>1:30 AM.
>Canterlot Heights.
>The rain stopped about an hour ago, giving way to a damp, cold mist clinging to your clothes, but the wet stink of rotting trash is still heavy in the air.
>Thick droplets are still coming down from the roofs of the shoddy apartment buildings and the sound of water rushing through the strained drainage pipes still makes its way up through the manhole covers.
>Everything is glistening under the orange-bright street lamps, creating a million different spots of light playing on the concrete walls.
>The sky is completely black, not a single star manages to break through the muddy veil of clouds.
 
>Flicking away your spent cigarette, the glowing butt drawing an arc of red into the air, you pull out your smartphone.
>The thing is bright pink and drowned in stickers and colorful plastic hearts, its cracked screen coming to life at the touch of your manicured fingers.
>There’s a new message from Fluttershy, informing you that she’s currently heading downtown.
>They found a high-school girl there last week, sliced up to the point it took her parents a solid five minutes to identify her in the police station’s freezer.
>A month ago another one stumbled through the doors of the emergency room in nothing but a pair of stained panties, bleeding an entire mess onto the floor from places you’d rather not think about too vividly.
>According to her statement, she’d been held by a group of men for what they grinningly described as a rape-a-thon.
>She swallowed her dad’s gun not long after being released, which didn’t really surprise you.
>You could see it back when you talked to her in the hospital, disguised as a night-nurse.
>You could see the damage to her soul at the edges of her eyes.
>Should’ve put that gun to better use, you think, maybe track down some of her hosts and shoot their dicks off.
 
>Downtown is a rough place to hang out at this time of night is what you’re getting at, but you also know that Fluttershy can handle herself.
>You’ve never seen someone use a kitchen knife so creatively.
>It’s almost like art, probably.
>Then again, what isn’t nowadays?
>You never really got the hang of that.
>What’s artistic about filling balloons with your piss and have random strangers throw them at you or displaying your used condoms in expensive picture frames?
>Fucking artists.
>Nevertheless, the girl can slice open a target’s belly in the time it takes them to pull a gun on her and perform an interrogation you honestly have a hard time watching at times.
>By the time the sticky pile of removed bits next to the chair reaches its full height, a perp will tell you what kind of lube he buys for his favorite anal beads.
>Some suit-and-sunglasses gorilla once managed to get a hold of Shy’s knife only for her to grab his elbow and have him stab his own throat.
>You remember doubling over at that, clutching your stomach and crying tears of laughter.
>And they say this job turns you clinical.
>You have trouble falling asleep some days but that’s nothing a healthy dose of painkillers before bed won’t fix.
>You don’t even sleep much anymore anyway.
 
>Typing out a quick response to the pink-haired virtuoso—you tell her to be careful nonetheless and call you if she needs backup—you shove your phone back into your costume.
>And speaking of, the hem of the miniskirt that comes with it is once again just a few inches north of comfortable.
>The top is a bit too frilly and lacey for your liking, and the red-and-yellow color scheme has a tendency to stand out in the back alleys of the dive bars and strip clubs.
>Your bat is leaning against the flaking wall next to you, and you take a moment to give it a few practice swings and get reacquainted. 
>It’s a regular-issue baseball bat, the scratches and dull flecks of red along its length betraying just how good you are at using it.
>The word ‘SKULLTAKER’ is carved into the barrel in crude letters.
 
>Fishing another cigarette from the depths of your costume and igniting it with a flick of your lighter, you put Skulltaker over your shoulder and begin walking into the shadows of the side streets.
>The calming smoke in your lungs does little to suppress the stench.
>Your eyes begin adjusting to the twilight.
>Here, away from the glow of the street lamps and the main arteries of the city’s night life, lies your hunting ground.
>Your name is Sunset Shimmer, and you’re a Magical Girl.
 
 
>The first customer of the night is a lean man with his black hair tied into a greasy ponytail.
>He’s wearing a cheap suit, too many gold accessories, and a sleazy smile that makes you want to punch it off his face.
>Mafia probably, or Yakuza or whatever.
>To be honest, you don’t really care, but you know his type, with the loud shirts and even louder mouths.
>You’ve been tailing him for a couple of minutes, watching him play with his diamond-studded switchblade and piss against the wall of a boarded-up liquor store, and you think he’s up to something.
>He keeps looking over his shoulder and checking around the corners of the houses.
 
>You thought he’d make his move at one point, when another guy suddenly came stumbling around the corner looking like he’d blew a good amount of his month’s salary on drinks and whores.
>A good catch for any scumbag of opportunity.
>Unfortunately, yours just walked past, not even bothering to take a second glance.
>There goes your theory of him just searching for an easy target to mug.
>He’s passed three hookers without even reacting to their invitations, so that’s not it either.
>Maybe you’re wasting your time after all.
>Just as you’re about to debate leaving the shady delinquent to his business, he stops in front of a building.
>It seems to be a pharmacy from the looks of it, the steel bars on its windows rusted from years of negligence.
>Still, they offer some protection, something that can’t be said for the flimsy chain-and-padlock combination on the actual doors.
>You could probably kick it off if you tried.
>Glancing around one more time, the sleazebag pulls a pair of bolt cutters from his suit, going to work.
>That’s it.
 
>Walking up to his side, you casually put Skulltaker into a two-handed grip for a low strike. 
"Hey."
>His head is in the process of turning when the wood crashes into his knee, bringing him down with a whining outcry.
>"Ahhh! Fucking bitch!" he howls, dropping the tool and clutching his ruined leg, frantically trying to find out what happened.
>The strike to his other kneecap draws another scream and wave of expletives, as well as the satisfying crunch of shattering bone.
>"Cunt!" the man pants, fumbling for his knife. "I’ll fucking kill you. I’ll–"
>You press Skulltaker’s cap into his babbling mouth to shut him up, giving it just the right amount of force to make him bite into the wood.
>His eyes widen.
>All he can do is mumble around his impromptu gag, shaking his head.
>Just a little more and his teeth would spill onto the floor like dropped candies.
>You realize you’re grinning.
 
>You let him sweat for a few moments, debating whether you should do it. 
>Whether you should give him that last push, making sure there is no chance of anyone ever having to witness his dirty smile again.
>You don’t.
>No reason to add insult to injury.
>Despite his obvious pain—both of the man’s legs are fucked, leaving him sitting like he was practicing one of those new-agey stretching routines—he is quiet when you pull Skulltaker away from his mouth, glowering up with nothing short of venom in his eyes.
>Seems like he wants to say something but is wise enough not to let his instincts get the better of him.
>You almost wish he’d do it.
>Skulltaker is becoming more restless and smashing in some lowlife’s face would be a good way of calming it.
>You leave him to mourn his kneecaps in peace.
 
>You move on to patrol the outskirts of Canterlot Harbor next.
>Between the cyclopean structures of the loading cranes and the rusted shantytowns of shipping containers, you surprised a good amount of people doing something they wouldn’t want anyone to see before.
>Sometimes you actually wish you hadn’t been the one who did, to be honest.
>Still, no excuse not to check, even if the thought of finding another witness in the process of being relieved of his means to testify makes you queasy.
>Good thing you didn’t eat today.
 
>Seems like it’s just the regular riffraff of junkies and drug dealers this time.
>Nothing quite worth the effort.
>You thought you saw a buyer pull out a gun at one point but it turned out to just be a clamshell phone.
>Who the fuck has those anymore?
>Even the traffickers are using smartphones nowadays, someone even said there’s an app for setting up those kinds of meetings.
>And here’s this fucker nearly getting his cranium cracked over a ten-year-old mobile.
>You briefly consider doing it anyway just for the principle of it.
 
>Calming down with another smoke, you use the pause to take another look at your own phone while gnawing at the filter, the gaudy thing showing the next unread message when you pull it out.
>Fluttershy checking in, telling you not to worry about her.
>Nothing interesting on her end either so far.
>She also sent you a picture she took—it could have been focused a bit better, honestly, but it’s pretty nonetheless—showing a stray cat carelessly grooming under a street lamp. 
>She used to be into this sort of thing, you remember, into animals and such.
>Not so much anymore.
>There’s only so many dog-fighting rings, specialized brothels, and sickos without the balls to hurt actual people you can take without losing your taste for it.
>She hasn’t asked if you wanted to go to the shelter in months.
 
>You tell her that the picture is nice and move on.
>Leaving the harbor and its dark, looming cranes behind you, you get back into the city proper.
>The neon-bright alleyways of Gold Town are next, Canterlot’s sleazy nocturnal entertainment district.
>Here, the eye-straining writings over almost every door advertise strip clubs, sex shops with stimulating live shows, escort services with their tier rankings and associated costs displayed blatantly clear.
>A particularly flashy sign informs you that one can get two fetish slaves for the price of one every Thursday night.
>The puddles left by the rain reflect the fluorescent lamps like dirty mirrors.
>It’s really not the place to find yourself in unless you have clear reason for being here.
>Such a reason being of a particular, unsavory nature most of the time.
 
>There are only a few people wandering around, most of them preferring to stay away from the light and clinging to the accommodating twilight of the shops’ entrances.
>They’re all male, desperately starved of so many things most take for granted, and you can all but feel their stares on you.
>Their eyes trace you from the shadows like shimmering insects, sticking to your fiery hair, your breasts, your exposed thighs.
>If it wasn’t for Skulltaker proudly sitting on your shoulder, you probably wouldn’t make it a hundred feet without being dragged into some damp backyard.
>Speaking of, the noises coming from one of the side-streets make you stop and take a look.
>They’re not too out of place in this part of the city, but you dislike the sound of them nonetheless.
>It’s the screams of a girl, the kind you don’t ever really want to hear.
>The alleyway is branching off to your right, with some dumpsters and other trash lining the walls, but it’s too dark to see anything further back.
>Another yell.
>Looks like you’ll go in.
 
>You find a young girl at the end of the road, so young you wonder what could have ever moved her to come here.
>You don’t find an explanation not leaving a bad aftertaste.
>She’s on her back, pressed into some carton boards serving as a makeshift mattress by the heavyset man looming over her.
>Her light pink dress is hiked up to her stomach.
>The guy is already panting hard, and he’s just in the process of stuffing the girl’s panties into her mouth to stifle her screams.
>Trapped under his girth, she has nowhere left to go; even her kicking feet do little but let her assailant scoot further between her thighs.
>"Come on, you little cunt, stop struggling!" he rasps while pinning down the girl’s arms.
>You didn’t need to see this today.
 
>Stalking towards the rapist, you resist the urge to start sprinting.
>You can’t really see how far he’s gotten—his dirty camo pants are pulled down but it looks like the girl's still keeping him at bay—but you don’t want to risk being detected.
>Even though Skulltaker is all but vibrating against your grip at the prospect of awaiting bloodshed, the element of surprise is an important factor against a guy this large.
>"Just a quick fuck. Rich girl like you, I bet you’re here to get a taste of this, right?"
>Just a few more feet.
>You’re so close you can see him licking his fat lips already, see his tongue darting from behind his spit-covered teeth like a fat, glistening larva.
>The girl notices you first.
>Her eyes grow wide when you raise the bat over your head for a two-handed strike, her muffled screams regaining their frenzy and her body desperately trying to get away.
>You don’t give the rapist the courtesy of a warning.
>Too distracted by the intoxicating sight beneath him, he doesn’t see the hardwood rushing towards his head.
>You like to imagine the sound of his breaking skull is the first and only premonition he receives.
 
>A dirty puff of red sprays from the man’s fat face when Skulltaker finally crashes into him, the wood itself reverberating with joy at the impact.
>He goes down immediately, falling over like the obese sack of twitchy biological waste he’s been reduced to.
>A second blow crashes into his ruined head, smearing more of it across the asphalt and letting the wood sing with a high-pitched clank.
>He stops convulsing by the fifth or sixth, and by then everything above his shoulders only vaguely resembles something that once belonged to a real person anymore.
>You wish you hadn’t seen it before, hadn’t seen his yellowed teeth and slimy tongue, his dotted forehead shining with rape-sweat.
>It would have spared you having to suppress another picture when you’re trying to fall asleep.
>You smash Skulltaker down into the mushy pulp one more time for good measure.
 
>The baseball bat is dripping with red paste, and for a small moment you have to force it down from jumping at the girl still lying on the ground.
>She’s still gagged with her own underwear but she stopped screaming at some point, staring at your panting form in terror.
"Get up."
>You don’t really look at her, giving the rapist’s corpse a small, probing kick in the ribs.
>It stays still.
"I’m not gonna hurt you. Get up. Get yourself straightened out and get home."
>Slowly, shakily, the girl pushes herself off the sheets of carton, clenching her legs so tightly you’d think she’s trying not to wet herself.
>You give her a moment to get her clothes back into order, something she only manages after a few false starts and shuddering whimpers.
"You’ll live. Stay away from these places at night and you’ll be fine."
>Turning to leave, you pull out a cigarette, and it takes you a few tries to actually light the bloody thing this time.
>Damn hands are shaking too much.
 
>"W-wait…"
>The girl’s voice is hoarse from screaming.
>"You have to help me."
"I did," you inhale soothing smoke.
>"Please, I can’t… I’ll never make it home."
>If it hadn’t been so satisfying to make the guy’s fat head explode, you’d almost regret saving her.
>"I have money!"
>Taking a look over your shoulder, you're just in time to see her pull a sizeable bundle of bills from her dress pocket.
>She really is a rich girl.
>You’re not actually in the bodyguard business, but then again...
"Four hundred and you can tag along until sunrise."
>She wordlessly shoves a fistful of cash into your direction.
>"Please."
>It’s only when you reach out to take the money from her small, pale hand that you notice she’s shaking all over, so hard her legs are threatening to buckle under her own weight.
>Looks like she wants nothing more than to break down crying but—to her credit—she’s fighting the impulse.
"Come on," you wave for her to follow after stuffing your payment into your skirt pocket. "Stay quiet and don’t fall behind."
>"I won’t," the girl shakes her head, and for some reason it seems to help her reign in her emotions.
>She’s able to put one trembling foot in front of the other.
>"My name is… Diamond Tiara, by the way."
>You stay quiet.
>"W-whats yours.
>You sigh, realizing you’re already at the filter of your cigarette again.
>It didn’t even have time to work yet.
"Sunset Shimmer."
>"Thank you, Miss Shimmer," Diamond snivels, wiping her nose with the back of her hand.
 
 
"What were you doing in there anyway?"
>You make it out of Gold Town without drawing the attention of any more perverts, which you're not entirely unhappy about.
>Something tells you Diamond may not have taken another murder too well at this point.
>She’s following you with hurried steps, careful not to look anywhere else than your back, as if the mere sight of another adult video store was enough to make her lose her mental fortitude.
>You’re pretty sure she’d grab the sleeve of your costume if she wasn’t so scared of you.
>"It was supposed to be a challenge," she mumbles guiltily. "It was supposed to be exciting and fun like in the movies. Nothing bad was supposed to happen."
>She snivels again.
>"I swear, Miss Shimmer. I didn’t think it would turn out like this. I was just going to take a look."
"Not a mistake you’ll need to repeat anytime soon, huh?"
 
>Rounding another corner, you can finally make out the nondescript door marking the end of another night as a Magical Girl. 
>It gives way with a sickly squeak, offering shelter from the annoying, blood-red morning sun just starting to creep over the rooftops.
>Behind it is a bar, hidden away in a short alley next to an unlicensed pharmacy and a butcher shop, and unless you knew it was there you wouldn’t really notice it.
>It’s just a simple door, the paint flaking from the wood offering only a vague reminder that it was painted in fresh green at one point.
>That it used to be more.
>The inside is cool, dusty, and familiar.
>In its own kind of way. 
>It’s also the only place open at this hour, really.
>Well, the only place where they don’t mind serving alcohol to a weirdly-dressed girl at six in the morning who’s probably not even old enough to be in here.
>And who carries a baseball bat sticky with blood.
 
>You’re careful to wipe your shoes before entering and drop Skulltaker into the umbrella stand next to the door, Diamond following so close that she’s nearly running into your back.
>There are no other customers.
>Like always. 
>And like always, you ask whether you may sit at the empty bar, waiting for the barkeeper—a tall, bald man called Oscar who has so many scars on his calloused hands that you never worked up the courage to ask—to grunt in approval.
>If he’s at all bothered by your age, getup or the time you usually arrive to dare your liver to another staring contest, he’s not showing it.
>Whatever you order, he just scowlingly puts it in front of you a minute later.
>Seriously, you once ordered a chocolate milkshake simply to fuck with him and he placed a glass full of the stuff onto the counter like it was his home-brand lager.
>Pretty fucking delicious, too.
 
>You hold up your fingers about two inches apart after adjusting yourself on the high chair, signaling to Oscar just how much whiskey you’d like in your first glass.
>He obliges, and he’s known you long enough to leave the bottle without you having to ask for it.
>He eyes you for a few seconds longer than usual before moving to the girl clambering into the chair to your right.
"Ahh…"
>You allow yourself to exhale loudly after knocking back the drink, already reaching for the bottle to treat yourself to a refill.
>It stings on the way down, warming your stomach, dispelling the damp sitting in your clothes.
>The second gulp is less violent, leaving you to actually taste the stuff before swallowing.
>Already, the amber restorative’s effect is palpable, the way it dulls the voices in your head and lays a gentle haze of numbness over everything.
>You pull out your alarmingly decreasing stack of cigarettes, sticking one between your lips and allowing the smoke to do the rest.
>For a while, you sit silently, swirling the dark liquid in your glass.
 
>"Uhm…"
>Diamond’s voice almost startles you.
>"Is it… really okay to be drinking this much? And at this hour no less?"
>Lighting a fresh cigarette with the dying embers of your last—you reached the filter again before you even realized—you pointedly exhale smoke into her face.
"What kinda question is that, kid? You trying to annoy me?"
>"N-no!" Diamond quickly shakes her head, trying to disperse your cancerous fumes with her hand at the same time. "I was just thinking that maybe…"
>She lets her words hang in the air, staring like an animal coming face to face with its natural predator.
>It’s kinda cute.
"Relax," you pat her head before taking another sip from your glass—she only flinches a little bit, to her credit—"what else are you supposed to do after a night like this? Fucking yoga?"
>The girl stays quiet.
"Fat chance. Just tell Oscar there whatever you want and you’ll get it. My treat."
>"But I’m not even old enough to drink."
"Who am I, your mom? This is a bar, just order something."
>Diamond shifts her gaze to the man flipping through the paper behind the counter, apparently deciding who she should be more afraid of: the barkeeper who may or may not have done wetwork for the local gangs in his past or the girl she just watched reduce a human skull into so much hamburger.
>"Uhm… can I get a… a pineapple juice, please?"
>You laugh into your drink with a wet splutter, but Oscar folds his paper and goes to work anyway, producing a tall glass of bright yellow liquid not long after.
>"I’m… a little surprised he has that," Diamond whispers before taking a cautious sip through her cocktail straw.
"He has everything. I’m pretty sure I could ask for a glass of piss at this point."
>"It’s sweet!"
>Her joyous expression makes you smile.
>Nice kid.
>Almost makes you forget the image of her being pinned under the panting creep with her underwear in disarray.
>Almost makes you suppress the thoughts of what would have happened if you hadn’t shown up.
 
>"Yo!"
>You didn’t notice the door opening a second time, letting in more red sun together with an athletic-looking girl in a form-fitting blue costume.
"Like I need this, too," you mumble around the filter of your cigarette, just loud enough for Diamond to give you a questioning look.
>The girl at the door drops a steel crowbar into the umbrella stand next to Skulltaker before making for the counter, her short, spikey hair glistening in a multitude of colors even in the dim lighting.
>She climbs onto the empty chair to your left and motions for Oscar to give her a drink before turning to look at you.
>"You’re recruiting?" Rainbow Dash grins, nodding towards Diamond. "Didn’t know things were that bad."
"Client."
>She nods before taking a hefty pull of beer from the mug the barkeeper sets down, still chuckling at her own bad joke.
>"Must have quite a bit of money, huh? Bein’ able to afford an MG and all."
>If Diamond is intimidated by the girl’s toothy grin she doesn’t show it.
>"Miss Shimmer saved me. She’s a hero!"
>"Ha! Is that right?"
>Rainbow wipes foam from her mouth with the sleeve of her costume.
>"You ever see a hero drink like this? Ever see one with this much blood on her?"
"Fuck off, Dash!" you swipe away her hand trying to touch your face, tracing your cheek with your own fingers afterwards.
>They actually come away with a bit of a red stain.
>The front of your costume is full of bright spatters, too.
>You hadn’t noticed.
 
>"S’not hers though, so it’s alright, I guess," Rainbow shrugs.
>You empty your glass again and press the butt of your cigarette into the overflowing ashtray, giving Dash a look that makes her laugh in that annoying, rough way again.
>Another refill.
"She’s right." 
>The alcohol is starting make your tongue feel sluggish as it does your thoughts.
"This is dirty work. Not exactly the stuff to write songs about."
>Out of the corner of your eye you can see Rainbow nodding into her mug.
"I guess someone’s gotta do it."
>"I disagree!"
>For the first time since you rescued her, Diamond’s expression is stern, almost angry, more than it is scared.
>"What you did tonight... what you did was nothing but valiant!"
>It’s a nice thought, you have to admit.
>It’s not true, but it’s nice.
>"I… would like to be like you someday."
 
"Don’t."
>It’s with an annoyed sigh that you realize the cigarette you just finished was you last, and you’re already drunkenly fumbling through your pockets for a loose leftover you might have missed.
>"Why not?"
"Because you don’t want to end up like this. It’s six in the morning; I’m sauced, covered in blood, and out of cigarettes. Not the person you want to get your life advice from."
>"Can’t you just stop drinking?"
>As much as you hate Rainbow Dash, you actually share a chuckle with her at Diamond’s suggestion, taking another gulp as if to prove your point.
"Time’s up, kid," you slur the words a little more than you intended to, nodding towards the exit. "Should be safe to go home now. Try to stay away from Gold Town in the future, eh?"
>It seems like she has more to say, but she carefully slips off the chair anyway, offering her thanks to Oscar for the glass of fruity emetic. 
>She takes a few seconds to straighten her outfit with some practiced tugs and pats, finishing by lightly touching your arm with her pale fingers.
>"I’m really sorry for causing you so much trouble, Miss Shimmer. I hope you know how grateful I am."
>With that, the girl gives Rainbow Dash a polite nod and leaves for the door.
"Diamond."
>You don’t turn around to look at her.
"If any small animals try to talk to you on your way home, don’t listen. Even if they promise you magical powers. Or friends. Just keep walking, you hear?"
>"Better give ’em a good, solid kick, too," Rainbow adds.
 
>The door falls shut, leaving you alone with the gay-pride symbol.
>"Cute kid," she smirks, and you can see the alcohol is starting to affect her.
>Not as much as you—you’re pretty much slumped over onto the countertop by now—but still, she needs to concentrate on not losing her balance.
>"Rape?"
>You nod.
>"They’re really growing more frequent recently," Rainbow shakes her head. "Had a whole flat of lowlifes just last week. Found a couple kids, too, and a tripod camera. Some were… less alright than others."
>She empties her mug with a last, forceful gulp, and you really wish you could do the same right now.
>The images are still finding their way into your mind somehow, but your glass and the bottle next to it are already empty.
>"Come on, ‘Hero’," she emphasizes the word, giving you a slap on the shoulder. "Let’s get you home."