As I stare into the one-way mirror of a darkened booth, horrified. I don’t know whether my fists are balled in anger or sheer embarrassment. I’ll go with spicy mortification.

True to her word, Sunny had refused to speak, so we sat in silence for what felt like hours. It was likely only minutes, but somehow, somewhen, I had fallen asleep on the platform. When I awoke from that dreamless black, it was to the lurid glow of blood through my eyelids. I bolted upright, took my shoes, wet clothes, and bag, then hurried out of the miniature station after confirming that Sunny had left. Just in case, I called her name a few times as I jogged, doing my best to ignore the shards of pain in my feet at every sharp stone or jagged blade of refuse. I got no answer. Eventually, I came to the half-collapsed remains of a security checkpoint. Two booths flanked a narrow gap between them, almost entirely blocked by fallen metal and rock stained black from some explosion or fire. A small gap in the rubble was my only way through, so I began to squeeze past, my face inches from a mirrored sliding glass panel. In the reflection, I noticed an odd mark on my left cheek and soon realized that shape was very similar to a pair of lips. It had been almost humorous, until I noticed another mark on my neck.

Now, I stand on the other side of the rubble, staring dumbly at the series of rust-colored kisses that trace a curvy line from my face to just below my navel, still unsure how to feel about it, but that’s a matter for another time. I unravel my shirt and wipe away the makeup with the inside of it. I’m sure there are still traces left, but the lights could go out at any moment, so I need to move on. Some minutes later, after many twists and turns and flights of stairs, I come to a T-junction. The right-hand turn continues on into a long corridor that grows darker as the intact lights become sparse. A large black X is painted high on the wall of the left-hand side of the junction. Block lettering on the wall nearby reads ‘EMERGENCY EXIT’. Here, the remnants of a thick, steel door leads to a dimly-lit shaft housing metal rungs bolted to the curved wall. It looks like someone had cut a man-sized portal through the door with a welding torch. I step through and glance up, spotting the underside of a metal disk a considerable distance up. Hopefully it’s evening, and the manhole won’t open into searing daylight.

After reluctantly donning the damp, musty clothes, mask, gloves, and backpack, I begin climbing, nervous that one of the rusty bars might give way or snap in my tense grip, sending me for a tumble. Sunny would never let me hear the end of it if she found out. Apparently, I can’t assume she’s not watching from the shadows somewhere. Crickets become audible by the time I reach the half-way point, but when I approach the metal cover, I still lift it aside carefully. Wisps of silvery clouds decorate the star-studded blanket of the black sky, my view framed by ridiculously tall grass. I lift myself out and slowly raise my head above the unkempt carpet of nature. Grass and more grass in every direction. I recognize northeast by the view of Canterlot Observatory. The colossal, pale dome that houses the telescope glows faintly in the dim moonlight. To the southeast, between myself and the brilliant outline of Canterlot City, a dilapidated country house stands between a pair of low hills. I can imagine an unassuming rural couple living there, whose true purpose might have been to watch over the emergency exit to the underground facility. Indeed, the house sits at an elevated position, relative to my current perspective, and a round window peers out from the third floor of the house, directly at me, like a great glass fish eye. I squint at it, wondering if I’ll catch the glint of a scope in the moonlight, but the window remains uncompromisingly dark. As I stare, some small detail of the window tugs at me, but I can’t quite grasp what my subconscious is picking up.

My attention is snatched away by the harsh whisper of a car travelling past in the distance. I hold still and listen for another. Any of the roads in and out of a city like Canterlot would surely see use around the clock, I just need to know where to find the nearest one. I would sprint to the city with my supernatural speed and endurance, but it seems every use of inhuman power brings me closer to the need to drink; it’d be best to hitch a ride if possible. Opening myself to the sounds of the night fills my head with a surprisingly pleasant orchestra of bustling rodents and scurrying insects, underlaid with the faint roar of the city. Perhaps I’ll make an effort to come back out here again, sometime.

The music of the country is broken by the bouncing, squealing hydraulics of another vehicle. It sounds large, perhaps a bus. I close my eyes and focus on the distant growl of its engine. Unexpectedly, an impression of shape and contrast form in my mind as I listen. The wildlife and mild wind form a ground-level tapestry of dim static within the darkness, over which a stronger flare of brightness crawls across the near horizon as the vehicle rolls along asphalt somewhere past the house. Nothing is given definite shape, but their sounds are indicated by an indescribable color of varying intensity inside my mind’s eye. If this sense can be honed, it could be indispensable.

For now, I replace the metal lid and dash forward though the grass with more speed than I could have managed on my best day as a human. At first, the tall stalks of vegetation slow me by whipping around my shoes and pulling at me as I pass. It’s easily overcome with my new vampiric strength, but still annoying, as I can feel that the shoelaces on one of my shoes has already come undone. I have an idea. Poking my head over the grass, I scan my surroundings for signs of any other possible observers, just in case. Nothing. I crouch and leap with all the strength I can muster. Even as I suddenly find myself sailing through the air, tumbling slowly, I’m disappointed in the height and distance, but sense an inkling that this is not nearly the best I can do. I land on my hands and knees, scramble upright, and I look back to see that I’ve traveled something like thirty yards. Canterlot High students who took the regular P.E. class are intimately familiar with measuring and judging short distances in yards due to our coach’s fondness for setting lengthy cardio exercises on the football field. I hadn’t gone far, but this is definitely faster than fighting to cut through the grass.

I crouch and leap again, this time swinging my legs forward a little. I overshot it, landing on my back, but grateful for the thick cushion of grass. I push myself to my feet and try again. Better, but I don’t stick the landing, forcing me to roll so I don’t spill into a heap. Again and again, I leap and fall with less grace and stability than I’d like, but with marginal improvements on average. Just as I begin to sense my skill plateauing, I come to within visual distance of the traveling vehicle. Indeed, it turns out to be one of the city’s public transports. If it’s as late as I suspect, the bus will be at the end of its route and headed to a station. Lacking my own car, I’ve long since become familiar with several routes, and even some terminal stations from a few instances of having fallen asleep on a late bus. I haven’t used them since Rock’s grandfather helped him buy a car last year, since Rock is always willing to drive us anywhere we need to go. I approach the bus from its five-o-clock. The driver seems oblivious to the teenager leaping toward him, like some kind of monstrous, mutant grasshopper. I make one last jump and sprint the rest of the way onto the road.

“Okay, focus,” I tell myself as I trail more than fifty yards behind the speeding bus. I force myself to run faster, pushing incrementally for more and more speed. Strangely, I feel no strain in my muscles. It’s as if my movements are a product of concentration, rather than physical effort. I’m unable to dwell on it, however, as compensating for my inertia and balance is occupying too much of my focus. At first, the bus starts to pull ahead, but as I begin to clumsily acclimate to the necessary adjustments in form, I match its speed. Soon, I’m gaining on it, the wind beginning to roar just as loud as the machine. There’s no slow motion effect on my perceptions this time, just the thrill of speed throbbing through my mind, like pulse lightning. Now, I notice something new and eerie. I can feel the exhilaration and joy of learning to utilize my superhuman strengths, but it feels as though everything is confined to my own thoughts. No tingle down my spine, no pleasant tightness in my guts, no lightheadedness, no surge of energy, nothing that comes with a merry adrenaline rush; I only know that I like what I’m doing. It feels lonely and uncomfortable, like wanting to sing one’s feelings to the world, but having no voice.

The distance between myself and the bus closes and I prepare to make a leap that would carry me to its roof, cursing the fact that the exteriors of public transport vehicles lack anything resembling a handhold, for good reason. Counting down from three, I take a bounding step with each second and attempt to jump higher and harder than before, throwing every scrap of will at the effort. For a moment, there is only me, the bus, and my legs, before I then find myself soaring through the open air and looking down to see the bus is almost twenty yards below. Thankfully, I’m still keeping pace with it, but the landing will most certainly alert the driver.

“Too high, too high, too high!” I stretch my arms out before me and squeeze my eyes shut as I prepare for impact near the front of the bus. Something cool and smooth presses softly against my palms and knees. What? I open my eyes and look around. I’m clinging to the roof, but I never heard the impact.

How did I do that?

The growing blare of the city alerts me to its proximity as I sit up a bit, having situated myself in the trough of the roof’s emergency escape hatch. The ride had been a little pleasant, if not brutally loud, and I was glad to have invested the effort to ‘catch’ the bus. My clothes are a little drier and somewhat fresher from the rush of wind, and the thirst for blood is just the barest scratch in the back of my mind. Only two cars had passed by on the way, and, even if they saw me, I suspect they wouldn’t have known what they were looking at based on the distance at which they might have had line of sight on me. I lay back down as flat as possible as the bus enters the city proper. I don’t know what time it is, so I’ll have to wait to get back to the station before I can get a bearing to plan a route or, if it’s too close to dawn, find somewhere to hide from the sun.

I crane my head back and survey the massive columns of glass and metal, but find nothing familiar enough to give me a sense of exactly where we are. All these corporate prisms look the same. We must be entering a bad part of town because three separate screams and a distant gunshot can be heard over the sound of the bus’s engine as we roll through downtown. I have to suppress an urge to investigate and help. Part of me hopes it’s because I’m a good person, but the rest of me knows it’s less about altruism, and more about having another excuse to drain someone.

Sunny and her devil-may-care philosophy can go fuck themselves, vampirism is a curse, plain and simple.

The bus finally rolls to a hissing stop after taking a few sleepy turns. The rumble of the engine is cut and the squeaky doors fold open. I listen as the driver grunts out a loud fart, gathers his stuff, and stumbles through the doors to go cap off his shift. When I’m sure he’s gone inside the station, I take a peek at my surroundings. The fluorescent signs at the edges of the bay lot mark this as Station 7. Never been here. A cautious scan for observers shows no one looking my way, so I slip off the side of the bus and make my way to the chain link fence surrounding the fleet, grateful to get away from the man’s ass gas before it reached my sensitive nose. I pick a spot with no cameras or foot traffic and leap over the fence.

I land on asphalt surrounding a series of cheap apartment buildings, the kind whose maintenance and cleanliness policies are visibly lax, yet still charge exorbitant rent from fresh college graduates. A tunnel through the bottom floor of one building presents me with an opportunity. I make my way in, confirming an absence of security cameras, and remove my mask and gloves. I tuck them into a back pocket and stroll out the other side of the tunnel, directly into the view of a squad car parked at the roadside. Fear stabs through my head, but again, it’s confined to my thoughts, eliciting no physiological responses, like a jump or a twitch. The world does seem to slow to a crawl for a split second, however. The muddy figures of two police officers occupy the front seats, difficult to discern through the tinted glass, even with excellent night vision. Thankfully, all seven bullet holes are on the right side of my clothing, out of their view. Still, I’m carrying stolen blood bags and a mask that screams ‘bank robber’, not to mention I’m wearing all black and walking the streets late enough to have ridden a bus to the end of the line. I try to strike a balance of curiosity and nonchalance as I walk past, praying that neither officer’s last name is Down. Somehow, I doubt Officer Cuffs will be on duty any time soon. Still, I’m ready for the inevitable question.

“Hey!” calls out the cop sitting in the driver seat, “A bit late, no?” He says this with clipped force, like a stern, but friendly uncle.

“Yessir! I’m just on my way home.” I bark, and inwardly cringe at how barbed the words sound as they come out. Just as I fear, he beckons me over with a sharp gesture. Here we go again. I cross the road, disguising my reluctance to show him my right side by strafing in as I make a show of checking both ways. I close in on the car and let the window frame block the frayed hole at my shoulder. The men inside could hardly look more different. The driver, clearly the older of the two, looks uncomfortably wide about the middle, whilst his young partner looks like his uniform must have had to be custom-tailored to his thin frame. I begin to worry he’s the same young cop I red-misted after meeting the Lich. “Something I can help with, officer?” I say, leaning down and staring directly into the eyes of the driver. His returns the gaze with unwavering confidence. Years of accrued experience at staring down suspects is writ in the lines around those steely eyes.

“It’s a school night, shouldn’t you already be in bed?” He says. His partner leans forward in his seat, studying me with innocent curiosity. I can practically hear the scribbling of the mental notes he’s taking.

“I dropped out to take care of my mom. Work nights at the bus station, had to grab some lunch.” I manufacture a sad smile and give the strap on my backpack a meaningful tug.

The big cop grunts in acknowledgement, giving me a disappointed, but sympathetic look and glances away dismissively. His partner, however, leans forward in his seat a little more, his face screwing up in concentration as he studies me. I stand up straight before he can get a good look. Shit, maybe it is him. I hope the Mist worked.

“Go on, then. And watch yourself,” Big Cop says. I get the feeling the advice was more about how I spoke to him, than the fact that this is a rough part of town.

“I will. Have a safe evening, gentlemen.”

I can’t help eavesdropping as I walk away:

What’s wrong, rookie? See something?

“No, it’s just…”

“Listen, your partner’s gonna be fine. Just got a concussion, is all. It was a doozy, but he’ll make it.”

“No, no. That kid. I...nah nevermind.”

I pick up the pace.

“What is it? Trust me, a gut instinct can make all the difference in a case. Not too late to run by him again.”

“No, I think he just reminds me of my nephew or something. Don’t worry about it.”

I round the corner and mentally breathe a sigh of relief. The street here is lit a dingy orange. Shadows play across drawn curtains in apartment windows and a local dive across the street presides over the majority of the traffick. A tired-looking young man on a bicycle, who looks to be living the lie I gave the cops, climbs up the considerable slope at a slow pace on my side of the street. I hail him and ask for the time. He looks at a plastic wristwatch, rather than pulling out a phone. He tells me it’s almost half-past two in the morning. I thank him and proceed on my way. I don’t know where I am exactly, but with a bearing on the cardinal directions, I know that going south will lead me to a main road that bisects the city and splits off into the neighborhoods nearest my own. Not the fastest route, but definitely the easiest to remember. Still, I won’t beat the dawn on foot without drawing attention.

After some time, I cut through a more middle-class series of apartments, keeping an eye out for an unguarded bicycle. Many of the windows still glow, but a dark third-story balcony contains exactly what I’m looking for. I look around for a pale stone and find a small pile of discarded sidewalk chalk near a paved walkway instead. I take a stick of chalk and subtly observe my surroundings. The only other person outside is an old woman hobbling along one of the walkways. I wait for her to pass out of view, then don my gloves and start climbing. It’s far easier than I expected and I swing my legs over the railing ten seconds later. Apparently, having strength enough to lift several dozen times one’s own body weight makes practice and manual dexterity almost entirely unnecessary for such a task. Holding the chalk in an awkward grip to disguise my handwriting, I slowly etch out the address of a house some doors down from one I used to frequent. I scribe the words ‘BIKE HERE’ below the Cloudsdale Courts address and toss the rock away. Slowly, carefully, I ease myself back over the other side of the railing, then grip a bar of the bike’s frame and lift it out with one hand, as if it were made of styrofoam. I drop to the ground and set my prize down, wheeling it the rest of the way out of the complex.

Well, that was easy.

I mount the bike and begin pedalling. At least on a bike, it’s harder to tell if someone is exhibiting superhuman strength and speed, so I can pedal as hard as I like. As long as I don’t outpace any motorcycles. The cityscape flies past in a blur of black, sodium orange, LED white, and neon. The thrill of speed smoulders within me again as I jet down the avenues, chasing cars and letting them win. The wind whips at my hair and face, the night feels comfortable and sweet, my mind is only on the physical road before me, and for the first time in a long while, I almost feel...okay.

The rest of the trip goes well. I skid to a stop in front of the address I left on my victim’s balcony. The fence is low, so it’s easy to quietly drop the bike into the backyard. As I’m turning to leave, I spot the microwave clock through a window. It reads 4:23 A.M.. I have time to spare.

I’d hate to ask, but maybe I should see if Rock can give me rides to school from now on, at least until I get my own set of wheels. The streets after dark have just been filled with far more dangerous possibilities than thugs and kidnappers. I’m dangerous enough on my own, Sunny is just as new to this and already adept at killing, and the Lich proves there could be even older monsters roaming Canterlot. Well, this town has never had a problem with being boring, that’s for sure.

I try to keep my thoughts occupied with plans and contingencies for the future, but as I pass the too-familiar house I used as a landmark, I struggle to keep my head in one place.

Don’t look down, don’t look down, don’t look down, don—gods damn it…

I looked down.

A stretch of sidewalk here is smooth, well-maintained, and unblemished. With one exception. In a place where two young children once spent long afternoons playing and falling in love, a carefully constructed heart had been drawn on the cement as it had dried one golden summer evening. It remains as clear and neat as they day the girl drew it with her finger, complete with both sets of initials scribed within the shape: “GS + SG”. The bottom point of the heart is deeper and trails off a little, as the girl had jumped when her mother scolded us for messing with the city men’s hard work. A thin crack forks across the tile, splitting just before reaching the heart, its branches angling away to either side.

I jerk back into a walk when I realize I had stopped to stare. I let the static of the night fill my head with the bump and bustle of early morning stirrings, keeping an ear out for anything even remotely interesting. Unfortunately, the least inane sounds come from the occupants of a bedroom. Resigned to a walk of painful reminiscence, I stop listening and let the world slide past on my way home. Near a small park surrounded by trees and wooden fences, something catches my attention. A feminine voice grunts and huffs somewhere up ahead. Feet pound on cement and I hear that same voice spit a curse. I triple my pace, trying to remain silent as I approach a thinning in the treeline. On the other side, a figure moves at speed along a jogging trail. After a few seconds, they stop, panting and leaning forward over their knees. When I finally step near enough to get a clear view through the trees, I’m not at all surprised to see Rainbow Dash. No wonder she has a reputation for falling asleep in class. She stands upright, curses, then begins walking back in the direction she came. Her tanktop is soaked in sweat and her long ponytail glistens with the same. When she turns back, she’s wearing a determined expression and clutching something that hangs about her neck on a rough cord. She crouches in runner’s ready position and takes off at a sprint, a look of utmost focus on her face. Again, she comes to a stop in the same place, panting and dripping. When she catches her breath and stands upright, she jerks the thing over neck and holds it before her by the cord.

“Stupid rock. What’s going on with you?” Rainbow growls, her voice breaking a lot more than usual. I understand athletes tend to be a superstitious bunch, believing in luck charms and spiritual performance enhancers, but what exactly does Rainbow expect to happen? I had begun to feel like a bit of a stalker, but curiosity pushes that aside. I watch as Rainbow paces for a few moments, gives an endearing, frustrated grumble, then storms back to her starting position. She replaces her necklace and closes her eyes as she crouches. This time, she shoots forth and becomes a colorful blur for a fraction of a second. My jaw drops at the unnatural burst of speed. She returns to a normal pace for a moment, then again seems to almost teleport a short distance before dropping back to a natural sprint. “YYESSSS!” she hisses, pumping an arm in victory. Without further hesitation, she hustles to a nearby bench, guzzles from a water bottle, and returns to her starting position. Bearing a huge grin, she bounces on the balls of her feet with fresh energy, and takes off. Her smile vanishes when nothing out of the ordinary happens. With a troubled expression, Rainbow tugs at the object on her neck as she walks back. This time, she wears a thoughtful expression as she crouches for another attempt. When she bursts forth, her body is a blur, moving far faster than before and I cringe when she clips a tree with the left side of her body, twirling several times before she crashes to the ground inside the treeline. She groans as she lies there, slowly turning onto her back. Presently, she raises a fist with the arm that isn’t covered in welts and scratches from tree bark. “Yessss…” she whispers, pumps her arm in victory, and appears to fall limp.

Her heart continues to race for several moments, but rapidly slows.

“Ah, fuck.” I mutter. Without bothering to see if anyone else is around, I approach her and kneel to check her injuries. The large abrasion on her arm produces a powerful smell of blood and my eyes are drawn over its glittering surface as my thirst spikes. Not her, and definitely not now. Nothing is visibly broken, so I give her a shake, but get no response. I pat her face a couple times to no avail. Finally, I scoop her up and carry her over to the nearest bench, laying her down with great care. I feel for breaks along her arms and ribs, blood rushing to my face at the necessary contact. Other than some additional abrasions on her cheek and forehead, Rainbow seems fine, though she’ll definitely have a light scar from the head wound. I check the bench that her water bottle rested on, but that seems to be all she brought with her. When I return to Rainbow, she hasn’t moved and continues to be unresponsive. At least her breathing and heart rate seem normal. I sit beside her head and check her pupils to see that they’re slightly dilated. It’s possible she has a concussion, but dilated pupils are an unreliable symptom. I’d take her home, but I don’t know where she lives since she didn’t bring any ID with her.

With heated cheeks, I study the small stone that happened to settle between her sweaty breasts. It’s a round, sapphire-colored gem that seems to sparkle with an inner light, as if the facets both outside and inside the stone obscure a direct line of sight to some dim light source within. Before I can stop myself, my hand hovers over the stone and I lay a finger on it. The flare of a sharp burning sensation follows a spark of light and I snatch my hand away, cradling the digit as it continues to seeth with pain.

Ouch.

What in the world is this thing? And why does Rainbow Dash have one? I study my finger, horrified at the sight of charred bone peeking out from the cooked meat around it. The wound is already regenerating, but I can tell it’s coming together much slower than any of the other injuries I’ve suffered. It reminds me of the sunburn from Monday morning.

“Who are you…?” I ask Rainbow’s still form. She grunts and stirs, her brow furrowing a little. I jump up and take a step back. She bends her injured arm, slowly bringing it to her head, and wincing as pain begins to register in full force. Suddenly, she bolts upright, eyes flying open.

“Wha-whuh…? Ow!” Rainbow brings a hand to her head and squeezes her eyes shut.

“Hey, you should probably lay back down.”

Her head snaps in my direction, and I see her eyes lose focus for a moment. “Hoo-zere? Why’re there three o’ you…?” She sways as she speaks and I see her abdomen convulse.

“It’s me, Gyre. I found you passed ou—” I don’t get to finish my sentence before she twists in her seat and horks a pile of pale vomit over the back side of the bench. “Uh, anyway, I think you have a concussion. Looks like you hit your head.”

Rainbow finishes emptying her stomach, spits a couple times, and turns back to me, attempting to stand on shaking knees “Nah, I’m good, jus’ gotta—” One of her legs gives out and I jump forward to catch her. My claws sweep across her tanktop, leaving clean cuts and lines of shallow frays in the cloth. I bite my lip as I see how close I came to leaving her several more scars. My torched finger complains as I put pressure on it to hold her up, and I become very conscious of the stone hanging from her neck. “Okay, maybe ‘m not s’good. Thanks Hercules.”

“Can I—”

“Wait, Hercules! Dude, ev’ryone’s been look’n for you! Where y’been?”

“I’ve been...trying to figure some stuff out.”

“Woooow, m’sterious.” Rainbow giggles drunkenly, “I like that.” She subtly leans into me in a clearly flirtatious gesture. The stone comes unstuck from her humid skin and swings at me. I twitch away from it and Rainbow’s face falls as she looks into mine, which must have taken on a look of terror. “Geez, I w’s jus’ messin’ with you, guy.”

“No, it’s, uh...not that you’re not, you know, and all that, I...where do you live anyway? I gotta get you home.”

“Hey, if yer gay s’cool. Me, too. I think. Jus’ go down tha’ way.” She points to a paved path that leads back through the southern treeline.

“Wait, you don’t know if you’re gay?” I ask, putting her arm over my shoulder and taking her weight on my side. She tries to limp along beside me, but I feel like I’m dragging her along.

“Haven’ met any guys I like that way, y’know?”

“Not even a little? Ever? What about girls?”

“Nope, never. Girls’re awesome...an’ pretty. I dunno, though. You?”

“Uh, well...one confuses me and another is just a bit intimidating. Kinda don’t feel like I’m right for either.”

Rainbow makes a dismissive sound, “Ah, yer a nice guy, jus’ go for it. Turn left, up this street.”

“Easy for you to say. Hey, can I just carry you? I think it’d go faster, and the sooner we can call a doctor for you, the better.”

And I can get home before the sun rises.

Rainbow takes a long time to answer as we plod along, “Piggyback only. An’ not a word to ‘nyone else, capice?”

“Yes, ma’am.” I say. “But first, do you mind putting that necklace away? Don’t want it digging into my neck or something. Looks kinda sharp.”

“Huh? Oh. Yeah, no prob.” She pulls the cord over her head with her injured arm, wincing the whole time, then pockets the necklace. I adjust my backpack, so it hangs over my chest, and crouch as she moves to stand behind me. I lift her onto my back, making an effort not to jostle her head too much, as I’m sure it’s pounding.

“How’re you so strong? Y’look like Rarity’s little sister could beat you up. No offense.”

“Some taken. Maybe I’m a vampire or something, you don’t know.”

Wait, oh gods that was stupid! What if she’s a monster hunter? What if that’s why she has the necklace that burns me like the sun?

Rainbow merely laughs, but seems to regret it as she clutches her forehead, “So tha’s why yer s’cold. Turn left ‘gain. Two houses up on th’ left when y’round th’ corner. The blue one. Anyway, if yer a vampire, you mus’ be on a diet ‘cause you coulda drank me dry already.” She giggles again and her head slumps onto the back of mine. My fangs tighten and I’m, once again, hit with a wave of discomfort at how very similar the sensation and urges come to emulating an erection.

“So where’d you get that pretty necklace, anyway? It’s looks kinda weird,” I ask, hoping a more sober conversation can distract from the mouth boner I have for Rainbow Dash’s blood. I’ll try to unthink that thought later.

“Camp...project,” she says. But the answer sounds distinctly canned.

“Cool project. My dad’s idea of camp projects were basically just marine corps training.”

“Heh, yeah it w’s cool. Scary, but...cool.”

The Tar’ does that mean? I was about to ask, but a loud snore rattles my eardrum. Thankfully, her house comes into sight and I only have to suffer a handful of her suspirations. Her home is a well maintained bungalow with faint signs of an expansion to the second story. Indeed, it’s painted a vibrant blue, similar to Rainbow’s own skintone, but with skillfully blended gradients into white and grey, like a bright, but temperamental midday sky. A bucket with some tools protruding over the top rests near some recent shingle work on the roof. I brace for the anger and suspicion of her parents and give her doorbell a long series of rings with my shoulder. Soon, I hear the pounding of feet and an angry male voice.

“Who in Tartarus is ringing my doorbell at—I’m comin’, I’m comin!” The door flies open and a huge, muscular man with a rainbow-colored crew cut takes up the entire frame. He wears a white tank top and striped pajama shorts. The fire that blazes in his amber eyes is quenched on seeing his sleeping daughter, then explodes back into being when he registers me. His gut is pronounced, but so are his biceps as they ripple beneath steely blue skin. When he speaks, his voice is a low rumble of fury, “Bring her inside, now.”

I don’t hesitate to comply as he steps back, moving directly into the living room. The interior of the house is incredibly blue. Slate carpet, tiles, wallpaper and brighter blue furniture with pale accents in whites and greys. Gleaming trophies are on proud display beside photographs, colorful decorations, and chromatic arrangements. Every single item in the house seems to have some element in common with Rainbow Dash herself. Gods, maybe I should have just left her on the porch, I don’t need this kind of attention.

The man’s heart races as he looms behind me and I pick up a third approaching from the stairs by the front door. I just hope he doesn’t notice the bullet holes in the back of my shirt.

“Can you help me lay her down on the couch, sir? I think she has a concussion.”

Without a word, he easily takes her from my grip, cradling the girl as he moves her to the cushions of a plush-looking couch. He begins looking over her wounds and going through the same motions I already have. I move my backpack to hang behind me again.

“Honey?” A feminine voice calls out, “Who was it?”

“Good question!” He calls back. “Who are you, bringing my daughter home at this hour, in this condition?” A flurry of footsteps sounds from the stairs and a woman with heavy bags under wide maroon eyes appears in the living room, wearing a thick robe. Her short, pale orange hair is a mess, and her face is a cyan mask of horror as her eyes land on Rainbow.

“Oh! My baby, what happened?” She sweeps past me to lean over her daughter, hands caressing Rainbow’s face and shoulders as she studies the wounds.

“I’m a classmate of Rainbow’s. My name’s Gyre,” I say, striking the most reasonable tone I can manage, “I was out for a run, thought I’d cut through the park and found her like this. She must have tripped and hit a tree or something. She woke up a bit ago and told me how to get here, but she sounded like she was drunk. I didn’t have my phone or I’d have just called an ambulance.”

“Well, we’d better do that now,” the man says. His eyes soften a little as he listens to my account and he stands, moving out of the room to head back up the stairs. The woman sniffs and takes one of Rainbow’s hands in both of her own.

“Thank you, young man. I don’t know how many others would have been so helpful. If someone bad had come along…” she shivers, “I don’t even want to think about it.” I stand, awkwardly, wondering if I should just leave. After a moment, the man returns, speaking hurriedly to the emergency operator. The woman sniffs again and suddenly turns to me. “I’m sorry, I’ve been so rude! Gyre, you said?” I nod and she smiles all the way to her watery eyes, reaching a hand out for me to shake. I take it, carefully. “Windy Whistles. My husband’s name is Bow Hothand. Thank you so much, is there something I can get you? Water? Something to eat?”

“Oh, no thank you, ma’am, I just need to get home,” I say, looking at the plain wall-mounted clock. “And soon.”

I only have an hour and a half to get to school and report to Celestia. I’ll have to beg her to forgive me for missing the very first day of her generous community service deal. Hopefully, I don’t run into Vice Principal Luna first.

“Let me give you a ride home then. It’s the least we can do.” Mrs. Whistles says with a pleading look.

“Ah-uhm. Yeah, that’d be great, thank you.”

“Okay, let me get myself together. We’ll go when the ambulance arrives.” She smiles and gives her daughter’s hand a squeeze before rising to leave the room.

Mr. Hothand hangs up his phone, sets it aside, and calls after his wife “They’ll be here in about five minutes, they said.” He takes back his position beside Rainbow and rocks as he cradles her hand. Rainbow only continues to snore loudly. “If she wakes up and says anything different than what you told us, boy…” He doesn’t finish the sentence, but he doesn’t need to. I resist the urge to roll my eyes, resenting the implications, especially after having killed a sexual predator with my own hands. Well, they weren’t exactly my hands, they were the hands of some other feral thing locked behind a thin veil of bloodthirst.

Good luck with whatever threat you have in mind, though. You’ll need it.

“I was a perfect gentleman.”

The next seven minutes and thirty-eight seconds are excruciatingly long. The clock on the wall is my only respite from avoiding Mr. Hothand’s piercing gaze as he quietly fusses over his daughter. When Mrs. Whistles returns, still looking disheveled, but wearing some nicer street clothes, she bids me sit in a nearby loveseat as she joins her husband. They occasionally throw glances my way between hushed conversation. Clearly, they don’t know I can hear every word, and I try not to blush when Mrs. Whistles gives me a furtive compliment. Mr. Hothand’s eyes continue to regard me warily, but I can’t blame him for his suspicion.

Rainbow stirs and burps in her sleep, but doesn’t wake.

When the flashing lights of the ambulance finally light up the front of the house and shoot blades of blinding red through the windows, Mr. Hothand is the first to reach the door. They enter, carry Rainbow away after a short examination, and leave with Mr. Hothand in tow. Mrs. Whistles waves them goodbye and turns back to me with a kindly smile when they’re out of view.

“Let’s get you home now, Gyre.”

As I follow Mrs. Whistles back through the house to the garage in the back, I spot a painfully familiar figure in a framed photograph beside a golden trophy. In it, Ace was kneeling at the forefront of a team picture, holding a basketball in both hands before him, staring confidently into the camera. Mr. Hothand stood to the side of the team, wearing athletic gear, a slightly less pronounced gut, and a silver whistle hanging from his neck. Interesting.

“So, Gyre, where to?”

“Ghastenhauser Grove, ma’am. Eleventh row from the bottom.”

“Oh, that’s a nice place. Does your family own a business?”

“No, my mom works for the man who owns the land. He cuts us a deal because my mom is a little overqualified for the job and my dad was in the service.” We slide into the front seats of her car as I speak.

“Oh?” Mrs. Whistles says, perking up a little and opening the automatic garage door, “I did a little time in the Navy myself. What branch was your father in?”

“Marine Corps, eleven years. First Lieutenant Sights.”

We had begun to reverse out of the driveway when the car came to a sudden stop, jerking me back. “First Lieutenant Iron Sights?” Mrs. Whistles says, incredulous.

“Yes ma’am. Why?”

“No kidding…” She says, looking as stunned as she sounds, “Small world. I believe I met your father on deployment. He was young, especially for his rank, and word around camp was that he scared the living Tar’ out of most people, even his superiors.”

“Really? That doesn’t sound like my father at all. He was a harda—uh, a hard man, but in a fun way.”

“Yeah, really. I admit, I found him a little intimidating, too. Even through all his jokes and chatter, he’s an intense man.” She smiles and turns to me for a second, “I can see where you get it.”

“Oh,” I laugh, “thanks, I think.”

“You’re welcome. You know his nickname around camp was Insights? That man always had something profound to say or great advice to give, if you could look him in the eye long enough. Something he said gave me the courage to ask my husband out on our first date. It’ll be a pleasure to shake his hand again.”

I hold back the obvious comment. Instead, I say, “I didn’t know that. Thanks for telling me. I wish I’d gotten to know that part of him better. Maybe he could have helped me to not be so hopeless.” I try a laugh to lighten the implication, but it’s a thing of crap and cardboard.

Mrs. Whistles runs a stop sign as she looks back to me, and I’m so grateful it’s too early for regular traffic.

“Wait. Oh my goodness, is he…?”

“Yes, ma’am. Six years ago.”

“I’m so sorry, I-I didn’t know. I should have gotten a clue when you kept speaking in past tense. My deepest condolences, Gyre.” She lays a hand on my shoulder as she speaks and gives it a light squeeze before gripping the wheel again. “Was it...combat?”

“No, he got sick with something. At first we thought it was some kind of cancer, but when they found it wasn’t, and didn’t know how to stop it, they just slapped some technical label on it and said it was incurable. I think it’s why my mom doesn’t practice medicine anymore. She tried so hard to fix him, but no one seemed to know what to do.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry. That must have been traumatic for the both of you.”

I don’t say anything, reeling from the fact that I just spilled such intimate details of my family history.

A silence blooms between us, gnarled by the sound of the engine, a soft hum to Mrs. Whistles but a roar to me. I want to say something or turn on the radio, anything to distract from that awful, high-speed clanging and whirring of steel. The longer I hear it, the more I realize I can count the beats normally measured in the thousands per minute.

Some time around metallic bang number thirty-two thousand, eight hundred sixty-seven, Mrs. Whistles speaks up, “Hey, why don’t I see if I can get you in contact with someone that might have worked with your dad? I still have a couple friends on active duty that served at that same camp. Your dad was there when I arrived and still there when I left. I heard he was great at making loyal friends, so maybe one of my contacts knew him better and can share some stories. How does that sound?”

Speechless at the gesture, I try to stammer out a response, but can’t get any further than, “I…”

“Oh, I’m sorry! If that’d be too painful for you, we can forget it. I apologize.”

“No, it’s...fine, Mrs. Whistles. I think that would be...awesome.” Tears fall somewhere deep within my consciousness, but my physical eyes remain stubbornly dry. Mrs. Whistles giggles to herself, apparently amused at something I said.

She catches my quizzical look, “I’m not laughing at you, it’s just...Dashie’s favorite word is ‘awesome’. Maybe you two have that in common.” A beat of silence follows, before, with a rising note of suggestion that would have probably made her husband furious, she says, “Maybe you two have other things in common?”

I feel the blood rush to my cheeks again.

“Maybe. But I don’t think I’m her type. I’m kind of already interested in someone, anyway.”

“Oh. Well, for what it’s worth, I think she’s probably a lucky girl.”

I want to say that I think she’d be lucky if she never sees me again, but all I say is, “Thank you, Mrs. Whistles, you’re very kind.”

We turn onto my street just then, and I guide her to the proper house. I have to bite my tongue to suppress a loud curse when I see not one, not two, but three very familiar cars in the driveway other than my mom’s. One belongs to Rock's grandfather and another is the family attorney's. The third is Vice Principal Luna's flashy, matte black sports car.

What in the actual fuck?

Ivy Wood - Bleed Me Clean

Edited by the magnanimous Schattendrache