together, shall we? I mean, your parents obviously don’t care, so somepony has to point this out. First, you were late. That’s not big deal, I mean, it happens, right? But it was consistent. About once every week. Now, I can buy that being a coincidence, you’re probably just sick of school, right? Boys will be boys. But, then the strangest thing happened. Your tardy days became closer and closer together. So did your habit of falling asleep in class. Now why is that? There just had to be a reason. Eventually, you were just late everyday, and slept in class every day. Then there was that incident where you blew up in the middle of class and stormed out. But you didn’t suffer any consequences because... some griffin immigrant gave a good word about you to the principal? Now what sense does that make? And now you’re skipping school because you're exhausted after a drug filled party, one in which you were noticeably sober. What gives? Why the strange behavior?”

Sketch was flabbergasted. Had he really left so many breadcrumbs? Was it so obvious? Does... she know?

No! Don’t let her get in your head Sketch. This is all just conjecture.

“Now I know what you’re thinking. ‘Syntax, this doesn’t prove anything!’ Well, it doesn’t have to Sketch, because you’re going to tell me what I want to know, whether you like it or not.”

“What exactly are you threatening me with, Syntax?! You don’t have any proof.”

Syntax, appearing to be completely prepared with that point, simply chuckled and wagged her hoof. “Tsk, tsk, tsk. You’re really underestimating me, kid. You don’t think I’d have swiped your records while I was at your school? Your stupid principal was easy enough to convince to give me these in return for some ‘favors’.” Syntax lifted a folder from her bag and tossed it onto the table, making sure there was enough distance from it to Sketch so he wouldn’t try to make off with it. “So tell me, Sketch. What. Are. You. Hiding?” She glared daggers at him, determined for an answer. The newfound finality in her voice made it obvious that this was his last chance. Sketch began to sweat. Of course, nothing she could threaten would ever make him tell the truth, but if she really reveal this information to his parents, it would make his life a million times harder. And once she convinced them that she was trustworthy, she would tell them of his transgressions at the party, with a girl they hadn’t met. It would make it very difficult to keep Trust a secret. And of course, it would certainly limit the amount of times they could see each other. Everything would be ruined, and they’d probably slowly drift apart until they both were just memories of the past to each other.

But at least she’d still be able to live her life in peace.

Sketch swallowed and glared right back at her, a response she likely wasn’t expecting, as her face transitioned to one of surprise for s short time. Slowly, she frowned, and looked away.

“So be it, kid. Screw up your life, and everypony that cares about you. See if I care.” SHe reached out her hoof and grabbed the file, pulling it towards herself. Yet, the strangest thing happened. The folder wouldn’t move. “What the--” She eyed to file to see why it wasn’t moving, and saw an odd yellow object pinning it in place. It was avian in nature; a griffin’s talons. Her mouth became agape as she followed the deadly-looking talons to it’s source: a smug looking griffin with orange-tipped feathers. She wore a devious smile, something straight off of Syntax’s face.

Sketch couldn’t believe his eyes. “H-Haren?!”

“Hey, little pony. How’s it going? Having a good time with my friend Sketch here?” With feign delight, she beamed at her, and grabbed the file with both of her talons, forcing it out of Syntax’s grip. “What’s this you got here? Looks pretty interesting, I have to say.” She flipped through the pages and records while humming. “Some folder- ooh! This is Sketch! Hey, Sketch!” She turned towards the aforementioned pony, who was simply staring on in shock. “Sketch, they got a picture of you in here!” She unfolded the folder to the page in question, and showed the picture to both parties. “Adorable, innit?” She closed it once again and slapped it with one talon while holding it with the other. “This seems to have a lot of important, damning evidence against you, Sketchy!” She glanced at Sketch in faux horror. Then, a mischievous grin crept onto her beak, granting her an absolutely evil image. WIth one smooth motion, she grabbed the file on one end with both talons, and tore the file in two.

Rrrrrrrrrriiiiipp!!

Shock came over her, that was as real as a pro wrestling match. “Oops! Silly me! Now that’s a damned shame!”

She ripped it a few more times, each more vigorously than the last. Syntax looked on, slack-jawed and wide-eyed, not knowing how to react. She stopped when she had a couple dozen of neatly torn pieces of cardboard and paper, and set them upon the table. She took Sketch’s tea and poured the whole thing over the remains, minding enough to put some kinetic energy towards Syntax as she did, getting a little bit of tea on her. Sketch hadn’t even known he had gotten tea until now. “Man, I am so clumsy! Welp,” Haren sighed, turning over to SKetch once more. “Guess you won’t be getting blackmailed today. Sucks, right?”

Haren started to laugh unnaturally, a pompous, refined laugh. A dumb smile spread across Sketch’s cheeks as she did, happy that someone was looking out for her. There was silence for a time, before Syntax slammed her hoof against the table.

“You! You... you bitch! How dare you!”

Haren reverted back to her normal self. Obviously irritated by the mare, she slowly turned as she spoke. “Oh, yes, yes, right. I’m the bitch. Because I don’t go around extorting kids for something as stupid as a hunch.” Haren leaped forward, causing an enormous amount of fear to occupy Syntax’s eyes. She wrapped her talon around her throat with ease, and squeezed just enough to keep her from struggling. “Listen, you sad excuse for a scumbag reporter. It doesn’t matter who, what, or why you put so much effort into taking advantage of. You don’t have to wait for Karma to bite you in the ass, because I will already be doing it. Think about that the next time you try to do something as pathetic as threatening my friends, asshole.” Syntax gritted her teeth in a combination of fear and anger. A tear ran down her cheek as emotions boiled to the surface but were unable to get out. Haren pushed on her neck and sent her back, allowing momentum to take over as the chair she rested on teetered and fell, sending Syntax to the ground. She sat there in a pathetic lump, groaning in pain. Haren spat at the ground in front of her.

Sketch looked around and noticed that they were gathering a couple of spectators.

Syntax tried to recover, but chose to sit on the ground, most likely afraid of what Haren might do had she try to get up. “Y-you! Y... You think that was my only copy?! You don’t think I’d be prepared enough to get more than one?”

This hardly affected Haren’s stature. She simply laughed. “You’re bluffing. Besides, even if you weren’t,” Haren boasted, pulling a card from in between her digits. “I know where you live.”

Syntax gasped, reflexively slamming her hoof against her bag. Haren must have picked the card at some point, either before the confrontation or while she was marehandling her. “What?!”

“So tell me, pony. What’s gonna happen if you rat out my friend?”

Syntax’s eyes widened while her pupil’s narrowed, an absurd amount of adrenaline and fear coursing through her veins. She stammered, “You can’t! I-I’ll call the authorities.”

“Mmm-hmm? And what are you going to tell them? A crazy griffin is after you so they should post a guard at your door? Not likely or believable, is it? Or would you tell them the whole thing, about the whole extortion incident? Listen, you piss-pot. If you go anywhere near my friends again...” She grinned and cracked her talons. “You won’t be able to shit for a week because I kicked it all out of ya.”

Growling and snarling, Syntax positively seethed with anger. She was trapped like a rat, and nothing to do about it. She opened her mouth to speak. “I-”

Haren punched the table, hard. THe sound reverberated throughout the entire area, trailing down Syntax’s spine. Her ears dropped down to her neck, and her anger disappeared into pure animalistic anxiety and fear. “Or do you want me to kick your ass now? If not, then get up, and walk away without another goddamned word. Understood?”

Syntax squinted once she shook the scare. Without further protest, she shakily got up, fixed her bag, and walked away, staring at the ground the entire time. There was more silence, a silence that was even louder than most sounds. A few moments passed before Sketch could feel himself breathe again. “Haren,” he barely managed to whisper.

“‘Sup?” she responded nonchalantly. Acting like nothing happened was obviously intentional, perhaps to make Sketch feel as he didn’t owe her nothing. It didn’t work.

“Haren... That was awesome...” he breathed, a soft smile forming. His eyes went half mast, as he was unsure why she would go to such lengths to aid him.

“Aww...” Haren nervously groaned while rubbing the back of her neck. She sniffed and wiped her nose with a fair amount of flourish. “ It was nothin’.”

“No,” he replied blankly. “It was. Believe me.” They shared a heartwarming smile as the two closed their eyes. A bit of chuckling could be heard from behind them. Sketch recognized it but turned anyway. The two twin griffins were giggling while eyeing them both suggestively. It was obvious what they were laughing at.

Jeez, they must have saw the whole thing. Come to think of it... Sketch looked around to see various ponies pretending to not have seen the events that took place and several others gawking in disbelief. Sketch ears began to burn as blush lit up his face.

“We should get out of here,” he suggested. Haren quietly nodded and began a brisk stride out, with Sketch following once he laid enough money at the table. He never actually got to eat that sandwich.

As he caught up, he called to her. “Haren!”

“Hm?” she asked, unable to look him in the eye. Something must have been on her mind...

“Do you mind if I chill at your place? I cannot go to school like this.”

She shot him a warm look. “Of course.”



Sketch loosely threw his body on Haren’s bed, groaning loudly and letting his heart rate die down. He had once panicked at the idea at sleeping at Haren’s bed, but he was simply too tired to care. “Oh, lords and ladies.”

Haren chuckled as she joined him inside the room at sat in the lone chair the room provided. The room was bare and mostly empty, aside from some very plain-looking furniture and functional dressers. Sketch almost feel asleep right then and there. But his mind began to wonder. Where’s Anthem? Normally such a thought would have been ignored while he slept, but all he could think about was that night at the party. What the hell were they doing. His eyes shot open as a nauseating taste of dry air began to form in his mouth.

“Aren’t you going to ask?” Haren’s voice broke the silence, as she addressed the elephant that had entered the room. Sketch sighed, not really in the condition to have talks like this. He sat up and looked at Haren, who despite her smug positioning, wore a tired, distant, and weak smile. She stared at him at big eyes, that looked like they were wet with tears, without her actually crying. This sight gave Sketch pause. He hated it when she looked like this. It was so... unnatural.

He looked away as not to be bothered by her state. “Yeah... What the hell... why were you doing... what you were doing?” His tone of voice almost sounded like he was scolding, but held the understanding volume of a parent.

“For fun,” she answered bluntly. Though, with the way she said it, even she seemed dissatisfied with her answer. She looked away as well, unable to keep looking at Sketch without crying. She looked so frustrated, as if she were annoyed with how hard this was. “It started a few days ago. When I got Anthem that movie for Hearth’s Warming.”



“Oh, Celestia...” Anthem breathed, absolutely dumbfounded at what lie before him.

“Like what you see?” Haren asked, her words hanging in the air with innuendo tied to them with strings. Anthem couldn’t react however. He was too enamored with what he saw.

“I can’t believe this... Haren... How did you get this?!” The film reel was in excellent condition, brand new. It looked so shiny, so valuable. And it was. It should have been impossible, but yet there it was, right in front of him.

“I pulled a favor from a guy I knew. It wasn’t that big of a deal,” she lied. It had cost a pretty penny, and with the favor she cashed in, she could have gotten anything she wanted. But she wanted this more. She wanted to see Anthem’s lit up face when he saw the reel. And she got what she wanted. All the shitty feeling she had melted away when she saw that innocent smile, the one a kid has in a candy store. It was worth everything she ever had, and more. Just to see it once again.

“It is ABSOLUTELY a big deal. Do you know how hard these things are to find?!” Anthem shoved the reel in her face, causing her to recoil in amusement. “Well, I mean of course you do, you just got it!” He squeed, an incredibly hilarious sound coupled with his borderline baritone voice. He hugged it as a teen would do a diary once she had just written about her crush. “Oh my Celestia!”

“Well I’m glad you-”

“Let’s watch it right now!” Anthem said, cutting off whatever she was going to say. She opened her beak in shock.

“Both of us? Right now?”

“You. Me. Right now.” Anthem was already halfway through the set up process, and probably would have already been done had he not have been extra careful whenever handling the film. A couple of snaps and clicks later and the projector was set and the movie starting. He vaulted over the couch and landed in a sitting position. The couch cried out with the sudden weight on it. Haren was uneasy, inching slowly to the other side.

“C’mon, what’re you waiting for?” Anthem asked impatiently as he tapped the other side of the couch with his hoof. Haren lit up at the gesture. She didn’t know why she was so giddy about this, she had watched films with Anthem before. But she had always walked in on him already watching one and joined him silently. This time he invited her. And it seemed he preferred her to watch it with him. It was a different experience. She took her usual seat on the couch. 

Some time passed. The movie was excellent so far, still in the middle of the exposition as it followed the main character through his childhood as he grew. Even Haren, who was not that much of a connoisseur of films, could see that this movie simply bled quality in almost unimaginable quantities. A rush of emotion was placed into every scene, every shot had an aesop, and every line of dialogue a theme. It was an enrapturing experience. However, Haren felt the best part wasn’t actually the film itself. No, it was Anthem, who never tore himself away from the film, who starred with absolute concentration and respect. How he it up with joy at every sound, smiled with every scene, almost cried at every score. This was what made the whole thing worth it. The whole couple years of knowing him was what made this worth it. Haren, in a stupor, reached for his muzzle, attempting to caress it to affirm that it was real, only to be stopped by a sudden noise.

“Aaah!” one of the actors from the film screamed, leading Haren to snap back to reality. She quickly turned to see what she had missed. This scene was about the main character and his love interest taking a walk after a party. She had been wearing clothes the entire movie, and now a certain mishap made her lose them. She hid in a nearby bush to hide her embarrassment, as the main character teased her, pleading with her to show him the real her without all the bells and whistles. As silly as the notion was that somebody would be embarrassed without clothes on, Haren still blushed at the suave direction the main character took. And just how damned romantic the whole scene was.

Haren found herself wanting to speak. “Funny.”

Anthem’s ears perked up at the sudden voice. He turned to Haren with a puzzling expression. “What is?”

“She’s all ashamed about being naked. Kinda dumb,” Haren explained, chuckling at the end.

“Yeah, hehe. I guess.” Anthem continued to watch the film, only now he was distracted. Somehow, what Haren said, caused the fact they were both naked to become oddly apparent. Kind of strange. Maybe the movie was having that big of an effect on him?

“Back in my country, wearing clothes was the embarrassing thing.”

Anthem snorted, a jovial guffaw emanating from his mouth. “Why?” he said in between chuckles.

Haren was glad she could amuse him that much. She joined in on the laughter. “Because, it means you care enough about the people around you to hide yourself in shame. And the more elegant the clothes the more dependant you are to the one you are with. It’s a sign of accepting your vulnerability to the one you...” Haren trailed off, somehow unable to say the last word. Anthem, dense as always, didn’t catch on.

“Now that’s funny,” he commented, leaning on his armrest more. There was something uncomfortable about the room now. The air was thicker and none of the positions he tried really felt comfortable. “The last thing I want my mares to have are clothes.”

“Heheha! Yeah. It’d be so weird if a griffin and a pony got together. eh?” Haren immediately froze after she said that last sentence. She had been letting her brain go on autopilot ever since they started talking, and she blurted that out without even thinking about the consequences. She kept her eyes glued on the movie without actually watching it. She did not dare look away.

Anthem was eerily silent. Not moving a muscle or saying a word. Hell, it didn’t even sound like he was breathing. They both began to sweat, unsure of what to say.

Anthem, more confused than scared, was the first to speak. “I dunno... I don’t think it’d be that weird. I mean I’ve been with some strange girls, y’know?”

Haren knew he was just trying to relieve the tension, but he only succeeded in making it worse by admitting that it wouldn’t be odd if they...

There was more silence. Anthem began to get physically frustrated. He kept fidgeting in his seat, but every new position made him regret movement even more. Eventually, Haren had to chime in, to try to defuse everything. “I don’t think it’d work out too well. Our anatomy is just too different.” Haren hadn’t tried to implement them. It just happened.

“I’m sure the basics are the same. You’ve got talons and stuff. Our differences would stem to... other parts, but that could be managed right?” What the hell was he saying? He was just making conversation, right?

“We could use our talons, i guess,” Haren blurted out once again. She fought the urge to stuff her arm down her throat to prevent herself from talking again.

Anthem finally took his eyes off the movie to look at Haren and recoil. That was the last thing he expected her to say.

“And i hear ponies do some other stuff that griffin’s wouldn’t even dream of. We kinda just stick to the way nature intended.” Haren continued. She wasn’t sure if her brain could her the things she was saying. She looked to Anthem to gauge his reaction, but it was... normal. He was just looking at her with a normal expression. “What’s... common?”

Anthem wasn’t expecting to provide input. “Uhhh... M... mouths?”

“Mouths?”

“Mouths... you know... for...”

Haren’s eyes widened and blood rushed to her face. “Oh.”

Another silence.

“Anthem?”

“Yeah?”

“You want to try it out?” Why. Why. Why. Why am I doing this? I’m going to ruin everything. He’s going to say-

“If... you’re into it.” Anthem breathed. He’d never even thought of the possibility... So why yes?

“Friends do this kinda stuff all the time, right?” Sure it’s what you always hear... but it probably doesn’t happen as often as people like to think.

“Hehe, right.” Anthem smiled. Not a coy one. A genuine smile you’d give a friend, not a lover. A smile he always wore with Haren and Sketch and all of his friends. But never one he had shown to a lover. He never smiled to his lovers. Never.

“So...” Is this really happening? Is this what I wanted? Do I care? Haren smiled back. “How do I start?”



“Damn.” A single curse was all Sketch could say.Haren itched the back of her head, with a distant, yet content expression.

“Yeah. It was what I said too.” She laughed, glad to have gotten the story off her shoulders. “You ponies are into some weird shit. Why would you put something like that in your mouth? God, it’d be awful to be the male. That place shouldn’t be explored in that way, yet you guys are super excited to do it!”

The lewdity of their conversation got to Sketch, finally. He blushed and rubbed the back of his head. “Yeah, we’re gross like that.” Sketch switched his expression to his previous one. “So... what happened?”

“Hm. Well let’s just say we didn’t exactly watch the movie that night.” Haren laughed, rubbing her shoulder.

“That’s not what I meant, Haren.” Sketch kept his serious face on and scrutinized her. Haren immediately saw that he wasn’t falling for it.

“That obvious that something’s wrong?”

“You’ve practically got a flashing neon sign saying it.”

Haren sighed, in both exasperation and exhaustion. She started slowly. “It’s just... well we didn’t do more than that... weird pony stuff. I mean... I think he called it third base?”

“Thats... common if it’s your first time as a pair,” he added. “Testing the waters so to speak.”

“Yeah, but we skipped first base,” Haren said slowly, unsure if she was using the right terminology.

“Oh!” Sketch exclaimed as his eyes widened. “Oh.” Another realization dawned on him. This may be more complicated than I thought.

Haren got the hint that her message got across. “And we never stole home, either...”

Sketch’s heart faltered for a moment. This is way complicated. “So... how often do you guys... score triples?” The baseball terminology was getting kind of ridiculous, but the situation was too dire to comment on it.

“Every couple of days. Until now.”

They both remained there for a moment. Sketch could swear he could hear the still air. Sketch believed it the right time to ask the obvious question. “You don’t think he’s in love with you.”

Haren shook her head.

“But you’re in love with him?”

Haren sighed in response, got up, and walked over to her bed along with Sketch. In a moderately surprising act, she got in with him. Sketch didn’t react, however, mostly due to him being too tired to.

“Yeah.”

“How long?”

She placed her arm above Sketch’s, who was on a lower part of the bed. She stared blankly at the wall behind him. “A couple of days after I met him.”

“My lord, Haren. That was like... four years ago? It was before I met him.”

“I know. I never expected this to happen. I was happy just being his friend. I was selfish to want more.”

“I don’t know if I’d call it selfish.” Sketch yawned, and his eyes became heavy. He allowed them to close, despite Haren’s company. He knew neither of them would do anything, so it was just them comfortably hanging out. Yes, that’s what it was.

“What would you call it then?”

“I don’t know. But it hurts, I know. It hurts when someone’s so close... but it just feels like they’re miles away, always out of reach.” He lifted a hoof into the air, held it, and let it land gently on his forehead.

“Sketchy...”

“Yeah?”

Suddenly Haren reached out and grabbed Sketch’s neck, pulling it towards her chest. While he initially was surprised, he allowed it to happen.

“Thanks for this. Thanks for the talk.”

Sketch chuckled. “Thanks for saving her life.” And with that, he fell asleep.


> 6. And Rebel Without Cause
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

“He drew a circle that shut me out-
Heretic , rebel, a thing to flout.
But love and I had the wit to win:
We drew a circle and took him in,”

―Edwin Markham

The mare slammed the door behind her, screaming in absolute frustration. She stomped with every step, and suddenly threw her legs at a defenseless nightstand, sending it and its contents to the floor. A small vase broke in many pieces with a volatile, sharp crash. In one last act of uncontrollable rage, she sent all of her weight into her forelegs and she punched the wall with both hooves, denting the drywall and shaking the entire apartment. As the sudden flux of noise subsided, all that was left was her breathing; bated, hyperventilating, breaths through gritted teeth. She slowly pushed herself off the wall, only now seeing the damaged she caused. She did not change her expression, but rather just processed what she’d done. She took big breaths to calm down her breathing and calmly walked to her bathroom, flicking on the light and leaning over the counter. She saw herself in the mirror. With a surge of emotion, she forcefully slammed her hoof into it, causing the mirror to crack. After she calmed down again, she stared in the mirror for another time, now with a calm demeanor. A few moments passed, and she smiled into the mirror, checking her teeth for any imperfections. She opened her mouth and checked for any damage. She closed her eyes and put a jovial face on... raised her brow suggestively... frowned in feign sadness. She ran her leg over her face and wiped everything away, leaving a blank stare in the wake. She stood for a few moments. Then left, satisfied with the results. “I can do this,” Syntax said aloud, to the noone in the room. “It’s my job. He’ll tell me what I want to know. And I can do so without upsetting the griffin, or even him. Because at the end, after I’m done with him...” She gently caressed her old typewriter, a device itching for use. “He’ll want to tell me.”



Blurred light entered Sketch’s eyes when he slowly opened them. As his eyes adjusted and the world became clearer, he found that he did not recognize the layout and object before him. He investigated, deciding it was the smartest thing to do, and found this room rather bare. There was a chair, a functional dresser, and the bed he was on. As he flipped over to see what was on the other sid-

“Oh, sweet Celestia!” Sketch flung himself in the opposite direction, sending himself off the bed and onto the floor with a soft thud. The object that caused such a reaction, a sleeping griffin named Haren, mumbled a bit before tossing and turning into a more comfortable position. Sketch was frozen for the moment, but as memories passed that explained the previous moments before his slumber, he became less rigid. They had done nothing, and simply fell asleep. He sighed in relief and stood, fumbling to get out of the blanket he wrapped himself in and tossing it onto the bed gently, before walking out the door himself. He closed it as lightly as he could.

A clock in the main room read 1:00 PM, leading Sketch to grumble darkly. He still had a solid two hours to burn before returning home. He trotted to the fridge and opened it.

Most of the fridge’s contents were various alcoholic beverages, ranging from fine liquors to discount beer. There was no consistency to the brand, leading Sketch to believe that most of it was stolen. Or was at least purchased from somepony who had stolen it themselves. Sketch moved various bottles around until he found something worth drinking: a bottle of lemonade. He made his way to the couch and sat, with lemonade in tow. As he brought the bottle to his lips, he was displeased to find that it was hard lemonade, the sharp and pungent taste of alcohol piercing his lips and burning his throat. Both the fact that the taste was quite pleasant with a small amount of alcohol, and that he was just too lazy to get back up again, he was content with sipping from the bottle. It felt so damned nice to just relax with peace and quiet, not having to worry about school or if Trust was gonna show. He wished every day could be like this.

”You’re a regular badass, aren’t you?”

Syntax’s voice rang through Sketch’s head as he tried to doze. He had tried not to think about what she said before, but now it was foremost in his mind. He furrowed his brows, trying to squeeze the feeling of unease out of him. Was he a bad kid? He used to pride himself in being this exemplary image of a good son, getting well along with his parents and doing things he didn’t even want to, for them. But now? Skipping school? Cursing out his teachers? Sleeping with griffins? Sneaking out? Going to parties? Drinking Alcohol? What happened? How did he change so quickly? He didn’t even notice until now. All his decisions seemed so binary, so obvious. Could he have handled all of this better?

Sketch ignored the fact that Trust was obviously the cause of his rapid change. He didn’t want to place any blame on her. Even if she was to blame, it was all worth it. He really didn’t even have to think about it. So he didn’t. He took another sip of his lemonade, this time prepared for the bitter sting. Raising a hoof, he rested his head on his foreleg, and sighed. There was a reason he had to do what he did. The decisions he made were unavoidable, for her sake.

A new sense of resolve made him close his eyes and relax. Perhaps another dose of sleep would put his mind at ease.

Don’t indulge your insomnia, his mother’s voice said in his head. It’s not narcolepsy, you don’t have to sleep.

His eyes shot open, and he groaned. “I need to if I want to be awake when Trust comes around,” he whispered to himself. He heard his mother sigh.

Is that so? So school isn’t important?

He didn’t answer. He opted to stare straight ahead, and it almost felt like he was avoiding his mother’s gaze.

Is that what you think?

“I hate school,” he said, a little louder than he was expecting. His heart rate began to race. “I didn’t think I did... but now I know. I hate it.”

...The voice in his head didn’t speak. It chose silence, as he did.

Seconds passed as slow as molasses runs. It was getting hard for him to breathe.

You’re killing yourself...

Then the voice left. A long time went by, as he listened to the tick-tock of a clock he didn’t know that Anthem had. He put a hoof on his face as he quietly began to cry. A very silent cry, the kind where tears just ran down one’s face without any sobs or inhales. “I’m sorry, Mom. I’m sorry.”

It didn’t take long for the tears to subside. He wiped his face and took another sip of lemonade, the bitter taste now welcome and satisfying. He heard Haren’s door open behind him and jumped, and frantically looked around himself, trying to find something to hide. He froze once he realized he wasn’t actually doing anything wrong, at least by Haren’s standards, and relaxed.

Haren entered the room and stretched, reaching out her arms while raising her hind, and giving a soft moan. She yawned and cracked her neck. She practically got in front of Sketch and put on a show, with the sensual way she went about it. Sketch had to tell her to not do that when he got the chance.

She went to the fridge and pulled out some apple juice, and began to take big swigs of it out of the jug. Because of her beak, she was stuffing the entire neck of the bottle down her throat. Sketch remembered Anthem and slapped himself, quickly looking away and getting a little nauseous. He was going to have to tell her to not do that when he got the chance.

She screwed the lid back on the bottle and threw it in the fridge, closing it. She yawned again and transitioned into speaking. “‘Sup, Sketch? Wow, drinking this early? You must be a deadbeat.”

He glowered at her and put the half empty bottle down. “I didn’t know it was hard lemonade.”

She chuckled and took a seat next to him, despite there being a free chair a bit further. He didn’t complain, though; it was a small act compared to sharing a bed for a nap.

Sketch started to rub his temples. Maybe letting that happen wasn’t such a good idea. Of course it meant nothing to him, but it would still have made almost everyone he knew angry with him. His parents would be ticked, Conte would be disappointed, Trust would probably have gotten jealous and Anthem...

Sketch’s head rose in a dumb realization. He didn’t know what Anthem would have done, because he wasn’t sure how Anthem felt about Haren. Anthem was so uncomfortable and confused all the time when it came to her. Maybe Sketch should tell him that he slept with Haren and keep it vague, just to see what reaction he would get. Then again, if he did like Haren, he might kill Sketch for that.

“I’ll talk to him,” he blurted out without really thinking about what he was saying. Haren nearly jumped at the sudden statement, and looked at him with wide eyes. It didn’t take long for her to figure out what he meant.

“You will? You’ll talk to Anthem?” she asked with about nine gallons of hope pouring over her words. Sketch nodded sagely while continuing to look at a wall as he thought.

I have to help. You’re in such a terrible place. Sketch empathized all too well at Haren’s situation. While his problems were more... external, Haren had been living like this for four damned years. He was glad she didn’t up and kill herself in that time. Sketch wasn’t sure if he would have been that strong.

Sketch’s thoughts were interrupted when Haren glomped him from the other side. “THANK YOU! Oh god, I was afraid I was gonna have to do it.” She retracted herself and wiped her nose while wearing a nervous grin. “I probably wouldn’t have in the end, though,” she admitted while she looked away.

Sketch couldn’t hold back a smirk. “That’s why I’m gonna do it.”

Haren’s smile faded as she stared right into his eyes. “Just... don’t tell him how I feel, a’ight? If he doesn’t... doesn’t...” Haren was struggling to say the next word, that Sketch believed to be love. “Care about me like that, I want to be able to stay friends without making things awkward.”

“Understandable,” he said with a fake smile. Chances are, any chance at a normal friendship with Anthem were destroyed at this point. They weren’t the type to be able to shrug this off so easily, that much Sketch could tell, but he wasn’t going to admit that to her. He hoped that Anthem would at least be open to the idea of having a relationship. As much as slut as he was, Sketch knew that Anthem never had a proper marefriend. To expect him to get involved with one of his friends, a griffin on top of that, was... unlikely. But he wouldn’t know until he asked him.

“I can’t believe I put myself in this dilemma,” she stated quietly, rubbing her shoulder. Sketch did a small double take at her strange choice of words before easing into his next sentence.

“Yeah... right...” With that order of business over with, Sketch returned to fiddling with the lemonade bottle in his grasp, pawing at the open lid and sloshing around the liquid. He should be at school right now.

“Sketch.”

His ears perked, as he face Haren once again. “What’s up?”

“Now it’s my turn to ask.” Her face was dark and her words heavy. “What’s wrong with you?”

Sketch was silent for a while, choosing his words carefully. Letting something slip about Trust was the last thing he wanted to do right now. “Neon sign?” he settled on asking.

“Neon sign,” she confirmed.

He sighed, looking up at the ceiling. The clock’s ticking once again became the front and center sound. “I don’t know if I’m doing the right thing.”

Haren laughed at this, closing her eyes and leaning further into the sofa. “No one ever really does.”

“That’s not what I meant,” he clarified, causing Haren to look back in confusion. “I meant in relation to me.”

Her expression became troubled as she tried to figure out what he meant. Sketch didn’t blame her, he was being vague on purpose.

“I know I’m doing the right thing, Haren. But... I don’t know if it’s the best thing for me.” He bit his lower lip, looking away. “I keep thinking that things have to be this way... but everypony’s telling me that I’m going about it all wrong. It makes me doubt myself. Maybe there’s a third option I just can’t see. I keep thinking that I thought about everything, that I weighed all the risks and benefits of everything I do, but at the end of the day...” Sketch put a lot of weight into his right foreleg, causing the sofa to squeal in pain. “I just feel like a selfish little bitch.”

Haren physically winced at the use of his language, coupled with his pained expression. She wasn’t prepared for this. She never saw Sketch angry at anything until now, let alone himself. “Sketch...” She rested a talon on his shoulder as he fumed. She could tell he was shaking. “Sketch I wish I could help... but you have to actually tell me what your problem is without coating the truth in so much subtlety.”

Her poetic forming of words surprised Sketch, but not enough for him to show it. He narrowed his eyes at... something. Not haren, not himself, but at something, anything to blame. “I can’t,” he said. “I can’t.”

“You know you can tell me anything, Sketch.” She trailed her talon through his mane, stopping at the end of a hair bang and rubbing it slowly with her thumb and fore digit. “Anything.”

Normally her actions would have been deemed too intimate by Sketch, something that neither of them should be doing. But it was different this time. It wasn’t a feeling you would get when someone you found attractive began to flirt with you, nor was it the feeling you get when someone you secretly admired took actions you enjoyed. No, it was a more... innocent feeling. A feeling that Sketch has felt before, but he had forgotten when. He didn’t blush from the contact. At first, he thought it was because of her confession of her feeling about Anthem made him more comfortable, but it hadn’t stopped him from admiring her before. He gave up trying to figure it out, instead happy that the feeling of support was so natural and welcome.

“I know I can, Haren. It’s not that I don’t trust you. It’s that... I don’t want to have to make you deal with it. It might ruin my life, but I don’t want it to ruin yours.”

Haren gasped softly, clutching her chest. He had never seen her do something so effeminate; it was a strange sight. “Sketch! Ruin your life? This sounds serious!”

For some reason, Sketch got the insane urge to laugh. He desperately tried to keep from it, but a smile slipped through the fissure. “Haren, Haren, calm down. You know I’m being careful. I wouldn’t take something this big very lightly. You gotta trust me too, y’know.”

Haren pursed her beak (something he didn’t know was possible until he saw it), and exhaled. “...Fine. But Sketch... Just do me a favor and tell me.”

Sketch opened his mouth to object, but Haren reached out and put on digit over his mouth to shut him up. “Not right now, just think about it. Cause even if it does screw up my life, the pain’ll be nothing compared to seeing yours get destroyed in front of me. I’m sure Anthem feels the same way.”

Sketch lowered his head as he thought about it. Maybe she was telling the truth, but Sketch wouldn’t be able to live with himself if it was directly his fault that their lives ceased to be the same. So there he was, being selfish again. He blinked, then nodded. Haren slowly let her smile return, and she wrapped him in another embrace. They stayed like that for a while. When the silence became too much, she released him and tousled his mane with her palm while continuing to hold onto his shoulder.

“Don’t be such a sour pussy, okay? Doesn’t look good on you.”

“It’s sour puss,” Sketch corrected.

“Gesundheit.”

Sketch looked around, then eyed the front door. “Hey, where’s Anthem? Shouldn’t he be here?”

Haren shifted her beak around in an attempt to bite the bottom half. “He went to go visit his friend in Stirrups. He won’t be back until tomorrow.”

Sketch rose his eyebrow and cocked his head. “Isn’t that on the outskirts of Canterlot?”

She nodded. “Mmhmm, you have to take the tram we took when we went to Hearth’s Tearing. It’s in the same direction, walking distance.”

“I might have to wait until tomorrow to talk to him, then,” Sketch informed, rubbing his mane earnestly.

“Don’t worry, as long as ya do it, Sketchy.”

There was another silence. Sketch coughed in attempt to trigger conversation, but with no results.

“Hey,” Haren eventually said, pointing to Sketch’s side of the couch. “You know, that’s where we did the deed.”

Setch immediately shot off of it, convulsing in disgust. “ECH!”



Sketch took a deep breath before reaching for his front door, closing his eyes in thought. There was no reason to be nervous, his parent couldn’t possibly know about any of his exploits. As the door opened, his father immediately began to speak. “Hey, Son!”

Sketch winced for a reason unbeknownst to him, and trotted into the living room. “‘Sup?”

“How was school?” he asked. Somehow, his interest sounded genuine without even having to look up at his son.

“Boring. Two tests, and I had to draw a blade of grass in art class.” Sketch nearly stopped in his tracks as he heard himself speak. It was scary how good he was getting at lying; that sentence required almost no forethought. Of course it was filled in half truths, being that he did have two tests at school today despite not being there, and he once had to draw a blade of grass in art class.

“Enthralling,” he sarcastically complimented with a hearty chuckle. “Here’s tomorrow something interesting happens.”

“Thanks, dad,” he replied with a cheery voice despite having a plain face. His mother must have been in another room, so he raced up the stairs to avoid her. He couldn’t look her in the face today, not with everything that had happened.

He didn’t catch it, but his Dad looked up at him at the last second, only catching the sight of his tail racing upstairs. He stared at the empty spot for a moment, unsure of what to make his thoughts.

He settled on a guttural “Hmm...”

Sketch almost slammed the door behind him, and only avoided it by reminding himself that he wasn’t actually in a hurry. As the latch clicked, he sighed and leaned on the closed door, slowly sliding down before his rump hit the floor. He chose to stare at the ceiling, hoping that it might have some answers for him.

It didn’t.

He moved to the window and opened it, the cold air slapping him in the face. If he wasn’t awake before, he was now. Taking a seat on a nearby chair, he grabbed one of the pencils that lie on the floor and began to doodle.

He decided on sketching five lines: two curved, three straight. The assortment on the page meant nothing to him yet, so he connect the far left curved line to a centered straight one. He cocked his head, seeing a small image in the wake. He connected another line, forming the very rough shape of a crescent polygon. He left those lines alone, and began working on the linest to the far right. He looked over his work after a couple of minutes and found his breath stolen from him.

He had drawn a griffin.

At least, the very abstract shape of one. Its lower body was obscured by the crop of the canvas, and the only thing one could see was the chest, back and forelegs. It’s head was pointing up, but the sketch was a bit too primitive at this point to have any foresight. Sketch pursed his lips, trying to get an image in his head that he wanted to draw. Once he covered the basics, he went to town.

He started on the eyes. Or eye, rather, as the angle only gave opportunity for one to be shown. It was forlorn, half mast, and a tear wouldn’t be out of place-- if not cliche. Then, he began to detail the feathers that most griffins take pride in, the ones adorning their head. Deciding that the scene would look better in the rain, he let the feathers hang down, imitating a pony’s bangs, covering its eyes slightly and interacting with the beak. He followed through by adding the forelegs, defining the chest, and letting its back take a more realistic posture. It occurred to him that he didn’t have much to go on, considering he only knew one griffin. It didn’t stop him however. He added wings, finishing the basic sketch of the griffin itself. As he took a further look at his drawing, one thing became apparent almost instantly.

“Hello, Haren,” he said matter-of-factly. It didn’t surprise him much, considering all the time they had spent together. He usually doesn’t draw something like this however, the last pony he had being Trust. But Trust meant something else to him, Haren was only a friend. Unless there was a different reason his subconscious led him this way...

He went back to work, shading and cleaning up the details, making tweaks here an there. When Haren was finished, he moved to adding the rain and backdrop. Most of the background was plain and abstract, just adding flavor to the focus. It took him some time, but he finished with a small stroke of water flowing through the back of her head and down her shoulder.

Putting down the pencil, he began to contemplate why he felt the need to draw this. Why she looked so... lost. It occurred to him that he didn’t know a lot of Haren past beyond her association with Anthem. She only spoke of her home country like she just read it out of a textbook, and she seemed to hold nothing but disdain for the simple notion of most of her past.

Inhaling slowly, he lifted his canvas.

“What are you hiding...?” he breathed, leaning on his left hoof.

“Whatchya drawing?”

Sketch, startled beyond belief, tried to cover the canvas with his left foreleg, forgetting that it was held by his muzzle, leading him to accidentally eat his hoof. With a gargle, he then attempted to reach for it with his right hoof, forgetting that he had nudged his body slightly and was now off center, missing the picture and sliding his leg frictionless across the table and slamming his nose into the desk. The mare behind him couldn’t help but chuckle at the spectacle.

“Woah, Art. Calm down there,” his mother advised, putting a hoof to her own muzzle to keep from laughing. Sketch sighed, also trying to keep from laughing.

“Jeez, you scared me.”

“Why you so jumpy, Art?” she asked through stifled giggles. “What were you drawing mister?” Her question was laden with feign condescension. 

“I-I...” deciding it acceptable for his mother to see, he hoofed her the canvas. “Uh, this.” He would have asked why she barged in the room, but she probably knocked first, he just didn’t hear it. It wouldn’t have been the first time.

She scrutinized it with a confused expression, scratching her mane with her free hoof. “Is this a griffin?”

Sketch nodded, a still look on his face.

“Wow...” she breathed, admiring its features. “I’ve never seen one up close.”

Sketch’s heart jumped as he opened his mouth to blurt out if she wanted to get the chance. For some reason, the idea of having his mom meet Haren really appealed to him. But a slew of reasons why that was a horrible idea kept him silenced. Instead, he decided to be casual. “Yeah, they can get pretty intimidating when you don’t know them.”

“You know a griffin?!” His mom asked loudly, in shock. Sketch blinked, trying to remember if he actually hadn’t told his mom. Did he just make a boo-boo?

“Uh... yeah. Anthem’s roommate.” For some reason his voice cracked when he said ‘roommate’, possibly because of his discovery of their relationship. He technically wasn’t lying about them being roommates, though-- it’s not like he had to spell out that they were also lovers.

His mom pursed her lips in annoyance at the mention of Anthem. He couldn’t blame her, at face-value Anthem was a bit of a scumbag. The only things she knew about him were what Sketch had told her, and since he hadn’t spoken of him for while, the only thing she got were first impressions and crazy stories. He hadn’t got to tell her how great of a guy he really was. “She’s a friend of this Anthem?”

“Mom, they aren’t bad people. They’re very...” He struggled to think of a compliment that wouldn’t trigger suspicion. “Personal.”

“Personal?” she asked, arching a brow.

Okay, that sounded weird. “I mean... they don’t care what you do or who you are; they’re nice to you, they always give you a chance. They appreciate all company. You just feel so... at ease around them.”

She kept her face with an arched brow, but relaxed her features in a signal that she was opening to the idea of the two. “Okay...”

“I think you’d like them, even if you didn’t like how they lived.”

She smiled, but with her face still covered in concern. She walked to the side of his bed and sat, her eyes glued to Sketch’s. “So how’s this griffin? I mean, besides what you told me.”

Sketch leaned back in his seat, the feeling of interrogation dissipating. “Oh, she’s wonderful. Smart, funny, kind. Sometimes seems like she doesn’t belong in that lifestyle.” Though he knew the reason why she was in it: Anthem. “She’s the kind of pon- uh, person that you hate to see unhappy, y’know. She’d also do anything for a friend, even one she didn’t know too well.”

Had Haren not be a griffin, his mom would have teased him having a crush on her. The fact that she didn’t annoyed him a little for a reason he could not put his hoof on.

His mom hummed in thought, tapping her hoof to her chin. He got the vibe that she did want to meet her, but Sketch knew better than to let that happen. Haren was a bit too comfortable cracking risque jokes for her to meet borderline any mother. “Well... I still don’t know, Art. But... I trust your judgement.”

Sketch’s hoof scraped along the top of the desk, drawing a little bit of sawdust. He gritted his teeth in his muzzle and his body tensed. You shouldn’t trust anything about me. “Thanks.” He almost vomited as he voiced his next words. “You won’t regret it.”

She smiled, further bolstering the sickening feeling Sketch had in his stomach. She got up and trotted over to him, kissing his head and shaking his shoulder affectionately. Halfway through the door, she stopped and craned her neck. “Oh, and please answer when somepony knocks on your door. It makes things less... dangerous.” The implications made her look away awkwardly.

Sketch nodded, content with not continuing the talk. The door slammed, and Sketch frowned. Was there anything he could do? There had to be something. There must be a third option. He looked back at his drawing of Haren, smiling at the lone griffin’s face. His problems seemed so small when he looked at it, for some reason.

Adourning a frown once again, one that matched his feathered friend on the canvas, he trudged to the bed and lied down. He stared at the ceiling for a couple of minutes, silently wishing Trust would show early.

She didn’t show at all.



It was difficult for Sketch to get up in the morning. And for once, he couldn’t blame it on his insomnia. This was the first time he didn’t want to get out of bed. Of course that was all moot, since he was walking down the Canterlot roads at the moment, if not to just make up for the shitty things he had done. Of course, it was the last day of school for the week, so he’d get a chance to sulk then.

He uncomfortably shifted his saddle bag and took a faster pace. He just had to get through today, just today, and he’d be good. A mare that passed him gave him a playful smile as she trotted, lingering in his direction. He was surprised at first, but as his gaze met hers, something immediately clicked.

“Syntax?” he asked under his breath, not that there was much of it left. His knees locked up and he couldn’t feel his heartbeat anymore. What the hell does she want?

She didn’t say anything, she simply faced forward once more and continued her trot.

He thought he was safe, but here she was. He wanted to vomit when a horrid realization washed over him. Had she been following me? That would be bad.

Sketch didn’t have time for this he had to get to school. He shifted his weight around and- Bumf! A guttural sound relating to that of a moose emanated from both parties as they fell to the ground.

A giant cloud of papers, fliers, and a couple books puffed through the air before unceremoniously dropping to the ground. Sketch attempted to apologize, but was cut off by the poor mare before he could manage anything.

“S-sorry. Sorry! Sorry.” The mare sounded a lot more exasperated than apologetic, but that didn’t make her apologies any less genuine. It was odd. Like a kind soul buried beneath anxiety and responsibility. At least Sketch could relate.

“Don’t worry, it was my fault, I was... distracted.” As Sketch bent down to help the mare pick up her papers he snuck a better look at her. She couldn’t have been past adolescence, probably being no more than three to five years younger than Sketch. She was a lavender color, with a deep purple mane and a pink streak through it. The mane was set up in a classic bun, a look not befitting someone so young, and she wore a pair of thin plastic rimmed glasses, an accessory that would look good had she been a bit older, but it did not go well with her features at all. Despite all this, she definitely had an attractive face and figure, she just made some strange decisions with her looks.

“No, no, no,” she whined, sounding more annoyed at Sketch’s attempt at taking the blame than being grateful for it. “I wasn’t watching where I was going. It was my fault to expect everypony else get out of the way for me.” Sketch was attempting very hard to not accidently cross his magic with the unicorn’s, but he didn’t have much time to think as she proved very dexterous with her magic and accomplished gathering up all her supplies very quickly. Sketch’s caught something on one of the pages he had picked up, though he didn’t have the time or the lack of morality to read any further

Dear Princess Celes--...

Sketch quickly hoofed her the dropped supplies. That couldn’t have possibly been legitimate...

“Thanks,” she said, almost mechanically. She looked away as she said it, adorning a face relating somewhat to frustration, though it seemed more appointed at herself than Sketch. He knew she wasn’t trying to be rude, but something about her attitude rubbed him the wrong way.

He decided to relieve the tension by giving her a warm smile. “Don’t mention it.”

She seemed to ease, releasing a slight smirk. But just as quickly she acknowledged him, she trotted away to her destination at a very brisk pace.

“Very mature for her age,” he whispered to himself, unsure of what to make of the strange mare. Then again, he wasn’t in the mood for strange mares anymore, he had his fill after Syntax.

Speaking of Syntax... Sketch furrowed his brow as he returned to his route. The hell is she planning? She knows Haren won’t let her target me anymore, and I don’t think Haren and Anthem have anything to hide. Still... she’s crafty... I can’t underestimate her again. I have way too much to lose.

Sketch felt ill. He had no idea he was going to have to keep watching over his shoulders like this. It was like a thriller story, except slightly more dumb. All he wanted to do now was get today over with and...

And...

And...

And... see... Trust...

Sketch’s vision blurred and he lost his balance, biting his tongue as he keeled over. Attempting to avoid a scene, he immediately corrected himself and leaned on a wall. It felt like... his heart had left him, and all his energy dissipated. 

How come he hadn’t noticed? It had only been... one day. And he felt broken, Incomplete, without Trust. He needed to hear her voice to get out of bed in the morning, to motivate himself out of his reveries. He just had to see her to let in some light. He just had to... feel her.

How come he hadn’t noticed? How dependent he was on her presence. He had been getting his dose every day... and now he quit cold turkey.

Damn...

He hadn’t lied to himself for a while. Hell, he hadn’t lied to himself the first day that they had met, but he wasn’t stupid; you can’t just be honest with yourself that quickly. Still, never before has it been so obvious.

It was so obvious now.

Sketch sighed, and trudged to school. 

And now he had to sit and hear about how vertices on multiple axis can do something he couldn’t give two shits about.

Brilliant.



“Hmm... Twilight Sparkle,” Syntax whispered to herself, the name and the face finally finding each other. The mare that the boy had bumped into was Twilight Sparkle, an apparent magic prodigy. Didn’t seem that impressive now, though.

The bell rung, and Syntax adjusted her pose into a more seductive manner. It was sure to not help any, but perhaps the pose would put him on edge. Despite being a hormone-crazed teenager, it seemed his interests were more... feathery, if his relationship with that crazy griffin was any indication. Strange boy.

Realizing her left hoof was slightly off to properly show her features, she shifted subtly in order to maximize her potential. It definitely wasn’t the first time she used such tactics against stallions (and a few mares), and it won’t be her last. Though her most recent attempt had gone awry when finding out that damned principal was a coltcuddler. She really could have saved that blackmail of him for something a bit harder to find... Oh well.

All she had to do was gently caress the info out of him, instead of trying to squeeze like before. At first he appeared weak and brittle. And maybe he was. But something obviously was making him more steadfast. More stubborn. Even if that griffin hadn’t come, he wasn’t going to play her game. He was going to refuse, she could see it in his eyes. Still, every fish can be caught. One just needs to have the right bait.

The familiar boy trotted out of the school with a solemn expression.

Speaking of fish...

His eyes widened as his gaze met her’s.

It’s time to reel in the line...


> 7. Nice, Considering
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

	“Mister Sketch, I’d like to see you after class.”

Sketch exhaled before he was even able to process the request. Even though the sentiment had gone unappreciated by himself, Sketch resigned, and instead sat back down, trying to keep the look of annoyance off his face. One by one the students left, leaving Sketch to stare at his hooves until his history teacher trotted to his desk.

“What do you want?”

Mr. Lead laid his hoof on the desk in a firm motion, though not so to add any sound. THe action merely forced Sketch to look him in the eye, lest the hoof take all his attention. “You know I don’t hate you Sketch.”

Sketch blinked. Where the hell did that come from?

“I don’t want to see you fail. A-and not because it’s my job, Mister Sketch.” The way he stuttered somehow released some of the tension Sketch was beginning to feel. It... was subtle, but it must have been choreographed in some way. “But because you’re a child.”

“Ex- excuse me, sir?” The sheer absurdity of the past three seconds jolted Sketch out of all his previous thoughts and exasperations. How long was their conversation, Sketch wondered? Four sentences? Five? The sudden left turn made it feel longer.

“What makes you think of me of the slave driver I am, huh Mister Sketch? The big bad teacher is going to tell you about how you’re doing everything wrong? About how, the only thing you gotta do in life is ‘stick it to the man’, and everything’s going to be hunky-dory? Hmm? Who taught you that? Because it certainly wasn’t your parents, Mister Sketch.”

“What? What are you-”

“Listen, you little brat.”

And at once, the world became silent. Sketch wasn’t sure how Lead managed to do it, but not even the largest train could bear sound in the environment the history teacher had created. Four simple words, bitter in content and not in tone. The dead serious and even cadence of his words thickened the air with its deadpan. But perhaps the most shocking part of this development was that his words were not the least bit threatening. They were just... weird. Weird. That probably wasn’t the best description for it.

“I know how you think, Mister Sketch.” The return to formalities only served to further Sketch’s growing unease. “Had you been in a more vitriol mood, you’d have rebutted with a sarcastic mention how many awful things happen in history because ponies refuse to question authority. And to that, I say...” He finally released Sketch’s desk from his grasp, opting to lift his hoof up and strafe around the muddled unicorn. “You are correct. Cattle do not make the best of heroes.”

“What?” 

“But you must understand that rules are placed into a society for a reason. They are protected by forts and moats, heavily loyal servants, and weaponry beyond your comprehension. It is not possible for one to change rules. It requires many. An army, if you will.” Lead glowered at the boy during this part of the speech. “What I’m trying to say, is know your place, Mister Sketch, and don’t stress over the things you have no control over. Don’t break your back trying to change things that cannot undergo change.” A smile broke through Lead’s stern face, the softness contrasting with his hard exterior and previous scorn. “And know who your allies are. As much as you may view me as the bad know-nothing adult, all I wish to do is help you, along with the other teachers. Your parents want what’s best. And your friends do not wish to see you suffer.” After this, Lead trotted back to his desk and began to shuffle with the papers atop it, although he wasn’t actually doing anything of consequence. Sketch kept waiting for him to continue, but there was silence for a long time. Baffled, Sketch stood in a haze, keeping his head level and facing his teacher. Before he got a chance to leave, Lead asked one more thing. “Do you understand?”

His muscles locked up. Through a dry mouth, Sketch confirmed. “Yeah. Yeah.”

Lead looked up from the papers of no importance and sighed, getting up once more. “Sit,” he commanded in that familiar even tone. Sketch obeyed. Walking up with a tired gait, Lead slowly put his hoof on Sketch’s desk once again and leaned on it. “Sketch. What are you doing here?”

“Huh?” Sketch cocked his head and arched his brow. “Because you told me to sit.”

Exasperated, Lead blew air through closed lips. “I meant here, Sketch. At this school. What do you expect to do with the knowledge you’ve gained here?”

“Uhhh.”

“Uhh? That’s all you have?” Lead shook his head. “‘Uhh’ is not good enough. Most students I ask that question to would be able answer immediately. They want to be a physicist. An astronomer. A teacher. A politician. It should be an answer anypony with a cutie mark should already know, and even a few without. Yet here you are, giving me ‘uhh’.”

Sketch shrunk under the sudden down talk. He struggled for a response, but his mind was completely blank. “...Uhhh...”

“You want to be an artist of some sort, right?” Lead tapped the desk impatiently. “That’s what your cutie mark suggests. And you have art next period, correct? Studio art, with Miss Conté? You always seem very excited to get out of here and start that class.”

Suddenly, Sketch found it within himself to speak again. “Yes. I want to be... an artist. That’s... the plan.” Although Trust complicates things...

“Then what are you doing here?” he reiterated.

“I did this for my parents,” Sketch answered honestly. There was no bitterness, no resentment, only tender love. This seemed to surprise Lead, who widened his eyes briefly and reared his head. “I didn’t want them to worry about me becoming this... starving artist, heh. I wanted them to know that I had something to fall back on. They never asked me to do this... I just thought that... that this would be best, but...”

“But that was three years ago, wasn’t it?” Lead asked, hitting the nail right on the head. “And things change.”

Sketch nodded, looking away.

“...Sketch, what I said... about associating yourself with the filth and uneducated? I didn’t mean it.”

Their gazes met, and Sketch felt  a twinge in his gut that he couldn’t identify. That smile from before graced Lead’s features once again. “Even adults suffer from their frustration sometimes too.”

“I understand,” Sketch whispered.

“Sure you do,” he laughed, the smile never leaving. “Now get the hell out of my classroom.”



“Where were you?!”

Sketch jumped and accident flung his saddlebag off of his side, a small grip of magic still clinging to the end. Its contents spilled partway over the floor before he was able to gather himself and start cleaning the mess. “Wha- what are you talking about?”

“Yesterday, Mister Sketch!” Miss Conté poked his ribs repeatedly, refusing to give him a break.

“Oh,” he coughed, shifting his eyes. “Uhh, I was sick.” He sniffed a couple of times for effect. The deadpan he received from Miss Conté could have lead all the other pans in the world to grieve its loss.

“Oh don’t give me that, Sketch, I know you don’t get sick at this time of year. You played hooky, didn’t you?”

“Does anyone even call it that anymore?”

“Stop trying to change the subject, Sketch.” She poked him in the ribs again, leading Sketch to tense up in mild discomfort. “What were you thinking, cutting school? You’re lucky I didn’t tell your parents.”

“Look, Miss Conté, I just... a lot of crud happened yesterday, alright? And I was super tired... I just didn’t feel up to it, you know?”

The art teacher looked physically hurt at this, and she put a hoof to her heart. “Even my class?”

“Come on, don’t try to guilt trip me, I know you don’t care that much. Besides it’s not like I can show up for just one class.” Sketch folded his forelegs and gave a deadpan to match her earlier one. She just huffed and stuck her nose in the air, trotting away.

“Fine, whatever. See if I stick my neck in for you ever again.” She stuck her tongue out and blew a raspberry, causing Sketch to flush at the strange looks he got from a couple of the other students. Despite the feign anger, she looked to be in quite a chipper mood today. What’s got her so upbeat?



Sketch rubbed his face with his arm, blowing into it and rolling his eyes as he trudged out the front door of his school. Something about today was just... off. Maybe it was simply because he was getting away with everything. Every irresponsible thing he had done in the past few weeks. Karma?

Or...

Something else.

Something else.

Syntax.

Syntax.

Syntax. Sketch’s hooves shook as his brain skidded to halt. The familiar rust orange mare was leaning on the main gate’s frame in a saucy pose. She was teasing him. That cocky smile. That confident demeanor.

No. No NO NO! Why can’t she just leave me the hell alone?! His legs shook and threatened to give out under the pressure. He could run. He could just run, run straight home, not give her the damned time, just run, just run. Gallop. Sprint. Trot.

He trotted towards her, being pulled by a force he struggled to find but couldn’t see. Why? Why was he doing this? Because he knew. She had a plan B. He couldn’t escape. She’d always find a way. Sketch wasn’t doing himself any favors by running. She’d keep finding him.

So, he decided to play her game.

And he was going to win. Even if it killed him.

Wearing a new face of determination, Sketch stared daggers into Syntax’s eyes, stomping his hooves on the way.

She seemed mildly amused at this, but it did nothing to harm Sketch’s new heavy-hoofed attitude.

“What do you want?”

She remained silent, raising her eyebrow and her sultry smile widening.

“What do you want?” he repeated, poking her in the chest aggressively. “My secrets? My childhood? Information? Do you just want to humiliate me? Or have you devolved into wanting money? Just tell me what you want so I can explain the exact reason why you should FUCK OFF!”

“Dinner.”

Silence.

Sketch had been punctuating his questions by jabbing his hoof into her chest. When she uttered that unusual phrase, he had lost all motor function, leaving his hoof depressed into her fur.

“What?”

“I want dinner. I can pay for myself, kid, I know you’re probably not exactly swimming in it even if your parents are.”

“What?”

“Dinner. I like fried rice and egg.”

“What?”

Syntax’s face showed a sign of frustration, but it was outweighed by her amusement.

“And could you please stop feeling me up?”

Sketch’s eyes trailed from his elbow all the way down his foreleg finally ending at his hoof. He nervously flicked himself away, flushed.

“What?!” he yelled, his vocabulary leaving him long ago.

“I want to have dinner with you Sketch.” She said, this time with finality. 

“Why? You can’t expect me to believe you don’t want something out of it!” Sketch yelled, not realizing his volume before it was too late.

“Of course not Sketch.” She sighed in genuine sounding exasperation, though her still smile betrayed her tone. “For it seems that we are at an impasse. I am in no position to harass you any further. And you are in no position shoo me away. So instead of furthering this cosmic level stalemate, how about the both of us... make a deal?”

“A... deal?”

“Once a week, we have dinner. I ask you a question and you decide whether or not to answer. If you do, you ask me something of equal worth and I will do the same. How much value we put into the question will be subjective of course, but the nature of ponies, y’know? This way, I will decidedly stop pestering you, and you can live your weird life the way you see fit. Deal?”

“Why don’t you just stop pestering me?” Sketch hissed. Syntax simply waved him off.

“Come to dinner and you’ll find out.” She grinned, tilting her head to the side. It radiated a warmth that made Sketch feel... kinda weird. Not a bad weird, but definitely not a good one. Still, this seemed like the only solution. Plus he’d get to know why the hell she wouldn’t just... leave. 

...

...

...

Also she’s pretty. But that didn't matter. 

“Fine.”

“Excellent. Wok, Filly, Wok, ten o’clock.”

Sketch stammered, barely even able to keep his composure. “T...Te-”

“Oh right, you’re still a little boy. Six, then. Does that fit your curfew?

“Ehp-” Sketch’s stomach decided to speak instead of him. Syntax giggled a surprisingly feminine laugh.

“Alright then. Don’t be late.” She rose from the post she was leaning on and sauntered off, flicking her tail.

Sketch was still staring at the space she used to occupy.

“What?”

 

A closet so empty, it’d bring a moth to tears. Sketch stared at the barren place before him, somewhat straining to see the very few items due in part to the complete lack of wardrobe in it. Of course that was all well and good for a stallion of Sketch’s personality, as he was uninterested in those who necessitated a good ‘first impression’. However, pertaining to Syntax, this was altogether unavoidable. He had to make her happy, or at least non hostile. Every little bit to improve his reputation with her would help.

A lone bowtie, a scarf for winter, and a fedora when he was going through that rebellious phase.  Nothing exactly screamed the picture of formality. The bowtie, especially so, was very silly. Polka-dot.

Sketch grumbled, slamming the closet, resolute in not allowing Syntax to get under his skin like this. He shouldn’t care at all really, he had...

Trust.

Trust? Did he ‘have’ her? What constituted as that? Was he really committed to this mare? Why am I even thinking about this. I don’t need to. Trust is her own mare, and I’m my own stallion. Sketch shook his head violently, trying to get something out of his head, or his ears. He didn’t know what it was, but it was annoying and sharp, like a tiny needle. He lurched forward and punched the wall.

His hoof almost effortlessly flew through the wall, bits of drywall falling around his arm. His eyes widened. What just happened?

Slowly, the foreleg limply slipped out, revealing a scuffed hoof and slightly bloody flesh.

Why was he so frustrated?

He didn’t even feel frustrated... or at least he thought he didn’t. Though looking back at it all, that was a bit unbelievable. Any pony in the right mind would be frustrated. Maybe he just wasn't in the right mind. That would explain a few things. He wiped his dirty hoof on the sheets of his bed and swiped the scarf from his closet. Wrapping it around his neck in one swift motion, Sketch decided he needed to stop caring. Or pretending to care.

All of this was going to end soon, he decided. It has to. Because… he's tired. And for the first time he couldn't blame it on insomnia.

“Scarf looks good on you.”

Sketch started, arching his back and jumping onto the tips of his hooves. He felt his fur stand on his back. Trust was sitting behind him, giving him the most alluring smirk. He chuckled uneasily. “You think?”

“I know,” she confided gingerly, drawing on the ground with her hoof. “Are you going somewhere?”

“Yeah.” The thought of lying did cross his mind, but he gave it no attention. “At six, an hour from now.”

“Where?”

“Remember that mare from the party? The one you spoke to? She invited me to dinner.”

“Oh.” She bit her lip. “That's nice…”

Sketch refused to let her get the wrong idea. He scowled at no one and said, “She wants something from me, and I need to know what. Sometimes it feels like she knows about us, somehow. I need to know that you're safe.”

“What are you talking about? I didn't get that impression at all.” It seemed as though Trust had let go of her jealousy, out of simple curiosity. “She seemed super nice.”

“Ha,” he choked wryly. “She’s anything but. I hadn't told you yet, but she tried to blackmail me the other day.”

“What?! And you're having dinner with this mare?” Trust stammered incredulously. “And you think that's a good idea?!” 

“I never said I thought it was a good idea.” In fact, objectively, it was a pretty bad one to begin with. “But if she knows about us, then…”

“Then it's all over,” Trust finished, finally feeling the gravity of the situation. “Damn… how can you be so sure?”

“I'm not. That's why I have to play by her rules. For now.”

Trust fidgeted, shaking her head and grumbling. “You better be careful. I don't want to lose you.”

“Well it's not like I'm gonna die or anything.” He chuckled, at first confidently and then nervously. Trust simply cocked an eyebrow incredulously. “But seriously I'll be fine,” he assured.

“If you say so,” she sighed, leaning on the wall beside her. “Hey? One thing?”

“What's up?”

“What does ‘blackmail’ mean?”



“You're gonna come back, right?”

Of course I am.

Sketch had a sour taste in his mouth. As he walked down the stairs, he cursed the fact Syntax was forcing him to waste his time with trust with stupid dinner. He made it down the stairs alright and tried to quickly trot to the door.

“Where you goin’ sport.”

Sketch winced, the lack of a question mark in that sentence making him uneasy. “Dad, hehe...”

His dad hadn't even looked up at him. He simply shuffled the magazine he had been reading, something about formal attire, and cleared his throat.

“I’m going out with some friends.”

His dad looked at him this time, eyeing him up and down. Incredulously, he asked, “Friends, huh? Getting dressed up for your friends?”

Sketch prodded his scarf, grunting a little. He wasn’t sure this counted as ‘getting dressed up’. “It’s cold out.”

“Mhmm. Just make sure you’re back by ten. Also, be... ‘careful’. I’m not paying for no kid.”

Sketch opened his mouth, but as his face flushed, he figured it’d be a better idea to just drop it, and he scurried out the door.



What on earth was happening right now? Sketch had felt like he was moving through water the entire night; nothing really felt real to him. He had met Syntax in front of the restaurant and they wordlessly selected a table together. Sketch was on guard the entire time, but Syntax just had this... soft innocent smile plastered onto her face. And now she sat across from him, her chin resting on her hooves in a manner that of a schoolgirl hopelessly in love. He didn’t want to be the first to speak, the first to go on the offensive. 

“You're not the best at courting are you?” she finally said, suppressing a giggle. 

Sketch decided to dodge the question. “Are you trying to get yourself arrested? I'm seventeen.”

“Doesn't seem to stop you from playing with that griffin of yours,” she rebutted, leaning back and splaying out her forelegs on the table. Wok, pony, Wok wasn't the fanciest of places, but for canterlot that meant very little. Fancy accommodations and romantic candle lighting still littered the atmosphere. From where she was sitting, the lighting made her face glow warmly, making her visage friendly, inviting. She took great care in making her posture symmetrical, pleasing to the eyes, and sultry. 

“Haren? She’s-” Sketch bit his tongue. Two statements in and he already nearly revealed something about his friends. He was about to say she was taken, and it wouldn't take much investigating from a trained eye to tell it was Anthem he was talking about. It was a good thing he caught himself, but if he was going to be this careless he should just give up right now. But... that was out of the question, too much was at stake.  He'd just have to be more careful. “not my type,” he finished smoothly. Syntax’s smile tightened, as she obviously knew Sketch successfully hid something from her. This was going to be harder than he thought, and he already assumed it to be quite difficult. 

“So,” she began, picking up a drink that Sketch didn't see a waiter drop off and swishing it around. “Should I start or should you?”

“Go ahead,” he allowed, figuring that he's already spent so long on the defensive that he may as well stay on it.

“Okay, Sketch. Why did you skip school?”

Sketch wasn't expecting such a tame question, but then again he was aware of Syntax’s methods. She was going to ask him causal, personal stuff to drop his guard. He just had to be aware of it. “I was tired,” he answered honestly. When she frowned he decided he should elaborate to get a better answer for his question. “I have insomnia. I'm rarely fully rested. So if I'm feeling stressed it gets worse.”

This time her smile returned and she nodded, both very good signs. “I see. That makes sense. It would also explain your clumsiness.”

“I guess,” Sketch agreed unsure whether or not to be offended. For the sake of convenience he decided not to be.  “Lately though, it's been coming and going. Like I'm not sure I should be happy or sad. Content or stressed. I'm just...”

“Confused?” Syntax offered. That was almost too good of a word. Like she knew. 

“Yeah.” Sketch started at the table, rubbing his elbow. In the corner of his eye he could see Syntax’s smile had gone away as she looked away, forlorn. Startled, he sat up abruptly to get a better look, but when he did Syntax returned to her voluptuous demeanor. Strange. “So I guess it's my turn now... uhhh... Why did you become a reporter?”

Syntax went wide eyed. It seemed as though she hadn't expected a personal question either. She kept her sultry smile, but it seemed she couldn't bring herself to keep eye contact. “Why would you want to know that?”

Sketch felt it was his turn to be a smart-ass. “Ah ah ah. Answer my question first.” 

Syntax flipped her hair while grunting, her smile shaking. “I don’t know.”

Sketch blinked. “That’s not... good enough.”

She scowled, still unable to look directly in his eyes. “I don’t know why I became a reporter. It felt right, okay?” Syntax started playing with the napkin at the table. There was a silence. It looked as if a heavy weight was bringing her down. “I enjoyed the click my typewriter makes under my hooves and the smell of fresh paper. I loved the feeling of thousands of ponies reading the truth, the shocking truth, something that they’d talk about for ages, just from some ink on paper, words that I put down. That’s why I became a reporter.”

Sketch blinked once again. Her words were inspiring, but her attitude remained the same. “You don’t like to talk about yourself, huh?”

It was Syntax’s turn to blink. “I don’t matter. The things I write about do.”

“That’s... an awful thing to say.”

“And after all the things I’ve done, you wouldn’t agree with me?” Her grin was piercing.

“Well you agree that you’ve done some shitty things, at least.”

“Like I said... I don’t matter.”

“So anything for a story, huh?”

She started rubbing the table with her hooves. Everything about her was the same, but she started grinding the table with such force that it chipped the wood. Sketch had a small moment of joy, a moment of satisfaction. He was finally getting under her skin, and more importantly, she has a tell. “Don’t lecture me, boy, much less about morals, or should I remind you about how you treat the people around you, you’re parents.”

“Hey! I-” Sketch nearly shouted, stiffening up, but he caught himself. No. I’m not gonna let her do this. He relaxed slowly taking his hooves off the table and resting them at his sides. “I don’t think we need to get vitriolic with this.”

Syntax closed her eyes and hung her head. “Yes. Of course.”

“So... whose turn is it? I’ve lost track.”

Syntax opened her mouth, but cut herself off when the waiter showed up. The alabaster gentlecolt, wearing a nice suit and tie, took out a notepad and pen. His attire made sketch look at his scarf in a slight bit of shame. The waiter cleared his throat. “What will this fine couple be having today, if they are ready?”

Sketch looked away from the waiter, his face getting warmer. “We’re not a-”

“I’ll have the fried rice and egg, and my husband will have... what is it you always get hon, egg drop soup?”

“Buh,” Sketch stammered, but Syntax was too fast.

“Yes, egg drop soup. I’ll have a bloody mary to drink, and he’ll have...” Syntax glared at him, the evil smile she grew becoming even larger. “Orange juice.”

The waiter shuffled a bit, obviously perturbed by the rather immature choice of beverage, but too polite to say anything. “Of course Miss.”

After writing a few things, the waiter trotted off, mumbling something about pants. Syntax gave a tantalizing smirk to Sketch, before he had a chance to say anything. “Why do you have to treat me like a child?”

“Because of your insistence on being treated as an adult,” she answered, swirling her previous drink once again.

“What are you talking about? I never-”

“Oh, please Sketch,” she interrupted, placing a hoof on her cheek, her devious smile turning into something... softer. “It's written all over your face. Tell me, do you have any friends your age?”

“I-” Sketch froze, realizing only then that he really didn't. He only had Trust. “Only... only one. But yeah... all my friends are adults.”

“And that's why. You're going to parties, hanging with people in their midlife, and skipping school because you don't like being a kid. It's hard to take you seriously sometimes.” She resolutely closed her eyes and nodded, before gingerly opening one of them to look at Sketch. “Of course it's a bit admirable that you've somewhat succeeded. I have to remind myself sometimes that you're still a kid. And clearly your friends have forgotten about your age.”

“Huh,” was all Sketch could mutter.

“Your meals.” The waiter pony arrived with a few plates on a rack hovering with faded white magic beside him. He set the food down and the drinks alongside them. “Bloody Mary for the madam and...” He gave Sketch an odd look before adding, “Orange juice for the sir.” He straightened up and bolstered himself, struggling not to give any attention to Sketch and his choice of beverage. “Anything else for the fine couple?”

Sketch didn't miss a beat. “Yeah, do you have a bendy straw or like, a crazy straw or something?”

Syntax abruptly snorted, trying and failing to stifle a laugh. She turned away and blushed, putting her hoof to her mouth. He was pretty that was the first time he had ever seen her blush and it was really quite something. Even the stoic waiter shook with laughter as he tried to regain his composure. “I'll see what I can do, sir.”

As the waiter walked away, Syntax gave Sketch a look... It was hard to describe, it was different than all of her other looks, in a way. The same confident smile, but something about her eyes... “See,” she started, picking up her new, much more alcoholic beverage. “You have a way with adults.”

“Like you?” he blurted out, without much thinking of connotation. He didn’t mean it to sound so flirty.

Her eyes widened for a moment. She took her eyes off of him to stare at her bloody mary, slowly spinning her glass to look at all the perfect imperfections within the glass. “For what it’s worth, Sketch... I hope my story doesn’t completely ruin you.”

“It... means a lot more than you think it does,” he admitted, rubbing his shoulder earnestly. She made that hard-to-describe look again as she looked away. Was she... blushing? Not from embarrassment this time.

“No it doesn’t.”

The food came shortly after. Both of the ponies thanked the waiter. There was a bendy straw in Sketch’s glass.

“I think you’re wrong,” Sketch said as he stared at the straw. “The small things matter. Makes you believe that there’s still some good. Intentions are just as important as the result.”

After that, they ate in silence. Sketch was okay with that.



“How could you have so much tomato?!”

Syntax chuckled under her hoof, struggling to hide her mirth. “Tomatoes are delicious,” she choked between giggles. “How could you not like tomatoes?”

“Hey, hey, I never said that, I love tomatoes. It’s just... too much, you know?” Sketch set down his orange juice, or what was left of it. He had forgotten how the conversation got so lighthearted. So much about nothing.

“You can never have enough tomato.” Syntax went for another swig, but only a cube of ice hit her lips. The drink was gone. A little embarrassed, she set the drink down and looked away, pretending that didn’t happen. She was a little flush. Must be a lightweight.

“Apparently somepony can,” Sketch quipped. He could swear he was getting buzzed by proxy. Everything felt a little looser. He hadn’t drank much, though. Sketch looked at the time, a clock in the far corner of the dining room. 8:00 PM. “Hey... It’s getting late...”

“Hm?” Genuine confusion washed over Syntax. “Oh I suppose so. It’s a school night after all,” she confided with a wink.

“Syntax, I know I wasn’t supposed to... but I had fun.”

Syntax didn’t answer, but gave a very slight nod. “I’ll foot the bill. Run off. I’m excited for next week.”

“Maybe I’ll pay next week.”

“No you won’t.” Syntax chuckled through her hoof once more. “See you later Sketch.”

“See you.”



So that was strange. That was an oddly... pleasant experience. Sketch suspected he was going to have to dodge and weave delicately woven social constructs to avoid revealing too much, but that was... a generally enjoyable time. It was nice, considering. He pranced up his stairs, ignoring his parents. He walked into his room. Trust was asleep in his bed. Of course she was.




> 8. Doughnuts
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

"To conquer frustration, one must remain intensely focus on the outcome, not the obstacles."

-T.F. Hodge

Sketch reached for Trust, once again laying in his bed. He had half a mind getting in there with her but... no no, bad idea. As his hoof approached, he began to sigh. “There’s a lot-”

“SHHHHHHH!” A voice resonated behind him, making Sketch jump out of his skin, nearly causing him to tip over as he stiffened. “Don’t wake him up!” she whispered, her hushed tone a few octaves above what Sketch’s used to. This voice was Trust. Then who was on the bed...?

Suddenly, the body on the bed turned and faced Sketch... and...

“Hello.”

A stallion. Male. A guy.

“HAAAAAAAAAA-” Sketch’s scream was cut short with a hoof in his mouth, Trust having moved quick from behind.

“Shut up! Do you want the world to know you have not one, but two, extremely attractive batponies in your bedroom?”

Sketch’s eyes shot between Trust’s wide, ephemeral, dinner-plate eyes that lit up the night, that was the fuel that got Sketch up in the morning... and this new stranger that was... lying in his- why is this stallion in my bed? 

As new questions entered Sketch’s mind, Trust removed her hoof, now covered with Sketch’s saliva.

Sketch looked at Trust’s eyes again, his heart rate slowing, his breathing becoming regular. He looked her up and down, before deciding that was probably weird and looking back at the stallion in his bed. The sheets began to drape off of him, revealing only key parts of his torso. His forelegs supported himself behind him, and his back arched as he did so. He stared at Sketch with half mast eyes, like he was expecting something. He was firm, fit, yet still slender, almost exactly like Trust only masculine. Not as masculine as Sketch would have been comfortable with. He kind of wanted... to draw the stallion.

“I think,” Sketch started, trying to tear himself away from the stallion... come on.... shouldn't be that hard... stop looking at his chest... there we go! “I think people would be impressed, mostly, if they saw you two in my room.”

Trust looked surprised for a moment, than gave Sketch a knowing smile. She still had her ‘Sketch juice’ hoof in the air. She looked at it for a moment as if pondering something, but after shaking her head, she wiped her hoof on her chest.

“So who's tall dark and handsome?” Sketch tried to remain casual as he leaned on a very unstable broom (why the hell was a broom even here dammit) and as that failed, his voice cracked on the word ‘hand’. Sketch didn't bother to try and save it. He just closed his eyes in disgust. Trust giggled. The stallion-

“WOAH!” The stallion was right in Sketch’s face now. Okay. Alright. He was so fast, Sketch didn't even notice.

“This is your mate? He's a bit scrawny,” he finally spoke. His voice was like silky gravel, flowing through a vanilla ocean. Mate? Sketch thought. 

“We're not-”

“Okay, yes this is my mate, say hello mate,” Trust quickly shouted as she once again shoved her hoof into Sketch’s mouth. Aside, she whispered “Play along,” in Sketch’s ear. This time, Trust wiped her b’drooled hoof on Sketch’s chest instead of her own.

“I... hah yes, I'm... her... her...?” It was then Sketch first noticed something, something that should have been ridiculously obvious. “You're a batpony?” Sure enough, the dull indigo fur, fangs, and bat wings were as loud as could be.

He backed up at this, like a scared animal. There was a small pause again, like he had to remember how to speak. “If that's what you call it.”

His wings were slightly larger than Trust’s, but probably just due to his general size.

“How did...”

“I'll tell you later... mate.” Trust gave Sketch this weird look, like they were about to be caught in a trap. Sketch was tired though, like he always was. He had to do this.

“No I... we... what's your name?”

The stallion looked confused, lost. He reared his head as he answered. “Royal,” he finally said slowly, as if he was just testing the waters.

“Royal? Why did you name yourself that?”

Again, he looked defensive. He couldn't look Sketch in the eye. “I-it it was just the first word I understood... what it meant.”

Everyone stood in silence after that. Everyone just... stared at each other. Awkwardness notwithstanding, Sketch was starting to get more and more excited at the prospect of a new pony like Trust.

“Royal,” Sketch finally began, taking a full step forward. “I want to draw you,” he blurted out, face reddening from his own forwardness. Something about having to go through an introduction like this already gave him a little more ground to stand on.

“What?” Trust asked in utter confusion.

“I'm tired, I'm confused, and I'm just plain frustrated. And I wanna draw. C’mon.” Sketch started towards his window, magically grabbing his drawing pad, a book, and a couple pencils. “Let's get the hell outta here.”

Trust’s eyes shot open as she zoomed past Sketch and to the window. She blocked the window with her whole body. “Uhuh, no no no. Sketch, c’mon this was our night, not Syntax’s, not Royal’s, ours. Where are you even planning on going?”

“Oh,” Sketch said, a smile creeping on his face. “You mean you don't want to go to the lake?”

“I mean I-” Her expression blanked. “The lake?”

“It's getting warmer, it isn't winter anymore, I can finally stand outside without literally dying...”

“From the hypochondria?” Trust offered.

“Hypothermia,” Sketch clarified.

“Gesundheit,” Royal added.

Sketch chuckled. “He's got jokes! Hahaha!” He faced Royal and rose his hoof for a hoofbump. Royal stared at him with a cold, dead look. There was a pause before Sketch just decided to clop his own hoof. Trust sighed and placed her hoof on Sketch’s shoulder.

“Just let me fly you down there so you don't kill yourself like last time.”

“Oh I was unaware I was dead,” Sketch replied dryly.

“Har har,” Trust sing-songed, lifting Sketch almost effortlessly. “You know what I mean.”

“You know, I could get used to this,” he quipped as Trust's body became his crutch. "Being carried."

“I wouldn't mind so much if ya did. Y’know...” Trust winked at the sprawled out Sketch on her back, him appearing as a soft pile of spaghetti draped over the batmare. “Just say the word and I'll... whisk you off your hooves.”

“Well I just uhh...” Sketch began to sweat. At what point was this a joke or... just straight flirting. At this point, Sketch began to stop caring. Or maybe he had just started to care. “I always figured you as a top.”

“Please, you wouldn't be able to handle me up top.” Even Trust was beginning to become bashful from the double entendre, nearly losing her grip on Sketch in order to cover her blush.

“I get it.” Royal suddenly boomed in a loud but even tone. He pushed past Sketch and Trust, practically racing towards the window. He gracefully leaped out and glid to the ground.

The room was still as Royal left, the remaining occupants jarred at the sudden outburst.

“What's this guy's problem?” Sketch asked, fixing an invisible tie.

“I'll tell you the story on the way.”



Trust slid the next few sketches along the floor, taking a look at the next few drawings under those. She was running out of new art that her friend had made. Small twangs of sadness resonated through her heart when she approached the last few. Most of her. One more of that strange black mare, this one with a devious smile as she lounged on a crescent moon. Trust felt that same pull from before. A force that pulled everything but her physical body. Maybe Sketch’s art really was that magical. Or maybe there was something about the subject.

A drop of water hit the paper she was staring at. It startled her at first, until she realized the liquid came from her own eye. She quickly wiped her eyes, subconsciously afraid that someone was watching.

Why was she sad? She used to have so many reasons to be sad, but she hadn't cried for years. Now she didn't have any reason to be sad; she had amazing friends with amazing talents, so why is she crying?

Despite everything she had, she still wanted more? Sketch had already sacrificed so much... wanting more was selfish. And yet, she once again yearned for his embrace. She wrapped her own legs around herself in a vain and embarrassing attempt to emulate his touch. I'm so pathetic... 

“Are you alright?” a stallion asked.

She immediately hid herself out of reflex, cringing and becoming smaller. She cleared her throat lest her voice crack, and she reflexively looked away from the voice.

“Oh yeah, yeah, I'm fine, I wasn't just crying, I'm not lonely shut up, I-” Trust’s eyes shot open as she peered at the mirror before her, the large closet door mirror. Now for some reason, although she knew from the beginning it wasn't Sketch, she never once considered it would be anyone that didn't belong in his room, or anyone that she didn't know. But the stallion behind her was just that, a nameless stranger. “OH MY GOD WHAT- WHO THE FUCK ARE YOU.”

The stallion didn't answer, he only stepped closer to her, slowly. He approached her as one would an animal. A scared animal. Trust backed up against the frame of the bed, squeezing against it as the strange stallion grew close. It continued until he was close enough for her to feel his breath on her cheeks. Trust tried, but couldn't look away from his eyes. Big yellow, glowing eyes. They looked familiar... almost like her’s...

And then she saw what she should've seen from the beginning. Bat wings.

“You have-”

“You're female. Aren't you?” he asked, cutting her off.

Trust shuffled a bit, still uncomfortable from the proximity. “Uhh, I think. I mean the last time I checked, I...”

He sniffed a few times, and looked away as if deep in thought. “You smell good. Like glazed pastries.”

“Oh.” Trust tried to say something clever in return, but the cold sweat she was managing started to freeze her up. Was this how she died?

Thinking on the compliment would have made her blush any other day or any other situation, but the duress prevented any charm from blowing through. However, she quickly, guiltily, pictured the same line coming from Sketch, and her brain nearly exploded on impact.

“You should be my mate.”

YEAH ALRIGHT. THIS IS NOT HOW I DIE, THANK YOU. 

Trust tucked herself in and slipped away, off to the batstallion’s side. She began to chuckle nervously. “Hahaha, okay creep. It's time for you to go before I, uhh, I kick your ass, alright?” She grabbed the weird stick with frills at the end that she brought in to ask Sketch about as a weapon.

The stallion looked mildly shocked at her reaction, but not overly so, as if he didn't have any idea at all how she would react when he asked. Still, he retained his composure, unlike his female friend, as he stood his ground. “I... didn't mean to... offend you,” he began, using an odd inflection with the word offend. “I just thought that...”

“Just because you're hot doesn't mean I'm gonna just... jump on ya when you ask you weirdo!”

“Hot?” he asked, looking inquisitive.

“No shut up, you're not hot!” Trust may have well just told him that bread was a article of clothing because the look of confusion on his face had no contest.

“Thats not- I meant that...”

“What did you mean then, huh? You were about to force-”

“I would not have forced you!” He quickly said, a look of hurt on his face. It was a strange look for him, in fact it was probably the first time his eyebrows had moved upward since they met. Trust was a bit taken aback, and, after a time, she placed the stick back in its place. “You're the only Royal I've ever met...”

“Royal? Is that what we're called?” Trust asked, her heartbeat becoming faster. Maybe she'll actually learn something about herself.

Alas, the stallion shook his head. “No, no.... at least I don't think so. Royal is what I call myself. I thought I was the only one of my kind so I just...” He looked Trust up and down. “I guess that's no longer a problem.”

“Royal, huh? How'd you come up with that name?” Trust asked, thinking her own name was odd enough.

“Oh I uhh... It was the first word I heard... well understood, really. Some ponies in a far off land were visiting this city, and I kept hearing this word uttered in the streets. That was before I ran off.”

“Ran off?”

“The first thing I remember was looking for people who looked like me: ponies.” He began staring at the wall. “But I figured out very quickly that even though we looked alike, ponies and I were... very different. I tried to make a life for myself amongst compatriots. But in the end I decided to become what they saw... An animal.”

“Wow. That's super hot.”

“I thought I wasn't hot?” Once again Royal became confused and cocked his head.

“Yes. No. It doesn't matter.” Trust waved off the question, literally, with her hoof. “It looks like you became a hunter when I became a scavenger. A theif.”

“You're a hunter of your own sorts.”

“Yeah, haha, I guess...” Trust rubbed her knee subconsciously. Royal mimicked her like a little kid.

“Soo...” He began.

“No, we're not mating. Why are you so hellbent on this?”

“I just thought...” He rolled his eyes and shuffled his hooves. “Animals... you know...”

“I am aware animals bone, yes.”

“Look, mating produces offspring, right?” he offered.

“You make it sound a lot easier than it is, but yes.”

“And we're the only two Roy- uhh bat winged ponies in existence.”

“Yes...” Trust confirmed, talking a bit more slowly. If this was going where she thought it was going all of this was a lot more reasonable than she originally thought. “As far as we know.”

“Don't you want companions? Don't you want friends. If we had children, there could be more like us! We could have what these ponies have. What every animal in the kingdom has. Company...”

“Yes... that sounds nice, but-”

“But what? This could be the only chance we have!”

“Stop yelling, there are ponies here, it's not my house!” Trust whispered, bouncing her forehooves up and down as a signal to lower the volume.

“I don't understand why you wouldn't want this. More of us, Trust. Think of it.”

“I already have a mate, okay?!” Trust gasped and covered her own mouth with her hooves. She hadn't meant to lie. Maybe just for a moment, she didn't know it was a lie. Regardless...

“You have a... another one of us?” He looked somewhat hopeful. His intentions truly were wholesome, since it appeared he didn't simply want to get his rocks off.

“No... no hon, it's... it's just a normal unicorn...” Trust answered. Royal put his normal cold back on. “But we don't know if that wouldn't still result in more of us. And, and, this thing is mutually exclusive, honey.” Trust didn't know why the stallion was suddenly ‘honey’ to her but it simply seemed apt.

“Mating isn't... exclusive?” He sounded very unsure, like he was told that chickens don't cluck.

“Well not for animals, or... certain ponies, but it is for me and Sketch.” Trust pounder her hoof into the ground for punctuation. Sketch could always see straight through her lies, but Royal seemed quite gullible. It was kind of refreshing.

“Sketch...” Royal closed his eyes, deep in thought. “Sketch. Huh. I want to meet him.”

“What?! Why?”

“To make sure he's good enough.”

“Good enough? Dad? Is that you? You sure you didn't mate with somebody already eighteen years ago?”

“Look I’ll talk to him, and then I'll leave you alone, alright. I just...” He looked away and rubbed his hoof.

Trust was about to let him have it, but as she saw him sitting with so little hope left... she almost saw herself. “...okay fine. Fine you can meet him. Just... it'll be a while before he gets back.”

“What's he doing?”

Eating dinner with another mare. ”With his friends.”

“What's he doing with his friends?

“I don't know, shooting the shit, eating dinner, he's just out, okay,” Trust snapped, collapsing on the floor. “I wish he was here.” With the way Trust was speaking it'd be hard to tell she was lying about Sketch.

There was a long silence. Trust realized that Royal was yet again staring at her. “You mind?”

“I'm sorry if my presence is stressful for you.”

Trust opened her mouth, but thought better of it and just rolled her eyes as she turned over. “No its not your fault... I'm just... frustrated. And no sex jokes!”

“Wouldn't dream of it.”

Trust felt a dark feeling in her stomach. Almost nausea, but not really. Sketch would've known what to say. He wouldn't have lied. Sketch doesn't lie.

Suddenly an idea lit up in her head. “You ever slept in a bed before?” she asked, quickly turning around to face him.

Royal had already begun leaning on a wall. He got up and shrugged. “Not for years.”

“Go ahead and take a nap. Trust me its... wait.” Trust folded her legs incredulously. “How did you know my name?”



“Wait, how did he know your name?” Sketch asked, flicking a potato chip into his mouth. It's a good thing he hadn't eaten his lunch yet and he could bring it for a small pathetic picnic.

“He followed me and watched me from dark alleys for a couple of days, it's not important.”

Sketch then choked on said potato chip. “ECH, CUHH, that's super-ACK- important!”

“Listen, Sketch, the guy's super lonely. Imagine you were in this sea of unknown, and every torrent tore you apart. And after a decade of torture, you saw another pony floating on the other side, swimming somewhere like they know where they're going. You're gonna chase it hard. And, and, considering how shitty that sounds, it's pretty great how respectful he's been.”

After her spiel, Trust slowly turned towards Sketch ready to ask something. She stopped dead in her tracks after discovering that Sketch had lost all motor function and was simply stating at Trust with an agape mouth and a floating potato chip. “What?” Trust asked, nervously chuckling and playing with her hair.

“I'm sorry, that was the most poetically tragic thing I've ever heard.”

“Whatever dude,” she laughed, punching him in the shoulder.

Sketch laughed and shook his head, attempting to pop in the potato chip. He missed his mouth by a pretty large margin and it limply fell to the floor. He kicked it to the side in a sad attempt to hide it from Trust, but she had already seen the whole thing. Sketch laughed again and cleared his throat. “So uhh, heh, you know where you going, huh?”

Trust smiled, putting her forelegs over his back and around his neck in a heavy embrace. Sketch... didn't tense up this time. “More like I know where I'm headed. I don't know the water I'm in, I don't even really know how to swim, but I know where I'm headed.”

“And... where are... are you headed?” Trust couldn't see his eyes from where she was hanging, and he was glad. He was pretty sure she would be able to see the yearning in his eyes.

“For land.”

They stayed.

They embraced.

...

“Is he still around?”

“Yeah, he's on the rooftops. I'm gonna have to separate once you hit the streets.”

“I fucking hate this. Sneaking around.” Sketch made Trust disconnect from him. He held onto her hoof as he did, and looked her straight in the eye. “You deserve better.”

“No, I really don't.” Trust put her hoof to his mouth as he moved to object. “Hey you know what you can do for me?”

“What?”

“Tell me I smell like glazed pastries.”

“...what?”

“Do it, c’mon. You can't ask me why.”

“Hehe okay,” Sketch replied, pushing her away and holding her at arm's length. “You smell like doughnuts.”

Trust snorted, bring her hoof to her mouth and chortling until there were tears in her eyes. After a good few moments, she gave one long sigh. “And that's why I love you, Sketch.”

They both froze. “That's why you what?”
> 9. Destroyed Through Inaction
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Perhaps the truth depends on a walk around the lake."

-Wallace Stevens

"What? What I didn't say anything, what are you talking about?" Trust snorted, a little too loudly, and backed up, breaking eye content.

"You said-"

"I don't know what you're talking about, just-" Trust panickedly looked around, finally grabbing a hoof full of potato chips from the bag that Sketch had floating in mid-air. "Just eat your dumb chips!" She shoved her hoof into Sketch's mouth, which even he had to admit was getting super old.

“Tru-mmf!” Trust retracted her hoof and shot up into the sky, leaving Sketch to cough and sputter on the floor. He looked up at her, scaling a rooftop before disappearing into the moonlight. Sketch held his elbow bashfully while chewing the chips that didn’t fall uselessly onto the floor. “Trust, I...” He closed his eyes and turned away, facing the street outside the alley he was in. “I love you too, girl.” He trotted down the street, at a slightly faster pace, ready to close the distance between him and seeing Trust once again. Every second placing a hoof on the floor was another second he couldn’t see her wonderful, beautiful face.

It wasn’t long before he had reached the familiar sky tram, still running as it always does. Since it wasn’t actually midnight this time, there were a stark few ponies still using the tram and the area around it. However, it looked like he’d be able to get an empty car despite it all, since it wasn’t so busy. Sketch sighed in relief, excited at the prospect of sharing a car with Trust... and Royal.

A few thoughts entered his mind before he quickly chased them out.

He took a seat on a nearby bench, waiting for an empty car.

“Well I’ll be damned.”

Sketch shot up at the voice. Anthem? “Anthem, what? What are you doing here?”

“That’s a swell way of greeting a friend,” he sarcastically stated, placing a hoof on Sketch’s mane and shaking it all around. “And I could ask you the same thing, kiddo. It’s getting late.”

“You’re dodging the question,” Sketch replied, his voice dry. He would be lying if he said that he was excited that Anthem was here, but it was pretty nice to see a friend. He just would rather be seeing a particular mare right about now.

“Alright, alright, but you gotta tell me too. Deal?” Anthem brushed some invisible dirt off of his chest and smirked. Before Sketch could agree to the terms, he continued. “I was just coming back from a little meet up on the south side. We partied for a bit.”

“Okay...” Sketch looked around, expecting to see a griffin somewhere in close proximity, but reality had other things to say. “Haren not with you?”

Anthem’s ears flattened immediately. He looked to the side and kicked the ground. “No. I’m by myself.”

“You...” Sketch scooted over a little bit. There was more than enough room on the bench for anthem already, but this was more of a gesture of invitation than anything. “You okay, dude?”

Anthem looked up, down, and around, before sighing and rubbing his face. He took the seat next to Sketch and rubbed his elbow. “I don’t know, Sketchy. I haven’t been able to think clearly for about a month now. Maybe longer. This whole thing has been such a mess.”

Sketch tensed up. He wasn’t really expecting Anthem to bring this up by himself; he never was much of a talker. But now, Sketch had his chance to fulfill his promise to Haren. He much rather it was on his terms, but you know what they say about beggars. “This whole thing? You mean mackin’ on Haren?”

“We weren’t ‘mackin’’!” He shouted defensively, a little too loudly. A couple of ponies turned to investigate, but went about their business as Anthem lowered his head. An octave lower, he got closer to Sketch’s ear. “We were just havin’ fun. Weird, uncertain fun. Like, a griffin and a pony? It was exciting! There... there was a lot of weird crap to learn ya know? We’re friends, so, we could just, I don’t know, experiment a little. Not a lot of ponies can say that they did it with a griffin, and vice versa, so that’s what it was all about.”

There was a pause in the conversation. After a determinate amount of time went by, Sketch nodded his head and said a drawn out, “But...?”

“But Haren’s my friend! I thought if we just had a one time fling, where we ya know... ‘played’ a little bit, that it’d be okay. But it wasn’t just one time. We’d be sitting together watch a movie, and she’d lean on me... and as we got more tired.... as it got later, she’d rub a bit, and I’d put my hoof over her chest. She’d turn around and look me in the eye, a few inches from my face, smile and laugh as she told a joke. And I’d laugh... And because of the... ’contact’ certain biological stuff would start to happen... and she’d offer to take care of it. And I would agree.” Anthem coughed into his hoof and he shuffled a bit, obviously getting uncomfortable.

“It’s okay, Anthem. Keep going.” Sketch put a tender hoof on Anthem’s shoulder. He tensed a little, but let it happen.

“Eventually, there’d have to be less and less excuses. We’d get on the couch, and maybe that day she wouldn’t have to use me as a pillow. She’d reach over to me first. Or i’d run my hoof over her flank. One day I saw her lying on her back on the couch and I just... got right on top of her. Even forgot to put on a movie. We didn’t even have to say anything.” Anthem started to shake a little before he hugged himself to stop. “We’d laugh, and talk, and just... shit, I don’t wanna say cuddle because that’s super gay, but we cuddled. And then she’d get up and make us food, get us a beer, or put on a movie. And we’d just fucking sit there like it didn’t happen.”

“Anthem, I’m not trying to belittle what you’re feeling, but...” Sketch stretched awkwardly and gave a long sigh. “That sounds awesome?”

“It’s not me, Sketch!” Anthem slammed his hoof into the bench. “You don’t get it. I’ve had my share of drug-ridden, drunken, sloppy sex with mares. I’ve done it with multiple ponies, in public, half asleep, a couple of dudes when I was really out of it!”

“But...” Sketch started, already kind of feeling he knew the answer.

“But I never cared about any of them.” Anthem laughed as he pulled the loose flesh on his face back. “I never even saw the face of half of them. I only knew the names of like, a couple, and I’m pretty sure it wasn’t their real names. They knew that it was just to feel good for a couple of minutes, and I knew it too. I never had to talk to them any more than what they wanted, which usually was not much. And for some stupid fucking reason I thought that it’d be the exact same way with Haren. But the first night it happened something real fucking scary happened.”

“What?”

“When I walked into the living room after getting up from bed... she was there. The same face of the mar-... the woman that was goin’ down on me yesterday, smiling at me and teasing me about my mane. Saying that it looked like I cut off the head of a mop and taped it to my skull.” Anthem lurched over and covered his face. “It was so damn terrifying.”

Sketch looked away, finally understanding Anthem’s strange behavior that last couple of weeks. His odd distancing of himself. He’s just been terrified. Unfortunately, Sketch had to play dumb in order to help him, so he placed his hoof back onto Anthem’s shoulder. “Why are you scared, Anthem?”

“I... I...” Anthem looked up at the sky, tears streaming down his face. “I love Haren, man. She’s so... cool. She always knows what to say, she makes me laugh, makes me think about myself. She’s strong, physically and mentally. She’d beat me at arm wrestling and tells me that I could do better. She listens to my problems and always has an answer. She feeds me, does the shopping, fixes things that are broken, tells me things I didn’t know about the movies I’m crazy about, earns all the money... She gives me a reason to get up in the morning. She cares about so much. I look at her, and I wish I was her. She’s so much better than me. And I know that I want her beside me all my life, Sketch. I wouldn’t be able to live without her. I want us to be together forever. I don’t know how I got as far as I did without her help. I wanted us to do everything together, go everywhere together, hell and back.” Anthem sighed, and stretched out along the bench, “But I ruined it. It was never about sex, dude. Now when I look at her, she’s just the girl that gave me a blowjob. She turned into every nameless mare that I bent over a table. I destroyed that image of perfection I had of her. Now she’s just another mare that i’m gonna throw away after I’m done. And I’ve been avoiding her, and running away, because I hope that, that, the one time I come back, the other Haren will be there. But when I look at her now, my eyes trail to her ass, I track her pretty tail as it flicks around, and I just picture myself running my hooves down her chest. That’s not what I wanted. When I was at the party, Sketch, I was so close to fucking her, for real, not just third base. I’m terrified that when that time comes, (and with the way things are going, it will) that any chance the Haren I loved will come back, will be gone forever. She’s, she’s going to leave man, I’m not gonna-”

“Anthem!” Sketch shook Anthem once or twice to get him to shut up. “Anthem, I can’t believe you think that. That she’s gonna change just because you got your dick wet!”

“N-no! She won’t change, I WILL!” Anthem shouted, pounding his hoof into the bench, his voice capping out and echoing off the sides of empty buildings. Thankfully the site was pretty abandoned at this point in time. “You don’t understand, man! She’s not those mares I fucked, SHE’S REAL! I CAN’T BELIEVE I TREATED HER THAT WAY, LIKE A DIRTY BITCH!” Anthem began to rise from the bench. Sketch panicked, this was not good. The last thing he needs is a hysterical Anthem running around and getting arrested. He had to act fast. Sketch leaped forward with all the strength that he could and caught Anthem on the shoulders, pinning him against the base of the bench. Sketch could barely manage not toppling over, considering how scrawny he was compared to Anthem. The only reason he got the pin was the element of surprise, but he knew that if Anthem resisted at all, Sketch could become a simple stain on the wall. Anthem grunted as his head hit the wood of the bench.

“Anthem! Calm the hell down, you idiot!” Sketch nearly fell over, but stabilized himself by flattening against Anthem’s body. “You need to calm down!”

“NO! I’ve ruined everything! You don’t under-”

“I DO understand!” Sketch yelled back, at equal volume. “I understand what it’s like to lean on glass supports. Something that could shatter in an instant if I made the wrong move! Supports that are holding up everyone and everything I care about. But I do not let that change who I am!” Anthem’s body went limp and his face froze into a blank stare. He stopped struggling, and instead became content to breathing heavily. “You can’t let that change the way you treat people, or yourself. Have you once thought about what Haren is going through?”

“Wha- she-? I made damn sure that what I do doesn’t affect her,” he assured between breaths, his face contorting from insecurity.

“You don’t honestly believe that, do you? You’re so caught up about how much you care about Haren that you haven’t even considered how much she cares about you!” Sketch yelled an octave lower. He was trying to lower the general volume of the argument, to calm things down in a more tangible way. So far it was working.

“Why... why should she? I’m such a mess... all I do is go party, get drunk, and watch movies.” Anthem grinned an empty smile.

“Regardless of whether or not that’s true, it’s obviously not what she thinks about you.” Sketch said, their voices now at a calming quantity of decibels. “Why do you think she’s stuck around all this time, huh? She obviously cares about your useless ass. She probably needs you as much as you need her. Now I won’t speak for her, but I’d say that she might even love you too.”

Anthem tried to speak, but as soon as Sketch said love, tears welled up again, and he choked out.

“You keep thinking that you’re like, this pile of shit or something that doesn’t deserve her, or even me. But I want you to know, that, at least for me, you're a rock that I need. A friend that listens to me, and wants the best for me. Someone who ambushes me at school because you're worried about me like no one else is, even my parents. Someone who isn’t afraid to cross boundaries to offer a helping hoof. You don’t care what ponies say or think, you’re just always helping people and don’t ask nothing in return. And you worry so much that you’re gonna make a mistake...”

“Then... what should I do?” Anthem asked, his words barely scratching Sketch’s ears.

“That’s for you to decide,” Sketch answered honestly. Anthem cringed, those words not what he wanted to hear. “But just remember that you’re a glass support too. There’s already so much that’s fragile... don’t end up shattering yourself and bringing everyone else down with you. You not doing anything is probably just as dangerous as dealing with this problem head on, man. You need to talk to Haren. Tell her how you feel. Avoiding her is just gonna make her feel crappy.”

“Tss,” Anthem sounded, grimacing and looking away. “Yeah... yeah you’re probably right.” Anthem sighed once again, forcing his tears to fall away. “I just... I don’t want to fuck this up. We were such good friends. The best.”

“You know,” Sketch said, arching a brow and smiling. “You can be friends AND bone. They’re called marefriends.”

Anthem’s eyes shot open.

Wait. Wait. He really hadn’t considered this? WHAT?!

“I hadn’t...”

“Are you serious?!” Sketch angrily laughed. “ARE YOU SERIOUS?!”

“I never... had one,” he answered honestly. “It’s... that’s...”

“Anthem... You could be with her forever. This doesn’t have to be casual.”

“It’s just, I... I want to be friends. I don’t want this commitment, cause if it’s there, something bad could happen, and I could lose her without being able to get her back.”

Anthem looked like a lost child. Instead of averting his gaze in shame, like most would, his eyes were big, like dinner plates. Screaming for help. No wonder Haren fell in love with him. These feelings he had were so genuine he couldn’t contain it. Being around it was addictive.

“Anthem, bro... imagine what you could never have if you didn’t take the chance. Instead of being that good friend you had when you were young, she could be the second half of you. Your better half till the end of your days, and even after. The woman you’re buried with, where you’re one and whole, in an eternal embrace. Doesn’t that sound great?”

Anthem took a long while to ponder this. His gaze drifted as he daydreamed. “I... never thought that...” he laughed, finally closing his eyes and shaking his head. “This is so stupid. A couple of weeks ago, I wasn’t even attracted to her. Now, I think I wouldn’t even be able to keep it up with another mare. It would have to be a griffin. I can’t stop thinking about her, body and soul.”

“Once you go beak, you can never go back?” Sketch offered, finally climbing off of Anthem. He brushed himself off while Anthem lethargically settled into a lazy lean.

“Yeah, maybe, heh. She’s just so... mmn, you know?”

“Haha I could see it,” Sketch answered honestly.

“I don’t know how I didn’t see it earlier. She’s so lean and curvy at the same time. Her feathers are so soft, and her natural smell is like, cedar wood.” Anthem laughed again, holding his hooves up as if he were showing her off.

“I would think that the beak would be like...” Sketch asked, rubbing the back of his mane.

“Ahh, no man, that’s like the best part sometimes. And it’s softer than it looks.” Anthem coughed into his hoof, blushing for once in his life.

Sketch tapped his chin awkwardly, desperately trying to find things for his body to do. Suddenly a question popped in his mind. “You haven’t kissed her, huh?”

“No,” he answered, grinding his hoof against the bench. “Just third base. Skipped the other stuff. I-I didn’t count the cuddling, cause we did that before all this happened.”

“You should kiss her. I bet that’d be awesome.”

“Wow, yeah, actually, I hadn’t thought about it.” Anthem sighed again, trying to hide his blush. “I hardly kissed any of the other flings I had either. I liked it a lot when it happened but I guess I hardly ever tried it when i could.”

“Yeah and if you sleep with her, she’d be in bed with you when you wake up.”

“U-uh!” Anthem’s blush deepened, to a darker color Sketch didn’t think possible. He covered his face bashfully. This was hilarious. Anthem could brag about bitches all day, but normal couple romance stuff got him so flustered. “I hadn’t thought about that, oh Celestia.”

Sketch began to crack up and held Anthem at his side. “See? You want this.”

“Yeah,” he chuckled, holding his knee. “Maybe I did. But what if-”

“You see, that’s the cool thing about Haren. Even if she doesn’t feel the same way-” Sketch giggled internally since it didn’t matter what Sketch said, he KNEW that Haren already loves him. “she’d be super cool with you regardless.”

“You think?”

“Yeah, she’s your friend. I don’t think that’d ever change, like short of you stabbing her mother or something, and even then-”

“Yeah okay, I get it,” Anthem interrupted, punching Sketch in the shoulder. If everyone kept that up, he was going to start bruising soon. “See you around, Sketchy.”

“See ya, Anthem.”

Anthem froze as he got up, and rotated back around to Sketch. “Wait, in all the confusion you never told me what you were doing here.”

“Oh!” Sketch exclaimed, ears flattening. He was really hoping he had forgotten about that very one sided deal. “I uh...” Sketch reached around for his stuff, and held it in front of him. “Lunch and drawing at the lake!”

Anthem stared at him with a scrutinizing look for a few moments before smiling and turning away once again. “Alrighty, then you little weirdo. Have fun, don’t drown! And tell Trust I said hi!”

Sketch’s jaw dropped. For as dumb as Anthem was, his odd intuition was astounding, being able to deduce he was spending time with Trust despite any evidence. He decided the knowledge was mostly harmless and smiled back to the shrinking Anthem. He nodded in response and got up from the bench, and onto an approaching tram. He set his thing aside and closed his eyes. As he did, a picture of Anthem and Haren flowed into his mind, one of playful love, casual care. Everything he wanted for himself. He wished under his breath that they could work this all out. Because just now he realized, that while he was holding everything up on his glass supports, Haren and Anthem were the ones keeping him from falling down.





Sketch had opened the book he brought as the tram silently rode into the darkness. The light from his horn was plenty enough to see the words. It had been a while since he read the story of the little griffin girl to Trust, though they were almost done. To be fair, it wasn't that exciting of a book, but it was a great stepping stone in literacy. Things suddenly got a little brighter in the tram, and it wasn't hard to figure out why. He looked to his right and saw Trust give him a little wave. “Nice of you to join me,” he said, closing the book in his grasp.

“Hey.” Trust kicked her hoof back and forth a couple of times whilst staring at the floor.

Sketch waited for her to make some kind of quip or tease him a little. But nothing happened. He cocked his head and arched his brow. “You okay?”

“Huh, oh yeah,” Trust held her knee and coughed.

This wasn't about the love thing, was it? Sketch was prepared to let her off the hook, but if she brought it up, that's her fault. “What's wrong?”

Trust looked up, and Sketch was surprised to see her face being quite flushed. “I uhh, saw you talkin’ with Anthem.”

Oh. “Oh?” Why was this an important event? Things got a little heated, sure, but everything got worked out in the end.

“I couldn't hear what you guys were talking about, but,” Trust’s face became beet red. “You guys got uhh, pretty ‘intense’ there.”

“Uh, yeah, we did?” Sketch phrased it like a question despite being a confirmation. “I don’t-” Sketch screeched to a halt. He suddenly remembered passionately grabbing Anthem and pinning him to the floor, and closing the distance to keep him from squirming. At a certain angle, at a certain distance, that might look a little suspect. Sketch coughed and covered his face in embarrassment. “Oh my lord.”

“So I thought I had this figured out, but was Royal right about the mating thing? Is it like, only for other males? You can't make babies with him, can you?” Trust gasped and her face became even redder. “Was I not supposed to watch; is that rude? I'm so sorry, I just couldn't look away!”

“Trust, Trust, calm down haha,” Sketch shook his head amicably. “It wasn't like that.”

“I-I-I-it wasn't like what?” Trust began playing with her hooves, clipping them together panickedly.

“We weren’t... ‘doing’ anything. He just started freaking out and I had to calm him down.”

“Oh,” she oh’d. A long, awkward silence ensued, neither party looking at the other.

“You... disappointed?” Sketch asked, taking a pick to the iced over conversation.

Trust giggled, punching Sketch in the now designated punch-arm. “A little. You two make a cute couple.”

“Oh no,” he rebutted, “He's way too stallion for me.”

“Funny,” she replied, sauntering towards Sketch and lifting a strand of hair out of his eye. “I would think that you're more than enough mare for him.”

“Oof, jeez, did you have to kick me right in the balls?” They laughed together a bit before Trust settled down into a seat.

“Anyway, why was he freaking out?” Trust crossed her legs and leaned onto Sketch. Again, he didn't tense up like he usually does.

“I think he found out he really loves Haren and his brain exploded.”

“Aw that's adorable.” Trust snickered and rose a hoof in the air. “But didn't they already know that? I mean, what about that dank stuff they were doing at the party?”

“Well, it's hard for some ponies, to know the reasons they do things. Love can be loading a crossbow right in their face and they still don't see it coming.”

“Yeah, I guess we can all be short sided at times,” Trust mentioned before turning her head.

Sketch shuffled, a feeling in the core of his being brewing a few degrees over boiling. “To think: they almost ruined their relationship due to inaction. I'd never do something like that,” he whispered. Trust shook a little, but she showed no sign of hearing him. He glanced at her, and once he realized she was still looking away he became content in staring at the back of her head. Maybe I'm just in over my head. How did all this even happen? With the company I keep I should be breaking apart just as much as Anthem did. 

Trust sniffed and turned to face Sketch. He jumped and flicked his head away just in time. “Sketch?”

“Yeah?”

“When we first met... why did you kiss me?”

Sketch’s world suddenly went silent. He thought back on what Trust had let slip in that alley. That’s why I love you. This was the first question in a long time that he didn't have an answer to.

His brain exploded.
> Intermission. Guess Who's Coming Home
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

Anthem’s walk through the empty town had finally gotten to his nerves. The words shared with Sketch still swam through his head, firing synapses that kept his legs moving. For the past few weeks, his mind was muddled and sluggish. Now it was clear as glass, but there was so much contained inside it, it was starting to spill over. At some point he had started to gallop. He had stopped paying attention to the space outside his mind.

His emotions were an ocean in the middle of a storm. Waves crashing in and out. Hypotheticals and rhetorics climbing over the side and onto the deck of a lone ship being his conscious thought.

Poetics aside, Anthem was terrified. And excited. And happy. And anxious. And door.

BAMF

Anthem’s face met his front door with excruciating force. After recoiling, he rose his hoof and wiped his nose, and then inspected his hoof to see if there was blood. He didn’t actually attempt to check, his body was simply going through the motions. He reached for the door before freezing.

“What... what am I going to do? I haven’t even thought about this... fuck...” Anthem retracted himself and began to pace around the yard of their apartment. “Dammit. I need... to think. Okay. We’re already fooling around. I just need to... slide it in there. Not my dick. My words. ‘Haren? I love you.’ Okay no, that’s too forward. ‘Haren, we need to talk.’ What I’m I, her fuckin’ dad? Look, look, I just need to talk to her. I need to do this. I’ll wing it.” Anthem reached for the handle again, but stopped once he spotted one of his neighbors in the corner of his eye. She stared at him whilst slowly inserting the key into her door. Anthem chuckled a little bit. “I’m uh... not crazy!” Once she heard Anthem, she jumped and ran into her apartment, slamming the door behind her. Anthem sighed and headbutted his door.

I’m a mess. Shit. Stop freaking out about this. What would Sketch say? ‘Just be yourself, man, I’m amazing and so much better than you.’ Yeah, prolly that. Okay.

The doorknob turned- wait, no, locked.

...

The doorknob turned, and the door squeaked open. He left it there for a moment, inhaling once more. He decided to rip the band-aid off.

“HAREN!” Anthem screamed as the door crashed into the side of the wall. He instantly winced, slowly bringing his hoof closer to his chest and trying to physically shrink. Okay, that was bad. Stop being an idiot. Doing property damage and shouting at the girl you like is not a good strategy.

“Ahem, I mean, Haren.” Anthem sloppily recovered. “We need to...” Anthem looked around, seeing nothing but the familiar furnishings he had become familiar with. Haren was gone. Anthem sighed in relief, glad he had a few more minutes to prepare. He walked around to the kitchen, taking a peek into Haren’s bedroom to assure that she hadn’t gone to bed early. He opened the fridge, took out an open beer that was no doubt flat as a penny, and shoved the whole neck of the bottle down his throat. After chugging that much needed alcohol, he flopped over onto the couch, shoving his muzzle in between the cushions. He stayed there with an empty head just for a moment, a moment he desperately needed. When the thoughts began to cascade, Anthem got up and began to work. He sprinted towards the fridge and grabbed two beers, which turned into one beer when one fell out of his grasp, stupid fucking lack of a stupid fucking horn, and after he cleaned up the mess, he grabbed yet another. He set them on the floor next to the sofa, and then ran to his bedroom. He opened the drawer way to fast which made it fall to the ground in a heart-stopping thud. Anthem was too occupied to care, and was content in looting the fallen furniture. Columns of film reels evenly spaced out in the drawer had been slightly displaced from the impact, but were still in pristine condition. He frantically hoofed through the labels before stopping at the one he was looking for.

The closest thing he would be able to manage. “Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner,” he whispered the title aloud. A great film, but not his favorite. It was about a pair of unicorn parents dealing with the fact that their daughter comes home with her fiance, who happens to be a zebra. A story about breaking down boundaries and prejudices to make room for a true love to blossom forth, between two clashing cultures, and more importantly, species. Haren was smart, and this might be a bit too on the nose, but Anthem had settled on making a gamble. He had to go all in. He ran out, slamming the door behind him. He panickedly brought the reel to the projector, nearly knocking it over in the process. The process was complicated and difficult, especially for hooves, but Anthem had done this so many times, he could do it in his sleep, even in his distressed state.

“Okay, what else?” Anthem backed off from the projector, eyeing the entire environment, assuring himself everything was in order. Of course super-Haren also kept the apartment nearly spotless. Flawless, perfect, elegant Haren. Nothing like Anthem. He was a mess, flawed, and rough-cut. She was out of his league, even if someone would call him handsome.

“HANDSOME!” He yelled, making a break for the bathroom. Slapping the lightswitch on, he ran to the sink and peered into the mirror.

“I’m a goddamn mess,” he whispered, reaching for the sink. The sink was clogged, as he wanted, and he grabbed the soap. It wasn’t long before the sink was completely full. Once it was three quarters full, he held his breath and dunked his head into the ice-cold water. “BUH, huh, ahh,” he gasped and sputtered. Grabbing the soap, he lathered it into his hair and onto his face. It nearly got into his eye, but he dunked his head again before it could redden his eyes. The ice-cold water wasn’t exactly therapeutic, but it did wonders for waking him up properly. He was going to have to be as sharp as he could be to make it through this. He raised his head, taking sharp breaths and shaking his mane. The towel he then grabbed was a welcome warmth. “Shit, shit.” There was a moment given to recovery before Anthem continued with the motions. Brushing teeth, mouthwash, blowing nose... the works. After his hair was dry, he ran some product in his hair, only a tiny amount, to keep it from moving too much. He then decided that it looked dumb so he dunked his head into the water once again to wash it out.

Anthem ran into the living room and jumped onto the couch, panting uncontrollably. His heartrate was uncontested, and the breaths he drew were hot and heavy. After four minutes of adrenaline, things began to stagnate.

There was silence, and then there was this. ‘This’ was an unbearable emptiness that would drive a saint to sin. ‘This’ was the test given to the mightiest of stallions. ‘This’ was a room without Haren.

Anthem’s eyes darted around the darkness, trying to focus on things that weren’t there, feelings he didn’t have. Anything to distract himself from the disturbing truth which was the lack of his friend’s presence.

His mind began to once again wander.

What if it stays like this forever? What if it gets worse. What if... what if he was already too late, and his carelessness caused Haren to pack her things and leave. She’d never do that, would she?

I would deserve it if she did. Hell... she just might have.

Anthem was about to get up and leave... when the front door opened.

In all of his panic, he never actually turned on any lights, aside from the bathroom’s, so his eyes had adjusted to the darkness. But when the griffin walked in, the light invaded Anthem’s eyes and caused him to grimace. Before he closed his eyes from the discomfort, there was a moment’s silhouette of Haren, his friend. If he didn’t know any better, he would’ve been able to fool himself into thinking that her brilliance was the source of the light. He forced his eyes open, pushing his body past the pain.

There she was, an angel on earth.

“Yo, whattsup, asshole?” she asked, setting some brown paper bags on the nightstand nearest the door.

An angel he didn’t deserve.

“Uh, h... hey.”

She tossed the keys into the glass dish next on the same nightstand before walking further into the apartment. She stretched. A long... sensual stretch, putting both her talons on top on each other and pulling them across the ground in front of her. She inhaled sharply, cause her chest to heave and her stomach to retract, accentuating her natural curves and enhancing them further. Her hind naturally rose as a result of her posture, and her tail flicked a few time.

Anthem drooled. Haren walked into the kitchen and turned on the light. She began doing her borderline alchemy, before groaning and turning to face Anthem. “Hey, Anthem, can you hand- er, hoof me the bread from one of the bags I brought in.” There was some lag in Anthem’s head before he shook his head and got up.

“Uh... yeah, sure!”

“If you want to be a real fuckin’ gangsta, you’ll just bring the whole bags ova here,” she mentioned, the sound of a knife hitting a cutting board emanating from the kitchen.

Anthem reached the bags, putting both of his forehooves on the end table and taking a few breaths, trying to gather his composure. He just keeps freezing up every time he looks at her.

Stupid Sketch making me think about all this so differently. Gah! It used to be so easy! Anthem placed the bags in his mouth and trotted to the kitchen, slowly approaching Haren from behind. He had to face the ceiling once he remembered Haren shakes her rump whenever she’s working something on a table. At her side, he made a sound to alert her.

“Ah,” she exclaimed, setting down the knife that she had. She put on a fake, thick southern accent. “Thanks, boo, yer a real sweetheart.” She grabbed the bags straight from his mouth, the edges of her talons trailing the sides of his lips. Anthem had to struggle to refrain from closing his eyes as she did, nearly losing balance from the contact. She placed the bags on the table and pulled out bread and that synthetic meat that she likes. Anthem eyed the table she was working on and saw cheese cut into very thin slices. A tub of butter was also nearby. She spotted Anthem looking at the contents and smiled. “Wanna grilled cheese?”

“Uhh sure.”

She nodded and cut another couple of slices of cheese out. It was then that Anthem hatched an idea. “Could you put a little of that synthetic meat on?”

Haren’s eyes went wide before she smirked and looked at him out of the corner of her eye. “Woah, feeling adventurous, are ya?”

“Hey,” Anthem started, shrugging. “Gotta see what all the fuss is about y’know?”

“Alright then, my little cannibal,” she laughed, and pulled an extra helping of meat from the container. “So,” Haren breathed, cleaning her area as she went. There was already a skillet sitting on the burner. She slapped some butter on the pan and began spreading butter on the slices of bread. “You wanna watch a mov-”

“YES!” he bombastically interrupted. Haren recoiled a little bit before he coughed and rubbed his chest. “I mean, uh, yeah. Already got something loaded up. I was gonna watch it before you walked in.

“Cool,” she replied, pretending the outburst didn’t happen because she’s awesome. “I swear to god all that I’ve been thinking about today was the fucking ending to ‘Close Encounters of the Third Kind’. The fucking horn signals got me.”

Anthem smiled. The genuine interest in his hobby warmed his heart. She wasn’t just doing it to appease him, she wasn’t just doing it because he was doing it. She saw the joy that it brought Anthem and wanted that joy for herself, to the point where she had starting researching and purchasing films for herself. Films were an intelligent art form, and Haren was an intelligent person. It was a natural conclusion. Anthem kept thinking back on their endless conversations and musings about various films. Things that would be timeless in his eyes.

Anthem trotted back to the sofa whilst looking over his shoulder. “Makes you think, huh? Something I need.”

Haren laughed at his self-punch, whilst tossing the two finished sandwiches on the pan. The sizzle was overpoweringly loud, muting the buzzing in Anthem’s head. A welcome distraction.

However, Anthem observed he had become significantly more stable since Haren had entered the scene. His thought’s finally slowed enough to be processed. His heart no longer felt the fear of uncertainty, only the slight flutter every time Haren did something that made her Haren. Sketch helped clear his thoughts, and Haren helped him process them. A sudden feeling of gratitude washed over him, and he only hoped he played some part in making one of his friends a better person in return.

Anthem approached the projector and started the film. As the roll began and the familiar sound of the reel turning resonated off the plain walls, he closed his eyes and thought of something that had been hounding at the back of his mind. Haren, laying next to him, smiling.

He suddenly got a huge urge to hug her, Maybe one day he could do it without any pretense. As he took his seat on the sofa, he thought back on all the times that he and Haren hugged. When they saw each other for the first time after a week apart, they embraced. When Anthem’s sister died, she held him. After Haren lost her job, Anthem tenderly wrapped his forelegs around her. Counting all of them in his head, Anthem lamented his lack of foresight in the past. How much he had gone through, only being able to because of her.

“Food.” Haren handed him a plate with a perfectly cooked grilled cheese sitting up top.

“Thanks.”

“Welcome.” She took her seat next to him on the sofa, taking a large bite of her sandwich without skipping a beat. Anthem realized he was watching her rather creepily, and decided to take a bit of his sandwich to distract himself. 

WOAH! Anthem nearly had the food in his mouth fall onto the floor, as a brand new taste assaulted his tastebuds. It was extremely moist, and a strange liquid poured from his lips. The meat was stringy and fell apart in predetermined locations. It was both tough and soft, being firm during the chew, and soft during rest. It swam down his throat, and unlike most foods, he didn’t feel it hitting his stomach. “Woah...”

“Wassup?” Haren asked in the middle of another bite, her sandwich already three quarters of the way gone. She was smacking her beak and licking her talons. Actions that Anthem only recently started noticing. Probably due to her nature, eating was much more carnal than a pony’s methods. More messy. A lot more alluring. Intimacy also followed this role, but due to his hesitance, Anthem hadn’t fully experienced it.

“I might have to become a cannibal,” he joked. “This stuff’s amazing.”

“Nothing compares to the real thing, though.” Haren threw the last piece of sandwich in her mouth before Anthem had taken his second bite. “Or, you know. So I hear.”

“I know they do that stuff in your country,” he assured, giving her a confident smirk. “As long as it’s not me sitting in a cauldron, I’m not really in any place to judge,”

“Yeah...” Haren tossed her plate to the side, making a slight clang as it hit the floor.

They stopped speaking for a while and simply allowed the movie to play. Apart from a few chuckles from the comedy scenes and a bathroom break, very little was said. Anthem began to shift in his seat about halfway through the movie.

Shit, what do I say? I’m running out of time. If I don’t do something, nothing will change. He faced her, rubbing his knee and biting his lip. But that wouldn’t be so bad, right? That’s what I wanted. I just want to be with her and I already have that. Why risk that?

Sketch’s voice appeared in his head. ”See? You want this... Don’t you want her to know how much you care? Don’t you want to wake up next to her? If you don’t do something, you’ll be in more danger of losing her than you would if you did nothing. Don’t screw this up by being content with what you have. Help your glass support hold up what you love.

The events of the past few weeks had been tearing him apart. If he left this alone, it would destroy him.

“Yo, you okay? You look kinda pale.”

Anthem jumped at the sudden attention. Haren had seen that Anthem was distracted, and more importantly, noticed he was looking at her absentmindedly. He quickly looked towards the floor and desperately searched for an excuse. “Uh, yeah! I’m okay, just kinda tired.”

“Oh,” she oh’d, somewhat disappointed. There was a slight pause before she leaned a bit close to him. “You know, we can do this later if you’re tired.”

“No! No. I’m fine, I’m... I need to finish this.” Anthem winced at the transparency from his words. He had learned a long time ago that there was a few things he needed to watch with his friends. Sketch saw through his lies. Trust, with the small time he knew her, could turn around any snark he threw at her. Haren, though? She could always figure out Anthem’s true meaning behind his words. It was one of the reasons she was so important to him, she never misunderstood him or took offense to his slip ups. Unfortunately it also meant taking small steps towards her was a goddamn minefield.

“Alright,” she let go, unsure. It a sign of respect that she didn’t pursue his strange behavior. “Why don’t you just lie down on the couch? You really do look out of sorts, man.”

Anthem opened his mouth to decline, but temptation got the better of him. It was obvious where this was going, but he couldn’t stop it. He wanted this too much. Maybe he could use this to his advantage however. In order to do so, he’d have to go on the offensive. “Could I use you like a pillow?” he asked, giving an innocent smile.

Haren couldn’t help but look surprised at first. She was usually the one that said the flirty thing that led to the mutual benefits. But she quickly bounced back and chuckled. “Sure, why have a feather pillow when you can get the real thing?”

“Like real meat?”

“Mmn, that’s for you to decide.” Haren leaned back and rested her arm on the cushion at her side. Anthem repositioned himself and rested his head on Haren’s shoulder. The second his head hit her, she lifted her arm and wrapped it around his neck and placing her talon on his chest. Now, instead of resting on her shoulder, he was resting on her chest. It was absolutely heavenly. Firm on inhales, soft on exhales. Sort of like eating meat, oddly enough. And her smell? Cedar wood. But this close, it was stronger. Like... wet cedar wood. Walking through a forest in the rain. The sound of her breathing was as calming as the beat of rain, as well. He wanted to bury his face in her chest and inhale, but he wasn’t sure if that was okay even if she was his marefriend. Wait, marefriend was the wrong term. Girlfriend.

Anthem decided to wait and just enjoy this for a while. In their weird friends with benefits type of relationship they had for a while, stuff like this was a rarity. The few times they... ‘cuddled’, it was incidental, one of them having dozed off after release. A few times, Haren had slept against Anthem’s shoulder on long train rides, the few times they went out of town. But this was... unprecedented. He kind of felt guilty that he’d be the only pony that’d get to feel this. Sketch should get a Haren of his own!

Anthem’s eyes shot open. He panicked a bit, but he realized, after identifying the scene of the movie, he had only slept for a minute or two. Alright... focus.

“Haren?”

“Mmn?”

Anthem tried to shift, but stopped once he remembered his position. It was a little frustrating, but given a choice, he’d always pick this. “I wanna...” He bit his lip and exhaled. What was he going to say? “I mean I...”

“Hmm?” She tapped his chest with her talon as a weird sign of patience. Kind of telling him to pace himself. Must be a griffin thing.

“Are we just gonna ignore all this?”

A long quiet ensued. The only sound was the film, but neither was listening. “What do you mean.”

“Nothing’s changing,” he stated. It made sense to him, what it meant. He could only hope Haren’s intuition was still working.

Another silence.

Suddenly, Anthem got whisked up, with an astonishing amount of force. His entire body got flipped into the air, and his legs sprawled out. Involuntarily, Anthem yelped out like a dog as he rotated midair. Anthem used to think he was heavy. He used to think he was strong. He was an earth pony after all. But Haren’s incredible ease of handling him like a sack of potatoes destroyed all of that perception. When she finished posing him like an action figure, she was on top of him, with her talons on either side of his head. She was looking down on him, directly in his eyes, a sultry grin across her features. They spent a precious few seconds just staring at each other.

“Civil rights is one thing. This here is something else!” the movie bellowed.

“It doesn’t have to,” she assured, digging her talon into his earlobe and messaging it slowly. Anthem struggled to make a response, but he simply stared at her mouth agape. She began to lower her head, and she dragged her body along his as she got lower. It was slow, and as she got to his neck, she began to drag her beak along his chest, sending pings of stimulation down and up his spine, into his brain.

He wanted to say something, anything. But everything had stopped. His brain was dead, his limbs were lead. He couldn’t do... anything, Just like everything else. Haren was a drug, and he was an addict. He could never stop as long as she enabled him. He was helpless.

“Oh my god.” Haren’s eyes went wide as terror entered her features. “Oh my god, oh god, oh god.”

Anthem blinked a couple of times. After the initial confusion of her use of the word ‘god’ which he had to quickly remind himself of the cultural differences, he wracked his brain to figure out why she suddenly looked so scare.

“Holy shit.” Haren pulled herself off of him and clawed back to her side of the sofa. “Oh god I’m so sorry, I...” She got into a fetal position on her side, and looked away. She ran her talons down her face, nearly poking her eyes, and almost drawing blood off her cheeks. “I didn’t, I didn’t know!”

Anthem scratched the back of his head, utterly flummoxed. “Haren, what-” Anthem froze as he felt a warm moisture on his cheek. He rose his hoof and touched his cheek. Water. He followed the trail that lead up to his eye, where he displaced the well of water that had built up at the corner of his eye. Tears? He was crying?

Oh. Oh no. This is bad. She thinks that...

“I’m just...oh fuck I’m sorry, I’m just gonna go to bed, I- forget about it okay, don’t worry about this, fuck.” Haren squeezed her talons and kicked off the sofa she took a few steps, before...

No. Enough preparing. Enough uncertainty. This ends now.

Anthem shot his foreleg out and caught Haren before she could continue. “Stop.”

Haren obeyed, craning her neck and looking him in the eye. There was a lone, solitary tear in her eye. Small. It broke his heart. This was the first time he had seen her cry. They stared at each other.

“What...” Haren wiped the tear from her eye. “What’s wrong, Anthem?”

I’m just gonna say it. Just stop thinking. It’s worked for me this far, fuck. “Haren... I... I’m scared.” Anthem retracted into himself and looked away. “I... I don’t know what to do.”

“I... what do you mean?”

“I mean, I don’t know what to do!” he yelled, his hooves hitting the cushion of the sofa. “For the first time in my life, I don’t know what to do.”

Haren froze and looked at the floor, and then returned to the sofa. She was close to him, but she dare not touch him.

“I’ve always known what to do. Due, in part, to you, honestly. Everything was so fucking simple. I always had you to back me up. I... always leaned on you, for everything. But... you got me that movie. ‘It’s a Wonderful Life’. And after that... everything fucking changed. And I was so goddamn scared that...” Anthem’s tears began to fall again. “That things were gonna change. That- that... I was just gonna throw you away.”

“What? Anthem, why-”

“Because I’ve done it before! So many times! Every Time I did it with a mare I threw them away, and you’re not that! And, and, that’s all I thought about you for the past weeks. You became a body to me. You weren’t Haren any more.”

Anthem looked at her and saw her face contorted into horror. A blind, bitter horror, the kind you feel encountering the unknown, something you can’t understand.

“And I just- I couldn’t handle it!” he yelled. “You were such a solid in my life! Such a... guarantee! When that happened, the rug got pulled from under me. You turned into something else. I didn’t know how important you were, until what you were was threatened.” He got up and held Haren by the arms. “I need you, Haren. I always treated you like Haren, and Haren wasn’t something I had sex with!”

Haren opened her beak... but nothing came out. How could she speak at a time like this? It was impossible.

“Haren, I need you. I want you. Everything’s uncertain and I hate it. I need stability, I don’t like anything new! But I want you there, always!” Anthem got closer to Haren’s face, his eyes intense and heavy. “I need you to tell me.”

“Tell you what, Anthem?” she asked, steeling herself and grasping his forelegs, as if it would fortify herself. “What do you want me to tell you?”

“I know now, that I can’t expect everything will stay the same. Change, it needs to happen. And I know, now, that ponies change. People change. But I need you to promise me one thing.” Anthem hung his head, but not far enough for his eyes to be taken off of her. “I need you to promise me you won’t change.” Anthem shook his head violently, but Haren appeared unphased. Her expression remained determined. “I don’t mean, you. I know people change, to ask you that would be unfair. I mean... we won’t change. That no matter what happens... we will always be together. I’m not... me without you. I’m not complete. It took me four years to realize it, but... I love you. And that’s not new. That’s from day one.”

Anthem didn’t realize he was out of breath. He panted, and held onto her shoulders to keep from falling. All the energy was drained from his limbs. His knees were shocking, and his lips were twitching. After a while, he laughed. “I’m being such a fucking chick about this, huh?”

“Anthem, you’re an idiot.”

Anthem’s eyes shot open. He looked up and earnestly asked, “Why?”

“I love you too, you stupid shit.”

“Oh.”

They stared for around a minute, content in absorbing each other for a few moments. And then they laughed. A hearty guffaw. They began to cry for completely different reasons.

“I’m,” Anthem started, taking a few deep breaths. “I’m still scared.”

“I know,” Haren said, deciding to leave it at that.

“Could you...” Anthem shufflled, “Could you kiss me?”

“Jesus, Anthem,” Haren exclaimed, holding his neck and his cheek with either talons. It felt so strange, she was able to cradle and hold him with her flexible digits that hooves never would’ve been able to do. “You are being a chick about this.”

“I want you to...” Haren’s beak hit his snout as he spoke, and he closed his eyes. “I want you to stay with me. No matter what.”

“I surrendered myself to you the day we met, Anthem.”

“I want you...” Anthem ran his hooves down her chest and trailed down her stomach. He envied her talons, he wanted to feel more. He couldn’t wait to bury his muzzle back into there. “I want you in my bed, Haren.”

“Joke’s on you, I sleep in your bed all the time when you’re not here.”

He couldn’t help but chuckle. Things really wasn’t going to change. Maybe nothing really ever did change.

“Damn everyone else, Haren. It’s only you I ever needed. I’m sorry i was so blind to that before.”

“Seeing you break the fuck apart was good enough consolation, Anthem.” Haren finally pulled him in, causing him to grunt in mild, pleasant surprise. Her tongue was so far down his throat, so quickly, he nearly choked on it. Ecstasy was the only way to describe how he felt. Her tongue was massively different than a mare’s. It was pointed and thick at the base, the complete opposite of a pony’s. But it was flexible, deliberate, and fast. She was able to do exactly what she wanted with it, with no limitations. Anthem couldn’t even feel her beak, her mouth was open so wide, but after a few moments of wrestling her tongue, he was able to escape her grasp and explore a bit of her. He ended up licking a bit of her outside beak and trading between that and the inside of her throat. Literally her throat, it was further up because of her anatomy and it appeared she had no gag reflex. It was messy. Carnal.

Minutes passed before they finally separated. They both panted heavily, doofy smiles on their faces.

“Okay.” Haren breathed, putting a talon on her forehead.

“Okay,” Anthem mimicked with more resolution.

“I can’t believe this is happening,” she laughed, rubbing her neck with her palm and stretching it out.

“What do you mean?”

“Well if this ever did happen, I thought I’d be the one being a sniveling wreck at your hooves, asking for like, a pity fuck.”

Anthem finally looked like his regular self again, tired and lazy, but full of life. A half cocked grin plastered onto his muzzle. He arched his brow and snickered. “Haha, you’re too strong for that.”

“Anthem?” Haren whispered into his ear, her beak tapping the inside.

“Yeah?”

“Let’s go to bed.”



In the night, the only two things Haren could hear was the ticking of a clock she forgot Anthem had, and the wonderboy himself. His heart, beating to the rhythm of her own, and his long breaths calming, therapeutic. She was going to have to remember to burn that clock to shut it the fuck up. She had one talon strategically on his chest, feeling it raise up and down in sync with his breathing. The other talon was wrapped around his side and on his stomach. Low, low stomach. Her face was half buried in Anthem’s mane, with her beak resting on his ear like a pencil. At some point her tail wrapped around his leg, though that thing had a mind of its own.

In the end, Haren didn’t believe what happened. She didn’t believe that Anthem would be that broken up, and she sure as hell didn’t believe he’d say the dreaded words first, I love you. But the one thing she straight up could not accept, was the thought that she was stronger than him. That just wasn’t true, plain and simple. She may have seemed sure of herself, or more confident than him, but he did what she couldn’t: confront what she was afraid of. Truth is, she was nothing without him. Just an empty husk of a woman, with nothing to live for. If she had just talked to him sooner, all of this would have been avoided.

The sun slipped through the cracks in the blinds. It had begun to rise. But it worked out. Despite it all, it worked out. And now, the stallion she adored was in her arms, and he made her promise she’d never leave. It was everything she wanted for the past four years.

She was going to have to thank Sketch, later.

Anthem sharply inhaled when the sun reached his eyes, and stretched before realizing he was trapped under the full force of the spooning. He turned his head and met Haren’s eyes. They need not speak.

But Haren didn’t care. “Mornin’ hotshot.”

“Hey,” he breathed, his face becoming flush. He made an effort to rotate his whole body around, which Haren allowed, until they were face to face. His forelegs were propped up and extended past her shoulders. He could clop his hooves behind her head if he wanted. After a pause, he dove his face into her chest, making an audible thud and nibbling on of Haren’s feathers. She began to laugh and graped at his mane, pretending to struggle and faux trying to rip him off. After a few moments of wrestling around, he let go, and looked up at her, with big puppy dog eyes. “I’ve been wanting to do that for a while now.”

Haren put on that fake southern accent again. “You haff to worn mah when ya do somethin’ like that, suga-cube!”

He chuckled, rotating onto his back, with Haren following close behind. This wasn’t the end. Haren knew that. But at least, for now...

This story wasn’t looking like a tragedy.
> 10. Who We Are
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

HANG




IN




THERE





























































“Just hold on. I know it doesn’t seem like I want you here. But the truth is, I wouldn’t be the same without you. No matter how insignificant you think you are.”

-Arthur Sketch

The grass crunched underneath Sketch’s and his friend’s hooves, along with the lone sticks and fallen branches the forest is known for. Neither had spoken for a while. They didn’t need to. Hearing the same sounds and seeing the same sights was enough conversation for the both of them. Trust had closed her eyes after a while, guiding herself with Sketch’s steps. Sketch sighed, and rose his head to the sky. The moon was full.

“I thought I wasn’t going to see you again.”

The sound of crunching grass ceased. Trust cocked her head, her smile never disappearing. She wanted to know, and she was willing to wait.

“I thought you were going to disappear.” Sketch kicked a twig that poked his hoof. “When you stepped towards my window... everything was going to return to normal.”

Trust took a step closer to Sketch, biting her lip playfully. “You wish you never met me, huh?”

“What? Trust, I-”

She put her hoof on Sketch’s lips, gently this time. “It’s okay. There are days I wish I never met you. You make it so hard for me sometimes.”

Sketch looked away, a lump forming in his throat. A frog bellowed in the distance and an owl hooted. ‘Yeah. It would’ve been easier if you had just left.” He began tapping on hoof with the other. “But I never wanted easy. The reason that I did everything everyone told me to was because I never put any value in my life. But when you showed up... it expanded my little world.”

“I thought that nobody would ever be able to care about me. That I was the only one putting value in my life,” she confided, chuckling darkly.

“That’s why I kissed you. I wanted you to come back. You make me want to be a better stallion, to do important things. I was scared that it wasn’t going to happen.”

“Well, it worked, Sketchy.” Trust began to walk again, expecting Sketch to follow. He did. “You make me feel like a better mare.”

“You’re not the problem, the world’s the problem,” he added as he walked parallel to her. “I can attest to that.”

“So... now that I’m sticking around, no need to kiss me anymore, right?”

“Well, you’re also very pretty, so...” Sketch chuckled and rubbed the back of his mane. Trust punched his shoulder yet again. Forget bruising, his arm’s gonna fall off.

“You know that- ROYAL!” Trust shouted and jumped back at the statuesque batstallion that was suddenly in front of her. She coughed in her hoof and wiped it on her chest. “Royal, hey, you are here and are not,... not here. You’re standing. In front of us. Hi.”

“How long until the lake?” his gravelly voice bellowed, ignoring Trust’s blabbering. “I think I may have been there before.”

“That wouldn’t be to hard to believe. If you’ve been living around Canterlot you’d only be able to walk so far before running into it.” Sketch sighed and passed Royal, motioning him to follow. “Thanks for humoring me, Royal. I know this must be kinda typical for you.”

“Hmm,” he answered, neither confirming or denying. “I just want resolution.”

“You’re not gonna get that any time soon, bucko,” Trust chortled, slapping Royal on the back as she passed him. He didn’t budge from the contact, but his face bore that same confusion as he did back at the house. He shook his head and followed close behind.

They passed through several clearings wordlessly, exchanging quick glances every thirty yards or so. Eventually they got to the cold black lake.

Memories of time spent here flooded back into Sketch, primarily of him and Trust wrestling in the water. It felt so long ago now. He took a seat near the shore and set his things down. He took the sandwich out of the bagged lunch and split it into three pieces, giving every individual a piece. Trust nearly ate it one bite almost instantaneously, while Sketch gave it a quick sniff before taking a chomp out of it. Royal simply looked at it intensely.

“Something wrong?” Sketch asked him, taking another bite.

“I just... haven’t ate something like this in a while,” he answered, rotating it. “Is there a reason it’s symmetrical?”

“Umm...” Sketch pondered, finishing the small piece of bread he had left. “I guess not really. It looks nice, and it’s convenient to hold. That’s about it.”

“Okay then.” He took a small nibble of it and lowered his hooves, staring out into the darkness of the lake as he chewed. “Seems like a waste of time.”

“It is a waste of time. That’s why people do it,” Sketch explained. He had gotten good at explaining simple concepts, thanks to Trust. “Crafting different foods using a small amount of different ingredients is an artform. Drawing different flavors from unrelated foods is a popular past time, and people savor the sensation as an unforgettable experience that they learn from, and the chef gains fulfillment in changing how ponies feel via a simple biological process.”

Royal looked at him with that same neutral face he was becoming famous for. He licked his teeth whilst taking a second examination of his sandwich. “I suppose that’s reasonable. Art is subjective and so is taste. It’d be easy to draw parallels.”

Sketch wiped his mouth whilst giving Trust the small juice box he had brought. She immediately got to work putting the straw in. “You know, for a nature nut, you’re quite well spoken.”

“I learned my speech from a language teacher,” he said, his eye twitching. “I hid in the attic of an advanced class for a couple of years. I’m nocturnal, so I would fall asleep listening to lessons.” He closed his eyes and exhaled. “I haven’t been back there in a while.”

“Do you know how to read?” Sketch asked, taking the juice box Trust was offering and taking a swig.

“Yes,” he confirmed. “Not very well, mind you.”

“Well, damn,” Trust cursed, puffing her cheeks and lowering her head. “I decide to live off of civilization and I’m dumber than nature-boy.”

“You shouldn’t try to receive guidance from sheep,” he quipped, taking another nibble from the sandwich.

Sketch planted his hooves into the ground in faux protest. “Hey!”

Royal shook his head and looked down on Sketch with his nose in the air. “I wouldn’t be offended, boy. From the looks of the company you keep, you refuse guidance from sheep as well.”

Sketch’s eyes shot open, and he opened his mouth to say something. But as all the protest in his mind for the past month resurfaced, that would be an apt description for his feelings of the public. It was a little harsh for his tastes, since his parents was included in the mix. Sketch put his hoof to his chin and put on his poetry hat. “But I can’t stray too far from the pack. I may sympathize with wolves, I may want to help them, but I am no wolf.”

Royal began to make weird motions, rubbing his hooves together and stomping his back right hoof. “But you are no sheep either.”

“A third party,” Sketch offered.

“The sheepdog,” Royal confirmed.

“But not the foolish farmer,” Trust interjected. Sketch and Royal both gave her a quizzical look. “You know... the establishment.”

Sketch lit up, placing his hoof on Trust’s shoulder. “Hehehe, yeah! Raugh Raugh!”

“Fight the power,” Royal added.

Sketch and Trust began giving a hearty laugh, a friendly wholesome laugh. Royal looked away, but not upset. Just... distant.

“Alright,” Sketch wooed, biting his lip. “Okay, let’s get started. Trust, go be pretty over there, please.”

“Yessir,” she saluted. “I’ll try very hard.”

“You don’t have to try,” he sang as she walked away, closer to the water. “Royal, you want to get in on this?”

Royal’s eyebrows shot up. “You want me in your drawings?”

Sketch refrained from screaming ‘YES’, and reserved himself to drawing little circles in the ground with his hoof. “Ahem... I mean... I would like you to... if you want?”

He thought for a moment and shrugged, taking his place next to Trust. “Okay. I thought you wanted to keep everything on a low profile.”

Sketch took out his mechanical pencil, not the best artist’s utensil, but it got the job done. He raised his sketchpad and clicked the pencil whilst clearing his throat. “I do.”

“But you have drawings of Trust in your house. Aren’t you afraid ponies will find them?” 

“They have, and thought nothing of it.” Sketch shrugged, starting his lines. “If anything it’ll help my case if this all goes to shit. Flattering pictures of pretty mares can go a long way.”

“I suppose.”

Sketch looked up at his subjects, sticking his tongue out. He began sweating preemptively as he noticed how terrible their poses were, Royal was just sitting, like the dictionary definition of such. Trust looked bored and was leaning awkwardly on her left foreleg. “Uhh, Trust, could you lay on your side, and prop one hind leg above the other and like, cradle the ground as if it were a baby?”

“Uhh, alright boss.” She took the pose and Sketch nearly passed out. “How’s this?”

...

...

“Sketch?”

“Fine! Its... fine.” He nervously chuckled and cleared his throat. “Royal would you like, puff out your chest and cross your left foreleg with your right.”

He obeyed wordlessly.

“Alright let’s do this.” Sketch went to work, dragging his pencil rapidly across the pad. Sketch usually drew with no reference, so posed ponies were a cakewalk at this point.

After a small while, Trust yawned, and Sketch knew he was going to have to entertain her in the meantime. Luckily, Royal decided to take up the mantle. “What’s the point of art?” he asked. Expression unchanged.

“What do you mean? People like it.” Sketch offered, nearly finished with the framework.

“I mean conceptually. What made ponies attach themselves to theoreticals and fantasies? Was it simply envy?”

Sketch looked up at Royal. He didn’t take him for an intellectual as well, though he supposed that if you spent enough time alone as he did, you’d get a little introspective. Or is that extrospective?

“I don’t think it’s that superficial. I think it's for understanding parts of yourself. Feelings and emotions that you can relate to get inflated into bombastic proportions, so you don’t have to put yourself to a microscope. Dragons and monsters could be your struggles to get your next meal, or pay off your house. Pits and valleys can be debts and desires. It’s why art is subject, too, I think. I mean, it makes sense to me.”

“Hmm... haven’t thought about it that way.”

“Careful, Royal,” Trust laughed, throwing her head back. “You almost sounded impressed there.”

“Yes, I probably should pay more attention to suppressing that,” he deadpanned, never breaking eye contact with Sketch’s pad.

“More jokes, I'm impressed.” Sketch finished up the framework, weak lines and soft outlines. “Alright you guys can relax, I’m done with the basics.”

Trust let out an exaggerated ‘BLEGGGH’ as she rolled over. Royal simply rose and approached Sketch, taking a peek at the work in progress. He looked it over, and nodded slowly. “Decent,” he confided, taking a seat next to Sketch.

“Aw, jeez, don’t make me blush,” he quipped, adding light shading to a segment of Royal’s mane. “Not an art stallion?”

“No.” Royal eyed over the sketch again. “Doesn’t make your art any less good.”

Sketch eyed him suspiciously, unsure if he was trying to flatter him or break him down. They were both silent for a while as Sketch worked. He found out Royal was staring at Trust as they sat. He didn’t look away from his work as he spoke. “I’m sorry things didn’t work out the way you wanted.”

“It never does,” he mentioned with an even tone. Not a hint of sorrow in his voice, a hint that he wasn’t exaggerating. He rubbed his knee and narrowed his eyes. “Why is mating exclusive to a single individual?”

“Well it isn’t for some, honestly.” Sketch finished drawing for now, but pretended he was still working.

“But why at all? It’s for having children. It’s biological.”

“Think about it, Royal.” Sketch placed his pad down, and faced the stallion. “Animals are built to survive. They’re built from the ground up to deal with dangerous situations in different ways. But when mating happens, animals are vulnerable for a short time.”

“Yes,” he agreed. “Animals put themselves in danger for a short time to pass their genes.”

“But ponies and more intelligent species are rarely in constant danger. Mating was still just as necessary, but we no longer needed to worry about our surroundings.”

“So?” he asked, raising a brow.

“So it became a viable pastime. But in case you haven’t noticed, there aren’t massive orgies constantly happening in the streets. Why?”

“Hmm,” he hummed, crossing his forelegs. “Because ponies still feel vulnerable during the act.”

“Exactly,” Sketch exclaimed, flicking the air. “It meant people only mate with those they trust. And those numbers are quite lacking for most.”

“Then what stops multiple partners?” he asked. His questions were less accusatory now, and more genuine in their curiosity.

“That’s where culture comes in. People put value in connections. Trusting someone enough to mate with them means they trust you enough to mate as well. An agreement was made to be vulnerable together for a long period of time, for a moment of weakness to break down the defensive wall people have set up, so they can show their partner their true self in the most carnal of ways. The ephemeral nature of sex, and the ecstasy that results became sacred to those involved. Subconsciously, a deal was made between two parties, that no one else other than those involved are allowed to see this vulnerable version of themselves.” Sketch leaned back and set aside his pad. “As you can imagine, all of this is extremely emotionally exhausting, so people settle on only having one partner. Only having one partner became sacred in itself. And thus, husbands and wives, marefriends and coltfriends. Everybody’s happy.”

“Except me,” Royal quickly rebutted, staring off into the night, finally taking his eyes off Trust.. Sketch frowned and got closer to him.

“Not necessarily. Just because you might not have a future with Trust doesn’t mean you can’t have a future with someone else.” Sketch shrugged. “You just can’t give up.”

“We are the only ones, Trust and I.” Royal looked down at Sketch as he had many times before. “I could never find another batpony.”

“You could maybe-”

“Find a normal pony? Not a chance. You are a very unique stallion, Sketch. The odds of finding a mare who would cast aside their perceptions and fears so easily as you did are slim to none.” Royal laughed, for the first time since he and Sketch had met. It was a bone chilling, heart wrenching, empty laugh. “She really stumbled on something quite special. Somepony quite special.” He set his hoof on Sketch’s shoulder. For the first time, he looked vulnerable to Sketch, and it made his heart sink. “I know you don’t need it, or necessarily want it, but you do have my blessing.”

Sketch looked towards the ground, no longer being able to bear seeing Royal’s broken, empty smile. “No, no, it... it means a lot actually. I haven’t had anyone... care enough to hand it out like that.”

“Hand? Somebody? People? You’re using a lot of general terms, Sketch. Not something I expect from another pony,”

Sketch scratched his neck, just now realizing his language. “Oh. I guess I am. I know a griffin that I’m quite fond of, I guess that’s why.” Sketch lit up and slammed his hoof into his other. “Hey, why don’t you go to the griffin country, or somewhere else overseas? They probably won't care about some measly batwings, you could probably find a girl there!”

He rose his eyebrow and reared his head. “What? Sketch, i want children. This isn’t about sex. I want... community.”

“But you just want someone to understand you, right? To empathize with you, and stand by you. You could get that from-”

“One is not enough, Sketch.” Royal kicked his hoof and gritted his teeth. “It never was.”

Sketch squinted his eyes and scoffed. “That sounds selfish. You can’t have kids just to have someone look up to you. That’s wrong.”

“Tch,” he scoffed back, stomping his right hoof. “You can think whatever you like. You know what it’s like to have strangers care about you for the simple fact that you look somewhat similar to themselves. Or the simple fact that you share blood. Trust and I never had that luxury.”

“But you can still have people care about you. Because of who you are, not what you are,” Sketch argued, his face growing sorrowful. “Hell, Trust and I would like to be that for you.”

“What?” Trust yelled in the distance, which both males ignored.

“That sounds nice Sketch,” he answered honestly before turning away. “But I’ve tried that before. It didn’t end well.” He began to make his way away from the lake, making his intent to leave clear. “I don’t care to be disappointed again.”

“Alright, fine,” Sketch exhaled. “Fine. I hope you come around again, though. I enjoyed our time together. Please... if you ever feel like talking... just show up whenever, alright? I’ll be there for you, and so will Trust.”

“Are you volunteering things for me?” Trust yelled again, finally getting up from her reclined position and walking up the shore of the lake. 

“Maybe I will show up again. If just to prove you wrong,” he stated flatly, slowly disappearing into the darkness. Sketch’s mind began to race once more, trying to think of anything that could comfort the poor stallion. Suddenly, he had a thought.

“There could be more, y’know! Than just the two of you!”

He stopped for a moment, and without turning around, shouted back. “One other in twenty-two years, Sketch? I’m not exactly enthralled about the odds.”

Twenty-two? Great. Still can’t get friends my age.

At that, he was gone, and the forest was that much quieter. Sketch frowned, rubbing the back of his neck, the old familiar feeling when Trust had first flown off into the night resurfacing into his chest. What a tragedy...

“Why didn’t you kiss him?”

Sketch jumped at Trust’s sudden proximity, but he quickly calmed himself after a quick hyperventilation.  “What?”

“You didn’t want him to leave, right? Why didn’t ya kiss him? Would’ve loved to see that. Maybe a little mud wrestling too.” Trust winked with a saucy smirk.

“You’re not gonna let this go, are you?” Sketch asked incredulously, taking steps towards the lake.

“Hey I wanna know whose face ya suckin’,” she answered with a shrug.

They both took a seat at the edge of the water. Sketch picked up a rock with his magic and skipped it across the lake a few times. Trust picked up one herself and gracefully tossed it with decadence. It skipped across the entire lake and landed on the other side. He rose his eyebrow at her and she laughed nervously. “I swear, that’s the first time I’ve done that, I didn’t even know that was possible.”

Sketch laughed, holding his stomach as he lurched over. Sighing, he gave he a thin smile. “You’re perfect.”

They stared long and hard at each other, with thin smiles and half mast eyes. Trust got in close to his ear and whispered...

“You sap.”

Sketch’s eyes widened and he tried to jump away, but Trust was too fast. She already caught him in her forelegs and threw him violently into the black lake. The cold shot beams of pain through his spine, and his lungs shrank to the size of raisins. As he struggled to maintain his position at the surface, it was immediately threatened by a shouting Trust.

“Cannonball!”

Sketch gaped at the fast approaching batpony, knowing full well he would not be fast enough to avoid her. He accepted his fate, and allowed the full force of the mare crash into him. He went under this time, cold water filling his nostrils and seeping into his mouth. He slammed shut his eyes since he wouldn’t be able to see in the darkness of the lake anyway. Panic almost set in, but Trust lifted him out with her incredible strength. He gasped and panted for air as they both became still after surfacing.

“J-jeez Trust! You- you can’t keep doing this, it’s gonna kill me,” Sketch reprimanded through the clattering of teeth. While it wasn’t cold enough to be immediately dangerous like last time, it still might be enough to get him sick.

“Aww, poor baby, can’t handle a little-PPBTH” Trust’s taunt was interrupted by a well timed splash from Sketch. She quickly recovered, wiping her face and clearing the water out of her glowing eyes. She scowled at a cocky, shit-eating grin from Sketch. “You a dead little pony, Sketchy,” She growled playfully as she lurched at Sketch, catching him around the neck and biting his mane. Sketch noticed that she was really holding back since he was able to easily overpower her. They wrestled in the water for a bit before Trust finally pinned him against the bank of the lake. She laughed and chortled like an evil villain, throwing her head back and grinding up against the stallion as she did her act. “Gotcha, bitch! I win, just like always.” At some point the water had caused her to slip from her initial pin, and she threaded her forelegs underneath Sketch’s own, resulting in a twisted hug of imprisonment. “You’ll never be able to escape my-”

Trust stopped after she saw Sketch’s face. His eyes were wide and his mouth was agape; his jaw was a bit askew. He had a dumb look of fear in his eyes, like he was going to throw up. She feared she had gotten him hurt somehow in the playful struggle. “Woah, dude you okay?”

Sketch closed his mouth and furrowed his brow. He inhaled sharply and held the breath. And at once, everything became clear.

Going forward, there was no looking back.

This was all a foregone conclusion.

“We can get out of the water if you-MMF!” Sketch’s heart stopped as his mouth entered her own. Since she was in the middle of speaking, there was no resistance for his tongue to immediately overlap hers. Their breath suddenly mixed to form a new concoction of gasses with a taste all of their own. And the taste, oh the taste... It was sweet, like mangos. Mangos. Despite the fact she had just eaten potato chips and a third of a sandwich, she tasted like celestia damned mangos. Only Trust could manage something like that. After the initial surprise, Trust took over, widening her mouth and nearly swallowing Sketch’s entire head. She closed her eyes and moaned, sending vibrations into Sketch’s own throat. She panted heavily through her nostrils, causing a steady rhythm of her hot breath to drape around his freezing face. The minutes they spent like this felt like hours, as his thoughts fell into a dark pit. In its place, the sensations and feelings of the most perfect mare. His odd little bat pony.

He almost cried when she pulled away.

Trust’s dumb look probably mirrored his own, a satisfied smile with furrowed brows. She arched her brow and giggled. “Afraid I’m going to leave again?”

“No... now it’s because I know you’ll come back.”

“Very smooth Sketchy, very, HOLY SHIT YOU’RE BLEEDING!” Trust leaped off of Sketch and nearly made him slip back into the lake. She realized her mistake almost immediately and caught him before he could slip in completely. She dragged him out of the water and onto the bank.

Sketch reached his hoof onto his muzzle and immediately felt the sticky warmth of blood. He smacked his lips and waved his tongue around, the sour taste of blood taking place of Trust’s sweet saliva. He looked at his hoof,now covered in a healthy amount of blood. “Huh, I am.”

“How did that even-” Trust tapped her muzzle in a dark moment of shock. “My fangs.”

“Huh?” he asked, cocking his head. “Your...” He looked her over and spotted a small amount of blood has stained her fangs. “Oh.”

“This sucks.” Trust exhaled as she traded weight on her hooves. “I hurt you even when I don’t want to. Maybe their right. Maybe we are mon-”

Sketch lurched forward again, passionately kissing her once again, trailing her mouth without fear. As he pulled away, a dumb look of shock was all that she could muster.

“It didn’t hurt,” he reassured.

She began subconsciously rubbed her mouth softly with her hoof, a smile adorning her once more. She lowered her head and peered at him out the corner of her eye. “Your blood tastes good.”

“Oh?” Sketch oh’d, a look of indifferent surprise across his muzzle.

“May have to... take some more,” she teased, putting her forelegs slowly around his neck. As she pulled him close, she put her snout in the base of his neck. Her fangs poked his skin and sent goosebumps up and down his chest.

“You know I’d let you.”

She inhaled, opening her mouth and scraping her fangs along his neck, around the base to directly under his chin. She tenderly kissed the vulnerable part of the flesh. “How did you know?”

Sketch had stopped paying attention a long time ago. He held his eyes closed as the soft sensation of her lips crawled up his neck. “Know what?”

“What to say. What to do.” She stopped and reared back,looking directly into his eyes. “To make me care.”

“I don’t know,” he answered honestly. “Maybe it’s because I had stopped caring myself.”

“Someone’s coming.”

Sketch snapped back into reality. “What?”

“Someone’s approaching the lake.” Trust disconnected from Sketch, after a small fight from him. “I’ll be close, okay?”

“Okay,” he reluctantly agreed. “See you later.” A quick nod, and she disappeared into the air. Sketch was now down two batponies.

That went a lot better than Sketch would’ve thought. He only hopes that Anthem’s night is going as smoothly as this. He got that familiar feeling that he didn’t deserve it again. He hated that feeling. Sketch sat down, and stared at the lake, unsure of what to do. He wasn’t exactly unallowed here, but he was underage and it had to be at least eleven o’clock. He decided he should just lay low and wait for them to leave. He sighed and flattened himself into the ground as hoofsteps got closer. He closed his eyes and hoped they’d just leave, or at least assume he was old enough to be out here. The hoofsteps stopped. They must be near.

A few minutes passed of pure silence, and Sketch grew restless. He wished he had brought his pad with him, then at least-

Oh no. Oh no no no no no no no. Sketch shot up and began running before he was completely standing. He stumbled a few times, but this was too important to fumble the ball now. The sound of grass crunching became shattering glass, as every hoofall contributed to the crumbling future. He saw a female figure in the distance, She became the target. He galloped faster and faster. Eventually, the muddy image of the drawing pad and book forming in the dead of the night. The figure was poised towards it. She was reaching for it. “Don’t!”

The figure obeyed instantly, something Sketch wouldn’t have expected. She looked up at the sprinting stallion, her face wearing more confusion than shock. “Sketch?”

Sketch gasped and stopped his legs. Unfortunately, the inertia sent him flying forward, crashing and burning into the ground. He still had enough motor control to flail a leg out and attempt to cover his pad. After his face met the ground, he craned his neck up and spat out some dry grass. He rolled towards his pad and sighed in relief to see that he had successfully covered his art. He laughed in triumph, before something clicked in his brain. The mare... knew his name. And judging from the silhouette...

“Syntax! Hi!” Sketch chuckled, his heart burning and his lungs constricting. Why, why why? Why did she have to be here of all places? “What brings you out here on this beautiful night?”

She had a strange device on a sash around her neck, an expensive-looking camera with a very large light bulb.

“Sketch, what are you doing out at this hour alone?” she asked, ignoring his play-dumb charm.

“Just, you know, enjoying the night air, listening to the still lake. Artist stuff.”

She furrowed her brows, taking a step toward him, trying to make him back up. He didn’t. “I have more than a few ways to get my information, Sketch.”

It was his turn to go on the offensive. He took a step towards her this time, tired of being pushed around. “Are you trying to intimidate me, Syntax?”

Since they were both taking steps towards each other, they were mere inches apart now. Sketch, his face intense, and Syntax, a cocky grin. They had a battle in silence, both looking for faults in their poise, or a crack in the surface. Once she was satisfied, she turned away and chuckled. “What were you drawing? What do you have to hide?”

“Naughty sketches of my marefriend,” he instantly replied, lying having become second nature. “It’s very private.”

She gasped in feigned indignance. “You have a marefriend? Why didn’t you tell me? Taking me out to dinner, naughty boy.”

“Stop it, Syntax,” he complained, putting a hoof up to his forehead. “What are you doing here? Aren’t you making my life hard enough?”

She sauntered up silently and lightly tapped him on the cheek. “Easy. I come here every time I go out of town. Didn’t realize it was so popular.”

“Why?”

She frowned, and closed her eyes. “I’ve got... personal reasons. Used to come here with an old friend. They aren’t around anymore.”  There was a silence, Sketch unsure if he should keep prodding. On the chance she was telling the truth, he decided to drop it.

“Yeah, sure... I’m gonna leave now, if you want to stay-”

“No, I’m leaving.” Syntax turned around, but kept her eyes on Sketch. “I only visit this place for a second. Wanna walk a mare home?”

Sketch opened his mouth in protest. He only said he was leaving so that he could get away from her. But now that he was backed into a corner, saying ‘no’ could destroy all of his progress with Syntax. As much as he just wanted to spend time with Trust, he didn’t want to sour his relationship with Syntax. Begrudgingly, he agreed with an unintelligible murmur and began walking along side her.

“Don’t sound too excited,” she sarcastically warned, her regular smile flickering with victory. They silently strode through the night, and Sketch pretended she wasn’t stealing glances at him when she thought he wasn’t paying attention. “So why were you there?” she asked again. It’s a good thing Sketch wasn’t a violent person, because he was feeling very frustrated.

“It’s none of your business.”

“I know,” she confided, lightly bumping her body into his. “I’m asking as a friend, Sketch. Not a journalist.”

“We’re friends now?” he asked incredulously.

She shrugged in a ‘up to you’ motion. “You’re the only stallion that’s been able to liquor me up in a long time, Sketch. Maybe that’s worth something.”

“It’d be nice if we stopped being enemies,” he agreed, loosening the rigid grip on his features.

“I’d like to think we were never enemies, Sketchy.”

After a while, the two ponies arrived at the tram. It looked like one was arriving soon. “I hate this tram,” Syntax whispered, giving Sketch pause.

“Really? Why?”

“Fear of heights,” she replied, shrugging. Her extreme casualness was off putting.

“I’m surprised you’d tell me something like that,” he mentioned honestly. The tram arrived and slowed to allow them to get on.

“It’s not my fault,” she said, as-a-matter-of-fact. “It’s an irrational fear. A disease. Not a flaw.”

Despite the confidence of her character, her knees began to shake as they approached the tram. She subconsciously played with the camera draped on her neck. Sketch rolled his eyes and exhaled, grabbing her leg and pulling her on the tram. She yelped like a dog as they got on, and Syntax let go of a breath she probably didn’t know she was holding. She quickly but steadily took a seat at the edge of the tram, holding onto the available railings. She chuckled a little bit as she took her seat, and he body was sprawled out to steady herself. That’d normally make someone look pathetic, but she wore it well, it being more impressive than anything.

Sketch wished a bit she had been lying about the fear of heights. Because that means something wasn’t adding up.

Sketch craned his head and looked outside and hoped he’d be able to catch a glimpse of Trust. He really needed her right now. “So... what were you doing out of town.”

There was a slight pause, a pause Sketch was afraid of. “I had a friend in the Canterlot Outskirts, said she had a story for me. It turned out to be a bust, but I have to check my sources.”

“Yeah. What was the potential story?”

“Politics. You wouldn’t care. Or understand,” she teased. She sniffed and averted eye contact. Something about the way Sketch was looking at her was probably bothering her.

“Is that right?”

Her smile faded. She furrowed her brows again and her smile grew darker. “That’s right. Are you implying I’m not telling the truth, Sketchy?”

In reply, he simply stared at her. It was a standoff. Eventually she laughed and looked away. “C’mon Sketchy, you’re making me blush.”

“Stop being cute, Syntax.” It was just a hunch, and he was bluffing, but losing Syntax was a sad but acceptable price to pay in order to keep Trust. “Us meeting at the lake is way too convenient. You were following me.”

“What?” she asked, her eyes getting wider and her smile cracking. She looked really torn up. But Sketch kept an eye on her hoof. She scraped it on the railing so hard it chipped the paint. That was her tell.

She was lying.

“I wasn’t-”

“Stop lying! I keep trying to give you the benefit of the doubt but you just won’t let me! I thought this lying to my face was gonna stop, I thought we were getting somewhere! I want to be your friend, Syntax. I keep seeing small spots of kindness showing through your armor, but... is that a lie, too?”

...

Syntax became intent on staring out the window, her expression finally in a state of solemn thought. Probably the first real expression she’s worn in front of him. “Now you’re the one lying. No one wants to be my friend.”

Sketch recoiled suddenly, not expecting her to show herself in such a light. “Why would you say that?”

“I’ve shown ponies my true face before. It never worked out.” She shrugged. “It’s not their fault. But it’s the price you pay when you have a job like mine.”

“I want to see that, Syntax. Stop pretending.” Sketch took a seat and sighed, about to pony lengths away from her. “I don’t want to be enemies.”

“You wouldn’t like what you see, Sketch,” she said under her breath. “Nopony ever does.”

Sketch rubbed his legs, frustrated at her lack of cooperation. He guessed he really shouldn’t be so surprised. “Why are you following me, Syntax?”

She did her standard pause, no doubt doing equations in her head to assure what words to use to not say too much. “I’ve had this ability for a while. I’m very good at reading ponies, Sketch. I can tell what they’re thinking and if they’re hiding something. It’s very useful as a reporter, being able to tell who’s the shifty-eyed CEO and who’s the honest business partner. But when I look at you...”

She eyed him up and down. “You don’t belong here. You’re a good kid Sketch. You don’t go to parties, you don’t skip school, you don’t hang out with troublemakers and low-lives. You don’t sneak out to go to a lake, you don’t walk grown mares home. Yet here you are. I look at you, and the fact that you’re hiding something is overwhelmingly obvious. And I can’t read you. I can never figure out what you’re thinking. You’re an enigma, Sketch. And I intend to figure out why.”

Sketch looked at his hooves. She was making sense. And to be honest, her actions weren’t terribly irrational considering her reasoning, and the fact Sketch did in fact have something to hide. But that’s why this was important. He needed to get to know her. The real her if he wanted to defuse this.

“How did you know I was following you?” she asked.

“I didn’t,” he replied, a half smile on his face. She scowled and scoffed. “The timing was just too suspicious. And I figured your appearance at the lake was delayed because of your fear of heights.”

“I was lying about that too, Sketch.” Syntax put her cocky smile back on. “I was clawing for sympathy. Very standard negotiation method.”

“No you weren’t,” Sketch replied, matter-of-fact.

She rolled her eyes, smile still plastered on her features. Something caught her eye, and she slowly reached for Sketch’s book, her way of asking for permission. “What’s this?”

“Uhh, an old children’s book I used to read when I was little. Maybe it’s where I got my fondness for griffins.”

She inspected the front cover and laughed, a real laugh, not her usual mirthless laugh. “Ah yes. Wandering, Not Lost by H. Cassidy. I read this when I was little, too.”

“Is that a lie, too?” Sketch asked, elbowing her lightly. She did that snorting giggle she once did at the restaurant before she caught herself in the middle. She blushed a little bit before uncomfortable scooting a little bit further from Sketch.

“Now you need to stop being cute,” she quipped, playfully throwing the book back at him.

He set it aside and rubbed his temples. Judging from the way she was behaving, she hadn’t seen Trust or Royal, so he was still in the clear for that. But he had to ask... “How much did you see?”

“Hmm?” she started, before putting a hoof to her chin in thought. “Oh, not much. I kept losing you when you kept going in those damned alleys. It’s almost like you were trying to shake me. I did see you get all fresh with that stallion on the bench.”

Sketch laughed and brushed it off. “Yup, sounds about right.”

Syntax waited a few moments before scooting back beside Sketch, placing her hoof next to his leg. “Ske-”

Whatever she was going to ask was gonna have to wait. The entire tram suddenly stopped in its tracks, sending both of the seated ponies into the front of the car. They both yelped as they landed on top of each other and slid the rest of the way to the wall. Sketch hit his head against the painted metal with a large thud, but was able to catch Syntax with his body. She grunted as he did, losing her breath from the impact. The car swung back but did not budge on the rail, and Syntax attempted to grab flat surfaces to brace herself.  “Oh Celestia! Oh Celestia, Celestia, Celestia, Celestia!” she cursed rapidly as her breathing became more and more labored. The inertia from the swing made Sketch’s stomach lurch up, but it slowly became more stable every subsequent swing. Sketch took a quick look at Syntax who had completely flattened onto the floor, clutching the camera as if it was going to save her.

“Syntax, are you okay?”

Despite her desperate position, she seemed to retain all of her faculties. “No. No I’m not. Please check and see if we’re gonna die?” She looked at him with a very neutral expression. Despite it all, she still wore her mask.

“We’re not gonna die. The cable track is still hold-” SNAP 

Sketch’s words were cut off by the sharp sound of the cable giving out. The tram shot vertically upward, sending Sketch and Syntax into the air, nearly hitting the ceiling before crashing into the floor as the tram tried to stabilize itself. Syntax screamed bloody murder, and Sketch was too focused on survival to make any noises. Her scream was cut short by the impact, as they both let out guttural groans when they fell into the floor. The tram shook around for a few moments, until finally stabilizing.

“Oh celestia... oh god...” Syntax dragged her face across the floor before forcing herself to get up. It was as if she had stuck to the ground; she peeled herself from the floor. “Why? Celestia...”

Sketch had also begun to hyperventilate. He had to force rational thought to the front of his head, rather than the pure survival instinct that had taken over. His limbs were weak. “It... the cable isn’t one cable... it’s three or more cables twined together... one snapped, but the other two are holding.”

“So we can still get back?”

Sketch shut his eyes, commanding his lungs to stay where they are and not exit his body through his throat. “This thing’s not gonna move. It’s too unstable. The tram is the thing that moves, not the cables. It works like a never ending screw... I think”

“Fuck.” Syntax looked like she was about to vomit. Her body was standing, but her snout was still touching the ground. The mood was not right to tease her use of language.

“Just don’t move... lemme think...”

Trust.

Trust could get them out. But at what cost?

It didn’t feel right to debate, but... we’re safe now, right? They could just wait for help. This doesn’t have to put anything in danger.

As if the world was personally cursing him, the cables let out a sick groan, straining under its newfound pressure. Syntax whimpered, clutching her camera so hard that it might snap.

No... I’m not going to put her life in danger for a petty secret. Sketch took a step towards the door. “Dammit.”

“Sketch? What are you doing?” Syntax asked, the fear in her voice making her sound smaller.

“Getting us out of here.” Sketch inhaled deeply. “TRUUUUUUUSSS-” In the middle of his primal yell for his friend, SNAP! the second cable gave way. The tram jumped straight up once again, the inertia causing the both of them to go straight into the air. Since Sketch’s head was outside the door, his neck made a deafening thud as it hit the frame of the door. The impact shifted his body in such a way that sent him halfway out the door. He blacked out from the force almost immediately, and he was helpless to gravity.

“SKETCH!” Syntax screamed, her throat becoming hoarse. He was out like a light. After Syntax recovered from her own fall, she lurched forward as his lifeless body began slipping down the edge. Syntax abandoned all her common sense as she dove, wrapping her forelegs around Sketch’s rump. The momentum sent them both over the edge, but she caught herself on the frame of the door with the lower half of her body. “SKETCH!” she repeated, ignoring the futility of the action.

Sketch’s eyes began to flutter back open, his ears ringing and his stomach tightening. Gravity’s pull on his hanging neck and head nearly sent him into a panic, before realizing that Syntax had caught him. “Syn... Syntax?”

“What were you do...” she tried to speak, but the strain of her hold on Sketch got the better of her, and she nearly passed out. She groaned and gritted her teeth. Luckily, the majority of her body and some of his were still inside the tram. Letting out a bloodcurdling roar, she pulled her body in, allowing Sketch to push on the frame of the door and support himself. He pulled himself up, along with her, and once they were stable, they panted on the floor, trying to recuperate. “The FUCK were you doing.”

“I know someone that can help... a.... Pegasus.”

“Is she also a fucking dog? What makes you think-”

“She’s nearby,” he assured. “And she has really good hearing.”

Syntax thought for a few seconds and laughed. She rolled over onto her back and closed her eyes in shame. “Holy shit. You weren’t alone at the lake. You were with somepony,”

“Red hoofed,’ he confided, sharing in her mirthless laugh. “And right now she’s our best bet.”

There was the familiar groan of the cable above. If Sketch was right, that was their last lifeline. This was their last chance.

SNAP! Instead of lurching up like the other times, the car dropped like a dead weight. Sketch couldn’t hear Syntax’s screaming over his own. He made contact with the wall of the car first, with Syntax crashing into him like a bullet. Almost immediately, the tram crashed into the top of a tree, sending both ponies tumbling to the other side of the tram. Sketch tried to manipulate himself to once again act like a cushion for Syntax, but everything was happening so fast, he had no hope.

THUD Sketch made contact first, landing on the edge of the windowsill, barely escaping the gap. Syntax, unfortunately, was not so lucky, flying cleanly through the large window. Thinking quickly, Sketch leaped forward with all his strength, and as much magic as he could manage. He succeeded in the vaguest sense of the word, catching her forelegs with his own and his body hanging on the outside of the window.

“HANG... IN... THERE...” he groaned, already feeling his grip slipping. He fired his horn up again, attempting to envelop her entire body in magic. His ears were beginning to plug up,and he felt blood welling up in his nose. Sketch used his magic precisely in his life, it was not built for raw strength.

Syntax was unbearably quiet, only letting out a lone grunt every now and then. Seconds felt like hours. Sketch’s legs were on fire, and every slight movement felt like knives to the tendons.

There was a long quiet, creaks of the tram, and bustling of the leaves, being the only sounds resonating through the forest.

Sketch couldn’t think because of the use of his magic, and Syntax was presumably too focused on not dying to make any noise.

That was, until she made a decision.

“Drop me.”

Sketch’s eyes shot open, not even realizing he had shut them in his effort. He released his magic, and struggled a bit as the full weight of Syntax now began to pull at his legs. He cursed under his breath, and growled. “What?!”

“No one’s gonna miss me, Sketch. Not even you. But if I take you down with me, everyone’s lives are going to be just a little shittier.”

“Stop... talking... nonsense.” Sketch tightened his grip once again, a new fear in his head that she’ll try to force him to drop her.

“It’s the truth. Everypony hates me. Your griffin friend was right. But I can tell from personal experience that... even if you think you aren’t that great a pony... even if you aren’t that great a pony... you make everypony around you want to be better... you make them better. Everypony comes to ponies like you for advice. Because you know how to put things in perspective.”

“SHUT UP!” He yelled, his body slipping forward a bit. “Just hold on. I know it doesn’t seem like I want you here. But the truth is, I wouldn’t be the same without you. No matter how insignificant you think you are.” He slipped a bit more. “JUST HOLD ON! I know it seems like no one wants you around. But even if you leave a sour taste in people’s mouths, you make people think. You make people want to rally behind something.”

Sketch slipped a bit more, and tears began to fall onto Syntax’s face.

“JUUUST... HOOOLD... OOON! YOU’RE NOT FINISHED HERE YET! YOU HAVE PEOPLE TO CHANGE! PEOPLE TO CARE ABOUT. PEOPLE TO CARE ABOUT YOU! YOU’RE NOT DONE YET! YOU HAVE FUCKING STORIES TO WRITE!” Sketch roared as he finally slipped off.

They were falling, and Sketch’s legs were ripped away from hers.

Except... he stopped falling.

That was what he was afraid of. Of course Trust would save him. She didn’t know Syntax. There was no reason to go for her. He had grown numb, so he couldn’t even feel Trust’s forelegs around him. There had to be something they could do. There had to be something.

Sketch turned to look her in the face, but... it was a stallion’s face! Royal!

He simply stared at him. That means that... “TRUST!” He bellowed, before even being able to see her. She was in the distance, shooting straight towards him, likely to check on him. “GRAB HER!”

It was a split moment, but trust immediately knew what he meant. She dove straight down before even getting eyes on Syntax. She absolutely gunned it, probably breaking some sort of record. All of this happened in less than a second.

It was too dark to see if Trust was successful. After a few tense moments, Royal spoke.

“We need to get to solid ground.”

“Not until-” Sketch was cut off with the image of two mares slowly rising up above the tree line. “Trust!” Trust’s flight was wobbly and unstable. Once Royal noticed this, he instantly began flying towards the sky tram station. “What’re you-”

“We need to get to solid land so I can assist her.”

He was amazingly calm under the pressure, but Sketch could tell he was also emotionally taxed. Sketch ceased his protests and begun to just enjoy the calm. It only took fifteen seconds of moderate speed flight to get there.

That is fucking unfair. They were almost home. Royal dropped Sketch a couple feet above the ground, leaving Sketch to land with a small thud, and sending pangs of pain through his limbs. He tried to get up, but his limbs refused to work after all the strain. Royal bolted off to aid Trust, leaving him in the dust. But Sketch didn’t mind. He was just glad to be alive. He must have dozed off, because Royal and Trust were already back, dropping a dazed Syntax on the ground across from him. Just as she hit the floor, Trust dashed next to Sketch’s side. “SKETCH!” Royal calmly followed.

“Tru... Trust.” He attempted to get up again, not wanting her to worry. “Trust I’m fine...” His words were punctuated with an audible thud as she enveloped him in an encapsulating hug.

“Oh Celestia, I was so worried. When you yelled my name, I...”

“I know,” he interrupted, hugging her back. He felt a bit... sticky, for some reason. He lightly pushed her to arm’s length, looking down at their chests. There was blood on his... but he had no wound. That was when he discovered a large gash along her chest, fresh blood dripping down from it. “What? When did-”

“I’m fine, it’s not too deep,” she assured. “That damn cable nearly cut me in half.”

“It’s why we were late,” Royal interjected, inspecting her wound as well. “I was making sure she was okay.”

“We need to take care of that, Trust.” Sketch said, concern-laden voice.

“Don’t worry about it too much. I wasn’t planning on walking around with an open wound all week,” she said, rubbing the back of her mane.

Suddenly a flash of white invaded Sketch’s retinas. He grunted and rubbed his eyes. The batponies reactions were much worse, however, the both of them hissing and screaming in agony. Royal flew off into the sky, clumsily knocking a trash can over as he did, whilst Trust simply buried her face into her forelegs, cursing and gasping. Sketch held her as she squirmed, telling her to calm down and assuring her safety. He snapped his head at Syntax after the initial confusion wore off.

Syntax was standing there with a shocked, scared look on her face. Her camera in hoof.

“What the hell... did you do?” Sketch asked darkly, his tone more of a warning than a question. She instinctively took a step back, her pretense of confidence having melted away from the preceding events.

“What the fuck was that?!” Trust screamed, blinking rapidly to force her eyes to adjust.

“She just took a picture of us.”

“What?!” Trust yelled, taking rapid breaths. “Why would she-... You bitch! After all we did for you?”

Syntax didn’t reply. She simply took a few more steps back. She eyed her camera, as if she couldn’t believe her own actions. That makes two of us, Syntax. Trust lurched forward, but Sketch caught her and mouthed her to stay. He solemnly shook his head, and wore his mask of determination.

“Don’t do this, Syntax. I know this was what you were looking for, but it’s not worth it. Please Syntax.”

Syntax took another step back, looking at Sketch once more, a tear falling down her cheek. Sketch held Trust at his side, propping himself on her. “Don’t do this. Please. I meant everything I said back there.”

“I told you... you wouldn’t like the real me, Sketchy,” she said, her expression never changing. Sketch’s face contorted to horror.

And then she ran. She ran away. She disappeared into the night.

The two ponies left in the street could only stand there in shock. For Trust, shock turned to anger. Her pupils shrank and she yanked and pulled to escape Sketch’s grasp.

“I’M GONNA FUCKING KILL HER! FUCK! THAT BITCH IS GOING TO DIE!” She growled and screamed like an animal, taking swipes at empty spaces, and biting at imaginary demons. 

“Trust, just stop, leave her.” Sketch pleaded, tightening his grip. “It’s not worth it.” He was somewhat confused he was able to keep someone as strong as Trust from moving. That was, until Trust began to whimper.

“She’s... she can’t... get... away...with... w-with...” Trust’s eyes began to dilate, Her body began to go limp as the light drained from her eyes.

“Trust? Trust, you okay?” Sketch propped her up and looked into her eyes.

“Yeah... just a little woozy.”

“You’re losing too much blood. C’mon let’s go to my house, I have first aid stuff.”

She started to weakly chuckle, draping herself over his body. “You’re the one that almost dies and I’m the one that needs medical attention.”

“Shh. You’ve done enough, Trust.” Sketch sighed. “You’ve done so much.”

Sketch fully stood up, stabilizing Trust as she leaned on him. With a big inhale, he limped towards the alleyway, desperate to get out of the streets.

Sketch was tired.

It wasn’t insomnia.
> 11. Nothing’s Broken
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

"The best revenge is to be unlike him who performed the injury."

-Marcus Aurelius

Sketch and Trust peered up and down the front of Sketch’s house. To the both of them, it had never seemed so big before. Sketch craned his head and looked behind them, relieved no one was still around, and concerned about the trickle of blood Trust was leaving behind.

Now that the adrenaline had worn off. The pain of inevitable bruises began to set in. Sharp, lingering pain shot through his muscles every move he made, and certain positions nearly locked his limbs in place. He could only hope that he hadn’t broken a rib, or have gotten a more serious injury. Having to go to the hospital would be difficult to explain to his parents. He had played with the ideas he had to lie to his parents, saying that he got in a fight or had gotten run over by a carriage, but he ultimately decided to cross that bridge when he got there. Hell, he could probably tell them the truth, that he was on the sky tram when it failed, and just leave out the parts with Trust and Royal. He would only have to lie about why he had gone out of town in the first place, which he felt was more of a white lie than anything. Maybe even say he was meeting a mare, though he was unsure if that would make them less angry about him sneaking out or more angry. Maybe his dad would be okay with it. They’d probably be too glad he got out alive to be angry with him, come to think of it.

Again, crossing that bridge when he gets there.

“What’s the plan?” Trust whispered. “Maybe I should just stay out here.”

“No, don’t worry,” Sketch denied. He really wanted her in a bed with her injuries. “It’s not a big deal. I’ll go in first and make sure they aren’t home, then we’ll head upstairs.”

“I could just fly up to your bedroom,” she offered. Any other day would make Sketch blush at her words. Today, he wasn’t feeling up to it.

“You really shouldn’t be flying. I don’t know how close you are to them, but pegasus wings pull on breast and stomach muscles, That’s where your wound is, and we don’t wanna make it worse.”

Her face made it obvious she wanted to protest, but Sketch’s tone along with everything he had been through made her shut her mouth and nod.

Sketch limped to his door and tried to pull the handle with his magic, but the dim light that resulted flickered and died on the attempt. “Shit.” It had been a while, but he manually pulled the door open after a little fumbling, which agitated a few of his sore muscles, causing him to double over in pain. He saw Trust instinctively reach for him, but she winced at her own injuries before she could act. Sketch stepped inside, fairly confident that his parents were already asleep thanks to the lack of light. He had decided he would just deal with them right now if he got caught, but thankfully the living room seemed empty. A quick look up the stairs revealed that all the lights were off, so he returned outside and motioned Trust to follow him in. He put his right foreleg around her neck and guided her to the stairs, and followed them up one step at a time, taking a small break halfway up to catch their breath. As soon as Trust entered his bedroom, he let go of a bated breath. “Lay on my bed,” he ordered, walking up to it himself and pulling away the sheets. Trust approached and bit her lip, unsure.

“Sketch, I’m going to get blood all over your sheets,” she complained, closing her eyes in self-aware irrational shame.

“Do you really think I care about that right now,” he chuckled lightheartedly. “It’s fine Trust. I can get new sheets. I can’t get a new you.”

“You could always just start making out with Royal,” she laughed weakly. Sketch smiled, glad she was throwing jokes out. It was a good sign of health.

“It wouldn’t be the same,” he quipped, pulling his blanket over her lower body. She was facing him to give full view of her cut. She was right about her initial diagnoses: it wasn’t very deep. She had probably attempted to dodge out of the way of the snapping cable.  She probably actually would have gotten cut in half if she was just a bit closer, but Sketch had to shake that ‘what if’ out of his mind. She probably wouldn’t need stitches, and her bleeding was already beginning to stop. They just needed to bandage her up and get her some rest.

Sketch cursed the fact he wouldn’t be able to take her to a hospital. “I’m gonna grab the first aid kit,” he called out as he left. He rushed to the bathroom and looked underneath the sink. They always kept a standard kit in the cupboard with some disinfectant and a roll of gauze. Everything he hoped she needed. It wasn’t long before he was back in the bedroom.

“Alright, sit up,” he ordered again, placing a hoof on her back and assisting her on her way up. All of this demanding made Sketch feel a little uncomfortable, even though the logical part of his brain deemed it necessary. He’d much rather be taking orders from her, if he was quite honest. Trust’s expression was one of idle distress, a mix of hopelessness and sorrow, with a hint of fear. He could tell that her mind was racing, as Sketch’s was before they had made it home. Right now, he had things to occupy his mind, but navigating the alleyways simply made his brain swim amongst questions that didn’t have answers, and the fear of the unknown. Maybe there was something else in his head, as well. Remorse? The feeling that, despite always doing what he thought was the right thing, he could have done better. Like he was missing a crucial something that would’ve given him a third solution from his initial two, that would’ve made everything better. That’s where the real fear was.

Sketch retrieved the bandages and disinfectant with his hooves, his magic still on the fritz. “I’m gonna have to do this by hand... hoof. So i’m going to have to...”

“Get close?” Trust offered. “You’re not going to take advantage of me, are you, doc?” Trust’s expression betrayed her words, a teasing, thin smile with soft eyes. Something that said, ‘I might be nervous, but this is what I want.’

“I’d... never,” he breathed, unsure of what to say. He got close, pressing his chest up against her back, and wrapping his left foreleg around her. He swallowed nervously, his mouth getting dryer. Trust smiled and hummed, pressing her chin against his leg, nearly causing him to drop the bottle of disinfectant as he dabbed some on a cloth.

“Is this going to hurt?” she asked honestly. “I had to do this once and it hurt.”

“Yes, a bit. But I’m here, Trust.” Sketch set aside the bottle, and pressed the cloth up to the wound. She grunted and screamed through pursed lips, and her breathing became labored, but Sketch was there to whisper comforts in her ear. “It’s okay,” he whispered, “You’ll be fine,” he’d assure. After a short amount of time that no doubt felt like eons to Trust, Sketch released the cloth and tossed it aside, it now covered in dark red blood, a dull mix of her blood and the medicine. Sketch immediately grabbed the bandages and got to work. Trust started to pace her breathing again.

Sketch had to clumsily trade hooves with the bandages as he wrapped it around her chest, forcing him to firmly press up against her as he did, his cheek rubbing up against her’s as he made a round. As he wrapped the last round, he notified her, and he pressed up one more time to tie the bandage. Just as he was about to finish, Trust craned her neck to kiss his cheek.

He nearly fell off the bed in embarrassment, but as he regained himself, he decided to stay in this position even after the bandaging was finished. He wrapped his forelegs around her as if it were another layer of protection for her wound, and he dug his muzzle into the mane at the base of the right side of her neck. Trust reached up and began trailing his forelegs with her own, as if she were petting him. She hummed again. “Thanks, doctor Sketch.”

“Anytime,” he offered, his eyes closed. If something didn’t happen soon, he was going to fall asleep. He decided this would probably be too awkward a position and became resolute in asking Trust a question. “You said you had to do this before?”

“Mhmm,” she confirmed, sounding like she was in a bit of a twilight moment herself. “Believe it or not Sketch, you aren’t the first pony I had contact with. When I was a kid, I had to have just a bit of guidance, or else I wouldn’t be here. I’m sure Royal was the same too.”

“Who was it?”

There was a pause, as if it was difficult to recall. “Deecha, an old deer way down south. He was at the end of his days when he found me passed out from an illness in the forest. I was like... three, four years old? He took care of me until I was... seven I think. Didn’t tell anyone about me. He lived near the forest by himself. He uhh... passed away before I left.”

“I’m sorry, I had no idea...”

“I don’t like to remember him, cause he was the only one who cared...” Trust shrugged, which sent ripples of warmth throughout Sketch on her back. “But talking about him with you... it doesn’t feel as bad.” Trust sighed, drawing little circles in Sketch’s leg. “I think he’d have liked you.”

He laughed, poking his snout against Trust’s cheek. “I’d hope so.”

Trust stretched, signaling Sketch to separate and climb off the bed. His muscles screamed in agony at the sudden lack of warmth and comfort. “I should be heading off, right? Don’t want to be in here when your parents wake up.”

Sketch looked at the clock. 3:00 AM. With all that had happened, Sketch found it very difficult to care about much else than Trust. “No.”

“No?” she asked, raising a brow.

“Sleep here, in my bed. I don’t want you gone, Trust.” He wasn’t about to offer some pretense about her being injured, or if it was too dangerous for her to be out right now, he just wanted her with him. He didn’t know if he would be able to handle a night without her nearby.

“Oh. Okay,” she agreed, offering a little chuckle of disbelief. “W-where are you going to sleep?”

“There’s a couch in the living room,” he said, turning towards the door. “But I could also just sleep on the floor.”


“Sleep with me,” Trust flatly commanded.

Slackjaw, Sketch looked at her, looked at her face, to see if she was joking. But her face was dead still, neutral. It wasn’t a request. She told him to.

“I...” Sketch began to say, but his legs were already moving towards her.

He knew what she meant. They were just going to rest together, nothing was going to ‘happen’. But the words that were spoken had their meaning, and neither of them were making an effort to correct them.

“Okay,” he agreed, silently climbing into bed with her. They were both under the covers soon, only heads and necks exposed, both staring at each other with blank expressions, both waiting for the other to make the first move. The standoff ended with Trust sliding below the covers, closer to Sketch, and wrapping her forelegs around his neck. She rested her head just below Sketch’s chin, her muzzle barely touching the base of his neck. She closed her eyes.

Sketch scrutinized the wall in front of him, dealing with the fact he could feel Trust and not see her. A sensation he had no idea he would get to know.

He actually began to drift away, before Trust broke the silence.

“Sketch?”

“Yeah?”

“Don’t ever almost die again, ‘kay?”

“Deal.”



The front door opened.

That didn’t make sense.

Sketch tore himself away from the back of Trust’s mane and looked at the time. 6:57 AM. His dad leaves for work at 8:00 AM. His mother doesn’t work on saturdays. So why was the front door being opened? Sketch leapt off of bed, which turned into tumbling on the floor when the blanket caught his hind leg. The resulting fall spooked Trust awake. She shot up and yelp as the blanket shot off of her body. “What, where’s the fire?!”

As Sketch recovered, he looked back and shushed her. “Shh! Something’s up.” He slowly inched out of his door, making sure it latched behind him. He began hearing voices as he approached the stairs.

“A seventeen year old boy doesn’t just disappear! Canterlot is way to nice a place for somepony to be responsible, something might have happened to him.”

Oh no.

“You’re overreacting, dear. He probably spent the night at one of his friend’s place without telling us.”

“What friends?! He doesn’t have any friends his age!”

Sketch was panicking too much to be offended by that. He was clutching the railing so hard it might snap off. He kept telling himself that what he was hearing was a dream.

“There’s that Anthem fellow. He owns an apartment, he could be there.”

“Why wouldn’t he tell us,” he heard his mom cry. “He... he wasn’t mad at us, was he? Did we do something to upset him?”

“He might have fallen asleep without intending. Anthem doesn’t know where we live, and he probably didn’t want to wake him up. Plus he’s an adult, he wouldn’t think we would worry.”

“...You said he was going on a date.” she said, quieter. “You don’t think he...”

Sketch could hear his dad throw up his hooves and blush. “Woah, woah, I was just teasing him. I didn’t know for sure.”

“Why didn’t you ask him? Why would you just let him go like that?!”

Sketch couldn’t take this anymore. He did this. He thought back on when he got home after his ‘date’ with Syntax. He went straight upstairs without even talking to his parents. They had thought he never came home. They went into his room to investigate, and he wasn’t there. He was a couple hours late because of the incident with the skyrail. He didn’t even check their room to see if they were home when he got back.

His parents had been out looking for him in the middle of the night for at least five hours. Worried sick. “Oh no...” he whispered under his breath.

“Do you know where Anthem lives? We should ask around and see if we can-”

“Mom, Dad?” Sketch asked, as he trudged down the stairs. “I’m... I’m home.”

His mother gasped, pulling her hooves over her mouth and tears instantly forming in her eyes. His dad simply let out a guttural sigh of relief, a small unsure smile stretching across his tired features.

Sketch opened his mouth to begin explaining himself, but was interrupted by a terminal velocity mother coming in for a mach hug. ‘Mo-MGGHH!” he groaned in pain as the events of last night stabbed him over and over.

His mom’s eyes went wide, and she immediately went to inspect his body. Almost like she was a nurse or something, she expertly pulled fur back in commonly inflicted areas, and gasped when she saw horrific bruises around his chest and stomach. “Sketch! What on earth-?”

“Where were you, Arthur? What happened?” his dad asked, obviously trying to mask the irrational anger he was feeling.

This was it. The truth or a lie. The whole world stopped as he contemplated the decision. He thought about many things: consequences and loyalties, but everything stopped when Syntax entered his mind. He was done with being lied to. The least he could do was try and tell them the truth. He wouldn’t let them know about Trust or Royal of course, but it was the truth all the same. Just a... colored version of the truth. He couldn’t afford to keep it black and white.

“I was riding the skyrail with some friends. It...” Sketch sighed, knowing what he said next would probably send his mom into a panic. “It fell apart while I was on it.”

“What?!” his father bellowed, his misplaced anger now firmly in the faulty equipment instead of Sketch. 

“Oh Celestia! Are you, are you okay?!” his mom screamed, as if that made him any better.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” he assured, stretching the truth a bit more. “Nothing’s broken.” An idea popped inside his head, one that would appease everyone. “It took me a while to find a way back into Canterlot after the tram hit the ground. It’s why I’m so late. I got home about three and I thought that you two were already asleep, so I just went to bed.”

“Why wouldn’t you wake us up?” his dad asked, but his mom waved him off.

“What would he have done if he saw we weren’t home? Go out looking for us?” she asked, arching her brow.

“No, but why-... nevermind, I’m just glad you’re okay,” his dad sighed one more time and walked up to him, giving him a quick hug.

“Sketch, go ahead to bed. You don’t have to go to school today,” she said, giving him the sweetest smile she could muster.

“Today’s saturday, Mom.”

“Even better!” she giggled. “It looks like you just have some bruising, but we’ll take you to the doctor tomorrow for a checkup just in case,”

Sketch really didn’t want to, but he was really content on cashing in on this. No point in continuing to gamble, his last hand was pretty terrible. “Thanks.”

“You know, you’re absurdly lucky getting off with just bruises after a skyrail crash.”

As he trudged up the stairs, he gave a weak chuckle. “I think it would’ve been more lucky if I wasn’t in the skyrail at all, when it happened.”

He walked back into his room, sighing in relief. That all went slightly better than he thought, which was a godsend after the fiasco with Syntax. Though he was still left disappointed after all.

Trust had left. Of course she did.


> 12. Show, Don't Tell
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Journalism can never be silent: That is its greatest virtue and its greatest fault.”

-Henry Anatole Grunwald

Sketch took another look at the old business card. 

Personal - 4398 E Capricot

He put it back into his bag and stared at the plain-looking house. It wasn’t much of a house, as it was more of a condo. A cookie cutter building attached to a multitude of buildings on the same street. It was all almost... unsettling. Somehow, Syntax’s building somehow looked more the same than everyone else’s, if that were possible. Sketch took a long, deep breath, grabbing.the basket he had brought with him with his flickering magic.

It had been three days since the incident. He and Trust had only seen each other for a few minutes a day, and that already had him a bit unhinged. She kept saying she was working on something. It was just as well, since he had been in bed for most of the days, and his parents kept barging in to check on him. He hadn’t seen Royal at all during that time, either.

But despite Syntax having everything she needed, he didn’t see his face in the paper that monday. Or tuesday. Now, he respected the length of time required to write a piece, but he couldn’t understand why someone like Syntax wouldn’t be writing twelve hours a day to get something like that out. Sketch could only hope that it was Syntax’s dry, withering conscience squeezing a few more drops of empathy before it completely died out.

He expelled the air from his lungs, the slight pull from his sore muscles reminding him of the events of a few nights before. He had been contemplating this for a while, and had convinced himself it wasn’t worth it quite a few times, but the final nail in the coffin was reading the small article in the paper about the skyrail malfunctioning. No casualties, the paper said. That was somewhat due in part, no matter how small her role, Syntax’s actions. She had stopped him from being a puddle of stallion on the floor during the incident.

Sketch finally had the opportunity to go back on the offensive. She was on the ropes now, and he had to capitalize before the match ended.

He walked up the steps of the solid white building, and brought his hoof to the door.

Knock, knock, knock...

During the inevitable pause as Syntax probably approached the door, Sketch stepped off to the side, out of the peephole cone of vision. There was some finagling at the door as locks became unlatched. The door opened slightly, where Syntax’s face appeared. Her usually neatly piled mane was disheveled and curly, and she had dark rings under her eyes. 

“Hi,” Sketch greeted, perhaps a little too casually. Syntax’s eyes widened, and she slammed the door close. “Wait! he exclaimed, attempting to catch the door. He was a bit too slow, however, and the door remained shut. “Syntax, I just want to talk! I know that it’s tough to believe right now, but I don’t hate you. Don’t just disappear from my life, Syntax. Not after everything that happened...”

Sketch choked on a mirthless laugh. “I brought you some tomatoes!” he singed, as he shook the basket as if it were bait. There was a pause as if the door itself was contemplating the offer. With comedic timing, the door opened slightly again, and Syntax stuck her muzzle out a small amount. She eyed the basket, and then Sketch, who shared a boyish smile. She closed the door again, where the sound of another latch resonated. It weakly swung open, with Syntax absent from the frame. Sketch looked around to see if anyone was watching before approaching the doorway. He slowly opened the door as if it were booby-trapped, and took a solitary step inside. He was greeted with a healthy crunch from some broken ceramics on the floor, which nearly made him jump from his skin. He quickly looked around, seeing pieces of broken vases and glass all over the floor in sporadic patterns. The amount of intact furniture around the house suggested that the broken pieces were an uncommon occurrence. Perhaps Syntax had broken them on purpose. 

The lack of decoration in the main room was unsettling. It had no theme or reason, it was just... empty. His eye caught Syntax in the equally plain kitchen, opening the fridge and pouring herself a glass of tomato juice. He had to refrain from wincing in disgust.

“What are you doing here, boy?” she asked, her usual derogatory inflection on the word ‘boy’ absent. “Here to threaten me like your griffin friend?”

“I know you don’t believe that, Syntax.” Sketch looked around for a place to sit, which was surprisingly lacking. There was a loveseat in the corner facing the center, along with a creepy table and chair in the direct center of the room, in front of a window. She must have had some sort of ritual for writing, which would explain the odd setup.

“Now you know what I believe, is that right?” she scoffed, slamming the fridge and having the glasses sitting on top of it shake. “You know that nothing you can say will destroy that photo, right?”

“Syntax, I don’t want to talk about that, really.” He offered a weak grin along with a shrug. “I just wanted to be sure you were okay.”

She averted her gaze as he said that, bringing the glass to her lips as she did so. “Well, I’m fine,” she said, locking eyes with Sketch yet again. “Thanks for asking,” she sarcastically finished, squinting her eyes and turning away again.

Sketch frowned, upset with her hesitation to play ball. All he wanted to do was check up on her, and she was making that unnecessarily difficult. Well that was a bit of a lie, but he really did stop caring about the picture she took. He just wanted to understand why she does the things she does. “Syntax...”

“Stop saying my name,” she ordered flatly, staring at him with one eye, the other hidden behind her bangs. This is when something rather surprising came to mind.

“Wait a second... weren’t you wearing glasses when we first met?”

Syntax’s eyes shot open, displacing some of the hair that was hanging in front of her face. She turned around with her cheeks puffed out. “N... No.”

“Yeah, you were. Those like, thick-rimmed-”

“No.” she firmly said again. “No I wasn’t.”

Sketch blinked a few times, turning away and looking out the window. “O... kay,” he conceded, letting her believe whatever she wanted to believe. “Whatever you say.”

“Why are you here, Sketchy?” she asked sharply, employing his nickname once more, setting her glass down with gusto. Sketch didn’t react to her intimidation method, content on silently staring at her in response. She continued after his silence. “What do you hope to accomplish?”

“What I always had, Syntax. I want to learn the real you.”

“You’ve seen the real me, boy,” she quickly replied. “The real me doesn’t give two shits about you or anypony else. The real me sells out ponies that think they’re her friend for a quick buck. And you don’t care about the real me, just the facade I show you. Because that’s what the facade is for: to disarm you.”

“I know that’s not true, Syntax,” Sketch denied, shaking his head sagely.

“Who do you think the real me is, Sketch? What do you think you know about me?” she dared, squinting her eyes, only one visible through the hair stuck to her face.

“Well,” he started. “for one, I know you love tomatoes.”

She rose her brow in a ‘That’s it?’ gesture. Sketch got up and started to approach her. “I know you snort when you laugh. Like, really laugh.”

She reflexively reached for her mouth, a slight red showing through her already rust colored fur. It looked like even she hadn’t noticed that.

“I know that you’re frustrated... considering you’re completely trashing your apartment and...” he eyed two indentations in the wall behind a conspicuous looking poster. “Punching holes in the wall...” He adjusted himself and took a deep breath.

“I know that you’re afraid of heights. An irrational phobia,” he added, stepping up in front of her. She looked smaller now, as if she was retreating into herself. She was averting his gaze again and biting her lip. “And I know... in spite of that... you threw your fears aside to help me. You ignored the crippling fear, and saved my life.”

Syntax looked up at him while facing the ground.

“Because I know that you care about me... even though you don’t want to.” Sketch put his hoof on her shoulder as he cocked his head, and they stayed there for a few precious seconds. Syntax shook her head and brushed off his hoof, and began walking back to the kitchen.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she mocked, placing her half full glass on the counter. She began rummaging through a cupboard, probably just trying to look busy. “I was saving my story.”

“You don’t believe that.”

She froze for a second, but then continued rummaging without speaking.

Sketch sighed and walked forward, behind her. “Syntax, let’s just forget that we’re enemies for a second. I really do care about you as well. I understand that you’re separating your work and your personal feelings. I understand that, for some reason, you feel like you need to do this. So let’s just put this all aside and... play nice?”

Syntax finally stopped rummaging and placed a bottle of whisky on the counter. She poured a healthy amount into the tomato juice and left the bottle on the table. Taking a seat in front of her typewriter, she motioned towards the loveseat. “Sit. And you can have some of that whisky if that’s your thing, I’m not your mom.”

Sketch turned towards the bottle, but then shook his head. There was no need to make a fool of himself right now, even if he was curious of the taste. He obeyed her order, taking a lounging seat on the chair. “Okay.”

“Huh...” she breathed, rubbing her eyes. “I want to believe you Sketch. But I don’t.”

“But you want to. That’s good enough.”

“But I don’t,” she repeated, her gaze becoming darker. “And there is nothing you could do to change that.”

“But you want to believe,” he repeated as well, adamant that it was enough. Intent was always just as important as the action. Syntax sighed, compromising on silence. She swirled her cup around, the half thought out concoction weakly bouncing off the walls of the glass.

“Are you always this stubborn?” she asked, taking a swig of her drink.

“Only on business days,” he snickered, showing his teeth in a goofy grin. He leaned back in his seat, taking a more casual position. “You weren’t... afraid of Trust and the other batpony, were you?”

She thought for a moment, taking another swig. “...No. I would have been if I had just stumbled onto them, but it’s hard to be anything but grateful to your saviours.” She smacked her lips, the burn of alcohol no doubt tarnishing the taste of tomato. “Geezus, I can’t believe I fell for the fricken’ costume but you were shelling out at the party.”

“So... you appreciate it? You don’t think they’re dangerous or anything?”

Syntax shrugged, taking another big swig. He awaited an answer but that seemed to be it. He rested his head on his hoof while staring at her tired face. Eventually, she put an empty glass down on the floor and began rubbing her forehooves together. “Hey... when you say you care about me... you don’t mean like, romantic feelings, right?”

Sketch blinked a few times, unaware that was even on the table of possibilities. “Uh, no. I mean you’re very pretty, but...”

“Yeah, yeah,” she quickly assured, massaging her temples. “Just making sure. You’re cute, but you’re a little young. And I’m getting a little buzzed here and I just had to make sure you weren’t gonna try to make a move...”

Sketch began to chuckle and attempted to physically wave some of the tension she had created away. “No, no, you’re fine, I get it. Besides, I’m taken. I think.”

Syntax smirked a knowing smirk, eyeing him from the corner of her visage. “Ah, so you finally did it? You two were all over each other at the party, but it was painfully obvious you hadn’t made a move yet.”

Sketch scratched his eyebrow, and he felt blood rush to his face. “That obvious?”

“Very. Like a typical schoolboy.” Syntax began rubbing her shoulders as if to warm herself up. The more she went on, though, the more it seemed she was just trying to make herself feel. Her next sentence was blurted out fairly quickly, as if she had just been stalling since then. “I have to publish it, Sketch.”

His eyes widened, and he had to prop himself on the armrests, to keep him from falling over. In all this time, he hadn’t expected her to be the one to bring it up. Mouth dry, Sketch closed his eyes and nodded. “I know... I’m not going to try and stop you. I just... I just want to know why, Syntax. That’s all I ask.”

“I can’t,” she started, covering her mouth and looking away as her eyes became misty. “I can’t tell you why.... But....” She looked at him with a newfound conviction. “But maybe I could do you one better.”

He arched his brow and cocked his head. What could she mean?

As if she read his mind, she answered his question. “I’ll show you.”

Short of showing Sketch a film explaining her actions, he was thoroughly confused as to what she meant. But after eyeing the typewriter in front of him, an old piece of advice from his equish teachers repeated themselves in his head: show, don’t tell. He nodded sagely as the expression of realization dawned over him.

She took a long deep breath.




“I was young. Fresh out of High School. I knew what I wanted to do with my life, and I had the means to do it. I had an active mind, and a cheap typewriter at my side, and I felt like I could craft the best, hard hitting journalism that did not yet exist. But I was not well known, and I was the new kid on the block. I didn’t have much hope on providing for myself, nevertheless purchasing upgrades to take my work to the next level. Cameras, notepads, tape recorders, outfits... I couldn’t afford anything. But one day, I got the chance to interview a famous owner of a couple of downtown casinos in Manehattan. We hit it off so well, he refused to do interviews with anypony else. Eventually... eventually it wasn’t interviews anymore. It was dates. It felt so natural. It felt even much more natural... when he asked me to marry him. It was fast... but not fast enough to be considered irresponsible. It was as if he knew just the right time to do it. I felt it was the right time to do it.

“Unfortunately... that was when I began learning certain things... certain... specifics... about his working day. The more I learned... the closer I got to it. The dark side of him. The things he had to do to become successful, were... unmentionable. I had so much dirt on him, and I had written a few pieces about it in preparation. But I never planned to expose him. I just had it with me just in case something went awry. And the scary thing was, as much of a monster as he was... he really did love me. He did everything in his power to keep me happy and distant from his work. You always hear about these vile ponies who are capable of unspeakable atrocities and you just assume that they aren’t ponies like you or I... but they can still care. They can still love, despite it all. And I was complacent with that. I allowed it. He would never cross me, and he trusted me because of that.

“But then something awful happened. I stopped receiving letters from my parents. We didn’t leave on good terms, but my mother and father would always send me a letter on the first of each month just to check up on me. Sometimes I’d write back, sometimes I wouldn’t. But one day... they just stopped. Worried, I began to investigate... where I learned my father drowned in a boating accident. I wasn’t exactly devastated since we weren’t very close, but it still tore me up a bit. However, that was until I saw it. A manifest on my husband’s table. The name of my father’s boat as the header, and his name written in cursive along with ten other names, on a document labeled Business Expendables. In disbelief, I pulled up the incident report of my father’s boat. An eleven pony crew. Eleven. Considered an accident.

“My husband had my father killed. He probably didn’t even know. Hell if he did, he probably wouldn’t have let anybody touch him. But because of my carelessness... because of my inaction... I had my father killed.

“I published the story the next day. I couldn’t turn away as the police dragged my husband away, with tears in his eyes, asking with no malice at all why I would do that to him. That he trusted me. That he loved me. That he still loved me despite it all. But nothing would change the fact that my personal involvement got ponies killed. That it got my father killed. And I knew. That day forward, I knew that you can’t lean one way or the other, you can't stand on the line and play both sides. You have to make a decision and stick with it. You have to stick to the truth. And the truth needs no colors... it must be kept black and white. And it needs to be shared.”

Sketch had listened intently, and kept quiet after she was done. There wasn’t much to say; he asked why and she answered. It was a horrible, awful story... but it didn’t change Sketch’s decision. He had already stated he wasn’t going to try and stop her. But at least now he understood. At least now, everything became clear. At least now, Syntax was finally put to rest in his mind. She was no longer his enemy, just an obstacle, and that was all he ever wanted from her.

“I don’t know if Trust is who she says she is, or what she’s capable of. But if she truly is a monster, despite what you and I believe, despite the chance she really does care about you, and ponies get hurt because of that, I will NOT let it be my fault.” She sighed once more. “If she isn’t a monster and ponies don’t give her the chance she deserves, that would be on them, because I gave them the truth, and it was their decision to twist it.” Syntax threw her head back as if some weight had been lifted. She was content at staring at the ceiling and taking shallow, smooth breaths.

Some time passed, and Sketch exhaled sharply. “Wow. I’m sorry.”

“What’re you sorry for?” she asked, a humorless chuckle escaping her lips. “It’s not like you told my husband to be a criminal.”

“No, no,” he steadied, twirling his hoof in the air. “I mean I’m sorry I ever doubted you. You know, just assumed you were being spiteful in your actions. At least I understand now. It helps a lot... to just not assume the worst.”

“Yeah, well...” she shrugged as she got up from her seat, heading towards her kitchen after she picked up her empty glass. “I think you’d get a lot more done if you did.”

“Perhaps,” he hesitantly agreed. “But at that point I don’t think it’d be worth it.” He got up from his seat and followed Syntax. “Are you ever going to tell me the name of your ex?”

“Ha, you’d have to get me a lot drunker than this,” she joked, snorting as she laughed. She subconsciously reached for her mouth as she did, now acutely aware of her tick. “Don’t try.”

Sketch laughed in response, getting closer to Syntax as he did. He got closer and closer as she poured a moderate amount of whisky in her glass. He accidentally bumped her with his chest as he approached, sending him into a hysteric need to appear casual. Syntax arched her brow, nonplussed. “What gives?”

Sketch closed his eyes and threw his forelegs around her. She nearly dropped her glass, barely being able to set it on the table as her body rocked from his contact. She steadied herself needlessly on the counter as she gritted her teeth in misguided anger. “What-”

“I’m sorry, Syntax,” he repeated, struggling to keep tears from falling. “I’m sorry...”

As the situation settled, Syntax’s breathing steadied. Her hair was a right mess, now being displaced further by Sketch’s interference. “What do you want from me, Sketchy?” she asked with her patience running thin.

“I want you to help,” he answered.

“I told you I can’t-”

“Not as a journalist. As you, Syntax.” Sketch tightened his hug. “I want your support.”

“I...” Syntax’s face fell as she shut her eyes. “I’ll...” She bit her lip with enough force to make it bleed. The house was deadly silent, not a creak or a tick. It was just them. “I’ll do what I can.”

Sketch laughed in subtle disbelief. After a few moments, he detached and took a few steps back. “Thank you.”

She nodded, looking off to the side, not saying a word.

Sketch blew a good-natured raspberry, supporting himself on a nearby counter as the strength drained from his knees. He wasn’t expecting this to be so emotionally taxing on himself rather than Syntax. He felt like he had just navigated a minefield while hopping on one leg. “Now, I think I’ve taken enough of your time. I’ll uhh... just leave your house to you.”

Syntax reared her head in confusion. “This isn’t a house. It’s an apartment.”

“What?” He looked around the very house-looking apartment. “Seriously?”

“Yeah, I rent. Do you really think my yard would look so boring?”


> 13. Birds of a Feather
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

"One of the most beautiful qualities of true friendship is to understand and to be understood.

-Lucius Annaeus Seneca"

Sketch gave one final exhale as he curled himself into a ball in his bed. The door was locked and room was clean. Today wasn’t particularly long, or even that taxing, but he finally felt he’d be able to get a good night’s sleep now that he had dealt with Syntax. He wasn’t sure of ‘dealt’ was the right word, considering he, if anything, actually sped up the amount of time it would take to get the article about him and Trust in the paper, but at least he had done something instead of sit on his ass.

The great thing about insomnia is that one still feels tired after lying in bed for three days straight.




“Psst.”

The noise immediately awoke Sketch. It was all too familiar, and all too welcome. Sleep could wait.

He rose, a half smile adorning his face. “Trust?”

“Sup, sport?” she asked as she finished climbing through his window. As she got through, she sauntered towards the door and turned the deadbolt.

“Ughh, don’t call me that, my dad calls me that.” He stuck his tongue out and flopped back onto his bed. “What time is it?”

“Nine thirty,” she mentioned doing the same care-free saunter towards Sketch. “I think this is the earliest I’ve been here.”

“Maybe." It wasn't. "Are you here to stay?” he asked earnestly, a hopeful smirk shining through his boyish charm.

“Yup, just you an’ me Sketch. I got done with my little... project.” She grinned madly, her cheeks so high they covered the bottom of her eyes a little.

“Why are you doing that?”

“Doing what?”

Sketch started to subconsciously swipe the edges of his sheets as if there were specks of dirt on it. “You keep ominously pausing every time you say project.”

Trust looked off to the side as she scratched the back of her mane. “Oh. Uhh, it’s a spooky project.”

“Yeah, okay,” he dismissively confirmed, not really believing her. It wasn’t that big a deal anyway. “I’m just glad you’re here.”

“Aww,” she aww’d, taking a seat next to him on the bed. “I know the past couple of days must have been hard. I’m sorry I couldn’t be there for you.”

Sketch shrugged, sending wakes of minor pain through his shoulders. “It’s okay, my parents were in and out too often, it wouldn’t have worked out.” His gaze became distant as he asked his next question. “Is it bad I wanted you here more than my parents?”

She abruptly placed both her hooves on either of his cheeks, looking directly into his eyes. “Yes,” she answered flatly, and placing her lips on his before he could react. Before Sketch could really get into it, she reared back, a positively sultry smile from her piercing his eyes. “But I wouldn’t have it any other way.” She threw herself onto him, sending him backwards and lightly thudding his head on the frame of the bed. Sensing he was going to complain about it, she pulled him further down onto the bed proper, kissing him all the while. Seconds became minutes as she trailed down from his mouth to his neck.

His mouth free, he began to speak again. “Trust...” he breathed, unsure where his brain was going after that. “Trust, I don’t know if... this is a good idea.”

She took small breaks from his neck to put in her two bits. “I don’t think it is, Sketchy. But it fucking feels like it.”

“I think...” Sketch laughed as he trailed his own hooves down her sides, feeling every curve and every strand of fur bristle against him. “I think I fell in love with you. I can’t even remember when it happened.”

“You think so, eh?” she replied, giving a small giggle. “I know exactly when I fell in love with you, Sketchy. When you called me a bitch on the day of the party.”

Sketch went limp as he pursed his lips. Did he do that?

“When I heard that, I was like ‘this is the stallion I want to be in bed with’.” Trust could barely speak the last word as she started to break down laughing. She lost her balance and fell flat into his chest where she cried her guffaw. Her chuckles were muffled by Sketch’s fur.

“Yeah, yeah, yuck it up,” he spat, rolling his eyes, but unable to hide his smile. “So you love me?”

“No duh,” she quipped as she looked up at him, biting her lip.

“Good. I-” Sketch was cut off by a noise at his window, a weird scratching thud. The same sound a dog would make wanting to go outside. “-need to hide you now!”

“Ske-MPH!” she tried to protest but Sketch was too quick with his pillow. Would somebody walk in right now, foul play would definitely be suspected. He flailed at his sheets, them only obeying with his sheer stubbornness, as they slowly wrapped themselves around Trusts body. As he assured not one bit of her muted grey-purple fur could be seen, he finally kicked himself off of the bed, unsure of his further plans. His mind was too preoccupied with questions on who would be climbing up to his window than to try and figure out a way to appear casual. As he slammed his hoof against one of his sketches on the floor, and another hoof grabbing a stray pencil, he sent a thanks to Celestia as he realized the two random objects he had grabbed actually made sense.

“Sketch!” the voice called from the window as the culprit peeked over. It took a few moments of a dead stare to match the identity of the individual with his personal memories. Haren, of all people, was hanging outside his window. “Sketch, Sketch, Sketchy! Ooooohhhh my god!” She was absolutely giddy, her already perked face lighting up at the same rate Sketch’s face grew contorted due to confusion. She scrambled through the window, clawing for every pawhold and crevice, before finally rocketing in like a bullet through sheer force of will. Sketch was prepared for many things. A griffin glomp was not one of them.

“Haren?!” was all he managed to ask in the time it took for the tackle to take place. Bones were potentially broken. He struggled as his legs were locked in this apparently eternal struggle of hug, “Haren what are you -urk!- doing here?”

“Sketch, oh brother, you would not believe what just happened!” She ohh’d as she gave him one last squeeze before dropping him like a sack of bricks.

As he collapsed onto the floor, he breathed out an airy, “what.”

“Anthem TOOOOTALLLY fucked me!”

Sketch had been trying to get up off the floor, but as that sucker punch hit his ears all air escaped his lungs through pursed lips, causing spit to fly all over the room. “PPPBTTTHHH.”

“Oh my god, you should have seen him,” Haren rolled her eyes back as she began counting off an imaginary list using her digits to signify the events, a stupid grin on her face the entire time. “I mean, he was a completely adorable bitch at first, and then he got all romantic, and he told me how nervous he was, and we got all frisky, and we just...” Haren’s breathing became steady as she closed her eyes and sighed, her tongue sticking out slightly from her beak. “We did it, Sketch. After all this time... we... just like that. He kissed me. Well, I mean, I kissed him, but he totally asked me to. It wasn’t the way I thought it’d be, but it was so much better.”

Sketch was still in shock at her bolt out of the blue appearance, but as her explanation and enthusiasm slowed, he grew more attentive to her rationale.

“And I know it had something to do with you, Sketchy,” she finally explained, her eyes becoming half mast as she dreamily gazed at him.

Sketch had regained himself enough to rise and shake his head. “No, that was all him, Haren. I just... made sure he didn’t fall.”

“Don’t be so modest, Sketch.” Haren gave a hearty chuckle, examining his room a little and picking up a stray drawing on the floor. It occurred to Sketch this was her first time in his room, which he actually thought to be a bit odd; he wouldn’t have minded her coming in here. “Four years of nothing.... You come along, and it’s not even a month before we become more intimate than I ever thought possible.”

Sketch scratched his head earnestly. He hadn’t actually done much... just talk to the both of them a few times. They had all the power.

“Sketch, I know it’s hard to believe, but you put things in a weird perspective. Maybe it’s because you’re young, or maybe it’s your weird way of looking at the world, but you make things seem so small... so... easily overcome.” Haren sauntered up to him in a way that reminded him of Trust, but... ever so slightly different. It looked drunker than Trust’s, if that made sense. Like she knew what she wanted from life, from him. “Thanks.” She put a talon on his shoulder and gave him a hard-hitting embrace.

“You’re... welcome. I think.” Haren’s hug was quick and endearingly awkward. She was not shy about showing affection, but this seemed to be a special occasion, like the kind of affection a sister would show a brother when they had felt an obligation to. This was a welcome development, considering the unwholesome admiration Sketch had been feeling about her. This was good. This is what he wanted. “You know I had a bit of a crush on you when we first met,” he blurted out, a misguided desire to clear air that wasn’t tarred. He was afraid he had said something incredibly stupid, until Haren grinned madly.

“Aww, really? That’s awesome. You know, if you had a couple more years on you, I might have taken you up on that if this whole Anthem thing crashed and burn.” The casual manner in which she discussed this was what made Haren Haren. He wouldn’t have had it any other way.

“Heh, is that so? Well probably wouldn’t have happened anyway, I’m uh... predisposed.” Sketch laughed and brushed off his shoulder. Haren nodded knowingly, no doubt going for a tease.

“Bat chick?”

“Heh...” he chuckled, without really answering her. Haren perked up at his lack of an immediate defense, and smiled warmly, almost like a mother would. “She’s...”

“I know,” she confirmed, heading towards his bed. “I’m happy for you, Sketchy. Don’t fuck it up like I almost did.”

“I’ll try. You know sometimes I think that DON’T SIT ON MY BED!” Sketch immediately arose, remembering the mare was currently occupying his bed, a fact that had embarrassingly slipped his mind. It was too late, Haren was already in the air. She opened her mouth to ask why, but was interrupted by wriggling sheets.

“What the hell?” she asked genuinely, only morbid curiosity escaping her beak. Sketch thanked the stars Trust was smart enough to only expose her head from the cocoon of sheets that enveloped her. Seeing that it was a pony, Haren shot up from the bed and took a few steps back, slipping on a stray sketch on the floor. It wasn’t until a few blinks later did the realization sink in. “Oh my god... Trust?”

Sketch sharply inhaled through gritted teeth, as Trust bashfully stuck her tongue out and looked the other way. Sketch’s mind raced a mile a minute to find some way out of this, any way to steer the conversation to get Haren out of the room and for Trust to remain in cover. Haren’s thoughts must have been much more cohesive, however, as she began speaking again before anybody could dip their hoof in the conversation. “Ho-lee shit. You REALLY meant predisposed, You were predisposing right before I came in here.”

Haren’s use of a standard grammatical term as a double entendre aside, this was the perfect excuse to get Haren the HELL outta here. “Yes, yes, listen, Haren. Me and Trust were just trying to get some alone time before you interrupted. Now, I’m very happy about you and Anthem, but I’ll come see you guys when I’m not too busy.”

Unfortunately Haren was smart enough to know he wasn’t actually angry with her, and she was in too good of a mood to listen. Her grin looked as if it would split her face in half. “Shit, don’t be like that, Sketchy! How’s it going, Trust? He’s all he cracked up to be?”

“HAREN!” Sketch snapped, his ears becoming hot.

Trust, however, put up that smart-ass defense she also put up during the party. “I don’t know yet, cause you came in and started getting all hot and bothered.”

Haren whistled, her smile somehow getting wider and stretching off her face. “I barged in on your first times? That’s HILARIOUS!” Haren started to titter and hop like a filly. “I bet you guys are virgins, too!”

Sketch slammed his head into the ground as Trust sunk herself into the sheets of the bed. That was more than enough of an answer for Haren. “Eee! I knew it! That’s...”

Haren’s exuberance and energy faded as her face fell. Sketch looked up from the ground in confusion, wondering what killed her mood. She was still staring straight at trust, but her brows were furrowed. She spoke slowly. “You’re still wearing the fangs? Isn’t it a bit early for a kink?”

Sketch’s blood froze.

Trust’s smug frown turned into a horrified grimace.

Haren turned towards Sketch, her face showing a mix of concern and disappointment. Not because of a supposed kink. But because she knew he was hiding something from her. He could almost hear the gears turn in her head as his odd behaviours and actions slowly began to make sense. He didn’t know how much she thought she knew, but they were past the point of no return. Haren silently demanded a revelation.

“Sketch? What’s going on?”

Sketch swallowed with a dry throat. He felt sweat pour down his temples and behind his ears. Both girls were staring at him, expectantly. He opened his mouth but no sound came out. There was no way he could half-truth his way out of this one.

“Sketch, please. Whatever you tell me, I promise not to be angry... or however you think I’m gonna react.”

Sketch forcibly shut his eyes to get away from their gaze. His mind raced through possible excuses and scenarios, through possible actions and outcomes. But as Syntax came into his mind... he knew. She was already going to reveal them to the public... but at least Haren, one of his best friends, could find out on his terms instead of Syntax’s. Initiating damage control...

“Trust... show her.” Trust’s eyes shot open and her ears perked up. She stammered a bit, but Haren was quicker on the draw.

“Woah! Hold your horses, there, you don’t gotta be that open with me,” she joked with a nervous smile. Well, at least her sense of humor was still in tact.

“Not like that,” Sketch replied, appearing annoyed but secretly appreciative that she was so insistent at keeping the mood up. It wasn’t going to last for very long. “Trust?”

“You can’t be serious,” she whispered as if Haren would somehow magically be unable to hear her. “Are you serious?”

Sketch shrugged with feign indifference, a dry smile on his lips. “She’s gonna find out sooner or later. May as well be right now.”

Haren rubber banded her head between Sketch and Trust, no doubt unsure who she should be looking on. Trust shut her eyes and began unwrapping herself from the sheets. She had left one final layer on, and she tentatively began to lift the thin sheet off. Her wings unfurled as she did, to around twice her original width. She stuck them straight out and flapped them powerfully once, shredding any doubt Haren might have had to their genuinity.

Haren’s face slowly began to widen in shock. Sketch was convinced it would never stop.

“Oh... my... god...” Haren slowly cursed, leaving a ringing sensation in Sketch’s ears.

In the midst of the current transpirations, a small question burned through Sketch’s consciousness as Haren covered her beak with her talon, a thing he had observed her do a number of times. That question was a simple When did everything start falling apart?

“Haren...” Sketch started, but had no intention of finishing, as if her name would mend all the mistakes he made.

“It’s all real...” she softly said to herself. “I... knew you two were hiding something, but I didn’t know...”

“Well, I’m real,” Trust snapped, sounding unsure of why she was upset. She probably felt like she had to be, for some reason. “What are you gonna do about it?”

Haren looked back and forth at the unicorn and the batpony, struggling to come up with the answer. Sketch felt like he already had the answer: it was a veritable nothing.

“Sketch,” she finally said, ignoring Trust’s rhetoric. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“What?” Sketch spat, taking a step back. It was his turn to be upset for no reason, but a question like that made his ears burn in ire. “What was I supposed to say?”

She laughed in airy disbelief. “Sketch, baby,” she smiled in an attempt to comfort him, but it just made him feel uneasy, just as her use of a pet name he had never heard before. “You could have told me. I... this... I can’t believe you’re dealing with this all by yourself.”

That gave Sketch pause. It wasn’t an answer he was expecting, if you could call it an answer.

Trust interrupted his thoughts with a snap of her own. “Hey, I’m standing right here! Don’t talk about me like I’m some sort of fucking disease.”

Haren turned to her from a downward angle. He couldn’t see her face, but it must have been dire from the aback reaction Trust had to it. “Easy there, Trust.” Her words stabbed through the air. “I don’t know you as well as I do Sketch, but you can bet your ass he’s risking a hell of a lot being associated with somepony like you. If Sketch trusts you, so will I, but that’s the best you’re gonna get from me right now.” Haren stomped her right paw as her posture turned to that of a feline stalking prey. “And that has nothing to do with whatever fucked up thing you’re dealing with to look the way you do. I’m talking to you the way I would any mare lying in his bed, capice?”

Trust was silent for a moment, but her eyes narrowed as she no doubt refused to be intimidated. “I know what he’s sacrificing, Haren. I didn’t want him to, but he did. It’s only fair that I give him everything that he wants in return. But I won’t take this shit from you.”

The batmare was ready to pounce, but became totally disarmed when Haren smiled through her furrowed brows. “Alright. I can respect that,” she conceded. She resumed her original posture and flicked her tail back and forth, daring Trust to make another move after her back down. Trust knew better, and looked away whilst rubbing her knee.

Sketch now had a few things to ask Trust. Namely, that she didn’t want him sacrificing himself for her, and worse still, that she felt like she somehow owed him for that. Is that what this was? This passion was just to please him? The possibility made Sketch nauseous, and he hoped he hadn’t just done something horrible.

She turned back to Sketch, making him jump out of his reverie. She licked her beak, which was an admittedly terrifying action, and frowned. “Sketch, why did you want to do this by yourself? I thought you knew us, knew me.”

“It’s not that important,” I lied, my tongue sticking to the roof of my mouth and tasting the bitter untruth.

“Bullshit,” she rightfully disagreed. “You’re way too good at lying, Sketch. You’re harboring what I gather to be a potentially dangerous unidentified species in your flipping bedroom. Do you realize what’d happen if ponies found out? You could be tried for like, treason or something. Failing that, you could be lynched if people were sour enough about it.” Haren scratched the back of her neck. “Now, I’m admittedly not quite sure I know how it works over here in Equestria, but I know this isn’t the kind of thing you just up and do.”

Sketch thought a small bluff might be worth the effort. “How do you know she’s an unidentified species?” After the words escaped his lips, he shuddered at the giant insult of intelligence he just gave Haren.

Without skipping a beat, Haren snorted. “Sketch, I’m not an idiot. Plus you’d be surprised at just how much I know about Equestria, I just didn’t have time to research their law and psychology.”

When did they slip into casual conversation? Sketch decided there was no real harm in continuing. “Sounds like you’re hiding stuff too.”

“You just haven’t asked the right questions,” she shot back, folding her arms. “I asked you a direct question before we slept together.”

“WHAT?!” Trust yelled, stepping up. Sketch flinched, and Haren blinked. Sketch was about to initiate damage control, but Haren was too fast yet again.

“Easy, there, bat-for-brains. We both fell asleep on the same piece of furniture, nothing more. You don’t think Sketch would be unfaithful just like that, do you?”

Sketch glowered at Haren for throwing him under the bus, but she simply smiled sheepishly and shrugged. The bluff payed off, though, considering Trust had returned to the bed and grumbled. Sketch shook his head violently and rubbed his temples. “So you’re cool?”

“I’m cool, Sketch,” Haren assured. “You really should have told me.”

Sketch half-heartedly shrugged, unsure of why he felt the need to be dishonest with her in the first place. Of course she’d be supportive. “I know. It’s just so hard to keep track of everything, I forget who my allies are in all this. I just assume the worst.”

Haren laughed darkly, the dryness in her voice cracking under pressure. “I’m more worried if this girl is good enough for you.”

Trust growled at Haren, but strangely did nothing more. Sketch looked back at her before saying, ”I’m not sure I’m good enough for her.”

“Sketch...” Haren breathed as if it would somehow make the situation better. Anything she would have said, however, was interrupted by Trust frantically flying out of the window. Neither the griffin or the unicorn had time to react until she had completely cleared the leap. “What the-”

“Trust!” Sketch yelled after her, placing both hooves on the windowsill. Haren followed behind, placing a talon on his rump, looking over his shoulder. Sketch frantically eyed the ground and the sky, before spotting Trust flying away in the distance, towards the moon, where she disappeared into the darkness. He cursed under his breath, and he felt Haren’s talon tense. It scratched at his hide hard enough for him to wince in pain. “Haren, ow, what are-”

As he turned he saw the door had been opened. Weird, he thought he locked it? Wait, no, Trust had turned the deadbolt thinking she was locking it, but it was already locked when she did so, which meant it was unlocked this entire time. But that means that anybody could walk in?

For the first time in his train of thought, he acknowledged just who was standing in the doorway.

Dear old dad.

His face was one of shock, as if he were unsure whether or not he should walk back out. He blinked a couple of times to make sure he was seeing the right thing. For a moment, Sketch was unsure of why he was behaving so oddly, considering it seemed Trust made it out in time. So why was he so speechless.

The answer was the three hundred pound griffin with her talon currently on his ass.

The great thing about that, Sketch giggled internally, was there was no actual explanation to this current situation. The immediate conclusion that one would come to, after jumping over the hurdle of absurdity that was a pony and griffin were even having sexual relations, was null and void thanks to the fact Haren, the female, was behind and over Sketch. His dad was no doubt looking for an explanation, and kept coming up blank, creating a cycling paradox of unease.

Sketch opened his mouth after the stunning silence, but Haren, silver tongue as she was, once again beat him to the punch.

“Mr. Sketch! It’s so nice to meet you!” Haren shouted a little too loudly, dipping every syllable in artificially flavored honey. “Heard... a... LOT... about... you...” The lie was so absurd Haren had difficulty regurgitating the words.

“Sketch is my son,” his calm voice rang despite the utter confusion in his voice. “My name is Books. Law Books.” He was clearly distracting himself from the scene by devoting one hundred percent of his attention to Haren’s speaking.

“Law Books? You serious?” she incredulously asked. She coughed into her talon loudly and cleared her throat obnoxiously. The look on her face suggested she did that on purpose, and Sketch silently cursed her for that. “I mean, yes! Of course. Sorry, in my country, offspring inherit their father’s last name.”

“That sounds... confusing,” he answered honestly, his brows still furrowed from the initial shock. “Wh... why are you in my son’s room?”

Sketch could FEEL the temptation that Haren no doubt experienced in just blurting out that she was having sex with him, but she was probably too aware of the consequences to make the commitment. “We...” she started as Sketch gritted his teeth. “Were going over his art! Yes. See, we’re pretty good friends and he told me about his passion, which was all of this... art. So I wanted to see some!”

“I didn’t... see you come through the front door?”

Sketch felt it was time to back her up. “In her country, their homes are really high up, like nests. It’s a habit to fly through windows and such, and I was just telling her that it WASN’T OKAY.” Sketch growled the last part of the sentence through gritted teeth, but she simply shrugged with one talon in the air and gave an innocent smile as she stared at the ceiling.

Sketch’s dad put a hoof to his chin as his demeanor softened, him becoming quite satisfied with the explanation. He appeared as if he felt he should be angry, but couldn’t rationally think of a reason why, so he settled neutrality. “Well, alright, just... don’t do it again, and everything’s fine.”

Sketch sighed and Haren deflated as her limbs loosened up. Haren gave a sensible chuckle, and began to back up. “I guess I should be going...”

To Sketch’s horror, his father smiled and shook his head. “Nonsense. We should have a drink and talk. Sketch has, like, no friends.”

“DAD!” Sketch yelled, his cheeks burning. Haren widened her eyes in shock at the uncalled for burn at Sketch’s expense, and smiled in a weird sense of pride.

“Suuuure,” she purred, following him out the door. Sketch approached his bed and screamed into his pillow. As he pulled back, he saw blood on the white material, and reached for his mouth where a few more drops of blood fell. Trust returned to his mind, and he trudged towards the window, looking up at the night sky. They were once again interrupted by her nature. One of these days, it wasn’t going to matter. It was the least he could promise her.



“Sweet Night is already in bed, so she won’t be joining us tonight, unfortunately.”

Haren rose her eyebrow and remained silent, wanting Books to finish talking. “My wife,” he clarified. Haren reared her head as her body tensed up.

“W... wife. Sketch’s... mo... mom.” Haren began scratching at the armchair nervously. It was Books’ turn to arch his eyebrow.

“Yes... that is how it works.”

Sketch took a nervous sip, his eyes flicking between Haren and his dad. He was resting on the sofa along with his dad, a non alcoholic soda in his glass. Both of the adults had wine in their glasses, implications damned by the fact Haren was a griffin. Haren cleared her throat and shifted in her seat, covering her beak with her talon. “Sorry, yeah of course. I’m just a little... nevermind.” She cleared her throat again, louder this time. “So hey, why don’t you guys inherit names?”

Books blinked a few times to register the sudden subject change, and decided to adhere to his guest’s preferences. “Well, there’s no real reason for it. It’s just fun to come up a name for your kid that has a good ring to it. Why do griffins inherit names?”

Haren had regained her comfort, taking a long sip of wine, nearly downing the entire glass. She didn’t make a show of it like she usually did, which surprised Sketch. Though, if any of his friends were classy enough to show reserve, it would be Haren. Maybe Royal, but he has other problems. “Legacy purposes. Your last name is a sort of badge that you wear to identify your origin and your basic self, while your first name is to clarify yourself amongst your family. When women marry men, they also take the man’s last name and throw away their own, getting it back if they choose to divorce. A clan mentality, I suppose, though clans aren’t really a thing anymore.”

“I see.” Books nodded and took a sip of wine himself. “I’m sorry. I haven’t really thought about it before, but it’s somewhat sad that we haven’t made much of an effort in schools to learn more about your homeland considering the diversity Canterlot and the rest of equestria desires.”

“Pssh,” Haren dismissively spat. “Don’t worry about it. We should be taking notes about you guys, our social situation is pretty dire. Very selfish and short-sighted.”

“Wouldn’t know that with the way you behave,” Books complimented, which very oddly made Sketch blush. Haren nodded in approval.

“So what’s your last name then? If you don’t mind me asking.” Books rose his glass to his lips. “You have one as well, right?”

Haren bit her talon in thought. “Yeah, I do. I haven’t thought about it in a long time, I kinda just wanted nothing to do with home when I moved here. I don’t mind saying though.” She smiled. “Haren Leigh Cassidy is my full name. Don’t worry, middle names aren’t important.”

Sketch gasped, or at least he tried to, but all of the soda in his mouth entered his lungs as he did so. He dropped the glass on floor, sending a chip of the glass under the sofa and soda all over the tile. He doubled over, coughing and sputtering for air. His dad put a gentle hoof on his back, ready to act if this wasn’t a simple case of liquid going down the wrong pipe. It took him a while to recover, but he glared at Haren as he stammered. “HAREN CASSIDY?!”

“Yes?” Haren confirmed, looking around her to see if he was speaking to someone else.

“H. Cassidy?!” he shouted, causing Haren’s blood to run cold. “H. Cassidy, author of Wandering, Not Lost?! That was you?!”

Haren’s talon met her forehead. “Oh lord...” She attempted to hide herself in embarrassment. “I can’t believe you know about that.

“You wrote a book?” Books asked, his eyebrows raising.

“Fucking news to me!” Sketch shouted throwing his hooves out. Books thwacked him upside the head and warned him to watch his language. Sketch straightened himself out and rustled his mane. “I read that book so many times when I was little.”

“When you were little?” Books asked. He turned and looked towards Haren. “How old are you?”

Haren ignored Sketch’s father and scratched her beak bashfully. “That’s so embarrassing. I wrote that thing in high school about my first visit to Equestria. It was a school trip in the fifth grade to learn about Equestrian society, at least, that’s what they told us. I’m sure it was more political than that, a sort of good faith gesture.”

Sketch’s dad hit one hoof with the other. “I remember that. It was in the papers for weeks, you guys were pretty much celebrites since the negotiations with Eagleland had just finished. That was right here in Canterlot, wasn’t it?”

“Yup, the Summer Sun fair.” Haren fought back her flush face by concentrating on her drink. “I wrote that book when I was getting fed up with our government. I was the happiest I’d ever been right here in Canterlot. I got back as soon as I could afford it. Book sales helped.”

“I don’t believe it.” Sketch flumped back into his seat, staring at the ceiling. “In a way, then... we’ve been friends for a hell of a long time through that book.”

Haren threw a raspberry and stuck her tongue out. “Hey hey hey, that book is awful. So artsy and shit when it didn’t need to be, with super obvious symbolism thrown everywhere like a poet threw up after eating alphabet soup. It’s still one of my greatest shames.”

Sketch’s face fell and he started to play with hooves. “Well, I liked it.”

Haren lit up for a moment and gave Sketch a warm smile. She looked the other way and chuckled. “Yeah? I’m glad someone got something out of it.”

With all of this new information, Sketch’s head began to swim with remaining questions. “So when did you meet Anthem?”

Haren laughed, heartily this time. “That was when I moved here. Well... not exactly moved, per se... more like ran away here.” She grumbled in embarrassment but kept her smile on. “I foolishly thought coming back to Canterlot would somehow bring all that joy I felt the first time back. But life had other ideas. It’s always money, you know? But luckily, I was at this club drinking the last of my bits away when Anthem came up to talk to me. I was pretty shy back then, but I was the first griffin he saw in person and he wouldn’t shut up and stop asking me questions. He somehow got me to say I didn’t really have a place to stay and he just...”

There was a measurable pause in the room, one that Sketch’s father could never understand, but Sketch knew all too well. Haren almost choked, but fought through it. “He just said... ‘Stay with me! I’ve got space, it’s no biggie, you can stay as long as you want!’. To a complete stranger.” Haren made a show of exhaling, rubbing her eyes as they became misty. “I could never be able to repay that kindness... but the least I can do support him as much as I can as his friend.”

Sketch eyed his father, who had been watching intently with his usual steel straight face. He hadn’t even been drinking his wine, just blinking every minute or so. When Haren finished her story, he set his glass down and closed his eyes. He sighed unexpectedly, and cleared his throat. “Miss Cassidy-”

“Haren,” she corrected. This actually made Sketch’s dad crack a smile, if only for a moment.

“Haren. I’ll be honest with you.” Books straightened a tie that wasn’t there. “I am not my wife. When Sketch told me he was friends with a griffin, I was hesitant.”

Sketch gaped at that, but Haren respectfully nodded, her smile gone.

“But... I am glad to see that once again, prejudice has no place in our society. I’m sorry that I ever thought about your people in such a way. You may be rough around the edges, but in a way so is my son, and you’re a thoughtful po-... person where it matters.”

“Yeesh, it sounds like you’re giving me your blessing to marry him,” she joked suddenly, nearly sending Sketch out of the window in astonishment.

Books’ eyes widened, but a spark ignited in his face. “Well, I don’t know about that. I want grandfoals, y’know?”

“Okay, stop,” Sketch pleaded, but Haren was too enthralled by this conversation.

“We could adopt-”

“HAREN!” Sketch shouted, for the second time that night. Or was it the third?

She chuckled sensibly and rolled her eyes back. “Come on, Sketch. You’re way too old for me.”

“That’s what makes it creepy!”

“Not to mention you’re a griffin.”

Haren and Sketch froze, eyes trailing back to Books as he sat there like he just said water is wet. Haren conspicuously coughed into her talon and Sketch simply hung his head with his ears plastered to the back of his neck. “Yeah, yeah,” Haren dismissively coughed, rubbing the back of her neck.

Despite all of the obvious signs he had just said something highly offensive, Books simply sat there and took another sip of his wine. And here Sketch thought society was progressing. Haren rose and stretched, her acting slowly improving. “I guess I should get going. Anthem’s going to wake up soon, and he can not cook for the life of him.”

Books rose his brows, placing his empty glass on the table. “He’s getting up in the middle of the night?”

“Yeah! We haven’t been getting much sleep recently on account of all the...” Haren began sleazily bragging, but stopped once she saw Sketch slowly shake his head with a frown on his face. Her face fell along with his, and she nodded slowly. “Anyways, I need to go.”

“Nice meeting you, Haren.”

Haren sadly walked out, not turning around as she responded. “Ditto.”

As she left, Sketch stared at his father, unable to believe the things he had just done. After a while, he shifted uncomfortably. “What is it, Art? Something in my teeth?”

Sketch shook his head and stomped upstairs, leaving his father slightly offended and alone. Today was going so well in the beginning. But this just reinforced Sketch’s fears from the very beginning. Haren had been understanding, and he knew Anthem probably would be too, by proxy. But his parents? His teachers? Everyone else? What would they do if they knew about Trust?

He could only hope his gambit with Syntax would pay off, and she’d have a change of heart. But that was unlikely. Now, there was only the countdown to apocalypse.

The day she arrived was the day he died. And now he was simply waiting for the chance to pick up the pieces.
> 14. Thanks For The Talk
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

School.

The word had lost all meaning for Sketch. Instead of being a proper noun, and a place where his dreams went to die, it became an isolated segment of his life that played no part in the grand scheme of things. In a cruel twist of ironic fate, now that he had completely stopped caring about it, he found himself awake and alert in all of his lessons and lectures. Even Mr. Lead had found himself shocked at Sketch’s seemingly new ability to pay attention and not consistently drift off in his speeches. The school life had now become a distraction to his problems, and a time of quiet solidarity to forget about his anxieties. But not quiet enough to become lost in his mind.

As he sketched the last few lines of a modern house in a lesson of perspective and scale in Conté’s class, he found himself slowly closing his eyes in a thick haze. That was, until Conté had opened her mouth.

“Are you okay?” she asked, concern dripping from her voice. It was a long while before Sketch finally turned to her, expression neutral.

“I’m... not sure.” There was a click as he set his pencil down. He stared at the plain-jane house he drew, struggling to remember where he had seen it. A burst of revelation washed over him as he remembered Syntax’s apartment, and he flinched. “I’m not really sure of anything anymore.”

“Sketch,” she lamented, shaking her head. “You need to talk to someone. Maybe not me, as much as it pains me to say.” She put her foreleg around her neck in a encouraging manner and placed herself in front of his eyes so he could not look away. “Whatever you’re dealing with, you can’t do it alone.”

Sketch scratched at his desk apprehensively, breathing a little harder so that his head would nod slightly. The apartment he drew seemed to laugh at him, and he chuckled in turn. “You know, I thought I was protecting people by not telling them the whole truth. That it’d somehow spare them the hurt. But when everything started to blow up in my face, I found out that nothing would stop my friends from taking the bolt for me, no matter how much I didn’t want them to. So...” He turned to Conté and smirked. “Might as well warn them about the bolt,”

Conté’s face turned into one of concerned uncertainty, utterly confused at Sketch’s complex confession. She smiled with apprehension. “Atta... boy?”

Sketch laughed once more, and pushed himself away from the table. “Don’t worry. I’ll make the right choice. Thanks Miss Conté.”

He headed towards the door, leaving a thoroughly flummoxed art teacher in the wake. “Your welcome... I think,” she said, to no one in particular.



“Knock knock,” Sketch singed as his hoof synchronized to his voice against the door. There was some shuffling behind the door along with some hushed whispers before the sound of a turning deadbolt caused him to take a step back. The door swung open with gusto, revealing a ruffled griffin behind the door. Haren’s feathers had lost their dye and simply became a darker hue of grey along the tips, a detail Sketch hadn’t noticed in the confusion of their previous meeting. The feathers themselves were also a lot less organized, but Sketch failed to figure out if it was simply unkempt or an intended style, seeing how well she wore it. He also briefly wondered if feathers were similar to manes at all or if he was just making assumptions at that point. His thoughts were interrupted by the silver tongue herself.

“‘Sup, kiddo?” she attempted to casually greet. It was laced with a certain level of enthusiasm that he was not used to seeing Haren in, however, though that was probably due to recent developments and not anything he had done.

“Is that really Sketch?” a voice from inside called, causing Sketch to try and take a peek inside. Haren stepped aside as he leaned and allowed Sketch full reign of the place, as she sashayed to the kitchen to grab a drink for her guest. Sketch accepted her unvoiced invitation and made his way towards the sofa, where Anthem lounged, a beer in his hooves. “What’s up, dude?”

“Hey man,” Sketch replied, Anthem’s laid back attitude already putting him at ease. “How’s it going?”

“Great,” he confided with a wink. He grinned widely as if he were letting Sketch in on a secret. After a second, he sunk further into the cushion, looking into the ceiling blissfully. “Glad you’re here, kid.”

“Any particular reason?” Sketch asked as he caught a thrown drink from Haren. It was an average cola, and he silently thanked that one of his friends finally had some forethought and didn’t hand him alcohol.

Anthem shook his head. “Not really. I was just thinking that a couple months ago, I would have to borderline beg you to hang out. And now you’re coming around at your own volition. Just feels good, y’know?”

Sketch thought back on it, since it had been around a year since they met. Was he really such a stick in the mud before he met Trust? It wasn’t like he was busy, all he did was draw and go to school.

As if Haren was reading his mind, she nodded her head at Sketch and asked, “How did you two even meet? Was Anthem just hanging around schools and being a creepo?”

Anthem snorted, but Sketch was quick to answer. “Anthem helped me out with a problem.” When Haren rose her brow, Sketch elaborated. “A bully at my school was making the rounds and harassing me outside my school. Anthem just started beating the shit outta him.”

“Woah!” Haren exclaimed, turning to Anthem. “You beat up a little kid?”

Anthem groaned into his hooves, pulling his face down. “I didn’t know they were kids! I was on the way home and I wasn’t exactly aware of my surroundings, so all I saw was one stallion giving another a hard time and I told him to beat it. He didn’t listen, so I socked him in the face. I mean, you shoulda seen the guy, he was friggin’ huge for a highschooler.”

Sketch nodded in approval. “Yup, I can attest. Everyone tells me how they forget how old I actually am, and the guy was a hoofball player and was gigantic. I could see how it must have looked.”

Anthem took over the story as he leaned over. “Yeah, so, Sketch is all panicking and asking what the hell I thought I was doing, and I start freaking out when he told me that I just punched a minor. So we both booked it to my place and the rest is history.”

Sketch blew a raspberry. “Hardly. The cops wouldn’t stop pestering me for a whole week asking me for descriptions of what happened and Anthem’s appearance. Of course, we sorta became friends after that so I purposely gave them a cold trail.”

Anthem giggled uncontrollably, “He told them I had a mustache and a shaved head.”

“What happened to the bully?” Haren inquired, flicking off the cap of her own bottle.

“Well, Anthem rocked him so hard, he couldn’t give an accurate description of his appearance, and he was just kinda scared of everyone after that. I don’t even know if he still goes to my school.”

“Heavy,” she commented, taking a huge glug of her beer. She was doing that thing again where she sticks the entire neck of the bottle down her throat, but it didn’t fluster Sketch like it used to. He briefly pondered why, but was distracted by the fact Anthem looked pretty bothered by the display, turning around with his face flush. Sketch couldn’t help but smile, a ghost of a thought of how weird all this was sparking in his mind, but never bringing anything alight. He frowned as the reason for his visit flushed itself back into his mind. He set his soda aside and sighed.

“Listen, guys...”

“Yeah?” they both asked in unison, Haren looking inside her bottle as if she didn’t believe she already drank it all, and Anthem taking a sensible sip.

“I think I should start being a little more honest with you... with you both.”

The both of them perked up, and Haren nearly dropped her empty bottle. Anthem rose his eyebrow, not having feeling particularly lied to. “What’s this about?” Anthem asked, not an ounce of mistrust in his voice, just pure curiosity.

“Well, a lot of things. But... something happened that’s going to change a lot of stuff. It’s going to change me... and all the people I’m involved with. And I just thought you guys should know.”

Haren’s feathers all stood up and stuck out, as her eyes became wider. Anthem simply blinked a couple of times, and he nervously pawed at his bottle. 

“Uhh, Sketch?” Haren asked. “Are you going to uhh... ell-tay, them-Anay, about the at-bay ony-pay?”

Sketch facehoofed at Haren’s sudden pig-latin usage as Anthem started to flick his head between the pony and griffin. “Okay, what am I missing here? You two hiding something from me?”

Sketch shook his head violently, “No no, not Haren. She barely found out a couple days ago. I’ve uhh... I’ve found myself caring for a... mare.”

Anthem nodded as-a-matter-of-factly. “Yeah, that Trust mare. Not really much of a secret, I mean, you were all over her.”

Sketch scoffed, still upset at how transparent that was for everyone considering how torn up he was about it. But he shook his head and growled. “Yes, Trust. She’s the reason. Her... her...”

Haren, to everyone’s shock, took the reins. “Her wings and teeth were real. And her eyes.”

Anthem scoffed in disbelief, and he chuckled. “Yeah, okay.”

Sketch nodded sagely. “No, she’s right. She’s a batpony.”

Anthem smirked again, and laughed. “What? You mean like a vampony?”

Sketch opened his mouth to disagree, but stopped himself once his brain turned a couple gears. Was she a vampony? Maybe, nothing about her really said that she wasn’t. He hadn’t really tried all the classic vampony weapons, or rather any of the non-lethal ones since he wouldn’t want to hurt her. He hadn’t tried garlic, or holy water, or symbols of Celestia’s brilliance. She was nocturnal, as far as Sketch knew, and that counted as an aversion to sunlight, so she actually had a few ticks marked in the vampony column.... But he shook his head again before he could lose himself in thoughts. “No. At least, I don’t think so. We’ve been just calling her a batpony for now, she doesn’t suck blood or anything.” At least, so far.

“You’re fuckin’ with me.”

Haren put a tender talon on Anthem’s shoulder, who nearly jumped at the contact. “No, Anthem. We wouldn’t lie to your face like this. I saw her with my own eyes.”

For the first time, Anthem considered the possibility of their talk. It appeared as if he was mentally checking the date to see if it was april fools or other prank themed holiday. As he slowly looked between Haren and Sketch, his eyes became wider. He just didn’t have it in him to doubt anything his two best friends had to say. “Wha... are you... are you serious?”

Sketch gave one final, firm nod, before folding one hoof over the other. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you earlier, Anthem. Maybe I wasn’t ready. Maybe I thought you weren’t ready. But things are getting worse, and I... want your help.”

“Oh my god, Sketch...” he cursed, slipping into Haren’s blasphemous musings. “Y-yeah, of course, dude, anything. Is... are you going to bring her around? You can do that if you want.”

The unicorn reared his head, the possibility of all of his friends in one place at once making his head spin, almost nauseating him. That was an overwhelming offer, and he couldn’t just deny it. “Oh! Umm, maybe... Maybe, uh, later.”

Anthem was probably the only person Sketch would be able to tell and have them believe him. Haren was too intelligent to not have a healthy amount of skepticism, and she also hails from a country without magic. His parents would simply think he’s coming up with stories. His teachers would call him crazy. Syntax, if she didn’t already know, would probably write his story off because of lunacy. But Anthem was a simple soul, and was trusting enough to ingest anything his friends would tell him, because he knew they wouldn’t take advantage of him.

In his musings, Haren had furrowed her brow as she reviewed their conversation in her head. “Hey, what did you mean, more honest with ‘you both’?” she asked, tapping her empty bottle.

Sketch sighed, tapping his hoof. “Well, that’s mostly why I’m here. I was hanging out with Trust and another batpony, Royal. He’s uhh, the only other one we know exists. We were all at the lake when Syntax showed up.”

“Syntax?!” Haren yelled. “That bitch knows not to mess with you! Did she forget about me?!”

Sketch grumbled and furrowed his brow. “Don’t get all bent out of shape, I made a deal with her, it’s okay.”

“No it’s not, Sketch,” Haren shouted. “She’s just trying to manipulate you!”

“I know, that Haren! But if she wasn’t there, I would have died that night!”

It was Anthem’s turn to be upset. One mention of bodily harm made him leap off his seat and growl a deep threat. “Who,” he demanded. “Who did it?” Haren’s anger had disappeared and was replaced with a morbid curiosity as she watched on.

“It wasn’t a person,” he reassured. “Unless you want to kick the shit out of a broken tram, then be my guest.”

“Broken tram?” Anthem asked, but his girlfriend behind him lit up.

“YOU WERE ON THAT?!” she shouted, immediately covering her beak as she realized her volume. “The sky rail broke a few days ago, but the paper said no one was on it!”

“That’s because Trust and Royal saved Syntax and I.” He wistfully smiled and held his shoulder, messaging an ache that flared up. “But I nearly fell before that, and Syntax overcame her crippling fear of heights to save my life. She broke her act because she cared about me. You can’t fake devotion like that.”

“How do you know she didn’t rig the whole thing up?”

“Haren!” Sketch slammed his hoof into the floor and Haren flinched, knowing she had said something unacceptable. “Even if that were true, there is no way you should be throwing accusations like that without knowing for sure!”

Anthem put a hoof on Sketch’s shoulder and gave him a menacing scowl. “Easy, Sketch,” he warned evenly. Haren pulled him back, which made him drop the macho posture.

“No, Anthem, he’s right. That was fucked up.” Haren exhaled, covering her beak as she always did. “I just don’t know why you’re still dealing with her.”

“Because she got a photo of us.”

The couple’s mouths gaped at this, and they both instinctively reared up. “A photo?” Haren asked.

Sketch nodded in response. “After everything that had happened.”

“What a bitch,” Anthem spat, grinding his teeth. It was then that Sketch realized Anthem didn’t have any personal run-ins with Syntax. Then again, that would probably give him more colorful words to work with.

“She has her reasons,” he excused, tapping the floor. “I don’t want either of you giving her a hard time, alright?”

Haren grumbled, her previous threats now losing their luster. Anthem shook his head. “Why not? If we can stop this-”

“She’s smarter than you think. She’s going to have copies, and she’ll go to any length to publish it. It’d be better to deal with her my way.” Sketch hardened his face, “I’m asking you guys to trust me on this.”

“We have to do something,” Anthem offered, grimacing as if he had eaten something foul. “I can’t just sit here and watch you deal with this on your own.”

“I know,” Sketch agreed, closing his eyes. “That’s why I want you guys to do something for me.”

“And that is?” Haren inquired.

“I want a place for Royal, Trust, and I to crash if things go sour. Once this all goes public, I won’t be able to bring Trust around to my house anymore, since my parents probably would do something to keep me from her. So I need a halfway point of sorts.” There was a creaking in their seats as Haren and Anthem turned to look at each other with honest interest.

The couple nodded feverishly, and Haren stood forward. “Of course, Sketch, that’s no problem at all. We’re going to have an extra room here since Anthem and I are sharing one now.”

Anthem couldn’t help but lower his head bashfully at that mention. He cleared his throat and spoke as well. “Yeah, in fact, she can bunk here any time she wants. You too, brother.” He looked up at Haren to make sure it was okay and she shrugged and laughed.

“It’s your apartment, remember?”

Putting a hoof over his heart, he sighed once more. “Thanks guys. Sorry I didn’t tell you about all this sooner. I know who my allies are now.”

They told him not to mention it as they both got up and put their forelegs around him, in one group hug. “You sure you’re gonna be okay?”

“Much better now that you two know,” he giggled. “I’m going to go now, I’ve got some things I need to do.”

“And what’s that?” Anthem asked.

Sketch smiled as he turned to leave. “I’ve got to do some research.”



“The last book you checked out was... The Legend of the NIghtmare on the Moon. It’s still here if you want to grab it again!”

The librarian's sunny disposition always annoyed Sketch, but today he found it quite nice compared to the madness he was dealing with on a regular basis. Her flowing sky blue mane and navy fur almost made her disappear in her similarly colored chair. Sketch politely nodded in thanks and headed to the area he remembered grabbing it from. It was on the second floor of the grandiose library, on the thirteenth row of shelves. The shiny green and white tiled floors smelled of cleaners, and mixed rather pleasantly with the burnt vanilla of the old books. The air had no taste and seemed to steal the moisture from one’s mouth, and the oppressive silence was a nice blanket for one to read without distraction. Occasionally Sketch would hear the idle sniff from a pony clear on the other side of the building, cementing it as a place of solitude. The natural lights emanating from the stained glass windows seemed to guide Sketch to his destination, He rounded the corner, and began looking at the guide codes located at the ends of each shelf, before pinpointing the exact location of his goal.

That is, before he was greeted by a hole in the line of books, and nothing else. Strange, the librarian said it was in... That meant somepony inside the building has it with them, since Canterlot definitely wouldn’t let something like that slip. 

With his new goal in mind, he started rounding the tables near the shelves of the book. There weren’t very many ponies here, and it wasn’t long before he found it.

Oh.

It was that purple unicorn he bumped into a couple weeks ago. He surprised himself that he remembered her so easily, but something about her was... rather unforgettable. A sort of spark that he couldn’t explain. One that he didn’t feel the first time they met.

Not that he particularly cared. He walked up behind her and sat in the chair to her side. She didn’t even react at first, until sketch put his hooves on the table. She quickly turned and met his eyes, where she blinked once or twice without saying a word. He waited her to say something, but it seemed she was doing the same. Sketch decided he’d be the one to break the awkward silence, and smiled. “Hello.”

She must have realized she had been staring and looked away, back into her book. “Hi?” she asked, nervously turning a page even though it was quite obvious she wasn’t reading. “What do you want?”

“Do you remember me? We bumped into each other a few days ago,” Sketch offered, deciding it would be better to ease into his request. She however, refused to play social ball.

“Yeah,” she said flatly, turning another page. “Do you have a point to this? Because, I’m busy.”

Sketch’s smile faded and he struggled to not just walk away. He was used to that kind of rudeness from adults, and he wasn’t going to start taking it from someone younger than him. He inhaled, and pushed his irritation into his stomach. “Okay...” he took a peek at a notebook she had at her side, and saw her name written in the upper right hand corner. “...Twilight Sparkle. My name’s Art Sketch. I uhh, checked out that book you have before you did, and I was wondering if you knew anything about it.”

Her eyes widened and her mouth became ajar. She panickedly started grabbing at the books before her, before remembering she had magic and picked up the one she was looking for directly. As she picked up the one book Sketch recognized, she shoved its decorated cover in his face. “What do you know about this? Tell me everything you know!”

“I only know about what’s in the book!” he answered, throwing his hooves up like she was about to blast him or something. “Yeesh, that’s why I’m asking you.”

She squinted at him and slowly placed the book back onto the table. She turned away once again and pretended to read. “I don’t know that much. There isn’t many books on the subject, and believe me, I looked.”

“Then why are you getting so bent out of shape?” Sketch spat, his patience having evaporated after two measly minutes. She must have not detected the ire in his voice, because she droned on as if nothing happened.

“Legends that directly involve Celestia are few and far in between, and none of them deal with her family. That’s what initially interested me in the story. But every instance of it prophesied the return of her sister on a specific date, one that is only hinted at in the many incarnations of the story. Normally I’d throw everything like this away as myth, but...” Twilight squinted harder and nervously placed both her hooves on the table. “Myths are never so consistent when they are so widespread. Monoliths, murals, paintings, stained windows, scrolls, books, poems, songs... this story of the two sisters are everywhere across equestria, and that can’t be a coincidence.” She rolled her eyes and scoffed. “Everytime I ask Celestia about it, she just tells me not to worry about it.”

Suddenly, after being such a killjoy, she started to tell jokes. “Ask Celestia. Right.” he laughed sans mirth.

Twilight ignored him as she continued to muse. “The evidence is overwhelming, though. Magic fluctuations in the night sky and strange astronomical events are happening more and more often lately. But...”

“But...?” Sketch trailed with her.

“But... It doesn’t make any sense.” Twilight growled and faced Sketch once more. “If there was a living entity on the moon, my equipment would be able to pick it up, even if it was ethereal. That’s not something that could be hidden, no matter the level of magic involved.” She grumbled as she set the book down in front of Sketch. “I could do a more thorough scan using a magical dowsing rod to see if there were any magical traces at all, but in order to do that I have to wait four years for the centennial meteor shower to use the comets as conductive magical catalysts.”

“Woah,” Sketch breathed. “Uhh, how old are you?”

“Sixteen, why?” she asked, cocking her head and furrowing her brows.

“And you have access to all this equipment?” he bemused in disbelief.

She dismissively waved a hoof at him as she looked at her notebook and began jotting down a few unrelated notes. “Yes, of course I do. I take science very seriously and Celestia was sure to provide anything I ask for.”

“You weren’t... kidding.”

“I don’t kid when it comes to subjects such as these.” She put a hoof to her chin. “In fact, I don’t kid at all. Now, I wish I could tell you more, but I will have to return to this once I have the time and means to do so. Maybe if I find out more you can try to get a hold of me, but please make sure you aren’t just wasting my time like you are right now.”

Sketch blinked.

“You can take the book if you want, I don’t need it, I was simply going to take a few notes, but I can do that later. Now-”

“Twilight! I got everything you said you needed!” a raspy voice called out under a stack of six or so books. Sketch had to a double take when he saw two little reptilian claws sticking out beneath the stack, shaking under the weight. The first smile Sketch saw shone on Twilight’s face as she began to gather her things.

“Great job, Spike! Excellent timing as always.”

Well at least she wasn’t rude to everybody.

The little reptile turned and grinned back at her, as beads of sweat rolled down his forehead. He sighed as Twilight’s magic skillfully grabbed all the books and her things at her table. She distributed the weight evenly in her saddlebags. Spike saw Sketch, and waved his little claw at him while smiling nervously. “Who’s Mr. Lanky, here?” the little purple lizard with green spines incredulously asked.

No wonder they were all buddy-buddy, they were both rude as hell.

“Doesn’t matter, he just wanted to ask a few questions,” she commented. She ushered him with her magic, and put him on her rump once she had a grip.

“Good-bye Twilight and... little lizard guy,” Sketch forcibly smiled and gave a dainty little wave.

“Dragon!” Spike yelled from across the way, earning sushes from everybody around him. Nobody seemed to react to the baby dragon that was in a Celestia-damned library, but hey, what does he know? Then again, if she personally knew Celestia, she must’ve been some kind of royalty or celebrity. Maybe a dragon familiar was common for them? Sketch suddenly felt he should read the paper more.

He couldn’t help but feel a little annoyed by the fact everyone was okay with a dragon walking around with free reign considering the backlash he knew Trust would receive. He guessed it was fair that ponies would be more offended by a batpony’s appearance as an affront to nature, but it would never feel fair. Plus a baby dragon was probably thought of more as a pet than an individual, which was a whole different kind of messed up.

He looked at the book Twilight left behind.

What did this have to do with Trust? He never had any concrete evidence other than Trust’s weird affinity for Nightmare Moon and the strange dreams he had a couple of times. But if Twilight’s comments about magic fluctuations and anomalies in the sky were true, maybe it had to do with Trust’s appearance in the first place.

He wasn’t about to put all of his effort into this, as he had bigger concerns than Trust’s origins to worry about, but he couldn’t help being curious. He lifted the book and carried it to the front desk.



Sketch exhaled, opening his door and taking a step inside. It wasn’t very late, and he wasn’t even that tired, but he really wanted to lie in bed right now. Did that count as depression? He didn’t feel depressed... then again, he never really felt frustrated until he started punching walls. He took off his bag and threw it to the side where it... thumped something and hit the ground early? Sketch turned to investigate-

“Sketch.”

“GAH!” Sketch jumped back and nearly slipped on one of his drawings. One of these days, he was going to have to pick those up. The usual glowing batpony eyes were standing next to his bed, but were more masculine than usual. For a very brief moment he was afraid Trust somehow turned into a stallion, but then he slapped himself when the much more rational explanation crept into his mind. “Royal! Geez dude, you’re worse than Trust.”

“In many ways,” he dug at himself. “I hadn’t really taken the time to get a good observation at your abode. It’s not very organized, is it?”

“It is,” he disagreed, picking up his bag and tossing it on the bed. Looks like he wasn’t getting any sleep soon. Come to think of it... “You’re here early.”

Royal very rudely started to go through Sketch’s bag, probably unaware of the social taboo, or just not caring. He pulled out the book once he fished through the whole thing. “I didn’t know you had a timescale for my visits considering this is my first one.”

“Come on, Royal,” Sketch sighed, taking a seat on his bed. “You’re not stupid, you know what I mean.”

“Well you’re not incorrect,” he remarked, sitting next to Sketch and making him feel a little uncomfortable. “Fine. I have been forcing myself to operate during the day, at least a little more than usual.”

“Why?” Sketch inquired.

“No real reason. I simply wish to not intrude on your time with Trust. Though I now realize I must be interrupting what little free time you have.” He began to turn the pages of the book.

“I’m not that busy,” he excused, giving out a small smile. The gesture did not faze the batstallion, as he continued to slowly turn pages of the book with a stone cold stare. Sketch bit his lip and awkwardly continued. “So any particular reason why you’re here? Or are you just around cause you can’t resist me?”

“Can’t resist you,” he replied flatly, nearly sending Sketch out the window in astonishment. “From the moment I saw you I thought, ‘I may have wanted children all of my life but damn is that stallion is much too attractive for me to not abandon all my goals’.” The way his tone never shifted once, or his straight face ever faulted, made his sarcasm all the more bitter. Sketch couldn’t help but laugh.

“Alright, alright,” Sketch pleaded between haggard breaths. “I get it, geez.”

Royal suddenly stopped turning pages and sighed, closing his eyes and placing a hoof on the page he was on. “Sketch,” he affirmed. This made Sketch sit up at attention. “I wanted to ask you something. Not a joke.”

“Well at least you admit they are jokes,” he commented, though it was more something to say to give Royal permission to continue. It seemed he had recognized that, as he continued without hindrance.

“Is it... okay to lie to somepony?” Royal asked, his usual uninterested, half-mast eyes, cold stare opening to full. “When it protects them... when the truth could hurt?”

Sketch wasn’t prepared for this kind of question. This was the kind of thing a person learns on their own through the subconscious, the kind of thing one would never teach another, even a foal. This was philosophy and principle, nothing less. “Uhh,” he stalled, unsure how to go about it. “I don’t know, Royal. I don’t think anyone does. That’s something you have to decide for yourself, cause everyone would give you different answers. If you want my opinion, and that’s what it is, an opinion, I would say yes. Sometimes you have to lie to the ones you love, to protect the ones you care for.”

Royal looked off to the side, contemplating the words in the air. The silence for once, was not awkward, and instead was simply for ideas to stew. Sketch laughed a dry laugh. “So I guess I have nothing to worry about from you, right?”

Royal actually chuckled at that, if just for the audacity. “Don’t write home so quick, Sketch.”

He blinked. Sketch wasn’t sure what that meant. “Well, one more thing, Royal.”

“Yes?” he asked, looking towards the book once more.

“Don’t operate in half-truths. Either tell the whole truth, or tell a bold-faced lie. That’s the advice that I would give you. Because I quickly found out how a web of lies that was partly true... isn’t that strong a web.” Sketch stretched himself out, exhaling as he did. “Truth needs no colors.”

“Truth needs no color, its color determined; beauty no pencil, beauty’s truth unneeded; but it is best, if never intertwined,” Royal spouted out, turning another page. “It’s been a while, so I’m paraphrasing.”

“Woah,” Sketch remarked. “You know Shake Spear?”

“No,” he droned. “Someone I knew did. They relayed a few anecdotes, and that was one of them. Haven’t thought about it in a long time, thus the butchering.”

“You ever going to tell me of this mysterious person?” Sketch requested sweetly, elbowing him a few times gently.

“No.” Before Sketch could protest, Royal tensed up, and brought the book closer to his eyes. “This.”

“This?” Sketch asked, dropping the previous subject. He scootched in close to Royal’s side, and spotted what he was looking at. “What is this?”

Sketch had forgotten what book Royal was looking through. ‘This’ was the Nightmare. The beautiful and dark Nightmare Moon. There was an abstract depiction of her in the book, with a lot of curvy lines and oily pastel texturing. But it was still enough to speak to him.

“I’ve seen her before,” he stated, his words as solid and cold as his expression.

“You have?” Sketch questioned, taking his eyes from the page and looking at Royal. That was when he noticed Royal’s eyes had shrunk... not just his pupils, but his irises as well. They were pinpricks in the white of his sclera, but he didn’t look stressed. Just, impossibly focused. It was equally as alarming when he turned to face Sketch and they returned to their normal size as if nothing was wrong. 

“You’ve drawn her,” he stated as a matter-of-fact. “I saw your depiction and this same feeling washed over me...like I knew her. Something drew me to your sketch that was almost otherworldly, as if some other force was pulling me. Even this book, I got the same feeling from, even before you walked in the door. I was looking through it to see if it was for the same reason, and sure enough...”

“Nightmare Moon,” Sketch clarified. “That’s who she is. Celestia’s sister, consumed by jealousy and rage, was banished to the moon for her refusal to bring the moon down to make way for the sun. Trust felt the same pull, but she was less... eloquent about it.”

“Strange,” he said through his hoof that was planted firmly on his chin. “I suppose this is what magic is. That’s the only thing that could explain these consistencies.”

“But why? Is it something you’re born with, or were you guys just like every other pony when you were born, and you were cursed with the bat thing? And why the connection with the Nightmare?” Sketch bonked his head with his hoof. “Twilight was right, nothing makes sense.”

Royal nodded his head in agreement, then sighed as he shut the book. “No use worrying about something we don’t understand.” He pushed himself off the bed and set the book down on the cushions. “Thanks for the talk, Sketch. I thought your understanding was just a fluke on our first meeting, but you truly do go out of your way for us.”

Sketch smiled warmly, earning a small smirk in response from Royal. “No problem, Royal. Anytime.” He thought for a second, and reached out a hoof so Royal wouldn’t leave. “One thing, brother. You’re not hiding anything from me, are you? With the whole lying thing...”

“No,” he flatly said one last time.

Sketch couldn’t tell if he was lying. But that didn’t matter, not anymore. “Okay,” he conceded, and Royal took off into the twilight.



The windows creaked and his papers shuffled in the winds of the night. Sleep had eluded him, but that was fine. It was only just reaching the true night, where the lights turned off and children went to bed. When the seedy side of society revealed its imperfect head, contrasting with the perfect mask of the day. Sleep was coming soon, but not yet. It must be another hour or so.

A light shone in the dark. He could not see the source, but he could see the glare off of all the surfaces in the room. It was quick and its movements were sudden, but it slowed as it got near him. But he was not afraid.

Sketch was no longer afraid of the dark.

Instead he turned on his side and welcomed it with open arms. He saw the two glowing disks floating in the darkness, turning all of its surroundings even blacker now that his eyes were adjusting to its light. They narrowed as the eyes smiled. Suddenly all the color in the room intensified, and he was made acutely aware of all the hues as they danced with one another.

The colors that made up his love grabbed at the sheets and pulled them aside gently to allow itself room. His bed bent slightly as new weight introduced itself and pulled the blankets over it. The darkness embraced him. Everyone always described darkness as cold, but Sketch could see that it was not. It was the warmest he’d ever felt. People always described things with a ying and yang, but there was more to it than that. People were afraid of the dark because of the corruption within, and people loved the light because of the pureness they could see, but what of corrupted light?

What of pure dark?

What he had was pure in the dark. And all he could see in the light was the corruption at the borders. So he took great comfort in the embrace, as if it would disappear if he looked away. Knowing its temperance, maybe it would...

But maybe...

“Sketch,” Trust asked in the dead silence of the room.

“Yeah?”

“I love you.”

It was a simple statement, but that was all it needed to be.

“I love you, too.”

It was a simple statement, but that was all it had to be.

The sweet taste of mangos filled Sketch’s mouth once again. It must have been some kind of magic, because he had no idea how it could be so pleasant. A comic thought of bottling and selling Trust’s saliva briefly entertained itself in Sketch’s mind, but he decided he was not keen on sharing.

“Hey...” she asked again.

“What’s up?”

“Are we gonna have sex?”

There goes the mood destroying Trust once again, taking a hammer to any confidence Sketch had.

“U-uh.... I mean... only... only if you want...” What kind of stallion would just say yes? Not the kind of stallion Sketch was... but Trust probably knew that. That’s why she said it. She wanted to see him squirm.

She pulled him closer than he already was, and giggled softly in his ear, he fang barely scraping up against the soft flesh of his ear. “Finally.”

This was probably not a good idea.

But it fucking felt like it.


> Intermission. Session 01
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

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.”
> 15. Until The Nightmare Begins
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

There was ringing; a slight buzz in the air, as the moon reflected off of the still water. A thick fog had made it difficult to breath, and as Sketch looked down at his hooves, he saw that he had no reflection in the water. He paid no mind to the fact he could suddenly walk on water without prior knowledge, and he walked towards the moon. The air was cold and wet, somehow more than the water at his hooves. The moon looked... bigger? It occurred to him that he never really paid the size of it any real mind, but it was impossible not to notice now. In fact, now, it looked larger than the sun. Much larger.

He must have walked for hours, because the moon got lower as he went, but it felt like minutes to him. And now, it felt as if he could touch it if he reached out far enough. He was stopped after a time by a figure in front of the moon. Or was it on the moon? At a point, he lost the ability to tell. The figure grew larger as it grew closer. As the shape made itself clear - a very large mare - he realized that it was almost as if it was walking down stairs.

When the mare became close enough to see her features, it seemed that she spotted Sketch as well, with her eyes widening and her slitted pupils visibly focusing on the stallion. Terrifyingly, her sclera was a harrowing teal color, surrounding itself around midnight blue irises and the blackest feline pupils Sketch had ever seen. She was black as the night around her, and instead of a mane, an ethereal flow of stars surrounded a powerful and regal body. Sharp fangs steadied themselves on either corner of her powerful muzzle, and they almost seemed to increase in size as her grin showed itself. Wings furled out spectacularly, appearing as silhouettes against the starry night sky. The fact that she had both wings and a horn should have been shocking, but Sketch found it impossible to feel anything other than a soft, fuzzy burn in his stomach. She spoke suddenly, and her voice was intoxicating with how smooth and sweet it was.

“My, my. I never thought a pony would seek me out again.”

Sketch nearly fell to the floor to beg her to keep speaking, but he felt nearly unable to move. “Seek?”

“What about the night fascinates you, child? What about the darkness do you hope to obtain?”

“Darkness?” His vocabulary had been reduced to one word questions. She frowned at this, and blinked to make sure what she was looking at was real.

“You called me, did you not? What unholy desires do you want fulfilled?” And now she sounded just as confused as Sketch.

“Unholy desires? Is...” Sketch looked behind himself and duly noted the lake behind him was gone and now pitch blackness took its place. “Is this like a sex thing?”

The alicorn’s eyes widened at first, but then her cheeks puffed out as she struggled to contain her mirth. She lost control, and bellowed a deep incredulous laugh. “If that is what you truly wanted, child, sure. But alas, you’re much too young for me. Perhaps I could spawn a dark seducer to satiate you request.” She cleared her throat, getting the last of her chuckles out. “Though I must say, you are of a much sounder mind than most of my worshippers. Definitely, none of them would have suggested something like that.”

Sketch felt blood rush to his face as he started review what they had just said. He blinked a few times and looked at his hooves in shame. “Wait, wait, sorry that’s not what I meant by... I mean... What... what is this about?”

The dark mare frowned again, and arched her brow higher than her face should’ve allowed. “What do you mean by that? Are you telling me, you didn’t use the dark ritual to summon me?”

“Dark ritual?” Sketch asked, his prior vocabulary showing its head again. Deciding it would be rude to make this a one sided conversation, he skipped the answer she was no doubt preparing. “I didn’t do anything particularly special.”

“Hmm...” She approached him, and only now was Sketch able to see just how large she was compared to him. Maybe twice as large, but something told him she was still a hair shorter than Celestia herself. “That is troubling.” She ran her hoof down Sketch’s shoulder, and it felt much colder than he was expecting. In dull surprise, she reared her head back, and a slim smile stretched across her lips. “Oh. Ohhh... that explains it.”

“Uh, what?” he asked earnestly.

She started to guffaw once again, and Sketch found himself smiling due to proxy. “Oh I see, now,” she said between breaths. “You seemed to simply find yourself in darkness, rather than trying to seek it out. Very funny.” Her smile faded, and she put a hoof to her chin. “Curious, however. You did not cower, but you embraced it.”

He started to scratch the back of his head. “Well, if you understand it, there’s no reason to fear it.”

“You’d do well to fear the dark, child.” Her smile was comforting despite her threatening warning. “You’ll live longer.”

He blinked, not even having to think about what he was going to say. “I might be afraid what’s in the dark, but not the dark itself. The dark wants what all of us want, I think.”

She appeared surprised at this, and her warm smile did not waver. “I can see why you love her, child. I guess I can let this slip.”

“Love... her?” His two word questions returned. “Love Trust?”

“Will you last for the eternal night? We shall see.” She put a firm, stern hoof under his chin, and lifted his muzzle forcefully. “You aren’t afraid?”

Sketch looked down the corner of his eye, and saw dark water begin to envelop him. Instead of cold, it actually felt warm. Like the darkness embraced him back. He looked back up at her. “No.”

“You’ll do fine,” she said, her grin widening, her sharp fangs now accompanying even sharper teeth. “Until the Nightmare begins.” The water filled his ears and eyes, seeping its way into his nostrils and somehow into his mouth even though it was closed. He had the distinct feeling he should panic, as the mares bellowing cackle echoed weakly, distorted by the water in his ears.

But he calmly took a breath.



“Mmf?” Sketch awoke with something in his mouth. He vaguely recalled the sensation of water invading his muzzle, but come to think of it, it was probably just Trust’s tongue dancing in it. Yes, now he remembered. Trust had spent the night with him. He found it pretty difficult to think anything pass that.

So, he decided to recall the events of the night before. Trust had rather rudely climbed into his bed, and they made out for like, twenty minutes. She had started to get antsy and told him to hurry up. He wasn’t sure exactly how to proceed, so they ended up just talking for the better part of an hour. Trust started to get... angry? Thinking back on it, it was probably just frustration, because she started saying something about how it wasn’t fair she didn’t know what to do. ‘Let’s go slow,’ he had said, and just told her to lay back. He didn’t tell her he didn’t exactly know what he was doing either, but they were both on edge at that point, there was no reason to make it worse. Everything sorta calmed down after that, after Sketch actually started to... try. And it got kind of hazy afterwards. He struggled not to break the kiss by smiling to hard, once he remembered Trust’s reaction to seeing... certain things. And also the fact he had to keep shushing her at certain times when she was being too... vocal. 

He opened his eyes once he was done reminiscing, and eyed Trust’s face up and down. Her eyes were closed as she focused on his tongue, and she had dark rings below her eyes. She looked... tired?

Sketch knew he wasn’t that good. Shouldn’t she be rested? A little groggy, maybe? Wasn’t that how this works? He hated not knowing. “Chuthh?” He had tried to say her name, but forgot he had a mouthful of her.

Her eyes shot open at the disturbance, and she retracted, dragging her tongue along the roof of his mouth. He winced in pain as her left fang briefly caught on his tongue, drawing a predictable amount of blood. “Oh! Sketch! Sorry!”

“I’m okay,” he assured, looking at the pillow his head was laying on. There were splotches of blood everywhere in various shapes and sizes. “Not sure if my pillow is though.”

“Sorry, I shouldn’t have been doing that,” she chuckled, sniffing in shame.

“Have you been...” he counted the number of blood spots and did the math in his head. “Kissing me in my sleep?”

“Maybe,” she confessed, biting her lip. “Maybe you should stop being so cute.”

“I’ll try,” he joked, cracking a smile. She gave one in turn whilst sniffing again. The dark rings below her eyes beckoned his attention once again. “Are you still tired?”

“Hmm?” she asked, confused. “Oh, no, I haven’t slept.”

“You haven’t slept?” He struggled to recall the time during their adventures. The last time he nervously checked it to make sure he was ‘making good time’, it was 3:30 in the morning, and it was 6:00 now. “You’ve been watching me sleep for two hours?”

“Uh-huh.” she answered honestly, wondering if that was okay. “Is that weird?”

“A little,” he confessed, but smiled anyway. “But it’s okay. I’d be doing the same if I could.”

She giggled in response, biting her lip again. “I keep thinking this isn’t real,” she suddenly said, looking down at Sketch’s chest. “When I first met you, and you didn’t run and scream, I was hoping that we could be friends. When I kept coming around, and you didn’t change, I was hoping we could be more than friends. I didn’t think it’d ever happen.”

“Why not?” he asked.

“You aren’t the first pony that’s seen me. If you remember how we met, I wasn’t exactly careful about who saw me. There had been a few that... tried to befriend me. But it was always the same. They squinted every time they saw me, and flinched every time I reached for them. Eventually i stopped trying. And then you showed up.” Trust grinned. “You have horrible timing.”

“I think we all do, really.” Sketch remembered Royal, Syntax, Haren and Anthem... “A lot of our problems arise from us doing random everyday stuff when the universe doesn’t like it.”

“Well,” Trust breathed. “I’m glad you made this mistake.” She yawned and abruptly rolled over Sketch, nearly sending him along with her when she fell off the bed.

“You’re not... a... mistake,” he groaned as she fell. “If anything, I’m the mistake.”

“What makes you say that?” she asked, heading towards the window. The sunrise gave her a pleasant glowing orange hue around her.

“I don’t know...” he said, an image of a black alicorn going gracing his mind’s eye. “Something tells me I wasn’t the plan.”

“What?” Trust questioned, one hoof out the window.

“I had a dream last night,” he explained, as if that was all he needed to say for her to understand. After a few seconds of silence, he chuckled. “Don’t worry about it, it’s not a big deal.”

“Whatever, weirdo.”



School...

It was actually bearable this time. His body was under the same level of exhaustion he always felt, but this time, he didn’t feel tired. A rejuvenating energy pulsed through his body in the most pleasant of ways, keeping his chin up, and his cynicism under. Nothing could really shake him from this mood, not even the underlying drone of routine he had recognized his school for. Of course, it got even better in his Studio Art class.

He felt a certain color in his black and white sketches, exuberance of a different sort. A passion behind his pencil that he hadn’t experienced for a long time. His art wasn’t particularly any better than his usual stuff, but his heart was in it now, and he didn’t want to cast aside anything he drew onto the floor of his room. He was on his third sketch of the day, minus the doodles in his notebook, drawing a mare in front of a large moon, sanguine expression on her face. He had thought he was drawing Trust, but she didn’t have a horn, and he had to take an objective look at it before he realized. “Nightmare...” he whispered to himself. “What’s your plan?”

“Sketch, that is a very original piece.” Conté commented, suddenly appearing behind him. He was too distracted by his thoughts to be startled. “But I’ve noticed that your drawings have become very... dark, recently.” She craned her head and looked him in the eye. “I know I’m going to sound like a broken record, but are you okay?”

“Why do you care?” he asked, not intending to have made it sound so accusatory.

“I don’t really have a good reason,” she admitted, but smiled regardless. “I cannot deny that I do, though. You are probably my most... unique student, Sketch. And like all my students, I only wish the best for you. I’m not blind to changes in your behavior, Sketch.”

“I’m not transforming into a delinquent, Miss Conté. You don’t have to worry about that.” He crossed his forelegs and looked away from her gaze. She responded by switching sides and looking him in the eye once more.

“Oh I know, Sketch. I just want to make sure your happy.”

“Am I happy now?” he asked, taking an empty look at The Nightmare on his paper. “More than ever. Despite the world doing everything it can do to stop me, I’m extremely happy.”

Conté blinked a few times, and slowly smiled. “Is that right?” she asked suggestively, putting both hooves on either cheek and leaning into them. “Who’s the mare?”

Sketch coughed playfully and blew a incredulous raspberry. “Pfft, whaaaat? There’s no maaaare.” He grinned widely, obviously not legitimately trying to convince her of anything. Conté rolled her eyes with a jovial smirk.

“Sure thing, Sketch.” She left his table and looked over her shoulder. “Hope it works out for you.”

“Me too, Miss Conté.” He took one last glance at the Nightmare, finding himself unable to be afraid of her despite his entire body telling him to. Maybe he sympathized a little with her. Not her feelings of jealousy, but the way everyone thought of her. To feel like society is against you. “Me too...”



The door swung open with all the resistance it should, to a room that wasn’t as empty as it should be. Sketch dropped his bag as he saw his mother at his bed. She was facing away from the door, and when she heard Sketch enter, she craned her head to look at him. A look of... concern? She struggled to find the words, as Sketch struggled to think. His blood ran cold as the potential scenarios played in his head. Did she see Trust in his bed? Did she find some evidence of a mare spending the night? He was super careful about the... mess, but maybe he slipped at some point. His paranoia was answered when she began to speak.

“Sketch, are you okay? There’s blood all over your bed.” She lifted his pillow and showed him the small splotches from when Trust kissed him. Needless to say, there were quite a few. He subconsciously rose a hoof to his cheek, remembering the annoying time spent scrubbing dried blood out of his fur. He sighed in relief, glad the problem wasn’t as big as he thought.

“Yeah, I’m fine, I just uh, bit my tongue,” he offered, grinning at her. That was technically true, someone did bite his tongue, but... dammit, he was doing it again. Whole honesty or blatant lies, no half-truths.

“Bit your tongue, Sketch?” She asked incredulously, but her face of concern not dissipating. “Sketch, what the hell is all this?” She pulled the sheet off of his bed and motioned him over. Confused, he walked up to her, and winced when he saw the source of her worry. A big dull red stain found itself firmly in the center of his bed. He had forgotten about treating Trust’s injuries the night of the incident. It wasn’t his blood. “Sketch, you didn’t have any big injuries on you...” she said, as if she had to convince herself. “Did you? How is there this much blood?”

“I...” he began, the world crawling to a halt around him. “There wasn’t...” He coughed aloud, swallowing loudly and trying to appear casual. “Sorry, you caught me off guard. It was a while ago, I cut my leg when i broke a plate that I brought into my room, and I used my sheets as a bandage. Sorry I didn’t tell you, i thought it wasn’t bad enough to make a big deal about it.”

“But you...” she trailed off, biting her lip. She obviously didn’t believe him, but she also couldn’t find any reason for why he would lie, short of him being a serial killer or something ridiculous. “Are you sure you’re okay? Wouldn’t you have needed stitches?”

“Obviously not,” he said, confidently waving his hoof around. “It wasn’t that big of a cut.”

“Well, didn’t you...” she panickedly ran her hoof over the sheets. “Didn’t you wash them at all since then?”

“Mom, come on,” he scoffed, rolling his eyes. “You’re a nurse, you know that blood stains really easy.”

He picked his bag back up, a part of him believing his own lies. He took a stroll to his closet and prepared to throw the bag in. “You’re freaking out over-” He threw his bag, and it was caught by Trust. Which was weird, because that would mean she was in his closet. And that couldn’t be possible, but... no, there she was. That must mean she really was in the closet. And now she’s giving him this panicked look, the kind where one shows all of their teeth and grimaces as if they’re in pain, as she held the bag he just threw in. “...Nothing...” Sketch simply stared at the batpony in his closet, contemplating what series of events could have possibly led to this situation. His thoughts were interrupted with the tell-tale signs of his mother beginning to turn around. 

He slammed the closet shut using the full force of his body, hearing a muffled grunt from the other side as he did so. The possibility of broken nose be damned, he began to chuckle nervously as he desperately tried to regain control of his heart-rate.

His mother had barely noticed his odd behavior, clearly jarred by his prior confidence. “Are you sure you’re all right?”

“NEvEr BetTer!” his voice cracked. “Definitely better than hanging outside a broken sky tram by only a one leg HAHAH we almost died!” He felt his eye twitch, and he kicked himself for losing it so easily. His mind was still rational, but his body turned onto autopilot when he saw Trust.

“Uhh, alright?” she said, unable to really disagree with his assessment. “Sketch, maybe you should go to the hospital, make sure you’re fine.”

“What? PBBBFTTT,” he raspberried way too hard, his saliva ruining a few of his sketches on the floor. “I’m FINE, alright! I’m just... uhh...” He wracked his brain, desperately trying to think of a reason for her to leave. “I just think you should leave alright, I-” He grabbed a random few drawings off the ground. “I have some stuff you shouldn’t see!”

“I- what?” she stammered, her face immediately becoming flush, the implications flustering her. “Like, w... what?”

UUUGGGHHH Sketch groaned internally, wondering how much dignity he’d have left at the end of this. “Nude mares! I mean, more than usual. Super explicit stuff, like nothing is left for the imagination!”

“O-oh dear,” she stuttered, covering her mouth and the red spreading to her neck and forehead. “Why would you, uhh?”

He shut his eyes, silently wishing for the embrace of a sudden death. “Commissions! Some guys at school are willing to pay-”

“Okay, okay, forget I asked, I’m leaving!” She wiped sweat off of her forehead and began moving towards the door. Sketch sighed in relief and began sliding off of his lean on the closet door. When he didn’t stop sliding, he became concerned, but any action he could have taken was stopped short by slipping on a stray paper as he tried to steady himself. His hind leg swept directly in the path of his mother, and she was too flustered to properly dodge out of the way. She ungracefully sailed through the air and landed on her side, grunting as she hit the floor. Sketch violently slammed the back of his head and neck against the closet, the hinges creaking under the sudden impact. He slid all the way down, until he was completely face up on his back, blinking and staring at the ceiling.

“Ow,” he simply said, sighing at nothing in particular.

“Oof, are you okay?” his mother asked, rolling back onto her hooves in one smooth motion. “I can’t believe you’re still finding new ways to fall over.” She held a hoof to pick him up, but as he grabbed for it, she pulled it back. “Wait a second...” She picked up a few papers, the ones he was holding, off of the floor. Sketch tried to stop her, but he may as well have been wet noodles trying to stop a train. “This is a drawing of a carrot with a face on it!” She held up exactly what she said, a carrot with a silly face on it, smiling in nigh orgasmic glee and looking up at the out-of-frame ceiling.

“Uhh,” he uh’d, any rebuttal he could have possibly had killed by a smiling carrot.

“Unless this is some kind of weird new kink, you’re lying to me Sketchy!” She shoved the drawing into his chest, not waiting for him to grab a hold of it, letting it go and having it flutter uselessly to the ground. “Sketch, you need to-”

Her tirade was interrupted by a violent creaking emanating from the closet once again. The door slowly displaced itself until it began falling to the ground. Sketch and his mother quickly moved out of the way, remaining uninjured as it crashed to the floor. Any comments or exclamations reserved for such an event remained unspoken, as all eyes were on the batmare inside. She was still in a leaning pose where the closet door used to be, her ear perked against an absent frame. She blinked a few times, before rebooting into a neutral position, smiling anxiously with her brows furrowed, and weakly waving at her new audience.

“Mom?” Sketch asked in a calming tone, turning towards her uneasily. Jig was up. Time to own it.

“Up.” she suddenly squeaked, causing Sketch to rear his head and look upwards in confusion. He shook his head and steeled himself.

“Mom,” Sketch leveled, slowly reaching towards her but never touching her. “I can explain.”

“There’s a vampony in your closet,” she absently said, her eyes wide.

“Mom,” he said again, half a mind wondering whether or not he should claim it’s a costume. She wasn’t stupid, though, and Trust was already moving her wings all over the place in accordance to her mood.

“That’s...” She turned to him, her eyes grimly growing darker. “She’s...she’s... Sk... SKETCH!” she suddenly shouted. “THERE’S A VAMPONY IN YOUR CLOSET GET THE GARLIC!”

Trust bit both of her lips and puffed her cheeks out.

“MOM!” he yelled back, catching her in his forelegs as she tried to break for the door. “WE DON’T EVEN HAVE ANY GARLIC, YOU MADE MASHED POTATOES YESTERDAY.”

“Sketch, she’s gonna kill us,” she tried to reason. Honestly, that made Sketch laugh a little, the thought of a random vampony that was hiding in his closet being homicidal for no reason. “ We have to do something!”

“Mom,” he said one last time. “I know her. I knew she was in there.” Time for the whole truth.

“WHAT???” She screamed, looking back at Trust frantically. “But how did she-?”

“Her name is Trust.” He exhaled uncomfortably. “I’ve known her for a couple months, more or less.”

“She, you,” she stammered, breathing rapidly. “What?! Months? Who is she? What is she?”

Trust winced at that, and looked away. She laughed mirthlessly, and groaned. “Oh, I should leave. Maybe go kill somepony else.” She began making her way towards the window, but Sketch wouldn’t have it.

“Trust! Stay,” he ordered, and was pleasantly surprised when she abided. She stopped, and stood at attention. “And please, no jokes, it’s not helping.” She was obviously too uncomfortable to pout.

“Sketch, what’s going on?” His mom asked, pulling her maternal card. “Tell me. Now.”

He exhaled through gritted teeth, not really sure where to begin. He was going to tell her everything, but starting to tell her was a whole another story. He decided to do what he was wished for, just treat her like a mare that was caught in his room. The kind of problem ‘normal’ people had. “This is Trust. My... er... friend.” He coughed into his hoof, hoping he’d get the implications across. Unfortunately, his mother didn’t seem to notice it, probably preoccupied with other revelations.

“Those wings...” she whispered, in what appeared to be... a form of disgust. “Those fangs.”

“Real,” Trust snapped, crossing her legs, trying and failing to hide her displeasure. She seemed more sad than angry now. In a way, she probably desired his mom’s approval, but sadly, it probably wasn’t going to happen any time soon.

“They’re real,” Sketch reiterated more civilly. “She’s a bat... pony.”

“That’s not possible,” His mom quickly noted. “We have schooling on every single species in Equestria and the most common ones beyond, and there’s nothing about... bat ponies.” She was looking off into the air, focusing on anything other than the other ponies in the room. “We even have some stuff on dragons! Not a lot, just surface physiology, but we got our bases covered in college!”

“Mom, she’s real, This isn’t a joke.” Sketch was about to tell her about Royal, but was cut off by Trust snidely scoffing.

“Wanna touch ‘em?” Trust asked, wiggling her wings and bobbing her eyebrows up and down. Sketch facehoofed.

“Do I want to-” she started incredulously, but cut herself off as the offer sunk itself into her head. “C... can I?”

“MOM!” he shouted, red rushing to his face. Trust snickered weakly, the awful circumstances temporary alleviating itself.

“Sorry, I...” She held a hoof to her forehead, and she tried to breathe slower. “This is a lot to take in.” She pursed her lips and leaked air through them. “Okay. What was she doing in your closet first of all?”

“I was being a monster in the closet. Duh,”

Sketch ignored her and began to answer. “She was just...” he furrowed his brow as he struggled to come up with a good answer. He wasn’t trying to lie, so this should be easy, so why couldn’t he think of an answer? It occurred to him that it was because he didn’t know himself. “What were you doing in my closet?”

Her face suddenly became very red, and she kicked a drawing across the floor. “I was uhh... gonna surprise you, and I fell asleep.”

“Surprise you?” Sketch’s mom asked, facing her son. “What?”

Ohhh! Oh. “I see, yes that makes sense.” Sketch coughed into his hoof. “Makes a lot of sense,” he assured.

His mother looked at him expectedly, and Sketch scratched his head. “Look, Mom. Trust doesn’t really have anywhere to go, so she hangs out here with me.”

“What?” his mom asked again. At the end of the day, that word would be broke from overuse. “How come we never saw her?”

“Nocturnal,” Trust stated, brushing her wing. “The light hurts my eyes.”

“Oh, Celestia,” his mother blasphemed, her shoulders slumping. She didn’t have to say it, but her posture screamed, ‘she sounds super evil’. “So you’re the one that’s been keeping Sketch up all night.”

Sketch facehoofed, and Trust was visibly straining herself to not crack a joke. Even he was struggling not to say ‘in more ways than one’. “It’s not her fault, Mom. In fact, I’ve had the best sleep than I’ve had in years with her around.” He glanced over to Trust who was looking at Sketch through her hair bashfully, a warm smile on her face. His mom still didn’t get the hint, still, and continued undeterred.

“This is, you can’t...” She bit her lip, trying to think of why this was all unacceptable. “Sketchy, you should’ve told me.”

He stuck his tongue out. “Yeah, I know,” he said to a wide eyed mother. “I’ve been getting that a lot lately”

She sighed, looking back at Trust, who was clearly not enjoying the fact they were treating her like an object, like some contraband. “And what would he have said?!” she suddenly shouted, causing his mother to flinch back defensively. “Everyone treats me like a monster! This is the only way you could’ve have found out, because there was no way to just tell you that he has a friend like me without you freaking out and shoving fucking garlic in my face!”

To his shock, his mother actually took the offensive. “Excuse me? I am his mother! Of course I am going to react with hostility to a mare that I have no clue who she is, excluding the fact that you’re a-”

Sketch put a firm hoof on his mom’s shoulder. “Don’t say monster,” he ordered. Not a stern one, not a threat, but an appeal. She simply shook her head, but obeyed anyway.

“Why are you doing this, Sketch? What could she possibly...” She ran her hooves through her mane. “Look at her, Art! How could you trust that so much?”

Sketch felt fire in his nostrils as he tasted the bitter sting of anger. It’s been a long time since he had been straight up angry, much less angry at his mother, but lo and behold, he would not allow this kind of abuse towards her. “She’s not a that Mom! I know her! She’s a person... a pony just like the rest of us! Not that it would FUCKING matter!”

She poked him in the chest with the point of her hoof, scowling at him. “Watch your language! A couple of months is not enough to know somepony, Sketch! You don’t know her!”

“I love her!” he rebutted, causing his mother to take a step back and nearly trip herself. She looked to the left and right, desperately trying to find a physical exit to the argument. “I love her. She gets me out of bed in the morning. She... makes me want to try. She makes me care... she makes me care about myself. I didn’t care before, and I didn’t realize it, but I... want to go out and make a difference now. Now I have desire behind my pencil when I draw. Something to fight for. For friends and family.” He looked at his hooves, and found tears hitting the floor. “I didn’t care about myself before. I hardly cared about anyone or anything other than you and Dad. I was just going through day to day, coasting on the fleeting idea that I’m living my life just because I should, not because I can. But it’s different now.”

“Sketch...” she choked, her eyes glossy, misty. “She...” she wiped tears from her eyes. “She could just be using you.”

Sketch heard something snap.

He turned around.

And walked away.

Even when she called his name after he slammed the door behind him, he didn’t look back.

Know who your allies are a voice called in his head.

His mother not being one wasn’t something he was expecting.

He found himself walking out the front door and into a nearby alley. He was walking way too quickly for his mother to follow, not that she would’ve wanted to.

“Sketch! Sketch, woah, man!” he heard a more welcome voice say. “What was that?”

“I’m tired of this, Trust.” he spat, stomping his hooves harder than he should’ve. “I get that it wouldn’t be easy, but she just...” He kicked a nearby trash can over, and slammed his hoof into the wall. “She kept calling you a monster. ARGH!” He pressed his forehead against the brick, his horn scraping against the cement in between. “FUCKING SHIT!”

“Sketch, calm down,” Trust chastised, placing a tender hoof on his rump. “You can’t expect average ponies to accept me.”

“Why the hell not?!” he snapped, scowling at her. “It was easy for me! You were stealing my fucking food and I still gave you the benefit of the doubt. If people gave you an eighth of the chance I gave you, you could be walking on the street right now!” He collapsed into her shoulder, his face into her neck. She reared back at first, but slowly craned her neck over his and nuzzled his ear. “We could be going to the movies, and getting ice cream with two spoons, and all that dumb shit that couples do. But I have to hide you like you’re a Celestia-damned weapon of mass destruction.”

“Well, not everypony can be as cool as you Sketch,” she chuckled, playing with his mane with her hoof.

“I know,” he snorted, but exhaled humorlessly. “But at the very least, I thought my own mother would take my side.”

“She’s just worried about you dude. I worry about you too.”

“Why would you worry about me?” he asked, pulling back far enough to look into her eyes.

“I have dreams sometimes Sketch. Scary ones. Sometimes you’re in them, and they’ve been getting more frequent.” She weakly smirked, fangs bearing.

“What kind of dreams?” he asked.

“Well, I mean they’re usually really pleasant.” She blushed a little. “I mean, like a lot of the time, especially recently, it'd usually start with you being all sexy and crap and things would... escalate.”

For the first time in a while, he gave a healthy, unironic short laugh. “Yeah, okay?”

“I mean not all the time! Sometimes we’d just be hanging out.” She had her nose pointed skyward and her eyes were closed. She opened one slightly and let the light wash out the dark. “And then we’d have sex.”

“Haha, and how long  have you been having these dreams?” he asked, raising his brows up.

“Like a couple weeks ago, after the party, LISTEN it’s not important,” she rolled her eyes and continued. “Point is, I keep seeing certain things in my dreams. Some things are consistent between them. And it always makes me uncomfortable.”

“Like what?”

“The moon,” she said flatly. “The moon is always there, even when it wouldn’t make sense. And black still water. It never... has waves, even idle ones, and it sorta just looks solid. Just solid black. And the weirdest thing is like this... starry mist, that surrounds everything sometimes, especially you. I can’t explain it, but...” She rocked her head back and forth. “I don’t know. I just don’t like the way it makes me feel.”

“Why?”

“Because it makes me feel good.” she said earnestly. “Like it shouldn’t, but it does.”

“Spooky,” he announced in deadpan, causing Trust to lightly punch him in the shoulder.

“Please take stuff like that seriously,” she scolded, but smiling nonetheless.

“I am, I am,” he assured, sighing. “Sorry, just... got a lot on my mind. We’ll cross the scary bridge dream when we get there.”

“Yeah, yeah I know. So what’s the plan. Live off the land until your mother is forced to accept me in her family?”

He laughed once again, wiping the corner of his mouth with his hoof. “I don’t know about that,” he said. “No, I’ve got a plan. We can hide out at Haren’s.”

Trust winced and stuck her tongue out as if she just tasted something foul. “Haren’s? Whyyyyy? What makes you think she’ll be okay with that?”

He smiled. “I had a talk with them. My parents were bound to find out, so I asked if they could lend us a room if things went south.” He put a hoof to his chin. “I didn’t think it’d happen this quickly, to be honest.”

“What about her boytoy?” she shot back.

“He knows about you too.”

“Really?” she asked rhetorically. “That does it. I’m the worst kept secret in Equestria.”

“And the most beautiful!” he sang, craning his head until it was almost upside down.

“Weak,” she criticized. “But nice try.”



“Hey Anthem...”

Anthem blinked in the door frame, slowly showing more and more joy as the seconds passed. “Sketchy!” He punched Sketch in the shoulder, causing the boy to recoil and rub the afflicted area. “How’s it going dude?”

“Is it a good time?” he asked, not really intending to leave if the answer wasn’t yes. 

“Always a good time for you, boo,” he joked, leaning on the frame. “What’s up? Things go to shit already?” As if on cue, a purple blur raced past him, almost knocking him off balance, and sending him into a panicking stupor as he struggled figure out what it was.

“Ugh, I hate going around so early in the afternoon. I’m gonna be seen.” Trust steadied herself in the center of the living room, stretching her wings and rubbing her shoulders. Haren was seated on the couch, and pointed at the batpony with her thumb while arching an eyebrow at Sketch. 

“Things went to shit already,” Sketch deadpanned

“Well you got good timing.” Haren quipped from the back. “I don’t think it's been an entire day since you asked if you could crash here.”

“What happened?” Anthem asked, slowly walking up to Trust who was nervously playing with her wing.

“Mom found her in my room.”

“Ooh la la!” Haren laughed, covering her beak with her talon. “Congratulations, Sketch, you’re a teenage boy. How does it feel?”

“A little slimy, I’ll be honest,” he shot back, grinning in spite of himself.

“Well, I can say that he feels great,” Trust snickered, face red. Haren whooped while Sketch rolled his eyes in embarrassment, and Anthem punched him in the shoulder again, giggling quietly.

“Alright, alright, this is serious.” Sketch chuckled involuntarily a few more times, nervously rubbing his hooves together. “Anyways, she freaked out and I kinda blew up at her and now we’re here.”

Haren scratched her head. “Wait, Sketch, aren’t you a minor? Can’t they call the police or whatever?”

He sighed and groaned. “Yeah, if I’m not back by tonight I can be declared legally missing. I don’t think they’d do that, but I don’t want to get you guys in trouble.”

Anthem frowned like a little school boy. “Aww, I was hoping we could all hang out like it was some kind of shitty college dorm.”

“That’s ridiculous, you’ve never been to college,” Trust joked, causing Haren to snicker. Anthem cleared his throat and wiped his mouth.

“Actually I have.”

Sketch blinked a few times, and looked towards Haren for confirmation. She nodded with a neutral smile on her face. “Long story,” Anthem said, waving it off. “It’s alright man, she can stay here as long as she wants.”

“That’s not necessary,” Trust said, but Anthem cut her off with a hoof.

“Nonsense! Mi casa es your house.” Anthem chuckled, and hiccuped when his eyes ran over her again. “Ah yeah... shit. So those wings are real, huh?”

“Mhmmn.” She nodded distantly, not really paying attention.

“That’s so sick!” he giddily squeaked, prancing towards her a little too excitedly. “Holy crap, where do I get some?” He rather abruptly began prodding and squeezing the leathery wings, with Trust shifting uncomfortably. Strangely, or perhaps not, Trust allowed it, and even pulling her wing out to allow a closer look. Sketch stammered, but Haren was quicker to the draw as she always was.

“Don’t be rude, honey.” Haren sighed playfully. “At least ask for permission first.”

“Oop, sorry,” he detached instantly and held his hooves up bashfully. Trust choked on some laughter and hid her face with her hair.

“It’s okay,” she excused. “I’m tired of ponies being scared and awkward around me. This is a good change of pace.”

Haren immediately got up from her seat upon hearing this. “Well shit, when you put it like that.” She zipped up to Trust’s other side and gently groped her other wing. Trust grunted slightly, but appeared anxiously pleased from the attention. “Oh weird. It’s a completely different material from our other wings. I thought it just might look different because a genetic abnormality, but no... she’s actually a whole other species.”

As Sketch watched over his two friends poking and grabbing at his girlfriend, he wondered if he should be as okay as he was with this. “Alright... now that we’re all friendly-”

“OOH, OH, LET’S WATCH A MOVIE!” Anthem practically screamed, with Haren digging in her ear for recovery. “Aw shit, movie night! I’ve been waiting for this moment!” He ran over to his room and shut the door, leaving his friends in silent confusion.

“O...kay?” Trust asked, looking around to see if this was normal behavior. When she panned over Sketch, he just shrugged.

“Man, I used to think that Anthem was the aloof cool guy, but he’s kind of a dork isn’t he?” Sketch looked over to Haren, who laughed and wistfully looked over to where Anthem used to be standing.

“Yeah, he is,” she said dreamily. “I’m glad he was able to find something he cares so much about, and how he isn’t ashamed of his enthusiasm.” She shook her head and flicked dirt from under her talon. “More than I had. You see Sketch, we’re all kind of dorks in a weird way, just depends on how much we’ve been discouraged by others.”

That... made sense. If people never stopped him, he’d go on and on about art. Of course, he wasn’t much about specific artists or styles, he’d just talk about the mediums he uses and the technical side of things, which most people found really boring. Like a writer gushing about how typewriters work.

“Movie night!” Anthem yelled again as he kicked his door open. Trust was the only one that was startled, flinching and arching her back like a cat.

“What’re we watching?” Haren encouraged, sitting on the lone chair in the room.

“One of my favorite movies, Treasure of the Sierra Madre! Not for the faint of heart.” His grin looked like it was about to split his face, and he pranced over to his projector.

“I’m confused,” Trust commented, scratching her head.

“It’s like a visual book,” Sketch offered, leading her to widen her eyes.

“Whhhaaatt? Why the hell did I learn to read then?!”

That absolutely slayed Haren, who doubled over laughing, nearly rolling off of the chair. “She has a point!” she gasped between giggles.

Sketch rolled his eyes yet again. “Don’t encourage her.”

“Reading’s important,” Anthem chipped in from the back. “Now everyone shut the hell up and sit down.”

Everyone obeyed, taking their seats in the available places. Sketch was about to voice his concerns on the lack of available seats for Anthem, but was shut up by him flopping onto Haren’s lap. There was no forethought to it, which led him to assume they had just been doing that for a while. Somehow they made it look comfortable. Sketch realized he was staring in time to turn away before they noticed.

He had to be honest. Seeing a Stallion practically fall into the arms of a female griffon was disturbing on an uncanny level. It was something he probably could never program out of his brain, despite the fact he may have had an attraction to Haren as well. He cursed his nature. The difference was, however, he could still accept it in spite of his preconceptual personality. Something that his mother couldn’t do. Something his father probably wouldn’t be able to.

Oh shit, he just thought about his dad. Would his mom tell him? What would she tell him? Another mess to clean up...

“Hey, kiddo,” Haren suddenly spoke, large stallion in her arms. “You sure you’re okay?”

“Pfft, no,” he said honestly. Trust creaked her mouth in a slight frown. “But this is helping.”



“MORE POPCORN.” Trust demanded, slamming her hooves into the cushions of the sofa, nearly hitting the edge of Sketch’s leg. Sketch was still recovering from his previous laughing fit, when Haren started to dub over the characters lines in the film. 

“We don’t have any more popcorn, bitch!” Anthem shouted, a wide smile betraying his words. “You had two fucking bags of it!”

“It’s not enough!” she yelled, throwing a few spare kernels at Anthem, only to have them miss and hit Haren instead. At some point, Haren had slinked down under Anthem and took a seat on the floor and propping herself on the chair Anthem was sitting on. A few times, he spotted Anthem running his hooves through her soft feathers on the sides of her head, nearly making him OD on sugar sweetness.

“Hey, leave me outta this,” Haren laughed, flicking a kernel out of her feathers.

“Trust needs more food!” she yelled with a nasal flair. “If you can’t, somepony’s gonna have to start offering limbs!”

“I vote Sketch!” Anthem volunteered.

“I’m fine with that,” Sketch casually mentioned, looking at his hoof dismissively. 

“What a kink,” Haren joked, covering her beak with her talon.

Trust snickered and lazily swirled her hoof in the air. “You know when I was younger I thought you absorb powers from creatures by eating them.”

“Holy shit!” Anthem exclaimed. He rose a brow and inquisitively craned his head like some sort of snake oil salesman. “Did you ever do it?”

“I ate a bird once when I was trying to learn how to fly.” She stuck her tongue out. “It was already dead and it was super gross, never did it again.”

“Oh Celestia,” Sketch blasphemed, a smirk struggling to keep itself down. “Is it wrong that I really want to laugh about it?”

“No, it’s frickin’ hilarious,” Trust said, puffing her cheeks. “It absolutely killed...” she teetered off, looking off to the side distantly. “Anyways, it was super silly,” she said with a blank smile and yearning eyes.

“You okay Bats?” Haren asked, ever the perceptive one.

“Better than I have been for a long time.”

Haren stared at her for a few seconds, closed her eyes and stood up. “I’m gonna go make some food. Trust made me hungry.”

“Make me a sandwich, lady!” Trust demanded from her seat. Haren rose her middle digit and showed it to Trust, which must have been some sort of gesture of disrespect.

“Badges? BADGES?! We don’t need no stinkin' badges!” the film bellowed, with a massive fight scene ensueing, crossbows going off and multiple characters beating the crap out of each other.

“I can see why you like this movie,” Sketch quipped, raising his brow.

“It’s like funny in a weird way,” he laughed. “Like some really awful crap is happening but it just kinda makes you laugh.”

“It’s called ‘dramatic irony’.” Sketch poked his head in a ‘the more you know’ motion. “Looks like I’m getting some good use outta that high school education, hot-diggity-damn.”

“Ah, school’s not that bad,” Anthem assured. He began rotating his forehooves around each other nervously. “I mean, I wish I knew that. I don’t know shit.”

Sketch frowned and grunted. “Trust me, Anthem, it isn’t that important. If you want to learn something, just teach yourself.”

“Woah, Sketch. Hope you’re not telling random kids on the street that.” Anthem chewed on the inside of his cheek, stewing about what to say. “Listen, Sketchy. I know school prolly ain’t for you, which is ‘ironic’ considering you are the one with the best education here, but you gotta understand that some of us didn’t have the kind of privilege that you did.”

“Really?” Sketch asked. “You’re doing a ‘check your privilege’?”

Sensing hostility, Anthem steeled himself and inhaled. “That’s not what I’m saying Sketch. I’m saying that despite it being imperfect, you have to respect that some ponies get the chance, and some ponies don’t.”

Sketch exhaled slowly and reviewed his comments in his head. He was being irrational, when he looked at it objectively. He didn’t feel particularly spiteful, but maybe his dealings with his mother shook him more than he thought.

What was he thinking? Of course he was bugged out. But why didn’t he feel it? Maybe he was just numb to it all now...

“Yeah, yeah, I know. I’m sorry. Trust didn’t get the chance either.” Sketch flicked a kernel off of leg that he hadn’t seen before. “What would you have wanted to do?” He reared his head as he remembered something Anthem had said earlier. “Wait, you said you went to college. What for?”

“Hm?” he asked despite clearly hearing him. “Aw, nuthin’, just some generic crap. Equestrian history, advanced maths, the works. Only went for a couple weeks.”

“A couple weeks?” What he had said implied that he maybe did enjoy school. Why did he leave? “What happened?”

“Some shit,” he dryly laughed. “I don’t wanna talk about it. Maybe later.” He seemed to go into deep thought for a few seconds, before shaking his head. “I don’t know. Maybe that’s not fair. I know everything about you guys, but you don’t know anything about me.”

Sketch felt a pang of guilt suddenly. There wasn’t much he could do to convince him that it wasn’t necessary, but he had to try. “It’s okay, Anthem. Knowing you here and now is fine.” Sketch widened his eyes at that, surprised that the words were not spoken from his mouth. In fact, it sounded like... Trust? “Sketch doesn’t know a lot about my past, and I don’t know much about yours or Haren’s. And I don’t know as much as I could about Sketch. But it never mattered. The ponies you were doesn’t matter compared to the ponies you are now.” She lounged back into Sketch’s side, sighing a little to sensually and nuzzling his shoulder. “And I think you guys are swell.”

Anthem pursed his lips in an aggressive beam, looking like he was about to cry. “That’s so sweet...”

“Wow Sketch was right, you are a dork,” Trust snidely added quickly, opening one eye and smirking. Sketch disturbed his foreleg and bumped the back of Trust’s head in protest.

“What?”

Any reply was interrupted by a knock on the door. Anthem instantly got up and began the process of pausing the film. Sketch got up to answer the door for him, but stopped when Haren waved him down. Trust was already making the effort to hide herself, going into the nearby room.

Haren unlocked the door and swung it open. Sketch climbed atop the couch and looked on from the safety of behind the cushions. Sketch knew who it was from the beginning, but he needed to see her to believe it.

“Yes?” Haren asked incredulously. “It’s late and I don’t want whatever it is you’re selling.”


“S-sorry, I... wait... you’re Haren, aren’t you?” Sweet Night, at the other side of the door, asked in a wavering, light voice. Sketch knew his mother to be a brash, blunt soul. Telling you what was good for you even if it was harsh, but not without a firm serving of mercy. This voice was the voice of regret, and shame. Sketch didn’t like it coming out of her.

“Uh, yeah I am. How do you know?” The question was genuine, the fact Haren haven’t been able to figure it out yet becoming farther to reach because of the disorienting fact a stranger recognized her so easily.

“Oh, right! I uh... Sketch is friends with you right? He’s told me a lot about you.”

“Yeah, we’re friends. Sorry, who are you?” Haren sounded uneasy, as the revelation crept up in her head.

“I’m his mother.” Something about that stung Sketch’s heart. “You live with Anthem, correct?”

“U-uhh,” Haren choked, having to steady herself by grabbing the doorframe as the information nearly sent her to the floor. “Y... Yeah.... I a... am...fff....” Sketch rose his brow at Haren’s sudden reluctance to talk. She looked ready to run, her fur was standing along with her feathers.

“Isn’t that a bit odd?” Sketch winced as the words came out her mouth.

“E-excuse me?” Haren furrowed her brows and reared her head. “I-I’m sorry,” she firmly said, seeming to recover from her startled state as she grew in anger. “I didn’t think it was odd that he lured damsels to my lair so that I feast on their young. I-Is that weird for you ponies?”

It seemed that Sweet Night got the message, and poorly tried to make up for the mistake. “I’m s-sorry, I-I didn’t mean to... to imply that...” She took a couple of rapid breaths. “I meant odd for you. You’re a recent immigrant, right? I’ve heard that most griffins have roommates of their own, that most didn’t look for local help.”

“I’ve...” Haren started, sounding like she was going on another tirade. Fortunately, it seemed she remembered who she was talking to, and sighed in defeat. “Y-Yeah, yeah. I didn’t really think it that w-w-well through. I didn’t exactly have many f-friends back home, and even less... less here.” Haren’s stutter came back, and she had to brace herself with both arms. It looked as if she was going to pass out.

“O-oh, so that’s...” His mother paused, struggling to find the words. “Well, I’m glad you found some, including my son.”

There was a poignant pause, as Haren struggled to hold consciousness. Anthem, seemingly sensing the tension, pulled her away from the door and whispered something in her ear. To the trained eye, one could see him nibble on a stray feather. Haren stumbled away from the door, holding her forehead and flopping onto the couch next to Sketch. Her breathing was rapid, and all her muscles were strained. He had never seen Haren behave like that...

“You okay, Haren?” he asked, placing a tender hoof on his shoulder.

“Ffffuck...” was all she could manage.

“Yeah, he’s a great kid.” Anthem picked up where Haren left off, casually leaning where Haren was previously struggling to stand. “Forget he’s a kid sometimes.”

“That’s funny,” his mother laughed mirthlessly. “I forget that he’s not a kid anymore.”

Sketch sunk in his seat. He kept thinking there was two sides to this fight, but it was never just two. At a minimum, there was like five, and one of them was dubbed ‘Sketch’s Well Being’, the one his mother was on.

“I take it you’re Anthem?”

“Yes Ma’am.” He paused, and tapped his chin with his hoof. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but what are you doing here?”

“S-sorry.”

“Ah, don’t apologize. Punch in me in gut first before you do that.” Anthem gave her an inviting smile, and she seemed to disarm herself.

“Hehe, no thanks.” She uneasily rubbed her hooves together. “I was wondering if you’ve seen Sketch. I said some poopy things to him, and he got mad and ran out. This was the only place I thought he’d go.”

“Why’s that?” he asked. Something about his tone suggested a milking.

“Well, he speaks very highly of you. You and Haren.”

“Is that right?” he milked, rubbing his chin. “Well, I’ll be honest with you, hon, we’re not exactly individuals to be spoken highly of.” Sketch facehoofed at Anthem calling his mother ‘hon’, but Sweet Night seemed to fail to notice. Probably the result of a couple decades of marriage.

“Regardless of whether or not that’s true, Sketch believes you to be an excellent role model.” She inhaled sharply. “And if he believes it, I believe it.”

“That’s...” Anthem loosened up, and softened his casual lean. “That’s very sweet.”

“So have you seen him?”

“Have I seen him?” he asked at a higher volume than normal, as he turned around. He tried to mask the contact he was trying to make to her son as a casual stretch, but it wasn’t very good. An actor he was not. As his eyes met with Sketch, he nodded his head sagely, and Anthem nodded back. “That’s a funny way of asking if he’s here right now.”

She paused, and blinked. “Uh... Is... is he here right now?”

“Why yes, he is,” he said, ushering in the mare and walking back into the living room before she could accept the invitation. He quickly trudged up to Haren and began pulling her off of the sofa. “Okay scaredy kitty, time to relax in the bedroom.” He rather impressively slung her over his shoulder and took a walk to their room, with Haren weakly waving good-bye to Sketch as she bobbed up and down in accordance to his steps. As Sweet Night entered the scene, she took one last awkward glance at the pony griffin couple walking off into the darkness.

“Sketch, I- woah.” she started but then promptly stopped as soon as she saw the expensive projector in the room. “This looks...”

“Professional?” Sketch offered. She waved her hoof in the middle of the air.

“I was going to say ‘nice’, but that works too.” She tried to behave like it was just another one of their playful banter sessions, but that quickly fell apart with Sketch’s nonplussed face. “I’m sorry Sketch, I didn’t mean to-”

“I know,” he interrupted. “I’m sorry too.”

There was a long silence, and his mother began to wipe her eyes and cheeks. “Dammit... This is all so... screwy.”

“How do you think I feel?” He rubbed the arm rest and averted his mother’s gaze. “I got mad cause I thought that you’d be on my side when you found out, but thinking that you’d do exactly what I wanted you to do... that you’d be perfect, and my definition of perfect, is unfair.” Sketch shrugged half-heartedly. “I know I actually don’t have much reason to trust Trust, pun notwithstanding. But if I don’t give her the chance she deserves, no one else will, and I expected you to back me.”

“Yeah...” She coughed. “I guess I didn’t really give her any chance at all.”

“You said that you believed that Anthem and Haren were good people just from the simple fact that I believed it. Well I want the same thing for Trust. I know it’s different because of what she is, but I don’t think that should matter.” He leaned over and looked her back in the eye. “She’s just... she’s super cool, Mom. I know she seems a little rough around the edges, but when she cares, she cares.”

His mother sighed once more and nodded. “I know that feeling.”

Sketch suddenly groaned loudly. “Oh, you better not be talking about Dad.”

“Hey we were young too, ya know,” she incredulously said with a nasal flair. “Seriously though, what are we going to do?”

“What do you mean?” Sketch asked, eyes wide. “I thought we handled everything.”

“No I mean, what are we gonna tell your father?” She bit her hoof. “He wasn’t home yet when I left.”

“You let me handle that...” He shuddered when he thought about his mother trying to explain the situation to a third party. “Just don’t worry about it.”

“This is a big deal Sketch,” she scoffed, throwing her hooves out. “You can’t just ignore this.”

“I won’t be able to. A journalist already took a picture of us.” He shrugged. “Whoops.”

“Seriously?”

“And there’s another batpony named Royal. A stallion.”

“Oh Celestia.”

“Yeah, I’ve been busy.” Sketch hugged himself, and just realized how tired he was. “I just really want this nightmare to end. But it’s just beginning.”

“I think you’re being a little dramatic,” Anthem called as he sauntered into the room. “You got friends and family. You’ll do fine.” He nodded towards Sketch’s mother. “Especially with help from you, Miss...?”

“Night. Sweet Night.”

“Anthem. Rock Anthem,” he held his hoof out. “We hadn’t had a proper introduction yet.”

“Your first name is Rock?” Sketch questioned. “I had no idea. I feel like that’s something I should know.”

“That’s not my first name, actually,” he revealed. “It’s my middle name. And no, I’m not going to tell you what my first name is.” He clopped his hooves together. “So! You gonna stick around for movie night?”

“Hm?” She quizzically looked all around the room. “Oh, I don’t know about that. I have to go back home to tell Books where Sketch is.”

“Oh wow, did he just come home to an empty house?” Sketch chuckled. “That’s sad.”

“Yeah, I should go before he starts freaking out,” she stated, getting up from the sofa and brushing some food crumbs off of her rump. She was a bit of a trooper not complaining about it. “Take your time, Sketch, and have fun. Spend the night if you wanna.” She took one step, froze, and turned back. “Unless Trust is here. Don’t spend the night if Trust is here.”

Sketch opened his mouth, but was beat by Anthem. “No, it’s just the three of us, Haren, me, and Sketch.”

Sketch closed and opened his mouth several times, caught off guard by the blatant lie. His mother was satisfied with the answer, and nodded with a smile. “Good. I almost made a huge parenting mistake, whoopsie!” She turned to leave again, but revolved around on the tip of her hoof so she faced them a final time. “One more question Sketch. What the heck was all that blood about?”

“Blood?” Sketch had almost forgotten about that, but that would’ve been too helpful. “Oh yeah, that was Trust’s blood.”

All the blood drained from his mother’s face, and Anthem snorted in shock. Sketch couldn’t figure out the cause of their reactions at first, but realized he could have worded that better. Now it was just a matter of listening to their absurd deductions and correcting them.

“Oh... o-oh my... that’s... I didn’t know a mare could... bleed that much from that,” his mom whispered in a pitch barely perceivable.

WOW! Holy shit! She really assumed the grossest possible thing! Sketch felt queasy, the thought of that possibility giving him nightmares for at least years to come. “What?! NO! That wasn’t-”

“I’m sure that wasn’t it.” Anthem’s attempt to be the voice of reason was betrayed by the fact his voice was wavering and uncertain. “Maybe they’re just into some kinky stuff.”

“NO! STOP!” Sketch felt like his face was going to explode off of his head. “She got hurt saving me off that stupid tram!”

“Really?” his mother breathed, instantly abandoning her previous train of thought. “Oh Celestia, that’s awful! Is she alright?”

“Yeah, yeah,” he confirmed, just glad the previous misunderstanding was taken care of. “She heals really fast. Kinda spooky.”

“She saved you?”

“Yup, woulda been dead without her.” Sketch winced at his own words, figuring he shouldn’t be so blase about his mortality in front of his own mother. He decided he wouldn’t mention that she was the reason he was down there in the first place. “Her and Royal raced to get me and another mare off that tram before it hit the ground.”

“Wow...” his mom exclaimed, rubbing her mane. “I feel like a total bitch now.”

There’s the Mom he knew. Blunt, and just a little vulgar. “Don’t worry about it.”

“Goodbye Sketchy. Have fun.”

He waved her off, and as the door closed behind her, he glared at Anthem. “Why did you lie for me?”

“You deserve some fun,” he shrugged. “Besides, if I lie you won’t have to. You’ve been lying too much, with no fault of your own.”

“Thanks I think?” Sketch tapped the cushions in a rhythm that conveyed his uncertainty. “I don’t know though, it’s a little weird.”

“You know, some ponies prefer it weird,” he beamed.

“Yeah, well I don’t.” He cleared his throat and bit his tongue. “Trust might though, I don’t know yet.”

“HA!” he snorted, slapping his knee. “I could see that. C’mon, let’s finish this dumb-ass movie.”



“Everypony died, it was awful,” Trust pouted, shoving the rest of the sandwich down her gullet. Anthem sounded like he sprung a leak as he scoffed and sputtered.

“That’s why it’s good!” Anthem began counting off examples as he tapped his hoof. “It’s about the nature of living creatures and the corruption money can bring out in ordinary ponies.” He folded his forelegs and scowled. “Besides, Howard and Coltin survived.”

“Yeah, but the gold!” she complained, flailing her limbs.

“It was never about the gold,” he explained, holding a hoof over his heart. “It was about the ponies.”

“You guys keep saying ponies,” Sketch spoke up, pursing his lips. “There were a lot of donkeys and mules in this movie.”

“Oh, I’m sorry Sketch,” Anthem taunted, giving jazz hooves. “We can’t all be as PC as you, with your broken Equish and shit.”

“I dunno, I don’t mind being called a pony,” Haren piped up, holding one of her digits up.

“Yeah, I bet you like getting ridden, with a saddle and everything,” Trust quipped. With no warning at all, Haren pounced on her, pushing her down off the couch, and pinning her on the floor.

“I like getting ridden huh? Huh bitch?!” Haren cackled and grunted as Trust struggled under her.

“Oh you think you can take me? I’ve fought squirrels tougher than you!” She used her hind legs to lift Haren off the floor and flipped on top of her. Haren’s evil grin completely disappeared as she suddenly felt weightless under Trust’s massive strength.

Sketch began to get up to stop them, but was stopped by Anthem’s leg hitting his chest. His eyes said, ‘Naw dude, let it happen this is hot.’

Sketch had weird friends.

“WOAH HOLY SHIT, you’re strong!” Haren gasped for breath as she attempted to get a better grip on the admittedly tiny batmare. “But you’re so small!”

“Good things in small packages!” Trust beamed, unable to hide her obvious joy in the scuffle.

“Yeah, bet you know all about that!” Haren shot back, sticking her tongue out of her beak. Sketch furrowed his brow.

“Was that a dig at me?” Sketch’s question was answered by a hysterical guffaw from Anthem, and he gave a deadpan stare at a wall in lieu of an audience.

Haren seemed to be getting the upper hand, once she had stopped underestimating her strength. She was still stronger than Trust despite the latter’s unnatural strength. However, Trust appeared to be more flexible, as she repeatedly broke Haren’s grip and slipped away. Haren was shouting all sort of expletives as Trust swept her legs from under her and pinned her on the ground. “Anypony have a saddle?” Trust yelled out to Sketch and Anthem. “This little pony’s going to the stable!”

“Please, Trust, I can only get so aroused,” Anthem choked, unable to hide his grin. “Get off my marefriend, please.”

“Oh, stop giving her ammo, Anthem,” Haren scolded from below Trust.

He arched his brow and mouthed ‘what?’

“You called me your marefriend.” Haren deadpanned, but the effect fell short because of her ridiculous pretzel position on the floor.

“Well you are.” Anthem said matter-of-fact. “I thought we all knew this...?”

“I’m not a mare, dummy!” Haren shouted. “I’m a griffin!”

“Oh shit,” Anthem chuckled. “I forgot.”

That made Sketch lose it, spitting a drink he didn’t have, holding his sides lest they pop off of him. He tried to hold at least a little air in his lungs as he lost most of it in mighty guffaws. Trust and the others looked at him as if he just sprouted antlers.

“It’s not that funny, dude,” Anthem said with a weak and friendly smile.

“I know,” Sketch confirmed between breaths. Despite Anthem’s comment, the others began to giggle slightly by proxy. “I just... I knew I liked you guys but I never really knew why.”

“You like us because we’re all dumb?” Anthem asked, itching his eyebrow.

“No, no. Well, beside that.” He shook his head and took a few steady breaths. “Just... Haren acting like she’s angry but is just looking for an excuse to get everyone all riled up, Anthem you seeing things at face value and more concerned with character than nature, forgetting people’s species cause you’re so open minded...” he wiped a tear from his eye, and cleared his throat. “Pretty sure there’s no one like you three, you frickin’ weirdos.”

“We try, Trust GET OFF OF ME.” Haren rolled over, knocking Trust off balance and sending her to the floor. “We try,” she reiterated, rubbing her shoulder.

“No you don’t,” Sketch denied. “That’s why you’re awesome. Don’t have to try.”

“Alright, this is getting too sappy for me, I’m going to bed.” Anthem got up off of his seat and stretched, craning his neck until it cracked. “Don’t get too comfortable.”

“No promises,” Trust commented, biting her lip and giving Sketch an over the top sultry look.

“Well, I’m going too,” Haren pitched in. “I’m not actually tired, but you know... sex.” She moved an arm, and grimaced when it cracked. “Aw, jeez gurl, you’re really rough and tumble.”

“Yeah, don’t mess, bitch!” Trust motioned to her own body. “Not with the best,”

“I won’t but I might mess with you again.”

“Alright, we don’t have to start anything up again, anyone, yeesh.” Anthem walked off, not allowing Trust to reply. She simply blew a raspberry as Haren walked away.

As the door to Anthem’s room shut, Trust sauntered towards her unicorn, and giggled. “That was fun.”

“See? They’re not bad.” Sketch smugly folded his forelegs. “You were all reluctant and stuff.”

“I just didn’t think there could be anypony like him,” she commented. “Guess I was wrong.”

“Like him?” Sketch wracked his brain and remembered something she had told him nigh on a week ago. “Deecha, right?”

“Yeah. At a point, I thought it possible that ponies were incapable.” Trust began walking towards the small hall leading to their room. “Glad to see I was wrong.”

Sketch followed her in and switched on the light. It hadn’t really hit him that they were using Haren’s old room until then. A lone chair, a lamp, and a large bed were the only things there. He wondered if she decorated the living room too, with how plain it was. In fact, did all of his friends have such bland taste? Syntax’s apartment was also unsettlingly bare.

Trust flopped onto Haren’s bed and groaned. “Warning with the lights please!”

“Heh, sorry,” he apologized, and headed almost immediately towards the dresser. “I wonder if she has anything in here we shouldn’t see?”

“Like what? Whips? And... what’s that lacy underwear called?” Trust rolled over and blinked a few times, forcing her eyes to readjust themselves.

“Lingerie?” he asked, opening the first drawer. Very briefly he imagined Haren wearing that stuff, and immediately wanted to slam his face into the corner of the dresser. Trying to find a replacement thought, he accidently imagined Trust wearing it, and that nearly exploded the blood vessels in his nose. He distracted himself with the contents of the drawers, and was pleased to see no such thing in them. There were plain shirts in there, a couple of t-shirts, and quite a bit of flannels. A lot of flannels actually. He wondered why, but after imagining Haren in one, it was clear why. He bet she popped the collar on them. Now he really wanted to draw it.

He opened the second drawer, and reared his head at the contents. Suits? Full suits, shirts, and ties, neatly folded in a presentable manner and stacked atop each other in pairs. There were six in total. “Weird,” he whispered under his breath. Haren definitely would look good in a suit, and he didn’t exactly see her as a dress gal, but what use would she have for formal wear at all? Perhaps this was for when she first moved to Equestria, trying to get a career job. There must have been a reason to go to Canterlot, after all, other than just the fair she went to as a kid. She was an intellectual in a past life, before she met Anthem, that much was obvious. She had expressed an interest in education. Maybe she wanted to get a high profile job and it didn’t work out... Probably because she was a griffin.

There was no point in making assumptions, though, he should probably just ask her someday.

He opened the last drawer, and sharply inhaled when he saw what was in it. A dusty typewriter, an old model, with a pile of five or so ink ribbons stacked next to it. “Ooooh.” This must have been the typewriter she wrote her book with! He poked it, feeling a strange pang of giddiness as he did. It was weird to think about, being a fan of Haren’s. He felt a trace of pride as well, but it didn’t feel right considering how young he was when he enjoyed the book. A small frown found itself on Sketch when he realized she didn’t even have a copy of her own book in her place. He knew she was a bit embarrassed by it, but it was an accomplishment. He shut the drawer and looked towards Trust...

Who was already asleep.

He blinked a few times. Trust was nocturnal, and she never really slept at night, maybe having a catnap or two. But she looked pretty conked out. It was a pretty crazy day, and she was up for most of the afternoon, so it made sense. He smiled and climbed into bed with her after turning off the light.

Even if this does become a huge mess, they’d be okay. If it does become too hectic, to the point where it’s dangerous to walk on the streets, they’d just leave. Maybe live in the wilderness, and ask Royal for pointers. Or perhaps, they’d move to one of those villages that aren’t a part of the census yet. Hopefully there wouldn’t be a creepy cult or something there. That would be terrifying, being forced to become a part of something that you didn’t want to.

Maybe he was tired too, his mind was coming up with some pretty implausible stuff.

He shoved his muzzle into the back of Trust’s mane and closed his eyes, wrapping his forelegs around her chest. He heard her sigh sensually, and his heart nearly jumped out of his chest. He still wasn’t used to being so close to her.

“Sorry, i’m kinda tired. Didn’t mean to fall asleep so fast,”

He responded by nuzzling her neck and squeezing her gently. “Why you apologizing? It’s what beds are for.”

She turned her head and opened her eyes, the light from them nearly blinding him. “I wanted to... you know...”

“Oh.” Even if Trust didn’t have her odd night vision, he was pretty sure she could see the red on his face. “Yeah,” he said, not really sure how to respond.

“Hey, when you were saying how cool everypony was, you left me out,” Trust whispered. “I’m not saying anything, cause you went into it with your mother, but I was just wondering why.”

“Heh,” he chuckled, getting closer to her ear. “Just wanted to be alone when I said.”

“Oh yeah?” she egged on, bumping her eyebrows.

“You bring out the best in people. When you’re done being all defensive, you know just what buttons to push. You make people passionate. Like I said before.” He ran his leg up her chest, and she turned back around, thrumming in comfort. “You make me care.”

“Sketch,” she began, gently flipping over so she was facing him. “I don’t know what to do.”

He blinked, and gave a half-smile. “I’m just going to assume you mean philosophically, since we already had sex.”

She giggled and punched him in the chest. “C’mon Sketch, I’m allowed to get all deep and shit, too.” She sighed in frustration and looked off to the side. “It always feels like I’m not doing enough, you know? Like, I could be doing something to fix all this, but I’m not.”

“Yeah, it sucks,” he empathized. “It’s always going to feel like that.” He sighed back and scrunched his nose up to hers and puffed his cheeks out. “Just know that being there for others is exactly what they need.”

“Hehe,” she laughed, copping a feel while he was distracted. He whimpered at the sudden contact. “You sap.”



The cold wind ripped through his hair as stars passed by him, a train passing by on a mountain, that he was somehow simultaneously on. He heard laughter in the distance, even though the ponies laughing were right in front of him. It was the usual nonsense, but instead of playing along, like he usually didn’t have the option to deny, he was surprisingly lucid. He faced the moon, that wasn’t there a second ago, and noticed how large it was. “I don’t know if you can hear me. But if you can... I want to know you. If you really have something to do with Trust. It doesn’t matter to me what you are...

I’m not going to give up on her. I’m not going to give up on you.”



We shall see, child.

We shall see.

> Intermission. Session 04
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

“She had blue skin,
And so did he.
He kept it hid
And so did she.
They searched for blue
Their whole life through,
Then passed right by-
And never knew.”
-Shil Silverstein


Syntax sighed and blinked, forcing her eyes to moisten after the sleepless night before. She always had trouble sleeping, but the last couple of nights had been unbearable. The gnawing feeling in the back of her head grew stronger and stronger as the hours passed, a feeling she was no stranger to.

Trepidation. That was one word for it. She wasn’t so idiotic to think that these decisions she made weren’t affecting her in some way. Sketch was a good kid, and she had no reason to dislike Trust. She had saved her life, after all. But there was nothing Syntax could do. Her mind was made up.

This wasn’t the first time this had happened, and it won’t be the last. But this was the strongest personal relationship she had with a subject since...

Since him. Not making the same mistake twice.

There was that familiar knock on the door.

“Coming!” she shouted as soon as possible. She straightened out the stray strands of hair in her mane and removed her glasses, placing them on the counter of the kitchen. She grabbed a stray glass off of the nearby table and used the reflection to check her teeth for any residue, before finally approaching the door and clearing her throat. “Royal.” she greeted as she opened the door.

Except, it wasn’t royal. “Uh, thanks?” the mailpony quizzically said. “Kind of an odd complement.”

Syntax blinked. Had she really forgotten to check the peephole? Slipping.

“Uh, yeah,” she stammered, only for a second. “Got something for me?”

“Sure thing, Syntax. Your editor saw me and he wanted me to tell you that you need a new story within the next month to keep up with your payments.” He shrugged and fished through his bag, hoofing her a few envelopes. “Here’s your mail. You guys need to find a better way of communicating.” 

“Yeah, well he’s the one who refuses to live in Canterlot.” She grabbed the envelopes and nodded towards the mailpony. “Thanks, Sleet.”

“No problem Miss Syntax,” he welcomed. “All in a day’s work.”

She slammed the door as he walked away, a little harder than she thought she was going to. She took a few steps towards her sofa, and dropped her mail onto the floor. She sat down and stared at the wall.

Trepidation. That was one word for it. Guilt, regret, remorse, hesitance, anxiety. Many names for the same demon. There wasn’t anything else about it. The mask was starting to crack.

....

....

There was a familiar knock on the door. Syntax woke up, sharply inhaling and wiping the drool from her lips. She panickedly checked her mane and teeth, rocketing up from her seat and torpedoing to the door. “Jusssasecond-” she mumbled, and threw the door open.

“Oh.” Royal recoiled from the sudden gust of wind from the abruptly opened door. There was that dumb look of dull surprise that Syntax had gotten to know so well. He wore that look pretty much every time she had answered one of his questions, the rate of which had increased exponentially. He was probably learning more than Syntax despite him the one being interviewed. “Is there something wrong?”

“Huh?” she slurred, looking around her. “N, no why?”

“You look mildly flustered.” Royal averted her gaze, which was rather odd considering his usual temperament. “You opened the door pretty quickly.”

“Huh?” she slurred again, leaning on the door. “What? Girl can’t open ‘er fukkin door the way she wants, ‘EH?!” Her eyes widened as she heard her own voice, and she winced when she repeated her line in her head.

Royal just sat and stared.

“Sorry,” she apologized, getting up from her leaning position and clearing her throat. “Just woke up. And I think I’m a little drunk, too.” She tapped her chin. “I should probably be more sure of that.”

Royal gave one of his chuckles, the one that only lasted a single heave and he didn’t smile for. Of course, he rarely smiled, so that didn’t mean the laugh wasn’t genuine. In fact quite the opposite, his smile was usually reserved for his dubious side instead. The laugh also wasn’t dubious because he also did that thing with his eyes. They become softer, rounder. His eyebrows also divot at their ends when he’s experiencing a measurable amount of mirth. “May I enter? Somepony’s going to see me.”

She exhaled, a small amount of energy running through her knees. “You know you don’t have to ask, right?” She ushered him in and followed behind as he entered.

“So what’s on the menu today?” He approached the tomato basket and plucked one of the last three out of it, taking a bite as he approached his usual seat. “Biology was a garbage fire.”

Syntax felt the involuntary rush of blood to her cheeks as she recalled the events of the night before. “Hehe, yeah. Turns out you aren’t much different than a normal pegasus other than the obvious stuff and your eyes. Including erogenous zones in the wings...” Honestly she just wanted an excuse to fondle his weird leathery wings, but it wasn’t like he’d ever know that.

“You should be a masseuse,” he casually encouraged, raising both of his brows up simultaneously.

“Yeah, yeah, enough jokes.”

“There’s never enough,” he quipped folding his foreleg over the other. He was content on half-laying on the sofa with his belly depressed against the cushions for some reason. All of his interviews were done at a forty-five degree angle, which honestly frustrated her to no end. Well, maybe frustrated was the wrong word, she never felt particularly angry. There was just this thing about his insistence on doing things a certain way that... irked her somehow. Like how he always asked for permission before walking in despite everything he’s putting a risk by doing so.

“Indeed.” Syntax tapped her chin, thinking about the possible next subject. History, biology, philosophy (that was interesting), feelings (that was unfruitful)... what next?

“Preferences,” Syntax said sharply. “Nothing about meat please.”

“Preferences...” Royal repeated, tasting the word on his own tongue. “What I enjoy?”

“Yup.” 

Click!

Royal (Batpony interviewee): “Hmmn... never really had to think about it.”

Syntax Axiom (Interviewer): “Well think long and hard, Royal. There’s no time limit.”

R: “Well you have to give me some frame of reference.”

S: “How so?”

R: “Give me a category.”

S: “Okay... any food you enjoy?”

R: ”Mea-”

S: “AHEM.”

R: “...Right. Well...”

He looked down at the bits of tomato in his hoof and took another bite.

R: “Tomatoes.”

S: “Excellent choice, but surely that’s not it.”

R: “Well I didn’t really have much choice in what I ate. That wasn’t a luxury that I could afford.”

S: “Don’t be ridiculous, Bats. You enjoyed some foods more than others, barring necessity.”

R: “...I just... never thought about it.”

S: “Stop thinking about it. What do you want to eat right now?”

R: “................Strawberries.”

S: “There you go. Was that so hard?”

R: “Exceedingly.”

S: “Oh hush. Now what is it about strawberries do you like?”

R: “Are... you serious?”

S: “Exceedingly. Come on, Bats, there’s a lot you can tell from a pony’s temperament, attitude, and decision making process from the nature of their preferences.”

R: “Hmmn... I don’t know about that.”

S: “Oh, are you such an expert about it suddenly, college boy?”

R: “DON’T.”

Syntax nearly jumped out of her skin at the sudden even snap, not expecting such a volume increase to the calmest pony she had ever known. As she looked up from her notepad, Royal seemed as surprised as she was. He quickly leveled himself, and averted her gaze again.

R: “Please don’t.”

S: “I’m... sorry. Shouldn’t have said that.”

R: “It’s okay... 

A veritable pause later...

R: “It’s sour.”

S: “What?”

R: “They’re the sweetest looking fruits, but they’re tangy, just a little bit.”

S: “Well only some of them are that way. And you like that?”

R: “Yes, I think... It makes it more interesting.”

S: “Hmmn. So usually people like strawberries because the enjoy the front facing sweetness, getting exactly what they want with very little effort. But you enjoy them because of the tart that some of them have. So you want depth.”

R: “Do you like strawberries?”

S: “Uh... yeah. Nothing to write home about, but I’ll eat them.”

R: “What do you like about them?”

He was doing it again; asking her questions during the interview. It was so... frustrating, but maybe that was the wrong word for it. She wasn’t particularly angry about it.

S: “I like... the seeds.”

R: “Really?”

S: “Yeah... strawberry is a rather ordinary flavor. The texture those cute little seeds provide makes them more than ordinary.”

R: “So you enjoy it when things are complicated.”

Syntax nearly dropped her pen. She didn’t know why it caught her so off guard, but something about the smugness in his voice...

“That’s just what I gather from that,” he teased, giving a half-smirk.

She blinked... and smiled back.

S: “...Alright. Enough about that. What about art?”

R: “Not really interested.”

S: “Is that right?”

R: “Capturing an image using graphite and paper seems just as well as taking a photo. Might as well save time with a camera. ...Thanks for teaching me cameras by the way.”

That had to be a dig about Sketch’s photo.

S: “What about the more abstract art?”

R: “Pretentious. Just say what you want to say. Put words in the air and construe feelings and emotions that way.”

S: “So you’re saying that you like... writing better? Stories?”

R: “Yes. I forget that counts as art as well.”

S: “What kinds of stories?”

R: “All kinds. I don’t care whether it's happy or scary, or sad or thrilling, fake or real.”

S: “What’s your prefered genre? Something that you would pick up over the other.”

R: “I wouldn’t ‘pick up’ anything. I can barely read.”

S: “Ah... yes.”

R: “But to answer your question, Romance. Comedic romance. Much Ado About Nothing is my favorite.”

S: “R-really?”

R: “Haha, why the uncertainty?”

Royal’s laugh knocked her out of her focus. She didn’t dare look at his face, content with tapping the notebook with her pen.

S: “I don’t know... just with everything you’ve said, I was expecting drama or thriller.”

R: “Yes, well maybe I’m a bit more optimistic than I let on.”

S: “Maybe. You know, there are things called comics. It’s a series of small images on multiple pages along with dialogue written on them in order to tell a story with visual elements.”

R: “Sounds like a hell of lot of work for the artist. Unnecessarily so.”

S: “Hahaha! How jaded.”

R: “Might as well take photos.”

S: “Well there’s that too.”

R: “Comics made out of photos?”

S: “No. Films. They’re pretty new, only been around for a decade or so. A series of around twenty pictures a second play to give the illusion of movement for actors to act out a play.”

R: “W... What...”

S: “Yup. Even better, you can splice these series of images together for immediate scene changes, or even special effects like ponies’ heads getting chopped off by cutting to a fake headless body after an axe gets close to a character’s head.”

R: “Stop.”

Syntax immediately obeyed without thinking, clicking the tape recorder off. She surprised herself with the speed at which she did so. “What’s wrong?”

“You aren’t lying to me, are you?” Royal asked, almost panicked. ‘Almost panicked’, for Royal, was a slight lilt in his voice with slightly wider eyes, but his mood was odd nonetheless.

“Why...” she started, holding a hoof to her chest. Was she actually... offended? She lied to him a lot, there’s no reason to be offended, but the thought of him not trusting her actually made her stomach churn. “Why would I lie about that?”

“Please, I don’t...” Royal started to take large deep breaths, and stared at the wall behind Syntax. She quickly and covertly turned the recorder back on. This had to be on record. “I don’t want this to not be true... Don’t...”

Royal had completely stopped speaking, and was just breathing faster and faster. She immediately got up from her seat and zipped to his side. She awkwardly put a hoof on his shoulder and tried to shush him. She wasn’t very good at this sort of thing, but she had to do something. It would be inequine to just watch him suffer. “Shhhhhushhh. I’m not lying, Royal. It’s there.”

He slowed his rapid breathing, and remained as still as a statue once he calmed down. They simply stayed for a while.

R: “I had lost hope. I was only able to get the full story in bits, in an archaic order, never really knowing the thing I loved. I tried to get into a play once. Got spotted so fast, and I was barely able to get out in time. But these films...”

S: “Maybe you could see one eventually.”

R: “Oh... Celestia. That’s what you say when you can’t believe something right? Use her name in vain, correct? Celestia. Celestia. Oh my Princess Celestia...”

S: “Hehaheh, alright, alright.”

R: “So do you have to read a script next to the pictures, or...?”

S: “We used to do something like that, but now we have these cool tape recorders. Same tech, but different make, they record sounds to play along the movie.”

R: “You can’t be serious.”

S: “Totally serious.”

R: “Even... music?”

S: “Big scores of orchestral music, bellowing over epic sweeping shots of snow covered mountains, as earth ponies and pegasi rage a war against the unicorns in 2000 BC.”

Royal smiled. Not his dubious smile. A new, refreshing smile, showing both sets of teeth, baring his fangs so far the looked like a snake’s. There was a distinct smell of... spearmint in the air for some odd reason. It was very strange, but Syntax had lost any sense of thought for her musings as Royal’s wide smile nearly knocked her out. That familiar energy that she felt whenever Royal did something interesting... it shot throughout her entire body. She couldn’t help but smile in proxy.

R: “Thank you.”

S: “I didn’t really do anything.”

R: “Hmm... Could I show you something?”

S: “What exactly?”

R: “We’ll have to walk a bit of a way.”

S: “Oh?”

R: “Yes. It’s near the lake.”

Syntax clicked her tape recorder, She bit the inside of the bottom of her lip and groaned slightly. “Near the lake?”

He nodded and Syntax furrowed her brow and looked at the ceiling. “I don’t know about that, Bats. I’m not even ready to go out anywhere. And its late.”

“It’s not late for me,” he stated as if it solved everything. “Besides how could you get more ready? You’re couldn’t be more beautiful than you are right now.”

“Wh-what?!” Syntax reared her head at the unexpected compliment. Royal simply looked at her with his usual dead stare, like he had said that cat is spelled c-a-t.

Royal scratched his head. “What what?”

“Just, what’s with the weird compliments?” She gathered herself just enough to anxiously chuckle.

“Not really a compliment. I just don’t see what you could do to make yourself look better.” Royal stared at her with dead eyes. Syntax stared back, looking for any movement. The scrutinization was long and arduous, but he seemed to believe his own statement objectively.

“O... kay.” She started to rub her shoulder, as she all of the sudden felt really silly. “Well, Canterlot doesn’t see it that way. At the very least, I’m gonna have to take a shower and do my hair.” As if on cue, one of the hairs she straightened out popped out of place.

“Shower.” Royal spouted abruptly. Syntax waited him for continue, but he never did, leading to an absurdly awkward silence. After what seemed like an eternity, Royal took the hint. “What is it? Shower?”

“Oh, okay.” Syntax laughed nervously, wondering how he had gotten this far not knowing what a shower is. Then again, in the situations he was in, it probably wouldn’t come into casual conversation in the classes he eavesdropped on. “Bathing.”

“Ah. And I assume it’s like being rained on.”

“That’s...” Syntax blinked a few times. “Yeah. Wow. Never really thought about it like that.”

“And see how easy that is?” Royal quipped slightly raising one of his brows.

“Yeah, yeah, perspective is a weird thing.” Syntax chuckled and made her way upstairs. “I’ll be down in about forty minutes.” She could swear he was mouthing ‘forty-minutes’ in astonishment as she left.



Syntax felt weird using the upstairs bathroom. Technically, this is the one she was supposed to be using the most, considering it was around seventeen steps from her bed. But it usually made her uncomfortable for some reason. She never liked taking her eyes off of the living room, even to sleep.

Also, nothing was broken in here.

On the north end was a double sink and a large mirror expanding nearly the entire wall, stopping at a tall cupboard holding various towels and pleasantries. Everything else was pretty bare, aside from a few towel racks, hoof bars, and of course, the tub and shower. It was a pretty spacious bathroom as well, as it should be for how much she pays for the place. She approached the tub and pulled the knob to start the water flow, and switched the pressure for the shower nozzle instead of the bath faucet.

She closed her eyes and let her muscles decompress at the soothing sound of water hitting the bottom of the tub. Steam began to rise along with the heat, fogging the mirrors and making it just that little bit more difficult to breathe. A side effect of the thickening of the air forced her to steady her breath to a calmer, more stable rate. She tested the water with her foreleg, and determining it was perfect, took one big step into it. She couldn’t help be a bit vocal at how good the message of the water hitting her fur felt. She hoped her voice didn’t carry into the living room. She moved her head up and let the water hit her face and wash over her hair. She stayed there for a while, deciding that, if she wanted to, she could probably fall asleep like this.

She did that once, actually. Best sleep she had in years, but she was wrinkly for a week. That was an embarrassing interview.

“Why is your hair a different color at the roots?”

Syntax screamed, grabbing the shower curtain in a poor effort of defense, but falling when she didn’t have the added stability of her forelegs. The curtain went down along with her with a few violent rips, until she hit the porcelain bottom in an unceremonious thud. Royal rushed over as she hit the bottom.

“Woah, are you alright?” he asked as if she was the crazy one.

“What are you doing in here?” she groaned as he reached for her. She instinctively accepted the helping hoof despite common sense telling her not to. It took her one second to realize how far he was in. “Get out of the tub!”

Royal retracted himself instantly once he was sure she wouldn’t fall again. He was soaking wet from the waist up, now. Syntax looked down and saw black dirt flowing into the drain. “Oh Celestia you’re filthy.”

“Your welcome,” Royal spat, his deadpan returning.

“It was your fault I fell!” she defended.

“How so?” he challenged.

“You don’t just... sneak up on ponies when they’re in the shower like that.” She subconsciously turned her body away from him so that he could see less of her. “This is supposed to be private.”

“Why?” His hair was bizarrely a lighter color than usual despite being soaked with water. His usual unkempt style was now matted to his forehead and neck, and nearly completely obscured his eyes. Honestly, he looked silly. His crazy spiky mane often played into his drab deadpan attitude, but now he looked like a nerdy student who forgot to dry his head before coming to class.

“Cause... I dunno... I’m indecent?” She ducked a little further behind the tub. Royal scratched his mane.

“You don’t normally wear clothes.” Royal closed his eyes and inhaled slowly, not sharply enough to even hear. “Why is the air so thick?”

“Cause there’s water in it,” she said as a matter-of-fact. She probably be more adamant about telling him to leave but....

But? There was no but. She should be telling him to leave.

She wasn’t.

Oh well.

“Hmmn. It’s nice.”

Syntax scrunched up her nose and scowled, a new stench gracing her nose. “What is that smell?”

“Water?” he offered.

“What? No. It’s like... rotten apples.” She placed her hoof on her nose and pressed it firmly, as if it would get rid of the smell.

Royal looked down at himself and furrowed his brow. “I think it may be me.”

The musty air was making the smell worse. “Oh jeez, how often do you bathe?”

“Uh, just when I get blood on me.” He tapped his muzzle. “Of course there’s not a lot a meat available in the winter.”

Syntax was already nauseous from the smell, and the mention of meat nearly made her give up her lunch. She hatched an idea in her head, and she jumped on it despite its scandalousness. Anything to get rid of the smell. “Alright, no. I’m not hanging around this smell all day. Get in.”

“What?” Royal cocked his head. “You said this is a private thing, and now you want me in with you?”

“Yeah well we can just forget it for now.” She folded her forelegs and glared at him. “It’s already late and I’m not wasting any more time. Beside, I don’t trust you to do it correctly.” She shrugged. “It’s only weird if you make it weird.”

“Well,” he said uneasily. “If you say so.”

The tub was big enough so they wouldn’t have to touch while bathing, so it shouldn’t be that big of a deal. Wasn’t this something they did in Neighpon? Yeah, it’s not weird. At all.

Royal stepped in, and as soon as the water hit the top of his head, he widened his eyes and his pupils dilated to the point where they nearly looked like normal pony’s pupils. If this continued, Syntax figured he may actually physically start to melt.

“O-oo-oh,” he wavered, he knees wobbling. “I didn’t know that... this felt... like this...” He slumped down and directed his face upward, taking the brunt of the hot water.

Syntax couldn’t help but smile at the juxtaposition. He was hogging most of the water, but she was okay with that. He needed it a lot more than she did, evidenced by the black tinted water heading towards the drain. She tried to not think of the biology interview, that her hooves touched some of that dirt. Gross.

She grabbed her shampoo bottle, squeezed some onto her hoof, and lathered it into her hair, and quickly trailed the soap around her body. She didn’t want to give too much of a show to him, since she had already been too lax with what she was letting him get away with, so she ignored grabbing the body wash and settled on using the lathered shampoo. Luckily, he wasn’t really looking in the first place and was content on just standing there with his eyes closed and letting the water hit him.

She looked at the bottle she placed on the edge of the tub and hatched an idea.

Squeezing a healthy amount of soap into her hoof once again, she slowly reached for his head...

“What are you doing?” He asked abruptly, slightly opening his left eye.

“Oh! Uh... Nothin’.” She froze in place for a few seconds, and after a small staring contest, she lunged at the batstallion, smushing the soap into his mane. He flinched, but didn’t resist.

“Geh,” was his only protest. “What are...?”

“I bet you’ve never used soap, huh?” She roughly tousled his mane, making sure the bubbles of the soap lathered deeply to the roots of his hair. He had one eyes closed as he mildly grimaced from the roughness. It was honestly kind of cute. Really, she didn’t understand why he was letting her do this to him. He could definitely stop her, and it must have been at least a little demeaning, but here they were. She briefly wondered if she’d let him do it to her, if he asked...

To lather soap in her hair. The thought excited her more than she expected.

“Miss Syntax?”

Syntax blinked. Was she spacing out again? No, this is an acceptable amount of time to lather soap in one’s mane. “What?”

“How long do you have to do this?”

“Like thirty seconds.” That meant ten more to go. “Smell familiar?”

“Hmmn?” He closed both eyes again and concentrated. “Hmm... Strawberries.”

“Your favorite!” she sang in a teasing tone. He actually laughed at that. She dropped off of his mane and stepped back. He took a moment, before washing the soap off and opening his eyes under the water.

“Now I smell like strawberries.” He cracked a slight smirk. “Excellent. Now what? Are you going to soap my body too?”

She felt blood rise to her cheeks, and, combined with the heat of the water, made her woozy and nearly faint. “N-no no no! You can do that yourself. Just... lemme finish me.”

She gently pushed him aside and began to wash the soap off, somewhat worried he was going to ogle her in the vulnerable state. Though, thinking back on it, Royal never did anything for a sexual reason, more childlike curiosity and naivete. Even walking in on her like this was an honest mistake.

“You never answered my question,” he suddenly commented as she ran her hooves down her lengthy hair.

“About what? My roots?” She opened one eye slightly to meet his gaze, but was admittedly a little disappointed when she saw he was looking the other way. “I need to redye my hair soon.”

“Dye your mane?” he asked. “Like, paint it?”

“Not paint, really, but you got the right idea.” Honestly she should be recording all of this, but she was too soaking wet to go grab her tape recorder now. “So yeah.”

“So your real hair color is brown,” he said, tapping his chin. “Why change it to beige?”

“My fur is a rust color. Orange reddish. Brown blends in with it too much for my taste. I much prefer the grungy white and red look better.” She finished her wash and looked at Royal. He must have felt her gaze, so he turned back to look at her. “Also... an old friend said he liked this color.”

“Well, I don’t think you have to paint yourself to be pretty.” Royal’s plain face actually scared her a little, his innocent compliments chinking away at her armor. “In fact, I think brown hair would go great with your fur.”

She smirked, being careful to add a dose of skepticism to it. “Yeah? Well maybe i’ll bleach it out someday.” She reached for the faucet and turned off the water. She stepped out of the bath and went to the cupboard to grab a couple towels.

“You know, I think your mane looks better this way, more natural,” he commented as he dried his mane with the caught towel. Syntax blinked a few times and looked towards the mirror. Her usual neat pile was laid down in wet curly waves, filled with uneven bangs and archaic patterns.

“Really? It looks awful.”

“Well, you could wear anything well.”

She held her chest and looked away, attempting to focus on drying herself. Why did he keep doing that? Maybe he was just in a good mood after finding out about films.

“Oh stop,” she half-heartedly commanded. She made it sound less genuine than she intended. She threw her towel at his face. He didn’t react at all as the damp towel wrapped around him. He slowly peeled it off, to reveal a tiny smirk. “I’m ready. Let’s go wherever your stupid thing is.”



The skytram was back up, but there was no way in hell Syntax was taking that any time soon. She navigated her way through the streets, making her way to the city gates. It was probably going to take around an hour and a half to get to the lake on hoof. And if they were going to spend an hour there, that means she was going to be out for four hours. Why the hell was she doing this for Bats?

It was simple. She liked him.

No point in pretending that she didn’t. He was a peaceful, artistic soul. Incredibly extrospective and naturally curious, and selfless. Everything about him was likable. Maybe, in another life, she’d be able to call him her friend, and vice versa. But what she was planning on doing to him and his friends would never allow it. The burden of a journalist. Syntax may want to be friends, but the reporter would never be able to. She wondered if he liked her. Well he must like her if he kept saying all those things about her.

Syntax spotted the city gate in the distance, along with a familiar guard standing at the ready. “Hey Hal,” she greeted the guard as she approached the gates.

“Syntax?!” He nervously shuffled his weapon, which was rather embarrassing since the royal guard’s weapon use averaged at a whopping .21 occurrences per year. Hal Bird scowled and a few sweat drops rolled down his temples. “Are, are you interviewing the guard again? I can’t afford another suspension.”

“Calm down, Hal. I’m just passing through.”

“Yeh, well do us all a favor and don’t come back, eh?” Despite his rude statements, he opened the gate anyway and ushered her through. “Make everyone’s lives easier.”

“If everyone had easy lives, the guard would be corrupt without somepony breathing down their neck.” She poked his chest, but he remained still.

“Yeah, yeah, say what you want about honest workin’ individuals. Have a nice day, Axiom Syntax.” The venom he spat as he wished her luck was less toxic than he probably wanted.  She kind of just wanted to laugh in his face.

She shook her head and just walked through the gates, taking the path down Canterlot mountain. Once she got far enough from the population, she spotted Royal flying down from above. “What are you doing? The skytram is the other way,” he mentioned as he touched down.

“Are you crazy? I’m not getting in that thing again. Not for a while.” She shivered a bit. “I swear, if you guys didn’t save us and I didn’t die, I’d sue their damn bones dry.”

“You could have still taken it,” he insisted. “I wouldn’t have let you fall.”

She chuckled darkly. “Seemed like you would’ve on account of the night of the incident.”

“I knew Sketch. I didn’t know you. I’m sorry.”

A devious part of her brain thought about asking him who he would choose now, but she thought better of it. “I know, it’s fair. I would’ve done the same in your shoes.” She remained silent for a time. “At the time anyway.”

He gave her a weird look, but didn’t say anything.

“It’s going to take a while to get there,” Syntax warned.

“I don’t mind.” Royal looked up at the night sky. Twilight had just left, but there was still a little bit light left in the air from the residue of the sun.

“...I don’t speak very much.”

“Huh?”

“...” Royal looked towards the ground and huffed. “...I don’t speak very much. But you keep talking.”

Syntax blinked a few times, and flipped her mane as she shifted her gaze in a small amount of frustration. “What are you trying to say?”

Royal chuckled darkly. “I don’t know. I guess I’m trying to say it doesn’t matter what we’re doing, as long as we’re both here.” He sighed. “It’s hard to find the words.”

“Hmm.” Syntax couldn’t quite say she understood, but she could sympathize with his confusion. “Would you say that you’re lonely?”

There was a long pause. “I... suppose. Being alone wasn’t a choice. It was a necessity. Having those I would call my friends is more comforting than I would have thought.”

Syntax felt some of her musings come back to her, and she bit her lip in anxiousness. “Do you think of me as a friend?”

“I want to.” Royal stopped, and she stopped in kind. “I really want to. I don’t think you would let me, though.”

“Hmm.”

They started walking again. They didn’t talk much.



“So why are we here?” Syntax pouted. “It took a frickin hour and a half to get here.”

Royal walked in front, and approached the lake. After staring at it for a solid minute, he sat and looked at the water.

When he didn’t say anything, she approached him from behind and leaned into his ear. “I hope you didn’t just bring me here for sex at the lake.”

She jumped when he suddenly turned around and had a giant uncharacteristic beam on his face.

“It wasn’t about the lake.” He said with his smile.

“Then what...?” she started but never finished.

“Come with me.” His smile disappeared and he got up and walked in a seemingly random direction. She hesitated, but followed.

They walked for a while, the leaves and trees seeming to wrap around them as the forest got thicker and denser. The black slowly swallowed them, and Syntax began to become uneasy after ten or so minutes.

“Uhh, Bats?”

“We’re here.”

Syntax entered the clearing that Royal walked through, and was confused to no longer feel grass tickle her legs. It was... terraformed? Far from the beaten path, Royal had made a home for himself. A large hollowed out tree with giant leaves taken from the local flora made a sort of makeshift shelter, and a stray log and a pile of very soft looking dry leaves looked like places to comfortably sit at. “Welcome to my humble abode.” Royal kicked a few leaves aside. “Emphasis on ‘humble’.”

“Royal..” she breathed, looking inside the shelter. “You live here?”

“Not really,” he admitted. “I usually just sleep wherever. This a ‘base’ of sorts when I can’t find any shelter or food.”

“Celestia...” She exhaled in shock. “I... I believed you when you said you lived out in the wilderness but I guess I never really understood until now.”

“Well, I didn’t bring you all the way out here to show you this.” He nodded towards another path opposite the way they came in. She walked alongside him as they approached another clearing.

There was a row of around six mounds stretching about ten steps each in the center of the clearing, with small green sprouts, trees, and branches emerging every two steps. Some of them had pitiful little fruits hanging from them, nowhere near ripe. Syntax blinked.

“You have a garden,” she said aloud, not really believing it.

“Yes. I told you as much.” He approached a large rusted and beaten pot and slung it over his shoulder. He walked up to his garden and very carefully started to water the crops, adding only a practiced amount to them. “It was very difficult figuring this out on my own.”

“How did you even...?” She got up to his side and awaited his answer.

“Had a gardening book for children. I lost it a while ago. It used very basic language and obviously didn’t get into detailed instructions, but i figured out what I could.” He shrugged. “I’ve only been able to be consistent with my performance since around two years ago. It’s a lifesaver sometimes.”

“I’ll bet.” She looked around and furrowed her brow. “Is this the reason you brought me out here?”

“Yes.” He bit his cheek. “Well, half. Here.” He motioned towards a branch that was sticking out of the ground. “You know what this is?”

“A... branch?” she guessed, shrugging.

“It’s a vine. Not a branch,” he explained. “A tomato vine.”

Instantly her face became red. She couldn’t figure out why her reaction was so extreme, but alas, there she was. “Oh.”

“They’re yours, if you want them.” He looked at her, with his usual blank stare. Except... maybe it wasn’t blank. Maybe it was sincere. There was a small difference between this face and the one he used when he teased her. “I’ll grow them for you.”

She cleared her throat, and her voice cracked and whispered as she did so. Her heart was in her throat. “Yeah? That... that’d be nice.”

He smirked at her, and walked away from the garden, dropping the rusted pot and collapsing onto his back. Syntax blinked a few times from the sudden change in temperament. After staring at him for a few seconds, she approached him and sat down next to him. He was staring at the moon.

“You uhh, alright?”

After a few seconds, he nodded sagely. “Yes, Miss Syntax. Sorry. I’ve been exhausted recently. I’m usually not up during the day, until we started our interviews.”

“Right, you’re nocturnal,” she stated, remembering back to the biology session. She looked over him, completely sprawled out like a tuckered out colt. “You look silly.”

“I’m a silly guy,” he quipped.

“You’re like, the antithesis of a silly guy.”

“Antithesis? Never heard of that word.” He hummed, and licked his lips. “Root word is thesis. An idea that desires to be proven. Anti-thesis...?”

“Well, what would the context suggest?” she helped out, folding her legs in and laying on her side, facing Royal.

“The opposite,” he answered immediately. “But such a fancy word can’t have such a drab meaning.”

“Well it does.” She drew in the ground with her hoof. “Something complex and graceful on the surface could be blunt and simple in the center.” She stared at the side of his head. “And something plain and primitive on the surface can be beautiful and wonderful in the center.”

He looked at her with one eye, not facing away from the moon, and arched the brow of the eye looking at her. “That was random. Any hidden meaning behind all that?”

She leaned on her elbow and stretched her lower body out. She smugly smiled, her sultry side showing. “I don’t know. If anyone could find out it's you.”

His brow furrowed, and he looked back up at the moon. Syntax followed his lead and faced the moon as well. “Maybe I could,” he commented. The sky was remarkably clear this night, only a few clouds in sight, and the moon seemed... bigger than usual? Syntax never really took notice before, so she really couldn’t tell. “Miss Syntax?” he asked

“Hmm?”

“You think I could watch a movie ever?”

“Probably eventually. Maybe not soon. Maybe you could get a projector when becomes more common.”

“Miss Syntax?” he repeated

“Hmm?”

“Would you watch a movie with me?”

“Uhh... yeah?” she reluctantly agreed. “Why not?”

“I want to watch a movie with you. Maybe the first movie I watch.”

Syntax felt that familiar energy course through her body. “...Sure. But, why not Sketch or Trust?”

“I don’t know. Sketch is a great colt, and Trust is such a free spirit. But something about you, I’d rather have with me.” He laughed. “You’ve got something even Sketch doesn’t have. You make it easier to talk. I suppose that’s your job.”

“It is,” she agreed. “Hey, how did you find out where I live?”


“I had Trust look for you since she knew her way around town. She called you her ‘project’. Once she tracked you down, she just told me where you were.”

“Funny.” Syntax’s eyes were growing heavy. She decided she should start moving before her eyes got too heavy to walk back to her home. “All right. This was fun, Bats, but I got to get going home.”

He turned away. “Is that right?”

“That’s right.” As she got up and brushed herself off, she began to remember the events of the skytram incident. She imagined how her feelings might of changed if Royal was the one to save her off of the falling tram instead of Trust. Would it have been easier to do all of this, or harder? No matter how sure of herself she was as a reporter, it was clear that her personal attitude was still an enigma to even herself. Especially herself. Hell, Sketch knew more about her than she did.

Speaking of the tram, though... “Walk a girl home?”

He got up and slowly walked towards her. He nodded, face blank. Face sincere.

“Alright.”

It wasn’t long before they were passing by that lake once again. She gave one, longing look at it. There were memories here. Pleasant ones. Painful ones. She wished what she had told Sketch was a complete lie, about her history with the lake, but reality had other things to say. They got back to the tram landing, which was already up and running like new. It was too late for anypony to be using it, so Royal remained at her side the whole way. They got to the crash site, the tram cleaned up but the broken tree still sitting splintered. She looked up at the misshapen tree, remembering the terrifying moments spent hanging from Sketch’s hooves. She had really been prepared to die that night.

She looked towards Royal, who seemed to reminiscing as well.

Maybe it would have been better for everyone if she had...

“Ouch!” Syntax retracted her hoof from the sudden pain she felt. It seemed she stepped on something bulky. She looked down and saw... “Is this Sketch’s drawing pad?”

“Really?” Royal asked from behind.

“Yeah. He had this on the night of the incident. He must have forgotten about it as it fell from the tram.” She picked it up and began flipping through it.

“I don’t think he’d like you going through it...”

“Oh hush, I know you’d want to see it too.” After flipping through high quality but otherwise unremarkable sketches, she slowed down once she got to the good stuff. Sketches of Trust in various poses, each getting more suggestive than the last. He really hadn’t been lying that there were sketches of his marefriend in here. “Ooh la la.”

Royal’s ears had perked up, and when Trust’s semi-erotic positions became impossible to explain away as innocent poses, he turned away for sake of modesty.

“Wow, some of these are like three lines away from being super nasty.” She snickered, going through the last few pages.

“Miss Syntax, please.” Royal actually started to sound flustered. “This is invasive.”

“Oh nonsense. None of these are actually explicit.” She widened her eyes once she got to a certain page. “Hey, look, there’s you!”

He didn’t bother looking particularly hard. “Yes I know. I modeled for it.”

“Sketchy knows how to model ponies,” she complimented. “Hmm. You look really good in this.”

“A photo would have been easier.”

“Still on that?” she laughed. “You know, there’s some merit to-” Syntax dropped the pad and gasped in abject astonishment when she saw something she had passed over before. “Oh Celestia.”

Royal placed a hoof on her shoulder. “You alright?”

“This is me,” she said. “This is...”

He looked at the drawing pad on the ground, opened to a page of a close-up of Syntax’s face, beaming a heartfelt smile. Not one of her usual smug smiles, or sultry ones, but an innocent, warm smile. It was a simple piece, but in some bizarre way, it didn’t look like Syntax at all.

She was smiling with no mask. No pretense. No scheming. No plans.

It was a smile she hadn’t worn for at least a decade, and it had caught her off guard. “Why would he draw this?”

“He likes you?” Royal offered. “Sketch likes everyone.”

“No, but I mean...” She trailed off, unsure of how to finish. “I just... don’t look like this.”

“Maybe that’s the way he sees you.” Royal picked up the drawing pad to take a closer look. “Maybe it’s the way he wants to see you.”

“Well he isn’t going to anytime soon.” Her legs were weak, and she felt another churning in her stomach. Looking at herself like this made her sick. It was an idealistic lie; she could never look like this no matter how hard she tried.

“It’s good,” he confided. “But it’s missing something.”

Syntax arched her brow and turned towards Royal. Why? This was her ideal look.

He suddenly smushed his hoof up against her face, and she waved her hooves in front of her at a pathetic attempt at self defense. “What the hell?!”

When she regained her hoofing, she snarled at Royal, who was measurably clearer than he usually was, which was an odd adjective to describe him as. “What the-” she reached towards her face and felt her thick-rimmed glasses sitting proudly on her face. She immediately began to blush. “When did...?”

“I saw them on the counter when we were leaving. I snatched them before we exited.”

“Why?” she asked, puzzled.

“These help you see better, correct?” He didn’t allow her to answer before he continued. “They’re a part of you. I wanted to see what you’d like with them on.”

“They’re not a part of me,” she angrily corrected. She wiped the glasses off of her and bit her lower lip. He frowned in response.

“A shame. I thought they looked great on you.” He instantly walked away after that, motioning her to follow. She furrowed her brow and looked at the glasses in her hooves. Well she didn’t have a bag on her, and she wasn’t going to risk damaging them by carrying them with Sketch’s drawing pad, so she reluctantly placed them back on her face. She could probably put them on her mane like a headband, but she stopped caring at that point. She eyed Royal at the back of his head as she caught up. She couldn’t read him like everypony else. But she didn’t need to. His motivations and morals were clear.

He glanced back at her, noticed she was wearing the glasses again, and faced forward, not saying a word. After quite a few steps of silence, Syntax was once again the one to break it. “You mentioned music.”

He looked at her and arched his brow in reply.

“I thought it was a little odd. When you were asking about my tape recorder, you asked about music. When you were asking about sound in films, you mentioned music. I gather it’s something you care about.”

“Hmmph,” he grunted. “Yes. I like music. If we’re talking about preferences.”

She really should have her tape recorder here but... well it doesn’t matter.  “Oh yeah? What kind?”

“All kinds. Haven’t heard a lot music. Savor it every chance I get. I don’t know a lot about genres other than they exist.”

“Okay.” She shrugged. “What’s your favorite?”

“Well, I only know one.” He shook his head. “Everything else was just fleeting sound drifting along the wind. I heard one song over and over again at the college, one of... her favorite songs. She listened to it enough that I memorized the lyrics.” 

“Oh,” she replied sadly. “If you don’t want to talk about it...”

“...No it’s fine. It’s a good memory.” He sighed. “Scarborough Fair.”

“Scarborough Fair?” She tapped her chin. “I think I know that song. Old folk song, right?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know. I just know the lyrics.”

“Sing ‘em.”

It was his turn to blink in confusion. “Excuse me?”

“Sing the song.” She began elbowing him in the ribs, and he tensed up, unsure how to react. “C’mon. No one’s around, it’s just me an’ you.”

“I...” He looked away and cleared his throat. “I’ve sang even less than I have spoken.”

“So? You’ve got a good natural voice, your singing can’t be terrible.”

He just stared at her for a few seconds, looked at the ground, and closed his eyes.

He started quietly at first. After a few whispers to himself, he slowly began. 
“Are you going to Scarborough Fair?” His voice was a slight wheeze, as his tones barely scraped the atmosphere around him. The smile Syntax wasn’t aware she was wearing slowly melted away as Royal’s honestly astounding deep, milky voice graced her ears.

His second verse was more confident. “Parsley, Sage, Rosemary, and Thyme...” When he sang the word ‘thyme’, he vocalized the word in an exaggerated manner, sprinkling flavor on it in an extremely pleasant way. 

“Remember meeee.... To the one who lives there.

“Who once was a true love of mine.


“Tell her to make me a cambric shirt
“Parsley, Sage, Rosemary, and Time.
“Without no seams or needlework
“Then she’ll be a true love of mine.”

He opened his eyes and panickedly glanced towards Syntax. “Yeah that’s... it.”

“No, no no, keep singing.” She put a supportive hoof on his shoulder. He looked up, with his ears perking. “You’re really good at it.”

He looked away and kicked his hoof, his half lidded gaze more sad than usual. When he didn’t reply, Syntax chuckled. “Listen, I’ll sing the next part.”

“Tell him to buy me an acre of land,” she picked up, shutting her eyes and countering Royal’s more bass tones with a higher pitched melody. Her pipes were no slouch, but a professional she was not, definitely not as good as Royal. His eyes shot open in astonishment as she continued.

“Parsely, Sage, Rosemary, and Thyme.

“Between the salt water and the trees there,

“Then he’ll be a true love of mine...” As she finished, she grinned wildly and jerked her head towards Royal. He stammered (for the first time in a while, if not ever) and went back on track in his head as he looked around for solutions to a problem that wasn’t there.

“T-tell her to reap it with a sickle of leather

“Parsley, Sage, Rosemary, and Thyme.” Just when Royal was regaining his confidence, Syntax hooked her leg around his neck and rose the other to the sky, beaming to the moon and dueting with the batstallion in unison.

”And gather it all in a bunch of heather!

“Then!”

“She’ll be~!”

“He’ll be~!”

“A~ True~ Love~ of miiiiiiiiiine~!” They both broke down in laughter, collapsing onto each other, taking hysterical breaths. Royal wiped a tear away, giggling.

“I don’t know why you went for the big duet finish, there was one more chorus before the end of the song.” His voice was a higher pitch on account of all the laughter, and he had to clear his throat to correct it. That familiar energy shot through Syntax, but it was clearer this time, and traveled through her body easier, like a gas instead of a liquid.

“Hahaha! We’re idiots,” she said under her breath. They cleared their throats and sighed, and looked at each other in the eye for a few seconds. Syntax hmmed and smirked. “You should laugh more often. You wear it well.”

“I’ll laugh more if you wear those glasses and wash the dye out your hair.”

“Oh, that’s good. You’re good at that.” She unhooked her foreleg and exhaled. “Maybe I’ll take you up on that.”

They started walking again, with a notable pep to their stride now. Despite the energy, she felt herself yawn and a tear fall down her cheek.

“Tired?” Royal asked.

“Yeah. Always.” She rubbed her shoulders.

“Well, now you just sound like Sketch.”

“Oh no, that’s terrible,” she deadpanned with a nasal drone. “Sketch has trouble sleeping, doesn’t he?”

“Trust said he has insomnia,” he confided.

“Thought as much.”

“Do you have that too?”

“I wish I had a medical condition to excuse it.” She shook her head. “No. It’s just hard to sleep sometimes.”

“This is going to sound asinine, but...” He pursed his lips. “Anything I can do to help?”

Yes, absolutely, the trashy ‘romance’ novel in her mind said. Aloud, she sighed. “No, Royal. That’s sweet, but it’s not that easy.”

“Well, it should be.” He looked towards the sky again. “Life should be easy.”

Syntax grunted but didn’t say anything. Did what he say count as idealism? Saying that life should be ideal? She yawned again.

“It’s going to take a while to get back up there,” Royal pointed out.

Yawning, under her breath, she nodded. “I know.”

“I know a faster way up,” he said.

“I’m not taking the TRAM!” Syntax yelped when she suddenly felt her body being lifted up. “What are you doing, put me down!” She was already in the air when she voiced her protests. His forelegs were draped around her chest, leaving her lower body hanging. He stopped ascending when she complained.

“What’s wrong?”

“Don’t, I’m...” She squeezed her eyes shut, but that made her fear worse. “I’m afraid of heights!”

“Oh?” Royal began to manipulate her in the air and she squeaked with every ounce of pressure involved in making her flip around so she faced Royal. His face and hair silhouetted itself behind the moon. He was smirking whilst looking down at her. His chest was pressed up against hers and she lost the ability to speak. “Then don’t look down,” he said. She felt all of her organs nearly leave her body behind as they suddenly took to the skies. She screamed, wrapped her forelegs around his waist, and squeezed.

“Nonononononono! J-just put me down, I don’t- this is-!”

“Shh.” He flatly commanded. For some reason she obeyed, not really able to think clearly. She pressed her face against his chest, tears soaking into his fur. “Just focus on something else. Stop thinking. Try to feel.”

“I-I...” She shut her eyes even harder, and pressed her face up against his chest even harder, to the point where it became difficult to breathe. She tried to think of pleasant things. That was very limited in her line of work, and what she could think of was being threatened by her own ambitions. She tried to think of mundane things, but the second she felt the flap of Royal’s wings when he climbed in altitude, she went straight back to panicking.

She thought back to what he said.

ba-thump

Don’t think. Feel.

ba-thump

She focused on that sound.

ba-thump

And she began to count the beats. She concentrated on syncing her breathing to the beats.

ba-thump

Inhale, exhale

There were sudden vibrations in his chest, the feeling of speech. “Are you doing alright?”

“Mhmm,” she mumbled into his chest. “Don’t talk.”

There was a brief silence, followed by a single-heave chuckle. “Okay.”

Eventually, after a few minutes of counting pulses, she braved to catch a glimpse of the outside. She dare not attempt to look at the ground, but was content and watching the clouds pass by. Her eyes were unpleasantly crusty from the few fear-tears she had shed, so she blinked away the moisture as best as she could. When that proved unfruitful, she instead smothered her face against Royal’s chest to clean her eyes. She could have sworn the consistent beat of his heart skipped a little as she did. She separated again, more comfortable now, and looked around. They must have been high up, as the air was thin and cold, but all of her fear had been left behind. Her fear of heights was irrational, so there was no hope for a cure. But a method of coping was nice. She looked up, and awkwardly met Royal’s eyes. They both turned away as fast as possible. “H-hey, watch where you’re going.”

“Yes, Miss Syntax.”

She felt blood rush to her cheeks. Normally that wouldn’t get her so flustered, but something about him being pressed up so hard against her on top that made the situation just a little bit more scandalous.

“Flying’s nice I guess.”

“Yes?” he replied in rhetoric.

“Yeah, maybe when all this blows over I’ll hire you as my chauffeur.” She chuckled weakly. “It’d be really useful for my work.”

“What would you pay me in?” he quipped. “Tomatoes?”

“Hey, it’s more likely than you think.” She hummed in thought. “You have a point though. Not like you could use money... and I’m an average cook at best.” She began to make the motions of tapping her chin, but realized her lack of available motor control in her current position. “Room and board?”

“What like, I live with you?” There was that same heart beat skip. She was just going to pretend it didn’t happen.

“Easy, there, tiger. Maybe I’d just pay for a cheap apartment.” She winked. “Maybe not.”

He smirked and transferred his attention back to the skies. “I’ll think about it. We’re here.”

Syntax yipped as he flipped her back over, and they were low enough to the ground for her not to be afraid. They touched down gently onto the roof of her apartment, and Royal landed in front of her whilst rotating mid-air. “I suppose this is it.”

“Until tomorrow,” she assured.

“Yes.” He looked around, and grunted. “You know, you messed up a verse of Scarborough Fair.”

“What?” That was random. “Which one?”

“You said, ‘and the trees there’. It’s supposed to be ‘and the sea strand’. It rhymes with land.” He scratched his mane. “I don’t really care, but I don’t think I should leave without saying.”

She chuckled. “Weird note to leave off of.”

“Eh,” he dismissed. “We’re weird ponies.”

“I agree,” she agreed. They stared at each other for a few seconds, before Syntax coughed into her hoof.

“I guess I should get going.”

Everything in her body told her to say ‘no’. They could talk more. Do more interviews, maybe grab a bite to eat. But the day had ended. This artificial friendship was over for the night. Why did it feel so real?

“I guess you should.”



Syntax poured a glass of whisky for herself. She looked at the second glass she had pulled out by habit, and frowned. The company was nice. It would be nicer if he didn’t have to leave.

There was an obvious solution to this problem, and that’s why she had resorted to the drink. She was slowly finding less and less reasons to not allow it. Or maybe she had less and less will to look for excuses.

Oh no he’s a bat! Who the fuck cares? Sketch doesn’t. Why would she?

She took a swig.

She can’t sleep with him because it would be unethical. She was going to ruin his life. Except he didn’t have a life to ruin unlike Sketch and Trust. He was isolated from society and probably won’t care that society is against him.

She can’t sleep with him because they’re just friends! A weak excuse used in the basest of novels.

She can’t sleep with him because they barely knew each other! It’s only been about a week! Except They’ve been doing hours long interviews and hanging out for hours afterwards, which was much longer than a normal pony’s dates, and it didn’t take much for a couple to sleep together.

She can’t sleep with him because she doesn’t care about him that way! She doesn’t want to lead him on just because he’s attractive! That’s cruel! Except...

Well it’s never stopped her before.

What was she doing? She had this happen before: Interview a hot guy and totally go head over hooves for them. Was she really that weak? Or had Sketch really chipped that much away from her defenses? If she didn’t know any better, she’d suspect they’d planned this.

She took another swig.

She kept hoping that when she turned around, she’d see Royal standing behind her.

Of course if it really happened, she’d probably jump out of her skin.

She took another swig.

Maybe she’d be able to sleep tonight... but something told her she’d be a bit restless.
> 16. Died Alone - Not One Cared
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

“A best friend is the only one that walks into your life when the world has walked out.”
Shannon L. Alder

Waking up next to Trust was something that Sketch could get used to. The vigor shooting through him was something he had never experienced before. The repeated advice from older ponies that he had heard throughout his life coalesced into a single ‘I told you so’ that made him want to vomit. He never really put any value in the whole ‘love changes you’ and ‘oh you don’t know what things love makes you do’ until right now, and he felt really silly for that fact.

He looked over Trust, who was still asleep in the bed, softly exhaling into the soft covers. Well, maybe ‘still asleep’ was the wrong term to use. She probably went to bed after staying up all night and watching him sleep. That’s a unique issue, but a small one. Nocturnal... is it weird that he preferred it this way? Doesn’t matter. Not anymore.

He probably should have brought his bag with him, since now he had to go to school without it, but he wasn’t particularly concerned. Though, it seemed that his musings were loud enough to be heard, since Trust sharply inhaled and began stretching. “Sketch? Wheres ya goin’?” she mumbled, still half-asleep.

“School,” he droned, looking for something he could do to get ready, but coming up flat. “It’s going to be fun with none of my stuff.”

“Oh, okerrr...” she slurred into the pillow. “Have fun Sketchy...”

“I’ll try,” he replied with a half-smile. “L... love you.”

“Love- gah!” Trust suddenly jerked to the side and began fishing underneath her own body. “What the-” She pulled out a white feather and ogled it curiously. “Dammit, Haren.”

Sketch chuckled and folded his forelegs. “She’s still finding a way to bug us.”

“I forgot this was her bed.” She rested her hoof on her forehead like a damsel in distress. “Now I feel like I need a bath.”

“Why? Haren’s not a dirty person.” He thought for a second, and pursed his lips. “Well, not in the traditional sense.”

“Exactly why I feel like I need a bath.” She smirked at him uneasily. “No telling what she did on here before we got here.”

Sketch felt his face getting hotter. “I’d perfer not to think about it.“

“Oh you’re such a liar Sketch,” she teased, snickering loosely. “Maybe we should ask her if she could show us.

He was faintly certain the red on his face reached his neck. “A-alright I gotta go.”

He heard her laughter fade out as he got further from the bedroom. The urge to get their own place grew with every shambling step.



Sketch counted the cracks in the sidewalk as he trotted down the path. He didn’t realize how weighed down he was before yesterday, and now that it was lifted, he felt like he could breathe again. The tapestry of lies had fallen apart, and sunlight finally found its way into the room. Now there was only the problem of the curtain on the opposite side; his dad. Wishful thinking had him wondering if his dad would actually take the whole thing better than his mom, with him being more proud that he finally got a girlfriend rather than be concerned with her species. Then again, his weird way of handling Haren proved otherwise.

There was no way to go about this cleanly. At least, not a way that he could see. A part of his brain entertained the idea of tying his dad up and forcing him to accept Trust, but that would never work... would it?

No Sketch, whether or not it would work has nothing to do with it. It’s just immoral.

As he rounded the corner of a building, he felt a tap on his shoulder.

“Watch where you’re goin’, kid.” a familiar voice advised. Classy and casual, friendly and professional.

Syntax. Now, he associated the name with less dread. Odd, though, her mane was a different color. Probably why he didn’t notice her before. “Syntax! You look different. Brown hair.”

“Don’t you think brunettes look smarter?” she asked without an ounce of sincerity. “This is the natural color.”

“Oh, really? You dye your hair?”

“Yeah, but a recent job needs this color.” She shrugged. “I prefer the beige.”

“So do I, to be honest,” he coughed into his hoof, unsure if that was insulting thing to say. “But the brown looks good.”

“Yeah,” she said aside, dismissively. “A stallion I’m interviewing said he prefered his mares natural, though, so I gotta do it.”

They had started walking together at some point, their destinations in the same direction. “I didn’t take you one for doing what someone else wants.”

“Special occasion,” she mentioned flatly. It seemed like she was having trouble maintaining eye contact. Maybe she didn’t believe herself? She had this distant and emotionless smile fakely plastered on her face, like it was an involuntary response that she felt she needed.

“So who are you interviewing?”

“Confidential,” she replied flatly once again. “Doesn’t matter anyways, it’s a done deal.”

“Is that so?” he asked rhetorically. He looked down at his hooves before facing her again. “Where are you going now, then?”

She faced him suddenly, and Sketch almost jumped out of his skin when he saw her blank, tired expression. It was so unbecoming of her, it made him a little uneasy. She stayed like that for a while, as if contemplating whether or not she could tell him. After a measurable pause, she finally nodded to herself. “The CPD.”

“The Canterlot Police Department?” he asked, recognizing the acronym.

“Yup. Got somepony I’m looking into.” She bit her cheek, and grew a devious smile after pausing for a thought. “Actually, you mind tagging along? I could use your help.”

“Why?” he asked, neither saying yes or no.

“You’re a kid. I’mma use you for sympathy.” She laughed. “You’re actually the perfect age for this gambit.”

He rose his brow. “We’re not doing anything illegal, are we?”

“No, no, no. I never break the law.” She closed her eyes and stuck her nose in the air, before slowly opening one to look down at Sketch snidely. “Most of the time.”

Sketch puffed his cheeks out.

She laughed, elbowing Sketch as they walked. “Just kiddin’, Sketchy. Nothing shady.”

He grumbled, and looked away. “I dunno. I gotta get to school.”

She bit her bottom lip with her top row of teeth to stop her from smiling too much. “Oh don’t worry, I can take care of that. C’mon, you might learn something.”

“Hrmm...” He tapped his chin and sighed. “Alright fine. This better be quick.”

“Don’t rush me.”



Sketch was assaulted with the smell of wet dirt as he entered the police station. A confusingly refreshing and oddly relaxing smell. Before he could question it, Syntax whispered into his ear.

“Just follow my lead, Sketchy, and don’t talk too much.” She coolly sauntered her way to the front desk directly ahead of the glass door that they entered. There was a small lanky stallion sitting there, lazily playing with a pen, daydreaming away. When Syntax rammed her hoof on the table to wake him up, he still had a bit of a delay as he slowly realized who was standing in front of him.

“S-Syntax?! What are youse doin’ here?” He shiftily looked to the left and right to see if anyone was watching him. “Are we unda review again?!”

“Not yet,” she sang, smirking. “Chill. I just need some info.”

“Oh,” he breathed, smiling weakly and putting a hoof over his heart. “Okay. Okay, I can do’s that. Whatcha need, hotshot?”

“I need a case file,” she replied flatly. The bright face the desk pony wore fell immediately.

“You fookin’ kiddin’ me, hotshot?! I don’t owe ya’s any mo’ favahs, I can’t jus’ do that! Boss would have mah head!” The desk pony with the weird accent slammed his hooves down in front of Syntax’s to punctuate his shouting.

“Don’t give me that, Flat Hoof. We both know that closed case files are public domain if the victims and perpatrators aren’t under any sort of protection. What I’m asking isn’t against the law.” Syntax steeled herself and glowered at him, not budging over his intimidation tactics.

“Dun matter. It’s still against policy, even if aquisition is legal.” He scoweled back. “And I can still git fired fah it.”

She sighed, turned away, and put on a puppy dog mask. “Please, Flat Hoof. I’m doing this for the poor kid here.”

Sketch, who had been kind of zoning out at this point and narrating Syntax’s adventure in his head, uttered the poetic brilliance he had stored in his head. “Buh.”

Flat Hoof looked back and forth from Syntax and Sketch with a dumb inquisitiveness. “You what? What’re you talkin’ bout?”

“I need you to find a case file about a suicide. Filly at the OCC, an equish professor.”

Sketch swallowed with a dry mouth, his blood running cold at the mention of suicide. He blinked a few times, wracking his brain on who this mare was and why Syntax needs the info.

“Suicide?” Flat Hoof darkly mused, looking away. “Why would ya need somethin’ like that?”

Syntax’s face grew dark, but unlike her other looks, this one didn’t seem like a mask. “The boy here, Sketch? We think it’s his mother. He was orphaned at a young age, and we’ve been following lead after lead.”

Flat Hoof looked at her for a long time, an uncertain and unreasonably hostile scowl gracing his features. “I... you... Ya expect me to believe that, Hotshot? I ain’t gonna let ya’s play me again! Why would ya’s suddenly be doin’ the part of a P.I.?”

“Because!” Sketch shouted suddenly, both parties suddenly facing him in astonishment. “Because... Syntax is a close friend of my mom. My uh... mother through adoption, I guess... I just found out a few days ago.... Anyway, they go way back, but lost touch over the years.” He walked up beside her and put on the best puppy dog look he could muster. Syntax at some point began to smile at him. “She offered to look for my real mom as a way of patching things up.”

Flat Hoof was slack-jawed as the feeling of being a terrible person began to boil through him.

Syntax didn’t skip a beat. “See, Flat? Just trying to get some closure for the kid. Don’t stand in the way of that...”

Flat Hoof gritted his teeth and began to sweat, hiding behind one of his forelegs as he leaned on his desk. “I... uh...”

“I’ll even give it back in an hour, promise.” She put a hoof to her heart to show sincerity. It seemed that was the tipping point, as Flat Hoof deflated, almost directly correlating with his side of the argument.

“Alright, alright, yeesh. Prolly wouldn’t git fired anyhow.” He got off of his seat at the desk and mumbled to himself, but loud enough for the others to see it. “Betta not see this shit in the papahs. Wait here.”

When he vacated the area, Syntax softly chuckled in Sketch’s ear. “Nice going,” she whispered.

“Well, if you’ve been doing it enough,” he whispered back.

“Lying? Yeah.” She chuckled, poking his ribs softly. “It doesn’t sound good coming out of you, ya know.”

“I’ll tell the truth when it matters,” he shot back.

“You’re gonna keep telling yourself that, but it never works. Trust me.” Abruptly she grabbed Sketch’s cheek and smushed his face into her chest. She held him there as she rested her chin on his head in a sideways hug. “Do everypony a favor and stay yourself.” When she released him, he nearly fell on his ass from the shock.

Before he could voice his confusion, Flat Hoof returned. “Alright, lucky you, there was only one suicide investigated at Outer Canterlot College. Have fun or whatevah.” He slid the manilla folder across the desk and onto the floor, or it would have been on the floor if Sketch hadn’t caught it with his magic. Syntax genuinely smiled and nodded. “Thank you, Flat.”

“I would say ‘your welcome’ if ya’s weren’t the one who put me behind the desk,” he deadpanned, unamused.

“Oh come on, Flat. Don’t say you didn’t have fun with me,” she teased back as she approached the front door. When Syntax turned around to leave, Sketch saw Flat’s mouth twitch with a ghost of a smirk, whilst shutting his eyes and shaking his head.

“What a bitch...” he laughed under his breath as they left.

Upon exiting the police department, Syntax sought out a bench, and Sketch followed close behind. “Uhh,” Sketch stammered. “That guy called you a bitch.”

“I heard,” Syntax confirmed as she sat down and opened the folder. “Don’t worry, we go way back.”

“He a friend?” Sketch asked as he took a seat next to her.

This actually made Syntax pause. After a long while, she sighed. “Normally I would say ‘no’, but...” She shook the folder in her hooves as if it held all the answers. “I dunno. Maybe I’d want it to be that way.”

Syntax stared at the file and Sketch stared at Syntax. For a long time, the only sounds made were the birds in the air.

“What changed?” Sketch suddenly asked.

She opened the file, as if it had all the answers.

Hell, maybe it did.

“You changed me,” she commented with a mirthless laugh. “Now shut up. I need to concentrate.”

Sketch peeked over the file as Syntax read.

Summative Report as written by Investigator Scrutiny

Equish professor Karia Thortan was found dead at 6:35 AM in her place of residence, hanging from the ceiling by noose, on a bar that stuck out of a damaged roof. The one who found her body was aquaintance and landlord Cherry Tree, who promptly vomited outside the door, having never seen a dead body before. A quick look around the apartment made it clear that we weren’t looking at a crime scene, and the department made quick work for a cleanup. There was no suicide note recovered, but after questioning multiple acquaintances and investigating local records, we can safely deduce that the declining economic situation of the college and her place of employment, coupled with the subsequent layoff that ensued, resulted in her deteriorating mental state and suicide. We sent out officers to inform the friends and family of the deceased, but after a veritable effort, they could not find any. The company involved--

Sketch was shook out of his reading by a sudden tear hitting the paper. He reared his head, sure that it couldn’t have come from Syntax. But, lo and behold, she was there, her face contorted in an odd mix of fear and anger. Drool nearly dropped out of her gritted teeth, but she inhaled sharply enough to prevent it from happening. Unfortunately, she couldn’t stop the tears falling down her face. One by one they dropped, at a steadier and steadier rate, ruining the pages below. Noticing that she was inadvertently destroying the file, she quickly closed it and set it aside. She brought her hoof to her eyes and covered them, sobbing softly.

“S... Syn... Syntax...?” Sketch was a complete loss for words, uncomfortable he was suddenly seeing her in such a vulnerable state. “Are...”

“Fuck,” she cursed flatly, wiping her eyes violently. “She died alone and nopony cared.”

“Syntax...” he repeated, attempting to console her, poorly. Except that it was somehow working.

She was shaking and cradling herself, but at least she had stopped her sobbing. This was odd. Syntax was a journalist, and an iron headed one at that. He never thought she’d be so shaken by a sob story. Hell, Sketch considered himself to be a sensitive guy, and all the story did was make a little lump in his throat. Syntax never would have shown so much ‘weakness’. Maybe there was something more to this... maybe she knew the teacher?

“She was so close to finding somepony... all she had to do was look. All she had to do was wait...”  She sniffed, rubbing her eyes once more. “Dammit.”

“Syn-” Sketch tried his patented repeating someone’s name consoling method, but was stopped by a mass of mare collapsing into him. She held him close, squeezing him tighter when he didn’t think possible, and sobbed into his ear. “Tax...”

“I don’t deserve this,” she choked, tears streaming down her face. “I don’t deserve hi-... I don’t deserve you. She... She did. Karia did. Why couldn’t she have all this? I wasn’t going to kill myself. I was going to ruin more lives, stir up more trouble, and I was going to fucking love doing it. But she just wanted to teach. So why couldn’t she have the support?” Syntax opened her mouth and screamed into Sketch’s neck, muffling her words slightly. “I didn’t ask for this! I didn’t ask for friends! For support! So why can’t you just give it to someone else? Someone who deserves it!”

Sketch looked around and saw ponies staring, and some who turned away once they noticed Sketch noticing them. She was making a scene... but that didn’t matter.  He turned back around and ignored the other ponies, holding Syntax in the process.

“Syntax... come on...”

Honestly, he didn’t know what to say. After swathes of motivational monologues spewing from his mouth at every opportunity, after days and weeks of knowing exactly what to say, he was stumped.

There were friends. There was family. There were enemies. There were rivals. And then there was Syntax. An unquantifiable entity, an enigma of a mare, the confusing black hole of society. Sketch had to treat her like a fire, trying to extinguish the flames without fanning them. But then, here he was, hugging them like it wasn’t going to burn him alive.

He knew he had to try. He didn’t know why, though. Just that he knew he had to try. He didn’t know why. He just knew that he had to try. Only that he had to try.

He had to try.

He... had... he had to try.

“You have to try.”

She didn’t reply.

“Doesn’t matter if you don’t deserve it. You don’t get a choice in who chooses to believe in you.” Sketch peeled Syntax off of him and looked her in the eye, which had been distorted with tears. “Yeah, that teacher got dealt a shitty hoof, and that sucks. But you have better cards. Don’t throw them away just because you don’t feel like you deserve it.”

She sniffed and looked away. “Yeah, yeah, whatever.” She got back on her side of the bench and cradled herself again. “Jeez, I’m a mess. Slipping.”

“Slipping?” he asked, arching a brow.

“Nevermind.” She opened the manilla folder again and blew a shaky raspberry to steel herself. “Alright. So... Karia Thortan... That’s not a pony name.”

“Griffin?” Sketch offered, scooting back up to her.

“No,” she denied, shaking her head. “Karia may have been a griffin name but Thortan isn’t. Their native language doesn’t naturally have the ‘th’ phonetic. Like, imagine doing that with a beak.”

“Donkey?”

“Maybe. Why don’t they have a photo of her in here?” She frantically flipped through more pages of superfluous and repetitive reports. “They should have a description at lea- holy shit.”

“Shit what?” Sketch had realized that outside of inspirational speeches his role was delegated to asking stupid questions for a reason he didn’t know for a teacher he never met.

“She was a Zebra. Oh Celestia.” She chuckled darkly. “That changes a lot.”

“Ch... changes? Changes what?” Okay, now Sketch was completely lost. He was hoping he’d get answers for tagging along with her, but it’s only led to more questions.

“Don’t worry about it.” She brought her hoof up to Sketch’s mane and ruffled it. “Thanks for the help, Sketchy.”

“D... Don’t leave me hanging! What’s all this about?!” Sketch hopped up and threw his hooves up. “C’mon!”

“A friend,” she replied flatly, choking up at the last syllable. She covered her mouth as a single tear fell down her cheek, and she smiled. “A friend.”

Sketch sighed, unable to press further because of her tears. He puffed his cheeks out and stepped aside, giving her easier access to the station. Before she entered to return the file, she looked back at him and flashed him a saucy grin. “For what it’s worth, Sketchy.... I hope my story doesn’t completely destroy you.”

“It means more than you think it does,” he replied back, remembering their ‘date’.

“You know... I still don’t think it does...” She tossed her head back and forth. “But it does for you. Maybe that’s all that matters.”

“Yeah... maybe,” he said to a closing door. “Maybe...”

The street seemed emptier with Syntax gone. Looking around, it seemed as though the spectators had all left. Sketch didn’t know what to do with himself, as it felt as though he hadn’t done enough for her. But maybe... it was just because it had already been done, and she was fine. This one time more than any other, he wished Syntax was an easier mare to read.



“Ugh, why does this feel wrong?” Sketch picked up his drawing and scrutinized it once more. A zebra with a wavy, curly mane stemming from a single vertical stripe along her head smiled at the audience in a playful, caring way. Her eyes were large, and ‘blue’ (it was a black and white sketch, but he quickly went over it with a colored pencil), an excellent contrast to her monochrome coat. He hadn’t thought about it before, the the black snout on zebras were really cute, even though they tended to be more masculine shaped. Karia was written in Sketch’s best cursive in the bottom right.

“Zebras now?” Conte suddenly asked from beside Sketch. He had stopped being startled from her appearance, she had done that so often, to the point where he probably wouldn’t jump even if she suddenly appeared in his house. “You’re really broadening your horizons.”

“Well, I wouldn’t call it that,” he solemnly admitted, the subject matter making him uncomfortable. “This girl was a professor at a college who committed suicide a number of years ago.”

“Oh my...” Conte breathed, putting a hoof to her mouth. “Did you know her?”

“I wish I did. Maybe I could have stopped it.” He sighed and pushed the paper away. “I don’t even know what she looked like. I drew this only knowing her name and species.”

“Well, she was a professor, right?” Conte offered shakily. “Maybe... glasses?”

“Glasses?” He picked up his pencil again and started scratching on the paper again. Eventually, after two or so minutes, thick rimmed glasses with a flat top loosely rested on her nose. “Hmm.” It was shocking how much it changed her entire look. Now she looked driven. Determined.

Shit. No wonder Syntax had started crying, the context made this even more sad.... Well, even then, Syntax wasn’t the crying type, but that was neither here nor there.

“Yeah, the glasses fit.” Sketch set the drawing down and glanced outside the window.

“You... okay?” Conté asked sliding her hoof over the counter.

Sketch chuckled, leaning on his hoof with his cheek. “You sound less confident about asking me than usual.”

“Well it feels like your mood had been improving over the last few days,” she replied, chewing on her lip. “But there's still something about you that seems...”

“Uncertain?” he offered. Conté nodded dumbly with an open mouth, surprised that he knew exactly what to say. “Yeah, it's been weird. Not sure what to even feel anymore.”

Conté frowned and craned her head away. “Wish I could help...”

“You've done more than enough.” Sketch coughed into his hoof awkwardly. “Just keep being my friend through the thick of it.”

“Always, Sketchy, always.”



“Did you look through my drawers?”

Sketch nearly spat out his drink in surprise, but thankfully he caught it in his mouth and swallowed it. “What? Pfft, noooo. Who’s ya thinks I ams? A... a... okay yeah, I looked through your drawers.”

Haren guffawed, smiling widely and rolling her eyes. “It's okay, I suppose it's good payback for barging in your room that one time.” Haren bounced her eyebrows up and down. “Besides all the really naughty stuff was on the bottom of the drawer.”

Sketch glowed his usual red hue, although at this juncture he had grown accustomed to it. “Well, I really assumed that's what all the suits were for.” He tapped the armrests while swinging his head back and forth. “Unless you're some kinda secret agent.”

“Nah, man. It was for a job.” She snickered to herself and rolled her eyes. “at least it was supposed to be.

“Come again?” Sketch asked, raising his brow. “I thought you worked for a drugstore?”

“This was way back, Sketch. I wanted to be a teacher.” Haren wistfully shook her head and blew out her nostrils. “The first foreign griffin teacher. Would've been cool, huh?”

Wow. Sketch never would've guessed. Upon playing some scenarios in his head, he smirked. “Well if I had you as a teacher I would've paid a helluva lot more attention.”

“Oh stop, you makin’ me blush,” she playfully sang, putting her talons on her hips. “I would've been great.”

“What happened?” Sketch mused, unable to see her shortcomings.

“Well I actually knocked my interviews outta the park. The association even said so.”

“Then...” Sketch didn't like where this was going. Using the process of elimination, it was obvious why she couldn't succeed.

“But... they said ‘my voice is too intimidating for our growing youth. It is naturally masculine and imposing which may harm the learning environment.’” Haren was exaggerating air quotes with her talons as she spoke, ending her recollection with around six quotes too many for her dialogue.

“That sounds like a hot pile of shit,” he deadpanned, furrowing his brows. “Sounds to me like they just didn't want a-”

“Griffin?” Haren finished quickly, clearly having made the connection herself. “Yeah, more like I was intimidating them.”

“Canterlot, sometimes...” Sketch grumbled off to the side. Haren chuckled at this.

“Yeah, well even they said that my skills could probably land me a job somewhere else, like Ponyville or Manehatten. But I was already too fed up by the discrimination to try. I might’ve tried after I cooled off, but by then-”

“By then you got really thirsty for Anthem,” he teased, bouncing his eyebrows up and down. Haren simply chuckled whilst covering her beak as she always did. Sketch lounged back into the sofa after Haren made no effort to deny. “You're suddenly making a whole lot more sense.”

Haren smiled and looked away, strangely silent. After a couple of seconds she cleared her throat and started to murmur. “Well you know...”

“Know what?”

She cleared her throat again and awkwardly stretched. “Dammit. You know how I hold my beak sometimes?”

“Yeah?” Sketch asked. He assumed it was just a tick, not that there was a legit reason behind her actions.

“I do that ‘cause I hate it.” Haren threw her head back and stared at the ceiling.

“What?” Sketch subconsciously scooted forward in disbelief. “Why?”

“I feel like people... ponies... don't treat me the same because of it. Like... they're afraid it's somehow going to hurt them.” She shuffled in her seat. “I wished I was a mare longer than I can remember. Maybe a unicorn. That'd be cool. Might be weird without wings though.”

“Really? That's surprising. Anthem said he loved the beak.” Of course he left out the lewd angle to it. “And I think it's cute.”

Haren slowly looked back at him, wide-eyed. “Is that right?”

“That’s right.”

“Huh.” She looked somewhere in between flattered and indifferent. “That’s uhh... nice.” Haren tossed her head back and forth. “Shit man, why can't we all just be the same?”

“I think we are, to some degree.” Sketch sighed. “We just... forget.”

We all forget.
> Intermission. Session... 07? 08? I Think It's 07
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

So... is that how it's going to be?

The last few months have been... difficult to say the least. My loyalties have been tested time and time again, and my patience is running thin. I don't know what more I can do... but I still feel like I haven't been doing enough. Boohoo, poor me, I know. But I have a feeling things are going to change.

I just don't know how.



Syntax stared at the image before her. She didn't recognize the mare in the mirror. There were all sorts of excuses she could use why, but at the end of the day, she wouldn't have believed any of them. Different mane style and hair color be damned, the true difference was in her eyes. Wide. Uncertain. Unblinking. Syntax had never been unsure of anything for the past few years, but now...?

Syntax ran a hoof through her mane trailing down her shoulders, her eyes tracking her movement in the mirror. Since when did she forget who she was? When did she remember she forgot? After all the years of wearing masks and speaking with voices that weren't hers... it seems to have taken its toll. She can't remember who she is...

For a moment, a fleeting moment, she could've sworn she saw Royal in the mirror behind her. She inhaled and held her breath as she turned, a slight smile cursing her lips. But as she turned away, the illusion broke, and all she saw was the back of her room. What was it about him? Was it the strong eyes and gentle voice? Was it the innocence and will? Was it something more primal? Or was it something she hadn't noticed yet?

Syntax thought back to... him. What was it about with her old love? He was charming, sure, but it had to be something more than that. It had to be.

Syntax’s thoughts were interrupted by a knock at the door. She need not hesitate, the timing was impeccable. Instantly, she started down the stairs, nearly slipping on the uneven third step and catching herself at the end of the railing. She felt like she earned a few bits with the sexy flourish around the bottom post, and then she stopped right in front of the closed entrance. When reaching for the door, she hesitated for a moment, second guessing her appearance. However, realizing that she was making a point to care less about that because of Royal’s preferences, she steeled herself with a clearing of her throat and threw the door open.

“Bats,” she announced, smiling softly, eyes half-mast.

The batstallion nodded respectfully and did his usual routine. “May I enter?” He froze in the middle of his question. “I... your hair...”

“Absolutely, you can come in,” she cooed, motioning him in with a flick of her head, purposefully ignoring his comment. “Would you like a drink?” she asked, already knowing the answer.

“Please, i-if you would be so kind,” he replied, though she was already pouring him a glass. Whether or not he simply drank the wine to please her, or he actually enjoyed it was irrelevant. They had fun, and Royal looked good with a wine glass in his hooves. 

He seemed a bit slower than usual, probably still processing Syntax’s new look. “So what would be the subject today?” he asked as he sat, taking the wine.

“I... was thinking about this earlier,” she stated earnestly, swishing the wine around her own glass. “I feel as though I know enough about the bat. So how about the pony?”

He subtly bit his cheek as he craned his head. “What do you mean?”

Syntax Axiom (Interviewer): Well Bats, I've been meaning to ask... what are your aspirations? What do you wish to achieve in the long run?

Royal (Batpony Interviewee): Oh. Well. Uhh... I uhh... I have had a craving for a while.

S: A craving?

R: Yes. When I had to... move away... from the college, I felt... empty. Like nothing mattered anymore. I wondered why I kept trying to survive in spite of having no real reason to live. It took me spotting a strange dark mare moving through the city outskirts at the dead of night to realize what the hole in my being was. A craving for kinship. For community. The mare was another batpony, just like me. The prospect of a group of individuals just like me inspired me to no end. I grew an insatiable obsession with the idea of a real family... never really once taking her temperament into consideration. When we finally met, I was so shocked that she didn't see things the way I saw that I began to be unsure of myself. I tripped over my words, and after a small amount of time I figured out that the community I wanted wasn’t going to be in her.

S: What did you do after that? How did you cope?

R: Well there was only one last avenue to pursue.

S: Which was?

R: Children.  

Syntax looked up from her notes with an ounce of incredulousness. “You want kids?” she asked. He seemed like he could maybe be a good father, but circumstances deemed it nigh impossible.

“I... think. Sketch says having kids just to have someone accept you is wrong but... the idea of it is so intoxicating.”

Syntax was thoughtful enough to shut off the tape recorder when Royal brought up Sketch. The ruse involved keeping him out of the story, after all. He’d likely not point out her recording evidence of Sketch’s involvement was suspicious, but Syntax didn’t get this far taking unnecessary risks. Calculated ones, yes. But not necessary.

“Well, then why does one have children? If he’s so knowledgeable, than did he tell you the real reason?” Syntax snickered, rolling her eyes. “You have to remember that Sketch, as smart as he is and how much he tries to convince you otherwise, is a kid himself.”

“I suppose,” he chuckled.

Syntax stared at the ground, fiddling with her recorder and scrunching her brows. “Listen, Royal.”

Royal leaned in.

“I... did something you might... might not like.”

He arched his brow.

“I uh... I looked into that teacher at your college. I thought about trying to find the right time to bring it up, but I don’t think I would have been able to work up the nerve.”

Royal stiffened, his breathing becoming ragged. He was stuck leaning forward, but he managed to avert his gaze and stare at the front door. “Oh.” He inhaled, squinting hard. “What... what did you find.”

“...Do you really want to hear this?” she asked, concern adorning her voice. She didn’t even have to pretend.

“No, I... I want to hear.” He murmured under his breath, words barely audible. “I’m... I’m tired of not knowing.”

“...Okay,” she whispered. “Her... her name was Karia Thortan. She was going to lose her job, and she felt she had no pony else to turn to. So... she made a final decision.”

There was a heavy silence above the room. Never before had quiet been so loud. Royal winced and cringed, cradling himself, his usual stoic gaze hardening and burning a hole in the floor. “I see,” he said as-a-matter-of-fact.

“The college wasn’t doing so hot. It was going to be torn down, or sold. Karia didn’t have... any friends. Nobody.”

Another permeating silence.

Syntax struggled for more to say. For a mare’s death to own more than a couple of sentences... but it was a faded dream. Karia died, and nopony cared. That’s what happens.

“She was a zebra. Did you know that?”

Royal looked up from the floor, eyes wet with tears that refused to fall. “No. She had stripes. Is that all it takes to be a zebra?”

“Pretty much, yeah.” There were some semantics involved, but that was something she didn’t care to talk about right at that moment. “Interesting that she was a teacher so close to Canterlot. She must have been very good.”

“She was,” he confided, his voice still clear and direct despite the obvious turmoil he was in. “She wove tales and recited poetry with the grace and flow of a river.” He gritted his teeth. “I should’ve spoke to her. Maybe a friend would have-”

“No, Bats it wouldn’t,” Syntax cut him off. “If she were at the point that she would take her own life, a single friend wouldn’t have done it. It might’ve helped, sure, but an illness like that can’t be solved with a simple smile and laugh. She needed help.”

“Is that... how that works?”

“Unfortunately.” Syntax swished around the liquid in her glass. “I’ve had more than my fair share of interactions with ponies like that.”

“I see.” Royal’s lack of conversation was unsettling. While he was concise with his language, he often reveled at the chance of interacting. Now it seemed he just wanted to crawl into a hole for a couple of years.

They simply sat and stared at random objects in the room for a few moments, the oppressive silence still weighing on the their shoulders. There was a content in the lack speech, both ponies comforting each other wordlessly.

After a long time, Syntax cleared her throat. “Bats... Royal...”

Royal’s ears shot up at mention of his real name.

“Mm?”

“What’s the plan after this? After everypony knows about you?” Syntax couldn’t be bothered to maintain eye contact, ignoring that it was bad form to lie like that.

Royal shrugged, sighing. “I don’t know. What I’ve always done I guess. Any hope of integrating into a community will be gone.”

“You don’t know that. I’m publishing the truth. Ponies will draw their own conclusions, and those conclusions may be p-positive.” Syntax winced at her own stutter, revealing the fact she didn’t believe herself. Royal must’ve caught it, since he faced away in mild shame. “Maybe you can contribute something, then. So ponies will have to like you.”

To his credit, Royal chuckled, the earnest joke tickling the ice that had surrounded his core. “What, do I become an artist like Sketch? That doesn’t really sound like something that i’d like to do.”

“Or you could be a writer,” Syntax suggested, smile returning to her features. “You’ve shown an interest in stories. Painting pictures isn’t the only art form, ya know.”

“Hm,” he inquisitively responded. “Haha. Maybe. Don’t know how to type, however.”

“I could teach you. It’s easy.” Syntax got up and moved behind the loveseat that Royal was sitting on and wrapped a single foreleg around his neck. “C’mon.”

“Right now?”

“Why not?” Syntax sauntered over to her lone desk in the middle of the room with the shiny well kept typewriter and pulled out the chair with a little flourish. “See how you like it.”

“O...kay.” Royal got up and rushed over to the chair, gently flopping onto it. Syntax tried to push the chair into the desk, struggling against Royal’s surprising weight. She succeeded after Royal subconsciously aided with his wings. Royal reached up below his waist and rested his hooves onto his desk. “Alright... uhh...”

“Just tap the letters. You know how to read, right? Just type whatever comes to mind.”

With trepidation, his hooves approached the keys. There was an idle fear in probably both their heads that Royals unnatural strength would send his hoof straight through the machine. Thankfully, the keys had more resistance than Royal had assumed, and he healthily pressed the ‘i’ key, sending the typebar crashing into the paper with a satisfying click that sent tingles up Syntax’s spine. Syntax reflexively smiled, the years of conditioning that typing gave her making the sounds garner a positive reaction. Royal waited for the levers and reactions to settle in, no doubt trying to figure out how the machine worked. After a few moments, Royal pressed the spacebar, shifting the page an imperceptible amount. He hummed, putting his hoof to his chin, trying to find the key he wanted.

The anticipation started to get to Syntax, causing her to squirm quite a bit. Thankfully, he pressed the ‘a’ key next, a little faster than before. After repeating this process quite a few more times, he had an actual sentence written out, and he punctuated the end with a period. Syntax looked it over despite following along the whole time.

“i am royal.” Syntax said aloud. “Good start.”

“It’s a simple statement,” Royal humbly admitted. “Can hardly call it art.”

“Eh.” Syntax snickered, tossing her head from side to side. “It’s already better than a lot of the trash on the book market.” He chuckled darkly, looking up at the ceiling, and then at her.

“So... did I... do it right? Seems like a slow process.”

Syntax shook her head slightly. “Well, you pecked at the keys. Which is normal, everypony does that when they haven’t learned how to type. You need to learn to hit all the keys with minimal effort, but that takes practice.”

“What’s the... technique?”

Syntax pointed to the keyboard. “You gotta rest your hooves on the keyboard and manipulate the keys without lifting them.”

Royal rested both his hooves on the keyboard in completely the wrong places, clumsily trying to find a comfortable position. “No, wait, like this,” Syntax huffed, resting her chest on Royal’s back and wrapping her forelegs parallel to his own, grabbing his hooves and placing them in the correct places. He tensed up, which was weird, but she was too focused to care.

“Alright,” she continued at a lower volume now that her muzzle was right next to his ear. “Now if you want to hit the ‘a’ key you just shift your left hoof into it without lifting. Same for the ‘l’ key on the right side.” Syntax leaned forward to look at him in the eye. “Following?”

He was strangely silent, looking down and away from her. “...Y-yeah, I think...” His voice was fluctuating a little, which was unusual.

Syntax removed her hooves from his and leaned on the desk at the sides, granting a bit of space from her chest and his back. Royal cleared his throat, relaxing a little, and hit a key. He stopped and muttered to himself.

“If you gotta lift your hooves to see the keys, go ahead,” she laughed. “Everypony starts somewhere.”

Royal continued, typing slowly, the satisfying clicks staggered from his lack of experience. Syntax remained, giving him pointers and reminding him where keys were when she got the chance. Eventually she taught him how to capitalize letters and get different punctuation.

After a quarter hour, Royal finally had something to show for it. Syntax made the motions to remove the paper and began to read off it, smiling all the while.

Clearing her throat, she read, “i am royal. you may call me a monster. if you saw me you would run. Just as you would from an animal. From any bloodthirsty creature. But here I sit. Typing. Painting a picture with words. If any bloodthirsty monster could do what I am doing now, I would certainly like to see it. But Im not here to convince you. I dont need to. I’m just here to reaffirm myself. I’m not a monster. That’s the way I feel. I don’t care if it isn’t true. I have friends, and that’s all that matters. I am Royal, and I feel like royalty.”

“Poetic, huh?” Syntax commented, grinning wildly. Royal fiddled with his hooves, quite a cute sight in contrast to his normally confident demeanor.

“It’s a bit pretentious, right? I was just typing what came to mind, which was difficult when I can’t type as fast as I think.”

“But you have promise.” Syntax set the paper on the desk. “I’m sure if you had a plan and some structure, not to mention proficiency with typing, you could make something great.”

Royal stared at the page in front of him, gently playing with the edge of the paper. “I don’t know...”

“C’mon, if you enjoy writing it, someone will enjoy reading it. And even if everyone hates you, controversial figures get their books read, plain and simple.”

He bit his cheek, looking up at Syntax. “But how do I learn to write, where do I learn to write, with everypony against me?”

Syntax shrugged, “My doors will still be open.” She nearly fell over after hearing her own words, gagging slightly and using the desk to steady herself. Did she really just say that? Invite a vampony into her home?

No, no, no. You idiot! What on earth makes you think that he’ll want anything to do with you after you break his deal? You’ll be lucky if he doesn’t kill you, Syntax’s mind raced. She bit her lip, trying not to collapse into herself. You can’t promise anything. Not after what you’re planning to do.

...unless... you keep your word for once.

Syntax finally turned towards the batstallion, wanting to gauge his reaction to her body language right now in case she needed to go into damage control. Thankfully, Royal was inspecting the typewriter at the time. Sensing her gaze, he looked up from the desk with a very faint smile on his face. “Really?”

“Yeah,” she replied quickly. Unfortunately, she couldn’t take back what she said for fear of upsetting him. She just had to own the lie now.

But... it wasn’t a lie. She was speaking from the gut. It just... felt right to say. What if she just kept her word, though? That would solve all her problems.

But...

Syntax closed her eyes, imagining what might happen if she did. With all the attention on Royal, like he wanted, Trust would still be lurking in the shadows. And if this kindness and naivete was all an act, then... then it would be her fault if Trust did something awful. What if she killed somepony important? What if she killed Sketch? She’d never be able to forgive herself. Not after what happened last time, not making the same mistake twice. This is journalism. Black and white. Omission of the truth, despite pure intentions, is just the same as lying.

Despite her assurances, one biting thought crept up in the back of her head. But what if they’re legit? Then... everything I do will ruin...

No. It’s not her place to make these decisions. She can’t make these decisions. She has to publish all the objective truth. All if it.

“Miss Syntax, are you okay?”

“Please stop calling me ‘miss’,” she replied without thinking, trying to distract from her own silence. “You’re making me feel old.”

“Oh,” he replied, ears matting themselves against his head. “I didn’t... mean to.”

Syntax winced, her intentions not to make him feel bad. She sighed heavily and trotted towards him. “No, no, no, it’s okay,” she assured, getting right up to him. “I like it when you call me that.”

“I... what?” Royal asked, cocking his head. “But you just said-”

“I know what I said,” she cut him off sternly, her frustration seeping into her words. “I didn’t mean it, i just...”

Royal arched his brow in confusion, before stiffening suddenly when Syntax put a hoof to his chin. “What am I going to do with you, Bats?” She cocked her head as she stared into his eyes, wide as dinner plates. Syntax sat there, weighing her options, thinking of possibilities. Seconds passed by into a minute, finally taking their toll on the batstallion.

He squirmed, averting the eye contact they had established. “Miss... Syntax... uhh...” He couldn’t hide the blush. He shakily reached up and held Syntax’s hoof with his own.

This knocked her out of her reverie. She blushed in turn, snapping her head to make sure what she was feeling was real. Yup. Royal was holding her hoof.

He probably had no idea what was happening. Well, Syntax wasn’t exactly helping, her behaviors as confusing to him as they were to her. “Royal,” she started, using his real name again.

“Yes?”

“What do you think of me?” she asked, unsure herself what she meant by the question.

“I...” Royal eyed up at her whilst still facing the floor. “What do you mean?”

“I mean...” She struggled to find the words, for the first time in a long time. “I... what... kind of pony do you think I am?”

Royal’s blush began to dissipate as he went into thought, but then returned as he faced her again. He furrowed his brow, strangely determined. “I’ll admit, I still don’t understand why you insist on making life so difficult for Trust, Sketch, and I.”

Syntax shamefully looked away.

“But...” Royal continued. “I do think that you have a damn good reason. You... You’re not a bad pony, like I had initially assumed. In fact... you are quite... wonderful. Now I assume that you are doing the things you’re doing because you feel they are the right thing to do.”

Syntax’s throat tightened, and she was struggling to keep her composure.

“Miss Syntax... the kind of pony I think you are? I think... you are sompony who wants to do the world right, misguided as you may be. I’ve only ever thought of myself. I didn’t know somepony like you could exist.

“Even if this story destroys me. I hope we could still be friends.”

For what it’s worth... I hope my story doesn’t completely destroy you, her own words echoed in her head, over and over.

She smiled and chortled, as a single tear fell down her cheek. She wrapped her foreleg around his neck, and rested her nose on his. He tensed like never before. “Damn it. It’s selfish but...

“But I don’t want to lose you, Bats. I don’t think I could handle it.” Her mouth was so close to his that she could feel his hot breaths wash down her neck, the subtle scent of spearmint entering her nostrils. “Bats... why couldn’t you just be a monster? It would make everything so much easier.”

“I’m... sorry?” he replied, obviously unsure of what to say. Syntax could swear she could hear his heartbeat. “I don’t think I’d be able to behave like a monster around you.”

That was it. The straw that broke the camel’s back. It wasn’t even that good a line. Hell, she didn’t think it even was a line, just an honest statement. Still. After everything. After holding back for so long, she had reached the tipping point.

She mashed herself into his mouth at an embarrassing speed and fervor, almost injuring the both of them in the process. Royal’s eyes went wider than she’d ever seen, and he subconsciously threw his hooves forward in instinctive self defense. “MGMFGF,” he tried to shout, which only aided Syntax’s ability to shove her tongue down his throat.

A few shocks of pain jolted through Syntax as she scraped her tongue against his sharpened teeth in her lust. But she didn’t care. She waited too long for this. She didn’t even care when the wooden chair started to tip. She didn’t even care when it crashed into the floor and splintered into pieces. She cared a little when Royal grunted as he hit the floor, the full weight of herself developing him, but she didn’t care as much as she probably should have.

Syntax dragged her hooves over his body, feeling out every muscle, every edge, every curve she had been so cruelly denied in the past weeks. It was better than she thought it was going to be. Fucking perfect in fact. Lean, powerful, gorgeous. She couldn’t believe her luck, the fact that the perfect guy also had the perfect body. She was pretty sure it was a mortal sin that he was this perfect.

“Mynph Ymphax!” Royal mumbled through her tongue, sending satisfying vibrations through her throat.

It took a few seconds, but Royal finally, tentatively, gently rested his hooves on Syntax’s back in a hesitant hug. Syntax tried not to break the kiss by smiling too hard, her heart skipping a beat at how unsure Royal was being about his boundaries despite her forwardness. Of course he would need to be taught how to do this, but that thought actually excited her to no end.

Was that bad?

Syntax opened her eyes to see the batstallion’s reaction, but was surprised to see he had yet to relax, eyes wide. She blinked a few times as the blood began to flow back into her brain, and decided she should probably say something so Royal can enjoy himself too. She slowly retracted, dragging her tongue against the roof of his mouth, a bit sad she had to stop so soon. Nose-to-nose, they stared at each other, trying to catch their breath.

A couple of drops of blood dripped onto Royal’s chin.

“Sorry,” Syntax apologized plainly.

“I’s foine,” Royal squeaked, voice breaking.

“Hey.”

“Y-yeah?”

“I really like you. Like, a lot.”

“Oh.”

“I don’t want you to leave tonight. I want you to stay.”

“I... I think I could do that.”

“I want you to stay. I want you with me.” Syntax shoved her muzzle into his chest. “I hate it when you leave.”

“Miss... Syntax... I don’t know how to do this. I’ve never loved somepony before.”

“Just do what feels right.”

“This... this feels right.”

Syntax laughed a mirthful, honest laugh, snorting at the end. “Yeah, but maybe we shouldn’t be lying on the floor.” A few more drops blood dripped out of the corner of her mouth, causing her to wipe it across her leg. 

“A-are you okay? Did my fangs cut you again?”

“Shut up, it’s worth it.”



Syntax looked back at Royal one last time, the sleeping batstallion making her heart jump when her eyes met his handsome face. She smiled, looking down at the floor.

I have to do it.

She stumbled down the stairs, her knees still weak from the overdose of euphoria.

I have no choice.

She approached her desk. Her workstation.

I will not be responsible for atrocities ever again.

She opens her drawer, taking out the finished article. Sketch and Trust exposed, with no mention of Royal. She hadn’t finished Royal’s yet.

I have to break my promise to you, Royal.

Tears fall.

I have to publish it!

Teeth gritted.

Truth needs no colors!

Nose running.












The article made a soft thud as it fell into the trash.
> 17. You Should See the Other Guys
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

Let me tell you a story. I know, I know. I’m just getting to the best parts, and I haven’t really done something like this the whole book, so it’s a little out of left field, but just stick with me here. I mean, I’m writing this in italics where I usually put in a quote I like from a famous author, but I didn’t do it in chapter 7, 14, and 15, so this shouldn’t be very jarring. My insecurities aside, lemme just get into it.

So, it starts off like this: There was an injured snake, out in the wilderness. He called for help, pleading with the world around him, whatever gods were listening, to aid him in his most dire hour. To his jubilance, a woman answered his call.

“Oh, poor snake,” she said, “I shall aid you in your suffering, so that you may be well once again.”

The snake smiled, and allowed himself to be carried by the woman back to her humble abode, where she nursed him day and night until he was again up and about. Months passed, and the snake was well.

Pleased with herself and the snake, the woman smiled, and offered her hand in friendship.

But that was when the snake struck, biting her and injecting her with a deadly venom.

Wounded just as he once was, the woman cried,” Snake, oh Snake, why must you transgress me so? In your time of need I aided you, and in thanks you have bitten me!”

The snake laughed and laughed! He laughed and laughed! “Foolish woman!” he shouted. “You have aided me in my most dire straits, but there was a detail you should never have overlooked.”

“You knew damn well I was a snake when you took me in!”

And... well that’s the way the story goes. I always hated that story. But no matter what happened, no matter what I did, it was always lingering in the back of my mind.

For the most part it worked out for me. As long as I didn’t trust anyone, they couldn’t hurt me. Everyone was a snake.

But... I wasn’t happy.

Quite the opposite, in fact. I was spiteful. I was angry.

And after one last spiteful, angry betrayal, I realized in horror...

I had become the snake.

...Now, I now this is kind of a bummer of a story, or monologue, or whatever the hell this is. But it has a happy ending, I promise.

Because I realized that I’m a fucking writer. I can write whatever the hell I want! Look at me! Boobies! Square marshmallows! Celestia is secretly an animate sausage!

You see? Once I realized this, I figured that I could just change the story of the snake myself!

Okay so, snake is well, yadda yadda, and then the woman reaches out in friendship, but then the snake doesn’t bite her!

In fact, it kisses her! In fact, full on Prench! Nothin’ but tongue! Then she’s all like, “Woah dude wasn’t expecting that.”

And then he’s all, “I think I might have some sort of sexual dysfunction cuz you’re like woah,”

Then she’s like, “We might be able to make this work because I’m actually pretty lonely and kinda a loser,”

And then they live happily ever after, with little snake-pony baby hybrids. Was she a pony? I don’t think I ever said. Maybe it’d be better if she were a zebra. Yeah. And she could’ve healed him using some of that weird alchemy shit they’re famous for.

And maybe she could develop some magic potion that turns the snake into a handsome prince, but only for a few hours, and then-

...

I think I lost the plot a little there.

Look, moral of the story is...


Be a writer, not a reader.

And I mean that in a symbolic way, there’s nothing wrong with reading! Or writing! Just... just...

Ah nevermind. Let’s just get back to Sketch. 

The boy really is something special, isn’t he?



The ceiling looked so different, now. That may have been a little too introspective for Sketch’s taste, but he couldn’t deny the feeling. He felt like the room in his own house wasn’t his own room anymore. All it did was house his insecurities, his problems. The place just wasn’t safe. At least, not anymore.

He was dreading the return of his parents. They hadn’t returned home yet since he had, and it was getting late. Any moment now, they would arrive, and he’d have a new mess of issues at hoof.

There was a slam downstairs.

“I’m home!” a voice yelled below, a mare’s voice.

Sketch sighed. At least it was the easier of the two. Maybe he could convince her that he didn’t need to tell his dad about Trust.

It was ridiculous to even muse about it.

Sketch immediately headed downstairs, every step a note leading to the crescendo of confrontation. Sweet Night was in the kitchen, setting her belongings on the counter. When Sketch made himself known, Sweet Night froze for a moment, before continuing her routine with a little less fervor. “Sketch,” she breathed. “You’re home.”

“Yeah,” he confirmed, looking away instinctually. “I’m home.”

She bit her lip, hanging her head low. “Are you gonna tell him tonight?”

Sketch kicked the ground. “I guess.”

“You don’t want to?”

“Mom, I didn’t even want to tell you.” Sketch winced as the words came out of his mouth. Brutal, but honest. His mom looked as though she took a blow from a boxer. “Much less Dad.”

“I don’t see why you insist on dealing with this on your own, Sketchy. What do you think we’re going to do, stop you from seeing her?”

Sketch seethed. “Really Mom? Look me in the eye and tell me that isn’t exactly what Dad would do.”

Sweet Night opened her mouth, but she didn’t speak. She just looked off to the side. “You’re seventeen, Sketchy. It wouldn’t be for very long.”

“I don’t think I could afford that wait, Mom.” Sketch shut his eyes and thought of Syntax. “Things are bad.”

His mother arched a brow. “Bad? Bad how?”

“Remember what I told you about the reporter, Syntax?” Sketch rolled his eyes. “It’s gonna be bad.”

Sweet Night sighed heavily. An uncomfortable lull in the conversation later, she droned, “You still have to tell him Sketch. I’m not going to keep a secret like this from my own husband, you understand. I’ll give you until tomorrow dinner, okay? Otherwise I’ll tell him.”

“That sucks,” he replied plainly. Sweet Night bit her cheek in annoyance. “But I get it.”

She smiled and nodded resolutely. “Good. Now, I hope you’ll tell him tonight, but for now, how about I just work on dinner, huh?”

“Sounds good, thanks.”

Sketch found time to once again ruminate in his thoughts. How the hell would his dad take this? He couldn’t figure it out. The nuance to this whole situation made the answer vague.

Truly relaxing was impossible in this atmosphere, the dread casting a thin veil of humidity in the air. That, and the steam from the sauteed vegetables in the kitchen. Delicious, spicy dread.

Knock knock kna-knock knock.

There he is. Strange, Books never used Shave and a haircut as a knock pattern. It typically was much too whimsical for his tastes, but maybe he was just in a good mood.

“Sketch, can you get that? I’m a little busy,” his mother called from the kitchen.

“Yeah,” he confirmed, rolling off the sofa and trotting towards the door.

Sketch magically reached for the deadbolt, only to find...

It was already unlocked.

Huh.

Weird.

Why would his dad knock if the door was already unlocked? It’s his house...

Knock knock kna-knock knock.

Sketch blinked. Who on earth would be here? Reporters? Police? Did Syntax publish the story without him noticing? Sketch swallowed, sweat beading around his eyebrows. Well, it wouldn’t help to just stand here for eternity, so...

The door swung open.

Nothing could have prepared him for what was on the other side.

“Hey Sketch! How you doin’ kid!” Anthem jubilantly exclaimed...

...with his face bloody, an eye completely red from a popped vessel and a chunk of his ear hanging off. Bruises were lining his cheeks, an eyebrow was split, his mane was tousled... holy hell, a tooth was missing in the corner of his mouth.

“Anthem?”

Anthem was favoring one of his legs, the other hanging in the air, black and blue.

“Anthem what the fuck happened to you?!”

He strangely looked surprised at Sketch’s outburst. After what looked like Anthem reminding himself that he was grievously injured by looking at his own leg, he chortled awkwardly.

“Oh this?” he asked, waving his wounded leg. “This is nothing. You should see the other guys!”

Sketch blinked in horror. “What? Guys? Like more than one? Anthem, we need to get you to a hospital!”

Anthem grimaced, his face tightening in determination. “No. No hospitals. I just... I wanted to ask if you had any bandages to stop this bleeding. I can take care of myself.”

Are you... are you for real? “Anthem. Shut the hell up. If you don’t want a hospital, come inside so I can treat you. My mom’s a nurse.”

“That’s not necessary, Sketchy, just, look, it’s fine, I’ll just-”

Sketch didn’t have the patience for this. He grabbed the back of Anthem’s head with his magic and pressed his hoof as hard as he could into one of the bruises on his cheek.

“AhhhhHHHHAHHHH!!!” Anthem shouted as he stumbled forward into the house, guided by Sketch’s magic.

“You’re getting treated now,” he ordered with resolve.

“Honey, is that you?” Sweet Night called from the kitchen. “You’re home a lot earlier than you said you’d b-EE HEE HEE! Anthem?! What are you...?” She nearly dropped the bowl she was tossing a salad in when she stepped into the living room.

“Hello, Mrs. Night! It’s Mrs., right?” He faced Sketch aside. “You’re parents are married, right?” he whispered.

“Stop trying to change the subject, Anthem.” Sketch led his friend to the living room sofa and motioned him to lay on it. “Get on my couch.”

“Oh, you’re gonna get blood all over it,” Sweet Night whined, tossing her salad so hard it’d make anyone blush.

“Mom,” Sketch droned, looking unamused.

“I-I mean, it doesn’t matter because it's- I’m sorry, i’m just nervous! Anthem why are you so beat up- ah!” Sweet Night’s panic was punctuated by her dropping the salad bowl in her arms.

“Mom, you’re a nurse, why are you freaking out? Just get the first aid kit,” he ordered with exasperation. She cleared her throat, embarrassed.

“I know, I just wasn’t expecting... okay I’m going!” She quickly stepped over the spilled greens and flew up the stairs with impressive speed, the skills of her occupation showing their head.

When she was gone, Anthem smirked. “Your mom’s kinda cute, Sketch.”

Sketch furrowed his brows. “Anthem, stop acting like everything’s okay. What the hell happened?”

“Oh come on, Sketch, it was-”

“So help me Anthem, I’m not asking again.” Sketch intimidatingly hovered over Anthem and began to poke his nose with his hoof. “Tell me what happened or I’m full body tackling your broken body.”

Anthem opened his mouth with a smile, letting out a small groan. But as he weighed the consequence, he slowly let his mirthful expression fade into a frown. “Fine,” he conceded. “Got jumped.”

“By who?” Sketch quickly followed. That was something he already figured.

“Dunno,” the injured stallion answered.

“Why?”

This question earned Sketch silence. Anthem simply stared at the ceiling from his position on the couch.

“Bigots,” he finally said with a sigh.

“Bigots?”

“Some dudes were all fucked outta shape cuz of me an’ Haren. We were making out at a concert and I guess they followed us home. They were making a big stink while we were there, but I thought they’d be all bark, y’know? Guess they weren’t stallion enough to take on me an Haren at the same time, so they waited until I went out on my own.” Anthem’s lack of emotion in his retelling was unsettling, the stallion being quite loud and thunderous most of the time.

Sketch but his lip. “Damn. That sucks.” He felt like he should say more. “What were you doing?”

“Getting food for me an’ Haren. Ugh... should’ve just survived off of sex juice for a day.”

Sketch couldn’t help but chuckle, earning a smile from his friend. “Anthem, you shouldn’t have to be afraid to leave your house. This isn’t your fault.”

“Yeah I guess I should be happy it was me and not-” Anthem shot up from his recline and grabbed both of Sketch’s shoulders. “HAREN!”

“What?” Sketch exclaimed, resting his hooves onto Anthem’s.

“I can’t be here, I gotta make sure Haren’s all right! I gotta, erk!” He winced and retracted his hooves when a wave of pain shot through his body. “Damn leg...”

“Anthem, you aren’t going anywhere.” He sighed and tentatively rested a hoof on his friends shoulder.

“That’s right!” Sweet Night sing-songed as she returned to the living room. “You are in no condition to move. You should be in the hospital right now.”

“No hospitals,” Anthem reiterated. “I can’t do hospitals.”

Sketch’s mother bit her cheek, disappointed. “You really need-”

“If you try to get me to a hospital, I will walk out of here,” he intoned. “I’m not trying to threaten you, but I... I don’t do hospitals.”

Sweet Night blinked a few times, and groaned. “Alright. But at the very least you should keep still.”

“I could do that,” Anthem laughed. “But Haren... I don’t... I can’t...”

“I’ll go get Haren,” Sketch offered. “Just rest.”

“What?” Sweet Night spoke up. “Now? After what just happened to your friend? No way.”

“What do you mean?” Sketch asked, sure she hadn’t heard Anthem’s explanation.

“Oh come on, Sketchy, neither of us are stupid. It’s obvious Anthem got his shit rocked.”

Out the corner of his eye, Sketch could see Anthem’s eyebrows raise at his mother’s seemingly sudden use of profanity and slang.

“That doesn’t mean the streets are any more dangerous than they usually are! Come on, it’s not even that late yet.” Sketch decided to leave out the possibility of Haren being targeted as well.

“Sketch...”

“Mom, I’m doing this,” he definitely stated, stopping his hoof. “I’ll be fine. Haren’s one of my best friends.”

Sweet Night grumbled something, taking a deep breath. “...Alright. You better be fast.”

Sketch smiled, and nodded furiously. “Yes, yes! Of course, I’ll be quick.” Without another word, Sketch rushed out the door.



Sketch never once actually directly thought of the distance between his house and Anthem’s apartment. He’d always dilly-dally between the two places, either getting a bite to eat, chilling at the park, or taking a purposeful detour to see the sights. The time frame was always muddied by a lack of urgency. But now, traveling to the apartment at a brisk speed, Sketch was now realizing just how close together they were. Well, it was Canterlot, so everything was kind of a stone’s throw away from each other, but Sketch was expecting a longer trip than a half an hour. If he had wings, it’d probably be less than a dozen minutes.

His journey was almost at an end, with Anthem’s apartment complex in sight. He trotted up the steps, knocking before he even finished walking. He shifted his weight between his two halves in anticipation of Haren’s arrival.

The familiar footfalls of Haren’s foreign paws and talons grew louder as the doorknob turned.

“Hey Anthem, took you awhile,” Haren breathed, words dripping with saucy seduction. Sketch was expecting this for once, simply arching a brow and smirking as Haren leaned on the door with a provocative flair.

When Haren finally bothered to look at the pony in front of her, her eyes went wide, totally aghast at her misfire. Haren caught unaware was uncommon, so Sketch savored every second.

“Sketch! Wh- why are you here? Are you here to see Trust? I, uh, think she’s still here.” 

Brows raised at this new information, Sketch shook his head, intent on delivering on his current objective. “No I’m...” He tried to get the words out quickly, but he lost his nerve faster than he could. He groaned and shut his eyes. “Ugh, Haren...”

“What?” she asked, concern blossoming forth. “You aren’t gonna confess your love to me, are you?”

Sketch grinned in spite of himself, Haren’s trademark humor in the face of grave situations appreciated by him on a spiritual level. Anthem had that method of coping as well, Sketch notes. “No, Haren, not today at least.” Sketch decided to maintain eye contact as a sign of respect, deciding he’d want the same gratuity imposed on himself. “Listen,” he began, gripping the bandage. “He’s okay, alright? He’s fine, but... Anthem got jumped.”

Rip. The bandage was off now.

Haren’s mouth became agape. “What? Wh-where is he? Is he okay?!” Her grip on the doorknob tightened, nearly ripping it out of the door.

“I just told you he’s okay!” Sketch shrieked, throwing his hooves up in mild defence. “He’s at my house.”

“WHAT?!” Haren shouted louder than before. “What is he doing there?!”

“Well, I’m assuming he was closer to my home than yours, so he came to us for hel-”

“How bad is it? Is he okay?!” Haren interrupted with a repeated question.

“Well, I don’t know yet, he was limping and he was bleedi-”

“Who’s taking care of him?” Haren spat, grabbing Sketch’s shoulders and pulling him closer.

“My mother, she’s a nurse.” Sketch calmly spoke, hoping his leveled voice would reduce the griffin’s stress. Haren went limp, dropping Sketch back onto his own haunches. “Haren, I came here to ask if you wanted to see him, since we don’t want him moving until his condition improves.”

“Your mother...?” she whispered.

“Uh, yeah?” Sketch coughed into his hoof. “Is that a problem? I know you acted kinda weird when my mom came over. Do you have some sort of problem with her?”

“Not... not her, specifically.” She began rubbing her elbow while breathing shallow breaths. “It’s just...”

“Just what?”

“It’s...” She groaned, squinting her eyes. “Ugh. I was hoping I wasn’t going to have to tell you this, but I guess I can’t avoid it now that we’re becoming better friends. But uh... I, uh...

“I’m afraid of mothers.”

Sketch could’ve sworn he had just heard the punchline to a joke. Like, a really bad joke. “Are you serious?”

“Yes. Well I mean, afraid might be the wrong word, but they make me weak in the knees, and make it hard to breathe, and cause me to feel light headed. It’s some kind of anxiety that I can’t explain.” Haren subconsciously covered her beak, dejected. “I don’t know why... I think it has to do something with my fucking shit awful fuck shit of a mom.”

“Uh... wow.” Honestly, Sketch couldn’t think of anything to say. Hell, if he didn’t know Haren better, he would’ve probably laughed at something so ludicrous. “What... what’s it called? Maternaphobia?”

“I uh... don’t think it has a name, heh.” Haren was uneasily smiling, rubbing the back of her neck. She widened her eyes, staring at an open space in the street behind Sketch. She contemplated something for some time, before she shook her head vehemently. “Agh! Whatever! I don’t have time to consider this, I’m going to see Anthem!” Haren gritted herself and took off, nearly knocking Sketch off the porch of the apartment.

“Woah, Haren, don’t- Haren!” He called out into the night. It was too late, she was way too far off into the night. After a few more moments of staring out into the place that Haren used to be, Sketch banged his head into the open door in frustration. “Those two are too much.”

A few seconds dedicated to planning his next actions later, he made his way into the apartment, down to Haren’s old room.

Knock knock. “Trust? You there? It’s me, Sketch! You can come out if you wanna.”

The door cracked open, revealing Trust’s beautiful glowing golden eyes. “Sketch? I... I heard what happened to Anthem.”

“Eavesdropping?” he asked, smiling.

“Sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Sketch excused. “Hey, if you want to, you can go check up on him at my house. My mom and Haren are the only ones there, so it’ll be safe.”

Trust nodded her head. “Yeah, I’d like that. Damned idiot, getting himself hurt like that.”

“Yeah.” Sketch could never imagine a world that anyone would want to harm Anthem. “Idiot.”



“You’re lucky nothing’s broken, Anthem,” Sweet Night gently remarked. “This is really bad.”

“It’s nothing,” he lied. “I’ve been in worse shape.” That, however was the truth.

Sweet Night had a incredulous look about her, as she dipped another cotton swab in alcohol with a large pair of tweezers. “That’s not a good thing, you know. Silly stallion.”

Anthem sighed heavily as the familiar sting of a sanitized wound shot through his joints.

“Why so huffy?” she asked, never taking her eyes off her work.

“Huffy?”

“Yeah. You’re acting like my son, being all huffy and puffy.”

Anthem smiled, confused as to why he liked this mare so much, before remembering that bedside manner is pretty important for a good nurse. “Huffy, huh? Yeah that describes Sketch pretty well.” He felt the urge to throw his hooves around his neck to lounge a little better, but figured that’d probably earn him some ire from the nurse. “Well... it’s nothing really, but if Haren is actually coming... well it might not be too great for her.”

“Why not? It’s not like griffins aren’t welcome here. We’re not that kind of family.”

“No, not like that.” Anthem chuckled dryly, eyeing a nondescript cushion out the corner of his eye, studying the texture of it. “Haren uhh... she scared of moms. Scared of you.”

“Scared?” This made the mare eye Anthem curiously. “How so?”

“It just makes her extremely uncomfortable. There’s personal reasons for it, I can’t get into it. Just try not to be offended, because it’s nothing that you’ve done.”

Sweet Night nodded wordlessly. She grabbed a bit of gauze and dexterously began wrapping it around his discolored leg. Luckily, it was only sprained and was suffering from extreme bruising, rather than being broken. She had reset dislocated limbs before, but it was something much better suited to professionals. Celestia help him if it was actually fractured.

“Hey, Anthem...”

“Yes, Mrs. Night?”

“Please, just call me ‘Sweet’.” She paused, putting a hoof to her chin. “You know what, my husband may be home soon, so that may not be a good idea. Call me ‘Night’.”

“Haha, alright.”

“So, Anthem... is my son... doing alright?” She scratched at her elbow, unable to word her thoughts any further.

Frowning, Anthem looked to the side. “That’s a loaded question, NIght.”

“Is it now?” she asked with the slightest hint of venom. Matriarchal fury was a sight to behold.

“...Night. Your son is doing the best he can with what he’s got. A kid his age shouldn’t be having to deal with crap like this.” He shook his head at the forces that be. “Celestia knows that I wouldn’t have been able to handle the stuff thrown at him.” He frustratingly pounds a cushion next to him. “And he insists on dealing with it himself, too! I mean, there’s being virtuous, and then there’s being dumb. It took a long time to convince him he could use our help, but it still isn’t as much as I’d like.”

Night focused extra hard on nursing Anthem’s next injury, silently ashamed she had initially underestimated his principles. She may have said to Sketch that she believed Anthem to be a good pony on the simple virtue that Sketch believed it, but it was never as visceral as it was now. “Well I’m glad he has someone he can rely one.”

“Oh, don’t knock yourself short, Night. I think you just did too good of a job raising him. He doesn’t want you to have to deal with his troubles. That’s probably why he started distancing himself with you.”

“Distancing himself?” Night repeated, the words sour on her lips. “Is... is that what he’s doing?”

Anthem didn’t answer, nor did he establish eye contact. His wounds were nursed in silence after that.

Knock knock knock knock knock knock knock knock knock knock “Oh dear, is that your griffin friend?” knock knock knock knock knock knock knock

“Oh my god, tell her to stop.” knock knock knock knock knock knock knock kno-

Night almost got herself punched in the face when she answered the door, the yellow talon stopping inches from her face. “Eep!”

“Oh, uh sorry,” Haren breathed, clearly out of breath. “I uhh-uh-uh I’m Haren, hi, I’m friends with Sketch and Anthem and I’m here to see how they’re doing and I’m... I’m.” Haren tried to get all her conversation out at once, before her phobia caught up to her. Unfortunately for her, her eyes went wide, and she began to take small steps back before she could finish her speil.

“Come in, Haren, your friend is right on her couch,” Night said joyfully, motioning her inside, trying to present herself as disarming. This seemed to have the opposite effect on Haren, unfortunately, as she averted eye contact and playing with her beak. Night looked back at Anthem, who was worryingly eyeing the two of them from his couch, ears splayed out behind him. It probably wasn’t very comfortable with his ears bandaged to all hell.

Night sighed, weighing her options. Anthem was stable, and while there were a few more things she could do to bring down the swelling from his bruises, a familiar friend would probably be better for the healing process than anything she could do. “I’ll leave you two alone a minute, I, uh, have to go take care of the food.” She turned tail and headed to the kitchen, confused as to how her house had suddenly become so popular.



Sketch saw the familiar lights of an ambulance wagon out of the corner of his eye, it nestled firmly on a street corner next to an alley. On any normal day, this would be an unremarkable occurrence, but today, curiosity got the better of him, and he approached the police tape cordoning off the alleyway.

He leaned over the tape, trying to eye the contents of the alley, but his poor vantage point combined with the disorienting flashing lights prevented any useful information from being gleamed.

“Hey, kid, clear out! Nothing to see here,” the booming voice of a policemare sounded from behind one of the wagons.

“Uh, hello! I was wondering what happened here,” Sketch insisted, taking a few steps away from the tape.

“Really not at liberty to say right now, kid. Ongoing investigation. Move along.” She spoke with resolve, her words iron. Sketch had to keep from rolling his eyes, and decided to change his approach.

“Please,” he began, attempting to sound more pathetic. “My friends and family live in the area! I want to make sure nobody I know is hurt!” Sketch blinked a few times to moisten his eyes and appear more... boyish.

The policemare took pause at this, looking back at the alley as if she were asking it for permission. She shook her head, and buckled. “Fine. You can see the victims. Maybe you can help with identifying them. Stick to me like glue, kid.”

She lifted the tape and allowed Sketch through. He thanked her with a genuine smile, and approached a couple gurneys being loaded into the wagon. They must have gotten there just in time since the policemare motioned violently for them to stop. “Wait up. I got somepony that might be able to identify our friends here.”

A few EMTs nodded to each other and stepped aside, allowing Sketch and his new friend through. “Try to be quick, one of these guys may have a concussion.”

There were three stallions here, a dull green earth pony with jet black hair, a lanky grey pegasus with garish yellow hair, and a stubby grape colored earth pony. No one Sketch knew, but that was something Sketch was expecting. “What happened?”

“These three must’ve gotten in a pretty big tousle to put it lightly. Maybe some sort of gang fight from the Canterlot outskirts.”

One of the EMTs nodded sagely, agreeing with his cop colleague. “What’s amazing is that it was probably one guy that fought them off. Before grey colt here lost consciousness, he mentioned one ‘asshole’. Would’ve loved to see that.”

Sketch’s mouth went agape. This... this couldn’t have actually been Anthem’s fight, right? He had been entertaining the idea, but there’s no way Anthem could fight off three whole people...

You should see the other guys. That’s what he said when he showed up at Sketch’s house. Guys, as in plural. Maybe he wasn’t embellishing. If that were the case, that means despite his condition, Anthem... won. Pretty whole handedly.

“Kid, what’s up, you know them?” the policemare asked with terse patience.

“Are they okay?”

“They might be,” one of the EMTs answered, earning some angry looks from his coworkers. “Everypony else should recover, but Purple boy might be in a coma.”

“Lator, we’re not supposed to talk about patient status! Insurance-”

“Yeah yeah,” he cut them off dismissively. “It’s fine.”

Sketch didn’t know what to do with this information. Anthem hospitalized three people. They may have deserved it, but... Anthem wasn’t someone he associated with violence. Still, this was better than the alternative of Anthem getting killed or something. “I uhh... I don’t know them.”

The policemare let out a breath Sketch didn’t realize she was holding. “Good. I’m glad you didn’t have to deal with this, kid.” She slapped him on the back, earning a wince from the frail boy. “Now beat it.”

Sketch obliged.



Sketch waltzed through the front door as he sighed, glad to be out of the slight nip of a spring night and into the comfortable home. “Someone really needs to lock this door,” he idly commented in order to announce his presence.

“Sketch,” Haren acknowledged from Anthem’s side, holding his hoof in her talons. “Sorry I rushed ahead like that.”

“It’s alright, I probably would’ve done the same. Where’s my mother?”

“She’s upstairs I think. Wanted to give us a room, I guess.”

“That’s probably not right, she doesn’t know about you two.” Sketch trudged along and took a seat in the chair perpendicular to Anthem’s couch. To his surprise, the couple scoffed at him.

“You mean, you haven’t told your parents about us? Why?” Haren scolded, arms crossed.

Sketch reared his head. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know this was important to you two.”

“Sketch, I thought you weren’t going to lie to your parents anymore,” she huffed, crossing her arms.

“It’s not lying if I just omit information. Hell, my dad doesn’t even know about Trust.”

“You really should tell him, Sketch. He’s going to find out from Syntax anyway,” Anthem tagged in, unable to face him directly because of the angle of his neck.

“You don’t think I know that? This has been really hard for me, alright?”

There was a slight bump upstairs, so faint that only Sketch heard it. “That might be Trust.”

“She’s coming?” Haren asked, the obvious joke dying in everyone’s heads from the severity of past events.

“Yeah.”

Sketch skirted upstairs, making his way to his room. The halls felt darker tonight.

“Sketch, that you?” Sketch’s mom asked from the bathroom.

“Yeah, Trust might be here too.”

“Ooh,” she whistled. “Interesting. Finally bringing the mare home for a proper introduction? I’m sure your father will love this.”

“Maybe,” Sketch said faintly. He wasn’t sure what he was saying maybe to. He knocked on his own door, which was probably the most surreal experience he’s ever had. “Hey, Trust, it’s me Sketch, don’t run away.” He opened his door to see Trust lounging in his bed. It brought a smile to his lips in spite of recent events.

“Why would I run away?” she snorted, flipping off of the bed. “Can I see Anthem?”

“You don’t have to ask permission,” he chuckled, leading her downstairs.

Trust jumped off the side of the railing when she got the chance, deftly landing without even disturbing the wind. Haren waved when she saw her, and Anthem waved from the other side of the couch, his hoof appearing as a dislocated limb floating behind the fabric.

Trust quickly wrapped herself around the opposite side of the couch, squinting at the injured earth pony. He sheepishly grinned whilst looking off at the wall.

“How did you get yourself in this mess, dummy?” she faintly teased, cocking her head.

“This is what being in love does to you Trust,” he quipped. “Physical bodily harm.”

Haren guffawed, placing a talon onto his shoulder. “You’re such an ass,” she remarked, giving him a long, tasteful kiss. More reserved than she usually was, but not as respectable as a peck on the lips.

Heh. Peck. Bird. She has a beak. That’s funny.

“How’s my patient do- O-oh my!” Sweet Night, with her patented awful timing, peaked down from upstairs at the perfect angle to witness the kiss. Sketch nearly bit his tongue he cringed so hard. This is going to be hassle.

“You guys should really start locking this doo-” Books had walked into the room from the front door, holding a grocery bag filled with a few sodas. He had not seen the scene before him as he took his hat off and onto the nearby hat rack, but was assaulted with the truth when he was done. He froze, stunned at the plethora of individuals before him. His keys were still in his mouth, no doubt a remnant of a stallion who assumed the front door was locked. They dropped to the floor as his jaw dropped.

Haren was on top of Anthem, her thin tongue still hanging out of her beak from her kiss. Anthem was frozen in a vulnerable position, his posture awkward from cradling Haren. Trust was frantically eyeing the whole room, searching for a escape route. Sweet night was holding the railing lest she faint from the overdose of stimuli.

And Sketch was left slamming his hoof into his forehead.

Why did it have to be today?

Well, it looked like Sweet Night was going to get what she wanted.
> 18. The Door To Chaos
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

Sketch sighed heavily as his dad slowly trailed his eyes over every actor in the room. There was a cough over the oppressive silence as a few ponies shuffled uncomfortably.

Was he going to say anything or just stand there? 

After what felt like a millennia, he finally began to blink and mouth some words.

“Ah,” he coughed, bringing his hoof up to his muzzle in embarrassment. “I believe I may have just entered the wrong house. I mean, you two-“ he gestured to Sketch and then his wife, “-you two look like my wife and child, but that wouldn’t make any sense at all. Not under these circumstances.”

Anthem cocked his head and rose his brow at Sketch. In response, the pony just shrugged, unable to tell if his dad was joking or serious. 

“Now, I’m going to, uh, leave, and maybe... try to find my real house.” He smiled and nodded his head and reached for the door knob behind him, fumbling a few times before securing a somewhat unsure grip for himself. “Good day, and good luck with uh... whatever this is.” He had some understandable difficulty swinging the door open, considering his strange hold and shaky limbs. 

As the door slammed behind Sketch’s father, a stale silence fell about the room. No one dared to make the next move, the next sound. After some glances exchanged, Sweet Night decided to make the horrid sacrifice and break the ice with a soft sigh.

“Whelp,” she whelped, shaking her head. “Good a time as any I guess.” She smiled at her son, brows furrowed with worry and a dash of snideness, and chuckled dryly. “Need any help?”

Sketch was still staring at the spot his dad had occupied not a moment earlier, scenarios playing out in his head with a fervish speed. After a few really bad ones involving his mother accompanying him, he winced and frowned. “No. That’s okay.” He’d rather take the gamble himself.

“This is my fault,” Sketch admitted. “I have to do this.” Maybe that was true. Maybe it wasn’t. Regardless, the leap had to be taken, at the very least for his sake.

He opened the door to the crisp night air, the nip of the wind a welcome energy booster for the task to come. The vague shape of his father sat across from him, the poor stallion breathing quite quickly in the wake of his recent discoveries. When he sensed Sketch approaching, he stiffened a little, and tried to control his lungs.

“Art...” he started, tapping the ground. “Art, that... that’s my house isn’t it?”

“Mmhmm,” he confirmed, taking a seat next to his dad on the cold concrete of the city sidewalk.

“Right,” he nodded, rubbing the nape of his neck and scrunching his face in thoughts and musings. “So uh... Anthem and Haren, huh?”

“Yup.”

His father stuck his tongue out in disgust, and stifled a gag. “But... How on earth is that okay?”

“Dad...” Sketch whined, the sentiment his dad just gave punching him in the gut. It was exactly as he feared.

“They can’t... do that. How- how,” Books stuttered as he made wild gestures with his hooves. “How are they supposed to have... have, y’know...”

“Sex?” Sketch offered, at a legitimate loss.

“Kids, Sketch.” he deadpanned, his face becoming a little red, betraying his usual calmness. “How are they supposed to have kids?” His tone was borderline complaining, and he motioned in the vague direction of his house. 

Sketch rose his eyebrow at this. He knew his dad was going to have issues with Haren and Anthem, but he didn’t think it was going to be this... draconian.

“They... won’t?” Sketch offered yet again. It took all of his strength to not shrug dismissively. “I fail to see the problem here.”

“Thats... that’s an affront!” he replied, finally facing his son. “An affront to nature, a-a-an affront to Celestia!”

What on earth... Sketch scoffed at the wild bigotry on display here and started to get a little heated in spite of himself. “Are... are you serious? Lot’s of couples can’t have kids. By that logic, you’re calling gays and lesbians an ‘affront to Celestia’.”

Books sputtered uncontrollably, somehow offended at the completely reasonable allegations. “Don’t even imply that, Sketch! I was there, on the right side of this, when that was an issue back in the day! Colt-cuddlers and filly-foolers - that’s different, anyhow. At least they’re the same species, Arthur. There are creatures on this planet made for each other. Rabbits with rabbits, birds with birds. Sometime you’ll see the occasional male squirrels going at it, but-but never, like, a bear and an eagle! It just doesn’t happen - it’s not supposed to happen.”

“Dad, you can’t expect this to never happen. You can’t expect for all these different races hanging out and seriously -- realistically -- not expect some mingling. What about unicorns and pegasi, Dad?”

“Now, come on, Sketch, you know that’s-”

“What about a pony and zebra?”

“Well at least there’s some anatomical-”

“Dad! Listen to yourself!” Sketch reached for his father and gripped him by the shoulders. “You said you were on the right side of history the last time this was a problem? Well don’t be on the wrong side now. Really think about it! In twenty years time, who’s going to be the bigot?”

At some point, Sketch had lost his breath, because he had begun to hyperventilate as he held his father at arm’s length. Books, on the other hand, was dead still, a look of dull surprise at the sudden passion Sketch was displaying. “Arthur...” he wistfully called, trying to recollect some semblance of peace.

“They love each other, Dad. I love them too. Don’t do this. Don’t be like this.”

Unfortunately, Books’ deadpan stare shared his opinion without him ever needing to open his mouth. Sketch didn’t want to accept defeat. He just kept holding on, wishing he could convince his father somehow, be it raw will or simple happenstance.

“Are those wings real?” Books suddenly asked, earning a jostle from Sketch.

“Huh?” Did he mean Haren’s?

“The vampony-looking broad. Those wings are real, aren’t they?”

“Uh...” It took a solid moment for Sketch to connect the dots. They were talking about Trust, suddenly, as the ‘vampony-looking broad’. “Yeah... yeah, those wings are real. She’s not a vampony, she just has some bat features. At least... I think...”

Books furrowed his brows and sighed, looking like he just had to put down his dog. “Sketch. Come on.”

“Haha,” he laughed mirthlessly. “What? It’s not like I’m doing this on purpose.”

“Well,” he replied, shaking his head. “Things are starting to make a lot more sense.”

“How do you mean?” Sketch asked, facing the ground with a joyless smile.

“I’m not an idiot, Sketch. You’ve been acting strange lately. I figured you got yourself a marefriend. Silly me hadn’t considered it would be with a supernatural abomination.” Books shook his head condescendingly one more time. “I don’t think I have to tell you how... unacceptable this is, right?”

“I love her, Dad.” he confessed, squinting hard, trying hard to ignore the abomination comment. “I... She’s... she’s so much... I need her.” Sketch’s pleading may have been out of place, or unnecessary. But he had run out of ideas. All of this had gone so south so quickly. “I don’t care if you don’t approve. Well. No, that’s a lie. I do care. But even if you don’t approve... I have to stay with her. I... I can’t lose her. She’s been through so much.”

Sketch realized he was crying. For how long, he didn’t know. He sucked air through his teeth to prevent some pathetic drooling that had begun to take place.

Books sighed once again, looking back at the strange abode that was his home. Everything turned upside down in seconds for him. Those old, tired eyes that once held a steadfast and endearing apathy, now simply looked... exhausted. Maybe Sketch inherited his lack of sleep from him.

“Sketch... I could never approve, you know? This is way too dangerous. You’re only going to end up getting yourself hurt associating with friends like Haren and Anthem. And a relationship with that monster... that mare. It can’t end well. I can’t in good faith tell you that it’s going to be fine. That’s not my job as a father.”

Sketch remained silent, only sobbing every now and then. Sketch’s mind ran through thousands of futures, thousands of possibilities, none of them without Trust. But many of them played out without his father. It was a horrific future, but unfortunately it was a necessary sacrifice if need be. He didn’t want it to be like this, but if his dad gave him no choice-

“But,” Books began, causing his son’s ears to perk, the three letter word cutting Sketch’s musings to a halt. “You’re seventeen, aren’t you, Sketch? Even if I forbade you from seeing that mare, the only thing that’s going to do is make you sprint out of my house the second your birthday hits. Heh, and even then, im sure you’d just sneak some way to see her.” He laughed, a good laugh from his belly as he closed his eyes and shook his head. “I was young too, once upon a time. I know how that game goes.”

Sketch looked up at his father in shock. What was he trying to say?

“Listen Sketch. I will never approve of this union between your friends... or approve of this relationship you have with a... demon. But just because I don’t approve of it, doesn’t mean I can’t support you.” His father placed a hoof on his shoulder. “You remember when I told you about your mother, right? When we started dating, my father absolutely hated her. Her language, her crassness, her... spirit. He called it... he called her a menace. Unladylike, inelegant. He called her all sorts of names. When I decided to defy him and continue our relationship, he disowned me. He kicked me out, spat on the ground I walked on, and never spoke to me again. And as much as I love your mother, as much as I love you... there are some times when I wonder if I made the right decision.” He cleared his throat. “It’s awful, I know. In reality would never trade the two of you for anything. But he was my father, you know? He raised me. We laughed, we cared, we loved each other. And losing that never felt right, even though in my head I know I made the right decision.” He placed a hoof on Sketch’s shoulder and smiled. “I don’t want to do the same thing to you. And beyond that, if I end up being wrong about all of this, I don’t want to be the bad guy in this story. I don’t want to be my father.”

The excess of carbon dioxide in the air from all the sighing must have been making the plants very happy, as Books contributed his part yet again. “I guess that’s it for me, huh? One year earlier and I would grounded you so hard you wouldn’t see Celestia’s sun again for at least another thousand years. But timing is everything in these types of things.” Books brushed off Sketch’s shoulders, and wiped the tears from his eyes. “Come on. Let’s go meet your marefriend.” He winced. “And talk to... Haren and... her... friend.” He held back a gag and shook his head again, violently this time. At that, he turned away and trotted to his home, leaving Sketch’s mouth agape at the sudden change in tone. It came to Sketch’s attention that his father had just taken the reins to the conversation and was now leaving.

That wasn’t... how Sketch thought that was going to happen. So it was like... his father didn’t approve, but that was okay? Very curious.

Sketch was coming to realize that not knowing how he felt was becoming a disturbingly common occurrence.

Galloping to catch up with his fleet footed father, he skidded to a halt once at his side. “Just.. just like that?”

“Just like that,” Books confirmed, nodding tersely. “I’ll try to give all of this a chance Sketch. I’m doing this for you. I just wish you had told me about all this sooner so I wouldn’t be up against a wall like this.”

“I know, heh.” Sketch laughed as he gritted his teeth. “Mom said the same thing.” Sketch kicked the ground, throwing his head to the side. “Well, there’s still a lot I have to talk to you about.”

“I’m sure,” he chortled. Reaching the door to his house, he cleared his throat and reached for the knob. This door had become something else. Instead of a portal to safety, it was an entrance to the unknown. A hole to chaos. Nothing would ever be the same, and that made him hesitate.

Sketch couldn’t blame his father’s trepidation. A part of him screamed to run away. It would be easy, right? Maybe. Maybe not. Didn’t matter, it wasn’t in the cards anymore.

The door opened.

The light poured out.

Friends and family would share a space that night.

A voice echoed in Sketch’s head, over and over again. 

Know who your allies are.


> 19. Go For Broke (This Time)
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

““Family ties mean that no matter how much you might want to run from your family, you can’t.” 

-Unknown

You could hear a pin drop, Sketch thought, slowly glancing at everyone in the room. Books’ deadpan face, trademark as always, never shifted once as he mimicked Sketch’s motions, glancing at every actor around him in utter silence. Sketch cleared his throat subconsciously, and instantly regretted the comparatively ear splitting noise it made. Suddenly, Books started moving, which everybody was embarrassingly startled by, flinching at the completely unintimidating lawyer.

Sketch suddenly had a thought. Lawyer. His dad was a lawyer. That’s why he’s so understanding and willing to give all this a chance. He had to see every side. Sketch felt stupid. But, if that were true, that means these first impressions were all the more important. This was his opening statement. 

Yikes. 

Well at least Haren had a positive first impression with Books already, so he wouldn’t have to worry about that. Anthem, on the other hand....

Books and Anthem had already met once. It didn’t go well. It didn’t go poorly either so there was that.

Sketch remembered that day... “Hey Mr. Books! Your son hates drugs!” Anthem shouted, beaming wildly, completely oblivious to how to interact proper adults. He behaved as he had just said the exact right thing he needed to say, smugly buffing his chest with a hoof.

“Umm, okay?” Books replied, understandably confused. “Anthem, I assume? I’m taking my son home...”

“Sure thing, Mr. Books! He has no drugs.”

“Fucking kill me now,” Sketch grumbled rubbing his eyes and walking away from the resturaunt Anthem had treated him to.

Books had never liked Anthem, he had never made that subtle or unapparent in any way. Sketch couldn’t exactly blame his father, especially since he was never dishonest about the kind of person Anthem was. In fact, looking back at it, Sketch should probably appreciate how much his parents trusted him to hang around someone like Anthem, him being a classic example of a bad influence. But thanks to the superficial relationship that the two had, good first impressions were still possible. And, on top of that, Sweet Night seemed to like Anthem. But... well that was probably to be expected, the kind of mare Sweet was.

Then there was Trust. Oh Celestia, there was Trust. Trust’s defence mechanism of being very rude and smarmy probably wouldn’t bode well here. Hell, the only way he got his mother to accept her was straight up emotional blackmail. That’s not something Sketch wanted to intentionally employ.

On the surface, Trust was an incredibly disagreeable person, now that Sketch considered it. Kind of an asshole, really. Sketch was probably one of the few ponies who didn’t care and gave her more of a modicum of a chance. He wondered how this meeting would play out for them...

Books sat down on his poofy recliner chair and grabbed his newspaper, which Sketch wondered was more for the aesthetic of it rather than the news, and fluffed it while beginning to read. He probably wasn’t actually reading it considering the situation.

Suddenly, he spoke, clearly and a normal volume, which was ear splitting since everyone was expecting a whisper. “Anthem, why the hell are you bleeding all over my couch?”

Oh. Oh crap. Sketch forgot that Anthem was severely injured. He’s a bad friend.

“Hey Mr. Books! Your son-” Anthem started cheerily, clearly having rehearsed a response in his head. The wrong response. He grunted, and one could practically hear the gears going into overdrive in his head. “Your son... helped me out! You see... I... got... in... bit... of... a... tizzy.”

“A tizzy?” Books asked, eyes wide.

“A tizzy?” Sketch asked, eyes wider.

“A tizzy?” Trust asked, breaking her shy silence out of pure confusion.

“A tizzy,” Anthem clarified using the same term. “You know... a... like...”

“A fight?” Books offered incredulously.

“Haha, a fight implies fairness.” Anthem flinched at his own boast, clenching one eye shut. Sketch facehoofed.

“Not a fair fight? You got jumped, then.” Books sounded so... unimpressed. Quite astonishing really. In fact, he sounded bored.

“Uhh... yeah,” he confirmed, rubbing the back of his head, cursing when it caused him pain. Again, silence took hold of the room, before Anthem realized what Books had been saying in his head. “It doesn’t happen to me, honest!” Anthem shouted defensively, a little louder than he probably meant. “It doesn’t. I stay out of trouble, despite my lifestyle. Generally, I don’t get jumped.”

“Mhmm,” Books agreed half-heartedly, not even looking at the injured stallion. 

“I’m serious! I don’t look for trouble! Trouble never even looks for me. It’s just-”

Books cut him off with a terse question. “Why did you come here, then?”

“I-” he stuttered, unprepared for the subject change. “I... trust your son, Books. I knew he could help.”

“Why didn’t you go to the hospital.” He phrased it like a statement rather than a question.

“I don’t do hospitals,” Anthem replied darkly, looking at him out the sides of his eyes. 

“Why not.”

Suddenly Anthem was shouting. Strangely, Sketch noted, Haren was clutching her arm tightly and wincing. Did she know something Sketch didn’t?

“Because I don’t!” he screamed. “I ain’t never going back there!”

“So you put the burden on us instead?” Books followed up, a little louder this time, but still not yelling.

“The hospital here took my father!” Anthem screamed, earning a recoil from Sketch and his mother. Trust was far enough away that she simply opened her mouth in shock. This wasn’t something any of them knew about. “It took away my uncle!” he punded his good hoof into the cushion at his side. “It’s not going to take me too! Everyone I knew lied alone in those pure white sheets -- alone -- as they drifted away. It’s not going to happen to me.” Anthem growled through gritted teeth. “Mama never got better after that... she was lonely... she... but it was her fault she did that.” He began to mutter to himself. “No, she shouldn’t have done that....”

Sketch inhaled sharply, making the motions to move to Anthem’s side. The outburst may have been healthy, but now he was just muttering nonsense and probably needed someone to calm him down.

Why hadn’t Sketch seen this coming? Anthem had been going through a lot of stress, of course he would be ready to burst. No one was expecting it to be now of all times. Books’ accusatory questions probably was the straw that broke the camel’s back. Hell, even Books looked horrified at the sudden breakdown. Before Sketch could make it to the couch Anthem occupied, his father exhaled.

“Okay,” he relinquished, closing his eyes. He knew had pushed too hard this time.

“Sorry,” Anthem breathed.

“Okay,” he reaffirmed, fluffing his newspaper again.

Sketch had instinctively stopped moving when his father spoke, and slowly began moving again once silence took hold. Haren was already tenderly stroking Anthem’s mane whose breathing had become labored. Sketch kneeled next to his friend’s ear. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” Anthem confirmed, a few rings having appeared under his eyes. “Sorry about freaking out like that, I just wasn’t expecting your dad to-”

“I know, don’t worry about it,” Sketch reassured, chortling softly. “Anthem, you’re the victim here. You’re allowed.”

He just laughed back.

Out of the corner of his eye, Sketch noticed his father looking away from his newspaper to face him. When he noticed that Sketch noticed, he cleared his throat and made a show of returning his attention to the paper. Sketch rolled his eyes.

“So, why were you targeted?” Books asked again, this time a little more tenderly, actually facing the stallion this time. Haren stopped stroking Anthem’s mane and cleared her throat. The couple started fidgeting nervously and looking to each other for help, shrugging slightly. They finally faced Sketch, who wasn’t too far away anymore, and motioned to books quizzically. Incredulous, Sketch grunted.

“Guys, he already knows.”

“Know what?” Books asked, unable to understand the invisible conversation.

“Maybe we can convince him we were just goofing around?” Anthem offered, smiling sheepishly.

“Even I know that’s horseshit...” Sweet muttered, looking off to the side, just loud enough for someone to hear.

“No, that’s dumb,” Haren sighed, her distance from Sweet Night unlocking her beak. “Me and Anthem are a thing. We don’t do a great job of hiding it. Someone didn’t like that, obviously.”

“Barbaric,” Books said plainly. Not even a scoff, no tone of shock. Just dismissive disdain, that was somehow more effective than any passionate display. “I don’t like it either, but you don’t see me ganging up on folk.”

“You don’t?” Anthem asked.

“He doesn’t,” Haren answered. She had already kind of experienced it earlier, when Books had laughed off the idea of a griffin and pony union.

“Why the hell not?” Anthem questioned with intensity. He probably couldn’t do so without putting a little venom in his speech since someone with the same beliefs as Books had just decided that Anthem wasn’t worth a fair fight.

Everyone flinched when Books firmly rose his voice. “Because I think it’s an overindulgence in degeneracy! Spitting in the face of Celestia’s light and the balance of nature. There’s no end goal, no propagation, just a commitment to a lack of commitments. You’ve got to understand, Anthem, I think you’re a useless piece of pony garbage. An absolute disgrace and drain of the supplies of society. A hedonist with no limit and no perspective. Think about it, think about where we are and where we’re sitting. I worked hard to get here. I work hard to stay here. You did neither.”

The absolute onslaught of Anthem’s character left him speechless. Hell, it left everyone speechless.

Books continued. “But for some benign and outlandish reason, my son likes you. And he doesn’t like anyone. In fact, I find Sketch’s taste in others absolutely flabbergasting. And if my son thinks your worth something, I have to trust and believe him, as much as I don’t want to. Remind yourself -- that’s the only thing keeping you on my couch.” Books faced his newspaper once again and cartoonishly straightened it out with a flourish. “Regardless, as much as I dislike this relationship you have with Haren, or my son for that matter, that doesn’t excuse such...” He gritted his teeth. “Violence. It’s absolutely disgusting, the lack of communication these days despite it being the foundation of progress. Despite my lack of enthusiasm for your person, Anthem, I wish you the best recovery.”

Everyone looked away, almost as if they were looking at themselves. Books monologue was so verbose and well spoken, no one knew what to do with it. One could argue, sure, but where to start? No one was able to rehearse a response as well as he obviously had.

Anthem swallowed, having calmed down despite the digs. Something about someone rationally explaining their stupid opinions to you made you kind of respect it. “Okay. Where does that leave us?” he finally asked, tapping the side of the couch anxiously.

Sketch was confused, but luckily Books knew exactly what he meant. “Whatever you want to do you is your business. I’m not going to try to convince you to my point of view. As long as you don’t do the same to me. As far as my son goes...” Books looked to his son, but still spoke to Anthem.. “I’m not going to prevent you from seeing him, or anything like that. Sketch has no friends. He needs the few he already has.”

Sketch pouted, and his mother snickered.

“You just have to promise to try and keep your... disagreements with others out of his business. Because if you cause Sketch any harm, whether directly or indirectly... I’ll sue all the blood out of your body.”

“Of course, sir.” Anthem was unintimidated, but agreed to the terms out of respect for the stallion.

“Good.” Books finally set aside his paper, the act visibly signifying the end of his point. He set one hoof over the other on his arm rest, softly smiling at the couple. “I’m sorry about your injuries.”

“Cool,” Anthem responded. There was a beat where everyone in the room tried to figure out if that was an appropriate response.

Appropriately, Sketch’s mother chose to ignore the strange word choice. “So, we all square?”

“Square, Mrs. NIght,” Anthem chuckled. “Square.”

“Good,” Night mimicked her husband grinning broadly.

Another silence.

“So we all gonna pretend like I don’t fucking exist, or...?”

Unfortunately, Books was drinking a glass of water that his Sweet wife had given him, the contents of which were now on the floor as he coughed from the sudden expletive. Sketch broke into a nigh sprint to Trust’s side, lest she say something else completely outrageous. He swore he could spy a smirk from his mother, but more apparent than that was the blank expressions of his older friends, who weren’t aware of how to deal with Trust’s blatant disrespect.

Sketch had to resist shoving his hoof into Trust’s gigantic mouth.

“HAHA NO OF COURSE NOT TRUST SHE’S FUNNY VERY FUNNY!” 

Sketch was too loud.

“A-” Trust started to say, but Sketch was smart enough to cut her off.

“Trust,” he whispered in her ear. “Trust I know you do this all-or-nothing thing when meeting new people, but could you dial it down like this one time for me?”

“Uh-” Trust started, but bit her lip. “I... I... what?”

“I’m sorry Trust, but... please be nice. This is important to me.” He smiled boyishly at her with a pleading in his eyes.

Looking back at them, there was something... in her eyes. I kind of spark, as her eyes went wide, and all expressions drained from her face. Whether it was a lightning fast weighing of options or... something else, she nodded her head and evenly said, “Okay.”

When she broke her gaze from her coltfriend, her ears matted themselves against her head, and she began to speak. “I... I... H... Hi...”

Sweet Night had taken her place near her husband. They both glanced at each other before looking at the batpony. “Uhm, hello. My name is Law Books-” Trust bit her lip to prevent herself from laughing at his name. “-and this is my wife, Sweet Night; I’m sure you’ve met her already.” Books shot Sketch an evil glare, and he smiled sheepishly back at him. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

Trust opened her mouth, but glanced at her coltfriend beside her. She closed her mouth and opened it again after some apparent internal debate. “Pleasure’s... all... all mine.” She struggled to get the words out, and she squeaked a few times while talking. She was having trouble maintaining eye contact. It wasn’t a pleasant feeling, watching Trust grappling with herself like this. A part of him wanted to take back his request, but... well, it was too late now.

And it was his fault it was too late now.

“What’s your name?”

Sketch jumped in.“It’s Trust, Dad.” Answering for a mare was typically considered rude, but this wasn’t a typical situation.

“Trust, huh? Cool name.” Another seething glare was shot at Sketch. “Bit ironic.”

Yeah, yeah, yuk it up.

“So Trust, now don’t take this the wrong way, but I noticed that you have... erm... features, that uhh... that... are, let’s say, atypical for the average pony. You mind explaining this?”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?”

“I don’t know why I was made like this. I just am.” Trust pouted, kicking the floor and looking off to the side. “It’s not like I wanted to look like this.”

“I see.... So you have no recollection?”

“No.”

“Who raised you?”

Trust winced. Sketch would have to take this one. “There was an old deer named Deecha out in the outskirts of Canterlot. He passed away some time ago.”

“The only person that wanted to help,” Trust clarified.

Books cleared his throat in a rare display of shame. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Trust chuckled dryly. “You didn’t kill him.”

Silence.

“So, you don’t know anything about your condition, either.” Books shook his head. “Not exactly what I wanted to hear...”

“What did you want to hear?” Sketch inquired innocently.

“Anything, honestly. I want to know she’s not dangerous. Or... uh contagious.” Books nodded his head towards the increasingly uncomfortable batpony. “What if she accidentally bites somepony? Will they become a bat as well?”

“I don’t think you’ll have to worry about that,” Haren snidely commented.

“Why not?”

Oh no. He didn’t get the joke. Sketch facehoofed alongside his mother. “Dear, it means Arthur might have already experienced a ‘bite’, and had no adverse effects.”

“But why would she-” Realization occurred for Books a little to late in his sentence. “Oh! Uhh, right.” WIth a red face, Books cleared his throat again and sniffed. “Regardless, I’d like to know that you don’t pose a threat to my son. And like... the universe.” Books tilted his head. “So. As it looks from here, I can only take you at your word. So. What do you say? Are you going to hurt my son?”

Sketch was expecting an immediate denial, but strangely Trust was quiet.

Moments passed. Seconds turned into dozens of seconds. Anthem’s eyes were shooting all over the place, and his patience was the first to pass. “Uhh, Trust?”

“No,” she finally answered, breaking some of the ice that had been building from her lack of action. Unfortunately, before the ice could melt, Trust took a step forward, determination adorning her face. “But what if I said that I was?”

Flummoxed, Books leaned forward when he spoke. “Pardon?”

“What would you do to me if I said I had planned to hurt Sketchy, huh? Would you gang up on me?” Trust was grinning madly as her face scrunched with anger. “Call the cops?”

“Trust,” Sketch tried to reason, but she ignored him.

“Kill me?” Her creepy grin faded. “You ponies are all the same. See something you don’t like and shout piss and vinegar until it goes away.” Suddenly she shouted, smashing her hoof into the floorboards. “Well I’m tired of it! Sketch is the only pony I’ve ever met that gave me a chance, so I don’t have to take all these looks from you! I don’t have to take your bullshit!” She hooked a leg around Sketch’s neck and leaned on him, almost knocking him off balance. “So, I’m not going to answer stupid fucking questions like that anymore. I’m tired of trying to explain myself to others. Of course I’m not going to hurt Sketchy, why the fuck would I do that? He’s the only one I really care about.” She glared at books, narrowing her eyes, as Sketch looked back and forth between them, unsure of what to do. “So why don’t you ask yourself that question before you ask me?”

This outburst was different. It wasn’t her defense mechanism. It was just pure frustration. Maybe it wasn’t entirely a bad thing.

“I see,” Books said, eyes wide. He had been rendered speechless, unexpecting the vitriol. He tapped his hooves together. “Yes, perhaps that was a stupid question.”

“Honey, she means well. You were right, we met before, and...” Sweet nodded at the mare before her. “I don’t think she’s very much different than us, rather than the obvious.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of, honestly,” Books sighed. “That makes all of this so much more difficult to handle.” He nodded at the batpony in acknowledgement. “I’m not going to mince words, Trust. The only reason I’m not smacking you with a tennis racket right now is the foreknowledge that you are friends with my son. You look like a vampony.”

“All shit I already know,” she pouted, rubbing her shoulder ashamedly.

“And you know that any hardships that come with that... it’s going to affect my son secondhoof. You’re okay with that?”

“Of course she’s not,” Sketch answered for her, blood beginning to rush to his ears. “That’s something you should be asking me anyways, Dad.”

“Right,” he acknowledged, looking to the floor. “I know I’m not going to be able to convince either of you that all of this is a terrible idea. But I want you to know where I stand in all of this.”

“What else should I have done, Dad? Answer me that,” Sketch snapped, wrapping his forelegs back around Trust. She couldn’t help but smile despite their position.

“What do you mean?”

“Well I met Trust, and she wasn’t a homicidal monster. She was just a lonely mare. What would’ve been the right thing to do in my shoes?”

Books opened his mouth, but didn’t answer. He just grumbled and closed his eyes.

“Well, you still should’ve told us,” Sweet Night scolded, sitting up and putting her wrists on her hips. “And you shouldn’t have complicated things by becoming romantically involved, but I understand that would be a ridiculous thing to ask of teenagers.” She sighed wistfully whilst looking at the ceiling with a ‘to-be-young-again’ look of nostalgia. “Plus, Trust is super cute. I honestly can’t blame you Sketchy.”

Trust blinked a few times. She hadn’t been complimented by anyone other than Sketch before, as far as he understood.

Books looked incredulous, raising a brow. Clearly, he didn’t see it. Thankfully, Trust didn’t notice, instead choosing to swim in her temporarily inflated ego.

“Well,” Books coughed, looking away. “Clearly, things have already gotten out of hoof for the lot of us. The best thing to do now is try to get along and try to keep this all underwraps to keep us safe, as much as you all might not like to hear that.”

Everyone winced except Books. Yup. Everyone.

“What?” Books demanded, noticing the dramatic turn of atmosphere.

“Well,” Sketch chuckled, scratching the back of his head. “About that...”



“Good lord...” Books exclaimed, sinking further into his chair after getting filled in.

Everything had been disclosed: Syntax, the intrusive photojournalist with no respect for a child’s privacy that had somehow been befriended by Sketch, Royal, the second batpony who was even less socially inclined than Trust, the threat of the entire public knowing about Sketch’s relationship with Trust, the dangerous tram incident that nearly killed them -- everything. It took a good time to explain everything that had happened in the past few months, some of which Sketch had forgotten about until now, and when they were done everyone was too exhausted to say anything more.

“Syntax...” Books breathed. “I think I’ve heard of her before... I’m pretty sure I defended someone against some of her claims at some point. I remember losing, too, her piece was simply too strong.”

“She prosecuted against you?” Sketch asked.

“No.” He shook his head. “She’s not a lawyer. Her work was used in evidence.” He rubbed his temples. “Ugh... what are we going to do. This is all terrifying for us, Sketch.”

“I know,” Sketch admitted bashfully. “I didn’t mean for things to get so dire.”

“We could always just kill Syntax,” Haren offered plainly, raising a talon.

“Yes, that would make things so much easier for us, wouldn’t it?” his mother dubious muttered aside, kicking the ground.

“We’re not killing a mare!” Sketch squeaked in disbelief. He didn’t know he was talking to a bunch of bloodthirsty criminals.

“Relax, Son, they’re joking,” Books explained to him. “I think.”

“Um, guys?” Trust said, raising a hoof.

“What is it?”

“We may have solved this problem already. Remember that little project I mentioned?”

Sketch nodded. “Yeah, you wouldn’t shut up about it.”

“Well,” She grumbled, trying to ignore his rudeness. “That project was a little thing I like to call, Royal Interference.” Her legs crossed over one another as she grinned madly, with a face of one who had just said the smartest thing in existence.

Everyone blinked.

Trust cleared her throat. “It means I told Royal to see if he could convince Syntax to lay off.”

“WHAT?!” Sketch exclaimed, hooves in his hair. “Are you insane?! Why on earth did you do that?!”

She shrugged. “What’s the big deal? Royal’s got nothing to lose, plus he’s all muscle-y. If anyone can strong-arm the bitch, it’s him.”

“Okay, you guys won’t have to kill her,” Sketch deadpanned. “She’s probably already dead.”

Trust laughed and flicked her wrist. “Oh, p’shaw Sketchy, my lad. Royal’s a big ol’ teddy bear, he wouldn’t hurt her. Besides, he had already started talking to her like a week ago, and you’ve seen her since then, right?” She wrapped both her forelegs around Sketch’s neck in exaggerated familiarity. “It’s fiiiiiiiine.”

“This is absolutely gonna blow up in our faces,” Sketch droned.

“Knowing everything that’s happened so far, they’re probably already sleeping together,” Haren joked, covering her beak like she always did.

Everyone who knew the mare laughed heartily, nearly losing their balance at the absurd thought. “As if anyone can melt the ice around that bitch’s heart,” Trust snarked.

“Speaking of which,” Sketch’s mother began, ending her more demure chuckle prematurely. “Haren, Anthem. When did you two meet?”

The voice of the matriarch immediately caused Haren to shrink behind the couch. As the conversation progressed throughout the night, Haren retreating every time Sweet Night spoke was an unfortunate eventuality, though the severity of occasions lessened as time went on. Haren didn’t even leave the room this time. Progress!

Anthem gave his girlfriend the grace of not needing to answer. “About four years ago.”

“Ooh, five years!” She turned to her husband, beaming. “You hear that, hon? Four years. That’s commitment!” Clearly, she was much more supportive of the stallion and gryphon combo sandwich.

“Okay?” Books nodded, confused. “Are you trying to say something specific?”

She stared at him with an expressionless face for a beat, before droning, “No.”

“Uhh, well, we weren’t in a relationship for four years... we just got in one a couple of weeks ago.” Anthem looked to the side and chuckled, the realization of his inaction barely beginning to eat at him. “We just... were... room... roommates.” The thousand yard stare he was beginning to adopt told all.

“Wait,” Sweet Night deadpanned, pointing an accusing hoof at Anthem. “You mean to tell me you lived four years with our sweet Haren over here before you two... uhh... did the dirty?”

Anthem flattened his ears in utter shame, the wasted years weighing heavy on his heart. Meanwhile, Sketch gagged.

“Ugh, Mom, why did you have to say it like that?”

Laughing, Sweet Night, brushed her shoulder, smugly pursing her lips. “Oh come on, Sketchy. There are much worse ways I could have said that.”

“Not many.”

A beat passed as everyone looked to Sketch’s mother. She looked as if she were preparing to say something important. Facing towards the sky with a thoughtful look about her. The ponies in the room leaned forward as she opened her mouth. “I coulda said ffffffffffffffuck.”

“Mom!” Sketch pleaded, yet far too late.

“Please, dear,” Books said, looking away bashfully. Seems it was too much even for him. She simply giggled, satisfied out of the rise she got.

“I don’t know why I waited so long,” Anthem regaled suddenly earning the attention of the room. “Really it should’ve been obvious, even to someone like me. She was the only one that mattered to me. She was the only one that cared. She was my world, it sounds cheesy as hell, but it’s the truth. I just... didn’t see it. I wish I had done something earlier. Thinking about what I could have loss if I didn’t meet her, or your son... it terrifies me.”

Sketch bit his lip. I know why. It's because of our society. You were conditioned to believe that you couldn’t love Haren, no matter how much you actually did. O‘Course I can’t say any of that in front of dad. Hmph.

“Hm,” Books grunted dismissively, earning some incredulous puffed up cheeks from Anthem.

Dear old Mom, however, countered that negative attitude with some sugar of her own. “Ohh, that’s so sweet! Don’t worry Anthem, I’m pretty sure that obliviousness is a male thing. It took my husband two years to ask me out.”

Books wasted no time. “I didn’t ask you out, you asked me out. And I told you no three times before I gave up and said yes.” He fluffed his paper with a flair.

“Okay okay,” she giggled hysterically, beaming at her audience before snapping her neck towards her husband. “You said you’d tell ponies you pined over me.”

“There’s a griffin in here.”

Night’s eyes widened before she harrumphed and crossed her legs in defeat. “...So there is.”

Sketch couldn’t believe his eyes and ears. Everyone was... getting along? Despite the differences in dogma, despite the differences in backgrounds, everyone was bantering and laughing like they had known each other for years. Is this just... how adults mingled? Or was it more than that?

Was it all for Sketch’s sake?

Sketch laughed at another exchange between his mother and Trust, pausing as his father humorlessly threw his two cents in, which only made the room laugh at the absurdity of his dry delivery. Aside from the occasional panic attack from Haren powering through her irrational fear of Night, everything was going well.

Sketch held a drink, taking a break from the sport of conversation, watching from the sidelines as Haren shared some stories about her more recent job at a nearby pharmacy before getting fired. As he sipped, Trust slid by next to him holding a drink of her own -- lemonade that Sketch’s mother had provided.

“So,” she said, sipping loud, her abnormal teeth causing some difficulty in getting a proper lip grip on the glass. “Everything’s okay now?”

Shrugging, the exhausted teen sipped demurely on the juice he had poured for himself. He mused on how the cranberry fluid resembles blood, and the irony of current company. “No it’s not. But it isn’t bad. ‘Sall we could hope for really.”

“I still see it in their eyes, you know.” Trust set her glass down. “The fear I talked about. The apprehension. It’s in all of them, in different amounts. Your dad the most. Haren the least. All of them except you.”

“Is that going to be a problem?”

She shook her head after thinking for a beat. “No. No I don’t think so. I’m tired of pushing ponies away. I think I’m going to go for broke this time.”

“What changed?”

“You did.” She smiled. “Because if they hurt me, like the last times I tried to get along with ponies, I know I’ve got you to fall back on.” She rested her head on his neck, slowly rubbing her muzzle and nose up to his chin. 

It made him a little nervous, the sudden display of affection, but the anxiety melted away when he noticed his mom giving him a little wink.

He breathed out his nose, nuzzling her in turn, and closed his eyes. “I’ll always be here, no matter who hurts you, whether it be my family, or any random schmuck that pisses his bed at night that can’t handle the idea of anyone different from himself. I’ll always be here, no matter how dark it gets.”

Because he wasn’t afraid anymore.

Sketch remembered something he was told one time. That instead of shying away from the dark he embraced it. At the time, the mare who told him didn’t understand why he did this, and at the time he didn’t know either.

But he knew now.

It’s because of the darkness within his family, and the darkness within himself. He had reached out to that part of them that they tried to hide all the time. It was the best way for them to be comfortable with him.

Anthem’s Violence.

Haren’s Desires.

Night’s Vulgarity.

Books’ Prejudice.

Royal’s Naivete.

And Trust’s everything.

Maybe he was looking too much into it, or maybe he was over simplifying it. But it didn’t matter. Everyone was here. All his allies.

Maybe, just maybe.

He was gonna get through all of this okay.



Day drinking.

Ha. Syntax was relaxed. She was happy. Maybe a little sluggish, but altogether, it was a positive mood. But she was still drinking.

She didn’t have a problem... but isn’t that was ponies with a problem say? It was funny, at least to her, that despite getting what she wanted, despited making the choice she wanted to make, she was still drinking first thing in the morning.

Whatever.

Syntax eyed the trash can, blocking another impulse to grab the completed article back. She fiddled the the lighter in her hooves, biting her lip.

Ugh. It’s not hard! Just do it. You’ll be keeping your promise to Royal, and you’ll still publish your paper on him. It’s a win-win. You get what you want, the report on the bat ponies, and you don’t break the poor Bats’ heart. His life will be harder, but you can make it easier on him. You win.

She nodded, striking the wheel on the lighter, conjuring the flame from the depths of her mind. She lowered the lighter to the flammable contents-

Knock knock knock!

Syntax rolled her eyes. “Just a minute!” she called to the front door. To no one in particular, she scoffed, “Geezus, can’t have an important second to myself can I?”

Placing the lighter on the desk aside her typewriter, she sauntered over to the front door, carefully double checking that all evidence of Royal’s presence was gone from the living room, as well as the half-spent wine bottle. She swung the door open, eager to end the conversation quickly. “I’m sorry,” she preemptively apologized. “I’m not interested in hearing the good word about Celestia.”

“Hello, Miss Axiom! How’re you doing?”

Syntax froze.

It was her editor, TIm Press!

“Do you have an article ready? I’m afraid I cannot wait any longer, investors and what not, hahaha!”

This wasn’t good.

Why did she keep forgetting to check the peephole?
> Intermission. Anecdotes for the End of Your World - Anthem
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

Anthem leaned out on the balcony, taking a drag off of his cigarette, the intoxicating smoke warming his soul. If one could see him now, the expression on his face would be indecipherable. Joy? Sadness? Some combination of the two? Who knew?

There was still a fading pain pulsing in his cheek, and many spots in his bones and extremities were still tender, the worst of which being his sprained leg now in an elastic bandage. THe pain felt good now, though. A badge of his principles.

He should’ve killed the fuckers.

...

...No, no. He shouldn’t have. One of those guys might be someone like Books. A good guy with one bad idea. A good guy with an even better son. He couldn’t take away someone like that.

“Anthem?”

A welcome surprise. Sketch apprehensively approached the side of Anthem, like a cautious but curious dog approaching a pony with a treat.

“Sup, kiddo?” he responded. He thought that he would’ve wanted to be alone right now, but for some reason the grey unicorn was an exception.

“You alright?”

“Yeah, your mom did a good job.” Anthem ruffled the mane on the kid’s head. Sketch’s age was a bit more in the foreground now that Anthem had just spent the last couple hours conversing with his parents.

“That’s not what I meant,” he pouted, fixing the now disheveled hair.

“Whatddya mean?”

“I’m talking about... well, you.” Sketch rubbed his shoulder bashfully. “You haven’t been having the best day.”

Understatement. “Heh, yeah well... shit happens.”

Sketch pawed at the railing, chipping some paint in the process. Anthem rose his brow at the fidgeting teen, expecting a question any moment.

“Okay, so...” Ah. There it is. “Anthem... you don’t have to answer if you don’t want to. But, uh... what happened with your parents?”

...

...Sooner or later, he was going to ask that. Anthem exhaled a long, agitated sigh. He hoped Sketch would realize it was for the weight on his heart rather than annoyance at Sketch. He leaned on a hoof, and then immediately regretted it, pain shooting through his cheek and leg.

Delicious, delicious pain. Anything to numb the real pain. Maybe he didn’t regret it after all.

“My daddy was pretty cool, Sketchy. Chill dude. We butt our heads like any family, but at the end of the day we were family. He got sick and couldn’t get better. It wasn’t the hospital’s fault, I know, but I wasn’t able to make it before he passed, and all I could think of was how lonely he must have been. You see, Momma wasn’t a very sociable pony. She couldn’t go outside most of the time. So he died alone.

“It was devastating, for sure, but I could’ve gotten over it if that was the end of the story. But later that month, my uncle died too. Same thing. I was still mourning my Daddy, so I was out of town getting drunk off my ass. I came back home and found out he died yesterday. My an’ my uncle were close, even though he hated my daddy. And now he was gone too. Hated hospitals ever since.

My uncle left me his sizable will. He wasn’t a millionaire or anything, but he was pretty well off. All I did with it was get drunk and party. After all, I wasn’t going to have to work anymore, at least for a while.

I still lived with Momma at the time, you know, taking care of her. Daddy was her whole world, so losing him was even rougher on her. But unlike me, she wasn’t getting better. In fact, quite the opposite.”

Anthem bit his lip, this being his first pause in the story. Sketch gave him the respect he deserved, and just nodded sagely.

Anthem could feel his throat tightening.

“You see... she was lonely. Really, really lonely. She... couldn’t cope with it, and eventually she... asked something of me. I had just turned into an adult, you see... but I was still young, so I didn't... I didn’t know if I should... I couldn’t say no to her.” Tears started to fall down a wincing face. “I just wanted her to feel better. I would’ve done anything.”

“Oh... my lord.” All of the blood drained from Sketch’s face, and he looked nauseous. He probably couldn’t think of anything more to say. Who could?

“So, of course it didn’t help. I stopped talking to her after that. I couldn’t even look at her anymore. She tried to make it normal. She tried to make it right. But eventually, I think she realized what she did. She stopped talking to me too. Both ashamed of what we did.

“After a couple months, I moved out. Haven’t talked to her since. Probably never will. I heard she’s doing well, at least. She went to a... ‘hospital’ to get some help. I don’t know if she told anypony what she did. Doesn’t matter. I’d just deny it anyway.

“I don’t blame her for it. I mean maybe I should, but I don’t. But you can’t erase something like that. You can’t.”

A heavy silence fell upon the room. It wasn’t the first time Anthem had told this story. It won’t be the last. And every time he told it the same thing happened. Silence. Regret.

Sketch, to his credit, responded faster than most. Almost as fast as Haren. “I guess... it makes sense.”

That wasn’t what Anthem was expecting. “Uhh, what? What do you mean?”

“Well you had trouble with intimate relationships for a while. And that’s why. That experience with your mother... if fucked up your perception of sex and love. You’re lucky you were able to work yourself out of that.”

“Fuck,” he cursed, unable to keep it to himself. “I hadn’t thought of it like that...”

Sketch nodded, and had a pencil-thin smile. “What you went through fucking sucks, Anthem, but look at you now. A bastion of hope and love. A pillar to lean on. You’re a good guy despite it all.”

Anthem laughed, running his hoof through his mane. “Yeah... I am a pretty cool guy.”

Sketch leaned further on the balcony, smirking. “I’m glad you told me, Anthem, I was afraid you weren’t going to.”

“Nah, man,” Anthem chortled. “We’re family. No more secrets.”

“No more secrets.”
> Intermission. Anecdotes for the End of Your World - Haren
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

“In the process of letting go you will lose many things from the past, but you will find yourself.”
-Deepak Chopra

“Thanks for all the help, Mrs.Night.”

“It’s no problem, Anthem, feel free to come around again the next time you get jumped!”

All that he gave back was a chuckle before the door closed behind him. Limping out to the front yard and around the bend, he saw Haren sitting on the sidewalk, scraping the dirt out of the cracks in the cement like a child.

She hated this, having to sit outside like some sort of misbehaving brat while the adults said their goodbyes. It was always like this around mothers.

“Hey Haren. You doing okay, gal?” he asked, the sweet concern in his voice a welcome distraction. If one would misunderstand the depth of Anthem’s care, one would only need to observe the permanence of his consideration of Haren’s welfare. It was constant, even ignoring their newborn relationship.

“Yeah. I’m okay. Sorry I’ve been kinda flaky,” she apologized, pressing her index talons together anxiously.

“Don’t worry about it. I’m just sorry I got you dragged over here for my sake.”

“Alright, alright, let’s put our dicks away for this pity party, no need to apologize anymore,” Haren chortled, scratching her shoulder and covering her beak as she smiled. “Let’s just get home and get some sleep.”

“Yeah,” he breathed, closing his eyes, no doubt imagining the comfort of his own home. “That sounds nice.”

Haren took a step forward and stopped, glancing back at her coltfriend behind her. He did his best to make it look like his bandaged leg wasn’t any pain. He actually did pretty well. But... no, this wouldn’t do.

If anypony could make it back to their home with a sprained leg, it would be Anthem. He wouldn’t have to with a marefriend like Haren.

“Listen, Haren, don’t worry about me. I’ve gone through wor-AGH!” Whatever he was trying to say was interrupted by the feathery menace that was Haren. Still full of energy since she wasn’t the one covered in bruises, she deftly hopped back without any aid of momentum behind her coltfriend. Then, in one swift motion, dove under him in between his legs and pushed up, sliding the stallion onto her back. “Uoof, hoo, woah! Woah! Hahaha! Haren!” Anthem squirmed a bit and tipped back and forth from the sudden displacement of his body, but thankfully Haren was skilled enough in manipulating his weight that she was able to aid him to stabilization.

Eventually, the two made a short totem of themselves, with Anthem sprawled out over Haren’s ample griffin body. At least her body was good for one thing.

Anthem’s body, however, was another deal altogether. He wasn’t light, but wasn’t heavy either, this muscular structure more lean than massive. He may as well have weighed nothing at all, the comfortable proximity of himself providing more than a small burst of vigor. Haren could move mountains with Anthem at her back... metaphorically or literally.

“Haren! You uhh... you don’t have to do this. I can walk.”

“I know,” she hummed, beaming. “I want you there.”

It was so easy to make him blush. “Oh... heh. Alright.”

“Just relax, and we’ll be home in no time.” She glided along the street, taking great care not to jostle Anthem, and made her way to their humble abode.

Anthem obeyed quite quickly, resting his head on her feathered neck as they walked the empty streets of Canterlot.

“Man. Are we gonna turn some heads, huh?” he chuckled suddenly without any preamble. “A griffin and a pony, doing something romantic like this.”

“Perhaps. I doubt it though. No one’s going to assume we’re a couple, probably.” Maybe it was better that way.

Clearly, Anthem didn’t feel the same. “That’s bullshit. Anypony else doing this would get strange looks from passersby. Hell, they’d probably cover the kids’ eyes and shit.” Anthem shoved his muzzle further into Haren’s feathers, close to where her ears were. He was so close, his breath tickled, sending shivers down her spine and legs. “Maybe we should start making out or something, huh? Maybe... even spread ‘em right on the street?”

“Anthem!” she giggled, prodding his nose with her middle talon. “Geez what’s gotten into you. Don’t be such a deviant.”

“Deviant, ha!” he laughed, returning to a more relaxed position. “Please. According to some other ponies I’m already a deviant for kissing you.” He started to grumble. “That’s what pisses me off about all of this. Ponies thinking we aren’t allowed to be together. That feeling was so strong I didn’t even consider sleeping with you once despite living together for four years. That sucks.”

Haren could understand his frustration. So could her talons and bedsheets, by extension. She couldn’t bring herself to be angry about that social convention anymore, however, now that she had gotten what she wanted. Satisfaction was an amazing cure for contempt. “Well, we’re here now,” she reasoned. “That’s what matters, right?”

“Yeah. I guess.” His tone of voice suggested otherwise. He pressed himself against Haren’s neck again, nearly causing her to trip from the sudden stimulation. “Mmmmph,” he moaned, sending vibrations into her brain. “You’re so soft. How do you do it?”

Haren was struggling to concentrate on the road in front of her, trying to shoo some of her darker thoughts away in the interest of getting home on time. And not... well... slipping over herself. “Anthem, please,” she begged, trying to be firm but unable to wipe the grin from her face. “We’re never gonna get home by morning if you keep being awesome.”

“Hehehe. Sorry, I’ll dial it down.”

After a comfortable swathe of silence, Anthem asked another question without preparation from either party. “What did you think of Sketch’s mom?”

That made her cease in her tracks. Just an indirect and offhand mention caused the feathers on the back of neck standup. Annoyed with the sudden dissipation of the excellent sensations of Anthem’s presence, now replaced with a cold sweat, Haren sighed and covered her beak. “I don’t know, Anthem. How should I know?”

Haren felt him shrug. “I don’t know. It just seemed you were doing better near the end of the night. I was wondering if you were getting used to her.”

“Getting used to having a knife shoved into your liver isn’t the same as not feeling it.” Haren unintendedly had let indignation creep into her voice. Before she could preemptively squander any misunderstandings, he apologized.

“Sorry, Haren. I know it’s hard for you, it’s just... I can’t understand it, so I can’t help you, and it’s... disheartening.” He rubbed his hooves on her chest tenderly. “I wish I could destroy everything that causes you pain. I’d do it. No matter how long it took.”

Haren instinctively scratched the side of her beak, feeling her cheeks get hotter. Sometimes, none of this felt real, especially when Anthem got all sweet like that. He acted just like she imagined a coltfriend should, sometimes even better. It gave her the distinct feeling of not deserving it. Especially when...

The memories of her mother surfaced.



Fayvel instinctively wiped the blood off the side of her beak, feeling her cheeks get hotter with rage. 

“Huh?! Answer me!” her mother screamed, slamming an errant fist into the counter next to her, knocking over a few stray glasses littered about the tiles. “You did this shit again, even though we had a whole fuckin’ conversation ‘bout it! Lazy, no good fucking cunt! Good for fucking nothing, eh?!”

Fayvel hated this. Hate, hate, hate, hate, hate. She repeated the word in her head while her eyes narrowed. Her cheek, where she was struck, was already swelling. Talking in her head was all that she could do, because... “I was going to do it lat-”

“Shut the fuck up!” she screamed way too loud, causing Fayvel’s ears to ring with their proximity. There was the familiar soft thud of the talon-to-face contact as a new fire was born in Fayvel’s jaw. Immediately, she could taste the blood from the open wound it created in her mouth. “I’ve said it once, I said it a thousand times, I say to do something, you do it! You drop every little thing your doing, and you do as I say, then and now! I don’t care if your leg’s broken or yer taking a shit, you do as I FUCKING SAY!” She slammed her fist into the counter once again, breaking the ceramic.

“Okay,” Fayvel resigned, furious tears running down her face, mixing with the blood that had been spilled.

“Okay?! OKAY?! That’s all you have to say for yourself?! After the shit you pulled- no.” Fayvel’s mother, Lorret, dug her talons into the forelegs of Haren, drawing blood once again. Fayvel yelped involuntarily, the small victory that it gave her mother infinitely frustrating for her. Lorret pulled, ripping both flesh and feathers out and causing her daughter to kneel on the floor. “Kneel down and beg for forgiveness, ya leech. Maybe then I’ll think about letting you off with a warning.”

A bit too late for that, she bitterly retorted in her head. But lord, it was only in her head. Voiced defiance would only lead to hell. “I... I’m sorry.”

“What?!” she shouted back. “I didn’t hear you!”

“I’m sorry,” Fayvel said louder.

“I’m sorry, what? What are you sorry for?!”

“I’m sorry I didn’t clean the dishes as soon as you asked. It won’t happen again. Please, forgive me.”

Lorret grunted in satisfaction and released her daughter. “There. Now was that so hard?” Fayvel got up from the ground with some difficulty after a time, pain shooting through the gashes in her legs. She was careful to keep her head down, lest she incur further wrath from the matriarch. “Finally. No balls, fully castrated, limp dick just the way I like it,” Lorret taunted. The male-inspired degradation got under Fayvel’s nerves again, just like it always did. She hated how effective it was on her, despite the lack of logic attached to them.

Today was different, though.

Today Lorret added something on top of it. Something unforgivable. Something to reignite that white hot fury that rarely shows it’s head.

Lorret faced up, looking down at her daughter. And with as much venom as she could muster, she chuckled. “Just like your bitch of a father.”

Haren’s eyes flew open, her teeth gritted, and her breath became as hot as the fury of the sun. She faced up to look her mother in the eye, who only got the chance to transition to a face of shock before Fayvel had her talons around her mother’s throat, pushing forth with the force of a freight train. Blood flew from Fayvel’s open wounds as she tensed her muscles, digging her talons into the weak neck of the fucking bitch as her fucking airway got fucking clogged. Fuck her, fuck this, fuck, fuck, fuck, FUCK! “DON’T YOU DARE SAY A FUCKING WORD ABOUT HIM!” Lorret’s face of shock remained ever unchanging as Fayvel pulled back and slammed her into the side of the wall, earning a grunt from the fucking bitch. “YOU SON OF A BITCH! YOU FUCKING CUNT! TAKE IT BACK! TAKE IT THE FUCK BACK!”

Still, the bitch made no sound. In fact, the look of shock was gone. Now it was drab -- deadpan. Desperate, and adrenaline rushing through her veins, Fayvel grabbed a knife from it’s holder at her side and wasted no time driving it through the wood next to her face, cutting a feather off in collateral damage. “YOU TAKE IT BACK RIGHT THE FUCK NOW OR I’M PUTTING THIS GODDAMN KNIFE IN YOUR GODDAMN-”

“Go ahead.”

Fayvel released the knife in disbelief as her mother spoke -- completely calm, and with a smirk beginning to pour onto her features.

“I... I-I-I’m not bluffing! I’ll do it! I’ll-”

“I know,” she laughed, causing Fayvel’s grip to weaken. “I know. Do it. Kill me. Come on. You want it. You want it, don’t you? Come on.... come on! Show me you got some balls, coward. Show me you weren’t a waste of seed, you pathetic whore. Show me that maybe, maybe, it was worth it not shoving a blade into my uterus when I was pregnant with you. Show me something that you weren’t a waste of everyone’s time, that you’re not a scourge of life on the planet from the sheer worthlessness of your person. Show me. Come on! Kill me! Do it!”

Fayvel shook violently, adrenaline fading fast from her body, causing pain to flare up in her fresh wounds. Aches echoed in her body, the creeping dread overtaking her heart. “Ahhh.... I.... Eahhh... Urrrrvvvv....” She tried to make sounds with her mouth -- a threat or a rebuttal. Nothing but pathetic mumbling came out.

Lorret looked disappointed. “Really? Come on. You’re not gonna do it? Man, I was almost proud. Shows me right for getting my hopes up and expecting something of you.”

“Shut up!” Fayvel yelled, putting her talons up to her ears. “Shut up, shut up, shut up, shut up, shut up!” Fayvel shut her eyes and retreated, nearly slipping on her own blood as she did. She was hyperventilating uncontrollably as she escaped, her vision blurring and sounds becoming muffled as she scrambled up the stairs. Reality alternated between slow motion and fast motion for Fayvel as she crashed through the door to her room.

“Go ahead, run away like the bastard you are!” her mother called from below. But she couldn’t hear. She chose not to.

...

As her breathing regulated in the calm of her room, and her vision returned to normal, the pain of her encounter surfaced its head. She groaned and winced as she limped to her desk. Sobbing, she grasped the scissors on the desktop, and pointed them at the base of her beak. “Just go away,” she hissed at herself. “Go away, go away, go away, go away...” All she had to do was cut it off. Cut it off. Cut it off. Get rid of that beak. Stop being a griffin. Then everything would be okay. It would all be okay after that. Just a little bit of pain, and it’ll all be okay.

Except, it wouldn’t solve anything, the rapidly depleting logical part of her brain argued with the last of its strenght.

She exhaled sharply, tossing the scissors back on the desk so hard they slid across the varnish and fell behind the space of the desk between it and the wall. Slowly, she crawled to her bed, weakness enveloping her.  When she climbed on top of her bed, she allowed the cuts covering her to staunch themselves with the fabric of the sheets. 

Some sheets were already stained with blood, one way or another. What would be some more?

...Fayvel cried into her pillow.

A pillow stained with the past.

After what could have been hours, after the initial sting of the cuts had dispersed, she weakly raised her head and faced her nightstand. A photo stood on the desk in her sights, a photo she was only too familiar with. One of her father, and a happier Fayvel. A Fayvel that felt like a different griffin than her. A Fayvel that was a different griffin than her. A Fayvel that knew love from a parent.

“I have to get out of here.”

She was never strong enough to leave. All that she could think about was how much worse it was out there for her. After all, the problems wasn’t just her mother, it was griffins altogether. She was weak, she was nothing here.

Although... she didn’t feel like nothing once. When she won that contest at school for a trip to Canterlot, years ago. The ponies there valued intelligence, they valued emotional empathy. Everything griffins didn’t. Every minute in Canterlot was like heaven. Ponies smiled when one walked past them. They listened when one spoke. They solved problems through debate.

Oh how she wanted to be a pony. It’d never happen, but...

Well, it was her last shot. Try to be a pony or die a griffin. The way she saw it those were her two options.

“Seven months.” Seven months she had to endure this hell before she became of age to travel alone to Canterlot. “Seven months.” Seven months to gather enough funds to travel alone to Canterlot. “Seven months.”

She eyed the old typewriter she had bought years ago, still sitting unused on the desk next to the window. “Seven months.”

She grabbed the paper out of her drawer, along with an ink ribbon, and placed it in the machine. “Seven months.”

Taking a seat, she pecked at the letters on the keyboard, each click sending chills down her spine. “Seven months.

“Seven months is all I need.”

Words appeared on the page like magic. The only magic a griffin like her was going to do.

The words on the page? Wandering, Not Lost, by Fayvel Divickson.

No, that wouldn’t do. She needed a pen name. The last thing she needed was her mother’s last name plaguing her for the rest of her life. But what pen name should that be?

She looked back at the photo of her father, and the photo seemed to smile back. Cassidy Haren, her father’s name.

Yeah, that’s it.

Wandering, Not Lost, by H. Cassidy.



The stench of kerosene. Haren never thought it would be so intoxicating. After double checking, no,  triple checking that her mother had truly left the home, Haren, for the first time in what felt like years, smiled.

She wasn’t going to kill her mother, she had decided.

Just destroy absolutely everything she had ever touched. After wrecking her other properties and getting her fired from the council, there was only one thing left. Her stupid house, and her weak daughter, up in flames. Oh, how therapeutic.

Haren released the lit match from her talons, and delighted as the sparks flew and trailed to the house. It took a good few seconds, but the whole thing went up with no resistance, it being made out of old wood and all. She may have been not entirely prepared at how hot the raging inferno was going to end up being, but the sting of the heat felt good on her skin. A reminder of how she was still alive. She could still feel. Delicious delicious pain. Anything to distract from the real pain.

Clapping her talons together, and satisfied with her handiwork, she slung her briefcase over her shoulder, the portable device looking quite dashing with her expensive suit jacket. Haren checked her watch. Three... two... one... and now she was eighteen years old. Happy birthday, Haren. Oh look! A burning house! You shouldn’t have. She laughed as she walked the dirt road to the train station. Maybe from this moment on, she was going to be doing a lot more laughing.



Haren opened the door to her apartment, trotting inside and gently placing Anthem on the sofa. “Thank ya, dear.”

“Don’t mention it, you giant bruise.” She placed her hoof- er, talon on her coltfiend’s hoof, and stared into his eyes. She couldn’t help but smile. It appeared she made him nervous after an extended beat, and he cleared his throat to get her attention.

But no, she was well aware of what she was doing. It may have been a non sequitur, but she felt like it was an important thing to say given the recent introspection. With a resolve like no other, she admitted, “Y’know, I think Mrs. Night is a decent mom.”

Anthem blinked. “Wow, Haren, you’re still thinking about her? Are you sure you’re not the deviant?”

“Heh,” she chortled. “Yeah. I probably am. Oh well.”
> 20. Cash in your Chips
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

Press adjusted his tie, his annoying smile unfaltering as he awaited a response from his loyal journalist Syntax. “Ah-” was all she could muster back to him.

“Ah~?” he asked in playful confusion and tilting his head towards her. “I can’t do much with ‘ah’. I need something from you, Syntax.”

“Ah, ah, I uh- I don’t think I- I... I don’t think I have anything for you, Press.” Syntax scratched at the fur on her neck, passing memories of Bats lips and tongue passing over it suddenly invading her subconscious causing even more anxious buzzing to resound through her head. “I uh, don’t.”

Press’s smile faded slowly, almost as if he was told a bad joke. He made an effort to hide his frustration, quickly taking an aside glance and looking back in her eyes. “Well... that’s a problem, Syntax.”

“How so?” She asked a question she already knew the answer to.

“Syntax, I have already given you two time extensions on what you had initially promised. Not only that, but you had asked for a much larger than average amount of time for your deadline. Now, you’ve been with the company for some time and have gotten a fantastic reputation for yourself, but there’s only so much seniority will buy you. I absolutely need something from you or I will have to take disciplinary measures.”

Disciplinary measures? What are you going to do, spank me? I’m not a child.

Syntax squinted and grabbed her temple, a sudden sharp pain flashing through her head. A combination of annoyance, stress, and a little bit of hangover were likely the cause. “Look, press. I don’t have anything. I’m sorry. I’ll take a paycut, or whatever you want, just-”

Suddenly, there was a loud bang upstairs causing both ponies to eye the staircase. Press looked intrigued. Syntax tried with every molecule of her body to not look terrified. FUCK! Bats is still here! This is bad.

“What was that?” Press made an effort to step inside Syntax’s home, but she quickly quelled that goal by placing her hoof on the frame.

“Nothing! Nothing! Just... I think I set something on the edge of my table upstairs, it uh, probably just fell off the table.” Syntax winced at her own terrible lie.

As if on cue to prove her wrong, a few more soft thuds were heard, the telltale signs of footsteps hitting the soft carpet of her bedroom. Shit.

“Are you quite certain? It sounds like there’s somepony up there.”

“I-” Syntax started, taking a few steps towards the staircase, terrified that Royal may start walking down the stairs. “No, there’s nopony here.”

“Syntax, are you okay? Are you in some sort of danger?”

Syntax nearly tripped over herself at that wild interpretation. “What? Danger? No!” Of course, thanks to her sudden and uncharacteristic onset of anxiety, maybe her being in danger wasn’t that outlandish of a consideration. “I’m just...”

Syntax wracked her brain trying to come up with some sort of excuse for the recent events, but, when she came up short, she decided to play into it. “I’m just scared!” she yelped, almost laughing at her own performance. “I don’t know what those sounds were, I-I-I’ll just go, go check, alright. Make sure everything’s on the up and up.”

“I- Syntax!” Press held her shoulder before she could leave. “Syntax, I can’t let you go up there by yourself. Let me come with you.” At some point, Press and Syntax had both stepped inside her house. She couldn’t let him go with her... she had to come up with something!

“No, no, no. You can’t go up there.”

Press raised an eyebrow, clearly irritated at Syntax’s continued fight against him. “Why not?” he asked, annoyed.

“Cause I have some personal stuff up there, okay?”

“Like what? What could there possibly be that I don’t already know about you?”

“Dildos,” she reflexively said. “Like, a lot.”

Press grunted in disgust, closing his eyes in embarrassment and shaking his head slowly. “Alright, alright. Fine. Go up there and yell for me if something is amiss. Just- it’s not gonna be my fault if you die a horrible death because of your stubbornness.”

Syntax wasted no time. She glided up the stairs, shouldering the half-open door ajar, and quickly, gently, latched the door behind her. Her sudden entrance gave Royal pause, who had just gotten out of bed with a cute ruffled mane, presumably heading to the same door Syntax had burst through.

“Bats!” she shouted as quietly as possible.

“What?” he responded at an annoyingly normal volume. Couldn’t he see what kind of situation they were both in?!

“There’s a stallion here!” Surely, that would explain everything!

Royal blinked a few times. “Do... do I need to kill him?”

“What?! No!” Syntax inhaled and exhaled quickly, earning a bit of lightheadedness that she admittedly needed to clear her mind, then spoke slowly. “No. My editor, Tim Press, is here. He’s hounding me for-” Syntax suddenly realized that disclosing this may be damaging to her relationship with Royal. Probably not, but... she didn’t want to take the chance. “...hounding me to go back to the office.” She looked away as she said it, which was normally bad form when lying, but thankfully Royal was as inept as always when it came to social cues. “I took a few too many days off,” she added, deciding a half-truth was better than lying to his face.

“Why is he in your house?”

“Yo, the fuck is this, twenty questions? You a cop or somethin’?” Syntax widened her own eyes at her own exaggerated boston accent that escaped her mouth. Why was she so nervous? She lies all the time. Why was it so hard now?

Royal appeared understandably confused. “Umm, okay? What... what do you want me to do?”

“Lea-” Syntax choked up, not wanting to finish saying ‘leave’. Every fiber of her being did not want him to leave in spite of the practical situation she found herself in this moment. It took her a while to decipher her feelings on this before shaking her head and stomping her hoof. “Leave. You need to leave.”

“Ah,” Royal ah’d.

“For now! For now.” Syntax shook her head violently this time. She trailed her hooves over his head onto either side of his neck. “I want you to come back, I just-”

“I know, Miss Syntax. I’m not a child. There’s more at stake here than us.” He leaned in close, holding her cheek and whispering in her ear. Her mane must have been tickling his snout at least a little. He brushed her hooves off of him as he stepped away. “I’ll be back.” He smiled and winked, a rare display of playfulness that Syntax had taken to treasuring in the short time she knew him. Taking his leave, Royal opened up the window, quickly scanned the surrounding area, and flew off.

Goddamn, did the room feel empty without him.

The only sound left in the room was Syntax’s own ragged breaths. “Okay,” she assured herself. “Okay.”

“Miss Syntax? Are you alright up there?”

Press’ unwelcome voice bounced its way up to Syntax’s bedroom, unpleasantly muffled by the door she now found herself leaning on. She felt an irritation in her eyes. They were dry along with her mouth. The stress was getting to her. The lies, the deceit, the meddling morons that wouldn’t leave her alone and just have this... it was all collapsing in on her.

“Just breathe, girl,” she steeled herself. “You can do this.”

She forced herself to move, her actions deliberate as a cause of her subconscious desire to just give up.

“It was nothing, Press. Must’ve been the vents or something.”

Syntax sluggishly trotted downstairs, her pace a far cry from her initial ascent.

“Ah. I see. Well I’m glad it was nothing.”

Finishing her descent, she made her way to the kitchen, opening the fridge and grabbing some tomato juice. She forwent grabbing a glass, and instead took a swig directly from the carton, solving her dry mouth problem and somewhat exacerbating her dry eye problem. After savoring the flavor for a few moments, she realized Press hadn’t spoken in a remarkable amount of time.

She made eye contact with him. He didn’t look away. “Syntax...” he breathed, making a show of his disappointment. “Are you sure you don’t have anything for me?”

“I’m sure.” Syntax was already past the point of hesitating.

“Positive?”

The incredulity Syntax felt for a brief moment showed itself on her face for an even briefer moment. “Yeah. Positive. I’m sorry, Press. I know you count on me.”

His gaze softened after hearing her words. “Well. As long as you are aware I suppose. I... guess I’ll make my leave for now.”

“That would be best, I believe.”

“We can talk about what we will do about this whole situation later. Until then... I hope you sort out whatever you’re going through.” Press turned away and walked towards the front door. He paused at the door, but exhaled and walked through without another word.

“I hope so too.”

All there was left without Royal and Press was an empty apartment, and Syntax.

It may as well have just been an empty apartment. 



It should’ve been just a normal day. If at any point someone would have managed to say the right words, or do the right thing, maybe all of the hardships they would have to experience could be quelled in some way... but life had other plans.



Sketch was familiar with this darkness now. He sat on a boat out in the pitch black water. A sea so dark one couldn’t tell when the night sky met the water on the horizon. For a brief moment, Sketch wondered if she’d show. He didn’t have to wonder long, as the sign of her arrival revealed itself to him.

Holes in the vessel Sketch rode in materialized from nothing. And from those holes poured in an ethereal material, coalescing into a singular point onto the center of the deck. It spiraled into itself and rose from the floor, slowly taking shape in front of the adolescent stallion. The shape of a tall mare.

The Nightmare.

“You really don’t have to make your entrances so dramatic.” Sketch coyly teased as he leaned onto the railing of the ship. In all reality Sketch enjoyed the show, but he had an inkling of a feeling that she somehow knew that.

“I must travel in a way that seeds into your subconscious. Otherwise I’d just startle you awake,” she explained haughtily, nose in the air.

“So you admit you want to talk to me?” Sketch giggled, tapping his chin in faux thought.

“Do not misperceive my indulgence of your curiosity as anything short of entertainment to my benefit.”

“I’m... entertaining to you?”

“As a train wreck would be.”

Nightmare Moon’s composure was steadfast, a single crack did not show in her presentation. The only thing that may have betrayed her interest in the stallion, was her sudden and smooth approach to him.

“What do you think you have to gain from me, boy?”

“I dunno,” he honestly answered. “It’s just pleasant to talk to you.”

“It really shouldn’t be,” she challenged, looking out into the black as Sketch had been. She slowly shifted her weight towards Sketch in an effort to add emphasis to her next words. “You will accomplish nothing in your endeavors, you know. All except the damnation of all those around you.”

“How do you know?” Sketch asked, frowning.

“I was once in your shoes, Sketch. Damnation... it is all the darkness brings. It is consistent. There are no other outcomes. Ponies shun the darkness and they curse what they cannot understand. They destroy what they cannot see.”

“I mean... my parents don’t. Anthem and Haren don’t. If they can-”

“They pretend.” Nightmare Moon’s eyes narrowed as she turned towards Sketch. “They pretend to be your friend. Your ally. But all to scheme to pull you out. Yank you out of the darkness that embraces you. They wish to purge everything around you so they can... ‘get you back’. But they will never accept the darkness itself. It always has to be a compromise.”

As much as Sketch didn’t want to believe her... it tracked with his experiences. Even Trust had said something along those lines. That she could tell everyone was still afraid of her... even if they wore accepting smiles. Even still...

“Well, I’m here, aren’t I?”

The Nightmare didn’t respond for a while, content with looking out into the sea. But in the end she smiled a sore, incredulous smile. “And that’s supposed to make a difference? One outlier?”

“But you do admit I’m different.” Sketch smiled his boyish smile, desperate for any spark of connection to appear. But, frustratingly so, his success was vague and uncertain.

“I’d hardly see it as an accolade.” The Nightmare climbed on top of the railing suddenly, craning her neck to maintain eye contact with Sketch. Menacing as her appearance was, she was quite elegant and beautiful. “You will see what I mean, Sketch.”

It was strange to hear the Nightmare call him by name. He wasn’t even sure if he had told her at any point. It would have been more off-putting if showing up in his dreams like this wasn’t already a unique circumstance.

“The nightmare is beginning soon,” she continued. “All the ripples you have been causing are starting to take hold. You will begin feeling the consequences of your actions nearer in the future than you think. How will you react I wonder? I wonder if you will take the same path as I.” She stepped off the boat, and instead of falling, simply walked across the thin air. “Will you have regrets...?”

Sketch didn’t answer. He didn’t know if he had regrets now. But her prior words still occupied his mind. ‘Will you take the same path as I’? What did she mean by that? Literally, that was terrifying to think. Betraying everyone, plotting to force those around him to accept him. Or maybe she meant it figuratively, to ostracize himself and indulge in the rejection, to seethe in the dark. Or maybe... it was something else...

“I wish you luck in your quest, Sketch. Perhaps if you survive, you can become one of my subjects...” The Nightmare chuckled darkly as she walked into the abyss. The chuckle turned into a laugh, then a guffaw. The laughter of anticipation mixed with a bit of schadenfreude.

Sketch frowned, disappointed by the brevity of their meeting. He didn’t have time to think on it, however, as the darkness quickly flowed around him, consuming him from the hoof up. As it enveloped him, he softly spoke to the distance. “See you soon.”



Sketch woke up with a start. He involuntarily sat up in his bed, the sheets folding under him. While people usually woke up groggy or sluggish, today Sketch woke up with a clear mind and senses, which was in a way actually more disorienting. He shut his eyes as irritation made itself known, the light pounding at his retinas. It clawed at his eyelids, drawing tears from him.

“Dammit.” Sketch breathed to no one. Trust wasn’t here today, since even though the air was cleared last night his mother would never let a girl just sleep over in his room. That was going to be a new thing to figure out, what kind of boundaries he was going to have going forward. The special circumstances along with his age made the lines kind of fuzzy. Though maybe he was overthinking it. Going with his gut seemed to be going pretty positively recently, no reason to stop now.

Thinking about the events of the previous night was surreal. It almost felt like a dream. The feverish mixture of emotions was turbulent to say the least. It almost gave him a stomach ache. But at the end of the day, it was good. All the dirty laundry was out. As bad as things could have gone, Sketch decided to just cash his chips while he was still in the green.

As the harshness of the morning light dulled, Sketch had the opportunity to adjust his hearing to the day as well.

He noticed a commotion outside. Some murmuring and creaking of carriages. Normally it wouldn’t be that out of the ordinary in Canterlot, but it was a little too early. The light of the sun had graced the sky, but the sun itself hadn’t shown up quite yet. Probably four in the morning, or five. Sketch got up to see what the sounds were about, trudging slowly over to the window and glancing outside.

“Oh no.” Sketch’s blood froze as he looked over his front yard. It took a fraction of a second to identify what he was looking at, but it didn’t take long for him to feel the creeping dread of the situation. Canterlot Castle guards stood outside his door. There was a concerning amount, around six or so, littering the yard in various areas. Some stood at rapt attention, as if they were statues, while a couple others patrolled the yard and rotated their heads, with their expressions at a similar level of stoicism. 

Sketch slowly backed away from his window, nearly tripping on some pages laying on the floor. He spun around, double taking his window as he trotted towards his door, throwing it open with his magic and continuing down the hall leading to the stairs.

“Mom, Dad?” he called as he descended. “What’s going-” He stopped mid-sentence halfway down the stairs. He almost couldn’t comprehend the entity before his very eyes.

His mother was grinning nervously, first at the mare sitting on his sofa then to him as he revealed himself from the stairs. His father was looking at the floor, his eyes dark.

And the mare on the sofa? A tall, regal, powerful looking mare, double the size of anyone else in the room. An absolute bastion of society, the alabaster princess herself.

Celestia.

Her flowing rainbow ethereal mane wrapped itself around the sofa and cushions and she was covered in pure gold accessories, from beautiful and complex horseshoes to a giant yoke-like necklace. She was smiling softly, a glass of tea to her lips, and her eyes were closed.

“Sketch, honey, uhh... this is Princess Celestia!” As if he needed an introduction.

“Arthur Sketch, I presume?” Celestia spoke, her soft yet commanding tone somehow several decibels higher than anyone else’s despite surface-level sounding quieter. She didn’t wait for him to answer before turning towards the adolescent stallion, lowering her teacup and opening her eyes. Her smile faded suddenly, making the whole room seem dimmer. She almost whispered what she said next, her tone ominous. “We need to have a little chat.”

She stared daggers into him.

The light was horrifying.