Isabelle came back to the academy three days after Jack had taken Dorado's life. She walked into her dorm room with a thick newspaper tucked under her arm and a cup of instant noodles in her other hand. Dash gave Jack a small nod and handed the farmer the newspaper, before moving to sit at her own bed.

Jack wearily looked over at the woman, then glanced down at the paper placed in her hands. She opened it up and quickly caught sight of the headline.

Stairway Murder leads to multiple arrests, raids.

The blonde glared towards Isabelle.

“Keep going, hayseed. It gets better,” Dash instructed, wolfing down her noodles. Jack wasn't in the mood, but she leaned forward on her bed and continued to read.

The hunt for the Amanda January, better known as the 'Stairway Murderer' continues to stump police, who are exhausting every lead they can find in regards to locating this elusive woman. Despite vocal protests of denial by the leaders of the Starscreamers of her involvement with the gang, fameous Detective Wolfgang Ritter claims this gang member turned informant could have been the key for shutting down two of the largest producers of the deadly drug.

“She seemed to truly want to help out and leave the Starscreamer lifestyle,” Wolfgang stated to the Middleburg press, “However, she betrayed my trust.”

Amanda lead the Ritter to a production plant ran by Elton Dorado. Wolfgang believed the convict had fallen back into the Stairway trade and was proven right. Before he could withdraw, the woman ambushed Dorado, bludgeoning him to death...

Jack felt a sharp, stinging bolt of nausea run through her body. She squinted her eyes shut for a moment and pressed on.

...then escaping the warehouse. Wolfgang Ritter warns civilians that the Stairway Murderer is to be considered dangerous and armed with magic. Enclosed in this special edition is a profile picture, recently provided by the Middleburg police force.

The farmer's hands trembled as she searched the rest of the paper for the drawing. She found it smack in the center and the image gave her pause. Jack slowly let out a breath she didn't know she was holding.

The image depicted a woman with long, stringy hair, clearly in her mid forty's, her skin lined with dozens of scars and burns—a fair contrast to Jack's smooth complexion. Just above the woman's square jaw was a mark in the shape of a tree, leafless and gnarled.

The story continued on the back of the sketch—Jack decided she had all the information she needed from the image. She tossed the paper to the corner of her bed just as Dash let out a content burp.

After a long, drawn out pause, Jack tilted her chin towards the paper. “Dash, that ain't even close ta what happened.”

“Worked out better this way, bro.” Isabelle shrugged, tossing her empty container to the floor and leaning back on the bed. She rolled to her side, resting her head on an arm, and regarded Jack keenly in the early afternoon light streaming from the room's single window.

Jack wasn't sure if she wanted to agree or not. “How'd they mess up my picture like that?” she asked instead.

“My uncle's good at leading people. That and, I mean, come on, would you rather tell people you got the crap kicked outta you by a monster with magic, or the hick next door?”

The farmer would have normally bristled at the 'hick' line, but she instead mutely nodded, glancing somberly to the side. “I at least can't argue 'bout the 'magic' part.” She kneaded her hands, then sighed, leaning forward and putting them to her brow.

Isabelle awkwardly looked over at Jack, trying to think of what to say. “Look, I know it's still fresh, bro, but I showed you that paper to let you know that there was some good done, thanks to Dorado dying.” She gestured at the newspaper with her free hand. “Town's cracking down on Stairway production, a big time gang's on their last leg, thanks to some of Dorado's cronies wanting revenge, and I found Blueblood's shoes in that office you fell through.” Dash gave a quick roll of her wrist. “OK, that last one didn't get printed, but I let his family kinda know what was going on.” She sighed, rubbing at her temple, then rolling onto her back. “Come on, hayseed. It'll be alright.”

“All those good things ya told me 'bout were built on lies an' me...” Jack scrunched her face tight once more, wiping briefly at her nose. She sniffed hard. “It ain't right. What kinda world lets somethin' so bad make good?”

“Hell if I know, bro.” Dash stared up at the ceiling. She offered the briefest glance to the Bible on Jack's nightstand. “You're the 'grand design' gal, you tell me.”

The farmer sighed, joining Isabelle at staring at the ceiling. “I've been runnin' that through my head the past two days. I dunno either.”

Dash smirked. “You're not a thinker, hayseed. You're a doer.” Her expression dropped. “Have you been... you know...” She gave a small gesture with a finger to the door. “Doing anything since I've been gone?”

Jack sighed, harder than before. She shut her eyes. “Nah, man. I jus' ain't been feelin' it.”

It was true. After sleeping on Rarity's couch the other night, Jack had came back to the dorm room and had simply lay in her bed, only rising every few hours to change the bandage on her still occasionally weeping arm. That, and splash water on her face.

She had wanted to go out, try and maybe get some perspective, but it had just seemed too hard for her; Jack would either have to deal with people who were oblivious to her hurt, or worse, she might bump into Rarity. The tailor had tried to visit Jack yesterday. She had spent several minutes knocking at Jack's door; the farmer simply curled into a ball on her bed until Rarity had given up and walked off.

Jack had felt torn—she appreciated what the beauty had already done. The violet-haired woman had proven that underneath the lace and pompous attitude was a gentle heart of steel. Rarity was Jack's rock that night. One she clung to with the desperate grip of a drowning man. It was a feeling the farmer wouldn't forget soon, if ever.

But... but she didn't want Rarity to see her like this.

Physically, she felt more or less fine—her arm notwithstanding, she had just about fully recovered from the other scrapes and bruises that night had given her—her real problem made her feel inadequate. Pathetic.

Jack's real problem was that she couldn't look at herself in a mirror without cringing.

The blonde continued to stare hard at the ceiling. With a troubled sigh, she crossed her arms over her chest.

“You need out,” Dash said from across the room. The Apple rose and rubbed at her mouth.

“I...” She walked over to the window. Outside, a few students had taken up an improvised baseball game in the fields. “I can't. Ya know I can't, Dash.”

“You're getting your ass out,” Dash ordered, standing up. “It's either learning to cope with what you did, or staying in here until it eats you to death.” She ran a hand over her multi-hued hair, still staring hard at Jack. “Just get out there and try. Go talk to Rarity. Go talk to a priest. Hell, go and do some walking. Something, anything's better than just sitting here and feeling miserable, bro.”

Jack turned to stare back out the window. Dash put an arm on her shoulder.

“Come on. It might make things better.” Isabelle paused. “That, and I know you're not a coward. A coward would have left me back at that warehouse. So show some guts.” She slowly turned Jack around. Somewhere, deep down, the farmer agreed with Isabelle. After a weak, shaky breath, the blonde nodded her agreement.

Jack moved to the head of her bed and donned her trusty stetson. With one more encouraging nod from Dash, she was off, slowly leaving the room with no real direction in mind. When she left, Isabelle returned to her bed and slumped against the wall, breathing a sigh of relief. The athlete hated having to give tough love and boot the farmer out—twice now, she thought glumly—but there was no other option. Jack just wouldn't listen to her. Talking was pointless. With that in mind, Isabelle moved back to her bed and prepared to catch up on all the sleep she lost the past few days.

Jack left through the front doors of the Academy, doing her best to ignore the faces going by her. She hid behind her hat and pressed on.

Jack caught a ride to Ponyville with Hans. He tried to speak with her a bit as he steered the carriage down the road, but she wasn't much of a talker today, only replying to most of his conversations with a small, weak 'yeah.'

After he dropped her off at the main strip, she wandered for an hour or so, exploring the streets and alleyways in an attempt to clear her head.

It didn't work.

In another desperate bid for solace, she decided to send word home; she ducked into the town's post office.

While it would have been far quicker to call the farm's landline—one of the few modern conveniences Macintosh actually got around to buying—she found charm and enjoyment out of giving and receiving letters.

That, and she couldn't remember her own number.

Jack settled for a telegraph. The Apple dictated what she wanted to say to a blurry eyed and weak looking man well in his years. He finished transcribing the letter and handed it back so Jack could double-check its accuracy.

Heya, Mac. Thought I'd check up on you. Been busy? I imagine so with me not around to help. Is Bloom still working on her homework? I don't want her falling behind, you know? And I guess the big question: How's Gran? I'm worried about her.

Guess that's about all I needed to say. Hope the message finds you alright, and tell that Zecora lady howdy next time you see her.

-J

She took the letter to another man in the office—a portly soul-folk with a parchment mark on his cheek. She gave her address, he pointed a finger at the letter, enveloping it in a blue aura, then with his other hand he gave a snap of his fingers. The letter vanished, leaving only the small lingering effects of the postmaster's aura floating in the air. They slowly began to fall like snowflakes onto the floor.

While a soul-folks' teleportation spell was impressive, Jack had heard that dragons and Dragonchilde's were even quicker—their breath acted as a... a...

Jack's frown deepened as she tried to think of an apt metaphor and came up dry.

Bet Twila never has this problem, Jack thought bitterly as she stepped out of the office and once more onto the streets.

There were times when it felt like she'd been cheated—times when it felt like all she really had special compared to anyone else was her strength. Even then, she knew two others that beat her in spades in that regard. Macintosh could out-lift her any day of the week, not even mentioning Iron Will. Considering that the minotaur was able to carry a bag in one hand that took every ounce of strength Jack had to lift, the dark-skinned giant beat both of them without even trying.

Even her best seemed to be second best to everyone nowadays.

She sighed, walking down the streets filled with people, feeling more alone than she ever had.

You're not alone, a small voice reminded her, and you never need to be.

The farmer paused, letting the pure simplicity of the words catch her attention. It was true. While she hadn't known any of the women in her circle of friends for long, Jack knew that she could count on them. Pinkie could bring a smile to anyone's face, even when they felt like Jack did. Chylene was quiet and a bit skittish, but she had a good heart and was more than happy to listen to problems. Twila was too smart for her own good and perplexed the Apple more often than not, but even then, Jack knew she was a good woman with everyone's best interest in mind. Dash... Jack smirked slightly as she started to walk again, letting her feet run on instinct. Dash was a lot like the farmer in ways. Both of them were too stubborn, they took things into their own hands they really shouldn't, and they both wore their hearts on their sleeves. It was because of how similar they were that the two struck up a friendship so fast, even before what happened in the warehouse. The warehouse just proved to Jack where Isabelle's loyalties lay. Thanks to it, Jack knew the cocky, loudmouth athlete was someone she could put all her chips on when things got too rough. If Jack had to march through hell with one other person, it'd be the Ritter.

The last person the blonde thought of garnered her attention the most. The violet-haired tailor. The soul-folk with long eyelashes and a full, inviting smile. If circumstances had been different , Jack probably would still despise Rarity, thanks to her high-class attitude and obsession with culture and society. After everything though? Jack found the beautiful heart hidden underneath the unneeded eyeliner and blush.

She finally withdrew from her thoughts and nearly laughed. She stood by one of the side-roads that lead directly to Rarity's establishment, a small stone of dread in her gut. Jack wanted to talk to the tailor, but...

Swallow your pride, girl. There's no shame in talking about it again, the farmer reassured herself, sucking in a breath and marching down the path.

Rarity stood amid the clutter and mess of one of her backrooms, a drawing board temporally forgotten nearby. This was the worst possible thing—she was trying to drum up ideas for a rather illustrious client of hers from Camelot. Henry Toity was notoriously difficult to please, according to the other designers she spoke with, and so she had spent over an hour trying to gain ideas on how to offset his thin frame and unnaturally gray skin.

Beige ascot—perhaps a tanned undershirt instead. Oh gracious, he just has to have this ensemble by Wednesday, of all days!

She took off her ruby red glasses and chewed at an earpiece in thought.

Tanned outer-shirt, silk crimson ascot tucked neatly at the neckline—perhaps it would distract from his dull tone and complement his eyes. Well, I suppose if I'm going to attempt that idea, I'd best plan ahead on his cufflin—

“Rarity!” the voice of Twila's young ward called out to her from the front room.

“Yes, darling?” she replied, silently thanking the young boy yet again for minding the store while she was desperately finishing her orders. Rarity hated taking advantage of the boy's offers to watch the store, but he had always seemed so eager to please that she couldn't help but accept.

“Someone's here to see you,” he answered plainly.

The tailor winced. It was probably Penelope Finish—Rarity was behind on her order too. Sometimes it was a burden being so popular with the upper crust. She woefully put the back of her hand to her brow and sighed. It was time to face the music.

She opened the door, leaving the cluttered room behind and stepping out into the hallway, smartly tapping along the wooden floor in her white high heels. Rarity paused when she entered the shop proper and noticed who came.

“Jack?”

“Hi, Rare,” Jack said, standing at the shop's entrance. She took a few steps forward, leaning against the table in the center of the room, where Spike had a game of solitaire laid out. The farmer tried to smile. It came out weak, unconvincing. “I, uh, come at a bad time?”

The tailor thought of all her urgent projects. “Not at all,” she honestly replied. “Spike?”

The young lad snapped to attention, beaming at the beauty. “Yes?”

She gestured her fingers, they quickly surrounded themselves in a blue aura. From the stairway, a small coin purse levitated down to the ground floor, through the hallway and into Rarity's outstretched hand. She opened the pouch and took out a few loose gold bits, then placed them gently into Spike's hand. The green haired boy looked down at them, then back up at Rarity.

“Be a dear and get me some milk and cheese from the market, would you?” the tailor asked.

He snapped to attention, offering a crisp salute. “You can count on me!”

“Gouda, please.”

“Sure.”

“...And make sure it's skim milk.”

“Of course!”

She smiled warmly. “Thank you, Spike.”

The young lad left, prompting Jack to face the tailor. “Some kid.” She gestured to the door he just left from.

“He's always been such a sweetheart.” Rarity smiled. “Twila's lucky to have him as an assistant.” Jack was going to comment about how it seemed like he was assisting her more than their studious friend, but Rarity had already began walking down the hallway. “Would you care to join me for some tea?”

“Eyup.” She nodded. Jack paused a beat, then sighed. Rarity probably meant hot tea—something the farmer couldn't stand. Regardless, she followed after the soul-folk.

Jack entered the kitchen just as Rarity had opened the fridge and brought out a pitcher filled with tea. The violet-haired woman poured each of them a tall glass, then sat at the table and beckoned the farmer over.

The blonde nodded, joining the woman. She took an experimental drink and was pleasantly surprised at the sweetness that lolled on her tongue.

“That is how you like your tea, am I correct?” Rarity pondered, her index finger slowly making laps around the lip of her own glass. “I've always heard southern Caballites prefer cooler beverages—especially tea. Not to blanket your interests with an entire group, mind you, but I simply assumed that you may--”

“Yeah, Rare. This is just fine,” Jack quickly agreed, silencing the tailor.

They kept their attention to their drinks. Eventually, Rarity took the brave jump.

“How are you, Jack?”

“Better,” the farmer answered, the reply automatic. Slightly defensive. She stared into her drink, clenching her hand slightly against the glass.

“... You don't have to lie to me, darling,” Rarity quietly said.

“I'm fine. I--”

“Jack.” Her voice was tense, caked with emotion. The farmer met Rarity's insightful gaze. “I don't believe that. You've been holed up in your room for days now. When's the last time you've ate? The last time you've been to class?”

“I—"

“Please, Jack. Talk.”

The farmer exhaled deeply. It took her a moment to speak again and when she did, it was the same defeated tone that greeted Rarity on that fateful night. “I feel like I'm gettin' tugged in all sorts of directions in my noggin', ya know?” She crossed her arms and tilted her head in thought. “Like... there've been times in the night where it hurts to breath. Where I've been jus' so... mad at everythin' that went down. Few minutes later, an' I'm numb. Like, nothin's worth nothin'.” She leaned forward on the table, frowning grimly. “Mostly though? I'm scared.” Her frown deepened. “What's stoppin' me from snappin' like that again? Dorado might be justified, but what if it happens again on somethin' more innocent? A sparrin' match with Dash? Someone crashin' inta me in the hallway?... An' argument with you?”

“I know you would never do something like th--”

“Not if I can help it, but I-I might blow up one day!” Jack explained, growing agitated. She looked at her hands, unsure where to put them. She settled for placing them in her jean pockets.

“You. Will. Not,” Rarity snapped back, far louder and intense than the farmer was expecting. Jack stared at the violet-haired beauty. “I might not have known you for long, Jack Apple, but that doesn't matter. You've shown me you are someone I can trust completely—I doubt you have a lying bone in your body, so by the very heavens themselves, I can say I know you. I can look into you and see what's inside your heart.” Her expression calmed down as she finished talking. “As hard as I've looked, I don't see a person capable of breaking like that.” She shifted slightly, adjusting her well-designed white dress. “Do you understand?”

Jack could feel tears welling up in her eyes. Jesus, when'd you get ta be such a crybaby? a voice spoke up in the back of her mind. She rapidly blinked her bitterness away and wordlessly nodded.

“Rare...” the farmer trailed off.

“Mmm?” Rarity took a sip of her tea.

“Guess this is another one I owe ya.”

Rarity smiled gently. Jack noticed how delicate her face seemed in the glow of the evening sun. “We take care of each other, Jack. It wouldn't be proper if you were there for me and I wasn't there for you.” She leaned forward, putting her hands palms up on the table. “Now, as for your... anxieties, I believe I can help. Put your hands on top of mine.”

The farmer did as instructed, reaching across the table and resting her calloused hands on top of Rarity's smooth ones. The tailor rubbed the back of Jack's hands with a thumb and shut her eyes. Jack felt a small twinge of electricity run from the tailor's hands to her own. This was followed by a sense of... lightness in her thoughts. She felt less burdened by worry. The anger, fear and sorrow were still there, but they were distant. Muted. Rarity opened her eyes and gazed wearily upon the blonde.

“Did it work?”

Jack gave a small nod. “Whatever ya jus' did ta me... yeah. I think so. I, uh, feel better anyway.”

“Good. While it's not a permanent solution, I hope it alleviates some of your burden.” The tailor weakly smiled, wincing slightly at the action.

“What was that anyway?” Jack asked, tilting her head.

“A spell one of my teachers taught me when I was learning my powers.” The beauty rose from the table and stood. Jack followed suit. “I wish it lasted longer, but it should at least give you a day's relief.” Tears welled up in Rarity's eyes, she blinked them away.

“What's wrong?” Jack asked, noticing the other's attempts to shrug away her emotions.

“Nothing, darling.”

“Cut the crap,” Jack replied, narrowing her gaze. “You got moody as soon as ya finished that spell. Come on. I told ya the truth—do the same fer me.”

Rarity tsked, crossing her arms. On seeing the farmer's stubborn streak, she bit hard at her full lip. “The emotions transfer. So what you were...”

Realization dawned on the farmer. Her brow furrowed in concern. “Oh God. I'm sorry, Rare.”

“I was the one who did it,” Rarity snapped back, clutching her manicured hands into fists at her side. She realized what she was doing and sighed heavily, relaxing her grip. “Jack. It-it's fine. If I can do at least this for you...”

“Y-you've done enough,” Jack choked out. the farmer swallowed hard, feeling miserable in a whole new way. The cultured woman's strength and conviction moved the blonde and brought Jack to a conclusion she had been slowly approaching ever since she had first spoke to the tailor in this very boutique.

Rarity was beautiful. So beautiful it hurt.

“Rare,” Jack whispered, heat rising to her cheeks. Without thinking, guided only by instinct, she took a step forward towards the woman. Rarity neither advanced or retreated. She instead stared at Jack with those blue, concerned, kind eyes. Eyes that said she'd do anything for the farmer, take any burden, suffer any foul or slight.

Jack was flustered beyond anything she ever felt. Her hands shook, her heart raced, she could feel her pulse throb across her body. Even then, the farmer found the courage to take another step to the tailor. She leaned forward; Rarity's eyes slowly shut as she looked up at Jack's face, becoming half-lidded and longing. Jack lowered her head reverently and moved her hand to Rarity's chin, gently guiding it as her own body responded in kind. Their kiss was slow. Deep. Meaningful. Not a creature born of lust, this was a creature of comfort—a silent pact between the two amid the farmer's trembling frame and Rarity's running mascara, that they would take care of one another, no matter how hard it was.

Rarity was Jack's rock. One that no tide would pull her away from.

Dimitri rubbed his jawline as he looked over a file in a manilla envelope. He leaned back in his chair and stared up at his high rising ceiling.

It had been troublesome, losing Dorado. While the man may have had his problems outside of the job, Dorcis had counted on the scarred man to be not only his adviser, but also his connection to some of the more... seedier aspects of his profession. If he ever found the woman that had killed him, well, she wouldn't live long enough to regret her actions.

It was something that could be fixed, however. Dorcis had a lot of fingers in a lot of pies. A replacement for Dorado could and would be found in due time. Now, he needed to focus on finding a replacement for his protege. He had hoped Blueblood would have proven to be a valuable ally in the long run, in between his wealthy family and eye for detail. Shame the young man had shown to be incompetent in everything Dimitri had asked of him.

Oh well, can't dwell on mistakes, he thought. Dorcis checked his pocket watch. It was about time for an interview. The older man bridged out his fingers and waited.

Like clockwork, he heard a knock at his door. A mustached man wearing a straw hat and a blue and white pinstripe suit sauntered in.

“Got an interview candidate ready for you, my good man,” he addressed, reaching into his breast pocket and running a comb through his red and white hair.

“Have them come in, Mr. Flam,” Dimitri ordered. The other gave a small bow and returned to the door. He opened it once more and gave a flourished wave of his hand over towards Dorcis. In stepped a woman, just a hair older than Blueblood. She adjusted her violet cloak swarmed with stars and long, pointed hat of the same design before staring arrogantly at Dorcis.

“Greetings.” the older man smirked from across the expansive room. “I was not expecting such a beauty to come through the door.”

“Trixie hardly believes you,” she addressed, brushing her pure white bangs to the side of her face and pompously sticking her nose up. “Trixie can tell you've been reading my dossier.”

“You're correct.” He tapped the file on his desk and rose. He didn't need to look it over to recite most of the information on it—instead he stood at the front of his desk and theatrically put a hand to his temple and held a finger in the air. “Trixie Lulamoon. Twenty-six years of age and attending Cloudsdale Academy. Entered said Academy with the intent to get a degree in Magical Harmonics. A noble degree if you're intent on strengthening your powers in order to administer surgery or take up the sword as a solider.” He coldly smiled. “However, I have my doubts you hold the most noble goals in mind.” He gestured to the folder behind him. “There's a criminal record in there. Three counts of necromancy. 'Black magic begets a black heart,' as the old saying goes.”

“Is Trixie going to have to listen to you prattle on for ages, or will you get to the point already?” she asked, staring unafraid at the powerfully built man. Kid had spunk, Dorcis liked that.

“I'll be blunt then: I can tell by your... eccentric word usage, you're a woman from Caballo's northlands—and you share something with your minotaur brothers, aside from your habit of speaking as you do. Your kind's pragmatic. Practical.” He leaned forward. “You know not to ask questions when bits are on the line.”

The woman crossed her arms over her blue dress. “The Great and Powerful Trixie is listening. What needs done?” She looked at him harder. “And, better yet, what would my reward be?”