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.”

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.

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.”

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.

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.

“...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.