"Looks like you got yourself a real beauty there, son." Mr. Shy whistled in admiration, "I know, I know. You should see the other guy." He handed Mike a bag of ice scrounged from one of the half empty beer coolers as Bollywood's family worked around them setting up a portable tandoori oven or ferrying things from a catering van to the tables that dotted the adjoining campsites.

"Damn, ow!" Head pounding, Mike winced as the ice came into contact with the large black eye he'd gotten the night before in a dust-up with Zephyr of all people.

Not that Zephyr had managed to hit him in their little unscheduled pissing match, but a semi-crocked Mike had walked into a tree in the dark on his way to the tent he shared with Bollywood, who was still passed out. Somebody had thrown a tarp over the snoring Zephyr where he lay on his side in a pool of his own vomit by the remains of last night's bonfire, leaving the rubber chicken Mike had whacked him over the head with laying beside him among the empty beer cans and wine bottles.

Mr. Shy, up with the birds, had walked over from the offsite lodge he'd reserved for his family months in advance, caught Mike on the way to the park shower house, where Mike spent an hour leaning half-asleep against the grubby shower stall wall under a cold stream of water taking inventory of his sins from the night before.

Too much to drink. Check.

Shot his mouth off. Check.

Almost but not quite got into a fight. Check.

Embarrassingly acquired black eye. Check

Pissed somebody off. Check.

Pissed multiple somebodies off. Check. Check.

Blearily he looked over at the tent he'd spent half the night passed out in, feet where his head should have been on the sleeping bag before a night terror drove him upright and bolting out of the side of the tent taking half of it with him.

Property damage. Check.

Hopefully kept his hands to himself… wince.

Nope.

Which might have something to do with the near-fight he'd had with Zephyr.

"I think I beat the shit out of your son."

"You saved me the trouble." Mr. Shy said wryly, handing him a can of V8 heavily doctored with Tabasco sauce, "Drink this, it's time for a little walk, you and me."

It had been a long time since Mike last let his guard down this far, and he was going to pay for it the rest of the day. "No - urp - thanks." He flopped down on the bench by the remains of last night's bonfire. "I need to lie down…" Mike's mouth, though dry, tasted like somebody had used his tongue to wipe their shitkicker boots on after walking across a barnyard inhabited by cows, no, pigs. Without thinking, he drained the can in one pull, the Tabasco blazing a trail all the way to his stomach. "…or throw up." Coughting, he dropped the empty can between his feet with a clatter, elbows on knees, head spinning.

"You can do that later." Mr. Shy, after reminding Mike that the left cross trainer went on the left foot and the right cross trainer went on the right foot but only AFTER he pulled on his socks and not Bollywood's, adding, "While you're at it, zip up your fly and turn your shirt around Mike. Things may have changed since when I was active duty, but there are still women present." The older man passed him another doctored V-8 before levering him and his improvised ice pack upright, aiming him towards the paved road that wound through the campground.

After a one sudden trip to the side of the road where it felt like he heaved up just about everything he'd eaten (or drank) for the last week or so into the ditch, Mike started to feel slightly better, though his eye felt like it had been run over by a car along with the rest of his face.

Mr. Shy continued his slow, steady jog as if Mike hadn't suddenly left him, letting Mike catch up as best he could. They continued about a half a mile before Mike ventured, remembering a portrait he'd seen in a classroom at Miramar, "You're Dragon, aren't you?"

"Yes, I am. Or, was." Mr. Shy gave a deferential shrug, "And now I'm an old man with an embarrassing son I can't dislodge from my basement – probably not what you expected."

Mike finished the V-8, and waited for the Tabasco burn to subside before asking, "You're a legend. And you're one of… them."

"I was. I am. Rainbow Dash isn't the first, and she isn't the last to come here. I found myself in your world in 1962. I met my mirror twin just before he drowned in a fishing accident. Not knowing how to get home, I took his place."

Another quarter mile passed, Mr. Shy added. "And when I finally found a portal, ten years had passed. Rainbow and the others are very lucky… girls."

"But those officers knew you, one of them even asked you to play golf with him next week."

"Of course – I came back. Some I trained, others were fellow officers as my career progressed– I draw two pensions, you know." This seemed to amuse him, "One from the U.S. Navy where I'm Bob Shy, and one from the Wonderbolts where I'm Dragon Shy. Our Lady of the Sun allows me to come and go as needed, I trained many, many Wonderbolts once I came home – shuttling back and fourth with her permission – but that's not what I ordered you to walk with me about."

Oh God. Here it comes.

"That man at the diner last night was your father."