> The Laughing Shadow
>  by Merc the Jerk
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

> The road to success
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

	The cold nighttime wind blew over the railway as Jack stared somberly at the train, frowning deeply as its single, lonely whistle shot across the nearly empty station. She brushed her long blonde hair from her eyes, and stole a glance at the only other person standing nearby. He was a strongly built man; tall and tough, like a plaid wearing bull. In his calloused hands were several travel bags, all filled to the brim with her belongings. He regarded the train casually with half open eyes.

“I don't wanna do this,” the girl stubbornly grunted, crossing her arms under her breasts.

“But yer gonna.” he drawled back. “Yer goin', an' that's that.”

“Mac,” she started to quickly reason, adjusting the cowboy hat she wore. “Who's gonna help 'round the farm?”

He seemed to slowly ponder this, chewing absentmindedly on a toothpick in his mouth. “God'll provide.” The farmer finally shrugged.

Macintosh was only a few years her senior, but there were times when he just sounded so... old.

“Ya say that, but I'd prefer a more practical answer,” Jack countered.

“It's as practical as it needs ta be, sis.” He turned his lazy green eyes towards the girl. “I'm givin' ya the chance ta be somethin' I never could—college educated. An' at one of the best Academies money can offer, too.”

“But how we gonna pay fer it? We're barely scrappin' by as it is, Mac. Ain't no way we can afford fer me ta go back ta school.”

“We can, an' we will. Ain't no other way outta this one.” He gave a quick, joking kick to Jack's backside, leaving a dusty boot imprint on her faded jeans. “Now get up in there. I'mma sure the conductor's gettin' pissed at ya stallin'.”

She huffed, brushing off her seat. “Fine. Didn't realize ya wanted me out this bad.”

“Eyup,” he quietly joked, tossing her luggage inside the cart. “Jus' make sure ta write an' come back on vacation, alright?”

“Of course, Mac.” As he loaded the last of her things onto the train, she wrapped him in a tight hug. “Tell Bloom I'm sorry she didn't get ta come see me off.”

“She'll understand,” he said. “I hope,” he added under his breath.

Jack walked past him and entered the train, scooping up what she could of her luggage. With a small, surprisingly timid wave of her hand, she bid goodbye as the last whistle rang out into the countryside.

“Love ya, bro,” she called out, refusing to cry.

“Love ya too, sis,” he answered back, wiping his eyes onto his flannel shirt. “A-aint too long 'till yer first break. I'll see ya then, o-ok?”

“It's a promise.”


000


The blonde leaned back in her seat, sighing as the train finally departed the station. The cart was nearly empty, only holding her and one other girl in the back of the cart. The other one seemed intently focused on a video game of some sort—her curly pink hair bobbed as she darted back and forth to what was on the screen. The southerner never found the appeal in most games, save for ones that told a good story. Those ones at least she could enjoy even if she wasn't actually good.

She looked out the window at the moonlit sky. Fields and ponds blanketed the sight as far as the eye could see. In the far distance, there was a pocket of woods—Jack had got lost there once when she was younger. Macintosh took her snipe hunting, and, well... she was still pretty sore about that one.

This land spoke to her in so many ways. It hurt leaving, that was for sure. And for what? So Macintosh could pat himself on the back?

Her brow furrowed at the thought, and she scowled. Seconds later, she shook her head. Nah, Mac was only doing this to make their folks proud and give her the chance he never did, all thanks to the accident that took their mama and pa from them.

The young woman reached into one of her bags and pulled out the pamphlet for the school she was traveling to. As she read what was on the paper, her lips moved in time with her mind, a vice she had ever since she was little.

“Cloudsdale University. Over two hundred years service providing magic training for soul-folk. Over one hundred years providing education to the world. Come and view our pristine academy, fantastic teachers, and five star gourmet meals...”

She stopped reading, tossing the pamphlet to the side. “Damn it, Mac. I didn't need anythin' this fancy. Yer jus' tossin' money inta the wind,” Jack complained to herself.

“Who's Mac?” a voice questioned from right behind her. She whipped around, nearly gasping at the pink haired girl leaning on her headrest. She was a cute thing with a charming, innocent smile and light blue eyes. She extended her hand over the seat. “Hi! My name's Diane! But most people call me Pinkie, 'cause I like pink so much!” She giggled. “How about you? What's your name?”

“Uh...” the farmer quickly let her southern charm kick in until her brain rebooted from the surprise. “I'm Jack Apple.  Pleasure ta meet ya.” She grabbed Pinkie's hand and gave it a firm shake, noting a mark in the shape of three balloons on the back of the girl's hand.

	Earth-folk too, huh? Applejack thought, stealing a quick peek at the back of her own calloused hand and noting the three apples dotting it.

“Apple family?!” The other gasped, as if the revelation was integral to the world functioning. “You're brothers with Macintosh, right?”

“Eyup. Ho-”

“I knew it!” Pinkie giggled, balling up a fist and putting it down into her palm. “I'm part of the Pie clan—we're maybe an hour or so west of you guys. Mac's visited before to butcher a few pigs. Small world!”

“Huh. I knew he took the pigs and beef ta get slaughtered somewhere close. Guess I never knew the butchers had a gal my age.” Applejack glanced towards the pamplet she had so casually thrown to the side moments ago. “If yer on this train, then I reckon yer goin' ta the same spot as me.”

“Next stop, Cloudsdale!” The other one boasted, quickly standing on her seat and sticking a foot on top of the farmer's headrest. She pointed forward with the exuberance of a pirate finding gold.

“I'm takin' ya've been there 'bouts before?” Jack drawled, turning to and fro in an attempt to comfortably sit without running her head into the other's pink converse shoes.

“Well, duh! I'm a Sophomore now! I've been, like, around the block.” She innocently beamed a toothy grin, sticking out her petite chest proudly and throwing her head back with mirth.

“Well then, how's 'bout ya fill me in on the experience. I ain't never been ta someplace so fancy 'fore... 'least, not in a long, long time. How should I act?”

Pinkie put a finger to her chin for a moment, squinting her eyes shut. She quickly opened them. “Be yourself, silly! It's what I do!”

The farmer paused, smiling slightly. “Well, I like that advice. Ain't never been one ta play roles, I'd much rather be a heart on my sleeve kinda gal, I suppose.”

Pinkie nodded so quickly that her poofy pink hair wiggled and jiggled. “Uh-huh! And don't worry—I can introduce you to everything when we get there! I'm, like, the best tour guide ever! And we can throw you a party and invite all of my friends! It'll be great!”

“N-now jus' hold yer horses, I ain't sure if I wanna do all that tonight. Can it wait 'till morning?”

“Of course, silly-billy! There's no classes until Wednesday!”

“Good deal.” Jack let out a long, drawn out yawn, and rubbed her green eyes. “God, how late is it?”

“Late? It's early! It's only one'o'clock!” Pinkie enthusiastically stated. “We're not getting there until four.”

“One?! Shootfire, I'm usually in bed by the time eleven rolls 'bout. No wonder I'mma yawnin' so much.”

“Oh! You're wanting to sleep! I can understand that, I'm pretty tired myself! We had to wean some calves from the bottle today! Let's see, how many did we stop givin' milk? There was Armand, Alphonse, Berry, Brick, Brunt, Bill, Boston, Boston Cream Pie, Coconut, Custard, Davy, Dewey, Frank...”

Jack's eyes grew heavy as the girl continued to ramble on and on. She felt her eyes involuntary start to close...


000


“...Yam, Yo-yo, Yggdrasil, Zebra...”

Jack awoke with a yawn as the train jerked to a halt. She tiredly glanced over to Pinkie, and wasn't sure if she felt relief when she noted the girl was leaned back in the seat behind her, talking in her slumber. On noting the train stopped, Jack rose and gave Diane a quick shake.

“Up an at 'em. We're here,” the farmer quickly said.

Pinkie yawned, stretching out as much as she could in the chair. “Oh wow!” she chirped. “That train ride flew by!”

“Sleepin' can have that effect, yeah,” the farmer casually said, smiling gently. Even though Pinkie was her age, Jack couldn't help but hold a maternal instinct for the childish woman. Instinctively, she tussled the pink girl's hair. “Let's get ta mosyin'. I'm sure the conductor wants ta get a move on.”

“Okie dokie loki!” Pinkie chirped.

The two, both loaded down with luggage, stepped foot onto the station. Jack took a deep breath, and was surprised how, well, clean the air still felt. It reminded her of home. As she looked around the nearly empty station, Pinkie tugged at Jack's collar.

She pointed straight ahead. “There's our ride!”

Standing at attention was a thin and frail elderly man in a crisp, clean gray overcoat. In his gloved hands was a small sign. Diane Pie and Jack Apple, it said.

“Hans!” the girl giggled, dropping her stuff and running over to give the man a bone crushing hug. He gasped at the impact, but soon his dark and kindly face lit up.

“Ms. Pie. Fantastic to see you as well.” He quietly laughed, putting a gentle hand on top of her head. The man soon coughed into his hand, and looked over to the tall and tanned woman awkwardly holding her bags. “Ms. Apple, if I am so bold to guess?”

“Eyup.” She nodded. “Jack'll do me jus' fine, though.”

He gently moved past Pinkie, and gave a small bow. “My name is Hans. I am to be your driver. Please, allow me to take your luggage and-”

“Ain't no need. I got it myself,” Jack replied, moving her assortment of bags to one hand in order to grab Pinkie's load. She shrugged easily. “This ain't nothing compared ta some of the junk I've had ta haul over at the Acres.” The farmer easily brushed past the two, heading for the exit. Hans and Diane met each others glances and shrugged.


000


Jack bumped the door handles with her foot, nudging the exit gently and stepping through the door. She took a few steps and adjusted her baggage.

It was a quaint, picturesque town. In the fresh misty morning air, Jack took a deep breath of life. 	A paperboy rode past her, throwing his ware onto the steps of the various shops lining the cobblestone street on her right. To her left was green fields, and a small dirt path leading to a pond filled with casually swimming ducks and surrounded by trees in the distance. A pale woman wearing a yellow sweater brushed pink hair away from her gentle face, and threw bread crumbs towards the animals. She seemed to giggle when one took notice of her treat.

A neighing from a few feet away drew Jack's attention back to business. Standing proudly on the streets was a carriage with two well bred brown horses, looking smart in matching black collars. Jack felt empathy for the two animals, and made her way towards them, giving each gave a small stroke of affection on their blonde manes in turn. They welcomed her with gentle, chocolate eyes.

“I see you met Abigail and Allison.” Hans called out, walking alongside Pinkie and coming to the carriage. He fondly gave each a tap on the side, and climbed up to the drivers seat, giving a friendly glance towards Jack. “They normally don't take all that kindly to strangers, Ms. Apple. They must sense a kindred spirit in you.”

“Always liked horses,” she agreed, opening the carriage's door and loading her and Pinkie's bags inside. “Have a few back at the farm myself.”

“Wow! That's cool!” Diane gushed. She noticed Jack loading her stuff inside the carriage. “Wait!” she called out. The farmer paused, turning to look at the pink haired girl.

“I don't take my stuff to Cloudsdale. I stay with the bakers in town.”

“Do what now?”

Pinkie gestured to one of the buildings, where Jack saw a woman wiping a glass counter stocked with baked goods.

“Yeah! I live with Mr. and Mrs. Cake during school! I help them plan parties! And cater! I love catering!”

Jack gave a sudden nod. “Ah. That explains the balloons, I reckon.”

“Balloons?” The pink haired girl questioned. Jack pointed to her own hand, where three apples stood proudly on her heavily bronzed skin.

“Eyup. Yer mark.”

“Oh.” she said, then her eyes widened in realization. “Oh!” she exclaimed, raising her hand to eye level. “Yeah! I'm, like, super happy when I throw parties for people! It's fun!”

“Ya seem like the type ta make 'em fun, Pinkie.” Jack smirked, casually tilting her hat back with a finger. “Need a hand taking yer bags in?”

“Silly! I got 'em!” The girl giggled. She brushed past Jack, picking through the pile of stuff for her own bags, then skipped towards the bakery, humming loudly.

“She always that, uh, hyper?” the farmer asked the old man sitting on the drivers bench.

“No, Ms. Apple. Sometimes she's even more energetic,” Hans answered, grabbing the horse's reins in his gloved hands. “Better get inside the carriage. We shall be leaving when Ms. Pie returns.”

“Actually, it alright if I sit up front with ya? It's a pretty nice mornin' out, after all.” Jack had already hoisted herself up to the front, and moved slightly to get comfortable on the wooden bench.

“Sure. Just be careful and hold tight.”

Pinkie came bounding back outside after a minute or two, and ducked into the carriage. With a whistle and a slight crack of the reigns, they were off.

Jack tried to absorb every aspect of the town as the drove. The friendly faces and polite waves of the people they passed, the soothing sound of the river, and the scents of home cooked meals.

It was the kind of place she wouldn't mind calling home, if the farm ever went belly up.

“What's the name of this town, Mister?” she asked.

“You're in Saint Charles, Ms. Apple. Though the residents around here call it Ponyville.”

The blonde gave a disbelieving look over to the man. “Do what now?”

“This town has a history of relying on ponies.” He gave the briefest of glances towards Jack, before returning to minding the horses. “Though I have my suspicions you would not be interested in the story.”

Truth was, Jack never did have much of a keen interest in history. However, her drive to be polite overruled her normal apathy for the subject.

“Honestly, I don't. But go ahead, I reckon we've got ourselves a bit of a ride anyway.”

“Well, you remember anything taught to you on history about... two hundred years ago?”

“That was 'bout twenty years 'fore the three tribes were able ta join together under an alliance, right?”

“Correct. Well, during that time, it was quite common for the different race of men, or 'folk' as girls such as yourself have gotten used to calling them, to fight one another. And as any General knows, troops are only as good as the orders issued to them. Sky-folk could fly messages to their troops in moments, and trained soul-folk can almost instantly transport messages to letter stations. That left earth-folk like ourselves behind on vital, lifesaving information. This town was the start of what was known as the Pony Express.”

“Pony Express?” Jack repeated. “What in tarnation ya mean?”

He gazed ahead as they traveled past the outskirts of the quaint town, and began a gentle pace on a long curving road that cut through fields of green. “It is what historians called the system earth-folk used to transport messages. We would have some of our best men ride some of our finest horses at a full on gallop to way stations about ten or fifteen miles apart. There, they cycled over to fresh horses and repeated the task. It helped us close the message gap immensely.” Hans gave a quick glance ahead and noted a crossroads. He took a left, and continued to speak. “It was a fascinating area of study, when I was a younger man.”

“If ya say so,” the farmer dubiously answered. She looked east and noted the sun was slowly breaking the horizon. Jack  stopped what she was doing, and turned to gaze at it, nearly stuck dumb at its beauty as it crossed over the treeline. A small part of her already felt the hungry, aching pain of homesickness thanks to a view like this—it reminded the woman of her place among her lands so much it hurt.

“Seems to be shaping up into a nice day, wouldn't you agree, Ms. Apple?”

“The kind that makes ya hopeful.” Jack nodded.

“Hopeful?” he echoed, waiting for her to continue.

“Eyup. Hopeful that we'll get more mornin's jus' like this.”


000


They traveled along the quaint countryside for about half an hour, Jack nearly nodding off in her seat as the comfortable temperature and breeze got the best of her. Hans gave a quick shake of her shoulders, and pointed straight ahead. The farmer followed his finger, and was greeted with quite the sight.

On a hill in the distance was a massive and sprawling Victorian mansion, lined with strong oak trees and what seemed to be a gigantic marble fountain. As the carriage got closer, Jack could spot several young men and women milling about the grounds, seeming like they had all the time in the world to just, well, sit.

It threw the woman off how casual it all seemed. She was so used to the fancy types that went to school being in a rush constantly. Granted, it might have been because classes wouldn't start for a few more days, but still...

“Oh wow! We're here!” Pinkie Pie announced from the carriage, poking her head out of one of the windows and grinning wildly at the scene before her. Before Hans even had a chance to stop the horses, she was out and running towards the entrance, giggling madly.

Jack gave a small laugh at the girl's theatrics, and noted Hans doing much of the same.

“Her laughter is infectious, is it not?”

Jack nodded, sill carrying a lopsided grin. “Eyup.” She hopped off of the vehicle and quickly reached into the carriage, digging out her bags.

“Ms. Jack?” Hans called.

“Hmm?” she replied, moving to the driver's side.

He gazed down from the seat with kind eyes. “I would simply like to say that if you ever have any questions about the academy, don't hesitate to contact me. I know that coming to a new location so suddenly can disorient anyone.”

“Thanks. I appreciate it,” Jack said, giving a small wink in return. The older man looked once more at the risen sun.

“I suppose I should be going back to Ponyville. You and Ms. Pie are far from the only ones needing picked up today.” He gave a quick shake of his reins. “Fair thoughts and happy hours attend to you.”

With that, he was off, leaving her standing and scratching her blonde hair.

“What a weird way ta say 'bye.'”

Jack craned her neck up, overwhelmed by the size of the place. She had seen it from the road, but it was felt so much bigger now that she was on its hallowed ground. Jack lightly stepped past the people enjoying the morning and entered the large entryway.

The lobby was, to put it mildly, fancy. She shifted awkwardly in her boots at the sights.

Large bay windows let the morning rays in, blanketing everything in a tranquil ambiance. Dotted throughout the lobby were posh and comfortable leather chairs; students seemed to have already found great ones for napping. In the far corner was a piano, where a dark skinned woman with violet, shoulder-length hair was playing classical music.

Jack stuck out her tongue in distaste. If the girl was ragging out some good old fashioned blues or ragtime, Jack could have gotten behind that. Classical though? Too stuffy, reminded her of the upper crust.

The woman paused from her piano playing as a boy of about fourteen came up to her and started talking. She listened at him, wrapping a strand of her rose-streaked hair, before quickly replying to him. The kid gave a smart salute, and took off at a brisk pace towards the back of the lobby, where a grand stairway lead to a second floor, and from that landing, another set seemed to lead to a third floor. Jack couldn't see it, but she guessed the third led to a forth, maybe even a fifth floor.

Jack scratched at her head again. They knew how to make the place big.

“Can I help you with something?” a voice called to her right.

The farmer quickly turned, letting out a small gasp of surprise. By her side was a modestly large receptionist's desk with a bored looking man attending. He was about her age, and as thin as a twig. Jack had a feeling that if she shook his hand, she'd break him. The wiry man pushed up his glasses and lazily looked over the woman, his eyes scanning over her boots, her jeans, up her taunt, muddy gray shirt, and finally resting on her plaid half jacket. Or, rather, her large bust.

“Up here, sugar,” Jack easily instructed, giving a quick point to her face. She was used to dealing with gazers at the bar she frequented back home, so Jack hardly gave much thought to the orders.

“Uh, whoa. Sorry,” he said, blushing and immediately glancing up to meet her brown face.

“An' ta answer yer question; yeah. I could use a hand with somethin'.” She gave a small lift of the bags she was carrying. “I need ta know where ta put these.”

He nodded, reaching into a drawer on the desk and pulling out a Rolodex. “Sure. What's your name?”

“Jack Apple.”

He quickly thumbed through the 'A's.' “Room 1408.” He gestured to the opposite side of the room, where a double door stood. “Go in there. At the end of the hallway will be a stairwell. It's on the third floor.”

“Thanks,” she said, giving a nod and starting to walk away.

The man looked down at the Rolodex card once more. “Wait!” he called out.

She craned her neck over her shoulder to gaze at him again.

“There's a note here that the student council wants to meet with you at three.”

“Student council? What in the sam hill?” she questioned.

“Dunno. Just what it's saying on the card.”

“Well. Thanks fer the note then.” 

And with that, she was off.


000


It took a good fifteen minutes to climb up the stairwell and find her room amongst the dozens lining the hallway, but she finally did.

It was a modestly quaint thing. An undecorated bed on either end of the room with one next to a window. She gave a small grunt of satisfaction at the view, and started to unpack her stuff, loading books into the hanging shelf to the entryway's left, and placing a bible on top of the nightstand. She figured if the person she was bunking up with hadn't claimed the window seat, she might as well. Jack took the time to look over the rest of the room. In the center of the room, flush against the right wall, was a single chest of drawers with four units in it. Jack hoped she could get the top two drawers due to her height, as she doubted she'd be shorter than whoever she was bunking with.

By the drawers were two doors. One lead to a small walk-in closet that held nothing of interest aside from a few wire coat hangers. The other lead to a bathroom with a shower. She made a mental note to take one when it got closer to time on meeting the council.

Jack took a few steps back and sat on her bed, pondering why something as fancy as student council was wanting to see her. Was it because of her grades? She openly admitted she was a terrible student in high school, she had squeaked by in math and history by the skin of her teeth. Maybe she was going to be put on probation until she proved herself capable here?

She gave a small nod at the thought. This place was the cream of the cream—wouldn't make sense to let a bum like her just cruise through without pushing her to do better. Well, if she was one thing, she was a hard worker. Jack was gonna show them fancy pants know-it-alls what a simple gal like herself could do if she rolled up her sleeves.

With that in mind she rose, making a decision to go and kill some time until her meeting.
> Connections
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

	It took a bit of asking around, but she had finally found something to entertain herself with. As it turned out, Cloudsdale had something she absolutely loved doing back on the farm. Well, two things, actually. Though she'd save the horseshoes for later. It wasn't as fun playing by yourself, and she hardly had time to make friends so far. Instead, she got directions, filled a bottle with water, and headed to a separate building around the back of the academy.

Despite her reluctance at coming to the college, now that she was here a small part of her was filled to bursting. There was just so much stuff to do here to fill her exercise itch. Bike routes, a track team, swimming, weights, all of it called to her. But not a single one of them called as much as the building she just stuck her head into.

It was an out of the way thing from the school proper, and as dirty as a high-end place could get away with, but it welcomed her with open arms.

She took a few steps inside the empty building, enjoying the quiet echo her footsteps made as she walked to the center of the room, where a risen and squared off arena lined with ropes awaited challengers.

As frail as some of the people had looked out there, she had a feeling the poor thing had a lot of downtime between matches. She shed off her half jacket and hat, tossing her billfold in the pile for good measure. Jack rolled her shoulders and moved over to a punching bag in the corner of the room.

She took her time, warming up with several slow aimed blows. Once she got her heartbeat up, she started to get more into it, expertly dodging imagined blows and countering. Soon, she had a tempo with her footwork, juking and delivering multiple hits with her fists. She stopped after a few moments of this, panting heavily.

Behind her, she could hear slow clapping. Jack wiped at her brow and turned around.

“Pretty nice show you put on there, rookie,” a woman said, a cocky grin plastered on her face. Jack guessed the girl was part of the track team—she had the taut, trim look of a runner. Not to mention the baby blue tracksuit. What really drew Jack's attention, however, was the hair. She didn't have a whole lot of experience with city folk, but that short cut mop had to be weird, even by more liberal standards. It was streaked with all the colors of the rainbow.

The girl stuck a thumb up, and brushed it past her nose. “Now, I wonder if you'd be that flashy in the ring?”

Jack crossed her arms, looking at the woman. “That a challenge?”

The multi-hued girl held back a laugh. “It depends on how tough you are, I guess. I don't think it'll be much of a challenge at all.”

Jack crossly frowned, already tired of this girl's smug attitude. “Get on some pads an' get in the ring.”

“With pleasure.”

The two entered at opposite corners of the ring. Jack slapped her hands against the padded helmet she had donned. Pleased at its performance, she waited for the other to begin.

The athlete unbuttoned her tracksuit and tossed it to the side. She gave a small adjustment at the black sports bra she wore, and Applejack noticed a stylized mark in the shape of a cloud and a rainbow colored lighting bolt just below the girl's neckline.

Explains the hair a little, the farmer thought. Actually, no. The hair's still weird.

The runner gave a small gesture to the side, simulating ringing a bell.

“Ding, ding,” the girl said, grinning and putting in her mouthpiece.

In a flash, she had moved over eight feet, meeting Jack head on before she had even taken a step towards the center. The farmer gave a small gasp of surprise at the other's speed. She knew fast, but that girl was something else.

In less than two seconds since the fight started, the athletic woman had already started wildly attacking Jack, delivering dozens of punches at such a speed that her arms were blurs of color. Jack stood tall like a mountain and weathered the storm of blows, putting her forearms up to her face and moving her body like clockwork to avoid any lasting damage from the girl's unfocused swings. The southerner waited patiently for an opportunity to return the favor.

She found it seconds later, when the other briefly stalled on her punching tempo. Jack guessed the other girl was coming in for a cross; Jack suddenly snapped her entire torso backwards, going so horizontal on her dodge that her upper back was nearly parallel with the floor. She smiled grimly when she saw the cross sail over her head.

For a brief moment, Jack was a primal, hauntingly beautiful force of nature. Her long untied hair seemed frozen in space, and her tanned, taunt skin was coated in the sheen of sweat. Her green eyes were pinprick dots in a sea of ivory. She was, plain and simple, a tiger, finally done stalking its prey.

Jack rose her hand up and pushed aside the girl's arm with her right, then shifted her foot. She was as taunt as a spring, and with a burst of energy she propelled her torso upwards and twisted her shoulder, calling forth one powerful arching downward strike, fulled by inertia and the farmer's own rock hard muscles. It connected directly onto the top of the girl's leather helmet with a crack.

The runner didn't stumble or shift from the blow; rather, she dropped like a sack of hammers, kissing the floor before Jack could even get back into her southpaw stance.

Jack hurried to the other's side, afraid she had honestly hurt the girl. She had been holding back quite a bit of her strength, but it didn't help that everybody in this school seemed to be made of paper. With a tender care, the blonde took off the girl's helmet, and examined her.

The runner groaned, opening her rose colored eyes and reaching up to her head. “Damn, bro.” She looked at her fingers, amazed they came back clean of blood. “Nice shot,” she allowed, grinning weakly.

Jack reached down and took her hand, hoisting the runner up. The multi-hued woman nodded in appreciation, and took her time examining the southerner.

Finally, she came to a conclusion. “For a hayseed, you know how to handle yourself. I can dig that.” She extended her hand once more. “Name's Dash.”

“Jack,” the farmer answered, shaking the girl's hand.

“Well, Jack. It was fun. I've been waiting for someone able to match me step for step--you would not believe how twiggy some of these guys are.”

Jack nodded, moving to the corner of the ring and donning her jacket and hat again. “Next time, don't extend yer arm like that. Ya mighta actually got a good lick or two on me if ya were cautious.”

Dash rolled her eyes. “Yeah, ok, mom. Cautious doesn't win you anything in racing, why should it win you fights?” The athlete put her track jacket back on, and gave her pixie cut hair a quick run through with her fingers, mussing it up. She ducked through the ropes around the ring, and headed for the door, Jack on her heels.

When they got outside, Dash gave a quick glance to the sky. “Tell you what, Jackie, tomorrow. Two outta three. I'm picking the sport, though.”

“Fair enough, Dashie.” The country girl snorted.

The athlete gave a small thumbs up. “Welp. I got places to go and things to do. Catch you in the funny papers, hayseed.”

With that, the girl closed her eyes, and concentrated. She rested her hands at the base of her neckline. After a brief moment, two shimmering and translucent golden wings appeared inches away from Dash's back. She gave the slightest flex of her eyes and unfurled them, smugly grinning at the farmer the whole time. With a brisk leap into the air, she was off, the shimmering wings behind her easily carrying the woman towards the academy.

“Fancy pants sky-folk,” Jack grunted with a smirk, taking easy footsteps back towards the main building,


000


Jack returned back to her dorm room and washed up; after she got out of the shower and wrapped a towel around her body, she noted a black duffel bag plopped on the bed she hadn't claimed, and four posters on the wall away from the window. Her roommate must have came and went already while she was bathing. Feeling curious, she examined the posters.

One was a poster of Black Sabbath. Jack gave a small shrug, accepting what she saw so far. At least metal wasn't classical. The other three were of a girl a few years older than her with a golden bob-cut in various stages of undress. The first the woman had on a yellow flight suit, partially unzipped to show off her lithe body. Another had her dressed like a walking southern parody, complete with Daisy Duke shorts, a plaid shirt that was tied over her narrow bust, and a coil of rope wrapped around her waist in place of a belt.

“Yeah. Good luck gettin' work done in that gitup, sister,” Jack said under her breath. She had tried working the fields in shorts. Once. After falling into a thorn-bush and cutting up her legs though, she promptly retired them. Though she had admittedly done the tied-over shirt once or twice as a joke with a few of Mac's friends.

The last image was simply her wearing what seemed to be a military garb for a scout of some kind—light leather armor, a padded open helmet, and a repeating crossbow with a flashlight at the end. Below her, in bright yellow font was one word: Spitfire.

Jack rolled her eyes.

“Pfft. What kinda stage name is 'Spitfire,' anyway?” she asked the empty room. On hearing no reply, she tossed aside her towel and donned some fresh clothing. Jack debated on grabbing the dirty laundry she had tossed onto the bathroom floor, but shrugged, deciding to worry about it later.


000


Jack was once again at the mercy of strangers as she asked around for the location to the student council room. Thankfully, she found someone who knew where it was after a few rounds.

She approached the door and gave a small, hesitant knock. After a few moments of not hearing anyone coming, she shrugged and entered, leaving the door open.

The room was apparently a slightly modified classroom—it had a few tables forming a perfect, angled square that encompassed most of the floor space. At the far end of the room was a podium loaded down with thick tomes that were probably light years away from Jack's interests.

On noticing nobody around, the woman took a window seat. The sunlight streamed through the windows, making where she sat a pocket of warmth and comfort. Seeing no harm in it, Jack kicked her feet onto the top of the table and leaned back in the chair. She tiled her hat forward, and shut her eyes. Just as she was about to nod off, a scratchy voice spoke up from the hallway.

“Hey guys! Sorry I'm-” Dash began, only to pause.

At the sound of the woman's voice, Jack tilted her hat back and stared.

The athlete stood frozen at the door, keeping an icepack flush with the top of her head as she looked over the country girl.

They both instantly pointed at one another.

“You!” they shouted in unison.

“What the heck you doin' here, hayseed?”

“I could ask ya the same question!”

Dash gave an incredulous look at Jack. “...Because... I'm... a student council member?” she slowly answered, as if explaining the fact to a lower life form.

“You? Really?” Jack asked, tilting her head at the girl. “Kinda surprisin'.”

“What's that supposed to mean?” Dash replied, narrowing her eyes.

“'Cause ya seemed like a jock, is all.” Jack bluntly retorted, putting her chair down on all fours and meeting Dash's gaze.

“High School GPA of 3.2 good enough for you, hayseed?” the athlete countered, moving across the room and sitting next to the girl. “Or you gonna wow me with yours?”

Jack blushed, mumbling something under her breath. Dash raised a brow.

“Wanna lay that down again for me, Jackie?”

“2.0. There. Happy, Egghead?” Jack snapped, crossing her arms with a deep frown.

Dash put her free hand up to her mouth in an attempt to hold back her laughter.

It failed. Horribly.

“Hahaha! That's great! You're nothing but muscle!” she howled, pounding on the table.

On seeing Jack's intense scowl and clenched fists, she lightened up.

A bit.

“J-just kiddin', Jack.” She snorted back another titter of laughter. “Still though, how in God's name did you get in here with a GPA like that?”

Jack grew slightly morose. “I, uh, dunno,” she honestly answered, rising to look out the window at the people still wandering the grounds. “I really am the odd man out here, ain't I? Ain't sure how in the hell I got in.”

The woman glared down at the carpeted floor. “An' I ain't sure how long I'll even be able ta keep up with the smart folks 'round here, ya know?” She shook her head, bitterly wiping at her nose. “I'm jus' a dummy that's lucked out.”

Jack felt a tender hand rest on her left shoulder.

“Bro, lighten up,” Dash ordered, leaning forward to meet Jack's glance. “How you got her doesn't matter—hell, I bet half the guys and gals here bought their way in—what matters is that you slog through this, you know?”

Jack sighed, visibly slumping. “I—I guess, but-”

“No 'buts,' dude,” the multi-hued girl instructed, giving a playful punch onto the farmer's shoulder as she guided the girl back to her seat. “Look, class hasn't even started yet; maybe you're freaking out for no reason. For all we know, you might do just fine on your own. If not...” Dash smirked, leaning back in her chair. “I'll give you a hand, me being an egghead and all.”

She stared at the girl, her mouth slightly agape at the other's kind offer. “Dash... thanks.”

“Gotta make sure my rival sticks around. Been forever since someone's actually got me pumped for a rematch.” Dash winked, giving a brief showing of her injury. The farmer recoiled slightly at the discolored bump adorning Dash's crown.

“Shoulda held back more on my strength.” Jack winced, feeling sorry for the athlete.

“Wait.” Dash blinked. “You were holding back?!”

“Well, yeah,” Jack countered, drumming her fingers on the table. “If I had went full force, I woulda cracked yer skull like a grapefruit, with or without gloves.”

The athlete snorted. “Whatev.” She stared at the ceiling briefly, before smiling and turning to face the farmer. “Oh yeah dude; speaking of eggheads, right? I have a feeling my roommate's an egghead from hell.”

“Ah yeah?” Jack drawled, resting her chin on the palm of her hand.

“Totally.” Dash nodded. She placed an arm around the back of her chair and kicked up her feet onto the table. “So, get this: I cruise through there to drop off my stuff, you know? I get to the room, and the gal's got all these books in the drawers already and a bible on the nightstand. Total square. I probably would have found like, a pair of rimmed glasses and a pocket protector if I had searched hard enough.”

“Ain't nothin' wrong with a bit of readin',” Jack said, the girl's words hitting a bit close to home.

“Why read when you can go out and do stuff?” Dash replied, giving an exasperated shake of her head and a tired smile. “You just don't get it.”

“I don't. How can someone with a higher GPA than me jus' blow off readin'? I had ta study all night fer a few of those C pluses.”

“Just comes natural to me I guess.”

Before Jack could express her disgust, a bouncing pink haired girl popped in through the door. 	

“Hi guys!” she chirped, moving to take a seat next to Dash. She waved with excitement to Jack, and began to babble, moving her mouth quicker than the southerner could keep up. “Wow, Jack! It's great to see you! I was wondering what you were doing after I ran off to talk to some people because I know the first day at school is scary and if I had time I was gonna throw a party for you and invite everyone in the school but then I realized that I wouldn't have time today but I was gonna come to your dorm room for a bit anyway in order to say hello but when I talked to the receptionist about where you lived at he told me you were coming to a student council meeting anyway so I thought I'd jus-”

The girl was silenced by a hand.

“Yeah, no. I'm getting a headache,” Dash briskly said. “And where the heck are the others?”

“Shouldn't be too long! They're just busy!”

Jack shifted in her chair, taking off her hat and putting it on the table. “Who are these 'others?'” she asked.

“Mostly just nerds, but they're alright.” Dash shrugged. “There's three others besides us. Uh, let's see...” She counted on a finger. “There's Chylene. She's a great gal who'd do anything to help someone who needed it—and I'm proud to say one of my first and best friends.” The athlete spoke this tenderly, fondly smiling at the thought of the woman. “Though a bit quiet. Just don't do anything stupid and I'm sure she'll warm up to you.

“Then there's Twila Shields. She's, uh, interesting.”

Jack gave a roll of her hand, encouraging the other to keep talking.

“The girl graduated from Camelot as a Summa Cum Laude with a 4.0 GPA.”

“Sweet. Jesus.” Jack nearly recoiled in shock. “How?!”

“She's scary smart.” Pinkie nodded sagely.

“And that's not all. She's the Princess's private protege--”

“That was a lot of 'p's,' wasn't it?” Pinkie precariously pondered.

“Uh... yeah,” Dash agreed.

“So ya mean ta tell me Celestia's sent one of her own ta this school?” Jack whistled. “Ain't that somethin'.”

“Last one's Rarity Belle. She's a high-class type, so she fits right in here,” Dash said, taking the icepack off of her head.

The farmer rubbed her chin. “'Belle' sounds familiar ta me.”

“Shouldn't be surprising. Her daddy's all over the news.”

It finally clicked for the farmer. “Ah, yeah. He's a, uh, diplomat, ain't he?”

Dash nodded. “Been hashing out trade negotiations with the Maconites for years now. He's single-handily got us close to opening trade routes with them. Imagine, bro; we'd have access to things from across the world at our fingertips! I hear Maconites have this, like, combustion engine that kicks the crap outta our steam ones.”

Jack crossed her hands behind her head, looking over at the girl. “No kiddin'? That'd be somethin' mighty nifty ta have 'round fer sure.”

The sound of heels clicking near the door alerted them of another person entering.

“My apologies,” an ebony-toned woman dressed in a lavender button up shirt said, pushing her violet bangs back behind her ear and shuffling the collection of notebooks in her arm. “I had to inform Spike of a few things, and lost track of the time.”

“No big, Twi.” Dash shrugged. “Ain't like Rarity or Chy are here yet anyway.”

“Still?” the woman questioned, pushing her black rimmed glasses up the bridge of her narrow nose. “I had not expected them to take this long. I suppose we should begin regardless.” She gave a warm smile towards Jack. “Miss Apple, correct?”

“Uh, eyup. That's me.”

The woman extended her hand. “Quite the pleasure to meet you. My name's Twila Shields. You're welcome to call me Twila, Twi, or, well, anything in between.”

“Just don't call her Shirley!” Diane butted in cheerfully.

Twila looked at Pinkie, scratching the star shaped mark on her cheek. “Who's Shirley?”

“I dunno.” The pink haired girl shrugged.

Twila sighed, dropping the conversation and returning her attention back to Jack. “Well, it's quite the pleasure to meet you, Miss Apple.”

“Jus' call me Jack. Miss Apple was my mama; God rest her soul.”

The girl pushed up her glasses once more, and brushed off a piece of lint off of her black skirt. “Well, in any case, Jack, I am correct in assuming you are curious as to why you are here, yes?”

The farmer rubbed her mouth. “Uh, yeah, kinda.”

“A fair question.” Twila took a few steps and went behind the podium. “And one we shall address in but a moment—first, however,” She looked down on a sheet of paper. “We need to officially check attendance.”

“Oh come on!” Dash exclaimed, gesturing to the two girls at either side of her. “We're right here!”

“We have a procedure to follow!” Twi tapped the paper with the back of her fingers. “So let's start it so we can get to the next order of business.” She cleared her throat. “Diane Pie.”

“That's me!” Pinkie exclaimed, jumping from her seat and waving a hand in the air. “Here! I'm here!”

Twila gave a brisk nod, returning to her paper. “Hmm. Good. Chylene Hutchinson?”

“Um... I-I'm here.” A quiet, demure voice whispered from the other side of the room. Everyone turned their attention towards the voice. In the shadows sat a pale girl who nervously fidgeted with her hands. She reached for a napkin that was on the table and took to folding it, running it over her slender, delicate fingers as she stared straight down.

“Yo, Chy. ‘Sup?” Dash called over to her. “Didn't even hear you walk in.”

The girl seemed perplexed, putting her hands up to the top of yellow sweater in surprise. “I-I said 'hello' to everyone...”

Twila nodded, making a check on her paper with a pencil. “Alright then. Rarity Belle?”

Dead silence.

The girl sighed, pushing up her glasses. “Well. I suppose I should mark her abs--”

“Right here, darlings!” a chipper tone called out.

In walked a woman with precisely curled and dolled up purple hair, dangling silver earrings, and azure eyes that seemed to pierce through Jack's soul. On her cheek were three diamonds that spoke of utter perfection. The woman—because calling an object of such feminine charm and grace a girl would be tantamount to sacrilege—ran a well manicured hand over her pure white dress that left very little to the imagination, thanks to the low cut that exposed her ample cleavage, and the slit that ran up to her thigh at the right. Yep. She was the epitome of class in Jack's eyes.

Which meant that the farmer had an instant dislike of her.

The woman walked easily across the room in her high heels and sat dainty upon a chair next to Chylene, crossing her legs and resting her hands on top of one knee.

“Good, good.” Twilight nodded. “That just leaves Isabelle Ritter.”

Dead silence rang throughout the room. Jack felt a sudden shift as everybody's eyes turned to focus on Dash.

She scrunched up her face. “Damn it, Twila, I don't like being called that.”

“But it's your na-”

“Yeah. Yeah. I know, believe me.” Dash waved a nonchalant hand. “Here.”

“Good!” The girl of the soul-folk beamed, looking at everybody present from behind the podium. “We're all present and accounted for. Next up on the list is the notes from yesterday's meeting. Please do the honors, Miss Belle.”

“With pleasure,” the beautiful woman cooed, fluttering her eyelashes briefly in a joking attempt to be coy. Rarity took a glance at a small day-planner, and began reading. “Attendance is called. Everybody absent save for Rarity Belle and Twila Shields. Three rounds of bridge are played instead of discussing topics, with Rarity being the winner in all occurrences.”

“Ok, ok. That's enough recapping, Miss Belle.”

“Glad to be of service, darling.”

Twila turned her attention back to the farmer. “Right. Let's get to business then.” She raised her finger, and it suddenly became enveloped in a purple aura. With that, she pointed to the center of the room, where a strange violet portal seemed to open up. Suddenly, an image appeared inside the portal of dozens of papers, all with middling grades at best. Jack identified them as her own work.

“Jack Apple. You've never been the best student, have you?”

“Uh, no ma'am.”

“Yet you're here. Why is that?”

At that, Jack scowled. “I've put myself through that same damn song and dance earlier, I don't know.”

“I'll tell you why,” Twila quietly said. She waved her hand once to the left, and the portal blinked, revealing a new set of papers. “What can you tell me about these?”

Jack squinted at the picture, before realization suddenly snapped into her. “Oh! Ain't that stuff from my Agriculture class?”

“Correct.” Twila leaned slightly on Jack's table, giving a sidelong glance towards the farmer. “Anything different about this compared to the ones I showed you earlier?”

The farmer wryly smiled. “Well, I sure as sugar didn't see near as much red on those.”

“Jack. In between the two Agriculture related classes you took throughout your academic career, you averaged a 99.8%. I didn't even average that in an Ag class.”

With a quick pinching motion of her finger and thumb, the image zoomed in on the top left segment. Twila gave a gentle brush left and right with her hand, shifting a few other papers in the image to the side, showcasing a single, modestly thick report.

“This was your final paper, correct? The one about mutating a strain of DNA in the Apple genome to produce a more bountiful crop, and how it might be applicable in other vegetable and fruit production?”

The farmer took off her hat and scratched at her head. She was pretty sure she never made a paper sound that fancy in her life, but she did recall writing one about hybrid apple types. “Uh, yeah. I did. Why?”

Twila gazed, flabbergasted. “Jack,” she said, gesturing intently at the paper shown at the portal's mouth. “With this formula and design you just potentially increased food production for the entire nation--provided it’s applicable to other fruit bearing trees.”

“Sugar, all I did was luck out an' make an' apple hybrid that gets 'em to produce in tighter clusters on trees. I ain't solvin' world hunger or nothin'.”

“Not yet, at least,” Twi retorted. “But if we were to allow you a chance to bring your knowledge forward to other bright minds that are more... refined than yours? Can you imagine what we could do?” Twila stared hard at the woman, seemingly debating on sharing something. She decided to go ahead. “It's why you're enrolled here. I pulled a few strings in order for the academy to forgive you regarding your lower grades.”

She gave a slow turn of her head, meeting everyone's eyes as she circled the room. “Every single one of you I believe belongs in Camelot due to your abilities. Being here in the school is the first step towards a brighter tomorrow.”

Jack held her tongue. Frankly, she didn't care about about Camelot; she was just as happy as could be on the farm. However, since Twila had revealed that she had twisted a few arms in order to help, the farmer would at least briefly consider the possibility before throwing it away.

“Now, due to you being new at the academy, I suggest you take some time to grow accustomed with your classmates. School doesn't begin officially until Wednesday, so prepare while you can.”

Jack put her hat back on. Her plans for tomorrow were more or less the same thing.

“Just be prepared, Jackie. I'm not gonna lose at my own game tomorrow.” Dash spoke up, grinning defiantly.

“Goshin'! We'll be a—seesin' 'bout that, Miz Isbelle,” Jack spoke, intentionally amplifying her accent to almost unintelligible malarkey.

“Don't call me that,” Dash snapped back. “Hate it.”

“Well, I for one think it's positivity radiant name.” Rarity beamed, leaning forward as she watched the two staring daggers at one another.

“It's a dumb name,” the athlete countered.

“If you say so, dear.” The mature woman easily shrugged.

Twila butted into the conversation, glancing at everyone present. “Now, I'm sure all of you want to return to your dormitories in order to resume unpacking, so I'm going to adjourn this meeting. Before we depart, let's give a big round of applause for our newest member, Jack Apple.”

The farmer was soon surrounded by the noise of clapping, with Dash giving her a hard slap on the back. Jack wanted to protest joining the council but held her tongue. Again.

The fact of the matter was: she owed Twi a lot more than just joining the group. Jack should be cleaning toilets or something due to her terrible GPA, and instead she was drafted into student council? Only one thing to say to that.

“Uh, pleasure ta be aboard.” Jack nervously grinned.


000


Jack spent the rest of the day exploring the school with Pinkie Pie at her side. It was close to ten when she retired to her room; Jack was always more of an early riser, so she changed, grabbed her dirty clothes and chucked them into a pile on her side, then sat and read a bit by the light of a lamp. After finishing a few verses, she put the book back on top of her nightstand, and splayed her tall body across the bed, noting with a bit of irritation that the lower part of her legs dangled freely over the footrest.

Moments before she was about to drift off, she was startled alert by the sound of loud footsteps and humming. The doorknob leading to the hallway twisted, and the silhouette of a person walked into the dark room.

The farmer couldn't resist. After a few moments, she flicked on her lamp, lighting the room and drawing her attention to the lithe, nearly nude form of Dash. The athlete stared in surprise, so shocked at the sudden light that she froze, still in the middle of taking off her shirt.

Jack stared hard at Isabelle, equally frozen at the switch on her lamp. So she was the square that Dash was talking about earlier?

Both of them were spurred into action at the same time, and only one expression fit their feelings right now. Both pointed boldly at the other in shock and exclaimed in unison, “You!”


000


The man stared, looking out of his office windows at the lit skyscrapers battling against the dark night. He was the picture of calm, from his muscular, still body adorned in a well pressed suit, to his black leather shoes, polished to a nearly mirror shine. He observed the nighttime ambiance with both of his hands clasped tightly behind his back.

From behind him, the man heard a sharp knock at his door. He waited patiently by the large bay window, far from concerned at who could be disturbing him at this hour. He didn't have to wait long; in stumbled a young man dressed in a slightly more frumpy suit. The younger of the two nervously adjusted his tie, and fought back the butterflies in his stomach as he approached near the well crafted mahogany desk.

The man by the window spoke. “Mr. Blueblood. I appreciate your prompt arrival.”

“O-of course, sir.” He nodded, sweating slightly. He felt like vomiting just from being close to the man, but fought back his fright, speaking as calmly as he could. “M-might I ask what you need me for, sir?”

The man finally turned from the window.

He gave an approving glace at Blueblood that sent shivers of discomfort up the younger one's spine, and spoke, stroking his silvery-gray goatee. “I have a... request I believe you may be able to help me with.”

The man moved to the nearby desk, sitting in an overstuffed black leather chair with a small sigh of contentment. “She's at Cloudsdale Academy right now. It'd be the perfect time to send a message, wouldn't you say?”

Blueblood nodded, needing no clarification on who the man meant. “You can count on me.” He bowed, turning to leave. Before he could move, he felt a hard hand on his shoulder. The youngster winced and turned his head, nearly coming face to face with his employer.

How did he—he was sitting down just a second ago! Blueblood's panicked thoughts screamed at him.

“Remember...” the man started in a low, quiet voice. “A message. Scare her. We don't need to resort to violence.” At that, his face split into a wide, sickly grin that made Blueblood nearly recoil.

“Yet,” the man added, punctuating the sentence with a single, low chuckle filled to the brim with threats and actions that shouldn't exist in a civilized world. Or an uncivilized one, for that matter.

Blueblood nodded, self preservation the only thing keeping him from fainting at the dangerous glint in the other's eyes. “O-of course, Mr. Dorcis.”

The man quickly (but politely) walked out of the office at that point. Dmitri laughed once more at his assistant's actions, and plopped back down into his chair. After a quick adjustment of his cufflinks, he lit a cigar and returned to work.
> Smoothing out the wrinkles
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

        A shrill ringing punctured the early morning dimness inside Jack's room. The farm girl easily reached over and turned off her alarm, glancing at it in surprise.

        Five-thirty already? she marveled, quickly getting up and throwing open the curtains, letting the sunshine in.

        From across the room, she heard a deep, agonizing groan.

        Isabella looked like she had just woken up from the world's biggest bender. Her short, rainbow dyed hair stuck out at bizarre angles, and she clutched her head tightly as her bloodshot eyes looked about.

        The athlete paused for a beat until she finally started to focus at the objects littering the room. Finally, Dash licked her dry lips. “Time?”

        “Five-thirty,” Jack chipperly answered, humming to herself as she dug through the chest of drawers. She pulled out a set of clothes and cradled them in her arms.

        “Why?” Dash muttered in agony, slumping back into her bed and putting her arm over her eyes.

        “Ain't much of an' early bird, are ya, Wings?” Jack joked. On seeing the athlete’s humorless glare, the farmer retreated to the bathroom.

        After taking a quick shower and brushing her teeth, she stepped back out, noting with disdain that Dash had sprawled halfway off the bed and was loudly snoring.

        Jack shook her head, torn between waking up the slug, or taking a look around.

        Deciding that pissing off her roommate this early in the game was a dumb call, she headed out into the hall.


000


        Her feet wandered almost as much as her mind. Eventually, both came to the same conclusion, taking the southerner to a modestly classy dining room. Empty tables lined the area; only a brave few had actually decided to get a bite this early. However, she did notice a pink haired girl in a yellow sweater chatting quietly with a violet haired beauty.

        Jack was anything but bashful on most occasions, so she easily approached the two and sat by them. Though she did keep an eye on the classy lady next to her—she'd seen what big talking city slickers could do and learned to be a little wary around them.

        “Chylene an' Rarity, ain't it?”

        “Indeed it is, Jacqueline,” Rarity agreed, tossing her hair to the side. Across the table, the pink haired girl looked down at her oatmeal and silently nodded.

        “Jacqueline?” the farmer repeated, looking as if the word had left a bad taste in her mouth. “Nah. Jus' 'Jack,' Rare.”

        “My apologies.” Rarity ran a finger along a silver necklace clasped around her collarbone and leaned forward, taking a forkful of salad into her mouth. She dabbed at her mouth with a napkin. “I simply assumed that Jack was short for a more... regal name.”

        “Jus'. Jack.” The farmer frowned.

        “That must be terrible, wouldn't you agree, Chylene?” the fashionable woman asked.

        “W-well-” Chylene began, only to be cut off.

        “What in the heck's wrong with 'Jack?” Jack snapped.

       Rarity put a manicured finger lightly to her chin, looking intently at the farmer. “It's fairly masculine, wouldn't you say?”

        Jack briefly felt like her emotions were a roulette wheel. She was caught between letting it slide—she was a tomboy after all, and it wasn't like the insult bothered her—and strangling the woman.

        She settled for a middle ground.

        “It look like I'm the sorta gal that cares 'bout bein' all girly?” Jack scratched her arm. “Lady, I run a farm with my brother; I ain't got the time or enough of my daddy's money ta dress myself up like some sorta dumb, frou-frou fancy fairy-tale doll.” She gestured at Rarity's well designed and frilled dress. “Unlike some people.”

        Rarity face became flushed. “I'll have you know that this,” she gestured down at her dress. “Is far from a waste of time like you're implying, Ms. Apple.”

        “Well, ya sure as hell coulda fooled me.”

        The classy woman rose, shaking her head in blatant disdain. “I suppose that will be my call to leave, Chylene. It is not becoming of a woman to associate with such an... an... ogre. I hope you have a pleasant day,” she tensely said, her heels clacking away as she walked towards the exit.

        “Y-you too,” the girl squeaked, hiding behind her bangs and watching Rarity leave.

        Jack shook her head. “What's up with that woman?”

        Chylene swallowed under Jack's gaze. “W-well... s-she might have been just a teensy bit upset at you for the china doll comment.”

        “Ya mess with the bulls, ya get the horns, sugar.”

        A waiter approached the two and asked Jack if she was hungry. Without breaking stride, she ordered fried hashbrowns and a serving of sausage links, then returned to her conversation as the waiter left.

       “'Sides,” Jack easily continued, “that's all them fancy-pants people do: buy girly clothes that are more expensive than the animal that they came from, an' then trounce 'round bein' show-offs.”

        “She's not like that,” Chylene defensively said, her tone slightly louder than her previous near-whisper.

        Jack tilted her hat back. “'Course she is. I mean, did ya see what she was wearin'? I bet she pai-”

        “She made that,” Chylene said, finally meeting the southerner's gaze. “And she might, um, like fancy things, but it doesn't mean that she thinks she's b-better than us.”

        “She made that fancy getup?” Jack asked, needing a moment for the information to sink in.

        “Oh yes. And, well, most of my clothes.” She said, slightly nodding her head down at the yellow cashmere sweater she wore. “I, uh, didn't have money for a-anything nice, so she...”

        The waiter returned with Jack's order, and almost as soon as the plate touched the table, she tore ravenously into it. Chylene turned slightly green while watching the farmer wolf down the food.

        Jack gave some thought to what the quiet girl just said to her. With one more swallow of her meal, she begrudgingly accepted that maybe she snapped at Rarity a bit too hard. She sighed, wiping at her mouth with a sleeve. “If what yer sayin' 'bout her's true, I guess I'd best go apologize. Any idea where she'd rund oft to?”

        “Well... it's Tuesday, s-so I would guess she went to her shop in Ponyville,” Chylene reasoned.

        “She has a shop?” Jack dumbly asked. In a small corner of her mind, she wondered how much money Rarity's daddy had to pump into the place to get it off the ground.

        “Y-yes.” the pale girl nodded. “T-though if you're wanting to apologize to her, it doesn't open until seven.”

        Jack sighed. “Great. Guess I got myself some time ta kill.” She rested her arms on the table. “An' what are ya doin' up so early when this whole place is dead, Chy? Got yerself some plans?”

        “W-well... I get up this early to tend to the animals living on the grounds,” Chylene whispered, fidgeting slightly when Jack leaned forward to hear her.

        “Animals? Shucks, this place have a stable or somethin'?” the farmer asked, excitement bubbling slightly at the possibility.

        “Yes!” Chylene nodded with enthusiasm, visibly relaxing when the conversation turned to the creatures. “Two stables, actually. Filled with some of the prettiest horses you've ever seen.”

        Jack widely grinned at this revelation--not the smile of a woman, but the smile of an eight year old still believing in everyday magic. “Would ya be alright with a helper?”


000


        They worked the stables together for an hour or two, and both learned a bit about one another. Jack, through a bit of prying, learned that the girl's mother was from the island of France, and her father was from New Gainsburg, a little town about two or three hours past the southerner's farm. Most importantly, Jack learned about the quiet girl's empathy for animals—for all her years running cattle and raising horses, Jack wasn't even half as good as that gal was in calming skittish ponies down.

        Jack, for her part, talked about her farm and family, from her quiet and kind brother, Macintosh, to her ailing Granny, and finally speaking of her curious sister, Bloom.

        Before either of them knew it, the clock had struck nine, and Jack bid farewell to the taciturn girl.

        The farmer went to the front of the academy, and as she rounded the corner of the large building, she grinned in recognition at a scene before her.

        Sitting next to the large, gently flowing fountain was Hans, asleep at the driver's seat on his carriage. As she stomped her way through the grass and neared the stone walkways of the school, she put a thumb and finger at either corner of her mouth and blew.

        He snapped to attention, grasping the reins that had nearly drooped from his hands, and looking quickly around for who called on him. On seeing it was Jack, his expression softened.

        “Miss Apple,” he addressed.

        “Mornin', Hans. What ya up to?”

        The elderly man smiled. “Well, I brought Miss Pie to school a moment ago, and I suppose I nodded off. We had a riveting conversation about alligators,” Hans said, not a trace of sarcasm in his tone.

        Jack rubbed at her chin. “Gators? Ya know, I can see that girl talkin' yer ear off 'bout them.” She moved over to the horses at the head of the carriage, giving each of them a friendly pat. “Now, uh, Hans? What time ya usually go towards town? An, uh, what kinda rate ya charge?” She briefly thought of her small collection of gold bits, wincing slightly.

        He shook his head. “Don't bother with emptying your coin purse, Miss Apple. Hop on and I'll take you now.”


000


        They rode together on the dirt path, each one enjoying the fresh air and moment of silence the ride gave them.

        It was Jack who broke the quiet first. “Hans?”

        He leaned his ear a bit closer to the farmer, but didn't take his eyes of the road.

        “Ya know anythin' 'bout a gal named Rarity Belle?”

        Hans leaned back slightly, closing his eyes in thought. “Hmm... she's Curtis Belle's kin; runs a very reputable shop in town—Carousel Boutique.”

        “Sounds fancy.”

        “Like the lady,” he casually agreed. “It seems to draw the high crust society in. Quite a few designers and actors are enthralled by that woman's creativity.”

        “More money than sense, those snobby fancy-pants types.”

        “Most of them,” he answered. “Not her, though. She at least is decent to folks, and helps out St. Charles.”

        Jack leaned back on the wooden seat, cracking her knuckles. “How so?”

        The elderly man scratched his ear. “With her family being so well-to-do already, Miss Belle typically donates almost all the proceeds from her enterprise and returns it to the community.”

        “Generous,” Jack quietly admitted, finally quashing the nagging voice of resentment that was whispering in her ear.

        “She's a good woman, Miss Apple, despite her fascination with high-society. I hope you at least give her a chance.”

        “I hope she gives me a second one.”


000


        Hans dropped her off on the main road of Ponyville and unhitched his horses, intent on letting them get a drink. Jack took a moment to pop her stiff back, then traveled towards the town's bakery.

        She gave a nod of approval at the quaint thing. Wooden building, large glass windows with the one on the left of the door proclaiming Sugar Cube Corner in bold print and a row of chairs lining the inside. As she pushed open the entryway, a bell jingled, alerting the man watching the counter to her presence.

        He was a lean middle aged man with stubble all across his jawline. He gave a polite tip of his paper hat towards the southerner and rested his hands on the glass counter loaded with baked goods.

        Before Jack could even say a word, something caught her attention.

        Past the counter and down a small hallway was a brown door marked Employees Only. From inside, the farmer could hear the distinct sound of a young woman singing a low soprano. It was too crisp and real to be coming from a radio or television; the farmer couldn't help but chuckle.

        “Sounds like ya'll got yerself a regular ol' hootenanny back there.”

        The man laughed, drumming his fingers along the counter. “That's just Pinkie,” he explained. “She has a habit of singing while she mixes ingredients in the kitchen.”

        Jack smiled. Her sister did the same thing when helping their Granny. “Speakin' of that girl, I'm a classmate of hers; care ta call her out her fer me? I needed ta ask somethin'.”

        He nodded, slowly moving down the hallway. He opened the door a crack and muttered something. Jack heard a chipper “Okey-Doky!” come from the room, and then the man stepped on through.

        Diane Pie promptly bounced down the hallway and gave a flourished wave of her hand once she came to a stop near Jack. She looked up at the farmer, beaming.

        “Hi Jack! Mr. Cake said you needed me for a second? What's going on? Do you need a hand with something? Oh! Is it a party?!” She squealed, clapping her hands together. “You're throwing a party for Dash? Like a roommate bonanza?! Wow! That's--”

        Pinkie was promptly silenced by a strong, calloused hand covering her mouth.

        “Darlin. Ain't no need ta talk that fast. I'll tell ya what's goin' on, alright?”

        The pink haired girl nodded intensely, her poofy hair rocking in tedium with her jostling head.

        “Ok then.” Jack removed her hand. “I jus' had a quick question fer ya, what with ya bein' part of the bakery in town an' all.”

        Pinkie moved to stand behind the glass counter. “No, we're not hiring—sorry Ja-”

        “Ain't it neither,” the farmer said. “I was jus' wonderin' if Rarity visits this shop?”

        “Well, duh,” Diane easily answered. “We're only, like, the best bakery in town!” She reconsidered her words after a beat. “Actually, we're the only bakery in town. We win by default!”

        “T-that's great, Sugar. Now, ya wouldn't happen ta know if there's any of yer goods Rarity Belle has a likin' to, would ya?”

        “Indeedly-doodly! Why you ask, though?”

        Jack scratched her neck, unable to hide a shaky grin. “I mighta got hot under the collar and pissed her off this morning.”

        Pinkie raised a hand. “Say no more! I know exactly what you need!” The girl leaned down heavily on the counter and spoke in a low, conspiratorial tone to the farmer. “Even though she's, like, so proper and stuff, Rarity goes crazy over my lemon bars! You give her a batch made by little ol' Pinkie Pie, she'll be putty in your hands, champ!” Diane winked, a knowing smile on her face.

        Jack caught on real quick what the other meant. “Are ya implyin' I might be interested in courtin' that woman?!” Her aghast face spoke everything she needed to say about that idea.

        “Don't be silly!” Diane casually chided. “You don't want to court her!” Her expression instantly fell into a deep, menacing frown. “She's got the best lawyers in the country on speed-dial.”

        “Not what I...” The blonde woman put a finger and thumb to the bridge of her nose. “Ya know what? Never mind. Pinkie, ya reckon ya could get me a pan a lemon bars all cooked up in a jiffy?”

        “Okey dokie loki!” The girl giggled, stepping away from the counter and towards the back. As she reached the door, she instantly paused. “Almost forgot! I need someone to watch the counter!” Pinkie ran back and began to rummage behind the division, humming merrily.

        The farmer rubbed at the Mark on her hand. “Well, I've ran our stand before at the farmer's market. If ya need me to I reckon I-”

        Diane let out a gasp of surprise. “There you are, Gummy!” she exclaimed. 

        Jack tilted her head and took a careful step closer, only for Diane to suddenly hoist a small alligator up in her hands and put him on the counter.

        “Jesus Christ!” Jack shouted, backpedaling a few steps away from the forearm length creature and crashing into a chair.

        Pinkie scratched at her head, frowning at the farmer's sudden action. “Something wrong, Jack?”

        Her’s brain shorted out and her mouth was moving, but no words were actually coming out. She took a breath to reset her system. “Diane. What are ya doin' with an alligator in a bakery?”

        “He's my pet!” she proudly exclaimed.

        “A-ain't that, uh, dangerous?”

        The hyper girl stared blankly at Jack. “Don't be a silly head! I got him detoothed! Watch!” She opened his jaw and stuck her hand into its mouth. The gator began to absentmindedly chew on the appendage, staring blankly at a spot in the ceiling as it did so. Pinkie giggled. “His gum tickles.” Her expression grew serious. Or, as serious as a girl's could be with their hand in a toothless gator's mouth. “Gummy, I need you to watch the counter. Can you do that for mommy?”

        The alligator continued to stare at a spot in the ceiling, not reacting in the slightest to Diane's question.

        “That's my baby.” The pink haired girl nodded in approval. She pulled her hand out of his mouth and wiped it on the apron she wore. “I'll be back in a jiffy!” Pinkie called to the farmer, turning and heading to the back.

        Jack stared warily at the alligator, sitting as far away from it as she could.

        “An... alligator... as a pet,” she stammered.

        Jack still couldn't wrap her head around it. Sure, when she was younger she had a few odd pets herself; a frog she found by their pond, a lizard picked up in the fields, and her pet pig Marseille, who later on in life would make the best ham Jack had ever tasted. But there was a difference in her strange pets over Diane's—Jack's pets wouldn't eat her if their teeth ever grew back.

        Wait, do alligators’ teeth grow back? she pondered, putting a thumb to the corner of her thin mouth. Jack didn't think they did, but-

        “Jack!” a voice loudly called, physically making the farmer recoil from her thoughts. Pinkie stood above her, waving a hand over Jack's eyes. In her other hand was a round, flat box wrapped in paper with images of balloons and streamers on it.

        “Sorry Pinkie. Jus' got a bit lost in thinkin'.”

        “It's fine!” Diane dismissed with a friendly shrug, before pointing to the small box in her hands. “I got an order of ultra good, scrumdiddlyumptious lemon bars for you!”

        “Alrighty.” Jack rose from her chair, reaching into her jean pockets and pulling out a small coin purse. “How much I owe ya'll?”

        “Two bits, if you please.”

        The farmer raised a brow. “Huh. Ya'll sell cheap.” She pulled out two small, wafer-thin coins made out of solid gold and jangled them in her hand.

        “It's why we're always so busy! Everyone knows we have some of the best deals in town!” Pinkie exclaimed, moving over to the counter and opening the register with the quick press of a button. She took Jack's money and handed the farmer the carefully wrapped package.

        Or it might be because you're the only bakery in town, sugar, Jack thought.

        Pinkie blew on the fingertips of her hand and rubbed them against her shirt. “Another satisfied customer,” she casually said.

        “Eyup. Thanks Pinkie. I'm sure Rarity'll love 'em.”

        With that, Jack left the store, the bell above the door signaling her departure.

        Pinkie gave a coy smile towards her pet and nudged the alligator with her elbow. Gummy stared blankly at a spot on the ceiling.


000


        Jack tromped across the small town, more or less going by feel on where she thought a place as high-crust as Carousel Boutique would be. She figured it'd be open, tall, and eye-catching.

        She was right on all three guesses.

        The building was located in a clearing that could have been a small park—grass and maple trees dotted the plot of land, and in the center, down the way of a finely laid brick pathway, was a tall, circular building adorned in a regal purple banner. At the mouth of the path was a sign showcasing the store’s name and hours of operation.

        “Jus' like the owner; all kinds a fancy, nothin' practical,” she complained to nobody before mentally rebuking herself.

        The reason she was heading towards this fancy shop in the first place was because she lunged at Rarity's throat so quick this morning, instead of letting the small (and possibly unintended) insult roll off her back.

        At least yer apoligizin'. That's what matters, the voice of her cool-headed brother reassured.

        She sighed, defeated, and began the short walk to the front door, where a small sign written in delicate, swirling script read, I assure you we're open.

Jack sucked in a breath and opened the door.

        As she pulled it open, a four note chime rang through the building.

        “Be with you in a moment!” Rarity called out in a sing-song tone from down the hallway in the back.

        Jack took the brief moment to look over the showroom.

        It was a precise, calculated area positivity reeking of class, from the daintily clothed mannequins on the sides of the room displaying Rarity's latest designs in all their frilly glory, to the island table in the center of the room weighed down with bottles of all make and model, most of them with chic sounding names like Fleur-de-lis and Sanctity. Jack had a feeling she'd gag at half their scents.

        Towards the far wall were dozens of wigs of all lengths and colors—one was even a spitting image of the mop a certain multi-hued athlete called her hair. Jack put her box of goodies on the island and moved over to it, briefly marveling at how realistic all of them felt.

        “I'm sorry about that, darling,” Rarity said from the hallway, her heels clicking with a timed rhythm on the clean and well crafted hardwood flooring. She took a step into the showroom. “Now, what would you fanc-”

        The soul-folk instantly stopped speaking when she saw who had came in. She looked up and stared at Jack's face, before running her eyes down the rest of the farmer's body and freezing when she saw the farmer's boots.

        Her eyebrow twitched. Violently.

        The boots were caked with mud, and the floor had a trail of it all the way from the front door.

        Rarity snapped her head back up, staring hard at Jack. “Of all the—do you ever wipe your feet when entering somebody’s establishment, you, you... Ruffian?!” Rarity screeched, seemingly on the edge of panic as she put her hands to her face, her eyes switching from the mud caked door then shooting over to where Jack stood now.

        “Well, excuse me fer forgettin' ta wipe my boots after lookin fer yer shop fer so long!” Jack snapped back, rubbing at her temples as Rarity sat on a stool by the perfumes. “Look, jus' give me a broom an' I'll sweep it.”

        “And mop.”

        The farmer glanced up at the ceiling, as if asking she was being punished. On hearing no answer, she returned her gaze to the classy woman. “Yeah,” she grimly answered. “An' moppin'.”

        Rarity seemed to lighten up a bit at that information, sitting up and turning towards the hallway. She lifted her finger and held out a hand as far from her body as she could. Her finger become surrounded in a light blue aura, and Jack heard a shuffling clatter from the other room, followed by the sound of a door opening and closing. Then a broom and dustpan propelled themselves into the showroom. Rarity caught both with a nonchalant ease and handed them to the astounded farmer.

        “Ya soul-folk sure like takin' the easy way out.”

        Rarity brushed her curled bangs away from her face. “If you've got the talent, you might as well flaunt it, darling. I didn't spend three years of my life in magic training to not use it on occasion.”

        Jack began to sweep the floor, gathering as much of the dirt into one pile as she could. “Why do soul-folk have ta go to their own school fer a bit, anyway? Don't exactly seem fair to 'em.”

        “It's not,” Rarity easily answered, reaching towards the counter and picking up a nail file. “But it's the law, and a needed one.”

        “But-”

        “No 'buts,' Jack.” Her face grew surprisingly stern. “Untrained magic is dangerous. Very dangerous. It was a problem not being able to graduate with my friends from high-school, but I understood why I had to leave.”

        “Hmm,” Jack grunted, sweeping her mess into the dustbin. “Never really talked ta a soul-folk before 'bout their trainin'. So yer sayin' the school is around ta make sure ya can't hurt anyone?”

        The soul-folk gestured, levitating the broom and dustbin away from Jack, and replacing it with a mop and bucket full of steaming hot water. “Not quite,” she answered, lowering her voice. “It's so we can't hurt ourselves.” She swallowed, giving her hand a small wave. “B-but I'd rather not talk about something so morbid. If the subject interests you, I suggest speaking with Twila—she's quite fascinated with every facet of magic.” 

        “Guess I jus' might do that.”

        Rarity gave another small wave after Jack finished, taking the mop and bucket away. Jack bent down, looking over the puddles that her mopping had left behind.

        “Hey, Rare, could you magic me a towel ov-” Jack was smacked in the face by a towel before she could finish what she was saying.

        Rarity gave an innocent, 'who, me?' shrug, and seemed to take a keen interest in her perfumes.

        The farmer moved to the front door and started wiping up. She slowly and carefully approached the spills nearest Rarity, and cracked a devilish grin. She placed it down on the ground and folded a corner in. Then, she began to roll it up tightly. Finally, with a twist, her rat-tail was ready.

        With a loud, feral yell, she rose up and swung her whip forward, cracking Rarity square on her shapely backside. The violet haired woman yelped, jumping off the chair. Rarity shot a furious glare at Jack as she rubbed her butt.

        That's when Jack lost it. The farmer cracked up, clutching her sides and turning beat red. She tossed her head back and sank down to her knees, still howling with laughter.

        Rarity tried to stay mad, but on seeing the blonde nearly collapsed to the floor in a fit, the well-dressed lady couldn't help but join in, laughing long and hard enough to make her eyes well up with mirthful tears.

 A few minutes later, once they both had calmed down slightly, Rarity wiped a tear from her eyes and noted with disdain that her mascara had run. She wiped it off of her face and made a mental note to reapply it as soon as she could.

        “I must admit,” the proper lady said in a reserved tone, “that when you first arrived in my shop, I was loath to speak with you after what you said this morning.”

        “I'm sorry 'bout that,” Jack answered, wincing slightly. “I jumped on ya unjustly—at my farm once we had some fellas that were a lot like you. High-end an' everythin'. They, uh, didn't do my brother right on a few deals an' we lost a lot of money.” She met Rarity's gaze. “But yer different, jus' like Chylene an' Hans said. A fancy-pants stiff like them woulda kicked me out after I cracked em with that towel.”

        “I gave consideration to it,” Rarity said, though the faintest ghost of humor crept into her words. “After all, it is very uncouth to engage in such an unladylike act.”

        “Good thing I ain't no lady. I'mma country gal.”

        Before Rarity could express a form of disdain at the farmer, the two heard a four one chime from the front door. In walked a young man wearing a crisp black suit.

        “Hello, madams,” he said in a cultured English voice. “Might I ask which one of you is Ms. Belle? I am in dire need of a new suit for the soiree we shall be having on Friday.”

        Jack gave a wave to the violet haired woman. “Ya got customers, so I'mma mosey.” She gave a tap to the box she had set on the table. “I brought ya these when ya get time ta eat.”

        Rarity spared a quick glance over. “Thank you. I'm sure I'll like it.”

        The farmer went outside and paused as she got about halfway down the small pathway leading from Rarity's shop.

        “What the hell does 'soiree' mean?” Jack asked herself, taking off her hat and scratching at her head.

> Stitch by stitch
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

	Hans was gone by the time Jack returned to the main road. It was just as well, it seemed like the town had flooded with new and youthful faces pouring from the train station.

Must be people comin' in at the last minute, Jack thought.

She stopped moving briefly, watching the parade of people from the sidelines of the road.

Above her, a flock of sky-folk traveled in a V formation, all of them holding backpacks, suitcases, and other traveling supplies.

“Wonder if they ever drop the crap they're carryin'?” Jack pondered.

Her question was answered when a book fell from the heavens. Jack's reflexes gave her just enough time to hop to the side as the object crashed into the ground.

“My bad!” a blond haired woman called out, diving and grabbing the book before taking to the heaven once more.

“Amateurs,” a scratchy woman's voice said from Jack's side. The farmer spared a quick glance over, and noticed Dash, leaning easily against a brick wall and watching the sky-folk up above. She unwrapped a cheeseburger, taking a large bite from it.

“Where ya come from, Dashie?” Jack asked, astounded on how the athlete had snuck up on her.

“I was on the rooftop eatin' breakfast. Saw you walking down this alley, and thought I'd pop in.” Dash muttered through her full mouth.

“Breakfast? It's almost twelve,” Jack stated.

“Then it's lunch. You're killin' me, hayseed.”

The farmer grumbled under her breath, tilting her hat forward as she stared at the athlete.

“How about you, cowpoke? What are you doing in town?”

“Not much. Jus' had ta make peace with Rarity.”

“You made her mad?” Isabelle questioned, taking another hearty bite from her rapidly diminishing burger.

“Eyup.”

The athlete polished off her meal and crumpled up the wrapper. She tossed it to the ground and stretched her lanky arms over her head. Jack scoffed, bending down and grabbing the trash then moving over and tossing it into a nearby bin.

“Goodie two shoes,” Dash grunted, cleaning out her ear with a pinkie.

“Some of us ain't lazy an' know how ta take care of ourselves,” Jack countered.

“Whatev,” Dash easily replied, wiping her hand off on her tracksuit.  “I'm getting ready to go back to the school—want a ride?”

“Ya got a cart comin' fer ya?”

“Something like that,” Dash evasively answered, moving closer to the farmer. Jack soon felt hands wrap around her waist with all the gentleness of a man preforming the Heimlich maneuver. The blonde glanced behind and her expression quickly turned to one of alarm.

Dash had her ethereal wings opened out and an exceptionally wide grin plastered on her face. “Hold onto your hat,” the athlete suggested.

Isabelle blasted upwards, holding the farmer tightly in her arms. Jack screamed in equal parts euphoria and overwhelming terror, drawing the glances of several sky-folk going casually about their way. Dash lifted the girl far above the throng of fliers—soon they found themselves alone.

Once they leveled out and Jack had yelled herself nearly raw, Isabelle spoke up.

“Open your eyes.”

Jack reluctantly did and took a sharp breath in surprise.

Through the clouds that were close enough for the farmer to skim her hand over, she saw glimpses and peaks at the countryside below them. The grass looked akin to a green, swirling sea, and the nearby river and dirt road crowded with people were but runaway colors on a canvas. In the distance, far past the school, Jack could see a set of craggy mountains, their white-capped teeth jutting proudly towards the sky.

For Jack, it was one of the most beautiful things she had ever witnessed. For Isabelle, it was just another Tuesday.

“Wow...” the farmer eloquently muttered. Dash said nothing, a slightly harder embrace the only reply to Jack's words.

After a moment of soaring easily through the winds, the sky-folk broke the mesmerizing silence.

“So, uh, we're at the last quarter. Can we walk the rest of the way?” Isabelle adjusted her grip slightly. “You're heavier than you look.”

Jack looked up towards the sky-folk with a slight glance over her shoulder. “I'd smack ya fer that, but I don't wanna fall.”

The landing took them off the road's path—despite Dash's devil-may-care attitude, she didn't want to risk a chance at hitting anyone. She came down with the grace of a bird, placing Jack softly on the ground and fluidly dispelling her wings. The blond haired girl glanced at Dash and debated kissing the ground—it felt fantastic to be back on her feet again.

“So, bro... we're about five miles or so from the school...” Isabelle trailed off, arching her fingers together and cracking her knuckles. “And I still owe you from yesterday. How about a little rematch? First to the school fountain.”

“No wings,” Jack replied, taking off her plaid overshirt and tying it around her waist. She fanned the neck of her gray tank top, silently wishing for a glass of water to cool her down.

“Lame.” The athlete zipped up her baby blue track suit and stretched at her legs, limbering up. “But fine, have it your way.”

They booth stood side-by-side, Jack leaned forward slightly, and Isabelle was nearly flat on the ground, she was stooped so low—her hands were grasping the dirt tightly, a leg was fully extended behind her, and her other was bent low near her stomach.

“Count it, Jack.”

“Yer mark.”

Dash dug her heels in deeper, grinning arrogantly.

“Get set.” The southerner bounced on her feet slightly, psyching herself up. She took a breath then shouted.

“Go!”

The two took off in an all-out sprint—the grass blurred at the sides of their vision, and the dirt road swarming with people grew closer and closer. As they sprinted, neck and neck, Dash took off slightly to the left in order to skirt the side of the road. Jack wasn't able to turn her body in time and nearly plowed into a man hauling a large traveling case behind him. With no hesitation, Jack focused her legs and propelled her body up and over the case, clearing it by a good two feet. She landed back onto the ground with a grunt and used her height to scan through the sea of people.

Jack watched Dash almost casually snake through the throng of students, dodging and weaving through the crowd with a dancer's grace. The farmer tried to do the same, deftly bending and twisting her upper body as she dodged past dozens of people in the blink of an eye. But for all her attempts, Jack just wasn't as fast at clearing through the group as Isabelle was—the girl had widened the gap already, turning to run backwards as she gave a smug grin the farmer's direction. With a quick wave of her hand and a loud laugh, she flipped around, focusing her attention back to running. With an even deeper concentration, she ran her legs like mechanized pistons, pumping them fast and high. Jack lost more and more ground, until that girl was nothing but a rainbow colored speck in the distance.


000


It was a good forty-five minutes later when Jack dragged her way to the fountain at the front of the school. Dash was laying down on top of the fountain's base, nearly asleep. On seeing the farmer through her nearly closed eyes, she gave a small wave.

“Geez bro, what kept you?” The athlete yawned, adjusting her unzipped tracksuit. “I've been waiting here almost twenty minutes.”

Jack gazed at Isabelle, slack-jawed. “T-twenty minutes? There's no damn way...”

“Ok. Seventeen and a half. Pretty close though.” Dash allowed with a shrug, hopping off her improvised bed.

“T-that's ridiculous,” Jack said under her breath, taking off her hat and briefly fanning her face with it. “That's 'bout faster than I've ever seen anyone run, if yer bein' truthful.”

Isabelle's face grew grim. “No way would I lie about a race time. I've got standards, hayseed.” After a beat, she returned to her usual cocky appearance, taking a step past Jack and heading towards the front entrance of the academy. “But you're right. That's probably one of the fastest times you'll ever see—I am pretty awesome, after all.”

The two walked for a minute, battling through the crowd standing around at the front. As they traveled past the throng of people, Jack had a question pop into her head.

“Dash?”

The briefest flick of Isabelle's rose colored eyes were the only clue she was intently listening as they battled through the new students.

“What sorta degree ya goin fer? Physical Fitness?”

Dash bounced the word around her head briefly. “Not exactly, hayseed. It, uh, ain't exactly a degree you can get most other places. Battle Expertise.”

Jack paused in her walking, staring at the woman as if waiting for the punchline to a joke. “That's a degree?”

“Yep. Cloudsdale has quite a few niche degrees you can't find anywhere else—weirdest one I've seen so far has been ballroom dancing—who honestly does that anymore?” Dash asked, cackling at the thought.

“I've been in more dances than I have fights,” Jack mused, rubbing her chin. “But if yer wantin' fightin' experience, why not join the army? They're always lookin', an' the pay's good enough.”

“Because I don't like the idea of anyone bossing me around, duh.” She gave an exasperated look towards the farmer.

“What in the sam hill are ya gonna use a degree like that for then? Start up yer own trainin' school or somethin'?”

“Pfft, as if. Why would I want to spend time teaching snot-nosed kids how to be awesome like me?” She moved in closer to the farmer, reaching up and slinging a hand up to Jack's shoulder as they entered the lobby. “Nah. I'm gonna be a Wonderbolt, bro!”

Jack raised a brow. “Ya make it sound like I'm supposed ta know 'bout them, sugar.”

Isabelle retraced her hand and leaned against a wall. “They're only the best stuntmen you've ever seen! They're, like, a fringe military group when Princess Celestia needs 'em for scouting or whatev, but what's totally swag is their stunts.”

The farmer made a noncommittal grunt.

“And I'm thinking about getting a minor in Physical Fitness.”

Why not jus' get the Physical Fitness degree if yer lookin' ta join that group fer jus their stuntwork? Jack pondered, briefly thinking about making her thoughts vocal, but Dash continued the conversation before she could press on.

“What about you, Jackie? What sort of degree you looking at?”

“I dunno,” she admitted. “Agriculture, I'm thinkin'.”

Though I might have found my minor... Jack thought, imagining the look on Dash's face when the athlete was one-upped by her at Battle Expertise. That thought brought another one to the forefront of the southerner's mind.

“Tiebreaker tomorrow, uh...” Jack crossed her arms under her breasts and gave quick thought. “Horseshoes.”

“Oh it. Is. On,” Dash quickly agreed, flicking her nose with a thumb. “You're lookin' at a champ here—I've never lost at horseshoes.”

“Luck eventually loses ta skill. Jus' be ready fer a slice of humble pie after class,” Jack disinterestedly said, looking over her nails.

“We'll see, bro.” the rainbow haired woman shrugged. “You can talk the talk, but just you wait.” She pushed off of the wall. “I gotta go take care of a few things. Guess I'll catch you later tonight, dude.”

“Take it easy,” Jack said, giving a small tilt of her head in acknowledgment as the girl left the lobby behind.

She decided to grab a book from her room and make use of the lounge—the sunlight coming through the windows seemed like it'd be perfect for reading under. As she walked deeper into the lobby, she heard the receptionist call her name.

“Mmm?” she replied, sparing the twiggy man a glance.

“Ms. Shields is waiting for you in the theater room.”

“Ms. Shields?” Jack repeated. “Oh, Twi. Yeah, alright.” She nodded. “I'm on my way there.” The woman took a few steps forward before pausing. “Where's that at, again, sugar?”


000


The theater was a beautiful room in the northwestern wing of the school. If the lounge and lobby had class, this place was soaked in it. Brass banisters lined the balconies at the far end of the theater room, and the private boxes overlooking the stage at either side had intricate and precisely designed work done onto the brash finish. Jack wasn't a theater goer often—she preferred stories that didn't involve boring songs in a fancy language every second, thank you very much—but she was surprised by the main floor being completely open without a chair in sight, it's well glossed wood lay bare to the world, nearly glowing under the polish job someone had done to it. The farmer guessed that maybe the room functioned as a dance hall in addition to its duties in the performing arts. 

Jack tread slowly and carefully on the wood; boots were about as subtle as she was, after all, and, if she marked the floor, she doubted all the money in her bank account could compensate for ruining the wood. The blonde considered it a miracle that she made it to the theater stage proper without scuffing something up. She glanced at either side and noted doors alongside the stage. With a shrug, she ignored them, easily hoisting herself up. The farmer casually put a hand at her hip and looked around. It wasn't often she got to see a stage from this end, after all.

The wooden set backdrops were only halfway done, and while they were drawn and painted with an obviously professional eye, a half-done painting would never give the same emotions a finished one would. Above her, on the catwalk running along the stage, she saw a blond, nervous looking man with a compass rose mark on his cheek reaching up and checking over a set of sandbags. Several areas had tools of all shapes and sizes tossed about, from monkey wrenches to hacksaws.

She took all this in and honestly wasn't impressed.

Granted, what would be on a stage? It wasn't like the place was a gateway to another dimension, after all. It just had a certain... mystique that Jack liked.

No. It's not the mystique you like. It's the everyday magic, she thought. That's the right word for it. That's why you like some plays. They make you feel special. She accepted that answer, moving behind the stage.

There, she found Twila, flopped down on the wooden floor and using her magic to read three books at once. As she flipped a page with a slight motion of her index finger, she used her free hand to guide an apple into her mouth.

The farmer coughed, drawing Twila's attention away from her studies, albeit briefly.

“Salutations, Jack.” The dark skinned woman brightly smiled, standing up and dusting off her conservative dress. “How are you?”

“Ain't bad. A bit ragged 'round the edges at the moment, but I'll be good as new after a shower an' a drink.” Jack took a glance past the scholar, eyeballing the books. “What ya readin'?”

Jack knew she'd regret asking the question as soon as she saw Twi's face light up in restrained excitement.

“I'm reading about the Scale theory! It's a fascinating hypothesis penned by Sagan Hawking! His theory is that our world is akin to a balanced scale, and, with the slightest of pushes, we could alter the future as we know it. He suggests that if the magic within Earth fluctuates too much, it could alter the entire evolution of our species!”

Jack could feel a headache forming in the far corners of her mind, but decided to bite. “How so?”

Twila gestured to one of the books. “If the Earth lost its supply of magic, or if the magic had never existed in the first place, Mr. Hawking says humanity would have evolved without any significant powers. They would be akin to an average earth-folk in strength, and, if Sagan's theory is correct, they would be masters of technology, inventing everything from functional flying machines to space-faring vehicles.”

“Sounds pretty nifty,” the farmer admitted.

“I doubt I could function without my magic, so I wouldn't classify it as 'nifty,'” Twila replied, adjusting the glasses she wore. “On the other hand, if the Earth's magic had an approximate increase of fifty percent, the world would be saturated in a substance similar to radiation. It's doubtful humanity would have came to be in a world like that—Sagan suggested that another creature would gain sentience and become the predominate species, with mutations in a certain percentage of the populace akin to our soul and sky-folk.”

“A new species? Like what, rats?” Jack drawled, smirking slightly. These hypothetical fields of research always amused her. It was usually nothing more than a tall-tale contest.

“No,” Twi mused, putting a finger to her bottom lip and looking to the catwalk in thought. “It would most likely be something with a brain of similar design to ours—perhaps a monkey or dolphin.” Her smile grew wide, as if she had a secret she wished to share. “Wanna see his mathematical formulas regard--”

“No!” Jack shouted in a near panic. The tanned woman blanched. “Uh, I mean, no thank you.”

“A-alright...” Twila replied, shutting the books close with a small brush of her magic.

“So, uh, did ya want ta see me fer somethin'?” Jack asked, trying to steer the conversation back to salvageable ground.

“Indeed I did, Jack.” She nodded. “I was wondering if you had classes lined out yet, or if you even had an idea on your degree choice.”

“Agriculture. Though I want a minor in Battle Expertise.”

Twilia took off her glasses, breathing on the lenses. She wiped at them with a handkerchief from her breast pocket, and put them back on. “Usually you assign your minor to complement a weakness with your major. Selecting something like that seems to be a waste.” On seeing the farmer's glance, Twila gave a slow shake of her head. “However, judging by your respectable scores in physical education, maybe you would be adequate with a weapon in hand.”

“Darn tootin',” Jack agreed, cracking her knuckles.

“Well, I won't stop you. Just be careful.”

“Always am.”

The scholar gestured to the scenery. “Do you like what you've seen so far?”

Jack glanced over at the scattered supplies on the stage. “Uh, I guess so. Things still bein' built ain't exactly nothin' ta write home 'bout.”

“I don't.” Twila frowned. “We're days behind schedule—I wanted the scenery painted yesterday, and I haven't even finished all the woodwork for several of the sets we'll need.” She turned to face the farmer head on. “Which is why I was hoping to recruit you for a few days. You know your way around a hammer and nails, correct?”

“Well as anyone else, I guess.” The farmer adjusted her hat, tilting it back a bit from her brow.

“It would be a fantastic boon if you could spend a few hours after school working on this with me and Rarity—we're hoping to present a fantastic showing for the Princesses when they arrive on Friday.”

Jack felt a cold stone in her gut at that. “Ya mean like Luna and Celestia? Those Princesses?”

“Only ones I know of that would travel here,” Twila easily said, not noticing Jack's sudden blank stare. “They even meet with the student council after the play, if you wish to engage in conversation  with them.”

Man, this school is too fancy fer me, Jack thought. I break into a cold sweat jus' meetin' up with our town's mayor. Who knows how bad I'll be 'round two livin' legends.

“Great...” Jack said with false enthusiasm. “Can't wait ta meet them.”

Twila moved over to a set of boards. With a quick flick of her finger, a purple aura surrounded a small handsaw and brought it to the scholarly woman. “Now, would you care to help me by cutting these to length?”

The farmer swallowed her dread away for a moment and nodded.

They worked in silent harmony together, Twila giving orders and helping with the less complex jobs and Jack preforming the heavy manual labor. After two hours of the work, both took a moment to sit down on a pile of blankets at the corner of the stage.

“Whew, I've worked up quite a sweat,” Twila said, panting as she leaned against the concrete wall.

“Dunno how, ya been twirlin' those fingers 'round, mostly,” Jack easily replied as she leaned back on the blankets, smiling despite her words.

“Magic is far more taxing on the body than you would believe. Every minute of using it would be the equivalent of five minutes hard labor for your kind.”

“But ya get yer stuff done in about a fifth of the time it'd take us,” Jack countered.

Twila blinked. “I suppose so,” she admitted, surprised at the farmer's quick wit.

Jack crossed her hands behind her neck and stared up at the ceiling. “Hey, Twi?”

“Yes?”

Jack turned onto her side, resting a hand on her face and looking at the bookworm. “Rarity told me a bit 'bout the school ya'll go to fer a few years. I was jus' wondering what yer take was on it.”

“My... take?” the soul-folk repeated.

“Yeah. Ya know—if it's a good idea or what have ya.” Jack briskly said.

“Of course it's needed. If we had no actual education on our limits and how to suppress our emotions during casting, we could easily lose control of our magic.”

“What happens if ya lose control? Rare wasn't too up fer divulging information on that aspect.”

Twila let out a small exhale. “It's not pleasant, I will say that.” She rose from the blankets and stood at attention. The woman began to speak in the semi-detached and dry tone of a doctor. “When a soul-folk goes past the internal boundaries his or her body places on their magical prowess, it results in their heart and brain rejecting the magic that flows inside their pulmonary and temporal artery, respectively, causing numerous defects to rapidly develop along the frontal lobe, in extreme cases, you can see the extent of the damage externally, including such--” she paused at seeing Jack's borderline comatose state.

“Care ta dumb it down jus' a hair fer me, sugar?” The southerner asked. “All of us don't speak like we're teachin' a doctorate program.”

“Right,” Twi coughed quietly into her hand. “To put the actions into more layman terms: If a soul-folk taxes their body with too much magic, it  begins to overheat the brain, potentially causing damage. If they channel a large amount of magic at once, well, the effects are magnified.” Her reserved demeanor fell slightly, exposing the unnerved woman underneath the scholarly tone. “There was a girl in my class who pushed herself t-too much at once.” She stared off to the distance for a moment, taking in a few shuddering breaths while clutching hard at the sleeves of her dress. After a beat, she tried to speak, but it came out in a low, croaking whisper. “Jack... she—there was blood coming from her mouth and eyes. She ha--” Twila stopped herself, putting a hand to her mouth and flinching away from the farmer. “I'm sorry. I... I thought I could talk about it now. I thought I had... had moved on.”

Jack shook her head, rising to a sitting position. “Ya ain't got no need ta apologize. It was right foolish of me ta pry fer information, ya know?” She stood and put a gentle hand onto Twila's shoulder as the dark skinned woman sniffed and stared blankly at the ground. “Now, how 'bout I treat ya to an early dinner? We can work on this junk tomorrow,” Jack offered.

“Ok,” Twi said, slowly coming out of her morose mood.

The two left, neither paying any heed to the blond man still perched up on the catwalk.


000


Rarity leaned forward on the front counter of her shop, smiling weakly as the sunset gave everything in her boutique a golden glow.

It had been a long day after Jack had left; clientele swarmed her establishment, all asking for different things; suit adjustments, perfume suggestions, dress orders for Friday's soiree, even a long, drawn out order over the phone with a lady regarding custom extensions for her hair (and having to vehemently deny that she herself used extensions. The nerve of some people—with the exception of giving it curl on occasion and washing vigorously with a lemon-milk shampoo, Rarity's hair was au naturale.) 

It had been so busy that the violet-haired woman hadn't even taken a lunch break, a fact her stomach was currently announcing to the entire world. She was thankful that the last customer of the day had left mere moments ago. If the man had heard her stomach growling like a feral beast, it would have been the worst possible thing to have ever happened in this store. So it was with a small amount of joy that the well-dressed woman went to her front door and flicked her sign over. 

“I'm dreadfully sorry, but we are closed,” she said to herself, mimicking her sign's words.

Rarity glided over to the back of her store and sat at the kitchen table, examining the box Jack had brought. She hoped it wasn't anything greasy—grease was a nightmare to clean off of her hands and face, after all.

With a quick breath, she tore off the wrapping and opened the box.

Inside was an entire pan of lemon bars. What really drew her attention, however, was the design on top of the delectable treats. Directly in the center was a rainbow colored heart made of jam. Rarity didn't have to taste the rainbow to know that it was zap apple jam—one of the rarest jams in the country. Doubly so, considering that zap apple season wasn't for at least another month.

This dessert must have cost a fortune. And Jack brought it for her.

The woman smiled coyly, moving from the pan to her kitchen counters. While Rarity was quite used to receiving affections from men and women alike, there was something touching about this gift. Maybe it was due to its straightforward nature, or the fact that the woman in question simultaneously enraged and amused her to no end in the short time they had spent together so far. 

Rarity produced a small plate, knife and fork, then sat back down at her kitchen table. She cut off a square (A serving size, mind you. A lady doesn't overeat past what would be considered the social norm) and took a bite, nodding in quiet appreciation at the melody of flavors in her mouth.

Uncivilized ruffian or not, that farmer knew what she liked. Which was something. Not a lot, but something.
> A knight in plaid armor
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

	The silence of predawn graced the academy as its denizens slumbered inside their dormitories, save for one woman in particular. Rarity splashed water on her face in an attempt to wake up and face the day. She yawned and glanced past the open lavatory door and over at Twila. The scholar was still blissfully asleep, wrapped under three blankets and snoring slightly. Not surprisingly, an opened book peeked out of the sheets—she must have fallen asleep reading.

Again.

Work is the bane of the sleeping class, Rarity suddenly mused. What she would give to be in her own bed right now, wrapped up and in her pajamas. But, alas, she had to prepare the shop to do business at odd hours thanks to school beginning. Granted, her dear friend Spike was adequate for running the business while she attended class, but there were still things that required her presence and input; things that, no matter how much the boy knew, she'd have to take care of.

Rarity glanced over at her digital alarm clock. Five-twenty. She'd best get dressed if she was planning on joining Chylene for breakfast like usual.

With that in mind, she turned to her walk-in closet and began the long and arduous process of selecting something to wear.


000


Jack made it to the dining hall at five minutes to six. Not surprisingly, Dash had threatened to kill the farmer when the alarm went off earlier, but Jack had already been out of her dormitory before the athlete even had the strength to sluggishly raise an arm in protest.

With a quick glance at the nearly empty room, Jack spotted Rarity and Chylene. 

“Mornin', ya'll,” she announced, moving over and plopping down next to the seamstress. Rarity coyly raised a brow at this, but said nothing.

“G-good morning, Jack,” Chylene quietly said, smiling slightly and playing with a loose strand of her pink hair. “Did you sleep well?”

“Dash is a bit of a night owl—her lookin' over some books kept me up fer a bit, but eventually I nodded off. Yerself?”

“Uh, yes.” She nodded. “I slept just fine. Angel slept like a baby, too.”

“Your bunny woke up every two hours and cried?” Rarity asked, offering a rare quip.

“N-no,” Chylene quietly protested.

“I know dear, I just couldn't resist.” The classy woman smiled, showcasing her perfectly white teeth.

Jack held back a yawn. “So, what classes ya got today, Chylene?”

“I-I have Radiology study all day.”

“Do what now?” Jack replied, squinting at the timid woman. “Like, HAM radios, or...?”

“N-no,” she stammered. “Radiology is a new way to see inside animals and people, without having to get a soul folk to help. You use a kind of light to look inside them, and you can see where they're hurt at on their bones or organs.”

“Neat.” Jack put her elbow onto the table and leaned on her hand.

“Oh yes,” the timid girl agreed, smiling warmly. “It's amazing what medicine's evolving into after that trade opened between the norfolk and our country ten years ago.”

“Norfolk?” Jack repeated, her expression suggesting the word had a strange, unfamiliar taste to it. Then it dawned on her. “Oh, ya mean the minotaur's?”

Chylene's eyes snapped open in surprise. “Jack. That's not very nice.”

“What's wrong with it? It's what my grandpa called 'em back when I was a young'in. 'Sides, their boys fit the part, ya know? Hairy, tall--”

“Smelly, boorish, rude, uncouth,” Rarity added, wrinkling her nose. She quickly changed her expression when a waiter arrived with two steaming bowls of oatmeal and placed them in front of Rarity and Chylene. Jack decided to go ahead and eat; she asked for an order of eggs over easy and a steak.

“How 'bout you, Rare? What ya got goin' on?” Jack questioned.

“If by 'goin' on,' you mean to ask what sort of classes I have today, well...” The proper woman put a napkin around her neck and blew delicately into the warm oatmeal. “History is my morning's schedule, unfortunately. I find it dreadfully boring.”

“Makes two of us.”

“W-what about you, Jack?” Chylene asked. “Where you going today?”

The farmer shrugged, reaching into her back pocket and pulling out a note. “Says here fer my class ta meet at the track at nine.”

“A class meeting outside?” the well-dressed woman pondered briefly. “Oh. You signed up for that foolish fighting course, did you?” Rarity put a spoonful of oatmeal to her violet colored lips.

Jack shrugged. “Dash got me curious, mostly. Seems like it'd be a fun thing ta do when I ain't havin' ta work on my gen-ed things.”

“You would like something so brutish.” Rarity scowled. “Do you not realize how much dirt, and grime and, and dirt you'll be around?!”

“Golly, an' here I was thinkin' you'd jus' be scared of me gettin' hurt or somethin',” Jack dryly retorted.

“Well, that can happen in any profession or teaching, darling. Why, gracious, the amount of times I've cut or punctured my hands when I first began tailoring? I still have a few small scars on my fingertips.” She splayed her hands and held them under Jack's eyes to demonstrate. The farmer saw a few slight scuffs and smirked.

“Ya think that's bad?” Jack laughed, slightly muting her volume once she saw Rarity's disapproving glare. “Girl, I've wrote the book on scars. Ya never wanna see my thighs if what's on yer hand scares ya—I ran inta a barbed wire fence when I was a runt, jus' 'bout cut me ta pieces.”

“Sounds like a challenge,” Rarity coquettishly replied, a sly smile on her face. Jack looked incredulously at the classy woman.

“Uh...” the farmer trailed off, unsure how to answer the other's words. She nervously scratched at her face while Rarity returned back to her meal with a small shake of her head.

“Take notice, Chylene. That is how you quiet a southerner up.”

“I-I'll, um, keep that in mind,” the pink haired woman quietly said, eating at her own halfway forgotten oatmeal.


000


Jack found herself helping Chylene once more take care of the stables before class started. It felt good still being able to take care of a few chores in the early morning—it made her homesickness a small painful throb, rather than a seeping wound. 

Neither woman spoke much, which was fine with Jack. It was about what working with Macintosh was like on a normal day. As the clock struck eight-thirty, Jack left and headed towards her very first class at the Academy. 

Like everything else at the school, the track was pristine; free of litter and immaculately painted to such a precise degree and calibration, it made Jack just a bit sick in her gut. Polished metal stands rose around the field, and an electric scoreboard towered over the entire area, the technology a stark contrast to the heavy woods in the western distance.

Bet that didn't come cheap, the farmer thought.

Towards the center of the track, a throng of students had gathered in a messy cluster, some talking to one another, others casually tossing a baseball, a select few on bulky cellphones. Jack was admittedly curious about the devices; it was a neat idea, being able to call someone anywhere like that. She doubted it'd ever catch on, though.

Jack merged into the crowd, waiting as patiently as she could for the class to start.

“You, huh?” a scratchy woman's voice asked from her side. Jack smirked.

“Hey Dash. Helluva crowd, ain't it?”

“Natch,” Isabelle said, stifling a yawn. “Name me any other class that involves learnin' how to fight monsters. Heck, I'd be in for it just for a chance to smack some rich kid's head in, you know?” She scratched at her neck. “I'm impressed you got in, really, signing up so late and all.”

Jack looked once more at the group of people. “So, uh, where's the teacher?”

“He's probably running late. Wouldn't be the first time.”

Jack used her height to look over the cluster of people. “You've been around him before?”

“Sophomore, bro.”

“Oh yeah, forgot,” the farmer said. 

The sound of drums pounding in synchronization from the west silenced everybody present. Emerging from the woods like the spirit of a nightmare was the outline of a person, who continued to steadily walk towards the scattered group. As the outline got closer, Jack was able to identify it a bit better.

A powerfully built man came walking forward, his shirtless chest gleaming with an oily sheen in the morning sun, showcasing dozens of scars all along his torso. His dark skin contrasted the off-white satchel he wore at his hip—he appeared to be slightly straining under its weight, judging by the slight pause in his steps. From behind him, several more figures emerged from the woods, each playing the drum.

As he marched closer, Jack could see the well trimmed mustache and goatee on his chin, and the coarse, black hair he kept in a messy ponytail at the side of one shoulder. She could also tell the man was clearly norfolk—he towered over everyone in the area, standing far taller than her or even Big Macintosh.

The giant marched until he arrived at the dead center of the track and unceremoniously took of the satchel with one powerful hand. The 'minotaur' eyed the group and dropped the satchel. It slammed into the ground, embedding itself into the earth and creating a small crater at its point of impact. Jack felt a slight tremor from the weight of it landing.

By this time, the drummers had arrived to stand perfectly still by his side, each seemed to be wearing an ornate brown mask to cover their jaws. Dash flinched upon seeing the masks, but offered no explanation why.

The gigantic man looked over the motley crew in front of him then cocked a thumb towards his bare chest. “Kids. Welcome to my world.” He began to slowly pace back and forth, crossing his arms behind his back and staring straight ahead as he made his rounds. “It's not a pretty place—it's a dirty, grimy, rough and tough thing, but it's what keeps your squeaky clean world so nice and pleasant. Me and my boys? We're the oil greasing up the gears of society.” The scarred man bumped his chest. “My given name is William Kalaallit, though you may know of me by the nickname Celestia gave me: Iron Will.”

That drew a few gasps from the crowd; even Jack, with her limited knowledge of history, knew of the minotaur called Iron Will—The Beast who Speaks, as he had been called during the war.

He was a braggart, confidant and sure of himself, but he had every reason to be. Iron Will was one of the key instruments in driving the cult of the Griffon back from the county's borders during her father's youth. William was an unstoppable juggernaut on the battlefield, able to mow through people with the flick of a musclebound wrist, hell, the guy was able to even hold his own against soul-folk in battle, due to a technique he dubbed 'the Iron Mind.'

It was understatement saying Jack was excited to be training under the giant.

“All of you? Your country's fate hinges on your skills in combat.” He snapped his finger and thumb together, and one of the mask wearing men brought over a canteen. Iron Will drank deeply from it, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and nodding his thanks. “Now, you might be saying, 'Iron Will, we haven't had a war for thirty years now,' or 'Iron Will, why should we train? We have soldiers to take care of problems!' or even, 'Iron Will, I signed up for the wrong class!'

He pounded a fist onto his pecs and smirked. “Well! Let me answer the first two questions with ease!” The man's face quickly shifted into more neutral ground. “And if you think you have signed up for the wrong class starring me, Iron Will, go see the receptionist—he'll get you enrolled for either my 'Norfolk history and legend' class or my 'Critical analysis of modern and historical philosophy' class I teach on B days. Or, as Iron Will calls it, 'Friedrich Nietzsche is a bigger tool than Ayn Rand could ever hope to be.'” He gave an intense cross of his arms at the front of his torso, bending slightly at the knees and gesturing his index and middle fingers to his side. “Represent!” he bellowed.

A few men and women gave surprised gasps, quickly leaving the field and making a run towards the Academy. William returned his attention back to the group.

“Now, for the rest of you... there's a reason you should consider how quickly the Griffon Wars escalated on the eastern borders—the battles began in not months or weeks, but days after the cult declared war on your kind. Who made up the backbone of the defensive line until the soldiers arrived?”

He neither waited for, nor expected an answer.

“That's right,” Iron Will said, pointing at the gathered men and women. “It fell to the civilians, and, by my ancestors, they did a good job until Celestia's men—and yours truly—made it to the front lines.” He extended his arms at his side, as if inviting the entire throng of students to join him. “And that's why Iron Will wants you to prove yourselves to me. Show me that your generation still has the same ingenuity and grit that made me respect your fathers and your fathers before them.” He pointed to the cratered satchel. “Iron Will dropped his bag. Can it be picked up?”

A soul-folk scoffed, taking a step forward. “Easy.” He smirked, crossing his arms over his jacket.

“Show me,” William commanded.

With a small gesture of his finger, the soul-folk pointed to the bag, surrounding it in red aura. He casually gestured upward and frowned when the stubborn package refused to budge. He extended his whole hand, putting his palm upwards and strained to bring his hand up, as if hoisting an imaginary weight. The straps of the satchel rapidly flapped in an unseen breeze, but otherwise did not rise.

The man dropped his hand and bent down, panting as if he had just ran a mile.

“Wh—what's in that thing?” he gasped.

“Lead,” Iron Will said, looking over the young man. “It might have been hoisted up by a stronger magic than yours, but I doubt it. Lead does a good job filtering spells.” He glanced among those in attendance. “How are you going to solve this?”

Dash seemed like she wanted to answer, but just smirked towards the giant.

“When you don't have a plan, better get to running, man!” he called, pointing to the track. the farmer held back a laugh—the rhymes reminded her of somebody that lived near the farm. “And don't stop until you think of how to lift that bag up.”

The group grumbled, all beginning to jog. All save for Jack and Dash. The rainbow haired woman stretched her legs. Once that was done, she grabbed her torso in her hands and twisted until she heard a satisfying pop.

“What you think about it?” Isabelle asked, smirking. “Do you follow what he's trying to say?”

“What's there ta follow?” Jack questioned, taking off her overshirt and tossing her hat to the side. “Jus' gotta hoist up the bag an' we'll be golden, right?”

“Well, kinda,” Dash admitted, jogging in place and itching to start running. “I mean, what he's actually trying to do with it is make it a--”

“I got this,” Jack said, walking past the track. The farmer soon found herself standing directly over the bag. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed Iron Will watching her intently. She took a breath and spat into her hands. After vigorously rubbing her two palms together, she bent her knees, grabbed the straps and lifted up. The satchel held fast to the ground, Jack stumbled briefly in surprise at the bag's weight, nearly falling flat on her face. With a scowl, she grabbed the straps more securely, and hoisted her arms upward once more, straining hard against the bag.

“You're not moving it like that,” Iron Will said, moving closer to the woman.

“I... said... I got this...” Jack spat out, the tendons in her body standing out and strained. Her arms shook, her legs quivered, and her teeth were splayed out in a feral snarl.

William was about ready to move over and physically stop her, when something happened.

Jack let out a loud grunt, and managed to lift the bag up to her knees. She quickly adjusted her grip, and rose the bag to her hips. From there, she gave one last straining push, and put it onto her shoulder. The farmer could barely move under her load, but she took a single small step towards the nearly disbelieving Iron Will.

“S—see? Told ya,” Jack panted. She reached up and took off her burden, intending to hand it over to the stunned Norfolk. A sudden bolt of pain erupted through her shoulder as she lifted the satchel in her hands. She swore, instinctively recoiling and reaching for her injury--this caused her grip to slip from the bag. The farmer watched with a shocked dread as the hefty satchel traveled on a collision course with her foot. At the last second, she shut her eyes.

The horrific impact on her foot never happened. After a tense moment, she opened one of her eyes.

Iron Will had closed the small distance between them and now held the bag easily with one hand, just inches away from Jack's boot. He tossed it to the side, and it once again landed with a quaking thud. “Let's have a look at the shoulder,” he said.

Jack rolled up her sleeve, hissing as her fingers touched the tender flesh. He examined it carefully, taking a few steps around to observe her from different angles.

“Acromion fracture, I bet,” he stated in a matter-of-fact tone. “Let's get you to the nurse.” Iron Will glanced over toward the school. “Can you walk?”

“Y—yeah. Just hurts like hell,” Jack panted, sweat forming at her brow as her shoulder continued to throb.


000


They arrived at the nurse's office about ten minutes later—Jack got quickly taken care of, though there wasn't much that could be done. Her left shoulder was wrapped tightly with gauze and the nurse gave her a handful of pain pills for later on that Jack didn't intend to take. Iron Will sat in the corner of the room, casually reading a book entitled 'Thus spoke Zarathustra.' Well, as casually as a nine foot tall brick of muscle could sit in a normal chair, anyway.

“Just take it easy and don't use that arm much,” the nurse cautioned.

“Don't worry, sir, I'm a lefty anyway,” Jack said, sickly smiling. 

The nurse gave a glance over to Iron Will. “Make sure she doesn't overdo it, chief.”

“Gonna try not to,” William replied, licking his thumb and folding a corner of the page he was on. “Can you give me and the squirt a moment, Nick?”

The nurse nodded, stepping easily out of the small room.

Iron Will gave a shake of his head, and wearily laughed. “I didn't expect anyone would be able to move that, kid. Fracture on your shoulder from the weight or no, you're a tough customer.”

“Then why tell us ta move it?” Jack questioned, rolling the small bottle of painkillers in her hands.

“Because I wanted everyone to pitch in and help move it. It was a group exercise—one to teach unity, until you blew away my expectations.” His expression turned wistful. “Though I should have expected as much from the daughter of Johnny Apple.”

Jack raised a confused brow. “Ya knew my pa?”

Iron Will bridged his sausage sized fingers and started twiddling his thumbs. “Knew him? He was in one of the platoon's that saved my hide twice during the Griffon Wars. You don't forget someone like that. How's he doing, anyway?”

“He's with God,” Jack automatically replied, the years dulling any hurt she used to have talking about it. “Lost his life in a stampede when I was jus' a youngin'.”

William shook his head, scowling. “Guy deserved better. He was one of the good ones,” he muttered in a far more reserved tone than Jack expected.

“You said it.”

Iron Will sat for a minute, stewing in thought. He chewed his lower lip, staring off into the imaginary distance. Finally, he stood, offering a hand. Jack took it and rose off the bed. “We won't have class together again until Monday. You'll be excused from any upper body exercises we do, but I expect you to work on positioning and leg strength. We have a deal?”

The dark-skinned woman tilted her trusty stetson back with a flick of the thumb. “Deal.” She turned to leave, eager to salvage what she could of the rest of the day. 

“Jack,” William called out. She glanced behind her. “Last thing: when we get to weapon training, Iron Will's got a surprise lined up for you. Be prepared, alright?”

She rolled her good shoulder. “Got yerself another deal, coach.”


000


With her battle expertise class behind her, Jack decided to go help out at the theater for a bit. She wouldn't be able to handle a ton of grunt work, but the farmer had enough experience handling chores with a broken arm to know her limits. She got to work painting some of the landscape, while Rarity and Twila worked on the high walkway above the stage.

After about an hour of work, Chylene and Pinkie both showed up to help, and they busied themselves with building set pieces.

Jack stopped briefly, wiping at her brow with her right hand. A quick throb of pain warned her against anything rasher than that motion. “So, what kinda play ya'll puttin' on anyhow?”

“A classic, darling,” Rarity called down from the catwalk. “'The Count of Monte Cristo.' It's one of Princess Luna's favorites.”

“Book's better,” Twila called to the group, to nobody's surprise. 

Meanwhile, Pinkie skipped around the stage, clutching an armload of construction tools. Chylene watched, stammering out quiet warnings and following the enthusiastic woman like an unsure duck following its mommy. They both disappeared behind the curtain leading backstage.

“Geez Twi, you're a total egghead,” Dash said, stepping boldly across the empty room, her tennis shoes making an obnoxious slapping noise with every step on the wooden flooring. She hopped up from the floor and easily hoisted herself up onto the platform. After wiping her hands on the back of her pants, she gave Jack a concerned look over. “Hayseed, you alright?”

“Ain't nothin' that'll kill me. Jus' a fracture,” Jack answered. She ran a hand across her mouth. “So, uh, 'bout that bag...”

“Yeah...” Isabelle trailed off with an unbelieving shake of her head. “Uh, how much can you lift? I've never seen anybody but Iron Will move that bag.”

“I ain't got a clue, Dash. I jus' kinda move things as needed on the farm.”

“Fine. Don't even guess,” Dash pouted, crossing her arms.

Pinkie poked her head out from behind the curtain. “Chylene brought snacks! Come on and eat!”

“Don't have to tell me twice.” Dash smirked, lazily walking towards the girl.

Jack watched the athlete head to the back—she cupped a hand to her mouth, intent on calling the other two down from the catwalk.

She never got to say anything.

The farmer heard a noise that filled her with dread. The snapping of a rope. Rarity cried, “Look out!” There was a sound of impact; Jack saw Rarity launched off the side of the catwalk, the soul-folk screaming as she plunged towards the floor.

There wasn't time to think. Wasn't time to speak. There was only time to act.

Jack sprinted towards the falling woman, making a mad dash to the far end of the stage. Without any hesitation, the farmer leapt off the platform and caught Rarity in her arms. Jack twisted while in the air, putting Rarity on top of her.

A breath later, the blonde slammed into the ground, landing hard on her injury.

“Rare, you ok?!” Jack questioned, the surge of adrenaline stopping her shoulder from screaming in pain.

“The sandbag...” the tailor trailed off, weakly raising a hand above them. Jack spared a glance upward and noted a bag freely swinging nearby the catwalk; sand continued to slowly spit and dribble out of its ruptured side. Nearby, Twila sat mutely on the metal pathway.

“Holy shit,” Jack whispered to herself. It must have snapped off from the rest of the bags an arm's length away from the catwalk and swung forward, knocking Rarity off.

“What's going on?!” Dash said, running out from the back. Pinkie and Chylene peeked out from behind the curtain.

“A sandbag broke an' nearly got Rare killed--someone keep an eye on her; I'mma check on Twi,” Jack ordered, rising and placing Rarity gently on the ground. The woman seemed hesitant to leave Jack's grip—her hitching breath and trembling lips suggested the gravity of what could have happened was just now sinking in. Jack bent down and grabbed Rarity's hand. She squeezed it tightly, looking at the woman square in the eyes. “Yer alright now. Don't worry,” Jack reassured, using her other hand to beckon Chylene over. The silent girl did quickly, crouching down by Rarity's side, and patting the frazzled woman on the back of the hand in an attempt to comfort her.

Jack took off, climbing back onto the stage and moving to a ladder that was built on the concrete wings of the stage. She quickly scaled it and jogged over to Twila, her footsteps clanging on the metal catwalk every step of the way.

The soul-child remained stationary, sitting on the walkway and staring at her own hand laying on the grating with a mute fascination.

“Uh, Twi? Ya alright?”

The scholar didn't answer—didn't even twitch. Jack moved over, putting a hand onto Twila's shoulder. 

The girl shrieked at the sudden touch, rising in a blind panic from the ground and clutching tightly at the neck of her dress. Her bewildered eyes came back to reality, and she slowly clutched at her forehead before her legs gave way and she pitched forward like a drunk.

“Twila—stay with me,” Jack said, putting her hands out to the girl's side in an attempt to balance her.

“She-she-it was coming for me. Rarity knocked me away--” The dark skinned woman blubbered, tears streaming down her face. “She fell, Jack! She fell an--”

“I caught her. Rare's fine.”

Twila stared blankly at Jack, unbelieving. She finally slumped down to her knees in relief. 

After a beat, Jack reached forward and patted Twi softly on the back. Jack wasn't the best at comforting people—her brother and father's reserved manners had rubbed off on her a bit, for better or worse—but she tried. She looked over, past the shuddering woman and her eyes were drawn towards the sandbag swinging with the slow, dreadful sway of a hung man—she had long since learned to listen to her nagging suspicions, and by God, that bag was all but calling to her to check it out.

“Can ya make it back down on yer own? I need ta look at somethin',” Jack said. Twila weakly rose, nodding once. She gripped the railing tightly, walking at the pace of a woman far beyond her prime. Once Twila slowly began to descend down the ladder, Jack got to work, leaning over the right side of the railing to look over the bag.

It seemed normal enough. The bag was a good sized cloth pouch designed to hold a large amount of sand—regulation was about fifty pounds, if Jack remembered the last time she had to use 'em on the farm right. 

At the top of the bag was a wide, circular hole, where two ropes wrapped around like ivy on a branch. One still supported the bag—it rose up high to the roof and joined a collection of other ropes from different sandbags, all tied around a single horizontal pole.

What drew her attention, however, was the second rope attached to the sandbag. She reached out and tugged on the rope, pulling it up to get a clear view of what made it snap, be it rot, or age.

The cause of the rope break made Jack shake her head in an angry disgust.

The rope had obviously been tampered with—there was no mistaking the clean cut through almost the entire rope, leaving only a hair's breadth to hold against the strain of the bag's weight. Whoever had tampered with this had intended to hurt someone.

And considering that it swung down at the exact time Rarity and Twila were up here, that could only mean one thing...

“Dash!” Jack loudly barked, “Get yer ass up here, pronto!”

In a heartbeat, Dash had flown up to the catwalk. She casually flapped her wings as she floated in the air by Jack.

“What?!” the sky-child asked urgently, the situation making her as tense as a pulled wire.

“Someone was tryin' ta hurt Rare an' Twi.”

“Seriously?” Dash retorted, “Who would wan--”

“Dunno. I think he may be in this room right now—it's the only way he'd be able ta time the damn thing not jus' fallin' on nothin'.” Jack made a circle in the air with her finger. “Sweep the place, Dash: every box, every aisle, every part of the ceiling an' floor. I want this guy found.”


“On it,” Isabelle instantly said, summoning her ethereal wings and taking to the air once more.


000


Blueblood quickly focused, bringing forth a camouflage spell from the recesses of his mind. In a mere second, the color of his posh clothing and fair skin morphed, becoming nearly translucent and blending with the high-class theater box he sat in, just as a sky-child streaked by.

The spell would never stand a chance to intense scrutiny, but as fast as the woman shot past his hiding spot, he didn't have a fear of being found.

This isn't happening, his mind repeated once more, still stuck on an endless loop of guilt. He hadn't meant to hurt anyone—the sandbag was supposed to be a close call; a near miss—a scare tactic. The first of many, until she left the school.

He had screwed up big time—Mr. Dorcis didn't tolerate screw-ups.

This isn't happening, he thought desperately, taking a few breaths in a vain attempt to calm himself down.

Dorcis... when Dorcis heard of this...

For a brief moment, Blueblood considered turning himself over to the bird girl and mud woman. He could go quietly, get arrested, and spend several years behind bars, away from Mr. Dorcis and what he could do to punish a failure.

Except he's got to have men inside. People more than willing to gut you if he ordered it, the panicked part of his brain warned. He agreed to the cold logic. His only hope was to ask the man for a second shot. It was the only course of action that wouldn't involve his potential death or horrific maiming. He nodded to himself. Took a breath. Nodded again. 

Blueblood would ask for his second chance tomorrow, when Dorcis arrived at the school.
> Admiration
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

	Jack took a deep breath, trying to calm down her frantic heart rate. She glanced over the railing once more. Twila and Rarity both sat mutely on the ground, with Pinkie and Chylene quietly trying to console them.

The blonde somberly shook her head, resting her hands on the railing. She saw Dash quickly approaching and tried her best to get her head back into the game. “Find anythin'?”

Isabelle landed gracefully onto the metal catwalk, then seemed to find interest in her jacket's zipper. She played with it as she spoke to the farmer. “I've been by every box and seat here, bro. If there was anyone around, he's gotta be gone by now.”

“Dammit!” the farmer hotly swore, stomping her foot and slamming her palm onto the guardrail. She rubbed her face, trying desperately to think of another plan. She decided on the practical one. “Alright. Let's jus' get in touch with the principal, I guess. We tell 'em wha--”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa!” Dash interrupted, swiftly crossing her arms. “We can't just tell anyone about this! That'll cause more problems than it would solve.”

Jack scowled, narrowing her eyes. “Fer God's sake, look at her!” she exclaimed, pointing down at Rarity's limp form. “What else are we supposed ta do?! Ya tellin' me we shouldn't bring this up ta someone?!”

“Yeah,” Dash briskly nodded, taking a step closer and tilting her head up to meet Jack's gaze. “That's exactly what I'm saying.”

Jack clenched her fists tightly at her side. “Listen--”

“No, you listen, hayseed,” Isabelle quickly shot back, pointing a finger at Jack's face. “It's obvious that whoever sabotaged that sandbag was trying to get either Rarity or Twila to make a scene. If word gets out that this happened, we're playing into his damn hands! He's got an angle on this, I'm sure of it,” Dash steadfastly argued.

“Why them, Dash?” Jack asked, taking another deep breath.

“Influence.”

The farmer squinted at the lithe woman. “Influence?” she repeated.

Isabelle leaned back against the railing, flicking her rose colored eyes towards her injured friends. “Look,” she started, speaking as calmly as she could. “Let's get them back to their room, then I promise you I'll talk about it, ok?”

Jack stared hard at the athlete for a moment. Finally, she gave in, sighing and reluctantly nodding.


000


Chylene offered to stay the night with Rarity and Twila. Jack thought that was sweet of her, and the farmer was pleased as punch when the girls accepted the offer. Pinkie returned to the bakery, after a constant reassurance that they'd be fine without her. An hour later, Jack found herself back at her dorm, lazily thumbing through a mathematics book for one of her classes tomorrow.

The woman didn't understand how she seemed to routinely get to places faster than Isabelle—that woman had proved she was kind of a big deal when it came to speed.

Granted, Dash also proved she was like a slug when she wasn't out and about, so it kind of balanced itself out.

Sort of.

Either way, Jack was more than relieved to shut her book when Dash came barreling through the door clutching a small notebook in one hand and the other placed in her jacket pocket.

“What kept ya?” the farmer drawled.

“Had to take care of a few things,” Dash evasively answered, taking out a coil of cut rope and putting it on her bed's footrest. She unzipped her jacket, tossing it to the side, then crashed, her arms splayed out on top of her mattress and her feet sinking to the floor. She let out a contented groan.

“I think ya still owe me a talk, Dash. Yer not goin' ta sleep yet.”

The athlete rolled her eyes. “I know, bro. Just felt nice getting off my feet.”

You can fly! Jack's mind screamed loudly. She crossed her arms, waiting for Isabelle to begin to speak.

“Alright. So, we'll do a bit of note swapping—make sure we're on the same page first. Ready, bro?”

“I'm game.” Jack nodded. “Guess we'll start off with the elephant in the room: why them? I know ya said influence earlier, but what do ya mean by that?”

Dash opened up the small notebook and glanced over to Jack. “Rarity's the daughter of a diplomat that's been dealing with one of the most volatile and technologically advanced countries in the world. Twi's the protege of a living legend and a potential contender for the crown, once Luna and Celestia's reign ends. If they aren't girls with influence, I don't know who is.”

“So ya reckon that'd be why someone was tryin' ta off one of 'em?” Jack asked, a pit forming in her stomach.

Isabelle shook her head. “See? Like I said earlier: I don't think our perp was trying to kill either of them.” She rose off the bed and began pacing across the room. “Think about it, bro: it'd be a lot easier to take either one of them out with a poisoned drink, o-or something along those lines.” Dash rubbed at her temple, thinking far harder than Jack would have expected from the athlete. “A sandbag has too many potential ways it could fail. No, I think he was trying to scare one of them and cause an incident with the academy—I bet my life on it.” Dash tapped the small notebook in her hands. “Now, what do we know about the assailant?” She glanced over to Jack for an answer.

“Uh...” the farmer trailed off, blinking.

“Come on. Lay it on me, bro,” Dash encouraged. “There's gotta be more than just empty space in your noggin.”

The farmer shot a glare towards Isabelle, who earnestly smirked. “Well,” Jack started. “I'm gonna guess the guy was soul-folk. It's how he timed splittin' the last bit of rope holdin' that sandbag up.”

“And?”

“An'... an' he must have some vendetta against one of 'em. O-or their family.”

“So an upper-crust type soul-folk? Doesn't help narrow the playing field, especially in this school,” Isabelle said plainly.

“One that knew Twila was involved with the play,” Jack realized.

Dash stopped pacing. She put a hand to her chin in thought. “Mmm, maybe, hayseed. It's a bit of a stretch, but for now we can assume the guy either pays attention to plays, or he was a part of this one in some way. I guess we can check everyone that's been involved in the play, but man, that's a lot of legwork.”

“We could get a teacher ta give us a hand.”

Dash vehemently shook her head. “No teachers. I can count the amount of them I trust on one finger, and Iron Will isn't going to be around until Monday.”

“Ya really think it's one of the teachers?”

“They're almost all soul-folk from upper class families—it's a damn good possibility.”

“Who do ya trust with this, Dashie?”

“Let me put it this way, hayseed: I've known you what, three days? Yet here I am telling you this.”

Jack nodded, honored by Isabelle's faith in her. “So, what do we do?” she asked. While Jack was proud of her ability to think on her feet, actual plans she preferred to leave to different heads than hers, and the athlete seemed to have a surprisingly good gasp on the situation.

Isabelle smirked. “Guess that's all that really matters, huh?” She moved to the chest of drawers, pulling out some underwear. “I'm getting ready for bed while we do this—I'm beat.” She went into the bathroom to change. “Anyway,” Dash continued, the bathroom door muffling her words slightly. “We need to keep an eye on the girls, make sure nobody messes with them. I'm going to count on you to take care of that.”

“And what will you be doin'?” Jack asked, feeling quite stupid talking to an empty room.

“See that coil of rope on the bed? When Twi's feeling up to it, I'm going to see if she can trace it.”

Jack glanced over at the woman's bed. “Trace it?”

“Yeah. We'll be able to identify what color of aura the perp used to snap the rope—that'll give us something a bit more solid to work with.”

“An' that, uh, helps us?” Jack slowly questioned, mouthing the word 'Perp.' It seemed to be an odd word choice coming from a gal like Isabelle.

Dash opened the door, lazily plodding into the room. “It lowers our suspect pool. After the school soul-folk go to, they have to register what color their magical aura is. If the guy didn't take a masking agent beforehand, well... every little bit helps.” The athlete landed on the top of her bed and shut her eyes. “Care to flick the switch for me, bro? Thanks.”

“Sure, 'bro,'” Jack scoffed, moving to the light switch and flicking it off. She changed into her own sleepwear and laid down. After a moment, she decided to speak. “Hey Dash?”

“Mmm?” came the sleepy reply.

“How ya know 'bout this stuff? Like, the aura things an' all that?”

“I'm a Ritter. Got a lotta family that have worked as detectives an...” she trailed off, sleep clearly overtaking her words at this point.

Jack sighed in exasperation at her friend and futilely tried to get some sleep of her own.


000


Rarity woke up early, far earlier than what was proper for a lady of her stature. She glanced to the nightstand by her bed. The digital clock rendered a mute judgment upon the woman.

Four A.M.

Honestly, after what happened yesterday, she was surprised she had nodded off at all. It took Twila and Chylene a sleeping pill in order to even begin to calm down enough to rest.

The high-class woman sat up, turning her head to the left and staring out into the dark night. Or morning, depending on your perspective.

You almost died, a small, terse voice in her head said. 

But she rescued me, another spoke up.

Rarity quietly took a deep breath, hugging her knees close to her chest as she continued to take in the window's view.

She owed the woman something special, that was for certain. It wasn't often someone that saved your life was interested in you. It was flattering, that was for certain, and Jack might make an interesting foil to her own elegant style that was both contemporary and daring. It was just a shame that Rarity couldn't call Jack handsome.

Could she?

She pondered on this briefly, putting a delicate finger to her full lips. She certainly wouldn't call Jack beautiful or handsome—she wasn't proportioned right, she was too tall, and far too crude to be treated like a lady. But... she had a certain... je ne sais quoi about her that Rarity was developing an interest in.

Rarity rose from her bed, intending to take a shower. After all that had happened yesterday, she felt like talking to someone, someone that wouldn't skirt around the issue quite as much as Chylene and Twila. They were good friends, both of them, but sometimes a blunt, honest answer was the best.


000


Jack awoke to a gentle rapping on her door. The farmer glanced at her clock. Four-Thirty.

“This better be important,” she groaned, rising from the bed and wincing as she automatically put pressure on her right shoulder. She heard Isabelle, still snoring and still dead to the world. It was times like these Jack wished she was a heavier sleeper.

She moved to the door and threw it open. Rarity stood in the hallway looking as radiant as ever, despite the ungodly hour.

The beauty looked over the farmer, the coy half-smile she had slowly vaporizing as she regarded Jack's bra and men's boxers. “You hardly seem dressed proper for answering guests.”

“Wasn't expectin' any till a more reasonable time,” Jack said, leaning against the doorframe. “Somethin' I can do fer ya?”

Rarity shuffled on her feet, not quite sure how to start. She decided on the direct approach. “I never thanked you for saving my life yesterday.”

The farmer shrugged. “Didn't do it fer thanks, Rare. Jus' saw you were in trouble.”

“Regardless, I want to do something for you, darling,” the woman replied. She gave a slow glance up and down Jack's body. “Turn around for me.”

“Do what now?” The farmer blinked

Rarity made a small circling motion with her finger, playfully commanding Jack with a raise of her violet eyebrow. Jack rolled her eyes and did as instructed.

“Hmm. I see. I believe this could work.”

“What could work, Rare?” the farmer asked, exasperation in her voice.

“I'm going to make you some clothing for the play. Would you prefer a suit or dress?”

“When did I say I was goin' ta that?” Jack was getting tired of asking questions.

Rarity smiled. “I have two tickets to a box seat for tonight's performance. It would be a shame to have to waste one, and, well...” Her expression faded briefly as she thought back to yesterday. “I sincerely do owe you, Jack. It would please me to no great end if you accompany me to the showing. So, I'll ask again: dress, or suit?”

The farmer put a hand to her temple, sighing. She was going to decline the offer—plays really weren't her scene, after all--but she had a thought. Dash mentioned keeping an eye on the girls, what better way than to be stuck with one all evening? With Rarity taken care off, all she had to do was keep Pinkie and Chylene around Twila and they'd be set. 

“Ain't never been one fer dresses,” Jack finally answered. “I guess I'll take a suit.”

“Fabulous, darling!” Rarity said. “I have just the thing—it's a cancellation from a male client I have in Manhattan. Italian style; all I need to do is resize the chest, tighten the hips and add a slight extension to the legs. You'll look ravishing, I guarantee it!” she said, giving a small flourish with her hand. “I'll ask you to arrive at my establishment at five to pick up your suit. In addition, we'll need to gloss over a few of your flaws.”

“What do ya mean, 'flaws?' I'm jus' fine as-is,” Jack snapped, staring down at the classy woman.

“You have a certain rustic charm, I will agree. However, with just a bit of makeup and eyeliner, we could--”

“No deal,” the farmer replied. “I ain't some sorta doll ya can jus' do as ya please with. We ain't touchin' any of that fancy makeup ta my face.”

“Stubborn as a mule,” Rarity said under her breath. “Fine,” she conceded.

“Now... was there anythin' else? I'm still tired as hell an' my shoulder's killin' me.” Jack stifled a yawn.

Rarity swallowed. “T-there is one more thing. Regarding yesterday: do you suppose there was a... more sinister thing at play than just chance? I mean, after the fall, I honestly cannot remember much, and, after speaking with Twila, she's the same way. However, I do recall you spending time with Isabelle on the catwalk after the fact. Was the sandbag... sabotaged in some way?”

The two glanced at one another; Jack wore a mask of borderline indifference. Rarity had worry lines across her perfect face. Before the air became thick with tension, the farmer nodded.

“It was,” she said.

“Oh,” the classy woman quietly replied, her blue eyes flicking nervously down the brightly lit hallway. “D-do you suppose whoever it was that did it... do you suppose he'll try again?”

Jack felt torn between comforting the clearly uneased woman with a lie, or telling the truth. Neither one seemed all that appealing at the moment.

“I can't lie ta ya sugar: I jus' don't know. But I'll say this: ya got good friends around ta watch yer back, myself included. If I can at all, Rare, I'm gonna make sure nobody hurts ya.”

“Alright,” Rarity quietly said. “I wanted the truth of the matter. For that, I thank you.”

Jack offered a tired smile, casually putting a hand to her hip. “Ain't no problem, I--”

“I'm sorry for cutting this conversation short,” Rarity interrupted, glancing down at a gold pocketwatch she had been carrying in a side pocket. “But I absolutely must leave for St. Charles now if I want to make it to my shop and prepare for the show tonight. Try to arrive at the boutique by five. We'll skip the makeup like you requested—but we are doing your hair. I refuse to walk arm-in-arm through the school with someone who looks like she has a fear of combs.” Rarity quickly started to briskly walk down the hallway, giving a quick wave behind her. “I'll see you on towards the evening, darling!”

Jack stared after the woman, dumbfounded. After a beat, she spoke to herself. “Arm-in-arm? What she think this is, some kinda date?”

“I don't care what it's supposed to be, just shut the damn door,” Dash sourly snapped, her agony muffled by the pillow she threw over her head to try and block the hallway's light.


000


Morning came and went for the farmer; she was surprised how... normal everything seemed after yesterday's excitement. She went to her mathematics class like nothing had happened and suffered through it with only the vaguest notion of what the teacher was talking about. She was thankful when lunchtime rolled around, not so much so she could eat, due to a hearty breakfast of eight pancakes and smoked ham, but just so she could escape that awful class and move onto English; at least that was something she was fluent in.

The farmer took her lunch time to travel to the front of the school and rest under a tree, crossing her arms behind her head and sitting her hat low enough on her brow that the rim gave her eyes a hefty amount of shade.

She was seconds away from nodding off when an ear splitting voice called out directly into her ear.

“Hiya Jack!” Pinkie shouted.

“Bwah!” the farmer unintelligibly cried with a yelp, jerking awake. She took a deep breath when she saw who had awoken her and put a hand to her furiously beating heart. “Shootfire, Pinkie! Ya scared the livin' daylights outta me.”

“Sorry! I just looked over and I thought to myself 'Hmm, Jack seems like she's in deep thought,' so I thought I'd come over and ask you what you were thinking about, because I've always heard that misery loves company, right? So why not deep thoughts, too? We could be, like, dou--”

Jack quickly shook her head, interrupting the bubbly girl in the middle of her tangent. “Wasn't thinkin', I was jus' nappin'. After yesterday an' this mornin', I'm plumb tuckered out.”

Pinkie seemed to lose a bit of her exuberance at the farmer mentioning yesterday. She plopped down, sitting her rump ungracefully on the grass. “What happened this morning?” she asked.

“Wasn't nothin' bad,” Jack reassured, then paused. “A-at least I don't think it was.” The farmer put her hands in her pockets. “We'll... I dunno now. Uh, Pinkie, can ya keep a secret?”

“Can I?! I wrote the book on keeping secrets!” The pink-haired girl said with a smile, putting a thumb to her chest and nodding. "Of course, there was a problem with the copyright claim, so I didn't get credit on any of the editions, but the sentiment's there!"

The farmer blinked at Diane's proclamation. “W-well then... alright, I'll trust ya.” She took a breath. “Ya know Rarity?” She paused, rolling her eyes. “'Course ya do, heck, you've been here longer than I have.” Jack muttered under her breath, then tried to continue, “I think she jus' asked me out on a date.”

Pinkie's smile widened even farther. “Oh! That's great, Jack! I'm sure you two will have oodles of fun!”

“Will I?” Jack asked herself. “I-I mean, I ain't never really been the, uh, datin' type, ya know?”

Diane cocked her head to the side. “Are you saying you've never been on a date before?”

“Uh, well...” the farmer trailed off. She had a few admirers of her looks back at the farm (or, to be more accurate, at the bar near the farm), but none of them had really offered anything more than obvious pick-up lines that were spoken half in jest.

That was the downside of living by such an incredibly small town—she had history with everyone that lived there. Even now most saw Jack as she was when she was a kid: a tough little girl that could fight, spit, smoke, and cuss as well as any of the boys.

The 'just one of the guys' mantra really didn't do wonders for her in the world of dating. Not that she had the time to go out on dates growing up anyway, what with co-owning a large farm, raising her younger sister, and taking care of her ailing grandma.

“No,” the farmer finally admitted. “I ain't never really been on a 'official' date before.”

“Wow, this is going to be fun!” Pinkie chirped, excitement oozing from her pores as she clapped her hands.

“Yeah, fun,” she dryly replied, rolling her eyes. “I'm sure it'll be fun sittin' through a play with a gal that I wanna strangle on occasion.”

Diane gave a shake of her head. “You're such a silly goose! You only go on dates with people you like, Jack! You really are new at this!”

Jack held her tongue. Barely.

The pink-haired girl raised a hand to her mouth and leaned forward. “Does Auntie Pinkie need to give you some date advice?” she whispered.

“No,” Jack quickly said, trying to sound as polite as possible. “No. Please no.”

“Aw,” Diane said, frowning in defeat. “But I had so many good tips, like 'spare the rod and spoil the girl!'” She paused, “Actually, I'm not sure about that one. Maybe it's 'a fool and his money are soon parted.' No. I think that's advice for bankers.” Pinkie looked up towards the sky, her tongue peeking out of the corner of her mouth as she thought. “Hmm. This advice business is hard.” Finally, she clapped her hands, rising with incredible speed. “I guess I'll just say: Be yourself!”

“I ain't never gonna be nobody else, girl.”


000


The clock struck five just as Jack raised a hand to knock at Rarity's boutique door. It looked like the store had closed early—the sign was turned over and the lights in the businesses lobby were dimmed.

Jack still couldn't believe she was doing this. It was one thing to agree to go on a date with a gal like Rarity, but this was going to be so dull. She could feel her body sink just at the thought of having to wade through a bunch of people on stage singing about their thoughts and feelings, then Rarity would gush about their thoughts and feelings to Jack, then she'd have to nod and pretend she was listening and interested in their thoughts and feelings.

The farmer could feel a faint headache coming on.

Just as she prepared to knock at the door again, Jack saw Rarity through the door's window, briskly walking to let her in. She opened the door and gestured inside. Jack took the moment to look over her date.

Rarity was already wearing makeup and in her evening attire. She wore the quintessential red dress. Strapless, short, and hugged her curvacious body tighter than a cup holding a stiff drink  At her neckline was a pendent housing three diamonds that complemented the mark on her cheek. This was finished off by a pair of stilettos that rose her a good three inches from her normal height, putting the top of her head at Jack's jawline.

The classy woman gave a casual toss of her violet, curled hair and flashed a confident smile. “How do I look, darling?” she cooed, fluttering her long eyelashes.

“Ya look pretty.” Jack nodded, noting with surprise as Rarity frowned slightly.

“Not 'ravishing,' or 'daring,' or...?” she hinted.

The farmer scratched at her neck, unsure of what to say to appease Rarity. “Uh... ya look really pretty?” she offered.

Rarity rolled her eyes. “Close enough,” she said under her breath, before adopting a cheery smile, clasping her hands together. “Well, I suppose we should finish getting you ready for the soiree, should we not?”

Jack shrugged. “I reckon we pop on my duds an' mosey on out there. Shouldn't take too long.”

The tailor briskly shook her head, offering a shaky laugh. “Dear, you are in desperate need of at least some foundation on your face, we can lighten your tan slightly and...” She paused, putting a thumb to her chin in thought. “And I suppose I can lend you an earring or two—would you like drop earrings? I think you would look fabulous with a pair of silver drop earrings—then we can add just a bit of eyeliner to draw attention to your face, then--”

“Nope,” Jack dismissed with a wave of her hand. “We're gettin' me suited up. That's it. That's all we agreed to.”

“But--”

“Deal's a deal,” Jack said with finality, crossing her arms. “An' I sure as sugar didn't agree ta havin' globs of makeup slathered on me.”

“You stubborn mule,” Rarity hissed, turning her nose up and mirroring Jack, crossing her own arms and looking away from the farmer.

“Better a mule than an ass,” Jack retorted.

Rarity paused, briefly forgetting their spat. “Those are the same thing.”

The farmer shook her head. “Asses can be bred ta make mules, sugar. There's a difference.”

Rarity gave a surprised tilt of her head, blinking at the sudden revelation. “Oh. Well... I’ll admit defeat regarding that, then,” she easily answered. “Now, returning to our earlier conversation: I believe we were at the point where we agree to compromise—I at least get you a pair of shoes, fix your hair, and nothing else. ”

“Compromise is when I get somethin' outta it. Right now you jus' get yer way.”

“I won't say a word about your fashion choices or uncivilized banter for a whole month.”

“Deal,” Jack said so quickly Rarity almost felt insulted.

Rarity got to work quickly after that, taking Jack to the back of the store and down a small hallway with doors on either side that the farmer assumed were for changing clothes. At the end of the hallway was a spiral staircase heading upstairs. They climbed it and came to a well designed lounge, with two comfortable looking couches and a chic coffee table in the center. Framed photographs lined the top of the bookshelf to Jack's left and sleek oil paintings covered most of the white walls. In the far right corner of the lounge was a piano that must have cost a fortune. It sat next to a glass door that led out to a small patio.

Rarity gave a small gesture to the couch. “I insist, make yourself at home. I will be but a moment.” She walked off, moving past two doors and entering one at the far end of the room.

Jack moved into the room, giving a small press at the backrest of the couch nearest her. It nearly absorbed her hand, swallowing it inside the folds of stuffing and black leather. 

The farmer decided to take a look at the photographs.

They seemed to be mostly images of a young girl with two-toned fluffy hair that reminded Jack of cotton candy. In each, the child seemed to be having the time of her life, first one at a beach, then one taken a few years later near the Eiffel Tower, lastly, one with the girl caked in mud and wrestling a hog near an off-white fence that had obviously seen a few years of work.

Guessin' Rarity wasn't a happy camper with that last one, Jack figured. She placed this one back and saw one more that caught her eye, resting like a gem among stones.

It was a family portrait, taken near a cherry tree in spring. Rarity stood at the forefront, a young teenager crossing her arms and, judging by her exasperated frown, in the middle of rolling her eyes. Next to her in the foreground was the same girl that was the focus of the other photos—in this shot, she was a young child of about five or six.

Behind them in the background were two others. A nondescript woman who might have been quite the looker in her younger years, and a middle age man with a thick brown mustache. The straw hat he wore clashed so violently with the black business suit strapped to his bulky frame that even Jack's own inadequate fashion sense was screaming alarms.

The southerner couldn't help it. She chuckled, shaking her head in bemusement.

“I see you've stumbled upon my family's dark secret. My own father can't accessorize.” Rarity dramatically said, stepping back into the lounge with a well-pressed and crisp suit dangling from her forearm. “It's a dreadful fact,” she bemoaned, putting the back of her free hand to her forehead and pretending to swoon.

“Judgin' by the picture, ya felt the same way then too.”

“Absolutely,” she agreed. “Why, if Stephine wasn't around, I'm quite sure I would have boxed his ears. It's bad enough knowing he wears that tattered thing during business—it's worse knowing that it made it onto our last family portrait.”

“Stephine?” Jack parroted. 

“Yes, my younger sister. She is quite the handful at times, but she's a sweetie under her more... overzealous attempts at helping.” Rarity gestured to the piano. “And she is quite musically inclined, if I say so myself. She picked up a rough grasp of piano mere moments after being introduced to it. I have a suspicion that's what she'll earn her mark in.”

“Ain't that somethin',” Jack said, pleasantly surprised. “Got myself a sister 'bout her age—she's still lookin' fer her mark too. I bet they'd be like pea's in a pod.”

Rarity lit up. “Well, we may be more alike than I imagined, Ms. Apple.”

“Ya know? Ignorin' the dresses an' makeup an' that dumb smell-good stuf--”

“Perfume--”

“Whatever,” Jack dismissed with a brisk wave of her hand. “Like I said: take away those things, an', well, yeah. I agree with ya.”

Rarity seemed to be reminded of something. “Speaking of perfume...” She approached the farmer, extending her free wrist. “Smell the scent I'm using.”

Jack looked cautiously over the woman's wrist—years spent with her brother and his friends made the farmer reluctant to sniff anything offered to her. Bracing herself, she moved her face close and gave a small inhale. It smelled like apples after a hearty rainstorm, with a brief cinnamon finish.

“Yeah, alright. I'll admit: that one ain't so bad.”

“I thought you might be keen on it.” Rarity smiled, gesturing to one of the doors at the side of the lounge. “Now, go and get changed. I'll wait out here for you.”


000


Rarity moved to the front, opening the door and gesturing for Jack to go ahead. The blonde took a step outside, glancing down at her pricy attire and sighing.

It was a nice suit—Jack couldn't argue with that. And for being formal wear, it was fairly comfortable, save for a pressure at her waist. Rarity said it'd help give the farmer the illusion of a more pinched-in waist, but the Apple didn't really see it. Not to mention the weird feeling of having her hair braided and free from the normal, familiar weight of her hat. It hadn't been worn like that since her mom passed on.

Rarity moved to Jack's side and shut the door behind them. With a quick channel of her magic, the tailor locked the store's entrance behind them.

“Well,” Rarity said, looking at the last struggling beams of the red and orange sunset as they glazed over her property. “It's shaping to be a lovely evening.”

“Red at night, sailor's delight,” Jack answered. She took a step forward, stumbling a bit in the dress shoes Rarity had lent out. She was glad they weren't really high heels—Jack never had learned how to walk in those damn things.

"How 'bout we see if we can grab a carriage. My treat,” Jack offered, not wanting to risk stumbling any more than she already had. Walking around on an uneven road in these shoes was liable to kill her.

“Oh, you're so considerate! You don't want me to ruin my dress!” the tailor replied, smiling and staring up at Jack's green eyes.

“Uh... yeah... that's completely what I was goin' fer,” she awkwardly said, not meeting the other's gaze. If Rarity could read her obvious bluff, well, she at least didn't call Jack out on it.

> Opening act
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

	The farmer and the tailor grabbed a carriage once they made it to the busy main street. Jack was disappointed that Hans wasn't the operator, but the driver was a pleasant enough young man who took Jack's bits with such an exuberant eagerness that would have been almost endearing, if Jack had more money to spend.

Jack decided to ride inside the carriage with Rarity tonight and, while she wasn't a woman who valued comfort as much as practical applications, she had to admit it was a nice break from the hard wooden bench she favored when riding with Hans. The plush red fabric seats took out a good chunk of the normally jolting ride and the weak evening sunlight filtering in through the slitted windows gave the small compartment a rather calming feel. She glanced over at Rarity, just barely catching the tailor turning her head quickly away from the farmer, a small amount of heat traveling along the tailor's cheeks.

“I do hope the play is good,” Rarity said.

“Book ain't too bad,” Jack easily replied, staring out the window. Though they'll probably ruin it with song numbers or somethin', she thought.

“I didn't take you for the reading kind.”

She shrugged. “I don't do it often, but I like ta crack open a book from time ta time.”

“You're a far cry from Isabelle, then,” Rarity huffed. “I don't believe I've ever seen her sit down and read anything for entertainment.”

The conversation dried up shortly afterward, leaving Rarity and Jack staring out their respective windows at the slowly passing landscape. It gave the farmer some time to think. Well, maybe not think.

Hope would be the better word.

She hoped the farm was doing ok, despite her absence. She hoped Bloom was keeping up on school. Most importantly, she hoped her Granny was having good days while Jack was gone—the matriarch seemed to have been sinking more and more into her own demented world, one far away from Jack and the rest of her family. It tore at the farmer every time she thought of it, but from a practical perspective, it wasn't like the Apples' could do much for their ailing grandmother, besides herbal remedies provided by one of their closest neighbors—the medicine woman, Zecora.

The African had proved herself countless times in Jack's eyes—she was a good woman that had quite a bit of expertise in potion-making and had even helped with some of the repairs and harvesting around the farm when they were desperate for hands. Mac thought the world of the dark skinned woman, though he wasn't the type to talk out his emotions.

“So, I believe that there will be a dance before the play. Would you like to be my partner?” Rarity suddenly asked, breaking Jack away from her thoughts.

“Well...” the farmer trailed off.

“Oh, come now, Jack. You look quite stylish. I'd love to show you off! It's not often I get to advertise my own designs on other people.” She smiled sweetly. “Well, people that are a far cry from my normal clientele, anyway.”

“Ya mean people that actually work a day in their lives?” Jack said dryly.

“I wouldn't call my clients 'blue collar' by any means, but some of them do work.” Her brow furrowed as she looked to the ceiling. “Occasionally.”


000


Isabelle sat at the far corner of the student council room. Her slouched body tipped forward as exhaustion crept over her body—it was all she could do to stop herself from sliding off the chair and smacking her face onto the files she had spread all across the table. She numbly went back to examining the handwritten files, breezing through several profiles of the soul-folk teachers that resided here. With a heavy grunt of irritation, she called out to the only other person in the room.

“Yo, Twila. Any luck?”

Twila continued to look hard at the two dimensional screen levitating in front of her, seemingly oblivious to Dash's words. With a concentrated flick of the dark skinned woman's hand, the magical screen shifted images, flying through a large collection of faces, names, and student ID numbers in an uncanny blur. Every file she skimmed over had a wealth of information on it, but what drew her attention was the small, almost inconsequential stamp at the bottom right.

Red, orange, yellow, green. Each note on their documentation seemed out of place on something as benign as a school dossier, but, for their purposes, it was the most important aspect of the entire damn paper.

Earlier, Isabelle had found Twila and told the soul-folk the truth about yesterday's scare. The genius finally got the chance to do something to help only an hour ago, using her magic to infiltrate a secured and guarded room where the student records were held. To a normal soul-folk, the locked, lead based door leading inside would have been impossible to sneak magic through.

Shame for them she was no ordinary soul-folk. 

When you had magic as your talent, impossible was met with a roll of the eyes--nothing more, nothing less. 

The violet-haired woman leaned back in her chair briefly and closed her eyes in thought.

Twila hid herself well in a janitorial closet a few rooms over from her target. She closed her eyes. Focused. Channeled her spirit into the aura of magic that surround her. She clenched her fist instinctively, bringing her aura to a point on her knuckle—a small dot of lavender the only clue she was using magic at all. She stumbled briefly, enveloped in the limbo between her body and her mind. With a quick press onto the ground, her spirit branched out, turning into into a small trickle-trail of magic. The woman's essence crept under the door and along the floor, wary of the guard nearby. 

The guard had her feet propped on top of a table and a magazine resting in her hands, working diligently on a long necked bottle of lukewarm beer. Twila's essence, though lacking ears, could pick up the start of, “Paint it Black.” 

Twila didn't fear the guard. The trail, her consciousness, was so insignificant and borderline transparent at the moment that only the well trained or alert could spot it. The woman didn't appear to be either.

The soul-folk's essence moved to the locked door and searched carefully along its edges. She found what she was looking for—a small crack between the doorframe and the floor. She wiggled through, a mouse entering a small home.

Twila hissed briefly when she accidentally guided her essence upward and touched the lead with her magic; the odd feeling of a numbing jolt tingled her hands and for a brief flicker, she could feel her consciousness returning to her body, being pulled away from the steps she had crawled across moments ago.

Then that flicker of doubt was gone, replaced by a stubborn determination. With a doubling of effort, she pressed on, mentally enduring and marching forward through the miniscule hole. Soon, she felt a sweet release of the door's pressure—Twila's magic had overpowered the lead-based resistances and was now inside a small office. She took stock of the area, and her essence began to quickly change shape. Twila felt her form alter from a needle-thin stream into a stretching mass of magic similar to a thin glob of viscous jelly smeared on a concrete sandwich. It expanded, turning into a small puddle of violet. From it, rising as if climbing a steep stairwell, came first a gelatinous head, then, moments later, a neck. Torso. Arms and legs. Finally, free from the puddle, stood a lavender gel in the shape of Twila.

Twila examined her doppelganger's bare body, running an appraising eye up and down her arms and legs. She nodded in approval—everything seemed in working order. 

Worked like a charm, Twila thought. It wasn't often she had to create a doppelganger—usually an astral projection was a far more efficient way to use her powers, but considering she would need to physically interact with the objects around her, a spell from the illusion school just wouldn't work. 

She frowned as a small dollop of her slimy shoulder slid down like sweat across her arm, and splattered to the ground. She needed to work fast, before this body collapsed in on itself.

The soul-folk stepped forward, her bare feet squelching on the concrete floor. Twila looked over the room, her eyes flowing over the desk and a small map of the school's floorplan, before finally settling on a large filing cabinet. She reached out, opening the cabinet's top drawer with a wet yank.

Inside would have been the jackpot, if she had been searching for money. A bag, nearly ruptured from all the bits inside, greeted her eyes. Twila figured it was part of the school's donations from some of the bigger businesses' owners. Between the Belle clan and Dorcis, the place was raking in cash.

Twila shut the drawer, moving on to greater things. She tried the second highest. This time, she lucked out. Inside was a book. She carefully used her magic to turn a page and was greeted with the beginning of an expansive list of the entire student roster—age, race, photograph, room location—it was all there and ready for her fingertips.

She looked down at her slimy hand. On second thought, she decided, magic would have to suffice.

Twila quickly levitated the book over to the desk and pointed. The book cracked open, and began to rapidly flip through its pages. The scholar could feel the information swimming in her magical essence, a mere gesture could bring it to light. When she returned to her true body, she'd be able to regurgitate the information her magic was absorbing into something cohesive enough to read and hopefully make sense of.

As she let her magic absorb the information, she took to making sure the room looked the same as when she came in—using her magic to deal with the jelly-like substance that peppered her footsteps and covered the drawer handles. Twila heard the book snap shut with a finality only a finished story provided as she cleaned up. With another quick gesture, she picked up the book with her magic, and placed it back into its normal location. She gave a quick nod of approval at the accomplished job, and finished the last of her cleaning up. Soon, the only thing left was the puddle of goo the doppelganger originated from. Twila waved her hand over it and watched it vanish underneath, as if it had never existed in the first place.

On seeing the room was clean, Twila formed another quick gesture, making her two ring fingers and thumbs into a large circle. She then blew into the center. The room seemed to briefly turn monochrome to her gelatinous eyes, then reverted to normal.

She doubted that they'd look over the room, doubted that they'd bring someone that could identify auras even more. But it never hurt to be safe. Better to cast a masking spell and not have it checked, then not cast one at all and risk detection.

With a muttered incantation and a snap of her fingers, the doppelganger she was housed in vanished into thin air. Twila felt the briefest moment of duality as her consciousness was torn between the vanished creature and her own physical body. In a heartbeat, she was back in her own body, drawing a deep breath of the stale air.

She rose, carrying a wealth of new information in her mind.

“Yo, Twi!” Dash loudly called once more across the room, irritation evident in the athlete's words. Twila snapped back to the task at hand.

“Sorry, Isabelle--”

“Don't call me that.” Dash frowned, shaking her head at the name. “Did you find anything yet, egghead?”

“I've whittled our potential suspect list down to a far more sizable pool.” Twila glanced at the magical screen still levitating prominently in front of her. “Thanks to being able to get a match on the aura saturating the rope, I've been able to narrow it down to thirty names.”

“Can't ever be just one or two, can it?” the athlete swore under her breath.

Twila shook her head. “Sorry, Dash. The aura was a light blue--”

“One of the most common colors, yeah, yeah, yeah,” Dash quickly answered, putting a finger to her temple. “Have you dug any deeper on those thirty? Previous clubs, arrival dates—something like that?”

Twila put her hand on the table and tapped a small notepad of a similar design to Dash's. She opened it and turned the book, handing it to Isabelle. “Going by attendance records for classes, we can  reduce our pool by half—unless you still hold onto the notion that we cannot trust the word of the teachers.”

Dash mulled it over, skimming through the names with a thumb. “I don't think any of the teaches would lie about a student being in their class at the time. That's something pretty easy to confirm.”

Twila sat in contemplation for a moment as Isabelle looked over her quickly created list. She sighed, rubbing tiredly at her eyes. The magic was starting to throb at her temples—it was about time to shut it down for an hour or two. “There's a person within those fifteen I feel warrants an investigation into,” she reluctantly said, bridging her fingers underneath her chin.

Dash glanced up from the notes, waiting for Twila to continue.

“Alard von Blueblood.” After dropping the name, she paused. “He's a cousin to the Pendragon's and a potential candidate for the crown. I-it's possible he was jealous of the time I spent with Celestia. That would give him motive...”

“For the cherry on top, he was an old flame of Rarity's,” Dash continued, snapping the notebook shut and handing it back to Twila. She paced to the center of the room. “When you're part of my family, you're taught not to believe in coincidence, bro. Him being on that list and having a beef with both of you just puts the nail in the coffin.” Isabelle smirked. While she didn't have quite the dedication to do the duller aspects of detective work, she was like her uncle when it came to actually putting the pieces together and solving a puzzle like this—it gave her a feeling of accomplishment and euphoria only a runner's high could top. “Blueblood wanted to scare you two away, maybe damage the school's rep as insult to injury. It would have worked well, had he actually missed the blow; but that's the problem with domino plans like that—mess up one piece and it goes nowhere. It's bugging me on what he would have done next—it's not often you see someone with a loose gameplan like that.”

Twila nodded. “What do you recommend we do?”

The Ritter popped her knuckles, smirking. “Tonight we'll have ourselves a social call.”


000


The carriage pulled up by the school's fountain and started back towards St. Charles within moments of Jack and Rarity exiting. Not that they could blame the driver—the place was swamped with well dressed party goers spilling out from carriages and walking arm-and-arm down a plush red rug leading to the front entrance. Jack noticed a few stoic women adorned in the golden armor of Celestia's guard lining the walkway. They cast an appraising eye on everyone that walked towards the doors, keeping an eye out for troublemakers. It unnerved the farmer a bit—wasn't like she dealt with authority often.

“Last chance ta jus' go an' grab a bite ta eat instead,” Jack offered half in jest.

“Oh hush,” Rarity dismissed, closing her eyes and tilting her nose up. “I'm quite certain that this will be an enjoyable evening if you simply accept it.” She approached the velvet rug alongside the farmer, then, with surprising speed and deftness, she snaked her delicate arm around the brown-skinned woman's. Jack glanced down, then back up at Rarity.

“Ya weren't kiddin' bout that 'arm-in-arm' stuff, were ya?” the tall woman dryly asked, scratching at her cheek.

“A lady does not 'kid,' Jack. She jests,” Rarity corrected. As they continued walking the carpet, she lowered her voice slightly, leaning to the farmer's ear. “Do you not like it?”

“Like what?”

The violet-haired beauty wordlessly lifted up their entwined arms.

“Oh,” Jack realized. The blonde scratched at the tip of her nose—furrowing her brow suddenly when she realized how much she was touching her face—then shook her head. “I dunno—I mean, it's nice enough, I guess.”

The two soon entered the busy lobby. Jack gave a small tap on the other woman's shoulder and broke her hold. “I'll be back in a few. I really gotta pee.”

Rarity very nearly put her palm up to her face in exasperation. “I don't suppose you could have said you were powdering up, or you needed to step away for a minute?”

Jack blinked. “Heck no. I ain't touchin' no makeup ta my fac--”

“Never mind,” Rarity quickly said. “I'll just wait for you here.”

The farmer wandered off. Rarity sighed, moving to one of the large windows that lined the wall. Over on the other side, a woman on piano slowly played the opening of a slow blues song the tailor was familiar with; “The Heart of Damocles.” 

Rarity heard a presence walk close to her; she glanced to her side expecting Jack.

It was Isabelle, dressed less like a party goer and more like an ancient Greek goddess, with long white robes and golden trim at the waist and hem.

“Why, good evening, darling. How do you like the dress?” Rarity questioned.

Dash gave a quick glance over herself, from the golden circlet at her temples to her brown sandals. “I'll give you cred: it's pretty nice. Still too girly, but at least it's pretty cool.” She rolled her neck. “Then again, it might just be cool because I'm in it.” The athlete moved towards the window as Rarity scoffed. The two stared out towards the stars. “Not too bad of a night.”

“Indeed. It is a magnificent one.” Rarity smiled.

They stood in a companionable silence for a moment, before Isabelle spoke again. “So, I saw who you came in with,” she said, smirking. “Never thought you'd shoot for the naive country girl—you were always more of a high-class broad.”

Rarity felt like the conversation had turned into a minefield. “Do not call me a broad, you imbecile. As for my type... I will admit, Jack is a far cry from the people I usually mingle with. Yet  she's intriguing enough that I wanted a chance to get to know her, especially after she expressed an interest in me.”

That got Dash's attention. “Really? Less than a week in and she's already hitting on people? I'm impressed.”

“It wasn't something so unseemly as hitting on me, Isabelle. She sent me a token of her affection.”

“I did what now?” a familiar drawl curiously chimed in. Jack moved carefully in her heels  towards Isabelle and Rarity. She raised her eyebrow.

Rarity coyly smiled. “No need to hide the truth, darling. I thought it was a fabulous gift—especially considering how expensive I'm sure it was.”

“What, the lemon bars?” She scratched behind her ear. “Rare, those cost me like two bits.”

“Including a zapapple topping? I doubt it,” Rarity stated. “A pan of lemon bars from Sugar Cube Corner runs at least eight bits.”

“I shoulda guessed Pinkie was givin' me some kinda deal...” She took in a breath. “Look, I got those ta make up fer me bein' an ass ta ya at breakfast the other day—ain't nothin' more than that.”

“Oh,” Rarity simply said. After a beat, she swallowed. “I mistook your actions, Jack. For that, I apologize. Please forgive my... earlier mannerisms. I thought you had simply taken an interest to me.” 

“That's not--”

Before Jack could say anything more, Rarity took a brisk step towards the grand stairwell at the far end of the room. She stole one more glance out the large windows. “Now, if you'll excuse me, I believe I shall head to the auditorium. My offer still stands regarding the theater box, Jack. One misunderstanding shouldn't ruin a new friendship, after all, and I did promise you a fantastic seat for the play.”

Jack watched Rarity leave. After a beat, she made a motion to follow the violet haired beauty, but was promptly stopped by Dash's hand on her arm.

“Real talk, bro?” Isabelle asked, meeting the tall girl's gaze.

“What?”

“You're not some kinda... you know... floozy or player or something, right? 'Cause I know the tricks, pretending you're hot for her one moment, then cold the next, and--”

The farmer leaned forward, coming close to the others face. “Dash,” she growled in warning.

Isabelle shook her head, putting her hands up defensively. Though she couldn't help the small smirk that popped up from the corner of her lip. “Look, I'm only asking because it's her, alright? She's had a few snobs do her wrong in the past. I'm keeping an eye out.”

“A shepherd tending to their flock,” Jack dryly answered, still in a sour mood about Isabelle's question. Her family never had wandering eyes, and Jack would be damned if she would.

“That's worded a bit different than what I'd say, but sure.” She scratched at her neck and stepped to the side. “If you're thinking abou—”

“I ain't thinkin' bout nothin' right now, Dash. I'd like ta jus' get ta know her better first. If she had jus' listened ta me a damn second ago instead of takin' off...”

The girl smirked, running a hand through her multi-hued bangs. “If you end up, you know, going after her, well, she could do worse.” Her expression fell. “But that's not all I needed to say to you, hayseed. We might have found the guy responsible for last night's scare. I wanted to see if you were game on joining me and Twila later on.”

Jack quickly nodded. “I wanna find the guy jus' as much as you, I reckon.”

“That's what I expected of you, bro.” Isabelle smiled. She tapped the farmer's shoulder with her fist. “Meet me and the bookworm in our dorm after the play and whatev. I'll let you chase after the dame now.”

“Glad I got yer permission,” the farmer grunted, heading towards the stairwell.


000


Rarity sighed, standing near the wall of the theater. The woman didn't know why she had decided to stay on the floor without a partner—it was an exercise in frustration. She was being bombarded by offers to dance, but right now she didn't have the heart to join any of the bachelors or bachelorettes seeking her favor.

I was so naive, she brooded, watching the swaying crowd make their way through a violin piece. 

It really had seemed too good to be true, in retrospect. A stranger shows up and not only grants a token of her affection, but saves Rarity's life all within the same week? It was ridiculous.

It was even more ridiculous that Rarity was so intrigued by Jack. They had only known one another for a few days now—far too short to develop any sort of real attachment, romantic or otherwise.

But, still... 

The flower might not be in bloom, but I think the seeds were at least planted, Rarity heard in her mother's, sweet, kindly voice.

She frowned at the words, hating how close to true they were.

“There ya are,” she heard a familiar drawl say. Rarity pushed her thoughts to the side and did her best to smile through the hurt.

“Jack.” She nodded politely, watching the girl move and lean against the theater wall. Rarity mentally screamed at the thought of Jack's suit and the grime that might be on it now. “The play's not for another hour.”

“I ain't dumb. I know it's not time fer it. I, uh.” She cocked her head towards the crowd. “I jus' wanted ta see if you were up fer a dance.”

Rarity narrowed her gaze at the farmer. “So, let me understand this: you tell me mere moments ago that you had no interest in me. Now you're asking for a dance?” She scowled. “That is far from proper manners, Ms. Apple.”

The farmer sighed. “When ya put it that way, it makes me sound like an ass.” She briefly put a finger to her temple. “Look, Rare, honest. I ain't tryin' ta yank yer chain left an' right. I'm jus' makin' sure we're straight regardin' one another.”

“Straight?” Rarity repeated, tilting her head at Jack's choice of words.

“Yeah. Straight. Like on the level.” she thought briefly. “When I first met ya, I thought that you were the very definition of a pampered pain in the ass.” Rarity's fists balled up; Jack quickly rushed to finish. “But then I had a chance ta talk with ya an' I realized that under the makeup an' dress was a sweet woman that could take a joke, ya know?” The farmer crossed her arms. “I don't want ya ta make the same mistake I did, judgin' a book 'fore ya know 'bout it. I ain't no Princess Charmin'. I don't do lil' romantic gifts or gestures—hell, I ain't got a damn clue on how ta really do dates an' the like.” The earthern-skinned woman breathed out, stressed at having to actually talk out her thoughts on the matter. “If yer interested in me, I want it ta be fer me, not someone ya think I am, ya know? I want us both ta have clean slates on the matter. I don't see you as a spoiled brat, an' you don't see me as a white knight.” After she said her peace, she scowled. “Damn it. I probably done hosed that up. Sorry, Rare. I ain't never been good with words.”

The beauty smiled at Jack. “I can forgive you, Jack. I think I understand where you're coming from regarding how I've treated you. If you wish, I'm more than happy to drop the flirtatious acts and hand-holding.”

“I... I don't mind the flirtin',” Jack quickly replied, scratching at her cheek. “It's, uh, nice ta get a compliment every now an' again.”

Rarity held back a laugh at watching the farmer stammer. There was something quite enjoyable indeed about reducing Jack to an unsure pile of nerves.

The two stood silently for a moment, before Rarity coyly smiled. “Well, Jack. I do believe you were offering me the opportunity to dance...” she encouraged, holding out her arm.

“Hang on a sec.” The woman kicked off her dress shoes and put them to the side. Rarity glanced down distastefully at Jack's bare feet. Before she could voice her complaint, the farmer took Rarity's hand and walked out onto the floor just as the music increased in tempo. Jack rested one hand on the small of Rarity's back, and the other held out to the side. They began moving in synchronicity, floating, turning, and swaying across the ballroom.

“Viennese Waltz,” Rarity marveled as Jack dipped her.

“I thought ya might like it more than the Foxtrot, an' the music ain't exactly good fer the Mambo,” the farmer easily said, bringing Rarity back up and quickly moving back to the brisk turning motion.

“Where did you learn to dance like this?”

Jack wryly smiled, giving the violet-haired beauty another dip. “Spent a year an' a half in Manhattan with my Aunt an' Uncle. Dancin' was 'bout the only thing I did regularly—got pretty good at  leadin' an' followin', if ya ask me.”

Rarity's face glowed. “Fascinating. What was the gem of Caballo like?”

The blonde seemed hesitant to answer; she brought Rarity in close and began to spin once more. “Place wasn't no gem, Rare,” she adamantly said.

“I just can't understand that, Jack. I've always heard glowing recommendations to visit it. Why, in one of my fashion magazines, it says that Manhattan's the love capital of the world!”

“If by love, ya mean brothels on every corner fer the poor folk an' two wives on each arm fer the rich, I'd agree,” Jack dryly said.

“My, you really didn't like the place.”

“Ya think?” The farmer scowled, moving aggressively across the floor. Rarity held on, being careful not to suffer whiplash.

“Why did you remain there for so long if you despised it that much?”

The southerner glanced to the ground. “I hated the farm jus' as bad fer a bit there,” Jack admitted.

“Hmm?” Rarity blinked. “Really? From the way you held yourself, I presumed that you were quite proud of your roots.”

“'Course I am!” Jack argued. The song finished. Everyone dancing paused, taking a bow amid a clapping audience. A slower tune began—the farmer brought the tailor in closer, transitioning her stepping pattern into an English Waltz. She began to speak again once the two regained their correct tempo. “I jus' couldn't look at the place without cringing when I was younger.”

“Did something happen, or...?” Rarity trailed off, suddenly looking askance. “I'm sorry, darling. I'm sure you don't want to talk about it.”

“It was years ago--'fore I even got my Mark. Time heals wounds on yer body an' yer mind, ya know? It really ain't too much of a sore subject no more.” She threw out her leading arm; Rarity followed it with her body, spinning briefly on one foot before being pulled back into Jack's grip. “Lost my Ma and Pa when I was a young'in. Farm felt pretty empty after that.” She thought briefly, staring deep into Rarity's azure eyes. “I left fer a bit. Had ta get away from the hurt. So I traveled. Eventually, the road took me ta Manhattan.” Jack gave Rarity another tilt, holding the woman safe as the tailor arched her back and her violet hair swam in poetic motion. The farmer smiled slightly at the sight. Rarity seemed to be made for dancing. “Guess the rest tells itself, huh?”

“Mmm, I suppose it does, judging by your behavior and accent. However, the fact you forgot how to speak like a proper woman after being exposed to high society for a year astounds me.”

“It's jus' like ridin' a bike, Rare.” Jack briefly shifted her pose, tilting her nose up and gazing to the distance at an object only she could see. “For, you see, it is a talent one can easily show to others, if the need arises, my dear,” she said in the regal, near perfect dialect of Camelot's rich. Rarity stumbled briefly, caught off balance by Jack's cultured, reserved tone. The farmer snorted and promptly gave up her stance, seeming to revert back to the easygoing country girl in a matter of seconds.

“S-so the southern accent is fake? You can speak like a normal person?” Rarity questioned. Jack glared daggers at the woman she held in her arms. “You know what I meant,” the violet-haired woman said.

The two danced, each lost in their own thoughts. Finally, Jack broke the silence that had cast a spell on the two. “Accent ain't fake,” Jack dismissed. “All that fancy stuff is. I came from the country—my country. If I talked fancy, wore fancy clothes, ate fancy food? I'd jus' be lyin' ta myself. Like I said, Rare, I am who I am. Ain't got no need or want ta change myself.”

Amid the other dancers, each was lost to the other as the band played on.


000


The dance event ended soon after. Jack and Rarity waded through the crowds and retired to the Belle's private booth overlooking the stage. The farmer stared down at the floor, her thoughts briefly returning to Rarity nearly splitting her skull open on the wood. As she looked over the still dissipating crowd of people, she noticed the staff carrying in dozens of tables.

“Wonder what's goin' on there?” Jack pondered.

“Guests of honor. Namely supporters for the school, board directors, and the principal.”

“Princesses gonna be down there tonight?”

“Actually, they're already seated at a box like ours.” Rarity gestured, pointing towards a seating area on the opposite side of the room from the stage. In it were two regal and, frankly, imposing figures.

One was a beautiful woman with a motherly build, adorned in plate armor of the finest silvers. On her shoulder was a lengthy piece of white cloth, boldly showcasing Caballo's national symbol of prosperity—a blazing orange sun. Resting at her side was a rapier with a humble brass finish. It seemed almost out of place on the heavily tanned Princess. She ran a hand through her multicolored, billowing hair, and smiled politely at the workers below her.

Sitting next to the Princess of the day was what seemed to be her polar opposite. It was a  woman about ten years younger than the Daywalker, with pale skin that reminded Jack of ice. She wore dark, violet armor and sat in a regal, militaristic posture. She held the shaft of a spear carefully in one hand and tapped her finger against the pommel of a short sword at her side. Her cyan eyes flickered in in out of sight, as her night colored hair  floated in an unfelt breeze.

“Celestia and Luna in the flesh. I'll be damned if I ever thought I'd see 'em in person,” Jack said.

Rarity glanced at the farmer. “I forget you haven't been around much, Jack. Celestia visits Twila on occasion here. She really is quite the lady, even if she does mask it under armor and blade.”

“Excalibur...” Jack marveled. “A divine sword only the rightful heir to Arthur Pendragon's throne is said to be able to unsheathe.”

“It's just a sword, darling,” Rarity retorted.

“Probably,” the tanned woman agreed, hoisting her legs up on the boxes safety rail. “But it's still a nifty thing, ya know? Same as Luna's spear. That, uh, Ron-somethin'?”

“Rhongomyniad,” Rarity easily answered, glancing over her nails.

“... The hell kinda name is that? Yeah. Ron-somethin'.”

The violet-haired woman rolled her eyes. Before she could retort, the lights dimmed and the elderly figure of Hans stepped onto stage.

“Good evening,” he addressed the audience. “Tonight's presentation will be in honor of Lady Luna Pendragon, home after a long and tiring crusade into the untamed northlands. I would like a round of applause for the two living legends gracing us with their presence.”

The auditorium thundered with clapping; Luna still held her posture, but there was obvious heat flooding her face thanks to the attention.

“Lady Pendragon, you have always done well to remember Uther and Arthur in your actions, as has your sister,” Hans complemented. “I can only hope that the show we're going to put on tonight shows at least a fraction of our appreciation.” He glanced easily at the crowd, scratching at his dark and lined face. “As for the rest of you, don't worry. We'll get you all some food served up soon.” He gestured behind him, towards the curtain. “With that, I present to you The Count of Monte Cristo.”


000


Dmitri ate at his table as he raptly watched the play. He cut into his steak and dabbed at the juices leaking out of the meat with a roll.

“Quite a show they're putting on,” he said to the large, imposing man in a suit standing near him.

“If you say so, Mr. Dorcis,” he dismissively replied. He ran a hand over the large and garish burn mark on his cheek as he kept an eye out for any trouble. After a beat, he sniffed loudly and scrunched his nose.

“Hitting your goods is more trouble than it's worth, Dorado,” Dmitri cheerfully advised, cutting once more into his steak. The muscle-bound man was not amused—he briefly gave thought to yanking the other's silvery-gray goatee right off his stupid face.

Instead he crossed his arms behind his back and replied, “I'll keep that in mind, Mr. Dorcis.”

“Good.” The older of the two reached over and took a sip of his wine. “It would be quite a shame to lose you. Especially considering what may happen to my young associate tonight.”

“Blueblood not living up to expectations?”

“He's late. That wouldn't happen if he hadn't made a mistake somewhere along the line,” Dorcis reasoned with a sigh. “Shame, too. I had hoped that he could be counted on. Oh well, plenty of fish, Elton.”

Dorado nodded, inwardly scowling at Dorcis's use of his first name. “Shall I get a list of candidates composed?”

Dmitri was about to sound off his agreement, when he saw Blueblood trying his best to sneak around the other tables. “Mmm. Wait for a moment. I'm curious what he has to say first.”

Alaurd arrived at the table to see Dorcis finishing up the last of his steak and his hired muscle regarding Blueblood with a stare normally reserved for annoying insects.

“Good evening, Mr. Blueblood. I trust you are well?” Dorcis asked.

“Q-quite.” Alaurd nodded. “Yourself?”

“Fine. Save for the fact that they're still sitting smugly where I should be,” he huffed like a child, giving a nod towards the Princesses and their box seat.

“They shouldn't be in there, they should be ground level too,” Blueblood promptly agreed, nodding his head so briskly that it might snap. “Why--”

“Not that seat, whelp,” Dorcis argued, glancing towards the young man. “I mean the seat of Caballo's power.” He thrust a thumb towards his chest with his free hand. “Me. I deserve it far more than they do. With what I have coursing through my veins, I--” he cut himself off, realizing his grip on his drinking glass had created a small network of hairline cracks all along the object. He took a breath and forced himself to speak in a chipper tone once more. “But enough of them,” he said with disgust. “After all, we're working to resolve that problem, one small step at a time. Rather, let's turn the conversation to you. You're late with your report. I was afraid something had happened,” Dorcis said, his smile cold. Calculating.

“No. N-nothing's happened,” Alaurd lied, already beginning to sweat. This wasn't going to plan at all.

“Come on now. Do you really think I'd believe that?” The middle-aged man said, casually playing with his steak knife. “You've never been late telling me anything, especially simple updates. Something has clearly happened, Mr. Blueblood. Would you be so kind as to say what?”

He clenched his eyes shut. “I-I made a miscalculation. Nothing mor--”

Dmitri leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. “What sort of... 'miscalculation,' Mr. Blueblood?”

“I-I just meant to give her a scare, like you mentioned, Mr. Dorcis. I didn't mean for someone to nearly get hurt, honest,” Alaurd blubbered, slightly cowering under Dmitri's unchanging gaze.

The man adjusted his tie and wiped his mouth with a napkin. “You know I hate mistakes almost as much as I hate your pathetic groveling. I specifically said not to harm her. How can you fail such an easy concept?” Dorcis sighed, leaning back in his chair.

“G-give me another chance, sir. I can do this.”

“I don't know. How would I be certain that you wouldn't ruin my fun again?” 

“I'll do anything! Please!”

Dorcis stroked his goatee. After a beat, he beckoned Dorado over. The scarred man moved in close—Dorcis whispered something into his ear. The other raised his brow, interested.

“If that's what you wanna do,” the bodyguard said.

“Good!” Dimitri clasped his hands together. “Ok, Blueblood, let's make a game of it—after all, what's the point if you can't have a bit of fun now and again?”

“A... game?” Alaurd slowly said.

“Of course.” Dmitri earnestly nodded. “A game. If you win, you get to stay in my good graces, and I'll give you that second chance you so desperately want.”

Blueblood took in a shaky breath. At least now he stood a chance. “W-what if I lose?”

The other's smile evaporated. He gazed hard at the young man. “The same thing that happens to everyone that stops entertaining me.”

“I'll do it,” Alaurd instantly replied. “Whatever you want.”

Dorcis's toothy smile quickly returned. “Good, good, good. I knew you'd take the chance. Mr. Dorado will show you what you need to do.”

“Y-yes sir.” Alaurd instantly rose as the guard walked towards him. “I won't forget your kindness.”

“You won't forget much of anything tonight, I believe.” Dorcis cracked a half-smile as the two walked away from the table. Without missing a beat, he returned his attention back to the play.	
> (Intermission)
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

	Jack awoke with a start to thunderous applause. She twitched in her chair, nearly toppling over at the sudden noise. “I-I'm up!” she called, glancing around the box seat. “Oh.”

“You've been asleep for the past hour and a half,” Rarity stated, shooting a disapproving glare. “We're at intermission.”

“The play still ain't done yet?” Jack asked, rising from her chair and popping her back.

“It's intermission, darling. We're only halfway there.”

Jack suppressed a weary groan.

“Y-you've got a bit of...” Rarity gestured to the corner of her mouth. Jack mirrored the action, rubbing at the spot with the back of her hand. “Better.” The tailor nodded. She rose and headed towards the booth's exit. “Come on, Ms. Apple. We have a rendezvous to attend.”


000


Rarity escorted Jack to the student counsel room. As they opened it, they were greeted by two figures standing at the far end of the room, and four more sitting at the long table by the windows.

“Lady Belle! It's quite nice seeing you once again,” Celestia beamed, raising a gauntlet hand from her position near the blackboard. Rarity curtsied, smiling at the earthen-skinned woman as Jack stared, open mouthed at the two living legends. “Please, have a seat. I'd love to catch up with what you've been doing.”

“Things far more trivial than you, of that I can guarantee,” Rarity humbly said.

“The mundane begets the grand, does it not?” the pale, black-armored woman to Celestia's side retorted.

“Wise words, Luna,” her sister agreed. Celestia's attention briefly turned to Jack. “So, this must be the farmer, Jack. Am I correct?”

It took several seconds for Jack to overcome her near mental breakdown. The rulers of the country. The leaders of the Caballien council here. In this room. “Uh, eyup,” the farmer said after a long pause. She swallowed nervously and bowed. “R-right pleased ta meet ya.”

“Arise, Jack of the Apple clan,” Luna ordered. The farmer complied instantly. The Nightwalker smiled—an action that was no more than a pencil-thin line on her snowy features. “Pull up a chair, daughter of Johnny. Rarity and thou hath arrived just as we have begun palaver.”

Jack grabbed a seat next to the grinning Diane. The pink haired woman laughed.

“Aren't you just a gussied-up goosie?” Pinkie chortled, clapping her hands cheerfully. “With your nicely nice suit and hair all braidalaidaley.” 

“Uh... thank... you?” Jack replied, guessing that was a complement. She turned her attention back to the two leaders of Caballo. “So, what's this palaver business? It a game?”

Luna rubbed at her chin, giving a confused glance towards the blonde. “Nay, tis palaver—where we may speak to our dear fellows without a care of title nor rank. I was merely going to tell young Lady Shields about a discovery up north that could revolutionize the world. Mayhaps not in our time, but in the time of our children's children.” She looked at Twila. “Thou art aware of the Scale theory, correct?”

Twila smiled. “What a surprise! I was actually speaking to Jack about that very thing a few days ago.”

“In the far north, across the ocean and resting within the heart of the old nations, our adventuring party discovered a magic anomaly. Twas a pool akin to a hot springs, nestled on a small plateau between two of the largest mountains in the area. Though we were surely tempted to jump in and awash ourselves free of the biting cold, we took precautions—the burnt scent of magic all but spilled from the shoreleine of those waters, and none of us were keen on stepping into an unknown magic.”

At this, the pale woman leaned forward, smiling. “We examined it and discovered it was a gateway.”

“To where?” Twila asked, just as enthused as the Nightwalker. “The Everfree forest in the land of the griffons?”

“Farther.” Luna's smile widened.

Twila gave it another brief moment. “The Everlost desert in the west?”

“We shall tell thou where it took us: a small island inside the Bermuda Triangle.”

The scholar narrowed her brow. She ran her fingers through her lavender hair. “I've never heard of the place.”

“Because it is not part of this world.”

The words hit Twila like a sack of bricks—she shot out of her chair and leaned forward on the table. “Y-you found another world?!” she proclaimed.

“Mayhaps 'another world' isn't right. 'Another dimension' would be the more precise. There were many similarities to our own—music, variations of our own history and, as icing on the cake, a similar language, at least with the single native I encountered.”

“Fascinating. What was the tribal like?”

“Nay, Lady Shields. The man was a far cry from a primitive tribal. He was a commercial piloting what they call an aerodynamic plane—a ship that flies the air rather than the sea. He lost his vessel traveling what he called 'the Devil's Triangle.' He was akin to an earth-folk—he had no magic to claim, and seemed frightened when I produced spells of my own. He was convinced that he was suffering a fever dream.”

“So, the world had no magic?”

Luna nodded, absentmindedly tapping the pommel of her sword. “According to him, thou art correct. He was from the town of Manhattan in Amarereka, and that it was their most advanced town in the world. If his people didn't know about magic, I have doubts that anyone else in their world does.”

“Manhattan?” Jack spoke up. “How do they got one of them too?”

“As We mentioned, their lands are a parallel to our own. For example, during one of our nightly palavers, the man mentioned that I looked akin to a knight from King Arthur's round table. I pressed him on the matter; I thought if he knew of my father, then he might know of myself.”

“And...?” Twila pressed. Luna shook her head.

“Not only had he never heard of me, but he stated that Arthur Pendragon was a simple story designed to inspire people in a dark period of their history.”

“That don't make a lick a damn sense,” Jack argued. “If it's a parallel like yer sayin', then where's the connections? How do we get spells an they get flyin' ships or whatever you were sayin'?”

Luna crossed her arms and bounced her head briefly. “A parallel does not follow line for line, Jack.”

“But—”

“—I consider the two worlds closest to a game of chance using dice. The numbers rolled may be different, but is it not true that they abide by the same rules, correct? Both sets are made from bone and decorated with ink, both have similar weight, both are rolled from the same cup. One world's myth may very well be fact in the other, due to extenuating circumstances, and vice versa.”

“Hmm,” Jack grunted, crossing her arms. “I ain't sure if I like the idea of me jus' bein' a story or somethin' in another world.”

“Myth wouldn't be so bad, methinks. Tis when you meet yourself in flesh and bone—that is when the problems would arise.”

“A second me...” Jack trailed off, the thought filling her gut with a deep seated dread.

“God help us all if there were two of the hayseed in the same room,” Dash disinterestedly quipped, propping her feet onto the table and gazing at the Nightwalker. “Now, not to hurry you along, your highness, but when are you going to mention why you're telling us all of this?”

“I simply thought I'd share some of my findings with you all. Lady Shields has always been interested in the sciences, and I believed she would appreciate our discovery.” The pale woman looked towards the scholar. “That, and with this new information, I was hoping to bring forth a proposition.”

“For me?” Twila said, pointing a finger at her chest.

“Indeed. I was hoping on our next excursion to this other world, you could venture with me.”

Twila's eyes widened to almost comedic proportions. “M-me?! Going to a world only a handful have visited and getting the opportunity to study it?!” She clapped her hands gleefully. “L-let me go get packed!”

Luna chuckled, the action strange coming from such a serious and somber looking individual. “Nay, Twila. I only arrived back in my homeland days ago. I shan't be leaving for a while. Besides, thou needs to complete your education here as well.”

At Luna's words, the young woman calmed down a bit. “Right.” She coughed into her hand. “My apologies—I was far too excited at the idea.”

“Tis an exciting concept. While my knowledge has always been focused upon warfare and tactics, I cannot help but be enthralled by the new world myself.” She stole a glance to the Daywalker. “My apologies, Celestia. I spoke far beyond my normal amount. I fear I may have stole thine thunder.”

Celestia smiled good-naturedly. “I was not the one traveling to exotic locations and speaking to outworlders. Please, speak as much as you like—the floor is yours. I'm sure they have questions.”

“Ooh! Ooh!” Pinkie shouted, lifting her hand up as high as she could and waving her arm frantically.

“Mmm?” Celestia questioned. “Is something the matter, Diane?”

“I was just wondering if they had video games a-and pizza and dinosaurs there!”

Luna tilted her head, recalling the many nights of palaver she held with the native. “I, uh,  believe they did have the first two, mayhaps even the third. However, I cannot say our topics crossed over much regarding entertainment, save for music. ”

Pinkie nodded, content with the answer.

“Could We ask why thou were wondering those... very specific items?”

“Simple! Because any world with pizza and video games in it can't be evil, right?”

Dash felt like she was stepping onto a landmine. “A-and the dinosaurs?” she asked.

Pinkie grinned and put two fingers next to her jaw. “Because dinosaurs are, like, super-cool! Raaaahhhh!” she bellowed, hopping above her chair and standing proudly on top of the wooden table.

The rest in the room did their best to ignore her.

Celestia seemed to suddenly perk up. “Does anyone have the time?”

Twila snapped her fingers. An ethereal grandfather clock rose from the floor. Its ghostly visage shown five minutes until the hour.

“Showboat,” Isabelle said.

“A little bit,” Twila admitted, blushing slightly. “I was mostly curious if I could get the shape and consistency of a time-measuring device that large.”

“Something like this should be cake for a soul-folk as strong as you are. Heck, you could probably do a clock-tower without breaking a sweat.” Dash smirked, playing with a strand of hair. 

The talented soul-folk smiled at her friend, saying nothing.

“As much as it pains me to say so, we should return to the theater box—the play will return in moments, and twould be folly to miss even a moment,” Luna said politely. “While mine sister and I have pressing matters after the play, we will be returning to campus soon. We may...” she put a gauntleted finger to her chin in thought. “Chill around then. C-chill around? Is that atypical speech for this generation?” she asked herself.

“Close enough, bro,” Dash answered with a shrug.
> Curtain call
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

	The play finally ended two hours later. Rarity was in tears at its conclusion. She rose amid the roar of clapping, cheering the play with a whistle.

Jack was in tears too, for entirely different reasons. The damn thing was just so boring. She was lucky it didn't have any musical numbers, or she would have lept from the box seat and hoped the impact would be enough to kill her.

“T-that was such a magnificent piece!” Rarity said, dabbing at the corner of her eye with a napkin. “Maximilian was so noble!”

“It was, uh, somethin',” Jack said, being as vague as she could get away with. She rose from her chair and massaged her shoulder. It was throbbing again. Thankfully, that's all it was doing—no shooting pains, no numbness, just throbbing. Jack was grateful she bounced back from injuries pretty quick. “I got a feelin' the road's gonna be pretty crowded. Ya wanna jus' walk back?”

“Well...” Rarity debated. “A lady walking down the road at night? I'm afraid I might be a target...”

Especially after yesterday, Jack finished in her mind. Rarity didn't have to finish her implication—the farmer could tell she was worried just by her body language.

“I'll go with ya, sugar. Let me jus' head back ta my room an' change outta these damn shoes first.”


000


They walked the lands together in silence. It was far from awkward, however. The small half-smiles each swapped back and forth were simply all the conversation either one needed. As gorgeous as the night was, breaking the spell it had cast on the world with talking seemed like a mortal sin.

The two passed through town, and finally ended up at the entrance of the Carousel Boutique.

“Well, here we are,” Rarity said, moving to the door. She turned to face the earth-folk. “Thank you for escorting me back.”

“Ain't a problem.” the farmer nodded.

“And thank you for joining me tonight. I had a good time.”

“Eyup.” Never doin' a play again, though, Jack thought. "If we do somethin' again, I'm pickin' where we're goin'."

“I suppose I can understand that logic," Rarity said. She stood silently on the doorstep, seeming to want to say something. "Well...” She looked up with a sly smile, waiting for Jack to take initiative.

The farmer leaned forward. “Hey Rare?” she quietly whispered.

“Y-yes?” The tailor blushed.

“Can I come inside fer a minute?”

Rarity crossed her arms and shook her head. “I said the date was 'good,' not 'phenomenal,'” she dryly retorted.

“What? N-no, I, uh, jus' wanted ta get my hat,” the farmer stammered, her face hot.

“Oh,” Rarity eloquently stated. “Figures,” she muttered under her breath.

The tailor let Jack inside and waited by the front—the farmer quickly grabbed her trusty stetson, then tromped back downstairs. She scooted past Rarity and stepped once more into the tranquil night.

“I reckon I'll head out now. Gotta take care of a few odds an' ends,” the farmer said. She took a step forward, but was stopped by Rarity grabbing her hand. Jack turned slightly, raising her brow. “Uh, somethin' ya ne--”

The tailor stood on her toes and leaned forward, pecking Jack's cheek with a kiss. Before the blonde could say anything, Rarity winked and disappeared into her home, shutting the door behind her. The Apple pushed up her hat and scratched her forehead.

“I ain't never gonna understand that woman.”


000


Jack decided to fight through the crowd and hitch a ride on one of the wagons—she had already killed enough time walking to Ponyville, now she needed to get back to Dash.

After a dull ride back to the school, the tall woman quickly traveled to her dorm, where she found Twila thumbing through a novel, and Dash half-asleep on her bed, listening to a metal song on a small radio.

“Bout damn time, hayseed,” Isabelle remarked, opening a rose colored eye. She stretched out and sat up. “Was starting to think you'd ditched. Or got lucky.”

“I ain't the type. Jus' took me longer ta get ta St. Charles an' back than I woulda liked.”

“Well,” Twila started, snapping the book in her hands shut. “Now that we're here, we can see about getting answers.”

“Alright. What's the plan?” Jack said, leaning against a wall. She tugged her fingers through her hair, getting rid of the pesky braid she had been wearing it in.

“Simple enough for now. I did some investigation and found his room number. We enter and ask him some questions.”

“At this time of night?” Jack glanced over at the clock on the small table by her bed. “I ain't sure if he'll be awake.”

“Groggy's good for answers, bro,” Isabelle said, popping her neck. “It'll throw him off guard being woke up like this.”

“An' are ya sure he's the right fella?” the farmer questioned.

“We looked through quite a few names, Jack. He's the only one that really jumped out at us,” Twila reasoned. “That, and the aura I pulled from the rope matches his. Statistically, he's 80% more likely than the rest of our potential candidates to commit a crime like this.”

“That still leaves us with a 25% chance he ain't,” Jack argued.

“20%, bro,” Dash corrected.

“Whatever.”

“I'm willing to take the chance. Worst thing that could happen is that we get expelled,” the athlete casually remarked with a shrug. The other two in the room shared nervous glances. Twila nervously tugged at her neckline. “I'd kill for answers at this point, so...”

“Alright, alright. I'm game,” Jack agreed.

"I cannot say I enjoy the risk, but we can't let him potentially walk away from something like what he did." Twila headed towards the door. “Let's see what we can find out.”


000


The three soon found themselves in front of room 215. Twila exchanged glances with Dash and Jack.

“Either of you know how to pick a lock?” she asked. Isabelle smirked, moving towards the door. With one well-placed kick above the doorknob, the lock snapped, forcing the door open and leaving the top hinge loose.

"I've always wanted to do that," Isabelle quipped.

“Jesus, Dash,” the farmer hissed, looking nervously around. “Think anyone heard?”

“You kidding? This floor's for the high-class guys and gals. The rooms might as well be sound-proof.”

The quiet hallway seemed to show that Isabelle was speaking the truth.

“Let's go,” Twila urged, stepping inside. She felt along the wall and flicked on the lights, illuminating the room.

It was lavish. A large double bed and bathroom to their left, a furnished living room with a television screen dead ahead, and a comfortable kitchen area separated from the living room by a waist high counter to their right.

“Shit. Why can't I have a room like this?” Dash quipped.

“Cause I'm guessin' yer 'bout as bone-dry on bits as I am, sugar,” the farmer replied.

“Guys. We're missing something,” Twila quickly said, snapping her friends back into the game.

Dash looked over at the bed. “Where's our man?” she asked as she took a few tentative steps towards the living room.

“With him not around, guess this was a wasted trip,” Jack crossly said.

“Not quite,” Twila said. “If he was an earth or sky-folk, maybe. Soul-folk, however...” She leaned to the side, looking past the blonde. “Isabelle? Do you see anything I could use as a catalyst?”

“What?” Jack asked.

“Search the room. Try to find something sentimental looking,” the soul-folk instructed. “Easier to show than tell.”

The farmer did as instructed, moving to the bed. She checked a nightstand nearby and noticed a small portrait of a blond haired man smiling broadly at the camera. “Somethin' like this?” she asked, returning to Twila.

“Really? A portrait of himself? Figures.” Twila shook her head, then glanced to Jack. “Remember what I told you a few days back regarding soul-folk, and how they go to school to control their emotions?”

“More or less.”

“Well, we're obviously not perfect. We can't remove our emotions at the drop of a hat—we simply suppress them when we're utilizing magic. Still with me?”

“Eyup.”

“Well, really strong emotions? They leave behind an aura all of their own. If we have an object that contains some sort of connection to the person, we can briefly see where they're at, before the link between the two is severed.”

“So... kinda like lickin' a fuse ta make it work fer a bit? Once yer spit's gone, the thing craps out again.”

Twila tilted her head. “That's... actually a pretty apt description. As long as his essence hasn't been hidden by magic, we should briefly be able to see where he's at. We might be able to recognize the location.” She put her hand on top of the picture and concentrated, wincing as the familiar tingle of a spell escaped her fingertips and touched the photograph.

Without even a moment's pause, her perspective became distorted, shifting the room she stood in to bizarre, impossible shapes and angles. Jack said something, Twila believed, but the purple-haired woman couldn't tell what it was. She felt drugged, weak. The soul-folk summoned the strength to swivel her head to the side, and noted that the door leading to Blueblood's bathroom appeared to be leaking—it's off white color was vanishing, as was the color of the burgundy carpet, being painted black instead. The walls, Jack, Isabelle. They were all being painted black. Twila weakly tried to say something, but found herself speechless. As she watched, horrified, the whole world was painted black.


000


	When the blackness cleared, Twila found herself sitting on a bar-stool in an off-white room, looking dead on at the lens of a camera. Subconsciously, Twila adjusted a tie with her hands. Or, to be more precise, Blueblood's hand. He gazed at the young woman fiddling with the large and cumbersome device.

“Are you nearly finished? I've been sitting here for almost five minutes,” Twila said, her tenor voice pompous and demeaning.

Blueblood's voice, she reminded herself frantically. This wasn't her. It couldn't be.

“A few more adjustments, Mr. Blueblood,” the woman nervously said,  biting her lip.

“Well, hurry up. I've little time to deal with incompetent mud-girls like yourself.”

The photographer clenched her fists, but said nothing, instead ducking her head behind the small cloth that obscured the back of the camera and raising a large blub overhead.

“And be sure to capture my chin. It's not often you see a man of breeding and culture such as myself exhibiting such a strong jawline.”

Twila heard the photographer mutter something under her breath. The lavender-haired scholar could guess what was said. Shortly after, the woman spoke up.

“Shooting in three. One... Two... Three.”

The white-hot light of the camera overtook her senses, blinding her. She groped futilely in the air, trying to regain some sense of control, her panic stopping her from even considering to use magic to escape this madness. She felt something just brush her fingers and blindly lunged for it.


000


She found herself back in her own body and her own senses, clutching desperately against the door handle leading out into the hallway.. Twila drew a shaky, nervous breath. She took a step towards the living room and felt her knees buckle briefly.

“What in the Sam Hill happened, sugar?” Jack quickly asked, putting a hand on Twila's shoulder and steadying the woman. “You've been standin' there fer a good minute.”

“Nothing,” the soul-folk lied in an attempt to reassure the woman.“It's just sometimes with catalysts, you can get a flashback on a memory involving them. Give me a moment to collect my thoughts.”

Twila had always heard about memory jumping, but had yet to experience one that... intense. It briefly felt like she had been ripped from her body and placed inside Blueblood's. Unlike with her doppelganger, though, she had lost all sense of her physical self. She put a hand to her forehead and wiped the sweet from her brow.

Dash and Jack exchanged looks on seeing how taxed Twila appeared.

“I-I'm fine,” she lied once more. Perhaps when she was around some like-minded soul-folks, they could explain what she had just went through. “Just a bit winded. Let me do this next projection on the screen. It won't be quite as taxing compared to producing information in air.”

The woman pointed her finger towards the large television screen. A brief lavender glow surrounded her finger as the TV sparked to life. The sound of static pierced the room's otherwise muted silence. Twila winced and made a pinching motion. The television lowered in volume, becoming nothing more than a dull background hiss.

She focused once more on the photograph and cautiously let her magic seep into it.

The static vanished from the screen, being replaced by a dimly lit room that stretched off into the distance. Twila, Jack and Isabelle shared a glance at one another.

“Hey, Twi... what's showin' up, that...?”

“Yes. It's his vision. He looks to be in a warehouse,” Twila said, taking stock of everything she could regarding the room.

A solitary light hung overhead, showcasing a table to the man's left. From the few fleeting moments his view looked in that direction, the women could see that the table was all but overflowing in small bags, filled to near bursting with a blue liquid.

Dash's lips curled back in a snarl at seeing the object, but she said nothing.

To Alaurd's immediate right was a wide conveyer belt that was rotating at a modest pace; occasionally a wooden container loaded with small vials would roll by his sight. At the edge of the light's illumination, they could see a hatch that spat out the vials and a lever that Jack assumed was for controlling the machine. Blueblood looked up and sighed. He briefly glanced at the large ventilation system and brought his hands up to rub at his face.

“Man, this is disorientin',” Jack said.

“Shh,” Dash ordered, soaking up everything she could about the place.

“Mr. Blueblood,” a deep voice said, radiating indifference. The screen's vision whirled as the pompous man quickly did an about-face. His eyes flicked around, briefly showcasing the remainder of the room. A door marked 'Freezer storage' straight ahead, an unmarked door to his far right, and, lastly, a large green box with a gaping maw at the end of the conveyer system. From it, Jack could hear a faint mechanical crunching. 

A muscle-bound man stepped from behind the machine. He appraised Blueblood over the rim of his expensive looking sunglasses and adjusted his almost too-small tie.

“So, Alaurd, do you need me to repeat what was asked of you?”

Blueblood didn't reply. He put a hand to his face. Jack instinctively recoiled at the sight of the appendage—it seemed to almost jump out of the television screen.

“I...” Blueblood trailed off. “I don't, Dorado.”

“Good.” 'Dorado' sniffed and rubbed at his nose. Jack noticed he was bleeding from one nostril. “I suppose I should leave you to it, then.” The muscular man turned and started to walk towards the unmarked door.

“Hey,” Alaurd quietly said. The man stopped in his tracks. “D-do I have to?”

Dorado looked towards the young man with a smug smirk. What Dorado saw when looking at Blueblood made his expression quickly drop to a frown that was almost empathetic. He crossed his arms. “Sorry, kid. Yeah.”

“B-but you could just tell him--”

“You know he's good at smelling bullshit. I gotta watch out for my own ass,” Dorado countered. “If anything, you should be proud he's giving you a chance to prove yourself. I doubt he'd do the same for me.” He gestured to the conveyer. “So show him you won't make another mistake.”

The view on the screen changed as Blueblood hoisted himself up. He approached the conveyer and looked down the belt's path, seeming to study it intently. With a grunt, he hoisted himself onto the small metallic guard beside the belt. He quickly straddled his bare feet to either side of the conveyer.

“Wait, is he gonna...?” Jack trailed off as Blueblood stepped onto the moving platform. He was quickly jerked back and nearly dropped to a knee as the treadmill threw him off balance. Through a herculean effort, he rose and kept walking, struggling to make progress against the rotating platform.

He made it almost a quarter of the way to the conveyer's end when he stumbled. His bare foot caught one of the glass vials running along the belt. His weight pressed into it and it shattered, coating his tender flesh in agony. He screamed—the three girls watching covered their ears from the volume—and collapsed onto his back. He looked behind him and saw how close the green maw was to his own head. The brief glimpse into it informed Jack that it was some form of industrial crusher. If the man got a leg in that, or worse, his head...

“Get offa there!” Jack called out, knowing that he couldn't hear her, but calling out regardless. “Why doesn't he jus' roll onta the floor?” she asked her companions.

Neither had an answer.

Blueblood stood up and took one step onto his injured leg. He whimpered as the glass shards dug deeper into his white skin, but managed two steps on the bleeding and tender leg before collapsing. He gave one desperate look to the floor beside him before resorting to crawling along the conveyer.

It wasn't enough. For every foot he gained to escape his fate, two more would bring him back. He glanced behind him and noticed his leg had entered the blackness he fought so hard to escape. He opened his mouth to scream as the dark abyss spouted mechanical teeth and--

Twila canceled the spell, rendering the television to mere static. She clutched her hand tightly to the side. “I'm sorry,” she stated. “I-I couldn't watch that.”

Jack sucked in a breath. “My God...”

The three women were speechless. All they could offer one another were shocked glances.

It was several minutes later when Dash spoke up. “I know it's not the best time, Twila, but were you focused on him long enough to get a sense of where he was at?”

The scholar shook her head. “Only that it was north... maybe an hour or so,” she quietly said, before furrowing her brow. “Perhaps the business district of Middleburg?”

Isabelle put her hands behind her head and stared up towards the ceiling. “Was my guess too. You can't find warehouses like that in St. Charles, anyway. But that still leaves a problem. There's a lot of buildings like that in Middleburg. We can't just barge into each one demanding answers...” She trailed off briefly before pausing. As quick as a bolt, she moved past her friends and stepped into the bedroom. Jack and Twila were just about to join her when they heard a satisfying “Ah-ha!”

Dash returned, triumphantly holding a Rolodex filled to bursting with cards.

“Hmm, I see,” Twila said, putting a finger to her chin. “You believe Blueblood would have had business association with the man he was speaking with, ergo, this... 'Dorado' would be listed.”

“Words right outta my mouth, bro.” Dash nodded, tapping their new source of information with the back of her fingers. “And if Dorado's an alias, we saw enough of his ass to get an ID from photographs. Though I gotta wonder what he meant about a 'boss' when he was talking to Blueblood. You think this shit goes up past even him?”

“Perhaps. I wouldn't doubt it, anyway.”

“Wait a damn minute here,” Jack said. She stared at the athlete. “Yer not thinkin' 'bout turnin' this over ta the cops?!” She pointed at the screen. “We jus' saw a man die, in case ya forgot!”

“I know, hayseed. I was watching too.” Dash scowled, tossing the Rolodex up and down in the air. “But with the cops comes questions.  Some of which I don't wanna answer.”

“Name one,” Jack snapped back.

“'How did we find out about his murder?'” Isabelle retorted. “What would we tell 'em, 'Oh, we just broke into his bedroom, used a vaguely legal tracer spell to find him and watched him die.' No big.” She pointed a finger hard at the farmer. “I'm not getting in trouble for doing the right thing, bro. We're in too deep now to pull out.”

“As much as I hate to say it, I agree.” Twila chimed in, looking between the earth and sky folk. “It defeats the point if we simply roll over now. We'd have no answers, and if we tell the police the truth, we would quite possibly get expelled thanks to our actions tonight. It's better to at least try to resolve this as far as we can, before resorting to the police—provided we don't risk our lives by doing something as absolutely ridiculous as engaging in an altercation with the murderer.”

“Scout's honor, Twi. I don't plan on you getting hurt,” Dash said.

“Shit, man.” Jack finally said. She scratched her arm as she thought. Trying to find out who nearly killed Rarity on accident was one thing, but tracking down someone as twisted as what they just saw on the television? There was only one answer to a question like that. She heaved a sigh and met Isabelle's gaze. “I'm gonna regret this, but, yeah. I got yer back.”
> A new day
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

	The black evening sky threatened rain, Rarity noticed as she looked out her kitchen window. She reached over and took a delicate sip of tea before using magic to turn the page of a book she was reading in the faint candlelight. She absentmindedly pondered what could be holding Jack up.

Maybe she forgot to visit after returning from her trip?

The tailor shook her head and suppressed a yawn as she glanced at the clock  hanging above the stove. If Rarity learned one thing about the farmer over the past week and a half, it was that Jack was the last woman in the world to break her word—the blonde was the definition of integrity. She wouldn't just forget about Rarity.

But if that was true... where was she? Whatever Isabelle had in mind couldn't have taken this long, could it?

What if it's worse than that? her mind pondered, filling the beauty with dread. What if something happened, and--

Rarity shut that thought down dead in its tracks. She couldn't think that way. Jack trusted her, it was only fair that she trusted Jack. 

Everything was fine.

After a few more minutes of internal debate, she rose as the clock struck two in the morning. With that she finished up what little chores she had left. Rarity put up her dishes, wiped off the table, then stepped into the hallway just as the familiar chime of her front door went off. Rarity turned, looking past the counter and preparing to give Jack a lecture about promptness.

The words died in her mouth.

The farmer looked like hell. She had a swollen eye and the posture of an old woman—hunched forward and nearly shriveled. Specks of blood decorated her shirt. Her left arm was bruised and her calloused hand was swollen—the fingers were blood sausages and her knuckles were cracked desert dunes. The worst wound, however, seemed to be her right arm. It hung limply to the side; an injury just below the shoulder bled through a makeshift bandage, leaving crimson lines that fell to the tips of her fingers.

Rarity felt faint. She put a hand to her forehead and nearly stumbled forward. What stopped her was Jack's visible eye.

The emerald orb, normally swimming with confidence and a stubborn will, was bloodshot and glazed. 

Jack had been crying. 

Rarity doubted it was from the farmer's wounds—while they were something anyone would weep from, her posture said different. They weren't the tears of a body being broken.

They were the tears of a heart snapped in two.

That alone gave the tailor the strength to resist collapsing to the ground in shock—she righted herself and quickly ran to the farmer.

“O-oh my... Jack.” She stepped close to the woman and supported her by the side. Her mind was close to shutting down. She began to work on instinct. She moved Jack's good arm and placed it over her shoulders. Rarity then grabbed Jack by the waist. “Stay with me,” she quietly said as the earth-folk seemed to sink.

It took almost an entire minute to make it back to the kitchen. Rarity's magic worked in a flurry of activity as soon as she put Jack's near-dead weight onto a chair. With frantic gestures and sweeps of her magic, a bottle of antiseptic and a cloth landed onto her table, a needle and thread began boiling in a pot of water nearby, a large roll of gauze appeared on the table, and her freezer opened and produced two small frozen steaks that popped down nearby.

Rarity moved her delicate hands over to Jack's makeshift bandage. As soon as she touched it, Jack hissed.

“Sorry, darling. I need to look at this,” Rarity said. She undid the white cotton cloth—Jack hissed once more and flexed her left hand into a fist.

Rarity felt nauseous. There was a deep puncture wound, nearly the width of her thumb. Blood seeped out from it in a slow, lazy stream.

“Oh, oh, how I wish Chylene was here,” Rarity stammered, biting her lip in disgust. She tilted the antiseptic onto a cloth and brought it slowly to Jack's injuries.

The farmer said nothing—she grit her teeth and her lips snarled back in a grimace as the antibiotic's burn ran its course. 

“D-darling,” Rarity started as she brought the steak to Jack's eye. Once she put it in place, she gave it a quick wrap of gauze to keep from falling. “What happened?”

For a long moment, Jack said nothing. She simply stared straight ahead, her view miles and miles away. Finally, “I can't talk 'bout it, Rare.”

“Jack... please. Seeing you like this, treating your injuries. I believe I deserve to know,” Rarity attempted to persuade, taking the other frozen steak and wrapping it secure on Jack's busted hand.

“You do deserve the truth, Rare. Ya do. I... I jus' can't,” Jack moaned, her voice cracking.

“Why not?” she asked.

“'C-cause I don't want ya t-ta think I'm a monster,” the farmer said, scrunching her face tightly as she fought back bitter tears.

Rarity lightly ran a hand over the blonde's hair in an attempt to sooth the woman. “Jack, I--”

“--If I told ya what happened, y-yer gonna think that. I know it,” the farmer adamantly said, meeting Rarity's gaze with her eye..

“Please, Jack. I won't. You have my word,” Rarity swore. She called the needle and thread into her hands and gave an apologetic frown to Jack.

The tailor worked for a brief moment in silence, sewing at Jack's wound with the same precision she gave her finest silks. As she finished a few stitches, Jack spoke once more in a near whisper.

“Rare...” The farmer trailed off,  as her eyes started to water again.

The tailor looked up briefly from her work—Jack couldn't even meet her gaze now. Instead, the earthen-skinned woman choked out three bitter, painful words.

“I'm a murderer.”


000


Jack sat at her desk as she listened to the teacher drone on and on about a mathematical formula the farmer couldn't even pronounce, let alone use. She gave up on paying attention a moment later. With a roll of her eyes, she tipped her hat forward and leaned back in her chair, letting the sunlight from a nearby window warm her dark face. She crossed her hands behind her head and felt the slow, sure grip of slumber approaching. A knock at the window caused her to snap awake; she twitched violently back to attention in her seat; the motion caused a woman with a lyre mark on her cheek to glance nervously over at Jack's sudden action. The farmer awkwardly mouthed an apology and glanced towards the window.

Dash waved at her from the other side; her ethereal wings were flapping at a slow and deliberate pace, just enough to keep her from a painful drop two stories. With a small frown, Jack stretched her arm and quietly opened the window from her seat while the teacher's back was turned. The athlete unceremoniously reached into the classroom and met Jack's palm. The rainbow haired girl dumped a small, folded piece of paper into Jack's hands and took off, flying away from the window as quick as she could. The farmer unwrapped the paper, revealing a short sloppy message:

Jackie, meet me by the fountain after your classes. 

Under that:

I found him.

The Apple didn't have to think about who she meant. It had to be Dorado. 

Jack had almost expected Isabelle to not turn up anything by now—it had been a good four days since they had found the Rolodex in Blueblood's room. She had thought that Isabelle might have turned the evidence over to the police—they had came yesterday and turned his room upside down looking for any sort of clue as to his whereabouts. But Jack soon realized Dash hadn't when they had left the school looking worn and defeated. The only thing they said during an assembly of the students was a short plea to contact the station if anyone had any information regarding his disappearance.

The farmer had wanted to come forth, but remembered Dash's warning on what could happen if any of them spoke. While Isabelle seemed only indifferent to the potential of expulsion, Twila was far more frightened of the concept, as was Jack. It wasn't like her family had the money for her to go to a different school if this one didn't work, after all. This was her only shot.

An hour later and the teacher dismissed class, breaking Jack from her brooding thoughts.

The farmer rose, intending to enjoy her lunch break before returning to class.

What was it again? she briefly thought. Aw hell. History.

The farmer groaned inwardly. She had a test today—one she hadn't studied for in the slightest. Maybe she could get some reading done during lunch...

“Nah,” she said aloud. With an easy smile, Jack went outside, where she knew someone was waiting for her.


000


Rarity relaxed under the shade of a lonesome tree, engrossed in a book. The tailor adjusted the blanket she sat on top of and took a small bite out of a sandwich she had packed for lunch. As she turned the page with a thumb, a shadow fell over her light. She glanced back behind her and saw the easygoing, half-smug face of Jack towering above.

“Am I in yer light?” the farmer asked.

“Y-yes,” Rarity quickly replied, coughing into her hand.

“I see.”

The farmer stood perfectly still as Rarity's scowl deepened. Finally, after a long, drawn-out pause, Jack let a small snort of laughter pass by and she took a seat on Rarity's blanket.

“What ya readin'?”

“Ah. This is for my history class—it's about the first king of the Norfolk.”

“Oh, uh, King... King Pyth, right?”

Rarity turned a page in her book, doing her best to hide her surprise. “Correct. I didn't believe history was your forte.”

“It ain't. Iron Will jus' mentioned the King last time I saw him.”

“How is that going, by the way?”

The farmer gave it legitimate thought. “Better than my other classes,” she said. “I at least seem ta impress him with footwork durin' our unarmed sparin'. Though I ain't been able ta land a hit on the big guy yet. We're startin' up weapons next week. I'm kinda lookin' forward ta that.”

“W-weapons? Darling, that seems quite dangerous.” Rarity gave a concerned look over the farmer. “Do you have protective gear?”

“Well, fer sparin' we got some pads an'--”

“I meant for the weapon training.”

“Oh,” Jack replied, rubbing under her nose with a finger. “Uh... I don't think so, nah. I reckon we'll jus' use our gloves an' a helmet like when we fight. Not to mention that it'll be practice weapons, so I'll jus' get banged up an' bruised.”

“Such foolishness,” Rarity said under her breath. In the back of her mind, she began drawing up something that might protect Jack a bit better. It wouldn't be much—after all, she was a tailor, not a miracle worker—but it'd at least be better than the unfashionable plaid the farmer wore now.

The two sat silently for a moment. Jack lay on her back, seemingly ready to nod off, and Rarity continued to read the book resting in her lap.

“Hey, Rare?”

“Mmm?” the tailor replied, in mid-bite. She chewed as fast as she could and swallowed. “What?”

“Ya know how Blueblood...” Jack trailed off. Rarity closed her book and shifted, intent on listening to the farmer. “Well... jus' got a note from Dash. She found that 'Dorado' guy we saw kill 'em.”

“I assume Isabelle is going to contact the police now?” Rarity questioned, storing away the history book into a knapsack.

Jack swallowed. “Ain't sure,” she admitted. 

Rarity's eyes looked sharply at the blonde. “What do you mean? I'm not correct in assuming that you...”

“Dunno. It might be possible that Dash wants ta get the guy herself.”

“That's foolish!” Rarity objected with a wave of her hand. “Why risk it?!”

“Now jus' hold on. I ain't even sure what she's plannin' yet,” Jack countered, pulling out the brief note Isabelle had written and holding it out to the tailor. Rarity used a flick of magic to create a small, contained breeze, blowing it gently it into her own delicate hands. She looked at the two terse sentences and scoffed.

“You cannot tell me that this doesn't suggest she intends to take matters into her own hands, darling. Not to mention that she seems intent on dragging you along too.”

“Then I'll go,” Jack said evenly, crossing her arms. “I said I had her back—ain't nothin' more important than my word, sugar.” She lowered her tone, trying to keep from snapping at the beauty. “Ya know that.”

“Stubborn mule,” Rarity bitterly said under her breath. “Fine,” she replied. “But I want you to promise me two things.”

“Let's hear 'em first,” Jack said.

“You don't trust me to be fair?”

“That ain't it at all, Rare,” Jack said, rubbing slowly at the back of her neck. “I jus' don't wanna... “ She shook her head. “Ya know what? Fine. I trust ya.”

The tailor leaned forward and grasped Jack's hand. “First. Don't do anything stupid. I know who I'm talking to, so I think that might be hard.”

“H-hey--”

“The second,” Rarity continued. “After you're done with... whatever Isabelle is suggesting, I want you to come see me. I don't care what the time is. I just want to make sure you're safe.”

Jack looked over Rarity. After a beat, she nodded. “Sure, Rare. I'll do it fer ya.” Another pause; the tall woman glanced up to the sky, debating on adding anything else. She decided to go for it. “So, uh, I was wonderin' if ya might be game fer a-another date sometime? Maybe go an' get a horse from the stables... explore 'round here,” she mumbled, clenching and unclenching her hand.

Rarity smiled. “I'd like that. How about we plan a time when you return?”

“Works fer me,” Jack agreed. She rose, her smile showing her obvious pleasure at the woman accepting her invitation. “Well. I reckon I need ta go an' do at least a little bit a readin' 'fore my next class. I'll catch ya later on, Rare.”

“Be careful,” Rarity insisted once more.

“I'll try my best.”


000


Jack stumbled out of her history class feeling like a chump—she remembered absolutely nothing of what the teacher spoke about for the past two sessions. As such, the earth-folk felt that she completely botched the test. The farmer rubbed at her temple as she headed out the front doors of the school. As she made her way through the crowds of students, she saw Dash sitting at the fountain's edge, flipping a pen around in her nimble fingers. As the tall woman got closer, the sky-folk nodded at Jack.

“About time, bro.”

“Sorry,” Jack replied. “Jus' got outta class.”

The athlete pocketed the pen she was spinning and looked to the heavens. “You ready for this?”

“What's 'this?'”

Dash smirked. “I'll lay down the battle plan for you, hayseed. We're going to Middleburg in an hour.”

“Yer not jus' thinkin' 'bout goin' right to the guy, are ya?”

“Not exactly.” She leaned forward. “See, there's a reason it took me a few days to get back with you on this guy. Fella's a convict. Got in the slammer for running a Stairway group.”

“Stairway?” Jack repeated.

“Yeah. Like the Zeppelin song.”

“Still ain't got a damn clue what yer talkin' about.”

Dash gave a shrug. “They're a pretty indie band. I guess you woul--”

“No, sugar. What the hell's 'Stairway?'”

The Ritter raised her brow. “You guys don't have it down south?”

“If we do, I ain't never heard it by that name.”

Dash rubbed at the back of her neck. “Think cocaine's nasty-and-pissed-off-big-brother, hayseed. Stuff's crazy.”

“An' we're goin' ta jus'... what, exactly?”

The athlete pulled out a small camera from her track suit. “Easy-peasy. The warehouse is pretty old—it has some of those man sized air ducts they built buildings with back fifty or so years ago. A few days back—you remember seeing any sorta liquid when Twila channeled Blueblood's vision, bro?”

The farmer thought long and hard, tilting her head back and crossing her arms. It came back to her. “Y-yeah. On top of a table, right? Blue.”

“Bingo.” She nodded. “That shit you saw? Pure Stairway.” She stared walking away from the fountain, towards the west side of the school. Jack complied, listening intently to Dash. “Anyway, here's what I'm getting at. All we need to do is get inside one of the ducts, crawl through, take a few shots of him and the drug.” She snapped her fingers. “Bang. We make it look easy.”

Jack gave a small, considering hum. “But what about Blueblood? Ain't like we can link this Dorado fella to a murder with jus' a few snapshots.”

“We can't,” Dash agreed, heading towards the stables. “But we'll at least be able to get him for Stairway. A second offense regarding that stuff should net him just as many years as a manslaughter charge. Especially if I make sure my Uncle Wolfgang files the report. That's just as good, right?”

The two entered the stable. Dash briefly talked to a stable-hand while Jack spent a few minutes stroking one of the horses' snouts and trying not to think about what she was getting into.

The southerner wondered if Dash was right—if it was for the best that they just swept Blueblood's murder under the rug like Isabelle was saying they should. It wasn't like he was gonna get away scott-free—maybe it was the smart thing to do.

A part of her argued vehemently against that. It wasn't right to keep tight-lipped about the whole mess. Alaurd's family deserved to know what happened to the boy, as did the police that searched his place for answers the other day. Keeping them in the dark was one of the worst thing she could do.

Jack took a deep breath and glanced to the ceiling in morose thought. 

It wasn't like admitting to everything that had happened was the best choice for any of them either. The risk of expulsion was a very likely outcome if any of them spoke up, not to mention the chance that the police could say that they were impeding their investigation. The farmer crossed her arms, uncrossed her arms, then started tapping her foot.

“You always so twitchy, bro?” Dash asked, approaching the stable Jack stood by with a saddle balanced on her wiry shoulders.

“Jus' when I'm thinkin',” the farmer replied.

“Meh, whatever. About ready to go?” she asked, giving the tall woman a slap on the back with her free hand. Dash unlatched the chest-high gate pinning the horse in and started to don a saddle on the beast.

Jack made up her mind; she looked hard at Isabelle. “We're findin' somethin' ta prove Dorado killed that boy while we're there.”

Dash continued strapping the horse up. She wrinkled her nose in irritation. “Did you not hear me, hayseed? We don't have to worry about it. Throwing that to the cops'll just complicate things for us. Trust me, when the cops get him under for that second offense drug charge, they--”

“I don't care. It's the principle, Dashie. Even if Blueblood was an asshole, he's got a family—what would yer ma an' pa feel like if you vanished one day, an' they never heard from ya again?”

“Mom's dead. Doubt she'd feel anything.” Before Jack could offer an apology, the Ritter finished strapping the horse. She gave a tug on the saddle and was satisfied at how snug it was. She heaved a sigh. “But my Dad...” Isabelle turned to face the farmer. “It'd eat at him until the day he died.” She smirked, though the motion was far from humorous. “Fine, bro. It's a damn dumb idea, but you twisted my arm. There might still be something in there that belongs to him.” She pointed her finger in warning at Jack. “But we stick mostly to the plan still: We travel light, we travel quiet, and we get in, out, and around through the vents. We don't go anywhere someone might see us.” Dash easily hoisted herself onto the horse. She took a few careful and guided steps forward before offering her hand to Jack. The farmer complied with a grunt, easily slinging her leg over the beast and sitting directly behind Isabelle.

With only a brief word and a hefty tip to the stable-hand, they were off, racing north at a brisk gallop.


000


Jack and Dash tied up the horse in a wooded area just on the outskirts of Middleburg. Dark clouds had gathered on the horizon, blocking the setting sun and illuminating the walled-off city in a bleak gloom.

The two wordlessly walked forward, Jack slowing down on occasion to marvel at the city.

It was a strange thing, a hodgepodge of old and new ideas. The whole town was lined with a wall about ten or fifteen feet tall, built during the days of the war between the three races. Dash decided to speak a bit about it, as she and Jack stepped foot on the bridge over the Samson river.

Middleburg started out as a sky-folk outpost—the flying race could easily clear the height of the wall, whereas an earth-folk would have a struggle against it. The wall and the peerless sky-folk sentries that prowled across the borders made it a fantastic defensive fort. Due to its location as a centralized town for sky-folk territory and the fertile land surrounding the bastion, it thrived into a successful open market, even more so when the conflicts ended and open trade was established between the races. 

Nowadays, it was less of a market town and far more of a working-class town. Even as they walked towards the large gateway leading inside, Jack could see the high tin rooftops of the various factories and warehouses peaking out in greeting—a stark contrast to the humble stone wall surrounding the place.

Dash halted as they stood on the bridge. With a quick glance to make sure nobody was looking, she withdrew a small makeup kit.

“Open your shirt,” Isabelle said, already selecting a color and dabbing a brush into it.

“Ya seriously askin' me that?” Jack replied, tipping her stetson back.

“Not what you think, hayseed. I'm giving you a sky-folk mark—just in case they're still doing check-ins on arrivals.”

“What does that have ta--”

“Just follow my lead, bro.” Dash rolled her eyes.

“Fine, fine. Damn,” Jack grumbled, undoing a few buttons and turning to face the Ritter. The athlete immediately went to work on the tall woman, doodling a quick and simple sketch below the collarbone, then turning the brush on her own mark, painting it a dull brown. Finally, she used a dark flesh tone to hide the mark on Jack's hand.

“I'm no artist, but I did pretty good for a rush job,” Isabelle boasted, looking over the farmer.

“I jus' don't see why yer makin' me pretend ta be a sky-folk,” the blonde said.

“If it doesn't click to you in a bit, I'll explain,” Dash reasoned, shutting the make-up kit and pocketing it. They started to walk once more, coming to a fully-armored guard stationed at the town's gate. He gave a nod to the women and withdrew a ledger from his side satchel.

“Hello ladies. I'll try to keep this short so I don't ruin your evening.” He looked down at a column on his ledger. “Names?”

“Julie and Victoria Featherweight,” Dash quickly said, interrupting Jack before the farmer could speak up. 

“Your business in Middleburg?”

“It's our anniversary,” Isabelle said, putting her arm around Jack's waist and shooting the farmer a glare that said play along. Dash looked kindly at the guard, and Jack did her best attempt at a sincere smile.

“Marks?” he questioned, hardly noticing their affections as he filled out the form on his ledger.

“Both sky-folk.” Dash pulled down her neckline, revealing a black leather book design just below her collarbone. Jack followed the athlete's example and undid the top two buttons of her shirt, showcasing a small horse in mid gallop just above the beginnings of the farmer's expansive cleavage.

He noted their marks—his eyes looking over Jack for just a hair longer than necessary.

The guard cleared his throat. “Any weapons you wish to proclaim?”

“Knife in my front pocket.” Isabelle stretched her arms over her head. “Nothing else.”

“Nah,” Jack said, buttoning up her shirt.

He jotted down a few more notes. “Ok, ladies.” He gave a nod of his head towards the town's entrance. “You're good to go since you don't have any bags. Thanks, and happy anniversary.”

The farmer walked along with Isabelle. When they were out of the guard's hearing range, Jack shook her head incredulously. “So, what the hell was that?”

“Checkpoint. This town started doing 'em at the gates a few years back--”

“I swear, ya do that ta me one more time today...” Jack threatened.

Dash smirked, putting her hands up. “Couldn't resist. Anyway, reason I said that shit to the guy is because I'm not sure if he's in pocket.”

“Pocket?” the farmer repeated.

“Yeah. Like if he's been bought or something. The smugglers around here have their fingers in quite a few pies. I didn't want to use our real names in case this goes to hell. If something happens that I hadn't thought of, well...” she ran a hand through her rainbow-hued hair. “You'd at least have a chance to get out without any problem.” Dash laughed. “I'm a bit too awesome to forget, though.”

The conversation dried up as they walked through the sea of people going about their daily lives. They ducked down a few side roads to escape the townsfolk and soon came to a park, teeming with a few brave children still battling against the approaching nighttime. Dash gave them a warm smile as she and Jack walked the edges of the park.

“Like kids?”

Isabelle snapped up, seeming surprised at Jack's sudden question. “They're alright enough, hayseed.” The Ritter gave a disinterested shrug.

The two meandered past the park's edge and turned down the road to a far more industrial segment of town. Warehouses lined the nearly empty street, each one taller and more expansive than the last. Isabelle walked for about another five minutes when she ducked right, entering another alleyway. She pointed straight ahead, where a large, two story warehouse greeted their sights.

“Here we are,” Dash announced. She gave a small twitch of her brow and focused her power. In a heartbeat, her golden, translucent wings appeared on her shoulders. The athlete gave them an experimental flap, then extended her hand towards the farmer. “Ventilation shaft's on the roof. Let's go, bro.”

Jack took the woman's hand and let out an involuntary gasp when her feet left the sturdy ground behind.

The sky-folk rose to the heavens and guided herself with precision and accuracy, bringing the two down easily on the rooftop.

The area was threadbare—there was a doorway that presumably lead downstairs straight ahead and a large waist-high steel box to their right. The two had similar ideas, both choosing to investigate the metallic box.

It was a ventilation system—a large fan about the width of Isabelle's shoulders rotated hot air from inside and blew it upward.

“Guess we need ta shut off the fan.” Jack examined the area around the large box and noticed a set of cables running from a corner and down into the floor. “Runnin' by some sorta electricity, I'm guessin'.” The farmer put a hand to her chin in thought.

“Electric with a magical enchantment at either end to promote circulation,” Dash agreed. “Guess our best bet is to find something insulated and--”

Jack reached down and yanked the cables free from the system. Sparks showered the area; the farmer gave a shrug and chucked them to the side as Isabelle stared in opened mouth surprise.

The farmer continued to work as she waited for the fan's rotation to die down. She grabbed the metal grating on top of the fan and started straining against it. She grit her teeth, sucked in a breath, and gave one powerful fling upwards with her arms. The cover snapped off like a cheap toy, leaving nothing but jagged metal shards at points where it had been screwed in. Jack tossed the grating to the side and watched the fan do a few more slow, lethargic rotations. Finally it stopped. Jack bent down and started working on the fan, grunting and straining in an attempt to pry it free. Dash finally had enough sense to speak again.

“Shit, dude, you can do some damage. I'd hate to be locked up in a room with you.”

“Shut up an' help me with this damn thing, would ya?” the farmer grunted, working up a sweat as she tried to find a good position to hoist the fan and its inner workings up.

It took them a few minutes, but they finally were able to pull the fan and its mechanical guts out of the vent system. Jack took a breather once they got the device free, the farmer wearily slumping down to rest. She undid a button on her shirt and waved her hat in front of her face in an attempt to cool down.

“So, ya know what ta do after we get inside?” Jack panted out.

Dash wiped the sweat free from her brow and reached into her track suit pocket, withdrawing a piece of paper with a few lines, circles, and notes the farmer couldn't see from where she was sitting.

“Yeah, bro. Follow my lead when we're ready—we gotta get down to the first floor from this shaft, and I know just where to find it.”

She gestured for Isabelle to press on ahead. The athlete did so without any complaints. She went through the opening that they had created and dropped a good three or four feet down, then, after her eyes had adjusted to the gloom, glanced down the narrow and compact space. Isabelle crouched down to her hands and feet and began to briskly scout ahead. Jack followed suit, making the drop and going to her own hands and knees. She blindly crawled forward, only to crack her head straight against the lower ceiling of the air duct.

She swore under her breath and rubbed her forehead, cursing her height. Not wanting to experience that again, the farmer went completely prone, dropping down and slowly going through the system by nothing but her forearms.

They traveled around corners, down slopes and over gratings for what felt like years to Jack; every inch they gained was starting to wear on her. Her breasts were sore, her arms and still tender shoulder ached, and her scalp twitched with pain due to running over her own ponytail with her arms multiple times. 

The farmer was flooded with relief and apprehension when Dash stopped and gave a small glance behind. The athlete raised her finger to her mouth. Jack nodded. Isabelle crawled just a bit farther and looked out a grating to her right. Jack did her best to squeeze in a look herself.

They were directly above the long conveyer belt where Blueblood lost his life mere days ago. Jack shivered despite herself. Below them, a group of six men seemed to be talking in muted whispers around a table with dozens of small bags filled to near-bursting with a thick and syrupy blue liquid. 

Isabelle reached into her pocket and took a picture. She then nudged Jack's shoulder. “Bro,” the sky-folk mouthed, pointing to a man at the far left looking over the conveyer.

It didn't take the farmer any time at all to realize who the man was. The scar on his face told her everything she needed to know.

“Dorado,” Jack said.

Isabelle started to crawl forward. Above them, each heard a metallic groan come from the support cables holding the vent system up. The two paused, sharing a frantic glance. After a beat, the duct was silent once more. Below them, the men hadn't even moved from their spots around the table.

Both exhaled in relief.

“What do we do now?” Jack asked as quietly as she could. Isabelle stretched back behind her as much as she could in the cramped quarters and handed the tall woman a hastily drawn map of the vent system. Dash thought briefly and made a few gestures with her finger, then spoke once more.

“It's gonna suck, but we're going to backpedal and take a left, then a right, then straight ahead for two turns, then a left.” She pointed out into the far right corner. “It'll lead to that unmarked door Blueblood saw before...” the Ritter trailed off. “A-anyway. I think it's an office. If we're gonna find ourselves anything the guy might have kept when Alaurd bit the dust, I think it'd be in there.”

“Let's go,” Jack said, scooting back as quickly as she could in the cramped corridors.

“Be there in a sec. I need a shot of Dorado,” Isabelle replied, pressing on ahead.

The farmer shrugged, then started slowly backing her body up. The metallic groan above them increased in volume and the entire duct shook.

“Get outta there!” Jack cried out. The duct up ahead pitched forward and fell with a shudder and squeal of metal—Isabelle yelped, spun around, and tried to claw her way back, but it was too late. She fell, trapped inside a metal cocoon, and landed hard on the floor.

Dash weakly crawled out of the metal and struggled to rise, only to be kicked to the ground by one of the men that had been near the table. She gasped, clutching her ribs in pain. Jack watched on in horror as the entire group of men withdrew small, wrist-mounted crossbows and aimed them directly at the girl. Dorado approached Isabelle and squatted down in front of her.

“Looks like we have a little bird dropping in for a visit,” he said, smiling without humor.

“What can I say?” Dash asked, giving a small, slow shrug. “I just figured I'd stop in for a drink—was in the area, after all.”

“You've come to the wrong warehouse, girl,” one of the lackeys snarled, kicking her once more. She snarled, curling up into a ball and clutching her ribs.

“Lift her up,” Dorado ordered with a snap of his fingers. Two of them hoisted the girl up, taking care to hold onto her arms. The scarred man leaned in close and spoke in a whisper Jack could barely overhear. “Wait... I know you.”

“You should,” Dash said, glaring spitefully at the man. “I was with my Uncle Wolfgang when he locked you up last time. Figured I'd keep with the family tradition.”

Recognition dawned on him. “A Ritter, huh?” he laughed under his breath. “Your parents? One's Desmond. Mom was Maria, right?”

The athlete said nothing, instead staring defiantly at the man. Dorado smirked, briefly looking over to the bags lining the table behind him.

“Yeah. Maria really liked the stuff, didn't she? Woman snuck around her husband's back and gobbled that shit up.” His expression turned into a false frown. “In fact. I heard she liked it too much, didn't she? Overdosing on Stairway? It's a bad death. Shame she didn't have self-control.”

Isabelle lunged for the man, but was held in place by the group of thugs holding her arms. He laughed.

“Man. Kids these days. Full of spunk and not a damn idea floating around in their brain.” He gestured to the conveyer belt. “Toss her on. Tango, get the barrier up. Let's take some bets on how long the girl can run.”

The thuggish men tossed her onto the stationary belt, just as another shorter and plumper man made two quick gestures with his hand. Isabelle regained her footing and tried to rise off the track, only to seemingly crack her head against an invisible object a few inches taller than her height. She moved a hand forward, only to be stopped by another unseeable wall. She beat against it, swearing loudly at anyone and everyone listening. A man moved under Jack's field of vision—she heard a heavy 'ka-chunk,' then the belt started moving. Slowly at first, then gaining a rapid tempo. Isabelle did the only thing she could do—she ran, trying her best to gain even an inch ahead of the thrashing teeth waiting for her at the end of the line.

Jack was frozen, paralyzed. There was no way she could drop down like Dash just did. They'd shoot her dead in seconds. She wiped at her mouth. Swore. Wiped at her mouth again, then made a call.

As quickly as she could, she backed up and went left, down the air duct. She crawled forward on her stomach as fast as she could—she didn't care how much noise she was making, Jack knew that she had to get down there as soon or her friend was as good as dead.

She navigated the labyrinth of tunnels quickly and effectively, chanting Isabelle's earlier directions under her breath like it was a mantra. At the end of Dash's directions, the farmer came to a grating below her. Jack quickly peeked through it and noted she was right above a large desk and comfortable looking leather chair. The tall woman barely registered the room as she gave the grating a blow with her hand. It fell and landed on the desk with a loud clatter. Jack dropped down and moved to the single exit the room had. She pressed an ear against a wooden door. On hearing no approaching footsteps, she crouched down and slowly turned the knob.

“Christ,” the farmer said to herself, not sure if it was a prayer for help or an expletive.

About fifty feet away, across the nearly empty stretch of concrete, were seven men standing beside the fast-moving belt. Each one was watching with growing interest as Isabelle ran in a dead sprint against the conveyer, leaping over debris like she was clearing hurdles at a track. Sweat ran in rivets down her toned body; she gasped for air and struggled against the speed of the belt. Dash would collapse in moments if Jack didn't act now.

Soul-folk, she thought. Gotta get that barrier down.

The farmer crouched down as low as she could and carefully moved towards the group of people at a brisk gait. When she hit about twelve feet away from the group, she spotted a short and plump man with a mark on his cheek at her far left. Jack broke any trace of stealth she had, sprinting forward with a yell. Before he could even turn around, she slammed her foot into the back of his knees, dropping him to a kneeling position. Jack threw his head forward, connecting it against the barrier holding Dash captured. A small trail of blood seemed to levitate in the air for a brief moment before the spell died, causing the liquid to drip onto the concrete floor.

The remaining six men reacted—the two nearest to Jack aimed their crossbow bolts and fired. Jack was running on instinct--the constant sparring matches with her brother fueling her moves. She  twisted, narrowly dodging the shots aimed at her face. She moved one step closer and reached out with both her hands, grabbing a skull in each. With a quick motion, the giant of a woman brought them together, creating a clacking noise that reminded Jack of two pool balls hitting. They instantly collapsed onto the floor, groaning in agony at their pain.

One of the remaining four swore—his wrist mounted crossbow seemed to have broke. Two more raised their weapons, getting a bead on her. The last one quickly shot from the hip. The bolt was a near-miss; Jack dodged it merely by luck as she shifted sideways once more to assume a fighting stance.

Once Isabelle realized she was freed from the prison, she conjured her wings and quickly moved towards the others preparing to fire their weapons. One turned to face her—she struck with a right cross so potent he stumbled forward, punch-drunk. She took her chance, spinning him around and grabbing him from behind. She guided his wrist mounted weapon toward his friend's leg and fired. The other man cried out in agony, clutching at the wound as he fell to the floor. She shot from the hip—lucking out and striking the other thug in his shoulder and leg.

Dorado watched the entire scene, amazed at the sudden change of events. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small vial, then thought better of it and  ran towards a door marked 'Freezer Storage.' Dash took aim and fired, only to hear a dry clicking noise from the crossbow.

“I'm out!” Isabelle called. The farmer caught sight of Dorado frantically mashing buttons on a keypad next to the door.

“Get these guys taken care of, I'll get Dorado,” Jack ordered, sprinting towards the man. With a triumphant cry, he flung the door open and ran inside. Jack got there just as the door began to glide closed—she twisted to the side and ran into the room.

The place was lined with the skinned bodies of cows and pigs hanging from meat hooks. Jack crept forward through the gritty and bloodstained room, her eyes desperately scanning past the line of corpses.

Before she could even react, he burst through one of the lines of beef, rearing back and swinging a hefty looking meat-hook. It punctured her right arm and embedded deep—Jack howled and gripped the weapon with her good hand in an attempt to stop it from digging into her any farther. Dorado swung his free hand and struck Jack hard, hitting her square at the eye.

Jack used every ounce of strength from her impressive physique to push the hook free from her flesh and hop back. She panted for breath; her mind felt scrambled. Broken. Her eye had already swollen shut and her arm dangled to the side. She tried to clench her right hand into a fist and hissed at the agony that shot throughout her.

“Dumb bitch,” Dorado swore, blood running easily down his nostril. He tossed a small, empty vial to the side. It clattered on the floor, rolling lazily to a stop. “You're dead. You hear me?! Dead!” he roared, charging forward. He swung, bringing the hook horizontally with his right.

Jack felt something tighten around her heart. An emotion she had only experienced a handful of times in her life. 

Was it fear? 

No. It was anger. An anger so pure, so primal, she became a thrall for it. 

Her good eye narrowed just as her hand clenched tight—so tight her nails cut into her deeply calloused hands. Rather than dodge the blow, she stepped into it, catching the meat-hook at its handle. With a twist of the weapon, it tore free of the man's hand, snapping his wrist and sending the weapon clattering to the floor. Jack swung, cracking him as hard as she could at the throat.

Normal people would have fallen. People on Stairway though? He shrugged it off, instead slamming one of his fists directly into her gut. She stumbled backwards, coughing hard. Adrenaline pounded in her temples, her skin was sleek with sweat, and her hand quivered in barely repressed rage. She recovered from the blow and charged him once more.

He swung a jab at her—she countered by dodging towards his chest and wrapping her arm around his elbow. With one twist of her back, she heard the tell-tale sound of bone breaking.

She didn't stop there.

She leapt, pouncing on him like a feral beast, knocking him onto his back. Without hesitation, before he could even react, she drove and dug her knees into his shoulders; she started smashing his face in with her good hand, screaming unintelligibly all the while. She struck him until her fingers were numb and cut from his teeth, until his nose ran crimson rivers out of each nostril, until his eyes were puffed and swollen like two pairs of balloons. Until his blood splattered and soaked into her shirt.

Until he stopped twitching under her. 

Even then, she kept striking him with her hand. It wasn't until she let air go down her ragged windpipe and quell her own screaming that she paused, looking over his ruined and desecrated face. Instantly, she felt bile rise up in her throat—she threw herself off of him and ran to a wall. After she had cleared that out of her system, she could finally pay a bit more attention to her surroundings. Namely, the knocking she was hearing from the door.

“Jack?! Dammit, hayseed, answer me! Are you ok in there?!” Isabelle called from the other side, beating furiously against the door.

The farmer moved from the wall and took one last look at the corpse she had made. As calmly as she could, Jack headed back and numbly opened the door. Dash had her fists clenched tightly and ready to strike. On seeing it was the farmer, her position relaxed.

“Son of a bitch. You scared me. Don't run off like that, I thought you--” she noticed the farmer's arm. “Damn. He got you good. How's it feel?”

Jack said nothing. She opened her mouth, shut it, opened it again. “D-Dash...” she weakly trailed off.

“Talk to me, bro.” Isabelle unzipped her track suit, wincing at the cold. With a few careful twists, she tore a line of fabric free from her white undershirt, exposing her toned midriff. She quickly wrapped the cloth around Jack's puncture wound and tied it off. Once that was done, she looked hard at Jack's troubled face. The Ritter could make a guess as to what happened—she hoped she was wrong, but...

“Where's Dorado?” she bluntly asked.

Jack pointed a trembling finger deeper into the room. The athlete took a few steps forward and made her way past dozens of beef slabs until she finally came across him. Or, rather, what was left of him. If Dash hadn't seen the man earlier, she wouldn't have even been able to identify the pulpy remains of his face. Isabelle shook her head, bit back her disgust, and returned to Jack. The blond still stood by the doorway, morosely holding a hand over her mouth.

“Man...” Isabelle said. “How did it happen?”

“I dunno,” Jack choked out. “He t-tried ta kill me an'-an' somethin jus'... snapped.”

“Looks like you did more than just 'snap,' bro. You turned his damn face into porridge.”

The farmer let out a quiet, suffering moan. Isabelle blanched slightly.

“Shit. Sorry. T-that came out wrong.” Dash walked over and put a comforting hand on Jack's back. “Look, man... do you realize what he woulda done to you if you hadn't killed him?” She stared into the farmer's good eye—the other was swelling, Dash doubted Jack could see anything from it right now. “Look at your arm.” The farmer did, staring hard at the makeshift bandage slowly turning crimson. “You see that, man? I know you're feeling it. Think about what would of happened if he hit you with whatever caused that on your head instead.” Dash practically rammed her finger into Jack's heart, driving her words home. “Don't think bad about yourself. You've just been dealt a shitty hand. You did what you had to do.”

“That's not, I mean... God,” Jack stammered, sniffing. “The fact I jus' lost it. I--”

“You're a good woman. Doing something like...” She tilted her head towards Dorado. “You know. It was just your instincts taking over. Deep down, everyone's got a beast in the shadows, yeah?”

The farmer wiped at the tears threatening to free themselves from her good eye. After a moment, she swallowed. “What do we do now?”

Dash sighed, shuffling her feet in an attempt to keep herself warm. “We turn his goons in to the cops. I make sure they don't say anything about their missing boss. As for the man of the hour...” She scowled, obviously hating what she was about to suggest. “I know a few ways to get rid of a body. Just let me--”

“No.”

Isabelle looked hard at the farmer.

“No,” Jack repeated. “I can't jus'... white-wash away somethin' like that. We gotta get in touch with the police an' tell 'em what happened—what I did.”

Dash's jaw nearly dropped. “Are you friggin' stupid?”

The farmer adjusted her weather beaten hat and slowly nodded. “I am. But I'm smart enough ta make sure things I do wrong get set right.”

“How the hell is this 'right?'” Isabelle gestured forcefully towards where Dorado's body lay. “You're willing to screw up your future for defending yourself against a piece of shit Stairway dealer? No. I'll say it again, since you apparently didn't let it soak in through your damn soft skull: you did what you had to—nothing more, nothing less.”

“He was still a person, Izzy,” Jack sniffed.

“I don't care!” Dash snapped back. “You're not going down for something I messed up on! I'll take care of what needs done here. Make your way back to St. Charles.”

“But--”

“Go!” Isabelle roared, moving to the door. She opened it and gestured out into the warehouse. “You get your ass back to town.”

The farmer was then grabbed and rudely tossed out by the shorter woman. Before Jack could regain her footing and turn, Isabelle had already shut the door behind her.

“Damn it, Dash,” Jack sniffed. The farmer clenched her bruised and cracked fingers tight and left without another word.


000


“...I lucked out, when it's all said an' done. I cleared the wall 'round Middleburg, swam the river, an' made it ta the horse without anyone spottin' me. 'Least, I don't think nobody spotted me.” Jack rubbed the bridge of her nose. She smiled a weak, bitter smile that lasted only seconds on her face. “Why did this have ta go ta hell so fast? Earlier today, I was jus' fine... now...” she struggled, trying her best not to cry again. God knows she had done that enough in the past few hours.

“Jack... I agree with Isabelle.” Rarity put her hands up to Jack's face. “This isn't your fault. Y-you're not a monster. You're a beautiful, kind, and honest woman. You're not a murderer, Jack Apple. You had to do something in a bad situation. That's all.” Rarity leaned forward, moving past the frozen steak and kissed the sitting woman on the forehead. “You're staying here tonight.” Rarity instructed, her hands still tenderly holding Jack's cheeks. “And I'm going to do whatever I can in my power to help you, Jack. If you need to talk, we'll talk. If you need to drink, we'll drink. If—”

The words were knocked out of her mouth as Jack stood, reached forward and wrapped her powerful arms around the violet-haired woman's frame. The farmer wept openly—Rarity paused for only a moment, then returned Jack's iron grip, wordlessly reaching up and rubbing her hand along the tall woman's shoulders and back, whispering comforts. Outside, the clouds that had threatened rain finally came forth, deluging the land in a torrent of water.

Together, they weathered Jack's storm.
> (Wolfgang Ritter)
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

	The old man walked down the nearly empty streets of Middleburg, clutching his coat tightly against his chest. On normal nights like this, he'd either be inside his humble home writing poetry by fireside while the rain gave sweet, butterfly kisses to his roof, or he'd be at the station, mulling and lost in the memories of his homeland of Germany. Though he hadn't set foot on his island country in over a decade, the nights that threatened rain would always take him to his youth, when he would watch the thunderclouds gather in the distant hills and plains with his father, the world-renowned detective, Arthur Conan Ritter. 

He had fond memories of these days—it explained the mark on his chest quite well—a dark cloud with a line of silver surrounding it. Not that it was seen often, as wont as he was to wearing heavy coats and sweatshirts. His age had made the cold pierce his flesh and chill the bone. Though, granted, he was always adverse to the cold, unlike his brother Desmond.

The brief flicker of thought regarding Desmond brought him back to the present—back to why he was outside when the heavens threatened a storm. His brother's child, Isabelle, had called him just as he was about to leave the police station and travel homeward bound. She said it was urgent, and to meet her nearby one of the side-streets.

He, of course, had humored her. Though the trivial things young women thought of as problems didn't always amount to much. At least, that's how it seemed in the old land—Cabello was keen on throwing his ideas out the window on a routine basis. Had been ever since he had followed his younger brother to the 'New World,' all those years ago.

The old man continued walking the streets, glancing at the warehouses and mentally noting who they belonged to. While the town was rife with crime and extortion, a lot of it never reached his desk. Some because it was never reported. The rest was because of his area of expertise—most traditional cases fell out of his range of skills. While he followed the generations-long chain of detectives in the Ritter line, he was far more focused on investigating occult cases and bizarre murders. In fact, one of his brightest moments was defending the small, sleepy hamlet of Rheinsburg against a marauding pack of  unholy beasts called Aufhockers. The devils had the entire town drowning in fear by the time Wolfgang had arrived to assist them, due to their elusive nature and violent tendencies.

It had taken him no time to identify the shape-shifters as the culprits; after all, they followed similar guidelines to traditional feral vampires in their thirst for blood and need for nighttime in order to function. What confirmed the murders involving Aufhockers, rather than their more traditional cousin, was that every victim had bruises and scrapes as if they were grabbed behind and pounced on, before having their throats torn out.

Wolfgang shook his head with a sly grin. He never thought vampires could be civilized in comparison to another beast. 

He was able to banish them that very night, with the help of the local priest, a woman willing to be bait, and a lot of iodized salt. While they couldn't do anything to kill the spirits, a ring of salt on the ground around the nightmarish shadow-creatures paralyzed them almost as potently as words from a Bible or holy water. They had simply kept the process going until the first rays of sunlight banished the spirits from the German lands. It was a shame Wolfgang couldn't finish the job and destroy their actual bodies, but that would have been a challenge even the great Ritter line wouldn't take. The Aufhocker's physical bodies, after all, were in the blasted, cratered, and ungodly lands of the Sealed Rim, and there was no fool great enough to travel there.

The old man saw in the distance a lithe figure leaning against a building. Her legs were crossed and she occasionally glanced down the alleyway she stood at the entrance of. One look at her rainbow-hued hair told Wolfgang who it was. He approached her with a nod.

“Guten Abend, kleiner Regenbogen,” he said. Isabelle paused, letting the words sink in. She thought briefly and let a small smirk cross her worried face.

“Guten abend, Onkel.” She squeezed her eyes tight in thought. “Uh... wie geht es dir?”

“Es geht.” Wolfgang shrugged. His shoulder's ached and the weather was turning poor. So-so was as good as it would get today. “Du?”

“Nicht so gut,” she quickly said. “Es... es...” The woman scrunched her face and finally sighed. “Sorry. Guess I lose.”

“Nobody keeps you taught in our father's tongue it seems,” the old man stated, partly in jest.

“Nobody speaks German anymore, Wolfy--” she saw his raised brow. “Er, Uncle Wolfgang.”

“Nobody speaks anything much, save for this land's tongue now.”

“Kinda happens when everyone wants to come here, I guess.”

“'The land of milk and honey.' There are a few people that actually call Cabello that.” He gave his hand a quick rub—the joints were aching from the cold. “Between this land and Macon, I fear my Germany offers very little the other two cannot provide.”

“Things change,” Isabelle casually replied. Wolfgang couldn't help but snort at her blunt answer. She truly was her father's daughter.

“Maybe some day you'll understand my nostalgic view, yes? Perhaps when Cabella changes itself, or when the island nations unify.” He dismissed the conversation with a wave of his hand. “Enough of thinking about what cannot be changed. I was wondering what your urgency was.”

Any trace of her earlier good mood at seeing the man vanished when he decided to start on business. “To make a long story short. I, uh, found a Stairway operation out in the open.”

Wolfgang offered a surprised glance toward his niece. “Are you sure of this?”

“There are bags filled with the shi—er, stuff—still inside the warehouse.”

“Take me there,  kleiner Regenbogen.”


000


Wolfgang cautiously stepped into the warehouse, his weary body crouched low. The old man automaticly fumbled for his side holster, pulling out a wicked stiletto. He worked the blade's grip, clutching it tightly in his hand as he steadied his resolve. He glanced over to his niece, only to see her in an indifferent pose.

“I cleared out the place,” she explained, putting her hands in her jacket pockets. Wolfgang visibly relaxed, rising and holstering his weapon.

“You could tell me as such next time.”

“You were already like that before I could say anything br—Uncle.”

They pressed forward, past a receptionist's room. “By cleared out, do you mean...?”

“All tied up with some rope I found. Couple have crossbow bolt wounds—nothing life threatening.”

“As much as I expected from your father's child.”

“There was one little... uh... problem,” she said, looking up to the ceiling and scratching her nose. Wolfgang said nothing, letting her talk. “I had some problems with their leader.”

“Problems?” he repeated as they entered the double doors leading to the main room, where several men sat in various stages of agony. Each was tied up and gagged with a strip of white cloth. One seemed to be nursing a broken nose. He leaned against a shaft of an air duct. Wolfgang glanced up and noted a segment was gone from the system that worked its way on the ceiling.

Dash exhaled as they came to a door marked 'Freezer Storage.'

“Yeah. He got violent, so I had to...” she moved to the door and opened it up, kicking a piece of wood she was prying it open with to the side. “You know.”

“You killed this man?” Wolfgang asked, stepping inside the cold room. He exhaled, watching his breath turn to vapor and swore inwardly as the chill caused him to tighten his coat.

“Yeah. I was wondering what we should do about it.”

The old man observed his dear niece. “You seem less distraught that I would expect. Was this not your first?”

“N-no, it was,” she quickly said. “Just must be shock.”

“Hmm. Well. I presume he's in here?”

“Yes, Uncle.”

“And you did not touch anything?”

“Of course not, br—Wolfgang.” Dash rubbed her arms.

“Wait here. I would want to look over the body.” He pushed on through the cold room. It wasn't long before he came to the cadaver. Man had his skull caved in from multiple blows. The detective bunched up a fist and slowly came down towards the corpse's face.

Blows were consistent with a clenched fist—accounting for a difference in angle from the murder, he guessed the attacker had sat or knelt on the guy's chest.

Wolfgang rolled up the corpse's sleeves and found exactly what he was looking for.

Black veins. From experience in this town, Wolfgang knew the unsightly things would run all the way to the guy's heart. Stairway was a hell of a drug.

The detective noticed the man's shoulder was broken. What drew his attention more, however, was the fact his wrist was snapped, seemingly mangled and twisted by a great force. Did he have a weapon to start off with?

He rose and did his best to ignore his joints popping. Wolfgang didn't have all the answers as to what happened, but he had enough to figure something out.

Isabelle was lying to him.

He marched back to the woman and did his best to appear like he bought it. “Just a few questions for you,  kleiner regenbogen.”

“Ask away.” Dash nodded.

“Who was with you?”

The athlete froze. “No one,” she stammered out.

“Do not lie to me.” He pointed deeper into the freezer room. “You couldn't have done that.”

“Of course I did!” the woman argued. “I chased him into here, he got violent, and I knocked him down and started kicking his face in.”

Wolfgang stared hard at Isabelle. “I'm going to show you every single way you just lied to me. Then I'm going to expect the truth. Let's begin.” He put a finger up. “One. It was punches that killed the man, not kicks.”

“That's an expression, br—Uncle. I--”

“Punches from the left hand. Punches that, judging by the angle, come from someone at least six-foot one.” He held out a hand a few inches higher than the top of his head and brought the hand forward, where it stood far taller than Isabelle. “Unless you know how to grow nearly a foot, it wasn't you.”

“I--”

“--Furthermore,” he continued, starting to pace. “You lack the upper body strength to do something like that to a face. The perpetrator had enough power to break the skull. I would assume that it is either an unusually strong earth-folk or a soul-folk that enhanced their body through magic.”

“You--”

“--Lastly, the man was on Stairway. This relates to my earlier comment, but I'll spell it out for you, yes? Even with a large amount of leverage, that man's muscles would have been working at nearly full capacity. You wouldn't have had the strength to knock him prone.” He pointed furiously at Isabelle. “You didn't kill this man. Who did, and why are you covering them?”

“I'm not covering shit!” Dash exclaimed, running a hand through her multi-hued hair. Wolfgang moved to the door and opened it.

“Lie to me once more and I leave. The rest of Middleburg's police would be more than happy to just have a name to the crime—it seems to be your want, after all. If you wish for my help, speak the truth. My brother would be shamed to see his flesh lying to another of his blood!”

“Leave my Dad out of this,” Isabelle said crossly. “I know he'd do the same damn thing, if the situation called for it.”

Wolfgang relaxed his hold on the door, letting it swing slightly more closed. “I'll judge that. What was your situation?”

The woman stood, putting her hand up to her chin in indecision. The older of the Ritters looked on. Finally, Dash put two fingers under her eyes, steeling herself against a headache.

“This doesn't leave the room.”

“If I consider your excuse viable, of course,” he agreed, shutting the door. He crossed his arms and rubbed at his covered shoulders in an attempt to get warm.

“You were right. I didn't kill him,” Isabelle admitted. “It was a woman—my friend, Jack Apple.”

Wolfgang kept silent, eager to hear what Dash was going to say.

“She saved my life back in there. You saw the duct, right?”

“Hard to miss what is so obvious,” he agreed.

“Well, I was in it. She risked her life to take out those guys in order to save me. Dorado,” she gave a tilt of her head towards the body in the room. “Tried to escape into here. I'm not sure if there was an exit I didn't find when I looked the place over, or what, but--”

“He probably came into here to indulge on Stairway,” Wolfgang said. “They make the liquid, freeze it, then shatter the crystal it forms into powder in order to sniff it.” He gestured to the lines of pigs and cows. “I bet you'd find bags of crystallized Stairway in at least half of these poor creatures. He could have just smashed a crystal and inhaled.”

“That doesn't make sense, he had vial of the stuff in his pocket before he even came in here.”

“...Which is where, exactly?”

Dash gave a sly smile, producing an empty bottle from her jacket pocket with a sheepish grin.

“Any other objects you decide to dirty up in here?” Wolfgang asked, dreading the answer.

“Just two others. I left the body untouched. Dorado had a weapon when he charged Jack. A meat hook. I've got it on my person right now—cleaned it of prints.”

“And the second?”

“Well, it's not technically an object,” Dash said, looking up. “But after Jack... did what she had to, I guess she puked. I got it taken care of.”

The detective rubbed at his face and shut his eyes. He tilted his head back and offered a single grunt. It was an expression Isabelle had seen a few times before.

Her uncle's brain was on overdrive.

Finally, he opened his cloudy, rose colored eyes. “You trust this woman won't do anything like this again?”

“She's a farmer, Uncle. She was just at the wrong place and the wrong time.” Dash swallowed. “Believe me.”

“Mmm.” he muttered once more, nodding grimly at Isabelle's words. “Well then, mein kleiner regenbogen, I have an idea.”
> Mending a torn seam
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

	Isabelle came back to the academy three days after Jack had taken Dorado's life. She walked into her dorm room with a thick newspaper tucked under her arm and a cup of instant noodles in her other hand. Dash gave Jack a small nod and handed the farmer the newspaper, before moving to sit at her own bed.

Jack wearily looked over at the woman, then glanced down at the paper placed in her hands. She opened it up and quickly caught sight of the headline.

Stairway Murder leads to multiple arrests, raids.

The blonde glared towards Isabelle.

“Keep going, hayseed. It gets better,” Dash instructed, wolfing down her noodles. Jack wasn't in the mood, but she leaned forward on her bed and continued to read.

The hunt for the Amanda January, better known as the 'Stairway Murderer' continues to stump police, who are exhausting every lead they can find in regards to locating this elusive woman. Despite vocal protests of denial by the leaders of the Starscreamers of her involvement with the gang, fameous Detective Wolfgang Ritter claims this gang member turned informant could have been the key for shutting down two of the largest producers of the deadly drug.

“She seemed to truly want to help out and leave the Starscreamer lifestyle,” Wolfgang stated to the Middleburg press, “However, she betrayed my trust.”

Amanda lead the Ritter to a production plant ran by Elton Dorado. Wolfgang believed the convict had fallen back into the Stairway trade and was proven right. Before he could withdraw, the woman ambushed Dorado, bludgeoning him to death...

Jack felt a sharp, stinging bolt of nausea run through her body. She squinted her eyes shut for a moment and pressed on.

...then escaping the warehouse. Wolfgang Ritter warns civilians that the Stairway Murderer is to be considered dangerous and armed with magic. Enclosed in this special edition is a profile picture, recently provided by the Middleburg police force.

The farmer's hands trembled as she searched the rest of the paper for the drawing. She found it smack in the center and the image gave her pause. Jack slowly let out a breath she didn't know she was holding.

The image depicted a woman with long, stringy hair, clearly in her mid forty's, her skin lined with dozens of scars and burns—a fair contrast to Jack's smooth complexion. Just above the woman's square jaw was a mark in the shape of a tree, leafless and gnarled.

The story continued on the back of the sketch—Jack decided she had all the information she needed from the image. She tossed the paper to the corner of her bed just as Dash let out a content burp.

After a long, drawn out pause, Jack tilted her chin towards the paper. “Dash, that ain't even close ta what happened.”

“Worked out better this way, bro.” Isabelle shrugged, tossing her empty container to the floor and leaning back on the bed. She rolled to her side, resting her head on an arm, and regarded Jack keenly in the early afternoon light streaming from the room's single window.

Jack wasn't sure if she wanted to agree or not. “How'd they mess up my picture like that?” she asked instead.

“My uncle's good at leading people. That and, I mean, come on, would you rather tell people you got the crap kicked outta you by a monster with magic, or the hick next door?”

The farmer would have normally bristled at the 'hick' line, but she instead mutely nodded, glancing somberly to the side. “I at least can't argue 'bout the 'magic' part.” She kneaded her hands, then sighed, leaning forward and putting them to her brow.

Isabelle awkwardly looked over at Jack, trying to think of what to say. “Look, I know it's still fresh, bro, but I showed you that paper to let you know that there was some good done, thanks to Dorado dying.” She gestured at the newspaper with her free hand. “Town's cracking down on Stairway production, a big time gang's on their last leg, thanks to some of Dorado's cronies wanting revenge, and I found Blueblood's shoes in that office you fell through.” Dash gave a quick roll of her wrist. “OK, that last one didn't get printed, but I let his family kinda know what was going on.” She sighed, rubbing at her temple, then rolling onto her back. “Come on, hayseed. It'll be alright.”

“All those good things ya told me 'bout were built on lies an' me...” Jack scrunched her face tight once more, wiping briefly at her nose. She sniffed hard. “It ain't right. What kinda world lets somethin' so bad make good?”

“Hell if I know, bro.” Dash stared up at the ceiling. She offered the briefest glance to the Bible on Jack's nightstand. “You're the 'grand design' gal, you tell me.”

The farmer sighed, joining Isabelle at staring at the ceiling. “I've been runnin' that through my head the past two days. I dunno either.”

Dash smirked. “You're not a thinker, hayseed. You're a doer.” Her expression dropped. “Have you been... you know...” She gave a small gesture with a finger to the door. “Doing anything since I've been gone?”

Jack sighed, harder than before. She shut her eyes. “Nah, man. I jus' ain't been feelin' it.”

It was true. After sleeping on Rarity's couch the other night, Jack had came back to the dorm room and had simply lay in her bed, only rising every few hours to change the bandage on her still occasionally weeping arm. That, and splash water on her face.

She had wanted to go out, try and maybe get some perspective, but it had just seemed too hard for her; Jack would either have to deal with people who were oblivious to her hurt, or worse, she might bump into Rarity. The tailor had tried to visit Jack yesterday. She had spent several minutes knocking at Jack's door; the farmer simply curled into a ball on her bed until Rarity had given up and walked off.

Jack had felt torn—she appreciated what the beauty had already done. The violet-haired woman had proven that underneath the lace and pompous attitude was a gentle heart of steel. Rarity was Jack's rock that night. One she clung to with the desperate grip of a drowning man. It was a feeling the farmer wouldn't forget soon, if ever.

But... but she didn't want Rarity to see her like this.

Physically, she felt more or less fine—her arm notwithstanding, she had just about fully recovered from the other scrapes and bruises that night had given her—her real problem made her feel inadequate. Pathetic.

Jack's real problem was that she couldn't look at herself in a mirror without cringing.

The blonde continued to stare hard at the ceiling. With a troubled sigh, she crossed her arms over her chest.

“You need out,” Dash said from across the room. The Apple rose and rubbed at her mouth.

“I...” She walked over to the window. Outside, a few students had taken up an improvised baseball game in the fields. “I can't. Ya know I can't, Dash.”

“You're getting your ass out,” Dash ordered, standing up. “It's either learning to cope with what you did, or staying in here until it eats you to death.” She ran a hand over her multi-hued hair, still staring hard at Jack. “Just get out there and try. Go talk to Rarity. Go talk to a priest. Hell, go and do some walking. Something, anything's better than just sitting here and feeling miserable, bro.”

Jack turned to stare back out the window. Dash put an arm on her shoulder.

“Come on. It might make things better.” Isabelle paused. “That, and I know you're not a coward. A coward would have left me back at that warehouse. So show some guts.” She slowly turned Jack around. Somewhere, deep down, the farmer agreed with Isabelle. After a weak, shaky breath, the blonde nodded her agreement.

Jack moved to the head of her bed and donned her trusty stetson. With one more encouraging nod from Dash, she was off, slowly leaving the room with no real direction in mind. When she left, Isabelle returned to her bed and slumped against the wall, breathing a sigh of relief. The athlete hated having to give tough love and boot the farmer out—twice now, she thought glumly—but there was no other option. Jack just wouldn't listen to her. Talking was pointless. With that in mind, Isabelle moved back to her bed and prepared to catch up on all the sleep she lost the past few days.


000


Jack left through the front doors of the Academy, doing her best to ignore the faces going by her. She hid behind her hat and pressed on.

Jack caught a ride to Ponyville with Hans. He tried to speak with her a bit as he steered the carriage down the road, but she wasn't much of a talker today, only replying to most of his conversations with a small, weak 'yeah.'

After he dropped her off at the main strip, she wandered for an hour or so, exploring the streets and alleyways in an attempt to clear her head.

It didn't work.

In another desperate bid for solace, she decided to send word home; she ducked into the town's post office.

While it would have been far quicker to call the farm's landline—one of the few modern conveniences Macintosh actually got around to buying—she found charm and enjoyment out of giving and receiving letters.

That, and she couldn't remember her own number.

Jack settled for a telegraph. The Apple dictated what she wanted to say to a blurry eyed and weak looking man well in his years. He finished transcribing the letter and handed it back so Jack could double-check its accuracy.

Heya, Mac. Thought I'd check up on you. Been busy? I imagine so with me not around to help. Is Bloom still working on her homework? I don't want her falling behind, you know? And I guess the big question: How's Gran? I'm worried about her.

Guess that's about all I needed to say. Hope the message finds you alright, and tell that Zecora lady howdy next time you see her.

-J

She took the letter to another man in the office—a portly soul-folk with a parchment mark on his cheek. She gave her address, he pointed a finger at the letter, enveloping it in a blue aura, then with his other hand he gave a snap of his fingers. The letter vanished, leaving only the small lingering effects of the postmaster's aura floating in the air. They slowly began to fall like snowflakes onto the floor.

While a soul-folks' teleportation spell was impressive, Jack had heard that dragons and Dragonchilde's were even quicker—their breath acted as a... a...

Jack's frown deepened as she tried to think of an apt metaphor and came up dry.

Bet Twila never has this problem, Jack thought bitterly as she stepped out of the office and once more onto the streets.

There were times when it felt like she'd been cheated—times when it felt like all she really had special compared to anyone else was her strength. Even then, she knew two others that beat her in spades in that regard. Macintosh could out-lift her any day of the week, not even mentioning Iron Will. Considering that the minotaur was able to carry a bag in one hand that took every ounce of strength Jack had to lift, the dark-skinned giant beat both of them without even trying.

Even her best seemed to be second best to everyone nowadays.

She sighed, walking down the streets filled with people, feeling more alone than she ever had.

You're not alone, a small voice reminded her, and you never need to be.

The farmer paused, letting the pure simplicity of the words catch her attention. It was true. While she hadn't known any of the women in her circle of friends for long, Jack knew that she could count on them. Pinkie could bring a smile to anyone's face, even when they felt like Jack did. Chylene was quiet and a bit skittish, but she had a good heart and was more than happy to listen to problems. Twila was too smart for her own good and perplexed the Apple more often than not, but even then, Jack knew she was a good woman with everyone's best interest in mind. Dash... Jack smirked slightly as she started to walk again, letting her feet run on instinct. Dash was a lot like the farmer in ways. Both of them were too stubborn, they took things into their own hands they really shouldn't, and they both wore their hearts on their sleeves. It was because of how similar they were that the two struck up a friendship so fast, even before what happened in the warehouse. The warehouse just proved to Jack where Isabelle's loyalties lay. Thanks to it, Jack knew the cocky, loudmouth athlete was someone she could put all her chips on when things got too rough. If Jack had to march through hell with one other person, it'd be the Ritter.

The last person the blonde thought of garnered her attention the most. The violet-haired tailor. The soul-folk with long eyelashes and a full, inviting smile. If circumstances had been different , Jack probably would still despise Rarity, thanks to her high-class attitude and obsession with culture and society. After everything though? Jack found the beautiful heart hidden underneath the unneeded eyeliner and blush.

She finally withdrew from her thoughts and nearly laughed. She stood by one of the side-roads that lead directly to Rarity's establishment, a small stone of dread in her gut. Jack wanted to talk to the tailor, but...

Swallow your pride, girl. There's no shame in talking about it again, the farmer reassured herself, sucking in a breath and marching down the path.


000


Rarity stood amid the clutter and mess of one of her backrooms, a drawing board temporally forgotten nearby. This was the worst possible thing—she was trying to drum up ideas for a rather illustrious client of hers from Camelot. Henry Toity was notoriously difficult to please, according to the other designers she spoke with, and so she had spent over an hour trying to gain ideas on how to offset his thin frame and unnaturally gray skin.

Beige ascot—perhaps a tanned undershirt instead. Oh gracious, he just has to have this ensemble by Wednesday, of all days!

She took off her ruby red glasses and chewed at an earpiece in thought.

Tanned outer-shirt, silk crimson ascot tucked neatly at the neckline—perhaps it would distract from his dull tone and complement his eyes. Well, I suppose if I'm going to attempt that idea, I'd best plan ahead on his cufflin—

“Rarity!” the voice of Twila's young ward called out to her from the front room.

“Yes, darling?” she replied, silently thanking the young boy yet again for minding the store while she was desperately finishing her orders. Rarity hated taking advantage of the boy's offers to watch the store, but he had always seemed so eager to please that she couldn't help but accept.

“Someone's here to see you,” he answered plainly.

The tailor winced. It was probably Penelope Finish—Rarity was behind on her order too. Sometimes it was a burden being so popular with the upper crust. She woefully put the back of her hand to her brow and sighed. It was time to face the music.

She opened the door, leaving the cluttered room behind and stepping out into the hallway, smartly tapping along the wooden floor in her white high heels. Rarity paused when she entered the shop proper and noticed who came.

“Jack?”

“Hi, Rare,” Jack said, standing at the shop's entrance. She took a few steps forward, leaning against the table in the center of the room, where Spike had a game of solitaire laid out. The farmer tried to smile. It came out weak, unconvincing. “I, uh, come at a bad time?”

The tailor thought of all her urgent projects. “Not at all,” she honestly replied. “Spike?”

The young lad snapped to attention, beaming at the beauty. “Yes?”

She gestured her fingers, they quickly surrounded themselves in a blue aura. From the stairway, a small coin purse levitated down to the ground floor, through the hallway and into Rarity's outstretched hand. She opened the pouch and took out a few loose gold bits, then placed them gently into Spike's hand. The green haired boy looked down at them, then back up at Rarity.

“Be a dear and get me some milk and cheese from the market, would you?” the tailor asked.

He snapped to attention, offering a crisp salute. “You can count on me!”

“Gouda, please.”

“Sure.”

“...And make sure it's skim milk.”

“Of course!”

She smiled warmly. “Thank you, Spike.”

The young lad left, prompting Jack to face the tailor. “Some kid.” She gestured to the door he just left from.

“He's always been such a sweetheart.” Rarity smiled. “Twila's lucky to have him as an assistant.” Jack was going to comment about how it seemed like he was assisting her more than their studious friend, but Rarity had already began walking down the hallway. “Would you care to join me for some tea?”

“Eyup.” She nodded. Jack paused a beat, then sighed. Rarity probably meant hot tea—something the farmer couldn't stand. Regardless, she followed after the soul-folk.

Jack entered the kitchen just as Rarity had opened the fridge and brought out a pitcher filled with tea. The violet-haired woman poured each of them a tall glass, then sat at the table and beckoned the farmer over.

The blonde nodded, joining the woman. She took an experimental drink and was pleasantly surprised at the sweetness that lolled on her tongue.

“That is how you like your tea, am I correct?” Rarity pondered, her index finger slowly making  laps around the lip of her own glass. “I've always heard southern Caballites prefer cooler beverages—especially tea. Not to blanket your interests with an entire group, mind you, but I simply assumed that you may--”

“Yeah, Rare. This is just fine,” Jack quickly agreed, silencing the tailor.

They kept their attention to their drinks. Eventually, Rarity took the brave jump.

“How are you, Jack?”

“Better,” the farmer answered, the reply automatic. Slightly defensive. She stared into her drink, clenching her hand slightly against the glass.

“... You don't have to lie to me, darling,” Rarity quietly said.

“I'm fine. I--”

“Jack.” Her voice was tense, caked with emotion. The farmer met Rarity's insightful gaze. “I don't believe that. You've been holed up in your room for days now. When's the last time you've ate? The last time you've been to class?”

“I—"

“Please, Jack. Talk.”

The farmer exhaled deeply. It took her a moment to speak again and when she did, it was the same defeated tone that greeted Rarity on that fateful night. “I feel like I'm gettin' tugged in all sorts of directions in my noggin', ya know?” She crossed her arms and tilted her head in thought. “Like... there've been times in the night where it hurts to breath. Where I've been jus' so... mad at everythin' that went down. Few minutes later, an' I'm numb. Like, nothin's worth nothin'.” She leaned forward on the table, frowning grimly. “Mostly though? I'm scared.” Her frown deepened. “What's stoppin' me from snappin' like that again? Dorado might be justified, but what if it happens again on somethin' more innocent? A sparrin' match with Dash? Someone crashin' inta me in the hallway?... An' argument with you?”

“I know you would never do something like th--”

“Not if I can help it, but I-I might blow up one day!” Jack explained, growing agitated. She looked at her hands, unsure where to put them. She settled for placing them in her jean pockets.

“You. Will. Not,” Rarity snapped back, far louder and intense than the farmer was expecting. Jack stared at the violet-haired beauty. “I might not have known you for long, Jack Apple, but that doesn't matter. You've shown me you are someone I can trust completely—I doubt you have a lying bone in your body, so by the very heavens themselves, I can say I know you. I can look into you and see what's inside your heart.” Her expression calmed down as she finished talking. “As hard as I've looked, I don't see a person capable of breaking like that.” She shifted slightly, adjusting her well-designed white dress. “Do you understand?”

Jack could feel tears welling up in her eyes. Jesus, when'd you get ta be such a crybaby? a voice spoke up in the back of her mind. She rapidly blinked her bitterness away and wordlessly nodded.

“Rare...” the farmer trailed off.

“Mmm?” Rarity took a sip of her tea.

“Guess this is another one I owe ya.”

Rarity smiled gently. Jack noticed how delicate her face seemed in the glow of the evening sun. “We take care of each other, Jack. It wouldn't be proper if you were there for me and I wasn't there for you.” She leaned forward, putting her hands palms up on the table. “Now, as for your... anxieties, I believe I can help. Put your hands on top of mine.”

The farmer did as instructed, reaching across the table and resting her calloused hands on top of Rarity's smooth ones. The tailor rubbed the back of Jack's hands with a thumb and shut her eyes. Jack felt a small twinge of electricity run from the tailor's hands to her own. This was followed by a sense of... lightness in her thoughts. She felt less burdened by worry. The anger, fear and sorrow were still there, but they were distant. Muted. Rarity opened her eyes and gazed wearily upon the blonde.

“Did it work?”

Jack gave a small nod. “Whatever ya jus' did ta me... yeah. I think so. I, uh, feel better anyway.”

“Good. While it's not a permanent solution, I hope it alleviates some of your burden.” The tailor weakly smiled, wincing slightly at the action.

“What was that anyway?” Jack asked, tilting her head.

“A spell one of my teachers taught me when I was learning my powers.” The beauty rose from the table and stood. Jack followed suit. “I wish it lasted longer, but it should at least give you a day's relief.” Tears welled up in Rarity's eyes, she blinked them away.

“What's wrong?” Jack asked, noticing the other's attempts to shrug away her emotions.

“Nothing, darling.”

“Cut the crap,” Jack replied, narrowing her gaze. “You got moody as soon as ya finished that spell. Come on. I told ya the truth—do the same fer me.”

Rarity tsked, crossing her arms. On seeing the farmer's stubborn streak, she bit hard at her full lip. “The emotions transfer. So what you were...”

Realization dawned on the farmer. Her brow furrowed in concern. “Oh God. I'm sorry, Rare.”

“I was the one who did it,” Rarity snapped back, clutching her manicured hands into fists at her side. She realized what she was doing and sighed heavily, relaxing her grip. “Jack. It-it's fine. If I can do at least this for you...”

“Y-you've done enough,” Jack choked out. the farmer swallowed hard, feeling miserable in a whole new way. The cultured woman's strength and conviction moved the blonde and brought Jack to a conclusion she had been slowly approaching ever since she had first spoke to the tailor in this very boutique.

Rarity was beautiful. So beautiful it hurt.

“Rare,” Jack whispered, heat rising to her cheeks. Without thinking, guided only by instinct, she took a step forward towards the woman. Rarity neither advanced or retreated. She instead stared at Jack with those blue, concerned, kind eyes. Eyes that said she'd do anything for the farmer, take any burden, suffer any foul or slight.

Jack was flustered beyond anything she ever felt. Her hands shook, her heart raced, she could feel her pulse throb across her body. Even then, the farmer found the courage to take another step to the tailor. She leaned forward; Rarity's eyes slowly shut as she looked up at Jack's face, becoming half-lidded and longing. Jack lowered her head reverently and moved her hand to Rarity's chin, gently guiding it as her own body responded in kind. Their kiss was slow. Deep. Meaningful. Not a creature born of lust, this was a creature of comfort—a silent pact between the two amid the farmer's trembling frame and Rarity's running mascara, that they would take care of one another, no matter how hard it was.

Rarity was Jack's rock. One that no tide would pull her away from.


000


Dimitri rubbed his jawline as he looked over a file in a manilla envelope. He leaned back in his chair and stared up at his high rising ceiling.

It had been troublesome, losing Dorado. While the man may have had his problems outside of the job, Dorcis had counted on the scarred man to be not only his adviser, but also his connection to some of the more... seedier aspects of his profession. If he ever found the woman that had killed him, well, she wouldn't live long enough to regret her actions.

It was something that could be fixed, however. Dorcis had a lot of fingers in a lot of pies. A replacement for Dorado could and would be found in due time. Now, he needed to focus on finding a replacement for his protege. He had hoped Blueblood would have proven to be a valuable ally in the long run, in between his wealthy family and eye for detail. Shame the young man had shown to be incompetent in everything Dimitri had asked of him.

Oh well, can't dwell on mistakes, he thought. Dorcis checked his pocket watch. It was about time for an interview. The older man bridged out his fingers and waited.

Like clockwork, he heard a knock at his door. A mustached man wearing a straw hat and a blue and white pinstripe suit sauntered in.

“Got an interview candidate ready for you, my good man,” he addressed, reaching into his breast pocket and running a comb through his red and white hair.

“Have them come in, Mr. Flam,” Dimitri ordered. The other gave a small bow and returned to the door. He opened it once more and gave a flourished wave of his hand over towards Dorcis. In stepped a woman, just a hair older than Blueblood. She adjusted her violet cloak swarmed with stars and long, pointed hat of the same design before staring arrogantly at Dorcis.

“Greetings.” the older man smirked from across the expansive room. “I was not expecting such a beauty to come through the door.”

“Trixie hardly believes you,” she addressed, brushing her pure white bangs to the side of her face and pompously sticking her nose up. “Trixie can tell you've been reading my dossier.”

“You're correct.” He tapped the file on his desk and rose. He didn't need to look it over to recite most of the information on it—instead he stood at the front of his desk and theatrically put a hand to his temple and held a finger in the air. “Trixie Lulamoon. Twenty-six years of age and attending Cloudsdale Academy. Entered said Academy with the intent to get a degree in Magical Harmonics. A noble degree if you're intent on strengthening your powers in order to administer surgery or take up the sword as a solider.” He coldly smiled. “However, I have my doubts you hold the most noble goals in mind.” He gestured to the folder behind him. “There's a criminal record in there. Three counts of necromancy. 'Black magic begets a black heart,' as the old saying goes.”

“Is Trixie going to have to listen to you prattle on for ages, or will you get to the point already?” she asked, staring unafraid at the powerfully built man. Kid had spunk, Dorcis liked that.

“I'll be blunt then: I can tell by your... eccentric word usage, you're a woman from Caballo's northlands—and you share something with your minotaur brothers, aside from your habit of speaking as you do. Your kind's pragmatic. Practical.” He leaned forward. “You know not to ask questions when bits are on the line.”

The woman crossed her arms over her blue dress. “The Great and Powerful Trixie is listening. What needs done?” She looked at him harder. “And, better yet, what would my reward be?”

> Among the fields of gold
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

	Jack gripped the broadsword in her hand as the morning light filtered through the sweet smelling and tranquil forest. The blonde concentrated on the suit of iron fitted to a log in front of her and targeted the heavy pauldron, doing her best to ignore the presence of Iron Will, standing observantly on the edge of the circular arena the farmer was in. The only sound she could hear was the quiet murmur of people in the far distance at a few of the other weapon stations Iron Will set up and the gold and orange leaves scratching the ground as they ran along the wind. In one fluid motion, Jack lifted the sword up over her head and swung down at an angle, putting her full arm strength behind the one-handed blow.

The days and weeks had scattered like the very leaves brushing past the farmer now. Late August bled into September. September to the middle of October. Piece by piece, Jack glued herself back together. The letter from home had helped close the wound. As she had expected from the stoic man, his letter was short, blunt and to the point. The farm was steady, Bloom was doing surprisingly well in school—even placing third in a spelling bee. Their granny? Well... she was doing well enough. Mac had mentioned she even had a clear day a few days before Jack had sent her letter. Which, considering how delusional the gray-haired matriarch was anymore, was a miracle in and of itself.

Surprisingly enough, Macintosh closed the letter by mentioning that Zecora had taken to staying at the house a day or two a week. (Not what you think, sis, she's been helping me by cooking dinner and doing morning chores. His words.) Jack had sent a few more letters over the months, though their content remained much the same.

Jack brought the weight of the blade down, connecting square against the brunt of the armor and surprisingly tearing through the iron in one hard, forceful strike. The blade remained deeply imbedded into the wooden log, halfway through the hard wood and metal. She reached forward and grabbed hold of the log with an arm, then stuck her leg on the side. With a yank, she pulled out the blade. It was warped, bent and showing a hairline crack where Jack impacted it against the heavy plate.

“Iron Will was going to speak to you about the importance of targeting joints in the armor in order to effectively cut through their defenses, but...” He scratched at his head, then laughed, no small amount of pride in his voice. “If you can swing as hard as I can, then armor? Who gives a damn!”

He noticed Jack's ruined blade. The farmer offered the handle to Iron Will. He took the useless piece and stepped towards a cloth roll he kept nearby. Unrolling a segment of the red, silken piece, he produced another broadsword. Her instructor gestured to another set of armor strapped to a tree.

“Helmet,” William instructed, putting his hands at his hips and silently observing the woman. In another fluid motion, Jack brought the sword crashing down, cleaving the helmet vertically and embedding her blade deep into the log, leaving only the last quarter of wood untouched. With a hard grunt, Jack struggled and yanked out her blade, hearing a snapping noise as she did it. The weapon was in pieces, only the handle and a few splinters of metal were salvaged from the log. She gave a nervous and wide smile towards the minotaur.

“Tomorrow we're weaning you off Caballien swords. You've got the problem us norfolk got: too much power behind your blows.” He shook his head, taking the ruined weapon. “Caballo may have a lot of good things. Blacksmith's aren't one. Wouldn't trust them to even make good plowshares.” He pointed a finger at Jack. “Until we can get you a good piece of norfolk steel, you're training with a reinforced axe. Have a feeling that'll be the only tool you can use from around here that won't snap like a damn twig in your hands.”

“Not true,” Jack retorted. “I've yet ta break a hoe or rake back home, an' I use those tools all the time.”

William leaned back and laughed loudly. The loud whooping noise melted any form of intimidation the scarred man held. “By my ancestors. You carry your father's song in you.”

Jack gave an unsure smile. “I didn't even think I made a joke,” she said.

“Just the way you said it,” Iron Will dismissed, still holding an ear-to-ear grin. “That sorta practical reply came from Johnny's mouth all the time—even when we were joking with him.”

“Hmm,” the blonde grunted, putting a hand to her chin. Her smile widened as she thought of her father. Though the memories had lost their luster over the years, she could still remember his kind and humble ways, and how flustered he'd get when she got to crying over a skinned knee. “He was somethin' else.”

“Apple didn't fall far from the tree.”

“You wouldn't believe how many times I've heard that growin' up,” Jack replied. She grew thoughtful and somber, albeit briefly. “Though I ain't sure jus' how far from him I fell.”

“You're doing him proud, kid.” William's meaty hand sprang into a thumbs up. “In fact, you're in my top three students this year. You blew through practice weapon training easily.” He cocked his head towards the ruined suits of armor and busted logs. “And it looks like the real deal hasn't phased you either. Hell, we get you some armor and I bet you'd be battle ready in no time!”

She briefly flashed back to the warehouse, and the memories left cold and dead inside. Her expression darkened. “I, uh, wouldn't know 'bout that,” she muttered. The dark skinned man's expression narrowed in concern; just before he could speak, Jack changed the subject. “So, who are the other two top dogs? If ya don't mind me askin'.”

“You know one. The Ritter.”

“Dash?” Jack dubiously questioned. Though the farmer knew Isabelle could hold her own, Jack hadn't seen Dash do anything of note during their time under Iron Will's tutelage. Dash hardly sparred, napped regularly in all manner of odd places—Jack saw her on a cloud of all things once. The blonde still didn't know if Dash was just messing with her or... hell, Jack was pretty sure sleeping on a cloud wasn't even possible—not even to mention all the times she skipped because she 'wasn't feeling it.'

Jack knew when Dash took off like that, she normally spent all day running or flying, but the tall woman thought it wouldn't kill the other to actually buckle down and train with everyone else more often.

“I know that doesn't sound right,” The norfolk said, reading Jack's mind, “But wait until we get everyone armor trained and full-on weapon sparring. It's awesome watching the girl fight.” He clenched a fist in front of him and drove it into his palm. “Footwork, wingwork, precision strikes with a long sword, and shield expertise I've seen battle tested men not have. If that girl's not Wonderbolt material, nobody is.”

“And, uh, how do ya think a Wonderbolt would handle an Apple?” the question came out before she even had a chance to think it over. Her competitive spirit just couldn't resist testing the waters.

Iron Will replied just as quickly. “That's up to you, Jack. You've got a warrior's heart in you. Just a matter of making sure it beats.” He gave a considering pause. “Though I'd bet on you one-hundred percent if we can get a good piece of norfolk steel on you.”

“Yer really crazy 'bout norfolk weaponry,” Jack said.

“You'll see, Apple. You'll see.” He smirked.

Before either could continue their conversation, the two heard a loud group of people cheering from the outskirts of the woods. William pointed towards the sound.

“I have a feeling that's my third.”


000


They traveled for a few minutes, soon coming to the archery fields, where a large group of students had gathered, forming a crescent that overlooked a large line of targets painted on hay bales and a few logs. A lone figure stood apart from the crowd, observing the targets.

Jack squinted, trying to make out the person in the late morning sun.

It was a brown-skinned woman of average height, possessing a well-toned build, if the woman's visible stomach and exposed lower back gave any clue to the rest of her, which was buried under heavy black leather. The woman reached behind her, pulling out an arrow from a quiver resting on her shoulder. She turned towards the crowd; Jack froze when she saw the woman's eyes. They were piercingly yellow and unflinching. Despite the archer's confident, condescending smirk, the expression didn't reach those hollow eyes. They continued to observe the world with the slow, confidant gaze of a predator on the prowl.

Jack followed the yellow eyed woman's stare. For a reason she couldn't explain, Jack was hardly surprised that the woman's prey was Dash, who stood in the crowd with her arms crossed and an unreadable expression on her face. The leather-clad woman's smile died; she returned to her targets. The white haired woman lined up her shot and fired at the target farthest from her. The arrow sailed over five hundred feet, cracking hard against the hay bale. Bull's eye.

The archer gave a casual smirk. Without pause, she rapidly took another arrow and fired. Another and fired. Another and fired. Each one smacked against the bale, each dead-on target. She turned to the target closest to her. She turned to the crowd and blindly fired over her shoulder. Jack wasn't surprised when it struck as well, embedding deep into the wooden log the target was painted on.

The archer put the bow to the side and pulled back her right sleeve, revealing a wrist mounted crossbow. She cocked it back and pointed with her fingerless gloves at the arrow she had just landed.

With an uncanny amount of grace, she rolled to the side, doing a one-handed cartwheel. She stopped at the apex of the trick, upside-down and one hand firmly dug into the ground to support her weight. Without hesitation, she fired the crossbow. It flew like a crack of lightening across the sky, striking true and piercing the back of her arrow, splitting it in half all the way to the target.

The crowd went ballistic, cheers exploded out at the woman's feat. Iron Will clapped loudly, pride radiating off of his face at the sight of one of his students doing so well, and Jack took off her hat and waved it loudly in the air, calling out a cheer just as loud as the crowd.

The yellow-eyed woman rolled over and stood, smiling at her adoring fans. She locked a glance with Isabelle once more. Dash retained that same unreadable expression and turned, leaving the crowd without a sound. It wasn't much, but Jack was pretty sure she saw a small flicker of hurt in the archer's otherwise expressionless eyes.

“Show's over,” the leather-clad woman shot out to everyone, her smile dropping off her face in a heartbeat. “Get your asses back to work!”

There was a collective rumbling groan from the students, but underneath the archer's glare, they offered no resistance, begrudgingly splitting up and scattering in multiple directions. The earthen toned woman shook her head in irritation, collected her bow and started to slowly walk east, away from Jack and Iron Will.

The farmer quirked a brow towards her instructor. “Guessin' that was the third one you were talkin' 'bout ta me?”

“Gilda Harding.” He nodded, staring at the figure slowly walking away. “That woman could put those damn griffons to shame.” Jack tilted her head, not following. William sighed at the woman's clueless nature. “Forgot you're not the history type.” He crossed his arms over his bare and scarred chest and stared hard at the farmer. “The cult of the Griffon, or, as our eastern friends would call them in an attempt to distance themselves from their own embarrassment, 'The Retainers of the Wind,' were a lot of things. Cowards and bigots, mostly. But, one thing that they have my respect for is archery.” Iron Will nodded to himself. “During their westward campaign, the griffons proved time and time again not to engage them in the open unless we had a death wish.” He looked over at the targets in the distance. “You shoot much?”

“Never got the knack fer it,” Jack said.

“Same. You and me, Apple? We're creatures of instinct in battle. It takes quite the mind to use a bow. Has to be tight like a steel trap.” He put his hands forward, as if physically grasping the idea he was speaking about. “Altitude, wind factor, condition of your weapon, humidity, and how your target is moving. Every single one of those things need to be factored before taking a shot.” He grinned. “I'd much prefer just running up and smacking someone, you know? Easier on the noggin.”

I'd prefer not to do it at all, Jack thought briefly. “So, yer sayin' that Gilda's got a brain on her?”

He rubbed at his chin, smiling at his pupil. “Maybe not that, Apple. She's just wired differently.” Will's kind expression died down a bit. “I think it makes her lonely, in a way.”	

Jack said nothing, watching the figure of Gilda leave. Iron Will clasped Jack hard on the back, the farmer stumbled forward a step.

“Iron Will's going to check on our spear users. Make sure none of them are screwing up too bad.” He suddenly snapped his fingers as a thought crossed his mind. “Oh, and make sure you're free Nightmare Night!”

“Do what now?” Jack drawled out.

“The princesses are going to be here visiting a... Twily? Twilight? Uh...”

“Twila Shields?”

The giant smiled, pointing both his fingers at the woman. “That's the one! Long story short, I offered the princesses our swords. We're patrolling all night about the school, rather than her guards. It'll be good practice to teach you how to work as a team.” He turned, leaving with a wave backward. “I suppose I'll see you day after tomorrow, Apple. Get some rest, 'cause if you don't stop on occasion to take a nap, then you'll find that your strength has been sapped!”

“Don't worry. Got myself a break planned.” Jack smiled.

She hoped it was a good one.


000


The farmer found herself outside Sugar Cube Corner two hours later. She entered and was pleased to see Pinkie wiping the counter down. Jack glanced around the small showroom briefly, before leaning in close to the pink-haired ball of energy.

“So, uh... ya drop off that stuff like I asked ya?”

Diane ducked under the counter. Within seconds, she came back up wearing a heavy detective's coat and a dark pair of sunglasses. “It took some... convincing of certain parties, but I've got your goods.” She adjusted the brown fedora on her puffy hair and reached into her pocket, pulling out a cigarette.

“Uh...” Jack trailed off, confused at Pinkie's sudden costume change. “Ya put it all out in that clearin', then?” Her head finally cleared enough that she reached over the counter and yanked the cigarette out of the woman's mouth. “An' don't smoke in a bakery.”

Pinkie pouted, pulling pathetically at a strand of pink hair. “Spoilsport,” she said. Her expression brightened after a moment. “But yeppers! I put a nice little pic-tastistic-a-nick basket over where you wanted! Even loaded it with goodies!” She rocked on the balls of her feet.

“Great, sugar. Thanks.” Jack reached to her back pocket. She pulled out a small bit purse and gazed down at its contents. “How much I owe ya?”

“Free of charge!” the cheerful woman chirped. In between Jack looking down at her purse and looking back up, Pinkie had thrown away her costume and stood in her normal attire of a pink summer dress.

“Pinkie...” Jack warned, shaking her head. “Nah, I gotta pay ya somethin'.”

The life of the party tapped a finger to her chin in thought. “I know!” she exclaimed. “When you're done having your special night, you can give ol' Pinkie alllll the details!”

Jack turned beet red. The farmer hadn't told anyone what she had planned tonight, how could...?

“I mean, Griffon fireworks are super hard to get 'cause of the embargo on most things east, but I got some because I know some people and I think you'll really like them I just want tohearaboutwhattheylookedlikeyouknow?Ihearthereareafewthatmakefacesintheai--”

The farmer put her palm over Diane's moth. “That's, uh, great, darlin'.” She let the words sink in briefly. “So, you were, uh, talkin' 'bout wantin' ta know how we liked the fireworks?”

Diane took Jack's hand away from her mouth. “Well yeah, silly-billy! What else would I mean?”

“Nothing,” the farmer instantly dismissed. “An' don't worry, I'll fer sure tell ya 'bout what they look like, ok?”

Pinkie nodded with such enthusiasm that her hair bounced. “Okey-dokey-loki!” she sang out. 

Jack said her farewells and left.

She slowly walked to Rarity's, her thoughts turning more and more towards the beautiful work of art with every footstep.

While neither had sat down and called themselves a couple, Jack saw them as nothing less at this point. They had been on six additional dates over the months and, while nothing had topped the emotional kiss they had shared during one of Jack's darkest days, there were dozens of memories the tall woman held onto involving Rarity, each one a treasured gem. Sharing homemade cookies in the student council room, teaching the prim and proper woman how to ride bareback on a horse, sneaking off with the rest of their friends and sitting by a bonfire, the time Rarity got her buzzed enough to get her nails done—each one was special in their own way.

Jack came to the boutique and rapped on the door. After a beat of nobody coming to answer, she tried the handle. She was hardly surprised to find it unlocked.

“One day yer gonna regret not lockin' this,” Jack said with a small smile and a shake of her head. She walked through the showroom and was about to call out again when she heard a melodious voice fill the air, singing a slow, folksy blues song.

“Boy, let me tell you, can't you see? She's got a heart like... Damocles. Her love's above you, on a tight string... you've no idea the pain she'll bring...”

Jack followed the low-key tune toward the kitchen, where Rarity stood in a brown apron, doing dishes in the sink. Rarity was oblivious to Jack's presence—she continued to clean in the suds, humming the piano's part in the song. Jack smiled softly. 'Heart of Damocles' was one of her mother's favorites.

After the tailor put up a bowl into a cabinet and returned to the sink, Jack couldn't help herself.

“Good voice.”

Rarity yelped in a very unladylike fashion, whipping toward the farmer.

“Jack!” she called out in exasperation, frowning and flicking her sudsy hands towards the woman. Jack cackled, clutching her gut over Rarity's distress. “What are you doing here, aside from scaring me into an early grave?” Rarity wiped her hands on the apron, shaking her head.

Jack sauntered into the room, rolling up her sleeves. She went to work on the remainder of the dishes, wiping them clean with a wet rag. Rarity moved to the woman's right.

“Jus' wanted ta see if you were busy.” She handed a plate to Rarity, who promptly dried it.

“I have four orders needing shipped to a gathering in Philadelphia by Friday. Frankly, I've been swamped today, and will probably be at it well onto midnight, I'm afraid.”

Jack froze, her hands still deep in the dishwater. She looked towards Rarity out of the corner of her eye. “Oh,” she abruptly said.

After a pause, Rarity let a small tittering of laughter out. “Darling, I'm simply teasing—though your face was priceless. I'll be free after an hour or so, once I finish a few more orders I'm finalizing. Why?”

Jack handed her another dish. “Might have somethin' planned. If yer up for it.”

“You? Planning something? What a change of pace!”

“...Chylene may have helped,” Jack freely admitted, wiping down knives and forks.

“Well, with Chylene helping you, I can't imagine it would be too disastrous.”

“Thanks fer yer vote of confidence,” Jack grumbled, putting the silverware on a washcloth resting on the counter. She briefly looked around for something to wipe her dripping hands on. Just as she gave up and reached for the backside of her jeans, Rarity cleared her throat, offering the bottom of her apron. After Jack was done, Rarity stepped forward. She rose onto her toes, grabbed the back of  Jack's neck for balance, and planted a deep kiss onto the farmer's lips.

“And I suppose if you're going, I can manage, even if it does end in disaster.” She gave a coy wink Jack's way. Even after all the months, that wink...

Jack recovered eventually enough to grin. “Great. Want me ta swing back in an hour, or do ya jus' wanna meet me there?”

Rarity shook her head. “You're welcome to stay for a while, darling. Feel free to rest in the lounge upstairs.”

The tall woman gave a nod, alright with the idea. In fact, a little nap sounded perfect to her right now. “Ya know? I think I'll take ya up on yer hospitality, Rare. Thank ya kindly.”

The violet-haired woman smiled, moving past Jack and out into the hallway. “I'll be up as soon as I'm done with these dresses, dear!” 

The farmer went upstairs and all but collapsed on the couch. She kicked off her boots and tilted her trusty stetson over her eyes. Within moments, she drifted off.


000


Jack awoke to the sound of running water. She stretched out a kink in her back and rose to a sitting position. After getting her boots back on and slapping herself a bit more awake, she heard the water turn off. Within moments, Rarity came out of the bathroom wearing two white towels—one wrapped snugly around her curvacious body and the other protecting her hair.

“Ah. You woke up just in time. Allow me to change, and we can go.”

“A-alright, Rare,” Jack said, doing her best to look away from the tailor.

“Something wrong, darling?” Rarity asked. Jack wasn't sure if she was teasing or not.

“N-nothin'. Jus' waitin' on ya ta get proper.”

“'Proper?'” the violet-haired woman echoed. She couldn't help but laugh. “Considering the amount of times you've answered the door in nothing but your undergarments, I wouldn't believe you'd worry about something being proper.”

“That's different,” Jack argued, looking towards Rarity out of habit. She saw the towels again and looked away.

“How?” Rarity asked, finally moving from where she stood, towards her bedroom.

“Well... yer you, an' I'm me.” Jack shrugged. “I ain't exactly a work of art.”

“Nonsense!” Rarity called out from her room. “Simply because you're not exactly proportioned right, too tall, and too muscular, that doesn't mean you're not art.”

Jack grinned with a mild sense of humor. “Ya jus' proved my point, Rare. I ain't like you. You've got yerself some looks.” She tilted her head, debating. With a shrug, she continued “An', I mean, we're sorta... you know... it wouldn't be right fer me ta look at ya when yer not exactly dressed.”

“Even if I wanted you to?” her voice coyly suggested. Jack could feel her ears heat up.

“Well...” Jack stammered out. Sad part was, tonight she was going to ask a question that was in the same ballpark. Rarity stepped out of her room, dressed in a sharp violet blouse and a dark black miniskirt. She wore a single gold band around her neck, and had her hair styled. It lay down in violet layers, spiraling just below her shoulder blades. Rarity smiled, showcasing the violet lipstick she wore.

“Wabi-Sabi,” she said. Jack paused, raising a brow.

“What?”

“The Japanese belief that true beauty comes from imperfection.” She sauntered forward, her heels clicking smartly against the wooden floor. Rarity reached up and put a hand to Jack's dark brown skin. She gave a small kiss to Jack's neck, leaning into the farmer's broad shoulders. “You're art,” she whispered into Jack's ears, sending shivers running through the tall woman's body.

Jack stared deeply into Rarity's blue eyes. In the few romance books she had read, she always heard about someone getting drunk on another person's gaze. While she wasn't drunk looking into the tailor's expression, she was sure feeling buzzed. “We should go,” Jack quickly announced—any longer like this would drive her mad.

Rarity daintily offered her hand. Jack took it and escorted the beauty downstairs.


000


They arrived at the field just before the sunset. The plot of barley was a distance away from Ponyville, but in Jack's mind, there was no other spot she'd like to be with the woman at her arm. The field of gold rolled on like a wave in the breeze, creating the image of a gentle ocean current. Rarity wordlessly tightened her grip on Jack. The farmer squeezed back, never taking her eyes off of the land. In the far horizon was a solitary farmhouse, a weathervane slowly moving back and forth on its rooftop. Each could hear the quiet, muted creak as it turned in the wind's dance. Farther back still were the outlines of two distant hills, each covered in small purple and yellow splotches of color—flowers that were still fighting against the incoming cold.

“I didn't realize there was some place like this near me,” Rarity admitted.

“Chylene told me 'bout it. Said it was a nice place.” Jack looked up at the sky. “I mean, I wanted ta take ya somewhere nice 'fore I talked ta ya 'bout...”

“About what, dear?”

Jack wordlessly held onto Rarity's hand and began to take her across the ocean. 

Rarity followed along then stumbled, nearly dropping to her knees as she struck a small hole in the ground. “Try walking through fields with heels,” she growled as she rose and begun to carefully navigate her way along. Jack rolled her eyes and simply hoisted the woman up in her arms, carrying her bridal style down the way. Rarity squealed in surprise, but recovered promptly enough and began to speak as the Apple carried her.

“If I had known you'd be doing something like this, I would have worn more practical footwear. Not to imply I'm unappreciative, of course. It's just simply--” she stopped, instead looking at what lay out before her.

It was a simple thing. A small picnic basket with a large blanket underneath. In fact, from anyone else, Rarity would almost consider it too cliche. Yet, since it came from the sincere farmer holding her, Rarity decided to make an exception.

“It's lovely, Jack.”

The farmer smiled sheepishly. “T-thanks. I thought it might be too... uh... 'rustic,' fer ya, maybe.”

The tailor batted her eyes. “Look at who I'm with. I don't believe I have a problem with a rustic flavor on occasion.”

Jack felt heat rising to her face again. She took Rarity to the blanket and sat her down, then reached into the basket. She pulled out two plastic wrapped tuna sandwiches, giving one to Rarity. She then took out a bottle of white wine. Rarity's eyes widened when she noticed the markings on the bottle.

“Aged Riesling,” she said. “Good selection.”

Jack snorted. “I wouldn't know. I jus' picked a white wine 'cause that's supposed ta go with fish. Uh, right?”

“It's a good assumption, darling. However, Riesling's are typically sweeter than the average white wine. The bottle you're holding at the moment isn't dry at all.”

“'Course not. It's ain't even been opened yet,” Jack said defensively.

Rarity debated on arguing, but decided to let that particular dog lie. She looked down and started to unwrap her food. “Tuna sandwiches and wine. They really seem to be on opposite ends of the spectrum.”

Jack grunted, already halfway through her sandwich. She swallowed. “What was that, Rare?”

Rarity shook her head, smiling with a certain world-weariness. “You've got some mayonnaise on your cheek.”

“Oh.” Jack reached up and wiped by her mouth with the back of her hand.

“...The other cheek,” Rarity corrected, sighing with exasperation. Though her eyes sparkled with humor.

“Oh.”

The two ate and cracked open the wine. Rarity drank more than she knew she should, while Jack seemed to be simply nursing her drink as she sat in nervous thought.

After clearing her fourth glass, Rarity put it to the side and rested her hands in her lap. “So. What is it you wished to talk to me about?”

The blonde froze, her glass still in her hand. “Uh... I...” Jack swallowed, facing the music. “We've been 'round each other fer a few months, yeah?”

“Mmm-hmm,” she agreed. She looked at the bottle, then back to her empty glass. With a slight smile, she filled up once more.

The farmer took another steadying breath. “An', uh, what do ya think 'bout me?”

Rarity laughed, taking another sip of her drink. She ran a hand through her silken hair. “I'm sitting in a field having a picnic with you. What do you believe, darling?”

That gave Jack the courage to speak her next words. “I want ta go farther.”

“Farther?” Rarity repeated. Jack nodded.

“I-in our relationship.” She rubbed at her temple, not sure how to explain without her seeming like a naive schoolgirl. Or, worse, a creep. “Truth is, Rare, I think yer somethin'. Somethin' e-else.” She narrowed her gaze towards the beauty. “I wanna hold ya. I...I wanna kiss ya. Hard. I want ta--”

“--I know what you want.” Rarity coyly smirked, interrupting the farmer. “I was just afraid you'd never come out and say it. It wouldn't be right for the woman of the relationship to be the first to move.”

“...Rare, we're both women. 'Least, since last time I checked.”

The tailor tittered at Jack's revelation, looking briefly at her once more empty glass. She then faced the farmer, broadly smiling. “Just shut up and come kiss me,” she commanded, the smallest slur in her voice.

Jack let out a relieved laugh at Rarity's acceptance. The farmer's heart pounded in her chest as she slowly crawled on all fours towards the woman. When she was close enough to touch Rarity, Jack sat down face-to-face with the tailor and was briefly struck numb at the woman's sensual, classic beauty. Rarity, for her part, gazed expectantly at Jack, waiting for the farmer to make the first move. When the farmer was hesitant, unsure on where to begin, the tailor took Jack's hand and placed it just above Rarity's knee. She then leaned forward, kissing Jack hard on the mouth. Jack gasped in surprise at the sudden affections; Rarity took that moment of vulnerability to go deep into Jack, the tailor ran her tongue along the roof of the farmer's mouth. The blonde shut her eyes as pleasure came in waves up and down her spine. Jack moved her other hand to Rarity's knee. Both of her digits worked together as she ran on complete instinct, moving her hands up along the tailor's soft thighs, rolling up Rarity's miniskirt past her wide, sensual hips.

Rarity broke the kiss—Jack opened her eyes and was about to ask what was wrong, when Rarity, still staring deeply into the blonde's green, longing eyes, reached for Jack's belt.

She felt Rarity tugging hard, then the release as her belt came undone. She heard a zipper, and felt her jeans loosen. Rarity ran a finger under the elastic of Jack's underwear, sending electric currents down to the blonde's toes.

“Boxers,” she scoffed, partially in humor. The tailor then leaned back onto her elbows and waited for the farmer. Jack took a look down and noticed two things. One; Rarity wore some of the smallest bottoms the farmer had ever seen. Any less, and they wouldn't even cover her modesty. The other was the large design on the violet-haired woman's thigh, in the shape of three diamonds.

“A-all soul-folk's got somethin' like...?” Jack panted out, heat flooding throughout her body.

'No, darling. It's a tattoo,” Rarity said, her chest rising and falling as she tried to calm down from her own building excitement. Jack stared hard at it, then bent down, kissing the woman's creamy thigh. Without thinking, her kiss turned into a slow, deliberate lick. Rarity gasped at the unexpected stimulation. She quickly reached down with a hand and touched Jack's face. The farmer stopped, briefly concerned that she crossed a boundary.

“C-come closer. I want to unbutton you,” Rarity whispered, her eyes sparking with arousal as she turned the farmer's face towards her own. Jack felt another shiver of excitement radiate through her body and she crawled on top of Rarity. The tall woman gently sat on Rarity's torso, just below the tailor's palmable breasts. Rarity reached up and began to unbutton Jack's plaid shirt. The farmer shut her eyes, and ran her fingers through Rarity's silky hair while the beauty worked her delicate fingers at Jack's neckline, then began their journey south.

Halfway down her shirt, Jack felt something was wrong. The feeling came instantly, as if a switch got flicked on inside her mind. Jack felt a shiver run down her body as the wind suddenly pierced through her dark skin. She opened her eyes and gasped at what she saw. She wasn't in a field with the most beautiful girl she knew—Jack was pinning a man underneath her knees, his face smashed and pulpy well beyond recognition. The farmer's jaw clenched as the man called Dorado stared straight up at the ceiling with an unblinking, dislocated eye. An eye that turned slightly, focusing on her.

The farmer yelped, stumbling backwards and launching herself away from Rarity. She got caught in her own halfway-off pants and landed hard on the blanket underneath her.  Jack stared blankly ahead, panting heavily at the vision that had came to her.

“J-Jack?! What's wrong?” Rarity frantically asked, getting up off the ground and quickly moving to the farmer's side.

“I saw it again, Rare,” Jack answered after a brief moment of what felt like weightlessness. “I-I was there. The warehouse.” She curled up her legs, bringing her knees to her chest, all interest in their previous activity gone. “I... I... shit.”

Rarity adjusted her skirt, making herself proper once more, then fell to her knees and brought Jack in close, resting the side of the farmer's head against her beating heart. “It's quite alright, dear. W-we can wait until you're ready.”

Though Jack didn't look up, she could hear the longing in Rarity's voice, and Jack could easily guess the disappointment in her blue, gentle eyes.

“I-I wanna be ready. I am ready. Jus'... Goddamn,” she choked out, putting her thumbs to her brow, embarrassed beyond words at her inability to perform, and still shivering at the memory of that August night.

Among them, the sea of gold danced and swayed in the breeze.


000


Twila walked through the botany department of the school, shaking her head in confusion. She came to the busted display one of the first-years had told her about. It just didn't make sense to her. This was the third sample that had been stolen in the past month—Twila just didn't get it. There were never any fingerprints, no magical aura, nothing to identify the thief. In addition, Twila could think of nothing the plants had that could be used for anything. While her knowledge of botany was more limited than other fields of study, she knew none of the plants had a hallucinogenic effect when smoked or inhaled, and she knew they didn't have much of a market value.

She scratched her head. From beside her, a haughty voice spoke up, seeped in sarcasm. ”A mouse crept under your watchful cat's-eye. Trixie's not surprised.”

Twila briefly glared Trixie's way, then resumed studying the broken display. She looked down at the plaque below the model. 

“Chondrodendron tomentosum.” She ran the word through the encyclopedia in her head. “Vine plant from the north.” It felt like she was missing something, but she wasn't sure what.

“Trixie scoffs at your limited knowledge. Trixie knows that the Curare plant houses tubocurarine—a muscle relaxant.” She crossed her arms and turned her nose to Twila. “The other plants that were taken are much the same.”

“So is someone making a poison?” Twila quietly asked, rubbing her dark skin.

“The Great and Pow--”

“That moniker is ridiculous!” The lavender-haired soul-folk snapped. Though she had tried her best to stand Trixie's constant belittling and self-righteous attitude, she was starting to get at the end of her rope.

“It sounds better than the second-best and can barely channel magic Twila,” Trixie instantly shot back, brushing the curl of her hair out of the way. Before the other could interject, Trixie continued. “And a poison would fit with the time frame.”

“Time frame?” Twila repeated. “What do you mean?”

“You should look at your social calender, second-best and half-assed.” She pointed a blue-tipped finger towards the scholar. “The princesses are soon coming to visit you out of pity, are they not?”

“Yes—no!” The lavender-haired girl rolled her eyes. “Yes to visiting, no on it being out of pity.” Twila narrowed her brow. “Wait. So you're suggesting...?”

“Trixie isn't suggesting. She is telling you that there's going to be an attack on the princesses.”

Twila turned, getting ready to head through the rows of plant displays towards the room's exit. “Then I'll just contact them! Tell them to call the whole thing off.”

“And let the person trying this bide their time? The Great and Powerful Trixie questions your logic. No. My suggestion is this: We hold a stakeout. Despite your ineptness in magical casting, you do know an invisibility spell?”

“Of course I do.”

“Well, I simply suggest we draft a few other soul-folk and keep a watch. That way the thief will be caught red-handed.” She narrowed her eyes at Twila, still retaining that egotistical and smug expression. “Trixie assumes you know that would hold up in a court of law far more than aura coloration or a circumstantial fingerprint.”

Twila hated agreeing with the woman, but she did see the logic. “I'm at least letting Celestia and Luna know our plan.” She gestured toward the broken stand. “Look that over—try to find some form of identification regarding the thief. I'm going to go have Spike take a letter.” The lavender-haired woman shot out of the room in a near panic. Trixie scowled, her sour disposition even more sour than normal. The indignity of Twila assuming Trixie would leave prints was nearly too much to bear. She was a showwoman, after all. It wouldn't be good at all if she messed up on something that simple.

Trixie smiled darkly, running a thumb along the wand and moon shaped mark on her cheek. The soul-folk admitted to herself that she probably shouldn't have given that dense fool even a hint on what the plants were used for, but it wasn't much of a show if only one person acted. Besides, if she played her cards right, Trixie just got herself a duel with Celestia's protege. If that wasn't a once in a lifetime show, nothing was. Add on all the bits she'd be making from her real reason for getting the plants and...

Trixie's grin broadened. Sometimes, things just worked out for the best.
> (Answers)
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

	Jack sighed deeply as she sat with her head laying against the top of her desk, stewing in misery at what happened yesterday with Rarity. The tall woman attempted to relax amid the dozens of people talking in class as they waited for their teacher.

The blonde hadn't slept well last night—she had tried her best to salvage what she could of the date, but it was hard to spring back from not being able to perform. Jack felt pathetic. Pathetic and paranoid—she knew it wasn't the case, but it still felt like the classroom knew about what she tried yesterday and were speaking in low, conspiratorial tones about it.

The door finally opened to the room, dispelling Jack's pointless brooding.

She paused on seeing who walked in, as did the rest of the class.

Before them was William Kalaallit, looking as professional as a norfolk could. He had on a set of neatly pressed trousers, along with a crumpled jacket and tie. As often as the man was bare chested, Jack doubted that the clothes saw many outings.

Iron Will pushed up his horn-rimmed glasses and took stock of the room.

“Mrs. Jubilee won't be in attendance until next week. Her family's vineyard is in harvest season. Until then, Iron Will is going to be your substitute, due to my knowledge of the subject matter--” He quickly looked at the class, suddenly apprehensive. “You all are on norfolk history now, correct?”

There were a few nods of agreement. Jack swore under her breath—she thought they were still on the European island nations. She was at least a chapter or two behind.

Iron Will pounded a fist into his wrinkled suit, his confidence restored. “When you want information out, get it straight from the bird's mouth!”

He moved over to the podium at the front of the class. Will searched behind it, eventually finding a a textbook. The giant cracked it open to a marked page and began reading.

“The norfolk are a proud and noble race of warriors from the northern lands of Caballo. Previous one hundred B.C.E., they were hunter-gathers that lived in relativity isolated tribes. This changed at the beginning of the common era, where King Pyth, the Fortunate Traveler, united the tribes against a horde of marauding diamond dogs...” He yawned, rolling his eyes. “This makes my people sound so boring!” The giant slammed the book close, making several of the students twitch like they received an electric shock. “Norfolk deserve better than this cut and dry pulp!” The giant dropped the book casually to the ground, then looked over everyone present. “You know what? Instead of reading this crap, how about you all ask me some questions? We'll have ourselves a conversation—anything goes. That's the best way to find out about someone, after all. I'm sure everyone's wanting to know about the great Iron Will and his people!” He quickly turned to the side to look at Jack. “Ain't that right, Apple!?”

“Eyup,” the farmer weakly agreed, doing her best to ooze false enthusiasm, but not succeeding in the slightest.

“Good!” he proclaimed. “Then let's see some haaaands!” he roared. In a panic, dozens of hands shot up in an attempt to appease the beast of a man. He scanned over the crowd and pointed at an exceptionally nervous looking earth-folk. “You!”

“M-me?” he weakly asked, leaning back and staring at the dark-skinned man.

“Let's hear us a question!” William ordered.

“I dunno, shit,” he whispered under his breath. Suddenly, he perked up. “Have you ever killed a man?” As soon as he said it, his face heated up and he put his palm to his face. “That wasn't even close to what I meant,” he muttered.

“'Course I have!” Will nodded. “Celestia doesn't call me 'the beast who talks' without a reason!” He put a considering hand to his chin and stroked his facial hair. “At least, I think she still calls me that. She did last time I asked, anyway. Hmm...” he trailed off in thought. After an awkward moment, he came back to the room. “Uh, anyway, next question.” He ran his finger over the moderately large classroom. “Uh, you. With the pack of cigarettes under your sleeve.”

A man with slicked back, black hair glanced to the pack resting just above his bicep. “Alright, Wills. Remember your first kill?”

“Who doesn't?” the norfolk replied, crossing his arms as Jack briefly bit her lip. “But to answer your question, yes. Iron Will remembers it clearly. Had to put down my dog at fifteen.” He tilted his head. “Unless you mean a person; if so, it was when I was a child of twenty—about twelve by Caballo's standards. A whisperer—my people's version of a soul-folk—came to me and my family's house in the dead of night and attempted to burglarize. He knew my father was away on patrols deep into the forests of my hometown and that my mother was a mere housemaid. The man thought it'd be easy for him. He didn't count on me.” Will shrugged. “Took my ancestor's sword and cut him like a holiday turkey.”

The few students in Iron Will's other class nodded, used to the minotaur's more pragmatic ways. The rest shared uneasy glances with one another, until a woman wearing a beanie raised her hand.

“Uh, yo.”

“Yo.” Will nodded back.

“So, what exactly are diamond dogs, that they caused your people so much trouble?”

He smirked, rolling up a sleeve to his elbow. At his muscled forearm were multiple deep and  jagged scars, obviously from a set of teeth almost eight inches wide. “They're little runts—about four feet. But they're pack creatures. Attracted to shiny objects like gems, mirrors and blades. A handful of them mean nothing. My scar?” He hoisted his arm up slightly. “Only wound Iron Will had from a pack of fifteen.” The giant shook his head. “Individually, they caused no problems. When some of the more feral of the beasts joined together and tried to take over our land in waves numbering in the thousands—that's when they gave us 'trouble.'” He rolled his sleeve back down and shrugged easily. “Though my ancestors seemed to do well enough against the creatures—my race is still alive, after all.”

A soul-folk raised his hand, looking over his glasses at the heavily scarred man. “Hey, Iron, why are the norfolk so strong, anyway? You talk like taking down fifteen diamond dogs is yawn-worthy. Is it just how you guys are, or is there magic involved?” The lad then glanced Jack's way, briefly. “It the same reason some of the earthers are so damn strong?”

Recognition dawned in Will's eyes. “Wallace. Part of the flock I'm training, right?”

“Yes, sir. Sword and board.”

“Good. It's a reliable style.” Will moved to sit down on top of the teacher's desk, but stopped when he heard it creak dangerously under his weight. “As for your question... depends on how you view things. Several philosophers suggest that earth-folk and norfolk have no true magic to claim. On the other hand, some say every race has magic, just a bit more diluted and subtle. Myself? I dunno. I've always figured we are how we are, given strength as needed through the generations. If I've got magic in me, I've never felt it, anyway.” He crossed his arms and looked towards Jack. “What about you, Apple?”

Jack tilted her head. “What about me?”

“You ever get that... hell, I dunno, tingle?”

The farmer blinked. “Uh... tingle?”

Will gave a shrug. “Man, doesn't magic, like, tingle when you use it?”

“I dunno. Ain't exactly like I got the equipment fer it either, Will.”

Will rolled his eyes. “You're no help.” He paused, putting a hand to his unkempt chin. “Then again, I don't think you're a pureblood earth-folk anyway, so maybe you wouldn't have that tingle regardless.”

Jack narrowed her eyes, not liking the implication. Will shrugged.

“Nothing shameful about it. Iron Will just thinks you might have some norfolk in your blood a few generations back. Would explain the height, muscle, and bronzed skin, is all. Your grandfather's father, maybe.”

A haughty voice from the back spoke up. “I can trace my family six generations. All earth-folk. I've never had a... tingle, or what ever it was you said.”

Will held out his hand towards the woman in the back row. “Alright, cool. Guess that answers the question.” He frowned, looking towards the beanie-wearing soul-folk that had spoke a moment ago. “As for yours, I don't know, man. It's possible magic got your people and mine as far as it has, but I prefer to think it was our guts and integrity.”

The soul-folk nodded, accepting of the answer. Will noticed a hand raised to his far right.

“Let's hear it.” The burly man nodded. A petite sky-folk clasped her hands together and swallowed.

“A-are norfolk women as strong as the men?”

“'Strong' can mean a lot of things.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Until the last fifty years or so, they were weak in our society in several ways. They couldn't join wars, couldn't work high-risk jobs. Couldn't be a tribe leader. Was justified in our case, though. Sorry, gals.” Before anyone could say much else, he pointed to a woman in the back on a video game. “Pop quiz, nerd!” he roared, scaring the poor girl half to death. “What's Caballo's male-to-female ratio?”

“Uh...” she trailed off, racking her brain for the answer. “O-one to five?”

“Correct! Good.” He put his hands to his hips, frowning. “At one point, ours was one to twelve. Men's favor. We needed every able-bodied female with child in order to keep population levels. Nothing sexist about it, just fact.” Will gave a polite nod. “Now, though? We're at a one to six. Not ideal, but better. As such, they're allowed far more rights and strength in the community nowadays.”

He paused. “...O-or did you mean, like, actual strength?”

The sky-folk blushed, embarrassed at the attention. “Actual strength.”

“Oh.” Will coughed into his fist. “Well, in that case, yes. They're very similar to males. Usually between six to eight-and-a-half feet, able to utilize protein to great extent, allowing muscles to develop nearly as well as men. So, uh, yeah. Next question. You,” he said, pointing to the left. “With the glasses.”

An earth-folk pushed up his horn-rimmed spectacles. “Any specific cultural or technological achievements the Norfolk have given us?”

“Cultural? I saved your culture during the griffon wars. Does that count?” he sternly asked, then gave a pumped nod. “Iron Will only jokes. He did save your peoples' asses during the war, but my people have contributed to more than that. For starters, your language.” He moved to a map of the world and gave a tap to the island country of Spain. “Spaniards and the English united under Uther Pendragon's name and crossed the ocean, discovering southern Caballo. They spent a year migrating north, eventually discovering a few scattered norfolk tribes, who took them in as their own. Our languages were incompatible with one another, so it took several months to establish a rapport. Once they did, the groundwork for your language were set. You can still see norfolk influence in hundreds of words, like soul-folk. It's derived from what we called whisperers that became soldiers—sol-djinn, meaning, 'the inward strength.'” He gave a smug, broad smirk. “Not to mention our metalwork. Guess who made the railway your trains run on? Norfolk. Silver necklaces you wear? Usually norfolk. Our lands are all but swimming in minerals—we've made smithing into an art due to it.”

William pointed dead center. A timid sky-folk seated in the front row near the door slowly raised his hand. 

"What can you tell us about the Griffon Wars, from your point of view?" he asked sheepishly.

“Most black and white war Iron Will has ever fought in,” Will stated, looking grim. “Bunch of pathetic worms trying to wipe out Caballo's soul-folk and my whisperers. Those griffon-folk deserve everything that's been done to them, and more.”

A younger man wearing a scarf shook his head. “Wasn't it just a group of them that fought? The Retainers were the real problem, correct? Surely not all the griffon-folk can be tha--”

Will's expression turned dark, like thunderclouds on the horizon.“You haven't seen what I have. What they did to people they captured as they moved west. How they broke them. Or worse, how they killed them. If I never see a Griffonchilde again, it'll be too soon. Next question.”

A silence settled over the class. Jack spoke up, shifting away from the dangerous mood as quickly as she could. “What's yer biggest city?”

“Whitehearth,” William automatically replied back, adjusting his unkempt tie. “It's a fortress town funded by King Pyth in his later days, holds about four thousand people, and the only damn place you'll find warmth that far north. Good mead, secure against all but the most sly invaders. Home, sweet home.”

Another hand rose up. Will shot from the hip, pointing at the fellow. 

“So, uh, who was King Pyth again?”

Iron Will's jaw dropped. “Y-you're joking, right?” he slowly shook his head, slack jawed and open mouthed. “You all have King Arthur drilled into your brains, but not Pyth?” Will sighed, rubbing at his forehead. “King Pyth was one of the most legendary figures of his time—despite being barely a youth of thirty and an orphan, he nevertheless rose to power by discovering and carrying Durandell—a sacred blade embedded in stone that only a pure heart could free. With that as a beacon of inspiration, the child-king Pyth united hundreds of splintered tribes and joined them together into one—the clan called norfolk.”

Jack quirked a brow. “Y'all didn't have a name fer yer people until then? Yer race is named from a clan?”

“The original name of our people as a whole was Gendarhn, which, loosely translated, means 'to think.' We simply considered ourselves improved enough united that we abolished our previous race name.” He shrugged his massive shoulders. “But Iron Will digresses. He got off track... again.” The giant pointed a large sausage-finger at a thin soul-folk.

“What are the boundaries of modern-day minotaur country?”

Will raised a brow at the word 'minotaur,' but didn't comment on the derogatory term. “At the foothills of the bald bandit mountains.”

He scratched at an itch behind his ear. “Which are...?”

“Up north.”

“Well, I assumed that. Where?”

Will rolled his eyes. “Does Iron Will need to draw a map on the whiteboard?”

“Yes.”

“Uh-huh,” a woman agreed.

“Please,” a man with a mohawk practically begged.

“Basic geography, by my ancestors...” Iron Will sulked, turning and quickly using a few markers to sketch out an uneven, rough and disproportionate map of Caballo.





"Ok. This blue dot is the academy. Up north by the Samson river is Middleburg. About a weeks travel are the bald-bandit mountains. The red marks the norfolk lands."

“What are those islands that you own?”

Iron Will frowned. “Blasted Rim and Ghost Rim. Used to even own the Sealed Rim farther west. Still do, I guess, but we don't go there for a reason."

The class sat in silence. The Sealed Rim was something that wasn't mentioned often, let alone visited—there were enough horror stories to find in the world without traveling to an entire island filled with them. The scarred man cleared his throat.

“So, any more questions?” he asked.

“Yeah,” a lazy voice drawled out from the back. A man with his boots propped up on top of the desk gave a small adjustment to the trucker cap he wore. “What kinda heroes do y'all have? Myths? That sorta thing.”

“Our legends usually stem from at least a grain of truth. Like the tale of Blackeye, the twenty-five foot tall norfolk lumberjack who was able to clear out entire forests in a matter of days.” He shook his head with a smile. “He was only fourteen feet tall, and it'd take him almost a solid week to clear out an acre of densely populated trees. As for actual myths, there's just the usual flavor of things you'd find in most indigenous tribes. Several remind me of the studies I've had over Roman myths and early deities.  Things like how monsters came to be, why Father Winter abhors Mother Sun—that one's actually a pretty good story. She and the Moon were secret lovers; when Father Winter found out, he condemned them to live their lives as far away from one another as possible. It's why during the colder months when Father Winter visits his children, Mother Sun only fleetingly stays.” He cracked his knuckles and reached into his pocket. Popping a piece of gum into his mouth, he continued. “Man, Iron Will loves peach gum. Anyway, that tale is a part of why ancient norfolk considered eclipses sacred marks of good fortune—compared to some of the European Islands' old tribes, who thought it was a sign of ill-tidings.” He blew a bubble, then brought the gum back into his mouth. “There are several more, but we're starting to get pressed for time. If the idea of hearing more about my race's old legends excites you, please check Iron Will's norfolk class next semester.”

“So, do y'all still follow that sun an' moon crap?” The cap wearing man asked.

“Like, as a legitimate religion?”

“Yeah.”

“A large portion of us do not, no.” He started to count on his hands. “You'll find ancestral worship in the northern segments, a philosophical life stance that seems to have Buddhist roots in the east, your fathers introduced Judaism, Christianity, and Shintoism to us in the south. Westward is predominately dedicated to Almyra, the Goddess of war and harvest.”

“Seems like an' odd choice ta have together,” Jack said.

Iron Will tilted his head. “How do you figure? There's a season for everything. War, peace, harvest, planting—that cyclic nature is how life works.”

“I guess.”

The minotaur looked behind him, glancing at a clock on the wall. “One more, I guess, and that'll do for today.”

A bald sky-folk raised his hand. “It's a bit personal, but tell me about yourself.”

The giant grinned broadly. “Iron Will's favorite subject! What would you like to know?”

“If you've got a wife.”

His easygoing smile faded in seconds. A frown took over. “Had,” he quietly said.

“Oh.”

Will sighed, rubbing at his black goatee. “Lost her during the Griffon wars. A platoon of the winged bastards raided a town she was stationed at. Tried to break into a church where some kids were holed up.” He gave a snort of disdain. “Got twenty of them before it was all said and done. Bought enough time for reinforcements to save the kids, at least. Could barely recognize her from the wounds.”

He became silent. Lost in a memory.

“Sorry,” Jack said. Her words felt hollow, but it felt like she had to say something after that.

“Jiranda was something else. A warrior first, woman a distant second. But the days she actually did break down and wear a gown...” He wistfully smiled. Jack could see the small traces of crows-feet around his eyes. The farmer had never thought about how old William was. “She at least brought honor to her fathers and died a warrior's death. That's what she would have wanted.” He bit at his lip, seeming to want to add more, but put his emotions to the side, instead turning to glance at the clock once more. “Guess it's about time to dismiss everyone. For those in my combat class, get rested up. It's not going to be an easy patrol on Nightmare Night.” He gave a loud clap and pointed to the door with both hands, his enthusiasm from earlier returning. “Dissssmisssed!”

The students filed out, Jack being the last in a long line. She gave a look over her shoulder. 

In the empty classroom Will stoically stood with his hands balled at his side, looking miles away.
> Prima donna
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

	The violet-haired tailor looked away from one of her latest sketches to take another sip of coffee. She briefly let the warmth of the beverage flow through her body, then returned to work, leaning over the slanted desk and filling in the design with a bit of color from a pencil. The woman crossed her arms and envisioned how the dress would look in motion. She gave a content nod at her thoughts. The emerald green, open-sleeve dress she was designing was bold and inventive, summer attire inspired by Cabello's deep south culture. She focused especially on the green-black embroidery work she had planned on doing across the piece—it would help to suggest an hourglass figure for even those not graced with one.

A knock at the front door stopped her from making any additional notes or doodles to the sketch. As early as it was, Rarity knew exactly who was waiting to be let in.

Her suspicions were confirmed. Just outside, squinting at the early morning glare of the sun, was Jack. The blonde crossed her arms and bit at her lip, seeming to be lost in her own world. Without a second thought, Rarity unlocked the door and held it open.

“Thanks,” Jack said, entering. The two looked one another over in silence. Finally, Rarity kindly smiled.

“How are you doing?”

“G-good enough, I reckon,” Jack carefully replied, crossing her arms once more and glancing at the floor. While Rarity was the very definition of tactful, she knew being blunt was sometimes the only way to approach the tall woman.

“Listen, darling. About the other day--”

Jack perked up, interrupting the tailor. “--Wasn't that great? The fireworks were really somethin', yes sir! Add on some of the best darn tastin' tuna sandwiches I've ate in a long time an--”

“Jack,” Rarity sternly said. “Don't ignore the issue.”

The farmer briefly held on to her more positive expression, before deflating. She met the beauty's eyes. “F-fine. What about it?”

Rarity  shook her head. “I simply wanted to state that although our... liaison didn't turn out quite as well as either of us hoped, I still had a wonderful time.” She reached up, brushing a stray lock of Jack's hair out of her face. “Nothing will change that. We'll simply wait until you're ready.” She looked down and adjusted the collar around the farmer's shirt, making it even all along the neckline. After a brief moment of observation with a raised brow—a sculptor observing stone—she licked her thumb and ran it along Jack's right eyebrow, then nodded in approval. Rarity reached into her pocket and pulled out a small black pencil. She reached for Jack's eyes—the farmer backed off in a heartbeat.

“Hell no,” she said with a few quick slaps of her hands towards Rarity. “Ain't no way I'm doin' eyeliner.”

“But they're such a pretty green. Wouldn't you enjoy havi--”

“No.”

“But--”

“Ain't happenin', Rare.” Jack crossed her arms and shook her head.

“So insufferable,” Rarity pouted, putting the pencil back into her slack pocket. She gave a small doff to her own styled hair. “Anyway... I suppose you're wondering why I called you here?”

The farmer tilted her head. “Nah. Figured it'd be you jus' wantin' ta do somethin', or talk about...”

“I said what was needed regarding it, Jack. We'll simply do the adult thing and try when you're ready again—there's no need to dwell on it unless it shows after repeated attempts.” She began to walk away, gesturing for Jack to follow. “No, the reason I asked you here is because I finished a design that I believe you'll be quite enamored with.”

Jack gave the tailor a flat look as she moved to catch up. “I ain't the dress type, Rare. Ya know that.”

The violet-haired woman gave a coy smile that spoke volumes. “Who said it was a dress?”

“Uh...” Jack trailed off, heat on her face. 

Rarity laughed as she ducked into a room just off the hallway behind the store front.

“Nothing alarming either, I can assure you. If anything, this may be one of the most practical articles of clothing I've made in a long while.”

“Practical, huh?” the blonde mused, rubbing her chin. “Ok,” she conceded, following into the other room. “Let's see what ya got.”

On a stand in the far corner of the room strewn with half-completed clothing was something that gave Jack literal pause when she entered the room, thanks to its strange juxtaposition with the more innocent, mundane dresses and suits resting in the room and on racks flush against the wall.

The stand housed a tall suit of obviously high-grade leather armor, oiled until it nearly shined. Each piece was immaculately detailed, from the thick, strapped boots to the individual pieces of leather protecting every digit on the hand. It was crowned by a thick hood.

“Ya make this?” Jack questioned, glancing over at the tailor.

“Mmm.” She nodded once, her keen eyes staring hard at the piece. “It was a bit outside my area of expertise, but I feel like it was a respectable try.”

“Respectable? Thing looks great ta me.”

Rarity brightened, offering a warm half-smile. “Well, thank you. I hope it serves you well.”

The farmer did a double take. “Wait, what?” she asked, tilting her head.

“I don't believe I need to explain it. It's for you.”

Jack shook her head. “Nah, Rare. This is too nice, I ca--”

“You can and you will, darling. It's just your size, and...” She looked towards the floor briefly. “And if something like Dorado ever happens again...”

“I don't plan on doin' somethin' like that again,” Jack instantly answered. After a beat, she continued, “but... this thing might do me well in Iron Will's class. I mean, he wanted us armor trained, and I reckon he wouldn't mind us bringin' our own, so...”

Rarity gave a pleased clap. “Excellent! Shall I give you a hand putting it on?”

The farmer was ready to reject the offer, but if the thing was even close to some of the plate armor Jack had seen, she'd be here all day putting slapping on buckles and yanking belts. “Sure, Rare.”

“You should be fine in your clothing, but please remove your boots and hat.”

The farmer complied, kicking off her cowboy boots and gently placing her hat to the side. She stood like a doll, arms extended and held out to her sides and her legs spread. Rarity called her magic forth, levitating the armor and bringing the pieces towards the two.

“I almost never see you without that thing,” Rarity said, covering Jack's shin with a piece of the leather and clasping it shut with a small buckle on the back.

“What? Oh, my hat?” Jack questioned. She gave a shrug as Rarity helped her into the thick leather boots. “It was my dad's, so...”

“Say no more, I understand.” Rarity nodded. She worked her way up Jack's muscled legs, getting both of her thighs equipped.
Jack briefly shifted around in the boots. The weight felt off compared to her normal pair, like something was added. “Stuff ain't jus' leather, is it?” the farmer asked. 

“I'm impressed,” Rarity said, rising off of her knees and starting to work on Jack's torso. “I didn't expect that you'd notice. Yes, every individual piece has flattened chainmail weaved into the interior of the leather, alongside a protection charm conjured by yours truly.” She huffed after a thought. “While it won't do anything to protect you from a monster like a minotaur, it should at least soften some of the blow a normal man could give you.”

“Norfolk are men too—ain't like Will or someone's all that different from us.”

“Of course. You know what I mean, dear. I'm sure you instructor is a sweetheart. It's just... he has all that strength. It's hard not to be a bit frightened of him,” Rarity replied, reaching around the tall woman's waist as she put the chestpiece on. 

Jack could understand the tailor's view on that. Strength like that could scare even the one controlling it. Or, on one occasion, not controlling it.

Rarity locked the buckles at the blonde's back, then briefly returned to how she was a moment ago—her arms held around Jack's stomach. They tightened slightly, speaking the words Rarity didn't need to say. The farmer took her own hand and placed it on top of Rarity's, returning the squeeze. Each stood wordlessly for a moment, simply listening to the muted sounds of a morning well on its way. 

“Hey, Rare?”

“Mmm?” she asked.

Jack swallowed. “Ya... ya shouldn't be afraid of someone like Will. O-or someone like me, fer that matter.”

“Why would I be scared of you?” Rarity questioned, moving one of her hands to Jack's hair. The tailor brushed the farmer's hair to the side and planted a small kiss on the nape of her neck. Normally Jack would have melted like putty. Right now though? She had to say her piece.

“Because I can do jus' about what Will can, ya know?” Jack briefly broke their embrace and turned, looking into Rarity's blue eyes.

“But you won't,” the tailor said.

“Jus' hear me out, sugar.” Jack gently held Rarity's wrists. “Ya shouldn't be afraid of nothin'. Yer the strongest woman I know—muscles don't mean shit compared ta what ya got inside ya.” She gave Rarity's chest a small tap. “A good heart. One willin' ta give jus' about anythin' ta take care of someone. That's real strength right there.”

The two stood briefly. Finally, Rarity gave a small shake of her head, embarrassed at the flattery. “Darling, I appreciate the sentiment, but I don't deserve the praise. You're the last person I expected to wax poetic, however.”

“Happens 'bout once in a blue moon. Give or take a few years.”

The tailor snorted in mirth. She paused, nearly shocked at the unladylike action. Jack smiled in return.

Eventually, Rarity coughed. “...I suppose we should finish getting you dressed—I'm exceedingly curious at how I did. Not that I doubt my ability, of course, this was nothing compared to the nightmare that was last year's Gala in Camelot!”

Rarity gave a small circling gesture towards the farmer; the blonde sighed, but turned around as Rarity levitated a pair of gauntlets the her way. Jack grabbed one and donned it. She flexed her hand, appreciating the tightness of the leather around her knuckles.

Jack's curiosity got the best of her. “So, how'd ya do the chainmail? I figure makin' that would'a taken forever.”

“I didn't make it, dear. I'm a tailor for the highest cusp of society, not a blacksmith. I had one of my partners take care of that. He provides metalwork for me quite often—people always clamor for accessories with their clothing, after all.”

Jack donned the other gauntlet as Rarity worked on the shoulder-pads.

“How'd ya know my measurements, anyway?”

The tailor offered a cunning smirk. “I've been in this profession for a few years now, darling. I know a thing or two about estimating sizes. Besides... I can say your body is quite memorable.”

Jack felt heat radiate throughout her face—her bronzed skin turned a dark shade of crimson. “Uh...” she trailed off, struck dumb once again by the violet-haired beauty.

“You're so easy to tease!” Rarity tittered, her laugh sounding as lovely as a chime on a gentle breeze to the farmer's ears.

Get outta here, Jack thought. Yer startin' ta think like some girly poet.

“Well, Rare. If ya don't mind, I reckon I'mma mosey fer a bit—I wanna get this broke in.” Jack gave a wide, ear-to-ear grin, showcasing her white teeth and briefly seeming to be more innocent child than woman. “Thanks again, sug. I love it.”

“It was nothing, darling. I mean it. I simply hope it helps you.” 

They moved towards the door, heading back to the lobby. 

“Just as well that you need to depart—I've got a busy day today.” She let out a breath of air up over her face, briefly lifting her coiffed hair. “Between clients and school assignments, I feel quite stretched out as of late. I barely have enough time for myself, it seems.”

“But ya had enough time fer this,” Jack said, gesturing down her body.

“Of course I did, dear. Heavens, I don't want to see you hurt again, after all.”

The farmer leaned forward, giving a small peck on top of Rarity's head. “Well, jus' keep some time fer yerself. Ain't no need fer ya ta go crazy worryin' an' loadin' stuff onto yer back. Lord knows I learned that firsthand.” Jack opened the front door and stepped out. “Well, I'll see ya soon, sugar.”

“Mmm,” Rarity agreed, nodding.

“An' Rare?”

“Yes, Jack?” the tailor replied, leaning against the doorframe.

“Well... was thinkin'... maybe sometime this week...” Jack rubbed the back of her neck, suddenly looking incredibly sheepish. She cleared her throat. “I mean—ya know. S-sometime when we both ain't busy we could... could...”

“Try again?” the violet-haired beauty coyly suggested.

“G-good way ta put it.”

Rarity smirked, her violet-hued lips almost too much for Jack to handle. “Well, I despise denying your advances, but I am booked solid for at least a few days. I have deadlines advancing on me with reckless abandon, alongside a few appointments I need to take care of. However, you have my word that when I have time...” Her smirk turned devilish, hungry. “You won't be able to keep me away, darling.”

Jack felt a shiver run along her spine at Rarity's words; she nervously grinned back.

Fer God's sake, move yer legs, ya dingus, she mentally chided herself, turning and walking down the pathway towards a side-street of St. Charles. She squinted at the sunlight rising just over the sleepy town's roofs.

A small part of her suggested that she return to the academy—classes were starting fairly soon, and if she missed her math class one more time, the teacher was going to be pissed.

The bigger part of her remembered that she hadn't even touched her homework, so going there was a pointless endeavor. Jack chose the obvious winner here and trekked towards Sugar Cube Corner, intending to get a muffin or something to start the day off with. If she was going to blow off class, she'd at least blow off class on a sated stomach.

She came from one of the side-roads and onto Ponyville's main strip, still dead as a doornail thanks to the early time. As she turned left to head towards the bakery, something caught her ear. She listened closer. A harmonica playing a slow blues tune.

Curiosity got the best of her; Jack crossed the street, heading towards the sound.

Her amble lead her to a pond on the town's outskirts, where a white-haired woman sat cross-legged at the water's edge. Her brown hands carefully held the harmonica, her eyes squinted shut as she concentrated and balanced a slice of half-torn bread on one knee—a victim of the ducks placidly swimming the pond's surface, perhaps.

The farmer recognized the woman—she was the showboating archer Jack saw a few days prior. With a shrug, the blonde approached. “Mornin', Gilda. It is Gilda, right?”

The archer stopped playing instantly, her steely yellow eyes looking hard at the farmer. With a breath through her teeth she replied. “Who's asking?”

Jack blinked. “Uh, Jack. Jack Apple.” She offered her hand, used to aloof business introductions enough that she remembered her manners. Gilda looked at the hand offered to her, looked back at the farmer's face, then seemed to relax, returning her gaze to the pond. Jack rolled her eyes, letting her hand drop limply to her side.

“Will says you've got a hellava swing.”

Jack tilted her head slightly. “Didn't know the big guy talked 'bout me much.”

It wasn't much, but Jack could almost see the ghost of a smile on Gilda's mouth. “He might mention you on occasion.” The archer reached into her bomber jacket pocket, pulling out a pack of cigarettes. She offered one to Jack.

“Nah. Quit.”

Gilda grunted and lit up. “I assume you're not here to show off the gear you're wearing. What do you want?” She turned her head to face the tall woman.

“Want?” Jack repeated. “I ain't wantin' nothin'. Jus' heard a harmonica. Curious ta see who was playin'.”

“Well, you know now,” the white-haired woman bluntly answered, returning her attentions back to the water.

The farmer could tell Gilda wasn't interested in talking—that was fine. In fact, Jack debated just calling it quits. Wasn't any skin off her back.

I think it makes her lonely, in a way.

Jack paused at the thought. Will might have had a point the other day. A part of her didn't care regardless, but...

“So...” the farmer trailed off, rocking on the balls of her feet. “Ya come here often?”

“No.” The pond turned silent once more, Jack with nothing to carry on for small-talk, Gilda feeling like nothing else needed saying. Finally, the archer rolled her eyes and continued the conversation. “Usually prefer the hot-springs.”

“Hot springs?” Jack repeated. Gilda tilted her head east.

“At the school grounds. Little pond on the opposite side of the stables.”

“Well I'll be. I might have ta try one sometime.”

“Good luck. They've got it divided. Most of the stalls are one person and they're usually booked pretty tight.” She took another heavy drag from her cigarette and watched the smoke wisp away in the air. She seemed hesitant to talk again. Right before Jack was going to excuse herself, Gilda spoke.

“Apple.”

“Mmm?”

Gilda took out the smoke from her mouth and briefly lined it up straight across the horizon. She stared down the cigarette with the same cold calculation and analytical thought that made her such a frightening archer. “Your roommate Isabelle?”

Jack raised her brow. “Isabe—Oh, right. Eyup. Dash is mine.”

“...Do me a favor, hick. Tell her I want to talk. No strings, no games, just words.”

“What do ya need ta--”

“None of your damn business!” Gilda shot back, her open-toothed scowl showing off unusually sharp teeth. “Get her here!” 

Jack's hand clenched involuntary into a fist as Gilda shouted—for a moment, the farmer thought the other would snap. 

Gilda frowned and took a few calming breaths. After another beat, she finished. “Just... please.”

The farmer looked Gilda over. After a beat, she shrugged. “Yeah,” Jack agreed. “I'll give her the message next time I see her. Promise.”

The brown-skinned woman briefly smiled. It didn't reach her eyes, but Jack thought it seemed sincere enough. “Thanks.”

“Eyup.” The blonde nodded, leaving the pond without another sound.


000


The farmer returned to school and spent a few hours tending to the animals at the stables, earning a few curious looks from the stablemen as she broke in her equipment. Jack then went for a brisk jog through the school grounds. Once that was said and done, the farmer briefly returned to her room, stripping off the suit of armor and feeling like a free woman in her button-up shirt, jeans and spare boots. Lunchtime finally came; Jack remembered she had promised to eat with Twila today.

It wasn't more than five minutes later that she entered the crowded lunch hall and searched across the dozens of tables for a lock of purple hair. She craned over the throng of students wandering the room, using her height to her advantage—Jack finally spotted the woman at one of the corner tables, sitting alongside Chylene, Pinkie and Dash, like usual. The farmer made her way over and took a seat next to the rainbow-haired woman.

“Howdy, y'all. Sorry I'm late.”

“Geez, where you been? Was itching to do some running, bro,” Dash said. She yawned, clearly just now facing the day.

“Had ta check up on Rare, then did some odds-an'-ends stuff. Ya know how it goes.”

Isabelle gave a disinterested flap of her hand. “Yeah, yeah. I hear you, hayseed.”

The farmer put a finger to her brow and paused, noting something was amiss. “Aw, hogwash. Fergot I left my hat at Rarity's.”

“Well, I think you look nice without the hat,” Chylene quietly offered, smiling kindly.

“Totally! Fantaborino!” Pinkie giggled, nodding. Twila simply ran her spoon around in her quickly cooling soup, clearly distracted.

Jack raised her brow. “Uh, somethin' the matter, Twi?”

“I'm worried,” Twila plainly replied. “The princesses are coming in a few days and--”

“You don't have to worry! Turn that frowney upside-downey! Just relax! It's not like they're critiquing you!” Pinkie gave a snorting giggle. “I mean, remember the last time you panicked about them visiting for a whole night?” Her gaze turned serious. “I don't want this to be another 'Thrush incident.'”

Dash shivered. “Real talk? I still get nightmares about what happened to that cat.”

“What cat?” Jack questioned. The table ignored her.

“It's something more serious than that, Pinkie.” Twila then added in a grumble, “Though I thought we all agreed to not speak about the 'Thrush incident' ever again.”

“What cat?” Jack asked again.

“Someone's been stealing plant samples from the biology lab.” Twila ran a thumb along her dark cheek. “I think there might be an attempt at poisoning the royal line.”

Jack put her cat questions to the side. “What? How does stealin' plants lead ya ta regicide?”

A silence settled over the table. Twila scratched her head. Chylene had shrunk, nearly disappearing into the yellow turtleneck she wore. Pinkie let out a snort of laughter, and Dash quirked a brow.

“What?” The bronzed woman asked, perplexed.

“Regicide, bro? When did you start speaking like the egghead?” Dash questioned, nodding her head towards a mildly irritated Twila.

“I know jus' as many fancy words as y'all!” Jack countered. A pause. “An' I may of bought a word-a-day calender over the weekend.”

“Anyway...” Twila started with a quick glance everyone's way. “I made the connection between the stolen plants—they all have some form of toxin in them. Curarine, mandrake root, weaverleaf...” She rapped her fingers on the polished wooden table briefly, then pushed up her glasses along the bridge of her nose. “I have a feeling that the next and possibly last target should be magesbane.”

Jack shared a glance with everyone present. “Now, I don't know nothin' 'bout these herbs an' spices that got stolen but--”

“Heh, almost makes it sound delicious,” Dash grunted.

“Whatever.” The tall woman shrugged. “Anyway, ain't magesbane sorta an anti-magic weed or somethin'? I think one of my family's friends made a potion with that when we had a timberwolf infestation last zapapple season. She dabbed it 'round our property line, an' the things didn't cross the woods by our house.”

“Intriguing. I'd presume the nullifying powers in the magesbane would work quite well at preventing a magically created creature like timberwolves...” The dark-skinned woman put a thumb to her chin in thought. “I wonder if that potion mixture is anything like the Firstborn ward used in the ancient times of the Egyptians?”

“We're getting off track here.” Dash frowned. “So magesbane is a magic suppressant, right? What about the other three plants?”

“Curare plant... has, um, turbocurarine,” Chylene quietly whispered. “T-that's a skeletal muscle relaxant. Stops automatic functions l-like breathing.” She looked down at her fidgeting hands. “Some norfolk used it to hunt animals. S-saw it once. Poor thing. If I didn't have my BVM, that poor deer would have been dead in minutes.”

“Damn, Chy. Someone's making us look bad—you've got brains on you.” Dash smirked, watching the pink-haired girl blush. ”So, we're looking pretty obvious, so far, bros. Whoever is stealing those plants wants the person they're targeting unable to cast magic and helpless. That's about the only way you'd take out an all-folk.” Dash nodded. “Add on being temporally deafened by 'drake root and blinded by weaverleaf... you're not doing shit for at least an hour or two. Long enough to take care of what you want.”

“Why not jus' kill 'em? It's be easier.”

The Ritter gave pause. “Unless they're wanting to send a message, maybe?”

Twila's eyes sparked in a sudden thought. “Or they're wanting to send one of the princesses to the Dreamscape.”

The others swapped looks.

“I have no idea what that is!” Pinkie announced with enthusiasm. “But it sounds kinda nice!”

The purple-haired woman blinked. “Oh, right. I forget sometimes that Rarity's the only other soul-folk in our group.” Twila took off her glasses and breathed on the lenses, then took to cleaning them with a handkerchief from the breast pocket of her jacket. “The Dreamscape is... hmm... do any of you know what lucid dreaming is?”

“W-where you're able to control your dreams?” Chylene guessed. “I-I think, anyway.”

“Correct. Think of the Dreamscape as a way for soul-folk to lucid dream while awake—a daydream, if you will.”

“A daydream? Seems like a pretty nice thing ta send the princesses to, compared ta jus' straight out killin' 'em.”

“Not quite. I believe the assailant may subjugate either or both of them to mental torture by sending them to the Dreamscape helpless.” Twila chewed on her thumbnail, frowning worriedly. “I couldn't imagine visiting the place without the comfort of knowing I could escape it as I pleased.”

Jack shook her head. “Sounds more an' more like a terrible idea ta visit the place. Why would ya?”

“A multitude of reasons, Jack. For starters, it allows you to experiment with destructive spells without burning your home into char. You keep your physical and magical ability, so it's a fantastic way to gauge strength. Some visit in order to gain tranquility. The Dreamscape can take you to many beautiful lands—it's all a matter of how you focus. I know several who enter it in order to reflect and calm their hearts.” She offered a small smile. “My favorite reason for projecting myself there is to study. It is quite the fount of information.”

Jack could feel another one of her Twila-induced headaches coming on. “So it's like yer steppin' inta yer brain fer a stroll, right? Like, yer body's still here.”

“Correct. Like lucid dreaming.”

She scratched the back of her head. “Uh... OK. How in the sam hill do ya study in somethin' like that? Like, I can't say I've ever had a dream that gave me time ta read a book.”

“It's lucid dreaming, Jack. You can do almost anything with it, provided you're in the right mindset. Not to mention it's a sort of passive magic in and of itself.”

The farmer smirked. “So, like, do ya carry 'round a bookbag or somethin' while yer thinkin', or, uh, dreamin', or whatever?”

“Don't be silly,” Twila scolded. “I go to the library inside my mansion.”

Jack blinked, waiting for a punchline. “Do what now?”

“When I enter the Dreamscape, I always envision myself standing in a garden behind my mansion.”

“So all yer dreams start out the same?”

“All my Dreamscape travels, yes. There's a difference between normal dreams and Dreamscape trances. Soul-folk have to sleep like everyone else, after all.”

The blonde winced, her head hurting. Twila continued.

“So I simply wave hello to my butler Wadsworth, travel up the second flight of stairs, and enter the library.” She took a sip of her tepid soup. “I then search the shelves, which I have organized alphabetically by title, genre and author.” She paused. “I need to resort some of the books, next time I visit.”

“Aw, geez. Anyone got some aspirin? All this mumbo-jumbo magic crap is givin' me a headache.”

“It's not that bad, hayseed. The book thing actually reminds me of a memory trick people use. They think of a house and fill the rooms inside with mementos. You just think about what you need and...” Dash shrugged. “But that only gets you so far. Your stuff's the same, right? Just sorta appetizers on memories, rather than the full course. I mean, you're an egghead, but still.”

“No, Isabelle. It's pretty extensive.” Twila shrugged. “I mean, I don't write everything I see or do in there, but I am pleased to say I have an exceptionally large spell compendium.”

“Come on. Even with a photographic memory, I'm sure thin--”

Twila's eyes squinted shut for a few seconds. When they opened, the dark-skinned woman pointed at Isabelle.

The effect was instantiations. Her multichromatic hair instantly lost its vibrant colors, turning raven black. It then proceeded to grow and increase in volume, first reaching past Pinkie's modest head of hair, then flowing past Jack's casual ponytail, and finally settling on Chylene's long, thigh-length hair.

Dash paused, running an unbelieving finger through the silken bangs, then glaring over at the slyly grinning scholar. Her eyebrow twitched in irritation.

“That was eight spells I haven't touched in years. Every color had to be adjusted to black—I couldn't just change the whole thing. Thankfully, I simply entered the Dreamscape, ran upstairs, and looked up 'H' for 'hair.'”

“Ok, ok, you made your point. Fix this.”

“With pleasure.” A snap of her fingers, and Isabelle's vibrant colors returned, starting at the roots and spreading out. Her hair began slowly retreating upward.

“Actually,” Dash quickly said. “Give me, eh... two inches more than I started out with.”

A small disinterested flick of a finger from Twila canceled the retraction, leaving the athlete with hair that fell halfway down her neck in the back and kissed her rose eyes in front.

“Yo, Pinkie, got a compact on you?”

“Indeedaly-doodaly!” The bubbly lady slid her mirror over. Dash looked into it, cracking a smug half grin.

“Aw yeah... lookin' like a friggin' gold mine here.” Dash put a hand to her chin and looked at her face from different angles. “Heh. Classy as fu--”

“--So ya get an' entire library in yer noggin' thanks ta that Dreamscape thingy, right?” Jack asked, addressing Twila.

“To really simplify it all: yes.”

The blonde scowled. “Man, I'd kill fer one of them durin' a test.”

“Unfortunately, the classrooms here have a ward installed that informs teachers when a student enters the Dreamscape. Shame, too, it would have been quite a boon when I was tested on the world's countries.” Twila smiled. “Regardless, there are a lot of benefits to the Dream.” Her smile faded. “A lot of scary things too.”

“How so? Ain't ya in control?”

Twila pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose. “Except when we're not. Dreams can quickly turn to nightmares if you enter the world under adverse effects or moods.”

“So if ya got blinded and deafened, then were forced ta enter...”

“You'd have better luck navigating a hydra's nest blindfolded,” she finished. “The lack of stimuli would quite possibly drive a person mad, especially if they were trapped for longer than a few moments.”

“Damn. That plant thief means business,” Jack concluded. She leaned forward on the table, narrowing her eyes. “Shame we're gonna be too. Ain't no way they're hurtin' 'em. I swear it.”

Twila nodded. “I'm taking place in a watch tonight—hopefully we'll apprehend the person if they try to get a sample of magesbane. If not... I'm counting on you to protect the throne.”

“You got it, egghead,” Dash said with a nod. “No way in hell anyone's getting past us.”

000

Twila took another sip of coffee as she sat against the wall of the botany department, the crickets chirping outside the room's windows the only company she had at the moment. With a sigh, she looked around the room, noting the desks in neat rows to her left, and row after row of glass displays filled with various flora from across the far reaches of Cabello's lands to her right.

It had been a long, uneventful night so far, the shift before hers ending at one 'o' clock, and she had been here for—she reached into her jacket, producing a pocketwatch—two and a half hours. Twila groaned in irritation. She knew that it was imperative that they didn't let magesbane fall into the wrong hands, but she was starting to assume that the thief had caught wind of the watches Twila and a few other soul-folk she trusted had been doing for the past week. Granted, the old adage of 'no news is good news' was quite true—if the thief never showed up, he'd be missing an important ingredient for the poison.

Provided he really is wanting to send Celestia or Luna into a coma. She only touched for a moment on the thought; they were all-folk, the magic that swam in their bodies would be more than enough to fight off blindness caused by a venom—that same thing could be said about deafness and paralysis. There would be absolutely no way a natural toxin could pierce their constitutions. Magesbane would be required for any true harm to take hold of the princesses. The thief had to come here, and he had to do it tonight.

It's the reason she volunteered to be the last on watch tonight. If he was still planning to get the magesbane, he might be desperate enough to hurt someone. Though Twila was loath to fight, if it meant keeping Celestia and Luna safe, she'd do it in a heartbeat.

With that in mind she made a quick gesture and thought of a command word; the colors of her skin and clothing shifted, turning nearly translucent. She leaned back against a cabinet and patiently waited, stopping only briefly to turn around and look out the second story window directly behind her, taking a slight amount of solace at the full, engorged moon in the starry sky. She yawned, covering her mouth with the back of her hand as a ceiling fan lazily spun above her. If he was going to strike, it'd be in moments—Twila was certain. Four'o'clock was one of the most opportune times to initiate an attack against someone—the target would almost always be disoriented by sleep, or lack thereof.

The violet-haired woman checked the time again. Eight minutes since the last time she checked. Twila was just about to groan in frustration, when out of the corner of her eye, she noticed a mist slowly filtering underneath the door to her left.

An alteration spell? Would explain how he was able to get into the room previously, perhaps.

Twila kept an eye on the gathering mist as it slowly spilled out from the door, a condensing cloud that began to take shape.

Twila thought of a few brief command words and gave a subtle gesture with her off hand, while holding a palm out with her right. She felt an invisible weight land on her hand. It wasn't much, but a force sphere could certifiably knock out a tooth or two. Just as soon as the mist took shape, she'd launch it. It was just a matter of--

A crash from behind showered her with broken glass. Twila had barely moved when she felt a hard kick land at her back. She stumbled forward and landed on her knees, her spell lost from the interruption. The dark-skinned woman squinted her eyes shut and summoned the strength to rise. When she opened them, she found herself in another world.

Gone were the desks and samples—even the classroom had vanished. Instead, she found herself in a misty, obscured autumn forest with dozens, if not hundreds of trees in every direction. 

A teleportation spell?! No way! That can't be—she stopped that train of thought and mentally kicked herself in the head. She was worrying about something exceedingly illogical. Now wasn't the time to panic, she instead thought it over as she scanned the forest, paranoid at being this open.

Teleporting an unwilling person was something that required an exorbitant amount of magic—Twila could do it, just barely. Even if she had been transported to an unknown place, the caster would be dead tired.

Which is why it's not a teleportation spell. Listen. Twila briefly focused, cupping a hand to her ear.

The blowing of wind. The sound of leaves scraping through the treeline. Footsteps skulking behind the trees.

The low-key white noise of something powered by soul-folk created electricity. Like a ceiling fan.

An illusion spell. She should have guessed.

“You can cancel the spell. I know you didn't transport me anywhere,” Twila announced to the forest, clenching her hands into fists.

“A shame,” a deep man's voice answered. “It would have been better for me if you had drained your magic with a futile spell.” She heard footsteps behind her; Twila turned and was greeted by the sight of a large, scarred man in a bomber's jacket and a bandana covering his bald head. She could feel magic radiating from his being.

“Hiding behind an alteration spell too?”

“Of course,” he answered in a chipper tone, taking a few steps towards Twila. “It wouldn't be wise to reveal the performer before the show. I changed my body and speech mannerisms for just such an occasion.” He gave a smug smirk. “As you're well aware, the alteration only lasts for about an hour, so I really should get moving. Do nothing, and I suppose I'll let you live.”

Twila conjured her force orb once more and stood defiantly towards the man. He gave a sigh and a theatrical roll of his eyes.

“Then I suppose you die. Scream, if you have to.”

He held his palm out and a small orange orb about the size of a pea appeared, levitating an inch away from the center of his hand. It rapidly expanded, covering his entire palm, then swallowing his fingers and wrist. The bald man brought the sphere back, then launched both his hands forward, propelling it towards Twila.

Her mind quickly ran through the situation, thundering through multiple scenarios faster than many people could speed read.

Fireball. Conjuration spell that burns on average up to 260 degrees Celsius on contact with anything it touches. On impact, it expands to upwards of 9.15 meters. Dodge to the side? No. Flame explodes behind me, gives assailant time to attack from both angles. Counterspell? Perhaps. Would involve me losing my force sphere but—her eyes widened. She held her hand out and launched her own sphere, connecting with the fireball. The moment before it impacted, she made a wide, circular gesture with both of her palms across her body; thick, heavy walls of ice launched upwards from the ground, cocooning her inside a protective sphere just as the flames shot forward.

Her dark world was bombarded with a sharp hiss as her ice fortress melted under the flames. As soon as she knew the fireball had dissipated, she cast a small teleportion spell, popping outside the shell just as the man had charged forward, his hands shape-shifted into spears. He plunged both of his morphed hands into the ice, then roared in frustration on seeing Twila outside of the object. 

The spears at the ends of his arms shifted, retreating, becoming squat and wide. In a heartbeat, the squat mess shifted outward and became hands again.

He stared hard at Twila. The scholar returned the favor; both instantly took to making gestures with their hands; the man rigidly putting his hands together in prayer, and Twila wildly tracing an Alpha symbol in the air. From the dark-skinned woman's hands, a powerful wind launched out, sending the falling leaves whipping like daggers along the way. The wind slammed into the bald, pale man, but had no effect. He stood proudly, silently mocking the other for attempting a spell.

The bald man sprinted forward, with him came heavy iron footsteps and an unusual sheen on his body.

It dawned on Twila why he wasn't affected by a gust that could level houses. 

Iron skin—impressive. She ran through what she could do to stop something like this and froze.

Lightning. She gave the smallest nod at her spell selection, and tried to think of the mental command words and hand gestures associated with the spell. She scowled, coming up dry; Twila hadn't used an electric spell for months now, and she certainly didn't have enough time to enter the Dreamscape and look it up—the very thought of doing something that left her vulnerable for even a moment against another soul-folk was foolish. She'd have to improvise.

When the man closed the distance to about fifteen feet, Twila gestured upward with a tense palm. A small, rounded column of earth shot upwards, hitting the man's shin as he dashed forward. He stumbled, landing on the ground with a heavy crash.

Using a sewing motion with her hands, Twila conjured vines from the ground—they quickly entangled the man with the bomber jacket, pinning him to the ground.

Enhanced strength from iron skin or not, Twila was confident that he was staying there unless he utilized a spell of some sort. If that happened, the dark skinned woman was sure it'd turn into a war of attrition—a field where Twila would have the advantage. She had been keeping her spells as simple and low-key as possible in order to conserve her powers, a stark contrast to the bald man.

The violet-haired woman looked down at her opponent. “Give up. A head-on attempt is foolish,” Twila stated, frowning deeply.

“You're right,” he readily admitted, smiling without a trace of humor. “Shame this is a doppelganger.”

Before Twila could respond, the forest illusion they were under vanished, wiped clean from her visual slate. The absence of the illusion spell occupying her senses alerted her to the rest of the room. The smell of burnt wood from the desks, the breeze blowing inside from the carriage-sized hole in the wall, the busted tiles where her vines had sprung up.

The woman heard a loud noise—broken glass. She turned, snarling when she saw the man, holding a pot with a magesbane sample in one hand, and a clear, translucent sphere of energy in his other. Without taking his eyes off her, the man shot the force ball. It connected hard on Twila's chest, knocking her off her feet and blasting her out the hole in the wall.

The man smiled as he casually walked towards the classroom's door, listening to Twila's scream as she plunged down two stories.

While normally he'd take this moment to gloat, the bald man knew he needed to leave and leave now. Not only was the alteration spell on its last legs, but he could already hear the footsteps of several people sprinting down the hallway towards the botany department—a magic duel never went unnoticed, even by mud-folk.

He was fine with that—as a performer, it was his duty to get noticed.

With a bow to a crowd that had yet to arrive, he channeled his magic into a teleportation spell. As soon as he finished the mental command words, pain, unlike any he had felt in his years, assaulted him from his neck, all the way to a needle point at the forehead. He bit hard onto his lip, silencing the screams he was sure he'd utter otherwise.

The man in the bomber jacket heard the footsteps growing closer and closer, slapping the linoleum flooring in haste.

He had to go and he had to go now, mental limits be dammed. The man concentrated, clutching the pot of magesbane tightly to his chest, thinking of somewhere, anywhere that wasn't here. His brain finally made the connection and he disappeared with a loud pop just as a group rounded the corner.

The man groaned in pain as he lay on the rooftop of the school, every part of him sore, aching agony. He weakly ran a hand to his brow, feeling more drained than he ever remembered feeling—completely listless and weary from the strain of using his powers beyond normal limits. The man felt a wetness come from his left eye and roll down a cheek. He swallowed and brought a hand to it, looking it over. A dark crimson stained his fingertips.

Blood.

The man gave an unbelieving shake of his head. Apparently he was closer to the grave than he thought—one was fixable with just a large amount of bedrest and no magic for a few days, but both eyes were almost always a death sentence. 

He sighed, refusing to dwell on it. All he had to do now was wait for the alteration spell to wear off. The built man ran a hand over his dome, pausing when he felt a thin tuft of white hair at the back of his skull.

It was already happening.

He stood, putting the magesbane to the side. His hair grew, covering his head and thickening until it reached his shoulders. The man had an odd feeling in his gut as his body shrunk several inches and his arms thinned out. His face became less chiseled, turning feminine just as his hips expanded slightly outward and his stomach pinched in, each making an audible crack as the bones rearranged and pitched him forward, stumbling on his narrowing feet as his center of gravity changed. It didn't hurt, but it felt bizarre. As bizarre as two mounds of flesh sprouting from his chest and expanding, filling the width of his small hands. Finally, his groin pulled tight against his pelvis, disappearing into itself with a small popping sound.

A few more minor adjustments to the body and Trixie finally stood, kicking off her oversized pants and wearing the large bomber jacket around her body like it was a heavy dress. She briefly scrunched her face and clenched her hands—alteration spells were always so strange to adjust back from. Granted, it was easier changing from a man back to a woman than, say, the time she changed from a rat and back. She had caught a reflection of herself in a mirror during that one. No matter how Great and Powerful she was, that brief glimpse mid-transformation had made her shriek like a child.

She kicked off her now too-large shoes and walked barefoot towards her prize. She smiled wickedly. The magesbane was the final piece to her mixture. With it, she would have an almost embarrassingly easy time trapping who she wanted in the Dreamscape. Trixie still didn't understand why Dorcis had ordered her not to hurt the woman, but as long as that man kept her swimming in bits, it didn't really matter what he wanted.

The soul-folk smirked, picking up the magesbane and walking to the edge of the roof. She took to patrolling the parameter, until she saw the hole Twila had blown out below her. Trixie chuckled to herself and looked towards the ground, hoping to find the remains of Celestia's favored. Her smirk disappeared as she searched the area.

Nothing. Not even a bloodstain. It was like that worthless excuse of a soul-folk had vanished off the face of the earth.

She got a teleportation spell off, Trixie concluded in thought, her scowl intensifying.

“How?!” the white-haired woman whispered to herself, instinctively tightening the bomber jacket she wore. After a beat, she relaxed slightly, a bitter, jaw-clenching headache pounding in her temples from her overuse of magic. 

That's alright, though, Trixie thought, calming down amid the constant beat of pain against her skull.

Even if that gutter-trash had pulled off a spell under that much duress, the strain of a near-death experience would wear on the other, preventing her from any real heroics.

All she had to do now was spend the day doing a little bit of chemistry and the rest would sort itself. Her boss would be happy, she'd have enough money to live like royalty, it'd be win-win.

With a smile, she walked along the rooftop, looking for an easy spot to drop down to. Tonight, the curtain would rise, and the show would start.
> Honor
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

	Dash was up and dressed as soon as Jack came out of her morning shower. The farmer raised her brow as she vigorously wiped her hair dry.

“Mornin' sunshine, yer up early.”

The Ritter rubbed her bloodshot eyes. “Will ran in here while you were in the john. He's flipping sh--” She yawned, covering her large mouth with a fist. “Shit. He's been barging into everyone's rooms and telling them to meet him at the track.”

Jack moved to the chest of drawers and threw on a pair of pants. “Already? Dang. Wanted ta get a bite ta eat first.”

“No time, bro. Princesses are already here, I guess.”

Jack froze, the zipper halfway up on her jeans. “W-what? B-but they--”

“They showed up early.”

Jack clumsily finished donning her britches, then focused on putting on a shirt. She quickly buttoned herself up, then scowled when she realized she was off on her buttons. She undid the shirt and started down again.

“Take it easy, hayseed. They're not gonna be any less here if you rush.”

The blonde took a breath, methodically finishing getting dressed as Dash took a glance over at the new addition to the room, resting in a pile at the foot of Jack's bed.

“What's with the suit, by the by? You were totally passed out when I got in last night, so...” Dash asked, giving a nod with her head towards the leather armor.

“Gift from Rare.” 

“Leather, huh? It, uh, actually work?”

Jack gave an incredulous look Dash's way. “Ain't like I go about tryin' ta get stabbed. I dunno how well it'll do.”

“For the love of—you don't have to be wearing it when you try it out, dummy.”

“Jus' makin' a joke. I ain't that stupid, sug.” She rolled her eyes.

“Need a hand getting it on?” Isabelle asked, yawning once more.

“If yer offerin', pardner,” Jack conceded, picking up the pieces and tossing them onto the bed. She started on her gauntlets. “Dunno how people stand all these belts an' crap. Drives me nuttier than a squirrel's house durin' winter.”

“Takes some practice,” Dash agreed, moving to grab her boots and leg guards. “Still takes me about ten minutes to gear up, and I've been doing it for a couple years now.”

“Mmm,” the farmer grunted, continuing the tedious task.

They each worked in silence for a moment, until a thought came to Jack's mind. 

“Aw hogwash, fergot ta tell ya somethin' yesterday: ya know Gilda?”

The athlete froze briefly, then shrugged. “Might.”

“Bumped inta her the other day, said she wanted ta jaw.”

Dash paused. “She wanted to what?”

“Jaw. Ya know, talk?” Jack replied, acting like it was the simplest thing in the world.

“Oh. Well, she wants a lot I ain't gonna do,” Dash cooly snapped back, tugging hard at the belts of Jack's vestment.

The other quirked a brow. “Ya got a, uh, history with her, I take it?”

Dash tilted her hand left and right. “Bit closer than me and you guys, not quite at you and Rarity level, you dig?” She shrugged after another pause. “You know how it goes, man. Stuff happened.”

“Stuff?”

“Yeah.” Dash breathed out, lifting her multi-hued bangs from her eyes. “Gilda did some shit behind my back. Said some words to Chylene too—made the girl cry.”

Jack thought briefly about their timid friend. “Jus' 'bout everythin' does, though. Hell, I'm pretty sure I've done it after speakin' too loud when she didn't know I was around.”

“That's different,” Dash argued, putting the finishing touches on Jack's gear. “She was a jerk to my friends. I don't play that game.” She looked over Jack. “There. Got you ready to rock.”

Jack did a quick glance over herself. She put her thumb to her index finger, making a circle, and nodded. “Thanks.”

“No problemo.” Dash did an about-face, turning towards the door. “I'm gonna head towards the meeting grounds—got my gear stashed nearby with some of the others. Don't take too long, hayseed.”

“Won't. Jus' gonna brush my teeth—see ya there.”

Isabelle nodded, opening the door and stepping out into the hallway, leaving Jack alone with her thoughts.

The farmer went to the bathroom sink and splashed cold water on her face, trying to pump herself up. She was nervous—not like guarding royalty was a common thing for her; what if she screwed up? Lord knew that Camelot folks just about swam in etiquette and protocols, and while the last time she had met the princesses they were considerate and fairly laid-back, working for them might be a whole different ballgame. Groaning, Jack, killed the water and headed to the foot of her bed out of habit. The farmer stopped when she realized her trusty stetson was missing off the corner of her footrest, but quickly shut the panic down when she remembered it was with Rarity at the boutique. Jack made a note to grab it tomorrow and headed out the door, doing her best to relax her frayed nerves.


000


Will stood at the forefront of a handful of his students when Jack arrived, apparently telling them a story or two, judging by his wide smile. He noticed Jack walking towards them and gave a wave, stepping across the track and onto the grass.

“Apple!” Will addressed, beaming. He put his hands to his sides and nodded. “Just the woman I wanted to see!” He looked her over, eying her armor. “Not too bad. Didn't expect you for a leather gal, but whatever works. Custom job?”

Jack rubbed at her arm. “Uh, yeah. Kinda was, I guess.”

“Cool.” He gave a thumbs-up then began walking. Jack followed in step. “Got big news for you! Hell, I got two pieces of big news for you!” He held out an index finger. “First: Got a norfolk weapon en-route on the train system. Supposed to be here tomorrow, but, trust your work to a transit man, and odds are you'll find yourself canned!”

“An' the other?”

He stopped abruptly, pointing a thumb hard into his chest. “A fight for the history books.”

Jack blinked. “A fight? Who?”

Will slapped his chest with a fist.

“And?”

“The lady of the night, Apple!”

Jack took a beat to process that. “'Lady of the night?' W-wait. Are ya talkin' 'bout Luna?”

“Sure ain't a hooker!” He grinned, then paused with a frown, adding under his breath. “Poor Luna, having that title before it became synonymous with prostitution.”

“So yer tellin' me yer gonna fight an all-folk?”

He scratched at his beard. “Of course I am. Why?”

“Ya don't get it? All-folk's got all kinds-a things goin' fer 'em. Flyin', magic, hell, strength even.” Jack looked at Iron Will out of the corner of her eye. “I mean, yer a tough one, hoss, but...”

The giant crossed his arms, keeping an even stare. “But...?”

Jack's brows furrowed. “But yer jus' a man, Will. Folks like us ain't exactly got a bag-a-tricks ta use.”

Will sternly shook his head. “Apple... we're square pegs heading toward round holes.”

The farmer paused. “I, uh, don't get it.”

He rubbed at his mouth, then gestured toward Jack. “Round pegs fit into their slot without a hitch. Square pegs? Only way they're making it is through effort—by force. It takes work, but it can be done.” The scarred man looked toward the treeline up north. “Wings and spells don't make a man. Never have, never will.”

Jack shrugged. “Might not make a man, but they sure as hell help 'em out.”

He sternly turned to face her. “Then you work twice as hard as them. Hell, just by watching you in training, I know you're not the kind to shy from work.”

She offered a lopsided smile, just as the sound of wings crept up behind her. Jack glanced over. Isabelle stood, covered from her neck down in heavy, rounded steel armor. The Ritter gave a wink on seeing Jack's face.

“I know, I know. Awesome,” Dash dismissed smugly, giving a wave of her hand and smirking.

“Ain't it a bit heavy fer ya, twig?”

“Twig?” Dash bristled, putting her hands to her hips. “Better than being a thunder thighs.”

Jack narrowed her eyes and tersely smirked. “That a fat joke or somethin'?”

“Ladies!” Iron Will barked, snapping them both to attention. “Enough,” he ordered in a more subdued tone. He glanced between the two. “Now, you going to behave yourselves?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Dash said with a roll of her eyes. “Better win this time, though.”

He frowned. “Last time was a fluke. I misheard a word she said—was expecting a different spell than she actually conjured. This time I'm evening the score.” He turned, starting to walk away.

Jack blinked, then quickly went after him on foot as Dash conjured her wings and took to lazily flying next Will.

“Yer tellin' me you've fought her before?”

“Have several times since we were in the war together. Luna's told me I'm the only one she's ever fought that can stand ground against her.” The man looked down, briefly in thought. “Hoping you might hold ground against her some day too,” he added under his breath.

“What was that?” Jack asked. “Didn't hear ya.”

“Nothing worth repeating, Apple. Forget it.”

The trio walked in silence for a minute, until they arrived at a pristine, well-kept field at the edge of the school grounds. About fifty feet away was Luna, knelt down and seeming to be in a deep meditative pose as she clutched a spear tightly in her hands and silently mouthed words to herself.

To their right, a good eighty feet from them, was Celestia, standing tall in her armor as white as new-fallen snow, the mighty Excalibur sheathed loosely at her side. Standing next to the princess of the sun was Twila. Jack paused.

The soul-folk looked like hell. Black eye, her arm in a sling, and a bandaged nose. The farmer briefly forgot about Will's approaching duel and made a beeline for her friend.

“Twi,” she called out as she came closer to the girl. “What in the hell happened ta ya?” Jack suddenly remembered her manners and gave an awkward bow to Celestia. “An', uh... howdy, yer grace.”

“A 'howdy' to you too, Jack,” the regal woman replied with a patient smile. The leader of Caballo then paused, looking over to her protege with a frown. “As for what happened to Twila, she risked herself for me—something I cannot condone.”

“I would do the same again in a heartbeat, princess,” Twila instantly replied. “There's no way I was going to let someone try to hurt you without a fight.”

“Someone hurt her...” Jack trailed off. It dawned on her after another moment. “Wait. Did that thief ya mentioned yesterday do this ta ya?”

“In a way,” the soul-folk agreed, rubbing the star-shaped mark on her cheek with a thumb. “I misjudged a teleportation spell, ended up a good ten feet in the air above the classroom I was knocked out of—a downside to casting a high-level spell while panicked. Makes precision go out the window.”

“Judgin' by ya havin' ta teleport, I'm guessin' no luck in keepin' her away from the goods?”

“Him, actually,” Twila corrected, then paused. “At least, I'm assuming 'him' for now.”

Jack squinted in confusion. “Uh, I didn't realize it was that hard-a thing ta figure out.”

“No, Jack,” Twila said, putting a palm to her face as Celestia let a single snort of laughter pass through her noble visage. “Magic can alter bodies for a time—that can include... organs, if you will?”

“Oh! You mean like kidneys an' stuff?”

Celestia let out another small titter of restrained laughter as Twila's jaw dropped.

“No, Jack. I'm talking abou--”

“I know, I know—jus' had ta play the naive country girl bit,” the farmer said with a small smirk,  brushing off Twila's words with a wave of her hand. She paused. “I didn't know y'all could do that much ta yerselves, but I guess it makes sense, considerin' all the other shit...” Jack glanced over to Celestia. “Er, stuff, yer able ta do.”

“Anyway...” Twila's frown deepened. “I wasn't strong enough to stop him. He got the last plant needed to make his poison.”

“You did your best, my child,” Celestia said, placing a hand on the girl's shoulder. “That's all I ask of you.”

“Celestia, I...” Twila started, putting her good hand to Celestia's own and squeezing tightly. Before the soul-folk could continue, Dash buzzed over to them, her ethereal wings in overdrive.

“Guys! Show's about to start—better get in position!”

Jack looked at the others present, then to the two combatants, who were now surrounded by several of Iron Will's men. They appeared to be making a large circle in the ground with chalk.

“Position?” Jack repeated. Dash nodded.

“Yeah, bro. Will wants a supporter for Luna and one for him watching together.” She crossed her arms and puffed out her cheeks as she levitated in air. “'It's the only way I want this watched! That way nobody's opinion gets spoiled!'” the Ritter said in a in-the-ballpark imitation of Will's tone.

“So, guess me an' Twi?”

“Actually...” Twila trailed off with a wince. “Me and Dash are going to discuss guard positioning for tonight while this battle commences. With her being one of the upperclassmen in Will's group, she's going to be issuing orders.”

“I keep fergettin' yer a year ahead of me here. Guess it's me an'...” Jack trailed off, turning to face the all-folk and swallowing. 

“Indeed we are, Jack. Let's break away from the others—odds are, William will be begging me for my observations about the match.” The royal and the farmer broke away from the others and took to walking.

“Will takes this stuff serious, huh?” Jack said, trying hard to break the ice she felt around the woman.

“Has since the griffon wars,” Celestia agreed. “It is rare to see someone that devoted to the art of battle; Luna seems to be the closest thing he has to an equal anymore.”

They paused when Isabelle and Twila were blobs of color in the distance.

“How often does he win?”

Celestia crossed her arms and leaned her head back onto her shoulders in thought. “Hmm... I believe the record is forty and forty-three, give or take a few points. I know it's Luna's favor now, though.”

Jack shook her head. “Yer tellin' me that guy's won over forty fights against yer sister?”

“Around that, yes.”

The farmer couldn't wrap her head around that. “But how? He ain't even got magic, fer cryin' out loud!”

“He doesn't need magic to win.” Celestia's brow narrowed as Will put a hand on one of his assistant's shoulders and took a hefty, chipped axe from the masked man's arms.

“Ya can't be sayin' an axe beats someone that can jus' hoist ya up in the air an' choke ya, right?”

“Of course not,” Celestia replied. “The problem is actually getting the spell to stick.”

Jack scratched her hair, tilting her head slightly in confusion. “Whaddya mean?”

The all-folk pointed to Iron Will. “The reason he's feared isn't from muscle strength—that can be countered easily enough. His mind is actually the most dangerous part of his body.”

Once the arena was marked, the masked men bowed and departed, heading towards the treeline. Will gave a few practice swings to his two-handed axe, growing accustomed to its weight.

Jack said nothing, waiting for Celestia to finish her thoughts. “Thanks to the mental focus from years of single-minded training and concentration, Will's got an inordinate amount of spiritual energy inside his body that resists magic—I've seen it stop dozens of forms of illusion, alteration, and even certain conjuration spells that were thrown at him.” She smiled as she watched Iron Will get into position, his stance powerful and unafraid. “It's suicide for Luna to make him the target of magic. This battle of theirs boils down to technique and skill versus force and experience.”

It began suddenly and silently, each combatant seemingly ready without uttering a word or breaking the morning’s silence.  Will charged forward, swinging his axe down. Luna easily parried it with the metal shaft of her spear and kicked him in the gut. Unphased by the strike, he swung horizontally; Luna leaned back just in time, the axe inches from her brow.

“They outta be careful,” Jack said, feeling panicked at the nearly fatal strike. “One of 'em is apt ta be killed.” 

Celestia laughed.

“It looks that way, doesn't it?” she agreed. “But the seal Will's whisperer's drew around them will keep their weapon strikes non-lethal. Not that they won't feel it tomorrow—the spell just softens blows and stops blades from puncturing deep enough to be life-threatening.”

As the battle raged on between the two paragons of combat, Jack felt like she needed an answer to a question that had been bothering her since yesterday.

“Princess?”

Celestia tilted her head towards Jack, never taking her gaze off of the battle.

“Why'd ya come today?”

“To see my prized student, of course.”

Jack shook her head with a frown. “Come on now.”

“Why come when someone wants to kill me?” the woman guessed.

“Eyup.”

Celestia gave a half smile as Luna struck Will hard in the mouth with the pommel of her spear. He dodged a strike with the blade of the weapon and charged forward, slamming into her body with a shoulder.

“Two reasons, I suppose.” She briefly tapped the hilt of Excalibur with her delicate, gloved fingers. “Firstly, if I am to be targeted by an assassin, then I'd rather it be in a favorable situation. Despite their best efforts, whoever intends to target me tonight will have quite a bit of work ahead of them. If he or she manages to evade your group and subdue Will, then they still have to best me and Luna.” The faintest hard glimmer shown in her eye. “There's a reason me and my sister are the sovereign leaders of Caballo, and it's not simply due to blood lineage.”

“An' the second?”

Celestia grinned like a child, all thoughts of battle leaving her mind as she briefly looked away from the chaotic melee and towards Jack. “Do you know the legend of Excalibur?”

Jack blinked. “Kinda. Yer pa got it from some sorta... lady in a lake. I think.”

“That's mostly correct.”

“An' it's got some kinda, uh, magic in it, right?”

“Some of the strongest in the land,” Celestia agreed. She returned her gaze to Luna for a moment, before speaking again. “Do you know the strongest part of Excalibur?”

“What?”

“It's a question Merlin the Star-Swirled asked of my father when he was but a child-king.”

Jack pursed her lips in thought. “It some kinda riddle?”

“Maybe,” Celestia teased.

“Well...” She put a hand to her chin. If it was a riddle or something, she'd have to think outside the box—think about something only vaguely related to Excalibur.

The hand that holds it? Nah, comes out sounding too egotistical ta be tellin' a kid like Arthur. Maybe...

“What about the sheath?” she guessed. It was a shot in the dark, but it sorta made sense.

Celestia raised her brow in evident surprise. She put a gloved hand to her earthen-toned chin. “Why do you say the sheath?”

The farmer froze. This was worse than having to show her work in a math class. “W-well...” she swallowed. “Uh... it's like you've got yerself a fancy diplomatic meetin'. A sheathed sword at one of them things would say a lot, I'd reckon. Tell the people ya'll were talkin to that ya ain't interested in hurtin' nobody, but if ya gotta, yer gonna draw a blade ta protect you and yers.”

Celestia ran through Jack's words, giving a small wink to the farmer. “You really took it into metaphorical ground.”

“Well... don't wanna do a job halfway.”

The sun princess snorted laughter. “While you're mostly correct, there's a more practical reason why this sheath is the strongest part of the weapon.” She crossed her hands behind her back. “The sheath held—or, depending on who you ask, still holds—a divine blessing. Whosoever carries the sheath shall not suffer the breaking of blades or piercing of arrows upon their skin.” Celestia touched the handle of the legendary weapon. “They say that the blessing ended with the death of my father, but I have my doubts.”

“I'd imagine so, yer still in one piece after the war—that's somethin' right there.”

“Mmm,” Celestia off-handily replied. “The sheath is akin to Schrodinger's cat, in a way. I won't know if the blessing still actually exists until I get injured.”

“Why's the cat of a fella named Schrodinger important?” Jack asked, obviously clueless.

“Nevermind. It's...” Celestia trailed off with a slightly disappointed shake of her head. “My point is that even if the magic isn't there anymore, I'd still carry it.”

“'Cause it's yer father's?”

“Indeed. This way he can live on with me.”

Jack and Celestia slipped back into quiet observation of the two combatants. Neither had given much ground, though Will had a shallow cut across his chest and Luna had a rapidly swelling black eye.

“Surprised you let yer sister do this,” Jack commented.

“Luna's always had a fascination with warfare, even before we were old enough to enter the fray. Tactics, swordplay, archery, offensive magic—if I didn't let her fight her battles, that would be the far crueler fate.”

“She fight a lot?”

“About any time we manage to flee Camelot together,” Celestia joked, her hair swaying in an unfelt breeze. “It's been hard leaving just the Council in charge of decision-making in our absence, they're always second guessing themselves and seeking our advice on matters.” She raised her brow in thought. “Now that the self-exiled princess is back, though, maybe I can sneak off a bit more often, give them a chance or two to prove themselves without my guidance. Give them a taste of how Luna runs things.”

“Sounds like the Council's a pretty big deal,” Jack said, running a finger under her nose.

Celestia nodded, her words taking on a philosophical tone. “It's an important position. They're around to make sure my sister and I are doing what's best for Caballo as a whole. Our... ideas for what's right in this land can sometimes come across as a bit old fashioned, suffice to say. The Council makes sure we can be held in check.”

“Ain't nothin' wrong with bein' a bit ol'-fashioned,” Jack replied, nodding slightly as Will yanked the spear Luna thrust at him out of her hands and struck at her temple with an elbow. The blonde scowled when Luna rolled with the blow, landing on the ground a few feet back and to Will's right. With a gesture, her spear seemed to disintegrate from William's hands. At the same instant, it quickly built itself back together in her own palms. Will offered an exasperated look, wrung his hands around his axe shaft, and charged forward once more.

Celestia smiled. “Perhaps. Still, it's important to hear a modern man's worldview occasionally. Debate keeps the mind sharp, and reminds me on occasion that I'm not all-powerful—that I have people to answer to, just as much as anyone living in this country does.” She clasped her hand at Excalibur's sheath once more. “Power has to be tempered with responsibility. Do you understand?”

“Yeah, I think so,” Jack agreed, surprised at how she was adapting to speaking with one of the rulers of her country. Just a month or so ago, Jack wouldn't have a clue what to do with someone this regal and cultured.

“Good. Will tells me you have the markings of a warrior—if you heed my advice, I think he'll be right.”

“Warrior? Will all due respect, princess, I'm jus' a farmer from the south, 'bout all I want,” Jack replied easily, looking away from Celestia for a moment to stare once more at the battle between two living legends.

Celestia was about to reply but held back, instead letting a small, sad smile cross her features as she returned her own gaze to the fight.


000


Jack stood patiently amid the crowd of armed guards as she waited for Will to return from the nurse's lounge. The lady that worked the office probably wasn't used to treating a norfolk and a princess back-to-back, Jack thought with a shake of her head.

The fight was intense, as close as a razor, neither had walked away uninjured; Will had a fractured eye socket and a puncture wound in his gut—the seal his companions had crafted before the match had thankfully stopped Luna's spear from piercing too deeply. Luna, on the other hand, had a fractured arm and a burn mark across her neck—Celestia said that if the seal hadn't been up, Will's axe wouldn't have been repelled. The man probably would have decapitated her. Jack wasn't sure how to take Celestia's nonchalant approach to their altercation. If it had been her, Jack would have been fretting about the magic wearing off mid-fight so bad that she wouldn't be able to swing her weapon.

Then again, the farmer never had much trust for magic working right.

Will finally came after another minute or two, limping, bandaged and clutching at one side of his jawline, but smiling proudly. He walked through the track field and throng of students. After getting a few paces ahead of the group, he snapped around and to attention, puffing his bare chest out and staring straight ahead with his unbandaged eye, past his students.

Jack gave a quick glance behind her, then turned forward once more. She paused, doing a double-take.

Luna approached, her arm in a sling and bruises all but coating her pale skin. She too, marched forward, through the sea of people that parted within seconds of noticing their ruler. Dozens of them kneeled down. Jack looked at them briefly, then clumsily dropped to a knee herself. The princess stepped slowly past the farmer, joining Will's side.

“Arise, my loyal subjects,” Luna commanded.

The group rose, with many taking a militaristic, rigid pose. Jack simply put her hands to her hips and waited for their liege to speak once more.

“Today, thou art guardians of Caballo's will. We know that in our heart of hearts, thou shalt preform thine duties with the utmost skill and as such, We simply would like to thank all of you for this blessing.” Luna bent down to her knees, falling prostrate and cradling her injured hand to her chest as she tapped her forehead to the ground. “Thou remember the words of thine fathers and their fathers before them. Each of you honor the Pendragon's in more ways than We can express.” The princess remained on the ground for a moment, before rising and dusting off her armor. “'Thine instructor will now delegate thine place and location for this evening. While I doubt greatly of a man foolish enough to attack mine sister or I, We trust any attempts on our body's well-being will not go without a fight.”

Will nodded. “You can count on us. Besides, if this guy gets through the rest...” he gestured towards his students, then pointed a thumb to his chest. “He still has to tangle with the best.” Will then reached into both of the pockets of his pants, producing a small notebook and a pair of reading glasses. He put them on and frowned at how skewed they were thanks to his bandages. With a roll of his good eye, he took off the pair and squinted hard at the paper. “Ok, let's see... uh...” 

Luna turned her gaze to the giant. “Shall I speak on your behalf?”

Will sighed, handing over the notebook. “Only because you got me square in the good eye earlier.”

“And thou caught me on my favorite throat,” Luna dryly retorted.

Will gave a small chuckle. “Guess we're square.”

Luna cleared her throat, turning to the crowd. “Apple, Jack!” she bellowed, loud enough to make everyone wince. “Thou art to be a guardian of mine and mine sister's quarters!”

Jack was tempted to ask if she should read Luna and Celestia a bedtime story too, but decided against it. Anyone shouting like that was bound to not be in a joking mood.

“Almadia, Andre!”

A young sky-folk gave a nod, wiping his nose with a thumb.

“Thou shalt be under Isabelle Ritter's tutelage!”

Luna continued to shout, issuing directions to dozens of people. Dash was on patrol in the hallways, with three people under her command. A few other names Jack vaguely knew were called out, putting several guards outside the school's entrance, patrolling the fields, and a few others keeping watch over the basement and dormitories. A short time later, Gilda was called to arms, instructed to join Jack in guarding the quarters.

The farmer swore under her breath. Of all the people to be paired with, it had to be her. Jack glanced across the crowd. Sure enough, she spotted Gilda, who bore her own mark of disdain at the news.

“Thou all have thine orders! Let us all make haste to fulfill them!” Luna barked out. “Honor thine fathers with thine works!”

They all separated, falling into cliques as they traveled to their posts, a few only briefly stopping to arm themselves from a crate of weapons some of Will's servants had placed nearby during Luna's announcements. Jack lagged behind the others, being one of the last to actually get to the supplies. As she bent down to try and find a weapon in strong enough not to be damaged by her colossal strength,  a hand tapped her on the shoulder. 

Jack turned, coming face to face with one of Will's masked companions. He wordlessly thrust a hefty looking single-bit axe Jack's way. The farmer raised a brow as the man made a few small finger gestures with his free hand. He nodded and gave another small thrust with the weapon's handle, encouraging Jack to take it.

“Uh, thanks?” she offered. He nodded, briskly turning and walking off. The farmer shook her head. “What in the sam hill was that about?” she muttered to herself.

“Sign language,” Gilda said from a few feet away. Jack turned, spotting Gilda about fifteen feet away and approaching, barely making a noise on the packed dirt.

Jack shook her head. “Yer as quiet as a mouse at a librarian's funeral.”

“What?”

“Jus' sayin' ya caught me by surprise is all.” Jack shrugged. Gilda grunted, quickly looking over the cache of weapons and selecting a sheathed dagger, which she promptly looped around her belt with a bit of fabric. “So, how'd ya know what he was doin' there?”

“What? The sign language?” Gilda asked, pulling back her sleeve and checking the small, wrist-mounted crossbow attached to her arm. “Will told me about it last year.”

“Why didn't that fella jus' speak ta me?”

Gilda scowled, adjusting the middriff-bearing jacket she wore. “Are you freaking stupid? They can't.”

“Why?”

The archer looked over Jack with disdain. “You are that stupid.” She shook her head. “They're all muties.”

“Like, they can't talk, or...?”

Gilda smirked, exposing her tongue. She ran a thumb underneath it. “Like they got it cut out.”

Jack paused, looking over the other's face. Not detecting any hint of a joke, the farmer slowly put a hand to her mouth. “Jesus... why, though?”

“They're like soul-folk. Got power in 'em. While people around here use their hands for spells, norfolk speak or sing to produce magic”

“Guess callin' 'em whisperer's makes sense.”

“Yeah. As for the ones around here that follow Will, they were part of a group of norfolk that got captured during the wars, I guess. Griffon-folk didn't want any chance of magic getting turned against 'em, so...” Gilda clicked her tongue. “Off with 'em.”

Jack shook her head. “What kinda monsters do that ta people?”

Gilda didn't have an answer.

After a beat, the white-haired woman glanced away and rudely brushed past the farmer. “It is what it is. Let's get this damn day over with, hick.”

The farmer narrowed her brow. “Right behind ya.”


000


Trixie woke up as dusk light filtered past the venetian blinds by her bedside. She weakly groaned, sitting up and tossing her legs over the bedside. Her entire body ached thanks to overtaxing her powers last night. She coughed harshly, clutching at her burning throat and standing. Her legs buckled and she limply collapsed to the wooden floor. The soul-folk sucked in a pained breath, weakly getting to her knees and using the corner of her desk to rise. 

Trixie stumbled once more, but caught herself this time. After another moment, she fully rose and glanced over to the far end of her room, where lay several small beakers half full with various chemicals and a mortar and pestle with brown and green dried plant  pulpings shredded inside. Trixie moved at a limp across the room, sitting down at the counter and taking to slowly and mechanically grinding the plants into a fine powder. She gave a small thought to the pick-me-up in her cloak, but decided against it for now—she only had two vials of the stuff, and one was going to be all but necessary if things went south tonight, as weak as she was.

She rolled her neck and reached for the beakers, popping the corks off of each top and pouring the individual mixtures into the mortar, then stirring the concoction slowly and carefully. Magesbane could react violently if you weren't careful with it—Trixie was already painfully low on magical reserves, she didn't want to be tapped completely out, after all.

Her thoughts wandered as she monotonously stirred the foul smelling mixture. 

As long as she had successfully misdirected everyone about her real target, she wouldn't have a problem at all tonight. It had seemed bothersome at the time, stealing more supplies than she needed, but it was the only way Trixie could put the idea in Twila's mind that she was targeting an all-folk.

Trixie shook her head. Despite wanting to put the girl she was after in a magical coma, Dorcis didn't want her hurt. “A warning is all,” he had said. Trixie didn't understand the reason then, or now. It had just seemed like it'd be so much easier to just kill the woman—wasn't like that soul-folk knew combat, after all, compared to Twila.

The white-haired girl paused for a moment, sitting dead still.

“Twila...” Trixie growled out, clenching a hand so hard she could feel the nails biting her palm.

It wasn't fair. That pathetic excuse for a soul-folk shouldn't have lived through last night, once their spells had began. Trixie was stronger, faster, far more capable of anything that second-string bookworm was ever capable of doing, and yet...

Come on. Snap out of it, Trixie thought, refusing to think any more about her rival. What was Trixie's order of operation? Gas the woman, drag or teleport her to the bell tower. Complete the ceremony. Ok. That's not bad at all. 

And after that? After that, she'd be eating on Dorcis's ticket for years to come.

The tailor Dorcis was after wouldn't even know what hit her.
> Duty
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

	Jack shuffled slightly on her feet as she stared down the long hallway she was stationed at, her back firmly against a heavyset wooden door. Despite her best efforts, she let out a yawn, earning her the reproach of the other woman that stood nearby.

“Stop that shit,” Gilda growled out. “It's not even ten yet. We don't swap for another three hours.”

“I ain't exactly an all-nighter. Early ta bed an' early ta rise, ya know?” 

Gilda gave a scowl and grunted, crossing her arms and leaning back against the door. “This is stupid. All we've done is stand around and look down an empty hall. At least everyone else is actually patrolling.”

Jack shook her head slowly in thought. “What time ya reckon the fella would get here, if he's plannin' on takin' Luna and Celestia out?”

“Very early morning, I guess. Keeps people disoriented.” Gilda brushed off a piece of lint from her worn shoulder pads.

“Wouldn't the princesses know that?”

Gilda blinked. “I suppose so. I mean, Luna has been training with military tactics since she was a child.”

“Then if he wanted ta actually have an advantage, he'd have ta do it at an earlier time—since Luna would be ready that early, right?” Jack stopped briefly, a rare insightful thought crossing her mind. “Now, I ain't a genius by any means--”

“Obviously,” the snow-haired woman agreed.

Jack ignored the reply. “But there's somethin' not right 'bout all this. Jus' seems a bit too, I dunno, obvious. Why would ya pretty much announce yer plan ta kill an all-folk? There are so many fellas patrollin' right now that it's gonna be hard as hell sneakin' past 'em, let alone takin' down Will.” Jack gave a nod of her head towards the room they were guarding. “An shoot, Twila ain't no slacker neither.”

“Might just be dumb and arrogant, hick.”

“Whoever it is managed ta get away from Twila last night—that ain't dumb.”

Gilda sighed, crossing her arms and staring at the wall to the side. She leaned against it, unsheathing her knife to shave off a layer of her fingernails, then dusting the tips against her heavy jacket. “Occam's razor.”

Jack's face scrunched up. “First it was that Shrewdinger fella with his cat, now there's an Ock-am too? Lord, I jus' can't win today.”

The archer crossed her arms and refused to make eye contact with Jack. “Friggin' stupid. Occam's razor is a theory that the most obvious answer is usually the correct one.”

“Meanin'?” Jack asked.

The white-haired woman growled under her breath. “Meaning that whoever this is is probably going after someone else, while we waste resources on protecting people who can protect themselves.”

A sinking feeling started forming at Jack's gut over where the conversation was heading. “I, I dunno. Ya figure Twila would think it was a distraction, if they were plannin' on takin' someone else out.”

“As much as I hate know-it-alls, I'll agree Twila would probably embrace the idea that this was a distraction. Normally.”

Jack glanced down the hallway once more. “What's stoppin' her now?”

Gilda stared hard at the farmer. “I have no idea how someone so stupid is in college, let alone breathing.”

Jack scowled, looking down at the woman. “I don't take kindly ta words like them, Gilda.”

“You'd better get used to them until you stop being retarded,” she snapped back, resting her hands tensely at her bare stomach and glaring dangerously.

“Ya know what?” Jack replied, throwing her hands up in defeat. “Ok. Fine. I'll bite. What, apparently, am I missin'?”

“You're missing the fact the guy who stole that crap to make a poison? He was counting on getting Twila riled up enough that she'd panic and send every available resource she could towards protecting Celestia.”

“Meanin' that, aside from patrols, other places 'round campus would be threadbare...”

“Now you're getting it,” Gilda nodded in agreement, obviously getting tired of the conversation. She wrapped a finger around her hair, twisting it as she stared down the hall. “If I don't see a soul-folk body by late morning, I'll be surprised.”

“Then we gotta do somethin'!” Jack exclaimed, pausing for only a moment before taking down the hall. “You get Twila an' Will roused, I'mma hit the patrols 'round the dorms—have 'em split up an' search the rooms.” The farmer began quickly running down the hall. She spared a glance behind her, just before rounding the corner.

Gilda stood, unmoving from her post.

“What in the—Gilda move yer ass!”

She stared at Jack, looking repulsed. “Why?”

“Why in the hell do ya think?! Someone might be dyin'!” Jack snapped, throwing her hand to the side.

Gilda shrugged. “Not my problem. Besides, even if I cared—which I don't—how could we know who's being targeted? All we got is that the guy's probably after a soul-folk, judging by the shit that's been stolen. Even that might be a lie and he might just shank someone with a knife! It's bullshit to think you can make a difference!” Gilda snapped back, subconsciously resting her hand on the pommel of the dagger at her side.

“Don't mean I can't try!” Jack roared, the sound echoing in the hallway. She clenched her fists tightly, her arms shaking in anger. She broke away from Gilda and headed towards the doors. “I'll get 'em myself.”

Before Jack could put a hand on the large double-doors, Gilda snapped forward, grabbing the farmer's wrist.

“We have our orders. Don't disturb them.”

“Ta hell with orders—this is important!”

“You're not getting through that door and that's that, Apple,” Gilda replied, ice in her voice.

Jack felt a growing, red-hot heat in her belly, her nostrils flared and her jaw clenched as her mind felt like it was turning into a static filled television—she had only a vague idea on what was happening, it felt like her actions were distant. Controlled by an avatar. Without warning, she shot forward, pinning Gilda and slamming her forearm into the others throat.

“Ya think yer some tough shit, don't ya?” she whispered through her contorted face, each syllable a pinprick of venom and warning as Gilda struggled to break free of Jack's grip. “Thinkin' that jus' cause it ain't buggin' ya, it don't need anythin' done 'bout it? Thinkin' that followin' the rules is more important than doin' what's right?” She sneered, pressing even harder on Gilda's throat, the dark-skinned woman choked, letting out a strangled, weak hiss of air. “Yer wrong. I'm goin' through that door.”

Gilda managed to pry Jack's arm away for a brief moment. She sucked in a half-breath of air. “Kiss my ass, Apple,” she growled out, staring defiantly at the farmer with her piercing eyes.

Jack pulled her hand back and threw a punch. 

She stopped, inches from Gilda's face, feeling like she had just woken up from a horrific nightmare. Jack let go of the other; Gilda collapsed to her knees, clutching her neck and swallowing air. The tall woman gazed down at her, sweating. She opened her mouth, though no sound came out.

“That the best you got?” Gilda finally panted out, rising slightly off of the ground. “You're...  pathetic.”

Jack said nothing still, sweat coated her brow and her hands shook. “I...” She backed away a few steps and swallowed deeply. “I...”

She turned, sprinting off down the hallway, her thoughts nothing but a jumbled collection of warnings and self-doubt as she ran through the school.

She had lost control again.

She had lost control again.

Just thinking about it made her want to vomit. Just thinking about what she had said to Rarity the other day.

Ya shouldn't be afraid of... someone like me.

Gilda would have had a busted lip and broken teeth at best, if Jack hadn't gotten a sudden flash of clarity from her anger. The smallest glimmer that broke through her veil of darkness.

When she swung, right before impact, there was a brief spark of fear in Gilda's otherwise emotionless eyes.


000


Gilda rose, leaning back against the wall and drawing breath after breath. She rubbed at her already bruising neck.

Bitch, she thought, scowling intently. Hick was lucky, getting a sucker punch off like that—a fair fight and Gilda would have mopped the floor with her.

What was her deal, anyway? They had their orders. Doing something stupid like this, especially with nothing concrete? Dumber than a bag of hammers.

The woman scowled, crossing her arms over her chest and staring daggers down the hallway. Sure, the hick was already long gone by now, but it still felt good in a petty, spiteful way. Gilda's glare turned even more sour—she slammed a fist into the wall and gave a disdainful sniff.

“Coward,” she said under her breath, not sure who she was speaking about.

The door behind her opened. Will sauntered out, accompanied a few steps behind by Twila.

“What was the noise earlier?” he asked, then paused, glancing to his left. “And where in the nine hells is Apple?”

Gilda seemed to debate on what to tell him. Finally, she shrugged. “Was heading to the dorms.”

“She left her post?” Will growled out. “She had one job and--”

“Apple did it because she thinks there's a different target than Celestia.”

Twila tilted her head. “But why would--”

“Why would they try to kill someone like Celestia? It'd be like sticking a hand covered in meat into a bear cage. Princess or not, they know how to take care of themselves. You've just got the hots for teacher so bad that your head isn't screwed on right!” Gilda snapped, staring hard at Twila, who turned beat red and scowled.

“I've got nothing of the sort!”

“If that were true, you woulda realized that you were being set up,” Gilda replied, crossing her arms and resting against the wall. “It's a bait-and-switch. Anyone going after the Lady of the Sun would have their shit wrecked.”

“I...”

“You screwed the pooch on this one, you damn dweeb,” Gilda spat. “Teaming up with Isabelle and giving everyone pointless orders just so you could 'save' that ancient piece of ass.”

“Don't call her that!” Twila snarled, stepping forward. Gilda's smirk widened, exposing a row of sharp teeth.

“Sorry, sweetheart. I always forget how bad you want to get in that granny's pants.”

Twila lunged forward; Will scooped her up with one arm and placed her behind him.

“That's. Enough,” he ordered, his tone leaving no room for compromise. “Now, it's worth a look to see if this whole thing was a misdirection—even just as a courtesy. Twila, can you use magic?”

“I'll be fine,” she dismissed. “One doesn't need two hands to preform spells, after all.”

“Good. Come with me for a moment—Gilda, you stand guard. And for your father's sake and the ones before him, don't blindly follow orders without thinking of the consequences. Cowards do that.”

Gilda scowled, hugging herself as they disappeared, vanishing around the corner. She blinked and sucked in a heavy breath.

“I'm not a coward.”


000


Jack's feet slapped against the linoleum as she frantically ran through the possibilities of who could be targeted.

Soul-folk. An'... an'...

And that was about all she knew. While she wasn't a recluse by any means, she just didn't know enough about the other students to make a guess as to why one of them was being targeted—she wasn't Rarity, after all. Girl loved her gossip far more than Jack.

Jack literally paused, one foot lifted in front of the other and her arms mid-swing.

Rarity.

If there was one woman in her group of friends that would know about skeletons in the closet, and what could make a person be marked for death, it'd be the tailor.

Jack nodded to herself and made her way towards Rarity and Twila's dorm-room, her mind racing in a thousand directions at once as she blew past a group patrol and rounded a corner.

What if she doesn't know anything?

What if I'm too late?

What if Gilda's wrong and Celestia is targeted?

What if Rarity's the target?

Jack was about to brush the last thought off as paranoia, but it stuck to her, giving her a desperate, frightened feeling in her gut.

Think about who nearly fell to their death a few months back thanks to someone trying to scare her. Think about who one of the richest people in St. Charles is! Think, ya damn fool!

Jack's hard jog turned into a dead sprint, her axe smacked hard into the small of her back with every frantic footstep.


000


She observed the sleeping figure of the woman from the foot of the elegant bed. Watched the violet-haired beauty take each breath, her chest slowly rising and falling with each motion as she slept under the cover of silken sheets. Trixie pushed back her hat, almost sad that it was this easy. Girl didn't have the door locked, didn't hear Trixie creep through the room to stand vigil at the foot of her bed—she was even wearing a sleep mask.

So much for an attentive audience, the magician dryly thought.

She reached into her pockets, producing a vial filled to the brim with a neon blue powder. With no hesitation, she uncorked and inhaled its contents through her nose.

As soon as the first trace of powder entered her system, she felt magic surge throughout her body. Trixie doubled over, watching as the vial fell out of her convulsing hands. It hit the ground, breaking the dead silence.

Rarity slept on.

Once her body had stopped tingling, and the faintest marks of black had shown up on her veins, Trixie reached and produced another vial. This one, a reddish-brown, she took to Rarity and let it sit under the woman's nose, as she covered her own mouth and nose with a handkerchief.

In mere moments, Rarity began to cough and clutch her neck at the scent of the grounded magesbane, its venomous ability already beginning to sap the soul-folk of her magic. The tailor threw off her mask, still coughing intently.

“Twila?! I smell smoke!” Rarity exclaimed as she rose from under her sheets and stood, clad in a silken, form-fitting nightgown. As the sleep quickly died from her mind, she noticed Trixie, who smiled grimly. Rarity let out a shriek, backing up and tripping over her bed, landing near the corner of the room.

She raised an even palm and braced it with her other hand. “W-who are you?” she weakly asked, her heart a frantic drum beat.

“You don't know Trixie?” the pale woman asked. “The strongest soul-folk in the acad—no, in the world?” She leered at Rarity, looking hard at the tailor's open palm. “And you can stop pretending you have a magic spell armed—the magesbane you inhaled stops any chance you have of conjuring spells.”

Rarity tried regardless, focusing her mind towards her palm, and envisioning a powerful surge of wind erupting from her hand.

The smallest gust of wind came from the tailor's hands, slightly blowing Trixie's hair from her brow. She shook her head at Rarity and adjusted her large hat.

“Told you,” the woman stated. She reached once more into her pocket, pulling out a large syringe.

Rarity's eyes shot further open in panic. She glanced towards the door—it seemed so far away. If she could just get past Trixie...

The tailor shot forward, jumping onto her bed and springing off the mattress in a blind panic. She made one more desperate sprint and lunge for the door. With shaking hands, she unlocked it and--

Transparent, blue chains wrapped around both her wrists. They pulled her backwards and pushed her body flush against the wall.

“Going somewhere before the show?” Trixie asked, laconically spinning a finger in the air as two additional magic chains came to life, pinning the tailor's ankles flush against the wall.

“Someone!” Rarity called out, struggling against the magic. “Anyone!”

“You must think the Great and Powerful Trixie for a fool. Of course she cast a sound dispersion spell on the room before she woke you! Couldn't let your screams interrupt, after all.”

“W...what do you want, y-you brute?” Rarity whimpered. “Money?”

“Trixie is insulted.” She narrowed her brow and slowly shook her head as she approached the tailor. “I've got more than enough money doing exactly this.”

Trixie put a hand to Rarity's cheek—the violet-haired woman shrank and recoiled at the touch. The showwoman's smile widened. She brushed Rarity's hair from her neckline and ran a finger along the side of her neck, before plunging a needle deeply into the tailor's throat.

The woman let out a pained gasp and trembled as the syringe deposited its load into her body.

“What...?” Rarity weakly asked. Trixie nodded in understanding. With a snap of her fingers, the chains disappeared and Rarity sank to the floor, sweating.

“Think of it like a cocktail. You don't need to know what's all in it, but I'll let you know the main ingredient is turbocurine—a relaxant. Judging by your body size, we've got maybe four minutes before your entire skeletal system becomes paralyzed.” She gave a haughty tilt of her nose on seeing Rarity's terrified expression. “Don't worry. If Trixie had wanted you murdered, she would have simply crushed your skull with a pressure spell while you were asleep.”

“Then...?” the tailor panted out. Already, the drug was starting to take effect—her voice was limp and whisper quiet, and her legs quivered like jelly. She tried to stand, only to not even have the strength to hoist herself up

“It's just to make you docile. For now. When I carry you to the clock tower, I'll--.”

The doorknob leading to the hallway jiggled; Trixie swore, quickly making a gesture and conjuring a black, misty ball of energy into her palm. She threw it across the room, smashing the loosely collected orb against a wall. It hit with a small pop, inky vines crept throughout the area, coating it in pitch-blackness.

Trixie smiled as the door slowly opened. Whoever it was was in for one hell of a show.


000


Jack paused at Rarity's dorm room to briefly suck in a breath of air. She had sprinted across most of campus, drawing looks from the dozens of men and women on patrol. With another deep breath of air, Jack twisted the handle, not surprised in the slightest when it was unlocked. She slowly creaked it open and took a tentative step inside.

Darkness. A pitch-black room greeted the farmer. Jack held out a hand a few feet from her face and couldn't even see that. She began to slink along, running her hand against the wall and attempting to find a light-switch.

“Rare?” Jack spoke in a heavy whisper, taking a few more cautious steps through the room, sure the switch was nearby.

The door slammed shut behind her; Jack turned on instinct to face it, swearing and drawing her axe.

A click behind her—Jack's instincts went into overdrive, she jumped to the side just as a blinding flash of blue electricity erupted past her, striking against the wall with a thundering roar.

“Who the hell's here?!” the farmer called out loudly, holding her axe out in front of her like a protective ward.

“Asking for a name before giving your own?” a haughty woman's voice said from everywhere and nowhere at once. “Such manners.”

“Talkin' 'bout manners when yer hidin' in the dark?” Jack spat, glancing all around her in an attempt to find the speaker. “Show yerself.”

“With pleasure.”

A bright, overwhelming burst of light erupted from the ceiling lights—Jack squinted her eyes shut and covered them with the back of her hand, just as a force connected hard to her chest, disarming her with a clatter and knocking her onto her back. The farmer rose, coughing and sputtering, glancing across the brightly lit room, where a woman wearing a cape and large hat stood, smugly grinning.

“Where's Rarity?!” Jack asked, staring daggers.

The woman smiled, rising one finger and pointing it to Jack's side. The farmer offered the briefest of glances, feeling like this was a trick.

There, on her bed, was Rarity, staring straight up and taking strangled gasps for air. Her body remained motionless, but her blue eyes slowly traveled  towards Jack, the raw, panicked emotion on them almost palpable.

“What ya do ta her, ya bitch?!” Jack snarled out, her teeth bared like a feral dogs.

“Just a little cocktail. Trixie doesn't plan on killing her.” She offered a half-smile Jack's way. “You, though...”

Jack gave a small glance toward her axe. About five feet ahead of her. She could dive for it. She could make that. She subtly tensed, waiting for an opportunity.

“I'd like ta see ya try,” the farmer growled. Trixie glanced towards' the figure of Rarity.

“She has about two minutes before she's unable to breath on her own.” The magician smugly grinned. “Trixie thinks it's an excessive time limit to deal with a mud-folk, but she's sure she'll find something to do after you're dead.”

Jack snapped her body and lept forward, somersaulting as she hit the ground. She grabbed the axe mid-roll and rose in one fluid motion, charging the soul-folk, who watched with disinterest. The farmer hefted her axe in preparation of a powerful swing, just as Trixie made a few small, minute gestures with her hands.

Jack's hands became raw, painful agony as the handle of her weapon turned red-hot. She dropped it on reflex and watched it clatter once more to the floor before briefly glancing at her hands—the leather gloves had stopped any lasting damage. The ward Rarity had put in between the layers must be working like a charm. The farmer glared up at the soul-folk and ran forward, raising her fist to strike.

Despite Jack's years learning boxing, and countless hours of training with Will, Trixie simply ducked under the blow, that smug, arrogant grin still prevalent on her face as the woman rose, striking Jack. There was a loud crunch as the lithe woman's surprisingly strong fist connected with Jack's nose, breaking it.

Jack howled, tears welling up in her eyes as she cupped a hand over her ruined nose. Blood poured from her crooked nostrils, running down her face. She threw a punch once more. Trixie narrowly dodged it, the brief flicker of surprise on her face enough for Jack to gain a little confidence back.

“Yer gonna have ta do better than jus' a smack against me,” Jack warned, scowling though her blood-soaked mouth.

Trixie smirked. “You're right.”

She gestured once more and Jack was knocked off her feet by an invisible force. She skidded, smashing hard against the wall. Another force instantly brought Jack to her feet and flush against the wall, where blue, transparent shackles held her arms and legs in place.

The farmer struggled, but was unable to escape the magical chains that held her in place.

“Hmm...” Trixie pondered, reaching into a pocket and producing a switchblade. “Trixie at least has something to do for the next minute...” With a grin, she balanced the tip of the blade on her finger, before throwing it blindingly fast across the room.


000


Will ran down the hallways with Twila, trying to make up for lost time on finding Jack.

It had taken a bit of asking the groups of patrols, but eventually they got an idea of where the woman had went too—wasn't like there were too many that looked like the farmer, after all. The guidance they had received eventually put them at the front of Twila's door.

Will gave a look over to the soul-folk. “There a reason Apple woulda come here?”

“Well...” Twila gave a pause in consideration. “Her and my roommate are, well, close.”

“Close like...?” Will gave an implying roll of his enormous hands.

“Indeed.”

“So she just went off for a quickie?” Will narrowed his brow and swore, crossing his arms. “I’m gonna beat her black and blue for this--making up a lie just so she could get some action.” He tried the door. Locked. He turned to Twila. “Do you have the key?”

Twila stared down at the floor, a nagging feeling running through her mind--something was off about, well, everything going on. Jack wasn't the type to blow off anything.

On realizing Will asked a question, the soul-folk nodded, reaching into a pocket as Will moved to the side to let her through. “Rarity never locks the room,” Twila said, mostly to herself.

Will overheard and gave a shrug. “When you're having sex in a room, lock it up, you goon,” he said, nodding sagely. Twila felt heat rush through her ebony face at his blunt words.

“Oh my... do you suppose they're...?”

“Only one way to find out.” He nodded. “Get the door open.” 

She froze, clutching the side of her head as two things happened simultaneously. First, Twila sensed  the overpowering magical aura of a soul-folk utilizing their craft, coming from the other side of the door.

Second, the realization that all those months back, Rarity nearly lost her life thanks to Blueblood. It might be mere coincidence, but as it stood now, the scholar had a feeling she found who the real target was tonight...

“Twila?” Will asked, sparing a glance her way and snapping her out of her epiphany. 

“There's something more than Rarity and Jack behind the door,” she stated, her good hand clenched tightly at her side. “Magic.”

Will mulled that over for a brief second. “The guy who hassled you last night?”

“He hid his magical aura last night. However, I wouldn't doubt it.”

The norfolk scowled, reaching behind his back and pulling out a dented and worn axe. “I'm breaking down the door. Watch my back.”

She clenched her fist, a lavender aura coated it instantly, shining like a fire in the dark. “Go.”


000


The knife flew through the room, propelling directly toward Jack's face. She tilted her head and pushed hard to her left. The knife pierced deeply through her cheek, tearing a long line from her mouth to her ear. She howled at her ruined face, fighting against her shackles.

A blue aura enveloped the knife, pulling it free from the wall. It flew into Trixie's hand. She casually wiped the knife clean. “Where should Trixie throw next?” She gave a gesture; small shackles pinned Jack's hand to the wall, her digits opened involuntary and splayed out. “Ring finer, perhaps? Or Trixie supposes she could just pull out your teeth one by one...” She glanced over at the still figure of Rarity. “Ah. Never mind. Seems like our time together is at an end.” The magician aimed her knife. “Would you prefer it through the eye or forehead?”

“Go... ta... hell,” Jack snarled through her aching, blood-soaked mouth. For a brief moment, she shivered and nearly vomited at the realization she could stick her tongue out though the cut Trixie gave.

“The throat it is, then.” 

Trixie pulled back her hand, just as the wooden door exploded, sending splinters across the room. The massive bulk of Iron Will charged through the shadow, as Twila walked in right behind, making a gesture that parted the shadows, disintegrating them in a heartbeat. Upon Twila clearing the shadows, Will instantly scanned the area, spotting Trixie and charging. She made a gesture and an aura briefly enveloped the norfolk. With a shake of his body, it vanished, leaving Trixie stunned as the giant twisted her arm and brought her to the ground.

The impact broke Trixie's concentration, the magical shackles around Jack vanished without a trace. The farmer tilted forward and crashed to the floor, groaning in pain.

“I got her pinned!” Will shouted out, never looking away from the soul-folk. “Check Jack!”

Twila knelt down, wincing on seeing the farmer's broken nose. “Jack, I'll--”

“Rare,” she sputtered through her clenched teeth. “Rare first.”

The soul-folk looked up to the still, limp body of Rarity. Twila quickly left Jack's side and approached her roommate. She left her hand a few inches from her mouth and nose.

“She's not breathing!” Twila announced.

“What?!” Will exclaimed, glancing away from Trixie for one moment.

That moment was enough.

She made one brisk gesture, vanishing with a flash of light.

“Shit!” The norfolk glanced around. “Twila! Teleportation or Invisibility?”

Her gaze briefly lingered on Rarity before narrowing her brow. “T-teleportation. I'll go after her.”

Will rose, already moving towards Rarity. “Do you think you'll have a chance against her?”

“I'm the only shot we've got. She's not getting away from us!” Twila fiercely announced, clapping her hands and disappearing in a similar flash of light.

Will pulled Rarity off the bed and laid her flat on her back. “Apple!” he announced. “I need you to do CPR. Do you know how?”

Jack nodded, wiping the blood away from her mouth as best she could.

“Keep her breathing. I'll run to the nurse's office and--”

“Go ta room 1768,” Jack ordered with a point of her hand. “It's closer. Her name's Chylene. She'll have a BVM—that'll do better than CPR, won't it?”

Will nodded, taking off in a dead sprint out of the room.

Jack looked down at the tailor's body, tilting the paralyzed woman's head up. She opened the woman's violet lips and put her own bloody ones to it, exhaling gently. Jack watched the woman's chest rise and slowly fall. Jack took another breath and exhaled into the soul-folk once more.

“Don't die on me, Rare. Please,” Jack whispered, her injuries all but forgotten on seeing Rarity's pitiful state. She took another breath and breathed life into the beauty once more. “Christ, Rare. Please.”
> Justice
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

	Trixie quickly loaded a duffel bag with what she could from her room. Tinctures, potions, bits, clothes—anything she didn't have nailed down. She had to get out of here and hit a train. It wouldn't be long before the entire school came awake and started hunting her. The soul-folk kept a level head about it, though. Wasn't like this was the first time she had been run out of town. She grabbed a worn and battered scroll and paused for the briefest moment as she saw a name on the top of the parchment, written not with a pen, but an old-fashioned quill and ink pot.

Faust. 

Trixie scowled, briefly stunned by the memories that assaulted her.

Him, spending years in a basement, surrounded by books and writing. Always writing. Always writing and questioning things nobody cared to talk about most of the time—soups, ships, ceiling wax, cabbages and kings.

Her, wordlessly observing him as he perused her magical wares at the shop and, out of the blue, striking a conversation, which crossed from casual to curious with the sublimity of a quiet night. The subject?  Transcending the limits of man.

Them, later devouring every book on the subject matter, studying consciousness, evidence of a soul, how to preserve the body of a corpse.

Them, channeling hundreds of spell variations onto dead hearts in an attempt to make them beat again.

Them, together on top of a desk, panting like feral dogs amid His notes and Her magic instruction books, her knees pressed up to her shoulders.

Him, slowly becoming more gaunt and pale as disease ate away at his innards, leaving him wracked with pain and dull in his mind.

Her, at His funeral, once the disease ate its fill.

Her, one cold night with a shovel and a collection of worn, scribbled notes with archaic instructions.

Her, using Their notes and bringing something that was and was not Him back.

Trixie threw the image away—she shouldn't dwell on the past. They were painful, bittersweet memories that gave her drive and ambition. They gave her a want to be stronger, to learn how to harness the power she knew she had swimming in her body.

Once she learned that, she would have death itself under her control, just as Faust longed to have all those years ago. All she needed now was bits—she had had her fill of schoolwork, and deep down, Trixie knew she could outperform every teacher.

Then again, Trixie could do that even before entering the academy. If it wasn't for the scholarship she had received from Dorcis Enterprises, then she wouldn't have even bothered. Of course, that had at least lead to a job...

A shame her and Dorcis's business transactions had to end so abruptly—he had given her a quarter of their agreed sum as “a token of good faith.” With just that stipend, she could be set for at least three years, and that was if she spent lavishly and didn't work. All she needed to do was get away from the school, travel—west perhaps, it was farther away from prying eyes—and continue her study. By the time she got through, Trixie had no doubt in her mind that she'd be able to bring the dead back as they were.

It was just a matter of escaping here...

She felt in her pocket and grasped the reassuring weight of a vial. The woman gave a debating roll of it in her hands, then lifted up the weight.

Don't, a small part of her warned. Caution didn't beget greatness, Faust would say.

Dead, rotting, empty Faust.

Recklessness didn't do him any favors, and Stairway this soon after her earlier dose was reckless. She let it drop into her pocket again.

With one more brief glance around, Trixie gave a small gesture and teleported outside, landing with a grunt not ten feet past her dorm room's window.

Seemed like she was about out of juice. Normally, spellwork like that wouldn't have even stopped her in the slightest. She really needed to rest.

As long as she was just a bit quicker, she'd have all the rest she could ever need.

With an adjustment of her collar, Trixie turned and began the long walk towards the train station.


000


Jack gave life into Rarity's mouth once more, watched as her chest rose and slowly deflated. It was all the farmer could do to keep from panicking at the sight of Rarity being so lifeless. So limp.

Shut up an' keep on keepin' on, she warned herself, steadying her violently shaking hands and ignoring the fire burning her face. She took another swallow of air and breathed into Rarity.

The rhythm was broken by the sound of heels clicking rapidly down the hallway. Chylene, followed promptly by Will, entered, each carrying a handful of medical supplies.

“Is she still not breathing?” Chylene asked, all trace of the timid woman she normally was gone  as she opened a small case and pulled out a device that sorta reminded Jack of a plastic milk bottle, if a bit wider and softer. She guessed it was a BUI.

“N-nah,” Jack muttered, looking back down at the tailor. Without thinking, Jack moved over to Rarity's side to give Chylene space to work with—she held the woman's hand and looked grimly to the floor.

Chylene inserted the BUI over Rarity's mouth and started to slowly clench and unclench it. “You need to take care of yourself too, Jack,” the pink-haired girl whispered, not looking away from her own work.

“Not 'til Rarity's fine. Then I'll get patched up.”

“Well, simply from a medical perspective, the turbocurine should only keep the skeletal system paralyzed for about four hours or so.”

“An' after that?”

Chylene offered the smallest smile under her worry-stricken features. “As long as she wasn't exposed to any other drug, that's it. She'll make a full recovery.”

Jack cradled Rarity's hand tightly against her chest. “Thank God.”

Will spoke up from near the door. “And if there were other drugs mixed in?”

The pink-haired woman gave a tiny shrug. “Then it's a case-by-case basis.” She glanced over to Jack after a moment. “Though just from a brief look over her, I d-don't think she's physically injured, aside from the temporary paralysis. So I'm sure she's fine.”

Jack nodded and continued to sit by Rarity. Now that the tailor was alright, the farmer was starting to again feel the solid, agonizing burn of her ruined face. Sucking in a breath, she briefly ran a finger over her disfigured nose, hissing slightly at the light touch of her hand.

“Apple,” Will ordered, “come here.”

Jack rose, putting Rarity's hand gently to the ground, and took a few steps towards Will. “Yeah?”

“You should have told someone where you were going,” he sternly said, staring down at the tall woman.

“Told Gilda--”

“You told her you were going to check out the dormitories. That's not a specific room, Apple.”

Jack clutched her face, feeling a throbbing headache coming for her. It was like the cherry on top of sundae. “Didn't know I was gonna come here 'til it happened, mostly.”

Iron Will gave a grunt and crossed his arms in thought. “A whim?”

“A whim,” Jack agreed. It was only a half-truth, but still better than no truth at all.

“Lucky girl,” he replied, scratching his shaggy facial hair.

The blonde paused, then, after a swallow, she limply gestured at her face. “This look lucky?”

Will uncrossed his arms. “We'll get you back to winning beauty pageants in no time, Apple. All we got to—”

He shut up mid sentence, launching his hand with the speed of a whip-crack towards Jack's nose. In one fluid move he squeezed it in between his massive fingers and pulled Jack's nose right and up.

Jack heard a popping, grinding noise that felt like it came from the inside of her brain. Pain erupted from her skull, sending waves of agony down her face. If it hurt when Trixie broke it, then Will messing with it was a living hell. She cried out, clutching the furiously bleeding nose in one hand and collapsing down to her knees. Tears ran freely down both her eyes as she glanced up, asking Will a question he didn't even have to hear to answer.

“Better to set broken bones as soon as you can, before they can start to heal wrong. Sorry, Apple,” Will emphatically said. 

“Bastard,” Jack choked out, trying to rise but stumbling as her legs gave out. Will caught her and sat her back down.

“Rest,” he said.

Jack shook her head, still clutching her nose and trying to stand again.

“Twila will take care of the soul-folk. Rest.”

“Let Twila do all the work?! Hell no!” Jack snapped back, rising to her feet.

“And what are you going to do—bleed on her? Sit, Apple. That's an order.” Will gave a gesture to the ground, staring sternly at his student.

Jack opened her mouth, then shut it with a frown. She sat, hunched over and staring across the room at Rarity. “The hell was I supposed ta do, Will?” she asked after a moment's pause, putting a hand to her eyes. “I got played like a fiddle, there wasn't a damn thing I coulda done different.”

William swallowed hard at seeing her pain. “Apple...”

She scowled at the giant. “An' I've done my best under ya. I learned a good amount on fightin'. Even then, I couldn't lay a finger on that girl, now Rarity's...” Jack hunched further over and drew a heavy breath. “God.”

“Rarity's going to be fine. You heard the doc over there.” Will pointed over to Chylene with a tilt of his chin. The norfolk took a few steps, heading towards the hallway. “I'm gonna go get a nurse and inform some of the patrols what happened. Sit tight, Apple. It's close to over.”

Jack didn't even bother looking up.


000


A loud pop announced Twila's presence to the empty room as she materialized just to the side of Trixie's bed.

It had taken her a bit longer than she would have liked on getting here—she had never been in the magician's room; as such, she had misjudged the teleportation trajectory and ended up at a wrong spot on campus. She quickly scanned the room and noticed the disarray. Drawers lay gutted and open, shelves were swept bare, save for a few bottles on the floor, and dozens of books across different subjects were scattered to the winds.

Trixie was on the run.

Twila shut her eyes and focused. Eliminated all thoughts of the outside world until she could feel magic pooling throughout her body. She let her aura seep out, until she found a small, blue trail in the darkness of her mind, no wider than a ribbon. She mentally pulled it and nodded.

Trixie's aura. The showwoman had either tried to suppress it but was too exhausted to completely seal it off, or was low enough on magical strength that she hadn't covered her tracks and was just trying to get as far away as possible before being chased.

Either way, Twila found herself at an advantage. With another brief gesture, she vanished from the room and began the chase.


000


Trixie walked through the fields, irritated at the clumps of grass that clung and tugged at her stylish purple robes. While the road had been tempting, she knew it wouldn't be long before people began looking for her—best to keep away from any possible witnesses until she got on board a train at St. Charles.

As she climbed  a hill, she glanced behind her and nearly froze.

Not even five hundred feet away was Twila Shields. Banged up, winded, but determination was etched on her ebony face like a carving.

Trixie briefly gave thought to running, but knew she just didn't have enough energy in her to do it. Instead, she turned towards the academy's second best student and threw her arms out theatrically.

“Something Trixie can do for you?” the magician flippantly called out, her cloak flapping in the evening breeze. Thunder rumbled across the dark, cloudy sky.

“Give up,” Twila shouted back, taking a few steps towards the base of the hill.

“Why?” Trixie asked as she stared down at the soul-folk. “Trixie will be arrested, and sentenced to death, when she has such a promising future ahead of her. I refuse. What you should do is walk away.”

“I am certainly not letting you leave.”

Trixie looked down on Twila from her vantage point. “Then I'll kill you where you stand.” The soul-folk snapped her hand forward, splaying her fingers out. The earth standing before Twila began to shift and distort—Trixie threw her hand to the side, and a torrent of mud swallowed Twila whole, encasing her in wet, slimy dirt before changing directions and hauling her inside the hill, like a giant shoveling food into its waiting maw. Once the earth had settled and retreated back to its original location, Trixie adjusted her hat, and continued walking.


000


Twila was coated with dirt; pressed in from every angle in her earthen coffin. Her chest burned from the breath she had been holding ever since getting caught by the other's spell, and her eyes were blinded in the pitch dark ground.

Spells. Small ones—remember the injured arm, Twila thought. First, she focused her magic into tracing Trixie. She felt the magician's aura below her feet and slowly moving right.

I'm upside-down, Twila thought. She flexed her fingers, channeling magic into her digits and  wiggling her hand from pinkie to thumb, then back again. Slowly, the dirt got caught up like it was in a gravitational pull. It circled around her body, shifting clockwise until it left a small cocoon of air around her hands and mouth to breath, which she inhaled greedily.

She had to get out of here—the air wouldn't last long. She needed out and she needed out now. 

The soul-folk prepared a teleportation spell, but reconsidered. That spell might play right into Trixie's plan—the woman might be anticipating something of that sort.

Twila gave only one more brief thought. If Trixie was prepared for her just flashing out, maybe she needed to do something a bit more low key...

The scholarly woman channeled magic into her good hand and watched, fascinated as it almost instantly began to change. Her delicate fingers hardened, becoming calloused and leathery. Her palm bowed in, becoming shovel-like as her fingernails stretched into talons that would make any griffon-folk envious. Twila began digging, effortlessly tossing dirt and rotating herself upright. She tunneled out of the base of the hill, ending up just a few paces away from Trixie, who glanced behind her in surprise at Twila's sudden ambush. Twila wasted no time morphing her hand back to normal and opening her palm towards the silver-haired woman. A small hum, then a force generated from her palm, launching a ball of condensed air that cracked Trixie across the eye. The woman launched off her feet from the blow, spinning wildly and landing hard into the dirt. She weakly rose in a huff as Twila freed herself from the hole and clamored to her feet.

“Why can't you just lie down and die?” the silver haired girl barked, clasping her face in a hand.

“You first,” Twila retorted. Trixie's grin threatened to overtake her entire face. With a swift gesture of her arm she made a sweeping motion in front of her just as Twila launched another ball of air. Her projectile came within a foot of Trixie before hitting a soft, invisible wall that flashed blue as her spell impacted it.

Shield spell. Figures. Twila scowled, slowly circling the woman.

Trixie reached into her pocket, producing a vial filled with a glowing blue powder. She stared defiantly at Twila as she uncorked the concoction and inhaled it deeply through her nostril.

The effect was almost instant. Her eyes snapped open and her hands involuntarily clenched, shattering the vial in her gloved hand. She gazed down at Twila.

“I'm running late. What do you say about finishing this?”

Twila didn't reply, rather, she continued to observe Trixie and cycle through what spells she could call forward in a moment's notice.

The magician raised her hands above her head and gestured to the heavens. Twila fired another halfhearted sphere of air. It impacted against the barrier and fell lamely to the ground. That thing wasn't going to break without major force—something Twila couldn't do with only one good hand. She'd have to wait until Trixie manually disabled the shield by walking through it or by channeling another spell.

It all came down to what happened next.

The heavens turned a dark shade of red—the ground underneath Twila's feet lost its luster, turning a charred, grimy black the consistency of soot. She stared hard at Trixie, not sure what exactly was happening. This wasn't an illusion spell, she knew that just from instinct. Something was coming. Something big.

Trixie stood like a mountain, her arms still wide and splayed towards the heavens, and her hat and clothes blew violently in an unfelt breeze. Despite the wind, it was quiet. Not the still quiet of a fall evening outside, rather, this was the dead silence of a closed library, the empty noise of a morgue. It was as if life itself had left the premise.

In a roundabout way, she was right.

Dozens of small spots around the field erupted, spraying dirt across the dying grass. From the newly-formed holes came something that froze Twila in place.

The rotting, decayed remains of beasts of all shapes and sizes began to slowly claw their way out of their earthen prison. Foxes, wolves, cattle and a single man all rose and stood dumbly on their boney hooves and feet, staring blankly ahead with their partially melted eyes and paying no mind to the entrails dripping down their maggot infested skin.

Only one word ran through Twila's mind as she took in the abominations in front of her.

How?

Necromancy was a high-level magic that required an alchemical ring around the body, in addition to protective salts and wards. For Trixie to use it not once, but over twelve times, and have them under her command...

“You see, don't you?!” Trixie shouted, fatigue giving her voice a weak slur. “You see how your power is nothing compared to mine?!” She thrust her hands towards Twila; the army of the dead began to limp towards her, each twisting and jittering like puppets on limp string. Twila's brain went into overdrive, tearing through the spells she could cast without looking into her Dreamscape like she was possessed, going through every possible choice on how to approach such monsters.

I should conjure a silver item... cross, sword, something like that. The residual dark magic tainting their skin is easily absorbed by silver, weakening them considerably.

No, she argued to herself, clenching her fist. Not with that many of them. There's no way I could fight that many off at a time, even with a blade. Not enough time for a salt ward. Not enough time for anything.

There's one thing... She clenched her teeth tightly together as she realized the perfect spell for this, taught to her by the Daywalker herself. The only question was if she'd be able to even move after completing the spell. It was a crapshoot, but it was better than waiting for the creatures to tear into her flesh.

She pulled her hand back to her chest and breathed out, trying her best to calm her racing heart. If she was going to use a technique Celestia created, she'd have to focus and gain tranquility. She took another breath and shut her eyes as images flew through her thoughts. Caballo's sun tenderly smiling at her during their lessons together. The few brief, fleeting moments when Celestia took Twila's hand into hers. The sweet, delicate noise of her laugh.

She opened her eyes and limply extended her hand above her head. She felt magic delicately kiss her fingertips and settle into her palm, the consistency like a ball of mist. It soon gathered, taking shape into a golden sphere of light lazily swimming in her hand. The ball expanded, changing from a baseball to a bowling ball in seconds. When it grew to the size of a beach ball, and Twila could feel the strain of magic in her bones, she struck, bringing the ball of energy to her chest and pointing her palm towards the parade of abominations.

The magic came out like a slow, delicate vapor, expanding into a wall of misty, golden light that crawled along the air. The creatures marching towards her stepped into the advancing cone of light.

The effect was almost instant. The light settled on them and began dissolving their rotting flesh, burning the monster's bodies in righteous, cleansing flame, leaving nothing but blackened skeletons that quickly crackled and turned to ash. The magic throbbing through her arm strained Twila; she sunk to a knee, but refused to cancel the spell. The rest of the monsters marched forward, like cattle to a butcher—meeting their fate in neat little rows. When the last one, the man, collapsed, so did Twila, pitching forward and landing hard on her chest. She tried to rise, managing to get one foot under her before collapsing again, rolling onto her back and staring at the sky. She could feel a wetness trickle down an eye—she had seen enough people overuse their magical powers to know that it wasn't water.

Twila heard slow footsteps hobble towards her. Trixie came into her view, looking every bit as ragged as Twila. Black veins pulsed and all but glowed from her sweat as she stared down at Twila. Blood ran freely down one eye—she ignored it, swaying slightly on her feet as she forced herself to stand.

“Th-that wasn't terrible,” Trixie panted out, blinking rapidly and swaying like a tree in the wind. “I had expected my spell to finish you off. The fact that you're still...” She shook her head and snapped her fingers. A small dagger made of pure energy sprang to life in her hands, its blue, sputtering aura sporadically lighting the night. “Doesn't matter. Trixie's ending this.”

She brought the dagger back and launched forward; Twila gestured weakly with her hand. Pain shot in rolling waves throughout her body as she conjured a spell. For a brief moment, Twila thought she had overwhelmed her magic too much and wouldn't have any left to channel, but her powers came to her, albeit muted. Tepid. A small shield, like Trixie had conjured earlier, blocked the magical dagger, deflecting it away and causing it to dissipate from Trixie's hand. She growled in response, kicking Twila hard in the ribs. Twila gasped but was too weak to even move her arms to defend herself.

Trixie summoned another blade, this one far more potent and wicked looking. “It's over,” she growled.

Twila did her best to remain composed. “For you,” she quietly said, taking in slow, pained breaths as she mentally cut off the magic that flowed in her body, trying to avoid straining herself any more than she already had. The woman was lucky enough that the shield spell she had cast didn't send her over the edge of her magical limits and into death's clutches.

Luck that Trixie didn't seem to share. Her other eye watered, then left a red trail down her pale skin. She stood over Twila, the blade hoisted above her as frozen as her body and staring straight ahead at an unseen object in the distance—a shiver ran through her as a two twin trails of blood ran down her nose and the corners of her mouth. The magic dagger she had conjured vanished and her eyes lobbed upwards as her body limply slumped forward.

She lay for what felt like hours as the wind blew over her body. Shadows crept and danced along her vision as the rain began falling. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw movement.

A man, obscured by the darkness. He limped forward, hunched over and smelling like mold. As he came to her, she recognized his blond hair. His one blue eye. The small burn mark on his chin.

Faust. Or, what was left of him. His half-rotted, skeletal face grinned down at her as he leaned forward, his bony hand outstretched and slowly approaching her cheek.

It was an illusion. It was an illusion It was an illusion itwasanillusion, she frantically thought, the sight turning her brain into mush. Trixie tried to struggle, but didn’t have even an ounce of strength left in her. She couldn't even scream as he touched her with his cold, warmth-stealing hand.

It was with a whimper that the Great and Powerful fell.
> Ronnel
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

	The sound of Jack beating a punching bag to an inch of its life filled the musty room. Her graceful strikes rained against the bag with the precision of a surgeon. Jabs, crosses, hooks. She performed without any mental input, her mind far away from where she stood.

It had been three of the longest days of her life. Eventually fearing the worst, Will had gone searching for Twila. She had been found catatonic, laying limply in the rain alongside the body of Trixie. Once Twila was able to speak again, she said Trixie had overused her magic—more or less cooked her brain, from what Jack could gather from Twila's extensive vocabulary. A bit of magic transfer from Celestia and the girl made a decent recovery, with instructions to not use her magic over the next few days. With that in mind, she moved over to something else to eat away at her time. Twila  had taken to reading over everything she could regarding the late Trixie: notes, grades, her letters—anything she could get her hands on. The farmer should have been worried; after all, Trixie had been a necromancer according to Twila. Yet, she trusted the soul-folk; girl had a good head on her. Whatever she was looking for regarding Trixie wouldn't involve something wicked.

Jack twisted her body, dodging an imaginary blow and countering with a hard elbow to the bag's side. Her thoughts turned to the other victim of that night.

Rarity.

She had been taken to Camelot and was currently being treated at one of the best hospitals in Caballo. That was all Jack knew. They were restricting visitation to family only, and the only information she could pry from anyone over the past few days was simple lip service of 'stable, but not improving.'

Jack scowled, slamming her fists even harder against the bag in an effort to drown out her anger. She hadn't been sleeping; every time she shut her eyes, the sight of Rarity's limp, delicate body being hauled onto a stretcher woke her up again. There had been one night of rest, thanks to some medication Will had smuggled to her, but that was a fleeting thing that filled her with visions of fantastical nightmares, gray beach sands, garish monsters...

Jack paused, breathing heavily as she put her hands to the sides of her cotton wife-beater then lifted her shirttail and took to wiping her face, wincing slightly at the unusual architecture of it. She could take off the bandage soon—maybe even would later today—the docs were astounded at how fast her nose was healing; she'd need to be careful for a few weeks, thing was still tender, but thanks to Will's quick actions, it had set 'like a glove on a hand,' according to one doctor.

The woman sighed, letting her shirt drop and reaching up to touch the elephant in the room. She ran a thumb along the lined off-white dip in her face that stretched across almost her whole cheek, ending a hair's breadth from her mouth.

Jack felt like a contradiction. Her hands, as she had experienced before, could take a life as easily as breathing. But when it came to protecting Rarity, she couldn't do a single thing—she was a helpless child. If Trixie hadn't showboated and toyed with her, there was no doubt in Jack's mind that she'd be dead.

“A warrior has scars, Apple. There's no shame in an honor mark,” a deep voice to her side said.

Jack hid her surprise at Will's stealthy arrival with a derisive snort. “Some warrior. Rarity's in the hospital, an' I couldn't even get a hit off.”

“But she's not dead. Neither are you.”

She turned to face the giant; he sat inside the boxing ring, resting his meaty arms over the ropes and letting his legs dangle over the edge. Jack wordlessly stepped up and joined him nearby, waiting for him to continue.

Will stared straight ahead, his scruffy and scarred face hundreds of miles away. “Norfolk have a word: Ronnel.”

She shrugged, waiting on him to continue. “What's it mean?”

“Wheel.” Will looked over his palm with his unbandaged eye as he clenched and unclenched a hand. “But there are a few different meanings behind the word for us. Ronnel is a life philosophy many of my people follow.” Will put his hand down and glanced Jack's way. “You travel life and become stronger, no matter what stops you along the way. No matter what knocks you down, Apple, you rise from it and march. Wagon wheels along the Path. We take the Path, and the Path takes us. A simple fact there, with no mess or fuss.” He put a paternal hand to her shoulder. “You simply march on. The Path will show you the way.”

She shut her eyes briefly in thought. “I jus' ain't sure, Will... ain't never felt this—hell, t-this weak before. My life's one thing, but I'm scared fer Rarity.”

“If you think you're weak, then we'll work until things don't look bleak.” He pointed a finger at Jack. “You're wanting to protect the girl, right?”

She nodded, not even a pause or hesitation. “I ain't lettin' no one hurt her again.” Her conviction quickly fell. “But what can I do ta stop 'em? I ain't no soul-folk, Will. The other day, she coulda jus'...” Jack looked down at her calloused hands. “Anythin' I can do, one a them can an' then some.”

“Wings and spells—“

“Don't make a man. I know, I know. Ya said that the other day,” Jack dismissed with an irritated frown. Will smiled slightly at the woman.

“You remind me of Jiranda.”

Jack ran the name through her brain. “Yer wife?”

Will slowly nodded. “She used to get so annoyed at me telling her crap like that. Deep down though, I think she enjoyed it.” He rose from his seat and stared at the farmer. “She would of liked you.”

“I'm sure I woulda liked her too.”

The man seemed like he was going to say something, then quickly changed his mind, rolling his shoulder instead. He shuffled on his feet, then glanced at the farmer once more. “Apple, I've never been one to beat around the bush: I want you to be my personal apprentice.”

Jack crossed her arms and quirked a brow. She spoke low. “Will, are ya jus' pityin' me?”

“If my pity was yours to take, I woulda baked you a damn cake.”

“Then why me? Why not Gilda, or Dash, or, or, anyone else?”

He put his hands to his hips. “Because you've got the mindset—you're a warrior through and through.”

“Fer the love-a...” Jack held the back of her right hand up and pointed at her Mark. “Ya see this? Apples. I live on an' apple farm, Will. Ain't too hard ta add up.”

He smirked. “You were a late bloomer when it came to it, I bet.”

Jack scratched at her head. “Last one in my class. But how'd ya...?”

Will pointed a finger straight up. “Because I think it's a mark with a deeper meaning than what you're giving it credit for. From what I've studied about the folk race, most of the late carriers have a more symbolic relationship with their mark then someone who's, hell, I dunno, good at hairdressing.”

“I ain't the type ta go deep. Ya know that. 'Sides,” she continued, standing up herself and moving to take a drink from the water bottle she carried nearby. “How deep can ya go with apples?”

“I bet when you got it, you had three members of your immediate family.”

She stopped once more, nearly spitting out her drink. “Will, yer startin' ta scare me. Yeah. Bloom had jus' been born 'fore I headed to Manhattan.”

“Do you remember what you were thinking about when you...” He held up the back of his hand towards her, clenching and unclenching it.

She gave pause, tilting her head back in heavy contemplation. “Hell. If I'm rememberin' right, was jus' thinkin' 'bout how I didn't fit in Manhattan, an' was confused 'bout where I could be accepted at, warts 'n' all. Then I got ta thinkin' about Granny an Mac—I knew she had the know-how on takin' care of a kid, an' Mac was always pretty good on that kinda stuff too, but...” Jack closed her water bottle and put it to the side, before reaching down to throw on her button-up shirt. “Guess I was kinda worried 'bout 'em, especially with harvest comin' up so quick-like.” She gave an arced gesture with a palm above her head. “Next thing I see is this bright rainbow. An' the thing is... it's pointin' home.” She worked her way carefully up each button, still thinking about her experience. “Guess I took it as a sign—Paul on Damascus road an' all that. Next thing I know...” She shrugged, glancing at her hand. “Ain't much of a story, but it's what happened.”

“And it tells me all I need to know. That mark on your hand isn't for you. It's for your family.”

She narrowed her brow as she grabbed her bottle and a wallet, which she quickly rammed into her back pocket. “Hey now. I'll have ya know I'm a pretty damn good farmer. Marks don't lie.”

“They don't,” he agreed, moving behind the ring and bending down. He pulled up a small satchel and began thumbing through what looked like dozens of notes and letters. “Which is exactly why I want to guide you down the Path. Because I think your talent's more than picking apples.” He gave a grunt in triumph, pulling out a single note from the ceaseless letter pile that poured from his bag. “I think your talent's about taking care of your own, be it through a plowshare or a sword. You can do anything, Apple.” Will held out the paper to Jack, who took it with a raised brow. She froze. On the front was her name, with the unmistakable wide, looping, and crisp penmanship of Rarity. Jack tore into the envelope and began reading.

Sorry for not contacting you until now, darling. The doctors simply abhorred me doing anything more than complete bedrest. I wanted to tell you that, aside from a lingering cough and an occasional failure to cast magic, I am well. According to my doctors, even these minor symptoms will go the wayside within a month or two at the most.

To get to the point, as I'm sure you wish me to do, I am announcing my arrival back to Saint Charles. The train should arrive at six o'clock on the evening you receive this note.

An obvious, hesitant pause, then the lettering became a bit more self-conscious and subdued.

I pray to see you there, Jack. It would do my heart quite well to see another familiar face during these troubling times, and I long for the comfort of your arms enveloping my frame.

With the greatest of expectations, 

Rarity.

Jack read the letter, then reread it, then reread it once more. It was good hearing she was ok. Hell, better than good, it was some of the best news she had heard lately, even if the last part had been a bit sappy. Will gave a chuckle at Jack's expression.

“Wouldn't have expected you and someone like her to be... you know...” he said, reaching deeply once more into his satchel.

Jack gave a slow nod in agreement. “Neither did I. 'Least at first.” She folded the letter and put it into her breast pocket. “She's got a lot more to her than jus' bein' a rich seamstress, ya know?”

“Mmm,” he grunted, pulling out a thin white robe. He walked over and held it out to the farmer.

“What's this?” Jack asked, glancing at the clothing.

“Well,” Will began, scratching at a cheek and smirking, “the weapon I wanted to show you is here.”

“An' the robe's used how?”

His smile dropped as he stared at the woman. “A weapon ceremony's an important thing for norfolks, especially weapons that have been around for as long as this one. I had to pull some favors just to have you included. Most events are norfolk exclusive, save for partners and offspring.”

Jack gave a nod. “So jus' toss on the robe an' we'll both hit it. Gotcha.”

He shook his head. “Gotta clean up first, Apple.”

The farmer rolled her eyes. “I can't stink that bad, Will—“

“It's symbolic, participants wash themselves before a ceremony,” he instantly said. “Like you're cleaning your burdens away.”

It dawned on the farmer; she nodded. “Ah, I gotcha.”

Will turned, heading towards the door. “Anyway, just go to the hot springs, meditate in the water for a while, then meet me back by the fountain. Alright?”

“Alright.”


000


Jack traveled north from the modest room that housed the academy's boxing ring, walking down a dirt path for about five minutes, until she came to a long circular wall lined with numbered doors. Steam rose from behind the wall, and Jack could hear the quiet, tranquil splash of water, alongside a few whispered conversations. Nearby the wooden barricade was a booth, where a blonde haired girl in a gray sweater stood behind the counter, completely oblivious to the world. Jack approached her.

“Hey, uh, this where I go ta get a station fer the hot spring?”

She seemed to come back from her daze and glance up at Jack. “Yeah. Sorry. Was just distracted.” The woman gestured behind her. “Yep! Numbered for your convenience, even!” She reached under the counter and pulled out two binders then cracked one open, revealing two palm sized cards. “We've been busy—I only got two stations left. Nine ok?”

“Number's a number,” Jack replied.

The caretaker quickly moved one of the two cards into an almost filled-to-bursting binder.

“Great! Enjoy yourself!” she proclaimed, smiling broadly at Jack.

Jack headed over to the doorways and wordlessly started to count over. Once she found her number, she entered and locked the door behind her.

It was about five minutes later that the blonde realized she had Jack's check-in card upside down.


000


The farmer shut the door behind her, finding herself in a small changing room. Jack stripped and crammed her clothes into one of the lockers set to the side. After stretching a bit, she walked farther into the room and rounded a corner leading to the spring proper. She came to the small archway leading outside and froze, her mouth dropping in shock.

Gilda lay half submerged in water, her head thrown back and her arms resting along the rim of the water. That, however, wasn't what drew Jack's attention.

Behind Gilda's back, spread out for the world to see, was a pair of wings. Not the ethereal, conjured wings of the sky-folk, but the connected, feathered wings of the griffons.

“W-what?” Jack whispered to herself, taking an unsure step back. Gilda lobbed her head forward at the noise, yawning.

They both stared at one-another for a moment, before Gilda awoke fully.

“What the hell are you doing here?!” she shouted, all but erupting out of the water and stomping towards Jack.

“I...” the farmer trailed off. She paused. “Wait, no. This ain't my fault. The receptionist said this stall here was open.”

“That dumb bitch,” Gilda snarled, spitting to the side. “I never should have came here while there was a temp worker minding the place.”

Jack shook her head, still overwhelmed at what she saw. “Yer a griffon... but, I mean, ya don't look the part. Yer—”

Gilda stepped closer, glowering. “What? Too brown? Always hear about how we're nothing but pale skins?” She glanced down at her nude body. “Dye job.” The woman put a finger in her mouth, showcasing her sharp teeth. “The fangs? Filed 'em.” She continued, splaying out her fingers. “Same as the claws.”

“Why?” Jack asked, narrowing her brow. “Are you tryin' ta—“

“Why the hell you think?!” she shouted, stepping even closer to Jack and shaking a finger up at the woman. “You have any idea how my people get treated in Caballo? No. You don't. You don't have a damn idea what I've gone through.” She gestured behind Jack. “You've seen what Will thinks of griffon-folk, same as almost any other person around here. If anyone found out—if anyone looked deep enough into my records? I'm done. So don't even think about telling anyone this or I'll wipe you off the face of the earth,” she warned, pushing her finger hard into Jack's chest.

“I don't like bein' threatened,” Jack countered, throwing Gilda's finger to the side then clenching her fists tightly. “'Sides, we both know ya ain't takin' me down like we are.”

Gilda opened her mouth, then thought better of it, closing it quickly. A weary resignation spread over her body.

“What do you want?” she quietly asked, looking towards the ground.

The farmer paused on seeing Gilda's complete change. “What do ya mean?”

She glared at Jack defiantly, tears brimming at her eyes. “What else, you vulture? To not say anything. Money, or... or...?”

Jack raised her hands up. “Nothin'. I ain't that kinda gal.”

Gilda scowled, wiping at her eyes. “Everyone has a price, Apple, what's yours?”

“I ain't fer sale.” The farmer crossed her arms over her breasts. “Take that money idea and blow it.”

The griffon-folk looked over Jack, her face an unreadable mask. “Then you're gonna...”

“I ain't sayin' nothin' ta nobody. Yer an asshole, but if ya think I'd go outta my way ta ruin yer life, ya got another thing comin'.”

“Why?”

“It ain't the Christian thing ta do, I ain't the type ta play dirty, I figure everyone's got at least one or two skeletons they ain't wanna show ta nobody—take yer damn pick.”

Gilda pursed her lips, seeming to want to snap again at Jack. She instead gave a resigned sigh, turning and weakly walking back to the spring water. Jack couldn't help but shudder at seeing the stretched, jutting peaks of skin that connected Gilda's wings to her shoulder blades. The griffon-folk stepped inside, sinking into the water, then gestured for Jack to join her.

The farmer complied, sitting on the opposite end of the spring.

Gilda crossed her arms in deep thought as she stared at the water.

“What a lot of people don't realize is that us griffons were some of the first to suffer under 'The Retainers of the Wind.'” She gave an even, emotionless stare towards the farmer, her yellow eyes keenly looking over the woman. “I'm sure Will's mentioned them to you.”

“Jus' that they were a cult or somethin'.”

“You Caballens called it the Cult of the griffon... makes us sound like we were all in on it, yeah?” Gilda offered a wry smile. “My dad was an officer.”

Jack gave a small nod of her head. “So he was part of the problem then.”

“Kinda...” she admitted, glancing to the side. “But not willingly. He was a smart guy—part of a military division before the cult rose to power. They told him my ma's life would be in danger if he didn't help the effort.” She crossed her legs and wiped casually at her nose. “He did what he had to.”

Jack slowly nodded as the water lapped at her stomach, waiting for the woman to continue.

Gilda's large wings fluttered slightly as she looked grimly to the sky. “Where'd it get my old man? Hung for war crimes. He went down like a damn villain and for what? Doing the right thing?” She turned her head and spat once more. “That's why you keep your head low. Don't stick your neck out for anything.”

The farmer still remained silent, unsure what to say to Gilda's outlook.

“Ma got me out of the country. I-I guess she didn't see much of a future for me there.” The briefest flicker of a hurt smile crossed her mouth, then retreated. “Learned real quick you guys aren't fans of the wings. Or the other stuff.”

“Guess it explains why yer always wearin' heavy clothes 'round yer chest,” Jack quietly said.

“Keeping them wrapped hurts like a bitch—it's why I'm here almost every day. Hot water helps.” The woman leaned back a bit more, submerging her upper back with a small groan. “I do what I can to not be obvious, no claws and the skin show that, but I... I can't cut 'em off. That's just too damn much.” She scowled again, shaking her head. “I woulda killed to fly with Isabelle when we were younger. Woulda killed to do a lot of things with her.”

Jack pursed her lips. “There's still time fer that.” She met Gilda's gaze. “Talk ta her. Dash ain't the kind ta throw away an apology, ya hear?”

“She won't listen, hick. That's why I tried to have you talk to her for me.”

“Make her listen an'... maybe tell her 'bout this?”

The woman shook her head in disgust. “Hell no, man. She'll think I'm a freak!”

“She already thinks ya go out of yer way ta hurt her friends—freak's an upgrade ta that.” Jack gave a stern point of her finger. “Give it ta her straight. It's the only thing ya can do.”

Gilda sighed, but nodded anyway, running a finger over the surface of the pool. Jack decided that she had had enough; she rose, placing a hand over her hair and wringing out a bit of the excess water.

“Ya got my word: I ain't sayin' nothin' ta noone 'bout yer...” She gave a gesture towards Gilda's wings then turned, heading towards the changing room.

“Hey, Apple,” the gray-haired woman called out as Jack entered the threshold of the locker rooms. Gilda offered the closest thing to a smile Jack had seen; a cross between a grimace and a smirk.  “For being so square, you're not half-bad.”

“An' I think there's maybe a bit buried in ya that's alright,” Jack concluded with a nod.
> Reunion
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

	Jack ran through the school grounds, an arm cradling her clothes as she tightened the band around the robe she wore. The knot she had tied earlier had come loose a few moments ago, giving a passing boy more than an eyeful, and she sure didn't want a repeat case. It was with a relieved breath when she found Will, wearing a surprisingly well-tailored red robe, pacing alongside the fountain. He spared a glance her way, then paused, doing a double-take.

“About time. Was thinking you had decided not to come.”

“Said I was gonna,” Jack replied. “Already hatin' this robe, though.”

“Never was a fan either,” Will agreed. “But you gotta do what you gotta do.”

“I'm changin' after this thing's done, by the way.” She lifted the clothes in her hand slightly. “Ain't wearin' this thing any longer than I gotta.”


000


Will led Jack into the academy's dance hall, where the low glow of light from dozens of candles lined the floor all the way to the center of the room; as the two walked shoulder to shoulder in the dimness, Celestia and a wizened, old norfolk woman came into appearance. Behind them, dozens of norfolk men in masks. Will's men. 

The woman rose from the large, coffin-sized box she sat on and leaned heavily on a walking stick. She stared at Jack through rheumy eyes.

“Who stands before me?” she asked, her voice a strange mixture of sweet, meek and powerful. Reminded Jack of her grandma during her better days.

“I'm—“ the farmer began, only to get elbowed lightly in the ribs.

“Before you stands Jack of the Apple clan, daughter of Johnny and Aldonza, and future protege of William Kalaallit,” Iron Will proclaimed.

“Why does she stand before me?” the old woman asked.

“She seeks to carry Durendal.”

Jack raised a brow and subtly looked towards Will, then Celestia, utterly clueless to what was going on.

Play along. They're going to do a short, abridged ceremony for us, the unmistakable voice of Celestia said, her words bouncing and echoing through Jack's mind. The farmer glanced again at the Daywalker. Celestia pursed her lips and clasped her hands tightly together at the front of her armor, sparing not a glance to Jack.

“The blade crafted by our far-traveling kinsmen, carried by your father, his, and his before. Why are you granting it to one such as her?”

“She carries the heart of the norfolk in her, despite her lack of pure blood.” Will reached to Jack and gave a firm, proud shake of her shoulder. “Ronnel, Old Mother. She marches on the Path. As such, I want her to carry my legacy.”

The old norfolk nodded, a smile slowly creeping across her ancient face. “Our Kalaallit sings the songs of his father. You have my blessing, as well as the blessings of your family.” 

She curtsied and gave a small tap to her left shoulder as Celestia mimicked the expression. Iron Will clenched a hand over his heart and gave a small bow, followed by a tap to the back of his hand,  Jack followed him step-by-step. When she completed the gesture, Will's grim expression broke slightly.

“That's the masculine gesture of thanks, you should have followed Celestia and the Patron's lead.”

“Oh.”

The old woman smiled and gestured to her side, towards the large box on the floor. “Will, if you would do the honors.”

He moved over to the wooden chest and lifted its top clear off, then pulled out something that made Jack visibly pause.

Cradled reverently in the giant's hands was a massive, oversized sword, immaculate and flawless from its large, palm-sized blue with gold-trim pommel, to its wide, thick, mirror-polished blade. The handle was a yellowed spiral of metal, and its handguard reminded Jack of the open mandible of an ant.

Her first thought was how beautiful the weapon was; the sword was a far cry from the dull weaponry she had been training with. Her second thought, one that was heading frantically towards the forefront of her mind:

How would anyone but a norfolk use that?

Jack was no shrimp. She stood taller than every woman in her classes; could claim that for most men too, yet she felt like a midget next to Iron Will and the blade he carried.

The giant rested the tip of the sword on the high-polished wooden floor, leaving a single blemish on the flooring's flawless body.

Bet the guy that cleans this sucker jus' woke up in a cold sweat, Jack thought.

“Take it,” Will instructed, resting his hand easily on the guard.

Jack stepped forward, wincing when she saw the weapon's pommel went almost to her hairline. She grabbed the handle and tensed up, lifting with all her might and nearly falling backwards. Will snapped to action, grabbing her by the arm and hoisting her up.

“What the hell are you doing?”

“I-it's light,” Jack marveled, holding the blade with one hand and slowly twisting it as she examined it from every angle.

“See?” Will smugly asked the other two observing them, a proud grin on his face. “This is what Caballan metalworkings get you—poor girl didn't know what a real two handed sword was like.”

“Do what now?” Jack asked, briefly pulled away from her autopsy of the weapon.

Will took a step back, running a thumb over his nose. “You've been around shoddy craftsmanship, Apple. A one-handed weapon here weighs about ten pounds—you realize how heavy that is for a weapon like that?” Throwing his arms to the air, he exclaimed. “By my ancestors! That's more than a Scottish claymore or Zweihander from Germany! It's like nobody here can understand that those things were crafted for speed and finesse in addition to their power, no matter what a Caballan smith would—“

Celestia coughed, breaking Will away from his passionate lecture. The man scratched at his unruly hair.

“Iron Will apologizes. He simply gets carried away in regards to weaponry.” He offered a youthful, almost boyish smile towards his student. “Take a few swings. Let me see your form.”

Jack nodded, giving the blade a small flourish as she adjusted it in her grip. She planted her boots into a spread-open stance and gave a hard horizontal swing, then quickly took a step forward, bringing the blade over her head and down. She stopped easily at her waist, still silently amazed at the weapon's lack of heft. However, she noticed something at the very base of the sword's handle. An odd, miniscule gear that reminded her of a flint lighter Macintosh used to own.

“Hey Will? What's this do?” she asked, casually pulling the gear downward.

“Wait! Don't—“

A loud grinding noise assaulted her senses and the extended prongs of the guard snapped inward, tightly squeezing the very base of the sword. On the flats of the blade, a blue marking appeared, almost instantly traveling from the prongs and snaking its way up the metal. When the blue markings reached the center of the blade and the tip of the coloration curved inward, Jack felt an almost painful amount of weight fill her hands—she toppled forward, being caught by Will's powerful arms, but losing the grip of her blade. It slammed hard to the ground; splinters of the polished wood erupted into the air as the weapon dug itself deep.

Jack stared down at the ruined floor in complete surprise. “W-what the hell?”

“Iron Will was, uh, gonna get to that,” he explained rubbing his forehead. He reached down to the handle and gave a small flick upward to the gear attached to it. The blade lost the blue, water-like markings at its sides instantly, and Will easily hoisted it up from the wrecked flooring then handed it over to Jack once more. The farmer gave a cautious glance down at the weapon.

“It gonna do that again?” Jack asked.

“If you adjust that gear down.”

She frowned. “Why in the Sam Hill do ya need—“

“Dragons, golems, dullahans—not all creatures fear a blade. Sometimes you need a bludgeoning weapon, or something to help your weapon pierce through scale. It's why a master smith and a whisperer worked together; made the weight adjustable.” Will nodded towards the sword. “Durendal was made for a knight even before Arthur's time. A man that they say was even stronger than the King.” He slapped her on the shoulder. “And he was a square peg like me and you, Apple.” Will raised a finger, looking as if he was in the middle of a philosophical debate, rather than discussing arms. “With a weapon like this at your side,  the only thing you need to do now is train your body.” He then paused, glancing at the floor and kicking aside a piece of wood. “And I guess I should report this, uh, accident... man.” Will scratched his scraggly beard. “Shit's probably coming out of my pay.”


000


After Will left the ceremony to find a janitor, Jack bid farewell to Celestia and 'Old Mother,' as the norfolk had put it, and started towards her dorm. When she got to the main lobby, Celestia was waiting by the large window of the room, in obvious thought. Jack paused, glancing behind her, then towards the Daywalker.

“How in the...?” the farmer trailed off. “You were jus'—“

“Teleportation spell,” Celestia replied, moving towards Jack, then glancing at her back, where the sword sat proudly in its sheath. “Do you plan to carry that everywhere?”

Jack flicked an eye towards it. “Nah, ain't got no reason to. Jus' haulin' it back ta my room an' puttin' it by my armor.”

Celestia tapped the hilt of her own sword. “There's no shame in keeping yourself armed, provided you know to draw your blade only in desperate times.”

She glanced to the side, a small frown playing on her lips. “It don't feel right. Me havin' somethin' like this.”

The all-folk put a hand on Jack's shoulder. “Will thought it was right.”

“Guess so,” Jack agreed, adjusting the strap as it bit into her robe. “No matter how much he pounds it inta me, though, ain't sure why.”

“He sees himself in you,” Celestia commented, taking a few steps forward and glancing towards the farmer. Jack complied, following her as they passed by several curious looks from the other men and women in the lobby.

“We're both pretty simple people, I guess,” the farmer replied, turning and heading towards her dorms. “Click like you an' Twila.”

Celestia gave a slow nod, her natural grace making the simple action carry a weighty impact. “I suppose in a way, yes. However, Twila, to me...” The Daywalker shook her head. “It's far from your cut and dry relationship.”

“Ain't sure I get ya,” Jack said, walking down the hallway lined with doorways.

“It's something I should speak only to my student about, Jack.”

Silence rang through both their ears as they climbed a flight of stairs, then took a left.

“So, what was that deal with 'Ol' Mother' back there? An' how'd you get an invite?”

The princess quirked a brow, a smile at the corner of her mouth. “You do realize who you're speaking with, Jack. Gaining attendance wasn't difficult at all.”

“Oh.”

She gave a titter of laughter. “I'm joking, I wouldn't use my rank to interrupt an event like that without good reason. I actually knew Gauti when we were both children.”

“Gauti?” Jack repeated, traveling down the hallway. “That the woman's name?”

Celestia nodded. “Yes. Gauti of Whitehearth, one of the high-priestesses of Almyra.”

“An' Will's ma?”

She laughed, then looked over at Jack and noticed the farmer's serious face. “N-no, Jack.” She tapped the pommel of Excalibur in thought. “'Old Mother' is merely a formal title given to women leaders, Will would have used 'Old Father' if there was a man running Whitehearth. They're in charge of weapon ceremonies, holiday prayers, wedding blessings, and the day-to-day affairs of a town.”

“Traveled a long way fer a few minutes of talkin',” Jack said.

“If she's anything like me, she welcomes the break—I know I've been enthralled by my absence away from the council.” Her kindly features briefly faded, replaced by a more somber expression. “I simply wish it was centered around less grim circumstances.”

“We can hope it'll be the last of this nasty business,” Jack replied, going to her door and opening it. She paused. “Uh, were ya wantin' ta come in?”

Celestia shook her head. “I was hoping to speak with your roommate.”

The farmer stuck her head inside and noticed Dash's empty bed. “Outta luck. She ain't here.”

“Pity.” She glanced past the farmer. “May I come in for a moment?”

“Door's open,” Jack answered, gesturing towards the back of the room. Celestia marched towards the window and held a hand to the glass.

A moments pause, then the all-folk smiled slightly. “She's flying.”

Jack walked towards the woman. “How'd ya—magic, I'm guessin'?”

She tapped on the glass with a finger. The farmer traced where the Daywalker gestured and noticed Isabelle blasting through the sky, no more than the size of a bug at this distance.

“I suppose I should catch her.” Celestia sighed. She spoke a few words under her breath in a language Jack couldn't even come close to comprehending, then stepped forward, pressing a hand though the glass as if it was water. She pressed the rest of her body forward, phasing through to the other side of the glass and summoning ethereal wings of the purest snow. The wall briefly rippled after she had passed through, but was once more solid when Jack gave a cautious tap at it with her finger.

Celestia turned and gave a small wave at Jack, her large and expansive wings keeping her easily aloft with every slow, lazy beat.

Jack dumbly returned the gesture. It was all she could do to raise her hand in a halfhearted wave as the all-folk turned and took off, her stance regal and beautiful as her pastel hair lazily floated behind her.

If Gilda wasn't kidding about Twila holding an interest in the woman, Jack couldn't blame her.


000


After a moment of rest, Jack got ready to meet Rarity at the train station. Normally getting ready just meant a quick splash of water across her face and picking the least dirty of her clothes. With Rarity coming home from the hospital, though, Jack decided to take a few extra steps. She combed her unkempt hair down a bit, getting it into a respectable braid, then dug through a small drawer at the foot of her bed, looking through the handful of clothes she'd call 'halfway respectable.' Jack paused when she noticed a well made dress suit and slacks that she hadn't wore in months, but knew fit her like a glove.

Rarity was good with that kinda stuff. Curiosity got the best of her; she sniffed a cuff.

Spiced apples. The perfume Rarity wore that night back at the dance.

Jack felt the bitter sting of tears prick her eyes. She sucked in a few heavy breaths, moving to the side of her bed and putting her face in her hands. The farmer let out a pained, choked sob, and tried to control her rapid breathing.

It wasn't fair. Rarity didn't deserve any of this. Never had. Girl that kind and beautiful shouldn't have to worry about shit like this. Didn't deserve what Blueblood had tried to do, didn't deserve what Trixie tried to, and almost did, do. Didn't deserve nothin' like that.

Jack made a strangled groan, clenching her jaw and squinting her eyes shut. She rubbed them, furious at herself for crying.

Stop bein' like this, she quietly scolded herself. It is what it is. Yer gonna stop. For her. What'd Will call it? Ronnel? March on, ya dummy.

The farmer exhaled in slow, shuddering breaths, then took a deep breath in, squeezing her kneecaps tightly in her calloused hands. The pep talk, if she could call it that, didn't do much to help the pain in her, but it had kept her from having a sudden breakdown. Kept herself collected. Kept herself from giving in to the red beast she felt clawin' at her gut there.

Rising, the farmer grabbed the suit and went into the bathroom to change.


000


Jack boarded a carriage heading to Ponyville, speaking to Hans as they made the trip in what felt like the blink of an eye. She soon came to the double doors leading into the town's train station. Jack sucked in a breath and tossed them open, making her way through to the train platform and freezing at the sight that greeted her.

Her friends all stood at the station, all waiting for Rarity's train. Dash, frowning with her arms crossed over her track suit, tapping her foot in irritation. Chylene, nervously picking at a small frayed part of her sweater sleeve. Pinkie sat down cross-legged on the concrete, talking exuberantly to a laughing Spike, her hair bounding in a rhythm with every shake and nod of her quickly moving head. Spike's wide, youthful eyes sparkled in amusement at whatever the woman was telling her.

Lastly, Twila, who sat at the corner of one of the station's benches, a book in her lap and a cane resting in arm's length. Jack approached the group.

“Hey, y'all.”

Dash let out a low whistle. “Hayseed, all showing us up to her. Nice.”

“Thought she might enjoy seein' me with a spit-shine. I reckoned it was the least I could do.”

“H-how are...?” Chylene looked up at Jack's face, then hid behind her bangs, biting her lip.

“Scar's stayin'. Nose is gonna be good as new, acordin' ta the doc I spoke with.”

“Scars are cool, at least,” Spike offered with a shrug.

“Spike,” Twila said, a slight warning in her tone. “I know you're simply wanting to help, but—“

“Nah, it's alright, sug,” Jack dismissed. “All things considered, I was lucky. Could be dead.”

“Saying it so nonchalantly...” Twila marveled.

“Thinkin' 'bout it too hard ain't the smartest thing ta do.” Jack swallowed, glancing over the woman's own injures. “Feelin' any better?”

“I still suffer from the occasional dizzy spell, and my arm still has its problems, however, Celestia's been administering her magic into my body—that's exponentially increased my recovery rate.”

Jack was pretty sure she had heard that word from Twila before, but was coming up dry. Way she said it, Jack guessed it was a good thing.

“She going back anytime soon?” Dash asked, walking towards the two. “And how long am I gonna have to wait for this damn train?” she added under her breath with a grumble.

“Tomorrow,” the soul-folk replied. “The council's been getting restless without her guidance.”

“An' are you gonna be alright without her?” Jack asked, moving and taking a seat on the opposite end of the bench.

Twila narrowed her brow. “And what do you exactly mean by that?”

“Does she really have to spell it out, egghead?” Isabelle asked, moving behind the two and resting her arms on the back of the bench.

Twila hung her head. “I suppose not.”

“Ain't exactly what I was meanin', sug,” Jack said, putting a hand to her chin. “Jus' makin' sure yer gonna be square.”

“I... I will be, yes,” she answered after a hesitant pause. “A few more days and I'll even be off of the cane.” She met Jack's gaze. “We really were fortunate none of us were hurt critically.”

“Missed out on everything...” Dash whined, slumping forward and draping her hands onto the bench's seat.

“Only a dummy goes lookin' fer that kinda shit,” Jack sternly said, crossing her arms and glaring at Isabelle. “Ya have any idea how scary that—“

“Yeah, pal. I do.” She gave a knowing look Jack's way. It wasn't long before a memory bubbled up.

“Guess ya do,” the farmer admitted. The others listening in shared an unsure glance between themselves.

“Besides,” Dash shrugged. “I'm not trying to glory hound here. For once.” She gave an affectionate punch to Jack's shoulder. “Dummies like you need a hand sometimes, so, uh, sorry I wasn't there, bro,” she quietly said.

“Ain't like ya coulda known, Dash. Don't worry 'bout it.”

The athlete stood up. “Enough of this crap—where the hell's Rarity? I'm starving.”

“Just wait a bit longer, Dashie!” Pinkie proclaimed. “I have a whole buncha tasty treats and meaty meats and scrumptious sides and delicious drinks!”

“Y'all havin' a party or somethin'?” Jack asked.

“Yeparooni!” Pinkie nodded, grinning enthusiastically. “I call it a 'Rarity just got out of the hospital and we should totally welcome her back with a party' party!”

The farmer nodded. “An' does Rarity know 'bout this?”

“Nope! It wouldn't be a surprise if she did, now would it?”

“It's just going to be a l-little one... I'm sure she'll be tired when she gets back,” Chylene whispered.

“Indeed. It would be quite a problem, having a large scale event when she got back. It's just going to be us,” Twila agreed. “Provided she's interested, at least.”

“Totally,” Dash agreed. “I mean, we won't just rope h—“

In the distance, they heard the whistle of a train. Everyone snapped to attention. Jack swallowed, nervously rubbing at her mouth and rising, stepping back behind everyone. As excited as she was at seeing Rarity, she couldn't help the small stone of dread in her gut.

“Ohmygosh,ohmygosh,ohmygosh!” Pinkie chirped, bouncing up and down on her feet.

“Guess she's just about here,” Spike said, putting his hands in his pockets and nodding, a small half-smile on his face. Pinkie grabbed the teenager and easily lifted him up, twirling him around as he let out a surprised yelp. She brought him in for a tight squeeze, then set him down again as he tried to regain his balance. Chylene smiled tenderly at the two, then returned to staring at the incoming train.

The worn iron beast pulled into the station, releasing steam across the platform. A conductor opened the doors and a small group of people trickled out. Not even scant seconds later, Rarity.

She looked weak, dangling a small purse in her hand, while her other clutched a fashionable fur coat tightly against her collar. On seeing her friends, she gave a tender smile and approached them.

“Everyone...” she started, her shoulders held high as she gazed at her comrades. “I'm grateful you could all come to see my return,” she said, looking at them all in turn. Her sights briefly settled on Jack. Rarity seemed to want to say something, but instead glanced at everyone once again. “Well, ladies—and Spike,” she quickly added. “Have I missed quite a bit? I feel that I'm terribly behind on all the latest gossip!”

“Gossip about you, may—“ Dash began, only to have her sleeve pulled by Twila, alongside a warning glare. “Uh...” she stopped, looking away from Rarity and scratching her hair.

Spike, surprisingly, came to the rescue.

“Me and Pinkie have been taking care of the store for you.”

Rarity froze, the brief flush of raw panic on her face enough to make Jack smile slightly.

“I-Is that so?” she stammered. “How was—“

“Business was super-duper fast!” Pinkie replied. She reached into her back pocket, pulling out a coin-purse large enough that Jack wondered how in the hell it fit in the first place. “I made a list of all the thingies and stuff you need more of, too!”

Spike nodded. “And I have a ton of clientele messages for you when you're ready. Most are well-wishes, with a few low-priority orders.”

“I see. Thank you, dear.” Rarity smiled at the teenager, causing him to blush heavily.

“I'm glad you're ok,” Chylene spoke up finally, staring at her feet. Rarity reached over and put a hand on the girl's shoulder.

“Of course,” she reassured. “Thanks in part to you.”

The timid woman hid farther in her bangs. “And Jack.”

Rarity turned, looking strangely at the woman in question. “Yes... and Jack.”

The violet-haired woman took a few steps towards Twila, noting the cane beside her. “How are you, dear?”

“Fine, fine,” Twila dismissed with a wave of her good hand. “I'm simply fatigued. A few more days and I'll be more than adequate.” She looked over Rarity. “Yourself?”

“I'm quite well too. No lasting damage, anyway. I'd like to request your help regarding my schoolwork—I have a feeling I'm dreadfully behind at the moment.”

“Of course.”

Rarity swallowed hard, then took a few tentative steps towards the farmer. When she got within a few feet, she lunged forward, tightly wrapping Jack in an embrace. Jack paused, then quickly put her hand to the back of Rarity's hair, stroking it tenderly.

“Hey, sug,” Jack quietly said.

Rarity looked up at her, sucking in another breath. “Darling...” She turned, gazing once more at their friends. “I'm sorry to cut our reunion short, but I really wish to speak to Jack privately. Perhaps we could all agree on a luncheon date tomorrow?”

They gave a small nod.

“Expect a pretty good meal tomorrow, dude,” Dash said. “We'll have ourselves some leftovers.”

“Leftovers?” Rarity repeated.

“Might have had something planned for when you got back. We can wait, though.” She shrugged.

The soul-folk paused. “I'm sorry. I was unaware that you had a festivity planned for me. I suppose I—“

“You go on with the hayseed. You two have a ton to talk about,” Dash replied, giving a dismissive wave.

Rarity hesitated for a moment, then looked at Jack's face. “I suppose we do.”


000


Jack and Rarity wordlessly walked hand-in-hand down the streets of Ponyville, lost in their own somber world together. Jack wanted to break the quiet, but just didn't know where to even begin. It was Rarity who spoke first.

“The boutique. We'll speak there.”

Jack nodded, turning down the familiar alleyway that led to Rarity's shop. When they arrived at the front of the shop, Rarity reached into her purse, pulling out a set of keys and unlocking it. They walked inside, Rarity moved to the shop's glass counter; rested her hands against the glass top. Her shoulders visibly shook as Jack turned and shut the door behind them.

“J-Jack...” she tensely breathed out, not turning to face the farmer. The woman in question took a small, unsure step towards Rarity, yet still held back, limply letting her hands hang at her sides. “That night... I thought I would lose you.” Rarity twisted from the counter in one motion, glaring at Jack as tears soundlessly spilled from her. Jack took a few steps towards Rarity, eventually wrapping the soul-folk in a tender embrace.

“Ya didn't.” The farmer brought Rarity's head close and breathed in her violet hair. “I thought the same with ya.” Her embrace tightened briefly. “Was scared I was gonna lose you,” she quietly admitted, swallowing hard but refusing to cry. It was her turn to be Rarity's rock. She'd weather the woman's storm for her. Ronnel.

Rarity looked up at her face and ran a shaking hand over Jack's cheek. “Your...”

The blonde's lips turned into a grim line. “Jus' a scratch, Rare.”

She considered Jack, gazing deep into the farmer's green eyes. “You're the most beautiful woman I've ever met,” Rarity whispered, pain caked across her pale, flawless face. She stood on her tip-toes and kissed her. Hard. Jack leaned down into the kiss as Rarity took her work-worn hand and guided it to her waist, then the other to the back of her neck. The soul-folk broke away from their kiss to take a breath, still weeping slightly. Jack finally moved, running a thumb under Rarity's turquoise eyes, brushing away her tears.

“Don't cry, sug. I'm here,” Jack reassured in a near-whisper. “I'm here.”

Rarity let out a muted sob, grabbing Jack once more and giving the woman another deep, meaningful kiss. She pulled the farmer down by her neck, pressing her lips hard against Jack's once more, then moving her tongue into Jack's mouth. The farmer groaned lightly as Rarity guided her a few steps forward, until the tailor's shapely backside was flush against her glass countertop.

“Darling...” Rarity trailed off. She hopped onto the counter and met Jack's gaze. “It's unladylike, but I... I would request something of you.”

“Anythin',” Jack quickly said.

“It would ease my mind tremendously if you were to stay with me tonight.”

She weakly smiled at Rarity. “'Course I will.” She ran a finger through Rarity's hair. “Ya took care a me after the worst day of my life. Y-ya mean too much fer me ta jus'...”

Rarity offered her own smile at Jack, affectionately squeezing the farmer's hands. “I'm grateful. It will ease my mind a bit, I believe. Being by your side.”

Jack shook her head. “With all this shit goin' down—I ain't sure if ya should be alone period.” She sighed, breaking away from Rarity's embrace to lean her back against the countertop. “Yer tough, Rare, no matter how ya look, but... maybe ya should,” Jack gave a considering roll of her wrist, “hire a guard or somethin'.”

Rarity frowned, narrowing her brow. “I may be a lady; however, I can take care of myself, Jack.”

The farmer shook her head, rising. “Ya saw what Trixie did ta ya. What she... what she almost did ta me.” Jack moved a few steps away and took to staring out the window. “A few lil' spells or somethin' like ya know ain't gonna be enough ta keep ya protected—Christ, even Twila had a close call, an' she knows all kinds-a stuff.” She bit her lip. “I-I jus' want ya ta be safe, girl. ”

Rarity was ready to offer fiery retort. On seeing how solemn Jack looked, she relented a bit, sighing and taking in a calming breath. “I know.” Rarity walked over to Jack, wrapping her arm around Jack's and leaning into her broad shoulders. “I'll be fine. I know I will, Jack.” She entwined their fingers together. “If something like that happens again... I know you'll rescue me.”

“I ain't some kinda dashin' prince, Rare,” Jack objected, running a hand over her mouth and  briefly pausing when she felt the texture of the scar on her face.

“You're not,” she agreed, smiling kindly. “You're better than that, darling. You're far more real than a character in one of my paperback novels. You're something... tangible that I can hold onto far better than a fairy-tale.”

“Rare...” the farmer quietly whispered, her eyes stinging slightly from the sunset pouring through the windows.

At least, she'd pretend it was the sunset.

Jack serenely smiled, quickly wiping her eyes with her free hand and changing the subject.  “H-how 'bout we have dinner here? I'm sure I can cook ya somethin' right up.”

“I'll cook, dear. I already owe you immensely for agreeing to stay with me tonight.”

She snapped her fingers. “That reminds me; can I steal a blanket or two from ya? Yer couch might get a bit cold toni—“

“Jack, no,” Rarity replied, a flirtatious smile crossing her face as she ran a finger underneath Jack's chin. “I want you to stay with me tonight.”

It didn't take long for that to sink in for the blonde. “Are ya sure?” she asked, giving a slow, considering pause. “I don't want ya ta think that ya gotta jus' 'cause of—“

“I'm sure, Jack Apple. More sure about this than any man or woman I've had before,” she stated, her face serious and true. Jack paused at the words, seeming to want to say something, anything, but let it drop.

It wasn't long before Rarity's small, flirty smile returned. “I suppose I should cook something light. After all, we'll need to save room for dessert, darling.”

As the soul-folk sashayed away, swinging her beautiful body with every step, Jack felt a strange sense of anticipation and dread bubble through her at the same time when she thought of what would happen tonight. On one hand, she cared deeply for Rarity—cared for her more than any person she had ever known. Plus it'd make for a good distraction—keep Rarity's mind away from darker thoughts, even if it was only for a little while. 

On the other...

On the other, there was a part of her afraid that what happened at the picnic would happen here. If it happened again, Jack wasn't sure what she'd do. If she couldn't... live up to Rarity's standards.

Jack's brow furrowed. 

Rarity's standards. That was another elephant in the room. It was a small thing that just came from Rarity's mouth a moment ago; she had experience prior to Jack. The farmer wasn't a fool by any means—it wasn't that shocking to think Rarity had partners before. The soul-folk was beautiful and of marriage age; had been for some time now. It was only natural and expected she had... tested the waters some. There was no real shame to it. None at all.

If anything, Jack was the odd duck here.

“What have I got myself inta now?” the woman said to herself, resting her head in her hands and leaning with a sigh onto the counter.
> (To know her) *NSFW*
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

	*As shown by the not safe for work tag, this is a side-chapter that has a sex scene in it between two people in a loving, healthy relationship. If that's not your cup of tea, then just skip ahead.*


000


Rarity poured a glass of Chardonnay for Jack and herself, then sat down at the end of the small dining room table. She sipped briefly at her drink before starting at the shrimp Alfredo, methodically eating the pasta and only pausing to pat her lips daintily with a napkin. She looked towards her dining companion, who was picking at her food with disinterest, resting her head in her hand and staring towards the soul-folk.

“Something the matter, darling?”

Jack jumped a bit at Rarity's voice and quickly shook her head. “N-no ma'am. I'm good.”

The tailor leaned forward, taking another drink. “Come now, Jack. We both know you're a pathetic liar.” She weakly smiled. “Besides, I have the feeling neither of us are 'good,' after the troubles a few days ago.”

“Got that right,” Jack quietly agreed. She took a deep drink from her wine, frowning slightly at its peculiar taste. “A bit ago, ya mentioned... bein' with other people.”

Rarity put her utensils down onto the table. “I suppose I did, yes.”

“Jus' how many we talkin' here?” Jack bluntly asked.

“Why do you wish to know? Do you believe me to be some kind of harlot?”

“What? No, Rare. Jus' curious,” the earth-folk replied, realizing quickly she was in hostile territory.

“It's not a ladies place to kiss and tell,” she replied, crossing her arms.

“Didn't mean no harm in it, sug. Jus' wanted ta know 'fore we...”

“Does it make any difference regarding how I feel about you?” Rarity asked. “No.”

Jack scowled, leaning back in her chair. “Fine, fine. Didn't realize it was that big a deal ta ya.”

“Well, how many have you been with, Jack?” Rarity sharply asked. Jack paused, stunned by the question.

“Uh...” Jack trailed off, in obvious duress. “I mean, that's a complicated question with a, a ton of answers ta it.”

Rarity flatly looked at her for several long, agonizing seconds before Jack nervously laughed.

“I'mma jus' gonna drop this lil' topic.”

“The most intelligent thing you've said all night,” the soul-folk replied, casually taking another drink of wine.

Jack glanced down at her meal. “Sorry, sug.”

She gave a small, considering nod. “If I couldn't deal with you putting your foot in your mouth consistently, we wouldn't be in a relationship.”

The farmer smiled slightly, pushing away from the table and rising to her feet. “Alright with ya if I take a shower?”

“Certainly, darling. My home is yours to use!” Rarity proclaimed. “I'll clean up down here—I presume you're done with your meal?”

“Yeah. Jus' ain't got much of an appetite.” She sickly smiled, glancing to her side and biting her lower lip—Rarity could read the obvious tell—Jack had never been good at lying.

The tailor let the topic drop and rested her hands on the table. “Should be some towels inside already, dear.”

Jack left, climbing up the stairs and heading into the bathroom, so lost in her own world she didn't even notice the slightly devious smile Rarity held.

While the soul-folk normally abhorred the thought of engaging in a such a crass and baseless act like practical jokes, she couldn't resist this opportunity. It was simply too perfect not to use.


000


Jack stepped out of the shower, reaching for a towel on a nearby rack. After rubbing her body dry, she wrapped it around her torso, frowning slightly on how little it covered her. Downside of being tall reared its ugly head yet again to her. She walked to the fogged up bathroom mirror and ran her palm across it, staring hard at the woman looking back at her.

It wasn't often she took stock in her appearance. A staunch opposition to vanity was one reason, the other was a simple... vague indifference to herself. She was who she was—makeup and the like wouldn't change that. 

Jack shifted her body, spreading her legs slightly so she could comfortably lean her arms on the counter. She stood like this for several minutes, looking at her reflection as water ran down her long blond hair, leaving trails that snaked delicately over the earthen tone of her skin and onto the cream towel. She gave a thought about looking nice for Rarity, but realized she wouldn't even have an idea on where to start beyond basic grooming. All the lotions, make-up kits, creams and tonics on the counter just left her paralyzed with indecision. 

The farmer exhaled. Feeling like she was on pins and needles, she moved her fingers across the counter and swallowed. She ran a thumb gingerly over her still-tender nose and wished she had finished the drink Rarity had provided for their dinner. God, something to calm down her nerves before getting dressed and speaking to her would—

Taking a glance around the room, Jack suddenly paused. Where the hell were her clothes? She thought she had laid them near the counter, but...

Something peeked out from underneath the bathroom door. A white sock. Jack crept towards the door and opened it just enough to peek her head out. Her clothing lay strewn out in a trail along the  floor of the upstairs lounge. Grumbling, Jack took a quick glance left and right. On being in the clear, she opened the door fully and stepped into the room. She gathered her clothes one at a time, walking at a half crouch with the towel held possessively in one hand to keep herself from losing it. She grabbed the white sock, then its pair. A checkered bandana Jack normally kept in her breast pocket, her off-white cotton boxers. Another step through the room brought her to her bra. A few more, her trusty tank-top and plaid over-shirt. She came to a door and noticed the last piece to complete the ensemble she carried in her arm, the frayed and worn leg of a pair of her jeans peaked out under the doorway. Jack tried to get the pants through the crack but didn't have any luck, so she grabbed the handle and pulled. She paused, her jaw dropping on what she saw when she opened the door.

Rarity lay on her side on a bed, nude, save for the familiar, worn stetson atop her head, the string loosely hanging down her face as she laid her head on a delicate hand.

“I was wondering when you'd get out of the shower,” she said, running a hand down her side. “I've been waiting.”

Jack gazed at Rarity in all her divine glory. Her violet hair, cascading down her narrow, soft shoulders. Her full, sensual lips. Her flawless skin, her pert breasts that were not too big, yet not too small. Perfect for her hourglass figure. Her clean-shaven mound. Her delicate flower, already slightly engorged and longing. Her eyes.

God, her eyes.

“Come here...” Rarity quietly invited, beckoning Jack towards the bed. The blonde took a few nervous steps forward before her partner playfully tsked.

“I believe you're a bit too... dressed up, if you will.” Rarity flicked her eyes down to the towel at Jack's waist.

“Oh.” She threw the pile of clothes in her hands aside and paused. She took a deep, nervous breath to steady her nerves, then opened her towel, letting it drop behind her.

If Rarity's body defined natural feminine beauty, Jack was the antithesis. Too tall, broad shouldered, strong, obvious muscles that were a contradiction to her full, prominent breasts, each standing out from her rugged figure like a plump, voluptuous melon topped with a black nipple. She paused awkwardly, putting her calloused hands over the small, oval patch of pubic hair she carried above her mound. Rarity couldn't help but smile—the way it was groomed almost gave the impression of a cowlick.

“You're beautiful,” Rarity said, not even a trace of sarcasm in her tone.

“Ain't nothin' compared ta ya, sug.”

The soul-folk rose to a sitting position and patted a spot next to her. Jack complied, already sweating slightly. Rarity put her hand on top of Jack's and turned on the bed to face her. The farmer stared towards the wall, taking a moment to think as she sat on the edge of the bed.

Rarity ran a soothing hand up and down Jack's bare back, bringing the farmer back to the present.

“Is there anything I can do to make you more comfortable?” the beauty asked. “I could make some... adjustments to myself, if need be.”

“Adjustments?” Jack repeated. “Like puttin' yer hair down? Or some socks or somethin'?”

She gave a small titter of laughter. “A bit more expansive than that, darling. Quite a bit, actually. I assume you've never been with a soul-folk before?”

“I ain't been with any—“ she realized what she said and panicked, shutting her mouth instantly. Heat flooded her face at the slip. Rarity paused.

“You mean I'm your...?”

Jack didn't answer, instead wringing her hands.

Rarity continued, just as flustered as Jack was. “I-I simply presumed, with as aggressive as you were in our previous attempt...”

“Yeah, well, that 'attempt' ended with me seein'...” Jack licked her lips and grimaced. “Took the wind outta my sails, I guess.”

Rarity scooted a few inches closer, putting an arm around the blonde's waist. “Then I suppose I should put my lips together and blow.”

The farmer quirked a brow. “Rare, I ain't sure I get—“ she was interrupted by a hard kiss; Rarity took Jack's legs and threw them onto the bed, then shoved Jack flat onto her back. 

She tilted Jack's hat back and smiled. Not smugly or sensually, but with an almost maternal kindness. “While I traditionally let my partner set the pace of my liaisons... you...” She straddled Jack, lightly grinding their groins together and making Jack clench her teeth in surprise, before the soul-folk rose slightly to stare at the woman's green eyes. She reached forward, gently running her thumb over Jack's scar. “You're a special case.”

Jack meekly smiled as Rarity brought her other hand up and clasped as much as she could of the farmer's oversized breast, squeezing Jack's nipple between her delicate fingers.

“You're always hurting for me, Jack,” Rarity somberly mused, once more paying attention to the farmer's scarred cheek. “Just once, I'd like to hurt for you instead.”

The blonde took Rarity's hand and brought it to her own dark brown cheek. “I don't want ya ta. Ya leave takin' care of us ta me.”

“Jack...” She gazed at her honest eyes once more. Rarity slowly leaned in, kissing her, then after a moment, stuck her tongue out, wordlessly asking for passage. Jack responded, opening her mouth for the woman. Their tongues swirled and danced together as Rarity began to massage the blonde's breast and trailed her other hand down to the farmer's stomach. She rested her hand briefly on Jack's abs and broke away from the kiss, tweaking Jack's nipple as they parted. The action made Jack gasp slightly, tensing her arms.

“You're sensitive there.” Rarity shook her head with a smile. “Should have figured you'd have such an obvious spot—you never were one for subtlety.” She continued playing with the farmer's breast, squeezing it, stroking it, kneading the supple flesh in her hands. Jack let out a surprisingly girlish moan; she squeezed her eyes closed and bit her knuckle to stop from making any farther noise. 

“I'm only like this 'c-cause it's you,” Jack panted out, barely managing to open one of her eyes to gaze at Rarity.

The tailor paused once more, looking briefly surprised at Jack's words. She leaned down to kiss the earth-folk's lips once more, as she grabbed the blonde's breast and pushed the yielding mound up Jack's body. She then let go, noting how its firm yet giving features spilled downward again, all but swallowing Rarity's palm in its mass.

“I know your measurements, but I suppose I never really thought about them, darling. You might have the largest bust I've ever worked for.” She lowered her head down to the blonde's other breast. “They're quite nice.” She stuck out her tongue and ran it in a clockwise motion over Jack's dark areola. She smirked slightly, then planted her mouth on top of Jack's nipple and took to suckling it. The farmer gasped even harder at the stimulation, clinging tightly to the bedsheets with her fingers and toes.

Rarity stopped briefly, not taking her eyes off Jack's chest. “You can touch me if you like, dear. I won't bite.”

Jack muttered a quiet apology, then took a shaking hand to Rarity's own breast, for a few moments reverently holding it in her palm—treating it with the same tenderness a kind giant might give to a bird—before clasping her hand tightly around it and lightly squeezing it. Rarity moaned directly onto Jack's nipple, the stimulation making the farmer near-drunk with pleasure. A tingling feeling that was almost overwhelming started at Jack's lower stomach and spread down to her groin in sharp, pleasurable jolts of lightning. Rarity instantly stopped her suckling on seeing Jack's face.

“Darling... were you really about to climax from simple breast play?”

“Rare... that felt great,” Jack panted out, her words a jumbled mess.

Rarity laughed quietly to herself. “You haven't seen great yet.” She adjusted herself, moving off of Jack's pelvis and on top of her thigh. She  briefly ran over Jack's small patch of pubic hair, moving through it and curling it with her finger, then returned her gaze to Jack's face, looking briefly concerned. “I apologize for being so uncouth, but have you ever... penetrated?”

“Myself?” Jack asked, the heat in her face causing her head to throb. “W-well...”

“I only ask because you might feel a twinge of pain, otherwise.”

She swallowed, nodding. “I have before, yeah.”

Rarity extended her index and middle finger and traced Jack's maidenhood. “Then I suppose I'll get started.” She plunged her fingers into the farmer; they slid in easily, mingling with Jack's juices. The earth-folk gasped, the sensation so odd she moved to sit up; Rarity put a reassuring hand on her shoulder and continued her fingerwork, thrusting in and out of Jack with the elegance of a maestro conducting an orchestra. After a few thrusts into her, Jack picked up on the rhythm and began bucking her hips forward, wordlessly begging Rarity to dive further. Rarity moved to Jack's side and complied, burying her fingers all the way to the knuckles inside of the blonde, then wiggling them slightly as she once more cupped one of Jack's breasts.

She was all but delirious with pleasure as Rarity's skilled fingers worked their magic inside of her. The blonde groped Rarity's breast as the pressure from earlier rose inside like a flurry of butterflies in a strong wind, sending her rapidly towards the edge.

“I-I think I'm close,” the farmer cried out.

“Let it come,” Rarity said, leaning down and peppering Jack's neck with sensual kisses. 

Jack yelped as the pressure inside released; she grabbed Rarity's hand and pushed it hard against her passageway as her essence spilled from her loins, granting sweet relief. 

Rarity kindly smiled, then pulled her hand free and licked her fingers, tasting Jack's climax.

As Jack caught her breath, she looked over at Rarity. “Guess we gotta do you now,” she said. 	Rarity waved the idea away with a hand.

“No. Tonight was about you, darling. I'm fine.”

Jack twisted on the sheets, rising and putting her hands on Rarity's thighs. “I-I wanna make ya feel jus' as good as ya made me,” Jack stammered out, her eyes nearly pleading with the experienced woman.

“I... oh, very well,” she sighed, but offered another kind smile despite herself. The soul-folk slowly fell onto her back, her legs spread and waiting. Jack crawled forward and stuck out her index and middle finger like Rarity did moments ago, then brought her head near to the others sex and paused.

“Something the matter?”

“Jus' kinda odd seein' one this close,” Jack mused. “T-tried getting' a mirror ta see my own once, but it... nevermind.” She gently put her fingers inside of Rarity. “Ya want it like this?”

Rarity winced. “T-that's perfect, darling. Like that.”

Jack continued to thrust into Rarity with her fingers, blushing furiously at the action, the  squelching noise Rarity's wet arousal made with every motion of Jack's calloused fingers, and the violet-haired beauty's own elated moans. Rarity lovingly stroked the top of Jack's head, as if she was reassuring a pet.

“Just fine... just fine...” Rarity repeated, giving a small, elated hum as Jack adjusted her fingers a bit inside Rarity's walls. 

A few more thrusts, and the soul-folk's breathing increased. “Next time, we'll try a few other approaches to lovemaking that I think you'll—“ Jack ran a thumb over the girl's clitoris; Rarity all but exploded, shivering violently in a sea of pleasure.

“Wa ha ha!” she loudly laughed. 

Jack smiled brightly at the unusual noise her partner produced. “Ya like that, huh?”

Rarity blushed. “Well, I—“ Jack pressed down on her button once more. “Nnng!” she grunted out. “Yes, I love it!” she called out. Jack winced slightly at the volume.

The farmer ran once again on instinct; she continued to thrust into Rarity, then came down onto the soul-folk's clitoris with her mouth, lapping at the small protrusion with her tongue.

Rarity gasped and squirmed, squeezing her hands tightly in Jack's hair. 

“Jack!” she cried out, pleasure erupting like a volcano as she climaxed hard onto Jack's fingers, her juices spilling out onto the sheets, soaking them. It took a few moments to regain their bearings; when they did, they lay down on the bed, their hands still entwined as they rested on either side.

Jack shuffled uncomfortably where she lay, the wet spots from their lovemaking at her back.

Ain't somethin' ya read 'bout in those romance books, she thought wryly, finally giving up and turning onto her side, facing Rarity and almost leaning on the other girl. She smiled when she looked at the soul-folk, she could still in a way feel the ghost-touch of Rarity inside her passages.

“Hey, Rare?”

“Mmm?” she questioned, already close to nodding off after being sated.

Jack scratched at her nose. “I'm, uh, glad ya were my first. It was somethin' pretty special ta me.”

Rarity woke up a bit on hearing that. She wrapped an arm around the farmer and brushed the blonde's bangs behind her ear. “It was an honor to take it from you, darling.” After a long pause she looked deeply into Jack's eyes. “Five.”

“Five?” the earth-folk repeated.

“How many I've been with. Three men, a woman, now you.” Rarity gazed at Jack's nude body. “You told me about your partners, or lack thereof. It was only fair.”

“Fifth time's the charm.”

Rarity gave a small laugh of her own, hugging the woman and running her hand over Jack's muscled back. “Fifth time's the charm.”


000


Jack woke up a few hours later feeling like something was amiss. She moved her arms a bit, feeling for the warm body of her partner. When Jack finally realized Rarity wasn't on the bed, she glanced across the room, noticing Rarity staring out the window at the starlit night. Jack quietly rose and made her way to the woman. She wordlessly wrapped her arms around Rarity's shoulders; the woman held onto Jack's strong arms.

“Somethin' wrong, sug?” the blonde asked.

“I suppose I was simply thinking.” Rarity glanced pensively at the floor. “Some of the words I spoke earlier reeked of bravado. I'm...” She sighed. “I'm honestly frightened, Jack. I'm frightened that someone may wish to do me harm again. Yet I cannot stand the idea of hiring muscle simply to protect myself—I find it abhorrent. I don't want that, Jack.”

She nodded, understanding at least a little where Rarity was coming from. “I'll keep ya safe.”

“Jack...”

“Like ya said earlier: If somethin' like this ever happens again, I'll rescue ya. Anyone,” she paused, her lips a thin, grim line of conviction. “Anyone that tries ta hurt ya like that is gonna wind up dead.”

Together, their bodies held so tight they were almost as one, they watched the stars give way to the first rays of a brighter tomorrow.

> Gathering clouds
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

	Jack awoke from her slumber easily enough, but it still took her a while to rise, namely due to the soul-folk laying next to her, the woman's arms and a leg wrapped possessively around Jack. She had wanted up—needed to pee, to be honest—but Rarity looked so peaceful that she couldn't help but lay there with her.

Finally, Rarity shifted and awoke, yawning daintily.

She jus' does everythin' precise an' delicate-like, Jack thought. The idea, not too long ago, would have annoyed her, now, the farmer couldn't help the goofy grin that crossed her face.

“Mornin', sug,” Jack said.

Rarity scooted up the bed and planted a deep, slow kiss to the farmer's lips in response.

They lay quietly together, listening to the town outside slowly awaken.

It was Rarity that finally broke their embrace. She moved to the window and opened it, taking a deep breath of air, only to cough hard into a clenched fist.

Jack laughed, but quickly changed her tone when Rarity didn't stop. She leaned over, her hand clutching her neck and holding onto her stomach, belting out hard, heavy coughs. The farmer rose, moving over to her and patting at her back. “Hey now, ya alright?”

Rarity nodded, covering her mouth and doing her best to breath evenly. “I-it was simply a coughing fit, thanks to those dreadful items in Trixie's potion. They made me a bit more sensitive to pollutants than normal.” The woman gave a reassuring smile Jack's way. “It's not so bad after I've been awake for a while, but mornings over the last few days...” She sighed, rolling one of her strands of violet hair in between her fingers. “It's really put a damper for my plans on Hearth's Warming.”

“Plans?” Jack repeated.

Rarity nodded. “My father wished for me and my sister to take an extended vacation and sail to Macon. However, I am well aware of their usage of coal and a type of... crude oil, I believe it's called. I have no doubts being in the industrial area of their capital with my father would make me physically ill.” 

Jack quirked a brow. “Industrial? Figure with him bein' a diplomat, they'd give him somethin' a bit more fancy.”

“Aye, there's the rub,” Rarity exclaimed. Jack kept the roll of her eyes at Rarity's dramatic tone in-check. “The reason the Maconites respect him is in-part due to his background as a builder—he seems to talk 'shop,' if you will, easily. Keeping up appearances and interest in their work makes for a brilliant political move.”

Or maybe he jus' likes workin' with his hands, Jack thought. Not everything had to be so cloak and dagger.

“Which brings me to the earlier point. Forgoing his ties to Macon's industrial district would be suicide. If he wants their technology to eventually be imported here, he needs every advantage he can get in regards to dealing with them.” She weakly smiled. “I do love my father, however, I know his work requires sacrifices, one of which is time with his family. There's always next year for Hearth's Warming, after all.”

Jack thought for a moment, moving to gather her scattered clothes off of the ground and back onto her. “So, any backup plans?”

“Mmm,” Rarity shook her head. “None. Stephanie and I will probably spend the week's break recuperating here at the boutique. Heaven knows I need it thanks to the recent activity, but she'll be bored to tears, I'm sure.”

“Why don't you an' yer sister come with me ta the farm fer break?” the words out of her mouth before she even stopped to think about them.

“W-well...” Rarity blanched a bit, as Jack slowly sauntered closer. “I couldn't impose that much on you, darling. Stephanie's such a handful, and I'm sure you'd want the time alone with your family,” she then glanced to the side, adding under her breath, “plus the dirt and grime...”

“Fresh air'd do ya good. An' there's always somethin' ta do, either 'round the farm or in town. Yer sister'd have fun.” She gave a small nudge to Rarity's shoulder. “Plus, I'd like ta show ya off. I'm sure my family'll think yer a keeper, jus' like I do!”

“A keeper?” the soul-folk repeated, a small smile on her lips.

Jack's own smile died a bit as she stood there in the morning sun. “Guess it's still a bit too early ta be talkin' rings an' stuff like that, sug. Sorry.”

Rarity patted the back of Jack's hand. “It's fine, darling. It's charming in its own way.” She smirked, “Like everything you do. Besides, if anyone were to keep me...” She stood on her tip-toes and clasped the side of Jack's face, bending it down to meet her eyes. “I'd wish it to be you.”

Jack felt heat rise and overtake her cheeks. How did Rarity always manage to do that? Before she knew it, Rarity had kissed her once again on the lips, then slowly pulled away, never breaking contact with Jack's eyes.

After a pause, the violet-haired woman tenderly spoke. “I could ravish you right here and now. You're so beautiful.”

“You an' that talk,” Jack scoffed, smiling self-consciously despite herself. The soul-folk gave another small titter of laughter.

“It's hidden, deep, deep in you, Jack Apple. But there is a delicate, sensual, lovely woman that comes awake during times like these.” She trailed her hand down, resting her fingertips against Jack's fast-beating heart. “One I wish to take as mine over and over again. In a way, I suppose you're my keeper too.”

The farmer wasn't a romantic woman by any means. So she just spoke what came natural to her. The truth.

“I wanna let ya... have me, that is.” She kissed Rarity's forehead. “An' I wanna wake up in the mornin' with ya. I-I wanna smell yer perfume. I wanna listen ta yer voice.”

“Jack...” Rarity breathed, her loving eyes watering as she gazed transfixed on the farmer's scarred face.

The sound of Jack's stomach growling interrupted any more talk between the two. Rarity gave a tap at the farmer's hard stomach.

“I suppose we'll need to feed you. I have no clue as to how you're hungry—I still feel quite full from last night's meal and... dessert.” She coyly batted her eyes at the earth-folk.

“Aw, come on now, Rare. Ain't no need for that kinda talk.” Before Rarity could reply, Jack leaned forward. “We burned off enough calories last night ta need a bite,” she concluded with a waggle of her eyebrows. 

Rarity laughed, reluctantly moving from Jack's embrace and towards a chest of drawers. She opened it and quickly started to don underwear.

“How do you like your eggs, dear?”

“Scrambled with some sausage or ham,” Jack said, finishing up buttoning her shirt.

“I suppose I could take a break from eating poached eggs,” she conceded. “Alright, Jack. Let's eat, then go celebrate our vacation plans!”

Jack beamed to Rarity's agreement, she almost suggested returning to the academy instead—she was behind in her history class thanks to everything that had happened. With a shrug, she decided to drop it and go along with Rarity.

Days like today were few and far between.


000


Twila leaned over the heavy oak desk in her study. The ticking of a clock broke the otherwise heavy silence of the place as the light of dawn bathed the room in its glow.

She looked up from the stacks of paper and gave a longing glance out towards the hundreds of books lining the walls, then towards the glass double doors leading to a stone balcony overlooking the pristine city-streets of Camelot, alongside a breathtaking view of the ocean running nearby.

Maybe a few moments away from my work... she considered. Study Ivan Kireyevsky—I've been wanting to read his biography. She tapped a finger to her chin. Or maybe start reading Daren Doo and the Whip of Fording. I've been waiting for that one for so long.

Before she could rise, there was a knock at her chamber door.

“Come in,” she addressed, expecting Wadsworth, her butler.

Celestia arrived instead, carrying a tray with two gin and tonics. Twila's eyes widened on seeing the all-folk and her unusual appearance. Gone was her white armor and Excalibur. Instead, a simple tan tunic that hugged her curves graced her body, a golden, oversized buckle at the stomach, and large, golden hoop-earrings the only objects of value on her person. Twila nervously smiled. It wasn't common to see others in a private dreamscape—usually it required a bit more work, such as physical contact or a prepared ritual.

All-folks, on the other hand... they could bend the rules just a bit. Considering Twila left her mental 'door' open, as it were, all it took for Celestia to join her were a few simple thoughts and a small amount of time to meditate and detach her spirit.

Celestia glanced at the room. “You've made improvements,” she remarked, sitting on a couch by the window and resting the tray on a coffee table. Twila wordlessly moved to the opposite end of the couch, grabbing a glass and taking a drink, only wincing slightly at the bite of the beverage.

“The view,” the all-folk continued. “It's from your room at the castle, correct?”

“Yes, Princess. Save for the ocean. That's from a port town we visited together a few years back.” Twila nodded.

“Ah... Baltimore.” The woman smiled behind the lip of her glass. “We had some good memories there, did we not?”

“Tons!” Twila agreed enthusiastically, then retreated a bit into herself. “I mean, yes, Princess.”

Celestia stared her protegee, then gave a slow nod. “Do you remember what I said to you in our hotel room?”

Twila scrunched her face in thought, the effects of her drink slightly dulling her otherwise sharp mind. “You told me of the future, how I shouldn't be afraid.”

“There was that. And also I spoke of how you've... blossomed into a beautiful, kind, intelligent woman that I have no doubt could run the country twice as effective as me.” She gestured outside, towards the ocean that complemented the streets of the country's gem. “It's always amazed me how you're able to add on small details to improve an overall piece. There are very few people that can observe things with such scrutiny as you.”

“Princess...”

“Just Celestia,” the all-folk said. “You're my equal. Or at least will be some day soon.”

Twila nervously smiled, running her fingers though her hair.

After a few moments, Celestia sighed. “I have to say a few words to you, Twila. You know I don't enter here to simply speak idle conversation with you.” She finished her drink, quickly running her tongue over her lips. “First, I was wondering if you had found any leads on Trixie's actions.”

“No.” She shook her head, crossing her legs in thought. “She, however, was imprisoned three times for necromancy.”

“Yet she still wandered our streets.” Celestia shook her head in disgust.

“Her lawyers pulled some strings. She was out within days of being in jail, thanks to a few technical loopholes.”

“And Rarity or her family had nothing to do with the cases?”

“See?” Twila asked, gesturing a hand towards the Daywalker. “I checked that. Not a single person had any relation or ties to Rarity's family.”

“There has to be a connection somewhere...” Celestia put a thumb to her mouth and bit at the nail—a nervous habit Twila found endearing. “Which is why I've instructed Isabelle Ritter to help you review what we know.”

“I'm not sure how Dash'll help. I've went over about every scrap of paper we got on Trixie and still haven't found much on why she'd target Rarity.”

“Sometimes a second head helps. You know that.”

“I do,” Twila admitted with a sigh.

Almost as if on cue, the two heard a loud, scratchy voice that seemed to come from everywhere in the room, assaulting her dreamscape with the subtlety of a jackhammer. “Yo, Twila? You in there, bro?”

“D-did she just walk into my dorm without saying anything?” Twila stammered out. Celestia gave a small laugh.

“Best not to keep her waiting. You know she isn't the patient type.”

“Suppose so...” Twila began to relax, focusing on dispelling the world she created. The all-folk reached over to clasp her hand, briefly stopping her.

“One last thing before you go.” She gazed hard at Twila. “You need to stop using your magic so often. It's dangerous. Very dangerous, to be using it after you've been sapped of your powers.”

“I'll... keep it in mind,” Twila agreed, canceling her dreamscape. The edges of her vision faded to white as Celestia gazed at her; the white quickly took over completely, leaving her standing in a pure white void, as far as the eye could see. She made the familiar gesture to return to the living world. Instead, her sights flickered back to her self-made study, the gray, nearly black clouds of rain on the horizon, and Celestia's shocked expression giving the room a far more uneasy feeling—as if the slightest pen drop would dispel the tranquility, summoning forth something horrific.

As quick as the vision appeared, it vanished, leaving Twila in the pure white void. She frantically made the gestures to dispel the world and this time succeeded, coming back to her meager dorm and the wooden chair she sat on next to her bed.

“Damn, man. You don't look so hot,” Dash commented, taking a few steps towards her from the door.

“I'm fine,” Twila said after a moment's hesitation, rubbing her furiously throbbing head. What was that? Her hands shook even now from that brief, foreboding flicker in her mind's world.

“Alright,” Isabelle dubiously commented, glancing at the woman out of the corner of her eye. She raised a manilla folder up to her head and gave it a tap with her free hand.

“What's that?”

“A dossier on Blueblood. Got it from my uncle.” She tossed it onto Twila's work desk. “We're cross-referencing it with Trixie. There's got to be something that connects them, yeah?”

“Lightning doesn't strike the same place twice...” Twila agreed, then paused, “Well, technically it can, but, that is—“

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, alright.” Dash waved her hand, dismissing the words. “Just help me take a look through these. We'll find something, just you watch.”

They worked together, wading through the files, checking and cross-referencing them together. After a few minutes, Dash seemed all but ready to throw her chair in frustration at having to sit around for so long, yet kept herself at least moderately restrained. They spent nearly an hour working on it, and they had nothing. Trixie and Blueblood grew up on opposite ends of the country, had no relations between one-another, and as far as they could tell each had different social cliques. The only in-common thing they had was the fact they both had criminal records, though they were exceedingly different crimes, and both were soul-folks.

An idea clicked in Isabelle's head. “Soul-folk school, yeah? May—“

“Already checked it out.” Twila shook her head. “Two different ones.”

Dash gave a small, frustrated 'tsk'. “Hell. Figures.”

Twila gave pause. “I wonder...” She quickly tore into Blueblood's report, flipping through it like a woman possessed. She ran a finger down a list. “Perhaps...”

Isabelle rolled her eyes. “Yo, egghead. Don't keep me in suspense. What are you—“

The soul-folk made a small gesture, bringing up a translucent screen in the air. Text quickly appeared, filling the screen with information, height, blood type, magical aura, age. She waved her hand to the side, the image changed, more text, this relating to her schooling, filled the image. At the bottom, she made a circling gesture with a finger; a red circle appeared, highlighting a small line of text. Dash leaned closer and read it out loud.

“Dmitri Dorcis's grant for better understanding and equal privilege?” She tilted her head. “Dmitri Dorcis... that's that, uh, railway tycoon, ain't it?”

“Tycoon, businessman, philanthropist,” Twila agreed. “And, apparently, has a grant set up for underprivileged men and women entering college.”

“Wouldn't exactly call Trixie 'underprivileged.'” Dash replied. “Woman had money.”

“As did Blueblood.”

“That doesn't make sense.”

“And it's something both of them have. Same grant.” The soul-folk rubbed at her mouth.

“You thinkin' what I'm thinking, bro?” Dash asked, putting a hand at her hip.

Twila rose and gave a hard, serious nod Isabelle's way. “I'm thinking this warrants further investigation.”

She smirked. “Damn right.”


000


“Your coffee, sir,” a waitress said. Dmitri nodded, not looking up from the newspaper he read. She placed it at the side of the table and walked off.

“You know,” he began, lowering the paper slightly to look over it at his dining companion, “our little problem has the devil's luck, wouldn't you agree?”

“She's been luckier than most you've persuaded, my good man,” he agreed, twirling his fork over and under his fingers. He finally let it slam into his steak, sticking the utensil straight up as he reached for a knife. “Or maybe it's the hired help that's your problem.”

“Perhaps,” Dmitri mused as he sipped his coffee. He reached for a packet of sugar, then instead grabbed the salt shaker. He pored a liberal amount into his drink, then stirred it up with a finger, not even wincing at the near broiling heat. “There's one more candidate I want to try. This one, however, I'll want a hands-on approach with.” He sighed wistfully, glancing out the shop's windows and into Camelot's busy streets. “It's not fun at all when they're like this, Mr. Flam.  Not fun at all.”

“You never were a fan of the cut and dry, even if it was the far easier approach.”

“Where's the fun?” Dmitri held out a clawed palm at eye-level. “I know I can take what I need to, but it's so much better giving people a sporting chance. Watching them squirm...” He smugly clenched his fist. “Then seeing them trapped.” Dmitri rolled his eyes. “It makes kidnapping look so benign and tepid in comparison to what's normally done.” The man took a drink of his coffee and gave a nod of approval as he stroked his gray goatee, then, after another pause, he reached into his breast pocket and slid over a small piece of paper. “Tell my client to meet me... hmm...” He gave pause, the downside of having so much is that sometimes it was up for debate where he'd be on a set date. “The offices in Middleburg, when the academy starts their vacation.”

Mr. Flam looked over the paper, noting everything he'd need to identify the woman, all there below her photograph. “If she refuses, Mr. Dorcis?”

Dmitri leaned forward. “We'll just tell her I know. After all, I have always been a bit of a gossiper. Maybe she'll understand what I mean.” He viciously smiled, his open grin looking horrific enough that for a brief moment, his dining companion looked ready to run out of the room screaming, despite years of knowing one-another. “I'll see to it that this little game ends in short order. All I need is the woman to play her role, then it's a simple matter of waiting.” He took another drink. “And over the decades, waiting has become a bit of a talent of mine.”
> Homeward
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

	The greatsword cut through the air, coming down hard on a shield. Sparks flew at the impact as Will stood at a half-crouch, holding a shield at chest-level and a blade horizontally by his temple. Jack scowled at his block—she thought for sure she had him there. She stepped back and brought Durendal back into a combat stance; blade up, pommel half a foot from her gut, and her hands wrapped tightly around the wide hilt. Will snarled, clanging his metal shield and blade together several times, then launched himself forward, swiping horizontally; Jack ducked under the blow, only to be punished by a knee moving in a blur and connecting square in her chin. She stumbled back, raising the flat of her sword defensively by her chest in anticipation of the incoming blow. 

She was on the bits; Will's strike was deflected; she twisted her body and brought her pommel up from below. Her opponent hopped backwards to dodge the upward strike, giving her a second to breath and all but resetting the match. Jack charged forward, her sword raised behind her shoulder. She brought it down yet again with mountain-shaking strength. Will took the cleaving blow hard on his shield, dropping to a knee and briefly exposing his core. Jack took the chance to end this—she twisted her body completely and brought her blade around, gaining momentum and strength in her pirouette to deliver a killing blow— 

—Only to have an intense pain flare through her as her back was turned. She looked down in surprise. Will's blade had punctured through her back and protruded through her stomach. Jack sank down to her knees. Her hands twitched as she reached for the fatal wound, her vision already blurring and dimming as he pulled out his blade.

“Lesson,” he said as Jack's gut burned with agony. Her vision slowly returned and she drew a heavy, hard breath, feeling where she was wounded moments ago. Gone, like all the other fatal injuries she had received against him throughout the day. She glanced up, noting Will's clean blade.

“Come on, lesson,” he repeated.

“Dyin' hurts like hell,” Jack replied, using her sword as support to rise to her feet.

“There's a reason I keep you kids in sparring equipment, rather than having my men just throw on a dueling seal every damn time I want you guys to crack heads.” He briefly sheathed his blade, cracking the bones in his hand. “Something like this not too many people could handle, Apple. Ain't like your gut's the only thing that can get to hurting—especially the first time you fall.”

“Don't remind me,” she replied, rubbing at the welt forming on her forehead. He had got her good that time—stabbed her when she tried to grab his shield. Jack had honestly thought she had died—it took Will a good ten minutes to calm her down enough to start their sparring back up again. “Still don't know how any of this don't kill me.”

Will gave a small shrug, gesturing around the matted gymnasium and at the line of heavy chalk encircling both of them. “The seal my whisperers use has two effects. The first is giving people sparring a sense of dying whenever a fatal blow is landed against them. The more obvious is that it's somehow able to gauge organic and non-organic matter.”

“Meanin'?”

“Non-organic, like, uh, swords, spears—anything not natural. It can make those things pass right through a person, has something to do with vibrating a weapon's molecules.”

Jack quirked a brow. “Ain't got a clue what yer talkin' about.”

Iron Will shrugged. “Hell, Apple. It's magic. You think I know this crap either?”

“Guess not,” she concluded.

“Anyway...” Will shook his head. “Back on track. Lesson.”

“Uh...” she trailed off, blinking. Will put a hand to his face.

“Never.  Pirouette,” he tersely stated, pointing a finger at her. “I don't care how much strength you think you need on a blow, or how much momentum. Never turn your back—that's what gets your shit smacked.” He shook his head. “You should have had me there, child. What happened?”

“I dunno,” she concluded with a sigh. “Jus' thought ya might have had some tricks in ya. Thought I mighta needed somethin' more ta finish ya off.”

“A duel isn't like those stories and movies you watch. It's not pretty. It's not flashy. It's effective and precise. Less poetry, more mathematics.”

“I hate math.”

He smirked, stroking his beard. “Same.” He threw his shield over his shoulders and stepped out of the ring. Jack threw her sword's sheath off her back and put her blade up, then tossed it onto her back. She still was having a hard time drawing and undrawing the weapon—it was just so cumbersome due to its length.

Will stopped at one of the double doors leading outside and spoke to someone. He nodded, gesturing inside. Twila stepped in, brushing one of her bangs behind an ear.

“Apple. We've got one more step for your training today.”

“Alright. Hey Twi.” Jack nodded.

“Good—“ The soul-folk stopped, then checked a pocketwatch. “Afternoon. Wow. Day's been quick.”

“Eyup. Been at it since the rooster crow in here trainin' with the big guy.”

“Almost got a hit on me before you showed up,” Will proudly announced. “She remembers her ancestors more with every swing.” He gave a thumbs-up. “Which is why I'm having you learn something big now, Apple.”

The farmer raised her brow, but said nothing. Will pointed at Twila.

“Student of Celestia,” he addressed. “If I were to try and kill you, what sort of spell would you use to stop me?”

She looked him over and instantly replied. “A paralysis spell. One that targets your legs, preferably.”

“Hit me with it.” Will preformed a few small squats, warming up his legs.

The soul-folk gave a small shrug. “Alright.” She made a gesture in the air reminiscent of opening a door, then thrust forward. A aura of lavender magic erupted in the shape of barbed wire and wrapped around Will's thighs, then sunk into his skin. Without any form of struggle, he bent his legs and took a step forward.

“Didn't work!” he announced. “Now what!?”

“I—“

“Lethal force!” the norfolk roared. “How would you kill me?!”

“Will—“

“Say it! Honor your teacher!”

She glared hard at him. “Boil the blood around your brain.”

“Do it!” he shouted, gritting his teeth.

Twila seemed reluctant, then sighed, gesturing towards him and squeezing an imaginary ball. He briefly seized; sweat began rolling down his face in rivulets as he clenched his jaw hard, his face pulled back in an agonizing grimace. With a roar, he took a step forward. Twila's hand dropped and she sunk to her knees, breathing hard.

Will stumbled slightly, falling to a kneel.  “Hell'va...” he trailed off, panting and blinking rapidly. Twila said nothing, clutching her temple in a hand.

Will rose first, stepping as if he was disoriented and punch-drunk. “You know Celestia and honored her here.” The norfolk shook his head, clenching his hand as he winced. “That's gonna cost me for a few days.” He boisterously laughed, grabbing Twila's arm and hoisting her up, then pointing at Jack. “That's a small example of the Iron Mind—what I'm known for. A normal man would have been dead in seconds from that, correct, Twila?”

“Y-yes,” she muttered, quietly marveled at the man.

“Experience beats skill, Celestia's protegee. I've fought against Luna enough to where that isn't gonna stop me.” He threw back his head and laughed once more. “But by my ancestors, you know your way around magic!” Will then ran a thumb along his nose. “Apple. One day you're going to surpass even this.”

Jack shook her head. “Ain't sure how. Hell, I ain't even got a clue what muscle you were flexin' there ta stop her.”

“Isn't about muscle. It's about your conviction—your desire to march down the Path.”

“Ronnel?” she dryly asked. Will gave a hard, thin smile.

“Ronnel,” he agreed, heading for the bleachers. He gave a small wave and beckoned the two towards him. “We're giving you the basics for now. First: you gotta know that there are three schools of magic that every spell has roots in.” He counted on his sausage-fingers. “Alteration, Conjuration, and Illusion.”

“Alright...” Jack dubiously trailed off. Will shrugged.

“Hear me out. I'm talking about them because it's important.” He cleared his throat and plopped his colossal body down onto the bench. “Alteration is the most deadly of the schools. Thankfully, once you figure out how to fight against the spells, it's also the easiest to counter thanks to its invasive nature.” The norfolk looked between the two. “Soul-folk have to stay calm and in control if they want their spells to be potent, so, how do we fight against it?” He pointed both his index fingers at Jack. “Make ourselves the opposite! Strong emotions are a bitch to grab—like a pissed off bull on a rope. You follow, Apple?”

“Uh, I think so. Yer sayin' I gotta get mad?” she asked.

“Not just mad, child. Raging.” He gestured with a palm to an unseen object. “I'm talking a full-on Viking berserker rage. Or a widower's grief, or the glee of a child—that one's the scariest to see in combat. One of our warriors snapped during a hunt for a rogue whisperer. It's thanks to him that I learned how intense emotions can negate magic.” Will scratched at his beard. “But I'm getting distracted here. We're going to get you to negate magic before we leave this room, Apple.”

“She ain't gonna boil my blood or nothin', right?” the farmer nervously asked.

Will threw back his head and laughed. “Of course not. She's gonna turn you into stone.”

Twila made a square with her hands, then clapped them together and gestured towards Jack's arm. Instantly, the earth-folk's appendage became obscenely heavy, every second was a struggle to keep it lifted up.

“Fight it, Apple!” Will barked from the sidelines.

Jack grimaced, managing to clench her fist as she struggled against the numbing sensation that started at her fingertips and quickly approached her hand. She noted with alarm that the coloration of her hand was being sapped, replaced with a gray tone that crawled up her arm like a spider with purpose. There was a hard pop as her hand froze in place—she attempted to flex, yet couldn't even move her hand in the slightest.

Focus. Come on, girl. She grit her teeth as her gray skin hardened, turning her calloused, near-leather hands even harder; soon she wouldn't have any feeling at all. Her panic increased when her other arm become flooded with weight too. It sank to the side as she started taking shallow, panicked breaths.

“You can do it!” the norfolk shouted. “Feed the fire!”

Jack threw all her strength into flexing her arms—her left functioned, albeit barely, but her right was quite clearly stone by now, rising all the way to her elbow.

“Twi, stop!” the farmer shouted, pleading toward's her friend. The soul-folk paused, glancing at Will.

“Keep going,” he instructed with disinterest as he crossed a leg onto a knee. “It's sink or swim now. Up to her to follow Ronnel.”

Heat flared in Jack's eyes. “Ta hell with yer Ronnel!” Jack shouted as one arm became coated in stone, and the other well on its way. She collapsed to her knees when her feet were too heavy from the alteration spell's influence on her.

“If you can't even get this right, then I want you out of my sight!” he barked, spitting to the side. “You're worthless! You can't even break out of something as simple as this? You've forgotten your father, Apple.”

“I ain't forgot shit!” she snapped back, weakly rising to a hunch. “Ya think yer some tough guy 'cause you can swing a sword? Ya ain't nothin'.” She met his gaze, feeling a heat in her belly.

“And what are you?” Will calmly replied back. “A woman doing man's work. If you were norfolk, you wouldn't even be here right now. You'd be with child and stuck in a house. I gave you a chance, but it looks like I was right—you'll never be strong enough.” He rose, popping his back as Jack felt a sharp pain in her abdomen. “I'm leaving. Twila can undo the spell after a while.” With that, Will turned and began heading across the gymnasium.

“Don't ya dare walk away from me!” Jack shouted. Will paid her no attention, continuing towards the doors. “Goddamnit Will!”

A powerful surge of heat ached in the pit of her belly. Her hands trembled, her breath came out in short, quick bursts. Her teeth clenched together hard enough to hurt her jaw. Jack's entire body shook in indignation at his words. Without realizing she was doing it, she pressed forward, taking a step that made her stone feet groan and crack in protest. Her steps increased as as she left behind small trails of granite, every chip in her body showing more and more of the skin and clothing underneath the stone cocoon that imprisoned her. Her pace increased to a dead sprint, she clenched a hand that should have been impossible to clench and reared back, throwing a punch up towards the back of his head. He turned easily, the blow connecting square at his nose. Jack paused as the man smiled warmly at her, blood already pouring down his face.

“You did well, Apple,” he said kindly.

“Don't ya 'ya did well' ta me!” she shouted, clenching her fists at her side and stomping a foot. “What's with that shit you were jus' talkin' 'bout ta me?”

“Made you angry?”

“Damn right it made me... oh,” she paused, conflicted. “Were you jus' sayin' that ta get me mad?”

“Worked, didn't it?” he replied, reaching up to his nose. “Just about broke it.”

“I don't like ta be toyed with, Will.”

“And I'm not the biggest fan of pulling strings, but I didn't have much choice. I knew you wouldn't get mad enough at your friend, so I took initiative.” He gave a disinterested wipe at the blood running down his face. “But it's that kind of explosive anger you just had that lets you break out of spells. Well, Alteration and Conjuration, anyway. Illusion's a bit different, but we'll talk about that one some other time. What I want to drive home is this: anytime you're hit by a spell like that, focus on what you felt just a second ago. That surging anger you just had.” He paused, gesturing at his face. “This is the first hit you got on me, isn't it?”

“I guess so,” Jack replied.

“You're getting better every day, Apple.” He clasped her shoulder, beaming down at her with fatherly eyes. “It's an honor having you under my tutelage. You're as strong and as brave as any full-blooded norfolk man I know. Remember your father well over Hearth's Warming.”

“I will.” She nodded.

“And are you gonna take your blade to your homestead?”

“Nope,” Jack quickly said. “Thing'll jus' be in the way of my other luggage.”

“Well, practice your footwork over the break. I don't want you growing soft.”

Soft? He have any idea how much work I'mma have ta do ta catch up 'round the farm? Regardless, Jack nodded. “On it.”

“Good deal.” He cocked his head towards Twila. “You two head on out. I'll clean up.”

“Yer face or the gym?”

“Little bit of both, Apple.”


000


Rarity wiped at her forehead with a handkerchief, then returned to pacing the train station platform. Jack should be here any minute now, and after that, they'd begin the long ride to the farmer's home, where Rarity would have to meet with Jack's family. She gestured with her hand, bringing forth a magically created mirror, which she used to check over her hair, her makeup, her lack of eyeliner.

The soul-folk almost gasped in surprise. She frantically dug out the eyeliner from her purse and hurriedly applied it, breathing a sigh of relief only when the action was finished.

“How much longer are we gonna be here?” a high-pitched voice whined. Rarity spared a glance behind her, where a young girl stood by the parked train, near a half-dozen suitcases and travel bags.

“Stephanie... sweetie, I'm sure Jack will be here soon. Do try to stop fidgeting. I want to leave her with a good first impression of you.”

Stephanie rolled her eyes, scratching at her pink and light-violet hair. “I know. You've said you—“

“Want you on your best behavior, yes.” Rarity nodded. “She's important to me, sweetie. I want this week to be as smooth as possible for her.” She sternly raised a finger. “So mind your manners. Everything needs to be just so in order to keep up appearances.”

“Is that why you're makin' me wear this dress?” she asked, running a finger over the straps of the frilled, yellow thing.

“Well, that, and I was thinking of expanding my skill set to children's clothing, in addition to my works now.” She gave a haughty smile, facing her sister and beaming. “I mean, why not give children the same ability to be fashionable as adults?”

“Lookin' pretty nice,” Jack agreed from directly behind her. Rarity gave a small, undignified yelp in surprise, whipping around to face the farmer.

“Stop doing that!”

Jack snickered, wiping at her nose. “Couldn't resist.” She adjusted the bag on her shoulder. “Ya got yer stuff ready?”

“Of course, darling,” she said in a huff, adjusting her hair. “It's over by the train.”

“Which bags?”

“Which bags?” Rarity repeated. “All of them.”

“All of 'em?!” Jack exclaimed. “Ya do realize we're only gonna be at my place 'bout a week, right?”

Rarity laughed behind her hand. “Darling, I needed to take more than a few changes of clothes with me. Why, heavens, if I forgot my shampoo, or my hand-lotion, or my makeup, or—“

“Do ya really need that stuff? Shootfire, ya coulda jus' used some of my shampoo or somethin'.”

“I have very sensitive hair, Jack Apple. I won't let it be sullied by an off-brand conditioner.”

The train whistle blew before Jack could get another word in. She rolled her eyes.

“Alright, fine. Ya win this one. Let's jus' get yer bags.”

“I'll get 'em!” Stephanie proclaimed, hoisting one in either hand, only to trip, landing on the pile next to her and scattering the bags across the concrete. She rose to a sit, giving a nervous smile as Rarity's eye twitched.

“Just take a bag and get inside, sweetie,” Rarity said as evenly as she could, her face a mask. Stephanie nodded, lifting one in her arms and carrying it with both her thin arms in front of her. Jack moved over to a few of the scattered suitcases, hoisted up three in her hand, and balanced them carefully against her chest.

“Ya got the other two bags?” Jack asked, moving towards the train's doors.

“Of course,” Rarity agreed, throwing one over her shoulder and dragging the other behind her on a set of wheels.

They got their bags thrown in the compartment above their seats and situated right as the train whistle blew to signal its departure.

“Hope y'all don't mind long train rides,” Jack said, glancing over at the sisters from across the narrow aisle.

“Nope!” Stephanie giggled, swinging her legs freely in the air. “They're fun!”

“While I wouldn't call them a source of entertainment, I'm quite sure our destination will be worth it.” Rarity gave a small, considerate smile at Jack as she stood. “I need to go freshen up, dear. Allow me a moment.” She walked down the aisle and went through the small doorway to another train carriage. Stephanie stared briefly at Jack, looking surprisingly serious.

“So, you're my sister's girlfriend?”

“Eyup,” Jack replied, crossing her legs and turning to face the girl.

“Why?”

“Why?” Jack repeated.

“I mean... all of Rarity's special somebodies were kind of the same. You're a lot different. They liked clothes and parties and drinking gross stuff like champagne.” Stephanie stuck her tongue out in disgust.

“Well, champagne's jus' somethin' you'll probably like more when yer older.” It wasn't Jack's favorite either, but it was still a decent enough drink. “As fer the first part...” She put a hand to her chin and closed her eyes in thought. “At first glance, we ain't got shi—“ she paused, looking at the kid. “Uh, anythin'. We ain't got anythin' in common. Ya peel us both back a few layers though? We've got a lot of the same ways of lookin' at things.” The farmer smiled towards Stephanie. “But the biggest thing is: I trust her with everythin' I got. She's...” Jack put a finger to her forehead in thought. “I can't describe it. She's jus' really important ta me. An' I like ta think I mean a lot ta her. I want ta make her happy as best I can, ya understand?”

“I think so.” She crossed her arms and nodded.

The door opened again; Rarity stepped through, with Pinkie hot on her heels.

“Well lookie there!” Jack exclaimed. “How you doin', Diane?”

“Fine and dandy like sour candy! I was sitting a cart back and Rarity came to me and she was like 'hi' and I was like 'hi' back and so she told me that you were here as was her sister!” Diane briskly waved at Stephanie, grinning. “How you doing?!” She quickly plopped behind Jack's seat and leaned forward on the farmer's headrest. “You're all heading to the farm?”

“Eyup. Reckon yer doin' the same?”

“Absolutely-positivulity!” She giggled, her poofy pink hair jiggling with every shake of her head. “I bet my family can't wait to have some more of my crumbly, chocolate, cherry-cream cakes!”

“I'm jus' lookin' forward ta Hearth's Warmin' dinner.” Jack patted her stomach. “Turkey, gravy, fried okra, sweet corn, stuffin'...” Her gaze turned far away in reminiscing.

“I presume your family is quite adept at culinary workings then?” Rarity questioned.

“Eyup. Ya sure as sugar won't go starvin' when we get there.” She quirked a brow and gave a small, playful smile. “Heck, ya probably could stand ta gain a few pounds.”

Rarity tilted her nose up. “A lady must keep her body proper. We simply cannot carry excess baggage.”

“Hence the six bags of girly crap in storage?” Jack quickly countered.

“I mean body baggage, thank you very much. And I believe you could stand to lose some. You're getting fat, darling.” Rarity huffed. The smallest twinkle in her eye let Jack know it was an act.

“Fat?” Stephanie asked, tilting her head and missing the obvious joke. “Only thing fat on her is her boobs.”

Rarity's jaw dropped, she stared aghast at her sister as Jack briefly paused. Rarity held up a finger and was ready to berate the girl just as a low chuckle came out from the farmer's mouth, quickly turning to a deep, gut-busting laughter; Jack threw her head back and all but howled in mirth as Pinkie snorted in between giggles, slapping the back of the seat. Rarity let a small smile cross her, then finally broke into a hearty laugh, carefree and lovely.

“Shoot,” Jack said, once she could breathe normally again. She wiped at the corner of an eye.  “She's gonna get 'long jus' fine with Bloom, I reckon.”

“I don't get it,” Stephanie muttered to herself. “What'd I say?”


000


Dmitri propped his feet up onto his desk, leaning back onto two legs in his chair and filing his nails. It had been only a few days since he sat in the chair of his main base of operations in Manhattan, but it had felt like ages regardless. He glanced out the window, smiling as he saw a train go by on the horizon, peeking out through the lined buildings as it made its rounds across the town's outskirts. The smile was cold, calculating. Interested less in the aesthetic of the train breaking the twilight and more about profit margins. This last quarter had been particularly successful—he had expanded the railway to the border of the Griffon kingdoms. Now it was just a matter of stretching his influence farther west, maybe slip a few more bits to grease some palms to get a railway set up through the native's lands. Money was no issue when it came to fulfilling his endgame, after all.

A knock at his door drew his attention. Dmitri quickly tossed his feet off the desk and reached into a drawer, pulling out a box. He lifted the lid and pulled out a cigar, then felt his breast and side pockets, only to discover he misplaced his lighter. With a roll of his eyes and a snap of his fingers, he conjured a small flame at the tips. He nursed his smoke until he got a decent burn going, then dismissed the flame with a simple thought.

“Come in,” he stated, looking towards the door. Mr. Flam entered, shutting the door and putting his hat at chest level.

“Mr. Dorcis,” he addressed with a swallow. “Gilda Harding is here to—“ There was a hard crack at the door and it flew open, revealing Gilda and a raised foot. She stepped inside, her hands clenched at her sides as she marched for the man.

“I don't know who the hell you are, or what you think you got on me, but guess what?” Gilda stood at the front of the desk, glowering at the man. “You don't scare me.”

“My dear Gilda,” he began. “If it was simply a matter of scaring you, then I wouldn't have ordered you to come here.” He blew out smoke, smiling. “Rather. It's simple blackmail for you.”

Gilda shot forward, swiping Dmitri's cigar and dropping it on the floor. She ground it into the carpet with her heel. “Blow it out your ass.”

Dmitri, for his part, did nothing, simply staring at her without a single flinch. He reached into his desk and pulled out a folder, sliding it across the table. “I need you for a job. Assist me with it, and that's all that needs done. Nobody will be the wiser—in fact, I'll even be happy to offer financial compensation. I know you've had to do a few bribes to... keep the peace, Griffon.”

She scowled. “So that's what you were talking about in that letter you sent.”

“What else?” he smugly asked. “It's in government records. Admittedly, if you dug deep enough, a member of the public could find it, but you've always kept a low head, haven't you? Never gave anyone a reason to look.”

Gilda paused. She seemed ready to snap back, but shuffled on her feet, trying to quickly come up with an answer. Finally, she gave a defeated sigh. “What do I need to do?”

“Do you know the woman in there?” He gestured towards the folder. She glared at him, opening the folder without looking at it. Her eyes widened when she finally read over it.

“Rarity Belle.” She tapped her finger on the photograph. “What the hell are you wanting her for?”

“I reassure you, nothing involving physical harm.” He smiled coldly. “If I had wanted that, she would have died already. Rather. I want you to assist me in getting her somewhere.” Dmitri leaned forward, bridging his fingers together. “Is there anything that could spell trouble regarding that goal?”

Gilda crossed her arms, tsking as she gazed at the floor. Finally, she shrugged. “There's this woman with her a lot of the time...”

> Omen
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

	The train finally rolled into the station at three in the morning. Jack blearily gazed at her traveling companions still laying fast asleep. Stephanie resting her head on Rarity's lap, and the beauteous tailor leaning her head back and snoring inelegantly.  Jack held back at the sight, barely managing to keep her laugh in check. instead, she scooted over to Rarity and moved the woman's face slightly. She debated on closing her nose, but decided to play nice by gently running the back of her hand down the soul-folk's soft cheek.

“Mmm?” she gave a questioning moan.

“We're here, sug.” Jack smiled, then let out a hearty yawn.

“Did you sleep at all?” Rarity questioned, moving from her seat and gently putting Stephine's head on the cushion. She spared a glance over at Pinkie, who had her mouth open and was drooling on the back of the seat.

“Fer a bit. Jus' roused a bit quicker than y'all.” She gazed out at the empty country station. Sure, Ponyville wasn't exactly a big city, but here felt almost lonely in comparison. “Let's get yer crap.”

“It's not 'crap,' Jack. It's accessories,” Rarity huffed, moving over to Pinkie and shaking her awake. “Pinkie, your stop is coming up.”

Diane snapped to attention, blinking in surprise. “Aw, and I had such a weird dream too—you were in it, and we were at this big, fancy party, and you were talking with Spike and you two were all kissy, and—“

“Ok, darling. I'm sure it was quite interesting,” Rarity said, patting the girl's hand. She rose, moving to her sister and shaking her awake.

“Five more minutes,” Stephine groaned.

“Five more minutes and we'll miss our stop. Come along, sweetie,” Rarity instructed, grabbing her bags from the overhead storage and handing four to Jack, then taking the last two for herself. “We'll see you later on, Diane,” she called over her shoulder.

“Yepperoni! I might even stop by to visit!” Pinkie said, giving a small giggle. “You two lovebirds have fun!”

“I'm sure we'll think of somethin' ta do,” Jack agreed, making her way to the door. “Later, sug.”

The three stepped outside onto the train station; the farmer tilted her stetson back. “Kinda surprised Mac ain't 'round. I sent him a message a few days back 'bout us comin'.” Jack put the cases down and rubbed at the back of her neck. “Then again, harvest season's probably took a lot out of him—bet he's dead ta the world.”

“Harvest season?” Rarity repeated, making her way towards the station's interior. “Apples?” she guessed.

“Eyup. Apples and zapapples, plus, dependin' on when the heck we planted it, spinach an' swiss chard.” She adjusted her belt and lifted the bags again. “We got a chart at the house on when ta harvest what, for those quicker growin' plants—I'd have ta look at it ta see what I gotta do while I'm here.”

They entered the lobby; with a small nod towards a man working behind the lobby's counter, they stepped back outside where a hooded figure sat cross-legged in the middle of the road, a robe obscuring every feature of their body and a long walking staff resting against their shoulder.

Jack gave a small gesture to Rarity and Stephanie, then approached, ready to spring into action at a moment's notice. After a second of observation, she relaxed and gave a friendly nod the figure's way.

“Howdy, Zecora.”

The figure rose, using the staff as support. “I have been waiting for quite a while,” a mellow, accented voice stated. With a free hand, the figure pulled back their robe's hood, revealing a woman a few years Jack's senior, with smooth, silky black hair that spilled wildly down her shoulders. Her turquoise eyes gazed searchingly over the farmer. After a brief pause, her narrow lips split into a kind grin that stretched across her ebony skin and nearly touched the white stripes that ran horizontally across her entire body. “It's very nice to see your smile.”

She clapped Jack on the back and wordlessly took a bag from the woman, then spun on her heels, walking briskly the other way. Jack gestured for the others to follow after her.

“Ah, shoot,” Jack quickly said after a moment's walking. She glanced over at the sisters. “Fergot ta introduce ya both.” She nodded at the robed woman. “This here's Zecora Zasamel, a medicine woman all the way from Africa, an' more importantly, a family friend.”

“Greetings. I'm Rarity Belle, and this is my sister, Stephanie.” Rarity gestured to the child.

“Hello,” Stephanie muttered, moving weakly on her feet and dragging up the tail end of the party. Zecora looked over her shoulder and smiled at the child.

“Mac asleep?” Jack asked.

“He needed the rest, yesterday was hard. Some cattle broke out and fled onto the yard.”

“Fence needs fixing?”

Zecora nodded, kicking a loose stone off of the stone walkway. She gazed down the path as it twisted past a gentle, sloping hill.

“Figures,” the blonde groaned. “Jus' can't win with cows sometimes.”

Rarity paused, setting her bag down on the ground and leaning her arms on it, doing her best to catch her breath.

“We're not too far off, sug. Jus' a mile at most,” Jack reassured. She looked over her partner. “Ya need me ta carry yers?”

“I'll be fine,” Rarity said, wiping at her brow and picking up the bag once more. After a few minutes, her sister sighed heavily.

“My feet hurt,” Stephanie complained, still plodding behind everyone and staring at the bushes and trees they passed by.

Rarity glanced up at the sky, silently asking if she was being punished for something. “Just a bit more, sweetie.”

“I'm cold.”

Rarity said nothing, giving as much of a reassuring smile towards the girl as she could.

“...I think I saw a snake.”

“Where?!” Rarity shrieked, hopping back and flailing in a raw panic. Jack tensed at the loud noise, already planning where to toss the bags she held. She paused, relaxing her body once she connected the pieces.

“Can y'all keep it down fer jus' a few minutes?” she snapped, rubbing at her tired eyes. “We ain't got much farther, alright?”

“One thing you have to say is true, you have quite the lively crew,” Zecora quipped as she plodded onward, bearing a wide smile.


000


Several minutes later, they arrived by a heavy wooden fencepost that lead to a well-familiar sign for the farmer. A good twelve feet high, decorated in proud letters on a wooden backdrop were the words 'Sweet Apple Acres.' The farmer took in a deep breath and smiled.

“Smells like home.” Jack nodded as Zecora let out a small laugh.

They walked down the dirt road for a few moments, Jack already planning what she needed to work on tomorrow and Rarity all but dead on her feet at the ungodly hour. The dirt path rose up a small hill, where, standing proud at the hill's peak was a well-built two story house that had seen years of wear and tear; its shingles were barren in patches, and Jack knew there were dozens of spots in back that had been chipped or were missing paint, not even mentioning all the squeeky wooden steps or a few odd nailheads jutting out from the place. Still though, it was home, and nothing looked more appealing to her.

“Something is not quite right,” Zecora muttered, pointing towards the house. “The front porch has a light.”

Sure enough, a dim glow from a lantern illuminated the porch. Jack squinted towards the distance and could make out a large, imposing shape resting on a rocking chair.

“Lookin' like Mac waited up fer us,” the farmer replied. Zecora rolled her eyes.

“That man should go to bed on time. I should give him a piece of my mind.”

“Usually he's out like a light by now,” she agreed, taking a step up the base of the hill.

“His back lately has caused him to ache. Perhaps when I shifted from bed, I turned him awake.”

Jack paused. Wait a second. Are they sleepin' together? I knew there was somethin' goin' on.

The ebony woman saw Jack's hesitation. “You seem to be in a bit of shock.”

She shrugged. “I dunno. I knew he had feelin's fer ya, jus' expected him ta say somethin' ta me in a letter, I guess.”

“You know he isn't one to talk.”

Jack knew that was the truth. Zecora took a few steps forward, the heavy hoop earrings clanking with every movement her sensual body made.

“I'll go on ahead. I'm sure the Belles' wish to retire to bed.”

“Gracious of you, Zecora,” Rarity said. Stephanie yawned, only barely aware of her surroundings.

The tribalwoman nodded, briskly walking ahead of them. Jack slowed down her own pace to march alongside Rarity.

“What ya think?” she drawled out.

“I think I'd like to bathe before retiring tonight,” Rarity replied.

Jack offered a sly smile her way and spoke in a quite whisper. “Careful, sug. I jus' might be tempted ta join ya.”

Rarity gave a sultry smile of her own. “And I might let you.”

She frowned, heat rushing to her face. “I jus' can't win against ya with this flirty stuff, can I?”

The soul-folk laughed, the small bags under her eyes from lack of sleep doing nothing to hide her beauty from Jack. “You simply don't know how to play the game.” Rarity grew briefly quiet after she said this, their footsteps and crickets the only noise around. “It's refreshing in its own right, Jack. Someone that doesn't know the game and is instead simply... upfront about their affections.” She hummed in thought. “There's quite a bit refreshing about you, darling, compared to some of the other rabble I associate with.”

Jack said nothing. The timid smile thrown Rarity's way was all she needed to say on the matter.

They came to the porch just as Zecora went inside, gently shutting the screen door behind her. Macintosh rose from his rocking chair, gazing down at everyone. He paused for a moment on seeing his sister's scar, but seemed to not mention it.

“Howdy, Jack,” he quietly rumbled out in his heavy baritone voice. Jack put the bags she was carrying down and stepped up to the man, hugging him tightly.

“'Howdy' yerself.” She smiled, looking up at the giant of a man. The earth-folk then gestured behind her. “I reckon it's a bit late fer a proper introduction, but this here's Rarity and Stephanie Belle. Girls, this here's Big Macintosh. Mac fer short.”

“I can see why you live up to the moniker,” Rarity agreed. “You're definitely the tallest man I've seen—norfolk's being the exception.”

“I get that sometimes,” he agreed. “Now, y'all run off ta bed—I'm sure tomorrow's gonna be a whole slew of new ta ya, so sleep while ya can.”

“I'll take the rest of yer bags up ta yer room, once I'm done jawin',” Jack added.

Rarity gave a nod of thanks, then shepherded Stephanie inside. Once the screen door shut behind them, Mac walked over to the porches railing and leaned against it.

“Didn't know you were havin' company,” he said. Jack joined him, resting her forearms on the wooden planks and staring out at the view she had been painfully homesick for.

“Sent ya a letter 'bout a week ago.”

“Only one I saw was from a couple weeks back 'bout bein' home fer Hearth Warmin'. Ya use Soul-folk transit?”

“Nah, standard.”

“Wouldn't doubt it still bein' out ta God knows where, then.”

She listened once more to the crickets chirping across the well-trimmed lawn then glanced towards the barn in the distance. Hopefully it was full of this years produce.

“I reckon I missed apple harvest?”

“Apple an' zapapple.” He nodded.

Jack nodded, groaning inwardly at missing one of the most tedious and overwhelming harvests they did here, the fact that Mac had to do it on his own... “We, uh, break even?” she finally asked.

“Zecora was a life saver this year.” He sighed, looking haggard. “Hired a hand from town, between him an' her, we got most of it done. Actually turned a bit of a profit—maybe more if the zapapple jam makes a killin'.” Mac gave a hinting glance her way. “Some of the rotten apples still hangin' on the trees I reckon we can use as slop fer the pigs.”

“I'll get the rest of them taken care of, first thing in the morning.” Jack tilted her head in thought. “How's Granny?”

“Bout as well as you'd think.” He looked down at his hands and bit at his lip. “She's jus' 'bout gone. Bedridden, delirious. Her body ain't fightin' what she has.”

“Christ,” Jack muttered, glancing at the wooden flooring. “What are we gonna do?”

Mac evenly gazed at her. “Same thing we've been doin', Jack. Make her as happy and as comfortable as we can, 'fore the end.”

“H-how much time we talkin', Mac?”

He shrugged his meaty shoulders. “Could be tomorrow, could be a week, could be five years. I jus' know she ain't gonna get better than she already is.”

Jack grunted in acknowledgment. “I remember her always bein' pretty spry, ya know? Ta think of her like this...”

“Eyup.”

They stood together, each lost in thought about their ailing grandmother. The woman finally decided to change the subject. “So. I hear Zecora's doin' a bit more than jus' cookin' an' chores fer ya.”

He froze, looking nearly panicked. “Uh...”

“Relax. I ain't judging. In fact, I'm happy fer ya.” She glanced to the bags on the floor. “Besides... I'd be a hypocrite if I was mad at ya fer not spillin' the beans.” Jack nodded towards the upstairs guestroom. “That gal I brought ain't jus' a friend, ya understand?”

Macintosh nodded in his slow, plodding, thoughtful way. Jack braced herself for the torrent of questions he was bound to ask. 'How'd you meet?' 'Do you even have anything in common?' 'Can you trust a city-girl like that?' Instead, he stared up at the sky and chewed on the hay stalk in his mouth.

“Ya love her?”

She paused, looking towards her brother. He kept the same neutral gaze he always had, still lazily looking towards the sky. In a way, Jack felt like she was being tested by him. Still, she knew the answer in a heartbeat.

“With everythin' I got, Mac.”

“An' she treat ya right?”

Jack nodded. “Better than I deserve.”

“Then that's all that needs said.” He leaned back, popping his back.

“That's it?” Jack asked, blinking in surprise.

“That's it,” he answered with a ghost of a smile. “Yer better at readin' people than me anyhow.”

She smirked, punching him on the arm, then turned and grabbed Rarity's bags. “Head in, Mac. We got ourselves some work tomorrow.”

“Right behind ya,” he drawled.


000


Jack pulled out an iron nail she had in her breast pocket and drove it into the last loose board on the fence with a hammer. She wiped at her brow with the back of her hand and gave a few testing tugs on the fenceline. While it wasn't rock solid, it'd do for cattle. She rolled her wrist, briefly taking in the dewy morning ambiance. The breeze blew gently through the air, carrying with it the scent of the apple orchards and the smell of crisp autumn. She turned and leaned against the fence, looking toward the house in the distance and the figure slowly approaching her through the yellowing grass.

It was Rarity, dressed—well, she was never fully casual, but this was about as close as she'd get—a set of tight jeans, designer boots,  and a long-sleeved brown blouse. When she got closer, she called out Jack's name and the farmer wordlessly approached, meeting her in the middle.

“Mornin', sug,” Jack announced. “Sleep well?”

“Better than I have in a long time.” She looked over the land, at the grazing cattle in the distance, towards the house where the apple trees grew, then at the cornfields, before finally returning her gaze to Jack. “While this is traditionally far outside my interests, I have to admit, there's a certain... aesthetic beauty to your home.”

“That there 'woobi-subi' deal?” she asked, tilting her head.

“What?”

“Ya know... what ya called me that one time... that Japanese word.”

“Wabi-sabi, darling.”

“Yeah. Ain't that what I said?”

“I-if you say so,” Rarity stammered out.

“So,” Jack started, glancing back to her finished work. “What brings ya to the great outdoors?”

“Well, I wanted to help, if I could.”

The farmer gave a dubious stare Rarity's way. “How, exactly?”

“I'm not some helpless princess, I can work too,” she argued.

“I never said ya couldn't. Hell, I know ya got the ethic, judgin' by all those clothes ya make. It's jus' a bit more... physical than that.” Her gaze grew concerned. “Plus yer still a bit puny after what Trixie did ta ya. Ain't no need ta aggravate yer condition.”

“I'll be fine, Jack. Where to?”

“Gotta clear out some apple trees they didn't get to durin' harvest.” She took to walking, going past Rarity; the soul-folk quickly matched her pace, grabbing Jack's hand and entwining their fingers together.

“Yer always so touchy,” Jack said.

“Do you not like it?”

The farmer shook her head. “I like it.” She slowed down her pace a bit, enjoying the solitude of the morning and the closeness she had with the woman for the moment. “Yer jus' the right amount of clingy ta me.”

“I am not clingy,” Rarity huffed out.

“Keep tellin' yerself that, sug. Maybe it'll be true one day.”

They made their way to the apple groves, where Rarity smiled meekly towards the other. “I have a bit of a confession to make.”

Jack said nothing, looking down at the buckets surrounding one of the trees. Sparing a glance up at its fruit, she could tell instantly that dozens of the still-hanging apples were rotting. The farmer felt over the tree's bark, her hand coming to rest at a worn, smooth spot the size of a dinner plate about at her collarbone. “What ya got?”

“Well, I spoke with your brother earlier and told him we—“

The blonde reared back and struck the tree directly on the smooth spot with her fist. The tree flinched and dozens of apples rained down, landing into baskets placed under the branches. Jack popped her knuckles and moved onto the next tree in line, leaving an open-mouthed Rarity standing and trying to process what just happened.

“Darling, did you just punch that tree and cause it to rain fruit?”

“Eyup. Lil' skill my grandpa taught my pa, then he taught it ta me.” She ran a thumb over a smooth, barkless patch on the trunk, giving it a small tap with the back of her knuckle. “Hit a tree jus' right an' it'll vibrate an' drop its load. Me an' Mac got it down pat. Helps with harvest a ton more than jus' pickin' by hand. It's how we're solvent.”

“Solvent?” Rarity repeated.

“Word-a-day calender,” Jack said with a dismissive wave. “Now, what were ya wantin' ta say ta me?”

“Well, your brother and I had a conversation this morning.”

She grinned. “He's a heck of a talker, ain't he? Bet ya couldn't get a word in edgewise.”

“His silence spoke volumes,” she agreed with a small smile of her own. “But he did, however, suggest something.” Rarity gave an excited clap of her hands. “A double date at a jazz club!”

“Didn't know ya liked that sorta stuff.” Jack slammed her fist into another tree, then rotated her wrist, hearing a satisfying pop from it.

“Absolutely, darling! Jazz is quite the cultured creature, after all. I've heard many of my clients call it 'music of the soul.'”

“It ain't a 'cultured' thing, sug. It's a nitty-gritty thing. Like life is.” She reared back and struck another tree, then wiped at her forehead. Rarity tossed her handkerchief Jack's way; the farmer nodded in thanks and ran it over her brow, before offering it back to Rarity. The soul-folk took one look at it and grimaced slightly.

“K-keep it, dear. At least until it gets washed.”

“Lil' sweat ain't gonna do ya in.” Jack rolled her eyes. “But fine.” She bent down and started collecting baskets, loading herself up with several. Rarity joined her, picking up one and nearly dropping it at its surprising weight.

She placed it down and focused her magic, levitating it in front of her and wrapping another in her magical aura.

“Come on, Rare. Let's get these ta the scrap heap.” She then added in a grumble. “If I had half a mind, I woulda brought the damn wagon here instead.”

They walked a bit away, towards a small, fenced off area loaded with dozens of rotting vegetables. Rarity nearly gagged at the scent. “Why in the heavens—“

“Fertilizer, slop fer pigs, mostly. It gets put ta use pretty often.” She unloaded the rotting apples over the fenceline, unfazed by the smell. Rarity walked slowly towards the rot, her face contorting in horror with every step closer to the bin. Jack grabbed the baskets of apples and threw them over herself, shaking her head at Rarity.

“So,” she said, adjusting her ponytail a bit. “If it's all of us, who's watchin' the kids an' Granny?”

“Your cousin... uh... Rayburn?”

“Braeburn?” Jack blinked. “Well shootfire. I ain't seen him in a coon's age! Wonder why he's makin' the hike ta Mansfield?”

“Hearth's Warming feast?”

“True, I guess.” Jack beamed. “Man, been forever since it's been more than me, Mac, Bloom an' Granny at the meal.” She paused briefly, her thoughts drawing to her grandmother. This might be her last one... it was a dumb thing to just realize now, but it still hit her with the subtly of a hammer to the face. It might be her last one, and she didn't even have a clue what to say to the woman that took care of her all these years. Especially considering her descent into dementia. It was overwhelming to think of, so, at least for the moment, she shoved it in the back of her mind and put on a brave face for her guest.

The two walked back to the trees; Rarity smiled coyly at Jack. “I presume after you finish, you'll... 'wash up,' as it were?”

“Reckon so. It'll be some hours later, but I'll need ta take offa workin' a hair early ta get some halfway decent duds on.”

“Perhaps I could interest you in some different clothing for tonight?” Rarity offered. “Why, I just so happen to have a dress with me that would be quite lovely on—“

“No sale,” Jack replied.

“But—“

“I ain't wearin' no girly dress. Yer jus' gonna have ta deal with it.”

“Oh very well,” Rarity snapped. She turned and started walking away. “I'll return to the house and prepare lunch.”

“Lookin' forward ta it, sug.”


000


Twila sat at her desk, going over the papers laying on top of it. She flicked through them with a disinterested snap of her hand, each one sliding behind the other in a neat little pile. The soul-folk leaned back in her chair, listening to the artificial ocean beat on against her Dreamscape's shore, the afternoon light spilling though the thin lace curtains covering the door leading to her outside balcony.

Once she had talked with Dash regarding the scholarship and they both began digging into the dozens and dozens of names, a few oddities sprouted up. For starters, every recipient had at one point or another broken the law—some were acquitted, others jailed for brief stints in prison and a few had their charges mysteriously dropped without any form of legal intervention. What really drew Twila's attention, though, were some of the names on the list. Nearly half of Celestia and Luna's council were recipients of that very scholarship.

A knock at her door took her attention away from the dozens and dozens of stacked papers and notes scribbled across many of the documents. Wadsworth, her butler, entered, brandishing a strawberry parfait on a silver tray. He bowed crisply, and with reserved affection. “Madam's two-o-clock snack.”

“I don't know why I eat or drink in here,” she stated, taking the food and scooping a few bites into her mouth. “As soon as I leave my Dreamscape, I'll have the physical sensation again—this is only a mental blockade.”

“That is true, madam.” he nodded. “Does it at least taste satisfactory?”

“Like a dream,” she half-joked, before sighing and looking down at her workplace.

Wadsworth spared a brief glance at the folder on the desk lined with papers, his gray eyes taking in the items. “Quite the workload.”

“Quite indeed. It's why I'm researching here, rather than my dormitory. I need the extra time this state gives me to study over the files.”

“I understand, madam.” He brought the tray up to his chest and stared hard at her. “But I should remind you of something I'm sure Lady Celestia has mentioned before: You should take care not to stay for too long here, madam. The rainy season's almost upon us.”

“Rainy season?” she repeated, turning to face the young, lanky man and thinking hard at his words, if they had any significance. He was a part of her subconscious, so they should, but... “What rainy season?”

“I'm sure you've noticed.” Wadsworth pointed out the windows. In a stark contrast of the bright day, far off, at the very edge of her vision, dark clouds sat beyond the hills and mountains of the town. “There's a storm coming.” He gazed at her, his expression nearly fearful. “I would hate for you to get caught in it, madam. I'd suggest you depart soon.”

A distant growl of thunder. He quickly nodded his head, licking at his lips. “Very soon.”

Twila rose, walking in a daze towards the window. She looked. In the distance, straddling the hills that marked the very far end of her playground, were dark, oppressive clouds had swallowed the town's very outer reaches. Down below in the town proper, all life seemed to have stopped. Children playing baseball, frozen in mid-toss. Couples walking hand-in-hand down the road paused in stride. Birds, frozen in air. All were frozen, trapped and dead in place, save for one. A hooded figure, swathed in black shadows traveled along the street, heading towards her. The figure paused, snapping its vision upward, toward the window Twila stood by. The soul-folk flinched; there was no way the figure could see her up here, yet...

Her dread intensified with every step closer the shadowy figure took—Twila quickly gestured, dispelling the scene before her, the land, the study, Wadsworth, and found herself in the comfort of the white void that separated reality from her Dreamscape. Another gesture put her back in her dorm, sitting on her bed and visibly shaking.

Almost on cue, a knock came from the door leading to the school's hall; she yelped in surprise, clutching at her heart.

“You ok in there, bro?” Isabelle asked from beyond the door. Twila could feel her heart rate slowly fall.

“Y-yes,” the soul-folk replied. “Give me a moment, I'm, uh, not dressed properly.” She looked down at her well-pressed dress and leggings, taking the moment the bluff gave her to catch her breath. What had happened in her Dreamscape shouldn't be possible. Visitors in her realm being the exception, she controlled everything there. No cryptic warnings, no approaching rain, and certainly no hooded figure should have been there unless she willed it.

She rose and took a step forward—

—Only to find herself back inside her Dreamscape's study. Wind howled at the room's windows; clouds, black as coals coated the sky. Thunder spoke like the utterances of a mad god. From downstairs came a knock at the front door. Three, heavy, pounds—

—Twila stumbled forward with a yell, landing on her dorm's carpet. She turned onto her back and lay looking at her ceiling, her heart struggling to break free from her ribcage with every pound.

“The hell's going on in there, Twila?! Are you alright?!” Dash asked. Twila didn't answer—couldn't answer. She heard Isabelle swear once more under her breath. “I'm coming in!”

The door was thrown open and Isabelle stepped inside, looking panicked at seeing the soul-folk collapsed on the ground. “Oh God—you ok?!”

Twila swallowed. “I... I think so.”

Dash hoisted her up and sat her on the bed. “What happened?”

“Lightheaded,” Twila replied. That wasn't the whole of it, of course, but she was feeling exactly that at the moment. “Must of fell.”

“Blood sugar low or something? My uncle has that happen sometimes.”

“No.” The soul-folk swallowed, leaning her head back. “I wish it was just that,” she added under her breath.

“Then what?” The Ritter scratched at her multi-hued hair, quirking a brow. She yawned, not even bothering to cover her mouth.

“It's nothing. I'll be fine, Dash.” Twila pursed her lips. “What brings you to my humble abode?”

“Are you sure you're o—“

“Yes, yes, yes. Please.”

“Alright...” she dubiously replied. “Was just seeing if that info I got you had been helping any for our, uh, 'research project?'”

“The police records have been much appreciated, Isabelle—“

“Call me 'Dash,' egghead,” the athlete reminded.

“Alright.” Twila rolled her eyes. “Anyway... yes. I can confirm our hypothesis. Every recipient of that scholarship has been involved in some form of criminal doing. I checked the list and double-checked it.”

“But did you double-check your double-check?” Dash dryly asked, leaning against the nearby wall.

“Of course,” she said, missing Isabelle's obvious joke. The soul-folk rose, finally starting to calm down a bit, and made her way to the dorm's single table. She reached into the desk and pulled out a thick manilla envelope, then pulled out two folders, handing both to Dash. “The first folder contains a  collection of higher-end government names that have received that grant. The second folder are potential people we can talk about it with—people more accessible than the first batch. Perhaps we can get some info from them.”

“I hear you, egghead. I'll find someone in here I can put the screws to.” She gazed through the documents, rubbing her thumb over a profile that was stuck to another. Isabelle pulled it free and froze. Without a word, she rose, tossing the folder to the side and heading out the door.

“Dash?” Twila asked as the sky-folk stomped outside. She stared after the woman, then frowned, returning to her work. Or, well, at least attempting to. Her heart was still painfully reminding her of the scare she had inside her Dreamscape. What was it? What did it mean? She drummed the top of her dorm's desk in thought, the pace of her fingers fast and without rhythm as she thought long and hard about the scene that had played out before her: one of clouds and shadows and dark figures. She needed answers—her mind and the power within it should be a safehaven, not an area she felt was off-limits to her due to fear. Twila needed to find out everything she could about what was going on inside her chaotic thoughts. The soul-folk rose, stumbling slightly and taking another deep breath, then heading to the door.

It was time to do some research.  
> Confession
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

	Jack headed towards the house with a heavy sigh of relief. Sweat soaked her shirt through—she was more than grateful for the day being over as she tromped through the Acres. The setting sun kissed her back as she let out a breath of contentment and silently marveled at the beauty of the crisp autumn day. The cool breeze, the golden leaves, the thought of a hot meal to dispel what little chill the weather had brought to her skin.

There was something magical about days like today. Hard work, sure, but it was honest work. Felt good using her hands for something other than punching or holding a blade, that was damn certain. Felt great being back in the swing of things, back in the farmer's mindset. Small buddings of pride in her heart at the land and the knowledge she helped create and shape, but always knowing there was room for improvement in crop yields and the like. The small pinpricks of troubled thought as to what tomorrow would bring, be it repairing another piece of fence she saw while making the property rounds, the mole infestation that seemed to have taken over their green beans, or the sick pig that would need tending to in the morning. Normal troubled thoughts.

The simple, easy to deal with problems—not the kind of problems Rarity had been having. Those life-or-death struggles seemed so distant here. Like it was a dark, impossibly black chapter of her life that was over and wouldn't come back.

That kinda thinkin' is jus' gonna get one of us hurt, Jack thought with a frown. They were safe, for now. But that didn't mean she was going to risk everything by being careless later on. She would keep the girl safe, no matter what sort of shit went down.

God. I miss jus' normal problems. 

On the porch, she saw two familiar faces and one that was growing more familiar by the day playing poker on the floor. She came to the steps leading to the porch and tapped her foot lightly, drawing their attention away from the card game.

“Girls,” Jack said, tilting her hat down in greeting towards Stephanie, Bloom and Luanne. “How ya all doin'?”

“Great!” Stephanie squeaked out. “Bloom and Luanne took me to a secret clubhouse!”

“That so? Must be a heck of a place.” It was; she did the carpentry work on it back when she was Bloom's age. With a smirk, she glanced over at her sister and the other troublemaker that tended to hang at the farm, then over to Rarity's kin. “You been getting' along with Scootaloo an' my sister?”

“Again with that nickname, geez,” Luanne groaned.

“Yer fault fer ridin' that dang thing all over the place. Jus' rolls offa the tongue.” Jack took a moment to smile gently at Bloom. “An' how ya doin', sweet pea? Miss me?”

“A little,” she admitted, the bow in her crimson hair bouncing from her brisk nod. She rose with a frown, then went to hug Jack by the waist. “A lot.”

The woman put a gentle hand on top of the Bloom's head and smiled. “Missed you a lot too, baby girl. Sorry I didn't see ya last night or this mornin'.”

“I tried waitin' up fer ya,” she said, her drawl thick and heavy.

“Ain't no need—ya gotta get yer rest, Bloom. I ain't gonna be 'round too often 'til I get my schoolin' done—I'mma countin' on ya ta make sure Mac an' Granny get taken care of.”

Luanne rose from the floor, wiping at her backside with a hand. “So, you're an egghead now?”

“I wouldn't call myself that—egghead would make it seem like I'm actually havin' crap stick in my noggin.” Jack grinned at the purple-haired child. “Though I gotta say, I think you'd like my roommate. She's a lot like ya, in a way.”

“So she's totally cool too?” Scootaloo replied.

“If that's what ya wanna call it. Sky-folk too—bet ya could get some flyin' pointers from her or somethin'.”

“Awesome!” She offered a wide, toothy grin. “I gotta meet her! If I learn how to fly, I'll get my Mark for sure!”

“Ya think yer talent's gonna be flyin'?” Bloom asked.

“Of course! I'm a champ at flying!' The girl paused. “Well, at least I will be some day.”

“You two don't have your Marks either, huh?” Stephanie asked, rubbing at the small, slightly off-tone patch of skin at her cheek. Bloom offered the back of her right hand towards the girl, which bore the same off-color on her caramel skin, and Luanne finished, lowering the neckline of her shirt down  until her tanned collarbone showed proudly to the other two.

“We're still Blankies.” Scootaloo sighed in defeat.

“Blanks, hon. Ain't nothin' ta be ashamed of,” Jack quickly replied. “Anyone callin' ya a Blankie is jus' afraid yer gonna outshine 'em later on in life.”

“Yeah, yeah,” she dismissed with a wave of her hand. “That doesn't help right now any.”

Bloom rubbed at her chin. “Being late with 'em ain't that bad. I want mine now, but my sister got hers last in her class, an' she turned out alright. She's smart, an' funny when she wants ta be, an' strong—“

“—And she has the best girlfriend ever!” Stephanie added, nodding excitedly. Scootaloo blanched.

“Girlfriend? And you're all kissy? Ecch.” She stuck her tongue out and made a gagging noise.

Jack smirked, looking over at the kid. “Some day yer gonna get yerself a partner too, an' you an' that fella or gal's gonna do the same.”

“No way, this bird's flying solo.”

“I didn't know chicken's could fly,” Bloom added thoughtfully.

“Watch it, hick. Nobody calls me chicken,” Luanne warned.

“At least to your face.” Bloom grabbed Jack's hand. “How come ya didn't mention meetin' someone in yer letters?”

“Same reason Mac didn't tell me 'bout Zecora an' him.” She knelt down to eye-level with Bloom. “Bein' a grown-up ain't perfect, sweet-pea. We get embarrassed a bit easier than y'all. Understand?”

“I jus' don't get why it's a problem. Well, aside from what Scootaloo said—kissin's pretty icky.”

Jack chuckled, rubbing the girl's hair. “You'll see when yer older, I reckon. It ain't all that bad.”

Luanne rose from her seat, gesturing out towards the path leading out of the acres. “Not to interrupt the gross conversation, but If we're going to town we need to do it now, before it gets dark.”	

“Town?” Jack repeated. “What y'all headin' there for?”

“Well...” Stephanie trailed off, glancing to the side in embarrassment. “I may have forgotten to get my sis a birthday card.”

“Birthday?” Jack repeated, eyes widening in alarm.

“Tomorrow. Wait...” She narrowed her gaze towards the farmer. “You didn't know?”

“No.” The woman rubbed the back of her head. “Heck, I ain't got a gift or nothin'.”

“Yet another downside of having a girlfriend,” Luanne proclaimed, beaming at the news. “I don't have to worry about birthdays!” She gestured towards the other two. “Come on, girls! Let's get that card, then we can talk about what we can try to do to find our Marks!”

“Yeah!” they shouted in unison, leaving Jack nearly deaf as they shot off. She shook her head, leaning against the porch's fence as they scrambled for Luanne's scooter. They quickly jury-rigged a small wagon to it and took off, Luanne pulling the other two with at least moderate ease.

The door opened up behind her; Rarity approached, stepping over the pile of cards the girls had left on the floor with the grace of a cat. She moved over to Jack and stood next to her, lightly rubbing the farmer's back with a hand as she leaned against the railing, watching the girls depart past the farm's gates.

“Is it alright simply letting them leave without an adult?”

Jack nodded. “They'll be back before dark, it's a rule I've drilled inta Bloom's head since she could remember. Plus, town's kinda like St. Charles: Everyone knows everyone.”

“If you say so.”

The farmer gestured at the slowly shrinking figures. “Ya remember doin' stuff like that when ya were a kid?”

“My father said I was a little hellion.” Rarity chuckled. “Why, he distinctly remembers a time when I was five and got into my mother's makeup. I apparently ate most of it, wasted almost all of her perfume, and coated the walls with eyeliner.”

Jack laughed. “Sounds like ya—inta that girly stuff even when ya were a kid.” Her smile slowly dipped away; she looked at the soul-folk and it came back as an idea dawned to her as she brushed a bang behind the woman's ear. “Ya still interested in gussyin' me up?”

Rarity paused, giving a suspicious glance towards the farmer.

“Ain't a trick, sug. Reckon... I could try it fer ya.” Jack replied with a shrug she hoped came across as casual. It was punishment for forgetting Rarity's birthday, mostly. But at the same time, it did have another plus...

Rarity grinned, her smile showing off her perfect pearl teeth. She clapped excitedly. “Oh the things I'm going to do to you, darling!”

“Jus' don't be too rough with me—I gotta work tomorrow, after all.”

The tailor grasped Jack's hand and guided her inside. “Just you wait, Jack. We're going to make a woman out of you yet!”

What have I got myself into? she thought, surprised at Rarity's forceful grasp as she was dragged upstairs.


000


“Darling, can you stop squirming for a few more moments?”

“Ya poked me with a pin!”

“Because you won't stop squirming!”

“Well, ya—ow—jus' need ta quit!”

“You asked for this—you're getting the full treatment!”

“Gah!” Jack shouted as a pin poked at her head again. “Stop!”

“I can now. We're done.” Rarity rolled her eyes and extended her hand. From the vanity a few feet away, a hand-mirror levitated over and into the soul-folk's grasp. She handed it to Jack and took a step back, admiring her handiwork. Jack looked into the mirror and paused, almost overwhelmed at the change Rarity's work brought on her.

Her hair had lost some of its thick volume—it hung gently over her head, flowing like a river over her shoulders and down her back; a collection of pins at the top left a small, majestic bun in place. Jack squinted into the mirror; her eyelids had a small, shimmering kiss of gold to them, hinted at behind the ebony black eyeliner that brought forth her vibrant green eyes. Her dark brown cheeks had a light dusting of blush to them—Jack noticed that Rarity had all but hidden her scar under what she guessed was a type of paste—and her lips were an unusual orange coloration that really brought attention to her normally thin and unmentionable mouth. Jack trailed a finger, temporarily softened by moisturizer, across her face, soaking up the changes.

Rarity wrung her palms together, the same nervous expression a father awaiting the birth of his son might carry. Jack nodded, leaning against the armrest of her chair.

“I can hardly recognize myself, sug.”

“Is that a good thing?”

Jack shrugged. “I dunno. Be honest: do I look pretty?”

“You always look positivity gorgeous, my dear,” Rarity instantly said, reaching over to clasp  Jack's hand. “Makeup or not.”

“Why make me wear this then?”

“Because as an artist, one should always be mindful of how even perfection can be improved upon.”

The farmer gave a self-conscious smile. “Yer embarrassin' me.”

“If you're that embarrassed about the truth, Jack Apple, then that simply means you just need to hear it more often until it's not as shocking.” Rarity moved behind the farmer; Jack heard a small shuffling, then a few muted clanks of metal. Finally, Rarity's hands came into view, draping over Jack's shoulders and placing a loose-fitting silver necklace around her. Jack trailed a finger over the chain as Rarity attached silver hoop earrings to her earlobes. She took Jack's right hand—the farmer noticed that Rarity had drawn thick black lines around the trio of apples on her hand, highlighting their design.

“Please, go to the vanity mirror—tell me what you think of your dress. I have one last item for you that will make you look magnifique.”

Jack shrugged, rising from the chair and nearly stumbling to the ground in the heels she wore. “C-can I not do the heels, sug? I ain't game on breakin' my neck tonight. 'Sides, I'm already tall enough.”

“I'll concede on the heels,” Rarity sighed. “However, we are at least putting you in some dress shoes—no boots, dear.”

“Fine, fine,” she grumbled, moving to the mirror and looking over herself.

The dress Rarity had put her in was a fine piece. Silky, sublime, regal. An emerald green that perfectly matched Jack's eyes, it was a sleeveless design with a deep, plunging neckline that accentuated her already prominent breasts enough that she felt an embarrassing heat rise to her cheeks. Trailing down, the dress had a sort of diagonal design that reminded Jack of a fancier crochet pattern at the side, giving the illusion of her stomach holding a womanly inward curve to it, as opposed to the more-or-less straight shot to her modest hips. A slit in the dress' side gave yet another illusion of her hips being more wider and sensual than they truly were. Aside from the taut, well-defined muscles on her arms and visible leg, she was the embodiment of femininity. 

“Ya don't joke around when ya say yer gonna clean a gal up,” Jack marveled, tilting her head and adjusting her body a bit as she took in her reflection.

“I like to think I'm fairly serious about my chosen profession, darling.”

Jack heard the soft clack of Rarity's heels on the wooden floor, then saw her reflection approaching. She put a hand around Jack's waist and rested her head against the farmer's neck.

“Especially when it's for someone who means so much to me.”

Jack said nothing, instead tightening her hold on Rarity. The soul-folk paused.

“Oh, I almost forgot.” Rarity reached into the side-pocket of her well-pressed cream business dress suit and pulled out a bracelet. It was a small thing; silver, like the rest of her accessories. However, there was one thing that drew attention to it. Set straight in the center was a red gem, cut to perfectly match the shape and size of Rarity's Mark. On the opposite side of the bracelet was a blue apple that fit Jack's Mark perfectly. Jack smiled and flicked her wrist to either side, intently looking over the small gemstones.

“Hon, this is beautiful. Where'd you get somethin' like this?”

“As I've mentioned to you before, I know a metalworker. As for the gems...” She gave a small point to the three diamond at her cheek. “I've got a knack for finding them, you see.” Then, without even a pause, she ran a ghost-touch across Jack's neck, sending shivers down the farmer's body. “In more ways than one.”

She smiled, just as Rarity offered her hand and helped the blonde put on a pair of smart-looking shoes. She then escorted Jack to the door and pecked her with a quick kiss. “Run along, dear. I've got to get ready myself.”

“'Run along'... treatin' me like a dang kid.”

“Well, I did have to dress you.”

“Shaddup,” Jack automatically replied as Rarity chuckled, shutting the door behind her. The farmer walked to her room and sat down at the edge of the bed, rolling the bracelet absentmindedly with a finger as she thought.

She had told the truth to Mac last night: She loved Rarity. She hadn't said anything to the girl yet, of course, but it was a simple truth that was harder to ignore every day. A part of her knew it was greedy, in a way, but Jack wanted the tailor—the kind, wonderful, charming, sweet, flower of a woman—for her own.

She looked down at the Mark on her hand. Iron Will said that her talent wasn't so much farm-work, but taking care of her family, taking care of her own. If it was, maybe, just maybe...

The farmer rose, moving to a drawer at her nightstand and rooted through it, nearly exclaiming in triumph when she found what she was looking for. She felt along the dress for pockets and frowned at their absence.

Am I really gonna have ta carry a damn wallet 'round town tonight? 

Jack rolled her eyes, then felt in the drawer once more, pulling out a woman's billfold. She brushed off some dust, admiring how well-maintained it was despite decades of non-use. She put the object inside the billfold and held it in a death grip. There'd be hell to pay from everyone involved if she lost her mom's stuff.

There came a knock at the door. “Jack, please pick up the slack,” Zecora stated.

“Yeah, yeah. Comin'.”

For better or worse, tonight was going to change a few things.


000


The farmer came downstairs a few minutes later, greeting Mac and Zecora with a nod. She paused a moment as Macintosh did the same.

“Dang, Mac. Clean up nice.” Jack smirked, looking over his well-pressed brown suit and shaven face. He casually smiled.

“You ain't too bad yerself.”

Jack laughed. “Only 'cause Rarity's a miracle worker.”

Zecora smiled and ran her hand down a daring dress that had slits on either side, along with an opening that exposed the sun design standing out on her flat belly—the Mark's location all-but exclusive to the shaman-folk of Africa. “Jack, you are one to impress,” she stated, the heavy gold bracelets clinking on her wrist as she put a finger to her chin. “That is quite the nice dress.”

“Yers is nice too.”

“Quite nice,” Rarity agreed from the top of the stairwell. “A foreign design, judging by the open belly—eastern nations are quite fond of that style.”

“Your eyes are clever and your truth stands. My apparel comes from my homelands.”

“Marvelous, darling!” Rarity positivity squealed. “It's simply top of the line. Someday I'd love to work on a series dedicated to your culture's designs—I did one utilizing an Egyptian theme a few months back that I felt was sublime—I'm sure I could do quite a bit with—“

The front door opened, flooding the room with the chatter of three young girls.

“An' I already told ya earlier: we jus' ain't got the right equipment ta make an engine. 'Specially a train-sized one.”

“Then what's the point of all that metal out in that storage bin?”

“Scrap metal, Scootaloo. We get a bunch an' sell it. We ain't makin' an engine from that dang stuff.”

“Plus coal's expensive.”

“Yeah, what Stephanie said,” Bloom argued, passing into the kitchen. She nodded at the group, then headed up the stairs. She paused halfway and came down, scratching at her head. “Ya'll are lookin' nice.”

“Thanks, sweet pea,” Jack replied, rubbing the back of her neck. She glanced at the three girls and the dozens of oil spots and muck they were coated in. “What in the heck y'all get inta?”

“Well—“ Stephanie began.

“There was—“ Bloom started.

“So, this—“ Luanne quickly spat out.

The three looked at one another and grinned, sharing a secret. Jack was about to say something, then sighed, glancing futilely towards Mac.

The man gave an easy stare towards the three. “Girls. Go wash up. I expect ya'll ta have a bath an' be in bed by the time we get back.”

“Fine,” Bloom said with a roll of her eyes, stomping upstairs with the other two. Mac was about to say something to Zecora, when the front door opened once more, heavy footfalls racing in. Braeburn stepped into the kitchen, his hands on his knees and breathing heavy, the thick mop of curly brown hair under his wide-rimmed hat soaked.

He wiped at his head. “Y'all seen...”

“Girls went upstairs ta take a bath,” Jack promptly replied. “An' hello ta you too.”

Braeburn finally rose after a few more desperate gasps of air. He lifted his hat up and brushed his hair back. “Yeah, sorry. Forgot my manners. How ya doin', squirt? Nice look, by the way.”

“'Squirt?'” Jack repeated. “Ya ain't all that older than me, cuz.”

“I got enough months on ya ta throw my weight around, I figure.” He gave a boyish grin. “Though I'm serious when I say we gotta catch up tomorrow. I'm guessin' that lil' cutie pie wrapped 'round yer arm's yer date?”

“Indeed. Rarity Belle. Pleasure to make your acquaintance.” The soul-folk gave a small bow.

He gave a wave. “Braeburn Apple. All the way from the great city of Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaappaloosa!” the man announced, snapping his hat up and waving it briefly.

“Yer still doin' that, huh?” Jack muttered.

“Of course, Jack! Ya gotta have pride where ya lay yer head. Bet ya feel the same way 'bout Mansfield.”

“I don't exactly scream my head off every time someone asks where I'm from.” 

He chuckled. “Only 'cause yer a stick in the mud.” Scratching his baby-smooth chin, he glanced upstairs. “Those kids are gonna run me ragged tonight, ain't they?”

“Eyup,” Mac agreed. “Yer gonna work for yer Hearth Warmin' meal Friday, that's fer sure.”

“Reckon I'll enjoy the quiet while it lasts, then.” He stepped back into the living room. “Y'all have fun at yer little shindig tonight. I'mma take a nap 'til those girls get outta the tub.”

“Bum,” Jack replied with a smirk.

“I suppose you're forgetting all the times you slept at my boutique?” Rarity questioned, raising a brow.

“Point taken.”

“I'm rather anxious to start.” Zecora gestured toward the door in the living room. “Mac and I  shall move the cart.”

Mac nodded, taking the woman and guiding her with a massive arm wrapped around her shoulders. He paused to glance at Jack from the doorway, his lazy stare driving his words even harder home. “May wanna show yerself ta Granny while we're gettin' the horses ready. I reckon she'd like that.”

“Do ya think—“ Jack caught herself. She was about to ask if it even mattered—wasn't like the old woman really had things click for her anymore. It hurt to think, and Mac would probably be crushed, Jack thinking like she did, but was there even really a point in seeing her, when the woman Jack grew up and loved was gone? When she was just a dying shell? Hell, it's why Jack didn't make a beeline for the old gal when she first arrived—it just felt pointless. 

She finally gave up and nodded. “Alright.” 

The woman took a few steps laced with trepidation up the stairs, before she heard a voice behind her.

“Aren't you going to introduce me to her as well?” Rarity offered. Jack turned towards the tailor, who wore a small, understanding smile. “I'm sure she's quite the lovely lady.”

“She is.” Was. Jack bit her lip and glanced at the top of the stairwell. “A-are ya sure?”

“Of course I am, ma cherie.”

“Yer sayin' that fancy stuff again,” Jack quietly chuckled. Rarity slipped to her and put a supporting hand around the farmer's waist.

“I suppose I am,” she agreed, giving an encouraging push forward on Jack's torso.

Jack guided the soul-folk to the end of the upstairs hallway, pausing before the last door on the left. She glanced over at Rarity as she rested her hand on the doorknob. On seeing the woman's reassuring nod,  Jack turned the handle and stepped in.

The room was sparse on furniture, but well-decorated with dozens of images of their extended family—Jack's granny had always been a bit of a shutterbug. She loved taking pictures. Wasn't too bad at it either. She could have maybe made some money doing it, if she hadn't settled down and started working on the farm.

The two passed by a dresser and a chest to stand at the side of the bed, where a shriveled up woman with wispy, snow-white hair lay staring up dumbly at the ceiling behind thin curtains. Jack pushed one to the side and knelt down next to the bed, taking the old woman's hand.

“H-howdy, Gran...” Jack whispered. The old woman's eyes slowly focused and her gaze slid over to Jack.

“Who's zat?” the woman breathed out, reaching a pale hand out towards the blonde. Jack took the hand and held it gently.

“Jack, Granny.”

“Jack...?” She took in a breath and shifted slightly to get a better look. She paused on seeing the other woman in the room. “An' that yer wife?”

“W-what?” Jack stammered out. “No. She ain't. She's my ladyfriend, though. Her name's Rarity.”

“Charmed,” the violet-haired beauty said, smiling kindly. “Jack's said so much about you the past few months.”

“All good, I hope?” the elder asked with a wheezing laugh.

“Everything.”

“Good... good...” She laid back down and weakly smiled. “Jack deserves a nice lil' wife. Someone who has a lady's touch—bullridin' ain't a gentle profession, after all.”

“Bullridin'...?” Jack trailed off, narrowing her brow. It dawned on her and she visibly flinched, biting at her lip. “Gran. That's uncle Jack. I'm... I'm yer granddaughter.”

“Granddaughter...?” She let out a tired exhale in thought, then her expression darkened. “Had one not too long ago, Jack—Beautiful child.” The woman clenched her teeth tight. “Lost the mother—lost my baby girl.”

Jack said nothing, glancing pitifully towards Rarity, who returned the expression.

“S-she named her 'Bloom.' 'Fore she passed on, she looked out the window... Last thing she said was how pretty the trees were in bloom.”

“Yer daughter was a good woman,” Jack quietly said.

“We buried her in the plot out back. My other granddaughter cried herself ta sleep the last few nights.”

“Yeah,” the farmer croaked. “Bet she did.” She took in a breath caked with emotion and patted the back of her grandma's hand. “I... w-we should let ya rest.”

“Y'all come back ta see us. An' tell yer ma I've been itchin' fer one of her molasses pies.”

“Will do.” Then, under her breath, “Love ya, Gran.”

Rarity and Jack slowly moved back towards the door. As Rarity went into the hall, Jack heard her grandma wheeze.

“Jack,” she called out. The farmer turned and noticed how attentive she seemed to be. Her eyes seemed briefly focused and alert as she stared across the bed. “Treat her right.”

The farmer stared across the room, before slowly nodding. “Yeah, Gran... I will.”

She weakly nodded, leaning back into the folds of the bed and closing her eyes.

Jack stepped outside, quietly shutting the door behind her.

“Are you alright?” Rarity asked, taking Jack's hand and staring up at the farmer.

“I'm fine,” she tersely replied.

“You're crying.”

Jack stared down at the soul-folk. “Am I?” 

Rarity moved her thumb up to Jack's eye and brushed it gently, showing the farmer its wetness.

“Guess I am,” she softly marveled, before exhaling. “Ya know somethin'?” the earth-folk asked, scrunching her face tightly and wiping at her eyes with the palm of her hand. “I jus' never thought it'd be this hard. She's always been this tough gal. Seein' her like this... God.”

“If you need anything, anything at all, let me know and I won't hesitate.”

“I know ya wouldn't, hon. Yer always there fer me... It's one of the reasons why I...” She swallowed, biting her lip. “Rare,” Jack addressed after a long, thoughtful pause. “After we get back, I wanna talk with ya alone fer a bit. That fine?”

“Because we're not talking alone now,” she replied. On seeing Jack's serious expression, she raised her hands. “Very well, dear. We'll discuss what you wish to say.”

Macintosh's voice rose from below. “Ya girls 'bout done? We got the horses hitched!”

“Comin'!” Jack quickly called back. She looked at Rarity. “Well, guess we shouldn't keep the boy waitin'.”


000


They loaded up into the wagon, Jack and Mac in the front bench tending the horses, Zecora and Rarity in the tail end on a small cart the Apple kin typically used to haul hay. Rarity's nose wrinkled slightly in disdain on her hay-covered seat, but she remained quiet. With a small snap of the reins, they were off, traveling down the road leading towards Mansfield.

“Pretty night,” Mac commented over the noise of the horses and the wooden cart bouncing down the rough road.

“Eyup,” Jack agreed, nodding with his simple words.

“I meant it earlier: ya look pretty.”

Jack smiled. “Thanks. 'Course, it's 'cause of my girl. I sure didn't gussy myself up.”

“I can believe that. I ain't got a clue what kinda dirt she has on ya, but it's gotta be pretty big if she's puttin' ya in a dress.”

Jack glanced behind her at the two women engaged in quiet conversation in the back of the wagon. She somberly nodded. “I guess I do got some dirt on me.” An some blood on my hands...

He said nothing, tilting his head slightly to listen to her better over the clatter of travel.

“I-it's not somethin' I could say over the mail.” She let out a breath. “I... I can't ask ya ta not hate me—“

“I'd never hate ya, Jack.” He put a hand on her shoulder. “Yer family no matter what.”

“Swear ta me.” Jack said, staring straight ahead and not meeting Mac's questioning gaze. “Swear ya won't say a peep of this ta Bloom.”

The giant tightened his grip on the reins. “Yer makin' it sound like ya killed someone or somethin', Jack.”

She squeezed her knees tightly, not daring to look him in the eyes.

Macintosh did much the same, slowly returning his sights to the road. It took her a few minutes, but Jack finally spoke again, her voice barely rising above the rolling wheels.

“Shit, uh, got serious fer me...” Jack glanced behind her, towards the soul-folk at the back of the cart. “Serious fer us a few months back...” 

Rarity, meanwhile, continued to speak to Zecora, nodding as she listened intently to a tale the African was finishing.

“...I looked at her and spoke gently, 'Child, not when you wear purple.'” Zecora concluded. Rarity blinked for a moment, then held back a heavy laugh, covering her mouth to stop herself from being heard across the wagon. She spared a small glance behind her, frowning slightly at the deep conversation the Apple siblings seemed to be having.

Zecora gave a knowing smile, reaching out to touch a leaf from a tree planted close to the road as the cart continued to rumble on towards the town. “I know romance is sometimes brought upon the spur, but what exactly made you want her?” 

“A misunderstanding,” Rarity replied. “I mistook an apology for a token of interest, then after some... extenuating circumstances...” Like saving me from death's grasp, she thought, ”I expressed my interest in her—a tip of the hat, if you will.” She crossed her hands over her lap and stared up at the starlit night. “Granted, my view of her has changed over the months. At first, I suppose I held her to some... mythical standard. “

Zecora hummed briefly, shrugging. “I do not know exactly of what you mean. Would you elaborate, so your knowledge I may glean?”

The soul-folk pursed her lips. “I saw her as this thing of beauty—and she is beautiful, in her own way,” she quickly corrected. “Quite possibly the most beautiful person I've ever been with, made presentable or not. It's just that... back then I didn't take into account some other aspects that make her, her.” She crossed her arms over her breasts, then winced as the wagon hit a pothole. “I saw her interest in farming, and labor, and, and combat, and I considered them to be a negative traits. Ones I believed she would throw away as she grew closer to me. Views that were arrogant and uncompromising.”

She then gave a considering pause. “Perhaps I'm judging my prior beliefs far too harshly. Maybe it's the simple case of the self being the greatest critic, and the past seeming so different than now that I'm viewing myself in a darker light than I stood in.” The tailor ran a finger through her hair, briefly conjuring a small, illuminated mirror to position it just so. “Now, while it's still something I have no interest in personally, I at least understand and respect her passions, as she tolerates my own.” Rarity couldn't help but glance once more at Jack's back and her nearly regal appearance. “Of course, it seems like she goes above simply tolerating my passions.”

Rarity gently smiled, looking down at her hands and feeling a slow blush creep her way across her cheeks, feeling briefly the way a girl would over her first crush. “Jack would do anything for me, you realize? She... she has already done so much.” Rarity bit her lip. “I care deeply for her. Yet, I am a bit uncertain regarding the future. Our future.” She held out both her palms at her sides and glanced at each in turn. “Our social cliques are as far away as one could get. I... I don't want my life's work ended by becoming a housewife on a farm in the middle of nowhere. I'm proud to have dreams, aspirations. Goals in mind, Zecora.” The violet-haired woman lectured, raising a finger up. “Likewise... I can't ask Jack to leave the farm behind. She has aspirations of her own involving her family life. That, and I would dread the conversation asking her to whisk away with me. Jack is stubborn, as all Apples are, I assume, but...” Rarity sighed, looking once more to the stars above the cart, silently hoping they'd give her an answer. “I know if I asked—begged, she'd eventually concede. But I know she wouldn't adapt. She may even resent me, after a few years of it.”

Zecora nodded, listening intently to the soul-folk. “It's perfectly fine to have those fears. Some relationships end in tears.” She looked over her shoulder at the siblings, at the faint lights of Mansfield in the distance. “But before you set your heart on a future goodbye, speak to Jack, explain yourself before things go awry.”

“Oh of course,” Rarity quickly agreed with a wave of her hand. “I'm merely speaking of future worries. Nothing at all regarding current issues. It's merely a problem that came to my thoughts regarding a more... permanent relationship, if you will.”

“It seems to me like you have a plan. Were you wishing to one day make her part of your clan?”

“I, well, that is to say...” Rarity offered a wry smile. “There are very few women like her. I will say that, at least.”

Zecora laughed. “Then you better take hold of her while you can. Women like that are in high demand.”

“I suppose I should keep that in mind,” Rarity agreed as they pulled into the outskirts of Mansfield. Macintosh numbly dropped off the wagon and attached the horses to a nearby hitching post. Rarity rose, brushing her backside free of the hay that clung tight to her appearance.

“Zecora, I appreciate the talk. It gave me a bit of insight.”

The African smiled, rising herself and taking a look at the small homes decorating Mansfield's outskirts. “Thank you, Rarity, I am touched. Really, however, I did not advise you much.”


000


It was close to midnight when they got back to the acres. Jack sent Mac and Zecora inside and set to taking the horses back to the stable, Rarity following close behind. The tailor glanced at the evening sky in thought.

“It's a beautiful night.”

“Eyup,” Jack agreed, shuffling on her feet slightly. She tightened her grip on the horses' reigns with one hand and clutched her billfold with the other. “Downright pretty.”

Rarity glanced at her partner and let a small smile come to her. “The jazz band was lovely.”

“Eyup,” Jack agreed, looking towards the horses and swallowing.

“Who was your favorite performer?”

“I dunno... maybe that one fella that did Lucille?”

“King?”

Jack said nothing, opening the stable door and guiding the horses in as Rarity stood by the stable's entrance.

“It wouldn't kill you to talk a bit more, you do realize?” Rarity asked, crossing her arms with a huff and staring into the dark of the interior. She heard a few small metallic clinks as Jack unhitched the saddle and supply bags from the horses, then the creak of a hinge opening and closing. The farmer stepped back outside a moment later, getting ready to wipe her hands on her dress. She paused on noticing the tailor's glare; Jack reached into the billfold she carried, pulling out a handkerchief and cleaning her hands that way, before putting it back.

“Sorry, hon.” Jack kicked at the dirt, looking down at her shoes. “Jus'... thinkin', ya know?” The farmer let out a breath, staring up at the heavens. “I... I wanna talk with ya. Care ta walk back ta the barn with me?”

“And you cannot speak to me of it outside because...?” she questioned.

“Jus' feel better in a spot that ain't so open, I guess,” Jack replied, already moving past Rarity and towards the barn. An if I don't get a spot ta sit 'fore we talk, I'm likely ta collapse.

The two entered the barn, Jack walked over to a round bale and sat, still clutching the billfold in a death hold.

“Come here, Rare,” Jack said, patting a spot right next to her.

“This isn't going to just be you asking for a roll in the hay, is it?” Rarity questioned with a quirked brow and a smirk, moving over and sitting next to the earth-folk.

“This is serious, sug.” Jack felt heat in her cheeks at the suggestion. She turned slightly, shuffling her weight a bit to get more comfortable—lord knew she didn't have to worry about hay poking her butt like this in jeans. Whoever thought that thin dresses were a good idea...

“Listen,” Jack began. She took Rarity's hands in her own and looked deep into the tailor's blue, pure eyes. “I reckon I'mma be treadin' some familiar ground with ya here, but I wanna say it, while I still got the guts.” The woman leaned forward, shutting her eyes and resting her brown forehead against Rarity's cream. “Ya know I love ya, right?” She smiled gently, still not opening her eyes. “I mean, yer a smart gal, so I figured ya did, but...”

“I presumed you had a fondness for me,” Rarity replied, letting out a single chuckle of her own. “And I must admit that I'm quite enamored with you as well, Jack Apple.”

“I'm glad,” Jack said. “Past few months they've... I can't lie. They've been hard. Things that have gone down. What I've had ta do ta take care of ya. Jus' a whole load-a shit. But knowin' yer with me—that I'm holdin' one of the best things in the world? Makes it worth it. I love ya, Rarity.” Jack repeated, running a thumb over the soul-folk's temple and reaching to her billfold. “An' maybe I'm bein' stupid, but even now I jus' can't see me livin' in a world without ya. Without ya in my life.” She dug into her billfold and clasped an item in the palm of her hand. “So I got ya somethin'. Happy birthday.” Jack turned Rarity's hand upwards and dropped it gently into her palm, then closed her fingers around it. The tailor relaxed her hand, pausing when she saw what the item was.

Rarity stared hard at her hand. “I-is this...?”

“A ring. My ma's...” Jack quietly agreed, apprehension on her face. 

It was a simple thing—a single solid gold band, with a small, orange gem in the shape of an apple. Rarity ran her finger and thumb over the design and the smooth curves of the object.

“Jack...” Rarity bit at her lip, seemingly conflicted, something the farmer caught on to quickly.

“Am I going too fast here?” Jack asked after a beat, wringing her hands together. “Sorry, Rare. Leadin' ya into somethin' ya ain't keen on doin' is the last thing I want.”

“I know. I-it's simply...” Rarity sighed, looking down at her hands. “Do you realize how complicated a marriage between us could be?”

“It don't have ta be,” she argued, picking at a piece of hay from where they sat and tossing it to the side. “Jus' 'cause yer wantin' ta be somethin' in the world, don't mean nothin'. Ya go 'round the world, see the sights, whatever ya gotta do. Jus',” Jack gave a small, weak smile. “Remember ya got a home here. With me.”

“I'm still not ready for this type of commitment, dear,” Rarity said after a pause. “You've become one of the most important people in my life, but I'm...”

“Scared?” Jack asked, the word without any heat. Rarity nodded after a moment.

“I suppose I am.”

“I understand.” Jack nodded thoughtfully, staring to the side.

“But,” Rarity started, bringing the farmer's attention back to her. She closed her hand around the ring and gave it some thought. “Quite a bit has happened over these months, as you said. And it's...” She bit at her lip. “Nothing about it was truly a good experience, save for it bringing us together as we are. It's twice now that death nearly had me, until I was saved by you.” She grasped Jack's hand tightly in her own and gazed at the farmer's green eyes. “If there is one thing positive to be said about grazing by death, it's that it is a teacher. And one thing it did teach me, Jack, was that you were truly a woman I could trust.” She shut her eyes and exhaled. “And truly a woman I could love. Perhaps we are not right for one-another in the strictest of senses, Jack. Even then, or perhaps because of it, I think we're perfect together. Despite our lack of time with one-another, I see you as the half that makes me far better than I truly am.” She slowly nodded, her words coming to her unevenly—a child reading through a difficult story. “With that in mind, I cannot simply reject your offer. Yet—“ she quickly began, staring down at Jack's hand. “Yet I know I'm not ready to become your fiance. I'm sorry for being conflicted on this, Jack. I truly, deeply am.”

“Don't be.” Jack put a hand to Rarity's face and rubbed soothingly at her cheek. “Ya take as long as ya need. I'll be here.” She then took Rarity's hand and put it against her heart. “Waitin' fer ya.” 

“Jack...” Rarity breathed out. “One day,” she said. “One day, one day in the future, I believe—no, I know you'll see me wear your mother's ring. And on that day... I'll happily be yours.” Rarity weakly smiled, tilting Jack's head down to meet her mouth and kissing the farmer deeply. Jack could feel her eyes watering; she briefly broke away from their embrace to wipe at them.

“I never was this much of a crybaby 'fore I met ya,” she grumbled. Rarity held back a laugh.

“You're not a crybaby, Jack,” the soul-folk reassured. “There are times when if you hadn't cried, I'd wonder if you were mentally sound.” Rarity coyly smiled, reaching to Jack's shoulder. With a brush of her hand, she slipped off a strap of Jack's dress, exposing the farmer's bra on one side. “Besides,” she continued, reaching forward and moving the strap on Jack's other shoulder. “Even if you weren't before meeting me, I've changed because of you too...” She gestured around them. “I certainly would have balked at the thought of making love in a barn prior to meeting you, nor would I be content in being the dominating force in my... romantic encounters. Now, however...” the tailor leaned forward onto the tall woman, bringing out a small gasp of surprise from the earth-folk as Rarity kissed her neckline, then leaned farther on the woman still, pushing Jack onto her back. She looked down at Jack and took off her jacket, tossing it haphazardly towards the wagon as she unbuttoned her shirt. 

“I can say I like this part of ya too,” Jack agreed, playfully wrapping her ankles around Rarity's waist. “Now help me get outta this damn dress.”

Outside, the crickets chirped, singing a quiet serenade for the lovers amid the light of the moon.
> Tertiary
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

	Spike walked along the main street of St. Charles, giving a few nods to the petty handful of people brave enough to be up this early and in this kind of weather. The thought of the weather sent a shiver through his body. A cold snap had come to town last night, and while he was still a warm-blooded creature (no matter how many times Pinkie argued against that) he was affected pretty hard by the cold. With a small breath into his palm, he conjured a flame to life and briefly warmed his unnaturally calloused hands before extinguishing the heat with a clench of his fist. 

The dragonchilde yawned, covering his mouth and turning down the road leading to the Carousel Boutique. He could've been asleep still. Warm and comfy next door to Twila, under the three blankets on top of his bed... Yet here he was, on the way to the Boutique.

Despite his misgivings, he couldn't help the nostalgic smile that graced his features as he approached the shop. That place had some of the best memories of his life. All the interesting clients, exotic dresses, cool accessories, and Rarity.

The young man frowned, briefly.

He spent a lot of time with her over the years, now her and Jack...

Spike sighed in a reluctant acceptance of the fact. She deserved someone like that—the tailor had an extra spring in her step ever since she got together with Jack. It was like she was constantly inspired most days—she went from project to project, humming chipperly as she tweaked and modified cloth hung on the mannequins in back. All things considered, she could have ended up with someone that didn't make her happy, like some of the others she had dated. For her sake, Spike was wishing only the best for the soul-folk.

He came to the door and reached into his purple jacket, grumbling as he fished for a key. Finding it, he put it in the door handle, only to find it swung open with no resistance.

With a furrowed brow he took a step inside.

“Hey, Diane,” he called out. “How about keeping the door locked before the store—“

Pinkie's at her folks for Hearth-Warming, a voice told him. He spared an uneasy glance behind him at the lock.

He knew he had closed up shop last night. Right after he locked up the door, he had a scroll from Celestia come through his system, expelling from his mouth and landing in the grass. Once he had pocketed it, he double-checked the door.

That meant... someone had been here.

Or still was, he told himself.

His first thought was leaving and contacting the police. If someone was in here, it was stupid to try anything. Dragonchilde or not, he was still in the infancy of his powers and would be until he was an adolescent of twenty.

The again, it was stupid for whoever came here to mess with Rarity's property. Spike focused and felt his body start to change; his pupils narrowed, becoming thin cat-eye slits that brightened the dim rim. As he glanced around and took a few steps forward, his already unnaturally leathery hands and body hardened further still to a scaly chain-mail that coated him head to toe. His nails hardened as well, becoming razor-tips as his tongue narrowed and lengthened, splitting to two paths at its tip. He flicked it past his teeth, tasting the air, gathering its scent.

Someone was in this room recently. He could taste the sweat on their forehead as they made their way across the store's lobby and upstairs.

Spike shambled forward, crouching a bit—two wingtips penetrated the back of his shoulders, pressing against his clothing and making it painful to stand fully erect. He climbed the steps, each one groaning in protest at the weight of his draconic form. He flicked his tongue once more as he came to the top of the stairway. Whoever was here was in Rarity's room. He crawled forward, past the dozens of photos of her family and, now, photos of Jack and her, together. Photographs of them together by a bonfire, Rarity of all people shoving a gooey marshmallow into Jack's mouth. Photos of Jack, eyes widened in surprise as Rarity kissed her cheek amid a crowd of people cheering in the stands of a football game. (Cloudsdale Champions and the Baltimore Berserkers, Spike recalled with haste.) A photo of the two, Jack in a tuxedo and Rarity in a full, shimmering even gown, on their way to a play that Jack ended up liking. (“None of that girly singin', plus the characters didn't act like idjits.” Her words.)

He shook his head, getting back in the game. Creeping past the piano, he neared the door.

He burst into the room, his fangs bared and a heat in his belly letting him know his flame was ready, should he need it.

The room was empty, save for the open window bringing the late fall chill amid the billowing curtains. His body slowly reverted as the threat faded. He took a few steps forward, a small cracking noise coming from his skin as his scales and claws reverted into his body. Spike glanced at the floor. Noticing something, he shuffled forward and picked it up between his fingers.

A large, foot long brown feather.


000


Twila sat at the piano bench in the empty lobby of the Academy, her hands clenched in her lap, scrunching her loose skirt up. After a moment she exhaled, willing her hands to relax. She put them to the ivories and absentmindedly plucked at the keys.

The response to her request had came fast enough—the woman's response, though stiff, always did. Along with this letter agreeing to a meeting in short order.

She paused, a finger resting on a key, its low note reverberating across the lobby. The hairs on the back of her neck stood on end as an influx of magic poured into the room, and the lobby visibly darkened. Twila turned towards the large windows. A black, raven black, ball of energy levitated a few feet off the ground, first a softball, then a basketball in size. Another moment and it expanded to a beach-ball, then further still. Once it was about half of Twila's height, a rumble similar to thunder sounded into the room and the black ball became textured, turning to a cocoon of feathers. The cocoon soundlessly levitated for only a moment longer before a vertical crack split the shell in two. From inside it, Luna gracefully rose to a kneel on the carpet. The shell snapped and adjusted to two large wings at her back. Standing, the raven wings turned from opaque to ethereal, then changed to a black, wing-shaped aura awash with stars, then those too vanished completely from her back.

Luna shut her eyes then opened them, focusing her vision on the soul-folk sitting on the piano bench. Twila couldn't help but notice how gaunt her face looked, alongside its unnatural paleness.

“Hail, Twila,” she greeted, snapping to attention and nodding as the sleeveless white gown she wore slipped one of its straps off her shoulder. She quickly brought it back up with a heated tsk.

“Hello there, Luna,” Twila addressed. After a beat, she quirked her brow. “Uh... did you cast a teleportation spell from Camelot?”

Luna gave a bemused shake of her head. “Nay, Lady Shields. T'would be a most taxing travel from Camelot to this academy. Thou would see me collapsed on the ground, or quite near. Rather, before you is simply a doppelganger. Mine true body lay in respite upon the bed within my chambers.”

“Not only maintaining a magical link of that distance, but allowing a doppelganger spell to carry your form and clothing this well?” Twila marveled, touching Luna's arm and rotating it scientifically in her hands. Despite the cold, icy flesh, it held the same hard muscles the warrior all-folk herself carried. “Amazing!”

“We are indeed flattered at thine compliment. However, my strength has always been the martial trials and tribulations of battle. Celestia and thineself are far finer creatures regarding the arts of mysticism and enchantments.”

“You're embarrassing me,” she admitted with a laugh. “I'm not that talented.”

Luna shook her head with a smile. “Thine humble nature is refreshing as always. 'Tis an admirable trait. One mine dear sister finds quite charming within you.”

The front door of the school opened. A group of four students dressed in shorts and t-shirts walked in, talking exuberantly among one-another. One of them nudged another in the stomach and pointed at the Nightwalker. They all froze, standing sharply in place before stiffly bowing and making a hasty retreat to the dormitories.

“Like normal, mine appearance is greeted with reservation.” 

Twila chuckled lightly. “Well... to be fair you look a bit more, uh, stern with your face.”

She shook her head. “Even if mine own flesh and blood were standing before you, thine colleagues would still show reluctance to engage in conversation with me.” She gave a rub at the black emerald in her earlobe. “'Tis something I expected when I took the role of Nightwalker. Mine father, shortly before his death knell, warned me of such a fate. 'Tis a lonely thing, being Caballo's night. The castle is empty, save for mine personal guard, and my warrior's spirit aches for self-exile, for knight-errantry! For travel!”

“Luna,” Twila said. “It doesn't have to be lonely. You have seven friends from Spike, the girls, and me. We don't want you to be alone either.”

“Your comrades, thineself, and the dragonchilde.” She smiled a bit in thought. “Indeed, alongside another.”

“Another?” Twila repeated.

“The man I hath crossed steel with almost as many years I have walked the earth, Lady Shields.  William Kalaallit.”

The woman put a finger to her mouth in thought. “Oh! Iron Will?”

She nodded. “Crossing weapons constantly over the years hath given me more knowledge of The Beast who Speaks. He is, admittedly fascinating. We hath spoke many a time after our duels about philosophy, poetry, and the art of warfare.”

Almost as if they had spoke of the devil himself, Iron Will tossed open the door leading into the lobby, not watching where he went as he craned his neck back and drank deeply from a massive canteen. The norfolk let out a noise of satisfaction, then bellowed, “Make sure you boys leave some food for me!” He took a step forward and froze, realizing who sat nearby.

“By my ancestors! Luna Pendragon herself!” He took a few heavy strides near her and grinned, only pausing for a moment. “I can see you didn't put your makeup on.”

She pursed her lips. “Thou know I have no interest in such an endeavor. What you see is—“

“Flesh doll. Maybe some kinda projection, something. I can smell magic on you.” He leaned towards the woman and inhaled deeply near her neck. Luna's visage darkened. Her cheeks took on a crimson blush.

“What art thou doi—“ she asked. Will let out a noise of triumph.

“Doppelganger spell,” he stated, raising a meaty finger to the sky, then pointing at at the Nightwalker. “I can smell it on your skin.”

“Thine actions are highly inappropriate within sight of Twila, foolish man.”

“What was inappropriate?” he asked. “I was just curious as to your spellwork. Nah, what'd make inappropriate is if I...” He cupped a hand next to his mouth and whispered into her ear. Heat flooded her face; she playfully slapped his leg with a hand, shooing him.

“Get thee hence, norfolk. Thine students fled to the dorms.”

He scratched at his coarse beard. “Was supposed to get lunch with them in the cafeteria, why in the heck...?”

“Mine countenance and abrupt arrival hastened them away.”

“That can't be right, them running from your simple sight!” Will took stock of her sickly features. “On second thought, you do seem kind of...” The giant man put a black finger to his chin in thought. “Plaguevictimy.” Before the all-folk could object, Will continued, brazenly ignoring her darkening face.

“Poor Luna,” he bemoaned, turning his face away and clutching his hands tightly together to his heart. “We hardly knew thee.”

“Thou doth don the robe of a jester well, William Kalaalit. Mayhaps thou should retire yon sword and embrace thine true calling.”

“For being a clown, you sure hang onto my words.” He smirked, then cocked a thumb towards the door. “Well, I guess I'm gonna talk to my kids.” Will turned and headed towards the dorms, then paused, snapping back around and staring at Twila. “If you see her before I do, tell Apple I hope she hasn't gotten fat and lazy over the break.”

“I can't say she seems the type,” Twila replied with a shrug. Will let out a small chuckle and headed for the door, lowering his head to duck under the door's arch and disappearing.

“Now...” Luna began, clearing her throat. “Mayhaps we should discuss business now, 'fore another interruption?”

“Two things. First,” she shook her head, “I think there's something going on regarding Cabello's council.”

“Speak,” Luna addressed, crossing her arms.

“I don't have complete proof yet, but there's a coincidence I can't help but notice. Trixie and well over half of the current men on your council have been involved in a violation of the law.”

The princess silently waited for Twila to continue.

“Dmitri Dorcis's grant for better understanding and equal privilege.” Twila nodded. “Every one of them has that grant in their history as well.”

“And thou believes there is a correlation?” Luna asked.

“Yes. I think so.”

“Could be mere happenstance,” she remarked, giving an easy shrug. “I myself have violated mine sister's law before. 'Tis not the hardest thing to do. Plus that man has had many a grant and scholarship. Seven people sharing such a thing is not the most alarming issue.”

“But—“

“Thine concern is duly noted, Lady Shields. I will investigate the matter.” She bridged her fingers together. “Now, say what else thou needs of me.”

“I guess I can't put it off any longer,” the woman agreed. She stared at Luna's hands for a moment. “It's... something I didn't want to speak to many about. Considering I'm protegee to one of the greatest minds in the world, showing weakness would reflect bad on her.”

Luna shook her head. “Thine words are a lie. Every man and woman carries weakness and falters on occasion. 'Tis no shame in your own showing.”

Twila gazed to the ceiling. She leaned back, jumping a bit when her elbows pressed down on a few of the keys of the piano. Leaning forward again, she muttered out, “Your Dreamscape...”

“Mmm?”

“Have you ever lost control of it?” Twila bluntly asked. She tapped her fingertips against the bench, then quietly continued. “I've had this issue canceling my Dreamscape. It's hard to stop channeling it. I keep getting these... strange flickers back to it that I have no control over. Every time I do, my world becomes more ominous.”

Luna hummed in thought. “Mine guess is thou hasn't sought a reprieve from channeling magic long enough for thine body to recover. In addition, when thou slew Trixie—“

“No,” Twila stated, shooting up. “I didn't 'slay' her. I protected myself. There's a difference.”

The all-folk crossed her legs and rested her hand on a palm. “Mayhaps mine words could have been phrased differently. My apologies.” 

Twila calmed down after a moment, then sat back down.“And that's not all,” she continued.  “When my Dreamscape loses control, I've noticed a figure in my world.”

“Explain.”

“It's a hooded... man.” She nodded to herself. “The figure is not a woman's. Anyway, he's... the people in my mind fear him, and seem to know of him more than I do.”

Luna paused. “I have a guess as to what thine problem is. When thou slew—“ She tapped her forehead. “When Trixie perished,” she corrected dryly, “Her death 'twas from abusing her magic, was it not?” On seeing Twila's nod, Luna continued. “There's a reason thine academy is stationed here, Twila. 'Tis fertile land for magic and the mystic. Beneath the earth upon we walk lay lines of magic, its design akin to the vessels within our eyes. Cloudsdale academy, even the town of St. Charles, rests nearby such a vein.”

“Really?” Twila replied. “I knew that magical ley lines were scattered about the world, but I never thought there'd be one so nearby.”

“Any town or structure of renown is near a line. Camelot herself lay upon where three intersect.” She crossed her arms. “As thou knows from thine arduous studies and research, such points are all but saturated in magic, increasing our physical and mental prowess.”

“And in all-folk's case, increasing your longevity.”

The princess gave a small nod of agreement. “The earth's connection with us does indeed have that effect. 'Tis the reason my father lasted so many years before the flame of his life became snuffed out.” She dismissed the conversation with a wave of her hand. “I digress. The reason I brought forth the ley-lines in the first place was that the energy within the area could have affected both you and her. When she died, some of her magical residue transferred to you, Twila. Like warmth from a recently sat-upon chair.”

The woman stared evenly at Luna. “So you're suggesting that what I'm seeing when I channel magic...”

Crossing her arms, Luna gazed out the front doors. “Mine word lacks medical knowledge, but... I believe thou art experiencing a shade of her dying mind. 'T'would explain thine lack of control, and this unknown apparition you hath seen.”

Twila rose and began pacing, rubbing at her lip. She paused mid-stride and turned to Luna. “So the man I keep seeing, he's just kind of a ghost? I can ign—“

“No,” Luna quickly snapped out, her eyes steely as she instantly rose. “Thou shall treat him as a threat. Do not speak nor touch him. Thine life might become forfeit if such were to occur.”

“But if it's just a residual effect from Trixie's thoughts, then surely—“

“Nay,” she said urgently. “While a mere memory or to that effect for her, it was a dying thought. Such things can be harmful to another, regardless of thine constitution. Believe me.”

“What do I need to do, then?”

“Cease thine magic channeling like we told thou to do after the incident.” Luna's eyes narrowed and she stood, towering over the soul-folk. “Thine body needs recuperation.”

“I know it's just...” Twila swallowed. She looked down at her hands, trying her best to ignore their shaking. “I feel a sort of need to use spells, Luna. It's no excuse, but I—“

The Nightwalker put a hand on the girl's shoulder, stopping her. “We understand thine words, Twila. Every soul-folk has a heart that yearns and beats betwixt their breast for magic.” She ran her fingertips gently over the star-shaped mark on Twila's cheek. “Thine very essence of what makes you you is within the confines of spellwork. Yet, 'tis not your life as important as thine livelihood?” She turned away, briefly rubbing her hands as if she had a heavy chill. When she pulled them apart, there was a small ebony-black string charm that reminded Twila of a fishing net.

“Thou knows why I am called the Nightwalker?” Luna asked, tapping the circular charm with a finger. A bit more of the string came free from her fingertip; she used this to make a long string that formed the charm into a full necklace.

“It's a title you earned due to your active time period.”

Luna gave a half-nod. “That's one of the reasons. The other is my own talent.” She turned, gazing out at the cold November sky. “I am a creature of shade, Lady Shields. The night calls to me, as doth mine subjects' dreams. A simple spell is all I need to be there, a guardian against nightmares, dream eaters, and sorrow. A nightmare myself against the darkness, cleaving through the wicked clad in the silver of the moon's light.” She handed the charm to Twila. “Wear this when sleep calls to you. The dreamcatcher will guard your slumber and thine Dreamscape, and if that still is not enough...” She cupped Twila's head and tilted it up to meet her eyes. “Fear not even then,” she sternly whispered, her eyes hard, grim steel. 

“I will keep the darkness at bay.”


000


Gilda leaned back on the stone bench by the pond on the outskirts of St. Charles. She gazed at the ducks that flitted about the chill waters.

Damn things should have migrated a week ago, the griffon-folk thought, patting her leather jacket down until she found a pack of crumpled cigarettes. Putting one in her mouth, she then fished in her other pocket to find her lighter, when a bolt of pain erupted from the small of her back, shot up her spine, then radiated across all of her poor, misused wings. They cramped and tried desperately to open within Gilda's jacket. She hugged the material tight against her body, forcing out a small cry of pain. After a few agonizing minutes, her wing muscles finally relaxed, lying with a throbbing grumble flat against her back.

She quickly fished into her other pocket and produced her lighter. Flicking the wheel with her thumb a few times against the flint, she finally produced a flame with her sparks and got a deep, heavy drag of her smoke into her.

Gilda sighed, resting her head into an open palm.

Earlier was too close. She wasn't expecting anyone at the shop for at least another hour. Granted, Gilda had lost track of time hunting for what she needed of the tailor's, but it still felt early. 

It was an eleventh hour ordeal, but she found it when it was all said and done and had just enough time to strip off her shirt and jacket, throw open the window and leap out. Gilda had landed and got her clothes on as soon as the coast was clear, but it was still a hell of a shave. If she hadn't jumped out that window, or worse, if someone had spotted her flying, seen a griffon-folk flying around here, there'd be problems.

“You still smoke?” a scratchy woman's voice directly behind Gilda asked. Gilda let out a shocked squawk of surprise, jumping out of her seat and nearly dropping her cigarette as she whipped around, revealing Dash. The girl offered not her usually coy and competitive smirk, but rather a no-nonsense stare that Gilda would almost call cautious.

Gilda licked at her suddenly dry lips, taking the cigarette out for a moment and nodding. “Yeah. Why? Want one?”

“I'm good,” she dismissed, walking around the bench to sit down on it.

Gilda paused, then wordlessly joined her. She smoked, Dash stared up to the sky, her arms crossed over the baby blue a-shirt she wore.

“You get my message?” Gilda asked, a small part of her hopeful.

“I did.”

The griffon turned, looking at the other. “I'm glad you decided to—“

Dash silenced her with a wave of her hand. “This is business, Gilda, nothing to do with us.”

“Isabelle...”

“Don't call me that,” Dash snapped.

Gilda pulled out her smoke and started to slowly twirl it in her dexterous fingers. After a moment, she put it back in her mouth and glared at Dash with a hurt scowl. “Fine.”

“This isn't easy for me either,” she blurted out.

“It was easy enough for you to ditch me,” Gilda shot back, ice in her words.

“Don't try to turn that to me, man. It was nothing but your fault. You were a huge asshole to Chylene and Diane.”

“I...” She couldn't even lie at that, so instead, she shut her mouth and crossed her legs. There wasn't a need to deny it. “Guess I was. That shouldn't of changed what we had, Isabelle.”

“My friends are a package deal with me, Gilly.” The pet name briefly perked Gilda up, she looked over at the sky-folk, who shook her head. “Gilda,” she corrected.

“I'm...”

“Only apologize if you mean it. I know you. I know when I'm just getting lip service,” Dash snapped, pointing at her sharply with a finger. Gilda shrugged.

“Guess there's gonna be no apology.”

Dash shook her head. “Thought so.” She glared hard at Gilda. “You want to tell me what you're doing with a grant from Dmitri Dorcis?”

“Same thing anyone's doing with a grant. Paying for the shit here.”

“With the same grant Trixie, Blueblood and dozens of politicians have.”

She shrugged. “So?”

Dash scowled. “There's a pattern here. You know it, I know it. Save us both some time and just say what your connection with them is.”

“What connection? You're stretching this wa—.”

“—If I ever meant anything to you, you'll tell me.”

Gilda's hard scowl briefly fell. She crossed her arms and tsked. “Don't do that to me.”

“I'm giving you a way out of... whatever it is you've got yourself involved in, bro. I can help. Just tell me what this is all about.”

“There's stuff I can't even tell you, Isabelle. Please. Drop it.”

“Fine.” She rose and shook her head. “One way or another, I'm going to find out what you're up to.” With that, she turned, conjuring her ethereal wings and—

“—Wait,” Gilda called out, reaching out for Dash. The Ritter paused, a few feet in the air. She levitated with a few slow flaps of her wings, glancing over to Gilda, who stared almost desperately at her.

“...I'm not hurting anyone.” She looked pleadingly toward Dash. “At least know that.”

Isabelle stared hard in turn towards Gilda. “But you're saying there is something going on?”

Gilda remained silent, staring at her feet before Isabelle gave an annoyed sigh.

“I'll believe you.” She paused for a beat. “But the instant I hear of something going down, you'd bet your ass I'm gonna be watching for you.”

With that, Dash flew off, rocketing into the sky as Gilda let out a shaky breath, throwing the smoke butt over her shoulder. That was a close one. Leave it up to Isabelle of all women to come by while Gilda was vulnerable, in addition knowing at least a bit about the situation the griffon found herself in.

But it was OK. Being watched or not, she only had a small role to play in this. No blood on her hands, nothing. Just a pick up, and a bit later a drop off. Easy.

Speaking of easy... She needed to get that message to Dorcis. After looking through Rarity's planner, she decided on a date. Next Tuesday. No clients for Rarity, a note on there said 'cleaning.' Plus, after Gilda dug around, she discovered that Jack's schedule was completely booked by school on Tuesday. 

If they wanted to act, it was then. With that in mind she left the pond, heading to the post office.
> Sangfroid
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

	Jack stared out the window as the train rolled wearily to the station, slowing down with a high-pitched whine when the brakes were pressed, then coming to a shuddering halt. She yawned, the midday sun that shone through the cold November clouds doing nothing to counter the fatigue she had from the late night boarding.

The Hearth's-Warming meal was a big success. Ham, turkey, stuffing—only thing that was missing was some of her granny's apple pie. The woman had stayed in her room throughout the entire dinner, unable to even join the group. So, after they ate, Jack and the family went upstairs with a small plate of food. Her granny, while far from the keen mind Jack grew up with, seemed to have a sort of vague clarity that day, like looking through an almost opaque piece of plastic. Shades of the woman showed, through the veil of her mind. But it was just that. Shades. Ghosts from the mind of a near-death, delirious old woman.

“Yay!” Pinkie exclaimed from the seat behind Jack, snapping her away from her thoughts. “We're back!”

Jack stretched with a groan and rose, twisting a bit then smiling when she noticed Stephanie and Rarity sitting together, the younger of the two leaning against Rarity's shoulder and sleeping soundly.  Girl must of tuckered herself out playing with Bloom and Luanne, Jack thought. 

The trio were at it for almost three days solid. Playing, running around, getting into trouble. Jack wasn't sure how much Rarity approved of it, but it seemed that Stephanie had really enjoyed herself and had already asked when the next time she could visit was.

Pinkie giggled, slapping Jack on the back and skipping past her and out the door in seconds.

Rarity seemed focused, not even really acknowledging the girl leaning against her. Rather, she stared straight ahead, her left arm resting on top of her lap and the other in her pocket, playing with something.

Jack didn't need to guess what it was.

“Ya don't need ta be pressured 'bout that thing,” Jack quietly said.

Rarity pulled her hand out her pocket as if jolted by an electric current. “I-I know,” she replied promptly, giving a small glance the farmer's way. “It's just...” She grimaced, rubbing her temple. “It's still quite a bit to consider, I suppose.”

“Ain't no rush on it, sug,” Jack replied, reaching and grabbing a part of Rarity's luggage. “I already said, ya know?” She glanced behind her as she headed up the aisle. “I'll wait fer ya ta make up yer mind. Promise.”

Rarity smiled coyly. “You're sweet when you want to be.”

“I figure changin' from the norm ain't bad sometime,” she replied. Rarity shook her sister awake  and ignored the small groan of protest Stephanie muttered out.

“Jack.”

The farmer paused, glancing back to Rarity.

“I have a favor.” She looked the farmer up and down. “I want you to model for me.”

“Rare...”

“It's not quite what you're thinking, darling.” She guided Stephanie up and grabbed what remained of her luggage, prodding her sister ahead. “No, the designs I want you in are practical attire. Field work clothing. I need someone with your build.” Rarity's tone turned haughty and she tilted her nose up walking down the aisle, though Jack didn't have to look behind her to know a ghost of a smile would be on the woman's lips. “Besides, I do believe you owe me after taking me to a bluegrass festival.”

“Yeah, but you liked it,” Jack countered.

“The music did have some charm to it, as did the dancing. But it is still my turn, dear. And I think I want to spend it on you posing for me.” Rarity winked. “Besides, I'll cook for you. I've yet to hear a complaint about that.”

“Ya do make some nice grub...” the farmer replied, rubbing at her chin. “Alright. But if it's anythin' too out there, I'm done.”

“Don't worry, I'll be sure no excessively frilly design comes your way.”

“Deal,” Jack agreed.

They got off the train and made their way through the station and outside. Jack grimaced.

“Cooler than I'd like.”

“Indeed,” Rarity agreed, moving and putting a hand on Stephanie's shoulder, guiding her along. “I'd say we're due for snow soon. You can feel the change in a way.”

The group followed on the heels of Pinkie, heading to the boutique. Diane threw open the door and let out in a singing call.

“Spikie! I'm back!”

The others got inside just as Spike appeared from the kitchen, wearing a pink apron and oven mitts. On seeing everyone come in he quickly blushed, tossing off the apron and gloves in one quick, desperate attempt to salvage his masculinity.

“H-hey guys,” Spike stammered out. “Wha—“

Pinkie rushed him, grabbing the boy and squeezing him tightly, then hoisting him up and twirling him, oblivious to his surprised yelp. “Oh boy it's good to see you again Spike! I brought cookies my mom made! I think we could eat them with some cocoa and then I can show you the souvenir I brought for you! And I know people sometimes are like 'why get a souvenir when it's your hometown?' But then I'm like 'of course I'm getting one for my friend,' so I got you one.”  She put him down and, in a flash, not only reached into the backpack she wore, but unzipped it, reached inside, and pulled out a clay figurine of a timberwolf. While showing imperfections, it was still a fairly respectable piece. “I made it in third grade!” She beamed.

Spike shook his head, trying to stop the room from spinning. He took the statue and looked up at the girl. “T-thanks?” he said, unsure. “I'm not sure if this counts as a souvenir, tho—“

Diane giggled, throwing her arm over the boy's shoulder. “Oh Spike, you and your silly-billy points of view.” She shook her head, halfway dragging him towards the kitchen. “They're funny.”

As soon as they left the room, Jack and Rarity shared a confused glance. 

“Let's... leave them be for the moment. You can model for me upstairs in my room—I'll get the clothes.” Rarity gave a small, excited shake of her hands and skipped off, heading to the storage room.

“Alright, alright,” Jack replied with a roll of her eyes. Thinking for a beat, she cupped a hand to her mouth. ”Ya better not skimp out on lunch, tho'.”


000


The time passed quickly as Jack donned garment after garment for Rarity, the soul-folk commenting on every piece and making notes in a small journal. Finally, after about an hour and a half of it, Rarity stood up, taking off her glasses and putting them back in her breast pocket.

“Marvelous, darling.” She put a finger to her chin. “Be honest with me. Were any of them adequate enough to suit your needs?”

Thinking, Jack shrugged. “Reckon that, uh, third or fourth one did the job alright. Some of the others sagged at the knees a bit too much fer my likin'.”

“Third or fourth...” She snapped her fingers. “Ah. So the one with the insulated overalls, or the jumpsuit?”

“Overalls, sug.” The farmer stripped off the shirt she wore and walked over to Rarity's bed, where her normal plaid shirt lay in a crumpled heap. She grabbed it, smiling in a nostalgic thought on seeing the bed, then continued her explanation to Rarity. “While I'm sure Mac would love a jumpsuit, 'specially with the amount of pockets ya put on that, overalls are jus' a bit more practical fer someone like me. I get overheated a bit easier, so with overalls I can jus' roll the thing down ta my waist.” She thought again. “Though I reckon ya can do the same with a jumpsuit, it ain't quite the same.”

“Understandable,” Rarity nodded. “There would be an extra bit of baggage if you rolled down a jumpsuit.”

“Oh, an' I didn't like the color of those overalls. Other thing I reckoned I'd mention.”

“What's wrong with the color? I thought off-white would look quite dapper.”

“Dapper until ya get manure all over it. Then it's a nightmare an' a half cleanin'.”

“Well, maybe if y'all would watch—“ Rarity realized her mistake and quickly clamped her mouth shut, blushing in embarrassment. Jack quickly exploited her slip, grinning.

“'Y'all?'” she questioned in a perfect Camelot accent, putting a palm to her collar in shock. “Why I declare, of all the unsightly words I could hear, she uses 'y'all' like some... ruffian.”

“Oh haha.” Rarity dryly remarked. “Considering the fact I was around farmers constantly the past week, it's a miracle that I didn't fully adopt the language.”

Jack smiled, easily slipping back into her accent. “Almost a shame ya didn't... I reckon ya with a bit-a drawl, maybe some tight jeans...” She smirked, raising her brow and letting the rest of her words remain implied.

Rarity chuckled. “I see you're trying to get better at flirting. It's an improvement from when you first started at least.”

Jack finished buttoning up her shirt and shrugged. “Practice makes perfect. Lord knows I ain't no natural at it.”

Changing the subject, Rarity gestured downstairs. “I suppose I owe you a meal. Anything in patic—“

“Steak?” the farmer asked, hopeful.

Rarity sighed, nodding. “Garlic mashed potatoes?”

“Ya know me so well.”

The tailor went to the door and ran a finger down the frame. “I'll get started then. I suppose it's only fair to hold up my end of the bargain.”

“Lookin' forward ta it, sug.”

Rarity made her way gracefully down the stars, nearly bumping into Spike on his way up them. The dragonchilde let out a small yelp, recoiling in surprise at her appearance.

“Oh, hello there, Spikey-Wikey,” Rarity said with a wink. “Were you looking for me?”

“A-actually,” he stammered out with a swallow. “Jack.”

She pointed upstairs. “Though I'd recommend waiting in the lounge, dear. She was changing.”

Spike nodded his thanks and went up, popping a seat on the piano bench. With a playful smirk, he turned around and started pressing notes, filling the room with an absentminded, slow blues song.

It wasn't long before he heard Jack's voice over his shoulder. “Didn't know ya played.”

“Just a little,” he replied, hitting a few more notes as he spoke. “You want someone good, talk to Twila. She taught me back when she was studying musical history.” He cocked his head towards the piano. “Despite being so large, the piano was one of the most favored instruments of the sky-folk in the early, pre-tribe days. Since it was harder to travel with, the piano forced them to slow down and establish towns and communities. You could easily say that most sky-folk communities, well, actually,  you could even argue their civilization itself was founded on music.”

“That a fact? Huh. Can't say Dash seems like the piano type.”

“That she doesn't,” Spike agreed. He hesitantly stopped playing, his hands twitching over the keys before slumping to his sides. “You probably know I'm not here to just talk to you about history.”

Jack scratched at the scar on her cheek, doing her best to keep the gradually darkening mood light. “Ya have before. Heck, you've talked 'bout all kinds-a things with me an' the girls.”

“This is serious, Jack. It's about Rarity.” Spike shut the cover over the keys and turned, standing, only coming to just below Jack's breasts, but seeming taller thanks to the somber expression he carried. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a large brown feather. Jack looked at it, feeling a distant alarm bell ring in her head. Finally, she returned her attention to Spike, rolling over the thoughts the feather brought her slowly, patiently. A fisher waiting on a bite.

“Someone or something broke in while you guys were on vacation.”

Jack narrowed her brow. “How long ago?” she asked, “Was anythin' stolen?”

“Thursday. As for items being stolen...” He shook his head. “I took inventory and looked around, but I didn't see anything missing.”

“So yer sure someone was...?”

“Front door lock was busted and I heard someone up in her room, Jack.” He rubbed at the bridge of his nose. “I... just don't know what to do here. I was going to call the cops and report it, but as stressed as Rarity has been, police would just make things worse, so I'm coming to you.” He gave an unsure shrug. “Can you take care of her, Jack?”

She might have an idea where the feather came from. It struck her in a flash of inspiration that nearly buckled her knees. Gilda. It was the only thing that made sense to her. Unless magic was involved, it was the only thing that could make sense. Coming back from that sudden thought, Jack returned to Spike's question, mildly perturbed. “Of course I can, Spike.”

“The scar on your face says otherwise.” He paused after he said that, wincing as Jack seemed to flinch herself. “S-sorry. I just...” He bit at a thumb. “Rarity... I want her to be safe. Since you two are, you know, a thing, it's your job.”

Jack squatted down like she had so many times before with her sister to get eye-level. “I want her ta be safe too, sug. An' I'll say this: they're gonna have ta kill me 'fore they touch one strand-a hair on her.” She met his gaze. “Alright?”

He took a breath. After a long moment, he exhaled. “Alright.”


000


Jack spent the remainder of the day hunting for Gilda. Despite patrolling where she knew the girl had frequented beforehand and asking around, she had no luck finding her. She even checked the girl's dorm room after getting directions to it and still found nothing. It was like Gilda had disappeared off the face of the earth—it gave Jack an uneasy feeling about Rarity. If Gilda was a predator hiding in the bushes, then that made Rarity prey. 

The farmer kept trying to argue against the idea, that this all was some kind of misunderstanding. But there wasn't nothing wrong with being cautious, especially after the close calls the year had already given them...

Even then, her caution didn't override her word. She wanted to talk to Dash about this, but Jack knew the woman wouldn't make the connection between Gilda and the feather Spike had found unless she told Dash about Gilda's... condition. 

Jack made a promise she wouldn't rat out Gilda to anyone, and that was something she intended to keep at least until after she had a heart-to-heart with the griffon herself to see if the farmer could trust her.  Though Jack tried to give Gilda the benefit of the doubt, she couldn't shake the feeling of foreboding she had for the woman that held her heart.

It was the reason why the blonde found herself laying in bed in the dead of night next to an already fast asleep Rarity. The tailor was pleased that Jack came back to the boutique, though Jack didn't have the heart to tell the girl that the real reason she returned wasn't just to spend more time with her.

Not that the time was wasted, being with the woman. While Jack always preferred having at least a bit of busy work to do, Rarity gave her an incentive to slow down and breath on occasion. And breath she did, listening to Rarity speak about arts, crafts, design. The future. Jack spoke where she could, listened patiently when she couldn't. Like most of their entire relationship, the conversations they had were creatures built on compromise. Compromise that let them both grow together and explore one another. Their drives and passions. Their hopes and fears. And even with the occasional dry remark from Rarity or the disinterested grunt from Jack, they both called it an evening feeling closer than ever. 

Jack turned over on the bed, pressing herself into the tailor's curved back and resting her head on top of Rarity's own, listening to the woman's slow, content breaths, smelling her hair, feeling her heartbeat as she wrapped her arms around the tailor's chest.

The thoughts didn't come often to her—they came less and less with every day that passed actually—but there were times when Jack was acutely aware how much it scared her, being with Rarity. Even now, as Jack rested a hand against the woman's breast and once again focused on the faint, throbbing beat of Rarity's heart against her fingers, it just reminded the simple farmer how easily that beat could be extinguished. How easily it nearly had been for her, for Isabelle, how close all of them had came to dying this year. How close Trixie had come to ending her own life, the scar on her face a testament to the fact. How cold the freezer room was in that warehouse, the nightmares she found herself in on lonely nights a testament to that fact. Jack trembled at the thoughts, her breath shaking and for a brief, urgent moment; a wave a nausea took hold on her and she shifted, about ready to dash to the restroom to ride out the panic attack. 

“...ck?” Rarity mumbled, freezing the farmer in place. She felt her dread die down as Rarity reached up and put her delicate hand over Jack's.

“Y-yeah, sug?” Jack whispered back, tilting her ear towards Rarity's mouth.

The woman turned, coming face to face with Jack and smiling weakly at the farmer. She kept her eyes shut, reaching up out of habit and resting a hand against Jack's cheek, brushing the blonde's hair behind her ear.

“I'm glad you're here.”

All the anxiety in the world left Jack in an instant just from that simple, loving touch of Rarity's. She felt a smile grace her lips as she relaxed, closing her eyes and pressing herself against her. 

“Me too,” Jack said, after a long, quiet pause. She embraced sleep not much longer after.


000


It was just before dawn when the letter came. Jack woke with a start at the sound of a popping noise; she tensed up from the noise, then let out a breath on seeing a rolled up piece of parchment floating above the bed, waiting to be grabbed. The farmer uncoiled herself from Rarity, who remained blissfully asleep despite the noise. Jack reached up and grabbed the paper, already dreading what was inside—dragon delivery wasn't cheap by any means, it was only reserved for the biggest emergencies.

Just as Jack had feared, the letter was short and written in the scrawled sloppy chicken-scratch of her brother Mac's handwriting. On it contained seven words that punched a hole into her heart.

Granny's dying. Get on the next train.

The farmer rose, any trace of drowsiness vanished under the news, and threw on the shirt and jeans she wore yesterday, searching frantically until she found her socks scattered on the carpet next to Rarity's night robe. Grabbing her stetson off the corner of the bedpost, Jack spared one glance at Rarity's sleeping form before running off, quietly shutting the door behind her.
> Goodbyes
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

	Dmitri sat, laid back in one of the lounge chairs in the Camelot division of his offices. He read the business segment of the Camelot Crusader as a drank a mocha, seeing what he expected in the paper; business was good. If the trend kept up, he was going to make well over 38 percent higher profits than he made this time last year.

And he was going to make sure the trend kept up.

A knock at the door called his attention. He glanced up casually as Mr. Flam stepped into the office, wiping at his mouth.

“Good morning, Mr. Flam,” Dmitri said, full of false cheer. “How are the arrangements coming along?”

“Arrangements?” he repeated. Dmitri stared at the man, slowly lifting his cup up and taking a drink.

“For the guest we'll be having in short order,” he explained. “You did do that, yes?”

“Oh, you mean getting your estate up north ready? Yes. And I rented a carriage for us to travel in. We'll have it first thing tomorrow.”

“Good. I knew I could count on you.” Dmitri gazed out the window, staring up at the majestic castle in the distance, built to stand alongside a mountain. “We've had to wait far too long, you and I, but...” He reached out, clenching his fist tightly around the castle. “Every day waiting brings us closer to my goal. Every step I take nets me further up that mountain.”

“Of course, Mr. Dorcus,” Flam agreed. “Not long at all now.”

He continued looking at the castle. “Do you suppose they have even the remotest idea?”

“How could they?” Flam replied. “It's not like you made many ripples in the pond.”

Dmitri let a smile take shape on his face. “A crocodile waiting for prey.”

“Then tomorrow I suppose we'll have a morsel for you?”

His grin widened, showcasing strangely sharp teeth. “I suppose we will, Mr. Flam. I suppose we will.”


000


Jack watched her granny work the field. The gray-haired woman took a hoe to the ground, tilling the earth. The woman hummed. Not so much an expression here, rather, a simple habit that gave noise to the otherwise oppressively silent dawn. Jack opened her mouth, then shut it, instead playing with the tail end of her braided hair as she tried to summon her words.

“You're still set on going?” the older woman asked, pausing from her work and putting her hands at her hips. She leaned back until Jack heard a pop come from her hips.

The girl frowned, clasping her calloused hands in front of her overalls.

“Granny,” Jack said. “I, I can't, ya know?” She gestured at the open fields. “Jus'...”

Like usual, her Granny followed Jack's train of thought within moments.

“Ya can't stand lookin' at 'em without yer ma an' pa tendin' em?” her Granny offered.

Jack morosely nodded. She heard the clank of her Granny's hoe, then footsteps as the woman walked to her. She was nearly crushed in her Granny's deceptively strong grip as the older woman wrapped Jack tightly in a hug.

“I know this is hard, sweet pea,” her Granny whispered, cradling the back of Jack's head. “But ya gotta make it through this fer 'em. Ya need to.”

Jack sniffed, holding back her tears desperately. 

“I-I don't know if I can.”

Granny bent down, kissing the top of the girl's head. “Ya can. Ya can, sweet pea. Jus' remember somethin' fer me, ok?”

“Ok.”

“It ain't goodbye fer 'em. Not even now.” She let out a breath. “Jus' listen. They're there. Ya can hear 'em in yer sis's coos. Ya can see 'em in yer brother's work. Ya can feel 'em sittin' next ta ya in church. They ain't dead. An' it ain't goodbye.”

Jack looked up at her Granny, noticing her wet eyes.

“If anythin'... it's jus' 'til next time.” She pulled away from Jack and gauged the girl. “Now, ya head off the farm if ya gotta, Jackie. Jus' know ya got every one of us 'round here ready ta help.”

“I know.”

“An' ya know we love ya?”

Jack weakly smiled, the action hard, but doable. “Always. Love ya too, Gran.”


000


Jack shook awake as the train pulled into Mansfield's lonely station. She rose and mechanically streached in the afternoon light.

In a way, she was surprised she slept. She had expected to be raw, emotional nerves the entire train ride back to home.

Ya had ta crash sometime, she reminded herself, looking around for her luggage, then realizing as the fog of sleep began to lift from her mind that she didn't have anything this time, only the clothes on her back and the half-deflated coin purse she used to buy her ticket.

Marching out the train and into the bright day, Jack marched down the familiar, worn path leading to Mansfield and her home. While she tried to rush to the house, she found herself stuck in memories with every step she took. Here, catching bugs with Bloom. There, playing in the creek with Mac. Over by that row of trees? Piggybacking with her Pa.

That field to her left? A more recent one. Rarity. They had snuck into their neighbors property and spent a good portion of an evening together, their arms entwined and their bodies dangerously close as Jack gave Rarity an astrology lesson. She didn't know everything, by any means, but Jack knew enough about stars that gave directions that she was able to pinpoint at least a few constellations to make her meager knowledge entertaining.

It was too soon, yet not quick enough, that the blonde found herself climbing up the hill leading to the front door. She rose her hand to knock, then shook her head, instead simply entering.

Mac sat at the kitchen table, a cup in his hands. Jack didn't have to smell him to know he had been drinking; his bloodshot, red eyes said it all.

“Mac...”

His gaze shifted over to her. Frowning, Mac gave a shrug of his tired shoulders

Jack took a few unsure steps closer. “Where is she?”

The man trailed his massive thumb over the rim of his cup, before taking a hard pull. “Gone.”

“Gone?” she repeated. “What do ya mean—“

“What it sounds like,” Mac replied. “Jus' 'bout an hour 'fore ya...”

The words hit Jack like a punch to the gut. She narrowed her brow.

“Ya... ya ain't serious.”

“Would I lie about this?” Mac hissed out, clenching his hand tightly on the table. He paused, squinting his eyes and taking a hard breath. “She's... she's gone. Sis, I'm sorry. Zecora went ta town with Bloom ta talk with the coroner. Reckon she'd be able ta talk with Bloom b-better than I could.”

Mac sucked in a breath and bit at his knuckle, doing everything he could to keep his emotions under wraps.

Jack's feet were iron and her legs were jelly. She just managed to make it over to the man and collapse into the chair next to him. Hesitantly, she reached forward, taking his hands in between her own. 

“Christ.” She swallowed, not wanting to ask her next question, but feeling a sort of obligation to regardless. “In the end, how was she?”

He freed one of his hands from her grip and rubbed a temple. “One thing we can feel thankful over, I reckon. She was clear, Jack. She knew what was happening, and even spoke ta us.”

“What'd she say?”

“That Bloom was gonna be a fine lady when she got growed up, that I shouldn't work my life away, an' that Zecora's gonna make a fine wife. An'... an' she asked me where you were.”

Jack felt guilt swim through her body. “I got here as fast as I coul—“

“I know, I know. I told her ya were comin'. An' she tried ta hold out fer ya, but...” A pause. Then he reached into his jeans and pulled out a folded piece of paper. “She wanted me ta give ya this.”

Taking it, Jack opened it up. There, weakly scratched onto the paper were three words that made chills radiate through her body.

Until next time.

Jack scrunched her eyes tight and leaned forward on the table. She couldn't help the pained breaths that quickly came to her, nor could she help her hitching breath.

“Mac... fuckin' Gawd,” she choked out. He rose, wordlessly holding her as his own expression broke.

Together, they wept.
> Concerto
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

	Rarity hummed to herself as she went through the inventory of the back room, taking stock of the dozens of cloth colors and materials, then turning her attention to a shelf near her drawing board. She opened a drawer and was greeted by what seemed to be hundreds of sparkling jewels. Shifting through them she made a count, then a recount, and put the number down on a pad of paper.

It had been a slow day for her; one of those days where there were no scheduled jobs for any of her higher-end clientele, and the few walk-ins that did arrive were content with perusing her wares without actually buying anything.

She turned to the desk and the scattered notes and dress designs thrown haphazardly across the surface. The tailor moved them about, giving the desk at least a semblance of order. Rarity passed over a familiar drawing of a emerald-green dress, with an even more familiar brown-skinned woman wearing it. She smiled, looking over the design, then turning the page to another, where the same woman wore a well-pressed and slimming suit, a hand on her hip and an alluring smile on her scarred, yet gentle face. Jack would antagonize her for drawing her in “getups” like that, but...

A chime came from the main door of the boutique. Rarity removed the ruby-red glasses from her face.

“Coming!” she called out in a sing-song voice, walking toward the front, where a woman with white hair and a heavy leather jacket stood, glancing outside. It took her a moment to connect the face with a name, but it finally came to Rarity.

“Gilda?” she questioned. Another chime at the door alerted her to the man standing in it. He took a few steps in and Rarity recognized him after another moment of thought.

“Mr. Dorcus?” the soul-folk questioned.

“My name precedes me.” He bowed, the action seeming nearly sarcastic. Rising, he spared a glance around the room. “Unique shop. I applaud your efforts.”

“Thank you for the compliment,” she replied, giving a small bow. After a moment, she looked between the two. “Now, what can I do for you, Mr. Dorcas?” Rarity gave a quick eye over his crisp, well-pressed suit and the multiple rings in his fingers, and how they moved almost hypnotically as he ran a hand up and down the lapel of his jacket.

“My business partner and I request guidance on a matter of great importance,” Dmitri stated. “Your time would, of course, be compensated for.”

Rarity nodded. “Very well, if the monsieur and mademoiselle would follow me to the kitchen, we can discuss this proposal of yours over tea.”

Dmitri raised his hand up. Rarity paused, turning, feeling compelled to look at his hand.

“We can discuss the matter on the carriage ride to my place of business,” Dmitri said, his voice coaxing, mesmerizing, working wonders to calm Rarity's mind as Dmitri’s fingers danced across his palm from one side to the other. A slow, delicate wave.

Rarity felt a strange haze cross over her mind the longer she stared at his hand and the digits that moved like clockwork over his palm. She dumbly stepped forward, only a bit from her own accord.

“I... suppose,” she said, sounding borderline drunk as she took another step forward.

Rare! She heard the sound of Jack's voice from deep within her. Break contact from his hand!

The thought jolted her to action, she brought her own hand forward and snapped her fingers, breaking the trance he tried to put her in. Rarity stepped back, her hands held out defensively, and magic sputtering through her body.

“What do you want?” she asked, swallowing the panic that she felt and trying to speak above a whisper, first looking at Dmitri, then at Gilda, her palm splayed out, and her other hand bracing her wrist.

“You're made of sterner stuff than I anticipated,” Dmitri drolly remarked. “Although, that's to be expected, considering how much of a thorn you've been to me these past months.”

Rarity took a step back, bumping into the glass container with her leg. Dmitri rolled his eyes.

“Must we?” he let a cold smirk cross his hard, lined face. “If that buffoon Trixie remembered to soundproof your dorm room, surely I did the same to your business. Besides,” he continued, taking a step forward and ignoring Rarity's cry of “Stay back!”

“We both know that you're coming with me regardless. I've read your doctor's note: you're not expected to regain full control of your magic for a good two weeks.”

Rarity flinched. Dmitri's cold smile widened. In a sudden, desperate moment, Rarity reached behind her on the counter and threw a small display lined with necklaces towards him, then twisted and slid over the counter, making a dead sprint towards the stairway. She took them in leaps and bounds, crawling on them with her hands and feet to clear them faster—

A click came from behind, then the whizzing of an arrow blew past her, landing in the wall. She moved, only to feel a tugging at her leg.

Her skirt was pinned to the wall. She tugged, tearing the cloth and running up the stairs. Tossing it open, she slammed it shut behind her, her heart beating so loud in her chest she was almost deafened.

Dmitri looked over at Gilda. “I told you not to shoot at her. We're not leaving a mark on her yet.  Provided the situation stays ideal.”

The griffon-folk sneered. “I hit what I aim for. If I wanted to draw blood, it woulda happened.”

He looked flatly at her. “Mind the backtalk. You might hurt my feelings.” He nodded to the stairs. “She should be noticing the windows can't be opened any second now. Then we get to have a bit of fun slowly walking upstairs. Make sure she hears every footfall.” Dmitri laughed once to himself. “Her expression will be priceless.”

Gilda holstered her wrist mounted crossbow and shook her head, scowling. “Why drag this out? Why not just grab her and take off, like we planned?”

“Maybe it's because it's fun?” When Gilda failed to respond he shrugged, turning towards the stairs. “Honestly. It’s like you people can’t understand. If I wanted practicality, then I would have simply killed her.”

Gilda growled. “You think this is a Goddamn game?”

His grin widened, exposing teeth sharper than any griffon's for a brief, eternal moment. His eyes took a twinge of yellow coloration, and, for that same moment, there seemed to be a ripple in his clothing, stretching the material to near bursting, before reverting to fitting on his lean body. Gilda shook her head, and Dmitri's normal appearance remained, though that same haunting grin remained.

“Life is the biggest game we know!” he proclaimed. “A game with everything decided on the luck of the first draw, you can't tell who's bluffing and who has a good hand, and, most importantly, in the end, there are no rules for how to win.” Barely containing his grin, he took a step forward.


000


The train rolled on down the line. Jack paid it no mind as she sat at St. Charles's train station, blankly staring at her hands.

She saw the body for a little bit, before Mansfield's sheriff took it to the morgue. It was simultaneously something she didn't want, yet in the same breath, she needed. Holding her dead, lifeless hand hurt. A deep, hard, hollow hurt that didn't let go for a long, long time after that. It just brought home the truth: Granny was dead. She was dead and she wasn't coming back for nothing.

A breeze blew by, brushing her hair back. She pulled down harder on her stetson and, after a slow exhale, rose.

Jack had left home just a bit after talking to Bloom and putting her to bed; the funeral was a few days from now, and Jack wasn't going to stay at home and get any farther behind on her schoolwork.

At least, starting tomorrow. Today was a day she needed for herself to think things through on what the future held.

Her and Mac had taken a look at the will Granny left behind. Not surprisingly, Macintosh got the title to the farm; Jack couldn't be happier for him. While the farm was technically all theirs, title or not, having a claim to ownership was still something he seemed to take pride in. While he never said as much, being the quiet sort he was, she could see the smile he had through every hard day of labor.

Jack clenched and unclenched her hand, staring intently at it as she moved through the station and out to the town's main road. 

First thing she wanted to do was tell Rarity where she had ran off to and why. Up and leaving someone with no rhyme or reason wasn't her style, and, while she knew Rarity knew that, it was still the principle of speaking with her regarding it.

That, and the more selfish reason of knowing that deep down, the tailor would know what to say to Jack. How to hold her. How to keep the ache she felt from driving her crazy. Jack still didn't understand Rarity's meticulous attention to dresses, but she'd be damned if she didn't appreciate the woman's keen, observant eye during moments like these.

She traveled the familiar roads, turning off of the main path and heading toward the Carousal Boutique. 

Jack was surprised to see a carriage by the door, the driver sitting at the ready, his leg bouncing up and down nervously as he eyed Jack from underneath his straw hat all the way up the path, and even once she got to the front door.

Instantly, she realized something was wrong. A stand had landed on the floor, busted beads from a necklace littering the ground. Rarity's normally pristine glass counter top was smudged by hand prints.

She ventured on further into the room and was about to call out to the woman, ask her what was going on, when the most damning piece caught her eye. There on the stairway was the bolt from a crossbow, a strip of cloth pinned in between the bolt and the wall.

The bell to the front door chimed; Jack turned, only to be face-to-face with the carriage driver, a crossbow in his hands.

“You picked a bad day to go clothes shopping,” he quipped, cocking his head towards the stairs. “Upstairs, no funny business.”

Jack ran through her options. Grimacing, she saw no real way out, at least not yet. Guy was a few too many feet away. At this range, it'd be cake to sink a bolt into her. The only thing she could do was bide her time.

“Yer the boss,” she drawled out, raising her hands to her head. Turning, she began to slowly march up the stairs, the crossbowman just a bit behind.

When she got upstairs she froze. Rarity was there on the ground, two people standing beside her. One, Gilda, who stared in shock at seeing Jack there. The other, an older man with a hard, uncompromising smirk. He ran his hand over the long goatee he wore.

“Jack, what are you doing here?” Rarity asked. She started to rise, only to have the man put a hand on her shoulder.

“I wouldn't move, if I were you,” he said.

“Don't touch her,” Jack growled out.

“Are you in any position to make demands?” he remarked. “I'd say this is the definition of a rock and a hard place.”

“What are you planning to do?”

He laughed. “I'm going to use her for a task.” Reaching into his breast pocket, he pulled out a pocket-watch. “With that said, we really must be leaving.”

Jack was pushed forward, stumbling farther into the room. Turning around, she noticed the crossbow, still pointed perfectly at her heart from the stairwell.

The man reached down and lifted Rarity by the arm. She fitfully struggled against his grab and, for one brief moment, the crossbowman at the stairs took his gaze off of her. Seeing her chance, Jack shot forward, a blur of speed.

Gilda pivoted, bringing out her own crossbow and blocking Jack from Rarity. The farmer stopped, a mere foot from reaching the griffon-folk.

The man brought Rarity fully up and dragged her across the room, ignoring the woman's fight for freedom every step of the way.

“I'll kill ya, ya son of a bitch!” Jack roared, her hands visibly shaking in indignation.

He paused, glancing behind with calculating, crazed eyes. “We can't have that, can we?” he pondered out loud. “Gilda,” he ordered. “Kill her.”

“Jack!” Rarity cried out.

“What?” Gilda asked, turning to face him. “That wasn't part of the deal, Dmitri.”

“The deal's changed,” he replied. “We weren't expecting witnesses either, now were we?” He took another step down, easily overpowering Rarity's desperate struggles. “I'll wait for you in the carriage, do act quickly.”

“Rare!” Jack called out, moving forward, only to be stopped once more by Gilda. “Get the hell out of my—“

Gilda snapped forward, slamming her fist into Jack's mouth, then pushing her over, dropping her onto her back. The farmer stared at Gilda, her hands up defensively.

“Gilda...” Jack said. “Ya don't have ta do this.”

“He'd know if I didn't pull the trigger,” Gilda replied, seeming to rationalize it to herself. “Guy knows a lot more than you'd think.”

“So?” Jack replied, silently pleading with the woman standing above her. “We can work together and take him out—he has Rarity, Gilda, please.”

The woman shook her head. “You can't take him out. We can't take him out. He's crazy, Jack, and I'll be damned if I put my ass out on the line.”

“Then take the shot!” Jack snapped. “Pull the damn trigger already, if yer that dead set on makin' me a corpse.”

Gilda flinched, only briefly, before aiming the wrist mounted weapon down at Jack's body. “I don't want to do this, hick.”

“Ya gotta ask yerself somethin',” Jack remarked. “Are ya a woman or a dog? It's up ta you which it is.”

Gilda looked down at Jack, then at the weapon. Struggling, as if lifting a great mental boulder, she brought the crossbow down, pointing at the farmer's heart.

Jack said nothing, evenly staring at Gilda as the woman brought her finger to the trigger and pulled.
> Transit
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

	Rarity glared at Gilda from across the carriage, blinking away the hot tears that had spilled from her for nearly the entire ride. Clenching her hands, the soul-folk tried to bring them forward only for her arms to freeze midair. Rarity tugged again, scowling at the ethereal chains that held her back. She tugged at one, pulled it as hard as she could, but the translucent metal didn't budge from its base at the carriage walls.

“You're not going to get out of—“ Gilda started, only for Rarity to interrupt her.

“Don't you dare talk to me,” she snarled. “After what you did, you, you, despicable coward. You monster—“

“I'm not a monster.”

“Liar! You are exactly that!”

“I did what I had to,” Gilda hissed out, her teeth clenched so tight she heard them groan in protest. “Something an entitled bitch like you never had to do.”

“And killing Jack was something you just 'had to do?'” Rarity turned her head, willing herself to stay strong but crying through her words. “You putrescent slime.”

Gilda narrowed her brow. “I—“

They both lurched as the wagon stopped. Footsteps came to the cabin and Dmitri pulled the door open, looking at the two. Though she knew it wouldn't help her, Rarity looked behind the man, trying desperately to spot anything familiar in the open fields. A landmark, a house—something to give her a sense of direction, but, nothing.

“Gilda,” Mr. Dorcis said, cocking a thumb behind him. “Go up front. I want a moment of privacy.”

She stared at him, before slowly nodding, rising and passing by him as he moved to take her seat. Gilda shut the door behind her and after a beat, the carriage began its slow journey down the road.

“Well, here we are,” Dmitri said after a long pause. “Face to face.”

“Bastard,” Rarity spat.

He feigned hurt. “Why, Rarity Belle, I'm sure your father doesn't condone such language.”

“He also doesn't condone lying, you damnable lout!” she cried out, once more reaching for him, only to remain chained in place. He tsked.

“Temper, dear. Those chains aren't going anywhere. I should know, being the maker of them. Just make yourself comfortable, it's going to be a long drive.”

There was silence in the carriage, before Rarity shook her head.

“Why me?”

Dmitri raised a brow. “Is enjoying your company not an answer enough?”

“Enough with your games,” she said quietly. “What you did to Jack... all these months of anguish... why?”

“I didn't do anything to Jack,” he replied smoothly. “That was Gilda's doing, was it no—“

“Shut up,” Rarity snapped, her quiet voice speaking volumes. “Don't you dare argue semantics.”

He rolled his eyes. “It's simple. I wasn't entirely lying earlier. I need you to do a job.”

“You'll get no help from me. You'll have to kill me first.”

“Is that so?” he pondered, crossing his arms. “Well, I could say we have ways to get you to comply, the human body being a lot more durable than it seems, but that just feels so cliché.” He snapped his fingers, inspiration striking. “I know! Maybe I'll just ask your sister instead!” Dmitri reached into his pocket, producing a picture that made Rarity's blood freeze.

Her sister, the photo taken in the dead of night as she was asleep, her arms cradling a tattered stuffed bear.

“I'm sure she'd be a lot more cooperative. After all, being younger, perhaps she won't be as stuck in her ways as you are.”

“Don't you dare involve her.”

“I won't. Provided you work with me.”

Rarity's face scrunched up in anger. “What do you want?”

With that, Dmitri's grin widened.


000


Hurt.

That was the only thing she could say with certainty as she floated in a sea of dark. It hurt despite how numb she was.

Hurt.

She couldn't move. Couldn't breath. All she was aware of was the hurt she felt.

Hurt.

Hurt.

In the far reaches of her mind, she heard a weak thump. A thump, then another, then another. The sound beat in synch with her heart.

Her heart.

Her hand twitched. The blackness leaving her deaf and dumb peeling away slowly. A snake shedding its skin.

Jack groaned, the hard floor pressing against her back. She lay for a brief moment in the sunlight that came from the patio doors and reached up to rub at her face—

Pain erupted from her chest. She drew in a sharp breath and squinted her eyes shut at it. Glancing down, Jack noticed something. There, just above her breast was a small, narrow bolt from a crossbow embedded into her body.

Her anger flared, shaking a bit more of the sleep from her system.

Gilda.

She reached down and grasped the bolt, giving it a tug. Jack flinched, squinting at the sharp sting of the bolt as it refused to budge. Scowling, she clenched the bolt tighter in her palm and grit her teeth. Summoning her weakened strength, she tugged with all her might. For a moment, it seemed like her efforts were in vain, then it slowly, agonizingly withdrew. She heard a pop from within her, and the only thought that came to her was, It was stuck in my ribs.

Free from her flesh, she held it up, sweat caking her face.

Another thought came as she looked down at her slowly weeping wound.

A fraction of an inch; hell, a fraction of a centimeter, and the bolt would have slipped past her ribs. Into her heart.

“S-shit...” she stammered out.

A knock came from downstairs and moments later, Jack heard the door open.

“Hello?” a man's voice called out. “Ms. Belle?” Silence, then, “We got a tip regarding a domestic disturb—“

Dead silence. Jack could guess that he saw what she did when she first walked in.

The earth-folk wasn't always bright, especially when compared to some of her friends, but she could guess where that 'tip' came from.

There was no time to explain what was going on to the guy. The questioning alone might take hours. Or worse, he might not believe what Jack was saying. She could be looking at a prison cell until it all got sorted out.

She had to get out of here, there was no other answer.

Jack pushed herself up and nearly toppled over. Her legs were weak, limp. She was standing with the strength of a newborn foal. Summoning what she could of her strength, she walked towards the patio.

It was a crap-shoot, but there was no other way; it was her only chance. She couldn't reason with him, the way the place was looking, she couldn't hide, and she sure as hell couldn't subdue him as she was right now.

Pushing open the patio door, she made it to the guard rail and threw her dead leg over, then the other. She turned, intending to lower herself down as much as she could with her arms, only for her strength to give out. 

Jack landed like a limp sack of grain, all her breath getting knocked out of her as pain radiated in waves from her side. Rising, she quickly checked her body over as she limped away from the scene. Nothing seemed broken, just beaten to hell.

Making her way through the field Rarity's boutique sat in, Jack spared a glance behind her. She wasn't sure the guard saw her escape after all that—the woman hoped and prayed he didn't, but she couldn't be sure. For all she knew, he would be on her heels any second. 

Jack forced herself to take a breath for just a moment—just a second as she made her way down Ponyville's main strip. Panic came to her, she was running blind, with no real plan.

Catalog, dear, the voice of Rarity said, bemused. Just talk yourself through your plans and how to solve them.

“Yeah,” she agreed to the thought, her voice raspy. “OK. I don't know where Rarity was taken. That's the big one. I can solve that by...”

Nothing was coming to her. She cussed, spitting to the side until a memory clicked.

“Twila. Rare's a soul-folk. Twi can do a magic spell ta trace her. I can find her.”

Emboldened, Jack started walking again, towards the academy. Feeling slowly started coming to her feet as whatever had  affected her started to clear out of her system.

“An', an', I'm gonna need my stuff. An' a horse ta catch up ta 'em.”

She nodded. Cataloging. She'd make Rare proud yet. 


000


“It's simple really,” Dmitri explained. “You're leaving a message with your father.”

Rarity paused. “What do you want with him? What does he have to do with this?”

“Everything,” he answered. “He has everything to do with this.”

“My father is a good man. There's no way he slighted you without reason.”

“Oh, it's nothing so dull as personal revenge,” Dmitri replied. “It's simply business.”

“Business?” Rarity repeated. “You murdered Jack and tortured me for months now for business?”

He quirked a brow. “And it being personal for me would of made you feel better how?”

The tailor said nothing. He let a small laugh out.

“As I thought.” He crossed his leg and stared out at the passing scenery. “Now, should I tell you my reasons, or are you going to interrupt me again?”

Rarity remained quiet. Not out of obedience, but for the simple matter that she was so hurt, so offended, that no words came to her.

“As a woman of your stature knows, I make my living off the railway. The country lives and breathes off the railway—off the tracks, the trains, the carts under my name. Your father threatens that. Still threatens that.” He snapped his fingers towards Rarity. “You're going to tell him that certain groups have taken an interest in you. You're not going to name anyone, or anything associated with me, my company. Nothing. I won't repeat myself. You're going to tell him that if he doesn't immediately withdraw from Macon and cancel the engine prototype deal he reached with the Maconites, we'll...” He grinned. “Well, I'll let you figure out what to say there. You always did have a flare for the dramatic, didn't you?”

“I don't understand, why not just buy the rights for the engine when it arrives here?”

“It would delay my plans for far too long before turning the profit growth I need,” he explained.

“But for what end?” Rarity finally asked. “You're already rich, what do a few years of suboptimal profits matter?”

“Rarity, Rarity, Rarity,” Dmitri said, rolling his eyes playfully. “If I keep in accordance with my plans, with my profits, then in a few years at most, I'll be crowned king.”

“King?” she repeated. “Don't make me laugh.”

“It's no laughing matter, my dear. Who do you think funds a majority of the council members working under Celestia and Luna? You don't think I've been handpicking candidates to replace members at every available opportunity? I'm halfway to my goal. A scandal here, an early retirement there, and then I can have the majority of the council under my command. And from there, all they have to do is elect to say that Celestia and Luna are unfit to rule, and that they have the perfect replacement in mind.” He laughed. “Not all revolutions are built upon blood. Sometimes the ballot works just as well.”

“And what right do you have to claim the throne? Why do you deserve it?”

Dmitri smiled, the action sending chills down Rarity's spine. “The same way Celestia and Luna deserved it. By bloodright.”


000


Jack shuffled forward down the main strip, keeping her head down low as she walked the streets, dodging glances thrown her way. As she pressed on, a nagging part of her kept reminding her that they could be looking for her. There was no way she made it this far unscathed. Someone had to have seen her leaving the scene.

Her answer came but a moment later. A carriage rolled up behind her. As it got closer, she heard a familiar voice speak to her.

“Get in, Apple,” Will commanded.

Nodding, she hoisted herself up and they took off, the horses briskly trotting down the way.

Once they reached the outskirts of town, Will spoke. “You've got some red on you.”

Jack let a weak snort of laughter pass by. “Jus' a lil' nick. Stings, but it ain't gonna kill me.”

“It still bleeding?”

She shrugged. “Slowin' down now. Don't worry about it.”

Will easily shrugged as they rode along the path. Eventually, he turned to her. “So, care to inform me why the police are looking for you?”

“Guess they did see me after all,” Jack said to herself.

“It's not like you're a hard thing to miss.”

“Reckon not,” she admitted, leaning her head back to rest against the carriage.

Another lull in conversation, and Jack spoke once more.

“You gonna ask what was goin' on, or...?”

Will shrugged. “I know my student wouldn't do anything dumb for no damn reason. Why should I care about specifics?”

“I ain't sure the police'll see it the same way,” she replied, glancing over her shoulder towards the vanishing town.

“Which is why I lied and told one of the guys looking for you that you headed towards the train.” He cocked a thumb to his chest. “I think that'll at least buy you some time.”

Nodding slowly, she stared at the road ahead. “I don't know how I'm gonna do what I need ta do. I mean, I got some idea of what needs done, but...”

“I couldn't tell you either. But I know you'll figure it out. You—hell, the whole clan of Apples—you guys are too stubborn to quit.” As the school came into sight on the horizon, Will spoke again. “When we get you to the academy, I'm going to head back to town.”

“Why?”

“Going by the odds, someone saw us riding together. We both stick out like sore thumbs.” He nodded. “I'm going to lie again and said I took you north, a bit towards Middleburg. Might buy you some time to gear up and get out of here.”

“But what about you?” Jack asked. Will brushed off the question with a shrug.

“Worst case they make me an accessory to whatever it was you were doing. I'm in good graces with the Princesses and a vet of the griffon wars, though. I'm sure if I explain the situation, I'll be no worse for ware.” He gave a friendly tap to Jack's shoulder. “But I'm sure you don't have the time for that kind of luxury, I'm guessing.”

“I don't,” she admitted. “If I don't hurry, Rarity is gonna be in some major trouble.”

They pulled into the academy proper. Will set the horses to a brisk trot as they cut through the crowd of students lounging about outside. Before Jack could say anything, Will leaned over, giving the woman a gentle hug.

“Be careful. I'll see what I can do on this end.”

“I'm gonna try ta be,” she replied, returning the embrace. 

With that, Jack jumped off the carriage and entered the building, only sparing a glance to watch Will ride off like a possessed man.

> Tempest
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

	Jack entered the school's lobby, dodging the looks and questions coming at her far too fast for her liking. As she got closer to her dorm, clutching the weakly bleeding injury Gilda left her with, the crowds thinned out and she was left with a few minutes of quiet as she climbed up the stairs to her room.

Opening the door, she noticed Isabelle napping on her bed, blankets covering her and letting out an occasionally weak groan. Jack hesitated for a moment, only a moment, then shook the other awake.

“Mmm?” Dash groaned out, her scratchy voice thick with sleep. “What?”

“Dash, it's important, get up.”

“It better be,” the sky-folk grumbled, stretching and opening one rose-colored eye.

“Rare's been taken.”

“Taken?” Dash repeated weakly, rubbing at the top of her head and sitting up, tossing the blankets to her feet. Picking up the string of her bra, she threw it back onto her shoulder, then smacked her lips, crossed her legs under her and waited for the farmer to clarify.

“An' I don't know where!” Jack exclaimed, rubbing at her mouth, then tilting her head back, a feeling of helplessness briefly overtaking her before she found strength to talk once more. “Gilda and this other fella...”

Dash narrowed her brow, her sleep-addled brain finally clearing up. “What did Gilda do?”

“She shot me.” Jack said, moving her hand to show the flesh wound. Dash's eyes widened in shock. She turned her gaze to Jack's mouth, the farmer started to promptly speak again. “She shot me an' took Rarity an' I don't have a Goddamn clue where she is.” The brown-skinned woman gave a pleading look towards Isabelle, then undid the buttons on her shirt and walked to the bathroom, bringing out a roll of gauze. “Dash, find Twila, wherever she is, an' tell her I need her.”

Dash nodded. “Yeah. Hang tight, bro. We'll get you fixed up.” She moved to her dresser and pulled some clothes out as Jack patched herself up. “I can't believe Gilda tried to kill you.”

Jack sighed, looking down to the slowly reddening bandage around her torso. “I can't believe I'm still breathin'.” 

Moving over to the chest at the foot of her bed, Jack opened it and withdrew a small bottle; pain medication from a shoulder injury that felt like a lifetime ago. She poured out a pill, dry swallowed it, then, after consideration, swallowed another. It wasn't much, but it would hopefully stop the ache of the bolt wound, and maybe keep her on her feet longer if she got hurt.

Jack wasn't planning on getting hurt, but, then again, she wasn't planning on anything like this either.

“I shouldn't of trusted her.” Dash said after a long uncomfortable pause. She looked over at Jack, then started to get dressed. “A little bit ago, she said she had to do a job. When I asked her about it, she said it was something that wasn't going to hurt anyone. I gave her the benefit of the doubt. I should of done something different.”

Jack took a breath in thought. Shaking her head, she moved over to her leather armor and began to don it piece by piece. “Ya ain't a mind reader. This jus' is what it is.”

“I guess.”

Dash took the words to heart, looked Jack over, then, noting the woman having trouble getting the chestpiece clasped behind her, Dash moved towards the farmer's back, first tightening the buckles that kept the armor together, then wordlessly helping her with the rest. Once Jack was armed, Isabelle nodded and stepped back.

“I'll get the girl, bro. Back in a flash.”

“Y-yeah.”

Nodding once more, Isabelle ran off, leaving Jack to stare somberly out the window for a few fleeting minutes as she tried desperately to keep her nerves in check.


000


Jack's reprieve was short, far shorter than she needed, before Twilight burst into the room, pushing up her glasses with a finger and shaking her head quickly.

“I came as fast as I could, is what Dash said about Rarity true?” Twila asked in a blur of words.

Jack turned, taking in a breath. “She got grabbed, Twi. Please,” she took the soul-folk by the shoulders and stared down at her, “I'm beggin' ya, find her. Do that trackin' thing ya did with Blueblood an' I swear I'll do the rest.”

“I'm not letting you do this by yourself, Jack,” Twila replied, staring up evenly at the farmer. “We're not letting you do this by yourself.” She looked across the room and spotted a chair, then sat down on it gently, her hands at her knees. “I'll find her, and we'll go to her, you, me, Dash, Chylene and Pinkie. We're all in this, together.”

Jack shook her head. “I can't ask ya ta do that. It'll be too dangerous. If any of ya get hurt, I dunno what I'll do. This is my fight, sug.”

“Enough talking,” Twila replied, shutting her eyes then gesturing out with her palms. A small translucent board appeared in front of her, which soon outlined a map of Cabello. “From what Isabelle said, I know Gilda was there, which gives me a bit of an advantage to picking up a trail, but describe the man to me as well, Jack. Any detail, any detail at all. If I can identify him, we can find Rarity, I'm sure of it.”

Jack moved to the bed and sat, squinting in thought.

“Uh... kinda pale. Sorta salt an' pepper hair. White goatee, lanky. His name was... Dmitri, I think.”

Twila paused at the name before giving a small wave of her hand, her fingertips gliding along the magically created board.

“What was his mark? Did you see it?”

“Nah,” Jack replied. “Didn't see nothin' on that.”

“So we're looking at an earth-folk or sky-folk.” Twila gestured on the map and focused, exhaling and letting her body droop. She remained like this for a long, awkward pause, the only sign she was alive being the slow rise and fall of her chest. Finally, she opened her eyes and shook her head.

“Rarity's aura is being suppressed. Like there's something they're containing her in.”

“There was a carriage,” Jack replied.

“If it was lead-lined, that could easily do it,” Twila agreed. “If I just had some time, I could do this. I've been around her long enough that I know what her aura feels like. I'm sure I could find her.”

“Every second we take, she gets farther away.”

“I know that, Jack. Believe me. But it's not like I can—“ She paused. Looking down at her hands, she muttered. “Jack. Hold onto my arms and don't let go.”

Curious, but cooperative, Jack moved a chair to the woman and grabbed her by the wrists. Twila exhaled, and before Jack's eyes the world seemed to change. It rippled, reminding Jack of a bubble going through the water, and its color drained, soon leaving everything first in a bizarre sepia tone, then the world itself faded to an eggshell white, blinding Jack.

Once her vision returned, she saw that they were in a pure, featureless void, the only objects still present and accounted for the chairs upon which they sat. She looked up at Jack.

“You can let go now,” Twila said, her voice echoing in the empty world.

Jack did. Then stood and gave a slow circle around her, equally amazed and alarmed at where she stood.  “What is this?”

“A bridge to my Dreamscape. Allow me another moment.”

Twila exhaled, and a room popped into existence. There was no better way for Jack to describe it. At first, nothing but the white void, then everything. Jack found herself recoiling in surprise, bumping into a large desk as she took in the high-class room. A bright sunny day streamed in from the large bay windows overlooking a port town, not a cloud in the sky. Twila leaned over the desk she sat it, moving dozens of papers across the table top.

“We have time now,” Twila replied, exhaling, then continuing before the inevitable questions. “Time here functions differently in the Dreamscape. For every minute in the real world, you can experience ten here.”

Jack nodded and took to pacing on the carpet as Twila read over the papers at her desk.

“There's scotch in the dresser by the windows,” the soul-folk remarked. “It will do nothing to you on the outside world, but in here at least, it should calm your nerves.”

Jack did just that, pouring herself a hard, stiff drink and staring out the window at the people down below. There must have been hundreds of them, all going through their daily routine on the cobblestone streets. All save for a figure, standing on a building in the distance adorned in an ebony-black cloak. Jack squinted at the figure, trying to place him and his odd appearance. He stared forward, unnervingly, not a single fiber twitching from what Jack could see from here.

A knock came at the door and a younger man entered, a towel at his arm and his gray eyes scanning the room thoughtfully.

“Good afternoon, ladies,” he politely addressed, turning to Twila. “Madam? I'm surprised to see you here.”

“It's an emergency, Wadsworth. I'm collecting some information and then we'll be departing.”

“I understand. Though you need to hurry, madam, we're due for rain later in the day.”

“Rain?” Jack remarked. “There ain't a cloud in the sky.”

Wadsworth offered no reply, instead giving an urgent glance Twila's way and briskly leaving the room.

“What was that 'bout?” Jack asked, scratching her head.

“Never you mind. Let's get to work.” She tapped some of the loose papers on the table. “I looked through my records and think I found who we're looking for,” the woman announced. Swallowing the rest of the hard liquor, Jack turned and approached where Twila sat.

She tapped a piece of paper; a holograph appeared on the wall in front of them, sputtering to life  alongside an image matching Jack's description of the man that had kidnapped Rarity.

“Him?”

“I guarantee it,” Jack replied. “How did ya...?”

“Dmitri Dorcus. I had a suspicion about him ever since I started looking into his grant fund. I simply wanted to verify it with you to make sure it was the correct man.”

“Well, it's right on the bits. How does this help save Rare?”

“We can get an idea where he's taking her.” She gestured, and a large map of Cabello appeared against the wall. She made a few more quick gestures, and dozens of yellowed dots decorated the open land, scattered in all directions.

“What are these?” Jack asked, leaning on the desk to get a better view.

Twila rubbed at an earlobe. Behind them, a cloud briefly passed by, obscuring the sun for a moment. 

“These are all properties that Dmitri owns, be they businesses or private residences. I'm not a betting woman, but he has got to be taking her to one of these places.”

Jack tilted her head. “How can ya be sure?”

“I can't,” she admitted, putting a hand to her chin. “But if you're a rich tycoon personally kidnapping someone, wouldn't it make sense, keeping her at a location you own? He wouldn't want to move her to a second or third party's location, it's illogical.”

Jack bit at her lip. “I'll trust ya, Twi. Now what do we gotta do?”

“Eliminate the impossible,” Twila answered, pointing at the map. “I think we can get rid of all the southern locations on the map, and all the areas more than a day or two's travel by carriage. He would have needed to take the train for anything longer than that transit time, I believe. The longer the travel, the greater chance he would have of being caught.”

With a wave of her hand, the southern section of the map, and a fair amount of the eastern side, lost their dots, turning black.

The room groaned, hit by a hard breeze. Twila grimaced, but continued working, giving another gesture to eliminate another dot from the west.

Jack did a quick count. Eight.

“So yer thinkin' she got taken ta one of these?”

“That's about as narrowed down as I can get.”

Jack threw her hands to the side. “They're scattered all over the place.”

“It's the best I can do without a catalyst. And I don't think we have time to find one. They'd clearly be back in St. Charles. Plus...” She exhaled, leaning onto the desk. “I'm... weary. I don’t think I could gather the strength to call on my Dreamscape again for a good long while.”

Jack stared down at the floor, thinking. The room grew still as each pondered the event, and over time, the room became lit with a queer, strange twilight, rose in color. A warning of a storm.

An idea came to Jack after a long pause.

“Hey Twi,” she started quietly. “What exactly makes those catalysts again?”

“They have to be an object exceptionally dear to the owner. Something of sentimental value.”

Jack reached forward, offering her hand to Twila. “Try me,” she said.

“You?”

“Yeah,” the farmer agreed. “It's a crapshoot, but I ain't sure what else we can do. You said yer too weak ta get back here, an' with people lookin' fer me in town, I sure as hell can't go back right now.”

“Looking for you?”

“No time ta explain it all, sug.” She moved her hand a bit, drawing Twila's attention towards it. “Jus' let's give this a shot an' pray it works.”

Twila nodded, taking Jack's hand. “I don't know if...”

“Try an' let's see.”

Twila concentrated, as the wind groaned against the room again. She wrapped both her hands around Jack's palm and shut her eyes. Jack felt the tips of her fingers first tingle as if they were asleep, then start to throb, pulsing from the tips all the way down the base of her hand. Wincing at a small twinge of pain, the world surrounding them blinked briefly, not even a heartbeat's time, changing the surroundings back to Jack's dorm, where Twila sat, still clutching both of Jack's wrists so tight that they were numb, even under the armor. The pleasant comfort of the drink she had vanished, leaving Jack stone-cold sober, and the soul-folk herself stared straight ahead, hundreds, no, thousands of miles away, her bloodshot eyes paying no heed to what was happening.

And just like that, the image reset itself, taking Jack back to the room Twila herself conjured. Just as Jack was about to ask what that was, a wash of nausea came over her, and she shut her eyes.


000


The wind was chill. Not unbearably so, as they lay in the yellowed grass and stared up at the sea of stars. Jack gave a sigh of contentment, one hand behind her head, the other wrapped easily around Rarity's womanly form.

“Ain't nothin' like this,” Jack commented, chewing on a strand of hay. “I used ta sneak over onto this field all the time growin' up. Watch the stars with my friends.”

“Mmm,” Twila—Rarity replied, Twila corrected, distancing herself as far mentally as she could from the scene as she stared from Rarity's perspective. Like with Blueblood's catalyst, though, she couldn't help but be invested in the goings on. A bit player in the show.

“I got pretty good at constellations,” Jack said, gesturing to a small turning cluster of brightly shining stars. “Like that lil' group there? They call 'em the Minotaur’s spoon.”

Rarity squinted at the stars Jack pointed at. After a moment, she nodded. “It does sort of look like a spoon, doesn't it?”

Twila mentally corrected Jack. The constellation was actually part of the Ursa Major, which, according to records and Celestia's own word, was named as such from the existence of a monstrous ebony bear that was encountered well before even King Arthur's time. 

“Eyup. An' from what I heard, way back 'fore civilized time, there was a legend that said if the constellation ever disappeared, that meant the giant livin' up in the stars was hungry, an' was gonna eat the world by the spoonful.”

“And what about that one?” Rarity questioned, pointing farther up. Jack let out a hum in thought.

“Uh... That's the chariot. See? Kinda like spokes on a wheel. An' in the center's the north star.”

“I do know that one at least, Jack.” Rarity smiled, squeezing in even closer to Jack and resting the back of her head against the farmer's hard shoulder. “Sailors used it often to find their way.”

“Eyup. They did that kinda navigation all the time. By constellations an'... uh, there was a tool they used. Was kinda like...” She held out her index and middle finger in a “V” shape. “An' it was a measurin' device."

Twila wanted to scream at Jack that the word she was looking for was “sextant,” but could only observe the situation. Rarity looked towards Jack, catching more than an eyeful of the farmer's cleavage; Twila mentally blushed, grimacing until the tailor trailed her gaze upward, to Jack's lips.

“Faithful,” Rarity remarked, covering up Jack's hand with her own. “Perhaps not the most eye-catching. Perhaps not the most idyllic. Stories are not made for the north star, yet it's one of the most important objects in the night sky. It's taken care of anyone willing to look for it, with no questions asked. It simply is there to protect and guide the needy.”

Jack let out a small laugh. “Where that all comin' from, sug?”

“I don't think people appreciate it as much. Amid the talk of lovers, that star fades into the background, while ones like the Rose, the Serpent, the Horse take center stage.”

“Shoot, yer better at callin' 'em out than I am.”

“Read enough romance novels, and the names become second nature,” she replied easily. “Though their location is elusive to me.”

Jack turned to her side, resting a hand to her jaw and staring at the soul-folk with eyes so pure and emerald that Twila—Rarity, that Rarity felt as if she could get lost in them. Twila felt every slow, warm breath from Jack cross over her flawless skin.

“We've got all night, sug,” Jack whispered. “I reckon I can teach ya.”

“You're getting better,” Rarity remarked coyly, her hand reaching out and brushing one of the farmer's bangs back.

“Who knows?” the farmer said. “Maybe one day I might even get ya ta get a cute lil' blush goin'.”

A throaty chuckle. “We'll see.”

With that, Rarity leaned forward, as did Jack. They met in the middle and shared a long, tender kiss.


000


Twila snapped free from Rarity's memory and awoke to Jack vigorously shaking her.

“It's ok, I'm fine,” Twila said.

“Fine?” Jack remarked. “I've been standin' here fer a good ten minutes. Ya got any idea how worried I was fer ya? Not ta mention that if somethin' happens, how in the hell would I leave?”

“If something happened, you'd simply return to the school. This is far more a dream than reality for you.” She looked down at her hands, then gestured, using magic to turn on a light switch on the other side of the room to combat the darkening clouds that filled the sky. “But with the catalyst active, I can get at least an idea of where she's at.”

Twila made another gesture; the map in front of her vanished, and instead a screen appeared, showcasing the point of view of someone.

Jack didn't have to guess twice on who it was.

The screen's gaze shifted across the small carriage Rarity was housed in, glancing briefly to the side and out a window, where a sea of strange red and violet roses littered the fields outside, then at the translucent shackles adorning her wrists. Then, finally, at the man sitting in front of her.

“Dmitri...” Jack growled out.

He quirked a knowing brow at Rarity, then snapped his fingers. Instantly, the image died, and Twila fell backwards from her chair, letting out a surprised swear.

“What the hell was that?” Jack asked, running over and picking Twila up. Outside, the wind increased in pitch before dying down again.

“The carriage was lead based, so I knew it wouldn't let me be there for long. But that...” the scholarly woman shook her head. “Jack, Dmitri seems to be a soul-folk as well. He just preformed a counterspell, that's why I got blown back and our image died. Are you sure he wasn't hiding his mark, something like that?”

“Hell, I dunno, Twi. Ain't like I had much time ta look the fella over.”

“But even then,” Twila continued, taking to pacing. “Even then, that was a powerful counterspell from such a great distance. I doubt I myself could perform one unless it was a closer proximity.”

“Meanin'?”

“Meaning he might not be a soul-folk at all.”

Thunder let out a small rumble in the distance. Twila glanced nervously out the windows and at the sky threatening rain.

“I don't care what he is. He's got Rare, an' I'm gettin' her back. Plain an' simple.”

“It's suicide, Jack. If he is what I think he is, there's no way you'll match up against an all-folk.”

Jack clenched her hands tightly, and slapped a fist to her palm. “If Will can take on Luna, I can take on Dmitri.”

Twila shook her head. “You don't believe that do you?”

Jack put a hand to her arm and let a frown cross her lips. “Ya know what Rarity means ta me. I can't jus' go on without tryin' ta get her back, Twi. I love her too much fer that.” She looked towards the wall. “Now, if ya can, I need where they're at. Did that catalyst thing help ya figure out locations any?”

Twila stared at Jack for a moment before slowly shaking her head. “To an extent.” She made a circle with her finger; an image of a red and violet rose appeared. “These are indigenous to the northwestern provinces of Cabello. Meaning that...” One last motion with her palm decorated the map with a small cluster of green. Dead center stood a solitary yellow dot. “Here is your best bet.”

The rain came down. Hard, heavy, and chilling, sucking away any warmth the room previously had.

“Great. Let's get outta here now.”

Twila shut her eyes and concentrated. After a long pause, she opened them again, looking perturbed, even frightened.

“Somethin' the matter?”

“N-no. It's fine. Everything's fine.” She held out her palm and gave a quick shake of it. For a brief, fleeting moment, their world appeared, Twila still clutching Jack's wrists painfully, and the soul-folk's left eye letting out a single crimson drop of blood, before returning them back to Twila's Dreamscape.

“Twi, what the hell's goin' on?!” Jack exclaimed. “Yer bleedin'!”

Twila reached up. Sure enough, a line of crimson flowed from one of her eyes. “I-I gotta get out of here,” she said to herself, gesturing once more to no effect.

Thunder blasted by the room, the light Twila turned on blinked and briefly lost power before coming back on. From below them, Jack heard a heavy, hard knock.

“He's at the door,” Twila muttered, running her hands through her hair. “He's coming and he's at the door.”

“Who's coming? What's goin' on? Twi!”

A heavy crash from downstairs and the sound of a man yelling in protest. Wadsworth.  He was silenced soon enough. Footfalls grew closer and closer, louder and louder.

“Get us out of here, Twi.”

“I-I can't! I just tried!”

Jack desperately looked around the room. “I thought ya had this under control?”

“I did until—“

A heavy knock at the door reverberated through the room. Once. Twice. Three times. Thunder cracked through the sky, and a bolt of lightning blinded them. The lights went out, leaving them in pitch black dark.

“He's here,” Twila whimpered, panicked. “I-what am I supposed to do?!”

“Jus' calm down. I'll g—“

“No, you don't understand! He's—“

The doorknob turned. Slowly. Deliberately slow. Lightning propelled again across the sky. Twila licked her lips, grimacing.

“There's a way out. For you, at least.”

“What?”

“Go to the balcony. Hurry.”

The door opened and a nightmarish hooded figure emerged, a black veil obscuring his shadowed face. It stood, wordlessly observing them as they ran to the balcony doors.

Twila threw Jack against the stone railing and slammed the door shut behind them.

“Jump!” she ordered, the rain pelting her face.

“But—“

Twila shook her head. “If you trust me in the slightest, jump!”

Jack instantly responded to Twila's commanding shout, climbing the balcony's railing. She turned, offering her hand to Twila.

“I can't do that.”

“Twila—“

The soul-folk looked askance, then shot forward, shoving Jack. The farmer felt time slow down as she was thrown off balance. Her heart lept up her chest and adrenaline seeped into every fiber of her being.

The rain, every drop easily noticeable as it made its descent to the far-off streets and buildings below. The people lining the streets, frozen in time, many of them mid-stride. Jack turned over. Twila, her hands still extended, a wordless apology on her face. Behind her, the hooded figure, mere feet away, his arm outstretched and showing a pale, clammy hand. Further still, an odd object. A strange, raven-colored sphere encompassing almost half the width of the large mahogany desk it sat on and seeming to grow.

Her sense of time came back and she fell down, head over heels screaming.


000


Jack jerked up, yelling and thrashing her arms desperately against unseen specters. Twisting, she rose from the chair she was in and onto her feet, her hands raised aggressively, before she finally started to realize she was back in her room, safe, with her wrists throbbing in agony at how tight Twila was holding onto them earlier.

Her emerald eyes shot open. Twila.

Jack looked over at where Twila was sitting and there she was, the chair she was in tipped over and the soul-folk herself collapsed onto the floor, both her eyes blindly staring to the ceiling and leaving crimson trails down her cheek.

The farmer swallowed back the raw panic she felt coming to her and turned on her heels, sprinting out her dorm and down the hall.

“Chylene!” she called. “Chylene! Ya gotta help!”

	
> Arrangements
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

	Jack paced across her dorm room, the sound of her steps loud on the floor. Painfully loud. She stopped, looking over to where Chylene knelt, tending to Twila. Pinkie sat on the edge of Jack's bed, her usual bright personality faded as she looked over at her injured friend.

The farmer couldn't take it any more, she turned to Chylene. “How she doin', doc?”

“I'm a veterinarian in training, not a doctor.” She crossed her arms, frowning. “I did all I could to stabilize her condition, but...”

“But what?” Jack pressed. Chylene weakly shrugged.

“When soul-folk have.. uh, when they're like... “

“Bleedin' from their eyes?”

Chylene nodded. “I've never heard of anyone recovering from that...”

“This is all my damn fault.” She suddenly jerked forward, thrusting her fist out and busting easily through the drywall. “This whole thing.”

Chylene surprisingly didn't flinch. “You don't believe that, do you?”

“Rarity's gone, Twila might be dyin', who the hell else coulda cause it?” she harshly snapped, putting her fists against the side of her head and squeezing. “Goddammit...” she said, quietly.

“She'll be fine, Jackie,” Pinkie offered, weakly smiling. “She's really good with surprises. I'm sure this'll be another. I promise.”

Chylene nodded. “Twila's one of the best magic channelers I've seen. If anyone can make a miracle happen, it's her.”


000


Twila watched Jack fall, listened to her scream as she plummeted down from the balcony. The soul-folk turned away, still hearing the sickening crack of Jack's body landing on the stone, and came nearly face-to-face with her black, featureless assailant, his hand out menacingly close and reaching for her blindly. Twila recoiled, stepping back and nearly toppling over the railing herself. The shadow took one step forward, then another. Twila was paralyzed with a raw, uncompromising terror she hadn't felt in all her years living. She could hear the creature's strange, rattling breaths.

Right before he bore his hand down onto her, she heard a hard crack from deeper in the room. A bright, impossibly bright light flooded her senses, blinding her.

She opened her eyes. The creature spasmed horrifically before her, its hands jittering and rising to wrap around the shaft of an ornate spear protruding from its chest. Twila glanced behind the beast.

A woman stood, her combat stance perfect, rigid and strong, yet flexible and yielding, and offering no weak points as she held the shaft of her spear, embedded in the still writhing creature. Her featureless, void-black features and dull steel armor that seemed to house a silvery luminescence gave the lanky woman a nightmarish appearance. The chestpiece was spiked and grim. The gauntlets clawed. The helmet came to a hard point at her forehead, reminding Twila of a heavy widow's peak. She spared a glance, only a fraction of a second, before returning her attention to the beast, but that second was all Twila needed.

Despite the frightening appearance, she knew. It was Luna behind the nightmare.

The creature slumped over finally, its arms going limp and sinking to its knees. Just as Luna tugged at her spear to pry it free, the hooded figure seemed to collapse in on itself, almost melting into the ground, crawling across the ground like a swarm of insects, before rising from the ground several feet away, whole.

Luna turned, putting herself between Twila and the creature, her muscles tensed and poised, ready to strike. The creature distorted again, vibrating then snapping an arm forward, stretching it to impossible lengths. Luna gave a small, whip-crack snap up with her spear, severing the creature's hand moments before it made contact with her. It pulled its arm back, leaking black fluid, the color and thickness reminding Twila of tar. As the fluid made contact with the floor, it writhed like maggots, squirming and gyrating desperately, slowly coming into contact with one another and forming a large pool. The creature reached down with his arm, dipping into the tar-substance and picking it up from the floor, its hand completely repaired. Before their eyes, the hooded figure's hand shifted, morphing into a large, deadly spike. Twila could hear a small huff from Luna.

“Thou art making this interesting,” Luna remarked in a hard tone, gripping her spear and throwing her body forward, charging at the monster; the creature followed suit, its distorted hand raised and at the ready to rain down a blow upon Luna's head.


000


The girls heard a sort of scraping sound from the hallway, then another, back and forth in half-second intervals. The noise came to a crescendo when Isabelle stepped into the room, donned from head to toe in steel plate armor. She leaned over, taking in a few breaths of air.

“A-alright, Twila,” she announced, rising and looking over to the group. “What's the...” She paused, taking a moment to process the scene before her. “T-Twila?” Rushing forward, she pushed Jack to the side and knelt down next to Chylene. “What the hell happened, man?”

“She... she helped me out, Dash,” Jack muttered, moving to the rest of the girls. “I didn't know where that Dmitri guy took her an' she found out.” She clenched her teeth, turning away from them. “It's my damn fault. All of this.”

Dash shook her head. “There's no time for a guilt trip, bro.” She turned back to Chylene. “Is she gonna be alright?”

“I don't know,” Chylene openly admitted, her voice stronger than normal as she did her best to keep calm under the circumstance. “She's breathing stable, but her body's hot, like it's fighting off a massive infection. This isn't something I know about.”

“Guess there's nothing me or Jack can do, yeah?”

“If there is, I don't know what it'd be.”

Dash nodded, turning to the farmer. “Someone's nabbed your girl, it's time we visit him. Show me a map.”

“What?”

Isabelle rolled her eyes. “You're not that friggin' stupid. I'm coming with you. Show me a map, we'll fly there and take care of business.”

“No,” Jack slowly replied, shaking her head. “I can't let the rest of y'all get hurt.”

“Bro...” Dash gave a tap to her breastplate, letting a small clang pass through the room. “I'm not exactly defenseless. Let's get ready.”

“But—“ Jack started to sputter, Dash shook her head.

“No 'buts' here. I owe you. It's your hour of need, Rarity's too. So gear up, shut up, and let's go. Clock's ticking.”

Dash brushed past Jack and left the room. Jack turned mechanically towards Chylene and Diane.

“Chylene. Take care of Twila fer me. Pinkie...” Jack gave her words some thought, then spoke once more. “Give me an' Dash a coupla hours start, then call the police.” She walked over and tossed open a textbook. After thumbing through a few pages, Jack came to a map of the country. Matching up where Twila had said Rarity was being taken to, she looked once more to Pinkie.

“Tell 'em Rarity's been kidnapped, an' she's bein' held west of a town called Southhearth.”

“Why not call them now?” Chylene offered, reaching to her side and placing ice onto Twila's forehead.

Jack gave a small rise of her hands, an unsure shrug as she walked to a knapsack and took to filling it with supplies. Water canteen, bandages, a knife. “I'm scared that he might do somethin' ta her if a buncha cops jus' up an' knock at his door. 'Least with me an' Dash, we might have a chance ta sneak in.” She reached over to the large blade resting nearby, hesitating for only a moment before slinging the sheath over her back, then the rest of her supplies.

Jack turned and stared at her friends. She shuffled on her feet. “I, uh, ain't sure how ta say it. Don't really know what I need ta say here, ya know? Jus'... if I don't make it...” She offered as large of a smile as she could, given the circumstances, and nodded. “Y’all were some of the best friends I ever had. Y’all are family ta me.”

Chylene swallowed and exhaled, hard. “Y-you too, Jack. Be safe.”

“You're my bestest friend too, Jackie!” Pinkie exclaimed, nodding. “And best friends don't say goodbye like this. Nope! Nuh-uh! It's why I know Twila's gonna get better too! So I know it's not goodbye for you, Jackie! It's just ''till next time,' ok?”

She took a sharp, surprised breath in. “Y-yeah...” Jack finally agreed, freezing for a brief moment at Diane's words. After collecting herself, though, she dumbly nodded. “'Till next time.”


000


The air turned chill as the carriage marched on. Rarity crossed her arms and grimaced, looking out the window at the slowly fading sun, pulling the golden hues of the evening away from the snow-kissed horizon.

They had been traveling for hours now, ever since the sun had been dead-noon, and Rarity could certainly feel it. Her arms were numb from the shackles; her wrists were rubbed raw from the cuffs; her back ached and her throat was painfully dry.

“Are you alright?” Dmitri asked. Rarity could hear the smugness in his voice. She said nothing, refused to give him the satisfaction of her complaints. He quietly chuckled. “Well, don't worry. We're almost where we need to be.”

True to his word, they rode for about another twenty minutes before going downhill, leveling out, then going down a sharp, twisting incline. Rarity glanced wearily out the window. They appeared to be in a wide, massive crater that stretched to the horizon, obscuring what remained of the sunshine. Dmitri chuckled.

“A meteor hit this place when I was a child,” the man explained. He reached to the side of the carriage, pulling out a long, impressive oak cane, leaning on it. “I spent years hiring workers to build a home for me here.”

Rarity said nothing, wordlessly staring at him and he continued, holding an unsettling smirk.

“It has a certain elegance, wouldn't you agree?”

She scoffed. “There is no elegance in anything you touch.”

He kept that same odd, predatory grin and adjusted his cane, bringing it up and running it delicately across the side of her face.

“Is that so...?” he pondered aloud before quickly pulling the cane back, then snapped it towards Rarity again. The soul-folk flinched, wincing preemptively. After a beat, she opened her eyes. The cane was held level by her temple, a mere inch shy of impact.

“Perhaps I do lack social grace and elegance, as you put it,” he admitted, far too chipper. “But that's just the way things are.”

“You're mad.”

“Mad?” he repeated, rolling the word in his tongue. Finally, he rolled his eyes. “Of course not. I'm bored. Do you have any idea on how stifling these... societal rules are? When it's all said and done, I'm saving Cabello.”

The carriage finally, mercifully came to a stop. The shackles holding her in place were released; she took to rubbing one of her aching wrists. Dmitri rose up, humming to himself as he stepped out the door. Rarity wanted to strike him, but knew it'd be a pointless endeavor. He held out his hand to help her down. She promptly ignored it, turning her nose up at him, then paused, taking stock of where they were.

Before her was a massive home—no, more akin to a mansion—that stretched high into the heavens. Dozens of brown spires rose from the house, twisted, queer things reminding Rarity less of peaks and more of deformed licorice. In fact, the whole mansion had an unsettling wrongness to it. The massive door leading inside a clenched jaw. The windows, what few there were, narrowed eyes. The stone, diseased skin hidden under makeup.

The wind groaned, almost speaking horrible whispers to her, but settling for careless gibberish.

Gilda and the driver both hopped off the carriage, Gilda sharing a sort of wordless agreement with Rarity as she took stock of the building. Dmitri took a step forward, then paused.

“Mr. Flam?” he asked passively.

“Yes, sir?” the man replied, moving past Gilda and Rarity to be front and center.

“Take Rarity down to the room we have prepared for her.”

Flam grabbed her by the arm and brushed past Dmitri. Rarity tensed up, then thought better of it, letting herself be escorted.

Wait fer yer chance, sug, Jack said in her head. Doin' anythin' now'll jus' end up bad.

Rarity swallowed, but went with her thoughts, sparing one last glance outside as the door shut behind her.

Dmitri stared up at the sky, the clouds purple from the setting sun. He let a breath of air out, sighing contently.

“I suppose I'll freshen up. Dinner will be at eight.”

“What about Rarity?” Gilda asked. Dmitri let a small laugh out.

“What about her?” he repeated.

“How long are you keeping her around for?” she said, glowering at him.

“If looks could kill...” he remarked, reaching over and giving her a slight tap to the jaw with the back of his hand. “You're acting like smiling is a war crime.”

“Don't touch me,” Gilda spat, throwing his hand to the side. “And answer my question.”

He raised his hands in mocking defense. “By tomorrow morning, this will all be behind us. I'll cast an amnesiac spell, she won't clearly remember any of this, and we'll take her home.”

“Tomorrow?” She squinted at him, a look of disgust on her face. “Sounds risky.”

“Why would it be?” he asked, leaning on his cane. “The only evidence the police have is that mud-folk's body. Dead men tell no tales.” He closed an eye in a lazy wink. “Ain't that right?”

Gilda stiffened. “Y-yeah,” she agreed weakly. 

Dmitri walked in slow, measured steps around her, his cane clicking on the stone landing with every calculated movement.

“But what would you say if I told you that even if someone did, I might have a few... surprises for them?”

He reached into his pocket with his free hand and withdrew a large, almond-shaped seed with an off-white, flaking shell.

“I've always been known to have good surprises.” He gave a little smile her way. “Like I know you didn't kill her.”

“Of course I—“

“She knows. And I'm not sure how many others know. I doubt the police do. A situation this delicate?” He shrugged. “They would bet police at my door might cause me to panic.” A measured, falsely concerned glance her way. “I don't like being lied to, Gilda.”

“Who said I'm lying?” Gilda shot back.

“A little bird. Or, should I say, a scrying spell.”

“A scrying spell?” Gilda repeated. Dmitri nodded slowly.

“While you were riding upfront. I sensed it and cast a counterspell, but how did someone get tipped off?” he questioned, his voice like honey, oozing, syrupy-sweet. “Unless...”

“I...” Gilda clenched her fist. She scowled, her entire body quivering in a sort of uncanny terror, the likes she had never felt. But there was more to it than that. The man in front of her scared her, made her hands shake, her throat tighten, and she felt her bladder contract, but she also felt a sort of lightness. 

“I...” She swallowed, briefly looking away, looking down inside. Looking for that light feeling again. 

That lightness reminded her of the time when she was able to fly free, without any fear over who watched below or abreast to her. A sort of crazy, free feeling. Now that she faced what could really be her end, Gilda swallowed and decided one thing and one thing alone. She wouldn't serve him any longer. No matter how much the man scared her, no matter how much dirt he had on her, Gilda put her foot down and decided to make a stand. She wouldn't die a dog by his lap. She'd die like a hawk. With dignity, with grace, and, most importantly, fighting.

Gilda slowly trailed her hand down, keeping her eyes on him. His smirk widened.

She snapped her hand across her body like greased lightning, pulling her sleeve back and springing the wrist-mounted crossbow to life. She was quick, moving faster than she ever had before.

Somehow, somehow, Dorcis was quicker.

As soon as her hand flicked over, he, in one fluid motion, crouched down, grasped the shaft of his cane and pulled at it. There was a small click sound and the head of the cane came free from the rest of it, revealing a hidden dagger. Just before Gilda could make her shot, he thrust it forward, burying the weapon deep into her stomach.

“When you spend your time dealing with stray dogs,” he whispered, leaning in close to Gilda's ear as she shivered. He gave the weapon a harder press into her, the pain and nausea nearly leaving her blind in agony.

Dorcis leaned even closer to her, his mouth nearly brushing her ear with every syllable. “You learn how to not get bit.”

Dmitri pulled the blade free. Gilda sank to her knees, her strength, her conviction, gone. He whistled a small tune, reaching into his breast pocket and taking a handkerchief and wiped the weapon dry. As an afterthought, he took the seed in his hand and tossed it casually to the ground. Uttering a few words, the seed instantly began to sprout, forming curved, barbed branches. An unearthly groan came from the seed, reminding Gilda, as thoughts swam like a drunkard through her mind, of an old man bending down. It grew, forming a narrow trunk which rapidly expanded, first standing only to the top of Gilda's knees, then shooting upward and widening, Now level with her torso, neck, and finally well over her head, it grew until its shadow towered above her. She stared at the grotesque image, her eyes wide and shuddering.

Dmitri let another small chuckle pass by. “Make yourself comfortable,” he said. “It should take a while for you to bleed out.”

With that he left, shutting the front door behind him.

Gilda clutched the wound at her stomach and stared dumbly upwards as the plant grew and matured, taking the light of the fading sunset from her.
> Conviction
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

	Jack left out the front door and into the crowded yard. Isabelle was waiting for her, pacing nearby the fountain.

Wasn't too long ago that she was nappin' there, Jack mused, the thought sending a small, nostalgic tingle through her body. She quickly brushed it aside. There was work to do.

Dash perked up, glancing her way.

“Ready, hayseed?” she questioned. A commotion towards the front of the yard briefly caught Jack's eye.

A group of plainclothes police were talking to one of the students. Jack quickly glanced away.

“Let's go. Quick,” the farmer said. She had a feeling the cop wasn't here for a routine inspection. Jack then paused. “Uh, how we gonna fly?”

Isabelle conjured her ethereal wings and gave a flap of them, taking off surprisingly easy despite the armor. She flew a few inches above Jack. “Take my hands. We'll get a bit better adjusted position away from everyone.”

Jack reached up, grasping Dash's hands and they took off, Isabelle swearing loudly as she hoisted the farmer up and off the ground.

They took off, starting strong, only for Dash to touch down not even a mile away, landing them both in the middle of the woods. She looked away from Jack, seeming almost abashed.

“You're really heavy for my arms, bro,” she said flatly. Jack scowled.

“Then why didn't we take a coupla damn horses from the stables? We ain't got time fer games,” Jack snapped, throwing her hands up. “God's sake, Dash, I—“

“—I said 'for my arms,'” Dash repeated. She rolled her eyes. “Look, you don't know a lot about sky-folk, yeah?”

“Dash...”

“I'm going somewhere with this.”

Jack scoffed. “No. I reckon not. They're a mite more common than soul-folk in my neck of the woods, but they had their own jobs, I had mine.”

Dash threw the shield off her back.

“Well, it's subtle, but our structure's a bit different than an earth-folk—hold this.”

Jack grabbed the shield, briefly noting its mirror-polish, and its lightness despite the obvious hefty appearance.

“Anyway,” Dash continued, “our center of weight is a bit different, and our, uh, wings send magic down our spines and back muscles. It let us haul crap like chariots back in the day.”

“Meanin'...?” Jack questioned, nervously sparing a glance behind them, towards the school. She was afraid she'd see a cop in the distance any second. When she turned her head back, Isabelle was on her hands and knees, her face crimson.

“Not a word. Shut up and hop on,” she growled out. Despite the gravity of the whole day, Jack let a small, brief smirk out.

“So I'm gonna ride ya like a sky-pony or somethin'?”

“Don't make me kick your ass, hayseed,” Dash warned.

The farmer moved over to Isabelle.

“Fair 'nough. I was raised not ta look a gift horse in the mouth, after all.”

Jack sat down gently on Isabelle's lower back, behind the sky-folk's  majestic, ethereal wings. Reaching forward, she found a decent enough gripping spot at the nape of Isabelle's neck and clenched it tightly in one hand, the thought of plummeting to her death letting her squeeze just a little bit harder than she normally could.

Without a word, Isabelle gave a hard flap of her wings, lifting the pair up a few feet. She wrapped her arms around the back of Jack's thighs to secure the woman to her and then they were off, tearing through the sky like scissors through cloth.


000


Luna crouched low, the black creature's strike sailing over her head as she used her momentum to swing her spear, severing the creature's leg. It collapsed on the ground, splashing and losing its form for a brief moment. Twila could already see it starting to form in on itself, taking shape. Luna ran to the soul-folk, wordlessly lifting Twila up bridal style. Without hesitation, Luna sprinted to the balcony and lept off.

The rain soaked them to the bone as they plunged, the wind whipping at their faces, the stone coming closer and closer.

Luna erupted forward, leveling out a few feet from the ground and speeding them along through the town, her ebony wings strong, powerful, beautiful even as they fled, even amid  this nightmare.

The all-folk spared one glance at her burden, before turning her attention to their flight.

Luna swore, involuntary tightening her hands around Twila's form. Twila glanced forward and screamed.

The figure. The damned figure.

He stood above the heavens themselves, his body as wide as the town's main strip. His height massive, taller than the grand castle of Camelot's highest spire. He snapped a hand down, his motion an impossible blur of speed compared to his earlier movement. Luna pulled to the side, the rush of air from his massive palm sending them to an out of control spiral. She righted herself and they ducked into an alley.

Twila stared behind them, peering over Luna's shoulder. A black, oily cloud formed, taking shape into a maddening spider-like creature, its thousand of eyes blinking independently of one-another and its massive mandibles easily the width of Luna's wingspan. It scuttled forward, its legs using either side of the buildings as support, every step taken upon its needle-sharp legs smashing the side of the buildings it traveled on, punching holes in glass and concrete alike.

It reached one of its legs out to Luna. She dove down and to an angle of the strike, a line of laundry whizzing dangerously close overhead. A high-rise apartment came into sight, ending the alleyway; Luna shot straight up, clearing the building in front of them with inches to spare.

The beast was not as fortunate. It rammed full force into the structure. Twila heard a heavy groan as the building's frame snapped, collapsing and burying the creature in debris. Still Luna did not stop her frantic pace; she carried Twila, scanning the horizon amid the rain and finally settling on a direction. She pushed her body forward and set Twila down on one of the tall rolling hills overlooking the town. Twila had a brief thought, a random reminder of how she had created a minstrel show on this very hill when she first had conjured and expanded the world beyond her mansion.

Luna moved quickly, slamming her spear into the ground, planting it vertically. They each heard a metallic, foreign roar, and Twila saw in the distance the black figure erupting from the town, its size and shape again changed, now into a gargoyle, no larger than herself with bat-wings. As it came closer, closing the distance Luna had created with her own flight, Twila could hear a sort of feral, rapid breathing that made itself known even over the rain.

Luna concentrated, putting her hands together in a praying gesture, then lifting them to her sides, stretching her body into a “T” shape.

She stared, unflinchingly at the creature's approach.

“Thine time grows short, monster,” she growled, her words as final as a judge's sentence.


000


The room was chill, the concrete floor and flaking brick walls all but radiating cold. Rarity shivered and tensed up, briefly fighting the rope that bound her wrists tightly behind her back and around the hard wooden chair she sat on. The man watching her, Mr. Flam, gave a small shake of his head.

“You won't get out of there like that,” he remarked. “Fighting it'll just make it tighter.”

Rarity glared at him before offering a sardonic smile.

“Is that so?” she questioned. “Because I'm sure my sister could make a better knot.”

“Now, now, no need for the attitude lady. I'm just doing what the boss man's saying needs done.”

“And if he told you to kill me, would you follow him then?”

He nodded easily. “A half-done job is just as bad as not doing the job at all. Besides, you might not know, but he has a bit of a temper.”

“Lapdog,” Rarity spat. Flam shrugged.

“Rich lapdog,” he replied. “Look sister—“

“Don't call me that, brute.”

He brushed his red and white-streaked hair back. “Anyway. I'm just placing my money on the winning horse. Get me a slice of the pie when he's got everything in pocket. A nice mansion, all the food I can eat.” He grinned, showing his pearl teeth. “Any woman I want. I'm ready for the good times.”

“You really think he'll do that for you?” She let out a single mocking guffaw. “Considering he's been nothing but a manipulative swine who only gets his hands dirty when it absolutely can't be traced back to him, I would say your days are numbered.”

“I'm not as expendable like the others,” he replied.

“No,” Rarity answered, another mocking smile on her lips. “You're more expendable.”

He curled his lip in a scowl and snapped his hand forward, striking Rarity on the cheek so hard her head twisted. She stared at him without an ounce of fear, blood trailing over her lip and down her chin. Flam wiped at his nose.

“It's still a bit before we're contacting your father. I don't think Dmitri would mind if we made you presentable for the call.” He walked to the door. “I'll be back in a moment to get you ready.”

The door slammed shut, leaving Rarity alone. A single light burned overhead, illuminating the dank room. She tried to move her arms again. Like the last time she tried, there wasn't much she could do; certainly there wasn't a way she could move them to her front. Her magic was out of the question thanks to that damnable poison....

She took in a breath, willing, forcing herself to calm down. There had to be a way out of this.

Think 'bout what ya got on-hand. Usually the best answer, sug, she heard Jack say. Jus' keep calm. Ya can do this. Ya can.

She relaxed, slightly, and once more felt along the back of the chair, nearly letting out an expletive when she felt something sharp rip at the back of her hand. She was about to stop, when it clicked on her. That rough spot on the chair's finish might, just might...

Rarity ran the rope up and down it and was rewarded with a quiet, small tearing noise as it worked through the fibers.

She worked frantically, a race to free herself before he came back and get into a position where she could act when needed.

And just what are you planning to do to get out of this room? she thought. The answer came to her in an instant. Without hesitation or restraint, she muttered:

“What I have to.”


000


They flew, faster than anything Jack had ever been on, yet she remained calm, even though in normal circumstances, she'd be screaming in a sort of elated terror at how high they were, and how recklessly fast Dash propelled them forward. Now though? Her thoughts revolved around what she was  going to need to do when she got to where they were headed.

Dash turned her head.

“Gonna land for a sec!” she called out to Jack over the rush of wind. Before the farmer could object, Dash dove, landing them in an open field. In the distance, Jack saw a grain silo and the faintest peak of a windmill beyond a hill.

Dash rested, laying flat on the ground and spread-eagle, sweat obvious on her body from the exertion. Jack reached into her pack and pulled out her water canteen and wordlessly handed it to Isabelle.

“T-thanks,” she panted out, rising her shoulders a bit to take a drink before falling back again.

“If I wasn't in armor and having to haul your ass around, I'd be making records on how fast I've been going,” she weakly joked. Jack said nothing, running a finger in the dirt as she waited for Dash to recover.

“Hey...” Dash quietly asked, gentler than her normal brash tone. “How you holding up?”

Jack gave an unsure shake of her head and exhaled. “I'm angry as hell. I ain't never been this mad before. Like it's eatin' me up inside.”

“You just keep that inside until we get to the guy that's got your girl,” Dash said, taking another drink of water and finally sitting up fully. 

They sat for a moment longer, Jack with her arms crossed and glaring down at the ground, Isabelle resting her arms on her knees.

“What are you gonna do to him?” Dash asked suddenly. Jack met her gaze.

“I make sure he ain't never gonna do this ta someone else,” she replied.

“Will you be—“

Jack cut her off. “This ain’t like last time, sug. This guy has been runnin' after Rarity fer months now. He's like a dog goin' after a chicken, an' when a dog gets the taste of blood, ya put that son of a bitch inta the ground.”

Dash gave a slow, considering nod. “Whatever you decide on, I've got your back.” She rose, doing a few stretches to the side. “Well, let's go. Odds are we can make that place by twilight if we push it.”

Jack mounted up and they were gone without even a moment's thought.


000


Dash was right on the bits; they first caught sight of the massive house when the sun was gone and only a few weak rays of light greeted the horizon. Dash slowed down, setting them down at the end of a crater. Ahead, a path along a shallow decline wandered downward to the crater proper. Farther ahead still, inside the crater was a sight that made Jack freeze.

Hundreds of... white things stood, wandering slowly about. Humanoid in shape and about the size of Isabelle. Jack squinted, trying to make out their features.

Thin muscles on their white bodies, no genitals, but a sort of androgynous build and, more shockingly, no faces either. From what Jack could make out, not even the bumps or ridges a normal face would have, just a smooth oval canvas for a head. Isabelle swore, pointing to a tree standing before what seemed to be the mansion's front door.

“That what I think it is?” she asked herself, wiping at her brow.

“What do ya think it is?” Jack asked. “An' better question.” She gestured to the creatures. “The hell are those?”

“Seedlings from a Ygg.”

Jack shrugged. “Ygg?” she repeated. Isabelle nodded.

“Yeah man. Don't you rem—“ she paused. “Wait. That was last year.”

“Ya wanna answer the damn question already?”

Dash rolled her eyes. “Ok, ok.” She gestured at the tree. “That's a Ygg. Or, Yggdrasil, as they're actually called. Iron Will had a session about them in his classes last year. They're a...” Dash squinted her eyes in thought, her tongue peeking out of the corner of her mouth. “High-level conjuration spell. Uh... they grow these white sacks at the branches, when they get big and touch the floor, a little dude like what you're seeing comes out.”

Jack swore. “How we gonna get past 'em?”

“Why not fly to a window, bro? I'll scope 'em out.”

“Alright,” she agreed. “Try not ta alert anyone, tho'.”

She conjured her wings and took a few steps forward, giving a dry look to Jack. “If they've been keeping an eye on the sky, they would have seen us already.”

Before Jack could reply, Isabelle took off high above the creatures below them. Jack watched Isabelle go to the mansion and try first one window on the second story, then another, then another, slamming her fist hard on the last one. She rose, going to the top of the mansion's large central spire and the massive bay windows that overlooked the scene before her. Isabelle seemed to freeze, then quickly returned, landing skillfully next to Jack.

“Well?” Jack asked. Dash shook her head, scowling.

“Thing's locked tighter than a nun's virginity. Windows have a barrier spell, and what's worse—“

“There's a worse?” Jack said, putting a hand to her forehead as a headache bubbled to life.

“Up at the top floor, someone was watching me. Scared me shitless. He was staring out the window. If it wasn't for the spell, I could of touched him.”

“So he knows we're here.” Crossing her arms, squeezing them so tight she could hear the leather guards she wore groan under her pressure, she frowned. “What are our options?”

“Options?” Isabelle repeated. “You don't know what a Ygg can do. Watch.” She looked down below her for a moment before palming a small stone, then chucked it with all her might. It landed just a ways in from the mob's edge and immediately dozens snapped towards where the stone landed, their faces breaking apart horizontally and revealing sharp, deadly teeth. They howled and grunted, feeling for the rock for several moments before giving up, their jaws retracting into the smooth, nondescript faces of the crowd, and they returned to their more normal meandering pathways.

“What...?” Jack questioned. Isabelle shrugged.

“The tree acts like a sort of hive-mind I guess you could call it. Something to do with the roots they have in the dirt. Otherwise they're like deaf and dumb zombies.”

“What's stopping' ya from flyin' over ta cut the tree down?”

“Easier said than done,” Isabelle replied. “Those roots I just talked about, yeah? They can move above ground. It uses them to whip, slash, and cut anyone actually close to the tree itself.”

Jack went through a familiar motion for her; she threw the travel satchel and sheath out in front of her and then with a shaking hand, she withdrew the oversized blade out from its scabbard, before throwing the sheath and satchel to her back once more, pausing for only a brief moment to attach a dagger to her belt.

“The hell you doing?” Isabelle remarked.

“I'm gonna go through.”

“What?”

Jack narrowed her gaze. “Rarity's in there, Dash. An' I can't think of any other way ta get to her.”

“You're crazy!” Dash exclaimed. She put a restraining hand on Jack's shoulder. The farmer quickly brushed it off.

“I'm desperate.” She grit her teeth. “Ya got any better ideas?”

Dash crossed her arms. “No. But I got an idea that might give you a chance.” She pointed at the tree. “I'm gonna distract that thing. It's only a chance, but maybe with the roots out and after me, it might leave those seedlings deaf and dumb.” She once more conjured her wings and took to flying a few feet off the ground, hesitantly looking over to Jack. “Don't know how you're so damn frosty about this.”

Jack didn't meet Isabelle's gaze, rather, she focused on the gauntlet before them. “Frosty?” she repeated, swallowing and licking her dry lips. “I'm shakin' in my boots so hard I'm surprised my teeth ain't chatterin'.”

“If it looks like you can't make it, get the hell out of there,” Dash said, slowly flapping her wings to put distance between her and Jack. “We can regroup and think of another way to do this.”

They both knew Dash was lying. This was their only chance, the very definition of do or die. Jack simply nodded at the sky-folk's words and watched as she reluctantly made her way over the horde below.

Isabelle came to the tree's side. As she had said, the roots, barbed, nasty writhing snake-like appendages, erupted out of the ground, snapping like a whip towards the flying woman. She dodged to the side, her shield and sword poised and ready to defend her body. Another one of the roots latched onto her ankle. She easily snapped forward and cut through it with her sword.

Jack took one deep breath, her conviction briefly waning. On catching sight of the mansion, she narrowed her brow, swallowed her unrelenting dread, and marched on.

She noticed as she approached the crowd a peculiar smell. It wasn't an organic scent the things had. It reminded her in a way of burning plastic. An unnatural scent that, for some reason, confounded her senses even more than their aimless, shambling movements, or the muffled breaths and grunts that permeated through their featureless maws, a cross between a dog's snarl and a listless sigh.

She came closer to the first, raising her sword to a striking pose. The creature turned to her as if he could hear without ears and opened its nightmarish mouth, highlighting its vicious teeth. Jack hesitated for only a moment at the horrific abomination in front of her before bringing the greatsword down, easily splitting the thing's head and most of its neck in one light swing. A sort of brown sap filled the air in a spurt, speckling Jack's face. Without breaking pace, she pulled the blade free and marched on, turning her head left and right, scanning frantically for any others that might have caught on her position. A group of three did; Jack hefted Durandel to her shoulder and swung horizontally. It cleaved through all three as easily as a knife through butter. Jack marched on.

Another turned, sensing her—Jack twisted her body, avoiding its snapping teeth and kicked at its chest. That gave her some breathing room to bring her blade down with an angry grunt. She marched on.

A strange sense of calm fell upon her as she scanned the path she was making and mechanically walked forward—walked, Jack knew deep down she'd be blind with panic if she ran—the sense was hard to place. Through the swirling chaos she found herself in, the thought was alien to her. But it dawned on her shortly after she let one lumber too close and nearly take a bite out of her—the dagger at her side found its temple in an instant, the action she took automatic, ingrained into her body's reflexes without even a conscious thought. She pulled it out and stepped past before he even finished collapsing.

As she leveled the sword and cut another from shoulder to hip, she realized where the calm came from. The sort of tranquility that came over her mind as her hands worked deadly magic, swinging her large blade with surgical, deadly precision, each blow sending a spurt of brown sap into the air.

It was the same sort of peace that came to her when she worked the farm, be it tilling the land, planting seeds, or harvesting. It was listening to Rarity sing, listening to her talk with an obvious eagerness over her daily affairs, laying close enough to feel her warmth during cold nights. It was a sort of calm acceptance at her place in a matter. The sort of contentment at knowing where you need to be in the world. The thought should of frightened her, a hell like this being a place for her.

One of the creatures managed to sneak past her from behind; a sharp pain flared at her collarbone. She spared the featureless head and the large teeth embedded into her body only the most fleeting of glances before her free hand reached down once more to the dagger at her wrist and snapped it up, planting it in its eye—where its eye should be. She slammed her back into the creature and twisted her body, freeing herself as its teeth raked lightly along her shoulder, then brought the dagger forward again, slashing its throat, then finally connecting true, her overwhelming strength flaring to life as she cut through its skull and managed to bury the weapon at a rough angle of where the bridge of a nose should be, before taking her foot and planting it on its chest and yanking her weapon free. The thought of how if she didn't have the armor Rarity had crafted for her, that bite would have probably killed her only phasing her mentally for the faintest of moments, despite the physical hurt that came with it. She turned back to her task and marched on.

Through all the jumbled, unsure thoughts, Jack marched on, dodging a bite by pushing the creature away with a kick, then severing its body into two equal vertical halves, her sword swing landing hard like thunder.

Though all the pain of her aching muscles and still-bleeding collarbone, Jack marched on, pulling the sword back to her shoulder and delivering a hard killing blow to another one of the creatures, the force behind it making it feel like the earth itself trembled under her strength. 

Through the somber feelings she carried about her granny, Jack marched on.

Through the fear she carried with her about Rarity, about Isabelle, about herself, Jack marched on.

Through the anger she felt, clawing at her innards, trying to get a foothold over her once again as she let out a shout, bringing her blade down once more, slaying another seedling, then immediately bringing it up and at an angle, taking out another's arm and neck, then reversing the swing yet again, hopping forward and bringing the blade crashing down on another. Jack marched on.

Even now, when everything was against her and she stood, the flames of hell at all sides, a word came to her lips, one she mouthed to herself as the tree loomed closer and closer to her.

Ronnel.

Jack marched on.

The tree was right there and Isabelle still flew, darting away from the vines that erupted to grab her, and slicing at the plant roots every second she could get. Just before the farmer could take a swing, one of the vines shot up and swiped upward with a speed that felt impossible. Isabelle took the brunt of the attack, it sending her tumbling head over heels and crashing hard into the ground. Instantly, a swarm of the creatures converged on her, their jaws unhinging and revealing those damn teeth.

Jack knew she had to act and had to act now if they were getting through. With a loud, angry shout more at place with a feral beast than a simple farm-girl, she charged forward, her thumb pulling at the small gear at the sword's handle. The weapon groaned, and the seal adorned into the side of the blade came to life, creating a river-like blue trail from the weapon's guard to the middle of the blade. Jack instantly felt the weight come to the weapon and steeled herself, the slump of her powerful, muscular shoulders and the hard grimace of her jaw the only indication as to the obscene weight the weapon now held. Jack pulled her burden back over her shoulder and let out another loud shout as she twisted and brought her swing through horizontally, a set of the barbed roots shot past her torso, barely missing her body.

Her aim was true; the blade connected, working like an axe thanks to its unnatural heft. The tree ruptured, its entire side blowing out from the sudden and violent impact of Jack's sword. The farmer's head was filled with an unnatural scream, the shrieks of a woman in agony, and the Ygg toppled, already shriveling into a sort of off-gray ash. Around her, the seedlings withered, becoming shrunken, dried, reminding Jack of jerky. They soon suffered the same fate as the Yggdrasil, nothing more than shaped piles of ash. Isabelle lay flat on the ground, her shield still held protectively over her face and chest. On realizing she wasn't being attacked still, she slowly rose.

Jack stood, overlooking the scene before her, panting, unable to catch her breath.

“W-we did it,” Isabelle stammered out. “Holy shit, hayseed, you—“

She paused, Jack leaned on her sword, still drawing in deep breaths, sweat caking her forehead. Blood dripped from her shoulder, the wound aching. Jack gave an experimental flex and roll of her shoulder. She hissed as pain flared from the bite, but noted she could at least still move her arm.

“That looks deep, man,” Isabelle commented, moving to the farmer and inspecting her injury.

“I'll live,” Jack replied. She glanced at the double door leading inside and narrowed her brow.

The handle was bloody, and dripped down to an obvious splotch at the base of the door. Jack moved past Dash and grabbed the handle. Isabelle put her palm on the farmer's shoulder.

“We need to patch you up.”

Jack tensed her hand on the handle and turned it.

“Rarity needs you at your peak. If you don't stop that bleeding...”

Jack scowled. Dash was right. She had to hurry, but she couldn't lose her chance because she was being stupid and reckless.

“We clear out this room, then ya can play doc on me. I got some stuff in my bag,” Jack replied, her voice quiet as she let her eyes adjust to the dim room.

She stood in a hallway. About ten feet ahead of them it widened into a large foyer, with dozens of decorative pillars giving the room a sort of pathway feeling to it, and doors lined with golden swirling designs. Ahead, a single set of stairs leading to a second floor. From what she could see up higher on the landing, a few more doors and  a small set of stairs tucked in the corner leading even higher. She glanced down. The blood left a noticeable spotty trail, turning to the left once it entered the foyer proper.

She put a finger to her lips and cocked her head towards the bloodstain. Dash paused for a moment to take in the scene, then nodded, resting a hand at her blade and remaining unmoving. Jack herself drew the dagger she wore at her side and took a few slow, cautious steps forward, swearing inwardly at how much she stuck out. Being as big as she was had its problems sometimes. She rounded the corner, peeking her head around the corner, then freezing.

Gilda sat motionless on the floor, her back propped up against the wall and her head limply resting at her chest. Her hands limply clutched at her stomach, Jack could see red staining through her shirt.

The farmer shook her head and gestured for Isabelle. She joined Jack and stared.

“She...?” Dash quietly muttered out, looking mutely at Gilda.

“I dunno.” Jack walked to Gilda's side and pulled one of her gloves off, then placed her finger at the side of Gilda's neck. It was faint, barely a ghost, but she felt a pulse.

“Alive,” Jack confirmed. “But she's jus' barely hangin' on. We gotta do somethin'.”

Isabelle stiffened. “And why do we have to?” she countered, crossing her arms. “Or do you not remember the part where she shot you?”

“I remember alright,” Jack replied, reaching up and touching at the wound. “But I've been thinkin'... how often does she miss in training?”

“That doesn't—“

“She shot me point blank. If she had wanted me dead, then I woulda been dead.”

“Bullshit,” Dash snapped. “You've seen how she acts! It had to of been an accident that she missed.”

Jack rolled her eyes, picking up Gilda, then turning to Dash.

“Take her ta town. It's jus' a lil' ways east.”

“Hell no, I'm not ditching you.”

“Yer gettin' her a doc. High tail it back ta me after if ya gotta, but—“

“'But' nothing, asshole!” Dash snapped, throwing her hand to the side. “I'm not letting you do this by yourself.”

Jack took a breath and stared evenly at Isabelle. “Remember back at the warehouse?” she quietly asked. Isabelle calmed down slightly and gave a curious tilt of her head.

“I do.”

“Ya remember shuttin' that freezer door in my face?”

Dash said nothing, waiting for Jack to continue.

“Well, it's my turn ta fly solo. Take her ta a doc, man.”

“Jack...”

She held out Gilda's form. Dash took it begrudgingly, tilting her head up to meet Jack's eyes.

“Go. I'll be fine.”

Dash turned, shaking her head and stepping towards the door. “You'd better be,” she muttered.

Jack heard the sound of Dash taking off, then exhaled, biting at her lip with worry as she took in the mansion and tried to ignore the ache in her body. Walking forward, she hid as best she could behind the stairs leading up and stripped off her chest piece, reaching for the belts that secured it against her form, then throwing it to the ground and quickly reaching for her supply satchel. She took to rolling gauze around the bite, over the shoulder and under the arm. As she did this for several long, painful minutes, she leaned against the stairway and stared straight up, wondering what lay before her.

Jus' hang on, Rare. I'm comin' fer ya.
> Truth
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

	The beast approached, wild, feral, its teeth gnashing. Luna stood, a perfect example of royal contempt, despite her lack of features under the black shade she carried. Twila could easily imagine her eyes staring in indignation and a prominent, crafted frown on her face. Luna stared the beast down, her arms still open to either side of her, her pose almost messianic.

She began to talk in an archaic tongue, one Twila only had the vaguest grasp of from her years of being Celestia's protegee. It was the speech of Kings. A tongue carried only by those of the Princesses' bloodline to showcase their relationship with Arthur Pendragon. The words carried power and, for those who mastered it, could be formed into earth-shattering spells. Twila had spent weeks researching into their might and only came back with a smattering of words; words Celestia praised Twila for learning, due to the bloodline limitation normally barring others from being taught their deadly power.

Luna continued to speak them, each word strong on their own, every syllable pounding Twila's eardrums and breaking her body into gooseflesh. Above them, the clouds spread as Luna chanted, making way for the moon, stark and cold, to shine its light down to them. Luna held out her palm, her fingers clenched as if cradling an invisible shaft, and reared back her arm. As the moonlight graced her figure, a beam of silvery light formed in her hand, then quickly expanded, first filling her palm, then farther out still, filling the area with a hum as the beam expanded into the length of a javelin. The all-folk threw it. It let out a sharp, deafening crack as it left Luna's hand and sailed through the air with blinding speed. Twila clutched her ears at the noise and watched with mute fascination as Luna's spell impaled the creature, piercing through its hide dead center. It fell back with a howl, clawing and thrashing at the magical spell even as the beast landed on the ground.

“Return to darkness!” Luna bellowed, slamming her foot into the ground. The beam splintered into small shards of light. Twila noticed that the wound the bolt had struck on the creature remained open and gaping, the black liquid that had leaked from its injuries previously gone. She then noticed the odd color the wound held. Grey, hard. As if...

A petrification spell! she realized. A potent one, at that, as quickly acting as it was, already spreading across its torso like a violent plague. It howled, thrashing and trying to lift itself up, only to freeze as the magic paralyzed it in the midst of its gyrations. It offered one last hate-fueled glare Luna's way, before its whole body morphed into stone.

Luna walked forward, tugging her spear up the from the ground, and marched to its body. She gave an experienced twirl of the weapon, then slammed it into the beast, shattering it into of hundreds of pieces. She turned back to Twila. The all-folk looked far more normal now than earlier; Twila could see her weary, gaunt face, and the armor she wore lost some of its ominous presence. Walking towards Twila, the student could see a hard set of burn marks where Luna had grasped the shaft of the light spear in her hand. A vague scent of fried pork hung in the air.

“Are thou alright?” Luna asked.

Twila took in a breath, then let it out heavily. “I-I think so, y-yes.”

Luna weakly smiled. Resting her spear against her body, she moved her uninjured hand to Twila's cheek and stroked it with a thumb.

“The darkness hath been quelled now, child.” She moved her palm, resting it on top of Twila's forehead. Twila felt the faintest hum of magic fill her mind. “My own part is through here, as is thou's. Slumber and let thine body be born anew. I will return to mine own body and inform mine sister of thine condition.”

Twila's eyes grew lidded. She dumbly realized Luna had cast a spell on her. She slumped down to the floor, landing on her side and unable to even life her head up. Instead, she watched, unblinking, as Luna walked a few steps away and pinwheeled her arm. A visible circle appeared in the air when she finished a full rotation. It quickly filled with a black aura. The last thing Twila saw before closing her eyes and slipping away was Luna ducking down and stepping into it.


000


Jack had just finished bandaging herself up when she heard footsteps coming down the stairs. She froze, unsure what to do for one panicked moment, before ducking and hiding under the stairwell. As the stomping feet went directly over her, then down to the ground floor, she took a small risk to peek out over the stair's banister, catching sight of a fairly nondescript man. Nondescript, save for his red and white-streaked hair. She recognized him as the driver of the carriage by the Carousal Boutique from earlier. He turned to the side; Jack recoiled instinctively, crouching down lower, before she noticed him fishing out a key from his breast pocket and entering a door to his left, nestled in between the dual staircases that graced the mansion's foyer. He unlocked it and went on inside. Jack gave it a moment's time before throwing on her chestpiece and walked to the door at a low, leaned-over gait, once more cursing her size as she slowly crept to the door, aware that if anyone were on the balcony, they'd spot her a mile away.

The earth-folk tried the door. Locked. Grimacing, she took a step back. She had lost any sort of surprise she had when Dash and her made a show outside. Rising her foot, she snapped it forward, delivering a hard kick right above the door handle. She barked out a harsh swear under her breath, pain flaring through her leg at the deceptively hard object.

An enchantment. Lucky I didn't break my damn leg, Jack thought. The only way she was getting through there was with a key.

Jack's fist tightened. If there was a spare, she knew where it'd be.

Dmitri. He'd have it, or he'd tell her where it was. Jack would be sure of it. A part of her she didn't want to acknowledge knew she could make him talk. Jack stepped back from the door and took the stairs up to the balcony overlooking the main floor. She made her way across, going to the spiraling staircase leading ever upward. She took the steps two at a time, so overcome with paranoia for Rarity's well being that she hardly noticed the slight pressure on her body as she stepped through a thin film of magic, nor did she hear the sound of the spell placed there thrumming to life.


000


Rarity's palms were sweaty. She gave a distasteful tsk as she moved one hand off what she held, wiped it over her white skirt, then repeated the process with her other hand. The thought of how strange that now of all things, she was thinking about how sweaty her palms were was not lost on her. Her jaw quivered—her entire body quivered—but she still kept calm. Well, at least mostly calm. As calm as a woman holding a chair by its legs and waiting for a door to open could be at least. She adjusted her grip with one of her hands, hands that were cramping from how hard she squeezed the object.

Come on now, sug, Jack said once more, calming her down, coaxing her gently, encouraging her in whispers. Jus' relax yer grip a hair, take some deep breaths. Ya hear me? 

“In...” Rarity muttered, taking a slow breath, feeling her heart beat so fast she became worried.

“Out...” She exhaled, relaxing her jaw slightly to relieve the pressure her teeth were feeling.

“In...”

“Out...”

It took several muttered repetitions of the words, each spoken with the intensity of a zealot, but she finally was able to calm herself enough to where she wasn't going to suffer a fainting spell. She just had to hope it'd last long enough for her to...

She swallowed. Could she?

Without a doubt, Jack said, her voice guiding her. Aim for his temple, it's 'bout the best place ta hit on the head.

Nodding at the thought, she bent her knees a bit and raised the chair above her head.

It wasn't moments later when the door jiggled and she heard the hard click of the lock being opened.

Wait...

The door itself opened just a hair, Rarity could see his shadow stretching all the way toward the center of the room.

Wait...

“I'm back,” he called out, stepping into the room. “You miss...” He trailed off, registering the chair's absence.

Now!

Rarity lunged forward just as he caught her out of the corner of his widening eyes. She brought the chair down and it connected with a sickening crack.


000


The air took on a strange scent as Jack traveled farther up the stairs. A sort of earthy-sweet smell that reminded her of home. She suddenly felt light headed, weak. Jack slumped forward, but righted herself, focusing on the stairs, focusing on her boots walking up the stairs.

One foot in front of the other. Jus' like that, she thought.

The stairs started to subtly change, going from red carpet to less saturated things, eventually turning off-white, then monochromatic. Jack sluggishly looked up and paused. Fog. There was fog inside the building. Alarm bells rang in her head, but she pushed forward anyway, part of her mind half-drunk with its strange lightness, another part of her, no louder than a whisper barely making its way through her own personal haze, urged her to march forward to settle the score with Dmitri.

Squinting through the fog, Jack saw a massive door. Pushing it open, she was greeted by a large open field. The sight should have stirred some sort of confusion or denial, either from the location or impossible size, but instead she walked forward, cowed to complacency. The fog was thick, choking, but after what seemed to be an eternity, it lifted, revealing a beautiful, pristine lake. Rarity sat there, staring at its deep azure. Jack walked over to her and sat down, putting her sword to the side as Rarity wordlessly leaned into the woman.

“There you are, dear,” Rarity cooed. “I was wondering when you'd show up.”

“Will kept me swingin' that sword for way too damn long today,” Jack replied. Wait. That wasn't right, was it? No. There was something else. But...

“Well, you're here now at least. That's all I can ask for.”

They stared silently across the water, neither making any attempt to move. Finally, Jack reached over, wrapping an arm around the soul-folk.

“I love the sights here, there's something magnificent at this pond, is there not?” she questioned.

Where is here? Jack thought. She opened her mouth to ask just that, but instead, all that came out was a slow, confirming, “Eyup.”

Jack was briefly perturbed, but let it go. The sound of the water and the warmth of Rarity next to her quelling any questions she might have had.

In the distance, a moose called. Rarity cupped her hands together and blew, producing a perfect replica of its slow bellow.

The earth-folk quirked a brow. “Where'd ya learn somethin' like that?” she drawled, surprised.

“When we went hunting last week, dear,” Rarity answered, tilting her head. “You remember that, yes?”

Something stirred in Jack's memory, she...

She had gone hunting. Rarity, herself, and Mac. They scored two bucks, both unimpressive racks, but would give them enough meat to last for months. The tailor had proven to be a great longbow shot, had—

No she hadn't, an adamant voice, buried inside her snapped. Why would she hunt? Why would she learn animal calls? Farmwork an' the like is one thing, but she'd die 'fore ya dragged her 'round ta kill somethin' in the woods.

Jack felt a stirring in her chest at the thought. It made no sense, why would Rarity do all that? That wasn't the Rarity Jack knew. Was it?

For the briefest moment, she considered it, her body even flinched slightly, as if to shake away the idea. Rarity's eyes narrowed slightly, before returning to her more innocent expression when Jack glanced at her.

“How was work, sug?” Jack asked, off put by the sudden strange thoughts she had. The tailor let out a content hum.

“Fine,” she addressed.

The farmer paused again. “Fine?” she repeated.

Rarity nodded with disinterest. “Fine, darling.”

That wasn't right, Jack was sure of it. The only time Rarity ever brushed off talking about work, no matter how little actually happened, was when she was angry at Jack. And right here, right now, she seemed more than content.

“Surprised at least somethin' didn't happen today,” Jack coaxed out. Rarity laughed.

“I don't want to bore you with the details, love. It was just a day like any other for me.”

Jack didn't necessarily care for Rarity's shop talk, she had no interest in fashion, or the tailor's gossip involving her high-class clients, but she knew it made Rarity happy talking about it. Something was wrong here. It was too perfect. She looked over at Rarity and nearly froze.

She was beautiful. While this was true every day she saw Rarity, here it was almost alien at its perfection. Her skin too pure, her voice too clear, concise, flawless, her hands silk. Her breasts full, rounded, divine. Not a single hair out of place on her head, not a single blemish on her face. Perfect.

Jack couldn't ignore it now. Something was wrong, completely, utterly, maddeningly wrong.

“Rare,” Jack started, glancing to the side, towards her sword. She paused, hesitant to grab it. “I told ya 'bout that one fella I dated when I was younger, right? The one I went all the way with?”

“Yes, what about him?” Rarity remarked easily.

Jack shook her head. “He's the one that let me realize ya ain't her.”

“What...?” she muttered, a brief flash of fear peeking though her bewilderment.

“You... she,” Jack corrected. After a moment of being unsure where to put her hands, she sat them in her lap. “She was my first.”

There was a silence between the two, before Rarity let out an unsure laugh. “Oh, come now, dear. I was merely playing al—“

“Yer a liar,” Jack snapped back. “She ain't this. None-a this.”

“Perhaps I simply forgot,” Rarity looked upwards, shaking her head in exasperation. “You are really taking this to a ridiculous length, Jack Apple.”

“An' you messed up yer role. 'Cause ya forgot somethin' 'bout her.” Jack crossed her arms. “Good or bad, she's someone who catches onta gossip quick an' keeps it in the lock-box. Her takin' my...” She shook her head, dismissing it. “It'd keep with her, jus' like all the times I left my clothes layin' in her room, when she met my granny. All that mess is in her. Not you.”

“Why couldn’t you just accept it? You could have had her here and she could have been better,” the false Rarity said with a hard hiss.

“It ain't real. That ain't better, no sir. Not by a long shot. Rare loves me fer me, warts an' all. I'd be a hypocrite if I didn't feel the same fer her.” She stood, keeping an eye on the faux-woman and grabbing her sword.

“Are you honestly going to use that on me?” 'Rarity' asked, looking in alarm at Jack.

Jack tightened the sword's grip and stared at the woman for a moment. She wasn't her. She wasn't her. Even then...

“No.”

“Then what?” she asked. “Are you simply going to leave?”

“This whole place ain't real.” As Jack said the words, an odd reverberation shot through the area, as if the air itself was rippling before her eyes. “So I should be fine jus' turnin' around and leavin'.”

She did exactly that and, sure enough, the door she had entered earlier was there just a stone's throw away. The other Rarity watched her go, a sad, betrayed frown on her face.

Jack grasped the doorknob and her strength drained. Her vision blurred and she sank to the ground, her head burning.

When she looked up and found the strength to rise, she found herself in a dusty bedroom, a bookshelf at the opposite end of the room, a cracked mirror, and bed with its sheets splayed haphazardly across the mattress. On the bed lay a worn, splintered wooden doll, missing a hand. The doll made Jack feel uneasy, almost sick. She opened the door and stepped back outside, meeting the stairwell she was climbing earlier. She turned left and pressed on, scaling the steps like a boat fighting the current.


000


He was impressed, all things considered. She had fought through the Yggdrasil and had escaped the illusion spell he had cast on the stairway leading to his office. Very few people could claim that. Very few indeed. Now she was climbing up to see him. She was coming up to see him and she would be full of a self-righteous anger and a zeal only matched by the knights his father used to have at beck and call.

Breaking the ones who truly believed in their causes was one of the most fun things he did in his time—it was almost a shame that this one would be over so quickly. It might be years until another mouse came into his property. It'd be best to toy with her, savor it as long as he could. Enjoy the feeling of his magic and hands running through her. Laugh at her broken body when it finally happened. 

Dmitri reached up, realizing he had an anticipating grin plastered over his face. He shook it off, clearing his throat and leaning back in his chair for a moment, only to go forward and reach for the corner of his desk, where a crystal vial full of scotch lay. He poured himself a drink into a small cup, then decided to go for broke, having another. Leaning back once more into his chair, he rested, kicking his feet up to a corner of the large, expansive desk he sat behind and putting his cane into his lap. He took to thumbing the cane, his mind asleep well until the door to his office first creaked open.

He grinned wildly, a spider tangling up a fly and preparing for a meal.
> Finality
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

	The chair crashed down onto his back, snapping into pieces, save for the legs Rarity held in a death grip. Flam face-planted hard into the concrete floor. He turned over weakly, groaning. Rarity swung again, throwing one of the chair's legs to the side and instead using one in both hands. It cracked against his collarbone; Rarity heard a hard pop. He gestured with his hand towards her, and it quickly swarmed with an aura of magic. She felt her own magic tingle faintly within her hands, the poison in her system briefly receding just enough to taunt her before she lost the feeling once more. His magic didn't matter, however. 

She brought the chair leg down yet again, connecting and blowing past the fingers on his right hand to land a blow to his head. The spell, whatever it was he had attempted, stopped when he was wracked with the flare of agony at his wounds. Flam glanced down at his hand and the misaligned way his middle and index finger lay caused him to let out a pained, wretched sob. Rarity didn't care. She continued to work, no mercy in her heart for the man involved in everything that had happened. Rarity, for a brief moment, was almost Jack in silhouette, tilling the field. 

From the back, over the shoulder, into the ground.

From the back, over the shoulder, into the ground.

She struck his collarbone until his bones were like jagged rocks under a thin layer of dirt, his throat until it collapsed, his face until it was a red disgusting mash, until her delicate arms burned and ached, until her desperate gasps for air nearly made her faint. Delivering one final hit that was more akin to a tap, she finally stopped, throwing her weapon to the side in disgust. Looking down at the man, Rarity wiped at the trail of blood from her split lip and let the realization of her actions sink in.

She realized she didn't care. Not in the slightest.

The man had killed Jack in a way. He may not have delivered the killing blow, but he sealed his fate easily enough by allying with monsters.

Her thoughts turned slowly to Jack. Brave, kind, loyal, foolish, Jack. Rarity wondered what crossed Jack's mind before Gilda murdered her. Was she frightened? Perhaps. Were her thoughts with her family? A prayer that Bloom would grow to a good, upstanding adult? For Mac and her Grandmother to be happy? Could be. Or her last thoughts belonged to Rarity. That was almost too much to bear if it were true.

“Oh Jack,” Rarity choked out, cupping a hand to her mouth and clenching her teeth as tears fell from her eyes. Hard, unashamed, bitter tears she had held back for so long in order to look strong.

She had loved the woman. It was a simple statement, but an honest one, much like the farmer herself.

Rarity took comfort, however little, in the fact that they had expressed as much to one-another. In words, Jack's naive, lovingly earnest ones or Rarity's experienced, but truthful, painfully truthful affections; in action, their search for common ground letting them discover not only one-another, but allowing them to discover themselves more fully, or the times they had laid together, Rarity taking Jack's innocence, Jack's utter, complete trust in Rarity awakening something beautiful within the tailor, a feeling she had never felt with any other man or woman she had made love to. A feeling a hundred poets writing a hundred sonnets couldn't address.

Rarity shambled backwards, no longer able to control her crying, her pain over the loss, someone entering the room be damned. She bumped into a wall and slid down to the floor. She knew when she rose, she would need to be strong again, need to find her way out, but for now?

For now she let herself go.


000


Jack stared at the large, imposing doors before her. Walnut, she thought absently, observing the color. Right next to the door on the right was a bronze plaque showcasing one name, “D. Dorcis,” it read.

He was in there. Had to be. Jack licked her painfully dry lips, reached for the handle, froze. After a second, she let her arm drop again.

No, Jack thought, taking in a breath. No, you get yer damn ass in there. Rarity's countin' on ya. That at least got her to rest her hand on the handle, even put a bit of weight to it, but she didn't open it, not yet.

Fella's got magic in 'em, Jack thought, her heart increasing in tempo at the thought. Magic frightened her. She'd seen how powerless it made her, she'd seen what it did to Twila, and if this guy was even half as good as her...

No, the hard, stern voice of her mentor snapped. Wings and spells.

“Don't make a man,” Jack finished. She tossed her bag of supplies to the side and clenched her other hand tightly on her sword. Now, more than ever, Jack had to hope Will was right. She had to believe in miracles.

She let a prayer cross her mind and opened the door.

The room was pristine. Large, expansive, tall. Less an office and more a cathedral. Any other time and Jack would have paused to admire its beauty. Its bookshelves to her left, the glass coffee table and black, cushy sofa to her right, the small plants in jars propped up on a few stands, complementing the paintings hanging up along the walls, and the massive windows that gave an impressive view of the featureless distances.

But what was at the forefront of her mind was none of those things, but rather, a man behind an ornate desk. Not “a man,” the man.

“Dmitri,” Jack growled out.

He leaned easily onto the desk and offered a large grin. It reminded Jack of the Cheshire cat, a wide thing, tinged with madness.

“Jack. Jack Apple,” he said, thinking for a moment, then glancing down at his nails. “Fairly masculine, I'd say.”

Jack paid those words no heed, she stepped a bit closer, her sword at the ready.

“I'd ask if you were compensating for something, but I guess that for you it's more of an envy thing.”

“Talk all ya want, it's not gonna phase me.” Another step closer. “Ya know why I'm here.”

“To slay the dragon, Ser Galahad?” Dmitri asked, his damnable smile still present and mocking. “Or will you tell me there's still time for me to surrender? That this doesn't have to end in spilled blood?”

“Neither,” Jack said. This answer gave the man pause, so Jack continued. “I'm here ta take Rarity back, an' keep her an' my kin safe. Only way that's happenin' is if yer gone.”

His grin evaporated off of his face, sighing, he popped his neck. “You're ruining tradition.”

Careful... she warned herself, don't let him distract ya. Despite her thoughts, she narrowed her brow. “Tradition?”

“Like the biographies of Arthur's knights.” Jack stared at him, Dmitri sighed, rising up from the chair and leaning on his cane. Jack flinched, tightened the grip on her sword, but as the man made no motion toward her, she relaxed her stance. “Come on, now. Brave knights, monsters, a damsel in distress, they established traditions for other heroes to follow. Seeing you waltz in here with such a pragmatic view is... disappointing, to say the least.”

“I ain't no knight,” Jack answered. “I'm jus' a farmgirl.”

“A farmgirl that fought through a Yggdrasil and illusion magic.” He moved to the side of the desk, Jack took a step back, keeping the distance her oversized weapon let her have, but close enough to be able to better counter anything he did. He continued. “No, you have something more in you, don't you? I can smell a predator's blood.”

“I ain't nothin' like that,” Jack snapped back defensively, ignoring her own thoughts she had months ago, thoughts wondering how long it'd be before she hurt someone she cared about—no, she quickly addressed. You're better than that. “Shut up.”

“Sounds like I hit a nerve,” Dmitri replied mockingly. “Must be hard taking care of sheep when you're a wolf.”

That... that was the straw that broke her back. Her eyes widened in indignation and a small, worming thought agreed with him. She ignored that thought and charged forward, mad as hell. Raising her sword, Jack and brought it down, but he was nowhere to be seen. Literally, he was first there, then gone. She heard a whistle behind her; she snapped around. Dmitri sat on the corner of a table, resting an arm on the potted plant that sat on top. He gave a jovial nod her direction. Jack growled, charging at him once more. She brought the blade down, cleaving the table in half and sending hundreds of wooden splinters airborne. But yet again, he vanished. She felt a small spark of pain from her backside, and she stumbled forward from the blow; catching her footing after a second, Jack snapped around just as Dmitri lowered his foot.

“You're going to hurt someone with that, if you're not careful,” he taunted.

Jack swore. The son of a bitch was toying with her even now. The thought made her shiver with indignation, she raised her sword once more and—

Apple! Will's loud, booming voice erupted in her head. How do you fight magic? It's more than getting mad. Did you take leave of your senses?!

She nodded after a moment, slowly circling the man. If she couldn't see Dmitri, maybe there was another way...

Jack sprinted forward once more, this time shutting her eyes as she swung and listened. Sure enough, as the blade was in mid-flight, Dmitri said a word. A strange, archaic word that rose all the hair on Jack's body. There was an audible pop, and Jack knew he was gone.

Directly behind her, another strange word that churned her stomach and another audible pop as he spontaneously came into existence. This time, Jack crouched and snapped a foot behind her, delivering a kick like a mule. She heard a grunt of surprise and felt her leg connect with something hard. She pulled her leg back and rolled forward, getting to her feet and turning around, just as Dmitri thrust at her with his cane. Jack shot her hand out, grasping the cane and yanking it towards her. It came free of Dmitri's hands, surprisingly easy. She stared at the piece of wood. A hollow center. She swore, glancing up at the man, realizing what the cane  truly was.

Dmitri shrugged, brandishing the blade Jack unsheathed easily, giving it a small flourish in his hand.

“Eager,” he said, raising a hand above his head, bending his knees and twisting to the side, striking a fencer's pose. Dmitri thrust his sword out with lightning speed; Jack dodged the thrust, backpedaling. He thrust again and again, each stab precise and flawless in its execution, not giving Jack even the slightest chance to take advantage of an opening. It took everything she had to duck and weave his strikes and he still managed to move fast enough to nick her, tearing a paper-thin cut across her  shoulder, cutting at her bicep, along her thigh. Dmitri thrust once more; this time Jack slapped at the sword with the wooden sheath, pinning it to the desk, and shoved her shoulder forward to tackle him. He spoke that single word again, vanishing from her sight.

This time, Jack was ready for his return. As soon as she heard the pop from his body signifying his return, she twisted and shot out her foot, this time connecting with his chest and hearing a satisfying oomf! of surprise from Dmitri. Grasping her sword once more in two hands, she brought its weight down while he was still staggered.

An odd glint in his eye gave Jack pause. Before the blow, somehow through unnatural speed and finesse, he had dodged to the side and pounced on her, jumping and grasping at her shoulders and resting his feet on top of her knees. Jack stumbled backwards, but did not fall even with the added weight. Dmitri rocked, pushed himself forward and toppled the woman flat onto her back, her sword clanging to the ground as she lost her grip on it. He sneered, taking his blade and slamming it down towards her heart. Jack only just managed to free an arm from under Dmitri's body in the nick of time to slap Dmitri's weapon away. It thrust into the plush carpet Jack lay on. She clenched his wrist with one of her powerful hands, squeezing so tight she heard bones pop, then slammed his hand against the floor, once, twice—Dmitri took his free hand and awkwardly struck at her. Jack felt like her jaw just got decked by a cow's kick. It snapped her head to the side so fast and so hard she felt nauseous. Then he struck her again. He prepared for a third strike, but paused, instead looking towards his blade. As he grasped the sword in a hand already swelling and bruised, Jack grabbed him under the thighs and lifted his weight up and over her head with her overwhelming strength, tossing him a few precious feet away and buying her the time to stand and grab her sword.

Something felt wrong with her jaw. She fished around her mouth with her tongue and found the culprit. Jack spat out a molar, never taking her eyes off Dmitri. It flew through the air in an arc, a small tail of crimson immediately behind it.

Dmitri grinned. “You're making this fun. You have any idea how long it's been since...” He held up his already swelling hand. “It's had to have been at least a century.”

Century? Jack thought, wringing her hand on her sword's handle. She refused to give him the satisfaction of her curiosity, however, and instead rose her sword to a ready position once more.

“Ya talk too much,” Jack said, the metallic taste of blood filling her mouth turning the earth-folk's stomach.

He held a hand to his side, palm up, as if he was cradling a wine glass. A swirling orb of black and red sprung up from his hand, rising up from his skin like steam from a kettle. “That so?” he asked, not waiting for an answer, “You must be a busy woman. I suppose if you're that  desperate to get on with the day, then I'll stop playing with you.”

He thrust his palm forward, saying another archaic word to complement the gesture. The black orb blasted out, fast as a crossbow and split horizontally into dozens of other spheres like it. Jack dropped flat to the ground, the orbs passed overhead, but Dmitri once more gestured, and another orb appeared in his palm. He clenched it, and it turned into a whip, black as ebony and practically crackling with magic. The man snapped it down; Jack rolled to the side, then scrambled backwards to her feet as another strike cracked where her head was seconds ago.

She charged forward, anticipating his next strike, hopping to the side as the whip missed her, and continued her desperate sprint. Closing the distance, she swung horizontally. Dmitri back stepped out of its massive range, albeit just barely. She saw the faint glimmer of surprise in his eye, saw how his brief moment of unsettlement caused the magic in his palm to vanish, and relished it. The farmer went on the offensive, bringing her blade down time and time again, from the side, overhead, diagonal, striking wild and crazed. Yet even then, he dodged her blows all while muttering under his breath. He finally twisted his body and parried her attack with his blade. Jack heard a crack come from the weapon, and they stood briefly, their weapons locked together. She glanced down for a second and noticed with a maddening glee that there was a fracture on his sword.

“Enough!” he shouted. A powerful burst of energy erupted from within him, not just pushing Jack back but launching her across the room. She landed and tumbled head over heels, skidding to the ground and finally coming to a stop at the front of Dmitri's desk. Her body ached all over, yet she rose weakly to first one knee, then with the support of the desk, another.

Dmitri brushed his hair back, looking pleased, yet exasperated. Sweat coated his brow as he shook his head with a grin. “And you still get up!” He tossed his near broken sword to the ground and clapped at her mockingly. “You're like a cockroach!”

She grinned wildly though the pained haze her shoulder and punctured rib were causing her, the painkillers she took earlier only taking away the weakest throbs of agony from her body. “Maybe I am,” she admitted, her open-toothed smile as feral as a wild dog's snarl. “I ain't pretty, but I'll be the one still standin' when it's said an' done. Not you.”

“I'm sorry you think that.” He adjusted the neck of the shirt he wore. “Because you're about to be crushed underneath my foot.” Meeting her eyes, he offered a small, menacing smile, before pain, agonizing, blinding pain, erupted in between Jack's eyes. She clutched her head, sinking to the ground. When she was finally able to withstand the sudden agony he had somehow inflicted on her and take stock of where she was, Jack froze.

The entire world around her had snapped away, leaving her within a black, empty void.

“What?” she asked, her voice echoing in the abyss.

“I did a little renovating!” Dmitri called out eagerly. Jack twisted and turned, searching feverishly for him to no avail. “Do you like what I did with the room?”

Is this one of those illusion spells? Jack wondered. Guy's strong enough that maybe this is real.

“Where ya at, ya snake?” she shouted out, clenching her fist—it dawned on her that she was unarmed, wearing only a pair of jeans and a shirt.

“Here, there,” Jack felt a presence behind her. “Everywhere.”

She snapped around. Darkness there, and nothing more.

“This ain't real,” she said, unsure.

“What if it is?” Dmitri cooed out into her ear. Jack jumped back, pinwheeling her arms in surprise at his presence. He laughed.

“Show yerself, ya damn coward!”

The floor softened, becoming thick like molasses. Jack sank slowly into it, desperately trying to move her uncooperative feet. When her ankles were swallowed by the darkness, the floor hardened once more. She heard a harsh hiss and froze.

A massive snake crawled from the shadows, its forked tongue flicking out, gathering the scent in the air.

“Well?” the snake asked. Jack froze. The creature had Dmitri's voice. The thing had his voice. It leaned forward. Jack could smell the creature, its hot breath like carrion, its fangs yellowed and dripping venom. “Does this feel real?”

Sweat covered her forehead and Jack stood, paralyzed at the gigantic beast towering over her. She opened her mouth, then shut it, the words she planned to speak lost as her mind tried to process the beast. She stood, her mind, despite its earlier brush with an illusion spell, accepting that this was real but her heart, her heart was a different beast. It saw no real way to prove it wasn't fake, but...

She knew, though. She knew that in her heart of hearts, that it wasn't—couldn't end like this. If she was to die today, it'd be holding her sword and cursing Dmitri until she couldn't call his name out. She would not be afraid.

The snake shot forward. Jack spread her arms out, inviting its strike. The beast paused, inches from her, its breath blowing her hair back.

“What ya waitin' for?” Jack said. “If this is real, go ahead an' kill me.”

She felt a sickening sense of falling, tumbling head over heels, before being tugged in a direction, like being yanked on by a rope.

She stared at Dmitri from across the office, her sword once more in her hand.

“Ya ain't gonna pull the wool over my eyes twice, bastard,” Jack said, shaking her head.

Dmitri let out an exasperated sigh, rubbing at his lip. Finally, he threw up his hands in frustration. “You know, I expected you to come here, I'd have some laughs, kill some time, make things enjoyable. But now I see you're going out of your way to make things dull.” He gave an indignant shake of his head. “You've been a terrible guest. You tricked me. Aside from the pragmatic way of thinking, you seemed interesting. Now I realize that you're so boring. I mean, you didn't even flinch at that spell a second ago. It's insulting to me.”

“Ya need ta step up yer game. I—"

Dmitri gestured to the side, Jack was propelled off her feet and collided with the wall. She lay there, pressed by an invisible object.

“And that's exactly what it is,” Dmitri snarled, taking a step forward and raising his hand, squeezing an invisible ball. Jack let out a strangle, surprised choke, gagging at an invisible pressure on her throat. “A game.”

He stepped closer as Jack struggled and writhed on the wall, clutching at her throat with one of her hands.

“Do you have any idea what I could have done to you already the instant you walked into the room?” He laughed, looking around the room as if entertaining an invisible audience. “I could of electrocuted you to death. I could have made your blood boil until your skin cracked. I could have simply blinded you and had my way with a sword on you.” Dmitri thrust his hand forward, increasing the pressure put on her neck. Her vision blurred, she could feel every pulse in her body throb out, cry for air. “But I didn't. Know why? Because it's a game. It's why I let you bruise my hand. It's how you escaped that illusion spell,” he briefly trailed off, walking to the windows and glancing with disinterest at the horizon, the spell in his hand still crushing Jack's windpipe. “Which brings us here, I suppose. It's a gentler death than I had planned for, but...” He turned, grinning. “At least you get to see my handsome face one more time before I crush your windpipe like a paper cup. Don't worry. I'm sure with a little coaxing, Rarity will forget you in time.”

Jack felt a flash of boiling red anger at his words, she quivered, clenching her fist.

“Don't...” she hissed out. “...her...”

Dmitri quirked a brow, moving towards her and cupping an ear. “What was that? You had a frog in your throat.”

Something inside her changed. She felt the type of hot, boiling anger she had held back for all this time bubble to the surface. The beast she had kept locked in a cage ever since she murdered Dorado. The one that always had bubbled just under her skin. She let it out.

“Don't ya touch her!” she roared, With a flex of her muscles, she forced herself free of the spell and landed on all fours onto the ground.

“What—“ was all Dmitri had time to utter before she was on him, her legs a blur and her hands moving at a pace that could have given Isabelle a run for her money. Jack reached for her dagger and plunged it into his chest, then, with a roar, snapped her leg forward, stumbling him backwards and through the glass window. He stared at her for those few, brief seconds of action, genuinely surprised, before he was sent tumbling down through the sky.

Jack wiped at her bleeding mouth, panting, a tingle running through her body over what she just did, and the fact that she took pleasure from it. Taking a step forward, she leaned out the window, searching for him. Her eyes widened in shock and she hopped backwards, snapping for her sword and getting ready.

Dmitri launched himself upward and back into the room, two wings, one as bright as a bluejay's, the other a leathery black bat's, attached to his back. He landed on the ground, his eyes like ice.

“Well,” he tersely began, pulling out the dagger embedded into his chest and easily letting it clatter to the floor. “You know, you could have done something like that sooner.”

“Shut up,” Jack said, shaking her head violently. “Shut. Up.”

Dmitri laughed. “Looks like I'm pressing your buttons. Good.” He rolled his neck and opened his mouth to speak just as Jack charged again. He let out a surprised yelp, twisting to the side and rolling leaving Jack with only a small nick of his wing from her sword's swing.

He took a few steps back, raising his palms up. “Whoa! Let a guy finish first, why don't y—"

“I'll kill ya!” she roared, slamming her empty fist repeatedly into her chest and stamping her feet, her eyes pinpricks of fury and her face a devil's grimace as she lost herself in a blinding red anger. “Ya hear me?! Ya hear me ya piece of shit?! Yer dead!”

Dmitri held up a palm and channeled magic, erupting a bolt of lightning from his palm. Jack was struck by the bolt, yet the magic seemed to fizzle out the instant it came in contact with her body; she didn't even pause or flinch at the spell, the woman shrugged it off like it was water and sprinted towards him, thrusting her blade out. He hopped back but not quick enough, Jack dropped one of her hands from the sword's handle and reaching forward, grasping his ankle. Yanking back, she toppled him to the ground, then, with such speed that it was less a second motion and more a continuation of the first, pulled him towards her and took a boot to his prone body. She slammed it into his throat and raised her sword, plunging it towards his vulnerable chest.

The blade stopped inches from Dmitri's body. Jack looked down, her overwhelming rage briefly stilted.

A massive lion's paw, well over the size of her head, clenched her blade, small pinpricks of blood ran through its fur where the edge cut. Jack followed the paw. Dmitri's arm had completely changed. Now it was massive, almost the size of his torso and coated in the coarse fur of a beast. Using her brief shock to his advantage, he pulled the foot at his throat with his other hand, tripping her and bringing her crashing on top of his chest. Without a second's thought he swung his fist with the force of a sledgehammer, first to her breast, then another blow shot out like a lightning crack into her gut. Jack buckled from the strikes, the air knocked out of her. She pushed herself off him, stumbling down to a knee, rising to a slouch, then sinking down to a knee, gasping for air as Dmitri rose to a stand.

“Not bad, is it?” he questioned, giving the claws on his paw a small flex, one digit at a time. “Oh, don't worry,” he reassured, gazing at her, his ominous appearance seeming to almost dim the room's lights. “This is not an illusion spell. Not even magic, for that matter. So however you've been worming out of my spells won't work for it.” Dmitri grinned. Jack could see how sharp and vicious teeth where. She realized with some alarm that they seemed to be almost growing, stretching his lips to an abnormal width and height. “A gift from my mother.”

Jack watched as his body widened, his clothes bulging at the seams before tearing, revealing more coarse fur.

“You see,” he said, still able to speak clearly and easily even as his body underwent a horrific change. “Mother was a witch.” He open and shut his jaw. Jack heard a heavy pop come from his mouth, and he had the beginnings of a muzzle. “A witch that wanted power. So what does she do?” He shrugged. Jack finally stood, leaning on the hilt of her blade for support as Dmitri seemed to grow. The man easily dwarfed Jack's own gigantic height, well over eight feet tall and still rising. “She finds a young king when he first gets onto the throne. She seduces him when he's lonely on the road.”

Jack glanced away from his face for a moment and noticed that his feet where changing, morphing. Toes melded together and hardened, becoming a cloven hoof. The other seemed to first become brittle, then peel, showcasing thousands of green scales and the sharp talons of a predator.

“Turns out you get the seed of an all-folk and mix it with a soul-folk nine shades of crazy and you get someone like me.” His grin widened, bordering on the edge of madness. He gave a small shake of his paw and a hand quickly narrowing, as if becoming nothing more than bone. “A freak.”

A red mass of flesh erupted from his lower back and quickly took on reptilian features, becoming a scaled red. As it extended and tapered out at the end, spines rose, covering the top of the tail with spikes.

His face was now completely inhuman, resembling a sort of half-bred goat and wolf. Saliva dripped down his jaw. From the top of his misshapen head two horns erupted from his skin, one like a warped unicorn's, bloated and cracked where it shouldn't be, the other a deer's antler.

Dmitri took a step forward, his body a contradiction of colors and parts.

“You wanted me to be serious?” he asked, leering down to Jack. “Well, here I am.”

	
> Downfall
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

	Chylene bit her lip, fidgeting nervously as she once more wiped Twila's burning forehead with a cool damp rag. She had been in a fever for hours now, fighting off an infection not of the body, but of the mind. While Chylene could handle keeping a body healthy, be it beast or man, a mind was something far beyond her control. She just had to hope Twila could pull through.

The door opened behind her, Chylene glanced over to see Pinkie and Spike.

“Twila!” Spike called out in a panic, rushing to the bed she lay in.

“Keep your voice down, please,” Chylene warned. Spike reached forward, gasping Twila's hand.

“Is she...?” he asked quietly. Chylene glanced at the boy and after a considering pause, nodded.

“She's steady,” she said, choosing to not worry the boy as much as she could with a full diagnosis. “Her fever isn't being reduced by medicine, which is a problem, though.” She looked over at Pinkie, who seemed focused on a nearby picture of Twila and Spike sprawled out on the floor, open books in every direction around them.

“Pinkie?” Chylene asked.

“Yep?” she asked, a forced grin on her lips.

“D-did you get in touch with the police for Jack and Dash?”

“Indeedly-doodly. I called and they didn't believe me for a while, but I knew Dashie had family that worked in their business so I called him and he said something in a funny language, but told me he'd pull some strings and send a group over from Southhearth to investigate.” She gave an enthusiastic nod to Spike. “I bumped into him after the phone call and let him in on a few thingies.”

“So there's nothing we can do here?” Spike asked then without waiting rolled up the sleeve on his arm. “Because if she needs blood or something, I can give it. I have plenty, too much even.”

“No, Spike,” Chylene said. “She's comatose. Aside from making sure she's comfortable, I don't know what to do.”

“But I do,” an authoritative voice answered. They turned and let out a collective gasp. Princess Celestia stood at the doorway, a determined frown on her face. She marched forward, speaking as she did so.

“When a soul-folk uses far too much of their magical power, most of the time there is no real chance for them to live, as they die on the spot. However...” Her expression lost a bit of its ferocity and she looked down onto Twila with a gentle pity, going so far as to brush the girl's hair back motherly. “For those that do live through the initial shock, there's a way to save them.”

She knelt to the side of the bed Twila lay on and shut her eyes calmly. “We transfer some of my own magical energy into her.” She opened them and gave a reassuring smile to Spike. “We do that, and she'll be ok.” Celestia glanced at everyone present. “Luna failed to inform me why Twila used her power so recklessly, however. Do any of you have an idea?”

“Rarity got kidnapped and Jack and Dash went out to save her. They'll be back soon, I bet!” Pinkie said brightly.

“By themselves?” the princess asked.

“Jack was afraid the police would make the kidnapper desperate,” Chylene said, fidgeting with her fingers. “I-I thought it made sense.” She met Celestia's eyes. “But we called them just a moment ago.”

“Besides,” Spike chimed in, nodding sagely. “Jack gave me her word as a woman that she'd take care of Rarity. When has she ever lied?”

Pinkie nodded quickly. “Well, duh. Jackie will get her back. It just wouldn't be fair if she tried that hard and didn't.”

“Life itself isn't fair.” Celestia narrowed her brow, then exhaled, rubbing a hand across the bridge of her nose. “But we don't have much of an option, other than hoping, do we? I won't be worth anything in a magical sense after I help Twila and Luna is much the same, weakened after using her own magic on Twila.” She gave a small channel of her magic and took Twila's hands into her own. “So let's all hope together, for her sake.” 


000


Jack stared up at the creature that was once Dmitri, her stomach tying itself into worrying knots as she gripped her sword, unsure how to approach him. He reared back to his full height, his head nearly scraping the tall ceiling. He leered down at Jack, his scaled tail swishing across the carpet.

On seeing how she remained motionless, had been ever since he finished his transformation, Dmitri grinned. “Don't tell me you're done already,” he said. “I'd hate to have gotten myself all dolled up with nowhere to go.”

She shook her head slightly. “I ain't done,” she said, taking a step to her side, circling him. “Not by a long shot.”

He let out an amused snort, matching her circling by turning his body. “You don't give up, do you?”

Jack sternly locked eyes with him. “No.”

She saw Dmitri's tail pause mid sway. It rose like a snake spotting a rabbit. Before Jack could react, it shot forward. Jack swung her blade; the tail weaved from the strike and went about its way towards her. It wrapped around her ankle and pulled, leaving her flat on her back. It then picked her up and slammed her against a bookshelf, then once more pounded her into the ground. 

Dmitri raised his cloven hoof and brought it down. Jack brought the flat of her blade up in the nick of time. She let out a shout of pain as his hoof and its weight came down and pressed the flat of the blade into her with enough force to slam her head back into the floor and kick her legs up fruitlessly in the air, but the sword helped absorb the blow that would otherwise have easily collapsed her ribs. He brought his leg up in the air once more to strike her; this time she managed to twist her body away from the impact. She glanced down at the tail entwined around her ankle and swung, severing it. Dmitri howled as blood sputtered from the fresh wound; Jack took his brief moment of agony to rise. His eyes shown raw hatred as he brought his malformed chicken-like claw toward her head. 

She leaned back and twisted, the claw only just nicking the side of her forehead, drawing blood. She dodged another strike by his lion paw, ducking under it and bringing her blade up and at an angle, which he easily twisted away from. She struck with renewed conviction at his other side, bringing her sword up and around her head. He blocked it with his paw and grasped it, pulling it towards him. Jack stood her ground, planting her feet and pulling the sword back towards her with every fiber of muscle she had. They locked eyes, Dmitri's wild, crazy, predatory.

Jack's were much the same, almost too the same. She grimaced after a moment's pause in the stare-down, blood from the cut on her forehead already seeping down and essentially blinding her in one eye.

Dmitri reached with his other hand grasping the blade, easily lifting it up. Jack held on for dear life at the sword's handle. Before he could react, she pushed off his chest with her feet and twisted, climbing onto his shoulder like a monkey. She perched there and reached her hand forward, gouging at his eye with a thumb. He howled, her blade clattering to the ground in his pain as he turned, reaching towards her with his clawed hand, only for Jack to adjust herself once more to be on his back. Grasping both the horns on his head and with a tremendous feat of strength, Jack pulled. She was rewarded with first a line of fractures on either one, then a sharp crack that echoed across the room as his horns shattered and blood began to spurt from their stumps. Roaring, Dmitri threw his back into the wall; Jack let out a cry as she was crushed. Pushing into her, the monster continued grinding her into the wall. Jack clenched the unicorn horn she still held in her hand and slammed it into his back. Flinching, the beast scrambled forward for the brief second she needed to free herself. She landed on the ground like a sack of potatoes, dumb luck rather than reflexes saving her from being trampled under his stomping feet. She dodged a strike as she moved underneath him, grabbing her blade along the way. Taking a deep breath to steady herself, a flare of pain flew through her body like electricity, Jack clutched at her side with a weak grunt.

Something had got messed up bad in her. A rib, a lung, whatever it was, anything but the most shallow of breaths left her aching.

Despite the blood running down his face from the mutilated stubs above his head, Dmitri grinned.

“Guess I clipped your wings, girl?” he asked, beaming victoriously down at her.

“Jus' getting' started,” she answered, breathing through the pain.


000


Rarity finally rose, wiping at her bloodshot eyes. It took everything she had not to sit down once more on the floor and feel sorry for herself, but she forced herself to action, using the keys she found on Flam's body to unlock the door and step out. She observed the dimly lit, narrow hallway for a moment, mentally trying to put together how she was brought in from the labyrinth of turns and doorways. She knew the door was on her right when she was brought in, so...

She turned left, walking down the hall. When she came to a crossroads she paused, trying to recall something, anything as to clue her in on where she needed to go to escape. 

Rarity glanced down the path to the left. It clearly wasn't the way out. The floor was dusty—caked with it from a lack of cleaning and use. Her nose crinkled and her lip curled in unconscious disgust. She turned to the pathway straight ahead and to her right. Either seemed possible, as Rarity was so panicked and distraught earlier that she couldn't say for sure which direction she came in from. Refusing to be paralyzed by choice, she traveled straight, moving quickly. Who knew how long it'd be before Flam was missed?

She wandered for what felt like centuries, down the narrow pathway, running her fingertips over the bricked walls.

Coming to another point where the path split into two points, Rarity chose left and pressed on. Up ahead eventually came a large wooden door. She did remember a door like that on the way down here, but...

Pulling on the handle, she groaned instantly at what she saw inside.

A wine cellar, with wooden shelves holding what had to be hundreds of different vintages.

A different circumstance and Rarity would be in heaven in here, but she took a step back, preparing to close the door. A light on the far end of the room caught her eye. It was a small beam emanating from the bottom of a door.

Her curiosity piqued, Rarity walked into the wine cellar and across. Taking a breath, she grasped the door's handle and pushed.

The room she found was a stark contrast to the rest of the basement. It held a far more modern design, with tiled floors and florescent lightning. Ahead stood a large, full-bodied mirror in the vague shape of a horseshoe, lined with red gems at equal angles across its body, perfect and flawless in design. Even from where she stood at the doorway, she could smell the magic seeping from it. A part of her wanted to touch it, needed to touch it. She took a step forward, like a drunken puppet on a string. As she went closer to the mirror, its reflective surface distorted, twisted, turning into a swirling abyss. She willed, pleaded with her body to stop, but it kept walking closer. Just as she rose a hand to touch the mirror's surface, a telephone on a stand to her right flared to life.

She was snapped free of whatever it was that had hold on her and she glanced at the phone, breathing heavily. She turned her gaze back to the mirror, only to notice that the distortion was gone, instead, she was graced with nothing more than her own ragged figure. Tucking a strand of hair behind her ear she turned to the still-ringing phone. It was an old model from years back before she was born, when soul-folk had just created the technology during the war with the other tribes. A large black base in the shape of a candlestick, with the transmitter at its tip and a rotary wheel instead of buttons. She reached for the earpiece, a palm-sized piece on a hook to its side, and picked it up, listening but not speaking.

“I felt that, you know,” the voice on the other end said, a feminine, gravely voice. Husky and dangerous, reminding Rarity of a snake. Her words rang with ominous threat. A threat that left Rarity paralyzed simply hearing the voice over the phone.

“I cast an enchantment over the portal, my pet. You said you wouldn't use it until you had the situation resolved in Caballo.” There was a pause, Rarity shrunk back, swallowing as the voice continued. “And that we'd go through together. My. Pet.”

“I—“ Rarity stuttered out then clamped her mouth shut, her eyes wide and panicked. The voice on the end laughed.

“Ah. I see,” the voice muttered. “One of Dmitri's playthings?” In a slightly less ominous tone, she continued. “I'd watch myself, deary. That mirror was crafted by Merlin himself. There's no telling what might happen to a careless insect that gets too close to a spider's web.”

Rarity swallowed, nodding. As if the woman on line could sense it, she laughed once more.

“I'm glad we have an understanding, deary.”

The line went dead. 

Rarity's hands dropped, unable to even put the ear piece on the cradle. She leaned forward on the table, sweat caking her brow and unable to catch her breath. Whoever... whatever was on the line had a presence so powerful that it left Rarity weak, as if all the magic in her body had been drained out from a straw. Finally able to rise again, she left the room, refusing to look again at the mirror as her heart slammed dangerously hard into her ribs.


000


Jack ducked under a strike, then backpedaled from another wild swing from Dmitri's bird-like hand. She blocked his tail as it came in for a whip, then rolled to the side, letting out a swear as she got back to her feet, her chest screaming at her over the action. She ignored it as best she could, adrenaline and her raw, furious anger working at the moment like the world's best anesthetic. 

Dmitri reared his head back, inhaling deeply. Jack had a guess to what he was doing, and right now she didn't want to risk being wrong. Turning and sprinting away, she dove behind the desk just as a pillar of flames erupted from Dmitri's mouth, scorching the room and incinerating the objects on the desk before blasting through the glass windows. Jack felt something wrong with her foot and glanced down, noting that flames were burning at the leather. In a blind panic she quickly batted at it with her hands until she smothered the fire out. As the flames above died down and Jack began to rise from the relative safety of the desk, she paused. 

On the ground by her were a row of keys. The basement key had to be in there too. Had to be. She reached out, grabbing them and dropping them down a sleeve as she rose, her blade at the ready. Dmitri charged at her, crushing the desk underfoot. Jack rolled once more, forward and at an angle past him. She let out another cry of pain as her body impacted against the floor, but pushed it back, willed it back as she rose.

This wasn't working. Her body was too sore, too broken, to be dodging for much longer. Even now, her legs were lead and her shallow gasps for air were doing nothing to appease her lungs or her cramping muscles.

She had to end this, and she had to end this now if she wanted even a chance at beating him. 

She raised her sword, resting it on her back and lowering her body, turning her torso and ignoring the pain that once more came from her chest.

“Oh?” he said, cocking his head as he observed her. “You're gambling, aren't you? Throwing it all down on one strike.” He grinned, lowering his body in preparation to pounce. “Well, I'm a gambling man too. Challenge accepted.”

They stared down one another for not the first time that evening. Jack could feel sweat caking her brow, making the cut there sing in pain. She adjusted the grip on her sword, clinging to it like a drowning man at a life preserver.

Dmitri's nose flared, taking in greedy gasps of air. She could tell he was furious. Good. It was about time he lost his cool completely.

With a roar, he sprinted forward at a blinding speed. Jack quickly swung and paused halfway through the swing in a feign, bringing her sword back up to block her torso. She hopped to the side, intending to deliver the killing blow at his armpit.

She hopped to the side, but not quick enough. 

The clawed thumb of his lion's paw struck true, burying itself deep within her stomach. She looked down in surprise and a sort of dull, detached confusion at the slowly reddening fur on Dmitri's hand.

Her vision dulled, then began to fade at the edges.

Dmitri grinned, flexing the digit imbedded in her. Jack let out a shuddering, groaning gasp. Blood, her blood, pattered onto the floor, creating a sickening pond at the landscape of her feet.

“Looks like I win, Jack.” Dmitri easily replied.


000


Rarity wandered the basement yet again, scrambling through dead end after dead end, each bringing her that much closer to panic. That call had unnerved her, unnerved her in ways she couldn't imagine. It was as if the woman on the other line had somehow violated her mentally over the telephone and taken away something from her. Something she couldn't place her finger on. 

Twisting and turning down the pathways, she found herself once more at the crossroads from earlier. Taking a second to collect herself at the relief that washed over her on finding familiar ground, she turned, walking down the road less traveled.

It was almost bliss when she found a few steps leading up to another level. She tried the door, locked.

Without pausing, she started cycling through the keys, trying them one at a time in search for the correct one. After the fifth, it finally opened for her and she quickly entered, shutting the door behind her.

The room was pitch black. Rarity gestured with her palm out and, after several failed attempts,  was finally able to channel a small flame of her magic into her palm. The room seemed to be a study of sorts, lined with books in dozens, if not hundreds of different languages. Briefly thinking back, she was pretty sure she recalled this room as she was dragged downstairs. It was just past a few of the shelves.

Walking past the rows of books, tomes and scrolls, she let out a breath of relief. There was a door. Behind it, she knew, she knew, was a stairway up that lead to a landing that would put her back to the main lobby.

Grinning triumphantly, she took to inserting the keys one at a time, searching for a match.


000


Her knees refused to buckle. She swayed on her feet, barely hanging on. Now wasn't a matter of if she would fall, but when.

Her eyes briefly lost focus, her hands slumped to her sides.

She was as good as dead, yet...

Yet she refused to let it end like this. A small, impossible to shatter well of courage roared to life, forcing her into a last-ditch effort, into a burst of blind, zealous anger. This tiny ounce of courage forced her into a miracle.

She snapped her head up and with an almost superhuman amount of strength, shot her hand forward, grasping his wrist.

“No,” Jack panted out. She looked at him with her dazed, cold eyes. “I won.”

Her grip tightened, becoming an impossible essence of iron, of conviction. Jack held her grip on the beast's wrist and clenched her sword in her other hand. Dmitri growled with frustration. He brought his free hand down onto her, but Jack snapped her sword up and cut deep into the monster's strike, severing his arm in one deadly swing. Before it had even finished its fall to the ground, she snapped the the blade over to his other arm, cleaving it with the same precise, flawless cut. He recoiled in agony and surprise. After pulling the monster's digit free from her body, Jack hefted Durandal back behind her, clenching it tightly in a two-handed grip, her weaker hand soaked crimson from her own blood.

He howled louder still at the shock of losing both his arms. Dmitri dropped to his knees in blind agony, thrashing his head to either side like a man possessed. Jack took a step forward, rearing her upper body for a strike.

“Wait!” he called out. A gentler soul like Chylene might have done just that. Might have been willing to hear his last words. But not Jack. She brought the blade down upon him without hesitation and hoped against hope that in his last moments before the sword cut his skull in two, he realized that everything he did was for nothing. 

It wasn't the way she was raised. She wasn't supposed to have this deep-seated hate in her gut, but that didn’t matter. Jack wanted him to suffer despair.

And as she cleaved him in half and pulled the sword free from the floor it was embedded in, Jack realized that was it. She had really, truly won. Looking down at his still bleeding corpse, Jack wanted to say something, anything, but a dizzy spell took her thoughts away from her. A sharp pain, one even stronger than her aching chest crept up on her from her gut. She hissed out, clutching her horrifically bleeding stomach. Trembling, Jack weakly sank down, planting a knee in her own blood as the adrenaline high she had been riding ever since she had entered the room vanished, sending a wave of sluggish agony crashing through her body. She drew once more into her will, rising after a long arduous pause, and limped towards the door, dragging her sword behind her with a hand. Sparing a glance at her bag on the way out she decided against it. The medical supplies were used up, and bending down at this point meant she wasn't getting back up. She let her blade collapse to the ground,  soaked and smeared with blood. Jack knew most of that blood was hers.

Her vision darkened as she took a step down the stairs. She swooned, light headed, and tripped, barely catching herself on the wall with a shoulder. Taking a few weak breaths, she pushed herself up again, continuing downstairs.

As she made her way towards the base of the steps her legs collapsed once more and this time when she leaned toward the wall to catch herself she bounced off, tumbling down and landing face first onto the ground. She struggled, gritting her teeth and summoning every ounce of her strength, before finally rising once more to a knee. Looking down at her free hand, Jack froze, noting her wrist's unnatural angle.

After all that, and she hurt herself in the most mundane way possible. She would have laughed, if she had the power to do so. As she stared at the twisted mess of her wrist, an alarm bell rang in her head.

It didn't hurt. She didn't hurt at all. She rose, buckling and nearly pitching forward on her numbed legs before she took one step, then another, marching towards the last flight of stairs separating her from the basement door.

In a way she knew, had known since Dmitri had got her gut.

She was dying.

Pushing the thought away for at least another moment, she took another step forward, leaning on the banister, using it as a makeshift cane as she approached the stairs. Taking the first step down, Jack once more collapsed with a heavy thud, rolling limply to the ground floor and staring at the ceiling. She tried to move. Couldn't. Couldn't even lift a finger. Was this it, then? Stopped just feet from the door? Jack felt like crying, but she lacked even the strength for that. Her eyes searched upward as she felt her breath lighten and soon become nonexistent. The windows gave clear view at the night sky, and she felt her despair fade to the back of her mind.

The police were coming; they had to be soon now. They'd find Rarity, wherever she was. 

Jack had a few regrets, sure. 

She wanted to see Bloom grow up. She wanted to see the farm prospering. She wanted Mac and Zecora to be happy and to see them with a kid on the way, but...

Guess that's the thing 'bout people. They always find somethin' ta live for.

A fleeting image came to her of Rarity, laughing with her, scolding her, loving her harder than she had ever loved before.

Her eyes focused for a brief moment at a twin pair of shooting stars dashing like quicksilver across the heavens. She felt a faint, weak tugging at the corner of her mouth as she found the strength to at least smile as her eyes closed and her hands went limp.

Only a lucky couple find somethin' ta die for.


000


Rarity hesitated as she stood by the door leading to the foyer. There had been a terrible crash a few minutes ago; she had thought someone had missed the man she had slain and so she sat at a half crouch by the doorway, her hands clenched so tightly Rarity was sure she had broken a nail.

Another minute passed and she finally reached back to the key ring, going through the different keys and testing them before a faint click rang like music to her ears.

Pushing the door a mere inch open, Rarity peaked through the crack and openly gasped, any thought of stealth vanishing as soon as she made sense of what she saw.

Jack. Her Jack, sprawled on the ground, her wrist swollen, dozens of cuts across her body from a keen blade, and, the last, a horrific puncture wound at her stomach. Rarity gave up on common sense and sprinted for the farmer.

“Jack!” Rarity cried out, kneeling at the woman and looking at her grave injuries. She looked up at the woman's closed eyes, then back down to her injury, raw terror and panic on her face as she looked over her, before putting a hand to the farmer's shoulder, shaking it.

“W-what am I supposed to do?!” she asked herself, blank and empty on ideas. “You have to tell me! Jack!” She let out a sob, bringing the woman's body closer to her.

“Jack!”
	
> Promise
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

	Rarity sat blankly, staring at the rows of seats placed neatly across much of the room. She tapped at the purse in her lap, less out of impatience and more out of a need to break the oppressive silence that filled the room. Sparing a glance at the crowd of strangers, all dressed in formal wear and all absorbed in their own thoughts, Rarity bit her lip, briefly feeling all the more alone. A presence came to her side; she turned her head and glanced up. Macintosh stood beside her, a suit clung tightly to his tall body.

“Have a seat,” Rarity insisted, nodding to the empty chair next to her. Mac did just that, shifting awkwardly in his seat to give both Rarity and the woman next to him room.

Sitting silently, each staring straight ahead, Rarity decided to break the ice.

“Where's Zecora?” she asked quietly.

“Bloom wanted ta walk around some. Reckoned she might want someone a lil' better ta talk with than me.” He raised one of his massive hands, the callouses reminding Rarity of Jack, before letting it drop to his side. “I bet this is jus' eatin' her up, ya know?”

“Indeed,” the soul-folk answered.

Mac crossed his arms. Rarity faintly winced as she heard the fabric groan in protest, straining against his oversized frame.

He sat, silent once more, his thoughts miles away.

“How ya holdin' up?” he asked. Rarity wryly smiled, tucking her hair behind an ear.

“Things have been less than stellar, considering...”

“I know, we were there too.”

She sighed. “In between the police constantly harassing me and the dreams, it's...” She breathed out, leaning her head against the cream-colored wall. “They assume I did something to agitate Dmitri, or that Jack did.”

“Jack wouldn't—"

“You and I both know that,” Rarity quickly cut in. Mac slowly nodded in agreement.

“Excuse me,” a polite, demure voice addressed. Rarity and Mac both turned their attention right, where a motherly looking norfolk woman stood, towering over both of them. She pushed her glasses up her ebony face, then politely put her well-worn hands in front of her paunch stomach.

“Mr. Apple? Ms. Belle?” she questioned. On seeing their nods, she quickly turned. “Please follow me.”

Waiting only for them to rise and exchange glances, the norfolk was off, pushing easily through the crowds of people in the room and through the hallway, her black braided hair swishing left and right across her heavy shoulders with every step.


000


It was dark. Dark and silent. Not a single noise broke though the abyss, the quiet. She lay, oblivious to everything, wrapped in a cocoon of indifference. It had been like this for as long as she could remember. 

Perhaps even longer. 

Something changed though.

A quiet murmur at the very limits of her hearing went out across the empty black expanses. A foreign sound. Listening, it came to her. A sort of electric beep rang and rippled through the void, growing in volume. First one, then another came shortly after, only increasing in volume and pitch, keeping the same steady rhythm. A beep, a pause, then another beep.

She finally stirred in a vague sort of irritation, letting out a small displeased moan in protest at the infuriating noise. Reaching to her side to slap it off, she realized she couldn't. Giving up, she leaned back, the volume finally pulling her away from her rest. She opened her eyes and immediately winced, the room painfully bright to her. It was unfamiliar, yet, a small, insignificant part of her saw familiarity to its off-white ceilings, venetian blinds, a gap at the bottom that let her see a gray, rainy sky and not much else, and, when she turned her head, a strange, clunky device lined with cables and a screen like a television. Every few moments, a line would appear on the screen, travel horizontally across, suddenly spike towards the top with a beep, then crash towards the bottom like an inverse mountain before finally leveling out, only to repeat again with the same maddening noise.

As she licked her painfully dry lips, dumbly trying to comprehend what was happening, she caught a subtle shift of movement at the foot of the bed, just past the limits of her eye. She tightened her fist in surprise at the motion, the action letting a grunt of pain escape her lips as a numb hurt radiated like heat from her wrist.

Her wrist. Her broken wrist.

Her eyes widened and she took a small breath. The beeping from her side increased, the line on the machine increasing in speed, changing from a calming green to a worrisome yellow. She tried to rise, making it up a few agonizing inches from the bed, only to collapse again, sweating from the exertion and from the agony her entire body was in.

“Whoa,” a familiar woman's voice called out. “Calm down, Jack.”

There was another bit of movement, and a figure came into view, then another, shorter than the first. Jack let out a sigh of relief, leaning back onto the bed.

“Twi, Spike,” Jack addressed, her voice hoarse and no louder than a whisper. She weakly coughed, a raspy, nearly metallic sound.

“Let me get you some water.” She turned, leaving Jack's field of view, the telltale sound of a cane making its travels across a hard floor unmistakable to Jack.

“There should be a button to raise the bed's head,” the soul-folk offered. Jack glanced over. Twila was right. There was a button on the side of the bed, where a railing stood. She stared at it, then at the hand next to it in a full cast, set in place by a strap to the bed.

Twila returned, a tray with a water pitcher and a glass balanced on one hand. Sure enough, Jack's ears were right on the bits—in Twila's other hand was a cane. At its pommel was a golden bust that, strangely enough, seemed to be in the shape of the soul-folk's own face.

Jack crept her fingertips close to the glass and managed to pick it up in a trembling, weak hand. The water inside dripped and spilled over the blanket covering her body, but she finally brought it to her lips and drank deeply, Spike caught onto how weak she was and took the glass and handed it back to Twila. The farmer then expectantly looked at the pitcher.

“Let's wait for a moment before another glass,” she said. “According to a book I read earlier, overindulging in water after being dehydrated can make you sick.” She gave a smile, turning and once more leaving Jack's view.

“Granted, they did hook you up to an IV, so you're probably not going to get dehydrated anytime soon, but it's the principle. I'd think it'd still effect you.”

Jack didn't know what an IV was right offhand; her first guess was maybe something like a feeding tube like the one she had to use for sick calves back on the farm. A glance towards the beeping machine answered her. A bag, filled to about a quarter full of a murky translucent material, stood, suspended in the air by a hook connected to a metal stand. The bag had a tube that snaked its way along the side of the machine, leading up to her bed and vanishing underneath the cast on her wrist.

Twila returned, finally realizing where the bed operation buttons were. She held them down. The head of the bed rose slowly at an angle, not stopping until Jack gave a content nod of her head.

They looked at one-another for a moment, each measuring the other before Twila finally broke the silence.

“You have some questions, I guess.”

“A few, yeah,” Jack agreed. She shook her head. “Well, more than a few, I jus' don't know where ta start.”

Spike interjected, “Well, you're in a hospital in Southhearth. That's a good place to start.”

“Southhearth... that's that norfolk town a bit east-a—where's Rarity?” Jack quickly asked, tensing up and rising a bit off of the bed. “She make it—“

“She's alive and well. Don't worry about her right now, I'm sure she'll be here soon to see you. All of us had been taking shifts to watch you.” Twila smiled. “Guess me and Spike won the pot.”

“Shame we didn't make it a cash wager,” Spike said.

Jack leaned back, relaxing once more at Twila's reassurance. “Ya know,” she began after another long moment of collecting her muddled. slow thoughts. “I'm willin' ta chance gettin' sick. I'm mighty thirsty.”

Laughing, Twila turned, gesturing over to the tray she had sat down, enveloping it in an aura of her magic. “That's just like you, Jack. Something like this happens to you, and you're just worried about being thirsty.”

“Well, ya worry 'bout the lil' things bef...” she trailed off, her words lost to her.

As Twila channeled her magic, a pair of pure, dove-like wings appeared, growing out of her back. She herself seemed to carry a presence, an aura about her that drew Jack's attention to her, gluing her eyes at the woman in a sort of reverence. Twila turned as the tray floated towards her. She tilted her head in confusion at Jack's stare.

“Do I have something on my face?” she questioned.

“Jack doesn't know about the whole...” Spike gestured casually at her new appendages. Twila glanced to her side.

“Oh!” She brushed a strand of hair behind her ear. “That. W-well...” She grabbed the tray from the air and dispelled the aura around it. Her wings vanished, folding back into her body and disappearing, and that odd sensation of devotion Jack felt surrounding Twila faded away too after a moment, leaving the room like stuffiness being banished by an opened window. “That's been happening sometimes when I channel magic lately.”

Once her mouth could work again, Jack replied. “An' exactly what is it?”

“I...” She glanced down at the floor in quiet reflection. “After helping you find where Rarity was being taken to, I wasn't in the best shape. Celestia herself came to save me.” Jack could almost detect a sort of longing in Twila's voice, but dismissed it. “She used her magic on my body. It apparently worked well, better than she had anticipated, even. I inherited some of Celestia's power thanks to the transfer, so I guess I'm a...”

“An' all-folk now,” Jack finished. “Ain't that somethin'.” Weakly grinning, but grinning none the less, she looked down at Twila's cane. “An' ta honor it, ya got yerself a cane?”

“Not my plan at all, I swear,” she answered. “But the royal sculptor begged to do something to remind me of my—ascension, is what they called it—he wanted a bust. I wanted something practical. We compromised.” She sat the tray down on Jack's lap. “Soon as I'm fully healed up and can walk around without it? Straight to the closet.” 

“But what are you gonna do with the life-sized painting the royal artist did for you?” Spike asked, grinning.

She paused. “You know, I forgot completely about that. E-even if it does take up almost all the wall space at my room in Camelot.”

Watching Jack take a drink of the water, Twila moved over, placing a gentle hand on the farmer's shoulder. “The doctor said that you should rest if you're feeling tired. Fighting sleep isn't wise in your condition.”

“I'll sleep when I'm feelin' like it, sug. Promise.”

“I'll believe you, Jack.” She turned, heading towards the door. “I need to step out for a moment, I'll be back shortly. Tell Spike if you need anything”

“Hey, Twi?” Jack called out quietly. The all-folk turned, waiting wordlessly for Jack to continue.

“I'm glad yer alright.”

“Same,” Twila answered fondly, opening the door. She paused as a familiar tuft of pink hair ducked under her arm and made its way to the side of Jack's bed.

“Hiya, Jackie!” Pinkie chirped, grinning so wide Jack's own face hurt and gesturing to a bag she held. “I was gonna just leave some snacks but it looks like you woke up! About time! Was starting to think I needed to maybe bring a rooster in to get you awake! So I tried to get a chicken in here, but the doctors around the hospital said it could contaminate the room and so I told 'em, 'no, he's house trained,' but they still wouldn't let me, so I bought a rooster suit and right when I was about to caw, they kicked me out.” An adorable pout crossed her face. “I swear, the nerve of some people, am I right?”

Jack let the words sink into her for a moment before nodding. “Eyup,” was all she could say.

They heard a throat being cleared and both of them glanced over to Spike.

“Do you really think Jack needs this sort of thing right now?” Spike asked. Pinkie nodded exuberantly.

“Sure, Spikie! She needs to know this sort of thing! It'll help her look forward to things after all this icky-sicky stuff!” The woman winked at Jack. “When you get out of here, ol' auntie Pinkie is gonna have one heck of a show for you. The party to end all parties. Pizza, video games, movies, I might even bring Scrabble!”

Jack smiled back at Pinkie. Even if she couldn't understand the girl half the time, she knew her heart was in the right place, and right now having a bit of fun seemed important. “I'll look forward to it, Diane. A laugh or two is somethin' I need.”

“You want laughs? You came to the right gal! It's my second biggest export! The first being giggles. Third's guffaws, they're real popular where you and me are from!”

“Come on now, Pinkie. Tone it down a hair,” Spike said. “Jack can't have too much tension right now, doctor's orders.”

“But I'm not making her tense. Tense is what you are when I do something like this—“ Pinkie leaned towards the boy, ruffling his hair. As soon as he opened his mouth to protest, Pinkie turned down, pecking him on the lips. He stopped before he began, melting into a confused, reddening mush.

“See? That's how you make someone tense! And I don't wanna kiss Jackie, even if she does have that sort of amazon cute look going for her and even though seeing her with all the bandages makes me wanna kiss her like a mommy, like when you get a boo-boo.” She nodded, as if she just explained a complex algorithm to a group of freshmen.

“What,” Spike and Jack said in a monotone, confusion evident on their shared expressions.

With that Pinkie turned, heading towards the door. “Well, I'd better leave before Twila or a nurse gets me in trouble like last time.” Again she pouted. “This is the no-fun express, I swear.” She raised her hand in farewell. “I'll come see you again real soon! I promise!” Turning back to Jack, she ran over, hooking her pinkie finger into Jack's good hand. “Pinkie promise even!” With that, she headed towards the door once more, giving one last point and wink at Spike before closing it completely.

They looked at each-other. Right when it seemed like Spike was gonna say something, they each heard a metal clunk from outside the room.

“Told you she'd be fine!” Pinkie called out in triumph to the strangers outside.

Spike sighed in exasperation. Though Jack could see a humored smile cross his face that matched her own.

“Heck of a gal,” Jack said.

“She is,” Spike addressed, resting in his chair towards the foot of her bed, then once he adjusted a bit to get comfortable, Spike leaned onto a hand as he observed Jack.

“So, are you two...?”

“We're trying it out,” he replied diplomatically, far greater at neutral words than even some people Jack's age. “Started a couple of weeks back.”

“Well good.” She sized him up briefly. “Now, ya two ain't, uh... tryin' everythin' out, are ya?”

He blushed once more. “What kind of question is that?” Spike defensively remarked. Jack let out a wheezing laugh.

“Jus' givin' ya grief.” She yawned, exhausted even though she just woke up. “Though ya are still pretty young compared ta her.”

He rolled his eyes. “It's like five years, tops. And she acts how much younger than you guys?”

“Point taken.” Jack leaned her head back, slowly nodding, feeling an odd sense of weightlessness in her arms and legs.

“We're getting off topic,” Spike said, rubbing his arms through the sweatshirt he wore. He noticed her relaxed posture. “I figure you'll want to sleep soon. The painkillers they put you on are pretty high grade, and I wanted to talk real quick before you drifted off, so... uh...” He looked at her, a mature, knowing look that seemed strange from someone of his stature. “Thank you for keeping your word, Jack. Rarity's... even now, she's important to me. So the fact you were stupid enough to take on a Yggdrasil with just a sword for her? I'm glad you were more than just words.”

“It was pretty stupid, wasn't it?” she said quietly with a small smile.

“Completely,” Spike agreed.

“Know somethin'?” Jack closed her eyes as the room started to grow hazy, the medicine kicking in full force to where she couldn't focus. She leaned her head back on the suddenly welcoming bed and said in a near-drunk whisper what both he and her knew. 

“I'd do it again.”


000


Jack woke up later. She wasn't sure how later, but she had been out long enough that Spike had left and Chylene took his place and the room was darker thanks to the drawn blinds. Chylene paced across the floor, biting at her thumb.

“I-I wonder if I should...?” the timid woman asked herself, shaking her head and glancing down at the ground. “W-well, they need it, so I should, but they also said she needed to sleep still. I don't know...”

“Somethin' up?” Jack drawled out, pleased to find her voice was slowly coming back, losing its weakness. She knew it still sounded tired, but it wasn't the grave rattle she had when she spoke to Spike. Chylene nearly jumped out of her skin, she gasped; clutching a hand to her heart and peering at Jack in panic.

“O-oh!” she called out. “I'm sorry. Did I wake you up?”

“Nah, sug. Pop a squat.”

Chylene nodded, moving towards Jack.

“How ya doin', hon?”

“Alright. I've been helping here the last few days. There was an attack on a norfolk village north of here. Kabolds. The nurses and doctors have been swamped, so I volunteered.” She kicked at the tiled floor. “W-well, Isabelle may have volunteered me...” Looking up at Jack, she asked. “Can I draw a blood sample?'

Jack nodded. “I got enough, I reckon.”

Chylene said nothing, but tensed up all the same. She stopped, turning towards the cabinet on the other side of the room.

“I got you something,” she said. Reaching into the cabinet, Chylene pulled out a beaten and worn thing that made Jack smile.

“Care ta bring it on over here?” she asked. Chylene complied, walking to the side of the woman's bed, next to a try filled with medical tools, and passed it to Jack's good hand.

The farmer clasped the stetson in her palm, bringing it up to her face—catching the faintest hint of Rarity's perfume along the way—and then rested it atop her head, where it sat like a proud crown.

Jack's thoughts turned to the perfume.

“Chylene?”

The pink-haired woman glanced at Jack's eyes to let her know she was listening, but kept her focus on dabbing Jack's tender forearm with an alcohol-soaked cotton-ball.

“When's Rare gonna come by?”

She took a syringe from the tray nearby, pulling it out of a seal plastic baggie. “She's tried a few times. You've been asleep the last ones she's tried, and the earlier ones you were in no state to talk.”

Jack quirked a brow. “Yer makin' it sound like I've been here a—“ She winced as the syringe needle pierced her skin and Chylene pulled the plunger up, filling the vial with a bit of Jack's blood.

“I know Dash should be back soon. She has something important to discuss. B-but after that, I can let Rarity know you wanted to see her.” She glanced over at the machine Jack was hooked up to. “But I'm not sure how much longer you'll be up. The doctors said to administer your pain medication through your IV. It's in your bloodstream now.”

Jack didn't feel any different, but if it was like earlier, it would hit her like a thief in the night, suddenly and without warning.

“Gettin' tired of sittin' in bed an' sleepin' the day away,” she complained.

“It's better than staying awake and hurting,” Chylene reasoned, wiping the small drop of blood on Jack's arm and then putting a bandage on it.

Jack let out a breath, glancing at the ceiling. “Hurtin' is what let me know I was alive, back when I went ta get Rare. What scared me was when I couldn't hurt, ya know? If I'm gonna be honest with ya, it scares me now, even when I'm sittin' here safe an' sound. There any way ya can...?”

“Lower the dosage? I don't think we should,” Chylene said. “Your body needs to recover, and you won't sleep hurting. I-I've seen the reports and your medical charts. You would hurt.”

“But it's gotta be better than this... cottony feelin' I got right now.” She licked her lips, once more dry. “It's kinda hard thinkin' straight.”

“Which is why you should just sleep more, Jack.”

The door opened before they could continue. Jack glanced over to see Isabelle walk in. Gilda came into view moments later, an introspective expression on her face as she took in Jack's appearance.

“I-I should go,” the timid sky-folk stammered out, rising and clutching the syringe protectively in her palm. She tightened her grip noticeably as she passed Gilda. The griffon-folk opened her mouth, then shut it, watching Chylene leave. She returned her attention to Jack.

“Hella tight digs, bro,” Dash said, trying to break the ice as she took to looking around the room.

“The off-white ceilin' really complements the floor,” Jack answered dryly.

Dash nodded, the room turning silent for a long, long time as she stood in thought. Finally, she spoke up again, moving to the end of Jack's bed and resting her hands at the footrest.

“Shit,” Dash said, looking over at Gilda, then at the floor. “I expected you to get pissed seeing her again.” Dash cocked her head at Gilda. “But you're just kinda laying there.”

“What they got me on? I don't think I could get angry if I tried.” She looked over at the griffon-folk. “Jus' confused, mostly.”

“It's a confusing time, bro,” Dash admitted, clasping her hands behind her back. She walked to the window, pulling down a part of the blind to peak through a crack outside. “Half of the council has been arrested thanks to suspicious activities on their end.”

“Suspicious?” Jack repeated, Isabelle's tone off. Conspiratorial.

“On record to the public, the arrests were a sting to disrupt a large slave trafficking gig in India.”

Jack shifted on her bed, looking over the woman. “But that ain't the truth, is it?”

“They had ties with Dmitri. Them having a common connection with a man ready to usurp the throne by ballot is a sign enough for me.”

“But why not jus' tell the public the truth?”

Dash wryly smiled. “You don't know how the game is played, hayseed. How people react to news like this. As we're standing, Dmitri's dead, killed by Cabello's heroine, Jack the Ripper, the country's saved. You tell people that anything Dmitri touched over the years can't be trusted, that their neighbors might be trying to rot the country from the inside out?” She shrugged easily. “The truth can set you free. Or it can send a lot of people on a witch hunt.”

“But...” Jack grimaced. “I dunno, Dash. Somethin' jus' don't set right with me on this.”

“And a lot of crap I did for you didn't either,” Isabelle countered. “Look. I love this country and want what's best for it, even if what I know is the best isn't always the easiest thing to do.” She ran her fingers through her hair and glanced over to Gilda. “And I want what's best for my friends too.”

“I know where you're heading with this, Isabelle,” Gilda finally spoke up. “Can you give me a sec alone with her?”

Dash looked over the woman. After a moment, she nodded. “I'll be right out in the hall,” she told Jack, stepping past them. When the door shut, Gilda took to pacing, not sure where to begin.

“How the hell did you stop that guy?” she finally settled on asking, blurting the question out.

“Luck, I reckon. Luck an' he toyed with me at the start.”

“It would have taken more than luck, hick.”

“I dunno,” she admitted.

They were silent once more, Jack frowning as she felt the familiar free-fall of the drugs starting to circulate in her, Gilda crossing her arms and shaking her head.

“You gotta hate me,” the griffon-folk said. “I know all your friends do.”

Jack let a small dry laugh out. “Ya ain't my favorite person in the world right now. But nah. I don't hate ya.”

Gilda blinked, then narrowed her brow, expecting a trap. “Why?”

“Hell if I know. Maybe it's 'cause ya seemed desperate when ya shot me like ya did.” Jack narrowed her own eyes. “'Sides. Ya coulda killed me back there instead of jus' clippin' me. I've seen ya shoot. I know ya coulda got it 'tween my ribs easy enough.”

“I figured the numbing poison I tipped it with would have kept you down long enough for us to get back with her.” She smirked bitterly. “I don't know what I would have done after that. Didn't think it through.”

The heat kicked on, coming through the radiator under the window like the ramblings of an old, raspy man. Gilda spoke once more.

“When I came to in the hospital, Isabelle said she had thought about dropping me and going back to help you.”

“Ya mean droppin' ya off?” Jack guessed.

“No. Just... letting go while she was carrying me here. First thing she told me when I woke up.”

Jack did her best to ignore the obvious hurt in Gilda's eyes.

“I-I mean, I know I'm an asshole and this is all my damn fault, but...” She turned, looking away from Jack for the moment as her frown deepened and trembled. “Even an asshole needs someone, you know?”

Another pause came, silencing the room, save for the constant noise of the machine Jack was hooked up to, before Gilda spoke once more.

“Look. I'm sorry. About everything. It's just... Dmitri was gonna show everyone everything about me. I couldn't have that.” A snort of laughter. “That worked out great, didn't it? Thanks to the doc visit, everyone knows now. I'm just waiting for my expulsion letter, waiting for Will to hang me out to dry, and...” She glanced at Jack. “And maybe jail time.” After a moment, she shook her head. “That's I guess where you come in.”

Jack measured the woman, for a second feeling very much like she was playing a game of chess with only half the pieces. “How so?”

“'How so?' Are you stu—“ Gilda caught herself, sighing and rubbing at her eyes with her fingers. “I mean...”

“Go on,” Jack prodded gently.

“Dash has spoken to everyone that knew I was involved in this. Which is, surprisingly, a small list, but she wanted to leave the final call to you.”

Jack adjusted herself a bit on the bed, letting a grunt of dull, barely-there pain that was freed from her mouth as she did so, the painkillers sending her not exactly to cloud nine, but at least cloud five.

“All it takes from you is telling the police when they ask for your side of the story is that I was involved. Say I shot you, say I kidnapped Rarity and was threatening her not to tell anyone else. Do that and it's a quick arrest, and I doubt you'll ever see me again.”

“An' if I don't?”

Gilda scratched at the back of her hand. “Don't and things stay more like they were. I doubt I'll stay in school, but I'll stay out of jail. As long as none of you guys nark on me, I guess.”

Before Jack could reply, Gilda pushed forward again.

“I don't deserve to get a pass, I know. I probably deserve my head on a pike for what I've done to you, to your girl. So whatever you decide, I just...”

Jack looked her dead in the eyes as Gilda's words died on her lips. “This a new leaf fer ya?”

She returned the same even stare. “I... I'd like to think so. Yeah.”

"Smart thing would be tellin' the police the truth,” Jack admitted. “An' I trusted ya once, look where it got me.”

As Gilda slowly nodded and took a few steps towards the door, Jack shook her head.

“Hold yer horses,” Jack ordered. Gilda froze mid-step, turning her head to look at the farmer. “I said it was the smart thing. How often do I do the smart thing, sug?”

It took a moment for the words to register with Gilda. When they did, she looked cautiously at Jack.

“You're... just like that?”

“Jus' like that,” Jack agreed. “I ain't a fan of keepin' secrets, but it's fer what I'm hopin' is a good cause.”

Gilda blinked a few times in surprise before the griffon-folk offered a genuine smile that was almost bizarre to see on her normally condescending and tough face.

“Thanks. I know I'm a sack of shit, but...”

“But nothin'.” She offered a smile of her own in return, the medicine giving her a headache she fought against. “Though get Dash back in here. I wanna hear how ya managed ta get Rare ta agree ta this lil' deal.”

Gilda nodded, reaching for the door. “She at least softened up a bit when it came to her that I didn't kill you. Hardest one to convince by far was Chylene. She can throw a pretty good left hook. Tore the stitches where Dmitri poked me at.”

Jack paused at those words. She reached down under the heavy blanket she wore and searched her abdomen for her own wound. Her fingers gently kissed a thick cloth-like bandage and she felt pain flare to life through the haze of her medication. Letting out a hiss, she bit her lip hard trying to keep her volume down. Gilda cocked a brow.

“Are you ok?”

“Jus' peachy,” she grit out. After a moment, the pain faded and she nodded, mostly to herself. “I'll be fine.”

And she hoped that was the truth.


000


Groaning, Jack looked over, ready to answer Gilda's question. She paused, realizing that Gilda and Dash both were gone from the room. She must have fallen asleep. Again.

An intelligent, regal woman's voice that could only belong to Luna proclaimed itself across the room.

“Sanguine summer sun. A cricket observes his world. And what we have wrought.”

A hearty and deep tone Jack instantly recognized as Will grunted. “I know that one. Tokugawa Hideta.”

“Thine knowledge rings true, William. Wrote after the Hyabusa conflict with the island of China.”

“That battle just shows that larger numbers beats a smaller, trained and better armed group nine times out of ten.” Jack heard him laugh. “Not that a katana is a better arm compared to what we carry. Norfolk steel or viking steel. Only way to go.”

“Regale me with another poem, Will,” Luna asked.

“Well, since you did a haiku instead of the ABBA format I started off with...” He cleared his throat and spoke what Jack guessed was a poem, even though it didn't rhyme.

“The wind is different. Full of a promise of spring. Held in lovers' hearts.”

“A softer poem than anticipated from you, William,” Luna said affectionately.

“A man full of life is one that makes for the strongest warriors. They have everything to lose, after all.” He let out a boisterous laugh. “It's why I'm fighting better now than when I was swinging an axe as a young man.”

“If I may speak frankly to you, thine soft, lively side is an interesting creature.” She offered a feminine chuckle, so strong and out of character for what she knew of the princess that Jack raised a brow, even if she couldn't see the two thanks to her bed laying flat. Turning to reach for the bed's control with her good hand, Jack felt a bolt of pain shoot through her body. She let out a groan, gritting her teeth.

“The warrior awakens,” Luna commented, her voice once more back to its regal, almost guarded tone.

“About damn time,” Will agreed. “Like Rip van Winkle here.”

“I knew Ser Winkle when he awoke. Jack lacks the full silken beard upon her chin.”

Jack heard movement, and the two promptly came to the foot of her bed. Will looking what Jack would call respectably ratty in a beat-up, worn jacket and slacks, and Luna looking almost magical adorned in a shimmering and sleeveless black dress.

“How you holding up, Apple?” Will asked. “Or should I say, Jack the Ripper?”

“Can't say I like that,” Jack replied.

“Well, when you see a body your handiwork wrought, no other name makes sense,” Will replied. He reached into the pocket jacket he was dressed in, handing her a folded up newspaper. The headline read 'Jack the Ripper saves the country.'

“That seems like a lil' too much,” Jack replied as she skimmed the article, the name making her stomach churn.

“But 'tis true,” Luna encouraged. “Left to his own devices, the beast would have surely ravaged the lands, albeit in a less obvious fashion than militaristic conquest.”

Jack quickly shook her head. “I went there ta stop him fer Rarity. I didn't even really grasp what else he was doin', ta be honest. Jus' had a vague reckoning that he was up ta somethin' bigger.”

Will took the paper from her and pocketed it again. “Even so, you did well, child. Even I would have had some trouble against a beast like that.”

“Which begets the question,” Luna remarked. “Where did such a creature spring forth from? According to the records issued to me, the beast held a tremendous magical power. Something as potent as that I should of sensed.”

“Well,” Jack thought out. “He looked normal until I pissed him off.”

“I'm aware of that, daughter of Johnny. I ponder how he was able to do as such. Mayhaps a concealment spell?” Luna pondered.

Jack exchanged a look with Will, he shrugged in response.

“If you say so,” Will replied.

“That's impossible. That kind of magic could only come from an all-folk.”

Shrugging, Jack replied, “He said his pa was one, so may—“

Luna narrowed her brow, cutting off Jack. “Mine father's father was the first all-folk. Art thou suggesting...?”

“Dmitri did say his pa was a king. So, I'd say it's more than possible. 'Less yer wrong 'bout there bein' more than one all-folk branch.”

“I have my doubts about there being another branch of them. The only all-folk I know of are either of our royal bloodline, or men and women we selected to ascend, such as Twila.” She shook her head. “For an earth-folk to slay something so powerful...”

Jack adjusted herself a bit on the bed, she looked at Will, then at the damnable controls. Will understood, rising her headrest so she was at a sit.

“He underestimated me. An'...” Looking hard at the ceiling, she continued. “Sometimes men an' women, jus' regular folks, can get things done. Things that should be impossible.”

“Well, however you did it, you should feel proud,” Will beamed, resting a hand on her shoulder. “I told you you would make a fine warrior. Ronnel.”

Jack laughed once. “Ronnel.” She paused, then shrugged her hands weakly. “An' I thought 'bout it... 'bout the offer ya had ta me. My place in life is with my family, at home, but...” Sighing, she nodded at the norfolk. “But if yer offer of makin' me yer apprentice still stands, I'm in.”

Will brushed his nose with a thumb and smirked. “What made you change your mind?”

“I'm this strong fer a reason, I think. I lived through that fer a reason, I think. I gotta use it fer somethin', an' I'm thinkin' that somethin' might be bigger than the farm.”

He gave a tap to his temple with a meaty finger. “Three for three.”

“Come again?”

He gestured to the door with a palm. “Isabelle, Gilda, and you. My three best students all agreeing to be tutored under me.” He flashed a quick thumb's up. “On a roll!”

“Wait,” Jack looked at him from the corner of her eye, crossing her hand and laying it gently on her stomach, away from the spot that gave her a shot of pain every time it was grazed. “Gilda? But I thought ya—“

“I do,” he said. “Most griffons can burn for all I care. A few broken bones might make 'em humble.” He rubbed his chin. “But Gilda ain't a griffon to me. Gilda is Gilda. I've seen how she shoots. I just hope this whole getting kidnapped fiasco didn't hurt her too bad.”

So Dash said she was kidnapped. Makes sense, Jack thought, giving a weak, unconvincing nod. “I reckon she'll be alright.”

Will smiled over at Luna, then gave the same grin to Jack. “Well, me and the geezer should be off.”

“I mayhaps be the eldest within these halls, but I hardly deserve the title 'geezer,' William. Thou will have gray hairs long before mine shine though,” Luna countered.

Jack cocked her head, looking at Will. “What's the hurry? Ya'll don't need ta head so quick.”

“You've had reporters for weeks now asking day and night about how you were holding up. Figure we'd tell them you're still functioning.”

“Ta an extent,” Jack added on.

He chuckled. “Well, I don't expect you to be swinging a blade for a good, long while, Apple, but you're breathing on your own, so that's a start.” He turned, then paused, turning back. “And next time, do me a favor and clean the sword before you drop it somewhere. I had to hone that for hours to get the stains out.”

“Well, I'm hopin' I don't have ta drop it anywhere from now on.”

“Me too, Apple.”

Luna walked to Will's side and gave a deep, curious bow Jack's way. “Thou and thine friends have gone above and beyond for the country. Whatsoever thine wishes are in the coming years simply breath them, and I shall provide. I swear to this upon the Pendragon's namesake.”

Jack decided to take advantage of the offer right then and there. “Could ya get a nurse ta bring me some water? I'm parched.”

“So it shall be.” She bowed and snapped to attention. “Forsooth, William! We shall provide Lady Apple with a beverage.”

“Alright, alright. Don't need to yell it, woman,” Will grumbled, a smile still on his face regardless.

As the door shut, Jack leaned back once more upon the bed, rubbing at her eyes. She was more awake now, that was good. It seemed like before she drifted in and out like an ocean tide, no real way to control it. But now? Jack felt a faint, weak stirring in her. It wasn't much, actually standing made her hurt just thinking about it, but it was a start.

And a start was by far better than an end.

That word came back to her. End.

It hadn't really crossed her mind as much as it should have, maybe. It seemed like every time she woke up she had people around her, so there wasn't much time to reflect on it, but now?

She should have died there. She was bleeding out, battered, bruised and torn up. There was no way...

But she was here. Safe and sound. Looking back on it, at the sort of contentment she had as she lay dying, Jack realized it still didn't scare her how close she had came. She didn't have a death wish— far from it, she wanted to live. It was just the thought of death didn't scare her in the slightest. Like her grandma said. It wasn't a goodbye, it was a 'til next time. That thought helped her a lot.

The door opened; Jack glanced towards it, glad to be distracted from herself for the moment.

Mac stood in his usual, a comfortable pair of jeans and a shirt, a tray with a glass of water in his hand. Behind him came in Zecora, adorned in clothes far beyond her traditional getup, a pair of slacks and a low-cut blouse, and then, rounding past Zecora, was Bloom, dressed in a conservative skirt and shined black shoes. Jack smiled, it had to be killing Bloom to be wearing something like that. Without waiting for a moment, Bloom charged forward, wrapping her little arm tightly around Jack's torso. The woman grit her teeth, but couldn't be mad at the kid. Instead, she stroked the girl's cherry-red hair.

“Heya, sweet pea,” Jack said, smiling.

Bloom said nothing, squeezing Jack for all she was worth. Jack turned her attention to the others.

“Howdy, Mac, Zecora.”

Mac walked forward, handing the glass to Jack's good hand. Drinking deeply, Jack polished off the water in one pull, letting out a sigh of contentment.

“Granny never told me ya were part camel,” Mac said.

“Layin' in a bed all day is thirsty work. Haulin' hay ain't got nothin' on it.”

Zecora walked to Jack, smiling down at the woman. “It's good to see that you're awake. I'm glad you're alright, make no mistake.”

“Good seein' ya too.” 

Bloom finally brought her head up to look at Jack. “Ya missed my birthday,” she blurted out, tearing up.

“Aw, I'm sorry, sug. How old ya now? Eight?”

“Twelve,” she huffed out in irritation.

“I know, sweet pea.” A thought crossed her mind. “But shoot, ain't yer birthday still like a month away?”

The three exchanged uncomfortable glances among themselves.

“Jack... ya been here fer a bit,” Mac slowly explained. “I'd reckon ya ain't heard 'bout it so ya wouldn't get upset.”

“How long we talkin'? Coupla weeks?”

“Four months.”

She paused, squinting at him. “Come again?”

“Ya been here four months, Jack.”

She looked towards the foot of her bed, unblinking. “But that's...”

“I know.”

“Four months... an' everyone's here.”

“We all have been off an' on,” Mac agreed. “We came when ya first got here, an' then came back 'bout a week or so ago when the docs said ya were finally a bit more lucid. Well, everyone 'cept fer Rarity. She rented a hotel room in town an' has been here since day one. Would hardly leave yer side 'cept ta sleep an' eat.”

Jack smiled tenderly. “Sounds like my girl. Cares too much, ya know?”

“Cares too much?” a familiar, welcome voice repeated from the doorway. Jack looked up and saw Rarity. Her hair disheveled and her jaw trembling. She swallowed her emotion and stepped into the room. “Coming from you, I find that rich.”

“Rare...” Jack stared at her, feeling almost like the woman was a mirage, like if she looked away, Rarity would vanish once more.

“Come on, Bloom,” Mac quietly addressed. “We can talk with yer sister a lil' later on.”

“But,” Bloom protested, squeezing Jack's good hand.

“We'll be back, honey, I promise. They jus' got some adult things ta talk 'bout,” Mac replied. Zecora gave a bow to Jack, reaching over to brush a strand of the farmer's hair behind her ear with a mother-like tenderness, before heading out into the hall.

“But,” Bloom repeated, looking up at Jack with a pleading gaze.

Jack had gotten used to her puppy-dog eyes enough that she could easily shake her head.

“Listen ta yer brother. Yer welcome here any time. Jus' give me an' Rare a bit alone, alright?”

“Alright,” she agreed, dejected. She paused to once more hug Jack by the neck. The farmer flinched as she put pressure on the wound at her shoulder, but said nothing.

“Love ya, Jack.”

“Ya too, sweet pea.”

They left, Bloom pausing for a moment to wrap her arms tight around Rarity. She gave a brief stroke of Bloom's head, never taking her gaze off of Jack. When the door finally shut, Rarity took a hard breath.

“Do you realize how improper it is to keep a lady waiting, Jack Apple?” the woman huffed, clenching her teeth as her jaw once again quivered. “Do you realize how long I've... been...”

Completely disregarding her act, she took two steps forward and wrapped herself tightly against Jack, holding as much of the earth-folk as she could in her trembling hands.

“Jack... Jack,” she sobbed.

“Don't cry, girl. I'm alright, we're alright.” Jack wasn't sure who she was talking to there.

“Alright?” Rarity repeated, violently shaking her head. “You don't understand.” She took Jack's hand in both of her own, staring at her in an almost pleading expression. “You were so close to dying over the months. A-and all I could do was watch. Your family had a priest perform last rites, when we thought infection would take you. But somehow you made it though.”

Jack felt something odd about Rarity's hands. She looked down. There, on Rarity's ring finger was a familiar object. An orange gem in the shape of an apple. Her mother's ring. Looking up to the soul-folk's red, bloodshot eyes, Rarity managed to say one word before weeping.

“Yes,” she stammered out. Jack felt her lip tremble, her own eyes already starting to mist over and obscure the beautiful woman before her.

“Rare...” Jack choked out, snapping her arm forward and pulling the woman in close, Jack's injuries be damned. She rubbed Rarity's shoulder as they cried happy, joyous tears at their reunion.

“I'll try ta make ya happy. I swear ta ya. Swear ta God.”

They heard the door open and it was with great reluctance that Jack pried her gaze away from Rarity. Her fiancée, Jack thought with glee, and turned her attention to a norfolk woman with a slightly paunch stomach. 

“I hope I'm not interrupting anything?” the norfolk asked in a professional tone.

“No, please, Dr. Oblanc, come in,” Rarity addressed, wiping at her eyes and rising off of Jack to turn to the doctor.

“Well,” Oblanc began, her tone a little more relaxed, “Ms. Apple, how are you feeling?”

“Like it's gonna be a good day,” the farmer instantly answered, smiling towards Rarity.

“Good. A positive attitude helps in the healing process. I assume Ms. Belle has already lectured you about your recklessness?”

Shrugging, Jack answered, ”Kinda. She said I cut it kinda close in here from an infection.”

“That's only part of it,” Oblanc replied. She looked down at a clipboard, donning a pair of no-nonsense black glasses. “Did she tell you about how you managed to live the day you were injured?”

“Ain't a story she told me, doc.”

“Well... you were lucky Rarity is a soul-folk, Ms. Apple.” She approached and gently took ahold of Jack's blanket. “If I may?”

Jack raised her arms and Oblanc pulled the blanket down to her waist, where a large bandage greeted her. Oblanc reached for it and gently pulled.

Jack flinched. At her stomach, where Dmitri had wounded her was a horrific burn mark the size of a palm, wrinkled and a lighter than the rest of her skin, almost an off-white. 

“Ms. Belle showed life-saving decision making skills while you were unconscious, Ms. Apple. She used her magic to cauterize the wound.” Oblanc gave a shrug. “This did aggravate the intestinal damage you bore from your puncture wound, but it bought you enough time to be transported here.” She pushed up the glasses she wore, looking over the woman. “Between the puncture wound, severe lacerations across your shoulder, shock to your system and blood loss, I didn't think you'd make it through the night, yet somehow...” Looking down at her clipboard yet again, she continued. “We had to perform invasive surgery to repair the damage to your small intestine. Not to mention your collapsed lung, or the scarring on your fallopian tube. The infections to your body came when we discovered you were allergic to a medicine we were using as an antibiotic. But we fixed that and we repaired what we could. Provided you adhere to a strict diet of liquids and complete bedrest for another two months, I wouldn't be hard pressed to say you'll be on your way to making a full recovery.” Finally offering a smile, she looked over at Jack. “You're lucky, Ms. Apple. Most folks would have died long before we could even see them.”

“I don't believe in luck on somethin' that big. I believe in miracles.” She took Rarity's hand, the soul-folk stared down at her, smiling. A pure, honest, adorning smile that Jack knew would carry her through everything life could throw at her. “An' doc? I found me a miracle right here.”
> Epilogue: The road's end
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

	The cold nighttime wind blew over the railway as Jack stared somberly at the train, frowning deeply as its single, lonely whistle shot across the nearly empty station. She brushed her long blonde hair from her eyes, stealing a glance at the only other person standing nearby. 

“Guess it's time fer ya ta head out, ain't it?” Jack asked.

Rarity nodded with a disappointed sigh. “Yes, I suppose it is.”

It had been six months since Jack got released from the hospital, and life had moved blindingly quick. The world was moving on, faster than either of them knew. What Dmitri had fought so hard against—combustion-powered trains—became the norm across all of Cabello. What was once a day's journey became mere hours. That still didn't stop Jack's unhappy thoughts about Rarity leaving.

“So, when's yer next vacation?”

“Three weeks from now. We'll have a whole week to ourselves, dear,” Rarity replied, turning to clasp Jack's hand. “Plus you know I'll return this weekend.” She smiled. “I know if left to your own devices, you'd cause nothing but trouble.”

Jack gave a lopsided grin. Rarity always knew what to say. Every day with the woman was something special.

The marriage had been four months ago, another testament on how fast the world was moving on. All her friends had shown up, along with most of her extended family. She still had to laugh at how hard Mac and Will had cried when she said her vows.

Not that it was all sunshine and rainbows between her and Rarity. Like any couple, there were arguments, fights. But both of them were stubborn enough that the rough patches didn't last for long. They didn't go to sleep angry at one-another, that was their biggest rule. It had lead to some... interesting three AM conversations, but even then, Jack could look back on them and laugh.

“Who's watchin' the shop while yer away?” Jack asked, using her thumb on her free hand to roll her wedding ring's diamond around to inside her palm. She took to rubbing the violet gem absentmindedly, a habit she knew she needed to break, but still came to her when she wasn't thinking about it.

“You mean in St. Charles?”

“Of course not,” she replied. “I know Spike's takin' care-a that. I mean the one here.”

Rarity had opened a new shop here in Mansfield. At first it hadn't generated nearly the same amount of clients as her old place of business, but eventually, word spread that Rarity Apple-Belle had returned to the fashion world and, well...

Mansfield was already expanding thanks to the people flocking from every corner of Cabello to visit the fashion savant, which in turn had expanded Jack's own production. Her family's farm was making profits unprecedented for the place. If it wasn't for Zecora and a few hired hands they got from town, there would be no way Jack and Mac could handle the place by their lonesome.

“Oh. I hired an assistant to mind the shop while I attend classes. A Ms. Pommel.”

Jack tilted her stetson back. “Can't say I know her.”

“She's from Manhattan. She traveled all the way here to ask, no, beg me to take her on as an apprentice.” Rarity chuckled. “I have to say, it gave me quite the big head.”

“I didn't think you needed any help in that regard,” Jack answered, smiling. Rarity scrunched her face up in irritation, looking up at Jack.

“That's not the way to treat a lady, Mrs. Apple.”

“Ya ain't a lady.” Jack leaned forward, wrapping her arms around the soul-folk. “Yer my wife.”

Rarity allowed a moment to simply rest against the woman, feeling Jack's heartbeat against her ear. “Absence makes the heart grow fonder, dear. That's what I tell myself every time I'm away to a fashion show that you can't attend, or when you're away from the farm with Will...”

That was another big change for Jack. She still held on to the belief that she had lived through that nightmare at the mansion for more than just herself. There were people out there, communities that needed help from all forms of beasts, monsters and men that the police just couldn't contain.

She was more than happy to oblige whenever Will called for her. Jack the Ripper, Iron Will, Isabelle the Wall and Deadeye Gilda. Dash and her had something in common in the fact they both despised the monikers other people had given them, but despite their complaints, the names were effective. Very few people would risk continuing to pillage a village when they heard that the group was on the way, and the monsters...

Well, Jack knew how to go about fighting monsters nowadays. Nearly dying to one tended to teach you a thing or two.

“I know, sug,” Jack said quietly, not letting go of the woman. “An' I tell myself the same thing when yer at school. Jus' gotta make up fer lost time when we do have free time, ya know?”

Thanks to the injuries and extended hospital visit, Jack had quietly dropped out. They were more than willing to work with her, let her catch up, but, like she told Mac, she had learned all that she needed to from there. Going back was pointless when she had so much else to do.

“When I get back home, I hope you're ready to do just that, darling.”

“Always am fer ya, Rare. Always will be.” She finally broke the embrace and tilted her head down, kissing the tailor on the lips. “Love ya, honey.”

Rarity reached up, putting a hand over the scar on Jack's cheek. “I love you too, Jack.”

With that, she grabbed her bags and stepped onboard the train, giving Jack one more wave goodbye. Jack returned it and watched as the train took off across the night sky. She stood on the platform until it was well out of sight then turned to leave, looking forward to the next day of the rest of her life.