Magical Girl 4: Magical Girl Applejack


                                            >Two years ago, you were a Magical Girl, and somehow you always knew that it would be over too soon.

                                            >Like a feeling, somewhere deep in your gut, telling you that you wouldn’t have as much time as you wanted to.

                                            >When you were offered your contract you accepted it without hesitation.

                                            >No one tricked you into it, you’re proud of that fact, maybe because it’s the only decision in your life that felt right.

                                            >Despite being the worst you ever made.

                                            >But it was you who made it; you alone decided that selling your soul was the better choice.

                                            >It’s an important point.

                                            >At least that’s what you keep telling yourself.

                                            >You got a wish for your trouble, and you always cringe when you think about how you spent it.


                                            >You have one sister, who you haven’t seen for the better part of a year, and one brother.

                                            >And the less said about him the better.

                                            >You hope they’re both keeping busy.

                                            >And as far away from you as possible.

                                            >People used to say you’ve got your mother’s hair, which always made you blush, but if you’re honest, you don’t really remember her well enough to attest to that anymore.

                                            >You had a picture as a kid but your Granny took it away after a while because you wouldn’t stop crying at the sight of it.

                                            >The closest thing you have to a soulmate comes in the form of an irritating, annoying girl you rented an apartment with last month, and you sometimes think about which of you will go first.

                                            >Seeing as she shares your occupation, you’re not fatuous enough to think you’ll grow old together or something silly like that.

                                            >It’s a terrible thing to say, but you hope it’s you who leaves her behind and not the other way round.

                                            >Because you know you’d burn Canterlot to the ground trying to bring her back.

                                            >And bring whoever took her from you to justice.

                                            >Your name is Applejack, and you’re still waiting for that nail in the road with your name on it.


                                            >You’re at headquarters right now, with a little over an hour to kill until your mission.

                                            >The dossier in front of you holds a summary of the contract along with a few sheets of personal information about the client.

                                            >A young girl is staring back from the enclosed photograph, dressed in a simple black t-shirt and giving you the grim, impatient expression of someone who has far more pressing, far more important things to attend to.

                                            >Her gray hair is bound into a thick braid, falling over her shoulder to run down her front.

                                            >All in all, she looks way too young to be in any way involved with the kind of services people like you provide.


                                            >It’s a bodyguard job, or so it says on the next page, something that doesn’t actually come your way very often.

                                            >Not that there isn’t any demand—on the contrary, protection gigs are the most common after purge and assassination requests—it’s just that you’re more experienced in actual combat than in playing babysitter.

                                            >You’re sent out for a different kind of assignment usually, the kind that requires you to wipe off your boots before coming home afterwards, lest you want to tread blood all over the new welcome mat.

                                            >There are enough other girls who can handle running security for rich folks, but there aren’t that many capable of razing entire buildings clean of heartbeats.

                                            >Your reward for being one of them comes in the form of wary, hushed admiration around the offices and no small amount of distasteful memories.

                                            >You’re the brute squad, you’ve no illusions about it.

                                            >You know full well that the things you do are borderline criminal on the good days.

                                            >And downright cruel on the bad.

                                            >Sometimes you wonder what your Granny would say if she could see what you became, and you get sick to your stomach at the thought.


                                            >Protection assignments, luckily, are about as straightforward as it’s going to get for you, and you’re not entirely unhappy about the change of pace for once.

                                            >They tend to be on the boring side, but you’d take ‘boring’ over ‘haunting’ any day of the week.

                                            >Nine times out of ten, the mere presence of a Magical Girl will prevent any kind of funny business from going down even remotely close to the principal.

                                            >It’s not like your kind is hard to spot, and most folks think twice about pulling shit when their target is accompanied by a broad with a weird costume, a shiny jewel glinting on her chest, and a sledgehammer strapped to her back.

                                            >You’re handling this particular mission following a special request made by the client herself.

                                            >It says so right here at the end of the folder, highlighting how not one but two veteran MGs have been specifically asked for.

                                            >Which is a little weird but not entirely unheard of.

                                            >Folks who feel the need to be protected by murderers in cutesy clothes do tend to be on the overcautious side of things.

                                            >Must have cost her a pretty penny, too.

                                            >Then again, most clients who can afford an MG or two are loaded anyway.


                                            >Be that as it may, it looks like you’ll be watching over a certain rich girl by the name of Silver Spoon for the rest of the night.

                                            >Not only that, but there’s an extra clause in there about doing so covertly.

                                            >You’ll have to pose as her escort to get into some high-class reception event while your partner is to play the role of her personal valet.

                                            >Not your favorite part, playing dress-up, but you guess there’s no way around it.

                                            >Private security is strictly forbidden from entering, apparently.

                                            >Still, not like you can’t do your job, leaving the most likely problem you’ll encounter coming from the Magical Girl you’re partnered with herself.

                                            >You hope she can keep her temperament in check this time.

                                            >If shit does hit the fan after all, you’ll have enough to worry about with a bunch of civilians stumbling through your kill zone.

                                            >On the list of things you don’t need, a friendly with the knack for starting fights and taking body parts for the hell of it is pretty much up there with your third proverbial testicle.

                                            >Come to think of it, you should probably go and meet up with her.


                                            >You find Trixie in the sparring hall, shouting insults over the roar of her chainsaw's engine.

                                            >She’s wearing black spats and a blue tank top, and judging from the healthy layer of sweat glistening on her skin, she’s been going at it for a while.

                                            >You recognize her opponent as one of the new girls still going through her training rotations, clumsily swinging around a standard-issue training spear.

                                            >Although she tries, she can’t at all keep up with Gorefather’s relentless assault, and she’s taking hit after hit for her inadequacy.

                                            >She’d be thoroughly de-limbed already if this was an actual fight.

                                            >While other trainers would settle for pulling their punches and giving her a moderate smack for each strike that would otherwise be fatal, Trixie—entirely unaccustomed to the concept of holding back—is far less courteous.

                                            >Were she would take flesh and bone normally, she’s giving the recruit one nasty cut after the other instead.

                                            >Leave it to Trixie to act as ferocious as her reputation would have you believe and then some.

                                            >Just as you start making your way over, she opens another mean graze across the struggling girl’s thigh, before knocking her down completely with the flat side of the saw’s guide bar.

                                            >The recruit collapses with a scream that’s a little too real for a practice bout, her long hair forming a sweaty mess of red and yellow on the training mats

                                            >It’s matched in color by no small amount of blood coming from the few dozens of lacerations on her skin.


                                            >"Ah," the senior Magical Girl notices your approach, letting the tracks of her weapon spin down. "Is it time already?"

                                            "Is she alright?"

                                            >"Huh?"

                                            >You point towards the collapsed girl.

                                            >She’s pretty beat up from what you can tell, panting into the mattress with pained moans.

                                            >Her ‘Trainee’ armband is splattered with blood.

                                            >"Ah, don’t worry," Trixie grins. "She just came up to me out of the blue and asked for a sparring round. And I had nothing better to do. Stayed on her feet longer’n I expected, too."

                                            >She leans onto her deactivated saw.

                                            >"I don’t know if she’ll make the cut but she’s got the right instincts at least. Guess I’ll keep looking in on her. You hear that, Shimmer?" Trixie turns to bark at her victim. "Next fight’s in a week, and I expect you to be able to evade a basic strike by then and not just get your shit kicked in like a fucking spastic. If I see you dropping your spear again in battle I’ll shove it up your asshole."

                                            >There’s a pause, filled only with a weary groan that could be counted as acknowledgement.

                                            >"Now get up."

                                            >Slowly, with a painstaking amount of effort, the defeated girl pushes herself off the ground.

                                            >She manages to get her legs under her and—after losing her balance once—pulls herself up with the help of her training spear.

                                            >"Y-you..." she whispers shakily, spitting out a glob of red, "you call this a b… beating?"

                                            >Wiping tears from her eyes with her fist, she tries to bring her weapon in front of her again.

                                            >Her face is swollen with bruises.

                                            >"I can fucking take you again right now… Come on…"

                                            >It may have been convincing if she actually managed to raise the spear above her knees.

                                            >Or if her legs weren’t about to give out under her own weight.

                                            >"We’re done, Sunset," Trixie growls, and for some reason the tone of her voice has changed to something colder, something less playful than before. "Go get cleaned up and then get to medical and have them fix you up."

                                            >"Yes, Ma’am," the girl—Sunset—groans, and her spear simply slips from her hands and drops to the floor.

                                            >With a wobble, she turns and begins limping away, leaving a trail of red drops in her wake.


                                            >Trixie shakes her head.

                                            "Seriously?"

                                            >"What? What’s wrong?"

                                            "This ain’t a pretty sight, you know? There’s blood and vomit all over the mats."

                                            >"Tell it to her," the girl chuckles, "I definitely told her to defend herself. Maybe I forgot at first, actually, but I’m pretty sure she got the message."

                                            "She’s been on the job for a month, Trixie."

                                            >"So? I was hunting tweakers at that point. And she came to me. She asked for help."

                                            "Did you really have to go and mess her up that bad?"

                                            >Trixie points towards Sunset, who has successfully made her way towards the door.

                                            >She’s holding herself up against the frame for a moment before unceremoniously vomiting into the adjacent trashcan.

                                            >"You gotta show them the limits, Jack. This one thinks she’s some sort of superhero now. Most of them do at the beginning, feeling their bodies adopting new limits and stuff. The quicker they find out where the pain sets in the quicker they can start to work on it."

                                            "I don’t know."

                                            >"It’d be the bigger insult to fuck around," Trixie nods. "I guarantee you she’s already fed up with those lukewarm pseudo exercises they have her doing. You’ll see, she’s going to come at me with everything she’s got next week. Might even have to concentrate."

                                            >You think for a moment, adjusting your hat with the practiced motion you’ve perfected over the years.

                                            "Just promise me you won’t hurt her for real, alright?"

                                            >"Come on," Trixie slaps your shoulder. "Client’s supposed to be here in a bit. Let’s get into costume."


                                            "I hate this."

                                            >Tugging on her blouse, Trixie looks up at you.

                                            >"Huh?"

                                            "Do I really have to wear this thing?"

                                            >"What’s wrong with it?"

                                            >She gives you a once-over, and you could swear there’s the shadow of a smile playing on her lips.

                                            "I look like a floozy. Like the kind my brother used to bring home from the bars in the city."

                                            >You fiddle with the straps of your cocktail dress to highlight your point, making your breasts move with the motion.

                                            >You’re supposed to be the client’s escort, you get that, but does that really mean you have to wear something like this?

                                            >Something that hugs your body so tightly that you have to assume someone in accounting ordered it a size too small just to mess with you.

                                            >It’s bright red, too, and you think your cheeks are doing their level best to try and match its color.

                                            >Then again, the maid uniform Trixie is currently donning looks just a handful of frills shy of one you’d normally use for some kind of fetish play.

                                            >Not that you’d know, of course.

                                            >"It’s a high-class joint, AJ, what were you expecting? That they let you attend in jeans and a flannel shirt?"

                                            "Yes."

                                            >"Or your MG costume?"

                                            "Yes."

                                            >"Well they won’t. And you look good, don’t worry," Trixie waves you off, pulling on a pair of black thigh-high socks. "Very classy. Hell, I’d bet that..."

                                            >She stops herself mid-sentence, giving you a smug glance.

                                            >"I’d bet that Rainbow’d like it very much. Here, lemme take a picture."

                                            >Before you can protest, the girl has already pulled her smartphone from... somewhere in her outfit.

                                            >The snap of the artificial shutter follows only a split second later.

                                            "Hey! Didn’t no one ever tell you it’s rude to take pictures of people without asking?"

                                            >The phone clicks again, then once more, and Trixie’s grin might very possibly crack her jaw.

                                            >"I’ll send them to her later, alright?"

                                            "Hey! Are you–"

                                            >Another click.

                                            >"She’s gonna go nuts, Red, believe me. Better wear nothing but your combat panties when you get home tonight."

                                            >You don’t manage to give a response this time.

                                            >You also definitely aren’t blushing even harder now.

                                            >No, sir.

                                            >If you did, it would only be because of the damn slutwear you’re forced to cosplay and definitely not because the image of an aroused Rainbow peeling it off is worming its way into your mind.


                                            >"You’re late."

                                            >Your client, Silver Spoon, is waiting for you in the lobby when you exit the elevator, and judging from her angry pout and the nervous twitches of her entourage of security gorillas, she has been for a while.

                                            "Four guards," you whisper to Trixie, trying your hardest not to look like too much of a klutz keeping your high-heels from slipping on the tiled floor. "Bit much for a business escort, isn’t it?"

                                            >"Six."

                                            >Trixie nods towards the bar.

                                            >"Think those mouthbreathers are here for happy hour? They’re all packing, too. What did the file say the bitch does again?"

                                            "Some sorta media company, I think. She took over when her parents died a while back."

                                            >"Media, my ass," Trixie grunts. "That’s fucking mob muscle if I ever saw it."

                                            "Miss Spoon," you greet the scowling girl once you’re close enough to be stopped by her meat shields, giving her the warm, professional smile you had to teach Rainbow for hours before she actually managed to get it right. "We apologize for making you wait. I hope it wasn’t too much of an inconvenience. We should still be on schedule."

                                            >The guards give her a look, and they only move once Spoon replies with a curt, almost invisible nod.

                                            >They’ve all got the dark sunglasses and in-ear headsets, matching their tight black suits and manicured buzz cuts.

                                            >Trixie is sizing up the closest and largest of the bunch, and you can all but feel her desire to take him on just for the fun of it.

                                            >He’s almost twice her size, and you have no doubt she could make him cry uncle without even breaking a sweat, and even in the ridiculous maid costume.

                                            >You’re kind of relieved you already stashed your weapons in the company car.

                                            >Not that it makes much of a difference.


                                            >The client herself is wearing an expensive-looking black dress, designed to push it just shy enough of improper.

                                            >It’s the kind of dress you could never in a hundred years hope to get away with yourself.

                                            >One false move and you’ll have collected enough embarrassment for a lifetime.

                                            >Silver Spoon is pulling it off with flying colors.

                                            >Her petite build works wonders with the garment, and every detail is carefully adjusted to complete the image, right down to her exposed shoulders and the subtle bits of metal sparkling on her expensive heels.

                                            >Her hair is braided like it was in the profile picture, although the strands are much thinner and more intricate this time, with a more complex pattern to them.

                                            >You wonder how old she is.

                                            >It’s impossible to tell, and even though the dossier listed her age as twenty-one, you suspect the real number is quite a bit lower.

                                            >Her arms are crossed in front of her chest, and her stare is matching her voice perfectly in terms of annoyance.

                                            >"Is this your idea of professionalism? Making your client wait like some cheap hooker?"

                                            >Watching Trixie’s face, you’re again grateful your weapons are already in the car.

                                            >Not that she’d actually start cutting up her client for a jab like that—she can be a handful, sure, but she’s not that much of a loose cannon—but you never know just what a few well-placed insults can achieve on her.

                                            >For now, she seems content with silently returning her client’s gaze.


                                            "I, uh… I apologize again, Miss Spoon," you too have to work a bit harder to keep up your smile, "but may I remind you that you’ve hired us as your protection. While we do play the part, we’re not your servants."

                                            >"Well for the money I’m paying, you better be the best goddamn Sparklies in the building."

                                            >With that, Spoon snaps her fingers once, making the entirety of her goon squad back off, and wordlessly begins walking towards the elevator connecting to the garage.

                                            >It’s almost comical.

                                            >"Cunt."

                                            >Even though she hisses it through clenched teeth, Trixie made sure her slur is just loud enough for the girl to hear.

                                            >Fortunately, your client doesn’t seem to be bothered—you have to honestly believe she’s not entirely unaccustomed to these kinds of things being whispered behind her back—and the look you give your teammate makes her refrain from repeating it even louder just for the sake of provoking a reaction.


                                            >"Always wanted to drive this thing."

                                            >Trixie pulls the car door closed behind her, letting her fingers trace the high-class leather on the steering wheel before pushing the ignition button.

                                            >The engine comes to life with a muffled rumble, and the screens in the center console begin cycling through their wake-up routines.

                                            >You left her in charge of requesting a vehicle for the mission yesterday and, naturally, she took the most expensive monstrosity in the entire lot.

                                            >You don’t actually know much about cars, but it’s one of those big black SUV-type things, with the tinted windows and enough horsepower to raise some serious safety concerns.

                                            >You could probably pull train engines if you were so inclined.

                                            >The interior is roomy enough for an entire field trip of Magical Girls and—judging from the look on her face—Trixie is very much enjoying herself in the driver’s seat.

                                            >You’re in the back, next to Silver Spoon who is pointedly ignoring the two of you by playing with her smartphone.

                                            >"Grand Gala Hotel, right?" Trixie goes to work on the navigation system. "Should be about half an hour with the rush hour. We’ll be on time."

                                            >Some last seat and mirror adjustments and a glance over her shoulder for you to give her a thumbs up, and the blue-haired girl pulls out of the parking space.

                                            >And immediately guns the engine so hard you’re pressed into the seat.

                                            "Trixie!"

                                            >"This is fucking awesome!"

                                            >Launching through the rows of parked cars, she weaves around the bit of traffic between them, all the while picking up more speed.

                                            "Hey!"

                                            >Working the breaks and throttle like a racing driver, she’s squealing in pleasure together with the tires themselves when going into corners.

                                            >The untamed roar of the engine is bellowing back at you from the walls.

                                            "Trixie!"

                                            >"Alright, alright! I hear ya, Christ!"

                                            >Mercifully letting off the gas, the girl takes the last corner of the parking deck at an almost reasonable speed.

                                            >One more turn, and she’s softly rolling out onto the street.

                                            >"Look at the fucking traffic, Jack," Trixie points. "We won’t even be able to go the speed limit in this shit. Can’t a girl get her rocks off while she still has the chance?"

                                            "Yeah, yeah," you push yourself up and out of the upholstery again. "Just keep your eyes on the road, ya hear? I don’t want to die in no car crash just because you confused the overpass for a race track."

                                            >She waves you off, merging into the stream of company vehicles with a few well-placed honks to begin her crawl towards the hotel.

                                            >Silver Spoon doesn’t seem like she wants to comment on the impromptu parking-garage drag race, although she does look a little flustered.


                                            >While Trixie focuses on navigating through the rush hour—she’s not exactly small but she has to sit up pretty straight to actually keep everything in view from behind the oversized dashboard—you once again try to get your dress under control.

                                            >You’re still uncomfortable in it, and sitting down only worsens the sensation, as it turns out.

                                            "I hate this fucking thing."

                                            >"Wanna switch?" you can see magenta eyes in the rearview mirror. "I’ll take slut over maid any day."

                                            "That’s not how it works, Trixie. You’re supposed to mingle with the other service staff in the side room so you can get to the garage quickly in an emergency."

                                            >"Right. And if you were the maid, you’d be the one who could do that, couldn’t you?"

                                            "But I can’t very well swing that bloody saw around, can I? Things go sideways, I want to be sure you’ll come shredding through that door not thirty seconds later."

                                            >Trixie grunts.

                                            >"Sideways. It’s a fucking business gala for rich cunts, Jack. Ain’t much that’ll happen but old geezers gettin’ drunk and tryin’ to feel up the waitresses."

                                            "Well, I can only hope."

                                            >"Hey," Trixie adjust in her seat to muster the client. "Why’d you spring for two MGs anyway? Couldn’t your gorilla squad take care of the riffraff? I mean it’s not like you need someone to tank live fire at a joint like that, right?

                                            >"I’m sorry, is this beneath you?"

                                            >Spoon’s voice hasn’t lost its edge.

                                            >"And here I thought you people were willing to do just about anything for money. There’s a word for it, you know?"

                                            "She has a point though," you try to reply before Trixie has the chance to. "Hiring us must’ve been a hell of a lot more expensive than regular security. Makes us wonder, is all."

                                            >For the first time since you met her, Spoon doesn’t seem to know how to answer, a fact that’s not lost on your teammate.

                                            >"You went through all the trouble already, might as well tell us what’s going on. You want us to kill some cunts in there or what?"

                                            >"Private security… isn’t allowed at the event," the girl hesitantly explains.

                                            >"You could’ve dressed up one of your mobster thugs just the same. Better'n blowing enough pocket money to take the whole damn company to Disney Land, if you ask me."

                                            "Silver," you reach out to touch the girl’s arm. "There’s a lot less room for fuck-ups if we know what to expect. There’s something else, ain’t there?"


                                            >It’s not before another pause, and a sigh you almost miss under the car’s engine, that Silver turns to look at you.

                                            >"Do you know what my company does exactly?"

                                            >You glance towards Trixie for help, but she’s already answering for both of you by shrugging.

                                            >"Apex Group holds a couple of franchise licenses and copyrights," your client explains. "Music, movies, merchandise—that sort of thing."

                                            >"Let me guess, it’s all a front to disguise some shady shit, huh?" Trixie scoffs. "You turning people into glue behind closed doors? Stealing organs? Jack, get my saw."

                                            >"Fuck you!"

                                            >"How about you just tell us what we’re dealing with here instead of giving us the spiel."

                                            >Silver seems to think for a second, brushing her braid over her shoulder.

                                            >"It’s weapons tech," she grunts. "Red level stuff."

                                            >That gets a whistle from Trixie.

                                            "So, guns?"

                                            >"Yes. Among others."

                                            >"Can you get me a helicopter?"

                                            >You can’t quite place Spoon’s expression.

                                            >It almost looks as if she’s debating whether she should actually quote a price.


                                            "Christ."

                                            >"How come a squirt like you is involved in that, then?"

                                            >Trixie pulls off the main road, away from the city proper.

                                            >You’re beginning your trek into the hilly countryside where the Grand Gala is boasting to be the most expensive establishment for miles around.

                                            >"I mean, shouldn’t you be in school or something?"

                                            >"My… parents got involved with some of the clans a few years back," Silver explains quietly. "You can probably guess what happened…"

                                            "And you just… took over?"

                                            >"Someone had to."

                                            >The girl traces the back of Trixie’s seat with her finger.

                                            >"And I kinda didn’t have a choice or something. You think someone like me can tell these guys what to do? It’s better just to keep it all rolling."

                                            >You search for Trixie’s eyes in the mirror again, and for once, she seems to share your thoughts.

                                            "So, tonight?"

                                            >"There’s a rival group that’s been pretty aggressive lately. Two of our warehouses were blown up and they’ve even tried to storm the main building."

                                            "To get to you?"

                                            >"Maybe..."

                                            "Think they’ll try it here?"

                                            >She doesn’t answer, and the reserved nod she gives is the first thing she does that seems to actually betray her real age.


                                            >"We’re here," Trixie is the first to speak again. "Looks like you’ll have to get out in front of the main entrance and I go around and park the car."

                                            "You’ve got your phone?"

                                            >Nodding, your partner pulls the handbreak and slips out, walking around the back of the vehicle to open the door for you and Silver.

                                            >You manage to exit without immediately embarrassing yourself, stretching out your hand to help your client afterwards.

                                            >The Grand Hotel is looming ahead of you, the giant stone pillars in its façade illuminated by a series of subdued floodlights.

                                            >The air is hot and wet, speaking of a restless, laden kind of night.

                                            >A good amount of people are mingling in the lobby already, and the row of extravagant vehicles behind your own is still bringing more.

                                            >Looks like you won’t get to enjoy the boring bodyguard mission you were hoping for after all.

                                            >"Kid."

                                            >Trixie calls out to Silver while gently closing the passenger door behind her.

                                            >"We got you."

                                            >If you didn’t know any better, you’d swear you saw a smile on your client’s lips.