Jack paced across her dorm room, the sound of her steps loud on the floor. Painfully loud. She stopped, looking over to where Chylene knelt, tending to Twila. Pinkie sat on the edge of Jack's bed, her usual bright personality faded as she looked over at her injured friend.

The farmer couldn't take it any more, she turned to Chylene. “How she doin', doc?”

“I'm a veterinarian in training, not a doctor.” She crossed her arms, frowning. “I did all I could to stabilize her condition, but...”

“But what?” Jack pressed. Chylene weakly shrugged.

“When soul-folk have.. uh, when they're like... “

“Bleedin' from their eyes?”

Chylene nodded. “I've never heard of anyone recovering from that...”

“This is all my damn fault.” She suddenly jerked forward, thrusting her fist out and busting easily through the drywall. “This whole thing.”

Chylene surprisingly didn't flinch. “You don't believe that, do you?”

“Rarity's gone, Twila might be dyin', who the hell else coulda cause it?” she harshly snapped, putting her fists against the side of her head and squeezing. “Goddammit...” she said, quietly.

“She'll be fine, Jackie,” Pinkie offered, weakly smiling. “She's really good with surprises. I'm sure this'll be another. I promise.”

Chylene nodded. “Twila's one of the best magic channelers I've seen. If anyone can make a miracle happen, it's her.”

Twila watched Jack fall, listened to her scream as she plummeted down from the balcony. The soul-folk turned away, still hearing the sickening crack of Jack's body landing on the stone, and came nearly face-to-face with her black, featureless assailant, his hand out menacingly close and reaching for her blindly. Twila recoiled, stepping back and nearly toppling over the railing herself. The shadow took one step forward, then another. Twila was paralyzed with a raw, uncompromising terror she hadn't felt in all her years living. She could hear the creature's strange, rattling breaths.

Right before he bore his hand down onto her, she heard a hard crack from deeper in the room. A bright, impossibly bright light flooded her senses, blinding her.

She opened her eyes. The creature spasmed horrifically before her, its hands jittering and rising to wrap around the shaft of an ornate spear protruding from its chest. Twila glanced behind the beast.

A woman stood, her combat stance perfect, rigid and strong, yet flexible and yielding, and offering no weak points as she held the shaft of her spear, embedded in the still writhing creature. Her featureless, void-black features and dull steel armor that seemed to house a silvery luminescence gave the lanky woman a nightmarish appearance. The chestpiece was spiked and grim. The gauntlets clawed. The helmet came to a hard point at her forehead, reminding Twila of a heavy widow's peak. She spared a glance, only a fraction of a second, before returning her attention to the beast, but that second was all Twila needed.

Despite the frightening appearance, she knew. It was Luna behind the nightmare.

The creature slumped over finally, its arms going limp and sinking to its knees. Just as Luna tugged at her spear to pry it free, the hooded figure seemed to collapse in on itself, almost melting into the ground, crawling across the ground like a swarm of insects, before rising from the ground several feet away, whole.

Luna turned, putting herself between Twila and the creature, her muscles tensed and poised, ready to strike. The creature distorted again, vibrating then snapping an arm forward, stretching it to impossible lengths. Luna gave a small, whip-crack snap up with her spear, severing the creature's hand moments before it made contact with her. It pulled its arm back, leaking black fluid, the color and thickness reminding Twila of tar. As the fluid made contact with the floor, it writhed like maggots, squirming and gyrating desperately, slowly coming into contact with one another and forming a large pool. The creature reached down with his arm, dipping into the tar-substance and picking it up from the floor, its hand completely repaired. Before their eyes, the hooded figure's hand shifted, morphing into a large, deadly spike. Twila could hear a small huff from Luna.

“Thou art making this interesting,” Luna remarked in a hard tone, gripping her spear and throwing her body forward, charging at the monster; the creature followed suit, its distorted hand raised and at the ready to rain down a blow upon Luna's head.

The girls heard a sort of scraping sound from the hallway, then another, back and forth in half-second intervals. The noise came to a crescendo when Isabelle stepped into the room, donned from head to toe in steel plate armor. She leaned over, taking in a few breaths of air.

“A-alright, Twila,” she announced, rising and looking over to the group. “What's the...” She paused, taking a moment to process the scene before her. “T-Twila?” Rushing forward, she pushed Jack to the side and knelt down next to Chylene. “What the hell happened, man?”

“She... she helped me out, Dash,” Jack muttered, moving to the rest of the girls. “I didn't know where that Dmitri guy took her an' she found out.” She clenched her teeth, turning away from them. “It's my damn fault. All of this.”

Dash shook her head. “There's no time for a guilt trip, bro.” She turned back to Chylene. “Is she gonna be alright?”

“I don't know,” Chylene openly admitted, her voice stronger than normal as she did her best to keep calm under the circumstance. “She's breathing stable, but her body's hot, like it's fighting off a massive infection. This isn't something I know about.”

“Guess there's nothing me or Jack can do, yeah?”

“If there is, I don't know what it'd be.”

Dash nodded, turning to the farmer. “Someone's nabbed your girl, it's time we visit him. Show me a map.”

“What?”

Isabelle rolled her eyes. “You're not that friggin' stupid. I'm coming with you. Show me a map, we'll fly there and take care of business.”

“No,” Jack slowly replied, shaking her head. “I can't let the rest of y'all get hurt.”

“Bro...” Dash gave a tap to her breastplate, letting a small clang pass through the room. “I'm not exactly defenseless. Let's get ready.”

“But—“ Jack started to sputter, Dash shook her head.

“No 'buts' here. I owe you. It's your hour of need, Rarity's too. So gear up, shut up, and let's go. Clock's ticking.”

Dash brushed past Jack and left the room. Jack turned mechanically towards Chylene and Diane.

“Chylene. Take care of Twila fer me. Pinkie...” Jack gave her words some thought, then spoke once more. “Give me an' Dash a coupla hours start, then call the police.” She walked over and tossed open a textbook. After thumbing through a few pages, Jack came to a map of the country. Matching up where Twila had said Rarity was being taken to, she looked once more to Pinkie.

“Tell 'em Rarity's been kidnapped, an' she's bein' held west of a town called Southhearth.”

“Why not call them now?” Chylene offered, reaching to her side and placing ice onto Twila's forehead.

Jack gave a small rise of her hands, an unsure shrug as she walked to a knapsack and took to filling it with supplies. Water canteen, bandages, a knife. “I'm scared that he might do somethin' ta her if a buncha cops jus' up an' knock at his door. 'Least with me an' Dash, we might have a chance ta sneak in.” She reached over to the large blade resting nearby, hesitating for only a moment before slinging the sheath over her back, then the rest of her supplies.

Jack turned and stared at her friends. She shuffled on her feet. “I, uh, ain't sure how ta say it. Don't really know what I need ta say here, ya know? Jus'... if I don't make it...” She offered as large of a smile as she could, given the circumstances, and nodded. “Y’all were some of the best friends I ever had. Y’all are family ta me.”

Chylene swallowed and exhaled, hard. “Y-you too, Jack. Be safe.”

“You're my bestest friend too, Jackie!” Pinkie exclaimed, nodding. “And best friends don't say goodbye like this. Nope! Nuh-uh! It's why I know Twila's gonna get better too! So I know it's not goodbye for you, Jackie! It's just ''till next time,' ok?”

She took a sharp, surprised breath in. “Y-yeah...” Jack finally agreed, freezing for a brief moment at Diane's words. After collecting herself, though, she dumbly nodded. “'Till next time.”

The air turned chill as the carriage marched on. Rarity crossed her arms and grimaced, looking out the window at the slowly fading sun, pulling the golden hues of the evening away from the snow-kissed horizon.

They had been traveling for hours now, ever since the sun had been dead-noon, and Rarity could certainly feel it. Her arms were numb from the shackles; her wrists were rubbed raw from the cuffs; her back ached and her throat was painfully dry.

“Are you alright?” Dmitri asked. Rarity could hear the smugness in his voice. She said nothing, refused to give him the satisfaction of her complaints. He quietly chuckled. “Well, don't worry. We're almost where we need to be.”

True to his word, they rode for about another twenty minutes before going downhill, leveling out, then going down a sharp, twisting incline. Rarity glanced wearily out the window. They appeared to be in a wide, massive crater that stretched to the horizon, obscuring what remained of the sunshine. Dmitri chuckled.

“A meteor hit this place when I was a child,” the man explained. He reached to the side of the carriage, pulling out a long, impressive oak cane, leaning on it. “I spent years hiring workers to build a home for me here.”

Rarity said nothing, wordlessly staring at him and he continued, holding an unsettling smirk.

“It has a certain elegance, wouldn't you agree?”

She scoffed. “There is no elegance in anything you touch.”

He kept that same odd, predatory grin and adjusted his cane, bringing it up and running it delicately across the side of her face.

“Is that so...?” he pondered aloud before quickly pulling the cane back, then snapped it towards Rarity again. The soul-folk flinched, wincing preemptively. After a beat, she opened her eyes. The cane was held level by her temple, a mere inch shy of impact.

“Perhaps I do lack social grace and elegance, as you put it,” he admitted, far too chipper. “But that's just the way things are.”

“You're mad.”

“Mad?” he repeated, rolling the word in his tongue. Finally, he rolled his eyes. “Of course not. I'm bored. Do you have any idea on how stifling these... societal rules are? When it's all said and done, I'm saving Cabello.”

The carriage finally, mercifully came to a stop. The shackles holding her in place were released; she took to rubbing one of her aching wrists. Dmitri rose up, humming to himself as he stepped out the door. Rarity wanted to strike him, but knew it'd be a pointless endeavor. He held out his hand to help her down. She promptly ignored it, turning her nose up at him, then paused, taking stock of where they were.

Before her was a massive home—no, more akin to a mansion—that stretched high into the heavens. Dozens of brown spires rose from the house, twisted, queer things reminding Rarity less of peaks and more of deformed licorice. In fact, the whole mansion had an unsettling wrongness to it. The massive door leading inside a clenched jaw. The windows, what few there were, narrowed eyes. The stone, diseased skin hidden under makeup.

The wind groaned, almost speaking horrible whispers to her, but settling for careless gibberish.

Gilda and the driver both hopped off the carriage, Gilda sharing a sort of wordless agreement with Rarity as she took stock of the building. Dmitri took a step forward, then paused.

“Mr. Flam?” he asked passively.

“Yes, sir?” the man replied, moving past Gilda and Rarity to be front and center.

“Take Rarity down to the room we have prepared for her.”

Flam grabbed her by the arm and brushed past Dmitri. Rarity tensed up, then thought better of it, letting herself be escorted.

Wait fer yer chance, sug, Jack said in her head. Doin' anythin' now'll jus' end up bad.

Rarity swallowed, but went with her thoughts, sparing one last glance outside as the door shut behind her.

Dmitri stared up at the sky, the clouds purple from the setting sun. He let a breath of air out, sighing contently.

“I suppose I'll freshen up. Dinner will be at eight.”

“What about Rarity?” Gilda asked. Dmitri let a small laugh out.

“What about her?” he repeated.

“How long are you keeping her around for?” she said, glowering at him.

“If looks could kill...” he remarked, reaching over and giving her a slight tap to the jaw with the back of his hand. “You're acting like smiling is a war crime.”

“Don't touch me,” Gilda spat, throwing his hand to the side. “And answer my question.”

He raised his hands in mocking defense. “By tomorrow morning, this will all be behind us. I'll cast an amnesiac spell, she won't clearly remember any of this, and we'll take her home.”

“Tomorrow?” She squinted at him, a look of disgust on her face. “Sounds risky.”

“Why would it be?” he asked, leaning on his cane. “The only evidence the police have is that mud-folk's body. Dead men tell no tales.” He closed an eye in a lazy wink. “Ain't that right?”

Gilda stiffened. “Y-yeah,” she agreed weakly.

Dmitri walked in slow, measured steps around her, his cane clicking on the stone landing with every calculated movement.

“But what would you say if I told you that even if someone did, I might have a few... surprises for them?”

He reached into his pocket with his free hand and withdrew a large, almond-shaped seed with an off-white, flaking shell.

“I've always been known to have good surprises.” He gave a little smile her way. “Like I know you didn't kill her.”

“Of course I—“

“She knows. And I'm not sure how many others know. I doubt the police do. A situation this delicate?” He shrugged. “They would bet police at my door might cause me to panic.” A measured, falsely concerned glance her way. “I don't like being lied to, Gilda.”

“Who said I'm lying?” Gilda shot back.

“A little bird. Or, should I say, a scrying spell.”

“A scrying spell?” Gilda repeated. Dmitri nodded slowly.

“While you were riding upfront. I sensed it and cast a counterspell, but how did someone get tipped off?” he questioned, his voice like honey, oozing, syrupy-sweet. “Unless...”

“I...” Gilda clenched her fist. She scowled, her entire body quivering in a sort of uncanny terror, the likes she had never felt. But there was more to it than that. The man in front of her scared her, made her hands shake, her throat tighten, and she felt her bladder contract, but she also felt a sort of lightness.

“I...” She swallowed, briefly looking away, looking down inside. Looking for that light feeling again.

That lightness reminded her of the time when she was able to fly free, without any fear over who watched below or abreast to her. A sort of crazy, free feeling. Now that she faced what could really be her end, Gilda swallowed and decided one thing and one thing alone. She wouldn't serve him any longer. No matter how much the man scared her, no matter how much dirt he had on her, Gilda put her foot down and decided to make a stand. She wouldn't die a dog by his lap. She'd die like a hawk. With dignity, with grace, and, most importantly, fighting.

Gilda slowly trailed her hand down, keeping her eyes on him. His smirk widened.

She snapped her hand across her body like greased lightning, pulling her sleeve back and springing the wrist-mounted crossbow to life. She was quick, moving faster than she ever had before.

Somehow, somehow, Dorcis was quicker.

As soon as her hand flicked over, he, in one fluid motion, crouched down, grasped the shaft of his cane and pulled at it. There was a small click sound and the head of the cane came free from the rest of it, revealing a hidden dagger. Just before Gilda could make her shot, he thrust it forward, burying the weapon deep into her stomach.

“When you spend your time dealing with stray dogs,” he whispered, leaning in close to Gilda's ear as she shivered. He gave the weapon a harder press into her, the pain and nausea nearly leaving her blind in agony.

Dorcis leaned even closer to her, his mouth nearly brushing her ear with every syllable. “You learn how to not get bit.”

Dmitri pulled the blade free. Gilda sank to her knees, her strength, her conviction, gone. He whistled a small tune, reaching into his breast pocket and taking a handkerchief and wiped the weapon dry. As an afterthought, he took the seed in his hand and tossed it casually to the ground. Uttering a few words, the seed instantly began to sprout, forming curved, barbed branches. An unearthly groan came from the seed, reminding Gilda, as thoughts swam like a drunkard through her mind, of an old man bending down. It grew, forming a narrow trunk which rapidly expanded, first standing only to the top of Gilda's knees, then shooting upward and widening, Now level with her torso, neck, and finally well over her head, it grew until its shadow towered above her. She stared at the grotesque image, her eyes wide and shuddering.

Dmitri let another small chuckle pass by. “Make yourself comfortable,” he said. “It should take a while for you to bleed out.”

With that he left, shutting the front door behind him.

Gilda clutched the wound at her stomach and stared dumbly upwards as the plant grew and matured, taking the light of the fading sunset from her.