Eyes Without a Face

by theycallmejub

Chapter 4: Speed Without Distance

Previous Chapter Next Chapter

Chapter IV: Speed Without Distance

Stephen Scope. Stephen Scope is somewhere in the city and he owes money to wrong sort of ponies. The sort that have no qualms with dangling you off a rooftop if it means getting what they want. I saved his life that night, but for how long? Types like Tiger Voice and his gang don’t give up because some filly chases them off a rooftop. They're likely still looking for him. Still looking, if they haven't found him already.

I start tearing the article out of the paper for safekeeping when I notice Redheart standing at my side, stabbing me with sharpest glare I've ever seen her wear. She takes one look at me. I don’t know exactly what it is she sees, but she takes one look, and that’s it. That’s the end of it. She makes a beeline for the door. Doesn’t say a word. Just looks at me. One look and we’re done for good. It’s over. I know it’s over but I try to stop her anyway. Try to grab her by the foreleg but she pulls away sharply.

“Redheart, wait,” I call after her.

“You said you were done with all this.” She pulls away. I stand her up on her hind legs and grab her shoulders. She pulls away. Turns away. My hooves close around her cheeks, and I force her to turn back. I make her look at me. Make her listen.

“I am, Redheart, it’s just…” How do I explain this? Redheart doesn’t understand. She doesn’t understand and I need her to. “I have to do this one. Just this one, okay.”

“Why, Rose? Is this about your friends?" she almost shouts, smacking my hooves away from her face. "Doing this won’t bring them back. It won't change a thing.”

“I know that. I’m not trying to bring anypony back.”

“Then what? Revenge? Justice? What is it you think you’ll gain from all this?”

“I just—I—”

“You just lied to me is what you just did!” she yells. I shake her. I’m so furious I want to hit her, but I could never hurt Redheart, so I shake her. “Let go of me you damn, no good, lying—”

“I hid, Redheart!” I shout. No. I explode. My voice pushes all the other sounds out of the room. “I hid! Do you even know what that means?! Do you know what that feels like?!” Then I shut up quick and all the sounds come flooding back. Manehattan is just waking up. She yawns long and lazy as she shakes last night’s drinking binge out of her limbs. Her yawn is the neighbor's dog barking. The bell on the paper colt's bike as he makes his rounds. The morning sounds. So foreign to me. So different from the night sounds. For a while the two of us stay quiet and just listen to the morning sounds. Then I find my voice. Clear my throat.

“I hid… I watched them die. They're gone because I was too afraid to do anything.” I look Redheart in the eye and search for that part of her I know would do anything for me. I hold her still. Make her look at me. “I don’t want to be afraid anymore. I can’t.”

Redheart presses her forehead against mine. She puts her forelegs around me and we hold each other for what I know will be the last time.

Then she looks up at me and smiles. It’s one of those laugh-so-you-don’t-cry smiles. The kind ponies make when it hurts so bad it’s funny.

“You’re just in too many pieces,” she says. Her eyes start to water but she keeps smiling. “This is my fault. I tried to fix you, but you’re beyond repair. You’re too broken, Rose. I’m sorry for not seeing that sooner. I’m sorry for making you think this could work.”

“No. It can work. We can work. You just have to let me do this. You have to understand.”

But Redheart doesn’t understand. She can’t. I let them die. I was afraid. I can’t be afraid anymore, and this is the only way I know how to beat it. If I stop now I’ll be scared for the rest of my life.

Redheart’s forehead is warm against mine. I think she still loves me. I lied to her, and I’ve upset her, and she’s about to turn around and walk out of my life and never look back, but I think she still loves me. I know I still love her.

She presses her forehead against mine, whispers good-bye, and then kisses me. She becomes a water fly again, skirting out the door on spindly legs. No ripples. Redheart shuts the door behind her. She doesn’t slam it, but the sound the door makes as it swings closed is deafening. Numbing. And then she is gone. The best thing in my life is gone. It takes a while for me to feel it. I stand there, staring at the door, waiting to feel it. Waiting for it buck me in the gut.

At first there’s nothing. I’m empty. Numb. I float up out of my own skin and watch some sad sack with a rose colored mane as she stares at the door to her apartment, her expression unreadable. It’s happening to her, not me. For a long while I am floating up by the ceiling fan watching somepony else, and I can’t bring myself to give a damn.

When it finally does hit, it hits hard. Almost floors me. Suddenly I feel faint. Light headed. I nearly collapse. There you are, I whisper to the ache in heart. The twists in my stomach. Been waiting for you. I lean on the door for support. If not for the door holding me up I would be on the floor, and if I fall now, I might never stand again. I press my face into the closed door as if it were Redheart’s forehead and try to remember her warmth. I shut my eyes.

I shut my eyes and the noose slips easily around Daisy’s neck. I make myself watch her die as punishment for my cowardice. I force myself to remember the fear. The fear. It reminds me why I just let the best thing in my life walk out the door.

The life drains from Daisy’s eyes.

Lily screams.

When I open my eyes again, I’m ready. The chase. Tonight, I will be chasing.

I stay in my room all day, staring out the window, waiting for Celestia to take her ball of fire and get the buck off my playground. Waiting for the innocent stallions and mares to call their kids in for dinner before the streetlights come on. What I have planned for Manehattan doesn’t concern them. I don’t want them getting hurt. This is between me and the city. Me and the lowlifes who think they can do whatever they want to whoever they want, whenever they want. The ones who did this to me. The criminals. I hate criminals. I’m afraid of them. Afraid of this whole city. As I wait for Luna to come out and to watch me play, I think about the criminals and what I am going to do to them tonight. The thought makes my hooves tremble. I fear for them. For them, and for myself as well.

It’s early when I hit the streets. A little before seven. Celestia’s only just finished dragging the sun below the Manehattan skyline. Luna has taken her sister's place in the sky, her silver eye hanging, watching me as I gallivant upon my playground. It has been too long. The rooftops and fire escapes have missed me. The corners and rough edges too. They say hello as my hook claws into them and I fly. They ask me where the hay I have been for the past month and I tell them the whole sad story. Heartbreak. It's a tale they know better than most, but they let me tell it anyway.

Then I whisper to them what I have planned for this city and they shudder. I dash across the rooftops like a pony possessed. Faster. Faster. I try to outrun the memory of Redheart, her forehead warm against mine. If I slow down it will catch me. Floor me. The fear and rage bubbling up inside my stomach and chest twist themselves together like coupling snakes, making wet sounds as they weave into each other. I push Redheart out of my thoughts and focus on their lovemaking. Fear. Rage. Speed. My constant companions. I’m grateful for their company as I chase.

The wind combs through my mane with teeth carved from ice. The breeze is slow. Doesn’t make a sound as it rolls lackadaisically over the city’s looming edifices. Not a peep. Cold and quiet like a dagger in the back. I know this breeze. There isn’t another one like it anywhere else in the world. It’s the shift before Tracy’s. The old timers. The winds will be roaring once they punch out and the kids take over, but for now I'm grateful to have some peace. Still, I wish it wasn't so cold. I have nothing on but my boots and a thin hooded sweatshirt to conceal the bandages wrapped around my midsection. My vest was ruined last time out, and my batons are still at Redheart’s place. Doesn't matter though. I won’t need them. Not tonight. Tonight the only weapons I need are the jagged edges of my broken heart and my own four hooves. Tonight I am a spark creeping down a lit fuse. I move swiftly and purposely, and when I reach my destination I explode.

I hit every dive in town. Every dive. Every back alley. Every drug den. I hit all the shady corners of all the shady streets. All the places I’m usually too chickenshit to go to. Too scared. I’m just as scared tonight. I’m petrified—only difference is tonight I don’t give a damn. This morning I watched the best thing in my life walk out on me, and the emptiness leaves me feeling invincible. I play it loose cannon. I hit every rat-infested hole I know in downtown Manehattan, and I know plenty. I turn over rocks and the roaches scatter.

I crack skulls. Snap limbs. Dangle ponies out of windows. I spend the whole night kicking in doors, and flipping tables, and chasing stallions down alleyways—jumping on backs and smashing teeth into sidewalk. Kicking ass and getting my ass kicked plenty in return. I ask questions. I flash the image of Scope waving for Tracy’s camera to every lowlife who steps into my field of vision, and I ask them what they know. I ask, and when then don’t answer, I make them. I figure if Scope really is a mob doc then he does jobs for shady types. Types who get themselves banged up but can’t go to a hospital for fear of dealing with the cops. Types who wander into the dives, and the back alleys, and the drug dens. I admit it’s not much of an angle. Scope likely deals with uptown crooks, and the places I kick in are about as downtown as it gets in Manehattan. Not much of an angle, but it’s the only one I have. I keep at it all night. I buck Manehattan’s criminal underbelly until it vomits, but the old mule doesn’t puke up anything useful.

Hours go by. The peaceful breeze picks up. The old timers have clocked out and the kids are getting started. They whip the easy breeze into a heavy gust. Must be late. I’ve been at it all night. I’m tired. Spent. Everything hurts. Legs. Hooves. Joints. Shoulders. Haunches. My chest feels like something’s been chewing on it, and my gut is sore from being bucked by stallions twice my size. I’ve been to every dive I know but come up with nothing. It's been a long night. My body is ready to call it quits. My body, but not me. I’m only just getting started.

I head further downtown, faster and faster with every forward step. I run against the wind. It's loud in my ears. Blocks out the night sounds. Makes flying difficult.

Eventually my hook catches the bottom of its first neon sign, and I know I’m in the red-light district. The city lets her mane down for me. She puckers her painted lips and shows me a side of herself I don’t see very often. She’s still as ugly as ever. Ugly as sin. Hideous face. No curves; just corners and rough edges. But she doesn’t let her looks keep her from having a good time. She is a living thing, this city, and the red light district is her pulse. Her lifeblood. Blood as rich and red as the lights for which the district is named. Down here the buildings have a greater respect for personal space than the ones I’m used to. I have to really put my back into it as I throw my hook to nearest rooftop, and my back hasn’t fully healed yet. Every leap and landing is a bitter reminder of the bullet Redheart carved out of my gut. The knife she dug out of my back.

I fly to old Storm Chaser’s place. Last place on my list. It’s been awhile since I’ve seen the old stallion. The stallion responsible for training this body of mine. Taught it how to fight and how to fly.

His name is Storm Chaser and he used to be a member of the Royal Guard. ‘Unnecessary force when subduing enemies of the crown.’ It’s the reason he’s no longer a guard pony. He told me Celestia handed out the sentence herself. Banishment. Not from the country, just from the guard and from Canterlot. Idiot got himself thrown out. Landed down here with the rest of the trash. Now he owns a gentlecolt’s club called The Ringer in Manehattan’s red light district. As seedy as the place is on its own, it’s just a front for Storm’s underground fight club circuit. The Ringer. The perfect marriage of sex and violence. The whole city in microcosm. Old Storm Chaser once told me that there’s an intimacy we experience with our enemies that we’ll never know with our lovers. I suppose tonight we share that disposition.

On top of Storm Chaser's place there is a neon sign that says “Ringer” in blinking lights that alternate between orange, pink, green, yellow, and red. Below the name there is a flashing image of a horseshoe twirling around a stake. Then the image blinks and the horseshoe is replaced by a twirling mare dressed in provocative clothing.

I push past the swinging saloon doors. The whole place is done up in a western theme. Storm Chaser told me that after he left Canterlot, he tried his luck in Appleloosa. Said he loved everything about the place except for the cops. Said the country isn’t as lawless as it was back in his day. A smile crosses my lips at the thought. Appleloosa not lawless enough? That’s old Storm Chaser though. As raw as they ever made them, and they don’t make them like him anymore.

The bouncer eyes me funny as I causally walk by without paying.

“Hey asshole,” he shouts from behind. “You a dancer or a fighter? Only dancers and fighters get in free.” I tell him I’m a fighter. He doesn't buy it. Calls me an asshole again. Tells me to pay or he’s going to feed me a few of my own teeth. I roll up my sleeve and show him the bandage wrapped around my foreleg from where I took a bullet a month ago. He’s not impressed. Then I lift up my sweatshirt and show him the one around my underbelly. It does the trick.

“Must not be much of a fighter, you get banged up that bad,” he says with an amused smile. “You watch yourself in there, asshole. Storm's fighters are as mean as they get. You watch yourself.” Despite his amused grin, I pick up something genuine in his voice. Real concern for the well being of others. He should get a new job. Bouncer at place like this shouldn’t be so soft.

I slip inside. Make for the bar. Barkeep asks me what I’m having.

“Whatever’s cheapest,” I say. He shoots me a look that says too many ponies are drinking what I’m drinking tonight, and that means several hours of lousy tips for him. Then his hooves disappear behind the counter and reappear with a cup full of something golden brown he just poured from the tap. I reach into my sweatshirt pocket and toss a few bits on the counter. He eyes the money like I just paid for my drink with a used condom before begrudgingly scooping it up. I take a whiff of the glass. Smells like he peed in it. For what I paid he might as well have. I’m not much of a drinker but if you come in a place like this and don’t order something, ponies start giving you dirty looks. Kind of looks that lead to you getting stuck with something short and sharp in the alley around back.

I spin around on my stool and watch the show. A Manehattan strip club is a strange sight if you happen to be a filly from Ponyville. I grew up around ponies who walk around stark naked all hours of the day, so I don’t see the appeal of paying to watch mares take their clothes off. Manehattan ponies think their gutter of a city is bucking Canterlot, though. Most of them wear clothing when they’re out and about. It’s a class thing. Having clothes means you're somepony worth talking about. The site of a naked mare in a public place isn’t as normal in Manehattan as it is in Ponyville; still, I can't see how this is worth money. That said, there are plenty of ponies here eager to throw their hard earned bits at a pretty little something who'd never give them the time of day otherwise. Plenty of them. Mares and stallions alike.

One mare in particular is getting the most tips. Her stage is a wishing well. Coins fall in and dreams come true. She is an earth pony. Young. Orange coat. Blond mane. Freckles. Something about the way she works her lasso for the crowed seems familiar. A pair of chaps she hasn't taken off yet hides her cutie mark from me. She’s wearing spurs too. Goes with the western theme, I suppose. She lassos one of the stallions by the neck and pulls him closer. Rubs her tail in his face. The crowd loves it. More coins drop into her wishing well. When Blondie’s good and finished teasing the lucky stiff, she looks over her shoulder and blows the crowd a kiss that would excite a corpse. Huh, I think. Maybe there’s something to this stripping thing after all. Not one second after the thought pops into my head, Blondie looks past the crowd and finds me sitting at the bar sipping piss out of my glass. Our eyes meet. She looks right at me and bites her bottom lip. Crosses her svelte forelegs sensuously. Bats her eyelashes. At least I think she is looking at me. I might be imagining it, but I’m grateful either way. Blondie gets my pulse going. Blood flowing. I was starting to slow down just sitting here sipping piss, but she gets me breathing a bit heavier. Moving a bit faster. Faster. Faster or Redheart’s warmth will catch me. Floor me.

My eyes drink in their fill of Blondie and her lasso; then I spin around on the stool and get back to work.

I show the barkeeper the picture of Scope. Ask him if the knows anything. He doesn’t. Then I ask him if any of the regulars at this dive might.

“What’s in it for me?” he asks. I play it loose cannon. Cowpony. I arch my eyebrow and give him a look like I’m bucking John Mane.

“I let you keep all your teeth,” I say with a smile, before taking a devious sip of my drink. He smiles back at me. Wipes the inside of a glass. Sets it down. Doesn’t say anything—just keeps on smiling. It’s a nervous grin. So is mine. I take another sip and manage to keep my hooves from shaking as I bring the cup up to my lips. About nine seconds into our staring match, he cracks. Cracks wide open. Points out a group of four stallions sitting at a table. One pegasus. Two earth ponies. The fourth stallion is wingless and wearing a fedora. Nice hat. Can’t tell if he’s a unicorn or just another earth pony, though.

Two of them get up and toss coins on Blondie’s stage. I wait. Sitting still is damn near impossible but I wait, watching them closely as the static in my limbs dances a jig. The remaining two, the earth pony and the one with the hat, are still sitting at their table. Talking. Laughing. I wait.

Taking swigs from their drinks.

I wait.

Grinning. Smacking a waitress on the flank as she walks by, then cackling in her face like a pair of callow school colts flipping skirts on a blacktop.

I wait, watching them carefully.

I wait until I can get one of them alone. I’m tired. Beat up. No way I can shake the both of them down in this condition, especially if one of them is a unicorn. I wait. Wait until one of them has to use the restroom. They’re knocking them back at a speedy clip. One of them will have to get up and piss soon enough. I wait. The waiting slows me down. Slows me down, and I need to move faster.

Blondie helps me out. She works her lasso for the crowd, curving in all the right places, and moving in all the right ways, and making all the right kind of noises. Shakes that gorgeous tail of hers for all its worth, and it’s worth plenty. Blondie’s got me on the wrong side of excited. The static in my limbs sets my hoof tapping against the counter. I’m anxious. Anxious and just about to do something stupid when Fedora gets up out of his seat. He’s drunk. Starts wobbling toward the restroom on unsure legs. I whisper a silent prayer of thanks to Luna as I jump down off the stool to follow after him. He wobbles slowly. I try to settle down but the fuse is shrinking smaller and smaller with every forward step, and when we get to the restroom I explode.

He doesn’t notice me stepping in after him. I close the door behind us and hope nopony else wanders in while I’m exploding. He stumbles into a stall, nearly slipping on his own drunkenness. I hear trickling. Flushing. He stumbles out. When he gets to the sink I make my move. He doesn’t even know I’m there until I crack the mirror with his face. He squeals. I take the back of his mane in both hooves and smash his head into the sink. His hat falls off of his striped, red and white mane, and I see he’s just another earth pony. No horn. No magic to worry about. I smash his face again. Again. The sounds are wet. Dull. Again. I soften him up until he’s spitting blood and curses, trying my hardest not to enjoy it too much.

When I’ve got him good and malleable, I drag him into a stall and work him over a bit more with my bare hooves. Feels better with my bare hooves. I hit him until my right hoof goes a bit numb. Then I hit with the left. Not too many to the head, though. I need him conscious and coherent enough to answer my questions. I play it tough. Action movie tough. John bucking Mane tough.

I pull out the picture of Scope and show it to him. “Barkeep says you might know something about this stallion here,” I say, liking the way I say it. He looks up at me, too scared, confused, drunk, stupid, and beat the buck up to answer. I shove his face into the toilet. Help wash out some of the cobwebs. He struggles. Splashes. His cries are lost in the water. They float up to the surface as choked gurgles.

“His name is Scope. Barkeep says you might know something. I tend to trust Manehattan barkeeps. They have ears for these kinds of things. Eyes too.” I let him up. He starts mumbling something through the gasps and the blind terror, but it doesn’t sound like the answer to my question. Sounds like’s he’s begging me to stop. Demanding to know who the buck I think I am. I shove his head in the toilet again. Longer this time. He struggles. Kicks. Flails. His body struggles desperately against mine, and I like the feel of it. I push harder. Really put my weight into it. Shove him until he kisses the bottom of the bowl. Until his kicking and flailing starts to weaken. Then I pull his face out and try not to smile as he gasps and spits up red water.

“Hey asshole, you should know I’m having a pretty bad night tonight. One of the worst I’ve had in a long time. But I’m having fun now. I can’t remember the last time I had fun like this. In fact, I think I could do this all for a good, long while.” The toilet water must have washed out the cobwebs plenty, because Fedora gets brave all of a sudden.

“Buck you,” he says. He starts to say something else just I smash his head against the rim of the toilet. I do it a second time to let him know I’m serious, before giving his face another swimming lesson. When I let him up the third time, he’s almost ready to talk.

“Why the buck you looking for a guy like that? Guy like that is nothing but trouble,” he says. I like the sound of his voice. Hurt. Scared. I love it.

I smack the back of his head and start to give him another dunk. His lips kiss the surface of the water.

“Okay, okay,” he says through a mouthful of water, his voice quivering. “What do you want?”

“Where can I find him? Some bad ponies are looking for him, and I need to find him first.”

He tells me Scope stays uptown. He says he hired the doc once to patch a friend of his after a hit that went bad. Says he’s been working with the doc ever since, and that Scope has hideouts all over Manehattan, most of them uptown.

“Doc’s not from here, though,” he says, “He’s from Filly. Only comes down to the city for work. If somepony worth hiding from is looking for him out here, then he’s probably skipped town by now.”

That’s right. Up on the rooftop he told Tiger Voice his money was back home in Filly. He got busted. Left it with a patient. One memory sparks another, and suddenly I recall something else Scope told Tiger Voice up on that rooftop.

I ask Fedora what kind of jobs Doc has been up to lately. I ask him about this supposed psycho. His face goes white. Pale as death.

“You’re making a mistake, you crazy dyke,” he stammers. His voice is shakier now. “You don’t know what you’re walking into. He’s with that crazy now. If you’re smart you’ll leave it alone.”

Leave it alone, he says. Crazy, he says. Crazy. I don’t know if it’s the tremor in his voice or the way he’s looking up at me like he’s about to piss himself, but something in me comes unhinged. I like it. Like the feel of him trembling at my hooves. The way his voice breaks and his bottom lip quivers like he’s on the verge of tears. I like it, but it’s not enough. I want more. I make him scream. Squeal. Cry. I make him curse his father for spilling seed into his mother, and I make him curse his mother for not digging him out of her pregnant belly with a coat hanger and sparing him the hell I inflict. I make him beg, and I do it because it’s cold and cruel, and because the emptiness has me feeling invincible, and because I can. I can and there’s nothing he can do to stop me.

When he finally passes out I search him and find a few pouches of bits that I’m not ashamed to stuff into my sweatshirt pocket. Then I step out of the stall and wash as much of his blood off my hooves as I can. I take a look at myself in the mirror. Don’t like what I see. What am I doing? My mind records the thought and pushes repeat. It plays over and over as I stare at the filly with the bloody hooves and the rose colored mane in the mirror. She looks back at me and judging by her expression, I’d say she doesn’t like what she’s seeing either. Then my hooves start trembling. I look back at the stall where I left Fedora unconscious, and they tremble a touch harder.

I need to go. Need to get out of here.

Redheart’s face sneaks into my thoughts and realize I’ve slowed down again.

I practically run out of the bathroom. During my impromptu flight I bump into Blondie in the hallway that leads to restrooms. She’s finished her routine. Never took off the chaps after all. Or the spurs. Her coat is glistening with sweat and she smells like freshly picked fruit.

Blondie gasps when she sees me. I must look revolting: worn down and beat up from a night of causing trouble. I throw the hood of my sweatshirt up over my head and start to trot away, but Blondie steps in front of me. Stops me cold. Walking into her is like walking into a wall. She’s strong. Doesn’t budge. Then she pulls the hood off my head and runs one of her svelte hooves through my mane. I let her, liking the feel of her so close to me. The smell of her. She traces the curve of my bruised face, the lust in her eyes gushing. I half expect her to press her forehead against mine. I’m glad when she doesn’t. Instead, Blondie leads me into the little filly’s room. Then into a stall. She doesn't say a word.

It’s rough and sloppy, and the sounds are wet and dull, and the tastes are sweet like fresh picked fruit, and I try not to think of Redheart—and when it’s over there’s a pang in my chest because it doesn’t last nearly long enough. Blondie gets my blood flowing again. She curves in all the right places, and moves in all the right ways, and makes all the right sounds. We have our fun and when the fun's over, Blondie gets up and leaves without saying a word. Her spurs jingle as she makes for the door. She’s no water fly. Blondie makes plenty of ripples. When she leaves, she leaves knowing she left her mark on me. Her scent. Like fresh fruit.

When Blondie’s good and gone, a thought crawls into my head that makes me cringe. Makes me swear at the walls of the empty restroom. Makes me hate myself more than I already do. I remember what old Storm Chaser once told me about the intimacy we share with our enemies and our lovers. I curse at the walls because the old fool was right. Me and Blondie had our fun alright, but it was nothing compared to the time I had with Fedora. I’d trade her sweet scent on my coat for the stink of Fedora’s blood any day. I’m empty. Maybe Redheart was right. Maybe I am too broken.

I hit the streets thinking about Blondie and about Fedora, and Scope and Tiger Voice—and all that thinking keeps Redheart out of my head.

Tracy and the swing shift make the buildings sway with the gust they whip up. It’s loud in my ears and cool in my lungs as I kick off the Ringer’s neon sign. My hooves come down on the city's face. Her ugly blemishes and her corners and rough edges. She has no laughter in her throat tonight. She can’t laugh. She can hardly breathe. I’ve had my hoof on her neck all night, and the only sounds out her have been pleas for mercy. I let her beg. I’m not done yet. The night is aging and the kids up in the weather factory are already making their ruckus. Pretty soon Celestia will be back, hogging the playground with her ball of fire, but I’m not done yet. Far from it. Before I’m through I’ll have this city on her back, legs spread wide as I take her anyway I like.

I’m heading uptown. It’s been awhile since I’ve been uptown. I twirl the hook above my head, holding it fast between clenched teeth. Let it fly. When I come down, I come down galloping. Sprinting hard. Trying to outrun the memory of Redheart’s warmth. But no matter how quickly I move, the distance between us never seems to shrink. I fly and come down galloping. Moving with the wind. I'm exhausted. Running on fumes and willpower but the wind pushes me forward. The wind. That’s one more thank you I owe Tracy.

I was born an earth pony but tonight I catch Tracy’s gust and ride the rushing air like a pegasus. I fly.

Faster. Faster.

Next Chapter: A Grin Without Expression Estimated time remaining: 6 Hours, 29 Minutes
Return to Story Description
Eyes Without a Face

Mature Rated Fiction

This story has been marked as having adult content. Please click below to confirm you are of legal age to view adult material in your area.

Back to Safety


Login with