The train finally rolled into the station at three in the morning. Jack blearily gazed at her traveling companions still laying fast asleep. Stephanie resting her head on Rarity's lap, and the beauteous tailor leaning her head back and snoring inelegantly. Jack held back at the sight, barely managing to keep her laugh in check. instead, she scooted over to Rarity and moved the woman's face slightly. She debated on closing her nose, but decided to play nice by gently running the back of her hand down the soul-folk's soft cheek.

“Mmm?” she gave a questioning moan.

“We're here, sug.” Jack smiled, then let out a hearty yawn.

“Did you sleep at all?” Rarity questioned, moving from her seat and gently putting Stephine's head on the cushion. She spared a glance over at Pinkie, who had her mouth open and was drooling on the back of the seat.

“Fer a bit. Jus' roused a bit quicker than y'all.” She gazed out at the empty country station. Sure, Ponyville wasn't exactly a big city, but here felt almost lonely in comparison. “Let's get yer crap.”

“It's not 'crap,' Jack. It's accessories,” Rarity huffed, moving over to Pinkie and shaking her awake. “Pinkie, your stop is coming up.”

Diane snapped to attention, blinking in surprise. “Aw, and I had such a weird dream too—you were in it, and we were at this big, fancy party, and you were talking with Spike and you two were all kissy, and—“

“Ok, darling. I'm sure it was quite interesting,” Rarity said, patting the girl's hand. She rose, moving to her sister and shaking her awake.

“Five more minutes,” Stephine groaned.

“Five more minutes and we'll miss our stop. Come along, sweetie,” Rarity instructed, grabbing her bags from the overhead storage and handing four to Jack, then taking the last two for herself. “We'll see you later on, Diane,” she called over her shoulder.

“Yepperoni! I might even stop by to visit!” Pinkie said, giving a small giggle. “You two lovebirds have fun!”

“I'm sure we'll think of somethin' ta do,” Jack agreed, making her way to the door. “Later, sug.”

The three stepped outside onto the train station; the farmer tilted her stetson back. “Kinda surprised Mac ain't 'round. I sent him a message a few days back 'bout us comin'.” Jack put the cases down and rubbed at the back of her neck. “Then again, harvest season's probably took a lot out of him—bet he's dead ta the world.”

“Harvest season?” Rarity repeated, making her way towards the station's interior. “Apples?” she guessed.

“Eyup. Apples and zapapples, plus, dependin' on when the heck we planted it, spinach an' swiss chard.” She adjusted her belt and lifted the bags again. “We got a chart at the house on when ta harvest what, for those quicker growin' plants—I'd have ta look at it ta see what I gotta do while I'm here.”

They entered the lobby; with a small nod towards a man working behind the lobby's counter, they stepped back outside where a hooded figure sat cross-legged in the middle of the road, a robe obscuring every feature of their body and a long walking staff resting against their shoulder.

Jack gave a small gesture to Rarity and Stephanie, then approached, ready to spring into action at a moment's notice. After a second of observation, she relaxed and gave a friendly nod the figure's way.

“Howdy, Zecora.”

The figure rose, using the staff as support. “I have been waiting for quite a while,” a mellow, accented voice stated. With a free hand, the figure pulled back their robe's hood, revealing a woman a few years Jack's senior, with smooth, silky black hair that spilled wildly down her shoulders. Her turquoise eyes gazed searchingly over the farmer. After a brief pause, her narrow lips split into a kind grin that stretched across her ebony skin and nearly touched the white stripes that ran horizontally across her entire body. “It's very nice to see your smile.”

She clapped Jack on the back and wordlessly took a bag from the woman, then spun on her heels, walking briskly the other way. Jack gestured for the others to follow after her.

“Ah, shoot,” Jack quickly said after a moment's walking. She glanced over at the sisters. “Fergot ta introduce ya both.” She nodded at the robed woman. “This here's Zecora Zasamel, a medicine woman all the way from Africa, an' more importantly, a family friend.”

“Greetings. I'm Rarity Belle, and this is my sister, Stephanie.” Rarity gestured to the child.

“Hello,” Stephanie muttered, moving weakly on her feet and dragging up the tail end of the party. Zecora looked over her shoulder and smiled at the child.

“Mac asleep?” Jack asked.

“He needed the rest, yesterday was hard. Some cattle broke out and fled onto the yard.”

“Fence needs fixing?”

Zecora nodded, kicking a loose stone off of the stone walkway. She gazed down the path as it twisted past a gentle, sloping hill.

“Figures,” the blonde groaned. “Jus' can't win with cows sometimes.”

Rarity paused, setting her bag down on the ground and leaning her arms on it, doing her best to catch her breath.

“We're not too far off, sug. Jus' a mile at most,” Jack reassured. She looked over her partner. “Ya need me ta carry yers?”

“I'll be fine,” Rarity said, wiping at her brow and picking up the bag once more. After a few minutes, her sister sighed heavily.

“My feet hurt,” Stephanie complained, still plodding behind everyone and staring at the bushes and trees they passed by.

Rarity glanced up at the sky, silently asking if she was being punished for something. “Just a bit more, sweetie.”

“I'm cold.”

Rarity said nothing, giving as much of a reassuring smile towards the girl as she could.

“...I think I saw a snake.”

“Where?!” Rarity shrieked, hopping back and flailing in a raw panic. Jack tensed at the loud noise, already planning where to toss the bags she held. She paused, relaxing her body once she connected the pieces.

“Can y'all keep it down fer jus' a few minutes?” she snapped, rubbing at her tired eyes. “We ain't got much farther, alright?”

“One thing you have to say is true, you have quite the lively crew,” Zecora quipped as she plodded onward, bearing a wide smile.

Several minutes later, they arrived by a heavy wooden fencepost that lead to a well-familiar sign for the farmer. A good twelve feet high, decorated in proud letters on a wooden backdrop were the words 'Sweet Apple Acres.' The farmer took in a deep breath and smiled.

“Smells like home.” Jack nodded as Zecora let out a small laugh.

They walked down the dirt road for a few moments, Jack already planning what she needed to work on tomorrow and Rarity all but dead on her feet at the ungodly hour. The dirt path rose up a small hill, where, standing proud at the hill's peak was a well-built two story house that had seen years of wear and tear; its shingles were barren in patches, and Jack knew there were dozens of spots in back that had been chipped or were missing paint, not even mentioning all the squeeky wooden steps or a few odd nailheads jutting out from the place. Still though, it was home, and nothing looked more appealing to her.

“Something is not quite right,” Zecora muttered, pointing towards the house. “The front porch has a light.”

Sure enough, a dim glow from a lantern illuminated the porch. Jack squinted towards the distance and could make out a large, imposing shape resting on a rocking chair.

“Lookin' like Mac waited up fer us,” the farmer replied. Zecora rolled her eyes.

“That man should go to bed on time. I should give him a piece of my mind.”

“Usually he's out like a light by now,” she agreed, taking a step up the base of the hill.

“His back lately has caused him to ache. Perhaps when I shifted from bed, I turned him awake.”

Jack paused. Wait a second. Are they sleepin' together? I knew there was somethin' goin' on.

The ebony woman saw Jack's hesitation. “You seem to be in a bit of shock.”

She shrugged. “I dunno. I knew he had feelin's fer ya, jus' expected him ta say somethin' ta me in a letter, I guess.”

“You know he isn't one to talk.”

Jack knew that was the truth. Zecora took a few steps forward, the heavy hoop earrings clanking with every movement her sensual body made.

“I'll go on ahead. I'm sure the Belles' wish to retire to bed.”

“Gracious of you, Zecora,” Rarity said. Stephanie yawned, only barely aware of her surroundings.

The tribalwoman nodded, briskly walking ahead of them. Jack slowed down her own pace to march alongside Rarity.

“What ya think?” she drawled out.

“I think I'd like to bathe before retiring tonight,” Rarity replied.

Jack offered a sly smile her way and spoke in a quite whisper. “Careful, sug. I jus' might be tempted ta join ya.”

Rarity gave a sultry smile of her own. “And I might let you.”

She frowned, heat rushing to her face. “I jus' can't win against ya with this flirty stuff, can I?”

The soul-folk laughed, the small bags under her eyes from lack of sleep doing nothing to hide her beauty from Jack. “You simply don't know how to play the game.” Rarity grew briefly quiet after she said this, their footsteps and crickets the only noise around. “It's refreshing in its own right, Jack. Someone that doesn't know the game and is instead simply... upfront about their affections.” She hummed in thought. “There's quite a bit refreshing about you, darling, compared to some of the other rabble I associate with.”

Jack said nothing. The timid smile thrown Rarity's way was all she needed to say on the matter.

They came to the porch just as Zecora went inside, gently shutting the screen door behind her. Macintosh rose from his rocking chair, gazing down at everyone. He paused for a moment on seeing his sister's scar, but seemed to not mention it.

“Howdy, Jack,” he quietly rumbled out in his heavy baritone voice. Jack put the bags she was carrying down and stepped up to the man, hugging him tightly.

“'Howdy' yerself.” She smiled, looking up at the giant of a man. The earth-folk then gestured behind her. “I reckon it's a bit late fer a proper introduction, but this here's Rarity and Stephanie Belle. Girls, this here's Big Macintosh. Mac fer short.”

“I can see why you live up to the moniker,” Rarity agreed. “You're definitely the tallest man I've seen—norfolk's being the exception.”

“I get that sometimes,” he agreed. “Now, y'all run off ta bed—I'm sure tomorrow's gonna be a whole slew of new ta ya, so sleep while ya can.”

“I'll take the rest of yer bags up ta yer room, once I'm done jawin',” Jack added.

Rarity gave a nod of thanks, then shepherded Stephanie inside. Once the screen door shut behind them, Mac walked over to the porches railing and leaned against it.

“Didn't know you were havin' company,” he said. Jack joined him, resting her forearms on the wooden planks and staring out at the view she had been painfully homesick for.

“Sent ya a letter 'bout a week ago.”

“Only one I saw was from a couple weeks back 'bout bein' home fer Hearth Warmin'. Ya use Soul-folk transit?”

“Nah, standard.”

“Wouldn't doubt it still bein' out ta God knows where, then.”

She listened once more to the crickets chirping across the well-trimmed lawn then glanced towards the barn in the distance. Hopefully it was full of this years produce.

“I reckon I missed apple harvest?”

“Apple an' zapapple.” He nodded.

Jack nodded, groaning inwardly at missing one of the most tedious and overwhelming harvests they did here, the fact that Mac had to do it on his own... “We, uh, break even?” she finally asked.

“Zecora was a life saver this year.” He sighed, looking haggard. “Hired a hand from town, between him an' her, we got most of it done. Actually turned a bit of a profit—maybe more if the zapapple jam makes a killin'.” Mac gave a hinting glance her way. “Some of the rotten apples still hangin' on the trees I reckon we can use as slop fer the pigs.”

“I'll get the rest of them taken care of, first thing in the morning.” Jack tilted her head in thought. “How's Granny?”

“Bout as well as you'd think.” He looked down at his hands and bit at his lip. “She's jus' 'bout gone. Bedridden, delirious. Her body ain't fightin' what she has.”

“Christ,” Jack muttered, glancing at the wooden flooring. “What are we gonna do?”

Mac evenly gazed at her. “Same thing we've been doin', Jack. Make her as happy and as comfortable as we can, 'fore the end.”

“H-how much time we talkin', Mac?”

He shrugged his meaty shoulders. “Could be tomorrow, could be a week, could be five years. I jus' know she ain't gonna get better than she already is.”

Jack grunted in acknowledgment. “I remember her always bein' pretty spry, ya know? Ta think of her like this...”

“Eyup.”

They stood together, each lost in thought about their ailing grandmother. The woman finally decided to change the subject. “So. I hear Zecora's doin' a bit more than jus' cookin' an' chores fer ya.”

He froze, looking nearly panicked. “Uh...”

“Relax. I ain't judging. In fact, I'm happy fer ya.” She glanced to the bags on the floor. “Besides... I'd be a hypocrite if I was mad at ya fer not spillin' the beans.” Jack nodded towards the upstairs guestroom. “That gal I brought ain't jus' a friend, ya understand?”

Macintosh nodded in his slow, plodding, thoughtful way. Jack braced herself for the torrent of questions he was bound to ask. 'How'd you meet?' 'Do you even have anything in common?' 'Can you trust a city-girl like that?' Instead, he stared up at the sky and chewed on the hay stalk in his mouth.

“Ya love her?”

She paused, looking towards her brother. He kept the same neutral gaze he always had, still lazily looking towards the sky. In a way, Jack felt like she was being tested by him. Still, she knew the answer in a heartbeat.

“With everythin' I got, Mac.”

“An' she treat ya right?”

Jack nodded. “Better than I deserve.”

“Then that's all that needs said.” He leaned back, popping his back.

“That's it?” Jack asked, blinking in surprise.

“That's it,” he answered with a ghost of a smile. “Yer better at readin' people than me anyhow.”

She smirked, punching him on the arm, then turned and grabbed Rarity's bags. “Head in, Mac. We got ourselves some work tomorrow.”

“Right behind ya,” he drawled.

Jack pulled out an iron nail she had in her breast pocket and drove it into the last loose board on the fence with a hammer. She wiped at her brow with the back of her hand and gave a few testing tugs on the fenceline. While it wasn't rock solid, it'd do for cattle. She rolled her wrist, briefly taking in the dewy morning ambiance. The breeze blew gently through the air, carrying with it the scent of the apple orchards and the smell of crisp autumn. She turned and leaned against the fence, looking toward the house in the distance and the figure slowly approaching her through the yellowing grass.

It was Rarity, dressed—well, she was never fully casual, but this was about as close as she'd get—a set of tight jeans, designer boots, and a long-sleeved brown blouse. When she got closer, she called out Jack's name and the farmer wordlessly approached, meeting her in the middle.

“Mornin', sug,” Jack announced. “Sleep well?”

“Better than I have in a long time.” She looked over the land, at the grazing cattle in the distance, towards the house where the apple trees grew, then at the cornfields, before finally returning her gaze to Jack. “While this is traditionally far outside my interests, I have to admit, there's a certain... aesthetic beauty to your home.”

“That there 'woobi-subi' deal?” she asked, tilting her head.

“What?”

“Ya know... what ya called me that one time... that Japanese word.”

“Wabi-sabi, darling.”

“Yeah. Ain't that what I said?”

“I-if you say so,” Rarity stammered out.

“So,” Jack started, glancing back to her finished work. “What brings ya to the great outdoors?”

“Well, I wanted to help, if I could.”

The farmer gave a dubious stare Rarity's way. “How, exactly?”

“I'm not some helpless princess, I can work too,” she argued.

“I never said ya couldn't. Hell, I know ya got the ethic, judgin' by all those clothes ya make. It's jus' a bit more... physical than that.” Her gaze grew concerned. “Plus yer still a bit puny after what Trixie did ta ya. Ain't no need ta aggravate yer condition.”

“I'll be fine, Jack. Where to?”

“Gotta clear out some apple trees they didn't get to durin' harvest.” She took to walking, going past Rarity; the soul-folk quickly matched her pace, grabbing Jack's hand and entwining their fingers together.

“Yer always so touchy,” Jack said.

“Do you not like it?”

The farmer shook her head. “I like it.” She slowed down her pace a bit, enjoying the solitude of the morning and the closeness she had with the woman for the moment. “Yer jus' the right amount of clingy ta me.”

“I am not clingy,” Rarity huffed out.

“Keep tellin' yerself that, sug. Maybe it'll be true one day.”

They made their way to the apple groves, where Rarity smiled meekly towards the other. “I have a bit of a confession to make.”

Jack said nothing, looking down at the buckets surrounding one of the trees. Sparing a glance up at its fruit, she could tell instantly that dozens of the still-hanging apples were rotting. The farmer felt over the tree's bark, her hand coming to rest at a worn, smooth spot the size of a dinner plate about at her collarbone. “What ya got?”

“Well, I spoke with your brother earlier and told him we—“

The blonde reared back and struck the tree directly on the smooth spot with her fist. The tree flinched and dozens of apples rained down, landing into baskets placed under the branches. Jack popped her knuckles and moved onto the next tree in line, leaving an open-mouthed Rarity standing and trying to process what just happened.

“Darling, did you just punch that tree and cause it to rain fruit?”

“Eyup. Lil' skill my grandpa taught my pa, then he taught it ta me.” She ran a thumb over a smooth, barkless patch on the trunk, giving it a small tap with the back of her knuckle. “Hit a tree jus' right an' it'll vibrate an' drop its load. Me an' Mac got it down pat. Helps with harvest a ton more than jus' pickin' by hand. It's how we're solvent.”

“Solvent?” Rarity repeated.

“Word-a-day calender,” Jack said with a dismissive wave. “Now, what were ya wantin' ta say ta me?”

“Well, your brother and I had a conversation this morning.”

She grinned. “He's a heck of a talker, ain't he? Bet ya couldn't get a word in edgewise.”

“His silence spoke volumes,” she agreed with a small smile of her own. “But he did, however, suggest something.” Rarity gave an excited clap of her hands. “A double date at a jazz club!”

“Didn't know ya liked that sorta stuff.” Jack slammed her fist into another tree, then rotated her wrist, hearing a satisfying pop from it.

“Absolutely, darling! Jazz is quite the cultured creature, after all. I've heard many of my clients call it 'music of the soul.'”

“It ain't a 'cultured' thing, sug. It's a nitty-gritty thing. Like life is.” She reared back and struck another tree, then wiped at her forehead. Rarity tossed her handkerchief Jack's way; the farmer nodded in thanks and ran it over her brow, before offering it back to Rarity. The soul-folk took one look at it and grimaced slightly.

“K-keep it, dear. At least until it gets washed.”

“Lil' sweat ain't gonna do ya in.” Jack rolled her eyes. “But fine.” She bent down and started collecting baskets, loading herself up with several. Rarity joined her, picking up one and nearly dropping it at its surprising weight.

She placed it down and focused her magic, levitating it in front of her and wrapping another in her magical aura.

“Come on, Rare. Let's get these ta the scrap heap.” She then added in a grumble. “If I had half a mind, I woulda brought the damn wagon here instead.”

They walked a bit away, towards a small, fenced off area loaded with dozens of rotting vegetables. Rarity nearly gagged at the scent. “Why in the heavens—“

“Fertilizer, slop fer pigs, mostly. It gets put ta use pretty often.” She unloaded the rotting apples over the fenceline, unfazed by the smell. Rarity walked slowly towards the rot, her face contorting in horror with every step closer to the bin. Jack grabbed the baskets of apples and threw them over herself, shaking her head at Rarity.

“So,” she said, adjusting her ponytail a bit. “If it's all of us, who's watchin' the kids an' Granny?”

“Your cousin... uh... Rayburn?”

“Braeburn?” Jack blinked. “Well shootfire. I ain't seen him in a coon's age! Wonder why he's makin' the hike ta Mansfield?”

“Hearth's Warming feast?”

“True, I guess.” Jack beamed. “Man, been forever since it's been more than me, Mac, Bloom an' Granny at the meal.” She paused briefly, her thoughts drawing to her grandmother. This might be her last one... it was a dumb thing to just realize now, but it still hit her with the subtly of a hammer to the face. It might be her last one, and she didn't even have a clue what to say to the woman that took care of her all these years. Especially considering her descent into dementia. It was overwhelming to think of, so, at least for the moment, she shoved it in the back of her mind and put on a brave face for her guest.

The two walked back to the trees; Rarity smiled coyly at Jack. “I presume after you finish, you'll... 'wash up,' as it were?”

“Reckon so. It'll be some hours later, but I'll need ta take offa workin' a hair early ta get some halfway decent duds on.”

“Perhaps I could interest you in some different clothing for tonight?” Rarity offered. “Why, I just so happen to have a dress with me that would be quite lovely on—“

“No sale,” Jack replied.

“But—“

“I ain't wearin' no girly dress. Yer jus' gonna have ta deal with it.”

“Oh very well,” Rarity snapped. She turned and started walking away. “I'll return to the house and prepare lunch.”

“Lookin' forward ta it, sug.”

Twila sat at her desk, going over the papers laying on top of it. She flicked through them with a disinterested snap of her hand, each one sliding behind the other in a neat little pile. The soul-folk leaned back in her chair, listening to the artificial ocean beat on against her Dreamscape's shore, the afternoon light spilling though the thin lace curtains covering the door leading to her outside balcony.

Once she had talked with Dash regarding the scholarship and they both began digging into the dozens and dozens of names, a few oddities sprouted up. For starters, every recipient had at one point or another broken the law—some were acquitted, others jailed for brief stints in prison and a few had their charges mysteriously dropped without any form of legal intervention. What really drew Twila's attention, though, were some of the names on the list. Nearly half of Celestia and Luna's council were recipients of that very scholarship.

A knock at her door took her attention away from the dozens and dozens of stacked papers and notes scribbled across many of the documents. Wadsworth, her butler, entered, brandishing a strawberry parfait on a silver tray. He bowed crisply, and with reserved affection. “Madam's two-o-clock snack.”

“I don't know why I eat or drink in here,” she stated, taking the food and scooping a few bites into her mouth. “As soon as I leave my Dreamscape, I'll have the physical sensation again—this is only a mental blockade.”

“That is true, madam.” he nodded. “Does it at least taste satisfactory?”

“Like a dream,” she half-joked, before sighing and looking down at her workplace.

Wadsworth spared a brief glance at the folder on the desk lined with papers, his gray eyes taking in the items. “Quite the workload.”

“Quite indeed. It's why I'm researching here, rather than my dormitory. I need the extra time this state gives me to study over the files.”

“I understand, madam.” He brought the tray up to his chest and stared hard at her. “But I should remind you of something I'm sure Lady Celestia has mentioned before: You should take care not to stay for too long here, madam. The rainy season's almost upon us.”

“Rainy season?” she repeated, turning to face the young, lanky man and thinking hard at his words, if they had any significance. He was a part of her subconscious, so they should, but... “What rainy season?”

“I'm sure you've noticed.” Wadsworth pointed out the windows. In a stark contrast of the bright day, far off, at the very edge of her vision, dark clouds sat beyond the hills and mountains of the town. “There's a storm coming.” He gazed at her, his expression nearly fearful. “I would hate for you to get caught in it, madam. I'd suggest you depart soon.”

A distant growl of thunder. He quickly nodded his head, licking at his lips. “Very soon.”

Twila rose, walking in a daze towards the window. She looked. In the distance, straddling the hills that marked the very far end of her playground, were dark, oppressive clouds had swallowed the town's very outer reaches. Down below in the town proper, all life seemed to have stopped. Children playing baseball, frozen in mid-toss. Couples walking hand-in-hand down the road paused in stride. Birds, frozen in air. All were frozen, trapped and dead in place, save for one. A hooded figure, swathed in black shadows traveled along the street, heading towards her. The figure paused, snapping its vision upward, toward the window Twila stood by. The soul-folk flinched; there was no way the figure could see her up here, yet...

Her dread intensified with every step closer the shadowy figure took—Twila quickly gestured, dispelling the scene before her, the land, the study, Wadsworth, and found herself in the comfort of the white void that separated reality from her Dreamscape. Another gesture put her back in her dorm, sitting on her bed and visibly shaking.

Almost on cue, a knock came from the door leading to the school's hall; she yelped in surprise, clutching at her heart.

“You ok in there, bro?” Isabelle asked from beyond the door. Twila could feel her heart rate slowly fall.

“Y-yes,” the soul-folk replied. “Give me a moment, I'm, uh, not dressed properly.” She looked down at her well-pressed dress and leggings, taking the moment the bluff gave her to catch her breath. What had happened in her Dreamscape shouldn't be possible. Visitors in her realm being the exception, she controlled everything there. No cryptic warnings, no approaching rain, and certainly no hooded figure should have been there unless she willed it.

She rose and took a step forward—

—Only to find herself back inside her Dreamscape's study. Wind howled at the room's windows; clouds, black as coals coated the sky. Thunder spoke like the utterances of a mad god. From downstairs came a knock at the front door. Three, heavy, pounds—

—Twila stumbled forward with a yell, landing on her dorm's carpet. She turned onto her back and lay looking at her ceiling, her heart struggling to break free from her ribcage with every pound.

“The hell's going on in there, Twila?! Are you alright?!” Dash asked. Twila didn't answer—couldn't answer. She heard Isabelle swear once more under her breath. “I'm coming in!”

The door was thrown open and Isabelle stepped inside, looking panicked at seeing the soul-folk collapsed on the ground. “Oh God—you ok?!”

Twila swallowed. “I... I think so.”

Dash hoisted her up and sat her on the bed. “What happened?”

“Lightheaded,” Twila replied. That wasn't the whole of it, of course, but she was feeling exactly that at the moment. “Must of fell.”

“Blood sugar low or something? My uncle has that happen sometimes.”

“No.” The soul-folk swallowed, leaning her head back. “I wish it was just that,” she added under her breath.

“Then what?” The Ritter scratched at her multi-hued hair, quirking a brow. She yawned, not even bothering to cover her mouth.

“It's nothing. I'll be fine, Dash.” Twila pursed her lips. “What brings you to my humble abode?”

“Are you sure you're o—“

“Yes, yes, yes. Please.”

“Alright...” she dubiously replied. “Was just seeing if that info I got you had been helping any for our, uh, 'research project?'”

“The police records have been much appreciated, Isabelle—“

“Call me 'Dash,' egghead,” the athlete reminded.

“Alright.” Twila rolled her eyes. “Anyway... yes. I can confirm our hypothesis. Every recipient of that scholarship has been involved in some form of criminal doing. I checked the list and double-checked it.”

“But did you double-check your double-check?” Dash dryly asked, leaning against the nearby wall.

“Of course,” she said, missing Isabelle's obvious joke. The soul-folk rose, finally starting to calm down a bit, and made her way to the dorm's single table. She reached into the desk and pulled out a thick manilla envelope, then pulled out two folders, handing both to Dash. “The first folder contains a collection of higher-end government names that have received that grant. The second folder are potential people we can talk about it with—people more accessible than the first batch. Perhaps we can get some info from them.”

“I hear you, egghead. I'll find someone in here I can put the screws to.” She gazed through the documents, rubbing her thumb over a profile that was stuck to another. Isabelle pulled it free and froze. Without a word, she rose, tossing the folder to the side and heading out the door.

“Dash?” Twila asked as the sky-folk stomped outside. She stared after the woman, then frowned, returning to her work. Or, well, at least attempting to. Her heart was still painfully reminding her of the scare she had inside her Dreamscape. What was it? What did it mean? She drummed the top of her dorm's desk in thought, the pace of her fingers fast and without rhythm as she thought long and hard about the scene that had played out before her: one of clouds and shadows and dark figures. She needed answers—her mind and the power within it should be a safehaven, not an area she felt was off-limits to her due to fear. Twila needed to find out everything she could about what was going on inside her chaotic thoughts. The soul-folk rose, stumbling slightly and taking another deep breath, then heading to the door.

It was time to do some research.