Waking up with a thirst for blood was only the start. Things are getting worse. For everyone. My name is Gyre Strand and this is how my home town became the site of an incomprehensibly deadly conspiracy. Mondays, am I right?
Waking up clinically dead was not on my list of goals for high school. Neither was dealing with monsters, inter-dimensional magic, and an all-too-literal blood war. Underneath it all, seems to be the outline of the shadow of an ancient, fathomless conspiracy and an awful, disembodied voice making cryptic demands of me. Also, turns out Mondays are actually cursed. Go figure.
My name is Gyre Strand, and I need to master my new capabilities to keep those around me safe—especially from myself.
This story is set in an alternate Equestria Girls universe in which each supernatural event across the series happened with much more subtlety or away from the public eye.
Sex tag is for implied sexual activity, language, and suggestive situations. No porn.
The year is a modern one and Spring is not the only thing on the near horizon. The place: quiet outskirts of an active and thriving settlement known as Canterlot. A mansion, atop a long and grand slope, overlooks a collection of beautiful homes like a feudal lord’s estate, rising over gilded peasantry. This is not a place known for suffering, though it’s not immune to tragedy or despair, and horror has stalked the dark of these lands before. Within the warm, decadent recesses of the mansion, a man occupies a wheelchair in a room full of terrible secrets. He pays neither these nor the ache in his crumbling bones any mind as he cogitates over the dust swirling in the slanted moonbeam coming through a grand, circular skylight. Once, long ago, he had developed a melancholy sense of kinship with the motes of that dust, moved by chaotic forces incomprehensible and unassailable to them. But Man is not mere dust, he thinks. Man is a seed and Man is his own chaos. The winds can blow and the tides can rise, but Man adapts, he overcomes, then ascends, bursting into the form of a new seed that will evolve yet again some day. What new and frightening forms might Man assume, in time?
The one and only door to the room of terrible secrets gently creaks open. The sound pleases the man as much as it causes him anxiety. Neither he, nor the youthful, gorgeous woman that enters, speak as she approaches him. She leans over him from behind, placing a paper folder on his lap, a hand on his shoulder, and a kiss on his hairless, liver-spotted scalp.
“Is it what I was afraid of?” He murmurs, his strong and steady tenor reverberating richly off the skillfully carved wooden walls.
“Yes.” The woman responds. Her smooth, cold response doesn’t seem to touch the boundaries of the room.
The man looks away from the dust, turning over the cover of the folder to reveal yet another set of terrible secrets. The contents would mean little or nothing to the layman, but to an open-minded collection of highly educated physicists, chemists, psychologists, philosophers, and various other men of science, the significance of the information on this small collection of paper would be enough to deny them sleep.
“How long has it been active?”
“Unknown. A high probability of years. Waveform analysis and Rushe radiation indicates approximately half a decade, at most.”
“PNE detections?”
“Negative, although you’ll see a partial read on page three, sometime after activity is suspected to have resumed. Without hunters, it can’t be confirmed or eliminated, if necessary.”
The man leafs through the folder’s contents and props his head on one shaky hand, rubbing at his brow.
“Likely a failed transmogrification. I assume the Discidant Ritual is going well for tomorrow’s eclipse?”
“Yes.” The woman responds, displaying none of the emotion exuded by her companion. The man closes the folder and rubs at his suddenly heavy eyelids.
“And were we able to procure supplies for next year?”
“Unless additional funds are acquired, they will remain unavailable. Our enemies continue to make this unlikely.”
“Then gods save us all. Take me to bed, please, I’ve heard enough for one night.”
“There’s one more thing you should see. Page seven.” Like only the elderly can, the man sighs with the age of constellations and impatiently flips the folder open again. He grasps the last page between two brittle fingers and slides it over the others. His eyes widen after only a glance and his knuckles pop with the tightening of a fist.
“What are these waveforms?” He demands.
“Inconclusive. As you’re aware, a range of responses loosely analogous to human behavior have been determined, but this one has no precedent. However, there is a theory.”
“Out with it, woman!” The man rasps, leaning forward and craning his neck as much as his ancient joints and atrophied muscles will allow. The woman’s hand patiently pushes him back down without resistance. When her answer comes, a hint of the word she uses creeps into the edges of her tone.
I awaken, like most Mondays, in agony. Today, however, it’s not mourning for the weekend, stacked with the anxiety of having a full week of junior year high school ahead of me, but real, physical agony. I writhe out of bed, screaming as I fall to the floor in a naked heap with my sheets draped over me. I clutch at my chest where a blinding pain reaches out and rends my thoughts apart, leaving me to curl on myself in pure, atavistic reaction.
When I’m done grunting and whining through my teeth, having passed the shock, I finally notice the sound. The first seems normal enough, my mini-fridge humming beside my desk, only it feels like I’ve placed my head inches away from the radiator. The next is the birds. So loud and obnoxious! And why are there so many? Then the cars. Gods, the cars. Their wheels, gears, belts, pistons, horns, hydraulics, all of them rushing up and down the street, mechanical abominations grinding over asphalt, filling the world with hideous, gnarled static that scrapes at the inside of my skull. I scream again, clapping my hands over my ears, finding that this does very little to abate the cacophony. Still, through my knees and up my torso, I hear an electric buzz all around, liquids rushing and gurgling. From everywhere, comes a groaning that is not the voices of a horde of shambling undead, but metal and stone and wood stacked, precariously, into the shape of a two-story house.
Minutes pass as the world’s ambience tears through me and I realize my mom should have burst into the room by now. Where is she? I don’t even care that she’ll find me nude, I just need help. I uncurl a little and open my eyes, almost blinded by the light bouncing off the plain, white walls. I squint at my door and see it’s closed. Why is it so bright? I peek at the window, unable to see much more than a rectangle of ocular pain.
I make a blind, groping crawl to my bathroom door, gritting my teeth at the squealing, grinding sound of the mechanics inside the doorknob. I fall into the room and kick the door closed behind me, laying on the floor in a fetal position, wondering why my eyes are still dry when the urge to weep has been bearing down on me for what has felt like hours already.
The darkness of the room helps a little. At least now my vision isn’t filled with the intense, ruddy glow of blood, from light piercing my eyelids as if they’d grown wafer-thin overnight.
I place a tentative hand on my face and give my closed eyes a tender prod. The skin feels cool and dry, but no different than I remember. Then my eyes have become more sensitive? I don’t remember drinking any alcohol last night. Of course, someone with a severe hangover wouldn’t remember much, anyway. I know hangovers usually come with a pounding headache, but the only pain I feel is the burning streak across my chest. I run a hand across the flesh there, registering the texture for the first time and gasp when my fingers press against a moist surface, like rough, bumpy leather. I crack open my eyes, turning away from the brilliant light spilling in from the bottom of the door. In here, I can see without irritation, almost as if the light was on, but had been replaced with a bulb that emits an odd, bluish-grey hue. I stand, careful not to agitate any other injury I’m not yet aware of, and pad over to the mirror above the sink. I’m nearly doubled over with the pain still bordering on intolerable.
The noise is as loud as before, but it seems to be pressing on my consciousness less with every passing minute. I reach the sink and lean on it, one hand still cradling my chest, as if something might fall out of it at any moment. I look up and yelp, recoiling in fear and stumbling over my own feet as I fall back against the wall opposite.
Red eyes. Something looked back at me in the reflection with glowing, scarlet orbs where its eyes should have been.
I stare up at the mirror, expecting the thing to reach past the frame of the glass and crawl through, but it only continues reflecting a portion of the wall above my head. For a moment, I wonder why I’m not breathing like I’ve just run a marathon, then I realize I’m not breathing at all. I inhale deeply and let out an unexpectedly smooth breath. The air feels cool and strangely dry as it passes my lips and nostrils. I do the same, three more times, feeling no different. By degrees, I come to understand I feel no urge to take the next breath and stop after the latest exhalation, curious. I sit still on my bathroom floor for several minutes, unmoving, only attuned to what I can sense past the dying embers of anguish that crawl through the skin of my chest and the blaring of the world. Nothing.
“What the fuck?” I murmur when it becomes irrefutably clear that my body and brain have ceased to demand oxygen. For the first time, I look down to the wound on my chest. Three parallel lines of seared flesh reach from my left pectoral to the middle of my right-hand set of ribs, as if I’ve been lashed by a heated flail. “What the fuck!” I hiss again.
I lean forward and grab the rim of the sink, ready to brave the mirror again. I pull myself up until I can just see the top of my bed-tousled cobalt hair, then jack myself up with my knees, inch by inch. The moderate grey skin of my forehead comes into view, but even then, I can already see the faint reflections of blood-red light scattering off the specular faces and vertices of the painted wooden frame and glossy tiles. The eyes of the thing in the mirror rise in time with mine, their lurid glow noticeably dimmer, but no less eerie. I stand and he stands, I raise a hand and so does he, I give him two middle fingers as he replicates the actions exactly.
“What the fuck…” One more time. The overabundance of aural stimulation is becoming even less insistent with my attention and I can ignore it for more than a few seconds at a time.
I lean closer to the mirror and observe the burns, hoping to find some sign of what could have done this to me. I prod at the edges and find only a tingling numbness. Pain flares as I run a light fingertip over a piece of flesh that looks ready to fall away, forcing a wince. The red glow seems to brighten for a second, prompting me to glance at my reflection. Though my eyes have indeed adopted a brighter glow that’s steadily dimming again, what captures my attention is what was revealed by my grimace. I almost missed it, but my canines are noticeably longer, coming to clearly defined points, the likes of which I’ve never seen, even in the peculiar smile of those whose canines are abnormally pronounced. Done muttering expletives, I simply run my tongue over what I hope is a fascinating optical illusion. The points feel very real. I touch one with an index finger, wincing again as it punctures my flesh with surprising ease. I watch my fingertip, waiting for the bead of blood that never forms. Something feels odd about the fangs, as if they’re more solid than the teeth around them. Heavier, perhaps. Once again, I study myself in the mirror, looking for the classic signs of a vampire attack, but find nothing after a thorough search.
Fangs, red eyes, and no need to breathe, I think, as I realize I still haven’t taken another breath. I place two fingers over my carotid and wait to detect a pulse. I change places over the next few minutes, double- and triple-checking every spot I’ve been taught to look for a pulse. Again, I find I’m missing one of the most vital of vital signs. If the pain on the surface of my chest hadn’t been so intense, I might have noticed the lack of a racing heart inside of it sooner. I look back to the burn and think about the light bleeding in through my blinds. Light angled to fall directly onto my bed. I almost welcome the blast of returning noise as my focus fails and my train of thought is obliterated.
Snippets of conversation, the roars of distant engines, a cat’s yowl, a toilet flushing, all blissfully ordinary sounds of a world whose sky has not fallen. Business as usual on Monday morning. I step back from the mirror until my back strikes the wall and slide down against it, waiting to wake up. This doesn’t make sense, any of it. Real monsters aren’t red-eyed, fanged teenagers, they’re power-wielding sociopaths and the uninhibited insane. Monsters of a very literal nature don’t exist in the same world as the lady next door, who just fell off her treadmill, or the two married men across the street, arranging a tryst with each other in transparent code as they water their respective lawns. How could such banal concerns and activities exist in a world where a bump in the night might truly be the heavy footfall of something inhuman, coming to steal your life away?
They don’t, I decide, smiling and humming to myself as I wait to wake up from this nightmare.
And wait. And wait.
“Any second now.” I say aloud, regretting my volume as the words reverberate in an irritating blather against the tiled walls. The minutes crawl on, throttling my hopes and expectations with the passing of every merciless second. I feel my hands incrementally balling into fists in my lap as my smile grows wider and more artificial. I only notice the pain in my hands when it becomes worse than the burning on my chest. I open them to reveal shredded palms and blood-stained fingers. Thick flaps of skin fall back into place after detaching from beneath my nails.
I don’t know how long I watched, but by the time I looked away, my chest no longer hurt and there was no sign of the self-inflicted wounds, besides a modicum of dried, flaking blood along my fingers.
Dessicated sobs crawl up my throat, escaping me like tired ghosts, all the more disturbing in the echoey stillness of the bathroom. Tears never come.
The sound of my smartphone pierces the static in my head by virtue of sheer familiarity. It’s the unique text notification sound I set for my one and only friend, Rock. Though it sounds the same as it always has, the notes now seem to crackle and jag through the air to reach me. Lying on my side, I groan and open my eyes, feeling fatigued and parched, but too lethargic to make an attempt at hydrating. Can vampires even drink water? I don’t recall any myths that claim yay or nay.
With an effort, I climb to my knees and lay a limp hand on the doorknob. I steel myself and pull the door open, squinting against the brightness of my bedroom. It’s not as bad as before, but painful, regardless. The ringtone sounds off twice more before I reach my nightstand, where my phone lays. I sit on the edge of my bed, well away from the parallel lines of sunlight that fall across my sheets, and navigate to Rock’s text.
Yo Gyre where r u bro?
sick tday? I remember you said you felt funny last night...
Missed you at lunch. Ace was up to his shit again btw tell you about it later
I growl a curse as I read the last line. Ace Longshot, my personal bully since elementary school, usually ignores Rock, but when I’m not around, he knows he can get to me by tormenting my friend. Unlike most bullies, Ace has a brain that he uses; primarily, to manipulate others and find ways to make my life as unpleasant as possible without getting caught. Not that getting caught has mattered much, historically. Apparently, when you’re a star athlete, one of your parents is a decorated cop, and the other is the real estate agent that negotiated ludicrously good deals for a majority of the most affluent families in Canterlot, a surprising amount of people are willing to turn blind eyes to obvious harassment. I begin tapping out an angry response, but stop when I notice the tiny, crescent scratches appearing on the glass of the screen protector. I run an experimental thumbnail across the edge of the glass and suck air through my teeth as it leaves behind a deep scratch. I study my nails, noting that they’ve become visibly longer overnight and taken on a slightly darker hue, a yellowish or brownish. My own blood is still crusted beneath the nails, or rather claws, of each digit. Gods, what next, toxic breath? I finish the message and send it:
I’ll see if I can bait him into doing something in front of one of the principals next time. You know if it’s Luna, she’ll end him if I can pull that off. Anyway, I think I’m sick and I could use your help, but I can’t trust anyone else. It’s...hard to explain.
Sometimes, I feel just as bad as Ace. I know Rock won’t refuse, even if I tell him the truth. Since we became friends, he’s been more loyal and generous than I could have ever asked of another human being. But I haven’t earned a scrap of his goodwill. I’m praised by my mother, who says my dad would have been proud of me, and given heartfelt thanks from Rock’s grandfather, just for spending time with him. The truth is that I’ve no other choices. My own social status has had a stigma on it since childhood.
In a bid to gain the attentions of an elementary school crush, I once filled in her role during a Nightmare Night school play when she had broken her leg the week prior. My mistake had not only been in taking the part when no one else would, but in outperforming my classmates, particularly the students who had been given the two starring roles. In one fell swoop, I both ruined any chance at an ordinary social life and gained the unwavering attention of the bully that has hounded me ever since. Thinking back on it, at this very moment, I find it mildly ironic that such a pivotal event in my life took place over a whimsical rendition of the story of Van Helsing and his female sidekick, fighting the forces of Count Dracula. I was, of course, the female sidekick.
I’d like to think that I’ve adapted to the isolation resulting from the incident, but one can only be a loner for so long before it becomes a miserable, self-perpetuating state. Unless you’re built for it, which I am not. Thus, I came to know Rock through mutual ostracization. His slightly maladroit demeanor and overly eager-to-please disposition puts him off to our peers, whose dreams of glamorous popularity, seen only in the campy script of after school specials, keep them from associating with those who might bear too much resemblance to the televised icons of the gracelessly outcast. Further still, the fact that Rock and I experience a similar rejection and associate only with each other, compounds our situation in an endless feedback loop.
As immature and distasteful as my peers often seem, I sometimes find myself wishing I could have a normal life among them. Parties, clubs, group jokes, friendly gossip, perhaps even a girlfriend, the whole nine yards. During those times when I can’t appreciate the relative peace of solitude and I feel like I’m drowning in the clammy depths of alienation and anonymity, I can’t help feeling like I’m chained to an overwhelming weight, keeping me submerged.
Rock’s ringtone blasts out of the phone in my hand, causing me to jerk the thing away from me. The rest of the noises seem to have faded into a sort of background fuzz that only leap into the forefront of my thoughts when I think about it, as I’m doing now. I take a few moments to try tuning it out again, unsuccessfully. I give up and simply look back to the screen on my phone. The automatic lock timer ran out, so I carefully tap out my security code through muscle memory and open the messaging application again. I shake my head a few times to focus on the phone as visual stimuli seem to be obscured by the tsunami of input coming through my other senses. It takes me some time, but I manage to read the text:
Yeah no prob man! I gotchu!
Wat do u need?
I revise my response several times, adding a final, very important sentence before tapping the send icon.
Just come by my place after school and drink a lot of water before you get here. Before you say anything: No, this has nothing to do with piss, this is serious.
I toss the phone aside and bury my face in my hands. Already, the thought of blood sends a needy wave of excitement through me, weak and easily ignored, but with an insistence I can tell I won’t be able to refuse forever. I rub the sleep from my eyes and glance over at my dusty laptop. A top-of-the-line, custom built gaming rig with so much computational horsepower packed inside, the hard drive is required to be external. It died on me almost two months ago. Of course, I was devastated, at first, but without it, life had become surprisingly simple. I’d rediscovered hours in the day with which to study and engage in more wholesome activities than browsing the dregs of image boards and whiling away hundreds of hours playing mindless video games. I even recently signed up for parkour lessons, so I’d be less of an unremarkable dork, and started working up the courage to ask my latest crush to the Spring Formal dance. As beneficial as my hardware failure has been, I have a lot of research to do. I’ll have to use the computer in my mother’s office. Feeling trapped and resigned, I move to my closet where I pick an outfit of loose sweatpants and a t-shirt. As I pass the full-sized mirror I notice the red glow has completely left my eyes, returning them to their usual mint green. A sense of relief crawls over me as I realize how difficult it would have been to hide that aspect, had it not faded on its own. I check myself over in the larger mirror, one more time, for some sign of how this has happened to me, but the effort proves fruitless. After showering and brushing my teeth and fangs, careful not to disturb the shrinking, but temperamental burns, I trudge downstairs to Mom’s office.
Her computer is password locked, but Rock and I worked out the correct hash sequence with a few scripts almost a year ago. It was the result of a short-lived programming kick brought on by watching a television series, featuring a mentally ill hacktivist. I log in and bring up a web browser in incognito mode, then run a search for blood donation events and holding facilities, mildly surprised to find a blood drive only a couple blocks away from my own home. It’s scheduled to be held this weekend at the local community center. I can’t risk going without blood for a whole week. Still, I make a mental note and move on to the banks. One is relatively close to my school and another is closer to the city. Better start with the farthest one to reduce risk of the heist being traced back to me, in case something goes wrong. The drive would be nearly twenty minutes, so the walk is going to take several hours since I’ll need to go unseen for as much of the journey as possible. That means back roads, alleys and the generally scenic route. It’ll be a long night. At least I have the internet. Vampires in the tales of the dark ages would have loved what basically amounts to a buffet menu. But they also didn’t have highly organized police forces and sophisticated forensics to deal with.
I move on to doing research on my new form of existence. Turns out there are more versions of vampires than I expected, ranging from the classic pale-skinned, red-eyed, demonic leeches, to more romanticized versions suitable for fancy gothic castles, dinner parties, sappy love films or teen magazines. Thankfully, I don’t have much in common with the Eastern versions of vampires, with their malformed bodies and feral minds. Not yet, at least. Some myths claim vampires become hideous, rotting abominations when starved of blood. Others say they become more like zombies and simply begin consuming any living flesh they get their claws on. Mostly, it’s said this transformation is irreversible once complete, but a few sources claim to provide rituals or spells to return a vampire to ‘their former glory’. I decide not to put much stock in the sites providing lore that seems more like worship or fan-fiction. A few resources immediately stand out, however. A gloomily decorated, but expertly constructed site, bluntly named Darklore, provides anatomical descriptions with diagrams of a vampire’s logical physiology and a detailed breakdown of the starving transformation process from slick, refined predator to blood-crazed animal. The author, or authors, even highlighted areas where historical tales were incomplete or unclear.
Darklore provides links on their articles to numerous other resources, but one site is referenced far more than any other. This prolific site, Vitae Arcana, contains information about the biological theory of mythical creatures, including a huge section on vampires, and how they could or should function. The site is clean and concise, without decoration. More like a medical journal than a site full of speculative information based on fiction. Curious, I follow the links to a page that lists the researcher credentials, finding an immense list of names that take up several scroll-wheel rotations to view. Many of the names are prefixed with titles like Doctor, Professor, and, in a number of cases, even Provost or Vicar. Running searches on some of the names turns up mostly aliases for obscure forums, social media sites, or browser game archives. A few names return historical records of long-dead men and women. After the third such result also turns up articles about homicide investigations, and even a strange suicide, I begin to wonder if I’m poking into something with dangerous depths. How have I not already heard of something so overtly suspicious? Beneath the list of names, a line of text reads:
In memory of my friends, family, and beloved colleagues, I dedicate the sharing of this knowledge to the brilliant men and women whose lifelong work is compiled here, for all, for the future.
- E.G.
The words ‘brilliant men and women’ are blue, indicating a hyperlink. I follow it to a page that loads slowly, due to the sheer number of photographs on display. The top left of the page bears the words, in tasteful script font, “Our brave and ardent forebears…”. The grainy, black-and-white photo nearest this is an obviously scanned original. One of the subjects is a rugged, smiling, middle-aged man posing for the camera on an ornate, straight-backed chair. He’s missing an arm, indicated by a neatly pinned right sleeve on his vintage-style overcoat. Four nearly parallel scars trace rough lines across the left side of his face. A somewhat younger-looking woman stands behind the chair, one scarred, spidery hand that’s missing a middle finger rests on the shoulder of the man’s intact arm. She wears a corset-style dress and her long, pale hair hangs loose over her shoulders and back, a socially unacceptable hairstyle for women, long ago. Though her small nose, full lips, and round eyes are endearing and feminine, her slight squint and tight smile betray a personality more often described in the lines across the face of a crusty military officer. The first few dozen photos contain similar subjects and poses, sometimes alone, sometimes in larger groups, many bearing scars or missing limbs that often seem to have been acquired between photos, for those that appear in more than one. These blemishes and injuries begin to subside as I scroll further down and the photos become more modern. The last photo is of excellent quality, but the color and grain is evidence that it was taken in a decade when palm-sized multi-megapixel camera phones were abstract theoretical concepts. A man in his late fifties or sixties, holding a silver-topped cane, stands beside a seated man who looks at least two decades older, in much the same pose as the first photo. The two men are clearly related and dressed in similar modern business suits. A full mane of crimson red hair shows only a few grey streaks on the younger man while the older man’s hair is a thinner, inverted version of the same colors. The younger man is a parchment yellow and the elder is a pinkish peach. Somehow, the younger man looks less virile than whom I assume is his father. I look around the page to see who these last two men are, but the site provides no details on their identity.
Perhaps, if the subjects of this photo are still alive, they might be able to provide me with insight into my condition. At a distance, of course. Revealing to a scientist or priest that I’m a vampire sounds like a quick way to get hunted and, ultimately, end up on an autopsy table or a burning stake. I download copies of the latest photos and navigate back to the Darklore forums where I perform a quick search for threads discussing the Vitae Arcana accreditees. Finding nothing, I make an account, start my own thread and upload the photos, inquiring if anyone can identify the subjects.
I return to the articles on Vitae Arcana and peruse the vast section on vampires. It begins with the description of simple biological processes, many of which can be likened to the usual suspects in the animal kingdom, vampire bats, leeches, etc., but the terminology grows maddeningly complex around the third paragraph and I can only catch sidelong glimpses of the advanced physical and biological concepts described. I resolve to study more. A lot more.
Before I knew it, the morning had hardened into a day and the day is beginning to dissolve into late afternoon. School will be out in less than an hour and I haven’t the slightest clue on how to broach my situation with Rock.
How does one break this kind of news? If I learned anything today, it’s that interpersonal relationships are pretty low on the priority list for vampire research outside eroticism and worship. Sure, I could read one of those cheesy novels or watch something on the matter, but I can’t fool myself into thinking the reactions I’d observe are anything but pre-arranged fantasy. There’s nothing else to do but to wing it. I groan and lean back in the office chair, staring up at the ceiling. Thoughts whiz past, over, under, and through each other, forming newer, stranger, and more terrifying ruminations as they collide. I’ve raised far more questions than answers in my bumbling search for insight.
What kind of vampire am I? Will it be too late when I know? How do I figure it out safely? Who can I really trust? Is this actually happening? Has it happened to anyone else? Will it happen to anyone else? How? Why?
The static only continues to build as I rest my head on the back of the chair. I lock the computer again and wander into the living room where I sink into my mom’s favorite reading chair. Leaning back, I close my eyes and promptly lose myself in the blast of auditory information. The world cries with its usual, innocent chaos, as if nothing has changed. As if the birth of a new monster means as little as the death of an infertile insect. The clock chirps thrice, signalling a half-hour to the end of the school day, then moves indifferently on, as if it had only been patronizing my tiny existence by marking the arbitrary hour with a birdsong as short and meaningless as human life.
When did I get into such a dark mood?
A stillness seems to descend on the world. I hear a vehicle pass near my house. Or was it far away? The ticking of the clock seems to grow distant while remaining perfectly clear. Space and time suddenly feel meaningless. Alarmed, I cock my head to the side as I sense something new. It takes several moments, but I begin to perceive an irregular humming. Its bassy thrumming seems to vibrate the innards of my skull and I can’t tell if I’m actually hearing a sound or feeling the earth tremble. It starts and stops in a pattern that might be speech, but I can’t make out a word. It’s like trying to comprehend a language composed of thunder while submerged in water with ears full of cotton. Without warning, the thrumming begins to intensify. There’s no pain, but I sense my mind growing numb. Though I know my eyes are wide open, I see nothing, not even blackness. I can’t feel my body nor smell. All I know is the sound. It demands my attention. Five beats. Repeating, growing more insistent, louder. Angrier?
I am consumed, overwhelmed by a cyclone of alien perceptions and senses that threatens to tear my mind apart.
I come to, not lying on the floor as I realize I was expecting, but kneeling with my head thrust back. My arms are outstretched with hands cupped high above my chest, as if reaching for something small and delicate. My neck aches, terribly.
Before I can compose myself and begin to wonder what happened, I hear a knocking at the front door. I twitch and jerk to a stand, then drift over to the door. Leaning bodily against it, I peer through the peephole. Outside, I see a tawny forehead with a one inch diagonal scar in the upper left corner and a familiar mess of curly, toffee hair that sways and bounces as its owner shifts on his feet. At first, I have trouble remembering what I should do and why Rock is at my home in the first place, but the memories trickle back as the second knock comes. I clear my throat and shout through the door in what I hope is a normal voice.
“Jus-Just a...second.” I take a moment to adjust myself, then open the door, stepping back to let my friend in. Rock enters, all five feet, two inches of him. He’s dressed in black, dotted with a smattering of metal studs and a chain dangling from his pocket in a loose U shape. His shirt bears the logo of a metal band I’m not sure he actually likes and his jeans, while unfaded and obviously new-ish, have somehow acquired the frays and tears of extended use. His earthy amber eyes are filled with questions. He twiddles an empty water bottle in the air between us for me to notice.
“Hey, dude. What’s going on? You look...I dunno...off.” Rock pauses, then says, “Actually you look like shit.”
“Thanks for noticing. Would you like to insult my mom or my dead father next?” I say with as much playful sarcasm as I can manage, then shuffle into the kitchen, gesturing for him to follow. He gives a nervous chuckle as he closes the door and takes a seat at the plain, wooden dining room table. I retrieve the medical bag stashed under the bed in my mother’s room. It feels considerably lighter than it always has as I haul it back. I lay it on the table and open it to inspect its contents. Inside, two winged needles glint from within their sterile packaging like robotic mosquito heads.
“Rock,” I begin, pulling a chair out for myself. “I’m going to show and tell you some pretty weird stuff in a minute and I need you to just listen. No jokes, no interrupting, no judgements. Alright?” Rock stares back at me and I can hear him swallow.
“You’re startin’ to freak me out, dude.”
“I know.” I say, laying my head in my hands. “This is pretty messed up, but I’ll explain everything if you can promise me you’ll keep an open mind.”
“Yeah, I promise. Did you hurt someone or something?” Rock says, now craning his neck to get a look around the house, probably searching for signs of a struggle. I chuckle at his question. It was a perfectly reasonable guess and I almost wish he was right. At least, if I hurt someone, I’d probably have a good reason.
Probably.
“No, I wish, but that’s not it.” I stop, realizing what I just said. “Well, I don’t wish I’ve hurt someone. You know what I meant. Anyway, here’s the thing: I know you’re not dumb, and you know I’m not a practical effects wizard, nor do I know any. Right?”
“Yeah, I guess.” Rock replies, leaning forward ever so slightly.
“So, if I show you something I couldn’t possibly fake, you should know it’s real. Correct?” Rock nods. “Okay, then. Here’s what I need you to see before we go any further. Look closely.” I lean forward so he can see and push my upper lip away from the fangs. Rock gasps and nearly leaps from his seat as he darts forward for a better look. Having studied and probed them earlier, I know the upper canines look nearly ordinary, but a subtle lengthening and stiletto-sharp points give them away under scrutiny. Out of Rock’s view, a tiny hole can be seen and felt just behind the tips.
“Are those real? How did you do that? Is it a ceramic cover or something?”
I didn’t expect him to believe me right off the cuff, but okay, good start. He didn’t run away, screaming.
“No, man, they’re not coverings, they’re not even those fancy resin ones for cosplay. These are real vampire fangs. I’m-I’m uh...a vampire now. I guess?” Damn, I’m not getting an award for speeches anytime soon. Good thing I never joined the Debate Team. To provide a little proof, I reach into my mouth and give the fangs a couple tugs and wiggles which only succeed in wobbling my head around like a toy.
“Okay. That’s a little weird, but I feel like you’re still messing with me. Is your mom here? You two playing a prank on me?” Rock cranes his neck around again.
“Nope. But I get it, vampires aren’t supposed to be real and I’ve been hoping, all day, that was still true and that I’d wake up from a nightmare, but...here we are. I have something else I can show you.” I stand and grip the bottom of my shirt. “Alright, I’m just going to show you the burn I got from the sun this morning so don’t make this weird. Check it.” I lift my plain white t-shirt and watch Rock’s reaction.
“Yeah, that’s a killer burn. One whole shade of pink.”
“What?” I say and glance downward. The skin is raw and still sensitive enough to be painful, even when my soft cotton shirt brushes against it, but the blistered skin and puckered edges are gone, replaced by my normal, smooth, unblemished grey. It looks like I could have just had a rough encounter with one of my sheets and got a mild rope burn.
“Well. This is awkward.” I let down my shirt while Rock begins laughing. “Come on, man, this is serious. Do you really think I’d have you come here just to try to trick you with a random cosplay? It’s not even close to Nightmare Night.”
“Ah—yes.” He replies, flatly. I’ll give him that. I played a similar prank once, with a cheap werewolf mask in the middle of Summer.
“Fair enough.” I say, inwardly scrambling for ideas. The tip of my pinkie flares with pain and I snatch it to my chest with a gasp, whipping around to find a thread of sunlight bleeding through the edges of the window blinds over the sink.
“You okay?” Rock says, sounding mildly amused. I uncurl my hand and inspect the damaged digit. The burn isn’t nearly as bad as my first, but it feels as if I’d set the side of my finger onto a smoking-hot pan for several seconds. “Break a nail or something?” Rock asks with mock concern. Ignoring him, I take the plastic stick that angles the blinds open, stand to the side of the window and twist until thin bars of sunlight shear through.
“Come here.” I tell Rock, staring down at the parallel lines of light illuminating the linoleum floor. He joins me near the window. “Watch.”
I take a moment to gather myself, as I prepare for the pain. Stretching out my left arm I hold it just outside the beams. Rock stares back in bewilderment. I squeeze my eyes shut and begin to move my arm toward the light. It stops before I feel the burning.
“Whoa! Okay! I believe you! Holy shit!” Rock shouts. He grips my arm with both hands just above the elbow, immobilizing it.
“No, I need to do this; you have to see!” I yell back, fighting his resistance for a split second before realizing I don’t need to. I thrust my right hand into the light, feeling an immediate and uncomfortable warmth grow on my skin, but I’m thrown backward as Rock tackles me. He’s shorter, but a little heavyset and his leverage was surprisingly good. We crash to the tiles and he leaps onto my shoulder, pinning me to the floor.
“Stop, Gyre! I said I believe you! Just stop, okay?” He’s breathing hard, holding his arms over mine, ready to try to subdue me again. I can feel the strength in my limbs, great enough to make his inconsequential, but I don’t fight back. How could I ask Rock for his blood? How could I ask him for the time of day? I’ve used and ignored him, acting as a friend only when it’s suited me or when the pain of isolation had become too much. For years, he’s been my only friend, sharing his possessions, time, family and heart with me. I took only what I wanted and accepted him as the price. What I took for blind, helpless, and desperate loyalty was always so much more. I think I’ve known this all long. I tolerated him when I should have been grateful for what little companionship I’ve had.
“I should...” I mutter. Rock slumps to the floor beside me, resting his head and arms on my shoulder, but I can tell he’s still ready to leap back on if I move toward the light.
“No, dude, you don’t. Y-You never need to hurt yourself. I got you, whatever you need, buddy.”
Some minutes later, only one of us is drying their eyes and sniffling. My mother’s medical bag and the packaged needle lie on the table between us. The tiny tube of steel shines in the warm kitchen light with a pale, stringent glimmer. It looks as if it would be fifty degrees cooler than the room. I steeple my hands under my chin as I contemplate its grim purpose. Rock does much the same, propping his head up on a fist. There are still a couple hours before my mother returns from work, so we’re in no hurry. Still, the situation hasn’t become any easier.
“When were you planning on telling anyone?” I say. Rock closes his eyes and takes a big breath.
“I’ve only known for two weeks. I swear. It’s been hard to find the right moment, you know?” I guess I do know, but at least my contact with death left me with superpowers. Rock’s ultimate fate is looking far more depressing than my own.
“How far along is it?”
“It won’t be a problem for a while, I think I can still help you. They said the CML shouldn’t cause any symptoms for another six to ten months; that’s gotta be more than enough time for us to figure something else out for you, right?” Leukemia. Of course it’s Leukemia.
“Possibly.” I mutter. “But we don’t know what effect your blood might have on me, or if I can even be sustained by it. No offense.”
“There’s only one way to find out.” Rock says, reaching for one of the needles. My hand is on it faster than he could have seen it move. I didn’t intend to move that fast. It must have looked like reality skipped some frames for him. Rock looks between the needle and me, eyes bulging. “That was awesome! Do it again!” I sigh and shake my head.
“I don’t know how, yet.” I lie. The sensation of engaging in that unnatural speed was intuitive and far too easy. It was like my body moved at the speed of thought, but faster than I could reconsider. That could be dangerous. “Anyway, doesn’t leukemia make it so you can’t stop bleeding? We can’t open a vein—you’d bleed out.”
“No, no, not CML.” Rock says, looking disappointed. “At least, not mine. Not yet. The doc says I still have almost normal platelets so I can still scab and heal, especially from just a needle.”
“Are you sure, man?”
“Yeah, yeah!” Rock says, waving a dismissive hand, “Check it out.” He lifts the sleeve of his shirt and reveals a day-old hospital bandage in the crook of his elbow. He peels the tape back, wincing as it tears free some arm hair, and shows me the clotted needle wound beneath a wad of gauze and cotton, stained a rusty red from drying blood.
“Oh, okay. Well...Wait! Dammit!” I slap the table. “If they’re taking blood regularly, they’re gonna to see the needle marks!” I say, stabbing a hand at Rock’s arms.
“Oh…right…” He says. “Still, I think we can do one draw for today. I don’t have to go back to the hospital until Saturday for more tests. Ooh, and I can just say it was a bug bite or something.” I nod, thoughtfully. “They won’t be suspicious of just one mark to begin with, I think. If they even see it.”
“Yeah, I suppose you have a point.” I settle back into my chair. “We can also cover them with makeup, if we have to. I’m sure there are other places to draw blood from, besides the arm.”
“Gooch blood it is, then.” Rock stands and begins to unbuckle his belt, a huge grin splitting his face. I stand hard enough to throw my chair back and bare my new fangs.
“That zip goes down one inch, and you and I are gonna go toe-to-toe.” I growl, only half-joking. Most of Rock’s grin is still present, but the missing parts are replaced by a genuine apprehension.
“Y-You know your eyes go red when you do that.” He says, fastening the buckle. “And I was joking, you know.”
“Yeah, of course. You’re not man enough to take a needle to the gooch anyway.” I say with my own grin.
“Gods, who the fuck is, dude?” Rock says, shivering once as he walks past me to retrieve my chair. I hope he’s only reacting to the thought of such painful blood extraction and not because of me.
“Tch. Not I.” I turn and inspect the chair as Rock drags it back.
“Anyway, let’s get this over with. Take a seat.”
“Yes, Doctor Strand.” Rock says with mock solemnity. I roll my eyes and gesture toward his chair. He sits and rolls up his right sleeve while I remove the tourniquet from the kit. I tie it around his bicep and tighten until his veins are visible enough to pick out a viable target. Rock begins flexing his hand into a fist, causing the veins to gain even more definition. After donning a pair of latex gloves, I clean the site of the obvious choice and lay out the cotton and gauze. Finally, I extract the venipuncture needle, attach it to a blood bag and tubing from my mother’s supplies, and place the bag on a chair beside Rock. A wave of anxious energy moves through me and I become achingly aware of the thirst again. I feel a mildly uncomfortable tightness around the fangs and I run my tongue across them, almost crying out when I notice how much longer they’d become in the span of seconds. If my heart beat anymore, my face would have flushed as I realize how close the sensation in my gums is to having a boner. I decide to get this over with quickly.
“You alright?” Rock asks, snapping me out of a daze I didn’t know I was in.
“Yeah, just a bit nervous. It’s been a while since...you know...my dad.”
“It’s alright, I trust you, man. Your mom said you were almost as good as some of the nurses from the get-go, remember? You got this.” Rock pats my shoulder and I’m suddenly aware of how much I don’t want to be touched at the moment.
“Probably.” I say, forcing a confident grin. I place the needle just above a bulging vein and take a breath. Rock remains impressively still and calm, something I was taught not to expect. I push the metal into tan skin, letting muscle memory take over. I feel it penetrate the dermis, then stop when I feel the minute loss of resistance that signals entry into the vein. A dark, lovely red snakes through the tubing, reaching the bag and expanding into it.
“I’m only gonna take half a pint, for now. Don’t wanna take more, in case your doctor notices. They’re probably keeping a close eye on everything to do with your blood. You should regenerate most of the volume by the end of the week.” Rock nods his understanding and we watch the bag fill in silence. Though I feel a strong desire to consume the contents, there’s still something macabre about watching the plastic bloat with a person’s blood. When the bag is half full, I check with Rock to see if he’s ready and remove the needle. He helps apply the cotton and gauze before any blood leaks away and I step back to tend to the needle and bag. I pinch the tubing along its length to drain what’s left, seal the bag’s entry tube and take everything to the kitchen sink to rinse away any traces of blood.
“Damn, man, you are definitely your mother’s son. That was smooth as silk. I mean—”
“Thanks.”
“Hey, you earned it, doc.”
“No, I meant thank you for the blood. I could try to explain how grateful I am, but I don’t think I’d ever get it right.” I say, staring into the black circle of the drain.
“Don’t worry about it, really. Honestly, being friends with the world’s first real vampire is kinda awesome. Totes worth the cancer.” Rock chuckles behind me and I can’t help joining him. If he wasn’t so awkward, Rock would be one of the most well-loved and popular students in our school. Unfortunately, our peers never stick around to get to know him as more than an odd schoolmate. Their loss, I suppose. I’m just glad he didn’t turn out like those obnoxious Snips and Snails kids.
“Alright, man, I’d ask if you wanna stick around, but it’s probably safer if you go home.” I say, heading to the pantry and retrieving a pack of the most sugary snacks available. I toss it to my friend who misses an attempt at a casual grab, nearly greeting the treats with his eye. He fumbles it around like a cartoon character for several seconds before, ultimately, dropping it.
“What? I don’t get to see you drink my blood?” He says, red-faced, as he picks up what must certainly be a cookie dust-filled package from the floor.
“No. We don’t know how I’ll react when I drink. I could go wild or something.” Rock nods and hums thoughtfully as he opens the package and stuffs a whole pastry in his mouth. “Besides, today’s been homoerotic enough. I’d rather not have an audience when I put another man’s fluids into my mouth.” We each snort a laugh and Rock shakes his head.
“Alright, I guess that’s fair. But you gotta let me know what happ—” Rock’s sentence is cut short by the sound of a vehicle pulling into the driveway. Through the minuscule spaces between the blinds, I can see the familiar electric blue of my mother’s car as it slows to a halt and the low note of the engine cuts off. She’s home almost three hours early. Rock and I look at each other for only a moment before springing into action. He stuffs the cookies into a pocket and darts to the sink, grabbing the tubing, needle and blood bag as I gather up the supplies scattered on the table. I replace everything in the medical bag as best as I can remember, close it and haul the thing back to my mom’s room. Meanwhile, Rock is crashing up the stairs to my room and I pray he hasn’t stuck himself with the needle in his haste. I toss the bag under my mother’s bed and dash out of the room, slamming the door behind me. I fly to the stairs and take them four at a time, feeling as if I’m actually soaring through the air as I ascend. I can hear the front door opening and Rock is only just turning around to stare wild-eyed back at me as I enter the room. What do we do, he mouths, the tawny skin of his face drained of a significant portion of color. I take the items from his hands and kneel down at the mini fridge next to my desk, opening it and shoving the contents behind as much energy drink and seltzer water as possible.
“Gy’? Are you alright?” My mom’s voice calls from the bottom of the stairs. A creaking sound drifts in through the door, signalling ascent. I meet Rock’s gaze and motion for him to take the lead. He looks panicked for a moment, opening and closing his mouth several times before finally responding.
“H-He’s fine. It’s just me, Mrs. Glow…” Rock stares at me and shrugs. I nod to him and slip under my covers. Sitting up in bed with my head on my knees, I wait for my mom to enter. Rock silently rolls my desk chair across the room to my bed and settles in, just as the door opens.
“Hi, Rock, how are you?” Mom says, as she approaches. Her voice is smooth and kind, exactly as a mother should sound and eerily similar to my high school’s principal. I raise my head to offer her a close-lipped smile, which she returns. Her black and copper hair falls gently on her shoulders in loose ringlets that appear to be flames climbing the sides of her moon pale face; A visage that’s attracted the lustful attention of every high school boy and girl with an affinity for the fairer sex. In fiction, having a gorgeous mother almost always provides some sort of social advantage, or at least a cushion. No such luck for me. I just have to put up with the murmured catcalls and sordid comments any time a schoolmate passes by the nurse’s office on Mom’s monthly volunteer days. Speaking up has only ever solidified my status as an outcast, earning me the oh-so-creative Momma’s Boy label and incurring incest-themed taunts. Sometimes I wonder why high school students weren’t members of the horror trope pantheon, right alongside vampires, werewolves, and zombies.
“I’m great.” Rock lies.
“Are you okay, kiddo? You don’t look like you’re feeling very well.” Mom says
“I’m okay, just had a crazy bad migraine all day, so I stayed home. How was work?” I ask, hoping my sick-voice is convincing. She comes to sit on the bed, peridot eyes scanning my face. She checks my temperature with the back of her hand.
“Well, the Baron was having a good day, so he let a couple of us nurses go home early. You’re feeling pretty clammy.” Must have been a miraculous day for a man so old he’s practically half-dead to dismiss one of his primary caregivers.
Though Mom’s title is officially a nurse, her advanced medical degree and noteworthy career as an MD is what got her the job. From what I hear, Baron Ghastenhauser exclusively hires vastly overqualified and attractive women as his nurses, offering far more than what they could ever hope to earn through employment at metropolitan hospitals. The eccentric geezer also happens to be the landlord of Ghastenhauser Grove, the very upper middle-class neighborhood I loosely call home. His ancient, sprawling mansion is situated at the top of the hill, overlooking the houses that perch on rice paddy-like steps all the way down to Cloudsdale Courts, the neighborhood at the foot of the hill.
“Yeah, Rock just put back the drinks I was using to cool off. Felt a bit warm earlier.” I glance at Rock who’s giving me an impressed look at the improvised lie. I’m feeling mildly impressed, myself. “Feeling better now; migraine’s almost gone.”
“Okay, kiddo. Well let me know if you start feeling bad again. I’ll call to cancel the appointment with your instructor. Mr. Skeleter is going to be disappointed, but I’m sure he’ll be happy to reschedule whenever you’re ready.” Mom says. I laugh and correct her.
“‘Heleter Skeleter’ is just his internet alias. His real name is Brace Kidstar; he’s an orthopedics student. Parkour is just his hobby.”
“Oh.” Mom mutters, making that ‘oops’ face that used to drive my father mad with adoration any time he saw it, despite what always comes next. I should have remembered my mother hates being the only embarrassed person in a room. “No wonder he was chuckling the whole time we spoke. Well, since he’s a medical student and you two seemed to hit it off so well the other day, I almost wish you were more interested in men.”
“Mom!” I almost shout, barely managing to maintain a weakened tone. Rock bursts into uncontrollable laughter and I glare at his doubled figure. I throw the blanket over my face in exaggerated, but very real, mortification when I remember what Rock said about my eyes when I get flustered.
“What? He’s cute, intelligent, and a very nice young man. What more could I ask for, for my son?” Rock begins gasping for air after this comment and I pencil them both into my mental black-book.
“Yeah, well, he’s not into guys either, so take your shipping to the post office.” I spit.
“Oh? Have you asked him?” She counters. I can’t believe I’m getting roasted by my mom.
“You know, some chicken soup sounds pretty good right now, Mom.” I say over Rock’s continued laughter, adding just a few subtle barbs to the words. Mom hums a laugh to herself and rises from the edge of the bed.
“Okay, kiddo, I’ll make you something shortly.” As I hear her foot land on the top step, she calls back, “Such a shame you didn’t get to ask that girl to the dance. Those rehearsals sounded pretty solid last night. I bet you’re gonna sweep this Twilight girl right off her feet!” Rock falls off my desk chair, wheezing through such a fine hole in his throat, I think only dogs and vampires could have heard it. He might actually die.
“Mo-o-o-O-O-M! Come on!” I shout at full volume this time, then mutter a curse to myself.
I can’t recall what I did after taking blood, but I ‘awaken’, standing over my mother’s bed. The sound of her heartbeat and the blood flowing through her body pulses in my ears. I snatch back the hand that had been hovering over her throat and take a cautious step back, then another. She doesn’t stir. I continue to back away, eyes locked on her sleeping form, as if taking them off of her would cause her to wake and see the monster that was once her son, stalking through the darkness.
I slip through the doorway and close the door as silently as I can manage. I rest my back against the far wall in the hallway, staring into the distance.
There’s no denying what just happened. I almost took my own mother’s life. It’s strange to feel the extreme mixture of guilt and horror without the physiological symptoms of shivering joints, shuddering breath, and a quickened pulse. More so now than I realized before, I feel like I’m piloting a body, rather than living in one. Even without the need to breathe, I suddenly feel like I’m suffocating. Without thinking, I find myself heading for the nearest exit from the house, taking long strides and veering around the corner as I head to the foyer. By the time I reach my shoes, I’m almost jogging. I pull them on, take my keys from the rack beside the door, and slip outside. Anyone watching me exit might make the understandable assumption that I was likely a burglar escaping the house.
I start along the walkway to the street after taking a moment to collect myself.
Drinking Rock’s blood had been an experience I can confidently liken to the sensations of certain hard drugs. Doesn’t change the fact that it tastes terrible. My first mistake had been literally drinking it, which, in hindsight, still seems fairly reasonable. Not as much, though. I hadn’t stopped to really consider why the fangs had tiny holes at the tips until I had finished gagging, spitting, and coughing to get the rest of the thick fluid out of my mouth. Under all of this, a mild effervescent giddiness tingled at the base of my skull as the fangs absorbed what little blood had made contact. It wasn’t until I decided to try biting the bag itself that I began to understand how the fangs work. On the surface, anyway.
I don’t understand how they absorb blood without letting any escape the puncture site, but, weirdly, they take in every drop. I had only a few moments to observe and ponder over this phenomenon before the blood hit. There are few experiences I expect to live up to a vampire’s first meal, but I can only hope they’re both possible and in my near future. There was no dizziness nor sudden rush of sensation, only a creeping, stinging clarity in which every thought felt perfectly aligned and in tune with the grand, mysterious purpose of the universe, the nature of which was bearing down on my consciousness. Each second, the overwhelming enlightenment of everything conceivable seemed to be coming together, asymptotically, into one complete concept that felt both infinitely complex, yet easily manipulated. It seemed I could know almost everything, feel almost everything, expect anything. Every physical and emotional bump, scrape, cut, caress, tickle, and stretch I had been subject to throughout the day was suddenly experienced at once. Pain and pleasure melded into a single, cathartic glow of sensation.
I find myself grinning as I reminisce, the memories of those moments summoning an involuntary tingle of joy. My smile disintegrates as I realize something troubling. Could this be the beginnings of an addiction?
The night air is classically cool and stirs lightly, bringing the scent of blooming flowers on the breeze. The freshness of Spring has settled in, clearing away the dreariness of Winter’s sky in time to reveal a moon so near to full, I wonder if it’s even possible, given the previous night’s eclipse. Thanks to this, my vampiric eyes reveal the world to me as clearly as if it were noon, though everything in shadow is cast in a pale, bluish hue. I peer down the streets into the suburban sprawl and catch the warm glow of light in the windows of a few night owls. The houses are nearly all two-story affairs with well-trimmed and watered lawns. Trees are scarce, relegated to sporadic decorations. The tallest objects to take their place are identically spaced street lights, erected to obsessive precision, forming perfectly measured geometric angles with the lawns and sidewalks. It’s the kind of place that inspired punk bands to write songs derisive of the conformist middle-class in decades past, despite being the childhood homes of most of the band members. It’s the setting of stories and movies about latchkey kids and the backdrops to photos for happy, healthy nuclear families. I always thought it was a bit saccharine and creepy in its overt attempt to appear normal and homey. If anything, it looks more like a dressed-up prison with its rigid regularity and neatly organized rows of vertical lines. Still, Mom is happy to be able to raise me here; says it was everything she wished she could have as a child. Am I ungrateful? Probably, a little bit.
Without a destination in mind, I decide to amuse myself by focusing on the lighted windows as I pass by, testing the limits of my newly enhanced senses. I catch mostly the babble of televisions and computer speakers belting out film scores and action sound effects. One of the occupants is playing a video game I can identify by an iconic parrying sound. I try not to focus on the second window as I hurry past it; the clearly private nature of the sounds emanating from within bring a warmth to my cheeks. It’s only after hearing the soundtrack to a classic vampire-horror movie from the next window that I realize how strange it is that I’m even capable of blushing. I check my pulse. Still nothing. In the film, vampires are incapable of many physiological reactions related to blood flow, which includes blushing, bruising, and, tragically, erections. Yet another puzzle to work out about myself. I continue to test my visual and aural senses for some time, finding that I’m capable of listening in on conversations several blocks away, if I manage to tune out most of the ambient noise. I can even pick up the sounds of the critters crawling through the dirt at my feet. It quickly becomes invigorating, probing the extents of my ability. A sense of empowerment creeps through my guts. I let it crawl around inside me for a while before snapping back with a mild pang of guilt. I’m letting this get to me so easily. It’s likely a miracle I didn’t just drain my own mother dry. I need to be more vigilant with myself.
Nearing the end of the block, I finally hear something that piques my curiosity and turns my thoughts outward again. Across the street, one half of a telephone conversation plays out in a bedroom on the second floor.
“Look, it’s not gonna kill her, she’s just gonna be covered in a lot of red.”
I halt in mid-step.
“Yeah. Everyone agrees, she totally has it coming, anyway.” I’m not particularly interested in gossip, but this sounds a bit sinister. I cross and lean casually against the streetlight. At this range, I find I can pick up the other side of the conversation, albeit with some difficulty. The bedroom’s occupant speaks first.
“Look, just because someone does a little community service every now and then, doesn’t excuse them from being a cocky bitch. I bet she only does it so she can get into that hippie girl’s pants, anyway.”
“You mean Tree Hugger?”
“No, the other one.”
“Oh. Buttersh—No, Fluttershy.”
“Yeah, whatever. I’m just...I don’t know, I just think she needs to be taken down a peg. Like, she wins pretty much every match and she’s hardly cool about it. It’s not like I’m being petty, either. I asked her for some tips once and she totally snubbed me like she’s some kind of fucking celebrity!”
“Wow, rude.”
“Right?”
“Where’d you put it, anyway?”
“Girls locker room, no cameras in there. Paint bombs are a bitch to set up in lockers by the way. I almost set it off in my own face a couple times.”
The occupant’s voice oozes with smug pride at this statement and I relish the thought of ruining her petty revenge scheme. The subject of their conversation is no riddle. Rainbow Dash, captain of the female soccer team, one of the all-around top athletes at Canterlot High, and one of the closest friends of the biggest crush I’ve ever had. I can’t believe my luck. I feel like sprinting up and down the avenue, climbing the street lamp, or leaping over houses.
The other speaker giggles and says, “Wow, look at you, a regular Daring Doo. Or would you be Dr. Caballeron?”
“Shut up, you nerd.” The occupant says with a chuckle.
The conversation devolves into petty gossip and I take my leave when I begin to feel more like an intruder than a witness. I practically skip down the empty street, hoping my grin doesn’t get me reported as a suspicious individual, should someone decide to look out their window. The members of Neighborhood Watch can be so skittish.
A low, powerful note swells into the night, shattering my joyful reverie. I feel an electric tingling at the base of my skull and I get the impression an ordinary human teenager would have felt a chill down his spine. As it dies down to a faint echo, the voices of every dog within earshot calls back in tones that yearn to replicate the primeval headiness of the sound that preceded them. I hear the smaller beasts of the night scurry into their burrows and nooks, claws scrabbling against wood, brick, and concrete. Some windows clatter open along the rows of houses and my razor sharp senses pick up confused murmurs tinged with notes of fear. I can understand their unease; the howl must have come from well outside the neighborhood, but was still so clear, like the wailing of a distant public alarm speaker. The horizon glows dimly from urban lights in the direction I heard it. High-alert police patrols are probably about to increase throughout Canterlot, if it really came from uptown. Which means I need to head home.
“Hey, you!” A familiar voice breaks through the buzzing night, “Did you hear that? What is it?” It’s the girl I was eavesdropping on earlier. The stylish bob cut of her hair fades from forest green bangs to a shocking yellow, framing a creamy orange face. Gods, she’s cute. I try not to stare at the hint of cleavage revealed by her drooping pajama top. Feeling nervous and abashed, I try to formulate a careful response, as if I could give myself away with the wrong words.
“N-no.” Dammit. “I mean, yeah, but I didn’t see anything. Must have been too far down the street. Y-You?”
“How would I have seen anything? I was inside.” Before I can stammer out a response, the girl rolls her window down and curtly draws lime curtains over the glass. Well, she’s not that cute, I guess. The conversation with her friend turns to the howl. Apparently, the other speaker heard it, but sounds just as confused as her friend.
I keep a casual pace as I return home, hoping none of the curious neighbors call out to me. Some of the parents and older homeowners wander their yards with flashlights and dog treats to placate their agitated pets, mostly unsuccessful. Short conversations echo up and down the street about what was heard and who saw what. I begin to feel like I’m walking through a kicked ant pile. I reach my door in a few minutes and let myself in, ready with an excuse, in case my mother is awake. The house is as still as I left it. I listen and pick up steady breathing, coming from my mother’s door. If my creeping about didn’t wake her earlier, I’m not surprised she’s still asleep. She must have taken her sleeping medication tonight.
I steal back to my room, heading to the bathroom to sate the very ordinary thirst scratching at the back of my dry throat. I take an empty cup from my desk and fill it at the sink, studying the liquid. Most aspects of my new physiology have felt instinctively right or immediately unattractive, much like my very visceral reaction to chicken soup. Yet, the thought of drinking water stirs no special senses or touches on any intuition. I sip from the cup and give the liquid a minute to settle, alert for any effects. When nothing manifests, I take another sip, then drain half the cup. After a moment, something changes, and I begin to feel like I’m holding a container of unpleasant medication. I pour the rest out with a sharp sense of relief and something akin to disgust. I brush my teeth and approach the bed when a text notification plays from the nightstand. I unlock my phone to see a text from Rock:
DUDE
FUCKING WEREWOLF DID THE DOGS FREAK OUT IN YOUR HOOD TOO???
I’m glad I’m not the only one jumping to that conclusion. I’m sure I would have been content to explain it as a bug in the weather alarms two days ago, but I can hardly doubt the existence of monsters, now. I type in my response:
Yeah, the people, too. Stay inside, man.
I think it came from the city and you’re much closer than I am.
Also, grab something silver if you have it. You know the stories. They might not all be true, but you know what works on me, so it’s better than nothing.
A short while later, I receive a multimedia message. It’s a photograph of Rock’s arm held out with his fist clenched, an ornate, gleaming fork taped to his forearm with the tines protruding over his knuckles. The caption reads “locked and loaded”. It isn’t that funny, but I’m doubled over on the bed after a few seconds. When the laughter fades, I lie there, staring at the smooth, white ceiling.
Is this the right time to be making jokes? There are at least two very literal monsters in the world, said to be capable of spreading a cataclysmic scourge of the flesh-eating, blood-sucking variety, and I’m not confident either of them can control their power or appetites.
And what happened to me before Rock arrived?
At nearly a quarter to five o’clock in the morning, I hear the sirens. With one shoe on, I drop the other and hobble over to my bare window. My home stands on the mid point of the slope, giving me a fairly long view of the surrounding area downhill. A mild spring fog had rolled in so I can see the distant reds and blues of squad car lights highlighted by the floating water droplets. Nothing significantly distant is clear through the fog, but some moving lights make themselves distinguishable. A black and white patrol car, roof lights dark, turns the corner onto my street and rolls by. I watch the uniformed men pass, both driver and passenger scanning the early morning gloom with intense focus. I’m reminded of something I read about the behavior of medieval villages when a child is taken by a wild animal and the vengeful hunt that ensues. I can only hope no one had to die to put this thing on the city’s radar.
This could be bad, though. I can’t just stop going to school, but I can’t take the bus without mummifying myself. From now on, I’ll need to hoof it to school and I need to start early. If a curfew is instituted due to a rampaging monster, I’ll be out of luck unless I can sneak past multi-layered patrols for however long it takes them to track the thing down or drop their guard. I definitely shouldn’t have put off those driving lessons for so long. I have no choice. Either way, I’ll probably attract suspicion, but only one method isn’t guaranteed. I sit on my bed and think, staring down at my mismatched feet. I need to have a story ready if I’m going to risk being seen by police at odd hours. What reason could a normal high school student have for being so far from home at such early hours?
Just as frustration begins creeping into my thoughts, I realize I’m already staring at the answer. Athletic shoes. The ones I bought to wear during parkour lessons. I was only going to wear them so my feet didn’t ache by the time I reached the school, but as part of an outfit, I can appear to be an early morning jogger. I rifle through my closet and find a set of unworn athletic gear. Nylon pants and a tank-top. Too thuggish. I need to look harmless, perhaps a little dorky. I almost decide to go with a plain shirt bearing the logo of a popular sci-fi show when I come across my dad’s old windbreaker. A long-sleeved, slightly puffy, reflector-striped, nylon sweater. It’s drab olive coloring and purely functional design can be overlooked or even flattering when worn by well-built, handsome men, but on someone like me, the effect should be exactly what I need. Perhaps even the Marine Corps logo stamped on the breast could earn sympathy points from law enforcement.
I dress in my selection and peer into the mirror. My thin build is lost in the lumpy, swaddling sheets of artificial fabric. I look like I wandered into a surplus store by mistake and was sold the first four items on a clearance rack. Perfect.
I pack a change of normal clothes along with my school supplies, somewhat straining the zipper on my backpack, but I manage to close it without breaking anything. I had to be careful not to force anything harder than I estimated an ordinary human could, lest I rip everything apart. Controlling superhuman strength can be an incredible chore, at times. I strap my backpack tight and look myself over one more time.
“Just a harmless nerd, training for the track team, officer.” I mutter and look at my phone to check the time. “Shit.” Five-thirty. I have less than an hour to get to the school before the sun begins to rise. I stuff my phone into a pocket on the backpack strap and zip it closed, power walking out of my room and down the stairs. I snatch the note from the coffee table Mom left for me, to explain my absence, and sweep outside. Having never made the trip on foot before, I decide to start off at a strong pace.
I only cover three blocks before headlights appear on the horizon, heading directly for me. My eyes, now suited to see in darkness, are overwhelmed and I’m forced to squint. I begin mentally rehearsing my responses to questions, but as the car passes and the headlights no longer blind, I see it was only a cherry red SUV.
After this, the rest of my neighborhood passes by in relative peace. Other drivers intersect my path and I even jog past a parked squad car from which the officer inside gives me a subtle nod. I feel him watching me from his side view mirror, however, and I almost trip over a curb as I lose focus on what’s ahead. Only forty-five blocks to go.
Another two blocks and I cross a street, enter the neighboring suburban sprawl I’ll need to cut through. The houses in Cloudsdale Courts are marginally smaller, but just as picturesque, though fewer are gaudy or obsessively manicured. It’s here that someone begins to follow me. My pace is quick, far faster than I could have maintained with my load of books, clothes, and a pair of shoes when I was human. I breathe hard to maintain a somewhat normal facade, but I can still hear the footsteps behind me. They keep pace, landing their steps almost exactly as I do. Still unaccustomed to my heightened senses, I can’t tell exactly how far back my pursuer is, but it should be around half a block and across the street. I make a sudden turn, hoping I don’t get lost in the unfamiliar streets. The other footsteps remain behind me. I take three more randomly selected turns, but I haven’t shaken them. I pick up my pace, now at a healthy running speed and still, I’m being followed. I try to catch a glimpse of my stalker in the reflections of car windows and mirrors, but even with vampiric senses, I pass by too quickly to get a good angle. I don’t have time for this.
I break into what I hope is a plausible sprint as I round the corner back onto the broad street that enters Cloudsdale. Having broken line of sight, I hear the footsteps behind me snap out of sync. For a moment, they begin to grow distant, but after a few seconds I hear my pursuer catching up. Persistent bast—
There, in the windshield of a truck parked in the street, I see them pass beneath a streetlight and catch a flash of blue skin. Before I think to stop and see who it is, I detect motion in my periphery. I hardly need to turn my head to see the slight figure of a young woman running parallel to me on the other side of the street, dressed in compression shorts and a lightweight tanktop. Her long, chromatic hair is streaming behind her in a loose ponytail. I almost blurt out her name in astonishment when I realize I’ve been chased by Rainbow Dash for the last five minutes. What in Tartarus does she want? I glance in her direction for a couple seconds. My new night vision makes it easy to notice the furtive glare she sent me between heavy breaths. Her face is screwed up in absolute focus as her legs pump beneath her.
Is she...competing with me? What do I do? I should slow down, let her pass so I can be on my way without an audience. What if she stops? Should I tell her about the trap that’s been set for her? No. Besides not knowing how to warn her without implicating myself, she’ll probably notice I’m not even sweating and ask questions. I hear she’s not the brightest bulb, but if any booksmarts are in there, it’ll be about fitness. Keep pace with her? Tar’ no, I’ve heard about her competitive spirit. She’ll kill or injure herself trying to keep up with a supernatural being. The last thing I want is to be on her mind when she’s thinking about why she got hurt while being visited in the hospital by her friends. Friends that include Twilight So-Cute-It-should-Be-A-Crime Sparkle.
I have to destroy her.
I don’t think she’s seen my face in this gloom. No one knows me as an athlete and plenty of my schoolmates share similar hair and skin colors as my own. I only need to pick the right speed and gait so it’s not completely obvious I’m as human as a box of graveyard dirt. With a false huff of breath, I pick up some speed. So does she.
For the first time, I notice a dim glow on the horizon. The inky blackness of the night is giving way to the deep blue hues of early morning. Running out of time. With too much to lose to worry about the suspicions of one girl, I break into a true sprint. My backpack sways side to side, nearly throwing me off balance. I correct and keep moving. Behind, the sound of Rainbow’s footsteps grows distant before petering out. I almost sneak a glance over my shoulder, sorely tempted to see her face. I have nothing against her, but her expression must be absolutely priceless. Instead, I study the horizon. I must have less than half an hour and I’m still at least thirty blocks away.
The world flashes red and blue as a heady, electric chirp fills the air and blinding headlights blink on several yards ahead. I stumble to a graceless stop, shielding my eyes from the intense glare with one arm. Fury surges up inside me and I decide to stay where I am, using the headlights as an excuse to keep my eyes hidden.
“Step over here, son.” A sharp male voice calls out with practiced authority. Fists clenched, I obey, making a show of checking both directions before crossing the street to the adjacent corner of an intersection. Still pretending to breath hard, I approach the vehicle. The roof lights cut out and a uniformed man steps out from the passenger door as I near, followed by his partner from the other side. Knowing my eyes are glowing, I stop and rest my hands on my knees, head hanging low as I attempt to calm myself.
He’s just doing his job. He’s just doing his job.
The one who called me over holds a flashlight, shining it over me.
“Stand and face me, please.” he commands. I do, but keep my eyes shut, doing my best to look like I’m focused on catching my breath. My sight is awash in red as the flashlight shines through the blood of my eyelids
“Pretty early for a morning run, isn’t it?” Another voice says from across the car, not unkindly. “Wanna tell us why you’re packed and running like you stole Cerberus’s favorite chew toy?” This new speaker’s voice lacks the tone of a gruff law enforcement official, opting for a more neighborly, concerned affect. Goodcop-Badcop right off the bat. These guys are good. If I were actually exhausted, I might not have had the wit to notice.
“Weight...training...sir.” I gasp between breaths.
“You’re taking it awful fast there, marine. How long you been at it?” I need to be careful here. I just outpaced a known athlete by a wide margin while vastly more encumbered. What sounds right?
“Um...two months?” I huff. Both men share a chuckle. Badcop’s laugh contains an annoying note of derision that makes me hesitant to open my eyes again. I know I don’t look like an Olympic athlete, but come on. The light disappears and I crack open one eye. Both men are lean and fit, filling out their uniforms like male models. Goodcop is tall and toned, clean-shaven, bronze of hair and blonde of skin, casually resting his chiseled arms on the roof of the car. Badcop is slightly shorter and much bulkier with navy blue hair, a perfectly dad-like spruce mustache and slate blue skin. Bad choices to try to bullshit about fitness. Give me a break...
“Yeah? And what kind of weights are you using, kid? Got a teddy bear in there or something?” Badcop says with a smirk that spoils the otherwise kindly effects of his facial hair. I open my mouth to respond, but Goodcop pipes up.
“Ah, leave him alone, he’s gotta be doing something right. Look, he’s not even sweating and he outran Ms. Dash.” At the mention of her name, I hear a distant padding of sneakers on pavement. I open my eyes fully to see Goodcop raising one rippling arm in a casual wave. I pray she keeps running right on past, but as the sound of her footsteps gets louder, they also slow down.
“Mornin’ guys!” Rainbow says, her naturally scratchy voice as steady as if she’d only just started her morning routine. The girl has the stamina of a racehorse. I begin to wonder if I should question her humanity, as well. “These gentlemen givin’ you a hard time, Hercules?”
Hercules?
I turn and regard Rainbow with a puzzled look.
“Me?” I breathe.
“Yeah, you! What do you squat, like three-fifty? Four hundred?” Rainbow regards me with a smirk, hands on slender hips that are cocked at an angle perfectly calculated for maximum cool. I’ve passed her in the halls of the school at times, but this being the closest I’ve ever been, I notice something startling. Rainbow Dash is the kind of girl that looks her absolute best during exercise. Her attractive features imitate a strength and dignified beauty akin to depictions of valkyries. Her flushed, sky blue skin radiates a healthy glow under the streetlights and the thin sheen sweat is more than a little flattering. My heart is pretty set on her friend, but it’s hard to not notice when a girl looks this good.
“Uh...yeah, I guess.” I say, hoping I didn’t stare. The flashlight clicks on again behind me, throwing my shadow across the street. The beam moves around a bit and there’s a confused murmur from Badcop before the light clicks back off. This is getting worse by the second. I have to find an excuse to leave without seeming too eager. I turn back to the police and catch Goodcop’s eyes dart back to me from somewhere in the direction of Rainbow Dash. Most definitely not from her face. “Officers, if you don’t mind, can I—”
“Actually, I’m wondering if you don’t mind letting us take a look inside that bag.” Badcop says, his voice tight with badly suppressed suspicion. I can finally see the name tags sewn on the breast pocket of their tops. Badcop/Cuffs holds a meaty hand out to me while Goodcop/Down seems to study my reaction.
“It’s just books and—”
“Nevertheless.” Cuffs makes a come-hither motion at me. I look down at my feet as if nervous, hoping the red didn’t flare in my eyes. Getting real tired of being interrupted. Also, I know my rights, but I can’t have these goons following me around or stopping me every morning.
“Hey, come on, Lock!” Rainbow interjects, just as I’m about to start loosening the straps, “Tell your partner to leave him alone. I saw him, he’s just trying to get a workout in, like me!” I look back to Rainbow whose arms are now crossed at her modest chest as she gives the taller man a hard look. Down returns her look without moving his head, then glances back at me for a moment.
“Alright, marine, get outta here. Forget it, Cuffs.” Down says, taking his arms off the car and sliding back into the driver’s seat. Cuffs lowers his hand, but doesn’t move, his eyes scanning my entire body. “I said, let’s go!” Down shouts over the sound of the engine growling to life. Cuffs’s eyes dart between me and Rainbow before he turns away to enter the passenger door.
“Word of advice, son.” Cuffs says, leaning his head out the window, “Let your new girlfriend win the races more often than not.” He inclines his head toward Rainbow at the word ‘girlfriend’. Before either of us can respond, the car lurches forward and the back of Cuffs’s head makes contact with the edge of the window frame with a painful-sounding thump. They cruise away, Cuffs growling curses at his partner.
I offer an apologetic look at Rainbow whose flushed cheeks could easily be blamed on the exercise. By her annoyed, but placid, expression and steady gaze, I‘d believe it.
“Thanks.” I say. “I really wish I knew how you did that.”
“No problem, new kid. Where’re you from?” She asks, smiling sweetly, ignorant of how deep that comment cut. Not only have I lived in Canterlot most of my life, I’ve gone to the same school as Rainbow Dash since third grade. Ouch. How unremarkable am I? I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised, even the people that still tease me about taking a girl’s role in an elementary school play don’t always recognize me after summer break. All except one. I answer her question with a nod toward Ghastenhauser Grove. She turns to look up the sloped landscape beyond Cloudsdale Courts and whistles. “Ooh, rich kid, huh? You must have a personal trainer, then.”
“Ah, well, no, just...kinda winging it.” I say, resisting a manic urge to check the time.
“Oh.” Rainbow blinks in surprise. “You’re gonna hurt yourself if you don’t make sure you know what you’re doing, especially if you do this kind of high-intensity stuff. Why don’t you let me—” I stop listening, mind racing as I try to find a way to at least hint about the paint bomb. As far as she knows, this is the first time we’ve ever met. She doesn’t even know we go to the same school. Should I just tell her the truth? And look like a creep? Pass. I’ll think of something later, it’s time to leave. “—so it’s pretty obvious I know what I’m doing. So how ‘bout it?”
“Sorry, I-I really appreciate your help with those guys, that was pretty awesome,” I say beginning to walk backward, “and I’ll find a way to thank you, but I’m not just working out, I gotta get to school.” Before she can respond, I turn and begin trotting away. “See ya, Rainbow!” I blurt without thinking. Oops.
She calls after me, but I pretend not to hear, pulling up the hood tucked under the collar. The sky is even brighter than before, noticeably bluer, and the stars have begun to disappear. I pick up speed and focus on getting to the school. The number of drivers increases as I near the more urban areas of town, but none seem to be interested enough to take note of me, too engrossed in their smartphones or lattes or how the car in front of them isn’t ignoring traffic laws for their own convenience.
By the time the roof of Canterlot High comes into view, the sun’s rays are highlighting the clouds. With the fog, I can see the wall of light bearing down. A tiny surge of panic flows through me, most likely dulled by my vampire physiology. I become acutely conscious of the growing thirst and the emotional numbness that accompanies it. It’s been several hours since feeding and exerting myself as much as I have should be taxing whatever resources it provided. I just need what’s left to last me part way into the night. I hope it’ll be enough to just keep calm and relaxed.
I look over my shoulder to see the roofs and high windows of distant buildings gleam and glow in the sunlight, prompting a burst of new speed. I fly over the pavement, indifferent to the possibility that someone might notice and wonder who, or possibly what, I am. There is no fear just a desperate, instinctual need to get away from that light, moving my body without any conscious effort.
Finally, I crest a shallow rise and the school comes into full view. I race around the chain link fence surrounding the eastern courtyard and approach the back entrance of the school. I come to a stuttering crash against the wall of the protruding facade, narrowly missing one of the fluted columns that frames the entry. As long as I stick to the west side of the building, I’ll be alright. I made it. I slide down the wall and rest backward against the cool masonry, head on my knees and eyes closed.
“My, you’re here pretty early.” A smooth, chipper feminine voice says. The sound doesn’t break the silence so much as it sets it aside.
My eyes snap open and I turn to the source of the words. A tall woman in a smart, dandelion blazer and crisp, violet slacks leans against the concrete bust of a horse that flanks the stairs to the rear doors. The flamboyance of her dress is overshadowed by the loud, but remarkably tasteful, coloring of her long, wavy hair. Its chromatic shades are as varied as Rainbow Dash’s own, but of lesser intensity. It’s almost like a gently flowing swath of pastel light, rather than a violent burst of flat color. A tiny, spiky, seemingly permanent, cowlick atop her head is all that mars the otherwise flawless hair framing her pale pink face. Her smiling mauve eyes shine with motherly kindness beneath two perfectly groomed eyebrows. Naturally dark lips curve into a warm smile as she idly stirs a cup of yogurt with a plastic spoon. For some reason, I feel like she’s missing something.
I just called Principal Celestia ‘Mom’. How did I not see her standing there? There’s no way she snuck up on me in the thick business heels she’s wearing.
“—drove me here today. Uh, my mom...drove me.” I cough.
Principal Celestia giggles and places the yogurt-coated spoon in her mouth. She withdraws it clean and twirls it between her fingers for a moment before speaking.
“Don’t be embarrassed, young man. You’re certainly not the first person to call me that, by mistake. But you...” She points the spoon at me, “You have, by far, the best excuse, Mister Strand. At least in my opinion.”
“Oh. Why’s that?” I say, confident I already know the answer. She withdraws the spoon from her mouth, twirling it again as she savors more probiotic goop. The quick, complex motions are actually a little impressive. I wonder if she practices that.
“Your mother and I confuse each other sometimes, when we’re in the same vicinity and one of us hasn’t noticed. Our voices are so similar, it’s hard to tell if we’re having an intrusive thought or thinking out loud. Once, I was in the teacher’s lounge, reading over some papers,” Principal Celestia begins with a chuckle, “and your mother was standing just outside the door. A colleague greets her as he walks in, she greets him back, and when he tries to greet me, I don’t respond, thinking I already had!” She hums a laugh to herself and I offer a token smile. She seems mildly disappointed at my reaction. “Oh, your mother probably shared all our little anecdotes by now, hasn’t she?”
“Yeah, lots of ‘em.” I admit. “I do still like the one about her first day, when you two were in the restroom and the psychology teacher in one of the stalls thought you were having a conversation with yourself.” Principal Celestia lowers the spoon back into the cup as she laughs aloud. It’s a gentle, melodic sound.
“Yes, I remember! For a whole week, Puzzela invited me to tea and lunch with the intent to psychoanalyze me! I was ready to tell her I thought she was being unprofessional when I walked in on your mother and her laughing up a storm about it.” I can’t help a small chuckle at that. Mom never told me that part.
The warm, casual moment is nice, but it eventually descends into a silence that soon becomes awkward, at least to me. Principal Celestia seems to remain perfectly at ease. I can’t help trying to anticipate when she’ll ask me why I’m here, and why I came sprinting up to the building like a man on fire. But she doesn’t. She finishes her yogurt, tosses the cup into a nearby bin, and leans back against the bust, facing away from me. I hear her take in a breath and release it in a long, contented sigh. Her heartbeat is remarkably steady and slow, almost fading into the ambient noise. Perhaps that’s how she was able to approach me, undetected.
I gaze out over the parking lot, empty, save for a modern, but economical, dandelion yellow sedan parked in the far eastern corner. A sign in front of it reads ‘Faculty Parking: Celestia’. The cement that holds it in place is as new as the patch in front of the parking spot nearest the door. The edges of the shadow the school throws across the asphalt have become sharp as the growing light banishes the fog. It wasn’t exactly a photo finish, but I feel like I’ve already come far too close to dying to this curse.
“Your mother is a wonderful woman, Gyre.” The comment, delivered in a monotonous, matter-of-fact tone, comes out of nowhere. It shocks me from my reverie and my head shoots up off my knees as I stare at the back of Principal Celestia’s head.
“Uhm...I’m glad you think so, Principal Celestia. That means a lot.”
“I think you’re a bit of an underachiever, though.” Is it Roast Gyre Strand Into The Dirt Week, or something? What is going on lately? “Don’t take that the wrong way,” she says, far too late, “...it’s not that I think you’re incapable of great things. On the contrary,” She turns to face me, “after hearing about you and your father from your mother, and coming to know her as more than an occasional co-worker, I feel like you haven’t lived up to even your most modest potential.” Principal Celestia strolls over to me and crouches down to my right, placing a gentle hand on my shoulder. It’s far too intimate for me and I begin to fidget, unsure how to react. I’m just glad she’s a pants lady, not a skirt girl. “But there’s something different about you, today. I saw you coming down the street with that heavy-looking bag on your back and I thought: ‘Now, there goes a real man, putting in real work’. When I saw who that man was...well, I couldn’t tell you how proud of him I felt.” She gives my shoulder a firm, friendly squeeze.
It was such a lovely thing to say, I wish I could be abashed at the compliment, but my plasticized heart registers only a glimmer of emotion. A small swelling of sheepish pride makes it through, but for the most part, I can only think logically. It was all effortless, fueled by some dark power I neither earned nor want. Before I was transformed, would I have ever pushed myself hard enough, in any endeavor, to perform a feat comparable to sprinting several miles with the weight of four heavy textbooks on my back? I don’t know, I had only recently begun to pull my act together. How will I ever know, now?
“Is...everything alright, Gyre?” Principal Celestia says. She looks me over, really studying me and what I’m wearing. Her eyes dart across my features and the concern seems to grow across hers.
“No, ma’am, I’m just...tired from my run, that’s all.”
“No kidding. And you must be parched. You ran that whole way and it looks like you haven’t sweat a drop. Fit or not, that’s a sign of dehydration. Let’s get you inside and something to drink.” She half-stands and offers her hand. I place my sleeved wrist in her palm so she can’t feel the dead coolness of my skin. I take the opportunity to affirm her thoughts by swaying on my feet as she helps me stand. She takes my arm in both hands, letting go only after I meet her gaze and nod, smiling.
“Thank you, ma’am.” Too many people are noticing my lack of functional sweat glands. I should bring a spray bottle next time, to mist myself as I run.
No, that’s stupid.
Just as we begin to round the wall to the foot of the stairs, a sleek, matte black sports car pulls into the parking lot, gliding to a smooth stop between the nearest pair of lines. The faculty-reserved sign indicates it belongs to Vice Principal Luna.
The purr of the engine cuts off shortly before the door opens with a jerk. A slender woman climbs unsteadily from the driver’s seat. Her pale, cornflower blue hands clutch a neat, black leather office tote bag and an alarmingly tall cup of coffee I can smell almost immediately. Vice Principal Luna’s normally well-brushed cascade of wavy sapphire and creamy lavender hair is pinned into a semi-tidy bun on the back of her head. Heavy, gleaming sunglasses cover the dark teal eyes that seem to intimidate nearly every student unlucky or unruly enough to be sent to her office. I’ve seen even the most headstrong students shrink from the icy sternness of those orbs over a casual greeting. It makes me feel bad for her, sometimes. Unlike Principal Celestia, Vice Principal Luna is indeed a skirt girl today, sporting a sharp blazer over a severe pencil skirt dress and thigh-high boots, all a blue so dark, only direct sunlight makes it apparent they’re not black. A silver, crescent moon clasp holds a navy strip of fabric in place about her middle. I wonder if I’ve ever seen her without that lunar symbol?
Even half put-together, she’s impressive and beautiful, like a black panther. If one didn’t know better, they might suspect she’s related to Twilight.
She begins moving toward us, her sensible heels drumming a steady, unhurried beat on the asphalt. As she nears, passing into the shade, she removes her sunglasses and trades them for a jangling set of keys from the tote bag.
“Good morning, Luna.” Principal Celestia chirps.
“Hey.” Vice Principal Luna brushes past and leans on the handrails as she begins to climb the stairs, taking three steps before finally seeming to notice me. “Who’s this?” She gestures to me over the wall with the top of her cup, spilling a few drops of pitch black brew through the small hole in the lid.
“This, dearest sister, is the student we agreed to allow access to the school library and study hall before hours. On a probationary basis.” Whoa, what? Principal Celestia meets my surprised expression with a meaningful look. “Provided he spends one morning a week before class, acting as our aide. As part of the community service requirement for graduation.” She looks back to Vice Principal Luna. “Remember?” For once, the near unflappability of my starved vampire brain serves me well, as I’m able to remain cool enough to follow the lead.
Vice Principal Luna fixes me with a hard stare, eyes raking my face and body. She seems to give up after a few moments, turning away with a grunt and tipping the oversized coffee long enough to have enjoyed several swallows of what is likely dangerous for ordinary mortals. She climbs the stairs and unlocks the doors with a curt series of gestures before pushing through and vanishing into the shadowy interior. Principal Celestia sighs.
“You’ll have to forgive my sister. Luna’s...not a morning person.” Or a people person. “Now come on, we have cold water in the staff break room. Let me know if you start to feel faint. Of course, you’re welcome to use the boy’s shower rooms, if you need.” She places a hand on my backpack and we walk to the steel double doors together. Once inside, we make our way down a wide, unlit corridor, guided by the sparse light bouncing around through the eastern windows and filtering through the huge, central stained glass dome that crowns the roof of Canterlot High. Vice Principal Luna is nowhere to be seen. Not even the faint echo of boots on linoleum marks her presence in the school. There’s a smell inside I can’t quite place. We arrive at a locked door some yards down the hall which Celestia opens with a key card. I stand at the door, feeling like a child at his mother’s strange workplace, unsure where the uncrossable lines lie. Principal Celestia strides over to a plain, semi-modern refrigerator and withdraws a clear plastic bottle whose surface quickly grows cloudy with condensation. “Please, have a seat Mister Strand. You should hydrate so I don’t have to follow you around the school to make sure you don’t fall over.” She lowers her voice to a conspiratorial tone and, with a mischievous wink, says, “It would be highly inappropriate to follow you to the showers.” Placing the bottle on a small wooden table, she indicates a seat, taking the one next to it for herself.
I join her and break the seal on the water’s screw-top lid. The vampire in me is still disgusted by the stuff, but I choke some down for appearance’s sake. Water has never tasted so...chemical.
And what is that smell?
“Now, I’m not one to be intentionally manipulative, but I’d like to know if you understand the gravity of what I’ve just done.” Principal Celestia’s tone is soft and reasonable. Her gaze seems to penetrate my skull, as if my eyes are mere periscopes into my head.
“Can I be...frank, Principal Celestia?”
“Yes, of course, as long as you’re entirely honest, as well. Oh, and, at least outside school hours, you’re welcome to drop the title; there’s no reason we can’t speak as friends, I think.” She beams and I smile back before pretending to take another sip.
“Well,” I begin with some trepidation, “I understand you’re putting your professional reputation at risk, maybe even your career if an extreme case arises. While I’m flattered and appreciative and fully intend to take advantage of the opportunity you’ve given me...” Damn, I sound like a lawyer. “...I...uhm...”
“Didn’t ask me to do anything?” Celestia finishes. I meet her eyes and nod. “You’re right. I’ll hold you to no obligations and you’re welcome to tell me now if this isn’t something you want.” Want? I need this. My life literally depends on serendipity like this, right now. “But do you know what was hard about making this decision?” The fact that you’re putting your faith into a hormonal boy with a history of cutting corners and slacking off?
I break eye contact and stare at my hands, making a show of concentrating and knowing I won’t find the answer.
“I don’t know, ma’am. I—” am smart enough to know I’m too dumb to figure out what will shortly seem shamefully obvious, “—guess I’m missing a major detail, here.”
“It was deciding to lie to my only family about it.”
Called it. Now, I look like an idiot and a jerk.
And what is that smell?
“I gotta admit, that doesn’t make me feel great, ma’am.” Celestia laughs heartily and places a hand over one of mine. I squash the impulse to jerk my hand away when I realize the clamminess can be blamed on the effects of holding an ice cold object.
“I didn’t expect it to, I know you have a good heart. But maybe this will: I hear so much about you, through your mother. I understand every parent is proud of their child, no matter what they do, but the way yours talks about you is different. She doesn’t force herself to marvel at mediocre accomplishments or exaggerate, she sees things about you that truly stand out. Your kindness to a peer who needs it most, even when it seems like it may be costing you the respect and social status your peers hold in higher esteem than health and happiness. I hear of your loyalty and generosity toward him, the helpful and righteous honesty of your opinions and the way your humor has helped your mother come to terms with the death of her husband, even when that very same death still crushes you. There’s magic in you, Gyre. There’s magic in everyone, but not all of it is paired with potential like yours. Your mother sees it, your best friend sees it, and I see it, too. Your mother speaks so highly of you, but there’s something about it that pains me, you know.” She takes my forearms through the sleeves. “She’s repeating herself.” I sit, stock still and dumbfounded at the amount of irony in Celestia’s speech. Why does my high school principal, whose presence in my life could have been generously described as a series of footnotes, care so much about me? Who or what am I to her? “Please understand that she will never be disappointed in you, but don’t you think she deserves to have a son that will never stop surprising her? Someone she can believe in to make not just a few, but all lives, better? I think that’s the kind of man you can become, the kind of man I’ve seen and heard of you becoming for the last month. I hope you’ll let me be a part of that.”
I wasn’t ready for this. I don’t know what I’d be doing if I wasn’t so numb, but echoes make it into my forebrain, cries from an anemic yearning for expression somewhere far away, but still a part of me. There aren’t words to accurately describe what’s it like to be dead and dammed up when it seems like you should be crying, laughing, or dancing with joy. All I can feel is a puzzled frustration. Perhaps this is what it’s like to be a psychopath.
“I don’t know what to say.” I murmur.
“Just say you’ll do your best and I’ll believe you.” Celestia says, letting go and settling back into her chair. As a vampire, I thought I’d never survive seeing something, in person, as warm and bright as the smile she beams at me now.
I open my mouth to respond when a short, visceral cry of terror shreds the stillness of the school. Something that sounds like a body falls to the floor in the distance. Celestia’s eyes widen in shock before narrowing as she looks to the door of the break room.
“Luna.” She whispers as she stands, towering at over six feet. She looks more like a valkyrie than Rainbow ever could. “Stay here, Gyre. Call the police if this office phone doesn’t ring in three minutes.” She points to a black landline on the counter, next to the fridge. The smell from earlier suddenly explodes in intensity. Celestia doesn’t seem to notice, already rummaging through a drawer. She withdraws a behemoth metal flashlight and a small ring of keys, tossing the latter to me. I catch them with my off hand, and cover my nose to no avail. “The black, square key is the one for the light switches throughout the school, in case you need it.” She hefts the flashlight like a club before turning it on. I find the key amongst the myriad shards of metal on the same loop. All the others are marked with a three- or four-character label, indicating what room they unlock. This ring seems to contain keys only for the rear wing and what I’d guess are some of the side exits.
“You sure you don’t want to me to call them now?” I say, withdrawing my phone from the strap pocket at my shoulder.
“No, you shouldn’t even be in the school at this hour. It’d be best if I was the first to speak with the police, should there be an emergency. Besides, we don’t even know what’s the matter. Luna may have just slipped or fallen in the dark.” In a mumble audible to me only because of my enhanced senses, she adds: “Not that she ever has.”
I hear Celestia’s heart hammering in her chest. She sweeps past me to retrieve one of several first aid kits stored in a red metal box mounted on the wall before hustling to the doorway. She turns back, one last time.
“Please, stay here, Gyre. The door will lock behind me, but it’ll still open from this side. Remember, three minutes. No longer.” I look to the coffee maker, no doubt accurate to the nanosecond because gods forbid someone’s delayed brew isn’t ready for them when they get here. The digital display reads 6:14 A.M..
“Yes, ma’am.” I reply, moving my seat to the counter by the phone and close the blinds.
“Good idea.” Celestia says, flicking the light switches off before stepping through the door and letting it close silently behind her.
As her footsteps grow distant, I can’t help wondering if there’s something I can do. I sit in the dark, surrounded by tiny dots of glowing LEDs like a lone mind in a sparsely populated cosmos. What would I do if something happened to them? Probably nothing. The lives of two ordinary women hardly matter, any—
Wait, I know this hopeless feeling.
It begins with a vague sense of vertigo. By degrees, it grows into a nauseating mental spin. The world is suddenly unfolding, warping, collapsing and blooming all at once as I feel a presence draw near. The thunder-voice booms inside me, seeming to vibrate my insides like I‘m merely a skinsack of jelly. It hurts, this time, and I try to clutch at my stomach where pain radiates in jagged spikes. Again, the voice quakes me, causing my skull to shudder. I fall to my knees. I think I’m beginning to comprehend something in its reverberations, but I can’t quite put words to it.
When I can finally tell my colon from my ear canal again, I find myself on my knees, in the same ritualistic pose as before, hands held in the air above my chest with my head thrust back. I collapse on the floor and clutch my head as a strange, horrible sensation screams through it. It’s not exactly pain, but something just as unpleasant that induces an anxious mental buzz. On top of everything, I feel horribly nauseous.
What was that about? All I know is that a revenant is some kind of ghost or zombie. Even vampires can be considered revenants. Have I been targeted?
Suddenly remembering how much time had passed when this happened before, I scramble to my feet and check the coffee maker’s clock to see that I can still expect Celestia’s call.
As if in response, the landline rings. I bounce back to it and pick up.
“Hello?” I say. A sharp voice, definitely not Celestia, comes through the receiver, but whoever is speaking sounds shaken.
“Gyre, this is Luna.” She says. I hear her draw in a short breath through her teeth. Celestia’s voice murmurs something apologetic in the background before Vice Principal Luna speaks again “Stay wherever you are, the police are on their way. Other staff members may be arriving soon. If anyone speaks to you, make sure they know to stay away from the gymnasium, do you hear me? Stay away from the gym. And don’t trust anyone yet.”
“Is everything alright?” The line is silent for a moment too long before the answer comes.
“No.” Before I can say another word, I hear the beep that signals the call was ended from the other side. Well, that was ominous.
A miniscule flare in the brightness outside the room is followed by the metallic clank of the rear doors closing. A steady beat of footsteps echoes through the corridor, drawing nearer. If Vice Principal Luna was just attacked, whoever’s coming could be the perpetrator. It could also be that school staff she mentioned, but they might be wandering into danger. Should I warn them or stay hidden? The decision is made for me as the person stops outside the door for a moment before the lock is disengaged. I position myself just underneath the camera in the corner of the room, taking up its only blind spot. If I have to use my powers to escape this person, I don’t want there to be hard evidence of it. They enter and turn on the light, blinding me for a couple seconds. They take a few steps into the room before crying out in alarm as they notice me.
“Goodness! What are ya doin’ in here?” A gentle male voice says in a milquetoast accent I’ve only ever heard when a character on television is supposed to be from quiet, naive parts of the country. I open an eye to see one of the volleyball coaches, whose name I don’t know. He’s a lean, almost lanky man, holding a soft nylon lunch box and sporting a cherry red track suit with a bald, orange scalp and a horseshoe of dark red hair. His bright green eyes lock onto mine as he tries to identify me.
“There’s something going on in the school. Cele—Principal Celestia and Vice Principal Luna are handling it, and the police should be here any second.” I say cooly, studying his reaction at the mention of police. I’m no professional interrogator, but I only detect an alarmed curiosity in his face. “It sounds pretty bad so they’re saying to stay away from the gym, for now.”
“Oh.” He says, looking dumbfounded. “But what’s a student doin’ in the school so early? And in here?”
“Community service program.” I answer, hoping he doesn’t question the ambiguity of it. He seems to remain suspicious, but doesn’t question further. Good, I don’t exactly have answers, either.
“Very well, young man. What’s yer name?” He says. I tell him and he hums a thoughtful note as he puts his lunch bag into the fridge, his tracksuit swishing and sighing obnoxiously. “By chance, are ya the nurse’s son? The one that comes by a few times a month?”
“Yes…”
“I see. Yer mother seems very nice.”
“Thank you.” I say with icy stiffness. He fidgets as he seems to be gathering courage to say something else. I think I can guess what it is.
“I-I uhm...haven’t seen yer father. Is...he still around?”
Even through my blood-starved numbness, I feel the need to hide my eyes. I disguise it with a plastic laugh as I tilt my head down and close my eyes. Plenty of people know my father was a Marine, but if this guy doesn’t even know he’s dead...
“That’s because I had two moms.” I don’t fret the implications this would have about my mother. Not only have I seen her use the same trick to ward off other men, but I doubt it’s something she would care to dispute. My annoyance passes and I look back up. Again, he seems at a loss for words. His eyes widen after a moment.
“Had?” He suddenly looks to me, as if seeing me for the first time. I simply nod. “I’m sorry to hear that, Mister Strand. My condolences to ya both.”
“Thanks, I’ll pass the sentiment along.” I say. He smiles, a hint of giddiness showing through in the bounce of his step as he moves to the door.
“Well, I’d best be off.” He says, opening the door.
I think about warning him again to stay away from the gym, but before I can make a decision, a voice cuts through the air of the school like a bullhorn.
“Freeze!” The coach emits a comically feminine cry and stumbles back against the door, tripping over his own feet and tumbling to the linoleum. I see him raising his hands above his head before the door swings shut. Gods, I wish I could feel enough to laugh at that, it’d make my week. Still, the police are about to come through that door. I think it’s best I’m not laughing like a maniac when they do. I hear boots trundling up the hall before the outline of a man with his arms held out in front of him stops at the window. I hear inquisitive voices, followed by stuttered comments from the coach. A second outline joins the first, but keeps moving past, toward the coach. After some seconds, I hear a card pass through the slot and the door opens. The man that steps through, pistol pointed at the floor before him, is horribly familiar.
“Well, well, good morning, Hercules.” Officer Cuffs says. I resist the urge to roll my eyes. Instead, I raise my hands as slowly as I can. “Hey, Down! Come see who it is!”
“I get it, I heard you.” Down says, with cool indifference. “It’s that kid from earlier.” He pauses and I hear him speak to the coach, “On your feet, please, back in that room.”
The coach reappears in the doorway, his hands still held in the air at his shoulders. He sidles into the room, edging around Cuffs, followed by Down. We oblige when we’re asked to sit at the table with our hands in front of us. I can see the coach’s hands shivering on the table top and hear the blood pumping through his heart a mile a minute. I feel a thirst-driven psychotic urge to cease the incessant sound. I focus on my hands in front of me by tapping out the beat of a song.
“You seem a little nervous, son.” Down says, reading me wrong. His tone is even, but I sense an edge to it.
“Is that not the appropriate response to being held in a room by two armed men while there seems to be crime afoot nearby?” I deadpan.
“Alright, smartass—” Cuffs begins, whipping out a chair opposite mine, gun in hand. Before he sits, however, his partner speaks up.
“Why don’t you check out the gym, like the lady said?” Cuffs’s head swivels around fast enough to make his neck pop.
“You check it out, I need to have a word with—” He stops, mid-sentence. I look to Down, but I see nothing other than a man with arms folded across his chest, eyebrows raised in an expression of mild inquisitiveness. Cuffs closes his mouth and turns back to glare at me. His knuckles pop as his fists close tight, one hand still gripping his gun. This might have made me wary if his trigger discipline wasn’t outstanding, index finger pressed to the barrel of the gun, rather than in the trigger loop. He may be overly aggressive, but at least he seems to take his safety training seriously.
“Fine.” Cuffs finally says, his tone deadly even. He peeks through the blinds in the windows, scanning the darkened hallway before moving to the door. “Will this card open any other doors in the building, Mr. Steps?” He says, his voice now quite calm and professional.
“Yes, sir, anything marked with the same color stripes as you see on the back.” Coach Steps says, still clearly shaken. “Should I show ya to the gym?”
“I know where I’m going. Starting point guard, back in the days when this school actually won against Crystal Prep, once in a while.” Cuffs says and opens the door into the hall, stepping through with his gun at the ready. His footsteps fade away quickly as the door closes.
Down sighs and runs his hand over his face, rubbing at his eyes. He keeps hold of his gun as he takes the seat Cuffs had pulled out. When he sits, he clunks the gun down on the table between us, maintaining a loose grip. Something about this seems off.
“You know,” he begins with a knowing grin, “this is usually the part where the handsome, clever partner waits until the braggart is out of earshot before revealing a little factoid that belittles said braggart’s claims, but...well, if you ever get a chance, take a look at the records for the old scores and check the names on the trophies in the halls. Three years in a row, CHS won that championship against Crystal P, with my partner at the helm.” Down’s hand is still on the gun, but his head is turned completely away, looking at the door to the break room. I could swear it’s even closer to me, now. I look to Coach Steps who seems to hardly be in attendance at this conversation. “I’m real sorry about him, kid. Don’t know why he’s taken such a mean shine to you.” Eyes on the gun, I shift in my seat which makes a sudden, sharp creaking noise. Down’s fingers twitch on the handle, but he makes no other movement. “He’s really a good man and a great cop, you know. Same stuff that made him such a badass point guard.”
I’m still sensing something strange. Even I understand a cop should know better than to hold a firearm so close to an unbound suspect, especially in a loose grip. Either he’s incompetent or he’s trying to bait me into reaching for the gun. I can test this, but I risk getting shot if he overreacts. I remain silent as he continues his speech.
“Safe to say I know my partner pretty well. Part of my job, after all. So that begs the question: ‘Why is he so interested in you, Herc?’” He says ‘Herc’ with snide acidity, as if I had picked the name for myself. “At first, I was confused, but I gotta admit, something’s smelling like bass on a summer sidewalk right about now.”
“Pardon me. W-w-when I get nervous, I—” Coach Steps chimes in, but stops after being fixed with a look by Down. I can’t tell if the coach was making a joke or admission of guilt, but he suddenly finds something utterly fascinating under his fingernails. Down continues.
“So. What, pray tell, were you doing at five-forty-five this morning, hauling ass to a place where a crime is reported less than an hour later?” He turns to face me again, eyebrows raised in a cocky expression and apparently satisfied that I’m not dumb enough to take his bait. Guys like him only act this way when they’re sure they have all the answers, which can be used against them. I think I read that in a detective story, anyway.
“I don’t know what you think I’ve done or why you’re chasing me down like I’m some kind of murder suspect—”
“Funny you should say that.” Down cuts in. I hide my eyes again. Why does anger and annoyance have to be the only things I can feel when I’m thirsty? “Because—”
Down is interrupted by a drawn-out wail. There’s no mistaking the unbridled despair in that sound. He’s on his feet in a flash, holding the transmission button down on the small radio strapped to his shoulder.
“Cuffs, this is Down, do you read? Over.” He mumbles into the device. There’s no response, but again, the man’s wail tears through the empty halls, only slightly less clear than before. “Cuffs. Do you read? Over.” Down rasps through gritted teeth. To the others, the silence in the room must be deafening, but I can hear the sobs of a grown man, drifting to me like the weeping of a ghost. I’m certain I should be shivering at the sound of it. “Shit!” He hisses, placing his gun back in its holster and drawing another pistol from his cargo pants pocket. I know precious little about guns, but this one doesn’t look much like the standard issue he seems to think is currently useless. Rather than all black, the new gun is a clean silver, with a black grip and longer barrel. Steps and I look at each other, exchanging looks of confusion, before turning back to the officer.
“You.” Down says, pointing at Steps, “Stay put.” He looks at me next. “You’re coming with me.” When I hesitate, bewildered, Down shouts. “Move, Hercules, let’s go!” I comply, joining him at the door. The landline rings, making both men jump. “Don’t answer that!” Down says as Steps seems to reach for the phone out of reflex.
“O-Okay, sir.” Steps says, raising his hands and backing away.
“Move.” Down jabs me with his elbow toward the door, gesturing with the lowered barrel of his weapon. I open the door and step through into the hallway. I’m prodded again and take the hint, starting on the path to the gym. Behind me, I hear Down’s heart beginning to pound in his chest. At this point, I imagine neither of us are under the illusion that the man crying is anyone other than Officer Cuffs. We make our way through the dimly-lit school with our footsteps synced into one perfectly matched beat, the sound of our movement like the pitch-shifted ticking of a clock, counting down to something awful. We near a narrower hall that intersects in a T-junction at the end of the long, spacious one we’ve been traversing. There are few windows in this section of the school, so the darkness thickens around the bend. A light appears over my shoulder, sweeping the tenebrous walls and floor before us.
One of the main, indoor entrances to the gym is only about thirty feet away, once we round the right-hand corner. In the eerie gloom, its location is marked by weak shafts of light that filter through the tall, slim windows of the metal double doors. I have to force myself to step closer, conscious that the gym is lit in the mornings by sunlight that shines directly through the long row of frosted, ceiling-level windows along the east wall. I hope the light coming through the doors is only from ambient reflections at this time of day. By now, I’m sure Down can hear his partner’s sobs drifting through the halls.
After what feels like hours, we finally reach the doors. An incomplete repair on the narrow metal partition beam between the doors has left a jagged edge showing. A few dark threads hang from a menacing shard of painted steel with fresh, glistening droplets of blood dotting the floor on my side of the door. The sniffling and whimpering is coming from just beyond the doorway. I step near the light and surreptitiously test it with a couple bare fingers. Nothing. I continue into it and peer through the nearest window. The first thing I see is the dark blue of Cuffs’s uniform, stretched tight across his back. His head hangs over his lap and he rocks, forward and back. I catch glimpses of an unmistakable red smeared across the floor, further into the gym.
“Stop.” Down commands. I take one more step and halt. From this window, I can see enough to know I’ll later wish I hadn’t looked.
Beyond the doors is Officer Cuffs, his gun lying on the floor next to his feet, and several streaks of dark blood leading up to something almost unrecognizable at first glance. The torn clothing and general shape is all that gives away its nature. A human body lies chest-down on the gleaming, lacquered boards. Behind it, a trail of drying blood traces a curved path to the center of the basketball court, almost twenty feet long. It’s spotted, along its length, with oblong marks that look to be in the vague shape of a boot, as if someone had walked across it. This idea is further supported by the trail of red prints leading back into the gym, fading soon after leaving the vicinity of the blood pooled around the corpse. From where I stand, I can’t make out any significant details of the corpse and Cuffs’s shuddering body blocks my view of the head. By now, I’ve grown used to the stench and realize that it holds a certain familiarity. I’ve smelled a corpse before; the scent of human death is nothing new to me, but it’s the blood. The fetid, cold liquid is as offensive as fresh vomit or a hot, out-gassing dumpster shared by a one-star restaurant and a cheap pet lodge. Now that I’m even closer, I can smell something else, something much older. A dry, sour odor of advanced decomposition.
“Open that door.” Down commands in a hushed tone, using his gun to indicate the one nearest me. I lift the bar handle and back away at a smooth pace. More of the stench billows out, causing Down to visibly grimace. “Put down that kickstand and back away. Sit against that wall, hands out in front of you.” He points to a shallow alcove in the wall, a product of aesthetics rather than practical architecture. I put my back to the wall and sit with my forearms propped on my knees, peering down the halls, wondering why I haven’t seen the principals yet. “Cuffs, partner, you need to step away from the crime scene.” Down says. Cuffs doesn’t respond, only letting out a long, pathetic whimper. Down passes through the doorway, gun out in front of him, scanning the interior space of the fold-able bleachers that flank the entrance. He seems satisfied that no threats are present and moves further in, approaching Cuffs. Before he reaches him, however, his shoulders and arms go limp and his combat posture loosens. “Oh...gods...”
For some reason, this seems to refresh Cuffs’s anguish and another series of mournful sobs escapes him. He then utters his first comprehensible words since we found him.
“My baby boy…” He whines.
“Steel, please...you need to put that down and come with me.” Down says, his voice soft, sympathetic. Cuffs looks up at him. I can’t see his face, but all the pain in the world is concentrated in his voice.
“But this is my boy. My baby boy…oh...” He begins to weep again, curling into himself and I can see now that his arms are wrapped around something in his lap.
“Cuffs, come on, you’ve done enough damage, buddy. You have to drop that...thing.” Down says, crouching down to put a hand on his partner’s shoulder.
“Thing?” Cuffs responds, almost immediately. “Thing? This is my son you sick fuck! Look at him!” With that, Cuffs thrusts the object at Down and I can finally see the severed head’s face. Through the blood and tattered flesh, I make out the blood-stained, ivory streaks running through navy hair that frames the stormy grey features I’ve grown to despise over the years. A face that had become my symbol of suffering and humiliation, a promise that I would never know peace in my childhood.
Ace Longshot, my personal bully since elementary school has been brutally murdered.
I sat at the end of the lunch table, separated from the rest of my sixth grade class. They all occupied their round, plastic stools in close proximity to each other, eating, chatting, making merriment, like we sat at a holiday banquet table. There was little I had to say and even less in common with my classmates, all of them seemingly obsessed with their handheld consoles, card games, sports, or gossip. I found it easier to engage myself in lonesome activities, like reading the book on genetics bought for me the week prior. It was an early birthday gift from my Aunt Codon that I was surprised to find enthralling. My mother had tried to interest me in medicine, but, while she did well at teaching me, the process was never autonomous.
The obnoxious buzz of the lunch room became background noise as I cracked the book to the marked pages. Passages on mRNA and haploids lead to paragraphs describing the nature of chimeras and mutations. I felt like the scholars of the old world, delving into the depths of science in a ravenous bid to light the dark spaces of my knowledge, while those around me played like ignorant animals. Lost in the rapture of this self-serving pretense, I never saw them approaching. I heard the, likely planned, misstep one of them took that sent an open carton of strawberry milk tumbling onto the table. It landed on my tray, spoiling the untouched foods with overly sweetened dairy. Of course, my book was hit with a healthy splash as well, ruining dozens of pages. A couple of my classmates further down the table giggled or muttered with anticipation.
“Geez, Break, watch yourself. Look what you did,” said a smug, confident voice that penetrated the remaining background chatter. No effort was put into making the scolding sound genuine. I turned my head to glare at the trio of bullies, hoping there would be staff nearby whose eye I could catch.
Ace Longshot, star shooting guard for Canterlot Middle School’s basketball team stood noticeably taller than the two large boys who flanked him. There was something uncanny about how we shared certain prominent features, as if we were a reflection of what the other could have become, under different circumstances. His hair was a deep, rich blue with stylish white streaks over his ears, while mine was a plain cobalt. Where my skin was a lighter shade of steel grey, his was darker, with a hint of bronzing. Our eyes were exactly the same shade of bright, greenish-blue. At some point, I came to the conclusion that these outward similarities might have been the root of his fixation on making my life miserable. I was never athletic nor charismatic nor did I seem to attract romance, while he strutted through life, showered with attention and affection for his looks and effortless glibness. Back then, I could never understand why someone like him, with everything the world could offer, felt the need to press others under his heel. Perhaps, he wanted to disassociate himself with someone who appeared meek and unimpressive. Perhaps he sensed my weak spirit and childish bitterness, wanting to prove to himself, and others, that we were nothing alike. That boys like me walk in the shadow of men like him.
Ace, Break Away, and Obelisk seemed to have known exactly when to make their move; no adults in sight. Ominously, Obelisk stood with his bulging arms behind his back.
“I came all the way over here to make a friend and you gotta go and start us off on the wrong foot.” Ace shook his head and landed a harmless swat on his croney’s shoulder with the back of his hand. “Can’t take you anywhere, man. Let me get that for you.” He took the running carton of milk that had landed on the opposite side of the tray, bringing it across without tilting it up, splashing me further and ensuring some of the fluid would land on my shirt. “Oops, empty already.” Ace said, shaking the carton to the sound of a miniscule amount of liquid. He shrugged dramatically and tossed it over his shoulder.
“Mah bad, Gy’.” Break said in his thuggish slur, as wooden as an apology can get.
“Cool. Gotta go, gents—nature’s call.” I stood to leave the cafeteria, but Ace stepped to the side to block my path.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa, buddy. I said I was here to make a friend. That’s you.” He said, placing a hand on my shoulder with his thumb pressed against a well-known pressure point. His voice raised in volume for the benefit of those in the surrounding area. “See, my buddies and I, we’ve come to the realization that the way we’ve been joking with you these last couple of years has been a little...inconsiderate. And we’d like to make it up to you.” He opened his arms to the audience, like a stage magician presenting his pledge. “As a way of burying the hatchet between us,” he punched my shoulder, just hard enough for his knuckle to jolt the pressure point. I clenched my jaw to hide my reaction. “I brought you a birthday present. Show ‘im Obe.”
The oversized kid named Obelisk brought forth a meticulously wrapped box, complete with a metallic foil ribbon and fine, colorful wrapping paper.
“I really gotta pee.” I said.
“Awh, now, don’t be such a party pooper. Are you really gonna leave before we sing for your birthday?” Ace said, putting a stiff arm around my shoulders.
“No, I really don—” I tried to interrupt, but he overpowered my voice with his own as he began the verses. Break joined in to get the room’s attention and cooperation while Obelisk stood by, tight-lipped. The song has three versions, one for males, females, and a third gender-neutral set. He began with the female version, rocking us side to side with the cadence.
Shall we celebrate this lady,
As woman, gal, and baby,
Whose presence here,
For every year,
Is worthy of a cheer?
Oh she is the birthday girl, hooray!
So beautiful day after day,
No other, no other,
Could live a life like hers!
Oh she is the birthday girl, hooray!
It’d please us if you’d like to stay,
We’d love to see you living here,
Another graceful year.
By the time the song was finished, the vast majority of students in the cafeteria had joined in, many not knowing to whom they sang. I had been seated in a far corner, partially blocked from view by my classmates who had all stood to sing. Several kids looked over and I saw dawning recognition in their eyes as the anonymity I had strived to maintain all year was shattered in a few moments. The seconds proceeding the song were filled with applause, cheers of the ignorant, and derisive laughter from those with context. Those out of the loop were being visibly informed of the joke regarding a certain elementary school play. Ace let go of me and took the gift box from Obelisk’s meaty hands.
“Come on, Gy! Smile, it’s your birthday! We’re just messin’ with you, dude.” Ace turned to the students beginning to form a loose gaggle around us and opened his arms again. “Right?” A chorus of sincere and insincere agreement greeted his question. Not a single voice of descension rose to challenge him. “Time to open your present now, bud. Go on.” Ace said, offering the box. I moved it directly from his hands to the table and sat back down.
“Thanks, I’ll open it later. My dad says it’s rude to open a present in front of the giver, anyway.” My comment was met with a few boos that started a wave of similar sentiments across the audience.
“Awh, don’t worry about it, man, just open it up. I’ve been so excited to see what you think.” Ace didn’t have to engage in further theatrics to raise a reaction. Cheers rose at his words and someone started a chant of O-pen it, o-pen it.
I had two choices. The first was to reject his gift and throw it in the garbage bucket less than five feet away, an opportunity he would take to brand me as a spoiled, ungrateful princess for the rest of my adolescent life. The second option was to play directly into Ace’s hands, showing off whatever sadistic prank lurked inside the walls of that box. As much as I would have loved to walk away, I knew neither he nor his goons would let me. There were still no teachers or staff in sight. All I could think to do was to try garnering as much sympathy from the audience as I could, by throwing myself into the role of the hapless victim.
“You really mean it,” I said “about wanting to be friends…?”
Through the knot in my guts, I ground out as much pitiable innocence as I could muster in my tone, without overdoing it.
“Of course, Gy’. I heard you haven’t been having fun with our little jokes between each other and I felt so bad.” He said, placing a hand over his heart and the other back on my shoulder. He didn’t squeeze the pressure point, this time. This earned him some coos from the audience, mainly from the feminine demographic. This was either a genuine bid for sympathy from the crowd or a way to set up his joke for an even bigger punchline. I could play that game too. With every bit of willpower at my disposal, I used the thought of my father, rotting on what would soon become his deathbed, to summon a moderate swelling of tears and a weak smile. I looked at the crowd for a moment, presenting my own pledge, this time earning myself a few audible gasps and coos. A pretty girl in the front of the crowd, still holding a freshly loaded tray and looking like she had gotten trapped by the clustering bodies, had dropped the anxious, terrified expression she held before and exchanged it with a thin, shy smile, half-hidden by her lengthy, pink locks. Before he could stop me, I leaped from my seat and threw my arms around his torso in a tight embrace. I could feel my face burning as I hugged the object of my hatred in front of a sizeable portion of my peers. Ace clearly had not expected this, as he seemed paralyzed in my arms. After several seconds, I felt a stiff hand pat my back and Ace’s dramatically tightened voice utter a nervous laugh.
“O-Okay, Big Cat. Alright.” He then muttered through the clenched teeth of what must have been a forced smile, “You have...ten seconds to get off me.”
Somewhat confused at the generosity of his time limit, I stepped back and forced a sniffle.
“So...this is really for me, then?” I asked, amusing myself with the sight of Ace’s crimson cheeks and taking mental snapshots of the confounded looks exchanged between his goons.
“Yeah. Open it.” Ace said, all pretense of friendliness vaporized.
Maintaining the act, I took up the box and pulled the loose end of what felt like a genuine silk ribbon. It came apart so smooth and neat I found myself appreciating the craftsmanship and quality of the bow itself. The wrapping paper had been held in place by the ribbon, eschewing the need for tape, so I only needed to unfold the paper from the top to expose the loose lid. With an exasperated sigh I hoped I managed to disguise as a breath of anticipation, I lifted the lid to reveal a bundle of thin packing paper. Hoping to thwart Ace’s plan one last time, I began tearing away at it while keeping the contents firmly within the walls of the box and out of sight of the enthralled audience.
“Go ahead, pull it out!” Ace said, back to his crowd-pleasing tone, though I could hear an edge of venom in it.
If by ‘it’ you mean your throat—sure, I thought, fighting to keep the vitriolic thoughts from spilling into my act.
I lifted the soft bundle from the box with feigned zeal. It was slightly larger than a fresh ream of printer paper, but much lighter. There was a wide piece of tape holding it all together. I shot Ace a look he seemed to find amusing as I pulled the tape away. Everything unfurled before I could react to stop it.
I was left holding up a familiar article of clothing for all to see. It was a faithful replication of the costume I wore during the Van Helsing play. Only, this copy was redecorated and refined to the point that it could sell in a boutique without irony. The black cloth of the dress presented a smooth sheen and elaborate lace patterns along its hems and sleeves with tasteful royal blue trim. A waist-length black leather bodice wrapped around the shoulders and connected at the neck with a collar. For a moment, I was dumb enough to believe the whole thing might actually backfire on Ace. The dress was genuinely beautiful, lascivious even, and clearly overboard for a prank, something I suspected an athlete and his macho yes-men wouldn’t realize. That was a short-lived hope.
“There you go, Gy’. I remembered how much you like to dress up in public. Now you can let your freak flag fly in style, my man!” he said, swinging his arm in a wide circle above his head, as if waving just such an ensign. In the uproarious laughter that followed his taunt, everyone, including myself, was too distracted to see the five foot, two inch tall cannonball of fury making his way toward Ace. Fortunately for him, there must have been enough milk in the discarded carton to leak out into a puddle. Just before Rock barreled into Ace at top speed, his foot landed squarely in the liquid and his tackle became a grasping lunge. His arms flailed around Ace’s face, slapping and tearing at the collar of his shirt. Just before they tumbled apart, Rock’s head made contact with Ace’s middle, knocking the wind out of him. They bounced off the table and Ace fell in between the seats, his long, lean limbs quickly getting tangled in the metal beams that connected the fold-in stools to the tabletop. Rock’s head connected with the circular edge of a seat, dazing him as he fell in a sprawl at Ace’s feet. “What the—” Ace grunted as he began to realize what happened.
I snapped out of a shocked stupor and moved to help my friend up, first pulling him safely away from Ace’s free foot. The skin had split on his forehead and a shocking amount of blood oozed over Rock’s face. Before I could pull him to his feet, I was shoved backward, hard enough to roll once, head over heels. As I found my footing again, I saw that Obelisk stood between me and Break Away, who was lifting Rock’s struggling body from the floor in a restraining hold. Ace was glaring at him as he climbed to his feet, as if Rock had murdered a family member. By now, the formerly distant audience had begun to crowd around us in a tight semi-circle that was beginning to feel more like an arena.
“What is wrong with you!” Rock shouted as he fought against Break’s iron grip. “He’s never done anything to you, why do you have to be such a fucking asshole to Gyre, you meathead piece o’ shit!”
There was a chorus of awed, amused, and incredulous sounds from the audience at Rock’s harsh language. Though most of my peers at that age had begun using profanity in private and between friends, very few were so brash. Rock’s words weren’t particularly clever, but their precedence endowed the insults with a certain impact that stirred the crowd into a modest frenzy.
“Hold him, Break.” Ace growled, advancing on my friend. Break adjusted his hold on Rock, exposing his torso and head. Rock kicked and flailed to no avail as his would-be assailant came nearer. I had been trying to get around Obelisk’s wide frame as it became clear what the other two bullies intended to do, but he was too large and fast, halting my approach without any apparent effort.
If I couldn’t get around Obelisk, I’d have to go through him. Various forms of sucker punches and dirty tactics raced through my head, but nothing seemed good enough or feasible, given the lack of resources at hand. My wits were all I had, so I executed the first cheap trick that came to mind as Ace drew back his fist. I charged toward Obelisk’s right, putting Ace directly behind him as he moved to block my path. I skidded to a stop just out of reach, put on the most horrified expression I could imagine, and feigned a flinch, as if some deadly threat had appeared just behind the large student and was bearing down on us both. He fell for the ruse, turning on the spot with his arms held before him, defensively. I heard the first of Ace’s punches land in Rock’s gut and used the explosion of pitch black rage that flooded me to coil the muscles of my leg for a kick aimed at the back of Obelisk’s knee.
“What is going on here?”
A powerful, male voice cut through the chatter of enthralled students. Vice Principal Blueblood stood at the rear of the gathering, a head taller then even some of the vertically gifted middle school students. His powder white face leered over the crowd at the five of us in the center. I heard Rock’s knees strike the floor as Break dropped him. Without being asked, students parted before Blueblood as he began to move. His imposing frame and manly features lent him an almost heroic appearance among the smaller bodies and his form-flattering snow white suit contributed to an air of obscene divinity. The Vice Principal stopped just inside the circle that closed behind him and performed a signature set of gestures, straightening his immaculate silver-grey tie and brushing back an imaginary strand of golden blonde hair into his cartoonishly luxurious mane.
“Well? Is anyone going to speak up?” Blueblood barked. My voice was matched by Ace’s as we both sprung to action, stepping forward to speak. In seconds, we were shouting to be heard over the other. Blueblood seemed to balk, as if we were dirty peasants advancing on a wealthy baron. He raised his hand to silence us and shouted, “Enough!” Pushing past, he approached Break and Rock. “You two, why does it look like there was fighting? And who was using that foul language?” Rock lay on the ground clutching his stomach and looking like he was about to lose the lunch he hadn’t eaten.
“It was this kid, sir.” Break answered with haste, “He started it with Ace. Ah was jus’ holdin’ ‘im back.” The bastard may be a dunce, but he was cunning; his statement wasn’t strictly false so no one would speak up to dispute it, not with the threat of being targeted next and especially not with Blueblood involved. Our Vice Principal had a knack for misinterpreting information in favor of students from wealthy or influential families and drawing others into the conflict or punishments, whether they were active participants or not. Break was certainly from a wealthy family and the only reason he didn’t attend Crystal Prep Academy was because not even his parents could bribe his grades past the board of educators over there. These two alone were responsible for dozens of undeserved detention sentences and Break’s final warning seemed to have as many incarnations as the letters it took to spell out every lecture he ever received.
“What do you have to say about this, young man?” Blueblood said, crossing his arms as he stood over the cringing, moaning form of Rock.
“Sir, please, let me explain what—” I said, stepping around to Blueblood’s front, but I was cut off again by the sound of Rock’s visceral heave as he poured a small load of bile onto the lunch room tiles. Dozens of young voices rose in cries of disgust and alarm. The ring of students dilated as many tried to get away from the scene before they were affected by the sight. It was too late for someone only a few feet away from me. I heard the burble of their stomach beginning to invert itself and I turned to see the poor, anxious-looking beauty from before dropping her tray of untouched, vegan spaghetti as her hands shot to her mouth. She spun, hair flying in a pink whirlwind as she made her furious way to the nearest trash bin, nearly knocking over another student. This one had not yet been lined with a bag, so the sound of her vomit splashing into the bottom of the large, plastic drum was somewhat amplified, setting off even more cries of disgust. The smell seemed to hit everyone nearest the incidents at once and several more students were already looking ill. A couple students ran to their own bins, breathing heavily and gagging. When the first of the dry-heavers finally let loose their undigested meals, it set off a chain reaction that saw the cafeteria’s population either dashing for the doors or looking for unoccupied bins to put to gruesome use.
I simply stood, watching the room empty before us, amazed at how the situation had devolved into a mess so alien to the original conflict. Vice Principal Blueblood had been among the first to leave, shouting something about getting a janitor or nurse in a high-pitched feminine cry that betrayed the fragility of his manly, dignified front. Without meaning to, I caught Ace’s eye and, without a word, we exchanged stunned looks. He mumbled something to his two thugs and they began to walk to a set of doors.
Before them, exited the pink-haired girl and another female student with overdone violet hair and a cotton-pale face marred with yet more overdone makeup. The weeping former was supported by the latter as they shambled from the room. Though Rock knelt on the floor beside his vomit, still clutching his stomach, something strange and unwelcome came over me and I began to laugh. It started as a halting, hearty chuckle that wouldn’t stop. When Ace turned back to me from the doors, I was surprised to see a shaky grin on his own face. Soon, he joined me and we both stood, laughing from our gut for no discernible reason. He left, still laughing loud enough to be heard over the general chatter and panicked discussion in the halls. I don’t know why I took the dress, stuffing it back in the box and carrying it with me as I went to help my friend up. Relief washed over me as Rock began to chuckle as well, between coughs. I don’t know if he was amused that I took the dress or if I had become a vector for a strange, contagious hysteria.
The cafeteria staff who stood in the entryway to the kitchens watched us leave in silence, apparently too confused by what had just happened. I couldn’t really blame them, most were elderly and probably hadn’t seen live brawling in person for ages, much less anything like the series of unfortunate events that followed. I slung Rock’s arm around my shoulder as we made our way to the doors. I could see several students through the square windows talking to much taller figures. One looked our way and pointed, causing one of the adults to turn and shoulder the door open for us.
“Oh! My goodness, is he alright?” The woman asked. I recognized her from one of my classes; an apprentice teacher who sat in twice a week. A kind-hearted college graduate, the sight of whose rosy hair and cerise skin usually came with a vague, floral scent. Even through the persistent stench of stomach acid and food-slurry, I caught a refreshing whiff of her perfume.
“I’m a tough guy, Ms. Cheerilee.” Rock croaked.
“I’ll just take him to the nurse, I’m sure he’ll be alright. Just a little nauseous and dizzy from whatever happened in there.” I said. Ms. Cheerilee gave us a concerned look but said no more as I resumed walking Rock to the nurse. It seemed like the notoriety of Ace’s prank had fallen to the wayside, as the topic of conversation in the hallways invariably concerned the incident that occurred afterward.
By the time we arrived at the nurse’s office, it looked like the medical bay of a combat zone, minus the blood and severed limbs. Several kids were laid over a few collapsible cots and multiple sets of chairs. Many were groaning, some simply held buckets to their faces, occasionally spitting into them or dry heaving. There were far more students here than even a rough estimate of the ill that had left the cafeteria; I recognized two of them as peers whose lunch period came before mine. It dawned on me that I should be grateful for the timing of the milk carton that had made my lunch unpalatable. The lone nurse on duty was rushing about, checking the eyes and mouths of sick students, reading thermometers and looking thoroughly frustrated by everything. Behind us, the traffic consisted mostly of hurried adults, some guiding single-file lines of students away from the cafeteria. A slew of teachers, engaged in rapid conversation, power-walked down the hallway, headed by a sweating Blueblood that looked to have lost his poise altogether.
The middle-aged nurse took notice of me and Rock with a double-take when she noticed the blood still running down Rock’s face. She ran a hand through her frazzled, lemon-lime hair, took a breath, and sighed with tired diligence. She looked about and waved us over with a gloved, peach-colored hand. Rock began a ragged coughing fit as she guided us to a lobby waiting chair and eased him onto it.
“I’m sorry, we don’t have anything else for you to lie down on, at the moment. Can you sit up? Are you nauseous?” She said, handing Rock a few paper towels to cough into and wetting another set with alcohol. She waited for him to still himself and began wiping the blood away from his cut.
“Yes, muh-ma’am a little. But I can sit up. It’s not ge...getting worse.” Rock said, staving off the next coughing fit, just long enough to answer. He brought the paper towels to his face and unleashed a set of wet, wheezing barks into them. When he pulled them away, there was red amongst the yellow and green. Rock didn’t seem to notice, having tilted his head back to rest against the wall
“Uh, Miss?” I said to the nurse who had turned away and was switching out her gloves for a fresh pair. The nurse saw what I was pointing to and gasped.
“Okay, wow, uhm...give me a second. Emergency Services has already been called, but I’ll reach out again. Shame this all had to happen during rush hour traffic.” She said, bustling over to a phone. As she was turned away, dialing, I handed Rock a fresh pair of paper towels. Pinching the others by a corner as I tossed them into a metal, office garbage bin.
“What…?” Rock asked, in a shallow murmur.
“Your cut is just kinda deep, you’ll need stitches, but you should actually lie down.” Rock nodded and leaned forward. I helped him to the floor beside the wall after checking to make sure it didn’t look like it had been vomited on recently. A nearby box that had formerly been full of supplies lay open, bubble wrap hanging over its side. I pulled the packing material out and bunched it under his head. Rock lay back on it as I removed my jacket and placed it under his legs. By this time, the nurse was finishing up her hushed conversation over the phone. She hung up and turned to us with a look of pleasant surprise.
“How did you know…?” She began.
“My mom’s a doctor. A really good one.” I said, unable to hide a proud grin. “Actually, if you need to look after him, I can help some of the other kids.” I offered. The nurse looked dubious for a moment, but after looking back to Rock for a moment, her expression turned grim.
“Legally, I can’t ask you to do that. But…”
“If I took it upon myself to bring them cold water, ice packs, and baking soda while you weren’t looking…”
“Those are perfectly appropriate ideas, but I absolutely forbid it. I’m the healthcare professional and you should return to class.” The nurse said, turning away and making herself extraordinarily busy with Rock. Still grinning, I set the gift box on the desk and stepped away toward a supply closet. While I was gathering supplies, several more students had shown up, all looking freshly ill and reeking of vomit. I directed them to the stack of buckets the nurse had the foresight to put beside the door and set to work on the rest of my ailing peers.
I knelt beside a sweating kid that looked to be two grades above me. He lay on his back with an arm thrown over his eyes. His lips were already beginning to crack from the acid and spittle froth had crusted in the corners of his mouth. When I tapped his shoulder, holding out a cup of water, he tried sitting up and promptly collapsed with a wavering groan. He looked like he might be sick again so I passed him the bucket he had already put to use.
“Hey, just relax, man.” I said, “When you feel steady enough, just take real tiny sips from the cup. The cold water should help with the nausea. I’ll bring an ice pack as soon as I can; that’ll help, too.”
He nodded and rolled to his side in a jerky motion, gagging. Nothing but air came up and he relaxed, still holding the bucket.
“Hold that thing steady for a sec.” I asked. He complied and I tossed in a few pinches of the white powder from the jar. It frothed and bubbled as the base reacted with stomach acids. “Thanks.” I said, and tasted a bit of the powder, to be sure. Definitely baking soda. With that, I left my first patient a swisher cup full of the acid-neutralizing solution and instructions to wash his mouth out with it as soon as he felt like he could stomach the briny taste, unless he wanted his teeth to get a jump start on losing their enamel.
As I was gathering the bottles and cups, a feminine voice called out behind me, speaking in a subtle, posh accent that sounded somewhat forced.
“Excuse me! Oh, excuse me! You, with the water!” I turned to see the girl with the overdone hair and makeup, waving to me from the other side of the room. She knelt beside her pretty, pink-haired friend looking panic-stricken with black streaks of mascara under her watery eyes. The other girl lay across a set of cushioned chairs, not moving. I snatched up the rest of my supplies and jogged over.
“What happened? She doesn’t look conscious.” I said.
“I don’t know!” The girl whined, “I was trying to help her relax but she kept saying she felt sick and I didn’t know what else to do, the nurse already gave her some water and checked her temperature but she kept getting worse and worse and started breathing really quickly and...oh, you’ll help her, won’t you?”
It took a moment to process everything she said.
“Sounds like an anxiety attack. I don’t think she ate anything from the cafeteria today, which is probably why everyone else is sick. Does she have any phobias or...uhm...prominent fears?” I said. The girl looked thoughtful for a moment before answering with a sheepish half-smile.
“Well, sort of...everything? Fluttershy gets nervous easily, at any rate.”
“Hoo, boy…” I sighed. “She probably just hyperventilated, then.” I set my supplies down and hesitantly opened one of her eyelids. Though her expression was one of discomfort, even in her unconscious state, she still looked doll-like and her skin was so soft, I had a sudden vision of her collapsing into shreds of delicate paper-mache at my touch. Her pupils weren’t dilated. “I don’t think she’s in shock. We just need to get her somewhere quiet so she can calm down when she wakes up. Is she really that excitable?”
“You don’t know the half of it…” The posh girl said, staring at her friend with eyes that were beginning to grow watery again.
“Well, if you wanna take her legs, I’ll take the other side and we can get her out of here.” Before the girl could answer, someone spoke up next to us in a hoarse voice.
“Here, I’ll switch with her and you guys can take her on this cot.” The speaker was a boy from my home room class with severely mussed sapphire blue hair and parchment-yellow skin. He wore a newly stained shirt that bore an image of a blue shield, overlayed by a golden lightning bolt. At the time, it was strange to see him without his hair neatly combed and matted, though he wore the look well, even in his sickly state. “I’m feeling much better now, anyway. Mind if I get some of that baking soda, though? Gotta protect these pearly whites.” He said with a cough and a thin smile.
“Yeah, no problem.” I chuckled as I prepared the cup. He swung his legs over the side of the cot and rose on shaky knees. The girl beside me leaped to her feet to steady him, wrapping her arms around one of his in a cozy grip.
“Oh, darling, do be careful.” The girl said, beaming up at him. “And thank you, ever so much.”
“Happy to help.” He replied with a slight blush. I resisted rolling my eyes.
“Your name is Flash, right?” I asked. “Sorry, I know we’re in the same home room, but I’m bad at names.”
“Yeah, that’s right. And you’re Gyre?” I nodded. “Nice to finally talk to you, man. You’re a good guy.”
“Thanks…yeah...” I said, suddenly conscious of the distance I’d put between myself and those around me. “Anyway, can you help me with your friend now, miss?” The girl seemed to snap out of something as she watched us.
“Rarity.” She said. I hesitated, not understanding. “Miss Rarity.” She clarified.
“Oh! Oh. See? Really bad at names,” I said. The others shared a laugh before Rarity let go of Flash’s arm and moved to help me with Fluttershy. I handed the cup of solution to Flash and gingerly lifted Fluttershy’s head until I could slip a hand under her back. This was the most I had ever touched a female, besides my mother, and my face grew hot as the new sensation registered as pleasant in unfamiliar ways. I nodded to Rarity as she placed her arms underneath her friend’s legs and we lifted together. Fluttershy was so easy to move, we set her down seconds later with only the barest sense of fatigue. Meanwhile, Flash had turned pale and grabbed a bucket, laying down on his side, propped up on one elbow. “Hold tight.” I said, rushing back to the office. I took several frozen ice packs from a full-sized refrigerator in the rear of the bay, more water bottles, then hurried back, putting on the same show as before.
When I returned to the front, I came face-to-face with the hulking form of Obelisk. He stared at me with one slate grey eye, the other swollen shut and already beginning to discolor. His greyish violet skin shone with perspiration under the fluorescent lights. He already seemed to be quivering in rage. Rarity stood behind him, looking between us with nervous anticipation, her hands placed delicately over her mouth. Even Flash had taken notice, looking on in alarmed interest. I couldn’t move. I thought Obelisk would lunge for me any second, as if I was somehow responsible for whatever had happened to him since the cafeteria. But he didn’t. After what felt like several minutes, the cold of the ice packs had become unbearably painful. I took one of the culprits in my free hand and offered it to Obelisk without thinking. He remained stoically silent, but didn’t take it right away. Eventually, he reached out and took the pack from my hand with unexpected civility. A thought occurred to me and I reached back over the desk, retrieved the bottle of painkillers, and offered it to him. He took it and a bottle of water from my leaden arms.
“There...there’s a chart on the wall over there.” I pointed to a poster with my chin, printed with text and several detailed images, “Eye injuries are statistically high in schools so it tells you what to look for in case you might have a broken eye socket or a mashed eye or something.” I’d memorized the chart, courtesy of a certain goon-flanked psychopath. “If none of that applies, just take the pills and keep the ice pack on it and you’ll be alright.”
Obelisk said nothing as he turned away and moved to stand in front of the chart, leaning close to read the small print with one eye.
Rarity visibly relaxed and strode over to me.
“That was very...mature of you.” She said in a hushed, reverent tone.
“I guess.” I said, still dazed, myself. I drifted over to Flash and placed an ice pack by his waist. “Put this on your head for about twenty seconds at a time, it should help with the nausea.”
“Thanks.”
“Hey, if you feel up to it in a minute, could you hand these things out?”
“Yeah, I should b—” Flash’s sentence was abruptly cut off by a guttural gurgling as his stomach suddenly decided an inversion was long overdue. Rarity and I turned away in disgust as a fresh volley of chunks spilled out into Flash’s bucket.
“Don’t worry about it, I’ll just hurry back.” I said, placing everything under the seat that held Flash’s feet. I nodded to Rarity and we positioned ourselves on either end of Fluttershy’s cot. Using the same timing signal as before, we tenderly lifted her from the floor and began to shuffle to the closed door at a smooth pace. We stopped beside a familiar face that jogged a memory. “Be right back.” I said, setting down my end of the cot first. I skipped around the crowded floor to the pile of ice packs, took one, and danced back, placing the pack by the sick student’s waist and giving him the same instructions I gave Flash. I opened the office door, engaged the kickstand and resumed my position at the cot. Rarity and I traveled a short distance down the hall before coming across an empty science classroom. After setting her friend down and closing the door, we agreed it was quiet enough. Rarity took a stool from behind the teacher’s desk and settled into it beside the cot, at Fluttershy’s head.
“Thank you, Gyre.” She said, offering a warm smile. For the first time, I saw past the makeup, noticing that I was standing in a room with two gorgeous girls, not one. “You and that Flash fellow are such gentlemen. And I admire the way you handled running into that...that brute. Especially after what they did to you and your friend. And on your birthday, no less!” She paused “It is actually your birthday, isn’t it? That wasn’t just part of their prank?” I shook my head.
“No, it really is my birthday today.” I said with a shrug, then I remembered the book from my aunt and cursed under my breath.
“Oh, dear. Well, Happy Birthday, darling.” She said, her smile growing sad. It was clear she was fond of saying that word, ‘darling’. It did have a certain classy ring to it when spoken just right.
“Thanks, Miss Rarity.” I teased, grinning. She gave a small laugh that sounded more like a courtesy before gazing down at her friend, who stirred with a faint whimper. Once again, my face grew hot as I realized my attempt to be charming fell utterly flat. I trudged to the door. “Anyway, I should go, just don’t let her stand up too quickly when she wakes up.”
“Before you go…” I stopped and turned back, a tiny light of hope reigniting. “I have to ask,” My heart began to pound as I noticed the pretty girl’s cheeks beginning to rouge. “Why did you keep the...dress?” I died inside a little bit.
“I don’t know.” I said with a heavy sigh, before an idea blossomed in an instant. “Yoyos probably aren’t your thing, but if you saw a beautiful one, made of gold and crystal, lying in the ashes of your recently burnt-out home, would you leave it be or take it with you?”
Rarity’s expression turned thoughtful.
“Good question.” She said, looking at something in the distance. “That certainly is a beautiful dress. I’d love to know who made it. I’m a bit of an aspiring designer myself, you see.”
“Well, then it’s yours.” I said.
“What?” Rarity said, placing a dainty hand across her chest. “No, no, I couldn’t possibly…’ She stopped as she saw the incredulous look I wore. “Well, I understand if you don’t want to keep it, but perhaps you should donate it to someone who actually needs a nice dress.” I laughed out loud at this.
“It’s a costume from a terrible Nightmare Night play.” I said. “And it’s...probably tailored for a male.” Rarity tittered at this and blushed again.
“Yes, that it is, I suppose.”
“Tell you what: you do me a favor by getting it from the nurse’s office, so I don’t have to be seen carrying it around again, and you can take it home to study, then donate it for me when you’re done. If you don’t still want it, of course.” She shot me a toothy grin as I finished my proposal. “Who knows? Maybe you can tailor it to fit a more feminine profile and make a gift of it.”
“Oh, Mister Gyre you drive a hard bargain, but I do believe we have an accord!” Rarity said with mock ceremony.
“Shall we shake on it?” I extended a hand and she hopped from the stool to take it by placing her slim fingers in my palm. They felt unexpectedly tough, despite their delicate appearance. We performed a single, curt shake and she swept from the room with a giddy bounce in her step. Fluttershy didn’t stir during the whole thirty seconds Rarity was gone. When the door opened again, I saw men and women in brightly colored vests approaching from further down the hall.
“Looks like the cavalry’s arrived to relieve our militia of duty.” She said as she passed me, patting my shoulder with her free hand. “By the way, somehow those ice packs and water bottles made their way around, even though Flash and Nurse Lilygreen looked rather occupied.”
“Huh.”
The aftermath of that day was difficult to characterize. After parting from Rarity and fetching an EMT for her friend, I was found and escorted away to join the rest of my class. They had been evacuated in case the widespread sickness was due to a gas leak or chemical hazard. By the end of the year, it was determined that the incident had been caused by a shipment of infected noodles from a disreputable distributor. It was a budget-saving decision made by Vice Principal Blueblood whose personal connections with the Flim Flam Distribution Co. incited an investigation that faced too many setbacks to get anywhere. Still, Blueblood was fired, based on several other demerits. His replacement came in the form of the lovely Vice Principal Cadence, a woman as caring and lovely as she was professional. It was by her efforts alone that Rock managed evade legal troubles for his attack on Ace. She coaxed out enough testimonies from our peers to provide a solid case for Rock against Ace and his father, whose occupation as a cop was expected to spell doom for my friend. Not only did Rock sustain mild internal bleeding, but Ace was practically unbruised, casting him in an unfavorable light. Somehow, I was passed over for everything that had happened that day, other than my ‘self-indulgent attempt at heroics’ at the nurses office, for which I received a month of special detention at an alternate school. This re-established most of my anonymity by the time I returned to regular classes and the rest of the year passed in relative peace. Ace and his goons still made sure I had to keep my guard up at all times, of course.
Rock never told me what he was doing in the cafeteria that day, since it wasn’t his lunch period. He explained that he ‘just had a feeling’ and stopped there on his way back from a restroom break.
“Fuck, man! Fuck!” Down screams and scrambles back before tripping over his own foot and crashing to the floor. He gracelessly regains his feet and tears the handheld radio from his shoulder. “All units posted, respond! Ten-thirty-three on the crime scene, send assistance for officer in shock, east wing gymnasium, one suspect in custody—over!” A few seconds later, a tinny voice crackles back in that incomprehensible electronic babble only police officers seem capable of understanding. Down replaces the radio, looking mildly relieved and breathing hard.
Cuffs continues his pitiable weeping, drawing the head back to his chest and folding in on himself. I realize I’m staring in dispassionate silence, though I know I’ll be appalled at the memories later, if I manage to get any blood. Like the smell of vomit on the day of the contaminated noodles, the stench of old, dead blood is thoroughly sickening, despite my starving body. Down holds his gun out in Cuff’s general direction, pointed securely at the floor. He glances my way and does a double take at me. The look in his eyes is comparable to his reaction on seeing Ace’s head for the first time.
“Freak.” he mutters. “Gods, you look like you’re watching a CubeTube video or something. The fuck is wrong with your generation?” I look away at the floor, suddenly too tired and thirsty to care about putting on an act. I can always deflect questions about my reaction by saying I was in shock. People react in such a variety of ways during acute stress, no one would hesitate to accept my explanation. “What’s your name, anyway?”
“Gyre.” I say, still staring at my feet. It takes me a second to realize that something changed soon after I spoke; the weeping had stopped. I look up to see Down no longer glaring at me, but watching his partner with an intense expression of anticipation. Cuffs had raised his head, turning to me.
“Cuffs? Partner?” Down says adjusting the grip on his pistol. Cuffs doesn’t respond, only staring at me in an uncanny imitation of an owl sensing prey.
“You.” He says, his voice a hoarse rasp, “Why are you here before the buses even started running?” I can’t fault him for asking, it’s a strange coincidence. Down steps forward, almost placing himself between us.
“Hey, I need you to take a big step back.” Down says to his partner. “You’re in no condition to—”
“Shut up!” Cuffs screams back, setting his son’s head on the floor with a hasty respect and starting to rise “Answer me, you little shit! You did this, didn’t you!” With that, Cuffs launches himself at me, but Down steps in his path. The men collide and, for a moment, I remember how easily Rock knocked me over, but Down was prepared and rebuffs the shorter man. I leap to my feet, unsure whether running would be less safe than staying put and hoping Cuffs remains restrained. On one hand, it would look suspicious to run. On the other, I don’t want to have to defend myself against the much larger police officer. I remain frozen by indecision. They crash together again with the younger man straining to hold back his partner while maintaining a safe grip on the pistol. The gym echoes with their grunts and the squeaks of boots sliding across the smooth floor. Throughout the struggle, Cuffs says nothing, only watching me with those wide, burning eyes as he fights to charge past Down.
“Get your shit together, old man!” Down roars, shoving the other man back, creating space to raise his pistol. There’s a clatter as Cuffs’s foot lands on his forgotten gun and he sways, before regaining his balance. He looks like he’s about to charge again, but halts, seeing Down’s weapon pointed at his leg. Both men come to a standstill, breathing heavily and reminding me that I hadn’t been feigning the need to breathe, myself.
I inhale a slow, deep breath, hoping a gradual transition won’t be noticeable. Somewhere in the middle of the breath an odd sensation ripples through my chest. I exhale through my lips and immediately re-inhale, clamping both hands over my mouth when a jet of thin, red mist billows forth, directly at the two officers. At first, it seems to linger, but then I watch it dissipate like water vapor in fast-forward. Down’s back is to me and I’m relieved to see Cuffs didn’t notice, too focused on the gun pointed his way. Footsteps echo to my right and I turn to see a familiar pink face and flowing, colorful hair peeking around the corner.
“What are you gonna do, Down? Shoot me? The perp’s right behind you, asshole!” Cuffs says, his breath hitching. Down retreats a step, throwing a look over his shoulder at me and coughs before turning back. My hands are still placed over my mouth. If there’s more of that red mist inside, I can’t release it with Celestia looking directly at me.
“Gyre!” She chimes, jogging down the hall toward us, “What’s going on? I told you to stay put!” As she nears, I hear the sound of a door bursting open in the distance, followed by the tromp of many booted heels. Celestia hesitates at the noise, but continues approaching. Down backs through the doorway, nearly becoming another victim of the metal shard protruding from the unfinished repair job. Cuffs stays put, but I can tell he’s getting ready to grab for the pistol under his foot.
“Ma’am, please step away from the suspect.“ Down says, clearing his throat and taking a hand off his gun to ward away my principal. The motion betrays a subtle waver in his posture. I want to warn Down about his partner, shout at Celestia to stay back, but I can feel the mist in my mouth now, a metallic-tasting humidity. To make matters worse, I think I see wisps of something dark at the edge of my vision, as if it’s leaking from my nostrils. Cuffs coughs and Down twitches, his hand slamming back onto the pistol.
“Suspect?” Celestia says, sounding almost personally offended. She blinks a couple times and seems to have trouble focusing on Down as she tries to glare at him. “This student only just arrived for a scheduled community service program! Why would you bring him here—look at him!” Celestia steps beside me, reaching across my chest to place a hand on my shoulder and I feel her lean against me for a split second, as if to steady herself. I realize I must look terrified, with my hands over my mouth and a mutilated corpse only yards away. Better lean into the act. I let Celestia turn me away from the scene and we walk several steps away while Down shouts, struggling to keep an eye on all three of us.
“Ma’am! That student is a suspect; let him go, or I’ll have no choice but to place you under arrest for Obstruction!”
Dammit! Just let us go, jockstrap.
“But...you should...you should go.”
Wait. What? I turn to study Down. His face looks strained, as if he’s concentrating on some diabolical brain teaser.
“There might be evidence around here and...you could disrupt it. Just go. We...we’ll question him later.” Celestia and I take another step away and exchange puzzled looks. Does this about-face in Down’s attitude have something to do with the mist? Why now?
“What are you…?” Cuffs’s voice comes from the gym, “You’re working with them, aren’t you?” Down continues staring at his partner, sweat beginning to form tiny, sparkling beads on his forehead as his expression transitions to one of confusion and panic. He blinks several times and passes a shaking hand over his eyes. “You son of a bitch!” Cuffs screams in animalistic rage, his voice breaking and wavering. I can no longer see Cuffs, but I hear the clatter of the pistol he had been standing on. Down’s eyes grow wide and a deafening report reverberates through the halls as he fires his shaking weapon. I hear the ricochet, signaling a miss. Cuffs must have been successful in taking up his own weapon because a second report crashes through the air. Down grunts in pain as the silver gun slips from his grasp. I smell the fresh blood before I see it leaking from his shoulder. A beast of an impulse seizes me and I take a step back toward Down, my eyes drawn to the dark stain growing where his shoulder meets his chest. I feel Celestia tug me back and my senses return enough to let her, though not without some resistance.
Cuffs rounds the doorway, shoving Down against the wall with his free hand and brandishing his pistol with the other. Celestia’s grip tightens on my arm and shoulder and I want to shout at her, command her to retreat to the approaching cavalry, but my mouth is still full of that mist. The metallic flavor is gone, replaced with something sour and almost electric.
Just run, Celestia. Please.
Her hands are suddenly gone from my shoulder and I hear the hoof-like beat of solid heels pounding away behind me. Though I’m glad she happened make the smart move, I can’t help feeling surprised. Cuffs’s eyes leave mine and I see the gun’s barrel twitch away from me to somewhere over my head. Before I realize his intentions, Cuffs fires. A body drops to the floor. The scent of new blood hangs thick in the air. Though my emotions are almost entirely dampened, the thirst has become as distracting as it is monstrous in the presence of an open wound. A stained, distorted thought breaks through the crimson murk of my mind like a pearl rising from bloody mud and I shake my head as I try, desperately, to comprehend it.
When I look back up, Down is using his left hand to reach for the original black pistol he had stored on his belt, wincing through what must be the extraordinary pain on his other side. Ignorant of the imminent threat behind him, Cuffs turns his owlish eyes back to me, followed by the barrel of his gun. My new, sharper eyes let me see the round head of the bullet pointed directly at me from the rear of the barrel before he pulls the trigger. In that moment, the truth comes to me, as disturbing as clearing the mud from the truth-pearl to find that it was an eye, all along.
Drop it, I command, without speaking.
Too late, the gun goes off and I hear a bullet whine past my ear.
A new, male voice cries out in pain behind me just before the gun falls to the floor. A second gun drops and I look past Cuffs to see that it’s Down’s. Did he receive the command as well?
With both shooters disarmed and the sound of new officers arriving just around the corner at both ends of the hall, I spin to face Celestia. She lies prone, but mobile, slowly turning over on the floor. At first glance, I see no red on her or the tiles below her.
“You’re surrounded!” Someone shouts, “Surrender your weapons and hold your hands above your head!” Further down the hall, a new face peeks around the corner and I catch a glimpse of two hands holding a gun. Someone in uniform limps out of sight. There’s a restroom between me and the corner, but it’s labeled with a blue and white female sign. No time to be picky. I wait for the face to dip back and leap over Celestia as I make a dash for the door, keeping one hand over my mouth and nose. I grab the handle and pull, remembering to hold back at the last second so I don’t rip the thing out, screws and all. No dice, the door doesn’t budge. “Freeze!” The same voice shouts. I hear the clip-clop of Celestia’s heels as she rises to her feet and I turn to face her. Her hands are above her head, but she slowly approaches me. Behind her. Cuffs stands stock still, sporting a thousand-yard stare while his partner behind him simply leans against the wall, breathing rapidly between his teeth and clutching at his wound.
“I’m the principal of this school! I called to report the murder! Can I please let this student into the restroom? I think he’s going to be sick!”
Tell them to let her do it, I think at Down. He lets out a cry of pain and fatigue before answering.
“It’s okay, boys!” Down calls out between breaths, shaking his head and rubbing at a temple. “They’re not going anywhere.”
“Alright, lady, make it quick!” Celestia nods and turns her hip toward the officer down the hall, fully displaying the steady motion of pulling keys from a pocket. She unlocks the door and pushes it open for me, flipping a switch inside that activates both lights and ventilation. I hasten through and scan the room for the vent. There, in the largest stall at the end of the room, a square-shaped metal grid is embedded in the ceiling over the toilet. Celestia watches me from the doorway, concern etched in deep lines across her face, making her look closer to her age than she probably ever has. With more hesitation than I gave to Down or Cuffs, I think a command at her.
Keep your eyes on Cuffs.
Her head turns, but her eyes don’t follow immediately, as if she had to force them. With Celestia occupied, I make my way to the far stall. I balance on the bowl and angle my mouth up to the grille. Black smoke billows forth and is sucked through the holes. I clamp a hand back over my mouth. Where the gas and vent made contact, the metal shows instant signs of corrosion and a hole begins to form in the structure. That’s awesome, but incredibly unhelpful at the moment. I took a fairly large breath earlier and there’s still a lot in me. After a moment of consideration, I climb down from the toilet and sit on the rim, thoughts racing through my head as police swarm the scene outside.
Is there a crack in the walls I can use? No, this building is well-maintained and I might damage something important, anyway. Can it be be diffused throughout the room? It seems pretty potent and I can’t risk it hurting anyone or damaging other things. Breathe it down a sink drain? Probably not, it might burst the pipe or rise up and damage something.
Gods, what can I do?
As if in response, I notice a growing stickiness inside in my chest and a vague urge to cough. Not actually needing to breathe, the feeling is easy to suppress. Curious, I stand and place my head over the water in the bowl and cough with a hand over my mouth. A black ooze splatters my fingers, accompanied by faint wisps of smoke. I cough some more and my hand begins to fill with the thick, greasy fluid. A few drops leak over the edge of my palms, falling to the water. The bowl begins to hiss like shaken seltzer water as the blackness vanishes into frothing white bubbles. A heat rises from the bowl and the water begins to steam. I kneel down and cough into the water. For several minutes, I continue to expel what I can into the bowl. Just when I think I’m done, the coughing becomes genuine and white vapor accompanies each hacking bark. The greasy feeling in my mouth becomes oily, then slimy, like ordinary saliva. I spit one more time into the water and the projectile looks completely normal, even floating in a stringy, bubbly clump on the surface before dissolving into the steaming water.
“Are you okay in there?” Celestia says.
“Yeah, just...had a spicy breakfast. Came back up with a vengeance. I think I’m good, now.” I say, pushing open the door and stepping through. Putting on the best shaky-knees act I can muster. Celestia steps back to hold the door open for me and positions herself between a new cop and myself as we face each other. Only the faintest hints of fresh blood linger in the air, largely replaced by the stench of old death again. It helps with the impulse to latch onto the nearest blood vessel, but it doesn’t change the fact that I need to, and soon.
“Ma’am.” He says, raising his hands in a pacifying gesture and offering her a look pleading for reason. “We’d like to take this boy in for questioning. Based on my colleague’s statement, he’s a potential suspect in this case. Now, I doubt he’s involved, but we need to follow procedure and get him cleared so he can get home and rest, maybe see a counselor or a therapist if necessary.”
“He has an alibi.” Celestia responds, probably more fiercely than she intended because the officer raises his eyebrows. “I can give you a statement right now to verify it and I’ll show you to the security office to review last night’s footage through this morning.” She says, dropping most of the edge in her tone. “I’m sure you’ll find all the evidence you need to clear Gyre of suspicion.”
“I’m also willing to give my statement and provide a contact number for someone who can corroborate.” I say.
The officer asks a few more questions about the recent events and the reason for our presence in the school, all of which we answer honestly, omitting certain details like vampirism or mind-control vapors. When he’s done, he waves over a very young-looking cerulean officer whose shoulders bear no rank insignia. Her hair is a shock of burgundy, cut to a stylish and professional shortness.
“This is Officer—”
“Juniper Slam.” Celestia finishes for him. “I’m glad to see you were able to decide between dancing and justice.”
“Oh, I never did choose, Miss Celestia.” says Officer Slam, with a respectful smile, “I dance weekends with a performance group downtown.” Celestia beams back and is about to say something else when the first officer speaks up.
“Well, I’m glad this is a friendly reunion, really, but we have a crime scene to secure.” Officer Slam stiffens and nods to her superior, producing a pad and two pens. “Detective Tale will be by to take your written statements and ask any further questions. Please be as honest and thorough with her as you were with me.”
He departs, calling out to others and handing out orders as he passes. Celestia leads us to an empty classroom where we take seats and quietly fill out the statement forms.
By the time the detective arrives, my head is bobbing. I had to read and reread every sentence of my own statement several times to be sure I didn’t accidentally let something slip. I don’t know what I’m going to do about blood. I can hear the heartbeat of everyone in the room and those passing by in the hallways. The warm, living fluids coursing through their veins call to me in their squishy voices, begging for release. When I’m certain my statement isn’t self-incriminating, I pass it to the detective. She’s an older woman with silvering hair, who looks to to have stepped out of a sepia photograph.
“Principal Celestia, is there somewhere I can lie down?”
“Oh, yes, of course. Detective, would you accompany us as I take this student to the nurse’s office? It’s just down the hall.”
“Certainly. We have EMTs on site, probably more than necessary, are you sure one of them shouldn’t look at him?” Detective Tale says. Celestia turns to me, passing the question with a look.
“I feel fine, just very tired from everything.”
“Yes, it’s my understanding that you were both shot at by an officer. Sounded like he had a psychotic break. Let me be the first to apologize on behalf of the CPD. Technically, I shouldn’t share details of the case, but since I can’t imagine either of you are involved in a crime like this, I’ll say I’m fairly certain we’ve already found the killer.”
As much as I’m willing to believe that statement, I have my suspicions this is either bait for us to let our guards down, in case they do still suspect us, or a false lead. Surely, such a grisly murder, in wake of the recent strangeness going on, couldn’t be so simple. I’m going with bait.
“How much of the school will you need to shut down?” Celestia asks.
“The whole of the east wing, certainly.” Tale says with a sigh. “At least for today. Unless we find evidence too close to the edge of the search radius, we’ll begin to tighten the active investigation scene over the week. We’ve already contacted your superintendent to inform them of the situation. I expect you’ll be seeing him soon. Something about holding an ad hoc service for the deceased.”
We reach the nurse’s office and Celestia unlocks the door, holding it open for me. I step through, into the narrow white and green office that smells of sterilized plastics and cleaning fluid. In the more open rear bay, navy blue foam mattress cots, with disposable paper and plastic sheets stretched across them, lie in wait for ill students.
“I’m just going to leave this front light on for the nurse.” Celestia calls to me.
A glow flickers on from the lobby section and I hear the solid wooden door close. Their voices trail away into the ambient sounds of booted heels, crackling radios, and the occasional shout. I finally drop my leaden backpack on the floor beside the farthest cot and climb onto it, the sheets aggravatingly loud to my senses. I close my eyes, knowing I’m forgetting something, but feeling too worn to care. It feels like it takes hours, but I manage to tune out the voices in the halls long enough for sleep to take me.
When I awake, it’s to the feeling of something stirring near my thigh and a headache the size of a planet. I slap at the moving object, annoyed, until I realize it’s my phone. I dart up into a sitting position. Dammit, I forgot to tell anyone what was going on. I dig into my pocket, feeling the fabric tear in places where my razor-like claws make contact. Grumbling, I withdraw the phone with care and unlock it to find over three dozen text messages, all of them from Rock. The clock in the upper-right corner says 1:09 P.M.. I read as the nurse sporadically types something at her computer.
I open the unread message string and begin scanning the bubbles of text.
WHERE ARE YOU? MURDER MYSTERY OUT HERE. EVERYONES IN THE LIBRARY
You get arrested or something? Haha
Srsly tho.
You alrite?
The texts continue on over the course of the next few hours with Rock’s concern and panic escalating.
DUDE, i’m frekin out rite now! they won’t tell us who got mercd so everyone is calling and txting the absent kids and everyone they know.
someone started a list and everyone filled it with the abesent kids and theres only 5 left who haven’t updated they’re status or textd back or somthing. COME ON MAN!
4 left
3 left dude. WHERE THE FUCK YOU AT??? You’re supposed to be unkillable or something right?
Okay. Things might get wierd if ur still alright. You and Ace are the last 2 who havent answered anyones texts and everyone is looking at me like Im supposed to know something. I hear them whisppering about it and they stop when I get close. Shits creepy man.
Called ur mom again, left her a message. Gonna see if I can ask a cop but the teachers not letting us outta th library. Ninja time.
holy shit i did it! Got caught but Principal Celestia says I can come see you in a bit. Says their trying to get in touch with ur mom first.
omw! Sry if we wake you up!
I type out a quick reply, letting him know I’m already awake, set the phone beside me, and hold my head in my hands. The light from the screen seems to have intensified what was already a stabbing pain. I’m at least grateful I don’t have a heartbeat that causes it to spike every second. A few moments later, I hear the door open, shuffling footsteps, and Celestia’s distinctly melodic voice. She sounds half-dead.
“Hi, Lilygrass.”
“Hello, ma’am. Hey there, young man. What can I do for you two?”
“This is Rock, he’s just here to see his friend in the back. We haven’t been able to reach Gyre’s mom, so I thought it might be nice for him to have some friendly company before the service.”
“Oh, okay. Uhm, please sign in here, Mister Rock.” I hear the rattle of a clipboard and a pen clicking. “Oh, you forgot to add the time. That’s okay, I got it...and you’re good to go. Just around the other side of the wall here, I think he took the bed against the far wall. By the way, ma’am, my sister asked me to thank you for the card you sent her. Said it was just what she needed to hear.”
“Oh, thank goodness, I wasn’t entirely sure what kind of humor was appropriate for, well…” Celestia lowers her voice such that Rock wouldn’t have been able to hear, even if he wasn’t several feet away already, “...divorce. But it felt right.”
“It certainly was. Lilygreen is smiling again, at least.”
“Happy to help.” Celestia says, the smile audible in voice. “Please let these gentlemen know the school is hosting Mister Longshot’s service in the library in forty minutes, when the bell rings.”
“You got it!” Nurse Lilygrass says. The adults exchange farewells and the door closes. Rock’s voice comes from just behind me, but I hear the beating of his heart long before he even comes within ten feet of me. I can hardly think straight as the throb of his circulatory system signals the arrival of prey. Only cold, hard logic keeps me from pouncing. I’ll be hunted if I kill him now.
“Hey, dude. You alright? What happened?” He comes round to my front as the fluorescent lights come to life above us. “HOOOH-LEE SH—” Rock staggers back and trips over a cardboard box, sending smaller boxes of latex gloves scattering across the floor.
“Is everything alright back there?” Nurse Lilygrass says, poking her head around the partition. I take Rock’s reaction on seeing me as a sign not to turn around. Rock stares up at me from the floor, shock and terror stamped across his face. I answer for him.
“Yes ma’am, he just tripped.” He continues to stare, his jaw quivering. I shoot him a look and indicate the nurse with my eyes.
“Y-y-yeah. Wasn’t w-watching where I was going.”
“Okay...” the nurse says before returning to her desk. “Just please pick that up before you go.” Rock nods to her, a faraway look in his eyes as he rises to his knees and starts cleaning up his mess. The pounding of his heart is almost deafening.
“What’s wrong?” I whisper. Rock slings his smartphone from his pocket, swipes at the screen a few times, and holds it out to me with a trembling hand, averting his gaze. I can see he opened the camera app and activated the screen-side lens so that the holder sees themself when facing the screen. I take it and slowly tilt the screen toward me. My cobalt hair comes into view just before a patch of mummified-looking ashen flesh. I tilt the screen away before I see more. I’ll have enough physical and existential dread to deal with when I feed again. Not a good time to add to that. “Oh.” I murmur.
“Yeah.” Rocks whispers back. “Did you get any more blood, or what?”
“No, but I learned something new about myself. Can you try to calm down, please? Your heartbeat is driving me crazy.”
“Sorry…” Rock says, stuffing the last box of gloves in with the others. “Here.” He steps away and draws the curtain quietly around the cot, taking a spot on the other side of it where I can’t see. “Better?”
“Kinda, yeah.” I say. I can still hear his heart, but him being further out of arm’s reach helps some.
“So, what was it?” He says. “The new thing.”
“I’m not sure, maybe a breath weapon. Something like that. I think it uses blood.”
“Awesome...well, kinda. What did it do?”
“I don’t wanna talk about it right now. I’ll tell you later. Maybe. If I’m not chased out of here with pitchforks and torches.” My vision blurs as I struggle to focus on speaking and remaining seated.
“About that...I think if you...you know,” Rock says, lowering his voice even further, “...it might make you normal again?” I try to deny the underlying suggestion, but my willpower flounders at the finish line and my tongue moves of its own accord.
“Yeah, maybe…”
“So, do you need me to come in there now or…?” I make a desperate attempt to come up with something to deter him, but all I can think about is methods of extracting blood. Bloodletting was once performed with crude iron and bone tools by so-called professionals whose entire medical knowledge could be covered and retained in half a semester of advanced high school classes. How hard can it be?
“Yeah, I think there’s a safe-ish way. See if you can find gauze, some of that thin rubber hosing, and a plastic cup or something.”
“Alright.” Rock says and I hear him wander around the bay for almost minute before he returns with a series of tiny pill cups, still wrapped in plastic, and an unopened box of gauze. “This should do, right? I couldn’t find the hose and I think the nurse might hear if I start diggin’ through the drawers.” The cups are smaller than what I had in mind, but the waiting is literally re-killing me.
“Perfect. Just take the chain off your pocket, then.” Still averting his gaze, Rock drops the box on the cot, unwraps the cups and separates a few from the stack, then unclips the clinking accessory and holds it, looking unsure. “Give me your hand, I need to find a vein.” He offers his left hand readily enough, but I can see the trepidation on his face. Understandable. I try not to rush as I pull him nearer and look over the series of blood vessels snaking up from his wrist to his knuckles. “Okay, give me the chain.” He relinquishes it from the hand he offered and I roll up his long sleeves to his bicep, layering the fabric there, around which I tie the chain. I don’t need to ask him to flex his hand, the veins bulge as he does so and I select the most visible one. “Alright, this is probably gonna hurt ‘cause I need to cut slowly to make sure I don’t just destroy the vein.”
“Alright. What are you gonna cut with?” I take one of the pill cups with my free hand and demonstrate the sharpness of my thumbnail by effortlessly slicing the plastic apart. “Oh. Damn.” I turn back to his hand and place my thumb over the target blood vessel. “Wait, aren’t you gonna sterilize it first?”
“Oh, right...wow. Hang on I’ll get some—”
“No, just stay behind the curtain, there’s a camera up front, remember? I’ll go get the alcohol.” He unties the chain and steps away before I can argue, returning a few seconds later with the cleaning agent and already rubbing a healthy amount into the skin of his hand with a cotton ball. “Alright, now you.”
After thoroughly scraping, swabbing and soaking with the alcohol, we take our positions again and I hover my freshly sterilized nail over Rock’s vein.
“Alright, ready?” He nods and I press with miniscule pressure at first. Rocks sucks in air through his teeth as razor sharp bone slices into the thin flesh. A line of red shows up around my nail and the smell of blood fills my head as I feel my fangs begin to elongate. I focus every fiber of will on keeping my hand and body under control. I drag the nail across the skin and feel more blood ooze from the cut. Just a little deeper. I press more firmly and the bloodflow suddenly expands to form a small trickle that falls onto floor. I let go and turn away. “I can’t look anymore.” I hiss and hop off the cot. I take a step away, holding my clean hand over my nose. It doesn’t help. “Just let it drip into those cups.” Rock doesn’t respond, but I hear the patter of liquid hitting the bottom of a cup.
“You okay…?” he says.
“No.” I close my eyes and wrap my arms around my body. I drop to my knees and curl into myself. I can’t afford to lose control, not here. An idea strikes me and I hold a hand out in Rock’s direction. “Just a little at a time. Whatever you have, pour half into another cup and give me one.”
“Alright…” Rock murmurs. I hear him shuffling cups around before he places one in my hand. Immediately, I can feel the warmth of the fluid inside and bring it to my face. I place a fang inside the rim and tip it back until I feel the blood being absorbed, spreading an almost painful heat through my gums and into my skull, like the burn of strong alcohol. My vision is flooded with a bloody curtain of color, blocking out all other stimulus. The beating of innumerable hearts drums in my head, a frenzy of bassy, liquid thumps. I feel myself uncurling, my hands flexing, strength returning in a hot surge to every muscle fiber. Like the incident in the teacher’s lounge, that nebulous sense of a looming, cosmic presence returns. I can’t tell if the feeling of impatience is my own or a superimposed projection onto my mind. I seem to crest some sort of high, after which the drop is immediate and steep. My vision clears to the sight of Rock’s face. His eyes are closed and a single tear has left a glimmering streak behind it. My hand is pressed to his throat and my claws are fractions of millimeters from tearing into his flesh.
“Wha…?” I mouth, lacking air with which to exhale the sound. I snatch my hand back and take a breath to speak. “What happened? Why didn’t you say anything?” I hiss, noticing the room remains dark and still with the curtain drawn around us. No rushing nurse, no panicked or confused screams. Rock’s doesn’t answer, his eyes staying closed as another tear squeezes past this eyelids. “Rock, I could have killed you!” He mumbles something, but his words are so slurred and broken I can’t understand. “What?”
“I said, I’m already dead.” Rock whispers. His wounded hand has fallen to his side and blood drips to the floor. I take his hand and place it over an empty cup.
“No, you’re not.” I say, firmly. “Dying is not the same as dead. You still have life left to live, dumbass.”
“And what a life it’ll be.” He says, words dripping with sarcasm. “I might as well go out helping a friend. Maybe if I turn into a vampire too, I won’t have to worry about the cancer.”
“Our lives aren’t the happiest, I’ll give you that, but they’re not trash either. What about your grandpa and me? How would I ever be able to face him, if I killed you? How do you think I’d feel if I killed my only friend?”
“But you might not, man!” Rock says, fiercely, “I might not just live, but—”
“Rock, you don’t want this, trust me.” I cut in. “Just getting here, to the school, was a pain in the ass. I already almost died, came close to killing my own mom, and I feel like a cop is going to try to frame me for a crime I didn’t commit because I had to be in the wrong place at the wrong time, just to survive my second damned day like this. And look at me! Is this really what you want to become?” I jab a hand at my own face at this last sentence. He looks away.
“But it’s not fair.” Rock says through gritted teeth, fresh tears forming in his eyes. I swap out the nearly full cup under his hand for an empty one while he’s not looking. “I get a one-in-a-million cancer and you get fucking superpowers.”
“Man...I’ll trade ya. Any day.” I mutter. “There’s a lot more baggage that comes with this than not being able to get a tan. Becoming a psychopath every eight hours or so, these fuckin’ things,” I wiggle my razor-tipped fingers at him, “...and hearing voices. This really sucks. No pun intended.”
“You hear voices?” Rock says, sniffling a little and looking back to his bleeding hand.
“Yeah, it’s pretty scary. I never thought vampirism might come with schizophrenia.” I take up a cup and stare into the pool of blood inside.
“What do they say?”
“Just one so far. Told me to ‘slay the revenant’. Whatever that means.” I dip a fang into the surface of the blood for a couple seconds, then pull it away with an effort. I still feel a strong desire to drain the person standing beside me, but the little blood I’ve taken in has done wonders make it more resistible.
Gradually, the urges subside as Rock rations me his blood. Eventually, I feel I can face him without having to force back an impulse to attack.
“You’re a life-saver, man, literally. People are probably still alive right now because of you.” I say. Rock looks up from the cup he was focused on and grins.
“Yeah, I’m kind of a badass.” He whispers. “You don’t look like beef jerky anymore, by the way. Still look like a fresh corpse, but better.” I take up my own phone from the cot and open the selfie camera to inspect myself. I’m still rather pale and veiny patterns can be seen below the skin of my face and neck, but Rock is right..
“How do you feel?” I say, tipping back another smidgen of blood.
“Whoof, I gotta say, it’s a little creepy how casually you drank that, but I’m okay.” Rock deadpans. “You?” I look down to the empty cup in my hand and feel a twinge of horror.
“Pretty terrified of myself, but I’ll make it. You can stop now, I think I’ll be okay for the rest of the day with what you gave me.” Rock nods and gestures to the gauze with his free hand. I wet some cotton with alcohol and place it on the open vein. He holds it in place as I lay a strip of gauze over it and wrap his hand a few times, tightly. I turn away, suddenly very self-conscious as I finish off the blood.
Rock gathers the used supplies, taking them back where he got them. He brings back some paper towels and begins cleaning the blood that fell to the floor. I take up my backpack and the dirty cups as I head to the restroom in the rear of the bay. After changing, I study my reflection in the mirror while rinsing the blood from the cups, watching the visible vein patterns recede, almost imperceptibly, like re-sealing cracks. Fractures in the fragile scrap of humanity that has been spared in me. I crumple the clean cups and hurl them into the trash can as an abrupt fury grows in me. I catch the sight of my eyes smouldering with crimson light and my hands form into claws as I resist the urge to ball them into fists. I can’t imagine the agony experienced by rape victims, but the unsolicited, undesired modification to my very genetic identity leaves me feeling violated on the most personal level I can imagine. I walk in the body of a creature I never wanted to be and I’m forced to fill my veins with the blood of what, and who, I am not. Nothing about me is genuine or natural. I can’t even predict who I will be, should I choose to live with this. Already, the raw empowerment of my new capabilities pulls on the thread of my morals. I can go anywhere, take anything I please, tear this world apart, and the people in it, as they struggle to even identify what they fight against. I’ve never possessed such potent agency to dictate the course of my own life or the lives of others.
“So, I’ve been thinking…” Rock says as we stroll through the empty halls between the library and bustling investigation scene. “Last night, there was that eclipse. Then yesterday, you said you just woke up like this, yeah?” I hum an affirmative note. I’ve had the same thoughts in the moments between forming plans to survive and trying not to think about taking innocent blood. “D’you think it might have something to do with that? The timing is kinda weird, plus, wasn’t all the news talking about how that one was special?”
“Yeah, it was a total ‘equinoctial’ eclipse. Happened on the same night as the Spring equinox. Apparently, Canterlot hasn’t seen a total eclipse on that particular date in thousands of years. It was also a supermoon, so it was a bit closer to us than usual. So yeah, you’re right, the timing is weird.” If only this information meant anything to me.
The babble of other students becomes marginally more intense as we near the library. I take a moment to focus on their voices, wondering if I’ll hear mine or Rock’s name. I can hear Ace’s name spoken in solemn murmurs, but if anyone is speaking of us, specifically, their speech is drowned in the hundreds of other exchanges.
“If things like this have happened before, maybe that’s why eclipses got such a bad rep, back in the day.” I say. Rock’s turn to hum agreement.
“But why wouldn’t the world be filled with mons—uh, stuff like werewolves and wendigos and whatnot?” I don’t remark on his obvious first choice of words, but I appreciate the alliteration. “We’ve seen tons of eclipses here, no vampires robbing blood banks or zombies crawling around. I mean, there’s urban legends and the Everfree has a couple cryptids running around, but that’s about it.”
“Allegedly. They’ve already proven the man-eating snake-balls were a hoax.”
“I’m tellin’ you, bro, that’s a government cover-up. I saw ‘em with my own eyes.” Rock says, fervently pointing to his eyes with two fingers. “It’s an escaped genetic experiment!”
“Uh-huh.” I deadpan, “And when we went to check it out, there was a bush that happened to be the same size as the snake-ball you said you saw.”
“It was in the bush!” Rock laughs, “I saw their little eyes glowing, man!” I laugh, too, careful to keep my teeth covered behind my lips. It’s a wonderful feeling I resolve to never take for granted again.
We talk and joke for a few minutes until we near the library, the crowds of clumped students visible through the convex wall of paned glass. They mill about the walkways and spaces between shelves like a colony of ants on break. A select few don’t seem to be phased by the grave nature of the gathering and visibly revel in their time away from classes, oblivious or indifferent to the dirty looks aimed their way. I check myself to be sure I’m not still smiling. As beneficial to our lives as Ace’s death could be, Rock and I need to remain as incognito as ever to at least mitigate the inevitable suspicion that will land at our feet.
We reach the doors and I pull one open. As I turn to hold it open for Rock, I detect a significant drop in the volume of chatter and catch the expression on his face change from one of nervousness, to exasperated anxiety. When I turn back, more sets of eyes are aimed at me than I can recall since the day of the Nightmare Night play. Even a few teachers look up from their huddles at the periphery of the room. As the moment drags on, the volume dips even further until the air simmers with the low hum of murmurs and susurrations, punctuated by the sobs of a few students, too absorbed in their grief to read the room.
The library is a huge, round room with two levels. The second floor is supported by an array of square, fluted columns that sport baroque designs at their heads and bases. In a shallow, circular depression at the center of the room, two concentric rings of tables, topped with computer stations, surround the brass sculpture of a horse’s head. Beyond them, two staircases rise to opposite ends of the second floor. Vast bookshelves, gently curved to follow the generally annular architecture of the room, form segmented, parallel lines all the way to the back walls a considerable distance away. Above, the domed ceiling is decorated with a series of repeating diamonds, painted to appear to be a bright blue, cloudless sky, seen through meters-thick, faceted crystal. The place is lit with warm, yellowish-white light, giving the impression of actually being under a transparent roof, especially with the ubiquitous carpet that’s colored an unobtrusive, almost grass-like green.
The funds and stock of literature needed to make this grand archive a reality was, reportedly, a donation from the very same Ghastenhauser family that employs my mom. One stipulation, upheld to this day, is that the library be open to the public, as often as would not overtly interfere with the education and activity of CHS.
I expected the room to be humid and stuffy with all the warm bodies inside, but the air conditioning must have been set to work in overdrive because the temperature is surprisingly cool and dry.
I take the lead and walk past the front desk, with Rock following just behind me as we’re forced to weave between bodies, single file. Though the library is remarkably spacious for a high school, with nearly the entire student body present, seating space is sparse and a vast majority have taken to gathering in circles on the carpeted floor. At first, I thought we could simply wander, avoiding questions and confrontation by pretending to leaf through books and study material. That may have, at least, looked like we were trying avoid the miasma of grim contemplation the rest of the school seems to be steeped in, but eyes and faces track us as we pass, only relenting when our gaze passes directly over them. I can hear Rock’s heart racing behind me. The poor guy has probably never experienced this much attention, let alone been afflicted with infamy we can practically smell. But that’s probably the scent of a few unwashed or sweat-prone bodies. I’m grateful my sense of smell is largely attuned to blood, over anything else.
More for Rock’s benefit than my own, I scan the library for somewhere we can settle, my nerves jangling under the pressure of a thousand judgemental eyeballs. I focus on letting the scraps of conversation blend together to keep their words from unsettling or frustrating me. This would be a bad time to display my new ability to work as an unconventional traffic light.
The second level seems marginally less crowded, maybe there’s a spot up there.
“Pst, hey, weird kid...” someone hisses behind me. I turn to see an unfamiliar male student seated on the floor with his back against a shelf, pulling on Rock’s sleeve as he attempted to pass by. He had fallen several steps behind and stopped when the student hailed him. “Hey, lemme ask you somethin’.“ I feel the addressor’s choice of words irk me and pretend to rub one eye, checking to see if I can spot a red glow against my palm. Nothing yet, so I step over to Rock who’s already trying to stammer out a response.
“Come on, Rock, you don’t have to talk to—” I begin.
“No one’s talking to you, kid. Extract your creepy ass.” Says another unfamiliar voice. A girl, this time.
Wow. Bold words, considering I’m sure they suspect I murdered someone nearly twice my size. This time, I close my eyes entirely and rub the bridge of my nose.
“Hey!” A third voice pipes up. This one is also female, but familiar and belonging to someone I had hoped not to run across, just yet. I check for a glow against my palm before looking in the direction of one set of stairs, in time to see Rainbow Dash landing between a set of students who clearly weren’t expecting her to leap from what must have been more than ten feet up.
“Ms. Dash! This is not a gymnasium!” The librarian shouts from the front desk.
“Sorry, Ms. Cheerliee!” Rainbow calls back, without looking. She advances on me and Rock. Does she recognize me? “Watch yourself, Trixie.” Rainbow says as she strides past and steps up to the girl who so rudely tried to dismiss me. The girl crosses her arms, sneering at Rainbow. She leans casually against a shelf, one lavender eye covered by her long, pale blue hair. The unobstructed half of her cyan face glares at Rainbow with a hostile grin. If it weren’t for the mean expression, she might have set me off balance with her unique brand of cuteness that I can only describe as ‘bitter’.
“And what are you gonna do, goody-two-shoes? Gonna beat me up for your scrawny boyfriend?” She gives a theatrical gasp and looks to Rock. “Or are you here for your little lawn gnome?”
Even as the subject of her barbs, the urge to chuckle at the dig on Rock contends, fiercely, with the annoyance I have for this girl already. It’s like her voice has been custom-built to make every word as aggravating as possible on an emotional level.
“No, but if you don’t stop being a jerk, I can tell everyone about—hey!” Rainbow cries out in alarm before finishing the sentence. Another girl had appeared and tugged her backward by the collar of her t-shirt. It’s another friend of Twilight’s, a tall, freckled, sunny blonde with tanned peach skin. She wears her usual ranch boots and a southern-style denim skirt. She lacks her signature Stetson cap, likely out of respect for the dead. I hear she’s traditional that way. She looks at Rainbow with mild incredulity as she lets go of the shorter girl’s shirt. “What’s your deal, Applejack?”
“Now, you oughta know better n’ to stoop to her level, Dash.” She says, the country twang of her accent the very anthem of idyllic, wholesome, family values spokespeople. Gods, I can hear her voicing over an oatmeal commercial right now.
“You nerds couldn’t get on Trixie’s level if you took the elevator.” Trixie quips. This earns her several chortles from the crowd around us. Something in me snaps to attentions and fires off a retort before I can even think to stop my lips from moving.
“Yeah, an elevator wouldn’t stop at a sewer.” I regret speaking when I feel several dozen eyes turn my way and a smattering of amused chatter arises.
Why did I open my stupid mouth? I reflexively try shrinking away from the attention, but the effort is pointless here. Trixie’s mouth opens and closes a couple times, but she simply blushes and turns away, mumbling something harsh under her breath. Good, I wouldn’t be able to formulate words at her, much less have another retort after witnessing that weirdly endearing reaction. I turn to Rainbow Dash, whose face is split in a wide grin at me. Applejack stands beside her, trying to hide her own grin with tightly pursed lips. Rock stands beyond them both, a shaky smile cracking his nervous expression as he fidgets.
“Nice one, guy.” She says. I start, unsure if she’s calling me by a nickname or using a general pronoun. Are we that familiar already? We’ve only met once. Probably the latter. “Hey, there’s a couple extra seats upstairs if you wanna hang with us. Also, I kind of owe you an apology.” Rainbow says, scratching the back of her head with a humble look.
“S-Sure.” I say, nodding to Rock. We head towards the stairs, weaving between students with Rock following at the rear, absently scratching at his arm; an old nervous tick. “Why would you need to apologize, though?”
“Eh...well…” Rainbow laughs nervously, “I sorta remember something I said to you this morning about...you being new here.” She says.
“See, we’ve all heard ‘boutchu n’ Ace by now. It’s pretty much all anyone was talkin’ ‘bout this mornin’.” Applejack adds.
“Anyway, it doesn’t seem like the kind of thing that bothers you, if what we’ve heard is true, but I’m sorry if I hurt your feelings.”
“Oh.” I say. Rainbow fixes me with a queer look and a crooked smile.
“This is where you’re supposed to say ‘apology accepted’, dude.” She says.
“Dash!” Applejack says beside her, giving her friend a playful knock on the shoulder. Rainbow chuckles and throws a sly glance her way. She looks back at me and I realize I’ve stopped walking in the middle of the staircase. I feel my mouth open and close a few times in an imitation of Trixie, but no sound comes forth. Rainbow looks genuinely worried for a moment before Applejack speaks again. “Hey, now, you know she didn’t mean nothin’ by it, right? We all jus’ get caught up in our lil’ groups, ya know?”
“No harm done, R-Rainbow.” Addressing her by only her first name aloud feels strange and I have trouble forcing my mouth around it. “I’m sorry, I’m just…” I search for the words to describe how I feel at the moment. When I sense the silence has gotten awkward, I give up. “I don’t know.”
“You okay, man?” Rock says, somewhere behind me. I half turn to him and see that his face is glowing red, but his concerned expression says that whatever is causing it is not on the forefront of his mind anymore.
“Yeah.” I laugh, “Just being weird, I guess. Sorry guys.”
“Well, c’mon then! The rest o’ th’ Rainbooms are kinda anxious to meetcha.” Applejack says. “Rarity’s been ragaulin’—regala-ing—regis—she been spinnin’ some yarn ‘bout some hero she met back in middle school and we got some bets goin’ round that we think y’all can help settle. How’s about it, cowboys?” Applejack says with a wink.
Rock and I exchange puzzled looks and shrug.
“We can try.” I say.
I let the two girls go ahead of us and resume climbing the stairs beside Rock. I lean down and murmur something to him.
“So which one is it?” I ask.
“Huh?” Rock dons a perplexed expression as he stares fixedly down.
“The one you’re crushin’ on right now.”
“Shut up.” he says with a grin. I laugh and pat his shoulder. The girls wait at the top of the stairs and gesture for us to follow them as they head for a break between two bookshelves. On the other side, a group of beanbag chairs sit in the middle of a small clearing of shelves, occupied by five other young women. I know the names of each by sight.
Rarity, the most changed and refined since middle school, takes up only the edge of the vaguely chair-shaped seat. She strikes a prim, conservative pose that shows off her long, smooth legs and guarantees her skirt remains properly draped over her thighs. She’s dressed in her usual chic, accented with expertly chosen Spring-time colors to match both her pearly skin and rich, violet hair. Beside her, sits the puff ball of chaos itself, Pinkie Pie. As we approach, she’s turned away, quietly engaged in teaching a rhyme-chanting, hand-clapping game called ‘Red Knight, Midnight’ to Twilight Sparkle. Pinkie’s curly cascade of intensely pink hair bounces side to side as she dances in place to the cadence of the words. She reminds me of a genderbent video game character in her blue overalls and pink undershirt. Her bright blue eyes shimmer with repressed energy and the constant smile on her pastel pink face is tuned down, but still present.
Twilight Sparkle, paragon of nerdy cuteness, goddess in glasses, beauty with the big blue bun, transcendent transfer student, and looking way too pretty in a polo, claps hands with Pinkie, struggling to keep up with the chant. Her violet eyes are intensely focused on her hands, her lavender face is screwed up in concentration, and an uncertain smile tugs at the corners of her lips. If my heart could beat, I imagine it would outstrip the combined efforts of every shred of myocardium in the entire library as I watch her straight-cut navy blue bangs bounce on her forehead. The bright, magenta stripe that runs through it sways, hypnotically, in time with the wavy strands of hair that dangle in front of her ears. The way she sits leaves a gap between her dark purple skirt and the tops of her stocking-clad legs where a riotous glimpse of perfect, lavender skin shows. It reminds me of Vice Principal Luna’s outfit from this morning. How can those two not be related?
Looking away before I pop my first vampiric boner and/or a nosebleed, I see the secret bombshell that is Fluttershy. She’s kneeling on the floor in an Eastern style, eyes closed, and humming a soft lullaby. A buttery yellow dress is draped in a picturesque circle around her, like the maiden subject of a Renaissance painting. Everyone knows she’s attractive, but her furtive demeanor and habit of hiding behind her substantial head of rosy hair keeps most from noticing. It’s an innocent, wholesome beauty, mostly appreciable in the way one sees the beauty of a younger sibling, like a flower that’s too perfect to touch and innately forbidden, besides. In Fluttershy’s lap, spiraling scarlet and gold flames frame the amber face of Sunset Shimmer, former resident bitch of CHS. Once, a manipulative popularity hound and the cause or focus of most drama, she took a sharp turn in her disposition after coming into regular contact with the other six girls in the group. The transformation was rapid, mysterious, and regarded with much suspicion, but after several months, she’s managed to establish herself as a notably charitable and helpful peer. Incidentally, she’s also become somewhat of an unspoken sex symbol, at least among the men. Sunset’s looks have a completely different effect than Fluttershy’s; easy to lust after, but nearly impossible to approach. Her black leather jacket is draped over her middle, covering a large portion of a blazing sun design in the center of her bright purple t-shirt. Black motorcycle boots rest on the floor at her hips. Though her eyes are closed and her blue-jean clad legs are casually crossed at her feet, her furrowed brow betrays intense discomfort. Buried within the layers of hair, a compact pillow in the shape of a horseshoe supports her neck.
“Hey, ya’ll,” Applejack calls out. Bright eyes turn our way, and I feel the impact of one particular set. Sunset’s eyes remain closed, however. “This here is Gyre Strand n’ Rock. Ehm, we didn’t happen t’ get your last name there, Rock.” She says this last sentence in an abashed tone, most certainly conscious of the dilemma faced when asking someone for a surname. Not everyone has one, but it’s generally considered rude to ignore the possibility or imply that not having one is improper or unexpected. The lack of a surname still bears archaic connotations of belonging to a lower class. Demonstrably inaccurate these days, but the stigma remains.
I look away from the girls, mostly so I don’t have to meet Twilight’s gaze and risk imploding. Rock’s face is downcast and he seems to be on the verge of digging out a hole in his sleeve and the flesh beneath it. I give him a nudge and his head pops up to me, as if I had woken him from a standing nap, then around at the expecting audience with snappy motions reminiscent of a bird. His mouth opens, but only a high note whines out. Having anticipated this, I answer for him before it gets too awkward.
“Rock Steady,” I say. “Sir Rock Steady, if you please.” I give him another nudge.
“Hah...yeah, that,” He squeezes out. If his heart beat any harder, it might shatter his ribs. Genuinely worried for his sanity and health, I form an idea. Possibly, a terrible idea.
“Sorry, ladies, can you give us a sec?” I say, amazed that the sentence came out intact. A soft chorus of assent answers and I tug Rock’s shirt before stepping back. He takes the que and follows me. I set my back to the girls and face Rock. “Hey,” I whisper, “take a couple breaths with me real quick, alright?” He nods, his eyes squeezed shut. He begins breathing in and I follow suit, taking a much smaller breath, a tiny breath. Just small enough. I hope. He begins breathing out just as I feel something happening in my lungs, as if the muscles are trying to tighten through impossible geometries. I wait for Rock to begin breathing in again and puff out the miniscule pocket of air. The red-ish coloration is mercifully subtle, a trick of the light, if you weren’t already aware of what you saw. Rock gives a subtle cough, interrupting the inhalation. “You alright? Feel better?”
“No.” He mutters, immediately.
Relax. Just a little. Don’t be afraid to be yourself.
Rock’s heart rate drops, noticeably. It’s still elevated, but he doesn’t seem to be on the verge of cardiac arrest, anymore. His eyes open and he looks up at me.
“Actually, yeah.” He sighs and his shoulders visibly drop. “Yeah, that helps.”
“Okay then—” I start, but Rock’s eyes suddenly harden.
“Wait, did you—” I turn away and step back over to the group.
Rarity and Pinkie disengage from a heated conversation they had been having while my back was turned. They don’t meet my curious gaze, but a small flush and amused expression creep onto Rarity’s face. Twilight sits beside them, facing her lap with both hands wringing out a hem of her skirt.
“Sorry, we’re just not used to meeting so many new people at once. I’ll be honest, I’m a bit nervous.” I say as Rock rejoins the gathering, too. There’s a warm chuckle beside me as Applejack lays a hand on my left shoulder.
“Awh, shucks, partner. Ain’t no need t’ feel nervous ‘round here.” I return the smile she offers and try not to laugh at her use of borderline cartoonish country colloquialisms. If it wasn’t for her true Southern heritage, charming accent, and soothing voice, it might be ridiculous, but she makes it sound fairly natural. Beyond her, Rainbow seems to be studying Rock.
“Yeah!” I flinch at the blast of high-pitched noise to my right. Pinkie Pie had somehow snuck up on us and was standing before me and Rock, looking, for all the world, like she might burst from excitement at any moment. “We’re all super cool and relaxed and super duper friendly and none of us like to make people feel left out or unlikeable and anyone is welcome to join our group—well, unless they act like a big meanie all the time but even then, giving them a chance is always nice but you don’t seem like that ‘cause Rarity says you’re the guy that helped her and Fluttershy once and—oh!” She stops to provide her tortured lungs with some air, “My name is Pinkie Pie, by the way.” She breathes, holding out both dainty, pink hands by crossing them in front of her in an X. I shake with my left hand, careful not to crush it or lacerate her with my claws. She doesn’t seem to notice the dead coolness of my skin. Thank the gods for air conditioning. Rock shakes her hand after surreptitiously wiping it of sweat.
“It’s nice to meet you.” Rock and I say in unison, causing all three of us to laugh after a silent beat. Rarity approaches and offers her hand to me.
“I do believe we’ve already met, Doctor Strand,” She says, coyly, shaking my hand and batting a set of long eyelashes. I hum an affirmative note and she shoots a knowing grin at Pinkie who dons a look of playful annoyance. “But I’ve not had the pleasure of making your acquaintance, Sir Rock.” For a moment, I wonder if my idea failed when I notice Rock’s pulse is still racing, but he takes her proffered hand without hesitation and replies in a startlingly deep, knightly voice and posh accent.
“No, madam, you have not.”
Pinkie giggles aloud at this and Rarity steps back with a polite titter. I almost jump when I see Twilight approaching.
“H-Hi,” is all I can manage to say. Gods, did I remember to brush my teeth before I left? Does my breath smell like blood? Is my outfit too plain? I should have worn my other shoes.
“Hi, Gyre. It’s nice to meet you,” she says, holding out a hand with a warm smile. A subtle, fading rosiness colors her cheeks.
“Yeah, me too.” Fuck! “I mean, it’s nice to meet you, too.” I take her hand in mine and time seems to slow to a crawl as I desperately attempt to calibrate my grip to achieve maximum respect and manliness. I catch another exchange of amused looks between Rarity and Pinkie out of the corner of my sight. Was I that obvious already? I want to find the nearest window and step into the merciful, golden light pouring through.
The thought is sobering. In my state, how could a relationship ever work? With anyone? I’d likely just be putting them in danger. And to Tar’ with turning them, if I ever figure out how it works. I could never inflict this condition on anyone else, especially not someone like Twilight. I feel the weight of the realization as it truly crystallizes, piercing my heart with its cruelly jagged reality. The dark, bitter pearl of resentment I’ve been nursing since taking Rock’s blood cracks and its poison leaks forth.
“Right Gy’?” Rock says, his voice loud and sharp.
“Hm?”
“See? He just thinks really hard sometimes. You get used to it. Sometimes he even drools a little.” I snap back to full attention at Rock’s tease and I can feel my face grow warm.
“No I don’t, you little goblin!” I step behind him and wrap an arm around his neck in a loose chokehold. He feigns ragged gasps for a few seconds, then pretends to go limp. I let go and we step apart, joined in our laughter by most of the girls. Rarity just smiles and rolls her eyes. We all hear a faint groan and turn to see Fluttershy smiling down at Sunset as she stirs and her eyelids crack open, revealing aqua blue eyes.
“Good afternoon, Sleepyhead. Feeling better?” She coos.
“Fluttershy?” Sunset gasps, jackknifing into a sit and wincing as the pillow falls from her neck. She rubs her eyes with one hand and massages her neck with another. “What happened?”
Fluttershy chuckles sweetly. “You curled up on one of the seats and fell right asleep, but you kept tossing and turning and rubbing your neck, so Rarity gave you that pillow, but you wouldn’t settle down. My mom used to put my head in her lap and sing me a song when I couldn’t sleep, so I thought I’d give it a try.”
“Oh. Thanks Fluttershy,” Sunset says, trying to turn her head to face her friend, but stopping halfway, with a grimace. “I do feel better.”
“You’re very welcome. We have some new friends with us.” Fluttershy stands in one graceful motion and steps around to Sunset’s front, offering a hand. She takes it, but it’s clear she isn’t putting much of her weight on her friend, even though Fluttershy tenses with effort. Sunset stands with the sound of a popcorn machine operating at maximum efficiency. We all cringe, but she doesn’t seem to notice as she stretches and yawns with a few more visceral pops. Sunset opens her eyes and scratches her stomach as she looks around.
“Rock and Gyre, I presume?” She says, smiling at us both.
“Yes ma’am,” Rock says. Sunset huffs a tired laugh.
“Please don’t call me that.” I don’t have to look to know Rock’s face is taking on a fresh shade of red. “But it’s a pleasure to meet you. I’d offer to shake your hands, but I think I’m getting sick. One of those Springtime colds, you know?” Sunset says. “So,” she claps her hands before her. “Who won the bets?” The other girls look at each other, shocked and confused expressions all around..
“How did you know about that? You were dead asleep when we made them. Like, snoring and everything,” Rainbow says. I expect to see Sunset’s indignant reaction at being outed as a snorer in front of new acquaintances, but our opinion either means very little to her already, or she just doesn’t care.
“How did I know about that?” She murmurs, looking just as puzzled as the rest. “My dream was very...Nightmare Night. Something about a vampire or a zombie or something.” I stiffen and glace sidelong at Rock who is doing the same to me. “Weird,” Sunset laughs. At the last second, I think to try peeking at her teeth, but they vanish behind her lips before I get a definitive look. “So-o-o-o…?” She spreads her hands and looks at each of the girls in turn. Some nervous laughter abounds.
“Campfire time!” Pinkie shouts, leaping onto one of the beanbags and landing with her head dangling off where her feet should be. “Can we have the honor of our bonfire taking her place?” Pinkie says, grinning at Sunset.
“Oh, with pleasure.” Sunset rubs at her neck and takes up the curved pillow before laying down with her head in the center of the ring of seats. She sighs as she settles in and closes her eyes. The other girls take up the remaining seats. Pinkie, to my amusement, actually produces a bag of jumbo cinnamon marshmallows and a single, collapsible bamboo skewer.
“What the f—” Rock begins, but he’s cut off by a loud pop heard from a set of speakers being set up on an impromptu stage somewhere below us.
“Come on boys!” Pinkie calls. We take up two of the remaining three seats. I’m both disappointed and relieved that Twilight is seated on the opposite side of the circle. Instead, Rock and I are flanked by Rarity and Rainbow, with Rarity to my left, seated with just as much regality as before. “Marshmallow?” Pinkie says, waggling her eyebrows at me and Rock. I politely decline, but Rock nods vigorously. She produces another skewer, opens the bag and spears a puff on the end, handing it off to be passed around the circle. Sunset sniffs the air and hums.
“Hey, the fire is getting low, I think you’d better feed it before it goes out again.”. We all laugh while Pinkie giggles and stabs another puff with her skewer, lowering it near Sunset’s mouth. She raises her head off the ground with a groan and engulfs it in one motion. “Ow. Worth it,” She whines as she chews.
“Alright, girls.” Rarity says, “So what’s the prize for whoever wins the most wagers?”
“How about picking the band for the next concert?” Rainbow says. A round of agreement meets her suggestion. “Great! You ready then, fellas?”
“I guess,” I say. Rock nods, chewing on his sugary treat.
“Okay, first question. Are you two dating?” Rainbow blurts.
I wasn’t ready, but Rock really wasn’t ready. He begins wheezing, obviously choking on his marshmallow. He begins pounding on his chest with a hand over his mouth. If his face isn’t red from embarrassment, it’s definitely a result of the sticky death blocking his windpipe. Just as I’m rising to help, a moist explosion sounds off from his throat and the marshmallow audibly impacts his hand with a wet slap. He takes it back in and swallows it whole, then proceeds to begin wheezing again, this time in laughter.
“Dash!” Applejack shouts again, slapping her friend’s shoulder much harder than before.
“What? Are we not living in modern times?” She says, a huge grin threatening to split her head all the way around to the back.
“Well…” I say, absently taking the packet of alcohol wipes offered by Rarity and passing it to Rock, “No.”
“Bam!” Rainbow shouts, flexing both arms, striking a dramatic pose, then sweeping a pointed finger at the entire circle. A few members looked subtly disappointed. Girls and their shipping. “Point one to RD!”
“Okay, next question.” Pinkie says, swirling back upright, somehow keeping her skewered marshmallow in about the same position, all the way through the movement. “Flash denies being the one who helped all those kids during the Noodle Incident, even though everyone insists it was him.” Seriously? How am I that forgettable? “Someone here thinks it was you. Is that true?” I want to tell her the truth, but every string of words that comes to mind sounds pretentious and braggy, especially with Twilight looking right at me.
“Yep! The man, the myth, the legend, is sitting right here,” Rock answers for me, throwing his arms at me in a grand, presenting gesture, like I’m some kind of game show prize.
“Oh, I was sure I recognized those eyes.” Rarity says. “See darling?” She turns to Fluttershy, “Flash did offer, but it was really this gentleman, here. One point to me, Applejack, and Twilight.” She turns back to me. “Speaking of which, and you don’t have to answer this one if you don’t want to but…” her voice lowers to a conspiratorial tone, “...there was something you gave me that day. Do you remember what it was?”
“Yeah…” I groan. “I’ll answer the question, though, don’t worry.”
“Very sporting of you, but it’s really not compulsory.”
“No, it’s fine, go ahead.”
“Very well. Then…” She pauses, as if to build anticipation. “...was it white and gold or blue and black?”
“Shouldn’t you know that? You took it home to study, didn’t you?”
“I’m afraid it was stolen beforehand, darling, I’m sorry. But I did take a photo first.” Rarity produces her smartphone and, after navigating through her apps, shows me an old social media post in which she had shared a picture of the dress. The lighting wasn’t very bright, but the colors seem clear to me.
“Oh. Well, it was blue and black. Obviously. Why?” Before I even finish speaking, both cheers and groans arise from the others. I notice Twilight is cheering and her elated voice brings a smile to my face. I’m surprised the question wasn’t how I had acquired the dress in the first place. I suppose that means they all likely know, already.
Sunset speaks up from the center, voice muffled by a mouth nearly full of marshmallow. “Sounds like Twilight is in the lead. No surprise there. Got anymore of these, Pinkie?”
“Did you eat the whole bag?” Pinkie replies, sounding both shocked and amused. Sunset opens her eyes and lifts the limp sack of plastic above her face. Two puffs lay at the bottom.
“Not, technically,” Sunset says, sounding somewhat surprised herself. “Guess I was hungry. Sorry guys.”
“It’s okay, I brought an emergency stash!” Pinkie says, hopping up to rummage through a backpack that could only belong to her. By the time she returns, Sunset is chewing on the last two puffs.
“Next question,” Rainbow says, with a mischievous grin. “do either of you have a cr—” before she finishes speaking, a blast of noise from the speakers downstairs drowns out all other voices and sounds. I flinch and clap my hands over my ears as Celestia’s weary voice booms throughout the library.
“Gyre Strand, please report to the front desk. Gyre Strand, please come to the front desk.”
There’s a certain pressure one can physically feel, on your skin and in your guts, when a vast collective of eyes and minds are focused on you in such close proximity. Whether this is psychosomatic or a very real and measurable paranormal phenomenon, I’ll probably never know, but it’s unsettling. Rock and the others turn uneasy looks my way as everyone else within line of sight begins murmuring and openly staring.
“Well, the reaper calls. It’s been good,” I say as I begin standing. “See ya, ladies. Good meeting you.” Rock begins to stand, but I lay a hand on his shoulder. “Just chill here, I’ll let you know what happens.”
“Alright,” He says, settling back down. He gives me a sympathetic look and we bump fists before I depart, waving to the others. Walking down to the first level is like passing through a gallery of portraits from cheesy horror films, where only the eyes of the people move to follow passersby. Celestia waits beside the front desk, opposite a busy Ms. Cheerilee, looking positively wilted in comparison to her appearance this morning.
“How are you, Gyre?” She asks as I approach. I almost respond by saying that I’m fine, but the realization that I am, in fact, little more than uncomfortable being the center of attention, gives me pause. Am I already reverting to a blood-starved state or does seeing the grisly remnants of a murder disturb me so little? I thought I would be in emotional turmoil over the shock, but all that concerns me is the thought of the personal vendetta Ace’s father will likely take up in his son’s place. Who am I?
“Not great, ma’am,” I say.
“I’m sorry to hear that. Maybe if the rest of the day goes well, we’ll have some good news for you.” She looks truly hopeful about that statement and offers a wan smile. I feel like the lie I told Coach Steps is coming true. Celestia takes a few steps toward the door. “Please, come with me. Someone would like to talk to you.” I follow and she leads me away, out of earshot of the students moving in and out of the library on the way to the nearest restroom. “I didn’t want to put more attention on you than you may already have, but you should know that it’s the detective that needs to speak with you.”
“Oh. Have they mentioned why?”
“No, which leads me to believe it could be sensitive to the investigation,” She says, her tone suddenly more stiff. “Since you’re mother hasn’t arrived yet, I’d just like to remind you that you don’t have to speak with the police without a legal representative. I could recommend one, if you like.”
“I wouldn’t mind.” I say. Guilty or not, the most consistent advice I’ve ever heard is to always lawyer up. Always. We walk in silence for a few minutes, Celestia shooting furtive glances my way. Once or twice she looks like she’s about to say something, but decides against it.
Say what you want to say, I think at her, curious if the effects of the red mist are still active, but her behavior doesn’t change. I’m oddly relieved.
“Gyre, I—” Celestia says, but stops when her voice cracks. Only a sliver of her face is visible to me as she fixes her gaze down the hall, where investigators scurry about. She pauses for a long moment and takes a subtle breath. Maybe the command worked after all.
“Yes, ma’am?”
“I just wanted you to know how sorry I am that I...abandoned you to that police officer this morning.” She clears her throat and her voice is back to the stiff business tone from before. “It wasn’t like me. I know that, so there’s no excuse for my behavior.” She turns back to me and I can see the hint of suppressed tears in the corners of her eyes. “I’m sorry. I need you to know that.”
I catch a woody, chemical whiff of liquor and have to fight myself to suppress the outward signs of surprise. As I suddenly understand, I almost tell her, right then, exactly what happened to her this morning.
“I believe you,” I say. “Whatever happened, I’m just glad we’re both okay.” The scraps of tears never leave her eyes as she stares down at me. Gods, she’s tall. Her arms twitch upward in an uncommitted motion that she disguises by fiddling with the lowest button of her blazer, as if it had been in danger of coming loose. She lowers her arms back to her side slowly, haltingly. I step into them and put my arms around her. She doesn’t hesitate, for even a second, to return the embrace. It isn’t until we part that I realize where my face had been pressed. Leave it to a teenager’s mind to ruin the sweet tenderness of a moment with perverse thoughts.
Celestia sniffs and turns back to the end of the hall as my face grows briefly warm. I take the que and we proceed to the nearby counselor’s office, where Detective Tale and two officers greet us. The detective takes up the edge of the counselor’s desk, her legs crossed with one ankle resting on her other thigh and her arms resting atop a thick manilla folder. The officers flank her, standing upright and rigid, with hands clasped at their waists.
“Ah, thank you for bringing him, Mrs. Celestia. Gyre, would you like to take a seat? We have some important questions for you.” Celestia doesn’t bother to correct the detective, unless she got married since last my mom spoke of her, less than a week ago. I take the seat against the wall, by the door. “We’d like to speak with him privately, ma’am.”
“Actually, I don’t mind if she stays. In fact, if she doesn’t mind staying, I’d prefer it,” I say. As the detective and two officers shift in place and exchange quick glances, my principal looks from me to the others, folding her arms across her chest without a word.
“Mister Strand, I strongly suggest you reconsider that sentiment, for reasons that will become clear as we begin.” Detective Tale leans forward over her crossed legs and pushes her round glasses up her nose. “What we’d like to go over with you is likely to affect your sense of...um, personal dignity. There’s nothing predatory about my advice, I’d just like to be considerate.”
The room falls silent for a moment as I consider this. Celestia seems to be leaving the decision to me.
“I’ll hear you out then, I guess. I’m sure you have a lot to do anyway, Ms. Celestia.”
“Alright, I’ll be sure to point your mother this way when she arrives,” Celestia says and nods to me before leaving the room. Soon, her heels can be heard fading into the distance.
“Very good, Mister Strand.” Tale takes her arms off the folder and opens it, removing the top sheet. She gives a neutral sigh and makes a small show of looking over the paper. “Now, I’ve been reviewing your statement, and nowhere do you mention having any sort of relation to the deceased. Why is that?” Her eyes dart up from what I’m assuming is my statement form and lock onto mine.
“Because if I had one, I wasn’t aware of it,” I say.
“Mister Strand, having regular contact with another individual on an almost daily basis is, at the very least, close to the definition of a ‘relation’. So I’ll ask: what was the nature of your relation to Ace Longshot?” I shrug and fold my arms over my torso.
“He bullied me pretty often, but if you didn’t figure that out today, you—all of you—probably knew that already.” I say, gesturing to all three. “The amount of times he’s been reported and got away with the shit he’s done to me and my friend is pretty ridiculous, if you ask me. Must be nice to have a dad on the Force.”
“I can’t speak for my colleagues, but I assure you that it was news to me. About your friend, Rock: Can you attest to his whereabouts last night?”
“He didn’t do it, obviously,” I say, some snarkiness creeping into my voice. I adjust myself before speaking again. “But no. Cell phones are great, but us kids don’t keep track of each other on them and, contrary to popular belief, we don’t all upload new selfies with GPS-coordinate metadata every five minutes.”
“Well, I have to ask because your peers seem to think you two are pretty close.” One of the officers next to Tale coughs. I feel my face begin to redden again. That statement wouldn’t have meant much to me until about fifteen minutes ago.
“Not that close,” I say, more roughly than I intended, which I am aware makes it sound like I’m lying. “What’s Rock got to do with anything?”
“I’ve done some digging and, to your earlier point, it was difficult to find the record of an incident taking place a few years ago during school hours, in which your friend attacked Ace in the middle of the lunch room, unprovoked.”
“Yeah, he was—”
“Defending you, I know. The internal documentation is virtually written in riddles, but I get the gist of what went down. It seems your friend can get very aggressive when he wants to.”
“That was years ago and he hasn’t laid a hand on anyone since,” I say, starting to get annoyed with what Tale is suggesting. I close my eyes in case they decide to start a light show. The detective sighs and I hear her lift herself off the desk with a grunt.
“Maybe you’d like to take a look at this.” I open my eyes to see the entire manilla folder being offered to me. It’s unlabeled and almost a half inch thick with contents. I take it and look back to the detective. “Go on, you can open it.” She steps back and places a hand on her hip. I unfold the cover to reveal a series of photographs. Classic.
My humor over the cliche comes to an abrupt end when the contents of the photos begin to paint a very clear, if incomplete, picture. I reach the end, then leaf through them again. Tale waits patiently as I assimilate the information before me. I close the folder and hand it back to her, feeling like I’ve just handled a slab of diseased flesh. Voices and footsteps from outside dent the awkward silence that stretches on for about a full two minutes.
“Mister Strand,” Tale says delicately, “I take it you weren’t aware you’ve had a stalker for the past five years.”
The glow of the waning gibbous moon fails to light much more than the deepest shadows untouched by streetlight. With my new eyes, the world looks stained in garish hues of orange, where sodium light falls, contrasted by the feeble glow of moonlight that scatters into a subdued indigo. The Spicy Horse grocery-diner hybrid, whose rooftop I occupy, is elevated a floor above the single-story Bionex blood and plasma bank across the street. To either side, various outlets and departments stores squat in the long shadows of local office buildings. Get your condoms, corndogs, credit cards, and crown moulding, all on one street. Almost an hour ago, on the other side of the street, a woman in noisy heels sat at the bus stop half a block away, and has been conversing with someone on her cell phone. She’s likely unaware that the last bus has already made its stop there. I tap a heel against the side panel of a transformer box and wring a black ski mask in a gloved hand, a vain effort to help abate the itch to leap off the roof and charge the Bionex.
“...and then my mom showed up, told me not to say anything else without a lawyer and took me home,” I murmur into the receiver of my phone. “Sorry I didn’t get to call you until now, but we’ve been on the phone with that lawyer all day. Dude’s voice was so smooth I almost fell asleep.”
“So they just wanted to know what was up with you and Ace?”
“Yeah, just had a few questions about him, that’s all,” I lie. As much as I trust Rock, too many people already know about the contents and meaning of those photos. “How’d it go with the ladies? Get any numbers, you smooth criminal?”
“Well…”
“Wait, seriously?” I sit up straighter. “Which one?”
“All of them.” I can hear the transcontinental grin in his words. “But they probably just wanted to talk to you. Asked me for your number, too.”
“No way, dude, you’re the main character remember?”
“The main character doesn’t die of cancer.” Rock says, adding a morose flavor to the conversation.
“You’re right, which means you’re not gonna die ‘til you’re old as balls, rich as Tartarus, and surrounded by loving family on your deathbed, you little shit,” I say, raising my voice and cringing at the echo it makes in the relatively still night.
“Hopefully,” He says, sounding a little brighter, but doubtful. “Oh yeah, and Rainbow offered to teach me guitar when she found out who my grandpa is. Said it’s ‘cause she read his book about learning to play and thinks it’s a crime he hadn’t taught me yet. She probably just wants to meet him, though.”
“Dammit, would you stop with that? You got a date with Rainbow Hottie-With-A-Body Dash! Just be happy—I bet she’s even the one you’re crushing on!”
“Fuck off. By the way, your crush won whatever game they were playing and said she was giving her prize to you.”
“Huh?” The uncomfortable, too-much-caffeine alertness blinks on in me.
“I guess you get to pick the concert they’re all going to? I’m not sure what she meant, but everyone thought it was a good idea.”
“What, like they want us all to go together or something?”
“Probably just you.”
“Shut up, you’re included, obviously. They seem pretty nice.” I resume tapping my foot as the thirst wells up, unexpectedly. A squad car rounds a nearby corner, the high beams momentarily searing away patches of darkness as it rolls onto the street I overlook. Good, just what I’ve been waiting for; the next patrol won’t be by for at least another thirty to forty minutes, if their pattern holds. I catch a glimpse of motion near the Bionex, but when I scan the spot, I see nothing. Probably just the shadow of the mailbox flung about by the moving lights. The same thing used to terrify me as a child. Anytime I walked through a dark room with a flashlight, the gloom would seem suddenly alive, scrambling to flank me as shadows danced away from the moving light. “Did you happen to ask what kind of music they like? Don’t wanna pick something and look like a nutsack ‘cause no one else likes it.”
“They said they were into pretty much anything.”
“Ugh, not helpful.” I say as I watch the squad car pass. “But that’s okay, I have an idea.” The car takes a turn and glides away into the night. Something stirs in the dark and I snap to focus on it, this time. Someone peeks around the corner of the six foot-wide alley between the Bionex and the neighboring pharmacy to its left. Their black clothes are plainly visible to me against the bluish dark.
“Well, what is it?”
“I’ll tell you about it later.” I say, pulling the phone from my ear as I watch the figure peering up and down the street. “I gotta g—”
“Wait!” Rock’s voice jumps from the speaker. I put it next to my head again. “Wait, I was watching the news earlier and, I don’t know if you plan on going into town anytime soon, I mean, I don’t think you are, and I’m not saying you’re downtown now—”
“Rock! Fucking tonight man!” I hiss.
“Sorry. Anyway, they found a body, pretty mangled, somewhere downtown. Said it was probably a wild animal. You know, the one from the other night?” I freeze, considering the possibility that I could have come across the killer by now. Abruptly wary of every sound, I let in the noise of the surrounding city, listening for...something. What should I even look for, growling? Any stray dog could make that sound. If this thing is even remotely similar to a wolf, I’m pretty sure it won’t howl unless it’s hurt or already standing over a prey’s remains. I begin to wonder how I forgot about it until now, when the ruby nectar reasserts its dominant status in my thoughts again.
Right.
“Gotcha, I’ll keep that in mind, lady killer.” I hang up the phone and put it on silent, feeling bad for being so short with Rock and not even thanking him for the information.
I continue to watch the lurker as they stand just inside the alley, my ears wide open for anything strange. Or feral. I catch half the phone conversation coming from the latecomer to the bus stop.
“I think I missed it, mom...yeah, I’ll be fine. I’ll just stay at my friend’s place, they’re close by...M’kay, love you.”
The lurker seems to watch, with undivided attention, as the young woman stands and begins to cross the barren street to my side. A light wind stirs debris and billows her flashy dress around her thighs, causing her to stop in the middle of the crosswalk to hold it down. Her purse falls from her shoulder and I can hear her phone clatter to the asphalt.
Gods, lady, are you rehearsing for a first-victim role in a horror film?
The lurker doesn’t move a muscle, as far as I can tell. I notice they’re also wearing a ski mask, reminding me to don my own as I watch the lurker, watching the woman. What am I doing? Am I going to leap down there and rescue her if this guy does something? The lurker’s first step outside the alley and my impulse to hop off the transformer answer that question with a resigned ‘yes’. The masked lurker doesn’t move in her direction, however. Worse, they sidle along the brick wall that flanks the Bionex’s glass front. I watch in disbelief as they pull a metallic object from the waistband of their pants and halt, just out of view of anyone inside the half-lit lobby, gripping the item in both hands. I glance down the street to see if the woman has seen any of this. She’s gone. Did she cut through an alley? I can’t tell if her heartbeat is still near, but I’m sure I can hear the lurker’s heart thrumming across the street. I look back to them in time to watch the night guard come into view, thumping the butt of a cigarette box into his palm as he strolls to the front doors. He pushes them open and steps out into the muffled pops of three rapid shots that miss, entirely. His confusion clears into alarm, then trained response as he reaches for the stun gun on his belt, but his draw is interrupted by more bullets fired at close range, as the lurker had dashed forward. Not a single shot lands in his head. The lurker-turned-shooter seems to have realized their shortcomings and aimed for the torso. The guard drops, stunned, his body already succumbing to shock as blood stains his dark blue uniform. The shooter sticks out their foot to keep the doors from closing and leans down to retrieve the dangling card clipped to the dying man’s belt. They sweep inside, brandishing their suppressed pistol at whatever unfortunate soul is working the front desk. As the scent of warm blood snaps me from my stupor, I realize this all happened in a matter of seconds, not like the feature-length film I feel I’ve just witnessed. My gaze lingers, longingly, on the man whose warm blood is pooling beneath him as he coughs and splutters crimson droplets into the night air that are carried away on an indifferent gust of wind.
He’ll be dead soon and, according to Darklore.net, dead man’s blood is deadly to me. Sounds like bullshit, but I remain paralyzed by a strong sense of paranoia. The descriptions of what happens to vampires that drank blood of the deceased were fairly horrifying.
“HE-E-ELP!”
A scream rends the air. The coarse quality of the voice is indicative of raw vocal chords. It takes a moment for me to echolocate it through reverberations and the scattering of night beasts. I get a bead on it from my left, somewhere near street level. I look back to the Bionex and the silent, still body of the guard. I can’t see any other movement inside the building from my angle, but I can hear sounds of a struggle in the direction of the scream. A bubble of anger bursts up from within me in the form of a hideous growl as I drop from the transformer and begin a running start to the neighboring roof, not the Bionex. I don’t even stop to consider that I’m not even sure I’m capable of making the jump until I’m tumbling through the air, a dozen feet down onto a rough-graveled surface. I know I won’t land on my feet. The last thought I have before impact, is to exhale all the air from my lungs, so I don’t cry out. I land on the rear of my shoulder and ribs, feeling the impact jar organs and scrape at my clothing. My legs catch the concrete vertices and edges of the slightly raised access hatch and I slam to a stop against the low, rim wall with the front of my body. Pain crashes through my head and ignites flames of agony in the rest of me. I’m able to recover with surprising haste and glance down at myself for obvious signs of any major wounds. Friction burns sizzle under clothes that aren’t already torn to expose bloody flesh, but I spot nothing as alarming as exposed bone. Already, some of the pain is fading, but with each degree less of discomfort, that dark, animal need grows. My fangs extend as some threshold is crossed and I know my eyes have begun to glow.
Another brief scream begins and ends before a coherent syllable is spoken, calling my attention back to what brought me here. I force myself not to inhale as I grip the masonry and lift my aching body. Peering down, over the wall, I see a shady, T-shaped alley. Loose bags of trash are piled beside overfull dumpsters at the two open ends. The short leg of the T is wider, almost a small courtyard. In it, a ragged, dirty man is struggling with the front of his grimy pants while the bus-stop woman lies prone below him, sporting a fresh, bleeding wound on her forehead that leaks wonderful, flagrant, scarlet ambrosia. I step up, onto the wall. Without thought, I watch myself lean over the edge and begin descending.
They’re getting closer in my vision. Wind rushes through my ears. My hair flies about my head for a moment, just a moment. Then, my knees buckle slightly, overcoming the forces of gravity as if they were a mild hallucination. The man’s face turns to me, starting in shock, shifting to annoyance, then twisting into abject terror as our eyes meet. My punch seems to come in slow motion, beating out his scream by mere fractions of a second and ensuring no other sounds escape his newly tooth-filled throat. The woman doesn’t stir, but she’s only on the periphery of my focus. I step over her spread legs and grab the man’s ankle, dragging him away from her. His feeble kicks do nothing to slow my progress. His mouth is too full of blood and his tongue too limp to call out. He tries clutching at the woman’s ankles, grasping the stretched and torn pair of plain underwear that still encircle them. Desperately, he attempts to wake her, so she can help him escape the ‘fucking monster’. I let go of his leg and step over to his hands, gripping his wrists and wrenching them sideways until I feel their natural shape is long gone. The blood in his mouth gurgles and tooth fragments drop out in ruddy, slimy pools. I try not to notice their sallow yellowing and dark stains. I try to ignore the chips and cracks that couldn’t have come from my fist. I hope it doesn’t matter that this fruit is rotting. After all, even cancerous blood will do, right?
He’s quivering, flailing, moaning, pleading, sorry, so sorry, as I lift him by the front of his dirty jacket and carry him to the opposite wall. He swears he’ll never do it again, if I just let him go. Then he’s angry, kicking and flailing and trying to promise, through blood, tears, and probably a little vomit, that he’ll make me regret I was ever born. I did my homework, though. I pin him to the wall with one hand, tug my glove off with my teeth, and reach for his neck, ignoring the outline of the jugular vein. My claws open his flesh without resistance and make quick work of his vibrating trachea, silencing his screams forever. Presently, my mouth is over the mess of torn flesh and sinew, where my fangs find easy purchase in the thick carotid artery, guided there as if by magnetism.
Before my vision fades into a hoary wash, I feel the blood fork through me like joyous, heavy lightning.
When I finally drop the man’s limp corpse, I wonder why, but the reason comes in a moment. At some point, his blood began to feel less like liquid nirvana, and more like the poisoned, foul sludge that it is. I can still feel those final drafts snaking their way through my system, leaving a trail of burning nausea behind. My head swims while my organs decide that tandem somersaults are just what the doctor ordered. I’m suddenly gagging and my body begins to burn. I’ve never been tased, but I have had a bad experience with a car battery when I’d tried to help my father with a garage project. I can now recall exactly how that felt. Only, I feel it everywhere, not just in the curious hand that once found its way too near to a tiny, live wire. I dry heave twice more before a third convulsion forces my jaws apart and lets loose several small wads of dark, reddish fluid that steam and bubble as they land on the concrete. I watch them simmer and evaporate with no small amount of relief as most of the nausea passes, wondering when I fell to my hands and knees. I’m standing when the worst part hits. It begins with an alarming warmth in every orifice that develops into a concentrated wave of that intensely uncomfortable, not-quite-pain sensation I feel after hearing the disembodied voice. I’m forced to ram down the urge to scream by ripping off my mask and stuffing it into my mouth. I feel my eyes, ears, nose, throat, even my nether orifices, leaking some kind of thin, oily fluid. When it’s over, I pull the mask out of my mouth, spit out the tasteless gunk, and slump against the nearest wall. Perhaps I was right to be so paranoid about the quality of blood left in the guard.
I study the dead man across from me, his face and neck turned mercifully away. I’ve seen a dead body, my own dad’s withered cadaver, in fact, but I’ve never made one. Never expected to make one, either. At least, not with my own two hands. I used to think I could follow in Dad’s footsteps; be a gun-toting, sharpshooting death machine, in service to his country. The last sound I’d hear, before I ended a life, would be the righteous, almighty thunderclap of my rifle, not the soft, liquid gurgle of a man’s last breath as it drowned in the blood I’d soon consume. Headshot. Kill confirmed. Thank you, spotter. Mission accomplished. Hoo-rah. Let’s go get some chow. Another medal? Aw, shucks.
Would anyone in their right mind give me a medal for something like this, though? I mean, he was a rapist. A dirty, no-good rapist. The girl looks like she could even go to my school. That makes my victim a pedophile, too. Those guys are pretty bad. They definitely deserve a bad time. But this? Who am I to make that call? Too late, I already did. Now I gotta justify it to myself, so I don’t go insane. So I don’t break down into tears in front of everyone in biology class or shoot peas out of my nose at lunch as I start laughing like a stereotypical madman. That’s what normal people do, I think. Should I even go back to school? Murderers don’t need fucking geometry. Unless you’re trying to make a killing at billiards. Hah.
I almost don’t hear the girl groaning as I chuckle to myself. I snatch up the moist mask and put it on, hoping I lost my rictus in the process. I push myself to my feet and stagger over to her. Other than her head wound, which is no longer begging me to suck it dry, she seems fine. Even minimal bruising on her wrists. Through a messy curtain of purple hair, her darkened eyelids flutter for several seconds before suddenly flying open to reveal dark turquoise eyes. Mascara is streaked down her tangerine cheeks. Smeared, purple lipstick forms an O of surprise she lets loose another scream. I look down at myself and realize I should have seen that coming. Rather than try to shush her, because that’s exactly what a murder-rapist would do, I simply locate her phone on the filthy alley floor and pick it up. She flinches away as I step over to retrieve the device. Her back strikes a brick wall as I watch her blindly scramble away. I show her what I’m holding, activate the screen to show that it still works, and make a gesture that says I want to toss it to her. Her choked screams die down into whimpers. I make the underhand gesture again and she puts forth two trembling hands. I toss her the phone, but it lands on her stomach and slides to the ground when she fails to catch it. She looks around as she hunts for the phone in the dark. I’m glad, once again, that the rapist’s face and neck are turned to the opposite wall, invisible from her perspective. She’d likely have begun screaming again. There’s blood, but most of it is inside me.
“Who...Wh-Wh-Who are you?” She says.
“Huh?” I reply, now aware that I’m staring at the man’s corpse. Not man. Rapist. Pedophile. Scum.
“Are you gonna...are you gonna hurt me too?” The girl whines, tugging the underwear back up her legs as if she thinks she might need permission.
“What—no. No,” I say, but something gives me pause. “Give me your wallet.” I point to the purse by her hips, whose contents are half spilled out. She hesitates for a second, but looks where I’m pointing and snatches up the gaudy bag, rummaging through it with frantic speed. I’m too far away from her to worry about a chemical spray, so I watch, unmoving. If she has one, she doesn’t think to use it, only pulling out a small, brown fold of leather and tossing it at my feet. It falls open, but upside down. I flip it over with my shoe and study the contents. Coupons, store-club discount credit cards, business cards for services teenagers are wildly unlikely to need. There’s probably a couple large bills in the cash pocket, maybe even convincing counterfeits, if she’s smart.
“Th-There. Can I go now?”
“No.” I kick the decoy wallet back to her. “Give me your real wallet.” She looks crestfallen as she reaches back into the purse and, this time, I wonder if she’s actually going to pull a spray canister out. No. She retrieves a large, heavy-looking, bedazzled thing, covered in floral cloth and clasped shut with a snap-button strap. She tosses it to me while trying, and failing, to hide her disgust. I pick it up and open it, poking around until I locate the ID card.
“Organ donor. Very generous of you.” I try to sound genuine, but my words seem condescending and ironic, even to me. “Well, Miss Vale Hardywine, of 224 Hockwood Drive, I know where you live, I even know you need to stay at a friend’s house tonight. It would keep me very relaxed and tucked away in my own corner of the world, if absolutely none of what you may or may not have seen here today, ends up on the news.” I put her ID back and toss the wallet at her feet. She takes it and begins stuffing objects back into her purse. Sometimes, action films really do contain useful information. “Now, please, go somewhere safe. I’ll watch over you so this doesn’t happen again. I promise.” She looks far less comforted by the idea than I’d hoped, but that’s to be expected.
Without another word, she stands and shuffles toward the alley junction. Only a few feet from the corner, she turns back to me.
“Uhm. You’re kind of a jerk, but...thank—”
Vale’s next word is pressed from her lungs into a hollow grunt, by the force of something huge slamming her to the concrete from above. She doesn’t even have time to take another breath before the flesh of her chest and stomach is being peeled away like flimsy wrapping paper. A beast, the size of two major league football players, digs into Vale’s ribcage through her gut. Its clawed, humanoid arms are soaked with blood and gore up to the elbow in a matter of seconds as it begins to pull lumps of dripping viscera from the girl. It stuffs these into its canine muzzle, whose serrated lines of teeth shred through the morsels with visible ease. The fur covering its body is charcoal grey, ending in ragged, matted, and bloodstained clumps that stand off its body like spiked armor along its back, shoulders and forearms. Though its legs are long and meaty, its upper body is even bulkier, approaching gorilla-like proportions.
Vale’s eyes are still open, rolling in their sockets as fresh tears form new streaks in her mascara. Her eyes land on me and I can see them focus. She reaches out one oddly steady hand in my direction before going limp. I can’t move. I can only hear the squelch and slurp of the beast’s sup upon her cooling body. I feel my knees strike the concrete as I watch it cram two last, large clawfuls of Vale into its maw, lean back into a squat, and chew, slowly taking in a dangling rope of intestine. When it finally swallows, a steamy breath escapes its lungs and I get the sense it’s sighing in satisfaction. It turns its head my way, fixing on me with eyes that glow a dirty yellow. On all fours, it crawls toward me, finally prompting a response in my legs. I lean back and try to stand, but fall on my rear, unable to work my hands and arms to scoot away. The beast leaps forward, pushing me down with one massive paw on my chest. The air coming off of it is hot. It reaches up and hooks a curved claw beneath my mask, lifting it off my head.
“Well, well, intriguing and cute.” Its voice is a horrendous mix of bestial tenor and androgynous, human articulation. Its mouth is clearly not made for human speech, however, as the words come out like: o-ehll, o-ehll, intcheeging ang kee-ootch. “You know, I was going to eat you first, but the last time I had something that lacked a pulse for as long as you have...it didn’t stay down. How is it I can’t hear your heart beating right now?” My tongue and jaw refuse to cooperate, but my mouth opens a little. The beast’s eyes flick down and I see them widen a fraction. It brings a claw to my lips and peels one back to reveal a fang. I find the will to move and jerk my head away. A red light reflects in the beast’s eyes when I look back at them. It suddenly sits back on its haunches, throwing a hairy head into the air and barking something I’m loathe to describe as laughter. I take the opportunity to scramble back to my feet, grateful my limbs are cooperating again. “Are you the revenant, vampire boy? I’m more tempted to take you back to my place, not kill you.” A rumble rolls from its throat and it cranes its neck in my direction. “Mmm, you’re just my type.” I make a focused effort to resist looking between its bare legs out of morbid curiosity. “You’re not into wolves of course, but if you like girls, when I’m human, I’m young and sexy with pretty hair and a great ass.” She crawls in circles around me, her muscular form undulating and rippling like smooth ocean waves where the fur is shortest. As she moves, I observe a subtle wobble in her posture and realize her body is very slightly lopsided, the mass favoring her left. I can feel her eyes sweeping my body, as if inspecting a cut of meat. “What do you say, Count? We’d make a cute couple, hunting together, just like this. We could fuck away the days, feed at night, go anywhere, do anything we like.” The base of my skull tingles and a coarse nugget of shameful temptation passes through me like a kidney stone.
“How do you know about the revenant?” I finally say, infinitely grateful I manage to speak without a stutter.
“Oh? So you hear it too. Then you’re probably not the revenant.” The beast says behind me. I whip around to face her.
“Hear what?”
“The voice. The one that shakes your insides and makes the world feel like it’s falling apart. Don’t tell me you got your message in the mail.” I don’t answer, but she stops circling to study my face. “Yeah, thought so.”
“Has it told you anything else?”
“Listen, detective, cops are gonna be here any minute now. We can play Thirty Questions with each other while we wait for the CPD’s complimentary lead shower, or...” She crawls closer, her jaws less than a foot from my face and I can smell the mixture of Vale’s flesh, blood, and bile on her teeth, “...we can leave, and I can tell you everything you want to know...in my shower.”
“You killed her.” I growl, intensely frustrated that the sexiest thing anyone has ever said to me, came from the throat of a hideous, sadistic monster. She leans to peer past me at Vale’s hollowed corpse.
“What about it? A girl needs to eat and cows just don’t cut it for something like me. I almost died finding out the hard way. You might be okay with the blood of addicts and cancer patients—yes, I can smell it in you—but I’ve been through enough. It’s my turn to enjoy the finer flavors of life.”
“She had a family and friends that cared about her!”
“She was a slut, on her way to becoming a deadbeat teen mom and another waste of space. No one is going to be worse off without her. If anything, I saved little Miss Hardywine from a hard life of listening to a little brat whine.”
“You don’t get to make that kind of call. That’s fucked up! We should be using our...whatever you want to call it for the better.”
She hucks another short, bassy chuckle. “Shall we have the hypocrisy debate, or just skip to the part where I win?”
“What I did is not the same.” I snap, but I know it isn’t true. The rapist was just a convenience, a target at which to aim my shaky control over what I’ve become.
“Isn’t it? You ended a life so that another, that you deemed more worthy, would go on. It’s adorable that you pretend to be noble, but when I was just a human, I didn’t need this nose to smell a liar in the next town over. Your words are as empty as your chest. Mankind doesn’t need saviors like us, and it certainly doesn’t deserve saviors from us.” She reaches out and runs the back of a claw over my cheek and down my neck. I try to swat it away, but she catches my arm by the wrist and holds it, firmly, in place. Even with my supernatural strength, I can’t budge it. “I can already tell, we have a lot in common. I see the bitterness in your eyes. I smell your jaded blood. We’re not like the humans who abused and ignored us. We’re better, smarter, stronger. We always have been, even before we, shall I say, evolved.” She lets my wrist go and continues tracing the line down to my chest. “Monsters like us belong together. We’re the only real family the other could ever have, the only kind of friend we can really trust; one who knows what it’s like to be damaged and different.” Her claw scrapes too low. “Probably the only kind of lover that can satisfy—” I take a step back and flex my own claws.
“Yeah, well, people aren’t so easy to read and I’ve always hated being told who I am, even if it’s supposed to be a compliment.” Keeping my eyes on hers, I reach down for my mask. “Now, unless you know the son of a bitch that did this to us, we’re done.” In the time it takes for the mask to pass over my eyes, she leaps out of sight, leaving several claw marks on the concrete, where she stood. I hear her land somewhere above me and her final, gnarled words echo down.
“Suit yourself, but my offer stands, handsome. Maybe next time I’ll do a little dress up for you. Really give you something to think about.” Then, the beast does something I’ll see in my nightmares for the rest of my, possibly immortal, life. The mutant werewolf, with blood-flecked lips and dripping maw, blows me a kiss with a gore-soaked paw. Some small piece of Vale falls from her teeth and lands at my feet with a tiny, wet slap. She’s gone in a blur and I’m left alone, standing in a dark alley with the mutilated remains of two humans. In the distance, I hear the wail of sirens.
I sidle up to the corner of the alley, peering around to study the Bionex as I pull my glove back on. I hear the distinct thump of a car door slamming shut, but I gauge the sound to be somewhere past the bank, perhaps a block away. This is followed by the squeal of rubber on asphalt and the revving of an engine that quickly begins to fade. I cross the street at a sprint and hug the wall to the left of the Bionex’s glass front. A pair of bloody footprints and four thin tracks, make their way out the front door and down the sidewalk toward the other corner of the building, fading quickly. I peek inside, spotting a messy, red blotch in the center of the lobby floor. A ragged piece of bloody plastic lies in the center of it. Someone was in a hurry, just as I should be.
I dash to the door, hopping over the guard’s corpse, and push my way into the building. The immediate interior is a sleek and modern open lobby and waiting area, lit with typical fluorescent ceiling lights, and accented with that medical shade of slate green, like surgeon’s scrubs. Beyond the semi-circular front desk, the unlit left side of the building is filled with a series of frosted glass cubicles, housing identical phlebotomy stations. The right side is a large section, enclosed in painted cinder block walls that sports a single reinforced metal door, mounted with a card reader. The door is wide open, propped against the wall by an empty cart. A low, rapid thumping emanates from the other side of the front desk. A heartbeat.
“Hello?” I call out. Someone whimpers in response and I can hear the rattle of something metal or plastic. I crouch, edging around the side of the desk and peek in to see a thin, middle-aged woman fumbling with a stun gun, identical to the dead guard’s. The flachetes on the currently loaded cartridge have already been ejected, dangling from a wooden panel on the interior of the desk. She manages to pop the spent cartridge loose and is reaching for the handle-mounted reload when I dash over to her and slap the pistol from her trembling fingers. “It’s okay, I’m not—” The woman looks to me for only a moment before her eyes roll back and she slumps to the floor. “—gonna...hurt you. That’ll do, I guess.” I kick the weapon further away as the sirens grow louder.
I jog over to the open storage room door and stick my head into the entryway. Jackpot. The far wall is made of a series of shelved industrial refrigeration units. Two of them stand open, one entirely barren, and another more than halfway emptied. Greedy bastard. I remove and unzip my backpack as I hustle to the units. I skim through the labels on the shelves, looking for the common, and only mildly valuable, A-positive donations. My intention to avoid looting the O-negative donations draws my attention to the fact that it seems to be the only blood type whose shelves have been emptied. O-negative is valuable for its ability to be universally donated and fairly uncommon, while A-positive is common and not nearly as versatile. So my predecessor is greedy and inconsiderate.
The sirens grow alarmingly loud as I begin to fill the backpack. Inside, is a soft, thermally insulated lunchbox surrounded by thawing, but still-frozen ice packs. One, two, four, seven bags and the cuboid pack is at capacity. I zip it and my backpack closed, then don the straps as I step back to the door. I peek around the doorway and snap my head back inside.
“Shit!” Red and blue flashes illuminate the world outside. After a few seconds, I hear the screech of tires on asphalt. “Son of a bitch.”
What are my options? Face the police outside and get shot. Doesn’t make for a very subtle escape and I’m still not that curious about how durable I am. Engage them as they enter? I’m sure they’re more tactically inclined than I am, so I’d probably still get shot. Make a run for the rear exit? I didn’t see the door, but I can guess at its location. The sound of at least three pairs of booted heels tromping through the lobby spur me to a decision. I duck and make a dash at the frosted cubicles.
Okay, Gyre, you got this. Just run and don’t look back, no matter what. You’ve seen the movies, just run and don’t be an idiot.
“Freeze!” Someone yells. I flinch, but continue moving. Now would be a great time for that super speed to kick in, I think at my legs, but nothing extraordinary happens. I’m about to round the corner into an aisle between cubicles when another command reverberates through the building. “I said freeze, mother fucker!” The same officer shouts with more force. A warning shot burrows into the foam ceiling tiles and white crumbs rain down in front of me. I hesitate for only a second before rounding the corner anyway. Glass explodes on my right as a bullet ricochets through several stations. The deafening sounds, amplified through my heightened senses, cause me to lose focus on my feet and trip, landing on my side. The sound of boots approaching from behind brings me back around and I scramble upright, eyes on the exit at the end of the aisle.
“Perp’s headed out the back.” says a new voice, followed by the crackle of a radio.
“Not gonna ask again! Freeze or I shoot!”
Damn. I clench my jaw as thoughts race through my head. One way or another, I know I can get away. The only question is: will I have to hurt anyone? Perhaps not. I take a deep breath.
“Alright, amigo, let’s see those hands.” the first officer calls out, her tone level, but barbed. I raise my hands above my head and turn around. Both officers are somewhat portly women, though the arms that hold guns out before them are impressive, to say the least. I feel the red mist beginning to fill my lungs
“Holy shit, is that blood on his mouth?” the other officer says.
I’ll have to remember to pack napkins next time.
The first officer had begun a cautious approach, but hesitates for a second before continuing more slowly.
“Take off that mask and don’t do anything stupid.” she says stopping about ten feet in front of me. I shake my head slowly and keep my hands high.
Hurry up and come closer before this shit in my chest turns into face-remover!
“You can take it off or we can take it off when you’re face-down on the floor. Your choice.”
I shake my head again and watch the first officer’s face harden. She steps a couple feet nearer and jabs her pistol in my direction.
“Now, asshole!”
Once more, I shake my head, but add two middle fingers, hoping to entice her to approach.
“Alright, have it your way. Cover him, Blues.” She finally steps within range and I begin exhaling the thinnest jet I can manage to squeeze between my lips. The vapors are mercifully red and dissipate in that fast-forwarded motion, as before. I seem to be the only one able to see it, in the dim ambience. The first officer, whose name tag reads ‘Wall’, hitches a breath and coughs, but doesn’t react. Perhaps it doesn’t have a smell. I can hear her heart racing as she approaches, gun still trained on my chest. Officer Wall steps within a few feet and snaps forward to take one of my arms, pulling it around my back as she rotates there. I let her remove my backpack and secure my other arm. At the sound of a pair of metal cuffs being drawn from her belt, I give my command.
Place the key for your cuffs into my hand and forget that you did.
I have no idea if the latter half of that command will work, but if it keeps her from developing a drinking problem, it’s worth a shot. I feel a small piece of metal press into my palm and close my fist around it after giving it a tactile inspection.
Do not remove my mask, but proceed as normal.
Officer Wall frisks me and removes my phone, the only other item on my possession. Damn, I forgot about that. At least I thought to remove the distinctive case first. I spy her sliding it into a vest pocket before continuing the pat-down.
“Aren’t you gonna take off the mask?” Blues says. Wall hums thoughtfully, as if straining to come up with an answer.
“Let’s let the mystery ride for a bit, you know? Here, check his bag.” At this, Wall shoves me forward.
“Yeah, no.” Blues deadpans. “If he gets away without a positive ID, it’s my ass, too. I’ll take it off, if you won’t.” She says, power walking at me, gun pointed my way.
Goody two-shoes. Draw your gun, point it at the front of the building and pretend you saw someone else dressed like me, then order your partner to pursue them.
I hear Wall grunt behind me and turn to see her clutching at her head. Was that too complex?
“The Tar’s the matter with you?” Blues says, halting her approach. “What did you do, you little freak?” She says, turning to me. When I don’t answer, she jabs the barrel of her gun at me and shouts. “What did you do?” I shrug and step away from Wall.
Wall lets loose a scream of anguish and falls to her knees, gun clattering to the floor beside her. Blues finally lowers her gun and moves to her partner.
“What’s going on? Talk to me, if you can. Talk to me, dammit!” She presses the sides of her radio and issues a very familiar command. “This is Officer Blues! Ten-thirty-three, I repeat, Ten-thirty-three on the crime scene, send assistance for Officer Wall, one suspect in custody—over!” I continue to watch as Wall screams again. Her voice is now weaker and ragged, almost gurgling. I being fumbling to unlock the cuffs at my back, taking a surreptitious step closer to my backpack. “Stay right the fuck there, asshole!” Blues says, snapping around from checking on her partner and thrusting her pistol at me again. Her face is steady, but the rhythm of her heartbeat betrays her state of mind. I freeze in place, close enough to my cargo, anyway. I fit the key in the cuffs, turning it until I feel a slight tension. Wall makes a haunting sound somewhere between a moan and a shriek, throws her head back and collapses onto her back. Blues, now outwardly stricken with panic and rage, throws her arms around her partner to keep her from injuring her head as she falls. In the midst of this, I unlock the right-hand cuff and clip it over my left wrist, sliding the key into a back pocket as Wall begins convulsing. Blues doesn’t seem to notice the sounds of the cuffs over her partner’s degenerating health.
It wasn’t supposed to go like this. What was I thinking, using something I barely understand against these people? I know it’s dangerous and I did it anyway. I should have just run. If I got shot, at least it would have been justified or possibly ended this Tartarus my life has become.
The sound of more sirens grows in the distance. I can’t dwell right now. I need to leave and this whole fiasco can’t be a complete bust. Without the blood I came for, my next victim could be someone I actually care about, instead of a nameless rapist or a stranger.
Even with her arms around her partner, Blues’ gun is still pointed in my general direction and she glances back at me, every few seconds. With backup on the way and the dawning realization that she can’t do anything to help Wall, she’ll focus on me soon, closing every window of opportunity I’ll have to make a move. Just as her eyes slide off me, I pounce, diving at her gun hand. The jangle of the cuffs ruins most of the element of surprise as Blues’ head snaps back in time to see me. She tries to pull away, but I catch her hand, instead of her wrist. I feel something give inside and realize I used too much strength. She cries out in shock and pain, letting the gun go. I tumble to the floor, but manage to take up the gun and hurl it over the cubicles. It hits something and discharges a round, shattering more glass. We both flinch and meet each other’s gaze for a strange moment as we both seem to struggle to decide on our next actions. We both begin rising to our feet at the same time, but she gets up first, charging me. Only halfway to my feet, I dive forward, to her left, hoping to throw her off. It works, barely, as her arm slides off the top of my head, displacing the mask and partially blinding me as I lay on my stomach. I can see the backpack in my periphery and instinctively reach out to grab it with my left hand. Just as my fingers curl through the nylon handle on the top of the bag, a foot comes down on my forearm. Pain explodes there and, for a moment, I’m sure it’s broken. Before I can stop it, I register my right fist tracing a savage arc through the air, moving at that impossible speed. Pain blossoms in my palm as my claws slide into flesh on impact with the officer’s knee. I hear the muffled shattering of bone as her leg bends, perpendicular to what is natural.
Without a single utterance, she falls, her heavy body landing over my lower back and rear. I hear her stunned, shuddering breaths as I extract myself from below her. I adjust my mask and take a moment to study the scene. Wall is still in the violent throes of a seizure whilst Blues’ eyes have begun trailing down her body to the gruesome injury I’ve inflicted.
“Fu-u-u-uck,” I murmur.
I shouldn’t leave Wall like this. My supernatural strength makes it easy to drag her over to a cubicle and lean her against a metal cabinet, on her side. I retrieve my phone from her vest pocket and slide another cabinet over, holding her firmly in place on her side. At least she won’t choke on her own tongue this way. Blues still seems to be processing what happened, taking whimpering, shaky breaths as she stares down her leg.
I suddenly realize how loud the sirens have become, shocking me back to a state of readiness. I spin and dash toward the front doors, snatching up the backpack as I pass. I see the red and blue flashes of even more squad cars as the cavalry arrives.
Well, my choices are clear now: run past them and their inevitable hail of gunfire or try the emergency exit, where there’s likely already someone waiting for me. Front doors it is. I hug the backpack before me and shoulder through the entrance. Two squad cars screech to a halt several meters to either side of me, having approached from opposite ends of the street. One steps out and points a gun my way, using his door as a barrier. The driver of the other car blasts commands at me from his bullhorn. I rotate the backpack to my left, opposite the gunman, and begin a sprint, aiming for the nearest alley that doesn’t contain one and a half corpses. Bullets ricochet off the asphalt as I run, kicking up tiny sprays of black pebbles, and every pop crashes through my head as if I were standing beside the shooter. Ears ringing from the constant abuse, I focus on simply getting the Tar’ out of there. Just as I near the mouth of the alley, another set of pops sounds off from somewhere else, as if the other officer exited his car and joined the first shooter. I hold the bag in front again and push harder, begging my legs to carry me faster, farther as I weave side to side. Brief sparks and more gravel spray up in front of me and I close my eyes against it, peeking only to be sure I’m not going to trip over something or crash into a wall. A bullet whines past my ear and I feel a surge of electricity in my limbs. At once, every sound seems to deepen and elongate, taking on a subtle echoing quality. The shots come slower and I think I can hear the hammer striking brass before the fizzle and bang of a discharged round.
Is the voice back? I haven’t been stricken with that horrible sense of hopelessness and spacetime feels generally normal. I kick off from the ground with my next step and find myself gliding through the air, half a foot above the ground. The leg I bring forward feels like it has far more momentum than I expect and snaps ahead of me before I realize I’ve lost control of it. Somehow, I manage to land on my heel and push forward with another step before coming down might have resulted in my knee bending in as unnatural a direction as Officer Blues’. This must be that supernatural acceleration I so desperately asked for before. Of course, I never stopped to think about what it’s like to deal with forces of inertia while moving this fast. Good thing it didn’t activate before, I might have pancaked myself on the steel fire escape door instead of just pushing it open.
White hot anguish blooms on my right shoulder and I feel the impact of a bullet attempting to spin me in place. I stumble forward, tipping over and tumbling across the ground like a rock skipping water. I might have been stunned by the pain, if my first minutes spent as a vampire hadn’t been a bracing experience of agony on a wholly different level. This is a minor series of bumps in comparison. I hug the bag and try not to squeeze too tightly as I suffer the impacts. When I finally roll to a painful stop, the world has resumed its normal pace and sounds. I land with my head turned to the alley, watching the two cops make a cautious advance down the long, dark strip of concrete. I try to rise, thankful the minor injuries from my last spill have already healed. My limbs respond well, but the sting of a dozen road burns is excruciating. Gods, isn’t adrenaline supposed to suppress some of this pain? I turn my head away from the cops as I fully regain my feet, certain my eyes have begun to glow again. With effort, I force my legs back into action just as more red and blue lights appear at the end of the block. One of the officers takes a last, wide shot at me before I put a corner of another building between us.
As much as I need the speed, I clearly can’t control my body well enough to risk it again. I’ll just have to outmaneuver the cops. Not likely. Perhaps I can go somewhere they can’t. Where to, though? I pass another alley and regret not taking it when I hear the squeal of the pursuing squad car as it rounds the corner. A man across the street watches the chase with a dumbfounded expression. He stumbles about, as if drunk. Ahead, the street lights seem to be blooming and blurring. Fog. That wasn’t in the forecast. I sprint toward it, using only the enhanced strength of my body to lengthen each stride. The police bullhorn crackles into life behind me.
“HALT, AND PLACE YOUR HANDS OVER YOUR HEAD!”
“Hard pass, officer.” I grumble. As I near, the fog seems to get even thicker and I can see it swirling as it billows from somewhere out of view. Something about the way it moves seems as natural as corn syrup. Whatever it is, it’s the only hope I have to lose these guys. As I cross an intersection, the police open fire from within their vehicle with an automatic weapon. Whatever they’re shooting doesn’t have the same pinging sound as before and no craters form in the walls and sidewalk around me. I have to commend their consideration for the public, at least. Before entering the fog, a couple rounds make their way into my back, but I hardly feel it. As soon as I’m enveloped in the thickest tendrils of fog, I sense something wrong. I can still hear the sirens, but the sound seems to be echoing from all around, with only a vague focus in one broad direction. I travel further in and almost trip over my own feet as I skid to a halt. I don’t know when it happened, but the fog has gotten so thick, I can hardly see more than five feet in any direction. Even the light from the overhead lamp posts is mostly smothered in a thick blanket of swirling mists.
The distant screech of rubber and a metallic crunch drifts to me from somewhere. A moment after, I catch a faint shout of either shock or pain, I can’t tell which. I jog down the sidewalk, wary of the uncanny silence that seems to have descended. Reaching a corner, I find I can’t even see the street signs above the traffic signals clearly enough to read them. My attention is grabbed by the sound of shuffling feet somewhere nearby. I spin, glaring all around me as I try to locate to source. In time, it nears and I’m finally able to see what’s moving toward me. A dirty, elderly-looking man, moving much like the drunkard from before, shambles toward the corner on which I stand. His eyes are opened wide and glazed, rolling in his head without settling on any one thing and his unstable gait causes his head to loll about on his slumped shoulders. My perception of his corpse-like features becomes uncomfortably accurate when I notice the bruised-looking flesh covering one side of his head and neck, as if blood has pooled there. Only now do I think to listen for his heartbeat, taken aback when the only sounds emanating from him are the creak of old bones and the slosh of some loose, internal fluid.
I back away, raising my open hands before me defensively, but he doesn’t react. He only continues to shuffle along the sidewalk, eventually moving past me as I circle around him. Curious, I begin to follow, but the echo of yet more sirens snaps me from the impulse. In the opposite direction, distant lights brighten the fog without truly piercing it. Though they’re only ordinary, white headlights.
Street after street, I speed through the fog, stopping to take cover within an alcove of baroque masonry when my path crosses a flashing squad car. It lingers at the intersection and I can see the beams of intense flashlights sweeping the fog. I keep my head down, resisting the urge to peek around the corner. It’s the distorted sound of wheels grinding over asphalt as it pulls away, that first alerts me to the symptoms of the voice. The sky, walls, and streets begin unfolding in imperceptible directions as the first discordant notes of some unfathomable, cyclopean sound ring through me. My knees strike concrete and my hands come into view somewhere over me, though how I’m able to gauge up and down, is a mystery. Just as my wrists come together, the voice blares true.
REVENANT LIVES...HUNT OR DIE
The message seems to ring my entire body like a bell, and as the phantasmal reverberations fade, I sense something of their nature. I don’t think they’re sounds, nor even words implanted into my head, but the concept of a will’s desire, filtered down from some higher, abstract method of communication. What in all gods’ names is speaking to me and that horny werewolf…?
I slowly realize I have control of my body again, lowering myself back onto my elbows as I recover. There’s something exhausting about hearing that voice. I’ve never been a spiritual person, but the fatigue I feel after hearing it can only be attributed to a depression on something of that metaphysical level.
“Go fuck yourself, Hades wannabe.” I mutter as I dust myself off. “Not my problem, asshole.”
I scan the fog for more flashes of red or blue before leaving my hiding spot. Seeing none, I creep to my feet and begin moving again. By degrees, the fog thins until I find I can read the street signs. I come across a familiar road name and follow the building numbers in the direction of the planned route I had taken to get to the Bionex. Soon, I rejoin the path I spent an hour memorizing. Thankfully, the thick fog still blankets the city proper and I use it to avoid the eyes of late night drivers and ever-increasing patrols. This late at night, it’s not very difficult, even for the inexperienced. I creep past more than a few scenes of light poles, mailboxes, or hydrants, devastated by a vehicular impacts, car owners standing sullenly beside the wreckage.
The longer I stalk through the hoary night, the more I begin to sense that uncanny pressure of eyes on my back. I take corners with bursts of speed and looping detours at every opportunity, but the feeling never subsides. Whatever follows me won’t be shaken and I don’t think it’s a rainbow-headed athlete this time. I’ll have to confront them. I make a quick mental note of my location on the route, then step off of it, travelling until I find a suitable alley and sweep into it. Upon reaching the end, I’m disappointed to find a pile of plastic sheets and cardboard occupied by an aging homeless woman. She rolls over as I approach, apparently a light sleeper. In the dark, I hope she can’t see the stains on my clothing and the blood smeared across my mouth that I really should clean off soon. Where’s Rarity and her alcohol wipes?
“Hey, how are you ma’am?” I say, as gently as I can.
“Ehng...fugg offv, kid. Thiz ‘z my spot.”
“It’s okay, I’m not here to stay or take anything, I just wanted to let you know that it’s gonna get dangerous around here in a minute. You might want to take a walk. Come back in a little while.” I’d reassure her that it’ll be safe when I’m done, but that didn’t turn out well for Vale.
“Guh‘way!” She huffs, and throws a brown glass bottle a foot wide of my head. I wish I could say it had been empty, but a spray of some pale, pungent fluid is slung from the mouth of it, landing across my face and falling directly into an eye. As I turn away and resist the urge to ball my hands into fists, I squeeze my eyes shut and breathe a hard sigh, out of habit. I’m going to choose to believe that was only stale beer.
“Have it your way.” I growl and turn back to the mouth of the alley, casting a glance at the roofs. Nothing stirs besides the swirling tendrils of water vapor that curl and sway like hypnotic hand tricks. I lean on my other senses, focusing on listening. The werewolf’s heartbeat had been intense, but steady, even after killing Vale. It was very distinct from everyone else’s. The furtive, lethargic crawling of this sleeping section of the city makes its way into my head, infused with the bustle and wail of heightened police activity. I almost open my mouth to call out to the wolf, but close it again, realizing I only heard the distant thump of club music. The homeless woman begins snoring and murmuring in her sleep, heartbeat perfectly steady. I rub away the crusted blood from my mouth and wait for the scent of it to dissipate.
When it’s mostly gone, I sample the air, immediately repulsed. It isn’t the smell of grease, dirt, and fresh rot that figuratively burns my nostrils, but the intensified bouquet of old, rancid death; the very same noxious death that lingered in the background of the murder scene at my high school.
“I know you’re there, and I know what you’ve done.” I call out. “What do you want with me?” I project as best I can, but my voice falls flat in the fog, as if I spoke into a sound-dampened chamber.
I ignore her and continue scanning my surroundings. Garnering no response besides the drunken mumbling of the vagrant, I wait several long moments before my worn patience gives out. I open my mouth to speak, but a rolling, sandpaper moan of a voice breaks the silence first.
“You.” I spin round, sure I heard it directly behind me, but see nothing. “We are victims. Peeled apart from what we were. Puppeteer-puppets, enslaved to old, distorted reflections.” The speaker seems to choke on its words, periodically, as if it’s struggling to breathe. I turn back to the end of the alley, where I finally spot motion. From the corner of a roof’s edge, something darts into view. The dark object is soon followed by something larger. As more of the thing comes forth, I recognize the shape of a man, slithering over the lip of the roof. It drags itself further still, seeming to disregard gravity altogether as it crawls over the wall of the alley, perpendicular to the ground. As I notice the thing’s body terminate just above where its hips should have been, I feel that familiar tingling in my skull that seems to have replaced the sensation of curdling blood. “It did this to us. It perverts, trans-changes. Wants tools.”
“What are you talking about?” I say. The thing crawls nearer to the ground, just to the side of the vagrant’s sleeping pile.
“Foreign, unholy divine. Progenitor. Violator.” I watch as it finally touches down to the alley floor, its half-body rasping against the concrete with every fitful dragging motion toward the sleeping woman. It closes in on her and I step forward.
“Leave her alone!” I command, but the uncertainty and lack of confidence in my voice is plainly audible.
“Need her.” The thing replies, as if it spoke a statement of fact that should be as obvious as simple mathematics. From this distance, I can see its dark, withered flesh between gaps in the pale, lacy strips of cloth that enwrap its every surface.
“Back away. Now.” It doesn’t respond, only continuing to hover over her prone form. I take the first step of what I intend to be a sprint, but as I bring my second foot forward, it travels only a fraction of the distance needed. Similarly, my other limbs seem to be affected by a force that causes them to move as if I’m trapped in clay. Before I can utter a word of confusion the half-corpse speaks, but my attention is drawn to the hand it holds out in my direction, palm forward like a traffic cop.
“This death is set, engraved, unmoveable. Collapsed already. Watch, Gyre Strand.” At the sound of my name, I cease struggling against the unseen forces holding me back. I study the half-corpse further as it turns empty sockets toward me, their hollow depths deeper than a catacomb. Unable to bear its graveyard gaze for long, my eyes turn to the woman. For a moment, she continues to lie there, unaware of the horror beside her, chest rising and falling in content breaths. At once, her exhalation hitches as if she were resisting a cough and the hand at her side wraps around the edge of a stiff plastic sheet that slices into her fingers. I smell the blood before I see it leaking from the hand that relaxes as suddenly as it clenched. Now, she lies still, static as the cold, brick walls around us.
No words are spoken as I stare at the woman, refusing to believe she could be dead. The half-corpse only continues to regard me, uncannily still, with hand outstretched in my direction.
The silence swells between us and I’m unaware of time, for a period. When I return to conscious thought, I realize I had been waiting for something. Not for the half-corpse to speak or move or for the woman to suddenly take another breath, but, with a grim shock, I come to understand I was waiting to feel something. Waiting for the stir of sympathy or anger or anything other than the rattle of self-preservative urges. Waiting for the correct, human response to what I’ve just seen.
There has been so much death tonight, some by my hand, and all of it at my feet. I used to think that watching my father die would prepare me for the brutality and inevitability of death, but all I feel is confused. Should I be happy for the homeless woman, that she was able to exit stage left on this grand, cruel performance, whose absinthian climax looms on the near horizon? Should I lament her passing and the deprivation of all those brilliant, inspiring moments she could have had, in spite of the harsh hand of capitalism? If I cared, would it matter?
“Why?” I say, my voice hollow and distant, even to myself. “What did she do to deserve this?”
“I can give you the cause, but not the purpose. The word, I think, was...aneurysm.” It places a hand across the body’s forehead. After a moment, it convulses. I watch, in morbid fascination, as it lurches to a sit, glassy, unfocused eyes wide open. “There’s so much we need to discuss.”
“What in Tartarus do you want?”
“Freedom.” It rasps. “For my family. Steal back their death. Deprive the Progenitor of its violations against us. For that, I need you, Gyre Strand.”
I flinch this time as my name pours from its mouth like desert sand. It comes out with a reverence that would raise goosebumps on my skin, were I still human.
“What do I have to do with anything going on? I’m a victim as much as that woman or—”
“The wolf.”
“No.” I spit, “The werewolf is a monster. I was going to mention her victims.” The half-corpse’s mouth hangs open for a moment before it speaks again.
“No!” it shouts back, bringing a bony fist down with a pitiful thump. Its exclamation wasn’t an angry sound, but a desperate one. “Your lines are entangled for light years, for fathomless bifurcations. Man, and everything it could become, is cradled in the braid of your paired destinies.”
“Are you saying you can see the future?” I ask, doubtfully. It drops the hand it held up and crawls a few feet nearer.
“Can’t remember everything at once. Only glimpses that pass by the sliver. But I have seen so many. The pressure of chance foregoes comprehension.” The half-corpse’s head falls to the concrete and its hands form claws that clutch at the back of its skull. “There were—are so few for us.” Its head snaps back up, meeting my eyes again with its twin pits of shadow. “I know what you want. More than anything else. One way or another, you will have it. You always do. Won’t last—flickers and fades in time.” It crawls even closer, only a yard away. I step back, reflexively. “I can shelter it, I can make it last forever, burn brighter. Help me, and you will have everything back. And more. And my family can be together.”
“H-help you...how?” I ask, and regret it immediately. The grin that splits the dry, dark face beneath the strangely ornate wrappings literally splits its face. Ashen flakes fall and too many blackened teeth are revealed in places I shouldn’t be able to see them.
“Vacancies. Need more. Too few, too scarce—slow to generate. Make me more. It will be okay. In the end, it will all be okay again.” its voice cracks and chokes, more than before.
“Corpses? You want me to bring you dead bodies?” I step back again. “What for?”
“Guardians. Inviolable soldiers. May not have enough in time, without help.”
“How many…?” I ask, morbid curiosity getting the better of me.
“Many. More than I can bear to name. More than is fair. Only what is necessary.” Here, it takes a shuddering breath and in the vortex hollows of the skull that seem as deep and voracious as a singularity, something almost human seems to reach out from within. A pleading, hopeful desperation, overgrown with the mold of madness. “Canterlot.”
The half-corpse says nothing else, staring up at me from the filthy alley floor. Presently, the absence of words becomes pregnant with more than just the welling of mortal consternation. A distinct, bassy rhythm cuts through the muffling fog.
“You want me to help you kill an entire city.”
“Freedom begs a price, Gyre Strand. You understand this already, I know.”
“If you know so much about me, what makes you think I’d ever agree to something like this?”
“Your strength convinces me. You deny it, struggle against yourself, as you have been taught. But you see ends before means. Difficult decisions crumble in your hands. Where you walk, hardships cower like rats. Others would fall under pressure, guilt, bloodlust.”
“You’re saying I’m a psychopath.” I growl.
“What we are can’t be summed in a word, only actions. Act, Gyre Strand, and be the savior of everything you’ve ever loved or wanted. Be a hero, just like your father.”
I stare down at the withered, pleading thing and wonder who it could have been, before all of this started. Who misses him? Do they even know what he’s become?
“Who are you?” I say, quickly scanning the rooftops. “What do you know about my dad?”
“I am. That’s all that matters. Come with me and we can make all of this blood and death worth the pain.”
“I think you already know my answer.” A dark outline forms in the fog where the half-corpse first appeared, growing sharper.
“I won’t force you, Gyre Strand. But you will stand in my way at your own risk.”
“I’ll roll those dice.” I say, lunging forward. As expected, the half-corpse brings its left hand forward, halting me in mid air. I look back to the roof, but the shadow is gone, leaving behind tendrils of fog that swirl violently upward. In a split second, the shape of the werewolf comes hurtling from the darkness, just above the half-corpse. She descends with claws outstretched and a silent, vicious snarl. Just before she lands, the half-corpse’s right hand snaps upward, and the werewolf halts in the air. I look on in wonder as the the half-corpse hovers slightly, without arms to support it on the ground. I feel some of the invisible force weaken around me and take a painfully slow, difficult step forward as it looks to the growling werewolf.
“No...no! Not yet! Not you!” It rasps. I take another step forward, but the invisible force intensifies for a moment, before the half-corpse makes a violent gesture at the mouth of the alley with both hands. The world spins and I find myself tumbling backward through the air at speed. Something huge and heavy slams into me, pressing the front of my body to the concrete and causing more flares of pain as I experience a second serving of road burns for the evening. Together, we bounce and another impact is absorbed by the furry body I’m pressed against. The deafening sound of crunching glass and metal tear through the night and a male voice yelps in terror. We hit the asphalt in a heap, but the werewolf is on her feet in a flash, charging back into the alley. I raise my head and look around, noticing, with a pang of annoyance, that we were thrown into the driver door of a squad car. I leap to my feet and peer in through the window frame. The door is bent almost completely inward and the officer slumped inside bleeds from a deep gash on the side of his head. Somehow, he’s still conscious, eyes rolling in their sockets.
The sound of rushing air from behind sends a blast of an impulse through me and I find myself skidding to a stop a few feet to the left of where I stood, just in time to watch the werewolf make a second impact into the side of the vehicle, a canine whimper of pain escaping her, this time. She slides to the ground, upside-down, the weight of her considerable body resting on her neck and shoulders. She tries to rise again, succeeding at a much slower pace than before.
“I don’t think you’re getting near that thing.” I say.
“No shit, Count Obvious.” She replies, with a terrifyingly pointed grin. She rolls onto her feet and glares into the alley. “Son of a bitch flew away with that zombie lady.”
I study the dazed officer in the car. He probably has a concussion, but doesn’t appear to be a concern.
“F-Freeze!”
Jinxed it.
I spin around to see a second officer pointing a shaking pistol at us. Donuts spill out of a small bag several feet behind him. He looks much younger than his stunned partner and only inches away from fainting. I hear a low rumbling beside me as the werewolf crawls forward.
“Don’t,” I snap, “...even think about it. I got this. Probably.”
“Oh? Let’s see what you got, bat-boy.” I roll my eyes and step forward, raising my palms to either side.
“Alright, officer, you caught me. Talking dogs are illegal, I know.” I reluctantly take a deep breath as the werewolf growls behind me.
“Hands up!” The cop shouts, meekly. I wave both hands a little as I close on him, feeling the red mist forming inside. “Uh, right...uh. Oh gods. Okay.” He shuffles his feet into what I assume is a by-the-book shooter’s stance. “Stay right there, sir.” Keeping his eyes trained on the werewolf, the officer reaches to his belt with one hand and unhooks a set of steel handcuffs, apparently missing the fact that I already have a pair locked onto my left arm. His heart hammers in his chest as he takes one step too close and I let loose the red mist. It washes over his face, and he begins an intense, ragged coughing fit that leaves him doubled over. I lower my hands and step away.
Forget everything strange or scary that you see, or have seen, tonight.
He tries to speak between coughs, but can’t finish a word. He doesn’t scream and fall, so I turn to walk back to the werewolf. A series of bangs ring my head like a bell and I turn back to the officer to see him swaying on his feet, gun pointed high into the air above him. He kneels, then slumps to a sit on the street, eyes glazing over and dropping his gun. Almost immediately, a siren blares into life further down the street, past the werewolf. We whip around to see red and blue lights blink on in the thinning fog.
“Well done, bat-boy.”
“Fuck you.”
“Gratuitous sex joke with thinly veiled, but sincere proposition.”
“Ugh. Let’s just get the Tar’ outta here.” I turn and sprint away from the approaching squad car. In a few bounds, the werewolf is yards ahead of me, ready to round the corner onto the next city block.
“Come on, I know where we can lose ‘em and lay low.” She leaps forward and disappears around the corner. As I do the same, I’m greeted by the sight of her skidding to a stop as another two sets of squad car lights rush toward us from the gloom. “Through here!” she points to the darkened glass front of a closed, upscale pawn shop, shielded with a metal grate.
“Through whe—” I watch as she lunges and hooks clawed hands into the metal bars. In a second, a large section of the thick metal grid is torn from the framework. A bolt must have sprung free and shattered the glass because it disintegrates into a million sparkling pebbles as she tosses the warped grate into the street. I’m having second, third, and fourth thoughts about following her.
A bang and the ricochet of a metal slug change my mind. The werewolf dives through the glassless window frame and rolls into a forward lunge. I clamber after her, feeling lame, even as two more bullets whizz through the air around me. We race to the rear of the narrow interior, leaving a trail of broken glass and displaced miscellania in our wake. Just as I’m about to ask how we’re supposed to get through the reinforced metal door on the back wall, she kong vaults over the checkout counter and, in the same motion, lands a devastating drop kick that breaks the door off two hinges and sends it swinging into the hall beyond. She hits the floor and rolls back upright, facing me.
“Ow. You’re getting the next one.”
“Fair enough, but I’m checking to see if it’s open, first.”
Tires screech, car doors slam, and a bullhorn screams orders at us. Together, we move through the corridor as if the building is on fire and push more reasonably through the back exit. My furry accomplice has to duck her head and turn sideways to fit through. We hop over some rails and find ourselves at the crook of an L-shaped alleyway. The werewolf tears off down the left-hand path, toward a parked box truck that partially blocks the entrance. More police lights flash past the mouth in the other direction, one coming to a halt. Sirens wail from everywhere at once, every single one of them either keeping pace or growing louder. I spring after the werewolf.
“Keep up, bat-boy!” she calls back. I push harder, finding a little more speed that results in ungainly, bounding steps. More police lights flood the end of the alley and two squad cars pull up. One blocks the remainder of the path that had been left open. “Almost there! Don’t be a wuss—we’re going through!”
“What? Are you crazy?”
“Shut up and run and you won’t get shot!”
I curse and focus only on planting one foot in front of the other, pushing off with as much force as I’m confident I can handle. The first of the officers steps out of the vehicle blocking our path and brings a shotgun to bear. I glimpse her wide-eyed, panicked expression as she registers the huge beast barrelling at her from the darkness. The werewolf makes a feint to her right, then darts left, scrabbling across the wall like a giant gecko for several yards and passing the parked car. I register the nature of her maneuver too late, already travelling through the air with my latest step and unable to brake.
I see the light and fire blossom from the muzzle of the shotgun, but the blast is unexpectedly dull and protracted. It takes me a moment to understand why, but by then, I find myself stumbling into the center of the street, illuminated by three pairs of headlights and quite unaware of how I got there. Something flashes past me from behind, whipping the air into a frenzy above my head. The werewolf? How did I get ahead of her? She lands on the other side of an iron security fence, facing me as she brakes, claws scraping lines into the concrete between two rows of public storage garages. The officers nearest her spin in place. One screams and backs up against his vehicle, while the other pokes the barrel of her gun through the black bars and fires off three rounds that go wide as the werewolf ducks and weaves with preternatural speed. I start moving, hoping to take advantage of the distraction.
A burning sensation flares in my right thigh before I take a second step. Reflexively gripping the place where a bullet found its new home, I stop and curse again. All around, the business ends of several firearms are pointed at me by officers that all look even more confused and terrified than I feel.
“Walk it off! Let’s go!” The werewolf shouts, dodging fire as she retreats into the darkness. I crouch and push off from the ground, using every scrap of will remaining in me to ignore the searing pain in my leg. I soar over the officers gazing past the fence, no doubt bringing everyone’s focus with me. I land on my side and try to roll into a stand, but the backpack spoils the maneuver. I feel like a fish out of water.
Officers gather at the fence, guns drawn. Two are already trying to climb over the black bars. I push myself upright as one officer steps forth, demanding surrender. I make a move to crawl backward, but he fires a warning shot into the concrete near my hand.
“I’m not gonna ask again.” His tone is almost level, but shock and trepidation texture the surface of his words. “Lay down with your hands behind your—oh, shit!” A chorus of similarly horrified cries erupt from the other officers just before the metallic crash of an industrial dumpster, trailing bags and bits of refuse, crashes into the fence, warping and embedding itself into the metalwork. Someone’s gun falls to the ground and both climbers drop, looking thoroughly discouraged.
“Last chance, bat-boy!” The werewolf’s call echoes from the end of the alley. I leap to my feet, shrugging off the bag and hugging it in front of me as I dash to the end of the lane. Halfway there, gunfire erupts and I catch another bullet somewhere near a kidney. I drop to one knee, the pain sending my mind into a fog. Another bullet buries itself in my shoulder and my senses start to fill with a grey static. I can feel myself losing control, each limb going limp in turn.
Someone used to say something to me that was almost always a source of vigor and defiance in the face of despair. I try to recall it, but my thoughts are dim, feeble sparks against the glare of white hot agony that grows brighter still. At once, the incandescence of the pain is cloaked in a shadow from which I instinctively recoil, but cannot escape. It washes over nearly everything and I suspect unconsciousness has claimed me before I recognize the tenebrous fire of rage. It swallows the pain, claims it, and stokes the engines of my limbs. I launch myself to a stand with a coarse growl. When my vision clears, I can see the werewolf is gone from her previous position. It’s the warmth at my back and the thump of that distinct heartbeat that draws my attention behind me again. I look back to see the werewolf crouched between me and the officers at the fence, a heat baking off her fur like that of an open oven. Sporadic gunfire sounds off and, with every bang, I see her eyes quiver. Her jaws are clenched with such intensity, I can hear their fangs scraping together and see blood oozing from her gums.
“Go. Idiot.” With a red-stained arm, she points to the building presiding over the storage lot, a squat, two-story brutalist slab. “Around back..”
I nod and begin moving that way. She keeps pace as we run, shielding me from further harm. Some of the officers try following us from the outside of the fence, but their path is far longer than ours. I hear the impact of at least three more bullets and a subvocal whine from the werewolf at each before we break line of sight. She moves with less grace than before, but all the same speed, as we come upon the main building. We round the corner onto a smooth, wide, asphalt slope that curves right, into an enclosed tunnel. The werewolf bounds over to a double-wide storm drain, hooks her claws into the waffle grate bars, and lifts the metal piece. She tosses it to the side with an obnoxious clatter and dives onto the slope. Confused, I follow her down. We pass through a checkpoint, at which a security booth stands empty, with the striped bar for blocking the passage of vehicles lowered. Further in, a swathe of parking spaces takes up room equivalent to at least three times my school’s gymnasium, almost as much as the library. The werewolf hobbles over to a row of elevator doors and begins prying one open. Before I can offer to help, the doors are spread open enough for her to pass through. She does so, leaping onto one of two wall-mounted ladders as yellow light blink on inside.
She looks back at me. “Come on.”
Outside, I can hear voices that reveal the purpose of moving the grate as officers argue over who’s going to pursue us through the sewers. Clever girl. But…
“Where does all this ‘Daring Do’ shit lead? They’re gonna search down here, eventually. Besides...” I gesture behind us before looking back to see that the trail of blood I had expected is absent. “...uhm—nevermind.”
“Come on.” The werewolf’s already monstrously distorted voice grows blades as she bites off the words and beckons me to join her. I feel the tingling at the base of my skull, but step over to the open door anyway, desperate fool that I am.
I peer over the edge and observe the elevator car sitting at the alarmingly distant bottom. Dramatic shadows are cast in geometric shapes against the walls and mechanisms, making it difficult to gauge distance.
“There’s a maintenance stage behind the car, down there. The floor of it is actually a hatch. I need your cute, scrawny ass to squeeze between the wall and the car so you can get back there. Big red button on the wall lowers the car into the floor. I’ll be able to fit back there and unlock the hatch for us once you press it.”
“And where does that—?”
She reaches into the doorframe before I can react and grabs me by the throat, lifting me into the air over the pit. I don’t even bother trying to break her grip. Instead, I let go of my pack of blood bags and reach for the other ladder, but swipe at empty air as she lets go. I plummet to the bottom, flailing just to touch something. I begin tumbling and fear surges through my mind, scattering my thoughts. I close my eyes and brace for the impact that never comes. It takes several long moments to realize the air rushing through my ears sounds far bassier than it did a moment ago. I open my eyes again and it feels strange on my eyelids. I’m still in the air, looking up at the werewolf’s oddly still form. No, not still. Moving, extremely slow.
Oh. Right.
As I come to understand what’s happening, I also become conscious of how uncomfortably warm and tight my head feels.
With heightened reflexes, I reach out for the central cable, struggling to account for the inertial forces, but manage to wrap a hand around it. At the last subjective second, I think to control my grip so as not to risk warping the cable with too much strength. Presently, the effect ends and I find myself swinging in wild circles, connected only by my right hand. In a moment, I stabilize by drawing myself to it and wrapping my other limbs about its length. I reach the bottom at a smooth glide and hop onto the nearest flat surface among the machinery crowning the car.
“Fucking bitch.” I mutter under my breath as I study the sharp angles and brutal structures I might have crashed into, had I not saved myself.
“Talk dirty to me later.” My sensitive ears catch the murmured response and I have to force myself not to bring a hand to my forehead. Gods damn everything.
My vision swims and darkens for a moment as I step over to the aforementioned gap. I stop and steady myself before climbing through. Indeed, the werewolf would not have been able to fit without breaking several bones in the process. I drop onto a textured metal panel that rings incessantly with every step. Mounted on the far wall of a space no larger than a generous walk-in closet, is a very large and obvious red button. The sign beside it describes its use and every single obnoxious safety precaution demanded of the operator. In defiance of at least three bullet points, I punch the button. Through the screech and racket of the machines, I hear the steady climbing of the werewolf as she descends the ladder. The car takes more than a minute to drop enough for my companion to join me and even longer for it to stop. We stand in the dim yellow light for nearly five minutes, holding clawed hands over our ears to take the edge off the acutely unpleasant din. When the machinery finally comes to a hissing rest, I lower my hands and give the werewolf an expectant stare.
“Well, I can’t get the thing open if you’re standing on it, doofus.” She says. I give her a middle finger and step onto the car beside her, retrieving my bag. She flicks the bottom of my chin with a claw that leaves a short-lived line of pain. “You’re such a badboy, bat-boy. So cute.”
I grit my teeth. “Just open it.”
She hooks her claws into a set of indentations in the near edge of the slab and lifts it up on hidden hinges. The slab is revealed to be almost an inch and a half thick and appears solid. How anyone is supposed to move it without obscene strength or some kind of machinery, I can’t fathom.
“There we are. Hop in.”
The opening is just wide enough for the werewolf, but at least three of me could jump through at once. Even with my preternatural vision I see nothing resembling an end to the rough, but regularly-shaped shaft. A stone track of some kind is carved into the living rock of the wall, but no signs of modern construction are apparent.
Staring into the stygian pit, I almost don’t detect my vision dimming again, but as I try to pull away, my backpack tumbles forward, into the dark. My useless arms dangle before me and the pit swallows my entire field of view. Before the world becomes a rushing black void, a few words make it to my ears.
You can keep climbing. Remember: pain, of all kinds, isn’t a sign of the limit of strength; it’s both the prize and the price. People have just forgotten how to use it. You’ll figure it out, just by knowing it’s possible. So get up, we have a long way to go…
Dad. I remember, now. It was his words I needed when the bullets hit. Perhaps I already knew them. Perhaps I found my own way to the lessons he’d learned under similar circumstances. Would he be proud? Those were police bullets I suffered, after all.
I feel my eyes fly open, but the only thing in sight is a pervasive, perfect black. Have I gone blind, or is it truly that dark in here?
“What’s wrong with my eyes?”
“Probably nothing,” the werewolf rumbles beside my head, “The power went out and we’re underground. I can’t see much of anything either.” The realization of our proximity to each other illuminates the conscious perception of thick, warm fur pressed to the bare flesh of my back, chest, and legs. Beneath me, I feel warm, smooth concrete. I expect to feel disgusted and terrified at once, but in the dead dryness of blood thirst, emotion holds no sway over me and I find myself simply appreciating the sweet, floral scent of shampoo. I pick my way out of her curled form, brushing aside the huge arm that falls over my hips as I sit up. Thankfully, my underwear weren’t removed, but the cuffs on my forearm are gone. “Awh, come back to bed, honey,” she taunts.
“Where’s my backpack?”
“Hm? Oh, in the fridge. Get me a snack while you’re in there, would you?” My eyes would surely glow, if I could respond as I normally would. Perhaps it would even provide a useful amount of light.
“Where?”
“Just find the door and follow the wall on the right.”
I move in an arbitrary direction until I touch a wall with my outstretched hands. Padding along this in a counter-clockwise fashion, I come to an open doorway. My hands brush across warped hinges and the smell of decayed dust fills my nostrils. I feel cracked and broken ceramic tiles mounted to the walls. A decorative beam of rotted, worm-eaten wood separates this lower section from the rough concrete above. Eventually, I round a sharp corner and enter another doorway some yards further. Inside, a low humming can be heard. I follow the sound until my hands come across glass of a size and shape reminiscent of the industrial coolers housed in the Bionex. The handle proves to be an odd, fist-sized bar. I pull on this and find the whole machine trembles, but the door remains firmly shut. Curious, I twist and am met with bitter success as the squeaky mechanisms hurl shards of pain into my head via my ear drums. The unexpectedly weighty door swings open on willing hinges and a wave of cold air washes over me. My hands are groping the interior without conscious command. They come across the damp, unmistakable nylon sack and wrap around it. I pull it forth and hug it to my chest as I sit on the floor, setting it before me.
Inside, the rigid ice packs chatter with the lumps of frozen material floating inside what melted. I reach in and unzip the insulated lunch box, my other hand pushing through the gap as if it were a creature all its own, eagerly seeking the precious blood within. I withdraw a plump, full bag, feeling my fangs extend in anticipation. I bring it to my mouth and bite through the thin material. Everything else fades away in the rapture of feeding, suffusing me with a vigor that brings into context the bone-deep misery of the state I left behind. In the wake of this catharsis, comes a primal, savage horror of that biological descent from which I feel I’ve escaped. I don’t recall feeling the degradation of body and mind, but the new blood coursing through me, and the searing vitality it brings, tells a different tale. It eludes me as to which should be properly ascribed as reality.
An empty bag crinkles in the hand that holds it to my face. I’m about to reach for another when I feel more plastic wadded into the fist of my other hand. I let go, feeling two similarly crumpled blood bags fall into my lap. Appalled, I reach into the backpack, dreading the complete absence of the reserves I went through so much trouble to steal. Four bags remain. I fall back, relieved.
For some time, I lay there, wondering how near I came to losing all of what I’ve worked for, due to a transitory loss of control. As with so many other moments over the short time I’ve experienced life as a monster, I gain yet another grain of understanding of the dire need to seek methods of control. As I’m rising, the voice of the werewolf breaks through the relative silence.
“You okay in there? I didn’t take all those shots and pull lead from your skin for five hours for you to keel over by the gods-damned fridge!”
Five hours?
“What time is it?” I shout back.
“I don’t know, look at the clock—oh, wait!”
I’m almost disappointed that I’ve already become used to her sarcasm. I’m not annoyed enough to cause my eyes to glow. I try all manner of straining and focused willpower, but give up after a few minutes, feeling foolish.
“Where are my clothes?”
“One door down, across the hall, drying on a line near the back wall! If you’re looking for your phone, it broke when you fell, but what’s left of it is in there, on the counter across from the sinks! Tough luck, bat-boy!”
Yeah, or you broke it.
I don’t dare voice my thoughts—I know she’d hear it.
I feel my way through the dark, finding another doorless entryway. The smell of detergent is strong in here. I stretch out my arms as I pass through the room. Hanging ghosts of soft fabric brush across me as I make my way to the back, and the unmistakable shape of a bra drags across my face. Well, at least I know the werewolf really is a girl, probably. Eventually, I find the opposite wall and locate the still-wet set of clothes I had worn, mainly recognizable by the location of the bullet holes. Seven in total. I didn’t even realize I’d been shot that many times. With a sigh, I retreat from the laundry room after confirming that my phone was, indeed, smashed.
Screw it, she’s probably already seen me naked and I’m sure as Tar’ not wearing soggy clothes.
I trudge back down the hall, toward the sound of her beating heart, suffering a short-lived cut on my foot from a piece of broken tile lying in my path. Once I return to the doorway, I lean against it and cross my arms. I realize I’m striking a pose for someone that can’t see it and whose attention I don’t even think I want.
“So where are we, then?”
“Us? Well, I’d say we kinda skipped first base and are hovering around second.”
“You’re so obnoxious.”
“I’m a badass, nothing I do is obnoxious; it’s automatically cool.”
“Rainbow?”
“What?”
“Nothing. What is this place?” I ask, feeling my patience begin to slip.
The werewolf hums thoughtfully, “You know, I’m not entirely sure. Looks like it could have been a lab of some sort, but it’s definitely too old to be modern. All I know is, a drug-running street gang used to set up down here, but they’re long gone.”
“Great, then where’s the exit?”
“Somewhere around here, but one is probably being watched by the cops and the other is going to be covered in daylight for the next four or five hours. I’m assuming neither would be good for your ‘health’.” I could hear the quotation marks she put around the word health. I appreciate the ironic humour of it and a reluctant smile tugs at my lips. “Looks like you’re stuck down here. With me. Just...the two of us.”
I roll my eyes, “I’m not about to brush your coat.” This garners a thunderous chuckle from her.
“That’s okay, we can hash out foreplay another time.” Her tone darkens, “Right now, I think we need to have a talk about what to do next.”
“There is no ‘we’. There’s you, and there’s me, and as long as we stay out of each other’s way, and you keep your paws off innocents, our ways can stay separate.” I hear her rising as I speak, and before I even finish my sentence, I can sense her standing over me.
“Listen, kid, just because I like you, doesn’t mean I’m going to listen to all your white knight bullshit and let you run off before the threat to our lives is taken care of.” Her voice is harsh and low, the nearly scalding air from her lungs washing over my cold, dead skin. I expected her breath to smell of the death of Vale Hardywine, but the air passing over my nostrils is remarkably fresh. It’d be comically subversive if it didn’t remind me of my failure to protect the life I saved and the casually symbolic dismissal of it. “Not to sound dogmatic, but we were obviously chosen by someone or something to get rid of that moldy, jerk-stick of a necromancer, on pain of death. You can be a miserable little shit and cry about how awful it is to have to drink a little blood and pass on invitations to picnics, even though your new lifestyle comes with superpowers, but that needs to come after we take out the thing that wants to literally murder all of Canterlot.”
I clench my fists at her words as I bite back a lame retort. It stings, but she’s not technically wrong. I’ve been so worried I’d lost all control of my life that I didn’t see how the pursuit of regaining that control had been the same as the pursuit of power, the thought of which had tickled my natural disdain for authority. Regardless, I had been so preoccupied with my own goals I didn’t see the obvious fact that whatever has been speaking to me might actually be capable of destroying me. It could even be what made us this way in the first place.
“And what do you expect us to do about it? That thing threw us across the street with a wave of its hand.”
“That’s what I’m saying we need to think about. Shit’s about to get real in this town and if we don’t take down the cause, we’ll be dead anyway. Think about it. I can’t eat dead flesh, and you can’t drink dead blood. Sounds like that’s all that’ll be around if the evil wizard mummy gets his way. Even sipping on those stolen bloodbags is dangerous since you don’t know if the donor is even alive anymore. If the old vampire stories are right, I’m assuming you don’t want to find out if that matters.”
I bite the inside of my cheek and tap my foot in agitation. “I can’t exactly go around biting people, either. There don’t need to be more things like me around. I hardly have a handle on this damn vampirism, as it is.” I hear her claws click and scrape across the floor as she turns in place and settles back down with a hot, airy whumpf.
“That brings me to a couple of points and the heart of what I’d like to discuss.”
“Well, I guess I’m not going anywhere so let’s have it.” I immediately bite my tongue as I realize how that sounded.
“Maybe later, babe. I was thinking about a different kind of joint operation that might prove mutually beneficial in the long run.”
“What kind?” I ask, knowing I won’t like the answer.
“We’re gonna fight the local mafia.”
I laugh out loud, “No, you’re gonna fight the local mafia, super-wolf. I’m done taking lead showers and I’m not interested in learning what it’s like to be stabbed.”
“Would you think ahead for one fucking second, bat-boy? Tell me, how well did that raid on the blood bank go for you tonight?”
“Uh, well, I—”
“Most of the job was already done for you and you still got caught, probably killed an officer, severely injured another, and—”
“Wait, you were watching that?”
“I became a werewolf and met a cute vampire within two days. Cubetube and Webflix in my jammies doesn’t really hold a candle to watching what you’d be up to after what I assume was your first kill. If I hadn’t kept an eye on you, I’d be pretty confused about what ‘slay the revenant’ means.”
“Fair enough, but I’m still not interested in being part of a dynamic duo with you.”
“You just don’t get it, do you?” A growls rolls through the room like distant thunder, “You’re a terrible thief, but you refuse to see that a more combative line of work could provide a source of blood, and serve your self-righteous need to be a goody two-shoes about getting it.”
It’s at least an elegant idea, I’ll give her that. Still, recklessly risking my hide every time I need to feed isn’t a sustainable lifestyle. Eventually, no matter how durable I turn out to be, I’d put money on it that someone is going to find a way to kill me.
“I can find a less destructive source of blood, thanks.”
She growls again, “Weren’t you the one who so nobly demanded we should use our abilities for the better? What happened to that little creed? Or did the cops just shoot off your balls? I didn’t see any blood down there, maybe they’re too small a target, or maybe you don’t even have—”
“Alright!” Gods, I can’t stand that she’s so infuriatingly right, turning my own damn words against me. “Fine, I meant what I said, but how are we supposed to fight a war on two fronts? We’ll be fighting the mafia on one side and a powerful fucking lich on another! I can hardly control my super-speed and I don’t even understand how any of my powers really work. Or what it takes to activate them, half the time.”
“What, like the way your eyes are glowing now?”
“They are?” I put a hand to my face and notice a dull, red luminescence against my palm. I lift my gaze to glance about the room, but find that my eyes are doing nothing to help me see in the pitch darkness. “Huh, that’s disappointing.”
“Gods, there’s something so strange about that light. It looks bright, but it’s not lighting much beyond the skin near your eyes.”
“Maybe it’s not ordinary light, then. Honestly, I haven’t found a purpose to this stupid reaction. It only happens when I feel upset or surprised.”
“Well, maybe we’ll find out what it does if you decide to join me.”
“Still can’t say I’m interested.”
“Oh for fuck’s sake, do I have to spell it out for you? Think of it as a video game, I’m sure you understand that. These mafia guys are the starting level trash you fight so you can understand what you’re capable of and get stronger for the boss fights.”
“Cute.”
“No, you are. Anyway, if you can think of a better way for us to learn about ourselves and train up to take on the lich, I’m all ears, but for now, this is the best chance we’ve got.”
She has a point. We’d have the element of surprise and no one would know how to deal with us. Weren’t these the same thoughts I had after taking Rock’s blood for the second time? I’ve already arrived at the same conclusions and didn’t realize until now.
“Hypothetically speaking, where would we begin on this vigilante venture?”
“Hypotetck—hypuh—rrrgh…”
“Why don’t you just change back into a human so you can talk normally? Can you even change back yet or does it have something to do with the moon?”
“I can change back anytime I like, I just want practice talking when I’m like this.”
She has indeed been difficult to understand this whole time and I’ve been somewhat surprised I could follow along up to this point, but her speech has already gotten markedly better.
“How...pragmatic of you.”
“You just know how to push all my favorite buttons, don’t you?” she says, in what I assume was an attempt at a sultry tone.
“Anyway…”
“Yes, anyway. If you were to, hypo-thet-ic-ally join me, we would start with Miss Hardywine’s parents.”
“What?”
“She was a willing mule for the local cartel, dude. She knew her parents are a part of it and participated. That girl was bad news. She ran drugs to clubs and sold to everyone, including kids younger than us. Everyone in that scene knew her.”
“And how do you know that?”
“Because I used to be a part of the same circle. Why do you think she was out tonight? A lone girl all by herself on the streets after dark? Honestly, you did that homeless man a mercy. If her parents ever found out what had happened to her, he would have been hunted down and the blood would have left his body a lot slower and painfully than how you took it.”
“Huh. Wait, why should I believe any of this?”
She huffs a bassy sigh, “What, you want proof? We can get proof, bat-boy. I’ll show you where they arrange deals and you can watch it go down. You still remember that address or was that all talk to scare her?”
“224 Hockwood Drive.”
“Good, then that’s where we’ll start.”
“I didn’t say I’d—”
“Oh, give it a rest.”
I suppress a sour curse and cross my arms tighter.
Bitch.
We fall silent as we brood over the conversation. What does this make us? Vigilantes? Superheroes? Anti-heroes? I can’t help feeling like I’ve lost even more control of my life. My mother is going to be worried sick and Celestia is going to be massively disappointed that I missed the very first day of community service. Gods, the cops are also going to be more suspicious of me, as well. Disappearing for a whole day, right after a murder that has strong ties to me, reappearing after even more murders. I’m so incredibly screwed. Despite all this, I feel oddly calm, but that’s not unusual. I’ve always had an inexplicable sense that things are going to turn out fine, or that I’ll find a way to slip the consequences, even if I know I should be afraid. Thinking back on my life, it’s probably been conditioned into me by the extraordinary strings of fortune in times of trouble. Sometimes, I feel like I’m being watched over. Just as often, I feel cursed, and for good reason. Which is it, really?
“So your name is Gyre Strand, huh?”
“That’s me.”
“Hm. I like it.”
“Yeah, yeah. What’s yours?”
“It...doesn’t matter anymore. Call me whatever you like, just don’t make it something stupid.”
“That’s not fair, you know my real name.”
“Life’s not fair, Gyre.”
“So I’m supposed to fight the mafia with someone who won’t even give me the courtesy of telling me her name?”
A dangerous edge creeps into her voice, “Yep. That’s how it is.”
“Tch. Alright, sunshine.” There’s a moment of silence before an idea strikes me, “Heh...Sunny. Now that’s a good, ironic name. Sunny the Werewolf.” I expect to hear her growl a mean-spirited protest, but she rumbles with low laughter for a long moment, “What’s so funny, Sunny?”
“Oh, nothing important. Sunny is fine with me. At least it’s not a lame rhyme, like Gyre the Vampire.” I clench my fist at this, and hold in a frustrated growl. She’s too good at getting the last word. “Goodness, look at those pretty, red eyes of yours.”
I snap my eyes shut, “You said you were part of the drug-runner circle once—how?”
Sunny gives another short chuckle and falls silent for a few beats before speaking, “That’s a long, sad story.”
“Even if we weren’t blind right now, you wouldn’t see me going anywhere. Besides, maybe we should at least get to know each other a little better, considering.”
“Considering we’re probably going to kill a lot of people together?” We fall silent again. After almost a minute, Sunny speaks again, “I suppose you’re right. But I’ll only tell you my story on one condition.”
“I’m not going to brush your coat or perform any other euphemisms.”
“Darn. And here I had my hopes up.” She deadpans. “Just come here. I promise I won’t bite.”
“You have no idea how non-reassuring that sounds, do you?”
“Do you want to get to know me, or not?”
I sigh inwardly, lacking air in my lungs with which to do so externally, in that moment. Uncrossing my arms, I take a few steps closer to Sunny’s voice. Without warning, hot arms fold across my shoulders and back and I’m heaved forward into a mess of coarse, but surprisingly soft, fragrant fur.
“What are you doing? Stop!” I try to push away, but the arms hold me to Sunny’s chest in an adamantine grip. In a moment of blind fury and panic I bring my claws to bear and begin tearing whatever flesh I can reach. Hard, dense muscles are cut to ribbons directly under my palms, first. I can feel bone somewhere near where I dug in. The beast’s grip tightens fractionally, but still lacks enough force to cause anything other than emotional discomfort. “Let me GO!” I bellow, summoning every ounce of supernatural strength I can muster into pushing myself away from her. Just as I reach the peak of exertion, the grip disappears and I feel the force of my efforts launch me partly across the room. Somehow, I land on my feet in a steady stance.
It’s at this moment that ghostly pale lights begin to flicker on somewhere down the hall. With my enhanced night vision, it’s as if the light in this very room had been suddenly activated and I can see everything for the first time. The lower half of the walls are covered in crumbling, stained tile that must have once been a clean, glossy white. As I had observed by touch earlier, a strip of wood separates this from a formerly wallpapered upper half that leads into ceilings of solid stone, supported by rusting metal rafters, several feet above my head. Though the room’s original purpose is impossible to guess at this point, perhaps a small office, it had clearly been converted into a sparse bedroom. To my right, a conspicuously clean and newish mattress sits atop a bulky, but ancient-looking metal frame with fixings to support different types of restraints. Beside this vaguely sinister bedding, a squat file cabinet acts as a nightstand, topped with olive-colored sheets and a cover, all folded neatly.
My eyes find their way back to the werewolf and the trail of blood between us. She remains on the floor, head turned away and eyes cast down with her upper back pressed to the corner of the room across from the open doorway, arms hanging limply at her sides. The mutilated flesh on both sides of her hips close as I watch, leaving ruddy stains in the dark grey fur as the only sign of violence. As much as I tried not to look, I notice a distinct lack of genitals between her splayed legs, where the fur is thinnest.
“What in Tartarus was that?” I demand. She doesn’t answer right away, only continuing to stare at the floor beside her. My head fills with a strange, subtle pressure and it takes a moment to realize that my interpretation was incorrect. I’m not feeling something, I’m hearing it. A high-pitched subsonic whine that starts and stops at short, almost regular intervals. It sounds so familiar, like…
Oh.
It’s Sunny. I wonder if she even knows that she’s keening, like a kicked dog. I hardly know the girl, but it’s difficult to imagine her crying. Perhaps she would be, if she was in her human form. What for? She’s the one that assaulted me. What right does she have to mope? None. But why, then, do I feel so bad?
“Hey, uh…” I try to say something, but forming the appropriate words comes as easily as trying to accurately guess the next step in the mid point of brain surgery.
“Just go.” She rumbles. “I’m...sorry.”
Gods, what should I do? She’s not my girlfriend to comfort. Tar’, I can’t even call her a friend yet, can I?
“Wait, just...well, what’s wrong? I didn’t mean to react like that, I just didn’t know what you were doing.” Sunny curls up on the floor and lays with her eyes closed.
“Don’t worry about it. The lights are back on, maybe you can find another exit; I haven’t fully explored this place yet.”
“What about getting to know each other? I still think it’s important.”
“Some other time, maybe. I don’t feel like talking anymore. The exit to the elevator shaft we came through is straight down the hall, you can’t miss it. The other way out is a manhole in a field. Follow the black arrows I painted near the ceilings.”
“I don’t suppose you want to walk me out?”
“You’re a big boy, Gyre.”
“Alright then.”
I return to the makeshift laundry room and feel my face flush at what the light reveals. Two dingy, fluorescent bulbs shine with harsh white light onto several pairs of underwear hanging just inside the door. Bright red and lacy, they’re hard to ignore as I duck under them and make my way to the sinks on my right, where a bottle of detergent and a washboard lay on the countertop. I wash my hands of most of Sunny’s blood, picking fur and flesh from under my claws. When I’m done, I move toward the back and come across yet another pair of ladies’ underwear with a thin rear strap meant to reveal some of the wearer’s anatomy and flatter it with minimal coverage. When I manage to tear my eyes away from the lingerie, more practical sets of bras hang beside stylish, fitted clothing clearly made for women of a thin, attractive size. It seems she certainly wasn’t lying about her human form’s aesthetics. A girl who looks that good could have any man she wants, why is she so interested in me? I’m painfully average-looking and being a vampire hasn’t changed that. Most of the clothing, besides the underwear, is dark black and well maintained in color, but splashes of violet stand out among the dark threads. I weave through the clothes lines and retrieve my holey shirt and pants from the back, folding the soggy mask and socks into them, along with my leather gloves. I find my shoes on the floor in a corner and, after a moment of inner debate, decide to leave the remains of my phone behind.
I find the first arrow and follow it a short distance back toward the room I awoke in, before spotting the next, pointing left, down the corridor that leads to the refrigeration room. I spy Sunny’s still form through the doorway as I glance down the hall. I didn’t notice it before, but her heartbeat picked up after that awkward moment and hasn’t slowed yet.
“Hey, maybe we can meet up Friday night? I’ll catch you at the edge of Crystal Park.” She doesn’t answer, but I’m positive she heard me. With a shrug, I walk away, following the guidance of her arrows. I grab my backpack from the fridge and continue on.
After a few turns, Sunny’s voice echoes to me, “It’s a date!”
Of course she’d say that. I grin and continue walking, wondering where this giddiness is coming from. And why it’s tinged with guilt.
“Son of a bitch.” I hiss. I’ve been walking for ten minutes and there are still black arrows pointing me onward to entirely new sections of this sprawling network of halls and rooms. I can’t decide if this was some sort of lab or secret asylum, but I assume it was both. Each cell-like room I pass instills images of inmates with horrid disfigurements, fresh from a visit to the rooms housing old-style versions of something resembling a dentist’s chair. Gods, what were they doing here?
Distracted, my foot lands on a sliver of glass that digs into my foot. I curse and carefully pull it off. I had lost count after thirty and the constant stopping is slowing my progress considerably. As it happens, my skin is now tough enough to resist being cut and pierced, but it hurts just as much as it normally would when sharp objects are pressed or jabbed into it, though the pain is short-lived. Thus, I don’t think I had actually cut my foot on tile earlier, but the realization speaks volumes of how sharp my claws and fangs are, to be capable of cutting or stabbing myself so easily. I thought about donning at least my shoes, but considering my future is likely filled with battles against gun-toting gangbangers, I figured I should at least get used to pain so I don’t collapse, like before. Sunny must have been through some shocking tribulations to be so resilient.
I take a left turn, following another arrow. The hall here is broad and long, with two large openings on the right. Other than the arrow pointing to the far end, past the two doorways, I find a painted symbol I haven’t seen yet. A black question mark is painted beside a doorway with the peeling words ‘Entrance Only’ stenciled to the side of it in three different languages. Beyond, a set of stairs leads down into a cavernous space. There are no lights on in there, but enough light floods in from the hallway for my sensitive eyes to see. Curious, I step through and descend the stairs into the gloom. The place looks to be a platform, similar to a subway station. I look over the edge of the platform and confirm this as I observe a set of rusted tracks. The tunnel that would lead in and out of this chamber is collapsed on both ends, plugged by heaps of boulders the size of cars.
Something huge was happening under Canterlot that has been kept a secret for a long, long time. What caused everyone to abandon this place, though? Furthermore, why would a drug-runner gang give this place up? It’s the perfect hideout for a group of lawless bastards. Questions for Sunny.
Now, I wonder if there’s something down here she didn’t tell me about. Flashes of creatures with tentacles for eyes and ribcages that open like mouths run through my head as I try to imagine what would cause an entire criminal enterprise to run from such a valuable stretch of territory. Most of the glass I’ve stepped on has been from broken beer bottles or stained flasks likely used to brew meth, or whatever else they were selling. There’s plenty of evidence that they were here, so why leave?
Just as my thoughts begin to reach truly terrifying places, the light blinks out of existence and I’m left in the perfect darkness with only the company of my imaginary monsters. I drop everything I’m holding and sit on the smooth, cold concrete.
“Welp...guess I shoulda seen that coming.” I groan and lay back with my feet dangling over the edge of the platform.
I stop myself from whistling for the third time in what has felt like as many hours. Now that I know monsters are real, if there are any sci-fi abominations down here, I probably shouldn’t broadcast my location to them.
Staring at the darkness, I drift into a half-hearted meditation, summoning vague images of stars and nebulae to occupy my mind, so I don’t start hallucinating. One image in particular sticks, repeating throughout the rest of the improvised scenery. It gets annoying, breaking my sense of immersion in the pretend celestial tour and I try shaking it. When it remains, I know something strange is happening. My eyes are open, I can feel the dry air against them, but the image of that constellation stays fixed in the center of my vision. It’s nothing I recognize, but there’s an undeniably forboding feeling attached to it, the same as when I considered replicating the ritual pose I take when receiving messages from the Voice.
The vision blinks away as a sound snatches my attention. Crunching glass. It’s distant, but clear to me. Another tinkle and pop as the shards snap under a heavy weight. I grab my shoes and jam my feet into them. Pants are a luxury when you might have to run from a bloodthirsty lab experiment. The footfalls come even closer. I lower myself off the platform and cringe as the shifting gravel I land on seems to scream and echo around the room. There’s a long pause before I hear the next step.
Oh gods, did it hear me?
Second by agonizing second, I listen, each sound coming from somewhere closer. I start to get angry, cursing all the powers that this thing just has to be heading my way. It isn’t until I hear it speak that I realize how much I overreacted.
“Gyre?” A strong, feminine voice drifts through the station to reach me. It’s surreal being able to hear well enough to pick it up. I imagine that if I could hear ghosts speaking to each other in the afterlife, that’s exactly how they’d sound. “It’s me, I just wanted to make sure you made it out okay!” So that’s how Sunny sounds in her human form. She still sounds upset. Why was she so bothered by my reaction? Surely, she should understand.
“I’m here!” I call back.
The footsteps come faster. Soon, I can hear a heartbeat and the steady thud of boots on tile. Eventually, I sense Sunny standing in the entrance doorway to the platform.
“What are you doing in here, bat-boy, looking for a place to roost?” Now that she’s nearer, I can hear a sharp, perhaps even bitter, quality to her voice. Besides that, there’s something familiar about it, but I’m sure I’d recognize her if we had spoken before.
“Ha ha.” I deadpan.
“Seriously, though, the lights used to stay on longer than this, but they were still on long enough for you to make it if you just walked.”
“I wandered a lot on the way.” I lie, “Kinda curious about this place. Hey, if you know the way, why don’t you just show me out, now that you’re here?”
“I don’t, yet, I just followed your scent. You smell like blood and petrichor.”
“The Tar’ is petrichor?”
“It’s that earthy, after-rain smell.”
“Oh. Thanks?”
“You’re welcome.” she says, sounding marginally brighter.
Awkward silence. Sunny crunches over the small bits of debris that litter just about every square foot of this place and settles on the edge of the platform, some yards to my right. Her heartbeat is still elevated, but not to the extent as before.
“So...while we’re here, do you still wanna talk?” I remove my shoes and climb back onto the platform to sit on the edge. “More practice for your wolf form.” I offer.
“No, I’m good.”
“Okay. Guess I’ll just...roost, then.”
We sit in silence for several more minutes until Sunny breaks it.
“I’m sure all this crazy stuff sucks a lot more for you than it does for me, but...I’m glad I’m not alone.”
As I stare into the one-way mirror of a darkened booth, horrified. I don’t know whether my fists are balled in anger or sheer embarrassment. I’ll go with spicy mortification.
True to her word, Sunny had refused to speak, so we sat in silence for what felt like hours. It was likely only minutes, but somehow, somewhen, I had fallen asleep on the platform. When I awoke from that dreamless black, it was to the lurid glow of blood through my eyelids. I bolted upright, took my shoes, wet clothes, and bag, then hurried out of the miniature station after confirming that Sunny had left. Just in case, I called her name a few times as I jogged, doing my best to ignore the shards of pain in my feet at every sharp stone or jagged blade of refuse. I got no answer. Eventually, I came to the half-collapsed remains of a security checkpoint. Two booths flanked a narrow gap between them, almost entirely blocked by fallen metal and rock stained black from some explosion or fire. A small gap in the rubble was my only way through, so I began to squeeze past, my face inches from a mirrored sliding glass panel. In the reflection, I noticed an odd mark on my left cheek and soon realized that shape was very similar to a pair of lips. It had been almost humorous, until I noticed another mark on my neck.
Now, I stand on the other side of the rubble, staring dumbly at the series of rust-colored kisses that trace a curvy line from my face to just below my navel, still unsure how to feel about it, but that’s a matter for another time. I unravel my shirt and wipe away the makeup with the inside of it. I’m sure there are still traces left, but the lights could go out at any moment, so I need to move on. Some minutes later, after many twists and turns and flights of stairs, I come to a T-junction. The right-hand turn continues on into a long corridor that grows darker as the intact lights become sparse. A large black X is painted high on the wall of the left-hand side of the junction. Block lettering on the wall nearby reads ‘EMERGENCY EXIT’. Here, the remnants of a thick, steel door leads to a dimly-lit shaft housing metal rungs bolted to the curved wall. It looks like someone had cut a man-sized portal through the door with a welding torch. I step through and glance up, spotting the underside of a metal disk a considerable distance up. Hopefully it’s evening, and the manhole won’t open into searing daylight.
After reluctantly donning the damp, musty clothes, mask, gloves, and backpack, I begin climbing, nervous that one of the rusty bars might give way or snap in my tense grip, sending me for a tumble. Sunny would never let me hear the end of it if she found out. Apparently, I can’t assume she’s not watching from the shadows somewhere. Crickets become audible by the time I reach the half-way point, but when I approach the metal cover, I still lift it aside carefully. Wisps of silvery clouds decorate the star-studded blanket of the black sky, my view framed by ridiculously tall grass. I lift myself out and slowly raise my head above the unkempt carpet of nature. Grass and more grass in every direction. I recognize northeast by the view of Canterlot Observatory. The colossal, pale dome that houses the telescope glows faintly in the dim moonlight. To the southeast, between myself and the brilliant outline of Canterlot City, a dilapidated country house stands between a pair of low hills. I can imagine an unassuming rural couple living there, whose true purpose might have been to watch over the emergency exit to the underground facility. Indeed, the house sits at an elevated position, relative to my current perspective, and a round window peers out from the third floor of the house, directly at me, like a great glass fish eye. I squint at it, wondering if I’ll catch the glint of a scope in the moonlight, but the window remains uncompromisingly dark. As I stare, some small detail of the window tugs at me, but I can’t quite grasp what my subconscious is picking up.
My attention is snatched away by the harsh whisper of a car travelling past in the distance. I hold still and listen for another. Any of the roads in and out of a city like Canterlot would surely see use around the clock, I just need to know where to find the nearest one. I would sprint to the city with my supernatural speed and endurance, but it seems every use of inhuman power brings me closer to the need to drink; it’d be best to hitch a ride if possible. Opening myself to the sounds of the night fills my head with a surprisingly pleasant orchestra of bustling rodents and scurrying insects, underlaid with the faint roar of the city. Perhaps I’ll make an effort to come back out here again, sometime.
The music of the country is broken by the bouncing, squealing hydraulics of another vehicle. It sounds large, perhaps a bus. I close my eyes and focus on the distant growl of its engine. Unexpectedly, an impression of shape and contrast form in my mind as I listen. The wildlife and mild wind form a ground-level tapestry of dim static within the darkness, over which a stronger flare of brightness crawls across the near horizon as the vehicle rolls along asphalt somewhere past the house. Nothing is given definite shape, but their sounds are indicated by an indescribable color of varying intensity inside my mind’s eye. If this sense can be honed, it could be indispensable.
For now, I replace the metal lid and dash forward though the grass with more speed than I could have managed on my best day as a human. At first, the tall stalks of vegetation slow me by whipping around my shoes and pulling at me as I pass. It’s easily overcome with my new vampiric strength, but still annoying, as I can feel that the shoelaces on one of my shoes has already come undone. I have an idea. Poking my head over the grass, I scan my surroundings for signs of any other possible observers, just in case. Nothing. I crouch and leap with all the strength I can muster. Even as I suddenly find myself sailing through the air, tumbling slowly, I’m disappointed in the height and distance, but sense an inkling that this is not nearly the best I can do. I land on my hands and knees, scramble upright, and I look back to see that I’ve traveled something like thirty yards. Canterlot High students who took the regular P.E. class are intimately familiar with measuring and judging short distances in yards due to our coach’s fondness for setting lengthy cardio exercises on the football field. I hadn’t gone far, but this is definitely faster than fighting to cut through the grass.
I crouch and leap again, this time swinging my legs forward a little. I overshot it, landing on my back, but grateful for the thick cushion of grass. I push myself to my feet and try again. Better, but I don’t stick the landing, forcing me to roll so I don’t spill into a heap. Again and again, I leap and fall with less grace and stability than I’d like, but with marginal improvements on average. Just as I begin to sense my skill plateauing, I come to within visual distance of the traveling vehicle. Indeed, it turns out to be one of the city’s public transports. If it’s as late as I suspect, the bus will be at the end of its route and headed to a station. Lacking my own car, I’ve long since become familiar with several routes, and even some terminal stations from a few instances of having fallen asleep on a late bus. I haven’t used them since Rock’s grandfather helped him buy a car last year, since Rock is always willing to drive us anywhere we need to go. I approach the bus from its five-o-clock. The driver seems oblivious to the teenager leaping toward him, like some kind of monstrous, mutant grasshopper. I make one last jump and sprint the rest of the way onto the road.
“Okay, focus,” I tell myself as I trail more than fifty yards behind the speeding bus. I force myself to run faster, pushing incrementally for more and more speed. Strangely, I feel no strain in my muscles. It’s as if my movements are a product of concentration, rather than physical effort. I’m unable to dwell on it, however, as compensating for my inertia and balance is occupying too much of my focus. At first, the bus starts to pull ahead, but as I begin to clumsily acclimate to the necessary adjustments in form, I match its speed. Soon, I’m gaining on it, the wind beginning to roar just as loud as the machine. There’s no slow motion effect on my perceptions this time, just the thrill of speed throbbing through my mind, like pulse lightning. Now, I notice something new and eerie. I can feel the exhilaration and joy of learning to utilize my superhuman strengths, but it feels as though everything is confined to my own thoughts. No tingle down my spine, no pleasant tightness in my guts, no lightheadedness, no surge of energy, nothing that comes with a merry adrenaline rush; I only know that I like what I’m doing. It feels lonely and uncomfortable, like wanting to sing one’s feelings to the world, but having no voice.
The distance between myself and the bus closes and I prepare to make a leap that would carry me to its roof, cursing the fact that the exteriors of public transport vehicles lack anything resembling a handhold, for good reason. Counting down from three, I take a bounding step with each second and attempt to jump higher and harder than before, throwing every scrap of will at the effort. For a moment, there is only me, the bus, and my legs, before I then find myself soaring through the open air and looking down to see the bus is almost twenty yards below. Thankfully, I’m still keeping pace with it, but the landing will most certainly alert the driver.
“Too high, too high, too high!” I stretch my arms out before me and squeeze my eyes shut as I prepare for impact near the front of the bus. Something cool and smooth presses softly against my palms and knees. What? I open my eyes and look around. I’m clinging to the roof, but I never heard the impact.
How did I do that?
The growing blare of the city alerts me to its proximity as I sit up a bit, having situated myself in the trough of the roof’s emergency escape hatch. The ride had been a little pleasant, if not brutally loud, and I was glad to have invested the effort to ‘catch’ the bus. My clothes are a little drier and somewhat fresher from the rush of wind, and the thirst for blood is just the barest scratch in the back of my mind. Only two cars had passed by on the way, and, even if they saw me, I suspect they wouldn’t have known what they were looking at based on the distance at which they might have had line of sight on me. I lay back down as flat as possible as the bus enters the city proper. I don’t know what time it is, so I’ll have to wait to get back to the station before I can get a bearing to plan a route or, if it’s too close to dawn, find somewhere to hide from the sun.
I crane my head back and survey the massive columns of glass and metal, but find nothing familiar enough to give me a sense of exactly where we are. All these corporate prisms look the same. We must be entering a bad part of town because three separate screams and a distant gunshot can be heard over the sound of the bus’s engine as we roll through downtown. I have to suppress an urge to investigate and help. Part of me hopes it’s because I’m a good person, but the rest of me knows it’s less about altruism, and more about having another excuse to drain someone.
Sunny and her devil-may-care philosophy can go fuck themselves, vampirism is a curse, plain and simple.
The bus finally rolls to a hissing stop after taking a few sleepy turns. The rumble of the engine is cut and the squeaky doors fold open. I listen as the driver grunts out a loud fart, gathers his stuff, and stumbles through the doors to go cap off his shift. When I’m sure he’s gone inside the station, I take a peek at my surroundings. The fluorescent signs at the edges of the bay lot mark this as Station 7. Never been here. A cautious scan for observers shows no one looking my way, so I slip off the side of the bus and make my way to the chain link fence surrounding the fleet, grateful to get away from the man’s ass gas before it reached my sensitive nose. I pick a spot with no cameras or foot traffic and leap over the fence.
I land on asphalt surrounding a series of cheap apartment buildings, the kind whose maintenance and cleanliness policies are visibly lax, yet still charge exorbitant rent from fresh college graduates. A tunnel through the bottom floor of one building presents me with an opportunity. I make my way in, confirming an absence of security cameras, and remove my mask and gloves. I tuck them into a back pocket and stroll out the other side of the tunnel, directly into the view of a squad car parked at the roadside. Fear stabs through my head, but again, it’s confined to my thoughts, eliciting no physiological responses, like a jump or a twitch. The world does seem to slow to a crawl for a split second, however. The muddy figures of two police officers occupy the front seats, difficult to discern through the tinted glass, even with excellent night vision. Thankfully, all seven bullet holes are on the right side of my clothing, out of their view. Still, I’m carrying stolen blood bags and a mask that screams ‘bank robber’, not to mention I’m wearing all black and walking the streets late enough to have ridden a bus to the end of the line. I try to strike a balance of curiosity and nonchalance as I walk past, praying that neither officer’s last name is Down. Somehow, I doubt Officer Cuffs will be on duty any time soon. Still, I’m ready for the inevitable question.
“Hey!” calls out the cop sitting in the driver seat, “A bit late, no?” He says this with clipped force, like a stern, but friendly uncle.
“Yessir! I’m just on my way home.” I bark, and inwardly cringe at how barbed the words sound as they come out. Just as I fear, he beckons me over with a sharp gesture. Here we go again. I cross the road, disguising my reluctance to show him my right side by strafing in as I make a show of checking both ways. I close in on the car and let the window frame block the frayed hole at my shoulder. The men inside could hardly look more different. The driver, clearly the older of the two, looks uncomfortably wide about the middle, whilst his young partner looks like his uniform must have had to be custom-tailored to his thin frame. I begin to worry he’s the same young cop I red-misted after meeting the Lich. “Something I can help with, officer?” I say, leaning down and staring directly into the eyes of the driver. His returns the gaze with unwavering confidence. Years of accrued experience at staring down suspects is writ in the lines around those steely eyes.
“It’s a school night, shouldn’t you already be in bed?” He says. His partner leans forward in his seat, studying me with innocent curiosity. I can practically hear the scribbling of the mental notes he’s taking.
“I dropped out to take care of my mom. Work nights at the bus station, had to grab some lunch.” I manufacture a sad smile and give the strap on my backpack a meaningful tug.
The big cop grunts in acknowledgement, giving me a disappointed, but sympathetic look and glances away dismissively. His partner, however, leans forward in his seat a little more, his face screwing up in concentration as he studies me. I stand up straight before he can get a good look. Shit, maybe it is him. I hope the Mist worked.
“Go on, then. And watch yourself,” Big Cop says. I get the feeling the advice was more about how I spoke to him, than the fact that this is a rough part of town.
“I will. Have a safe evening, gentlemen.”
I can’t help eavesdropping as I walk away:
"What’s wrong, rookie? See something?"
“No, it’s just…”
“Listen, your partner’s gonna be fine. Just got a concussion, is all. It was a doozy, but he’ll make it.”
“No, no. That kid. I...nah nevermind.”
I pick up the pace.
“What is it? Trust me, a gut instinct can make all the difference in a case. Not too late to run by him again.”
“No, I think he just reminds me of my nephew or something. Don’t worry about it.”
I round the corner and mentally breathe a sigh of relief. The street here is lit a dingy orange. Shadows play across drawn curtains in apartment windows and a local dive across the street presides over the majority of the traffick. A tired-looking young man on a bicycle, who looks to be living the lie I gave the cops, climbs up the considerable slope at a slow pace on my side of the street. I hail him and ask for the time. He looks at a plastic wristwatch, rather than pulling out a phone. He tells me it’s almost half-past two in the morning. I thank him and proceed on my way. I don’t know where I am exactly, but with a bearing on the cardinal directions, I know that going south will lead me to a main road that bisects the city and splits off into the neighborhoods nearest my own. Not the fastest route, but definitely the easiest to remember. Still, I won’t beat the dawn on foot without drawing attention.
After some time, I cut through a more middle-class series of apartments, keeping an eye out for an unguarded bicycle. Many of the windows still glow, but a dark third-story balcony contains exactly what I’m looking for. I look around for a pale stone and find a small pile of discarded sidewalk chalk near a paved walkway instead. I take a stick of chalk and subtly observe my surroundings. The only other person outside is an old woman hobbling along one of the walkways. I wait for her to pass out of view, then don my gloves and start climbing. It’s far easier than I expected and I swing my legs over the railing ten seconds later. Apparently, having strength enough to lift several dozen times one’s own body weight makes practice and manual dexterity almost entirely unnecessary for such a task. Holding the chalk in an awkward grip to disguise my handwriting, I slowly etch out the address of a house some doors down from one I used to frequent. I scribe the words ‘BIKE HERE’ below the Cloudsdale Courts address and toss the rock away. Slowly, carefully, I ease myself back over the other side of the railing, then grip a bar of the bike’s frame and lift it out with one hand, as if it were made of styrofoam. I drop to the ground and set my prize down, wheeling it the rest of the way out of the complex.
Well, that was easy.
I mount the bike and begin pedalling. At least on a bike, it’s harder to tell if someone is exhibiting superhuman strength and speed, so I can pedal as hard as I like. As long as I don’t outpace any motorcycles. The cityscape flies past in a blur of black, sodium orange, LED white, and neon. The thrill of speed smoulders within me again as I jet down the avenues, chasing cars and letting them win. The wind whips at my hair and face, the night feels comfortable and sweet, my mind is only on the physical road before me, and for the first time in a long while, I almost feel...okay.
The rest of the trip goes well. I skid to a stop in front of the address I left on my victim’s balcony. The fence is low, so it’s easy to quietly drop the bike into the backyard. As I’m turning to leave, I spot the microwave clock through a window. It reads 4:23 A.M.. I have time to spare.
I’d hate to ask, but maybe I should see if Rock can give me rides to school from now on, at least until I get my own set of wheels. The streets after dark have just been filled with far more dangerous possibilities than thugs and kidnappers. I’m dangerous enough on my own, Sunny is just as new to this and already adept at killing, and the Lich proves there could be even older monsters roaming Canterlot. Well, this town has never had a problem with being boring, that’s for sure.
I try to keep my thoughts occupied with plans and contingencies for the future, but as I pass the too-familiar house I used as a landmark, I struggle to keep my head in one place.
A stretch of sidewalk here is smooth, well-maintained, and unblemished. With one exception. In a place where two young children once spent long afternoons playing and falling in love, a carefully constructed heart had been drawn on the cement as it had dried one golden summer evening. It remains as clear and neat as they day the girl drew it with her finger, complete with both sets of initials scribed within the shape: “GS + SG”. The bottom point of the heart is deeper and trails off a little, as the girl had jumped when her mother scolded us for messing with the city men’s hard work. A thin crack forks across the tile, splitting just before reaching the heart, its branches angling away to either side.
I jerk back into a walk when I realize I had stopped to stare. I let the static of the night fill my head with the bump and bustle of early morning stirrings, keeping an ear out for anything even remotely interesting. Unfortunately, the least inane sounds come from the occupants of a bedroom. Resigned to a walk of painful reminiscence, I stop listening and let the world slide past on my way home. Near a small park surrounded by trees and wooden fences, something catches my attention. A feminine voice grunts and huffs somewhere up ahead. Feet pound on cement and I hear that same voice spit a curse. I triple my pace, trying to remain silent as I approach a thinning in the treeline. On the other side, a figure moves at speed along a jogging trail. After a few seconds, they stop, panting and leaning forward over their knees. When I finally step near enough to get a clear view through the trees, I’m not at all surprised to see Rainbow Dash. No wonder she has a reputation for falling asleep in class. She stands upright, curses, then begins walking back in the direction she came. Her tanktop is soaked in sweat and her long ponytail glistens with the same. When she turns back, she’s wearing a determined expression and clutching something that hangs about her neck on a rough cord. She crouches in runner’s ready position and takes off at a sprint, a look of utmost focus on her face. Again, she comes to a stop in the same place, panting and dripping. When she catches her breath and stands upright, she jerks the thing over neck and holds it before her by the cord.
“Stupid rock. What’s going on with you?” Rainbow growls, her voice breaking a lot more than usual. I understand athletes tend to be a superstitious bunch, believing in luck charms and spiritual performance enhancers, but what exactly does Rainbow expect to happen? I had begun to feel like a bit of a stalker, but curiosity pushes that aside. I watch as Rainbow paces for a few moments, gives an endearing, frustrated grumble, then storms back to her starting position. She replaces her necklace and closes her eyes as she crouches. This time, she shoots forth and becomes a colorful blur for a fraction of a second. My jaw drops at the unnatural burst of speed. She returns to a normal pace for a moment, then again seems to almost teleport a short distance before dropping back to a natural sprint. “YYESSSS!” she hisses, pumping an arm in victory. Without further hesitation, she hustles to a nearby bench, guzzles from a water bottle, and returns to her starting position. Bearing a huge grin, she bounces on the balls of her feet with fresh energy, and takes off. Her smile vanishes when nothing out of the ordinary happens. With a troubled expression, Rainbow tugs at the object on her neck as she walks back. This time, she wears a thoughtful expression as she crouches for another attempt. When she bursts forth, her body is a blur, moving far faster than before and I cringe when she clips a tree with the left side of her body, twirling several times before she crashes to the ground inside the treeline. She groans as she lies there, slowly turning onto her back. Presently, she raises a fist with the arm that isn’t covered in welts and scratches from tree bark. “Yessss…” she whispers, pumps her arm in victory, and appears to fall limp.
Her heart continues to race for several moments, but rapidly slows.
“Ah, fuck.” I mutter. Without bothering to see if anyone else is around, I approach her and kneel to check her injuries. The large abrasion on her arm produces a powerful smell of blood and my eyes are drawn over its glittering surface as my thirst spikes. Not her, and definitely not now. Nothing is visibly broken, so I give her a shake, but get no response. I pat her face a couple times to no avail. Finally, I scoop her up and carry her over to the nearest bench, laying her down with great care. I feel for breaks along her arms and ribs, blood rushing to my face at the necessary contact. Other than some additional abrasions on her cheek and forehead, Rainbow seems fine, though she’ll definitely have a light scar from the head wound. I check the bench that her water bottle rested on, but that seems to be all she brought with her. When I return to Rainbow, she hasn’t moved and continues to be unresponsive. At least her breathing and heart rate seem normal. I sit beside her head and check her pupils to see that they’re slightly dilated. It’s possible she has a concussion, but dilated pupils are an unreliable symptom. I’d take her home, but I don’t know where she lives since she didn’t bring any ID with her.
With heated cheeks, I study the small stone that happened to settle between her sweaty breasts. It’s a round, sapphire-colored gem that seems to sparkle with an inner light, as if the facets both outside and inside the stone obscure a direct line of sight to some dim light source within. Before I can stop myself, my hand hovers over the stone and I lay a finger on it. The flare of a sharp burning sensation follows a spark of light and I snatch my hand away, cradling the digit as it continues to seeth with pain.
Ouch.
What in the world is this thing? And why does Rainbow Dash have one? I study my finger, horrified at the sight of charred bone peeking out from the cooked meat around it. The wound is already regenerating, but I can tell it’s coming together much slower than any of the other injuries I’ve suffered. It reminds me of the sunburn from Monday morning.
“Who are you…?” I ask Rainbow’s still form. She grunts and stirs, her brow furrowing a little. I jump up and take a step back. She bends her injured arm, slowly bringing it to her head, and wincing as pain begins to register in full force. Suddenly, she bolts upright, eyes flying open.
“Wha-whuh…? Ow!” Rainbow brings a hand to her head and squeezes her eyes shut.
“Hey, you should probably lay back down.”
Her head snaps in my direction, and I see her eyes lose focus for a moment. “Hoo-zere? Why’re there three o’ you…?” She sways as she speaks and I see her abdomen convulse.
“It’s me, Gyre. I found you passed ou—” I don’t get to finish my sentence before she twists in her seat and horks a pile of pale vomit over the back side of the bench. “Uh, anyway, I think you have a concussion. Looks like you hit your head.”
Rainbow finishes emptying her stomach, spits a couple times, and turns back to me, attempting to stand on shaking knees “Nah, I’m good, jus’ gotta—” One of her legs gives out and I jump forward to catch her. My claws sweep across her tanktop, leaving clean cuts and lines of shallow frays in the cloth. I bite my lip as I see how close I came to leaving her several more scars. My torched finger complains as I put pressure on it to hold her up, and I become very conscious of the stone hanging from her neck. “Okay, maybe ‘m not s’good. Thanks Hercules.”
“Can I—”
“Wait, Hercules! Dude, ev’ryone’s been look’n for you! Where y’been?”
“I’ve been...trying to figure some stuff out.”
“Woooow, m’sterious.” Rainbow giggles drunkenly, “I like that.” She subtly leans into me in a clearly flirtatious gesture. The stone comes unstuck from her humid skin and swings at me. I twitch away from it and Rainbow’s face falls as she looks into mine, which must have taken on a look of terror. “Geez, I w’s jus’ messin’ with you, guy.”
“No, it’s, uh...not that you’re not, you know, and all that, I...where do you live anyway? I gotta get you home.”
“Hey, if yer gay s’cool. Me, too. I think. Jus’ go down tha’ way.” She points to a paved path that leads back through the southern treeline.
“Wait, you don’t know if you’re gay?” I ask, putting her arm over my shoulder and taking her weight on my side. She tries to limp along beside me, but I feel like I’m dragging her along.
“Haven’ met any guys I like that way, y’know?”
“Not even a little? Ever? What about girls?”
“Nope, never. Girls’re awesome...an’ pretty. I dunno, though. You?”
“Uh, well...one confuses me and another is just a bit intimidating. Kinda don’t feel like I’m right for either.”
Rainbow makes a dismissive sound, “Ah, yer a nice guy, jus’ go for it. Turn left, up this street.”
“Easy for you to say. Hey, can I just carry you? I think it’d go faster, and the sooner we can call a doctor for you, the better.”
And I can get home before the sun rises.
Rainbow takes a long time to answer as we plod along, “Piggyback only. An’ not a word to ‘nyone else, capice?”
“Yes, ma’am.” I say. “But first, do you mind putting that necklace away? Don’t want it digging into my neck or something. Looks kinda sharp.”
“Huh? Oh. Yeah, no prob.” She pulls the cord over her head with her injured arm, wincing the whole time, then pockets the necklace. I adjust my backpack, so it hangs over my chest, and crouch as she moves to stand behind me. I lift her onto my back, making an effort not to jostle her head too much, as I’m sure it’s pounding.
“How’re you so strong? Y’look like Rarity’s little sister could beat you up. No offense.”
“Some taken. Maybe I’m a vampire or something, you don’t know.”
Wait, oh gods that was stupid! What if she’s a monster hunter? What if that’s why she has the necklace that burns me like the sun?
Rainbow merely laughs, but seems to regret it as she clutches her forehead, “So tha’s why yer s’cold. Turn left ‘gain. Two houses up on th’ left when y’round th’ corner. The blue one. Anyway, if yer a vampire, you mus’ be on a diet ‘cause you coulda drank me dry already.” She giggles again and her head slumps onto the back of mine. My fangs tighten and I’m, once again, hit with a wave of discomfort at how very similar the sensation and urges come to emulating an erection.
“So where’d you get that pretty necklace, anyway? It’s looks kinda weird,” I ask, hoping a more sober conversation can distract from the mouth boner I have for Rainbow Dash’s blood. I’ll try to unthink that thought later.
“Camp...project,” she says. But the answer sounds distinctly canned.
“Cool project. My dad’s idea of camp projects were basically just marine corps training.”
“Heh, yeah it w’s cool. Scary, but...cool.”
The Tar’ does that mean? I was about to ask, but a loud snore rattles my eardrum. Thankfully, her house comes into sight and I only have to suffer a handful of her suspirations. Her home is a well maintained bungalow with faint signs of an expansion to the second story. Indeed, it’s painted a vibrant blue, similar to Rainbow’s own skintone, but with skillfully blended gradients into white and grey, like a bright, but temperamental midday sky. A bucket with some tools protruding over the top rests near some recent shingle work on the roof. I brace for the anger and suspicion of her parents and give her doorbell a long series of rings with my shoulder. Soon, I hear the pounding of feet and an angry male voice.
“Who in Tartarus is ringing my doorbell at—I’m comin’, I’m comin!” The door flies open and a huge, muscular man with a rainbow-colored crew cut takes up the entire frame. He wears a white tank top and striped pajama shorts. The fire that blazes in his amber eyes is quenched on seeing his sleeping daughter, then explodes back into being when he registers me. His gut is pronounced, but so are his biceps as they ripple beneath steely blue skin. When he speaks, his voice is a low rumble of fury, “Bring her inside, now.”
I don’t hesitate to comply as he steps back, moving directly into the living room. The interior of the house is incredibly blue. Slate carpet, tiles, wallpaper and brighter blue furniture with pale accents in whites and greys. Gleaming trophies are on proud display beside photographs, colorful decorations, and chromatic arrangements. Every single item in the house seems to have some element in common with Rainbow Dash herself. Gods, maybe I should have just left her on the porch, I don’t need this kind of attention.
The man’s heart races as he looms behind me and I pick up a third approaching from the stairs by the front door. I just hope he doesn’t notice the bullet holes in the back of my shirt.
“Can you help me lay her down on the couch, sir? I think she has a concussion.”
Without a word, he easily takes her from my grip, cradling the girl as he moves her to the cushions of a plush-looking couch. He begins looking over her wounds and going through the same motions I already have. I move my backpack to hang behind me again.
“Honey?” A feminine voice calls out, “Who was it?”
“Good question!” He calls back. “Who are you, bringing my daughter home at this hour, in this condition?” A flurry of footsteps sounds from the stairs and a woman with heavy bags under wide maroon eyes appears in the living room, wearing a thick robe. Her short, pale orange hair is a mess, and her face is a cyan mask of horror as her eyes land on Rainbow.
“Oh! My baby, what happened?” She sweeps past me to lean over her daughter, hands caressing Rainbow’s face and shoulders as she studies the wounds.
“I’m a classmate of Rainbow’s. My name’s Gyre,” I say, striking the most reasonable tone I can manage, “I was out for a run, thought I’d cut through the park and found her like this. She must have tripped and hit a tree or something. She woke up a bit ago and told me how to get here, but she sounded like she was drunk. I didn’t have my phone or I’d have just called an ambulance.”
“Well, we’d better do that now,” the man says. His eyes soften a little as he listens to my account and he stands, moving out of the room to head back up the stairs. The woman sniffs and takes one of Rainbow’s hands in both of her own.
“Thank you, young man. I don’t know how many others would have been so helpful. If someone bad had come along…” she shivers, “I don’t even want to think about it.” I stand, awkwardly, wondering if I should just leave. After a moment, the man returns, speaking hurriedly to the emergency operator. The woman sniffs again and suddenly turns to me. “I’m sorry, I’ve been so rude! Gyre, you said?” I nod and she smiles all the way to her watery eyes, reaching a hand out for me to shake. I take it, carefully. “Windy Whistles. My husband’s name is Bow Hothand. Thank you so much, is there something I can get you? Water? Something to eat?”
“Oh, no thank you, ma’am, I just need to get home,” I say, looking at the plain wall-mounted clock. “And soon.”
I only have an hour and a half to get to school and report to Celestia. I’ll have to beg her to forgive me for missing the very first day of her generous community service deal. Hopefully, I don’t run into Vice Principal Luna first.
“Let me give you a ride home then. It’s the least we can do.” Mrs. Whistles says with a pleading look.
“Ah-uhm. Yeah, that’d be great, thank you.”
“Okay, let me get myself together. We’ll go when the ambulance arrives.” She smiles and gives her daughter’s hand a squeeze before rising to leave the room.
Mr. Hothand hangs up his phone, sets it aside, and calls after his wife “They’ll be here in about five minutes, they said.” He takes back his position beside Rainbow and rocks as he cradles her hand. Rainbow only continues to snore loudly. “If she wakes up and says anything different than what you told us, boy…” He doesn’t finish the sentence, but he doesn’t need to. I resist the urge to roll my eyes, resenting the implications, especially after having killed a sexual predator with my own hands. Well, they weren’t exactly my hands, they were the hands of some other feral thing locked behind a thin veil of bloodthirst.
Good luck with whatever threat you have in mind, though. You’ll need it.
“I was a perfect gentleman.”
The next seven minutes and thirty-eight seconds are excruciatingly long. The clock on the wall is my only respite from avoiding Mr. Hothand’s piercing gaze as he quietly fusses over his daughter. When Mrs. Whistles returns, still looking disheveled, but wearing some nicer street clothes, she bids me sit in a nearby loveseat as she joins her husband. They occasionally throw glances my way between hushed conversation. Clearly, they don’t know I can hear every word, and I try not to blush when Mrs. Whistles gives me a furtive compliment. Mr. Hothand’s eyes continue to regard me warily, but I can’t blame him for his suspicion.
Rainbow stirs and burps in her sleep, but doesn’t wake.
When the flashing lights of the ambulance finally light up the front of the house and shoot blades of blinding red through the windows, Mr. Hothand is the first to reach the door. They enter, carry Rainbow away after a short examination, and leave with Mr. Hothand in tow. Mrs. Whistles waves them goodbye and turns back to me with a kindly smile when they’re out of view.
“Let’s get you home now, Gyre.”
As I follow Mrs. Whistles back through the house to the garage in the back, I spot a painfully familiar figure in a framed photograph beside a golden trophy. In it, Ace was kneeling at the forefront of a team picture, holding a basketball in both hands before him, staring confidently into the camera. Mr. Hothand stood to the side of the team, wearing athletic gear, a slightly less pronounced gut, and a silver whistle hanging from his neck. Interesting.
“So, Gyre, where to?”
“Ghastenhauser Grove, ma’am. Eleventh row from the bottom.”
“Oh, that’s a nice place. Does your family own a business?”
“No, my mom works for the man who owns the land. He cuts us a deal because my mom is a little overqualified for the job and my dad was in the service.” We slide into the front seats of her car as I speak.
“Oh?” Mrs. Whistles says, perking up a little and opening the automatic garage door, “I did a little time in the Navy myself. What branch was your father in?”
“Marine Corps, eleven years. First Lieutenant Sights.”
We had begun to reverse out of the driveway when the car came to a sudden stop, jerking me back. “First Lieutenant Iron Sights?” Mrs. Whistles says, incredulous.
“Yes ma’am. Why?”
“No kidding…” She says, looking as stunned as she sounds, “Small world. I believe I met your father on deployment. He was young, especially for his rank, and word around camp was that he scared the living Tar’ out of most people, even his superiors.”
“Really? That doesn’t sound like my father at all. He was a harda—uh, a hard man, but in a fun way.”
“Yeah, really. I admit, I found him a little intimidating, too. Even through all his jokes and chatter, he’s an intense man.” She smiles and turns to me for a second, “I can see where you get it.”
“Oh,” I laugh, “thanks, I think.”
“You’re welcome. You know his nickname around camp was Insights? That man always had something profound to say or great advice to give, if you could look him in the eye long enough. Something he said gave me the courage to ask my husband out on our first date. It’ll be a pleasure to shake his hand again.”
I hold back the obvious comment. Instead, I say, “I didn’t know that. Thanks for telling me. I wish I’d gotten to know that part of him better. Maybe he could have helped me to not be so hopeless.” I try a laugh to lighten the implication, but it’s a thing of crap and cardboard.
Mrs. Whistles runs a stop sign as she looks back to me, and I’m so grateful it’s too early for regular traffic.
“Wait. Oh my goodness, is he…?”
“Yes, ma’am. Six years ago.”
“I’m so sorry, I-I didn’t know. I should have gotten a clue when you kept speaking in past tense. My deepest condolences, Gyre.” She lays a hand on my shoulder as she speaks and gives it a light squeeze before gripping the wheel again. “Was it...combat?”
“No, he got sick with something. At first we thought it was some kind of cancer, but when they found it wasn’t, and didn’t know how to stop it, they just slapped some technical label on it and said it was incurable. I think it’s why my mom doesn’t practice medicine anymore. She tried so hard to fix him, but no one seemed to know what to do.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry. That must have been traumatic for the both of you.”
I don’t say anything, reeling from the fact that I just spilled such intimate details of my family history.
A silence blooms between us, gnarled by the sound of the engine, a soft hum to Mrs. Whistles but a roar to me. I want to say something or turn on the radio, anything to distract from that awful, high-speed clanging and whirring of steel. The longer I hear it, the more I realize I can count the beats normally measured in the thousands per minute.
Some time around metallic bang number thirty-two thousand, eight hundred sixty-seven, Mrs. Whistles speaks up, “Hey, why don’t I see if I can get you in contact with someone that might have worked with your dad? I still have a couple friends on active duty that served at that same camp. Your dad was there when I arrived and still there when I left. I heard he was great at making loyal friends, so maybe one of my contacts knew him better and can share some stories. How does that sound?”
Speechless at the gesture, I try to stammer out a response, but can’t get any further than, “I…”
“Oh, I’m sorry! If that’d be too painful for you, we can forget it. I apologize.”
“No, it’s...fine, Mrs. Whistles. I think that would be...awesome.” Tears fall somewhere deep within my consciousness, but my physical eyes remain stubbornly dry. Mrs. Whistles giggles to herself, apparently amused at something I said.
She catches my quizzical look, “I’m not laughing at you, it’s just...Dashie’s favorite word is ‘awesome’. Maybe you two have that in common.” A beat of silence follows, before, with a rising note of suggestion that would have probably made her husband furious, she says, “Maybe you two have other things in common?”
I feel the blood rush to my cheeks again.
“Maybe. But I don’t think I’m her type. I’m kind of already interested in someone, anyway.”
“Oh. Well, for what it’s worth, I think she’s probably a lucky girl.”
I want to say that I think she’d be lucky if she never sees me again, but all I say is, “Thank you, Mrs. Whistles, you’re very kind.”
We turn onto my street just then, and I guide her to the proper house. I have to bite my tongue to suppress a loud curse when I see not one, not two, but three very familiar cars in the driveway other than my mom’s. One belongs to Rock's grandfather and another is the family attorney's. The third is Vice Principal Luna's flashy, matte black sports car.
The mask and gloves begin burning holes in my pockets as I stare at the unlikely grouping of cars. I can probably deal with Rock’s grandfather, but Mr. Cutter was hired for several reasons, his quick wit and razor-sharp perceptions not the least of them.
“Something wrong?” Mrs. Whistles says, studying me with a concerned eye.
“Uhm, not exactly. Just looks like we have some unexpected visitors.” I don’t know if my stiff upper lip is due to some aspect of vampirism, but I’m grateful for it, whatever the origin. “Hey, do you mind if I visit Rainbow in the hospital?” I ask in an attempt to change the subject, “It’ll have to be sometime after dark. I hope that’s not a problem.”
“Not at all! That’s very sweet of you. I’ll let my husband and daughter know you’ll be coming.”
I hold in my sarcastic enthusiasm as I give her my mother’s cell number.
“I don’t, currently, have a phone; that’s my mother’s number. She’ll probably want to thank you for bringing me home. Her name is Remedy Glow, by the way.”
“What a lovely name,” she says, with a smile. “It was a pleasure to meet you, Gyre. I’d best be on my way though.”
“Likewise, ma’am.” I begin the motion to offer my hand, but she leans in and wraps her arms around my shoulders in a hug made awkward by the seatbelts.
“Thank you so much for bringing our daughter back safely.” Mrs. Whistles sniffles. “That silly girl is everything to us.”
Yeah, no kidding.
I return the hug with some hesitation, but say nothing. When she releases me, I give an awkward wave and exit the vehicle. She waves back cheerfully as she pulls away, and I take my sweet time strolling up the empty portion of the long driveway, until she’s out of sight.
I don’t bother considering the front door, as I left my window unlocked before I left. Just before stepping off the pavement to approach the east end of the house, I freeze in my tracks. Mrs. Whistles is too far away for the heartbeat I hear to be hers. Taking a second to echolocate, my eyes are drawn to Vice Principal Luna’s car. As if sensing my attention, the driver opens their door and steps out with all the grace of a film star. Vice Principal Luna looks to have forgone the dark blazer she usually wears in favor of a conservative blue-black blouse, most likely because it’s easier to wear with the sling holding up her left arm. She wears slacks today, and is still wearing that navy blue strip and clasp about her middle, albeit, somewhat loosely.
“Mister Strand,” she begins, cooly, “I’d like to have a chat before you go sneaking back into that house.”
“I wasn’t sneaking. It-It’s my house.”
“Really?” She walks to the rear of her car and leans on the trunk. “Go on in then. They’re waiting for you.” The steady gaze she uses to impale me holds neither mercy nor compassion. I don’t move. Instead, I cross my arms and return the best icy stare I can manage, even though my heart would have normally been pounding. “Mister Strand, I’m here to offer you a chance at some mutually beneficial introductions. I suspect you’ve found yourself in a rather difficult position.”
“What-what makes you say that?” I say, my attempt at cold indifference ruined by the stutter. I bite my tongue to force down the curse in my throat.
“Well -” she reaches into a pocket and withdraws a paper pack of cigarettes. She puts one of the foul things between her lips straight from the pack and talks around it as she lights the end with a slick, silver lighter she unclips from her belt. “- it could be the twenty-four hour disappearance, your stalker turning up without a head, the spree of bizarre crimes that coincided with your little trip, and about a half dozen other things you have no conception of. Not to mention the fact that, either you’ve acquired an extremely advanced set of contact lenses, or that red light in your eyes is a dead giveaway of something a little more extraordinary. How’s that?” She puffs smoke with her final words.
I clench my fists in frustration at the inconvenience my eyes have become as I try to ignore the acrid smoke prickling at my sensitive nose. I don’t need to breathe, but stray particles of the burning tobacco are still rather offensive.
“What do you want?”
“This isn’t about what I want, it’s about what he has to offer you.” Vice Principal Luna makes an elegant gesture with her cigarette toward the top of the hill. I glance up at the dark outline of the Ghastenhauser mansion’s roof, peeking over the rim like an anxious observer.
“Baron Ghastenhauser? What does my mom’s boss have to do with—actually, nevermind, this shouldn’t be surprising.”
“Ask him yourself. If it were up to me, your vulnerabilities would be researched and exploited to put you down at the earliest convenience.” She sees my startled expression as she says this and offers a more neutral look compared to the barbed regard I’ve been subjected to thus far. “Nothing personal, it’s just unlikely you haven’t already hurt someone, despite whatever valiant efforts you’ve made to suppress and manage your new hungers or thirsts. Or other metabolic urges. It’s just as unlikely you won’t hurt someone else, if left alone.”
I try not to let my body language give anything away. She doesn’t need to know what blood is on my hands, just yet. To mask my unconscious reactions, I begin moving in an arc around her, as if sizing up prey. Along with a heightened heart rate, Vice Principal Luna adopts a noticeably stiffer posture, trades the cigarette to her left hand, and allows her right to fall next to her hip. I don’t see a weapon there, but that’s why it’s called ‘concealed’ carry.
I glare at her, the intimidation receding behind some mixture of indignation and annoyance. “You think I’m some kind of dangerous monster, but threaten me in front of my own home? Believe me, if I wanted to hurt anyone, you wouldn’t be able to stop me.” As I think about what I’m saying, I find it somewhat unsettling that I mean every word. Still, it feels great to speak plainly. “But you have no idea what I’ve been through to make sure no one gets hurt, how many times I’ve nearly died for someone else’s sake, what other horrible things I’ve come across out there. I’ll put myself down before I become the kind of monster you think I already am.”
“Relax, Mister Strand—”
“Stop calling me that.”
“If you insist, Gyre. Look, there’s no need for hostility between us. I’m the one who advised your mother to call her attorney after all. Extremely fortunate for you that he’s an associate of the same organization as myself.” Her tone is reasonable, but the tension in her jaw speaks of tested patience. “Besides, the man who is offering you his home and resources has more than earned my trust, which has never come easily. He’ll do the same for you, should you give him the chance.” She drops her half-finished cigarette and steps on it as she returns to the driver-side door of the car. “We’ll speak again soon, just don’t get up to any more of whatever you did last night, or we’re bound to cross paths under less than friendly circumstances.”
Just as she’s lowering herself into the car, something occurs to me, “Wait!”
She breathes an impatient sigh and her eyes flick back to me, “What is it? I’m late for a date with something tall, dark and medium roast.”
“How did you know I was coming?”
She visibly considers something for a moment before answering, “You’ll just have to come by the estate to find out.” She gives me a satisfied smirk before something important seems to occur to her, as well. “Oh, but do me a favor—don’t tell my sister about the smoking.”
With that, she slides into the cockpit of her ostentatious machine and closes the door. It roars to deafening life and Vice Principal Luna glides away into the growing morning.
So my vice principal is part of some shadowy organization? I wonder how much of her conjunction with it was a matter of choice or circumstance. Some of both, I imagine.
Hesitant twittering in a tree nearby reminds me of the morning’s imminence. I spin in place and jog over to the east side of my house. Passing by the tall bay windows, a conversation hums through the glass to reach my sensitive ears, but I don’t have time to stand and listen. I scurry past, through an arch made of hedge bush and iron fencing. Here, a sort of dark, cozy alley is formed by towering hedges and the side of the house. Thankfully, my room is well past the next set windows that look into the living room. I gaze up at the second-story window, trying to gauge how much force is required for the jump. Ivy crawls up the brickwork, but nothing substantial enough to climb. My only purchase will be the window ledge. After a couple practice hops, I crouch and put a measured amount of effort into the leap, grabbing the ledge to keep myself from flying onto the roof. The window slides up without much sound and I roll through once there’s enough space, noting the strong smell of cooked eggs and, unmistakably, chorizo sausage. With the excessive strength in my limbs, maintaining stealth and grace is effortless. Wasting no time, the blood finds its way into my mini-fridge, behind the now-useless assortment of energy drinks and seltzer water. Though I long to be able to consume them without consequence, the thought of it elicits a sudden, instinctual revulsion, as if I had entertained the thought of drinking tar.
I close the fridge and strip, putting on the first things I see in my closet before stuffing everything I took with me into the backpack. While Sunny may have scrubbed much DNA evidence from the clothes, I'm more concerned that I was likely recorded on at least a dozen video feeds, so this outfit could be a link to me, especially with the bullet holes. There aren’t many places I can hide this for long, but the thickness of the hedges should serve for a day. Before dropping back out of the window, I take a moment to go over the story I planned on the way back, just in case. A nervous energy simmers within as I drop back down to the ground and make my way to the front door, quietly stuffing the backpack into a thick tangle of leaves and thin branches on the way. At least, I hope it was quiet; it’s hard for me to tell what humans can and can’t detect these days.
I hesitate for a few moments before ringing the doorbell.
Inside, I hear my mother’s voice say, “Oh gods,” as chairs scrape. A smattering of footsteps comes near. The door swings open and my mother stands before me, wearing disheveled blue scrubs, eyes brimming with fresh tears. She lunges forward and wraps me in a warm, tight embrace. By Tartarus, she obviously hasn’t missed a day at the gym. I return the hug, smiling over her shoulder at a haggard Rock, who waves back. I don’t need to breathe, but I still need air in my lungs to speak, so it isn’t until she lets me go that I can finally say something.
“I’m sorry, mom.”
She lets out a sharp breath and says, “No, I’m sorry, son. I’m so, so sorry. I’m sorry you’ve had to deal with all of this alone. I wasn’t around to watch out for you, I’m—”
“Mom!” I bark, not unkindly, “Stop. It...it’s not your fault. Neither of us could have known about Ace or he wouldn’t have gotten away with it for so long. Besides, I keep these things to myself for a reason. I’m sure you have enough to deal with...I realize leaving didn’t help.”
“My sweet boy, you know I’m happy to be there for you; I’m your mom. I’m just so glad you’re okay, kiddo.” She pats my cheek as she speaks and gasps. “Goodness, you’re cold. I’ll make some tea while you catch up with Mr. Cutter.”
With that, Mom gives me another long, crushing hug. She sniffles and holds my hand for as long as she can as she separates herself and slowly moves to the kitchen, patting Rock’s shoulder as she passes him.
“Hey bro,” Rock croaks, offering a wan smile. He’s already dressed for school in his usual all-black attire, but he looks like he might have slept in those clothes. We bump fists and follow my mom through the foyer. When we reach the living room, the farthest seat at the table is occupied by Mr. Cutter, a plump, mildly hunched man with a full head of neck-length, wavy white hair, in stark contrast to his dark brown skin. Just as my mom passes through the doors to the kitchen, Rock’s grandfather squeezes past, wiping his hands on a small towel. Strum Steady is an impressively built, tall man, whose stature is evident even when he’s seated. He sports a suave, short haircut, peppered with grey among the jet black while his eyes are a deep ruby, tinged with a hint of violet. His skin is an ashen caramel, but splotched in large, pale swathes by a condition called vitiligo. One such splotch crosses his face from the left temple to the right jaw, giving him the permanent appearance of wearing tribal war paint. I’ve seen less cool-looking genetic abnormalities.
“Ah, welcome home!” he booms, spreading his arms and nearly blinding me with his dazzling white smile. He sweeps me into an embrace as Rock and I approach the table. “I’m glad Mizz Luna was right about you coming back soon, mijito. Ora pues, everyone else just finished breakfast, but I left some for—”
“He just ate, grandpa. Big meal on the way.” Rock nudges me.
“Yeah, I stopped by an H-burger on the way home.”
“Sí, but an extra meal won’t do you any harm, Calaca,” he says, addressing me by a nickname that roughly translates to ‘skeleton’. I used to take offense, but I know he means well, so I try to think of it as a term of endearment.
“Thanks, Strum, but I’m full, honest,” I say, holding my hands up in supplication, “I think I had too much, actually.”
Strum fixes me with a playful squint and waggles one of his piebald fingers at me. “Okay, but those eggs better disappear by tonight!”
“Alright, I promise,” I laugh, suppressing most of my smile to keep my fangs hidden.
“Señor Cutter, do you have everything you need from us?” Strum asks the attorney. Mr. Cutter looks up from a set of documents spread before him and eyes me with flat, grey eyes.
“I have all I require, Strum. You can take your grandson to school now.” Mr. Cutter replies in a cold, but soothing intonation. His eyes return to the papers on the table and he makes a few marks on them with a stately, metallic pen.
“Bien. Aqui, take the keys, Rocky,” Strums says, handing a set of jangling keys to Rock, “Get the car started, I’ll meet you there in a minute, okay?”
“‘Kay.”
Before turning to go back into the kitchen, Strum faces me with a solemn expression. “It’s good to see you home, Gyre. Your mama was even more worried than she seemed, you know. Please don’t do that again. You need someone to talk to, we’re all here, comprendé?”
“I know. Thank you.” He returns the smile I offer him and disappears through the double doors. I can hear him speaking to my mother in gentle tones a few moments later, but Mr. Cutter speaks up, preventing me from eavesdropping.
He continues to stare at the papers as he speaks, “Gentlemen, I should like you to know that our business is not only far from concluded, but that I suspect that we’re to become regular facets in each other’s lives. It is at the behest of an old friend that I acquiesced to assist with Gyre’s...unique situation. But should this become a problem, or if I feel you are being dishonest with me, I will not hesitate to withdraw my involvement beyond mundane matters of law. Do we understand each other?”
There’s a short pause before Rock speaks up, “Uh, can we rewind all that while I grab a dictionary?”
I bite my lip to suppress a laugh and turn to Rock, but by the expression on his face, he’s at least half sincere. Mr. Cutter glares at him with pursed lips.
“Rock, he knows.” I mutter.
“Knows about what? There’s nothing going on.” Rock says, unconvincingly.
“Just trust him.” I don’t actually trust him or Vice Principal Luna just yet, but it wouldn’t hurt to let them think I’m off guard. Rock considers me for a moment, then looks back to Mr. Cutter and folds his arms in a failed attempt to look more confident. I can hear his heart racing. “Alright, sir, we get it. What do you need?”
“Much, but nothing we can speak of in present company. For now, if anyone questions you on your recent whereabouts, you are to be extremely vague and non-committal. And I do mean anyone.” His eyes narrow at these words. “I will need a full account of your activities at the earliest possible convenience, but if you are arrested or detained beforehand, for any reason, you will use your allotted phone call to speak to me, and only me. Is that clear?”
“Crystal,” I say.
“Very good.” Mr. Cutter stows the papers into a folder and begins to gather his things, “You have my number; I suggest you memorize it.” He moves toward the foyer, but stops before passing me, and murmurs, “It would be wise to visit the estate tonight, as Ms. Luna may have already advised. Don’t bother calling ahead, you’ll be expected.”
“What do you people want from me?” I murmur back.
“I understand your wariness, Gyre, I do. But there’s just no simple explanation.” He disappears into the foyer.
Rock and I exchange looks as we hear the front door open and close.
“You okay, dude?” I ask.
“Yeah, just got dragged out of bed too early.” Rock tries to sound casual, but the slump of his shoulders and red in his eyes speaks of a bone-deep weariness.
“Let’s talk at lunch. I have...so much to tell you. Also, that was some quick thinking with your grandpa earlier. Nice.”
Rock grins. “This is so cool! It’s starting to feel like a comic book, or something!” he hisses, before continuing in a normal tone. “I’m gonna go take a nap in the car, though. See you later.” We slap each other’s shoulders and Rock leaves.
I slump into a seat at the table, resting my head on my arms. Week One of vampirism and I already met a mutant werewolf that wants to jump my bones, learned of perhaps two secret societies, was invited into one by my vice principal, took sloppy seconds on a bank robbery, found out a schoolmate carries a monster-killing amulet that might be giving her unstable superpowers, got chased and shot by cops, fought a cop, probably put another two in a coma, faced off against a telekinetic necromancer, and...I killed a man.
It was almost easy to lose that last fact among the torrent of shocking new experiences, but there it is again, like an earworm tune that was almost forgotten. Now, it plays like a movie on the back of my eyelids. Yeah, I killed him, he’s gone, but that’s okay, isn’t it? A pedophile, probably a murderer and a junkie, too. I don't think I enjoyed it, but that's no comfort. I almost wish I felt anything about it. Anything at all.
Dad would know what to tell me. He was in the business of killing after all.
Presently, my mom and Strum come back into the room. Their heartbeats are slightly elevated and I hear her sniff back tears. I look up to see that she either forgot the tea or never made it in the first place. Good, I’m not in the mood to dance around reasons not to drink it. They embrace briefly while Strum offers what sounds like words of comfort in his native language. I know a few words, but not enough to understand full sentences. When they part, they turn to me. My mind lingers on the fact that Strum’s hand is still pressed to Mom’s back.
“Hey, kiddo,” Mom says hesitantly, “I was thinking—maybe we should all get together and do something. Weekend picnic or a trip somewhere. How does that sound?”
“I don’t know, it kinda depends. I think a lot of my daytime hours are gonna be occupied for a while. Maybe make it an evening thing? As in, at night?”
“Sure!” Mom says, cheerfully. She sniffs and looks away, brushing back a strand of hair. She usually does that when she’s struggling to say something.
“Something wrong, Mom?”
“No...nothing, hun. Hey, we’d better get you to school. Celestia called yesterday to ask if you were gonna show up for that community service. She sounded pretty upset when I told her you were missing. That’s not why you ran away, is it?” she asks with a hint of humor.
I laugh, “No, ma’am, I’m actually really grateful for the opportunity. Might be nice to get to know her a little better. She’s like everyone’s second mom, anyway.”
Mom and Strum chuckle and Strum speaks up, “Well, I’d better get going, I’m sure mis mijito is dead asleep already. I’ll call, okay?” He squeezes my mom’s shoulder and heads for the front door, calling back, “Stay out of trouble, Calaca!” I smile for show. Trouble is already what I’m in. Up to the neck and packed tight. And the tide is rising.
The nanosecond the front door closes, Mom’s demeanor flips like a switch. Her bloodshot eyes narrow and her back stiffens.
“Well, I suppose you should get ready. We’ll talk in the car.” Abruptly, she turns and steps toward the kitchen, pushing through the doors with subtle aggression.
Ah, crap.
I trudge through the foyer on the way to my room, grim possibilities bubbling up in my thoughts. Did Mr. Cutter or Vice Principal Luna tell her about what happened to me? Is she just upset that I left? Have I exacerbated some legal tension I wasn’t aware that we’re under? I growl and curse to myself as I climb the stairs. Gods, there’s nothing else I could have done! Rock can’t keep giving me blood, I have to find it for myself.
My head snaps around as I hear an extra beat that wasn’t one of my own steps. There’s no one on the stairs with me, but I can still hear the thumping, like…
No. No-no-no-no-nonononono—
I leap the last few steps, turn left in the hallway, and burst through the door to my room. A huge, dark, furry mass lays curled up on my bed. The open window has done very little to abate the buildup of heat radiating from the beast.
“Nice bed, bat-boy,” Sunny rumbles. “A bit small for me in this form, but comfy. I’d love to take it for a test drive, sometime.”
I try not to think about what she means as I almost slam the door in my haste to close it. I put my back to the door and hiss, “Sunny, what the fuck are you doing in my house?”
“What? You know where I live.”
“Fucking...so what? There were people here who know about us. Well, not us or you, really, but that we’re...not human”
“Yeah, heard your talk with the hot blue lady; way to put her on edge, killer. But you’re not gonna trust them are you?”
“No, of course not. They could be useful, if they really do want to cooperate, but I’m assuming their invitation is some kind of trap.”
“Good, seems like there’s a few brains to go with that beauty, after all. If you really want to investigate, I’ll back you up, but not until I’m sure I don’t have to babysit you.” She rises to her knees, the bedframe complaining, and pointedly flexes a clawed fist, “This body isn’t too hard to get used to. I just move quiet, move fast, my pointy bits go in enemy throats. But you clearly need practice. Got wind of a meeting between Hardywine’s mom and some mid-league cartel asshole. It’s happening somewhere in the warehouse district downtown. Couldn’t get a location, but we should be able to find it, given our particular talents. We’ll stop by, have a listen to their dastardly plans, and your conscience can be clear for when we tear them apart.” Her words take on a subtle mocking tone at this last sentence. I ignore it.
“What, like, all of them?”
“Sure, why not?”
I look at her incredulously, “Because it’s our food source. We can’t just go around slaughtering every scumbag we come across. First, that’s exactly what the lich wants, second, if we take them all out, the only people left will be innocents. When a wolf kills a few possums, it’s no big deal. But when the possums are gone, and it starts to take the local farmer’s sheep, there’s a big, happy hunt that doesn’t end until a certain furry head ends up on a spike.”
“Ooh, wicked analogy,” Sunny grins. A disturbing sight in her werewolf form. “But there’s plenty of possums in this big, happy town. We’ll be doing Canterlot a favor.”
“We just can’t take them all out. There’s already too much attention on us.” I find myself pacing as I speak before stoping, realizing I’ve been taking too long. Though I know Sunny has already seen my naked body, I can’t help feeling self-conscious at the thought of changing in front of her. My clothes are clean, but Mom doesn’t know that, so I need to put on a fresh set. “Can you...turn around or something? I have to change.”
Sunny growls a chuckle, “No.”
I roll my eyes and move to inspect my closet, feeling my face warm a little. Much of my wardrobe is the same black or grey with sparse cobalt or teal accents. I lack both the courage to wear anything bright, and the patience to try coordinating; fashion has always been lost on me. I pick out the simplest, darkest outfit I have, hoping to dull the barbs in Sunny’s inevitable comments. I could just take my clothes to the bathroom and change, but like choosing to walk on glass to build a tolerance for pain, I’ll endure the werewolf’s gaze and comments for the sake of building thicker skin.
“Are you trying to...flirt with me?” Sunny says.
“Shut up.” For some reason, I almost laugh. I bite it back, but not fast enough to hide the crack of an embarrassed grin.
“Oh my, I think he is.” Sunny crawls from my bed and begins slinking on all fours toward me, her bodily asymmetry contributing to a noticeably lopsided gait. I back up into my sliding closet doors as I struggle to don the shirt without tearing it apart in my claws. She’s close enough for me to feel her burning breaths on my skin when she says, “You never saw me in my human form, did you? It’s weird, but my clothes stay on it when I change. And when I found you at the station, I was only wearing my boots and underwear. Wanna see?”
“I-I wasn’t...I mean, I’m not—”
“Who are you talking to in there?” Mom’s curt voice cuts through the thunderous beat of Sunny’s powerful heart and shocks me back to a sobriety I wasn’t aware I had lost.
“No one! Just...myself, I guess!” I shout back. How does one get a werewolf to go somewhere far away, very quickly? If she were a dog, I’d just throw a stick or a ball. Or a piece of meat. Oh, gods.
‘If I take a rain check on that offer, will you leave right the fuck now?’ I subvocalize at Sunny. In what I’ll grudgingly take as assent, she cranes her neck forward and drags an appallingly coarse tongue across my right cheek. The undertone of blood that colors the otherwise stringent mintiness of her breath betrays her recent activities. I hear Mom’s heartbeat and footsteps draw near the door. I sweep around Sunny to throw my body against it, just in time to keep it from opening more than a crack. As I’m faced away from Sunny to keep the door closed against intrusion, I hear her transformation for the first time. It’s a bubbling, visceral straining sound that gives me the impression of some mass of meat on the verge of exploding.
“What in Tar’ was that?” Mom demands. I glance over my shoulder out of grim curiosity, but catch only the blur of a black boot slip beneath the outer window ledge, followed by an impact on grass, then a flurry of footfalls. I relent and let Mom push into the room, backing up with a thin, sheepish grin as I rub the monster saliva from my face.
“Uhm, a burp? I was really thirsty so I had a soda-water. Guess I chugged it too fast.”
She studies me with naked suspicion for a long moment before saying, “Hurry up and get dressed. You’ll be late for your community service.”
“Yes, ma’am.” I watch her leave and almost run a hand through my hair before I realize that I would be giving myself a modern art haircut. I settle for imagining myself breathing a sigh of relief as I button my pants and pull on a pair of grey chucks.
It isn’t until I reach for my regular school bag beside the nightstand that I notice the envelope sitting on the slightly dusty surface. My name is written on the outside in a neat, unfamiliar hand, and it smells of the same shampoo Sunny seems to use. I open it and withdraw a folded letter. When I unfold it, I can see something small and black is taped to the upper corner of the sheet.
You forgot your SIM card, dummy. You know these things still work without the rest of the phone, right? Add my number when you get this thing into something functional. See ya around bat-boy.
Beneath this text, is a phone number. Taking up the rest of the paper, Sunny skillfully drew the cartoon bust of a girl with untamed, wavy hair in a ponytail, tiny fangs, and wolf ears, smiling and winking at the viewer as she holds a hand to the side of her head in that universal ‘call me’ gesture. Her bare shoulders and unclothed collar bone seem to suggest nudity in the parts of the subject not drawn.
I feel like I’ve seen this character somewhere before. If Sunny had used color, I might be able to remember where. Why do I keep having this familiar feeling about—
“Gyre Strand! Are you ready for school?” Mom roars from the bottom of the stairs.
My foot hovers over the first step of my stairs before I freeze in place and remember my previous experience at school. I backpedal and dash to my fridge, tenderly extracting a single blood bag, wrapping it in a t-shirt and stowing it beneath the least angular objects within my schoolbag. Though the thirst is weak at the moment, the temptation to consume my rations is strong. I scurry out of my room and down the stairs. Mom gives me a sharp look as I pass her on the way to the kitchen.
“Just gonna grab a snack!” I call back to her. From the freezer, I take two small ice packs and tuck them into the shirt around the blood bag. When I return to the front door, Mom is gone, but I hear the hybrid-electric motor sing to life outside. I shake my head at the strangeness of it, still used to the relatively demure whine that humans hear. I jog to appease her mood as I circle to the passenger door and hop in, just barely remembering to feign breaths of fatigue. In my haste, and distracted by the need to appear normal, I forget to mind my claws as I draw the seat belt across my body, leaving a frayed slash across the nylon weave. “Shit…”
“Excuse you, young man?”
“Sorry! Sorry, I meant ‘crap’!”
Mom looks at me and sighs, pursing her lips. After a moment, she shakes her head and pulls out of the driveway. The air in the car takes on a chill that has nothing to do with the AC as we sit in silence, watching the world roll by. Several times, I hear Mom’s heartbeat climb, accompanied by the intake of breath, as if about to speak. It’s only after the fifth such occurrence that she finally adds words to the tense stillness.
“That shirt was in your closet before you got home.”
“Uhhh...what?” I blurt, completely off balance.
“You snuck back into the house and took that shirt out of your closet. Why?” Mom’s grip on the wheel audibly tightens as she speaks.
“What makes you say that?” I ask, innocently.
“I went in your room and—”
“Mom!”
“Don’t you ‘mom’ me! My son was missing and I had to try to figure out why! Do you know how terrified I was that I’d find a ransom note, or signs of a struggle, or a…” her breath catches in her throat and I see tears beginning to well in her eyes, “...a suicide note?”
“Mom, gods, what makes you think I’d—”
“I don’t know, Gyre! I don’t know! How should I know when you won’t talk to me? When you feel that running away is more appealing than coming to your family for help? There are so many things that could have happened, so many ways you could have disappeared, and no one would have ever known where you went or why. Do you have any idea how devastating that would have been? For me? For Rock, or Strum?”
I let the question hang in the air as I gather my patience. Should I explain that I left for her sake, to keep the blood inside her body? When would be a good time to explain that her son spontaneously transformed into a monster sometime between Sunday evening and Monday morning? Not now. These last few months, I didn’t need vampiric senses to hear her muffled sobs in the night, when she hadn’t taken her sleeping pills. In fact, my improved behavior had begun when I was forced to go to bed early, in the hopes that I would sleep through my mother waking, screaming my father’s name. Each day, I see a little more bleak despair growing within eyes that used to glimmer with hope, even when they didn’t shine with love and happiness. No, now is not the time. She needs to know that I can care for myself, first.
“Well, none of that happened. I’m fine, Mom.”
“But, then, what are you hiding? Where did you go and why?”
“I…”
“What? You what?”
“Look, I didn’t want to freak you out. The shirt I was wearing when I left got torn because I wasattacked.” Just like Mrs. Whistles, Mom runs a stop sign in her shock. Only this time, the blare of a car horn and screeching tires wail behind us. “Holy shit! It’s fine! I wasn’t hurt, I swear!”
“What happened!” Mom demands, seemingly unaware of how close we came to something much worse.
“I saw someone else being attacked and I tried to help, but everything got worse. I tried to get away, tore my shirt somehow, and broke my phone when I fell. I came out of it okay, so I just didn’t want to worry you about it, that’s all.”
That’s basically the truth, I suppose. Mom purses her lips again and gives me an expectant look.
“And…?”
“And what?”
“Don’t give me that, I know you stayed somewhere, and it wasn’t at Rock’s place—that was the first place I checked! You didn’t have the smell of someone who spent the night on the street—and don’t even bother saying you spent the night at a hotel, because you didn’t take your wallet or any of your cash. You smelled like someone else’s shampoo when you got home and I know you don’t like anything other than that black walnut stuff.”
“Oh, uhm, well…” Gods, when did my mother become a detective? “I have cash elsewhere.”
“Yeah? Enough to bribe the front desk not to check your underage ID?”
“Alright, alright...I spent the night with a friend. Someone I met while I was out.”
“Okay. Who is he?”
“She.”
Mom’s eyes widen and soften at the same time. “Oh. W-was it that Twilight girl?”
“No…” I try to mask the disappointment in my tone.
“Did you...do anything with her? Do you need condoms?”
“What? Gods, Mom, no! We just met!”
“Okay, okay, just had to ask. A mom should know these things,” she says with a grin. “I’m just teasing you, kiddo.”
“Well, nothing happened. After I was attacked, there was a lot of running to get home. I pretty much passed out, but she was there and helped me. Gave me a place to stay until I could hop on a bus.”
“Well, that’s very sweet of her. What’s this mystery girl’s name?”
“S-Sunny…”
“That’s a cute name. So when I am I gonna meet this Sunny? She probably saved my son’s life, I should at least shake her hand.”
“I don’t know, she works a night shift and she’s pretty busy.”
“Well, where does she live? I can drop by to thank her personally.”
“How—how ‘bout I get you her phone number and you can call her?”
“That sounds fine. I’ll invite her to dinner, then.”
“Yeah, that...sounds...fine.” I can almost hear Sunny’s sarcastic, suggestive comments about screwing the pooch.
The brief remainder of the car ride is spent in silence. We pull into the rear parking lot where the principals’ two contrasting vehicles are already occupying their usual spaces, along with a pair of squad cars and some other early arrivals. The east horizon glows a dim blue, arousing a twist of anxiety that spurs me toward the school.
“Reporters leaked some details about the murder.” Mom says, in a somber drone. “I’m glad he won’t be bothering you anymore, but that was pretty brutal. I’d have rather seen him behind bars.”
“Pretty hard to sympathize from this side of the fence. If anything, I think he was done a mercy.”
I can feel Mom turn her gaze on me as I stare out the window to the double doors. “You certainly inherited your dad’s tough sense of justice. So much alike, you two.”
“Thanks, Mom.” I say, unbuckling my belt and leaning over to give her a hug. “He was kinda the best.” She returns the hug and squeezes me almost painfully.
“Both of you are the best. Alright, kiddo, I’ll see you after school. We’ll pick up a new phone for you this weekend, nothing fancy.” she says as we part.
“Okay. By the way, I need to go with Rock to see someone in the hospital today—don’t worry! It’s nothing you need to worry about. In fact, you should get a call about it later; it’ll be a pleasant surprise, I promise.”
“It had better be.”
“See you tonight.” After another brief hug, I step out of the car and begin walking to the school, but the glow on the eastern horizon hastens me into a jog. I hear a window roll down and Mom’s voice calls out.
“Have a good day at school, and for goodness sake, drink something hot! I’ve literally touched corpses warmer than you!” Thank the gods I’m here too early for anyone else to have heard that.
I wave her good-bye as she pulls out. Apprehension colors my thoughts as I anticipate Celestia’s reaction to my delinquency and the future discomfort of being a focus of Vice Principal Luna’s attention. I push through the double doors, the pneumatics hissing angrily as my strength overwhelms their resistance. I can hear distant footsteps, but the echo makes it difficult to determine their origin. With no one else in sight, not even a heartbeat in the break room, I begin making my way to Celestia’s office. As I near the last corner, a heartbeat fades into my perceptions, and I ready myself for the confrontation as I hear a set of keys jangling. The sight of Vice Principal Luna turning away from Celestia’s office door gives me pause, but I try not to show it.
“She’s at a meeting with the superintendent and the police.” Vice Principal Luna says absently, not bothering to look at me. “I’ll submit a record of your attendance for community service. Come with me.” Without waiting for my response, she begins striding to the end of the hall, where the door to her own office faces back. Some part of me wonders whether this was a conscious decision, as the long walk to the shaded door is not unlike that of films depicting death-row inmates’ walks to the execution chamber.
Inside, her office is a gloomy pocket of soft, cool colors and strict austerity. Though I can see quite well, I doubt few others could discern many details in here. The window blinds are slitted to allow a minimal amount of light to pass through and be directed toward the ceiling. Ms. Luna makes no move to further illuminate the room. Instead, she silently indicates a lone seat before her desk as she passes it, circling around to her own plush swivel chair. Once we’ve sat, she meets my gaze with her usual cool indifference. She sits forward, propped on her good arm.
“Good morning, Gyre.”
I successfully suppress a laugh at the awkwardness of her approach. “Uhm, good morning, Ms. Luna.”
“I was rather cold with you, wasn’t I?”
“Not unreasonably, I think.”
“Well I hope you’ll accept my apology, anyway. I was given instructions to evaluate your disposition and, I admit, my approach is a little aggressive.” I can’t tell if she’s naturally this dry, or if this is a rehearsed speech.
“No problem. I’m just really confused. Do you know why this is happening to me?”
“That’s what we’d like to find out, with your cooperation. I’ll be honest, we’d first like to analyze the extent of the changes you’ve experienced, which will most certainly give us insight into your strengths and weaknesses. We’d also be abe to determine how best to preserve your well-being in a way that brings the least harm to others. In return, we hope you’ll be a willing asset to our cause.”
“Your ‘cause’?”
“A grievous series of phenomena have begun in this town. Historically, this has resulted in the creation of predatory, preternatural lifeforms. These anomalous beings, such as yourself, have been known to carry a highly contagious means of spreading an irreversible condition to victims of their appetites. Most of these creatures can be a threat to life on this planet. Or at least humanity. They need to be kept under control, if not eradicated.”
“You’re not painting a friendly picture here, Ms. Luna,” I deadpan.
“I understand,” she says, leaning back. She looks away as she begins speaking again, unwilling or unable to hide the grouse in her tone, “What we’re offering, is a chance to earn our trust and loyalty by using whatever capabilities you now possess to help contain what might otherwise become a flood of carnage. Either way, a dark chapter in history has just received its sequel.” These final words seem to coat the room in a layer of oily dread.
“You’re not a fan of letting me live, are you?”
Without turning her head, Vice Principal Luna’s eyes flick back to mine, ice cold again. “No.”
“And if I refuse to join you?” I ask, with genuine curiosity. She pointedly returns to her original posture, locking eyes with me.
“Then I’d advise you to tread carefully out there. Not many of us are as willing to put faith in the judgment of Elmwood Ghastenhauser. The slightest move could be misread as an act of open hostility—something for which we justly have little tolerance.”
“Okay. And what does Ms. Celestia think about all this?”
“I’m glad you asked. My sister knows nothing of this business and I’d like to keep it that way. The things one is exposed to on this job have a habit of degrading one’s long-term mental stability.”
“Seriously? But she seems pretty level-headed.”
“That is not what concerns me. It’s her hero complex.” I give her a puzzled look. Vice Principal Luna smiles and sits back, withdrawing her pack of cigarettes. She moves to take one out before thinking better of it and putting them in a small side drawer. “If Tia knew what was out there, I’m truly afraid she’d forsake the safe, meaningful career she’s built for herself here, in favor of fulfilling the ill-conceived, romantic notions attached to my moonlight profession. This isn’t a glorious job, it’s a grim, hazardous duty, and I have enough to worry about without fretting over my impulsive sister.”
“I understand the feeling. Still, shouldn’t she know? All the better to prepare herself in case things go sideways.”
“No, for the same reason you haven’t told your mother about what you’ve become. Easier to comfort them over the knowledge of what could have been than to try easing the fear of what could be.”
“I bet your poetry and philosophy professors loved you, Ms. Luna.” She narrows her eyes at me. Is there a glimmer of humor in that look?
“They did, as a matter of fact. Look, Gyre, as a show of good faith, we aren’t going to push you. We already know you aren’t responsible for the dead guard at the Bionex, though we know you were there and have an idea of why. Your effort to not harm others and willingness to undertake personal risk in that regard is why we’re willing to extend the hand of friendship. It’s up to you to make the best of it.”
Unsure of what to say, I shift uncomfortably in my seat. “I’ll think about it. Hopefully, you understand why I’m not jumping at the offer.”
“I do. Now, about your community service. My tall, dark, and hot date fell through.” With a sly grin, Vice Principal Luna pushes a sizable indigo mug to my side of the desk, “Your first task is to find me another, young matchmaker.”
After a time spent fetching supplies, copies, running minor errands, and brewing coffee darker than Sunny’s lair, I whiled away the remaining minutes before class in the library, rediscovering just how much I’ve forgotten or neglected to learn. An ambitious foray into biochemistry was humbling enough to urge me to retreat into the topics I’d expect to cover in the early portion of next year’s chemistry class, with a brief tangent on biology.
Before I had time to even glimpse the depth of knowledge I’ll require to gain a significant understanding of the Vitae Arcana documents, the bell rings, breaking me from my studies with a painfully shrill clamor. The much softer tromp of boots and sneakers rolls through the halls, beckoning me to join in the commute. With nearly half the school still shut down for the investigation, the halls are a dense river of students jostling for walking space and breathing room. Even from the library doors, I can tell that with the increase in population density, and the unease caused by the brutality of Ace’s murder, tension is riding high among my peers. The staff struggle to tamp down the sparks of contention and unrest as small conflicts erupt in the rowdy stream of bodies.
As I attempt to join the throngs, I can sense others recognizing me. Murmurs blend into the constant jabber, never quite becoming distinct enough to comprehend, though the frightened tones and hissed syllables are enough to make a conjecture.
I cut through the students with relative ease, keeping my fists balled so as to avoid literally cutting through them. It isn’t easy, but I eventually make my way to the top of a packed stairwell. Just as I’m about to pass into the hall that will lead to my first class, a chorus of alarmed voices swells over the general chatter, and a surge of sudden movement draws me backward. For me, the effect is merely unsettling. A fellow student is far less fortunate, pressed too quickly against the railing around the landing. As I recognize the severe mishap in store for him, the world comes to a crawl.
I see his muscled arms slowly windmilling, his threadbare beanie beginning its descent down nearly twelve feet of empty space, verdant dreadlocks splaying themselves in the rush of air as he follows suit. Even with my enhanced perception, I have little time to deliberate, operating on reflex. Though two other students stand between me and him, I have no trouble moving them aside as I make my way to the railing and fling out a hand. By then, the boy has cleared the edge and is in the beginnings of a possibly fatal fall. Moving with care and doing my best to compensate for inertia, I sweep my palm onto his outstretched wrist and take a firm grip. The angle is awkward and I know what’s coming before the world finally resumes its regular pace again. I close my eyes, assuming they’ve lit up again.
Braced against the railing, I hardly move as the green-haired boy jerks to a halt in the air. The meaty pop of his shoulder dislocating is audible, even through the cries of shock nearby. A memory surfaces as I watch him quickly learn not to struggle.
“Give me your other arm! Hurry!” I shout, reaching over the edge with my free hand. After several tense breaths, I feel his weak grip on my wrist and return the grasp, letting go of his injured arm. At first, I begin pulling him up as quickly as I can, but the astonished cries of those behind me are a reminder that I have an audience. I make a show of putting in effort, though I wonder if it’s too late. The smell of blood hits me like a wave of vertigo as my claws trace tiny incisions into the fair skin of his arm. He doesn’t seem to feel this. Once I have the boy on the landing, I kneel beside him and pretend to rub at my eyes as I peek to ensure the glow is gone. When my eyes have dimmed, I look around at the tight circle of wide-eyed expressions.
“Damn, son…” someone mutters.
A metallic, shuddering bang and more raised voices draw my attention back toward the hall.
“I know it hurts a lot, but you’ll be fine,” I say, turning back to the student who is groaning through clenched teeth. He seems too preoccupied with the pain to register the fact that I’m nearly half his size. “Just get to the nurse as quickly as you can. Try not to bump your shoulder or move your arm.”
“‘Kay!” He gasps “Thanks, man.” I offer my hand and help him to his feet.
“I’m headed that way, I’ll make sure he gets to the nurse,” someone says behind me, laying a gentle hand on my shoulder, from which I instinctively flinch away. Turning around, I’m surprised to see Flash Sentry’s sapphire eyes alight with urgency. Though he’s as fond of the shield-and-bolt emblem as he was in middle school, his stature and appearance have matured, blossoming into the strong-jawed, tousle-haired image of a wholesome, yet stereotypical, young hero. “You oughta head in there, your friend is in a fight.”
“Rock?”
“Yeah. Short guy with the curly hair, right?”
“Gods damn it,” I hiss, pushing roughly through the crowd. On the other side of the doorway, the cause of everyone’s reaction comes into view. A very one-sided fight has broken out near the center of the T-junction.
“I don’t know where he is, I swear! I’m not his dad! Just leave me alone!” It’s Rock’s voice.
A brutish drawl answers, “Bullshit, you’re prob’ly married to th’ freak, queer.”
I approach slowly, taking my time as I focus on remaining calm and keeping my head downcast to avoiding the gaze of other students. After worming my way to the center of the circle of students, I emerge at the edge of what has become a small arena. Ace’s former henchman, Break Away, holds Rock’s head against a locker and is twisting his arm behind his back as the smaller boy feebly attempts to free himself. Break has grown a lot since middle school and now towers at a full six feet, six inches. His hair stands off his head in short, marsh green spikes, and his sallow, rosy skin is tinged a mild shade darker from the struggle. Of course, not a single teacher or security guard is in sight. How does he do it?
“You’re the one groping another guy right now!” Rock complains. This earns him a hard jerk on his arm, but he stoically holds in the pained cry written across his face.
I look around at the rest of the crowd with contempt. So many could have stepped in to help, but not a single soul could muster the decency. The eyes of shiny smartphones peer at the scene with dead indifference as the people behind them daydream of rising follower counts and internet virality. Beside me, a ghostly pale girl with jagged, electric blue hair falls forward onto her hands and knees. Her headphones and magenta sunglasses clatter to the floor amid a pile of small books and paper. A burly male takes the place she had occupied, holding aloft his own smartphone. I resist the urge to slap the thing from his hand, instead, stepping into the circle to help the girl gather her things as Rock’s torment continues. Oddly, she never makes a sound throughout the incident.
“Hey, can I borrow your glasses for a minute?” When the girl’s eyes finally meet mine, I can only hope the shock I see in them comes from recognition, rather than the fear of seeing something unnatural. She nods, jerkily, holding the glasses up and snatching her hand back the moment I take them from her trembling fingers. “Uh, thanks.” She scrambles back into the wall of students with her books and paper clutched to her chest like a shield. Whatever.
“Hey, it’s him!” Someone shouts over the din. That metaphysical pressure washes over me again as I sense organic and mechanical eyes shift focus to me. I stand, placing the girl’s glasses over my eyes and facing Break. I feel absurd, knowing the glasses are styled for women, but better this than exposing myself. Break looks over his shoulder and does a double-take, relaxing his hold on Rock’s arm. The moment Break lets go, Rock squirms away, limping toward the nearest edge of the crowd. He throws a worried look over his shoulder at me before attempting to tear a path out of the circle.
“There ‘e is! Come ta save yuh lil’ princess, right on time.” Break takes a few swaggering steps my way. “Where’d ya get them shades, cuz? Clearance rack at Fags R’ Us?”
“What do you want, you fuckin’ inbred degenerate?” I fire back.
The crowd titters at both of our comments.
“Betchu won’ be talkin’ shit past a coupla fat lips, bitch. Think you bad? Think I’m scared o’ you ‘cause you killed Ace? You gon’ end up in jail, cuz. Someone gon’ make you their lil’ chew toy.”
“Why do you always sound like you’re drunk? Someone drop you, or did your dad just fuck the ugliest chimp at the circus?”
They’re not the best, but I’ve been sitting on these insults for years, and venting them is giving me the sweetest sense of catharsis I’ve felt since racing through the streets on that stolen bicycle. Not nearly as enthralling as drinking blood, but a feeling I’m going to savor for a long time to come.
Break moves within the striking distance his long arms grant him. Notably, he stays out of my own range. “Say somethin’ else, Gy’. Say somethin’, see if I don’ break that girly nose.”
“You’re making threats on camera, bro.” I gesture at the circle. “Jackass.”
The insult finally garners the reaction I’d been hoping for, as Break’s arms shoot out to my shoulders. I’m ready for it, my supernatural reflexes granting me the speed and precision to turn my body sideways. He pushes at empty air and loses his balance. I brace myself and shove him several feet away with one hand. As the blow forces the air from his lungs, he makes an odd quacking sound reminiscent of Vale Hardywine’s last breath. Suddenly, the memories of her final moments flash through my head. I see her body slammed to the ground beneath Sunny’s hulking form as her innards are torn from her flesh, the dark tide of her vital fluids flooding over the floor of the dirty, concrete alleyway.
Something throws my head to the side and I realize I’ve been struck. The world slows to a crawl again and I slap the glasses back onto my face, just as they lose contact. I register the next fist arcing at my nose and twist away in time to avoid it, stumbling away from Break. I find myself in the middle of the circle as I concentrate, mentally screaming at my body to drop back out of bullet time before I pass out again. It works, but causes me to catch another fist in the gut. Without air in my lungs to push out, I take the hit in silence and dignity, garnering several impressed exclamations. I feel Break grip the handle of my backpack in one hand and a fistful of my hair in the other as he swings me around, throwing me to the floor. I roll once, but catch myself in time to see his foot hurtling toward my face as I push the glasses back up my nose. I’ve had enough. I swing back into bullet time and block the kick with less effort than catching a foam baseball. I remain in bullet time as I climb to my feet, hoping desperately that the motion plays out at a human pace. My hopes are validated as Break attempts to keep me down with three attacks before I’m back on my feet, each stopped short by a single hand.
Again, I brace myself, but give him a harder shove away. His feet leave the air for a split second as his body hurtles into a section of the onlookers.
I drop out of bullet time. “You really don’t want to keep going, my guy,” I call out over the crazed cheers and jeers around us. Break separates himself from the crowd and dives at me with a bestial snarl. I let my instinct drive me and aggressively step in to counter-tackle, tucking an arm to my side and tossing him away as we make contact. He sprawls out as if he’d been trampled by a major league linebacker. “Stop!” I yell, but it’s entirely for show at this point. Break is on his feet in a single breath, squaring up and edging closer. He makes a few experimental feints, but with my reflexes spiked by the combat, I don’t respond. Break fires an earnest jab, but I swat it aside. We circle each other like boxers, each waiting for the other to make the first move. He throws another jab with the same result as the first, then attempts a combination of swings, all of which are either blocked or parried with negligible effort. Face flushed and eyes burning with rage, Break swings a wild roundhouse kick at my side. I let him make contact and wrap an arm around his leg. I watch him hop around, desperately trying to recover his limb as I wait for him to make another move. After batting away his next few swings, he makes up his mind to kick at my head with his free leg. I parry and drop him. The floor booms with the impact and the crowd’s voice surges with excitement.
Break glares up at me, breaths coming in ragged puffs through his bared teeth. I let him rise halfway before shoving him back down hard enough to send him head over heels. He comes to rest on his stomach and I pounce, placing a foot on his upper back as I reach down to take a hold of a wrist. I wrench his arm the same way he held Rock’s and replace my foot with a knee. I press my free hand to the back of his head, distantly disgusted by the feeling of the grease and sweat in his hair sticking to my fingers. Spittle flies from his mouth as he screams obscenities and flails beneath my inhuman grip. I wait for him to expend the last of the blind fury, studying his face for that human sapience as it emerges from beneath the flood of animal aggression and allows him to feel the damage to his pride.
I wait some more. I wait for the ambient tumult to dull, I wait for the awkwardness, I wait until it festers and fills the air with baleful discomfort. Soon, the voices die down into disconcerted susurrations and Break’s cries degrade into desperate squawks. All the while, I hold a small breath in my lungs, feeling the uncanny red mist forming. When things have calmed enough, I lean down and jet the tiny puff of mist at Break’s face in an imperceptible stream. He coughs as he continues to struggle.
As much to the crowd as to Break, I raise my voice in a bitter bark, “A long time ago, you—”
“Let him go, freak!”
“Nah, kick his ass, Gyre! That guy’s a dick!”
I glare around me and their comments cease a moment later. I wonder if it’s because my eyes are shining right through the sunglasses. Too late to worry about it now.
“A long time ago, you and Ace Longshot cornered me and my friend in one of the restrooms. Do you remember that?”
Answer my questions truthfully. Say nothing else.
“Yes!” Break whines.
“As I recall, you pushed us to the dirty, piss-stained ground and held us there. A lot like this, actually. Isn’t that true?”
“Yes!”
“What did you say and do as you held us there?”
“I...I-I said you should apologize to the f-floor, for hitting it so hard.”
“And what was your idea of an apology?”
“T-t-to kiss it!”
“Kiss what?”
“The floor! I told you to kiss the floor!”
“What were you holding at Rock’s neck at that moment?”
“A knife!”
The crowd buzzes at this.
“That’s right. It was a rusty knife, too. You even cut him a little. Could have given him tetanus or something. Now, as I recall, you hit the floor pretty hard a second ago. I think you should apologize to it.”
Kiss the floor.
Break seems to struggle against the mind-control for just a moment, before giving in. He rotates his face and gives the scuffed linoleum tiles a timid, sideways peck, just as I had been forced to do once. But he made me and Rock go so much farther.
“Show them how you made us kiss the floor. Do it exactly like you remember.”
Do as I say.
Break resists a little harder this time, but his head still turns. He opens his mouth as if to greet the lips of an eager lover and begins to kiss the slimy, glistening tile beneath his face.
“Come on, buddy, this is a fine school!” I laugh. “Kiss her like you mean it—give ‘er a little tongue!”
He obeys and I spy a droplet of water squeeze out from between his closed eyelids.
Stop crying.
“Hey!” A shrill, familiar voice shatters the roaring calm of the moment. “That’s enough!”
I look up to see a furious, bubblegum-pink face separating itself from the crowd. As Pinkie Pie steps closer, Rarity pardons herself through the rapidly closing gap left by her friend.
“Goodness, Gyre, what are you doing? Ew, what is he doing? Oh, that’s disgusting!” Rarity turns a shade of green as she balks at Break’s behavior, then turns away with a dainty hand placed against her heaving chest. I dismiss the order to humiliate himself as I stand and step back, leaving him with a command to remain passive. Break slowly sits up and adopts an unfocused stare. After subtly confirming that my eyes aren’t glowing, I remove the glasses. The girl that lent them to me is nowhere in sight, however, so I clip them onto the collar of my shirt. I’ll give them back next time we cross paths; she’s hard to miss.
“He’s giving that asshole what he deserves!” Someone shouts.
“No, he’s being a bully!” Pinkie cries. The anger in her voice is sheathed in disappointment and several exclamations of assent follow the sentiment.
“It does seem you were being rather cruel,” Rarity adds, a bitter contempt edging her tone.
A girl steps forth from my right, nervously fiddling with a long, dark green braid. “I-I agree, but Break had this coming. He gave my big brother a black eye on ‘accident’ once. He’s a total jerk!”
“Are you kidding? There was nothing okay about what that freak just did! I bet Gyre deserves at least half the shit they put him through,” someone else hollers, a male voice this time.
Back and forth, students boldly espouse their opinions, some just adding to the chaos with quips and jokes for their own amusement. My head begins to feel stuffy and I sway on my feet. I’m reminded of how I felt as I stood over the pit to the underground labs. Heading for a nearby restroom, I make my way to the rapidly degrading edge of the circle. Students hurl themselves away from my path as I fix my gaze on the floor to avoid meeting their eyes. I think I hear Rarity or Pinkie call out to me, but I can’t stay. Already, the pounding of every heart fills my head, like a heavy metal drum solo, and every scrap of exposed flesh that enters my field of view raises the tide of my thirst.
So many flowing veins and arteries within arms reach.
A gaggle of students parts before me near the open entryway to the restrooms, and I stumble past a thin group of loiterers to the far stall of the men’s room, struggling to shrug off my backpack. I slam the door behind me and clumsily engage the lock before collapsing in the corner with my bag. My hands blindly quest for the zipper, taking eons to locate the tiny metal tabs. With the edges of my vision growing dark, my patience dissolves and I tear through the artificial fabric to retrieve the blood bag. I savagely bite into it without bothering to unwrap it from the t-shirt.
My consciousness expands, seeking the edges of infinity at fanatical speed. I feel my body melt from the inside at the touch of each blood cell, part of me coming alive in ways utterly unfit for human language. Stars dance across my sight, though not that which results from uneven blood flow in the eyes. I see constellations and nebulae in spectrographic detail unavailable to the naked eye, pitched in a blurred spin as my sense of direction crawls back to me. I recognize it as the starfield I saw underground. It all ends in a harrowing clap, just before fading into the wash of fluorescent lighting. I’m suddenly back in the restroom, with only the memory of a vast, expanding emptiness, and the sense that there is some menacing inevitability hidden within. Or perhaps approaching from its growing boundaries.
I’m left holding a nameless, uncertain terror whose jagged, needy form has begun to stain and stab into every crevice of thought. Subtle now, but inexorable and cancerous.
Someone is pounding on the stall door, their urgent, angry tone rebounding off the walls of the restroom. As I rise to answer them, a familiar gloom descends on my heart and I surrender to the coming maelstrom of foreign sensation. I feel my knees strike the floor, see my hands rise over my body, and the thunder begins.
