My Betrayer: show
She was as radiant as the sun. Her blue dress was more sparkly than the stars in the night sky. Her curly brown hair bobbed with every step. She was absolutely stunning. And she was my date for the night.
It was prom, and I had decided to ask Rachel to prom since we had been dating for about two weeks now. I know, not a very long time, but long enough for me to know that she was the one I wanted to spend the night with. She had immediately agreed, as I'd hoped she would, and I felt like the luckiest man on Earth.
"Are we ready to go?" she asked after saying goodbye to her parents.
"Ready whenever you are, Princess," I answered. She smiled at me and took my extended arm as we walked down her driveway to the limo I had rented. The chauffeur opened the door for us, and I ushered for Rachel to get in first. Once she was in, I slid in as well, and then the chauffeur closed the door and went back to the front seat.
"Tonight is going to be so much fun!" she exclaimed. "Just you and me dancing to the music...."
"Rachel, all of the seniors will be there, too, you know," I pointed out.
"I know. But when I'm with you, it's almost like no one else exists," she stated. I gave her a quick peck on the cheek and grabbed her right hand with mine. "By the way, you look dashing tonight."
"Thank you. You look gorgeous," I complimented.
"Thanks," she said.
"So, what do you think about becoming Prom Queen?" I asked her.
"I'm really hopeful that I get it, although I probably won't be too upset if Samantha beats me," she said.
"Glad to hear it," I said. "I wouldn't want to be dancing with a crying woman for the whole night."
"No. That certainly wouldn't be very fun at all," she agreed. The chauffeur announced our arrival at the high school, and I immediately opened the door, stepping out and turning around to help Rachel out, extending my hand out to her. She grabbed it and pulled herself out, straightening her dress after she was completely out.
"Shall we?" I asked, gesturing towards the high school, where disco lights were already on and loud music was playing. Rachel nodded, and we walked into the school arm-in-arm. Many people were dancing, although there were a few sitting at the tables eating and drinking, and there were still a few couples yet to come.
"This is amazing," Rachel commented. "I've always dreamed about what prom would be like, but never like this. My dreams don't even compare to this magnificent reality. And I'm certainly glad I'm spending it with you, unlike in my dreams."
"Who were you with in your dreams?" I asked out of curiosity.
"Oh, just a boy. It's not important," Rachel said, waving her hand to try and dismiss the subject. But I wasn't done yet.
"What was his name?" I asked.
"Nick," she replied. "His name was Nick." I thought about that name, trying to picture a Nick that I knew, but came up with nothing. I just shrugged. A new song began playing, a slower one, and I held my hand out to Rachel.
"May I have this dance?" I asked. Rachel nodded, putting her hand on mine, and I led her into an open area on the dance floor. When we were in a big enough space, I turned to her, grabbed her left hand with my right one, and dropped my left hand to her waist as she placed her right hand on my shoulder. I began dancing to the music, using moves I had learned from a friend of mine specifically for that night.
"Wow. You're a great dancer," Rachel said halfway through the song.
"Thanks," I said. "So are you." This time she blushed. The pink color of her cheeks still worked perfectly with how she looked. In fact, I didn't think there was anything that couldn't make her look perfect that night.
"I love you," I whispered, so nobody else except Rachel could hear me. Her head shot up at my words, and despite the surprised and confused look on her face, the color of her cheeks turning from pink to red told me she heard me. "Rachel, I love you so much. I've always loved you from when I first met you. It just took me awhile to work up the courage to ask you to be my girlfriend. Rachel, I can't imagine a world without you."
"Troy, I-I don't know what to say," she said, her voice almost inaudible. "You're just such a sweet and amazing guy. I'm glad we started dating." The song was coming to an end, so I twirled her one more time, pulled her in, and dipped her, before kissing her. I didn't care that there were many other people watching me. All that mattered in that moment was me and Rachel sharing our first kiss.
The tapping on a microphone is what broke us from our kiss. I quickly straightened Rachel before turning to the front of the room.
"Attention, Water High students. As you all know, there is one thing we must do before we forget tonight, and that is to name the prom king and queen," our principal, Ms. Fran, began. "For our princesses, please congratulate..." - she unfolded a piece of paper and began reading it - "Samantha Ryder, Tessa Davis, and Rachel Key!" The room filled with applause as the three girls walked up to the stage. "For our princes, please congratulate Matthew Williams, Tyler Faller, and Peter West!" Everyone began clapping again as the three boys walked up onto the stage. "Now, for our king and queen. This year's prom king is..." The drummer did the drum roll as Ms. Fran pulled out a piece of paper from the one envelope. "Peter West!" Many people in the crowd cheered as Ms. Fran put the crown on Peter. "And this year's prom queen is..." She opened up the envelope and pulled out the paper. "Rachel Key!" Many people, including me this time, cheered and clapped as Rachel received her crown.
After they were all dismissed off stage and the music began playing again, I walked over to the edge to find Rachel. She smiled when she saw me, and when she was close enough, I wrapped my arms around her waist, lifted her off the ground, and twirled her around.
"Congrats on becoming prom queen!" I said.
"Thanks, Troy," she said as I set her back down. She seemed distracted, though, which made me worry.
"Are you okay?" I asked.
"Hm?" she said. "Oh, yeah. I'm fine. I'm just... going to go to the bathroom and maybe get a drink."
"Okay," I said. "Do you want me to grab the drink that way it's ready for you?"
"No, I can get it myself," she said. "But thanks for the offer." With that, she ran towards the bathroom, leaving me alone on the sidelines of the dance floor. I walked slowly over to the tables, where there were a few boys with their girls sitting on their laps. I sat at the empty table, though, so I didn't have to deal with seeing them get all cuddly and close.
"Why so lonely?" a female voice inquired from behind me. I turned around to see one of my friends, Monica, looking at me, her blonde hair up in a bun, but with a few loose strands framing her face.
"Rachel said she had to go to the bathroom," I explained. "Why are you alone?"
"Nicholas told me the same thing," she said with a shrug. "I suppose it's just that time of the night when everyone has to go to the bathroom."
"Yeah. Right," I said. "Wait, your date here is Nicholas?" She nodded. "Does he ever go by Nick?"
"Only on rare occasions," she replied. "Why?"
"Because when I was dancing with Rachel, she mentioned that she dreamed about going t prom with a boy named Nick," I explained, and then looked over in the direction of the bathrooms. "I'll be right back." I ran over to where the bathrooms were, and slowed down as I heard voices coming from around the corner.
"So who do you love more: me or Troy?" I head a boy ask.
"You by a long shot," Rachel replied. "I'm just not into Troy all that much."
"Then why did you come with him to prom?" the boy asked.
"Because he would have had no one else to go with if I turned him down, and I didn't want that for him," Rachel explained. "Although, if I had known he was going to confess that he loved me tonight, then I probably would have told him no, because there's no one I love more than you, Nicholas."
'And if I had known you were going to cheat on me, I wouldn't have even asked you,' I thought. After a few seconds of silence, I heard Rachel speak up again.
"Wow. You're a much better kisser than Troy," she said.
"I'm much better than Troy in practically everything. That boy's a loser. You should break up with him before it's too late," Nick said. I decided to come out of my hiding spot then and looked at the two.
"Don't even bother," I said, making Nick and Rachel's heads turn quickly to face me. "Rachel, how long have you been seeing Nick?"
"A few more days than we've been dating," she admitted.
'And you never told me when I asked you to be my girlfriend that you were already seeing someone?" I spat.
"No, because I know how hard it is for you to get girls to be your girlfriend," she said.
"How long were you going to wait before you told me about Nick?" I asked.
"I don't know. I guess however long it took you to realize I was interested in a different boy," she said.
"I should have known you were up to something," I said. "You've never been into our relationship. Not really. You just played along so I wouldn't feel bad, and I guess you never even thought about what that could do to me when we broke up."
"You're so naïve, Troy," she said. "Thinking everything in a relationship can be joyful and fun. But that's not reality."
"No, it's not," I said, looking away from her. "Well, have fun with Nick. You two deserve each other." With that, I turned and walked out of the school, not wanting to be there anymore. When I got into the limo, the chauffeur asked me what happened to the lady I was with before, and I told him I didn't want to talk about it. He respected my privacy and didn't ask me any other questions on the way home.
I knew for a long time that Rachel might have done this at some point. There had been many rumors going around that she rarely stayed with a boy for more than a month. But she was just so beautiful, and I didn't listen to anything people said because I believed they weren't true. Now I knew they were true, and I felt like such an idiot for falling into the trap.
It took me two days to fall in love with her the first time. It took me two months to unlove her. I didn't date another girl until my sophomore year of college. But I learned an important lesson: not all people are as they seem. And I owe that to Rachel, my betrayer.
It was prom, and I had decided to ask Rachel to prom since we had been dating for about two weeks now. I know, not a very long time, but long enough for me to know that she was the one I wanted to spend the night with. She had immediately agreed, as I'd hoped she would, and I felt like the luckiest man on Earth.
"Are we ready to go?" she asked after saying goodbye to her parents.
"Ready whenever you are, Princess," I answered. She smiled at me and took my extended arm as we walked down her driveway to the limo I had rented. The chauffeur opened the door for us, and I ushered for Rachel to get in first. Once she was in, I slid in as well, and then the chauffeur closed the door and went back to the front seat.
"Tonight is going to be so much fun!" she exclaimed. "Just you and me dancing to the music...."
"Rachel, all of the seniors will be there, too, you know," I pointed out.
"I know. But when I'm with you, it's almost like no one else exists," she stated. I gave her a quick peck on the cheek and grabbed her right hand with mine. "By the way, you look dashing tonight."
"Thank you. You look gorgeous," I complimented.
"Thanks," she said.
"So, what do you think about becoming Prom Queen?" I asked her.
"I'm really hopeful that I get it, although I probably won't be too upset if Samantha beats me," she said.
"Glad to hear it," I said. "I wouldn't want to be dancing with a crying woman for the whole night."
"No. That certainly wouldn't be very fun at all," she agreed. The chauffeur announced our arrival at the high school, and I immediately opened the door, stepping out and turning around to help Rachel out, extending my hand out to her. She grabbed it and pulled herself out, straightening her dress after she was completely out.
"Shall we?" I asked, gesturing towards the high school, where disco lights were already on and loud music was playing. Rachel nodded, and we walked into the school arm-in-arm. Many people were dancing, although there were a few sitting at the tables eating and drinking, and there were still a few couples yet to come.
"This is amazing," Rachel commented. "I've always dreamed about what prom would be like, but never like this. My dreams don't even compare to this magnificent reality. And I'm certainly glad I'm spending it with you, unlike in my dreams."
"Who were you with in your dreams?" I asked out of curiosity.
"Oh, just a boy. It's not important," Rachel said, waving her hand to try and dismiss the subject. But I wasn't done yet.
"What was his name?" I asked.
"Nick," she replied. "His name was Nick." I thought about that name, trying to picture a Nick that I knew, but came up with nothing. I just shrugged. A new song began playing, a slower one, and I held my hand out to Rachel.
"May I have this dance?" I asked. Rachel nodded, putting her hand on mine, and I led her into an open area on the dance floor. When we were in a big enough space, I turned to her, grabbed her left hand with my right one, and dropped my left hand to her waist as she placed her right hand on my shoulder. I began dancing to the music, using moves I had learned from a friend of mine specifically for that night.
"Wow. You're a great dancer," Rachel said halfway through the song.
"Thanks," I said. "So are you." This time she blushed. The pink color of her cheeks still worked perfectly with how she looked. In fact, I didn't think there was anything that couldn't make her look perfect that night.
"I love you," I whispered, so nobody else except Rachel could hear me. Her head shot up at my words, and despite the surprised and confused look on her face, the color of her cheeks turning from pink to red told me she heard me. "Rachel, I love you so much. I've always loved you from when I first met you. It just took me awhile to work up the courage to ask you to be my girlfriend. Rachel, I can't imagine a world without you."
"Troy, I-I don't know what to say," she said, her voice almost inaudible. "You're just such a sweet and amazing guy. I'm glad we started dating." The song was coming to an end, so I twirled her one more time, pulled her in, and dipped her, before kissing her. I didn't care that there were many other people watching me. All that mattered in that moment was me and Rachel sharing our first kiss.
The tapping on a microphone is what broke us from our kiss. I quickly straightened Rachel before turning to the front of the room.
"Attention, Water High students. As you all know, there is one thing we must do before we forget tonight, and that is to name the prom king and queen," our principal, Ms. Fran, began. "For our princesses, please congratulate..." - she unfolded a piece of paper and began reading it - "Samantha Ryder, Tessa Davis, and Rachel Key!" The room filled with applause as the three girls walked up to the stage. "For our princes, please congratulate Matthew Williams, Tyler Faller, and Peter West!" Everyone began clapping again as the three boys walked up onto the stage. "Now, for our king and queen. This year's prom king is..." The drummer did the drum roll as Ms. Fran pulled out a piece of paper from the one envelope. "Peter West!" Many people in the crowd cheered as Ms. Fran put the crown on Peter. "And this year's prom queen is..." She opened up the envelope and pulled out the paper. "Rachel Key!" Many people, including me this time, cheered and clapped as Rachel received her crown.
After they were all dismissed off stage and the music began playing again, I walked over to the edge to find Rachel. She smiled when she saw me, and when she was close enough, I wrapped my arms around her waist, lifted her off the ground, and twirled her around.
"Congrats on becoming prom queen!" I said.
"Thanks, Troy," she said as I set her back down. She seemed distracted, though, which made me worry.
"Are you okay?" I asked.
"Hm?" she said. "Oh, yeah. I'm fine. I'm just... going to go to the bathroom and maybe get a drink."
"Okay," I said. "Do you want me to grab the drink that way it's ready for you?"
"No, I can get it myself," she said. "But thanks for the offer." With that, she ran towards the bathroom, leaving me alone on the sidelines of the dance floor. I walked slowly over to the tables, where there were a few boys with their girls sitting on their laps. I sat at the empty table, though, so I didn't have to deal with seeing them get all cuddly and close.
"Why so lonely?" a female voice inquired from behind me. I turned around to see one of my friends, Monica, looking at me, her blonde hair up in a bun, but with a few loose strands framing her face.
"Rachel said she had to go to the bathroom," I explained. "Why are you alone?"
"Nicholas told me the same thing," she said with a shrug. "I suppose it's just that time of the night when everyone has to go to the bathroom."
"Yeah. Right," I said. "Wait, your date here is Nicholas?" She nodded. "Does he ever go by Nick?"
"Only on rare occasions," she replied. "Why?"
"Because when I was dancing with Rachel, she mentioned that she dreamed about going t prom with a boy named Nick," I explained, and then looked over in the direction of the bathrooms. "I'll be right back." I ran over to where the bathrooms were, and slowed down as I heard voices coming from around the corner.
"So who do you love more: me or Troy?" I head a boy ask.
"You by a long shot," Rachel replied. "I'm just not into Troy all that much."
"Then why did you come with him to prom?" the boy asked.
"Because he would have had no one else to go with if I turned him down, and I didn't want that for him," Rachel explained. "Although, if I had known he was going to confess that he loved me tonight, then I probably would have told him no, because there's no one I love more than you, Nicholas."
'And if I had known you were going to cheat on me, I wouldn't have even asked you,' I thought. After a few seconds of silence, I heard Rachel speak up again.
"Wow. You're a much better kisser than Troy," she said.
"I'm much better than Troy in practically everything. That boy's a loser. You should break up with him before it's too late," Nick said. I decided to come out of my hiding spot then and looked at the two.
"Don't even bother," I said, making Nick and Rachel's heads turn quickly to face me. "Rachel, how long have you been seeing Nick?"
"A few more days than we've been dating," she admitted.
'And you never told me when I asked you to be my girlfriend that you were already seeing someone?" I spat.
"No, because I know how hard it is for you to get girls to be your girlfriend," she said.
"How long were you going to wait before you told me about Nick?" I asked.
"I don't know. I guess however long it took you to realize I was interested in a different boy," she said.
"I should have known you were up to something," I said. "You've never been into our relationship. Not really. You just played along so I wouldn't feel bad, and I guess you never even thought about what that could do to me when we broke up."
"You're so naïve, Troy," she said. "Thinking everything in a relationship can be joyful and fun. But that's not reality."
"No, it's not," I said, looking away from her. "Well, have fun with Nick. You two deserve each other." With that, I turned and walked out of the school, not wanting to be there anymore. When I got into the limo, the chauffeur asked me what happened to the lady I was with before, and I told him I didn't want to talk about it. He respected my privacy and didn't ask me any other questions on the way home.
I knew for a long time that Rachel might have done this at some point. There had been many rumors going around that she rarely stayed with a boy for more than a month. But she was just so beautiful, and I didn't listen to anything people said because I believed they weren't true. Now I knew they were true, and I felt like such an idiot for falling into the trap.
It took me two days to fall in love with her the first time. It took me two months to unlove her. I didn't date another girl until my sophomore year of college. But I learned an important lesson: not all people are as they seem. And I owe that to Rachel, my betrayer.
Take My Hand: show
He’d always thought that his pain was something he’d be stuck with forever. Not that he needed it. He hated being alone with himself all the time, thinking that his unique abilities were in fact a curse. Throughout his life he been that ‘special’ one; it wasn’t quite so nice as people might’ve thought.
Well, it wasn’t all his life. Only a significant portion of it, an era that had started on one particular day.
Still he remembered his very first time morphing. The very first time his arm had crackled, had fizzed and buzzed and popped with explosive energy, only to turn into something so artificial, so vaguely inhuman and menacing that nothing could be the same again.
A sharp scythe blade, curved like his silver-white hair, marked with zig-zags as crimson as his eyes and as jagged as his pointed teeth: the ones that had confounded just about every dentist he’d seen in his short life. He’d been five at the time, reaching for candy on the countertop. Wasn’t tall enough. The very thought frustrated him; in fact, he’d practically wrenched his arm out of his socket before, out of the blue… there was that. His mother had just about had a heart attack when she saw it, when she saw that crackle-buzz-pop that turned her vaguely-off son’s arm into a stabbing implement fit for harvesting wheat and reaping souls.
Granted, that would probably have caused some distress to any mother. But after that, everything changed. If her demeanor had been chilly towards him before, now it was as frigid as the Arctic, and just as lifeless. Yet still she dragged him to every doctor, to every physician, insisting he must be ‘cured’ of his sick, demented deformity—for her sake, at least, so she could live her life knowing that she wasn’t somehow a screw-up and that her son wasn’t some otherworldly, god-awful abomination. It was tacit from an early age that the visits weren’t for him so much as for her. But still he heard them murmur constantly, mostly to themselves. Something must be done about him.
Why?
He’d moan, he’d resist, but nothing would prevent them from poking and prodding and probing him constantly. Not as long as they thought there was any point in it.
But there was nothing that could cure him; it was simply his genetics. Something on his father’s side. Hadn’t been seen in generations… couldn’t have—shouldn’t have—popped up again after all this time. Yet here it was. The strange teeth and hair; the deformed arm and, later, the revelation that his entire body could shapeshift into a six-foot long scythe blade.
He was a demon weapon. Not fully human.
It was nothing he had done. He couldn’t help it any more than he could help the fact that he wasn’t good at the violin like his parents wanted. But she couldn’t bring herself to talk to him much after that: not after the doctors assured her that nothing about him could be changed, that her own offspring would always be strange and foreign and not at all like her other son no matter what any of them did.
He’d lost a part of him then, on the car ride home. His humanity, his… personhood. Now he was only an object—a dark, purportedly evil one. Whatever family and friends he’d managed to keep even despite his unsettling appearance were now forever estranged. He was, and thought for sure he always would be, some sort of strange pariah, someone that belonged only at a cheap, side-show freak display. An exhibit that curious passerbys could only manage to stare at and snap pictures of before moving on with their happy, normal lives. He felt… damaged, somehow. Like something had been taken away from him.
Dignity.
Regardless, when his family wasn’t around to watch, sometimes he would transform at will. Usually his arm, or occasionally another part of him. He’d learned to control it somewhat; he thought perhaps conquering it would help him move along with his life, to get that part of him back. And indeed, it did bring him a sense of power, a sense of control. Maybe if he could escape this pathetic existence one day, he would be able to hide his secret from the rest of the world, and continue on… maybe, maybe, if he could somehow have the chance… he would take it. And be rid of this curse, this mark, this whatever-it-was. He could get contacts. He could dye his hair, maybe do something about his razor-sharp dentition.
It helped. A little. But in the end, it was like sticking a Band-Aid to a stab wound. It didn’t solve the yearning feeling of emptiness inside his soul, the intense longing for some humanity, for some acceptance into broader society. It hurt so much more than whatever brief, electric joy that crackle-buzz-pop could’ve ever brought him. More often than not he’d simply wished that he’d never had it. That he could’ve been born differently than he was. For whenever he touched his hand to the scythe, he was always reminded of the dark, inhuman part of his being.
The blade was always frighteningly cold. Metallic. Inorganic. It scared him in a way, to know that anything of him could be so rigid and unrelentingly hard. It wasn’t soft, it didn’t give like flesh did, it wasn’t warm like his arm had been only seconds prior… And he couldn’t feel much in it, either. An icy shroud of numbness had overtaken the limb, rendering it frigid and clammy.
Then he’d change back, and his pale skin would be flush with heat again. It was… surreal, almost.
He resented his unsupportive mother most, for birthing something so screwed-up and leaving him to bear the consequences. He disliked his father for giving him these genes, but not having them himself. And for his brother, Wes… well, he couldn’t quite bring himself to hate him. At least he’d always tried to be kind, especially when they were very young. Even after the first scythe incident, his brother had been amazed—he’d thought of his power as ‘cool’. But things changed; now he looked at him with a half-curious repulsion, like the rest of them, and continued with his violin.
Wes is recording an album, they told him. What do you think, Soul?
He’d been eleven at the time, almost twelve, with his brother several years his senior. And then they’d look at him expectantly, wondering why he hadn’t done anything of note, wondering why he would always be second-best at everything, wondering why he was apparently a misfit for life. If only he could be good at the guitar, or the trumpet, or the cello, they could overlook the other, obvious flaws. But no. He would always be the scythe-boy: the half-human, half-demon concoction. The disappointment in their faces was always palpable.
That was about a year before he left.
His situation wasn’t normal. He knew better than to think that. School was a pain—the other pupils avoided him out of fear, or loathing. Rumors spread that he was dangerous, that he was threatening, even that he’d killed someone before. Most of it was superstition gone out of control, but in the end the staff were equally perplexed and had no ideas on how to handle the situation. He did poorly in his studies. Every week he was brought in for counseling. He was troubled; he didn’t eat much.
Something had to change or he would simply waste away and falter and die somehow. Maybe it was too late already. He didn’t know. He didn’t know anything, really. It didn’t help that everyone else seemed to be effortlessly doing so much better than he was. Whenever he watched them, it was the same—they would engage in silly, frivolous play, talk loudly during classes, and goof off until their parents came to hug them and reassure them. Their worst problems were bruises and sprained ankles.
Every day, while the other kids would play their games of tag and football and basketball and everything he had long since given up on joining, he’d sit on a bench near the edge of the field, next to a grove of trees. He didn’t much mind it; or, rather, he pretended that he didn’t, to the extent he actually fooled himself into thinking he was content. He could never be sure which it was, but he always went along with the latter and told his doubtful mind that the others were missing out, not him. Here he could be alone with his thoughts, and passively watch everybody else’s happiness.
Only once did anything interesting happen.
It came to change his life.
It happened when he looked back, one particularly gloomy day, and saw a rather unsettling sight. Two adults standing a few feet from school property, where they likely shouldn’t have been—one a burly, solemn man with strange tattoos, and the other a slight, dark woman whose face was shrouded in bandages. They said nothing, and didn’t seem to be interested in anyone else. The woman in particular was giving him a very pointed look.
Soul jumped a bit despite himself. Everyone had always told him to be wary of strangers, and instinctively he felt threatened, as most schoolchildren would have. But ultimately, after a moment of wondering, his curiosity won over. Why be frightened when his arm could shapeshift into something that would take someone’s head off if he really wanted it to? It seemed silly for him to hold such trepidation the same way his ‘peers’ did.
He shifted on his seat once he heard a yell from the basketball court, his attention momentarily distracted. Then he heard it. The snap-crackle-buzz that was so instinctually familiar.
The woman was gone; there was no trace of her. Only difference was a knife on the man’s belt that glimmered slightly in the sun, almost inviting. It definitely hadn’t been there—the object was perfectly sharp, serrated… spotless, even. It looked as though it’d never been used. Soul was intrigued. But before he was even aware of it, they both had disappeared.
Just… disappeared.
He hadn’t even heard them leave.
At this point he was a little spooked, his heart skipping a beat or two in apprehension as he wondered whether or not he’d just seen something real.
That happened, right?
Surely it did, but then, how could something like that exist? How could something so mysteriously similar—be—here?
Was he not the only one with this dehumanizing blight? Were there… others… out there?
He jumped, as though a shock had leapt up his spine, when he found a small slip of paper nestled underneath his thigh, crinkled slightly.
Soul Evans.
His rubicund eyes narrowed. Were they sure they had the right person? Had they mistaken him for Wes? Wes had rather light hair, too… Surely they meant him?
No, he felt a soft prick in his chest, why would they bring this to anyone else? After what just happened?
He knew what he’d seen—how she gazed at him, how she disappeared, how that unmistakably distinct sound was just within earshot. She had… whatever he had.
He shook noticeably as he groped at the note and unfolded it, careful not to rip the edges. A little bit of sweat prickled the back of his neck as he silently read it—he felt his hand seize up and for a moment he was afraid he’d accidentally morph while still in sight of the children playing basketball a few hundred feet away. It was frightening how much the contents resonated with him.
Soul,
We know you’re a weapon; we have kept tabs on your family since your great-grandfather was revealed to have scythe abilities. He became a Death Scythe and you may have the potential to do so as well. If you would like to see more of what you just saw, and meet others like yourself, please consider enrolling at the Death Weapon Meister Academy. Our campus is located in Death City, Nevada, and we accept a few hundred new, admitted students like you every year.
You may not know it, but Lord Death—and the world—needs people like you. Your power is incredibly important, and we at the DWMA will help it reach its full potential. Consider this an important invitation.
Sid Barrett,
Freshman Recruitment Officer - Especially Advantaged Talent Division
He stiffened, his fist balling up around the message. Why hadn’t anyone told him about this? Dammit, if this was true, he should’ve known years ago!
His arm tightened harder, but most of what whirled through his veins was excitement; he barely noticed his hand shift fluidly into its sharp, curved shape. For once he truly couldn’t care. He wanted to go to DWMA. It was the only way he could find who he truly was, and if there were actually others like him…
No, that can’t be... They can’t exist… but they must. Or I wouldn’t be this way.
Soul wondered, absently, what they were like, provided they really lived. What sort of people went to this academy? Kind, accepting misfits? Snobbish bookworms? Insane athletes who were more aware of their abilities than he was?
More importantly, though, how would he get there? Who would he talk to? What would he have to do? He hadn’t even turned thirteen yet. This was a big jump; he’d only lived with his parents. But still, he wanted to go... more than anything, he saw it as an escape from the terribly lonely and mundane existence he endured. There had to be some way, somehow…
Making up his mind was difficult, for as much as he’d hated his home, it was all he’d ever known. Leaving it was hard. Especially since he knew his parents wouldn’t approve of him actually doing anything with his weird demon-gift, or whatever the hell else they euphemistically called it. The note was something he kept hidden where nobody could find it—he kept quiet about the whole situation in general, except when he asked his parents about his great-grandfather. The so-called Death Scythe. Predictably, they ignored his queries; he secretly decided to conduct his own research instead.
It only strengthened his resolve. Especially once he discovered that orientation for accepted students was shortly after his thirteenth birthday. From that point forward, he knew what he needed to do and quickly planned to make it a reality.
After that, time passed quickly; he couldn’t remember much of it. Any money he found he saved through the year, safekeeping it until he’d secured enough—later, he purchased a one-way bus ticket and left, with only the clothes on his back and whatever he could stuff into his pockets. He felt that others found it strange seeing a sharp-toothed young teenager with bleach-white hair and glistening red eyes loitering in the back of the bus for hours upon hours without doing anything at all, really, but he reminded himself that the time spent would be worth it.
Nobody called for days, even though he’d brought his old cell. He got the impression they weren’t concerned over his disappearance until it was obvious he wasn’t coming home, and had already struck out on his own. Wes was mostly the only one in any real distress; Soul answered his calls out of discreet politeness. He’d already decided he would rather not talk to anyone else he left.
That said, however, Soul never told him where he was going. He feared their parents would find out and then somehow go after him, to stop him from doing something so deviant as becoming a student in a weapons academy located across the country; being stubborn as he was, he simply rebutted his brother’s questions with the conviction that he’d made up his mind and was sure this was the right thing to do. In truth, he wasn’t—but no amount of cajoling would bring him back.
His mother didn’t mind too much, as sad as that was. He didn’t think she would. All he had Wes tell her was he was finding work on his own as a dishwasher.
It wasn’t true but he didn’t care. Being a runaway was challenging enough without any extra trouble. With as little money as he had, living conditions were uncomfortable—the buses were hot and perennially crowded, stopping frequently during the day. Then the transfers were unceasing throughout the night, making sleep impossible even disregarding how stiff the seats were. Oftentimes he needed to wait at the station at three o’clock in the morning, only to find strange throngs of people hanging about smoking cigarettes or drinking until the bus came. Had he not literally been a living weapon, he would’ve found their presence intimidating, or antagonizing, but he continued onwards.
Live and let live, he figured, jamming his hands deeper into his sweatshirt pocket. Perhaps these people were just as lost as he was. He couldn’t know.
Nevada seemed to be light-years away. The trip took a week, possibly more; it was easy to forget details after more than a few days on his own. When he finally arrived he was half-asleep, his hair shaggy, his clothes dirty, his scarlet eyes practically glazed-over. The fierce desert heat surrounding Death City did nothing to help. Yet he still wandered a bit and sight-saw, drinking in all the details of the enormous, elaborate, and eloquently-decorated city.
Indeed, it seemed strange to him that a place like this could even exist. It looked like it had been ripped straight from some highly-stylized cartoon universe—the whole design of it was almost comical.
When he reached the academy, though, business was as fervent as ever. He’d barely stepped across the entrance before he’d been pushed, shoved, directed, and talked at by ten different people. They asked something about registration; then came questions on if he’d brought his parents, who they were, where they were… it was dizzying. He simply answered honestly—they were gone, he was on his own. Whoever-it-was gave him a strange look; he completed his papers and struggled with it, but continued.
It wasn’t the worst part. That would’ve been when they slapped that big infuriating “WEAPON” tag on his sweatshirt and then let him flounder around under the pretext that he ‘mingle’. They even wanted him to find a human partner—a meister, they were called—that would wield him in battle.
Yes, battles. They were apparently going to wage war against demon gods and monsters and witches and whatever-the-hell-else Lord Death wanted dead that week. The choice he made in terms of this other person would be hugely important throughout his time here.
As if he’d ever been good at anything like that.
He had to hand it to them, though: it was an interesting collection of people. The scythe definitely wasn’t alone—the weapons ran the gamut from plain, garden-variety knives, axes, and swords… all the way to shurikens, halberds, and other torturous death-devices to which he honestly couldn’t assign names. And, as expected, they could all transform back to human forms, ones that were also equally diverse in terms of skin tone and eye color and… well, everything. Suddenly his sharp teeth and white mop-head didn’t seem like such a distinguishing mark. Not when there was a kid with bright blue hair and a star tattoo yelling right nearby.
Something like that would’ve been insanely weird where he came from. That made him feel better, and less odd, though it didn’t help his initial awkwardness. That was made clear.
Hey, so you’re… Soul?
A strange girl, with purple hair. A meister. He raised an eyebrow, looking down at the tattered, dirt-encrusted sweatshirt he’d worn on the bus. He’d forgotten he even had a name tag on.
Yeah, Soul’s fine… he spoke up in a hoarse, quiet voice. She didn’t seem to dawdle around on his strange eccentricities.
So what do you transform into?
He showed her, letting his arm openly morph into the same red-and-black scythe blade that it had always been—yet without shame, perhaps for the first time. Soul gave a sharp-toothed grin, feeling uncharacteristically pleased with this weird… whatever-it-was… his… ‘weapon ability’.
She wasn’t impressed, however, which was rather deflating.
Sorry, I’m not looking for a polearm. Too heavy.
The violet-haired female left, and that was it. One door slammed and only so many others. If this was to go the way he expected, all the eligible people would soon be taken and he’d be left with the dregs.
What was her problem, anyway?
He sighed. Was this really such a good idea? Granted, he did feel a little less strange, a little less out-casted… but he severely doubted his ability to open up to anybody here.
Hey, he thought, maybe Wes had been right, after all—maybe he needed to go back. Maybe his mostly-unsupportive family would let him return… maybe. They seemed willing, albeit grudgingly, to give him a bit of money for his upkeep, so long as he was out of their hair… at least, that’s what he’d gathered from what they had said to Wes. But he wasn’t sure going back was the best idea. Not now.
Would he really have to live his life scrounging for work? At thirteen?
No. That would be nigh impossible with his goddamn shark teeth and his scythe-arm that could stab anyone he wanted to death at any given moment. Who’d hire that?
And honestly, what sort of choices were these? Why couldn’t he have the same degree of control over his life that everyone else did, anyway?
The scythe-boy needed to think. There were too many people here.
Soul moved soundlessly to the side of the vaulted reception hall, finding a dimly lit corridor with nobody in it. Granted, yes, it probably looked awfully strange for him to be going in here. No, it probably would not find him a meister any easier. But what’d he care?
He moved down the passage, just hoping to get away from everyone else, if only for a short while. As for what he planned on doing—he wasn’t sure… until he happened to see the grand piano in the room at the end of the hallway.
Alas, just a random piano sitting there. Seemingly for no reason.
Although it reminded him of his old life, he couldn’t resist going closer. Regarding music, piano was the only skill he’d actually been decent at, back when his parents tried to expect instant virtuosity in every instrument he could wrap his small child hands around.
He went inside for a look, but quickly jumped in surprise upon entering. What he had expected to be an empty space was actually occupied. Yes, occupied. Here of all places, there was a girl sitting and reading a book, apparently so absorbed in it that she didn’t seem to care about anything aside from the pages she was leafing through. She didn’t even look up at him.
“Hey, I don’t mean to be rude, but… what are you doing in here?” His tone came off as snarky and flat despite himself. She closed her tome momentarily, revealing two round, jade green eyes.
“I could easily ask the same of you, since you came in. Anyway, I was just reading this book for a bit.”
Soul cocked an eyebrow. Reading a book? Now? What the hell for?
“Whatever, then. I’ll leave you to your… bookworm stuff, I guess.” He shrugged and had been about to turn towards the exit when she cleared her throat timidly, grabbing his attention.
“You don’t have to leave, you know. It was just very crowded over there.” She put her book aside, setting it on the floor. “I’m new here; I don’t know a lot of people yet.”
“Oh, is that so—” he instinctively glanced at her nametag, also noting she was a meister. “—Maka.”
She nodded. “Yeah, I’m new. My parents both went here though. They were happy when they found out I had the same abilities. What about you?” She grinned a little, her legs crossed as she leaned across the wall, seemingly very comfortable. It was rather amusing, in its own sort of way…
“Ehhh, mine were uncool about it. It’s a long story.” He sat on the piano bench, hoping she didn’t find him threatening like most everyone else he’d ever met. She didn’t seem to, at least. He tried to relax. “They’re musicians, actually. You might’ve heard of them before.”
Her irises glinted in understanding. She didn’t smile outright, but something in her eyes did.
“So your name’s actually Soul? That’s funny. Is it Soul…?”
He stiffened. As he was accustomed to it, he wanted to say Evans… but this was a new path for him. May as well start afresh.
“Eater. I’m… yeah, I’m Soul Eater. Just call me that.”
Maka’s eyebrow moved almost imperceptibly. Was that really the best he could come up with? Soul Eater? It sounded like the name of a B-class fantasy movie, or some off-the-wall shounen manga. He grimaced inwardly, but she didn’t say anything. She only studied him for a moment.
“Let me guess… scythe?”
“How’d you figure?”
“The red font on your nametag means you’re a polearm,” she replied softly, not missing a beat.
Of course, his pointed teeth formed a rough smile. She’s a sharp one.
“I guess nobody likes polearms, huh?”
“I’m okay with them. My papa was a scythe.”
“Really? How’d that work out?”
Soul suddenly regretted asking; now she seemed distinctly uncomfortable. He could read it in her body language, as she seemed to shrink back. Did he do something wrong? He’d only been curious.
“Listen…” she spoke softly, “… this might sound weird, but… I have a really hard time trusting men. They cheat all the time. I’m not totally sure that I want one as my partner. My mom and him were meister and weapon and… it didn’t work out too well.”
The young girl frowned a bit. It was the first distinctly negative expression he’d seen on her face. He couldn’t help but feel bad for upsetting her, even if it was on accident.
“Well…” he wasn’t sure of what to say, but he could relate in a way. He had escaped his own problems that weren’t his fault. “That wasn’t cool of your dad, then.”
“I guess.”
“Look, I know you don’t know me, Maka, but I’m not that kind of guy. I’ve never really had a friend before. It’d mean a lot to me if I ever got one… more than you know.”
He felt a weird twinge sharing that with a stranger so suddenly. But Maka only looked up at him curiously, her emerald eyes looking distinctly innocent. Despite her apparent mistrust, he had the feeling that she was, like him, only seeking her own sense of redemption. She wanted to trust him; she might have even wanted him as a weapon, but her reluctance won over.
“I… I don’t know. I talked to a lot of weapons out there… I don’t really know what to do.”
She sighed, and he had the feeling that she was quite shy around new people. The gathering had likely overwhelmed her. He felt a bit more confident knowing he wasn’t the only one who felt that way.
“Wouldja give me a shot, maybe?”
“I don’t know you well enough, but… perhaps.”
She looked very conflicted. He didn’t know why, but a part of him wanted to put her at ease—she seemed nice enough. At the very least, she wasn’t scared stiff and off-put by his appearance. That alone made her the closest thing he’d had to a friend in… possibly ever.
“Maka,” he said softly, “this is the type of person I am.”
He decided to play the piano—he didn’t really know why. His past was something he wanted to leave behind, but it had made him who he was now, for better or for worse. His struggle, he would come to realize, only made his friends that much more important to him.
The song he played was something he’d composed himself, years ago, back when he’d played often. It was dark, it was brooding, it was minor-key and cacophonous, almost, in a way. Most likely it was the best piece he’d ever written: his parents had even seemed impressed in a strange sort of way. Something about it struck a chord in him as he played it again… very faintly he felt his soul shudder as he devoted himself to the music; he was fairly certain that Maka had noticed it too, somehow, because her interest seemed visibly piqued as his fingers effortlessly found the right keys and struck—hard. She moved a bit closer, so she could watch him more closely.
He wasn’t sure what it was, but something about it summed up his character and his feelings far better than words could; Soul knew he wasn’t good with talking. But she could feel a part of him through his music. She found him mysterious, inviting… but also strangely human, peculiarly sensitive and emotional.
Soul may not have been fully human in terms of what he was—but in terms of who he was, he knew that, somewhere, he had the same humanity that the rest of mankind did. He wasn’t so different after all; there was no need to hide anymore. She and him were mostly the same, on the inside.
Without realizing it, he stuck out his hand for the first time. He was taking a risk—living, and learning—but most of all, he wasn’t ashamed of it.
“Partners?”
Whatever happened, happened.
“Sure.”
She took his hand, and smiled faintly. The past was still there; it still hurt. It still was a part of who they were. But, somehow, it didn’t matter anymore.
Well, it wasn’t all his life. Only a significant portion of it, an era that had started on one particular day.
Still he remembered his very first time morphing. The very first time his arm had crackled, had fizzed and buzzed and popped with explosive energy, only to turn into something so artificial, so vaguely inhuman and menacing that nothing could be the same again.
A sharp scythe blade, curved like his silver-white hair, marked with zig-zags as crimson as his eyes and as jagged as his pointed teeth: the ones that had confounded just about every dentist he’d seen in his short life. He’d been five at the time, reaching for candy on the countertop. Wasn’t tall enough. The very thought frustrated him; in fact, he’d practically wrenched his arm out of his socket before, out of the blue… there was that. His mother had just about had a heart attack when she saw it, when she saw that crackle-buzz-pop that turned her vaguely-off son’s arm into a stabbing implement fit for harvesting wheat and reaping souls.
Granted, that would probably have caused some distress to any mother. But after that, everything changed. If her demeanor had been chilly towards him before, now it was as frigid as the Arctic, and just as lifeless. Yet still she dragged him to every doctor, to every physician, insisting he must be ‘cured’ of his sick, demented deformity—for her sake, at least, so she could live her life knowing that she wasn’t somehow a screw-up and that her son wasn’t some otherworldly, god-awful abomination. It was tacit from an early age that the visits weren’t for him so much as for her. But still he heard them murmur constantly, mostly to themselves. Something must be done about him.
Why?
He’d moan, he’d resist, but nothing would prevent them from poking and prodding and probing him constantly. Not as long as they thought there was any point in it.
But there was nothing that could cure him; it was simply his genetics. Something on his father’s side. Hadn’t been seen in generations… couldn’t have—shouldn’t have—popped up again after all this time. Yet here it was. The strange teeth and hair; the deformed arm and, later, the revelation that his entire body could shapeshift into a six-foot long scythe blade.
He was a demon weapon. Not fully human.
It was nothing he had done. He couldn’t help it any more than he could help the fact that he wasn’t good at the violin like his parents wanted. But she couldn’t bring herself to talk to him much after that: not after the doctors assured her that nothing about him could be changed, that her own offspring would always be strange and foreign and not at all like her other son no matter what any of them did.
He’d lost a part of him then, on the car ride home. His humanity, his… personhood. Now he was only an object—a dark, purportedly evil one. Whatever family and friends he’d managed to keep even despite his unsettling appearance were now forever estranged. He was, and thought for sure he always would be, some sort of strange pariah, someone that belonged only at a cheap, side-show freak display. An exhibit that curious passerbys could only manage to stare at and snap pictures of before moving on with their happy, normal lives. He felt… damaged, somehow. Like something had been taken away from him.
Dignity.
Regardless, when his family wasn’t around to watch, sometimes he would transform at will. Usually his arm, or occasionally another part of him. He’d learned to control it somewhat; he thought perhaps conquering it would help him move along with his life, to get that part of him back. And indeed, it did bring him a sense of power, a sense of control. Maybe if he could escape this pathetic existence one day, he would be able to hide his secret from the rest of the world, and continue on… maybe, maybe, if he could somehow have the chance… he would take it. And be rid of this curse, this mark, this whatever-it-was. He could get contacts. He could dye his hair, maybe do something about his razor-sharp dentition.
It helped. A little. But in the end, it was like sticking a Band-Aid to a stab wound. It didn’t solve the yearning feeling of emptiness inside his soul, the intense longing for some humanity, for some acceptance into broader society. It hurt so much more than whatever brief, electric joy that crackle-buzz-pop could’ve ever brought him. More often than not he’d simply wished that he’d never had it. That he could’ve been born differently than he was. For whenever he touched his hand to the scythe, he was always reminded of the dark, inhuman part of his being.
The blade was always frighteningly cold. Metallic. Inorganic. It scared him in a way, to know that anything of him could be so rigid and unrelentingly hard. It wasn’t soft, it didn’t give like flesh did, it wasn’t warm like his arm had been only seconds prior… And he couldn’t feel much in it, either. An icy shroud of numbness had overtaken the limb, rendering it frigid and clammy.
Then he’d change back, and his pale skin would be flush with heat again. It was… surreal, almost.
He resented his unsupportive mother most, for birthing something so screwed-up and leaving him to bear the consequences. He disliked his father for giving him these genes, but not having them himself. And for his brother, Wes… well, he couldn’t quite bring himself to hate him. At least he’d always tried to be kind, especially when they were very young. Even after the first scythe incident, his brother had been amazed—he’d thought of his power as ‘cool’. But things changed; now he looked at him with a half-curious repulsion, like the rest of them, and continued with his violin.
Wes is recording an album, they told him. What do you think, Soul?
He’d been eleven at the time, almost twelve, with his brother several years his senior. And then they’d look at him expectantly, wondering why he hadn’t done anything of note, wondering why he would always be second-best at everything, wondering why he was apparently a misfit for life. If only he could be good at the guitar, or the trumpet, or the cello, they could overlook the other, obvious flaws. But no. He would always be the scythe-boy: the half-human, half-demon concoction. The disappointment in their faces was always palpable.
That was about a year before he left.
His situation wasn’t normal. He knew better than to think that. School was a pain—the other pupils avoided him out of fear, or loathing. Rumors spread that he was dangerous, that he was threatening, even that he’d killed someone before. Most of it was superstition gone out of control, but in the end the staff were equally perplexed and had no ideas on how to handle the situation. He did poorly in his studies. Every week he was brought in for counseling. He was troubled; he didn’t eat much.
Something had to change or he would simply waste away and falter and die somehow. Maybe it was too late already. He didn’t know. He didn’t know anything, really. It didn’t help that everyone else seemed to be effortlessly doing so much better than he was. Whenever he watched them, it was the same—they would engage in silly, frivolous play, talk loudly during classes, and goof off until their parents came to hug them and reassure them. Their worst problems were bruises and sprained ankles.
Every day, while the other kids would play their games of tag and football and basketball and everything he had long since given up on joining, he’d sit on a bench near the edge of the field, next to a grove of trees. He didn’t much mind it; or, rather, he pretended that he didn’t, to the extent he actually fooled himself into thinking he was content. He could never be sure which it was, but he always went along with the latter and told his doubtful mind that the others were missing out, not him. Here he could be alone with his thoughts, and passively watch everybody else’s happiness.
Only once did anything interesting happen.
It came to change his life.
It happened when he looked back, one particularly gloomy day, and saw a rather unsettling sight. Two adults standing a few feet from school property, where they likely shouldn’t have been—one a burly, solemn man with strange tattoos, and the other a slight, dark woman whose face was shrouded in bandages. They said nothing, and didn’t seem to be interested in anyone else. The woman in particular was giving him a very pointed look.
Soul jumped a bit despite himself. Everyone had always told him to be wary of strangers, and instinctively he felt threatened, as most schoolchildren would have. But ultimately, after a moment of wondering, his curiosity won over. Why be frightened when his arm could shapeshift into something that would take someone’s head off if he really wanted it to? It seemed silly for him to hold such trepidation the same way his ‘peers’ did.
He shifted on his seat once he heard a yell from the basketball court, his attention momentarily distracted. Then he heard it. The snap-crackle-buzz that was so instinctually familiar.
The woman was gone; there was no trace of her. Only difference was a knife on the man’s belt that glimmered slightly in the sun, almost inviting. It definitely hadn’t been there—the object was perfectly sharp, serrated… spotless, even. It looked as though it’d never been used. Soul was intrigued. But before he was even aware of it, they both had disappeared.
Just… disappeared.
He hadn’t even heard them leave.
At this point he was a little spooked, his heart skipping a beat or two in apprehension as he wondered whether or not he’d just seen something real.
That happened, right?
Surely it did, but then, how could something like that exist? How could something so mysteriously similar—be—here?
Was he not the only one with this dehumanizing blight? Were there… others… out there?
He jumped, as though a shock had leapt up his spine, when he found a small slip of paper nestled underneath his thigh, crinkled slightly.
Soul Evans.
His rubicund eyes narrowed. Were they sure they had the right person? Had they mistaken him for Wes? Wes had rather light hair, too… Surely they meant him?
No, he felt a soft prick in his chest, why would they bring this to anyone else? After what just happened?
He knew what he’d seen—how she gazed at him, how she disappeared, how that unmistakably distinct sound was just within earshot. She had… whatever he had.
He shook noticeably as he groped at the note and unfolded it, careful not to rip the edges. A little bit of sweat prickled the back of his neck as he silently read it—he felt his hand seize up and for a moment he was afraid he’d accidentally morph while still in sight of the children playing basketball a few hundred feet away. It was frightening how much the contents resonated with him.
Soul,
We know you’re a weapon; we have kept tabs on your family since your great-grandfather was revealed to have scythe abilities. He became a Death Scythe and you may have the potential to do so as well. If you would like to see more of what you just saw, and meet others like yourself, please consider enrolling at the Death Weapon Meister Academy. Our campus is located in Death City, Nevada, and we accept a few hundred new, admitted students like you every year.
You may not know it, but Lord Death—and the world—needs people like you. Your power is incredibly important, and we at the DWMA will help it reach its full potential. Consider this an important invitation.
Sid Barrett,
Freshman Recruitment Officer - Especially Advantaged Talent Division
He stiffened, his fist balling up around the message. Why hadn’t anyone told him about this? Dammit, if this was true, he should’ve known years ago!
His arm tightened harder, but most of what whirled through his veins was excitement; he barely noticed his hand shift fluidly into its sharp, curved shape. For once he truly couldn’t care. He wanted to go to DWMA. It was the only way he could find who he truly was, and if there were actually others like him…
No, that can’t be... They can’t exist… but they must. Or I wouldn’t be this way.
Soul wondered, absently, what they were like, provided they really lived. What sort of people went to this academy? Kind, accepting misfits? Snobbish bookworms? Insane athletes who were more aware of their abilities than he was?
More importantly, though, how would he get there? Who would he talk to? What would he have to do? He hadn’t even turned thirteen yet. This was a big jump; he’d only lived with his parents. But still, he wanted to go... more than anything, he saw it as an escape from the terribly lonely and mundane existence he endured. There had to be some way, somehow…
Making up his mind was difficult, for as much as he’d hated his home, it was all he’d ever known. Leaving it was hard. Especially since he knew his parents wouldn’t approve of him actually doing anything with his weird demon-gift, or whatever the hell else they euphemistically called it. The note was something he kept hidden where nobody could find it—he kept quiet about the whole situation in general, except when he asked his parents about his great-grandfather. The so-called Death Scythe. Predictably, they ignored his queries; he secretly decided to conduct his own research instead.
It only strengthened his resolve. Especially once he discovered that orientation for accepted students was shortly after his thirteenth birthday. From that point forward, he knew what he needed to do and quickly planned to make it a reality.
After that, time passed quickly; he couldn’t remember much of it. Any money he found he saved through the year, safekeeping it until he’d secured enough—later, he purchased a one-way bus ticket and left, with only the clothes on his back and whatever he could stuff into his pockets. He felt that others found it strange seeing a sharp-toothed young teenager with bleach-white hair and glistening red eyes loitering in the back of the bus for hours upon hours without doing anything at all, really, but he reminded himself that the time spent would be worth it.
Nobody called for days, even though he’d brought his old cell. He got the impression they weren’t concerned over his disappearance until it was obvious he wasn’t coming home, and had already struck out on his own. Wes was mostly the only one in any real distress; Soul answered his calls out of discreet politeness. He’d already decided he would rather not talk to anyone else he left.
That said, however, Soul never told him where he was going. He feared their parents would find out and then somehow go after him, to stop him from doing something so deviant as becoming a student in a weapons academy located across the country; being stubborn as he was, he simply rebutted his brother’s questions with the conviction that he’d made up his mind and was sure this was the right thing to do. In truth, he wasn’t—but no amount of cajoling would bring him back.
His mother didn’t mind too much, as sad as that was. He didn’t think she would. All he had Wes tell her was he was finding work on his own as a dishwasher.
It wasn’t true but he didn’t care. Being a runaway was challenging enough without any extra trouble. With as little money as he had, living conditions were uncomfortable—the buses were hot and perennially crowded, stopping frequently during the day. Then the transfers were unceasing throughout the night, making sleep impossible even disregarding how stiff the seats were. Oftentimes he needed to wait at the station at three o’clock in the morning, only to find strange throngs of people hanging about smoking cigarettes or drinking until the bus came. Had he not literally been a living weapon, he would’ve found their presence intimidating, or antagonizing, but he continued onwards.
Live and let live, he figured, jamming his hands deeper into his sweatshirt pocket. Perhaps these people were just as lost as he was. He couldn’t know.
Nevada seemed to be light-years away. The trip took a week, possibly more; it was easy to forget details after more than a few days on his own. When he finally arrived he was half-asleep, his hair shaggy, his clothes dirty, his scarlet eyes practically glazed-over. The fierce desert heat surrounding Death City did nothing to help. Yet he still wandered a bit and sight-saw, drinking in all the details of the enormous, elaborate, and eloquently-decorated city.
Indeed, it seemed strange to him that a place like this could even exist. It looked like it had been ripped straight from some highly-stylized cartoon universe—the whole design of it was almost comical.
When he reached the academy, though, business was as fervent as ever. He’d barely stepped across the entrance before he’d been pushed, shoved, directed, and talked at by ten different people. They asked something about registration; then came questions on if he’d brought his parents, who they were, where they were… it was dizzying. He simply answered honestly—they were gone, he was on his own. Whoever-it-was gave him a strange look; he completed his papers and struggled with it, but continued.
It wasn’t the worst part. That would’ve been when they slapped that big infuriating “WEAPON” tag on his sweatshirt and then let him flounder around under the pretext that he ‘mingle’. They even wanted him to find a human partner—a meister, they were called—that would wield him in battle.
Yes, battles. They were apparently going to wage war against demon gods and monsters and witches and whatever-the-hell-else Lord Death wanted dead that week. The choice he made in terms of this other person would be hugely important throughout his time here.
As if he’d ever been good at anything like that.
He had to hand it to them, though: it was an interesting collection of people. The scythe definitely wasn’t alone—the weapons ran the gamut from plain, garden-variety knives, axes, and swords… all the way to shurikens, halberds, and other torturous death-devices to which he honestly couldn’t assign names. And, as expected, they could all transform back to human forms, ones that were also equally diverse in terms of skin tone and eye color and… well, everything. Suddenly his sharp teeth and white mop-head didn’t seem like such a distinguishing mark. Not when there was a kid with bright blue hair and a star tattoo yelling right nearby.
Something like that would’ve been insanely weird where he came from. That made him feel better, and less odd, though it didn’t help his initial awkwardness. That was made clear.
Hey, so you’re… Soul?
A strange girl, with purple hair. A meister. He raised an eyebrow, looking down at the tattered, dirt-encrusted sweatshirt he’d worn on the bus. He’d forgotten he even had a name tag on.
Yeah, Soul’s fine… he spoke up in a hoarse, quiet voice. She didn’t seem to dawdle around on his strange eccentricities.
So what do you transform into?
He showed her, letting his arm openly morph into the same red-and-black scythe blade that it had always been—yet without shame, perhaps for the first time. Soul gave a sharp-toothed grin, feeling uncharacteristically pleased with this weird… whatever-it-was… his… ‘weapon ability’.
She wasn’t impressed, however, which was rather deflating.
Sorry, I’m not looking for a polearm. Too heavy.
The violet-haired female left, and that was it. One door slammed and only so many others. If this was to go the way he expected, all the eligible people would soon be taken and he’d be left with the dregs.
What was her problem, anyway?
He sighed. Was this really such a good idea? Granted, he did feel a little less strange, a little less out-casted… but he severely doubted his ability to open up to anybody here.
Hey, he thought, maybe Wes had been right, after all—maybe he needed to go back. Maybe his mostly-unsupportive family would let him return… maybe. They seemed willing, albeit grudgingly, to give him a bit of money for his upkeep, so long as he was out of their hair… at least, that’s what he’d gathered from what they had said to Wes. But he wasn’t sure going back was the best idea. Not now.
Would he really have to live his life scrounging for work? At thirteen?
No. That would be nigh impossible with his goddamn shark teeth and his scythe-arm that could stab anyone he wanted to death at any given moment. Who’d hire that?
And honestly, what sort of choices were these? Why couldn’t he have the same degree of control over his life that everyone else did, anyway?
The scythe-boy needed to think. There were too many people here.
Soul moved soundlessly to the side of the vaulted reception hall, finding a dimly lit corridor with nobody in it. Granted, yes, it probably looked awfully strange for him to be going in here. No, it probably would not find him a meister any easier. But what’d he care?
He moved down the passage, just hoping to get away from everyone else, if only for a short while. As for what he planned on doing—he wasn’t sure… until he happened to see the grand piano in the room at the end of the hallway.
Alas, just a random piano sitting there. Seemingly for no reason.
Although it reminded him of his old life, he couldn’t resist going closer. Regarding music, piano was the only skill he’d actually been decent at, back when his parents tried to expect instant virtuosity in every instrument he could wrap his small child hands around.
He went inside for a look, but quickly jumped in surprise upon entering. What he had expected to be an empty space was actually occupied. Yes, occupied. Here of all places, there was a girl sitting and reading a book, apparently so absorbed in it that she didn’t seem to care about anything aside from the pages she was leafing through. She didn’t even look up at him.
“Hey, I don’t mean to be rude, but… what are you doing in here?” His tone came off as snarky and flat despite himself. She closed her tome momentarily, revealing two round, jade green eyes.
“I could easily ask the same of you, since you came in. Anyway, I was just reading this book for a bit.”
Soul cocked an eyebrow. Reading a book? Now? What the hell for?
“Whatever, then. I’ll leave you to your… bookworm stuff, I guess.” He shrugged and had been about to turn towards the exit when she cleared her throat timidly, grabbing his attention.
“You don’t have to leave, you know. It was just very crowded over there.” She put her book aside, setting it on the floor. “I’m new here; I don’t know a lot of people yet.”
“Oh, is that so—” he instinctively glanced at her nametag, also noting she was a meister. “—Maka.”
She nodded. “Yeah, I’m new. My parents both went here though. They were happy when they found out I had the same abilities. What about you?” She grinned a little, her legs crossed as she leaned across the wall, seemingly very comfortable. It was rather amusing, in its own sort of way…
“Ehhh, mine were uncool about it. It’s a long story.” He sat on the piano bench, hoping she didn’t find him threatening like most everyone else he’d ever met. She didn’t seem to, at least. He tried to relax. “They’re musicians, actually. You might’ve heard of them before.”
Her irises glinted in understanding. She didn’t smile outright, but something in her eyes did.
“So your name’s actually Soul? That’s funny. Is it Soul…?”
He stiffened. As he was accustomed to it, he wanted to say Evans… but this was a new path for him. May as well start afresh.
“Eater. I’m… yeah, I’m Soul Eater. Just call me that.”
Maka’s eyebrow moved almost imperceptibly. Was that really the best he could come up with? Soul Eater? It sounded like the name of a B-class fantasy movie, or some off-the-wall shounen manga. He grimaced inwardly, but she didn’t say anything. She only studied him for a moment.
“Let me guess… scythe?”
“How’d you figure?”
“The red font on your nametag means you’re a polearm,” she replied softly, not missing a beat.
Of course, his pointed teeth formed a rough smile. She’s a sharp one.
“I guess nobody likes polearms, huh?”
“I’m okay with them. My papa was a scythe.”
“Really? How’d that work out?”
Soul suddenly regretted asking; now she seemed distinctly uncomfortable. He could read it in her body language, as she seemed to shrink back. Did he do something wrong? He’d only been curious.
“Listen…” she spoke softly, “… this might sound weird, but… I have a really hard time trusting men. They cheat all the time. I’m not totally sure that I want one as my partner. My mom and him were meister and weapon and… it didn’t work out too well.”
The young girl frowned a bit. It was the first distinctly negative expression he’d seen on her face. He couldn’t help but feel bad for upsetting her, even if it was on accident.
“Well…” he wasn’t sure of what to say, but he could relate in a way. He had escaped his own problems that weren’t his fault. “That wasn’t cool of your dad, then.”
“I guess.”
“Look, I know you don’t know me, Maka, but I’m not that kind of guy. I’ve never really had a friend before. It’d mean a lot to me if I ever got one… more than you know.”
He felt a weird twinge sharing that with a stranger so suddenly. But Maka only looked up at him curiously, her emerald eyes looking distinctly innocent. Despite her apparent mistrust, he had the feeling that she was, like him, only seeking her own sense of redemption. She wanted to trust him; she might have even wanted him as a weapon, but her reluctance won over.
“I… I don’t know. I talked to a lot of weapons out there… I don’t really know what to do.”
She sighed, and he had the feeling that she was quite shy around new people. The gathering had likely overwhelmed her. He felt a bit more confident knowing he wasn’t the only one who felt that way.
“Wouldja give me a shot, maybe?”
“I don’t know you well enough, but… perhaps.”
She looked very conflicted. He didn’t know why, but a part of him wanted to put her at ease—she seemed nice enough. At the very least, she wasn’t scared stiff and off-put by his appearance. That alone made her the closest thing he’d had to a friend in… possibly ever.
“Maka,” he said softly, “this is the type of person I am.”
He decided to play the piano—he didn’t really know why. His past was something he wanted to leave behind, but it had made him who he was now, for better or for worse. His struggle, he would come to realize, only made his friends that much more important to him.
The song he played was something he’d composed himself, years ago, back when he’d played often. It was dark, it was brooding, it was minor-key and cacophonous, almost, in a way. Most likely it was the best piece he’d ever written: his parents had even seemed impressed in a strange sort of way. Something about it struck a chord in him as he played it again… very faintly he felt his soul shudder as he devoted himself to the music; he was fairly certain that Maka had noticed it too, somehow, because her interest seemed visibly piqued as his fingers effortlessly found the right keys and struck—hard. She moved a bit closer, so she could watch him more closely.
He wasn’t sure what it was, but something about it summed up his character and his feelings far better than words could; Soul knew he wasn’t good with talking. But she could feel a part of him through his music. She found him mysterious, inviting… but also strangely human, peculiarly sensitive and emotional.
Soul may not have been fully human in terms of what he was—but in terms of who he was, he knew that, somewhere, he had the same humanity that the rest of mankind did. He wasn’t so different after all; there was no need to hide anymore. She and him were mostly the same, on the inside.
Without realizing it, he stuck out his hand for the first time. He was taking a risk—living, and learning—but most of all, he wasn’t ashamed of it.
“Partners?”
Whatever happened, happened.
“Sure.”
She took his hand, and smiled faintly. The past was still there; it still hurt. It still was a part of who they were. But, somehow, it didn’t matter anymore.
Princess Charming: show
It was simply dreadful! The dress was utterly ruined in a moment or less, quite the tragedy, and indeed, the worst possible thing that could have happened on this night. For weeks, Rarity had slaved away to create the absolute perfect dress—it had fit her form nicely, it had been adorned with the exact right amount of sequins, the appropriate number of ribbons, and the ideal quantity of exquisitely dainty lace; the colors had complemented one another perfectly and the feathered boa she had so lovingly and painstakingly crafted had been the only accessory capable of doing the luxurious gown justice.
Shredded silk trailed after the distraught unicorn pony as she fled the scene of her total humiliation in tears, feeling as though her heart were as torn and egregiously maimed as her craft, which being in such a sorry state, lost swaths of ripped fabric and loose sequins, like gleaming tear drops, on the stone floor of the elongated corridor behind her galloping hooves that created a frantic echoing drumbeat that rang throughout the hallway. She need not see her visage to know that it too was marred by streaming mascara and tear streaks, tainting her carefully prepared beauty and removing the faux eyelashes from her right eye and carrying them down her chin until they caught on her ruined boa about her neck.
An ethereal glow began emanating from her horn as she neared the door to the dressing room, a matching glow sparking up around the door in question before flinging the wooden portal around on its hinges just long enough for the miserable pony to burst through before slamming shut and returning to its normal, pallid, and placid appearance behind her. She collapsed heavily to the dingy carpeted floor with a heartbroken wail. Despite her unattractive heaving sobs and extreme despair, she was not so upset to fail in noticing the low class decorum with which she found herself surrounded. What a terribly uncouth place! Even in her disheveled state, her presesnce alone, ruined make up and destroyed outfit as it were, added quite obvious and rather copious amounts of class to the room.
“Rare! I’m sorry!” came the brash voice of Rainbow Dash through the wooden door. Rarity let out an exaggerated groan to let that ruffian know just how furious and distressed she truly was.
“Oh go AWAY, Rainbow Dash! You are most certainly, without a doubt, the very LAST pony I want to see at the moment!” the unicorn exclaimed dramatically.
“Come on, Rarity, it’s just a dress,” the pegasus pony in the hallway groaned. Appalled and completely horrified, the white pony gasped audibly, swirled around, and before she knew it, found herself standing firmly in the open doorway of the dressing chamber, staring, retribution burning in her eyes, into the smug countenance of Rainbow Dash.
“If there is a phrase that should never be uttered, darling, it is the one you have just said! JUST A DRESS?! Even if it were acceptable to say such an awful thing, this most certainly is NOT ‘just a dress’! I’ll have you know I spent countless sleepless nights fashioning this outfit for the sole purpose of having THE absolute best garment possible for your big performance, but clumsy buffoon that you are, you had to go and RUIN IT!!!” What had begun as an angry tirade had transformed into distressed shrieks of unmitigated sorrow that she simple could not bring herself to hold back.
“What?” the pegasus asked softly.
“I know how important today is for you and I wanted to look my best for it,” Rarity sobbed pathetically as her knees gave out on her and her body sagged, her friend’s lightning fast reflexes allowing her to catch the upset unicorn.
“Oh come on, Rarity, you always look your best! It’s not the dress that made you look better, it’s the other way around,” the brash pony said without so much as a moment’s pause, as if it were obvious, and patting Rarity on the back with a gentle hoof. The unicorn’s breath caught mid-sob and she became very aware of Rainbow’s forelegs around her, holding her up off of the dirty floor.
“Oh… do you mean that, Rainbow?” she choked in a barely audible whisper, inadvertently holding her breath as she awaited response. A faint flutter erupted in her chest.
“Of course I mean it. You put so much time into your appearance, but you don’t need to,” Rainbow Dash replied simply.
“Oh darling you mean well but you simply must learn to utilize tact. It is imperative that I spend time on my appearance,” Rarity moaned, breaking away from the other mare and their embrace and stepping back far enough that she could actually gaze upon her friend. In that moment, she couldn’t help noticing how dashing and charming Rainbow Dash appeared in that particular stance—her hooves were spread apart, her knees locked, head held high with pride, her mane seeming to fall in an elegant, yet disheveled array—radiating strength and kindness; it was precisely the posture a gallant and noble Prince Charming would take when attending to a beautiful maiden such as herself.
“Sorry,” Rainbow was saying, “I just meant you always look great, so who cares if anypony else thinks otherwise?”
Rarity felt herself blushing as myriad butterflies began to dance and twirl in the pit of her stomach, catching her only slightly off guard. She had longed to find her very own Prince Charming for such a long time, and though she had been unsuccessful in her endeavors thus far, she had been privy to many crushes—predominantly on upper crust, high class gentlecolts in possession of a certain level of refinement and dignity which was beyond lacking in such a brazen and adventurous individual as Rainbow Dash. However, it was true that the blue pegasus mare did share several common characteristics with the ideal of the perfect stallion; she was fiercely loyal and undeniably brave, she was courageous and noble, heroic and caring… she even boasted that roguish charm stereotypical of the lovable rogue. Were she a stallion, in fact, Rarity may not have been surprised by her sudden interest in her friend. She’d never expected her Prince Charming to be a mare, but perhaps that was precisely why she’d had such rotten luck all this time.
“Oh Dashie, surely you realize I must look my best to feel my best,” she replied, attempting a haughty tone but failing due to her… preoccupation, instead managing to sound somewhat melancholic.
“I know, but that doesn’t mean I get it.”
“You’re impossible.” Kiss me.
“I’m just not into fashion.”
“I live for it, darling, and today… you killed it.”
“Rarity, sheesh, I’m trying to tell you you didn’t need to get all dressed up for my benefit,” groaned Rainbow Dash in exasperation. An idea came to the unicorn then, and she turned her back dramatically, taking a few steps into the room again, hanging her head for effect.
“Oh but I did, Dashie darling,” she murmured. In truth, she had the tendency to go over the top like she had tonight for any event, particularly those in which her friends starred, but she could use this to her advantage if she played her cards right.
“But why?!” the pegasus snapped.
Rarity swiveled back around theatrically to face the other mare, clapping a hoof to her forehead, and cried, “Rainbow can’t you see?! Stop being so daft and kiss me already!”
Blinking stupidly, the blue pony simply said, “Huh?”
“Don’t be a fool, darling, I simply mean that while you lack poise and tact, I still find you to be exceedingly… awesome,” the unicorn answered, figuring some of her feelings out as she went along.
“Well, I am awesome,” Rainbow agreed.
“Oh yes, and wouldn’t you say that my elegance and grace compliment your awesomeness quite nicely?”
It was Rainbow’s turn to blush, “I guess so.”
“Well then?”
For a moment, Rainbow Dash simply blushed profusely, stammered and scratched at the back of her head nervously with a hoof. Then, abruptly, she lurched forwards and planted a quick kiss on Rarity’s expectant lips before racing out of the room with a red face. Rarity smiled, no longer so upset about what had transpired as she had been, closing her eyes to reflect upon the brief kiss.
Not long thereafter, Twilight Sparkle’s voice reached the unicorn’s ears with a sense of urgency, “Rarity! Rainbow Dash is about to perform the Sonic Rainboom! Aren’t you going to come watch?”
She opened her eyes to peer at the violet alicorn who was stepping into the doorway and replied, “I’ll be along in just a moment.”
“Alright, see you outside.”
With that, Twilight trotted down the corridor from whence she came, leaving Rarity alone again. The unicorn pony slipped out of her tattered gown, wiped the make-up off of her face with a rag, and reapplied her fake lashes to her right eye before following hurriedly after her friend. She hoped that it would please Rainbow Dash to see her watching without being “unnecessarily” dressed up, and wished that they’d have another moment alone soon, one in which her Princess Charming wasn’t so clueless and awkward.
Shredded silk trailed after the distraught unicorn pony as she fled the scene of her total humiliation in tears, feeling as though her heart were as torn and egregiously maimed as her craft, which being in such a sorry state, lost swaths of ripped fabric and loose sequins, like gleaming tear drops, on the stone floor of the elongated corridor behind her galloping hooves that created a frantic echoing drumbeat that rang throughout the hallway. She need not see her visage to know that it too was marred by streaming mascara and tear streaks, tainting her carefully prepared beauty and removing the faux eyelashes from her right eye and carrying them down her chin until they caught on her ruined boa about her neck.
An ethereal glow began emanating from her horn as she neared the door to the dressing room, a matching glow sparking up around the door in question before flinging the wooden portal around on its hinges just long enough for the miserable pony to burst through before slamming shut and returning to its normal, pallid, and placid appearance behind her. She collapsed heavily to the dingy carpeted floor with a heartbroken wail. Despite her unattractive heaving sobs and extreme despair, she was not so upset to fail in noticing the low class decorum with which she found herself surrounded. What a terribly uncouth place! Even in her disheveled state, her presesnce alone, ruined make up and destroyed outfit as it were, added quite obvious and rather copious amounts of class to the room.
“Rare! I’m sorry!” came the brash voice of Rainbow Dash through the wooden door. Rarity let out an exaggerated groan to let that ruffian know just how furious and distressed she truly was.
“Oh go AWAY, Rainbow Dash! You are most certainly, without a doubt, the very LAST pony I want to see at the moment!” the unicorn exclaimed dramatically.
“Come on, Rarity, it’s just a dress,” the pegasus pony in the hallway groaned. Appalled and completely horrified, the white pony gasped audibly, swirled around, and before she knew it, found herself standing firmly in the open doorway of the dressing chamber, staring, retribution burning in her eyes, into the smug countenance of Rainbow Dash.
“If there is a phrase that should never be uttered, darling, it is the one you have just said! JUST A DRESS?! Even if it were acceptable to say such an awful thing, this most certainly is NOT ‘just a dress’! I’ll have you know I spent countless sleepless nights fashioning this outfit for the sole purpose of having THE absolute best garment possible for your big performance, but clumsy buffoon that you are, you had to go and RUIN IT!!!” What had begun as an angry tirade had transformed into distressed shrieks of unmitigated sorrow that she simple could not bring herself to hold back.
“What?” the pegasus asked softly.
“I know how important today is for you and I wanted to look my best for it,” Rarity sobbed pathetically as her knees gave out on her and her body sagged, her friend’s lightning fast reflexes allowing her to catch the upset unicorn.
“Oh come on, Rarity, you always look your best! It’s not the dress that made you look better, it’s the other way around,” the brash pony said without so much as a moment’s pause, as if it were obvious, and patting Rarity on the back with a gentle hoof. The unicorn’s breath caught mid-sob and she became very aware of Rainbow’s forelegs around her, holding her up off of the dirty floor.
“Oh… do you mean that, Rainbow?” she choked in a barely audible whisper, inadvertently holding her breath as she awaited response. A faint flutter erupted in her chest.
“Of course I mean it. You put so much time into your appearance, but you don’t need to,” Rainbow Dash replied simply.
“Oh darling you mean well but you simply must learn to utilize tact. It is imperative that I spend time on my appearance,” Rarity moaned, breaking away from the other mare and their embrace and stepping back far enough that she could actually gaze upon her friend. In that moment, she couldn’t help noticing how dashing and charming Rainbow Dash appeared in that particular stance—her hooves were spread apart, her knees locked, head held high with pride, her mane seeming to fall in an elegant, yet disheveled array—radiating strength and kindness; it was precisely the posture a gallant and noble Prince Charming would take when attending to a beautiful maiden such as herself.
“Sorry,” Rainbow was saying, “I just meant you always look great, so who cares if anypony else thinks otherwise?”
Rarity felt herself blushing as myriad butterflies began to dance and twirl in the pit of her stomach, catching her only slightly off guard. She had longed to find her very own Prince Charming for such a long time, and though she had been unsuccessful in her endeavors thus far, she had been privy to many crushes—predominantly on upper crust, high class gentlecolts in possession of a certain level of refinement and dignity which was beyond lacking in such a brazen and adventurous individual as Rainbow Dash. However, it was true that the blue pegasus mare did share several common characteristics with the ideal of the perfect stallion; she was fiercely loyal and undeniably brave, she was courageous and noble, heroic and caring… she even boasted that roguish charm stereotypical of the lovable rogue. Were she a stallion, in fact, Rarity may not have been surprised by her sudden interest in her friend. She’d never expected her Prince Charming to be a mare, but perhaps that was precisely why she’d had such rotten luck all this time.
“Oh Dashie, surely you realize I must look my best to feel my best,” she replied, attempting a haughty tone but failing due to her… preoccupation, instead managing to sound somewhat melancholic.
“I know, but that doesn’t mean I get it.”
“You’re impossible.” Kiss me.
“I’m just not into fashion.”
“I live for it, darling, and today… you killed it.”
“Rarity, sheesh, I’m trying to tell you you didn’t need to get all dressed up for my benefit,” groaned Rainbow Dash in exasperation. An idea came to the unicorn then, and she turned her back dramatically, taking a few steps into the room again, hanging her head for effect.
“Oh but I did, Dashie darling,” she murmured. In truth, she had the tendency to go over the top like she had tonight for any event, particularly those in which her friends starred, but she could use this to her advantage if she played her cards right.
“But why?!” the pegasus snapped.
Rarity swiveled back around theatrically to face the other mare, clapping a hoof to her forehead, and cried, “Rainbow can’t you see?! Stop being so daft and kiss me already!”
Blinking stupidly, the blue pony simply said, “Huh?”
“Don’t be a fool, darling, I simply mean that while you lack poise and tact, I still find you to be exceedingly… awesome,” the unicorn answered, figuring some of her feelings out as she went along.
“Well, I am awesome,” Rainbow agreed.
“Oh yes, and wouldn’t you say that my elegance and grace compliment your awesomeness quite nicely?”
It was Rainbow’s turn to blush, “I guess so.”
“Well then?”
For a moment, Rainbow Dash simply blushed profusely, stammered and scratched at the back of her head nervously with a hoof. Then, abruptly, she lurched forwards and planted a quick kiss on Rarity’s expectant lips before racing out of the room with a red face. Rarity smiled, no longer so upset about what had transpired as she had been, closing her eyes to reflect upon the brief kiss.
Not long thereafter, Twilight Sparkle’s voice reached the unicorn’s ears with a sense of urgency, “Rarity! Rainbow Dash is about to perform the Sonic Rainboom! Aren’t you going to come watch?”
She opened her eyes to peer at the violet alicorn who was stepping into the doorway and replied, “I’ll be along in just a moment.”
“Alright, see you outside.”
With that, Twilight trotted down the corridor from whence she came, leaving Rarity alone again. The unicorn pony slipped out of her tattered gown, wiped the make-up off of her face with a rag, and reapplied her fake lashes to her right eye before following hurriedly after her friend. She hoped that it would please Rainbow Dash to see her watching without being “unnecessarily” dressed up, and wished that they’d have another moment alone soon, one in which her Princess Charming wasn’t so clueless and awkward.
